Exhausted but delighted with his night's work, Harry told Ron and Hermione everything that had happened during next morning's Charms lesson (having first cast the
Muffliato spell upon those nearest them). They were both satisfyingly impressed by the way he had wheedled the memory out of Slughorn and positively awed when he told
them about Voldemort's Horcruxes and Dumbledore's promise to take Harry along, should he find another one.
“Wow,” said Ron, when Harry had finally finished telling them everything; Ron was waving his wand very vaguely in the direction of the ceiling without paying the
slightest bit of attention to what he was doing. “Wow. You're actually going to go with Dumbledore... and try and destroy... wow.”
“Ron, you're making it snow,” said Hermione patiently, grabbing his wrist and redirecting his wand away from the ceiling from which, sure enough, large white flakes
had started to fall. Lavender Brown, Harry noticed, glared at Hermione from a neighboring table through very red eyes, and Hermione immediately let go of Ron's arm.
“Oh yeah,” said Ron, looking down at his shoulders in vague surprise. “Sorry... looks like we've all got horrible dandruff now...”
He brushed some of the fake snow off Hermione's shoulder Lavender burst into tears. Ron looked immensely guilty and turned his back on her.
“We split up,” he told Harry out of the corner of his mouth, “Last night. When she saw me coming out of the dormitory with Hermione. Obviously she couldn't see you,
so she thought it had just been the two of us.”
“Ah,” said Harry. “Well—you don't mind it's over, do you?”
“No,” Ron admitted. “It was pretty bad while she was yelling, but at least I didn't have to finish it.”
“Coward,” said Hermione, though she looked amused. “Well, it was a bad night for romance all around. Ginny and Dean split up too, Harry.”
Harry thought there was a rather knowing look in her eye as she told him that, but she could not possibly know that his insides were suddenly dancing the conga. Keeping
his face as immobile and his voice as indifferent as he could, he asked, “How come?”
“Oh, something really silly... she said he was always trying to help her through the portrait hole, like she couldn't climb in herself... but they've been a bit rocky
for ages.”
Harry glanced over at Dean on the other side of the classroom. He certainly looked unhappy.
“Of course, this puts you in a bit of a dilemma, doesn't it?” said Hermione.
“What d'you mean?” said Harry quickly.
“The Quidditch team,” said Hermione. “If Ginny and Dean aren't speaking...”
“Oh—oh yeah,” said Harry.
“Flitwick,” said Ron in a warning tone. The tiny little Charms master was bobbing his way toward them, and Hermione was the only one who had managed to turn vinegar
into wine; her glass flask was full of deep crimson liquid, whereas the contents of Harry's and Ron's were still murky brown.
“Now, now, boys,” squeaked Professor Flitwick reproachfully. “A little less talk, a little more action... Let me see you try...”
Together they raised their wands, concentrating with all their might, and pointed them at their flasks. Harry's vinegar turned to ice; Ron's flask exploded.
“Yes ... for homework,” said Professor Flitwick, reemerging from under the table and pulling shards of glass out of the top of his hat, “practice.”
They had one of their rare joint free periods after Charms and walked back to the common room together. Ron seemed to be positively lighthearted about the end of his
relationship with Lavender, and Hermione seemed cheery too, though when asked what she was grinning about she simply said, “It's a nice day.” Neither of them seemed
to have noticed that a fierce battle was raging inside Harry's brain:
She's Ron's sister.
But she's ditched Dean!
She's still Ron's sister.
I'm his best mate!
That'll make it worse.
If I talked to him first —
He'd hit you.
What if I don't care?
He's your best mate!
Harry barely noticed that they were climbing through the portrait hole into the sunny common room, and only vaguely registered the small group of seventh-years
clustered together there, until Hermione cried, “Katie! You're back! Are you okay?”
Harry stared: it was indeed Katie Bell, looking completely healthy and surrounded by her jubilant friends.
“I'm really well!” she said happily. “They let me out of St. Mungo's on Monday, I had a couple of days at home with Mum and Dad and then came back here this morning.
Leanne was just telling me about McLaggen and the last match, Harry...”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “well, now you're back and Ron's fit, we'll have a decent chance of thrashing Ravenclaw, which means we could still be in the running for the
Cup. Listen, Katie...”
He had to put the question to her at once; his curiosity even drove Ginny temporarily from his brain. He dropped his voice as Katie's friends started gathering up their
things; apparently they were late for Transfiguration.
“... that necklace... can you remember who gave it to you now?”
“No,” said Katie, shaking her head ruefully. “Everyone's been asking me, but I haven't got a clue. The last thing I remember was walking into the ladies’ in the
Three Broomsticks.”
“You definitely went into the bathroom, then?” said Hermione.
“Well, I know I pushed open the door,” said Katie, “so I suppose whoever Imperiused me was standing just behind it. After that, my memory's a blank until about two
weeks ago in St. Mungo's. Listen, I'd better go, I wouldn't put it past McGonagall to give me lines even if it is my first day back...”
She caught up her bag and books and hurried after her friends, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to sit down at a window table and ponder what she had told them.
“So it must have been a girl or a woman who gave Katie the necklace,” said Hermione, “to be in the ladies’ bathroom.”
“Or someone who looked like a girl or a woman,” said Harry. “Don't forget, there was a cauldron full of Polyjuice Potion at Hogwarts. We know some of it got
stolen...”
In his mind's eye, he watched a parade of Crabbes and Goyles prance past, all transformed into girls.
“I think I'm going to take another swig of Felix,” said Harry, “and have a go at the Room of Requirement again.”
“That would be a complete waste of potion,” said Hermione flatly, putting down the copy of Spellman's Syllabary she had just taken out of her bag. “Luck can only get
you so far, Harry. The situation with Slughorn was different; you always had the ability to persuade him, you just needed to tweak the circumstances a bit. Luck isn't
enough to get you through a powerful enchantment, though. Don't go wasting the rest of that potion! You'll need all the luck you can get if Dumbledore takes you along
with him ...” She dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Couldn't we make some more?” Ron asked Harry, ignoring Hermione. “It'd be great to have a stock of it... have a look in the book... ”
Harry pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bap, and looked up Felix Felicis.
“Blimey, it's seriously complicated,” he said, running an eye down the list of ingredients. “And it takes six months... you've got to let it stew...”
“Typical,” said Ron.
Harry was about to put his book away again when he noticed the corner of a page folded down; turning to it, he saw the Sectumsempra spell, captioned “For Enemies,”
that he had marked a few weeks previously. He had still not found out what it did, mainly because he did not want to test it around Hermione, but he was considering
trying it out on McLaggen next time he came up behind him unawares.
The only person who was not particularly pleased to see Katie Bell back at school was Dean Thomas, because he would no longer be required to fill her place as Chaser.
He took the blow stoically enough when Harry told him, merely grunting and shrugging, but Harry had the distinct feeling as he walked away that Dean and Seamus were
muttering mutinously behind his back.
The following fortnight saw the best Quidditch practices Harry had known as Captain. His team was so pleased to be rid of McLaggen, so glad to have Katie back at last,
that they were flying extremely well.
Ginny did not seem at all upset about the breakup with Dean; on the contrary, she was the life and soul of the team. Her imitations of Ron anxiously bobbing up and down
in front of the goal posts as the Quaffle sped toward him, or of Harry bellowing orders at McLaggen before being knocked out cold, kept them all highly amused. Harry,
laughing with the others, was glad to have an innocent reason to look at Ginny; he had received several more Bludger injuries during practice because he had not been
keeping his eyes on the Snitch.
The battle still raged inside his head: Ginny or Ron? Sometimes he thought that the post-Lavender Ron might not mind too much if he asked Ginny out, but then he
remembered Ron's expression when he had seen her kissing Dean, and was sure that Ron would consider it base treachery if Harry so much as held her hand...
Yet Harry could not help himself talking to Ginny, laughing with her, walking back from practice with her; however much his conscience ached, he found himself wondering
how best to get her on her own. It would have been ideal if Slughorn had given another of his little parties, for Ron would not be around—but unfortunately, Slughorn
seemed to have given them up. Once or twice Harry considered asking for Hermione's help, but he did not think he could stand seeing the smug look on her face; he
thought he caught it sometimes when Hermione spotted him staring at Ginny or laughing at her jokes. And to complicate matters, he had the nagging worry that if he
didn't do it, somebody else was sure to ask Ginny out soon: he and Ron were at least agreed on the fact that she was too popular for her own good.
All in all, the temptation to take another gulp of Felix Felicis was becoming stronger by the day, for surely this was a case for, as Hermione put it, “tweaking the
circumstances"? The balmy days slid gently through May, and Ron seemed to be there at Harry's shoulder every time he saw Ginny. Harry found himself longing for a stroke
of luck that would somehow cause Ron to realize that nothing would make him happier than his best friend and his sister falling for each other and to leave them alone
together for longer than a few seconds. There seemed no chance of either while the final Quidditch game of the season was looming; Ron wanted to talk tactics with Harry
all the time and had little thought for anything else.
Ron was not unique in this respect; interest in the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game was running extremely high throughout the school, for the match would decide the
Championship, which was still wide open. If Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw by a margin of three hundred points (a tall order, and yet Harry had never known his team to fly
better) then they would win the Championship. If they won by less than three hundred points, they would come second to Ravenclaw; if they lost by a hundred points they
would be third behind Hufflepuff and if they lost by more than a hundred, they would be in fourth place and nobody, Harry thought, would ever, ever let him forget that
it had been he who had captained Gryffindor to their first bottom-of-the-table defeat in two centuries.
The run-up to this crucial match had all the usual features: members of rival Houses attempting to intimidate opposing teams in the corridors; unpleasant chants about
individual players being rehearsed loudly as they passed; the team members themselves either swaggering around enjoying all the attention or else dashing into bathrooms
between classes to throw up. Somehow, the game had become inextricably linked in Harry's mind with success or failure in his plans for Ginny. He could not help feeling
that if they won by more than three hundred points, the scenes of euphoria and a nice loud after-match party might be just as good as a hearty swig of Felix Felicis.
In the midst of all his preoccupations, Harry had not forgotten his other ambition: finding out what Malfoy was up to in the Room of Requirement. He was still checking
the Marauder's Map, and as he was unable to locate Malfoy on it, deduced that Malfoy was still spending plenty of time within the room. Although Harry was losing hope
that he would ever succeed in getting inside the Room of Requirement, he attempted it whenever he was in the vicinity, but no matter how he reworded his request, the
wall remained firmly doorless.
A few days before the match against Ravenclaw, Harry found himself walking down to dinner alone from the common room, Ron having rushed off into a nearby bathroom to
throw up yet again, and Hermione having dashed off to see Professor Vector about a mistake she thought she might have made in her last Arithmancy essay. More out of
habit than anything, Harry made his usual detour along the seventh-floor corridor, checking the Marauder's Map as he went. For a moment he could not find Malfoy
anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the Room of Requirement again, but then he saw Malfoy's tiny, labeled dot standing in a boys’ bathroom on the floor
below, accompanied, not by Crabbe or Goyle, but by Moaning Myrtle.
Harry only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling when he walked right into a suit of armor. The loud crash brought him out of his reverie; hurrying from the scene
lest Filch turn up, he dashed down the marble staircase and along the passageway below. Outside the bathroom, he pressed his ear against the door. He could not hear
anything. He very quietly pushed the door open.
Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed.
“Don't,” crooned Moaning Myrtle's voice from one of the cubicles. “Don't... tell me what's wrong ... I can help you...”
“No one can help me,” said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. “I can't do it... I can't... It won't work... and unless I do it soon ... he says he'll kill me...”
And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to root him to the spot, that Malfoy was crying—actually crying—tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy
basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into flu-cracked mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his shoulder.
Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy's hex missed Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him; Harry
threw himself sideways, thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another —
“No! No! Stop it!” squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! STOP!”
There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded; Harry attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy's ear and smashed the cistern
beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, “Cruci —”
“SECTUMSEMPRA!” bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly.
Blood spurted from Malfoy's face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a
great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand.
“No —” gasped Harry.
Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest.
“No—I didn't —”
Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening
scream:
“MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!”
The door banged open behind Harry and he looked up, terrified: Snape had burst into the room, his face livid. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over Malfoy, drew
his wand, and traced it over the deep wounds Harry's curse had made, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like song. The flow of blood seemed to ease; Snape
wiped the residue from Malfoy's face and repeated his spell. Now the wounds seemed to be knitting.
Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had done, barely aware that he too was soaked in blood and water. Moaning Myrtle was still sobbing and wailing overhead.
When Snape had performed his counter-curse for the third time, he half-lifted Malfoy into a standing position.
“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that ... come...”
He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door to say in a voice of cold fury, “And you, Potter... You wait here for me.”
It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson flowers
across its surface. He could not even find it in himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident enjoyment.
Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
“Go,” he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind her.
“I didn't mean it to happen,” said Harry at once. His voice echoed in the cold, watery space. “I didn't know what that spell did.”
But Snape ignored this. “Apparently I underestimated you, Potter,” he said quietly. “Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?”
“I—read about it somewhere.”
“Where?”
“It was—a library book,” Harry invented wildly. “I can't remember what it was call —”
“Liar,” said Snape. Harry's throat went dry. He knew what Snape was going to do and he had never been able to prevent it...
The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he struggled to block out all thought, but try as he might, the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making swam
hazily to the forefront of his mind.
And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst of this wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into Snape's black eyes, hoping against hope that Snape had not seen
what he feared, but —
“Bring me your schoolbag,” said Snape softly, “and all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now!”
There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most people were
walking the other way; they gaped at him, drenched in water and blood, but he answered none of the questions fired at him as he ran past.
He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been thinking to copy such a spell into his book? And what would happen
when Snape saw it? Would he tell Slughorn—Harry's stomach churned—how Harry had been achieving such good results in Potions all year? Would he confiscate or destroy
the book that had taught Harry so much... the book that had become a kind of guide and friend? Harry could not let it happen... he could not...
“Where've you—? Why are you soaking... is that blood?”
Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking bewildered at the sight of Harry.
“I need your book,” Harry panted. “Your Potions book. Quick... give it to me...”
“But what about the Half-Blood —”
“I'll explain later!”
Ron pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past him and back to the common room. Here, he seized his schoolbag,
ignoring the amazed looks of several people who had already finished their dinner, threw himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled off along the seventh-floor
corridor.
He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk.
I need a place to hide my book... I need a place to hide my book... I need a place to hide my book...
Three times he walked up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, there it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. Harry
wrenched it open, flung himself inside, and slammed it shut.
He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could not help but be overawed by what he was looking at. He was standing
in a room the size of a large cathedral, whose high windows were sending shafts of light down upon what looked like a city with towering walls, built of what Harry knew
must be objects hidden by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. There were alleyways and roads bordered by tetering piles of broken and damaged furniture, stowed away,
perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or else hidden by castle-proud house-elves. There were thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned or
graffitied or stolen. There were winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some still with enough life in them to hover half-heartedly over the mountains of other forbidden
items; there were chipped bottles of congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles whose contents still
shimmered evilly, several rusting swords, and a heavy, bloodstained axe.
Harry hurried forward into one of the many alleyways between all this hidden treasure. He turned right past an enormous stuffed troll, ran on a short way, took a left
at the broken Vanishing Cabinet in which Montague had got lost the previous year, finally pausing beside a large cupboard that seemed to have had acid thrown at its
blistered surface. He opened one of the cupboard's creaking doors: it had already been used as a hiding place for something in a cage that had long since died; its
skeleton had five legs. He stuffed the Half-Blood Prince's book behind the cage and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, his heart thumping horribly, gazing around
at all the clutter... would he be able to find this spot again amidst all this junk? Seizing the chipped bust of an ugly old warlock from on top of a nearby crate, he
stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was now hidden, perched a dusty old wig and a tarnished tiara on the statues head to make it more distinctive, then
sprinted back through the alleyways of hidden junk as fast as he could go, back to the door, back out onto the corridor, where he slammed the door behind him, and it
turned at once back into stone.
Harry ran flat-out toward the bathroom on the floor below, cramming Ron's copy of Advanced Potion-Making into his bag as he did so. A minute later, he was back in front
of Snape, who held out his hand wordlessly for Harry's schoolbag. Harry handed it over, panting, a searing pain in his chest, and waited.
One by one, Snape extracted Harry's books and examined them. Finally, the only book left was the Potions book, which he looked at very carefully before speaking.
“This is your copy of Advanced Potion-Making, is it, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry, still breathing hard.
“You're quite sure of that, are you, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry, with a touch more defiance.
“This is the copy of Advanced Potion-Making that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?”
“Yes,” said Harry firmly.
“Then why,” asked Snape, “does it have the name ‘Roonil Wazlib’ written inside the front cover?”
Harry's heart missed a beat. “That's my nickname,” he said.
“Your nickname,” repeated Snape.
“Yeah... that's what my friends call me,” said Harry.
“I understand what a nickname is,” said Snape. The cold, black eyes were boring once more into Harry's; he tried not to look into them. Close your mind... close your
mind... but he had never learned how to do it properly...
“Do you know what I think, Potter?” said Snape, very quietly. “I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until
the end of term. What do you think, Potter?”
“I—I don't agree, sir,” said Harry, still refusing to look into Snape's eyes.
“Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions,” said Snape. “Ten o'clock Saturday morning, Potter. My office.”
“But sir,” said Harry, looking up desperately. “Quidditch... the last match of the—”
“Ten o'clock,” whispered Snape, with a smile that showed his yellow teeth. “Poor Gryffindor... fourth place this year, I fear...”
And he left the bathroom without another word, leaving Harry to stare into the cracked mirror, feeling sicker, he was sure, than Ron had ever felt in his life.
“I won't say ‘I told you so,'” said Hermione, an hour later in the common room.
“Leave it, Hermione,” said Ron angrily.
Harry had never made it to dinner; he had no appetite at all. He had just finished telling Ron, Hermione, and Ginny what had happened, not that there seemed to have
been much need. The news had traveled very fast: apparently Moaning Myrtle had taken it upon herself to pop up in every bathroom in the castle to tell the story; Malfoy
had already been visited in the hospital wing by Pansy Parkinson, who had lost no time in vilifying Harry far and wide, and Snape had told the staff precisely what had
happened. Harry had already been called out of the common room to endure fifteen highly unpleasant minutes in the company of Professor McGonagall, who had told him he
was lucky not to have been expelled and that she supported wholeheartedly Snape's punishment of detention every Saturday until the end of term.
“I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person,” Hermione said, evidently unable to stop herself. “And I was right, wasn't I.”
“No, I don't think you were,” said Harry stubbornly.
He was having a bad enough time without Hermione lecturing him; the looks on the Gryffindor team's faces when he had told them he would not be able to play on Saturday
had been the worst punishment of all. He could feel Ginny's eyes on him now but did not meet them; he did not want to see disappointment or anger there. He had just
told her that she would be playing Seeker on Saturday and that Dean would be rejoining the team as Chaser in her place. Perhaps, if they won, Ginny and Dean would make
up during the post-match euphoria... the thought went through Harry like an icy knife...
“Harry,” said Hermione, “how can you still stick up for that book when that spell —”
“Will you stop harping on about the book!” snapped Harry. “The Prince only copied it out! It's not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was
making a note of something that had been used against him!”
“I don't believe this,” said Hermione. “You're actually defending—”
“I'm not defending what I did!” said Harry quickly. “I wish I hadn't done it, and not just because I've got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn't've used a
spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you can't blame the Prince, he hadn't written ‘Try this out, it's really good'—he was just making notes for himself, wasn't
he, not for anyone else...”
“Are you telling me,” said Hermione, “that you're going to go back—?”
“And get the book? Yeah, I am,” said Harry forcefully. “Listen, without the Prince I'd never have won the Felix Felicis. I'd never have known how to save Ron from
poisoning, I'd never have —”
“— got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don't deserve,” said Hermione nastily.
“Give it a rest, Hermione!” said Ginny, and Harry was so amazed, so grateful, he looked up. “By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse, you
should be glad Harry had something good up his sleeve!”
“Well, of course I'm glad Harry wasn't cursed!” said Hermione, clearly stung. “But you can't call that Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny, look where it's landed him!
And I'd have thought, seeing what this has done to your chances in the match —”
“Oh, don't start acting as though you understand Quidditch,” snapped Ginny, “you'll only embarrass yourself.”
Harry and Ron stared: Hermione and Ginny, who had always got on together very well, were now sitting with their arms folded, glaring in opposite directions. Ron looked
nervously at Harry, then snatched up a book at random and hid behind it. Harry, however, little though he knew he deserved it, felt unbelievably cheerful all of a
sudden, even though none of them spoke again for the rest of the evening.
His lightheartedness was short-lived. There were Slytherin taunts to be endured next day, not to mention much anger from fellow Gryffindors, who were most unhappy that
their Captain had got himself banned from the final match of the season. By Saturday morning, whatever he might have told Hermione, Harry would have gladly exchanged
all the Felix Felicis in the world to be walking down to the Quidditch pitch with Ron, Ginny, and the others. It was almost unbearable to turn away from the mass of
students streaming out into the sunshine, all of them wearing rosettes and hats and brandishing banners and scarves, to descend the stone steps into the dungeons and
walk until the distant sounds of the crowd were quite obliterated, knowing that he would not be able to hear a word of commentary or a cheer or groan.
“Ah, Potter,” said Snape, when Harry had knocked on his door and entered the unpleasantly familiar office that Snape, despite teaching floors above now, had not
vacated; it was as dimly lit as ever and the same slimy dead objects were suspended in colored potions all around the walls. Ominously, there were many cob-webbed boxes
piled on a table where Harry was clearly supposed to sit; they had an aura of tedious, hard, and pointless work about them.
“Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files,” said Snape softly. “They are the records of other Hogwarts wrongdoers and their punishments.
Where the ink has grown faint, or the cards have suffered damage from mice, we would like you to copy out the crimes and punishments afresh and, making sure that they
are in alphabetical order, replace them in the boxes. You will not use magic.”
“Right, Professor,” said Harry, with as much contempt as he could put into the last three syllables.
“I thought you could start,” said Snape, a malicious smile on his lips, “with boxes one thousand and twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some
familiar names in there, which should add interest to the task. Here, you see...”
He pulled out a card from one of the topmost boxes with a flourish and read, “James Potter and Sirius Black. Apprehended using an illegal hex upon Bertram Aubrey.
Aubrey's head twice normal size. Double detention.” Snape sneered. “It must be such a comforting thing that, though they are gone, a record of their great
achievements remains...”
Harry felt the familiar boiling sensation in the pit of his stomach. Biting his tongue to prevent himself retaliating, he sat down in front of the boxes and pulled one
toward him.
It was, as Harry had anticipated, useless, boring work, punctuated (as Snape had clearly planned) with the regular jolt in the stomach that meant he had just read his
father or Sirius's names, usually coupled together in various petty misdeeds, occasionally accompanied by those of Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. And while he copied
out all their various offenses and punishments, he wondered what was going on outside, where the match would have just started... Ginny playing Seeker against Cho...
Harry glanced again and again at the large clock ticking on the wall. It seemed to be moving half as fast as a regular clock; perhaps Snape had bewitched it to go extra
slowly? He could not have been here for only half an hour ... an hour ... an hour and a half...
Harry's stomach started rumbling when the clock showed half past twelve. Snape, who had not spoken at all since setting Harry his task, finally looked up at ten past
one.
“I think that will do,” he said coldly. “Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten o'clock next Saturday.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harry stuffed a bent card into the box at random and hurried out of the door before Snape could change his mind, racing back up the stone steps, straining his ears to
hear a sound from the pitch, but all was quiet... it was over, then...
He hesitated outside the crowded Great Hall, then ran up the marble staircase; whether Gryffindor had won or lost, the team usually celebrated or commiserated in their
own common room.
“Quid agis?” he said tentatively to the Fat Lady, wondering what he would find inside.
Her expression was unreadable as she replied, “You'll see.”
And she swung forward.
A roar of celebration erupted from the hole behind her. Harry gaped as people began to scream at the sight of him; several hands pulled him into the room.
“We won!” yelled Ron, bounding into sight and brandishing the silver Cup at Harry. “We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!”
Harry looked around; there was Ginny running toward him; she had a hard, blazing look in her face as she threw her arms around him. And without thinking, without
planning it, without worrying about the fact that fifty people were watching, Harry kissed her.
After several long moments—or it might have been half an hour—or possibly several sunlit days—they broke apart. The room had gone very quiet. Then several people
wolf-whistled and there was an outbreak of nervous giggling. Harry looked over the top of Ginny's head to see Dean Thomas holding a shattered glass in his hand, and
Romilda Vane looking as though she might throw something. Hermione was beaming, but Harry's eyes sought Ron. At last he found him, still clutching the Cup and wearing
an expression appropriate to having been clubbed over the head. For a fraction of a second they looked at each other, then Ron gave a tiny jerk of the head that Harry
understood to mean, “Well—if you must.”
The creature in his chest roaring in triumph, he grinned down at Ginny and gestured wordlessly out of the portrait hole. A long walk in the grounds seemed indicated,
during which—if they had time—they might discuss the match.
虽然感到精疲力尽，但哈利还是十分满意昨晚的功课，第二天早上的魔咒课上他把事情原原本本地告诉了罗恩和赫敏（事先已经对离他们最近的那些人念了悄声细语咒）。哈利套取斯拉霍恩记
忆的方式让他们俩非常满意，也给他们留下了深刻的印象，当哈利告诉他们伏地魔的灵魂碎片和邓布利多答应带着他去找寻它们时，他们俩对此感到十分害怕。
“哇，”当哈利说完了所有的事之后，罗恩说；他把魔杖指向了天花板，茫然地挥动着，一点儿也没有注意到自己在干什么。“哇，你真的要和邓布利多一起……去试图毁灭……哇。”
“罗恩，你变出雪来了，”赫敏耐着性子说，抓住他的手腕把他的魔杖从天花板的方向移开，果然，那儿开始下起了巨大的白色雪花。哈利注意到，拉文德·布朗从邻桌那边红着眼对赫敏
怒目而视，于是赫敏赶紧松开了罗恩的手。
“哦，是啊，”罗恩看着自己的肩膀，带着模糊的讶异。“对不起……看上去就像我们都生了讨厌的头皮屑一样。”
他从赫敏肩膀上拭去了一些冒牌的雪花。拉文德突然哭了起来。罗恩看上去非常内疚，于是他转过身背对着她。
“我们感情破裂了，”他从嘴角挤出几个字告诉哈利。“昨晚。她看见我和赫敏一起从宿舍出来。很明显她看不见你，所以她以为那儿只有我们两个人。”
“啊，”哈利说。“那么——你不介意你们之间结束了吧？”
“不介意，”罗恩承认。“她大喊大叫的时候真是糟透了，不过至少不用我去结束这一切。”
“胆小鬼，”赫敏说，不过她看上去很开心。“嗯，昨晚是一切浪漫爱情的噩梦。金妮和迪安也分手了，哈利。”
哈利觉得赫敏告诉他这些的时候给了他一个会意的眼神，不过她不可能知道哈利的五脏六腑突然间跳起了康茄舞：他尽量保持不动声色地问，“怎么回事？”
“哦，很傻的原因……她说每次经过肖像洞的时候他总是要帮她，就好像她自己过不去似的……”
哈利瞥了一眼教室另一边的迪安，他看上去当然也不开心。
“当然，这件事让你进退两难，是不是？”赫敏说。
“你是什么意思？”哈利迅速说。
“魁地奇球队，”赫敏说。“如果金妮和迪安不说话了……”
“哦——是啊，”哈利说。
“弗立维来了，”罗恩用一种警告的语气说。那个矮小的魔咒课老师正向他们走过来，赫敏是唯一一个成功地把醋变成葡萄酒的；她的烧瓶里充满了深红色的液体，而罗恩和哈利的却仍然
是深棕色的。
“好了，好了，男孩子们，”弗立维教授责备地尖声说，“少说一点话，多做一点事……让我看你们试试……”
他们一起举起魔杖，尽全力集中精神，指向他们的烧瓶里的东西。哈利的醋变成了冰；罗恩的则爆炸了。
“好的……作为家庭作业……”弗立维教授从桌子下面爬起，把玻璃碎片从他的帽子顶上摘了出来，“练习。”
他们在魔咒课之后有一段罕有的共同空闲时间，于是他们一起走回了公共休息室。罗恩看上去对他和拉文德关系的结束感到十分轻松，而赫敏也似乎很愉快，不过当哈利问她在笑什么的时
候，她只是简单地说，“今天天气不错。”他们俩似乎都没有注意到在哈利的头脑中正在进行着一场激烈的斗争：
她是罗恩的妹妹。
但是她甩了迪安！
她仍旧是罗恩的妹妹。
我是他最好的哥们！
这会适得其反。
如果我先和他谈谈——
他会揍你。
要是我不在乎呢？
他是你最好的哥们！
哈利几乎没有注意到他们正爬过肖像洞进入了阳光明媚的公共休息室，他茫然地看到一小群七年级学生正聚集在一块儿，直到赫敏大喊一声，“凯蒂！你回来了！你还好吗？”
哈利仔细地看了看：真的是凯蒂·贝尔，看上去完全康复了，正被喜气洋洋的朋友们围着。
“我真的挺好！”她高兴地说。“他们让我在周一出了圣芒戈，我和爸爸妈妈在家里待了几天之后，今天早上回到了这儿。琳恩刚刚还在跟我说麦克拉根和上一场比赛的事，哈利……”
“对，”哈利说，“嗯，既然你现在回来了，而罗恩也康复了，我们就有相当大的机会痛击拉文克劳了，这就是说我们仍然在角逐魁地奇杯的行列里。听我说，凯蒂……”
他得马上问她一个问题；他的好奇心甚至把金妮暂时赶出了脑海。他压低了声音，这时凯蒂的朋友们开始收拾他们的东西，显然他们的变形课要迟到了。
“……那串项链……你现在能记得是谁给你的吗？”
“不能，”凯蒂沮丧地摇着头。“每个人都问过我，但是我毫无头绪。我记得的最后一件事就是走进了三把扫帚的女盥洗室。”
“那么，你肯定进了盥洗室？”赫敏说。
“嗯，我记得我推开了门，”凯蒂说，“所以我认为不管是谁对我施了夺魂咒，他一定就站在门背后。在那之后，我的记忆就变得一片空白，直到大约两个星期前在圣芒戈魔法医院醒来。
好了，我得走了，我相信麦格教授不会因为这是我第一天回来，就不罚我写句子……”
她拿起背包和书本匆匆地去追她的同学们，留下哈利、罗恩和赫敏坐在一张靠窗的桌子旁，思索着她告诉他们的事。
“这么说把项链给凯蒂的人一定是个女的”，赫敏说，“因为在女盥洗室里。”
“或者只不过是看上去像女的，”哈利说。“别忘了，霍格沃茨有一大坩埚的复方汤剂呢。我们知道它被偷了一些去了……”
他在脑海中仿佛看见了一群克拉布和高尔昂首挺胸地走过，全部变成了女生。
“我要再喝下一口飞力飞思，”哈利说，“然后去有求必应屋再试一次。”
“那只会是浪费药水，” 赫敏把刚从书包里拿出来的《魔法字音表》放下，直截了当地说。“运气能做的只有这么多，哈利。这和斯拉霍恩的情况是不同的；你本来就有能力说服他，你
只需要调整一下环境就行了。可运气却不足以让你穿越一个强有力的魔法屏障。别再浪费剩下的药水了！如果邓布利多带着你去做那件事的话，你会用得上你能得到的所有运气……”她的声音
变成了耳语。
“我们不能多制作一点吗？”罗恩问哈利，没有理会赫敏。“如果我们有存货的话岂不是很棒……看看书里怎么说……”
哈利从书包中拿出了他的那本《高级魔药制备》，然后开始查找飞力飞思。
“天哪，复杂死了，”他浏览了一下配料单。“而且还需要六个月……必须让它炖着……”
“一贯如此，”罗恩说。
正当哈利准备把书收起来时，他注意到有一页被折了起来；他翻到那一页，看到了刀光剑影咒，旁边标注着“用于敌人”，那是他几周前折下的。他还是没有发现这条咒语是干什么用的，
主要是因为他不想在赫敏身边测试，不过他考虑下次从后面偷偷接近麦克拉根时试试。
唯一不怎么乐意看到凯蒂·贝尔回到学校的人是迪安·托马斯，因为他不能再代替她担任追球手了。当哈利告诉他时，迪安强忍住才没有揍他，只是低声咕哝和耸着肩，不过哈利走开的时
候清楚地感觉到迪安和西莫在他身后恨恨地嘀咕着什么。
随后的两周哈利见到了自他担任队长以来最好的魁地奇训练。他的队员们对于摆脱麦克拉根都非常满意，也高兴地看到凯蒂终于回归，这些都促使他们飞得好极了。
金妮看上去一点也没有为自己和迪安分手而感到心烦意乱；恰恰相反，她成了球队的活跃分子。她又是模仿罗恩看到鬼飞球向他急速飞来时不安地在球柱前上窜下跳，又是模仿哈利在被撞
麦克拉根打昏之前对他发号施令，所有人的心情都很愉快。哈利和其他人一起大笑，他很高兴能有这个纯洁的理由去看金妮；他在训练中好几次被游走球打伤，就是因为没有盯着金色飞贼。
斗争依旧在他脑海中激烈地进行：金妮还是罗恩？有时他认为罗恩和拉文德恋爱过了之后不会太介意他和金妮约会，但随后他想起了罗恩看到金妮吻迪安时脸上的表情，他确信即使自己只
是握她的手，罗恩也会认为这是卑劣的背叛……
然而哈利却情不自禁地和金妮说话，和她一起大笑，和她一起在训练之后往回走；尽管他受到了良心的谴责，但还是一直在想怎么才能和金妮独处：如果斯拉霍恩再举办一个小型聚会就好
了，因为这样罗恩就不会在身边——但不幸的是，斯拉霍恩似乎已经放弃他们了。有那么一两次哈利想寻求赫敏的帮助，但他无法忍受她脸上的那种自以为是的表情；他觉得有几次赫敏见他盯
着金妮看，或者为金妮的笑话发笑的时候，脸上就会露出这种表情。令事情更加复杂的是，他如果不快点和金妮约会，就会有人捷足先登：他和罗恩至少都同意她这么受欢迎是因为她自身的优
点。
总而言之，再喝一口飞力飞思的诱惑日益强烈，因为这难道不是属于赫敏所说的那种‘调整一下环境’的情况吗？五月的天气慢慢地变得温暖起来，而每当哈利看见金妮时，罗恩总在他身
旁。哈利多么渴望有什么有幸能使罗恩意识到，他最好的朋友与他的妹妹双双坠入爱河，并且能让他们俩单独待上几秒钟，都是最让罗恩感到开心的事。可在随着本学期的最后一场魁地奇比赛
的即将来临，这两件事都没有什么机会实现了；罗恩总是缠着哈利讨论战术，根本没有去想其他的事。
罗恩并不是唯一一个如此重视比赛的人；对格兰芬多和拉文克劳比赛的关心正以极快的速度在学校中蔓延，因为这场比赛将决定尚悬而未决的冠军。如果格兰芬多能赢拉文克劳300分（一
个很高的要求，然而哈利的球队正处于最佳状态），他们将赢得冠军。如果他们赢得少于300分，他们会位于拉文克劳之后排在第二；如果他们输了100分的话，就会排在赫奇帕奇后面列第三，
而如果输了100分以上，他们则只能屈居第四，哈利想，每个人都会不断地提醒他，他是两个世纪以来第一个让格兰芬多垫底的队长。
关键比赛的前夕总是包含了常有的节目：对阵的两个学院的学生试图在走廊里恐吓对方的球员；在对方个别球员经过的时候一遍遍地排练讽刺他们的歌曲；队员们有的昂首阔步地享受着别
人的注视，有的却在课间冲进厕所里呕吐不止。比赛的胜负和哈利对金妮的计划是否成功被莫名其妙地联系了起来，仿佛在哈利的脑海里打了一个解不开的结。他不禁感觉到如果最终他们赢得
了300分以上，欢庆和庆功宴的场面简直会和喝了一大口飞力飞思一样美妙。
在这么多当务之急中间，哈利还没有忘记他的另一个的目标：查出马尔福在有求必应屋里干什么。他仍在继续查看活点地图，也经常无法在上面找到马尔福，于是他推测马尔福仍旧把大量
的时间花在了有求必应屋里面。尽管哈利进入有求必应屋的努力已经越来越令他失望，但他还是一旦在它附近就会去尝试，但是不管他怎样改变措辞，墙还是坚决密不透风。
在和拉文克劳比赛的前几天，哈利一个人离开公共休息室去吃晚餐，因为罗恩又冲进了附近的一个盥洗室吐了起来，赫敏则怀疑自己上一篇算术占卜的论文里出了一个小错误，于是她急匆
匆地跑去找维克托教授了。出于习惯，哈利又绕到了八楼的那条走廊，边走边查看活点地图。他一度没有找到马尔福，确信他一定又躲在了有求必应屋里，可是随后他就看见了马尔福的小黑点
，他正在楼下的一间男生盥洗室里，陪着他的，不是克拉布和高尔，而是哭泣的桃金娘。
哈利呆呆地盯着这一对不太可能的组合，结果撞上了一套盔甲。响亮的碰撞声让他从沉思中清醒过来；他赶紧逃离了现场，免得费尔奇出现在他面前，他匆匆地走下大理石楼梯，沿着过道
往前走。当他到达盥洗室门口的时候，他把耳朵贴在了门上。他听不见任何声音。于是哈利轻轻地推了推门。
德拉科·马尔福背对着门站着，两手抓住了水槽，苍白的脸低低地垂着。
“不要，”一个隔间里传出了哭泣的淘金娘低沉的声音。“不要……请告诉我怎么了……我能帮你……”
“没有人能帮我，”马尔福说。他的整个身体都在颤抖。“我做不到……它还是不起作用……除非我就做好……否则他说他就会杀了我……”
哈利震惊了，脚下仿佛生了根一样站在那儿，他意识到马尔福正在哭……真的在哭……泪水从他苍白的脸庞滴落到脏兮兮的池子里。马尔福喘了口气，随后他猛地打了个激灵，破碎的镜子
里，哈利正凝视着他的肩膀。
马尔福转过身来，抽出了他的魔杖。哈利也本能地抽出了自己的魔杖。马尔福射出的恶咒从哈利身边几英寸的地方穿过，把他旁边墙上灯击得粉碎；哈利闪到一边，在脑海里想了想‘轻身
浮影！’同时抖了抖魔杖，但是马尔福却挡住了这个咒语，举起了魔杖准备再次施咒。
“不！不！停下！”哭泣的桃金娘尖利的声音回荡在砖砌的屋子里。“停下！停下！”
砰的一声巨响，哈利身后的一个水箱爆炸了；哈利发出了一个锁腿咒，从马尔福身后的那扇墙弹了回来，击碎了哭泣的桃金娘身下的一个蓄水池，她大声地尖叫了起来；水被溅得到处都是
，就在哈利滑倒的一瞬间，马尔福的脸扭曲了起来，大叫一声“钻心——”
“刀光剑影！”哈利在地板上吼道，疯狂地挥动着魔杖。
血从马尔福的脸和胸口上喷射了出来，仿佛他刚才被一把无形的剑砍到了。他蹒跚着向后退了几步，瘫倒在了湿漉漉的地板上，顿时激起了一大片水花，魔杖从他无力的右手里脱落出来。
“不——”哈利气喘吁吁地说。
哈利摇摇晃晃地从地板上站起来，扑向了马尔福，他的脸闪着鲜红色的光，苍白的手在鲜血浸渍的胸前乱抓。
“不——我没有——”
哈利不知道他在说什么；他跪倒马尔福身边，而后者正倒在自己的血泊里不由自主地抽搐着。哭泣的桃金娘发出了一声震耳欲聋的尖叫。
“谋杀！盥洗室里的谋杀！谋杀！”
哈利身后的门砰的一声打开了，哈利惊恐地抬起了头：斯内普脸色惨白地冲进了盥洗室。他粗暴地把哈利推到一边，跪在马尔福身旁，抽出魔杖沿着哈利的咒语所划出的伤口移动，嘴里则
喃喃地念着咒，听起来像是一首歌。血似乎渐渐被止住了；斯内普擦去了马尔福脸上剩下血迹，又念了一次咒语。这次伤口似乎在愈合了。
哈利仍旧注视着这一切，对他自己做的事感到惊恐万分，甚至没有注意到自己也被血和水浸透了。哭泣的桃金娘仍在他们头顶大哭小叫。当斯内普第三次念完那个破解咒之后，他半提半拉
地让马尔福站了起来。
“你需要去校医院。可能会留下一定的伤疤，但如果马上服用白藓的话也许伤疤也不会有了……来……”
他支撑着马尔福走过盥洗室，在门口转过身来，用一种冷冷的愤怒语气说，“而你，波特……留在这里等我。”
哈利一点儿也没有违抗的意思。他颤抖着慢慢站了起来，低头看着湿漉漉的地板。地板上血迹斑斑，像深红色的花一样漂在水泊表面。他甚至不忍心让桃金娘安静下来，后者持续不断的哭
声里享受的成分明显地在增加。
十分钟后斯内普回来了。他走进盥洗室并关上了门。
“滚，”他对桃金娘说，她立刻飞入了厕所，留下了一阵清脆的寂静。
“我不是故意的，”哈利马上说。他的声音在这个阴冷潮湿的地方回荡。“我不知道那条咒语有什么作用。”
但斯内普没有理会这个辩解。
“显然我低估了你，波特，”他轻声说，“谁会想到你竟然懂得这种黑魔法？谁教你的那条咒语？”
“我——在某个地方读到的。”
“哪里？”
“是——图书馆里的一本书，”哈利开始瞎编乱造，“我记不起它叫什么了——”
“说谎，”斯内普说。哈利的嗓子发干了。他知道斯内普打算干什么而他却无法阻止……
他眼前的盥洗室开始变得闪烁不定；他挣扎着试图排除一切杂念，但是他越是努力，混血王子的那本《高级魔药制备》就越是模糊地浮现在他眼前。
然后他似乎又回到了这间破损、潮湿的盥洗室，正再次盯着斯内普。他直视着斯内普的黑眼睛，对斯内普没有看见他害怕被看见的事还抱着一线希望，但是——
“把你的书包拿来，”斯内普低声说，“还有你所以的课本，所有的。把它们都拿到这儿来。现在！”
没有什么争辩的意义。哈利立刻转过身踩着水走了盥洗室。一到走廊，他马上就向格兰芬多塔楼奔去。大多数人在都向相反的方向走；他们盯着被血水浸透的哈利，他却只顾狂奔，没有回
答沿路抛给他的任何问题。
他感到震惊；就好像一只心爱的宠物突然变成了野兽。王子为什么要在他的书里上写下这么一条咒语？斯内普看见时又会有什么反应？他会不会告诉斯拉霍恩——哈利的胃开始搅动——哈
利在整年的魔药课上是如何拿到高分的？他会不会没收或者销毁这本教了哈利那么多的书……这本已经变成导师和朋友的书？哈利不能让它发生……他不能……
“你去了哪儿——？你怎么浑身都是——？这是血吗？”
罗恩站在楼梯顶上，迷惑不解地看着哈利。
“我需要你的书，”哈利喘着气说。“你的魔药课本。快……把它给我……”
“那混血王子的那本——？”
“我稍后再解释！”
罗恩从包里拿出他的《高级魔药制备》递了过去；哈利马上经过他冲回了公共休息室。他抓过书包，不去理睬那些已经吃完饭的人脸上惊奇的表情，冲出肖像口，飞奔到了八楼走廊。
他在跳舞巨怪的挂毯旁边紧急刹车，闭上了眼睛开始踱步。
我需要一个地方藏书……我需要一个地方藏书……我需要一个地方藏书……
他在光秃秃的墙边来回走了三次。他睁开了眼睛，终于出现了：有求必应屋的门。哈利扳开它冲了进去，又重重地把门关上。
他喘着粗气。尽管他很匆忙，很惊慌，很害怕回到盥洗室，但他还是禁不住被眼前所看到的震慑住了。他站在一个教堂那么大的房子里，高高的窗户投进一束束光线，看上去就像是置身于
一个带着高耸围墙的城市，构成那些高墙的是一代代霍格沃茨人所藏的东西。破损和毁坏的家具被摇摇欲坠地堆起来，围出了各种小路和大道，这些家具都被塞的满满的，也许是为了藏匿那些
胡乱操作魔法的证物，或者是被讲究城堡整洁的家养小精灵给藏了进来。这儿还有成千上万的书，无疑都是些被禁止的书、胡乱涂鸦的书或者干脆就是偷来的书。有许多长翅膀的弹弓和尖牙飞
盘，其中有几个上面带的魔法依然没有消退，正懒洋洋地在其他被禁物品上盘旋；一些残破的瓶子里装着已经凝固的魔药，还有帽子、珠宝、斗篷；还有看上去像是龙蛋壳的东西，几只封着口
的瓶子，里面的东西还在邪恶地闪着光，几把生锈的剑和一把血迹斑斑的大斧子。
哈利飞快地走进了其中的一条小巷。他右转躲过了一个体形庞大、被喂饱了的巨怪，跑到一条较短的路上，左转经过了一个坏掉的消失柜，正是去年蒙太掉进去的那个，最后他停在了一个
大碗橱旁边，它已经起泡的表面仿佛被人泼了酸液。哈利打开了一扇吱呀作响的柜门：它里面已经藏着一个笼子了，笼子里的东西早就死了；它的骨架有五条腿。他把混血王子的书塞到笼子后
面，然后重重地关上了门。他顿了一会儿，心里砰砰乱跳地看着这一片狼藉……他能在所有这些垃圾里找到这个地方吗？他从附近的一个箱子顶上抓过一个又丑又老的巫师的残破半身像，把他
立到藏书的柜子上，又把一个布满灰尘的旧假发和一个失去光泽的皇冠放到它头，这样就更明显了，然后他沿着垃圾围成的小巷飞快地往回跑，回到了门口，来到走廊上之后他狠狠地关上了身
后的门，它马上又变回了石头。
哈利一边全速跑向了楼下的盥洗室，一边把罗恩的《高级魔药制备》塞进书包。一分钟后，他回到了斯内普面前，斯内普什么都没说，只是伸出手拿过了哈利的书包。哈利把它递了过去，
胸口一阵灼烧的疼痛，喘着气等在一边。
斯内普抽出哈利的书一本一本地检查。最后只剩下魔药课本了，斯内普十分仔细地查看了一番之后才开口说话。
“这是你的《高级魔药制备》，对吗，波特？”
“是的，”哈利仍然重重地喘着气。
“你对此非常确定，是吗，波特？”
“是的，”哈利说，微微有些轻蔑。
“这是你从丽痕书店买的那本《高级魔药制备》吗？”
“是的，”哈利坚定地说。
“那么为什么，”斯内普问，“在书封面的背面会有‘鲁尼尔·沃兹里’的名字？”
哈利的心脏似乎停止了跳动。
“那是我的绰号，”他说。
“你的绰号，”斯内普重复道。
“对……我朋友就是这么叫我的，”哈利说。
“我懂一个绰号应该是什么样子，”斯内普说。他冷漠漆黑的眼睛再一次盯住了哈利；他试着不去看它们。封闭你的思想……封闭你的思想……但他还没有学会如何正确地做……
“你知道我是怎么认为的吗，波特？”斯内普说，声音非常轻。“我认为你在说谎，你是一个骗子，所以你每个周六都要来我这儿关禁闭，直到学期结束。你认为如何，波特？”
“我——我不同意，教授，”哈利说，仍旧不去看斯内普的眼睛。
“那么，就看看你关禁闭之后是怎么想的吧，”斯内普说。“星期六早上十点，波特。我办公室。”
“但是，教授……”哈利绝望地抬起了头，“魁地奇……最后一场比赛——”
“十点整，”斯内普轻声说，微笑着露出了他的黄牙。“可怜的格兰芬多……恐怕今年要当第四名了……”
他没再说什么就离开了盥洗室，留下哈利一个人，他盯着破碎的镜子，确信自己此刻的感觉比罗恩从小到大任何时候的感觉都要沮丧。
“我不想说‘我早就告诉你了’，”一个小时后在公共休息室里，赫敏说。
“别说了，赫敏，”罗恩生气地说。
哈利没有去吃晚餐；他一点食欲也没有。他刚刚把发生的事告诉了罗恩、赫敏和金妮，不过似乎没什么必要。消息传播得很快：显然哭泣的桃金娘已经把这个故事传播到了城堡的每个盥洗
室里；潘西·帕金森刚才去医院探望了马尔福，她不失时机地到处说着哈利的坏话，而斯内普则清楚地告诉了所有老师到底发生了什么。哈利刚才被叫出公共休息室和麦格教授在一起忍受了极
不愉快的十五分钟，她告诉哈利，他很幸运因为没有被开除，同时她
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