Chapter 1 The Other Minister
It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government's fault.
The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?
“A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin.
And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... it wasn't right, it wasn't normal...
He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.
He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.
“Hello?” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming—as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough— from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.
“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”
The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.
“Er,” said the Prime Minister, “listen... it's not a very good time for me... I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the president of—”
“That can be rearranged,” said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister's heart sank. He had been afraid of that.
“But I really was rather hoping to speak—”
“We shall arrange for the president to forget to call. He will telephone tomorrow night instead,” said the little man. “Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge.”
“I... oh... very well,” said the Prime Minister weakly. “Yes, I'll see Fudge.”
He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.
“Ah... Prime Minister,” said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his hand outstretched. “Good to see you again.”
The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded well.
“How can I help you?” he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly and gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Difficult to know where to begin,” muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair, sitting down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. “What a week, what a week...”
“Had a bad one too, have you?” asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any extra helpings from Fudge.
“Yes, of course,” said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking morosely at the Prime Minister. “I've been having the same week you have, Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge... the Bones and Vance murders... not to mention the ruckus in the West Country...”
“You—er—your—I mean to say, some of your people were—were involved in those—those things, were they?”
Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look.
“Of course they were,” he said, “Surely you've realized what's going on?”
“I...” hesitated the Prime Minister.
It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge's visits so much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime Minister. He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would haunt him until his dying day.
He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive and introduce himself
Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the election had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was, said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way.
“Not to worry,” he had said, “it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll only bother you if there's something really serious going on our end, something that's likely to affect the Muggles—the non-magical population, I should say. Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a lot better than your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition.”
At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last.
“You're—you're not a hoax, then?”
It had been his last, desperate hope.
“No,” said Fudge gently. “No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look.”
And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.
“But,” said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing on the corner of his next speech, “but why—why has nobody told me—?”
“The Minister of Magic only reveals him—or herself to the Muggle Prime Minister of the day,” said Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket. “We find it the best way to maintain secrecy.”
“But then,” bleated the Prime Minister, “why hasn't a former Prime Minister warned me—?”
At this, Fudge had actually laughed.
“My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?”
Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never, as long as he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the wide world would believe him?
The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to convince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid himself of all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to his delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the Prime Minister's dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to remove. When several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to pry it from the wall, the Prime Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to hope that the thing remained motionless and silent for the rest of his term in office. Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye the occupant of the painting yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind. However, he had trained himself not to look at the picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him when anything like this happened.
Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet and in a state of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named “Serious” Black, something that sounded like “Hogwarts,” and a boy called Harry Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.
“... I've just come from Azkaban,” Fudge had panted, tipping a large amount of water out of the rim of his bowler hat into his pocket. “Middle of the North Sea, you know, nasty flight... the dementors are in uproar"—he shuddered—"they've never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime Minister. Black's a known Muggle killer and may be planning to rejoin You-Know-Who... but of course, you don't even know who You-Know-Who is!” He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, “Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... have a whiskey...”
The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a chair.
Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to say a certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he had thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.
“So you think that...” He had squinted down at the name in his left hand. “Lord Vol—”
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” snarled Fudge.
“I'm sorry... you think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive, then?”
“Well, Dumbledore says he is,” said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-striped cloak under his chin, “but we've never found him. If you ask me, he's not dangerous unless he's got support, so it's Black we ought to be worrying about. You'll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don't see each other again, Prime Minister! Good night.”
But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that was what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been “involved,” but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-Know-Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all memory modifications as they spoke.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Fudge had added. “We're importing three foreign dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells me that it's down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country.”
“I—what—dragons?” spluttered the Prime Minister.
“Yes, three,” said Fudge. “And a sphinx. Well, good day to you.”
The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes would be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been a mass breakout from Azkaban.
“A mass breakout?” repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely.
“No need to worry, no need to worry!” shouted Fudge, already with one foot in the flames. “We'll have them rounded up in no time—just thought you ought to know!”
And before the Prime Minister could shout, “Now, wait just one moment!” Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks.
Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was not a foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge's assurances at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each other, nor that Fudge was becoming more flustered with each visit. Little though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still. The site, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not know exactly why he was there, was about the worst thing that had happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week.
“How should I know what's going on in the—er—Wizarding community?” snapped the Prime Minister now. “I have a country to run and quite enough concerns at the moment without—”
“We have the same concerns,” Fudge interrupted. “The Brockdale Bridge didn't wear out. That wasn't really a hurricane. Those murders were not the work of Muggles. And Herbert Chorley's family would be safer without him. We are currently making arrangements to have him transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be affected tonight.”
“What do you... I'm afraid I... what?” blustered the Prime Minister.
Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, “Prime Minister, I am very sorry to have to tell you that he's back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back.”
“Back? When you say ‘back'... he's alive? I mean—”
The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the details of that horrible conversation of three years previously, when Fudge had told him about the wizard who was feared above all others, the wizard who had committed a thousand terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance fifteen years earlier.
“Yes, alive,” said Fudge. “That is—I don't know—is a man alive if he can't be killed? I don't really understand it, and Dumbledore won't explain properly—but anyway, he's certainly got a body and is walking and talking and killing, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he's alive.”
The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit of wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him cast around for any details he could remember of their previous conversations.
“Is Serious Black with—er—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”
“Black? Black?” said Fudge distractedly, turning his bowler rapidly in his fingers. “Sirius Black, you mean? Merlin's beard, no. Black's dead. Turns out we were—er—mistaken about Black. He was innocent after all. And he wasn't in league with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named either. I mean,” he added defensively, spinning the bowler hat still faster, “all the evidence pointed—we had more than fifty eyewitnesses—but anyway, as I say, he's dead. Murdered, as a matter of fact. On Ministry of Magic premises. There's going to be an inquiry, actually...”
To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting stab of pity for Fudge at this point. It was, however, eclipsed almost immediately by a glow of smugness at the thought that, deficient though he himself might be in the area of materializing out of fireplaces, there had never been a murder in any of the government departments under his charge... not yet, anyway...
While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk, Fudge continued, “But Black's by-the-by now. The point is, we're at war, Prime Minister, and steps must be taken.”
“At war?” repeated the Prime Minister nervously. “Surely that's a little bit of an overstatement?”
“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his followers who broke out of Azkaban in January,” said Fudge, speaking more and more rapidly and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a lime-green blur. “Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale Bridge—he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle killing unless I stood aside for him and—”
“Good grief, so it's your fault those people were killed and I'm having to answer questions about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don't know what else!” said the Prime Minister furiously.
“My fault!” said Fudge, coloring up. “Are you saying you would have caved in to blackmail like that?”
“Maybe not,” said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the room, “but I would have put all my efforts into catching the blackmailer before he committed any such atrocity!”
“Do you really think I wasn't already making every effort?” demanded Fudge heatedly. “Every Auror in the Ministry was—and is—trying to find him and round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the most powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for almost three decades!”
“So I suppose you're going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West Country too?” said the Prime Minister, his temper rising with every pace he took. It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters and not to be able to tell the public, almost worse than it being the government's fault after all.
“That was no hurricane,” said Fudge miserably.
“Excuse me!” barked the Prime Minister, now positively stamping up and down. “Trees uprooted, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries—”
“It was the Death Eaters,” said Fudge. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers. And... and we suspect giant involvement.”
The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible wall. “What involvement?”
Fudge grimaced. “He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the grand effect,” he said. “The Office of Misinformation has been working around the clock, we've had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the memories of all the Muggles who saw what really happened, we've got most of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures running around Somerset, but we can't find the giant—it's been a disaster.”
“You don't say!” said the Prime Minister furiously.
“I won't deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry,” said Fudge. “What with all that, and then losing Amelia Bones.”
“Losing who?”
“Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person, because she was a very gifted witch and—and all the evidence was that she put up a real fight.”
Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat.
“But that murder was in the newspapers,” said the Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger. “Our newspapers. Amelia Bones... it just said she was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a—a nasty killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you see.”
Fudge sighed. “Well, of course they are,” he said. “Killed in a room that was locked from the inside, wasn't she? We, on the other hand, know exactly who did it, not that that gets us any further toward catching him. And then there was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn't hear about that one—”
“Oh yes I did!” said the Prime Minister. “It happened just around the corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it, Breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister's backyard—”
“And as if all that wasn't enough,” said Fudge, barely listening to the Prime Minister, “we've got dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left, right, and center...”
Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.
“I thought dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban,” he said cautiously.
“They did,” said Fudge wearily. “But not anymore. They've deserted the prison and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't a blow.”
“But,” said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, “didn't you tell me they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people?”
“That's right. And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist.”
The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.
“Now see here, Fudge—you've got to do something! It's your responsibility as Minister of Magic!”
“My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I've never known them so united in my whole term of office!” said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile.
The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.
“I'm very sorry,” he said finally. “If there's anything I can do?”
“It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here tonight to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my successor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of course, he's very busy at the moment, with so much going on.”
Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill. Catching Fudge's eye, the portrait said, “He'll be here in a moment, he's just finishing a letter to Dumbledore.”
“I wish him luck,” said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. “I've been writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won't budge. If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be... well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success.”
Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official voice.
“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.”
“Yes, yes, fine,” said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again, rose up, and revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments later onto the antique rug.
Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment's hesitation, the Prime Minister did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes, and look around.
The Prime Minister's first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these dangerous times.
“How do you do?” said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.
Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then pulled out a wand from under his robes.
“Fudge told you everything?” he asked, striding over to the door and tapping the keyhole with his wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click.
“Er—yes,” said the Prime Minister. “And if you don't mind, I'd rather that door remained unlocked.”
“I'd rather not be interrupted,” said Scrimgeour shortly, “or watched,” he added, pointing his wand at the windows, so that the curtains swept across them. “Right, well, I'm a busy man, so let's get down lo business. First of all, we need to discuss your security.”
The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest height and replied, “I am perfectly happy with the security I've already got, thank you very—”
“Well, we're not,” Scrimgeour cut in. “It'll be a poor lookout for the Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in your outer office—”
“I'm not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that's what you're suggesting!” said the Prime Minister hotly. “He's highly efficient, gets through twice the work the rest of them—”
“That's because he's a wizard,” said Scrimgeour, without a flicker of a smile. “A highly trained Auror, who has been assigned to you for your protection.”
“Now, wait a moment!” declared the Prime Minister. “You can't just put your people into my office, I decide who works for me—”
“I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?” said Scrimgeour coldly.
“I am—that's to say, I was—”
“Then there's no problem, is there?” said Scrimgeour.
“I... well, as long as Shacklebolt's work continues to be... er... excellent,” said the Prime Minister lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him.
“Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister,” he continued. “The one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck.”
“What about him?” asked the Prime Minister.
“He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed Imperius Curse,” said Scrimgeour. “It's addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous.”
“He's only quacking!” said the Prime Minister weakly. “Surely a bit of a rest... maybe go easy on the drink...”
“A team of Healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of them,” said Scrimgeour. “I think it best that we remove him from Muggle society for a while.”
“I... well... he'll be all right, won't he?” said the Prime Minister anxiously. Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace.
“Well, that's really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister—or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to stay on in an advisory capacity.”
Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.
“But for heaven's sake—you're wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort out—well—anything!”
Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, “The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister.”
And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished.
已经快接近午夜了，首相一个人坐在他的办公室里看着一份长长的备忘录，可他一点儿也没读进去。他正在等一个遥远国家的总统给他打来电话，一面在猜测那个可怜的人什么时候才能把电话打过来，一面又努力不去回想这漫长、劳累和艰难的一周留给他的不愉快记忆，他脑子里快要容不下什么别的了。越是想要专注于面前的文件，他的政敌那心满意足的脸就越是清晰可见。就在今天这个特殊的对手还出现在新闻里，又是列举一周来发生的那些可怕的事（好像每个人都需要提醒似的），又是解释为什么那些事情统统都是政府的错。
 
　　一想到这些谴责，首相的心跳就加快了，因为这些东西既不公平也不真实。他的政府为什么就应该能阻止大桥的断裂呢？任何对他们在修桥上花的钱不够多的指责都显得很蛮横。那座桥建了还不到10年，就连最好的专家也很困惑为什么它会干干脆脆地折成两段，让一打汽车栽进了河。而又有谁能指责是因为警力不够才导致那两起被狠狠曝光的残忍谋杀案发生的？或者他们应该指责政府没能预报西南部那场导致重大伤亡的怪诞飓风？而他的次长（副部长）之一赫尔伯特·乔利，偏偏在这一周做出那些奇特的行为而被迫回家待着，这也是他的错吗？
 
　　“我们的国家被一种阴沉的情绪所笼罩，”他的政敌毫不掩饰露骨的嘲笑。
 
　　不幸的是，他说的并没有错。就连首相自己都能感受到这一点；人们确实看起来比从前要痛苦得多了。甚至天气也阴沉起来；七月中旬竟起了寒冷的雾……这不对，这不正常……
 
　　他翻过备忘录的第二页，看了看到底有多长，终于还是把它当作一件麻烦事似的放弃了。他伸了伸懒腰，又悲哀地环顾了一下办公室。这真是间华丽的办公室，用精美大理石做成的壁炉正对着推拉式的窗子，将不合时令的寒冷紧紧关在外面。首相打了个寒战，起身走向窗户，外面只有薄薄的雾向窗玻璃压过来。就在他背对房间站着时，身后突然传来了一声轻轻的咳嗽。
 
　　他愣住了，玻璃里反射出自己恐惧的脸。那声咳嗽他是认得的。从前就听到过。他非常缓慢地转过身来，面对着这间空屋子。
 
　　“你好？”他努力使自己的声音听起来比他本人要勇敢。
 
　　过了一小会儿，他准备相信没人会回应他了。但一个干脆、坚决的声音突然冒出来，就像在念一份准备好的声明。那声音——正如首相在听到第一声咳嗽时就预料到的那样——是从屋子角落里一个又小又脏的油画传来的，那里面画着一个头戴银白色假发，长得像青蛙一样的矮小男人。
 
　　“致麻瓜首相。我们需要紧急会面。速速回复。福吉诚呈。”那画像里的男人询问般地看着首相。
 
　　“呃，”首相说，“听着……我现在没有时间……我在等电话，你知道……从总统——”
 
　　“那个可以重新安排，”画像马上说道。首相的心一沉，他怕的就是这个。
 
　　“但我真的更希望和——”
 
　　“我们会安排那位总统忘掉今晚的电话约定。他会明晚再打过来，”那个矮小的男人说。“请速速回复福吉先生。”
 
　　“我……哦……好吧，”首相虚弱地说。“好，我见福吉。”
 
　　他快步走回他的桌子，边走边把领带弄直。他刚来得及回到座位，换上一副故作轻松的表情，他的大理石壁炉架下面就窜起了一团亮绿色的火焰。他看着那儿，努力不流露出一丝惊讶和慌张，这时一个肥胖的男人出现在壁炉的火焰里，转得像陀螺一样快。几秒钟之后，他就爬出来站到一张上好的古式垫子上，掸了掸他细条纹斗篷袖子上的灰尘，手上拿着灰绿色的圆顶礼帽。
 
　　“啊……首相大人，”康奈利·福吉一边说，一边大步走向首相并伸出他的手。“再见到你真高兴。”
 
　　首相没法真诚地回敬这句问候，所以什么都没说。他一点儿也不为见到福吉而高兴，福吉的偶尔造访（且不说它本身就完全是一种警报）通常意味着他将要听到一些非常坏的消息。更何况福吉看起来饱受忧虑的折磨。他变得更瘦，头发更少，脸色也更灰白，而且布满了皱纹。首相从前在政客身上见过这种模样，它从来就不是好的预兆。
 
　　“有什么我能做的吗？”首相说，简单地握了握福吉的手，便指向了桌前一个最硬的椅子。
 
　　“不知道从哪儿开始说，”福吉小声嘀咕着，他抽出椅子坐上去，把绿色的礼帽放在双膝上。“多糟糕的一周，多糟糕啊……”
 
　　“你这一周也很糟糕吗？”首相僵硬地问，希望能让福吉明白，不算上福吉的事儿都已经够他受的了。
 
　　“是的，当然，”福吉揉了揉疲倦的眼睛，郁闷地望着首相，说。“我过了和你一样糟的一周，首相大人。布罗戴尔大桥……博恩斯和万斯的谋杀案……更别提西南部地区的骚动了……”
 
　　“你——呃——我是想说，你们中有些人也——也卷入了这些——这些事情，是吗？”
 
　　福吉用严峻的目光瞪着首相。
 
　　“当然是啊，”他说。“你知道发生什么了吧？”
 
　　“我……”首相有些犹豫。
 
　　就是这种行为，让首相对福吉的每次造访都非常厌恶。他毕竟是首相，不想被人当成无知的学生。但从他刚当上首相时和福吉的第一次见面开始，这种情况就发生了。那一幕就像在昨天一样，他还记得，并且确信会一直萦绕在他心头一直到死的那天。
 
　　那时候他一个人站在这间办公室里，品尝着他经过这么多年的梦想和计划才赢来的胜利，这时候他听到了他身后的一声咳嗽，就像今晚一样，转身发现那个画像里的丑陋男人正在对他说话，宣布魔法部部长准备和他见面。
 
　　自然，他以为漫长的竞选活动和紧张的选举让他的头脑有些迷糊。当他发现一个画像在和他说话时简直吓坏了，虽然这根本比不上随后一个巫师从壁炉里冒出来并和他握手来得疯狂。在福吉向他解释这个世界上到处都住着隐藏起来的巫师的过程中，他一直哑口无言，福吉宽慰他说魔法部会对整个巫师社会负责，不让非魔法人群发现他们，这些都不用他来伤脑筋。他还说，这管理起来真不是一件容易的事，从规范飞天扫帚的使用责任到保持龙的数量在可控制的范围内（首相记得他当时得抓着桌子来支撑自己），涵盖了每一件事。最后福吉在呆若木鸡的首相肩膀上慈父般地拍了拍。
 
　　“没什么可担心的，”他说，“你可能再也不用见到我了。我只会在我们那头出了真正严重的事的时候才会来打扰你，除非那种事情足以影响到麻瓜——非魔法人群，也许应该说。否则我们就相安无事。而，我必须承认你比你的前任更能承受这些。他当时想把我扔出窗子，还以为我是对手派来愚弄他的呢。”
 
　　这时，首相终于发现他又能说话了。
 
　　“那么，你——你不是在愚弄我？”
 
　　他还想做垂死挣扎。
 
　　“不是，”福吉轻轻地说。“恐怕不是。看。”
 
　　他把首相的茶杯变成了一只沙鼠。
 
　　“但是，”首相有点儿喘不过气，他的茶杯正咬着他下一次的演讲稿。“但为什么——为什么没有人告诉过我——？”
 
　　“魔法部部长仅仅对时任的首相显示身份，”福吉把魔杖插回上衣的兜里。“我们发现这是最好的保密方法。”
 
　　“但是，”首相低声说，“为什么没有一个前任首相警告过我——？”
 
　　这时候福吉真正笑了起来。
 
　　“我亲爱的首相大人，你会告诉别人吗？”
 
　　福吉往壁炉里扔了些粉末，仍旧咯咯地笑着走进了翠绿色的火焰，呼的一声消失了。首相呆立在那儿，他明白自己不会向任何一个活人提起这事儿，因为在这世上有谁会去信他？
 
　　震惊的感觉在逐渐消散。他一度确信福吉其实压根儿只是一个幻觉，经过紧张的竞选，他太缺乏睡眠了。他徒劳地想要除去所有能提醒他回忆起那件事的东西，他把沙鼠送给了他的侄女，还让私人秘书把宣布福吉到访的那幅丑男人画像给摘下来。可令他沮丧的是，那画像根本动不了。在几个木匠、一两个建筑工、一个艺术史学家和财政大臣把它从墙上弄下来的努力都以失败告终之后，首相终于放弃了努力，只好寄希望于那幅画像在他余下的任期里再也不要动了。但有时候，他发誓从眼角瞥到了油画的主人在打呵欠，或者在挠鼻子；甚至，有那么一两次竟然走出了自己的画框，只留下一段泥巴色的画布。然而，他又训练自己不去经常注意那幅画，而每次看到这些，他总是坚定地告诉自己眼睛爱和他开小玩笑。
 
　　三年前，在一个酷似今晚的夜里，首相一个人待在办公室，画像突然宣告福吉即将到访，然后福吉就从壁炉里闯出来，浑身湿透了，显得相当紧张。首相还没来得及开口问他干嘛要把地毯弄得都是水，福吉就开始咆哮了，他提到一个首相从来没有听说过的囚犯，叫做“小添乱星”布莱克，一个听起来像是霍格沃茨的东西，还有一个叫哈利·波特的男孩，没有一个是首相能理解的。
 
　　“……我刚从阿兹卡班回来，”福吉喘着气，把帽沿里的水倒进口袋。“在北海的中部，你知道的，令人厌恶的旅行……摄魂怪在骚动——”他打了个寒战，“——他们从没让人逃脱过。无论如何我还是要来告诉你。布莱克是一个臭名昭著的麻瓜杀手，而且可能正计划重新投靠神秘人……不过当然了，你甚至不知道神秘人是谁！”他绝望地看了看首相，说，“好吧，坐下，坐下，我最好还是讲给你听……来杯威士忌吧……”
 
　　首相对于在自己办公室里被人叫着坐下显得很愤怒，更别说要拿出自己的威士忌了，但他还是坐下了。福吉抽出魔杖，从空气中变出两个装满琥珀色液体的大杯子，把其中一杯塞给首相，自己抽了把椅子坐下来。
 
　　福吉说了一个多小时。有一次福吉不愿意大声说出某个名字，就把它写在了一张羊皮纸上，塞给首相没有拿威士忌的那只手。最后福吉站起来准备走了，首相也站了起来。
 
　　“那么你认为那个……”他瞟了一眼左手上握着的名字，“伏——”
 
　　“他的名字不能提！”福吉低声咆哮着说。
 
　　“对不起……那么，你认为那个连名字都不能提的魔头还活着？”
 
　　“唔，邓布利多说他还活着，”福吉说，一边把细条纹斗篷系在下巴下面，“但我们一直没找到他。如果你问我的话，我会说他并不危险，除非有人帮他，所以我们应该担心的是布莱克。你会发布那个警告的，是吧？好极了。那么，我希望我们再也不用见面了，首相大人！晚安。”
 
　　但他们又见面了。一年之后，一个看起来很疲倦的福吉出现在内阁房间的空气中，他来通知首相在葵地奇（至少听起来是这样）世界杯上出现了一点小麻烦，有几个麻瓜被“卷入”了，但不用担心，神秘人标记重现的事不足挂齿；福吉确信那是一个孤立事件，麻瓜联络办公室会处理修改记忆的事宜。
 
　　“噢，我差点儿忘了，”福吉补充说。“我们为了准备三强争霸赛而进口了三只外国龙和一只斯芬克斯，非常普通，但神奇动物管理控制司告诉我，手册里写了如果我们要带非常危险的生物到这个国家，就必须通知你。”
 
　　“我——什么——龙？”首相语无伦次地问。
 
　　“对，三只，”福吉说。“还有一只斯芬克斯。那么，祝你过得愉快。”
 
　　首相有点绝望地希望龙和斯芬克斯是最糟糕的，但不是。不到两年之后，福吉又从火里喷出来，这次带来了阿兹卡班发生大规模越狱的消息。
 
　　“大规模越狱？”首相嘶哑地重复着。
 
　　“不用担心，不用担心！”福吉吼道，一只脚已经踏进了火焰中。“我们已经立即开展围捕了——只是觉得你应该知道！”
 
　　首相还没来得及叫，“稍等一下！”福吉已经在一阵绿色火花中消失了。
 
　　无论新闻和反对派怎么说，首相却并不是一个愚蠢的人。尽管在第一次见面时福吉就信誓旦旦地向他保证，但现在他们互相了解得更多了，他并非没有注意到，福吉每次造访都变得更加慌乱。虽然他并不想考虑那个魔法部部长（或者像他平时在脑子里称呼他的，另一个部长）的事，但首相仍然禁不住担心福吉的下一次出现会带来更灰暗的消息。因此，看上去既蓬乱又烦躁的福吉从壁炉里走出来，苛刻地惊讶于首相竟不知道他为何造访的景象，就是这黑暗的一周里发生的最糟糕的事。
 
　　“我怎么就该知道——呃——巫师社会里发生的事情呢？”首相呵斥般地说。“我有一个国家需要管理，而且目前有许多需要关注的事情，除了你那些——”
 
　　“我们有着共同的关注，”福吉打断了他的话。“布罗戴尔大桥并不是垮掉了。也没有什么真正的飓风。那些谋杀也不是麻瓜的作品。而赫尔伯特·乔利如果远离他的家庭，也许他们会更安全。我们现在正安排将他转入圣芒戈魔法伤病医院。这个转移今晚就要完成。”
 
　　“你在说——我恐怕——什么？”首相咆哮起来。
 
　　福吉深吸了一口气，然后说，“首相大人，我非常遗憾地告诉你，他回来了。那个连名字都不能提的魔头回来了。”
 
　　“回来？你说‘回来’……他还活着？我的意思是——”
 
　　首相在他的记忆里摸索三年前那场可怕谈话的细节，那时候福吉说人人都惧怕这个巫师，十五年前这个巫师在犯下一千多件恐怖的罪行之后，神秘地消失了。
 
　　“对，还活着，”福吉说。“那就是——我不知道——如果一个人不能被杀死，是不是就指他活着？我并不能真正理解这个词，邓布利多也没解释清楚——不过他有了一个身体，能走路能谈话也能杀人，所以我认为，为了我们的讨论能进行下去，对，他还活着。”
 
　　首相不知道该说什么，但出于希望能在讨论的各个话题中都表现得见识多广的持久习惯，他开始搜寻从前谈话中他还能记起的任何细节。
 
　　“小添乱星布莱克是不是跟着——呃——那个连名字都不能提的魔头？”
 
　　“布莱克？布莱克？”福吉把手中的礼帽转得飞快，心烦意乱地说。“小天狼星布莱克，你是说？我的天哪，不。布莱克死了。看起来我们——呃——误会布莱克了。他毕竟是清白的。他也不是那个连名字都不能提的魔头那边的人。我是说，”他把礼帽转得更快了，解围一般地说，“所有事实都指明这一点——我们有多于五十个的目击者——但无论如何，正如我刚才说的，他死了。事实上是被杀害了。在魔法部里面被杀害。实际上还会有个调查……”
 
　　让福吉大为惊讶的是，这时候首相脸上闪过一丝对福吉的怜悯。但首相马上就装模作样地把它掩饰起来，他想，虽然他在从壁炉里显形这方面可能比不过福吉，但他还不至于让一场谋杀发生在他管辖的政府部门里……无论如何，还没有……
 
　　首相偷偷碰了碰他的木头桌子，这时福吉接着说了下去，“但我们只是顺便提及布莱克。关键在于，我们正处于战争之中，首相大人，我们必须采取措施。”
 
　　“战争当中？”首相紧张地重复。“肯定有点夸大其辞了吧。”
 
　　“那个连名字都不能提的魔头现在有了一批支持者，一月份他们从阿兹卡班逃脱，”福吉说得越来越急促，把手中的礼帽转得那么快，看起来就像个灰绿色的模糊小球。“自从获得自由之后，他们就开始制造报复性的灾难。布罗戴尔大桥——他做的，首相大人，他威胁说如果我不给他让路，就会有一大堆的麻瓜要死掉，而且……”
 
　　“天哪，这么说是那些人的死都是你的错，而我却不得不去回答说是因为铁索生锈和伸缩接头被腐蚀了，而且我还不知道有什么别的！”首相狂怒地说。
 
　　“我的错！”福吉涨红了脸，说。“你是说，你会屈服于像那样的勒索吗？”
 
　　“也许不会，”首相站了起来，在房子里大步大步地踱，“但我会尽全力在这个勒索者犯下任何这样的暴行之前抓住他。”
 
　　“你真的认为我没有做每一种努力吗？”福吉激烈地说。“每一个部里的傲罗都找过——而且也正在找他并且围捕他的追随者，但我们不巧正好谈论的是有史以来最强大的巫师，一个逃脱追捕几乎三十年的巫师。”
 
　　“那么我想你要告诉我，也是他在西南部制造的飓风？”首相每迈出一步，脾气都变得更大。找到了所有这些可怕的灾难发生的原因，却不能将它公布给公众是令人愤怒的；几乎比都怪罪到政府头上还要糟糕。
 
　　“那不是飓风，”福吉悲伤地说。
 
　　“哦，对不起！”首相跺着脚大叫。“树被连根拔起，屋顶被撕开，路灯柱被折弯，可怕的伤亡——”
 
　　“那是食死徒们干的，”福吉说。“那个连名字都不能提的魔头的追随者。而且……我们怀疑巨人也参与其中了。”
 
　　首相停下了他的脚步，就像撞到了一面无形的墙。
 
　　“什么参与了？”
 
　　福吉苦笑了一下。“上一次他为了寻求盛大的效果，用过巨人。误导办公室在昼夜不停地工作，我们有一队记忆注销员来修改那些看到真实情况的麻瓜的记忆，几乎所有的神奇动物管理控制司的成员都在索默塞忙得团团转，但我们找不到巨人——这是一场灾难。”
 
　　“这是真的吗！”首相狂怒地说。
 
　　“我不会否认现在部里士气非常低落，”福吉说。“除了那些，我们还失去了阿米莉亚·博恩斯。”
 
　　“失去了谁？”
 
　　“阿米莉亚·博恩斯。法律执行司的司长。我们觉得是那个连名字都不能提的魔头亲自杀了她，因为她是个非常有天分的巫师，而——而所以迹象表明她真正搏斗过。”
 
　　福吉清了清嗓子，似乎做了极大的努力不去转动他的帽子。
 
　　“但那场谋杀上了报纸，”首相旋即压了压怒气。“我们的报纸。阿米莉亚·博恩斯……上面只说她是个独居的中年妇女。那是——肮脏的谋杀，不是吗？众所周知。警察们都很困惑，你知道。”
 
　　福吉叹息道。“哦，他们当然会。在一个从里面锁着的房子里被杀害，不是吗？另一方面，我们确切地知道那是谁干的，但那并不能有助于我们抓到他。然后又是爱米琳·万斯，也许你没有听说过那个名字——”
 
　　“哦，我听说过！”首相说。“实际上就发生在这附近。报纸对它大做文章：在首相的后院践踏法律和秩序——”
 
　　“而好像那些都还不够一样，”福吉几乎没有听首相的话，接着说，“我们还有摄魂怪涌往各地，到处攻击人群。”
 
　　要在以前，这句话对首相来说可能会显得莫名其妙，但他现在更加明智了。
 
　　“我本以为摄魂怪看守阿兹卡班监狱？”他慎重地说。
 
　　“他们曾经是，”福吉疲惫地说。“但现在不再是了。他们放弃了那所监狱并且投靠了那个连名字都不能提的魔头。我不会否认那是一个突然的打击。”
 
　　“不过，”首相感觉到一种逐渐清晰的恐惧，他说，“你不是要告诉我它们是那些能吸干人的希望和快乐的生物吧？”
 
　　“就是那样。他们在繁殖。那就是起雾的原因。”
 
　　首相瘫软地陷进最近的椅子里。一想到那些看不见的动物在城镇和乡村飞来飞去，在他的选民中间散布绝望，这个想法就让他感到虚弱不堪。
 
　　“现在，听着，福吉——你必须做些什么！这是你作为魔法部部长的责任！”
 
　　“我亲爱的首相大人，在经过了所有这些之后，你会相信我还是魔法部部长吗？我三天前就被解雇了！整个巫师世界强烈要求我下台已经两周了。我在任期里从没有见过他们如此团结一致！”福吉鼓起勇气笑了笑。
 
　　首相一时间说不出话来。尽管他对目前的处境非常愤怒，但他还是相当同情这个坐在他面前的干瘪的人。
 
　　“非常抱歉，”他最终说。“我还能做些什么吗？”
 
　　“真的非常感谢，首相大人，但没有什么可以做的了。我今晚是被派来向你提供近来这些事件的最新情况的，同时也要向你介绍我的继任者。我觉得他应该到了，但当然了，他此时应该非常忙碌，有这么多事情在进行。”
 
　　福吉回头看了看画像里戴着银白色卷发的丑陋男人，他正在用羽毛笔挖耳朵。
 
　　他接触到了福吉的目光，于是说“他一会儿就来，他快要把给邓布利多的信写完了。”
 
　　“祝他好运，”福吉说，第一次听起来有些苦涩。“过去的两周我每两天就给邓布利多写一封信，但他不为所动。如果他准备好了要说服那个男孩，我还是……好了，也许斯克林杰会更成功。”
 
　　福吉又退回到令人苦恼的沉静之中，但它马上被画像清脆、打着官腔的声音打破了。
 
　　“致麻瓜首相。请求一个会面。紧急。速速回复。鲁弗斯·斯克林杰，魔法部部长。”
 
　　“是，是，好，”首相心烦意乱地说，当壁炉里的火焰又一次变成翠绿色的时候，他都几乎没有畏缩，又一个巫师从里面旋转着显现出来，一转眼他又被火焰吐到那张古朴的垫子上。福吉站了起来，片刻犹豫之后首相也站了起来，他们看着新来的客人站起身，掸掉长长的黑色袍子上的灰尘，然后环顾四周。
 
　　首相第一眼看到鲁弗斯·斯克林杰时觉得他就像是一头老狮子。茶色的长发和浓密的眉毛里夹杂着缕缕灰发；一副金属框的眼镜下有一双锐利的黄眼睛。他走起路来虽然微微跛脚，却透出一种散漫、悠闲的雅致。马上给人一种精明强干的印象；首相觉得他明白了为什么在这种危急时期巫师社会要选他来替代福吉作为领导者。
 
　　“你好。”首相礼貌地说，伸出了他的手。
 
　　斯克林杰简单地抓住它握了握，他的眼睛扫视着这个屋子，然后从袍子里抽出一根魔杖。
 
　　“福吉已经告诉你所有的事了？”他问道，然后大步走向房门，用魔杖在钥匙孔上轻轻一点。首相听到锁响了一下。
 
　　“呃——对，”首相说。“如果你不介意的话，我希望别锁那扇门。”
 
　　“我情愿不被打断，”斯克林杰简洁地说，“或者被注视，”他又加上一句，并用魔杖把窗户上的窗帘也拉了下来。“好的，那么，我是一个大忙人，所以让我们忙活起来。首先，我们需要讨论你的安全。”
 
　　首相猛跳起来说，“我对目前我的安全状况很满意，非常感——”
 
　　“好了好了，并非如此，”斯克林杰打断他。“对麻瓜们来说，如果他们的首相被夺魂咒控制，他们的前景就不妙了。你外面办公室的新秘书——”
 
　　“我不会放弃金斯莱·沙克尔，如果你说要弃用他的话！”首相激烈地说。“他非常能干，能做的事是剩下人的两倍——”
 
　　“那是因为他是一个巫师，”斯克林杰微微一笑，说。“一个严格训练的傲罗，被指派去做你的保护工作。”
 
　　“等一等！”首相说。“你们不能就这么把你们的人放到我的办公室里，应该由我决定谁为我工作——”
 
　　“我以为你对沙克尔很满意？”斯克林杰冷冷地说。
 
　　“我是——那是指，我曾经是——”
 
　　“那么就没有问题，不是吗？”斯克林杰说。
 
　　“我……好吧，只要沙克尔的工作仍然……呃……杰出，”首相结结巴巴地说，但斯克林杰几乎没有听他的。
　　“现在，关于赫尔伯特·乔利——你的次长，”他继续说道。“那个通过模仿鸭子来愉悦大众的人。”
　　“他怎么了？”首相问。
　　“他很明显中了一个不太高明的夺魂咒，”斯克林杰说。“这弄坏了他的脑子，但他仍然很危险。”
　　“他只不过在学鸭子叫而已！”首相虚弱地说。“当然还有些其他的毛病……也许喜欢饮酒……”
　　“在我们谈话的同时，一组圣芒戈魔法伤病医院的治疗师正在给他做检查。目前为止他已经企图扼死他们中的三个了，”斯克林杰说。“我认为暂时把他同麻瓜社会隔离开比较好。”
　　“我……好吧……他会好起来的，是吗？”首相焦急地问。斯克林杰只是耸了耸肩，已经起身走到了壁炉边。
　　“好了，那就是我想说的。我会让你知道事情的进展，首相——或者，至少我可能会太忙而没有时间亲自来你这儿，在这种情况下我会派福吉来。他已经答应继续留任一个提供建议的职位。”
　　福吉试图微笑，但并不成功；他仅仅弄得看起来像是牙痛。斯克林杰已经开始在口袋里摸索那能使火焰变绿的神秘粉末了。首相绝望地凝视了他们俩一会儿，最终忍不住说出了那句被他压抑了一整夜的话。
　　“老天！——你们是巫师！你们会施魔法！你们肯定能解决——嗯——任何问题！”
　　斯克林杰慢慢转过身来，和福吉交换了一个怀疑的眼神，福吉这次真的试图挤出笑容，他温和地说，“可问题在于，那一边也会施魔法，首相大人。”
　　说完这些，两人一先一后地走进那明亮的绿色火焰中，消失了。 
Chapter 4 Horace Slughorn
Despite the fact that he had spent every waking moment of the past few days hoping desperately that Dumbledore would indeed come to fetch him, Harry felt distinctly awkward as they set off down Privet Drive together. He had never had a proper conversation with the Headmaster outside of Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between them. The memory of their last face-to-face encounter kept intruding too, and it rather heightened Harry's sense of embarrassment; he had shouted a lot on that occasion, not to mention done his best to smash several of Dumbledore's most prized possessions.
Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed.
“Keep your wand at the ready, Harry,” he said brightly.
“But I thought I'm not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?”
“If there is an attack,” said Dumbledore, “I give you permission to use any counter-jinx or -curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight.”
“Why not, sir?”
“You are with me,” said Dumbledore simply. “This will do, Harry.”
He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.
“You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test,” he said.
“No,” said Harry. “I thought you had to be seventeen?”
“You do,” said Dumbledore. “So you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don't mind—as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment.”
Harry gripped Dumbledore's proffered forearm.
“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Well, here we go.”
Harry felt Dumbledore's arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything went black; he was being pressed very hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then—
He gulped great lungfulls of cold night air and opened his streaming eyes. He felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a few seconds before he realized that Privet Drive had vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. His comprehension catching up with his senses, Harry realized that he had just Apparated for the first time in his life.
“Are you all right?” asked Dumbledore, looking down at him solicitously. “The sensation does take some getting used to.”
“I'm fine,” said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as though they had left Privet Drive rather reluctantly. “But I think I might prefer brooms...”
Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around his neck, and said, “This way.”
He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.
“So tell me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Your scar... has it been hurting at all?”
Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark.
“No,” he said, “and I've been wondering about that. I thought it would be burning all the time now Voldemort's getting so powerful again.”
He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied expression.
“I, on the other hand, thought otherwise,” said Dumbledore. “Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you.”
“Well, I'm not complaining,” said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort's mind.
They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore again. “Professor?”
“Harry?”
“Er—where exactly are we?”
“This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.”
“And what are we doing here?”
“Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you,” said Dumbledore. “Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.”
“How can I help with that, sir?”
“Oh, I think we'll find a use for you,” said Dumbledore vaguely. “Left here, Harry.”
They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks persisted here too. Thinking of dementors, Harry cast a look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket.
“Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old colleague's house?”
“Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door,” said Dumbledore. “Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance —”
“— you can't Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds,” said Harry quickly. “Hermione Granger told me.”
“And she is quite right. We turn left again.”
The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but now that conversation had been established, he had more pressing questions to ask.
“Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked...”
“Correct,” said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street. “He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office.”
“Is he... do you think he's good?” asked Harry.
“An interesting question,” said Dumbledore. “He is able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius.”
“Yes, but I meant —”
“I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort.”
Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the disagreement with Scrimgeour that the Daily Prophet had reported, and he did not have the nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed it.
“And... sir... I saw about Madam Bones.”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore quietly. “A terrible loss. She was a great witch. Just up here, I think — ouch.”
He had pointed with his injured hand.
“Professor, what happened to your... ?”
“I have no time to explain now,” said Dumbledore. “It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice.”
He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not being snubbed, and that he had permission to keep asking questions.
“Sir, I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters...”
“Yes, I received one myself,” said Dumbledore, still smiling. “Did you find it useful?”
“Not really.”
“No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor.”
“I didn't...” Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being reprimanded or not.
“For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry... although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself.”
“Er... right,” said Harry. “Well, on that leaflet, it said something about Inferi. What exactly are they? The leaflet wasn't very clear.”
“They are corpses,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Dead bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark wizard's bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful... he killed enough people to make an army of them, of course. This is the place, Harry, just here...”
They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. Harry was too busy digesting the horrible idea of Inferi to have much attention left for anything else, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped dead and Harry walked into him.
“Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear.”
Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt his heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges.
Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted.
“Wand out and follow me, Harry,” he said quietly.
He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path, Harry at his heels, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready.
“Lumos.”
Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry right behind him.
A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry's small intake of breath made Dumbledore look around.
“Not pretty, is it?” he said heavily. “Yes, something horrible has happened here.”
Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body.
“Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?” Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.
“I don't think so,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.
“You mean he's—?”
“Still here somewhere? Yes.”
And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!”
“Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore, straightening up again.
Harry's jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.
“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.”
The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walruslike mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.
“What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.
“My dear Horace,” said Dumbledore, looking amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.”
The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.
“The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was something... ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.”
He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.
“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” asked Dumbledore politely.
“Please,” said the other.
They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion.
The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-formed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; avast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.
“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” asked Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather flock.
“On the walls? Dragon,” shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.
There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.
“Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally. “My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.”
He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.
“Hmm. Bit dusty.”
He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry.
“Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. “Oho!”
“This,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, “is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old Friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”
Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd.
“So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus.”
He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.
“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked Dumbledore. “For old time's sake?”
Slughorn hesitated.
“All right then, one drink,” he said ungraciously.
Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.
“Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. “Here —” He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.
“Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?” Dumbledore asked.
“Not so well,” said Slughorn at once. “Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.”
“And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,” said Dumbledore. “You can't have had more than three minutes’ warning?”
Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two. Didn't hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,” he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, “the fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”
He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady.
“You're not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said Dumbledore.
“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”
“You're quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry's neck prickle unpleasantly. “I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand...”
He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.
“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace... are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” asked Dumbledore.
“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded Slughorn.
“I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder,” said Dumbledore. “Are you really telling me that they haven't come recruiting yet?”
Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, “I haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house—the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands—it's been very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the piano.”
“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts—”
“If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that's how you treat teachers these days —”
“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,” said Dumbledore. “I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.'”
“That's what she did, did she?” said Slughorn. “Idiotic woman. Never liked her.”
Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.
“Sorry,” Harry said hastily. “It's just—I didn't like her either.”
Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.
“Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.
“No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom,” said Dumbledore.
“Oh,” said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. “Second on the left down the hall.”
Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him, there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, then crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.
“Don't think I don't know why he's brought you,” he said abruptly.
Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn's watery eyes slid over Harry's scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.
“You look very like your father.”
“Yeah, I've been told,” said Harry.
“Except for your eyes. You've got—”
“My mother's eyes, yeah.” Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing.
“Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Harry's questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”
“Which was your House?”
“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry's face and wagging a stubby ringer at him, “don't go holding that against me! You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done—been in the papers for the last couple of years—died a few weeks ago —”
It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry's intestines and held them tight.
“Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father's at school. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame—he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I'd have liked the set.”
He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside.
“Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good.”
“One of my best friends is Muggle-born,” said Harry, “and she's the best in our year.”
“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?” said Slughorn.
“Not really,” said Harry coldly.
Slughorn looked down at him in surprise.
“You mustn't think I'm prejudiced!” he said. “No, no, no! Haven't I just said your mother was one of my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too—now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course—another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!”
He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants.
“All ex-students, all signed. You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he's always interested to hear my take on the day's news. And Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes—a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkisss who gave him his first job! And at the back— you'll see her if you just crane your neck—that's Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies... People are always astonished to hear I'm on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!”
This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.
“And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?” asked Harry, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him.
The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls.
“Of course not,” he said, looking down at Harry. “I have been out of touch with everybody for a year.”
Harry had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged.
“Still... the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I'm sure they're very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don't personally fancy the mortality rate —”
“You don't have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts,” said Harry, who could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice: it was hard to sympathize with Slughorn's cosseted existence when he remembered Sirius, crouching in a cave and living on rats. “Most of the teachers aren't in it, and none of them has ever been killed—well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort.”
Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort's name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed: Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored.
“I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore's Headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't he?” Harry went on.
Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Harry's words.
“Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,” he muttered grudgingly. “And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend... in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus... I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones's death did not shake me... If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection...”
Dumbledore re-entered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house.
“Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You've been a very long time. Upset stomach?”
“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” said Dumbledore. “I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace's hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”
Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn seemed taken aback.
“You're leaving?”
“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.”
“Lost...?”
Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket.
“Well, I'm sorry you don't want the job, Horace,” said Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.”
“Yes... well... very gracious... as I say...”
“Goodbye, then.”
“Bye,” said Harry.
They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.
“All right, all right, I'll do it!”
Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room. 
“You will come out of retirement?”
“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, but yes.”
“Wonderful,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”
“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn.
As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn's voice floated after them, “I'll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!”
Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.
“Well done, Harry,” said Dumbledore.
“I didn't do anything,” said Harry in surprise.
“Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?”
“Er...”
Harry wasn't sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch.
“Horace,” said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, “likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat—more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin liaison Office.”
Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.
“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace—or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn—but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Boy Who Lived'... or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen One.'”
At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard a few weeks ago, words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him:
Neither can live while the other survives...
Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier.
“This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm.”
Braced this time, Harry was ready for the Apparition, but still found it unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside Dumbledore and looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the world: the Burrow. In spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it. Ron was in there... and so was Mrs. Weasley, who could cook better than anyone he knew...
“If you don't mind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, as they passed through the gate, “I'd like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?”
Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks. A little puzzled, Harry followed Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry.
“I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that happened at the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius would have been proud of you.”
Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. He did not think he could stand to discuss Sirius; it had been painful enough to hear Uncle Vernon say “His godfather's dead?” and even worse to hear Sirius's name thrown out casually by Slughorn.
“It was cruel,” said Dumbledore softly, “that you and Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship.”
Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing Dumbledore's hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all his time at the Dursleys’ lying on his bed, refusing meals, and staring at the misted window, full of the chill emptiness that he had come to associate with dementors.
“It's just hard,” Harry said finally, in a low voice, “to realize he won't write to me again.”
His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt stupid for admitting it, but the fact that he had had someone outside Hogwarts who cared what happened to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best things about discovering his godfather... and now the post owls would never bring him that comfort again...
“Sirius represented much to you that you had never known before,” said Dumbledore gently. “Naturally, the loss is devastating...”
“But while I was at the Dursleys'...” interrupted Harry, his voice growing stronger, “I realized I can't shut myself away or—or crack up. Sirius wouldn't have wanted that, would he? And anyway, life's too short... Look at Madam Bones, look at Emmeline Vance... It could be me next, couldn't it? But if it is,” he said fiercely, now looking straight into Dumbledore's blue eyes gleaming in the wandlight, “I'll make sure I take as many Death Eaters with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it.”
“Spoken both like your mother and father's son and Sirius's true godson!” said Dumbledore, with an approving pat on Harry's back. “I take my hat off to you—or I would, if I were not afraid of showering you in spiders.
“And now, Harry, on a closely related subject... I gather that you have been taking the Daily Prophet over the last two weeks?”
“Yes,” said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster.
“Then you will have seen that there have been not so much leaks as floods concerning your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?”
“Yes,” said Harry again. “And now everyone knows that I'm the one—”
“No, they do not,” interrupted Dumbledore. “There are only two people in the whole world who know the full contents of the prophecy made about you and Lord Voldemort, and they are both standing in this smelly, spidery broom shed. It is true, however, that many have guessed, correctly, that Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy concerned you.
“Now, I think I am correct in saying that you have not told anybody that you know what the prophecy said?”
“No,” said Harry.
“A wise decision, on the whole,” said Dumbledore. “Although I think you ought to relax it in favor of your friends, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger. Yes,” he continued, when Harry looked startled, “I think they ought to know. You do them a disservice by not confiding something this important to them.”
“I didn't want —”
“— to worry or frighten them?” said Dumbledore, surveying Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Or perhaps, to confess that you yourself are worried and frightened? You need your friends, Harry. As you so rightly said, Sirius would not have wanted you to shut yourself away.”
Harry said nothing, but Dumbledore did not seem to require an answer. He continued, “On a different, though related, subject, it is my wish that you take private lessons with me this year.”
“Private—with you?” said Harry, surprised out of his preoccupied silence.
“Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education.”
“What will you be teaching me, sir?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” said Dumbledore airily.
Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not elaborate, so he asked something else that had been bothering him slightly.
“If I'm having lessons with you, I won't have to do Occlumency lessons with Snape, will I?”
“Professor Snape, Harry—and no, you will not.”
“Good,” said Harry in relief, “because they were a —”
He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought.
“I think the word ‘fiasco’ would be a good one here,” said Dumbledore, nodding.
Harry laughed.
“Well, that means I won't see much of Professor Snape from now on,” he said, “because he won't let me carry on Potions unless I get ‘Outstanding’ in my O.W.L., which I know I haven't.”
“Don't count your owls before they are delivered,” said Dumbledore gravely. “Which, now I think of it, ought to be some time later today. Now, two more things, Harry, before we part.
“Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all times from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand me?”
Harry nodded.
“And lastly, while you stay here, the Burrow has been given the highest security the Ministry of Magic can provide. These measures have caused a certain amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly—all their post, for instance, is being searched at the Ministry before being sent on. They do not mind in the slightest, for their only concern is your safety. However, it would be poor repayment if you risked your neck while staying with them.”
“I understand,” said Harry quickly.
“Very well, then,” said Dumbledore, pushing open the broom shed door and stepping out into the yard. “I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are.”
 
虽然说在过去的几天里，哈利只要是醒着，就会企盼邓布利多真的能来接他，但当他们真正从女贞路出发的时候，他又本能地觉得有些不自在了。在霍格沃茨外面，哈利和他的校长在严格意义上还从来没有说过什么话；他们之间总是隔着办公室的那张桌子。去年最后一次见面的情景常常闯入他的回忆之中，这也很大程度上增加了哈利的尴尬；当时他吼叫得那么厉害，更别说还肆意地摔碎了一些邓布利多最珍视的财产。
 
　　然而，邓布利多看上去却很非常轻松。
 
　　“拿着你的魔杖，保持警惕，哈利，”他机警地说。
 
　　“但我想我是不允许在学校外面施魔法的，教授？”
 
　　“如果有人攻击你，”邓布利多说，“我允许你使用任何你能想到反恶咒和破解咒。但是，我认为今晚你不必担心会受到攻击。”
 
　　“为什么，教授？”
 
　　“因为你和我在一起，”邓布利多简单地说。“这就够了，哈利。”
 
　　他走到女贞路的尽头时突然停住了。
 
　　“当然，你应该还没有通过你的幻影显形测试吧？”他说。
 
　　“是啊，”哈利说。“我想我必须要到17岁才行吧？”
 
　　“对，”邓布利多说。“所以，你需要紧紧抓住我的胳膊，我的左臂，如果你不介意的话——你已经注意到，我用魔杖的手现在有些脆弱。”
 
　　哈利抓紧了邓布利多伸过来的前臂。
 
　　“很好，”邓布利多说。“那么，我们走吧。”
 
　　哈利感到邓布利多的手正在挣脱他，于是又用力把它握紧：紧接着一切都暗了下来；有东西从四面八方朝他猛烈地挤压过来；他感到无法呼吸，似乎正被铁做的带子束缚着他的胸口；眼球都快被挤进脑子里了；耳膜也被深深压进了头颅，然后——
 
　　他深深地吸了一口夜晚寒冷的空气，睁开泪汪汪的双眼。他觉得自己就像刚刚穿过了一个密不透风的橡胶管。过了好几秒他才意识到女贞路已经不见了。现在他和邓布利多站在一个荒废的乡村广场上，广场的正中间立着一座陈旧的战争纪念碑，还有一些长椅子。哈利的思维跟上了感觉，他意识到刚刚做了这辈子第一次的幻影显形。
 
　　“你还好吗？”邓布利多热切地看着他问，“这种感觉确实需要慢慢习惯。”
 
　　“我很好，”哈利揉着那双看似极不情愿离开女贞路的耳朵。“但是我想我还是更喜欢用飞天扫帚……”
 
　　邓布利多笑了，他把系在脖子上的旅行斗篷紧了紧，然后说，“往这边走。”
 
　　他迈着轻快的步子经过了一家空荡荡的小酒店和几幢房子，根据附近一座教堂的钟上面的显示，现在已经是午夜了。
 
　　“那么告诉我，哈利，”邓布利多说。“你的伤疤……有没有疼过？”
 
　　哈利下意识地抬起手摸了摸他前额上闪电形状的标记。
 
　　“没有疼过了，”他说，“我一直很奇怪。现在伏地魔又强大起来，我还以为我的伤疤会不断地疼呢。”
 
　　他偷偷看了一眼邓布利多，发现他脸上带着一副满意的表情。
 
　　“我却不这么认为，”邓布利多说。“伏地魔终于还是意识到让你尽情地侵入他的思想和感觉是多么危险的一件事。看来他正在用大脑封闭术对付你。”
 
　　“哦，那真没什么可抱怨，”哈利说，他既不想记起那些烦扰的梦，也不会怀念进入伏地魔思想的那惊恐的一瞬。
 
　　他们转过一个弯，路过一个电话亭和一个公共汽车站。哈利又侧过头看了看邓布利多。
 
　　“教授？”
 
　　“哈利？”
 
　　“呃——我们这是要去哪儿？”
 
　　“哈利，这里是迷人的巴德利·巴贝尔顿村。”
 
　　“那我们到这儿来干什么？”
 
　　“啊，是啊，当然，我还没有告诉你呢，”邓布利多说。“唉，这几年来我都已经数不清楚说了多少次，但是我们又一次面临着教员短缺。我们到这儿来是为了劝说我的一位老同事重新出山，回到霍格沃茨。”
 
　　“我要怎么才能帮上忙呢，教授？”
 
　　“哦，我想你会找到自己的作用的，”邓布利多含糊地说。“走吧，哈利。”
 
　　他们走上了一个陡峭、狭窄的小道，两边都是整齐的房子。所有的窗户都黑着。盘踞在女贞路上长达两周的古怪寒意一直延续到了这里。哈利想到了摄魂怪，他回头望了望，握紧了口袋里的魔杖。
 
　　“教授，为什么我们不直接幻影显形到你老同事的家里呢？”
 
　　“因为这就像踢翻人家的大门一样粗鲁，”邓布利多说。“礼节要求我们为我们的巫师朋友提供一个拒绝我们进入的机会。不管怎样，大多数的巫师住宅都用了魔法保护来对付幻影显形的不速之客。比如说，霍格沃茨——”
 
　　“——在霍格沃茨的建筑物和场地里都不能幻影显形，”哈利马上说。“赫敏·格兰杰告诉过我。”
 
　　“她说得很对，我们再向左转。”
 
　　他们身后的教堂响起了午夜的钟声。哈利有些疑惑，为什么邓布利多不觉得这么晚还来拜访他的老同事是一件颇无礼的事，但既然已经挑起了话头，他还有更多紧迫的问题要问。
 
　　“教授，我看到《预言家日报》上说福吉被解职了……”
 
　　“是啊，”邓布利多说，拐进了一条陡峭的小支巷。“他被替换了，我相信你也知道，是被鲁弗斯·斯克林杰所代替，前傲罗办公室负责人。”
 
　　“那他…你觉得他好吗？”哈利问。
 
　　“一个有趣的问题，”邓布利多说。“他当然很能干。他具有比康奈利更果敢和强硬的个性。”
 
　　“是的，但是我的意思是——”
 
　　“我知道你的意思。鲁弗斯是一个行动派，他职业生涯的大部分时间都用在了对抗黑巫师上，并且也没有低估伏地魔的实力。”
 
　　哈利等待着，但是邓布利多却没有提及《预言家日报》报道的他和斯克林杰之间的争论，他没有勇气追问下去，只好换了个话题。
 
　　“还有……教授……我看见了博恩斯夫人的消息。”
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多轻声说。“一个糟糕的损失。她是一名优秀的女巫。从这儿往上走，我想——哎唷。”
 
　　他刚才用了受伤的手指路。
 
　　“教授，你的手怎么——？”
 
　　“我现在没有时间解释这个，”邓布利多说。“这是一个让人毛骨悚然的故事，我真希望能自如地用我手。”
 
　　他对着哈利笑了笑，于是哈利知道他没有责怪的意思，并且还可以继续提问。
 
　　“教授——我收到一封猫头鹰邮递的来自魔法部的宣传手册，是有关那些我们对付食死徒时需要采取的安全措施……”
 
　　“是的，我自己也收到一封，”邓布利多仍然微笑着，“你觉得它有用吗？”
 
　　“其实并不觉得。”
 
　　“不，我不认为是这样。比如说，你就没有问我最喜欢什么口味的果酱，来验证我确实是邓布利多教授而不是一个冒牌货。”
 
　　“我没有……”哈利开始说道，他并不完全确定邓布利多是不是在责备自己。
 
　　“也许将来用得着，哈利，我最喜欢的是覆盆子口味……不过，如果我是一个食死徒，我肯定会在扮成邓布利多之前调查他最喜欢什么口味的果酱。”
 
　　“呃……对啊，”哈利说。“嗯，那封信上说了一些关于阴飞力的事情，它们究竟是什么呢？那份宣传手册上也没讲明白。”
 
　　“它们是僵尸，”邓布利多平静地说。“被施了魔法的死尸，听命于黑巫师。自从伏地魔最后一次的掌权结束之后，阴飞力已经很长一段时间没有出现了……当然，那时候他杀死了足够多的人来组成一支大军。我们到了，哈利，就是这儿……”
 
　　他们走近一所矮小、整洁的石头房子，它坐落在一片自带的园地中。哈利正忙着消化那个关于阴飞力的可怕念头，而没有多余的注意力来关注其他的东西，但是当他们走到大门口的时候，邓布利多突然停住了，于是哈利撞到了他的身上。
 
　　“哦，天哪。哦，天哪，天哪，天哪。”
 
　　哈利的目光顺着被精心护理过的门前小径看过去，感觉心猛地一沉。前门没有栓着。
 
　　邓布利多来回扫视着那条小街。它看上去空无一人。
 
　　“拿出你的魔杖跟着我，哈利，”他轻声说。
 
　　他推开院子的门，快步走过园子里的小径，哈利紧跟在他后面，邓布利多缓缓地推了一把前门，举起了他的魔杖。
 
　　“荧光闪烁。”
 
　　邓布利多的魔杖尖被点亮了，照亮了一条狭窄的走廊。走廊左边是另一扇敞开的门。邓布利多高高举起他的魔杖走进了那间起居室，哈利紧紧跟在他后面。
 
　　呈现在他们面前的是一片狼藉的景象。一只裂开的老爷钟横躺在他们脚下，钟面支离破碎的，他的钟摆躺在离他们稍远的地方，像一把落在地上的剑。它旁边摆着一架钢琴，琴键撒了一地。一个摔下来的吊灯残骸在一边发着闪闪的光。垫子都被压得扁扁的，羽毛从旁边的侧缝里漏出来；被砸得粉碎的玻璃和瓷器落得到处都是。邓布利多把他的魔杖举得更高一些，使光可以照到墙上，墙纸上溅满了一些粘糊糊的暗红色东西。哈利轻轻抽了口气，邓布利多转过来看着他。
 
　　“不太漂亮，对不对，”他沉重地说。“是啊，这里发生了些可怕的事情。”
 
　　邓布利多小心翼翼地走到房间的正中间，仔细察看着脚下的家具残骸。哈利跟着走过来，环顾着四周，他惊恐不定地怀疑有什么东西藏在钢琴和被打翻的沙发背后，但其实那里什么都没有。
 
　　“说不定这里发生过搏斗——然后，他们拖走了他，教授？”哈利猜测说，努力不去想象一个人要伤得多么严重才能在墙的半中腰溅上这么多血迹。
 
　　“我不这么认为，”邓布利多轻声说，瞥了一眼他身后一个过于臃肿的扶手椅。
 
　　“你的意思是他——”
 
　　“还在这里的某处？是的。”
 
　　没有任何预先警告，邓布利多闪电般地扑过去，把魔杖的尖端戳进了那把臃肿的扶手椅的座位，只听见一声大叫，“哎唷！”
 
　　“晚上好，贺瑞斯，”邓布利多一边说一边直起身子。
 
　　哈利的下巴差点掉了下来。刚才还摆着一张扶手椅的地方瞬时出现了一个蜷缩着的肥胖、秃顶的老男人，他一边用手揉着肚子，一边用他水汪汪的眼睛愁闷地看着邓布利多。
 
　　“没必要那样用力地戳我，”他粗声粗气地说，挣扎着站了起来。“会受伤的。”
 
　　魔杖发出的光照着他闪亮的光头、突起的眼睛和一大把海象一般的银色胡须，他身上那件栗色天鹅绒夹克衫上的扣子被擦得闪闪发亮，里面穿者一件丁香色的丝绸睡衣。他站直了身子，不过却只能够到邓布利多的下巴。
 
　　“我是怎么暴露的？”他一边摇摇晃晃地站起来，嘴里一边嘟囔着，手还在揉着肚子。他一点儿也不为被发现装成一把扶手椅而感到害羞。
 
　　“我亲爱的贺瑞斯，”邓布利看上去很开心，“要是食死徒真的来拜访过你的话，他们会留下黑魔标记的。”
 
　　那个巫师用他肥胖的手在宽广的前额上拍了一下。
 
　　“黑魔标记，”他喃喃自语。“就知道有什么地方出了问题……啊对。可我也来不及变出那个了。你们进来之前我才刚做好最后一点儿伪装。”
 
　　他重重地叹了口气，把胡子的末端吹得一动一动的。
 
　　“你想让我帮你收拾收拾吗？”邓布利多礼貌的说。
 
　　“请吧，”他说。
 
　　他们背靠背站着，一个高瘦的巫师和一个矮胖的巫师，用一个同样的动作挥舞了一下他们的魔杖。
 
　　家具都飞回了原来的地方；装饰品在半空中就复原了；羽毛急速地钻进他们的垫子；被扯烂的书回到架子上之后修复如初；油灯高高地飞到旁边的桌子重新亮了起来；一大堆银质画框的碎片闪着光飞过房间，然后完好地落到桌子上，又变成了灰扑扑的老模样；屋子里各处的裂缝和缺口都不见了；墙上的血迹也一扫而空。
 
　　“顺便问一句，那是什么东西的血？”邓布利多响亮地说，声音盖过了那座复生的老爷钟所发出的报时声。
 
　　“墙上的？是龙血，”那个叫贺瑞斯的巫师大声叫道，随着一声震耳欲聋的磨擦声和清脆的响声，那盏吊灯自己回到了天花板上并拧紧了螺丝。
 
　　钢琴最后砰地响了一声，而后一切归于平静。
 
　　“是啊，龙血，”那个巫师自言自语地重复道，“我的最后一瓶，现在的价钱都高到天上去了。不过，这个还能再用。”
 
　　他蹒跚地走过去，取下了餐柜顶上的一个小水晶瓶，然后把它举到灯光下检查里面粘稠的液体。
 
　　“嗯。还成。”
 
　　他把瓶子又放回餐柜，叹了口气。然后他的目光落到了哈利身上。
 
　　“哦，”他圆圆的大眼睛盯着哈利带着那个闪电形的伤疤的前额。“哦！”
 
　　“这位，”邓布利多上前去介绍，“是哈利·波特。哈利，这是我的老朋友以及老同事，贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩。”
 
　　斯拉霍恩转向邓布利多，表情显得很精明。
 
　　“你认为这样就能说服我，是吗？那么，我的答案是不，阿不思。”
 
　　他从哈利身边挤了过去，脸上的表情变得很坚决，似乎在抵制什么诱惑。
 
　　“我想至少我们可以喝一杯？”邓布利多问。“看在老交情的份上。”
 
　　斯拉霍恩迟疑着。
 
　　“那么好吧，就喝一杯，”他粗鲁地说。
 
　　邓布利多朝哈利笑了笑，领着他走到刚燃起来的壁炉和油灯边，坐在一把椅子上，这把椅子和斯拉霍恩刚才假扮那把的看上去没什么两样。哈利坐了下来，清楚地感觉到邓布利多出于某个原因，想要让他越显眼越好。于是当斯拉霍恩忙活完那些瓶瓶罐罐，把脸再次转向屋子的时候，他的目光立即落在了哈利身上。
 
　　“哼，”他赶紧移开了目光，似乎是害怕会伤着眼睛。“接着——”他递了一杯给已经坐好的邓布利多，然后把盘子推给哈利，自己一屁股坐进了那个刚刚复原的沙发的坐垫上，闷闷不乐地一句话也不说。他的腿是那么短，甚至连地板也够不着。
 
　　“那么，近来可好，贺瑞斯？”邓布利多问。
 
　　“不怎么样，”斯拉霍恩马上回答道。“胸口痛。常常气喘。还有风湿病。不像我从前那样灵活了。唉，这也在意料之中。老啦。累啦。”
 
　　“但从刚才你为我们准备的欢迎仪式上看，你的动作还是挺麻利的，”邓布利多说。“你只有不足三分钟时间，不是吗？”
 
　　斯拉霍恩一半暴躁一半骄傲地说，“两分钟而已。我正在洗澡，没注意到入侵咒的警报。还有，”他坚决地补充道，看上去像是要把自己拉回来一样，“现在的情况是我已经是个老头子了，阿不思，一个疲倦的老人有权利过平静和衣食无忧的生活。”
 
　　他确实拥有这些，哈利一边想一边环视着这间屋子。这里既乏味又混乱，但绝对称得上是舒适宜人；有柔软的椅子和脚凳，有酒和书，有大盒的巧克力和鼓鼓的坐垫。如果哈利不知道谁住在这儿，那他一定会猜测这里住着一个富有的、爱挑剔的老太太。
 
　　“你可不如我老，贺瑞斯，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“嗯，也许你自己该想想退休的事儿了。”斯拉霍恩生硬地说。他暗淡的栗色眼睛发现了邓布利多受伤的手。“我注意到，你的反应也大不如前了。”
 
　　“你说得对，”邓布利多平静地说，他把袖子卷起来，露出了烧得发黑的手指尖；这种景象让哈利的后脖子感到一阵不舒服的刺痛。“我毫不否认我比从前要慢。但从另外一个角度来说……”
 
　　他耸了耸肩，摊开了双手，好像要说岁月也能给人补偿，哈利注意到他那只没受伤的手上戴着一枚他从未见过的戒指：它看上去很大，好像是由黄金一类的东西粗陋地制成，中间还镶嵌着一颗深黑色的石头。斯拉霍恩的眼睛在戒指上游移了一会儿，哈利发现那一瞬他微微蹙了蹙眉头。
 
　　“那么，这些抵御入侵者的防范措施，贺瑞斯……是为了对付食死徒，还是对付我啊？”邓布利多问道。
 
　　“食死徒们要一个可怜巴巴、年老体衰的充气垫做什么用？” 斯拉霍恩问。
 
　　“我想他们可能是要利用你不可忽视的天份去搞威逼、折磨和谋杀，”邓布利多说。“你真的要告诉我他们还没有来招募你？”
 
　　斯拉霍恩恶狠狠地盯着邓布利多看了一会儿，然后嘀咕道，“我没有给过他们机会。我已经漂泊了一年。从来没有在同一个地方待足一个礼拜。从一个麻瓜的房子搬到另一个麻瓜的房子——这个地方的主人正在加那利群岛上度假。这里非常舒适，一想到要离开就觉得很难过。其实只要你知道该怎么做就很简单，只要你在这些他们用来防夜贼的自动警铃——他们用这种愚蠢的东西来代替窥镜——上施一个冰冻魔咒，同时确保邻居们不会发现你把钢琴带进来就成了。
 
　　“很有独创性，”邓布利多说。“但追求安静的生活听起来还是件相当辛苦的差使，特别是对于一个可怜巴巴、年老体衰的充气垫来说。而如果你回到霍格沃茨——”
 
　　“如果你要告诉我在那个遭瘟的破学校里，我的生活能过得更平静的话，你可以省省力气了，阿不思！我虽然一直东躲西藏的，但是自从多洛雷斯·乌姆里奇离开之后一些有趣的谣言就传到我耳朵里了！如果那就是你现在对待老师们的方式——”
 
　　“乌姆里奇教授与我们的马人部落发生了冲突，”邓布利多说道。“我认为你，贺瑞斯，应该不会去大步走进森林，然后对着一群愤怒的马人部落大叫‘肮脏的杂种’吧。”
 
　　“这就是她干的好事，是吗？”斯拉霍恩说。“愚蠢的女人。从来都不喜欢她。”
 
　　哈利咯咯地笑了起来，邓布利多和斯拉霍恩都转过来看着他。
 
　　“对不起，”哈利立刻说。“只是——我也不喜欢她。”
 
　　邓布利多突然站了起来。
 
　　“你要走了吗？”斯拉霍恩马上说，看上去显得很期待。
 
　　“不，我只是在想我能不能用你的洗手间，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“哦，”斯拉霍恩明显有些失望。“大厅往左第二个就是。”
 
　　邓布利多走出了房间。当房门在他身后关上时，屋子里一片寂静。过了一会儿，斯拉霍恩站了起来，但看上去自己都不知道要做什么。他偷偷地瞟了哈利一眼，然后走到炉火旁边把背靠过去暖和。
 
　　“不要以为我不知道他为什么要把你带来，”他唐突地说。
 
　　哈利只是看着斯拉霍恩。斯拉霍恩水汪汪的眼睛扫过哈利的伤疤，这次，他看到了哈利脸上的其他部分。
 
　　“你长得真像你父亲。”
 
　　“是啊，有人告诉过我了，”哈利说。
 
　　“除了你的眼睛，你有一双——”
 
　　“我母亲的眼睛，是的。”哈利听到这句话的次数已经足够令他厌烦了。
 
　　“哼。是啊，好。当然作为一个老师不应该有偏爱的学生，但她却还是我最喜欢的学生之一。你的母亲，”斯拉霍恩补充道，回答了哈利询问的眼神。“也就是莉莉·伊万斯。我教过的最聪明的学生之一，很活泼，你知道。一个可爱的女孩。我一直在告诉她，她应该到我的学院来。可每次都被她顶撞回来。”
 
　　“哪个是你的学院？”
 
　　“我那时候是斯莱特林学院的院长，”斯拉霍恩说。“哦，现在，”他飞快地说下去，看到哈利脸上的表情，于是对他晃了晃粗短的手指，“不要为了那个抵触我！我猜你应该是和她一样在格兰芬多吧。是啊，一般来说都有家族遗传。尽管也不总是这样。听说过小天狼星布莱克吗？你肯定知道——过去的两年他一直上报纸——几个星期前死了——”
 
　　仿佛有一只无形的手紧紧地抓住了哈利的肠子。
 
　　“嗯，不管怎样，他是你父亲在学校时的好兄弟。整个布莱克家族都来自我的学院，只有小天狼星从格兰芬多毕业了！可惜啊——他是个天资聪颖的男孩。我教过他的弟弟雷古勒斯，但是我更愿意要一套完整的。”
 
　　他听起来就像一个正在参加拍卖的热情洋溢的收藏家。很显然正沉浸在回忆之中，他凝视着对面的墙壁，同时漫无目的地转着他的后背，好让各处都能烤得到。
 
　　“当然你母亲是麻瓜家庭出身。当我发现这一点时简直难以置信，我以为像她这样优秀的巫师肯定是纯血统的。”
 
　　“我有一个最好的朋友也是麻瓜家庭出身的，”哈利说，“她是我们年级最棒的一个。”
 
　　“有趣的是，这种情况时不时就会发生，对不对？”斯拉霍恩说。
 
　　“不这么认为。”哈利冷冷地说。
 
　　斯拉霍恩惊讶地低头看着他。
 
　　“你可不要认为我怀有偏见！”他说。“不，不，不！我刚才不是说了你母亲是我一生中最喜爱的学生之一吗？还有低她一个年级的德克·克雷斯韦——现在是妖精联络处的负责人，当然——他也是麻瓜家庭出身，一个非常有天赋的学生，而且现在都还在向我提供极好的内部消息，使我能洞悉古灵阁里的一举一动！”
 
　　他略略上下调整了一下身子，心满意足地微笑着，然后他指向了碗橱上许多闪闪发亮的照片相框，每一个里面都有一个微微动着的头像。
 
　　“所有我从前的学生，都给我签了名。你会看到巴拿巴·库菲，是《预言家日报》的编辑，他总是喜欢听取我对每天新闻的看法。还有安布罗修斯·弗卢姆，在蜂蜜公爵工作——我每次生日他都要送来一篮子糖果，就因为我给他引见了向他提供第一份工作的西塞隆·哈基斯！在他们后面——你伸伸脖子就能看到——那是格文诺·琼斯，当然是霍利黑德哈比队的队长……人们在听说我和哈比队队员关系如此熟络时总是很吃惊，而且无论何时我都能弄到免费的门票！”
 
　　这似乎令他兴奋异常。
 
　　“所有的这些人都知道在哪里可以找到你，给你东西？”哈利问道，既然说连装满糖果的篮子、魁地奇球赛门票和希望得到他意见的访问者都能找到他，难以置信为什么食死徒至今还没有追捕到斯拉霍恩。
 
　　他脸上的微笑像墙上的血迹一样迅速消失了。
 
　　“当然不是，”他低头看着哈利。“我已经有一年没有和任何人联系了。”
 
　　哈利觉得这句话对斯拉霍恩无疑是个打击，他似乎迟疑
Chapter 5 An Excess of Phlegm
Harry and Dumbledore approached the back door of the Burrow, which was surrounded by the familiar litter of old Wellington boots and rusty cauldrons; Harry could hear the soft clucking of sleepy chickens coming from a distant shed. Dumbledore knocked three times and Harry saw sudden movement behind the kitchen window.
“Who's there?” said a nervous voice he recognized as Mrs. Weasley's. “Declare yourself!”
“It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry.”
The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley, short, plump, and wearing an old green dressing gown.
“Harry, dear! Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright, you said not to expect you before morning!”
“We were lucky,” said Dumbledore, ushering Harry over the threshold. “Slughorn proved much more persuadable than I had expected. Harry's doing, of course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!”
Harry looked around and saw that Mrs. Weasley was not alone, despite the lateness of the hour. A young witch with a pale, heart-shaped face and mousy brown hair was sitting at the table clutching a large mug between her hands.
“Hello, Professor,” she said. “Wotcher, Harry.”
“Hi, Tonks.”
Harry thought she looked drawn, even ill, and there was something forced in her smile. Certainly her appearance was less colorful than usual without her customary shade of bubble-gum-pink hair.
“I'd better be off,” she said quickly, standing up and pulling her cloak around her shoulders. “Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Molly.”
“Please don't leave on my account,” said Dumbledore courteously, “I cannot stay, I have urgent matters to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour.”
“No, no, I need to get going,” said Tonks, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. “'Night...”
“Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Remus and Mad-Eye are coming... ?”
“No, really, Molly... thanks anyway... Goodnight, every-one.”
Tonks hurried past Dumbledore and Harry into the yard; a few paces beyond the doorstep, she turned on the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry noticed that Mrs. Weasley looked troubled.
“Well, I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Take care of yourself. Molly, your servant.”
He made Mrs. Weasley a bow and followed Tonks, vanishing at precisely the same spot. Mrs. Weasley closed the door on the empty yard and then steered Harry by the shoulders into the full glow of the lantern on the table to examine his appearance.
“You're like Ron,” she sighed, looking him up and down. “Both of you look as though you've had Stretching jinxes put on you. I swear Ron's grown four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are you hungry, Harry?”
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry, suddenly realizing just how hungry he was.
“Sit down, dear, I'll knock something up.”
As Harry sat down, a furry ginger cat with a squashed face lumped onto his knees and settled there, purring.
“So Hermione's here?” he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind the ears.
“Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,” said Mrs. Weasley, rapping a large iron pot with her wand. It bounced onto the stove with a loud clang and began to bubble at once. “Everyone's in bed, of course, we didn't expect you for hours. Here you are...”
She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew toward Harry, and tipped over; Mrs. Weasley slid a bowl nearly beneath it just in time to catch the stream of thick, steaming onion soup.
“Bread, dear?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”
She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of bread and a knife soared gracefully onto the table; as the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped back onto the stove, Mrs. Weasley sat down opposite him.
“So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?”
Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak.
“He taught Arthur and me,” said Mrs. Weasley. “He was at Hogwarts for ages, started around the same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?”
His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a non-committal jerk of the head.
“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodding wisely. “Of course he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur's never liked him much. The Ministry's littered with Slughorn's old favorites, he was always good at giving leg ups, but he never had much time for Arthur... didn't seem to think he was enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn makes mistakes. I don't know whether Ron's told you in any of his letters... it's only just happened... but Arthur's been promoted!”
It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say this.
Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could feel his throat blistering.
“That's great!” he gasped.
“You are sweet,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news. “Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur's heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It's a big job, he's got ten people reporting to him now!”
“What exactly—?”
“Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of thing... so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of Bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make your ears fall off... Well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like Mundungus Hotelier, who've never done an honest day's work in their lives and are taking advantage of how frightened everybody is, but every now and then something really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur confiscated a box of cursed Sneakoscopes that were almost certainly planted by a Death Eater. So you see, it's a very important job, and I tell him it's just silly to miss dealing with spark plugs and toasters and all the rest of that Muggle rubbish.” Mrs. Weasley ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark-plugs.
“Is Mr. Weasley still at work?” Harry asked.
“Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he's a tiny bit late... He said he'd be back around midnight...”
She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of a pile of sheets in the washing basket at the end of the table. Harry recognized it at once: it had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a family member, and usually hung on the Weasleys’ sitting room wall, though its current position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to carrying it around the house with her. Every single one of its nine hands was now pointing at mortal peril.
“It's been like that for a while now,” said Mrs. Weasley, in an unconvincingly casual voice, “ever since You-Know-Who came back into the open. I suppose everybody's in mortal danger now... I don't think it can be just our family... but I don't know anyone else who's got a clock like this, so I can't check. Oh!”
With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock's face. Mr. Weasley's hand had switched to traveling.
“He's coming!”
And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs. Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her face pressed against the wood she called softly, “Arthur, is that you?”
“Yes,” came Mr. Weasley's weary voice. “But I would say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!”
“Oh, honestly...”
“Molly!”
“All right, all right... What is your dearest ambition?”
“To find out how airplanes stay up.”
Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained firmly shut.
“Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!”
“Arthur, really, this is just silly...”
“What do you like me to call you when we're alone together?”
Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could against the bowl.
“Mollywobbles,” whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door.
“Correct,” said Mr. Weasley. “Now you can let me in.”
Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling cloak.
“I still don't see why we have to go through that every time you come home,” said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak. “I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of you before impersonating you!”
“I know, dear, but it's Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example. Something smells good... onion soup?”
Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.
“Harry! We didn't expect you until morning!”
They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.
“Thanks, Molly. It's been a tough night. Some idiot's started selling Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them around your neck and you'll be able to change your appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all for ten Galleons!”
“And what really happens when you put them on?”
“Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color, but a couple of people have also sprouted tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St. Mungo's didn't have enough to do already!”
“It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George would find funny,” said Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. “Are you sure... ?”
“Of course I am!” said Mr. Weasley. “The boys wouldn't do anything like that now, not when people are desperate for protection!”
“So is that why you're late, Metamorph-Medals?”
“No, we got wind of a nasty backfiring jinx down in Elephant and Castle, but luckily the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the time we got there...”
Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.
“Bed,” said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. “I've got Fred and George's room all ready for you, you'll have it to yourself.”
“Why, where are they?”
“Oh, they're in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop as they're so busy,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I must say, I didn't approve at first, but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dear, your trunks already up there.”
“'Night, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, pushing back his chair. Crookshanks leapt lightly from his lap and slunk out of the room.
“G'night, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley.
Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the washing basket as they left the kitchen. All the hands were once again at mortal peril.
Fred and George's bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once, bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of flowers had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could not disguise the lingering smell of what Harry thought was gunpowder. A considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry's school trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary warehouse.
Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.
Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other.
“Wuzzgoinon?”
“We didn't know you were here already!” said a loud and excited voice, and he received a sharp blow to the top of the head.
“Ron, don't hit him!” said a girl's voice reproachfully.
Harry's hand found his glasses and he shoved them on, though I he light was so bright he could hardly see anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered in front of him for a moment; he blinked and Ron Weasley came into focus, grinning down at him.
“All right?”
“Never been better,” said Harry, rubbing the top of his head and slumping back onto his pillows. “You?”
“Not bad,” said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and sitting on it. “When did you get here? Mum's only just told us!”
“About one o'clock this morning.”
“Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?”
“Same as usual,” said Harry, as Hermione perched herself on the edge of his bed, “they didn't talk to me much, but I like it better that way. How're you, Hermione?”
“Oh, I'm fine,” said Hermione, who was scrutinizing Harry as though he was sickening for something. He thought he knew what was behind this, and as he had no wish to discuss Sirius's death or any other miserable subject at the moment, he said, “What's the time? Have I missed breakfast?”
“Don't worry about that, Mum's bringing you up a tray; she reckons you look underfed,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “So, what's been going on?”
“Nothing much, I've just been stuck at my aunt and uncle's, haven't I?”
“Come off it!” said Ron. “You've been off with Dumbledore!”
“It wasn't that exciting. He just wanted me to help him persuade this old teacher to come out of retirement. His name's Horace Slughorn.”
“Oh,” said Ron, looking disappointed. “We thought—”
Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron changed tack at top speed.
“— we thought it'd be something like that.”
“You did?” said Harry, amused.
“Yeah... yeah, now Umbridge has left, obviously we need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, don't we? So, er, what's he like?”
“He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head of Slytherin,” said Harry. “Something wrong, Hermione?”
She was watching him as though expecting strange symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment. She rearranged her features hastily in an unconvincing smile.
“No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like he'll be a good teacher?”
“Dunno,” said Harry. “He can't be worse than Umbridge, can he?”
“I know someone who's worse than Umbridge,” said a voice from the doorway. Ron's younger sister slouched into the room, looking irritable. “Hi, Harry.”
“What's up with you?” Ron asked.
“It's her,” said Ginny, plonking herself down on Harry's bed. “She's driving me mad.”
“What's she done now?” asked Hermione sympathetically.
“It's the way she talks to me... you'd think I was about three!”
“I know,” said Hermione, dropping her voice. “She's so full of herself.”
Harry was astonished to hear Hermione talking about Mrs. Weasley like this and could not blame Ron for saying angrily, “Can't you two lay off her for five seconds?”
“Oh, that's right, defend her,” snapped Ginny. “We all know you can't get enough of her.”
This seemed an odd comment to make about Ron's mother. Starting to feel that he was missing something, Harry said, “Who are you... ?”
But his question was answered before he could finish it. The bedroom door flew open again, and Harry instinctively yanked the bedcovers up to his chin so hard that Hermione and Ginny slid off the bed onto the floor.
A young woman was standing in the doorway, a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden breakfast tray.
“'Arry,” she said in a throaty voice. “Eet ‘as been too long!”
As she swept over the threshold toward him, Mrs. Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake, looking rather cross.
“There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just about to do it myself!”
“Eet was no trouble,” said Fleur Delacour, setting the tray across Harry's knees and then swooping to kiss him on each cheek: he felt the places where her mouth had touched him burn. “I ‘ave been longing to see ‘im. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She never stops talking about ‘Arry Potter. She will be delighted to see you again.”
“Oh... is she here too?” Harry croaked.
“No, no, silly boy,” said Fleur with a tinkling laugh, “I mean next summer, when we... but do you not know?”
Her great blue eyes widened and she looked reproachfully at Mrs. Weasley, who said, “We hadn't got around to telling him yet.”
Fleur turned back to Harry, swinging her silvery sheet of hair so that it whipped Mrs. Weasley across the face.
“Bill and I are going to be married!”
“Oh,” said Harry blankly. He could not help noticing how Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny were all determinedly avoiding one another's gaze. “Wow. Er... congratulations!”
She swooped down upon him and kissed him again.
“Bill is very busy at ze moment, working very ‘ard, and I only work part-time at Gringotts for my Eenglish, so he brought me ‘ere for a few days to get to know ‘is family properly. I was so pleased to ‘ear you would be coming... zere isn't much to do ‘ere, unless you like cooking and chickens! Well... enjoy your breakfast, ‘Arry!”
With these words she turned gracefully and seemed to float out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like, “tchah!”
“Mum hates her,” said Ginny quietly.
“I do not hate her!” said Mrs. Weasley in a cross whisper. “I just think they've hurried into this engagement, that's all!”
“They've known each other a year,” said Ron, who looked oddly groggy and was staring at the closed door.
“Well, that's not very long! I know why it's happened, of course. It's all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they're rushing all sorts of decisions they'd normally take time over. It was the same last time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and center...”
“Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly.
“Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Whereas Bill and Fleur... well... what have they really got in common? He's a hardworking, down-to-earth sort of person, whereas she's...”
“A cow,” said Ginny, nodding. “But Bill's not that down-to-earth. He's a Curse-Breaker, isn't he, he likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour... I expect that's why he's gone for Phlegm.”
“Stop calling her that, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Harry and Hermione laughed. “Well, I'd better get on... Eat your eggs while they're warm, Harry.”
Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.
“Don't you get used to her if she's staying in the same house?” Harry asked.
“Well, you do,” said Ron, “but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then...”
“It's pathetic,” said Hermione furiously, striding away from Ron as far as she could go and turning to face him with her arms folded once she had reached the wall.
“You don't really want her around forever?” Ginny asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged, she said, “Well, Mum's going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything.”
“How's she going to manage that?” asked Harry.
“She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner. I think she's hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I hope he does, I'd much rather have her in the family.”
“Yeah, that'll work,” said Ron sarcastically. “Listen, no bloke in his right mind's going to fancy Tonks when Fleur's around. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking when she isn't doing stupid things to her hair and her nose, but...”
“She's a damn sight nicer than Phlegm,” said Ginny.
“And she's more intelligent, she's an Auror!” said Hermione from the corner.
“Fleur's not stupid, she was good enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament,” said Harry.
“Not you as well!” said Hermione bitterly.
“I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ‘'Arry,’ do you?” asked Ginny scornfully.
“No,” said Harry, wishing he hadn't spoken, “I was just saying, Phlegm... I mean, Fleur...”
“I'd much rather have Tonks in the family,” said Ginny. “At least she's a laugh.”
“She hasn't been much of a laugh lately,” said Ron. “Every time I've seen her she's looked more like Moaning Myrtle.”
“That's not fair,” snapped Hermione. “She still hasn't got over what happened... you know... I mean, he was her cousin!”
Harry's heart sank. They had arrived at Sirius. He picked up a fork and began shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, hoping to deflect any invitation to join in this part of the conversation.
“Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!” said Ron. “Sirius was in Azkaban half her life and before that their families never met—”
“That's not the point,” said Hermione. “She thinks it was her limit he died!”
“How does she work that one out?” asked Harry, in spite of himself.
“Well, she was fighting Bellatrix Lestrange, wasn't she? I think she feels that if only she had finished her off, Bellatrix couldn't have killed Sirius.”
“That's stupid,” said Ron.
“It's survivor's guilt,” said Hermione. “I know Lupin's tried to talk her round, but she's still really down. She's actually having trouble with her Metamorphosing!”
“With her...?”
“She can't change her appearance like she used to,” explained Hermione. “I think her powers must have been affected by shock, or something.”
“I didn't know that could happen,” said Harry.
“Nor did I,” said Hermione, “but I suppose if you're really depressed...”
The door opened again and Mrs. Weasley popped her head in. “Ginny,” she whispered, “come downstairs and help me with the lunch.”
“I'm talking to this lot!” said Ginny, outraged.
“Now!” said Mrs. Weasley, and withdrew.
“She only wants me there so she doesn't have to be alone with Phlegm!” said Ginny crossly. She swung her long red hair around in a very good imitation of Fleur and pranced across the room with her arms held aloft like a ballerina.
“You lot had better come down quickly too,” she said as she left.
Harry took advantage of the temporary silence to eat more breakfast. Hermione was peering into Fred and George's boxes, though every now and then she cast sideways looks at Harry. Ron, who was now helping himself to Harry's toast, was still gazing dreamily at the door.
“What's this?” Hermione asked eventually, holding up what looked like a small telescope.
“Dunno,” said Ron, “but if Fred and George left it here, it's probably not ready for the joke shop yet, so be careful.”
“Your mum said the shop's going well,” said Harry. “Said Fred and George have got a real flair for business.”
“That's an understatement,” said Ron. “They're raking in the Galleons! I can't wait to see the place, we haven't been to Diagon Alley yet, because Mum says Dad's got to be there for extra security and he's been really busy at work, but it sounds excellent.”
“And what about Percy?” asked Harry; the third-eldest Weasley brother had fallen out with the rest of the family. “Is he talking to your mum and dad again?”
“Nope,” said Ron.
“But he knows your dad was right all along now about Voldemort being back...”
“Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right,” said Hermione. “I heard him telling your mum, Ron.”
“Sounds like the sort of mental thing Dumbledore would say,” said Ron.
“He's going to be giving me private lessons this year,” said Harry conversationally.
Ron choked on his bit of toast, and Hermione gasped.
“You kept that quiet!” said Ron.
“I only just remembered,” said Harry honestly. “He told me last night in your broom shed.”
“Blimey... private lessons with Dumbledore!” said Ron, looking impressed. “I wonder why he's... ?”
His voice tailed away. Harry saw him and Hermione exchange looks. Harry laid down his knife and fork, his heart beating rather fast considering that all he was doing was sitting in bed. Dumbledore had said to do it... Why not now? He fixed his eyes on his fork, which was gleaming in the sunlight streaming into his lap, and said, “I don't know exactly why he's going to be giving me lessons, but I think it must be because of the prophecy.”
Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke. Harry had the impression that both had frozen. He continued, still speaking to his fork, “You know, the one they were trying to steal at the Ministry.”
“Nobody knows what it said, though,” said Hermione quickly. “It got smashed.”
“Although the Prophet says...” began Ron, but Hermione said, “Shh!”
“The Prophet‘s got it right,” said Harry, looking up at them both with a great effort: Hermione seemed frightened and Ron amazed. “That glass ball that smashed wasn't the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore's office, he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me. From what it said,” Harry took a deep breath, “it looks like I'm the one who's got to finish off Voldemort... At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives.”
The three of them gazed at one another in silence for a moment. Then there was a loud bang and Hermione vanished behind a puff of black smoke.
“Hermione!” shouted Harry and Ron; the breakfast tray slid to the floor with a crash.
Hermione emerged, coughing, out of the smoke, clutching the telescope and sporting a brilliantly purple black eye.
“I squeezed it and it... it punched me!” she gasped.
And sure enough, they now saw a tiny fist on a long spring protruding from the end of the telescope.
“Don't worry,” said Ron, who was plainly trying not to laugh, “Mum'll fix that, she's good at healing minor injuries...”
“Oh well, never mind that now!” said Hermione hastily. “Harry, oh, Harry...”
She sat down on the edge of his bed again.
“We wondered, after we got back from the Ministry... Obviously, we didn't want to say anything to you, but from what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we thought it might be something like this... Oh, Harry...” She stared at him, then whispered, “Are you scared?”
“Not as much as I was,” said Harry. “When I first heard it, I was... but now, it seems as though I always knew I'd have to face him in the end...”
“When we heard Dumbledore was collecting you in person, we thought he might be telling you something or showing you something to do with the prophecy,” said Ron eagerly. “And we were kind of right, weren't we? He wouldn't be giving you lessons if he thought you were a goner, wouldn't waste his time... he must think you've got a chance!”
“That's true,” said Hermione. “I wonder what he'll teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, probably... powerful countercurses... anti-jinxes...”
Harry did not really listen. A warmth was spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight; a tight obstruction in his chest seemed to be dissolving. He knew that Ron and Hermione were more shocked than they were letting on, but the mere fact that they were still there on either side of him, speaking bracing words of comfort, not shrinking from him as though he were contaminated or dangerous, was worth more than he could ever tell them.
“...and evasive enchantments generally,” concluded Hermione. “Well, at least you know one lesson you'll be having this year, that's one more than Ron and me. I wonder when our O.W.L. results will come?”
“Can't be long now, it's been a month,” said Ron.
“Hang on,” said Harry, as another part of last night's conversation came back to him. “I think Dumbledore said our O.W.L. results would be arriving today!”
“Today?” shrieked Hermione. “Today? But why didn't you... oh my God... you should have said...”
She leapt to her feet.
“I'm going to see whether any owls have come...”
But when Harry arrived downstairs ten minutes later, fully dressed and carrying his empty breakfast tray, it was to find Hermione sitting at the kitchen table in great agitation, while Mrs. Weasley tried to lessen her resemblance to half a panda.
“It just won't budge,” Mrs. Weasley was saying anxiously, standing over Hermione with her wand in her hand and a copy of The Healer's Helpmate open at ‘Bruises, Cuts, and Abrasions'. “This has always worked before, I just can't understand it.”
“It'll be Fred and George's idea of a funny joke, making sure it can't come off,” said Ginny.
“But it's got to come off!” squeaked Hermione. “I can't go around looking like this forever!”
“You won't, dear, we'll find an antidote, don't worry,” said Mrs. Weasley soothingly.
“Bill told me ‘ow Fred and George are very amusing!” said Fleur, smiling serenely.
“Yes, I can hardly breathe for laughing,” snapped Hermione.
She jumped up and started walking round and round the kitchen, twisting her fingers together.
“Mrs. Weasley, you're quite, quite sure no owls have arrived this morning?”
“Yes, dear, I'd have noticed,” said Mrs. Weasley patiently. “But it's barely nine, there's still plenty of time...”
“I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” muttered Hermione feverishly, “I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back—”
“Hermione, will you shut up, you're not the only one who's nervous!” barked Ron. “And when you've got your eleven ‘Outstanding O.W.L.s...'”
“Don't, don't, don't!” said Hermione, flapping her hands hysterically. “I know I've failed everything!”
“What happens if we fail?” Harry asked the room at large, but it was again Hermione who answered.
“We discuss our options with our Head of House, I asked Professor McGonagall at the end of last term.”
Harry's stomach squirmed. He wished he had eaten less breakfast.
“At Beauxbatons,” said Fleur complacently, “we ‘ad a different way of doing things. I think eet was better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five, and then...”
Fleur's words were drowned in a scream. Hermione was pointing through the kitchen window. Three black specks were clearly visible in the sky, growing larger all the time.
“They're definitely owls,” said Ron hoarsely, jumping up to join Hermione at the window.
“And there are three of them,” said Harry, hastening to her other side.
“One for each of us,” said Hermione in a terrified whisper. “Oh no... oh no... oh no...”
She gripped both Harry and Ron tightly around the elbows.
The owls were flying directly at the Burrow, three handsome tawnies, each of which, it became clear as they flew lower over the path leading up to the house, was carrying a large square envelope.
“Oh no!” squealed Hermione.
Mrs. Weasley squeezed past them and opened the kitchen window. One, two, three, the owls soared through it and landed on the table in a neat line. All three of them lifted their right legs.
Harry moved forward. The letter addressed to him was tied to the leg of the owl in the middle. He untied it with fumbling fingers. To his left, Ron was trying to detach his own results; to his right, Hermione's hands were shaking so much she was making her whole owl tremble.
Nobody in the kitchen spoke. At last, Harry managed to detach the envelope. He slit it open quickly and unfolded the parchment inside.
Ordinary Wizarding Level Results
Pass Grades:
Outstanding (O)Exceeds Expectations (E)Acceptable (A)
Fail Grades:
Poor (P)Dreadful (D)Troll (T)
Harry James Potter has achieved:
Astronomy ACare of Magical Creatures ECharms EDefense Against the Dark Arts ODivination PHerbology EHistory of Magic DPotions ETransfiguration E
Harry read the parchment through several times, his breathing becoming easier with each reading. It was all right: he had always known that he would fail Divination, and he had had no chance of passing History of Magic, given that he had collapsed halfway through the examination, but he had passed everything else! He ran his finger down the grades... he had passed well in Transfiguration and Herbology, he had even exceeded expectations at Potions! And best of all, he had achieved “Outstanding” at Defense Against the Dark Arts!
He looked around. Hermione had her back to him and her head bent, but Ron was looking delighted.
“Only failed Divination and History of Magic, and who cares about them?” he said happily to Harry. “Here... swap...”
Harry glanced down Ron's grades: There were no “Outstandings” there...
“Knew you'd be top at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Ron, punching Harry on the shoulder. “We've done all right, haven't we?”
“Well done!” said Mrs. Weasley proudly, ruffling Ron's hair. “Seven O.W.L.s, that's more than Fred and George got together!”
“Hermione?” said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn't turned around. “How did you do?”
“I—not bad,” said Hermione in a small voice.
“Oh, come off it,” said Ron, striding over to her and whipping her results out of her hand. “Yep... ten ‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ at Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You're actually disappointed, aren't you?”
Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed.
“Well, we're N.E.W.T. students now!” grinned Ron. “Mum, are there any more sausages?”
Harry looked back down at his results. They were as good as he could have hoped for. He felt just one tiny twinge of regret... This was the end of his ambition to become an Auror. He had not secured the required Potions grade. He had known all along that he wouldn't, but he still felt a sinking in his stomach as he looked again at that small black E.
It was odd, really, seeing that it had been a Death Eater in disguise who had first told Harry he would make a good Auror, but somehow the idea had taken hold of him, and he couldn't really think of anything else he would like to be. Moreover, it had seemed the right destiny for him since he had heard the prophecy a few weeks ago... Neither can live while the other survives... Wouldn't he be living up to the prophecy, and giving himself the best chance of survival, if he joined those highly trained wizards whose job it was to find and kill Voldemort?
 
哈利和邓布利多走进了陋居的后门，那里堆积着他所熟悉的老式高筒靴和生锈的旧坩埚；哈利可以听到远处的鸡舍里传来的那些困倦的小鸡叽叽喳喳的叫声。邓布利多在门上敲了三下，哈利看到厨房窗户后面突然动了动。
 
　　“是谁啊？”一个紧张的声音问，哈利听出来是韦斯莱夫人。“报出姓名！”
 
　　“是我，邓布利多，带着哈利。”
 
　　门马上就打开了。矮胖的韦斯莱夫人穿着一件绿色的旧睡袍站在那儿。
 
　　“哈利，亲爱的！天哪，阿不思，你把我吓着了，你不是说不到破晓都回不来吗？”
 
　　“我们很幸运，”邓布利多领着哈利跨过门槛。“斯拉霍恩比我想象的更容易说服。哈利当然也帮了忙。啊，你好，尼法朵拉！”
 
　　哈利环顾了一下屋子，才发现虽然已经很晚了，韦斯莱夫人却并非独自一人。桌子旁边还坐了一个长着心形脸蛋的年轻女巫，她脸色苍白，手里正抓着一个大杯子。
 
　　“你好，教授，”她说。“你好，哈利。”
 
　　“嗨，唐克斯。”
 
　　哈利觉得她看上去有些憔悴，甚至有些病恹恹的，而且笑起来很勉强。少了她往常惯有的泡泡糖般的粉红色头发，她的样子不像以前那样光彩照人了。
 
　　“我该走了，”她快速地说，一面站起来把斗篷披在肩膀上。“谢谢你的茶和同情，莫莉。”
 
　　“看在我的份上请先别走，”邓布利多礼貌地说。“我待不了多久，我还有紧急的事情要去和鲁弗斯·斯克林杰商量。”
 
　　“不，不，我真的要走了，”唐克斯避开邓布利多的眼睛。“晚安——”
 
　　“亲爱的，周末过来吃晚餐吧，莱姆斯和疯眼汉都过来——？”
 
　　“不，真的，莫莉……不管怎么样，谢谢了……晚安，各位。”
 
　　唐克斯快步经过邓布利多和哈利往院子里走去；出门走了几步便消失在了稀薄的空气中。哈利注意到韦斯莱夫人看上去有些心事重重。
 
　　“好了，我们在霍格沃茨再会，哈利，”邓布利多说。“照顾好自己。莫莉，我随时听候你的召唤。”
 
　　他朝韦斯莱夫人鞠了一躬，然后和唐克斯一样，几乎在相同的地方消失了。韦斯莱夫人关上了门，把哈利拉到提灯的光线下，两手扶着哈利的肩膀仔细端详他的模样。
 
　　“你和罗恩一样，”她叹息道，上上下下地打量着他。“你们都像中了伸长咒一样。我敢发誓罗恩比我上次给他买袍子时长了四英寸。你饿了吗，哈利？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利突然发觉他有多饿。
 
　　“坐着，亲爱的，我去弄点儿吃的来。”
 
　　哈利正坐着，一只长着姜黄色毛发和一张扁平大脸的猫蹿上了他的膝盖，蜷在那里呼噜呼噜地叫着。
 
　　“那么赫敏也在这儿？”他高兴地在克鲁克山的耳朵后面挠了挠。
 
　　“是的，她前天到的，”韦斯莱夫人用魔杖敲了敲一只大铁罐：它咣当一声跳上了炉子，立刻开始冒起了泡。“当然，大家都睡了，我们没指望你几个小时就能到。拿着——”
 
　　她又轻轻地敲了敲罐子；它升到了半空中，飞到哈利身边倾斜过来；韦斯莱夫人塞过去一只碗，正好接住了从罐子里倒出来的浓稠的洋葱汤，还热腾腾地冒着气。
 
　　“面包要吗，亲爱的？”
 
　　“谢谢，韦斯莱夫人。”
 
　　她举起魔杖挥了挥；一块面包和一把小刀优雅地落到了桌子上。面包自动地切着，罐子也回到了炉子上，于是韦斯莱夫人坐到了哈利对面。
 
　　“这么说你们说服了贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩接下这门差事？”
 
　　哈利嘴里装满了热乎乎的汤，所以只是点了点头。
 
　　“他教过亚瑟和我，”韦斯莱夫人说。“他过去在霍格沃茨教了很长时间，我想大概是和邓布利多一起去的霍格沃茨吧。你觉得他怎么样？”
 
　　哈利的嘴现在又塞满了面包，于是他耸了耸肩，不确定地动了动脑袋。
 
　　“我知道你的意思，”韦斯莱夫人精明地点点头。“当然只要他愿意，他还是可以变得很吸引人的，但是亚瑟却从来都不喜欢他。部里到处都是斯拉霍恩的得意门生，他总是善于提供帮助，但从没有时间帮帮亚瑟——他似乎不认为亚瑟是个有抱负的人。不过，那只能表明即使是斯拉霍恩也会犯错误。我不知道罗恩有没有在他的信里告诉你——刚刚才发生的——亚瑟被提升了！”
 
　　再清楚不过了，韦斯莱夫人一直急于说出这个。哈利吞下一大口热汤，觉得自己的喉咙都要被烫起泡了。
 
　　“那太棒了！”他喘着气说。
 
　　“你真好，”韦斯莱夫人显得很高兴，她擦了擦湿润的眼睛。“是的，鲁弗斯·斯克林杰为了响应现在的局势又新成立了几个部门，亚瑟现在领导着假冒防御性咒语及防护性物品检测与收缴办公室。这可是个大工作，他手下现在已经有十个人了！”
 
　　“那究竟是——？”
 
　　“嗯，你知道，由于对神秘人的恐慌，不断有号称能防御神秘人和食死徒的奇怪物件被拿出来兜售。你可以想见是什么样的东西——所谓的防护魔药，其实就是加了巴波块茎脓汁的肉汤，还有那些防御性恶咒的教程，其实只会把你的耳朵弄掉……好了，大体上那些犯罪者都是些像蒙顿格斯·弗莱奇那样的人，他们一辈子没做过一天的正经事儿，只会利用人们的恐惧心理到处招摇撞骗。不过时不时地也有真正严重的事情发生。前几天亚瑟还收缴了一批很可能被上了咒语的窥镜，几乎可以肯定是某个食死徒安放的。可见，这是一项非常重要的工作，我还告诉他不要愚蠢地放过检查火花塞、烤面包机和所有那一类的麻瓜废品。”韦斯莱夫人表情严峻地看了一眼哈利，仿佛是哈利建议韦斯莱先生放过了火花塞。
 
　　“韦斯莱先生还在上班吗？”
 
　　“是啊。事实上，有点儿晚了……他说会在午夜前后回来的……”
 
　　她转过头看了看那个大钟，它笨拙地堆在桌子尽头的一个装满了床单的洗衣篮上面。哈利马上认出了它：一共有九根指针，每一根上都刻着一个家庭成员的名字，它通常被挂在韦斯莱家客厅的墙上，而它目前的位置说明韦斯莱夫人今晚一直把它带在自己身边。每一根指针都指向了“生命危险”。
 
　　“它像那个样子已经有一阵子，”韦斯莱夫人用一种不那么令人信服的轻松口吻说，“从神秘人回来就开始了。我想也许每个人都处在生命危险之下……我不认为只有我们家是这样……但我不知道还有谁有一个这样的钟，所以我没法核实，哦！”
 
　　她突然一声惊呼，指向了钟面。韦斯莱先生的指针转向了“在路上”。
 
　　“他要回来了！”
 
　　不一会儿果然传来了敲后门的声音。韦斯莱夫人跳起来急匆匆地跑过去；她一只手放在门把手上，脸贴着木头门柔声问道，“亚瑟，是你吗？”
 
　　“是的，”是韦斯莱先生疲惫的声音。“但我要是个食死徒也会这么回答，亲爱的。问问题吧！”
 
　　“哦，坦白地说……”
 
　　“莫莉！”
 
　　“好吧，好吧……你最大的志向是什么？”
 
　　“弄清楚飞机为什么能在天上飞。”
 
　　韦斯莱夫人点点头，转了转门把手，可韦斯莱先生显然在门的另一侧将它紧紧握住了，因为门仍旧关得严严实实的。
 
　　“莫莉！我必须先问你问题！”
 
　　“亚瑟，真的，这会很傻的……”
 
　　“我们俩独处的时候你喜欢我怎么叫你？”
 
　　即使是在如此昏暗的灯光下，哈利还是能看见韦斯莱夫人的脸变得通红；他自己也突然感到面红耳赤，于是急匆匆地咽下一口汤，把汤匙在碗里划得尽可能的响。
 
　　“莫莉宝贝，”韦斯莱夫人对着门缝用小得不能再小的声音说。
 
　　“正确，”韦斯莱先生说。“现在你可以让我进来了。”
 
　　韦斯莱夫人开了门，她的丈夫，一个瘦削的、正在谢顶的男巫正站在外面，脑袋上长着为数不多的红色头发，还戴着一副角质架眼镜，身上披了一件长长的、布满灰尘的旅行斗篷。
 
　　“我还是不明白为什么每次你回家都得来那么一遍，”韦斯莱夫人说，她帮丈夫脱下斗篷的时候脸上还泛着红晕。“我是说，一个食死徒在假扮你之前可能已经把它严刑逼供出来了。”
 
　　“我知道，亲爱的，但这是部里要求的程序，我必须做出表率。真香啊——是洋葱汤吗？”
 
　　韦斯莱先生充满期待地把脸转向桌子。
 
　　“哈利！我还以为你早上才会来呢！”
 
　　他和哈利握了握手，抽出旁边的一把椅子坐了下来，韦斯莱夫人也给他盛了一碗洋葱汤。
 
　　“谢谢，莫莉。今晚真是艰难。有些白痴开始销售起了什么易容徽章。只要挂在脖子上就可以随意地改变容貌。号称只要十个加隆，就能得到成千上万的伪装！”
 
　　“那把它们挂到脖子上之后实际上会发生些什么呢？”
 
　　“大多数人只会变成一种让人讨厌的橙色，不过有几个却全身都长出了触手一般的瘤子。好像嫌圣芒戈还忙不过来似的。”
 
　　“听起来像是弗雷德和乔治喜欢的那种东西，”韦斯莱夫人迟疑地说。“你确定不是——”
 
　　“我当然确定！”韦斯莱先生说。“他们俩不会在人们都忙着寻求保护的时候做这种事情！”
 
　　“那么这就是你回来晚了的原因，易容徽章？”
 
　　“不是，我们还得到风声有人在象堡放了个回火咒，走运的是我们到那儿时发现魔法法律执行队已经把它找出来了……”
 
　　哈利用手挡住了正在打呵欠的嘴巴。
 
　　“该睡觉了，”韦斯莱夫人没有被骗过，她马上说。“我已经把弗雷德和乔治的房间给你收拾好了，你自己上去睡吧。”
 
　　“为什么，他们去哪儿了？”
 
　　“哦，他们在对角巷，睡在他们笑话商店的地板上，因为太忙了，”韦斯莱夫人说。“我必须说，我一开始并不同意，但他们做生意确实有一套！来吧，亲爱的，你的旅行箱已经拿上去了。”
 
　　“晚安，韦斯莱先生，”哈利把椅子向后推了推。克鲁克山轻轻地从哈利的膝盖上下来，跳出了房间。
 
　　“晚安，哈利，”韦斯莱先生说。
 
　　哈利看到韦斯莱夫人走出厨房时瞥了一眼洗衣篮里的大钟。所有的指针又都再一次指向了“生命危险”。
 
　　弗雷德和乔治的卧室在三楼。韦斯莱夫人把魔杖朝床头灯一指，灯马上就亮了，令人愉悦的金黄色灯光照亮了整个房间。虽然小窗户前面的桌子上已经摆了一大瓶花，但它们的香味还是掩盖不了残留的黑火药气味。地板的相当一部分空间被用来堆放许多没有标记的密封纸盒，在它们中间放着哈利的箱子。这间房看上去就像是一个临时仓库。
 
　　海德薇在衣柜顶上朝哈利愉快地叫了几声，然后从窗子飞了出去；哈利知道它一直在等着见他一面然后再出去觅食。哈利向韦斯莱夫人道了声晚安，换上睡衣钻进了其中的一张床。枕头套里有个什么硬东西。他摸索了一阵，掏出一只一端是紫色、一端是黄色的糖，他认出来这是吐吐糖。于是笑了笑，翻过身去，不一会儿就进入了梦乡。
 
　　才过了几秒钟——至少哈利感觉是这样——他就被放炮一样的撞门声给吵醒了。哈利坐直起身子，听见窗帘被拉开的声音：晃眼的阳光将他的双眼刺得生疼。于是他一只手遮着双眼，一只手绝望地摸索着他的眼镜。
 
　　“发生了什么事？”
 
　　“我们不知道你已经到这里了！”一个响亮、兴奋的声音说，然后他的头顶突然挨了一下。
 
　　“罗恩，别打他！”一个女孩的声音责备地说。
 
　　哈利的手找到眼镜并戴上了它，不过明亮的光线下他什么也看不清。一个模糊的影子在眼前晃了一段时间；然后他眨了眨眼睛，罗恩·韦斯莱跃入他的视线，此刻正对他咧着嘴笑。
 
　　“还好吗？”
 
　　“不能再好了。”哈利揉着头顶又倒回枕头里。“你呢？”
 
　　“还不错，”罗恩说着，拉过一个纸盒子坐了下来。“你什么时候到的？妈妈刚刚才告诉我们。”
 
　　“大概凌晨一点钟吧。”
 
　　“麻瓜们怎么样？对你还好吧？”
 
　　“还不是和从前一样，”哈利说着，赫敏坐到了他的床边，“他们不怎么和我说话，不过我觉得那样更好。你怎么样，赫敏？”
 
　　“哦，我很好，”赫敏仔细地端详着哈利，仿佛他生了什么病似的。
 
　　他知道赫敏的意思。但是他不想在这个时候讨论小天狼星的死和任何痛苦的话题，于是他说，“现在是什么时候了？我错过早餐了吗？”
 
　　“别担心，妈妈等会儿会给你端一盘上来；她觉得你吃得不够饱，”罗恩说，转了转眼珠，“那么，发生了些什么事情？”
 
　　“没什么事情，我一直都待在我姨妈和姨父的家里，不是吗？”
 
　　“少来了！”罗恩说。“你和邓布利多一起走的！”
 
　　“没什么激动人心的事情。他只是想让我协助他说服一个老教授重新出山而已。他叫贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩。”
 
　　“哦，”罗恩失望地说。“我们还以为——”
 
　　赫敏迅速向罗恩扔去了一个警告的眼神，罗恩立刻话锋一转。
 
　　“——我们还以为就是那样的事……”
 
　　“是吗？”哈利觉得好笑。
 
　　“是……是的，现在乌姆里奇走了，很显然我们又需要一位新的黑魔法防御术课老师了，不是吗？那么，呃，他长什么样子？”
 
　　“他长得有点像一只海象，他以前是斯莱特林的院长，”哈利说，“有什么不对吗，赫敏？”
 
　　赫敏一直注视着哈利，仿佛有什么奇怪的病征会随时冒出来一样。她赶忙挤出一个不那么令人信服的微笑。
 
　　“没有，当然没有！那么，呃……斯拉霍恩看起来像是个好老师吗？”
 
　　“不知道，”哈利说。“反正不会比乌姆里奇更差，是不是？”
 
　　“我知道有个人比乌姆里奇还差，”一个声音从门口传来。罗恩的妹妹无精打采地走进来，看上去有些烦躁。“你好，哈利。”
 
　　“你怎么了？”罗恩问。
 
　　“都是她，”金妮重重地倒在哈利的床上，“她快把我逼疯了。”
 
　　“她这次做了什么？”赫敏同情地问。
 
　　“是她对我说话的方式——你们简直会以为我还是个三岁小孩子！”
 
　　“我知道了，”赫敏压低了声音说，“她心里想的都是自己。”
 
　　哈利惊讶地听到赫敏这样谈论韦斯莱夫人，也难怪罗恩会生气地说，“你们俩就不能搁下她五秒钟吗？”
 
　　“哦，是啊，为她辩护，”金妮厉声说，“我们都知道你是不会厌倦她的。”
 
　　这是对罗恩妈妈的一个很奇怪的评价。哈利发觉他什么地方搞错了，于是说：“你们在谈论谁——？”
 
　　但是他在问完这个问题之前就得到了答案了。房间的门再一次被打开了，哈利本能地把被子猛拉到下巴，以至于赫敏和金妮都从床上滑到了地板上。
 
　　一个年轻的女子站在门口，她拥有着如此让人窒息的美貌，仿佛令房间里的空气都不够用了。她身材如柳树般纤细修长，一头长长的金发呈现出让人眩晕的银色光彩。使这个景象更趋于完美的是，她手里还端着满满的一盘早餐。
 
　　“阿（哈）利，”她用一种喉音问候道，“好久不见！”
 
　　她越过门槛向哈利走去，韦斯莱夫人突然在她后面出现了，看起来很生气。
 
　　“没必要把餐盘送上来，我正准备自己来呢！”
 
　　“没什么问题，”芙蓉·德拉库尔把餐盘放到哈利腿上，然后俯身在哈利两边的脸蛋上都亲了亲：哈利觉得她吻过的地方一阵发烫。“我一直很想再见到你。你还记得我妹妹加布丽吗？她总是不停地谈论着阿利·波特。再见到你她一定会很高兴的。”
 
　　“哦……她也在这儿吗？”哈利嘶哑地说。
 
　　“不，不，傻男孩，”芙蓉发出了银铃般的笑声，“我是说下个暑假，等我们——你什么都不知道吗？”
 
　　她蓝色的大眼睛睁得更大了，责备地看着韦斯莱夫人，而韦斯莱夫人说，“我们还没有来得及告诉他。”
 
　　芙蓉转向哈利，把她银色瀑布般的长发一甩，正好拂过韦斯莱夫人的脸。
 
　　“比尔和我要结婚了！”
 
　　“哦，”哈利茫然地说。他不禁注意到韦斯莱夫人、赫敏和金妮都在坚决地躲避着各自的眼神。“哇。呃——恭喜你！”
 
　　她又俯下身吻了吻他。
 
　　“比尔现在很忙，工作很努力，我则只是为了提高英语而在古灵阁做点兼职，所以，他把我带到这里住几天，让我可以更好地了解他的家庭。听说你要来我真是太高兴了——这里没有太多的事情可做，除非你喜欢煮饭和喂鸡！好了——好好享用你的早餐吧，阿利！”
 
　　说完她很优雅地转过身，像是飘着一样地离开了房间，在身后轻轻地把门关上。
 
　　韦斯莱夫人发出了一个声音，听上去似乎是“嗤！”
 
　　“妈妈讨厌她，”金妮安静地说。
 
　　“我不讨厌她！”韦斯莱夫人恼火地低声说道。“我只是觉得他们不该这么快就订婚，就是这样。”
 
　　“他们都认识一年了，”罗恩盯着那扇关上的门，样子有点儿古怪，像是喝醉了酒。
 
　　“好了，那也不是很久！我知道为什么会这样，当然。全都是因为神秘人回归带来的不确定性，人们觉得自己明天就可能会死去，所以他们急着做出各种本可以慢慢来的决定。这和上回他强大的时候一样，到处都是私奔的人——”
 
　　“包括你和爸爸，”金妮调皮地说。
 
　　“是的，不过，你爸爸和我是天造地设的一对，我们有什么可等的？”韦斯莱夫人说。“反观比尔和芙蓉……嗯……他们俩之间有什么共同点？他是个勤奋工作、脚踏实地的人，而她却是——”
 
　　“一头母牛，”金妮点了点头，“但是比尔也不是那么脚踏实地。他是个解咒员，对吧，他既喜欢来点儿冒险，又喜欢一点儿魅力……我想那就是他喜欢‘浮脓’的原因。”
 
　　“别那样叫芙蓉，金妮，”韦斯莱夫人严厉地说，哈利和赫敏却在一旁偷笑。“好了，我想最好还是去做我的事……快点儿趁热吃了鸡蛋，哈利。”
 
　　她离开房间时看上去显得忧心忡忡。罗恩仍然像喝醉了似的；他尝试着晃了晃脑袋，就像一只狗在试图甩掉耳朵里的水。
 
　　“她和你住在一个房子里，你还没习惯她吗？”哈利问。
 
　　“这……你是可以，”罗恩说，“但是如果她突然冒出来，就像刚才那样……”
 
　　“真可悲，”赫敏暴躁地说，大步地向离罗恩最远的地方走过去，在走到墙角之后她转过身来，双臂交叉放在胸前面对着罗恩。
 
　　“你不希望她永远在你身边吗？”金妮怀疑地问道。罗恩只是耸了耸肩，她说，“嗯，如果可以的话妈妈一定会阻止这件事的，我敢用任何东西打赌。”
 
　　“她想怎么阻止他们呢？”哈利问。
 
　　“她一直努力劝说唐克斯留下来吃晚饭。我估计她是想让比尔爱上唐克斯吧。我也这么希望，我更情愿把她留在家里。”
 
　　“是啊，这多管用啊，”罗恩讽刺地说。“听着，没有一个头脑正常的家伙会在芙蓉伴随身边的时候爱上唐克斯。我是说，唐克斯也不错——如果她不对自己的头发和鼻子做那些蠢事，但是——”
 
　　“她再丑也比‘浮脓’强，”金妮说。
 
　　“她还更聪明，她是个傲罗！”赫敏站在角落里说。
 
　　“芙蓉并不笨。她聪明得足以角逐三强争霸赛，”哈利说。
 
　　“你别跟他一个鼻孔出气！”赫敏讽刺地说。
 
　　“我想你肯定很喜欢听‘浮脓’叫你‘阿利’，是不是？”金妮轻蔑地问。
 
　　“不，”哈利希望他刚才什么也没说，“我只是说，‘浮脓’——我的意思是，芙蓉——”
 
　　“我更情愿唐克斯在我们家，”金妮说。“至少她可以带来欢笑。”
 
　　“她最近可没带来什么欢笑，”罗恩说。“每次我看到她都觉得她越来越像哭泣的桃金娘了。”
 
　　“这么说可不公平，”赫敏厉声说。“她还没有从那件事情中恢复过来……你们知道……我是指，他是她的表亲！”
 
　　哈利的心沉了下去。他们说到了小天狼星。他拿起叉子把煎蛋铲起来放进嘴里，希望这样可以避免加入他们的谈话。
 
　　“唐克斯和小天狼星几乎都不认识对方！”罗恩说。“在唐克斯生命的一半时间里小天狼星都在阿兹卡班，而在那之前他们的家庭之间从来没有接触过——”
 
　　“那不是重点，”赫敏说。“她觉得他的死是自己的错！”
 
　　“她怎么会那么想呢？”哈利顾不上自己正在回避这个话题。
 
　　“哦，她当时一直在与贝拉特里克斯搏斗，不是吗？我想她肯定觉得如果她早点解决了她，小天狼星就不会被杀了。”
 
　　“真是傻，”罗恩说。
 
　　“这是幸存者的内疚，”赫敏说。“我知道卢平一直在变着法子劝慰她，但是她还是真的很消沉。实际上，她在易容方面也出了问题。”
 
　　“她什么——？”
 
　　“她不能再像从前那样随意变换容貌了，”赫敏解释道。“我想她的能力一定是被这个打击影响了，或者是别的什么。”
 
　　“我不知道还可以这样子，”哈利说。
 
　　“我以前也不知道，”赫敏说，“不过我想如果你的情绪确实非常低落……”
 
　　门又一次被打开了，韦斯莱夫人突然把头伸了进来。
 
　　“金妮，”她悄声说，“到楼下来帮我准备午饭。”
 
　　“但是我在和大家说话呢！”金妮似乎被冒犯了。
 
　　“现在！”韦斯莱夫人离开了。
 
　　“她只不过是希望我下去，这样她就不必独自面对‘浮脓’了！”金妮暴躁地说。她效仿芙蓉把红色的长发甩了甩，然后把手高高举着昂首阔步地走出了房间，像芭蕾舞演员一样。
 
　　“你们最好也快点下来。”她走的时候说。
 
　　哈利利用这短暂的沉默时间多吃了些早餐。赫敏眯起眼盯着乔治和弗雷德的盒子，时不时还从侧面瞟一眼哈利。罗恩则正吃着哈利的吐司面包，眼睛仍旧做梦似地盯着那扇门。
 
　　“这是什么？”赫敏最后问，手里拿着一个类似小型
Chapter 7 The Slug Club
Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays pondering the meaning of Malfoy's behavior in Knockturn Alley. What disturbed him most was the satisfied look on 
Malfoy's face as he had left the shop. Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be good news. To his slight annoyance, however, neither Ron nor Hermione seemed 
quite as curious about Malfoy's activities as he was; or at least, they seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days.
“Yes, I've already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the windowsill in Fred and George's room with her feet up on 
one of the cardboard boxes and had only grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced Rune Translation. “But haven't we agreed there could be a lot of 
explanations?”
“Maybe he's broken his Hand of Glory,” said Ron vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his broomstick's bent tail twigs. “Remember that shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?
”
“But what about when he said, ‘Don't forget to keep that one safe'?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. “That sounded to me like Borgin's got another one of the 
broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.”
“You reckon?” said Ron, now trying to scrape some dirt off his broom handle.
“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, he said, “Malfoy's father's in Azkaban. Don't you think Malfoy'd like revenge?”
Ron looked up, blinking.
“Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?”
“That's my point, I don't know!” said Harry, frustrated. “But he's up to something and I think we should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and—”
Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had just occurred to him.
“Harry?” said Hermione in an anxious voice. “What's wrong?”
“Your scar's not hurting again, is it?” asked Ron nervously.
“He's a Death Eater,” said Harry slowly. “He's replaced his father as a Death Eater!”
There was a silence; then Ron erupted in laughter. “Malfoy? He's sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join?”
“It seems very unlikely, Harry,” said Hermione in a repressive sort of voice. “What makes you think—?”
“In Madam Malkin's. She didn't touch him, but he yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He's been branded 
with the Dark Mark.”
Ron and Hermione looked at each other.
“Well...” said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.
“I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry,” said Hermione.
“He showed Borgin something we couldn't see,” Harry pressed on stubbornly. “Something that seriously scared Borgin. It was the Mark, I know it—he was showing Borgin 
who he was dealing with, you saw how seriously Borgin took him!”
Ron and Hermione exchanged another look.
“I'm not sure, Harry...”
“Yeah, I still don't reckon You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join...”
Annoyed, but absolutely convinced he was right, Harry snatched up a pile of filthy Quidditch robes and left the room; Mrs. Weasley had been urging them for days not to 
leave their washing and packing until the last moment. On the landing he bumped into Ginny, who was returning to her room carrying a pile of freshly laundered clothes.
“I wouldn't go in the kitchen just now,” she warned him. “There's a lot of Phlegm around.”
“I'll be careful not to slip in it.” Harry smiled.
Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen it was to find Fleur sitting at the kitchen table, in full flow about plans for her wedding to Bill, while Mrs. Weasley kept 
watch over a pile of self-peeling sprouts, looking bad-tempered.
“... Bill and I ‘ave almost decided on only two bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabrielle will look very sweet togezzer. I am theenking of dressing zem in pale gold—pink 
would of course be ‘orrible with Ginny's ‘air—”
“Ah, Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley loudly, cutting across Fleur's monologue. “Good, I wanted to explain about the security arrangements for the journey to Hogwarts 
tomorrow. We've got Ministry cars again, and there will be Aurors waiting at the station—”
“Is Tonks going to be there?” asked Harry, handing over his Quidditch things.
“No, I don't think so, she's been stationed somewhere else from what Arthur said.”
“She has let ‘erself go, zat Tonks,” Fleur mused, examining her own stunning reflection in the back of a teaspoon. “A big mistake if you ask—”
“Yes, thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley tartly, cutting across Fleur again. “You'd better get on, Harry, I want the trunks ready tonight, if possible, so we don't have 
the usual last-minute scramble.”
And in fact, their departure the following morning was smoother than usual. The Ministry cars glided up to the front of the Burrow to find them waiting, trunks packed; 
Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, safely enclosed in his traveling basket; and Hedwig; Ron's owl, Pigwidgeon; and Ginny's new purple Pygmy Puff, Arnold, in cages.
“Au revoir, ‘Arry,” said Fleur throatily, kissing him goodbye. Ron hurried forward, looking hopeful, but Ginny stuck out her foot and Ron fell, sprawling in the dust 
at Fleur's feet. Furious, red-faced, and dirt-spattered, he hurried into the car without saying goodbye.
There was no cheerful Hagrid waiting for them at King's Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced, bearded Aurors in dark Muggle suits moved forward the moment the cars 
stopped and, flanking the party, marched them into the station without speaking.
“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said Mrs. Weasley, who seemed a little flustered by this austere efficiency. “Harry had better go first, with—”
She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who nodded briefly, seized Harry's upper arm, and attempted to steer him toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.
“I can walk, thanks,” said Harry irritably, jerking his arm out of the Auror's grip. He pushed his trolley directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent 
companion, and found himself, a second later, standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over the crowd.
Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within seconds. Without waiting to consult his grim-faced Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow him up the platform, 
looking for an empty compartment.
“We can't, Harry,” said Hermione, looking apologetic. “Ron and I've got to go to the prefects’ carriage first and then patrol the corridors for a bit.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Harry.
“You'd better get straight on the train, all of you, you've only got a few minutes to go,” said Mrs. Weasley, consulting her watch. “Well, have a lovely term, Ron...
”
“Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?” said Harry, making up his mind on the spur of the moment.
“Of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked slightly surprised, but followed Harry out of earshot of the others nevertheless.
Harry had thought it through carefully and come to the conclusion that, if he was to tell anyone, Mr. Weasley was the right person; firstly, because he worked at the 
Ministry and was therefore in the best position to make further investigations, and secondly, because he thought that there was not too much risk of Mr. Weasley 
exploding with anger.
He could see Mrs. Weasley and the grim-faced Auror casting the pair of them suspicious looks as they moved away.
“When we were in Diagon Alley,” Harry began, but Mr. Weasley forestalled him with a grimace.
“Am I about to discover where you, Ron, and Hermione disappeared to while you were supposed to be in the back room of Fred and George's shop?”
“How did you—?”
“Harry, please. You're talking to the man who raised Fred and George.”
“Er... yeah, all right, we weren't in the back room.”
“Very well, then, let's hear the worst.”
“Well, we followed Draco Malfoy. We used my Invisibility Cloak.”
“Did you have any particular reason for doing so, or was it a mere whim?”
“Because I thought Malfoy was up to something,” said Harry, disregarding Mr. Weasley's look of mingled exasperation and amusement. “He'd given his mother the slip 
and I wanted to know why.”
“Of course you did,” said Mr. Weasley, sounding resigned. “Well? Did you find out why?”
“He went into Borgin and Burkes,” said Harry, “and started bullying the bloke in there, Borgin, to help him fix something. And he said he wanted Borgin to keep 
something else for him. He made it sound like it was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like they were a pair. And...”
Harry took a deep breath.
“There's something else. We saw Malfoy jump about a mile when Madam Malkin tried to touch his left arm. I think he's been branded with the Dark Mark. I think he's 
replaced his father as a Death Eater.”
Mr. Weasley looked taken aback. After a moment he said, “Harry, I doubt whether You-Know-Who would allow a sixteen-year-old—”
“Does anyone really know what You-Know-Who would or wouldn't do?” asked Harry angrily. “Mr. Weasley, I'm sorry, but isn't it worth investigating? If Malfoy wants 
something fixing, and he needs to threaten Borgin to get it done, it's probably something Dark or dangerous, isn't it?”
“I doubt it, to be honest, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley slowly. “You see, when Lucius Malfoy was arrested, we raided his house. We took away everything that might have 
been dangerous.”
“I think you missed something,” said Harry stubbornly.
“Well, maybe,” said Mr. Weasley, but Harry could tell that Mr. Weasley was humoring him.
There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone had boarded the train and the doors were closing.
“You'd better hurry!” said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. Weasley cried, “Harry, quickly!”
He hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped him load his trunk onto the train.
“Now, dear, you're coming to us for Christmas, it's all fixed with Dumbledore, so we'll see you quite soon,” said Mrs. Weasley through the window, as Harry slammed 
the door shut behind him and the train began to move. “You make sure you look after yourself and—”
The train was gathering speed.
“—be good and—” She was jogging to keep up now.
“—stay safe!”
Harry waved until the train had turned a corner and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were lost to view, then turned to see where the others had got to. He supposed Ron and Hermione 
were cloistered in the prefects’ carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the corridor, chatting to some friends. He made his way toward her, dragging his trunk.
People stared shamelessly as he approached. They even pressed their faces against the windows of their compartments to get a look at him. He had expected an upswing in 
the amount of gaping and gawping he would have to endure this term after all the “Chosen One” rumors in the Daily Prophet, but he did not enjoy the sensation of 
standing in a very bright spotlight. He tapped Ginny on the shoulder.
“Fancy trying to find a compartment?”
“I can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean,” said Ginny brightly. “See you later.”
“Right,” said Harry. He felt a strange twinge of annoyance as she walked away, her long red hair dancing behind her; he had become so used to her presence over the 
summer that he had almost forgotten that Ginny did not hang around with him, Ron, and Hermione while at school. Then he blinked and looked around: he was surrounded by 
mesmerized girls.
“Hi, Harry!” said a familiar voice from behind him.
“Neville!” said Harry in relief, turning to see a round-faced boy struggling toward him.
“Hello, Harry,” said a girl with long hair and large misty eyes, who was just behind Neville.
“Luna, hi, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Luna. She was clutching a magazine to her chest; large letters on the front announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs inside.
“The Quibbler still going strong, then?” asked Harry, who felt a certain fondness for the magazine, having given it an exclusive interview the previous year.
“Oh yes, circulation's well up,” said Luna happily.
“Let's find seats,” said Harry, and the three of them set off along the train through hordes of silently staring students. At last they found an empty compartment, 
and Harry hurried inside gratefully.
“They're even staring at us,” said Neville, indicating himself and Luna. “Because we're with you!”
“They're staring at you because you were at the Ministry too,” said Harry, as he hoisted his trunk into the luggage rack. “Our little adventure there was all over 
the Daily Prophet, you must've seen it.”
“Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the publicity,” said Neville, “but she was really pleased. Says I'm starting to live up to my dad at long last. She 
bought me a new wand, look!”
He pulled it out and showed it to Harry.
“Cherry and unicorn hair,” he said proudly. “We think it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he vanished next day—oi, come back here, Trevor!”
And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it made one of its frequent bids for freedom.
“Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?” asked Luna, who was detaching a pair of psychedelic spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler.
“No point now we've got rid of Umbridge, is there?” said Harry, sitting down. Neville bumped his head against the seat as he emerged from under it. He looked most 
disappointed.
“I liked the D.A.! I learned loads with you!”
“I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It was like having friends.”
This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna often said and which made Harry feel a squirming mixture of pity and embarrassment. Before he could respond, however, 
there was a disturbance outside their compartment door; a group of fourth-year girls was whispering and giggling together on the other side of the glass.
“You ask him!”
No, you!
“I'll do it!”
And one of them, a bold-looking girl with large dark eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair pushed her way through the door.
“Hi, Harry, I'm Romilda, Romilda Vane,” she said loudly and confidently. “Why don't you join us in our compartment? You don't have to sit with them,” she added in a 
stage whisper, indicating Neville's bottom, which was sticking out from under the seat again as he groped around for Trevor, and Luna, who was now wearing her free 
Spectrespecs, which gave her the look of a demented, multicolored owl.
“They're friends of mine,” said Harry coldly.
“Oh,” said the girl, looking very surprised. “Oh. Okay.”
And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her.
“People expect you to have cooler friends than us,” said Luna, once again displaying her knack for embarrassing honesty.
“You are cool,” said Harry shortly. “None of them was at the Ministry. They didn't fight with me.”
“That's a very nice thing to say,” beamed Luna. Then she pushed her Spectrespecs farther up her nose and settled down to read The Quibbler.
“We didn't face him, though,” said Neville, emerging from under the seat with fluff and dust in his hair and a resigned-looking Trevor in his hand. “You did. You 
should hear my gran talk about you. ‘That Harry Potter's got more backbone than the whole Ministry of Magic put together!’ She'd give anything to have you as a 
grandson...”
Harry laughed uncomfortably and changed the subject to O.W.L. results as soon as he could. While Neville recited his grades and wondered aloud whether he would be 
allowed to take a Transfiguration N.E.W.T., with only an “Acceptable,” Harry watched him without really listening.
Neville's childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry's had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry's destiny. The prophecy 
could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant.
Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the weight of the prophecy... or would it? Would 
Neville's mother have died to save him, as Lily had died for Harry? Surely she would... but what if she had been unable to stand between her son and Voldemort? Would 
there then have been no ‘Chosen One’ at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and a scarless Harry who would have been kissed goodbye by his own mother, not Ron's?
“You all right, Harry? You look funny,” said Neville.
Harry started.
“Sorry—I—”
“Wrackspurt got you?” asked Luna sympathetically, peering at Harry through her enormous colored spectacles.
“I—what?”
“A Wrackspurt... They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” she said. “I thought I felt one zooming around in here.”
She flapped her hands at thin air, as though beating off large invisible moths. Harry and Neville caught each other's eyes and hastily began to talk of Quidditch.
The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy as it had been all summer; they passed through stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak, clear sunlight. It 
was during one of the clear spells, when the sun was visible almost directly overhead, that Ron and Hermione entered the compartment at last.
“Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I'm starving,” said Ron longingly, slumping into the seat beside Harry and rubbing his stomach. “Hi, Neville. Hi, Luna. Guess 
what?” he added, turning to Harry. “Malfoy's not doing prefect duty. He's just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed.”
Harry sat up straight, interested. It was not like Malfoy to pass up the chance to demonstrate his power as prefect, which he had happily abused all the previous year.
“What did he do when he saw you?”
“The usual,” said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a rude hand gesture. “Not like him, though, is it? Well... that is"—he did the hand gesture again—"but why isn't 
he out there bullying first years?”
“Dunno,” said Harry, but his mind was racing. Didn't this look as though Malfoy had more important things on his mind than bullying younger students?
“Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad,” said Hermione. “Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame after that.”
“I don't think so,” said Harry. “I think he's—”
But before he could expound on his theory, the compartment door slid open again and a breathless third-year girl stepped inside.
“I'm supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter,” she faltered, as her eyes met Harry's and she turned scarlet. She was holding out two 
scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon. Perplexed, Harry and Neville took the scroll addressed to each of them and the girl stumbled back out of the compartment.
“What is it?” Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his.
“An invitation,” said Harry.
Harry,I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.Sincerely, Professor H.E.F. Slughorn“Who's Professor Slughorn?” asked Neville, looked perplexedly at his own invitation.
“New teacher,” said Harry. “Well, I suppose we'll have to go, won't we?”
“But what does he want me for?” asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention.
“No idea,” said Harry, which was not entirely true, though he had no proof yet that his hunch was correct. “Listen,” he added, seized by a sudden brain wave, 
“let's go under the Invisibility Cloak, then we might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what he's up to.”
This idea, however, came to nothing: the corridors, which were packed with people on the lookout for the lunch trolley, were impossible to negotiate while wearing the 
cloak. Harry stowed it regretfully back in his bag, reflecting that it would have been nice to wear it just to avoid all the staring, which seemed to have increased in 
intensity even since he had last walked down the train. Every now and then, students would hurtle out of their compartments to get a better look at him. The exception 
was Cho Chang, who darted into her compartment when she saw Harry coming. As Harry passed the window, he saw her deep in determined conversation with her friend 
Marietta, who was wearing a very thick layer of makeup that did not entirely obscure the odd formation of pimples still etched across her face. Smirking slightly, Harry 
pushed on.
When they reached compartment C, they saw at once that they were not Slughorn's only invitees, although judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn's welcome, Harry was the 
most warmly anticipated.
“Harry, m'boy!” said Slughorn, jumping up at the sight of him so that his great velvet-covered belly seemed to fill all the remaining space in the compartment. His 
shiny bald head and great silvery mustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the golden buttons on his waistcoat. “Good to see you, good to see you! And you must 
be Mr. Longbottom!”
Neville nodded, looking scared. At a gesture from Slughorn, they sat down opposite each other in the only two empty seats, which were nearest the door. Harry glanced 
around at their fellow guests. He recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes; there were also two seventh-
year boys Harry did not know and, squashed in the corner beside Slughorn and looking as though she was not entirely sure how she had got there, Ginny.
“Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn asked Harry and Neville. “Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course—”
Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.
“This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you've come across each other—? No?”
McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him.
“—and this is Marcus Belby, I don't know whether—?”
Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a strained smile.
“—and this charming young lady tells me she knows you!” Slughorn finished.
Ginny grimaced at Harry and Neville from behind Slughorn's back.
“Well now, this is most pleasant,” said Slughorn cozily. “A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I've packed my own lunch; the 
trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on Licorice Wands, and a poor old man's digestive system isn't quite up to such things... Pheasant, Belby?”
Belby started, and accepted what looked like half a cold pheasant.
“I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles,” Slughorn told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket of rolls. 
“Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?”
Unfortunately, Beiby had just taken a large mouthful of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to choke.
“Anapneo,” said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once.
“Not... not much of him, no,” gasped Belby, his eyes streaming.
“Well, of course, I daresay he's busy,” said Slughorn, looking questioningly at Belby. “I doubt he invented the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard work!”
“I suppose...” said Belby, who seemed afraid to take another bite of pheasant until he was sure that Slughorn had finished with him. “Er... he and my dad don't get 
on very well, you see, so I don't really know much about...”
His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold smile and turned to McLaggen instead.
“Now, you, Cormac,” said Slughorn, “I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting 
Nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?”
“Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was,” said McLaggen. “We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour—this was before he became Minister, obviously—”
“Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies; somehow, Belby was missed out. “Now tell me...”
It was as Harry had suspected. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential... everyone except Ginny. 
Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven 
times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold). It was Neville's turn next: this was a very uncomfortable ten minutes, for Neville's 
parents, well-known Aurors, had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater cronies. At the end of Neville's interview, Harry had the 
impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents’ flair.
“And now,” said Slughorn, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act. “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched 
the surface when we met over the summer!”
He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, “'The Chosen One,’ they're calling you now!”
Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him.
“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, “there have been rumors for years... I remember when—well—after that terrible night—Lily—James—and you 
survived—and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary—”
Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism. An angry voice burst out from behind Slughorn.
“Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented... at posing...”
“Oh dear!” chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around Slughorn's great belly. “You want to be careful, Blaise! I saw 
this young lady perform the most marvelous Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn't cross her!”
Zabini merely looked contemptuous.
“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn't know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print 
inaccuracies, make mistakes... but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there 
in the thick of it all!”
Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him.
“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond—you were there, then? But the rest of the stories—so sensational, of course, one doesn't know quite what to 
believe—this fabled prophecy, for instance—”
“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it.
“That's right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.”
“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but both of them sat clam-like before his encouraging smile. “
Yes... well... it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course...” Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog 
Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies)—”
He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by 
Neville and Ginny.
The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at 
Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but couldn't see how to do so politely. Finally the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and 
Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight.
“Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop 
by and borrow that book on Nogtails. Harry, Blaise... any time you're passing. Same goes for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny. “Well, off you go, off you go!”
As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along 
the train.
“I'm glad that's over,” muttered Neville. “Strange man, isn't he?”
“Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry, his eyes on Zabini. “How come you ended up in there, Ginny?”
“He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” said Ginny. “You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the 
Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him—when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to got detention, but he just thought it was a really good hex 
and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?”
“Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother's famous,” said Harry, scowling at the back of Zabini's head, “or because their uncle... ”
But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a reckless but potentially wonderful idea... In a minute's time, Zabini was going to re-enter the Slytherin sixth-
year compartment and Malfoy would be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody except fellow Slytherins... If Harry could only enter, unseen, behind him, what 
might he not see or hear? True, there was little of the journey left—Hogsmeade Station had to be less than half an hour away, judging by the wildness of the scenery 
flashing by the windows—but nobody else seemed prepared to take Harry's suspicions seriously, so it was down to him to prove them.
“I'll see you two later,” said Harry under his breath, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and flinging it over himself.
“But what're you—?” asked Neville.
“Later!” whispered Harry, darting after Zabini as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless.
The corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions. Though 
he was as close as he could get to Zabini without touching him, Harry was not quick enough to slip into the compartment when Zabini opened the door. Zabini was already 
sliding it shut when Harry hastily stuck out his foot to prevent it closing.
“What's wrong with this thing?” said Zabini angrily as he smashed the sliding door repeatedly into Harry's foot.
Harry seized the door and pushed it open, hard; Zabini, still clinging on to the handle, toppled over sideways into Gregory Goyle's lap, and in the ensuing ruckus, 
Harry darted into the compartment, leapt onto Zabini's temporarily empty seat, and hoisted himself up into the luggage rack. It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were 
snarling at each other, drawing all eyes onto them, for Harry was quite sure his feet and ankles had been revealed as the cloak had flapped around them; indeed, for one 
horrible moment he thought he saw Malfoy's eyes follow his trainer as it whipped upward out of sight. But then Goyle slammed the door shut and flung Zabini off him; 
Zabini collapsed into his own seat looking ruffled, Vincent Crabbe returned to his comic, and Malfoy, sniggering, lay back down across two seats with his head in Pansy 
Parkinson's lap. Harry lay curled uncomfortably under the cloak to ensure that every inch of him remained hidden, and watched Pansy stroke the sleek blond hair off 
Malfoy's forehead, smirking as she did so, as though anyone would have loved to have been in her place. The lanterns swinging from the carriage ceiling cast a bright 
light over the scene: Harry could read every word of Crabbe's comic directly below him.
“So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?”
“Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not that he managed to find many.”
This information did not seem to please Malfoy.
“Who else had he invited?” he demanded.
“McLaggen from Gryffindor,” said Zabini.
“Oh yeah, his uncle's big in the Ministry,” said Malfoy.
“—someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw—”
“Not him, he's a prat!” said Pansy.
“—and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl,” finished Zabini.
Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy's hand aside.
“He invited Longbottom?”
“Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said Zabini indifferently.
“What's Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?”
Zabini shrugged.
“Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted a look at the Chosen One,” sneered Malfoy, “but that Weasley girl! What's so special about her?”
“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even you think she's good-looking, don't you, Blaise, and we 
all know how hard you are to please!”
“I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and Pansy looked pleased. Malfoy sank back across her lap and 
allowed her to resume the stroking of his hair.
“Well, I pity Slughorn's taste. Maybe he's going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favorite 
of his. Slughorn probably hasn't heard I'm on the train, or—”
“I wouldn't bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He asked me about Nott's father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard 
he'd been caught at the Ministry he didn't look happy, and Nott didn't get an invitation, did he? I don't think Slughorn's interested in Death Eaters.”
Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humorless laugh.
“Well, who cares what he's interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher.” Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. “I mean, I might not even be 
at Hogwarts next year, what's it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?”
“What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?” said Pansy indignantly, ceasing grooming Malfoy at once.
“Well, you never know,” said Malfoy with the ghost of a smirk. “I might have—er—moved on to bigger and better things.”
Crouched in the luggage rack under his cloak, Harry's heart began to race. What would Ron and Hermione say about this? Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy; 
apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features. Pansy 
resumed the slow stroking of Malfoy s hair, looking dumbfounded.
“Do you mean—Him”
Malfoy shrugged.
“Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don't see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it... When the Dark Lord takes over, is he 
going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone's got? Of course he isn't... it'll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown.
”
“And you think you'll be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?”
“I've just said, haven't I? Maybe he doesn't care if I'm qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn't something that you need to be qualified for,” said Malfoy 
quietly.
Crabbe and Goyle were both sitting with their mouths open like gargoyles. Pansy was gazing down at Malfoy as though she had never seen anything so awe-inspiring.
“I can see Hogwarts,” said Malfoy, clearly relishing the effect he had created as he pointed out of the blackened window. “We'd better get our robes on.”
Harry was so busy staring at Malfoy, he did not notice Goyle reaching up for his trunk; as he swung it down, it hit Harry hard on the side of the head. He let out an 
involuntary gasp of pain, and Malfoy looked up at the luggage rack, frowning.
Harry was not afraid of Malfoy, but he still did not much like the idea of being discovered hiding under his Invisibility Cloak by a group of unfriendly Slytherins. 
Eyes still watering and head still throbbing, he drew his wand, careful not to disarrange the cloak, and waited, breath held. To his relief, Malfoy seemed to decide 
that he had imagined the noise; he pulled on his robes like the others, locked his trunk, and as the train slowed to a jerky crawl, fastened a thick new traveling cloak 
round his neck.
Harry could see the corridors filling up again and hoped that Hermione and Ron would take his things out onto the platform for him; he was stuck where he was until the 
compartment had quite emptied. At last, with a final lurch, the train came to a complete halt. Goyle threw the door open and muscled his way out into a crowd of second 
years, punching them aside; Crabbe and Zabini followed.
“You go on,” Malfoy told Pansy, who was waiting for him with her hand held out as though hoping he would hold it. “I just want to check something.”
Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the compartment. People were filing past, descending onto the dark platform. Malfoy moved over to the compartment door 
and let down the blinds, so that people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. He then bent down over his trunk and opened it again.
Harry peered down over the edge of the luggage rack, his heart pumping a little faster. What had Malfoy wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the mysterious 
broken object it was so important to mend?
“Petrificus Totalus!”
Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry, who was instantly paralyzed. As though in slow motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, with an 
agonizing, floor-shaking crash, at Malfoy's feet, the Invisibility Cloak trapped beneath him, his whole body revealed with his legs still curled absurdly into the 
cramped kneeling position. He couldn't move a muscle; he could only gaze up at Malfoy, who smiled broadly.
“I thought so,” he said jubilantly. “I heard Goyle's trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back...” His eyes 
lingered for a moment upon Harry's trainers. “That was you blocking the door when Zabini came back in, I suppose?”
He considered Harry a moment.
“You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here...”
And he stamped, hard, on Harry's face. Harry felt his nose break; blood spurted everywhere.
“That's from my father. Now, let's see...”
Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry's immobilized body and threw it over him.
“I don't reckon they'll find you till the train's back in London,” he said quietly. “See you around, Potter... or not.”
And taking care to tread on Harry's fingers, Malfoy left the compartment.
哈利花了暑假里最后一周的大部分时间来思考马尔福在翻倒巷的举动。最困扰他的一点是马尔福离开商店时脸上那种满意的表情。能让马尔福那样开心的事情通常都不是什么好事。然而让他感
到稍稍有些气恼的是，对于马尔福的行为，罗恩和赫敏似乎都不像他那样好奇；或者至少，在连续讨论了几天之后，他们看上去已经厌烦了。
 
　　“是的，我已经同意这件事很可疑了，哈利，”赫敏有点儿不耐烦地说。她正坐在弗雷德和乔治房里的窗台上，两脚踩着一只纸箱，勉强地从她新买的《高级魔文翻译》中抬起头。“可是
我们也都同意这件事可以有很多种解释吧？”
 
　　“也许他把他的光荣之手给弄坏了，”罗恩含糊地说，他正在努力地拉直飞天扫帚尾巴上几根弯曲的小枝。“记得他的那只皱巴巴的手臂吗？”
 
　　“但是他说‘别忘了把那一个藏好’是怎么回事？”哈利第无数次问道。“听起来像是博金还有一件那个东西，而马尔福两个都要。”
 
　　“你觉得是这样？”罗恩说，他又在尝试把扫帚柄上面的泥刮掉。
 
　　“是的，”哈利说。看到罗恩和赫敏都没有回应，他又说，“马尔福的父亲进了阿兹卡班。你们不觉得马尔福会复仇吗？”
 
　　罗恩抬起头，眨了眨眼。
 
　　“马尔福，复仇？他能做什么呀？”
 
　　“这就是我的意思，我不知道他会做什么！”哈利有些失落地说。“但是他一定有什么打算，我认为我们应该严肃地对待这件事。他的父亲是个食死徒，而且……”
 
　　哈利停住了，眼睛盯着赫敏身后的窗户，嘴巴张着。他忽然产生了一个惊人的想法。
 
　　“哈利？”赫敏担忧地说。“你怎么了？”
 
　　“你的伤疤不会又开始疼了吧？”罗恩紧张地问。
 
　　“他去做了食死徒，”哈利慢慢地说。“他代替了他的父亲，成了一个食死徒！”
 
　　大家都没说话，然后罗恩爆发出一阵大笑。
 
　　“马尔福？他才十六岁，哈利！你认为神秘人会让马尔福加入？”
 
　　“这看起来不太可能，哈利，”赫敏忍着笑说，“是什么让你觉得——？”
 
　　“在摩金夫人的店里。摩金夫人根本没碰到他，可是当她要卷起他的袖子时，马尔福大吵大嚷地拼命把手臂挣脱出来。那正是他的左手臂。上面一定印上了黑魔标记。”
 
　　罗恩和赫敏互相看了看。
 
　　“这个……”罗恩听起来完全不相信。
 
　　“我想他只是想要离开那儿，哈利，”赫敏说。
 
　　“他给博金展示了一件我们都没看到的东西，”哈利倔强地坚持说。“一件让博金吓得不轻的东西。一定是黑魔标记，我知道——他想让博金知道他正在和什么人做交易，你们看见博金多
么严肃地对待他了！”
 
　　罗恩和赫敏又交换了一下眼神。
 
　　“我不能肯定，哈利……”
 
　　“是啊，我还是不认为神秘人会让马尔福加入……”
 
　　哈利很生气，但绝对确信自己是正确的，他抱起一大堆脏兮兮的魁地奇球袍离开了房间；韦斯莱这几天一直在督促他们别把要洗的衣服和要准备的包裹留到开学的那天。走到门口他和金妮
撞了个满怀，她正捧着一堆刚刚洗好的衣服回房。
 
　　“我刚才真不该去厨房，”她告诫他说，“那儿有一大堆‘浮脓’。”
 
　　“我会小心不去碰它。”哈利笑了。
 
　　不出所料，他走进厨房的时候看到芙蓉正坐在餐桌旁边，滔滔不绝地说着她和比尔的婚礼计划，而韦斯莱夫人则守着一堆正在自己剥皮的豆芽，看起来脾气不太好。
 
　　“……比尔和我差不多都决定了只要两个女傧相，金妮和加布丽两个站在一起一定会非常可爱。我正在考虑让她们穿浅金黄色的礼服——粉红色和金妮的头发搭配起来会很糟糕——”
 
　　“啊，哈利！”韦斯莱夫人大声打断了芙蓉的长篇大论。“太好了，我正想告诉你明天去霍格沃茨路上安全保护的安排。我们又借了魔法部的专车，傲罗们会等在火车站——”
 
　　“唐克斯也会去那儿吗？”哈利问，把他的魁地奇球袍递了过去。
 
　　“不，我想不会吧，亚瑟说她被安排到另一个地方去了。”
 
　　“她是自己要去的，那个唐克斯，”芙蓉若有所思地说，审视着茶勺背面上自己的美丽映像。“要我说，这真是个大错误……”
 
　　“是的，谢谢你，”韦斯莱夫人又一次尖刻地打断了芙蓉的话，“你最好接着干，哈利，如果可能的话我希望今晚你们就能装好所有的行李，这样我们不会再像以前那样出现最后一刻的混
乱了。”
 
　　事实上，他们第二天早晨的出发比以前顺利得多。魔法部的专车开到陋居院子里时，箱子已经收拾好了，赫敏的宠物猫克鲁克山正很安全地待在它的旅行篮里，海德薇、罗恩的猫头鹰小猪
和金妮的新买的紫色侏儒蒲绒绒，阿诺德，都在笼子里装好了。
 
　　“再见，阿利，”芙蓉用喉音低沉地说，她吻了吻哈利作为道别。罗恩满怀希望地冲上前去，但金妮伸脚拌了罗恩一下，让他在芙蓉脚边的泥地里摔了个四脚朝天。罗恩又窘又恼，满身是
泥地钻进了轿车，连再见都没说。
 
　　在国王十字车站接他们的不是乐呵呵的海格。代替他的是两个绷着脸、留着胡子的傲罗，他们的车刚停下来，那两个穿着深色麻瓜西服的人就迎上去，一边一个地夹着所有的人往车站走去
，路上一句话也不说。
 
　　“快些，快些，通过那扇墙，”韦斯莱夫人似乎被这种严谨的效率弄得有些慌乱。“哈利最好第一个走，后面跟着——”
 
　　她询问般地望着其中一位傲罗，他简单地点了点头，抓住哈利的胳膊，试图把他拉向九号和十号站台之间的那面挡墙。
 
　　“我会走路，谢谢，”哈利暴躁地说，把他的胳膊从那个傲罗手里挣脱出来。他把手推车推向那堵坚实的墙，不去理睬一语不发的同伴们，一秒钟之后，他就发现自己已经站在了9 3/4站
台，开往霍格沃茨的鲜红色列车正停在人群中喷着蒸汽。
 
　　紧接着赫敏和韦斯莱一家也过来了。顾不得征求他身后板着脸的傲罗的允许，哈利就向罗恩和赫敏打着手势示意跟着他一起去站台那儿，找一找有没有空的车厢。
 
　　“我们不行，哈利，”赫敏抱歉地说。“罗恩和我必须要先去级长车厢报到，然后还要在走廊上做一些巡视。”
 
　　“哦对，我忘了，”哈利说。
 
　　“你们最好直接上车，所有的人，只剩几分钟了，”韦斯莱夫人一边说一边看了看手表。“祝你过个愉快的学年，罗恩……”
 
　　“韦斯莱先生，我可以和您简单说几句话吗？”就在这时哈利突然下定了决心，对韦斯莱先生说道。
 
　　“当然，”韦斯莱先生说，他看起来有点儿意外，但还是跟着哈利来到了一个别人听不见的角落。
 
　　哈利仔细考虑过，最后他得出结论，如果他要把这件事告诉什么人的话，韦斯莱先生将会是最合适的人选；首先，因为他在魔法部工作，这样便能作进一步的调查，其次，他觉得韦斯莱先
生不太可能勃然大怒。
 
　　他们走开的时候，他看到韦斯莱夫人和那个板着脸的傲罗都怀疑地看着他们俩。
 
　　“我们在对角巷的那天——”哈利说，但韦斯莱先生扮了个鬼脸抢先一步说。
 
　　“我是不是将要被告知你、罗恩和赫敏本应该待在弗雷德和乔治的小店里屋的时候，你们三个失踪去了哪儿？”
 
　　“您是怎么——？”
 
　　“哈利，拜托。你是在和把弗雷德和乔治养大的人谈话呢。”
 
　　“呃……没错，好吧，我们当时不在里屋。”
 
　　“很好，那么，让我们听听最糟糕的吧。”
 
　　“嗯，我们一路跟踪德拉科·马尔福来着。用了我的隐形斗篷。”
 
　　“你们是因为有什么特殊理由这么做呢，还是只不过一时心血来潮？”
 
　　“因为我觉得马尔福有什么阴谋诡计，”哈利不顾韦斯莱先生既恼怒又感兴趣的表情，接着说。“他甩掉了他妈妈，我想知道他要干什么。”
 
　　“当然你会这么想，”韦斯莱先生顺着他说。“那么？你发现原因了吗？”
 
　　“他去了博金－博克店，”哈利说，“他威胁那个叫博金的家伙帮他修理一件东西。他还要博金帮他保管另一件什么东西。从他的话里判断好像那个东西和需要修理的东西是一样的。好像
是一对。还有……”
 
　　哈利深吸了一口气。
 
　　“还有一件事。我们发现摩金夫人试图碰他的左胳膊时，他跳起来老高。我想他的手臂已经印上了黑魔标记。我想他已经代替了他的父亲成为了一个食死徒。”
 
　　韦斯莱先生看上去吓了一跳。过了一会儿他说，“哈利，我怀疑神秘人是否会允许一个十六岁的——”
 
　　“难道有谁知道神秘人会做什么、不会做什么吗？”哈利气愤地问。“韦斯莱先生，很抱歉，但难道这个不值得调查一番吗？如果马尔福想要修好什么东西，还需要通过威胁博金来做，那
么一定是什么黑魔法物件或者是危险品，不是吗？”
 
　　“说实在的，我还是不相信，哈利，”韦斯莱先生慢慢地说。“你知道，卢修斯·马尔福被逮捕时我们曾搜查过他的房子。我们带走了一切可能的危险品。”
 
　　“我想您可能漏过了什么，”哈利固执地说。
 
　　“啊，也许吧，”韦斯莱先生说，但哈利听得出来韦斯莱先生只不过是在迁就他。
 
　　他们身后响起了汽笛声；几乎每个人都已经上了列车，车门也要关上了。
 
　　“你最好抓紧时间了，”韦斯莱先生说道，这时韦斯莱夫人冲他喊，“哈利，快点！”
 
　　他赶紧朝列车那边走过去，韦斯莱夫妇帮着他把行李搬了上去。
 
　　“好了，亲爱的，圣诞节的时候你就到我们这儿来，已经跟邓布利多确定好了，所以我们很快就会再见面，”韦斯莱夫人隔着窗子说，这时哈利把身后的门关好，列车已经开动了。“一定
要照顾好自己——”
 
　　列车开始加速了。
 
　　“——要好好表现，还要——”
 
　　她已经是在跟着列车慢跑了。
 
　　“——注意安全！”
 
　　哈利向他们挥手作别，直到列车转了个弯，看不见韦斯莱夫妇了，他才停下来转而去找其他人。他估计罗恩和赫敏一定还留在级长车厢里，而金妮则站在车厢走廊稍远的地方，正和她的几
个朋友在聊天。他拖起行李向她走了过去。
 
　　一路上所有的人都毫不害羞地盯着他看。他们甚至把脸贴在包厢的窗户上来看他一眼。他早就预料到自从《预言家日报》上登载了所有的那些“真命天子”的传言之后，他这个学期会要去
忍受更多的注目，但是他并不愿享受这种暴露在聚光灯下的感觉。他拍了拍金妮的肩膀。
 
　　“一起去找间车厢好吗？”
 
　　“不行，哈利，我说好了要和迪安碰面的，”金妮高兴地说，“待会儿见。”
 
　　“好吧，”哈利说。她走开的时候红色的头发在身后飘动，他的心里感到一种因气恼而产生的奇怪刺痛。整个暑假里他已经如此习惯于有她在场，以至于都忘记了她在学校时并不缠在他、
罗恩与赫敏身边。于是他眨了眨眼睛，朝四周望去：他已经被那些对他着迷的女孩子们包围了。
 
　　“嗨，哈利！”一个熟悉的声音在他身后说。
 
　　“纳威！”哈利松了一口气说道，转身看见一个长着圆脸的男孩往他这边挤过来。
 
　　“你好，哈利，”一个留着长发，长着一双朦胧的大眼睛的女孩在纳威身后对哈利说。
 
　　“卢娜，嗨，你还好吗？”
 
　　“很好，谢谢你，”卢娜说。她两手抓着一本杂志放在胸前；封面上的大字显示里面免费赠送一副幻影眼镜。
 
　　“那么，《唱唱反调》办得还不错吧？”哈利问，他对这本杂志很有好感，去年还接受过这家杂志的独家专访。
 
　　“哦当然了，发行量一直在上涨呢。”卢娜高兴地说。
 
　　“咱们去找个座儿吧，”哈利说，于是他们三个动身穿过一群默默注视他们的学生，沿着车厢走了过去。最后他们总算找到了一间空车厢，哈利一边赶紧地冲了进去，一边谢天谢地。
 
　　“他们甚至盯着我们看，”纳威指了指他自己和卢娜，“就因为我们和你在一起！”
 
　　“他们盯着你们看是因为那天晚上你们也去了魔法部，”哈利把行李举到行李架上。“我们的那次小历险被《预言家日报》写得铺天盖地，你们一定也看过。”
 
　　“是啊，我还以为奶奶看了那些新闻会生气呢，”纳威说，“但她却真的很高兴。说我总算开始向我爸爸看齐了。她给我买了一根新的魔杖，看！”
 
　　他抽出自己的魔杖展示给哈利。
 
　　“樱桃木制，独角兽毛的杖芯，”他得意地说。“我们想这可能是奥利凡德卖出的最后一批魔杖中的一根了，第二天他就消失了——噢，回来，莱福！”
 
　　他趴到座位下面去抓那只蟾蜍，它又在（就像它经常做的那样）努力地跳向自由。
 
　　“今年我们还有D.A.聚会吗，哈利？”卢娜问，她正从《唱唱反调》里撕下一副看起来很迷幻的眼镜。
 
　　“既然我们已经摆脱了乌姆里奇就没这个必要了，是吧？”哈利坐了下来。纳威从椅子下面钻出来，脑袋一下子撞了上去。他看上去非常的失望。
 
　　“我喜欢D.A.！我从你那儿学到了一大堆呢！”
 
　　“我也很喜欢这个聚会，”卢娜平静地说。“感觉就像拥有了很多朋友。”
 
　　卢娜常常说起这样的让人不自在的事儿，哈利感觉就像怜悯和尴尬混杂着在心里蠕动一样。然而在他做出回应之前，他们车厢门的外面就爆发出了一阵骚动；一群四年级的女生在窗玻璃的
另一面低声地说笑着。
 
　　“你去跟他说！”
 
　　“不，你去！”
 
　　“那我来吧！”
 
　　她们中的一个看起来很勇敢的女生推开门走了进来，她长着一双大大的黑眼睛、突出的下巴和一头长长的黑发。
 
　　“嗨，哈利，我叫罗蜜尔达，罗密尔达·文恩，”她充满自信地大声说。“来我们的车厢来坐坐吧？你不必和他们坐在一块儿。”她故意做出耳语的动作对哈利大声说着，指了指纳威的屁
股（他正再次地钻到座位下面去寻找莱福）和卢娜（她戴上了免费的幻影眼镜，看上去就像一只精神错乱、五颜六色的猫头鹰）。
 
　　“他们是我的朋友。”哈利冷冷地说。
 
　　“哦，”女孩看起来非常惊讶。“哦。好的。”
 
　　她退了出去，顺手关上了身后的门。
 
　　“人们都认为你应该有比我们更酷的朋友，”卢娜再次展示了她令人尴尬的坦诚。
 
　　“你很酷，”哈利立刻说，“那些人里没有一个和我一起去魔法部。他们没有和我一起并肩作战。”
 
　　“你这么说真是太好了，”卢娜微笑着说，然后把幻影眼镜往鼻梁上推了推，专注地看起了《唱唱反调》。
 
　　“可我们没有面对他，”纳威说着从座椅下面钻了出来，头发里满是绒毛和灰尘，手里攥着看起来似乎已经听天由命的莱福。“你做到了。你应该听听我奶奶是怎么谈论你的。‘那个哈利
·波特比整个魔法部的人加起来还要有骨气！’她甚至愿意付出任何代价让你做她的孙子……”
 
　　哈利不自然地笑了笑，尽可能快地把话题转移到了O.W.L.的成绩上。当纳威大声复述着自己的成绩并开始怀疑自己在只拿到“及格”的情况下能否学习N.E.W.T.的变形术课程时，哈利只是
看着他，却没有真正地听他说。
 
　　纳威的童年和哈利的一样都是被伏地魔一手毁掉的，可纳威却并不知道他距离拥有哈利的命运有多么近。预言本来是可能指向他们俩中的任何一个，但伏地魔出于某种令人费解的理由选择
了哈利作为预言所指的对象。
 
　　如果当初伏地魔选择了纳威，现在就应该是纳威带着闪电形状的伤疤坐在自己对面，背负着那沉重的预言了……真的会这样吗？纳威的母亲会像莉莉保护哈利那样牺牲生命去拯救他吗？她
肯定会的……但是如果她没有机会站到伏地魔和他的儿子之间呢？那么是不是就压根儿没有什么“真命天子”了呢？是不是纳威坐的椅子上就会空空如也，是不是哈利的前额也就不会有伤疤了
，是不是和他吻别的将变成自己的妈妈而不是罗恩的妈妈呢？
 
　　“你没事儿吧，哈利？你看上去有些古怪，”纳威说。
 
　　哈利一下子惊醒过来。
 
　　“抱歉——我——”
 
　　“你脑袋进了幻虫？”卢娜从她那巨大的彩色眼镜后面同情地凝视着哈利。
 
　　“我——什么？”
 
　　“幻虫……它们是看不见的，它们会从你的耳朵漂进去，让你的脑子变得混乱不清，”她说。“我想我刚才感觉到了一只在这儿飞。”
 
　　她双手在空中拍了一下，好像是在打一只看不见的大蛾子。哈利和纳威对望了一眼，赶紧开始讨论起魁地奇的事情来。
 
　　列车窗外的天气还是和整个夏天一样让人觉得不协调；他们穿过一段段寒冷的迷雾，然后驶入了微弱而清澈的阳光里。此刻他们正处于一个晴朗咒之中，头顶上的太阳清晰可见，与此同时
罗恩和赫敏终于进入了车厢。
 
　　“希望餐车快点儿来，我饿惨了，”罗恩充满渴望地说，他一屁股坐到哈利旁边的座位上，一边揉着肚子。“嗨，纳威。嗨，卢娜。猜猜怎么着？”他转向哈利说，“马尔福没有履行级长
的职责。他只是和其他斯莱特林的家伙们一起坐在车厢里，我们刚才经过的时候看见的。”
 
　　哈利很感兴趣地坐直了。马尔福从不会放过一个展示他级长权力的机会，整个去年他都在滥用这个权力来作威作福。
 
　　“他看到你们时都做了什么？”
 
　　“和平时一样，”罗恩漠不关心地说，同时做了个粗鲁的手势。“不过不像他，对不对？嗯——是那样做的——”他又做了一遍手势，“但是他为什么没有去欺负一年级的新生呢？”
 
　　“不知道，”哈利说，但他的脑袋却飞快地转着。难道这不是表明马尔福现在脑子里想的是比欺负低年级学生更为重要的事情吗？
 
　　“也许他更怀念调查行动组，”赫敏说。“自从做了那个之后，级长对他来说就显得很乏味了。”
 
　　“我不这么认为，”哈利说，“我认为他是在——”
 
　　但在详细解释他的看法之前，包厢的门又被人拉开了，一个气喘吁吁的三年级女生走了进来。
 
　　“我要把这些交给纳威·隆巴顿和哈利·波－波特，”她结结巴巴地说，当目光和哈利相遇时脸一下子涨得通红。她递过两卷用紫色缎带系着的羊皮纸。
Chapter 8 Snape Victorious
Harry could not move a muscle. He lay there beneath the Invisibility Cloak feeling the blood from his nose flow, hot and wet, over his face, listening to the voices and 
footsteps in the corridor beyond. His immediate thought was that someone would, surely check the compartments before the train departed again. But at once came the 
dispiriting realization that even if somebody looked into the compartment, he would be neither seen nor heard. His best hope was that somebody else would walk in and 
step on him. 
Harry had never hated Malfoy more than as he lay there, like an absurd turtle on its back, blood dripping sickeningly into his open mouth. What a stupid situation to 
have landed himself in... and now the last few footsteps were dying away; everyone was shuffling along the dark platform outside; he could hear the scraping of trunks 
and loud babble of talk.
Ron and Hermione would think that he had left the train without them. Once they arrived at Hogwarts and took their places in the Great Hall, looked up and down the 
Gryffindor table a few times, and finally realized that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be halfway back to London.
He tried to make a sound, even a grunt, but it was impossible. Then he remembered that some wizards, like Dumbledore, could perform spells without speaking, so he tried 
to summon his wand, which had fallen out of his hand, by saying the words Accio Wand! over and over again in his head, but nothing happened.
He thought he could hear the rustling of the trees that surrounded the lake, and the far-off hoot of an owl, but no hint of a search being made or even (he despised 
himself slightly for hoping it) panicked voices wondering where Harry Potter had gone. A feeling of hopelessness spread through him as he imagined the convoy of 
thestral-drawn carriages trundling up to the school and the muffled yells of laughter issuing from whichever carriage Malfoy was riding in, where he could be recounting 
his attack on Harry to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson.
The train lurched, causing Harry to roll over onto his side. Now he was staring at the dusty underside of the seats instead of the ceiling. The floor began to vibrate 
as the engine roared into life. The Express was leaving and nobody knew he was still on it...
Then he felt his Invisibility Cloak fly off him and a voice overhead said, “Wotcher, Harry.”
There was a flash of red light and Harry's body unfroze; he was able to push himself into a more dignified sitting position, hastily wipe the blood off his bruised race 
with the back of his hand, and raise his head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the Invisibility Cloak she had just pulled away.
“We'd better get out of here, quickly,” she said, as the train windows became obscured with steam and they began to move out of the station. “Come on, we'll jump.”
Harry hurried after her into the corridor. She pulled open the train door and leapt onto the platform, which seemed to be sliding underneath them as the train gathered 
momentum. He followed her, staggered a little on landing, then straightened up in time to see the gleaming scarlet steam engine pick up speed, round the corner, and 
disappear from view.
The cold night air was soothing on his throbbing nose. Tonks was looking at him; he felt angry and embarrassed that he had been discovered in such a ridiculous 
position. Silently she handed him back the Invisibility Cloak. 
“Who did it?”
“Draco Malfoy,” said Harry bitterly. “Thanks for... well...” 
“No problem,” said Tonks, without smiling. From what Harry could see in the darkness, she was as mousy-haired and miserable-lookinng as she had been when he had met 
her at the Burrow. “I can fix your nose if you stand still.”
Harry did not think much of this idea; he had been intending to visit Madam Pomfrey, the matron, in whom he had a little more confidence when it came to Healing Spells, 
but it seemed rude to say this, so he stayed stock-still and closed his eyes.
“Episkey,” said Tonks.
Harry's nose felt very hot, and then very cold. He raised a hand and felt gingerly. It seemed to be mended. 
“Thanks a lot!”
“You'd better put that cloak back on, and we can walk up to the school,” said Tonks, still unsmiling. As Harry swung the cloak back over himself, she waved her wand; 
an immense silvery four-legged creature erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness.
“Was that a Patronus?” asked Harry, who had seen Dumbledore send messages like this.
“Yes, I'm sending word to the castle that I've got you or they'll worry. Come on, we'd better not dawdle.”
They set off toward the lane that led to the school.
“How did you find me?”
“I noticed you hadn't left the train and I knew you had that cloak. I thought you might be hiding for some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn down on that 
compartment I thought I'd check.”
“But what are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked. 
“I'm stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection,” said Tonks.
“Is it just you who's stationed up here, or—?” 
“No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too.” 
“Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?” 
“That's right.”
They trudged up the dark, deserted lane, following the freshly made carriage tracks. Harry looked sideways at Tonks under his cloak. Last year she had been inquisitive 
(to the point of being a little annoying at times), she had laughed easily, she had made jokes. Now she seemed older and much more serious and purposeful. Was this all 
the effect of what had happened at the Ministry? He reflected uncomfortably that Hermione would have suggested he say something consoling about Sirius to her, that it 
hadn't been her fault at all, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was far from blaming her for Sirius's death; it was no more her fault than anyone else's (and 
much less than his), but he did not like talking about Sirius if he could avoid it. And so they tramped on through the cold night in silence, Tonks's long cloak 
whispering on the ground behind them.
Having always traveled there by carriage, Harry had never before appreciated just how far Hogwarts was from Hogsmeade Station. With great relief he finally saw the tall 
pillars on either side of the gates, each topped with a winged boar. He was cold, he was hungry and he was quite keen to leave this new, gloomy Tonks behind. But when 
he put out a hand to push open the gates, he found them chained shut.
“Alohomora!” he said confidently, pointing his wand at the padlock, but nothing happened.
“That won't work on these,” said Tonks. “Dumbledore bewitched them himself.”
Harry looked around.
“I could climb a wall,” he suggested.
“No, you couldn't,” said Tonks flatly. “Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security's been tightened a hundredfold this summer.” 
“Well then,” said Harry, starting to feel annoyed at her lack of helpfulness, “I suppose I'll just have to sleep out here and wait for morning.”
“Someone's coming down for you,” said Tonks, “Look.” 
A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the castle. Harry was so pleased to see it he felt he could even endure Filch's wheezy criticisms of his tardiness and 
rants about how his timekeeping would improve with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away from them, and 
had pulled off his Invisibility Cloak so that he could be seen, that he recognized, with a rush of pure loathing, the uplit hooked nose and long, black, greasy hair of 
Severus Snape.
“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice of you to 
turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance.”
“I couldn't change, I didn't have my —” Harry began, but Snape cut across him.
“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite—ah—safe in my hands.”
“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks, frowning.
“Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, so I took it instead. And incidentally,” said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him, “
I was interested to see your new Patronus.”
He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place.
“I think you were better off with the old one,” said Snape, the malice in his voice unmistakable. “The new one looks weak.”
As Snape swung the lantern about, Harry saw, fleetingly, a look of shock and anger on Tonks's face. Then she was covered in darkness once more.
“Goodnight,” Harry called to her over his shoulder, as he began the walk up to the school with Snape. “Thanks for ... everything,”
“See you, Harry.”
Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Harry felt as though his body was generating waves of hatred so powerful that it seemed incredible that Snape could not feel 
them burning him. He had loathed Snape from their first encounter, but Snape had placed himself forever and irrevocably beyond the possibility of Harry's forgiveness by 
his attitude toward Sirius. Whatever Dumbledore said, Harry had had time to think over the summer, and had concluded that Snape's snide remarks to Sirius about 
remaining safely hidden while the rest of the Order of the Phoenix were off fighting Voldemort had probably been a powerful factor in Sirius rushing off to the Ministry 
the night that he had died. Harry clung to this notion, because it enabled him to blame Snape, which felt satisfying, and also because he knew that if anyone was not 
sorry that Sirius was dead, it was the man now striding next to him in the darkness. 
“Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think,” said Snape. “And, let me see, another twenty for your Muggle attire. You know, I don't believe any House has 
ever been in negative figures this early in the term—we haven't even started pudding. You might have set a record, Potter.”
The fury and hatred bubbling inside Harry seemed to blaze white-hot, but he would rather have been immobilized all the way back to London than tell Snape why he was 
late.
“I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did you?” Snape continued. “And with no flying car available you decided that bursting into the Great Hall halfway through 
the feast ought to create a dramatic effect.”
Still Harry remained silent, though he thought his chest might explode. He knew that Snape had come to fetch him for this, for the few minutes when he could needle and 
torment Harry without anyone else listening.
They reached the castle steps at last and as the great oaken front doors swung open into the vast flagged entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of tinkling 
plates and glasses greeted them through the doors standing open into the Great Hall. Harry wondered whether he could slip his Invisibility Cloak back on, thereby 
gaining his seat at the long Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, was the farthest from the entrance hall) without being noticed.
As though he had read Harry's mind, however, Snape said, “No cloak. You can walk in so that everyone sees you, which is what you wanted, I'm sure.”
Harry turned on the spot and marched straight through the open doors: anything to get away from Snape. The Great Hall with its four long House tables and its staff 
table set at the top of the room was decorated as usual with floating candles that made the plates below glitter and glow. It was all a shimmering blur to Harry, 
however, who walked so fast that he was passing the Hufflepuff table before people really started to stare, and by the time they were standing up to get a good look at 
him, he had spotted Ron and Hermione, sped along the benches toward them, and forced his way in between them.
“Where've you—blimey, what've you done to your face?” said Ron, goggling at him along with everyone else in the vicinity.
“Why, what's wrong with it?” said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.
“You're covered in blood!” said Hermione. “Come here —”
She raised her wand, said “Tergeo!” and siphoned off the dried blood.
“Thanks,” said Harry, feeling his now clean face. “How's my nose looking?”
“Normal,” said Hermoine anxiously. “Why shouldn't it? Harry, what happened? We've been terrified!”
“I'll tell you later,” said Harry curtly. He was very conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were listening in; even Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor 
ghost, had come floating along the bench to eavesdrop.
“But —” said Hermione.
“Not now, Hermione,” said Harry, in a darkly significant voice. He hoped very much that they would all assume he had been involved in something heroic, preferably 
involving a couple of Death Eaters and a dementor. Of course, Malfoy would spread the story as wide as he could, but there was always a chance it wouldn't reach too 
many Gryffindor ears.
He reached across Ron for a couple of chicken legs and a handful of chips, but before he could take them they vanished, to be replaced with puddings.
“You missed the Sorting, anyway,” said Hermione, as Ron dived for a large chocolate gateau. 
“Hat say anything interesting?” asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart.
“More of the same, really... advising us all to unite in the face enemies, you know.” 
“Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort at all?” 
“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the the feast doesn't he? It can't be long now.” 
“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —” 
“You've seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau.
“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively.
“Hagrid was only a few minutes late,” said Hermione. “Look, he's waving at you, Harry.”
Harry looked up at the staff table and grinned at Hagrid, who was indeed waving at him. Hagrid had never quite managed to comport himself with the dignity of Professor 
McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere between Hagrid's elbow and shoulder as they were sitting side by side, and who was 
looking disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting. Harry was surprised to see the Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney, sitting on Hagrid's other side; she rarely 
left her tower room, and he had never seen her at the start-of-term feast before. She looked as odd as ever, glittering with beads and trailing shawls, her eyes 
magnified to enormous size by her spectacles. Having always considered her a bit of a fraud, Harry had been shocked to discover at the end of the previous term that it 
had been she who had made the prediction that caused Lord Voldemort to kill Harry's parents and attack Harry himself. The knowledge made him even less eager to find 
himself in her company, thankfully, this year he would be dropping Divination. Her great beaconlike eyes swiveled in his direction; he hastily looked away toward the 
Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was miming the shatterering of a nose to raucous laughter and applause. Harry dropped his gaze to his treacle tart, his insides burning 
again. What he would give to fight Malfoy one-on-one...
“So what did Professor Slughorn want?” Hermione asked.
“To know what really happened at the Ministry.” said Harry.
“Him and everyone else here,” sniffed Hermione. “People were interrogating us about it on the train, weren't they, Ron?”
“Yeah,” said Ron. “All wanting to know if you really are ‘the Chosen One’ —”
“There has been much talk on that very subject even amongst the ghosts,” interrupted Nearly Headless Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward Harry so that it 
wobbled dangerously on its ruff. “I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I 
will not pester you for information, however. ‘Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,’ I told them. ‘I would rather die than betray 
his trust.'” 
“That's not saying much, seeing as you're already dead,” Ron observed.
“Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe,” said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end 
of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly.
“The very best of evenings to you!” he said, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room. 
“What happened to his hand?” gasped Hermione.
She was not the only one who had noticed. Dumbledore's right hand was as blackened and dead-looking as it had been on the night he had come to fetch Harry from the 
Dursleys. Whispers swept the room; Dumbledore, interpreting them correctly, merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury. 
“Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now ... to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits 
you... ”
“His hand was like that when I saw him over the summer,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I thought he'd have cured it by now, though ... or Madam Pomfrey would've 
done.”
“It looks as if it's died,” said Hermione, with a nauseated expression. “But there are some injuries you can't cure... old curses... and there are poisons without 
antidotes...”
“... and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
“Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, 
who should do likewise.
“We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn.” Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoated 
belly casting the table into shadow, “is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.”
“Potions?”
“Potions?”
The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard right.
“Potions?” said Ron and Hermione together, turning to stare Harry. “But you said —”
“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore, raising voice so that it carried over all the muttering, “will be taking the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts 
teacher.”
“No!” said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given the 
Defense Against the Dark Arts job after all this time? Hadn't it been widely known for years that Dumbledore did not trust him to do it? 
“But Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!” said Hermione. 
“I thought he was!” said Harry, racking his brains to remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but now that he came to think of it, he was unable to recall 
Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn would be teaching.
Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore's right, did not stand up his mention of his name; he merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause from the 
Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so much.
“Well, there's one good thing,” he said savagely. “Snape'll be gone by the end of the year.” 
“What do you mean?” asked Ron.
“That job's jinxed. No ones lasted more than a year... Quirrell actually died doing it... Personally, I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death... ”
“Harry!” said Hermione, shocked and reproachful. 
“He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” said Ron reasonably. “That Slughorn bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody didn't.”
Dumbledore cleared his throat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were not the only ones who had been talking; the whole Hall had erupted in a buzz of conversation at the news 
that Snape had finally achieved his heart's desire. Seemingly oblivious to the sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, Dumbledore said nothing more about 
staff appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure that the silence was absolute before continuing.
“Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength.”
The silence seemed to tauten and strain as Dumbledore spoke. Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy was not looking at Dumbledore, but making his fork hover in midair with his 
wand, as though he found the Headmaster's words unworthy of his attention.
“I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The 
castle's magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against 
carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that you teachers might impose upon you, 
however irksome you might find them—in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or 
suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own 
and others’ safety.”
Dumbledore's blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more.
“But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us 
therefore say good night. Pip pip!”
With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches moved back and the hundreds of students began to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories. Harry, who 
was in no hurry at all to leave with the gawping crowd, nor to get near enough to Malfoy to allow him to retell the story of the nose-stamping, lagged behind, 
pretending to retie the lace on his trainer, allowing most of Gryffindors to draw ahead of him. Hermione had darted ahead to fulfill her prefect's duty of shepherding 
the first years, but Ron remained with Harry.
“What really happened to your nose?” he asked, once they were at the very back of the throng pressing out of the Hall, and out of earshot of anyone else.
Harry told him. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Ron did not laugh.
“I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose,” he said darkly.
“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry bitterly. “Listen to what he was saying before he found out I was there... ”
Harry had expected Ron to be stunned by Malfoy's boasts. With what Harry considered pure pigheadedness, however, Ron was unimpressed.
“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson... What kind of mission would You-Know-Who have given him?”
“How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts? It wouldn't be the first —”
“I wish yeh'd stop sayin’ tha name, Harry,” said a reproachful voice behind them. Harry looked over his shoulder to see Hagtid shaking his head.
“Dumbledore uses that name,” said Harry stubbornly.
“Yeah, well, tha's Dumbledore, innit?” said Hagrid mysteriously. “So how come yeh were late, Harry? I was worried.”
“Got held up on the train,” said Harry. “Why were you late?”
“I was with Grawp,” said Hagrid happily. “Los’ track o’ the time. He's got a new home up in the mountains now, Dumbledore fixed it—nice big cave. He's much 
happier than he was in the forest. We were havin’ a good chat.”
“Really?” said Harry, taking care not to catch Ron's eye; the last time he had met Hagrid's half-brother, a vicious giant with a talent for ripping up trees by the 
roots, his vocabulary had comprised five words, two of which he was unable to pronounce properly.
“Oh yeah, he's really come on,” said Hagrid proudly. “Yeh'll be amazed. I'm thinkin’ o’ trainin’ him up as me assistant.”
Ron snorted loudly, but managed to pass it off as a violent sneeze. They were now standing beside the oak front doors.
“Anyway, I'll see yeh tomorrow, firs’ lesson's straight after lunch. Come early an’ yeh can say hello ter Buck — I mean, Witherwings!”
Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of the doors into the darkness.
Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry could tell that Ron was experiencing the same sinking feeling as himself.
“You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are you?”
Ron shook his head. “And you're not either, are you?”
Harry shook his head too.
“And Hermione,” said Ron, “she's not, is she?”
Harry shook his head again. Exactly what Hagrid would say when he realized his three favorite students had given up his subject, he did not like to think.
哈利一动也不能动。他躺在隐形斗篷下面，感觉到自己的血正源源不断地从鼻子里流出来，他脸上又热又湿，听到说话声和脚步声从走廊传进来。他立刻想到，也许有人会在列车重新启程之前
检查车厢？但是他马上就沮丧地意识到，即使有人往这个车厢里望，也不会看到或者听到他。他最好的希望就是有什么人能够走进来踩到他身上。
 
　　哈利从来没有像今天这样恨过马尔福，他就像一只可笑的海龟一样四脚朝天地躺着，张着嘴让恶心的血流进去。他让自己陷入了一个多么愚蠢的境地啊……现在最后的几个脚步声也消失了
；每个人都拖着步子在外面漆黑的站台上前行；哈利甚至能听见箱子的碰撞声和嘈杂的说话声。
 
　　罗恩和赫敏可能会认为他已经单独下了火车。只有等他们到了霍格沃茨，坐到礼堂的座位上，用目光在格兰芬多学院的桌子上来回搜寻过几遍后，才会发现他不在那儿，而他，毫无疑问那
时候已经在回伦敦的半路上了。
 
　　他试图发出声响，哪怕只是一声哼哼，但这是不可能的。然后他想起有些巫师，比如邓布利多，不用开口就可以施咒语，于是他开始在脑海里一遍又一遍念叨魔杖飞来，尝试召唤已经脱手
的魔杖，可什么也没发生。
 
　　他觉得他能听到湖边的树发出的沙沙声和遥远的猫头鹰在鸣叫，可是没有任何迹象表明有人在搜寻他，或者只是（他有一点儿鄙视自己这么想）有人在惊慌失措地询问哈利·波特去哪儿了
。他脑子里想象着夜骐所拉的马车正把学生拉往学校，而马尔福坐的那辆马车里一定正在传出捂着嘴的笑声，他肯定正在向他的斯莱特林伙伴们讲述他是怎么攻击哈利的，一种绝望的感觉扩散
到了他的全身。
 
　　火车突然摇晃了一下，哈利翻了个身。现在他所看到的从顶棚变成了满是灰尘的座椅底。火车头又开始怒吼了，地板也随之开始振动起来。特快列车就要启程了，没有人知道他还在上面…
…
 
　　接着他感觉到隐形斗篷被掀开了，头顶上响起一个声音，“我的天，哈利。”
 
　　一道红光闪过，哈利的身体可以动了；他终于能让自己换了个更有尊严的坐姿，他赶紧用手背擦去血迹，抬起已经肿起来的脸看着唐克斯，她手里正拿着刚刚从哈利身上扯下来的隐形斗篷
。
 
　　“我们必须离开这儿，快，”唐克斯说，车窗已经因为水汽而变得模糊起来，列车已经开始离开车站了。“赶快，我们得跳了。”
 
　　哈利急忙跟着她来到走廊上。唐克斯打开车门跳向了站台，由于火车已经开动了，他们脚下的站台看上去有一些打滑。哈利也跟着跳了下去，刚来得及摇摇晃晃地站直身子，就看到冒着蒸
汽的红色火车头加快速度，拐了个弯消失了。
 
　　寒冷的夜风缓和了哈利鼻子的阵痛，唐克斯看着哈利；哈利感到又气又窘，因为他被发现时姿势是如此的可笑。唐克斯默默地把隐形斗篷还给了哈利。
 
　　“谁干的？”
 
　　“德拉科·马尔福，”哈利憎恶地说。“谢谢你来……嗯……”
 
　　“没事儿，”唐克斯没有笑。哈利在黑暗中看到她仍然像上次在陋居时那样，头发是灰褐色的，表情显得很凄惨。“如果你站着不动，我就能修复你的鼻子。”
 
　　哈利并不太赞成这个主意；他本打算去找学校的护士庞弗雷夫人，说起治疗咒语，他对庞弗雷夫人的信心还是要多一点，可是这样说似乎很无礼，于是他闭上眼睛站稳了。
 
　　“消痛止血，”唐克斯念道。
 
　　哈利觉得鼻子先是非常的热，然后又非常的冷。他小心翼翼地拿手摸了摸。似乎已经好了。
 
　　“多谢你！”
 
　　“你最好穿上那件斗篷，我们就能走着去学校了，”唐克斯仍然面无喜色地说，哈利披上斗篷后，唐克斯挥了挥魔杖；一个巨大的银白色四足动物从魔杖顶端喷出来，飞奔进了黑暗之中。
 
　　“那是个守护神吗？”哈利问，他以前也见过邓布利多这样发送信息。
 
　　“是的，我要告诉城堡里的人我已经找到你了，好让他们不用再担心。走吧，我们最好不要耽误时间了。”
 
　　他们动身向通往学校的小路走去。
 
　　“你是怎么找到我的？”
 
　　“我注意到你没有下车，而且我知道你有那件斗篷。你可能是出于什么原因藏了起来。我看到那间包厢的窗帘被拉了下来，于是就想应该检查一下。”
 
　　“可是你在这儿干什么呢？”哈利问。
 
　　“我现在被派驻在霍格莫德村，给学校额外的保护，”唐克斯说。
 
　　“是只有你一个人驻在那儿，还是——？”
 
　　“不是，普劳福特、萨维奇和德力士也在这儿。”
 
　　“德力士，是去年被邓布利多攻击的那个傲罗吗？”
 
　　“对。”
 
　　于是他们就在这荒无人烟的阴暗小路上沿着马车刚刚印下的车痕向前跋涉着。哈利在斗篷下面看了看旁边的唐克斯。去年她是那么喜欢盘根问底（有时都达到了让人有点儿厌烦的程度），
那么爱笑，那么爱逗乐子。但现在她老成多了，而且看上去更加的严肃和坚定。这都是因为魔法部里发生的那一切吗？哈利不安地想起赫敏曾让他在小天狼星的事情上对唐克斯说一些安慰的话
，那根本就不是她的错，但是他做不到。他一点儿也不为小天狼星的死责怪她；她并不比别人错得更多（甚至还没有哈利自己错得多），但是他只想尽量避免谈起小天狼星。所以他们俩只是默
默地在这寒冷的夜里走着，唐克斯长长的斗篷在他们身后的地上发出飒飒的响声。
 
　　以前总是坐在马车里经过这一段路，所以哈利从来没有意识到从霍格莫德车站到霍格沃茨路程是如此之远。走后哈利终于看见了学校大门两侧高高的柱子（每个顶上都有一只带翅膀的公猪
），这让他松了口气。他又冷又饿，只渴望把这个全新的、阴郁的唐克斯甩在后面。但是当哈利伸出手去推门时，却发现门已经被链子锁住了。
 
　　“阿拉霍洞开！”哈利自信地用魔杖指着挂锁念道，可什么也没发生。
 
　　“那个对这些没用，”唐克斯说，“邓布利多亲自对它们施了魔法。”
 
　　哈利向四周看了看。
 
　　“我可以翻墙，”他提议。
 
　　“你翻不了，”唐克斯有气无力地说。“它们都被施了反入侵咒。这个夏天学校的安全性提高了上百倍。”
 
　　“那好吧，”哈利对帮不上忙的唐克斯开始有些气恼了，“我想只能在这里睡到明天早上了。”
 
　　“有人过来接你了，”唐克斯说。“看。”
 
　　城堡远端的一角出现了一盏灯笼，一上一下地动着。哈利非常高兴，他觉得即使是费尔奇对他的拖拖沓沓来一顿老生常谈的批评和痛责，或者咆哮着威胁要用拇指夹来改进他的守时习惯，
他都能够忍受。直到那黄色的光离他们俩只剩下十英尺远，他已经取下了隐形斗篷重新现身的时候，哈利才发现那反着光的鹰钩鼻子，和长长的油腻黑发下的西弗勒斯·斯内普，一股纯粹的厌
恶情绪冲上了他的脑门。
 
　　“好啊，好啊，好啊，”斯内普冷笑着说，掏出魔杖在挂锁上敲了敲，链子像蛇一样滑了下去，大门吱吱呀呀地开了。“很高兴看到你出现了，波特，不过很明显你觉得穿上校袍会有损你
的容貌。”
 
　　“我换不了，我没有我的——”哈利开口说，但斯内普打断了他。
 
　　“不用等了，尼法朵拉，波特在我的手里——啊——相当安全。”
 
　　“我本打算让海格得到消息，”唐克斯皱了皱眉。
 
　　“海格也没赶上开学宴会，就像这儿的波特一样，所以我替他收了。顺便说一句，”斯内普站到一边让哈利进去，“我对你的新守护神很感兴趣。”
 
　　斯内普当着唐克斯的面咣当一声关上了大门，又挥了挥魔杖，链子又滑动起来回到了它们原来的位置。
 
　　“我想你原来的那个更好，”斯内普的声音里明确无误地带着恶意。“新的看上去很没用。”
 
　　斯内普把灯笼调转过来，哈利看到唐克斯的脸上闪过一丝震惊和恼怒。但她马上又陷入了黑暗之中。
 
　　“晚安，”哈利和斯内普向学校走去时转过头对唐克斯说，“谢谢你……一切事情。”
 
　　“再见，哈利。”
 
　　斯内普大概有一分钟没有说话。哈利感到身体里泛起了一阵一阵的仇恨，这种仇恨是如此强烈，可斯内普竟没有感觉到它们在灼烧着他，这显得有些不可思议。哈利从第一次见到斯内普时
就开始讨厌他了，但是斯内普对小天狼星的态度令哈利永远都不可能原谅他。不管邓布利多怎么说，哈利还是在想了整整一个夏天之后得出结论，斯内普关于其他凤凰社成员都在和伏地魔战斗
时，小天狼星却安全地藏了起来的这个卑鄙评论就是导致小天狼星在牺牲的那天冲入魔法部的一个重要因素。哈利坚持着这个观点，因为这样能让他把错归咎于斯内普，自己能好受些，也是因
为，他知道如果有谁不会为小天狼星的死感到难过的话，那肯定就是身边这个正大步流星地走在黑暗里的男人。
 
　　“我想，迟到应该扣去格兰芬多五十分，”斯内普说。“而且，让我想想，你的麻瓜装束应该再扣掉二十分。你知道，我不信有哪个学院的分数会在学期的这么早就变成了负数——我们甚
至还没有开始吃布丁。你也许又创了个记录，波特。”
 
　　哈利心中扑腾的狂怒和仇恨似乎炽热地燃烧起来了，可他宁愿一直凝固在回伦敦的火车里也不愿意告诉斯内普他为什么迟到。
 
　　“我猜你也许想进去了，是吗？”斯内普接着说。“没有了会飞的汽车，你会觉得在宴会的半途中闯入礼堂应该能制造轰动效应。”
 
　　哈利仍保持着沉默，虽然他的肺都要气炸了。他知道斯内普去接他的目的就是为了在这几分钟时间里可以刺激和折磨他而不被人听见。
 
　　他们终于走到了城堡的台阶上，当橡木制的大门被打开，现出了挂着无数旗帜的门厅时，一阵谈笑声和杯盘的碰撞声从开着的礼堂大门猛地传了过来。哈利在想要是能偷偷穿上隐形斗篷就
好了，这样就可以溜到他在格兰芬多餐桌的座位上（麻烦的是，那儿离门厅最远）而不被人注意到。
 
　　然而斯内普仿佛读到了他的想法，他说，“不准用斗篷。你可以让每个人都看见你走进去，我敢肯定这就是你想要的方式。”
 
　　哈利马上迈着步子径直朝开着的门走过去：只要能摆脱斯内普他什么都愿意做。礼堂大厅里摆着四条长长的学院餐桌，房子的尽头摆着一条教工餐桌，天花板上和以前一样装饰着悬浮的蜡
烛，照得下面的餐具闪闪发光。可是对哈利来说那些都是一团模糊的光亮，因为他走得太快了，以至于经过赫奇帕奇餐桌的时候大家还没有真正开始注意到他，而当他们开始站起来想好好看他
一眼时，他已经找到了罗恩和赫敏，于是他加快速度沿着长凳朝他们走去，并挤到他们俩中间坐下。
 
　　“你去哪——我的天哪，你的脸怎么了？”罗恩说，他和周围的人一起瞪着哈利。
 
　　“什么，有什么不对劲吗？”哈利说，抓过一个勺子瞟了一眼自己扭曲的头像。
 
　　“你满脸都是血！”赫敏说。“过来——”
 
　　她举起魔杖，念道，“除污去垢！”把哈利脸上的血迹吸走了。
 
　　“谢谢，”哈利摸着他现在变得干净的脸说。“我的鼻子是什么样子？”
 
　　“正常，”赫敏不安地说。“为什么会不正常？哈利，发生了什么事？我们都吓坏了！”
 
　　“我晚一些再告诉你。”哈利简略地回答。他注意到金妮、纳威、迪安和西莫都在偷听他们说话；甚至差点没头的尼克——格兰芬多的鬼魂——都从凳子的那边飘过来加入了偷听者的行列
。
 
　　“可是——”赫敏说。
 
　　“不是现在，赫敏，”哈利用意味深长的口气暗示说。他希望他们都认为他是做一些英勇的事去了，最好是遭遇了几个食死徒再加上一个摄魂怪什么的。当然，马尔福一定会把这个故事能
传多开就传多开，但仍然有可能不会被太多的格兰芬多学生听到。
 
　　他越过罗恩想抓一只鸡腿和一把薯条，但是在碰到它们之前盘里的食物就消失了，取而代之的是各种布丁。
 
　　“你错过了分院仪式，不管怎样，”赫敏说，与此同时罗恩向一大块巧克力奶油蛋糕扑去。
 
　　“分院帽说了什么有趣的事情吗？”哈利拿过一片糖浆水果馅饼。
 
　　“差不多都一样，真的……建议大家团结起来面对共同的敌人之类，你知道的。”
 
　　“邓布利有没有提到伏地魔吗？”
 
　　“还没有，不过他一般要把他那独特的演说攒到晚宴之后，是不是？不会等太久了。”
 
　　“斯内普说海格也迟到了——”
 
　　“你碰见斯内普了？怎么碰见的？”罗恩嘴里塞满了奶油蛋糕。
 
　　“撞到了而已，”哈利含糊地回答。
 
　　“海格只迟到了几分钟，”赫敏说。“看，他正朝你挥手呢，哈利。”
 
　　哈利向教工桌子望去，海格真的在向他这边挥手，哈利朝他咧着嘴笑了笑。海格与格兰芬多的院长麦格教授的高贵形象始终不相称，他们俩坐在一起时麦格教授的头顶只赶得上海格的肘和
肩膀一样高，她看上去对海格热情的问候方式有些不以为然。哈利还惊讶地看到了坐在海格另一侧的占卜课教师特里劳妮教授；特里劳妮很少离开她塔楼里的那间屋子，开学宴会更是从来没有
参加过。她看起来还是像往常一样古怪，身上的珠子闪闪发亮，还裹着几条围巾，眼睛在眼镜片后面被放得巨大无比。哈利以前总是认为她不过只是个骗子，但上个学期末哈利震惊地发现就是
她做出了那段导致伏地魔杀死哈利父母并试图杀死他的预言。这件事让他更加不愿意和她待在一块儿，幸亏这个学期他不用再上占卜课了。特里劳妮像灯塔一样的眼睛往他这边转了过来；他赶
紧把目光移向了斯莱特林餐桌。德拉科·马尔福正在模仿鼻子被打破的样子，引来周围一阵哄笑和掌声。哈利低下头盯着他的糖浆水果馅饼，又感到怒火中烧了。他愿意不惜一切代价和马尔福
来一场一对一的决斗……
 
　　“那么说说斯拉霍恩教授要干什么？”赫敏问。
 
　　“想知道魔法部到底发生了什么。”哈利说。
 
　　“他和这儿的其他人一样，”赫敏对此嗤之以鼻，“在火车上人们总是盘问我们这个，对吧，罗恩？”
 
　　“没错，”罗恩说。“所有人都想知道你是不是真的就是‘真命天子’——”
 
　　“这个话题在我们鬼魂之中也讨论得很多，”差点没头的尼克插嘴说，他那勉强连着身子的头往哈利这边倾斜过来，在环形领子的边上危险地晃动着。“我在他们当中算是一个波特权威了
；大家都知道我们是朋友。我已经向鬼魂们保证了无论如何也不会纠缠他问那些事。‘哈利·波特知道他可以完全地信赖我，’我告诉他们，‘我宁死也不会背叛他的信任。’”
 
　　“那说明不了什么，你都已经死了，”罗恩随口说。
 
　　“你又一次展示了自己的灵敏程度和一把钝斧头没什么两样，”差点没头的尼克用一种被冒犯的腔调说，又飘回空中滑向了格兰芬多餐桌的另一头，与此同时邓布利多在教工桌那边站了起
来，回荡在礼堂里的谈笑声几乎立刻就消失了。
 
　　“祝大家度过一个最好的夜晚！”他爽朗地笑着把手臂张开，好像要拥抱整个礼堂。
 
　　“他的手怎么了？”赫敏倒吸了一口冷气。
 
　　她不是唯一注意到这一点的人。邓布利多的右手变黑了，看上去没有一点儿生机，和他去德思礼家接哈利的那个晚上一样。一阵窃窃私语声扫过了整个房间；邓布利多只是微笑着地用紫金
色的袖子盖住了伤口，他不失时机地打断了他们。
 
　　“没什么可担心的，”他轻快地说，“好了……新生们，欢迎你们的到来；老生们，欢迎你们回来！又是整整一年的魔法教育在等待着你们……”
 
　　“我暑假里看到他时他的手就已经那样了。”哈利对赫敏低声说，“不过我以为现在已经痊愈了……或者庞弗雷夫人给他治好了。”
 
　　“那只手看上去像一只死人的手，”赫敏一脸作呕的表情。“可是有些伤是治不了的……古老的咒语……有些毒也没有解药……”
 
　　“……我们的管理员费尔奇先生，要求我发布一条适用于所有人的禁令，禁止携带从一家叫做韦斯莱魔法把戏商店购买来的任何恶作剧物品。
 
　　“那些想在本学年加入学院魁地奇球队的人请照旧把姓名递交给你们的院长。我们还需要一名新的球赛解说员，有兴趣的人请同样报给院长。
 
　　“我们很高兴地欢迎今年新加入的一位教员。斯拉霍恩教授，”斯拉霍恩站了起来，他的秃头反射着烛光，马甲里的大肚子把桌子遮在了阴影之中，“是我的一位老同事，他同意重新出任
他以前的魔药课教师职位。”
 
　　“魔药课？”
 
　　“魔药课？”
 
　　这个词在礼堂里回荡，大家都怀疑是不是听错了。
 
　　“魔药课？”罗恩和赫敏一起说，转而盯着哈利，“可是你说——”
 
　　“斯内普教授，与此同时，”邓布利多提高嗓门，盖过了所有的嘀嘀咕咕，“将担任黑魔法防御术教师。”
 
　　“不！”哈利大声说，很多人都把头转向了他。他不在乎；只是愤怒地盯着教工桌。斯内普这次怎么能得到黑魔法防御术教师的职位？这么多年来大家不是都知道邓布利多信不过他做这个
工作吗？
 
　　“但是，哈利，你说过斯拉霍恩会教黑魔法防御术的啊！”赫敏说。
 
　　“我以为他会！”他绞尽脑汁地回忆邓布利多告诉他这件事的情景，可当他想起来时，才发现邓布利多从没有说过斯拉霍恩会教什么。
 
　　斯内普，坐在邓布利多的右边，在被念到名字时并没有站起来，只是懒懒地举手回应了一下斯莱特林餐桌那边爆发出的掌声，但哈利敢肯定他令人厌恶的脸上泛起了一丝胜利的表情。
 
　　“那么，至少有一点是好的，”哈利残暴地说，“斯内普今年内就会完蛋。”
 
　　“什么意思？”罗恩问。
 
　　“这个工作被诅咒了，没人能待上超过一年……奇洛甚至死了。就我个人而言，我要交叉手指来诅咒另一次死亡。”
 
　　“哈利！”赫敏责备地说，看上去吓坏了。
 
　　“也许他最后只是重拾魔药课的教鞭。”罗恩理性地说，“那个斯拉霍恩可能不会愿意待太久的，穆迪就不愿意。”
 
　　邓布利多清了清嗓子。哈利、罗恩和赫敏并不是唯一在讨论的人；整个礼堂都爆发出了对斯内普终于如愿以偿一事的议论声。邓布利多似乎忘掉了他刚才发布的新闻有多么耸人听闻。他没
有再多说教员任命的事，而是停了几秒，等大家都绝对地安静下来然后才接着说。
 
　　“现在，正如礼堂里每一个人都知道的，伏地魔和他的追随者们正在又一次地逍遥法外，并且力量还在不断的壮大。”
 
　　邓布利多说话的时候礼堂里安静的气氛又绷紧了。哈利瞥了一眼马尔福。马尔福并没看着邓布利多，而是用自己的魔杖让一把叉子盘旋在半空中，好像校长的话不值得他注意一样。
 
　　“我不知道该怎么强调目前的情况有多么危险才恰当，也不知道你们该多么小心才能保证自己的安全。城堡的魔法屏障整个夏天一直在加强，我们采取了很多更新、更强有力的措施来进行
防护，但是我们仍然必须小心谨慎地防备每一位学生和教工的疏忽。因此我敦促大家，一定要遵守你们的老师可能对你们施加的任何安全限制，无论你们觉得这些东西有多么讨厌——特别是，
夜间不可以下床走动这一条规定。我恳求你们，如果你们注意到城堡内外发生了任何奇怪或者可疑的事情，请一定及时报告给任何一位老师。我相信你们一定能管好自己，出于对自己和他人安
全的最大尊重。”
 
　　邓布利多用他的蓝眼睛扫了一遍全场的学生，然后再次微笑了起来。
 
　　“不过现在，你们的床正等候着你们，如你们所期待的一样温暖和舒适，我知道你们最先考虑是为了明天的课程好好地休息。那么，让我们道晚安吧。再见！”
 
　　随着长凳在地上拖出刺耳的刮擦声，礼堂里几百个学生开始鱼贯而出，涌向自己的宿舍。为了避免引来别人的注目，也为了远离马尔福以使他没有机会再重新提起那个踩破鼻子的故事，哈
利装作系鞋带故意落在后面，让大多数格兰芬多的学生走到前面。赫敏也跑到前面去引导一年级新生以履行自己的级长职责，而罗恩却留了下来陪着哈利。
 
　　“你的鼻子到底是怎么了？”这时他们正走在一群涌出礼堂的学生的最后面，没有其他人能听见他们说话，于是罗恩问。
 
　　哈利对他讲了事情的经过。罗恩没有笑，以表明他们之间的友谊很牢固。
 
　　“我刚才还看到马尔福在摆弄着鼻子模仿什么东西，”他阴沉着脸说。
 
　　“是啊，算了，别管那件事了，”哈利恨恨地说，“听听我在被发现之前他都说了些什么……”
 
　　哈利本以为罗恩听到马尔福那些自夸的话会很震惊。然而罗恩还是无动于衷，哈利觉得他真是有点儿冥顽不灵了。
 
　　“好了，哈利，他只是在向帕金森卖弄……神秘人会把什么样的任务托付给他呢？”
 
　　“你怎么知道伏地魔不想在霍格沃茨安插眼线呢？这可不是第一次——”
 
　　“我希望你不要再提那个名字了，哈利，”一个埋怨的声音从后面传过来。哈利回头看到海格正冲他摇着头。
 
　　“邓布利多也直呼其名。”哈利固执地说。
 
　　“是啊，嗯，可那是邓布利多，不是吗？”海格神秘地说。“你今天怎么迟到了，哈利？我很担心。”
 
　　“在列车上耽搁了，”哈利说，“你怎么也迟到了？”
 
　　“我和格洛普在一起，”海格高兴地说。“忘了时间。他如今在山里安了个新家，邓布利多安排的——很不错的大山洞。他比待在森林里时要开心多了。我们俩聊了好一会儿呢。”
 
　　“真的吗？”哈利说，小心地不去接触罗恩的目光；哈利上一次见到海格的那位凶残的（他在把树连根拔起这方面很有些天分）同母异父的巨人兄弟时，他的词汇量还不超过五个单词，其
中的两个发音还不正确。
 
　　“是啊，他真的进步了，”海格自豪地说，“你们见了一定会大吃一惊。我正考虑训练他当我的助手呢。”
 
　　罗恩用鼻子响亮地哼了一声，但又试图用一个猛烈的喷嚏来掩饰过去。现在他们已经站到了橡木门的旁边。
 
　　“总之，明天午饭后的第一节课咱们再见吧。如果早点儿来的话你们还可以和巴克——我是说，韦瑟文打声招呼！”
 
　　他兴高采烈地挥了挥手和他们告别，走出门钻进了夜色之中。
 
　　哈利和罗恩都看着对方。哈利知道罗恩现在心里一定和他一样沉重。
 
　　“你这学期没有选保护神奇生物课吧？”
 
　　罗恩摇了摇头。
 
　　“你也没有选，是吗？”
 
　　哈利也摇了摇头。
 
　　“还有赫敏，”罗恩说，“她也没有，对吧？”
 
　　哈利再次摇了摇头。当海格发现他最喜爱的三个学生全都放弃了他教的那门课时，究竟会说些什么呢？哈利不愿再去想了。 
Chapter 9 The Half-blood Prince
Harry and Ron met Hermione in the common room before breakfast next morning. Hoping for some support in his theory, Harry lost no time in telling Hermione what he had 
overheard Malfoy saying on the Hogwarts Express.
“But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn't he?” interjected Ron quickly, before Hermione could say anything.
“Well,” she said uncertainly, “I don't know. It would be like Malfoy to make himself seem more important than he is ... but that's a big lie to tell... ”
“Exactly,” said Harry, but he could nor press the point, because so many people were trying to listen in to his conversation, not to mention staring at him and 
whispering behind their hands.
“It's rude to point,” Ron snapped at a particularly minuscule first-year boy as they joined the queue to climb out of the portrait hole. The boy, who had been 
muttering something about Harry behind his hand to his friend, promptly turned scarlet and toppled out of the hole in alarm. Ron sniggered. “I love being a sixth year. 
And we're going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when we can just sit up here and relax.”
“We're going to need that time for studying, Ron!” said Hermione, as they set off down the corridor.
“Yeah, but not today,” said Ron. “Today's going to be a real loss, I reckon.”
“Hold it!” said Hermione, throwing out an arm and halting a passing fourth year, who was attempting to push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly in his 
hand. “Fanged Frisbees banned, hand it over,” she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and took off after his 
friends. Ron waited for him to vanish, then tugged the Frisbee from Hermione's grip.
“Excellent, I've always wanted one of these.”
Hermione's remonstration was drowned by a loud giggle; Lavender Brown had apparently found Ron's remark highly amusing. She continued to laugh as she passed them, 
glancing back at Ron over her shoulder. Ron looked rather pleased with himself.
The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of sky visible through the high mullioned windows. While 
they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon, Harry and Ron told Hermione about their embarassing conversation with Hagrid the previous evening.
“But he can't really think we'd continue Care of Magical Creatures!” she said, looking distressed. “I mean, when has any of us expressed... you know... any 
enthusiasm?”
“That's it, though, innit?” said Ron, swallowing an entire fried egg whole. “We were the ones who made the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid. But he 
thinks we liked the stupid subject. D'ya reckon anyone's going to go on to N.E.W.T.?”
Neither Harry nor Hermione answered; there was no need. They knew perfectly well that nobody in their year would want to continue Care of Magical Creatures. They 
avoided Hagrid's eye and returned his cheery wave only half-heartedly when he left the staff table ten minutes later.
After they had eaten, they remained in their places, awaiting Professor McGonagall's descent from the staff table. The distribution of class schedules was more 
complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen 
N.E.W.T.s.
Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and shot 
off to a first period Ancient Runes class without further ado. Neville took a little longer to sort out; his round face was anxious as Professor McGonagall looked down 
his application and then consulted his O.W.L. results.
“Herbology, fine,” she said. “Professor Sprout will be delighted to see you back with an ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L. And you qualify for Defense Against the Dark Arts 
with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ But the problem is Transfiguration. I'm sorry, Longbottom, but an ‘Acceptable’ really isn't good enough to continue to N.E.W.T. level. 
Just don't think you'd be able to cope with the coursework.”
Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered at him through her square spectacles.
“Why do you want to continue with Transfiguration, anyway? I've never had the impression that you particularly enjoyed it.”
Neville looked miserable and muttered something about “my grandmother wants.”
“Hmph,” snorted Professot McGonagall. “It's high time your grandmother learned to be proud of the grandson she's got, rather than the one she thinks she ought to 
have—particularly after what happened at the Ministry.”
Neville turned very pink and blinked confusedly; Professor McGonagall had never paid him a compliment before.
“I'm sorry, Longbottom, but I cannot let you into my N.E.W.T. class. I see that you have an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Charm however—why not try for a N.E.W.T. in 
Charms?”
“My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option,” mumbled Neville.
“Take Charms,” said Professor McGonagall, “and I shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just because she failed her Charms O.W.L., the subject is not 
necessarily worthless.” Smiling slightly at the look of delighted incredulity on Neville's face, Professor McGonagall tapped a blank schedule with the tip of her wand 
and handed it, now carrying details of his new classes, to Neville.
Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil, whose first question was whether Firenze, the handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination.
“He and Professor Trelawney are dividing classes between them this year,” said Professor McGonagall, a hint of disapproval in her voice; it was common knowledge that 
she despised the subject of Divination. “The sixth year is being taken by Professor Trelawney.”
Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later looking slightly crestfallen.
“So, Potter, Potter...” said Professor McGonagall, consulting her notes as she turned to Harry. “Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration 
... all fine. I must say, I was pleased with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased. Now, why haven't you applied to continue with Potions? I thought it was 
your ambition to become an Auror?”
“It was, but you told me I had to get an ‘Outstanding’ in my O.W.L., Professor.”
“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching the subject. Professor Slughorn, however, is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with ‘Exceeds Expectations
’ at O.W.L. Do you wish to proceed with Potions?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I didn't buy the books or any ingredients or anything—”
“I'm sure Professor Slughorn will be able to lend you some,” said Professor McGonagall. “Very well, Potter, here is your schedule. Oh, by the way—twenty hopefuls 
have already put down their names for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you in due course and you can fix up trials at your leisure.”
A few minutes later, Ron was cleared to do the same subjects as Harry, and the two of them left the table together.
“Look,” said Ron delightedly, gazing ar his schedule, “we've got a free period now and a free period after break... and after lunch... excellent.”
They returned to the common room, which was empty apart from a half dozen seventh years, including Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor 
Quidditch team that Harry had joined in his first year.
“I thought you'd get that, well done,” she called over, pointing at the Captains badge on Harry's chest. “Tell me when you call trials!”
“Don't be stupid,” said Harry, “you don't need to try out, I watched you play for five years...”
“You mustn't start off like that,” she said warningly. “For all you know, there's someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now 
because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends....”
Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common room, snarling 
and attempting to take bites of the tapestry. Crookshanks's yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close.
An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. Hermione was already queuing outside, 
carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon.
“We got so much homework for Runes,” she said anxiously when Harry and Ron joined her. “A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by 
Wednesday!”
“Shame,” yawned Ron.
“You wait,” she said resentfully. “I bet Snape gives us loads.”
The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the 
queue immediately.
“Inside,” he said.
Harry looked around as they entered. Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows, 
and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body 
parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures.
“I have not asked you to take out your books,” said Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of 
Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.”
His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry's than anyone else's.
“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe.”
You believe... like you haven't watched them all come and go, hoping you'd be next, thought Harry scathingly.
“Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I 
shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced.”
Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view.
“The Dark Arts,” said Snape, “are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, 
sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.”
Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his 
voice?
“Your defenses,” said Snape, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures,” he indicated a few of them 
as he swept past, “give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse” (he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly 
shrieking in agony) “feel the Dementor's Kiss” (a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall) “or provoke the aggression of the Inferius” (a bloody 
mass upon ground).
“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using them?”
“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” said Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now...”
He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him.
“... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?”
Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well—Miss Granger?
”
“Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform,” said Hermione, “which gives you a split-second advantage.”
“An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,” said Snape dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), “but correct in 
essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of 
course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some, “his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more, “lack.”
Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape looked away.
“You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal 
silence. Carry on.”
Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class (everyone who had been a member of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year. 
None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of 
saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville's muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would 
surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly, but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as they 
practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task.
Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry 
had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.
“Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here—let me show you—”
He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacted instinctively; all thought of non-verbal spells forgotten, he yelled, “Protego!”
His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling.
“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry stiffly.
“Yes, sir.”
“There's no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.” The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying. Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Snape, 
however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively.
“Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Snape. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter... not even the Chosen One.”
“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.
“You really shouldn't have said it,” said Hermione, frowning at Ron. “What made you?”
“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!” fumed Harry. “I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a 
change? What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible 
stuff—”
“Well,” said Hermione, “I thought he sounded a bit like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, when you were telling us what it's like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn't just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and 
your guts—well, wasn't that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?”
Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as The Standard Book of Spells that he did not argue.
“Harry! Hey, Harry!”
Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment.
“For you,” panted Sloper. “Listen, I heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?”
“I'm not sure yet,” said Harry, thinking privately that Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. “I'll let you know.”
“Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend—”
But Harry was not listening; he had just recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron and Hermione, 
unrolling the parchment as he went.
Dear Harry,I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at eight p.m. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.>Yours sincerely,Albus DumbledoreP.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Ron, who had read the message over Harry's shoulder and was looking perplexed.
“It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study,” said Harry in a low voice. “Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased... I won't be able to do his 
detention!”
He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the 
type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive 
magic. After break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and Ron returned to the common room where they grudgingly started Snape's homework. This turned out to be so 
complex that they still had not finished when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free period (though she considerably speeded up the process). They had only 
just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon's double Potions and they beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's.
When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the 
required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked 
despite his rather pompous manner.
“Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, “didn't get a chance to speak in Defense Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, 
I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags... And how are you, Ron—Hermione?”
Before they could say more than “fine,” the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus 
mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.
The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four 
Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the one nearest a gold-colored 
cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever inhaled: somehow it reminded him simultaneously of treacle tart, the woody smell of a 
broomstick handle, and something flowery he thought he might have smelled at the Burrow. He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion's 
fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, who grinned back lazily.
“Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and 
don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making...”
“Sir?” said Harry, raising his hand.
“Harry, m'boy?”
“I haven't got a book or scales or anything—nor's Ron—we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see—”
“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention... not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we 
can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts...”
Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage, 
which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.
“Now then,” said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off, 
“I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your 
N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ‘em, even if you haven't made ‘em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?”
He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Harry raised himself slighty in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it.
Hermione's well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else's; Slughorn pointed at her.
“It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion thar forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione.
“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known... 
Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too... Who can—?”
Hermione's hand was fastest once more.
“lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said.
Harry too had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike substance the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question; she, after 
all, was the one who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year.
“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one her... yes, my dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand punched the air again.
“It's Amortentia!”
“It is indeed. Ir seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I assume you know what it does?”
“It's the most powerful love porion in the world!” said Hermione.
“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”
“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said Hermione enthusiastically, “and it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us, 
and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—”
But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence.
“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's embarrassment.
“Hermione Granger, sir.”
“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”
“No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see.”
Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to 
Harry, who was sitting next to her.
“Oho! ’One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!’ I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially.
Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, “Did you really 
tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!”
“Well, what's so impressive about that?” whispered Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. “You are the best in the year—I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!”
Hermione smiled but made a “shushing” gesture, so that they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron looked slightly disgruntled.
“Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It 
is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—oh yes,” he said, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When 
you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love...
“And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start work.”
“Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one,” said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing 
about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.
“Oho,” said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well, that 
one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, 
“that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”
“It's liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes you lucky!”
The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his 
full and undivided attention.
“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to 
get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off.”
“Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?” said Terry Boot eagerly.
“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in 
large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally...”
“Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner with great interest.
“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.”
He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good.
“And that,” said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.”
There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.
“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve 
hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.”
“Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competition... sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the 
winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!”
“So,” said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, “how are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour 
left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and 
I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!”
There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The 
concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could not have been clearer that 
Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him.
To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the 
ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed 
back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could.
Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work 
private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the 
“smooth, black currant-colored liquid” mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.
Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid 
scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction:
Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.
“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.
“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age... ”
And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some 
preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix 
Felicis.
The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.
“Can I borrow your silver knife?”
She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now.
Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it 
all.
Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook.
His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise 
until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh 
counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice?
Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink.
“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was redfaced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still 
resolutely purple.
“Add a clockwise stir—”
“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she snapped.
Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause... seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise...
Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else's potion 
had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon.
“And time's... up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!”
Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table 
where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike substance in Ron's cauldron. He passed over Ernie's navy concoction. Hermione's 
potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.
“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at 
Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are—one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!”
Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins’ faces and guilt at 
the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.
“How did you do that?” he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.
“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot.
Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them. Hermione's face became stonier with every word he 
uttered.
“I s'pose you think I cheated?” he finished, aggravated by her expression.
“Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?” she said stiffly.
“He only followed different instructions to ours,” said Ron, “Could've been a catastrophe, couldn't it? But he took a risk and it paid off.” He heaved a sigh. 
“Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but—”
“Hang on,” said a voice close by Harry's left ear and he caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell he had picked up in Slughorn's dungeon. He looked around and saw 
that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear right? You've been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?”
She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once.
“It's nothing,” he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. “It's not like, you know, Riddle's diary. It's just an old textbook someone's scribbled on.”
“But you're doing what it says?”
“I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there's nothing funny—”
“Ginny's got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at once. “We ought to check that there's nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?”
“Hey!” said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised her wand.
“Specialis Revelio!” she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover. Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.
“Finished?” said Harry irritably. “Or d'you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?”
“It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be ... just a textbook.”
“Good. Then I'll have it back,” said Harry, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed open on the floor. Nobody else was looking. Harry bent 
low to retrieve the book, and as he did so, he saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions 
that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk upstairs.
This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince.
第二天早餐之前哈利和罗恩在公共休息室见到了赫敏。为了给自己的理论寻求一些支持，哈利迫不及待地把自己在霍格沃茨特快列车上从马尔福那里偷听来的话告诉了赫敏。
 
　　“他很明显是在向帕金森炫耀，不是吗？”在赫敏开口之前罗恩抢先说道。
 
　　“嗯，”她不确定地说，“我不知道……看上去像是马尔福想把自己说得比现实中更重要……但这个谎也撒得太大了……”
 
　　“正是这样，”哈利说，不过他没法接着说下去，因为有那么多人都在试图偷听他们的谈话，更别提有多少人正盯着他看，在他背后窃窃私语了。
 
　　“指指点点真没有礼貌，”他们加入准备爬出肖像洞的队伍时罗恩对一个特别瘦小的一年级男孩呵斥道。那个正在与朋友嘀咕着哈利的男孩迅速脸红了，惊惶失措地跌出了肖像洞。罗恩吃
吃地笑了起来。
 
　　“我爱做六年级学生。而且我们今年会有许多空闲时间。可以有整段整段的时间坐在这儿放松。”
 
　　“我们需要把这些时间用来学习，罗恩！”他们向走廊出发时赫敏说。
 
　　“没错，但不是今天。”罗恩说，“我想，今天要好好睡上一觉。”
 
　　“站住！”赫敏伸出胳膊拦住了一个路过的四年级学生。那人手里紧紧地抓着一只灰绿色的圆盘试图从她身边通过。“尖牙飞盘是禁止携带，交上来。”她严厉地告诉他。那男孩愁眉苦脸
地交出正在狂吠的飞盘，从赫敏的胳膊底下钻过去尾随着他的朋友走了。罗恩等他一消失，马上从赫敏手里把飞盘拽了过来。
 
　　“棒极了！我一直就想要这个！”
 
　　赫敏的抗议被一阵咯咯的笑声淹没了；拉文德·布朗显然觉得罗恩的话非常有趣。她笑着从他们身边走过，又回过头瞟了一眼罗恩。罗恩看上去对自己很满意。
 
　　礼堂的天花板是恬静的蓝色，点缀着薄薄的纤云。就像他们透过高高的天窗所看到的方块儿天空一样。在享用着粥、鸡蛋和火腿的同时，哈利和罗恩向赫敏讲述了前一天晚上他们与海格的
那场令人难堪的谈话。
 
　　“可是他不可能真的认为我们想继续上保护神奇生物课吧！”她看上去有些苦恼。“我是说，我们中的任何人什么时候曾经表现出过……你知道……一点点热情？”
 
　　“可是问题就在这儿，不是吗？”罗恩一口吞下了一个煎蛋。“我们在课堂上是最努力的，因为我们喜欢海格。但是他以为我们喜欢这门愚蠢的课。你会指望有人继续学这门课的N.E.W.T.
吗？”
 
　　哈利和赫敏都没有回答；答案已经很明显了。他们清楚地知道这个年级是没有人会想继续上保护神奇生物课。十分钟后当海格离开餐桌时，他们避开了他的眼神，漫不经心地回应着他兴高
采烈的挥手。
 
　　吃过饭后，他们坐在原地等着麦格教授从教工餐桌下来。今年分发课程表的工作比以往要复杂，因为麦格教授首先要确认每个人在自己选择的N.E.W.T.课程上都已经达到了必需的O.W.L.等
级。
 
　　赫敏很快就定下来要继续学习魔咒课、黑魔法防御术、变形术、草药课、算术占卜、古代魔文和魔药课，于是她马上干脆利落地跑去上第一节古代魔文了。纳威整理的时间就要长一些；当
麦格教授低下头看他的申请，同时查看着O.W.L.成绩时，他圆圆的脸上露出了担心的神情。
 
　　“草药课，好，”她说。“斯普劳特教授看到你带着一个‘优秀’的O.W.L.成绩回到她班上时会很高兴的，而且你也可以继续学习黑魔法防御术，因为你的成绩是‘超出预期’。可是问题
在于变形术。我很抱歉，隆巴顿，一个‘及格’实在不够好，你不能继续学习N.E.W.T.水平了，我只是觉得你没有能力应付这门课。”
 
　　纳威垂下了脑袋。麦格教授透过她的方框眼镜盯着他。
 
　　“不过，你为什么想继续学变形？在我的印象当中你并不特别喜欢它啊。”
 
　　纳威看上去很痛苦，他嘴里咕哝了一句听起来像是“我奶奶希望”的话。
 
　　“哼，”麦格教授嗤之以鼻。“你奶奶早就该学会为她的孙子而骄傲，而不是为那个她认为她孙子应该成为的样子——特别是在魔法部发生的那一切以后。”
 
　　纳威脸红了，困惑地眨了眨眼；麦格教授以前从没有称赞过他。
 
　　“我很抱歉，隆巴顿，我不能让你进入我的N.E.W.T.班级。不过，我看到你在魔咒课上拿到了‘超出预期’——为什么不试试N.E.W.T.水平的魔咒课呢？”
 
　　“奶奶觉得选魔咒课没劲，”纳威咕哝说。
 
　　“就选魔咒课，”麦格教授说，“我会写信给奥古斯塔提醒她不能因为她自己没通过魔咒课的O.W.L.考试就认定这门课没有价值。”她微笑地看着纳威半信半疑的脸，拿起一张空白的课程
表用魔杖轻轻敲了一下，然后递给他，这时上面已经详细地写满了他的新课程。
 
　　麦格教授接着转向帕瓦蒂·佩蒂尔，她第一个问题就是费伦泽——那个英俊的马人——是不是仍旧教授占卜课。
 
　　“他和特里劳妮教授今年共同教授这门课，”麦格教授语气里有点不以为然；大家都知道她瞧不起占卜课。“六年级的课由特里劳妮教授带。”
 
　　五分钟后帕瓦蒂看上去有些垂头丧气地出发去上占卜课。
 
　　“那么，波特，波特……”麦格教授一边查阅着记录，一边转向哈利。“魔咒课、黑魔法防御术、草药课、变形术……都没问题。我必须说，我对你的变形术分数很满意，波特，非常满意
。那么，你为什么不申请继续学习魔药课呢？我记得你的志向是做个傲罗啊？”
 
　　“是的，但是你告诉我说O.W.L.必须拿到‘优秀’才行，教授。”
 
　　“斯内普教授带这门课的时候是这样。然而，斯拉霍恩教授却愿意接受那些在O.W.L.考试中获得‘超出预期’的学生。你想继续学习魔药课吗？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利说，“但是我没有买魔药课的课本和配料……”
 
　　“我敢肯定斯拉霍恩教授能借给你一些，”麦格教授说。“非常好，波特，这是你的课程表。哦，顺便说一句——有20个人已经报名想参加格兰芬多的魁地奇球队。我会按预定的程序把名
单给你，你可以挑个空安排选拔。”
 
　　几分钟之后罗恩也定好了，和哈利的课一样，于是他们俩一起离开了餐桌。
 
　　“看，”罗恩开心地看着课程表，“现在没事儿，早上课间休息之后也没有……午饭之后还是没有……太棒了。”
 
　　他们回到了公共休息室，那儿除了半打七年级学生就没什么人了，凯蒂·贝尔也在，她是哈利一年级加入魁地奇球队时的那支队里剩下的最后一名成员。
 
　　“我就知道你会得到它的，干得好，”她指着哈利胸前的队长徽章大声说。“告诉我你准备什么时候开始选拔！”
 
　　“别傻了，”哈利说，“你不用参加选拔，我都看着你打了五年了……”
 
　　“你可不能开那个头，”她告诫他。“球队外面有人比我打得好也未可知。队长只用老面孔，或是包庇自己的朋友进来，一个好球队就是这么被毁掉的……”
 
　　罗恩看上去有些不安，他开始玩赫敏从四年级学生那里没收的尖牙飞盘。它正绕着公共休息室盘旋，咆哮着试图去咬那些挂毯。克鲁克山用它的黄眼睛紧紧盯着它，等它一靠近就发出嘶嘶
的叫声。
 
　　一小时之后他们不情愿地离开了阳光照耀下的公共休息室，下了四层楼去上黑魔法防御术课。赫敏已经在外面排队了，正抱着一堆重重的书，一脸被骗的表情。
 
　　“我们古代魔文课布置了这么多作业，”看到哈利和罗恩走过来，她焦虑地说。“一篇15英寸长的论文、两篇翻译而且还要在星期三之前把这些读完！”
 
　　“可惜啊，”罗恩打了个哈欠。
 
　　“你等着吧，”赫敏恨恨地说。“我打赌斯内普肯定会给我们布置一大堆。”
 
　　说话间教室的门打开了，斯内普踱进走廊，两束油腻腻的黑发披在菜色的脸的两侧。排着队的大伙儿立刻安静了下来。
 
　　“进来。”他说。
 
　　哈利进去后往四周看了看。斯内普已经给这间房子赋予了他的个性；窗帘都被拉了下来，蜡烛被点了起来，它显得比原来更加阴暗。墙上用新的画像装饰了起来，许多都画着看起来很痛苦
的人，仿佛受了可怕的伤痛或是长着奇形怪状的扭曲肢体。大家默不作声地坐了下来，环顾着这些阴沉的、恐怖的画像。
 
　　“我没让你们拿出课本，”斯内普关上了门，转过身站在讲台后面朝向全班说；赫敏急忙把《对抗无脸怪》放回书包塞到椅子下面。“我要你们全神贯注地听我说几句。”
 
　　他的黑眼睛扫过他们仰视的脸，并在哈利的脸上多停留了一下。
 
　　“我相信到目前为止，你们已经被五个老师教过了。”
 
　　你相信……就好像你没看见他们来了又走似的，斯内普，希望你就是下一个，哈利恶狠狠地想。
 
　　“自然地，这些老师都有他们各自的方法和侧重点。这导致了现在的混乱，我惊讶于竟然有那么多人都混过了O.W.L.。如果你们能设法跟得上更高深的N.E.W.T.课程，我会更加惊讶。”
 
　　斯内普开始绕着房间踱步，用一种更低沉的声音说着话；全班都够着脖子以保持能看见斯内普。
 
　　“黑魔法，”斯内普说，“有很多种，各式各样的，不断地变化并且永恒不灭。对抗它们就像是对付一只多头的怪物，每切断一个脖子，就会长出一个更凶狠、更聪明的脑袋。你们是在和
一种不固定的、经常变异的、不可毁灭的东西对抗。”
 
　　哈利盯着斯内普。毫无疑问黑魔法是被当作一种危险的敌人来对待的，可是为什么从斯内普谈论它们的语气里看，却又透着衷情的珍爱呢？
 
　　“你们的防御，”斯内普稍稍大了点声，“因而必须同你们试图去摧毁的法术一样灵活和充满创造力。这些画像，”他经过那些画像时指着它们中的几幅说，“真实地展现出了那些人是怎
样忍受伤害的，例如，钻心咒”（他用手指了指一个正在痛苦地尖叫的巫师）“遭受摄魂怪之吻”（那个巫师目光呆滞，蜷缩着倒在墙边）“或者招致阴飞力的进攻”（地上一团血淋淋的东西
）。
 
　　“那么有人已经看见阴飞力了吗？”帕瓦蒂·佩蒂尔尖声说。“确定吗，他正在使用它们？”
 
　　“黑魔王过去用过阴飞力，”斯内普说，“这意味着你们设想他可能会再次启用它们是很明智的。现在……”
 
　　他又走向教室里对着讲台的另一头，而全班人又一次看着他黑色的长袍在身后翻腾。
 
　　“……我相信，你们在使用无声咒语方面完全是新手。无声咒语的好处是什么？”
 
　　赫敏的手举了起来。斯内普从容不迫地扫视了一下每个人，确定了他别无选择之后，才简略地说，“很好——格兰杰小姐？”
 
　　“你的对手无法预料你准备施什么样的魔法，”赫敏说，“这能带给你一瞬间的优势。”
 
　　“这个回答几乎是逐字逐句地照搬了《标准咒语，第六级》上的话，”斯内普轻蔑地说（马尔福在角落里窃笑），“但是大体上是正确的。是的，那些不念咒语就能使用魔法的人能为自己
的施咒赢得一种出其不意的效果。当然，并不是所有的巫师都能做到这一点；问题在于有些人集中心智的能力很，”他怀有敌意地又一次盯着哈利，“匮乏。”
 
　　哈利知道斯内普想到了他们去年灾难性的大脑封闭术课程。他迎向斯内普的目光，就这样对着他怒目而视，直到斯内普把目光移开。
 
　　“你们现在分开，”斯内普继续说，“两人一组。一个人试着不出声地对你的搭档施咒。另一个试着同样安静地抵抗这个咒语。开始吧。”
 
　　尽管斯内普不知道，哈利去年已经教过教室里至少一半的人（所有的D.A.成员）怎么施展铁甲咒。不过没有一个人能在不发出声音的情况下施展这个魔法。一定数量的人继而开始作弊；许
多人仅仅只是用小声的念咒来代替大声。作为典型，赫敏花了十分钟时间设法抵抗住了纳威小声念出的软腿咒，没有发出一点声音，任何一个通情达理的老师一定会为此奖给格兰芬多20分，哈
利苦涩地想，而斯内普却对此视而不见。他在他们练习时来回地走动，和以前一样像一只长得过大的蝙蝠，并停下脚步看罗恩和哈利正奋力地完成他的任务。
 
　　罗恩看上去似乎正试图对哈利施咒，他脸上憋得紫红，嘴唇闭得紧紧的以抵抗念出咒语的诱惑。哈利举着魔杖，如坐针毡地等待着去抵抗那似乎永远也不会出现的咒语。
 
　　“可怜，韦斯莱，”斯内普等了一会儿才说。“看着——我示范给你——”
 
　　他飞速地把魔杖指向了哈利，哈利本能地作出了反应；他忘掉了所有关于无声咒语的念头，大喊一声，“盔甲护身！”
 
　　他的铁甲咒是如此强劲，以至于斯内普失去了平衡撞到一张课桌上。整个班的人都转向了它们，现在正盯着斯内普阴沉着脸努力支撑起身子。
 
　　“你是否记得我告诉过你我们在练习无声咒语，波特？”
 
　　“记得。”哈利生硬地说。
 
　　“记得，先生。”
 
　　“你不用叫我先生，教授。”
 
　　在他意识到自己在说什么之前这句话就从他嘴里溜了出来。包括赫敏在内的几个学生倒吸了一口气。然而在斯内普背后，罗恩、迪安和西莫都赞赏地咧着嘴笑了。
 
　　“关禁闭，星期六晚上，在我的办公室，”斯内普说，“我不允许任何人对我无礼，波特……即使是‘真命天子’也不例外。”
 
　　“真是太漂亮了，哈利！”他们往回走去休息的时候，罗恩开心地笑着说。
 
　　“你真不该说那句话，”赫敏说，她对罗恩皱了皱眉。“你怎么了？”
 
　　“他准备对我施咒，也许你没有注意到！”哈利气愤地说。“我在那些大脑封闭术课上已经受够了！为什么他不改用另外一只豚鼠来示范？邓布利多究竟在玩什么把戏，让他来教防御术课
？你听到他谈论黑魔法了吗？他热爱它们！所有‘不确定的’、‘不可毁灭的’那些废话——”
 
　　“嗯，”赫敏说，“我觉得他听起来有一点像你。”
 
　　“像我？”
 
　　“是的，你告诉我们你面对伏地魔的感觉的时候。你说那不只是背诵一大堆魔咒的事儿，你说只有靠你、你的智慧和你的勇气——嗯，那不就是斯内普所说的吗？归结起来不就是的勇敢和
敏捷的思维吗？”
 
　　哈利的怒气消除了，因为赫敏认为他说的话和《标准咒语》一样值得牢记，于是他没有再争辩。
 
　　“哈利！嘿，哈利！”
 
　　哈利环顾了一下四周；格兰芬多魁地奇球队去年的击球手之一杰克·斯劳珀正拿着一卷羊皮纸朝他跑过来。
 
　　“给你的，”斯劳珀喘着气说，“听着，我听说你是新任队长。什么时候开始选拔？”
 
　　“我还不太肯定，”哈利说，他私下里觉得斯劳珀要是能回到队里一定得期待奇迹发生才行。“我会通知你的。”
 
　　“哦，好的。我希望能在这个周末——”
 
　　但是哈利没有听；他刚刚认出了羊皮纸上纤细而倾斜的字迹。于是他急急忙忙地与罗恩和赫敏跑开，留下话说了一半的斯劳珀，边跑边把羊皮纸展开。
 
　　亲爱的哈利：
 
　　我想在这周六开始对你的单独授课。希望你能在晚上八点来我的办公室。祝你回到学校的第一天过得愉快。
 
　　你真诚的，
 
　　阿不思·邓布利多
 
　　又及：我喜欢酸棒糖。
 
　　“他喜欢酸棒糖？”罗恩一脸不解地说，他凑过来看到了这张便条。
 
　　“这是通过他书房外面那只石兽的口令，”哈利压低了声音说。“哈！斯内普会不高兴了……我不能去关禁闭！”
 
　　他、罗恩和赫敏花了整个休息时间来推测邓布利多会教哈利什么。罗恩认为最可能的是那些食死徒们都不知道的大型恶咒。赫敏说这样的东西是违法的，她觉得邓布利多更有可能想要教哈
利高级的防御魔法。休息过后，赫敏去上算术占卜，而哈利和罗恩则回到公共休息室不情愿地开始做斯内普留的作业。结果这些作业非常的复杂，直到赫敏在午餐后的休息时间重新加入他们时
还没完成（不过她的到来显著地加快了作业的进度）。当下午两节魔药课的铃声响起的时候他们才刚好做完，于是他们踏上熟悉的小路走向地下教室，那间教室在过去如此长的一段时间里都属
于斯内普。
 
　　当他们赶到走廊的时候才发现只有十二个人进入了N.E.W.T.等级。克拉布和高尔显然没能拿到足够的O.W.L.等级，但是有四个斯莱特林学生通过了，包括马尔福。还有四个拉文克劳学生，
一个赫奇帕奇的学生，厄尼·麦克米兰，尽管他有点爱夸张，但哈利还是挺喜欢他的。
 
　　“哈利，”厄尼自负地说，哈利走过来时他伸出了手，“今天早上的黑魔法防御术课没机会和你说话。不错的课，我认为，当然对于我们这些D.A.的惯犯来说，铁甲咒也太老掉牙了吧……
你们怎么样，罗恩——赫敏？”
 
　　他们刚说出“还好”，地下教室的门就打开了，斯拉霍恩的大肚子先冒了出来。当他们一个接一个地走进教室时，他特别热情地向哈利和沙比尼打了招呼，海象一样的胡子在微笑的嘴巴上
弯成了一个弧形。
 
　　异乎寻常的是，地下教室已经充满了各种蒸气和古怪的气味。哈利、罗恩和赫敏在经过冒着泡的巨大坩埚时感兴趣地嗅了嗅。四个斯莱特林学生共用了一张桌子，那四个拉文克劳学生也是
。于是哈利、罗恩和赫敏只好同厄尼共用一张桌子。他们选了离一只金色坩埚最近的一张桌子坐下，这只坩埚正散发着哈利闻到过的最诱人的气味之一：不知何故这让他同时想起了糖浆水果馅
饼、飞天扫帚柄上的木头气味和可能是在陋居闻到过的某种花一样的香味。他发现自己在缓慢地深呼吸，药剂的气味仿佛像饮料一样正在填充着他。一种极大的满足感渐渐弥漫开来；他朝罗恩
咧着嘴笑了笑，罗恩也懒洋洋地对他笑了笑。
 
　　“现在，现在，现在，”斯拉霍恩肥大的轮廓在许多闪亮的蒸气里微微地晃动着。“拿出天平，各位，还有魔药工具包，别忘了你们的《高级魔药制备》……”
 
　　“教授？”哈利举起手。
 
　　“哈利，好孩子？”
 
　　“我没有书，也没有天平和其他任何东西——罗恩也没有——我们不知道能进入N.E.W.T.，你知道——”
 
　　“啊，是的，麦格教授确实提到过……别担心，我亲爱的孩子，根本不用担心。你今天可以用储藏柜里的配料，我确定我们能借你一些天平，我们这儿还有存放了几本旧书，在你给丽痕书
店写信之前，就先用它们吧……”
 
　　斯拉霍恩大步走到角落里的一个橱子前，翻寻了片刻，找出了两本破旧的莱贝修斯·波里奇著的《高级魔药制备》，然后连着两套失去光泽的天平一同给了哈利和罗恩。
 
　　“现在，”斯拉霍恩回到教室前面，挺了起本来就很鼓的胸，马甲上的扣子看上去有飞出来的危险。“我准备了一些魔药给你们看，只是出于兴趣，你们也知道。这些在你们完成了
N.E.W.T.课程后应该能做出来。你们应该听说过它们，即使你们现在做不出来。有谁能告诉我这是什么？”
 
　　他指着离斯莱特林桌子最近的坩埚。哈利微微地从座位上坐起来，看见里面的液体就像正在沸腾的纯水。
 
　　赫敏熟练地抢在其他人之前举起了手；斯拉霍恩指了一下她。
 
　　“那是吐真剂，一种无色无味的魔药，可以迫使喝了它的人讲真话，”赫敏说。
 
　　“非常好，非常好！”斯拉霍恩高兴地说。“现在，”他继续又指向了离拉文克劳桌子最近的坩埚，“这个非常有名……最近在魔法部的宣传手册上也被提到了……谁能——”
 
　　赫敏的手又是最先举起来的。
 
　　“是复方汤剂，教授，”她说。
 
　　哈利也认出了这第二只坩埚里缓缓地冒着泡、看上去像泥巴一样的东西，不过他并没有因为赫敏答对了这个问题而赢得分数感到生气；她毕竟早在二年级时就成功地制出了它。
 
　　“好极了，好极了！现在，这儿的这个……是的，亲爱的？”赫敏的手又举了起来，斯拉霍恩看上去有些困惑。
 
　　“是阿莫汀剂！”
 
　　“的确如此。看来提问似乎很愚蠢，”斯拉霍恩看上去留下了强烈的印象，“我猜想你也知道它是做什么用的吧？”
 
　　“它是世界上最有效的爱情药！”赫敏回答。
 
　　“非常正确！我猜你是从它与众不同等待的珍珠母光泽上辨认出来的吧？”
 
　　“还有它特征的螺旋形蒸汽，”赫敏热情地回答，“另外，每个人闻到它的气味都不同，这与什么能吸引我们有关，我能闻到刚割下的嫩草、新羊皮纸和——”
 
　　但她没有说完，脸上泛起了红晕。
 
　　“我能知道你的名字吗，亲爱的？”斯拉霍恩没有理会赫敏的窘迫。
 
　　“赫敏·格兰杰，教授。”
 
　　“格兰杰？格兰杰？你可能和那个建立了最超常药剂师协会的海克特·达沃斯－格兰杰有亲戚关系吗？”
 
　　“不，我想没有，教授。我是麻瓜家庭出身，要知道。”
 
　　哈利看见马尔福正凑到诺特耳边说着什么；两个人都在偷偷地笑。但斯拉霍恩并没有沮丧；相反地，他微笑着把目光移向坐在赫敏身边的哈利。
 
　　“哦！‘我最好的一个朋友也是麻瓜家庭出身的，她是我们年级最棒的一个！’我猜这就是你所说那个朋友吧，哈利？”
 
　　“是的，教授。”哈利说。
 
　　“好，好，你为格兰芬多赢得20分，格兰杰小姐，”斯拉霍恩亲切地说。
 
　　马尔福的表情就像他过去被赫敏击中鼻子时一样。赫敏容光焕发地转向哈利低声问，“你真的告诉他说我是全年级最棒的？噢，哈利！”
 
　　“喂，有什么好感动的？”罗恩低声说，不知为什么他看上去有些气恼。“你就是全年级最棒的——如果
Chapter 10 The House of Gaunt
For or the rest of the week's Potions lessons Harry continued to follow the Half-Blood Prince's instructions wherever they deviated from Libatius Borage's, with the 
result that by their fourth lesson Slughorn was raving about Harry's abilities, saying that he had rarely taught anyone so talented. Neither Ron nor Hermione was 
delighted by this. Although Harry had offered to share his book with both of them, Ron had more difficulty deciphering the handwriting than Harry did, and could not 
keep asking Harry to read aloud or it might look suspicious. Hermione, meanwhile, was resolutely plowing on with what she called the “official” instructions, but 
becoming increasingly bad-tempered as they yielded poorer results than the Prince's.
Harry wondered vaguely who the Half-Blood Prince had been. Although the amount of homework they had been given prevented him from reading the whole of his copy of 
Advanced Potion-Making, he had skimmed through it sufficiently to see that there was barely a page on which the Prince had not made additional notes, not all of them 
concerned with potion-making. Here and there were directions for what looked like spells that the Prince had made up himself.
“Or herself,” said Hermione irritably, overhearing Harry pointing some of these out to Ron in the common room on Saturday evening. “It might have been a girl. I 
think the handwriting looks more like a girl's than a boy's.”
“The Half-Blood Prince, he was called,” Harry said. “How many girls have been princes?”
Hermione seemed to have no answer to this. She merely scowled and twitched her essay on “The Principles of Rematerialization” away from Ron, who was trying to read it 
upside down.
Harry looked at his watch and hurriedly put the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making back into his bag.
“It's five to eight, I'd better go, I'll be late for Dumbledore.”
“Ooooh!” gasped Hermione, looking up at once. “Good luck! We'll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches you!”
“Hope it goes okay,” said Ron, and the pair of them watched Harry leave through the portrait hole.
Harry proceeded through deserted corridors, though he had to step hastily behind a statue when Professor Trelawney appeared around a corner, muttering to herself as she 
shuffled a pack of dirty-looking playing cards, reading them as she walked.
“Two of spades: conflict,” she murmured, as she passed the place where Harry crouched, hidden. “Seven of spades: an ill omen. Ten of spades: violence. Knave of 
spades: a dark young man, possibly troubled, one who dislikes the questioner —”
She stopped dead, right on the other side of Harry's statue.
“Well, that can't be right,” she said, annoyed, and Harry heard her reshuffling vigorously as she set off again, leaving nothing but a whiff of cooking sherry behind 
her. Harry waited until he was quite sure she had gone, then hurried off again until he reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood 
against the wall.
“Acid Pops,” said Harry, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry stepped, so 
that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's Office.
Harry knocked.
“Come in,” said Dumbledore s voice.
“Good evening, sir,” said Harry, walking into the Headmaster's office.
“Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I hope you've had an enjoyable first week back at school?”
“Yes, thanks, sir,” said Harry.
“You must have been busy, a detention under your belt already!”
“Er,” began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did not look too stern.
“I have arranged with Professor Snape that you will do your detention next Saturday instead.”
“Right,” said Harry, who had more pressing matters on his mind than Snape's detention, and now looked around surreptitiously for some indication of what Dumbledore 
was planning to do with him this evening. The circular office looked just as it always did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puffing 
smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Dumbledore's magnificent phoenix, Fawkes, stood on his perch behind 
the door, watching Harry with bright interest. It did not even look as though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling practice.
“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore, in a businesslike voice. “You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you during these—for want of a better word — 
lessons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information.” 
There was a pause.
“You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything,” said Harry. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. “Sir,” he added.
“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying 
together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed 
the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron.”
“But you think you're right?” said Harry.
“Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being — forgive me—rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend 
to be correspondingly huger.”
“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “does what you're going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help me... survive?”
“It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy,” said Dumbledore, as casually as if Harry had asked him about the next day's weather, “and I certainly hope that 
it will help you to survive.”
Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk, past Harry, who turned eagerly in his seat to watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside the door. When 
Dumbledore straightened up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry.
“You look worried.”
Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts and memories, though 
highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished. But Dumbledore was 
smiling.
“This time, you enter the Pensieve with me... and, even more unusually, with permission.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
“For a trip down Bob Ogden's memory lane,” said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance.
“Who was Bob Ogden?”
“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” said Dumbledore. “He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to 
confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry ...”
But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the stopper of the crystal bottle: his injured hand seemed stiff and painful.
“Shall —shall I, sir?”
“No matter, Harry —”
Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out.
“Sir—how did you injure your hand?” Harry asked again, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture of revulsion and pity.
“Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden.”
Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas. “After you,” said Dumbledore, 
gesturing toward the bowl.
Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance. He felt his feet leave the office floor; he was falling, falling through 
whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him.
They were standing in a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of them 
stood a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to molelike specks. He was reading a wooden signpost that was sticking out of the 
brambles on the left-hand side of the road. Harry knew this must be Ogden; he was the only person in sight, and he was also wearing the strange assortment of clothes so 
often chosen by inexperienced wizards trying to look like Muggles: in this case, a frock coat and spats over a striped one-piece bathing costume. Before Harry had time 
to do more than register his bizarre appearance, however, Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane.
Dumbledore and Harry followed. As they passed the wooden sign, Harry looked up at its two arms. The one pointing back the way they had come read: “Great Hangleton, 5 
miles". The arm pointing after Ogden said “Little Hangleton, 1 mile".
They walked a short way with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane curved to the left 
and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Harry could see a village, 
undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome 
manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn.
Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the steep downward slope. Dumbledore lengthened his stride, and Harry hurried to keep up. He thought Little Hangleton must 
be their final destination and wondered, as he had done on the night they had found Slughorn, why they had to approach it from such a distance. He soon discovered that 
he was mistaken in thinking that they were going to the village, however. The lane curved to the right and when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very edge of 
Ogden's frock coat vanishing through a gap in the hedge.
Dumbledore and Harry followed him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and 
potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the track soon opened up at the 
copse, and Dumbledore and Harry came to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand.
Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds before Harry's eyes discerned the building half-hidden amongst 
the tangle of trunks. It seemed to him a very strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking all light and 
the view of the valley below. He wondered whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in 
places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could possibly live 
there, however, one of the windows was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking.
Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Harry, rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to 
which somebody had nailed a dead snake.
Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so fast he stood 
on the tails of his frock coat and stumbled.
“You're not welcome.”
The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared 
in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Harry could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces 
before he spoke.
“Er—good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —”
“You're not welcome.”
“Er—I'm sorry... I don't understand you,” said Ogden nervously.
Harry thought Ogden was being extremely dim; the stranger was making himself very clear in Harry's opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in one hand and a 
short and rather bloody knife in the other.
“You understand him, I'm sure, Harry?” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Yes, of course,” said Harry, slightly nonplussed. “Why can't Ogden—?”
But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door again, he suddenly understood.
“He's speaking Parseltongue?”
“Very good,” said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling.
The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other.
“Now, look —” Ogden began, but too late: there was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his 
fingers.
“Morfin!” said a loud voice.
An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and 
oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of 
a powerful, aged monkey. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.
“Ministry, is it?” said the older man, looking down at Ogden.
“Correct!” said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. “And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?”
“'S right,” said Gaunt. “Got you in the face, did he?”
“Yes, he did!” snapped Ogden.
“Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?” said Gaunt aggressively. “This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend 
himself.”
“Defend himself against what, man?” said Ogden, clambering back to his feet.
“Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.”
Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke out of the 
corner of his mouth to Morfin.
”Get in the house. Don't argue.”
This time, ready for it, Harry recognized Parseltongue; even while he could understand what was being said, he distinguished the weird hissing noise that was all Ogden 
could hear. Morfin seemed to be on the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an 
odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again.
“It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his coat. “That was Morfin, wasn't it?”
“Ar, that was Morfin,” said the old man indifferently. “Are you pure-blood?” he asked, suddenly aggressive.
“That's neither here nor there,” said Ogden coldly, and Harry felt his respect for Ogden rise.
Apparently Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogden's face and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to be an offensive tone, “Now I come to think about 
it, I've seen noses like yours down in the village.”
“I don't doubt it, if your son's been let loose on them,” said Ogden. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?”
“Inside?”
“Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl —”
“I've no use for owls,” said Gaunt. “I don't open letters.”
“Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors,” said Ogden tartly. “I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in 
the early hours of this morning —”
“All right, all right, all right!” bellowed Gaunt. “Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it'll do you!”
The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair 
beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue:
Hissy, hissy, little snakey,
Slither on the floor
You be good to Morfin
Or he'll nail you to the door.
There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window, and Harry realized that there was somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray dress was the 
exact color of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalid-looking 
pots and pans above it. Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother's, stared in opposite directions. She looked 
a little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeated-looking person.
“M'daughter, Merope,” said Gaunt grudgingly, as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.
“Good morning,” said Ogden.
She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her.
“Well, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, “to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.
”
There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.
“Pick it up!” Gaunt bellowed at her. “That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what's your wand for, you useless sack of muck?”
“Mr. Gaunt, please!” said Ogden in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again, drew her 
wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the opposite 
wall, and crack in two.
Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!”
Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and said firmly, “Reparo.” The pot mended itself instantly.
Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it: instead, he jeered at his daughter, “Lucky the nice man from the 
Ministry's here, isn't it? Perhaps he'll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn't mind dirty Squibs...”
Without looking at anybody or thanking Ogden, Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her back against the 
wall between the filthy window and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish.
“Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden began again, “as I've said: the reason for my visit —”
“I heard you the first time!” snapped Gaunt. “And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him—what about it, then?”
“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden sternly.
“'Morfin has broken Wizarding law.‘” Gaunt imitated Ogden's voice, making it pompous and singsong. Morfin cackled again. “He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's 
illegal now, is it?”
“Yes,” said Ogden. “I'm afraid it is.”
He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it.
“What's that, then, his sentence?” said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily.
“It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —”
“Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?”
“I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,” said Ogden.
“And you think we're scum, do you?” screamed Gaunt, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. “Scum who'll come running when 
the Ministry tells ‘em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?”
“I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, looking wary, but standing his ground.
“That's right!” roared Gaunt. For a moment, Harry thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned 
ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden's eyes. “See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our 
family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?”
“I've really no idea,” said Ogden, blinking as the ring sailed within an inch of his nose, “and it's quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed —”
With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. For a split second, Harry thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next moment, he was 
dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.
“See this?” he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath.
“I see it, I see it!” said Ogden hastily.
“Slytherins!” yelled Gaunt. “Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?”
“Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!” said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and 
gulping for air.
“So!” said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. “Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your 
shoes! Generations of pure-bloods, wizards all—more than you can say, I don't doubt!”
And he spat on the floor at Ogden's feet. Morfin cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window, her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, said nothing.
“Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden doggedly, “I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin 
and the Muggle he accosted late last night. Our information"—he glanced down at his scroll of parchment—"is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, 
causing him to erupt in highly painful hives.”
Morfin giggled.
”Be quiet, boy,” snarled Gaunt in Parseltongue, and Morfin fell silent again.
“And so what if he did, then?” Gaunt said defiantly to Ogden, “I expect you've wiped the Muggle's filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot—”
“That's hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?” said Ogden. “This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless —”
“Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you,” sneered Gaunt, and he spat on the floor again.
“This discussion is getting us nowhere,” said Ogden firmly. “It is clear from your son's attitude that he feels no remorse for his actions.” He glanced down at his 
scroll of parchment again. “Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and 
distress to that same Mugg —”
Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in through the open window. Apparently the winding lane to the village 
passed very close to the copse where the house stood. Gaunt froze, listening, his eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward the sounds, his expression hungry. 
Merope raised her head. Her face, Harry saw, was starkly white.
“My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl's voice, as clearly audible through the open window as if she had stood in the room beside them. “Couldn't your father 
have that hovel cleared away, Tom?”
“It's not ours,” said a young man's voice. “Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his 
children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —”
The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of his armchair.
”Keep your seat,” said his father warningly, in Parseltongue.
“Tom,” said the girl's voice again, now so close they were clearly right beside the house, “I might be wrong—but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?”
“Good lord, you're right!” said the man's voice. “That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling.”
The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing fainter again.
“’Darling,'” whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, looking at his sister. “’Darling, he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway.”
Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint.
”What's that?” said Gaunt sharply, also in Parseltongue, looking from his son to his daughter. ”What did you say, Morfin?”
”She likes looking at that Muggle,” said Morfin, a vicious expression on his face as he stared at his sister, who now looked terrified. ”Always in the garden when he 
passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night—”
Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but Morfin went on ruthlessly, ”Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn't she?”
”Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?” said Gaunt quietly.
All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing and rasping.
”Is it true?” said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. ”My daughter—pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin—hankering 
after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?”
Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak.
”But I got him, Father!” cackled Morfin. ”I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?”
”You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!” roared Gaunt, losing control, and his hands closed around his daughter's throat.
Both Harry and Ogden yelled “No!” at the same time; Ogden raised his wand and cried, “Relaskio!”
Gaunt was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at 
Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand.
Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they ought to follow and Harry obeyed, Merope's screams echoing in his ears.
Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark-
haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the horse's flank and set 
off again, his frock coat flying, covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell up the lane.
“I think that will do, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He took Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they 
landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore's now twilit office.
“What happened to the girl in the cottage?” said Harry at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. “Merope, or whatever her name was?”
“Oh, she survived,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry should sit down too. “Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and 
returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently 
convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry 
employees in addition to Ogden, received six months.”
“Marvolo?” Harry repeated wonderingly.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. “I am glad to see you're keeping up.”
“That old man was—?”
“Voldemort's grandfather, yes,” said Dumbledore. “Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family 
noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a 
great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a 
very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his 
daughter.”
“So Merope,” said Harry, leaning forward in his chair and staring at Dumbledore, “so Merope was ... Sir, does that mean she was... Voldemort's mother?”
“It does,” said Dumbledore. “And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?”
“The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?”
“Very good indeed,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope 
Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion.”
“And they ended up married?” Harry said in disbelief, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love.
“I think you are forgetting,” said Dumbledore, “that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being 
terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to 
give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years.”
“Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?”
“The Imperius Curse?” Harry suggested. “Or a love potion?”
“Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been 
very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of water. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just 
witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, 
Merope.
“But the villagers’ shock was nothing to Marvolo's. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on 
his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done.
“From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his 
early death—or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage.”
“And Merope? She ... she died, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dumbledore. “We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few 
months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighborhood that he was 
talking of being ‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’ What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not 
dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, 
pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason.”
“But she did have his baby.”
“But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant.”
“What went wrong?” asked Harry. “Why did the love potion stop working?”
“Again, this is guesswork,” said Dumbledore, “but I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical 
means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in 
love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never 
troubled to discover what became of his son.”
The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before.
“I think that will do for tonight, Harry,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two.
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
He got to his feet, but did not leave.
“Sir ... is it important to know all this about Voldemort's past?”
“Very important, I think,” said Dumbledore.
“And it... it's got something to do with the prophecy?”
“It has everything to do with the prophecy.”
“Right,” said Harry, a little confused, but reassured all the same.
He turned to go, then another question occurred to him, and he turned back again. “Sir, am I allowed to tell Ron and Hermione everything you've told me?”
Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, “Yes, I think Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have proved themselves trustworthy. But Harry, I am going to ask you to 
ask them not to repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord Voldemort's secrets.”
“No, sir, I'll make sure it's just Ron and Hermione. Good night.”
He turned away again, and was almost at the door when he saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle-legged tables that supported so many frail-looking silver 
instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a large, cracked, black stone.
“Sir,” said Harry, staring at it. “That ring—”
“Yes?” said Dumbledore.
“You were wearing it when we visited Professor Slughorn that night.”
“So I was,” Dumbledore agreed.
“But isn't it... sir, isn't it the same ring Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?”
Dumbledore bowed his head. “The very same.”
“But how come... have you always had it?”
“No, I acquired it very recently,” said Dumbledore. “A few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt and uncle's, in fact.”
“That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?”
“Around that time, yes, Harry.”
Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling.
“Sir, how exactly—?”
“Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another time. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
接下来一周的魔药课里，只要是与莱贝修斯·波里奇的说法有出入的地方，哈利都遵照混血王子的说明改了过来，于是连续四节课之后，斯拉霍恩简直快为哈利的能力而倾倒了，他甚至说自己
很少能教到如此有天分的学生。罗恩和赫敏都不太为此感到高兴。虽然哈利把书借给他们一起看借，可罗恩辨认起那些字迹来要比哈利困难得多，他又不敢老让哈利念给他听，否则看起来就会
很可疑。赫敏也坚定不移地努力遵照着她所谓的“官方的”指示，但结果却总比不上王子的，这让她的脾气越来越坏。
 
　　哈利模模糊糊地疑惑着那个混血王子究竟是谁。虽然大量的作业让他没有时间通读那本《高级魔药制备》，他还是把它大致浏览了一番，发现混血王子几乎在每一页上都留下了自己的笔记
，而且也不全是有关魔药制备的。到处都记着咒语的说明，看起来像是他自己编出来的。
 
　　“没准是她自己，”星期六晚上在公共休息室时赫敏暴躁地说，哈利正在把给那些咒语指给罗恩看。“也许是个女孩。我认为那些字迹与其说是男孩的，倒不如说像女孩子的。”
 
　　“他叫混血王子，”哈利说，“有哪个女孩子是王子？”
 
　　赫敏似乎无言以对。她只是皱着眉头把自己关于“物质重构原理”的论文从罗恩手里拽了回来，他正试着把那篇论文颠倒过来看。
 
　　哈利看了看表，把那本破旧的《高级魔药制备》装进了书包里。
 
　　“八点差五分，我得走了，否则去邓布利多那儿就要迟到了。”
 
　　“哦——！”赫敏抽了一口气，马上抬头看着哈利，“祝你好运！我们等你回来，我们想知道他都教你些什么！”
 
　　“希望一切顺利，”罗恩说，他们俩望着哈利钻进了肖像洞。
 
　　哈利在没人的走廊上前行，特里劳妮教授突然出现在一个拐角，哈利只好闪身躲到一座雕像后面。她正在洗一副看上去很脏的扑克牌，嘴里一边还在嘟囔着什么。
 
　　“黑桃二：战争冲突，”她走过哈利蜷伏的雕像边时喃喃自语地说。“黑桃七：一个凶兆。黑桃十：暴行。黑桃J：一个年轻的黑人，看上去很不安，不喜欢问讯者——”
 
　　她在哈利躲藏的雕像对面停住了。
 
　　“嗯，这一定不对，”她恼怒地说，哈利听到她又用力地洗了洗牌，又出发了，只留下一股烹调用雪利酒的气味。哈利一直等到她没影了，才一路跑到七楼走廊的那个石兽站的墙边。
 
　　“酸棒糖，”哈利说。石兽跳到了一边；身后的墙滑向了一边，露出了一个正在转动的螺旋形的石头楼梯，哈利走了上去，楼梯带着他平稳地旋转上升，一直来到一扇带有一个黄铜门环的
大门前，这扇门通往邓布利多的办公室。
 
　　哈利敲了敲门。
 
　　“请进，”邓布利多的声音说。
 
　　“晚上好，教授，”哈利一边一边走进了校长办公室。
 
　　“啊，晚上好，哈利。请坐，”邓布利多微笑着说。“我想你回到学校的第一周过得还愉快吧？”
 
　　“是的，谢谢，教授，”哈利说。
 
　　“你一定也开始忙了，都已经获得了一次关禁闭！”
 
　　“呃……，”哈利有点不知所措，但是邓布利多看上去并不是很严厉。
 
　　“我已经和斯内普教授协商好了，你下周去他那儿关禁闭。”
 
　　“好的，”哈利心里有比斯内普教授的禁闭更急迫的事情，他正偷偷地环顾着屋子，以期发现什么东西来暗示他今晚邓布利多会教什么。圆形的办公室和平时没什么两样：精致的银色器具
放在长腿桌上，吐出阵阵烟雾，还嗡嗡地转着；历任校长们的肖像在他们的像框中打着瞌睡；邓布利多美丽非凡的凤凰福克斯正在栖木上感兴趣地看着哈利。看上去邓布利多好像没有开辟练习
决斗的场地。
 
　　“那么，哈利，”邓布利多有条不紊地说。“我敢肯定你一直想知道我的这些——用个好听点的词——课程都为你准备了些什么？”
 
　　“是的，教授。”
 
　　“好，我认定现在是时候告诉你某些信息了，既然你已经知道了是什么促使伏地魔15年前试图去杀你。”
 
　　他停顿了一下。
 
　　“你说过上个学期末要把所有的事情都告诉我的，”哈利说。他很难掩饰自己声音里的指责。“教授，”他补充道。
 
　　“所以我这样做了，”邓布利多平静地说。“我把我所知道的一切都告诉了你。从那之后，我们就要一起离开事实的稳固基础，穿过记忆的黑暗沼泽，在毫无根据的猜测的灌木丛中旅行了
。从此，哈利，我就可能和汉弗莱·贝尔彻错得一样惨了，他甚至相信人们会去买他用奶酪做成的坩埚。”（译注：这里原文是一个双关语，邓布利多说那个贝尔彻相信the time is ripe for 
a cheese cauldron，字面意思是他相信买奶酪做的大锅的时机已经成熟了，事实上ripe在这里带有双关的含义，他还指如果人们真的买了这样的cauldron放到火上一烤，也就ripe了。这里
ripe修饰了两个东西，翻译的时候不好处理，只取了前一种意思，是邓布利多机智的幽默。）
 
　　“但是你认为你是对的？”哈利说。
 
　　“自然是的，但是就像你已经看到的那样，我会犯同那个人一样的错误。实际上，作为——见谅——比大多数人都聪明的我，错误来得相应地要更大。”
 
　　“教授，”哈利试探性地说，“你准备告诉我的事情和那个预言有关吗？它会帮助我……活下来吗？”
 
　　“它和预言有很大的关系，”邓布利多说得就像哈利在问他明天的天气一样随意，“我当然希望它能帮助你活下来。”
 
　　邓布利多站了起来，他绕过桌子，经过哈利的身边，哈利在椅子上急切地望着正弯着腰从门边的柜子里取东西的邓布利多。然后邓布利多直起身来，手里端着一个哈利很熟悉的浅石盆，石
盆边缘上刻蚀着奇怪的记号。他把冥想盆放在哈利面前。
 
　　“你看上去很担心。”
 
　　哈利看冥想盆的目光里的确带着一些忧虑。他上一次在这个储存并显示着记忆与思想的奇怪仪器里的经历虽然很具有启发性，却也令他心乱如麻。他上一次进入容器里的物质时，看到了许
多他连想都不敢想的事。不过邓布利多却在微笑。
 
　　“这一次，你和我一起进入冥想盆……而且，更不同于以往的是，在我的允许下。”
 
　　“我们要去哪儿，教授？”
 
　　“去追溯鲍勃·奥格登的心路历程，”邓布利多从口袋里拿出一个水晶瓶，里面装着正在旋转的银白色物质。
 
　　“鲍勃·奥格登是谁？”
 
　　“他当时是法律执行司的雇员，”邓布利多说。“他在不久前死了，但是我在他死之前找到了他，并说服他将这段记忆透露给了我。我们将陪伴他去执行一趟公务。请站起来，哈利……”
 
　　但是邓布利多似乎拔不出那个水晶瓶的塞子：他受伤的那只手看上去既僵硬又疼痛。
 
　　“要——要我来吗，教授？”
 
　　“没关系，哈利——”
 
　　邓布利多用魔杖指了指瓶子，塞子飞了出来。
 
　　“教授——你的手是怎么受伤的？”哈利又问，同时用一种混合着恶心和同情的眼神看着变黑的手指。
 
　　“现在还不是讲那个故事的时候，哈利。还没到时候。我们和鲍勃·奥格登还有个约会。”
 
　　邓布利多把瓶子里的银色物质倒入冥想盆，它们开始旋转并发出微弱的光，看上去既不是液体，也不是气体。
 
　　“我跟在你后面，”邓布利向盆里指了指。
 
　　哈利把腰往前弯下，深吸了一口气，把脸浸入了银色的物质中。他感觉自己的脚离开了办公室的地板；正在往下落，往下落，穿过一片旋转着的黑暗，然后，他在明媚的阳光里眨了眨眼，
调整了一下，邓布利多随后到达了他的身边。
 
　　他们站在一条由高高的、乱蓬蓬的灌木篱墙围成的乡间小路上。明亮的天空蓝得就像勿忘我一样。他们前面十英尺远的地方站着一个又矮又胖的男人，他戴着厚厚的眼镜，使眼睛看上去就
像鼹鼠的斑点。他正在看着从路左边的荆棘里伸出来的一只木质路标。哈利知道这肯定是奥格登；他是视野里唯一的一个人，而且还穿着没有经验的巫师试图打扮成麻瓜时常常穿的那种奇怪衣
服：这次是，一件男式礼服和一双高筒靴穿在一件印着条纹的连体游泳衣外面。不过，哈利刚记住了他奇异的外表，奥格登就迈着轻快的步子沿小路出发了。
 
　　邓布利多和哈利跟在他后面。当他们走过木质路标时，哈利看了看上面的两个指示牌。一个指着他们身后，是来的时候走的路，写着：“大汉格顿，5英里”。另一个指向奥格登，上面写
着：“小汉格顿，1英里”。
 
　　他们走了一小段路，除了看见两边的灌木篱墙和头顶上广阔的蓝天，就是眼前那个穿着男式礼服走得飕飕作响的人，然后小路朝左边拐了个弯消失在眼前，他们发现自己正站在一个陡峭的
山坡上，眼前意外地出现了整个山谷的景色。哈利看到了一个小村子——无疑就是小汉格顿——位于两座陡峭的小山之间，能清楚地看到它的教堂和墓地。穿过山谷，在对面的山坡上有一座漂
亮的庄园，四周环绕着宽阔的绿天鹅绒色草坪。
 
　　因为斜坡实在太陡，奥格登往下走时不得不一溜小跑。邓布利多也迈大了步子，哈利赶紧快步跟上。他认为小汉格顿就是他们的目的地，于是开始和拜访斯拉霍恩那天一样疑惑为什么他们
要从如此远的地方走过去。然而，不久他就发现自己想错了。小路向右一绕，他们刚拐过弯来，就看见奥格登的礼服消失在篱墙的一个豁口里。
 
　　邓布利多跟着他进入了一条脏兮兮的羊肠小道，两边的灌木篱墙比刚才更高更乱了。弯弯的小道上坑坑洼洼地布满了石头，和刚才的斜坡一样陡峭，而且看上去就像是通往一片处在他们下
方的树林。果然，小道马上就把他们带到了那片树林。奥格登停了下来，抽出了魔杖，邓布利多和哈利停在他的身后。
 
　　尽管天空中万里无云，但前面的老树丛却投下了一片黑暗、充满了凉意的阴影，几秒钟之后，哈利的眼睛在杂乱的树干之中辨认出了一幢房子。这似乎显得很奇怪，竟然有人选择这样的住
处，或者说任凭那些树长在屋子周围，挡掉所有的光线和山谷的景色。他不知道这儿是否是有人居住；墙上全是青苔，房顶上许多瓦片都掉了下来，有几处甚至可以清楚地看到椽子。房子的周
围长满了荨麻，顶端都已经碰到了布满厚厚尘垢的小窗子。然而正当他断定没有人会住在那儿时，一扇窗户咔哒一声打开了，从里面冒出了袅袅炊烟，似乎有人在做饭。
 
　　奥格登静静地往前走了走，看上去相当慎重。他刚走进树影里，又停了下来，盯着那扇前门，上面被人钉了一条死蛇。
 
　　随着一阵沙沙声和一声爆响，一个衣衫褴褛的人从最近的一棵树上跳了下来，正落在奥格登的面前，奥格登迅速地往后一跳，脚踩到自己的礼服跌了一跤。
 
　　“这里不欢迎你。”
 
　　站在他们面前的男人头发浓密，和许多泥巴缠结在一起，看不清到底是什么颜色。他还缺了几颗牙齿。又小又黑的眼睛盯着前方。他看上去本应该很滑稽，但此时却不是那样；这个效果令
人心里有些发毛，难怪奥格登说话时要后退几步。
 
　　“呃……早上好。我是来自魔法部的——”
 
　　“这里不欢迎你。”
 
　　“呃——我很抱歉——我听不懂你的话，”奥格登紧张地说。
 
　　哈利觉得奥格登真是太迟钝了；在哈利看来这个陌生人已经把意思表现得非常清楚了，尤其是他还一手挥舞着魔杖，一手握着一把沾血的小刀。
 
　　“你肯定能听懂他，哈利？”邓布利多低声说。
 
　　“是的，当然，”哈利稍微有点困惑，“奥格登为什么不能——？”
 
　　他的目光再次扫到了门上的死蛇，突然间明白了。
 
　　“他在说蛇佬腔？”
 
　　“非常好，”邓布利多点了点头，笑了。
 
　　那个衣着褴褛的男人正在向奥格登逼近，一手拿着刀，一手拿着魔杖。
 
　　“现在，留神听好——”奥格登开口说，可是太晚了：砰的一声，奥格登倒在地上用手抓住他的鼻子，一种恶心的黄色粘液从他的指缝里喷了出来。
 
　　“摩芬！”一个响亮的声音说。
 
　　一个上了年纪的男人急匆匆地从小屋里走出来，猛地关上了身后那扇门，上面的死蛇可怜地摇晃着。这个男人比前一个还要矮，而且身材的比例显得很奇怪；他的肩部很宽，手臂长得有些
过长，他有一双明亮的褐色眼睛，头发又粗又短，脸上布满了皱纹，这使他看上去就像一个精力充沛的老猴子。他走到那个拿着刀的男人身边，那人正冲躺在地上的奥格登咯咯地笑着。
 
　　“魔法部，是吧？”那个老人低头盯着奥格登。
 
　　“是的！”奥格登捂着脸生气地说。“我猜想，你是刚特先生？”
 
　　“对。”刚特说。“他打到了你的脸，是吗？”
 
　　“是的，他打了！”奥格登厉声说。
 
　　“你应该让我们知道你的到访，不是吗？”刚特盛气凌人地说，“这是私人领地。你不能走进来而不让我的儿子自卫。”
 
　　“对谁自卫，老兄？”奥格登从地上爬了起来。
 
　　“爱管闲事的人。不请自入的人。麻瓜和污秽的家伙。”
 
　　奥格登将魔杖指向了自己还在流出大量黄色脓汁的鼻子，脓汁马上消失了。刚特先生从嘴角对摩芬说，“到屋里去。不许争辩。”
 
　　这次，早有准备的哈利听出了蛇佬腔；甚至他除了听懂他们说了些什么之外，还能分辨出奥格登听到的那种嘶嘶声。摩芬似乎正要提出异议，但他父亲恐吓地瞪了他一眼，于是他改了主意
，用一种奇怪的摇晃步伐缓慢地走回了小屋，猛得关上身后的门，那只蛇又悲惨地晃了晃。
 
　　“我来这儿是要拜访你的儿子，刚特先生，”奥格登把外套最后的一点脓汁擦掉了。“那个就是摩芬，对吧？”
 
　　“啊，那是摩芬，”老人漫不经心地说，“你是纯血统吗？”他突然挑衅地问。
 
　　“那和今天的谈话不相干，”奥格登冷冷地说，哈利不禁对奥格登多了几分尊敬。
 
　　显然刚特完全不这么想。他斜眼看着奥格登的脸，用一种明显冒犯性的腔调咕哝道，“现在我想起来了，我似乎在山下的村子里见过你这样的鼻子。”
 
　　“我不怀疑，如果你放任自己的儿子攻击他们的话，”奥格登说，“也许我们可以进去继续讨论。”
 
　　“进去？”
 
　　“是的，刚特先生。我已经告诉你了。我来这儿是为了摩芬。我们已经派出了一只猫头鹰——”
 
　　“猫头鹰没用，”刚特说。“我不看信。”
 
　　“那你就不能抱怨没有接到有人来访的通知了，”奥格登尖锐地说，“我到这儿是因为今天早些时候发生的一起严重违反巫师法律的事件——”
 
　　“好吧，好吧，好吧！”刚特吼道。“到这个血腥的屋子里来，有你好受的！”
 
　　房子似乎带了三个小房间。同时用作客厅和厨房的主厅开着两扇门。摩芬坐在一张脏扶手椅上，靠着烟雾缭绕的火炉，正在用粗糙的手指摆弄着一条活的蝮蛇，还用蛇佬腔轻轻地吟唱着：
 
　　“嘶嘶，嘶嘶，亲爱的小蛇，
 
　　你在地上唱着歌，
 
　　要对摩芬好一点呵，
 
　　否则他就要把你钉上门板了。”
 
　　在敞开的窗子旁边的一个角落里，传来一阵拖着脚走路的声音，哈利这才意识到屋子里还有别人，一个女孩穿着一身破破烂烂的连衣裙，颜色简直和她身后肮脏的石墙一模一样。她正站在
一个脏兮兮的黑色炉子旁边，上面放着一个冒着蒸汽的壶。与上方的架子里摆的那些看上去破败不堪的壶和平底锅相比，她显得有些微不足道。她的头细长而干枯，一张脸看起来朴素、苍白而
又阴沉。一双眼睛和他的哥哥一样，直愣愣地盯着前方。她和两个男人比起来稍微干净一点，但是哈利还是觉得她是他见过的最惨的人。
 
　　“我女儿，梅洛，”看到奥格登怀疑地望着她，刚特只好不情愿地说。
 
　　“早上好，”奥格登说。
 
　　她没有回答，只是惊恐地看了她父亲一眼，就转身背对着房间，继续搬动她身后架子上的罐子去了。
 
　　“好了，刚特先生，”奥格登说，“直接切入正题，我们有理由相信你的儿子摩芬昨天深夜在一个麻瓜面前施了魔法。”
 
　　突然传来一个震耳欲聋的咣当声。梅洛手里一个罐子掉在了地上。
 
　　“捡起来！”刚特对她吼道。“就这样吗，像肮脏的麻瓜一样从地上捡，你的魔杖是干嘛的，你这一无是处的垃圾？”
 
　　“刚特先生，请别这样！”奥格登震惊地说，这时梅洛已经捡起了罐子，脸上泛起了点点红晕，她把握在手里的罐子又掉在了地上，颤抖着从口袋里抽出魔杖，指着罐子匆匆地嘀咕了一句
咒语，罐子从地面上猛地飞离了她，撞到对面的墙上裂成了两半。
 
　　摩芬发出了疯狂的笑声。刚特尖声叫道，“修好它，你这个没用的蠢货，修好它！”
 
　　梅洛跌跌撞撞地穿过房间，但在她举起魔杖之前，奥格登就举起了他自己的魔杖平静地念道，“恢复如初。”罐子立即复原了。
 
　　刚特看了奥格登好一会儿，仿佛要冲他大嚷大叫了，但他似乎改变了注意：转而去讽刺他的女儿，“很幸运有个来自魔法部的好人在这儿，是吗？也许他会把你从我这儿带走，也许他不介
意肮脏的哑炮……”
 
　　没有看任何人，也没有向奥格登道谢，梅洛捡起罐子，用颤抖的手把它放回到架子上。然后，她背对着炉子和窗口之间的墙静静地立着，仿佛巴不得能陷到石头里消失。
 
　　“刚特先生，”奥格登又开口说道，“正如我刚才所说：我来的原因是——”
 
　　“我刚才听到了！”刚特厉声说，“那又怎样？摩芬给了一个肮脏的麻瓜他应得的——那又怎么样了？”
 
　　“摩芬违反了巫师的法律。”奥格登严厉地说。
 
　　“摩芬违反了巫师的法律。”刚特模仿着奥格登的声音说，听起来既自命不凡又单调生硬。摩芬再次咯咯地笑了起来。“他教训了一个肮脏的麻瓜，现在这是违法的，对吗？”
 
　　“是的，”奥格登说，“恐怕是。”
 
　　他从内兜里掏出一小卷羊皮纸，并把它展开来。
 
　　“那又是什么，他的判决？”刚特愤怒地提高了声音。
 
　　“这是一份魔法部举行听证会的传票——”
 
　　“传票！传票？你以为你是谁，可以随便传唤我儿子？”
 
　　“我是魔法法律执行队的队长，”奥格登说。
 
　　“而你认为我们是人渣，是吗？”刚特尖声叫道，他逼近了奥格登，用一只长着黄色指甲的肮脏手指指在他的胸膛上。“魔法部叫他们的时候就会屁颠屁颠地跑过来的人渣？你以为你在跟
谁说话，你这个肮脏的小泥巴种，不是吗？”
 
　　“我记得我是在和刚特先生谈话，”奥格登谨慎地说，但仍然坚持着自己的立场。
 
　　“那就对了！”刚特咆哮着说。哈利一开始以为刚特做了一个下流的手势，但马上意识到他是在向奥格登展示中指上那枚镶嵌着黑石头的丑陋戒指，他把戒指在奥格登的眼前晃了晃。“看
到这个了吗？看到这个了吗？知道是什么吗？知道它从哪里来的吗？这是我们家传了几个世纪的东西，几个世纪一直都是纯血统！这枚戒指嵌上了刻着皮福瑞盾徽的石头，知道它值多少钱吗？
”
 
　　“我真的不清楚，”奥格登眨巴着眼睛，那枚戒指正在他鼻子下面一英寸的地方晃悠，“这和我们的话题无关，刚特先生。你的儿子犯了——”
 
　　刚特愤怒地大吼一声，跑向了他的女儿。当他的手伸向她的喉咙时，哈利一时间还以为他是要去掐死她；随即他拽着女儿脖子上的金项链把她拖到了奥格登面前。
 
　　“看到这个了吗？”他对奥格登吼道，在他面前晃了晃一个沉重的金盒坠子，而梅洛则喘得上气不接下气。
 
　　“我看到了，我看到了！”奥格登急忙说。
 
　　“斯莱特林的！”刚特叫道，“萨拉查·斯莱特林的！我们是他仅存的后裔，你对此怎么看，呃？”
 
　　“刚特先生，你女儿！”奥格登警告说，刚特马上放开了梅洛；她步履蹒跚地走开，回到她的角落，揉着脖子大口大口地喘着气。
 
　　“所以！”刚特得胜般地说，好像他刚刚排除所有可能的争议，证明了一个复杂的论点。“不要把我们当成你鞋子上的泥巴一样跟我们说话！一代代都是纯血统，都是巫师——比你想得多
得多，毫无疑问！”
 
　　他朝奥格登的脚上吐了口痰。摩芬又咯咯地笑了。梅洛蜷缩在窗边，垂下头，细长的头发遮住了脸，她什么也没说。
 
　　“刚特先生，”奥格登顽强地说，“恐怕无论是你的祖先还是我的祖先和现在手头上的事务都没有任何关系。我来这儿是为了摩芬，摩芬和昨天深夜跟他说话的那个麻瓜。我们的资料显示
，”他瞥了一眼羊皮纸，“摩芬对上述麻瓜施了一个恶咒，导致他脸上长出了非常严重的麻疹。”
 
　　摩芬吃吃地笑了。
 
　　“安静，孩子，”刚特用蛇佬腔咆哮，摩芬又安静了下来。
 
　　“那么，如果他做了会怎么样？”刚特挑衅地对奥格登说，“我想你们已经把那个麻瓜的脏脸蛋擦干净了，他的记忆也一样——”
 
　　“那不是问题所在，对吧，刚特先生？”奥格登说。“这属于没有正当理由的攻击，对一个手无寸铁的——”
 
　　“啊，我第一眼见到你，就把你划为一个麻瓜爱好者了，”刚特冷笑着又朝地板上吐了口痰。
 
　　“这次讨论毫无进展。”奥格登坚决地说。“你儿子的态度明显表示他对自己的行为没有一丝忏悔。”他又朝羊皮纸上瞥了一眼。“摩芬将于9月14日参加一个听证会，对他在麻瓜面前使
用魔法并给那个麻瓜造成伤害和不幸的指控进行答辩——”
 
　　奥格登被打断了。窗外传来了一阵叮叮当当的马蹄
Chapter 12 Silver and Opals
Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? Harry caught sight of the Headmaster only twice over the next few weeks. He rarely appeared at meals anymore, and Harry was 
sure Hermione was right in thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was supposed to be giving Harry? 
Dumbledore had said that the lessons were leading to something to do with the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted, and now he felt slightly abandoned.
Halfway through October came their first trip of the term to Hogsmeade. Harry had wondered whether these trips would still be allowed, given the increasingly tight 
security measures around the school, but was pleased to know that they were going ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle grounds for a few hours.
Harry woke early on the morning of the trip, which was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. He did 
not usually lie in bed reading his textbooks; that sort of behavior, as Ron rightly said, was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was simply weird that way. Harry 
felt, however, that the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making hardly qualified as a textbook. The more Harry pored over the book, the more he realized how 
much was in there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on potions that was earning him such a glowing reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative little 
jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which Harry was sure, judging by the crossings-out and revisions, that the Prince had invented himself.
Harry had already attempted a few of the Prince's self-invented spells. There had been a hex that caused toenails to grow alarmingly fast (he had tried this on Crabbe 
in the corridor, with very entertaining results); a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth (which he had twice used, to general applause, on an 
unsuspecting Argus Filch); and, perhaps most useful of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy 
conversations could be held in class with out being overheard. The only person who did not find these charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a rigidly disapproving 
expression throughout and refused to talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato spell on anyone in the vicinity.
Sitting up in bed, Harry turned the book sideways so as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince some 
trouble. There were many crossings-out and alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the page, the scribble:
Levicorpus (n-vbl)
While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared at the letters in brackets. N-vbl... that had to mean “non-
verbal.” Harry rather doubted he would be able to bring off this particular spell; he was still having difficulty with non-verbal spells, something Snape had been 
quick to comment on in every D.A. class. On the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far.
Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside his head.
“Aaaaaaaargh!”
There was a flash of light and the room was full of voices: everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a yell. Harry sent Advanced Potion-Making flying in panic; Ron was 
dangling upside-down in midair as though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the ankle.
“Sorry!” yelled Harry, as Dean and Seamus roared with laughter, and Neville picked himself up from the floor, having fallen out of bed. “Hang on—I'll let you down—
”
He groped for the potion book and riffled through it in a panic, trying to find the right page; at last he located it and deciphered the cramped word underneath the 
spell: praying that this was the counter-jinx, Harry thought Liberacorpus! with all his might. There was another flash of light, and Ron fell in a heap onto his 
mattress.
“Sorry,” repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and Seamus continued to roar with laughter.
“Tomorrow,” said Ron in a muffled voice, “I'd rather you set the alarm clock.”
By the time they had got dressed, padding themselves out with several of Mrs. Weasley's hand-knitted sweaters and carrying cloaks, scarves, and gloves, Ron's shock had 
subsided and he had decided that Harry's new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in fact, that he lost no time in regaling Hermione with the story as they sat down 
for breakfast.
“... and then there was another flash of light and I landed on the bed again!” Ron grinned, helping himself to sausages.
Hermione had not cracked a smile during this anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry disapproval upon Harry.
“Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?” she asked.
Harry frowned at her.
“Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?”
“Was it?”
“Well... yeah, it was, but so what?”
“So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?”
“Why does it matter if it's handwritten?” said Harry, preferring not to answer the rest of the question.
“Because it's probably not Ministry of Magic approved,” said Hermione. “And also,” she added, as Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, “because I'm starting to think 
this Prince character was a bit dodgy.”
Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once.
“It was a laugh!” said Ron, upending a ketchup bottle over his sausages. “Just a laugh, Hermione, that's all!”
“Dangling people upside down by the ankle?” said Hermione. “Who puts their time and energy into making up spells like that?”
“Fred and George,” said Ron, shrugging, “it's their kind of thing. And, er—”
“My dad,” said Harry. He had only just remembered.
“What?” said Ron and Hermione together.
“My dad used this spell,” said Harry. “I—Lupin told me.”
This last part was not true; in fact, Harry had seen his father use the spell on Snape, but he had never told Ron and Hermione about that particular excursion into the 
Pensieve. Now, however, a wonderful possibility occurred to him. Could the Half-Blood Prince possibly be—?
“Maybe your dad did use it, Harry,” said Hermione, “but he's not the only one. We've seen a whole bunch of people use it, in case you've forgotten. Dangling people 
in the air. Making them float along, asleep, helpless.”
Harry stared at her. With a sinking feeling, he too remembered the behavior of the Death Eaters at the Quidditch World Cup. Ron came to his aid.
“That was different,” he said robustly. “They were abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a laugh. You don't like the Prince, Hermione,” he added, pointing 
a sausage at her sternly, “because he's better than you at Potions —”
“It's got nothing to do with that!” said Hermione, her cheeks reddening. “I just think it's very irresponsible to start performing spells when you don't even know 
what they're for, and stop talking about ‘the Prince’ as if it's his title, I bet it's just a stupid nickname, and it doesn't seem as though he was a very nice person 
to me!”
“I don't see where you get that from,” said Harry heatedly. “If he'd been a budding Death Eater he wouldn't have been boasting about being ‘half-blood,’ would he?
”
Even as he said it, Harry remembered that his father had been pure-blood, but he pushed the thought out of his mind; he would worry about that later.
“The Death Eaters can't all be pure-blood, there aren't enough pure-blood wizards left,” said Hermione stubbornly. “I expect most of them are half-bloods pretending 
to be pure. It's only Muggle-borns they hate, they'd be quite happy to let you and Ron join up.”
“There is no way they'd let me be a Death Eater!” said Ron indignantly, a bit of sausage flying off the fork he was now brandishing at Hermione and hitting Ernie 
Macmillan on the head. “My whole family are blood traitors! That's as bad as Muggle-borns to Death Eaters!”
“And they'd love to have me,” said Harry sarcastically. “We'd be best pals if they didn't keep trying to do me in.”
This made Ron laugh; even Hermione gave a grudging smile, and a distraction arrived in the shape of Ginny.
“Hey, Harry, I'm supposed to give you this.”
It was a scroll of parchment with Harry's name written upon it in familiar thin, slanting writing.
“Thanks, Ginny... It's Dumbledore's next lesson!” Harry told Ron and Hermione, pulling open the parchment and quickly reading its contents. “Monday evening!” He 
felt suddenly light and happy. “Want to join us in Hogsmeade, Ginny?” he asked.
“I'm going with Dean—might see you there,” she replied, waving at them as she left.
Filch was standing at the oak front doors as usual, checking off the names of people who had permission to go into Hogsmeade. The process took even longer than normal 
as Filch was triple-checking everybody with his Secrecy Sensor.
“What does it matter if we're smuggling Dark stuff OUT?” demanded Ron, eyeing the long thin Secrecy Sensor with apprehension. “Surely you ought to be checking what 
we bring back IN?”
His cheek earned him a few extra jabs with the Sensor, and he was still wincing as they stepped out into the wind and sleet.
The walk into Hogsmeade was not enjoyable. Harry wrapped his scarf over his lower face; the exposed part soon felt both raw and numb. The road to the village was full 
of students bent double against the bitter wind. More than once Harry wondered whether they might not have had a better time in the warm common room, and when they 
finally reached Hogsmeade and saw that Zonko's Joke Shop had been boarded up, Harry took it as confirmation that this trip was not destined to be fun. Ron pointed, with 
a thickly gloved hand, toward Honeydukes, which was mercifully open, and Harry and Hermione staggered in his wake into the crowded shop.
“Thank God,” shivered Ron as they were enveloped by warm, toffee-scented air. “Let's stay here all afternoon.”
“Harry, m'boy!” said a booming voice from behind them.
“Oh no,” muttered Harry. The three of them turned to see Professor Slughorn, who was wearing an enormous furry hat and an overcoat with matching fur collar, clutching 
a large bag of crystalized pineapple, and occupying at least a quarter of the shop.
“Harry, that's three of my little suppers you've missed now!” said Slughorn, poking him genially in the chest. “It won't do, m'boy, I'm determined to have you! Miss 
Granger loves them, don't you?”
“Yes,” said Hermione helplessly, “they're really —”
“So why don't you come along, Harry?” demanded Slughorn.
“Well, I've had Quidditch practice, Professor,” said Harry, who had indeed been scheduling practices every time Slughorn had sent him a little, violet ribbon-adorned 
invitation. This strategy meant that Ron was not left out, and they usually had a laugh with Ginny, imagining Hermione shut up with McLaggen and Zabini.
“Well, I certainly expect you to win your first match after all the hard work!” said Slughorn. “But a little recreation never hurt any body. Now, how about Monday 
night, you can't possibly want to practice in this weather....”
“I can't, Professor, I've got — er—an appointment with Professor Dumbledore that evening.”
“Unlucky again!” cried Slughorn dramatically. “Ah, well... you can't evade me forever, Harry!”
And with a regal wave, he waddled out of the shop, taking as little notice of Ron as though he had been a display of Cockroach Clusters.
“I can't believe you've wriggled out of another one,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “They're not that bad, you know... they're even quite fun sometimes...” But 
then she caught sight of Ron's expression. “Oh, look—they've got Deluxe Sugar Quills—those would last hours!”
Glad that Hermione had changed the subject, Harry showed much more interest in the new extra-large Sugar Quills than he would normally have done, but Ron continued to 
look moody and merely shrugged when Hermione asked him where he wanted to go next.
“Let's go to the Three Broomsticks,” said Harry. “It'll be warm.”
They bundled their scarves back over their faces and left the sweetshop. The bitter wind was like knives on their faces after the sugary warmth of Honeydukes. The 
street was not very busy; nobody was lingering to chat, just hurrying toward their destinations. The exceptions were two men a little ahead of them, standing just 
outside the Three Broomsticks. One was very tall and thin; squinting through his rain-washed glasses Harry recognized the barman who worked in the other Hogsmeade pub, 
the Hog's Head. As Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew closer, the barman drew his cloak more tightly around his neck and walked away, leaving the shorter man to fumble with 
something in his arms. They were barely feet from him when Harry realized who the man was.
“Mundungus!”
The squat, bandy-legged man with long, straggly, ginger hair jumped and dropped an ancient suitcase, which burst open, releasing what looked like the entire contents of 
a junk shop window.
“Oh, ‘ello, ‘Arry,” said Mundungus Fletcher, with a most unconvincing stab at airiness. “Well, don't let me keep ya.”
And he began scrabbling on the ground to retrieve the contents of his suitcase with every appearance of a man eager to be gone.
“Are you selling this stuff?” asked Harry, watching Mundungus grab an assortment of grubby-looking objects from the ground.
“Oh, well, gotta scrape a living,” said Mundungus. “Gimme that!”
Ron had stooped down and picked up something silver.
“Hang on,” Ron said slowly. “This looks familiar —”
“Thank you!” said Mundungus, snatching the goblet out of Ron's hand and stuffing it back into the case. “Well, I'll see you all—OUCH!”
Harry had pinned Mundungus against the wall of the pub by the throat. Holding him fast with one hand, he pulled out his wand.
“Harry!” squealed Hermione.
“You took that from Sinus's house,” said Harry, who was almost nose to nose with Mundungus and was breathing in an unpleasant smell of old tobacco and spirits. “That 
had the Black family crest on it.”
“I—no—what—?” spluttered Mundungus, who was slowly turning purple.
“What did you do, go back the night he died and strip the place?” snarled Harry.
“I—no—”
“Give it to me!”
“Harry, you mustn't!” shrieked Hermione, as Mundungus started to turn blue.
There was a bang, and Harry felt his hands fly off Mundungus's throat. Gasping and spluttering, Mundungus seized his fallen case, then—CRACK— he Disapparated.
Harry swore at the top of his voice, spinning on the spot to see where Mundungus had gone.
“COME BACK, YOU THIEVING — !”
“There's no point, Harry.” Tonks had appeared out of nowhere, her mousy hair wet with sleet.
“Mundungus will probably be in London by now. There's no point yelling.”
“He's nicked Sirius's stuff! Nicked it!”
“Yes, but still,” said Tonks, who seemed perfectly untroubled by this piece of information. “You should get out of the cold.”
She watched them go through the door of the Three Broomsticks. The moment he was inside, Harry burst out, “He was nicking Sirius's stuff!”
“I know, Harry, but please don't shout, people are staring,” whispered Hermione. “Go and sit down, I'll get you a drink.”
Harry was still fuming when Hermione returned to their table a few minutes later holding three bottles of Butterbeer.
“Can't the Order control Mundungus?” Harry demanded of the other two in a furious whisper. “Can't they at least stop him stealing everything that's not fixed down 
when he's at headquarters?”
“Shh!” said Hermione desperately, looking around to make sure nobody was listening; there were a couple of warlocks sitting close by who were staring at Harry with 
great interest, and Zabini was lolling against a pillar not far away. “Harry, I'd be annoyed too, I know it's your things he's stealing—”
Harry gagged on his Butterbeer; he had momentarily forgotten that he owned number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
“Yeah, it's my stuff!” he said. “No wonder he wasn't pleased to see me! Well, I'm going to tell Dumbledore what's going on, he's the only one who scares Mundungus.”
“Good idea,” whispered Hermione, clearly pleased that Harry was calming down. “Ron, what are you staring at?”
“Nothing,” said Ron, hastily looking away from the bar, but Harry knew he was trying to catch the eye of the curvy and attractive barmaid, Madam Rosmerta, for whom he 
had long nursed a soft spot.
“I expect ‘nothing's’ in the back getting more firewhisky,” said Hermione waspishly.
Ron ignored this jibe, sipping his drink in what he evidently considered to be a dignified silence. Harry was thinking about Sirius, and how he had hated those silver 
goblets anyway. Hermione drummed her fingers on the table, her eyes flickering between Ron and the bar. The moment Harry drained the last drops in his bottle she said, 
“Shall we call it a day and go back to school, then?”
The other two nodded; it had not been a fun trip and the weather was getting worse the longer they stayed. Once again they drew their cloaks tightly around them, 
rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub and back up the High Street. Harry's thoughts strayed to Ginny as 
they trudged up the road to Hogwarts through the frozen slush. They had not met up with her, undoubtedly, thought Harry, because she and Dean were cozily closeted in 
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, that haunt of happy couples. Scowling, he bowed his head against the swirling sleet and trudged on.
It was a little while before Harry became aware that the voices of Katie Bell and her friend, which were being carried back to him on the wind, had become shriller and 
louder. Harry squinted at their indistinct figures. The two girls were having an argument about something Katie was holding in her hand.
“It's nothing to do with you, Leanne!” Harry heard Katie say.
They rounded a corner in the lane, sleet coming thick and fast, blurring Harry's glasses. Just as he raised a gloved hand to wipe them, Leanne made to grab hold of the 
package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back and the package fell to the ground.
At once, Katie rose into the air, not as Ron had done, suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. Yet 
there was something wrong, something eerie... Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression. 
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching.
Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her 
terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie's ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
rushed forward to help, but even as they grabbed Katie's legs, she fell on top of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could 
hardly hold her. Instead they lowered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to recognize any of them.
Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted.
“Stay there!” he shouted at the others over the howling wind. “I'm going for help!”
He began to sprint toward the school; he had never seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and could not think what had caused it; he hurtled around a bend in the 
lane and collided with what seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs.
“Hagrid!” he panted, disentangling himself from the hedgerow into which he had fallen.
“Harry!” said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great, shaggy beaverskin coat. “Jus’ bin visitin’ Grawp, he's comin’ on 
so well yeh wouldn’ —”
“Hagrid, someone's hurt back there, or cursed, or something —”
“Wha ?” said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what Harry was saying over the raging wind.
“Someone's been cursed!” bellowed Harry.
“Cursed? Who's bin cursed—not Ron? Hermione?”
“No, it's not them, it's Katie Bell—this way...”
Together they ran back along the lane. It took them no time to find the little group of people around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; Ron, 
Hermione, and Leanne were all trying to quiet her.
“Get back!” shouted Hagrid. “Lemme see her!”
“Something's happened to her!” sobbed Leanne. “I don't know what —”
Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie's piercing 
screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind.
Hermione hurried over to Katie's wailing friend and put an arm around her.
“It's Leanne, isn't it?”
The girl nodded.
“Did it just happen all of a sudden, or—?”
“It was when that package tore,” sobbed Leanne, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Ron 
bent down, his hand outstretched, but Harry seized his arm and pulled him back.
“Don't touch it!”
He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper.
“I've seen that before,” said Harry, staring at the thing. “It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have touched 
it.” He looked up at Leanne, who had started to shake uncontrollably. “How did Katie get hold of this?”
“Well, that's why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to 
deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it... Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiused and I didn't realize!”
Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently.
“She didn't say who'd given it to her, Leanne?”
“No... she wouldn't tell me... and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn't listen and... and then I tried to grab it from 
her... and — and —”
Leanne let out a wail of despair.
“We'd better get up to school,” said Hermione, her arm still around Leanne. “We'll be able to find out how she is. Come on...”
Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron's gasp, carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up.
“We'll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey,” he said.
As they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road, Harry was thinking furiously. They had just entered the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his thoughts to himself 
any longer.
“Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad. 
This is what he was buying that day when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!”
“I—I dunno, Harry,” said Ron hesitantly. “Loads of people go to Borgin and Burke... and didn't that girl say Katie got it in the girls’ bathroom?”
“She said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn't necessarily get it in the bathroom itself—”
“McGonagall!” said Ron warningly.
Harry looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet them.
“Hagrid says you four saw what happened to Katie Bell—upstairs to my office at once, please! What's that you're holding, Potter?”
“It's the thing she touched,” said Harry.
“Good Lord,” said Professor McGonagall, looking alarmed as she took the necklace from Harry. “No, no, Filch, they're with me!” she added hastily, as Filch came 
shuffling eagerly across the entrance hall holding his Secrecy Sensor aloft. “Take this necklace to Professor Snape at once, but be sure not to touch it, keep it 
wrapped in the scarf!”
Harry and the others followed Professor McGonagall upstairs and into her office. The sleet-spattered windows were rattling in their frames, and the room was chilly 
despite the fire crackling in the grate. Professor McGonagall closed the door and swept around her desk to face Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the still sobbing Leanne.
“Well?” she said sharply. “What happened?”
Haltingly, and with many pauses while she attempted to control her crying, Leanne told Professor McGonagall how Katie had gone to the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks 
and returned holding the unmarked package, how Katie had seemed a little odd, and how they had argued about the advisability of agreeing to deliver unknown objects, the 
argument culminating in the tussle over the parcel, which tore open. At this point, Leanne was so overcome, there was no getting another word out of her.
“All right,” said Professor McGonagall, not unkindly, “go up to the hospital wing, please, Leanne, and get Madam Pomfrey to give you something for shock.”
When she had left the room, Professor McGonagall turned back to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
“What happened when Katie touched the necklace?”
“She rose up in the air,” said Harry, before either Ron or Hermione could speak, “and then began to scream, and collapsed. Professor, can I see Professor Dumbledore, 
please?”
“The Headmaster is away until Monday, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, looking surprised.
“Away?” Harry repeated angrily.
“Yes, Potter, away!” said Professor McGonagall tartly. “But anything you have to say about this horrible business can be said to me, I'm sure!”
For a split second, Harry hesitated. Professor McGonagall did not invite confidences; Dumbledore, though in many ways more intimidating, still seemed less likely to 
scorn a theory, however wild. This was a life-and-death matter, though, and no moment to worry about being laughed at.
“I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, Professor.”
On one side of him, Ron rubbed his nose in apparent embarrassment; on the other, Hermione shuffled her feet as though quite keen to put a bit of distance between 
herself and Harry.
“That is a very serious accusation, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall, after a shocked pause. “Do you have any proof?”
“No,” said Harry, “but...” and he told her about following Malfoy to Borgin and Burkes and the conversation they had overheard between him and Mr. Borgin.
When he had finished speaking, Professor McGonagall looked slightly confused.
“Malfoy took something to Borgin and Burkes for repair?”
“No, Professor, he just wanted Borgin to tell him how to mend something, he didn't have it with him. But that's not the point, the thing is that he bought something at 
the same time, and I think it was that necklace —”
“You saw Malfoy leaving the shop with a similar package?”
“No, Professor, he told Borgin to keep it in the shop for him —”
“But Harry,” Hermione interrupted, “Borgin asked him if he wanted to take it with him, and Malfoy said no —”
“Because he didn't want to touch it, obviously!” said Harry angrily.
“What he actually said was, ‘How would I look carrying that down the street?'” said Hermione.
“Well, he would look a bit of a prat carrying a necklace,” interjected Ron.
“Oh, Ron,” said Hermione despairingly, “it would be all wrapped up, so he wouldn't have to touch it, and quite easy to hide inside a cloak, so nobody would see it! I 
think whatever he reserved at Borgin and Burkes was noisy or bulky, something he knew would draw attention to him if he carried it down the street—and in any case,” 
she pressed on loudly, before Harry could interrupt, “I asked Borgin about the necklace, don't you remember? When I went in to try and find out what Malfoy had asked 
him to keep, I saw it there. And Borgin just told me the price, he didn't say it was already sold or anything —”
“Well, you were being really obvious, he realized what you were up to within about five seconds, of course he wasn't going to tell you—anyway, Malfoy could've sent 
off for it since —”
“That's enough!” said Professor McGonagall, as Hermione opened her mouth to retort, looking furious. “Potter, I appreciate you telling me this, but we cannot point 
the finger of blame at Mr. Malfoy purely because he visited the shop where this necklace might have been purchased. The same is probably true of hundreds of people —”
“— that's what I said —” muttered Ron.
“— and in any case, we have put stringent security measures in place this year. I do not believe that necklace can possibly have entered this school without our 
knowledge —”
“But —”
“— and what is more,” said Professor McGonagall, with an air of awful finality, “Mr. Malfoy was not in Hogsmeade today.”
Harry gaped at her, deflating.
“How do you know, Professor?”
“Because he was doing detention with me. He has now failed to complete his Transfiguration homework twice in a row. So, thank you for telling me your suspicions, 
Potter,” she said as she marched past them, “but I need to go up to the hospital wing now to check on Katie Bell. Good day to you all.”
She held open her office door. They had no choice but to file past her without another word.
Harry was angry with the other two for siding with McGonagall; nevertheless, he felt compelled to join in once they started discussing what had happened.
“So who do you reckon Katie was supposed to give the necklace to?” asked Ron, as they climbed the stairs to the common room.
“Goodness only knows,” said Hermione. “But whoever it was has had a narrow escape. No one could have opened that package without touching the necklace.”
“It could've been meant for loads of people,” said Harry. “Dumbledore—the Death Eaters would love to get rid of him, he must be one of their top targets. Or 
Slughorn — Dumbledore reckons Voldemort really wanted him and they can't be pleased that he's sided with Dumbledore. Or —”
“Or you,” said Hermione, looking troubled.
“Couldn't have been,” said Harry, “or Katie would've just turned around in the lane and given it to me, wouldn't she? I was behind her all the way out of the Three 
Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I wonder why Malfoy told 
her to take it into the castle?”
“Harry, Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!” said Hermione, actually stamping her foot in frustration.
“He must have used an accomplice, then,” said Harry. “Crabbe or Goyle—or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and 
Goyle now he's joined up —”
Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said, “There's no point arguing with him.”
“Dilligrout,” said Hermione firmly as they reached the Fat Lady.
The portrait swung open to admit them to the common room. It was quite full and smelled of damp clothing; many people seemed to have returned from Hogsmeade early 
because of the bad weather. There was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: clearly, the news of Katie's fate had not yet spread.
“It wasn't a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it,” said Ron, casually turfing a first year out of one of the good armchairs by the fire so 
that he could sit down. “The curse didn't even make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof.”
“You're right,” said Hermione, prodding Ron out of the chair with her foot and offering it to the first year again. “It wasn't very well thought-out at all.”
“But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's great thinkers?” asked Harry.
Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him.
邓布利多去哪儿了，他在做什么？在接下来的几周里，哈利只见过校长两次。他几乎不在用餐的时候出现了。哈利也相信了正如赫敏所说，他一走就是好几天。邓布利多是不是忘了要给哈利上
课？邓布利多说过他上的课和预言有关；哈利曾为此感到鼓舞和安慰，可他现在却有一点儿被抛弃的感觉。
 
　　十月中旬是本学期第一次去霍格莫德村度周末的日子。哈利有些疑惑，为什么现在还允许他们去霍格莫德，这无疑使得学校附近的安全防护措施变得更加严密，不过他还是很高兴能去；毕
竟走出城堡待几个小时还是令人愉快的一件事。
 
　　去霍格莫德那天哈利很早就醒了，外面风雨交加，哈利只好靠看《高级魔药制备》来打发早餐前的时间。他通常不会躺在床上看书；那种行为被罗恩认定为只有发生在赫敏身上才算正常，
因为她本来就那么古怪。不过话说回来，哈利觉得混血王子的这本《高级魔药制备》也不能算是一本合格的教科书。哈利越是钻研这本书，越是发现里面竟藏了那么多东西，不仅有能使他在斯
拉霍恩那儿赢得盛誉的魔药制作提示和方便的捷径，还有许多虚构出来的小咒语被胡乱地涂写在书的空白处，哈利敢肯定那是王子自己发明的，因为上面有许多删改之处。
 
　　哈利已经试验了几个王子发明的咒语。有一个咒语能使脚趾甲长得惊人的快（他已经在克拉布身上试过了，结果非常有趣）；还有一个咒语能让舌头粘着上颚（他已经两次对毫无戒备的费
尔奇用过了，博得了所有人的喝彩）；还有一个也许是最有用的咒语——悄声细语，能让附近任何人的耳朵里都充满了难以辨认的嗡嗡声，这样就可以在课堂上长时间地聊天而不被人听见。唯
一一个对此不感兴趣的人是赫敏，她自始至终都保持着坚决反对的表情，而且如果哈利对周围的人用了悄声细语咒，她就拒绝与他交谈。
 
　　哈利坐在床上，把书转了过来，以便更细致地查看书里一个潦草的咒语说明，这个咒语似乎让王子很伤脑筋。删除和改动了许多次，不过最终，在这一页的角落里，还是勉强塞进了几个潦
草的字：
 
　　轻身浮影（无声）
 
　　外面的风雨无情地敲打着窗子，纳威正在响亮地打着鼾，哈利盯着括号里的那几个字。无声……那一定是指无声咒语。哈利很是怀疑他能不能掌握这个咒语；他目前在无声咒语方面还有一
些困难，斯内普在每堂黑魔法防御术课上都讲得太快了。另一方面，就现在的情况看，王子已经证明了他是个比斯内普更好的老师。
 
　　他把魔杖漫无目的地轻轻往上一抖，在脑子里念了一句‘轻身浮影！’。
 
　　“啊——！”
 
　　一道光闪过，房子里充斥着叫声：罗恩的一声大叫把每个人都吵醒了。哈利惊慌地抛开《高级魔药制备》；罗恩被摇摇摆摆地倒挂了起来，仿佛有一只看不见的钩子把他的脚踝钩住了。
 
　　“对不起！”哈利大声说，迪安和西莫狂笑了起来，而纳威刚刚从床上掉下了地板，现在正重新站起来。“再挂一会儿——我马上就放你下来——”
 
　　他摸索着那本魔药书，惊慌失措地翻过到那一页；终于他找到了那句咒语，发现下面还挤着一行小字：哈利在心里默默地祈祷这就是解咒，拼命地想着‘现身释影！’。
 
　　又是一道闪光，罗恩又掉回到了床上。
 
　　“对不起，”哈利小声地重复着，而迪安和西莫仍在狂笑不止。
 
　　“明天，”罗恩含糊不清地说，“你来上闹钟好了。”
 
　　在他们穿好了衣服，套上几件韦斯莱夫人织的毛线衫，披着斗篷，戴上围巾和手套之后，罗恩的震惊已经消退了，他开始认定这是哈利的新咒语非常有趣；事实上，他们刚在早餐桌旁坐下
，罗恩就急不可待地和赫敏分享了这个故事。
 
　　“……然后又是一道闪光，我就回到床上了！“罗恩咧起嘴笑了，给自己又夹了几根香肠。
 
　　赫敏一直都没有笑，表情很冷漠，她不以为然地看着哈利。
 
　　“这个咒语，碰巧又是你那本魔药书里的？”她问。
 
　　哈利朝她皱了皱眉。
 
　　“你总要做出最坏的结论，是不是？”
 
　　“到底是不是？”
 
　　“嗯……没错，是的，那又怎么样？”
 
　　“于是你就想把这条未知的手写咒语试验一下，看看会发生什么？”
 
　　“它是手写的又怎么样？”哈利不愿意再回答剩下的问题了。
 
　　“因为它很可能没有经过魔法部的批准，”赫敏说。“而且，”她又加了一句，哈利和罗恩转了转眼珠，“因为我已经开始觉得王子这个人物有点危险。”
 
　　哈利和罗恩马上大叫着压下了她的话头。
 
　　“这是个玩笑！”把一瓶番茄酱倒在了他的香肠上。“只是一个玩笑，赫敏，那就是全部！”
 
　　“提着别人的脚踝让人倒挂起来？”赫敏说。“谁会花精力去发明那样的咒语？”
 
　　“弗雷德和乔治，”罗恩耸了耸肩，“这就是他们搞的那种玩意儿。而且，呃——”
 
　　“我爸爸，”哈利说。他刚刚想起来。
 
　　“什么？”罗恩和赫敏一同问道。
 
　　“我爸爸用过这个咒语，”哈利说。“我——卢平告诉我的。”
 
　　最后一句是谎话；实际上，哈利见过他父亲对斯内普使用这句咒语，可是他从来没有告诉过罗恩和赫敏自己在冥想盆里的经历。而现在他想到了一个美妙的可能性。这个混血王子会不会就
是——？
 
　　“也许你爸爸确实用过，哈利，”赫敏说，“但他不是唯一用过的。我们见过一群人用这个咒语，如果你没有忘记的话。把人们倒挂在空中。让还在睡梦中的他们无助地飘起来。”
 
　　哈利盯着她。他想起了魁地奇世界杯上食死徒们的所作所为，感到了一阵沉重。可罗恩帮他说话了。
 
　　“那不同，”他粗鲁地说。“他们那是乱用。哈利和他爸爸只是为了开玩笑。你不喜欢那个王子，赫敏，”他又接着说，用一根香肠严厉地指着赫敏，“就因为他的魔药课比你学得好——
”
 
　　“和那个没关系！”赫敏脸红了。“我只是觉得你们在不知道咒语有什么作用的时候就去施展它们，这样很不负责任，而且也别老‘王子’‘王子’的，好像他真是个王子似的，我敢打赌
那只不过是个愚蠢的诨名，而且我看他根本就不像是个好人！”
 
　　“我不知道你怎么会这样想，”哈利气愤地说，“如果他真是个食死徒苗子，他就不会夸耀自己的‘混血’了，不是吗？”
 
　　正巧在说这个的时候，哈利突然想到他的父亲是纯血统的，但他把这个想法抛到了九霄云外；现在没功夫考虑这个……
 
　　“食死徒不可能都是纯血统的，现在纯血统巫师剩得可不多了，”赫敏倔强地说。“我认为他们中的大多数都是混血的，只不过装作是纯血统而已。他们恨的只是麻瓜出身的人，你和罗恩
如果加入的话，都是他们欢迎的对象。”
 
　　“他们不可能让我成为食死徒！”罗恩愤怒地说，一小块香肠从罗恩正在挥舞的叉子上飞了出去，正好打中了厄尼·麦克米兰的脑袋。“我们全家都是血统背叛者！对食死徒来说这和麻瓜
出身的人一样可恨。”
 
　　“他们非常愿意要我，”哈利讽刺地说。“我们会成为最好的伙伴，如果他们不老想着要杀了我的话。”
 
　　罗恩大笑了起来；甚至赫敏勉强笑了笑，而金妮的到来终于让他们分了心。
 
　　“嘿，哈利，我是来把这个交给你的。”
 
　　那是一卷羊皮纸，上面用一种熟悉的纤细和倾斜的字体写着哈利的名字。
 
　　“谢谢，金妮……是邓布利多的下一堂课！”哈利告诉罗恩和赫敏，把羊皮纸展开来快速扫过里面的内容。“周一晚上！”他突然感觉到一阵轻松和幸福。“想和我们一起去霍格莫德吗，
金妮？”
 
　　“我和迪安一起去——也许在那儿会碰到你们，”她回答说，离开的时候向他们挥了挥手。
 
　　费尔奇和往常一样站在橡木大门那儿，检查着被允许前往霍格莫德村的人员名单。这个过程比从前更长了，因为费尔奇要用探密器把每个人搜查三遍。
 
　　“我们把黑魔法的东西带出去又有什么关系呢？”罗恩问，担心地盯着细长的探密器。“你肯定应该检查我们把什么带进来。”
 
　　他的脸蛋为此被探密器多捅了几下，当他们出发往狂风暴雨之中走去时，他还显得有些畏畏缩缩。
 
　　去霍格莫德的路上并不令人感到享受。哈利用围巾包住了脸的下半部分；而露出的部分马上就冻麻了。通往村子的路上全是为了躲避刺骨的寒风而几乎把身子对折起来的学生。哈利不止一
次地怀念起公共休息室的温暖时光，而当他们终于到达霍格莫德村时，却发现佐科笑话店被木条封了起来，哈利把它视作了这趟旅程不会太有趣的证明。罗恩戴着厚厚的手套指了指蜂蜜公爵（
还仁慈地开着），于是哈利和赫敏步履蹒跚地尾随罗恩走进了人头攒动的小店。
 
　　“感谢上帝，”罗恩在温暖、带着太妃糖香味的空气中发着抖。“我们一下午都待在这儿吧。”
 
　　“哈利，我的孩子！”一个隆隆的声音从他们身后传来。
 
　　“哦，不，”哈利咕哝道。他们三个转过身来，看见了斯拉霍恩教授，他戴着一顶巨大的毛皮帽，穿着一身配套的毛皮大衣，手里抓着一大包菠萝蜜饯，一个人占据了屋子里四分之一的空
间。
 
　　“哈利，你已经错过我的三顿晚餐了哦！”斯拉霍恩亲切地戳着哈利的胸膛。“这可不行，我的孩子，我下了决心一定要请到你！格兰杰小姐喜欢他们，是不是？”
 
　　“是啊，”赫敏无奈地说，“他们真是——”
 
　　“那你为什么不一起来呢，哈利？”斯拉霍恩问。
 
　　“嗯，我有魁地奇训练，教授，”实际上每当斯拉霍恩派人送来用紫色缎带系着的邀请信时，哈利就会安排魁地奇训练。这个策略使得他不用抛下罗恩，而且他们俩常常和金妮一起想象赫
敏与麦克拉根、沙比尼大眼瞪小眼的样子，然后哈哈大笑。
 
　　“嗯，我相信在这么努力地训练之后你们一定能赢得第一场比赛！”斯拉霍恩说。“可是来一次小小的消遣也无妨啊。那么，星期一晚上怎么样，你无论如何也不会想在这样的天气里训练
吧……”
 
　　“不行，教授，我已经——呃——和邓布利多教授约定了那天晚上见面。”
 
　　“又不走运！”斯拉霍恩引人注目地叫了一声。“啊，好吧……你不可能永远躲着我，哈利！”
 
　　他气派地挥了挥手，摇摇摆摆地走出了商店，一眼也没有看罗恩，仿佛他是陈列在旁边的蟑螂团子。
 
　　“真不敢相信你又逃脱了一次，”赫敏摇着头说。“他们没那么坏……有时还很有趣……”但她捕捉到了罗恩的眼神。“哦，看——这儿有豪华装的糖羽毛笔——可以持续几个小时！”
 
　　哈利很高兴地看到赫敏转换了话题，他假装对新式的超大型糖羽毛笔产生了浓厚的兴趣，而罗恩却还是闷闷不乐，赫敏问他接下来想去哪儿时，他只是耸了耸肩。
 
　　“我们去三把扫帚吧，”哈利说。“那里会很暖和。”
 
　　他们又用围巾把脸包住，走出了这家糖果店。离开了蜂蜜公爵甜蜜的温暖，刺骨的寒风又像刀子一样刮在了他们脸上。街上人不太多；没有人在闲聊，都埋着头只顾着走路。但有两个例外
，就在他们前面不远的地方，两个男人站在三把扫帚酒吧的门口。其中一个又高又瘦；斜眼盯着他手中被雨水冲刷的玻璃杯，哈利认出了他就是霍格莫德另一家酒吧——猪头酒吧的招待员。哈
利、罗恩和赫敏一走近，那个招待员就把斗篷往脖子上拉了拉走开了，剩下了那个矮一点的男人笨手笨脚在地上摸索着什么东西。走到还有几英尺的时候哈利把他认了出来。
 
　　“蒙顿格斯！”
 
　　这个蹲着的男人长着一头蓬乱的姜黄色头发，他猛地跳了起来，一只老式的手提箱掉了出来，摔在地上打开了，散落出整整一套看上去像是旧货商店里的东西。
 
　　“哦，你好，哈利，”蒙顿格斯·弗莱奇用一种不那么令人信服的轻松口气说。“嗯，我不打扰你们了。”
 
　　他开始在地上胡乱抓起地上的东西塞进手提箱，整个儿一副急着要走的样子。
 
　　“你在卖这些东西？”哈利问，看着蒙顿格斯从地上抓起那些看起来很脏的物品。
 
　　“哦，嗯，混口饭吃，”蒙顿格斯说。“把那个给我！”
 
　　罗恩刚刚弯下腰捡起了一件银器。
 
　　“等等，”罗恩慢慢地说。“这个看起来很眼熟——”
 
　　“谢谢你！”蒙顿格斯从罗恩手中夺过了那只高脚杯，把它塞进了手提箱。“好了，各位再见——哎哟！”
 
　　哈利抓住蒙顿格斯的喉咙把他顶到了酒吧的墙上。一手摁着他，另一只手抽出了魔杖。
 
　　“哈利！”赫敏尖叫了一声。
 
　　“你从小天狼星的房子里拿的，”哈利说，他和蒙顿格斯面对着面，闻到了一股不舒服的陈年烟草和酒精的气味。“那上面还有布莱克家族的纹章。”
 
　　“我——没有——什么——？”蒙顿格斯语无伦次地说，脸渐渐变成了紫色。
 
　　“你做了什么，他死的那晚回去把那地方洗劫一空？”
 
　　“我——没有——”
 
　　“把它给我！”
 
　　“哈利，你不能！”赫敏尖叫着，蒙顿格斯的脸开始变蓝了。
 
　　砰的一声，哈利觉得自己的手脱离了蒙顿格斯的喉咙。蒙顿格斯喘着粗气抓起地上的箱子，然后——啪的一声——他幻影移形了。
 
　　哈利用他最大的声音咒骂着，立即飞奔过去看蒙顿格斯往哪儿跑了。
 
　　“回来，你这个小偷——！”
 
　　“没用的，哈利。”
 
　　唐克斯不知从什么地方冒了出来，她灰褐色的头发被雨水淋湿了。
 
　　“蒙顿格斯说不定都已经到伦敦了。叫也没用。”
 
　　“他偷了小天狼星的东西！偷的！”
 
　　“是的，不过，”唐克斯看上去一点儿都不为这个消息着急，“别待在这儿，太冷了。”
 
　　她看着他们三个尽了三把扫帚的门。哈利一进门就嚷道，“他在偷小天狼星的东西！”
 
　　“我知道，哈利，但是请别叫了，大伙都看着呢，”赫敏小声说。“去找个地儿坐下来，我去买点儿饮料。”
 
　　赫敏拿着三杯黄油啤酒回来的时候，哈利仍在忿忿不平。
 
　　“凤凰社就管不住蒙顿格斯吗？”哈利狂暴地低声对他们俩说。“他们连最起码的不让他在指挥部顺手牵羊都做不到吗？”
 
　　“嘘！”赫敏绝望地说。她朝四周望了望，看有没有人听到；有坐在附近几个巫师正感兴趣地盯着哈利，而沙比尼正懒洋洋地靠在不远的一根柱子上。“哈利，我也很生气，我知道他偷的
那些东西是你的——”
 
　　哈利呛了一口黄油啤酒；他一时忘记了自己是格里莫广场12号的主人。
 
　　“是啊，那是我的东西！”他说。“难怪他不愿意见到我！好，我要去告诉邓布利多，他是唯一震得住蒙顿格斯的人。”
 
　　“好主意，”赫敏悄声说，明显在为哈利能平静下来感到高兴。“罗恩，你在盯着谁看？”
 
　　“没看谁，”罗恩赶紧把目光从吧台移了回来，不过哈利知道他刚才在试图吸引老板娘罗斯默塔女士的注意，她是个身材姣好、长相迷人的女人，罗恩一直对她怀有好感。
 
　　“我想你那个‘没看谁’正在后面拿热火威士忌吧，”赫敏尖刻地说。
 
　　罗恩没有理会她的嘲笑，而是啜饮起了饮料，他显然觉得这样的安静很有风度。哈利还在想小天狼星，想着他从前是多么恨那些银质高脚杯。赫敏敲着桌子，眼睛在罗恩和吧台之间游移。
 
　　哈利刚喝完杯子里的最后一滴酒，赫敏就说，“今天就到此为止吧，我们回学校去？”
 
　　另外两个点了点头；这不是一次愉快的出行，而且他们待得越久，天气就变得越糟糕。他们又把斗篷紧了紧，重新系好围巾，戴好了手套；然后跟在凯蒂·贝尔和她的一个朋友后面走出了
酒吧，回到了大路上。他们踩着地上的冻雪往回跋涉，哈利的思绪飘到了金妮身上。他们没有碰到她，哈利想，毫无疑问是因为她和迪安正惬意地躲在帕笛芙茶馆里，那个幸福伴侣们经常光顾
的地方。他皱起了眉，在打着旋的雨夹雪里垂下脑袋接着往前走。
 
　　过了一会儿哈利才听到凯蒂·贝尔和她朋友的声音，她们的声音变得越来越尖，越来越大，顺着风传到了哈利耳边。哈利眯起眼看着那两个模糊的身影。两个女孩正在争论着什么，好像和
凯蒂手上握着的东西有关。
 
　　“这和你没关系，琳恩！”哈利听到凯蒂说。
 
　　她们拐进了一条小巷，雨夹雪越来越大，把哈利的眼镜弄得模糊不清。就在他刚举起一只戴着手套的手来擦拭眼镜片时，琳恩一把抢过凯蒂的包裹；凯蒂往回一扯，包裹掉在了地上。
 
　　就在此时，凯蒂升到了空中，不是像罗恩那样滑稽地倒挂着，而是非常优雅缓慢，她的手伸展开来，就像要飞起来似的。然而似乎有什么不对劲，有些奇怪……她的头发被狂风吹起，但是
眼睛却闭上了，脸上没有任何表情。哈利、罗恩、赫敏和琳恩都僵在那儿，注视着她。
 
　　随后，凯蒂在离地面六英尺的半空中恐怖地尖叫了起来。她睁开了眼睛，但很明显她看到和感觉到的一切都令她异常痛苦。她不断地尖叫着；琳恩也开始尖叫了，她拉着凯蒂的脚踝，试图
把她拽回地面。哈利、罗恩和赫敏冲上去帮忙，可是他们刚一碰到凯蒂的腿，她就飘到了他们头顶上，哈利和罗恩试图抱住她，可是她扭动得那么厉害，根本不可能控制住。他们转而把她降到
了地面上，她躺在那里又叫又闹，俨然已经不认识他们中的任何人了。
 
　　哈利向四周看了看；似乎没有人。
 
　　“待在这儿！”他在呼啸的狂风中冲其他人喊道。“我去找人来帮忙！”
 
　　他朝学校的方向跑去；他从来没有见过谁有过凯蒂那样的症状，也想不出是什么导致的这一切；他飞速地拐过巷子，却感觉像是撞到了一只巨熊的后腿上。
 
　　“海格！”哈利喘着气，从旁边的灌木篱墙里爬起来。
 
　　“哈利！”海格眉毛和胡子上都堆满了雪，穿着那件粗糙的海狸皮大衣。“刚去看了格洛普，他过得真不错，你都不会——”
 
　　“海格，那儿有人受伤了，或者被咒语攻击了，或者别的什么——”
 
　　“什么？”海格说，他弯下腰试图在狂风中听清楚哈利说的话。
 
　　“有人被咒语攻击了！”哈利吼道。
 
　　“被咒语攻击了？谁被咒语攻击——不是罗恩吧？赫敏？”
 
　　“不是，不是他们俩，是凯蒂·贝尔——这边……”
 
　　他们一起沿着小巷往回跑。不一会儿就发现了他们三个围着凯蒂，她仍在地上扭动和尖叫；罗恩、赫敏和琳恩正试图让她安静下来。
 
　　“往后退！”海格大声说。“让我看看她！”
 
　　“她中了什么东西！”琳恩呜咽着。“我不知道是什么——”
 
　　海格盯着凯蒂看了一秒，然后一句话也没说就把她抱了起来朝城堡跑去。几秒钟之后，凯蒂刺耳的尖叫就消散在了怒吼的狂风之中。
 
　　赫敏快步走向凯蒂的朋友，她还在嚎啕大哭，赫敏用一只胳臂搂住了她。
 
　　“你叫琳恩，是吧？”
 
　　那个女生点了点头。
 
　　“刚才的事是突然发生的，还是——？”
 
　　“是那个包裹被撕开的时候，”琳恩抽泣着指向了那个已经浸湿的棕色包裹，那包裹已经裂开了，里面透出了绿色的光芒。罗恩弯下腰伸出了手，但哈利把他的手拉了回来。
 
　　“别碰它。”
 
　　他蹲下身子。一串精美的蛋白石项链从包装纸里露了出来。
 
　　“我以前见过这个，”哈利盯着那东西。“几年前博金－博克店曾经把它拿出来展示过。上面的标签说这条项链被诅咒了。凯蒂一定是碰了它。”他抬头看了看琳恩，她开始不由自主地颤
抖。“凯蒂怎么得到这个的？”
 
　　“嗯，那就是我们刚才争论的内容。她从三把扫帚的盥洗室出来时就拿着这个，还说这是给霍格沃茨里某个人的惊喜，她要亲自送过去。她说的时候样子很怪……不，哦，不，我敢打赌她
一定是被夺魂咒控制了，我刚才没有意识到！”
 
　　琳恩又重新抽泣起来。赫敏温柔地拍了拍她的肩。
 
　　“她没有告诉你给她这个包裹的是谁吗，琳恩？”
 
　　“没有……她不肯告诉我……我就说她太愚蠢了，让她别把这个带到学校，可是她就是不听……然后我想抢过来……然后——然后——”琳恩绝望地大哭了起来。
 
　　“我们最好快点回学校，”赫敏仍搂着琳恩，“这样就能知道她怎么样了。来吧……”
 
　　哈利犹豫了片刻，把围巾扯了下来，不顾罗恩的惊呼，小心地把项链裹在围巾里，然后捡了起来。
 
　　“我们得把这个给庞弗雷夫人看看，”他说。
 
　　他们跟在赫敏和琳恩后面往学校走去，哈利的脑子转得飞快。当他们走到学校的操场时，他终于忍不住说出了自己的想法。
 
　　“马尔福一定知道这条项链。四年前它就被放在博金－博克店的小盒子里，我躲起来的时候见他仔细地观察了那条项链。这就是他在我们跟踪他那天买的东西！他还记得这东西，回来把它
买走了。”
 
　　“我——我不知道，哈利，”罗恩吞吞吐吐地说。“许多人都去过博金－博克……而且那个女孩儿不是说凯蒂是在盥洗室发现它的吗？”
 
　　“她说她从盥洗室回来的时候就拿着它，她又不一定是在盥洗室拿到的——”
 
　　“麦格！”罗恩警告他说。
 
　　哈利抬头看去。果然麦格教授快步走下石阶，在打着旋的风雪里朝他们走过来。
 
　　“海格说你们四个看到凯蒂·贝尔出事的过程了——请马上到我的办公室来！你拿着什么，波特？”
 
　　“是她碰过的东西，”哈利说。
 
　　“天哪，”麦格教授看上去非常惊恐，她从哈利手中接过项链。“不，不，费尔奇，他们要跟着我！”看到费尔奇高高举着他的探密器从门厅那边急切地冲过来，麦格教授赶紧说。“把这
串项链马上送到斯内普教授那儿，千万不要碰它，一定要让它包在围巾里面！”
 
　　哈利他们跟着麦格教授上楼去她的办公室。溅满雨雪的窗户不断地嘎吱作响，屋子里虽然生了火，但还是很冷。麦格教授关上了门，走到她的办公桌前，面对着哈利、罗恩、赫敏和还在抽
抽答答的琳恩。
 
　　“那么？”她锐利地说。“发生了什么？”
 
　　琳恩试图控制住她的哭泣，她断断续续地告诉了麦格教授凯蒂是如何从三把扫帚的盥洗室出来，手里还拿着一个没有记号的包裹，凯蒂看起来如何怪，还有她们如何争论帮人传递未知物品
是不是明智，后来她们的争论演变成了对包裹的争夺，最后包裹被撕开了。说到这里，琳恩再也无法控制自己，她一个字都说不出来了。
 
　　“好吧，”麦格教授温和地说，“请去一趟校医院吧，琳恩，让庞弗雷夫人给你一些治疗惊吓的药。”
 
　　琳恩离开办公室后，麦格教授又转过身来看着哈利、罗恩和赫敏。
 
　　“凯蒂碰到那串项链后发生了什么？”
 
　　“她升到了空中，”哈利抢在罗恩和赫敏前面说。“然后开始尖叫，整个儿崩溃了。教授，请问我能见见邓布利多教授吗？”
 
　　“校长不在，周一才能回来，波特，”麦格教授看起来很惊讶。
 
　　“不在？”哈利愤怒地重复道。
 
　　“是的，波特，不在！”麦格教授尖刻地说。“不过我敢肯定你要是对这件可怕的事有什么想法，都可以跟我说！”
 
　　哈利犹豫了一瞬间。在麦格教授面前他不太自信；邓布利多虽然在很多方面都更令人害怕，但他似乎不太可能嘲笑别人的看法，不管那个看法有多疯狂。不过这是件生死攸关的大事，哈利
也顾不得被嘲笑了。
 
　　“我认为那串项链是德拉科·马尔福交给凯蒂的，教授。”
 
　　站在他旁边的罗恩揉了揉鼻子，显得很尴尬；站在另一边的赫敏把脚往边上挪了挪，仿佛要同哈利保持一定的距离。
 
　　“那是个非常严重的指控，波特，”麦格教授震惊地顿了顿，说。“你有什么证据吗？”
 
　　“没有，”哈利说，“可是……”他告诉了麦格教授他们跟踪马尔福到博金－博克店的事，还有他们偷听到的他和博金之间的谈话。
 
　　他说完这些之后，麦格教授看上去有些困惑。
 
　　“马尔福带了一些东西去博金－博克店修？”
 
　　“不是，教授，他只是想要博金告诉他怎么修那东西，他没有带上它。可这不是关键，问题是他同时还买了什么东西，我觉
Chapter 13 The Secret Riddle
Katie was removed to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the 
school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie herself had not been the intended target.
“Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course,” said Harry to Ron and Hermione, who continued their new policy of feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his Malfoy-Is-a-Death
-Eater theory.
Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night's lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, he presented 
himself outside Dumbledore's office at eight o'clock, knocked, and was told to enter. There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as 
ever, but he smiled when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.
“You have had a busy time while I have been away,” Dumbledore said. “I believe you witnessed Katie's accident.”
“Yes, sir. How is she?”
“Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin; there was a tiny hole in her 
glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a 
rapid spread of the curse —”
“Why him?” asked Harry quickly. “Why not Madam Pomfrey?”
“Impertinent,” said a soft voice from one of the portraits on the wall, and Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great-grandfather, raised his head from his arms 
where he had appeared to be sleeping. “I would not have permitted a student to question the way Hogwarts operated in my day.”
“Yes, thank you, Phineas,” said Dumbledore quellingly. “Professor Snape knows much more about the Dark Arts than Madam Pomfrey, Harry. Anyway, the St. Mungo's staff 
are sending me hourly reports, and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery in time.”
“Where were you this weekend, sir?” Harry asked, disregarding a strong feeling that he might be pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by Phineas Nigellus, who 
hissed softly.
“I would rather not say just now,” said Dumbledore. “However, I shall tell you in due course.”
“You will?” said Harry, startled.
“Yes, I expect so,” said Dumbledore, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand.
“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “I met Mundungus in Hogsmeade.”
“Ah yes, I am already aware that Mundungus has been treating your inheritance with light-fingered contempt,” said Dumbledore, frowning a little. “He has gone to 
ground since you accosted him outside the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads facing me. However, rest assured that he will not be making away with any more of 
Sirius's old possessions.”
“That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black heirlooms?” said Phineas Nigellus, incensed; and he stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his portrait in 
number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
“Professor,” said Harry, after a short pause, “did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?”
“She told me of your suspicions, yes,” said Dumbledore.
“And do you—?”
“I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie's accident,” said Dumbledore. “But what concerns me now, Harry, is 
our lesson.”
Harry felt slightly resentful at this: if their lessons were so very important, why had there been such a long gap between the first and second? However, he said no 
more about Draco Malfoy, but watched as Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered 
hands.
“You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, 
Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort.”
“How do you know she was in London, sir?”
“Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke,” said Dumbledore, “who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just 
been discussing.”
He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had seen him swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a 
little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.
“Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, 
well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along... going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of 
story all the time, ‘Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favorite teapot,’ but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to 
tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain 
we ever made!”
Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.
“He only gave her ten Galleons?” said Harry indignantly.
“Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity,” said Dumbledore. “So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate 
need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo's treasured family heirlooms.”
“But she could do magic!” said Harry impatiently. “She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn't she?”
“Ah,” said Dumbledore, “perhaps she could. But it is my belief—I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right—that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped 
using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of 
her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.”
“She wouldn't even stay alive for her son?”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.
“Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?”
“No,” said Harry quickly, “but she had a choice, didn't she, not like my mother —”
“Your mother had a choice too,” said Dumbledore gently. “Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. 
She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother's courage. And now, if you will stand ...”
“Where are we going?” Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk.
“This time,” said Dumbledore, “we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry ...”
Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again... Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; 
he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.
“There I am,” said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart.
This younger Albus Dumbledore's long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances 
due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.
“Nice suit, sir,” said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through 
a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door 
and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.
“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?”
“Oh,” said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. “Um... just a mo... MRS. COLE!” she bellowed over her shoulder.
Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore.
“Come in, she's on ‘er way.”
Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front 
door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she 
was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore.
“... and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets—chicken pox on top of everything 
else,” she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just 
crossed her threshold.
“Good afternoon,” said Dumbledore, holding out his hand.
Mrs. Cole simply gaped.
“My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.”
Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, “Oh yes. Well—well then—you'd better come into my room. Yes.”
She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited 
Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.
“I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said Dumbledore.
“Are you family?” asked Mrs. Cole.
“No, I am a teacher,” said Dumbledore. “I have come to offer Tom a place at my school.”
“What school's this, then?”
“It is called Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.
“And how come you're interested in Tom?”
“We believe he has qualities we are looking for.”
“You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one.”
“Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —”
“Who registered him? His parents?”
There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his 
velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole's desktop.
“Here,” said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make everything clear.”
Mrs. Cole's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.
“That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few 
seconds before.
“Er—may I offer you a glass of gin?” she said in an extra-refined voice.
“Thank you very much,” said Dumbledore, beaming.
It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking 
her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn't hesitate to press his advantage.
“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?”
“That's right,” said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold, 
snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her 
in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.”
Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.
“Did she say anything before she died?” asked Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy's father, for instance?”
“Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs. Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I 
remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be 
named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy's surname 
was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.
“Well, we named him just as she'd said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any 
family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since.”
Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absent-mindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, “He's a funny 
boy.”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.”
“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was... odd.”
“Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently.
“Well, he —”
But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass.
“He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?”
“Definitely,” said Dumbledore.
“And nothing I say can change that?”
“Nothing,” said Dumbledore.
“You'll be taking him away, whatever?”
“Whatever,” repeated Dumbledore gravely.
She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the other children.
”
“You mean he is a bully?” asked Dumbledore.
“I think he must be,” said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, “but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents... nasty things ...”
Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.
“Billy Stubbs's rabbit... well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?”
“I shouldn't think so, no,” said Dumbledore quietly.
“But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then—"Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping 
a little over her chin this time, “on the summer outing—we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside—well, Amy Benson and Dennis 
Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but 
something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things...”
She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady.
“I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him.”
“You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?” said Dumbledore. “He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer.”
“Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker,” said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that 
she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. “I suppose you'd like to see him?”
“Very much,” said Dumbledore, rising too.
She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all 
wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.
“Here we are,” said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.
“Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you—well, I'll let him do it.”
Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron 
bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.
There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish: he was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, 
and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.
“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.
The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital 
patient and visitor.
“I am Professor Dumbledore.”
“'Professor'?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”
He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.
“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.
“I don't believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!”
He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had 
widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if 
anything, warier still.
“Who are you?”
“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would 
like to come.”
Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.
“You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course—well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the 
asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!
“I am not from the asylum,” said Dumbledore patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would 
rather not come to the school, nobody will force you —”
“I'd like to see them try,” sneered Riddle.
“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle's last words, “is a school for people with special abilities —”
“I'm not mad!”
“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”
There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one 
of them lying.
“Magic?” he repeated in a whisper.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore.
“It's... it's magic, what I can do?”
“What is it that you can do?”
“All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “I can make things move without touching them. 
I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”
His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.
“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”
“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.”
Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: there was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his 
finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.
“Are you a wizard too?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Prove it,” said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, “Tell the truth.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—”
“Of course I am!”
“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.'”
Riddle's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you 
show me—?”
Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were 
currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit 
jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.
The wardrobe burst into flames.
Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on 
Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.
Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. “Where can I get one of them?”
“All in good time,” said Dumbledore. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.”
And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened.
“Open the door,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking 
and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it.
“Take it out,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved.
“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore.
Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an expressionless voice.
“Open it,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small, 
everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin 
blankets.
“You will return them to their owners with your apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has been done. 
And be warned: thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.”
Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, “Yes, sir.”
“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that 
is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that 
Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in 
entering our world, they abide by our laws.”
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle again.
It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had 
finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, “I haven't got any money.”
“That is easily remedied,” said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books 
and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —”
“Where do you buy spellbooks?” interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.
“In Diagon Alley,” said Dumbledore. “I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything —”
“You're coming with me?” asked Riddle, looking up.
“Certainly, if you —”
“I don't need you,” said Riddle. “I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?” he 
added, catching Dumbledore's eye.
Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of 
equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, “You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—
non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name —”
Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.
“You dislike the name ‘Tom'?”
“There are a lot of Toms,” muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, “Was my 
father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me.”
“I'm afraid I don't know,” said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.
“My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died,” said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. “It must've been him. So—when I've got all my stuff— 
when do I come to this Hogwarts?”
“All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope,” said Dumbledore. “You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There 
is a train ticket in there too.”
Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, “I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on 
trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”
Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress.
“It is unusual,” said Dumbledore, after a moment's hesitation, “but not unheard of.”
His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; 
Dumbledore was at the door.
“Goodbye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.”
“I think that will do,” said the white-haired Dumbledore at Harry's side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing 
squarely in the present-day office.
“Sit down,” said Dumbledore, landing beside Harry.
Harry obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just seen.
“He believed it much quicker than I did—I mean, when you told him he was a wizard,” said Harry. “I didn't believe Hagrid at first, when he told me.”
“Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was—to use his word—'special,'” said Dumbledore.
“Did you know—then?” asked Harry.
“Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?” said Dumbledore. “No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I 
was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and 
friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his.
“His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and—most interestingly and ominously of all—he had already discovered that he had 
some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: he was already 
using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were 
most suggestive... I can make them hurt if I want to...”
“And he was a Parselmouth,” interjected Harry.
“Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, 
his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination.
“Time is making fools of us again,” said Dumbledore, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. “But before we part, I want to draw your attention to certain 
features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings.
“Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle's reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, ‘Tom'?”
Harry nodded.
“There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. 
He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of ‘Lord Voldemort’ behind which he has been hidden for so long.
“I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his 
trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, 
that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one.
“And lastly... I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry—the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had 
hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-
like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later.
“And now, it really is time for bed.”
Harry got to his feet. As he walked across the room, his eyes fell upon the little table on which Marvolo Gaunt's ring had rested last time, but the ring was no longer 
there.
“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore, for Harry had come to a halt.
“The ring's gone,” said Harry, looking around. “But I thought I you might have the mouth organ or something.”
Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
“Very astute, Harry, but the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ.”
And on that enigmatic note he waved to Harry, who understood himself to be dismissed.
凯蒂第二天就被送往了圣芒戈魔法伤病医院，这时她被咒语攻击的消息已经传遍了全校，不过传闻的细节含糊不清，似乎除了哈利、罗恩、赫敏和琳恩，没人知道凯蒂并不是那个诅咒预期的目
标。
 
　　“哦，马尔福当然也知道，”哈利对罗恩和赫敏说，他们俩继续对哈利提出的马尔福是食死徒的理论采取装聋作哑的策略。
 
　　哈利一直怀疑邓布利多不能及时赶回来上周一的课，不过既然没有收到不上课的通知，他还是在八点整准时到了邓布利多办公室的门口，敲了敲门，然后被叫了进去。邓布利多在那儿坐着
，看上去很是疲惫；他的手依旧是那副烧得很黑的模样，不过他做手势让哈利坐下时，还是露出了微笑。冥想盆又被摆到了桌子上，在天花板上映出了点点银光。
 
　　“我不在的这段时间你挺忙的吧，”邓布利多说。“我想你目击了凯蒂的意外。”
 
　　“是的，教授。她怎么样了？”
 
　　“还是不太好，不过相对来说她已经很幸运了。看来她只是皮肤的一小块擦到了那串项链：她手套上有个小洞。如果她把项链戴上，或者只是用没有戴手套的手拿着项链，那她就死定了，
也许当场就没命了。幸运的是斯内普教授有能力阻止这个诅咒的快速蔓延——”
 
　　“为什么是他？”哈利迅速问。“为什么不是庞弗雷夫人？”
 
　　“放肆，”一个懒洋洋的声音从墙上的一幅画像里传了出来，菲尼亚斯·奈杰勒斯·布莱克，小天狼星的曾曾祖父从他的臂弯中抬起头，他刚才正在装睡。“我管理霍格沃茨的时候，绝不
会让一个学生用这种口气提问。”
 
　　“是的，谢谢你，菲尼亚斯，”邓布利多安抚他说。“斯内普教授在黑魔法方面比庞弗雷夫人懂的更多，哈利。而且，圣芒戈那边的人每小时就送一份报告过来，我对凯蒂不久就能痊愈持
乐观态度。”
 
　　“这个周末你去哪儿了，教授？”哈利抑止住他在撞大运的强烈感觉问道，菲尼亚斯轻轻地发出了一阵嘘声，显然他和哈利的感觉一样。
 
　　“我现在不愿意说，”邓布利多说。“不过，我会在适当的时候告诉你。”
 
　　“你会告诉我？”哈利大吃一惊。
 
　　“是啊，我想会的，”邓布利多从袍子里取出一个装着新的银色记忆的瓶子，用魔杖戳了戳，塞子被拔掉了。
 
　　“教授，”哈利试探地说，“我在霍格莫德遇到蒙顿格斯了。”
 
　　“啊，是的，我已经知道蒙顿格斯在你继承的宅子里偷了东西，”邓布利多微微皱起了眉头。“自从在三把扫帚遇见你之后，他就躲了起来；我相信他是害怕见我。不过请放心，他不会再
从小天狼星的老房子里偷走任何东西了。”
 
　　“那个卑鄙的老杂种偷走了布莱克家族的宝贝？”菲尼亚斯·奈杰勒斯愤怒地说；他怒气冲冲地走出了像框，毫无疑问是拜访他在格里莫广场12号的那幅画像去了。
 
　　“教授，”哈利短暂地停了一下，接着说，“麦格教授有没有告诉你凯蒂受伤之后我跟她说的那些话？关于德拉科·马尔福的？”
 
　　“她跟我说了你的怀疑，是的，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“那么你认为——”
 
　　“我会采取所有适当的措施来调查每一个与凯蒂的意外有关的人，”邓布利多说。“不过我现在关心的，哈利，是我们的课程。”
 
　　哈利对此感到有些忿忿不平：如果他们的课程这么重要，那为什么两次课之间要间隔那么长的时间呢？不过，他还是没有再提德拉科·马尔福了，只是看着邓布利多把新的记忆倒进了冥想
盆里，又一次用长长的手指搅动起这个石盆。
 
　　“你一定还记得上次我们关于伏地魔发迹的故事已经讲到了哪儿，英俊的麻瓜汤姆·里德尔抛弃了她的巫师妻子梅洛，回到了小汉格顿的家乡。梅洛一个人留在了伦敦，怀着将来会成为伏
地魔的那个孩子。”
 
　　“你怎么知道她在伦敦呢，教授？”
 
　　“根据卡拉塔库斯·伯克提供的证据，”邓布利多说，“他机缘巧合地助我们找到了拥有那串项链的商店，就是我们刚才谈论的那一串。”
 
　　他和从前一样搅动着冥想盆里的东西，就像一个淘金者正在筛出金子。冥想盆里的银色漩涡之中冒出了一个缓缓旋转的小老头，银白色的他看上去就像鬼魂，可是比鬼魂更实在，他浓密的
头发完全遮住了眼睛。
 
　　“是啊，我们是在一个奇怪的情况下得到的。它是被一个年轻的女巫带来的，那时候刚巧要过圣诞节了，哦，当然是很多年以前了。她说她极度需要金子，嗯，那是很显然的。穿着破衣服
，从很远的地方来……还要生孩子了。她说那个盒式坠子是斯莱特林的东西。嗯，我们总是听人这么说，‘哦，这个是梅林的东西，这个是他最喜欢的茶壶，’不过在我们检查了它之后，却发
现上面真的有斯莱特林的标记，只要用几个简单的咒语就能知道真相。当然了，那几乎是无价之宝。她似乎并不知道这个东西值多少钱。很乐意地换了十个加隆。这是我们做过的最划算的一笔
买卖。”
 
　　邓布利多又特别用力地摇了摇冥想盆，卡拉塔库斯·伯克沉入了记忆的涡流之中。
 
　　“他只给了她十个加隆？”哈利愤怒地说。
 
　　“卡拉塔库斯·伯克并不慷慨，”邓布利多说。“于是我们知道，在她怀孕的最后日子里，梅洛孤苦伶仃地待在伦敦，她极度地需要金子，以至于卖掉了自己身上仅有的一件值钱的财物，
那个金盒子，马沃罗珍藏的传家宝。
 
　　“可是她会魔法啊！”哈利急不可待地说。“她可以用魔法找到食物和一切她想要的东西，不是吗？”
 
　　“啊，”邓布利多说，“也许她可以。不过我相信——这又是猜测了，不过我确信我是对的——她被丈夫抛弃之后，就不再用魔法了。我认为她不想再做女巫了。当然也可能是没有回报的
爱情和接踵而至的绝望榨干了她的力量；这有可能会发生。不管怎样，她直到自己生命垂危的时候也不愿意再举起魔杖了。”
 
　　“她甚至也不愿意为了自己的儿子活着吗？”
 
　　邓布利多扬起了眉毛。
 
　　“你不会是同情伏地魔了吧？”
 
　　“不是，”哈利迅速说，“可是她有得选择，是不是，不像我的妈妈——”
 
　　“你的妈妈也有得选择，”邓布利多温和地说。“是的，梅洛·里德尔不顾一个需要她的儿子而选择了死亡，可是不要对她太苛刻了，哈利。她已经受了那么长时间的苦，从来没有你妈妈
那样的勇气。那么现在，请站起来……”
 
　　“我们要去哪儿？”哈利问，这时邓布利多也走到了桌子前面和哈利站在一块儿。
 
　　“这一次，”邓布利多说，“我们要进入我的记忆。我想你会发现丰富的细节，并会满意与它的准确性。我跟在你后面，哈利……”
 
　　哈利朝冥想盆弯下了腰；他的脸浸入了冰凉的记忆之中，又一次掉进了黑暗……几秒钟之后他的脚碰到了结实的地面，于是他睁开眼，发现他和邓布利多正站在一条熙熙攘攘的老式伦敦街
道上。
 
　　“我在那儿，”邓布利多快活地说，指着前面一个高大的身影，他正在一辆马拉牛奶车前面过马路。
 
　　这个年轻的阿不思·邓布利多长发和胡须都是赤褐色的。穿过马路走到他们这边之后，他开始大步流星地沿着人行道往前走，穿着一件裁减得十分华丽的暗紫色天鹅绒套装，吸引了许多好
奇的目光。
 
　　“衣服真棒，教授，”哈利情不自禁地说，而邓布利多只是咯咯地笑了，他们俩不远地跟在年轻的邓布利多身后，最后穿过一组铁门走进了一个空旷的院子，前面是一幢四四方方的阴暗建
筑，四面围着高高的栏杆。他走上几级台阶，敲了敲大门。过了一会儿，一个系着围裙、穿得破破烂烂的女孩把门打开了。
 
　　“下午好。我和科尔夫人有个约会，我想她是这儿的女总管。”
 
　　“哦，”女孩盯着邓布利多古怪的样子，看上去很疑惑。“嗯……等一下……科尔夫人！”她过回头吼了一声。
 
　　哈利听到遥远的地方传来了大声的回应。女孩又转过来对着邓布利多。
 
　　“进来吧，她这就过来。”
 
　　邓布利多走进了铺砌着黑白瓷砖的走廊；整个儿看上去破旧不堪，但是一尘不染。哈利和老邓布利多跟在后面。他们身后的门还没有关上，一个瘦削、疲惫的女人就急匆匆地朝他们走了过
来。她脸上棱角分明，看上去与其说是冷漠，倒不如说是焦急，她一边朝邓布利多走过来，一边和身旁的另一个围着围裙的助手说着话。
 
　　“……然后把这瓶碘酒拿给楼上的玛莎，比利·斯塔布斯在抠自己的结痂，还有埃里克·威利床单上全是汗——可水痘是当务之急，”她自顾自地说，看到邓布利多之后她愣在了那儿，惊
讶的表情就像是见到长颈鹿走了进来一样。
 
　　“下午好，”邓布利多伸出了手。
 
　　科尔夫人还在发愣。
 
　　“我叫阿不思·邓布利多。我给你写过一封预约信，你友好地邀请了我今天到这里来。”
 
　　科尔夫人眨了眨眼。显然在确定邓布利多不是一个幻觉，然后她说，“哦，对。嗯——好吧，那么——到我的办公室来吧。是的。”
 
　　她把邓布利多让进了一个小屋子，里面一半像是起居室，一半像是办公室。这里和走廊一样破败，家具既陈旧又不搭配。她请邓布利多坐到一把摇摇晃晃的椅子上，自己则坐到乱成一团的
办公桌后面，紧张地盯着他。
 
　　“我到这儿，正如我在信中说的，是来和您探讨汤姆·里德尔未来的安排，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“您是家属吗？”科尔夫人问。
 
　　“不，我是个老师，”邓布利多说。“我过来接汤姆去我们学校。”
 
　　“那么，这是什么学校？”
 
　　“叫霍格沃茨，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“你们怎么会对汤姆感兴趣？”
 
　　“我们相信他具备了我们寻求的品质。”
 
　　“你是说他赢得了奖学金？他怎么可能呢？他从没有报名参加过什么考试。”
 
　　“嗯，他出生的时候就被列到学校的名单里了——”
 
　　“谁替他注册的？他的父母？”
 
　　毫无疑问，这是个不太容易对付的精明女人。显然邓布利多也这么认为，哈利看到他悄悄从天鹅绒套装里抽出了魔杖，与此同时在桌面上拿起了一张完全空白的纸。
 
　　“看这个，”邓布利多把那张纸递给了她的同时，挥了挥魔杖，“我想这个能说清楚一切。”
 
　　科尔夫人的眼睛突然一片迷茫，接着又恢复了神采，她专心地凝视了一会儿那张空白的纸。
 
　　“看起来完全符合程序，”她平静地说，把那张纸又递了回去。然后她的目光落到了一瓶杜松子酒和两个玻璃杯上了，那里就在几秒钟前都肯定没有东西。
 
　　“呃——来一杯杜松子酒？”她格外礼貌地说。
 
　　“非常感谢，”邓布利多笑着说。
 
　　很明显，科尔夫人喝起杜松子酒来可是老手。她给两人倒满酒，然后一口气喝干了自己的那杯。她第一次朝邓布利多笑了笑，不加掩饰地咂了咂嘴，而邓布利多把握住了这个时机。
 
　　“我在想你能否可以告诉我一些汤姆·里德尔的过去？我觉得他应该是出生在这个孤儿院吧？”
 
　　“没错，”科尔夫人又倒了一些杜松子酒。“我记得无比清楚，因为我当时刚上这儿来。那是除夕夜，天寒地冻的，又下着雪，你知道。糟糕的夜晚。然后那个女孩，当时就比我大一点儿
，她跌跌撞撞地走上大门口的台阶。嗯，她不是第一个这样的。我们把她带进来，一小时之后她把孩子生了下来。又过了一小时她就死了。”
 
　　科尔夫人感慨地点了点头，又吞下了一大口杜松子酒。
 
　　“她死前所了些什么吗？”邓布利多问。“比如有关孩子的父亲？”
 
　　“真凑巧，她说了这个，”手里端着一杯杜松子酒，面前又坐了一个热心的听众，科尔夫人现在看上去非常享受。
 
　　“我记得她跟我说，‘我希望他长得像他爸爸，’老实说，她这么想是对的，因为她一点儿也不好看——然后她告诉我要给他起名叫汤姆，以纪念他的父亲，中间名是马沃罗，纪念她自己
的父亲——是的，我知道，怪名字，对不对？我们还在猜想她是不是从马戏团来的——然后她说男孩的姓是里德尔。说完这些就死了。
 
　　“嗯，我们就按照她说的给孩子起了名，这个可怜的女孩似乎把它看得很重，可是没有什么汤姆和马沃罗，也没有任何姓里德尔的人来找过这孩子，没有任何亲属，所以我们就把他留下了
，直到现在都待在孤儿院里。”
 
　　科尔夫人又倒了一杯酒，几乎有些精神恍惚了。她颧骨上泛起了两片红晕。然后她说，“他是个奇怪的男孩。”
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多说。“我想可能是。”
 
　　“他还是婴儿的时候就很奇怪。几乎从来不哭。然后，他长大了一点儿，就变得……古怪了。”
 
　　“古怪，怎么个古怪法？”邓布利多温和地问。
 
　　“嗯，他——”
 
　　科尔夫人突然停了下来，她从酒杯上面询问般地瞥了邓布利多一眼，眼神不再那么空洞了。
 
　　“他肯定会去你们学校念书，你说的？”
 
　　“肯定，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“我说的事情不会改变这一点吧？”
 
　　“不会，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“不管怎样你都会把他带走？”
 
　　“不管怎样，”邓布利多庄重地重复道。
 
　　她眯起眼看了看他，仿佛在考虑该不该信任邓布利多。显然最后她决定相信他，因为她突然说道，“他吓到其他孩子了。”
 
　　“你的意思是他是个小霸王？”
 
　　“我想是的，”科尔夫人微微皱了皱眉，“可是很难抓到他。总是出乱子……棘手的事儿……”
 
　　邓布利多没有催促她，不过哈利看得出来他很感兴趣。她又呷了一大口杜松子酒，玫瑰色的脸蛋变得更红了。
 
　　“比利·斯塔布斯的兔子……嗯，汤姆说不是他干的，我也不知道他怎么做得到，可尽管如此，那兔子总不可能自己跑到椽子上吊死吧，是不是？”
 
　　“我也这么认为，不可能，”邓布利多平静地说。
 
　　“但是，我真的不知道他是怎么爬上去做的。我只知道他和比利头一天刚刚吵过。然后——”科尔夫人又痛饮了一口，这次溢出了一点流到下巴上，“夏天我们去远足——你知道，每年我
们带着他们出去一次，去乡下或者海边——嗯，艾米·本森和丹尼斯·比绍事后都变得不太正常，我们盘问来盘问去，他们俩都只说是跟汤姆·里德尔去了一个山洞。汤姆向我们发誓说只是去
探险了，可那儿一定发生了什么，我敢肯定。还有，嗯，许许多多事情，怪事儿……”
 
　　她又看了看邓布利多，虽然双颊鲜红，可目光却很坚定。
 
　　“我想不会有太多人为他的离开感到难过的。”
 
　　“你肯定能理解，我们不会让他永远待在那儿。”邓布利多说。“他还是会回到这儿，至少，每个暑假。”
 
　　“哦，好吧，这总比他在这儿用生了锈的拨火棍打别人的鼻子强，”科尔夫人轻轻地打了个酒嗝。她站了起来，哈利留意到她尽管已经喝掉了瓶子里三分之二的杜松子酒，可还是稳稳当当
的。“我猜你会想见见他？”
 
　　“非常想，”邓布利多也站了起来。
 
　　她领着她走出办公室沿着石头楼梯往上走，沿路向经过的助手们做着指示，还大声呵斥着那些孩子。哈利看到孤儿们都穿着统一的灰色长罩衫。看得出来他们都被照顾得相当好，但不可否
认这个供他们成长的地方也太严酷无情了。
 
　　“就是这儿，”科尔夫人说，这时他们转过了第二个楼梯平台，走到一条长走廊的第一个房间门口。她敲了两次门，然后走了进去。
 
　　“汤姆？有人来看你了。这位是邓布利通先生——对不起，是邓多尔波。他是来告诉你——算了，还是让他说吧。”
 
　　哈利和两个邓布利多走进了房间，科尔夫人在他们身后关上了门。这是一个光秃秃的小房间，只有一座旧衣橱和一张铁床。一个男孩坐在灰色的毯子上，脚伸到他们面前，手里拿着一本书
。
 
　　汤姆·里德尔的脸上没有一点刚特家的痕迹。梅洛临死前的愿望实现了：汤姆整个儿就是他英俊父亲的迷你版，在十一岁的孩子里算长得高的，黑头发，脸色苍白。他看到邓布利多古怪的
装束时稍稍眯起了眼睛。他们沉默了片刻。
 
　　“你好，汤姆。”邓布利多往前走去，伸出了手。
 
　　那男孩犹豫了一会，然后也伸出了手和他握了握。邓布利多拖过汤姆旁边的硬木头椅子坐下，他们俩看起来就像是一对儿医院的病人和探视者。
 
　　“我是邓布利多教授。”
 
　　“‘教授’？”里德尔重复道。他看上去很警惕。“是不是和‘博士’差不多？你来这儿干什么？是她让你进来看我的？”
 
　　他指着门，科尔夫人刚刚走了。
 
　　“不是，不是，”邓布利多微笑着说。
 
　　“我不相信你，”里德尔说。“她喜欢让我被人看，是不是？说真话！”
 
　　他把最后三个字说得掷地有声。这是一个命令，听起来似乎他经常这样说话。他瞪大了眼睛对邓布利多怒目而视，而邓布利多只是愉快地微笑着，没有回答。过了几秒钟，里德尔不再瞪着
他看了，可是仍然很警惕。
 
　　“你是谁？”
 
　　“我已经告诉过你了。我是邓布利多教授，在一所叫霍格沃茨的学校工作。我来接你去我的学校——也就是你的新学校，如果你愿意的话。”
 
　　里德尔的反应十分惊人。他从床上跳了起来，远远地躲开了邓布利多，看上去很愤怒。
 
　　“你别想骗我！你是从精神病院来的，是不是？‘教授’，是的，当然了——好了，我不会去的，知道了吗？那只老猫才应该去精神病院。我从来没有对小艾米·本森和丹尼斯·比绍做过
什么，你可以问他们，他们会告诉你的！”
 
　　“我不是从精神病院来的，”邓布利多耐心地说。“我是一个老师，如果你能安静地坐下，我会告诉你霍格沃茨是个什么地方。当然了，如果你不愿意去那儿，没有人会强迫你——”
 
　　“我倒要看看他们怎么强迫我，”里德尔冷笑道。
 
　　“霍格沃茨，”邓布利多接着说，仿佛没有听见里德尔的最后一句话，“是一所接收拥有特殊能力的学生的学校——”
 
　　“我没疯！”
 
　　“我知道你没疯。霍格沃茨不是一所接收疯子的学校。它是一所魔法学校。”
 
　　一阵沉默。里德尔呆住了，他面无表情，可是目光却来来回回地打量着邓布利多的眼睛，似乎是想找到它们在说谎的证据。
 
　　“魔法？”他小声重复着。
 
　　“没错，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“是……是魔法，我会的那些原来是魔法？”
 
　　“你会什么？”
 
　　“什么都会，”里德尔喘着气说。一抹兴奋的红晕出现在他凹陷的脸颊上；他看上去很狂热。“我不碰到东西就能让它们动起来。我不用训练就能让那些动物听我的话。我能让惹恼我的人
吃苦头。如果我想要，就可以让他们受伤。”
 
　　里德尔的腿在颤抖。他跌跌撞撞地坐回到床上，盯着自己的手，垂下脑袋，看上去就像是在祈祷。
 
　　“我就知道我与众不同，”他低声对着自己颤抖的手指说道。“我就知道我很特殊。我一直都知道肯定有什么原因。”
 
　　“嗯，你想得非常正确，”邓布利多不再微笑了，他专注地盯着里德尔，“你是一个巫师。”
 
　　里德尔抬起了头。他的脸变了形：洋溢着幸福的表情，不过由于某种原因它并没有让他变得好看；恰恰相反，他雕刻精致的容貌不知为何显得更粗糙了，表情近乎于残暴。
 
　　“你也是个巫师吗？”
 
　　“是的，我是个巫师。”
 
　　“证明给我看，”里德尔马上说，命令的语气和刚才他说‘说真话’时如出一辙。
 
　　邓布利多扬起了眉毛。
 
　　“如果我证实了这一点，你就要跟我去霍格沃茨——”
 
　　“当然会！”
 
　　“那你就要称呼我为‘教授’或者‘先生’。”
 
　　里德尔的表情在开口前的一瞬间僵住了，他用一种几乎察觉不到的礼貌语气说，“对不起，先生，我的意思是——请问，教授，能不能展示给我——？”
 
　　哈利确信邓布利多会拒绝，会告诉里德尔以后在霍格沃茨多的是时间去实践证明，而眼下由于置身于一幢全是麻瓜的建筑里，所以要谨慎一些。可是令他大吃一惊的是，邓布利多从套装夹
克的内兜里抽出了他的魔杖，指向了角落里的那个破衣橱，随意地挥了一下。
 
　　衣橱突然着火了。
 
　　里德尔跳了起来，也难怪他会震惊和狂乱地吼叫；他的全部财产一定都在里面；可是就在里德尔开始责骂邓布利多的时候，火焰消失了，衣橱完好无损地立在那儿。
 
　　里德尔盯着衣橱和邓布利多，然后，他的表情贪婪地指了指魔杖。
 
　　“我在哪儿能弄到一个？”
 
　　“在适当的时候，”邓布利多说。“我想有什么东西要从你的衣橱里出来。”
 
　　果然，衣橱里传出了一阵嘎吱嘎吱的微弱响声。里德尔头一次看上去有些害怕。
 
　　“把门打开，”邓布利多说。
 
　　里德尔犹豫了一会儿，然后走过去打开了衣橱的门。在最顶上的一层，一叠破旧的衣服上放着一个纸盒子，它正在不断振动并发出那种嘎吱声，仿佛里面关着几只疯狂的老鼠。
 
　　“拿出来，”邓布利多说。
 
　　里德尔把颤抖不已的盒子拿了下来，他看上去很慌张。
 
　　“盒子里有什么你不该拥有的东西吗？”邓布利多问。
 
　　里德尔向邓布利多抛去了一个意味深长的目光。
 
　　“是的，我想是的，先生，”他最后呆板地说。
 
　　里德尔打开了盖子，看也不看就把里面东西的都倒在了床上。哈利本以为能看到什么刺激的东西，可是那儿却只有一堆乱七八糟的平常小玩意儿；其中有一个溜溜球，一枚银白色的顶针，
还有一只失去光泽的口琴。盒子清空了之后，它们停止了颤抖，安静地躺在薄薄的毯子上。
 
　　“你把它们还给各自的主人，并且道歉，”邓布利多平静地说，把魔杖放回了夹克里。“我会知道你做了没有的。我还要告诫你的是：霍格沃茨不容许偷窃。”
 
　　里德尔看上去一点儿也不窘迫；他仍旧冷冷地打量着邓布利多。最后他用一种不带感情色彩的声音说，“是，先生。”
 
　　“在霍格沃茨，”邓布利多接着说，“我们不仅教你使用魔法，还教你如何控制它。你一直以来——在不经意间，我敢肯定——使用魔法的方式既不是我们学校所教的那种，也不会为我们
所容忍。你不是头一个，也不会是最后一个让魔法在手中失控的人。但是你应该知道霍格沃茨会开除学生，而且魔法部——是的，有这么一个部门——会惩罚那些更严重地破坏法律的人。所有
进入我们的世界的新巫师都必须接受这一点，遵守我们的法律。”
 
　　“是的，先生，”里德尔再次说。
 
　　没人知道他此刻在想些什么；他把那些偷来的东西放回纸盒子时，脸仍旧是一片空白。等收拾完了之后，他转过身来对邓布利多坦率地说，“我一点钱也没有。”
 
　　“那很容易解决，”邓布利多从口袋里掏出一只皮革钱袋。“霍格沃茨设立了一个为需要购买书本和长袍的困难学生提供帮助的基金。你需要买一些二手的咒语书之类的，不过——”
 
　　“在哪儿买咒语书？”里德尔打断了他的话，没有向邓布利多道谢就接过了那只沉沉的钱袋，现在正在仔细地查看一枚肥大的金加隆。
 
　　“在对角巷，”邓布利多说。“我带了你的课本和仪器的清单。我能帮你找到每一件——”
 
　　“你要和我一起去？”里德尔抬起头说。
 
　　“当然，如果你——”
 
　　“我不需要你，”里德尔说，“我习惯独自做事，我一直是一个人逛伦敦的。怎么才能到对角巷去——先生？”他补充了一句，盯着邓布利多的眼睛。
 
　　哈利以为邓布利多会坚持陪同里德尔一块儿去，但是他再一次吃惊了。邓布利多把装有清单的那个信封递给了他，精确地告诉了他如何从孤儿院去破釜酒吧，接着他说，“你能看到它，而
你身边的麻瓜——那是不会魔法的人——却看不到它。去找酒吧的招待员汤姆——很容易记住，你们俩名字一样——”
 
　　里德尔敏感地抽动了一下，仿佛想赶走一只讨厌的苍蝇。
 
　　“你不喜欢‘汤姆’这个名字吗？”
 
　　“有许多人都叫汤姆，”里德尔嘟囔道。然后，仿佛压抑不住内心的疑惑，又好像这个疑惑是不由自主地冒出来似的，他问道，“我父亲也是一个巫师吗？他也叫汤姆·里德尔，他们告诉
过我
Chapter 14 Felix Felicis
Harry had Herbology first thing the following morning. He had been unable to tell Ron and Hermione about his lesson with Dumbledore over breakfast for fear of being 
overheard, but he filled them in as they walked across the vegetable patch toward the greenhouses. The weekend's brutal wind had died out at last; the weird mist had 
returned and it took them a little longer than usual to find the correct greenhouse.
“Wow, scary thought, the boy You-Know-Who,” said Ron quietly, as they took their places around one of the gnarled Snargaluff stumps that formed this term's project, 
and began pulling on their protective gloves. “But I still don't get why Dumbledore's showing you all this. I mean, it's really interesting and everything, but what's 
the point?”
“Dunno,” said Harry, inserting a gum shield. “But he says its all important and it'll help me survive.”
“I think it's fascinating,” said Hermione earnestly. “It makes absolute sense to know as much about Voldemort as possible. How else will you find out his weaknesses?
”
“So how was Slughorn's latest party?” Harry asked her thickly through the gum shield.
“Oh, it was quite fun, really,” said Hermione, now putting on protective goggles. “I mean, he drones on about famous exploits a bit, and he absolutely fawns on 
McLaggen because he's so well connected, but he gave us some really nice food and he introduced us to Gwenog Jones.”
“Gwenog Jones?” said Ron, his eyes widening under his own goggles. “The Gwenog Jones? Captain of the Holyhead Harpies?”
“That's right,” said Hermione. “Personally, I thought she was a bit full of herself, but —”
“Quite enough chat over here!” said Professor Sprout briskly, bustling over and looking stern. “You're lagging behind, everybody else has started, and Neville's 
already got his first pod!”
They looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly pulsating 
green object about the size of a grapefruit.
“Okay, Professor, we're starting now!” said Ron, adding quietly, when she had turned away again, “Should've used Muffliato, Harry.”
“No, we shouldn't!” said Hermione at once, looking, as she always did, intensely cross at the thought of the Half-Blood Prince and his spells. “Well, come on ... 
we'd better get going...”
She gave the other two an apprehensive look; they all took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled stump between them.
It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramble-like vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air. One tangled itself in Hermione's hair, and Ron beat it 
back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in trapping a couple of vines and knotting them together; a hole opened in the middle of all the tentacle-like branches; 
Hermione plunged her arm bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around her elbow; Harry and Ron tugged and wrenched at the vines, forcing the hole to open 
again, and Hermione snatched her arm free, clutching in her fingers a pod just like Neville's. At once, the prickly vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat 
there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood.
“You know, I don't think I'll be having any of these in my garden when I've got my own place,” said Ron, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping sweat 
from his face.
“Pass me a bowl,” said Hermione, holding the pulsating pod at arm's length; Harry handed one over and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust on her face.
“Don't be squeamish, squeeze it out, they're best when they're fresh!” called Professor Sprout.
“Anyway,” said Hermione, continuing their interrupted conversation as though a lump of wood had not just attacked them, “Slughorn's going to have a Christmas party, 
Harry, and there's no way you'll be able to wriggle out of this one because he actually asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be sure to have it on a night 
you can come.”
Harry groaned. Meanwhile, Ron, who was attempting to burst the pod in the bowl by putting both hands on it, standing up, and squashing it as hard as he could, said 
angrily, “And this is another party just for Slughorn's favorites, is it?”
“Just for the Slug Club, yes,” said Hermione.
The pod flew out from under Ron's fingers and hit the green house glass, rebounding onto the back of Professor Sprout's head and knocking off her old, patched hat. 
Harry went to retrieve the pod; when he got back, Hermione was saying, “Look, I didn't make up the name ‘Slug Club’ —”
“'Slug Club,'” repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of Malfoy. “It's pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don't you try hooking up with McLaggen, then 
Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug —”
“We're allowed to bring guests,” said Hermione, who for some reason had turned a bright, boiling scarlet, “and I was going to ask you to come, but if you think it's 
that stupid then I won't bother!”
Harry suddenly wished the pod had flown a little farther, so that he need not have been sitting here with the pair of them. Unnoticed by either, he seized the bowl that 
contained the pod and began to try and open it by the noisiest and most energetic means he could think of; unfortunately, he could still hear every word of their 
conversation.
“You were going to ask me?” asked Ron, in a completely different voice.
“Yes,” said Hermione angrily. “But obviously if you'd rather I hooked up with McLaggen...”
There was a pause while Harry continued to pound the resilient pod with a trowel.
“No, I wouldn't,” said Ron, in a very quiet voice.
Harry missed the pod, hit the bowl, and shattered it.
“Reparo,” he said hastily, poking the pieces with his wand, and the bowl sprang back together again. The crash, however, appeared to have awoken Ron and Hermione to 
Harry's presence. Hermione looked flustered and immediately started fussing about for her copy of Flesh-Eating Trees of the World to find out the correct way to juice 
Snargaluff pods; Ron, on the other hand, looked sheepish but also rather pleased with himself.
“Hand that over, Harry,” said Hermione hurriedly. “It says we're supposed to puncture them with something sharp...”
Harry passed her the pod in the bowl; he and Ron both snapped their goggles back over their eyes and dived, once more, for the stump.
It was not as though he was really surprised, thought Harry, as he wrestled with a thorny vine intent upon throttling him; he had had an inkling that this might happen 
sooner or later. But he was not sure how he felt about it... He and Cho were now too embarrassed to look at each other, let alone talk to each other; what if Ron and 
Hermione started going out together, then split up? Could their friendship survive it? Harry remembered the few weeks when they had not been talking to each other in 
the third year; he had not enjoyed trying to bridge the distance between them. And then, what if they didn't split up? What if they became like Bill and Fleur, and it 
became excruciatingly embarrassing to be in their presence, so that he was shut out for good?
“Gotcha!” yelled Ron, pulling a second pod from the stump just as Hermione managed to burst the first one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling like 
pale green worms.
The rest of the lesson passed without further mention of Slughorn's party. Although Harry watched his two friends more closely over the next few days, Ron and Hermione 
did not seem any different except that they were a little politer to each other than usual. Harry supposed he would just have to wait to see what happened under the 
influence of Butterbeer in Slughorn's dimly lit room on the night of the party. In the meantime, however, he had more pressing worries.
Katie Bell was still in St. Mungo's Hospital with no prospect of leaving, which meant that the promising Gryffindor team Harry had been training so carefully since 
September was one Chaser short. He kept putting off replacing Katie in the hope that she would return, but their opening match against Slytherin was looming, and he 
finally had to accept that she would not be back in time to play.
Harry did not think he could stand another full-House tryout. With a sinking feeling that had little to do with Quidditch, he cornered Dean Thomas after Transfiguration 
one day. Most of the class had already left, although several twittering yellow birds were still zooming around the room, all of Hermione's creation; nobody else had 
succeeded in conjuring so much as a feather from thin air.
“Are you still interested in playing Chaser?”
“Why... yeah, of course!” said Dean excitedly. Over Dean's shoulder, Harry saw Seamus Finnegan slamming his books into his bag, looking sour. One of the reasons why 
Harry would have preferred not to have to ask Dean to play was that he knew Seamus would not like it. On the other hand, he had to do what was best for the team, and 
Dean had outflown Seamus at the tryouts.
“Well then, you're in,” said Harry. “There's a practice tonight, seven o'clock.”
“Right,” said Dean. “Cheers, Harry! Blimey, I can't wait to tell Ginny!”
He sprinted out of the room, leaving Harry and Seamus alone together, an uncomfortable moment made no easier when a bird dropping landed on Seamus's head as one of 
Hermione's canaries whizzed over them.
Seamus was not the only person disgruntled by the choice of Katie's substitute. There was much muttering in the common room about the fact that Harry had now chosen two 
of his classmates for the team. As Harry had endured much worse mutterings than this in his school career, he was not particularly bothered, but all the same, the 
pressure was increasing to provide a win in the upcoming match against Slytherin. If Gryffindor won, Harry knew that the whole House would forget that they had 
criticized him and swear that they had always known it was a great team. If they lost... well, Harry thought wryly, he had still endured worse mutterings...
Harry had no reason to regret his choice once he saw Dean fly that evening; he worked well with Ginny and Demelza. The Beaters, Peakes and Coote, were getting better 
all the time. The only problem was Ron.
Harry had known all along that Ron was an inconsistent player who suffered from nerves and a lack of confidence, and unfortunately, the looming prospect of the opening 
game of the season seemed to have brought out all his old insecurities. After letting in half a dozen goals, most of them scored by Ginny, his technique became wilder 
and wilder, until he finally punched an oncoming Demelza Robins in the mouth.
“It was an accident, I'm sorry, Demelza, really sorry!” Ron shouted after her as she zigzagged back to the ground, dripping blood everywhere. “I just —”
“Panicked,” Ginny said angrily, landing next to Demelza and examining her fat lip. “You prat, Ron, look at the state of her!”
“I can fix that,” said Harry, landing beside the two girls, pointing his wand at Demelzas mouth, and saying “Episkey.” “And Ginny, don't call Ron a prat, you're 
not the Captain of this team—”
“Well, you seemed too busy to call him a prat and I thought someone should—”
Harry forced himself not to laugh.
“In the air, everyone, let's go...”
Overall it was one of the worst practices they had had all term, though Harry did not feel that honesty was the best policy when they were this close to the match.
“Good work, everyone, I think we'll flatten Slytherin,” he said bracingly, and the Chasers and Beaters left the changing room looking reasonably happy with 
themselves.
“I played like a sack of dragon dung,” said Ron in a hollow voice when the door had swung shut behind Ginny.
“No, you didn't,” said Harry firmly. “You're the best Keeper I tried out, Ron. Your only problem is nerves.”
He kept up a relentless flow of encouragement all the way back to the castle, and by the time they reached the second floor, Ron was looking marginally more cheerful. 
When Harry pushed open the tapestry to take their usual shortcut up to Gryffindor Tower, however, they found themselves looking at Dean and Ginny, who were locked in a 
close embrace and kissing fiercely as though glued together.
It was as though something large and scaly erupted into life in Harry's stomach, clawing at his insides: hot blood seemed to flood his brain, so that all thought was 
extinguished, replaced by a savage urge to jinx Dean into a jelly. Wrestling with this sudden madness, he heard Ron's voice as though from a great distance away.
“Oi!”
Dean and Ginny broke apart and looked around.
“What?” said Ginny.
“I don't want to find my own sister snogging people in public!”
“This was a deserted corridor till you came butting in!” said Ginny.
Dean was looking embarrassed. He gave Harry a shifty grin that Harry did not return, as the newborn monster inside him was roaring for Dean's instant dismissal from the 
team.
“Er... c'mon, Ginny,” said Dean, “let's go back to the common room...”
“You go!” said Ginny. “I want a word with my dear brother!”
Dean left, looking as though he was not sorry to depart the scene.
“Right,” said Ginny, tossing her long red hair out of her face and glaring at Ron, “let's get this straight once and for all. It is none of your business who I go 
out with or what I do with them, Ron—”
“Yeah, it is!” said Ron, just as angrily. “D’ you think I want people saying my sister's a —”
“A what?” shouted Ginny, drawing her wand. “A what, exactly?”
“He doesn't mean anything, Ginny —” said Harry automatically, though the monster was roaring its approval of Ron's words.
“Oh yes he does!” she said, flaring up at Harry. “Just because he's never snogged anyone in his life, just because the best kiss he's ever had is from our Auntie 
Muriel —”
“Shut your mouth!” bellowed Ron, bypassing red and turning maroon.
“No, I will not!” yelled Ginny, beside herself. “I've seen you with Phlegm, hoping she'll kiss you on the cheek every time you see her, it's pathetic! If you went 
out and got a bit of snogging done yourself, you wouldn't mind so much that everyone else does it!”
Ron had pulled out his wand too; Harry stepped swiftly between them.
“You don't know what you're talking about!” Ron roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his arms 
outstretched. “Just because I don't do it in public—!”
Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way.
“Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?” You —
A streak of orange light flew under Harry's left arm and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up against the wall.
“Don't be stupid —”
“Harry's snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it's only you who acts like it's something disgusting, 
Ron, and that's because you've got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!”
And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Rich's 
cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.
“C'mon,” said Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feet reached their ears.
They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor corridor. “Oi, out of the way!” Ron barked at a small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toad-
spawn.
Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he felt disoriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt must be something like this. It's just because she's 
Ron's sister, he told himself. You just didn't like seeing her kissing Dean because she's Ron's sister...
But unbidden into his mind came an image of that same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead... the monster in his chest purred... but then he saw Ron 
ripping open the tapestry curtain and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like “betrayal of trust"... “supposed to be my friend"...
“D'you think Hermione did snog Krum?” Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor 
in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Ginny were quite alone—
“What?” he said confusedly. “Oh ... er ...”
The honest answer was “yes,” but he did not want to give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from the look on Harry's face.
“Dilligrout,” he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the common room.
Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.
Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder-brotherly. 
They had lived, had they not, like brother and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years 
now... it was natural that he should feel protective... natural that he should want to look out for her... want to rip Dean limb from limb for kissing her... no... he 
would have to control that particular brotherly feeling...
Ron gave a great grunting snore.
She's Ron's sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron's sister. She's out-of-bounds. He would not risk his friendship with Ron for anything. He punched his pillow into a 
more comfortable shape and waited for sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny.
Harry awoke next morning feeling slightly dazed and confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had chased him with a Beater's bat, but by midday he would have happily 
exchanged the dream Ron for the real one, who was not only cold-shouldering Ginny and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered Hermione with an icy, sneering 
indifference. What was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to 
keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys’ dormitory after swearing 
angrily at several frightened first-years for looking at him.
To Harry's dismay, Ron's new aggression did not wear off over the next few days. Worse still, it coincided with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which made him 
still more aggressive, so that during the final Quidditch practice before Saturday's match, he failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed 
at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears.
“You shut up and leave her alone!” shouted Peakes, who was about two-thirds Ron's height, though admittedly carrying a heavy bat.
“ENOUGH!” bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron's direction and, remembering her reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex, soared over 
to intervene before things got out of hand. “Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well today. Ron...” he waited 
until the rest of the team were out of earshot before saying it, “you're my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I'm going to kick you off 
the team.”
He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit him, but then something much worse happened: Ron seemed to sag on his broom. all the fight went out of him and he 
said, “I resign. I'm pathetic.”
“You're not pathetic and you're not resigning!” said Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. “You can save anything when you're on form, it's a mental 
problem you've got!”
“You calling me mental?”
“Yeah, maybe I am!”
They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron shook his head wearily.
“I know you haven't got any time to find another Keeper, so I'll play tomorrow, but if we lose, and we will, I'm taking myself off the team.”
Nothing Harry said made any difference. He tried boosting Ron's confidence all through dinner, but Ron was too busy being grumpy and surly with Hermione to notice. 
Harry persisted in the common room that evening, but his assertion that the whole team would be devastated if Ron left was somewhat undermined by the fact that the rest 
of the team was sitting in a huddle in a distant corner, clearly muttering about Ron and casting him nasty looks. Finally Harry tried getting angry again in the hope of 
provoking Ron into a defiant, and hopefully goal-saving, attitude, but this strategy did not appear to work any better than encouragement; Ron went to bed as dejected 
and hopeless as ever.
Harry lay awake for a very long time in the darkness. He did not want to lose the upcoming match; not only was it his first as Captain, but he was determined to beat 
Draco Malfoy at Quidditch even if he could not yet prove his suspicions about him. Yet if Ron played as he had done in the last few practices, their chances of winning 
were very slim...
If only there was something he could do to make Ron pull himself together... make him play at the top of his form... something that would ensure that Ron had a really 
good day...
And the answer came to Harry in one, sudden, glorious stroke of inspiration.
Breakfast was the usual excitable affair next morning; the Slytherins hissed and booed loudly as every member of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall. Harry 
glanced at the ceiling and saw a clear, pale blue sky: a good omen.
The Gryffindor table, a solid mass of red and gold, cheered as Harry and Ron approached. Harry grinned and waved; Ron grimaced weakly and shook his head.
“Cheer up, Ron!” called Lavender. “I know you'll be brilliant!”
Ron ignored her.
“Tea?” Harry asked him. “Coffee? Pumpkin juice?”
“Anything,” said Ron glumly, taking a moody bite of toast.
A few minutes later Hermione, who had become so tired of Ron's recent unpleasant behavior that she had not come down to breakfast with them, paused on her way up the 
table.
“How are you both feeling?” she asked tentatively, her eyes on the back of Ron's head.
“Fine,” said Harry, who was concentrating on handing Ron a glass of pumpkin juice. “There you go, Ron. Drink up.”
Ron had just raised the glass to his lips when Hermione spoke sharply.
“Don't drink that, Ron!”
Both Harry and Ron looked up at her.
“Why not?” said Ron.
Hermione was now staring at Harry as though she could not believe her eyes.
“You just put something in that drink.”
“Excuse me?” said Harry.
“You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron's drink. You've got the bottle in your hand right now!”
“I dont know what you're talking about,” said Harry, stowing the little bottle hastily in his pocket.
“Ron, I warn you, don't drink it!” Hermione said again, alarmed, but Ron picked up the glass, drained it in one gulp, and said, “Stop bossing me around, Hermione.”
She looked scandalized. Bending low so that only Harry could hear her, she hissed, “You should be expelled for that. I'd never have believed it of you, Harry!”
“Look who's talking,” he whispered back. “Confunded anyone lately?”
She stormed up the table away from them. Harry watched her go without regret. Hermione had never really understood what a serious business Quidditch was. He then looked 
around at Ron, who was smacking his lips.
“Nearly time,” said Harry blithely.
The frosty grass crunched underfoot as they strode down to the stadium.
“Pretty lucky the weathers this good, eh?” Harry asked Ron.
“Yeah,” said Ron, who was pale and sick-looking.
Ginny and Demelza were already wearing their Quidditch robes and waiting in the changing room.
“Conditions look ideal,” said Ginny, ignoring Ron. “And guess what? That Slytherin Chaser Vaisey — he took a Bludger in the head yesterday during their practice, 
and he's too sore to play! And even better than that—Malfoy's gone off sick too!”
“What?” said Harry, wheeling around to stare at her. “He's ill? What's wrong with him?”
“No idea, but it's great for us,” said Ginny brightly. “They're playing Harper instead; he's in my year and he's an idiot.”
Harry smiled back vaguely, but as he pulled on his scarlet robes his mind was far from Quidditch. Malfoy had once before claimed he could not play due to injury, but on 
that occasion he had made sure the whole match was rescheduled for a time that suited the Slytherins better. Why was he now happy to let a substitute go on? Was he 
really ill, or was he faking?
“Fishy, isn't it?” he said in an undertone to Ron. “Malfoy not playing?”
“Lucky, I call it,” said Ron, looking slightly more animated. “And Vaisey off too, he's their best goal scorer, I didn't fancy—hey!” he said suddenly, freezing 
halfway through pulling on his Keepers gloves and staring at Harry.
“What?”
“I... you...” Ron had dropped his voice, he looked both scared and excited. “My drink ... my pumpkin juice ... you didn't...?”
Harry raised his eyebrows, but said nothing except, “We'll be starting in about five minutes, you'd better get your boots on.”
They walked out onto the pitch to tumultuous roars and boos. One end of the stadium was solid red and gold; the other, a sea of green and silver. Many Hufflepuffs and 
Ravenclaws had taken sides too: amidst all the yelling and clapping Harry could distinctly hear the roar of Luna Lovegood's famous lion-topped hat.
Harry stepped up to Madam Hooch, the referee, who was standing ready to release the balls from the crate.
“Captains shake hands,” she said, and Harry had his hand crushed by the new Slytherin Captain, Urquhart. “Mount your brooms. On the whistle... three... two... one...
”
The whistle sounded, Harry and the others kicked off hard from the frozen ground, and they were away.
Harry soared around the perimeter of the grounds, looking around for the Snitch and keeping one eye on Harper, who was zigzagging far below him. Then a voice that was 
jarringly different to the usual commentator's started up.
“Well, there they go, and I think we're all surprised to see the team that Potter's put together this year. Many thought, given Ronald Weasley's patchy performance as 
Keeper last year, that he might be off the team, but of course, a close personal friendship with the Captain does help...”
These words were greeted with jeers and applause from the Slytherin end of the pitch. Harry craned around on his broom to look toward the commentator's podium. A call, 
skinny blond buy with an upturned nose was standing there, talking into the magical megaphone that had once been Lee Jordan's; Harry recognized Zacharias Smith, a 
Hufflepuff player whom he heartily disliked.
“Oh, and here comes Slytherin's first attempt on goal, it's Urquhart streaking down the pitch and —”
Harry's stomach turned over.
“— Weasley saves it, well, he's bound to get lucky sometimes, I suppose...”
“That's right, Smith, he is,” muttered Harry, grinning to himself, as he dived amongst the Chasers with his eyes searching all around for some hint of the elusive 
Snitch.
With half an hour of the game gone, Gryffindor were leading sixty points to zero, Ron having made some truly spectacular saves, some by the very tips of his gloves, and 
Ginny having scored four of Gryffindor's six goals. This effectively stopped Zacharias wondering loudly whether the two Weasleys were only there because Harry liked 
them, and he started on Peakes and Coote instead.
“Of course, Coote isn't really the usual build for a Beater,” said Zacharias loftily, “they've generally got a bit more muscle —”
“Hit a Bludger at him!” Harry called to Coote as he zoomed past, but Coote, grinning broadly, chose to aim the next Bludger at Harper instead, who was just passing 
Harry in the opposite direction. Harry was pleased to hear the dull thunk that meant the Bludger had found its mark.
It seemed as though Gryffindor could do no wrong. Again and again they scored, and again and again, at the other end of the pitch, Ron saved goals with apparent ease. 
He was actually smiling now, and when the crowd greeted a particularly good save with a rousing chorus of the old favorite “Weasley Is Our King,” he pretended to 
conduct them from on high.
“Thinks he's something special today, doesn't he?” said a snide voice, and Harry was nearly knocked off his broom as Harper collided with him hard and deliberately. 
“Your blood-traitor pal...”
Madam Hooch's back was turned, and though Gryffindors below shouted in anger, by the time she looked around, Harper had already sped off. His shoulder aching, Harry 
raced after him, determined to ram him back...
“And I think Harper of Slytherin's seen the Snitch!” said Zacharias Smith through his megaphone. “Yes, he's certainly seen something Potter hasn't!”
Smith really was an idiot, thought Harry, hadn't he noticed them collide? But next moment, his stomach seemed to drop out of the sky—Smith was right and Harry was 
wrong: Harper had not sped upward at random; he had spotted what Harry had not: the Snitch was speeding along high above them, glinting brightly against the clear blue 
sky.
Harry accelerated; the wind was whistling in his ears so that it drowned all sound of Smith's commentary or the crowd, but Harper was still ahead of him, and Gryffindor 
was only a hundred points up; if Harper got there first Gryffindor had lost... and now Harper was feet from it, his hand outstretched...
“Oi, Harper!” yelled Harry in desperation. “How much did Malfoy pay you to come on instead of him?”
He did not know what made him say it, but Harper did a double-take; he fumbled the Snitch, let it slip through his fingers, and shot right past it. Harry made a great 
swipe for the tiny, fluttering ball and caught it.
“YES!” Hairy yelled: wheeling around, he hurtled back toward the ground, the Snitch held high in his hand. As the crowd realized what had happened, a great shout went 
up that almost drowned the sound of the whistle that signaled the end of the game.
“Ginny, where're you going?” yelled Harry, who had found himself trapped in the midst of a mass midair hug with the rest of the team, but Ginny sped right on past 
them until, with an almighty crash, she collided with the commentator's podium. As the crowd shrieked and laughed, the Gryffindor team landed beside the wreckage of 
wood under which Zacharias was feebly stirring, Harry heard Ginny saying blithely to an irate Professor McGonagall, “Forgot to brake, Professor, sorry.”
Laughing, Harry broke free of the rest of the team and hugged Ginny, but let go very quickly. Avoiding her gaze, he clapped cheering Ron on the back instead as, all 
enmity forgotten, the Gryffindor team left the pitch arm in arm, punching the air and waving to their supporters.
The atmosphere in the changing room was jubilant. “Party up in the common room, Seamus said!” yelled Dean exuberantly. “C'mon, Ginny, Demelza!”
Ron and Harry were the last two in the changing room. They were just about to leave when Hermione entered. She was twisting her Gryffindor scarf in her hands and looked 
upset but determined.
“I want a word with you, Harry.” She took a deep breath. “You shouldn't have done it. You heard Slughorn, it's illegal.”
“What are you going to do, turn us in?” demanded Ron.
“What are you two talking about?” asked Harry, turning away to hang up his robes so that neither of them would see him grinning.
“You know perfectly well what we're talking about!” said Hermione shrilly. “You spiked Ron's juice with lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!”
“No, I didn't,” said Harry, turning back to face them both.
“Yes you did, Harry, and that's why everything went right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!”
“I didn't put it in!” said Harry, grinning broadly. He slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and drew out the tiny bottle that Hermione had seen in his hand that 
morning. It was full of golden potion and the cork was still tightly sealed with wax. “I wanted Ron to think I'd done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking.” 
He looked at Ron. “You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself.”
He pocketed the potion again.
“There really wasn't anything in my pumpkin juice?” Ron said, astounded. “But the weather's good... and Vaisey couldn't play... I honestly haven't been given lucky 
potion?”
Harry shook his head. Ron gaped at him for a moment, then rounded on Hermione, imitating her voice.
“You added Felix Felicis to Ron's juice this morning, that's why he saved everything! See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!”
“I never said you couldn't — Ron, you thought you'd been given it too!”
But Ron had already strode past her out of the door with his broomstick over his shoulder.
“Er,” said Harry into the sudden silence; he had not expected his plan to backfire like this, “shall... shall we go up to the party, then?”
“You go!” said Hermione, blinking back tears. “I'm sick of Ron at the moment, I don't know what I'm supposed to have done...”
And she stormed out of the changing room too.
Harry walked slowly back up the grounds toward the castle through the crowd, many of whom shouted congratulations at him, but he felt a great sense of let-down; he had 
been sure that if Ron won the match, he and Hermione would be friends again immediately. He did not see how he could possibly explain to Hermione that what she had done 
to offend Ron was kiss Viktor Krum, not when the offense had occurred so long ago.
Harry could not see Hermione at the Gryffindor celebration party, which was in full swing when he arrived. Renewed cheers and clapping greeted his appearance, and he 
was soon surrounded by a mob of people congratulating him. What with trying to shake off the Creevey brothers, who wanted a blow-by-blow match analysis, and the large 
group of girls that encircled him, laughing at his least amusing comments and batting their eyelids, it was some time before he could try and find Ron. At last, he 
extricated himself from Romilda Vane, who was hinting heavily that she would like to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with him. As he was ducking toward the drinks 
table, he walked straight into Ginny, Arnold the Pygmy Puff riding on her shoulder and Crookshanks mewing hopefully at her heels.
“Looking for Ron?” she asked, smirking. “He's over there, the filthy hypocrite.”
Harry looked into the corner she was indicating. There, in full view of the whole room, stood Ron wrapped so closely around Lavender Brown it was hard to tell whose 
hands were whose.
“It looks like he's eating her face, doesn't it?” said Ginny dispassionately. “But I suppose he's got to refine his technique somehow. Good game, Harry.”
She patted him on the arm; Harry felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, but then she walked off to help herself to more Butterbeer. Crookshanks trotted after her, 
his yellow eyes fixed upon Arnold.
Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a mane of 
bushy brown hair whipping out of sight.
He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside, seemed to be deserted.
“Hermione?”
He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. She was sitting on the teacher's desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her 
head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair. Harry could not help admiring her spell-work at a time like this.
“Oh, hello, Harry,” she said in a brittle voice. “I was just practicing.”
“Yeah... they're—er — really good...” said Harry.
He had no idea what to say to her. He was just wondering whether there was any chance that she had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the room because the party 
was a little too rowdy, when she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, “Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations.”
“Er... does he?” said Harry.
“Don't pretend you didn't see him,” said Hermione. “He wasn't exactly hiding it, was—?”
The door behind them burst open. To Harry's horror, Ron came in, laughing, pulling Lavender by the hand.
“Oh,” he said, drawing up short at the sight of Harry and Hermione.
“Oops!” said Lavender, and she backed out of the room, giggling. The door swung shut behind her.
There was a horrible, swelling, billowing silence. Hermione was staring at Ron, who refused to look at her, but said with an odd mixture of bravado and awkwardness, 
“Hi, Harry! Wondered where you'd got to!”
Hermione slid off the desk. The little flock of golden birds continued to twitter in circles around her head so that she looked like a strange, feathery model of the 
solar system.
“You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside,” she said quietly. “She'll wonder where you've gone.”
She walked very slowly and erectly toward the door. Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking relieved that nothing worse had happened.
“Oppugno!” came a shriek from the doorway.
Harry spun around to see Hermione pointing her wand at Ron, her expression wild: the little flock of birds was speeding like a hail of fat golden bullets toward Ron, 
who yelped and covered his face with his hands, but the birds attacked, pecking and clawing at every bit of flesh they could reach.
“Gerremoffme!” he yelled, but with one last look of vindictive fury, Hermione wrenched open the door and disappeared through it. Harry thought he heard a sob before 
it slammed.
第二天早上哈利的第一堂课是草药课。为了防止被人听到，早餐的时候他没有告诉罗恩和赫敏昨天邓布利多上课的内容，不过他在穿过菜地走向温室的时候告诉了他们。周末的狂风终于停止了
；可是古怪的迷雾又重新归来，这令他们多花了一些时间才找到正确的温室。
 
　　“哇，想了都可怕，少年神秘人，”罗恩轻声说，他们正围着一棵长满瘤子的那加卢树桩，开始戴上防护手套。“但我还是不知道邓布利多为什么要告诉你所有这些。我的意思是，这些都
很有趣，也极为重要，但目的是什么？”
 
　　“不知道，”哈利戴上了一个橡胶护脸罩。“可是他说这个事关重大，会帮助我活下来。”
 
　　“我觉得这真让人着迷，”赫敏认真地说。“尽可能多地了解伏地魔是绝对有意义的。不然你怎么才能找出他的弱点呢？”
 
　　“那斯拉霍恩最近的聚会怎么样？”哈利透过橡胶护脸罩用厚重的声音说。
 
　　“哦，相当有趣，真的，”赫敏把护目镜戴到头上。“我是说，他是有点儿爱唠叨自己从前的学生，而且他绝对是在拍麦克拉根的马屁，因为他家里有那么多显贵，不过他给我们吃了许多
非常棒的东西，还把我们介绍给了格文诺·琼斯。”
 
　　“格文诺·琼斯？”罗恩护目镜后面的眼睛瞪大了。“就是那个格文诺·琼斯？霍利黑德哈比队的队长？”
 
　　“没错，”赫敏说。“就我个人而言，我觉得她有一点自大，不过——”
 
　　“这儿聊够了吧！”斯普劳特教授急匆匆地走过来，一脸严厉的表情。“你们落后了，其他所有人都已经开始了，而纳威都已经摘到了第一个树囊！”
 
　　“他们看了看了四周；果然，坐在那边的纳威嘴唇上全是血，脸上还有几道肮脏的抓痕，可是手上却抓着一个柚子大小的绿色物体，还在恶心地搏动。
 
　　“好的，教授，我们这就开始！“罗恩说，一等她走开，就轻声地补充道，“早知道就用悄声细语了，哈利。”
 
　　“不，我们不该用！”赫敏马上说，看上去她还在一如既往地激烈反对着混血王子和他的咒语。“那么，来吧……我们最好开始做……”
 
　　她担忧地看了两人一眼；他们深吸了一口气，扑进了那个长满瘤子的树桩。
 
　　它突然活动了起来；树桩顶上伸出了细长多刺、看起来像荆棘一样的藤条，在空中挥舞着。其中一根缠到了赫敏的头发上，罗恩用一把大钳子把它打了回去；哈利成功地骗过了几根藤条，
把它们捆到了一起；这些触须一样的藤条之间出现了一个缺口；赫敏勇敢地把手伸了进去，可它就像个陷阱一样收回来把赫敏的手肘给包住了；哈利和罗恩一起奋力扳开那些藤条，让赫敏拔出
了自己的手，她手上抓着一个和纳威的那个很像的树囊。带刺的藤条立即收了回去，那个长满瘤子的树桩又变成了一截无害的、没有生命的木头。
 
　　“我说，等我有了房子才不会在园子里种这些东西，”罗恩把护目镜推到额头上，擦了擦脸上的汗。
 
　　“递给我一个碗，”赫敏远远地握着那个搏动的树囊；哈利递过去了一个碗，她把树囊扔到里面，一脸作呕的表情。
 
　　“别那么神经质，把它们的汁挤出来，它们新鲜的时候最有用了！”斯普劳特教授大声说。
 
　　“总之，”赫敏继续着他们被中断的对话，仿佛刚才没有被一截木头攻击，“斯拉霍恩准备举办一个圣诞聚会，哈利，这次你没法逃了，因为他竟然让我去查你哪天晚上有空，所以他肯定
能把聚会安排在一个你没事儿的晚上。”
 
　　哈利呻吟了一声。而罗恩则把两只手都放到树囊上试图将它弄破，站起身子用尽全身的力气挤压它，他生气地说，“这又是一个仅仅只有斯拉霍恩喜欢的学生才能参加的聚会，是不是？”
 
　　“只有蛞蝓俱乐部的人，是的，”赫敏说。
 
　　树囊从罗恩的两手之间飞了出去，撞到温室的玻璃上，又反弹到斯普劳特教授的后脑勺，把她打满补丁的旧帽子给撞了下来。哈利跑过去捡起树囊；回来的时候他听到赫敏说，“‘蛞蝓俱
乐部’这个名字又不是我起的——”
 
　　“‘蛞蝓俱乐部’，”罗恩重复道，他像马尔福那样冷笑了一声。“真可怜。那么，我希望你在聚会上玩得愉快。如果你试试和麦克拉根搭上腔，说不定斯拉霍恩会让你们俩做蛞蝓大王和
蛞蝓王后——”
 
　　“我们可以带上客人，”赫敏的脸变成了一种滚烫的鲜红色，“本来我准备邀请你的，可是如果你觉得那很愚蠢的话，我就不打搅你了！”
 
　　哈利突然间希望树囊能被抛得更远一些，这样此刻他就不必和他们俩坐在一起了。他偷偷把装着树囊的碗拉到自己这边，开始尝试用自己能想到的最吵和最用力的方法弄开它；不幸的是，
他还是能听见他们说的每一个字。
 
　　“你准备邀请我？”罗恩完全换了个口吻。
 
　　“是的，”赫敏生气地说。“可显然如果你更愿意让我去和麦克拉根搭腔——”
 
　　两人沉默了一阵子，哈利还在用铲子捣那个充满弹性的树囊。
 
　　“不，我不愿意，”罗恩用很小的声音说。
 
　　哈利一下子没捣在树囊上，碗碎了。
 
　　“恢复如初，”他赶紧用魔杖指着碎片说，碗又重新拼合了起来。然而这个撞击声似乎让罗恩和赫敏意识到了哈利的存在。赫敏看上去有些慌张，她开始手忙脚乱地翻起《世界食肉植物》
来寻找榨出那加卢树囊汁液的正确方法；而罗恩看上去也有些害羞，不过还是很得意。
 
　　“把那个递给我，哈利，”赫敏仓促地说，“书上说我们应该用尖东西刺破……”
 
　　哈利把装着树囊的碗递了过去，他和罗恩都把护目镜重新戴到眼睛上，又一次扑向了树桩。
 
　　这并不让他真的感到惊讶，哈利在和一根决意要勒死他的刺藤搏斗时想。他隐约觉得这个迟早都有可能发生。可是他不太确定自己对此怎么看……他和秋现在连对视都觉得尴尬，更别提说
话了；要是罗恩和赫敏开始恋爱，结果又分手了怎么办？他们的友谊能幸免吗？哈利想起了三年级时他们冷战的那几个星期；他不喜欢在其中牵线搭桥。可要是他们不分手呢？要是他们变得像
比尔和芙蓉一样，要是夹在他们中间变成了折磨人的尴尬事儿，以至于他被永远地排除在外了呢？
 
　　“抓到你了！”罗恩大叫一声，从树桩里拔出了又一个树囊，而这时赫敏刚好弄破了第一个，于是碗里就装满了块茎，看上去就像正在蠕动的浅绿色虫子。
 
　　这节课剩下的时间里他们没有再提斯拉霍恩的聚会。尽管哈利在接下来的几天里更加密切地关注了他的两个朋友，罗恩和赫敏却除了对彼此更礼貌了一点儿之外，似乎没有什么不同。哈利
猜想他只能等到圣诞聚会的那天，在斯拉霍恩昏暗的小房间里，看看在黄油啤酒的影响下会有什么事情发生了。然而与此同时，他有更多紧迫的烦恼。
 
　　凯蒂·贝尔仍然在圣芒戈医院，回归无望，这意味着势头正旺的格兰芬多队缺少了一个追球手，而哈利从九月份就开始精心地训练这只球队了。他一直不想找人代替凯蒂，希望她能归队，
但是他们和斯莱特林的比赛已经迫在眉睫，最终哈利只能接受她无法及时回来参赛的事实。
 
　　哈利不认为他能再忍受一次全学院的选拔。一天变形课后他堵住了迪安·托马斯，哈利情绪不高，可是这和魁地奇比赛没有什么关系。班上的大多数人都已经走了，不过屋里还有几只黄色
的小鸟在唧唧喳喳地盘旋，它们都是赫敏变出来的；除了她再也没人能成功从空气中召唤出比羽毛更复杂的东西了。
 
　　“你还有兴趣做追球手吗？”
 
　　“什么……？对，当然啦！”迪安兴奋地说。哈利越过迪安的肩膀看到西莫·斐尼甘重重地把书塞进书包，看上去酸溜溜的。哈利原本不想让迪安加入的原因之一，就是他知道西莫会不高
兴。另一方面，他又必须做对球队最有利的事，而迪安在选拔时比西莫飞得要好。
 
　　“那么，你进球队了，”哈利说。“今晚有一次训练，七点钟。”
 
　　“好的，”迪安说。“万岁，哈利！天哪，我都等不及要告诉金妮了！”
 
　　他飞奔出了教室，留下了哈利和西莫两个，赫敏的金丝雀飕飕地绕着他们飞，突然一只鸟落到了西莫的脑袋上，这令现场的气氛更加的不自在了。
 
　　西莫不是唯一一个对凯蒂替补的选择感到不满的人。如今公共休息室里充斥着关于哈利选了两个同班同学进入球队的议论。由于哈利在学校里经受过更糟糕的议论，所以他并不觉得特别困
扰，但是哈利必须在与斯莱特林的比赛中奉献一场胜利，所以压力仍然在增大。如果格兰芬多赢了，哈利知道整个学院都会忘记曾经批评过他，还会发誓说他们一直认为这是一支伟大的球队。
如果他们输了……那么，哈利苦笑着想，他就会忍受更多的非议……
 
　　那天晚上哈利看到迪安飞过之后，就找不到后悔的理由了；迪安与金妮、德梅尔扎两人配合得很好。击球手皮克斯和库特也一直在进步。唯一的问题就是罗恩。
 
　　哈利一直知道罗恩的发挥很不稳定，他不仅容易紧张，还缺乏自信，不幸的是，赛季揭幕战的临近把他的老毛病全带出来了。在把半打球漏进球门之后——大多数是金妮射入的——他的技
术变得越来越混乱了，最后他一拳打在了迎面飞来的德梅尔扎·罗宾斯的嘴巴上。
 
　　“这是个意外，对不起，德梅尔扎，真对不起！”罗恩在她身后喊道，她拐着弯回到地面，一路上血滴得到处都是。“我只是——”
 
　　“慌什么，”金妮恼怒地说，她在德梅尔扎身边着了地，查看着她肥大的嘴唇。“你是个窝囊废，罗恩，你看她的样子！”
 
　　“我能治好那个，”哈利说，落在两个女孩身边，用魔杖指着德梅尔扎的嘴，念了一句“消痛止血”。“另外金妮，别叫罗恩窝囊废，你不是队长——”
 
　　“不过，你看起来太忙了，我认为应该有个人去叫他窝囊废——”
 
　　哈利强忍住笑。
 
　　“回到空中，每个人，来吧……”
 
　　总的来说这是他们本学期最糟糕的一次训练，可比赛已如此迫近，哈利觉得诚实并不是上策。
 
　　“干得不错，各位，我想斯莱特林会被我们踏平的，”他鼓励地说，追球手和击球手们离开更衣室时看上去都挺满意。
 
　　“我打得就像一坨龙粪，”金妮走出门之后，罗恩用空洞的声音说。
 
　　“你没有，”哈利坚定地说。“你是我选出的最好的守门员，罗恩。你唯一的问题就是紧张。”
 
　　在回城堡的路上他不断地鼓励着罗恩，他们到三楼的时候，罗恩看上去或多或少有一点儿高兴了。哈利和往常一样推开了挂毯走进通往格兰芬多塔楼的捷径，可是他们却发现迪安和金妮紧
紧拥抱在一起狂热地接吻，就像用胶水粘到了一块儿。
 
　　哈利的胃里仿佛突然冒出了一只长着鳞片的巨大怪物，抓着他的五脏六腑；似乎热血已经涌上脑门，让他失去了一切理智，取而代之的是一股想把迪安咒成果冻的残暴欲望。他在和这股突
如其来的疯狂劲儿挣扎的同时，听到罗恩的声音仿佛从很远的地方传了过来。
 
　　“噢！”
 
　　迪安和金妮彼此分开了，他们俩朝四处张望。
 
　　“什么？”金妮说。
 
　　“我不想看到自己的妹妹在大庭广众之下和别人接吻！”
 
　　“这本来是一条没人的走廊，就在你们插进来管闲事儿之前还是！”金妮说。
 
　　迪安看上去很尴尬。他诡异地朝哈利咧嘴笑了笑，哈利却没有回应，好像那只刚刚诞生的怪物正在他耳边吼着要把迪安立刻驱逐出队。
 
　　“呃……走吧，金妮，”迪安说，“我们回公共休息室吧……”
 
　　“你走吧！”金妮说。“我要和亲爱的哥哥谈一谈！”
 
　　迪安走了，看上去似乎并不留恋此地。
 
　　“好，”金妮说，拨开她脸上长长的红发，对罗恩怒目而视，“直截了当地说吧，我和谁谈恋爱，和他们做什么都与你没关系，罗恩——”
 
　　“是啊，没关系！”罗恩也一样生气。“你以为我会想要别人说我的妹妹是个——”
 
　　“一个什么？”金妮大叫一声，抽出了魔杖。“一个什么，说清楚？”
 
　　“他没想说什么，金妮——”哈利不由自主地说，可是那只怪物却在心里咆哮着赞成罗恩说的话。
 
　　“哦，不，他想！”她突然对哈利发起火来。“就因为他从来没有和别人接过吻，就因为他得到的最好的一个吻来自于我们的穆丽尔婶婶——”
 
　　“闭上你的嘴！”罗恩吼道，脸从红色变成了栗色。
 
　　“不，我不！”金妮发狂地大叫。“我见过你跟着‘浮脓’，每次见到她都巴不得她能吻你的脸蛋，真可怜！如果你自己也去谈恋爱、和别人接吻，就不会如此介意别人这么做了！”
 
　　罗恩也抽出了他的魔杖，哈利迅速挡在他们中间。
 
　　“你都不知道自己在说些什么！”罗恩吼道，试图绕过哈利瞄准金妮，而哈利正伸开双手挡着金妮。“就因为我没在大庭广众之下接吻——！”
 
　　金妮嘲弄般地尖声笑了起来，试图推开哈利。
 
　　“吻过小猪，是不是？或者在枕头下面藏了穆丽尔婶婶的照片？”
 
　　“你——”
 
　　一道橙色的光从哈利的左臂下面穿过，只差几英寸就打中了金妮；哈利一把将罗恩顶到了墙上。
 
　　“别傻了——”
 
　　“哈利吻了秋·张！”金妮大喊，听上去就快要哭了。“赫敏吻了威克多尔·克鲁姆，只有你反感它，罗恩，因为你的经验还停留在12岁！”
 
　　说完那些，她一阵风似的跑开了。哈利松开了罗恩；他脸上的表情像是要杀人。他们俩都站在那儿，重重地喘息着，直到费尔奇的猫洛丽斯夫人出现在墙角，才打破了紧张的局面。
 
　　“走吧，”哈利说，费尔奇拖拖沓沓的脚步声已传到了他们耳边。
 
　　他们匆匆上了楼梯，沿着八楼的走廊飞奔。“噢，别挡着道！”罗恩对一个小女孩咆哮着，小女孩吓得跳了起来，手中的一瓶蟾蜍卵也掉了。
 
　　哈利几乎没有注意到碎玻璃的声音；他感到头晕目眩；仿佛被一道闪电击中了。这只是因为她是罗恩的妹妹，他告诉自己。你不想看到她吻迪安只不过是因为她是罗恩的妹妹……
 
　　但他的脑海里突然闯入了一幅画面，他在同一条偏僻的走廊里吻着金妮……他胸中的那个怪物咕噜咕噜地叫了起来……但是随后他看到罗恩撕开了挂毯，拿魔杖指着哈利，冲他喊着诸如“
辜负了信任”……“还以为是我的朋友”之类的话。
 
　　“你觉得赫敏吻了克鲁姆吗？”他们走到胖夫人画像的时候，罗恩突然问。哈利做贼心虚地惊醒过来，他把自己从想象之中硬拉了回来，不去憧憬一条没有罗恩闯入的走廊，一条他和金妮
独处的走廊——
 
　　“什么？”他困惑地说。“哦……呃……”
 
　　最诚实的回答是“对”，但他不想那么说。然而，罗恩似乎从哈利脸上的表情推断出了最坏的答案。
 
　　“滴沥汤，”他阴沉地对胖夫人说，然后两人从肖像洞爬进了公共休息室。
 
　　他们俩都没有再提起金妮和赫敏；事实上，那一晚他们几乎没有说什么话，而是沉默地上床睡觉了，两个人都陷入各自的沉思之中。
 
　　哈利醒着躺了很久，盯着四柱床的顶棚，试图让自己相信对金妮的感觉完全是一个哥哥应该有的。他们像兄妹一样一起度过了整个暑假，玩魁地奇，揶揄罗恩，拿比尔和芙蓉说笑，不是吗
？他认识金妮好几年了……他想保护她也是很正常的……想要把迪安肢解了，就因为他吻了她……不……他要控制住这种特殊的兄妹之情……
 
　　罗恩响亮地打了一声呼噜。
 
　　她是罗恩的妹妹，哈利坚定地告诉自己。罗恩的妹妹。她不在选择的范围内。他不会为了任何事拿自己和罗恩的友谊去冒险，他把枕头压成一个更舒适的形状等待睡意袭来，竭尽全力地不
让自己的思绪再漂泊到金妮那儿。
 
　　哈利第二天早上起床的时候有些头昏脑涨，他昨晚做了一系列的梦，梦里罗恩拿着击球手的球棒追打他。不过中午的时候他很高兴地见到了真正的罗恩，后者不仅对金妮和迪安态度冷淡，
还对赫敏冷嘲热讽，这使她感到莫名其妙，同时也很伤心。而且，罗恩一夜之间变得和炸尾螺一样暴躁、易怒。哈利整个白天都在徒劳地维持罗恩和赫敏之间的和平；最后，赫敏非常恼怒地去
睡觉了，罗恩气愤地骂了几个盯着他看的一年级学生后，怒气冲冲回到了男生寝室。
 
　　令哈利感到沮丧的是，接下来的几天里罗恩的敌对心理并没有逐渐消失。更糟的是，它又进一步影响了罗恩的守门技术，而这让他更加暴躁，以至于在周六比赛之前的最后一次训练中，他
没能守住追球手射向他的每一个球，却对着每个人都大喊大叫，还把德梅尔扎弄哭了。
 
　　“你闭上嘴，让她一个人待一会儿！”皮克斯叫道，他只有罗恩三分之二的身高，可是手里却拿着一只沉重的球棒。
 
　　“够了！”哈利吼道，他看见金妮正冲着罗恩的方向怒目而视，想起了她高超的蝙蝠精魔咒，哈利在事情失去控制之前冲了过去。“皮克斯，去把游走球收好。德梅尔扎，振作起来，你今
天打得很好。罗恩……”他等其他队员都走远之后说，“你是我最好的伙伴，但你要是一直这样对待其他人，我就得把你踢出球队。”
 
　　有那么一会儿他觉得罗恩想要打他，但是更糟的事情发生了：罗恩跌坐到飞天扫帚上，所有的斗志都消失了，他说，“我退出。我是个可怜虫。”
 
　　“你不是个可怜虫，也不能退出！”哈利激烈地说，一把抓住了罗恩的前襟。“你状态好的时候可以守住任何一个球，你是心理上出了问题！”
 
　　“你是说我疯了？”
 
　　“对，也许是的！”
 
　　他们互相瞪了一会儿，然后罗恩疲倦地摇了摇头。
 
　　“我知道你没时间找新守门员了，所以明天我会参加比赛，不过如果我们输了——我们肯定会的——我就自动离队。”
 
　　哈利说的话没有改变什么。吃晚餐时他一直在试图让罗恩提高自信，但是罗恩却在忙着粗暴地对待赫敏。哈利在公共休息室里坚持了一晚，但是其余队员却挤在一个远远的角落里，大声地
抱怨着罗恩并向他投来了厌恶的眼神，这破坏了哈利宣称球队不能没有罗恩的论断。最后哈利又假装生气了，希望能激起罗恩的逆反心理来守好门，但这个策略看来并不比鼓励更奏效；罗恩既
沮丧又绝望地睡觉去了。
 
　　哈利在黑暗之中醒着躺了很久。他不想输了明天的比赛；不仅因为这是他作为队长的第一场比赛，也是因为即便他不能证实自己对德拉科·马尔福的怀疑，也一定要在魁地奇比赛上击败他
。然而如果罗恩打得像最近的几次训练一样，他们赢的机会就非常渺茫……
 
　　要是他能让罗恩振作起来，让他在最佳的状态下打球……有什么东西能确保罗恩拥有非常幸运的一天……
 
　　哈利突然灵机一动，想出了答案。
 
　　第二天的早餐时间和从前一样令人兴奋；斯莱特林的人在每一名格兰芬多队球员走进礼堂的时候都要发出一片嘘声。哈利瞥了一眼天花板上浅蓝色的晴朗天空：这是个好兆头。
 
　　格兰芬多的餐桌上挤满了身着红色和金色衣服的学生，哈利和罗恩走过来时他们欢呼了起来。哈利咧开嘴笑着挥手致意；罗恩扮了个苦脸，摇了摇头。
 
　　“打起精神，罗恩！”拉文德朝他喊道。“我知道你会很出色的！”
 
　　罗恩没有理她。
 
　　“来点儿茶？”哈利问他。“咖啡？南瓜汁？”
 
　　“什么都行，”罗恩闷闷不乐地说，咬了一口烤面包。
 
　　几分钟后赫敏——她厌倦了
Chapter 15 The Unbreakable Vow
Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already singlehandedly delivered the usual twelve Christmas trees to the 
Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armor and 
great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry 
went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; fortunately, however, Harry's frequent nighttime wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the 
castle's secret passageways, so that he was often, without too much difficulty, to navigate mistletoe-free routes between classes.
Ron, who might once have found the necessity of these detours excuse for jealousy rather than hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. Although Harry much 
preferred this new laughing, joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly, 
Harry had to put up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment that she was not kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly, Harry 
found himself once more the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each other again.
Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione's bird attack, was taking a defensive and resentful tone.
“She can't complain,” he told Harry. “She snogged Krum. So she's found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it's a free country. I haven't done anything wrong.”
Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Quest). Determined as he was 
to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight.
“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled. “I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with her, but she never said... just as 
friends... I'm a free agent...”
Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron was watching him. Ron's voice trailed away in mutters, barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, though 
Harry thought he caught the words “Krum” and “Can't complain” again.
Hermione's schedule was so full that Harry could only talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did 
not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, so Harry generally joined her in the library, which meant that their 
conversations were held in whispers.
“He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. “I really couldn't care less.
”
She raised her quill and dotted an ‘i’ so ferociously that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish from the 
lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced Potion-Making and continued to make notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the Prince's useful 
additions to Libatius Borage's text.
“And incidentally,” said Hermione, after a few moments, “you need to be careful.”
“For the last time,” said Harry, speaking in a slightly hoarse tone after three-quarters of an hour's silence, “I am not giving back this book. I've learned more 
from the Half-Blood Prince than Snape or Slughorn have taught me in—”
“I'm not talking about your stupid so-called Prince,” said Hermione, giving his book a nasty look as though it had been rude to her. “I'm talking about earlier. I 
went into the girls’ bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to slip you a 
love potion. They're all hoping they're going to get you to take them to Slughorn's party, and thay all seem to have bought Fred and George's love potions, which I'm 
afraid to say probably work—”
“Why didn't you confiscate them then?” demanded Harry, it seemed extraordinary that Hermione's mania for upholding the rules could have abandoned her at this crucial 
juncture.
“They didn't have the potions with them in the bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully, “They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt the Half-Blood Prince,” she gave 
the book another scornful look, “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I'd just invite someone to go with you, that'll stop all the 
others thinking they've still got a chance. It's tomorrow night, they're getting desperate.”
“There isn't anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry, who was still not trying to think about Ginny any more than he could help, despite the fact the fact that she 
kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency.
“Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business.” said Hermione grimly.
She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which she was writing her Arithmancy essay and continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her with his mind a 
long way away.
“Hang on a moment,” he said slowly. “I thought Filch had banned anything bought at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?”
“And when has anyone ever paid attention to what Filch has banned?” asked Hermione, still concentrating on her essay.
“But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these girls are able to bring love potions into the school?”
“Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes and cough potions,” said Hermione. “It's part of their Owl Order Service.”
“You know a lot about it.”
Hermione gave him the kind of nasty look she had just given his copy of Advanced Potion-Making.
“It was all on the back of the bottles they showed Ginny and me in the summer,” she said coldly, “I don't go around putting potions in people's drinks... or 
pretending too either, which is just as bad...”
“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry quickly. “The point is, Filch is being fooled isn't he? These girls are getting stuff into the school disguised as 
something else! So why couldn't Malfoy have brought the necklace into the school—?”
“Oh, Harry... not that again...”
“Come on, why not?” demanded Harry.
“Look,” sighed Hermione, “Secrecy Sensors detect jinxes, curses, and concealment charms, don't they? They're used to find dark magic and dark objects. They'd have 
picked up a powerful curse, like the one in the necklace, within seconds. But something that's just been put in the wrong bottle wouldn't register—and anyway love 
potions aren't dark or dangerous—”
“Easy for you to say,” muttered Harry, thinking of Romilda Vane.
“—so it would be down to Filch to realise it wasn't a cough potion, and he's not a very good wizard, I doubt he can tell one potion from—”
Hermione stopped dead; Harry had heard it too. Somebody had moved close behind them among the dark bookshelves. They waited, and a moment later the vulture-like 
countenance of Madam Pince appeared around the corner, her sunken cheeks, her skin like parchment, and her long hooked nose illuminated unflatteringly by the lamp she 
was carrying.
“The library is now closed,” she said, “Mind you return anything you have borrowed to the correct—what have you been doing to that book, you depraved boy?”
“It isn't the library's, it's mine!” said Harry hastily, snatching his copy of Advanced Potion-Making off the table as she lunged at it with a clawlike hand.
“Despoiled!” she hissed. “Desecrated, befouled!”
“It's just a book that's been written on!” said Harry, tugging it out of her grip.
She looked as though she might have a seizure; Hermione, who had hastily packed her things, grabbed Harry by the arm and frogmarched him away.
“She'll ban you from the library if you're not careful. Why did you have to bring that stupid book?”
“It's not my fault she's barking mad, Hermione. Or d'you think she overheard you being rude about Filch? I've always thought there might be something between them...”
“Oh, ha ha..”
Enjoying the fact that they could speak normally again, they made their way along the deserted lamp-lit corridors back to the common room, arguing whether or not Filch 
and Madam Pince were secretly in love with each other.
“Baubles,” said Harry to the Fat Lady, this being the new, festive password.
“Same to you,” said the fat lady with a roguish grin, and she swung forward to admit them.
“Hi, Harry!” said Romilda Vane, the moment he had climbed through the portrait hole. “Fancy a Gillywater?”
Hermione gave him a “What-did-I-tell-you?” look over her shoulder.
“No thanks,” said Harry quickly. “I don't like it much.”
“Well, take these anyway,” said Romilda, thrusting a box into his hands. “Chocolate Cauldrons, they've got firewhiskey in them. My gran sent them to me, but I don't 
like them.”
“Oh—right—thanks a lot.” said Harry, who could not think what else to say. “Er—I'm just going over here with ...”
He hurried off behind Hermione, his voice tailing away feebly.
“Told you,” said Hermione succinctly, “Sooner you ask someone, sooner they'll all leave you alone and you can—”
But her face suddnly turned blank; she had just spotted Ron and Lavender, who were intertwined in the same armchair.
“Well, goodnight, Harry,” said Hermione, though it was only seven o'clock in the evening, and she left for the girls’ dormitory without another word.
Harry went to bed comforting himself that there was only one more day of lessons to struggle through, plus Slughorn's party, after which he and Ron would depart 
together for the Burrow. It now seemed impossible that Ron and Hermione would make up with each other before the holidays began, but perhaps, somehow, the break would 
give them time to calm down, think better of their behavior...
But his hopes were not high, and they sank still lower after enduring a Transfiguration lesson with them both next day. They had just embarked upon the immensely 
difficult topic of human transfiguration; working in front of mirrors, they were supposed to be changing the color of their own eyebrows. Hermione laughed unkindly at 
Ron's disastrous first attempt, during which he somehow managed to give himself a spectacular handlebar mustache; Ron retaliated by doing a cruel but accurate 
impression of Hermione jumping up and down in her seat every time Professor McGonagall asked a question, which Lavender and Parvati found deeply amusing and which 
reduced Hermione to the verge of tears again. She raced out of the classroom on the bell, leaving half her things behind; Harry, deciding that her need was greater than 
Ron's just now, scooped up her remaining possessions and followed her.
He finally tracked her down as she emerged from a girl's bathroom on the floor below. She was accompanied by Luna Lovegood, who was patting her vaguely on the back.
“Oh, hello, Harry,” said Luna. “Did you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?”
“Hi, Luna. Hermione, you left your stuff...”
He held out her books.
“Oh, yes,” said Hermione in a choked voice, taking her things and turning away quickly to hide the fact she was wiping her eyes with her pencil case. “Thank you, 
Harry. Well, I'd better get going...”
And she hurried off, without ever giving Harry any time to offer words of comfort, though admittedly he could not think of any.
“She's a bit upset,” said Luna. “I thought at first it was Moaning Myrtle in there, but it turned out to be Hermione. She said something about Ron Weasley...”
“Yeah, they've had a row,” said Harry.
“He says funny things sometimes, doesn't he?” said Luna as they set off down the corridor together. “But he can be a bit unkind. I noticed that last year.”
“I s'pose,” said Harry. Luna was demonstrating her usual knack of speaking uncomfortable truths; he had never met anyone quite like her. “So have you had a good 
term?”
“Oh, it's been all right,” said Luna. “A bit lonely without the D.A. Ginny's been nice, though. She stopped two boys in our Transfiguration class calling me ‘Loony
’ the other day —”
“How would you like to come to Slughorn's party with me tonight?”
The words were out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them; he heard himself say them as though it were a stranger speaking.
Luna turned her protuberant eyes to him in surprise.
“Slughorn's party? With you?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “We're supposed to bring guests, so I thought you might like.. I mean...” He was keen to make his intentions perfectly clear. “I mean, just as 
friends, you know. But if you don't want to...”
He was already half-hoping that she didn't want to.
“Oh no, I'd love to go with you as friends!” said Luna, beaming as he had never seen her beam before. “Nobody's ever asked me to a party before, as a friend! Is that 
why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party? Should I do mine too?”
“No,” said Harry firmly, “That was a mistake. I'll get Hermione to put it right for me. So I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock then.”
“AHA!” screamed a voice from overhead and both of them jumped; unnoticed by either of them, they had just passed underneath Peeves, who was hanging upside down from a 
chandelier and grinning maliciously at them.
“Potty asked Loony to go to the party. Potty lurves Loony! Potty luuuuuurves Looooony!”
And he zoomed away cackling and shrieking, “Potty loves Loony!”
“Nice to keep these things private,” said Harry. And sure enough, in no time at all the whole school seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna Lovegood to 
Slughorn's party.
“You could've taken anyone!” said Ron in disbelief over dinner. “Anyone! And you chose Loony Lovegood?”
“Don't call her that, Ron!” snapped Ginny, pausing behind Harry on her way to join friends. “I'm really glad you're taking her Harry, she's so excited.”
And she moved on down the table to sit with Dean. Harry tried to feel pleased that Ginny was glad he was taking Luna to the party but could not quite manage it. A long 
way along the table Hermione was sitting alone, playing with her stew. Harry noticed Ron looking at her furtively.
“You could say sorry,” suggested Harry bluntly.
“What, and get attacked by another flock of canaries?” muttered Ron.
“What did you have to imitate her for?”
“She laughed at my mustache!”
“So did I, it was the stupidest thing I've ever seen.”
But Ron did not seem to have heard; Lavender had just arrived with Parvati. Squeezing herself in between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms around Ron's neck.
“Hi, Harry,” said Parvati who, like Harry, looked faintly embarrassed and bored by the behavior of their two friends.
“Hi,” said Harry, “How're you? You're staying at Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to leave.”
“I managed to talk them out of it for the time being,” said Parvati. “That Katie thing really freaked them out, but as there hasn't been anything since... Oh, hi, 
Hermione!”
Parvati positively beamed. Harry could tell that she was feeling guilty for having laughed at Hermione in Transfiguration. He looked around and saw that Hermione was 
beaming back, if possible even more brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes.
“Hi, Parvati!” said Hermione, ignoring Ron and Lavender completely. “Are you going to Slughorn's party tonight?”
“No invite,” said Parvati gloomily. “I'd love to go, though, it sounds like it's going to be really good... you're going, aren't you?”
“Yes, I'm meeting Cormac at eight, and we're—”
There was a noise like a plunger being withdrawn from a blocked sink and Ron surfaced. Hermione acted as though she had not seen or heard anything.
“—we're going up to the party together.”
“Cormac?” said Parvati. “Cormac McLaggen, you mean?”
“That's right,” said Hermione sweetly. “The one who almost,” she put a great deal of emphasis on the word, “became Gryffindor Keeper.”
“Are you going out with him, then?” asked Parvati, wide-eyed.
“Oh—yes—didn't you know?” said Harmione, with a most un-Hermione-ish giggle.
“No!” said Parvati, looking positively agog at this piece of gossip. “Wow, you like your Quidditch players, don't you? First Krum, then McLaggen.”
“I like really good Quidditch players,” Hermione corrected her, still smiling. “Well, see you... got to go and get ready for the party...”
She left. At once Lavender and Parvati put their heads together to discuss this new development, with everything they had ever heard about McLaggen, and all they had 
ever guessed about Hermione. Ron looked strangely blank and said nothing. Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.
When he arrived in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock that night, he found an unusually large number of girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring at him 
resentfully as he approached Luna. She was wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were attracting a certain amount of giggles from the onlookers, but otherwise she 
looked quite nice. Harry was glad, in any case, that she had left off her radish earrings, her Butterbeer-cork necklace, and her Spectrespecs.
“Hi,” he said. “Shall we get going then?”
“Oh yes,” she said happily. “Where is the party?”
“Slughorn's office,” said Harry, leading her up the marble staircase away from all the staring and muttering. “Did you hear, there's supposed to be a vampire coming?
”
“Rufus Scrimgeour?” asked Luna.
“I—what?” said Harry, disconcerted. “You mean the Minister of Magic?”
“Yes, he's a vampire,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “Father wrote a very long article about it when Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but he was forced 
not to publish by somebody from the Ministry. Obviously, they didn't want the truth to get out!”
Harry, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna repeating her father's bizarre views as though they were fact, did not 
reply; they were already approaching Slughorn's office and the sounds of laughter, music, and loud conversation were growing louder with every step they took.
Whether it had been built that way, or because he had used magical trickery to make it so, Slughorn's office was much larger than the usual teacher's study. The ceiling 
and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson and gold hangings, so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy and 
bathed in the red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the center of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light. 
Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and 
a number of house-elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they 
looked like little roving tables.
“Harry, m'boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door. “Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!”
Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry's arm so tightly he might have been hoping to Disapparate with him, Slughorn led 
him purposefully into the party; Harry seized Luna's hand and dragged her along with him.
“Harry, I'd like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine, author of Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires—and, of course, his friend Sanguini.”
Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, grabbed Harry's hand and shook it enthusiastically; the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated with dark shadows 
under his eyes, merely nodded. He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and excited.
“Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!” said Worple, peering short-sightedly up into Harry's face. “I was saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, Where is 
the biography of Harry Potter for which we have all been waiting?”
“Er,” said Harry, “were you?”
“Just as modest as Horace described!” said Worple. “But seriously—” his manner changed; it became suddenly business-like, “I would be delighted to write it myself
— people are craving to know more about you, dear boy, craving! If you were prepared to grant me a few interviews, say in four- or five-hour sessions, why, we could 
have the book finished within months. And all with very little effort on your part, I assure you—ask Sanguini here if it isn't quite — Sanguini, stay here!” added 
Worple, suddenly stern, for the vampire had been edging toward the nearby group of girls, a rather hungry look in his eye. “Here, have a pasty,” said Worple, seizing 
one from a passing elf and stuffing it into Sanguini's hand before turning his attention back to Harry.
“My dear boy, the gold you could make, you have no idea —”
“I'm definitely not interested,” said Harry firmly, “and I've just seen a friend of mine, sorry.”
He pulled Luna after him into the crowd; he had indeed just seen a long mane of brown hair disappear between what looked like two members of the Weird Sisters.
“Hermione! Hermione!”
“Harry! There you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna !”
“What's happened to you?” asked Harry, for Hermione looked distinctly disheveled, rather as though she had just fought her way out of a thicket of Devil's Snare.
“Oh, I've just escaped—I mean, I've just left Cormac,” she said. “Under the mistletoe,” she added in explanation, as Harry continued to look questioningly at her.
“Serves you right for coming with him,” he told her severely.
“I thought he'd annoy Ron most,” said Hermione dispassionately. “I debated for a while about Zacharias Smith, but I thought, on the whole —”
“You considered Smith?” said Harry, revolted.
“Yes, I did, and I'm starting to wish I'd chosen him, McLaggen makes Grawp look a gentleman. Let's go this way, we'll be able to see him coming, he's so tall...”
The three of them made their way over to the other side of the room, scooping up goblets of mead on the way, realizing too late that Professor Trelawney was standing 
there alone.
“Hello,” said Luna politely to Professor Trelawney.
“Good evening, my dear,” said Professor Trelawney, focusing upon Luna with some difficulty. Harry could smell cooking sherry again. “I haven't seen you in my classes 
lately...”
“No, I've got Firenze this year,” said Luna.
“Oh, of course,” said Professor Trelawney with an angry, drunken titter. “Or Dobbin, as I prefer to think of him. You would have thought, would you not, that now I 
am returned to the school Professor Dumbledore might have got rid of the horse? But no... we share classes... It's an insult, frankly, an insult. Do you know...”
Professor Trelawney seemed too tipsy to have recognized Harry. Under cover of her furious criticisms of Firenze, Harry drew closer to Hermione and said, “Let me get 
something straight. Are you planning to tell Ron that you interfered at Keeper tryouts?”
Hermione raised her eyebrows.
“Do you really think I'd stoop that low?”
Harry looked at her shrewdly.
“Hermione, if you can ask out McLaggen—”
“There's a difference,” said Hermione with dignity. “I've got no plans to tell Ron anything about what might, or might not, have happened at Keeper tryouts.”
“Good,” said Harry fervently. “Because he'll just fall apart again, and we'll lose the next match —”
“Quidditch!” said Hermione angrily. “Is that all boys care about? Cormac hasn't asked me one single question about myself, no, I've just been treated to A Hundred 
Great Saves Made by Cormac McLaggen non-stop ever since—oh no, here he comes!”
She moved so fast it was as though she had Disapparated; one moment she was there, the next, she had squeezed between two guffawing witches and vanished.
“Seen Hermione?” asked McLaggen, forcing his way through the throng a minute later.
“No, sorry,” said Harry, and he turned quickly to join in Luna's conversation, forgetting for a split second to whom she was talking.
“Harry Potter!” said Professor Trelawney in deep, vibrant tones, noticing him for the first time.
“Oh, hello,” said Harry unenthusiastically.
“My dear boy!” she said in a very carrying whisper. “The rumors! The stories! The Chosen One! Of course, I have known for a very long time... the omens were never 
good, Harry... but why have you not returned to Divination? For you, of all people, the subject is of the utmost importance!”
“Ah, Sybill, we all think our subject's most important!” said a loud voice, and Slughorn appeared at Professor Trelawney's other side, his face very red, his velvet 
hat a little askew, a glass of mead in one hand and an enormous mince pie in the other. “But I don't think I've ever known such a natural at Potions!” said Slughorn, 
regarding Harry with a fond, if bloodshot, eye. “Instinctive, you know—like his mother! I've only ever taught a few with this kind of ability, I can tell you that, 
Sybill—why even Severus —”
And to Harry's horror, Slughorn threw out an arm and seemed to scoop Snape out of thin air toward them.
“Stop skulking and come and join us, Severus!” hiccuped Slughorn happily. “I was just talking about Harry's exceptional potion-making! Some credit must go to you, of 
course, you taught him for five years!”
Trapped, with Slughorn's arm around his shoulders, Snape looked down his hooked nose at Harry, his black eyes narrowed.
“Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to teach Potter anything at all.”
“Well, then, it's natural ability!” shouted Slughorn. “You should have seen what he gave me, first lesson, Draught of Living Death—never had a student produce finer 
on a first attempt, I don't think even you, Severus —”
“Really?” said Snape quietly, his eyes still boring into Harry, who felt a certain disquiet. The last thing he wanted was for Snape to start investigating the source 
of his newfound brilliance at Potions.
“Remind me what other subjects you're taking, Harry?” asked Slughorn .
“Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology...”
“All the subjects required, in short, for an Auror ,” said Snape with the faintest sneer.
“Yeah, well, that's what I'd like to do,” said Harry defiantly.
“And a great one you'll make too!” boomed Slughorn.
“I don't think you should be an Auror, Harry,” said Luna unexpectedly. Everybody looked at her. “The Aurors are part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, I thought everyone 
knew that. They're planning to bring down the Ministry of Magic from within using a combination of Dark Magic and gum disease.”
Harry inhaled half his mead up his nose as he started to laugh. Really, it had been worth bringing Luna just for this. Emerging, from his goblet, coughing, sopping wet 
but still grinning, he saw something calculated to raise his spirits even higher: Draco Malfoy... being dragged by the ear toward them by Argus Filch.
“Professor Slughorn,” wheezed Filch, his jowls aquiver and the maniacal light of mischief-detection in his bulging eyes, “I discovered this boy lurking in an 
upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?”
Malfoy pulled himself free of Filch's grip, looking furious.
“All right, I wasn't invited!” he said angrily. “I was trying to gatecrash, happy?”
“No, I'm not!” said Filch, a statement at complete odds with the glee on his face. “You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the Headmaster say that night-time prowling is 
out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?”
“That's all right, Argus, that's all right,” said Slughorn, waving a hand. “It's Christmas, and it's not a crime to want to come to a party. Just this once, we'll 
forget any punishment; you may stay, Draco.”
Filich's expression of outraged disappointment was perfectly predictable; but why, Harry wondered, watching him, did Malfoy look almost equally unhappy? And why was 
Snape looking at Malfoy as though both angry and... was it possible? ... a little afraid?
But almost before Harry had registered what he had seen, Filch had turned and shuffled away, muttering under his breath; Malfoy had composed his face into a smile and 
was thanking Slughorn for his generosity, and Snape's face was smoothly inscrutable again.
“It's nothing, nothing,” said Slughorn, waving away Malfoy's thanks. “I did know your grandfather, after all....”
“He always spoke very highly of you, sir,” said Malfoy quickly. “Said you were the best potion-maker he'd ever known...”
Harry stared at Malfoy. It was not the sucking-up that intrigued him; he had watched Malfoy do that to Snape for a long time. It was the fact that Malfoy did, after 
all, look a little ill. This was the first time he had seen Malfoy close up for ages; he now saw that Malfoy had dark shadows under his eyes and a distinctly grayish 
tinge to his skin.
“I'd like a word with you, Draco,” said Snape suddenly.
“Now, Severus,” said Slughorn, hiccuping again, “it's Christmas, don't be too hard—”
“I'm his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be,” said Snape curtly. “Follow me, Draco.”
They left, Snape leading the way, Malfoy looking resentful. Harry stood there for a moment, irresolute, then said, “I'll be back in a bit, Luna—er—bathroom.”
“All right,” she said cheerfully, and he thought he heard her, as he hurried off into the crowd, resume the subject of the Rotfang Conspiracy with Professor 
Trelawney, who seemed sincerely interested.
It was easy, once out of the party, to pull his Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and throw it over himself, for the corridor was quite deserted. What was more 
difficult was finding Snape and Malfoy. Harry ran down the corridor, the noise of his feet masked by the music and loud talk still issuing from Slughorn's office behind 
him. Perhaps Snape had taken Malfoy to his office in the dungeons ... or perhaps he was escorting him back to the Slytherin common room... Harry pressed his ear against 
door after door as he dashed down the corridor until, with a great jolt of excitement, he crouched down to the keyhole of the last classroom in the corridor and heard 
voices.
“... cannot afford mistakes, Draco, because if you are expelled —”
“I didn't have anything to do with it, all right?”
“I hope you are telling the truth, because it was both clumsy and foolish. Already you are suspected of having a hand in it.”
“Who suspects me?” said Malfoy angrily. “For the last time, I didn't do it, okay? That Bell girl must've had an enemy no one knows about—don't look at me like that! 
I know what you're doing, I'm not stupid, but it won't work—I can stop you!”
There was a pause and then Snape said quietly, “Ah... Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, I see. What thoughts are you trying to conceal from your master, 
Draco?”
“I'm not trying to conceal anything from him, I just don't want you butting in!”
Harry pressed his ear still more closely against the keyhole... what had happened to make Malfoy speak to Snape like this—Snape, toward whom he had always shown 
respect, even liking?
“So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told 
them repeatedly to be there, Draco—”
“So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!” jeered Malfoy.
There was another pause. Then Snape said, “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things.”
“You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!”
“Listen to me,” said Snape, his voice so low now that Harry had to push his ear very hard against the keyhole to hear. “I am trying to help you. I swore to your 
mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco—”
“Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to 
work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!”
“What is your plan ?”
“It's none of your business!”
“If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you ...”
“I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!”
“You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes—”
“I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!”
“Keep your voice down!” spat Snape, for Malfoy's voice had risen excitedly. “If your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts 
O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres—”
“What does it matter?” said Malfoy. “Defense Against the Dark Arts—it's all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts—”
“It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!” said Snape. “Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me! 
You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle—”
“They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!”
“Then why not confide in me, and I can—”
“I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!”
There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, “You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but—”
Harry had barely a second's warning; he heard Malfoy's footsteps on the other side of the door and flung himself out of the way just as it burst open. Malfoy was 
striding away down the corridor, past the open door of Slughorn's office, around the distant corner, and out of sight.
Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom. His expression unfathomable, he returned to the party. Harry remained 
on the floor, hidden beneath the Cloak, his mind racing.
雪花又一次打着转飞到了结冰的窗户上；圣诞节很快又要到了。海格已经照常一个人把12棵圣诞树运到了礼堂里；楼梯的栏杆已经用冬青和金线编成的花环缠绕好了；铠甲的头盔里点着不灭的
蜡烛，走廊里则间隔地挂着大束的?寄生。每次哈利经过的时候，大群大群的女生就聚集在?寄生下，这常常导致走廊的拥堵；然而幸运的是，哈利在城堡里频繁的夜间漫步使得他对秘密通道了
如指掌，所以在两堂课之间他不用太费劲就能找到没有?寄生的路线。
 
　　罗恩要是在从前，也许会对这种必要的绕道感到嫉妒而不是有趣，可现在他对此只是捧腹大笑。虽然比起从前那个闷闷不乐、好斗的罗恩，哈利更喜欢现在这个笑容满面、爱打趣的罗恩，
可是他的这个进步却也让哈利感到了代价昂贵。首先，哈利不得不忍受拉文德·布朗的频繁出现，她似乎认为任何没有同罗恩接吻的时间都是一种浪费；其次，哈利发现他最好的两个朋友似乎
不准备再和对方说话了。
 
　　罗恩的手和前臂上还带着赫敏的那些小鸟啄出和抓出的伤痕，说话的语气也带着自我辩解和愤慨。
 
　　“她没什么可抱怨的，”他告诉哈利。“她吻了克鲁姆。然后发现有人吻了我。嗯，这是个自由的国家，我又没做错什么。”
 
　　哈利没有回答，只是假装专心地看着明天魔咒课前需要预习的书（《第五元素：一些探索》）（译注：第五元素是古代和中世纪哲学家认为除了土、空气、火和水四大基本元素以外的第五
种元素，也是最高的精髓，被认为是天体的组成物质并潜伏于所有事物之中）。他决心两边都不得罪，所以许多时间里都默不做声。
 
　　“我从没有对赫敏承诺过什么，”罗恩喃喃自语。“我是说，好吧，我跟她一起去参加斯拉霍恩的圣诞聚会，但她从来没说过……我们只是朋友……我是个自由人。”
 
　　哈利翻过一页《第五元素》，他意识到罗恩正看着他。罗恩的声音渐渐变成了嘟囔，在噼啪作响的炉火声中几乎听不见了，不过哈利还是觉得又听到了“克鲁姆”和“没理由埋怨”那几个
字。
 
　　赫敏的课程表排得太满，以至于哈利到了晚上才能和她说上话，而此时罗恩往往是和拉文德紧紧抱在一起，注意不到哈利在做什么。罗恩在公共休息室时赫敏坚决不肯坐在那儿，所以哈利
通常和她一起去图书馆，这就意味着他们的谈话只能是窃窃私语。
 
　　“他有完全的自由去吻他喜欢的任何人，”赫敏说，图书管理员平斯夫人正在巡视他们身后的书架。“我真的不关心。”
 
　　她提起羽毛笔在‘i’上狠狠地加了一点，羊皮纸上被戳出了个洞。哈利什么也没有说。他觉得自己的声音很快就会因疏于使用而消失。他把身子朝《高级魔药制备》凑得更近了一些，继
续在长生药那一章做着笔记，偶尔停下来辨认王子对莱贝修斯·波里奇有用的补充。
 
　　“顺便说一句，”过了一会儿赫敏说，“你要当心。”
 
　　“说最后一次，”在沉默了四十五分钟之后，哈利用一种略带沙哑的声音说，“我不会归还这本书的，混血王子教给我的东西比斯内普和斯拉霍恩多得多——”
 
　　“我不是在说你那个愚蠢的所谓‘王子’，”赫敏厌恶地瞥了一眼他的书，就好像它刚刚冒犯了她似的，“我说的是刚才的事情。我来这儿之前去了一趟洗手间，有十来个女生在那里，其
中就有罗蜜尔达·文恩，她们正在计划怎么骗你喝下爱情药。她们都希望你能带她们去斯拉霍恩的聚会，似乎她们都买了弗雷德和乔治的爱情药，恐怕那些东西是有效的——”
 
　　“那你为什么不没收它们呢？”哈利问。赫敏在关键时刻竟然没有表现出她对贯彻校规的狂热，这看上去倒很反常。
 
　　“她们在洗手间里时并没有带着那些东西。”赫敏轻蔑地说。“她们只是在讨论策略。由于我很怀疑那个混血王子，”她又厌恶地看了那本书一眼，“能发明出解药来同时对付一打不同的
爱情药，所以我想替你邀请一个人——这样就能扼杀她们所有的侥幸想法。就在明天晚上，她们已经有些不顾一切了。”
 
　　“我不想邀请任何人，”哈利喃喃自语，他仍在竭尽全力让自己不再去想金妮，尽管事实上她依然会突然闯入他的梦，他只能虔诚地祈祷罗恩不会摄神取念。
 
　　“好吧，但千万要小心你的饮料，因为罗蜜尔达看上去不像是在说笑。”赫敏冷酷地说。
 
　　“等一下，”他慢慢地说。“我记得费尔奇已经禁掉了韦斯莱魔法把戏店里的任何东西。”
 
　　“谁又注意过费尔奇禁了什么东西呢？”赫敏问，她正在专注地写论文。
 
　　“但是我记得不是所有的猫头鹰都被检查过了吗？那么这些女生又是怎么把爱情药带进学校的呢？”
 
　　“弗雷德和乔治把它们伪装成香水和咳嗽药送进来，”赫敏说。“这是他们猫头鹰定购服务的一部分。”
 
　　“你知道得很多嘛。”
 
　　赫敏白了一眼他，那眼神就像看他那本《高级魔药制备》一样。
 
　　“这些都写在暑假里他们给我和金妮看的那些瓶子的背面，”她冷冷地说。“我可不会到处溜达去在别人的饮料里下药……或者是假装这样做，这同样很糟糕……”
 
　　“是啊，好了，别想那个了，”哈利快速地说，“问题是，费尔奇被骗过了，对吧？这些女生把物品伪装成别的东西带入了学校！那马尔福为什么不能把项链带进来——？”
 
　　“哦，哈利……又来了……”
 
　　“说啊，为什么不能？”哈利问。
 
　　“你瞧，”赫敏叹了口气，“探密器能探测到恶咒和伪装起来的咒语，是不是？它们是用来探测黑魔法和黑魔法物品的。它们能识别出强大的诅咒，就像那串项链上的，只要几秒钟而已。
可它没法显示那些只不过是装错了瓶子的东西——不管怎么说，爱情药并不是黑魔法，也不危险——”
 
　　“你说的倒容易！”哈利嘀咕了一句，想到了罗蜜尔达·文恩。
 
　　“——那么就只能够由费尔奇来发现它不是咳嗽药，他不是个很好的巫师，我怀疑他是否能够区分这些魔药——”
 
　　赫敏突然停了下来；哈利也听到了。有人从黑暗的书架之中向他们身后走过来。片刻之后，长的像秃鹫一样的平斯夫人出现在了拐角的地方，她凹陷的脸颊、羊皮纸一般的皮肤和长长的鹰
钩鼻子被手中的提灯照得一清二楚。
 
　　“图书馆要关门了，”她说。“请把你们借来的东西放回原处——你对那本书做了什么，你这个坏小子？”
 
　　“这不是图书馆的书，是我的！”哈利赶紧说，他抓起桌上的那本《高级魔药制备》，而平斯夫人正准备用爪子一样的手去抓它。
 
　　“这是抢夺！”她嘶叫地说，“亵渎！玷污！”
 
　　“这只不过是一本被写过的书！”哈利把书从她的手中拽了出来。
 
　　她看上去似乎准备要把书没收；赫敏已经迅速地收好了东西，一手抓住哈利的胳臂将他拖出了图书馆。
 
　　“如果你不小心一点，她会禁止你进入图书馆的！为什么你一定要带着那本愚蠢的书呢？”
 
　　“她像疯狗一样的叫唤不是我的错，赫敏。或者她是不是无意间听到了你中伤费尔奇？我一直觉得他们之间有点儿什么……”
 
　　“哦，哈哈……”
 
　　他们一边沿点着灯的空旷走廊往公共休息室走，享受着能够重新正常说话的乐趣，一边还为费尔奇和平斯夫人是否有一段地下情争论个不停。
 
　　“小丑手杖，”哈利对胖夫人说，这是最新的节日口令。
 
　　“你也一样（译注：小丑手杖bauble在英语里还有一层意思是华而不实、愚蠢可笑的东西或人），”胖夫人调皮地露齿一笑，打开了门让他们通过。
 
　　“嗨，哈利！”哈利刚从肖像洞爬进来罗蜜尔达就说，“想要一杯峡谷水吗？”
 
　　赫敏回头看了他一眼，意思是说“我告诉过你什么？”。
 
　　“不了，谢谢。”哈利迅速回答道。“我不太喜欢。”
 
　　“那么，无论如何拿上这些。”她硬塞给哈利一只盒子，“酒心巧克力，里面有热火威士忌。我奶奶寄给我的，可我不喜欢吃。”
 
　　“哦——好吧——多谢，”哈利想不出还能说什么。“呃——刚才我是和……”
 
　　他没有把话说完，赶紧去追赫敏了。
 
　　“告诉你，”赫敏简洁地说。“你越早邀请一个人，她们就越不会来骚扰你了，你就可以——”
 
　　但突然间她变得面无表情了；因为她刚刚看见了罗恩和拉文德正纠缠在一起，坐在同一张扶手椅上。
 
　　“那么，晚安，哈利，”虽然只是晚上七点钟，她还是回女生宿舍去了，也没再说什么。
 
　　哈利上床睡觉的时候安慰自己，算上斯拉霍恩的聚会也只剩下明天一天的课需要熬了，然后他和罗恩就能一起去陋居。现在看来罗恩和赫敏要想在放假前和解是不可能的了，不过或许，假
期的分开能让他们有充分的时间冷静下来，好好想想自己的所作所为……
 
　　但他并没有抱太大的希望，第二天一起上完变形课之后希望就更加渺茫了。他们刚开始着手学习极为困难的人类变形术；要对着镜子练习，试图改变自己眉毛的颜色。赫敏不怀好意地嘲笑
了罗恩灾难性的第一次尝试，他不知怎么搞的给自己安了一对儿八字胡；罗恩则狠下心惟妙惟肖地模仿起赫敏每次麦格教授提问时坐立不安的样子来报复，拉文德和帕瓦蒂觉得非常有趣，而赫
敏则差点儿掉了眼泪。下课铃一响她就冲出了教室，留下了一半的东西没有收拾。哈利认定此时赫敏比罗恩更需要他去安慰，于是他收拾好她的东西跟了过去。
 
　　最后他跟到楼下的一个女生洗手间，她从里面走了出来。卢娜·洛夫古德陪着她，正面无表情地拍着她的背。
 
　　“哦，你好，哈利，”卢娜说。“你知道现在你一边的眉毛是浅黄色的吗？”
 
　　“嗨，卢娜。赫敏，你把自己的东西落下了——”
 
　　他拿出了她的书。
 
　　“哦，是的，”赫敏的鼻子似乎塞住了，拿了她的东西快速地背过身去，以掩饰她正在用铅笔盒擦眼泪的事实。“谢谢你，哈利。嗯，我想我要走了……”
 
　　她马上跑开了，没有给哈利时间来安慰她，但不可否认他也没有想到要说什么。
 
　　“她有点儿乱。”卢娜说。“我开始还以为是哭泣的桃金娘在那儿，结果却是赫敏。她说了那个罗恩·韦斯莱的一些事……”
 
　　“是的，他们吵了一架，”哈利说。
 
　　“他有时候会说非常滑稽有趣的话，是吗？”他们一起离开那条走廊时卢娜说。“但是他也有点儿刻薄。我去年注意到的。”
 
　　“我想是的，”哈利说。卢娜又在展示她直言不讳的才能。哈利觉得她真是有点儿与众不同。“你这个学期过的好吗？”
 
　　“哦，还不错，”卢娜说。“没了D.A.感觉有点儿孤单。不过金妮很好。她前几天在变形课上制止了两个男孩叫我‘疯姑娘’——”
 
　　“今晚你愿意和我一起去参加斯拉霍恩的聚会吗？”
 
　　这些话在哈利阻止它们之前就从他嘴里冒了出来。他感觉就像是一个陌生人在说话。
 
　　卢娜凸出的眼睛惊异地望着哈利。
 
　　“斯拉霍恩的聚会？和你一起？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利说。“我们可以带上客人，所以我想你可能愿意……我是说……”他急切地想把自己的意图表达得一清二楚。“我是说，只是作为朋友，你知道。但如果你不想……”
 
　　他心里已经一半希望她不愿意去了。
 
　　“哦，不，我很愿意作为朋友和你一起去！”卢娜微笑着说，哈利以前从没有见她笑过。“从没有人邀请过我去参加聚会，作为朋友！你是为了聚会才染的眉毛吧？我是不是也应该这样做
？”
 
　　“不是，”哈利坚定地说，“那只是个事故，我会让赫敏帮我弄回来的。那么八点在门厅见。”
 
　　“啊哈！”头顶上一个声音尖叫道，他们都吓了一跳；他们俩没有注意到刚刚经过了皮皮鬼，他正倒挂在枝形吊灯上，心怀不轨地冲他们咧嘴笑着。
 
　　“傻宝宝波特邀请了疯姑娘！傻宝宝爱上了疯姑娘！傻宝宝爱上了疯姑娘——！”
 
　　他飞速地消失了，一边咯咯地笑一边大声尖叫，“傻宝宝波特爱上了疯姑娘！”
 
　　“要是能保密就好了，”哈利说。可是他的担心成为了现实，整个学校似乎一瞬间就都知道了他要带卢娜·洛夫古德去参加斯拉霍恩聚会的事。
 
　　“你可能选择任何人！”罗恩在晚饭时不相信地说，“任何人！而你选择了疯姑娘洛夫古德？”
 
　　“别那样叫她，罗恩，”金妮呵斥道，她在加入朋友们的路上停在了哈利身后。“我真的很高兴你能带她去，哈利。她激动死了。”
 
　　她走到桌子那头和迪安坐在了一起。哈利试图为金妮赞赏他带卢娜去参加聚会而感到高兴，可是他做不到。桌子的另一头，赫敏远远地独自一人坐着，拨弄着她的炖菜。哈利注意到罗恩正
偷偷摸摸地看她。
 
　　“你可以去道歉，”哈利坦率地建议。
 
　　“什么，让我再去被另一群小鸟攻击吗？”罗恩喃喃地着。
 
　　“你干嘛要模仿她呢？”
 
　　“她嘲笑我的胡子！”
 
　　“我也笑了，那是我见过的最蠢的东西。”
 
　　但罗恩看上去并没有听到；拉文德和帕瓦蒂刚好走了过来。拉文德挤到罗恩和哈利中间，恣意地搂住了罗恩的脖子。
 
　　“嗨，哈利。”帕瓦蒂说，她和哈利一样被他们的两个朋友的行为弄得既尴尬又厌烦。
 
　　“嗨，”哈利说。“你还好吗？你准备留在霍格沃茨吧？我听说你父母想让你回去。”
 
　　“我暂时劝住了他们，”帕瓦蒂说。“凯蒂的那件事儿真的让他们快疯掉了，不过既然从那以后就没发生什么事情了……哦，嗨，赫敏！”
 
　　帕瓦蒂主动笑了笑。哈利知道她是在为变形课上嘲笑赫敏而感到内疚。他转过头看了看，见赫敏也冲她笑了笑。女孩们有时候很奇怪。
 
　　“嗨，帕瓦蒂！”赫敏说，完全无视罗恩和拉文德的存在。“今晚你去参加斯拉霍恩的聚会吗？”
 
　　“没人邀请，”帕瓦蒂沮丧地说。“尽管我很想去，听起来真的不错——你会去的，是不是？”
 
　　“是啊，我和科马克约了八点见面，然后我们——”
 
　　突然传来了一个仿佛是橡皮揣子从堵住的水池子里拔出来的声音，罗恩的脸露了出来。赫敏装作没有看见和听见任何东西。
 
　　“——然后我们一起去参加派对。”
 
　　“科马克？“帕瓦蒂说。“你是指科马克·麦克拉根？”
 
　　“没错，”赫敏甜甜地说，“那个差一点就成为了格兰芬多队守门员的人。”她重重地强调了一下那个词。
 
　　“那你在和他约会吗？”帕瓦蒂问，眼睛睁得大大的。
 
　　“哦——是啊——你不知道吗？”赫敏吃吃地笑了，一点儿也不像是她。
 
　　“不知道！”帕瓦蒂看上去对此极为兴奋，“哇，你喜欢魁地奇球员，是不是？先是克鲁姆，然后是麦克拉根……”
 
　　“我喜欢真正优秀的球员，”赫敏微笑着纠正了她。“那么，再会……我得走了，为聚会做准备……”
 
　　她走了。拉文德和帕瓦蒂立即把头凑在一起讨论这件新鲜事儿，讨论着她们听到过的关于麦克拉根的一切事情和她们曾经对赫敏所有的猜测。罗恩看上去有些黯然失色，他一句话也没说。
哈利则被撂在了一旁，他静静地思索着女孩们的报复心有多么深。
 
　　那晚八点他到达门厅的时候，发现一大帮的女生正潜伏在那儿。当他走近卢娜时，所有的女生都愤恨地瞪着他。她穿着一件用亮晶晶的金属片装饰起来的银色长袍，引来周围一阵窃笑，但
从另一方面来说她还是挺好看的。不管怎样，哈利很高兴她没有戴上胡萝卜耳坠、用黄油啤酒的软木塞串成的项链和她的幻影眼镜。
 
　　“嗨，”他说。“我们可以走了吗？”
 
　　“哦，好吧，”她高兴地说。“聚会在哪儿举行？”
 
　　“斯拉霍恩的办公室，”哈利说着，在众目睽睽之下带着她走上了大理石楼梯。“你听说过吗，好像会来一个吸血鬼。”
 
　　“鲁弗斯·斯克林杰？”卢娜问。
 
　　“我——什么？”哈利惊慌地说，“你是说魔法部部长？”
 
　　“是的，他是个吸血鬼，”卢娜用一种阐明事实的口气说。“斯克林杰刚从福吉那里接管魔法部的时候我爸爸就写过一篇很长的文章来说这个，但是魔法部的人不准许他刊登。很显然，他
们不想让真相被揭露出来！”
 
　　哈利认为斯克林杰绝对不可能是吸血鬼，不过他已经习惯了卢娜把她父亲的异想天开当真并不断地重复，所以他并没有回答。他们俩已经接近了斯拉霍恩的办公室，笑声、音乐声和吵闹的
谈话声随着他们的步伐越来越大了。
 
　　不知道本来就是这样，还是他施过魔法，斯拉霍恩的那间屋子要比普通老师的办公室大得多。天花板和墙壁都被翠绿色、深红色和金色的帷幔遮了起来，看上去就像置身于一个巨大的帐篷
。屋子里面显得很拥挤，沐浴在一片由天花板中央的一盏金质吊灯投射出的红色灯光中，灯里面飞舞着一群真正的仙子，每一只都是一个明亮的光斑。远处的一个角落里传来了响亮的歌声，听
起来像是由曼陀林琴伴奏的；几个上了年纪的巫师正抽着烟斗专心地交谈，笼罩在一团模糊的烟雾之中，许多家养小精灵正在森林一样的腿与腿之间吱吱呀呀地穿行，装满食物的银盘把他们完
全遮在了下面，看上去就像是走来走去的小桌子。
 
　　“哈利，我的孩子！”哈利和卢娜刚挤进屋子，斯拉霍恩就叫道，“进来，进来，我有那么多人要介绍给你认识。”
 
　　斯拉霍恩戴着一顶流苏天鹅绒帽以搭配身上的吸烟夹克（译注：男子晚间穿的便服，通常由上等布料制成，装饰鲜艳，通常只在家里穿），他紧紧地抓着哈利的胳臂，看上去像是希望和他
做幻影移形，斯拉霍恩径直把他领进了聚会的人群中；哈利抓住卢娜的手，拽着她跟上自己。
 
　　“哈利，我想让你见见埃德里·沃普尔，我很早之前的一个学生，《结拜兄弟：我和吸血鬼的生活》的作者——当然，这是他的朋友丧鬼尼。”
 
　　沃普尔是一个戴着眼镜的矮小男人，他抓过哈利的手热情地握了又握；那个吸血鬼丧鬼尼只是点了点头，他又高又瘦，眼睛下面带着深深的阴影。看起来非常无聊。一群女孩既好奇又兴奋
地站在他旁边。
 
　　“哈利·波特，我简直太高兴了！”沃普尔用近视的眼睛凝视着哈利的脸。“我前不久还在和斯拉霍恩教授说，我们翘首以盼的哈利·波特的传记在哪儿呢？”
 
　　“呃，”哈利说，“是吗？”
 
　　“简直和贺瑞斯描述的一样谦虚！”沃普尔说。“但是说正经的——”他说话的方式变了；突然像是在谈生意，“我很乐意帮你写这本书——人们渴望知道更多关于你的事，亲爱的孩子，
渴望！如果你同意接受我的几次采访，就四五个小时，这样我们就能在几个月内完成这本书了。而对你来说根本不用费什么劲，我向你保证——你可以问丧鬼尼我说得对不对——丧鬼尼，过来
！”沃普尔突然变得很严厉，那个吸血鬼正向附近的那群女孩慢慢地移过去，一脸饥饿的表情。“过来，吃块馅饼，”沃普尔从小精灵那儿抓起一块馅饼塞到丧鬼尼手中，然后把注意力又转向
了哈利。
 
　　“我亲爱的孩子，你能赚到的金子，你不知道——”
 
　　“我确实没有兴趣，”哈利坚定地说，“我刚才看到了一个朋友，对不起。”
 
　　他拉着卢娜走进了人群里；刚才他确实看到一团的棕色长发消失在两个古怪姐妹的成员中间。
 
　　“赫敏！赫敏！”
 
　　“哈利！你在这儿啊，谢天谢地！嗨，卢娜！”
 
　　“发生了什么事？”哈利问，因为赫敏明显看上去凌乱不堪，就像刚刚从一团魔鬼网里奋力挤出来一样。
 
　　“哦，我刚刚逃脱——我是说，我刚刚离开科马克，”她说。“在?寄生下面，”哈利看上去仍然充满疑问，于是她补充地解释道。
 
　　“这是你和他一起来的报应，”哈利严厉地说。
 
　　“我认为这个会让罗恩暴跳如雷，”赫敏不动声色地说，“我还考虑过扎卡赖斯·史密斯，但是我想，从总体上看——”
 
　　“你考虑过史密斯？”哈利厌恶地说。
 
　　“是的，我考虑过，而且我现在开始希望我当初选的是史密斯。格洛普和麦克拉根比起来就像个绅士了。我们走这边吧，这样就能看到他过来，他那么高……”
 
　　他们三个走到房间的另外一边，沿路拿起几杯蜂蜜酒，当他们意识到特里劳妮教授正一个人站在那边时已经太晚了。
 
　　“你好，”卢娜礼貌地对特里劳妮教授说。
 
　　“晚上好，亲爱的，”特里劳妮教授说，吃力地盯着卢娜。哈利又闻到了烹调雪利酒的味道。“我最近没有在班上见到你……”
 
　　“不是，我今年上费伦泽的课，”卢娜说。
 
　　“哦，当然，”特里劳妮教授有些生气，她醉醺醺地笑着。“或者叫道宾（译注：道宾马是一种农用挽马），我平时就这么叫他。你们一定觉得，我回来上课之后邓布利多教授就会赶走那
匹马，是不是？但是没有……我们共同上课……这是一种侮辱，坦白的说，一种侮辱。你们知不知道……”
 
　　特里劳妮教授看上去已经醉得认不出哈利了。在她狂风骤雨般地批评费伦泽的同时，哈利走到赫敏身边说，“让我们把事情谈清楚。你是不是准备告诉罗恩你干扰了守门员选拔？”
 
　　赫敏扬起了眉毛。
 
　　“你真的认为我会那样贬低自己吗？”
 
　　哈利精明地看着她。
 
　　“赫敏，如果你会去邀请麦克拉根——”
 
　　“这不同，”赫敏维护着自己的尊严。“我没有打算去告诉罗恩守门员选拔里可能会发生什么，或者可能不会发生什么。”
 
　　“那好，”哈利激烈地说，“因为如果你说了他就会再度崩溃，我们就会输掉下一场比赛——”
 
　　“魁地奇！”赫敏生气的说。“是不是男生都只关心这个？科马克从没有问过一个关于我自己的问题，没有，我只是不停地被他灌输科马克·麦克拉根的一百个伟大扑救——哦，不，他来
了！”
 
　　她动作快得就像是幻影移形了；刚才还在这儿，一瞬间就挤到两个正在大笑的女巫中
Chapter 16 A Very Frosty Christmas
“So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?”
“If you ask. that once more,” said Harry, “I'm going to stick this sprout—”
“I'm only checking!” said Ron. They were standing alone at the Burrow's kitchen sink, peeling a mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was drifting past the 
window in front of them.
“Yes, Snape was offering to help him!” said Harry. “He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something—”
“An Unbreakable Vow?” said Ron, looking stunned. “Nah, he can't have... Are you sure?”
“Yes, I'm sure,” said Harry. “Why, what does it mean?”
“Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow...”
“I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?”
“You die,” said Ron simply. “Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when 
Dad found us. He went mental,” said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. “Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum, Fred reckons his left buttock has never 
been the same since.”
“Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock—”
“I beg your pardon?” said Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen.
“Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them.”
“I'll be seventeen in two and a bit months’ time,” said Ron grumpily, “and then I'll be able to do it by magic!”
“But meanwhile,” said George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, “we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a — whoops
-a-daisy!”
“You made me do that!” said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. “You wait, when I'm seventeen—”
“I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills,” yawned Fred.
“And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald,” said George, “what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called—unless our information is 
faulty—Lavender Brown?”
Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased as he turned back to the sprouts. “Mind your own business.”
“What a snappy retort,” said Fred. “I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was... how did it happen?”
“What d'you mean?”
“Did she have an accident or something?”
“What?”
“Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Careful, now!”
Mrs. Weasley entered the room just in time to see Ron throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand.
“Ron!” she said furiously. “Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!”
“I won't,” said Ron, “let you see,” he added under his breath, as he turned back to the sprout mountain.
“Fred, George, I'm sorry, dears, but Remus is arriving tonight, so Bill will have to squeeze in with you two.”
“No problem,” said George.
“Then, as Charlie isn't coming home, that just leaves Harry and Ron in the attic, and if Fleur shares with Ginny—”
“—that'll make Ginny's Christmas—” muttered Fred.
“—everyone should be comfortable. Well, they'll have a bed, anyway,” said Mrs. Weasley, sounding slightly harassed.
“Percy definitely not showing his ugly face, then?” asked Fred.
Mrs. Weasley turned away before she answered.
“No, he's busy, I expect, at the Ministry.”
“Or he's the world's biggest prat,” said Fred, as Mrs. Weasley left the kitchen. “One of the two. Well, let's get going, then, George.”
“What are you two up to?” asked Ron. “Cant you help us with these sprouts? You could just use your wand and then we'll be free too!”
“No, I don't think we can do that,” said Fred seriously. “It's very character-building stuff, learning to peel sprouts without magic, makes you appreciate how 
difficult it is for Muggles and Squibs—”
“—and if you want people to help you, Ron,” added George, throwing the paper airplane at him, “I wouldn't chuck knives at them. Just a little hint. We're off to the 
village, there's a very pretty girl working in the paper shop who thinks my card tricks are something marvelous... almost like real magic...”
“Gits,” said Ron darkly, watching Fred and George setting off across the snowy yard. “Would've only taken them ten seconds and then we could've gone too.”
“I couldn't,” said Harry. “I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't wander off while I'm staying here.”
“Oh yeah,” said Ron. He peeled a few more sprouts and then said, “Are you going to tell Dumbledore what you heard Snape and Malfoy saying to each other?”
“Yep,” said Harry. “I'm going to tell anyone who can put a stop to it, and Dumbledore's top of the list. I might have another word with your dad, too.”
“Pity you didn't hear what Malfoy's actually doing, though.”
“I couldn't have done, could I? That was the whole point, he was refusing to tell Snape.”
There was silence for a moment or two, then Ron said, “Course, you know what they'll all say? Dad and Dumbledore and all of them? They'll say Snape isn't really trying 
to help Malfoy, he was just trying to find out what Malfoy's up to.”
“They didn't hear him,” said Harry flatly. “No one's that good an actor, not even Snape.”
“Yeah... I'm just saying, though,” said Ron.
Harry turned to face him, frowning.
“You think I'm right, though?”
“Yeah, I do!” said Ron hastily. “Seriously, I do! But they're all convinced Snape's in the Order, aren't they?”
Harry said nothing. It had already occurred to him that this would be the most likely objection to his new evidence; he could hear Hermione now:
“Obviously, Harry, he was pretending to offer help so he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing...”
This was pure imagination, however, as he had had no opportunity to tell Hermione what he had overheard. She had disappeared from Slughorn's party before he returned to 
it, or so he had been informed by an irate McLaggen, and she had already gone to bed by the time he returned to the common room. As he and Ron had left for the Burrow 
early the next day, he had barely had time to wish her a happy Christmas and to tell her that he had some very important news when they got back from the holidays. He 
was not entirely sure that she had heard him, though; Ron and Lavender had been saying a thoroughly non-verbal goodbye just behind him at the time.
Still, even Hermione would not be able to deny one thing: Malfoy was definitely up to something, and Snape knew it, so Harry felt fully justified in saying “I told you 
so,” which he had done several times to Ron already.
Harry did not get the chance to speak to Mr. Weasley, who was working very long hours at the Ministry, until Christmas Eve night. The Weasleys and their guests were 
sitting in the living room, which Ginny had decorated so lavishly that it was rather like sitting in a paper-chain explosion. Fred, George, Harry, and Ron were the only 
ones who knew that the angel on top of the tree was actually a garden gnome that had bitten Fred on the ankle as he pulled up carrots for Christmas dinner. Stupefied, 
painted gold, stuffed into a miniature tutu and with small wings glued to his back, it glowered down at them all, the ugliest angel Harry had ever seen, with a large 
bald head like a potato and rather hairy feet.
They were all supposed to be listening to a Christmas broadcast by Mrs. Weasley's favorite singer, Celestina Warbeck, whose voice was warbling out of the large wooden 
wireless set. Fleur, who seemed to find Celestina very dull, was talking so loudly in the corner that a scowling Mrs. Weasley kept pointing her wand at the volume 
control, so that Celestina grew louder and louder. Under cover of a particularly jazzy number called “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,” Fred and George started a 
game of Exploding Snap with Ginny. Ron kept shooting Bill and Fleur covert looks, as though hoping to pick up tips. Meanwhile, Remus Lupin, who was thinner and more 
ragged-looking than ever, was sitting beside the fire, staring into its depths as though he could not hear Celestina's voice.
“Oh, come and stir my cauldron,
And if you do it right
I'll boil you up some hot, strong love
To keep you warm tonight.”
“We danced to this when we were eighteen!” said Mrs. Weasley, wiping her eyes on her knitting. “Do you remember, Arthur?”
“Mphf?” said Mr. Weasley, whose head had been nodding over the satsuma he was peeling. “Oh yes ... marvelous tune...”
With an effort, he sat up a little straighter and looked around at Harry, who was sitting next to him.
“Sorry about this,” he said, jerking his head toward the wireless as Celestina broke into the chorus. “Be over soon.”
“No problem,” said Harry, grinning. “Has it been busy at the Ministry?”
“Very,” said Mr. Weasley. “I wouldn't mind if we were getting anywhere, but of the three arrests we've made in the last couple of months, I doubt that one of them is 
a genuine Death Eater—only don't repeat that, Harry,” he added quickly, looking much more awake all of a sudden.
“They're not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?” asked Harry.
“I'm afraid so,” said Mr. Weasley. “I know Dumbledore's tried appealing directly to Scrimgeour about Stan... I mean, anybody who has actually interviewed him agrees 
that he's about as much a Death Eater as this satsuma... but the top levels want to look as though they're making some progress, and ‘three arrests’ sounds better 
than ‘three mistaken arrests and releases'... but again, this is all top secret...”
“I won't say anything,” said Harry. He hesitated for a moment, wondering how best to embark on what he wanted to say; as he marshaled his thoughts, Celestina Warbeck 
began a ballad called “You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me.”
“Mr. Weasley, you know what I told you at the station when we were setting off for school?”
“I checked, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley at once. “I went and searched the Malfoys’ house. There was nothing, either broken or whole, that shouldn't have been there.”
“Yeah, I know, I saw in the Prophet that you'd looked... but this is something different... well, something more ...”
And he told Mr. Weasley everything he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape. As Harry spoke, he saw Lupin's head turn a little toward him, taking in every word. When 
he had finished, there was silence, except for Celestina's crooning.
Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone?
It's left me for a spell...
“Has it occurred to you, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, “that Snape was simply pretending—?”
“Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out what Malfoy's up to?” said Harry quickly. “Yeah, I thought you'd say that. But how do we know?”
“It isn't our business to know,” said Lupin unexpectedly. He had turned his back on the fire now and faced Harry across Mr. Weasley. “It's Dumbledore's business. 
Dumbledore trusts Severus, and that ought to be good enough for all of us.”
“But,” said Harry, “just say—just say Dumbledore's wrong about Snape —”
“People have said it, many times. It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore's judgment. I do; therefore, I trust Severus.”
“But Dumbledore can make mistakes,” argued Harry. “He says it himself. And you—”
He looked Lupin straight in the eye.
“—do you honestly like Snape?”
“I neither like nor dislike Severus,” said Lupin. “No, Harry, I am speaking the truth,” he added, as Harry pulled a skeptical expression. “We shall never be bosom 
friends, perhaps; after all that happened between James and Sirius and Severus, there is too much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during the year I taught at 
Hogwarts, Severus made the Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually do at the full moon.”
“But he ‘accidentally’ let it slip that you're a werewolf, so you had to leave!” said Harry angrily.
Lupin shrugged.
“The news would have leaked out anyway. We both know he wanted my job, but he could have wreaked much worse damage on me by tampering with the potion. He kept me 
healthy. I must be grateful.”
“Maybe he didn't dare mess with the potion with Dumbledore watching him!” said Harry.
“You are determined to hate him, Harry,” said Lupin with a faint smile. “And I understand; with James as your father, with Sirius as your godfather, you have 
inherited an old prejudice. By all means tell Dumbledore what you have told Arthur and me, but do not expect him to share your view of the matter; do not even expect 
him to be surprised by what you tell him. It might have been on Dumbledore's orders that Severus questioned Draco.”
... and now you've torn it quite apart
I'll thank you to give back my heart!
Celestina ended her song on a very long, high-pitched note and loud applause issued out of the wireless, which Mrs. Weasley joined in with enthusiastically.
“Eez eet over?” said Fleur loudly. “Thank goodness, what an ‘orrible —”
“Shall we have a nightcap, then?” asked Mr. Weasley loudly, leaping to his feet. “Who wants eggnog?”
“What have you been up to lately?” Harry asked Lupin, as Mr, Weasley bustled off to fetch the eggnog, and everybody else stretched and broke into conversation.
“Oh, I've been underground,” said Lupin. “Almost literally. That's why I haven't been able to write, Harry; sending letters to you would have been something of a 
give-away.”
“What do you mean?”
“I've been living among my fellows, my equals,” said Lupin. “Werewolves,” he added, at Harry's look of incomprehension. “Nearly all of them are on Voldemort's 
side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was... ready-made.”
He sounded a little bitter, and perhaps realized it, for he smiled more warmly as he went on, “I am not complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it better than 
I? However, it has been difficult gaining their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they have shunned normal 
society and live on the margins, stealing—and sometimes killing—to eat.”
“How come they like Voldemort?”
“They think that, under his rule, they will have a better life,” said Lupin. “And it is hard to argue with Greyback out there...”
“Who's Greyback?”
“You haven't heard of him?” Lupin's hands closed convulsively in his lap. “Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his 
mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey in 
return for his services. Greyback specializes in children... bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. 
Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people's sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results.”
Lupin paused and then said, “It was Greyback who bit me.”
“What?” said Harry, astonished. “When—when you were a kid, you mean?”
“Yes. My father had offended him. I did not know, for a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he 
had had no control, knowing by then how it felt to transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring that he 
is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular brand of reasoned 
argument is making much headway against Greyback's insistence that we werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge ourselves on normal people.”
“But you are normal!” said Harry fiercely. “You've just got a—a problem—”
Lupin burst out laughing.
“Sometimes you remind me a lot of James. He called it my ‘furry little problem’ in company. Many people were under the impression that I owned a badly behaved 
rabbit.”
He accepted a glass of eggnog from Mr. Weasley with a word of thanks, looking slightly more cheerful. Harry, meanwhile, felt a rush of excitement: this last mention of 
his father had reminded him that there was something he had been looking forward to asking Lupin.
“Have you ever heard of someone called the Half-Blood Prince?”
“The Half-Blood what?”
“Prince,” said Harry, watching him closely for signs of recognition.
“There are no Wizarding princes,” said Lupin, now smiling. “Is this a title you're thinking of adopting? I should have thought being the ‘Chosen One’ would be 
enough.”
“It's nothing to do with me!” said Harry indignantly. “The Half-Blood Prince is someone who used to go to Hogwarts, I've got his old Potions book. He wrote spells 
all over it, spells he invented. One of them was Levicorpus—”
“Oh, that one had a great vogue during my time at Hogwarts,” said Lupin reminiscently. “There were a few months in my fifth year when you couldn't move for being 
hoisted into the air by your ankle.”
“My dad used it,” said Harry. “I saw him in the Pensieve, he used it on Snape.”
He tried to sound casual, as though this was a throwaway comment of no real importance, but he was not sure he had achieved the right effect; Lupin's smile was a little 
too understanding.
“Yes,” he said, “but he wasn't the only one. As I say, it was very popular... You know how these spells come and go...”
“But it sounds like it was invented while you were at school,” Harry persisted.
“Not necessarily,” said Lupin. “Jinxes go in and out of fashion like everything else.” He looked into Harry's face and then said quietly, “James was a pure-blood, 
Harry, and I promise you, he never asked us to call him ‘Prince.'”
Abandoning pretense, Harry said, “And it wasn't Sirius? Or you?”
“Definitely not.”
“Oh.” Harry stared into the fire. “I just thought—well, he's helped me out a lot in Potions classes, the Prince has.”
“How old is this book, Harry?”
“I dunno, I've never checked.”
“Well, perhaps that will give you some clue as to when the Prince was at Hogwarts,” said Lupin.
Shortly after this, Fleur decided to imitate Celestina singing “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,” which was taken by everyone, once they had glimpsed Mrs. 
Weasley's expression, to be the cue to go to bed. Harry and Ron climbed all the way up to Ron's attic bedroom, where a camp bed had been added for Harry.
Ron fell asleep almost immediately, but Harry delved into his trunk and pulled out his copy of Advanced Potion-Making before getting into bed. There he turned its 
pages, searching, until he finally found, at the front of the book, the date that it had been published. It was nearly fifty years old. Neither his father, nor his 
father's friends, had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago. Feeling disappointed, Harry threw the book back into his trunk, turned off the lamp, and rolled over, thinking 
of werewolves and Snape, Stan Shunpike and the Half-Blood Prince, and finally falling into an uneasy sleep full of creeping shadows and the cries of bitten children...
“She's got to be joking...”
Harry woke with a start to find a bulging stocking lying over the end of his bed. He put on his glasses and looked around; the tiny window was almost completely 
obscured with snow and, in front of it, Ron was sitting bolt upright in bed and examining what appeared to be a thick gold chain.
“What's that?” asked Harry.
“It's from Lavender,” said Ron, sounding revolted. “She can't honestly think I'd wear ...”
Harry looked more closely and let out a shout of laughter. Dangling from the chain in large gold letters were the words: “My Sweetheart”
“Nice,” he said. “Classy. You should definitely wear it in front of Fred and George.”
“If you tell them,” said Ron, shoving the necklace out of sight under his pillow, “I—I—I'll—”
“Stutter at me?” said Harry, grinning. “Come on, would I?”
“How could she think I'd like something like that, though?” Ron demanded of thin air, looking rather shocked.
“Well, think back,” said Harry. “Have you ever let it slip that you'd like to go out in public with the words ‘My Sweetheart’ round your neck?”
“Well... we don't really talk much,” said Ron. “It's mainly...”
“Snogging,” said Harry.
“Well, yeah,” said Ron. He hesitated a moment, then said, “Is Hermione really going out with McLaggen?”
“I dunno,” said Harry. “They were at Slughorn's party together, but I don't think it went that well.”
Ron looked slightly more cheerful as he delved deeper into his stocking.
Harry's presents included a sweater with a large Golden Snitch worked onto the front, hand-knitted by Mrs. Weasley, a large box of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products 
from the twins, and a slightly damp, moldy-smelling package that came with a label reading “To Master, From Kreacher".
Harry stared at it. “D'you reckon this is safe to open?” he asked.
“Can't be anything dangerous, all our mail's still being searched at the Ministry,” replied Ron, though he was eyeing the parcel suspiciously.
“I didn't think of giving Kreacher anything. Do people usually give their house-elves Christmas presents?” asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously.
“Hermione would,” said Ron. “But let's wait and see what it is before you start feeling guilty.”
A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt out of his camp bed; the package contained a large number of maggots.
“Nice,” said Ron, roaring with laughter. “Very thoughtful.”
“I'd rather have them than that necklace,” said Harry, which sobered Ron up at once.
Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur (on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted to waste one) 
and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch's hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden 
necklace.
“Fred and George gave them to me! Aren't they beautiful?”
“Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now we're washing our own socks,” said George, waving an airy hand. “Parsnips, Remus?”
“Harry, you've got a maggot in your hair,” said Ginny cheerfully, leaning across the table to pick it out; Harry felt goose bumps erupt up his neck that had nothing 
to do with the maggot.
“'Ow ‘orrible,” said Fleur, with an affected little shudder.
“Yes, isn't it?” said Ron. “Gravy, Fleur?”
. In his eagerness to help her, he knocked the gravy boat flying; Bill waved his wand and the gravy soared up in the air and returned meekly to the boat.
“You are as bad as zat Tonks,” said Fleur to Ron, when she had finished kissing Bill in thanks. “She is always knocking —”
“I invited dear Tonks to come along today,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting down the carrots with unnecessary force and glaring at Fleur. “But she wouldn't come. Have you 
spoken to her lately, Remus?”
“No, I haven't been in contact with anybody very much,” said Lupin. “But Tonks has got her own family to go to, hasn't she?”
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Maybe. I got the impression she was planning to spend Christmas alone, actually.”
She gave Lupin an annoyed look, as though it was all his fault she was getting Fleur for a daughter-in-law instead of Tonks, but Harry, glancing across at Fleur, who 
was now feeding Bill bits of turkey off her own fork, thought that Mrs. Weasley was fighting a long-lost battle. He was, however, reminded of a question he had with 
regard to Tonks, and who better to ask than Lupin, the man who knew all about Patronuses?
“Tonks's Patronus has changed its form,” he told him. “Snape said so anyway. I didn't know that could happen. Why would your Patronus change?”
Lupin took his time chewing his turkey and swallowing before saying slowly, “Sometimes ... a great shock ... an emotional upheaval ...”
“It looked big, and it had four legs,” said Harry, struck by a sudden thought and lowering his voice. “Hey ... it couldn't be—?”
“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley suddenly. She had risen from her chair; her hand was pressed over her heart and she was staring out of the kitchen window. “Arthur—it's 
Percy!”
“What?”
Mr. Weasley looked around. Everybody looked quickly at the window; Ginny stood up for a better look. There, sure enough, was Percy Weasley, striding across the snowy 
yard, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone.
“Arthur, he's—he's with the Minister!”
And sure enough, the man Harry had seen in the Daily Prophet was following along in Percy's wake, limping slightly, his mane of graying hair and his black cloak flecked 
with snow. Before any of them could say anything, before Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could do more than exchange stunned looks, the back door opened and there stood Percy.
There was a moment's painful silence. Then Percy said rather stiffly, “Merry Christmas, Mother.”
“Oh, Percy!” said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself into his arms.
Rufus Scrimgeour paused in the doorway, leaning on his walking stick and smiling as he observed this affecting scene.
“You must forgive this intrusion,” he said, when Mrs. Weasley looked around at him, beaming and wiping her eyes. “Percy and I were in the vicinity—working, you know 
— and he couldn't resist dropping in and seeing you all.”
But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of the rest of the family. He stood, poker-straight and awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else's heads. Mr. 
Weasley, Fred, and George were all observing him, stony-faced.
“Please, come in, sit down, Minister!” fluttered Mrs. Weasley, straightening her hat. “Have a little purkey, or some tooding... I mean —”
“No, no, my dear Molly,” said Scrimgeour. Harry guessed that he had checked her name with Percy before they entered the house. “I don't want to intrude, wouldn't be 
here at all if Percy hadn't wanted to see you all so badly...”
“Oh, Perce!” said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up to kiss him.
“... we've only looked in for five minutes, so I'll have a stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. No, no, I assure you I don't want to butt in! Well, if 
anybody cared to show me your charming garden... ah, that young man's finished, why doesn't he take a stroll with me?”
The atmosphere around the table changed perceptibly. Everybody looked from Scrimgeour to Harry. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour's pretense that he did not know Harry's 
name convincing, or find it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and George also had clean plates.
“Yeah, all right,” said Harry into the silence.
He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour's talk that they had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look up his family, this must be the real reason that they had 
come, so that Scrimgeour could speak to Harry alone.
“It's fine,” he said quietly, as he passed Lupin, who had half risen from his chair. “Fine,” he added, as Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to speak.
“Wonderful!” said Scrimgeour, standing back to let Harry pass through the door ahead of him. “We'll just take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I'll be off. 
Carry on, everyone!”
Harry walked across the yard toward the Weasleys’ overgrown, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of the Auror 
office; he looked tough and battle-scarred, very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat.
“Charming,” said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the indistinguishable plants. “Charming.”
Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was watching him.
“I've wanted to meet you for a very long time,” said Scrimgeour, after a few moments. “Did you know that?”
“No,” said Harry truthfully.
“Oh yes, for a very long time. But Dumbledore has been very protective of you,” said Scrimgeour. “Natural, of course, natural, after what you've been through... 
especially what happened at the Ministry ...”
He waited for Harry to say something, but Harry did not oblige, so he went on, “I have been hoping for an occasion to talk to you ever since I gained office, but 
Dumbledore has—most understandably, as I say—prevented this.”
Still, Harry said nothing, waiting.
“The rumors that have flown around!” said Scrimgeour. “Well, of course, we both know how these stories get distorted... all these whispers of a prophecy... of you 
being ‘the Chosen One'...”
They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the reason Scrimgeour was here.
“... I assume that Dumbledore has discussed these matters with you?”
Harry deliberated, wondering whether he ought to lie or not. He looked at the little gnome prints all around the flowerbeds, and the scuffed-up patch that marked the 
spot where Fred had caught the gnome now wearing the tutu at the top of the Christmas tree. Finally, he decided on the truth ... or a bit of it.
“Yeah, we've discussed it.”
“Have you, have you...” said Scrimgeour. Harry could see, out of the corner of his eye, Scrimgeour squinting at him, so he pretended to be very interested in a gnome 
that had just poked its head out from underneath a frozen rhododendron. “And what has Dumbledore told you, Harry?”
“Sorry, but that's between us,” said Harry.
He kept his voice as pleasant as he could, and Scrimgeour's tone, too, was light and friendly as he said, “Oh, of course, if it's a question of confidences, I wouldn't 
want you to divulge... no, no ... and in any case, does it really matter whether you are the Chosen One or not?”
Harry had to mull that one over for a few seconds before responding.
“I don't really know what you mean, Minister.”
“Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously,” said Scrimgeour with a laugh. “But to the wizarding community at large... it's all perception, isn't it? It's 
what people believe that's important.”
Harry said nothing. He thought he saw, dimly, where they were heading, but he was not going to help Scrimgeour get there. The gnome under the rhododendron was now 
digging for worms at its roots, and Harry kept his eyes fixed upon it.
“People believe you are the Chosen One, you see,” said Scrimgeour. “They think you quite the hero—which, of course, you arc, Harry, chosen or not! How many times 
have you faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named now? Well, anyway,” he pressed on, without waiting for a reply, “the point is, you are a symbol of hope for many, Harry. The 
idea that there is somebody out there who might be able, who might even be destined, to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—well, naturally, it gives people a lift. And I 
can't help but feel that, once you realize this, you might consider it, well, almost a duty, to stand alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost.”
The gnome had just managed to get hold of a worm. It was now tugging very hard on it, trying to get it out of the frozen ground. Harry was silent so long that 
Scrimgeour said, looking from Harry to the gnome, “Funny little chaps, aren't they? But what say you, Harry?”
“I don't exactly understand what you want,” said Harry slowly. “'Stand alongside the Ministry'... What does that mean?”
“Oh, well, nothing at all onerous, I assure you,” said Scrimgeour. “If you were to be seen popping in and out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, that 
would give the right impression. And of course, while you were there, you would have ample opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my successor as Head of the Auror 
office. Dolores Umbridge has told me that you cherish an ambition to become an Auror. Well, that could be arranged very easily...”
Harry felt anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach: so Dolores Umbridge was still at the Ministry, was she?
“So basically,” he said, as though he just wanted to clarify a few points, “you'd like to give the impression that I'm working for the Ministry?”
“It would give everyone a lift to think you were more involved, Harry,” said Scrimgeour, sounding relieved that Harry had cottoned on so quickly. “'The Chosen One,’ 
you know... it's all about giving people hope, the feeling that exciting things are happening...”
“But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry,” said Harry, still endeavoring to keep his voice friendly, “won't that seem as though I approve of what the 
Ministry's up to?”
“Well,” said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, “well, yes, that's partly why we'd like —”
“No, I don't think that'll work,” said Harry pleasantly. “You see, I don't like some of the things the Ministry's doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance.”
Scrimgeour did not speak for a moment but his expression hardened instantly.
“I would not expect you to understand,” he said, and he was not as successful at keeping anger out of his voice as Harry had been. “These are dangerous times, and 
certain measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old —”
“Dumbledore's a lot older than sixteen, and he doesn't think Stan should be in Azkaban either,” said Harry. “You're making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want to 
make me a mascot.”
They looked at each other, long and hard. Finally Scrimgeour said, with no pretense at warmth, “I see. You prefer—like your hero, Dumbledore—to disassociate yourself 
from the Ministry?”
“I don't want to be used,” said Harry.
“Some would say it's your duty to be used by the Ministry!”
“Yeah, and others might say it's your duty to check that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck them in prison,” said Harry, his temper rising now. “You're 
doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it right, you people, do you? Either we've got Fudge, pretending everything's lovely while people get murdered right under 
his nose, or we've got you, chucking the wrong people into jail and trying to pretend you've got the Chosen One working for you!”
“So you're not the Chosen One?” said Scrimgeour.
“I thought you said it didn't matter either way?” said Harry, with a bitter laugh. “Not to you anyway.”
“I shouldn't have said that,” said Scrimgeour quickly. “It was tactless —”
“No, it was honest,” said Harry. “One of the only honest things you've said to me. You don't care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince 
everyone you're winning the war against Voldemort. I haven't forgotten, Minister....”
He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I must 
not tell lies.
“I don't remember you rushing to my defense when I was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The Ministry wasn't so keen to be pals last year.”
They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath their feet. The gnome had finally managed to extricate his worm and was now sucking on it happily, leaning against 
the bottom-most branches of the rhododendron bush.
“What is Dumbledore up to?” said Scrimgeour brusquely. “Where does he go when he is absent from Hogwarts?”
“No idea,” said Harry.
“And you wouldn't tell me if you knew,” said Scrimgeour, “would you?”
“No, I wouldn't,” said Harry.
“Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can't find out by other means.”
“You can try,” said Harry indifferently. “But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I'd have thought you'd have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at 
Hogwarts. You might have noticed he's not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore's still Headmaster. I'd leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you.”
There was a long pause.
“Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you,” said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses, “Dumbledore's man through 
and through, aren't you, Potter?”
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. “Glad we straightened that out.”
And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back toward the house.
“斯内普提出要帮助他？他的的确确提出要帮助他？”
 
　　“如果你再问一遍，”哈利说，“我就用这棵芽菜桶——”
 
　　“我只是在确认！”罗恩说。他们正独自站在陋居厨房的水池边，替韦斯莱夫人削着堆成山的芽菜。他们面前的窗户外面正飘着雪。
 
　　“是的，斯内普提出要帮助他！”哈利说。“他说他向马尔福的母亲承诺过要保护他，还立下了一个牢不可破誓言什么的——”
 
　　“牢不可破誓约？”罗恩看上去很震惊。“不，他不可能……你敢肯定吗？”
 
　　“是的，我敢肯定，”哈利说。“怎么了？这意味着什么？”
 
　　“这么说吧，你不能打破一个牢不可破誓约……”
 
　　“这个我自己也能差不多想到，够有趣的。那么，如果你打破了它会发生什么呢？”
 
　　“就会死，”罗恩简单地说。“我大约五岁的时候，弗雷德和乔治曾想让我立下一个牢不可破誓约。我也几乎都立下了，当时和弗雷德已经握好了手，可是刚好被爸爸发现了。他都快气疯
了，”罗恩眼睛里闪过一丝怀念的光，“我就看见过这一次爸爸像妈妈那样生气。弗雷德的左半边屁股从此就变了样。”
 
　　“是啊，好了，别管弗雷德的左半边屁股了——”
 
　　“再说一遍？”弗雷德的声音说道，双胞胎走进了厨房。
 
　　“啊，乔治，看看这个。他们在用小刀之类的东西。上帝保佑他们。”
 
　　“还有两个多月我就17岁了，”罗恩粗暴地说，“然后我就可以用魔法做这些事了！”
 
　　“但是现在，”乔治坐到了厨房的餐桌上，把双脚也搁在上面，“我们可以欣赏你给我们示范怎么正确地使用一个——哎呀。”
 
　　“就是你们害的！”罗恩生气地说，一边吮吸着被削到的拇指。“你们等着，等我到了17岁——”
 
　　“就会用你至今还不为人知的魔法才能来迷倒我们，我敢肯定，”弗雷德打着哈欠说。
 
　　“说到至今还不为人知的魔法才能，罗恩，”乔治说，“怎么我们从金妮那儿听说你和一个年轻的女士在一起，她叫——除非我们的情报有误——拉文德·布朗？”
 
　　罗恩的脸变得有一点红，可是他转过身面对芽菜时似乎并没有生气。
 
　　“少管闲事。”
 
　　“好一个带刺的答复！”弗雷德说。“我真的不知道你是怎么想的。不，我们想知道的是……这件事是怎么发生的？”
 
　　“你是什么意思？”
 
　　“她出了什么事故，还是别的什么？”
 
　　“什么？”
 
　　“好吧，她的脑子是怎么遭到这么大破坏的？当心，哦！”
 
　　韦斯莱夫人进厨房时正好看到了罗恩把芽菜刀扔向弗雷德，弗雷德懒洋洋地挥了挥魔杖，把它变成了一架纸飞机。
 
　　“罗恩！”她狂怒地说，“别再让我看到你扔刀子！”
 
　　“我不会，”罗恩说，“再让你看到的，”他用极小的声音补充道，然后转过身去面对那一堆芽菜山。
 
　　“弗雷德、乔治，很抱歉，亲爱的，但是莱姆斯今晚要过来，所以比尔不得不和你们俩挤在一块儿睡。
 
　　“没问题，”乔治说。
 
　　“还有，由于查理不回家，所以哈利和罗恩就住阁楼，而如果芙蓉能和金妮一起——”
 
　　“——那金妮的圣诞节就有的过了——”弗雷德嘀咕道。
 
　　“——那就每个人都舒服了。好了，不管怎样都有床了，”韦斯莱夫人的声音听起来有点儿疲惫。
 
　　“那么，珀西那张丑陋的面孔一定不会出现了吧？”弗雷德问。
 
　　“不会，我想是因为他很忙，在魔法部。”
 
　　“或者因为他是世界上最大的傻瓜——” 韦斯莱夫人走出厨房时弗雷德说。“二者必居其一。好了，那么乔治，我们走。”
 
　　“你们要去干什么？”罗恩问。“你们就不能帮我们对付这堆芽菜吗？只需要动一动魔杖，我们就也解放了。”
 
　　“不！我不认为我们会那么做，”弗雷德严肃地说。“这件事儿可以锻炼人，学习不用魔法来削芽菜，让你体会到那对麻瓜和哑炮来说是多么困难——”
 
　　“——还有，如果想寻求别人的帮助，罗恩，”乔治把纸飞机扔给他，“就不该向他们扔刀子。只是一个小小的忠告。我们去村里，纸店里有个非常漂亮的女孩觉得我的纸牌戏法棒极了…
…几乎和真的魔法一样……”
 
　　“混蛋，”罗恩阴沉地说，注视着弗雷德和乔治走出覆盖着积雪的院子，“只需要花他们十秒钟时间，我们就也可以去了。”
 
　　“我去不了，”哈利说，“我答应过邓布利多，在这儿的时候不能到处乱逛。”
 
　　“哦，对，”罗恩说。又削了几棵芽菜之后，他说，“你准备告诉邓布利多斯内普和马尔福之间说的话吗？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利说。“我会告诉任何能够制止他们的人，邓布利多是头号人选。我可能还会和你爸爸说。”
 
　　“不过可惜的是你没有听到马尔福究竟在干什么。”
 
　　“我不可能听到，不是吗？这是最关键的东西，他连斯内普也不告诉。”
 
　　沉默了片刻之后，罗恩说，“当然，你也知道他们会怎么说吧？爸爸、邓布利多和他们所有的人。他们会说斯内普并不是真的在帮马尔福，他只是想知道马尔福在打什么主意。”
 
　　“他们没听见他说的话。”哈利有气无力地说。“没有人比他更会演戏了，就连斯内普也比不上。”
 
　　“是啊……我只是说说而已，”罗恩说。
 
　　哈利转过头皱起眉头看着他。
 
　　“可你认为我是对的？”
 
　　“对，是的。”罗恩急忙说。“说正经的，我认为你是对的！但他们都相信斯内普是凤凰社的人，是不是？”
 
　　哈利什么也没说。他已经想到了这是最有可能驳斥他新证据的理由；他甚至都能听见赫敏在说：
 
　　“很明显，哈利，他是在假装提出帮助马尔福，这样就能骗马尔福说出他在做什么……”
 
　　然而，这只是纯粹的想象，他没有机会告诉赫敏他偷听到了什么。等他回到斯拉霍恩的聚会时，赫敏已经不见了，这好像是麦克拉根愤怒地告诉他的。等他回到公共休息室时，赫敏已经去
睡觉了。第二天清晨他和罗恩就要出发去陋居，哈利的时间只够祝她圣诞快乐，并告诉她假期之后有很重要的消息要和她说。可是他一点儿也不确定赫敏有没有听见他说的话；因为罗恩和拉文
德正在他身后不出声地作别。
 
　　甚至就连赫敏也无法否认一点：马尔福肯定正在计划着什么，而斯内普知道这件事，所以哈利每次对罗恩说“我早就告诉过你是这样”时都觉得理直气壮。
 
　　哈利没有机会和韦斯莱先生说话，他每天都在魔法部工作很长时间，一直到圣诞夜才放假。韦斯莱一家和他们的客人坐在客厅里，金妮把屋子装饰得很夸张，就像置身于纸拉花的海洋。弗
雷德、乔治、哈利和罗恩是唯一知道圣诞树顶上的天使实际上是一只地精的人，弗雷德在为圣诞晚宴拔萝卜时被它咬了一口。于是他们给它念了昏迷咒，再涂成了金色，为它穿上一条微型的芭
蕾舞短裙并把一对翅膀粘在了它的背上，现在正愤怒地往下瞪着他们所有的人。它长着一颗像土豆一样的大秃头和毛茸茸的脚，这是哈利见过的最难看的天使。
 
　　他们都在听韦斯莱夫人最喜欢的歌手塞莉斯汀娜·沃贝克的圣诞广播，她婉转的歌声正从巨大的木头收音机里传出来。芙蓉似乎觉得塞莉斯汀娜的歌声很无趣，她用很大的声音在角落里说
着话，而闷闷不乐的韦斯莱夫人则一直用魔杖指着音量控制器，于是塞莉斯汀娜的声音变得越来越大。在一段爵士风格的韵律‘盛满浓烈爱情的坩埚’之中，弗雷德和乔治开始同金妮玩起了噼
啪爆炸。罗恩则不停地向比尔和芙蓉那边偷偷摸摸地窥视，仿佛是想学到一些技巧。与此同时，卢平坐在火炉边凝视着火炉的最深处，就好像听不见塞莉斯汀娜的声音一样。他看起来比以前更
瘦，衣服更破旧了。
 
　　“哦，快来搅拌我的坩埚，
 
　　如果你没有做错，
 
　　我会燃起浓烈的爱火，
 
　　让你今夜能温暖地度过。”
 
　　“我们18岁时在这歌声下跳过舞！”韦斯莱夫人用毛衣擦了擦眼中的泪水。“你还记得吗，亚瑟？”
 
　　“嗯？”韦斯莱先生正剥着蜜橘，他点了点头说，“哦，是的……不可思议的曲子……”
 
　　他努力地坐直了些，转过头看了看哈利，他正坐在旁边。
 
　　“抱歉，”他扭头看了一眼收音机，塞莉斯汀娜已经唱到了合唱部分，“就快完了。”
 
　　“没关系，”哈利咧着嘴笑了笑。“最近魔法部忙吗？”
 
　　“非常忙，”韦斯莱先生说，“要是有进展我就不会在意了，但是我怀疑在最近几个月的三次逮捕行动里，没有一个是个真正的食死徒——只是别告诉其他人，哈利。”他突然间看上去警
觉多了。
 
　　“他们没有羁押斯坦了吧，是不是？”哈利问。
 
　　“恐怕不是，”韦斯莱先生说。“我知道邓布利多尝试过直接向斯克林杰要求释放斯坦……我的意思是，每一个审问过他的人都同意他和这个蜜橘一样不可能是食死徒……但是高层却想让
人们看到他们的进展，而‘三次逮捕’要比‘三次错抓人又释放’来得好听……我再强调一次，这都是最高机密……”
 
　　“我什么都不会说，”哈利说。他犹豫了一会儿，不知道该如何开口；他一边整理思路，一边听着塞莉斯汀娜·沃贝克又开始了新的一曲“你对我的心施了魔法”。
 
　　“韦斯莱先生，你还记得我在车站出发去学校前告诉你的事吗？”
 
　　“我查过了，哈利，”韦斯莱先生马上说。“我去搜查了马尔福的房子。没有找到不该出现在那儿的任何东西，不论是残破的还是完整的。”
 
　　“是啊，我知道，我在《预言家日报》上看到你已经查过了……但这又是一件不同的事……嗯，进一步的……”
 
　　他把自己偷听到的马尔福和斯内普之间的谈话和盘托出地告诉了韦斯莱先生，哈利说话的时候，看见卢平的头稍微往他这边转了转，听到了每一个字。他说完之后，屋子里除了塞莉斯汀娜
的深情哼唱之外没有人说话了。
 
　　“哦，我可怜的心儿去了哪儿？
 
　　它为了一个咒语就把我抛弃……”
 
　　“你有没有想过，哈利，”韦斯莱先生问，“斯内普只是在假装——”
 
　　“——假装提出帮助马尔福，这样就能知道他到底在打什么主意？”哈利迅速说。“是啊，我知道你们会那么想。可我们怎么知道是这样呢？”
 
　　“我们没有必要知道，”卢平出人意料地说。他转过来背对着壁炉，越过韦斯莱先生看着哈利。“这是邓布利多的事。邓布利多信任西弗勒斯，而那对我们大家来说就应该足够了。”
 
　　“可是，”哈利说，“我只是说——只是说邓布利多看错了斯内普——”
 
　　“这话人们已经说过很多次了。这就看你是否相信邓布利多的判断力了。我相信；因此，我信任西弗勒斯。”
 
　　“可是邓布利多也会犯错误，”哈利争辩道。“他自己说的。你——”
 
　　他直勾勾地盯着卢平。
 
　　“——你真的喜欢斯内普？”
 
　　“我既不喜欢也不讨厌西弗勒斯，”卢平说。“不，哈利，我说的是事实，”看到哈利一脸怀疑的表情，他又加上一句。“我们也许永远都不会是亲密的朋友；在詹姆和小天狼星同西弗勒
斯之间发生了所有那些事情之后，其中的苦涩太多了。可是我没有忘记我在霍格沃茨执教的那一年，西弗勒斯每个月都为我配制出完美的狼毒药水，使我不用在满月的时候承受那么大的痛苦。
”
 
　　“但是他‘偶然间’泄露了你是一个狼人的事实，导致你不得不离开！”哈利气愤地说。
 
　　卢平耸了耸肩。
 
　　“这事迟早都会泄露出去的。你我都清楚他想要我的那份工作，可是他如果想要给我造成更大伤害，可以在药水里做手脚。但他保持了我的健康。我应该感激他。”
 
　　“也许在邓布利多的眼皮底下他不敢在药剂里做手脚！”哈利说。
 
　　“你是打定了主意要恨他，哈利，”卢平无力地笑了笑。“我理解；詹姆是你的父亲，小天狼星是你的教父，你继承了一贯的偏见。你尽可以把你对亚瑟和我说的话都告诉邓布利多，但是
别指望他对此的观点能和你一致；甚至也别指望他会对你说的事情感到惊讶。说不定就是邓布利多命令西弗勒斯去询问德拉科的。”
 
　　“……而今你撕碎了我的心，
 
　　我还要感谢你还把它还给我！”
 
　　塞莉斯汀娜以一个长长的高音结束了她的歌，收音机里爆发出一片响亮的掌声，韦斯莱夫人也热情地加入其中。
 
　　“完了吧？”芙蓉大声说。“谢天谢地，多么可怕——”
 
　　“那么，我们来杯睡前饮料吧？”韦斯莱夫人一跃而起，大声问道。“谁想要蛋酒？”
 
　　“你最近都在忙什么？”哈利问卢平，韦斯莱夫人匆匆忙忙地去拿蛋酒了，其他人都伸了伸懒腰开始聊天。
 
　　“哦，我一直在秘密工作，”卢平说。“毫不夸张。那也是我不能给你写信的原因，哈利；给你寄信可能就是泄密。”
 
　　“你是指什么？”
 
　　“我一直和我的同伴生活在一起，我的同类，”卢平说。“狼人，”见哈利不解地看着他，卢平补充道。“他们几乎全部都站在伏地魔那边。邓布利多希望有一个间谍，我就是……现成的
。”
 
　　他的声音有一点苦涩。也许他也意识到了这一点，因为他接着说的时候笑得热情了些，“我不是在抱怨；这是一项必要的工作，而有谁比我更能胜任呢？不过，获取他们的信任却不容易。
我身上有明显的迹象表明我曾试图和巫师们混在一块儿，你知道，而他们却喜欢避开通常的社会，住在边缘地带，靠偷窃——有时是杀戮——来获取食物。”
 
　　“他们怎么会喜欢伏地魔呢？”
 
　　“他们认为在他的统治下可以过得好一些，”卢平说。“而且要策反格雷巴克非常困难……”
 
　　“谁是格雷巴克？”
 
　　“你没有听说过他吗？”卢平膝盖上的双手痉挛地握紧了。“芬利·格雷巴克也许是现存的最残忍的一个狼人。他把尽可能地撕咬和传染更多的人作为生活的目标；他想要制造出足够多的
狼人来征服巫师。伏地魔承诺给他一些牺牲品作为他服务的回报。格雷巴克专门咬小孩……他说，要在他们小时候去咬，使他们在远离父母的环境下长大，怀着对正常巫师的憎恨成长起来；伏
地魔曾用放他出去咬他们的儿女来威胁别人；这样的威胁常常奏效。”
 
　　卢平顿了一下，然后说，“就是格雷巴克咬了我。”
 
　　“什么？”哈利大感惊讶。“什么时候——你是指在你小的时候？”
 
　　“是的。我父亲得罪过他。很长一段时间以来我都不知道攻击我的那个狼人的身份；我甚至同情他，以为他是无法控制自己，那时也明白变形是什么感觉。但是格雷巴克并非如此。满月的
时候他会去接近受害者，确保近得足够进行攻击。一切都是他计划好的。伏地魔就是用他来组织和领导狼人的。我不能说自己独特的合理观点在格雷巴克身上取得了多少进展，他还是坚持血是
我们狼人理所应得的，坚持我们应该向正常人报复。”
 
　　“但你就是正常人！”哈利激烈地说。“你只是有一个——一个难题——”
 
　　卢平突然大笑起来。
 
　　“有时候你能让我想起詹姆的许多事。他和大家在一起时称其为我‘毛茸茸的小难题’。很多人都以为我养了一只喜欢捣乱的兔子。”
 
　　他从韦斯莱夫人那儿接过一杯蛋酒，说了声谢谢。看上去稍微高兴了些。而哈利与此同时感到一股兴奋劲涌了上来：卢平刚才提到了他的父亲，这提醒了哈利他还有件事情盼着问卢平。
 
　　“你听说过叫混血王子的人吗？”
 
　　“混血什么？”
 
　　“王子，”哈利密切地注视着他，希望能看到他想起来的迹象。
 
　　“没有哪个王子是巫师，”卢平微笑着说。“这是你准备采用的一个头衔吗？我本来以为‘真命天子’就足够了。”
 
　　“这和我没有关系！”哈利愤怒地说。“混血王子是一个曾在霍格沃茨念过书的人，我得到了他的旧魔药课本。书上被他写满了咒语，他发明的咒语。其中一个是轻身浮影——”
 
　　“哦，我在霍格沃茨念书时那条咒语非常流行，”卢平怀念地说。“那是在我五年级时的几个月里，你中了这条咒语就会被提着脚踝挂到半空中不能动弹。”
 
　　“我爸爸用过它，”哈利说。“我在冥想盆里见到过，他对斯内普用的。”
 
　　他试图若无其事地说出来，仿佛这是一则无关紧要的信口评论，但他不确定是否达到了想要的效果；卢平的微笑似乎有些过于善解人意了。
 
　　“是的，”他说，“但他不是唯一使用它的人。正如我说的，它非常流行……你知道这些咒语都是怎么来来去去的……”
 
　　“但听起来好像它是在你念书的那段时期被发明出来的，”哈利坚持说。
 
　　“不一定，”卢平说。“咒语的流行和过时就像其他所有的东西一样。”他看着哈利的脸平静地说，“詹姆是纯血统，哈利，我向你保证他从未让我们叫过他‘王子’。”
 
　　哈利抛开了伪装，说，“也不是小天狼星吗？或者你？”
 
　　“绝对不是。”
 
　　“哦。”哈利盯着炉火。“我只是觉得——嗯，他在魔药课上给我帮了大忙，那个王子。”
 
　　“那本书有多老了，哈利？”
 
　　“我不知道，我没有查过。”
 
　　“那么，也许这会帮你找到一些关于王子什么时候在霍格沃茨念书的线索。”卢平说。
 
　　刚说完这些，芙蓉就决定模仿塞莉斯汀娜唱起了“盛满浓烈爱情的坩埚”，大家瞥见韦斯莱夫人的脸色之后，就知道该上床睡觉去了。哈利和罗恩一路爬到了罗恩阁楼上的卧室，那儿已经
为哈利添上了一张露营床。
 
　　罗恩立刻就进入了梦乡，但是哈利在上床之前从行李箱里翻出了他的那本《高级魔药制备》。他翻开书页搜寻着，终于在书的开头找到了出版日期。这本书是差不多50年前的。他的父亲和
父亲的朋友们50年前都还没进霍格沃茨呢。哈利觉得很失望，把书扔回了箱子，关上了灯，翻过身去考虑狼人和斯内普、斯坦·桑帕克和混血王子，最后不太舒服地睡着了，梦里面全是匍匐爬
行的影子和被咬的孩子们的哭喊声。
 
　　“她一定是在开玩笑……”
 
　　哈利醒来时发现一只鼓鼓的长袜正躺在他的床尾。他戴上眼镜朝四周看了看，小窗子完全被雪花糊住了，罗恩笔直地坐在窗前的床上，正在查看一根粗粗的金项链。
 
　　“那是什么？”哈利问。
 
　　“是拉文德送的，”罗恩听上去有点恶心。“她不会真的以为我会戴……”
 
　　哈利凑近看了看，然后大声地笑了起来。金项链上摇摇晃晃的几个字母是“我的甜心”。
 
　　“真不错，”他说。“很漂亮。你一定要在弗雷德和乔治面前戴上它。”
 
　　“如果你告诉他们，”罗恩把那条项链塞到枕头下面看不见的地方，“我——我——我就——”
 
　　“就对我结结巴巴？”哈利咧嘴笑了。“想想看，我会说吗？”
 
　　“可她怎么能觉得我喜欢那种东西呢？”罗恩对着空气质问道，看上去相当震惊。
 
　　“那么，回想一下，”哈利说。“你曾经不小心告诉过她你喜欢脖子上挂着一条写着‘我的甜心’的项链抛头露面吗？”
 
　　“唉……我们真的没有说过很多话，”罗恩说。“主要都是在……”
 
　　“接吻，”哈利说。
 
　　“嗯，是的，”罗恩说。他犹豫了片刻，然后说，“赫敏真的在和麦克拉根恋爱吗？”
 
　　“我不知道，”哈利说。“他们一起去了斯拉霍恩的聚会，不过我觉得他们的进展不那么顺利。”
 
　　罗恩看上去稍稍开心了一点儿，又去深入挖掘他的长袜了。
 
　　哈利收到的礼物包括一件前面有巨大的金色飞贼花样的毛衣，是韦斯莱夫人亲手织的，双胞胎送了一大盒韦斯莱魔法把戏商店的产品，另外还有一个闻起来发了霉的潮湿包裹，上面有个标
签写着：“给主人，来自克利切”。
 
　　哈利盯着它。“你猜打开这个东西安全吗？”他问道。
 
　　“不会有任何危险的东西，我们的邮件仍在被魔法部检查，”罗恩回答，不过他也怀疑地看着那个包裹。
 
　　“我没想过送克利切任何东西。人们通常会送他们的家养小精灵圣诞礼物吗？”哈利问，谨慎地捅了捅包裹。
 
　　“赫敏会的，”罗恩说。“但是在你感到内疚之前还是先看看到底是什么吧。”
 
　　片刻之后，哈利大叫一
Chapter 17 A Sluggish Memory
Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, Harry, Ron, and Ginny lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-off 
connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs. Weasley was there to say good-bye, as Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, and 
Fleur were all at work. Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she had been crying on and 
off ever since Percy had stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his glasses splattered with mashed parsnip (for which Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit).
“Don't cry, Mum,” said Ginny, patting her on the back as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. “It's okay...”
“Yeah, don't worry about us,” said Ron, permitting his mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek, “or about Percy. He's such a prat, it's not really a loss, is 
it?”
Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms.
“Promise me you'll look after yourself... stay out of trouble...”
“I always do, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. “I like a quiet life, you know me.”
She gave a watery chuckle and stood back.
“Be good, then, all of you...”
Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted “Hogwarts!” He had one last fleeting view of the Weasleys’ kitchen and Mrs. Weasley's tearful face before the flames 
engulfed him; spinning very fast, he caught blurred glimpses of other Wizarding rooms, which were whipped out of sight before he could get a proper look; then he was 
slowing down, finally stopping squarely in the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office. She barely glanced up from her work as he clambered out over the grate.
“Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet.”
“No, Professor.”
Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair as Ron came spinning into view. When Ginny had arrived, all three of them trooped out of McGonagall's office and 
off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced out of the corridor windows as they passed; the sun was already sinking over grounds carpeted in deeper snow than had lain 
over the Burrow garden. In the distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in front of his cabin.
“Baubles,” said Ron confidently, when they reached the Fat Lady, who was looking rather paler than usual and winced at his loud voice.
“No,” she said.
“What d'you mean, ‘no’ ?”
“There is a new password,” she said. “And please don't shout.”
“But we've been away, how're we supposed to—?”
“Harry! Ginny!”
Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves.
“I got back a couple of hours ago, I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck—I mean Witherwings,” she said breathlessly. “Did you have a good Christmas?”
“Yeah,” said Ron at once, “pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim —”
“I've got something for you, Harry,” said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she had heard him. “Oh, hang on—password. Abstinence.”
“Precisely,” said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to reveal the portrait hole.
“What's up with her?” asked Harry.
“Overindulged over Christmas, apparently,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes as she led the way into the packed common room. “She and her friend Violet drank their way 
through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway...”
She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore's writing on it.
“Great,” said Harry, unrolling it at once to discover that his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled for the following night. “I've got loads to tell him—and 
you. Let's sit down —”
But at that moment there was a loud squeal of “Won-Won!” and Lavender Brown came hurtling out of nowhere and flung herself into Ron's arms. Several onlookers 
sniggered; Hermione gave a tinkling laugh and said, “There's a table over here... coming. Ginny?”
“No, thanks, I said I'd meet Dean,” said Ginny, though Harry could not help noticing that she did not sound very enthusiastic. Leaving Ron and Lavender locked in a 
kind of vertical wrestling, match, Harry led Hermione over to the spare table.
“So how was your Christmas?”
“Oh, fine,” she shrugged. “Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won's?”
“I'll tell you in a minute,” said Harry. “Look, Hermione, can't you —”
“No, I can't,” she said flatly. “So don't even ask.”
“I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —”
“It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine, Harry, not me. So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?”
She looked too fierce to argue with at that moment, so Harry dropped the subject of Ron and recounted all that he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape.
When he had finished, Hermione sat in thought for a moment and then said, “Don't you think—?”
“— he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing?”
“Well, yes,” said Hermione.
“Ron's dad and Lupin think so,” Harry said grudgingly. “But this definitely proves Malfoy's planning something, you can't deny that.”
“No, I can't,” she answered slowly.
“And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!”
“Hmm... did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?”
Harry frowned, trying to remember.
“I'm not sure... Snape definitely said ‘your master,’ and who else would that be?”
“I don't know,” said Hermione, biting her lip. “Maybe his father?”
She stared across the room, apparently lost in thought, not even noticing Lavender tickling Ron. “How's Lupin?”
“Not great,” said Harry, and he told her all about Lupin's mission among the werewolves and the difficulties he was facing. “Have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?
”
“Yes, I have!” said Hermione, sounding startled. “And so have you, Harry!”
“When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened ...”
“No, no, not History of Magic — Malfoy threatened Borgin with him!” said Hermione. “Back in Knockturn Alley, don't you remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an 
old family friend and that he'd be checking up on Borgin's progress!”
Harry gaped at her. “I forgot! But this proves Malfoy is a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?”
“It is pretty suspicious,” breathed Hermione. “Unless...”
“Oh, come on,” said Harry in exasperation, “you can't get round this one!”
“Well... there is the possibility it was an empty threat.”
“You're unbelievable, you are,” said Harry, shaking his head. “We'll see who's right... You'll be eating your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh yeah, I had 
a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well...”
And the rest of the evening passed amicably with both of them abusing the Minister of Magic, for Hermione, like Ron, thought that after all the Ministry had put Harry 
through the previous year, they had a great deal of nerve asking him for help now.
The new term started next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth-years: a large sign had been pinned to the common room notice boards overnight.
APPARITION LESSONS
If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before the 31st August next, you are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons from a 
Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor.
Please sign below if you would like to participate.
Cost: 12 Galleons.
Harry and Ron joined the crowd that was jostling around the notice and taking it in turns to write their names at the bottom. Ron was just taking out his quill to sign 
after Hermione when Lavender crept up behind him, slipped her hands over his eyes, and trilled, “Guess who, Won-Won?” Harry turned to see Hermione stalking off; he 
caught up with her, having no wish to stay behind with Ron and Lavender, but to his surprise, Ron caught up with them only a little way beyond the portrait hole, his 
ears bright red and his expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione sped up to walk with Neville.
“So—Apparition,” said Ron, his tone making it perfectly plain that Harry was not to mention what had just happened. “Should be a laugh, eh?”
“I dunno,” said Harry. “Maybe it's better when you do it yourself, I didn't enjoy it much when Dumbledore took me along for the ride.”
“I forgot you'd already done it... I'd better pass my test first time,” said Ron, looking anxious. “Fred and George did,”
“Charlie failed, though, didn't he?”
“Yeah, but Charlie's bigger than me,” Ron held his arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla, “so Fred and George didn't go on about it much... not to his 
face anyway...”
“When can we take the actual test?”
“Soon as we're seventeen. That's only March for me!”
“Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to Apparate in here, not in the castle...”
“Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could Apparate if I wanted.”
Ron was not the only one to be excited at the prospect of Apparition. All that day there was much talk about the forthcoming lessons; a great deal of store was set by 
being able to vanish and reappear at will.
“How cool will it be when we can just —” Seamus clicked his ringers to indicate disappearance. “Me cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you wait till I can do it 
back... he'll never have another peaceful moment...”
Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of producing the fountain of pure water that was the object 
of today's Charms lesson, he let out a hoselike jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face.
“Harry's already Apparated,” Ron told a slightly abashed Seamus, after Professor Flitwick had dried himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus lines (“I am a 
wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick.”) “Dum—er—someone took him. Side-Along-Apparition, you know.”
“Whoa!” whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, and Neville put their heads a little closer to hear what Apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Harry was besieged 
with requests from the other sixth years to describe the sensation of Apparition. All of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them how uncomfortable it 
was, and he was still answering detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return a book to the library, so as 
to escape in time for his lesson with Dumbledore.
The lamps in Dumbledore's office were lit, the portraits of previous headmasters were snoring gently in their frames, and the Pensieve was ready upon the desk once 
more. Dumbledore's hands lay on either side of it, the right one as blackened and burnt-looking as ever. It did not seem to have healed at all and Harry wondered, for 
perhaps the hundredth time, what had caused such a distinctive injury, but did not ask; Dumbledore had said that he would know eventually and there was, in any case, 
another subject he wanted to discuss. But before Harry could say anything about Snape and Malfoy, Dumbledore spoke.
“I hear that you met the Minister of Magic over Christmas?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “He's not very happy with me.”
“No,” sighed Dumbledore. “He is not very happy with me either. We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on.”
Harry grinned.
“He wanted me to tell the wizarding community that the Ministry's doing a wonderful job.”
Dumbledore smiled.
“It was Fudge's idea originally, you know. During his last days in office, when he was trying desperately to cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you, hoping 
that you would give him your support —”
“After everything Fudge did last year?” said Harry angrily. “After Umbridge?”
“I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the idea did not die when he left office. Within hours of Scrimgeour's appointment we met and he demanded that I 
arrange a meeting with you —”
“So that's why you argued!” Harry blurted out. “It was in the Daily Prophet.”
“The Prophet is bound to report the truth occasionally,” said Dumbledore, “if only accidentally. Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that Rufus found a way 
to corner you at last.”
“He accused me of being ‘Dumbledore's man through and through'.”
“How very rude of him.”
“I told him I was.”
Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Behind Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry's intense embarrassment, he 
suddenly realized that Dumbledore's bright blue eyes looked rather watery, and stared hastily at his own knees. When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite 
steady.
“I am very touched, Harry.”
“Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when you're not at Hogwarts,” said Harry, still looking fixedly at his knees.
“Yes, he is very nosy about that,” said Dumbledore, now sounding cheerful, and Harry thought it safe to look up again. “He has even attempted to have me followed. 
Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It wasn't kind. I have already been forced to jinx Dawlish once; I did it again with the greatest regret.”
“So they still don't know where you go?” asked Harry, hoping for more information on this intriguing subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top of his half-
moon spectacles.
“No, they don't, and the time is not quite right for you to know either. Now, I suggest we press on, unless there's anything else—?”
“There is, actually, sir,” said Harry. “It's about Malfoy and Snape.”
“Professor Snape, Harry.”
“Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor Slughorn's party... well, I followed them, actually...”
Dumbledore listened to Harry's story with an impassive face. When Harry had finished he did not speak for a few moments, then said, “Thank you for telling me this, 
Harry, but I suggest that you put it out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great importance.”
“Not of great importance?” repeated Harry incredulously. “Professor, did you understand—?”
“Yes, Harry, blessed as I am with extraordinary brainpower, I understood everything you told me,” said Dumbledore, a little sharply. “I think you might even consider 
the possibility that I understood more than you did. Again, I am glad that you have confided in me, but let me reassure you that you have not told me anything that 
causes me disquiet.”
Harry sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore. What was going on? Did this mean that Dumbledore had indeed ordered Snape to find out what Malfoy was doing, in 
which case he had already heard everything Harry had just told him from Snape? Or was he really worried by what he had heard, but pretending not to be?
“So, sir,” said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite, calm voice, “you definitely still trust — ?”
“I have been tolerant enough to answer that question already,” said Dumbledore, but he did not sound very tolerant anymore. “My answer has not changed.”
“I should think not,” said a snide voice; Phineas Nigellus was evidently only pretending to be asleep. Dumbledore ignored him.
“And now, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I have more important things to discuss with you this evening.”
Harry sat there feeling mutinous. How would it be if he refused to permit the change of subject, if he insisted upon arguing the case against Malfoy? As though he had 
read Harry's mind, Dumbledore shook his head.
“Ah, Harry, how often this happens, even between the best of friends! Each of us believes that what he has to say is much more important than anything the other might 
have to contribute!”
“I don't think what you've got to say is unimportant, sir,” said Harry stiffly.
“Well, you are quite right, because it is not,” said Dumbledore briskly. “I have two more memories to show you this evening, both obtained with enormous difficulty, 
and the second of them is, I think, the most important I have collected.”
Harry did not say anything to this; he still felt angry at the reception his confidences had received, but could not see what was to be gained by arguing further.
“So,” said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, “we meet this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years at 
Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him 
against continued thievery when he arrived at school.
“Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his second-hand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He 
was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head,” continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand toward the shelf over his head 
where the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. “How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House could talk to snakes, I do not know — perhaps that very 
evening. The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance.
“However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He showed no sign 
of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff almost from 
the moment of his arrival. He seemed police, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him.”
“Didn't you tell them, sir, what he'd been like when you met him at the orphanage?” asked Harry.
“No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I 
chose to give him that chance.”
Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Harry, who had opened his mouth to speak. Here, again, was Dumbledore's tendency to trust people in spite of overwhelming 
evidence that they did not deserve it! But then Harry remembered something...
“But you didn't really trust him, sir, did you? He told me... the Riddle who came out of that diary said, ‘Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other 
teachers did'.”
“Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy,” said Dumbledore. “I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon him, 
and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of 
discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his 
excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues.
“As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, 
Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak 
seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other 
words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts.
“Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrong-doing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which 
they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you 
know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime.
“I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore, placing his withered hand on the Pensieve. “Few who knew him then are prepared 
to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few who could be 
tricked into speaking, after searching old records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike.
“Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an orphanage and 
naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in the trophy room, on the lists 
of prefects in the old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe 
that it was then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Voldemort, and began his investigations into his previously despised mother's family—
the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death.
“All he had to go upon was the single name ‘Marvolo,’ which he knew from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother's father's name. Finally, after painstaking 
research, through old books of Wizarding families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin's surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage 
to which he returned annually and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand ...”
Dumbledore rose, and Harry saw that he was again holding a small crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory.
“I was very lucky to collect this,” he said, as he poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. “As you will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?”
Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until his face sank through the surface of the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling through 
nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness.
It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere 
Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only 
light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an 
armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his 
right hand and a short knife in his left.
The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome—the teenage 
Voldemort.
Voldemort's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the 
many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.
“YOU!” he bellowed. “YOU!”
And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.
“Stop.”
Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they 
contemplated each other. The man broke it.
”You speak it?”
”Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for 
Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.
”Where is Marvolo?” he asked.
”Dead,” said the other. ”Died years ago, didn't he?”
Riddle frowned.
”Who are you, then?”
”I'm Morfin, ain't I?”
”Marvolo's son?”
”‘Course I am, then...”
Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand.
”I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin. ”You look mighty like that Muggle.”
”What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply.
”That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. 
”You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, i'n ‘e? He's older'n you, now I think on it...”
Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support.
”He come back, see,” he added stupidly.
Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, ”Riddle came back?”
”Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. ”Robbed us, mind, before she ran off. Where's the locket, eh, 
where's Slytherin's locket?”
Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, ”Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, 
coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit... it's over...”
He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and Morfin's candle, 
extinguishing everything... Dumbledore's fingers closed tightly around Harry's arm and they were soaring back into the present again. The soft golden light in 
Dumbledore's office seemed to dazzle Harry's eyes after that impenetrable darkness. 
“Is that all?” said Harry at once. “Why did it go dark, what happened?”
“Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward,” said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry back into his seat. “When he awoke next morning, he was lying 
on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo's ring had gone.
“Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big 
house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father.
“The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra Curse does not usually leave any 
sign of damage... the exception sits before me,” Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry's scar. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's 
murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking 
one of the murdered people.
“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only 
the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at 
once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his fathers ring 
had disappeared. ‘He'll kill me for losing it,’ he told his captors over and over again. ‘He'll kill me for losing his ring.’ And that, apparently, was all he ever 
said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor 
souls who have expired within its walls.”
“So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?” said Harry, sitting up straight.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore. “We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, took his wand, 
and proceeded across the valley to ‘the big house over the way.’ There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his 
Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt 
hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle's mind, laid Morfin's wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient 
ring he wore, and departed.”
“And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?”
“Never,” said Dumbledore. “He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession.”
“But he had this real memory in him all the time!”
“Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him,” said Dumbledore, “and why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had 
already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I 
could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban. 
Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died.”
“But how come the Ministry didn't realize that Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?” Harry asked angrily. “He was underage at the time, wasn't he? I thought they 
could detect underage magic!”
“You are quite right—they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator: you will remember that you were blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact, 
cast by —”
“Dobby,” growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. “So if you're underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard's house, the Ministry won't know?”
“They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on Harry's face. “They rely on 
witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring's obedience while within their walls.”
“Well, that's rubbish,” snapped Harry. “Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!”
“I agree,” said Dumbledore. “Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want 
you to see this other memory before we part...”
Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal phial and Harry fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most important one he had 
collected. Harry noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad?
“This will not take long,” said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied the phial. “We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then...”
And Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man he recognized at once.
It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite disconcerting; it 
looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, less massive than it was these 
days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount 
of strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other 
searching through a box of crystalized pineapple.
Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn's office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on 
harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the 
boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo's gold-and-black ring; he had already killed his 
father.
“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?” he asked.
“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. “I must 
say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy; more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”
Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.
“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite 
right, it is my favorite—”
As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of 
Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly: “—you'll go wrong, boy, mark my words.”
The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered, 
Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock.
“Good gracious, is it that time already?” said Slughorn. “You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's 
detention. Same goes for you, Avery.”
Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he 
had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn.
“Look sharp, Tom,” said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. “You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect...”
“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away....”
“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”
And it happened all over again: the dense fog filled the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him. 
Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as it had done before.
“I don't know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning them again!”
“Well, that's that,” said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. “Time to go.”
And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore's desk.
“That's all there is?” said Harry blankly.
Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody 
seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a question and failed to get an answer.
“As you might have noticed,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, “that memory has been tampered with.”
“Tampered with?” repeated Harry, sitting back down too.
“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections.”
“But why would he do that?”
“Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers,” said Dumbledore. “He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those 
parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still 
there beneath the alterations.
“And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be 
our most crucial piece of information of all.”
Harry stared at him.
“But surely, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, “you don't need me—you could use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum...”
“Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting both,” said Dumbledore. “He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and 
I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection.
“No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave 
Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It is most 
important that we secure the true memory, Harry... how important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck... and goodnight.”
A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry got to his feet quickly. “Good night, sir.”
As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly heard Phineas Nigellus say, “I can't see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore.”
“I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas,” replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry.
几天以后的一个傍晚，哈利、罗恩和金妮在厨房的壁炉边排着队准备返回霍格沃茨。魔法部安排了这趟临时的飞路网络连接来把学生安全地送回学校。由于韦斯莱先生、弗雷德、乔治、比尔和
芙蓉都上班去了，所以只有韦斯莱夫人送他们。分别的时候韦斯莱夫人还掉了眼泪。无疑，最近韦斯莱夫人特别多愁善感；自从圣诞节那天珀西戴着溅满了防风草根汁的眼镜冲出屋子之后（弗
雷德、乔治和金妮都宣称是自己的功劳），她时不时地就会哭起来。
 
　　“别哭了，妈妈，”金妮拍了拍韦斯莱夫人的背，她正靠在女儿的肩膀上呜咽。“没事的……”
 
　　“是啊，别为我们担心，”罗恩让他妈妈在脸上重重地吻了一下，“也别为珀西担心。他就是个大傻瓜，这真的不是什么损失，对不对？”
 
　　韦斯莱夫人拥抱哈利的时候哭得更厉害了。
 
　　“向我保证你会照顾好自己……别惹麻烦……”
 
　　“我一直都如此，韦斯莱夫人，”哈利说。“我喜欢平静的生活，你了解我的。”
 
　　她含着泪笑了笑，站到了一边。
 
　　“那么要表现好，你们所有的人……”
 
　　哈利走进了翠绿色的火焰，喊道，“霍格沃茨！”最后短暂地瞥了一眼韦斯莱家的厨房和韦斯莱夫人沾满泪水的脸，然后就被火焰吞没了；他飞快地旋转着，眼前模糊地闪过其他巫师的屋
子，可还没等他看清楚就飘不见了；然后他开始减速，最终稳稳当当地停在了麦格教授办公室的壁炉里。他从壁炉里爬出来的时候麦格教授的眼睛几乎都没抬起来。
 
　　“晚上好，波特。请尽量别把炉灰带到地毯上。”
 
　　“好的，教授。”
 
　　哈利扶正了眼镜，抹了抹头发，这时罗恩从壁炉里旋转着冒了出来。等金妮也出来之后，他们一起离开了麦格教授的办公室朝格兰芬多塔楼走去。哈利经过走廊的窗子时往外面看了一眼；
太阳已经落到了地平线上，地面覆盖着比陋居的花园里还厚的积雪。他可以远远地看到海格正在他的小屋前给巴克比克喂食。
 
　　“小丑手杖，”罗恩自信地说，他们已经走到了胖夫人那儿，她的脸色看上去比平时要更苍白，被罗恩响亮的声音吓了一跳。
 
　　“不，”她说。
 
　　“什么叫‘不’？”
 
　　“换了新口令，”她说。“请不要喊叫。”
 
　　“可是我们回家去了，我们怎么会——？”
 
　　“哈利！金妮！”
 
　　赫敏匆匆向他们走了过来，脸上红扑扑的，穿戴着斗篷、帽子和手套。
 
　　“我几个小时前才回来，我刚去看了海格和巴克——我是说韦瑟文，”她气喘吁吁地说。“你们圣诞节过得好吗？”
 
　　“是啊，”罗恩马上说，“发生了好多事情，鲁弗斯·斯克林——”
 
　　“我有件东西要给你，哈利，”赫敏既没有看罗恩，也没有表现出她听到了罗恩说的话。“哦，等一下——口令。戒酒。”
 
　　“正确，”胖夫人无力地说，打开画像露出了肖像洞。
 
　　“她怎么了？”哈利问。
 
　　“很显然在圣诞节期间放纵了一把，”赫敏翻了翻眼珠，带头往挤满人的公共休息室走去。“她和她的朋友维奥莱特喝光了那幅画里所有的酒，就是楼下魔咒课教室走廊旁‘醉酒的修道士
’那幅。不管怎样……”
 
　　她在口袋里翻了一阵子，掏出了一卷带有邓布利多字迹的羊皮纸。
 
　　“太好了，”哈利赶紧解开了它，发现邓布利多的下一堂课就安排在明天晚上。“我有一大堆的事儿要告诉他——还有你。我们坐下来说——”
 
　　可就在此时突然传来一声响亮的尖叫“哇－哇！”，拉文德·布朗不知从哪儿飞奔过来投入了罗恩的怀抱。旁边的几个人吃吃地笑了起来；赫敏也清脆地笑了，她说，“这儿有张桌子……
过来吧，金妮？”
 
　　“不了，谢谢，我说好了要去和迪安见面的，”可哈利不禁注意到她的声音并不是很热情。抛下了正进行着直立式摔跤比赛的罗恩和拉文德，哈利领着赫敏坐到了那张空桌子旁。
 
　　“你的圣诞节过得怎么样？”
 
　　“哦，很好，”她耸了耸肩。“没什么特别的。你在‘哇－哇’的家里过得如何？”
 
　　“我马上就告诉你，”哈利说。“赫敏，你就不能——？”
 
　　“对，我不能，”她平淡地说。“所以别徒劳了。”
 
　　“你也知道，我以为经过了一个圣诞假期——”
 
　　“是胖夫人喝光了一桶酿造了五百年的葡萄酒，哈利，不是我。你想告诉我什么重要消息？”
 
　　她看上去太凶了，哈利知道这时和她争辩也没有，于是放弃了罗恩的话题，向她复述了自己偷听到的马尔福和斯内普之间谈话的内容。
 
　　他说完之后，赫敏坐在那儿想了想，然后说，“你不觉得——？”
 
　　“——他是在假装提出帮助马尔福，这样就可以骗马尔福说出他在做什么——？”
 
　　“嗯，是的，”赫敏说。
 
　　“罗恩的爸爸和卢平都这么认为，”哈利不大情愿地说。“可是这肯定证明了马尔福在计划着什么，这你总不能否认吧。”
 
　　“对，我不否认，”她缓慢地回答。
 
　　“而且他是在奉伏地魔的命令办事，就像我说的那样！”
 
　　“嗯……他们俩谁真正提到了伏地魔的名字？”
 
　　哈利皱起眉头，努力地回忆着。
 
　　“我不敢肯定……斯内普肯定说过‘你的主人’，那还会是谁？”
 
　　“我不知道，”赫敏咬着嘴唇说。“也许他的父亲？”
 
　　她凝视着休息室的另一头，显然陷入了沉思之中，可她仍没忘记留意拉文德正在胳肢罗恩。“卢平怎么样。”
 
　　“不是太好，”哈利说，他告诉了赫敏卢平在狼人中的任务和面临的困难。“你从前听说过这个芬利·格雷巴克吗？”
 
　　“是啊，听说过！”赫敏有些吃惊。“你也听说过啊，哈利！”
 
　　“什么时候，魔法史课上？你知道得很清楚，我从来不听……”
 
　　“不是，不是，不是魔法史——马尔福用他威胁过博金！”赫敏说。“在翻倒巷，你不记得了吗？他告诉博金说格雷巴克是他们家的老朋友，还会去检查他的进展！”
 
　　哈利目瞪口呆地看着她。“我忘了！可是这个证明了马尔福是个食死徒，否则他怎么能联系上格雷巴克，还告诉他该做什么！”
 
　　“这个相当可疑，”赫敏低声说。“除非……”
 
　　“哦，得了吧，”哈利恼怒地说，“你没法回避这个事实！”
 
　　“嗯……这可能只是一个凭空的威胁。”
 
　　“你就是不愿相信，就是不愿意，”哈利摇着头说。“等着看谁是对的吧……你会认错的，赫敏，就像魔法部一样。哦，对了，我还和鲁弗斯·斯克林杰吵了一架……”
 
　　那晚剩下的时光在他们俩对魔法部的共同谩骂中和平地度过了，赫敏和罗恩一样，认为魔法部在去年那样地对待了哈利之后，如今又来要求他去帮忙真是厚颜无耻。
 
　　第二天早上开始的新学期给了六年级学生一个惊喜：公共休息室的布告牌昨天夜里钉上了一张大告示。
 
　　幻影显形培训
 
　　如果你是七年级学生，或者在八月三十一日前年满十七周岁，你就有资格参加一项由魔法部教员讲授，历时十二周的幻影显形培训课程。
 
　　如果你愿意参加请在下面签上姓名。
 
　　费用：12加隆。
 
　　哈利和罗恩加入了拥挤的人群中，他们正一个接一个地在下面登记自己的姓名。排在赫敏后面的罗恩刚拿出羽毛笔，拉文德就悄悄出现在他身后，偷偷地蒙上了他的眼睛，用婉转地声音说
，“猜猜我是谁，哇－哇？”哈利转身看到赫敏大步地走开了；他不想同罗恩和拉文德待在一块儿，于是追上了赫敏，让他吃惊的是，他们刚走出肖像洞不远罗恩就追了上来，耳朵红红的，一
副不太高兴的样子。赫敏一句话也没说，快步地追上纳威和他一块儿走了。
 
　　“那么——幻影显形，”罗恩的语气已经很清楚了，哈利没有提刚才发生的事情。“应该会很有趣，嗯？”
 
　　“我不知道，”哈利说。“也许你自己做的时候好一些吧，邓布利多带着我一起做的时候我感觉不是太舒服。”
 
　　“我忘了你已经做过了……我最好一次就能过关，”罗恩看上去很急切。“弗雷德和乔治就是。”
 
　　“不过查理没一次成功，是不是？”
 
　　“是啊，可是查理块头比我大，”罗恩像大猩猩一样伸出了手臂，“所以弗雷德和乔治没有不停地唠叨这个……不管怎样，没有当着他的面……”
 
　　“我们什么时候能参加实际测试？”
 
　　“过了十七岁就行。对我来说只要等到三月份了！”
 
　　“是啊，可是你不能在这儿幻影显形，城堡里不行……”
 
　　“这没关系，不是吗？每个人都会知道我只要想幻影显形就能办到。”
 
　　罗恩不是唯一一个对幻影显形的前景感到兴奋的人。那一天到处都有人在谈论这门即将到来的课程；人们似乎十分看好这种随意消失和重现的能力。
 
　　“太酷了，如果我们能——”西莫打了个响指来代表消失。“我的表哥弗格斯常用这一招来骚扰我，等我会做了之后……他就永无宁日了……”
 
　　他陷入了憧憬之中，挥魔杖的动作有些过于狂热，那节魔咒课的目标本来是变出一股纯水，可是他的魔杖却喷出了一条橡皮水管一样的东西，从天花板上反弹回来直接打到了弗立维教授的
脸上。
 
　　“哈利已经幻影显形过了，”在弗立维教授挥动魔杖把身上弄干并罚了西莫写句子（“我是一个巫师，不是一个挥舞着棍子的狒狒”）之后，罗恩告诉有些发窘的西莫。“邓——呃——有
人带他做过了。依附显形，你知道的。”
 
　　“哇！”西莫低声说，然后他、迪安和纳威把脑袋凑得更近了一些来听哈利描述幻影显形的感觉。这一天余下的时间里，哈利被询问幻影显形感觉的其他六年级学生团团围住了。尽管他告
诉他们幻影显形有多么的不舒服，可似乎他们的敬畏之情还是要多于放弃之意，直到八点差十分，人们还在不断地问他细节上的问题，他不得不撒谎说需要去图书馆还一本书，才得以脱身准时
去上邓布利多的课。
 
　　邓布利多办公室的灯已经点上了，前任校长们的画像正在画框里轻轻地打着鼾，冥想盆又一次早早地摆在了邓布利多的桌子上。邓布利多把手放在冥想盆的两侧，其中右手和从前一样烧得
发黑。看上去根本就没有好转，哈利第一百次猜测起是什么导致了如此特殊的伤害，可是他没有问；邓布利多说过他会终究知道的，而且不管怎样他还有另一个话题想要和邓布利多讨论。可是
在他开口说斯内普和马尔福的事情之前，邓布利多先说话了。
 
　　“我听说圣诞假期里你见到了魔法部部长？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利说。“他不是很喜欢我。”
 
　　“对，”邓布利多叹息道。“他也不喜欢我。可我们不能在痛苦中消沉，哈利，而是要继续战斗下去。”
 
　　哈利咧嘴笑了。
 
　　“他想要我告诉巫师公众魔法部的工作很出色。”
 
　　邓布利多微笑了起来。
 
　　“这最开始是福吉的想法。在他任内的最后几天里，为了不顾一切地保住自己的职位，他就寻求过和你会面，希望你能给他一些支持——”
 
　　“在福吉去年做了所有那些事情之后？”哈利生气地说。“在乌姆里奇的事情之后？”
 
　　“我告诉康奈利绝不可能，可是这个想法并没有随着他的离任而消失。斯克林杰上任几个小时之后我们就见面了，他要求我安排你和他会面——”
 
　　“这就是你们争吵的原因！”哈利脱口而出。“《预言家日报》上登了。”
 
　　“《预言家日报》肯定偶尔也会报道真相，”邓布利多说。“也许只是意外。是的，那就是我们争吵的原因。不过，似乎鲁弗斯最后还是找到办法堵住你了。”
 
　　“他指责我‘从头到脚都是邓布利多的人’。”
 
　　“那他真是太没有礼貌了。”
 
　　“我告诉他我是。”
 
　　邓布利多张开嘴想说什么，但是又闭上了。哈利身后的福克斯发出了一声低沉、温柔、悦耳的鸣叫。他突然意识到邓布利多明亮的蓝眼睛看上去有些湿润，他感到了一阵极度地尴尬，只好
赶紧盯着自己的膝盖。不过邓布利多重新开口时声音却相当平和。
 
　　“我非常感动，哈利。”
 
　　“斯克林杰想知道你不在霍格沃茨时去了哪儿，”哈利说，仍旧凝视着自己的双膝。
 
　　“是的，他确实很喜欢打听那个，”邓布利多的声音现在变得愉快了，于是哈利觉得这个时候抬头已经安全了。“他甚至想派人跟踪我。真是很有趣。他派的是德力士。这可不太友好。我
已经被迫对德力士施过一次咒了；我带着极大的歉意又做了一次。”
 
　　“这么说他们还是不知道你去了哪儿？”哈利问，他希望在这个感兴趣的问题上得到更多的信息，可是邓布利多只是从他半月形眼镜的上方笑了笑。
 
　　“对，他们不知道，而且现在也没有到告诉你的时候。现在，我建议我们继续以前的内容，除非你还有什么——？”
 
　　“事实上确实有，教授，”哈利说。“关于马尔福和斯内普的。”
 
　　“是斯内普教授，哈利。”
 
　　“是，教授。我在斯拉霍恩教授的聚会上偷听到了他们的谈话……嗯，实际上我跟踪了他们……”
 
　　邓布利多面无表情地听完了哈利的故事。哈利讲完之后他沉默了片刻，然后说，“谢谢你告诉我这些，哈利，可是我建议你忘掉它。我认为它不太重要。”
 
　　“不太重要？”哈利难以置信地重复道。“教授，你弄懂了——？”
 
　　“是的，哈利，我有幸拥有着非凡的智力，所以你告诉我的每一件事我都弄懂了，”邓布利多有点儿尖锐地说。“我想你甚至应该考虑到我可能你比懂得更多。我很高兴你能信任我，但是
我向你保证你告诉我的事情并没有引起我的不安。”
 
　　哈利安静地坐在那里，可心里却泛起了波澜，他瞪着邓布利多。到底发生了什么？既然他已经告诉了邓布利多所有这些关于斯内普的事，这是不是就意味着确实是邓布利多派斯内普去查的
德拉科？又或者他的的确确对听到的事情感到很担心，却装成了若无其事的样子？
 
　　“那么，教授，”哈利希望他的声音能显得礼貌和平静，“你确实还信任——？”
 
　　“我已经足够耐心地回答过那个问题了，”可是他听上去不那么有耐性了。“我的回答没有改变。”
 
　　“我可不这么想，”一个讽刺的声音说；菲尼亚斯·奈杰勒斯显然只是在装睡。邓布利多没有理他。
 
　　“那么现在，哈利，我得坚持继续我们的课程了。今晚我有更重要的东西要和你讨论。”
 
　　哈利反抗般地坐在那儿。要是他拒绝改变话题，要是他坚持争论马尔福事件会怎么样呢？邓布利多摇了摇头，仿佛看穿了他的想法。
 
　　“啊，哈利，这种事情发生得多么经常啊，即使是在最好的朋友之间！每个人都相信自己要说的东西比别人的重要得多！”
 
　　“我没有认为你要说的东西不重要，教授，”哈利生硬地说。
 
　　“嗯，你是对的，因为他们确实很重要，”邓布利多快活地说。“今晚我有两份记忆要展示给你，每一份都来之不易，而且我认为第二份记忆是我所收集的回忆之中最重要的一份。”
 
　　哈利对此没有发表任何评论；他还在为自己吐露的秘密遭到冷遇而感到忿忿不平，可是他不知道继续争论下去有什么结果。
 
　　“那么，”邓布利多用响亮的声音说，“我们今晚就继续汤姆·里德尔的故事吧，上次说到他已经站在了他霍格沃茨生涯的门槛上。你一定还记得他听说自己是个巫师时有多么兴奋，记得
他拒绝了在我的陪同下去对角巷，也记得我告诫了他到校后不要继续行窃。
 
　　“那么，他的学校生涯开始了，汤姆·里德尔，一个穿着二手袍子，和其他一年级新生一起排队等候分院仪式的安静男孩。分院帽几乎刚一接触到他的脑袋就把他分入了斯莱特林，”邓布
利多向静静地摆在架子上的古老分院帽挥了挥他那只发黑的手，接着说。“我不知道他多快就发现了著名的学院创建者也能和蛇说话——也许就在那晚吧。这个消息无疑令他感到兴奋，也提升
了他的自尊心。
 
　　“然而，即便他曾经在公共休息室展示过蛇佬腔来吓唬他的斯莱特林同伴，这些也都没有传到教员们的耳朵里。他一点儿也没有公开地展示过自己的傲慢与好斗。作为一个既有天资又长得
好看的孤儿，他几乎是一到霍格沃茨就博得了教员们的注意和同情。他看上去非常礼貌、安静和渴望获得知识。他给几乎所有的人都留下了好印象。”
 
　　“你没有告诉他们吗，教授，你没有告诉他们他在孤儿院里是什么样子吗？”哈利问。
 
　　“是的，我没有。虽然没有迹象表明他在忏悔，可是有可能他会为过去的所作所为感到抱歉并决心重新做人。我选择了给他一个机会。”
 
　　邓布利多停了下来，询问地望着哈利，他刚刚张了嘴想说话。这又是邓布利多在随便信任人了，虽然有压倒性的证据表明那个人根本就不值得他信任！可是哈利突然想起了什么……
 
　　“但是你并不真的信任他，教授，是不是？他告诉我……从那本日记里出来的里德尔说‘邓布利多从来不像其他老师那样喜欢我’。”
 
　　“我并没有想当然地认为他值得信赖，”邓布利多说。“我当时已经下定决心要密切地注意他，我也这么做了。我可不能妄称自己一开始就从他那里知道了很多。他对我充满了戒心；我敢
肯定，他觉得在发现自己身份的激动之余告诉我的东西有点儿太多了。他再也没有那样泄露过自己的事儿，可是他没法收回兴奋之中不小心对我说的那些话，也无法收回科尔夫人对我透露的秘
密。然而，他却从来不去尝试像迷惑我的诸多同事那样地迷惑我。
 
　　“随着学业的进展，他集拢了一批热忱的朋友；我这么称呼他们，只是因为没有更合适的字眼，其实正如我曾指出来的，里德尔对他们中的任何人都毫无友情可言。这个团体在城堡里有一
种黑色的魅力；他们由五花八门的人组成；有想寻求庇护的弱者、渴望分享荣誉的野心家，还有一伙暴徒，他们都聚集在一个能够把残忍玩弄得更加炉火纯青的领袖周围。换言之，他们就是食
死徒的先驱，其中的有些人离开霍格沃茨之后也的确成为了最早的一批食死徒。
 
　　“他们被里德尔牢牢地控制在手里，尽管他们在校的七年里霍格沃茨发生了几起严重的变故，可是人们没有发现其中任何一宗与他们有很大的关系，其中最严重的，自然是密室的开启，这
导致了一个女孩的丧生。正如你所知道的，海格为这项罪行背了黑锅。
 
　　“我没能找到许多关于里德尔在霍格沃茨的记忆，”邓布利多把他皱巴巴的手放到冥想盆上。“几乎没有当时认识他的人愿意谈论起他；他们都太害怕了。我所知道的都是在他离开学校之
后，经过辛苦的努力，经过追寻那些极少数能被哄开口的人，经过搜索旧的记录和询问麻瓜与巫师目击者之后才查访到的。
 
　　“那些能被我劝开口的人告诉我，里德尔对自己的出身非常困扰。这个当然很容易理解；他是在孤儿院长大的，自然会想知道自己为什么到了那儿。他似乎没能在学校的奖杯陈列室里找到
老汤姆·里德尔的名字，在学校过去的级长名册上、甚至在巫师的历史书上也没有找到。最后他不得不相信自己的父亲从来就没有进入过霍格沃茨。我相信就是从那时起他永远地抛弃了自己的
名字，设想出了伏地魔的身份，并开始了对自己过去曾轻视的母亲家庭进行调查——你一定记得，就是那个他本以为不可能是巫师的女人，就因为她屈服在了人类面对死亡的可耻软弱之下。
 
　　“他的线索只有‘马沃罗’这个名字，开孤儿院的人告诉过他这是
Chapter 18 Birthday Surprises
The next day Harry confided in both Ron and Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him, though separately, for Hermione still refused to remain in Ron's presence 
longer than it took to give him a contemptuous look.
Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any trouble with Slughorn at all.
“He loves you,” he said over breakfast, waving an airy forkful of fried egg. “Won't refuse you anything, will he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after 
class this afternoon and ask him.”
Hermione, however, took a gloomier view.
“He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him,” she said in a low voice, as they stood in the deserted, snowy courtyard 
at break. “Horcruxes ... Horcruxes ... I've never even heard of them ...”
“You haven't?”
Harry was disappointed; he had hoped that Hermione might have been able to give him a clue as to what Horcruxes were.
“They must be really advanced Dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, 
you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy ...”
“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon ...”
“Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it,” she said, flaring up at once. “After all, when has Won-Won‘s judgement ever been faulty?”
“Hermione, can't you —”
“No!” she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow.
Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these days, seeing as Harry, Ron and Hermione had to share a desk. Today, Hermione moved her cauldron around the table so that 
she was close to Ernie, and ignored both Harry and Ron.
“What've you done?” Ron muttered to Harry, looking at Hermione's haughty profile.
But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room.
“Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law ... who can tell me—? But Miss Granger can, of 
course!”
Hermione recited at top speed: “Golpalott's-Third-Law-states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-
the-separale-components.”
“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true...”
Harry was going to have to take Slughorn's word for it that Golpalott's Third Law was true, because he had not understood any of it. Nobody apart from Hermione seemed 
to be following what Slughorn said next, either.
“... which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion's ingredients by Scarpin's Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the 
relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process, 
transform these disparate elements—”
Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half-open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Ron kept forgetting that he could no longer rely on 
Hermione to help him out of trouble when he failed to grasp what was going on.
“... and so,” finished Slughorn, “I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before 
the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don't forget your protective gloves!”
Hermione had left her stool and was halfway towards Siughorn's desk before the rest of the class had realised it was time to move, and by the time Harry, Ron and Ernie 
returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it.
“It's a shame that the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry,” she said brightly as she straightened up. “You have to understand the principles 
involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!”
Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken from Siughorn's desk, which was a garish shade of pink, tipped it into his cauldron and lit a fire underneath it. He did 
not have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at Ron, who was now standing there looking rather gormless, having copied everything Harry had 
done.
“You sure the Prince hasn't got any tips?” Ron muttered to Harry.
Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on Antidotes. There was Golpalott's Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had 
recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince's hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding 
it.
“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily.
Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy the spell she was doing because she was now so good at non-
verbal incantations that she did not need to say the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering, ’Specialis revelio!’ over his cauldron, which sounded 
impressive, so Harry and Ron hastened to imitate him.
It took Harry only five minutes to realise that his reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into 
his cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell 
of bad eggs overwhelmed him. Hermione's expression could not have been any smugger; she had loathed being out-performed in every Potions class. She was now decanting 
the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than anything else, Harry bent over 
the Half-Blood Prince's book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force.
And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes.
Just shove a bezoar down their throats.
Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn't he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn't Snape mentioned them in their first ever Potions lesson? ‘A stone taken 
from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons.’
It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate measures. 
He hastened towards the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at the very back, a small card box 
on which had been scribbled the word ‘Bezoars'.
He opened the box just as Slughorn called, “Two minutes left, everyone!” Inside were half a dozen shrivelled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than 
real stones. Harry seized one, put the box back in the cupboard and hurried back to his cauldron.
“Time's ... UP!” called Slughorn genially. “Well, let's see how you've done! Blaise ... what have you got for me?”
Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into 
her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up completely, and was merely trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing from his cauldron. Harry stood 
there waiting, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand.
Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie's potion and passed on to Ron's with a grimace. He did not linger over Ron's cauldron, but backed away swiftly, 
retching slightly.
“And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to show me?”
Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm.
Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with 
laughter.
“You've got a nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, you're like your mother ... well, I can't fault you 
... a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!”
Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair, 
bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry.
“And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry” she asked through gritted teeth.
“That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. “Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of 
potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it ... yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick ... although as they don't 
work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes ...”
The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled something that looked like cat sick over himself. 
Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.
“Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!”
Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon.
Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left; both looked rather annoyed. At last 
Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room.
“Come on, now, Harry, you'll be late for your next lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase.
“Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away ...”
“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”
Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, “What did you say?”
“I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see—”
“Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered Slughorn.
His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his 
sweating brow.
“Dumbledore's shown you that—that memory,” said Slughorn. “Well? Hasn't he?”
“Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.
“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. “Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know 
anything—anything—” he repeated the word forcefully “—about Horcruxes.”
He seized his dragonskin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door.
“Sir,” said Harry desperately, “I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory—”
“Did you?” said Slughorn. “Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!”
He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him.
Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without 
doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too.
“It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!” said Harry irritably. “Look, I had to try and soften him up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh, 
will you get a grip!” he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name.
Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's attitudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time 
being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the 
attack.
When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind. 
Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch practice. Unfortunately, 
however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else. 
Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities 
to question him.
Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first time in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick 
with the bezoar.
“I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!” she told him. “Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most 
horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions—nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Most Evil—listen—"of the 
Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction” ... I mean, why mention it, then?” she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; 
it let out a ghostly wail. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag.
The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of 
chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years’ first Apparition lesson, which was scheduled for a Saturday morning so that 
no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds.
When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron had come down with Lavender) they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the 
enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout—the Heads of House—and a small wizard whom 
Harry took to be the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colourless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a 
single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry wondered whether constant disappearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail 
build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish.
“Good morning,” said the Ministry wizard, when all the students had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be 
your Ministry-Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time—”
“Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” barked Professor McGonagall.
Everybody looked round. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered 
argument. Harry glanced quickly at Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy's rudeness than the fact that 
McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house.
“—by which time, many of you may be ready to take your test,” Twycross continued, as though there had been no interruption.
“As you may know, it is usually impossible to Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The Headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely within the Great Hall, for 
one hour, so as to enable you to practise. May I emphasise that you will not be able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try.
“I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you.”
There was a great scrambling and jostling as people separated, banged into each other, and ordered others out of their space. The Heads of House moved among the 
students, marshalling them into position and breaking up arguments.
“Harry, where are you going?” demanded Hermione.
But Harry did not answer; he was moving quickly through the crowd, past the place where Professor Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a few Ravenclaws, all 
of whom wanted to be near the front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivvying the Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie Macmillan, he managed to 
position himself right at the back of the crowd, directly behind Malfoy, who was taking advantage of the general upheaval to continue his argument with Crabbe, standing 
five feet away and looking mutinous.
“I don't know how much longer, all right?” Malfoy shot at him, oblivious to Harry standing right behind him. “It's taking longer than I thought it would.”
Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to second-guess what he was going to say.
“Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout!”
“! tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me,” Harry said, just loud enough for Malfoy to hear him.
Malfoy spun round on the spot, his hand flying to his wand, but at thai precise moment the four Heads of House shouted, “Quiet!” and silence fell again. Malfoy turned 
slowly to face the front.
“Thank you,” said Twycross. “Now then...”
He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops instantly appeared on the floor in from of every student.
“The important things to remember when Apparating are the three Ds!” said Twycross. “Destination, Determination, Deliberation!
“Step one: fix your mind firmly upon the desired destination,” said Twycross. “In this case, the interior of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that destination now.
”
Everybody looked around furtively, to check that everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily did as they were told. Harry gazed at the circular patch of 
dusty floor enclosed by his hoop and tried hard to think of nothing else. This proved impossible, as he couldn't stop puzzling over what Malfoy was doing that needed 
lookouts.
“Step two,” said Twycross, “focus your determination to occupy the visualised space! Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your 
body!”
Harry glanced around surreptitiously. A little way to his left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as though he 
was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg. Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze to his own hoop.
“Step three,” called Twycross, “and only when I give the command ... turn on the spot, feeling your way into nothingness, moving with deliberation. On my command, 
now ... one—”
Harry glanced around again; lots of people were looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate so quickly.
“—two—”
Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he had already forgotten what the three Ds stood for.
“—THREE!”
Harry spun on the spot, lost his balance and nearly fell over. He was not the only one. The whole Hall was suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on his 
back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had done a kind of pirouetting leap into his hoop and looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of Dean Thomas 
roaring with laughter at him.
“Never mind, never mind,” said Twycross dryly, who did not seem to have expected anything better. “Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original positions ...
”
The second attempt was no better than the first. The third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did anything exciting happen. There was a horrible screech of pain and 
everybody looked around, terrified, to see Susan Bones of Hufflepuff wobbling in her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away where she had started.
The Heads of House converged on her; there was a great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking 
horrified.
“Splinching, or the separation of random body parts,” said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, “occurs when the mind is insufficiently determined. You must concentrate 
continually upon your destination, and move, without haste, but with deliberation ... thus.”
Twycross stepped forwards, turned gracefully on the spot with his arms outstretched and vanished in a swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall. ‘Remember 
the three Ds,’ he said, “and try again ... one—two—three—”
But an hour later, Susan's Splinching was still the most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his neck, he 
merely said, “Until next Saturday, everybody, and do not forget: Destination. Determination. Deliberation.”
With that, he waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops, and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began moving towards 
the Entrance Hall.
“How did you do?” asked Ron, hurrying towards Harry. “I think I felt something the last time I tried—a kind of tingling in my feet.”
“I expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won,” said a voice behind them, and Hermione stalked past, smirking.
“I didn't feel anything,” said Harry, ignoring this interruption. “But I don't care about that now—”
“What d'you mean, you don't care ... don't you want to learn to Apparate?” said Ron incredulously.
“I'm not fussed, really. I prefer flying,” said Harry, glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was, and speeding up as they came into the Entrance Hall. 
“Look, hurry up, will you, there's something I want to do ...”
Perplexed, Ron followed Harry back to Gryffindor Tower at a run. They were temporarily detained by Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth floor shut and was 
refusing to let anyone pass until they set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Ron simply turned back and took one of their trusted short cuts. Within five minutes, 
they were climbing through the portrait hole.
“Are you going to tell me what we're doing, then?” asked Ron, panting slightly.
“Up here,” said Harry, and he crossed the common room and led the way through the door to the boys’ staircase.
Their dormitory was, as Harry had hoped, empty. He flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it, while Ron watched impatiently.
“Harry ...”
“Malfoy's using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was arguing with Crabbe just now. I want to know ... aha.”
He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped with the tip of his wand.
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good ... or Malfoy is, anyway.”
At once, the Marauder's Map appeared on the parchment's surface. Here was a detailed plan of every one of the castle's floors and, moving around it, the tiny, labelled 
black dots that signified each of the castle's occupants.
“Help me find Malfoy,” said Harry urgently.
He laid the map upon his bed and he and Ron leaned over it, searching.
“There!” said Ron, after a minute or so. “He's in the Slytherin common room, look ... with Parkinson and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle ...”
Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but rallied almost at once.
“Well, I'm keeping an eye on him from now on,” he said firmly. “And the moment I see him lurking somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch outside, it'll be on 
with the old Invisibility Cloak and off to find out what he's—”
He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.
Despite his determination to catch Malfoy out, Harry had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks. Although he consulted the map as often as he could, sometimes 
making unnecessary visits to the bathroom between lessons to search it, he did not once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admittedly, he spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving 
around the castle on their own more often than usual, sometimes remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them, 
but impossible to locate on the map at all. This was most mysterious. Harry toyed with the possibility that Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but could 
not see how he could be doing it, given the very high leve! of security now operating within the castle. He could only suppose ihat he was missing Malfoy amongst the 
hundreds of tiny black dots upon the map. As for the fact that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle appeared to be going their different ways when they were usually inseparable, 
these things happened as people got older—Ron and Hermione, Harry reflected sadly, were living proof.
February moved towards March with no change in the weather except that it became windy as well as wet. To general indignation, a sign went up on all common-room 
noticeboards that the next trip into Hogsmeade had been cancelled. Ron was furious.
“It was on my birthday!” he said, “I was looking forward to that!”
“Not a big surprise, though, is it?” said Harry. “Not after what happened to Katie.”
She had still not returned from St. Mungo's. What was more, further disappearances had been reported in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of students at 
Hogwarts.
“But now all I've got to look forward to is stupid Apparition!” said Ron grumpily. “Big birthday treat ...”
Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult as ever, though a few more people had managed to Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high and there was a 
certain amount of ill-feeling towards Wilkie Twycross and his three Ds, which had inspired a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which were Dog-breath and 
Dung-head.
“Happy birthday, Ron,” said Harry, when they were woken on the first of March by Seamus and Dean leaving noisily for breakfast. “Have a present.”
He threw the package across on to Ron's bed, where it joined a small pile of them that must, Harry assumed, have been delivered by house-elves in the night.
“Cheers,” said Ron drowsily, and as he ripped off the paper Harry got out of bed, opened his own trunk and began rummaging in it for the Marauder's Map, which he hid 
after every use. He turfed out half the contents of his trunk before he found it hiding beneath the rolled-up socks in which he was still keeping his bottle of lucky 
potion, Felix Felicis.
“Right,” he murmured, taking it back to bed with him, tapping it quietly and murmuring, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” so that Neville, who was passing 
the foot of his bed at the time, would not hear.
“Nice one, Harry!” said Ron enthusiastically, waving the new pair of Quidditch Keeper's gloves Harry had given him.
“No problem,” said Harry absent-mindedly, as he searched the Slytherin dormitory closely for Malfoy. “Hey ... I don't think he's in his bed ...”
Ron did not answer; he was too busy unwrapping presents, every now and then letting out an exclamation of pleasure.
“Seriously good haul this year!” he announced, holding up a heavy gold watch with odd symbols around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of hands. “See what Mum 
and Dad got me? Blimey, I think I'll come of age next year too ...”
“Cool,” muttered Harry, sparing the watch a glance before peering more closely at the map. Where was Malfoy? He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table in the Great 
Hall, eating breakfast ... he was nowhere near Snape, who was sitting in his study ... he wasn't in any of the bathrooms or in the hospital wing ...
“Want one?” said Ron thickly, holding out a box of Chocolate Cauldrons.
“No thanks,” said Harry, looking up. “Malfoy's gone again!”
“Can't have done,” said Ron, stuffing a second Cauldron into his mouth as he slid out of bed to get dressed. “Come on. If you don't hurry up you'll have to Apparate 
on an empty-stomach ... might make it easier, I suppose ...”
Ron looked thoughtfully at the box of Chocolate Cauldrons, then shrugged and helped himself to a third.
Harry tapped the map with his wand, muttered, “Mischief managed,” though it hadn't been, and got dressed, thinking hard. There had to be an explanation for Malfoy's 
periodic disappearances, but he simply could not think what it could be. The best way of finding out would be to tail him, but even with the Invisibility Cloak this was 
an impractical idea; he had lessons, Quidditch practice, homework and Apparition; he could not follow Malfoy around school all day wilhout his absence being remarked 
upon.
“Ready?” he said to Ron.
He was halfway to the dormitory door when he realised that Ron had not moved, but was leaning on his bedpost, staring out of the rain-washed window with a strangely 
unfocused look on his face.
“Ron? Breakfast.”
“I'm not hungry.”
Harry stared at him.
“I thought you just said—?”
“—Well, all right, I'll come down with you,” sighed Ron, “but I don't want to eat.”
Harry scrutinised him suspiciously.
“You've just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons, haven't you?”
“It's not that,” Ron sighed again. “You ... you wouldn't understand.”
“Fair enough,” said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he turned to open the door.
“Harry!” said Ron suddenly.
“What?”
“Harry, I can't stand it!”
“You can't stand what?” asked Harry, now starling to feel definitely alarmed. Ron was rather pale and looked as though he was about to be sick.
“I can't stop thinking about her!” said Ron hoarsely.
Harry gaped at him. He had not expected this and was not sure he wanted to hear it. Friends they might be, but if Ron started calling Lavender ‘Lav-Lav', he would have 
to pui his foot down.
“Why does that stop you having breakfast?” Harry asked, trying to inject a note of common sense into the proceedings.
“I don't think she knows I exist,” said Ron with a desperate gesture.
“She definitely knows you exist,” said Harry, bewildered. “She keeps snogging you, doesn't she?”
Ron blinked.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Who are you talking about?” said Harry, with an increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of the conversation.
“Romilda Vane,” said Ron softly, and his whole face seemed to illuminate as he said it, as though hit by a ray of purest sunlight.
They stared at each other for almost a whole minute, before Harry said, “This is a joke, right? You're joking.”
“I think ... Harry, I think I love her,” said Ron in a strangled voice.
“Okay,” said Harry, walking up to Ron to get a better look at the glazed eyes and the pallid complexion, “okay ... say that again with a straight face.”
“I love her,” repeated Ron breathlessly. “Have you seen her hair, it's all black and shiny and silky ... and her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her—”
“This is really funny and everything,” said Harry impatiently, “but joke's over, all right? Drop it.”
He turned to leave; he had got two steps towards the door when a crashing blow hit him on the right ear. Staggering, he looked round. Ron's fist was drawn right back, 
his face was contorted with rage; he was about to strike again.
Harry reacted instinctively; his wand was out of his pocket and the incantation sprang to mind without conscious thought: Levicorpus!
Ron yelled as his heel was wrenched upwards once more; he dangled helplessly, upside-down, his robes hanging off him.
“What was that for?” Harry bellowed.
“You insulted her, Harry! You said it was a joke!” shouted Ron, who was slowly turning purple in the face as all the blood rushed to his head.
“This is insane!” said Harry. “What's got into—?”
And then he saw the box lying open on Ron's bed and the truth hit him with the force of a stampeding troll.
“Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?”
“They were a birthday present!” shouted Ron, revolving slowly in midair as he struggled to get free. “I offered you one, didn't I?”
“You just picked them up off the floor, didn't you?”
“They'd fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!”
“They didn't fall off your bed, you prat, don't you understand? They were mine, I chucked them out of my trunk when I was looking for the map. They're the Chocolate 
Cauldrons Romilda gave me before Christmas and they're all spiked with love potion!”
But only one word of this seemed to have registered with Ron.
“Romilda?” he repeated. “Did you say Romilda? Harry—do you know her? Can you introduce me?”
Harry stared at the dangling Ron, whose face now looked tremendously hopeful, and fought a strong desire to laugh. A part of him—the part closest to his throbbing 
right ear—was quite keen on the idea of letting Ron down and watching him run amok until the effects of the potion wore off ... but on the other hand, they were 
supposed to be friends, Ron had not been himself when he had attacked, and Harry thought that he would deserve another punching if he permitted Ron to declare undying 
love for Romilda Vane.
“Yeah, I'll introduce you,” said Harry, thinking fast. “I'm going to let you down now, okay?”
He sent Ron crashing back to the floor (his ear did hurt quite a lot), but Ron simply bounded to his feet again, grinning.
“She'll be in Slughorn's office,” said Harry confidently, leading the way to the door.
“Why will she be in there?” asked Ron anxiously, hurrying to keep up.
“Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,” said Harry, inventing wildly.
“Maybe I could ask if I can have them with her?” said Ron eagerly.
“Great idea,” said Harry.
Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a complication Harry had not foreseen.
“You're late, Won-Won!” she pouted. “I've got you a birthday—”
“Leave me alone” said Ron impatiently, “Harry's going to introduce me to Romilda Vane.”
And without another word to her, he pushed his way out of the portrait hole. Harry tried to make an apologetic face to Lavender, but it might have turned out simply 
amused, because she looked more offended than ever as the Fat Lady swung shut behind them.
Harry had been slightly worried that Slughorn might be at breakfast, but he answered his office door at the first knock, wearing a green velvet dressing-gown and 
matching nightcap and looking rather bleary-eyed.
“Harry,” he mumbled. “This is very early for a call ... I generally sleep late on a Saturday ...”
“Professor, I'm really sorry to disturb you,” said Harry as quietly as possible, while Ron stood on tiptoe, attempting to see past Slughorn into his room, “but my 
friend Ron's swallowed a love potion by mistake. You couldn't make him an antidote, could you? I'd take him to Madam Pomfrey, but we're not supposed to have anything 
from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and, you know ... awkward questions ...”
“I'd have thought you could have whipped him up a remedy, Harry, an expert potioneer like you?” asked Slughorn.
“Er,” said Harry, somewhat distracted by the fact that Ron was now elbowing him in the ribs in an attempt to force his way into the room, “well, I've never mixed an 
antidote for a love potion, sir, and by the time I get it right Ron might've done something serious—”
Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, “I can't see her. Harry—is he hiding her?”
“Was this potion within date?” asked Slughorn, now eyeing Ron with professional interest. “They can strengthen, you know, the longer they're kept.”
“That would explain a lot,” panted Harry, now positively wrestling with Ron to keep him from knocking Slughorn over. “It's his birthday, Professor,” he added 
imploringly.
“Oh, all right, come in, then, come in,” said Slughorn, relenting."I've got the necessary here in my bag, it's not a difficult antidote ...”
Ron burst through the door into Slughorn's overheated, crowded study, tripped over a tasselled footstool, regained his balance by seizing Harry around the neck and 
muttered, “She didn't see that, did she?”
“She's not here yet,” said Harry, watching Slughorn opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of this and that to a small crystal bottle.
“That's good,” said Ron fervently. “How do I look?”
“Very handsome,” said Slughorn smoothly, handing Ron a glass of clear liquid. “Now drink that up, it's a tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, you 
know,”
“Brilliant,” said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the antidote down noisily.
Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged and vanished, to be replaced by an expression of utmost horror.
“Back to normal, then?” said Harry, grinning. Slughorn chuckled. “Thanks a lot, Professor.”
“Don't mention it, m'boy, don't mention it,” said Slughorn, as Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair, looking devastated. “Pick-me-up, that's what he needs,” 
Slughorn continued, now-bustling over to a table loaded with drinks. “I've got Butterbeer, I've got wine, I've got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead ... hmm ... 
meant to give that to Dumbledore for Christmas ... ah well ...” he shrugged “... he can't miss what he's never had! Why don't we open it now and celebrate Mr 
Weasley's birthday? Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love ...”
He chortled again and Harry joined in. This was the firsi time he had found himself almost alone with Slughorn since his disastrous first attempt to extract the true 
memory from him. Perhaps, if he could just keep Slughorn in a good mood ... perhaps if they got through enough of the oak-matured mead ...
“There you are, then,” said Slughorn, handing Harry and Ron a glass of mead each, before raising his own. “Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph—”
“- Ron—” whispered Harry.
But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth and swallowed it.
There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, in which Harry knew there was something terribly wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not.
“—and may you have many more—”
“Ron!”
Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth and his eyes were 
bulging from their sockets.
“Professor!” Harry bellowed. “Do something!”
But Slughorn seemed paralysed by shock. Ron twitched and choked: his skin was turning blue.
“What—but—” spluttered Slughorn.
Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted towards Slughorn's open potion kit, pulling out jars and pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron's gargling breath filled the 
room. Then he found it—the shrivelled kidney-like stone Slughorn had taken from him in Potions.
He hurtled back to Ron's side, wrenched open his jaw and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a great shudder, a rattling gasp and his body became limp and still.
第二天哈利把邓布利多布置给他的任务透露给了罗恩和赫敏，不过是分开透露的，因为赫敏仍然拒绝和罗恩同时出现，一旦有罗恩在场，赫敏除了来得及给他一个轻蔑的眼神之外，就再也不肯
多待了。
 
　　罗恩认为哈利不大可能会在斯拉霍恩身上遇到麻烦。
 
　　“他很喜欢你，”他早餐时说，在空中挥了挥叉着煎蛋的叉子。“不会拒绝你任何事情，是吧？你可是他的魔药小王子。今天下午的课上完之后留下来问他要就成了。”
 
　　然而，赫敏的观点却悲观一些。
 
　　“如果邓布利多都不能让他说出来，那他就是下定了决心要隐瞒真正发生的事，”下课时他们站在积雪的无人天井里，她低声说道。“灵魂碎片……灵魂碎片……我从来没有听说过这些东
西……”
 
　　“你没听说过？”
 
　　哈利很失望；他本来希望赫敏能给他提供一点线索来弄清灵魂碎片是什么。
 
　　“那些一定是非常高级的黑魔法，否则为什么伏地魔想要了解它们？我认为要想得到那条信息不是一件容易的事，哈利，你要仔细想想怎么接近斯拉霍恩，最好能想出一条计策……”
 
　　“罗恩认为只要今天下午的魔药课上完之后我留下来……”
 
　　“哦，那么，如果是‘哇－哇’这么认为，你最好就照做，”她的火气马上上来了。“毕竟，‘哇－哇’的判断什么时候出过错？”
 
　　“赫敏，你就不能——”
 
　　“不能！”她生气地说，然后转过身一阵风似的走了，把哈利一个人留在了齐脚踝深的雪地上。
 
　　这段时间的魔药课真的很不自在，因为哈利、罗恩和赫敏得坐在同一张桌子上。今天，赫敏把坩埚往厄尼那边挪了挪，抛下了哈利和罗恩。
 
　　“你干了什么？”罗恩看着赫敏傲慢的侧脸小声问哈利。
 
　　可哈利还没有来得及回答，斯拉霍恩就已经在教室前面要求大家安静了。
 
　　“请坐好，请坐好！快点儿，今天下午有许多事情要做！哥帕洛忒第三定律……谁能告诉我——？格兰杰小姐能，当然！”
 
　　赫敏用最快的速度背诵起来：“哥帕洛忒第三定律阐述了混合毒药的解药种类数大于混合毒药的每种组分对应的解药种类数的总和。”
 
　　“完全正确！”斯拉霍恩笑眯眯地说。“格兰芬多加十分！那么，如果我们接受哥帕洛忒第三定律是正确的……”
 
　　哈利只好相信斯拉霍恩哥帕洛忒第三定律是正确的，因为他一点儿也不懂。除了赫敏，似乎没有人跟得上斯拉霍恩随后讲的内容。
 
　　“……这就是说，当然，假定我们已经通过斯卡平揭示咒正确地鉴定出了毒药的每种成分，我们的首要目标不是相对简单的给每种成分本身挑选解药，而是要找到一种附加的组分，这种组
分要能——差不多是通过一个炼金术式的过程——转化这些各不相同的元素——”
 
　　罗恩半张着嘴坐在哈利身边，心不在焉地在他崭新的《高级魔药制备》上涂鸦。他忘了走神之后再也不能依赖赫敏帮忙他解决问题了。
 
　　“……所以，”斯拉霍恩总结道，“我要你们每个人到我桌子上来拿一只小药瓶。在下课之前针对里面的毒药制造出一种解药。祝你们好运，别忘了戴上防护手套！”
 
　　赫敏已经离开凳子走在了去斯拉霍恩讲桌的半道上，而其他人这时才醒悟过来应该动身了，等哈利、罗恩和厄尼回到桌子上时，她已经把瓶子里的药倒进了坩埚，正在坩埚下面生火。
 
　　“真遗憾这次王子帮不了你了，哈利，”她直起身子时快活地说。“你这次得弄明白它包含的基本原理。而不是捷径和作弊！”
 
　　哈利恼怒地拔开瓶塞，把从斯拉霍恩的讲桌上取回来的亮粉红色毒药倒进了他的坩埚，在下面生起了火。他一点儿也不知道接下来该怎么办。哈利瞥了一眼罗恩，那家伙照抄完哈利做的每
件事之后，正呆头呆脑地站在那儿。
 
　　“你确定王子没有写下任何窍门？”罗恩对哈利嘀咕道。
 
　　哈利抽出了他那本值得信赖的《高级魔药制备》，翻到了解药那一章。哥帕洛忒第三定律和赫敏背诵的内容一模一样，可是王子没有留下一点笔记来解释它是什么意思。显然王子和赫敏一
样，理解起这个来毫无困难。
 
　　“什么也没有，”哈利沮丧地说。
 
　　赫敏正在她的坩埚上方狂热地挥舞着魔杖。不幸的是，他们没办法照搬她的咒语，因为现在赫敏的无声咒语太熟练了，做这些时根本就不用出声。不过，厄尼·麦克米兰却正在他的坩埚上
方轻轻念叨，“秘密重现！”听起来令人印象深刻，于是哈利和罗恩赶紧效仿起来。
 
　　哈利只花了五分钟就发现他这个最佳药剂师已经名声扫地。斯拉霍恩在教室巡视的第一圈就转到了哈利身边，充满期待地往他的坩埚里张望，准备同往常一样高兴地惊呼，可这次却狼狈地
把头缩了回来，在一股臭鸡蛋气味的包围下咳嗽着。赫敏脸上的表情再得意不过了；她受够了在每节魔药课都被人超过。她现在正把从毒药里分离出来的神秘原料分别倒进十个不同的水晶药瓶
。为了避免自己看到这气人的一幕，哈利弯下腰用不必要的力气狠狠地翻了几页混血王子的书。
 
　　在那一长串解药的右边，潦草地写了一行字。
 
　　只需要把牛黄塞进他们的喉咙。
 
　　哈利盯着这几个字。他不是在很久以前听说过牛黄吗？斯内普不是在他们的第一节魔药课上提到过吗？“从山羊的胃里取出的石头（译注：现实中的牛黄专指水牛或黄牛的胆囊结石，所以
这里译者认为译成胃石或毛粪石更佳），具有极强的解毒功能。”
 
　　这不是解决哥帕洛忒问题的答案，如果斯内普还是他们的老师，哈利绝不敢这么做，但是这是最后的一根救命稻草了。他赶紧到储藏柜里去翻寻，把独角兽角和缠结在一起的干草药都推到
了一边，他终于在最里面找出了一只小硬纸盒，上面用潦草的字迹写着“牛黄”。
 
　　他打开了盒子，这时斯拉霍恩叫道，“还剩两分钟，各位！”。盒子里面有半打皱巴巴的棕色物体，看上去更像是干缩的肾，而不是真正的石头。哈利抓起一个，把盒子放回橱柜，然后回
到了自己的坩埚面前。
 
　　“时间……到！”斯拉霍恩快活地叫道。“好了，让我来看看你们做的！布雷斯……你为我准备了些什么啊？”
 
　　斯拉霍恩慢慢地在屋里走动，检查着各不相同的解药。没有一个人完成了任务，即使是赫敏也还在趁着斯拉霍恩过来之前往瓶子里面填进更多的原料。罗恩早就完全放弃了，仅仅只是躲避
着从他坩埚里冒出来的阵阵腐臭的烟雾。哈利攥着牛黄站在那儿等，手心已经微微出汗了。
 
　　斯拉霍恩最后来到了他们的桌前。他嗅了嗅厄尼的魔药，做了个鬼脸，接着看罗恩的。他没有在罗恩的坩埚前多加停留，只是快步地往后一退，微微有些作呕。
 
　　“那么你呢，哈利，”他说。“你准备展示什么给我看？”
 
　　哈利伸出手，露出了手掌心上的牛黄。
 
　　斯拉霍恩足足盯着它看了十秒。哈利一度以为他要冲着自己大嚷大叫了。然后他抬起头大笑起来。
 
　　“你真勇敢，孩子！”他用洪亮的声音说，把牛黄拿起来给全班看。“哦，你像你的母亲一样……嗯，我不能说你错了……一块牛黄当然可以作为所有这些魔药的解药！”
 
　　赫敏看上去气得不行，她忙得满头大汗，鼻子上还有一块烟尘。她含有五十二种原料（其中还包括她的一团头发）的解药刚做到一半，还在斯拉霍恩身后懒洋洋地冒着泡泡，可斯拉霍恩的
眼睛只盯着哈利。
 
　　“你是自己想出牛黄的吗，哈利？”她咬牙切齿地问。
 
　　“那是一个真正药剂师所需要的独创精神！”斯拉霍恩在哈利回答之前抢先说。“就像她的母亲，她对魔药制造也有着同样的天生悟性，无疑他是从莉莉那儿继承过来了……是的，哈利，
是的，如果你手头上有牛黄，当然就能达到目的……不过由于它也不是对每样东西都有效，而且十分稀少，所以了解配制解药还是有价值的……”
 
　　屋子里唯一一个比赫敏还气愤的是马尔福，哈利高兴地看到，他把一些类似猫的呕吐物的东西洒到了自己身上。哈利什么都没做却成了最好，在他们俩有机会对此暴跳如雷之前，下课铃响
了。
 
　　“是时候收拾东西了！”斯拉霍恩说。“为了哈利的冒失再给格兰芬多加上十分！”
 
　　他咯咯地笑着，像鸭子一样摇摇摆摆地走回了教室前的讲桌。
 
　　哈利留在后面，他磨磨蹭蹭地收拾着书包。罗恩和赫敏离开的时候都没有祝他好运；他们看上去都很气恼。哈利和斯拉霍恩成了教室里最后的两个人。
 
　　“走吧，哈利，你下堂课要迟到了，”斯拉霍恩和蔼地说，他吧哒一声扣下了龙皮公文包的扣环。
 
　　“教授，”哈利抑制不住地想到了伏地魔，“我想问你件事。”
 
　　“那问吧，我亲爱的孩子，问吧……”
 
　　“教授，你知不知道……灵魂碎片的事情？”
 
　　斯拉霍恩愣住了。他圆圆的脸似乎陷入了沉思。然后他舔了舔嘴唇，嘶哑地说，“你说什么？”
 
　　“我问你知不知道任何关于灵魂碎片的事，教授。你瞧——”
 
　　“是邓布利多让你来问这个的，”斯拉霍恩低声说。
 
　　他的声音完全变了。不再是亲切温和，而是震惊和恐惧。他在上衣口袋里摸索出一只手帕，擦了擦额头上的汗。
 
　　“邓布利多给你看了那——那段记忆，”斯拉霍恩说。“嗯？是不是？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利决定此时此刻最好不要说谎。
 
　　“是啊，当然，”斯拉霍恩轻轻地说，仍然擦拭着他惨白的脸。“当然了……嗯，如果你已经看了那段记忆，哈利，你就会了解到我不知道任何事——任何事——”他强有力地重复了一遍
那个词“——有关灵魂碎片的事。”
 
　　他抓起龙皮公文包，把手帕塞回兜里，大步走向地下教室的门。
 
　　“教授，”哈利绝望地说，“我只是认为记忆里还有些东西——”
 
　　“是吗？”斯拉霍恩说。“那你就错了，是不是？错了！”
 
　　他吼完最后一个字，哈利还没来得及多说什么，他就狠狠地关上了身后的门。
 
　　当哈利把那场灾难性的谈话告诉罗恩和赫敏时，他们俩都没有表现出一丝同情。赫敏还在为哈利的不劳而获耿耿于怀。罗恩则在为哈利没有给他也拿过来一个牛黄而生气。
 
　　“如果我们俩都这么做就会显得很愚蠢！”哈利暴躁地说。“听着，我得在问他伏地魔的事之前先想办法软化他，是不是？哦，你就不能控制一下吗！”见罗恩听到这个名字缩了一下脖子
，哈利愤怒地补充道。
 
　　哈利对他的失败和罗恩与赫敏的态度气恼不已，他接下来的几天里一直都在思考接下来应该怎么办。他想暂时让斯拉霍恩以为他已经忘记了灵魂碎片的事；这样就能在卷土重来之前给他带
来错误的安全感。
 
　　由于哈利没有再问斯拉霍恩，这位魔药课教师又恢复了对哈利的喜爱，似乎也把那件事给忘了。哈利期待着他的晚宴邀请，这次他下决心就算重新安排魁地奇训练也要接受下来。但不幸的
是，他没有收到这样的邀请。哈利问了问赫敏和金妮：他们俩也都没有收到新的邀请，而且就她们所知，还没有任何人收到了邀请。哈利不禁怀疑起斯拉霍恩并不像他所表面上那样健忘，他只
是决意不再给哈利任何机会盘问他。
 
　　而与此同时，霍格沃茨图书馆让赫敏失望了，这在记忆中还是第一次。她深受打击，甚至忘记了为哈利用牛黄耍的花招感到生气。
 
　　“我连一条灵魂碎片的解释都没有找到！”她告诉他。“一条都没有！我翻遍了禁书区，甚至查阅了最恐怖的书，那些上面写着怎么炮制最骇人听闻的魔药的书——什么都没找到！我能找
到的只有这个，《最邪恶的魔法》里的介绍——听听——‘灵魂碎片，是最邪恶的魔法发明，我们不会给出任何说明和制作方法’……我的意思是，那干嘛要提它？”她不耐烦地把这本古老的
书重重合上；里面传出了一声鬼哭狼嚎。“哦，闭嘴，”她没好气的说，把书塞回了书包。
 
　　随着二月份的到来，学校周围的雪终于融化了，取而代之的是阴郁寒冷的潮湿天气。紫灰色的云低低地压在城堡上，一场绵绵不断的冷雨让草地更滑，也更泥泞了。这也导致了六年级学生
的第一次幻影显形培训从操场移到了礼堂里，这堂课被安排在星期六上午，这样就不会耽误正常的课业了。
 
　　哈利和赫敏到达礼堂时（罗恩和拉文德一起过来的）发现桌子都不见了。雨滴打在高高的窗户上，施了魔法的天花板阴沉地打着漩涡，他们走到麦格教授、斯内普教授、弗立维教授和斯普
劳特教授——四个学院的院长——身边集合，还有一个矮小的男人，哈利猜想他就是部里派来的幻影显形教员。他脸色苍白得有些奇怪，长着透明的睫毛和束状的头发，身上带着一种虚无飘渺
的气质，仿佛一阵狂风就可以把他吹走。哈利猜测长期的移行和显形给他的身体造成了损耗，又或许这种弱不禁风的体格对任何想消失的人来说都是非常理想的。
 
　　“早上好，”所有学生都到了场，在学院院长们要求他们安静下来之后，魔法部巫师说。“我叫威尔基·退克罗斯，接下来的十二周里我会成为你们的魔法部幻影显形教员。我希望能帮你
们为这次的幻影显形测试作准备。”
 
　　“马尔福，安静，注意听！”麦格教授吼道。
 
　　每个人都转过了头。马尔福的脸立即变成了暗粉红色；他狂怒地离开了克拉布，似乎刚才正在和他低声争执。哈利迅速地瞟了一眼斯内普，他看上去也很恼怒，不过哈利强烈地怀疑那更多
的是因为麦格教授呵斥了他的学院的一个学生，而不是因为马尔福的无礼。
 
　　“——到那时，你们中的许多人都能准备就绪去参加测试了，”退克罗斯接着说，仿佛没有被打断一样。
 
　　“你们也许知道，在霍格沃茨里是不能幻影显形和幻影移形的。可校长已经把魔法撤销了，以便我们练习，仅仅只是在礼堂里，仅仅一个小时时间。我强调，你们不能幻影显形到这扇墙的
外面，而且要尝试这样做也是很不明智的。
 
　　“我要你们每个人都在面前留出五英尺的空间。”
 
　　礼堂里爆发出一阵混乱和拥挤，人们彼此分开，撞到别人身上，命令别人走出自己的领地。学院的院长们在人群中穿梭，指挥他们站好并且调解着纠纷。
 
　　“哈利，你去哪儿？”赫敏问。
 
　　哈利没有回答；他迅速地穿过人群，经过了弗立维教授，他正在尖叫着安置一群争着往前站的拉文克劳学生的，又经过了斯普劳特教授，她正在把赫奇帕奇学生排成行，躲开了厄尼·麦克
米兰后，他来到了人群的末尾，站在马尔福后面，后者正利用这个混乱站在五英尺远的地方继续和克拉布争论，看上去有些失控。
 
　　“我不知道还要多久，行了吧？”马尔福瞪着他，没有注意到哈利正站在他的后面。“花的时间比我预想的要长。”
 
　　克拉布张了张嘴，可是马尔福似乎猜到了他要说什么。
 
　　“听着，我在干什么不关你的事，克拉布，你和高尔只需要照我说的做放好哨就行了！”
 
　　“如果我要我的朋友为我放哨，就会告诉他们我在干什么，”哈利说，声音大得刚好可以让马尔福听见。
 
　　马尔福立即转过身，手飞快地移向了魔杖，可就在这时四个院长大声叫道，“安静！”于是大家都安静了下来。马尔福慢慢地转过身去看着前面。
 
　　“谢谢你们，”退克罗斯说。“那么……”
 
　　他挥了挥魔杖。每个学生面前的地板上都立刻出现了一只老式木圈。
 
　　“幻影显形时最重要的是三个D！”退克罗斯说。“目的地，决心，从容不迫！（译注：三个词在英语里分别是destination、determination和deliberation，都是D打头）
 
　　“第一步：把你们的精力集中在预期的目的地上，”退克罗斯说。“在现在的情况下，就是这个木圈里面。现在请把注意力集中在那个目的地上。”
 
　　每个人都暗中朝四周看了看其他人是不是在盯着木圈，然后便赶紧照教员说的做了。哈利凝视着木圈里的那块满是灰尘的圆形地板，努力地尝试不去想其他任何事情。但是这不可能，因为
他无法停止对马尔福到底在做什么需要放哨的事感到疑惑不解。
 
　　“第二步，”退克罗斯说，“下定决心去占据那个看得见的空间！让进入其中的渴望淹没你们的意识，淹没你们的每一小块身体！”
 
　　哈利偷偷朝四周看了一眼。在他左边稍远一些的地方，厄尼·麦克米兰正拼命地凝视着他的木圈，脸都成了粉红色；看上去就像准备下一个鬼飞球大小的蛋。哈利忍住笑，赶紧回头凝视起
自己的木圈来。
 
　　“第三步，”退克罗斯喊道，“等我一发令……就在原地开始旋转，要感觉自己正在进入虚无之中，从容不迫地移动！听我的口令，现在……一——”
 
　　哈利又朝四周看了看；许多人都对这么快就要幻影显形感到惊慌失措。
 
　　“——二——”
 
　　哈利试图再次把精力集中在他的木圈上；他已经忘了那三个D代表什么。
 
　　“——三！”
 
　　哈利快速旋转起来，随即失去了平衡，差点儿就摔倒。可他不是唯一一个。整个礼堂突然间充满了摇摇晃晃的人；纳威平平地躺在了地上；而厄尼·麦克米兰则踮着脚跳到了木圈里，顿时
兴奋不已，直到他看到迪安·托马斯正冲着他一阵狂笑。
 
　　“没关系，没关系，”退克罗斯干巴巴地说，似乎他也没有期待有更好的结果。“整理一下你们的木圈，然后回到自己原来的位置上……”
 
　　第二次尝试不比第一次好。第三次也一样糟糕。直到第四次时才有令人激动的事情发生。有人发出了一声令人毛骨悚然的尖叫，每个人都四处张望起来，他们恐惧地看见赫奇帕奇的苏珊·
博恩斯正在木圈中瑟瑟发抖，而左腿却仍然留在五英尺外，那是她出发时的位置。
 
　　学院的院长们都聚拢到了她的周围；然后砰的一声巨响，出现了一阵紫色的烟雾，随着烟雾的消散，人们看见了正在抽泣的苏珊，她的腿又回到了身上，可是仍然惊魂未定。
 
　　“裂体，或者说身体某部分的分离，”威尔基·退克罗斯冷静地说，“发生在意志不够坚决的时候。你们必须不断地把注意力集中在你们的目的地上，然后动身，不要慌，而是要从容不迫
……像这样。”
 
　　退克罗斯往前走了几步，两手伸开，优雅地原地旋转起来，只见袍子打了个漩涡，人就消失了，随后又出现在了礼堂的后面。
 
　　“记住那三个D,”他说，“再试一次……一——二——
Chapter 19 Elf Tails
“So, all in all, not one of Ron's better birthdays?” said Fred.
It was evening; the hospital wing was quiet, the windows curtained, the lamps lit. Ron's was the only occupied bed. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were sitting around him; 
they had spent all day waiting outside the double doors, trying to see inside whenever somebody went in or out. Madam Pomfrey had only let them enter at eight o'clock. 
Fred and George had arrived at ten past.
“This isn't how we imagined handing over our present,” said George grimly, putting down a large wrapped gift on Ron's bedside cabinet and sitting beside Ginny.
“Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was conscious,” said Fred.
“There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise him —” said George.
“You were in Hogsmeade?” asked Ginny, looking up.
“We were thinking of buying Zonko's,” said Fred gloomily. “A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat lot of good it'll do us if you lot aren't allowed out at weekends 
to buy our stuff anymore ... But never mind that now.”
He drew up a chair beside Harry and looked at Ron's pale face.
“How exactly did it happen, Harry?”
Harry retold the story he had already recounted, it felt like a hundred times to Dumbledore, to McGonagall, to Madam Pomfrey, to Hermione, and to Ginny.
“... and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his breathing eased up a bit. Slughorn ran for help, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they brought Ron up 
here. They reckon he'll be all right. Madam Pomfrey says he'll have to stay here a week or so ... keep taking Essence of Rue ...”
“Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar,” said George in a low voice.
“Lucky there was one in the room,” said Harry, who kept turning cold at the thought of what would have happened if he had not been able to lay hands on the little 
stone.
Hermione gave an almost inaudible sniff. She had been exceptionally quiet all day. Having hurtled, white-faced, up to Harry outside the hospital wing and demanded to 
know what had happened., she had taken almost no part in Harry and Ginny's obsessive discussion about how Ron had been poisoned, but merely stood beside them, clench-
jawed and frightened-looking, until at last they had been allowed in to see him.
“Do Mum and Dad know?” Fred asked Ginny.
“They've already seen him, they arrived an hour ago—they're in Dumbledore's office now, but they'll be back soon...”
There was a pause while they all watched Ron mumble a little in his sleep.
“So the poison was in the drink?” said Fred quietly.
“Yes,” said Harry at once; he could think of nothing else and was glad for the opportunity to start discussing it again. “Slughorn poured it out —”
“Would he have been able to slip something into Ron's glass without you seeing?”
“Probably,” said Harry, “but why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?”
“No idea,” said Fred, frowning. “You don't think he could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning to get you?”
“Why would Slughorn want to poison Harry?” asked Ginny.
“I dunno,” said Fred, “but there must be loads of people who'd like to poison Harry, mustn't there? The ‘Chosen One’ and all that?”
“So you think Slughorn's a Death Eater?” said Ginny.
“Anything's possible,” said Fred darkly.
“He could be under the Imperius Curse,” said George.
“Or he could be innocent,” said Ginny. “The poison could have been in the bottle, in which case it was probably meant for Slughorn himself.”
“Who'd want to kill Slughorn?”
“Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on his side,” said Harry. “Slughorn was in hiding for a year before he came to Hogwarts. And...” He thought of the 
memory Dumbledore had not yet been able to extract from Slughorn. “And maybe Voldemort wants him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be valuable to Dumbledore.”
“But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas,” Ginny reminded him. “So the poisoner could just as easily have been after 
Dumbledore.”
“Then the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well,” said Hermione, speaking for the first time in hours and sounding as though she had a bad head cold. “Anyone who 
knew Slughorn would have I known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself.”
“Er-my-nee,” croaked Ron unexpectedly from between them
They all fell silent, watching him anxiously, but after muttering incomprehensibly for a moment he merely started snoring.
The dormitory doors flew open, making them all jump: Hagrid came striding toward them, his hair rain-flecked, his bearskin coat flapping behind him, a crossbow in his 
hand, leaving a trail of muddy dolphin-sized footprints all over the floor.
“Bin in the forest all day!” he panted. “Aragog's worse, I bin readin’ to him—didn’ get up ter dinner till jus’ now an’ then Professor Sprout told me abou’ 
Ron! How is he?”
“Not bad,” said Harry. “They say he'll be okay.”
“No more than six visitors at a time!” said Madam Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office.
“Hagrid makes six,” George pointed out.
“O... yes...” said Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have been counting Hagrid as several people due to his vastness. To cover her confusion, she hurried off to clear up 
his muddy foot prints with her wand.
“I don’ believe this,” said Hagrid hoarsely, shaking his great shaggy head as he stared down at Ron. “Jus’ don’ believe it... look at him lyin’ there... who'd 
want ter hurt him, eh?”
“That's just what we were discussing,” said Harry. “We don't know.”
“Someone couldn’ have a grudge against the Gryfinndor Quidditch team, could they?” said Hagrid anxiously. “Firs’ Katie, now Ron...”
“I can't see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team,” said George.
“Wood might've done the Slytherins if he could've got away with it,” said Fred fairly.
“Well, I don't think it's Quidditch, but I think there's a connection between the attacks,” said Hermione quietly.
“How d'you work that out?” asked Fred.
“Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been fatal and weren't, although that was pure luck. And for another, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have 
reached the person who was supposed to be killed. Of course,” she added broodingly, “that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they 
don't seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim.”
Before anybody could respond to this ominous pronouncement, the dormitory doors opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hurried up the ward. They had done no more than 
satisfy themselves that Ron would make a full recovery on their last visit to the ward; now Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and hugged him very tighty.
“Dumbledore's told us how you saved him with the bezoar,” she sobbed. “Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny... you saved Arthur... now you've saved Ron...”
“Don't be ... I didn't...” muttered Harry awkwardly.
“Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now I stop and think about it,” Mr. Weasley said in a constricted voice. “Well, all I can say is that it was a 
lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry.”
Harry could not think of any reply to this and was almost glad when Madam Pomfrey reminded them that there were only supposed to be six visitors around Ron's bed; he 
and Hermione rose at once to leave and Hagrid decided to go with them, leaving Ron with his family.
“It's terrible,” growled Hagrid into his beard, as the three of them walked back along the corridor to the marble staircase. “All this new security, an’ kids are 
still gettin’ hurt... Dumbledore's worried sick... He don’ say much, but I can tell...”
“Hasn't he got any ideas, Hagrid?” asked Hermione desperately.
“I spect he's got hundreds of ideas, brain like his,” said Hagrid. “But he doesn’ know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they'd've bin caught, 
wouldn’ they? Wha’ worries me,” said Hagrid, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder (Harry, for good measure, checked the ceiling for Peeves), “is how 
long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein’ attacked. Chamber o’ Secrets all over again, isn’ it? There'll be panic, more parents takin their kids outta school, an 
nex’ thing yeh know the board o’ governors ...”
Hagrid stopped talking as the ghost of a long-haired woman drifted serenely past, then resumed in a hoarse whisper, “... the board o’ governors'll be talkin about 
shuttin’ us up fer good.”
“Surely not?” said Hermione, looking worried.
“Gotta see it from their point o’ view,” said Hagrid heavily. “I mean, it's always bin a bit of a risk sendin’ a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn’ it? Yer expect accidents, 
don’ yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha's diff'rent. ‘S no wonder Dumbledore's angry with Sn —”
Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty expression on what was visible of his face above his tangled black beard.
“What?” said Harry quickly. “Dumbledore's angry with Snape?”
“I never said tha',” said Hagrid, though his look of panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. “Look at the time, it's gettin’ on fer midnight, I need ter —”
“Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?” Harry asked loudly.
“Shhhh!” said Hagrid, looking both nervous and angry. “Don’ shout stuff like that, Harry, d'yeh wan’ me ter lose me job? Mind, I don’ suppose yeh'd care, would 
yeh, not now yeh've given up Care of Mag—”
“Don't try and make me feel guilty, it won't work!” said Harry forcefully. “What's Snape done?”
“I dunno, Harry, I shouldn'ta heard it at all... well, I was comin’ outta the forest the other evenin’ an’ I overheard ‘em talking— well, arguin'. Didn't like ter 
draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an tried not ter listen, but it was... well, a heated discussion an’ it wasn’ easy ter block it out.”
“Well?” Harry urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his enormous feet uneasily.
“Well... I jus’ heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took too much fer granted an maybe he—Snape—didn’ wan’ ter do it any more —”
“Do what?”
“I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin’ a bit overworked, tha's all—anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he'd agreed ter do it an’ that was all there was 
to it. Pretty firm with him. An’ then he said summat abou’ Snape makin’ investigations in his House, in Slytherin. Well, there's nothin’ strange abou’ that!” 
Hagrid added hastily, as Harry and Hermione exchanged looks full of meaning. “All the Heads o’ Houses were asked ter look inter that necklace business —”
“Yeah, but Dumbledore's not having rows with the rest of them, is he?” said Harry.
“Look,” Hagrid twisted his crossbow uncomfortably in his hands; there was a loud splintering sound and it snapped in two. “I know what yeh're like abou’ Snape, 
Harry, an’ I don’ want yeh ter go readin’ more inter this than there is.”
“Look out,” said Hermione tersely.
They turned just in time to see the shadow of Argus Filch looming over the wall behind them before the man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his jowls aquiver.
“Oho!” he wheezed. “Out of bed so late, this'll mean detention!”
“No it won', Filch,” said Hagrid shortly. “They're with me, aren’ they?”
“And what difference does that make?” asked Filch obnoxiously.
“I'm a ruddy teacher, aren’ I, yeh sneakin’ Squib!” said Hagrid, firing up at once.
There was a nasty hissing noise as Filch swelled with fury; Mrs. Norris had arrived, unseen, and was twisting herself sinuously around Filch's skinny ankles.
“Get goin',” said Hagrid out of the corner of his mouth.
Harry did not need telling twice; he and Hermione both hurried off; Hagrid's and Filch's raised voices echoed behind them as they ran. They passed Peeves near the 
turning into Gryffindor Tower, but he was streaking happily toward the source of the yelling, cackling and calling,
When there's strife and when there's trouble
Call on Peevsie, he'll make double!
The Fat Lady was snoozing and not pleased to be woken, but swung forward grumpily to allow them to clamber into the mercifully peaceful and empty common room. It did 
not seem that people knew about Ron yet; Harry was very relieved: he had been interrogated enough that day. Hermione bade him good night and set off for the girls’ 
dormitory. Harry, however, remained behind, taking a seat beside the fire and looking down into the dying embers.
So Dumbledore had argued with Snape. In spite of all he had told Harry, in spite of his insistence that he trusted Snape completely, he had lost his temper with him... 
he did not think that Snape had tried hard enough to investigate the Slytherins ... or, perhaps, to investigate a single Slytherin: Malfoy?
Was it because Dumbledore did not want Harry to do anything foolish, to take matters into his own hands, that he had pretended there was nothing in Harry's suspicions? 
That seemed likely. It might even be that Dumbledore did not want anything to distract Harry from their lessons, or from procuring that memory from Slughorn. Perhaps 
Dumbledore did not think it right to confide suspicions about his staff to sixteen-year-olds...
“There you are, Potter!”
Harry jumped to his feet in shock, his wand at the ready. He had been quite convinced that the common room was empty; he had not been at all prepared for a hulking 
figure to rise suddenly out of a distant chair. A closer look showed him that it was Cormac McLaggen.
“I've been waiting for you to come back,” said McLaggen, disregarding Harry's drawn wand. “Must've fallen asleep. Look, I saw them taking Weasley up to the hospital 
wing earlier. Didn't look like he'll be fit for next week's match.”
It took Harry a few moments to realize what McLaggen was talking about.
“Oh... right... Quidditch,” he said, putting his wand back into the belt of his jeans and running a hand wearily through his hair. “Yeah ... he might not make it.”
“Well, then, I'll be playing Keeper, won't I?” said McLaggen.
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah, I suppose so...”
He could not think of an argument against it; after all, McLaggen had certainly performed second-best in the trials.
“Excellent,” said McLaggen in a satisfied voice. “So when's practice?”
“What? Oh... there's one tomorrow evening.”
“Good. Listen, Potter, we should have a talk beforehand. I've got some ideas on strategy you might find useful.”
“Right,” said Harry unenthusiastically. “Well, I'll hear them tomorrow, then. I'm pretty tired now ... see you...”
The news that Ron had been poisoned spread quickly next day, but it did not cause the sensation that Katie's attack had done. People seemed to think that it might have 
been an accident, given that he had been in the Potions master's room at the time, and that as he had been given an antidote immediately there was no real harm done. In 
fact, the Gryffindors were generally much more interested in the upcoming Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, for many of them wanted to see Zacharias Smith, who played 
Chaser on the Hufflepuff team, punished soundly for his commentary during the opening match against Slytherin.
Harry, however, had never been less interested in Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Still checking the Marauder's Map whenever he got a 
chance, he sometimes made detours to wherever Malfoy happened to be, but had not yet detected him doing anything out of the ordinary. And still there were those 
inexplicable times when Malfoy simply vanished from the map...
But Harry did not get a lot of time to consider the problem, what with Quidditch practice, homework, and the fact that he was now being dogged wherever he went by 
Cormac McLaggen and Lavender Brown.
He could not decide which of them was more annoying. McLaggen kept up a constant stream of hints that he would make a better permanent Keeper for the team than Ron, and 
that now that Harry was seeing him play regularly he would surely come around to this way of thinking too; he was also keen to criticize the other players and provide 
Harry with detailed training schemes, so that more than once Harry was forced to remind him who was Captain.
Meanwhile, Lavender kept sidling up to Harry to discuss Ron, which Harry found almost more wearing than McLaggen's Quidditch lectures. At first, Lavender had been very 
annoyed that nobody had thought to tell her that Ron was in the hospital wing—"I mean, I am his girlfriend!"—but unfortunately she had now decided to forgive Harry 
this lapse of memory and was keen to have lots of in-depth chats with him about Ron's feelings, a most uncomfortable experience that Harry would have happily forgone.
“Look, why don't you talk to Ron about all this?” Harry asked, after a particularly long interrogation from Lavender that took in everything from precisely what Ron 
had said about her new dress robes to whether or not Harry thought that Ron considered his relationship with Lavender to be “serious.”
“Well, I would, but he's always asleep when I go and see him!” said Lavender fretfully.
“Is he?” said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron perfectly alert every time he had been up to the hospital wing, both highly interested in the news of Dumbledore 
and Snape's row and keen to abuse McLaggen as much as possible.
“Is Hermione Granger still visiting him?” Lavender demanded suddenly.
“Yeah, I think so. Well, they're friends, aren't they?” said Harry uncomfortably.
“Friends, don't make me laugh,” said Lavender scornfully. “She didn't talk to him for weeks after he started going out with me! But I suppose she wants to make up 
with him now he's all interesting...”
“Would you call getting poisoned being interesting?” asked Harry. “Anyway—sorry, got to go—there's McLaggen coming for a talk about Quidditch,” said Harry 
hurriedly, and he dashed sideways through a door pretending to be solid wall and sprinted down the shortcut that would take him off to Potions where, thankfully, 
neither Lavender nor McLaggen could follow him.
On the morning of the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Harry dropped in on the hospital wing before heading down to the pitch. Ron was very agitated; Madam Pomfrey 
would not let him go down to watch the match, feeling it would overexcite him.
“So how's McLaggen shaping up?” he asked Harry nervously, apparently forgetting that he had already asked the same question twice.
“I've told you,” said Harry patiently, “he could be world-class and I wouldn't want to keep him. He keeps trying to tell everyone what to do, he thinks he could play 
every position better than the rest of us. I can't wait to be shot of him. And speaking of getting shot of people,” Harry added, getting to his feet and picking up his 
Firebolt, “will you stop pretending to be asleep when Lavender comes to see you? She's driving me mad as well.”
“Oh,” said Ron, looking sheepish. “Yeah. All right.”
“If you don't want to go out with her anymore, just tell her,” said Harry.
“Yeah... well... it's not that easy, is it?” said Ron. He paused. “Hermione going to look in before the match?” he added casually.
“No, she's already gone down to the pitch with Ginny.”
“Oh,” said Ron, looking rather glum. “Right. Well, good luck. Hope you hammer McLag—I mean Smith.”
“I'll try,” said Harry, shouldering his broom. “See you after the match.”
He hurried down through the deserted corridors; the whole school was outside, either already seated in the stadium or heading down toward it. He was looking out of the 
windows he passed, trying to gauge how much wind they were facing, when a noise ahead made him glance up and he saw Malfoy walking toward him, accompanied by two girls, 
both of whom looked sulky and resentful.
Malfoy stopped short at the sight of Harry, then gave a short, humorless laugh and continued walking.
“Where're you going?” Harry demanded.
“Yeah, I'm really going to tell you, because it's your business, Potter,” sneered Malfoy. “You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for the Chosen Captain—the Boy 
Who Scored—whatever they call you these days.”
One of the girls gave an unwilling giggle. Harry stared at her. She blushed. Malfoy pushed past Harry and she and her friend followed at a trot, turning the corner and 
vanishing from view.
Harry stood rooted on the spot and watched them disappear. This was infuriating; he was already cutting it fine to get to the match on time and yet there was Malfoy, 
skulking off while the rest of the school was absent: Harry's best chance yet of discovering what Malfoy was up to. The silent seconds trickled past, and Harry remained 
where he was, frozen, gazing at the place where Malfoy had vanished...
“Where have you been?” demanded Ginny, as Harry sprinted into the changing rooms. The whole team was changed and ready; Coote and Peakes, the Beaters, were both 
hitting their clubs nervously against their legs.
“I met Malfoy,” Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his scarlet robes over his head.
“So?”
“So I wanted to know how come he's up at the castle with a couple of girlfriends while everyone else is down here...”
“Does it matter right now?”
“Well, I'm not likely to find out, am I?” said Harry, seizing his Firebolt and pushing his glasses straight. “Come on then!”
And without another word, he marched out onto the pitch to deafening cheers and boos.
There was little wind; the clouds were patchy; every now and then there were dazzling flashes of bright sunlight.
“Tricky conditions!” McLaggen said bracingly to the team. “Coote, Peakes, you'll want to fly out of the sun, so they don't see you coming —”
“I'm the Captain, McLaggen, shut up giving them instructions,” said Harry angrily. “Just get up by the goal posts!”
Once McLaggen had marched off, Harry turned to Coote and Peakes.
“Make sure you do fly out of the sun,” he told them grudgingly.
He shook hands with the Hufflepuff Captain, and then, on Madam Hooch's whistle, kicked off and rose into the air, higher than the rest of his team, streaking around the 
pitch in search of the Snitch. If he could catch it good and early, there might be a chance he could get back up to the castle, seize the Marauder's Map, and find out 
what Malfoy was doing...
“And that's Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle,” said a dreamy voice, echoing over the grounds. “He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew 
into him, I think probably on purpose—it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expect he regrets that now he's playing them—oh, look, he's 
lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she's very nice...”
Harry stared down at the commentator's podium. Surely nobody in their right mind would have let Luna Lovegood commentate? But even from above there was no mistaking 
that long, dirty-blonde hair, nor the necklace of Butterbeer corks... Beside Luna, Professor McGonagall was looking slightly uncomfortable, as though she was indeed 
having second thoughts about this appointment.
“... but now that big Hufflepuff player's got the Quaffle from her, I can't remember his name, it's something like Bibble—no, Buggins —”
“It's Cadwallader!” said Professor McGonagall loudly from beside Luna. The crowd laughed.
Harry stared around for the Snitch; there was no sign of it. Moments later, Cadwallader scored. McLaggen had been shouting criticism at Ginny for allowing the Quaffle 
out of her possession, with the result that he had not noticed the large red ball soaring past his right ear.
“McLaggen, will you pay attention to what you're supposed to be doing and leave everyone else alone!” bellowed Harry, wheeling around to face his Keeper.
“You're not setting a great example!” McLaggen shouted back, red-faced and furious.
“And Harry Potter's now having an argument with his Keeper,” said Luna serenely, while both Hufflepuffs and Slytherins below in the crowd cheered and jeered. “I 
don't think that'll help him find the Snitch, but maybe it's a clever ruse...”
Swearing angrily, Harry spun round and set off around the pitch again, scanning the skies for some sign of the tiny, winged golden ball.
Ginny and Demelza scored a goal apiece, giving the red-and-gold-clad supporters below something to cheer about. Then Cadwallader scored again, making things level, but 
Luna did not seem to have noticed; she appeared singularly uninterested in such mundane things as the score, and kept attempting to draw the crowd's attention to such 
things as interestingly shaped clouds and the possibility that Zacharias Smith, who had so far failed to maintain possession of the Quaffle for longer than a minute, 
was suffering from something called “Loser's Lurgy.”
“Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!” barked Professor McGonagall into Luna's megaphone.
“Is it, already?” said Luna vaguely. “Oh, look! The Gryffindor Keeper's got hold of one of the Beater's bats.”
Harry spun around in midair. Sure enough, McLaggen, for reasons best known to himself, had pulled Peakes's bat from him and appeared to be demonstrating how to hit a 
Bludger toward an oncoming Cadwallader.
“Will you give him back his bat and get back to the goalposts!” roared Harry, pelting toward McLaggen just as McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and 
mishit it.
A blinding, sickening pain ... a flash of light... a distant scream... and the sensation of falling down a long tunnel...
And the next thing Harry knew, he was lying in a remarkably warm and comfortable bed and looking up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light onto a shadowy 
ceiling. He raised his head awkwardly. There on his left was a familiar-looking, freckly, red-haired person.
“Nice of you to drop in,” said Ron, grinning.
Harry blinked and looked around. Of course: he was in the hospital wing. The sky outside was indigo streaked with crimson. The match must have finished hours ago ... as 
had any hope of cornering Malfoy. Harry's head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand and felt a stiff turban of bandages.
“What happened?”
“Cracked skull,” said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up and pushing him back against his pillows. “Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I'm keeping you in 
overnight. You shouldn't overexert yourself for a few hours.”
“I don't want to stay here overnight,” said Harry angrily, sitting up and throwing back his covers. “I want to find McLaggen and kill him.”
“I'm afraid that would come under the heading of ‘overexertion,'” said Madam Pomfrey, pushing him firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a threatening 
manner. “You will stay here until I discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the Headmaster.”
She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back into his pillows, fuming.
“D'you know how much we lost by?” he asked Ron through clenched teeth.
“Well, yeah I do,” said Ron apologetically. “Final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty.”
“Brilliant,” said Harry savagely. “Really brilliant! When I get hold of McLaggen —”
“You don't want to get hold of him, he's the size of a troll,” said Ron reasonably. “Personally, I think there's a lot to be said for hexing him with that toenail 
thing of the Prince's. Anyway, the rest of the team might've dealt with him before you get out of here, they're not happy...”
There was a note of badly suppressed glee in Ron's voice; Harry could tell he was nothing short of thrilled that McLaggen had messed up so badly. Harry lay there, 
staring up at the patch of light on the ceiling, his recently mended skull not hurting, precisely, but feeling slightly tender underneath all the bandaging.
“I could hear the match commentary from here,” said Ron, his voice now shaking with laughter. “I hope Luna always commentates from now on... Loser's Lurgy ...”
But Harry was still too angry to see much humor in the situation, and after a while Ron's snorts subsided.
“Ginny came in to visit while you were unconscious,” he said, after a long pause, and Harry's imagination zoomed into overdrive, rapidly constructing a scene in which 
Ginny, weeping over his lifeless form, confessed her feelings of deep attraction to him while Ron gave them his blessing..."She reckons you only just arrived on time 
for the match. How come? You left here early enough.”
“Oh...” said Harry, as the scene in his mind's eye imploded. “Yeah... well, I saw Malfoy sneaking off with a couple of girls who didn't look like they wanted to be 
with him, and that's the second time he's made sure he isn't down on the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the school; he skipped the last match too, remember?” Harry 
sighed. “Wish I'd followed him now, the match was such a fiasco...”
“Don't be stupid,” said Ron sharply. “You couldn't have missed a Quidditch match just to follow Malfoy, you're the Captain!”
“I want to know what he's up to,” said Harry. “And don't tell me its all in my head, not after what I overheard between him and Snape —”
“I never said it was all in your head,” said Ron, hoisting himself up on an elbow in turn and frowning at Harry, “but there's no rule saying only one person at a 
time can be plotting anything in this place! You're getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. I mean, thinking about missing a match just to follow him ...”
“I want to catch him at it!” said Harry in frustration. “I mean, where's he going when he disappears off the map?”
“I dunno... Hogsmeade?” suggested Ron, yawning.
“I've never seen him going along any of the secret passageway on the map. I thought they were being watched now anyway?”
“Well then, I dunno,” said Ron.
Silence fell between them. Harry stared up at the circle of lamp light above him, thinking...
If only he had Rufus Scrimgeour's power, he would have been able to set a tail upon Malfoy, but unfortunately Harry did not have an office full of Aurors at his 
command... He thought fleetingly of trying to set something up with the D.A., but there again was the problem that people would be missed from lessons; most of them, 
after all, still had full schedules...
There was a low, rumbling snore from Ron's bed. After a while Madam Pomfrey came out of her office, this time wearing a thick dressing gown. It was easiest to feign 
sleep; Harry rolled over onto his side and listened to all the curtains closing themselves as she waved her wand. The lamps dimmed, and she returned to her office; he 
heard the door click behind her and knew that she was off to bed.
This was, Harry reflected in the darkness, the third time that he had been brought to the hospital wing because of a Quidditch injury. Last time he had fallen off his 
broom due to the presence of dementors around the pitch, and the time before that, all the bones had been removed from his arm by the incurably inept Professor 
Lockhart... That had been his most painful injury by far ... he remembered the agony of regrowing an armful of bones in one night, a discomfort not eased by the arrival 
of an unexpected visitor in the middle of the —
Harry sat bolt upright, his heart pounding, his bandage turban askew. He had the solution at last: there was a way to have Malfoy followed—how could he have forgotten, 
why hadn't he thought of it before?
But the question was, how to call him? What did you do? Quietly, tentatively, Harry spoke into the darkness.
“Kreacher?”
There was a very loud crack, and the sounds of scuffling and squeaks filled the silent room. Ron awoke with a yelp.
“What's going—?”
Harry pointed his wand hastily at the door of Madam Pomfrey's office and muttered, “Muffliato!” so that she would not come running. Then he scrambled to the end of 
his bed for a better look at what was going on.
Two house-elves were rolling around on the floor in the middle of the dormitory, one wearing a shrunken maroon jumper and several woolly hats, the other, a filthy old 
rag strung over his hips like a loincloth. Then there was another loud bang, and Peeves the Poltergeist appeared in midair above the wrestling elves.
“I was watching that, Potty!” he told Harry indignantly, pointing at the fight below, before letting out a loud cackle. “Look at the ickle creatures squabbling, 
bitey bitey, punchy punchy —”
“Kreacher will not insult Harry Potter in front of Dobby, no he won't, or Dobby will shut Kreacher's mouth for him!” cried Dobby in a high-pitched voice.
“— kicky, scratchy!” cried Peeves happily, now pelting bits of chalk at the elves to enrage them further. “Tweaky, pokey!”
“Kreacher will say what he likes about his master, oh yes, and what a master he is, filthy friend of Mudbloods, oh, what would poor Kreacher's mistress say—?”
Exactly what Kreacher's mistress would have said they did not find out, for at that moment Dobby sank his knobbly little fist into Kreacher's mouth and knocked out half 
of his teeth. Harry and Ron both leapt out of their beds and wrenched the two elves apart, though they continued to try and kick and punch each other, egged on by 
Peeves, who swooped around the lamp squealing, “Stick your fingers up his nosey, draw his cork and pull his earsies —”
Harry aimed his wand at Peeves and said, “Langlock!” Peeves clutched at his throat, gulped, then swooped from the room making obscene gestures but unable to speak, 
owing to the fact that his tongue had just glued itself to the roof of his mouth.
“Nice one,” said Ron appreciatively, lifting Dobby into the air so that his flailing limbs no longer made contact with Kreacher. “That was another Prince hex, wasn't 
it?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, twisting Kreacher's wizened arm into a half nelson. “Right—I'm forbidding you to fight each other! Well, Kreacher, you're forbidden to fight 
Dobby. Dobby, I know I'm not allowed to give you orders —”
“Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants him to do!” said Dobby, tears now streaming down his 
shriveled little face onto his jumper.
“Okay then,” said Harry, and he and Ron both released the elves, who fell to the floor but did not continue fighting.
“Master called me?” croaked Kreacher, sinking into a bow even as he gave Harry a look that plainly wished him a painful death.
“Yeah, I did,” said Harry, glancing toward Madam Pomfrey's office door to check that the Muffliato spell was still working; there was no sign that she had heard any 
of the commotion. “I've got a job for you.”
“Kreacher will do whatever Master wants,” said Kreacher, sinking so low that his lips almost touched his gnarled toes, “because Kreacher has no choice, but Kreacher 
is ashamed to have such a master, yes —”
“Dobby will do it, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, his tennis-ball-sized eyes still swimming in tears. “Dobby would be honored to help Harry Potter!”
“Come to think of it, it would be good to have both of you,” said Harry. “Okay then ... I want you to tail Draco Malfoy.”
Ignoring the look of mingled surprise and exasperation on Ron's face, Harry went on, “I want to know where he's going, who he's meeting, and what he's doing. I want 
you to follow him around the clock.”
“Yes, Harry Potter!” said Dobby at once, his great eyes shining with excitement. “And if Dobby does it wrong, Dobby will throw himself off the topmost tower, Harry 
Potter!”
“There won't be any need for that,” said Harry hastily.
“Master wants me to follow the youngest of the Malfoys?” croaked Kreacher. “Master wants me to spy upon the pure-blood great-nephew of my old mistress?”
“That's the one,” said Harry, foreseeing a great danger and determining to prevent it immediately. “And you're forbidden to tip him off, Kreacher, or to show him 
what you're up to, or to talk to him at all, or to write him messages or ... or to contact him in any way. Got it?”
He thought he could see Kreacher struggling to see a loophole in the instructions he had just been given and waited. After a moment or two, and to Harry's great 
satisfaction, Kreacher bowed deeply again and said, with bitter resentment, “Master thinks of everything, and Kreacher must obey him even though Kreacher would much 
rather be the servant of the Malfoy boy, oh yes...”
“That's settled, then,” said Harry. “I'll want regular reports, but make sure I'm not surrounded by people when you turn up. Ron and Hermione are okay. And don't 
tell anyone what you're doing. Just stick to Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters.”
“那么，总而言之，罗恩的这个生日过得并不算好？”弗雷德说。
 
　　已经是晚上了；校医院里静悄悄的，窗帘拉上了，灯也点上了。罗恩是唯一的一个病号。哈利、赫敏和金妮坐在他的周围；他们已经在门外等了一天，一旦有人进出就往里面张望。庞弗雷
夫人直到八点钟才把他们放进来。弗雷德和乔治是十点之后到的。
 
　　“这不是我们想象中的送礼物的场景，”乔治冷酷地说，他把一大包礼物放到了罗恩的床头柜上，坐到了金妮身边。
 
　　“是的，在我们构思的那一幕里他是神志清醒的，”弗雷德说。
 
　　“我们一直等在霍格莫德村，想给他个惊喜——”乔治说。
 
　　“你们在霍格莫德？”金妮抬起头问道。
 
　　“我们正在考虑买下佐科笑话店，”弗雷德郁闷地说。“开一家霍格莫德分店，可是你们要是再也不能在周末来买东西的话，我们就吃不了兜着走了……不过别管那个了。”
 
　　他拖过一把椅子坐到了哈利身边，看着罗恩苍白的脸。
 
　　“这到底是怎么发生的，哈利？”
 
　　哈利又把故事重讲了一边，他似乎已经给邓布利多，给麦格，给庞弗雷夫人，给赫敏和金妮讲过一百遍了。
 
　　“……然后我把牛黄塞进了他嘴里，他才喘得稍微缓和了点儿，斯拉霍恩跑去找人帮忙，麦格和庞弗雷夫人过来了，她们把罗恩送到了这儿。她们认为他问题不大。庞弗雷夫人说他可能要
待上一周左右……坚持服用后悔药……”
 
　　“天哪，幸亏你想到了牛黄，”乔治低声说。
 
　　“幸亏屋子里有一个，”哈利想着万一他没能在屋里找出一个的话会发生什么事，不禁冷汗直流。
 
　　赫敏用几乎听不见的声音吸了吸鼻子。她一整天都格外地安静。她刚才急匆匆地跑到校医院门口，脸色苍白地向哈利询问发生了什么事，几乎没有参与哈利和金妮关于罗恩是怎么中毒的激
烈讨论，只是咬紧牙关、惊惶失措地站在他们俩身边，一直到他们终于被放了进去。
 
　　“妈妈和爸爸知道了吗？”弗雷德低声问金妮。
 
　　“他们已经探视过他了，一小时前来的——现在正在邓布利多的办公室里，不过马上就会回来……”
 
　　他们都看着罗恩在睡梦中含糊地咕哝了几句话，大家一阵沉默。
 
　　“这么说是饮料里下了毒？”弗雷德轻声问。
 
　　“是的，”哈利马上说；他想不出还可能是什么别的，非常乐意他们又讨论起这个话题来。“斯拉霍恩把它倒了出来——”
 
　　“他有机会趁你不注意在罗恩的杯子里下毒吗？”
 
　　“很有可能，”哈利说，“可斯拉霍恩为什么要给罗恩下毒呢？”
 
　　“不知道，”弗雷德皱起了眉头。“你觉得他是不是把杯子弄混了？本来打算把那一杯给你的？”
 
　　“斯拉霍恩为什么要给哈利下毒？”金妮问。
 
　　“我不知道，”弗雷德说，“可是肯定有一大堆的人想要毒死哈利，对不对？因为他是真命天子，还有所有那些东西。”
 
　　“这么说你觉得斯拉霍恩是个食死徒？”金妮说。
 
　　“什么都有可能，”弗雷德阴沉着脸说。
 
　　“他可能中了夺魂咒，”乔治说。
 
　　“或许他是无辜的，”金妮说。“毒有可能是下在酒瓶里，这样也许是为了毒斯拉霍恩本人。”
 
　　“谁想杀死斯拉霍恩？”
 
　　“邓布利多认为伏地魔想笼络斯拉霍恩，”哈利说。“斯拉霍恩在来霍格沃茨之前已经躲藏了一年了。而且……”他想起了邓布利多没能从斯拉霍恩那里得到的那段记忆，“也许伏地魔想
清理掉他，也许觉得他对邓布利多很有价值。”
 
　　“可是你说斯拉霍恩准备把那瓶酒送给邓布利多作圣诞礼物，”金妮提醒他。“所以下毒者的目标也很可能是邓布利多。”
 
　　“那他可不够了解斯拉霍恩的，”赫敏几个小时以来第一次开了口，听起来就像得了严重的伤风。“任何了解斯拉霍恩的人都能想到他很有可能把那么美味的东西自己留着喝了。”
 
　　“呃－敏－妮，”罗恩突然在他们中间嘶哑地叫了起来。
 
　　他们都陷入了沉默，焦虑地看着他，不过他在说了一通胡话之后又打起了鼾。
 
　　门突然被打开了，他们都吓了一跳：海格大步朝他们走了过来，头发上雨渍斑斑，海狸皮大衣在身后拍打，他手里拿着一只弩，在地板上留下了一串海豚大小的脚印。
 
　　“在禁林里待了一天！”他喘着粗气说。“阿拉戈克情况更糟糕了，我和它说了一天的话——刚刚才吃上晚饭，就从斯普劳特教授那儿听说了罗恩的事！他怎么样了？”
 
　　“还不错，”哈利说。“他们说他没事。”
 
　　“探视时不要同时进来六个人以上！”庞弗雷夫人从办公室急匆匆地走了出来。
 
　　“算上海格才六个人，”乔治指出了这一点。
 
　　“哦……对……”庞弗雷夫人似乎把大块头的海格看成了几个人。为了掩饰她的错误，她赶紧用魔杖把那些泥脚印清理掉了。
 
　　“我不敢相信，”海格嘶哑地说，他盯着罗恩，摇了摇乱蓬蓬的脑袋。“真是不敢相信……瞧瞧他躺在那儿……是谁想要害他，嗯？”
 
　　“我们刚刚正在讨论这个，”哈利说。“我们不知道。”
 
　　“不会有人对格兰芬多的魁地奇队怀恨在心吧？”海格担心地说。“先是凯蒂，现在又是罗恩……”
 
　　“我看不出有谁会想干掉一支魁地奇球队，”乔治说。
 
　　“也许伍德会干掉斯莱特林队，如果他能逃脱惩罚的话，”弗雷德实事求是地说。
 
　　“嗯，我认为不是因为魁地奇，不过这两起攻击事件之间一定有某种联系，”赫敏轻声说。
 
　　“你怎么会那样想？”弗雷德问。
 
　　“嗯，首先，他们都本应该被杀死，可是都活了下来，尽管那只是纯粹的走运。其次，无论是毒药还是项链，似乎都没有被送到那个本该被谋害的人手里。当然，”她若有所思地补充道，
“那在某种程度上使这个人的处境更加危险了，因为他们似乎并不在乎最终干掉他之前会牺牲掉多少无辜的人。”
 
　　他们还没来得及对这个不祥的断言作出回应，门又被拉开了，韦斯莱夫妇匆匆走进了病房。上一次造访这间病房之后他们已经确信罗恩会完全康复了：现在韦斯莱夫人正紧紧地抱着哈利。
 
　　“邓布利多告诉了我们你是怎么用牛黄救他的，”她哽咽着说。“哦，哈利，我们该说什么才好？你救过金妮……救过亚瑟……现在又救了罗恩……”
 
　　“别这样……我没有……”哈利尴尬地咕哝道。
 
　　“你对我们家一半的成员都有救命之恩，我记起来了，”韦斯莱先生狭促地说。“嗯，我只能说，当初在霍格沃茨特快列车上，罗恩决定坐到你的车厢里的那一天对韦斯莱一家来说就是幸
运日，哈利。”
 
　　哈利不知道该怎么回答，于是当庞弗雷夫人再次提醒他们一次只能有六个人探视罗恩时，哈利非常乐意地和赫敏一起站了起来；海格也决定和他们一起走，这样就可以把罗恩留给他的家人
了。
 
　　“太可怕了，”他们三个沿着走廊往大理石楼梯走去时，海格在他的胡子里粗声说。“布置了所有的安全措施，可还是有孩子被伤害……邓布利多很担忧……他没说什么，可是我能看出来
……”
 
　　“他没有什么想法吗，海格？”赫敏失望地问。
 
　　“我猜他的想法多着呢，像他那样的脑瓜，”他坚定地说。“可是他不知道是谁送的那串项链，也不知道是谁在酒里下的毒，否则他们早就被抓起来了，是不是？让我担心的，”海格压低
了声音，四处张望了一下（哈利也额外检查了一下天花板上有没有皮皮鬼），“是如果孩子们不断地被攻击，霍格沃茨还能开多久。密室的事又重新来了一遍，是不是？会产生恐慌，更多的家
长会把孩子接走，你知道，接下来政府部门就会……”
 
　　海格停了下来，一个长头发女鬼魂安静地飘了过去，然后他用嘶哑的声音接着说，“……政府部门就会讨论一劳永逸地关了这儿。”
 
　　“肯定不会吧？”赫敏看上去很担心。
 
　　“他们得站在自己的立场上看，”海格沉重地说。“我是说，把孩子送到霍格沃茨本来是有点儿冒风险，是不是？把几百个未成年巫师关在一起难免会出事故，对吧？可是蓄意的谋杀就不
同了。难怪邓布利多会不满斯内——”
 
　　海格打住了，缠结着黑色胡须的脸上浮现出了一种熟悉的心虚表情。
 
　　“什么？”哈利迅速说。“邓布利多不满斯内普？”哈利大声问。
 
　　“嘘！”海格说，看上去既紧张又生气。“别大声喊那种事情，哈利，你想让我丢掉饭碗吗？对了，我想你可能不太在乎，是不是，反正你已经都放弃了保护神奇——”
 
　　“别想让我感到内疚，那没用！”哈利激烈地说。“斯内普干了什么？”
 
　　“我不知道，哈利，我本来就不该听到那些话！我——嗯，我前几天走出禁林的时候听到了他们在谈话——好吧，是在争吵。我不太关心，就试着躲开不去听，可是——嗯，他们讨论得太
激烈了，想不听都难。”
 
　　“然后呢？”哈利催促他说，海格正不自在地来回蹭着他巨大的脚。
 
　　“然后——我只听到斯内普说邓布利多太想当然了，而也许他——斯内普——不想再做了——”
 
　　“做什么？”
 
　　“我不知道，哈利，听起来斯内普感觉自己有些累过头了，就这么回事——而邓布利多直截了当地提醒他已经答应做这件事了，全部大概就是这些。对他要求得相当严格。然后他说了一些
让斯内普去调查他的学院，就是斯莱特林学院的事。嗯，没什么可奇怪的！”见哈利和赫敏交换了一个意味深长的眼神，海格急忙补充道。“所有的学院院长都被要求在自己的学院里调查项链
事件——”
 
　　“是啊，可是邓布利多没有和其他的院长们争吵，是不是？”哈利说。
 
　　“你瞧，”海格不安地扭着他的弩；随着一声巨响，弩被折成了两截，“我知道你怎么看斯内普，哈利，可是我不想让你把他们的谈话曲解了。”
 
　　“小心，”赫敏简练地说。
 
　　他们转身时刚好看到阿格斯·费尔奇的影子从身后的墙上移了过来，转眼间他就在拐角的地方出现了，驼着背，下巴颤抖着。
 
　　“啊哈！”他气喘吁吁地说。“这么晚了还没睡觉，关禁闭！”
 
　　“不会的，费尔奇，”海格立刻说。“他们和我在一块儿，是吧？”
 
　　“那又有什么不同？”费尔奇粗鲁地说。
 
　　“我是个老师，不是吗，你这个偷偷摸摸的哑炮！”海格的火气立刻上来了。
 
　　费尔奇似乎要气炸了，他发出了一种恶心的嘶嘶声；洛丽斯夫人不知不觉地出现了，它绕着费尔奇皮包骨的脚踝转着圈。
 
　　“走吧，”海格从嘴角说。
 
　　哈利不用他说第二遍；他和赫敏匆匆地跑开了，海格和费尔奇响亮的声音在他们身后回荡。他们在快到格兰芬多塔楼时遇到了皮皮鬼，不过他正在高兴地往喊叫声的源头飞驰，“什么时候
有了冲突和麻烦，
 
　　叫上皮皮，他会让它们翻一番！”
 
　　胖夫人正在打瞌睡，她对被吵醒很不满，可还是暴躁地打开门让他们爬进了既平静又空无一人的公共休息室。人们似乎还不知道罗恩的事；哈利长长地出了一口气，他今天已经被审问得够
多了。赫敏道完晚安，走进了女生宿舍。哈利则坐到了火炉边，盯着里面即将熄灭的余烬看。
 
　　这么说邓布利多和斯内普起了争执。尽管他对哈利说了那么多，尽管他坚持自己完全信任斯内普，可他还是对他发了脾气……他认为斯内普没有尽全力调查斯莱特林学院……或许是，没有
尽全力调查某一个斯莱特林的学生：马尔福？
 
　　是因为邓布利多不想让哈利做傻事，把事情都揽到自己怀里而不让哈利起疑心吗？似乎有可能。甚至可能是邓布利多不想干扰哈利的学业，不想让他在获取斯拉霍恩记忆的事情上分心。也
许邓布利多是不愿意把对自己教员的怀疑吐露给一个十六岁的……
 
　　“你在这儿啊，波特！”
 
　　哈利震惊地跳了起来，拿好了魔杖。他本以为公共休息室是空的；所以当一个庞大的身影从远处的一把椅子上站起来时，他显得有些措手不及。走近之后哈利认出了他是科马克·麦克拉根
。
 
　　“我一直在等你回来，”麦克拉根没有计较哈利抽出了魔杖。“我一定是睡着了。听我说，我早晨看到他们把韦斯莱送到了校医院。看上去他打不了下周的比赛了。”
 
　　哈利花了些时间才弄明白麦克拉根在说什么。
 
　　“哦……对……魁地奇，”他把魔杖放回了牛仔裤的腰带里，疲惫地拨弄了一下自己的头发。“是的……他可能打不了了。”
 
　　“那么，我来当守门员，好不好？”麦克拉根说。
 
　　“是啊，”哈利说。“是啊，我想是的……”
 
　　他找不出什么理由来反对；毕竟，麦克拉根在选拔时的表现是第二好的。
 
　　“太棒了，”麦克拉根满意地说。“那么什么时候训练？”
 
　　“什么？哦……明天晚上有一次。”
 
　　“好的。听着，波特，我们最好预先开个会。我有一些关于战术的点子，你会觉得有用的。”
 
　　“好的，”哈利不太热情地说。“那么，我明天听听。我现在太累了……再见……”
 
　　第二天罗恩中毒的消息迅速传开了，可是那并没有像凯蒂事件那样引起骚动。人们似乎觉得这可能只是一起意外，毕竟他当时是在魔药课老师的房间里，而且中毒之后马上就服了解药，也
没有造成什么真正的伤害。实际上，格兰芬多学院普遍地更关注即将到来的同赫奇帕奇的比赛，因为扎卡赖斯·史密斯解说了他们同斯莱特林的比赛，而他们中的许多人都想看到那个赫奇帕奇
的追球手为此付出惨重的代价。
 
　　然而哈利从来没有对魁地奇这样的不感兴趣过；他迅速陷入了对马尔福的困扰之中。只要有机会他就会把活点地图拿出来查看，有时还绕着道去追踪马尔福，可是还是没能侦查到他做了什
么反常的事。而且马尔福还是在一次次无法解释地从地图上消失……
 
　　但是哈利没有太多的时间考虑这件事，他还有魁地奇训练和家庭作业要完成，而且事实上他现在无论走到哪里都有科马克·麦克拉根和拉文德·布朗尾随。
 
　　他不知道这两个人哪一个更令人厌烦。麦克拉根一直在滔滔不绝地暗示，他会比罗恩更适合长期担任魁地奇球队的守门员，还说哈利在看到他定期的训练之后也肯定会这么想；他也非常热
衷于批评其他的队友，还给哈利提供了一个详细的训练计划，以至于哈利不止一次地被迫提醒他谁才是队长。
 
　　与此同时，拉文德也总是在哈利身边谈论着罗恩，哈利觉得这比麦克拉根的魁地奇演讲还要烦。起初，拉文德对没有人告诉他罗恩被送进医院感到生气——“我的意思是，我是他的女朋友
！”——可不幸的是她后来决定原谅哈利的疏忽，转而开始渴望和哈利一起深入地讨论罗恩的感情和爱好，这真是一段哈利最愿意放弃的经历。
 
　　“听我说，你为什么不和罗恩去说这些？”在忍受了拉文德的一段特别冗长的审问之后哈利问道，她几乎问遍了所有的事，从罗恩喜不喜欢她的新袍子到哈利是否认为罗恩对她的感情是“
认真的”。
 
　　“嗯，我会的，可是我去看他的时候他总是在睡觉！”她焦急地说。
 
　　“是吗？”哈利很惊讶，因为自己每次去校医院看他的时候，罗恩都非常精神，不仅对邓布利多和斯内普之间的争吵极为感兴趣，而且还会尽情地辱骂麦克拉根。
 
　　“赫敏·格兰杰还在去看他吗？”拉文德突然问。
 
　　“是啊，我想是的。嗯，他们是朋友，对吧？”哈利不安地说。
 
　　“朋友，别开玩笑了，”拉文德轻蔑地说。“自从我和罗恩在一起之后，她就再也没有和他讲过话了！可是我觉得她现在又想跟他和好了，因为他现在这么引人关注……”
 
　　“你觉得中毒是引人关注？”哈利问。“不管怎样——对不起，我得走了——还要和麦克拉根去谈魁地奇的事，”哈利匆忙说，然后冲进了旁边一扇伪装成墙壁的门，抄着这条近路跑去上
魔药课，谢天谢地，那儿既没有拉文德也没有麦克拉根。
 
　　同赫奇帕奇进行魁地奇比赛的那天早晨，哈利去球场之前先去了一趟校医院。罗恩非常焦虑不安；庞弗雷夫人不允许他去看比赛，她觉得那会使他兴奋过度。
 
　　“麦克拉根干得怎么样？”他紧张地问哈利，显然忘了自己已经问过两遍同样的问题了。
 
　　“我告诉过你了，”哈利耐心地说，“他就算是世界级我也不会把他留在队里。他一直试图告诉每个人该做什么，他觉得自己在每个位置上都打得比我们好。我迫不及待地想摆脱他。说到
摆脱别人，”哈利加了一句，他已经拿着火弩箭站了起来，“拉文德来看你的时候，你可不可以别再装睡了？她也快把我逼疯了。”
 
　　“哦，”罗恩看上去有些窘迫。“对。好的。”
 
　　“你如果不想再和她交往了，就告诉她，”哈利说。
 
　　“是啊……嗯……不那么容易，对不对？”罗恩说。他顿了一下。“赫敏也会在比赛之前来看我吗？”他不经意地加了一句。
 
　　“不，她已经和金妮去了球场。”
 
　　“哦，”罗恩看上去很是闷闷不乐。“好吧。嗯，祝你好运。希望你们能狠狠地教训麦克拉——我是说，史密斯。”
 
　　“我会努力的，”哈利扛起了飞天扫帚。“比赛之后见。”
 
　　他匆匆地穿过没有人的走廊；整个学校的人都出动了，他们要么已经坐在了球场的观众席上，要么正往那里赶去。他一边走一边往窗户外面望去，试图估量一下风会有多大，这时前面的一
个响声让他把目光移了回来，哈利看见马尔福正在两个女孩的陪同下向他走过来，她们俩看上去都怒气冲冲的。
 
　　马尔福一见到哈利就停了下来，然后他干巴巴地笑了笑，接着往前走。
 
　　“你去哪儿？“哈利问。
 
　　“是啊，我真的想告诉你，因为这和你有关系，波特，”马尔福冷笑道。“你最好快点儿，他们正等着那个真命队长呢——大显身手的男孩——他们近来称呼你的。”
 
　　其中一个女孩勉强地傻笑了起来。哈利盯着她。她顿时脸红了。马尔福从哈利身边挤过去，那个女孩和她的朋友也小跑着跟上了他，然后在一个拐角处消失了。
 
　　哈利的脚仿佛生了根似的站在那儿看着他们消失。这真是让人愤怒；他本来就快赶不上比赛了，又遇到了偷偷摸摸的马尔福，要知道这时候整个学校的人都不在：这是哈利发现马尔福在干
什么的最佳机会。时间悄无声息地流逝着，哈利呆呆地站在那里，凝视着马尔福消失的地方……
 
　　“你去了哪儿？“哈利飞奔进更衣室的时候金妮质问道。整个球队都已经换好了衣服；两个击球手库特和皮克斯正在用球棒紧张地敲打着自己的腿。
 
　　“我遇到了马尔福，”哈利穿上猩红色的球袍时低声告诉她。
 
　　“然后呢？”
 
　　“然后我想知道别人都在这儿的时候他为什么会和一对女朋友出现在城堡里……”
 
　　“这个此时此刻很重要吗？”
 
　　“好了，我不太可能查清楚，是不是？”哈利抓起了火弩箭，扶了扶眼镜。“走吧！”
 
　　他没再多说什么，大步地走到了球场上去迎接震耳欲聋的欢呼声和嘘声。几乎没有一丝风；天上片片白云；时不时就有刺眼的阳光射出来。
 
　　“棘手的状况！”麦克拉根鼓动着球队。“库特，皮克斯，你们俩飞到阳光外面去，这样他们就看不到你们过来——”
 
　　“我是队长，麦克拉根，别再对他们发号施令了，”哈利生气地说。“去你的球门那边待着吧！”
 
　　麦克拉根走开之后，哈利转向库特和皮克斯。
 
　　“确保你们一定要飞出阳光之外，”他勉强地告诉他们俩。
 
　　他和赫奇帕奇的队长握了握手，然后随着霍奇夫人的一声哨响，比赛开始了，他一下升到队友们的上方，绕着球场飞驰以搜寻金色飞贼。如果他能足够早地抓到它，他就还有机会回到城堡
去，拿着活点地图去查出马尔福在干什么……
 
　　“拿着鬼飞球的是赫奇帕奇的史密斯，”一个恍恍惚惚的声音回荡在球场上空。“当然上次比赛他作了解说，金妮·韦斯莱当时撞上了他，我认为很可能是有意的——看上去像。史密斯对
格兰芬多相当无礼，
Chapter 21 The Unknowable Room
Harry wracked his brains over the next week as to how he was to persuade Slughorn to hand over the true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain wave occurred and 
he was reduced to doing what he did increasingly these days when at a loss: poring over his Potions book, hoping that the Prince would have scribbled something useful 
in a margin, as he had done so many times before.
“You won't find anything in there,” said Hermione firmly, late on Sunday evening.
“Don't start, Hermione,” said Harry. “If it hadn't been for the Prince, Ron wouldn't be sitting here now.”
“He would if you'd just listened to Snape in our first year,” said Hermione dismissively.
Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation (Sectumsempra!) scrawled in a margin above the intriguing words “For enemies,” and was itching to try it out, but 
thought it best not to in front of Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the corner of the page.
They were sitting beside the fire in the common room; the only other people awake were fellow sixth-years. There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier when 
they had come back from dinner to find a new sign on the notice board that announced the date for their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen on or before the 
first test date, the twenty-first of April, had the option of signing up for additional practice sessions, which would take place (heavily supervised) in Hogsmeade.
Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still not managed to Apparate and feared he would not be ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved Apparition 
twice, was a little more confident, but Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four months, could not take the test whether ready or not.
“At least you can Apparate, though!” said Ron tensely. “You'll have no trouble come July!”
“I've only done it once,” Harry reminded him; he had finally managed to disappear and rematerialize inside his hoop during their previous lesson.
Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about Apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a viciously difficult essay for Snape that Harry and Hermione had already 
completed. Harry fully expected to receive low marks on his, because he had disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle Dementors, but he did not care: Slughorn's 
memory was the most important thing to him now.
“I'm telling you, the stupid Prince isn't going to be able to help you with this, Harry!” said Hermione, more loudly. “There's only one way to force someone to do 
what you want, and that's the Imperius Curse, which is illegal —”
“Yeah, I know that, thanks,” said Harry, not looking up from the book. “That's why I'm looking for something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum won't do it, but 
there might be something else, a potion or a spell...”
“You're going about it the wrong way,” said Hermione. “Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where other people 
can't. It's not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone could do that —”
“How do you spell ‘belligerent'?” said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. “It can't be B—U—M —”
“No, it isn't,” said Hermione, pulling Ron's essay toward her. “And ‘augury’ doesn't begin O—R—G either. What kind of quill are you using?”
“It's one of Fred and George's Spell-Checking ones, but I think the charm must be wearing off.”
“Yes, it must,” said Hermione, pointing at the title of his essay, “because we were asked how we'd deal with Dementors, not ‘Dugbogs', and I don't remember you 
changing your name to ‘Roonil Wazlib’ either.”
“Ah no!” said Ron, staring horror-struck at the parchment. “Don't say I'll have to write the whole thing out again!”
“It's okay, we can fix it,” said Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand.
“I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily.
Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don't let Lavender hear you saying that.”
“I won't,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will, then she'll ditch me.”
“Why don't you ditch her if you want to finish it?” asked Harry.
“You haven't ever chucked anyone, have you?” said Ron. “You and Cho just —”
“Sort of fell apart, yeah,” said Harry.
“Wish that would happen with me and Lavender,” said Ron gloomily, watching Hermione silently tapping each of his misspelled words with the end of her wand, so that 
they corrected themselves on the page. “But the more I hint I want to finish it, the tighter she holds on. It's like going out with the giant squid.”
“There,” said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, handing back Ron's essay.
“Thanks a million,” said Ron. “Can I borrow your quill for the conclusion?” Harry, who had found nothing useful in the Half-Blood Prince's notes so far, looked 
around; the three of them were now the only ones left in the common room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the 
crackling of the fire and Ron scratching out one last paragraph on dementors using Hermione's quill. Harry had just closed the Half-Blood Prince's book, yawning, when 
—
Crack.
Hermione let out a little shriek; Ron spilled ink all over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said, “Kreacher!”
The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own gnarled toes. “Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give—”
Crack.
Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat askew.
“Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!” he squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. “And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter 
so they can make their reports together!”
“What is this?” asked Hermione, still looking shocked by these sudden appearances. “What's going on, Harry?”
Harry hesitated before answering, because he had not told Hermione about setting Kreacher and Dobby to tail Malfoy; house-elves were always such a touchy subject with 
her.
“Well... they've been following Malfoy for me,” he said.
“Night and day,” croaked Kreacher.
“Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!” said Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood.
Hermione looked indignant.
“You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to—”
“No, of course I didn't,” said Harry quickly. “Dobby, you can sleep, all right? But has either of you found out anything?” he hastened to ask, before Hermione could 
intervene again.
“Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood,” croaked Kreacher at once. “His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are 
those of—”
“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!” squeaked Dobby angrily. “A bad boy who—who —”
He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though about to dive into it. Harry, to whom this was not entirely 
unexpected, caught him around the middle and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby struggled, then went limp.
“Thank you, Harry Potter,” he panted. “Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters.”
Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy and said defiantly to Kreacher, “But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!”
“Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy,” Harry told Kreacher. “Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going.”
Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, “Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a 
variety of—”
“Dobby, you tell me,” said Harry, cutting across Kreacher. “Has he been going anywhere he shouldn't have?”
“Harry Potter, sir,” squeaked Dobby, his great orblike eyes shining in the firelight, “the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still 
keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters—”
“The Room of Requirement!” said Harry, smacking himself hard on the forehead with Advanced Potion-Making. Hermione and Ron stared at him. “That's where he's been 
sneaking off to! That's where he's doing... whatever he's doing! And I bet that's why he's been disappearing off the map—come to think of it, I've never seen the Room 
of Requirement on there!”
“Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there,” said Ron.
“I think it'll be part of the magic of the room,” said Hermione. “If you need it to be unplottable, it will be.”
“Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?” said Harry eagerly.
“No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,” said Dobby.
“No, it's not,” said Harry at once. “Malfoy got into our headquarters there last year, so I'll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem.”
“But I don't think you will, Harry,” said Hermione slowly. “Malfoy already knew exactly how we were using the room, didn't he, because that stupid Marietta had 
blabbed. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don't know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don't know 
what to ask it to transform into.”
“There'll be a way around that,” said Harry dismissively. “You've done brilliantly, Dobby.”
“Kreacher's done well too,” said Hermione kindly; but far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, “The Mudblood 
is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear —”
“Get out of it,” Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and Disapparated. “You'd better go and get some sleep too, Dobby.”
“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby happily, and he too vanished.
“How good is this?” said Harry enthusiastically, turning to Ron and Hermione the moment the room was elf-free again. “We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him 
cornered now!”
“Yeah, it's great,” said Ron glumly, who was attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that had recently been an almost completed essay. Hermione pulled it toward 
her and began siphoning the ink off with her wand.
“But what's all this about him going up there with a ‘variety of students'?” said Hermione. “How many people are in on it? You wouldn't think he'd trust lots of 
them to know what he's doing...”
“Yeah, that is weird,” said Harry, frowning. “I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn't Crabbe's business what he was doing... so what's he telling all these... all 
these...”
Harry's voice tailed away; he was staring at the fire. “God, I've been stupid,” he said quietly. “It's obvious, isn't it? There was a great vat of it down in the 
dungeon... he could've nicked some any time during that lesson...”
“Nicked what?” said Ron.
“Polyjuice Potion. He stole some of the Polyjuice Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions lesson... There aren't a whole variety of students standing guard for 
Malfoy... it's just Crabbe and Goyle as usual.... yeah, it all fits!” said Harry, jumping up and starting to pace in front of the fire. “They're stupid enough to do 
what they're told even if he won't tell them what he's up to ... but he doesn't want them to be seen lurking around outside the Room of Requirement, so he's got them 
taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people... those two girls I saw him with when he missed Quidditch—ha! Crabbe and Goyle!”
“Do you mean to say,” said Hermione in a hushed voice, “that that little girl whose scales I repaired —?”
“Yeah, of course!” said Harry loudly, staring at her. “Of course! Malfoy must've been inside the room at the time, so she—what am I talking about?—he dropped the 
scales to tell Malfoy not to come out, because there was someone there! And there was that girl who dropped the toadspawn too! We've been walking past him all the time 
and not realizing it!”
“He's got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?” guffawed Ron. “Blimey... no wonder they don't look too happy these days. I'm surprised they don't tell him to 
stuff it...”
“Well, they wouldn't, would they, if he's shown them his Dark Mark?” said Harry.
“Hmmm... the Dark Mark we don't know exists,” said Hermione skeptically, rolling up Ron's dried essay before it could come to any more harm and handing it to him.
“We'll see,” said Harry confidently.
“Yes, we will,” Hermione said, getting to her feet and stretching. “But, Harry, before you get all excited, I still don't think you'll be able to get into the Room 
of Requirement without knowing what's there first. And I don't think you should forget,” she heaved her bag onto her shoulder and gave him a very serious look, “that 
what you're supposed to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn. Goodnight.”
Harry watched her go, feeling slightly disgruntled. Once the door to the girls’ dormitories had closed behind her he rounded on Ron.
“What d'you think?”
“Wish I could Disapparate like a house-elf,” said Ron, staring at the spot where Dobby had vanished. “I'd have that Apparition Test in the bag.”
Harry did not sleep well that night. He lay awake for what felt like hours, wondering how Malfoy was using the Room of Requirement and what he, Harry, would see when he 
went in there the following day, for whatever Hermione said, Harry was sure that if Malfoy had been able to see the headquarters of the D.A., he would be able to see 
Malfoy's ... what could it be? A meeting place? A hideout? A store room? A workshop? Harry's mind worked feverishly and his dreams, when he finally fell asleep, were 
broken and disturbed by images of Malfoy, who turned into Slughorn, who turned into Snape... 
Harry was in a state of great anticipation over breakfast the following morning; he had a free period before Defense Against the Dark Arts and was determined to spend 
it trying to get into the Room of Requirement. Hermione was rather ostentatiously showing no interest in his whispered plans for forcing entry into the room, which 
irritated Harry, because he thought she might be a lot of help if she wanted to.
“Look,” he said quietly, leaning forward and putting a hand on the Daily Prophet, which she had just removed from a post owl, to stop her from opening it and 
vanishing behind it. “I haven't forgotten about Slughorn, but I haven't got a clue how to get that memory off him, and until I get a brain wave why shouldn't I find 
out what Malfoy's doing?”
“I've already told you, you need to persuade Slughorn,” said Hermione. “It's not a question of tricking him or bewitching him, or Dumbledore could have done it in a 
second. Instead of messing around outside the Room of Requirement,” she jerked the Prophet out from under Harry's hand and unfolded it to look at the front page,” you 
should go and find Slughorn and start appealing to his better nature.”
“Anyone we know—?” asked Ron, as Hermione scanned the headlines.
“Yes!” said Hermione, causing both Harry and Ron to gag on their breakfast. “But it's all right, he's not dead—it's Mundungus, he's been arrested and sent to 
Azkaban! Something to do with impersonating an Inferius during an attempted burglary ... and someone called Octavius Pepper has vanished ... oh, and how horrible, a 
nine-year-old boy has been arrested for trying to kill his grandparents, they think he was under the Imperius Curse...”
They finished their breakfast in silence. Hermione set off immediately for Ancient Runes; Ron for the common room, where he still had to finish his conclusion on 
Snape's Dementor essay, and Harry for the corridor on the seventh floor and the stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to do 
ballet.
Harry slipped on his Invisibility Cloak once he had found an empty passage, but he need not have bothered. When he reached his destination he found it deserted. Harry 
was not sure whether his chances of getting inside the room were better with Malfoy inside it or out, but at least his first attempt was not going to be complicated by 
the presence of Crabbe or Goyle pretending to be an eleven-year-old girl.
He closed his eyes as he approached the place where the Room of Requirement's door was concealed. He knew what he had to do; he had become most accomplished at it last 
year. Concentrating with all his might he thought, I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here... I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here... I need to see what Malfoy's 
doing in here...
Three times he walked past the door; then, his heart pounding with excitement, he opened his eyes and faced it—but he was still looking at a stretch of mundanely blank 
wall.
He moved forward and gave it an experimental push. The stone remained solid and unyielding.
“Okay,” said Harry aloud. “Okay... I thought the wrong thing...”
He pondered for a moment then set off again, eyes closed, concentrating as hard as he could.
“I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly... I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly...”
After three walks past, he opened his eyes expectantly.
There was no door.
“Oh, come off it,” he told the wall irritably. “That was a clear instruction... fine...”
He thought hard for several minutes before striding off once more.
“I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy...”
He did not immediately open his eyes when he had finished his patrolling; he was listening hard, as though he might hear the door pop into existence. He heard nothing, 
however, except the distant twittering of birds outside. He opened his eyes.
There was still no door.
Harry swore. Someone screamed. He looked around to see a gaggle of first years running back around the corner, apparently under the impression that they had just 
encountered a particularly foul-mouthed ghost.
Harry tried every variation of “I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing inside you” that he could think of for a whole hour, at the end of which he was forced to 
concede that Hermione might have had a point: the room simply did not want to open for him. Frustrated and annoyed, he set off for Defense Against the Dark Arts, 
pulling off his Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into his bag as he went.
“Late again, Potter,” said Snape coldly, as Harry hurried into the candlelit classroom. “Ten points from Gryfrindor.” Harry scowled at Snape as he flung himself 
into the seat beside Ron. Half the class were still on their feet, taking out books and organizing their things; he could not be much later than any of them.
“Before we start, I want your Dementor essays,” said Snape, waving his wand carelessly, so that twenty-five scrolls of parchment soared into the air and landed in a 
neat pile on his desk. “And I hope for your sakes they are better than the tripe I had to endure on resisting the Imperius Curse. Now, if you will all open your books 
to page—what is it, Mr. Finnigan?”
“Sir,” said Seamus, “I've been wondering, how do you tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost? Because there was something in the Prophet about an 
Inferius —”
“No, there wasn't,” said Snape in a bored voice.
“But sir, I heard people talking —”
“If you had actually read the article in question, Mr. Finnigan, you would have known that the so-called Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the name of 
Mundungus Fletcher.”
“I thought Snape and Mundungus were on the same side,” muttered Harry to Ron and Hermione. “Shouldn't he be upset Mundungus has been arrest —”
“But Potter seems to have a lot to say on the subject,” said Snape, pointing suddenly at the back of the room, his black eyes fixed on Harry. “Let us ask Potter how 
we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost.”
The whole class looked around at Harry, who hastily tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him the night that they had gone to visit Slughorn.
“Er—well—ghosts are transparent —” he said.
“Oh, very good,” interrupted Snape, his lip curling. “Yes, it in easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. Ghosts 
are transparent.”
Pansy Parkinson let out a high-pitched giggle. Several other people were smirking. Harry took a deep breath and continued calmly, though his insides were boiling, 
“Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren't they? So they'd be solid —”
“A five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard's spells. It is not alive, it is 
merely used like a puppet to do the wizard's bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth ... and 
of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent. ”
“Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we're trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we're going to be 
having a look to see if it's solid, aren't we, we're not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?'”
There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class.
“Another ten points from Gryffindor,” said Snape. “I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an 
inch across a room.”
“No!” whispered Hermione, grabbing Harry's arm as he opened his mouth furiously. “There's no point, you'll just end up in detention again, leave it!”
“Now open your books to page two hundred and thirteen,” said Snape, smirking a little, “and read the first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse.”
Ron was very subdued all through the class. When the bell sounded at the end of the lesson, Lavender caught up with Ron and Harry (Hermione mysteriously melted out of 
sight as she approached) and abused Snape hotly for his jibe about Ron's Apparition, but this seemed to merely irritate Ron, and he shook her off by making a detour 
into the boys’ bathroom with Harry.
“Snape's right, though, isn't he?” said Ron, after staring into a cracked mirror for a minute or two. “I dunno whether it's worth me taking the test. I just can't 
get the hang of Apparition.”
“You might as well do the extra practice sessions in Hogsmeade and see where they get you,” said Harry reasonably. “It'll be more interesting than trying to get into 
a stupid hoop anyway. Then, if you're still not—you know—as good as you'd like to be, you can postpone the test, do it with me over the summer—Myrtle, this is the 
boys’ bathroom!”
The ghost of a girl had risen out of the toilet in a cubicle behind them and was now floating in midair, staring at them through thick, white, round glasses.
“Oh,” she said glumly. “It's you two.”
“Who were you expecting?” said Ron, looking at her in the mirror.
“Nobody,” said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on her chin. “He said he'd come back and see me, but then you said you'd pop in and visit me too...” she gave Harry 
a reproachful look “... and I haven't seen you for months and months. I've learned not to expect too much from boys.”
“I thought you lived in that girls’ bathroom?” said Harry, who had been careful to give the place a wide berth for some years now.
“I do,” she said, with a sulky little shrug, “but that doesn't mean I can't visit other places. I came and saw you in your bath once, remember?”
“Vividly,” said Harry.
“But I thought he liked me,” she said plaintively. “Maybe if you two left, he'd come back again. We had lots in common. I'm sure he felt it.”
And she looked hopefully toward the door.
“When you say you had lots in common,” said Ron, sounding rather amused now, “d'you mean he lives in an S-bend too?”
“No,” said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly around the old tiled bathroom. “I mean he's sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn't got 
anybody to talk to, and he's not afraid to show his feelings and cry!”
“There's been a boy in here crying?” said Harry curiously. “A young boy?”
“Never you mind!” said Myrtle, her small, leaky eyes fixed on Ron, who was now definitely grinning. “I promised I wouldn't tell anyone, and I'll take his secret to 
the —”
“— not the grave, surely?” said Ron with a snort. “The sewers, maybe.”
Myrtle gave a howl of rage and dived back into the toilet, causing water to slop over the sides and onto the floor. Goading Myrtle seemed to have put fresh heart into 
Ron.
“You're right,” he said, swinging his schoolbag back over his shoulder, “I'll do the practice sessions in Hogsmeade before I decide about taking the test.”
And so the following weekend, Ron joined Hermione and the rest of the sixth years who would turn seventeen in time to take the test in a fortnight. Harry felt rather 
jealous watching them all get ready to go into the village; he missed making trips there, and it was a particularly fine spring day, one of the first clear skies they 
had seen in a long time. However, he had decided to use the time to attempt another assault on the Room of Requirement.
“You'd do better,” said Hermione, when he confided this plan to Ron and her in the entrance hall, “to go straight to Slughorn's office and try and get that memory 
from him.”
“I've been trying!” said Harry crossly, which was perfectly true. He had lagged behind after every Potions lesson that week in an attempt to corner Slughorn, but the 
Potions master always left the dungeon so fast that Harry had not been able to catch him. Twice, Harry had gone to his office and knocked, but received no reply, though 
on the second occasion he was sure he had heard the quickly stifled sounds of an old gramophone.
“He doesn't want to talk to me, Hermione! He can tell I've been trying to get him on his own again, and he's not going to let it happen!”
“Well, you've just got to keep at it, haven't you?”
The short queue of people waiting to file past Filch, who was doing his usual prodding act with the Secrecy Sensor, moved forward a few steps and Harry did not answer 
in case he was overheard by the caretaker. He wished Ron and Hermione both luck, then turned and climbed the marble staircase again, determined, whatever Hermione said, 
to devote an hour or two to the Room of Requirement.
Once out of sight of the entrance hall, Harry pulled the Marauder's Map and his Invisibility Cloak from his bag. Having concealed himself, he tapped the map, murmured, 
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” and scanned it carefully.
As it was Sunday morning, nearly all the students were inside their various common rooms, the Gryffindors in one tower, the Ravenclaws in another, the Slytherins in the 
dungeons, and the Hufflepuffs in the basement near the kitchens. Here and there a stray person meandered around the library or up a corridor ... there were a few people 
out in the grounds ... and there, alone in the seventh-floor corridor, was Gregory Goyle. There was no sign of the Room of Requirement, but Harry was not worried about 
that; if Goyle was standing guard outside it, the room was open, whether the map was aware of it or not. He therefore sprinted up the stairs, slowing down only when he 
reached the corner into the corridor, when he began to creep, very slowly, toward the very same little girl, clutching her heavy brass scales, that Hermione had so 
kindly helped a fortnight before. He waited until he was right behind her before bending very low and whispering, “Hello... you're very pretty, aren't you?”
Goyle gave a high-pitched scream of terror, threw the scales up into the air, and sprinted away, vanishing from sight long before the sound of the scales smashing had 
stopped echoing around the corridor. Laughing, Harry turned to contemplate the blank wall behind which, he was sure, Draco Malfoy was now standing frozen, aware that 
someone unwelcome was out there, but not daring to make an appearance. It gave Harry a most agreeable feeling of power as he tried to remember what form of words he had 
not yet tried.
Yet this hopeful mood did not last long. Half an hour later, having tried many more variations of his request to see what Malfoy was up to, the wall was just as 
doorless as ever. Harry felt frustrated beyond belief. Malfoy might be just feet away from him, and there was still not the tiniest shred of evidence as to what he was 
doing in there. Losing his patience completely, Harry ran at the wall and kicked it.
“OUCH!”
He thought he might have broken his toe; as he clutched it and hopped on one foot, the Invisibility Cloak slipped off him.
“Harry?”
He spun around, one-legged, and toppled over. There, to his utter astonishment, was Tonks, walking toward him as though she frequently strolled up this corridor.
“What're you doing here?” he said, scrambling to his feet again; why did she always have to find him lying on the floor?
“I came to see Dumbledore,” said Tonks. Harry thought she looked terrible: thinner than usual, her mouse-colored hair lank.
“His office isn't here,” said Harry, “it's round the other side of the castle, behind the gargoyle —”
“I know,” said Tonks. “He's not there. Apparently he's gone away again.”
“Has he?” said Harry, putting his bruised foot gingerly back on the floor. “Hey—you don't know where he goes, I suppose?”
“No,” said Tonks.
“What did you want to see him about?”
“Nothing in particular,” said Tonks, picking, apparently unconsciously, at the sleeve of her robe. “I just thought he might know what's going on... I've heard 
rumors... people getting hurt.”
“Yeah, I know, it's all been in the papers,” said Harry. “That little kid trying to kill his —”
“The Prophet‘s often behind the times,” said Tonks, who didn't seem to be listening to him. “You haven't had any letters from anyone in the Order recently?”
“No one from the Order writes to me anymore,” said Harry, “not since Sirius —”
He saw that her eyes had filled with tears.
“I'm sorry,” he muttered awkwardly. “I mean... I miss him, as well...”
“What?” said Tonks blankly, as though she had not heard him. “Well... I'll see you around, Harry...”
And she turned abruptly and walked back down the corridor, leaving Harry to stare after her. After a minute or so, he pulled the Invisibility Cloak on again and resumed 
his efforts to get into the Room of Requirement, but his heart was not in it. Finally, a hollow feeling in his stomach and the knowledge that Ron and Hermione would 
soon be back for lunch made him abandon the attempt and leave the corridor to Malfoy who, hopefully, would be too afraid to leave for some hours to come.
He found Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall, already halfway through an early lunch.
“I did it—well, kind of!” Ron told Harry enthusiastically when he caught sight of him. “I was supposed to be Apparating to outside Madam Puddifoots’ Tea Shop and I 
overshot it a bit, ended up near Scrivenshafts, but at least I moved!”
“Good one,” said Harry. “How'd you do, Hermione?”
“Oh, she was perfect, obviously,” said Ron, before Hermione could answer. “Perfect deliberation, divination, and desperation or whatever the hell it is—we all went 
for a quick drink in the Three Broomsticks after and you should've heard Twycross going on about her—I'll be surprised if he doesn't pop the question soon —”
“And what about you?” asked Hermione, ignoring Ron. “Have you been up at the Room of Requirement all this time?”
“Yep,” said Harry. “And guess who I ran into up there? Tonks!”
“Tonks?” repeated Ron and Hermione together, looking surprised.
“Yeah, she said she'd come to visit Dumbledore.”
“If you ask me,” said Ron once Harry had finished describing his conversation with Tonks, “she's cracking up a bit. Losing her nerve after what happened at the 
Ministry.”
“It's a bit odd,” said Hermione, who for some reason looked very concerned. “She's supposed to be guarding the school, why she suddenly abandoning her post to come 
and see Dumbledore when he's not even here?”
“I had a thought,” said Harry tentatively. He felt strange about voicing it; this was much more Hermione's territory than his. “You don't think she can have been... 
you know... in love with Sirius?”
Hermione stared at him.
“What on earth makes you say that?”
“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging, “but she was nearly crying when I mentioned his name ... and her Patronus is a big four-legged thing now... I wondered whether it 
hadn't become... you know... him.”
“It's a thought,” said Hermione slowly. “But I still don't know why she'd be bursting into the castle to see Dumbledore, if that's really why she was here.”
“Goes back to what I said, doesn't it?” said Ron, who was now shoveling mashed potato into his mouth. “She's gone a bit funny. Lost her nerve. Women,” he said 
wisely to Harry, “they're easily upset.”
“And yet,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie, “I doubt you'd find a woman who sulked for half an hour because Madam Rosmerta didn't laugh at their joke about 
the hag, the Healer, and the Mimbulus mimbletonia.”
Ron scowled.
在之后的几星期里，哈利绞尽脑汁地想着他应该怎么说服斯拉霍恩告诉他那段真实的记忆，但是他并没有想到什么好主意，于是他又还原这段时间他一旦困惑起来就会做的事：仔细研究他那本
魔药书，希望王子会在书的空白出写一些有用的东西，就像过去那么多次一样。
 
　　“你不会在那上面找到什么的，”星期天的晚上，赫敏坚决地说。
 
　　“别说了，赫敏，”哈利说。“如果不是王子，罗恩现在也不能坐在这儿了。”
 
　　“他会的，如果一年级的时候你在斯内普的课上认真听的话，”赫敏轻蔑地说道。
 
　　哈利没有理会她。他刚在几个引人好奇的字‘用于敌人’的上面空白处发现了一句潦草的咒语（刀光剑影！），哈利很渴望马上试一下这条咒语，但是最好别在赫敏面前干这件事。于是，
他偷偷地把这一页折了一个角。
 
　　他们坐在格兰芬多公共休息室的壁炉旁；这里仅有的几个人都是六年级的。他们刚才在布告栏里看到了一条新的通知，公布了幻影显形的测试日期，这使他们非常兴奋。在4月21日考试之
前满十七岁的学生，可以选择报名参加额外的实习，地点在（严格监管下的）霍格莫德。
 
　　罗恩得知了这个通知以后显得惊慌失措，他还没有学会幻影显形，害怕自己不能通过考试。赫敏已经两次成功地幻影显形了，所以更有信心一些。但是哈利四个月之后才满十七岁岁，所以
不论他会不会都不能参加这次考试了。
 
　　“可你已经学会了幻影显形！”罗恩紧张地说。“你参加7月的那次考试一定没问题的！”
 
　　“我只完成过一次，”哈利提醒他；上一堂课里，他终于设法做到了消失之后又在木圈里重现。
 
　　在浪费了很多时间大声地唠叨他对幻影显形的担忧之后，罗恩开始挣扎着写斯内普布置的一篇难得过分的论文，而哈利和赫敏早就完成了。哈利确信自己的论文一定会得到一个很低的分数
，因为他不同意斯内普所说的对抗摄魂怪的最佳办法，不过他不在乎：目前对他来说斯拉霍恩的记忆才是最重要的事。
 
　　“我告诉你，那个愚蠢王子的这本书帮助不了你，哈利！”赫敏说，声音更响了。“只有一个办法能让别人听你的话，那就是夺魂咒，但这是违法的——”
 
　　“是的，我知道，谢谢，”哈利说道，他没有把目光从书上挪开。“邓布利多说吐真剂也没有用，但是一定还有别的办法的，使用魔药或者咒语……”
 
　　“你想错方向了，”赫敏说。“邓布利多说只有你可以得到那段记忆。那一定就是说除了你之外没有人可以说服斯拉霍恩了。这不是骗他服下什么魔药的问题，任何人都可以那么做——”
 
　　“你怎么拼‘好战’这个词？”罗恩说，他一边拼命地摇着羽毛笔，一边盯着他的羊皮纸。“是不是B——U——M——”
 
　　“不，错了，”赫敏说，把他的羊皮纸拿到自己面前。“还有，‘占卜’也不是O——R——G开头的。你用的是什么羽毛笔啊？”
 
　　“弗雷德和乔治的检查拼写型羽毛笔……但是我想他们施的咒语一定是在消退……”
 
　　“的确是的，”赫敏指着他的论文题目说道，“因为我们写的是如何对付摄魂怪，而不是‘摄魂地’，还有，我不记得你的名字什么时候改成‘鲁尼尔·沃兹里’了。”
 
　　“啊，不！”罗恩说道，他仔细看着自己的论文，似乎受到了沉重的打击。“别告诉我要把整篇论文重新写一遍！”
 
　　“这没关系，我们可以把它改好，”赫敏说，她把羊皮纸拉到自己面前，拿出了魔杖。
 
　　“我爱你，赫敏，”罗恩说完便倒进了他的椅子里，疲倦地用手揉着眼睛。
 
　　赫敏的脸微微变红了，但她只是说，“别让拉文德听见你这么说。”
 
　　“我不会的，”罗恩对着自己的手说。“或者……也许我会……然后她就会甩了我……”
 
　　“如果你想结束，为什么不先甩了她？”哈利问。
 
　　“你从来没有甩过别人，对不对？”罗恩说。“你和秋只是——”
 
　　“分手而已，是的，”哈利说。
 
　　“希望我和拉文德也能这样，”罗恩郁闷地说，他看着赫敏用魔杖尖轻轻地敲打着羊皮纸上他拼错的单词，于是它们都自己改正过来了。“我越是向她暗示我想结束了，她越是拉住我不放
。就好像是要甩掉一个巨乌贼一样。”
 
　　“拿去，”大概二十分钟以后，赫敏把罗恩的论文还给了他。
 
　　“万分感谢，”罗恩说。“那么我能借你的羽毛笔写一写总结吗？”
 
　　哈利看还没有在混血王子的笔记找到什么有用的东西，于是他朝四周看了看；现在只剩下他们三个还待在公共休息室了，西莫刚才咒骂着斯内普和他的论文上床睡觉去了。四周只有壁炉里
柴火的劈啪声和罗恩用赫敏的羽毛笔写论文的最后一段的声音。哈利合上了混血王子的书，打着哈欠，就在这时——
 
　　啪。
 
　　赫敏发出了一声尖叫；罗恩把墨水全洒到了他的论文上；随后哈利说，“克利切！”
 
　　这个家养小精灵低低地鞠了一躬，碰到了自己长满瘤子的脚趾。
 
　　“主人说想要我定期汇报马尔福少爷在干什么，所以克利切就来——”
 
　　啪。
 
　　多比在克利切旁边出现了，他那茶巾做的帽子歪斜着戴在脑袋上。
 
　　“多比也是来帮忙的，哈利·波特！”他尖声说，还愤恨地看了克利切一眼。“克利切应该告诉多比他来见哈利·波特了，这样他们就可以一起向哈利·波特汇报了！”
 
　　“这是什么？”赫敏问，她看起来被这些突然出现的家养小精灵吓到了，“发生了什么事，哈利？”
 
　　哈利犹豫了一下，他还没有告诉赫敏自己派克利切和多比去跟踪马尔福的事；家养小精灵对她来说是个敏感的话题。
 
　　“嗯……他们正在为我跟踪马尔福，”他说。
 
　　“而且是日日夜夜地，”克利切用沙哑的声音说。
 
　　“多比已经一个星期没有睡觉了，哈利·波特！”多比摇摇晃晃地站在那儿，非常自豪地说。
 
　　赫敏看上去十分愤怒。
 
　　“你没有睡觉，多比？但是哈利，你一定没有叫他不能——”
 
　　“是的，我当然没有，”哈利迅速说。“多比，你可以睡觉，好吗？那么你们发现了什么吗？”他抢在赫敏再次打断他之前迫不及待地问。
 
　　“马尔福少爷举止高贵，和他的纯血统很相称，”克利切马上沙哑着嗓子说。“他的容貌让我想起我的女主人，而且他的举止也——”
 
　　“德拉科·马尔福是个坏男孩！”多比生气地尖叫道。“他——他是一个坏男孩——”
 
　　他从茶巾上的流苏到袜子上的脚趾都在瑟瑟发抖，然后他跑到了壁炉边，好像要跳进去；哈利并不觉得特别出人意料，他马上跑过去抓住了多比。多比挣扎了几秒钟，然后瘫软了下来。
 
　　“谢谢你，哈利·波特，”他喘着气说。“多比发现他还是很难说他旧主人的坏话……”
 
　　哈利放开了他；多比弄直了他的茶巾，挑衅地对克利切说，“但是克利切应该知道马尔福对一个家养小精灵来说不是个好主人！”
 
　　“是啊，我们不需要听到关于你对马尔福的喜爱，”哈利对克利切说。“最好能快点知道马尔福到底在干什么。”
 
　　克利切又鞠了一躬，看上去非常愤怒，然后他说，“马尔福少爷在礼堂吃饭，在地窖里的宿舍睡觉，他在各种各样的教室里上——”
 
　　“多比，你来说，”哈利打断了克利切。“他有没有去过他不应该去的地方？”
 
　　“哈利·波特先生，”多比尖声说，大眼在火光下闪烁着，“多比没有发现马尔福少爷违反规定，但是他仍旧不愿意被人发现。他定期和各种各样的其他学生去八楼，他们帮他放哨，然后
他就走进——”
 
　　“有求必应屋！”哈利恍然大悟，用《高级魔药制备》猛地拍了一下自己的前额。赫敏和罗恩盯着他。“那就是他鬼鬼祟祟地去的地方！他就是在那个地方做……不管他在做什么！我敢打
赌那就是为什么他总是从地图上消失的原因——想起来了，我从来没有在那上面看见过有求必应屋！”
 
　　“也许地图的发明者不知道有这间屋子，”罗恩说。
 
　　“我想这也是这屋子魔法的一部分，”赫敏说。“如果你需要它不被标绘出来，它就能做到。”
 
　　“多比，你设法进去看看马尔福在干什么了吗？”哈利急切地问。
 
　　“没有，哈利·波特，那是不可能的，”多比说。
 
　　“不，不会的，”哈利立刻说。“去年马尔福进了我们的指挥部，所以我也可以进去监视他，没问题。”
 
　　“但是我不认为你能做到，哈利，”赫敏慢慢地说。“马尔福当时确切地知道我们正在使用这间屋子，不是吗，因为那个愚蠢的玛丽埃塔告了密。他需要屋子变成D.A.指挥部，所以它做到
了。但是当马尔福在里面时你不知道屋子该变成什么，所以你不知道该要求它变成什么。”
 
　　“肯定会有办法的，”哈利不屑一顾地说。“你干得漂亮，多比。”
 
　　“克利切也干得好，”赫敏友善地说，但是克利切看上去并没有一丝感激，他转动着布满血丝的大眼睛，用嘶哑的嗓音对着天花板说，“一个泥巴种正在对克利切说话，克利切要假装听不
见——”
 
　　“别说了，”哈利厉声打断了他，于是克利切深深地鞠了最后一躬，然后幻影移形了。“你也最好去睡一觉，多比。”
 
　　“谢谢，哈利·波特先生！”多比用开心地尖声说，然后也消失不见了。
 
　　“太好了！”小精灵们消失了之后，哈利热切地转向赫敏和罗恩说。“我们已经知道马尔福去了哪儿！我们已经堵住他了！”
 
　　“是啊，这很棒，”罗恩闷闷不乐地说，他的整篇论文已经被墨水浸透了，他正试图把它们擦掉。赫敏把它拉到自己面前，开始用她的魔杖把墨水吸出来。
 
　　“但是他怎么会和‘各种各样的学生’去那儿呢？”赫敏说。“有多少人参与了？你总不会认为他把他正在做的事告诉了那么多人了吧……”
 
　　“是啊，这非常古怪，”哈利皱着眉说。“我听到他对克拉布说他做的事情不关克拉布的事……那他为什么告诉所有这些……所有这些……”
 
　　哈利的声音越来越轻；他正盯着火看。
 
　　“天哪，我怎么那么笨，”他轻声说。“这很明显，不是吗？地下教室有一大桶……他可以在上课的任何时候偷一些走……”
 
　　“偷什么？”罗恩说。
 
　　“复方汤剂。他偷了斯拉霍恩第一堂魔药课时给我们看的复方汤剂……并不是各种各样的学生在为马尔福放哨……那只是克拉布和高尔……是的，这完全符合！”哈利说着跳了起来，在壁
炉前面来回走着。“他们实在够蠢的，马尔福没有告诉他们自己在做什么，他们居然还愿意替他放哨……但是马尔福不想让别人看见他们出没在有求必应屋附近，所以他给他们服下了复方汤剂
，使他们看起来像别的人……他没有去看魁地奇比赛的那天我看到的那两个女孩——哈！克拉布和高尔！”
 
　　“你的意思是说，”赫敏压低了声音说，“我帮着修天平的那个小女孩——？”
 
　　“是的，当然！”哈利看着她，大声说道。“当然是的！那时马尔福一定在有求必应屋里，所以她——我在说什么？——他把天平掉在了地上，告诉马尔福别出来，因为那里面一定还有什
么别的人！还有那个把蟾蜍卵扔在地上的女生一定也是的！我们就这么从他旁边走过居然都没有发现！”
 
　　“他把克拉布和高尔变成了女生？”罗恩狂笑着说。“天哪……难怪他们这几天看起来不怎么高兴……我很奇怪他们怎么没有让马尔福也尝尝……”
 
　　“哦，他们不会的，是不是，如果他向他们展示了黑魔标记的话，”哈利说。
 
　　“嗯……我们并不清楚他是不是真的有黑魔标记，”赫敏怀疑地说，她卷起罗恩那张已经吸干净的论文递给罗恩，以防止它再受到什么伤害。
 
　　“我们会看到的，”哈利信心十足地说。
 
　　“是的，我们会的，”赫敏说着，站起来伸了伸懒腰。“但是，哈利，别太兴奋了，我还是认为在你不知道有求必应屋里有什么的情况下不该进去。还有，我认为你不应该忘记，”她把书
包举起来背到肩上，严肃地看了哈利一眼，“你目前该集中精力做的事就是从斯拉霍恩那儿获得那份记忆。晚安。”
 
　　哈利看着她离开，心里有些不高兴。在女生宿舍的门关上之后，他转向罗恩。
 
　　“你怎么想？”
 
　　“我希望可以像一个家养小精灵那样幻影移形，”罗恩盯着多比消失的地方说。“我的幻影显形测试就稳操胜券了。”
 
　　哈利那天晚上没有睡好。他感觉在床上醒着躺了好几个小时，猜测着马尔福在用有求必应屋干什么，以及当他走进去时会看见什么，不管赫敏说什么，哈利确信如果马尔福可以进入D.A.的
指挥部，那么他也可以进入马尔福的那间屋子……那会是什么呢？一个聚会地点？一个藏身的地方？一个贮藏室？一个工作间？哈利的脑袋正处于极度兴奋中，最后终于睡着了，可是他的梦不
断地被马尔福的形象困扰着，一会儿又变成了斯拉霍恩，一会儿又变成了斯内普……
 
　　第二天早上吃早餐的时候，哈利都一直满怀着期望；他在黑魔法防御课之前有一段空闲的时间，于是他决定在那个时候去有求必应屋试试。赫敏一直对哈利强制进入有求必应屋的秘密计划
表现得毫无兴趣，这种态度激怒了哈利，他觉得如果她愿意的话一定能帮上很大的忙。
 
　　“听我说，”他轻声说，并向前倾着身子，把手按在赫敏刚从猫头鹰邮递那儿拿到的《预言家日报》上，防止她打开并藏在报纸后面。“我没忘了斯拉霍恩的事，但我还没想出从他那儿拿
到记忆的线索。在我想到那个方法之前为什么不先查查马尔福在干什么呢？”
 
　　“我已经告诉过你了，你需要去说服斯拉霍恩，”赫敏说。“根本不是欺骗他或迷惑他就行的，否则邓布利多在一秒钟之内就能办到。你要做的并不是在有求必应屋外面浪费时间，”她把
《预言家日报》从哈利手下抽了出来，展开它看头版，“而是应该去找斯拉霍恩，求他发发善心。”
 
　　“有没有我们认识的人——？”赫敏浏览报纸标题的时候，罗恩问。
 
　　“有！”赫敏说，哈利和罗恩都一下子被早餐噎住了，“还好，他没死——是蒙格顿斯，他被抓到阿兹卡班里去了！假扮成阴飞力企图入室行窃……一个叫奥克塔维斯·佩珀的人失踪了。
哦，真可怕，一个九岁的男孩因为试图杀死他的爷爷奶奶而被捕了，他们认为他中了夺魂咒……”
 
　　接下来他们静静地吃完了早餐。赫敏立刻去上古代魔文课了，罗恩留在公共休息室里，他不得不继续完成斯内普关于摄魂怪的那篇论文的结尾，哈利则向八楼的走廊走去，他的目的地是那
幅傻巴拿巴教巨怪跳芭蕾的挂毯对面的那扇墙。
 
　　哈利来到一条没有人的走廊，在那里披上他的隐形衣，不过他不用操这个心。因为他到达目的地时，发现那儿并没有人。哈利不知道自己能进入这屋子和马尔福在里面的机会哪个更大，但
是至少他的第一步行动还没有因假扮成十一岁小女孩的克拉布和高尔的出现而变得复杂。
 
　　他走近有求必应屋隐蔽的门，闭上了眼睛。他知道他现在该做什么；他去年就对这个地方非常熟悉了。哈利努力集中思想，在脑海里重复说着：我要看到马尔福在里面干什么……我要看到
马尔福在里面干什么……我要看到马尔福在里面干什么……
 
　　他在门前来回走了三遍，心激动地跳着，随后他睁开眼睛面对着那儿——但是他看到的仍然是一堵平平常常的墙。
 
　　他向前走了几步，试着推了推。石墙还是那么坚固。
 
　　“好吧，”哈利说出了声。“好吧……是我想错了……”
 
　　他沉思了片刻，然后重新开始，闭上眼睛，尽力地集中思想。
 
　　我要看到马尔福一直偷偷去的地方……我要看到马尔福一直偷偷去的地方……
 
　　他来回走了三遍，满怀期待地睁开眼睛。
 
　　还是没有门出现。
 
　　“哦，别装蒜了，”他对着墙急躁地说。“这个指令很清楚……好吧……”
 
　　他绞尽脑汁地想了几分钟，又迈开了步子。
 
　　我要你变成你为马尔福变出的地方……
 
　　哈利走完之后没有直接睁开眼睛；而是仔细地听着，就好像他会听到门突然间出现一样。但是除了远处的鸟鸣声以外，他什么都没有听到。于是他睁开了眼睛。
 
　　那里还是没有门出现。
 
　　哈利开始咒骂起来。有人尖叫了起来。他向四周看了看，一群一年级的学生正冲着拐角往回跑，显然他们以为刚刚碰上了一个说话粗鲁的鬼魂。
 
　　哈利尝试了每一种类似于“我要看见马尔福在里面干什么”的话，一个小时过去了，最后他不得不承认赫敏说的是对的：这个屋子根本不愿意为他打开。哈利既沮丧又恼火地走开了，他脱
下隐形斗篷塞进书包，然后去上黑魔法防御术课。
 
　　“你又迟到了，波特，”哈利急急忙忙地走进点着蜡烛的教室时，斯内普冷漠地说。“格兰芬多扣十分。”
 
　　哈利一边愤怒地看着斯内普，一边冲到罗恩旁边坐下；几乎半个班的人还在陆续地走进教室，拿出课本并整理着东西；哈利并不比他们迟。
 
　　“这堂课开始之前，我想把你们关于摄魂怪的论文收上来，”斯内普漫不经心地挥了挥魔杖，于是二十五卷羊皮纸迅速飞到半空中，然后整齐地摆在了他的桌子上。“并且，为了你们好，
我希望这次的作业比上次那篇关于反抗夺魂咒的论文要强一些，否则我又要忍受那些废话了。现在，所有人都把书翻到——什么事，斐尼甘先生？”
 
　　“教授，”西莫说道，“我十分疑惑，应该怎么区分阴飞力和鬼魂？因为《预言家日报》上有关于阴飞力的报道——”
 
　　“不，那儿没有，”斯内普不耐烦地说。
 
　　“但是教授，我听到人们在谈论——”
 
　　“如果你确实读了你提及的那篇报道，你就会知道所谓的阴飞力只不过是一个鬼鬼祟祟的小偷，名叫蒙格顿斯·弗莱奇。”
 
　　“斯内普和蒙格顿斯不是同一边的吗？”哈利对罗恩和赫敏嘀咕道。“在蒙格顿斯被逮捕之后他不该感到心烦意乱吗——？”
 
　　“不过在这个问题上波特看上去有很多话要说，”斯内普忽然指着教室后面说，他的黑眼睛紧紧盯着哈利。“让我们问问波特，看看他是如何区分阴飞力和鬼魂的。”
 
　　全班都看向了哈利，他赶紧回想起他和邓布利多一起造访斯拉霍恩时邓布利多告诉过他的话。
 
　　“嗯——好吧——鬼魂是透明的——”他说。
 
　　“哦，很好，”斯内普打断道，他的嘴唇卷了起来。“是的，很显然将近六年的魔法教育在你身上没有被浪费，波特。鬼魂是透明的。”
 
　　潘西·帕金森尖声大笑起来。其他几个人也在偷笑。哈利深吸了一口气以保持平静，尽管他此时内心里正怒气翻滚，“是的，鬼魂是透明的，但是阴飞力是死尸，不是吗？所以阴飞力是实
实在在的——”
 
　　“一个五岁小孩也能说出这些，”斯内普冷笑道。“阴飞力是受到了黑巫师咒语鼓动的尸体。它不是活的，它只是听从巫师命令的傀儡。而一个鬼魂，我相信你们现在都知道，是已经脱离
人世的灵魂留下的一个印记……当然，正如波特如此聪明地告诉我们的那样，他是透明的。”
 
　　“得了，如果我们要试图区分它们的话，哈利所说的是最有用的！”罗恩说。“当我们在一个漆黑的巷子里和他狭路相逢的时候，我们只来得及瞥一眼他是不是实实在在，对吗，我们没有
机会问，‘对不起，你是一个死去灵魂的印记吗？’”
 
　　班上爆发出一阵笑声，但是立即被斯内普的目光镇压了下去。
 
　　“格兰芬多再扣十分，”斯内普说。“我不指望听到你更高深的话了，罗纳德·韦斯莱，你真是太实实在在了，甚至连在这间屋子里幻影显形一英寸都做不到。”
 
　　“不！”赫敏低声说，哈利正要愤怒地张嘴说话，赫敏一把抓住了哈利的胳膊。“没有意义的，结果只会是再次关禁闭，算了吧！”
 
　　“现在打开你们的课本，翻到213页，”斯内普假笑了一下。“读钻心咒的前两段……”
 
　　这堂课罗恩非常压抑。下课铃响的时候，拉文德追上了罗恩和哈利（她过来的时候赫敏神秘地消失了），她激动地辱骂着斯内普，因为斯内普嘲笑了罗恩的幻影显形，但是此举看上去只是
激怒了罗恩，他和哈利一起绕进男生盥洗室摆脱了她。
 
　　“不过斯内普是对的，是不是？”罗恩盯了一两分钟一面破镜子之后说。“我不知道是否值得去参加测试。我就是抓不到幻影显形的窍门。”
 
　　“你最好去霍格莫德做那个额外的实践，看看能移到哪儿，”哈利理智地说。“无论如何这也比尝试跳进一个愚蠢的木圈要强。如果你还不能——你知道——做到像你希望的那样好，你可
以推迟测试，暑假时和我一起去参加——桃金娘，这是男生盥洗室！”
 
　　一个女孩的鬼魂从他们身后的一个小间里飘了出来，浮到了半空中，隔着厚厚的白色圆形眼镜盯着他们。
 
　　“哦，”她郁闷地说。“是你们两个。”
 
　　“你以为是谁？”罗恩从镜子里面看着她。
 
　　“不是谁，”桃金娘闷闷不乐地从下巴上擦掉一个污点。“他说他会来看我，但是你也说过你会来看我的……”她责备地看了哈利一眼，“可是一个月又过了一个月，我还是没有看见你。
我已经学到了不能从男孩子身上指望太多。”
 
　　“我记得你不是住在女生盥洗室里吗？”哈利说，他这几年一直小心翼翼地躲着那个地方。
 
　　“是的，”她生气地耸了耸肩，“但那不意味着我不能去其他地方。我曾经到你的浴室来看过你，还记得吗？”
 
　　“记忆犹新，”哈利说。
 
　　“但是我想他喜欢我，”她哀怨地说。“或许你们两个离开后，他会再回来……我们很多相似之处……我敢肯定他也这么觉得……”
 
　　她满怀希望的看着门。
 
　　“你说你们很相似，”罗恩听起来快活了一些，“你的意思是他也住在一个水管里？”
 
　　“不是，”桃金娘抗议道，她的声音在老式排水盥洗室里回响着。“我的意思是他很敏感，人们还恐吓他，他觉得很孤独，没有人可以说话，他也不害怕哭泣和说出自己的感觉！”
 
　　“有一个男孩在这里哭过？”哈利好奇地说。“一个年轻的男孩？”
 
　　“没你的事！”桃金娘细小的眼睛死死盯着罗恩，后者正咧着嘴开心地笑着。“我向他承诺过不告诉任何一个人，我会把他的秘密带进——”
 
　　“——不是坟墓吧？”罗恩嗤之以鼻。“也许是下水道……”
 
　　桃金娘愤怒得嚎啕大哭，冲回进了厕所里，溅得侧板和地面上到处都是水花。刺激桃金娘似乎让罗恩的心情焕然一新。
 
　　“你是对的，”他愉快地把书包甩到肩膀上，“我要去霍格莫德实践，然后再决定做不做测试。”
 
　　于是在接下来的这个周末，罗恩加入了赫敏和其他在两周后的测试之前就满十七岁的六年级学生。哈利嫉妒地看着他们为去村子里做准备；他很怀念去那儿，而今天的天气又特别的春光明
媚，这么长时间以来他们第一次看到了如此晴朗的天空。不
Chapter 22 After the burial
Patches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching summer did not lift Harry's mood. He had been thwarted, both 
in his attempts to find out what Malfoy was doing, and in his efforts to start a conversation with Slughorn that might lead, somehow, to Slughorn handing over the 
memory he had apparently suppressed for decades.
“For the last time, just forget about Malfoy,” Hermione told Harry firmly.
They were sitting with Ron in a sunny corner of the courtyard after lunch. Hermione and Ron were both clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet: Common Apparition Mistakes 
and How to Avoid Them, for they were taking their tests that very afternoon, but by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to the nerves. Ron gave a start and 
tried to hide behind Hermione as a girl came around the corner.
“It isn't Lavender,” said Hermione wearily.
“Oh, good,” said Ron, relaxing.
“Harry Potter?” said the girl. “I was asked to give you this.”
“Thanks...”
Harry's heart sank as he took the small scroll of parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he said, “Dumbledore said we wouldn't be having any more lessons until I 
got the memory!”
“Maybe he wants to check on how you're doing?” suggested Hermione, as Harry unrolled the parchment; but rather than finding Dumbledore's long, narrow, slanted writing 
he saw an untidy sprawl, very difficult to read due to the presence of large blotches on the parchment where the ink had run.
Dear Harry, Ron and Hermione,
Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you'd have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down 
for the burial later this evening. I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite time of day. I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can 
use the cloak. Wouldn't ask, but I can't face it alone.
Hagrid
“Look at this,” said Harry, handing the note to Hermione.
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, scanning it quickly and passing it to Ron, who read it through looking increasingly incredulous.
“He's mental” he said furiously. “That thing told its mates to eat Harry and me! Told them to help themselves! And now Hagrid expects us to go down there and cry 
over its horrible hairy body!”
“It's not just that,” said Hermione. “He's asking us to leave the castle at night and he knows security's a million times tighter and how much trouble we'd be in if 
we were caught.”
“We've been down to see him by night before,” said Harry.
“Yes, but for something like this?” said Hermione. “We've risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all—Aragog's dead. If it were a question of saving him —”
“— I'd want to go even less,” said Ron firmly. “You didn't meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead will have improved him a lot.”
Harry took the note back and stared down at all the inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick and fast upon the parchment...
“Harry, you can't be thinking of going,” said Hermione. “It's such a pointless thing to get detention for.”
Harry sighed.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us.”
“Yes, he will,” said Hermione, looking relieved. “Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all off doing our tests... try and soften Slughorn up a 
bit then!”
“Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?” said Harry bitterly.
“Lucky,” said Ron suddenly. “Harry, that's it—get lucky!”
“What d'you mean?”
“Use your lucky potion!”
“Ron, that's—that's it!” said Hermione, sounding stunned. “Of course! Why didn't I think of it?”
Harry stared at them both. “Felix Felicis?” he said. “I dunno... I was sort of saving it...”
“What for?” demanded Ron incredulously.
“What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?” asked Hermione.
Harry did not answer. The thought of that little golden bottle had hovered on the edges of his imagination for some time; vague and unformulated plans that involved 
Ginny splitting up with Dean, and Ron somehow being happy to see her with a new boyfriend, had been fermenting in the depths of his brain, unacknowledged except during 
dreams or the twilight time between sleeping and waking...
“Harry? Are you still with us?” asked Hermione.
“Wha—?... Yeah, of course,” he said, pulling himself together. “Well... okay. If I can't get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I'll take some Felix and have another 
go this evening.”
“That's decided, then,” said Hermione briskly, getting to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette. “Destination... determination... deliberation...” she 
murmured.
“Oh, stop that,” Ron begged her, “I feel sick enough as it is—quick, hide me!”
“It isn't Lavender!” said Hermione impatiently, as another couple of girls appeared in the courtyard and Ron dived behind her.
“Cool,” said Ron, peering over Hermione's shoulder to check. “Blimey, they don't look happy, do they?”
“They're the Montgomery sisters and of course they don't look happy, didn't you hear what happened to their little brother?” said Hermione.
“I'm losing track of what's happening to everyone's relatives, to be honest,” said Ron.
“Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St. 
Mungo's, they couldn't save him.”
“He died?” repeated Harry, shocked. “But surely werewolves don't kill, they just turn you into one of them?”
“They sometimes kill,” said Ron, who looked unusually grave now. “I've heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away.”
“What was the werewolf's name?” said Harry quickly.
“Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback,” said Hermione.
“I knew it—the maniac who likes attacking kids, the one Lupin told me about!” said Harry angrily.
Hermione looked at him bleakly.
“Harry, you've got to get that memory,” she said. “It's all about stopping Voldemort, isn't it? These dreadful things that are happening are all down to him...”
The bell rang overhead in the castle and both Hermione and Ron jumped to their feet, looking terrified.
“You'll do fine,” Harry told them both, as they headed toward the entrance hall to meet the rest of the people taking their Apparition Test. “Good luck.”
“And you too!” said Hermione with a significant look, as Harry headed off to the dungeons.
There were only three of them in Potions that afternoon: Harry, Ernie, and Draco Malfoy.
“All too young to Apparate just yet?” said Slughorh genially, “Not turned seventeen yet?”
They shook their heads.
“Ah well,” said Slughorn cheerily, “as we're so few, we'll do something fun. I want you all to brew me up something amusing!”
“That sounds good, sir,” said Ernie sycophantically, rubbing his hands together. Malfoy, on the other hand, did not crack a smile.
“What do you mean, ‘something amusing'?” he said irritably.
“Oh, surprise me,” said Slughorn airily.
Malfoy opened his copy of Advanced Potion-Making with a sulky expression. It could not have been plainer that he thought this lesson was a waste of time. Undoubtedly, 
Harry thought, watching him over the top of his own book, Malfoy was begrudging the time he could otherwise be spending in the Room of Requirement.
Was it his imagination, or did Malfoy, like Tonks, look thinner? Certainly he looked paler; his skin still had that grayish tinge, probably because he so rarely saw 
daylight these days. But there was no air of smugness, excitement, or superiority; none of the swagger that he had had on the Hogwarts Express, when he had boasted 
openly of the mission he had been given by Voldemort... there could be only one conclusion, in Harry's opinion: the mission, whatever it was, was going badly.
Cheered by this thought, Harry skimmed through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making and found a heavily corrected Half-Blood Prince's version of An Elixir to Induce 
Euphoria, which seemed not only to meet Slughorn's instructions, but which might (Harry's heart leapt as the thought struck him) put Slughorn into such a good mood that 
he would be prepared to hand over that memory if Harry could persuade him to taste some...
“Well, now, this looks absolutely wonderful,” said Slughorn an hour and a half later, clapping his hands together as he stared down into the sunshine yellow contents 
of Harry's cauldron. “Euphoria, I take it? And what's that I smell? Mmmm... you've added just a sprig of peppermint, haven't you? Unorthodox, but what a stroke of 
inspiration, Harry, of course, that would tend to counterbalance the occasional side effects of excessive singing and nose-tweaking... I really don't know where you get 
these brain waves, my boy... unless —”
Harry pushed the Half-Blood Prince's book deeper into his bag with his foot.
“— it's just your mother's genes coming out in you!”
“Oh... yeah, maybe,” said Harry, relieved.
Ernie was looking rather grumpy; determined to outshine Harry for once, he had most rashly invented his own potion, which had curdled and formed a kind of purple 
dumpling at the bottom of his cauldron. Malfoy was already packing up, sour-faced; Slughorn had pronounced his Hiccuping Solution merely “passable.”
The bell rang and both Ernie and Malfoy left at once. “Sir,” Harry began, but Slughorn immediately glanced over his shoulder; when he saw that the room was empty but 
for himself and Harry, he hurried away as fast as he could.
“Professor—Professor, don't you want to taste my po—?” called Harry desperately.
But Slughorn had gone. Disappointed, Harry emptied the cauldron, packed up his things, left the dungeon, and walked slowly back upstairs to the common room.
Ron and Hermione returned in the late afternoon.
“Harry!” cried Hermione as she climbed through the portrait hole. “Harry, I passed!”
“Well done!” he said. “And Ron?”
“He—he just failed,” whispered Hermione, as Ron came slouching into the room looking most morose. “It was really unlucky, a tiny thing, the examiner just spotted 
that he'd left half an eyebrow behind... how did it go with Slughorn?”
“No joy,” said Harry, as Ron joined them. “Bad luck, mate, but you'll pass next time—we can take it together.”
“Yeah, I s'pose,” said Ron grumpily. “But half an eyebrow! Like that matters!”
“I know,” said Hermione soothingly, “it does seem really harsh...”
They spent most of their dinner roundly abusing the Apparition examiner, and Ron looked fractionally more cheerful by the time they set off back to the common room, now 
discussing the continuing problem of Slughorn and the memory.
“So, Harry—you going to use the Felix Felicis or what?” Ron demanded.
“Yeah, I s'pose I'd better,” said Harry. “I don't reckon I'll need all of it, not twenty-four hours’ worth, it can't take all night... I'll just take a mouthful. 
Two or three hours should do it.”
“It's a great feeling when you take it,” said Ron reminiscently. “Like you can't do anything wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” said Hermione, laughing. “You've never taken any!”
“Yeah, but I thought I had, didn't I?” said Ron, as though explaining the obvious. “Same difference really ...”
As they had only just seen Slughorn enter the Great Hall and knew that he liked to take time over meals, they lingered for a while in the common room, the plan being 
that Harry should go to Slughorn s office once the teacher had had time to get back there. When the sun had sunk to the level of the treetops in the Forbidden Forest, 
they decided the moment had come, and after checking carefully that Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all in the common room, sneaked up to the boys’ dormitory.
Harry took out the rolled-up socks at the bottom of his trunk and extracted the tiny, gleaming bottle.
“Well, here goes,” said Harry, and he raised the little bottle and look a carefully measured gulp.
“What does it feel like?” whispered Hermione.
Harry did not answer for a moment. Then, slowly but surely, an exhilarating sense of infinite opportunity stole through him; he felt as though he could have done 
anything, anything at all... and getting the memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only possible, but positively easy...
He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence.
“Excellent,” he said. “Really excellent. Right... I'm going down to Hagrid's.”
“What?” said Ron and Hermione together, looking aghast.
“No, Harry—you've got to go and see Slughorn, remember?” said Hermione.
“No,” said Harry confidently. “I'm going to Hagrid's, I've got a good feeling about going to Hagrid's.”
“You've got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?” asked Ron, looking stunned.
“Yeah,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag. “I feel like it's the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?”
“No,” said Ron and Hermione together, both looking positively alarmed now.
“This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?” said Hermione anxiously, holding up the bottle to the light. “You haven't got another little bottle full of— I don't know —”
“Essence of Insanity?” suggested Ron, as Harry swung his cloak over his shoulders.
Harry laughed, and Ron and Hermione looked even more alarmed.
“Trust me,” he said. “I know what I'm doing ... or at least...” he strolled confidently to the door, “Felix does.”
He pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head and set off down the stairs, Ron and Hermione hurrying along behind him. At the foot of the stairs, Harry slid through 
the open door.
“What were you doing up there with her!” shrieked Lavender Brown, staring right through Harry at Ron and Hermione emerging together from the boys’ dormitories. Harry 
heard Ron spluttering behind him as he darted across the room away from them.
Getting through the portrait hole was simple; as he approached it, Ginny and Dean came through it, and Harry was able to slip between them. As he did so, he brushed 
accidentally against Ginny.
“Don't push me, please, Dean,” she said, sounding annoyed. “You're always doing that, I can get through perfectly well on my own...”
The portrait swung closed behind Harry, but not before he had heard Dean make an angry retort... his feeling of elation increasing, Harry strode off through the castle. 
He did not have to creep along, for he met nobody on his way, but this did not surprise him in the slightest. This evening, he was the luckiest person at Hogwarts.
Why he knew that going to Hagrid's was the right thing to do, he had no idea. It was as though the potion was illuminating a few steps of the path at a time. He could 
not see the final destination, he could not see where Slughorn came in, but he knew that he was going the right way to get that memory. When he reached the entrance 
hall he saw that Filch had forgotten to lock the front door. Beaming, Harry threw it open and breathed in the smell of clean air and grass for a moment before walking 
down the steps into the dusk.
It was when he reached the bottom step that it occurred to him how very pleasant it would be to pass the vegetable patch on his walk to Hagrid's. It was not strictly on 
the way, but it seemed clear to Harry that this was a whim on which he should act, so he directed his feet immediately toward the vegetable patch, where he was pleased, 
but not altogether surprised, to find Professor Slughorn in conversation with Professor Sprout. Harry lurked behind a low stone wall, feeling at peace with the world 
and listening to their conversation.
“... I do thank you for taking the time, Pomona,” Slughorn was saying courteously. “Most authorities agree that they are at their most efficacious if picked at 
twilight.”
“Oh, I quite agree,” said Professor Sprout warmly. “That enough for you?”
“Plenty, plenty,” said Slughorn, who, Harry saw, was carrying an armful of leafy plants. “This should allow for a few leaves for each of my third-years, and some to 
spare if anybody over-stews them... well, good evening to you, and many thanks again!”
Professor Sprout headed off into the gathering darkness in the direction of her greenhouses, and Slughorn directed his steps to the spot where Harry stood, invisible.
Seized with an immediate desire to reveal himself, Harry pulled off the cloak with a flourish.
“Good evening, Professor.”
“Merlin's beard, Harry, you made me jump,” said Slughorn, stopping dead in his tracks and looking wary. “How did you get out of the castle?”
“I think Filch must've forgotten to lock the doors,” said Harry cheerfully, and was delighted to see Slughorn scowl.
“I'll be reporting that man, he's more concerned about litter than proper security if you ask me... but why are you out then, Harry?”
“Well, sir, it's Hagrid,” said Harry, who knew that the right thing to do just now was to tell the truth. “He's pretty upset... but you won't tell anyone, Professor? 
I don't want trouble for him...”
Slughorn's curiosity was evidently aroused.
“Well, I can't promise that,” he said gruffly. “But I know that Dumbledore trusts Hagrid to the hilt, so I'm sure he can't be up to anything very dreadful...”
“Well, it's this giant spider, he's had it for years... it lived in the forest... it could talk and everything—”
“I heard rumors there were Acromantula in the forest,” said Slughorn softly, looking over at the mass of black trees. “It's true, then?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “But this one, Aragog, the first one Hagrid ever got, it died last night. He's devastated. He wants company while he buries it and I said I'd go.
”
“Touching, touching,” said Slughorn absentmindedly, his large droopy eyes fixed upon the distant lights of Hagrid's cabin. “But Acromantula venom is very valuable... 
if the beast only just died it might not yet have dried out... of course, I wouldn't want to do anything insensitive if Hagrid is upset... but if there was any way to 
procure some ... I mean, it's almost impossible to get venom from an Acromantula while it's alive...”
Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than Harry now.
“... seems an awful waste not to collect it... might get a hundred Galleons a pint... to be frank, my salary is not large...”
And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done.
“Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, “well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would probably be really pleased... give Aragog a better send-off, 
you know ...”
“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn, his eyes now gleaming with enthusiasm. “I tell you what, Harry, I'll meet you down there with a bottle or two... we'll drink the 
poor beast's—well — not health—but we'll send it off in style, anyway, once it's buried. And I'll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the occasion...”
He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to Hagrid's, delighted with himself.
“Yeh came,” croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door and saw Harry emerging from the Invisibility Cloak in front of him.
“Yeah—Ron and Hermione couldn't, though,” said Harry. “They're really sorry.”
“Don'—don’ matter... He'd've bin touched yeh're here, though, Harry...”
Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen. Harry 
patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach.
“Where are we burying him?” he asked. “The forest?”
“Blimey, no,” said Hagrid, wiping his streaming eyes on the bottom of his shirt. “The other spiders won’ let me anywhere near their webs now Aragog's gone. Turns 
out it was only on his orders they didn’ eat me! Can yeh believe that, Harry?”
The honest answer was “yes"; Harry recalled with painful ease the scene when he and Ron had come face-to-face with the aeromantulas. They had been quite clear that 
Aragog was the only thing that stopped them from eating Hagrid.
“Never bin an area o’ the forest I couldn’ go before!” said Hagrid, shaking his head. “It wasn’ easy, gettin’ Aragog's body out o’ there, I can tell yeh—they 
usually eat their dead, see... but I wanted ter give ‘im a nice burial... a proper send-off...”
He broke into sobs again and Harry resumed the patting of his elbow, saying as he did so (for the potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing to do), 
“Professor Slughorn met me coming down here, Hagrid.”
“Not in trouble, are yeh?” said Hagrid, looking up, alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the evenin', I know it, it's my fault —”
“No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he'd like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,” said Harry. “He's gone to change into something more 
suitable, I think... and he said he'd bring some bottles so we can drink to Aragog's memory...”
“Did he?” said Hagrid, looking both astonished and touched. “Tha's—tha's righ’ nice of him, that is, an’ not turnin’ yeh in either. I've never really had a lot 
ter do with Horace Slughorn before... comin’ ter see old Aragog off, though, eh? Well... he'd've liked that, Aragog would...”
Harry thought privately that what Aragog would have liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the rear window 
of Hagrid's hut, where he saw the rather horrible sight of the enormous dead spider lying on its back outside, its legs curled and tangled.
“Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your garden?”
“Jus’ beyond the pumpkin patch, I thought,” said Hagrid in a choked voice. “I've already dug the — yeh know—grave. Jus’ thought we'd say a few nice things over 
him—happy memories, yeh know —”
His voice quivered and broke. There was a knock on the door, and he turned to answer it, blowing his nose on his great spotted handkerchief as he did so. Slughorn 
hurried over the threshold, several bottles in his arms, and wearing a somber black cravat.
“Hagrid,” he said, in a deep, grave voice. “So very sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Tha's very nice of yeh,” said Hagrid. “Thanks a lot. An’ thanks fer not givin Harry detention neither...”
“Wouldn't have dreamed of it,” said Slughorn. “Sad night, sad night... where is the poor creature?”
“Out here,” said Hagrid in a shaking voice. “Shall we—shall we do it, then?”
The three of them stepped out into the back garden. The moon was glistening palely through the trees now, and its rays mingled with the light spilling from Hagrid's 
window to illuminate Aragog's body lying on the edge of a massive pit beside a ten-foot-high mound of freshly dug earth.
“Magnificent,” said Slughorn, approaching the spider's head, where eight milky eyes stared blankly at the sky and two huge, curved pincers shone, motionless, in the 
moonlight. Harry thought he heard the tinkle of bottles as Slughorn bent over the pincers, apparently examining the enormous hairy head.
“It's not ev'ryone appreciates how beau'iful they are,” said Hagrid to Slughorn's back, tears leaking from the corners of his crinkled eyes. “I didn’ know yeh were 
interested in creatures like Aragog, Horace.”
“Interested? My dear Hagrid, I revere them,” said Slughorn, stepping back from the body. Harry saw the glint of a bottle disappear beneath his cloak, though Hagrid, 
mopping his eyes once more, noticed nothing. “Now... shall we proceed to the burial?”
Hagrid nodded and moved forward. He heaved the gigantic spider into his arms and, with an enormous grunt, rolled it into the dark pit. It hit the bottom with a rather 
horrible, crunchy thud. Hagrid started to cry again.
“Of course, it's difficult for you, who knew him best,” said Slughorn, who like Harry could reach no higher than Hagrid's elbow, but patted it all the same. “Why 
don't I say a few words?”
He must have got a lot of good quality venom from Aragog, Harry thought, for Slughorn wore a satisfied smirk as he stepped up to the rim of the pit and said, in a slow, 
impressive voice, “Farewell, Aragog, king of arachnids, whose long and faithful friendship those who knew you won't forget! Though your body will decay, your spirit 
lingers on in the quiet, web-spun places of your forest home. May your many-eyed descendants ever flourish and your human friends find solace for the loss they have 
sustained.”
“Tha wa... tha wa... beau'iful!” howled Hagrid, and he collapsed onto the compost heap, crying harder than ever.
“There, there,” said Slughorn, waving his wand so that the huge pile of earth rose up and then fell, with a muffled sort of crash, onto the dead spider, forming a 
smooth mound. “Lets get inside and have a drink. Get on his other side, Harry... that's it... up you come, Hagrid... well done...”
They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table. Fang, who had been skulking in his basket during the burial, now came padding softly across to them and put his heavy 
head into Harry's lap as usual. Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had brought.
“I have had it all tested for poison,” he assured Harry, pouring most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid's bucket-sized mugs and handing it to Hagrid. “Had a 
house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to your poor friend Rupert.”
Harry saw, in his mind's eye, the expression on Hermione's face if she ever heard about this abuse of house-elves, and decided never to mention it to her.
“One for Harry...” said Slughorn, dividing a second bottle between two mugs, “... and one for me. Well,— he raised his mug high, “to Aragog.”
“Aragog,” said Harry and Hagrid together.
Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Harry, however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he merely pretended to 
take a gulp and then set the mug back on the table before him.
“I had him from an egg, yeh know,” said Hagrid morosely. “'Tiny little thing he was when he hatched. ‘Bout the size of a Pekingese”
“Sweet,” said Slughorn.
“Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school until... well...”
Hagrid's face darkened and Harry knew why: Tom Riddle had contrived to have Hagrid thrown out of school, blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn, however, 
did not seem to be listening; he was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright white hair.
“That's not unicorn hair, Hagrid?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Hagrid indifferently. “Gets pulled out of their tails, they catch it on branches an’ stuff in the forest, yeh know ...”
“But my dear chap, do you know how much that's worth?”
“I use it fer bindin’ on bandages an’ stuff if a creature gets in jured,” said Hagrid, shrugging. “It's dead useful... very strong.”
Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug, his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now, looking, Harry knew, for more treasures that he might be able to 
convert into a plentiful supply of oak-matured mead, crystalized pineapple, and velvet smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid's mug and his own, and questioned him about 
the creatures that lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming expansive under the influence of the drink and 
Slughorn's flattering interest, stopped mopping his eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of Bowtruckle husbandry.
The Felix Felicis gave Harry a little nudge at this point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Harry had not yet 
managed to bring off the Refilling Charm without saying the incantation aloud, but the idea that he might not be able to do it tonight was laughable: indeed, Harry 
grinned to himself as, unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn (now swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs) he pointed his wand under the table at the 
emptying bottles and they immediately began to refill.
After an hour or so, Hagrid and Slughorn began making extravagant toasts: to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to elf-made wine, and to—
“Harry Potter!” bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he drained it.
“Yes, indeed,” cried Slughorn a little thickly, “Parry Otter, the Chosen Boy Who—well — something of that sort,” he mumbled, and drained his mug too.
Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who pocketed it with cries of, “To friendship! To generosity! To ten 
Galleons a hair!”
And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo.
“Aaargh, the good die young,” muttered Hagrid, slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. “Me dad was no age 
ter go ... nor were yer mum’ an’ dad, Harry...”
Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid's crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry's arm and shook it
“Bes’ wiz and witchard o’ their age I never knew... terrible thing... terrible thing...”
Slughorn sang plaintively.
“And Odo the hero, they bore him back home
To the place that he'd known as a lad,
They laid him to rest with his hat inside out.
And his wand snapped in two, which was sad.”
“... terrible,” Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep, snoring deeply.
“Sorry,” said Slughorn with a hiccup. “Can't carry a tune to save my life.”
“Hagrid wasn't talking about your singing,” said Harry quietly. “He was talking about my mum and dad dying.”
“Oh,” said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. “Oh dear. Yes, that was—was terrible indeed. Terrible... terrible...”
He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs.
“I don't—don't suppose you remember it, Harry?” he asked awkwardly.
“No—well, I was only one when they died,” said Harry, his eyes on the flame of the candle flickering in Hagrid's heavy snores. “But I've found out pretty much what 
happened since. My dad died first. Did you know that?”
“I—I didn't,” said Slughorn in a hushed voice.
“Yeah... Voldemort murdered him and then stepped over his body toward my mum,” said Harry.
Slughorn gave a great shudder, but he did not seem able to tear his horrified gaze away from Harry's face.
“He told her to get out of the way,” said Harry remorselessly. “He told me she needn't have died. He only wanted me. She could have run.”
“Oh dear,” breathed Slughorn. “She could have... she needn't... that's awful...”
“It is, isn't it?” said Harry, in a voice barely more than a whisper. “But she didn't move. Dad was already dead, but she didn't want me to go too. She tried to 
plead with Voldemort... but he just laughed....”
“That's enough!” said Slughorn suddenly, raising a shaking hand. “Really, my dear boy, enough... I'm an old man... I don't need to hear... I don't want to hear...”
“I forgot,” lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on. “You liked her, didn't you?”
“Liked her?” said Slughorn, his eyes brimming with tears once more. “I don't imagine anyone who met her wouldn't have liked her... very brave... very funny... it was 
the most horrible thing...”
“But you won't help her son,” said Harry. “She gave me her life, but you won't give me a memory.”
Hagrid's rumbling snores filled the cabin. Harry looked steadily into Slughorn's tear-filled eyes. The Potions master seemed unable to look away.
“Don't say that,” he whispered. “It isn't a question... if it were to help you, of course... but no purpose can be serve...”
“It can,” said Harry clearly. “Dumbledore needs information. I need information.”
He knew he was safe: Felix was telling him that Slughorn would remember nothing of this in the morning. Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry leaned forward a 
little.
“I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that memory.”
Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead gleamed with sweat.
“You are the Chosen One?”
“Of course I am,” said Harry calmly.
“But the... my dear boy... you're asking a great deal... you're asking me, in fact, to aid you in your attempt to destroy—”
“You don't want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?”
“Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —”
“You're scared he'll find out you helped me?”
Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified.
“Be brave like my mother, Professor...”
Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment like an enormously overgrown baby.
“I am not proud...” he whispered through his fingers. “I am ashamed of what—of what that memory shows... I think I may have done great damage that day...”
“You'd cancel out anything you did by giving me the memory,” said Harry. “It would be a very brave and noble thing to do.”
Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn and Harry stared at each other over the guttering candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix Felicis told 
Harry not to break it, to wait.
Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty bottle. Still looking 
into Harry's eyes, Slughorn touched the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory came away too, clinging to the wand tip. 
Longer and longer the memory stretched until it broke and swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread, 
swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a trembling hand and then passed it across the table to Harry.
“Thank you very much, Professor.”
“You're a good boy,” said Professor Slughorn, tears trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus mustache. “And you've got her eyes... just don't think too badly of 
me once you've seen it...”
And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep.
一片片湛蓝的天空开始出现在了城堡塔楼的上空，但这些夏天临近的征兆并没有使哈利振奋起来。无论是试图查出马尔福在干什么，还是试图去和斯拉霍恩教授进行一场促使他交出那个被隐藏
了几十年的记忆的谈话，他毫无进展可言。
 
　　“我最后一次告诉你，忘了马尔福的事，”赫敏坚定地告诉哈利。
 
　　午饭之后，他们正和罗恩一起坐在晴朗的院子里。赫敏和罗恩都抓着一本魔法部的小册子：《幻影显形常见错误及避免办法》，因为他们要在当天下午去参加测试，不过那本册子基本上没
有安抚他们的焦虑。这时有个女孩走了过来，罗恩愣了一下，赶紧躲在了赫敏的背后。
 
　　“那不是拉文德，”赫敏疲倦地说。
 
　　“哦，好，”罗恩松了口气。
 
　　“哈利·波特？”那个女孩说。“有人让我给你这个。”
 
　　“谢谢……”
 
　　哈利打开这卷羊皮纸时心沉了下去。等到那个女孩听不见他们的谈话之后，他说，“邓布利多说在我拿到那份记忆之前不会再开课了！”
 
　　“或许他只想核实一下你做得怎么样？”哈利摊开羊皮纸时，赫敏说；可是哈利没有看到邓布利多的细长而倾斜的书法，取而代之的是凌乱不堪的潦草字迹，羊皮纸上写字的地方污迹斑斑
，使得这张字条的内容非常难以辨认。
 
　　亲爱的哈利、罗恩和赫敏，
 
　　阿拉戈克昨天夜里死了。哈利、罗恩，你们见过他，知道他是多么的特别！赫敏，我知道你也很喜欢他。如果你们能过来出席他的今晚的葬礼，那将对我意义深重。我计划在黄昏时分举行
葬礼，那是他一天中最喜欢的时候。我知道你们在那么晚的时候不该出城堡，但你们可以用上隐形斗篷。我本不想让你们来，可是我没法一个人面对。
 
　　海格
 
　　“看看这个，”哈利说，把便条给赫敏。
 
　　“哦，我的天哪！”她匆匆地扫视了一遍就递给了罗恩，罗恩一边读着，脸上一边浮现出难以置信的表情。
 
　　“他疯了！”他狂暴地说。“那个东西曾让它的伙伴吃了哈利和我！还告诉它们要尽情享用！而现在海格却想让我们去那儿扑在它那可怕的毛茸茸的身体上哭？”
 
　　“不仅如此，”赫敏说。“他还让我们在夜里离开城堡。他知道安全级别已经被提升了几百万倍，如果我们被逮到了，会惹出多大的麻烦啊。”
 
　　“但我们以前曾在夜里见过他，”哈利说。
 
　　“是的，但不是在这种情况下！”赫敏说。“我们冒过很大的风险去救海格，但毕竟——阿拉戈克死了。如果是为了救它的话——”
 
　　“——我就更不想去了，”罗恩坚决地说。“你以前可从没有见过它，赫敏。相信我，死亡已经让它看上去好得多了。”
 
　　哈利拿回了那张字条，低头看到上面遍布着墨水浸渍的痕迹。显然羊皮纸上滴过粗大的泪珠……
 
　　“哈利，你不可能想去，”赫敏说。“为此而被关禁闭毫无意义！”
 
　　哈利叹了口气。
 
　　“是的，我知道。”他说。“我想海格可能不得不独自埋葬阿拉戈克了。”
 
　　“是的，他会的，”赫敏看上去松了口气。“听我说，今天下午上魔药课的人寥寥无几，因为我们都会去参加测试……到时候试着再去软化软化斯拉霍恩吧！”
 
　　“你以为第五十七次尝试会幸运点儿吗？”哈利苦涩地说。
 
　　“幸运，”罗恩突然说。“哈利，我知道了——幸运！”
 
　　“你是什么意思？”
 
　　“用你的幸运药水！”
 
　　“罗恩，对——对了！”赫敏震惊地说。“当然！我怎么就没想到呢！”
 
　　哈利盯着他们俩。“飞力飞思？”他说。“我不知道……我有点儿想留着它……”
 
　　“干什么？”罗恩难以置信地问。
 
　　“到底有什么比这份记忆更重要的，哈利？”赫敏问。
 
　　哈利没有回答。那个金色的瓶子在他的脑海边盘旋了一会儿；还有拆散金妮和迪安以及罗恩高兴地看到他妹妹有了新男友的那些不成形的计划，都已经在他的大脑深处酝酿着。除了在梦境
和那些半梦半醒的恍惚瞬间之外，他从来没有承认过这些……
 
　　“哈利？你在听我们说吗？”赫敏问。
 
　　“什么——？是的，当然，”他重新振作了起来。“那么……好吧。如果我今天下午还是不能和斯拉霍恩搭上话，那今晚就喝下一些飞力飞思再试一次。”
 
　　“那就这么定了，”赫敏轻快地说，她站了起来，踮起脚尖做了个优雅的旋转。“目的地……决心……从容不迫……”
 
　　“哦，别说了，”罗恩哀求道，“我已经够厌烦了——快，把我藏起来！”
 
　　“不是拉文德！”赫敏不耐烦地说，刚才正好又有两个女生出现在院子里，罗恩马上躲了起来。
 
　　“酷啊，”罗恩把眼睛移到赫敏的肩头检查了一下。“啊呀，她们看上去不太高兴，是吧？”
 
　　“她们是蒙哥马利姐妹，当然不会高兴，你难道没听说她们的弟弟出了什么事吗？”赫敏说。
 
　　“老实说，我已经记不住每个人的亲戚都出了什么事了，”罗恩说。
 
　　“好吧，她们的弟弟被一个狼人攻击了！有传闻说是因为她们的妈妈不肯为食死徒效力。不管怎么说，那个男孩才五岁，却已经死在了圣芒戈，他们救不了他。”
 
　　“他死了？”哈利震惊地重复道。“但狼人肯定不杀人啊，他们不是只会把你变成他们的同类吗？”
 
　　“他们有时候也杀人，”罗恩的表情严肃得有些不正常。“我曾经听说过狼人在失去自制力时干过这样的事情。”
 
　　“那个狼人叫什么？”哈利迅速说。
 
　　“嗯，好像传闻里说叫芬利·格雷巴克，”赫敏说。
 
　　“我就知道——那个喜欢袭击小孩的疯子，卢平告诉我的那个人！”哈利愤怒地说。
 
　　赫敏冷冷地看着他。
 
　　“哈利，你必须去拿那份记忆，”她说。“这和阻止伏地魔关系密切，对吗？这些可怕的事情都应该归咎于他……”
 
　　他们头顶上响起了城堡的钟声，赫敏和罗恩都跳了起来，看上去惊恐万分。
 
　　“你们会做得很好的，”当他们和其他参加幻影显形测试的学生在门厅汇合的时候，哈利对他们说。“祝你们好运。”
 
　　“你也一样！”赫敏意味深长地看了他一眼，与此同时哈利回头走向了地下教室。
 
　　只有三个人去上课：哈利、厄尼和德拉科·马尔福。
 
　　“你们都不能去参加测试吗？”斯拉霍恩和蔼地说。“还没到十七岁？”
 
　　他们都摇了摇头表示的确如此。
 
　　“好吧，”斯拉霍恩愉快地说，“既然我们人太少了，那就做点有趣的事情吧。我希望你们几个能为我制造出一些有趣的东西！”
 
　　“听起来很棒，教授，”厄尼奉承地说，两只手搓在一起。而马尔福却没有笑。
 
　　“你说的是什么意思，‘有趣’的东西？”他急躁地说。
 
　　“哦，让我感到惊讶的东西，”斯拉霍恩轻描淡写地回答。
 
　　马尔福板着脸打开了他的《高级魔药制备》。再明显不过了，他觉得这堂课是在浪费时间。哈利越过自己的书盯着马尔福，一边想，毫无疑问马尔福不愿意把时间花在有求必应屋里以外的
地方。
 
　　是他的想象，还是马尔福的确像唐克斯一样变瘦了？他的脸色的确是更苍白了；皮肤仍然带着灰色的色调，很有可能是因为他最近很少接触阳光。他看上去不再装模作样、兴奋和高傲了；
也不再像他在霍格沃茨特快列车上公开夸耀伏地魔交给自己的使命时那样狂妄自大……哈利认为只有一种解释：那个使命——无论它是什么——进行得并不顺利。
 
　　受到这种想法的鼓舞，哈利开始浏览起他的那本《高级魔药制备》，他发现混血王子对安乐魔药进行了重大的改进，那看起来不仅符合斯拉霍恩的要求，而且哈利突然想到（他想到这个点
子时心猛地一跳）如果他说服斯拉霍恩服用一些，说不定会让他变得心情愉快，说不定他就会交出那份记忆了……
 
　　“嗯，看上去绝对令人惊叹，”一个半小时后教授拍着手说，他正看着哈利坩埚里金黄的液体。“我猜这是安乐魔药吧？我闻到什么了？嗯……你加了一枝薄荷，是不是？这不是正统的方
法，但这是多好的灵感啊，哈利。那当然会消除它偶尔的副反应——不断地唱歌和拧鼻子……我真的不知道你是从哪儿得到的这些灵感，我的孩子……除非——”
 
　　哈利用脚把混血王子的书往书包深处踩了踩。
 
　　“——或许是你母亲的基因传给了你吧！”
 
　　“哦……是啊，也许吧，”哈利松了口气。
 
　　厄尼看上去心情很遭；为了胜过哈利一次，他轻率地自己发明了一种魔药，但那东西在他的坩埚里凝固成了一个紫色的团子。马尔福早就在板着脸收拾东西了；斯拉霍恩刚刚宣布他的打嗝
溶液仅仅‘说得过去’。
 
　　铃声响了，厄尼和马尔福马上离开了教室。
 
　　“教授，”哈利开口说，可是斯拉霍恩迅速回头瞥了一眼；当他看到整间教室只有他和哈利时，马上飞也似地跑了。
 
　　“教授——教授，难道你不想尝一下我的药——？”哈利绝望地叫道。
 
　　但他已经走了。哈利失望地清空了坩埚，整理好自己的东西，离开了地下教室向楼上的公共休息室慢慢走去。
 
　　赫敏和罗恩在将近傍晚的时候回来了。
 
　　“哈利！”赫敏一钻出肖像洞就叫道。“哈利，我通过了！”
 
　　“干得好！”他说。“罗恩呢？”
 
　　“他——他没通过，”赫敏低声说，这时罗恩无精打采地进来了，看上去郁郁寡欢。“真是不走运，小事一桩，主考官吹毛求疵地说他落下了半片眉毛……斯拉霍恩那儿怎么样？”
 
　　“没什么值得高兴的，”哈利说，这时罗恩加入了他们。“不走运，哥们，不过下次你一定会过的——我们可以一起参加。”
 
　　“是啊，我想也是，”罗恩暴躁地说。“只是半片眉毛！好像那很重要似的！”
 
　　“我知道，”赫敏安慰地说，“的确太苛刻了……”
 
　　他们整个晚餐期间都在全面批驳幻影显形的主考官，回到公共休息室的时候罗恩看起来稍微开心了一些，于是他们开始讨论起接下来的问题，那就是斯拉霍恩和他的那份记忆。
 
　　“那么，哈利——你是要用飞力飞思还是怎么样？”罗恩问。
 
　　“是啊，我想最好还是那样吧，”哈利说。“我想不用把它都喝了，用不着二十四个小时，这不可能花掉整个晚上的时间——就喝一口。两三个小时就成了。”
 
　　“服用它的感觉真棒，”罗恩怀念地说。“好像你怎么做都不会错一样。”
 
　　“你在说什么呀？”赫敏笑着说。“你从来都没有服用过！”
 
　　“是的，不过我以为我喝过，对吗？”罗恩仿佛是在解释显而易见的道理。“真的都一样……”
 
　　由于他们刚才看到斯拉霍恩进了礼堂，知道他吃饭挺慢的，所以他们就在休息室里逗留了一阵子，计划是哈利要等这位魔药课老师回去之后再出发。当太阳已经挂到了禁林的树梢上时，他
们确信出发的时刻到了。在仔细地核实了纳威、迪安和西莫都在休息室之后，他们三个偷偷溜进了男生宿舍。
 
　　哈利从箱底拿出了卷起来的袜子，取出了一只闪闪发光的小瓶子。
 
　　“好了，就是它，”哈利举起小瓶，小心翼翼地喝了一口。
 
　　“什么感觉？”赫敏小声说。
 
　　哈利刚开始没有回答。接着，一种神清气爽的感觉缓慢而又清晰地传遍了全身；他感觉自己可以做到任何事，所有的事……获取斯拉霍恩的记忆这件事突然间不仅变得可能，而且还显得轻
而易举了……
 
　　他微笑着站了起来，充满了自信。
 
　　“太棒了，”他说。“真的太棒了。好的……我要到海格那儿去。”
 
　　“什么？”罗恩和赫敏同时惊骇地说。
 
　　“不，哈利——你得去见斯拉霍恩，记得吗？”赫敏说。
 
　　“不，”哈利自信地说。“我要去海格那儿，我感觉去海格那儿会很棒！”
 
　　“埋葬一只巨型的蜘蛛会让你感觉很棒？”罗恩震惊地问。
 
　　“是的，”哈利把他的隐形斗篷从书包里拽了出来。“我觉得就应该去那儿，你知道我是什么意思吧？”
 
　　“不知道，”罗恩和赫敏同时说，现在看上去有些惊慌失措了。
 
　　“我想这到底是飞力飞思吗？”赫敏担忧地说，她把那个小瓶举到光线下。“你是不是还有另外一满瓶——我不知道——”
 
　　“疯脑精？”罗恩猜测道，这时哈利把斗篷披到了肩上。
 
　　哈利笑了，但罗恩和赫敏看上去更慌张了。
 
　　“相信我，”他说。“我知道我在做什么……或者至少……”他自信地走到门口，“飞力飞思知道。”
 
　　他把斗篷拉到脑袋上，开始下楼，罗恩和赫敏则急匆匆地跟在身后。下完楼梯哈利溜出了敞开的门。
 
　　“你在和她在那儿干什么？”拉文德·布朗惊叫道，她的目光穿过哈利直勾勾地盯着正从男生宿舍里走出来的罗恩和赫敏。哈利迅速穿过大厅的时候听见罗恩结结巴巴地在后面说话。
 
　　穿过肖像洞很容易；他刚一走近，金妮和迪安正好爬了过来，于是哈利从他们溜了过去。他经过的时候无意间擦了金妮一下。
 
　　“请别推我，迪安，”她恼怒地说。“你总是这样子，我靠自己能爬得好。”
 
　　画像在哈利身后关上了，但在此之前他听到了迪安愤怒的反驳……他得意的情绪高涨了起来，哈利大步在城堡里穿行。他不必蹑手蹑脚，因为一路上根本没有人，不过这个一点儿也没有令
他感到惊讶：今天晚上他是霍格沃茨最幸运的人。
 
　　他不知道为什么去海格那儿是正确的选择。好像魔药每次都只提示他接下来几步该怎么做：他看不到最终的目的地，他看不到斯拉霍恩何时出现，但他知道自己正走在获取记忆的正确道路
上。他来到门厅时发现费尔奇忘了锁门。哈利满心欢喜地推开门，闻了一会儿新鲜空气和草地的气息，然后走下台阶踏进了黄昏之中。
 
　　他刚走下最后一级台阶，突然想到去海格那儿之前先去菜地走走是多么令人愉快。严格地说，它不在去小屋的路上，但哈利清楚地感觉到他应该把这个念头付诸实践，于是他立刻调整了方
向往那片菜地走去，到了那儿之后，他高兴地（却不是很惊讶地）发现斯拉霍恩教授正在和斯普劳特教授谈话。哈利躲到了一扇矮石墙的后面，气定神闲地听着他们的谈话。
 
　　“……非常感谢你抽空帮我，波莫娜，”斯拉霍恩彬彬有礼地说。“大多数权威都承认在白天和黑夜交际的时候采摘它们是最灵验的。”
 
　　“哦，我也很赞同，”斯普劳特教授热情地说。“那些够了吗？”
 
　　“足够了，足够了，”斯拉霍恩说，哈利看到他正抱着一堆枝叶茂盛的植物。“这足够我给每一名三年级学生都发几片叶子了，还要足够留些备用，以免有人把它煮过头了……好了，晚安
，再次多谢！”
 
　　斯普劳特教授走向了黑暗笼罩下温室的那个方位，而斯拉霍恩教授则向哈利隐藏的地方走了过来。
 
　　哈利突然被一股显露自己的强烈愿望抓住了，于是他把斗篷取下来挥了挥。
 
　　“晚上好，教授。”
 
　　“天哪，哈利，你吓了我一跳，”斯拉霍恩说，他停下了脚步，看上去很警觉。“你是怎么出城堡的？”
 
　　“我想是费尔奇忘记锁门了，”哈利愉快地说，同时很高兴地看到斯拉霍恩皱起了眉头。
 
　　“我会向校长告他一状的，如果你问我的话，他对垃圾的关心要胜过适当的安全措施……但是你为什么要出来，哈利？”
 
　　“嗯，先生，是因为海格，”哈利知道此刻要做的是说实话。“他相当心烦意乱……但请你别告诉任何人，教授？我不想替他惹麻烦……”
 
　　斯拉霍恩的好奇心明显地被勾起来了。
 
　　“不过，我不能那样承诺，”他粗声粗气地说。“但我知道邓布利多完全信任海格，所以我相信他不会想去做任何可怕的事情……”
 
　　“嗯，是一只巨型蜘蛛，他养了很多年了……它住在禁林里……它可以说话和做任何事情——”
 
　　“我听传言说过禁林里有八眼巨蛛，”斯拉霍恩温柔地说，看着大片的树林。“那么，这是真的吗？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利说。“不过这一只——阿拉戈克，海格拥有的第一只——昨天夜里死了。他悲痛欲绝。他说埋葬它的时候想要找个人陪陪，然后我说我来吧。”
 
　　“令人同情，令人同情，”斯拉霍恩心不在焉地说，他无精打采的眼睛正盯着远处海格小屋里射出的光线。“但八眼巨蛛的毒液非常值钱……如果它刚死掉，毒液应该还没有干……当然如
果海格很烦乱，我绝不会做这种麻木不仁的事情……但如果有可能弄到一些……我是说，它活着的时候几乎没有可能弄到毒液……”
 
　　斯拉霍恩更像是在自言自语，而不是在和哈利说话。
 
　　“……似乎不去收集的话会是一种极大的浪费……一品托可能就值一百加隆……老实说，我的薪水可不高啊……”
 
　　现在哈利很清楚要做什么了。
 
　　“那么，”他假装踌躇了一会儿，然后说，“那么，如果你想来，教授，海格一定会非常高兴的……会给阿拉戈克一个更好的送行……”
 
　　“是的，当然了，”斯拉霍恩说，他的眼睛热情地闪着光。“我告诉你，哈利，我会带一两瓶酒在那儿和你碰面……我们要举杯痛饮，祝福那头可怜的野兽的——嗯——不是健康——但是
不管怎么样，把它埋葬了之后，我们要为它郑重地送行。现在我要去换换我的领带，这条有点儿太华丽了，不适合那个场合……”
 
　　他飞速地奔回了城堡，于是哈利洋洋得意地快步向海格的小屋走去。
 
　　“你来了，”海格嘶哑地说，他打开门看到哈利从隐形斗篷下出现，站在了他的面前。
 
　　“是的——不过罗恩和赫敏来不了，”哈利说。“他们真的很抱歉。”
 
　　“不——不要紧……你能来他已经会很感动了，哈利……”
 
　　海格发出了一声很响的抽泣。他戴着一只黑色的袖章，看起来像一块浸了鞋油的破布，他两眼通红、肿大。哈利安慰地拍了拍他的肘，那是他可以够得到的最高点。
 
　　“我们在哪儿埋它？”他问。“禁林吗？”
 
　　“啊，不，”海格用他衬衣的下摆擦了擦泪汪汪的眼睛。“阿拉戈克走了之后，其他的蜘蛛都不让我接近它们的网了。原来从前是他命令他们不吃掉我的。你相信吗，哈利？”
 
　　诚实回答是‘能’；哈利痛苦地回想起了他和罗恩面对着那只八眼巨蛛的情景：他们很清楚就是阿拉戈克阻止那些蜘蛛吃海格的。
 
　　“以前禁林里从来没有我去不了的地方！”海格摇着头说。“不容易啊，把阿拉戈克的遗体带出来，我告诉你——他们经常吃同伴的遗体……但我想把他好好埋了……一点适当的送行……
”
 
　　他又开始抽泣了起来，哈利也接着拍起了他的肘，同时说（因为魔药似乎向他指明了那是唯一正确的事），“我来的时候碰见斯拉霍恩教授了，海格。”
 
　　“你没惹上麻烦吧？”海格惊慌地抬起头说。“你不该在晚间走出城堡的，我知道，是我的错——”
 
　　“没有，没有，在听我说了过来的原因之后，他说他愿意和我一起来，并对阿拉戈克致以最后的敬意，”哈利说。“我想他是换更合适的衣服去了……他说他会带几瓶酒过来，这样我们就
能为阿拉戈克的回忆干杯了——”
 
　　“是吗？”海格看上去既惊讶又感动。“那——那他真是太好了，而且还没有告发你。我之前和贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩还真的没什么接触……可他却要来为老阿拉戈克送行，嗯？好吧……他会
喜欢的，阿拉戈克会……”
 
　　哈利私底下想，阿拉戈克最喜欢斯拉霍恩的地方肯定是他能提供那么多肉给他吃，但他只是走到海格屋子的后窗边，看到了那只的巨大的死蜘蛛躺在外面的恐怖景象，它的腿蜷曲和缠结在
了一起。
 
　　“我们要把它埋在这儿吗，海格，你的园子里？”
 
　　“我想就在南瓜地的那一头，”海格哽咽着说。“我已经挖了一个——坟墓。只是想我们会在上面为他祷告——幸福的回忆，你知道——”
 
　　他的声音颤抖着停止了。有人敲门，他转过身去应答，同时用他污迹斑斑的手帕擤了一下鼻子。斯拉霍恩迅速迈进了门，他系着一条暗黑色的领带，手里拿着几个瓶子。
 
　　“海格，”他用一种低沉、庄重的声音说。“听说你失去了朋友，我感到很遗憾。”
 
　　“你真是太好了，”海格说。“多谢。也谢谢你没有让哈利关禁闭……”
 
　　“做梦也没有想过，”斯拉霍恩说。“悲伤的夜晚，悲伤的夜晚……那只可怜的动物在哪儿？”
 
　　他们三个出门走进了后面的园子，月光黯淡地穿过树林，和海格窗子里的光线混到一起照在了阿拉戈克的尸体上，它正躺在一个大坑边缘，旁边是新挖的十英尺高的土。
 
　　“真漂亮啊，”斯拉霍恩前走近了蜘蛛的脑袋，它八只乳白色的眼睛黯淡无光地看着天空，在月光下，它的两只大钳子一动也不动。斯拉霍恩扳动钳子的时候哈利听到了瓶子碰撞的声音，
显然他正在检查它毛茸茸的大脑袋。
 
　　“不是每个人都会他们的美丽，”海格对着斯拉霍恩的背影说，眼泪从他布满皱纹的眼角流了下来。“我不知道你也对阿拉戈克这样的动物感兴趣，贺瑞斯。”
 
　　“感兴趣？亲爱的海格，我敬畏他们，”斯拉霍恩从尸体旁边走了回来。哈利看见一道瓶子的光在他的斗篷下闪过，不过海格又揉了揉眼睛，没有注意到。“现在……我们该进行葬礼了吧
？”
 
　　海格点了点头，向前走去。他举起了那只巨大的蜘蛛，大喊一声，把尸体投进了阴暗的大坑。它碰到坑底之后发出了一声嘎吱的巨响。海格又哭了起来。
 
　　“当然，对你来说很难，你是他最好的朋友，”斯拉霍恩和哈利一样，也只够得到海格的肘，可他还是拍了拍，“不如让我来说几句吧。”
 
　　哈利想他一定从阿拉戈克身上得到许多高质量的毒药，因为斯拉霍恩往坑边走去时，脸上带着满意的假笑，他用一种令人印象深刻的缓慢语气说，“永别了，阿拉戈克，蜘蛛之王，认识你
的人将不会忘记你长久、忠诚的友谊！虽然你的身躯将会腐烂，但是你的精神将会留存在宁静祥和、蛛网密布的禁林家园，愿你多眼的子孙永远繁盛，愿你那遭受丧友之
Chapter 23 Horcruxes
Harry could feel the Felix Felicis wearing off as he creeped back into the castle. The front door had remainedun locked for him, but on the third floor he met Peeves 
and only narrowly avoided detection by diving sideways through one of his shortcuts. By the time he got up to the portrait of the Fat Lady and pulled off his 
Invisibility Cloak, he was not surprised to find her in a most unhelpful mood.
“What sort of time do you call this?”
“I'm really sorry—I had to go out for something important—”
“Well, the password changed at midnight, so you'll just have to sleep in the corridor, won't you?”
“You're joking!” said Harry. “Why did it have to change at midnight?”
“That's the way it is,” said the Fat Lady. “If you're angry, go and take it up with the Headmaster, he's the one who's tightened security.”
“Fantastic,” said Harry bitterly, looking around at the hard floor. “Really brilliant. Yeah, I would go and take it up with Dumbledore if he was here, because he's 
the one who wanted me to —”
“He is here,” said a voice behind Harry. “Professor Dumbledore returned to the school an hour ago.”
Nearly Headless Nick was gliding toward Harry, his head wobbling as usual upon his ruff.
“I had it from the Bloody Baron, who saw him arrive,” said Nick. “He appeared, according to the Baron, to be in good spirits, though a little tired, of course.”
“Where is he?” said Harry, his heart leaping.
“Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy Tower, it's a favorite pastime of his —”
“Not the Bloody Baron — Dumbledore!”
“Oh—in his office,” said Nick. “I believe, from what the Baron said, that he had business to attend to before turning in —”
“Yeah, he has,” said Harry, excitement blazing in his chest at the prospect of telling Dumbledore he had secured the memory. He wheeled about and sprinted off again, 
ignoring the Fat Lady who was calling after him.
“Come back! All right, I lied! I was annoyed you woke me up! The password's still ‘tapeworm'!”
But Harry was already hurtling back along the corridor and within minutes, he was saying “toffee eclairs” to Dumbledore's gargoyle, which leapt aside, permitting 
Harry entrance onto the spiral staircase.
“Enter,” said Dumbledore when Harry knocked. He sounded exhausted.
Harry pushed open the door. There was Dumbledore's office, looking the same as ever, but with black, star-strewn skies beyond the windows.
“Good gracious, Harry,” said Dumbledore in surprise. “To what do I owe this very late pleasure?”
“Sir—I've got it. I've got the memory from Slughorn.”
Harry pulled out the tiny glass bottle and showed it to Dumbledore. For a moment or two, the Headmaster looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide smile.
“Harry, this is spectacular news! Very well done indeed! I knew you could do it!”
All thought of the lateness of the hour apparently forgotten, he hurried around his desk, took the bottle with Slughorn's memory in his uninjured hand, and strode over 
to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve.
“And now,” said Dumbledore, placing the stone basin upon the desk and emptying the contents of the bottle into it. “Now, at last, we shall see. Harry, quickly...”
Harry bowed obediently over the Pensieve and felt his feet leave the office floor... once again he fell through darkness and landed in Horace Slughorn's office many 
years before.
There was the much younger Slughorn, with his thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and his gingery-blond mustache, sitting again in the comfortable winged armchair in his 
office, his feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other rummaging in a box of crystallized pineapple. And there were the half dozen 
teenage boys sitting around Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them, Marvolo's gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger.
Dumbledore landed beside Harry just as Riddle asked, “Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?”
“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at Riddle, though winking at the same time. “I must say, I'd like to know 
where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”
Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.
“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite 
right, it is my favorite —”
Several of the boys tittered again.
“— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry.”
Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Harry noticed that he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as 
their leader.
“I don't know that politics would suit me, sir,” he said when the laughter had died away. “I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing.”
A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Harry was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their 
gang leader's famous ancestor.
“Nonsense,” said Slughorn briskly, “couldn't be plainer you come from decent wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong 
about a student yet.”
The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock behind him and he looked around.
“Good gracious, is it that time already? You'd better get going boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by in morrow or it's detention. Same 
goes for you, Avery.”
One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him 
look around; Riddle was still standing there.
“Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect.. .”
“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away...”
“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”
Slughorn stared at him, his thick ringers absentmindedly clawing the stem of his wine glass.
“Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?”
But Harry could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork.
“Not exactly, sir,” said Riddle. “I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it.”
“No... well... you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed,” said Slughorn.
“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you—sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously—I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could
—so I just thought I'd ask—”
It was very well done, thought Harry, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. He, Harry, had had too much experience of trying to 
wheedle information out of reluctant people not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been 
working toward this moment for weeks.
“Well,” said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, “well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, 
of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”
“I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir,” said Riddle.
His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement.
“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one 
cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form ...”
Slughorn's face crumpled and Harry found himself remembering words he had heard nearly two years before:
“I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost... but still, I was alive.”
“... few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”
But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing.
“How do you split your soul?”
“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against 
nature.”
“But how do you do it?”
“By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By commiting murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his 
advantage: he would encase the torn portion —”
“Encase? But how—?”
“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!” said Slughoin shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. “Do I look as though I have tried it—do 
I look like a killer?”
“No, sir, of course not,” said Riddle quickly. “I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to offend...”
“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn gruffly, “It is natural to feel some curiosity about these things... wizards of a certain caliber have always 
been drawn to that aspect of magic...”
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don't understand, though—just out of curiosity. I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't 
it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven—?”
“Merlin's beard, Tom!” yelped Slughorn. “Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case... bad enough to divide the soul... but to rip it 
into seven pieces...”
Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: he was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting entering into 
the conversation at all.
“Of course,” he muttered, “this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic...”
“Yes, sir, of course,” said Riddle quickly.
“But all the same, Tom... keep it quiet, what I've told—that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a 
banned subject at Hogwarts, you know... Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it...”
“I won't say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he left, but not before Harry had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had 
first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human...
“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us go...”
When Harry landed back on the office floor Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his desk. Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to speak.
“I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time,” said Dumbledore at last. “It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it tells me that 
I am right, and also how very far there is still to go...”
Harry suddenly noticed that every single one of the old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits around the walls was awake and listening in on their 
conversation. A corpulent, red nosed wizard had actually taken out an ear trumpet.
“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I am sure you understood the significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or take a few months, Tom 
Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to make himself immortal.”
“You think he succeeded then, sir?” asked Harry. “He made a Horcrux? And that's why he didn't die when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden somewhere? A bit of 
his soul was safe?”
“A bit... or more,” said Dumbledore. “You heard Voldemort, what he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more 
than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store 
it in many, separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know—as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew—no wizard had ever 
done more than tear his soul in two.”
Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his thought, and then said, “Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul.”
“Where?” asked Harry. “How?”
“You handed it to me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “The diary, Riddle's diary, the one giving instructions on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets.”
“I don't understand, sir,” said Harry.
“Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out of the diary, what you described to me was a phenomenon I had never witnessed. A mere memory starting to act and 
think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book. ... a 
fragment of soul, I was almost sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this raised as many questions as it answered. What intrigued and alarmed me most was that 
that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard.”
“I still don't understand,” said Harry.
“Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work—in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part in 
preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess somebody 
else, so that Slytherin's monster would be unleashed again.”
“Well, he didn't want his hard work to be wasted,” said Harry. “He wanted people to know he was Slytherin's heir, because he couldn't take credit at the time.”
“Quite correct,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “But don't you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts student, he 
was being remarkably blasé about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the 
self hidden and safe, not to fling it into somebody else's path and run the risk that they might destroy it—as indeed happened: that particular fragment of soul is no 
more; you saw to that.
“The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made—or had been planning to make—more 
Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense. Then you told me, two years 
later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarming statement to his Death Eaters. ’I who have gone further than 
anybody along the path that leads to immortality.’ That was what you told me he said. ’Further than anybody!’ And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death 
Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, Harry, which I don't believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldomort 
has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he had undergone seemed to me to be only explainable if his soul was mutilated beyond the 
realms of what we might call usual evil...”
“So he's made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?” said Harry. “Why couldn't he make a Sorcerer's Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in 
immortality?”
“Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years ago,” said Dumbledore. “But there are several reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer's Stone would appeal less 
than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort.
“While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality. Therefore, Voldemort 
would be entirely dependant on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to 
operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course he was prepared to drink it if it 
would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to 
continue to rely on his Horcruxes. He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see ... or as close to immortal as any 
man can be.
“But now, Harry, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than 
anyone has ever been before. You heard him, Harry: ‘Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more piece... isn't seven the most powerfully 
magical numbe...’ Isn't seven the most powerfully magical number. Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort.”
“He made seven Horcruxes?” said Harry, horror-struck, while several of the portraits on the walls made similar noises of shock and outrage. “But they could be 
anywhere in the world—hidden—buried or invisible —”
“I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the problem,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But firstly, no, Harry, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of his 
soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he 
has no self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack—the piece that lives in his body.”
“But the six Horcruxes, then,” said Harry, a little desperately, “how are we supposed to find them?”
“You are forgetting... you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another.”
“You have?” said Harry eagerly.
“Yes indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he raised his blackened, burned-looking hand. “The ring, Harry. Marvolo's ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it too. Had it 
not been—forgive me the lack of seemly modesty—for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape's timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured, 
I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort's soul. The ring is no longer a 
Horcrux.”
“But how did you find it?”
“Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to discover as much as I can about Voldemort's past life. I have traveled widely, visiting those 
places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunt's house. It seem that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul in 
side it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been 
carted off to Azkaban, of course), never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical 
concealment.
“However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. You destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, four 
Horcruxes remain.”
“And they could be anything?” said Harry. “They could be oh, in tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion bottles...”
“You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard his own 
precious soul? You are forgetting what I have showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history His pride, 
his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history; these things, suggest to me that Voldemort would have 
chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor.”
“The diary wasn't that special.”
“The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that he was the heir of Slytherin. I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance.”
“So, the other Horcruxes?” said Harry. “Do you think you know what they are, sir?”
“I can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “For the reasons I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain 
grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort's past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have disappeared around him.”
“The locket!” said Harry loudly, “Hufflepuff's cup!”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling, “I would be prepared to bet—perhaps not my other hand—but a couple of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and four. The 
remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and 
Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over 
Voldemort's imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw's. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor 
remains safe.”
Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed within a glass case.
“Do you think that's why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts, sir?” said Harry. “To try and find something from one of the other founders?”
“My thoughts precisely,” said Dumbledore. “But unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, without the chance to 
search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two—he may have found three—
that is the best we can do for now.”
“Even if he got something of Ravenclaw's or of Gryffindor's, that leaves a sixth Horcrux,” said Harry, counting on his fingers. “Unless he's got both?”
“I don't think so,” said Dumbledore. “I think I know what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about 
the behavior of the snake, Nagini?”
“The snake?” said Harry, startled. “You can use animals as Horcruxes?”
“Well, it is inadvisable to do so,” said Dumbledore, “because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very 
risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your parents’ house with the 
intention of killing you.
“He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he 
was destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with your 
death. As we know, he failed. After an interval of some years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her 
into his last Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort's mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything; 
he certainly likes to keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth.”
“So,” said Harry, “the diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once 
Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's?”
“An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes,” said Dumbledore, bowing his head.
“So... are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where you've been going when you've been leaving the school?”
“Correct,” said Dumbledore. “I have been looking for a very long time. I think... perhaps ... I may be close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs.”
“And if you do,” said Harry quickly, “can I come with you and help get rid of it?”
Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a moment before saying, “Yes, I think so.”
“I can?” said Harry, thoroughly taken aback.
“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. “I think you have earned that right.”
Harry felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear words of caution and protection for once. The headmasters and headmistresses around the walls seemed less 
impressed by Dumbledore's decision; Harry saw a few of them shaking their heads and Phineas Nigellus actually snorted.
“Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?” Harry asked, ignoring the portraits.
“A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself have been detached for so 
long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the point of death, he might be aware of his loss... but he was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been destroyed 
until he forced the truth out of Lucius Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was 
terrible to behold.”
“But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?”
“Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemorts say-so, and he never received 
it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving him the diary. No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything with the Horcrux other than guard it 
carefully, but he was counting too much upon Lucius's fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius did not know what 
the diary really was. I understand that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius 
known he held a portion of his master's soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence—but instead he went ahead and carried out the old 
plan for his own ends. By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasley's daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one 
stroke. Ah, poor Lucius... what with Voldemort's fury about the fact that he threw away the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would 
not be surprised if he is not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment.”
Harry sat in thought for a moment, then asked, “So if all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be killed?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Dumbledore. “Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his 
soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without 
his Horcruxes.”
“But I haven't got uncommon skill and power,” said Harry, before he could stop himself.
“Yes, you have,” said Dumbledore firmly. “You have a power that Voldemort has never had. You can —”
“I know!” said Harry impatiently. “I can love!” It was only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding, “Big deal!”
“Yes, Harry, you can love,” said Dumbledore, who looked as though he knew perfectly well what Harry had just refrained from saying. “Which, given everything that has 
happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing. You are still too young to understand how unusual you are, Harry.”
“So, when the prophecy says that I'll have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not,’ it just means—love?” asked Harry, feeling a little let down.
“Yes—just love,” said Dumbledore. “But Harry, never forget that what the prophecy says is only significant because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the end 
of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the person who would be most dangerous to him—and in doing so, he made you the person who would be most dangerous to him!”
“But it comes to the same —”
“No, it doesn't!” said Dumbledore, sounding impatient now. Pointing at Harry with his black, withered hand, he said, “You are setting too much store by the prophecy!
”
“But,” spluttered Harry, “but you said the prophecy means —”
“If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the Hall of 
Prophecy has been fulfilled?”
“But,” said Harry, bewildered, “but last year, you said one of us would have to kill the other —”
“Harry, Harry, only because Voldemort made a grave error, and acted on Professor Trelawney's words! If Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he have imparted 
in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for you, would he have given you a magical protection he could not 
penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don't you see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the 
people they oppress? All of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back! Voldemort is no 
different! Always he was on the lookout for the one who would challenge him. He heard the prophecy and he leapt into action, with the result that he not only handpicked 
the man most likely to finish him, he handed him uniquely deadly weapons!”
“But —”
“It is essential that you understand this!” said Dumbledore, standing up and striding about the room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake; Harry had never seen 
him so agitated. “By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and gave him the tools for the job! It 
is Voldemort's fault that you were able to see into his thoughts, his ambitions, that you even understand the snakelike language in which he gives orders, and yet, 
Harry, despite your privileged insight into Voldemort's world (which, incidentally, is a gift any Death Eater would kill to have), you have never been seduced by the 
Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort's followers!”
“Of course I haven't!” said Harry indignantly. “He killed my mum and dad!”
“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!” said Dumbledore loudly. “The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like 
Voldemort's! In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when you 
stared into a mirror that reflected your heart's desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have you any 
idea how few wizards could have seen what you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have known then what he was dealing with, but he did not!
“But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord Voldemort's mind without damage to yourself, but he cannot possess you without enduring mortal agony, as he discovered 
in the Ministry. I do not think he understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable 
power of a soul that is untarnished and whole.”
“But, sir,” said Harry, making valiant efforts not to sound argumentative, “it all comes to the same thing, doesn't it? I've got to try and kill him, or —”
“Got to?” said Dumbledore. “Of course you've got to! But not because of the prophecy! Because you, yourself, will never rest until you've tried! We both know it! 
Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think!”
Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in front ol him, and thought. He thought of his mother, his father, and Sinus. He thought of Cedric Diggory. He thought of 
all the terrible deeds he knew Lord Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat.
“I'd want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I'd want to do it.”
“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his 
equal... In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will 
continue to hunt you... which makes it certain, really, that —”
“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” said Harry.
“Yes.”
But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the 
death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew—
and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents—that there was all the difference in the world.
哈利能感到随着蹑手蹑脚地走进城堡时，飞力飞思的药力已经开始消退了。前门仍然没有锁上，但是他在四楼遇见了皮皮鬼，他赶紧躲进了一条他的捷径之中，才勉强没有被察觉。当他赶到胖
夫人的画像，扯下了他的隐形斗篷时，并不惊讶地发现胖夫人此时的心情对他进去毫无帮助。
 
　　“你觉得现在是什么时候了？”
 
　　“我真的很抱歉——我有很重要的事情得出去做——”
 
　　“很好，口令在午夜改了，因此你得睡在走廊里了，知道吗？”
 
　　“你在开玩笑！”哈利说。“为什么要在午夜改口令？”
 
　　“就是要这样，”胖夫人说。“如果你很生气，去找校长说吧，是他要加强安全措施的。”
 
　　“好极了，”哈利悻悻地说，看着周围坚硬的地板。“真是太棒了。是的，如果邓布利多在的话，我会去找他说的，因为是他要我去——”
 
　　“他在学校，”哈利身后的一个声音说。“邓布利多教授一个小时前回到了学校。”
 
　　差点没头的尼克向哈利滑了过来，他的脑袋和往常一样在环形领上晃动。
 
　　“我从血人巴罗那儿知道的，他看到邓布利多回来了，”尼克说。“根据巴罗说的，邓布利多教授似乎心情不错，不过有点累，那是当然的。”
 
　　“他在哪儿？”哈利的心脏剧烈地跳动起来。
 
　　“哦，他正在天文塔上呻吟和发出叮叮当当的响声，这是他最喜欢的消遣——”
 
　　“不是血人巴罗，是邓布利多！”
 
　　“哦——在他的办公室里，”尼克说。“根据血人巴罗说的，我相信他在上床睡觉之前还有事情要做——”
 
　　“是的，他有，”哈利一想到将要告诉邓布利多他已经获取了那份记忆，心中的激动就熊熊燃烧了起来。他转过身又开始跑了起来，没有理会胖夫人在他的身后呼喊。
 
　　“回来！好吧，我扯了谎！我被你叫醒了所以很气恼！口令还是‘绦虫’！”
 
　　但是哈利已经在沿着走廊飞奔了，几分钟后，他就停在了邓布利多的石兽前，说完口令“太妃手指饼”，石兽跳到了一边，让哈利走进了螺旋楼梯。
 
　　“请进，”哈利敲门的时候邓布利多说。他听起来已经精疲力尽了。
 
　　哈利推开了门。邓布利多的办公室看上去和以前一样，不过窗外是撒满星星的漆黑夜空。
 
　　“天啊，哈利，”邓布利多惊奇地说。“我应该把这份深夜的快乐归因于什么呢？”
 
　　“教授——我拿到它了。我已经从斯拉霍恩那儿拿到了记忆。”
 
　　哈利拿出了那个小玻璃瓶并把它展示给邓布利多看。在那一瞬间，校长看很震惊。然后他的脸上绽放出了微笑。
 
　　“哈利，这是一个激动人心的消息！的确干得漂亮！我知道你能做到！”
 
　　他显然已经忘记现在很晚了，急匆匆地走过办公桌，用没有受伤的那只手接过装有斯拉霍恩记忆的瓶子，大步地走到了放冥想盆的橱柜前。
 
　　“现在，”邓布利多把石盆放到办公桌上并把瓶子里的东西全倒了进去。“现在，我们终于要看到了。哈利，快……”
 
　　哈利顺从地把脸弯向了冥想盆，他感到自己的脚离开了办公室的地板……他再一次掉入了黑暗中，并降落在许多年以前的贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩的办公室。
 
　　斯拉霍恩比现在年轻得多，他长着一头光亮的稻草色头发和姜黄色的胡须，又一次坐在了办公室的那张舒适的带翼扶手椅里，他的脚搁在一块天鹅绒垫子，一只手拿着一小杯葡萄酒，另一
只手则在一盒菠萝蜜饯里摸索。有半打男生围坐在斯拉霍恩身边，汤姆·里德尔也在其中，马沃罗的黑金戒指在他的手指上闪闪发光。
 
　　邓布利多降落在哈利身边，这时里德尔问，“教授，梅利索特教授真的要退休了吗？”
 
　　“汤姆，汤姆，我就是知道也不能告诉你，”斯拉霍恩责备对里德尔摇着一根手指，不过同时还眨了眨眼。“我必须说，我想知道你是怎么得到消息的，孩子；你的消息比一半的教员都要
灵通。”
 
　　里德尔露出了微笑；其他男孩也笑了起来，还向他投去了钦佩的目光。
 
　　“考虑到你打听不该知道的东西的那种离奇才能，和你对重要人物周到细致的奉承——顺便谢谢你送我这些菠萝，它们确实是我的最爱——”
 
　　几个男孩又吃吃地笑了。
 
　　“——我自信地预计你将在二十年内爬上魔法部部长的职位。如果你一直给我送菠萝的话，就只要十五年，我在魔法部里有极好的熟人。”
 
　　汤姆·里德尔只是和其他人那样又笑了笑。哈利注意到他绝对不是那群男孩中年龄最大的一个，但是他们似乎全部都把他当作了首领。
 
　　“我不知道从政是否适合我，教授，”当笑声散尽之后，他说。“首先，我没有合适的家庭背景。”
 
　　他身边的几个男孩冲彼此傻笑了一下。哈利确信他们正在讲一个私人笑话：无疑是出于他们所知道或者猜测的，和他们首领的著名祖先有关的笑话。
 
　　“胡说，”斯拉霍恩轻快地说，“像你这样有能力的人一定出自正派的巫师世家，这个再清楚不过了。你错了，你会大有作为的，汤姆，我还从来没看错过一个学生。”
 
　　斯拉霍恩身后的办公桌上的一只金色小钟报起了时，十一点了，他回头看了看。
 
　　“天哪，已经那么晚了吗？”斯拉霍恩说。“你们最好回去，孩子们，否则我们大家就都有麻烦了。莱斯特兰奇，我希望你明天交上论文，否则就只好关禁闭了。你也一样，埃弗里。”
 
　　男孩们一个接一个地走出了房间。斯拉霍恩从扶手椅里站了起来，并把空玻璃杯放回到办公桌上。他身后的一声响动令他回过头看了看；里德尔仍然站在那儿。
 
　　“快走吧，汤姆，你不想在这种时候被抓到不在床上吧，而且你还是个级长……”
 
　　“教授，我想问你件事。”
 
　　“那么问吧，我的孩子，问吧……”
 
　　“教授，你知不知道……灵魂碎片的事？”
 
　　斯拉霍恩盯着他看，肥厚的手指心不在焉地抚摸着葡萄酒杯的柄角。
 
　　“黑魔法防御术的课题，是吗？”
 
　　但是哈利看出斯拉霍恩知道得很清楚，这不是作业。
 
　　“不完全是，教授，”里德尔说。“我看书时偶然碰到了这个词，我不是很理解它。”
 
　　“是啊……嗯……你很几乎不可能在霍格沃茨找到一本书能够详细地描述灵魂碎片，汤姆。那是充满了黑魔法的东西，确实充满了黑魔法，”斯拉霍恩说。
 
　　“但是你显然完全懂得它们，先生？我的意思是，一个像你这样的巫师——对不起，我的意思是，你不能告诉我，显而易见——我本来觉得如果有谁能告诉我，那就是你了——所以我以为
可以来问——”
 
　　他做非常好，哈利想，他的踌躇、不经意的语气和细致的恭维，都掌握得恰到好处。他——哈利——已经有了太多经验从不情愿的人那儿套出话而不被人察觉。他看得出里德尔非常非常想
获得这些资料；也许已经为了这片刻的时间而准备了好几个星期。
 
　　“嗯，”斯拉霍恩没有看里德尔，而是拨弄着菠萝蜜饯盒顶上的丝带，“嗯，让你了解个大概当然不会有什么危害。仅仅是为了让你理解这个词。灵魂碎片这个词描述的是一件被人隐藏了
一部分灵魂的物品。”
 
　　“不过我还是不太理解那是怎么做的，教授，”里德尔说。
 
　　他小心地控制着自己的声音，但是哈利可以感觉到他的兴奋。
 
　　“嗯，你要使自己的灵魂分裂，”斯拉霍恩说，“再把其中的一部分藏到身体以外的某个物品上。然后，即使你的身体受到攻击或者被毁灭，却死不了，因为你的一部分灵魂仍然完好无损
地留在这个世界上。不过，当然是以那样一种形式存在着……”
 
　　斯拉霍恩的脸上泛起了皱纹，哈利想起了自己在大约两年前听到过的那些话。
 
　　“我被从自己的身体里剥离，比不上幽灵，比不上最低劣的鬼魂……但是，我活下来了。”
 
　　“……极少有人想要这样，汤姆，极少。死亡是更可取的。”
 
　　但里德尔的欲望已经写在了脸上；他的表情贪婪，已经无法再掩饰自己的渴求了。
 
　　“怎么去分裂灵魂？”
 
　　“嗯，”斯拉霍恩不安地说，“你一定能理解，灵魂本应该是保持完整无缺的。分裂灵魂是一种悖逆，它与自然界背道而驰。”
 
　　“但那是怎么做到的呢？”
 
　　“通过一种邪恶的行为——最邪恶的行为。通过杀人！杀人能够撕裂灵魂。决意要制造一个灵魂碎片的巫师会利用这种破坏使自己得利：他会把撕裂出来的那一部分封装起来——”
 
　　“封装起来？怎么——？”
 
　　“通过一个咒语，别问我，我不知道！”斯拉霍恩摇着头，就像一只被蚊子困扰的年迈大象一样。“我看起来像试过的人吗——我看起来像一个杀人犯吗？”
 
　　“不，教授，当然不是，”里德尔迅速说。“对不起……我不是故意要冒犯你……”
 
　　“没关系，没关系，没有冒犯我，”斯拉霍恩粗声说。“对这些事情感到好奇是正常的……有才干巫师总是被那方面的魔法所吸引……”
 
　　“是的，教授，”里德尔说。“可我不明白的是——仅仅是出于好奇——我是说，一个灵魂碎片能用很多次吗？只能分裂一次灵魂吗？把灵魂分成很多块，这样不就更强大了吗，这样不是
更好吗？我是指，举个例子，7不是最有魔力的数字吗，会不会7块——？”
 
　　“我的天哪，汤姆！”斯拉霍恩叫道。“7！杀一个人还不够坏吗？无论如何……分裂灵魂已经够坏了……还要撕裂成7块……”
 
　　现在斯拉霍恩看起来陷入了深深的不安：他凝视着里德尔，好像自己以前从来没有把他看透，而且哈利看得出他对开始这次谈话非常懊悔。
 
　　“当然，”他喃喃自语，“我们讨论的这些都只是假定，对不对？都只是理论上……”
 
　　“是的，教授，那是当然，”里德尔马上说。
 
　　“尽管如此，汤姆……不要对别人说起我刚才告诉你的——也就是说，我们讨论的内容。人们不会认为我们只是在闲扯灵魂碎片。你知道这在霍格沃茨是个禁忌的话题……邓布利多对此的
反应尤其激烈……”
 
　　“我一个字也不会说的，教授，”里德尔说，随后就离开了，哈利瞥见他的脸上洋溢着狂喜的表情，和他第一次知道自己是巫师时一样，这种快乐并没有使他的容貌变的更加英俊，却不知
怎么地，让他变得有些丧心病狂……
 
　　“谢谢你，哈利，”邓布利多平静地说。“我们走吧……”
 
　　当哈利降落在办公室地板上时，邓布利多已经在他的办公桌后面坐下了。哈利也坐了下来，等待着邓布利多开口说话。
 
　　“我希望得到这个证明已经很久了，”邓布利多终于说话了，“它证实了我一直以来的推测，它告诉我，我是正确的，也表明我们还任重道远……”
 
　　哈利突然注意到墙上每一幅画像里的前任校长都醒着，并且听着他们的对话。一个肥胖的红鼻子巫师竟然已经拿出了一个助听器。
 
　　“嗯，哈利，”邓布利多说，“我敢肯定你能理解我们刚刚听到的那些话的重要性。就在你现在这样的年龄，汤姆·里德尔已经在竭尽全力地寻找使自己长生不死的方法了。”
 
　　“那么你觉得他成功了，教授？”哈利问。“他制造了一个灵魂碎片？这就是为什么他攻击了我之后并没有死的原因？他把一个灵魂碎片藏在了某个地方？他的一小块灵魂安然无恙？”
 
　　“一小块……或者更多，”邓布利多说。“你听到了伏地魔说的话：他尤其想从斯拉霍恩那儿了解到，如果一个巫师创造出了不止一个的灵魂碎片将会获得什么结果。一个如此坚决地逃避
死亡的巫师——他甚至准备好了去不断地杀人，不断地撕裂灵魂，以便把它们分别隐藏在多个灵魂碎片之中——将会获得什么结果。没有一本书能告诉他。就我所知道的——就伏地魔所知道，
我敢肯定——没有一个巫师曾经把灵魂撕成两片以上。”
 
　　邓布利多短暂地停顿了一会儿，整理了一下他的思路，然后说，“四年前，我得到了一样东西，它证明伏地魔已经分离出了他的灵魂。”
 
　　“在哪里？”哈利问。“怎么得到的？”
 
　　“你把它交给我的，哈利，”邓布利多说。“那本日记，里德尔的日记，那本指挥了重新打开秘室的日记。”
 
　　“我不明白，教授，”哈利说。
 
　　“嗯，虽然我没有看到里德尔从日记里走出来，但你给我描述的现象是我从来没有见过的。仅仅一段记忆就能独立地行动和思考吗？仅仅一段记忆，就能吸取那个女孩的生命并据为己有吗
？不，那本日记里存在着更邪恶的东西……一个灵魂的片断，我几乎能肯定就是这样。日记是一个灵魂碎片。但是它带来的问题和它解答的一样多。最令我着迷和警觉的就是那本日记不仅被当
作一个安全措施，而且还被当成一项武器在使用。”
 
　　“我还是不明白，”哈利说。
 
　　“也就是说，它不仅承担着灵魂碎片的本职工作——换句话说，这一段封存于其中的灵魂被安全地保存着，并且毋庸置疑地发挥着防止它的拥有者死亡的作用。但是毫无疑问伏地魔真的想
让日记被人读，想让他的一片灵魂占据或者拥有某个人的身体，这才导致了斯莱特林的怪物再次被释放了出来。”
 
　　“是啊，他不希望自己辛苦的工作没有用武之地，”哈利说。“他想让人们知道他是斯莱特林的继承人，因为那时他没办法自己做到。”
 
　　“非常正确，”邓布利多点了点头说。“但是没有注意吗，哈利，如果他想要把日记传给，或者栽赃给某个将来的霍格沃茨学生，那就说明他已经对隐藏在里面的宝贵的灵魂片断感到非常
厌倦和麻木了。正如斯拉霍恩教授所解释的，灵魂碎片的关键在于把自身的一部分安全地藏匿好，而不是把它扔给别人去冒被人毁灭的危险——事实上也发生了：这个灵魂的片断已经灰飞烟灭
了；你一定也留意到了。
 
　　“伏地魔如此粗心地对待灵魂碎片，这在我看来似乎是一个不祥之兆。它表明他一定制作了——或者正计划制作出——更多的灵魂碎片，所以损失掉他的第一个并没有什么妨害。我不愿相
信这一点，但是没有别的解释能说通。
 
　　“两年之后你告诉我，伏地魔重回自己身体的那个晚上，他对食死徒说了那一番如此有启发性和警示性的话。‘我在长生的路上走得比谁都远。’你把他说的那些话告诉了我。‘比谁都远
。’我认为自己懂得了它的含义，尽管食死徒们不懂。他指的是他的灵魂碎片，不止一个的灵魂碎片，哈利，我不相信其他任何巫师可以做得到。然而它与推测相吻合：过去的几年里伏地魔的
人性越来越少，而且他还遭受了那些变形，只有一个解释在我来看是合理的，那就是他的灵魂已经支离破碎，他已经超越了我们通常所称之为一般邪恶的领域……”
 
　　“所以他就通过杀人来让自己变得不可能被人杀死？”哈利说。“如果他这么喜欢长生不老，为什么他不去制作一块魔法石，或者去偷一块？”
 
　　“嗯，我们知道他五年前就这样尝试过，”邓布利多说。“但是我想，有几个理由能让一块魔法石对伏地魔的吸引力小于灵魂碎片。”
 
　　“要想让长生不老药真正地延续生命，就必须定期地服用它，如果服用者想获得永生的话，就必须永远服用下去。因此，伏地魔将完全地依赖于长生不老药，如果它用光了，或者被污染了
，或者魔法石被偷了，他就会和其他人一样死去。记住，伏地魔喜欢独自行动。我相信他会发现依赖于其他事物是不可容忍的，即使是依赖于长生不老药也一样。在他攻击了你之后，被迫陷入
了半死不活的可怕状态，如果能摆脱这种境地，他当然是愿意喝下它的，但仅仅只是为了收回自己的身体。在那之后，我确信他还是会继续依赖他的灵魂碎片：只要能获得人形，他就什么都不
需要了。他已经长生不死了……或者比任何人都更接近长生不死了。
 
　　“但是现在，哈利，我们获得了这个信息，你成功地拿到了这份至关重要的记忆，我们比其他任何人在任何时候都更接近了终结伏地魔的秘诀。你听到他说了，哈利：‘把灵魂分成很多块
，这样不就更强大了吗，这样不是更好吗……7不是最有魔力的数字吗……’7不是最有魔力的数字吗。是的，我认为把灵魂分成七块的想法深深地吸引了伏地魔。”
 
　　“他制作了七个灵魂碎片？”哈利惊恐万分，墙上的几幅画像也发出了同样震惊和愤慨的声音。“可是它们可能在世界上的任何地方——被藏了起来——埋了起来或者是不引人注目——”
 
　　“我很高兴你认识到了问题的严重，”邓布利多平静地说。“但是首先，不，哈利，不是七个灵魂碎片：是六个。他的第七部分灵魂，尽管受了重伤，但仍然留在他重生的身体里。这一部
分在他那么多年的流亡生涯里就像鬼怪一样存在着；没有它，他根本没有自己。对于想要杀死伏地魔的人来说，第七块灵魂将是他们攻击的最后一块——他身体里的那一块。
 
　　“但是还有六个灵魂碎片，”哈利有点儿绝望地说，“我们怎么才能找到它们？”
 
　　“你忘了…你已经毁灭掉了其中一个。而我已经毁灭了另一个。”
 
　　“你已经毁了另一个？”哈利急切地说。
 
　　“确实如此，”邓布利多说，他举起了发黑、烧伤的手。“那枚戒指，哈利。马沃罗的戒指。它上面还有一个可怕的诅咒。如果不是我——原谅我缺乏适当的谦虚——拥有强大的本领，如
果不是当我回到霍格沃茨时斯内普教授及时的行动，我就会遭受极其严重的伤痛，也许就不能活着告诉你这个故事了。不管怎样，一只干瘪的手却换来了伏地魔七分之一的灵魂，还是很划算的
。那枚戒指已经不再是一个灵魂碎片了。”
 
　　“但你是怎么发现它的呢？”
 
　　“嗯，正如你现在所知道的，很多年来我一直尽可能多地去努力发掘伏地魔的过去。我到处旅行，拜访那些他熟悉的地方。我无意中发现那枚戒指就藏在刚特家的废墟之中。似乎伏地魔在
把灵魂封印到里面之后就再也不想戴着它了。他把它藏了起来，用许多强有力的魔法保护它，放在他的祖先曾经居住的小屋里（摩芬当然已经被带到了阿兹卡班），从来没想到我可能有一天会
自找麻烦去参观这座废墟，或者没有想到我会密切留意用魔法掩藏东西的蛛丝马迹。
 
　　“无论如何，我们不能沾沾自喜。你毁灭了日记而我毁灭了戒指，但是如果我们关于七块灵魂的推论是正确的话，那就还有四个灵魂碎片呢。”
 
　　“并且它们可能是任何东西，”哈利说。“它们可能是旧的马口铁罐头，或者，我不知道，空的魔药瓶子……？”
 
　　“你是在考虑选择门钥匙吧，哈利，那些都是普通的物品，容易被忽视掉。但是伏地魔会用马口铁罐头和旧魔药瓶去守卫自己珍贵的灵魂吗？你忘了我给你看的那些事情。伏地魔喜欢收集
战利品，他偏爱的是充满了魔法历史的物品。他的骄傲，他对自己优越性的信仰，他要为自己在魔法史上刻下惊人印记的决心；这些都暗示我伏地魔会慎重地挑选他的灵魂碎片，更喜爱那些配
得上这个荣誉的物品。”
 
　　“那本日记并没有那么特别。”
 
　　“那本日记，就像你自己所说的那样，证明了他是斯莱特林的继承人；我敢肯定伏地魔认为它惊人地重要。”
 
　　“那么，其他的灵魂碎片呢？”哈利说。“你知道它们都是什么吗，教授？”
 
　　“我只能猜测，”邓布利多说。“根据我所说的那些理由，我相信伏地魔会用那些本身就十分伟大的物品。因此我才会搜索伏地魔的过去，看看是否有证据表明曾有这种物品在他的周围消
失过。”
 
　　“那个盒式坠子！”哈利大声说。“赫奇帕奇的杯子！”
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多微笑着说。“我可以用——也许不是我另一整只手——两根手指来打赌，它们成为了灵魂碎片的三号和四号。剩下的两个——再次假定他一共制作了六个——就难猜了
，但是我可以大胆猜一下，在获得了赫奇帕奇和斯莱特林的物品之后，他就开始追查起属于格兰芬多和拉文克劳的物品了。我敢肯定四个物品来自四个创始人的想法，强有力地震撼了伏地魔的
脑海。我不能回答他是不是已经得到了拉文克劳的东西，但是我相信格兰芬多唯一已知的遗物仍安然无恙。”
 
　　邓布利多用他发黑的手指示意了一下他身后的墙，一柄镶着红宝石的剑正静静地躺在玻璃盒子里。
 
　　“你认为这就是他真正想回霍格沃茨的原因，教授？”哈利说。“为了找出剩下的某个创始人的东西？”
 
　　“正是我所想的，”邓布利多说，“但不幸的是，虽然他被我们了学校之外，没有机会搜寻这所学校，或者我相信如此，这也并没有给我们带来更多的优势。我不得不断定，他从未去实现
集满四个创始人之物的野心。他肯定拥有两个——也许找到了三个——那就是眼下我们能做的最好的事了。”
 
　　“就算他拿到了拉文克劳或格兰芬多的东西，也还剩第六个灵魂碎片，”哈利扳着手指算。“除非他两个都拿到了？”
 
　　“我不这样认为，”邓布利多说。“我想我知道第六个灵魂碎片是什么。我得承认，我曾经一度很好奇那条蛇，纳吉尼，我想知道你对此有什么看法？”
 
　　“那条蛇？”哈利惊讶地说。“能用动物作灵魂碎片吗？”
 
　　“嗯，这样做很不明智，”邓布利多说。“因为把灵魂的一部分托付给某个能独立思考和行动的东西是个极大的冒险。不管怎样，如果我的考虑是正确的，伏地魔在进入你父母家打算杀死
你的时候，他距离制作六个灵魂碎片的目标，至少还差一个需要完成。
 
　　“他似乎把制作灵魂碎片的过程保留给了具有特殊意义的谋杀。你就属于那种具有特殊意义的谋杀。他相信一旦杀了你，就可以将那段预言勾勒出的危险摧毁。他相信这会让他变得不可战
胜。我敢肯定他要用你的死亡来制作最后一个灵魂碎片。
 
　　“正如我们所知道的，他失败了。然而，隔了一些年之后，他用纳吉尼杀死了一个麻瓜老人，这可能让他想到了把它变成自己最后的一个灵魂碎片。它凸现了伏地魔和斯莱特林的联系，加
强了伏地魔的神秘感。我认为他对它的喜爱已经超过了任何事物；他显然喜欢把它带在身边，即使作为一个蛇佬腔，他对其的控制程度也是很不同寻常的。”
 
　　“那么，”哈利说，“日记没了，戒指没了。杯子、坠子和那条蛇都还完好无损，而且你认为还有一个灵魂碎片是拉文克劳或者格兰芬多曾经用过的东西？”
 
　　“一个极为简洁和正确的总结，是的，”邓布利多颔首作答。
 
　　“那么……你仍在寻找他们吗，教授？你离开学校的时候就是去找它们了吧？”
 
　　“正确，”邓布利多说。“我已经找了很久。我想……也许……我已经快找到另外一个了。有一些乐观的迹象。”
 
　　“如果你找到了，”哈利迅速地说，“我可以和你一起去，并帮你毁灭它吗？”
 
　　邓布利多非常认真地凝视了哈利好一会儿，然后才说，“是的，我想可以。”
 
　　“我可以？”哈利大吃一惊。
 
　　“哦，是的，”邓布利微微地笑着。“我认为你已经挣得了那个权利。”
 
　　哈利觉得他的心被提了起来。没有听到那些警告和保护的话
Chapter 24 Sectumsempra
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
Chapter 25 The Seer Overheard
The fact that Harry Potter was going out with Ginny Weasley seemed to interest a great number of people, most of them girls, yet Harry found himself newly and happily 
impervious to gossip over the next few weeks. After all, it made a very nice change to be talked about because of something that was making him happier than he could 
remember being for a very long time, rather than because he had been involved in horrific scenes of Dark magic.
“You'd think people had better things to gossip about,” said Ginny, as she sat on the common-room floor, leaning against Harry's legs and reading the Daily Prophet. 
“Three Dementor attacks in a week, and all Romilda Vane does is ask me if it's true you've got a Hippogriff tattooed across your chest.”
Ron and Hermione both roared with laughter. Harry ignored them.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her it's a Hungarian Horntail,” said Ginny, turning a page of the newspaper idly. “Much more macho.”
“Thanks,” said Harry, grinning. “And what did you tell her Ron's got?”
“A Pygmy Puff, but I didn't say where.”
Ron scowled as Hermione rolled around laughing.
“Watch it,” he said, pointing wamingly at Harry and Ginny. “Just because I've given my permission doesn't mean I can't withdraw it—”
“'Your permission’ “, scoffed Ginny. “Since when did you give me permission to do anything? Anyway, you said yourself you'd rather it was Harry than Michael or 
Dean.”
“Yeah, I would,” said Ron grudgingly. “And just as long as you don't start snogging each other in public—”
“You filthy hypocrite! What about you and Lavender, thrashing around like a pair of eels all over the place?” demanded Ginny.
But Ron's tolerance was not to be tested much as they moved into June, for Harry and Ginny's time together was becoming increasingly restricted. Ginny's O.W.L.s were 
approaching and she was therefore forced to revise for hours into the night. On one such evening, when Ginny had retired to the library and Harry was sitting beside the 
window in the common room, supposedly finishing his Herbology home-work but in reality reliving a particularly happy hour he had spent down by the lake with Ginny at 
lunch-time, Hermione dropped into the seat between him and Ron with an unpleasantly purposeful look on her face.
“I want to talk to you, Harry.”
“What about?” said Harry suspiciously. Only the previous day, Hermione had told him off for distracting Ginny when she ought to be working hard for her examinations.
“The so-called Half-Blood Prince.”
“Oh, not again,” he groaned. “Will you please drop it?”
He had not dared to return to the Room of Requirement to retrieve his book, and his performance in Potions was suffering accordingly (though Slughorn, who approved of 
Ginny, had jocularly attributed this to Harry being lovesick). But Harry was sure that Snape had not yet given up hope of laying hands on the Prince's book, and was 
determined to leave it where it was while Snape remained on the lookout.
“I'm not dropping it,” said Hermione firmly, “until you've heard me out. Now, I've been trying to find out a bit about who might make a hobby of inventing Dark 
spells—”
“He didn't make a hobby of it—”
“He, he—who says it's a he?”
“We've been through this,” said Harry crossly. “Prince, Hermione, Prince!”
“Right!” said Hermione, red patches blazing in her cheeks as she pulled a very old piece of newsprint out of her pocket and slammed it down on the table in front of 
Harry. “Look at that! Look at the picture!”
Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age; Ron leaned over for a look, too. The picture showed a skinny girl 
of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Underneath the photograph was the caption: 
Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team.
“So?” said Harry, scanning the short news item to which the picture belonged; it was a rather dull story about inter-school competitions.
“Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince, Harry.”
They looked at each other and Harry realised what Hermione was trying to say. He burst out laughing.
“No way.”
“What?”
“You think she was the Half-Blood...? Oh, come on.”
“Well, why not? Harry, there aren't any real princes in the wizarding world! It's either a nickname, a made-up title somebody's given themselves, or it could be their 
actual name, couldn't it? No, listen! If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was ‘Prince', and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a ‘half-blood 
Prince'!”
“Yeah, very ingenious, Hermione ...”
“But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!”
“Listen, Hermione, I can tell it's not a girl. I can just tell.”
“The truth is that you don't think a girl would have been clever enough,” said Hermione angrily.
“How can I have hung round with you for five years and not think girls are clever?” said Harry, stung by this. “It's the way he writes. I just know the Prince was a 
bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn't got anything to do with it. Where did you get this, anyway?”
“The library,” said Hermione, predictably. “There's a whole collection of old Prophets up there. Well, I'm going to find out more about Eileen Prince if I can.”
“Enjoy yourself,” said Harry irritably.
“I will,” said Hermione. “And the first place I'll look,” she shot at him, as she reached the portrait hole, “is records of old Potions awards!”
Harry scowled after her for a moment, then continued his contemplation of the darkening sky.
“She's just never got over you outperforming her in Potions,” said Ron, returning to his copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.
“You don't think I'm mad, wanting that book back, do you?”
“Course not,” said Ron robustly. “He was a genius, the Prince. Anyway ... without his bezoar tip ...” he drew his finger significantly across his own throat, “I 
wouldn't be here to discuss it, would I? I mean, I'm not saying that spell you used on Malfoy was great—”
“Nor am I,” said Harry quickly.
“But he healed all right, didn't he? Back on his feet in no time.”
“Yeah,” said Harry; this was perfectly true, although his conscience squirmed slightly all the same. “Thanks to Snape ...”
“You still got detention with Snape this Saturday?” Ron continued.
“Yeah, and the Saturday after that, and the Saturday after that,” sighed Harry. “And he's hinting now that if I don't get all the boxes done by the end of term, 
we'll carry on next year.”
He was finding these detentions particularly irksome because they cut into the already limited time he could have been spending with Ginny. Indeed, he had frequently 
wondered lately whether Snape did not know this, for he was keeping Harry later and later every time, while making pointed asides about Harry having to miss the good 
weather and the varied opportunities it offered.
Harry was shaken from these bitter reflections by the appearance at his side of Jimmy Peakes, who was holding out a scroll of parchment.
“Thanks, Jimmy ... hey, it's from Dumbledore!” said Harry excitedly, unrolling the parchment and scanning it. “He wants me to go to his office as quick as I can!”
They stared at each other.
“Blimey,” whispered Ron. “You don't reckon ... he hasn't found ...?”
“Better go and see, hadn't I?” said Harry, jumping to his feet.
He hurried out of the common room and along the seventh floor as fast as he could, passing nobody but Peeves, who swooped past in the opposite direction, throwing bits 
of chalk at Harry in a routine sort of way and cackling loudly as he dodged Harry's defensive jinx. Once Peeves had vanished, there was silence in the corridors; with 
only fifteen minutes left until curfew, most people had already returned to their common rooms.
And then Harry heard a scream and a crash. He stopped in his tracks, listening.
“How—dare—you—aaaaargh!”
The noise was coming from a corridor nearby; Harry sprinted towards it, his wand at the ready, hurtled round another corner and saw Professor Trelawney sprawled upon 
the floor, her head covered in one of her many shawls, several sherry bottles lying beside her, one broken.
“Professor—”
Harry hurried forwards and helped Professor Trelawney to her feet. Some of her glittering beads had become entangled with her glasses. She hiccoughed loudly, patted her 
hair and pulled herself up on Harry's helping arm.
“What happened, Professor?”
“You may well ask!” she said shrilly. “I was strolling along, brooding upon certain Dark portents I happen to have glimpsed ...”
But Harry was not paying much attention. He had just noticed where they were standing: there on the right was the tapestry of dancing trolls and, on the left, that 
smoothly impenetrable stretch of stone wall that concealed—
“Professor, were you trying to get into the Room of Requirement?”
“... omens I have been vouchsafed—what?”
She looked suddenly shifty.
“The Room of Requirement,” repeated Harry. “Were you trying to get in there?”
“I—well—I didn't know students knew about—”
“Not all of them do,” said Harry. “But what happened? You screamed ... it sounded as though you were hurt...”
“I—well,” said Professor Trelawney, drawing her shawls around her defensively and staring down at him with her vastly magnified eyes. “I wished to—ah—deposit 
certain – um—personal items in the Room ...” And she muttered something about “nasty accusations".
“Right,” said Harry, glancing down at the sherry bottles. “But you couldn't get in and hide them?”
He found this very odd; the Room had opened for him, after all, when he had wanted to hide the Half-Blood Prince's book.
“Oh, I got in all right,” said Professor Trelawney, glaring at the wall. “But there was somebody already in there.”
“Somebody in—? Who?” demanded Harry. “Who was in there?”
“I have no idea,” said Professor Trelawney, looking slightly taken aback at the urgency in Harry's voice. “I walked into the Room and I heard a voice, which has 
never happened before in all my years of hiding—of using the Room, I mean.”
“A voice? Saying what?”
“I don't know that it was saying anything,” said Professor Trelawney. “It was ... whooping.”
“Whooping?”
“Gleefully,” she said, nodding.
Harry stared at her.
“Was it male or female?”
“I would hazard a guess at male,” said Professor Trelawney.
“And it sounded happy?”
“Very happy,” said Professor Trelawney sniffily.
“As though it was celebrating?”
“Most definitely.”
“And then—?”
“And then I called out, ‘Who's there?'”
“You couldn't have found out who it was without asking?” Harry asked her, slightly frustrated.
“The Inner Eye,” said Professor Trelawney with dignity, straightening her shawls and many strands of glittering beads, “was fixed upon matters well outside the 
mundane realms of whooping voices.”
“Right,” said Harry hastily; he had heard about Professor Trelawney's Inner Eye all too often before. “And did the voice say who was there?”
“No, it did not,” she said. “Everything went pitch black and the next thing I knew, I was being hurled headfirst out of the Room!”
“And you didn't see that coming?” said Harry, unable to help himself.
“No, I did not, as I say, it was pitch—” She stopped and glared at him suspiciously.
“I think you'd better tell Professor Dumbledore,” said Harry. “He ought to know Malfoy's celebrating—I mean, that someone threw you out of the Room.”
To his surprise, Professor Trelawney drew herself up at this suggestion, looking haughty.
“The Headmaster has intimated that he would prefer fewer visits from me,” she said coldly. “I am not one to press my company upon those who do not value it. If 
Dumbledore chooses to ignore the warnings the cards show—”
Her bony hand closed suddenly around Harry's wrist.
“Again and again, no matter how I lay them out—”
And she pulled a card dramatically from underneath her shawls.
“—the lightning-struck tower,” she whispered. “Calamity. Disaster. Coming nearer all the time ...”
“Right,” said Harry again. “Well ... I still think you should tell Dumbledore about this voice and everything going dark and being thrown out of the Room ...”
“You think so?” Professor Trelawney seemed to consider the matter for a moment, but Harry could tell that she liked the idea of retelling her little adventure.
“I'm going to see him right now,” said Harry. “I've got a meeting with him. We could go together.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” said Professor Trelawney with a smile. She bent down, scooped up her sherry bottles and dumped them unceremoniously in a large blue and 
white vase standing in a nearby niche.
“I miss having you in my classes, Harry,” she said soulfully, as they set off together. “You were never much of a Seer ... but you were a wonderful Object...”
Harry did not reply; he had loathed being the Object of Professor Trelawney's continual predictions of doom.
“I am afraid,” she went on, “that the nag—I'm sorry, the centaur—knows nothing of cartomancy. I asked him—one Seer to another—had he not, too, sensed the distant 
vibrations of coming catastrophe? But he seemed to find me almost comical. Yes, comical!”
Her voice rose rather hysterically and Harry caught a powerful whiff of sherry even though the bottles had been left behind.
“Perhaps the horse has heard people say that I have not inherited my great-great-grandmother's gift. Those rumours have been bandied about by the jealous for years. 
You know what I say to such people, Harry? Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I not proved myself to 
him?”
Harry mumbled something indistinct.
“I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore,” went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. “He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed ... I was 
staying at the Hog's Head, which I do not advise, incidentally—bed bugs, dear boy—but funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling upon me in my room at 
the inn. He questioned me ... I must confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed towards Divination ... and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, 
I had not eaten much that day ... but then ...”
And now Harry was paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the 
course of his whole life, the prophecy about him and Voldemort.
“... but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!”
“What?”
“Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the 
wrong way up the stairs, although I'm afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore—you see, he himself was 
seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, and I could not help 
thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man 
who was prepared to listen at keyholes—Harry, dear?”
She looked back over her shoulder, having only just realised that Harry was no longer with her; he had stopped walking and they were now ten feet from each other.
“Harry?” she repeated uncertainly.
Perhaps his face was white, to make her look so concerned and frightened. Harry was standing stock-still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, 
obliterating everything except the information that had been kept from him for so long ...
It was Snape who had overheard the prophecy. It was Snape who had carried the news of the prophecy to Voldemort. Snape and Peter Pettigrew together had sent Voldemort 
hunting after Lily and James and their son ...
Nothing else mattered to Harry just now.
“Harry?” said Professor Trelawney again. “Harry, I thought we were going to see the Headmaster together?”
“You stay here,” said Harry through numb lips.
“But, dear ... I was going to tell him how I was assaulted in the Room of—”
“You stay here!” Harry repeated angrily.
She looked alarmed as he ran past her, round the corner into Dumbledore's corridor, where the lone gargoyle stood sentry. Harry shouted the password at the gargoyle and 
ran up the moving spiral staircase three steps at a time. He did not knock upon Dumbledore's door, he hammered; and the calm voice answered ‘Enter’ after Harry had 
already flung himself into the room.
Fawkes the phoenix looked round, his bright black eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset beyond the window. Dumbledore was standing at the window looking out 
at the grounds, a long, black travelling cloak in his arms.
“Well, Harry, I promised that you could come with me.”
For a moment or two, Harry did not understand; the conversation with Trelawney had driven everything else out of his head and his brain seemed to be moving very slowly.
“Come ... with you ... ?”
“Only if you wish it, of course.”
“If I...”
And then Harry remembered why he had been eager to come to Dumbledore's office in the first place.
“You've found one? You've found a Horcrux?”
“I believe so.”
Rage and resentment fought shock and excitement: for several moments, Harry could not speak.
“It is natural to be afraid,” said Dumbledore.
“I'm not scared!” said Harry at once, and it was perfectly true; fear was one emotion he was not feeling at all. “Which Horcrux is it? Where is it?”
“I am not sure which it is—though I think we can rule out the snake—but I believe it to be hidden in a cave on the coast many miles from here, a cave I have been 
trying to locate for a very long time: the cave in which Tom Riddle once terrorised two children from his orphanage on their annual trip; you remember?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “How is it protected?”
“I do not know; I have suspicions that may be entirely wrong.” Dumbledore hesitated, then said, “Harry, I promised you that you could come with me, and I stand by 
that promise, but it would be very wrong of me not to warn you that this will be exceedingly dangerous.”
“I'm coming,” said Harry, almost before Dumbledore had finished speaking. Boiling with anger at Snape, his desire to do something desperate and risky had increased 
tenfold in the last few minutes. This seemed to show on Harry's face, for Dumbledore moved away from the window, and looked more closely at Harry, a slight crease 
between his silver eyebrows.
“What has happened to you?”
“Nothing,” lied Harry promptly.
“What has upset you?”
“I'm not upset.”
“Harry, you were never a good Occlumens—”
The word was the spark that ignited Harry's fury.
“Snape!” he said, very loudly, and Fawkes gave a soft squawk behind them. “Snape's what's happened! He told Voldemort about the prophecy, it was him, he listened 
outside the door, Trelawney told me!”
Dumbledore's expression did not change, but Harry thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing.
“When did you find out about this?” he asked at last.
“Just now!” said Many, who was refraining from yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly, he could not stop himself. “AND YOU LET HIM TEACH HERE AND HE 
TOLD VOLDEMORT TO GO AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!”
Breathing hard as though he were fighting, Harry turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, rubbing his knuckles in 
his hand and exercising every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking things over. He wanted to rage and storm at Dumbledore, but he also wanted to go with 
him to try and destroy the Horcrux; he wanted to tell him that he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he was terrified that Dumbledore would not take him 
along unless he mastered his anger ...
“Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Please listen to me.”
It was as difficult to stop his relentless pacing as to refrain from shouting. Harry paused, biting his lip, and looked into Dumbledore's lined face.
“Professor Snape made a terrible—”
“Don't tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening at the door!”
“Please let me finish.” Dumbledore waited until Harry had nodded curtly, then went on. “Professor Snape made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord Voldemort's 
employ on the night he heard the first half of Professor Trelawney's prophecy. Naturally, he hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it concerned his master 
most deeply. But he did not know—he had no possible way of knowing—which boy Voldemort would hunt from then onwards, or that the parents he would destroy in his 
murderous quest were people that Professor Snape knew, that they were your mother and father—”
Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter.
“He hated my dad like he hated Sirius! Haven't you noticed, Professor, how the people Snape hates tend to end up dead?”
“You have no idea of the remorse Professor Snape felt when he realised how Lord Voldemort had interpreted the prophecy, Harry. I believe it to be the greatest regret 
of his life and the reason that he returned—”
“But he‘s a very good Occlumens, isn't he, sir?” said Harry, whose voice was shaking with the effort of keeping it steady. “And isn't Voldemort convinced that 
Snape's on his side, even now? Professor ... how can you be sure Snape's on our side?”
Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. At last he said, “I am sure. I trust Severus Snape 
completely.”
Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work.
“Well, I don't!” he said, as loudly as before. “He's up to something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under your nose, and you still—”
“We have discussed this, Harry,” said Dumbledore, and now he sounded stern again. “I have told you my views.”
“'You're leaving the school tonight and I'll bet you haven't even considered that Snape and Malfoy might decide to —”
“To what?” asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. “What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?”
“I ... they're up to something!” said Harry and his hands curled into fists as he said it. “Professor Trelawney was just in the Room of Requirement, trying to hide 
her sherry bottles, and she heard Malfoy whooping, celebrating! He's trying to mend something dangerous in there and if you ask me he's fixed it at last and you're 
about to just walk out of school without—”
“Enough,” said Dumbledore. He said it quite calmly, and yet Harry fell silent at once; he knew that he had finally crossed some invisible line. “Do you think that I 
have once left the school unprotected during my absences this year? I have not. Tonight, when I leave, there will again be additional protection in place. Please do not 
suggest that I do not take the safety of my students seriously, Harry.”
“I didn't—” mumbled Harry, a little abashed, but Dumbledore cut across him.
“I do not wish to discuss the matter any further.”
Harry bit back his retort, scared that he had gone too far, that he had ruined his chance of accompanying Dumbledore, but Dumbledore went on, “Do you wish to come with 
me tonight?”
“Yes,” said Harry at once.
“Very well, then: listen.”
Dumbledore drew himself up to his full height.
“I take you with me on one condition: that you obey any command I might give you at once, and without question.”
“Of course.”
“Be sure to understand me, Harry. I mean that you must follow even such orders as “run", “hide” or “go back". Do I have your word?”
“I—yes, of course.”
“If I tell you to hide, you will do so?”
“Yes.”
“If I tell you to flee, you will obey?”
“Yes.”
“If I tell you to leave me, and save yourself, you will do as I tell you?”
“I—”
“Harry?”
They looked at each other for a moment.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Then I wish you to go and fetch your Cloak and meet me in the Entrance Hall in five minutes’ time.”
Dumbledore turned back to look out of the fiery window; the sun was now a ruby-red glare along the horizon. Harry walked quickly from the office and down the spiral 
staircase. His mind was oddly clear all of a sudden. He knew what to do.
Ron and Hermione were sitting together in the common room when he came back. ‘What does Dumbledore want?’ Hermione said at once. ‘Harry, are you okay?’ she added 
anxiously.
“I'm fine,” said Harry shortly, racing past them. He dashed up the stairs and into his dormitory, where he flung open his trunk and pulled out the Marauder's Map and 
a pair of balled-up socks. Then he sped back down the stairs and into the common room, skidding to a halt where Ron and Hermione sat, looking stunned.
“I haven't got much time,” Harry panted, “Dumbledore thinks I'm getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen ...”
Quickly he told them where he was going, and why. He did not pause either for Hermione's gasps of horror or for Ron's hasty questions; they could work out the finer 
details for themselves later.
“... so you see what this means?” Harry finished at a gallop. “Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to. 
No, listen to me!” he hissed angrily, as both Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting. “I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here—
” He shoved the Marauder's Map into Hermione's hand. “You've got to watch him and you've got to watch Snape, too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the DA. 
Hermione, those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he's put extra protection in the school, but if Snape's involved, he'll know what Dumbledore's 
protection is, and how to avoid it—but he won't be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?”
“Harry—” began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear.
“I haven't got time to argue,” said Harry curtly. “Take this as well—” He thrust the socks into Ron's hands.
“Thanks,” said Ron. “Er—why do I need socks?”
“You need what's wrapped in them, it's the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. Say goodbye to her from me. I'd better go, Dumbledore's waiting—
”
“No!” said Hermione, as Ron unwrapped the tiny little bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. “We don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be 
facing?”
“I'Il be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I want to know you lot are okay ... don't look like that, Hermione, I'll see you later”
And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole towards the Entrance Hall.
Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out on to the topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side.
“I would like you to wear your Cloak, please,” said Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it on before saying, “Very good. Shall we go?”
Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his own travelling cloak barely stirring in the still summer air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility 
Cloak, still panting and sweating rather a lot.
“But what will people think when they see you leaving, Professor?” Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy and Snape.
“That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,” said Dumbledore lightly. “I sometimes offer Rosmerta my custom, or else visit the Hog's Head ... or I appear to. It is as 
good a way as any of disguising one's true destination.”
They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, lake water and wood smoke from Hagrid's cabin. It was 
difficult to believe that they were heading for anything dangerous or frightening.
“Professor,” said Harry quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, “will we be Apparating?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You can Apparate now, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I haven't got a licence.”
He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled everything by turning up a hundred miles from where he was supposed to go?
“No matter,” said Dumbledore, “I can assist you again.”
They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they walked and by the time they reached the High Street night was 
falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting.
“—and stay out!” shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly ejecting a grubby-looking wizard. “Oh, hello, Albus ... you're out late ...”
“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening ... forgive me, I'm off to the Hog's Head ... no offence, but I feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight...”
A minute later they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog's Head's sign creaked a little, though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three 
Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely empty.
“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” muttered Dumbledore, glancing around. “As long as nobody sees us go ... now place your hand upon my arm, Harry. There is 
no need to grip too hard, I am merely guiding you. On the count of three—one ... two ... three ...”
Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being 
compressed almost past endurance and then, just when he thought he must suffocate, the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was standing in cool darkness, 
breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air.
哈利·波特和金妮·韦斯莱交往的消息引起了很多人的兴趣，其中的大多数是女孩子，接下来的几周里，哈利重新高兴地发现自己不在为流言蜚语所影响了。毕竟，他们谈论的话题已经让他觉
得久违地开心，相对于恐怖的黑魔法事件要好得多。
 
　　“你会觉得人们有了更好的事情可谈论，”金妮坐在公共休息室地板上，依偎着哈利的腿，翻阅着《预言家日报》。“一周内发生了三次摄魂怪袭击，罗蜜尔达·文恩做的所有事情就是问
我你是不是在胸前纹了一只鹰头马身有翼兽。”
 
　　罗恩和赫敏都哄堂大笑。哈利没有理睬他们。
 
　　“你怎么告诉她的？”
 
　　“我告诉她那是一只匈牙利树蜂，”金妮懒散地翻过一页《预言家日报》。“更有男子汉气概。”
 
　　“谢谢，”哈利咧嘴笑了。“那你有没有告诉她罗恩纹的是什么？”
 
　　“一个侏儒蒲绒绒，但我没有告诉她纹在哪儿。”
 
　　赫敏转过脸去大笑，罗恩板起了脸。
 
　　“请注意，”罗恩警告地指着哈利和金妮。“我允许你们两个交往并不意味着我不可以收回——”
 
　　“‘你的允许’，”金妮嘲弄地说。“什么时候开始我要得到你的允许才能做事情？不管怎样，你自己都说了你更希望是哈利而不是迈克尔和迪安。”
 
　　“是啊，我是这么希望来着，”罗恩勉强地说。“只要你们不在公共场合接吻——”
 
　　“肮脏的伪君子！你和拉文德又怎么样，像一对鳗鱼一样到处翻来覆去？”金妮质问道。
 
　　可是进入六月之后测试罗恩容忍程度的机会就不多了，哈利和金妮在一起的时间被越来越多地限定了起来。金妮的O.W.L.考试临近，因此她不得不复习到深夜。就在这样一个晚上，金妮去
了图书馆，哈利则靠窗坐在公共休息室里，本来应该是在完成了他的草药课作业，可实际上却是在回味他们两人午饭时在湖边共同度过的美好时光。赫敏挤坐在哈利和罗恩中间，脸上带着不悦
的坚定表情。
 
　　“我有话要和你说，哈利。”
 
　　“什么事儿？”哈利怀疑地问。就在前一天，赫敏刚刚责备他分了金妮的心，她说金妮应该好好准备考试。
 
　　“关于那所谓的混血王子。”
 
　　“哦，别又来了，”他呻吟了一声。“你能不能不提了？”
 
　　哈利至今还不敢回有求必应屋取他的书，因此他的魔药课成绩一落千丈（不过斯拉霍恩同意金妮的观点，诙谐地把原因归结为哈利的相思病）。但哈利确信斯内普还没有放弃找到混血王子
的这本书。所以在斯内普保持警惕的情况下，哈利决定把它放一放。
 
　　“我不会不提它的！”赫敏坚定地说，“直到你听我说完。现在我已经查到了一些，知道了是谁有发明黑魔咒的嗜好——”
 
　　“他没有这种嗜好——”
 
　　“他，他——谁说那就一定是他？”
 
　　“我们讨论过这个了，”哈利执拗地说。“王子，赫敏，是王子！”
 
　　“好吧！”赫敏涨红了脸，从衣袋里掏出一张旧报纸，猛地摊在哈利面前，“你看！看看这些照片！”
 
　　哈利拾起残缺不全的报纸，盯着上面已经泛黄的活动照片；罗恩也把脑袋凑了过来。照片里是一个年约十五的瘦弱女孩。她长得并不漂亮；看上去性格乖戾、脸色阴沉，长着粗粗的眉毛和
一张狭长而苍白的脸。照片下的标题注明：艾琳·普林斯，霍格沃茨高布石队队长。
 
　　“所以？”哈利迅速地扫视了一遍照片附带的简短新闻；是一个有关校际比赛的无聊故事。
 
　　“她名叫艾琳·普林斯。普林斯（译注：在英语里姓氏普林斯和王子是一个单词），哈利。”
 
　　他们俩对视着，哈利明白了赫敏想说什么。他突然大笑了起来。
 
　　“不可能。”
 
　　“什么？”
 
　　“你认为她就是那个混血……？哦，算了吧。”
 
　　“好了，为什么不行？哈利，巫师世界根本就不存在真正的王子！它只不过是绰号，自己给自己起的名字，或者干脆就是真名，不是吗？不要，你听我说！如果说，她的父亲恰巧是一个姓
‘普林斯’的巫师，而母亲是个麻瓜，那么她就是一个‘混血的普林斯’！”
 
　　“是啊，非常有创意，赫敏……”
 
　　“但它就是这样！也许她还为自己是半个王子感到骄傲呢！”
 
　　“听着，赫敏，我可以看得出那不是一个女孩。我看得出来。”
 
　　“事实上是因为你不认为一个女孩会有这么聪明！”赫敏生气地说。
 
　　“我和你整整相处了五年，怎么会认为女孩不聪明？”哈利被刺痛了。“是从他写字的方式看出来的。我知道他是个小伙子。这个女孩和这件事没有关系。不过，你这报纸是从哪儿搞来的
？”
 
　　“图书室，”赫敏毫无悬念地。“那里收藏全套过去的《预言家日报》。嗯，如果能的话我会去找更多有关艾琳·普林斯的事情。”
 
　　“祝你过得愉快，”哈利急躁地说。
 
　　“我会的，”赫敏说。“我第一个要去查的地方，”她走到肖像洞的时候回头瞪了他一眼，“就是魔药奖励记录册。”
 
　　哈利满面愁容地看了看他，然后继续注视起变黑的天空来。
 
　　“她只是没法接受你在魔药课上比她做得还好，”罗恩返回去看他那本《千种神奇草药及蕈类》。
 
　　“你不觉得我想把那本书拿回来是疯了，对不对？”
 
　　“当然不觉得，”罗恩兴致勃勃地说。“王子是个天才。不管怎样……没有他关于牛黄的那个提示……”他把手指意味深长地放在喉咙上，“我就不会坐在这儿和你讨论了，是不是？我不
是说你用在马尔福身上的那个咒语很棒——”
 
　　“我也没这个意思，”哈利迅速说。
 
　　“但是他已经治愈了，不是吗？马上就站了起来。”
 
　　“是啊，”哈利说；这的确是事实，虽然哈利的良心有些不安。“多亏了斯内普……”
 
　　“你这个星期六还要去斯内普那儿关禁闭？”
 
　　“是啊。下个星期六，下下个星期六，”哈利叹了口气。“他还暗示，如果我这学期不能把所有的盒子都整理完，下学期还会继续！”
 
　　哈利发现关禁闭非常令人讨厌，因为它占去了他和金妮已经很有限的相处时间。他进来确实在不断地猜测斯内普是不是知道了这件事，因为他留住哈利的时间越来越晚，还常常明显地在哈
利旁边嘀咕着他又错过了好天气，错过了机会做各种各样的事。
 
　　哈利从辛酸的回忆中被摇醒了，吉米·皮克斯出现在了他身边，拿着一卷羊皮纸。
 
　　“谢谢，吉米……嘿，这是邓布利多的！”哈利激动地说，打开羊皮纸迅速地浏览。“他让我尽快去他的办公室。”
 
　　他们俩面面相觑。
 
　　“天哪，”罗恩小声说，“你不会觉得……他不会是找到了……？”
 
　　“去看看就知道了，是不是？”哈利跳了起来。
 
　　哈利奔出了公共休息室，在八楼全速地往前冲，途中只遇见了皮皮鬼。皮皮鬼从对面飞扑过来，像往常一样朝哈利扔粉笔头，在躲过哈利防御的咒语时咯咯大笑。皮皮鬼消失之后，走廊里
一片寂静；现在离睡觉时间只剩十五分钟了，几乎所有的人都回到了各自的公共休息室。
 
　　随后哈利听到了尖叫和撞击声。他停下了脚步听着。
 
　　“你——怎么——敢——啊！”
 
　　声音是从附近的一个走廊传来的。哈利掏出魔杖，向那儿跑去，转过一个拐角之后发现特里劳妮教授四肢摊开地躺在地上，脸被她的一条披肩遮着，身边倒着几个雪利酒瓶，其中一个破了
。
 
　　“教授——”
 
　　哈利快步上前扶特里劳妮教授。一些闪亮的珠子和她的眼镜缠在了一起。她响亮地打着嗝，抚摸着自己的头发，在哈利的搀扶下站了起来。
 
　　“发生了什么事情，教授？”
 
　　“问得好！”她尖声说。“我正沿着这里闲逛，苦苦思索着我刚才瞥见的黑魔法征兆……”
 
　　但是哈利没有注意听。他刚刚注意到他们所站的位置：右边是跳舞巨怪的挂毯，左边的那面光滑坚固的石墙就藏着——
 
　　“教授，你是想进有求必应屋吗？”
 
　　“……我获悉的那些预兆——什么？”
 
　　她突然看上去有些诡异。
 
　　“有求必应屋，”哈利重复道。“你是不是想进去？”
 
　　“我——嗯——我不知道还有学生知道——”
 
　　“不是所有的学生都知道，”哈利说。“但是刚才发生了什么？你尖叫了……听上去像是你受了伤……”
 
　　“我……很好，”特里劳妮教授防御性地拉了拉她的披肩，用她那被放得巨大的眼睛盯着哈利，“我想——啊——放一些——嗯——私人物品到屋子里去……”然后她嘀咕了一句，听起来
像是“龌龊的指控。”
 
　　“好吧，”哈利瞥了一眼她的雪利酒瓶，“但是你没法进去藏你的东西？”
 
　　他觉得这很奇特；毕竟当他想把混血王子的书藏起来的时候，有求必应屋就为他打开了。
 
　　“哦，我进去了，”特里劳妮瞪着那堵墙。“可是里面已经有人了。”
 
　　“有人在——？谁？”哈利问。“谁在里面？”
 
　　“我不知道，”特里劳妮教授看上去被哈利催促的语气吓到了。“我走进屋子，突然听到一个声音，我的意思是，这么多年来我藏——使用这屋子时从来没有发生过这种事。”
 
　　“一个声音？说了些什么？”
 
　　“我不记得它是在说话，”特里劳妮教授说。“它是……在欢呼。”
 
　　“欢呼？”
 
　　“很高兴地欢呼，”她点了点头。
 
　　哈利盯着她。
 
　　“是男的还是女的？”
 
　　“我大胆地揣测是个男的，”特里劳妮教授说。
 
　　“那声音听上去很高兴？”
 
　　“非常高兴，”特里劳妮以轻蔑的口吻说。
 
　　“就像在庆祝一样？”
 
　　“绝对是。”
 
　　“然后呢——？”
 
　　“然后我就问‘谁在那儿？’”
 
　　“你不问就不能弄清楚是谁了吗？”哈利有些失望地问她。
 
　　“天目，”特里劳妮庄严地说，整理着她的披肩和那串闪闪发亮的珠子，“不是盯在欢呼声这样的世俗领域的。”
 
　　“好吧，”哈利急忙说；特里劳妮天目的话题他过去实在已经听得太多了。“那个声音有没有说是谁在哪儿？”
 
　　“没有，”她说。“周围的一切都变得漆黑，随后就被头朝前地抛出了屋子。”
 
　　“难道您就没有一点准备吗？”哈利情不自禁地说。
 
　　“没有，我告诉过你，周围一团漆黑——”特里劳妮停住了，她怀疑地怒视着哈利。
 
　　“我想你最好还是告诉邓布利多教授，”哈利说。“他应该知道马尔福在庆祝——我是说，有人把你抛出屋子。”
 
　　出乎哈利意料的是，特里劳妮听到他的建议后直起了身子，看上去很傲慢。
 
　　“校长已经暗示了他不愿我经常去找他，”她冷冷地说。“我不会把我的友谊强加给那些不珍视它的人。如果邓布利多不理会纸牌显示的警告——”
 
　　她瘦骨嶙峋的手突然抓住了哈利的手腕。
 
　　“一次又一次，不管我怎么把它们展示出来——”
 
　　然后她戏剧性地从披肩下面抽出了一张牌。
 
　　“——塔楼上的惊魂，”她低声说。“灾难。祸事。一直在逼近……”
 
　　“对，”哈利又说了一遍。“嗯……我还是认为您应该和邓布利多校长说一下那个声音，以及周围都变黑了，还被扔出了屋子……”
 
　　“你这样认为？”特里劳妮似乎是在考虑，可是哈利看得出她喜欢复述自己的小历险。
 
　　“我正好要去见邓布利多，”哈利说。“我要和他会面。我们可以一起去。”
 
　　“哦，好吧，如果那样的话，”特里劳妮教授微笑着说。她弯下腰拾起雪利酒瓶，随手把它们扔进了旁边壁龛上的一个蓝白相间的大花瓶。
 
　　“我怀念你在我班上的时光，哈利，”他们一起出发时，特里劳妮充满热情地说。“你不是一个好预言家，但却是一个极好的预言对象……”
 
　　哈利没有回答；他很厌恶做那个对象，特里劳妮教授不停地预言着它的死亡。
 
　　“恐怕，”她接着说，“那匹老马——对不起，那位马人——不懂得纸牌占卜。我问他——预言家之间的讨论——是不是也遥远地感应到了大难临头？可是他似乎觉得我很滑稽。是的，滑
稽！”
 
　　她的声音变得歇斯底里起来，哈利闻到了一股雪利酒的味道，虽然瓶子已经被扔在了后头。
 
　　“也许那匹马听人说我没有从曾曾祖母那里遗传到她的才能。这些谣言已经被嫉妒的人传播了很多年。你知道我对这些人说了什么，哈利？如果我没有向邓布利多校长证明自己，这些年来
他会让我在这所伟大的学校授课并给予我如此多的信任吗？”
 
　　哈利嘴里含糊地咕哝什么。
 
　　“我清楚地记得我和邓布利多的第一次面试，”特里劳妮用她特有的那种低沉而洪亮的声音接着说。“他留下了深刻的印象，当然，深刻的印象……那天我在猪头酒吧投宿，顺便提一下，
我不推荐那儿——有臭虫，亲爱的孩子——但是我手头拮据。邓布利多在我的旅馆房间里礼貌地拜访了我。他问了我一些问题……我得承认，起先我觉得他对占卜怀有成见……后来我开始觉得
有点古怪，那天我没有吃多少东西……可是接着……”
 
　　现在哈利第一次真正注意了，因为他知道接下来发生了什么：特里劳妮教授做出了那个改变他一生进程的预言，关于他和伏地魔的预言。
 
　　“……可是接着我们的谈话被西弗勒斯·斯内普无礼地中断了！”
 
　　“什么？”
 
　　“是的，门外面有些混乱，然后门突然打开了，那个没有教养的招待员和斯内普站在一起，还胡扯什么上楼走错地方了，不过我恐怕觉得他被逮到正在偷听我和邓布利多的面试——你知道
吗，他那时候也在找工作，毫无疑问是想学到一些窍门！嗯，后来，邓布利多似乎很愿意提供我一个职位，我不禁想，哈利，那是因为我谦逊的风格和出色的天分，与那个从钥匙眼中偷窥的蝇
营狗苟之辈形成了鲜明的对比——哈利，亲爱的？”
 
　　她回过头才发现哈利没有和她走在一块儿；他已经停下了脚步，现在他们差了十英尺。
 
　　“哈利？”她不确定地重复道。
 
　　也许是哈利苍白的脸色让特里劳妮教授看上去既担心又害怕。哈利静静地站在那儿，震惊的波浪冲击着他，一波接一波，淹没了一切，只剩下了那个对他隐瞒了如此之久的信息。
 
　　是斯内普偷听了预言！是斯内普向伏地魔告的密！是斯内普和小矮星彼得一起怂恿的伏地魔去追杀莉莉、詹姆和他们的儿子……
 
　　现在任何其他的事对哈利来说都无关紧要了。
 
　　“哈利？”特里劳妮教授又说了一遍。“哈利——我们不是要一起去见校长吗？”
 
　　“你待在这儿，”哈利用麻木的双唇说。
 
　　“但是，亲爱的……我要告诉邓布利多刚才我在有求必应屋被袭击——”
 
　　“你给我待在这儿！”哈利生气地重复道。
 
　　哈利跑过惊恐的特里劳妮教授，转过弯来到了邓布利多的那条走廊，孤独的石兽在走廊上站岗。哈利冲石兽喊出口令，三步并作两步地跨上了旋转楼梯。他不是敲而是捶着校长办公室的门
；在平静的应答声‘请进’响起之前，哈利已经冲进了屋子。
 
　　凤凰福克斯转过了头，它明亮的黑眼珠反射出窗外夕阳的金色光芒。邓布利多站在窗前望着操场，手上搭着一件长长的黑色旅行斗篷。
 
　　“嗯，哈利，我答应过你可以和我一起去。”
 
　　起初哈利没有听懂；和特里劳妮的谈话把所有的事情都赶出了他的脑子，现在他的思维变得非常迟缓。
 
　　“和你……一起去？”
 
　　“只要你愿意，当然。”
 
　　“只要我……”
 
　　紧接着哈利想起了自己最初为什么要急切地来邓布利多的办公室。
 
　　“你找到了一个？你找到了一个灵魂碎片？”
 
　　“我相信如此。”
 
　　愤怒和怨恨正在同震惊和兴奋交战：哈利一时间说不出话来。
 
　　“感到害怕是很正常的，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“我不是害怕！”哈利马上说，也的确如此；他一点儿也没有感到害怕。“是哪个灵魂碎片？它在哪儿？”
 
　　“我不能肯定它是什么东西——不过我认为我们可以把那条蛇排除掉——但我相信它被藏在一个沿海的洞穴里，离这儿非常远，我找这个洞穴很长时间：汤姆·里德尔曾于某一年的远足时
在这个洞穴里恐吓过孤儿院的两个孩子；你还记得吗？”
 
　　“记得，”哈利说。“它是怎么被保护起来的？”
 
　　“我不知道；我有几个猜测，但它们可能完全是错的。”邓布利多犹豫了一下，然后说，“哈利，我答应过带你去就一定会遵守诺言，但是我必须警告你这件事极度危险。”
 
　　“我要去，”几乎没等邓布利多说完，哈利就抢着说。对斯内普怒火中烧的他，短短几分钟内铤而走险的渴望增大了十倍。这似乎也写在了哈利的脸上，因为邓布利多从窗户那边走过来，
更仔细地看着哈利，银色的眉毛微微皱了起来。
 
　　“你出了什么事？”
 
　　“没事，”哈利迅速撒谎。
 
　　“什么事使你心烦意乱？”
 
　　“我没有心烦意乱。”
 
　　“哈利，你可不是一个优秀的大脑封闭术师……”
 
　　这句话如同火花一样点燃了哈利心中的怒火。
 
　　“斯内普！”哈利非常大声地说，福克斯在他们身后轻轻地叫唤了一声以示抗议。“是斯内普！他把预言告诉了伏地魔，是他，是他在门外偷听，特里劳妮告诉了我！”
 
　　邓布利多的表情没有变，但哈利觉得在血红的落日照射下，他的脸更加苍白了。过了很久，邓布利多什么也没有说。
 
　　“你什么时候发现这个的？”他最后终于开了口。
 
　　“刚才！”哈利艰难地克制着不要大喊大叫。然后，他突然控制不住了。“你让他来这里教书，而他却让伏地魔去追杀我的父母！”
 
　　哈利就像在打架一样气喘吁吁，他转过身背对着纹丝不动的邓布利多，在办公室里踱来踱去，揉着他的指关节，用最后的一点理智克制自己不去摔东西。他想对邓布利多大发雷霆，但是他
也想和他一起去毁灭那个灵魂碎片；他想告诉邓布利多，他是一个信任斯内普的愚蠢老人，但他又害怕如果他不控制自己的愤怒，邓布利多就会不带上他去了……
 
　　“哈利，”邓布利多平静地说。“请听我说。”
 
　　和克制住叫喊一样，要克制住不再屋子里走来走去也是很困难的。哈利咬着嘴唇停了下来，盯着邓布利多布满皱纹的脸。
 
　　“斯内普教授犯了一个严重的——”
 
　　“别告诉我那是个错误，教授，他在偷听！”
 
　　“请让我说完。”邓布利多等到哈利敷衍地点了点头，才接着说。“斯内普教授犯了一个严重的错误。他偷听到预言前半部分的那个晚上还是伏地魔的手下。自然，他就赶紧把他听到的告
诉了他的主人，因为这和他的主人关系密切。但是他不知道——他不可能知道——伏地魔会去追杀哪一个男孩，也不知道在伏地魔的谋杀中牺牲的父母会是斯内普教授认识的人，也就是你的母
亲和父亲——”
 
　　哈利苦笑了一声。
 
　　“他恨我父亲，就像恨小天狼星一样！教授，难道你没有注意到斯内普所恨的人都是怎么死的？”
 
　　“你不知道斯内普在伏地魔那样解读预言之后有多悔恨，哈利。我相信那是他一生中最大的后悔，也是促使他回到了——”
 
　　“但他是个很优秀的大脑封闭术师，不是吗，教授？”哈利的声音在颤抖。“伏地魔不也相信斯内普是他那一边的吗……你怎么就肯定斯内普是我们这边的呢？”
 
　　邓布利多一时间没有说话；他看上去像是在下决心。最后他说，“我敢肯定。我完全信任西弗勒斯·斯内普。”
 
　　哈利做了一个深呼吸使自己镇定下来。但这不起作用。
 
　　“好吧，我不信任他！”他和刚才一样大声地叫着。“他现在正在和德拉科·马尔福密谋着什么，就在你的眼皮子底下，但是你还——”
 
　　“我们已经讨论过这个了，哈利，”邓布利多说，现在他的声音又变得严厉了。“我已经告诉过你我的观点了。”
 
　　“你今晚要离开学校，我敢打赌你没有考虑过斯内普和马尔福可能会决定要——”
 
　　“要干什么？”邓布利多问，扬起了眉毛。“你到底在怀疑他们做什么？”
 
　　“我……他们肯定在搞什么鬼！”哈利边说边握紧了拳头。“特里劳妮教授刚刚在有求必应屋藏她的雪利酒瓶，然后她听到了马尔福在欢呼，在庆祝！他一直试图在那儿修理某一件危险的
物品，如果你问我的话，我认为他终于修好了他，而你却正要离开学校，没有任何的——”
 
　　“够了，”邓布利多说。他说得很平静，但哈利还是立刻住了嘴；他知道自己已经越过了一条看不见的底线。“你以为我今年不在时候曾经让学校处于未受保护的状态吗？我没有。今晚，
当我离开的时候，这里依然会有适当的附加保护措施。请不要暗示我不重视我学生的安全，哈利。”
 
　　“我没有——”“哈利喃喃地说，显得有些窘迫。但邓布利多打断了他。
 
　　“我不希望再继续讨论这件事了。”
 
　　哈利咽下了自己的反驳，害怕他说得已经太过分了，害怕他已经毁掉了陪同邓布利多的机会，可是邓布利多接着说道，“你愿意今晚和我一起去吗？”
 
　　“是的，”哈利立刻说。
 
　　“很好，那么：听我说。”
 
　　邓布利多站直了身子。
 
　　“我带着你，只有一个条件：你要义无反顾地服从我给你的任何命令。”
 
　　“当然。”
 
　　“弄清楚我的意思，哈利。我是说你必须服从甚至这样的命令，比如‘跑’、‘藏起来’或者‘回去’。你能向我保证吗？”
 
　　“我——好的，当然。”
 
　　“如果我让你藏起来，你会这么做吗？”
 
　　“会的。”
 
　　“如果我让你逃走，你会遵从吗？”
 
　　“会的。”
 
　　“如果我让你快离开我，自己逃命，你会照我说的做吗？”
 
　　“我——”
 
　　“哈利？”
 
　　他们对视了一会儿。
 
　　“会的，教授。”
 
　　“非常好。那么现在我希望你去取隐形斗篷，五分钟后和我在门厅会合。”
 
　　邓布利多转过身向火红的窗外望去；太阳在地平线上放射出红宝石般的光芒。哈利迅速走出办公室，走下旋转楼梯。他的脑子突然奇怪地清醒了。他知道该做什么了。
 
　　他回去时，罗恩和赫敏正一起坐在公共休息室里。“邓布利多要干什么？”赫敏立刻说。“哈利，你还好吧？”她焦急地加上了一句。
 
　　“我还好，”哈利简短地说，迅速跑过了他们。他冲上了楼梯进了宿舍，掀开他的行李箱抽出了活点地图和一团卷成球的袜子。然后他加速冲下楼梯进入了公共休息室，在罗恩和赫敏坐的
地方刹了车，他们俩一脸震惊的表情。
 
　　“我没有太多时间，”哈利气喘吁吁地说，“邓布利多以为我来拿隐形斗篷。听我说……”
 
　　他飞快地告诉了他们自己要去哪儿，以及为什么要去。他没有因为赫敏恐惧的喘息和罗恩急促的提问而暂停；稍微他们应该能自己想明白更精确的细节。
 
　　“……那么你们知道这意味着什么吗？”哈利用最快的速度说完了。“邓布利多今晚不在，所以马尔福显然要动手了。不！听我说！”他生气地嘘了一声，因为罗恩和赫敏都想打断他。“
我知道在有求必应屋里欢呼的正是马尔福。拿着——”他把活点地图塞到赫敏手里，“你去监视他，而你去监视斯内普。用上你们能找到的任何一个D.A.的人。赫敏，那些联络用的金加隆还有
效吧？邓布利多说他已经采取了额外的保护措施，但如果斯内普也卷入的话，他会知道邓布利多的保护措施是什么，以及怎么避开它——但他不会料到你们在监视他，对吗？”
 
　　“哈利——”赫敏开口了，她的眼睛因为恐惧而睁得大大的。
 
　　“我没时间和你争辩，”哈利简短地说。“再拿上这个——”他把袜子塞进罗恩的手里。
 
　　“谢谢，”罗恩说。“呃——我要袜子干嘛？”
 
　　“你需要里面包的东西，是飞力飞思。你们和金妮分了它。帮我向她道别。我得走了，邓布利多在等我——”
 
　　“不！”赫敏说，这时罗恩一脸敬畏地把装着金色药水的小瓶子从里面取了出来。“我们不需要它，你喝了吧，谁知道你将要面对什么啊。”
 
　　“我不会有事的，我会和邓布利多在一起。”哈利说。“我要你们都没事……别那样看着我，赫敏，待会儿见……”
 
　　他离开了他们，匆忙地穿过肖像洞向门厅跑去。
 
　　邓布利多正在橡木大门旁边等着。他转过身，这时哈利在最高的石阶上急刹住了车，喘着粗气，肋部灼烧地刺痛。
 
　　“我要你穿上隐形斗篷，”邓布利多说，他等着哈利穿好，然后说，“非常好。我们走吧？”
 
　　邓布利多马上走下了石阶，他自己的旅行斗篷几乎没有搅动夏天静止的空气。穿着隐形斗篷的哈利赶紧气喘吁吁地跟上他，出了很多汗。
 
　　“人们看到你离开的话会怎么想？”他问，心里想着斯内普和马尔福。
 
　　“会认为我是去霍格莫德喝点酒，”邓布利多轻声说。“我有时会光顾罗斯默塔那儿，或者猪头酒吧……或者
Chapter 26 The Cave
Harry could smell salt and hear rushing waves; a light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out at moonlit sea and star-strewn sky. He was standing upon a high 
outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few 
large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the 
past. It was a bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by any tree or sweep of grass or sand.
“What do you think?” asked Dumbledore. He might have been asking Harry's opinion on whether it was a good site for a picnic.
“They brought the kids from the orphanage here?” asked Harry, who could not imagine a less cozy spot for a day trip.
“Not here, precisely,” said Dumbledore. “There is a village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs behind us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little 
sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited this spot. No Muggle could reach this rock unless they 
were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats cannot approach the cliffs, the waters around them are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed down; magic would have 
served better than ropes. And he brought two small children with him, probably for the pleasure of terrorizing them. I think the journey alone would have done it, don't 
you?”
Harry looked up at the cliff again and felt goose bumps.
“But his final destination—and ours—lies a little farther on. Come.”
Dumbledore beckoned Harry to the very edge of the rock where a series of jagged niches made footholds leading down to boulders that lay half-submerged in water and 
closer to the cliff. It was a treacherous descent and Dumbledore, hampered slightly by his withered hand, moved slowly. The lower rocks were slippery with seawater. 
Harry could feel flecks of cold salt spray hitting his face.
“Lumos,” said Dumbledore, as he reached the boulder closest to the cliff face. A thousand flecks of golden light sparkled upon the dark surface of the water a few 
feet below where he crouched; the black wall of rock beside him was illuminated too.
“You see?” said Dumbledore quietly, holding his wand a little higher. Harry saw a fissure in the cliff into which dark water was swirling.
“You will not object to getting a little wet?”
“No,” said Harry.
“Then take off your Invisibility Cloak—there is no need for it now—and let us take the plunge.”
And with the sudden agility of a much younger man, Dumbledore slid from the boulder, landed in the sea, and began to swim, with a perfect breaststroke, toward the dark 
slit in the rock face, his lit wand held in his teeth. Harry pulled off his cloak, stuffed it into his pocket, and followed.
The water was icy; Harry's waterlogged clothes billowed around him and weighed him down. Taking deep breaths that filled his nostrils with the tang of salt and seaweed, 
he struck out for the shimmering, shrinking light now moving deeper into the cliff. The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry could tell would be filled 
with water at high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered like wet tar in the passing light of Dumbledore's wand. A little way in, the 
passageway curved to the left, and Harry saw that it extended far into the cliff. He continued to swim in Dumbledore's wake, the tips of his benumbed fingers brushing 
the rough, wet rock.
Then he saw Dumbledore rising out of the water ahead, his silver hair and dark robes gleaming. When Harry reached the spot he found steps that led into a large cave. He 
clambered up them, water streaming from his soaking clothes, and emerged, shivering uncontrollably, into the still and freezing air.
Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, examining the walls and ceiling.
“Yes, this is the place,” said Dumbledore.
“How can you tell?” Harry spoke in a whisper.
“It has known magic,” said Dumbledore simply. Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or to the same 
awareness of enchantments. He watched as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot, evidently concentrating on things Harry could not see.
“This is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two. “We need to penetrate the inner place... now it is Lord Voldemort's 
obstacles that stand in our way, rather than those nature made...”
Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring words in a strange tongue that Harry did not understand. Twice 
Dumbledore walked right around the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backward and forward over a 
particular spot, until finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall.
“Here,” he said. “We go on through here. The entrance is concealed.”
Harry did not ask how Dumbledore knew. He had never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply by looking and touching; but Harry had long since learned that bangs 
and smoke were more often the marks of ineptitude than expertise.
Dumbledore stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a 
powerful light behind the crack.
“You've d-done it!” said Harry through chattering teeth, but before the words had left his lips the outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid as ever. 
Dumbledore looked around.
“Harry, I'm so sorry, I forgot,” he said; he now pointed his wand at Harry and at once, Harry's clothes were as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front of a 
blazing fire.
“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully, but Dumbledore had already turned his attention back to the solid cave wall. He did not try any more magic, but simply stood there 
staring at it intently, as though something extremely interesting was written on it. Harry stayed quite still; he did not want to break Dumbledore's concentration.
Then, after two solid minutes, Dumbledore said quietly, “Oh, surely not. So crude.”
“What is it, Professor?”
“I rather think,” said Dumbledore, putting his uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a short silver knife of the kind Harry used to chop potion ingredients, 
“that we are required to make payment to pass.”
“Payment?” said Harry. “You've got to give the door something?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Blood, if I am not much mistaken.”
“Blood?”
“I said it was crude,” said Dumbledore, who sounded disdainful, even disappointed, as though Voldemort had fallen short of higher standards Dumbledore expected. “The 
idea, as I am sure you will have gathered, is that your enemy must weaken him- or herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort fails to grasp that there are much more 
terrible things than physical injury.”
“Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it...” said Harry, who had experienced enough pain not to be keen for more.
“Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable,” said Dumbledore, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and exposing the forearm of his injured hand.
“Professor!” protested Harry, hurrying forward as Dumbledore raised his knife. “I'll do it, I'm —”
He did not know what he was going to say—younger, fitter? But Dumbledore merely smiled. There was a flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face was peppered 
with dark, glistening drops.
“You are very kind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, now passing the tip of his wand over the deep cut he had made in his own arm, so that it healed instantly, just as Snape 
had healed Malfoy's wound, “But your blood is worth more than mine. Ah, that seems to have done the trick, doesn't it?”
The blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in the wall once more, and this time it did not fade away: the blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished, 
leaving an opening into what seemed total darkness.
“After me, I think,” said Dumbledore, and he walked through the archway with Harry on his heels, lighting his own wand hastily as he went.
An eerie sight met their eyes: they were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that 
the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the completely still water 
below. The greenish glow and the light from the two wands were the only things that broke the otherwise velvety blackness, though their rays did not penetrate as far as 
Harry would have expected. The darkness was somehow denser than normal darkness.
“Let us walk,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Be very careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me.”
He set off around the edge of the lake, and Harry followed close behind him. Their footsteps made echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock that surrounded the 
water. On and on they walked, but the view did not vary: on one side of them, the rough cavern wall, on the other, the boundless expanse of smooth, glassy blackness, in 
the very middle of which was that mysterious greenish glow. Harry found the place and the silence oppressive, unnerving.
“Professor?” he said finally. “Do you think the Horcrux is here?”
“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, I'm sure it is. The question is, how do we get to it?”
“We couldn't... we couldn't just try a Summoning Charm?” Harry said, sure that it was a stupid suggestion. But he was much keener than he was prepared to admit on 
getting out of this place as soon as possible.
“Certainly we could,” said Dumbledore, stopping so suddenly that Harry almost walked into him. “Why don't you do it?”
“Me? Oh... okay...” Harry had not expected this, but cleared his throat and said loudly, wand aloft, “Accio Horcrux!”
With a noise like an explosion, something very large and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty feet away; before Harry could see what it was, it had vanished 
again with a crashing splash that made great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Harry leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his heart was still thundering as he 
turned to Dumbledore.
“What was that?”
“Something, I think, that is ready to respond should we attempt to seize the Horcrux.”
Harry looked back at the water. The surface of the lake was once more shining black glass: the ripples had vanished unnaturally fast; Harry's heart, however, was still 
pounding.
“Did you think that would happen, sir?”
“I thought something would happen if we made an obvious attempt to get our hands on the Horcrux. That was a very good idea, Harry; much the simplest way of finding out 
what we are facing.”
“But we don't know what the thing was,” said Harry, looking at the sinisterly smooth water.
“What the things are, you mean,” said Dumbledore. “I doubt very much that there is only one of them. Shall we walk on?”
“Professor?”
“Yes, Harry?”
“Do you think we're going to have to go into the lake?”
“Into it? Only if we are very unfortunate.”
“You don't think the Horcrux is at the bottom?”
“Oh no ... I think the Horcrux is in the middle.”
And Dumbledore pointed toward the misty green light in the center of the lake.
“So we're going to have to cross the lake to get to it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Harry did not say anything. His thoughts were all of water monsters, of giant serpents, of demons, kelpies, and sprites...
“Aha,” said Dumbledore, and he stopped again; this time, Harry really did walk into him; for a moment he toppled on the edge of the dark water, and Dumbledore's 
uninjured hand closed tightly around his upper arm, pulling him back. “So sorry, Harry, I should have given warning. Stand back against the wall, please; I think I 
have found the place.”
Harry had no idea what Dumbledore meant; this patch of dark bank was exactly like every other bit as far as he could tell, but Dumbledore seemed to have detected 
something special about it. This time he was running his hand, not over the rocky wall, but through the thin air, as though expecting to find and grip something 
invisible.
“Oho,” said Dumbledore happily, seconds later. His hand had closed in midair upon something Harry could not see. Dumbledore moved closer to the water; Harry watched 
nervously as the tips of Dumbledore's buckled shoes found the utmost edge of the rock rim. Keeping his hand clenched in midair, Dumbledore raised his wand with the 
other and tapped his fist with the point.
Immediately a thick coppery green chain appeared out of thin air, extending from the depths of the water into Dumbledore's clenched hand. Dumbledore tapped the chain, 
which began to slide through his fist like a snake, coiling itself on the ground with a clinking sound that echoed noisily off the rocky walls, pulling something from 
the depths of the black water. Harry gasped as the ghostly prow of a tiny boat broke the surface, glowing as green as the chain, and floated, with barely a ripple, 
toward the place on the bank where Harry and Dumbledore stood.
“How did you know that was there?” Harry asked in astonishment.
“Magic always leaves traces,” said Dumbledore, as the boat hit the bank with a gentle bump, “sometimes very distinctive traces. I taught Tom Riddle. I know his 
style.”
“Is ... is this boat safe?”
“Oh yes, I think so. Voldemort needed to create a means to cross the lake without attracting the wrath of those creatures he had placed within it in case he ever 
wanted to visit or remove his Horcrux.”
“So the things in the water won't do anything to us if we cross in Voldemort's boat?”
“I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that they will, at some point, realize we are not Lord Voldemort. Thus far, however, we have done well. They have allowed 
us to raise the boat.”
“But why have they let us?” asked Harry, who could not shake off the vision of tentacles rising out of the dark water the moment they were out of sight of the bank.
“Voldemort would have been reasonably confident that none but a very great wizard would have been able to find the boat,” said Dumbledore. “I think he would have 
been prepared to risk what was, to his mind, the most unlikely possibility that somebody else would find it, knowing that he had set other obstacles ahead that only he 
would be able to penetrate. We shall see whether he was right.”
Harry looked down into the boat. It really was very small.
“It doesn't look like it was built for two people. Will it hold both of us? Will we be too heavy together?”
Dumbledore chuckled.
“Voldemort will not have cared about the weight, but about the amount of magical power that crossed his lake. I rather think an enchantment will have been placed upon 
this boat so that only one wizard at a time will be able to sail in it.”
“But then—?”
“I do not think you will count, Harry: you are underage and unqualified. Voldemort would never have expected a sixteen-year-old to reach this place: I think it 
unlikely that your powers will register compared to mine.”
These words did nothing to raise Harry's morale; perhaps Dumbledore knew it, for he added, “Voldemort's mistake, Harry, Voldemort's mistake... age is foolish and 
forgetful when it underestimates youth... now, you first this time, and be careful not to touch the water.”
Dumbledore stood aside and Harry climbed carefully into the boat. Dumbledore stepped in too, coiling the chain onto the floor. They were crammed in together; Harry 
could not comfortably sit, but crouched, his knees jutting over the edge of the boat, which began to move at once. There was no sound other than the silken rustle of 
the boat's prow cleaving the water; it moved without their help, as though an invisible rope was pulling it onward toward the light in the center. Soon they could no 
longer see the walls of the cavern; they might have been at sea except that there were no waves.
Harry looked down and saw the reflected gold of his wandlight sparkling and glittering on the black water as they passed. The boat was carving deep ripples upon the 
glassy surface, grooves in the dark mirror...
And then Harry saw it, marble white, floating inches below the surface.
“Professor!” he said, and his startled voice echoed loudly over the silent water.
“Harry?”
“I think I saw a hand in the water—a human hand!”
“Yes, I am sure you did,” said Dumbledore calmly.
Harry stared down into the water, looking for the vanished hand, and a sick feeling rose in his throat.
“So that thing that jumped out of the water—?” But Harry had his answer before Dumbledore could reply; the wandlight had slid over a fresh patch of water and showed 
him, this time, a dead man lying faceup inches beneath the surface, his open eyes misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and his robes swirling around him like smoke.
“There are bodies in here!” said Harry, and his voice sounded much higher than usual and most unlike his own.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore placidly, “but we do not need to worry about them at the moment.”
“At the moment?” Harry repeated, tearing his gaze from the water to look at Dumbledore.
“Not while they are merely drifting peacefully below us,” said Dumbledore. “There is nothing to be feared from a body, Harry, any more than there is anything to be 
feared from the darkness. Lord Voldemort, who of course secretly fears both, disagrees. But once again he reveals his own lack of wisdom. It is the unknown we fear when 
we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.”
Harry said nothing; he did not want to argue, but he found the idea that there were bodies floating around them and beneath them horrible and, what was more, he did not 
believe that they were not dangerous.
“But one of them jumped,” he said, trying to make his voice as level and calm as Dumbledore's. “When I tried to Summon the Horcrux, a body leapt out of the lake.”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I am sure that once we take the Horcrux, we shall find them less peaceable. However, like many creatures that dwell in cold and darkness, 
they fear light and warmth, which we shall therefore call to our aid should the need arise. Fire, Harry,” Dumbledore added with a smile, in response to Harry's 
bewildered expression.
“Oh... right...” said Harry quickly. He turned his head to look at the greenish glow toward which the boat was still inexorably sailing. He could not pretend now that 
he was not scared. The great black lake, teeming with the dead ... it seemed hours and hours ago that he had met Professor Trelawney, that he had given Ron and Hermione 
Felix Felicis... he suddenly wished he had said a better goodbye to the... and he hadn't seen Ginny at all...
“Nearly there,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.
Sure enough, the greenish light seemed to be growing larger at last, and within minutes, the boat had come to a halt, bumping gently into something that Harry could not 
see at first, but when he raised his illuminated wand he saw that they had reached a small island of smooth rock in the center of the lake.
“Careful not to touch the water,” said Dumbledore again as Harry climbed out of the boat.
The island was no larger than Dumbledore's office, an expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but the source of that greenish light, which looked much 
brighter when viewed close to. Harry squinted at it; at first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then he saw that the light was coming from a stone basin 
rather like the Pensieve, which was set on top of a pedestal.
Dumbledore approached the basin and Harry followed. Side by side, they looked down into it. The basin was full of an emerald liquid emitting that phosphorescent glow.
“What is it?” asked Harry quietly.
“I am not sure,” said Dumbledore. “Something more worrisome than blood and bodies, however.” Dumbledore pushed back the sleeve of his robe over his blackened hand, 
and stretched out the tips of his burned fingers toward the surface of the potion.
“Sir, no, don't touch—!”
“I cannot touch,” said Dumbledore, smiling faintly. “See? I cannot approach any nearer than this. You try.”
Staring, Harry put his hand into the basin and attempted to touch the potion. He met an invisible barrier that prevented him coming within an inch of it. No matter how 
hard he pushed, his fingers encountered nothing but what seemed to be solid and flexible air.
“Out of the way, please, Harry,” said Dumbledore.
He raised his wand and made complicated movements over the surface of the-potion, murmuring soundlessly. Nothing happened, except per haps that the potion glowed a 
little brighter. Harry remained silent while Dumbledore worked, but after a while Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and Harry felt it was safe to talk again.
“You think the Horcrux is in there, sir?”
“Oh yes.” Dumbledore peered more closely into the basin. Harry saw his face reflected, upside down, in the smooth surface of the green potion. “But how to reach it? 
This potion cannot be penetrated by hand, Vanished, parted, scooped up, or siphoned away, nor can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made to change its nature.”
Almost absent-mindedly, Dumbledore raised his wand again, twirled it once in midair, and then caught the crystal goblet that he had conjured out of nowhere.
“I can only conclude that this potion is supposed to be drunk.”
“What?” said Harry. “No!”
“Yes, I think so: only by drinking it can I empty the basin and see what lies in its depths.”
“But what if— what if it kills you?”
“Oh, I doubt that it would work like that,” said Dumbledore easily. “Lord Voldemort would not want to kill the person who reached this island.”
Harry couldn't believe it. Was this more of Dumbledore's insane determination to see good in everyone?
“Sir,” said Harry, trying to keep his voice reasonable, “sir, this is Voldemort we're —”
“I'm sorry, Harry; I should have said, he would not want to immediately kill the person who reached this island,” Dumbledore corrected himself. “He would want to 
keep them alive long enough to find out how they managed to penetrate so far through his defenses and, most importantly of all, why they were so intent upon emptying 
the basin. Do not forget that Lord Voldemort believes that he alone knows about his Horcruxes.”
Harry made to speak again, but this time Dumbledore raised his hand for silence, frowning slightly at the emerald liquid, evidently thinking hard.
“Undoubtedly,” he said, finally, “this potion must act in a way that will prevent me taking the Horcrux. It might paralyze me, cause me to forget what I am here for, 
create so much pain I am distracted, or render me incapable in some other way. This being the case, Harry, it will be your job to make sure I keep drinking, even if you 
have to tip the potion into my protesting mouth. You understand?”
Their eyes met over the basin, each pale face lit with that strange, green light. Harry did not speak. Was this why he had been invited along—so that he could force-
feed Dumbledore a potion that might cause him unendurable pain?
“You remember,” said Dumbledore, “the condition on which I brought you with me?”
Harry hesitated, looking into the blue eyes that had turned green in the reflected light of the basin.
“But what if—?”
“You swore, did you not, to follow any command I gave you?”
“Yes, but—”
“I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but —”
“Well, then,” said Dumbledore, shaking back his sleeves once more and raising the empty goblet, “you have my orders.”
“Why can't I drink the potion instead?” asked Harry desperately.
“Because I am much older, much cleverer, and much less valuable,” said Dumbledore. “Once and for all, Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your power 
to make me keep drinking?”
“Couldn't—?”
“Do I have it?”
“But—”
“Your word, Harry.”
“I —all right, but—”
Before Harry could make any further protest, Dumbledore lowered the crystal goblet into the potion. For a split second, Harry hoped that he would not be able to touch 
the potion with the goblet, but the crystal sank into the surface as nothing else had; when the glass was full to the brim, Dumbledore lifted it to his mouth.
“Your good health, Harry.”
And he drained the goblet. Harry watched, terrified, his hands gripping the rim of the basin so hard that his fingertips were numb.
“Professor?” he said anxiously, as Dumbledore lowered the empty glass. “How do you feel?”
Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes closed. Harry wondered whether he was in pain. Dumbledore plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled it, and drank once 
more.
In silence, Dumbledore drank three gobletsful of the potion. Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, he staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes were 
still closed, his breathing heavy.
“Professor Dumbledore?” said Harry, his voice strained. “Can you hear me?”
Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was 
about to spill from it. Harry reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady.
“Professor, can you hear me?” he repeated loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern.
Dumbledore panted and then spoke in a voice Harry did not recognize, for he had never heard Dumbledore frightened like this.
“I don't want... don't make me...”
Harry stared into the whitened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and did not know what to do.
“...don't like... want to stop...” moaned Dumbledore.
“You... you can't stop, Professor,” said Harry. “You've got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had to keep drinking. Here...”
Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Harry forced the goblet back toward Dumbledore's mouth and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the remainder of the 
potion inside.
“No ...” he groaned, as Harry lowered the goblet back into the basin and refilled it for him. “I don't want to. ... I don't want to... let me go...”
“It's all right, Professor,” said Harry, his hand shaking. “It's all right, I'm here —”
“Make it stop, make it stop,” moaned Dumbledore.
“Yes... yes, this'll make it stop,” lied Harry. He tipped the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore's open mouth. Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around 
the vast chamber, across the dead black water.
“No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't want to...”
“It's all right, Professor, it's all right!” said Harry loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly scoop up the sixth gobletful of potion; the basin was now 
half empty. “Nothing's happening to you, you're safe, it isn't real, I swear it isn't real—take this, now, take this...”
And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though it was an antidote Harry offered him, but upon draining the goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.
“It's all my fault, all my fault,” he sobbed. “Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again ...”
“This will make it stop, Professor,” Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of potion into Dumbledore's mouth.
Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Harry's trembling hands as he moaned, 
“Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead ...”
“Here, drink this, drink this, you'll be all right,” said Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight 
shut and shook from head to foot.
And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth goblet.
“Please, please, please, no ... not that, not that, I'll do anything ...”
“Just drink, Professor, just drink...”
Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire.
“No more, please, no more ...”
Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin.
“We're nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it...”
He supported Dumbledore's shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass; then Harry was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in 
more anguish than ever, “I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!”
“Drink this, Professor. Drink this...”
Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, “KILL ME!”
“This—this one will!” gasped Harry. “Just drink this ... it'll be over ... all over!”
Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face.
“No!” shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over 
onto his back; Dumbledore's glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. “No.” said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, “no, you're not dead, you said it wasn't 
poison, wake up, wake up—Rennervate!” he cried, his wand pointing at Dumbledore's chest; there was a flash of red light but nothing happened. “Rennervate—sir—
please —”
Dumbledore's eyelids flickered; Harry's heart leapt.
“Sir, are you—?”
“Water,” croaked Dumbledore.
“Water,” panted Harry. “—yes —”
He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden locket lying curled beneath it.
“Aguamenti!” he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his wand.
The goblet filled with clear water; Harry dropped to his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and brought the glass to his lips—but it was empty. Dumbledore 
groaned and began to pant.
“But I had some—wait—Aguamenti!” said Harry again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he approached 
Dumbledore's mouth, the water vanished again.
“Sir, I'm trying, I'm trying!” said Harry desperately, but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear him; he had rolled onto his side and was drawing great, 
rattling breaths that sounded agonizing. “Aguamenti—Aguamenti—AGUAMENTI!”
The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now Dumbledore's breathing was fading. His brain whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only way left to get 
water, because Voldemort had planned it so ...
He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to the brim of icy water that did not vanish. “Sir—here!” 
Harry yelled, and lunging forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore's face.
It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and 
the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere 
Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of 
the dead rising from the black water.
“Petrificus Totalus!” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm. It 
released him, falling backward into the water with a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands 
clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken faces leering.
“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him. 
“Impedimenta! Incarcerous!”
A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at 
the air with his wand, Harry yelled, “Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!”
But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: they walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched toward him, 
and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began 
to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one more dead guardian of a fragment of 
Voldemort's shattered soul...
But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and 
faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his arms, then 
scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around.
Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch and 
from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast lasso, encircling them all with warmth.
The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape the fire in which they were enclosed...
Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. Distracted by the 
flames, the Inferi seemed unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with them, around them, the bewildered 
Inferi accompanying them to the waters edge, where they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters.
Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his 
efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were both safely 
jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi 
swarming below them did not dare resurface.
“Sir,” panted Harry, “sir, I forgot—about fire—they were coming at me and I panicked —”
“Quite understandable,” murmured Dumbledore. Harry was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was.
They reached the bank with a little bump and Harry leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore. The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he let his wand hand 
fall; the ring of fire vanished, but the Inferi did not emerge again from the water. The little boat sank into the water once more; clanking and tinkling, its chain 
slithered back into the lake too. Dumbledore gave a great sigh and leaned against the cavern wall.
“I am weak...” he said.
“Don't worry, sir,” said Harry at once, anxious about Dumbledore's extreme pallor and by his air of exhaustion. “Don't worry, I'll get us back... lean on me, sir...
”
And pulling Dumbledore's uninjured arm around his shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back around the lake, bearing most of his weight.
“The protection was... after all... well-designed,” said Dumbledore faintly. “One alone could not have done it... you did well, very well, Harry...”
“Don't talk now,” said Harry, fearing how slurred Dumbledore's voice had become, how much his feet dragged, “save your energy, sir... we'll soon be out of here...”
“The archway will have sealed again... my knife ...”
“There's no need, I got cut on the rock,” said Harry firmly. “Just tell me where...”
“Here...”
Harry wiped his grazed forearm upon the stone: having received its tribute of blood, the archway reopened instantly. They crossed the outer cave, and Harry helped 
Dumbledore back into the icy seawater that filled the crevice in the cliff.
“It's going to be all right, sir,” Harry said over and over again, more worried by Dumbledore's silence than he had been by his weakened voice. “We're nearly 
there... I can Apparate us both back... don't worry...”
“I am not worried, Harry,” said Dumbledore, his voice a little stronger despite the freezing water. “I am with you.”
哈利可以嗅到盐的气息，听到奔涌的海浪；眼前是撒满月光的海面和繁星闪耀的天空，寒冷的微风吹散了他的头发。他正站在一块高高的黑色岩石上，海水在他脚下翻腾起无数的泡沫。哈利转
过头看了一眼身后。那儿矗立一座高耸陡峭的悬崖，在黑暗中若隐若现。周围那些巨大的岩石，包括哈利和邓布利多脚下的那块，看起来就像是过去从悬崖上的某个地方坍塌下来的一样。眼前
的一幕荒凉萧瑟；岩石上完全没有一草一木，连一粒沙子都没有。
 
　　“你觉得如何？”邓布利多问。就好像在问这里是不是野餐的好地方。
 
　　“他们就带孤儿院的孩子们到这儿来？”哈利问，他想象不出还有什么地方比这儿更不适合远足了。
 
　　“准确地说，不是这儿，”邓布利多说。“大约沿着我们身后的悬崖走到一半，那儿有一个勉强称得上是村庄的地方。我相信他们是把孤儿们带到了那儿，去吹吹海风，看看波浪。不，我
想只有里德尔和那两个小小年纪的受害者造访过这里。没有麻瓜能到达这块岩石，除非他们是异常优秀的登山家，而且船也到不了这块峭壁；这一带的水太危险了。我猜想里德尔是从上面爬下
来的；魔法本来要比绳子更合适。他还带着两个小孩子，也许是为了享受恐吓他们的乐趣吧。这趟旅行本身就足够吓着他们了，你说呢？”
 
　　哈利再次仰望着悬崖，起了一身鸡皮疙瘩。
 
　　“不过他最终的目的地——也是我们的目的地——还在前面有点儿远的地方。来吧。”
 
　　邓布利多招呼哈利走到岩石边上，踩着一组坑坑洼洼的石窝作为立足点往下向下走，一直走到半浸没在水中的礁石上，离悬崖更近了。这是个危险的陡坡，而邓布利多稍微有些被他那只干
瘪的手所拖累，慢慢地移动着。更矮处的礁石被海水浸得越来越滑。哈利可以感觉到咸咸的冰凉水花溅到了他的脸上。
 
　　“荧光闪烁，”邓布利多到达了离悬崖最近的一块礁石。在他所蹲的地方下面几英尺就是海水了，海面上倒映出了上千个金色的光点；旁边那些黑乎乎的岩壁也被照亮了。
 
　　“看见了吗？”邓布利多平静地说，把魔杖又举高了一点。哈利看到峭壁上有一条裂缝，漆黑的海水正不断地打着卷往里面涌。“你不反对自己稍微湿一些吧？”
 
　　“不，”哈利说。
 
　　“那么脱下你的隐形斗篷——现在用不上它——我们跳吧。”
 
　　邓布利多突然以年轻得多的人才有的敏捷滑下了礁石，跳进了海水，他用牙齿咬着发光的魔杖，以标准的蛙泳姿势向峭壁上漆黑的裂缝游去。哈利拉下隐形斗篷塞进口袋，跟了上去。
 
　　水很冰凉；浸透的衣服在哈利周围翻腾，拉着他往下沉。哈利深吸了一口气，鼻孔里满是盐和海草的浓烈味道，他向那正往峭壁深处移动的渐渐缩小的亮光奋力游去。
 
　　裂缝很快就变成了一条黑黑的隧道，哈利看得出这里涨潮时会完全被海水吞没。两侧粘乎乎的墙相距仅三英尺远，在邓布利多魔杖照射的下像湿沥青一样闪闪发光。通道在前面不远处弯向
了左边，哈利看见它一直延伸到了悬崖的深处。他继续跟在邓布利多后面游泳，冻僵的手指尖不断地掠过粗糙、潮湿的岩石。
 
　　然后哈利看到前面的邓布利多从水里出来了，银发和黑袍都闪着微弱的光。哈利到达那个地方之后发现了一组通往一大洞穴的台阶。他攀上台阶，暴露在了寂静、冰冻的空气之中，水从他
浸透的衣服上滴下来，他不由自主地发起了抖。
 
　　邓布利多站在洞穴中间，他高举着魔杖慢慢原地转动，检查着墙壁和顶棚。
 
　　“是的，就是这个地方，”邓布利多说。
 
　　“你怎么知道？”哈利低声说。
 
　　“它认得魔法，”邓布利多简单地说。
 
　　哈利不知道他的哆嗦该归因于从脊髓深处传来的凉意，还是归因于让他感受到了同样凉意的魔法。他注视着邓布利多继续原地转圈。显然正专注于某个哈利看不到的事物上。
 
　　“这里只是密室前面，是个门厅，”邓布利多过了一会儿才说。“我们需要往里走……现在挡路的就是伏地魔设下的障碍，而不仅是那些天然屏障了……”
 
　　邓布利多走近洞穴的墙，用他发黑的指尖轻轻摩挲着墙面，咕哝着一些哈利听不懂的奇怪语言。邓布利多沿着墙壁绕了两圈，尽可能多地触摸这些岩石，偶尔停顿一下，在个别的点上反复
摸索，最后他终于停了下来，手掌平按在墙上。
 
　　“这里，”他说。“我们穿过这里继续走。入口是藏着的。”
 
　　哈利没有问邓布利多是如何知道的。他还从没见过一个巫师仅靠观察和触摸就能解决问题；但哈利早就懂得了通常不称职的巫师才会弄出巨响和烟雾。
 
　　邓布利多从墙壁那儿退回来，用魔杖指向岩石。片刻后，那个地方显现出了一条弧形的轮廓，散发着白色的光芒，仿佛缝隙后有强光在照射一样。
 
　　“你成－成功了！”哈利打着牙颤说，可是话出口之前轮廓就消失了。岩石又回到了从前光秃秃的坚硬状态。邓布利多回过头。
 
　　“哈利，对不起，我忘记了，”他说；他马上把魔杖指向了哈利，哈利的衣服迅速变得温暖而干爽，仿佛在一团火上烤过一样。
 
　　“谢谢，”哈利感激地说，但邓布利多已经重新把注意力转向了那面坚固的洞壁。他没有再试着施魔法，只是站在那专心的凝视着它，仿佛那上面写了什么极为有趣的东西。哈利静静地站
着；他不想打破邓布利多的专注。
 
　　整整两分钟之后，邓布利多平静地说，“哦，想必不是。如此野蛮。”
 
　　“怎么了，教授？”
 
　　“我倾向于认为，”邓布利多说，他未受伤的那只手伸进袍子掏出了一把小银刀，就是哈利经常用来切魔药原料的那种，“我们被要求付出代价才能通过。”
 
　　“代价？”哈利说。“你得送这扇门一些东西吗？”
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多说。“血，如果我没弄错的话。”
 
　　“血？”
 
　　“我说过这很野蛮，”邓布利多说，听起来有些轻蔑，甚至是失望，好像伏地魔没有达到邓布利多原先期望的水准一样。“我敢肯定你能推断出，这个主意意味着你的敌人必须先削弱自己
才能进去。伏地魔又一次没能领会这个世界上还有比身体创伤更可怕的事情。”
 
　　“是啊，可尽管如此，如果你可以避免它……”哈利说，他已经经历了足够多的痛苦，不太在乎再多受一点。
 
　　“然而有时候，这是不可避免的，”邓布利多挽起袖子露出了他那只受伤的手的前臂。
 
　　“教授！”哈利提出了异议，他在邓布利多举起小刀的同时匆忙走上前去，“我来吧，我——”
 
　　他不知道该说什么——更年轻，更健康？但邓布利多仅仅在微笑。一道银光闪过，猩红色的鲜血喷射而出。岩石的表面溅满了闪着光的深色血滴。
 
　　“谢谢你，哈利，”邓布利多说，他把魔杖尖沿着胳膊上自己切出的深口子划过，于是伤口立即愈合了，正如斯内普治愈马尔福的伤口那样。“但你的血比我的更有价值，啊，那看起来已
经起效了，对不对？”
 
　　墙上银亮的轮廓再次显现了出来，这次它没有消褪：溅满血的岩石完全消失了，留下了一个缺口通向完全的黑暗之中。
 
　　“跟在我后面，”邓布利多说，他跨进了拱门，而哈利则急忙点亮了自己的魔杖紧跟在后面。
 
　　他们眼前出现了一幅诡异的景象：他们正站在一个巨大的黑湖边上，大到哈利都辨认不出远端的湖岸了，他们是在一个高不见顶的巨大洞穴里。远远的湖中央放射出迷雾般的绿光；倒映在
犹如一潭死水的湖面上。尽管这片绿光和两支魔杖放出的光并没有射得像哈利预想的那么远，但除了它们没有什么能打破周遭天鹅绒般的黑暗。不知何故，比起别的地方，这里的黑暗要更加稠
密。
 
　　“走吧，”邓布利多平静地说。“千万小心别踏进着水。紧紧跟着我。”
 
　　他沿着湖边出发了，哈利紧紧地跟在他后面。他们在湖边的一圈狭窄岩石上踏出的脚步声回荡开来。他们不停地走啊走啊，但眼前的景象却没有变化：一边是粗糙的洞壁，另一边则是一片
无边无际、光滑得像玻璃一样的黑暗。它的正中间是那团神秘的绿光。哈利发现这地方和这里的寂静让人感到十分压抑，身心俱疲。
 
　　“教授？”他终于开口说话了。“你认为灵魂碎片是在这儿吗？”
 
　　“哦，是的，”邓布利多说。“是的，我敢肯定是在这儿，问题是，我们怎么拿到它？”
 
　　“我们能不能……我们能不能试一下飞来咒呢？”哈利说，他相信这一定是个愚蠢的建议，但他急不可待地想尽快离开这地方了。
 
　　“当然可以，”邓布利多突然停了下来，哈利差点撞上他。“你为什么不试试看呢？”
 
　　“我？哦……好的……”
 
　　哈利没想到会是这样，但他还是清了清嗓子，举起魔杖大喊一声，“灵魂碎片飞来！”
 
　　随着一声爆炸似的巨响，一个巨大的灰白色物体从二十英尺远的黑暗湖水里喷了出来。哈利还没来得及看清楚是什么，它就已经随着一片爆裂的水花消失了，水面上被激起了又大又深的波
纹。哈利震惊地跳了回来，撞到了墙上；他转向邓布利多时心脏仍然砰砰地剧烈跳动着。
 
　　“那是什么？”
 
　　“我想，那东西是准备好的，一旦我们尝试夺取灵魂碎片就会做出反应。”
 
　　哈利转过身看着湖水。水面又一次成了亮晶晶的黑玻璃：波纹消失得不同寻常的快；而哈利的心却还在砰砰地跳动。
 
　　“你已经想到会发生那事了吗，教授？”
 
　　“我想一旦我们作出某种明显的努力去拿灵魂碎片，就会有什么事发生。那是个非常棒的主意，哈利；要想弄清楚我们面对的是什么，这是最简单的方法。”
 
　　“可我们还是不知道那东西是什么，”哈利看着光滑得有些不祥的湖水。
 
　　“你得说那些东西是什么，”邓布利多说。“我非常怀疑可能还有更多。我们继续往前走吧？”
 
　　“教授？”
 
　　“什么，哈利？”
 
　　“你觉不觉得我们必须得进到湖里面？”
 
　　“进到湖里面？除非我们非常不走运。”
 
　　“你不认为灵魂碎片是在湖底吗？”
 
　　“哦，不……我觉得灵魂碎片在湖中央。”
 
　　邓布利多指了指湖心的那团迷雾般的绿光。
 
　　“这么说我们必须得穿过湖去拿它了？”
 
　　“是的，我想是这样。”
 
　　哈利什么也没说。他此刻脑子里全是水怪、巨蟒、恶魔、马形水怪……
 
　　“啊哈，”邓布利多又停了下来；这次哈利真的撞上他了；一时间他向湖里摔了过去，邓布利多用他未受伤的手紧紧抓住了哈利的上臂，把他拽了回来。“真对不起，哈利，我应该先提醒
你一下的。请向后靠着墙站好。我想我已经找出那个地方。”
 
　　哈利一点也不知道邓布利多是什么意思；就哈利所知，这一小片昏暗的湖岸和其他各处都没什么不同。但邓布利多似乎已经察觉了它的特殊之处。这一次他没有沿着岩壁而是在稀薄的空气
中挥着他的手，仿佛期待着发现并抓住某个看不见的东西。
 
　　“哦，”几秒钟之后邓布利多高兴地说。他的手在半空中握住了一个哈利看不见的东西。邓布利多向水边移近了些；哈力紧张的注视着邓布利多，后者脚下带扣的鞋子已经到达了岩石的最
外缘。邓布利多把手牢牢地握在半空中，另一手则举起魔杖用杖尖敲了敲那只拳头。
 
　　一个绿色的粗铜链立即出现在空气中，从湖水深处一直延伸到邓布利多紧握的手中。邓布利多敲了敲铜链，它像蛇一样地在他手中滑动，在地上卷了起来，叮叮当当的响声在岩石墙壁上回
荡，黑色的湖水深处，有一个东西被铜链拉了上来。一个幽灵般的船头破水而出，哈利不由得倒抽了一口气，这只小船和铜链一样发着绿光。伴随着仅有的一条波纹，小船向哈利和邓布利多所
站的岸边漂了过来。
 
　　“你怎么知道它在那儿？”哈利惊奇地问。
 
　　“魔法总会留下痕迹，”邓布利多说，这时小船轻柔地撞击上湖岸，“有时候痕迹会非常明显。我教过汤姆·里德尔。我了解他的风格。”
 
　　“这……这条船安全吗？”
 
　　“哦，是的，我想是安全的。伏地魔需要创造方法渡湖，而不激起被他安置在湖里的那些生物的愤怒，以防万一他想要查看或者移走灵魂碎片。”
 
　　“这么说如果我们坐伏地魔的船渡湖的话，水里的那些东西就不会对我们做任何事了吧？”
 
　　“我想，我们只有顺从于这个事实，它们会在某个时候意识到我们不是伏地魔。然而迄今为止，我们做得还不错。它们已经让我们把船拉了出来。”
 
　　“可是它们怎么会让我们拉呢？”哈利问，他脑子里摆脱不了等湖岸都看不见了之后黑水里伸出触手的情景。
 
　　“伏地魔一定相当自信没人能找出这条船，除非那人是一个非常伟大的巫师，”邓布利多说。“我想他也做好了最不可能的事情——在他看来——发生的准备，也就是有其他人找到了它，
因为他已经在前面设下了只有他自己才可能通过的其他屏障。我们会看到他是不是正确的。”
 
　　哈利低下头看了看船。它真的非常小。
 
　　“它看上去不像是为搭载两个人而建造的。它能容纳我们两个人吗？我们加在一起是不是太重了？”
 
　　邓布利多咯咯地笑了起来。
 
　　“伏地魔不会在意重量，而是在乎通过湖水的魔法能力的数量。我相信这条船上一定有一个魔法以确保里面一次只能有一个巫师。”
 
　　“可是那么——？”
 
　　“我觉得你不会被计算在内，哈利：你没有成年，也没有取得资格。伏地魔绝没有想到会有一个十六岁的孩子到达这个地方：我觉得你的魔法能力与我的比起来，不太可能被能记录下来。
”
 
　　这些话没能提升哈利的士气；也许邓布利多觉察了，因为他又补充道，“伏地魔的错误，哈利，伏地魔的错误……年龄是个愚蠢而健忘的家伙，如果它低估了年轻人的话……现在，这次你
先上去，注意别碰到水。”
 
　　邓布利多站到一边，让哈利小心翼翼地登上了船。然后邓布利多也跨了进来，把链条绕好放到船板上。他们两个挤在一起；哈利不是舒服地坐着，而是蜷缩地蹲在那儿，两只膝盖已经伸出
了船舷，这时船开动了。除了船头劈水而行的轻柔的沙沙声，周围一片寂静；小船无需人力就能开动，仿佛是有一条无形的绳索在把往中央的光亮处拉。他们很快就看不见洞壁了；除了没有波
浪，一切都像行驶在海里一样。
 
　　哈利低头往下看去，他们经过水面时魔杖在黑色的水面上反射出了点点金光，小船在玻璃般的水面上切出了深深的波纹，在黑色的镜子上刻出了深深的槽。
 
　　然后哈利看见了一个东西，像大理石一样白，漂在水面下几英寸的地方。
 
　　“教授！”他震惊的声音回荡在安静的湖面上。
 
　　“哈利？”
 
　　“我想我看到了水里有一只手——一只人手！”
 
　　“是的，我敢肯定你看见了，”邓布利多平静地说。
 
　　哈利盯着水里找寻那只消失的手，他喉头泛起一阵做呕的感觉。
 
　　“这么说，从水里跳出来的就是那个东西——？”
 
　　但是在邓布利多回答之前哈利就获得了答案；魔杖的光滑到了一片新的水域，这次映出了一个仰卧在水面下几英尺处的死人：他睁开的眼睛模糊不清，仿佛罩上了蜘蛛网一样，他的头发和
袍子像烟雾一样绕着他。
 
　　“这里有尸体！”哈利的声音提高了，听起来不像是他自己的。
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多心平气和地说，“但是我们此刻不必担心它们。”
 
　　“此刻？”哈利重复道，他把视线从水面移到邓布利多脸上。
 
　　“就是当它们只是宁静地漂在我们下面的时候，”邓布利多说。“尸体没什么可怕的，哈利，和黑暗一样都没什么可怕的。伏地魔不这么认为，他当然背地里两个都怕。但是他再次暴露出
了智慧的缺乏。我们面对死亡和黑暗时，害怕的是它们的未知，没什么别的。”
 
　　哈利什么也没说；他不想争辩，但是他一想到他们周围和身下漂着尸体就觉得很恐惧，更何况他不相信它们没有危险性。
 
　　“但是它们跳出来了一个，”他努力想让自己的声音和邓布利多一样平和。“我试着召唤一个灵魂碎片的时候，一具尸体从湖里跳了出来。”
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多说。“我敢肯定等我们拿到灵魂碎片之后，就会发现它们没那么和平了。然而，就像许多居住在寒冷和黑暗中的生物一样，他们害怕光明和温暖，如果需要，我们可以
召唤光明和温暖来保护自己。火，哈利，”邓布利多微笑地加了一句，以回应哈利迷惑的表情。
 
　　“哦……好的……”哈利迅速说。他转过头去看那团绿光，小船还在不屈不挠地驶向它。他现在无法假装自己不害怕了。巨大的黑湖，盛满了尸体……他遇见特里劳妮教授和把飞力飞思给
罗恩与赫敏，这些似乎都是很多个小时之前的事情了……他突然希望自己和他们好好地道过别……还有，他还根本没有见金妮……
 
　　“快到了，”邓布利多愉快地说。
 
　　果然，绿光终于变大了，几分钟以后，小船轻轻地撞到了什么东西上面停了下来，哈利一开始没看出来那是什么，举起发光的魔杖之后才发现他们到达了一个由光滑的岩石构成的湖心岛上
。
 
　　“小心别碰到水，”哈利爬出船的时候邓布利多又说了一遍。
 
　　这个岛不比邓布利多的办公室大，一块平坦的黑石头上面什么也没有，只搁着绿光的光源，光在走近了之后显得更亮了。哈利眯起眼睛看着它；起初他以为是一种灯，可随后发现光是从一
个很像冥想盆的石盆里发出来的，石盆被搁在一个底座上。
 
　　邓布利多向石盆靠拢了过去，哈利跟在他后面。他们肩并肩一起往里面看。石盆盛满了放着磷光的翠绿色液体。
 
　　“这是什么？”哈利轻声问。
 
　　“我不能确定，”邓布利多说。“然而，它是一种比血和尸体更令人不安的东西。”
 
　　邓布利多把袖子挽到发黑的手臂上，烧伤的指尖伸向了药水的表面。
 
　　“教授，不，别碰——！”
 
　　“我碰不到，”邓布利多微弱地笑了笑。“看到了吗？我没法再靠近了。你试试。”
 
　　哈利目不转睛地把手伸向了石盆，试图触摸到药水。他遇到了一个无形的屏障，没法接近它周围一英寸的地方。不管他多么用力地去推，手指都只能碰到似乎是坚固而僵硬的空气。
 
　　“请让开，哈利，”邓布利多说。
 
　　他举起魔杖在药水上方做了一组复杂的动作，无声地念叨着。什么也没发生，或许药水变得更亮了些。邓布利多做这些的时候哈利保持着沉默，可过了一会儿邓布利多收回了魔杖，哈利此
时开口已经安全了。
 
　　“你觉得灵魂碎片在这里面吗，教授？”
 
　　“哦，是的。”邓布利多更接近地凝视着石盆。哈利看到他的脸倒映在了绿色药水光滑的表面上。“但怎么才能拿到它呢？不能把手伸进这药水，不能被倒掉、分离、舀起和吸走，也不能
被变形、施咒语和用别的方法来来改变它。”
 
　　邓布利多差不多是心不在焉地再次举起了魔杖，在空中划了个圈，然后抓住了一个不知从哪里变出来的水晶高脚杯。
 
　　“我只能下结论说这药水是用来喝的。”
 
　　“什么？”哈利说。“不！”
 
　　“是的，我想是这样：只有喝掉它才能把石盆清空，看看下面究竟放着什么。”
 
　　“但要是——要是它会杀了你呢？”
 
　　“哦，我怀疑它不会有这样的作用，”邓布利多轻松地说。“伏地魔不会想杀死到达这个小岛的人。”
 
　　哈利不敢相信。这又是邓布利多在愚蠢地坚信每个人都有好的一面吗？
 
　　“教授，”哈利试图让自己的声音保持理智。“教授，我么面对的是伏地魔——”
 
　　“对不起，哈利；我应该这样说，他不会想立刻杀死到达这个小岛的人，”邓布利多更正了自己的话。“他会让他们活得足够长，以便查出他们是怎样穿透他的防御走到这么远的，最重要
的是，为什么他们要清空这个
Chapter 27 The Lightning-struck Tower
Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved Dumbledore on to the top of the nearest boulder and then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore's weight still upon 
him, Harry concentrated harder than he had ever done upon his destination: Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore's arm as tightly as he could, he stepped 
forwards into that feeling of horrible compression.
He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes: the smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. He and Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the middle of the dark 
High Street in Hogsmeade. For one horrible moment Harry's imagination showed him more Inferi creeping towards him around the sides of shops, but he blinked and saw that 
nothing was stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a few streetlamps and lit upper windows.
“We did it, Professor!” Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realised that he had a searing stitch in his chest. “We did it! We got the Horcrux!”
Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had thrown Dumbledore off-balance; then he saw his face, paler and damper 
than ever in the distant light of a streetlamp.
“Sir, are you all right?”
“I've been better,” said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “That potion ... was no health drink ...”
And to Harry's horror, Dumbledore sank on to the ground.
“Sir—it's okay, sir, you're going to be all right, don't worry—”
He looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen and all he could think was that he must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing.
“We need to get you up to the school, sir ... Madam Pomfrey ...”
“No,” said Dumbledore."It is ... Professor Snape whom I need ... but I do not think ... I can walk very far just yet ...”
“Right—sir, listen—I'm going to knock on a door, find a place you can stay—then I can run and get Madam—”
“Severus,” said Dumbledore clearly. “I need Severus ...”
“All right then, Snape—but I'm going to have to leave you for a moment so I can—”
Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard running footsteps. His heart leapt: somebody had seen, somebody knew they needed help—and looking around he saw Madam 
Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street towards them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing-gown embroidered with dragons.
“I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn't think what to—but what's wrong with Albus?”
She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.
“He's hurt,” said Harry. “Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?”
“You can't go up there alone! Don't you realise—haven't you seen -?”
“If you help me support him,” said Harry, not listening to her, “I think we can get him inside—”
“What has happened?” asked Dumbledore. “Rosmerta, what's wrong?”
“The—the Dark Mark, Albus.”
And she pointed into the sky, in the direction of Hogwarts. Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the words ... he turned and looked.
There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a building 
... wherever they had murdered ...
“When did it appear?” asked Dumbledore, and his hand clenched painfully upon Harry's shoulder as he struggled to his feet.
“Must have been minutes ago, it wasn't there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs—”
“We need to return to the castle at once,” said Dumbledore. “Rosmerta,” and though he staggered a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation, “we need 
transport—brooms—”
“I've got a couple behind the bar,” she said, looking very frightened. “Shall I run and fetch—?”
“No, Harry can do it.”
Harry raised his wand at once.
“Accio Rosmerta's brooms.”
A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out into the street and were racing each other to Harry's side, where 
they stopped dead, quivering slightly, at waist height.
“Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,” said Dumbledore, as he mounted the broom nearest him. “It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has yet realised 
anything is wrong ... Harry, put on your Invisibility Cloak.”
Harry pulled his Cloak out of his pocket and threw it over himself before mounting his broom; Madam Rosmerta was already tottering back towards her pub as Harry and 
Dumbledore kicked off from the ground and rose up into the air. As they sped towards the castle, Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, ready to grab him should he fall, 
but the sight of the Dark Mark seemed to have acted upon Dumbledore like a stimulant: he was bent low over his broom, his eyes fixed upon the Mark, his long silver hair 
and beard flying behind him in the night air. And Harry, too, looked ahead at the skull, and fear swelled inside him like a venomous bubble, compressing his lungs, 
driving all other discomfort from his mind ...
How long had they been away? Had Ron, Hermione and Ginny's luck run out by now? Was it one of them who had caused the Mark to be set over the school, or was it Neville, 
or Luna, or some other member of the DA? And if it was ... he was the one who had told them to patrol the corridors, he had asked them to leave the safety of their beds 
... would he be responsible, again, for the death of a friend?
As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which they had walked earlier, Harry heard, over the whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore muttering in some 
strange language again. He thought he understood why as he felt his broom shudder for a moment when they flew over the boundary wall into the grounds: Dumbledore was 
undoing the enchantments he himself had set around the castle, so that they could enter at speed. The Dark Mark was glittering directly above the Astronomy Tower, the 
highest of the castle. Did that mean the death had occurred there?
Dumbledore had already crossed the crenellated ramparts and was dismounting; Harry landed next to him seconds later and looked around.
The ramparts were deserted. The door to the spiral staircase that led back into the castle was closed. There was no sign of a struggle, of a fight to the death, of a 
body.
“What does it mean?” Harry asked Dumbledore, looking up at the green skull with its serpent's tongue glinting evilly above them. “Is it the real Mark? Has someone 
definitely been—Professor?”
In the dim green glow from the Mark Harry saw Dumbledore clutching at his chest with his blackened hand.
“Go and wake Severus,” said Dumbledore faintly but clearly. “Tell him what has happened and bring him to me. Do nothing else, speak to nobody else and do not remove 
your Cloak. I shall wait here.”
“But—”
“You swore to obey me, Harry—go!”
Harry hurried over to the door leading to the spiral staircase, but his hand had only just closed upon the iron ring of the door when he heard running footsteps on the 
other side. He looked round at Dumbledore, who gestured to him to retreat. Harry backed away, drawing his wand as he did so.
The door burst open and somebody erupted through it and shouted: “Expelliarmus!”
Harry's body became instantly rigid and immobile, and he felt himself fall back against the Tower wall, propped like an unsteady statue, unable to move or speak. He 
could not understand how it had happened—Expelliarmus was not a Freezing Charm—
Then, by the light of the Mark, he saw Dumbledore's wand flying in an arc over the edge of the ramparts and understood ... Dumbledore had wordlessly immobilised Harry, 
and the second he had taken to perform the spell had cost him the chance of defending himself.
Standing against the ramparts, very white in the face, Dumbledore still showed no sign of panic or distress. He merely looked across at his disarmer and said, “Good 
evening, Draco.”
Malfoy stepped forwards, glancing around quickly to check that he and Dumbledore were alone. His eyes fell upon the second broom.
“Who else is here?”
“A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?”
Harry saw Malfoy's pale eyes shift back to Dumbledore in the greenish glare of the Mark.
“No,” he said. “I've got back-up. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight.”
“Well, well,” said Dumbledore, as though Malfoy was showing him an ambitious homework project. “Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?”
“Yeah,” said Malfoy, who was panting. “Right under your nose and you never realised!”
“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “Yet ... forgive me ... where are they now? You seem unsupported.”
“They met some of your guard. They're having a fight down below. They won't be long ... I came on ahead. I—I've got a job to do.”
“Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy,” said Dumbledore softly.
There was silence. Harry stood imprisoned within his own invisible, paralysed body, staring at the two of them, his ears straining to hear sounds of the Death Eaters’ 
distant fight, and in front of him, Draco Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore who, incredibly, smiled.
“Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.”
“'How do you know?” said Malfoy at once.
He seemed to realise how childish the words had sounded; Harry saw him flush in the Mark's greenish light.
“You don't know what I'm capable of,” said Malfoy more forcefully, “you don't know what I've done!”
“Oh, yes, I do,” said Dumbledore mildly. “You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. 
Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts ... so feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it...”
“It has been in it!” said Malfoy vehemently. “I've been working on it all year, and tonight—”
Somewhere in the depths of the castle below Harry heard a muffled yell. Malfoy stiffened and glanced over his shoulder.
“Somebody is putting up a good fight,” said Dumbledore conversationally. “But you were saying ... yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school 
which, I admit, I thought impossible ... how did you do it?”
But Malfoy said nothing: he was still listening to whatever was happening below and seemed almost as paralysed as Harry was.
“Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone,” suggested Dumbledore. “What if your back-up has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realised, there are 
members of the Order of the Phoenix here tonight, too. And after all, you don't really need help ... I have no wand at the moment ... I cannot defend myself.”
Malfoy merely stared at him.
“I see,” said Dumbledore kindly, when Malfoy neither moved nor spoke. “You are afraid to act until they join you.”
“I'm not afraid!” snarled Malfoy, though he still made no move to hurt Dumbledore."It's you who should be scared!”
“But why? I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe ... so tell me, while we wait for your friends ... how did you 
smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it.”
Malfoy looked as though he was fighting down the urge to shout, or to vomit. He gulped and took several deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand pointing directly 
at the latter's heart. Then, as though he could not help himself, he said, “I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one's used for years. The one Montague 
got lost in last year.”
“Aaaah.”
Dumbledore's sigh was half a groan. He closed his eyes for a moment.
“That was clever ... there is a pair, I take it?”
“The other's in Borgin and Burkes,” said Malfoy, “and they make a kind of passage between them. Montague told me that when he was stuck in the Hogwarts one, he was 
trapped in limbo but sometimes he could hear what was going on at school, and sometimes what was going on in the shop, as if the Cabinet was travelling between them, 
but he couldn't make anyone hear him ... in the end he managed to Apparate out, even though he'd never passed his test. He nearly died doing it. Everyone thought it was 
a really good story, but I was the only one who realised what it meant—even Borgin didn't know. I was the one who realised there could be a way into Hogwarts through 
the Cabinets if I fixed the broken one.”
“Very good,” murmured Dumbledore. “So the Death Eaters were able to pass from Borgin and Burkes into the school to help you ... a clever plan, a very clever plan ... 
and, as you say, right under my nose ...”
“Yeah,” said Malfoy who, bizarrely, seemed to draw courage and comfort from Dumbledore's praise. “Yeah, it was!”
“But there were times,” Dumbledore went on, “weren't there, when you were not sure you would succeed in mending the Cabinet? And you resorted to crude and badly 
judged measures such as sending me a cursed necklace that was bound to reach the wrong hands ... poisoning mead there was only the slightest chance I might drink ...”
“Yeah, well, you still didn't realise who was behind that stuff, did you?” sneered Malfoy, as Dumbledore slid a little down the ramparts, the strength in his legs 
apparently fading, and Harry struggled fruitlessly, mutely, against the enchantment binding him.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” said Dumbledore. “I was sure it was you.”
“Why didn't you stop me, then?” Malfoy demanded.
“I tried, Draco. Professor Snape has been keeping watch over you on my orders—”
“He hasn't been doing your orders, he promised my mother—”
“Of course that is what he would tell you, Draco, but—”
“He's a double-agent, you stupid old man, he isn't working for you, you just think he is!”
“We must agree to differ on that, Draco. It so happens that I trust Professor Snape—”
“Well, you're losing your grip, then!” sneered Malfoy. “He's been offering me plenty of help—wanting all the glory for himself—wanting a bit of the action—'What 
are you doing? Did you do the necklace, that was stupid, it could have blown everything—’ But I haven't told him what I've been doing in the Room of Requirement, he's 
going to wake up tomorrow and it'll all be over and he won't be the Dark Lord's favourite any more, he'll be nothing compared to me, nothing!”
“Very gratifying,” said Dumbledore mildly. “We all like appreciation for our own hard work, of course ... but you must have had an accomplice, all the same ... 
someone in Hogsmeade, someone who was able to slip Katie the—the—aaaah...”
Dumbledore closed his eyes again and nodded, as though he was about to fall asleep.
“... of course ... Rosmerta. How long has she been under the Imperius Curse?”
“Got there at last, have you?” Malfoy taunted.
There was another yell from below, rather louder than the last. Malfoy looked nervously over his shoulder again, then back at Dumbledore, who went on, “So poor 
Rosmerta was forced to lurk in her own bathroom and pass that necklace to any Hogwarts student who entered the room unaccompanied? And the poisoned mead ... well, 
naturally, Rosmerta was able to poison it for you before she sent the bottle to Slughorn, believing that it was to be my Christmas present ... yes, very neat ... very 
neat ... poor Mr Filch would not, of course, think to check a bottle of Rosmerta's ... tell me, how have you been communicating with Rosmerta? I thought we had all 
methods of communication in and out of the school monitored.”
“Enchanted coins,” said Malfoy, as though he was compelled to keep talking, though his wand hand was shaking badly. “I had one and she had the other and I could send 
her messages—”
“Isn't that the secret method of communication the group that called themselves Dumbledore's Army used last year?” asked Dumbledore. His voice was light and 
conversational, but Harry saw him slip an inch lower down the wall as he said it.
“Yeah, I got the idea from them,” said Malfoy, with a twisted smile. “I got the idea of poisoning the mead from the Mudblood Granger, as well, I heard her talking in 
the library about Filch not recognising potions ...”
“Please do not use that offensive word in front of me,” said Dumbledore.
Malfoy gave a harsh laugh.
“You care about me saying “Mudblood” when I'm about to kill you?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dumbledore, and Harry saw his feet slide a little on the floor as he struggled to remain upright. “But as for being about to kill me, Draco, you 
have had several long minutes now. We are quite alone. I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted ...”
Malfoy's mouth contorted involuntarily, as though he had tasted something very bitter.
“Now, about tonight,” Dumbledore went on, “I am a little puzzled about how it happened ... you knew that I had left the school? But of course,” he answered his own 
question, “Rosmerta saw me leaving, she tipped you off using your ingenious coins, I'm sure ...”
“That's right,” said Malfoy. “But she said you were just going for a drink, you'd be back ...”
“Well, I certainly did have a drink ... and I came back ... after a fashion,” mumbled Dumbledore. “So you decided to spring a trap for me?”
“We decided to put the Dark Mark over the Tower and get you to hurry up here, to see who'd been killed,” said Malfoy. “And it worked!”
“Well ... yes and no ...” said Dumbledore. “But am I to take it, then, that nobody has been murdered?”
“Someone's dead,” said Malfoy and his voice seemed to go up an octave as he said it. “One of your people ... I don't know who, it was dark ... I stepped over the 
body ... I was supposed to be waiting up here when you got back, only your Phoenix lot got in the way ...”
“Yes, they do that,” said Dumbledore.
There was a bang and shouts from below, louder than ever; it sounded as though people were fighting on the actual spiral staircase that led to where Dumbledore, Malfoy 
and Harry stood, and Harry's heart thundered unheard in his invisible chest ... someone was dead ... Malfoy had stepped over the body ... but who was it?
“There is little time, one way or another,” said Dumbledore. “So let us discuss your options, Draco.”
“My options!” said Malfoy loudly. “I'm standing here with a wand—I'm about to kill you—”
“My dear boy, let us have no more pretence about that. If you were going to kill me, you would have done it when you first Disarmed me, you would not have stopped for 
this pleasant chat about ways and means.”
“I haven't got any options!” said Malfoy, and he was suddenly as white as Dumbledore. “I've got to do it! He'll kill me! He'll kill my whole family!”
“I appreciate the difficulty of your position,” said Dumbledore. “Why else do you think I have not confronted you before now? Because I knew that you would have been 
murdered if Lord Voldemort realised that I suspected you.”
Malfoy winced at the sound of the name.
“I did not dare speak to you of the mission with which I knew you had been entrusted, in case he used Legilimency against you,” continued Dumbledore. “But now at 
last we can speak plainly to each other ... no harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived ... I can 
help you, Draco.”
“No, you can't,” said Malfoy, his wand hand shaking very badly indeed. “Nobody can. He told me to do it or he'll kill me. I've got no choice.”
“Come over to the right side, Draco, and we can hide you more completely than you can possibly imagine. What is more, I can send members of the Order to your mother 
tonight to hide her likewise. Your father is safe at the moment in Azkaban ... when the time comes we can protect him too ... come over to the right side, Draco ... you 
are not a killer ...”
Malfoy stared at Dumbledore.
“But I got this far, didn't I?” he said slowly. “They thought I'd die in the attempt, but I'm here ... and you're in my power ... I'm the one with the wand ... 
you're at my mercy ...”
“No, Draco,” said Dumbledore quietly. “It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now.”
Malfoy did not speak. His mouth was open, his wand hand still trembling. Harry thought he saw it drop by a fraction—
But suddenly footsteps were thundering up the stairs and a second later Malfoy was buffeted out of the way as four people in black robes burst through the door on to 
the ramparts. Still paralysed, his eyes staring unblinkingly, Harry gazed in terror upon four strangers: it seemed the Death Eaters had won the fight below.
A lumpy-looking man with an odd lopsided leer gave a wheezy giggle.
“Dumbledore cornered!” he said, and he turned to a stocky little woman who looked as though she could be his sister and who was grinning eagerly. “Dumbledore 
wandless, Dumbledore alone! Well done, Draco, well done!”
“Good evening, Amycus,” said Dumbledore calmly, as though welcoming the man to a tea party. “And you've brought Alecto too ... charming ...”
The woman gave an angry little titter.
“Think your little jokes'll help you on your death bed, then?” she jeered.
“Jokes? No, no, these are manners,” replied Dumbledore.
“Do it,” said the stranger standing nearest to Harry, a big, rangy man with matted grey hair and whiskers, whose black Death Eater's robes looked uncomfortably tight. 
He had a voice like none that Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat and, unmistakeably, of blood coming 
from him. His filthy hands had long yellowish nails.
“Is that you, Fenrir?” asked Dumbledore.
“That's right,” rasped the other. “Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?”
“No, I cannot say that I am ...”
Fenrir Greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth. Blood trickled down his chin and he licked his lips slowly, obscenely.
“But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.”
“Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual ... you have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied 
once a month?”
“That's right,” said Greyback. “Shocks you, that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?”
“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little,” said Dumbledore. “And, yes, I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the 
school where his friends live...”
“I didn't,” breathed Malfoy. He was not looking at Greyback; he did not seem to want to even glance at him. “I didn't know he was going to come—”
“I wouldn't want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore,” rasped Greyback. “Not when there are throats to be ripped out ... delicious, delicious ...”
And he raised a yellow fingernail and picked at his front teeth, leering at Dumbledore.
“I could do you for afters, Dumbledore ...”
“No,” said the fourth Death Eater sharply. He had a heavy, brutal-looking face. “We've got orders. Draco's got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly.”
Malfoy was showing less resolution than ever. He looked terrified as he stared into Dumbledore's face, which was even paler, and rather lower than usual, as he had slid 
so far down the rampart wall.
“He's not long for this world anyway, if you ask me!” said the lopsided man, to the accompaniment of his sister's wheezing giggles. “Look at him—what's happened to 
you, then, Dumby?”
“Oh, weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Amycus,” said Dumbledore. “Old age, in short ... one day, perhaps, it will happen to you ... if you are lucky ...”
“What's that mean, then, what's that mean?” yelled the Death Eater, suddenly violent. “Always the same, weren't yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing, nothing, I 
don't even know why the Dark Lord's bothering to kill yeh! Come on, Draco, do it!”
But at that moment, there were renewed sounds of scuffling from below and a voice shouted, “They've blocked the stairs—Reducto! REDUCTO!”
Harry's heart leapt: so these four had not eliminated all opposition, but merely broken through the fight to the top of the Tower, and, by the sound of it, created a 
barrier behind them—
“Now, Draco, quickly!” said the brutal-faced man angrily.
But Malfoy's hand was shaking so badly that he could barely aim.
“I'll do it,” snarled Greyback, moving towards Dumbledore with his hands outstretched, his teeth bared.
“I said no!” shouted the brutal-faced man; there was a flash of light and the werewolf was blasted out of the way; he hit the ramparts and staggered, looking furious. 
Harry's heart was hammering so hard it seemed impossible that nobody could hear him standing there, imprisoned by Dumbledore's spell—if he could only move, he could 
aim a curse from under the Cloak—
“Draco, do it, or stand aside so one of us—” screeched the woman, but at that precise moment the door to the ramparts burst open once more and there stood Snape, his 
wand clutched in his hand as his black eyes swept the scene, from Dumbledore slumped against the wall, to the four Death Eaters, including the enraged werewolf, and 
Malfoy.
“We've got a problem, Snape,” said the lumpy Amycus, whose eyes and wand were fixed alike upon Dumbledore, “the boy doesn't seem able—”
But somebody else had spoken Snape's name, quite softly.
“Severus ...”
The sound frightened Harry beyond anything he had experienced all evening. For the first time, Dumbledore was pleading.
Snape said nothing, but walked forwards and pushed Malfoy roughly out of the way. The three Death Eaters fell back without a word. Even the werewolf seemed cowed.
Snape gazed for a moment at Dumbledore, and there was revulsion and hatred etched in the harsh lines of his face.
“Severus ... please ...”
Snape raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore.
“Avada Kedavra!”
A jet of green light shot from the end of Snape's wand and hit Dumbledore squarely in the chest. Harry's scream of horror never left him; silent and unmoving, he was 
forced to watch as Dumbledore was blasted into the air: for a split second he seemed to hang suspended beneath the shining skull, and then he fell slowly backwards, 
like a great rag doll, over the battlements and out of sight.
他们回到了繁星闪烁的天空下，哈利把邓布利多拖到离他们最近的一块礁石上，然后把他扶了起来。他支撑住邓布利多湿透、颤抖的身体，比以往任何时候都努力地集中精神想着他们的目的地
：霍格莫德。哈利闭上眼睛，全力抓住邓布利多的手臂，然后走进了那种恐怖的压迫感之中。
 
　　他睁开眼睛之前就知道起作用了：海盐的气味和微微的海风都不见了。他和邓布利多站在霍格莫德黑暗的大路中间，浑身颤抖着，还滴着水。哈利一度出现了可怕的幻觉，以为有更多的阴
飞力从两侧的商店向他们爬来，然而他眨了眨眼，却发现没有什么在动；除了一些街灯和亮着的窗户意外，四周一片黑暗。
 
　　“我们做到了，教授！”哈利艰难地低声说；他突然胸口一阵灼热的剧痛。“我们做到了！我们拿到了那个灵魂碎片！”
 
　　邓布利多靠着他摇晃地站着。哈利有一阵子还以为是自己不熟练的幻影显形让邓布利多失去了平衡；然后他看到了邓布利多的脸远远的街灯下更加显得苍白和湿润。
 
　　“教授，你还好吗？”
 
　　“已经好多了，”邓布利多虚弱地说，尽管他的嘴角还在抽搐，“那个药水……喝下去有碍健康……”
 
　　邓布利多倒在了地上，这令哈利惶恐不已。
 
　　“教授——没事的，教授，你会好起来的，别担心——”
 
　　哈利绝望地向四周张望着，想要寻求帮助，但是没有看到任何人，他所能想到的就是无论如何必须尽快送邓布利多去校医院。
 
　　“我们必须去学校，教授……庞弗雷夫人……”
 
　　“不，”邓布利多说。“我需要的是……是斯内普教授……但是我想……我现在走不了那么远……”
 
　　“好吧——教授，听我说——我现在去敲门，给你找个地方待在那儿——然后我就去找庞弗雷——”
 
　　“西弗勒斯，”邓布利多清楚地说。“我需要西弗勒斯……”
 
　　“好吧，斯内普——但是我要离开你一会儿，以便我可以——”
 
　　然而在哈利行动之前，他听到了跑动的脚步声。他的心跳了出来：有人看见他们了，有人知道他们需要帮助——他转过身，看见罗斯默塔女士穿着高跟的毛绒拖鞋和绣着龙的丝制睡袍急匆
匆地向他们跑来。
 
　　“我拉卧室窗帘的时候看到你们幻影显形了！感谢上帝，感谢上帝，我不知道——阿不思怎么了？”
 
　　她停了下来，气喘吁吁地睁大眼睛瞪着邓布利多。
 
　　“他受伤了，”哈利说。“罗斯默塔女士，我现在要去学校找人帮忙，您能把他带到三把扫帚去吗？”
 
　　“你不能独自去那儿！你难道没有察觉到吗——你没有看到——？”
 
　　“请你帮我撑住他，”哈利没有听她说，“我想我们可以把他弄进——”
 
　　“发生了什么事？”邓布利多问。“罗斯默塔，发生了什么事？”
 
　　“是——黑魔标记，阿不思。”
 
　　罗斯默塔女士指了指天空，那是霍格沃茨的方向。听到这句话，恐惧感顿时席卷了哈利……他转过头去看。
 
　　它就在那儿，漂浮在霍格沃茨的上空：一只耀眼的绿色骷髅头，蛇形的舌头，这是食死徒们任何时候进入一幢建筑之后都会留下的标记……无论在哪儿杀了人之后……
 
　　“它是什么时候出现的？”邓布利多问，他把哈利的肩膀抓得生疼，挣扎着想要站起来。
 
　　“一定是几分钟前，我把猫放出来的时候它还不在那儿，但是当我上楼的时候——”
 
　　“我们必须马上返回城堡，”邓布利多说。“罗斯默塔，”尽管他还有些摇晃，但他似乎已经完全是在指挥此时的局面了，“我们需要交通工具——扫帚——”
 
　　“酒吧后面有两把，”她说，看上去非常害怕。“我这就跑过去取——”
 
　　“不用了，哈利可以做到。”
 
　　哈利立刻举起他的魔杖。
 
　　“罗斯默塔的扫帚飞来！”
 
　　一秒钟后他们听到砰的一声巨响，酒吧的前门被撞开了；两把飞天扫帚射到了大街上，像赛跑一样飞到哈利的一侧，它们在哈利的腰际死死地停住了，微微发着抖。
 
　　“罗斯默塔，请你给魔法部传个讯息，”邓布利多一边骑上离他最近的那把扫帚一边说。“现在霍格沃茨里的人可能还没有意识到出事了……哈利，穿上你的隐形斗篷。”
 
　　哈利从口袋里拿出了隐形斗篷披在上身上，然后骑上了扫帚；哈利和邓布利多一跃而起，飞向了天空中，而此时罗斯默塔女士也开始踉踉跄跄地往她的酒吧去了。他们加速向城堡飞去的同
时，哈利瞥了一眼身旁的邓布利多，随时准备着抓住他以防止他掉下去，但是黑魔标记的出现对邓布利多起到了兴奋剂一样的作用：他低低地伏在扫帚上，眼睛紧紧盯着那个标记，长长的银发
和胡须在身后的夜空中飘逸。哈利也向前看了看那个骷髅头骨，恐惧的感觉就像一个毒泡一样在体内膨胀，压迫着他的肺，把其他一切的不适都赶出了他的脑子……
 
　　他们离开多久了？罗恩、赫敏和金妮的运气已经用尽了吗？黑魔标记是为他们当中的一个所升起的吗，或者是纳威，或者卢娜，或者某个其他D.A.成员？如果是的话……就是他让他们在走
廊上巡视的，是他让他们离开了安全的床……他又要为某个朋友的牺牲负责了吗？
 
　　他们正飞行在刚才早些时候走过的羊肠小道的上空，这时哈利除了夜风在耳边的呼啸声以外，还听见邓布利多又在用奇怪的语言喃喃地念叨着什么。他觉得自己明白了为什么当他们飞过学
校场地的围墙上空时他的扫帚抖了一下：邓布利多正在解除自己在城堡周围设下的魔法，以便他们能飞快地进去。黑魔标记正在天文塔的正上方闪闪发光，那是城堡的最高处。这是否意味着死
亡发生在那儿？
 
　　邓布利多已经越过了锯齿状的城墙，下了扫帚；哈利几秒钟后降落在他身边，他向四周望了望。
 
　　城墙上空无一人。通向城堡里旋转楼梯的门关着。这里没有挣扎的痕迹，没有殊死搏斗的痕迹，没有尸体。
 
　　“这意味着什么？”哈利问邓布利多，同时仰视着他们头顶上骷髅头，它的舌头是一条蛇，整个都邪恶地闪着光。“这是真的黑魔标记吗？是不是有人已经肯定——教授？”
 
　　借助标记发出的微弱绿光，哈利看见邓布利多用那只变黑的手仅仅抓住了胸膛。
 
　　“去叫醒西弗勒斯，”邓布利多虚弱却又清楚地说。“告诉他发生的事并带他来见我。一路上不要做其他的事，不要和任何人交谈，不要脱下你的隐形斗篷。我在这里等你。”
 
　　“但是——”
 
　　“你发誓会服从我的，哈利——去！”
 
　　哈利匆忙跑向通往旋转楼梯的门，但是他的手刚碰到铁制的门环，就听见门了另一头传来了奔跑的脚步声。他回头看邓布利多，后者示意他往后退。哈利退了几步，同时抽出了他的魔杖。
 
　　门被撞开了，一个人冲出来大喊一声：“除你武器！”
 
　　哈利的身体瞬间变得僵硬和动弹不得，他感到自己向后倒，靠在了塔楼的墙上，像一尊不稳的雕像一样搁在那儿，无法移动和说话。他不明白这是怎么回事——除你武器不是冰冻魔咒啊—
—
 
　　这时，在黑魔标记的光照下，他看到邓布利多的魔杖在空中划着弧线飞过了城墙，他明白了……邓布利多无声地定住了哈利，这一瞬间的施咒使得他丧失了保护自己的机会。
 
　　邓布利多靠在城墙上站着，脸色非常苍白，但他没有表现出一丝的惊慌和痛苦。他只是看着解除他武器的人，说道，“晚上好，德拉科。”
 
　　马尔福向前走去，环顾着四周以检查是否只有他和邓布利多两个人。他的眼睛扫到了第二把扫帚。
 
　　“还有谁在这儿？”
 
　　“这是个我要问你的问题。你是一个人行动的吗？”
 
　　“不是，”他说。“我有后援。今晚在你的学校有很多食死徒。”
 
　　“不错，不错，”邓布利多说，仿佛马尔福是在向他展示一个雄心勃勃的家庭作业计划。“确实非常好。你找到让他们进来的方法了，是不是？”
 
　　“是的，”马尔福喘着气说。“就在你的眼皮底下，而你却没有发觉！”
 
　　“有创意，”邓布利多说。“但是……恕我直言……他们现在在哪儿？你看起来有些孤立无援。”
 
　　“他们遇见了你的警卫。他们正在下面交手。他们不会打很久的……我先上来了——我有一个任务要完成。”
 
　　“哦，那么，你必须赶快完成它，我亲爱的孩子，”邓布利多温柔地说。
 
　　沉默笼罩了他们。哈利无形、僵直的身子被禁锢在那儿，他盯着他们俩，竖起耳朵听着远处食死徒们的打斗，在他面前，德拉科·马尔福只是紧紧地盯着阿不思·邓布利多，而后者竟难以
置信地微笑了。
 
　　“德拉科，德拉科，你不是个杀手。”
 
　　“你怎么知道？”马尔福立刻说。
 
　　他似乎意识到了这句话听起来多么幼稚。哈利看到他在黑魔标记的绿光下脸红了。
 
　　“你不知道我能干什么，”马尔福更用力地说，“你不知道我做了什么！”
 
　　“哦，不，我知道。”邓布利多温和地说，“你几乎杀了凯特·贝尔和罗纳德·韦斯莱。整整一年里你都一直在试图杀我，但你越来越绝望。恕我直言，德拉科，但我得说那些都是无益的
尝试……如此的无益，说实话，以至于我甚至怀疑你是否真的把心思花在上面了……”
 
　　“我用心了！”马尔福激烈地说。“一年来我一直在努力，而今晚——”
 
　　哈利听到一个低沉的喊叫声从城堡深处传了上来。马尔福挺起了身子，向后面瞟了一眼。
 
　　“有人打得不错，”邓布利多漫不经心地说，“你刚刚在说……是的，你成功地把食死徒带进了学校，我得承认，我本以为这是不可能的……你是怎么做到的？”
 
　　但马尔福什么也没说：他一直听着下面发生的事，看上去几乎像哈利一样瘫痪了。
 
　　“也许你应该自己来进行这个任务，”邓布利多建议道。“要是你的后援被我的警卫们挫败了怎么办？也许你已经发觉，今晚也有许多凤凰社的人在这里。说到底，你并不真的需要帮助…
…我现在没有魔杖……我无法自卫。”
 
　　马尔福只是盯着他。
 
　　“我知道了，”邓布利多和蔼地说，而马尔福既没有动也没有说话。“你不敢在他们来之前行动。”
 
　　“我不害怕！”马尔福咆哮道，但他依然没有去伤害邓布利多。“该害怕的是你！”
 
　　“为什么？我不认为你会杀了我，德拉科。杀人远远没有天真的人所相信的那么容易……所以在我们等你的朋友的时候，告诉我……你是怎么让他们蒙混进来的？似乎你想了很久才找到解
决的方法。”
 
　　马尔福看上去好像正在克制自己喊叫或是呕吐的强烈欲望。他咽了咽口水，深呼吸了几下，愤怒地瞪着邓布利多，用魔杖直指着后者的心脏。然后，他仿佛是不能自持地说，“我不得不去
修好那个多年来没有人用过的消失柜，就是去年蒙太在里面迷路的那个。”
 
　　“啊。”
 
　　邓布利多半是呻吟地叹了口气。他闭了一会儿眼。
 
　　“很聪明……那是一对吧，我猜想？”
 
　　“另一个在博金－博克店，”马尔福说，“他们在两者之间制造了一条通道。蒙太告诉我，当他被塞进霍格沃茨这边的消失柜时，他陷入了中间地带，但有时能听见学校发生的事，有时又
能听见商店里发生的事，就好像柜子在两个地点之间穿梭一样，但是他的声音无法被别人听见……最后他设法用幻影显形离开了那个地方，虽然他从没有通过测试。他做的时候差点死掉了。每
个人都认为这真是个不错的故事，而只有我认识到了这意味着什么——甚至连博金都不知道——正是我意识到了如果修好那个坏掉的柜子，就可以通过两个消失柜进入霍格沃茨。”
 
　　“非常好，”邓布利多喃喃地说。“因此食死徒们就可以通过博金－博克店进入学校来帮你了……聪明的计划，非常聪明的计划……正如你所说的，就在我眼皮底下……”
 
　　“是的，”马尔福似乎古怪地从邓布利多的赞扬中得到了勇气和安慰，“是的，没错！”
 
　　“但是也有一段时间，”邓布利多继续说，“是不是，你不确定自己是否能修好消失柜？于是你就去求助于一些粗野和低劣的手段，比如试图送我一串被诅咒的项链，那必定会被送到别人
手里……在蜂蜜酒里下毒，尽管我只有很小的机会喝到……”
 
　　“是的，可你仍旧没有发觉谁是站在幕后的人，是吗？”马尔福冷笑着说，邓布利多沿着墙壁向下滑了一点，他的双腿的力量显然在衰退，哈利徒劳、无声地挣扎着想要挣脱束缚他的魔法
。
 
　　“事实上，我发觉了，”邓布利多说。“我敢肯定那个人就是你。”
 
　　“那么，你为什么不阻止我？”马尔福问。
 
　　“我试过，德拉科。我命令斯内普教授一直监视着你——”
 
　　“他没有遵守你的命令，他答应了我的母亲——”
 
　　“他当然会那样跟你说，德拉科，但是——”
 
　　“他是一个双重间谍，你这个愚蠢的老家伙，他没有为你工作，你只不过以为他是！”
 
　　“必须承认在这件事情上我们存在分歧，德拉科。我不巧正好信任斯内普教授——”
 
　　“那么，你正在丧失对他的控制！”马尔福冷笑道。“他一直想要帮我的忙——想要把所有的荣誉据为己有——想要获知我们的行动——‘你在做什么？项链的事是你做的吗，那很愚蠢，
它可能会把一切都搞砸——’但是我没有告诉他我在有求必应屋里做什么，他明早上一觉醒来会发现所有的事情都结束了，而他将不再是黑魔头最喜欢的人了，和我比起来他什么都不是，什么
都不是！”
 
　　“非常令人满意，”邓布利多温和地说。“我们当然都喜欢自己的努力工作被人欣赏……但是你仍然必定有个同谋……霍格莫德的某个人，他要能够送给凯蒂那——那——”
 
　　邓布利多闭上了眼睛，点了点头，仿佛打算睡觉一样。
 
　　“……当然……罗斯默塔。她被夺魂咒控制多久了？”
 
　　“你终于知道了，对吗？”马尔福奚落他说。
 
　　楼下又传来了一声大叫，比上一次的更响亮。马尔福又不安地回头看了一眼，然后转向了邓布利多，后者接着说，“所以可怜罗斯默塔被强迫埋伏在她自己的盥洗室里，等着把项链交给任
何一个独自进来的霍格沃茨学生？至于有毒的蜂蜜酒……嗯，罗斯默塔自然能照你的意思下毒，然后把它交给斯拉霍恩，并相信那会成为我的圣诞礼物……是的，非常巧妙……非常巧妙……当
然，可怜的费尔奇不会想到去检查一瓶罗斯默塔的店里卖出的东西……告诉我，你一直是怎么和罗斯默塔联络的？我想我们已经监视了一切校内外联络的方式。”
 
　　“魔法钱币，”马尔福说，仿佛他是被迫保持说话一样，尽管他拿着魔杖的手在剧烈地抖动。“我拥有一个，而她拥有另一个，我可以给她传递信息——”
 
　　“这不是去年那个自称为邓布利多军的组织所使用的秘密联络方法吗？”邓布利多问。他的声音轻快而随意，但是哈利看见他在说这些话的时候向下滑了一英寸。
 
　　“是的，我从他们那里获得了这个主意，”马尔福脸上露出了扭曲的笑容。“下毒的主意也是从泥巴种格兰杰那里获得的，因为我听到她在图书馆里谈论费尔奇不能识别魔药的事……”
 
　　“请不要在我面前使用那个无礼的词，”邓布利多说。
 
　　马尔福发出了一声刺耳的大笑。
 
　　“我都要杀了你了，你还介意我说‘泥巴种’？”
 
　　“是的，我介意，”邓布利多说，哈利看到邓布利多挣扎着想要保持挺直的时候，脚又在地面上滑了一点。“但是说到你要杀我，德拉科，你已经花掉了漫长的几分钟。我们俩单独在这儿
。我比你更无助，也许你一直都梦想着找到我，但是你仍旧没有行动……”
 
　　马尔福的嘴不知不觉地扭曲了，仿佛他尝到了什么很苦的东西。
 
　　“现在，说说今晚的事，”邓布利多继续说，“我有点迷惑它是怎么发生的……你知道我离开了学校？不过当然了，”他回答了自己的问题，“罗斯默塔看到我离开了，我敢肯定她用你那
精巧的钱币通知了你……”
 
　　“没错，”马尔福说。“但是她说你只是要去喝点东西，你会回来的……”
 
　　“嗯，我当然喝了点东西……然后我回来了……勉勉强强，”邓布利多喃喃地说。“所以你决定为我设计一个陷阱？”
 
　　“我们决定把黑魔标记放到这个塔楼的上空，让你尽快赶到这里来查看谁被杀了，”马尔福说。“它奏效了。”
 
　　“嗯……既是，又不是……”邓布利多说。“那么我可不可以推测，没有人已经被杀了？”
 
　　“有人死了，”马尔福的声音似乎高了八度。“一个你们的人……我不知道是谁，那里很黑……我从尸体上跨了过去……你回来的时候我就该等在这儿，只是你凤凰社的那帮人妨碍了我…
…”
 
　　“是的，他们做到了，”邓布利多说。
 
　　下面传来了一声巨响和一些叫喊，比前先前的都响；听上去人们正在旋转楼梯上打斗，那楼梯正好通往邓布利多、马尔福和哈利所站的地方，哈利心脏在他看不见的胸腔里猛烈地无声跳动
……有人死了……马尔福从他的尸体上跨过……但是他是谁？
 
　　“没有时间了，一条路或者另一条，”邓布利多说。“那么我们来讨论一下你的选择，德拉科。”
 
　　“我的选择！”马尔福大声说。“我拿着魔杖站在这儿——我要杀了你——”
 
　　“我亲爱的孩子，让我们不要再有任何伪装了。如果你要杀了我，你会在解除了我的武器之后立刻就杀了我，你不会停下来和我进行这番关于方法手段的愉快谈话。”
 
　　“我没有任何选择！”马尔福的脸色突然变得和邓布利多一样苍白。“我必须这样做！他会杀了我的！他会杀了我的全家！”
 
　　“我明白你的处境很艰难，”邓布利多说。“你觉得还能有什么原因让我以前没有和你对质？那是因为我知道如果伏地魔发觉我怀疑你的话，他会杀了你的。”
 
　　马尔福听到那个名字时，退缩了一下。
 
　　“我不怕跟你谈论你的任务，因为我知道你是被委托的，他对你用摄神取念以防万一，”邓布利多继续说。“但是在这最后的时间里，我们可以坦诚的对话……你没有任何伤害，你没有伤
害到任何人，你并非存心伤害的那些受害人都幸免遇难了，尽管这只是靠运气……我可以帮助你，德拉科。”
 
　　“不，你帮不了，”马尔福说，他的魔杖抖得很厉害。“没有人能。他要我做这件事，否则就杀了我。我别无选择。”
 
　　“到正确的一方来吧，德拉科，我们可以把你藏得比你想得还要好。我还可以今晚就派凤凰社的成员到你母亲那儿给她同样的保护。你父亲目前在阿兹卡班很安全……在需要的时候，我们
也可以保护他……到正确的一方来，德拉科……你不是一个杀手……”
 
　　马尔福盯着邓布利多。
 
　　“但我已经走得太远了，不是吗？”他慢慢地说。“他们认为我在试图做这件事时会死掉，但是我在这儿……而你在我的掌握之下……我是唯一一个拿着魔杖的人……你受我的支配……”
 
　　“不，德拉科，”邓布利多平静地说。“是我在支配，而不是你，这在此刻很重要。”
 
　　马尔福没有说话。他的嘴张开了，拿着魔杖的手仍在颤抖着。哈利觉得有一瞬间他看见魔杖已经掉了下来。
 
　　但是突然雷鸣般的脚步声从楼梯传了过来，一秒钟之后，四个穿着黑色长袍的人从门后冲上了塔顶，马尔福被推到了一边。哈利仍然不能动弹，他的眼睛眨都不眨，惊骇地盯着四个陌生人
：似乎食死徒们赢得了楼下的战斗。
 
　　一个长得很结实的男人斜着眼瞟了一下，然后呼哧呼哧地傻笑起来。
 
　　“邓布利多被逼到绝境了！”他说，然后转向了一个矮胖的女人，她看上去像是他的妹妹，正急切地咧着嘴笑。“没有魔杖的邓布利多，孤身一人的邓布利多！做得好，德拉科，做的好！
”
 
　　“晚上好，埃米库斯，”邓布利多平静地说，仿佛在欢迎那个男人加入一个茶话会。“你还带来了阿莱珂托……真迷人……”
 
　　那个女人有些生气地嗤笑了一下。
 
　　“你以为你的小玩笑能在临终床上帮助你吗？”她嘲笑地说。
 
　　“玩笑？不，不，这些是礼貌，”邓布利多回答。
 
　　“干掉他，”离哈利最近的那个陌生人说，他身材高大，四肢瘦长，长着蓬乱的灰发和胡须，他黑色的食死徒长袍看上去绷得很不舒服。他的声音和哈利所听过的所有声音都不同：一种像
磨锉刀一样的粗吼。哈利可以闻到一股向他逼来的浓烈味道，夹杂着尘土、汗水和明确无误的血腥。他肮脏的手上长着长长黄指甲。
 
　　“是你吗，芬利？”邓布利多问。
 
　　“没错，”对方粗声粗气地说。“看到我高兴吗，邓布利多？”
 
　　“不，我不能说我很高兴……”
 
　　芬利·格雷巴克咧嘴笑了，露出了锋利的牙齿。血他的下巴淌下来，他慢吞吞地用猥亵的姿势舔着嘴唇。
 
　　“但是你知道我多么喜欢小孩，邓布利多。”
 
　　“我是不是可以断定你现在即使不在满月的时候也会攻击人？这是很不寻常的……你已经养成了吃人肉的嗜好，所以一个月一次都无法满足你？”
 
　　“没错，”芬利·格雷巴克说，“那让你感到震惊，是不是，邓布利多？吓到你了？”
 
　　“好吧，我不能假装那一点儿也没有令我感到恶心，”邓布利多说。“是的，我有点震惊于德拉科在所有人里面会邀请你进入到这个生活着他的朋友的地方……”
 
　　“我没有，”马尔福喘着气说。他没有看芬利·格雷巴克；甚至连瞥一眼也不愿意。“我不知道他会来——”
 
　　“我不想错过一趟去霍格沃茨的旅行，邓布利多，”芬利·格雷巴克粗声说。“尤其是那儿有很多喉咙等待我撕碎的时候……美味，美味……”
 
　　他举起一只黄色的手指甲，弹了弹自己的门牙，斜视着邓布利多。
 
　　“我可以把你当作餐后甜点，邓布利多……”
 
　　“不行，”第四个食死徒急剧地说，他有着一张阴沉、长得像野兽的脸。“我们有命令。得由德拉科来做。现在，德拉科，快点。”
 
　　马尔福的坚定比任何时候都要少。他盯着邓布利多的脸时似乎已经吓坏了，邓布利多的脸更加苍白，也比平时更虚弱，他已经在城墙上滑下了许多。
 
　　“不管怎样，他在这个世界上活不了多久了，如果你问我的话！”斜眼的男人在他妹妹傻笑的伴奏下说。“看看他——你怎么了？多姆比？”
 
　　“哦，抵抗更无力，反应更迟钝，埃米库斯，”邓布利多说。“年纪大了，简而言之……也许有一天，这些也会发生在你身上……如果你走运的话……”
 
　　“那是什么意思，那是什么意思？”这个食死徒突然叫了起来。“你一贯如此，多姆比，不是吗，只说不做，不做，我甚至都不明白黑魔王为什么会费心想杀你！来吧，德拉科，动手！”
 
　　但在那一刻，下面又传来了新的混战声，一个声音喊道，“他们封堵了楼梯——粉身碎骨！粉身碎骨！”
 
　　哈利的心跳了起来：这四个人没有除掉所有的对手，仅仅是从战斗中突围了出来，才来到这个塔楼顶，而且从声音判断，他们在身后制造了一个屏障——
 
　　“现在，德拉科，快点！”长着一张兽脸的男人生气地说。
 
　　但是马尔福的手抖得无法瞄准。
 
　　“我来，”芬利·格雷巴克咆哮道，他伸出手移向邓布利多，露出了牙齿。
 
　　“我说过不行！”兽脸的男人喊道；随着一道光闪过，狼人被顶到了一边；他踉踉跄跄地撞到城墙上，一脸狂怒的表情。哈利的心跳得非常剧烈，他觉得似乎不可能没人听见他站在这儿，
被邓布利多的咒语束缚住了——要是他能动，他就可以从隐形斗篷下面瞄准施咒了——
 
　　“德拉科，动手，要不然你就靠边站，让我们其中的一个——”那女人尖声叫道，但就在这时，通往塔顶的门再一次被轰开了，斯内普站在那里，手里紧紧攥着魔杖，黑黑的眼睛扫视着眼
前的一幕，从滑靠在墙边的邓布利多，到四个食死徒，包括愤怒的狼人，还有马尔福。
 
　　“我们遇到了一个难题，斯内普，”结实的埃米库斯说，他的目光和魔杖都锁定了邓布利多，“这男孩似乎无法——”
 
　　但是另外一个人在叫着斯内普的名字，声音非常轻柔。
 
　　“西弗勒斯……”
 
　　这个声音比今晚经历的任何事情都更让哈利感到害怕。第一次，邓布利多在恳求。
 
　　斯内普什么也没说，只是向前走去，他粗暴地把马尔福推到一边。三个食死徒默默无语地退后了。甚至狼人也似乎被唬住了。
 
　　斯内普凝视了一会儿邓布利多，反感和憎恨蚀刻在了他脸上粗糙的皱纹里。
 
　　“西弗勒斯……请你……”
 
　　斯内普举起了魔杖，直指邓布利多。
 
　　“阿瓦达索命！”
 
　　一道绿光从斯内普的魔杖的末端射出，直接击中了邓布利多的胸膛。哈利无法喊出恐惧的尖叫；既不能说话也不能动弹的他被迫眼睁睁地看着邓布利多被抛向空中：有那么一瞬间他似乎被
挂在了闪闪发光的骷髅头上，然后他缓缓地落下，像是一只用破布做的玩偶，飞过城垛，看不见了。 
Chapter 28 Flight of the Prince
Harry felt as though he too were hurtling through space; it had not happened... it could not have happened...
“Out of here, quickly,” said Snape.
He seized Malfoy by the scruff of the neck and forced him through the door ahead of the rest; Greyback and the squat brother and sister followed, the latter both 
panting excitedly. As they vanished through the door, Harry realized he could move again. What was now holding him paralyzed against the wall was not magic, but horror 
and shock. He threw the Invisibility Cloak aside as the brutal-faced Death Eater, last to leave the tower top, was disappearing through the door.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
The Death Eater buckled as though hit in the back with something solid and fell to the ground, rigid as a waxwork, but he had barely hit the floor when Harry was 
clambering over him and running down the darkened staircase.
Terror tore at Harry's heart... he had to get to Dumbledore and he had to catch Snape... somehow the two things were linked... he could reverse what had happened if he 
had them both together... Dumbledore could not have died...
He leapt the last ten steps of the spiral staircase and stopped where he landed, his wand raised. The dimly lit corridor was full of dust; half the ceiling seemed to 
have fallen in; and a battle was raging before him, but even as he attempted to make out who were fighting whom, he heard the hated voice shout, “It's over, time to 
go!” and saw Snape disappearing around the corner at the far end of the corridor; he and Malfoy seemed to have forced their way through the fight unscathed. As Harry 
plunged after them, one of the fighters detached themselves from the fray and flew at him: it was the werewolf, Fenrir. He was on top of Harry before Harry could raise 
his wand: Harry fell backward, with filthy matted hair in his face, the stench of sweat and blood filling his nose and mouth, hot greedy breath at his throat—
“Petrificus Totalus!”
Harry felt Greyback collapse against him; with a stupendous effort he pushed the werewolf off and onto the floor as a jet of green light came flying toward him; he 
ducked and ran, headfirst, into the fight. His feet met something squashy and slippery on the floor and he stumbled: there were two bodies lying there, lying facedown 
in a pool of blood, but there was no time to investigate. Harry now saw red hair flying like flames in front of him: Ginny was locked in combat with the lumpy Death 
Eater, Amycus, who was throwing hex after hex at her while she dodged them: Amycus was giggling, enjoying the sport: “Crucio—Crucio—you can't dance forever, pretty—
”
“Impedimenta!” yelled Harry.
His jinx hit Amycus in the chest: he gave a piglike squeal of pain, was lifted off his feet and slammed into the opposite wall, slid down it, and fell out of sight 
behind Ron, Professor McGonagall, and Lupin, each of whom was battling a separate Death Eater. Beyond them, Harry saw Tonks fighting an enormous blond wizard who was 
sending curses flying in all directions, so that they ricocheted off the walls around them, cracking stone, shattering the nearest window—
“Harry, where did you come from?” Ginny cried, but there was no time to answer her. He put his head down and sprinted forward, narrowly avoiding a blast that erupted 
over his head, showering them all in bits of wall. Snape must not escape, he must catch up with Snape -
“Take that!” shouted Professor McGonagall, and Harry glimpsed the female Death Eater, Alecto, sprinting away down the corridor with her arms over her head, her 
brother right behind her. He launched himself after them but his foot caught on something, and next moment he was lying across someone's legs. Looking around, he saw 
Neville's pale, round face flat against the floor.
“Neville, are you—?”
“'M'all right,” muttered Neville, who was clutching his stomach, “Harry... Snape ‘n’ Malfoy... ran past...”
“I know, I'm on it!” said Harry, aiming a hex from the floor at the enormous blond Death Eater who was causing most of the chaos. The man gave a howl of pain as the 
spell hit him in the face: he wheeled around, staggered, and then pounded away after the brother and sister. Harry scrambled up from the floor and began to sprint along 
the corridor, ignoring the bangs issuing from behind him, the yells of the others to come back, and the mute call of the figures on the ground whose fate he did not yet 
know...
He skidded around the corner, his trainers slippery with blood; Snape had an immense head start. Was it possible that he had already entered the cabinet in the Room of 
Requirement, or had the Order made steps to secure it, to prevent the Death Eaters retreating that way? He could hear nothing but his own pounding feet, his own 
hammering heart as he sprinted along the next empty corridor, but then spotted a bloody footprint that showed at least one of the fleeing Death Eaters was heading 
toward the front doors—perhaps the Room of Requirement was indeed blocked—
He skidded around another corner and a curse flew past him; he dived behind a suit of armor that exploded. He saw the brother and sister running down the marble 
staircase ahead and aimed jinxes at them, but merely hit several bewigged witches in a portrait on the landing, who ran screeching into neighboring paintings. As he 
leapt the wreckage of armor, Harry heard more shouts and screams; other people within the castle seemed to have awoken...
He pelted toward a shortcut, hoping to overtake the brother and sister and close in on Snape and Malfoy, who must surely have reached the grounds by now. Remembering to 
leap the vanishing step halfway down the concealed staircase, he burst through a tapestry at the bottom and out into a corridor where a number of bewildered and pajama
-clad Hufflepuffs stood.
“Harry! We heard a noise, and someone said something about the Dark Mark—” began Ernie Macmillan.
“Out of the way!” yelled Harry, knocking two boys aside as he sprinted toward the landing and down the remainder of the marble staircase. The oak front doors had been 
blasted open, there were smears of blood on the flagstones, and several terrified students stood huddled against the walls, one or two still cowering with their arms 
over their faces. The giant Gryffindor hourglass had been hit by a curse, and the rubies within were still falling, with a loud rattle, onto the flagstones below.
Harry flew across the entrance hall and out into the dark grounds: he could just make out three figures racing across the lawn, heading for the gates beyond which they 
could Disapparate—by the looks of them, the huge blond Death Eater and, some way ahead of him, Snape and Malfoy...
The cold night air ripped at Harry's lungs as he tore after them; he saw a flash of light in the distance that momentarily silhouetted his quarry. He did not know what 
it was but continued to run, not yet near enough to get a good aim with a curse—
Another flash, shouts, retaliatory jets of light, and Harry understood: Hagrid had emerged from his cabin and was trying to stop the Death Eaters escaping, and though 
every breath seemed to shred his lungs and the stitch in his chest was like fire, Harry sped up as an unbidden voice in his head said: not Hagrid... not Hagrid too...
Something caught Harry hard in the small of the back and he fell forward, his face smacking the ground, blood pouring out of both nostrils: he knew, even as he rolled 
over, his wand ready, that the brother and sister he had overtaken using his shortcut were closing in behind him...
“Impedimenta!” he yelled as he rolled over again, crouching close to the dark ground, and miraculously his jinx hit one of them, who stumbled and fell, tripping up 
the other; Harry leapt to his feet and sprinted on after Snape.
And now he saw the vast outline of Hagrid, illuminated by the light of the crescent moon revealed suddenly behind clouds; the blond Death Eater was aiming curse after 
curse at the gamekeeper; but Hagrid's immense strength and the toughened skin he had inherited from his giantess mother seemed to be protecting him. Snape and Malfoy, 
however, were still running; they would soon be beyond the gates, able to Disapparate—
Harry tore past Hagrid and his opponent, took aim at Snape's back, and yelled, “Stupefy!”
He missed; the jet of red light soared past Snape's head; Snape shouted, “Run, Draco!” and turned. Twenty yards apart, he and Harry looked at each other before 
raising their wands simultaneously.
“Cruc—”
But Snape parried the curse, knocking Harry backward off his feet before he could complete it; Harry rolled over and scrambled back up again as the huge Death Eater 
behind him yelled, “Incendio!” Harry heard an explosive bang and a dancing orange light spilled over all of them: Hagrid's house was on fire.
“Fang's in there, yer evil—!” Hagrid bellowed.
“Cruc—” yelled Harry for the second time, aiming for the figure ahead illuminated in the dancing firelight, but Snape blocked the spell again. Harry could see him 
sneering.
“No Unforgivable Curses from you, Potter!” he shouted over the rushing of the flames, Hagrid's yells, and the wild yelping of the trapped Fang. “You haven't got the 
nerve or the ability—”
“Incarc—"Harry roared, but Snape deflected the spell with an almost lazy flick of his arm.
“Fight back!” Harry screamed at him. “Fight back, you cowardly—”
“Coward, did you call me, Potter?” shouted Snape. “Your father would never attack me unless it was four on one, what would you call him, I wonder?”
“Stupe—”
“Blocked again and again and again until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!” sneered Snape, deflecting the curse once more. “Now come!” 
he shouted at the huge Death Eater behind Harry. “It is time to be gone, before the Ministry turns up—”
“Impedi—”
But before he could finish this jinx, excruciating pain hit Harry; he keeled over in the grass. Someone was screaming, he would surely die of this agony, Snape was 
going to torture him to death or madness—
“No!” roared Snape's voice and the pain stopped as suddenly as it had started; Harry lay curled on the dark grass, clutching his wand and panting; somewhere overhead 
Snape was shouting, “Have you forgotten our orders? Potter belongs to the Dark Lord—we are to leave him! Go! Go!”
And Harry felt the ground shudder under his face as the brother and sister and the enormous Death Eater obeyed, running toward the gates. Harry uttered an inarticulate 
yell of rage: in that instant, he cared not whether he lived or died. Pushing himself to his feet again, he staggered blindly toward Snape, the man he now hated as much 
as he hated Voldemort himself—
“Sectum—”
Snape flicked his wand and the curse was repelled yet again; but Harry was mere feet away now and he could see Snape's face clearly at last: he was no longer sneering 
or jeering; the blazing flames showed a face full of rage. Mustering all his powers of concentration, Harry thought, Levi—
“No, Potter!” screamed Snape. There was a loud BANG and Harry was soaring backward, hitting the ground hard again, and this time his wand flew out of his hand. He 
could hear Hagrid yelling and Fang howling as Snape closed in and looked down on him where he lay, wandless and defenseless as Dumbledore had been. Snape's pale face, 
illuminated by the flaming cabin, was suffused with hatred just as it had been before he had cursed Dumbledore.
“You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It was I who invented them—I, the Half-Blood Prince! And you'd turn my inventions on me, like your filthy father, 
would you? I don't think so... no!”
Harry had dived for his wand; Snape shot a hex at it and it flew feet away into the darkness and out of sight.
“Kill me then,” panted Harry, who felt no fear at all, but only rage and contempt. “Kill me like you killed him, you coward—”
“DON'T—” screamed Snape, and his face was suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the burning house behind 
them, “—CALL ME COWARD!”
And he slashed at the air: Harry felt a white-hot, whiplike something hit him across the face and was slammed backward into the ground. Spots of light burst in front of 
his eyes and for a moment all the breath seemed to have gone from his body, then he heard a rush of wings above him and something enormous obscured the stars. Buckbeak 
had flown at Snape, who staggered backward as the razor-sharp claws slashed at him. As Harry raised himself into a sitting position, his head still swimming from its 
last contact with the ground, he saw Snape running as hard as he could, the enormous beast flapping behind him and screeching as Harry had never heard him screech—
Harry struggled to his feet, looking around groggily for his wand, hoping to give chase again, but even as his fingers fumbled in the grass, discarding twigs, he knew 
it would be too late, and sure enough, by the time he had located his wand, he turned only to see the hippogriff circling the gates. Snape had managed to Disapparate 
just beyond the school's boundaries.
“Hagrid,” muttered Harry, still dazed, looking around. “HAGRID?”
He stumbled toward the burning house as an enormous figure emerged from out of the flames carrying Fang on his back. With a cry of thankfulness, Harry sank to his 
knees; he was shaking in every limb, his body ached all over, and his breath came in painful stabs.
“Yeh all righ', Harry? Yeh all righ'? Speak ter me, Harry...”
Hagrid's huge, hairy face was swimming above Harry, blocking out the stars. Harry could smell burnt wood and dog hair; he put out a hand and felt Fang's reassuringly 
warm and alive body quivering beside him.
“I'm all right,” panted Harry. “Are you?”
“Course I am... take more'n that ter finish me.”
Hagrid put his hands under Harry's arms and raised him up with such force that Harry's feet momentarily left the ground before Hagrid set him upright again. He could 
see blood trickling down Hagrid's cheek from a deep cut under one eye, which was swelling rapidly.
“We should put out your house,” said Harry, “the charm's Aguamenti ...”
“Knew it was summat like that,” mumbled Hagrid, and he raised a smoldering pink, flowery umbrella and said, “Aguamenti!”
A jet of water flew out of the umbrella tip. Harry raised his wand arm, which felt like lead, and murmured “Aguamenti” too: together, he and Hagrid poured water on 
the house until the last flame was extinguished.
“'S not too bad,” said Hagrid hopefully a few minutes later, looking at the smoking wreck. “Nothin’ Dumbledore won’ be able to put right...”
Harry felt a searing pain in his stomach at the sound of the name. In the silence and the stillness, horror rose inside him.
“Hagrid ...”
“I was bindin’ up a couple o’ Bowtruckle legs when I heard ‘em coming,” said Hagrid sadly, still staring at his wrecked cabin. “They'll bin burnt ter twigs, poor 
little things...”
“Hagrid...”
“But what happened, Harry? I jus’ saw them Death Eaters runnin’ down from the castle, but what the ruddy hell was Snape doin’ with ‘em? Where's he gone—was he 
chasin’ them?”
“He...” Harry cleared his throat; it was dry from panic and the smoke. “Hagrid, he killed...”
“Killed?” said Hagrid loudly, staring down at Harry. “Snape killed? What're yeh on abou', Harry?”
“Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Snape killed ... Dumbledore.”
Hagrid simply looked at him, the little of his face that could be seen completely blank, uncomprehending.
“Dumbledore what, Harry?”
“He's dead. Snape killed him...”
“Don’ say that,” said Hagrid roughly. “Snape kill Dumbledore—don’ be stupid, Harry. Wha's made yeh say tha'?”
“I saw it happen.”
“Yeh couldn’ have.”
“I saw it, Hagrid.”
Hagrid shook his head; his expression was disbelieving but sympathetic, and Harry knew that Hagrid thought he had sustained a blow to the head, that he was confused, 
perhaps by the after-effects of a jinx...
“What musta happened was, Dumbledore musta told Snape ter go with them Death Eaters,” Hagrid said confidently. “I suppose he's gotta keep his cover. Look, let's get 
yeh back up ter the school. Come on, Harry...”
Harry did not attempt to argue or explain. He was still shaking uncontrollably. Hagrid would find out soon enough, too soon... as they directed their steps back toward 
the castle, Harry saw that many of its windows were lit now. He could imagine, clearly, the scenes inside as people moved from room to room, telling each other that 
Death Eaters had got in, that the Mark was shining over Hogwarts, that somebody must have been killed...
The oak front doors stood open ahead of them, light flooding out onto the drive and the lawn. Slowly, uncertainly, dressing-gowned people were creeping down the steps, 
looking around nervously for some sign of the Death Eaters who had fled into the night. Harry's eyes, however, were fixed upon the ground at the foot of the tallest 
tower. He imagined that he could see a black, huddled mass lying in the grass there, though he was really too far away to see anything of the sort. Even as he stared 
wordlessly at the place where he thought Dumbledore's body must lie, however, he saw people beginning to move toward it.
“What're they all lookin’ at?” said Hagrid, as he and Harry approached the castle front, Fang keeping as close as he could to their ankles. “Wha's that lyin’ on 
the grass?” Hagrid added sharply, heading now toward the foot of the Astronomy Tower, where a small crowd was congregating. “See it, Harry? Right at the foot of the 
tower? Under where the Mark... blimey... yeh don’ think someone got thrown—?”
Hagrid fell silent, the thought apparently too horrible to express aloud. Harry walked alongside him, feeling the aches and pains in his face and his legs where the 
various hexes of the last half hour had hit him, though in an oddly detached way, as though somebody near him was suffering them. What was real and inescapable was the 
awful pressing feeling in his chest...
He and Hagrid moved, dreamlike, through the murmuring crowd to the very front, where the dumbstruck students and teachers had left a gap.
Harry heard Hagrid's moan of pain and shock, but he did not stop; he walked slowly forward until he reached the place where Dumbledore lay and crouched down beside him.
Harry had known there was no hope from the moment that the full Body-Bind Curse Dumbledore had placed upon him lifted, known that it could have happened only because 
its caster was dead, but there was still no preparation for seeing him here, spread-eagled, broken: the greatest wizard Harry had ever, or would ever, meet.
Dumbledore's eyes were closed; but for the strange angle of his arms and legs, he might have been sleeping. Harry reached out, straightened the half-moon spectacles 
upon the crooked nose, and wiped a trickle of blood from the mouth with his own sleeve. Then he gazed down at the wise old face and tried to absorb the enormous and 
incomprehensible truth: that never again would Dumbledore speak to him, never again could he help...
The crowd murmured behind Harry. After what seemed like a long time, he became aware that he was kneeling upon something hard and looked down.
The locket they had managed to steal so many hours before had fallen out of Dumbledore's pocket. It had opened, perhaps due to the force with which it hit the ground. 
And although he could not feel more shock or horror or sadness than he felt already, Harry knew, as he picked it up, that there was something wrong—
He turned the locket over in his hands. This was neither as large as the locket he remembered seeing in the Pensieve, nor were there any markings upon it, no sign of 
the ornate S that was supposed to be Slytherin's mark. Moreover, there was nothing inside but for a scrap of folded parchment wedged tightly into the place where a 
portrait should have been.
Automatically, without really thinking about what he was doing, Harry pulled out the fragment of parchment, opened it, and read by the light of the many wands that had 
now been lit behind him:
To the Dark Lord
I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who dicovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it 
as soon as I can.
I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.
R.A.B.
Harry neither knew nor cared what the message meant. Only one thing mattered: this was not a Horcrux. Dumbledore had weakened himself by drinking that terrible potion 
for nothing. Harry crumpled the parchment in his hand, and his eyes burned with tears as behind him Fang began to howl.
哈利感觉自己仿佛也在天空中飞翔；那件事没有发生……那件事不可能发生……
 
　　“离开这儿，快，”斯内普说。
 
　　他抓住马尔福的后脖子，把他首先推出了门；格雷巴克和矮胖的姐弟俩跟在后面，后两者还兴奋地喘着气。他们刚从门口消失，哈利就发现自己又能动了；现在让他瘫靠在墙上的已经不再
是魔法了，而是恐惧和震惊。他把隐形斗篷扯下来扔开，这时候最后离开塔顶的那个兽脸食死徒正在穿过那扇门。
 
　　“统统石化！”
 
　　那个食死徒的背仿佛被人用实心的东西击打了一样弯了下去，他往地上跌去，就像一座僵硬的蜡像，但哈利抢在他落地之前就跨了过去，顺着逐渐黑下来的楼梯跑了下去。
 
　　恐惧在撕扯着哈利的心……他必须去邓布利多那儿，还必须要抓住斯内普……这两件事情是联系在一起的……如果他能把他们俩弄到一起，就可以逆转刚才发生的事……邓布利多一定不会
死的……
 
　　他跳下楼梯的最后十级台阶后站住了，手里举着魔杖：灯火朦胧的走廊里尘土飞扬；似乎半个天花板都塌了下来，而前面则正在进行激战，但正当他试图辨认出是谁和谁在打斗时，他听到
了那个可恶的声音在喊，“结束了，快走！”同时看到斯内普的身影消失在了走廊远端的拐角；他和马尔福似乎已经从混战中全身而退了。哈利赶紧追了过去，这时混战的人群中有一个人朝哈
利扑了过来：是那个狼人，格雷巴克。哈利还没来得及举起魔杖他就已经扑到了他的身上：哈利向后倒了下去，乱蓬蓬的脏头发贴在他的脸上，鲜血和汗水的恶臭充斥着他的鼻子和嘴，他的喉
咙已经感觉到对方贪婪的呼吸——
 
　　“统统石化！”
 
　　哈利感觉到压在身上的格雷巴克瘫软了下来；他使尽全身的力气把狼人推到旁边的地板上，同时一道绿光向他这边射了过来；他闪避开之后冲进了混战的人群。他被地板上又软又滑的什么
东西绊到了：地上躺着两个人，脸朝下倒在一滩血泊之中，但现在没时间去调查是谁了：哈利看到一团火红的头发从他面前闪过：金妮和那个结实的食死徒埃米库斯缠斗在一起，埃米库斯正不
断地向她发生恶咒，她则一个接一个地躲避着：埃米库斯在呵呵傻笑，很享受这种娱乐：“钻心剜骨——钻心剜骨——你不可能永远这么跳舞，美人儿——”
 
　　“障碍重重！”哈利叫道。
 
　　他的咒语击中了埃米库斯的胸口：他痛得像猪一样尖叫了一声，同时被抛起来撞到了对面的墙上，又从墙上滑下来，消失在罗恩、麦格教授和卢平的身后，他们正在和各自的食死徒对手搏
斗。在这群人的远端，哈利看到唐克斯正在和一个高大的金发巫师交手，他把咒语朝各个方向一通乱射，它们在四周的墙上反弹开来，击碎了石头，打破了附近的窗户——
 
　　“哈利，你从哪儿来的？”金妮大喊，但哈利没有时间回答她。他低着头向前冲了过去，刚好躲过了头顶上的一声爆炸，小块的墙像雨一样落了下来：绝对不能让斯内普逃走，他必须追上
斯内普——
 
　　“抓住她！”麦格教授在后面喊，哈利一眼瞥见那个叫阿莱珂托的女食死徒正顺着走廊抱头鼠窜，她的弟弟正好跟在后面。哈利朝他们那边冲了过去，但是脚下又绊到了什么东西，紧接着
就跌倒在了某个人的腿上：他回头看了看，发现纳威苍白的圆脸正平平地对着地板。
 
　　“纳威，你还——？”
 
　　“我没事，”纳威咕哝着，一边用手抓着肚子，“哈利……斯内普和马尔福……跑过去了……”
 
　　“我知道，我正在追！”哈利说，同时瞄准了那个制造出绝大多数混乱的高大金发食死徒，发射了一个咒语：那个男人的脸被打中了，他痛得嚎叫了一声；他转过身来，跌跌撞撞地跟在那
一对兄妹后面逃走了。
 
　　哈利从地上爬了起来，开始沿着走廊飞奔，不去理睬身后传来的巨响和其他人喊他回来的叫声，也不去理睬躺在地上的人微弱的呼救，哈利不知道他们将有怎样的命运……
 
　　他在拐角处急停了下来，运动鞋上还粘着的湿滑的鲜血；斯内普已经大大地领先了——他已经进入了有求必应屋里的消失柜了吗，抑或是凤凰社的人已经采取了保护措施防止食死徒从那里
撤退？他飞速跑过接下来的一条空走廊，除了自己砰砰的脚步声和扑通扑通的心跳声以外，什么其他的声音也听不到，可就在这时他发现了一个血脚印，这说明至少有一个逃逸的食死徒是冲着
大门方向去的——也许有求必应屋确实被堵住了——
 
　　他又停在了另一个拐角处，一道魔咒飞过他的身边；他钻到一套盔甲后面，盔甲随之爆炸。他看见食死徒兄妹正跑下大理石楼梯，于是瞄准他们发射了咒语，但仅仅打中了楼梯平台上的几
幅戴着假发的女巫的画像，那几个女巫尖叫着躲进了旁边的画里。哈利跳过盔甲残骸时听到了更多的喊声和尖叫声；似乎城堡里的其他人也被惊醒了……
 
　　他冲进了一条捷径，希望能够追上那对食死徒兄妹，并缩短同斯内普和马尔福的距离。他们两个一定已经到了操场上，他凭记忆在一个隐藏的楼梯半路上跳过了几级缺失的台阶，最后闯进
了底部的一条挂毯来，出来之后进入到一条走廊里，那儿正站着一群穿着睡衣、不知所措的赫奇帕奇学生。
 
　　“哈利！我们听到了喧闹声，有人说了一些关于黑魔标记的——”厄尼·麦克米兰开口说。
 
　　“让开！”哈利叫道，他冲向楼梯平台，撞开了两个男生，沿着几级大理石楼梯追了下去。橡木大门已经被咒语炸开了；石板上残留着血迹，几个吓坏了的学生靠着墙挤在一起，有一两个
还在捂着脸瑟瑟发抖；格兰芬多巨大的沙漏也被魔咒击中了，里面的红宝石不断的掉落下来砸到石板上，发出了哗啦啦的巨大响声。
 
　　哈利穿过门厅来到漆黑的操场上：他只能分辨出三个人影正在穿越草坪直奔大门，过了大门他们就能幻影移形了——从外表上看，有那个高大的金发食死徒，他前面的两个人正是斯内普和
马尔福……
 
　　哈利在他们身后飞奔，夜晚寒冷的空气撕着他的肺；他看到远处闪过一道光，映照出了他的追逐目标；他不知道那是什么，只顾继续向前跑，还没有进入咒语的射程——
 
　　又是一道闪光，传来了叫喊声，还有反击的光束，哈利明白了：海格从他的小木屋里出来了，试图阻止食死徒的逃脱，尽管哈利感到每一口呼吸似乎都要把他的肺撕裂，胸口像火烧一样痛
，可他还是加快了速度，一个不期而至的声音在他脑海说：不能让海格死……不能再让海格死……
 
　　忽然有什么东西击中了他的腰背部，他向前倒了下去，脸重重地砸到了地面，两个鼻孔都淌出了血：他翻身的同时准备好了魔杖，他知道自己利用城堡捷径超过的那对食死徒兄妹正在从后
面接近他……
 
　　“障碍重重！”他又翻了个身，同时匍匐在昏暗的地面上叫了一声，他的咒语奇迹般地击中了其中的一个人，那人摔到了地上，又把另一个绊倒了；哈利跳起来继续朝斯内普追去……
 
　　弯弯的新月突然从云层后面出现了，它的光使哈利看到了海格巨大的轮廓；那个金发食死徒正把一道又一道恶咒射向狩猎场看守，但海格巨大的力量和他从巨人母亲那里继承下来的坚硬皮
肤似乎都在保护着他；然而斯内普和马尔福却仍在逃跑；他们很快就能穿过大门幻影移形了——
 
　　哈利飞也似地经过了海格和他的对手，瞄准了斯内普的后背喊道，“昏昏倒地！”
 
　　他没有击中目标；红色的光束从斯内普的脑袋边擦过；斯内普喊道，“快跑，德拉科！”同时转过身来。相互隔着二十码的距离，他和哈利对视着，然后同时举起了魔杖。
 
　　“钻心——”
 
　　但斯内普避开了这句咒语，在哈利念完之前就把他击飞了；哈利一翻身再次爬了起来，同时他身后的那个高大食死徒喊道，“火焰熊熊！”；哈利听到一声爆炸般的巨响，继而跳动的橙色
光芒就照在了他们身上：海格的小屋着火了。
 
　　“牙牙还在里面，你这个邪恶的——！”海格吼道。
 
　　“钻心——”哈利第二次喊，同时用魔杖指着他前面被火光映亮的对手，但斯内普又挡住了咒语；哈利看到他在冷笑。
 
　　“你别用不可饶恕咒了，波特！”他大喊，声音盖过了火焰的噼啪声、海格的吼叫和牙牙被困在里面所发出的狂吠。“你还没有这种勇气和能力——”
 
　　“速速禁——”哈利吼道，但斯内普几乎只是懒懒地抖了抖手臂，就偏转了这条咒语的方向。
 
　　“还击啊！”哈利冲他尖声叫道，“你怎么不还击！你这个胆小的——”
 
　　“胆小？你刚才这样称呼我吗，波特？”斯内普喊道。“你的父亲从来不敢攻击我，除非是四个对一个，我在想你会怎样称呼他呢？”
 
　　“昏昏——”
 
　　“挡住了，再挡住了，再挡住了，直到你能学会闭嘴和什么都不去想为止，波特！”斯内普冷笑着再次偏转了咒语。“走吧！”他冲着哈利身后的高大食死徒喊，“是撤退的时候了，赶在
魔法部的人出现之前——”
 
　　“障碍——”
 
　　但还没念完魔咒，极度的痛苦就击中了哈利；他倒在草地上，有人在尖叫，他一定会痛苦地死去，斯内普要把他折磨至死或者让他成为一个疯子——
 
　　“住手！”斯内普吼道，疼痛消失得与出现时一样突然；哈利蜷缩在黑暗的草地上，气喘吁吁地攥着魔杖；斯内普在他的头顶上方喊叫，“你忘了我们的命令了吗？波特是属于黑魔王的—
—我们要留下他！走！走！”
 
　　食死徒兄妹和那个高大的食死徒听从了他，向大门的方向跑去，哈利感觉到他脸下面的地正在颤动。哈利口齿不清地发出了一声怒吼：在那一瞬间，他已经把自己的生死置之度外了；他再
一次挣扎着站了起来，盲目地向斯内普摇摇晃晃地走去，那个他如同伏地魔一样恨之入骨的人——
 
　　“刀光——”
 
　　斯内普抖了一下魔杖，再次抵御住了咒语；可是哈利现在离斯内普只有几英尺远了，斯内普的脸也终于清晰了起来：他不再冷笑和讥讽了；在耀眼的火光下，他的脸充满了愤怒。哈利集中
起所有的精力，在脑海里想，轻身——
 
　　“不，波特！”斯内普尖声叫道。随着砰的一声巨响，哈利朝后飞去，又重重地摔在了地上；这一次他的魔杖脱手了。他能听到海格的大叫和牙牙的怒号，斯内普走了过来，俯视着躺在地
上的哈利，他没有了魔杖，没有任何保护，就像邓布利多一样。斯内普苍白的脸在木屋的火光映照下充满了憎恨，就像他对邓布利多施咒前一样。
 
　　“你竟敢用我自己的咒语来对付我，波特？那些咒语就是我发明的——我，混血的普林斯！而你却把我的发明转加到我身上，就像你那臭烘烘的父亲一样，是吗？我不会让你得逞的……不
会！”
 
　　哈利扑向了自己的魔杖；斯内普一道咒语向它射过去，魔杖飞出了几英尺，消失在黑暗之中。
 
　　“那么，杀了我吧，”哈利喘息着说，他已经没有了丝毫的恐惧，有的只是愤怒和蔑视。“就像杀他一样把我杀了，你这个胆小鬼——”
 
　　“不许——”斯内普尖声叫道，他的脸突然变得疯狂和野蛮了起来，仿佛他的痛苦和他们身后着火的房子里那只不断狂吠的狗一样多，“不许叫我胆小鬼！”
 
　　他在空中大幅度地挥了一下：哈利感觉有一条白热的、像鞭子一样的东西抽到了他的脸上，他重重地倒在了地上。他两眼冒着金星，有一阵子几乎不能呼吸了，然后他听到翅膀扑动的声音
在他头上响起，一个巨大的东西模糊了天上的星星：巴克比克朝斯内普飞了过去，用它锋利的爪子猛击斯内普，他跌跌撞撞地往后退去。哈利坐了起来，仍然因为上一次的落地而头昏眼花，他
看到斯内普全速地逃跑了，一个巨大的野兽在他身后不断地扑扇着翅膀，发出哈利从未听到过的尖啸——
 
　　哈利挣扎着站了起来，东倒西歪地四处寻找他的魔杖，希望能继续追赶斯内普，但他在草丛中摸索，拨开细小的枝叶时，也知道一切都已经太迟了，果然，等他终于找到魔杖之后，转过身
刚好看到巴克比克在大门口盘旋：斯内普一走出学校的边界就进行了幻影移形。
 
　　“海格，”哈利咕哝着，脑袋依然晕晕乎乎的，他向四周望去。“海格？”
 
　　他向燃烧着的木屋蹒跚而行，这时一个巨大身影火焰里走了出来，身上背着牙牙。哈利感激地叫了一声，然后跪在了地上；他的手脚都在发着抖，全身上下都疼，每吸一口气都伴随着刺痛
。
 
　　“你没事吧，哈利？你没事吧？说话啊，哈利……”
 
　　海格那张满是胡须的大脸挡住了星星，令哈利感到头晕目眩。哈利可以闻到烧焦的木头和狗毛的味道；他伸出一只手摸了摸牙牙，它还活着，暖暖的身体在他旁边颤抖不已，这让他感到安
心。
 
　　“我很好，”哈利气喘吁吁地说。“你呢？”
 
　　“我当然没事……想要杀我可没那么容易。”
 
　　海格把手伸到哈利胳膊下面扶他站起来，他的力气如此之大，哈利甚至在直起来之前脚已经离开了地面。哈利看到海格的一只眼睛下面被划出了很深的伤口，血顺着脸颊往下淌，那里很快
就肿了。
 
　　“我们应该把房子的火扑灭，”哈利说，“咒语是‘清水涟涟’……”
 
　　“我知道是那样的一个咒语，”海格喃喃地说，他举起冒着烟的粉红色花雨伞念道，“清水涟涟！”
 
　　一道水流从伞尖上喷射了出来。哈利举起像铅一样沉的手臂，拿着魔杖低声念道，“清水涟涟！”：他和海格一起把水泼到房子上，直到最后一根火苗熄灭。
 
　　“还不是太糟，”几分钟后海格看着冒烟的残骸，满怀希望地说。“没有什么是邓布利多不能收拾好的……”
 
　　哈利听到这个名字，胃里泛起一阵炙烤的疼痛。他默立在那儿，恐惧在身体里积攒起来。
 
　　“海格……”
 
　　“我听到他们过来的时候正在包扎护树罗锅的双腿，”海格伤心地说，仍旧盯着他那烧毁了的小木屋。“它们肯定都被烧成小树枝了，可怜的小东西……”
 
　　“海格……”
 
　　“出了什么事，哈利？我看到食死徒从城堡那边跑了过来，但究竟斯内普怎么会和他们在一起？他去哪儿了——是追他们去了吗？”
 
　　“他……”哈利清了清嗓子；他刚才因为恐慌和烟尘而口干舌燥。“海格，他杀了……”
 
　　“杀人？”海格大声说，低头瞪着哈利。“斯内普杀人了？你在说什么呀，哈利？”
 
　　“邓布利多，”哈利说。“斯内普杀了……邓布利多。”
 
　　海格只是看着他，可以被看见的一小块脸上全是茫然和迷惑不解。
 
　　“邓布利多什么，哈利？”
 
　　“他死了。斯内普杀了他……”
 
　　“别那么说，”海格粗声说，“斯内普杀了邓布利多——别傻了，哈利。你干嘛要这么说？”
 
　　“我亲眼看见的。”
 
　　“那不可能。”
 
　　“我亲眼所见，海格。”
 
　　海格摇了摇头；他表情是不相信，可又带着同情，哈利知道海格一定是以为他的头受到了什么撞击，以为他失去了理智，也许是某个恶咒的副作用……
 
　　“一定是这样，邓布利多让斯内普去追赶那群食死徒，”海格自信地说。“我猜想他可能是为了掩护自己的身份才对你做那些的。听着，现在我送你回学校。来吧，哈利……”
 
　　哈利没有试图去争辩和解释。他还是在不由自主地发着抖。海格不久就会发现，立即就会……在他们回城堡的路上，哈利看到很多窗户都已经亮了起来：他可以清楚地想象到里面的场景，
人们从一个房间走到另一个房间，互相告知食死徒进来了，黑魔标记在霍格沃茨的上空升起，也许有人已经被杀了……
 
　　城堡的橡木大门在他们前面敞开着，灯光铺满了小路和草坪。穿着睡袍的人们慢慢地、半信半疑地走下台阶，四处找寻着早已逃逸的食死徒们的踪迹。然而，哈利的眼睛却死死盯着最高的
那座塔楼脚下的那片空地。他想象着自己能看到那里的草地上躺着一块黑乎乎、蜷缩的东西，但事实上距离太远了，他看不见任何那样的东西。正在他凝视着那个他确信邓布利多的身体躺着的
地方时，他发现人们开始向那个地方移动。
 
　　“他们都在看什么？”海格说，他和哈利已经接近了城堡的前门，牙牙紧紧地贴在他们脚踝边。“草地上躺着的是什么？”海格急匆匆地加了一句，同时朝天文塔脚下走去，那儿已经聚集
了一群人。“看到了吗，哈利？就在塔楼脚下？在黑魔标记的下面……天哪……不会是有人被扔下来——？”
 
　　海格沉默了，这想法显然恐怖得无法大声说出来。哈利走在他的身边，他的脸上和腿上疼痛难忍，到处都是半个小时前被各种恶咒击中而留下的伤口，不过那种感觉却有些奇怪的遥远，仿
佛是身边的人在承受那些疼痛一样。而真实和无法逃避的感觉，其实是他胸口上可怕的压迫感……
 
　　他和海格像梦游一样，穿过窃窃私语的人群走到了最前面，两旁目瞪口呆的学生和老师为他们让出了一个空。
 
　　哈利听到了海格痛苦而震惊的呻吟，但他没有停下来；他缓缓地走到邓布利多躺着的地方，在他身旁蹲了下来。
 
　　哈利从邓布利多给他施的全身束缚咒消失的那一刻开始，就知道没有希望了，他知道这种情况只有在施咒人死掉时才会发生；但他还是没有准备好看到他四肢伸展、伤痕累累地躺在这儿：
这个哈利曾经遇见过的——或许会是此生所能遇见的——最伟大的巫师。
 
　　邓布利多的眼睛紧闭着；但是由于手脚所呈现的奇特角度，他看上去更像是在睡觉。哈利伸出双手，把他高耸的鼻梁上的半月形的眼镜扶正，用自己的衣袖拭去了他嘴上的一滴血。他低头
凝视着那睿智的老脸，尝试着理解这个惊人的、不可思议的事实：邓布利多再也不能和他说话了，再也不能帮助他了——
 
　　人群在哈利的身后低声议论着。经过了一段似乎很漫长的时间，他意识到自己正跪在一个坚硬的东西上，他低下头去看。
 
　　他们那么多个小时之前设法盗走的盒式坠子已经掉出了邓布利多的口袋。也许是因为撞到了地面，盒子已经打开了。尽管哈利已经无法感受到更多的震惊、恐惧和悲伤了，可当他拾起它时
，还是发现有点不对劲——
 
　　他翻来覆去地看手中的盒子。它既不像自己在冥想盆里见到的那样大，上面也没有任何标记，没有斯莱特林的那个华丽的“S”标记。此外，里面也是空空如也，除了一张小羊皮纸片，而
那儿本应该是有一张画像的。
 
　　哈利不由自主地取出了羊皮纸碎片，他把它展开，借着身后早已点亮的许多魔杖光读上面的话：
 
　　致黑魔王，
 
　　我知道在你读到这个之前我可能早已死去，但我想让你知道，是我发现了你的秘密。我已经偷走了真正的灵魂碎片，并打算尽快地销毁它。我抱着希望直面死亡，那就是，当你遇到你的那
个对手时，已经再次成为了血肉凡胎。
 
　　R.A.B.
 
　　哈利既不知道也不在乎这条讯息是什么意思。只有一件事情是重要的：这不是一个灵魂碎片。邓布利多因为喝下了那恐怖的毒药而削弱了自己，到头来却一无所获。他把那片羊皮纸捏成了
一团，身后的牙牙开始哀号，他的眼里也噙满了滚烫的泪水。 
Chapter 29 The Pheonix Lament
“C'mere, Harry ...”
“No.”
“Yeh can’ stay here, Harry... come on, now...”
“No.”
He did not want to leave Dumbledore's side, he did not want to move anywhere. Hagrid's hand on his shoulder was trembling. Then another voice said, “Harry, come on.”
A much smaller and warmer hand had enclosed his and was pulling him upward. He obeyed its pressure without really thinking about it. Only as he walked blindly back 
through the crowd did he realize, from a trace of flowery scent on the air, that it was Ginny who was leading him back into the castle. Incomprehensible voices battered 
him, sobs and shouts and wails stabbed the night, but Harry and Ginny walked on, back up the steps into the entrance hall. Faces swam on the edges of Harry's vision, 
people were peering at him, whispering, wondering, and Gryffindor rubies glistened on the floor like drops of blood as they made their way toward the marble staircase.
“We're going to the hospital wing,” said Ginny.
“I'm not hurt,” said Harry.
“It's McGonagall's orders,” said Ginny. “Everyone's up there, Ron and Hermione and Lupin and everyone —”
Fear stirred in Harry's chest again: he had forgotten the inert figures he had left behind.
“Ginny, who else is dead?”
“Don't worry, none of us.”
“But the Dark Mark—Malfoy said he stepped over a body—”
“He stepped over Bill, but it's all right, he's alive.”
There was something in her voice, however, that Harry knew boded ill.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure... he's a—a bit of a mess, that's all. Greyback attacked him. Madam Pomfrey says he won't—won't look the same anymore...”
Ginny's voice trembled a little.
“We don't really know what the after-effects will be. I mean, Greyback being a werewolf, but not transformed at the time.”
“But the other... there were other bodies on the ground...”
“Neville and Professor Flitwick are both hurt, but Madam Pomfrey says they'll be all right. And a Death Eater's dead, he got hit by a Killing Curse that huge blond one 
was firing off everywhere—Harry, if we hadn't had your Felix potion, I think we'd all have been killed, but everything seemed to just miss us—”
They had reached the hospital wing. Pushing open the doors, Harry saw Neville lying, apparently asleep, in a bed near the door. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Tonks, and Lupin 
were gathered around another bed near the far end of the ward. At the sound of the doors opening, they all looked up. Hermione ran to Harry and hugged him; Lupin moved 
forward too, looking anxious.
“Are you all right, Harry?”
“I'm fine.... how's Bill?”
Nobody answered. Harry looked over Hermione's shoulder and saw an unrecognizable face lying on Bill's pillow, so badly slashed and ripped that he looked grotesque. 
Madam Pomfrey was dabbing at his wounds with some harsh-smelling green ointment. Harry remembered how Snape had mended Malfoy's Sectumsempra wounds so easily with his 
wand.
“Can't you fix them with a charm or something?” he asked the matron.
“No charm will work on these,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I've tried everything I know, but there is no cure for werewolf bites.”
“But he wasn't bitten at the full moon,” said Ron, who was gazing down into his brother's face as though he could somehow force him to mend just by staring. 
“Greyback hadn't transformed, so surely Bill won't be a—a real—?”
He looked uncertainly at Lupin.
“No, I don't think that Bill will be a true werewolf,” said Lupin, “but that does not mean that there won't be some contamination. Those are cursed wounds. They are 
unlikely ever to heal fully, and—and Bill might have some wolfish characteristics from now on.”
“Dumbledore might know something that'd work, though,” Ron said. “Where is he? Bill fought those maniacs on Dumbledore's orders, Dumbledore owes him, he can't leave 
him in this state—”
“Ron—Dumbledore's dead,” said Ginny.
“No!” Lupin looked wildly from Ginny to Harry, as though hoping the latter might contradict her, but when Harry did nor, Lupin collapsed into a chair beside Bill's 
bed, his hands over his face. Harry had never seen Lupin lose control before; he felt as though he was intruding upon something private, indecent. He turned away and 
caught Ron's eye instead, exchanging in silence a look that confirmed what Ginny had said.
“How did he die?” whispered Tonks. “How did it happen?”
“Snape killed him,” said Harry. “I was there, I saw it. We arrived back on the Astronomy Tower because that's where the Mark was... Dumbledore was ill, he was weak, 
but I think he realized it was a trap when we heard footsteps running up the stairs. He immobilized me, I couldn't do anything, I was under the Invisibility Cloak—and 
then Malfoy came through the door and disarmed him—”
Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth and Ron groaned. Luna's mouth trembled.
“—more Death Eaters arrived—and then Snape—and Snape did it. The Avada Kedavra.” Harry couldn't go on.
Madam Pomfrey burst into tears. Nobody paid her any attention except Ginny, who whispered, “Shh! Listen!”
Gulping, Madam Pomfrey pressed her fingers to her mouth, her eyes wide. Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before: a 
stricken lament of terrible beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix song before, that the music was inside him, not without: it was his own grief turned 
magically to song that echoed across the grounds and through the castle windows.
How long they all stood there, listening, he did not know, nor why it seemed to ease their pain a little to listen to the sound of their mourning, but it felt like a 
long time later that the hospital door opened again and Professor McGonagall entered the ward. Like all the rest, she bore marks of the recent battle: there were grazes 
on her face and her robes were ripped.
“Molly and Arthur are on their way,” she said, and the spell of the music was broken: everyone roused themselves as though coming out of trances, turning again to 
look at Bill, or else to rub their own eyes, shake their heads. “Harry, what happened? According to Hagrid you were with Professor Dumbledore when he—when it 
happened. He says Professor Snape was involved in some—”
“Snape killed Dumbledore,” said Harry.
She stared at him for a moment, then swayed alarmingly; Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have pulled herself together, ran forward, conjuring a chair from thin air, which 
she pushed under McGonagall.
“Snape,” repeated McGonagall faintly, falling into the chair. “We all wondered... but he trusted... always... Snape... I can't believe it...”
“Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens,” said Lupin, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. “We always knew that.”
“But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!” whispered Tonks. “I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn't...” .
“He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for trusting Snape,” muttered Professor McGonagall, now dabbing at the corners of her leaking eyes with a tartan-
edged handkerchief. “I mean... with Snape's history ... of course people were bound to wonder... but Dumbledore told me explicitly that Snape's repentance was 
absolutely genuine... wouldn't hear a word against him!”
“I'd love to know what Snape told him to convince him,” said Tonks.
“I know,” said Harry, and they all turned to look at him. “Snape passed Voldemort the information that made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad. Then Snape told 
Dumbledore he hadn't realized what he was doing, he was really sorry he'd done it, sorry that they were dead.”
They all stared at him.
“And Dumbledore believed that?” said Lupin incredulously. “Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry James was dead? Snape hated James...”
“And he didn't think my mother was worth a damn either,” said Harry, “because she was Muggle-born... ‘Mudblood,’ he called her...”
Nobody asked how Harry knew this. All of them seemed to be lost in horrified shock, trying to digest the monstrous truth of what had happened.
“This is all my fault,” said Professor McGonagall suddenly. She looked disoriented, twisting her wet handkerchief in her hands. “My fault. I sent Filius to fetch 
Snape tonight, I actually sent for him to come and help us! If I hadn't alerted Snape to what was going on, he might never have joined forces with the Death Eaters. I 
don't think he knew they were there before Filius told him, I don't think he knew they were coming.”
“It isn't your fault, Minerva,” said Lupin firmly. “We all wanted more help, we were glad to think Snape was on his way....”
“So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the Death Eaters’ side?” asked Harry, who wanted every detail of Snape's duplicity and infamy, feverishly 
collecting more reasons to hate him, to swear vengeance.
“I don't know exactly how it happened,” said Professor McGonagall distractedly. “It's all so confusing... Dumbledore had told us that he would be leaving the school 
for a few hours and that we were to patrol the corridors just in case... Remus, Bill, and Nymphadora were to join us ... and so we patrolled. All seemed quiet. Every 
secret passageway out of the school was covered. We knew nobody could fly in. There were powerful enchantments on every entrance into the castle. I still don't know how 
the Death Eaters can possibly have entered...”
“I do,” said Harry, and he explained, briefly, about the pair of Vanishing Cabinets and the magical pathway they formed. “So they got in through the Room of 
Requirement.”
Almost against his will he glanced from Ron to Hermione, both of whom looked devastated.
“I messed up, Harry,” said Ron bleakly. “We did like you told us: we checked the Marauder's Map and we couldn't see Malfoy on it, so we thought he must be in the 
Room of Requirement, so me, Ginny, and Neville went to keep watch on it... but Malfoy got past us.”
“He came out of the Room about an hour after we started keeping watch,” said Ginny. “He was on his own, clutching that awful shriveled arm—”
“His Hand of Glory,” said Ron. “Gives light only to the holder, remember?”
“Anyway,” Ginny went on, “he must have been checking whether the coast was clear to let the Death Eaters out, because the moment he saw us he threw something into 
the air and it all went pitch-black—”
“—Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder,” said Ron bitterly. “Fred and George's. I'm going to be having a word with them about who they let buy their products.”
“We tried everything, Lumos, Incendio,” said Ginny. “Nothing would penetrate the darkness; all we could do was grope our way out of the corridor again, and meanwhile 
we could hear people rushing past us. Obviously Malfoy could see because of that hand thing and was guiding them, but we didn't dare use any curses or anything in case 
we hit each other, and by the time we'd reached a corridor that was light, they'd gone.”
“Luckily,” said Lupin hoarsely, “Ron, Ginny, and Neville ran into us almost immediately and told us what had happened. We found the Death Eaters minutes later, 
heading in the direction of the Astronomy Tower. Malfoy obviously hadn't expected more people to be on the watch; he seemed to have exhausted his supply of Darkness 
Powder, at any rate. A fight broke out, they scattered and we gave chase. One of them, Gibbon, broke away and headed up the tower stairs—”
“To set off the Mark?” asked Harry.
“He must have done, yes, they must have arranged that before they left the Room of Requirement,” said Lupin. “But I don't think Gibbon liked the idea of waiting up 
there alone for Dumbledore, because he came running back downstairs to rejoin the fight and was hit by a Killing Curse that just missed me.”
“So if Ron was watching the Room of Requirement with Ginny and Neville,” said Harry, turning to Hermione, “were you—?”
“Outside Snape's office, yes,” whispered Hermione, her eyes sparkling with tears, “with Luna. We hung around for ages outside it and nothing happened... we didn't 
know what was going on upstairs, Ron had taken the map ... it was nearly midnight when Professor Flitwick came sprinting down into the dungeons. He was shouting about 
Death Eaters in the castle, I don't think he really registered that Luna and I were there at all, he just burst his way into Snape's office and we heard him saying that 
Snape had to go back with him and help and then we heard a loud thump and Snape came hurtling out of his room and he saw us and—and—”
“What?” Harry urged her.
“I was so stupid, Harry!” said Hermione in a high-pitched whisper. “He said Professor Flitwick had collapsed and that we should go and take care of him while he—
while he went to help fight the Death Eaters—”
She covered her face in shame and continued to talk into her fingers, so that her voice was muffled. “We went into his office to see if we could help Professor 
Flitwick and found him unconscious on the floor... and oh, it's so obvious now, Snape must have Stupefied Flitwick, but we didn't realize, Harry, we didn't realize, we 
just let Snape go!”
“It's not your fault,” said Lupin firmly. “Hermione, had you not obeyed Snape and got out of the way, he probably would have killed you and Luna.”
“So then he came upstairs,” said Harry, who was watching Snape running up the marble staircase in his mind's eye, his black robes billowing behind him as ever, 
pulling his wand from under his cloak as he ascended, “and he found the place where you were all fighting...”
“We were in trouble, we were losing,” said Tonks in a low voice. “Gibbon was down, but the rest of the Death Eaters seemed ready to fight to the death. Neville had 
been hurt, Bill had been savaged by Greyback... it was all dark... curses flying everywhere... the Malfoy boy had vanished, he must have slipped past, up the stairs... 
then more of them ran after him, but one of them blocked the stairs behind them with some kind of curse... Neville ran at it and got thrown up into the air—”
“None of us could break through,” said Ron, “and that massive Death Eater was still firing off jinxes all over the place, they were bouncing off the walls and barely 
missing us...”
“And then Snape was there,” said Tonks, “and then he wasn't—”
“I saw him running toward us, but that huge Death Eater's jinx just missed me right afterward and I ducked and lost track of things,” said Ginny.
“I saw him run straight through the cursed barrier as though it wasn't there,” said Lupin. “I tried to follow him, but was thrown back just like Neville...”
“He must have known a spell we didn't,” whispered McGonagall. “After all—he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher... I just assumed that he was in a hurry 
to chase after the Death Eaters who'd escaped up to the tower...”
“He was,” said Harry savagely, “but to help them, not to stop the... and I'll bet you had to have a Dark Mark to get through that barrier—so what happened when he 
came back down?”
“Well, the big Death Eater had just fired off a hex that caused half the ceiling to fall in, and also broke the curse blocking the stairs,” said Lupin. “We all ran 
forward—those of us who were still standing anyway—and then Snape and the boy emerged out of the dust—obviously, none of us attacked them—”
“We just let them pass,” said Tonks in a hollow voice. “We thought they were being chased by the Death Eaters—and next thing, the other Death Eaters and Greyback 
were back and we were fighting again—I thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don't know what—”
“He shouted, ‘It's over,'” said Harry. “He'd done what he'd meant to do.”
They all fell silent. Fawkes's lament was still echoing over the dark grounds outside. As the music reverberated upon the air, unbidden, unwelcome thoughts slunk into 
Harry's mind... had they taken Dumbledore's body from the foot of the tower yet? What would happen to it next? Where would it rest? He clenched his fists tighdy in his 
pockets. He could feel the small cold lump of the fake Horcrux against the knuckles of his right hand.
The doors of the hospital wing burst open, making them all jump: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were striding up the ward, Fleur just behind them, her beautiful face terrified.
“Molly—Arthur—” said Professor McGonagall, jumping up and hurrying to greet them. “I am so sorry—”
“Bill,” whispered Mrs. Weasley, darting past Professor McGonagall as she caught sight of Bill's mangled face. “Oh, Bill!”
Lupin and Tonks had got up hastily and retreated so that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could get nearer to the bed. Mrs. Weasley bent over her son and pressed her lips to his 
bloody forehead.
“You said Greyback attacked him?” Mr. Weasley asked Professor McGonagall distractedly. “But he hadn't transformed? So what does that mean? What will happen to Bill?
”
“We don't yet know,” said Professor McGonagall, looking helplessly at Lupin.
“There will probably be some contamination, Arthur,” said Lupin. “It is an odd case, possibly unique... we don't know what his behavior might be like when he 
awakens...”
Mrs. Weasley took the nasty-smelling ointment from Madam Pomfrey and began dabbing at Bill's wounds.
“And Dumbledore ...” said Mr. Weasley. “Minerva, is it true ... is he really...?”
As Professor McGonagall nodded, Harry felt Ginny move beside him and looked at her. Her slightly narrowed eyes were fixed upon Fleur, who was gazing down at Bill with a 
frozen expression on her face.
“Dumbledore gone,” whispered Mr. Weasley, but Mrs. Weasley had eyes only for her eldest son; she began to sob, tears falling onto Bill's mutilated face.
“Of course, it doesn't matter how he looks... it's not r-really important... but he was a very handsome little b-bo... always very handsome... and he was g-going to be 
married!”
“And what do you mean by zat?” said Fleur suddenly and loudly. “What do you mean, ‘he was going to be married?'”
Mrs. Weasley raised her tear-stained face, looking startled. “Well—only that—”
“You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore?” demanded Fleur. “You theenk, because of these bites, he will not love me?”
“No, that's not what I—”
“Because ‘e will!” said Fleur, drawing herself up to her full height and throwing back her long mane of silver hair. “It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill 
loving me!”
“Well, yes, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Weasley, “but I thought perhaps—given how—how he—”
“You thought I would not weesh to marry him? Or per'aps, you hoped?” said Fleur, her nostrils flaring. “What do I care how he looks? I am good-looking enough for 
both of us, I theenk! All these scars show is zat my husband is brave! And I shall do zat!” she added fiercely, pushing Mrs. Weasley aside and snatching the ointment 
from her.
Mrs. Weasley fell back against her husband and watched Fleur mopping up Bill's wounds with a most curious expression upon her face. Nobody said anything; Harry did not 
dare move. Like everybody else, he was waiting for the explosion.
“Our Great-Auntie Muriel,” said Mrs. Weasley after a long pause, “has a very beautiful tiara—goblin-made—which I am sure I could persuade her to lend you for the 
wedding. She is very fond of Bill, you know, and it would look lovely with your hair.”
“Thank you,” said Fleur stiffly. “I am sure zat will be lovely.”
And then, Harry did not quite see how it happened, both women were crying and hugging each other. Completely bewildered, wondering whether the world had gone mad, he 
turned around: Ron looked as stunned as he felt and Ginny and Hermione were exchanging startled looks.
“You see!” said a strained voice. Tonks was glaring at Lupin. “She still wants to marry him, even though he's been bitten! She doesn't care!”
“It's different,” said Lupin, barely moving his lips and looking suddenly tense. “Bill will not be a full werewolf. The cases are completely—”
“But I don't care either, I don't care!” said Tonks, seizing the front of Lupin's robes and shaking them. “I've told you a million times...”
And the meaning of Tonks's Patronus and her mouse-colored hair, and the reason she had come running to find Dumbledore when she had heard a rumor someone had been 
attacked by Greyback, all suddenly became clear to Harry; it had not been Sirius that Tonks had fallen in love with after all.
“And I've told you a million times,” said Lupin, refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the floor, “that I am too old for you, too poor... too dangerous...”
“I've said all along you're taking a ridiculous line on this, Remus,” said Mrs. Weasley over Fleur's shoulder as she patted her on the back.
“I am not being ridiculous,” said Lupin steadily. “Tonks deserves somebody young and whole.”
“But she wants you,” said Mr. Weasley, with a small smile. “And after all, Remus, young and whole men do not necessarily remain so.”
He gestured sadly at his son, lying between them.
“This is... not the moment to discuss it,” said Lupin, avoiding everybody's eyes as he looked around distractedly. “Dumbledore is dead. ...”
“Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody to think that there was a little more love in the world,” said Professor McGonagall curtly, just as the hospital 
doors opened again and Hagrid walked in.
The little of his face that was not obscured by hair or beard was soaking and swollen; he was shaking with tears, a vast, spotted handkerchief in his hand.
“I've... I've done it, Professor,” he choked. “M-moved him. Professor Sprout's got the kids back in bed. Professor Flitwick's lyin down, but he says he'll be all 
righ’ in a jiffy, an’ Professor Slughorn says the Ministry's bin informed.”
“Thank you, Hagrid,” said Professor McGonagall, standing up at once and turning to look at the group around Bill's bed. “I shall have to see the Ministry when they 
get here. Hagrid, please tell the Heads of Houses—Slughorn can represent Slytherin— that I want to see them in my office forthwith. I would like you to join us too.”
As Hagrid nodded, turned, and shuffled out of the room again, she looked down at Harry. “Before I meet them I would like a quick word with you, Harry. If you'll come 
with me...”
Harry stood up, murmured “See you in a bit” to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, and followed Professor McGonagall back down the ward. The corridors outside were deserted and 
the only sound was the distant phoenix song. It was several minutes before Harry became aware that they were not heading for Professor McGonagall's office, but for 
Dumbledore's, and another few seconds before he realized that of course, she had been Deputy Headmistress... apparently she was now Headmistress ... so the room behind 
the gargoyle was now hers.
In silence they ascended the moving spiral staircase and entered the circular office. He did not know what he had expected: that the room would be draped in black, 
perhaps, or even that Dumbledore's body might be lying there. In fact, it looked almost exactly as it had done when he and Dumbledore had left it mere hours previously: 
the silver instruments whirring and puffing on their spindle legged tables, Gryffindor's sword in its glass case gleaming in the moonlight, the Sorting Hat on a shelf 
behind the desk, the Fawkes's perch stood empty, he was still crying his lament to the grounds. And a new portrait had joined the ranks of the dead headmasters and 
headmistresses of Hogwarts: Dumbledore was slumbering in a golden frame over the desk, his half-moon spectacle perched upon his crooked nose, looking peaceful and 
untroubled.
After glancing once at this portrait, Professor McGonagall made an odd movement as though steeling herself, then rounded the desk to look at Harry, her face taut and 
lined.
“Harry,” she said, “I would like to know what you and Professor Dumbledore were doing this evening when you left the school.”
“I can't tell you that, Professor,” said Harry. He had expected the question and had his answer ready. It had been here, in this very room, that Dumbledore had told 
him that he was to confide the contents of their lessons to nobody but Ron and Hermione.
“Harry, it might be important,” said Professor McGonagall.
“It is,” said Harry, “very, but he didn't want me to tell anyone.”
Professor McGonagall glared at him.
“Potter"—Harry registered the renewed use of his surname—"in the light of Professor Dumbledore's death, I think you must see that the situation has changed somewhat
—”
“I don't think so,” said Harry, shrugging. “Professor Dumbledore never told me to stop following his orders if he died.”
“But—”
“There's one thing you should know before the Ministry gets here, though. Madam Rosmerta's under the Imperius Curse, she was helping Malfoy and the Death Eaters, 
that's how the necklace and the poisoned mead—”
“Rosmerta?” said Professor McGonagall incredulously, but before she could go on, there was a knock on the door behind them and Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and 
Slughorn traipsed into the room, followed by Hagrid, who was still weeping copiously, his huge frame trembling with grief.
“Snape!” ejaculated Slughorn, who looked the most shaken, pale and sweating. “Snape! I taught him! I thought I knew him!”
But before any of them could respond to this, a sharp voice spoke from high on the wall: a sallow-faced wizard with a short black fringe had just walked back into his 
empty canvas. “Minerva, the Minister will be here within seconds, he has just Disapparated from the Ministry.”
“Thank you, Everard,” said Professor McGonagall, and she turned quickly to her teachers.
“I want to talk about what happens to Hogwarts before he gets here,” she said quickly. “Personally, I am not convinced that the school should reopen next year. The 
death of the Headmaster at the hands of one of our colleagues is a terrible stain upon Hogwarts’ history. It is horrible.”
“I am sure Dumbledore would have wanted the school to remain open,” said Professor Sprout. “I feel that if a single pupil wants to come, then the school ought to 
remain open for that pupil.”
“But will we have a single pupil after this?” said Slughorn, now dabbing his sweating brow with a silken handkerchief. “Parents will want to keep their children at 
home and I can't say I blame them. Personally, I don't think we're in more danger at Hogwarts than we are anywhere else, but you can't expect mothers to think like 
that. They'll want to keep their families together, it's only natural.”
“I agree,” said Professor McGonagall. “And in any case, it is not true to say that Dumbledore never envisaged a situation in which Hogwarts might close. When the 
Chamber of Secrets reopened he considered the closure of the school—and I must say that Professor Dumbledore's murder is more disturbing to me than the idea of 
Slytherin's monster living undetected in the bowels of the castle...”
“We must consult the governors,” said Professor Flitwick in his squeaky little voice; he had a large bruise on his forehead but seemed otherwise unscathed by his 
collapse in Snape's office. “We must follow the established procedures. A decision should not be made hastily.”
“Hagrid, you haven't said anything,” said Professor McGonagall. “What are your views, ought Hogwarts to remain open?”
Hagrid, who had been weeping silently into his large, spotted handkerchief throughout this conversation, now raised puffy red eyes and croaked, “I dunno, Professor... 
that's fer the Heads of House an’ the Headmistress ter decide ...”
“Professor Dumbledore always valued your views,” said Professor McGonagall kindly, “and so do I.”
“Well, I'm stayin,” said Hagrid, fat tears still leaking out of the corners of his eyes and trickling down into his tangled beard. “It's me home, it's bin me home 
since I was thirteen. An’ if there's kids who wan’ me ter teach ‘em, I'll do it. But... I dunno ... Hogwarts without Dumbledore ...” He gulped and disappeared 
behind his handkerchief once more, and there was silence.
“Very well,” said Professor McGonagall, glancing out of the window at the grounds, checking to see whether the Minister was yet approaching, “then I must agree with 
Filius that the right thing to do is to consult the governors, who will make the final decision.
“Now, as to getting students home... there is an argument for doing it sooner rather than later. We could arrange for the Hogwarts Express to come tomorrow if 
necessary—”
“What about Dumbledore's funeral?” said Harry, speaking at last.
“Well...” said Professor McGonagall, losing a little of her briskness as her voice shook. “I—I know that it was Dumbledore's wish to be laid to rest here, at 
Hogwarts—”
“Then that's what'll happen, isn't it?” said Harry fiercely.
“If the Ministry thinks it appropriate,” said Professor McGonagall. “No other headmaster or headmistress has ever been—”
“No other headmaster or headmistress ever gave more to this school,” growled Hagrid.
“Hogwarts should be Dumbledore's final resting place,” said Professor Flitwick.
“Absolutely,” said Professor Sprout.
“And in that case,” said Harry, “you shouldn't send the students home until the funeral's over. They'll want to say—”
The last word caught in his throat, but Professor Sprout completed the sentence for him.
“Goodbye.”
“Well said,” squeaked Professor Flitwick. “Well said indeed! Our students should pay tribute, it is fitting. We can arrange transport home afterward.”
“Seconded,” barked Professor Sprout.
“I suppose ... yes ...” said Slughorn in a rather agitated voice, while Hagrid let out a strangled sob of assent.
“He's coming,” said Professor McGonagall suddenly, gazing down into the grounds. “The Minister ... and by the looks of it. He's brought a delegation...”
“Can I leave, Professor?” said Harry at once.
He had no desire at all to see, or be interrogated by, Rufus Scrimgeour tonight.
“You may,” said Professor McGonagall. “And quickly.”
She strode toward the door and held it open for him. He sped down the spiral staircase and off along the deserted corridor; he had left his Invisibility Cloak at the 
top of the Astronomy Tower, but it did not matter; there was nobody in the corridors to see him pass, not even Filch, Mrs. Norris, or Peeves. He did not meet another 
soul until he turned into the passage leading to the Gryffindor common room.
“Is it true?” whispered the Fat Lady as he approached her. “It is really true? Dumbledore—dead?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
She let out a wail and, without waiting for the password, swung forward to admit him.
As Harry had suspected it would be, the common room was jam-packed. The room fell silent as he climbed through the portrait hole. He saw Dean and Seamus sitting in a 
group nearby: this meant that the dormitory must be empty, or nearly so. Without speaking to anybody, without making eye contact at all, Harry walked straight across 
the room and through the door to the boys’ dormitories.
As he had hoped, Ron was waiting for him, still fully dressed, sitting on his bed. Harry sat down on his own four-poster and for a moment, they simply stared at each 
other.
“They're talking about closing the school,” said Harry.
“Lupin said they would,” said Ron.
There was a pause.
“So?” said Ron in a very low voice, as though he thought the furniture might be listening in. “Did you find one? Did you get it? A—a Horcrux?”
Harry shook his head. All that had taken place around that black lake seemed like an old nightmare now; had it really happened, and only hours ago?
“You didn't get it?” said Ron, looking crestfallen. “It wasn't there?”
“No,” said Harry. “Someone had already taken it and left a fake in its place.”
“Already taken—?”
Wordlessly, Harry pulled the fake locket from his pocket, opened it, and passed it to Ron. The full story could wait... it did not matter tonight... nothing mattered 
except the end, the end of their pointless adventure, the end of Dumbledore's life...
“R.A.B.,” whispered Ron, “but who was that?”
“Dunno,” said Harry, lying back on his bed fully clothed and staring blankly upwards. He felt no curiosity at all about R.A.B.: he doubted that he would ever feel 
curious again. As he lay there, he became aware suddenly that the grounds were silent. Fawkes had stopped singing.
And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that the phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world... had 
left Harry.
过来，哈利……”
 
　　“不。”
 
　　“哈利，你不能待在这……走吧……”
 
　　“不。”
 
　　他不想离开邓布利多的身边，他不想去任何地方。海格搭在他肩膀上的手颤抖着，这时另一个声音说，“哈利，走吧。”
 
　　一只小得多也温暖的多的手抓住了哈利的手，把他拉了起来。他没有想就顺从了。直到他盲目地从人群中走出来，从空气闻到一股花香，才意识到是金妮在带着他走回城堡。莫名其妙的声
音击打着他，哭泣、喊叫和哀号声穿破夜空，但是哈利和金妮继续向前走，踏过台阶进入了门厅：人们的脸在哈利眼角滑过，他们看着他，小声地议论着，疑惑着，他们走上大理石楼梯时，地
上的格兰芬多红宝石就像血滴一样闪闪发亮。
 
　　“我们现在要去校医院，”金妮说。
 
　　“我没有受伤，”哈利说。
 
　　“这是麦格的命令，”金妮说。“每个人都在那儿，罗恩、赫敏、卢平和每一个人——”
 
　　恐惧再一次在他的胸膛里搅动：他忘记了刚才抛下的那个奄奄一息的人。
 
　　“金妮，还有谁死了？”
 
　　“不要担心，我们当中没有谁死了。”
 
　　“但是黑魔标记——马尔福说他跨过了一具尸体——”
 
　　“他跨过了比尔，但没事，他还活着。”
 
　　她的声音里带了点什么，哈利知道那不是好兆头。
 
　　“你确定吗？”
 
　　“我当然确定……他只是弄得有点——有点脏乱，仅此而已。格雷巴克攻击了他。庞弗雷夫人说他不会——不会再是原来的样子了……”金妮的声音有点儿颤抖。“我们不知道副作用如何
——我的意思是，格雷巴克是个狼人，但当时没有变形。”
 
　　“但是其他人……还有一些其他人倒在了地上……”
 
　　“纳威在校医院，但庞弗雷夫人说他会完全康复的，还有弗立维教授被击昏了，但他已经好了，就是还有些虚弱。他坚持要去照顾拉文克劳的学生。还死了一个食死徒，他被一个高大的金
发食死徒射出的死咒击中了——哈利，如果我们没有喝你的飞力飞思，我想我们都已经死了，所有的咒语都似乎没有打中我们——”
 
　　他们到了校医院：哈利推开门，看见纳威正躺在靠门的一张床上，显然已经睡着了。病房的另一端，罗恩、赫敏、卢娜、唐克斯和卢平围在另一张床边。他们听到开门的声音之后都抬起了
头。赫敏跑过去拥抱了哈利；卢平也过来了，看上去很担忧。
 
　　“你还好吗，哈利？”
 
　　“我很好……比尔怎么样了？”
 
　　没有人回答。哈利从赫敏的肩膀上看过去，比尔的枕头上卧着一个无法辨认的面孔，非常严重的砍伤和撕裂使他看上去奇形怪状。庞弗雷夫人正在往他的伤口上涂一种刺鼻的绿色膏药。哈
利想起，斯内普用魔杖轻易地就修复好了那些他用刀光剑影咒给马尔福划下的伤痕。
 
　　“你能用魔咒或什么别的东西修复它吗，”他问护士长。
 
　　“没有魔咒能对此起作用，”庞弗雷夫人说。“我已经试过我知道所有办法了，但狼人咬伤是无法治愈的。”
 
　　“但他不是在满月的时候被咬伤的，”罗恩说，他凝视着哥哥的脸，仿佛这样就能治好它。“格雷巴克并没有变形。所以比尔不会变成一个——一个真正的——？”
 
　　他不确定地看着卢平。
 
　　“是的，我想比尔不会变成真正的狼人，”卢平说，“但这并不意味不会有任何损伤。这种伤是不可能完全治愈的，而且——而且比尔从现在起也许会带上某些狼的特征。”
 
　　“可是邓布利多也许会知道一些有效的方法，”罗恩说。“他在哪儿？比尔遵照了邓布利多的命令和那些疯子们搏斗，邓布利多欠他的，他不能让比尔这样下去——”
 
　　“罗恩——邓布利多死了，”金妮说。
 
　　“不！”卢平冲动地看了看金妮，又看了看哈利，似乎是希望后者能反驳她，但是哈利没有，卢平一下子摊在了比尔旁边的椅子上，用手把脸蒙住。哈利以前从没有看见过卢平如此的失控
；他觉得似乎这样是不像话地侵犯了别人的隐私；于是哈利转过脸去盯着罗恩，他们默默地交换了一个眼神以证实金妮的话。
 
　　“他是怎么死的？”唐克斯低声说。“发生了什么？”
 
　　“斯内普杀了他，”哈利说。“我在那儿，我看见了。因为黑魔标记被放到了天文塔上，于是我们赶到了那儿……邓布利多当时很不舒服，他很虚弱，但当我们听见从楼梯传上来的脚步声
时，我想他意识到了那是一个陷阱。他把我固定住了，我什么也做不了，我在隐形斗篷里——然后马尔福从门里走了出来，解除了他的武器——”
 
　　赫敏捂住了嘴，罗恩呻吟了一声。卢娜的嘴在瑟瑟发抖。
 
　　“——又来了更多的食死徒——然后是斯内普——然后斯内普杀了他。阿瓦达索命咒。”哈利再也说不下去了。
 
　　庞弗雷夫人哭了起来。除了金妮没有人去注意他她，金妮小声说，“嘘！听！”
 
　　庞弗雷夫人抽了一口气，用手指捂住了嘴，眼睛睁得大大的。窗外的夜幕之中，一只凤凰正在用哈利从未听到过的一种方式歌唱：一首极度凄美幽怨的挽歌。和以前听到凤凰唱歌时一样，
哈利觉得这音乐是来自他的内心，而不是外面：是他自己的悲痛魔法般地化为了歌曲，回荡在操场上，穿过了城堡的窗户。
 
　　他不知道他们站在那儿听了多久，也不知道为什么听到这悲伤的声音让他们的痛苦减轻了一点，但是当校医院的门再次被打开了，麦格教授走进来的时候，仿佛已经过了很长时间。和所有
的人一样，她也带着刚才的战斗所留下的痕迹：脸上擦破了皮，袍子也撕裂了。
 
　　“莫丽和亚瑟正在来的途中，”她说，音乐的催眠被打破了，每个人都似乎从恍惚中清醒过来，他们转过脸去看比尔，另一些人则揉着眼睛，摇了摇头。“哈利，发生了什么？据海格说当
邓布利多教授——当那件事发生的时候你和他在一起。他说斯内普教授也卷入其中了——”
 
　　“斯内普杀了邓布利多，”哈利说。
 
　　她盯着他看了一会儿，然后令人担心地晃了晃；庞弗雷夫人似乎振作了起来，她从稀薄的空气中变出了一把椅子，放到麦格的身下。
 
　　“斯内普，”麦格教授跌坐到椅子上，虚弱地说。“我们都怀疑……可是他却信任……总是……斯内普……我不敢相信……”
 
　　“斯内普是个造诣很高的大脑封闭术师，”卢平说，他的声音异常刺耳。“我们一直都知道的。”
 
　　“但邓布利多发誓说他是站在我们这边的！”唐克斯低声说。“我一直以为邓布利多知道一些我们所不知道的关于斯内普的事……”
 
　　“他一直暗示有一个固若金汤的理由来信任斯内普，”麦格教授喃喃地说，她用一只格子呢花边的手帕擦拭着流泪的眼睛。“我的意思是……关于斯内普的历史……当然人们必然会猜疑…
…但是邓布利多明确无误地告诉我斯内普的悔改绝对是真诚的……他不会听信任何反对他的话！”
 
　　“我想知道斯内普告诉邓布利多了什么，使邓布利多那么相信他，”唐克斯说。
 
　　“我知道，”哈利说，所有的人都转过来盯着他。“斯内普给伏地魔传递了消息，使得伏地魔追杀到了我的妈妈和爸爸。然后斯内普告诉邓布利多他没有认识到自己在做什么事，并对他们
的死感到抱歉。”
 
　　“然后邓布利多就相信了？”卢平难以置信地说。“邓布利多相信斯内普对詹姆的死感到抱歉？斯内普恨詹姆……”
 
　　“他还认为我母亲也一钱不值，”哈利说，“因为她是麻瓜家庭出身……‘泥巴种’，他这么称呼她……”
 
　　没有人问哈利是怎么知道这个的。所有人似乎都陷入了恐惧的震惊之中，试图去消化刚才发生的事背后令人难以置信的真相。
 
　　“这都是我的错，”麦格教授忽然说。她看上去六神无主，拧着手里湿润的手帕。“我的错。今晚是我让菲利乌斯（译注：弗立维教授的名字）去叫斯内普的，我居然会让他来帮助我们！
如果我没有提醒斯内普发生了什么，他也许就不能与食死徒们会合了。我觉得在菲利乌斯告诉他之前他不知道他们在那儿，我觉得他不知道他们要来。”
 
　　“这不是你的错，米勒娃，”卢平坚定地说。“我们都希望得到更多的协助，我们都很高兴地看到斯内普过来……”
 
　　“这么说他到达之后就加入了食死徒那边？”哈利问，他希望得知斯内普的奸诈与恶心的每一个细节，狂热地搜集更多的理由去憎恨他，去发誓报仇。
 
　　“我还是不明白这到底是怎么发生的，”麦格教授心烦意乱地说。“一切都这么混乱……邓布利多告诉我们他要离开学校几个小时，让我们去巡逻走廊，只是以防万一……莱姆斯、比尔和
尼法朵拉会加入我们……于是我们去巡逻。每一个通往校外的秘密通道都被保护了起来。所有进入城堡的入口都被施了强大的魔法。我还是不知道食死徒们是怎样进来的……”
 
　　“我知道，”哈利简要地解释了那对消失柜和他们之间形成的那条魔法路径。“于是他们就从有求必应屋里进来了。”
 
　　他差不多是违心地看了一眼罗恩和赫敏，他们俩都惊呆了。
 
　　“我把事情弄糟了，哈利，”罗恩沮丧地说。“我们按你说做了：我们查看了活点地图，没有在上面找到马尔福，所以我们认为他一定就在有求必应屋，于是我、金妮和纳威就去监视那儿
……但是马尔福通过了我们。”
 
　　“我们监视了一个小时之后他从屋子里出来了，”金妮说。“他是一个人，抓着那只恐怖的皱手臂——”
 
　　“他的光荣之手，”罗恩说。“只有拿着他的人才看得见它的光，记得吗？”
 
　　“总之，”金妮继续说，“他一定是在检查这条放食死徒们进来的路线是否空旷无人，因为他一看到我们就向空中扔了什么东西，然后就变得漆黑一片了。
 
　　“从秘鲁进口的速效黑暗粉，”罗恩苦涩地说。“弗雷德和乔治卖的。我要去和他们谈谈，看看他们把产品都卖给了什么人。”
 
　　“我们尝试了所有方法——荧光闪烁，火焰熊熊，”金妮说。“没有什么能穿透黑暗；我们能做的就是在走廊里摸黑，与此同时我们听到有人从旁边很快地经过。显然马尔福能看见路，因
为那只手能指引他们，我们不敢施任何咒语，因为害怕伤害到自己人，等我们到达一条有光的走廊之时，他们已经不见了。”
 
　　“幸运的是，”卢平嘶哑地说，“罗恩、金妮和纳威撞上了我们，他们立刻通知了我们所发生的事。我们几分钟后就发现了食死徒在往天文塔的方向去。马尔福显然没有料到有更多的人在
监视；至少他似乎已经把黑暗粉用光了。于是我们爆发了激战，他们散开了，于是我们就去追。他们中的一个——吉本——逃脱了，他朝塔楼上跑去。”
 
　　“去施放黑魔标记？”哈利问。
 
　　“一定是这样，是的，他们在离开有求必应屋之前一定已经计划好了，”卢平说。“但是我想吉本并不希望单独留下来等邓布利多来，因为他又回到了楼下重新加入战斗，然后被擦着我飞
过的一条死咒击中了。”
 
　　“那么说如果罗恩和金妮、纳威在监视有求必应屋，”哈利转向了赫敏，“你是不是……？”
 
　　“在斯内普的办公室外面，是的，”赫敏低声说，她眼里泪光闪闪，“和卢娜一起。我们在附近待了很久，可什么都没有发生……我们不知道楼上发生了什么，活点地图被罗恩拿着……当
弗立维教授慌慌张张地跑到地窖时已经快到午夜了。他大声喊着食死徒进入了城堡，我觉得他根本没有发现我和金妮在那儿。他直接冲进了斯内普的办公室，我们听到他说斯内普得和他一起回
去帮忙，然后我们听见一声重击，然后斯内普飞奔出了他的房间，他看到了我们，然后——然后——”
 
　　“什么？”哈利催促她。
 
　　“我太愚蠢了，哈利！”赫敏用尖细的声音说。“他说弗立维教授虚脱了，还让我们在他——在他去和食死徒战斗时照顾弗立维教授——”
 
　　她羞愧地用手捂住了脸，从指缝里接着说，声音含糊不清。
 
　　“我们进了他的办公室去看是不是能帮助弗立维教授，然后我们发现他躺在地板上不省人事……哦，现在看来那是多么明显啊，一定是斯内普对他施了昏迷咒，但我们当时竟没有意识到，
我们竟让斯内普走了！”
 
　　“这不是你们的错，”卢平坚定地说。“赫敏，如果你不服从斯内普闪到一边，他很可能会杀了你和卢娜。”
 
　　“所以他上了楼，”哈利说，他的脑海里浮现出了那幅景象，斯内普跑上大理石楼梯，黑色的长袍和从前一样在身后翻腾，一边攀上楼梯一边从斗篷下面拔出了魔杖，“然后他找到了你们
打斗的地方……”
 
　　“我们陷入了困境，我们快输掉了，”唐克斯低声地说。“吉本死了，但是剩下的食死徒似乎要以死相搏。纳威受了伤，比尔被格雷巴克攻击了……周围一片黑暗……咒语满天飞……马尔
福不见了，他一定是已经溜了，往塔楼上去了……然后他们有更多的人跟着跑去了，但他们中的一个人对身后的楼梯施了某种咒语……纳威冲它跑过去，却被抛到了空中——”
 
　　“我们没有一个人能过去，”罗恩说，“那个大块头的食死徒还在到处发射恶咒，它们在墙壁上反弹，差一点就打到了我们……”
 
　　“后来斯内普到了那儿，”唐克斯说，“然后他没有——”
 
　　“我看见他朝我们跑了过来，但是紧接着那个高大的食死徒发出了一条恶咒，它擦着我飞了过去，我迅速地低下身子，没有看到接下来发生的事，”金妮说。
 
　　“我看见他径直地穿过了咒语屏障，就像那儿什么都没有似的，”卢平说。“我试图跟在他后面，但却和纳威一样被抛了出来……”
 
　　“他一定知道一个我们所不知道的咒语，”麦格低声说。“毕竟——他是黑魔法防御术老师……我只是以为他是追那些逃亡天文塔的食死徒去了……”
 
　　“他是去了，”哈利残酷粗暴地说，“却是去帮助他们，而不是阻止他们……我敢打赌必须有黑魔标记才能通过那个屏障——那么他回来之后发生了什么事？”
 
　　“嗯，那个高大的食死徒刚刚发射了一条魔咒，导致一半的天花板塌了下来，同时也破坏了封闭楼梯的咒语，”卢平说。“我们都往前跑——我们中还能站起来的人——然后斯内普和那个
男孩出现在了漫天灰尘之中——显然，我们没有一个攻击了他们俩——”
 
　　“我们只是让他们过去了，”唐克斯用一种空洞的声音说，“我们以为他们正被食死徒追赶——记下来食死徒们和格雷巴克回来了，我们接着开打——我想我听到了斯内普在喊，但我不知
道他在喊什么——”
 
　　“他喊的是，‘结束了，’”哈利说。“他做了他打算做的事。”
 
　　他们陷入了沉默之中。福克斯的挽歌依然回荡在外面黑暗的操场上。歌声再次响起时，一个讨厌的想法突然闯进了哈利的脑中……他们从天文塔下面抬走邓布利多的遗体了吗？它接下来会
怎么样？在哪里安葬？他攥紧了口袋里的拳头。他能感觉到右手关节处顶着那一小块冰冷的假灵魂碎片。
 
　　医院的门忽然被打开了，把他们都吓了一跳：韦斯莱夫妇正大步地走进病房，芙蓉就跟在他们后面，她美丽的脸庞露出了惊恐的神色。
 
　　“莫丽——亚瑟——”麦格教授跳起来连忙问候他们。“我真的很抱歉……”
 
　　“比尔，”韦斯莱夫人低呼了一声，一看到比尔被毁坏的脸，她飞快地跑过了麦格教授。“哦，比尔！”
 
　　卢平和唐克斯赶紧站起来退到一边，好让韦斯莱夫妇更靠近病床。韦斯莱夫人俯身亲吻了一下他儿子血肉模糊的前额。
 
　　“你刚才说格雷巴克攻击了他？”韦斯莱夫人心乱如麻地问麦格教授。“但是他不是没有变身吗？那意味着什么？比尔会怎么样？”
 
　　“我们还不知道，”麦格教授无助地看着卢平。
 
　　“很可能会有一些损伤，亚瑟，”卢平说。“这是个古怪的情况，可能是独一无二的……我们不知道他醒来时举止会成为什么样子……”
 
　　韦斯莱夫人从庞弗雷夫人那儿接过气味恶心的膏药，并开始往比尔的伤口上抹。
 
　　“还有邓布利多……”韦斯莱夫人说。“米勒娃，那是真的吗……他真的……？”
 
　　麦格教授点了点头，哈利感觉到身旁的金妮动了动，他转过头看她。金妮微微眯起眼睛盯着芙蓉，后者正用冷酷的表情俯视着比尔。
 
　　“邓布利多去了，”韦斯莱先生低声说，但韦斯莱夫人仍旧盯着她的长子；她开始哭泣，眼泪落到了比尔毁伤的脸上。
 
　　“当然，他长得怎么样并不重要……并不真——真的很重要……但是他是个非常英俊的小男——男孩……一直都非常英俊……而且他本——本来都要结婚了！”
 
　　“你这是什么意思？”芙蓉突然大声说。“什么是他本来都要结婚了？”
 
　　韦斯莱夫人抬起她满是泪痕的脸，看上去很震惊。
 
　　“嗯——要不是——”
 
　　“你认为比尔将不再愿意娶我？”芙蓉问。“你认为，因为这些咬伤，他就不爱我了？”
 
　　“不，我不是那个——”
 
　　“因为他会继续爱我！”芙蓉说，她站直了身子，把她那长长的银发甩到脑后。“比尔不会仅仅因为变成了狼人就不再爱我了！”
 
　　“嗯，是的，我敢肯定。”韦斯莱夫人说，“但我想也许——如果那样——他那样——”
 
　　“你认为我不想再和他结婚？或许，你希望这样？”芙蓉说，她的鼻孔一张一翕。“我在意他的长相吗？我想对我们俩来说，我一个人就已经足够漂亮了！这些所有的伤疤都证明了我丈夫
有多么勇敢！我会和他结婚的！”她激动地加了一句，把韦斯莱夫人推到一边，抢过了她手中的药。
 
　　韦斯莱夫人靠到她的丈夫身上，看着芙蓉带着一种古怪的表情为比尔涂抹伤口。
 
　　韦斯莱夫人在一阵长时间的沉默之后说，“我们的穆丽尔婶婶有一个非常漂亮的头饰——妖精制造的——我敢肯定我能说服她借给你在婚礼上用。她非常喜欢比尔，你知道吗，它看起来就
像你的头发那样可爱。”
 
　　“谢谢你，”芙蓉生硬地说。“我相信那会很可爱。”
 
　　就在这时——哈利没有看清楚的是怎么回事——两个女人哭喊着抱在了一起。哈利十分迷惑不解，怀疑这个世界是不是疯了，他转过头来看罗恩：罗恩和他一样震撼，金妮和赫敏也交换了
一个惊讶的眼神。
 
　　“你看！”一个不自然的声音说。唐克斯正愤怒地看着卢平。“她仍然愿意嫁给他，即使他已经被咬了！她不在乎！”
 
　　“这不同，”卢平的嘴唇几乎没有动，突然看上去有些紧张。“比尔不会成为一个完全的狼人。情况完全——”
 
　　“但是我也不在乎，我不在乎！”唐克斯抓住卢平袍子的前襟摇来摇去。“我已经告诉过你一百万次了……”
 
　　唐克斯的守护神和她灰褐色的头发代表的含义，她听说有人被格雷巴克咬了之后来找邓布利多的原因，哈利一下子全明白了；原来唐克斯爱的不是小天狼星……
 
　　“而我也告诉过你几百万次了，”卢平不去看她的眼睛，只是盯着地面，“我对你来说太老了，太穷了……太危险了……”
 
　　“我一直都在说，你对此的原则非常可笑，莱姆斯，”韦斯莱夫人拍着芙蓉的后背，在她的肩头说。
 
　　“这不可笑，”卢平坚定地说。“唐克斯应该和一个更年轻、更健康的人在一起。”
 
　　“但是她想要你，”韦斯莱先生微微地笑了笑。“毕竟，莱姆斯，年轻和健康不一定是永恒的。”他悲哀地指了指躺在他们中间的儿子。
 
　　“现在……现在不是讨论这个的时候，”卢平说，他避开了所有人的目光，心烦意乱地向四周望着。“邓布利多死了……”
 
　　“如果邓布利多知道这个世界上又多了一点爱，他会比任何人都开心的，”麦格教授简略地说，就在此时医院的门再次被打开了，海格走了进来。
 
　　他脸上那一小块没有被头发和胡子遮住的地方显得湿润而臃肿；他泪汪汪地发着抖，手里拿着一块污迹斑斑的大手帕。
 
　　“我……我已经做好了，教授，”他哽咽着说。“抬——抬走了他。斯普劳特教授已经把孩子们哄上床了。弗立维教授在躺卧，不过他说他一瞬间就会没事。斯拉霍恩教授说已经通知了魔
法部。”
 
　　“谢谢你，海格，”麦格教授马上站了起来，转过头看着那群围在比尔床边的人。“魔法部的人到了之后我得去会见他们。海格，请通知每个学院的院长——斯拉霍恩可以代表斯莱特林—
—我要他们立刻来我的办公室。我希望你也能来。”
 
　　海格点了点头，转过身拖着脚步走出了屋子，她低头看了看哈利。
 
　　“在和他们会面之前我想和你简单说几句，哈利。请跟我来……”
 
　　哈利站起来，向罗恩、赫敏和金妮嘟囔了一句“待会见，”，然后就跟着麦格教授走出了病房。外面的走廊里空无一人。唯一能听到的声音就是远处凤凰的歌声。走了几分钟后哈利察觉到
他们并没有走向麦格教授的办公室，而是走向了邓布利多的。又过了几秒钟他才意识到，她曾经当过代理校长……显然她现在是校长了……所以石兽后面的那间办公室现在是她的了……
 
　　他们沉默地走上了移动的旋转楼梯，进入了圆形的办公室。他没有看到自己预计的东西：屋子被罩上黑布，也许甚至邓布利多的遗体就躺在里面。而事实上，它看上去与几小时前哈利和邓
布利多离开时一模一样：长脚桌上的银器旋转着喷着烟，格兰芬多的剑在玻璃盒子里被月光照得闪闪发亮，分院帽被搁在桌子后面的架子上。但是福克斯的栖木空了；它还在操场上悲泣着它的
挽歌。一个新的肖像画已经加入了霍格沃茨已故校长的行列……邓布利多在桌子上方的金色画框中酣睡，他的半月形眼镜架在高耸的鼻梁上，看上去安详宁静、无忧无虑。
 
　　瞥了一眼这幅肖像画之后，麦格教授奇怪地动了动，仿佛是给自己鼓了鼓劲，然后她绕到桌子后面看着哈利，脸绷得很紧，上面布满了皱纹。
 
　　“哈利，”她说，“我想知道今晚你和邓布利多教授离开学校后去做了什么。”
 
　　“我不能告诉您，教授，”哈利说。他已经预料到会被问及这个问题，也已经准备好了他的回答。当时就是在这间屋子里，邓布利多告诉他不要把课程的内容透露给赫敏和罗恩以外的人。
 
　　“哈利，也许它很重要，”麦格教授说。
 
　　“确实是，”哈利说，“非常重要，但他不想让我告诉任何人。”
 
　　麦格教授瞪着他。
 
　　“波特”（哈利注意到他的姓被重新启用了）“鉴于邓布利多教授的死，我想你应该看得出形势已经有所改变——”
 
　　“我不这么觉得，”哈利耸了耸肩。“邓布利多教授从没说过如果他死了我就可以停止遵守他的命令。”
 
　　“但是——”
 
　　“有一件您应该在魔法部的人来之前了解的事。罗斯默塔女士被夺魂咒控制了，她在帮助马尔福和食死徒，这就是那串项链和毒酒是怎样——”
 
　　“罗斯默塔？”麦格教授难以置信地说，但在她继续说下去之前，他们身后的门上传来了一阵敲门声。斯普劳特教授、弗立维教授和斯拉霍恩教授疲惫地走进了房间，海格跟在后面，他还
在不停地哭，巨大的骨架因为悲恸颤抖不已。
 
　　“斯内普！”斯拉霍恩突然说，他看上去是最受打击、最苍白、也是最大汉淋漓的一个。“斯内普！我教过他！我以为我了解他！”
 
　　但其他人能还没来得及作出回应，一个尖锐的声音从高高的墙上传来：一个脸色枯黄、留着短短的黑色刘海的巫师走回他的空画布。
 
　　“米勒娃，部长马上就到，他已经从魔法部幻影移形了。”
 
　　“谢谢你，埃弗拉德，”麦格教授很快又转向了老师们。
 
　　“我想在他来之前和你们谈谈霍格沃茨发生的事，”她快速地说，“就我个人来说，我不太确信学校明年还能开学。校长死于我们的一个同事
Chapter 30 The White Tomb
All lessons were suspended, all examinations postponed. Some students were hurried away from Hogwarts by their parents over the next couple of days—the Patil twins 
were gone before breakfast on the morning following Dumbledore's death and Zacharias Smith was escorted from the castle by his haughty-looking father. Seamus Finnigan, 
on the other hand, refused point-blank to accompany his mother home; they had a shouting match in the Entrance Hall which was resolved when she agreed that he could 
remain behind for the funeral. She had difficulty in finding a bed in Hogsmeade, Seamus told Harry and Ron, for wizards and witches were pouring into the village, 
preparing to pay their last respects to Dumbledore.
Some excitement was caused among the younger students, who had never seen it before, when a powder-blue carriage the size of a house, pulled by a dozen giant winged 
palominos, came soaring out of the sky in the late afternoon before the funeral and landed on the edge of the Forest. Harry watched from a window as a gigantic and 
handsome olive-skinned, black-haired woman descended the carriage steps and threw herself into the waiting Hagrid's arms. Meanwhile a delegation of Ministry officials, 
including the Minister for Magic himself, was being accommodated within the castle. Harry was diligently avoiding contact with any of them; he was sure that, sooner or 
later, he would be asked again to account for Dumbledore's last excursion from Hogwarts.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were spending all of their time together. The beautiful weather seemed to mock them; Harry could imagine how it would have been if 
Dumbledore had not died, and they had had this time together at the very end of the year, Ginny's examinations finished, the pressure of homework lifted ... and hour by 
hour, he put off saying the thing that he knew he must say, doing what he knew it was right to do, because it was too hard to forgo his best source of comfort.
They visited the hospital wing twice a day: Neville had been discharged, but Bill remained under Madam Pomfrey's care. His scars were as bad as ever; in truth, he now 
bore a distinct resemblance to Mad-Eye Moody, though thankfully with both eyes and legs, but in personality he seemed just the same as ever. All that appeared to have 
changed was that he now had a great liking for very rare steaks.
“... so eet ees lucky ‘e is marrying me,” said Fleur happily, plumping up Bill's pillows, “because ze British overcook their meat, I ‘ave always said this.”
“I suppose I'm just going to have to accept that he really is going to marry her,” sighed Ginny later that evening, as she, Harry, Ron and Hermione sat beside the 
open window of the Gryffindor common room, looking out over the twilit grounds.
“She's not that bad,” said Harry. “Ugly, though,” he added hastily, as Ginny raised her eyebrows, and she let out a reluctant giggle.
“Well, I suppose if Mum can stand it, I can.”
“Anyone else we know died?” Ron asked Hermione, who was perusing the Evening Prophet.
Hermione winced at the forced toughness in his voice.
“No,” she said reprovingly, folding up the newspaper. “They're still looking for Snape, but no sign ...”
“Of course there isn't,” said Harry, who became angry every time this subject cropped up. “They won't find Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they've 
never managed to do that in all this time ...”
“I'm going to go to bed,” yawned Ginny. “I haven't been sleeping that well since ... well ... I could do with some sleep.”
She kissed Harry (Ron looked away pointedly), waved at the other two and departed for the girls’ dormitories. The moment the door had closed behind her, Hermione 
leaned forwards towards Harry with a most Hermione-ish look on her face.
“Harry, I found something out this morning, in the library ...”
“R.A.B.?” said Harry, sitting up straight.
He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth 
about the real Horcrux had to be completed before he could move a little further along the dark and winding path stretching ahead of him, the path that he and 
Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now knew he would have to journey alone. There might still be as many as four Horcruxes out there somewhere and each 
would need to be found and eliminated before there was even a possibility that Voldemort could be killed. He kept reciting their names to himself, as though by listing 
them he could bring them within reach: “the locket ... the cup ... the snake ... something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ... the locket ... the cup ... the snake ... 
something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ...”
This mantra seemed to pulse through Harry's mind as he fell asleep at night, and his dreams were thick with cups, lockets and mysterious objects that he could not quite 
reach, though Dumbledore helpfully offered Harry a rope ladder that turned to snakes the moment he began to climb ...
He had shown Hermione the note inside the locket the morning after Dumbledore's death, and although she had not immediately recognised the initials as belonging to some 
obscure wizard about whom she had been reading, she had since been rushing off to the library a little more often than was strictly necessary for somebody who had no 
homework to do.
“No,” she said sadly, “I've been trying, Harry, but I haven't found anything ... there are a couple of reasonably well-known wizards with those initials—Rosalind 
Antigone Bungs ... Rupert “Axebanger” Brookstanton ... but they don't seem to fit at all. Judging by that note, the person who stole the Horcrux knew Voldemort, and I 
can't find a shred of evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever had anything to do with him ... no, actually, it's about ... well, Snape.”
She looked nervous even saying the name again.
“What about him?” asked Harry heavily, slumping back in his chair.
“Well, it's just that I was sort of right about the Half-Blood Prince business,” she said tentatively.
“D'you have to rub it in, Hermione? How do you think I feel about that now?”
“No—no—Harry, I didn't mean that!” she said hastily, looking around to check that they were not being overheard. “It's just that I was right about Eileen Prince 
once owning the book. You see ... she was Snape's mother!”
“I thought she wasn't much of a looker,” said Ron. Hermione ignored him.
“I was going through the rest of the old Prophets and there was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later an 
announcement saying that she'd given birth to a—”
“—murderer,” spat Harry.
“Well ... yes,” said Hermione. “So ... I was sort of right. Snape must have been proud of being “half a Prince", you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggle from what it 
said in the Prophet.”
“Yeah, that fits,” said Harry. “He'd play up the pure-blood side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them ... he's just like Voldemort. Pure-blood 
mother, Muggie father ... ashamed of his parentage, trying to make himself feared using the Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name—Lord Voldemort—the Half-
Blood Prince—how could Dumbledore have missed—?”
He broke off, looking out of the window. He could not stop himself dwelling upon Dumbledore's inexcusable trust in Snape ... but as Hermione had just inadvertently 
reminded him, he, Harry, had been taken in just the same ... in spite of the increasing nastiness of those scribbled spells, he had refused to believe ill of the boy 
who had been so clever, who had helped him so much ...
Helped him ... it was an almost unendurable thought, now ...
“I still don't get why he didn't turn you in for using that book,” said Ron. “He must've known where you were getting it all from.”
“He knew,” said Harry bitterly. “He knew when I used Sectumsempra. He didn't really need Legilimency ... he might even have known before then, with Slughom talking 
about how brilliant I was at Potions ... shouldn't have left his old book in the bottom of that cupboard, should he?”
“But why didn't he turn you in?”
“I don't think he wanted to associate himself with that book,” said Hermione. “I don't think Dumbledore would have liked it very much if he'd known. And even if 
Snape pretended it hadn't been his, Slughom would have recognised his writing at once. Anyway, the book was left in Snape's old classroom, and I'll bet Dumbledore knew 
his mother was called ‘Prince'.”
“I should've shown the book to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “All that time he was showing me how Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I had proof Snape 
was, too—”
“‘Evil’ is a strong word,” said Hermione quietly.
“You were the one who kept telling me the book was dangerous!”
“I'm trying to say, Harry, that you're pulling too much blame on yourself. I thought the Prince seemed to have a nasty sense of humour, but I would never have guessed 
he was a potential killer ...”
“None of us could've guessed Snape would ... you know,” said Ron.
Silence fell between them, each of them lost in their own thoughts, but Harry was sure that they, like him, were thinking about the following morning, when Dumbledore's 
body would be laid to rest. Harry had never attended a funeral before; there had been no body to bury when Sirius had died. He did not know what to expect and was a 
little worried about what he might see, about how he would feel. He wondered whether Dumbledore's death would be more real to him once the funeral was over. Though he 
had moments when the horrible fact of it threatened to overwhelm him, there were blank stretches of numbness where, despite the fact that nobody was talking about 
anything else in the whole castle, he still found it difficult to believe that Dumbledore had really gone. Admittedly he had not, as he had with Sirius, looked 
desperately for some kind of loophole, some way that Dumbledore would come back ... he felt in his pocket for the cold chain of the fake Horcrux, which he now carried 
with him everywhere, not as a talisman, but as a reminder of what it had cost and what remained still to do.
Harry rose early to pack the next day; the Hogwarts Express would be leaving an hour after the funeral. Downstairs he found the mood in the Great Hall subdued. 
Everybody was wearing their dress robes and no one seemed very hungry. Professor McGonagall had left the thronelike chair in the middle of the staff table empty. 
Hagrid's chair was deserted too: Harry thought that perhaps he had not been able to face breakfast; but Snape's place had been unceremoniously filled by Rufus 
Scrimgeour. Harry avoided his yellowish eyes as they scanned the Hall; Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Scrimgeour was looking for him. Among Scrimgeour's 
entourage Harry spotted the red hair and horn-rimmed glasses of Percy Weasley. Ron gave no sign that he was aware of Percy, apart from stabbing pieces of kipper with 
unwonted venom.
Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were muttering together. Hulking boys though they were, they looked oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of Malfoy 
between them, bossing them around. Harry had not spared Malfoy much thought. His animosity was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten the fear in Malfoy's voice on 
that Tower top, nor the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have killed Dumbledore. He 
despised Malfoy still for his infatuation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest drop of pity mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry wondered, was Malfoy now, and what 
was Voldemort making him do under threat of killing him and his parents?
Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from Ginny. Professor McGonagall had risen to her feet and the mournful hum in the Hall died away at once.
“It is nearly time,” she said. “Please follow your Heads of House out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after me.”
They filed out from behind their benches in near silence. Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent long emerald-green robes 
embroidered with silver. He had never seen Professor Sprout, Head of the Hufflepuffs, looking so clean; there was not a single patch on her hat, and when they reached 
the Entrance Hall, they found Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she in a thick black veil that fell to her knees, he in an ancient black suit and tie reeking of 
mothballs.
They were heading, as Harry saw when he stepped out on to the stone steps from the front doors, towards the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed his face as they 
followed Professor McGonagall in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle ran down the centre of them: there was a marble table 
standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It was the most beautiful summer's day.
An extraordinary assortment of people had already settled into half of the chairs: shabby and smart, old and young. Most Harry did not recognise, but there were a few 
that he did, including members of the Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to vividest pink, Remus Lupin, 
with whom she seemed to be holding hands, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragonskin. 
Then there was Madame Maxime, who took up two-and-a-half chairs on her own, Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, Arabella Figg, Harry's Squib neighbour, the hairy 
bass player from the wizarding group the Weird bisters, Ernie Prang, driver of the Knight Bus, Madam Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley, and some people whom 
Harry merely knew by sight, such as the barman of the Hog's Head and the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts were there too, barely 
visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they moved, shimmering insubstantially in the gleaming air.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny filed into seats at the end of a row beside the lake. People were whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in the grass, but 
the birdsong was louder by far. The crowd continued to swell; with a great rush of affection for both of them, Harry saw Neville being helped into a seat by Luna. They 
alone of all the DA had responded to Hermione's summons the night that Dumbledore had died, and Harry knew why: they were the ones who had missed the DA most ... 
probably the ones who had checked their coins regularly in the hope that there would be another meeting ...
Cornelius Fudge walked past them towards the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual; Harry next recognised Rita Skeeter, who, he 
was infuriated to see, had a notebook clutched in her red-taloned hand; and then, with a worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief upon 
her toadlike face, a black velvet bow set atop her iron-coloured curls. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a sentinel near the water's edge, she 
gave a start and scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away.
The staff were seated at last. Harry could see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row with Professor McGonagall. He wondered whether Scrimgeour or any 
of these important people were really sorry that Dumbledore was dead. But then he heard music, strange otherworldly music and he forgot his dislike of the Ministry in 
looking around for the source of it. He was not the only one: many heads were turning, searching, a little alarmed.
“In there,” whispered Ginny in Harry's ear.
And he saw them in the clear green sunlit water, inches below the surface, reminding him horribly of the Inferi; a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange language he 
did not understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. The music made the hair on Harry's neck stand up and yet it was not 
unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of loss and of despair. As he looked down into the wild faces of the singers he had the feeling that they, at least, were sorry for 
Dumbledore's passing. Then Ginny nudged him again and he looked round.
Hagrid was walking slowly up the aisle between the chairs. He was crying quite silently, his face gleaming with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet 
spangled with golden stars, was what Harry knew to be Dumbledore's body. A sharp pain rose in Harry's throat at this sight: for a moment, the strange music and the 
knowledge that Dumbledore's body was so close seemed to take all warmth from the day. Ron looked white and shocked. Tears were falling thick and fast into both Ginny 
and Hermione's laps.
They could not see clearly what was happening at the front. Hagrid seemed to have placed the body carefully upon the table. Now he retreated down the aisle, blowing his 
nose with loud trumpeting noises that drew scandalised looks from some, including, Harry saw, Dolores Umbridge ... but Harry knew that Dumbledore would not have cared. 
He tried to make a friendly gesture to Hagrid as he passed, but Hagrid's eyes were so swollen it was a wonder he could see where he was going. Harry glanced at the back 
row to which Hagrid was heading and realised what was guiding him, for there, dressed in a jacket and trousers each the size of a small marquee, was the giant Grawp, 
his great ugly boulder-like head bowed, docile, almost human. Hagrid sat down next to his half-brother and Grawp patted Hagrid hard on the head, so that his chair legs 
sank into the ground. Harry had a wonderful momentary urge to laugh. But then the music stopped and he turned to face the front again.
A little tufty-haired man in plain black robes had got to his feet and stood now in front of Dumbledore's body. Harry could not hear what he was saying. Odd words 
floated back to them over the hundreds of beads. “Nobility of spirit” ... “intellectual contribution” ... “greatness of heart” ... it did not mean very much. It 
had little to do with Dumbledore as Harry had known him. He suddenly remembered Dumbledore's idea of a few words: “nitwit", “oddment", “blubber” and “tweak", and 
again, had to suppress a grin ... what was the matter with him?
There was a soft splashing noise to his left and he saw that the merpeople had broken the surface to listen, too. He remembered Dumbledore crouching at the water's edge 
two years ago, very close to where Harry now sat, and conversing in Mermish with the Merchieftainess. Harry wondered where Dumbledore had learned Mermish. There was so 
much he had never asked him, so much he should have said ...
And then, without warning, it swept over him, the dreadful truth, more completely and undeniably than it had until now. Dumbledore was dead, gone ... he clutched the 
cold locket in his hand so tightly that it hurt, but he could not prevent hot tears spilling from his eyes: he looked away from Ginny and the others and stared out over 
the lake, towards the Forest, as the little man in black droned on ... there was movement among the trees. The centaurs had come to pay their respects, too. They did 
not move into the open but Harry saw them standing quite still, half-hidden in shadow, watching the wizards, their bows hanging at their sides. And Harry remembered his 
first nightmarish trip into the Forest, the first time he had ever encountered the thing that was then Voldemort, and how he had faced him, and how he and Dumbledore 
had discussed fighting a losing battle not long thereafter. It was important, Dumbledore said, to fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then could evil be 
kept at bay, though never quite eradicated ...
And Harry saw very clearly as be sat there under the hot sun how people who cared about him had stood in front of him one by one, his mother, his father, his godfather, 
and finally Dumbledore, all determined to protect him; but now that was over. He could not let anybody else stand between him and Voldemort; he must abandon for ever 
the illusion he ought to have lost at the age of one: that the shelter of a parent's arms meant that nothing could hurt him. There was no waking from his nightmare, no 
comforting whisper in the dark that he was safe really, that it was all in his imagination; the last and greatest of his protectors had died and he was more alone than 
he had ever been before.
The little man in black had stopped speaking at last and resumed his seat. Harry waited for somebody else to get to their feet; he expected speeches, probably from the 
Minister, but nobody moved.
Then several people screamed. Bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore's body and the table upon which it lay: higher and higher they rose, obscuring the 
body. White smoke spiralled into the air and made strange shapes: Harry thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that he saw a phoenix fly joyfully into the blue, but 
next second the fire had vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he had rested.
There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of arrows soared through the air, but they fell far short of the crowd. It was, Harry knew, the centaurs’ tribute: he 
saw them turn tail and disappear back into the cool trees. Likewise the merpeople sank slowly back into the green water and were lost from view.
Harry looked at Ginny, Ron and Hermione: Ron's face was screwed up as though the sunlight was blinding him. Hermione's face was glazed with tears, but Ginny was no 
longer crying. She met Harry's gaze with the same hard, blazing look that he had seen when she had hugged him after winning the Quidditch Cup in his absence, and he 
knew that at that moment they understood each other perfectly, and that when he told her what he was going to do now, she would not say ‘Be careful', or ‘Don't do 
it', but accept his decision, because she would not have expected anything less of him. And so he steeled himself to say what he had known he must say ever since 
Dumbledore had died.
“Ginny, listen ...” he said very quietly, as the buzz of conversation grew louder around them and people began to get to their feet. “I can't be involved with you 
any more. We've got to stop seeing each other. We can't be together.”
She said, with an oddly twisted smile, “It's for some stupid, noble reason, isn't it?”
“It's been like ... like something out of someone else's life, these last few weeks with you,” said Harry. “But I can't ... we can't ... I've got things to do alone 
now.”
She did not cry, she simply looked at him.
“Voldemort uses people his enemies are close to. He's already used you as bait once, and that was just because you're my best friend's sister. Think how much danger 
you'll be in if we keep this up. He'll know, he'll find out. He'll try and get to me through you.”
“What if I don't care?” said Ginny fiercely.
“I care,” said Harry. “How do you think I'd feel if this was your funeral ... and it was my fault ...”
She looked away from him, over the lake.
“I never really gave up on you,” she said. “Not really. I always hoped ... Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit 
around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more—myself”
“Smart girl, that Hermione,” said Harry, trying to smile. “I just wish I'd asked you sooner. We could've had ages ... months ... years maybe ...”
“But you've been too busy saving the wizarding world,” said Ginny, half-laughing. “Well ... I can't say I'm surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew 
you wouldn't be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that's why I like you so much.”
Harry could not bear to hear these things, nor did he think his resolution would hold if he remained sitting beside her. Ron, he saw, was now holding Hermione and 
stroking her hair while she sobbed into his shoulder, tears dripping from the end of his own long nose. With a miserable gesture, Harry got up, turned his back on Ginny 
and on Dumbledore's tomb and walked away around the lake. Moving felt much more bearable than sitting still: just as setting out as soon as possible to track down the 
Horcruxes and kill Voldemort would feel better than waiting to do it ...
“Harry!”
He turned. Rufus Scrimgeour was limping rapidly towards him around the bank, leaning on his walking stick.
“I've been hoping to have a word ... do you mind if I walk a little way with you?”
“No,” said Harry indifferently, and set off again.
“Harry, this was a dreadful tragedy,” said Scrimgeour quietly, “I cannot tell you how appalled I was to hear of it. Dumbledore was a very great wizard. We had our 
disagreements, as you know, but no one knows better than I—”
“What do you want?” asked Harry flatly.
Scrimgeour looked annoyed but, as before, hastily modified his expression to one of sorrowful understanding.
“You are, of course, devastated,” he said. “I know that you were very close to Dumbledore. I think you may have been his favourite ever pupil. The bond between the 
two of you—”
“What do you want?” Harry repeated, coming to a halt.
Scrimgeour stopped too, leaned on his stick and stared at Harry, his expression shrewd now.
“The word is that you were with him when he left the school the night that he died.”
“Whose word?” said Harry.
“Somebody Stupefied a Death Eater on top of the Tower after Dumbledore died. There were also two broomsticks up there. The Ministry can add two and two, Harry.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Harry. “Well, where I went with Dumbledore and what we did is my business. He didn't want people to know.”
“Such loyalty is admirable, of course,” said Scrimgeour, who seemed to be restraining his irritation with difficulty,” but Dumbledore is gone, Harry. He's gone.”
“He will only be gone from the school when none here are loyal to him,” said Harry, smiling in spite of himself.
“My dear boy ... even Dumbledore cannot return from the—”
“I am not saying he can. You wouldn't understand. But I've got nothing to tell you.”
Scrimgeour hesitated, then said, in what was evidently supposed to be a tone of delicacy, “The Ministry can offer you all sorts of protection, you know, Harry. I would 
be delighted to place a couple of my Aurors at your service—”
Harry laughed.
“Voldemort wants to kill me himself and Aurors won't stop him. So thanks for the offer, but no thanks.”
“So,” said Scrimgeour, his voice cold now, “the request I made of you at Christmas—”
“What request? Oh yeah ... the one where I tell the world what a great job you're doing in exchange for —”
“—for raising everyone's morale!” snapped Scrimgeour.
Harry considered him for a moment.
“Released Stan Shunpike yet?”
Scrimgeour turned a nasty purple colour highly reminiscent of Uncle Vernon.
“I see you are—”
“Dumbledore's man through and through,” said Harry. “That's right.”
Scrimgeour glared at him for another moment, then turned and limped away without another word. Harry could see Percy and the rest of the Ministry delegation waiting for 
him, casting nervous glances at the sobbing Hagrid and Grawp, who were still in their seats. Ron and Hermione were hurrying towards Harry, passing Scrimgeour going in 
the opposite direction; Harry turned and walked slowly on, waiting for them to catch up, which they finally did in the shade of a beech tree under which they had sat in 
happier times.
“What did Scrimgeour want?” Hermione whispered.
“Same as he wanted at Christmas,” shrugged Harry. “Wanted me to give him inside information on Dumbledore and be the Ministry's new poster boy.”
Ron seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, then he said loudly to Hermione, “Look, let me go back and hit Percy!”
“No,” she said firmly, grabbing his arm.
“It'll make me feel better!”
Harry laughed. Even Hermione grinned a little, though her smile faded as she looked up at the castle.
“I can't bear the idea that we might never come back.” she said softly. “How can Hogwarts close?”
“Maybe it won't,” said Ron. “We're not in any more danger here than we are at home, are we? Everywhere's the same now. I'd even say Hogwarts is safer, there are more 
wizards inside to defend the place. What d'you reckon, Harry?”
“I'm not coming back even if it does reopen,” said Harry.
Ron gaped at him, but Hermione said sadly,"I knew you were going to say that. But then what will you do?”
“I'm going back to the Dursleys’ once more, because Dumbledore wanted me to,” said Harry."But it'll be a short visit, and then I'll be gone for good.”
“But where will you go if you don't come back to school?”
“I thought I might go back to Godric's Hollow,” Harry muttered. He had had the idea in his head ever since the night of Dumbledore's death. “For me, it started 
there, all of it. I've just got a feeling I need to go there. And I can visit my parents’ graves, I'd like that.”
“And then what?” said Ron.
“Then I've got to track down the rest of the Horcruxes, haven't I?” said Harry, his eyes upon Dumbledore's white tomb, reflected in the water on the other side of the 
lake. “That's what he wanted me to do, that's why he told me all about them. If Dumbledore was right—and I'm sure he was—there are still four of them out there. I've 
got to find them and destroy them and then I've got to go after the seventh bit of Voldemort's soul, the bit that's still in his body, and I'm the one who's going to 
kill him. And if I meet Severus Snape along the way,” he added, “so much the better for me, so much the worse for him.”
There was a long silence. The crowd had almost dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddled Hagrid, whose howls of 
grief were still echoing across the water.
“We'll be there, Harry,” said Ron.
“What?”
“At your aunt and uncle's house,” said Ron. “And then we'll go with you, wherever you're going.”
“No—” said Harry quickly; he had not counted on this, he had meant them to understand that he was undertaking this most dangerous journey alone.
“You said to us once before,” said Hermione quietly, “that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?”
“We're with you whatever happens,” said Ron. “But, mate, you're going to have to come round my mum and dad's house before we do anything else, even Godric's Hollow.
”
“Why?”
“Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember?”
Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything as normal as a wedding could still exist seemed incredible and yet wonderful.
“Yeah, we shouldn't miss that,” he said finally.
His hand closed automatically around the fake Horcrux, but in spite of everything, in spite of the dark and twisting path he saw stretching ahead for himself, in spite 
of the final meeting with Voldemort he knew must come, whether in a month, in a year, or in ten, he felt his heart lift at the thought that there was still one last 
golden day of peace left to enjoy with Ron and Hermione.
所有的课程都暂停了，所有的考试也都被延期了。在接下来的几天里，一些学生被他们的家长催着离开了霍格沃茨——邓布利多死后的第二天早上，佩蒂尔姐妹没吃早餐就走了；而扎卡赖斯·
史密斯则是被他那个看上去很傲慢的父亲从城堡护送回去的。另一方面，西莫·斐尼甘直截了当地拒绝了陪他妈妈回家；他们在门厅里赛着大喊大叫，最后他妈妈终于同意了他留在这里参加葬
礼。西莫告诉哈利和罗恩，他妈妈在霍格莫德很难找到一个床位，因为男女巫师都在往这个村子里涌，准备向邓布利多致以最后的敬意。
 
　　葬礼之前的那个傍晚，一辆有房子那么大、由十二匹银色鬃毛的飞马拉着的粉蓝色马车从天空中飞了出来，并停靠在了禁林的边缘，这个场面在那些没有见识它的低年级学生重引起了一阵
骚动。哈利从窗口望去，一位高大端庄、皮肤呈橄榄色的黑发女士从马车里下来，走过去与等候多时的海格拥抱。与此同时一个魔法部官员的代表团也住进了城堡，其中包括了魔法部部长本人
。哈利不知疲倦地回避着接触他们中的任何人；他敢肯定自己迟早会再次被要求解释邓布利多最后一次离开霍格沃茨的出行。
 
　　哈利、罗恩、赫敏和金妮整天都待在一起。好天气似乎是在戏弄他们；哈利可以想象到如果邓布利多没有死这一切会怎样，他们将会一起度过这个学年的最后几天，金妮的考试结束了，作
业的压力没有了……他一个小时一个小时地往后拖延，不去说那些他知道自己必须要说的事，不去做那些他知道是正确的事，因为要放弃自己最好的安慰源实在是太难了。
 
　　他们每天去两次校医院：纳威已经出院了，但是比尔仍然需要庞弗雷夫人的照料。他的伤疤还和以前一样糟糕；虽然他应该感激自己保住了眼睛和双腿，可实际上，他已经与疯眼汉穆迪很
相像了，但他的个性似乎和从前一样。唯一不同的是他似乎喜欢上了做得非常鲜嫩的牛排。
 
　　“……所以他娶我是很幸运的，”芙蓉一边鼓起比尔的枕头一边开心地说，“因为英国人总是把他们的肉弄得很老，我一直都这么说。”
 
　　“我想我只好接受他真的要和芙蓉结婚了，”那一天晚些时候金妮叹息道，她正与哈利、罗恩和赫敏坐在格兰芬多公共休息室打开的窗边，望着外面黄昏的操场。
 
　　“她也不那么糟，”哈利说。“虽然很丑，”见金妮扬起了眉毛，他赶紧加上了一句，金妮勉强地笑了笑。
 
　　“唉，我想如果妈妈能忍受，我就能。”
 
　　“还有我们知道的人死了吗？”罗恩问赫敏，后者正在认真地看《预言家日报》。
 
　　赫敏听出了他声音里不自然的坚强，不禁皱了皱眉。
 
　　“没有，”她责备地说，把报纸折了起来。“他们还在找斯内普，但是没有任何线索……”
 
　　“当然没有，”哈利每次谈及这个话题时都会变得很生气。“找到伏地魔才会找到斯内普，而这次他们似乎完全没有设法做这件事……”
 
　　“我要去睡觉了，”金妮打着呵欠说。“自从……嗯……那个之后我就一直没好好睡觉，我需要一点睡眠。”
 
　　她吻了一下哈利（罗恩有意识地把脸转了过去），向另外两个人挥了挥手，起身走向了女生宿舍。门在她身后刚刚关上，赫敏就向哈利凑过去，脸上露出了最赫敏式的表情。
 
　　“哈利，我今天早上在图书馆查到了一些东西……”
 
　　“R.A.B.？”哈利坐直了。
 
　　他没有感觉到以前常有的那种兴奋、好奇和探知谜底的渴望；他只是明白自己必须去完成这个任务，也就是找到那个真正的灵魂碎片的下落，然后才能在他面前这条黑暗和崎岖的道路上走
远一点，他当初是和邓布利多一起踏上的这条路，而他知道现在只能孤身前行了。现在可能还有四个灵魂碎片流落在外，他需要把每一个都找到并毁灭掉，然后伏地魔甚至才有被杀掉的可能。
他不断地背诵着它们的名字，仿佛这样做可以把它们带到自己的身边：“盒式坠子……杯子……蛇……格兰芬多或者拉文克劳的东西……盒式坠子……杯子……蛇……格兰芬多或者拉文克劳的
东西……”
 
　　这些颂词似乎在他睡觉时也在脑中跳动，他的梦里充满了杯子、盒式坠子和他无法拿到的神秘物品，尽管邓布利多帮忙提供给了哈利一条绳梯，可当他开始爬的时候绳梯却变成了蛇……
 
　　邓布利多死后的第二天早上，他给赫敏看了盒式坠子里的那张字条，虽然她并没有立即认出这几个首字母缩写属于她过去读到过的某个不著名的巫师，但是自从那以后她就常去图书馆，对
于一个没有家庭作业需要做的人来说，确实要更频繁一点。
 
　　“不是，”她悲哀地说，“我一直都在试，哈利，但是我什么都没有发现……有几个相当著名的巫师符合那个首字母缩写——罗萨林·安提贡·邦斯……鲁伯特·‘阿克邦戈’·布鲁斯坦
顿……但看上去他们都根本对不上号。根据字条判断，那个偷了灵魂碎片的人认识伏地魔，可我找不出一丁点证据表明邦斯和阿克邦戈与伏地魔有关……我说的不是这个，实际上，是关于……
嗯，斯内普的。”
 
　　她紧张地看着哈利，又提到这个名字了。
 
　　“他怎么了？”哈利沉闷地问，又瘫坐回椅子上。
 
　　“嗯，只是我觉得混血王子的事我有几分是对的……”她试探性地说。
 
　　“你非得要反复讲吗，赫敏？你认为我现在会怎么看待它？”
 
　　“不——不——哈利，我不是那个意思！”她赶紧说，环顾着四周以确定他们没有被人偷听，“我只是说，艾琳确实曾经拥有过这本书，在这一点上我是对的……她是斯内普的母亲！”
 
　　“我觉得她不是什么美人儿，”罗恩说。赫敏没有理他。
 
　　“我查过了余下的旧《预言家日报》，找到了一个小告示，上面说艾琳·普林斯嫁给了一个叫托比亚斯·斯内普的男人，后来又有一个告示说她生了一个——
 
　　“——杀人犯，”哈利恶狠狠地说。
 
　　“好吧……是的，”赫敏说。“所以……我有几分正确。斯内普一定骄傲于做‘半个王子’，是吧？《预言家日报》上说托比亚斯·斯内普是个麻瓜。
 
　　“很好，那就说得通了。”哈利说。“他大肆强调自己纯血统的一边，以便与卢修斯·马尔福和其余几个他们的人交往……他就像伏地魔那样。纯血统的母亲和麻瓜父亲……对他的出身感
到羞耻，试图用黑魔法使自己让人害怕，给自己起一个令人印象深刻的新名字——伏地魔——混血王子——邓布利多怎么会没有察觉到——？”
 
　　他顿住了，望着窗外，情不自禁地仔细思索邓布利多对斯内普那不可原谅的信任……但正如赫敏刚才不经意提醒他的那样，他，哈利，也一样被欺骗了……尽管当时那些潦草的咒语越来越
卑劣，他却还是不肯相信那个如此聪明的男孩是怀有恶意的，那个男孩帮助了他那么多……
 
　　帮助了他……这个想法现在几乎让他无法忍受……
 
　　“我还是不明白他为什么没有告发你使用那本书，”罗恩说。“他肯定早就知道了你是从哪里得到这一切的。”
 
　　“他知道，”哈利苦涩地说。“我使用刀光剑影咒时他就知道了。他并不真正需要通过摄神取念，也许在那之前他就知道了，斯拉霍恩和他谈论过我在魔药课上有多优秀……他不该把他那
本旧书放在橱柜底下的，是不是？”
 
　　“他为什么不告发你呢？”
 
　　“我想他不愿意让自己和那本书产生联系，”赫敏说。“我觉得如果邓布利多知道了的话，不会太高兴的。即使斯内普否认那本书是他的，斯拉霍恩也会马上从书里认出他的字迹。不管怎
么说，那本书在斯内普的旧教室里，而且我敢打赌邓布利多一定知道斯内普的母亲姓‘普林斯’。”
 
　　“我本该把那本书拿给邓布利多看的，”哈利说。“他一直在向我展示伏地魔从打上学起就有多么邪恶，我本可以向他证明斯内普也是这样的……”
 
　　“‘邪恶’是一个极端的词，”赫敏轻声说。
 
　　“是你一直在告诉我这本书很危险啊！”
 
　　“我想说的是，哈利，你太过于自责了。我一直以为混血王子的幽默感似乎很让人讨厌，但我绝没有猜到过他是一个潜在的杀手……”
 
　　“我们大家都没有猜到斯内普是这样……你知道的，”罗恩说。
 
　　沉默降临在他们中间，每个人都陷入了沉思，但是哈利可以肯定他们正像他自己一样想着明天早上，那个安葬邓布利多遗体的时刻。哈利以前从来没有参加过葬礼；小天狼星死的时候没有
遗体可埋葬。他不知道会发生什么事，而且对自己将要看到的和感觉到的事有一丝担忧。哈利不知道，在邓布利多的葬礼结束之后，邓布利多的死对他来说是不是会更加真实。虽然有时候他觉
得这个恐怖的事实有征服他的危险，但他仍然有大段大段空白的麻木，在这些麻木之中他发现自己很难相信邓布利多已经真的离去了，尽管整个城堡里没有人在讨论其他的事情。诚然，他没有
像当年对小天狼星那样，拼命地寻找某种漏洞，某种邓布利多能够回来的途径……他在口袋里摸索那个假灵魂碎片冰冷的链子，现在他在任何地方都把它带在身上，不是当作护身符，而是作为
一个提醒，提醒他为了这个东西他们付出了什么代价，还有什么需要去做。
 
　　哈利第二天很早就起来收拾行李；霍格沃茨特快列车将要在葬礼之后的一小时启程。下楼之后他发现礼堂里的情绪很压抑。每个人都穿着正装长袍，没有人看上去很饿。麦格教授把教工餐
桌中间的那张宝座一样的椅子空了出来。海格的椅子也空着：哈利觉得他也许无法面对早餐；但是斯内普的座位被鲁弗斯·斯克林杰随便地占据了。当他黄色的眼睛扫视礼堂的时候哈利避开了
它；哈利有一种不舒服的感觉，他觉得斯克林杰在寻找他。哈利在斯克林杰的随行人员里认出了红头发、戴着角质架眼镜的珀西·韦斯莱。罗恩没有表现出看到了珀西，只是带着罕见的怨恨戳
了戳熏鱼块。
 
　　斯莱特林的餐桌那边，克拉布和高尔在一起嘀咕着什么。虽然他们都是大块头的男孩，但没了那个脸色苍白、身材瘦高的马尔福夹在他们中间发号施令，他们看上去竟有些古怪地孤独了。
哈利腾出多少时间来想马尔福。他所有的仇恨都是冲着斯内普去的，但是他没有忘记在塔顶上时马尔福声音里的害怕，也没有忘记他在其余的食死徒赶来之前曾放下魔杖的事实。哈利不相信马
尔福会杀了邓布利多。他仍旧因为马尔福痴迷黑魔法而鄙视他，但是现在厌恶之中却混入了一丁点怜悯。哈利想，马尔福现在在哪儿呢，伏地魔已经威胁过要杀死他和他的父母了，他会怎么处
置马尔福呢？
 
　　金妮用肘轻轻地推了一下哈利的肋部，他的思维被打断了。麦格教授已经站了起来，礼堂里悲伤的嗡嗡声立即消失了。
 
　　“快到时候了，”她说。“请跟着你们的院长到操场上去。格兰芬多的学生，跟着我。”
 
　　他们近乎无声地从长凳上站起来，排着队走了出去，哈利瞥见斯拉霍恩在斯莱特林队伍的最前面，他穿了一件华丽的银色镶边翠绿色长袍。他来从没见过赫奇帕奇的院长斯普劳特教授穿得
这样整洁；她的帽子上一个补丁都没有，他们到达门厅之后，发现平斯夫人和费尔奇站在一块儿，她戴着一条厚厚的黑面纱，一直垂到膝盖，费尔奇则穿着一件老式黑色套装，领带散发着樟脑
球的气味。
 
　　哈利走出前门，踏上了石阶，发现他们在往湖那边前进。太阳的温暖正摩挲着他的脸，他们默默地跟着麦格教授走到一个整齐地摆满了上百把椅子的地方。椅子的中间有一条过道：过道的
正前方是一张大理石桌子，所有的椅子面冲着它。这是一个极为美丽的夏日。
 
　　一群看上去互相之间非常不同的人已经占据了一半的椅子：衣衫褴褛的和衣冠楚楚的，年老的和年轻的。大多数人哈利都不认识，不过他还是认识其中的几个，包括几个凤凰社的成员：金
斯莱·沙克尔、疯眼汉穆迪、唐克斯（她的头发奇迹般地恢复到了最鲜艳的粉红色）、莱姆斯·卢平（她似乎握着他的手）、韦斯莱夫妇、比尔和搀着他的芙蓉，后面跟着弗雷德和乔治，他们
来穿着黑色的龙皮夹克。然后是马克西姆夫人（她一个人就占据了两个半椅子）、破釜酒吧的老板汤姆、哈利的哑炮邻居阿拉贝拉·费格、古怪姐妹组合里的那个多毛的贝斯手、骑士公共汽车
的司机厄恩·普兰、对角巷的长袍店老板娘摩金夫人，还有一些和哈利仅仅见过面的人，比如猪头酒吧的男招待和在霍格沃茨特快列车上推小货车的女巫。城堡里的鬼魂也在那儿，在明媚的阳
光下几乎看不见，只有移动的时候才依稀可辨，他们在光明的空气里虚无飘渺地闪烁着。
 
　　哈利、罗恩、赫敏和金妮逐一走进了湖边的一排椅子，坐到了靠边的座位上。人们在窃窃私语；听起来就像草地上的一阵微风，但是鸟鸣声要响亮得多。人群在继续膨胀；哈利看到纳威在
卢娜的帮助下坐了下来，哈利突然对他们俩产生了一股强烈的感情。邓布利多死的那天晚上，他们俩是仅有的两个响应赫敏召唤的D.A.成员，哈利知道为什么：他们是最想念D.A.的两个人……
他们很可能一直在定期地把硬币拿出来查看，以期待有新的聚会……
 
　　康奈利·福吉经过他们走到了前排，他的表情很痛苦，像往常一样转着他的绿色圆顶礼帽；哈利然后认出了丽塔·斯基特，他愤怒地看到，她正用红爪子一样的手抓着一个笔记本；然后，
他看到了多洛雷斯·乌姆里奇，于是更强烈地抽动了一下，她癞蛤蟆般的脸上带着一种让人难以信服的悲痛表情，灰褐色的卷发上打着一个黑色天鹅绒蝴蝶结。她一看见像哨兵一样站在湖边的
马人费伦泽，愣了一下，就赶紧跑去坐到了离这儿很远的一个座位上。
 
　　教员们是最后就座的，哈利看见前排上坐在麦格教授旁边的斯克林杰表情既庄严又尊贵。哈利猜测着斯克林杰和这里的任何一个要员是不是真的在为邓布利多的死感到难过，可就在这时，
他听到了一曲奇怪的音乐，仿佛是来自另一个世界，以至于他忘记了对魔法部的厌恶转而去四处寻找它的源头。他不是唯一的一个：许多脑袋都在转动，搜寻，还有一点惊慌。
 
　　“在那儿，”金妮对哈利耳语道。
 
　　然后他看见了它们，在阳光照耀下的清澈的绿色湖水里，水面下几英寸的地方，这让他恐惧地想起了阴飞力；一个人鱼合唱团正用一种他听不懂的陌生语言唱着歌，它们苍白的脸上泛起阵
阵波纹，紫色的头发在周围飘荡。这音乐让哈利脖子上的毛都竖了起来，听上去不那么让人感到愉快。它如泣如诉地表达着失落和绝望。他俯视着歌手们原始的脸，有一种感觉，至少，他们在
为邓布利多的过世而感到难过。这时金妮又轻轻推了他一下，他向四周望去。
 
　　海格正在椅子之间的过道上缓缓而行。他无声地哭泣着，脸上泪光闪闪，哈利知道他的手里托着的是邓布利多的遗体，邓布利多穿着那件点缀着金色星星的紫色天鹅绒长袍。这一幕让哈利
的喉头产生了一阵剧痛：：一瞬间，那古怪的音乐和邓布利多的身体如此接近他的想法似乎带走了那一天所有的温暖。罗恩苍白的脸上全是震惊的表情。赫敏和金妮的双膝上迅速滴上了大颗的
泪珠。
 
　　他们看不清楚前面在干什么。海格似乎小心地把遗体放在了桌子上。现在他退回到通道里，像吹号一样擤着鼻子，一些人脸上露出了反感的表情，哈利看见其中包括多洛雷斯·乌姆里奇…
…但是哈利知道邓布利多并不会在意。海格经过他们的时候，哈利试图对他做一个友善的手势，但海格的眼睛肿得那么厉害，简直都可能看不到路了。哈利撇了一眼最后一排，海格正往那儿走
去，哈利意识到是谁在那儿等候，那人穿着一件夹克和一条裤子，每一个都有小号的帐篷那么大，那是巨人格洛普，他那长得像岩石一样丑陋的大脑袋向下垂着，温顺得就像个人类。海格坐到
了他同母异父的弟弟旁边，格洛普重重地拍了拍海格的脑袋，以至于他椅子的腿都陷进了地里。哈利一瞬间产生了一种想笑的惊人冲动。但是紧接着音乐停止了，他转过头又一次看着前面。
 
　　一个穿着朴素的黑色长袍、头发浓密的矮个男子站了起来，现在站到了邓布利多的遗体前。哈利听不到他在说什么。只有零星的几个词能越过数百颗脑袋飘到他们这儿。“灵魂的高贵”…
…“知识上的贡献”……“心灵的伟大”……这都不那么有意义。它与哈利所认识的那个邓布利多没什么关系。他突然想起了邓布利多对一些词的看法：“笨蛋”、“残渣”、“哭鼻子”、“
拧”，于是他再次忍住了想笑的冲动……他这是怎么了？
 
　　他的左边响起了一阵水花的声音，他看到人鱼也钻到了水面上来听。他想起邓布利多两年前蹲在水边——离哈利现在所坐的地方非常近——用人鱼话和人鱼首领交谈。哈利奇怪邓布利多是
从哪里学的人鱼话。他还有那么多的事情没有问过他，那么多他本应该说的话……
 
　　然后没有任何预兆，那可怕的事实就这么袭击了他，到今天它已经变得更加彻底，更加不可否认了。邓布利多死了，走了……他把冰冷的盒式坠子那么紧地握在手里，甚至都受伤了，但他
仍旧阻止不了热泪夺眶而出：他转过脸背对着金妮和其他人，越过湖面向禁林望去，同时那个一袭黑衣的矮个子男人还在嗡嗡地说个不停……树林里有什么东西在活动。马人们也来表达敬意了
。他们没有走到外面，可是哈利看到他们一动不动地站在那儿看着这边的巫师们，他们一半藏在阴影之中，在自己的那边鞠着躬。哈利想起了他在禁林里度过的第一个噩梦般的夜晚，他第一次
遭遇了后来得知是伏地魔的东西，想起了自己是如何面对他的，想起了不久之后自己和邓布利多讨论过打一场失败的战争。邓布利多说，战斗，再战斗，不停地战斗，这很重要，因为只有这样
邪恶才能被拒之门外，即使无法完全地根除掉……
 
　　哈利坐在火热的太阳下，眼前一个接一个清楚地浮现出了那些关心他的人，他的妈妈，他的爸爸，他的教父，最后是邓布利多，他们都下定决心要保护他；但现在那些已经结束了。他不能
再让任何人站到他和伏地魔中间；他必须永远地摈弃那个应该是从一岁时就离他而去的幻想：父母臂膀的庇护意味着没有任何东西可以伤害到他。他的噩梦从没有醒来，黑夜中从来没有安慰的
耳语告诉他其实真的很安全，它们都只存在于哈利的想象里；他最后的也是最伟大的保护者已经死了，他比从前任何时候都要孤单。
 
　　那个穿着黑袍的矮个子男人终于说完了，重新回到了他的座位上。哈利等着别的什么人站起来；他估计会有人演讲，很可能是部长，但是没有人动。
 
　　然后几个人尖叫了起来。明亮的白色火焰在邓布利多的遗体和他所躺的桌子周围爆发出来：它们越升越高，遮住了遗体。白烟旋转着升到空中，形成了奇怪的形状：哈利一瞬间心跳似乎停
止了，他觉得自己看见了一只凤凰喜悦地飞进了那团蓝色之中，但下一秒火焰就消失了。那儿成了一座白色的大理石坟墓，里面封存着邓布利多的遗体和他休息的桌子。
 
　　忽然一阵箭雨从空中呼啸而过，引起更多的叫声，可是它们都远远地落在人群之外。哈利知道这是马人的祭品：他看见他们转身消失在了阴冷的树丛里。同时人鱼们也缓慢地沉入了绿色的
湖水中消失了。
 
　　哈利看着金妮、罗恩和赫敏：罗恩的脸绷得很紧，就好像是被阳光晒瞎了一样。赫敏的脸上闪着泪光，可是金妮却没有再哭了。她回应着哈利的凝视，目光坚定、炽热，就像在那场哈利缺
席的魁地奇比赛之后拥抱他时一样，他知道那一刻他们的心灵是相通的，当他告诉金妮自己要做的事之后，她一定会接受他的决定，而不会去说“小心”和“别去做”，因为她不会对他有任何
轻视。于是他拿定主意，准备告诉她那些在邓布利多死后他知道必须要说的话。
 
　　“金妮，听我说……”他非常平静地说，这时人们开始站起来，嗡嗡的谈话声也越来越大，“我不能再连累你了。我们得停止相互见面。我们不能在一起。”
 
　　她带着扭曲得很古怪的微笑说：“是为了某个愚蠢、高贵的理由，是吗？”
 
　　“和你在一起的最后几个星期里，就好像……好像生活在没有别人的世界里一样，”哈利说。“但是我不能……我们不能……我现在有需要单独去做的事。”
 
　　她没有哭，只是看着他。
 
　　“伏地魔会利用和他的敌人亲近的人。他曾经把你用作诱饵，仅仅因为你是我最好的朋友的妹妹。想想看，如果我们继续下去，你会有多危险。他会知道的，他会发现的。他会试图通过你
找到我的。”
 
　　“如果我不在乎呢？”金妮激烈地说。
 
　　“我在乎，”哈利说。“如果今天参加的是你的葬礼，你想我会是什么感觉……那是我的错造成的……”
 
　　她转过脸，把目光移向了湖面。
 
　　“我从来没有真正放弃过你，”她说。“没有真正放弃。我总是希望……赫敏让我好好地生活，建议我去和别人约会，在你面前放松一点，因为以前你我共处一室的时候我都说不出话，记
得吗？她觉得如果我能表现出——多一点自我，也许你会对我多一点注意。”
 
　　“聪明的女孩，那个赫敏，”哈利挤出一丝笑容，“我只是希望当初能更早地向你表白。这样我们就可以有很长的时间了……几个月……也许几年……”
 
　　“可是你一直太忙于拯救巫师世界了，”金妮勉强地笑着。“嗯……我不能说我很惊讶。我知道结局会是这样。我知道你不会觉得幸福，除非去追杀伏地魔。也许那就是我如此喜欢你的原
因。”
 
　　哈利听不下去了，他觉得自己如果再坐在她身旁的话，决心就会动摇。他看见罗恩抱着伏在他肩头哭泣的赫敏，抚摸着她的头发，眼泪也在沿着他自己长长的鼻子滴落。哈利痛苦地站了起
来，背对着金妮，背对着邓布利多的坟墓，沿着湖边走去。走动要比坐着不动更容易忍受一些：就如同尽快地出发去找寻灵魂碎片，然后杀了伏地魔要比等待着去做这些事感觉更好……
 
　　“哈利！”
 
　　他转过身。鲁弗斯·斯克林杰拄着拐杖，跛着脚快步向哈利走来。
 
　　“我希望和你谈谈……你介意我跟你一起走走吗？”
 
　　“不介意。”哈利冷漠地说，继续向前走去。
 
　　“哈利，这是个可怕的悲剧，”斯克林杰平静地说，“我无法形容听说这件事以后自己有多么震惊。邓布利多是一个非常伟大的巫师。如你所知，我们有不同的意见，但是没有人比我更清
楚——”
 
　　“你想要什么？”哈利直截了当地问。
 
　　斯克林杰看上去有些恼怒，但是和从前一样，又赶紧把表情调整到了悲伤的谅解。
 
　　“当然，你的打击很大，”他说。“我知道你和邓布利多非常亲近。我想你也许是他最喜欢的学生。你们俩之间的联系——”
 
　　“你想要什么？”哈利停下了脚步，重复了一遍。
 
　　斯克林杰也停下了，他拄着拐杖盯着哈利，表情十分精明。
 
　　“听说他死的那天晚上和你一起离开了学校。”
 
　　“谁说的？”哈利说。
 
　　“邓布利多死后有人在塔楼上对一个食死徒施了昏迷咒。那儿还有两把飞天扫帚。魔法部会做加法，哈利。”
 
　　“听到这个我很高兴，”哈利说。“好吧，我和邓布利多去了哪儿，做了什么都是我自己的事。他不想让别人知道。”
 
　　“如此的忠诚当然令人钦佩，”斯克林杰似乎正在艰难地抑制自己的愤怒，“可是邓布利多已经不在了，哈利。他不在了。”
 
　　“只有到学校里不再有人忠于他时，他才会不在了，”哈利不由自主地微笑了起来。
 
　　“我亲爱的孩子……就连邓布利多也不可能从——”
 
　　“我不是说他能回来。你不会明白的。但是我对你无可奉告。”
 
　　斯克林杰犹豫了一下，然后用一种明显很圆滑的口吻说，“魔法部可以给你提供各种保护，哈利。我愿意安排一两个我的傲罗任你差遣——”
 
　　哈利大笑了起来。
 
　　“伏地魔想要亲自杀死我，傲罗们拦不住他。所以非常感谢这个帮助，但是我不要。”
 
　　“那么，”斯克林杰的声音变冷了，“圣诞节的时候我提出的那个请求——”
 
　　“什么请求？哦，对……就是要我告诉全世界你正在做一项多么伟大的工作，以换取——”
 
　　“——每个人士气的提升！”斯克林杰猛地打断他说。
 
　　哈利仔细地看了看他。
 
　　“释放斯坦·桑帕克了吗？”
 
　　斯克林杰的脸变成了一种难看的紫色，让他立刻联想到了弗农姨父。
 
　　“我明白了，你——”
 
　　“从头到脚都是邓布利多的人，”哈利说。“没错。”
 
　　斯克林杰瞪了他一会儿，然后没有再说一句话，转过身跛着脚走了。哈利看到珀西和部长的代表团里剩下的人都在等他，他们紧张地瞟着还在座位上抽泣的海格和格洛普。罗恩和赫敏急匆
匆地向哈利走来，途中经过了正在往反方向走的斯克林杰；哈利转过身，慢慢地接着走，等他们赶上来，最后他们坐到了一棵山毛榉的树荫下，他们曾在那棵树下度过了许多比现在更快乐的时
光。
 
　　“斯克林杰想要干什么？”赫敏小声说。
 
　　“跟他圣诞节时想要的东西一样，”哈利耸了耸肩。“想要我向他透露我和邓布利多之间的事，然后做魔法部新的形象代言人。”
 
　　罗恩似乎挣扎了一会儿，然后他大声对赫敏说，“听着，我要去揍珀西！”
 
　　“不行，”她抓住他的胳膊坚定地说。
 
　　“这样会让我感觉好一点！”
 
　　哈利笑了。连赫敏微微咧嘴笑了笑，可她抬头看城堡的时候笑容就褪去了。
 
　　“
Chapter 2 Spinner's End
Many miles away the chilly mist that had pressed against the Prime Minister's windows drifted over a dirty river that wound between overgrown, rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the black water and no sign of life apart from a scrawny fox that had slunk down the bank to nose hopefully at some old fish-and-chip wrappings in the tall grass.
But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.
With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized.
“Wait!”
The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.
The second figure turned over the animal with its toe.
“Just a fox,” said a woman's voice dismissively from under the hood. “I thought perhaps an Auror—Cissy, wait!”
But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at the flash of light, was already scrambling up the bank the fox had just fallen down.
“Cissy—Narcissa—listen to me—”
The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other wrenched it away.
“Go back, Bella!”
“You must listen to me!”
“I've listened already. I've made my decision. Leave me alone!”
The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the bank, where a line of old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street. The other woman, Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood looking across the road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness.
“He lives here?” asked Bella in a voice of contempt. “Here? In this Muggle dunghill? We must be the first of our kind ever to set foot—”
But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped through a gap in the rusty railings and was already hurrying across the road.
“Cissy, wait!”
Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw Narcissa darting through an alley between the houses into a second, almost identical street. Some of the streetlamps were broken; the two women were running between patches of light and deep darkness. The pursuer caught up with her prey just as she turned another corner, this time succeeding in catching hold of her arm and swinging her around so that they faced each other.
“Cissy, you must not do this, you can't trust him—”
“The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn't he?”
“The Dark Lord is... I believe... mistaken,” Bella panted, and her eyes gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that they were indeed alone. “In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord's—”
“Let go, Bella!” snarled Narcissa, and she drew a wand from beneath her cloak, holding it threateningly in the other's face. Bella merely laughed.
“Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn't—”
“There is nothing I wouldn't do anymore!” Narcissa breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there was another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister's arm as though burned.
“Narcissa!”
But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Rubbing her hand, her pursuer followed again, keeping her distance now, as they moved deeper into the deserted labyrinth of brick houses. At last, Narcissa hurried up a street named Spinner's End, over which the towering mill chimney seemed to hover like a giant admonitory finger. Her footsteps echoed on the cobbles as she passed boarded and broken windows, until she reached the very last house, where a dim light glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs room.
She had knocked on the door before Bella, cursing under her breath, had caught up. Together they stood waiting, panting slightly, breathing in the smell of the dirty river that was carried to them on the night breeze. After a few seconds, they heard movement behind the door and it opened a crack. A sliver of a man could be seen looking out at them, a man with long black hair parted in curtains around a sallow face and black eyes.
Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale that she seemed to shine in the darkness; the long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the look of a drowned person.
“Narcissa!” said the man, opening the door a little wider, so that the light fell upon her and her sister too. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Severus,” she said in a strained whisper. “May I speak to you? It's urgent.”
“But of course.”
He stood back to allow her to pass him into the house. Her still-hooded sister followed without invitation.
“Snape,” she said curtly as she passed him.
“Bellatrix,” he replied, his thin mouth curling into a slightly mocking smile as he closed the door with a snap behind them.
They had stepped directly into a tiny sitting room, which had the feeling of a dark, padded cell. The walls were completely covered in books, most of them bound in old black or brown leather; a threadbare sofa, an old armchair, and a rickety table stood grouped together in a pool of dim light cast by a candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place had an air of neglect, as though it was not usually inhabited.
Snape gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off her cloak, cast it aside, and sat down, staring at her white and trembling hands clasped in her lap. Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly. Dark as her sister was fair, with heavily lidded eyes and a strong jaw, she did not take her gaze from Snape as she moved to stand behind Narcissa.
“So, what can I do for you?” Snape asked, settling himself in the armchair opposite the two sisters.
“We... we are alone, aren't we?” Narcissa asked quietly.
“Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail's here, but we're not counting vermin, are we?”
He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him and with a bang, a hidden door flew open, revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man stood frozen.
“As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests,” said Snape lazily.
The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps and moved into the room. He had small, watery eyes, a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant simper. His left hand was caressing his right, which looked as though it was encased in a bright silver glove.
“Narcissa!” he said, in a squeaky voice. “And Bellatrix! How charming—”
“Wormtail will get us drinks, if you'd like them,” said Snape. “And then he will return to his bedroom.”
Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown something at him.
“I am not your servant!” he squeaked, avoiding Snape's eye.
“Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to assist me.”
“To assist, yes—but not to make you drinks and—and clean your house!”
“I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more dangerous assignments,” said Snape silkily. “This can be easily arranged: I shall speak to the Dark Lord—”
“I can speak to him myself if I want to!”
“Of course you can,” said Snape, sneering. “But in the meantime, bring us drinks. Some of the elf-made wine will do.”
Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though he might argue, but then turned and headed through a second hidden door. They heard banging and a clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back, bearing a dusty bottle and three glasses upon a tray. He dropped these on the rickety table and scurried from their presence, slamming the book-covered door behind him.
Snape poured out three glasses of blood-red wine and handed two of them to the sisters. Narcissa murmured a word of thanks, whilst Bellatrix said nothing, but continued to glower at Snape. This did not seem to discompose him; on the contrary, he looked rather amused.
“The Dark Lord,” he said, raising his glass and draining it.
The sisters copied him. Snape refilled their glasses.
As Narcissa took her second drink she said in a rush, “Severus, I'm sorry to come here like this, but I had to see you. I think you are the only one who can help me—”
Snape held up a hand to stop her, then pointed his wand again at the concealed staircase door. There was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by the sound of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs.
“My apologies,” said Snape. “He has lately taken to listening at doors, I don't know what he means by it... you were saying, Narcissa?”
She took a great, shuddering breath and started again.
“Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to anyone, but—”
“Then you ought to hold your tongue!” snarled Bellatrix. “Particularly in present company!”
“‘Present company’?” repeated Snape sardonically. “And what am I to understand by that, Bellatrix?”
“That I don't trust you, Snape, as you very well know!”
Narcissa let out a noise that might have been a dry sob and covered her face with her hands. Snape set his glass down upon the table and sat back again, his hands upon the arms of his chair, smiling into Bellatrix's glowering face.
“Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is bursting to say; it will save tedious interruptions. Well, continue, Bellatrix,” said Snape. “Why is it that you do not trust me?”
“A hundred reasons!” she said loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to slam her glass upon the table. “Where to start! Where were you when the Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him when he vanished? What have you been doing all these years that you've lived in Dumbledore's pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord procuring the Sorcerer's Stone? Why did you not return at once when the Dark Lord was reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago when we battled to retrieve the prophecy for the Dark Lord? And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive, when you have had him at your mercy for five years?”
She paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the color high in her cheeks. Behind her, Narcissa sat motionless, her face still hidden in her hands.
Snape smiled.
“Before I answer you—oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going to answer! You can carry my words back to the others who whisper behind my back, and carry false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I answer you, I say, let me ask a question in turn. Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every one of those questions? And do you really think that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you?”
She hesitated.
“I know he believes you, but...”
“You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?”
Bellatrix said nothing, but looked, for the first time, a little discomfited. Snape did not press the point. He picked up his drink again, sipped it, and continued, “You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was where he had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because he wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I presume, that it was on the Dark Lord's orders that I took up the post?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened her mouth, but Snape forestalled her.
“You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius,” he inclined his head slightly to Narcissa, “and many others did not attempt to find him. I believed him finished. I am not proud of it, I was wrong, but there it is... if he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would have very few followers left.”
“He'd have me!” said Bellatrix passionately. “I, who spent many years in Azkaban for him!”
“Yes, indeed, most admirable,” said Snape in a bored voice. “Of course, you weren't a lot of use to him in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly fine—”
“Gesture!” she shrieked; in her fury she looked slightly mad. “While I endured the dementors, you remained at Hogwarts, comfortably playing Dumbledore's pet!”
“Not quite,” said Snape calmly. “He wouldn't give me the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, you know. Seemed to think it might, ah, bring about a relapse... tempt me into my old ways.”
“This was your sacrifice for the Dark Lord, not to teach your favorite subject?” she jeered. “Why did you stay there all that time, Snape? Still spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?”
“Hardly,” said Snape, “although the Dark Lord is pleased that I never deserted my post: I had sixteen years of information on Dumbledore to give him when he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back present than endless reminiscences of how unpleasant Azkaban is...”
“But you stayed —”
“Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed,” said Snape, betraying a hint of impatience for the first time. “I had a comfortable job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban. They were rounding up the Death Eaters, you know. Dumbledore's protection kept me out of jail; it was most convenient and I used it. I repeat: The Dark Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see why you do.
“I think you next wanted to know,” he pressed on, a little more loudly, for Bellatrix showed every sign of interrupting, “why I stood between the Dark Lord and the Sorcerer's Stone. That is easily answered. He did not know whether he could trust me. He thought, like you, that I had turned from faithful Death Eater to Dumbledore's stooge. He was in a pitiable condition, very weak, sharing the body of a mediocre wizard. He did not dare reveal himself to a former ally if that ally might turn him over to Dumbledore or the Ministry. I deeply regret that he did not trust me. He would have returned to power three years sooner. As it was, I saw only greedy and unworthy Quirrell attempting to steal the stone and, I admit, I did all I could to thwart him.”
Bellatrix's mouth twisted as though she had taken an unpleasant dose of medicine.
“But you didn't return when he came back, you didn't fly back to him at once when you felt the Dark Mark burn —”
“Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on Dumbledore's orders.”
“On Dumbledore's—?” she began, in tones of outrage.
“Think!” said Snape, impatient again. “Think! By waiting two hours, just two hours, I ensured that I could remain at Hogwarts as a spy! By allowing Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the Dark Lord's side because I was ordered to, I have been able to pass information on Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix ever since! Consider, Bellatrix: the Dark Mark had been growing stronger for months. I knew he must be about to return, all the Death Eaters knew! I had plenty of time to think about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to escape like Karkaroff, didn't I?
“The Dark Lord's initial displeasure at my lateness vanished entirely, I assure you, when I explained that I remained faithful, although Dumbledore thought I was his man. Yes, the Dark Lord thought that I had left him forever, but he was wrong.”
“But what use have you been?” sneered Bellatrix. “What useful information have we had from you?”
“My information has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord,” said Snape. “If he chooses not to share it with you —”
“He shares everything with me!” said Bellatrix, firing up at once. “He calls me his most loyal, his most faithful —”
“Does he?” said Snape, his voice delicately inflected to suggest his disbelief. “Does he still, after the fiasco at the Ministry?”
“That was not my fault!” said Bellatrix, flushing. “The Dark Lord has, in the past, entrusted me with his most precious—if Lucius hadn't —”
“Don't you dare—don't you dare blame my husband!” said Narcissa, in a low and deadly voice, looking up at her sister.
“There is no point apportioning blame,” said Snape smoothly. “What is done, is done.”
“But not by you!” said Bellatrix furiously. “No, you were once again absent while the rest of us ran dangers, were you not, Snape?”
“My orders were to remain behind,” said Snape. “Perhaps you disagree with the Dark Lord, perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the Order of the Phoenix? And—forgive me—you speak of dangers... you were facing six teenagers, were you not?”
“They were joined, as you very well know, by half of the Order before long!” snarled Bellatrix. “And, while we are on the subject of the Order, you still claim you cannot reveal the whereabouts of their headquarters, don't you?”
“I am not the Secret-Keeper; I cannot speak the name of the place. You understand how the enchantment works, I think? The Dark Lord is satisfied with the information I have passed him on the Order. It led, as perhaps you have guessed, to the recent capture and murder of Emmeline Vance, and it certainly helped dispose of Sirius Black, though I give you full credit for finishing him off.”
He inclined his head and toasted her. Her expression did nor soften.
“You are avoiding my last question, Snape. Harry Potter. You could have killed him at any point in the past five years. You have not done it. Why?”
“Have you discussed this matter with the Dark Lord?” asked Snape.
“He... lately, we... I am asking you, Snape!”
“If I had murdered Harry Potter, the Dark Lord could not have used his blood to regenerate, making him invincible —”
“You claim you foresaw his use of the boy!” she jeered.
“I do not claim it; I had no idea of his plans; I have already confessed that I thought the Dark Lord dead. I am merely trying to explain why the Dark Lord is not sorry that Potter survived, at least until a year ago...”
“But why did you keep him alive?”
“Have you not understood me? It was only Dumbledore's protection that was keeping me out of Azkaban! Do you disagree that murdering his favorite student might have turned him against me? But there was more to it than that. I should remind you that when Potter first arrived at Hogwarts there were still many stories circulating about him, rumors that he himself was a great Dark wizard, which was how he had survived the Dark Lord's attack. Indeed, many of the Dark Lord's old followers thought Potter might be a standard around which we could all rally once more. I was curious, I admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set foot in the castle.
“Of course, it became apparent to me very quickly that he had no extraordinary talent at all. He has fought his way out of a number of tight corners by a simple combination of sheer luck and more talented friends. He is mediocre to the last degree, though as obnoxious and self-satisfied as was his father before him. I have done my utmost to have him thrown out of Hogwarts, where I believe he scarcely belongs, but kill him, or allow him to be killed in front of me? I would have been a fool to risk it with Dumbledore close at hand.”
“And through all this we are supposed to believe Dumbledore has never suspected you?” asked Bellatrix. “He has no idea of your true allegiance, he trusts you implicitly still?”
“I have played my part well,” said Snape. “And you overlook Dumbledore's greatest weakness: he has to believe the best of people. I spun him a tale of deepest remorse when I joined his staff, fresh from my Death Eater days, and he embraced me with open arms—though, as I say, never allowing me nearer the Dark Arts than he could help. Dumbledore has been a great wizard—oh yes, he has,” (for Bellatrix had made a scathing noise), “the Dark Lord acknowledges it. I am pleased to say, however, that Dumbledore is growing old. The duel with the Dark Lord last month shook him. He has since sustained a serious injury because his reactions are slower than they once were. But through all these years, he has never stopped trusting Severus Snape, and therein lies my great value to the Dark Lord.”
Bellatrix still looked unhappy, though she appeared unsure how best to attack Snape next. Taking advantage of her silence, Snape turned to her sister.
“Now... you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?”
Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with despair.
“Yes, Severus... think you are the only one who can help me, I have nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and...”
She closed her eyes and two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids.
“The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it,” Narcissa continued, her eyes still closed. “He wishes none to know of the plan. It is... very secret. But —”
“If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak,” said Snape at once. “The Dark Lord's word is law.”
Narcissa gasped as though he had doused her with cold water. Bellatrix looked satisfied for the first time since she had entered the house.
“There!” she said triumphantly to her sister. “Even Snape says so: You were told not to talk, so hold your silence!”
But Snape had gotten to his feet and strode to the small window, peered through the curtains at the deserted street, then closed them again with a jerk. He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning.
“It so happens that I know of the plan,” he said in a low voice. “I am one of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the secret, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark Lord.”
“I thought you must know about it!” said Narcissa, breathing more freely. “He trusts you so, Severus...”
“You know about the plan?” said Bellatrix, her fleeting expression of satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. “You know?”
“Certainly,” said Snape. “But what help do you require, Narcissa? If you are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all.”
“Severus,” she whispered, tears sliding down her pale cheeks. “My son... my only son...”
“Draco should be proud,” said Bellatrix indifferently. “The Dark Lord is granting him a great honor. And I will say this for Draco: he isn't shrinking away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at the prospect —”
Narcissa began to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly all the while at Snape.
“That's because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store! Why, Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance lor Lucius's mistake, I know it!”
Snape said nothing. He looked away from the sight of her tears as though they were indecent, but he could not pretend not to hear her.
“That's why he's chosen Draco, isn't it?” she persisted. “To punish Lucius?”
“If Draco succeeds,” said Snape, still looking away from her, “he will be honored above all others.”
“But he won't succeed!” sobbed Narcissa. “How can he, when the Dark Lord himself— ?”
Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve.
“I only meant... that nobody has yet succeeded... Severus... please... you are, you have always been, Draco's favorite teacher... you are Lucius's old friend... I beg you... you are the Dark Lord's favorite, his most trusted advisor... will you speak to him, persuade him—?”
“The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not stupid enough to attempt it,” said Snape flatly. “I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not angry with Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge. He got himself captured, along with how many others, and failed to retrieve the prophecy into the bargain. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed.”
“Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!” choked Narcissa. “He does not mean him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!”
When Snape said nothing, Narcissa seemed to lose what little self-restraint she still possessed. Standing up, she staggered to Snape and seized the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling onto his chest, she gasped, “You could do it. You could do it instead of Draco, Severus. You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond all of us —”
Snape caught hold of her wrists and removed her clutching hands. Looking down into her tearstained face, he said slowly, “He intends me to do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my useful role as spy.”
“In other words, it doesn't matter to him if Draco is killed!”
“The Dark Lord is very angry,” repeated Snape quietly. “He failed to hear the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive easily.”
She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the floor.
“My only son... my only son...”
“You should be proud!” said Bellatrix ruthlessly. “If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!”
Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched at her long blonde hair. Snape stooped, seized her by the arms, lifted her up, and steered her back onto the sofa. He then poured her more wine iind forced the glass into her hand.
“Narcissa, that's enough. Drink this. Listen to me.”
She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she took a shaky sip.
“It might be possible... for me to help Draco.”
She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes huge.
“Severus—oh, Severus—you would help him? Would you look after him, see he comes to no harm?”
“I can try.”
She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table as she slid off the sofa into a kneeling position at Snape's feet, seized his hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips to it.
“If you are there to protect him... Severus, will you swear it? Will you make the Unbreakable Vow?”
“The Unbreakable Vow?”
Snape's expression was blank, unreadable. Bellatrix, however, let out a cackle of triumphant laughter.
“Aren't you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he'll try, I'm sure... the usual empty words, the usual slithering out of action... oh, on the Dark Lord's orders, of course!”
Snape did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were fixed upon Narcissa's tear-filled blue ones as she continued to clutch his hand.
“Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow,” he said quietly. “Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder.”
Bellatrix's mouth fell open. Snape lowered himself so that he was kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath Bellatrix's astonished gaze, they grasped right hands.
“You will need your wand, Bellatrix,” said Snape coldly.
She drew it, still looking astonished.
“And you will need to move a little closer,” he said.
She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and placed the tip of her wand on their linked hands.
Narcissa spoke.
“Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts ta fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes?”
“I will,” said Snape.
A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way around their hands like a red-hot wire.
“And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?”
“I will,” said Snape.
A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain.
“And, should it prove necessary... if it seems Draco will fail...” whispered Narcissa (Snape's hand twitched within hers, but he did not draw away), “will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?”
There was a moment's silence. Bellatrix watched, her wand upon their clasped hands, her eyes wide.
“I will,” said Snape.
Bellatrix's astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a third unique flame, which shot from the wand, twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly around their clasped hands, like a fiery snake.
　　压迫在首相窗户上的雾，一直绵延到离那里很远的一条肮脏小河上，那条河两岸杂草丛生，垃圾密布。一个巨大的烟囱突兀地立在那儿，显得阴暗而恐怖，那是一座废弃的磨粉厂的遗迹。周围一点声音都没有，只有那条黑色的小河流过时发出沙沙的声响，一条瘦骨嶙峋狐狸鬼鬼祟祟地蹿出来，在高高的杂草中满怀希望地翻寻油炸鱼和土豆片的旧包装。除此之外，没有一点儿迹象显示这里有活的生命。
 
　　突然，河边传来一声微弱的爆鸣，一个身材苗条，戴着兜帽的人从稀薄的空气中走了出来。狐狸一下子呆住了，警觉地盯着这不寻常的一幕。那人似乎找了一会儿方向，然后便迈着轻快的步子走了过来，长长的斗篷拂过杂草，发出瑟瑟的声响。
 
　　接着又是一声爆鸣，又一个戴着兜帽的人出现了。
 
　　“等等我！”
 
　　那只狐狸蜷缩在丛生的杂草里面，似乎被这一声刺耳的叫唤吓着了。它突然从隐藏的地方跳起来，向上游跑去。这时候突然闪过一道绿色的光，接着一声惨叫，狐狸倒在地上死了。
 
　　第二个人走上去用脚尖将狐狸翻了过来。
 
　　“只是一只狐狸，”一个轻蔑女声从兜帽下传出来。“我还以为是个傲罗——西斯，等等我！”
 
　　她追的那个人刚才回头看了一眼那道闪光，又继续匆匆地往岸上走去。
 
　　“西斯——纳西莎——听我说——”
 
　　第二个女人抓住了前面那个女人的胳膊，但她又马上挣脱了。
 
　　“你回去，贝拉！”
 
　　“你必须听我说！”
 
　　“我已经听过了。也做了决定，别再烦我了！”
 
　　那个叫纳西莎的女人已经爬上了岸，岸上的旧护栏将小河与一条狭窄的鹅卵石路分隔开。另外那个叫贝拉的女人马上跟了上来。
 
　　她们并肩站在路边，看着对面一排排破烂的砖房，它们的窗户在黑暗中显得昏沉而隐蔽。
 
　　“他住在这儿？”贝拉特里克斯轻蔑地问。“这儿？在这个麻瓜聚集的粪堆里？我们一定是我们这类人里第一个涉足——”
 
　　但纳西莎根本没有听她说；她已经从生锈的护栏里找了个缺口钻了过去，急匆匆地准备过马路了。
 
　　“西斯，等等！”
 
　　贝拉紧紧跟着，袍子在身后微微飘起，她看见纳西莎穿过了一个房子之间的小巷，拐入另一个几乎一模一样的巷子。有些街灯已经坏了；两个女人就在这斑驳的灯光和黑暗里跑着。贝拉终于在又转了一个拐角之后追上了纳西莎，这次她成功抓住了纳西莎的胳臂并把她扯了过来。
 
　　“西斯，你不能这么做，你不能信任他——”
 
　　“黑魔王是信任他的，不是吗？”
 
　　“黑魔王……我相信……是犯了个错误，”贝拉喘着气，当她看到四周没有别人时，兜帽里下的眼睛闪了一下。“在任何情况下，我们都不能把这个计划告诉别人。这是对黑魔王的背叛——”
 
　　“放开我，贝拉！”纳西莎咆哮着从斗篷下抽出一根魔杖，威胁般地指着另一个人的脸。可贝拉只是笑了笑。
 
　　“西斯，指着你自己的姐姐？你不会——”
 
　　“再也没有我不敢做的任何事情！”纳西莎吸了口气，声音显得有些歇斯底里，她把魔杖像刀子一样往下一挥，只见又是一道闪光，贝拉像被烫伤一样松开了她妹妹的手。
 
　　“纳西莎！”
 
　　但纳西莎已经往前冲了过去。贝拉摩挲着手掌跟在后面，这次保持了一点距离，她们往迷宫一样的砖房里越走越深。最后纳西莎赶到了一个叫做蛛尾巷的小道上，从这儿往上望去，磨粉厂的烟囱高耸着，就像一个巨人在晃动他警告的手指。她的脚步声在鹅卵石路上回荡，在经过了许多被木板遮起来或是干脆被打碎的窗户之后，她终于走到了最后一间屋子，一片模糊的灯光从楼下房间的窗帘里透射出来。
 
　　她敲了敲门，这时贝拉咒骂着从后面赶了上了。他们一起站在门外，微微喘气，闻着夜风从河边送来过来的气息。几秒钟之后，她们听到门后面有了动静，只听咔的一声，门打开了。一个瘦长的男人盯着她们俩，他有一头长长的黑发，绕在一张长着黑色眼睛的蜡黄色脸上。
 
　　纳西莎把兜帽往后一掀。她脸色看起来非常苍白，以至于在黑暗中都有些发亮；一头金发一直披到她的背上，看上去就像一个溺死的人。
 
　　“纳西莎！”那个男人把门开得更大了些，好让光线照到了姐妹俩身上。“真是一个惊喜。”
 
　　“西弗勒斯，”她紧张地低声说。“我能跟你谈谈吗？这很紧急。”
 
　　“当然。”
 
　　他闪身让她进了屋。而她仍旧戴着兜帽的姐姐也跟着进去了，尽管没有被邀请。
 
　　“斯内普，”她简略地说。
 
　　“贝拉特里克斯，”他回敬道，嘴角卷起一个微微的嘲笑，在她们身后关上了门。
 
　　她们径直走进了一个矮小的起居室，感觉就像走进了一间病房。几面墙都装满了书，大多数都用黑色或者褐色的皮革装订起来；一个俗气的沙发、一把老式的扶手椅和一张摇摇晃晃的桌子放在一起，被屋顶上蜡烛吊灯投射出的昏暗光线笼罩着。这里感觉起来就像是一个被遗忘的角落，似乎通常都没有人住。
 
　　斯内普让纳西莎坐到沙发上。她脱下斗篷扔到一边，然后坐了下来，两眼盯着搁在膝盖上的苍白而颤抖的双手。贝拉特里克斯摘下兜帽的速度就要慢得多了。虽然她妹妹长得很漂亮，可她却非常黑，耷拉着厚厚的眼睑，还长着粗壮的下巴，她站到妹妹的身后，眼睛却始终盯着斯内普。
 
　　“那么，有什么我能做的吗？”斯内普问道，同时做到面对着两姐妹的扶手椅上。
 
　　“没有别人了吧……，是吗？”纳西莎轻声问。
 
　　“当然没有。哦，虫尾巴在这儿，但我们说的是人而不是虫子，对吗？”
 
　　他把魔杖指向他身后的一面满是书的墙，砰的一声，一扇隐藏的门打开了，里面的狭窄楼梯上站着一个呆若木鸡的人。
 
　　“正如你发现的，虫尾巴，我们有客人来了，”斯内普懒懒地说。
 
　　那个男人躬着背蹑手蹑脚地从最后几级台阶上走下来。他长了一双水汪汪的小眼睛，一个尖头鼻子，脸上挂着令人讨厌的假笑。他的左手轻轻抚摸着右臂，那只右臂看起来像是被一只银色手套包着。
 
　　“纳西莎！”他尖声说，“还有贝拉特里克斯！多么奇妙——”
 
　　“如果你们想要点喝的，虫尾巴会乐意效劳的，”斯内普说。“然后他就会回卧室。”
 
　　虫尾巴往后一退，就像斯内普朝他扔了什么东西一样。
 
　　“我不是你的仆人！”他避开斯内普的目光，尖声叫道。
 
　　“真的吗？我记得是黑魔王派你来协助我的。”
 
　　“是协助，对——不是给你端茶送水，也——也不是给你打扫房间！”
 
　　“我不知道，虫尾巴，你还会渴求更危险的任务，”斯内普温和地说道。“这很容易办到，我会对黑魔王说——”
 
　　“我想要说的话我自己能去说！”
 
　　“当然能，” 斯内普冷笑着说。“但现在，给我们拿点喝的来，一些小精灵酿的酒就成。”
 
　　虫尾巴犹豫了一小会儿，看上去想要再争辩，但他还是转身走向了另一扇隐藏起来的门。他们听到一声巨响，然后是玻璃杯碰撞的声音。片刻之后他回来了，用盘子托着一个灰尘扑扑的瓶子和三个玻璃杯。
 
　　他把这些扔在摇摇晃晃的桌子上面，就急忙走开了，在他的身后猛地关上了那扇用书盖起来的门。
 
　　斯内普把血红色的酒倒在三个玻璃杯里，然后把其中两杯递给了两姐妹。纳西莎嘟囔了一句谢谢，可贝拉特里克斯什么都没说，仍旧对斯内普怒目而视。这看起来没有令他感到不安，相反地，他看上去相当愉快。
 
　　“祝福黑魔王，”他说着，举起杯子一饮而尽。
 
　　两姐妹也照他的样子做了。斯内普又给她们斟满了酒。
 
　　纳西莎一边喝她的第二杯酒，一边急促地说，“西弗勒斯，非常抱歉我这么冒昧地来拜访你，但我必须来见你。我觉得只有你能帮我——”
 
　　斯内普抬手制止了她继续说下去，把魔杖指向那扇通往楼梯的门。随着一声巨响和尖叫，传来虫尾巴急匆匆上楼的声音。
 
　　“抱歉，”斯内普说道，“他最近总是爱在门后偷听，我不知道他这样做是什么意思……你说到哪儿了，纳西莎？”
 
　　她颤抖着深吸了一口气，继续讲道。
 
　　“西弗勒斯，我知道我不该来这儿，我不能把任何事情告诉任何人，但是——”
 
　　“那你就应该住嘴！”贝拉特里克斯咆哮起来。“尤其是在当着这种人的面！”
 
　　“这种人？”斯内普讽刺般地重复着。“那么我应该怎样理解，贝拉特里克斯？”
 
　　“那就是我不信任你，斯内普，你知道得很清楚。”
 
　　纳西莎发出一声像是干哭的声音，用手捂住了脸。斯内普把他的杯子放回桌子上，又坐了回去，他双手放在椅子扶手上，微笑地望着贝拉特里克斯愤怒的脸。
 
　　“纳西莎，我认为我们应该听听贝拉特里克斯到底要说什么，这样她就不会老打断我们了。好吧，接着说，贝拉特里克斯，”斯内普说。“你为什么不信任我。”
 
　　“一百个理由！”她大声说着，大步从沙发后面走过来，在桌子上砰地放下手中的杯子。“从何说起！黑魔王失败的时候你去了哪儿？他消失的那段时间你为什么不尝试去找他？这么多年你在邓布利多的庇护下都做了些什么？为什么你要阻止黑魔王拿到魔法石？为什么黑魔王重生的那天你没有马上过来？几个星期前，当我们为了找回黑魔王的预言而浴血奋战的时候，你又在哪儿？而又是为什么，斯内普，在过去的五年里要让哈利•波特在你的仁慈下一直活着？”
 
　　她停住了，胸口剧烈起伏着，脸颊泛起红晕。在她身后纳西莎没有一点反应地坐着，她的脸仍然埋在双手之中。
 
　　斯内普微微一笑。
 
　　“在我回答你之前——哦，是的，贝拉特里克斯，我会回答你的！你可以把我的话转达给那些在我背后窃窃私语的人，把我背叛他的不实传闻带回去给黑魔王。在我回答你之前，我说，让我再问你一个问题。你真的认为黑魔王没有问过我所有的这些问题吗？你真的觉得，如果我没有给出令他满意的答复，他还会让我坐在这里和你说话吗？”
 
　　她迟疑了。
 
　　“我知道他相信你，但——”
 
　　“你认为他错了？或者我蒙蔽了他？认为我愚弄了黑魔王，愚弄了这个最伟大的巫师，愚弄了这个世界上把摄神取念玩弄得最为娴熟的人？”
 
　　贝拉特里克斯什么都没有说，但第一次看起来有点儿尴尬了。斯内普并没有在这一点上纠缠。他又拿起他的酒杯，啜饮了一小口，然后继续说道，“你问我黑魔王失败的时候去了哪儿，我正在他命令我待的地方，霍格沃茨魔法学校，因为他希望我能刺探阿不思•邓布利多。我以为你知道，我是奉黑魔王的命令而坚守我的岗位。”
 
　　她几乎察觉不到地点了点头，正准备张嘴说话，斯内普又制止了她。
 
　　“你问我他消失的那段时间为什么不尝试去找他。和埃弗里、雅克利、卡罗夫妇、格雷巴克、卢修斯的理由一样，”他把头微微倾向纳西莎，“还有许许多多的人，都没有去找他。我相信他完了。我并不感到高兴，我错了，不过……如果他不原谅我们这些一度失去信念的人，他就不会剩下几个追随者了。”
 
　　“他还有我！”贝拉特里克斯激昂地说。“我，为了他在阿兹卡班蹲了那么多年。”
 
　　“是的，确实，很令人钦佩，”斯内普用一种无趣的腔调说。“当然，你在监狱里对他来说毫无用处，不过这种姿态无疑很不错——”
 
　　“姿态！”她尖叫着说；看起来快被气疯了。“我在忍受摄魂怪的折磨，你却还在霍格沃茨，舒舒服服地做邓布利多的宠物！”
 
　　“并不完全是这样，”斯内普平静地说。“他不肯让我做黑魔法防御术课老师，你知道。他似乎相信这会令我故态复萌……引诱我走向我的老路。”
 
　　“这就是你为黑魔王做的牺牲，教不了你最喜欢的科目？”她嘲讽道。“那你为什么还要待在那儿，去为一个你认为都死了的主人去刺探邓布利多？”
 
　　“勉强为之，”斯内普说，“尽管黑魔王对我没有擅离岗位而感到高兴：当他回来的时候，我给他提供了关于邓布利多整整十六年的情报作为见面礼，比起那些对讨厌的阿兹卡班监狱无穷无尽的记忆要有用得多……”
 
　　“但你留下了——”
 
　　“是的，贝拉特里克斯，我留下了，”斯内普第一次流露出不耐烦的迹象。“我有一个比困在阿兹卡班监狱要舒服得多的活儿。你知道他们在追捕食死徒。邓布利多的保护让我逃脱了牢狱之灾，占了大便宜。我再说一遍：连黑魔王都没有抱怨我待在那儿，我不知道你有什么理由这样做。”
 
　　“我想你下面该想要知道，”他接着说，微微提高了音量，因为贝拉特里克斯看起来又想打断他，“为什么我要挡在黑魔王和魔法石之间。这很容易回答。他不能确定是否该信任我。他和你一样，也以为我从一个忠实的食死徒转变成了邓布利多身边的小丑。他的处境很可怜，非常虚弱，和一个普通巫师共用一个身体。他不敢向任何一个昔日的战友暴露自己，害怕他们会把他出卖给邓布利多或者是魔法部。我为他不信任我而感到深深的遗憾。他本可以早回来三年。事实上，我只看到贪婪和卑劣的奇洛去试图盗取魔法石，所以，我承认我我尽我所能去阻止了他。”
 
　　贝拉特里克斯的嘴巴像吞了什么难吃的药似的扭了扭。
 
　　“但当他回来的时候你并没有返回到他身边，当你感到黑魔标记灼痛的时候并没有立刻飞回他的身边——”
 
　　“不错。我两小时后才回去。我是遵照邓布利多的命令回去的。”
 
　　“遵照邓布利多的——？”她愤怒地说。
 
　　“想想看！”斯内普又开始不耐烦了。“只需要多等两个小时，只是两个小时，我就确保了自己还能待在霍格沃茨继续做我的间谍！让邓布利多以为我只是按照他的命令回去的，那之后我还能继续从邓布利多和凤凰社得到消息！想想看，贝拉特里克斯：黑魔标记在那几个月里力量越来越强大，我知道他一定准备卷土重来了，所有的食死徒都知道！我有足够的时间考虑我要做什么，计划我的下一步行动，去像卡卡洛夫一样溜走，不是吗？”
 
　　“黑魔王起初对我的迟到非常不满，但我向你保证,当我解释了尽管邓布利多认为我是他那边的人，但我对黑魔王仍旧忠诚之后，是的，黑魔王一度以为我永远离开他了，然而他弄错了。”
 
　　“但是你起到了什么作用？”贝拉特里克斯冷笑道，“你给了我们什么有用的情报？”
 
　　“我的情报直接传达给黑魔王，”斯内普说，“也许他选择了不告诉你——”
 
　　“他什么都让我知道！”贝拉特里克斯马上愤怒了。“他说我是他最忠诚、最可信赖的——”
 
　　“是吗？”斯内普说，他的声音微微透着不相信。“在遭遇了魔法部里的惨败后，他仍旧还这么认为吗？”
 
　　“那不是我的错！”贝拉特里克斯涨红了脸。“黑魔王过去一直把最珍视的东西委托给我——如果当时卢修斯没有——”
 
　　“你怎么敢——你怎么敢指责我的丈夫！”纳西莎抬起头来看着她的姐姐，死气沉沉地低声说。
 
　　“分摊责任已经于事无补，”斯内普平静地说。“覆水难收了。”
 
　　“这话不该由你来说！”贝拉特里克斯狂怒地吼道。“当我们其他人在冒风险的时候，你又一次的缺席了，不是吗，斯内普？”
 
　　“我收到的命令是留在后面，”斯内普说。“也许你不同意黑魔王的做法，也许你认为我要是加入食死徒的队伍来对抗凤凰社也不会被邓布利多察觉？而——恕我直言——你竟然还在谈论危险……你面对的不是六个十几岁的孩子吗？”
 
　　“你知道得很清楚，他们随后便得到了半个凤凰社的增援！”贝拉特里克斯咆哮道。“而说到凤凰社，你还是在声称无法说出它的总部在哪儿，不是吗？”
 
　　“我不是保密人，我不能说出那个地点的名字。我想你应该知道这种魔法是怎么回事。黑魔王对我传递给他的关于凤凰社的情报很满意。也许你已经猜到了，这直接帮助你们找到并且干掉了爱米琳•万斯，也帮你们除去了小天狼星布莱克，我对你结果了他打满分。”
 
　　他把头倾向她,向她敬酒。可她的表情并没有柔和下来。
 
　　“你在逃避我的最后一个问题，斯内普。哈利•波特。过去的五年你有无数的机会杀了他。可你没有做。为什么？”
 
　　“就这个问题，你和黑魔王讨论过吗？”斯内普问。
 
　　“他……最近，我们……我在问你，斯内普！”
 
　　“如果我杀了哈利•波特，黑魔王就不能用他的血重生，变得不可战胜了。”
 
　　“你是说你预见了他要利用那个男孩？”她嘲讽道。
 
　　“我没那么说；我不知道他的计划；我已经承认了我曾以为他死了。我只是试图解释为什么黑魔王没有对哈利•波特的苟且活着感到不快，至少直到一年之前……”
 
　　“但你为什么要让他活着？”
 
　　“我没有告诉你吗？正是邓布利多的保护让我可以不用进阿兹卡班！你不会否认我如果杀了他最钟爱的学生会让他站到我的对立面吧？但还有更多原因。我应该提醒你，当波特第一次走进霍格沃茨的时候就有许多关于他的故事在流传，谣传说他本身就是一个伟大的黑巫师，不然他是怎么从黑魔王的攻击下逃生的。实际上，许多黑魔王的追随者都觉得波特有可能成为一面新的旗帜，我们就能围拢在他周围重整旗鼓了。我承认我很好奇，而且在他踏进城堡的那一刻就根本没有想过要杀掉他。
 
　　“当然，很快我就发现他根本没有任何特殊的才能。在一些紧要关头他总是凭借着一点点运气和更有才能的伙伴才能脱离困境。他真是极度平庸，不过他和他的父亲一样令人讨厌和自鸣得意。我尽了全力想让他被霍格沃茨开除，我相信他根本不属于那儿，但是要让我杀死他，或者让他在我面前被杀？要知道邓布利多就近在眼前，傻瓜才会做这种蠢事。”
 
　　“由此我们是不是要相信邓布利多从来没有怀疑过你？”贝拉特里克斯说。“他不知道你真正效忠的是谁？他仍旧绝对信任你？”
 
　　“我的角色扮演得很好，”斯内普说。“而你忽视了邓布利多的最大弱点：他相信人性最好的一面。当我投靠他的时候我编了个故事说我深深后悔了，要和过去做食死徒的日子彻底决裂，他敞开怀抱欢迎我——尽管，我已经说过了，他控制着不让我接近黑魔法。邓布利多是个伟大的巫师——是的，他是”（贝拉特里克斯不屑地哼了哼）“黑魔王也承认这点。然而，我很高兴地说他已经越来越老了。上个月和黑魔王的决斗就够他一受的。从那以后他就一直被严重的伤痛困扰，因为他的反应已经大不如前了。但这些年来，他一直都信任西弗勒斯•斯内普，对黑魔王来说，这就是我最大的价值。”
 
　　贝拉特里克斯仍旧看起来很不悦，尽管她不知道接下来该怎么攻击斯内普才好。趁着她安静下来，斯内普转向了她的妹妹。
 
　　“那么……你来找我帮忙，纳西莎？”
 
　　“是的，西弗勒斯。我——我想你是唯一能帮我的人，我走投无路了。卢修斯又在监狱里，而……”
 
　　她闭上了双眼，两颗大大的泪珠从眼睑下面渗出来。
 
　　“黑魔王禁止我谈论这个，”纳西莎接着说，他的眼睛仍然闭着。“他希望没人知道这个计划。这是……非常秘密的。但是——”
 
　　“如果他禁止，你就不该说了，”斯内普马上说。“黑魔王的话就是法律。”
 
　　纳西莎吸了口气，就像被浸在冷水里一样。贝拉特里克斯自从踏进这屋子之后第一次显得满意。
 
　　“你看吧！”她得胜般地对妹妹说。“连斯内普也这么说：他不让你提，你就闭嘴。”
 
　　但斯内普站了起来，大步走向窗子，透过窗帘朝废弃的街道上看了看，然后猛地将它们拉上。他转过身冲纳西莎皱了皱眉。
 
　　“可碰巧我知道这个计划，”他低声说。“我是极少数几个被黑魔王告知这个计划的人之一。不过，如果不是我刚好知道这个秘密，纳西莎，你可能会犯了背叛黑魔王的大罪。”
 
　　“我就知道你肯定知道它！”纳西莎说，呼吸顺畅了些。“他这么信任你，西弗勒斯……”
 
　　“你知道这个计划？”贝拉特里克斯脸上的满意表情迅速变成了愤怒。“你知道？”
 
　　“当然，”斯内普说。“你想寻求什么帮助，纳西莎？如果你妄图让我去说服黑魔王改变主意，恐怕毫无希望，一点儿也没有。”
 
　　“西弗勒斯，”她低声说着，眼泪从苍白的脸颊滑落下来。“我的儿子……我唯一的儿子……”
 
　　“德拉科会感到骄傲的，”贝拉特里克斯漠不关心地说。“黑魔王给了他巨大的荣耀。我要为德拉科说一句：他并没有从他的责任上退缩，他看起来非常高兴有这么个机会能证明自己，对未来感到非常兴奋——”
 
　　纳西莎开始大哭了起来，眼睛一直恳求般地盯着斯内普。
 
　　”那是因为他只有十六岁，他不知道前面有什么在等待着他！为什么，西弗勒斯？为什么是我的儿子？这太危险了！这是对卢修斯犯下的错误的报复，我知道的！”
 
　　斯内普什么都没说。他把目光从她的眼泪移开，仿佛盯着她看是一种冒犯，但他不可能假装没有听到她说的话。
 
　　“那就是他选择德拉科的原因，不是吗？”她坚持说。“借此来惩罚卢修斯？”
 
　　“如果德拉科成功了，”斯内普仍旧不看着她，“他会得到比别人都多的荣誉。”
 
　　“但是他不会成功的！”纳西莎呜咽道：“他怎么可能，连黑魔头自己都……”
 
　　贝拉特里克斯倒抽了一口气；纳西莎显得有些不知所措。
 
　　“我只是说……还没有人成功过……西弗勒斯……求求你……你是，你一直都是德拉科最喜欢的老师……你是卢修斯的老朋友……我求求你了……你是黑魔王最喜欢、最信任的参谋……请你和他说，劝他——？”
 
　　“黑魔王不会被说服的，我也不会蠢到去尝试说服他，”斯内普平静地说。“我不能否认黑魔王对卢修斯很生气。卢修斯应该负责。他自己被抓了，还连累了一大群人，再者，他还没能带回那个预言球。是的，黑魔王很生气，纳西莎，事实上非常生气。”
 
　　“那么我猜对了，他选择通过德拉科来报复！”纳西莎屏住了呼吸。“他并不指望他成功，他巴不得他痛苦地死去！”
 
　　斯内普没有说话，纳西莎似乎失掉了最后一丝自我克制。她站了起来，摇摇晃晃地走向斯内普并抓住了他袍子的衬领。她的脸靠他那么近，以致于眼泪也滴到了他的前胸上，她喘着气说，“你能做到。你能代替德拉科做到，西弗勒斯。你会成功的，毫无疑问，而且他会给你超过所有人的奖励——”
 
　　斯内普抓住她的手腕，扳开了她的手。低头看着她沾着泪水的脸，他慢慢地说，“我想他打算让我最后来做。而决定让德拉科先试试。你知道，如果德拉科侥幸成功了，我就能在霍格沃茨待得更长一点，扮演我间谍的角色。”
 
　　“换句话说，德拉科就算是死了对他来说不无关紧要！”
 
　　“黑魔王非常生气，”斯内普轻轻地重复着。“他没能听到预言。你和我都清楚，纳西莎，他从不轻易饶恕。”
 
　　她崩溃了，倒在地板哭泣。
 
　　“我唯一的儿子……我唯一的儿子啊……”
 
　　“你应该感到骄傲！”贝拉特里克斯残忍地说。“如果我有儿子，我会非常高兴地让他们去为黑魔王做事。”
 
　　纳西莎绝望地尖叫了一声，用手紧紧抓住自己的一头金发。斯内普弯下腰，抓住她的胳膊把她提了起来，拖回到沙发里。然后将她的杯子倒上更多的酒，将杯子硬塞到她手里。
 
　　“纳西莎，别闹了。喝了这个。听我说。”
 
　　她镇静了一点；杯里的酒洒了到自己身上，于是她颤抖着啜了一小口。
 
　　“也许我还是有机会……帮助德拉科。”
 
　　她坐起来，苍白的脸上眼睛睁得大大的。
 
　　“西弗勒斯——哦，西弗勒斯——你愿意帮他？你愿意照看他，确保他不受到伤害吗？”
 
　　“我可以试一试。”
 
　　她突然扔开玻璃杯；玻璃杯在桌子上滑过去，她一下子跪倒在斯内普面前，抓住他的手亲吻了一下。
 
　　“如果你在那儿保护他……西弗勒斯，你敢发誓吗？你敢立下牢不可破誓约吗？”
 
　　“牢不可破誓约？”斯内普的表情空洞而不可捉摸：然而贝拉特里克斯却又得胜般地咯咯笑起来。
 
　　“你没听到吗，纳西莎？哦，他会试一试，我敢肯定……多常用的空洞字眼，多常见的圆滑行为……哦，当然，也是奉了黑魔王的命令吧！”
 
　　斯内普并没有看贝拉特里克斯。而是盯着纳西莎充满泪水的蓝色眼睛，她仍旧抓着他的手。
 
　　“当然了，纳西莎，我会立下牢不可破誓约，”他轻声说。“也许你的姐姐会答应做我们的见证人。”
 
　　贝拉特里克斯张大了嘴巴。斯内普也面朝纳西莎跪下了。在贝拉特里克斯惊讶的注视下，他们紧紧抓住了对方的右手。
 
　　“你需要拿起你的魔杖，贝拉特里克斯，”斯内普冷冷地说。
 
　　她抽出了魔杖，但仍显得很惊讶。
 
　　“你需要再靠近点儿，”他说。
 
　　她走近了几步，将魔杖的末梢点到两人握住的手上。
 
　　这时纳西莎说话了。
 
　　“你愿意，西弗勒斯，在我的儿子德拉科尝试完成黑魔王的心愿时去照看他吗？”
 
　　“我愿意，”斯内普说。
 
　　一条闪耀的火舌从魔杖里射出，就像一跟红热的金属丝一样缠绕在他俩的手上。
 
　　“你愿意，竭尽所能，保护他不受伤害吗？”
 
　　“
Chapter 3 Will and Won't
Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a chair beside his bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against the cold win-dowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The misty fug his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of all color, so that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.
The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a number of spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled robes on his bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The headline of one blared:
HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?
Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more.
“We're not allowed to talk about it, don't ask me anything,” said one agitated Obliviator, who refused to give his name as he left the Ministry last night.
Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed that the disturbance centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.
Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused even to confirm the existence of such a place, a growing number of the Wizarding community believe that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in Azkaban for trespass and attempted theft were attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife that it concerns Harry Potter, the only person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse, and who is also known to have been at the Ministry on the night in question. Some are going so far as to call Potter ‘the Chosen One,’ believing that the prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown, although (cont. page 2, column 5)
A second newspaper lay beside the first. This one bore the headline:
SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE
Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture of a man with a lionlike mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The picture was moving—the man was waving at the ceiling.
Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the Wizarding community, though rumors of a rift between the new Minister and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.
Scrimgeour's representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (cont. page 3, column 2)
To the left of this paper sat another, which had been folded so that a story bearing the title MINISTRY GUARANTEES STUDENTS’ SAFETY safety was visible.
Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this autumn.
“For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its stringent new security plans,” said the Minister, although an insider confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex array of counter-curses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to the protection of Hogwarts School.
Most seem reassured by the new Minister's tough stand on student safety. Said Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, “My grandson, Neville... good friend of Harry Potter's, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June and —
But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage standing on top of it. Inside it was a magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed the room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to gaze at her snoring master. Once or twice she clicked her beak impatiently, but Harry was too deeply asleep to hear her.
A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its lid was open; it looked expectant; yet it was almost empty but for a residue of old underwear, sweets, empty ink bottles, and broken quills that coated the very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet emblazoned with the words:
Issued on behalf of The Ministry of Magic
PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES
The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.
1. You are advised not to leave the house alone.
2. Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.
3. Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition.
4. Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2).
5. Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).
6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.
7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.
Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm clock, repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's relaxed hand, was a piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.
Dear Harry,
If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.
If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.
Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,
I am yours most sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading Dumbledore's words; Harry had sent back his “yes” with the delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: either Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.
But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go wrong—his reply to Dumbledore's letter might have gone astray; Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.
The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out.
Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.
Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, “Who the blazes is calling at this lime of night?”
Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, “Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?”
Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.
“Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.”
He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.
“It is a long time since my last visit,” said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. “I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing.”
Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon—the vein pulsing in his uncle's temple was reaching danger point—but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.
“Ah, good evening Harry,” said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. “Excellent, excellent.”
These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say “excellent” was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye.
“I don't mean to be rude —” he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable.
“—yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often,” Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. “Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia.”
The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.
“Albus Dumbledore,” said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to effect an introduction. “We have corresponded, of course.” Harry thought this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. “And this must be your son, Dudley?”
Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large, blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.
“Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?”
Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair nearest the fire and was taking in the surroundings wilh an expression of benign interest. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place.
“Aren't—aren't we leaving, sir?” Harry asked anxiously.
“Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first,” said Dumbledore. “And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer.”
“You will, will you?”
Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore simply, “I shall.”
He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick, the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.
“We may as well be comfortable,” said Dumbledore pleasantly.
As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that his hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away.
“Sir—what happened to your—?”
“Later, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Please sit down.”
Harry took the remaining armchair, choosing not to look at the Dursleys, who seemed stunned into silence.
“I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment,” Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon, “but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness.”
A third twitch of the wand, and a dusty bottle and five glasses appeared in midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honey-colored liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the room.
“Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead,” said Dumbledore, raising his glass to Harry, who caught hold of his own and sipped. He had never tasted anything like it before, but enjoyed it immensely. The Dursleys, after quick, scared looks at one another, tried to ignore their glasses completely, a difficult feat, as they were nudging them gently on the sides of their heads. Harry could not suppress a suspicion that Dumbledore was rather enjoying himself.
“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, turning toward him, “a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius's will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned.”
Over on the sofa, Uncle Vernons head turned, but Harry did not look at him, nor could he think of anything to say except, “Oh. Right.”
“This is, in the main, fairly straightforward,” Dumbledore went on. “You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of the legacy—”
“His godfather's dead?” said Uncle Vernon loudly from the sofa. Dumbledore and Harry both turned to look at him. The glass of mead was now knocking quite insistently on the side of Vernon's head; he attempted to beat it away. “He's dead? His godfather?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. He did not ask Harry why he had not confided in the Dursleys. “Our problem,” he continued to Harry, as if there had been no interruption, “is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place.”
“He's been left a house?” said Uncle Vernon greedily, his small eyes narrowing, but nobody answered him.
“You can keep using it as headquarters,” said Harry. “I don't care. You can have it, I don't really want it.” Harry never wanted to set foot in number twelve, Grimmauld Place again if he could help it. He thought he would be haunted forever by the memory of Sirius prowling its dark musty rooms alone, imprisoned within the place he had wanted so desperately to leave.
“That is generous,” said Dumbledore. “We have, however, vacated the building temporarily.”
“Why?”
“Well,” said Dumbledore, ignoring the mutterings of Uncle Vernon, who was now being rapped smartly over the head by the persistent glass of mead, “Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of ‘Black.’ Sirius was the very last of the line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pure-blood.”
A vivid image of the shrieking, spitting portrait of Sirius's mother that hung in the hall of number twelve, Grimmauld Place flashed into Harry's mind. “I bet there has,” he said.
“Quite,” said Dumbledore. “And if such an enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.”
Without realizing what he was doing, Harry sprang to his feet; the telescope and trainers in his lap rolled across the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius's killer, inherit his house?
“No,” he said.
“Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it either,” said Dumbledore calmly. “The situation is fraught with complications. We do not know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have clarified the position,”
“But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?”
“Fortunately,” said Dumbledore, “there is a simple test.”
He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his chair, but before he could do anything else, Uncle Vernon shouted, “Will you get these ruddy things off us?”
Harry looked around; all three of the Dursleys were cowering with their arms over their heads as their glasses bounced up and down on their skulls, their contents flying everywhere.
“Oh, I'm so sorry,” said Dumbledore politely, and he raised his wand again. All three glasses vanished. “But it would have been better manners to drink it, you know.”
It looked as though Uncle Vernon was bursting with any number of unpleasant retorts, but he merely shrank back into the cushions with Aunt Petunia and Dudley and said nothing, keeping his small piggy eyes on Dumbledore's wand.
“You see,” Dumbledore said, turning back to Harry and again speaking as though Uncle Vernon had not uttered, “if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited—”
He flicked his wand for a fifth time. There was a loud crack, and a house-elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys’ shag carpet and covered in grimy rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising shriek; nothing this filthy had entered her house in living memory. Dudley drew his large, bare, pink feet off the floor and sat with them raised almost above his head, as though he thought the creature might run up his pajama trousers, and Uncle Vernon bellowed, “What the hell is that?”
“Kreacher,” finished Dumbledore.
“Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!” croaked the house-elf, quite as loudly as Uncle Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling his ears. “Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't —”
“As you can see, Harry,” said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher's continued croaks of “wont, won't, won't,” “Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership.”
“I don't care,” said Harry again, looking with disgust at the writhing, stamping house-elf. “I don't want him.”
“Won't, won't, won't, won't—”
“You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year?”
“Won't, won't, won't, won't—”
Harry stared at Dumbledore. He knew that Kreacher could not be permitted to go and live with Bellatrix Lestrange, but the idea of owning him, of having responsibility for the creature that had betrayed Sirius, was repugnant.
“Give him an order,” said Dumbledore. “If he has passed into your ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress.”
“Won't, won't, won't, WON'T!”
Kreacher's voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to say, except, “Kreacher, shut up!”
It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet, giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.
“Well, that simplifies matters,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “It means that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher.”
“Do I—do I have to keep him with me?” Harry asked, aghast, as Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.
“Not if you don't want to,” said Dumbledore. “If I might make a suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him.”
“Yeah,” said Harry in relief, “yeah, I'll do that. Er—Kreacher—I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-elves.”
Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with another loud crack, vanished.
“Good,” said Dumbledore. “There is also the matter of the hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different arrangements—”
“No,” said Harry at once, “he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that.”
“Hagrid will be delighted,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “He was thrilled to see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him ‘Witherwings’ for the time being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?”
“Erm...”
“Doubtful that I would turn up?” Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.
“I'll just go and—er—finish off,” said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up his fallen telescope and trainers.
It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed; at last he had managed to extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed, screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, and forced the lid of his trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding Hedwig's cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs.
He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was not waiting in the hall, which meant that he had to return to the living room.
Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, “Professor—I'm ready now.”
“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Just one last thing, then.” And he turned to speak to the Dursleys once more.
“As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a year's time —”
“No,” said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's arrival.
“I'm sorry?” said Dumbledore politely.
“No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next.”
“Ah,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen.”
Uncle Vernon muttered, “Preposterous,” but Dumbledore ignored him.
“Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents’ murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own.”
Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.
“You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you.”
Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinctively, as though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.
“Us—mistreat Dudders? What d'you—?” began Uncle Vernon furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.
“The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house ‘home.’ However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time.”
None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated. Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.
“Well, Harry... time for us to be off,” said Dumbledore at last, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. “Until we meet again,” he said to the Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.
“Bye,” said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who paused beside Harry's trunk, upon which Hedwig's cage was perched.
“We do not want to be encumbered by these just now,” he said, pulling out his wand again. “I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case.”
Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket, Dumbiedore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front door opened onto cool, misty darkness.
“And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”
　　哈利•波特响亮地打着鼾。过去的四个小时，他大部分时间都坐在靠着卧室窗户的一把椅子上，注视窗外越来越黑的街道，但终于还是忍不住一边脸靠在窗玻璃上睡着了，嘴巴豁着，眼镜也歪斜到了一边儿。他哈出的气凝在窗玻璃上，在外面桔色的灯光的照射下闪着星星点点的光，这种人为的光线把他脸上的颜色都掩盖掉了，看上去就像一个披着蓬乱黑发的鬼魂。
 
　　房间里散乱地堆放着各种物品和垃圾。猫头鹰羽毛、苹果核儿和糖纸被乱扔在地板上，袍子胡乱地摊在床上，其中还夹杂着几本咒语书，桌子上浑浊的灯光照着几张乱放的报纸。其中的一张上用醒目的大标题写着：
 
　　哈利•波特：真命天子？
 
　　关于最近那起发生在魔法部的神秘动乱事件的流言仍在满天飞，在这起动乱事件中人们又见到了那个连名字都不能提的魔头。
 
　　“我们被禁止谈论这件事，别问我任何问题，”一位激动的记忆注销员在昨晚离开魔法部时说，他拒绝透露自己的姓名。
 
　　不过，通过部里灵通的消息人士我们可以确认，动乱就发生在传说中的预言大厅。
 
　　虽然魔法部的发言人甚至至今仍拒绝承认有这么一个地方存在，但还是有越来越多的公众开始相信，正在阿兹卡班因非法入侵和偷盗未遂而接受审判的食死徒们就是准备去盗取预言球。虽然我们不知道那是什么样的预言，但仍普遍推测预言与哈利•波特，那个目前所知唯一逃脱了死咒的人相关，他那晚也正好出现在魔法部里。现在有些人称哈利•波特为“真命天子”，他们相信他是唯一能除掉那个连名字都不能提的魔头的人。
 
　　不过目前那个预言球，如果它真的存在的话，尚下落不明。（详见第二版第五栏）
 
　　它旁边摆着另一份报纸。上面用大标题写着：
 
　　斯克林杰接替福吉
 
　　头版的一大部分都被一张黑白照片所占据，上面是一个留着狮子般头发、脸上伤痕累累的男人。这张照片是可以动的——那男人正在朝天花板挥手。
 
　　鲁弗斯•斯克林杰，前任法律执行司傲罗办公室的长官，已经接替康奈利•福吉出任魔法部部长。这个任命在巫师社会大受欢迎，不过在他就职还不到几个小时的时间里，刚刚重新恢复威森加摩首席魔法师席位的阿不思•邓布利多与他之间存在不和的传言就浮出了水面。
 
　　斯克林杰的发言人承认他在上任部长后立即与邓布利多进行了会面，但拒绝评论他们讨论的话题。阿不思•邓布利多是（下转第三版，第二栏）
 
　　这张的左边还有一张折起来的报纸，上面能看见一篇名为《魔法部保证学生安全》的报道。
 
　　新上任的魔法部部长鲁弗斯•斯克林杰今日谈到，他们会采取强有力的措施来保证今秋霍格沃茨魔法学校的学生能安全地返校。
 
　　“出于众所周知的原因，魔法部不会公布这项严密安全计划的细节，”部长说，不过通过知情人士我们得到确证，这些措施包括一些防御性咒语、一组复杂的破解咒和一支专门负责霍格沃茨学生安全的特遣部队，全部由傲罗组成。
 
　　大多数人对新部长在学生安全方面的坚定立场感到安心。奥古斯塔•隆巴顿夫人说，“我的孙子纳威——他是哈利•波特的一个好朋友，顺便说一句，去年六月在魔法部他还和哈利并肩对抗食死徒——
 
　　但剩下的内容被放在报纸上的大鸟笼给挡住了。里面是一只漂亮的雪白的猫头鹰。它琥珀色的眼睛傲慢地俯瞰着房间，头时不时转过去瞅瞅它正在酣睡的主人。有那么一两次还把嘴巴磕得咔哒咔哒地响，但哈利睡得太熟了，这根本吵不醒他。
 
　　房子的中间搁着一只大箱子。它的盖子开着：看起来正准备打点行装；不过它看上去空空的，只留有几件旧的内衣、糖果、空的墨水瓶和末端包好的破羽毛笔。在箱子附近的地板上，放着一本装饰精美的紫色宣传手册，上面写着：
 
　　魔法部授权出版
 
　　保护你和你的家人远离黑暗力量
 
　　魔法社会目前正为一个自称为食死徒的组织所威胁。遵守以下简单的安全守则会有助于保护好你自己以及你的家庭不受到攻击。
 
　　1.不要一个人离开家。
 
　　2.晚上特别注意。无论在哪儿，尽可能在天黑前结束外面的旅程。
 
　　3.复查房子周围的安全设施，一定要确保每个家庭成员都知道发生紧急事件时的应对方法。比如：铁甲咒和幻身咒，在有未成年的家庭成员的情况下使用依附显形。
 
　　4.与你的家庭成员和密友之间确定安全提问，以防止食死徒利用复方汤剂化装成其他人。（见第二页）
 
　　5.如果你感觉到你的家庭成员、同事、朋友或者邻居有一些异常行为，马上告知魔法法律执行队，他们很有可能中了夺魂咒。（见第四页）
 
　　6.如果有黑魔标记出现在任何地方，不要进去，马上联系傲罗办公室。
 
　　7.未经证实的目击表明食死徒也许正使用阴飞力。任何看到阴飞力或者类似的东西的人，应该立刻向魔法部报告。
 
　　哈利在睡梦中打着呼噜，他的脸从玻璃上往滑下了一英寸左右，这使得眼镜更加歪向一边，他仍旧没有醒来。一个被哈利在几年前修好的闹钟在窗台上滴答滴答地走着，还有一分钟就要到11点了。睡在旁边的哈利手里握着一张羊皮纸，纸上写满了纤细、微微倾斜的字。自从哈利三天前收到这封信后，他已经把它读了好多遍了。虽然送来的时候信被紧紧地系成一个圆筒，但现在那封信已经被抹得很平了，正安静地躺在那儿。
 
　　亲爱的哈利：
 
　　如果你方便的话，我会在这个礼拜五晚上11点拜访女贞路四号，接你去陋居，你会被邀请在那里度过剩下的假期。
 
　　要是你觉得合适的话，能否在去陋居的路上协助我做一件事，我会感到非常高兴的。我会在见到你之后更详细地解释这件事。
 
　　你最真诚的，
 
　　阿不思•邓布利多
 
　　虽然他早已经可以把那封信背下来了，但他还是从晚上七点开始，每隔几分钟就要把那封信偷瞄一遍，他靠着卧室的窗户坐着，透过那里可以同时看见女贞路的两头。他知道反复盯着邓布利多信件看是没有意义的；他早就派猫头鹰送去了他的“好的”，正如他被要求的那样，现在可以做的就是等了：不论邓布利多来还是不来。
 
　　但是哈利还没有收拾东西。只需要和德思礼一家待两周就可以逃脱了，那似乎都美妙得不像是真的。他很难摆脱会有什么差错发生的感觉——他给邓布利多的信也许被猫头鹰弄丢了；邓布利多说不定不能来接他了；又或许那封信根本就不是邓布利多写的，那只不过是个骗局或者笑话，甚至是个圈套。哈利承受不了收拾好行装又必须再打开把它们都拿出来的失落。所以他为这次可能的旅行做的唯一准备，就是把它那只雪白的猫头鹰海德薇安全地关在笼子里面。
 
　　就在闹钟的分针走到12的那一瞬间，窗外街道上的灯全熄灭了。
 
　　这突如其来的黑暗像闹钟一样把哈利唤醒了，他急忙扶正眼镜，把鼻子贴到刚才还贴着脸颊的窗玻璃上，两眼斜瞄着人行道。一个修长的身影拖着翻卷着的长斗篷走向了花园中的小径。
 
　　哈利触电似地跳了起来，撞翻了椅子，他开始把可以够得到的所有东西一件接一件地抓起来，扔进旅行箱里。正当他把长袍、两本咒语书和一包土豆片从房间的这头扔到那头的时候，门铃响了。
 
　　“是谁啊，深更半夜的？”他的姨父弗农•德思礼大声叫着从楼上的起居室走下来。
 
　　哈利愣住了，一手拿着黄铜望远镜，一手拎着一双运动鞋，他完全忘了告诉德思礼一家，邓布利多晚上也许会过来。感觉又惊慌又好笑，他跨过旅行箱拧开房门，刚好听到一个深沉的声音说，“晚上好，你一定是德思礼先生。我猜想哈利已经告诉了你我要过来把他接走吧？”
 
　　哈利三步并做两步地冲下了楼，但当还剩几级台阶的时候却来了一个急刹车，长久以来的经验告诉他，无论何时都要尽可能地保持在他姨父的手能抓到的范围之外。门口站着一位又高又瘦的人，他银白色的长胡子和头发已经拖到了腰间。半月形的眼镜架在高耸的鼻梁上，他穿着一件黑色的旅行斗篷，戴着尖顶巫师帽。弗农•德思礼的胡子和邓布利多差不多浓密，只不过是黑色的，他穿着一件深褐色的睡袍，用他的小眼睛使劲盯着来访者，仿佛不敢相信。
 
　　“从您震惊和怀疑的表情来看，哈利一定没有告诉您我的拜访，” 邓布利多愉快地说。“但是让我们假定您会热情地请我到您屋子里去。在这种动乱的局势下，在门口耽搁久了可不是明智之举。”
 
　　邓布利多潇洒地走了进来，然后关上了门。
 
　　“上次见面已经是很久以前的事了，” 邓布利多从他高耸的鼻子上凝视着弗农姨父。“我必须说，您的紫君子兰长得真好。”
 
　　弗农•德思礼什么也没说，但哈利相信他就快要爆发了，果然不一会儿——他姨父太阳穴上的血管鼓到极限了——但是邓布利多似乎用了什么方式夺走了弗农的呼吸。也许是用由于他炫耀般的巫师装束。但也有可能是因为，就连弗农姨父也感觉得到邓布利多是一个很难被恐吓的人。
 
　　“啊，晚上好，哈利，” 邓布利多透过他那半月形的眼镜看着他，带着满意的表情。“好极了，好极了。”
 
　　这些话好像惊醒了弗农•德思礼。目前就他所知道的，任何夸奖哈利“好极了”的人，都不会和弗农是一路人。
 
　　“我不想动粗——”他开始用一种恐吓的腔调一字一句地念道。
 
　　“不过，可怜、偶然的粗鲁还是如此经常地发生，这的确令人担忧，” 邓布利多严肃地说完了这句话。“但最好什么话都别说，亲爱的朋友。啊，这一定是佩妮。”
 
　　厨房的门打开了，那边站着哈利的姨妈，她戴着一副橡胶手套，一件便服套在睡衣外面。她通常会在睡觉前重新擦一遍厨房，显然她正在忙活。她长长的马脸上除了震惊以外，什么也没有。
 
　　“阿不思•邓布利多，”在弗农介绍他之前邓布利多抢先说。“当然，我们已经通过信了。” 哈利觉得用这种方式提醒佩妮姨妈他曾经给她送过一封爆炸信真是有些古怪，但是佩妮姨妈并没有提出异议。“这一定是你的儿子达力吧？”
 
　　达力那个时候正透过客厅的门窥视着他们，他那金黄色的大脑袋从睡衣的条纹衣领里伸出来，看上去就像已经脱离了身体一样古怪，嘴巴因为惊讶和害怕而张得大大的。邓布利多等了等，显然是想看看德思礼夫妇有没有什么话说，过了一会儿，他笑了。
 
　　“我们可以进屋谈吗？”
 
　　当邓布利多从达力身旁经过的时候，他几乎是夺路而逃。哈利跳下了最后的几级台阶跟在邓布利多后面，手里仍旧抓着他的望远镜和运动鞋。邓布利多找了一个靠着火炉的扶手椅坐了下来，脸上带着饶有兴致的和蔼表情环顾四周。他看上去与这里的紧张气氛格格不入。
 
　　“我们……我们走吗？”哈利焦虑地问。
 
　　“是的，我们的确要走。但在此之前我们还要讨论几个问题，” 邓布利多说。“而我倾向于不在外面谈论这些事儿。我们还要打搅你的姨妈和姨父一小会儿。”
 
　　“您真的决定要这样吗？”
 
　　弗农走进了房间，佩妮扶着他的肩膀，而达力则藏在他们俩身后。
 
　　“是的，” 邓布利多简单地说，“就是这样。”
 
　　他不令人察觉地抽出了魔杖；轻轻一抖，沙发飞了过来，打中了德思礼一家人的膝盖，令他们都瘫坐在沙发上。他又轻抖了一下，于是沙发又飞了回去。
 
　　“这样大家都会舒服一些了，” 邓布利多愉快地说。
 
　　他把魔杖放回口袋的时候，哈利瞥见他的手变得乌黑，还布满了皱纹；好像他的肉被烧掉了似的。
 
　　“教授——你的手怎么——？”
 
　　“以后再说，哈利，” 邓布利多说。“请坐下。”
 
　　哈利坐到剩下的一把扶手椅上，决定不去看吓得目瞪口呆的德思礼一家。
 
　　“我本以为你会为我准备一些点心，” 邓布利多对弗农说，“但就目前的样子看，我那乐观的想法真是愚蠢了点。”
 
　　于是他又挥了挥魔杖，一个脏兮兮的瓶子和五个玻璃杯出现在半空中。瓶子倾斜过来，把大量的蜂蜜色液体倒进了每个玻璃杯，然后杯子飞到了屋里每一个人的手中。
 
　　“罗斯默塔女士最上好的、在橡木桶里酿制的蜂蜜酒，”邓布利多向哈利举了举杯，他正在抿着自己那杯酒。哈利从来没有品尝过这种东西，可还是非常喜欢。德思礼一家迅速、恐慌地相互望了望，试着对面前的杯子完全视而不见，不过这很困难，因为杯子一直在他们的脑边优雅地晃着。哈利抑制不住地猜测邓布利多正在怡然自乐。
 
　　“那么，哈利，”邓布利多转向他，“现在有个难题，希望你能帮我们解决。我们，是指凤凰社。不过首先我要告诉你，一个礼拜前我们发现了小天狼星的遗嘱，他把他拥有的一切都留给了你。”
 
　　坐在沙发的弗农姨父转过头来，不过哈利没有看他，想不出该说些什么，于是他只好说，“哦。好吧。”
 
　　“开门见山地说，这主要是指，”邓布利多接着说道。“一笔数量可观的金子流入了你的古灵阁帐户，你继承了小天狼星所有的个人财产。不过还有一些麻烦的遗产——”
 
　　“他的教父死了？”弗农姨父在沙发上大声问。邓布利多和哈利都转过来看着他。盛着蜂蜜酒的杯子现在更急切地在他脑袋旁边敲打，他尝试着把它推开。“他死了？他的教父？”
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多说。他没有问哈利为什么不告诉德思礼一家。“可我们的问题是，”他仿佛根本没有被打断一样，继续对哈利说，“小天狼星也把格里莫广场12号留给了你。”
 
　　“他留下了一幢房子？”弗农贪婪地问，小眼睛眯了起来，不过没有人回答他。
 
　　“你们可以继续把它当指挥部用，”哈利说。“我不在乎。你们可以拿走它，我真的不想要。”如果可以的话，哈利再也不愿意走进格里莫广场12号了。小天狼星在黑暗发霉的屋子里孤独地徘徊，被那个他拼命想离开的地方禁锢着，他觉得这些记忆会永远萦绕在他心头。
 
　　“很慷慨，”邓布利多说。“然而，我们已经暂时搬出了那所房子。”
 
　　“为什么？”
 
　　“嗯，”邓布利多没有理会弗农姨父的咕哝，那只执着的酒杯正剧烈地敲击着他的脑袋，“布莱克家族的家规规定，这幢房子只嫡传给姓布莱克的男子。在他的弟弟雷古勒斯去世后，他就成了最后的继承人，而他们都没有孩子。尽管他在遗嘱中说得很清楚，想让你继承这房子。但房子很可能被施了一些咒语和魔法，来确保它不会被非纯种的巫师所占有。”
 
　　哈利脑海里生动地浮现出格里莫广场12号墙上那幅爱尖声叫骂的小天狼星母亲的画像。“我打赌那儿肯定有，”他说。
 
　　“非常赞同，”邓布利多说。“如果这样的魔法存在，房子的所有权很可能就会传到小天狼星最年长的亲戚那儿，就是他的堂姐，贝拉特里克斯•莱斯特兰奇。”
 
　　哈利下意识地跳了起来，大腿上的望远镜和运动鞋滚落到了地上。贝拉特里克斯•莱斯特兰奇，这个杀害小天狼星的凶手，继承他的宅子？
 
　　“不，”他说。
 
　　“是啊，显然我们也不愿意她得到它，”邓布利多平静地说。“情况充满了复杂性。我们不知道我们施的咒语，比如把它变得不可标绘，在房子不再属于小天狼星之后是不是还管用。说不定贝拉特里克斯会随时出现在门前。自然我们要在弄清楚之前先搬出去。”
 
　　“您怎么才能知道我能拥有这房子呢？”
 
　　“幸运的是，”邓布利多回答，“可以做个简单的测试。”
 
　　他把他的空杯子放到椅子旁边的茶几上，弗农姨父叫了起来，“你能把这些该死的东西从我们头上挪开吗？”
 
　　哈利环顾了一下屋子，德思礼一家三口全都用手护着脑袋缩成了一团，因为那些杯子在他们脑门上撞来撞去，里面的液体溅得到处都是。
 
　　“哦，真对不起，”邓布利多礼貌地说，又一次举起了魔杖。三个杯子都消失了。“不过如果喝掉它们会显得更礼貌些，你们知道。”
 
　　看上去弗农姨父快被不悦的反驳涨破了，但是他什么都没说，只是和佩妮姨妈与达力一样缩到沙发垫子上，两只小小的猪眼盯着邓布利多的魔杖。
 
　　“你瞧，”邓布利多转向哈利说，“如果你真的继承了这幢房子，你也势必要继承——”
 
　　他第五次挥了挥魔杖。随着一声“噼啪”的巨响，一个家养小精灵出现了。他长着一只猪鼻子、蝙蝠翅膀一般的巨大耳朵和一对充血的大眼睛，穿着破破烂烂的布条蜷缩在德思礼家的毛茸地毯上。佩妮姨妈发出了一声令人毛骨悚然的尖叫：在她的记忆之中，客厅里从来没有出现过如此污秽的东西；达力坐着抬起他粉红色的光脚，差不多都快举过头顶了，似乎是怕这个东西会钻进他的裤管。弗农姨父咆哮着说，“这究竟是什么东西？”
 
　　“克利切，”邓布利多补充完他的话。
 
　　“克利切不要，克利切不要，克利切不要！”家养小精灵嘶哑地叫着，几乎都赶上弗农姨父的声音了，他一边跺着脚一边扯着自己的耳朵。“克利切属于贝拉特里克斯小姐，哦，是的，克利切属于布莱克家族，克利切要他的新女主人，克利切不要乳臭未干的波特小子，克利切不要，不要，不要——”
 
　　“如你所见，哈利，”邓布利多高声盖过克利切“不要，不要，不要”的嘶叫，“克利切对你拥有他表现出了明确的反抗。”
 
　　“我才不在乎呢，”哈利又说道，同时带着憎恶的表情看着又是扭动又是跺脚的家养小精灵。“我不想要它。”
 
　　“不要，不要，不要，不要——”
 
　　“你愿意把他交给贝拉特里克斯吗？记住他去年在凤凰社总部住了一年。”
 
　　“不要，不要，不要，不要——”
 
　　哈利盯着邓布利多。他知道不能让克利切去和贝拉特里克斯•莱斯特兰奇住，但是一想到要拥有它，还要对这个背叛小天狼星的家伙负责，他就觉得很恶心。
 
　　“给它下达一个命令，”邓布利多说。“如果它真的为你所有，就不得不服从。如果没有，那么我们就要去找些别的办法来防止它去追随它法定的女主人。”
 
　　“不要，不要，不要，不要！”
 
　　克利切的声音变成了尖叫。哈利想不到别的话，只好说，“克利切，住嘴！”
 
　　有那么一会儿，克利切看上去像是要窒息了。他握住喉咙，嘴巴仍然在狂暴地动着，眼睛都鼓了起来。然后他疯狂地猛吸了几口气，就趴在了地毯上，（佩妮姨妈呜咽起来）用手脚捶着地板，激烈却又无声地怄着气。
 
　　“好，这样事情就好办多了，”邓布利多兴奋地说。“看来小天狼星知道他在做什么。你已经拥有了对格里莫广场12号和克利切的合法所有权。”
 
　　“我——我必须要把他带着吗？”哈利惊骇地问，克利切正在他脚边痛打着自己。
 
　　“如果你不想就不用，”邓布利多说。“我建议，你不妨把它送到霍格沃茨的厨房去干活。那样的话，其他家养小精灵就可以留意它了。”
 
　　“对，”哈利松了一口气，“是，就这么做。呃——克利切——我要你去霍格沃茨的厨房和其他家养小精灵一起干活。”
 
　　克利切正四脚朝天地躺在地上，他极度厌恶地倒看了哈利一眼，伴着另一声巨响消失了。
 
　　“很好，”邓布利多说。“还有就是那头鹰头马身有翼兽，巴克比克。小天狼星去世后，一直是海格在照看它，不过现在巴克比克是你的了，所以如果你想要重新安排的话——”
 
　　“不，”哈利立刻说，“它可以和海格待在一起。我想巴克比克会更喜欢这样。”
 
　　“海格会很高兴的，”邓布利多微笑着说。“他再次看见它时激动得都发抖了。顺便提一下，考虑到巴克比克的安全，我们决定从此改口叫它韦瑟文，尽管我怀疑魔法部还是会认出它曾经被他们判过死刑。行了，哈利，你的箱子收拾好了吗？”
 
　　“呃……”
 
　　“你怕我会不来？”邓布利多机敏地问。
 
　　“我这就过去——呃——收拾完，”哈利匆忙跑去把他掉在地上的望远镜和运动鞋捡起来。
 
　　他花了十分多钟把他需要的所有东西找出来；最后他把隐形衣从床底下抽出来，把他的那瓶变色墨水拧上盖子，又使劲地把坩埚关在了箱子里。然后，一手提着箱子，一手拎着海德薇的笼子又回到了楼下。
 
　　他有些失望地发现邓布利多并没有等在门厅里，这就意味着他不得不再回到客厅。
 
　　大家都沉默着。邓布利多平静地哼着小调，看得出来很惬意，不过这里的气氛却比冷奶油冻还凝重。哈利说，“教授——我准备好了。”一眼都不敢看德思礼一家。
 
　　“很好，”邓布利多说。“那么，只剩最后一件事了。”他再次转过身对德思礼一家说。
 
　　“你们无疑清楚，再过一年哈利就要成年了——”
 
　　“不对，” 佩妮姨妈在邓布利多到来之后第一次开口说。
 
　　“抱歉？”邓布利多礼貌地问。
 
　　“不对，他不是。他比达力小一个月，达力要等两年后才到十八岁。”
 
　　“啊，”邓布利多愉快地说，“不过在魔法界，十七岁就算成年了。”
 
　　弗农姨父嘟哝了一句“荒谬”，但邓布利多没有理会他。
 
　　“现在，你们都知道了，那个叫做伏地魔的巫师回到了这个国家。巫师世界最近处在战争状态下。伏地魔几次三番试图杀害哈利，他的处境要比十五年前我把他放在你们家门口时危险得多，那时候我留了一封信解释了他父母的死，希望你们能像亲生儿子一样照顾他。”
 
　　邓布利多顿了一下，虽然他的声音保持着轻松和平静，也没有愤怒的明显迹象，但哈利感觉他的身上散发出一种寒意，也注意到德思礼一家微微凑拢了一些。
 
　　“你们没有照我说的去做。你们从来都没有把他当成儿子看待过。在你们手里，他除了忽视和摧残之外什么都得不到。可以说最幸运的是，他至少逃过了你们俩对坐在你们中间的那个倒霉男孩的那种损害。”
 
　　佩妮姨妈和弗农姨父本能地向周围望了望，宁愿看到挤在他们中间的是别人而不是达力。
 
　　“我们——虐待了达力吗？你是说——？”弗农姨父狂躁地说。不过邓布利多做了个安静的手势，弗农姨父仿佛被打闷了一样安静了下来。
 
　　“我十五年前所施的魔法是，只要哈利还能管这个地方叫家，他就能得到强大的保护。无论他在这里感觉多悲惨，多不受欢迎，被多恶劣地对待，你们终于还是不情愿地给了他一间房住。哈利一满十七岁，这个魔法就会终止；换句话说，在他长大成人的时候。我只要求：在他十七岁生日之前，你们再让他在这个房子住一次，这样就能让保护持续到那时。”
 
　　德思礼一家没有一个吭声。达力微微地皱着眉头，仿佛还在思索他什么时候受过虐待；弗农姨父看上去好像喉咙被什么东西哽住了；而佩妮姨妈则很奇怪地脸红了。
 
　　“好了，哈利……我们该走了。”邓布利多最后说，他站了起来，拉直了他的黑色斗篷。“下次再会，”他对德思礼一家人说，他们看起来似乎巴不得那一刻永远都不要到来，他摘下帽子致了致意，然后便拂袖而去。
 
　　“再见，”哈利匆匆向德思礼一家告别，跟上了邓布利多，他正等在哈利的旅行箱旁，箱子上搁着海德薇的笼子。
 
　　“我们不能被这些东西拖累了，”他再次拔出他的魔杖。“我会把它们先送到陋居去。不过，我要你带着你的隐形衣……只是以防万一。”
 
　　哈利费力地从他的箱子里抽出隐形衣，尽量不让邓布利多看到里面乱糟糟的样子。他把它塞到了夹克衫的内兜里，于是邓布利多挥了挥他的魔杖，箱子、笼子和海德薇都消失了。他又挥了挥魔杖，前门便敞开在了凉意飕飕、迷雾重重的夜幕中。
 
　　“现在，哈利，让我们走入黑夜，继续我们奇异而诱人的冒险之旅。”
Chapter 6 Draco's Detour
Harry remained within the confines of the Burrow's garden over the next few weeks. He spent most of his days playing two-a-side Quidditch in the Weasleys’ orchard (he and Hermione against Ron and Ginny; Hermione was dreadful and Ginny good, so they were reasonably well matched) and his evenings eating triple helpings of everything Mrs. Weasley put in front of him.
It would have been a happy, peaceful holiday had it not been for the stories of disappearances, odd accidents, even of deaths now appearing almost daily in the Prophet. Sometimes Bill and Mr. Weasley brought home news before it even reached the paper. To Mrs. Weasley's displeasure, Harry's sixteenth birthday celebrations were marred by grisly tidings brought to the party by Remus Lupin, who was looking gaunt and grim, his brown hair streaked liberally with gray, his clothes more ragged and patched than ever.
“There have been another couple of dementor attacks,” he announced, as Mrs. Weasley passed him a large slice of birthday cake. “And they've found Igor Karkaroff's body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it... well, frankly, I'm surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius's brother, Regulus, only managed a few days as far as I can remember.”
“Yes, well,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning, “perhaps we should talk about something diff...”
“Did you hear about Florean Fortescue, Remus?” asked Bill, who was being plied with wine by Fleur. “The man who ran—”
“— the ice-cream place in Diagon Alley?” Harry interrupted, with an unpleasant, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. “He used to give me free ice creams. What's happened to him?”
“Dragged off, by the look of his place.”
“Why?” asked Ron, while Mrs. Weasley pointedly glared at Bill.
“Who knows? He must've upset them somehow. He was a good man, Florean.”
“Talking of Diagon Alley,” said Mr. Weasley, “looks like Ollivander's gone too.”
“The wand-maker?” said Ginny, looking startled.
“That's the one. Shop's empty. No sign of a struggle. No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was kidnapped.”
“But wands—what'll people do for wands?”
“They'll make do with other makers,” said Lupin. “But Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have got him it's not so good for us.”
The day after this rather gloomy birthday tea, their letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry's included a surprise: he had been made Quidditch Captain.
“That gives you equal status with prefects!” cried Hermione happily. “You can use our special bathroom now and everything!”
“Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these,” said Ron, examining the badge with glee. “Harry, this is so cool, you're my Captain... if you let me back on the team, I suppose, ha ha...”
“Well, I don't suppose we can put off a trip to Diagon Alley much longer now you've got these,” sighed Mrs. Weasley, looking down Ron's booklist. “We'll go on Saturday as long as your father doesn't have to go into work again. I'm not going there without him.”
“Mum, d'you honestly think You-Know-Who's going to be hiding behind a bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts?” sniggered Ron.
“Fortescue and Ollivander went on holiday, did they?” said Mrs. Weasley, firing up at once. “If you think security's a laughing matter you can stay behind and I'll get your things myself...”
“No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George's shop!” said Ron hastily.
“Then you just buck up your ideas, young man, before I decide you're too immature to come with us!” said Mrs. Weasley angrily, snatching up her clock, all nine hands of which were still pointing at mortal peril, and balancing it on top of a pile of just-laundered towels. “And that goes for returning to Hogwarts as well!”
Ron turned to stare incredulously at Harry as his mother hoisted the laundry basket and the teetering clock into her arms and stormed out of the room.
“Blimey... you can't even make a joke round here anymore...”
But Ron was careful not to be flippant about Voldemort over the next few days. Saturday dawned without any more outbursts from Mrs. Weasley, though she seemed very tense at breakfast. Bill, who would be staying at home with Fleur (much to Hermione and Ginny's pleasure), passed a full money bag across the table to Harry.
“Where's mine?” demanded Ron at once, his eyes wide.
“That's already Harry's, idiot,” said Bill. “I got it out of your vault for you, Harry, because it's taking about five hours for the public to get to their gold at the moment, the goblins have tightened security so much. Two days ago Arkie Philpott had a Probity Probe stuck up his... Well, trust me, this way's easier.”
“Thanks, Bill,” said Harry, pocketing his gold.
“'E is always so thoughtful,” purred Fleur adoringly, stroking Bill's nose. Ginny mimed vomiting into her cereal behind Fleur. Harry choked over his cornflakes, and Ron thumped him on the back.
It was an overcast, murky day. One of the special Ministry of Magic cars, in which Harry had ridden once before, was awaiting them in the front yard when they emerged from the house, pulling on their cloaks.
“It's good Dad can get us these again,” said Ron appreciatively, stretching luxuriously as the car moved smoothly away from the Burrow, Bill and Fleur waving from the kitchen window. He, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting in roomy comfort in the wide backseat.
“Don't get used to it, it's only because of Harry,” said Mr. Weasley over his shoulder. He and Mrs. Weasley were in front with the Ministry driver; the front passenger seat had obligingly stretched into what resembled a two-seater sofa. “He's been given top-grade security status. And we'll be joining up with additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too.”
Harry said nothing; he did not much fancy doing his shopping while surrounded by a battalion of Aurors. He had stowed his Invisibility Cloak in his backpack and felt that, if that was good enough for Dumbledore, it ought to be good enough for the Ministry, though now he came to think of it, he was not sure the Ministry knew about his cloak.
“Here you are, then,” said the driver, a surprisingly short while later, speaking for the first time as he slowed in Charing Cross Road and stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron. “I'm to wait for you, any idea how long you'll be?”
“A couple of hours, I expect,” said Mr. Weasley. “Ah, good, he's here!”
Harry imitated Mr. Weasley and peered through the window; his heart leapt. There were no Aurors waiting outside the inn, but instead the gigantic, black-bearded form of Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, wearing a long beaverskin coat, beaming at the sight of Harry's face and oblivious to the startled stares of passing Muggles.
“Harry!” he boomed, sweeping Harry into a bone-crushing hug the moment Harry had stepped out of the car. “Buckbeak—Witherwings, I mean—yeh should see him, Harry, he's so happy ter be back in the open air—”
“Glad he's pleased,” said Harry, grinning as he massaged his ribs. “We didn't know ‘security’ meant you!”
“I know, jus’ like old times, innit? See, the Ministry wanted ter send a bunch o’ Aurors, but Dumbledore said I'd do,” said Hagrid proudly, throwing out his chest and tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “Lets get goin’ then—after yeh, Molly, Arthur—”
The Leaky Cauldron was, for the first time in Harry's memory, completely empty. Only Tom the landlord, wizened and toothless, remained of the old crowd. He looked up hopefully as they entered, but before he could speak, Hagrid said importantly, “Jus’ passin’ through today, Tom, sure yeh understand, Hogwarts business, yeh know.”
Tom nodded gloomily and returned to wiping glasses; Harry, Hermione, Hagrid, and the Weasleys walked through the bar and out into the chilly little courtyard at the back where the dustbins stood. Hagrid raised his pink umbrella and rapped a certain brick in the wall, which opened at once to form an archway onto a winding cobbled street. They stepped through the entrance and paused, looking around.
Diagon Alley had changed. The colorful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons were lost to view, hidden behind the large Ministry of Magic posters that had been pasted over them. Most of these somber purple posters carried blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over the summer, but others bore moving black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary. A few windows were boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street. The nearest one, which had been erected outside Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:
AMULETS: Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi
A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby.
“One for your little girl, madam?” he called at Mrs. Weasley as they passed, leering at Ginny. “Protect her pretty neck?”
“If I were on duty...” said Mr. Weasley, glaring angrily at the amulet seller.
“Yes, but don't go arresting anyone now, dear, we're in a hurry,” said Mrs. Weasley, nervously consulting a list. “I think we'd better do Madam Malkin's first, Hermione wants new dress robes, and Ron's showing much too much ankle in his school robes, and you must need new ones too, Harry, you've grown so much... come on, everyone...”
“Molly, it doesn't make sense for all of us to go to Madam Malkin's,” said Mr. Weasley. “Why don't those three go with Hagrid, and we can go to Flourish and Blotts and get everyone's school books?”
“I don't know,” said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, clearly torn between a desire to finish the shopping quickly and the wish to stick together in a pack. “Hagrid, do you think...—?”
“Don’ fret, they'll be fine with me, Molly,” said Hagrid soothingly, waving an airy hand the size of a dustbin lid. Mrs. Weasley did not look entirely convinced, but allowed the separation, scurrying off toward Flourish and Blotts with her husband and Ginny while Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid set off for Madam Malkin's.
Harry noticed that many of the people who passed them had the same harried, anxious look as Mrs. Weasley, and that nobody was stopping to talk anymore; the shoppers stayed together in their own tightly knit groups, moving intently about their business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone.
“Migh’ be a bit of a squeeze in there with all o’ us,” said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin's and bending down to peer through the window. “I'll stand guard outside, all righ'?”
So Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the little shop together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes in spangled green and blue.
“... not a child, in case you haven't noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone.”
There was a clucking noise and a voice Harry recognized as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said, “Now, dear, your mother's quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it's nothing to do with being a child—”
“Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!”
A teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few moments before he noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione reflected over his shoulder. His light gray eyes narrowed.
“If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco Malfoy.
“I don't think there's any need for language like that!” said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand. “And I don't want wands drawn in my shop either!” she added hastily, for a glance toward the door had shown her Harry and Ron both standing there with their wands out and pointing at Malfoy.
Hermione, who was standing slightly behind them, whispered, “No, don't, honestly, it's not worth it. ”
“Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school,” sneered Malfoy. “Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers.”
“That's quite enough!” said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. “Madam—please—”
Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack.
“Put those away,” she said coldly to Harry and Ron. “If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.”
“Really?” said Harry, taking a step forward and gazing into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor, still resembled her sister's. He was as tall as she was now. “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?”
Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart.
“Really, you shouldn't accuse... dangerous thing to say... wands away, please!”
But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly.
“I see that being Dumbledore's favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you.”
Harry looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow... look at that... he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!”
Malfoy made an angry movement toward Harry, but stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly.
“Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!” Malfoy snarled.
“It's all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.”
Harry raised his wand higher.
“Harry, no!” moaned Hermione, grabbing his arm and attempting to push it down by his side. “Think... You mustn't... You'll be in such trouble...”
Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn't. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry.
“I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just...”
“Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away. “Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother, I don't think I want these anymore.”
He pulled the robes over his head and threw them onto the floor at Madam Malkin's feet.
“You're right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now I know the kind of scum that shops here... We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's.”
And with that, the pair of them strode out of the shop, Malfoy taking care to bang as hard as he could into Ron on the way out.
“Well, really!” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust.
She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron's and Harry's new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard's dress robes instead of witch's, and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see the back of them.
“Got ev'rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side.
“Just about,” said Harry. “Did you see the Malfoys?”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “But they wouldn’ dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, Harry. Don’ worry about them.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks, but before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books.
“Everyone all right?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's... stick close, now...”
Neither Harry nor Ron bought any ingredients at the Apothecary, seeing that they were no longer studying Potions, but both bought large boxes of owl nuts for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Then, with Mrs. Weasley checking her watch every minute or so, they headed farther along the street in search of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop run by Fred and George.
“We really haven't got too long,” Mrs. Weasley said. “So we'll just have a quick look around and then back to the car. We must be close, that's number ninety-two... ninety-four...”
“Whoa,"said Ron, stopping in his tracks.
Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop Fronts around them, Fred and Georges windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry's eyes began to water just looking at it. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:
Why Are You Worrying About You-Know-Who?
You SHOULD Be Worrying About
U-NO-POO—
the Constipation Sensation That's Gripping the Nation!
Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name “U-No-Poo.”
“They'll be murdered in their beds!” she whispered.
“No they won't!” said Ron, who, like Harry, was laughing. “This is brilliant!”
And he and Harry led the way into the shop. It was packed with customers; Harry could not get near the shelves. He stared around, looking up at the boxes piled to the ceiling: here were the Skiving Snackboxes that the twins had perfected during their last, unfinished year at Hogwarts; Harry noticed that the Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds was watching a tiny little wooden man slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, both perched on a box that read: Reusable hangman—spell it or he'll swing!
“‘Patented Daydream Charms’ ”
Hermione had managed to squeeze through to a large display near the counter and was reading the information on the back of a box bearing a highly colored picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship.
“‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens’. You know,” said Hermione, looking up at Harry, “that really is extraordinary magic!”
“For that, Hermione,” said a voice behind them, “you can have one for free.”
A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his flaming hair.
“How are you, Harry?” They shook hands. “And what's happened to your eye, Hermione?”
“Your punching telescope,” she said ruefully.
“Oh blimey, I forgot about those,” said Fred. “Here...”
He pulled a tub out of his pocket and handed it to her; she unscrewed it gingerly to reveal a thick yellow paste.
“Just dab it on, that bruise'll be gone within the hour,” said Fred. “We had to find a decent bruise-remover. We're testing most of our products on ourselves.”
Hermione looked nervous. “It is safe, isn't it?” she asked.
“Course it is,” said Fred bracingly. “Come on, Harry, I'll give you a tour.”
Harry left Hermione dabbing her black eye with paste and followed Fred toward the back of the shop, where he saw a stand of card and rope tricks.
“Muggle magic tricks!” said Fred happily, pointing them out. “For freaks like Dad, you know, who love Muggle stuff. It's not a big earner, but we do fairly steady business, they're great novelties... Oh, here's George...”
Fred's twin shook Harry's hand energetically.
“Giving him the tour? Come through the back, Harry, that's where we're making the real money... pocket anything, you, and you'll pay in more than Galleons!” he added warningly to a small boy who hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled: Edible Dark Marks—They'll Make Anyone Sick!
George pushed back a curtain beside the Muggle tricks and Harry saw a darker, less crowded room. The packaging on the products lining these shelves was more subdued.
“We've just developed this more serious line,” said Fred. “Funny how it happened...”
“You wouldn't believe how many people, even people who work at the Ministry, can't do a decent Shield Charm,” said George. “'Course, they didn't have you teaching them, Harry.”
“That's right... Well, we thought Shield Hats were a bit of a laugh, you know, challenge your mate to jinx you while wearing it and watch his face when the jinx just bounces off. But the Ministry bought five hundred for all its support staff! And we're still getting massive orders!”
“So we've expanded into a range of Shield Cloaks, Shield Gloves...”
“... I mean, they wouldn't help much against the Unforgivable Curses, but for minor to moderate hexes or jinxes...”
“And then we thought we'd get into the whole area of Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it's such a money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically. “This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we're importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape.”
“And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of weird-looking black horn-type objects that were indeed attempting to scurry out of sight. “You just drop one surreptitiously and it'll run off and make a nice loud noise out of sight, giving you a diversion if you need one.”
“Handy,” said Harry, impressed.
“Here,” said George, catching a couple and throwing them to Harry.
A young witch with short blonde hair poked her head around the curtain; Harry saw that she too was wearing magenta staff robes.
“There's a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said.
Harry found it very odd to hear Fred and George called “Mr. Weasley,” but they took it in their stride.
“Right you are, Verity, I'm coming,” said George promptly. “Harry, you help yourself to anything you want, all right? No charge.”
“I can't do that!” said Harry, who had already pulled out his money bag to pay for the Decoy Detonators.
“You don't pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away Harry's gold.
“But...”
“You gave us our start-up loan, we haven't forgotten,” said George sternly. “Take whatever you like, and just remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask.”
George swept off through the curtain to help with the customers, and Fred led Harry back into the main part of the shop to find Hermione and Ginny still poring over the Patented Daydream Charms.
“Haven't you girls found our special WonderWitch products yet?” asked Fred. “Follow me, ladies...”
Near the window was an array of violently pink products around which a cluster of excited girls was giggling enthusiastically. Hermione and Ginny both hung back, looking wary.
“There you go,” said Fred proudly. “Best range of love potions you'll find anywhere.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Do they work?” she asked.
“Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a time depending on the weight of the boy in question—”
“— and the attractiveness of the girl,” said George, reappearing suddenly at their side. “But we're not selling them to our sister,” he added, becoming suddenly stern, “not when she's already got about five boys on the go from what we've—”
“Whatever you've heard from Ron is a big fat lie,” said Ginny calmly, leaning forward to take a small pink pot off the shelf. “What's this?”
“Guaranteed Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher,” said Fred. “Excellent on everything from boils to blackheads, but don't change the subject. Are you or are you not currently going out with a boy called Dean Thomas?”
“Yes, I am,” said Ginny. “And last time I looked, he was definitely one boy, not five. What are those?”
She was pointing at a number of round balls of fluff in shades of pink and purple, all rolling around the bottom of a cage and emitting high-pitched squeaks.
“Pygmy Puffs,” said George. “Miniature puffskeins, we can't breed them fast enough. So what about Michael Corner?”
“I dumped him, he was a bad loser,” said Ginny, putting a finger through the bars of the cage and watching the Pygmy Puffs crowd around it. “They're really cute!”
“They're fairly cuddly, yes,” conceded Fred. “But you're moving through boyfriends a bit fast, aren't you?”
Ginny turned to look at him, her hands on her hips. There was such a Mrs. Weasley-ish glare on her face that Harry was surprised Fred didn't recoil.
“It's none of your business. And I'll thank you,” she added angrily to Ron, who had just appeared at George's elbow, laden with merchandise, “not to tell tales about me to these two!”
“That's three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut,” said Fred, examining the many boxes in Ron's arms. “Cough up.”
“I'm your brother!”
“And that's our stuff you're nicking. Three Galleons, nine Sickles. I'll knock off the Knut.”
“But I haven't got three Galleons, nine Sickles!”
“You'd better put it back then, and mind you put it on the right shelves.”
Ron dropped several boxes, swore, and made a rude hand gesture at Fred that was unfortunately spotted by Mrs. Weasley, who had chosen that moment to appear.
“If I see you do that again I'll jinx your fingers together,” she said sharply.
“Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?” said Ginny at once.
“A what?” said Mrs. Weasley warily.
“Look, they're so sweet...”
Mrs. Weasley moved aside to look at the Pygmy Puffs, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione momentarily had an unimpeded view out of the window. Draco Malfoy was hurrying up the street alone. As he passed Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. Seconds later, he moved beyond the scope of the window and they lost sight of him.
“Wonder where his mummy is?” said Harry, frowning.
“Given her the slip by the looks of it,” said Ron.
“Why, though?” said Hermione.
Harry said nothing; he was thinking too hard. Narcissa Malfoy would not have let her precious son out of her sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a real effort to free himself from her clutches.
Harry, knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason could not be innocent.
He glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were bending over the Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was delightedly examining a pack of Muggle marked playing cards. Fred and George were both helping customers. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was standing with his back to them, looking up and down the street.
“Get under here, quick,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag.
“Oh—I don't know, Harry,” said Hermione, looking uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley.
“Come on,” said Ron.
She hesitated for a second longer, then ducked under the cloak with Harry and Ron. Nobody noticed them vanish; they were all too interested in Fred and George's products. Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed their way out of the door as quickly as they could, but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy had disappeared just as successfully as they had.
“He was going in that direction,” murmured Harry as quietly as possible, so that the humming Hagrid would not hear them. “C'mon...”
They scurried along, peering left and right, through shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed ahead.
“That's him, isn't it?” she whispered. “Turning left?”
“Big surprise,” whispered Ron.
For Malfoy had glanced around, then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight.
“Quick, or we'll lose him,” said Harry, speeding up.
“Our feet'll be seen!” said Hermione anxiously, as the cloak flapped a little around their ankles; it was much more difficult hiding all three of them under the cloak nowadays.
“It doesn't matter,” said Harry impatiently. “Just hurry!”
But Knockturn Alley, the side street devoted to the Dark Arts, looked completely deserted. They peered into windows as they passed, but none of the shops seemed to have any customers at all. Harry supposed it was a bit of a giveaway in these dangerous and suspicious times to buy Dark artifacts... or at least, to be seen buying them.
Hermione gave his arm a hard pinch.
“Ouch!”
“Shh! Look! He's in there!” she breathed in Harry's ear.
They had drawn level with the only shop in Knockturn Alley that Harry had ever visited, Borgin and Burkes, which sold a wide variety of sinister objects. There in the midst of the cases full of skulls and old bottles stood Draco Malfoy with his back to them, just visible beyond the very same large black cabinet in which Harry had once hidden to avoid Malfoy and his father. Judging by the movements of Malfoy's hands, he was talking animatedly. The proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired, stooping man, stood facing Malfoy. He was wearing a curious expression of mingled resentment and fear.
“If only we could hear what they're saying!” said Hermione.
“We can!” said Ron excitedly. “Hang on—damn.”
He dropped a couple more of the boxes he was still clutching as he fumbled with the largest.
“Extendable Ears, look!”
“Fantastic!” said Hermione, as Ron unraveled the long, flesh-colored strings and began to feed them toward the bottom of the door. “Oh, I hope the door isn't Imperturbable—”
“No!” said Ron gleefully. “Listen!”
They put their heads together and listened intently to the ends of the strings, through which Malfoy's voice could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had been turned on.
“... you know how to fix it?”
“Possibly,” said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. “I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?”
“I can't,” said Malfoy. “It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.”
Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously.
“Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything.”
“No?” said Malfoy, and Harry knew, just by his tone, that Malfoy was sneering. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.”
He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view by the cabinet. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shuffled sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they could see was Borgin, looking very frightened.
“Tell anyone,” said Maifoy, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention.”
“There will be no need for—”
“I'll decide that,” said Malfoy. “Well, I'd better be off. And don't forget to keep that one safe, I'll need it.”
“Perhaps you'd like to take it now?”
“No, of course I wouldn't, you stupid, little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don't sell it.”
“Of course not... sir.”
Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy.
“Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?”
“Naturally, naturally,” murmured Borgin, bowing again.
Next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as Malfoy stalked out of the shop looking very pleased with himself. He passed so close to Harry, Ron, and Hermione that they felt the cloak flutter around their knees again. Inside the shop, Borgin remained frozen; his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried.
“What was that about?” whispered Ron, reeling in the Extendable Ears.
“Dunno,” said Harry, thinking hard. “He wants something mended... and he wants to reserve something in there... Could you see what he pointed at when he said ‘that one'?”
“No, he was behind that cabinet—”
“You two stay here,” whispered Hermione.
“What are you—?”
But Hermione had already ducked out from under the cloak. She checked her hair in the reflection in the glass, then marched into the shop, setting the bell tinkling again. Ron hastily fed the Extendable Ears back under the door and passed one of the strings to Harry.
“Hello, horrible morning, isn't it?” Hermione said brightly to Borgin, who did not answer, but cast her a suspicious look. Humming cheerily, Hermione strolled through the jumble of objects on display.
“Is this necklace for sale?” she asked, pausing beside a glass-fronted case.
“If you've got one and a half thousand Galleons,” said Mr. Borgin coldly.
“Oh—er—no, I haven't got quite that much,” said Hermione, walking on. “And... what about this lovely—um—skull?”
“Sixteen Galleons.”
“So it's for sale, then? It isn't being... kept for anyone?”
Mr. Borgin squinted at her. Harry had the nasty feeling he knew exactly what Hermione was up to. Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too because she suddenly threw caution to the winds.
“The thing is, that—er—boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he's a friend of mine, and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he's already reserved anything, I obviously don't want to get him the same thing, so... um...”
It was a pretty lame story in Harry's opinion, and apparently Borgin thought so too.
“Out,” he said sharply. “Get out!”
Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her and put up the closed sign.
“Ah well,” said Ron, throwing the cloak back over Hermione. “Worth a try, but you were a bit obvious—”
“Well, next time you can show me how it's done, Master of Mystery!” she snapped.
Ron and Hermione bickered all the way back to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to stop so that they could dodge undetected around a very anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who had clearly noticed their absence. Once in the shop, Harry whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, hid it in his bag, and joined in with the other two when they insisted, in answer to Mrs. Weasleys accusations, that they had been in the back room all along, and that she could not have looked properly.
　　哈利接下来的几周里都没有离开陋居。他把白天的大部分时间都花在了打两人一队的魁地奇比赛上（他和赫敏对罗恩和金妮，所以他们正好旗鼓相当），而晚上则用来把韦斯莱夫人摆在他面前的食物每样都吃掉三份。
 
　　如果不是《预言家日报》上每天登载的那些失踪报道和奇怪的（甚至是死人的）事故，这个暑假还真算是一个快乐、平静的暑假。有时候比尔和韦斯莱先生甚至在登报之前就把新的消息带回了家。让韦斯莱夫人感到不快的是，哈利的十六周岁生日的庆祝晚会被莱姆斯•卢平带来的可怕消息给搅了，卢平看上去显得憔悴而阴沉，棕色的头发里夹杂着许多白丝，衣服看上去比任何时候都要破旧。
 
　　“又发生了两三起摄魂怪攻击事件，” 在韦斯莱夫人递给他一大片生日蛋糕时，他宣布。“而他们还在北部地区的一个小屋里找到了伊戈尔•卡卡洛夫的尸体。黑魔标记被施放在小屋上面——嗯，坦率地说，我对他在抛弃了食死徒的队伍之后还能活上一年感到很惊讶；我记得小天狼星的弟弟雷古勒斯只活了几天。”
 
　　“是的，好了，”韦斯莱夫人皱着眉头说，“也许我们该讨论点别的——”
 
　　“你听说了弗洛林•福特斯库的事吗，莱姆斯？”比尔说，他正在被芙蓉用葡萄酒骚扰。“那个开——”
 
　　“——对角巷里的冷饮店的人？”哈利不安地插嘴道，感觉胃里空空的。“他过去常让我免费品尝冰淇淋。他怎么了？”
 
　　“被拖走了，从他的店的样子看是这样。”
 
　　“为什么？”罗恩问，韦斯莱夫人严厉地盯着比尔。
 
　　“谁知道呢？他一定是怎么妨害了他们。弗洛林是个好人。”
 
　　“说到对角巷，”韦斯莱先生说，“好像奥利凡德也不见了。”
 
　　“那个做魔杖的人？”金妮震惊地问。
 
　　“就是他。店子是空的。没有挣扎的痕迹。没人知道他是自己走的还是被绑架了。”
 
　　“但是魔杖——人们怎么买魔杖呢？”
 
　　“他们可以到其他店里去买，”卢平说。“但奥利凡德是最好的，如果他们那边得到了他，对我们来说可不是个好消息。”
 
　　在度过了这个阴郁的生日茶会之后，第二天他们收到了霍格沃茨寄来的信和课本清单。哈利得到了一个惊喜：他被选为魁地奇球队的队长了。
 
　　“哇，我还记得查理戴着这个的样子，”罗恩快乐地检查着那个徽章。“哈利，真是太酷了，你是我的队长了——假如你还让我待在球队里的话，哈哈……”
 
　　“唉，既然你们已经收到这些了，我不认为去对角巷的时间还能再往后拖了，”韦斯莱夫人看着罗恩的课本清单叹息道。“我们星期六就过去，只要那天你父亲不用再去上班。没有他我是不会去的。”
 
　　“妈妈，你真的认为神秘人会藏在丽痕书店的架子后面吗？”罗恩偷笑着说。
 
　　“那福特斯库和奥利凡德是去度假了吗，啊？”韦斯莱夫人立即火冒三丈。“如果你觉得安全问题显得很可笑的话，就待在家里，我自己去把你的东西买回来——”
 
　　“不，我要去，我要去参观弗雷德和乔治的铺子！”罗恩急忙说。
 
　　“那你就快醒醒脑子，小伙子，别让我觉得你太幼稚而决定不让你和我们一起去！”韦斯莱夫人生气地说，一把抓起她的钟——九个指针仍旧指着‘生命危险’——将它稳稳地摆在一堆刚洗过的毛巾上。“否则我也不会让你回到霍格沃茨的！”
 
　　罗恩转过来不敢相信似的盯着哈利，他妈妈提起装着那面摇摇晃晃的大钟的洗衣篮，怒气冲冲地走出了房间。
 
　　“我的天哪……在这儿简直连个玩笑都开不成了……”
 
　　但剩下的几天罗恩没有再冒失地提到伏地魔。在周六的黎明到来之前韦斯莱夫人没有再发过火，不过她在餐桌上仍显得很紧张。比尔要和芙蓉留守在家里（赫敏和金妮再高兴不过了），他把一个满满的钱袋从餐桌上递给哈利。
 
　　“我的在哪？”罗恩马上问道，眼睛睁得大大的。
 
　　“那本来就是哈利的，傻瓜，”比尔说。“我从你的金库里给你取出来了，哈利，因为现在公众得花五个小时才能拿到他们的金子，妖精们大大加强了安全警备。两天前阿尔吉•菲尔珀特刚被一个正直探针刺到了他的……好了，相信我，这是更简单的途径。”
 
　　“谢谢你，比尔，”哈利把金子装进兜里。
 
　　“他总是这么体贴，”芙蓉一面轻刮着比尔的鼻子，一面充满崇拜地用喉咙咕噜咕噜地说着。金妮在芙蓉背后假装做出呕吐的动作。哈利被玉米片哽住了，罗恩重重地拍了拍他的背。
 
　　天空中布满了乌云，显得很阴暗。当他们系上斗篷出现在屋子外面时，一辆哈利曾经坐过一次的魔法部特派轿车已经等在了前门的院子里。
 
　　“爸爸能再次借到这些真是太好了，”罗恩感激地说，他伸了个大大的懒腰，这时轿车正平稳地驶出陋居，比尔和芙蓉在厨房的窗户那儿向他们挥手。他、哈利、赫敏和金妮坐在宽敞舒适的后座上。
 
　　“可别坐上瘾了，这都是因为哈利在这儿，”韦斯莱先生转过头说。他和韦斯莱夫人陪部里的司机坐在前排；前面的乘客座椅善解人意地伸展成一个双座沙发的样子。“他被赋予了最高级别的安全防护。我们在破釜酒吧还要和另一批警卫汇合。”
 
　　哈利什么也没说；他不喜欢在一大群傲罗的陪同下买东西。他背包里还装着隐形斗篷，他想，如果它对邓布利多起作用，那么就应该对魔法部的人同样适用，尽管他现在想到了这个，但哈利还不能肯定魔法部的人知不知道他有这么一件斗篷。
 
　　“你们到了，” 仿佛才过了一瞬间的功夫，司机第一次开口说话了，他在查林十字街上减了速，把车停靠在了破釜酒吧的外面。“我在门口等你们，能告诉我你们要待多久吗？”
 
　　“两三个小时吧，我估计，”韦斯莱先生说。“啊，好啊，他在这儿！”
 
　　哈利效仿韦斯莱先生向窗外望去；他的心都跳出来了。没有什么傲罗等在旅馆外面，只有一个长着黑色胡子的巨大身影，那是鲁伯•海格，霍格沃茨的狩猎场看守，他穿着一件海狸皮大衣，愉快地看着哈利，没有在意麻瓜行人的一张张惊骇的脸。
 
　　“哈利！”他粗声粗气地说道，哈利刚从车里出来就被他用可以捏碎骨头的力气一把抱住。“巴克比克——韦瑟文，我是说——你一定要看看它，哈利，能回到户外活动，它别提有多高兴了——”
 
　　“我很高兴，”哈利揉着肋骨咧嘴笑道。“我们不知道‘警卫’指的是你！”
 
　　“我知道，就像从前一样，是吧？魔法部想要送一群傲罗来，可是邓布利多说我来就成了，”海格自豪地挺起胸，把拇指塞进口袋里。“那我们进去吧——我们跟在你后面，莫莉，亚瑟——”
 
　　破釜酒吧里空荡荡的，这在哈利的记忆里还是第一次。过去的热闹人群里只剩下老板汤姆，他面容枯槁，牙齿也快掉光了。他们进来的时候，汤姆满怀希望地抬起了头，可没等他说话，海格就严肃地说，“今天只是路过，汤姆，你肯定知道的。霍格沃茨的事务。”
 
　　汤姆郁闷地点了点头，重新擦起了玻璃杯；哈利、赫敏、海格和韦斯莱一家穿过酒吧走到后面一个放着垃圾箱的冷清院子里。海格举起他粉红色的伞，在墙的一块砖上敲了敲，墙马上就变成了一个拱门，通向一条弯弯曲曲的鹅卵石路。穿过入口之后，他们停下了，朝四周望了望。
 
　　对角巷变了。摆着咒语书、魔药原料和坩埚的光亮窗户看不到了，一张张魔法部的大海报被贴在上面。大多数昏暗、紫色的海报上都是放大了的安全建议，正是这个暑假魔法部派发的小册子上的内容，但还有一些是会动的巨幅黑白照片，上面印着已知的在逃食死徒。贝拉特里克斯•莱斯特兰奇正在最近的一家药店的窗玻璃上冷笑。有几个商店的玻璃被用木板钉了起来，其中就包括弗洛林冷饮店。另一方面，许多破破烂烂的小摊沿着路边冒了出来。最近的一个撑着有条纹的遮阳篷摆在丽痕书店的门口，前面钉着一块硬纸板，上面写道：
 
　　护身符：有效地防御狼人、摄魂怪和阴飞力
 
　　一个穿得破破烂烂的巫师正喋喋不休地向每一个路人兜售着他怀抱里的用链子串起来的银色标记。
 
　　“给你的小女孩儿来一个吧，夫人？”他冲着韦斯莱夫人嚷，不怀好意地盯着金妮。“保护保护她美丽的脖子？”
 
　　“如果我是在上班……”韦斯莱先生愤怒地盯着那个护身符贩子。
 
　　“是的，但现在别去逮捕任何人，亲爱的，我们忙着呢，”韦斯莱夫人正紧张地查阅着一张清单。“我想我们最好先去摩金夫人长袍专卖店，赫敏想买一件女式长袍，罗恩的脚踝都快露出校袍了，你也要买一件新的了，哈利，你长得这么快——来吧，每个人跟上——”
 
　　“莫莉，我们没必要都去摩金夫人长袍店，”韦斯莱先生说。“不如让海格和他们三个一起去，我们去丽痕书店买他们的课本？”
 
　　“我不知道，”韦斯莱夫人不安地说，显然正在快些结束购物的愿望和让大家都聚集在一起这两者之间作痛苦的选择。“海格，你觉得——？”
 
　　“别担心，他们和我在一起不会有事的，莫莉，”海格安慰着她，挥了挥他那只像垃圾桶盖子一样大的手。韦斯莱夫人看上去并非深信这一点，但还是同意了分开，他和丈夫还有金妮匆匆地赶往丽痕书店，同时海格带着哈利、罗恩和赫敏去了摩金夫人的铺子。
 
　　哈利注意到许多和他们擦肩而过的行人都和韦斯莱夫人一样匆忙和焦躁，没有人停下来交谈；购物的人都结着伴紧密地待在一块儿，专注地买着他们的东西。看上去没有人是独自来的。
 
　　“也许我们都进去就很挤了，”他们在长袍店外面停下脚步，海格弯下腰从窗子往里窥视。“我就在外面守着，好吗？”
 
　　于是哈利、罗恩和赫敏就一起走进了商店。第一眼看上去屋子里似乎没人，不过他们刚一关上门，一个熟悉的声音就从放满了亮晶晶的绿色和蓝色长袍的架子后面传了出来。
 
　　“……我不是个孩子了，要是你没注意到这一点的话，妈妈。我有能力一个人买东西了。”
 
　　然后是一阵咯咯的响声，哈利听出了是摩金夫人的声音在说，“好了，亲爱的，你妈妈说得太对了，现在没有人可以独自在外面走，这和是不是小孩子没关系——”
 
　　“看你把别针别在哪儿了！”
 
　　一个脸色苍白男孩出现在架子后面，他长着浅金色的头发和尖尖的下巴，身上穿了一套暗绿色的长袍，褶边和袖子口还别着闪闪发亮的别针。他大步走到镜子前检查自己；不一会儿就从镜子里看到了站在他身后的哈利、罗恩和赫敏。他眯起了浅灰色的眼睛。
 
　　“如果你在疑惑闻到了什么气味，妈妈，那是因为有个泥巴种进来了，”德拉科•马尔福说。
 
　　“我不认为你需要那样的语言！”摩金夫人拿着一只卷尺和一根魔杖从架子后面急忙地走了出来。“我也不想看到魔杖在我的店里被拔出来！”她匆匆地补充道，看到站在门口的哈利和罗恩都用魔杖指着马尔福。
 
　　赫敏站在他们俩后面轻声说道，“不，不要，说实在的，这不值得……”
 
　　“好啊，看来你们敢在学校外面施魔法，”马尔福冷笑道。“是谁把你的眼睛打青了，格兰杰？我要给他们献花。”
 
　　“够了！”摩金夫人尖声说，转过头去寻求支援。“夫人——请——”
 
　　纳西莎•马尔福从衣架后面慢吞吞地走了出来。
 
　　“把那些收起来，”她冷冷地对哈利和罗恩说。“如果你们再攻击我的儿子，我敢保证这会是你们俩做的最后一件事。”
 
　　“是吗？”哈利往前走了一步，盯着那张光滑、傲慢的脸，那张脸虽然苍白，可仍旧和她的姐姐长得很像。哈利现在和她差不多高了。“去找几个食死徒朋友来把我们干掉，对不对？”
 
　　摩金夫人尖叫了一声，紧紧抓住了自己的胸口。
 
　　“真是的，你不能这么非难她——说这么危险的东西——放下魔杖，求你们了！”
 
　　但哈利并没有放下他魔杖。纳西莎•马尔福令人厌恶地笑了笑。
 
　　“我看你是在邓布利多的宠爱下对安全产生了一种错觉，哈利•波特。但邓布利多不可能总是保护着你。”
 
　　哈利嘲笑般地环顾了一遍整个商店。
 
　　“哇……看上去……现在他就不在这儿！你怎么不试试看？他们也许会在阿兹卡班帮你找到一件双人房，这样你就可以和你的丈夫团聚了。”
 
　　马尔福愤怒地冲向哈利，可是却被自己过长的袍子给绊倒了。罗恩大笑了起来。
 
　　“你怎么敢跟我妈妈那样说话，波特！”马尔福咆哮着说。
 
　　“没事，德拉科，”纳西莎用她纤细白皙的手搭在马尔福的肩上制止了他。“我估计在和卢修斯团聚之前，波特就见小天狼星去了。”
 
　　哈利把魔杖举得更高了。
 
　　“哈利，别！”赫敏哀求着抓住他的手，努力地想使它放下来。“想想看……你不能……你会惹大麻烦的……”
 
　　摩金夫人发着抖呆站了一小会儿，然后决定装作什么都像她所希望的那样没有发生。她朝正怒视着哈利的马尔福弯下腰。
 
　　“我想左边的袖子还应该提起来一点，亲爱的，就让我——”
 
　　“哎呀！”马尔福吼道，用力推开了她的手，“看你把别针别在哪儿了，女人！妈妈——我再也不要这些袍子了——”
 
　　他扯下袍子扔到摩金夫人脚边的地板上。
 
　　“你是对的，德拉科，”纳西莎轻蔑地瞟了一眼赫敏，“现在我知道这间屋子里有什么样的渣滓了……我们去退尔菲特和塔汀店买吧。”
 
　　他们俩大步走了出去，马尔福出门时狠狠地撞了一下罗恩。
 
　　“唉，真是的！”摩金夫人说，她抓起掉在地上的袍子，把魔杖的末端像吸尘器一样对着它们把灰尘清理掉。
 
　　她给罗恩和哈利量身裁衣的时候显得心烦意乱，还把男巫的袍子拿给了赫敏，最后当她鞠着躬送他们的时候，她似乎很乐意看到他们的背影走出了门。
 
　　“都买好了？”海格高兴地看见他们都回来了。
 
　　“差不多，”哈利说。“你看到马尔福母子了吗？”
 
　　“是的，”海格不感兴趣地说。“但是他们不敢在对角巷里犯浑，哈利，别管他们。”
 
　　哈利、罗恩和赫敏交换了一个眼神，但是在他们想要消除海格这个错误的乐观想法之前，韦斯莱夫妇和金妮出现了，他们都抓着重重的一包书。
 
　　“每个人都好了吗？”韦斯莱夫人说。“买了袍子？好的，那么我们在去弗雷德和乔治铺子的路上可以先看看药材店和咿啦猫头鹰商店——靠紧点儿，现在……”
 
　　因为罗恩和哈利都不再需要上魔药课了，所以他们什么药材都没有买，不过他们都在咿啦猫头鹰商店给海德薇和小猪买了大盒大盒的猫头鹰坚果。然后，韦斯莱夫人一边每隔大概一分钟就查看一下手表，一边和他们往对角巷的深处走去，寻找着弗雷德和乔治开的韦斯莱魔法把戏店。
 
　　“我们真的没有太多时间了，”韦斯莱夫人说。“所以我们只能看看就走，回到车里。靠近些，那是九十二号……九十四号……”
 
　　“哇，”罗恩停下了他的脚步。
 
　　比起旁边灰暗、贴满了海报的商店大门来，弗雷德和乔治店里的橱窗首先映入了大家的眼帘，那里像是在搞烟火展览一样。偶然路过的行人回过头来看着橱窗，有几个甚至惊呆了。左边的橱窗上分类摆着吸引眼球的商品，有会转的、发出爆裂声的、闪着光的、会跳的，还有的会尖叫；哈利的眼睛都看花了。右边的橱窗上贴着一张巨大的海报，纸和魔法部的海报一样是紫色的，但是上面却用闪着黄光的字写着：
 
　　为什么要担心神秘人？
 
　　你应该担心的是
 
　　生秘灵——
 
　　握住了整个国家的便秘感觉！
 
　　哈利笑了起来。他听到旁边传来一阵微弱的呻吟，转过头看见韦斯莱夫人正哑口无言地盯着海报。她的嘴唇动着，无声地念着那个名字，“生秘灵。”
 
　　“他们会在睡觉的时候被谋杀的！”她轻声说。
 
　　“不会的！”罗恩说，他和哈利一样也在笑。“太棒了！”
 
　　他和哈利带头进了商店。里面全是顾客；哈利都挤不到架子那儿。他朝四周望了望，抬头看着堆到了天花板上的盒子：这是双胞胎在霍格沃茨最后、没有完成的一年里做好的速效逃课糖；哈利注意到鼻血牛扎糖最受欢迎，架子上只剩下了被压坏的一盒。还有整箱整箱的恶作剧魔杖，最便宜的只能在挥动的时候变成橡皮鸭子或者一条短裤；最贵的却能够追打粗心的使用者的脑袋和脖子；整盒整盒的羽毛笔，分为自动加墨型、检查拼写型和自动回答型。热闹的人群里终于腾出了一个空子，哈利赶紧挤到柜台边，那儿有一群兴奋的十岁小孩正在看一个木头小人儿慢慢地走向绞刑架，它们下面的盒子上写着：可重复使用的刽子手——对它念咒否则他就会绞死自己！
 
　　“‘专利产品白日梦魔咒……’”
 
　　赫敏已经设法挤到了一个柜台附近的展示品旁，她正念着一只盒子后面的说明，盒子上用鲜艳的颜色画着一位英俊的青年和一位陶醉的女孩儿站在海盗船的甲板上。
 
　　“‘一个简单的咒语就可以令你拥有一个高质量、极其真实的30分钟白日梦，这适用于学校里通常的课堂上，事实上不会被发现（副作用包括面无表情和轻微流口水）。不卖给16岁以下的人。’你看，”赫敏抬头看了看哈利，“这真是非常特别的魔法！”
 
　　“既然你这么说，赫敏，”他们身后的一个声音说，“你可以免费得到一个。”
 
　　弗雷德愉快地站到了他们面前，他穿着一件洋红色的长袍，与火红的头发很不协调。
 
　　“你好吗，哈利？”他们握着手。“你的眼睛怎么了，赫敏？”
 
　　“都是你们那只打人的望远镜，”她一脸愁容地说。
 
　　“哦，啊呀，我把那些给忘了，”弗雷德说。“这里——”
 
　　他从口袋里掏出一个瓶子递给她；赫敏小心翼翼地旋开它，里面是粘稠的黄色浆糊。
 
　　“只要涂上它，那些瘀伤就会在一个小时之内消失，”弗雷德说。“我们不得不找到一种相当好的去伤药，因为我们要在自己身上测试大部分的产品。”
 
　　赫敏看上去很不安。“这个是安全的，对吗？”她问。
 
　　“当然是，”弗雷德爽快地说。“快过来，哈利，我带你转转。”
 
　　哈利离开了正在往眼睛上涂浆糊的赫敏，跟着弗雷德来到了商店的后面，他看见了一个摆着纸牌和绳子戏法的台子。
 
　　“麻瓜的魔术戏法！”弗雷德高兴地说，他用手指着它们。“给像爸爸那样的怪人，你知道，那些喜爱麻瓜物品人。没有很大的赚头，但这个生意却相当稳定，它们是非常新奇的事物……哦，乔治来了……”
 
　　弗雷德的双胞胎兄弟精神饱满地握了握哈利的手。
 
　　“带他参观？到后面来瞧瞧，哈利，那才是我们赚大钱的地方——别把那玩意儿装进口袋里，就是你，你会付出比金加隆还要大的代价的！”他警告着一个正把手从一个缸子里抽出来的小男孩，那缸子上用标签写着：可食用黑魔标记——能让任何人生病！
 
　　乔治推开了麻瓜把戏旁边的门帘，哈利看见一个更暗、人更少的房间。产品的包装整齐地排列在架子上，看上去压抑多了。
 
　　“我们刚开发了这一系列更严肃的产品，”弗雷德说。“真有趣，我们都不知道是怎么做上这个的……”
 
　　“你可能都不信有多少人，甚至连在魔法部工作的人也施不出一个像样的铁甲咒，” 乔治说。“当然，他们没有让你教过，哈利。”
 
　　“没错……瞧，我们开始觉得铁甲帽只是有点好玩儿，你想，你戴着它要求你的同伴向你施魔法，然后等魔法弹回去时看看他那张脸。可是魔法部却为它所有的员工购买了500顶！我们还在收到大笔的订单呢！&rd
Chapter 11 Hermione's Helping Hand
As Hermione had predicted, the sixth-years’ free periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Ron had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to keep up with the vast amount of homework they were being set. Not only were they studying as though they had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had become more demanding than ever before. Harry barely understood half of what Professor McGonagall said to them these days; even Hermione had had to ask her to repeat instructions once or twice. Incredibly, and to Hermione's increasing resentment, Harry's best subject had suddenly become Potions, thanks to the Half-Blood Prince.
Non-verbal spells were now expected, not only in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and Transfiguration too. Harry frequently looked over at his classmates in the common room or at mealtimes to see them purple in the face and straining as though they had overdosed on U-No-Poo; but he knew that they were really struggling to make spells work without saying incantations aloud. It was a relief to get outside into the greenhouses; they were dealing with more dangerous plants than ever in Herbology, but at least they were still allowed to swear loudly if the Venomous Tentacula seized them unexpectedly from behind.
One result of their enormous workload and the frantic hours of practicing non-verbal spells was that Harry, Ron, and Hermione had so far been unable to find time to go and visit Hagrid. He had stopped coming to meals at the staff table, an ominous sign, and on the few occasions when they had passed him in the corridors or out in the grounds, he had mysteriously failed to notice them or hear their greetings.
“We've got to go and explain,” said Hermione, looking up at Hagrid's huge empty chair at the staff table the following Saturday at breakfast.
“We've got Quidditch tryouts this morning!” said Ron. “And we're supposed to be practicing that Aguamenti Charm from Flitwick! Anyway, explain what? How are we going to tell him we hated his stupid subject?”
“We didn't hate it!” said Hermione.
“Speak for yourself, I haven't forgotten the Skrewts,” said Ron darkly. “And I'm telling you now, we've had a narrow escape. You didn't hear him going on about his gormless brother — we'd have been teaching Grawp how to tie his shoelaces if we'd stayed.”
“I hate not talking to Hagrid,” said Hermione, looking upset.
“We'll go down after Quidditch,” Harry assured her. He too was missing Hagrid, although like Ron he thought that they were better off without Grawp in their lives. “But trials might take all morning, the number of people who have applied.” He felt slightly nervous at confronting the first hurdle of his Captaincy. “I dunno why the team's this popular all of a sudden.”
“Oh, come on, Harry,” said Hermione, suddenly impatient. “It's not Quidditch that's popular, it's you! You've never been more interesting, and frankly, you've never been more fanciable.”
Ron gagged on a large piece of kipper. Hermione spared him one look of disdain before turning back to Harry.
“Everyone knows you've been telling the truth now, don't they? The whole Wizarding world has had to admit that you were right about Voldemort being back and that you really have fought him twice in the last two years and escaped both times. And now they're calling you ‘the Chosen One'—well, come on, can't you see why people are fascinated by you?”
Harry was finding the Great Hall very hot all of a sudden, even though the ceiling still looked cold and rainy.
“And you've been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway...”
“You can still see where those brains got hold of me in the Ministry, look,” said Ron, shaking back his sleeves.
“And it doesn't hurt that you've grown about a foot over the summer either,” Hermione finished, ignoring Ron.
“I'm tall,” said Ron inconsequentially.
The post owls arrived, swooping down through rain-flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of water. Most people were receiving more post than usual; anxious parents were keen to hear from their children and to reassure them, in turn, that all was well at home. Harry had received no mail since the start of term; his only regular correspondent was now dead and although he had hoped that Lupin might write occasionally, he had so far been disappointed. He was very surprised, therefore, to see the snowy white Hedwig circling amongst all the brown and gray owls. She landed in front of him carrying a large, square package. A moment later, an identical package landed in front of Ron, crushing beneath it his minuscule and exhausted owl, Pigwidgeon.
“Ha!” said Harry, unwrapping the parcel to reveal a new copy of Advanced Potion-Making, fresh from Flourish and Blotts.
“Oh good,” said Hermione, delighted. “Now you can give that graffitied copy back.”
“Are you mad?” said Harry. “I'm keeping it! Look, I've thought it out —”
He pulled the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and tapped the cover with his wand, muttering, “Diffindo!” The cover fell off. He did the same thing with the brand-new book (Hermione looked scandalized). He then swapped the covers, tapped each, and said, “Reparo!”
There sat the Prince's copy, disguised as a new book, and there sat the fresh copy from Flourish and Blotts, looking thoroughly second-hand.
“I'll give Slughorn back the new one, he can't complain, it cost nine Galleons.”
Hermione pressed her lips together, looking angry and disapproving, but was distracted by a third owl landing in front of her carrying that day's copy of the Daily Prophet. She unfolded it hastily and scanned the front page.
“Anyone we know dead?” asked Ron in a determinedly casual voice; he posed the same question every time Hermione opened her paper.
“No, but there have been more dementor attacks,” said Hermione. “And an arrest.”
“Excellent, who?” said Harry, thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange.
“Stan Shunpike,” said Hermione.
“What?” said Harry, startled.
”‘Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home...’”
“Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?” said Harry, remembering the spotty youth he had first met three years before. “No way!”
“He might have been put under the Imperius Curse,” said Ron reasonably. “You never can tell.”
“It doesn't look like it,” said Hermione, who was still reading. “It says here he was arrested after he was overheard talking about the Death Eaters’ secret plans in a pub.” She looked up with a troubled expression on her face. “If he was under the Imperius Curse, he'd hardly stand around gossiping about their plans, would he?”
“It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew more than he did,” said Ron. “Isn't he the one who claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic when he was trying to chat up those Veela?”
“Yeah, that's him,” said Harry. “I dunno what they're playing at, taking Stan seriously.”
“They probably want to look as though they're doing something,” said Hermione, frowning. “People are terrified—you know the Patil twins’ parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night.”
“What!” said Ron, goggling at Hermione. “But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! We've got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!”
“I don't think we've got him all the time,” said Hermione very quietly, glancing toward the staff table over the top of the Prophet. “Haven't you noticed? His seat's been empty as often as Hagrid's this past week.”
Harry and Ron looked up at the staff table. The Headmaster's chair was indeed empty. Now Harry came to think of it, he had not seen Dumbledore since their private lesson a week ago.
“I think he's left the school to do something with the Order,” said Hermione in a low voice. “I mean... it's all looking serious, isn't it?”
Harry and Ron did not answer, but Harry knew that they were all thinking the same thing. There had been a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since.
When they left the Gryffindor table five minutes later to head down to the Quidditch pitch, they passed Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. Remembering what Hermione had said about the Patil twins’ parents wanting them to leave Hogwarts, Harry was unsurprised to see that the two best friends were whispering together, looking distressed. What did surprise him was that when Ron drew level with them, Parvati suddenly nudged Lavender, who looked around and gave Ron a wide smile. Ron blinked at her, then returned the smile uncertainly. His walk instantly became something more like a strut. Harry resisted the temptation to laugh, remembering that Ron had refrained from doing so after Malfoy had broken Harry's nose; Hermione, however, looked cold and distant all the way down to the stadium through the cool, misty drizzle, and departed to find a place in the stands without wishing Ron good luck.
As Harry had expected, the trials took most of the morning. Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating. The latter included a large, wiry-haired boy Harry recognized immediately from the Hogwarts Express.
“We met on the train, in old Sluggy's compartment,” he said confidently, stepping out of the crowd to shake Harry's hand. “Cormac McLaggen, Keeper.”
“You didn't try out last year, did you?” asked Harry, taking note of the breadth of McLaggen and thinking that he would probably block all three goal hoops without even moving.
“I was in the hospital wing when they held the trials,” said McLaggen, with something of a swagger. “Ate a pound of Doxy eggs for a bet.”
“Right,” said Harry. “Well... if you wait over there ...”
He pointed over to the edge of the pitch, close to where Hermione was sitting. He thought he saw a flicker of annoyance pass over McLaggen's face and wondered whether McLaggen expected preferential treatment because they were both “old Sluggy's” favorites.
Harry decided to start with a basic test, asking all applicants for the team to divide into groups of ten and fly once around the pitch. This was a good decision: the first ten was made up of first years, and it could not have been plainer that they had hardly ever flown before. Only one boy managed to remain airborne for more than a few seconds, and he was so surprised he promptly crashed into one of the goal posts.
The second group was comprised of ten of the silliest girls Harry had ever encountered, who, when he blew his whistle, merely fell about giggling and clutching one another. Romilda Vane was amongst them. When he told them to leave the pitch, they did so quite cheerfully and went to sit in the stands to heckle everyone else.
The third group had a pile-up halfway around the pitch. Most of the fourth group had come without broomsticks. The fifth group were Hufflepuffs.
“If there's anyone else here who's not from Gryffindor,” roared Harry, who was starting to get seriously annoyed, “leave now, please!”
There was a pause, then a couple of little Ravenclaws went sprinting off the pitch, snorting with laughter.
After two hours, many complaints, and several tantrums, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty and several broken teeth, Harry had found himself three Chasers: Katie Bell, returned to the team after an excellent trial; a new find called Demelza Robins, who was particularly good at dodging Bludgers; and Ginny Weasley, who had outflown all the competition and scored seventeen goals to boot. Pleased though he was with his choices, Harry had also shouted himself hoarse at the many complainers and was now enduring a similar battle with the rejected Beaters.
“That's my final decision and if you don't get out of the way of the Keepers I'll hex you,” he bellowed.
Neither of his chosen Beaters had the old brilliance of Fred and George, but he was still reasonably pleased with them: Jimmy Peakes, a short but broad-chested third-year boy who had managed to raise a lump the size of an egg on the back of Harry's head with a ferociously hit Bludger, and Ritchie Coote, who looked weedy but aimed well. They now joined Katie, Demelza, and Ginny in the stands to watch the selection of their last team member.
Harry had deliberately left the trial of the Keepers until last, hoping for an emptier stadium and less pressure on all concerned. Unfortunately, however, all the rejected players and a number of people who had come down to watch after a lengthy breakfast had joined the crowd by now, so that it was larger than ever. As each Keeper flew up to the goal hoops, the crowd roared and jeered in equal measure. Harry glanced over at Ron, who had always had a problem with nerves; Harry had hoped that winning their final match last term might have cured it, but apparently not: Ron was a delicate shade of green.
None of the first five applicants saved more than two goals apiece. To Harry's great disappointment, Cormac McLaggen saved four penalties out of five. On the last one, however, he shot off in completely the wrong direction; the crowd laughed and booed and McLaggen returned to the ground grinding his teeth.
Ron looked ready to pass out as he mounted his Cleansweep Eleven.
“Good luck!” cried a voice from the stands. Harry looked around, expecting to see Hermione, but it was Lavender Brown. He would have quite liked to have hidden his face in his hands, as she did a moment later, but thought that as the Captain he ought to show slightly more grit, and so turned to watch Ron do his trial.
Yet he need not have worried: Ron saved one, two, three, four, five penalties in a row. Delighted, and resisting joining in the cheers of the crowd with difficulty, Harry turned to McLaggen to tell him that, most unfortunately, Ron had beaten him, only to find McLaggen's red face inches from his own. He stepped back hastily.
“His sister didn't really try,” said McLaggen menacingly. There was a vein pulsing in his temple like the one Harry had often admired in Uncle Vernon's. “She gave him an easy save.”
“Rubbish,” said Harry coldly. “That was the one he nearly missed.”
McLaggen took a step nearer Harry, who stood his ground this time.
“Give me another go.”
“No,” said Harry. “You've had your go. You saved four. Ron saved five. Ron's Keeper, he won it fair and square. Get out of my way.”
He thought for a moment that McLaggen might punch him, but he contented himself with an ugly grimace and stormed away, growling what sounded like threats to thin air.
Harry turned around to find his new team beaming at him.
“Well done,” he croaked. “You flew really well —”
“You did brilliantly, Ron!”
This time it really was Hermione running toward them from the stands; Harry saw Lavender walking off the pitch, arm in arm with Parvati, a rather grumpy expression on her face. Ron looked extremely pleased with himself and even taller than usual as he grinned at the team and at Hermione.
After fixing the time of their first full practice for the following Thursday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bade goodbye to the rest of the team and headed off toward Hagrid's. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling at last. Harry felt extremely hungry; he hoped there would be something to eat at Hagrid's.
“I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,” Ron was saying happily. “Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it —”
“Yes, yes, you were magnificent,” said Hermione, looking amused.
“I was better than that McLaggen anyway,” said Ron in a highly satisfied voice. “Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he'd been Confunded. ...”
To Harry's surprise, Hermione turned a very deep shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving detail.
The great gray hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in front of Hagrid's cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them.
“Oh dear,” said Hermione nervously. “He's still a bit scary, isn't he?”
“Come off it, you've ridden him, haven't you?” said Ron. Harry stepped forward and bowed low to the hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking. After a few seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too.
“How are you?” Harry asked him in a low voice, moving forward to stroke the feathery head. “Missing him? But you're okay here with Hagrid, aren't you?”
“Oi!” said a loud voice.
Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, was at his heels; Fang gave a booming bark and bounded forward.
“Git away from him! He'll have yer fingers—oh. It's yeh lot.”
Fang was jumping up at Hermione and Ron, attempting to lick their ears. Hagrid stood and looked at them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.
“Oh dear!” said Hermione, looking stricken.
“Don't worry about it,” said Harry grimly. He walked over to the door and knocked loudly.
“Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!”
There was no sound from within.
“If you don't open the door, we'll blast it open!” Harry said, pulling out his wand.
“Harry!” said Hermione, sounding shocked. “You can't possibly —”
“Yeah, I can!” said Harry. “Stand back —”
But before he could say anything else, the door flew open again as Harry had known it would, and there stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking, despite the flowery apron, positively alarming.
“I'm a teacher!” he roared at Harry. “A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!”
“I'm sorry, sir,” said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes.
Hagrid looked stunned. “Since when have yeh called me ‘sir'?”
“Since when have you called me ‘Potter'?”
“Oh, very clever,” growled Hagrid. “Very amusin'. That's me outsmarted, innit? All righ', come in then, yeh ungrateful little...”
Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass. Hermione scurried in after Harry, looking rather frightened.
“Well?” said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden table, Fang laying his head immediately upon Harry's knee and drooling all over his robes. “What's this? Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I'm lonely or summat?”
“No,” said Harry at once. “We wanted to see you.”
“We've missed you!” said Hermione tremulously.
“Missed me, have yeh?” snorted Hagrid. “Yeah. Righ'.”
He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of mahogany-brown tea in front of them and a plate of his rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for Hagrid's cooking, and took one at once.
“Hagrid,” said Hermione timidly, when he joined them at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a brutality that suggested that each tuber had done him a great personal wrong, “we really wanted to carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know.” Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought some bogeys landed on the potatoes, and was inwardly thankful that they were not staying for dinner.
“We did!” said Hermione. “But none of us could fit it into our schedules!”
“Yeah. Righ',” said Hagrid again.
There was a funny squelching sound and they all looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek, and Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table away from the large barrel standing in the corner that they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing.
“What are they, Hagrid?” asked Harry, trying to sound interested rather than revolted, but putting down his rock cake all the same.
“Jus’ giant grubs,” said Hagrid.
“And they grow into...?” said Ron, looking apprehensive.
“They won’ grow inter nuthin',” said Hagrid. “I got ‘em ter feed ter Aragog.”
And without warning, he burst into tears.
“Hagrid!” cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. “What is it?”
“It's... him...” gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes streaming as he mopped his face with his apron. “It's... Aragog... I think he's dyin'... He got ill over the summer an’ he's not gettin’ better... I don’ know what I'll do if he... if he... We've bin tergether so long...”
Hermione patted Hagrid's shoulder, looking at a complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how she felt. He had known Hagrid to present a vicious baby dragon with a teddy bear, seen him croon over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this was perhaps the most incomprehensible of all his monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog, who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which he and Ron had only narrowly escaped four years previously.
“Is there—is there anything we can do?” Hermione asked, ignoring Ron's frantic grimaces and head-shakings.
“I don’ think there is, Hermione,” choked Hagrid, attempting to stem the flood of his tears. “See, the rest o’ the tribe ... Aragog's family... they're gettin’ a bit funny now he's ill... bit restive ...”
“Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them,” said Ron in an undertone.
“... I don’ reckon it'd be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo',” Hagrid finished, blowing his nose hard on his apron and looking up. “But thanks fer offerin', Hermione... It means a lot.”
After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for although neither Harry nor Ron had shown any inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous, gargantuan spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for granted that they would have liked to have done and became his usual self once more.
“Ar, I always knew yeh'd find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables,” he said gruffly, pouring them more tea. “Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners —”
“We couldn't have done,” said Hermione. “We smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners when we were there last summer. It was in the Daily Prophet.”
“Ar, well then,” said Hagrid. “There's no way yeh could've done it... I'm sorry I've bin—yeh know—I've jus’ bin worried about Aragog ... an I did wonder whether, if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin’ yeh —”
At which all three of them stated categorically and untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful.
“I'm starving,” said Harry, once the door had closed behind them and they were hurrying through the dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the rock cake after an ominous cracking noise from one of his back teeth. “And I've got that detention with Snape tonight, I haven't got much time for dinner.”
As they came into the castle they spotted Cormac McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off the frame on the first attempt. Ron merely guffawed gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but Harry caught Hermione's arm and held her back.
“What?” said Hermione defensively.
“If you ask me,” said Harry quietly, “McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning. And he was standing right in front of where you were sitting.”
Hermione blushed.
“Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny! Anyway, he's got a nasty temper, you saw how he reacted when he didn't get in—you wouldn't have wanted someone like that on the team.”

“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that's true. But wasn't that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you're a prefect, aren't you?”
“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked.
“What are you two doing?” demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious.
“Nothing,” said Harry and Hermione together, and they hurried after Ron. The smell of roast beef made Harry's stomach ache with hunger, but they had barely taken three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path.
“Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!” he boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly, “I was hoping to catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We're having a little party, just a few rising stars, I've got McLaggen coming and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin—I don't know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries—and, of course, I hope very much that Miss Granger will favor me by coming too.”
Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him.
“I can't come, Professor,” said Harry at once. “I've got a detention with Professor Snape.”
“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically. “Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I'll just have to have a word with Severus and explain the situation. I'm sure I'll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I'll see you both later!”
He bustled away out of the Hall.
“He's got no chance of persuading Snape,” said Harry, the moment Slughorn was out of earshot. “This detention's already been postponed once; Snape did it for Dumbledore, but he won't do it for anyone else.”
“Oh, I wish you could come, I don't want to go on my own!” said Hermione anxiously; Harry knew that she was thinking about McLaggen.
“I doubt you'll be alone, Ginny'll probably be invited,” snapped Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly to being ignored by Slughorn.
After dinner they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most people had finished dinner by now, but they managed to find a free table and sat down; Ron, who had been in a bad mood ever since the encounter with Slughorn, folded his arms and frowned at the ceiling. Hermione reached out for a copy of the Evening Prophet, which somebody had left abandoned on a chair.
“Anything new?” said Harry.
“Not really...” Hermione had opened the newspaper and was scanning the inside pages. “Oh, look, your dad's in here, Ron—he's all right!” she added quickly, for Ron had looked around in alarm. “It just says he's been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘This second search of the Death Eaters residence does not seem to have yielded any results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon a confidential tip-off.’”
“Yeah, mine!” said Harry. “I told him at Kings Cross about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get Borgin to fix! Well, if it's not at their house, he must have brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him—”
“But how can he have done, Harry?” said Hermione, putting down the newspaper with a surprised look. “We were all searched when we arrived, weren't we?”
“Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “I wasn't!”
“Oh no, of course you weren't, I forgot you were late. Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can't have brought in anything dangerous!”
Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny Weasley playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff for a while before seeing a way around this objection.
“Someone's sent it to him by owl, then,” he said. “His mother or someone.”
“All the owls are being checked too,” said Hermione. “Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach.”
Really stumped this time, Harry found nothing else to say. There did not seem to be any way Malfoy could have brought a dangerous or Dark object into the school. He looked hopefully at Ron, who was sitting with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown.
“Can you think of any way Malfoy — ?”
“Oh, drop it, Harry,” said Ron.
“Listen, it's not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to go, you know!” said Harry, firing up.
“Well, as I'm not invited to any parties,” said Ron, getting to his feet again, “I think I'll go to bed.”
He stomped off toward the door to the boys’ dormitories, leaving Harry and Hermione staring after him.
“Harry?” said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. “I've got a message for you.”
“From Professor Slughorn?” asked Harry, sitting up hopefully.
“No ... from Professor Snape,” said Demelza. Harry's heart sank. “He says you're to come to his office at half past eight tonight to do your detention—er—no matter how many party invitations you've received. And he wanted you to know you'll be sorting out rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions and—and he says there's no need to bring protective gloves.”
“Right,” said Harry grimly. “Thanks a lot, Demelza.”
　　正如赫敏预言的那样，六年级的自由时间并不能像罗恩所期待的那样用来幸福地放松，而是要去应付大量的作业。不但每天的学习都像是在考试，而且每门课的要求都比从前高了许多。这些天来，麦格教授讲的内容哈利基本上只能听懂一半，就连赫敏也在要求她反复讲两三遍。令人难以置信同样也令赫敏越来越愤怒的是，拜混血王子所赐，哈利最好的科目突然变成了魔药学。
 
　　不仅是黑魔法防御术，现在魔咒课和变形课也开始要求无声咒语了。哈利常常能在公共休息室或是吃饭的时候看见他的同学把脸憋成紫色，扭曲得就像吃多了生秘灵一样；但他知道他们实际上是在练习不出声地念咒语。所以到温室去上课就成为了一种放松；尽管现在他们在草药课上要对付更加危险的植物了，可至少当他们毫无防备地被毒触手从后面抓住时，还可以扯开嗓子大声咒骂。
 
　　如此繁重的课业和对无声咒语的疯狂练习使得他们没有时间去看海格，他已经不到教工餐桌上去吃饭了，这是个不祥之兆，不可思议的是，有几次在走廊和学校的操场碰到他，海格也没留意他们，更没有打招呼。
 
　　“我们必须去解释解释，”星期六早上赫敏盯着教工餐桌上海格巨大的空座位说。
 
　　“我们今天早上有魁地奇球队的选拔！”罗恩说。“我们还要练习弗立维教授的引水咒呢！而且你能解释什么？怎么告诉他我们恨这门愚蠢的课？”
 
　　“我们不恨它！”赫敏说。
 
　　“你自己去说吧，我可没忘记炸尾螺，”罗恩阴沉着脸说。“而且我告诉你，我们刚刚才幸免于难。你没听说海格对他那个呆头呆脑的弟弟在做什么吗——如果待在那儿，我们就得去教格洛普系鞋带。”
 
　　“我不愿意总这么不跟海格说话，”赫敏看上去有些心烦意乱。
 
　　“我们魁地奇选拔结束之后就去，”哈利向她保证说。他也很想念海格，不过他和罗恩一样希望自己的生活里还是不要出现格洛普为好。“可是选拔可能要持续一个上午，申请加入的人太多了。”面对他上任队长之后的第一个困难，哈利显得稍微有些紧张。“我不知道为什么突然之间球队就变得这么热门了。”
 
　　“哦，得了吧，哈利，”赫敏突然有些不耐烦。“不是魁地奇那么热门，是你！没有什么比你更能引起他们的兴趣，说白了，没有什么比你更能让人迷恋了。”
 
　　罗恩被一大片熏鱼噎住了。赫敏轻蔑地瞥了他一眼，又转向了哈利。
 
　　“现在每个人都知道你说的是真话了，是不是？整个巫师社会都得承认你说伏地魔回来是对的，在过去的两年里，是你真正和伏地魔交锋了两次而且两次都逃脱了。现在他们称你为‘真命天子’——好了，想想看，还瞧不出人们为什么对你着迷吗？”
 
　　哈利突然间感觉礼堂特别热，虽然天花板看上去还在下着冷雨。
 
　　“而且现在你已经从魔法部对你的迫害中摆脱出来了，他们当时那样想让大伙相信你是个不可靠的骗子。那个可恶的女人让你用自己的血在手背上写下的记号还在那儿，可是不管怎样你都坚持了自己的说法……”
 
　　“魔法部里的那些脑子给我抓下的印记也在，瞧，”罗恩撸起袖子说。
 
　　“那也没影响到你夏天长了一英尺啊，”赫敏没有理会罗恩。
 
　　“我挺高的，”罗恩莫名其妙地说。
 
　　猫头鹰邮递到了，它们穿过雨渍斑斑的窗户俯冲进来，把雨点撒在了每个人身上。大多数人的信件都比平时要多；焦虑不安的家长们都渴望能收到孩子们的信件，同时也告诉孩子们家里一切都好，让他们安心。哈利从开学到现在还没有收到过一封信件；唯一经常与他通信的人已经离去了，他只是希望卢平偶尔能给他写一两封信，不过到目前为止都令人失望。所以当他在那些棕色和灰色的猫头鹰中间看到雪白的猫头鹰海德薇时都惊呆了，它携带着一个方形的大包裹停在了哈利面前。不一会儿，罗恩的猫头鹰小猪也给罗恩带来了同样的一份包裹，它显得精疲力竭，看上去就快被身上的包裹被压扁了。
 
　　“哈！”哈利解开包裹，里面是一本崭新的《高级魔药制备》，刚刚从丽痕书店寄来的。
 
　　“哦，太好了，”赫敏高兴地说。“现在你可以把那本乱涂乱划的书给还回去了。”
 
　　“你疯了吗？”哈利说。“我要留着它！你看，我都想好了——”
 
　　他从书包里取出那本旧的《高级魔药制备》，用魔杖轻轻地敲了敲封面，低声念道，“四分五裂！”封面就掉了下来。然后他对新书也做了同样的事情（赫敏看上去很反感）。最后他调换了两本书的封面，又轻轻敲了敲每一本，念道，“恢复如初！”
 
　　王子的那本书被伪装成了新的，而丽痕书店的那本，现在看上去就像二手货。
 
　　“我把这本新的还给斯拉霍恩，他不会抱怨的，值九个加隆呢！”赫敏噘起了嘴，看起来很生气，也很不满，但她马上把注意力转移到了另一只猫头鹰身上，它送来了今天的《预言家日报》。于是她赶紧展看报纸浏览起头版来。
 
　　“有什么我们认识的人死了吗？”罗恩轻描淡写地问，每次赫敏看报纸的时候他都要问这个问题。
 
　　“没有，但是摄魂怪的袭击增加了，”赫敏说。“有一个人被逮捕了。”
 
　　“太棒了，谁？”哈利说，他希望是贝拉特里克斯•莱斯特兰奇。
 
　　“斯坦•桑帕克，”赫敏说。
 
　　“什么？”哈利感到非常震惊。
 
　　“‘斯坦•桑帕克，巫师界最受欢迎的交通工具骑士公共汽车的售票员，因涉嫌参与食死徒活动于日前被捕。桑帕克先生，现年21岁，在昨天深夜的一次搜捕行动中，他在位于克拉彭的住所中被拘捕……’”
 
　　“斯坦•桑帕克是个食死徒？”哈利想起了三年前见到的那个满脸青春痘的年轻人。“绝不可能！”
 
　　“他也许是中了夺魂咒，”罗恩理智地说。“谁说得清呢。”
 
　　“看上去不像是这样，”赫敏仍然在继续看。“报上说是他在一家酒吧里被人听到在谈论食死徒的秘密计划才被捕的。”她抬起头，一脸的困惑。“如果他中了夺魂咒，就不会乱讲食死徒的计划了，是不是？”
 
　　“听起来他只不过是有点儿言过其实，”罗恩说。“他不就是那个在媚娃面前号称自己将要成为魔法部部长的人吗？”
 
　　“对，就是他，”哈利说。“我不知道他们在玩什么把戏，和斯坦一般见识。”
 
　　“也许是想让人觉得他们的确做了些什么，”赫敏皱了皱眉。“人们都很恐慌——你知道佩蒂尔姐妹的父母想让她们回家吗？还有爱洛伊丝•米德根都已经回去了，她爸爸昨天晚上把她接走的。”
 
　　“什么！”罗恩瞪着赫敏。“可是霍格沃茨比她们家里要安全啊，那是绝对的！我们有傲罗守着，还有那么多新添加的防护咒语，而且我们还有邓布利多！”
 
　　“我可不认为我们一直都有他，”赫敏平静地说，她越过《预言家日报》瞟了一眼教工餐桌。“你没注意到吗，过去的一周他的座位和海格的一样经常空着。”
 
　　哈利和罗恩抬头看了看教工餐桌。校长的座位确实空着。哈利这才想起来自从一周前的单独授课之后就再也没有见到邓布利多了。
 
　　“我觉得他离开学校是去为凤凰社做事了，”赫敏低声说道。“我是说……所有的局势看起来都很严重，是不是？”
 
　　哈利和罗恩没有回答，但是哈利知道他们想起了同一件事。前天发生了一次可怕的变故，汉娜•艾博在草药课上被叫了出去并被告知了她妈妈的死讯。从那之后他们就再也没看见过汉娜。
 
　　五分钟后他们离开格兰芬多餐桌去魁地奇球场，路过了拉文德•布朗和帕瓦蒂•佩蒂尔。哈利一想起赫敏说佩蒂尔姐妹的父母想要她们离开霍格沃茨的那些话，就不会对这两个最要好的朋友正在苦恼地窃窃私语感到惊讶了。而真正让他感到吃惊的是，罗恩走过她们身边的时候，帕瓦蒂用肘轻轻推了推拉文德，她转过头来给了罗恩一个灿烂的微笑。罗恩冲她眨了眨眼，也回敬了一个捉摸不透的微笑。他的步子立刻变得有些神气活现。哈利忍住了想笑的念头，他记得上次马尔福踩断哈利鼻子的时候罗恩也是这样忍住了笑；可是，赫敏却非常冷淡，去球场的一路上都在绵绵冷雨之中和他们保持着距离，到了球场之后，还没有祝罗恩好运就去找座位了。
 
　　如同哈利所预计的那样，选拔持续了几乎整个上午。似乎半个格兰芬多学院都出动了，从一年级新生（他们紧张地抓着学校里的那些破烂扫帚）到七年级的老生（他们高大得有些吓人，看上去非常冷静）。后者中还包括一个头发硬直的大块头男生，哈利一眼就认出来了，自己在霍格沃茨特快列车上见过他。
 
　　“我们在火车上见过，在老鼻涕虫（译注：斯拉霍恩的名字里带有slug，在英语里是鼻涕虫的意思，所以麦克拉根称他为老鼻涕虫）的包厢里，”他自信地说，从人群中走出来握了握哈利的手。“科马克•麦克拉根，守门员。”
 
　　“去年你没有参加选拔，是吧？”哈利问，他注意到麦克拉根的肩膀宽得不用移动就足以挡住所有的三个球门。
 
　　“去年他们选拔的时候我正在住院，”麦克拉根狂妄地说：“打赌输了，吃了一磅狐媚子卵。”
 
　　“好吧，”哈利说。“嗯……你在那边等吧……”
 
　　他指了指球场的一角，赫敏就坐在那附近。他似乎看到麦克拉根的脸上闪过了一丝恼怒，哈利猜想麦克拉根是不是以为他们都是‘老鼻涕虫’喜欢的学生就能得到点特殊待遇。
 
　　哈利决定从一个基本的测试开始，他把所有报名的人分为十人一组，让他们绕着球场飞一圈。这是个好主意：第一组是一年级，再明显不过了，他们从前几乎都没有飞过。只有一个男孩设法在空中多停留了几秒钟，最后他惊慌失措地撞上了门柱。
 
　　第二组由十个哈利见过的最愚蠢的女孩组成，哈利吹哨之后，他们只是大声地傻笑，彼此相互抓紧。那个叫罗蜜尔达•文恩的女孩也在其中。哈利让她们离开球场，她们非常愉快地照做了，一窝蜂地坐到看台上去嘲笑剩下的每个人。
 
　　第三组的人在绕到球场一半的时候撞成了一堆。第四组的大多数人都没有带飞天扫帚。第五组的人都是赫奇帕奇的。
 
　　“如果这里还有不是格兰芬多的人，”哈利吼道，他开始有些恼羞成怒了，“请马上离开！”
 
　　片刻的安静之后，几个拉文克劳的低年级学生飞快地跑出了球场，一边还呼哧呼哧地笑。
 
　　在抱怨了两个小时和发了几次脾气——其中的一次摔坏了一把彗星260，还撞碎了几颗牙——之后，哈利终于找到了三个追球手：凯蒂•贝尔在经历了一番精彩绝伦的考核之后回到了队里，新人德梅尔扎•罗宾斯在躲避游走球方面表现得特别出色，还有金妮•韦斯莱，她整个选拔过程中都表现得很出众，还进了17个球。尽管哈利对他的选择很满意，可他还是冲无数的抗议者喊到嗓子都哑了，现在他又得和被淘汰的击球手们再来一场类似的争吵。
 
　　“那是我最终的决定了，你们谁要是不给守门员的选拔让路，我就对他施咒！”哈利吼道。
 
　　他选中的击球手都不具备老队员弗雷德和乔治那样的才华，但他还是颇为满意：吉米•皮克斯，一个矮小但是肩膀很宽的三年级学生，他把游走球凶狠地击到了哈利的后脑勺上，使哈利的脑袋上鼓起了一个鸡蛋大小的包，还有里奇•库特，看上去骨瘦如柴，但很擅长于瞄准。他们现在加入到凯蒂、德梅尔扎和金妮之中，坐在看台上观看球队最后一个成员的选拔。
 
　　哈利故意把守门员的选拔放到了最后，他希望球场的人能走掉一些，他们的压力就能小一点。然而不幸的是，如今所有落选的人和一些刚吃完早饭的人也都加入到了观众的队伍中，这样看的人就更多了。每个守门员飞向球门的时候他们都同样爆发出大声的嘲笑。哈利瞟了一眼容易紧张的罗恩；哈利本以为上学期赢得最后一场比赛已经治好了罗恩的这个毛病，不过显然没有：罗恩的脸都绿了。
 
　　前五个选手没有一个能救起两个以上的球，令哈利非常失望的是，科马克•麦克拉根救起了五个罚球中的四个。不过他救最后一个球的时候完全扑错了方向；人群中爆发出一阵笑声和嘘声，麦克拉根咬牙切齿地回到了地面。
 
　　罗恩骑上横扫七星的时候仿佛就要昏死过去了。
 
　　“祝你好运！”看台的人群中一个声音喊道。哈利往四处看了看，希望那是赫敏，但看到的却是拉文德•布朗。哈利很想像她那样把脸埋在手里不去看，可是作为一个队长，他应该稍稍坚韧一些，于是他转过头去看罗恩的试验。
 
　　不过他根本用不着担心：罗恩救起了一个球，两个，三个，四个，连续五个！哈利很高兴，他艰难地克制着自己不去加入欢呼的人群。哈利想转过身告诉麦克拉根，很不幸，罗恩击败他了，却发现麦克拉根涨红的脸就在离他几英寸远的地方，哈利赶紧退了几步。
 
　　“他妹妹根本就没有认真击球。”麦克拉根恶狠狠地说，他太阳穴上的血管涨了起来，就像哈利经常在弗农姨父脸上看到的那样。“她给他的球都很容易扑救。”
 
　　“胡说，”哈利冷冷地说。“他差一点就没有救到。”
 
　　麦克拉根又迈近了一步，这次哈利没有后退。
 
　　“再让我试一次。”
 
　　“不，”哈利说。“你已经试过一次了。你救起了四个。而罗恩救起了五个。罗恩是守门员了，他光明正大地赢得了这个位置。让开。”
 
　　他一度以为麦克拉根会用拳头揍他，但他只是把脸扭成了一个难看的样子，咆哮着走开了，听上去就像是在和空气发火。
 
　　哈利转过身来，他的新队员们正微笑地看着他。
 
　　“干得好。”他用嘶哑的声音说。“你们真的飞得挺好——”
 
　　“你干得太棒了，罗恩！”
 
　　这次赫敏真的从看台上朝他们跑了过来；哈利看到拉文德和帕瓦蒂臂挽着臂走出了球场，一脸烦躁的表情。罗恩看起来对自己极为满意，他朝队友们和赫敏咧开嘴笑了笑，似乎比平时更高了。
 
　　在商定好了下周四进行第一次全队训练之后，哈利、罗恩和赫敏和球队剩下的人道了别，往海格的小屋走去。小雨终于停了，湿漉漉的太阳从云层后面努力地挤了出来。哈利饿坏了；他希望海格那儿有吃的东西。
 
　　“我觉得自己差一点儿就漏过第四个球了，”罗恩高兴地说，“德梅尔扎的那个球很狡猾，你看到了吗，加了一点儿旋转——”
 
　　“是啊，是啊，是你太出类拔萃了，”赫敏看起来很开心。
 
　　“不管怎样我还是比那个麦克拉根要强，”罗恩非常满意地说。“你看见他扑第五个球时笨拙地往错误的方向移动了吗？就好像中了混淆咒一样……”
 
　　让哈利非常吃惊的是，罗恩说这些话的时候赫敏的脸涨得通红。而罗恩什么都没注意到；他正忙于详尽地描述自己扑救的其他几个罚球。
 
　　海格的小屋前栓着一只高大的灰色鹰头马身有翼兽，巴克比克看到他们三个来了，咂了咂它锋利的喙，把巨大的脑袋转了过来。
 
　　“天哪，”赫敏紧张地说。“它还是有点儿吓人，不是吗？”
 
　　“得了吧，你都骑过它了，是不是？”罗恩说。
 
　　哈利向前走了走，对鹰头马身有翼兽鞠了一躬，眼睛眨都不眨地盯着它。几秒钟之后，巴克比克也鞠了一躬。
 
　　“你还好吧？”哈利低声地问，抚摸着它长满羽毛的头。“想他了吗？可是和海格待在一起也不错。对不对？”
 
　　“嗷！”它响亮地叫了一声。
 
　　海格大步地从小屋的拐角走了过来，穿着一件巨大的花围裙，手里拎着一袋土豆。他的大猎狗牙牙跟在后面；牙牙叫了一声，往前跳了过来。
 
　　“离它远点儿！它会把你们的手指咬下来——哦。是你们几个。”
 
　　牙牙在赫敏和罗恩之间跳了起来，试图舔他们的耳朵。海格看了他们一眼，就转身大步走进了小屋，把门猛地关上了。
 
　　“天哪！”赫敏看上去备受打击。
 
　　“别担心，”哈利冷酷地说，他走过去大声地敲了敲门。
 
　　“海格！开门，我们想和你谈谈！”
 
　　里面没有声音。
 
　　“你要是不开门，我们就把它炸开了！”哈利抽出了他的魔杖。
 
　　“哈利！”赫敏听起来很震惊。“你无论如何也不能——”
 
　　“我当然能！”哈利说。“往后站——”
 
　　但是在他念出咒语之前门就再一次打开了，哈利当然早就知道会这样，海格站在那儿怒视着哈利，尽管穿着花围裙，但看上去仍然绝对让人害怕。
 
　　“我是个老师！”他对哈利吼道。“一个老师，波特！你怎么敢威胁要炸我的门！”
 
　　“对不起，先生，”哈利把魔杖收进了袍子，故意把最后那个词念得很重。
 
　　海格看上去很震惊。
 
　　“你什么时候开始叫我‘先生’了？”
 
　　“你什么时候开始叫我‘波特’了？”
 
　　“哦，很聪明，”海格粗声地嘟囔着。“非常有趣。我被你们骗了，对吧？好吧，进来，你们这些忘恩负义的小……”
 
　　他模模糊糊地咕哝着，退了一步好让他们进来。赫敏紧跟在哈利后面走了进去，看上去很惊恐。
 
　　“那么？”海格暴躁地说，哈利、罗恩和赫敏围着他巨大的木头桌子坐下了，牙牙立刻把脑袋放到哈利的膝盖上，口水滴满了他的袍子。“这是什么？对我表示抱歉？以为我很孤独或是什么别的？”
 
　　“不，”哈利马上说。“我们想来看看你。”
 
　　“我们很想你！”赫敏颤抖地说。
 
　　“想我，是吗？”海格用鼻子哼了一声。“是啊。好吧。”
 
　　他脚步沉重地在屋子走来走去，在他巨大的铜茶壶里泡了茶，嘴里一直咕哝个不停。最后他把三个水桶一样大小的杯子和一盘岩皮饼扔到了他们面前，杯子里面泡着棕红色的茶。哈利已经饿到足以忍受海格的厨艺了，他马上就拿起了一块。
 
　　“海格，”赫敏怯生生地说，这时海格已经和他们一起坐到了桌子旁，非常野蛮地剥起了土豆皮，好像每个土豆都跟他有仇似的。“你瞧，我们真的很想继续上保护神奇生物课。”
 
　　海格又重重哼了一声。哈利更加觉得有什么妖怪附在了土豆上，暗自庆幸他们不留下来吃晚饭。
 
　　“我们真的想！”赫敏说。“但我们谁也没办法把它放进我们的课程表了！”
 
　　“是啊。好吧。”海格又说了一遍。
 
　　突然响起了奇怪的嘎吱声，他们都朝四周望了望：赫敏尖叫了一声，罗恩从椅子上跳了起来，急忙绕着过桌子远远地躲开了角落里的一个大桶，他们刚注意到它。里面满满地装着一桶东西，看上去像是一英尺长的大蛆；粘糊糊，白色的，正在里面翻滚扭动。
 
　　“那些是什么？海格？”哈利试图使他的提问听起来更像是感兴趣而不是恶心，不过他还是搁下了岩皮饼。
 
　　“就是巨型的蛆，”海格说。
 
　　“他们会长成……？”罗恩看上去很忧虑。
 
　　“什么也不会长成，”海格说。“我要用他们去喂阿拉戈克。”
 
　　没有任何征兆，他突然大哭了起来。
 
　　“海格！”赫敏大声叫道，她绕过桌子（为了躲避那桶蛆）走到海格身边，轻轻地拍了拍海格正在发抖的肩膀。“怎么了？”
 
　　“是……它……”海格呜咽起来，他用围裙擦了擦脸，像甲虫一样黑的眼睛里全是泪水。“是……阿拉戈克……我想它快要死了……它整个夏天都在生病，我想它好不起来了……我不知道该怎么办，如果它……如果它……我们在一起相处了这么长时间……”
 
　　赫敏拍着海格的肩，看上去完全不知道该说些什么。哈利知道她的感觉。他还记得海格曾送了一个玩具熊给他那只凶猛的小龙，见过他照顾一群长着吸盘和螫针的大蝎子（译注：指炸尾螺），也见过他试图和凶残的巨人弟弟沟通，但这也许是他豢养怪兽的嗜好中最让人无法理解的：会说话的巨型蜘蛛阿拉戈克，它居住在禁林的深处，四年前哈利和罗恩经历了九死一生才从它那儿逃脱。
 
　　“有没有……有没有什么我们能帮上忙的？”赫敏问，没有理会罗恩疯狂的使眼色和摇头。
 
　　“我想没有，赫敏，”海格哽咽着说，努力地忍住泪水。“你看，族里面剩下的……阿拉戈克的家族……它病了之后它们都有点儿怪……有点儿躁动……”
 
　　“是的，我想我们也看到它们那样了，”罗恩小声说。
 
　　“……我想除了我之外这个时候任何人去那儿都不安全。”海格说完话，拿围裙用力地擤了擤鼻子，然后抬起了头。“但还是谢谢你的关心，赫敏……这很重要……”
 
　　随后屋里的气氛轻松了不少，尽管哈利和罗恩都没有表现出想去见一个凶残的巨型蜘蛛，并把巨大的蛆喂给它吃的兴趣，可海格还是想当然地认为他们乐意去做，于是他重新恢复了自我。
 
　　“啊，其实我早就知道你们很难再把我塞进你们的课程表，”他粗声说，给他们添了点茶。“就算申请用时间转换器也——”
 
　　“我们用不了，”赫敏说。“去年夏天我们打碎了魔法部所有库存的时间转换器。《预言家日报》上报道过。”
 
　　“啊，那好吧，”海格说。“你们做不成……很抱歉我——你们知道——我很担心阿拉戈克……而且我在想，也许如果是格拉普兰教授教你们的话——”
 
　　他们三个昧着良心明确地告诉海格，那个给他代过几次课的格拉普兰教授简直糟糕透了，于是当他们在黄昏中向海格的小屋告别时，他看上去相当的高兴。
 
　　“我快饿死了，”门刚刚在身后关上哈利就说，他们急匆匆地穿过了黑暗、无人的操场；那块岩皮饼差点硌掉了他的几颗臼齿，于是他只好放弃了。“我今晚还要去斯内普那儿关禁闭，我没有什么时间吃饭了……”
 
　　他们走进城堡的时候发现科马克•麦克拉根正在往礼堂里走，他进门时试了两次；第一次被门框弹了回来。罗恩只是得意地一阵狂笑，然后跟在他后面进了礼堂。而哈利却抓住了赫敏胳膊把她拉了回来。
 
　　“怎么了？”赫敏警觉地说。
 
　　“依我看，”哈利平静地说，“麦克拉根看来就是中了混淆咒。当时他就正对着你坐的地方。”
 
　　赫敏脸红了。
 
　　“哦，那好吧，是我干的。”她悄声说。“但你也应该听到他对罗恩和金妮是怎么说话的了！不管怎样，他脾气太臭了，你也看到了他落选之后的反应——你也不想球队有一个像那样的人吧。”
 
　　“不想，”哈利说。“不想，确实如此。可那不是欺骗吗，赫敏？我的意思是，你是一个级长啊，不是吗？”
 
　　“哦，你别笑了，”赫敏厉声说。
 
　　“你们俩在做什么？”罗恩重新出现在礼堂门口，怀疑地看着他们俩。
 
　　“没什么，”哈利和赫敏同时说，他们匆匆地跟在了罗恩后面。烤肉的香味让哈利感到一阵饥饿引起的胃痛。但他们才往格兰芬多餐桌走了三步，斯拉霍恩教授就出现在了他们面前，挡住了去路。
 
　　“哈利，哈利，我就等着见你呢！”他快活地大声说，一边捻着他海象胡子的末梢一边鼓起巨大的肚子。“我正希望能在晚饭前撞见你呢！今晚到我的房间里来吃点东西如何？我们准备来个小聚会，就请了你们几个希望之星——我叫上了麦克拉根，还有沙比尼、迷人的梅林达•柏宾——我不知道你认不认识她？她家里世世代代都是药剂师——还有，我当然非常希望格兰杰小姐也能赏光。”
 
　　斯拉霍恩说完向赫敏微微鞠了一躬。仿佛罗恩不存在一样；斯拉霍恩看都没看他一眼。
 
　　“我去不了，教授。”哈利马上说。“我得去斯内普教授那里关禁闭。”
 
　　“哦，天哪！”斯拉霍恩的脸滑稽地拉了下来。“亲爱的，亲爱的，我指望着你呢，哈利！那么，现在我就去和西弗勒斯谈谈，向他解释一下情况。我保证能说服他推迟你的禁闭。是的，待会见！”
 
　　他匆忙离开了礼堂。
 
　　“他根本不可能说服斯内普。”斯拉霍恩一走远，哈利就说。“这个禁闭已经被推迟了一次；邓布利多让他推迟了，可他不会再听从别的任何人了。”
 
　　“哦，我希望你能去，我不想一个人在那儿！”赫敏担心地说；哈利知道她想起了麦克拉根。
 
　　“我很怀疑你会一个人在那儿，金妮很可能也被邀请了，”罗恩大声说，他似乎无法接受斯拉霍恩对他的忽视。
 
　　晚饭之后他们回到了格兰芬多塔楼。公共休息室里很热闹，因为大多数人已经吃完了晚餐，但
Chapter 20 Lord Voldemort's Request
Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on Monday morning, restored to full health by the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able to enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and poisoned, the best of which was that Hermione was friends with Ron again. Hermione even escorted them down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that Ginny had argued with Dean. The drowsing creature in Harry's chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the air hopefully.
“What did they row about?” he asked, trying to sound casual as they turned onto a seventh-floor corridor that was deserted but for a very small girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was carrying.
“It's all right!” said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward to help her. “Here ...”
She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, “Reparo.” The girl did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as they passed and watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her.
“I swear they're getting smaller,” he said.
“Never mind her,” said Harry, a little impatiently. “What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?”
“Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludger at you,” said Hermione.
“It must've looked funny,” said Ron reasonably.
“It didn't look funny at all!” said Hermione hotly. “It looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn't caught Harry he could have been very badly hurt!”
“Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to split up over it,” said Harry, still trying to sound casual. “Or are they still together?”
“Yes, they are—but why are you so interested?” asked Hermione, giving Harry a sharp look.
“I just don't want my Quidditch team messed up again!” he said hastily, but Hermione continued to look suspicious, and he was most relieved when a voice behind them called, “Harry!” giving him an excuse to turn his back on her.
“Oh, hi, Luna.”
“I went to the hospital wing to find you,” said Luna, rummaging in her bag. “But they said you'd left...”
She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Ron's hands, finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to Harry.
“... I've been told to give you this.”
It was a small roll of parchment, which Harry recognized at once as another invitation to a lesson with Dumbledore.
“Tonight,” he told Ron and Hermione, once he had unrolled it.
“Nice commentary last match!” said Ron to Luna as she took back the green onion, the toadstool, and the cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely.
“You're making fun of me, aren't you?” she said. “Everyone says I was dreadful.”
“No, I'm serious!” said Ron earnestly. “I can't remember enjoying commentary more! What is this, by the way?” he added, holding the onionlike object up to eye level.
“Oh, it's a Gurdyroot,” she said, stuffing the cat litter and the toadstool back into her bag. “You can keep it if you like, I've got a few of them. They're really excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies.”
And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot.
“You know, she's grown on me, Luna,” he said, as they set off again for the Great Hall. “I know she's insane, but it's in a good —”
He stopped talking very suddenly. Lavender Brown was standing at the foot of the marble staircase looking thunderous.
“Hi,” said Ron nervously.
“C'mon,” Harry muttered to Hermione, and they sped past, though not before they had heard Lavender say, “Why didn't you tell me you were getting out today? And why was she with you?”
Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he appeared at breakfast half an hour later, and though he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them exchange a word all the time they were together. Hermione was acting as though she was quite oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Harry saw an inexplicable smirk cross her face. All that day she seemed to be in a particularly good mood, and that evening in the common room she even consented to look over (in other words, finish writing) Harry's Herbology essay, something she had been resolutely refusing to do up to this point, because she had known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work.
“Thanks a lot, Hermione,” said Harry, giving her a hasty pat on the back as he checked his watch and saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. “Listen, I've got to hurry or I'll be late for Dumbledore...”
She did not answer, but merely crossed out a few of his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way. Grinning, Harry hurried out through the portrait hole and off to the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the mention of toffee eclairs, and Harry took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door just as a clock within chimed eight.
“Enter,” called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from inside. There stood Professor Trelawney.
“Aha!” she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as she blinked at him through her magnifying spectacles.
“So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!”
“My dear Sybill,” said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, “there is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry does have an appointment, and I really don't think there is any more to be said —”
“Very well,” said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. “If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it... perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated...”
She pushed past Harry and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway down, and Harry guessed that she had tripped over one of her trailing shawls.
“Please close the door and sit down, Harry,” said Dumbledore, sounding rather tired.
Harry obeyed, noticing as he took his usual seat in front of Dumbledore's desk that the Pensieve lay between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal bottles full of swirling memory.
“Professor Trelawney still isn't happy Firenze is teaching, then?” Harry asked.
“No,” said Dumbledore, “Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she would be in outside the castle. She does not know—and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her—that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see.”
Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, “But never mind my staffing problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly—have you managed the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?”
“Ah,” said Harry, brought up short. What with Apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry had almost forgotten about the memory Dumbledore had asked him to extract from Professor Slughorn. “Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn't give it to me.”
There was a little silence.
“I see,” said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed. “And you feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this matter, do you? That you have exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?”
“Well,” Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. “Well... the day Ron swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood —”
“And did that work?” asked Dumbledore.
“Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned —”
“— which, naturally, made you forget all about trying to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing else, while your best friend was in danger. Once it became clear that Mr. Weasley was going to make a full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it clear to you how very important that memory is. Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it.”
A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Harry's head all the way down his body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything.
“Sir,” he said, a little desperately, “it isn't that I wasn't bothered or anything, I've just had other—other thing...”
“Other things on your mind,” Dumbledore finished the sentence for him. “I see.”
Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable silence Harry had ever experienced with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on, punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore's head. Harry felt strangely diminished, as though he had shrunk a little since he had entered the room.
When he could stand it no longer he said, “Professor Dumbledore, I'm really sorry. I should have done more... I should have realized you wouldn't have asked me to do it if it wasn't really important.”
“Thank you for saying that, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There will be little point in our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory.”
“I'll do it, sir, I'll get it from him,” he said earnestly.
“Then we shall say no more about it just now,” said Dumbledore more kindly, “but continue with our story where we left off. You remember where that was?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry quickly. “Voldemort killed his father and his grandparents and made it look as though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to Hogwarts and he asked ... he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes,” he mumbled shamefacedly.
“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of guesswork and speculation?”
“Yes, sir".
“Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?”
Harry nodded.
“But now, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “now things become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could give us a full account of his life since he left Hogwarts. However, I have two last memories that I would like to share with you.” Dumbledore indicated the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the Pensieve. “I shall then be glad of your opinion as to whether the conclusions I have drawn from them seem likely.”
The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this highly made Harry feel even more deeply ashamed that he had failed in the task of retrieving the Horcrux memory, and he shifted guiltily in his seat as Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the light and examined it.
“I hope you are not tired of diving into other people's memories, for they are curious recollections, these two,” he said. “This first one came from a very old house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts.
“He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. I know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes.”
“At Borgin and Burkes?” Harry repeated, stunned.
“At Borgin and Burkes,” repeated Dumbledore calmly. “I think you will see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey's memory. But this was not Voldemort's first choice of job. Hardly anyone knew of it at the time... as one of the few in whom the then Headmaster confided—but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher.”
“He wanted to stay here? Why?” asked Harry, more amazed still.
“I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet,” said Dumbledore. “Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home.”
Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too.
“Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.
“And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence over young witches and wizards. Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin to build himself an army.”
“But he didn't get the job, sir?”
“No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach.”
“How did you feel about that, sir?” asked Harry hesitantly.
“Deeply uneasy,” said Dumbledore. “I had advised Armando against the appointment—I did not give the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was very fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty. But I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this school, and especially not in a position of power.”
“Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?”
Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before Dumbledore gave it.
“Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years.
“So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you know, Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this.”
“I'll bet he was,” said Harry, unable to contain himself.
“Well, quite,” said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. “And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith.”
Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork flew out, and he tipped the swirling memory into the Pensieve, saying as he did so, “After you, Harry.”
Harry got to his feet and bent once more over the rippling silver contents of the stone basin until his face touched them. He tumbled through dark nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers.
“Hurry up, Hokey!” said Hepzibah imperiously. “He said he'd come at four, it's only a couple of minutes to and he's never been late yet!”
She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The top of the elf's head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah's chair, and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga.
“How do I look?” said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror.
“Lovely, madam,” squeaked Hokey.
Harry could only assume that it was down in Hokey's contract that she must lie through her teeth when asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely in his opinion.
A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped.
“Quick, quick, he's here, Hokey!” cried Hepzibah and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things: there were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory.
The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man Harry had no difficulty whatsoever in recognizing as Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked more handsome than ever. He picked his way through the cramped room with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah's fat little hand, brushing it with his lips.
“I brought you flowers,” he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere.
“You naughty boy, you shouldn't have!” squealed old Hepzibah, though Harry noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. “You do spoil this old lady, Tom... sit down, sit down... where's Hokey... ah ...”
The house-elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her mistress's elbow.
“Help yourself, Tom,” said Hepzibah, “I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times...”
Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered.
“Well, what's your excuse for visiting this time?” she asked, batting her lashes.
“Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armor,” said Voldemort. “Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair —”
“Now, now, not so fast, or I'll think you're only here for my trinkets!” pouted Hepzibah.
“I am ordered here because of them,” said Voldemort quietly. “I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire —”
“Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!” said Hepzibah, waving a little hand. “I've something to show you that I've never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won't tell Mr. Burke I've got it? He'd never let me rest if he knew I'd shown it to you, and I'm not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it.”
“I'd be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me,” said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle.
“I had Hokey bring it out for me... Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure... In fact, bring both, while you're at it...”
“Here, madam,” squeaked the house-elf, and Harry saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other, moving across the room as if of their own volition, though he knew the tiny elf was holding them over her head as she wended her way between tables, pouffes, and footstools.
“Now,” said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one, “I think you'll like this, Tom... oh, if my family knew I was showing you... They can't wait to get their hands on this!”
She opened the lid. Harry edged forward a little to get a better view and saw what looked like a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles.
“I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!” whispered Hepzibah, and Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Harry thought he saw a red gleam in his dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously mirrored on Hepzibah's face, except that her tiny eyes were fixed upon Voldemort's handsome features.
“A badger,” murmured Voldemort, examining the engraving upon the cup. “Then this was...?”
“Helga Hufflepuff's, as you very well know, you clever boy!” said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow cheek. “Didn't I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn't it? And all sorts of powers it's supposed to possess too, but I haven't tested them thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here...”
She hooked the cup back off Voldemort's long forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to notice the shadow that crossed Voldemort's face as the cup was taken away.
“Now then,” said Hepzibah happily, “where's Hokey? Oh yes, there you are—take that away now, Hokey.”
The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah turned her attention to the much flatter box in her lap.
“I think you'll like this even more, Tom,” she whispered. “Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see... of course, Burke knows I've got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he'd love to get it back when I'm gone...”
She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket.
Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it.
“Slytherin's mark,” he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S.
“That's right!” said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. “I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn't let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value —”
There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort's eyes flashed scarlet at the words, and Harry saw his knuckles whiten on the locket's chain.
“— I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you are... pretty, isn't it? And again, all kinds of powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe...”
She reached out to take the locket back. For a moment, Harry thought Voldemort was not going to let go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers and was back in its red velvet cushion.
“So there you are, Tom, clear, and I hope you enjoyed that!”
She looked him full in the face and for the first time, Harry saw her foolish smile falter.
“Are you all right, dear?”
“Oh yes,” said Voldemort quietly. “Yes, I'm very well...”
“I thought—but a trick of the light, I suppose —” said Hepzibah, looking unnerved, and Harry guessed that she too had seen the momentary red gleam in Voldemort's eyes. “Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again... the usual enchantments...”
“Time to leave, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly, and as the little elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Harry once again above the elbow and together they rose up through oblivion and back to Dumbledore's office.
“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,” said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating that Harry should do the same. “Hokey the house-elf was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident.”
“No way!” said Harry angrily.
“I see we are of one mind,” said Dumbledore. “Certainly, then are many similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death —”
“Hokey confessed?”
“She remembered putting something in her mistress's cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison,” said Dumbledore. “It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused —”
“Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!”
“Yes, that is my conclusion too,” said Dumbledore. “And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey —”
“— because she was a house-elf,” said Harry. He had rarely felt more in sympathy with the society Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W.
“Precisely,” said Dumbledore. “She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the cup and the locket.
“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah's family had realized that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time.
“Now,” said Dumbledore, “if you don't mind, Harry, I want to pause once more to draw your attention to certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed another murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin's ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah's cup and locket.”
“But,” said Harry, frowning, “it seems mad... risking everything, throwing away his job, just for those...”
“Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore. “I hope you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him, Harry, but you must admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully his.”
“The locket maybe,” said Harry, “but why take the cup as well?”
“It had belonged to another of Hogwarts's founders,” said Dumbledore. “I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so steeped in Hogwarts’ history. There were other reasons, I think... I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course.
“And now for the very last recollection I have to show you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn's memory for us. Ten years separates Hokey's memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing...”
Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve.
“Whose memory is it?” he asked.
“Mine,” said Dumbledore.
And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass, landing in the very office he had just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Harry, though both hands were whole and undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less lined. The one difference between the present-day office and this one was that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the window in the dark and building up on the outside ledge.
The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, “Enter.”
Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had entered the room. His features were not those Harry had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron almost two years ago: they were not as snake-like, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders.
The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by appointment.
“Good evening, Tom,” said Dumbledore easily. “Won't you sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured—the very seat, by the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated in the present. “I heard that you had become Headmaster,” he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. “A worthy choice.”
“I am glad you approve,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “May I offer you a drink?”
“That would be welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have come a long way.”
Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his desk.
“So, Tom ... to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine.
“They do not call me ‘Tom’ anymore,” he said. “These days, I am known as —”
“I know what you are known as,” said Dumbledore, smiling, pleasantly. “But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.”
He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore's refusal to use Voldemort's chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that Voldemort took it as such.
“I am surprised you have remained here so long,” said Voldemort after a short pause. “I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school.”
“Well,” said Dumbledore, still smiling, “to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too.”
“I see it still,” said Voldemort. “I merely wondered why you—who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister —”
“Three times at the last count, actually,” said Dumbledore. “But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think.”
Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but waited, with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first.
“I have returned,” he said, after a little while, “later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected... but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard.”
Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking.
“Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us,” he said quietly. “Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them.”
Voldemort's expression remained impassive as he said, “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.”
“You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do you?” asked Dumbledore delicately.
“Certainly,” said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. “I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed —”
“Of some kinds of magic,” Dumbledore corrected him quietly. “Of some. Of others, you remain... forgive me... woefully ignorant.”
For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage.
“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore.”
“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” suggested Dumbledore.
“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts?” said Voldemort. “Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves—or so rumor has it—the Death Eaters?”
Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort's eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare.
“My friends,” he said, after a moment's pause, “will carry on without me, I am sure.”
“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,” said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants.”
“You are mistaken,” said Voldemort.
“Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group of them—Nott, Rosier, Muldber, Dolohov—awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post.”
There could be no doubt that Dumbledore's detailed knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied almost at once.
“You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore.”
“Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen,” said Dumbledore lightly. “Now, Tom...”
Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture.
“... let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?”
Voldemort looked coldly surprised. “A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much.”
“Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you're after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?”
Voldemort sneered.
“If you do not want to give me a job —”
“Of course I don't,” said Dumbledore. “And I don't think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose.”
Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage.
“This is your final word?”
“It is,” said Dumbledore, also standing.
“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“No, nothing,” said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. “The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom... I wish I could...”
For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort's hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone.
Harry felt Dumbledore's hand close over his arm again and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore's hand was blackened and dead-looking once more.
“Why?” said Harry at once, looking up into Dumbledore's face. “Why did he come back? Did you ever find out?”
“I have ideas,” said Dumbledore, “but no more than that.”
“What ideas, sir?”
“I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that memory from Professor Slughorn,” said Dumbledore.
“When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear ... to both of us.”
Harry was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was holding it open for him, he did not move at once.
“Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn't say...”
“Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job,” said Dumbledore. “The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort.”
　哈利和罗恩星期一一大早就离开了校医院，他们在庞弗雷夫人的悉心照料下完全恢复了健康，开始享受起被打破脑袋和中毒带来的好处来，其中最大的好处就是赫敏和罗恩重归于好了。赫敏甚至一路护送他们去吃早餐，还带给了他们金妮与迪安吵架的消息。哈利心里沉睡的怪物突然抬起了脑袋，满怀希望地嗅着。
 
　　“他们为什么吵架？”他尽量用漫不经心的口气问，这时他们转过弯走进了一条八楼的走廊，那里空荡荡的，只有一个很小的女孩正在查看一幅挂毯，上面画着一群身穿芭蕾舞短裙的巨怪。看见他们几个六年级的学生走过来了，她看上去吓坏了，手里沉重的黄铜天平也掉在了地上。
 
　　“没关系！”赫敏温和地说，急忙过去帮忙。“这儿……”她用魔杖在破损的天平上敲了敲，念道，“恢复如初。”
 
　　女孩没有道谢，只是死死地站在原地看着他们经过，一直到走出视线之外；罗恩回头看了她一眼。
 
　　“我发誓你把天平变小了，”他说。
 
　　“别管她了，”哈利有点儿不耐烦地说。“金妮和迪安为了什么吵架，赫敏？”
 
　　“哦，迪安觉得麦克拉根用游走球击中你的事很好笑，”赫敏说。
 
　　“这看起来确实挺有趣的，”罗恩通情达理地说。
 
　　“这根本就不有趣！”赫敏激动地说。“这太可怕了！要不是库特和皮克斯接住了哈利，他就可能会受重伤！”
 
　　“是啊，嗯，金妮和迪安的关系也没什么必要为了这个而破裂吧，”哈利仍试着让他的口气听起来很随意。“他们还在一起吗？”
 
　　“是的，还在一起——但你为什么那么感兴趣？”赫敏敏锐地看了哈利一眼。
 
　　“我只是不想我的魁地奇球队又是一团糟！”他急忙回答，但是赫敏还是怀疑地看着他，这时他们身后有个声音叫道，“哈利！”，他松了一大口气，借机转过身来背对着赫敏。
 
　　“哦，嗨，卢娜。”
 
　　“我刚才去校医院找你了，”卢娜在书包里摸索。“但是他们说你已经走了……”
 
　　她把一个像青葱的东西、一个长着斑点的大毒蘑菇和一大团看上去像猫干草一样的东西塞到了罗恩手里，最后终于拽出了一卷脏兮兮的羊皮纸交给哈利。
 
　　“……我奉命把这个交给你。”
 
　　哈利马上认出来这是邓布利多的又一个上课通知。
 
　　“今晚，”他一打开羊皮纸，就告诉罗恩和赫敏。
 
　　“你上一场比赛的解说很精彩！”卢娜把青葱、毒蘑菇和猫干草拿回去的时候罗恩对她说。卢娜含糊地笑了笑。
 
　　“你在开我的玩笑，是吧？”她说。“每个人都说我糟透了。”
 
　　“不，我是认真的！”罗恩诚挚地说。“我不记得自己什么时候听到过这么精彩的解说了！顺便问一句，这是什么？”他把那个洋葱似的东西举到眼前。
 
　　“哦，这是格迪根，”她说，把那团猫干草和毒蘑菇塞回包里。“你喜欢的话就留着吧，我还有一些呢。它们在击退大嘴彩球鱼方面很在行。”
 
　　她走开了，留下罗恩在那里咯咯地笑着，手里还抓着格迪根。
 
　　“你瞧，我是越来越喜欢她了，卢娜，”他说，这时他们接着往礼堂走去。“我知道她有点儿疯，但是还不错——”
 
　　他的话戛然而止。拉文德•布朗正站在大理石楼梯底下，脸上阴云密布。
 
　　“嗨，”罗恩紧张地说。
 
　　“走吧，”哈利低声对赫敏说，他们快步走开，可还是听见拉文德说，“为什么不告诉我你今天出院了？为什么她和你在一起？”
 
　　一个半小时之后罗恩气恼地出现在早餐桌上，尽管他和拉文德坐在一起，可是哈利也没看到他们互相说过一句话。赫敏看上去好像对这一切都不在意，但是哈利还是看到有那么一两次她的脸上闪过了莫名其妙的笑容。一整天里她的心情都特别得好，晚上在公共休息室的时候她甚至答应帮哈利检查草药课论文（也就是说，她自己的已经写完了），要在以前她是坚决不会干的，可今天是因为她知道哈利随后会把作业借给罗恩抄。
 
　　“多谢，赫敏，”哈利匆匆拍了一下赫敏的背，一看表，已经快八点了。“听着，我得赶快去邓布利多那儿，否则就要迟到了……”
 
　　她没有回答，只是疲惫地划去了一些他文章里没用的句子。哈利咧嘴笑着匆匆爬过肖像洞，赶往校长办公室。在说出“太妃手指饼”的口令之后，石兽跳到了一边，哈利在旋转楼梯上一步两阶地冲了上去，伴着八点的钟声敲响了门。
 
　　“进来，”邓布利多在里面叫道，但是哈利正要伸手推门，门一下子从里面打开了。特里劳妮教授站在了他的面前。
 
　　“啊哈！”她叫起来，夸张地指着哈利，眼睛在放大镜般的眼镜后面冲他眨了眨。“这就是我被随随便便地从你办公室赶出来的原因，邓布利多！”
 
　　“我亲爱的西比尔，”邓布利多有点生气地说，“没有谁随随便便地把你从任何地方赶走，不过哈利的确和我有约，而且我真的不认为还有什么可说的——”
 
　　“很好，”特里劳妮教授用一种深深受伤的声音说。“如果你不把那匹侵占我的位置的老马赶走，那好罢……也许我会去找一所更欣赏我的才华的学校……”
 
　　她推开哈利冲下螺旋楼梯消失了；他们听见她下去的时候摔了一跤，哈利猜测她是被自己的一条拖拖拉拉的披肩给绊倒的。
 
　　“请关上门坐下，哈利，”邓布利多说，声音听起来相当疲倦。
 
　　哈利照办了，他坐到邓布利多桌子前面的老位子上，冥想盆又一次被摆在了他们当中，另外还有两个装满旋转记忆的水晶瓶。
 
　　“那么，特里劳妮教授还在为费伦泽上课的事生气？”哈利问。
 
　　“是的，”邓布利多说。“占卜课的事比我预想的要麻烦得多，我自己从没研究过这门课。我既不能让费伦泽回禁林，因为他已经被那里驱逐出来了，也不能让西比尔•特里劳妮离开学校。请你不要告诉别人，其实她并不知道在学校城堡外面有多危险。她并不知道——我认为告诉她也是不明智的——自己曾经作了那个关于你和伏地魔的预言。”
 
　　邓布利多重重地叹了口气，然后说，“不过别管我的教员难题了，我们还有更重要的事情要讨论。首先——你完成我上节课布置给你的任务了吗？”
 
　　“啊，”哈利突然顿住了。由于他要上幻影显形培训，以及魁地奇比赛、罗恩中毒、自己脑袋受伤，还有他念念不忘地想查出德拉科•马尔福到底在做什么，所有这些事情使哈利几乎忘掉了邓布利多曾要他去取斯拉霍恩教授的记忆……“嗯，我在魔药课后问过斯拉霍恩教授，可是，呃，他不愿意给我，教授。”
 
　　他们之间出现了一阵沉默。
 
　　“我明白了，”最后邓布利多说，他从半月形的眼镜上方凝视着哈利，和往常一样给哈利一种在照X光的感觉。“那么你已经竭尽全力做这件事了，是吗？你已经发挥了全部的聪明才智？你已经挖掘出了所有的办法去取回这份记忆了吗？”
 
　　“嗯，”哈利不知道接下去该说什么。他只尝试了一次，这突然显得有些软弱无力，哈利感到一阵尴尬。“嗯……罗恩误服爱情药的那天，我把他带到了斯拉霍恩教授那里去。我本来想，如果我可以让斯拉霍恩教授心情愉快——”
 
　　“奏效了么？”邓布利多问。
 
　　“嗯，没有，教授，因为罗恩中毒了——”
 
　　“——所以，很自然的，你就完全忘记找回记忆的事了；不过在你最好的朋友处境危险的时候，我也不该指望什么别的。但是，一旦韦斯莱先生完全康复的话，我希望你能回到我交给你的任务上来。相信我已经向你说清楚了这份记忆的重要性。我确实是尽了全力让你了解到它是所有的记忆中最关键的一个，没有它我们就会浪费时间。”
 
　　一阵灼热、刺痛的羞愧感从哈利的脑袋传遍了全身。邓布利多并没有提高嗓门，甚至听不出来在生气，但哈利宁愿听他大喊大叫；这种冷冷的遗憾比什么都糟。
 
　　“教授，”他有点绝望地说，“我并不是没有想过它或者怎么样，我真的只是还有别的——别的事……”
 
　　“别的事让你惦记，”邓布利多帮他说完了。“我明白了。”
 
　　沉默再次降临在两人之间，这是哈利与邓布利多之间经历过的最让人不自在的沉默；它没完没了地持续着，中间只夹杂着邓布利多头顶那幅阿曼多•迪佩特的画像里发出的呼噜声。哈利奇怪地感觉到自己变小了，好像他进入房间之后就收缩了一点点一样。
 
　　他实在忍受不下去了，于是说，“邓布利多教授，我真的很抱歉。我本来应该做得更多……我本该认识到如果这件事不是真的重要你也不会让我去做。”
 
　　“谢谢你能这样说，哈利，”邓布利多平静地说。“那么，我是不是可以希望你从现在开始就把它当成头等大事来做？今晚之后，我们如果还得不到这份记忆的话，我们的会面就几乎没有意义了。”
 
　　“我会去做的，教授，我会去从他那里把它拿来的，”哈利诚恳地说。
 
　　“那我们现在就不要再说这件事了，”邓布利多和蔼了一些，“从我们上次结束的地方继续我们的故事吧。你还记得我们进行到哪儿了吗？”
 
　　“是的，教授，”哈利迅速说。“伏地魔杀了他的父亲和祖父母，还伪造得好像是他舅舅摩芬干的。然后他回到霍格沃茨，他问……他问了斯拉霍恩关于灵魂碎片的事，”他羞愧地咕哝。
 
　　“很好，”邓布利多说。“那么，我希望你还记得，我曾在我们课程的最开始说过，我们将进入猜测和推断的王国。”
 
　　“是的，教授。”
 
　　“我想你也同意，到目前为止，我已经向你展示了相当可靠的事实来推测伏地魔在十七岁之前到底都做了些什么。”
 
　　哈利点了点头。
 
　　“但是现在，哈利，”邓布利多说，“现在事情变得更加模糊和奇异了。如果说搜集男孩里德尔的证据很困难，那么要找到愿意回忆成年伏地魔的人就几乎不可能了。实际上，我怀疑除了他自己，没有一个活着的生命能够给我们他离开霍格沃茨后的一个完整报告。不过，我还有最后两份记忆要和你分享。”邓布利多指了指冥想盆边的两只发光的小水晶瓶。“我希望能听听你的意见，看我是否对它们做出了的推论是否可靠。”
 
　　想到邓布利多那么重视他的意见，哈利就更为自己没能获取有关灵魂碎片的记忆而感到羞愧，这时邓布利多举起了第一个瓶子在灯光下检查，他内疚地在椅子上动了一下。
 
　　“我希望你不会厌倦于潜入其他人的记忆里，因为这两份回忆都很稀奇，”他说。“第一份来自一个很老的家养小精灵，名叫霍基。在我们进入霍基的记忆之前，我要很快地为你叙述一下伏地魔是怎么离开霍格沃茨的。
 
　　“也许你已经料到了，他升到了七年级时每一个考试都拿到了最高分。在他周围，他的同学们都在决定离开霍格沃茨之后从事什么职业。几乎每个人都认为汤姆•里德尔会去做大事，他这个级长、男学生会主席和对学校特殊贡献奖的获得者。我知道一些教授，包括斯拉霍恩教授，曾经建议他进入魔法部，给他提供面试机会，帮他联系有用的熟人。但他拒绝了所有的提议。老师们知道的下一件事情，就是他去了博金－博克店工作。”
 
　　“博金－博克？”哈利震惊地重复。
 
　　“博金－博克，”邓布利多平静地重复道。“我相信当我们进入霍基的记忆之后，你就能了解这地方为什么吸引他了。不过这并不是伏地魔首选的职业。那时候几乎没人知道这个——校长当时只透露给了我和少数几个人——伏地魔一开始去找迪佩特教授询问他能否留校做一名老师。”
 
　　“他想留下来？为什么？”哈利更迷惑不解了。
 
　　“我相信他有几个理由，尽管他并没有吐露给迪佩特教授，”邓布利多说。“首先，也是很重要的一点，我相信伏地魔从来没有如此地迷恋过这个学校。霍格沃茨是他待过的最快乐的地方；第一个也是唯一一个他觉得像个家的地方。”
 
　　哈利对这些话感到稍微有些不自在，因为这也是他对霍格沃茨的感受。
 
　　“其次，这座城堡是一所古老魔法的大本营。毫无疑问，和其他大部分在这里念过书的学生相比，伏地魔洞察了更多的城堡的秘密，但是他可能认为那儿仍有许多秘密需要解开，有大量魔法值得发掘。
 
　　“第三，作为老师，他能在那些年轻的男女巫师身上拥有更多权力和影响力。也许他是从斯拉霍恩教授那里得到这个想法的，他在斯拉霍恩教授那里倍受优待，看着他展示一个老师的角色能有多么大的影响力。我一点儿也没有妄想伏地魔计划在霍格沃茨待一辈子，但我相信他把这里看作一个新兵征募营，一个可以他可以为自己建立一支军队的地方。”
 
　　“可是他没得到那个工作，教授？”
 
　　“对，他没得到。迪佩特教授觉得十八岁的他太年轻了，可是他对伏地魔说，过几年之后如果还想教书的话，欢迎他到那时再重新申请。”
 
　　“你对此怎么看，教授？”哈利犹豫地问。
 
　　“深深的不安，”邓布利多说。“我曾经劝阿曼多推掉那次会面——我当时没向他解释我跟你说过的这些理由，因为迪佩特教授很喜欢伏地魔，相信他的诚实——但是我不想让伏地魔回到这个学校，尤其不愿意看到他拿到一个有权力的职位。”
 
　　“他想要什么职位，教授？他想教什么课？”
 
　　不知为什么，哈利还在邓布利多说出来之前就已经知道了答案。
 
　　“黑魔法防御术。当时是一个名叫加拉提•梅利索特的老教授在教，他在霍格沃茨差不多干了五十年了。
 
　　“于是伏地魔就去了博金－博克，所有喜欢他的老师都觉得屈才了，这么一个年轻有为的巫师，却在商店里工作。然而，伏地魔并不只是一个副手。他彬彬有礼、相貌英俊，人又聪明，很快就被委以重任，这个特殊的任务是只有像博金－博克那样的店才会有的，如你所知，哈利，这个店专门搜集非同寻常和力量强大的物品。伏地魔被他们派出去说服人们卖掉自己的珍宝，人人都说，他对此有着异乎寻常的天赋。”
 
　　“我敢打赌他有，”哈利按捺不住地说。
 
　　“是的，确实有，”邓布利多淡淡一笑。“现在让我们进入家养小精灵霍基的记忆吧，她当时为一个很老很有钱的女巫工作，那个女巫名叫海兹芭•史密斯。”
 
　　邓布利多用魔杖轻敲了一下瓶子，瓶塞飞了出来，他把旋转的记忆倒进冥想盆，同时说，“我跟在你后面，哈利。”
 
　　哈利站起身，再次弯下腰把脸浸入了石盆里涟漪荡漾的银色物质。他在黑色的虚无里翻滚下跌，随后落到了一间起居室里，面前是一个非常肥胖的老太太，她戴着姜黄色的假发，穿着一件亮粉红色的长袍，袍子在她身边飘动，整个看起来就像一只正在融化的冰糕。她正在对着一面镶着宝石的小镜子在打扮，用一个巨大的粉扑把胭脂扑到已经红艳艳的脸蛋上，一个哈利所见过的最弱小最年老的家养小精灵正在为她的肥脚穿上紧绷绷的绸缎拖鞋。
 
　　“快点，霍基！”海兹芭专横地说。“他说四点到，只剩几分钟了，他还从没有迟过到！”
 
　　她收好粉扑，家养小精灵也直起了身子。她的头差不多刚碰到海兹芭的椅子，像纸一样的皮肤挂在骨架子上，和身上长袍一样的脆亚麻床单差不多。
 
　　“我看起来怎么样？”海兹芭对着镜子从各种角度欣赏着自己的脸。
 
　　“可爱，夫人，”霍基尖声尖气地回答。
 
　　哈利只能假定在霍基的合同里规定了她必须对这个问题撒谎，因为在他看来海兹芭•史密斯离可爱差得太远了。
 
　　门铃响了，女主人和家养小精灵都跳了起来。
 
　　“快，快，他来了，霍基！”海兹芭大叫起来，家养小精灵急匆匆地跑出了房间，房间里堆满了东西，很难相信有人能顺利地穿过房间而不碰翻至少一打东西：摆满了小漆盒子的橱柜、塞满雕金封皮书籍的箱子、摆放着天体仪的架子，还有种在铜质容器里的茂盛的盆栽植物：事实上，整个房间看上去就像魔法古董店和温室的混合体。
 
　　家养小精灵不一会儿就回来了，后面跟着一个高高的年轻人，哈利毫无困难地认出他是伏地魔。他简单地穿了一件黑色套装；头发比在学校的时候长了一点，脸颊也陷了下去，不过这一切都很适合他：他看上去比以前更英俊了。他熟练地在拥挤的房间里穿行，看得出他以前来过很多次了。然后他弯腰执起海兹芭的肥胖的小手，用嘴唇轻轻一碰。
 
　　“我带了花给你，”他平静地说，不知从哪儿变出了一束玫瑰花出来。
 
　　“你这个淘气的孩子，你不该这么做的！”老海兹芭尖声说，不过哈利注意到她早已准备好了一个空花瓶放在最近的桌子上。“你可宠坏我这个老太太了，汤姆……坐下，坐下……霍基去哪儿了……啊……”
 
　　家养小精灵已经冲回了房间，手里拿了一小盘蛋糕，她把它放到女主人的肘边。
 
　　“请随意享用，汤姆，”海兹芭说，“我知道你有多喜欢我的蛋糕。你过得怎么样？看起来比以前更苍白了。他们让你在店里干了太多活，我已经说过一百次了……”
 
　　伏地魔机械地笑了笑，海兹芭则傻笑起来。
 
　　“那么，你这次来又是为什么而来呢？”她扑闪着睫毛问。
 
　　“博克先生原因为妖精制造的盔甲出个更高的价格，”伏地魔说。“500加隆，他觉得这个价钱对你来说够划算了——”
 
　　“好了，好了，别这么快，否则我都会以为你只是为我的那些小玩意儿到这儿来了！”海兹芭噘起嘴了。
 
　　“我就是奉命为了这个来的，”伏地魔平静地说。“我只是个可怜的小副手，夫人，我必须照吩咐的做。博克先生要我问问——”
 
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