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。”
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