[Part 3] "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" by Rowling J.K.

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CHAPTER V. AN EXCESS OF PHLEGM

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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 . . . Good night, everyone.”

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 jumped 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 neatly 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 noncommittal 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 Fletcher, 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. . . .”

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“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 tentaclelike 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 trunk’s 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 the 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 —"

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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?"

"Оh, 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.

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"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 fault 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’ve 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?”

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“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 ten ‘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 (A)

Care of Magical Creatures (E)

Charms (E)

Defense Against the Dark Arts (O)

Divination (P)

Herbology (E)

History of Magic (D)

Potions (E)

Transfiguration (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 — nine ‘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?

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CHAPTER VI. DRACO’S DETOUR

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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 wandmaker?” 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.

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“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.

“Let’s 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 schoolbooks?”

“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 of us,” said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin’s and bending down to peer through the window.

“I’ll stand guard outside, all right?”

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.

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“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.

“Bu’ they wouldn’ dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, Harry.

Don’ worry abou’ 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 George’s 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!

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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 Malfoy, “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. Weasley’s accusations, that they had been in the back room all along, and that she could not have looked properly.