hp7 - chapter 5

Harry Potter and the deathly hollows69
Chapter Five
And Life Goes On
An unearthly fog covered the length of the Weasley meadow, where only moments before a celebration of life had been taking place. The floating candles had all been extinguished by the cold, damp fog that always accompanied the presence of Dementors. Shouts and muffled grunts mixed with the sounds of rapid spellfire as those guests who had chosen to stay and fight attempted to hold back the approaching Dementors. Death Eaters could be seen gathering along the edge of the forest, casting a barrage of spells and further weakening the already strained wards. Harry was cold and feeling slightly dizzy from the intensity of the memories flashing through his mind. His teeth chattered as he moved quickly toward the crouched figures of Fleur and Bill, Ginny’s hand held firmly in his own. He could feel her small body trembling, and he knew the Dementors were affecting her as badly as they were him. "What are you doing ‘ere, ‘Arry?" Fleur hissed, directing her butterfly Patronus toward the direction Harry had just sent Prongs. Her beautiful white wedding robes were smeared with dirt and mud, and one sleeve looked as if it had been singed. "If zose Death Eaters do get in, zey will come right for you. You should evacuate now." "I’m not leaving," Harry said firmly, his eyes locked with Bill’s. This was as much his home as any other place he’d ever stayed, and he would not leave it without a fight. He saw a look of acceptance and understanding flash on Bill’s scarred face, and he was grateful for it. Finally, someone who wouldn’t treat him as if he were a child. Bill nodded, and Fleur apparently took this as reason enough to cease her demands. Auntie Muriel’s tiara remained perched on her head, shimmering as the lights from various spells illuminated it. The thought rose unbidden in Harry’s mind that it was Ginny’s right to wear that one day, and he’d see to it that she got the chance. "What are you trying to do?" he asked. Bill sighed heavily, and Harry was struck by how strained and exhausted the eldest Weasley sibling appeared. The scars lining his face stood out starkly against the paleness of his skin. "The wards around the Burrow are failing. That loud clanging sound and the flickering lights that appear every few seconds are indications that the wards are about to collapse. I’m trying to strengthen them, but I don’t know if I can." "Strengthen them how?" Harry asked. "I designed the framework for these wards by using strength from the positive emotions that I feel for the Burrow," Bill said, and Harry could easily envision him as a Professor of Ancient Runes. "The wards are capable of being strengthened by transferring power from a witch or wizard connected to the place within the boundaries. I reckoned that one of us would always be here in case of an attack and could use our emotions to power it. I hadn’t expected the sheer number of spells being cast in each direction, however. The Burrow has always been crowded, but not this crowded." "So, anyone who feels strongly about the Burrow could do it?" Harry asked, furrowing his brow. "Anyone who feels positively about it, yes. It takes a lot of power, Harry, which is why I can’t even stand up right now," Bill warned. "I don’t think I have the strength to hold them up much longer." Fleur placed her hand protectively on Bill’s shoulder. "What if we try to do it together?" Harry asked, and now he felt Ginny’s hand on his own shoulder. Bill looked at Harry uncertainly, his eyes flicking back and forth between his sister and Harry. Harry though he appeared vaguely uncomfortable, but he couldn’t dwell on that now. "Look, I love this place as if it were my own, and you said yourself that what you’re doing now isn’t going to work," Harry said with a hint of annoyance. "I don’t have time to teach you all the spells and wand movements in a few seconds, Harry, but I think I can continue casting them by using your strength and transferring it to the wards," Bill said contemplatively. "Head to that hill over there and climb to the top; that way, we can cover the whole area. On my signal, you have to project all the positive emotion and anything good you feel about this place into your thoughts. I’ll take it from there. Make certain to have some cover, though, as this will leave you feeling very drained." "I want to help, too. I’ll go with you," Ginny said immediately, her eyes glinting with determination. "No. Stay and help Fleur cover Bill; he’s more exposed here, and we can’t lose more than one Patronus while I’m up there," Harry replied, knowing she’d hate the answer. Ginny frowned and stared back and forth between Harry and Bill, lying on the ground. Finally, she looked out across the meadow at the pitifully few Patronuses struggling to hold back the surging Dementors. Nodding, she squared her shoulders and whispered, "Be careful," before kissing him fiercely. "You, too," Harry replied, squeezing her hand once. He turned, crouching down low and running behind some of the others, as he moved carefully toward the small hill that Bill had indicated. He stumbled several times as waves of Dementor-inspired memories crashed over him. By the time he’d climbed the hill and reached the right spot, he was panting from exertion. He could barely distinguish Bill and Ginny through the smoke, but thank Merlin for that red hair; he could spot it anywhere. He’d also been able to spot the twins standing near the perimeter with Tonks, her wolf Patronus signaling their position. He wished he could see Remus, but that search would have to wait. When Bill sent red sparks into the air, Harry shut his eyes and channeled every positive thought and memory he had about the Burrow into the front of his mind. He had many to choose from and started focusing on memories of the Burrow connected with all that lived there. He remembered the wonder and awe he’d felt as a twelve-year old coming to stay here for the first time. He’d learned so much that summer, not only about the wizarding world, but also about how it felt to really be a part of a family. He’d experienced how it felt to belong and not simply be cast aside as a nuisance. He remembered the smell of freshly baked scones, roasted chicken, treacle tart, steak and kidney pie and all his other favorite foods that Mrs. Weasley had quickly discovered and always served in ample supply. He remembered the feeling of pleasure he’d felt that first time she’d washed and darned his socks right along with Ron’s and her other children’s. She’d folded them and put them back in his trunk, and he’d sat there in slack-jawed amazement for a full minute until Ron had asked him what was wrong. Aunt Petunia had usually just given him the socks once Dudley poked holes in them; Mrs. Weasley had actually mended them for him. Harry took a deep, steadying breath and continued focusing on his memories. He remembered Mr. Weasley’s shed, full of more electrical sockets than anyone could ever need in a lifetime, and the elder man’s open glee over sharing his discoveries. He remembered not only being asked his opinion for the first time, but also actually feeling as if his answer mattered. Harry’s legs shook as he stumbled but managed to remain upright. He remembered Quidditch matches in the meadow, tossing gnomes in the garden, and the camaraderie of a slap on the back from a group of redheads that had treated him as another brother, rather than the freak in the cupboard. He had laughed here, really laughed and enjoyed the summers for the first time in his young life. Harry’s legs finally gave out, and he stumbled to the ground, panting heavily. He was tired, and his head ached, but he pushed the positive memories through and battled against those the Dementors tried to force to the front. He remembered the face of the prettiest girl he’d ever seen smiling at him warmly in greeting, her eyes alight with such warmth, compassion and downright orneriness he thought he could drown in their depth. He remembered kissing her barely an hour before, and the feeling that he could do anything as long as she remained in his arms. Harry needed his arms to support his weight now, yet still he pushed the memories and emotions forward. This was the home of his best friend, the friend who’d opened his arms wide and shared his family with a lonely boy who’d never had even a glimpse of such a life. It was the home of the girl he loved, the girl who loved him enough to let him go. It was the home of the family that had stood by him and believed in him when no one else had, and he would not allow it to be taken from them now. Not if he could help it. A loud surge of blinding light illuminated the meadow for a brief moment, and Harry had to shut his eyes against the glare. A whoop of joy that unmistakably belonged to one of the twins filled the air and caused Harry to blink dazedly. Shouts of glee filled the night, and Harry became aware that his body was no longer chilled. He could find no trace of the Dementors. He lay on the ground, panting, for a moment, trying to summon the energy to stand. He could see Prongs cantering back towards him and running with a small Jack Russell terrier Patronus that he knew belonged to Ron. Ron was all right! He was somewhere in this chaos, and hopefully that would mean Hermione was all right, as well. He recognized most of the faces remaining in the meadow and hoped that meant that Mrs. Weasley had managed to help the other guests escape. He fought against the dimness trying to encroach upon his vision, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. The motion caused his world to tilt alarmingly, and for a moment he thought he might get sick. He had just managed to control his nausea with a few deep breaths when Ginny appeared by his side. "Harry!" she shouted, dropping to her knees beside him and cradling his head in her lap while gently running her fingers through his hair. "Are you all right? Oh, you poor thing. Bill said you’d be exhausted. You did it, Harry! You really did it. You were magnificent." Harry grinned and leaned into her touch. "It worked then, yeah?" "It worked splendidly," Ginny replied, her eyes bright with excitement. "Not only did you strengthen the wards, but you somehow pushed them even further back and forced the Dementors out, as well. I literally saw one Death Eater’s body being flung through the air. You were brilliant, Harry. Even Bill is impressed, and it takes a lot to impress him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he offers you a job after you leave Hogwarts." "Yeah? Harry Potter, Curse Breaker, eh?" Harry said, managing a weak smile. "Maybe if being an Auror doesn’t work out for me." "Let’s get you back to the house where you can rest. Do you think you can stand?" Ginny asked. Harry tried to rise on his elbows but couldn’t manage to make his body respond and flopped back onto the ground. "Right here is fine," he said, fighting to keep his eyes open. Suddenly, he felt his world tilt again as he was scooped up into thick, heavily muscled arms. "Come on, Harry. Let’s get you out of here," Charlie Weasley said. "Ginny can say thanks by snogging your brains out later." "She said I was magnificent," Harry said, slurring his words. "Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head, mate. She said you were a hopeless idiot yesterday. She’s always been temperamental, that one," Charlie replied, grinning. "Hey!" Ginny cried, slapping her brother on the arm. "I’m right here, you know." Despite his closed eyes, Harry could tell Ginny was smiling. He was too tired to care that Charlie was carrying him to the Burrow, so he just let his body relax, and the dimness on the edge of his vision covered his eyes completely. The tinkling of glass, the drone of muted music, and the distant peals of laughter were the sounds Harry heard as he slowly drifted back to awareness. He was warm and comfortable and felt more secure than he had in quite some time. He wasn’t willing to give that up by opening his eyes just yet. "Exactly how long are you going to pretend to still be asleep, Harry?" Ginny asked. He could hear the amusement in her voice as that sweet, flowery scent he always associated with her wafted across his nostrils. "You’re not hurt, and being too tired is no excuse to deny me the dancing that was promised me." "We danced," Harry said, smiling but keeping his eyes closed. "Barely! You’ll have to do better than that to keep me satisfied," she said primly. "Is that so?" Harry asked, enjoying the banter. He opened his eyes wide as memories of the night crashed down upon him. He sat up suddenly, glancing around the room and feeling slightly panicked. He felt his heart rate increase as he recognized his surroundings. He was back in the one place that he’d sworn he never wanted to see again. He was back at Grimmauld Place…at Sirius’s house. He was lying on a couch in one of the small sitting rooms off the main hallway, and his head had been resting on Ginny’s lap. She rubbed his back soothingly, apparently understanding his dismay. "Why are we here?" he asked tightly, struggling to do anything but look around at his surroundings. Ginny moved closer and wrapped her arm around his stiff shoulders. "We sent a lot of refugees from the wedding here, remember? Mum was too uptight to leave anyone at the Burrow until the wards are thoroughly checked, so we’ve moved in for the night. Bill and Fleur absolutely refused to allow Voldemort to spoil their special day. They’ve continued the party right in the ballroom; the band set up their equipment and are down there playing right now." Harry could hear the grudging respect for what Fleur had done in Ginny’s voice. "Bill’s all right?" he asked. If he felt as bad as he did, certainly Bill couldn’t be dancing. He cracked his neck from side to side, trying to judge if had the strength to dance. He felt as if he could sleep for a week, and it galled him to think Bill was in much better shape. "Oh, he’s just sort of propped up in a corner, watching Fleur dance. He can barely keep his eyes open, but she wasn’t about to let him use up all his remaining energy dancing. I’m certain she has other plans for him this evening," Ginny replied, her eyes twinkling. It took a moment for the full impact of what Ginny said to sink in, and when it did Harry blushed crimson. "Ginny!" Her words stirred images about what Bill and Fleur might get up to that he really didn’t want to think about. Having Ginny pressed so nicely against him caused his train of his thought to switch tracks to images of her that none of her brothers would want him thinking about, and his anatomy began to respond. He shifted uncomfortably, the collar of his shirt suddenly becoming unbearably tight. "That caught your attention," Ginny said, smirking as if she knew exactly what she’d done. She was right, too; he had been preoccupied with the idea of being back at Grimmauld Place until she’d moved his thoughts to other things. "Ron and Hermione," he said suddenly, staring into her eyes with alarm. "I saw Ron’s Patronus, so I know he did turn up eventually, but-" "Nothing to worry about," Ginny said soothingly, shaking her head and placing her soft hand on his lips. "Hermione did get cursed with something, but she’d already been tended to by Mum when I saw her. I haven’t got the full story out of anyone yet, as I’ve been rather preoccupied with you, but I believe it had something to do with an altercation between Ron and Viktor Krum." Harry groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Ron, what did you do? "All three of them are here somewhere. Ron’s been by several times to check on you, along with Fred, George, Charlie and Mum. Every ten minutes or so one of them pops their head in. I think it’s a conspiracy," Ginny whispered dramatically. Soft wisps of hair had broken free from the intricate knot on her head and tickled his face as she leaned near him. He longed to free the rest of her hair and let it fall loose. "Don’t they trust us?" he asked, grinning. "Should they?" she asked, arching her brow. "Well, we’d best live up to our as yet unearned reputation, shouldn’t we?" he asked, quickly rolling over and twisting so that she was now resting back on the couch, and he was leaning over her. More pieces of her hair came undone as he pressed his lips to hers and lost himself in the sweetness of the kiss. It felt like only an instant later when there was a sharp clearing of a throat from the entranceway to the room. Harry pulled back reluctantly, to find Ron standing in the doorway, glowering, his lower lip swollen to twice its natural size. "Do you have to do that?" he asked, his speech oddly distorted from his fat lip. "Most definitely," Harry replied cheekily and quickly planted another kiss on Ginny’s lips. "What happened to you?" Harry and Ginny sat up and moved apart slightly on the couch, as Ron entered the room and took a seat across from them. "Well, if you hadn’t noticed because of all your snogging with my sister…there was a battle with Death Eaters at my house a bit ago, Harry," Ron said, disgruntled. "You don’t say? That would explain why I’m flat on my back then, wouldn’t it? Funny, I don’t remember seeing you during the battle," Harry said, cocking his eyebrow. "You told him," Ron said, scowling at Ginny. "Of course I did," Ginny replied, smirking and snuggling closer to Harry again. He wrapped his arm around her and ignored Ron’s glare. "What happened to Hermione?" he asked, torn between enjoying seeing Ginny spar with Ron and wanting the details before it erupted into all-out sibling warfare. "Vicky tried to get me with a Reducto spell that ricocheted off Mum’s hutch and hit Hermione. Mum patched her up, but she’s not talking to me. As if it’s my fault," Ron said, crossing his arms across his chest and scowling at the room in general. "Why did he try to curse you?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling very tired again. "He could have been provoked," Ron admitted grudgingly. "That’s not the point, though. He curses her, and she won’t talk to me. How am I supposed to ever figure that one out?" Harry groaned. "What did you do, Ron? Why were you hexing each other? I thought you’d told me earlier that you knew Hermione went to the wedding as your date. I thought everything was okay between you." "It was okay until that git tried to make his move on my girl," Ron said angrily, and Harry suspected he didn’t even realize how he’d referred to Hermione. "After you went off with Ginny, I knew you’d end up snogging, and I didn’t want to see it, so I went to look for Hermione. I found her cozied up with Vicky back inside the Burrow." "But Ron, I thought we’d talked about this. She went to the wedding with you, as your date. I thought you were okay with her and Viktor," Harry said wearily. "I was okay with it when he was just an old boyfriend on the dance floor, but I wasn’t okay with finding him chatting her up while she was wearing that dress and looking like that and sitting in my house at my kitchen table. No bloke would be okay with that, Harry," Ron finished with a shout, his ears as bright as his hair. He had a point. Harry hadn’t liked seeing Jean-Luc with Ginny, and there wasn’t even a past between them. For the first time, Harry understood and sympathized with Ron’s feelings about Viktor. "So, what happened? And what do you mean you knew we’d end up snogging?" Harry asked, suddenly realizing what Ron had said. Ron rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Harry. You haven’t been able to keep your eyes off of her all week, and Merlin knows she wanted to snog you. She can’t seem to control herself." "Hey!" Ginny cried indignantly. "Neither of you were very discreet," Ron said, sounding remarkably like Percy at that moment "Obviously not, if you noticed," Ginny replied coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, obviously I was right if what I just walked in on was any indication. Good thing I wasn’t Mum," Ron said, narrowing his eyes. "Mum is so grateful to Harry right now that we could have been shagging, and she would have allowed it," Ginny replied dismissively. "Ginny!" Harry yelped, glancing quickly at Ron to gauge his reaction. He sat stone still and gaped like a fish. "Well, she is. You saved the Burrow, Harry. She’d look the other way for just about anything right now. You really should use that to your advantage and let her know that you’re not coming back to our house. Get that out of the way," Ginny said, biting her lip in thought. That’s not a bad idea, Harry thought, wondering how Ginny already knew he wasn’t going back. They hadn’t yet discussed anything about the future. He only knew that he wanted her in his. "I can’t let her know my plans when I’m not even certain what they are yet. Besides, I would have helped Bill no matter what," Harry said sincerely. "About that, Harry…I’m really sorry," Ron said, staring intently at the carpet. "Sorry for what?" Harry asked. "Sorry for not being there when the fighting started. I promised you that I’d be at your side through this whole thing, and I let stupid Vicky distract me at the first hint of trouble. I didn’t even know about the Dementors because I was so busy rowing. Then, when Hermione got hurt, I lost it. I couldn’t think of anything else but getting her sorted. It wasn’t until you were already up on that hill helping Bill that I got my arse into gear. I should have been right there with you the whole time," Ron said, his shoulders slumping. "We both should have done, Harry," Hermione said from the doorway. She was very pale, and her eyes were shining bright with unshed tears as she gazed intently at Ron. "Hermione!" Harry said, relieved to see her up and walking. "Are you all right?" she asked, her eyes darting to him for a moment to do a cursory inspection. "I’m fine. You’re the one who got hurt, from what I’m hearing," Harry replied. "Oh, it’s nothing. I need to take it easy for a few days and take a potion for a few cracked ribs. Nothing too serious. You’ve been out of it completely, and Ginny wouldn’t let anyone near you," Hermione said with a disapproving sniff. Ginny blushed, abashed. "He was sleeping." "It looks like things are okay between you two. I’m happy for you. You really were being silly, Harry," Hermione said, smiling fondly at both him and Ginny. Harry ignored her slight rebuff. "Speaking of being silly…" he said, staring pointedly at her and Ron. Hermione raised her nose slightly in the air. "As usual, Ron overreacted." "Overreacted, did I? When I walked into the kitchen he had his hands all over you. What was I supposed to think?" Ron demanded angrily. "All over me? He most certainly did not, Ronald Weasley. He asked if I was happy, and I assured him that I was. We embraced and would have ended the conversation there if you hadn’t stormed into the room as if the hounds of hell were on your tail," Hermione said waspishly. "He had his hands…wait…what? You told him you were happy? With me?" Ron asked, suddenly sounding very insecure. Hermione’s eyes softened. "Did it really worry you when you thought I was hurt?" she asked in a small voice. Harry immediately wished he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Ron and Hermione were his best friends in the world, but he really didn’t want to be a witness to this side of their relationship. "So, is Mum still hanging all over Percy?" Ginny asked. Obviously, she was uncomfortable with Ron and Hermione’s conversation, as well. "Percy? Percy is still here?" Harry asked. "Yeah. He was still talking with Mum and Dad when the attack began, and Mum just insisted we all stay together," Ginny replied. "The git was shocked that Death Eaters would actually attack the Burrow. It was as if he couldn’t believe they would ever actually take notice of it…or us. I know Mum is happy to have him here and talking to her, but I don’t trust him. I don’t think he should be here," Ron said darkly. "I was wondering about that, Harry," Hermione ventured tentatively. "I mean, there are a lot of new people here learning about headquarters. Do you really think it was such a good idea to use this place as a sanctuary?" "Yes," Harry replied shortly. "I mean, obviously it was imperative to get everyone to safety, but the Ministry has safe houses and checkpoints for just such occasions," Hermione said. "I think using this house as a sanctuary for anyone running from the Death Eaters, or from the Ministry, is exactly what Sirius would have wanted," Harry replied quietly. "Besides, I’m certain Mad Eye is performing Memory Charms on anyone who leaves, and with the Fidelius Charm in place, no one can reveal the location, anyway." "They can’t reveal the location, but they can reveal who is here and who they think is in charge," Hermione insisted. "How come the Fidelius still works if Dumbledore is d…" Ron asked, trailing off with a sharp glance in Harry’s direction. "The Fidelius doesn’t end when the Secret Keeper dies, or else all anyone would have to do is kill the Secret Keeper. It’s a slow, gradual fade of the magic, and it leaves time to reapply the charm with a new Secret Keeper. Professor McGonagall is ours, I believe," Hermione said. "She is," Ginny said, nodding. "Percy isn’t the only potential security risk here. There are several of Fleur’s extended family here that we know nothing about." "And I’d say Jean-Lucifer is too stupid to be a Death Eater, but they took Scabbers, so you can never tell," Ron said, grimacing. Harry had forgotten about Jean-Luc with all the chaos after the attack. He glanced quickly at Ginny to see her reaction. She simply rolled her eyes. "You weren’t very nice to him," she said to the room at large, although she didn’t appear concerned over it. "Harry hates him," Ron replied, as if that settled everything. "None of us liked Jean-Luc," Harry said indignantly. "I think Fred and George were planning to prank him, although I don’t know if they ever did." "They didn’t," Ginny said, picking a piece of lint off the skirt of her robes. "How do you know?" Ron asked. "Because Bill warned them off doing it. Jean-Luc was making Harry jealous, and Bill thought it was the best thing to push him past his nobility complex. Fleur put him up to it, actually," Ginny replied, futilely trying to control her grin. "So it was a conspiracy?" Harry asked, dumbfounded at the lengths all the Weasleys would go in order to set him up. "Of sorts," Ginny replied, shrugging. "Don’t mess with us Weasleys." "What’s this I hear of Weasleys being messed with? That just can’t be allowed," Fred said as he entered room. His robes were torn and dirty, and he’d magically stuck flowers in odd locations to mask the destruction. Of course, the plan had failed miserably and only enhanced the ruin. Somehow, Harry suspected that was exactly what Fred had intended. "It’s wrong on so many levels," George replied in that odd way of sharing the same thought with his twin. "What are you gits doing here? I thought you were busy groping all of Fleur's friends," Ron asked, sounding both disgusted and proud of his elder brothers. A wave of exhaustion flowed over Harry once again, and he leaned back against the couch and shut his eyes as he listened to his friends banter. Fred sighed dramatically. "So many women… "…so little time," said George. "Why didn’t the two of you get your own dates for this wedding, anyway?" Ginny asked. "I’m certain there must be some witches somewhere who haven’t been warned off yet." "Dates?" asked Fred in mock horror. "Why would we want to bring dates to an event where there would be many beautiful French women…" "French Veela women," George added. "…who hadn’t yet had the pleasure of being introduced to us. We were willing to sacrifice ourselves for their greater benefit," Fred said. "Good grief," Ginny said, rolling her eyes and elbowing Harry in the ribs. He’d started to drift off again. He opened his eyes owlishly wide and tried to focus on the conversation. "What about Angelina?" Hermione asked. "I’d thought that you two were seeing each other." "Angelina?" Fred asked, blinking. "We went to Yule Ball together back in sixth year, but as far as I know it wasn’t a lifetime commitment. If it were, technically you should be sitting on that couch with Viktor Krum." Ron’s expression soured instantly, and Hermione’s cheeks pinkened. "Oh, let’s not do this again," Ginny said with a tired sigh. "What are you two up to, anyway? You had extremely guilty expressions on your faces when you came in here." "Us? Guilty expressions?" Fred asked in mock horror. "We’ll have you know, sister dear, that we’ve perfected the art of covering our guilt with expressions of nonchalance," George replied, scowling. "We did not appear the least built guilty," said Fred. "Uh, huh," Ginny replied drolly. "We were merely avoiding Mum’s wrath. She’s quite put out at the moment, because it appears the nightingales from the wedding ceremony have not only followed us here, but have also taken an odd liking to Percy’s head," George replied with a mischievous grin. "They’re fluttering about in a most unattractive way," said Fred. "And you know nothing about that?" Ginny asked. "Well, I suppose it could have something to do with the reproducing bird feed we sprinkled in his hair when he wasn’t looking," George said, scratching his head thoughtfully "With a disillusionment charm on it, of course," said Fred. Harry, Ginny and Ron all sniggered, while Hermione tut-tutted her disapproval. Harry’s eyes were itchy, and he tried unsuccessfully to cover another yawn. "Mum is over the moon that he’s here, but Moody is insisting he can’t leave without a Memory Charm. They’re battling it out now. Moody is handing out Memory Charms like Honeydukes chocolate," George said. "Well, then, let’s go and get our last dances in before the party is over completely," Ginny said brightly. "I don’t think Harry looks up for much dancing, Ginny," Hermione said, glancing at Harry. He forced himself to sit up straighter. Ginny looked Harry over for a moment before nodding resolutely. "He’ll be fine. We need one good night before we decide on what happens tomorrow." Harry knew she was right. They hadn’t really discussed much of anything. They’d spent most of the time since reuniting snogging each other senseless. Not that that was a bad thing, mind, but he would have to make some hard decisions on the morrow. For tonight, he wanted this one last chance at glittering fairy lights and pretending the future didn’t appear so bleak. Leaning on Ginny and Ron, he followed the others from the room to have that one last dance. The next morning, Harry sat in Sirius’s old spot at the worn kitchen table at Grimmauld Place. He sipped a steaming cup of coffee and tried to figure out his next move, as he fingered the tiara that Fleur had worn yesterday, which he’d found on the table this morning. He’d planned on leaving for Godric’s Hollow today with Ron and Hermione, but that was before Hermione got hurt, and Ron had had to abandon his home. Now, he didn’t know what he was going to do. And then there was the complication of Ginny. Harry knew she suspected they had planned on leaving, but she was still trying to piece together what they were going to do. He knew now that he couldn’t cut her out of things entirely — he needed her. He found he was far more focused now that he wasn’t worried about where she was and what she was doing. Still, he’d promised Dumbledore only to reveal the information about the Horcruxes to Ron and Hermione. He hadn’t even told Professor McGonagall when she’d asked what they’d been doing. He couldn’t break that promise, and he hoped Ginny would see it that way. He did have to tell her about the prophecy, however. He owed her that much. But the Horcruxes… He trusted her implicitly, of course, but a promise was a promise. He supposed it was his own way of hanging on to his connection to Dumbledore, but he felt he still needed that. He ran his hand through his tousled hair and groaned. "Things that bad, are they, lad?" Moody’s voice croaked. Harry looked up to see the grizzled ex-Auror standing in the doorway, squinting his one good eye as he scrutinized Harry. "Things could be better," Harry replied wryly. "Aye, that they could," Moody said, sitting down at the table with Harry. "Can I ask you something?" Harry asked. "Appears to me you just did," replied Moody. "When an Auror is on a case, is there a spell he can perform to detect if Dark Magic has been used?" Harry asked, thinking back to a cold, dank cave on a chilly spring night. "Of course there is," Moody said shortly. "Can you teach me?" Harry asked. Moody’s glass eye narrowed as he studied him. He was silent for a moment before he waved his wand towards the open door. A moment later, a small black case came zooming into the kitchen. Moody opened it and pulled out what looked to Harry like a pair of theatre glasses. "This is used by upcoming Aurors during training. It’s a Spell Detector. When you wear it, you can see traces of a magical imprint surrounding objects. Dark magic shows as red," Moody said, pushing the glasses towards Harry. "As an Auror becomes more proficient with them, some can even use their wand and a Revealo spell to detect the imprints, but you need to be able to achieve a unique level of concentration to detect the colors." "Professor Dumbledore did it with just his hands," Harry mumbled, his mind in the not-so-distant past. "Well, that was Dumbledore, wasn’t it?" Moody said gruffly. "It can have a feel to it, too, can’t it? Just enough to cause a shiver, maybe?" Harry asked, searching for the words to relate his meaning. Moody glanced sharply and appraisingly at Harry. Harry had the vague feeling that Moody was somehow impressed. "Anyone able to feel a magical imprint would have to be mighty powerful, indeed. That would be a highly useful skill for anyone who wanted to be an Auror. One would want to keep such abilities quiet. That kind of information should be kept from the wrong hands." "Indeed," Harry replied, his eyes widening. Had he really felt something that night in the cave when Dumbledore was looking for the traces of Voldemort’s concealment? Harry couldn’t be certain, but he at least now had a way to attempt to find out. "Can I borrow this?" he asked, holding the Spell Detector. "I don’t think I’d notice if it went missing," Moody replied, shrugging. Harry nodded and tucked the black case into his shirt pocket. "Where is everyone this morning?" he asked. Moody slowly poured himself a cup of coffee. "Avoiding me, most likely," he said at last. "None of the Weasleys are too happy with me right now." "Because of Percy?" Harry asked. He knew Percy had finally managed to leave headquarters the previous evening, and he could tell that Mrs. Weasley hadn’t been happy about whatever arrangements had been made. "I understand he’s Molly and Arthur’s boy, but he’s a liability. It’s my job to concern myself with liabilities," Moody said gruffly. "You used a Memory Charm, then?" Harry asked. "No, but I still think we should have. Molly was adamant that he be allowed to remember reconciling with his family. Memory Charms are tricky business, mind, so I couldn’t promise her that. We finally settled on an Unbreakable Vow. Arthur agreed to it, but Molly was livid. I don’t envy being in Arthur’s position this morning," Moody said with a grimace. Harry sniggered over the idea that battle-scarred Mad-Eye Moody was intimidated by Molly Weasley. Not that Harry wasn’t, as well, but still… "She probably won’t speak to me for days before she lets loose again," Moody said. "I’ll miss the meals. I haven’t eaten this well in years." "I don’t know. I don’t think Mrs. Weasley could let anyone go hungry, no matter how angry she was," Harry said. Moody chuckled. "Let’s hope you’re right. She doesn’t have a soft spot for me like she does you." Harry grinned and said cheekily, "Lucky me, then." The kitchen door swung open again, admitting Ginny and Hermione. Both girls looked rather disgruntled and only half-awake. Harry poured them both cups of coffee, and they accepted gratefully. "Morning, ladies," Moody said. Both merely grunted. "Why did you get up if you’re still so tired?" Harry asked. Ginny rolled her eyes. "Do you know my mother? She’s on a rampage this morning about cleaning this place up before we go back to the Burrow." "She is rather adamant about leaving," Hermione said sleepily. . Ginny took the tiara from Harry’s hands. "This belongs to my Auntie Muriel. There is a great story behind it. It–," "She wants us busy so we don’t look around too much," Hermione said, suddenly wide-awake. "Pardon?" Ginny asked, frowning and placing the tiara back on the table. "Your mum. She doesn’t want us looking around here too much," Hermione said, raising her eyebrows significantly. Harry suddenly remembered the conversations about a guest staying at Grimmauld Place. "Good morning," Remus said, entering the kitchen with Tonks following closely behind him. "You’re all up bright and early today. I would have thought you’d all have wanted a lie-in after all the dancing last night." "Who else is staying here?" Harry asked sharply, his eyes locked on Remus. Remus lowered his gaze to pour a cup of coffee. "The Weasleys and the Delacours are here until the wards at the Burrow can be checked," Remus replied calmly. "This is m-my house," Harry stated with a slight tremble in his voice that he hoped no one else heard. "I may have agreed that the Order could use this house, but I want to know who this mystery guest is; I want to know why he is here, and I want to know now." Remus looked at Moody, who shrugged. "It is his house, and he appears to know more about what Dumbledore was up to than any of us." Remus’s shoulders sagged. "I know," he said. "And Harry, we need to know what you’re planning in order to help you. We want to protect you." "You can’t. No one can. I can’t tell you what I was doing with Professor Dumbledore, Remus. I promised him I wouldn’t. If he’d wanted the Order to know, he would have told you himself," Harry said firmly, feeling slightly uncomfortable in denying Remus. Beneath the table, Ginny took his hand and squeezed it slightly. He gave her a weak smile, appreciating her support. "Of course," Remus replied, and Harry could easily read his conflicting emotions. He trusted Dumbledore implicitly, but he also wanted to protect Harry. When would they ever understand that it was beyond them to do that now? It always had been. "Who is the Order protecting?" Harry asked again. "Draco and Narcissa Malfoy," Tonks said, speaking for the first time. Her face contorted into an ugly scowl. "My family." Harry’s jaw dropped open. He wasn’t certain what he’d been suspecting, but that wasn’t it. Draco Malfoy? Here? Malfoy, the one who’d plotted Dumbledore’s death all last year? The one who’d led the Death Eaters onto school grounds in search of a little glory? And Narcissa! The one who’d plotted with Kreacher to get Sirius killed? Here? In Sirius’s house? "What?" Harry exploded, pushing back his chair and causing it to clatter to the floor. He was at the door in two strides, ready to mount the stairs and strangle Malfoy with his bare hands. Remus grabbed him by the shoulders and held him back. "Listen to me, Harry." "What in Merlin’s name is he doing here?" Ginny demanded, her eyes blazing in fury. Hermione’s face had turned chalk white, as she stared back and forth between Harry and Remus. "He’s supplied us with some valuable information," Remus said, struggling to hold Harry back. "Whatever it is, he’s lying," Harry snarled. "He’s not. It’s information that has been confirmed," Remus said. "We were able to stop several deaths because of it." Harry stopped struggling, breathing heavily. "Why would Malfoy give you any information? There has to be something in it for him." "Of course there is. He has strong survival instincts. Voldemort ordered his death for failing to complete his orders. According to him, Snape helped him and Narcissa escape. They were trying to go into hiding when we caught them," Tonks said. "Snape?" Harry snarled, seeing red again. "Why would he help them?" "He’s always had a soft spot for Narcissa. Voldemort ordered her death, as well, for asking Snape to help Draco," Remus said softly. "He killed Dumbledore, and Malfoy helped him do it," Harry said. He was physically shaking with fury. "He got in over his head, Harry," Remus said, sighing wearily. "Look, I don’t believe he’s helping us out of any great desire to right past wrongs, but he does want to live. His only hope of being able to do that now is if we win; otherwise he knows he’ll be hunted for the rest of his life. And it won’t be a long one. It’s a forced partnership with mutual benefits for both sides. He doesn’t want to die, and he does want to protect his mother." "She helped kill Sirius; I don’t want her here. She has no right to seek refuge in this house," Harry said, a hard lump forming in his throat. Remus hung his head and answered in a strained voice, "I know, Harry. Believe me, I understand how you feel, but we have no choice. We no longer have our spy among the Death Eaters. Both Draco and Narcissa were heavily involved in some of Voldemort’s plans. They understand how the minds of the Death Eaters work better than we do. We can use their help." "And in exchange they stay alive," Harry said bitterly. Remus nodded, still keeping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. He could see Hermione fearfully watching him, waiting to see what he was going to do. Ginny’s expression was fierce; she didn’t like this any better than he did, but she was prepared to follow his lead. "I hate this," he whispered, taking a deep breath. "I know," Remus said sadly. "That little ferret better stay out of my way. If I so much as see him, or hear him make one snide remark, he’ll never see the hex coming. And no one better stop me this time," Harry said fiercely. He took one last look around at the pale faces of the others before storming from the room. Harry spent the remainder of the day stewing over the fact that Malfoy was here, in Sirius’s house. His reaction could be called tame compared to the howl of rage Ron bellowed when he learned of the arrangement. Mrs. Weasley had been informed that they’d all have to remain at Grimmauld Place for a few days before anyone could inspect the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley hadn’t been pleased at all. As he paced in his room, Harry came to the conclusion that he needed to get out. He needed to set his plan in motion, and something told him that his plan needed to commence at Godric’s Hollow. Something was drawing him there. He’d promised Ron and Hermione that they’d work together to find the Horcruxes, and he still needed to figure out how Ginny fit into all this, but Godric’s Hollow was his own. This was his private quest. He wasn’t certain why he needed to go there so badly, but he knew that he did. And he knew he wanted to do it alone. That night, as everyone slept and all was quiet in the house, Harry packed a light rucksack and took along the address Aunt Petunia had given him. He left a note telling Ginny not to worry and that he’d be back, there was just something he had to do first.

hp7 - chapter 4

Harry Potter and the deathly hollows
Chapter four
The Seven Potters
Harry ran back upstairs to his bedroom, arriving at the window just in time to see the Dursleys' car swinging out of the drive and off up the road. Dedalus's top hat was visible between Aunt Petunia and Dudley in the backseat. The car turned right at the end of Privet Drive, its windows burned scarlet for a moment in the now setting sun, and then it was gone.
Harry picked up Hedwig's cage, his Firebolt, and his rucksack, gave his unnaturally tidy bedroom one last sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way back downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage, broomstick, and bag near the foot of the stairs. The light was fading rapidly, the hall full of shadows in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know that he was about to leave the house for the last time. Long ago, when he had been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy themselves, the hours of solitude had been a rare treat. Pausing only to sneak something tasty from the fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley's computer, or put on the television and flicked through the channels to his heart's content. It gave him an odd, empty feeling remembering those times; it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost.
"Don't you want to take a last look at the place?" he asked Hedwig, who was still sulking with her head under her wing. "We'll never be here again. Don't you want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories … Dudley sobbed on it after I saved him from the dementors … Turns out he was grateful after all, can you believe it? … And last summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door … "
Harry lost the thread of his thoughts for a moment and Hedwig did nothing to help him retrieve it, but continued to sit with her head under her wing. Harry turned his back on the front door.
"And under here, Hedwig" – Harry pulled open a door under the stairs – "is where I used to sleep! You never knew me then – Blimey, it's small, I'd forgotten … "
Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and umbrellas remembering how he used to wake every morning looking up at the underside of the staircase, which was more often than not adorned with a spider or two. Those had been the days before he had known anything about his true identity; before he had found out how his parents had died or why such strange things often happened around him. But Harry could still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even in those days: confused dreams involving flashes of green light and once – Uncle Vernon had nearly crashed the car when Harry had recounted it – a flying motorbike …
There was a sudden, deafening roar from somewhere nearby. Harry straightened up with a jerk and smacked the top of his head on the low door frame. Pausing only to employ a few of Uncle Vernon's choicest swear words, he staggered back into the kitchen, clutching his head and staring out of the window into the back garden.
The darkness seemed to be rippling, the air itself quivering. Then, one by one, figures began to pop into sight as their Disillusionment Charms lifted. Dominating the scene was Hagrid, wearing a helmet and goggles and sitting astride an enormous motorbike with a black sidecar attached. All around him other people were dismounting from brooms and, in two cases, skeletal, black winged horses.
Wrenching open the back door, Harry hurtled into their midst. There was a general cry of greeting as Hermione flung her arms around him, Ron clapped him on the back, and Hagrid said, "All righ', Harry? Ready fer the off?"
"Definitely," said Harry, beaming around at them all. "But I wasn't expecting this many of you!"
"Change of plan," growled Mad-Eye, who was holding two enormous bulging sacks, and whose magical eye was spinning from darkening sky to house to garden with dizzying rapidity. "Let's get undercover before we talk you through it."
Harry led them all back into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, they settled on chairs, sat themselves upon Aunt Petunia's gleaming work surfaces, or leaned up against her spotless appliances; Ron, long and lanky; Hermione, her bushy hair tied back in a long plait; Fred and George, grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and longhaired; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battle-worn, one-legged, his bright blue magical eye whizzing in its socket; Tonks, whose short hair was her favorite shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur, slender and beautiful, with her long silvery blonde hair; Kingsley, bald and broad-shouldered; Hagrid, with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling; and Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, and hangdog, with his droopy beady hound's eyes and matted hair. Harry's heart seemed to expand and glow at the sight: He felt incredibly fond of all of them, even Mundungus, whom he had tried to strangle the last time they had met.
"Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle Prime Minister?" he called across the room.
"He can get along without me for one night," said Kingsley, "You're more important."
"Harry, guess what?" said Tonks from her perch on top of the washing machine, and she wiggled her left hand at him; a ring glistened there.
"You got married?" Harry yelped, looking from her to Lupin.
"I'm sorry you couldn't be there, Harry, it was very quiet."
"That's brilliant, congrat –"
"All right, all right, we'll have time for a cozy catch-up later," roared Moody over the hubbub, and silence fell in the kitchen. Moody dropped his sacks at his feet and turned to Harry. "As Dedalus probably told you, we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem. He's made it an imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. All done in the name of your protection, to prevent You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely pointless, seeing as your mother's charm does that already. What he's really done is to stop you getting out of here safely."
"Second problem: You're underage, which means you've still got the Trace on you."
"I don't –"
"The Trace, the Trace!" said Mad-Eye impatiently. "The charm that detects magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out about underage magic! If you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters."
"We can't wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you'll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short, Pius Thicknesse thinks he's got you cornered good and proper."
Harry could not help but agree with the unknown Thicknesse.
"So what are we going to do?"
"We're going to use the only means of transport left to us, the only ones the Trace can't detect, because we don't need to cast spells to use them: brooms, thestrals, and Hagrid's motorbike."
Harry could see flaws in this plan; however, he held his tongue to give Mad-Eye the chance to address them.
"Now, your mother's charm will only break under two conditions: when you come of age, or" – Moody gestured around the pristine kitchen – "you no longer call this place Home. You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight, in the full understanding that you're never going to live together again, correct?"
Harry nodded.
"So this time, when you leave, there'll be no going back, and the charm will break the moment you get outside its range. We're choosing to break it early, because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who to come and seize you the moment you turn seventeen.
"The one thing we've got on our side is that You-Know-Who doesn't know we're moving you tonight. We've leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: They think you're not leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we're dealing with, so we can't rely on him getting the date wrong; he's bound to have a couple of Death Eaters patrolling the skies in this general area, just in case. So, we've given a dozen different houses every protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be the place we're going to hide you, they've all got some connection with the Order: my house, Kingsley's place, Molly's Auntie Muriel's – you get the idea."
"Yeah," said Harry, not entirely truthfully, because he could still spot a gaping hole in the plan.
"You'll be going to Tonks's parents. Once you're within the boundaries of the protective enchantments we've put on their house you'll be able to use a Portkey to the Burrow. Any questions?"
"Er – yes," said Harry. "Maybe they won't know which of the twelve secure houses I'm heading for at first, but won't it be sort of obvious once" – he performed a quick headcount – "fourteen of us fly off toward Tonks's parents?"
"Ah," said Moody, "I forgot to mention the key point. Fourteen of us won't be flying to Tonks's parents. There will be seven Harry Potters moving through the skies tonight, each of them with a companion, each pair heading for a different safe house."
From inside his cloak Moody now withdrew a flask of what looked like mud. There was no need for him to say another word; Harry understood the rest of the plan immediately.
"No!" he said loudly, his voice ringing through the kitchen. "No way!"
"I told them you'd take it like this," said Hermione with a hint of complacency.
"If you think I'm going to let six people risk their lives -- !"
"—because it's the first time for all of us," said Ron.
"This is different, pretending to be me –"
"Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry," said Fred earnestly. "Imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever."
Harry did not smile.
"You can't do it if I don't cooperate, you need me to give you some hair."
"Well, that's the plan scuppered," said George. "Obviously there's no chance at all of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate."
"Yeah, thirteen of us against one bloke who's not allowed to use magic; we've got no chance," said Fred.
"Funny," said Harry, "really amusing."
"If it has to come to force, then it will," growled Moody, his magical eye now quivering a little in its socket as he glared at Harry. "Everyone here's overage, Potter, and they're all prepared to take the risk."
Mundungus shrugged and grimaced; the magical eye swerved sideways to glance at him out of the side of Moody's head.
"Let's have no more arguments. Time's wearing on. I want a few of your hairs, boy, now."
"But this is mad, there's no need –"
"No need!" snarled Moody. "With You-Know-Who out there and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if we're lucky he'll have swallowed the fake bait and he'll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but he'd be mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping an eye out, it's what I'd do. They might not be able to get at you or this house while your mother's charm holds, but it's about to break and they know the rough position of the place. Our only chance is to use decoys. Even You-Know-Who can't split himself into seven."
Harry caught Hermione's eye and looked away at once.
"So, Potter – some of your hair, if you please."
Harry glanced at Ron, who grimaced at him in a just-do-it sort of way.
"Now!" barked Moody.
With all of their eyes upon him, Harry reached up to the top of his head, grabbed a hank of hair, and pulled.
"Good," said Moody, limping forward as he pulled the stopper out of the flask of potion. "Straight in here, if you please."
Harry dropped the hair into the mudlike liquid. The moment it made contact with its surface, the potion began to froth and smoke, then, all at once, it turned a clear, bright gold.
"Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry," said Hermione, before catching sight of Ron's raised eyebrows, blushing slightly, and saying, "Oh, you know what I mean – Goyle's potion tasted like bogies."
"Right then, fake Potters line up over here, please," said Moody.
Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Fleur lined up in front of Aunt Petunia's gleaming sink.
"We're one short," said Lupin.
"Here," said Hagrid gruffly, and he lifted Mundungus by the scruff of the neck and dropped him down beside Fleur, who wrinkled her nose pointedly and moved along to stand between Fred and George instead.
"I'm a soldier, I'd sooner be a protector," said Mundungus.
"Shut it," growled Moody. "As I've already told you, you spineless worm, any Death Eaters we run into will be aiming to capture Potter, not kill him. Dumbledore always said You-Know-Who would want to finish Potter in person. It'll be the protectors who have got the most to worry about, the Death Eaters'll want to kill them."
Mundungus did not look particularly reassured, but Moody was already pulling half a dozen eggcup-sized glasses from inside his cloak, which he handed out, before pouring a little Polyjuice Potion into each one.
"Altogether, then … "
Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Fleur, and Mundungus drank. All of them gasped and grimaced as the potion hit their throats; At once, their features began to bubble and distort like hot wax. Hermione and Mundungus were shooting upward; Ron, Fred, and George were shrinking; their hair was darkening, Hermione's and Fleur's appearing to shoot backward into their skulls.
Moody, quite unconcerned, was now loosening the ties of the large sacks he had brought with him. When he straightened up again, there were six Harry Potters gasping and panting in front of him.
Fred and George turned to each other and said together, "Wow – we're identical!"
"I dunno, though, I think I'm still better-looking," said Fred, examining his reflection in the kettle.
"Bah," said Fleur, checking herself in the microwave door, "Bill, don't look at me – I'm ‘ideous."
"Those whose clothes are a bit roomy, I've got smaller here," said Moody, indicating the first sack, "and vice versa. Don't forget the glasses, there's six pairs in the side pocket. And when you're dressed, there's luggage in the other sack."
The real Harry thought that this might just be the most bizarre thing he had ever seen, and he had seen some extremely odd things. He watched as his six doppelgangers rummaged in the sacks, pulling out sets of clothes, putting on glasses, stuffing their own things away. He felt like asking them to show a little more respect for privacy as they all began stripping off with impunity, clearly more at ease with displaying his body than they would have been with their own.
"I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo," said Ron, looking down at his bare chest.
"Harry, your eyesight really is awful," said Hermione, as she put on glasses.
Once dressed, the fake Harrys took rucksacks and owl cages, each containing a stuffed snowy owl, from the second sack.
"Good," said Moody, as at last seven dressed, bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harrys faced him. "The pairs will be as follows: Mundungus will be traveling with me, by broom –"
"Why'm I with you?" grunted the Harry nearest the back door.
"Because you're the one that needs watching," growled Moody, and sure enough, his magical eye did not waver from Mundungus as he continued, "Arthur and Fred –"
"I'm George," said the twin at whom Moody was pointing. "Can't you even tell us apart when we're Harry?"
"Sorry, George –"
"I'm only yanking your wand, I'm Fred really –"
"Enough messing around!" snarled Moody. "The other one – George or Fred or whoever you are – you're with Remus. Miss Delacour –"
"I'm taking Fleur on a thestral," said Bill. "She's not that fond of brooms."
Fleur walked over to stand beside him, giving him a soppy, slavish look that Harry hoped with all his heart would never appear on his face again.
"Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by thestral –"
　Hermione looked reassured as she answered Kingsley's smile; Harry knew that Hermione too lacked confidence on a broomstick.
"Which leaves you and me, Ron!" said Tonks brightly, knocking over a mug tree as she waved at him.
Ron did not look quite as pleased as Hermione.
"An' you're with me, Harry. That all righ'?" said Hagrid, looking a little anxious. "We'll be on the bike, brooms an' thestrals can't take me weight, see. Not a lot o' room on the seat with me on it, though, so you'll be in the sidecar."
"That's great," said Harry, not altogether truthfully.
"We think the Death Eaters will expect you to be on a broom," said Moody, who seemed to guess how Harry was feeling. "Snape's had plenty of time to tell them everything about you he's never mentioned before, so if we do run into any Death Eaters, we're betting they'll choose one of the Potters who looks at Home on a broomstick. All right then," he went on, tying up the sack with the fake Potters' clothes in it and leading
the way back to the door, "I make it three minutes until we're supposed to leave. No point locking the back door, it won't keep the Death Eaters out when they come looking. Come on …"
Harry hurried to gather his rucksack, Firebolt, and Hedwig's cage and followed the group to the dark back garden.
On every side broomsticks were leaping into hands; Hermione had already been helped up onto a great black thestral by Kingsley, Fleur onto the other by Bill. Hagrid was standing ready beside the motorbike, goggles on.
"Is this it? Is this Sirius's bike?"
"The very same," said Hagrid, beaming down at Harry. "An' the last time yeh was on it, Harry, I could fit yeh in one hand!"
　Harry could not help but feel a little humiliated as he got into the sidecar. It placed him several feet below everybody else: Ron smirked at the sight of him sitting there like a child in a bumper car. Harry stuffed his rucksack and broomstick down by his feet and rammed Hedwig's cage between his knees. He was extremely uncomfortable.
"Arthur's done a bit o' tinkerin'," said Hagrid, quite oblivious to Harry's discomfort. He settled himself astride the motorcycle, which creaked slightly and sank inches into the ground. "It's got a few tricks up its sleeves now. Tha' one was my idea." He pointed a thick finger at a purple button near the speedometer.
"Please be careful, Hagrid." said Mr. Weasley, who was standing beside them, holding his broomstick. "I'm still not sure that was advisable and it's certainly only to be used in emergencies."
"All right, then." said Moody. "Everyone ready, please. I want us all to leave at exactly the same time or the whole point of the diversion's lost."
　Everybody motioned their heads. "Hold tight now, Ron," said Tonks, and Harry saw Ron throw a forcing, guilty look at Lupin before placing his hands on each side of her waist. Hagrid kicked the motorbike into life: It roared like a dragon, and the sidecar began to vibrate.
　"Good luck, everyone," shouted Moody. "See you all in about an hour at the Burrow. On the count of three. One … two .. THREE."
There was a great roar from the motorbike, and Harry felt the sidecar give a nasty lurch. He was rising through the air fast, his eyes watering slightly, hair whipped back off his face. Around him brooms were soaring upward too; the long black tail of a thestral flicked past. His legs, jammed into the sidecar by Hedwig's cage and his rucksack, were already sore and starting to go numb. So great was his discomfort that he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of number four Privet Drive. By the time he looked over the edge of the sidecar he could no longer tell which one it was.
And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, they were surrounded. At least thirty hooded figures, suspended in midair, formed a vast circle in the middle of which the Order members had risen, oblivious –
Screams, a blaze of green light on every side: Hagrid gave a yell and the motorbike rolled over. Harry lost any sense of where they were. Streetlights above him, yells around him, he was clinging to the sidecar for dear life. Hedwig's cage, the Firebolt, and his rucksack slipped from beneath his knees –
"No – HELP!"
The broomstick spun too, but he just managed to seize the strap of his rucksack and the top of the cage as the motorbike swung the right way up again. A second's relief, and then another burst of green light. The owl screeched and fell to the floor of the cage.
"No – NO!"
The motorbike zoomed forward; Harry glimpsed hooded Death Eaters scattering as Hagrid blasted through their circle.
"Hedwig – Hedwig –"
But the owl lay motionless and pathetic as a toy on the floor of her cage. He could not take it in, and his terror for the others was paramount. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a mass of people moving, flares of green light, two pairs of people on brooms soaring off into the distance, but he could not tell who they were –
"Hagrid, we've got to go back, we've got to go back!" he yelled over the thunderous roar of the engine, pulling out his wand, ramming Hedwig's cage into the floor, refusing to believe that she was dead. "Hagrid, TURN AROUND!"
"My job's ter get you there safe, Harry!" bellow Hagrid, and he opened the throttle. "Stop – STOP!" Harry shouted, but as he looked back again two jets of green light flew past his left ear: Four Death Eaters had broken away from the circle and were pursuing them, aiming for Hagrid's broad back. Hagrid swerved, but the Death Eaters were keeping up with the bike; more curses shot after them, and Harry had to sink low into the sidecar to avoid them. Wriggling around he cried, "Stupefy!" and a red bolt of light shot from his own wand, cleaving a gap between the four pursuing Death Eaters as they scattered to avoid it.
"Hold on, Harry, this'll do for 'em!" roared Hagrid, and Harry looked up just in time to see Hagrid slamming a thick finger into a green button near the fuel gauge. A wall, a solid black wall, erupted out of the exhaust pipe. Craning his neck, Harry saw it expand into being in midair. Three of the Death Eaters swerved and avoided it, but the fourth was not so lucky; He vanished from view and then dropped like a boulder from behind it, his broomstick broken into pieces. One of his fellows slowed up to save him, but they and the airborne wall were swallowed by darkness as Hagrid leaned low over the handlebars and sped up.
　More Killing Curses flew past Harry's head from the two remaining Death Eaters' wands; they were aiming for Hagrid. Harry responded with further Stunning Spells: Red and green collided in midair in a shower of multicolored sparks, and Harry thought wildly of fireworks, and the Muggles below who would have no idea what was happening –
"Here we go again, Harry, hold on!" yelled Hagrid, and he jabbed at a second button. This time a great net burst from the bike's exhaust, but the Death Eaters were ready for it. Not only did they swerve to avoid it, but the companion who had slowed to save their unconscious friend had caught up. He bloomed suddenly out of the darkness and now three of them were pursuing the motorbike, all shooting curses after it.
"This'll do it, Harry, hold on tight!" yelled Hagrid, and Harry saw him slam his whole hand onto the purple button beside the speedometer.
With an unmistakable bellowing roar, dragon fire burst from the exhaust, white-hot and blue, and the motorbike shot forward like a bullet with a sound of wrenching metal. Harry saw the Death Eaters swerve out of sight to avoid the deadly trail of flame,
and at the same time felt the sidecar sway ominously: Its metal connections to the bike had splintered with the force of acceleration.
"It's all righ', Harry!" bellowed Hagrid, now thrown flat onto the back by the surge of speed; nobody was steering now, and the sidecar was starting to twist violently in the bike's slipstream.
　"I'm on it, Harry, don' worry!" Hagrid yelled, and from inside his jacket pocket he pulled his flowery pink umbrella.
"Hagrid! No! Let me!"
"REPARO!"
　There was a deafening bang and the sidecar broke away from the bike completely. Harry sped forward, propelled by the impetus of the bike's flight, then the sidecar began to lose height –
　In desperation Harry pointed his wand at the sidecar and shouted, "Wingardium Leviosa!"
　The sidecar rose like a cork, unsteerable but at least still airborne. He had but a split second's relief, however, as more curses streaked past him: The three Death Eaters were closing in.
"I'm comin', Harry!" Hagrid yelled from out of the darkness, but Harry could feel the sidecar beginning to sink again: Crouching as low as he could, he pointed at the middle of the oncoming figures and yelled, "Impedimenta!"
　The jinx hit the middle Death Eater in the chest; For a moment the man was absurdly spread-eagled in midair as though he had hit an invisible barrier: One of his fellows almost collided with him –
Then the sidecar began to fall in earnest, and the remaining Death Eatershot a curse so close to Harry that he had to duck below the rim of the car, knocking out a tooth on the edge of his seat –
"I'm comin', Harry, I'm comin'!"
A huge hand seized the back of Harry's robes and hoisted him out of the plummeting sidecar; Harry pulled his rucksack with him as he dragged himself onto the motorbike's seat and found himself back-to-back with Hagrid. As they soared upward, away from the two remaining Death Eaters, Harry spat blood out of his mouth, pointed his wand at the falling sidecar, and yelled, "Confringo!"
He knew a dreadful, gut-wrenching pang for Hedwig as it exploded; the Death Eater nearest it was blasted off his broom and fell from sight; his companion fell back and vanished.
"Harry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," moaned Hagrid, "I shouldn'ta tried ter repair it meself – yeh've got no room –"
"It's not a problem, just keep flying!" Harry shouted back, as two more Death Eaters emerged out of the darkness, drawing closer.
　As the curses came shooting across the intervening space again, Hagrid swerved and zigzagged: Harry knew that Hagrid did not dare use the dragon-fire button again, with Harry seated so insecurely. Harry sent Stunning Spell after Stunning Spell back at their pursuers, barely holding them off. He shot another blocking jinx at them: The closest Death Eater swerved to avoid it and his hood slipped, and by the red light of his next Stunning Spell, Harry saw the strangely blank face of Stanley Shunpike – Stan –
"Expelliarmus!" Harry yelled.
"That's him, it's him, it's the real one!"
　The hooded Death Eater's shout reached Harry even above the thunder of the motorbike's engine: Next moment, both pursuers had fallen back and disappeared from view.
"Harry, what's happened?" bellowed Hagrid. "Where've they gone?"
"I don't know!"
　But Harry was afraid: The hooded Death Eater had shouted, "It's the real one!"; how had he known? He gazed around at the apparently empty darkness and felt its menace. Where were they?
　He clambered around on the seat to face forward and seized hold of the back of Hagrid's jacket.
"Hagrid, do the dragon-fire thing again, let's get out of here!"
"Hold on tight, then, Harry!"
There was a deafening, screeching roar again and the white-blue fire shot from the exhaust: Harry felt himself slipping backwards off what little of the seat he had. Hagrid flung backward upon him, barely maintaining his grip on the handlebars – "I think we've lost 'em Harry, I think we've done it!" yelled Hagrid.
But Harry was not convinced; Fear lapped at him as he looked left and right for pursuers he was sure would come. . . . Why had they fallen back? One of them had still had a wand. . . . It's him. . . it's the real one. . . . They had said it right after he had tried to Disarm Stan. . . .
"We're nearly there, Harry, we've nearly made it!" shouted Hagrid.
Harry felt the bike drop a little, though the lights down on the ground still seemed remote as stars.
Then the scar on his forehead burned like fire: as a Death Eater appeared on either side of the bike, two Killing Curses missed Harry by millimeters, cast from behind –
And then Harry saw him. Voldemort was flying like smoke on the wind, without broomstick or thestral to hold him, his snake-like face gleaming out of the blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again –
Hagrid let out a bellow of fear and steered the motorbike into a vertical dive. Clinging on for dear life, Harry sent Stunning Spells flying at random into the whirling night. He saw a body fly past him and knew he had hit one of them, but then he heard a bang and saw sparks from the engine; the motorbike spiraled through the air, completely out of control –
Green jets of light shot past them again. Harry had no idea which way was up, which down: His scar was still burning; he expected to die at any second. A hooded figure on a broomstick was feet from him, he saw it raise its arm –
"NO!"
With a shout of fury Hagrid launched himself off the bike at the Death Eater; to his horror, Harry saw both Hagrid and the Death Eater, falling out of sight, their combined weight too much for the broomstick –
Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream, "Mine!"
It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out of the way and heard, "Avada –"
As the pain from Harry's scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury. The remaining Death Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, "NO!" Somehow, Harry found his nose an inch from the dragon-fire button. He punched it with his wand-free hand and the bike shot more flames into the air, hurtling straight toward the ground.
"Hagrid!" Harry called, holding on to the bike for dear life. "Hagrid – Accio Hagrid!"
The motorbike sped up, sucked towards the earth. Face level with the handlebars, Harry could see nothing but distant lights growing nearer and nearer: He was going to crash and there was nothing he could do about it. Behind him came another scream, "Your wand, Selwyn, give me your wand!"
He felt Voldemort before he saw him. Looking sideways, he stared into the red eyes and was sure they would be the last thing he ever saw: Voldemort preparing to curse him once more –
And then Voldemort vanished. Harry looked down and saw Hagrid spread-eagled on the ground below him. He pulled hard at the handlebars to avoid hitting him, groped for the brake, but with an earsplitting, ground trembling crash, he smashed into a muddy pond

hp7 - chapter 3

Harry Potter and the deathly hollows
Chapter three
The Dursleys Departing 　
The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs and a voice roared, "Oh! You!" 　　Sixteen years of being addressed thus left Harry in no doubt when his uncle was calling, nevertheless, he did not immediately respond. He was still at the narrow fragment in which, for a split second, he had thought he saw Dumbledore's eye. It was not until his uncle bellowed, "BOY!" that Harry got slowly out of bed and headed for the bedroom door, pausing to add the piece of broken mirror to the rucksack filled with things he would be taking with him. 　"You took you time!" roared Vernon Dursley when Harry appeared at the top of the stairs, "Get down here. I want a word!" 　　Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his pants pockets. When he searched the living room he found all three Dursleys. They were dressed for packing; Uncle Vernon in an old ripped-up jacket and Dudley, Harry's, large, blond, muscular cousin, in his leather jacket. "Yes?" asked Harry. 　"Sit down!" said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his eyebrows. "Please!" added Uncle Vernon, wincing slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat. Harry sat. He though he knew what was coming. His uncle began to pace up and down, Aunt Petunia and Dudley, following his movement with anxious expressions. Finally, his large purple face crumpled with concentration. Uncle Vernon stopped in front of Harry and spoke.
"I've changed my mind," he said. "What a surprise," said Harry. 　　　"Don't you take that tone—" began Aunt Petunia in a shrill voice, but Vernon Dursley waved her down 　　　"It's all a lot of claptrap," said Uncle Vernon, glaring at Harry with piggy little eyes. "I've decided I don't believe a word of it. We're staying put, we're not going anywhere." 　　Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Vernon Dursley had been changing his mind every twenty four hours for the past four weeks, packing and unpacking and repacking the car with every change of heart. Harry's favorite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, unaware the Dudley had added his dumbbells to his case since the last time it been repacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the boot and collapsed with a yelp of pain and much swearing.
　　　"According to you," Vernon Dursley said, now resuming his pacing up and down the living room, "we – Petunia, Dudley, and I – are in danger. From – from –"
"Some of ‘my lot' right?" said Harry
　　　"Well I don't believe it," repeated Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt in front of Harry again. "I was awake half the night thinking it all over, and I believe it's a plot to get the house."
"The house?" repeated Harry. "What house?"
　　　"This house!" shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein his forehead starting to pulse. "Our house! House prices are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the way and
then you're going to do a bit of hocus pocus and before we know it the deeds will be in your name and –"
　　　"Are you out of your mind?" demanded Harry. "A plot to get this house? Are you actually as stupid as you look?"
　　　"Don't you dare --!" squealed Aunt Petunia, but again Vernon waved her down. Slights on his personal appearance were it seemed as nothing to the danger he had spotted.
　　　"Just in case you've forgotten," said Harry, "I've already got a house my godfather left me one. So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?"
　　　There was silence. Harry thought he had rather impressed his uncle with this argument.
　　　"You claim," said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet again, "that this Lord Thing –"
　　　"—Voldemort," said Harry impatiently, "and we've been through this about a hundred times already. This isn't a claim, it's fact. Dumbledore told you last year, and Kingsley and Mr. Weasley –"
　　　Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that his uncle was attempting to ward off recollections of the unannounced visit, a few days into Harry's summer holidays, of two fully grown wizards. The arrival on the doorstep of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most unpleasant shock to the Dursleys. Harry had to admit, however that as Mr. Weasley had once demolished half of the living room, his reappearance could not have been expected to delight Uncle Vernon.
　　　"—Kingsley and Mr. Weasley explained it all as well," Harry pressed on remorselessly, "Once I'm seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break, and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding you hostage I'd come and try to rescue you."
　　　Uncle Vernon's and Harry's eyes met. Harry was sure that in that instant they were both wondering the same thing. Then Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry resumed, "You've got to go into hiding and the Order wants to help. You're being offered serious protection, the best there is."
　　　Uncle Vernon said nothing but continued to pace up and down. Outside the sun hung low over the privet hedges. The next door neighbor's lawn mower stalled again.
"I thought there was a Ministry of Magic?" asked Vernon Dursley abruptly.
　　　"There is," said Harry, surprised. "Well, then, why can't they protect us? It seems to me that, as innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than harboring a marked man, we ought to qualify for government protection!"
　　　Harry laughed; he could not help himself. It was so very typical of his uncle to put his hopes in the establishment, even within this world that he despised and mistrusted. "You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said," Harry replied.
"We think the Ministry has been infiltrated."
　　　Uncle Vernon strode back to the fireplace and back breathing so strongly that his great black mustache rippled his face still purple with concentration.
　　　"All right," he said. Stopping in front of Harry get again. "All right, let's say for the sake of argument we accept this protection. I still don't see why we can't
　　　Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but with difficulty. This question had also been addressed half a dozen times.
　　　"As I've told you," he said through gritted teeth, "Kingsley is protecting the Mug – I mean, your Prime Minister."
　　　"Exactly – he's the best!" said Uncle Vernon, pointing at the blank television screen. The Dursleys had spotted Kingsley on the news, walking along the Muggle Prime Minister as he visited a hospital. This, and the fact that Kingsley had mastered the knack of dressing like a Muggle, not to mention a certain reassuring something in his slow, deep voice, had caused the Dursleys to take to Kingsley in a way that they had certainly not done with any other wizard, although it was true that they had never seen him with earring in.
　　　"Well, he's taken," said Harry. "But Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle are more than up to the job –"
　　　"If we'd even seen CVs…" began Uncle Vernon, but Harry lost patience. Getting to his feet, he advanced on his uncle, not pointing at the TV set himself.
　　　"These accidents aren't accidents – the crashed and explosions and derailments and whatever else has happened since we last watched the news. People are disappearing and dying and he's behind it – Voldemort. I've told you this over and over again, he kills Muggles for fun. Even the fogs – they're caused by dementors, and if you can't remember what they are, ask your son!"
　　　Dudley's hands jerked upward to tower his mouth. With his parents' and Harry's eyes upon him, he slowly lowered them again and asked, "There are… more of them?" "More?" laughed Harry. "More than the two that attacked us, you mean? Of course there are hundreds, maybe thousands by this time, seeing as they feed off fear and despair—"
　　　"All right, all right blustered," blustered Vernon Dursley. "You've made your point –"
　　　"I hope so," said Harry, "because once I'm seventeen, all of them – Death Eaters, elementors, maybe even Inferi – which means dead bodies enchanted by a Dark wizard – will be able to find you and will certainly attack you. And if you remember the last time you tried to outrun wizards, I think you'll agree you need help."
　　　There was a brief silence in which the distant echo of Hagrid smashing down a wooden front door seemed to reverberate through the intervening years. Aunt Petunia was looking at Uncle Vernon; Dudley was staring at Harry. Finally Uncle Vernon blurted out, "But what about my work? What about Dudley's school? I don't suppose those things matter to a bunch of layabout wizards –"
　　　"Don't you understand?" shouted Harry. "They will torture and kill you like they did my parents!"
"Dad," said Dudley in a loud voice, "Dad – I'm going with these Order people."
　　　"Dudley," said Harry, "for the first time in your life, you're talking sense." He knew the battle was won. If Dudley was frightened enough to accept the Order's help, his parents would accompany him. There could be no question of being separated from their Duddykins. Harry glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
　　　"They'll be here in about five minutes, he said, and when one of the Dursleys replied, he left the room. The prospect of parting—probably forever – from his aunt, uncle, and cousin was one that he was able to contemplate quite cheerfully but there was nevertheless a certain awkwardness in the air. What did you say to one another at the end of sixteen years' solid dislike?
　　　Back in his bedroom, Harry fiddled aimlessly with his rucksack then poked a couple of owl nuts through the bats of Hedwig's cage. They fell with dull thuds to the bottom where she ignored them.
　　　"We're leaving soon, really soon," Harry told her. "And then you'll be able to fly again."
　　　The doorbell rang. Harry hesitated, then headed back out of his room and downstairs. It was too much to expect Hestia and Dedalus to cope with the Dursleys on their own.
　　　"Harry Potter!" squeaked an excited voice, the moment Harry had opened the door; a small man in a mauve top hat that was sweeping him a deep bow. "An honor as ever!"
　　　"Thanks, Dedalus," said Harry, bestowing a small and embarrassed smile upon the dark haired Hestia. "It's really good of you to do this… They're through here, my aunt and uncle and cousin…"
　　　"Good day to you, Harry Potter's relatives!" said Dedalus happily striding into the living room. The Dursleys did not look at all happy to be addressed thus; Harry half expected another change of mind. Dudley shrank neared to his mother at the sight of the witch and wizard.
　　　"I see you are packed and ready. Excellent! The plan, as Harry has told you, is a simple one," said Dedalus, pulling an immense pocket watch out of his waistcoat and examining it. "We shall be leaving before Harry does. Due to the danger of using magic in your house –Harry being still underage it could provide the Ministry with an excuse to arrest him – we shall be driving, say, ten miles or so before Disapparating to the safe location we have picked out for you. You know how to drive, I take it?" He asked Uncle Vernon politely.
　　　"Know how to –? Of course I ruddy well know how to drive!" spluttered Uncle Vernon.
　　　"Very clever of you, sir, very clever. I personally would be utterly bamboozled by all those buttons and knobs," said Dedalus. He was clearly under the impression that he was flattering Vernon Dursley, who was visibly losing confidence in the plan with every word Dedalus spoke.
　　　"Can't even drive," he muttered under his breath, his mustache rippling indignantly, but fortunately neither Dedalus nor Hestia seemed to hear him.
　　　"You, Harry," Dedalus continued, "will wait here for your guard. There has been a little change in the arrangements –"
　　　"What d'you mean?" said Harry at once. "I thought Mad-Eye was going to come and take me by Side Along-Apparition?"
"Can't do it," said Hestia tersely, "Mad-Eye will explain."
　　　The Dursleys, who had listened to all of this with looks of utter incomprehension on their faces, jumped as a loud voice screeched, "Hurry up!" Harry looked all around the room before realizing the voice had issued from Dedalus's pocket watch.
　　　"Quite right, were operating to a very tight schedule," said Dedalus nodding at his watch and tucking it back into his waist coat. "We are attempting to time your departure from the house with your family's Disapparition, Harry thus the charm breaks the moment you all head for safety." He turned to the Dursleys, "Well, are we all packed and ready to go?"
　　　None of them answered him. Uncle Vernon was still staring appalled at the bulge in Dedalus's waistcoat pocket.
　　　"Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus," murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it would be tactless for them to remain the room while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged loving, possibly tearful farewells.
　　　"There's no need," Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon made any further explanation unnecessary by saying loudly,
"Well, this is good-bye then boy."
　　　He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry's hand, but at the last moment seemed unable to face it, and merely closed his fist and began swinging it backward and forward like a metronome.
　　　"Ready, Duddy?" asked Petunia, fussily checking the clasp of her handbag so as to avoid looking at Harry altogether.
　　　Dudley did not answer but stood there with his mouth slightly ajar, reminding Harry a little of the giant, Grawp.
"Come along, then," said Uncle Vernon.
　　　He had already reached the living room door when Dudley mumbled, "I don't understand."
"What don't you understand, popkin?" asked Petunia looking up at her son.
Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at Harry.
"Why isn't he coming with us?
　　　Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze when they stood staring at Dudley as though he had just expressed a desire to become a ballerina.
"What?" said Uncle Vernon loudly.
"Why isn't he coming too?" asked Dudley.
　　　"Well, he—doesn't want to," said Uncle Vernon, turning to glare at Harry and adding, "You don't want to, do you?"
"Not in the slightest," said Harry.
"There you are," Uncle Vernon told Dudley. "Now come on we're off."
　　　He marched out of the room. They heard the front door open, but Dudley did not move and after a few faltering steps Aunt Petunia stopped too.
"What now?" barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the doorway.
　　　It seemed that Dudley was struggling with concepts too difficult to put into words. After several moments of apparently painful internal struggle he said, "But where's he going to go?"
　　　Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other. It was clear that Dudley was frightening them. Hestia Jones broke the silence.
　　　"But… surely you know where your nephew is going?" she asked looking bewildered.
　　　"Certainly we know," said Vernon Dursley. "He's off with some of your lot, isn't he? Right, Dudley, let's get in the car, you heard the man, we're in a hurry.
　　　Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front door, but Dudley did not follow.
"Off with some of our lot?"
　　　Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude before Witches and wizards seemed stunned that his closed living relatives took so little interest in the famous Harry Potter.
"It's fine," Harry assured her. "It doesn't matter, honestly."
"Doesn't matter?" repeated Hestia, her voice rising considerably.
　　　"Don't these people realize what you've been through? What danger you are in? The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti Voldemort movement?"
　　　"Er –no, they don't," said Harry. "They think I'm a waste of space, actually but I'm used to –"
"I don't think you're a waste of space"
　　　If Harry had not seen Dudley's lips move, he might not have believed it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself.
"Well... er… thanks, Dudley."
　　　Again, Dudley appeared to grapple with thoughts too unwieldy for expression before mumbling, "You saved my life,"
"Not really," said Harry. "It was your soul the dementor would have taken…"
　　　He looked curiously at his cousin. They had had virtually no contact during this summer or last, as Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly and kept to his room so much. It now dawned on Harry, however, that the cup of cold tea on which he had trodden that morning might not have been a booby trap at all. Although rather touched he was nevertheless quite relieved that Dudley appeared to have exhausted his ability to express his feelings. After opening his mouth once or twice more, Dudley subsided into scarlet-faced silence.
　　　Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her an approving look that changed to outrage as Aunt Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather than Harry. "S-so sweet, Dudders…" she sobbed into his massive chest. "S-such a lovely b-boy… s-saying thank you…"
　　　"But he hasn't said thank you at all!" said Hestia indignantly. "He only said he didn't think Harry was a waste of space!"
　　　"Yea but coming from Dudley that's like 'I love you,'" said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.
　　　"Are we going or not?" roared Uncle Vernon, reappearing yet again at the living room door. "I thought we were on a tight schedule!"
　　　"Yes –yes, we are," said Dedalus Diggle, who had been watching these exchanged with an air of bemusement and now seemed to pull himself together. "We really must be off. Harry –"
He tripped forward and wrung Harry's hand with both of his own.
　　　"—good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the Wizarding world rest upon your shoulders."

"Oh," said Harry, "right. Thanks."

"Farwell, Harry," said Hestia also clasping his hand. "Our thoughts go with you."
　　　"I hope everything's okay," said Harry with a glance toward Aunt Petunia and Dudley.
　　　"Oh I'm sure we shall end up the best of chums," said Diggle slightly, waving his hat as he left the room. Hestia followed him.
　　　Dudley gently released himself from his mother's clutches and walked toward Harry who had to repress an urge to threaten him with magic. Then Dudley held out his large, pink hand.
　　　"Blimey, Dudley," said Harry over Aunt Petunia's renewed sobs, "did the dementors blow a different personality into you?"
"Dunno," muttered Dudley, "See you, Harry."
　　　"Yea …" said Harry, raking Dudley's hand and shaking it. "Maybe. Take care, Big D."
　　　Dudley nearly smiled. They lumbered from the room. Harry heard his heavy footfalls on the graveled drive, and then a car door slammed.
　　　Aunt Petunia whose face had been buried in her handkerchief looked around at the sound. She did not seem to have expected to find herself alone with Harry. Hastily stowing her wet handkerchief into her pocket, she said, "Well – good-bye" and marched towards the door without looking at him.

"Good-bye" said Harry.

　　　She stopped and looked back. For a moment Harry had the strangest feeling that she wanted to say something to him; She gave him an odd, tremulous look and seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, but then, with a little of her head, she hustled out of the room after he husband and son.

hp7 - chapter 2

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Chapter two
In Memoriam
Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left and swearing under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china. He had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom door.
"What the --?"
He looked around, the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley's idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap.
It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four days left of being unable to perform magic…but he had to admit to himself that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he came to think of it – particularly in light of his immediate plans – this seemed a serious flaw in his magical education. Making a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done, he used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could before returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.
Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the first time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom – old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his hand into this mulch, experienced a stabbing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand, and withdrawn it to see a lot of blood.
　He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk again, he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that flickered feebly between SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY and POTTER STINKS, a cracked and worn-out Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he finally discovered the sharp edge that had done the damage. He recognized it at once. It was a two-inch-long fragment of the enchanted mirror that his dead godfather, Sirius, had given him. Harry laid it aside and felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing
more remained of his godfather's last gift except powdered glass, which clung to the deepest layer of debris like glittering grit.
Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which he had cut himself, seeing nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the fragment on top of that morning's Daily prophet, which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret and of longing the discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the rubbish in the trunk.
It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, and sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them from now on. His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, and most of his textbooks were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He wondered what his aunt and uncle would do with them; burn them in the dead of night, probably, as if they were evidence of some dreadful crime. His Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books, the photograph album Hagrid had once given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had been repacked into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder's Map and the locket with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place of honor not because it was valuable – in all usual senses it was worthless – but because of what it had cost to attain it.
This left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his desk beside his snowy owl, Hedwig: one for each of the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive this summer.
He got up off the floor, stretched, and moved across to his desk. Hedwig made no movement as he began to flick through newspapers, throwing them into the rubbish pile one by one. The owl was asleep or else faking; she was angry with Harry about the limited amount of time she was allowed out of her cage at the moment.
As he neared the bottom of the pile of newspapers, Harry slowed down, searching for one particular issue that he knew had arrived shortly after he had returned to Privet Drive for the summer; he remembered that there had been a small mention on the front about the resignation of Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts. At last he found it. Turning to page ten, he sank into his desk chair and reread the article he had been looking for.
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REMEMBERED
By Elphias Doge
I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our first day at Hogwarts. Our mutual attraction was undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves to be outsiders. I had contracted dragon pox shortly before arriving at school, and while
I was no longer contagious, my pock-marked visage and greenish hue did not encourage many to approach me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a year previously, his father, Percival, had been convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon three young Muggles.
Albus never attempted to deny that his father (who was to die in Azkaban) had committed this crime; on the contrary, when I plucked up courage to ask him, he assured me that he knew his father to be guilty. Beyond that, Dumbledore refused to speak of the sad Business, though many attempted to make him do so. Some, indeed, were disposed to praise his father's action and assumed that Albus too was a Muggle-hater. They could not have been more mistaken: As anybody who knew Albus would attest, he never revealed the remotest anti-Muggle tendency. Indeed, his determined support for Muggle rights gained him many enemies in subsequent years.
In a matter of months, however, Albus's own fame had begun to eclipse that of his father. By the end of his first year he would never again be known as the son of a Muggle-hater, but as nothing more or less than the most brilliant student ever seen at the school. Those of us who were privileged to be his friends benefited from his example, not to mention his help and encouragement, with which he was always generous. He confessed to me later in life that he knew even then that his greatest pleasure lay in teaching.
He not only won every prize of note that the school offered, he was soon in regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day, including Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist; Bathilda Bagshot, the noted historian; and Adalbert Waffling, the magical theoretician. Several of his papers found their way into learned publications such as Transfiguration Today, Challenges in Charming, and The Practical Potioneer. Dumbledore's future career seemed likely to be meteoric, and the only question that remained was when he would become Minister of Magic. Though it was often predicted in later years that he was on the point of taking the job, however, he never had Ministerial ambitions.
Three years after we had started at Hogwarts, Albus's brother, Aberforth, arrived at school. They were not alike: Aberforth was never bookish and, unlike Albus, preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than through reasoned discussion. However, it is quite wrong to suggest, as some have, that the brothers were not friends. They rubbed along as comfortably as two such different boys could do. In fairness to Aberforth, it must be admitted that living in Albus's shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable experience. Being continually outshone was an occupational hazard of being his friend and cannot have been any more pleasurable as a brother. When Albus and I left Hogwarts we intended to take the then-traditional tour of the world together, visiting and observing foreign wizards, before pursuing our separate careers. However, tragedy intervened. On the very eve of our trip, Albus's mother, Kendra, died, leaving
Albus the head, and sole breadwinner, of the family. I postponed my departure long enough to pay my respects at Kendra's funeral, then left for what was now to be a solitary journey. With a younger brother and sister to care for, and little gold left to them, there could no longer be any question of Albus accompanying me.
That was the period of our lives when we had least contact. I wrote to Albus, describing, perhaps insensitively, the wonders of my journey, from narrow escapes from chimaeras in Greece to the experiments of the Egyptian alchemists. His letters told me little of his day-to-day life, which I guessed to be frustratingly dull for such a brilliant wizard. Immersed in my own experiences, it was with horror that I heard, toward the end of my year's travels, that another tragedy had struck the Dumbledores: the death of his sister, Ariana.
Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long time, the blow, coming so soon after the loss of their mother, had a profound effect on both of her brothers. All those closest to Albus – and I count myself one of that lucky number – agree that Ariana's death, and Albus's feeling of personal responsibility for it (though, of course, he was guiltless), left their mark upon him forevermore.
I returned Home to find a young man who had experienced a much older person's suffering. Albus was more reserved than before, and much less light-hearted. To add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had led, not to a renewed closeness between Albus and Aberforth, but to an estrangement. (In time this would lift – in later years they reestablished, if not a close relationship, then certainly a cordial one.) However, he rarely spoke of his parents or of Ariana from then on, and his friends learned not to mention them.
Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following years. Dumbledore's innumerable contributions to the store of Wizarding knowledge, including his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, will benefit generations to come, as will the wisdom he displayed in the many judgments while Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. They say, still, that no Wizarding duel ever matched that between Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945. Those who witnessed it have written of the terror and the awe they felt as they watched these two extraordinary wizards to battle. Dumbledore's triumph, and its consequences for the Wizarding world, are considered a turning point in magical history to match the introduction of the International Statute of Secrecy or the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could find something to value in anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe that his early losses endowed him with great humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his friendship more than I can say, but my loss is nothing compared to the Wizarding world's. That he was the most inspiring and best loved of all Hogwarts headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he lived: working always for the
greater good and, to his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small boy with dragon pox as he was on the day I met him.
Harry finished reading, but continued to gaze at the picture accompanying the obituary. Dumbledore was wearing his familiar, kindly smile, but as he peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles, he gave the impression, even in newsprint, of X-raying Harry, whose sadness mingled with a sense of humiliation.
He had thought he knew Dumbledore quite well, but ever since reading this obituary he had been forced to recognize that he had barely known him at all. Never once had he imagined Dumbledore's childhood or youth; it was as though he had sprung into being as Harry had known him, venerable and silver-haired and old. The idea of a teenage Dumbledore was simply odd, like trying to imagine a stupid Hermione or a friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.
He had never thought to ask Dumbledore about his past. No doubt it would have felt strange, impertinent even, but after all it had been common knowledge that Dumbledore had taken part in that legendary duel with Grindelwald, and Harry had not thought to ask Dumbledore what that had been like, nor about any of his other famous achievements. No, they had always discussed Harry, Harry's past, Harry's future, Harry's plans… and it seemed to Harry now, despite the fact that his future was so dangerous and so uncertain, that he had missed irreplaceable opportunities when he had failed to ask Dumbledore more about himself, even though the only personal question he had ever asked his headmaster was also the only one he suspected that Dumbledore had not answered honestly:
"What do you see when you look in the mirror?"
"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."
After several minutes' thought, Harry tore the obituary out of the Prophet, folded it carefully, and tucked it inside the first volume of Practical Defensive Magic and its Use against the Dark Arts. Then he threw the rest of the newspaper onto the rubbish pile and turned to face the room. It was much tidier. The only things left out of place were today's Daily Prophet, still lying on the bed, and on top of it, the piece of broken mirror.
Harry moved across the room, slid the mirror fragment off today's Prophet, and unfolded the newspaper. He had merely glanced at the headline when he had taken the rolled-up paper from the delivery owl early that morning and thrown it aside, after noting that it said nothing about Voldemort. Harry was sure that the Ministry was leaning on the Prophet to suppress news about Voldemort. It was only now, therefore, that he saw what he had missed.
Across the bottom half of the front page a smaller headline was set over a picture of Dumbledore striding along, looking harried:
DUMBLEDORE – THE TRUTH AT LAST?
Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed genius considered by many to be the greatest wizard of his generation. Striping away the popular image of serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Rita Skeeter reveals the disturbed childhood, the lawless youth, the life-long feuds, and the guilty secrets that Dumbledore carried to his grave, WHY was the man tipped to be the Minister of Magic content to remain a mere headmaster? WHAT was the real purpose of the secret organization known as the Order of the Phoenix? HOW did Dumbledore really meet his end?
The answers to these and many more questions are explored in the explosive new biography, The life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter, exclusively interviewed by Berry Braithwaite, page 13, inside.
Harry ripped open the paper and found page thirteen. The article was topped with a picture showing another familiar face: a woman wearing jeweled glasses with elaborately curled blonde hair, her teeth bared in what was clearly supposed to be a winning smile, wiggling her fingers up at him. Doing his best to ignore this nauseating image, Harry read on.
In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and softer than her famously ferocious quill-portraits might suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her cozy Home, she leads me straight into the kitchen for a cup of tea, a slice of pound cake and, it goes without saying, a steaming vat of freshest gossip.
"Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer's dream," says Skeeter. "Such a long, full life. I'm sure my book will be the first of very, very many."
Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her nine-hundred-page book was completed in a mere four weeks after Dumbledore's mysterious death in June. I ask her how she managed this superfast feat.
"Oh, when you've been a journalist as long as I have, working to a deadline is second nature. I knew that the Wizarding world was clamoring for the full story and I wanted to be the first to meet that need."
I mention the recent, widely publicized remarks of Elphias Doge, Special Advisor to the Wizengamot and longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore's, that "Skeeter's book contains less fact than a Chocolate Frog card."
Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.
"Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him a few years back about merpeople rights, bless him. Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting at the bottom of Lake Windermere, kept telling me to watch out for trout."
And yet Elphias Doge's accusations of inaccuracy have been echoed in many places. Does Skeeter really feel that four short weeks have been enough to gain a full picture of Dumbledore's long and extraordinary life?
"Oh, my dear," beams Skeeter, rapping me affectionately across the knuckles, "you know as well as I do how much information can be generated by a fat bag of Galleons, a refusal to hear the word 'no,' and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill! People were queuing to dish the dirt on Dumbledore anyway. Not everyone thought he was so wonderful, you know – he trod on an awful lot of important toes. But old Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because I've had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for, one who has never spoken in public before and who was close to Dumbledore during the most turbulent and disturbing phase of his youth."
The advance publicity for Skeeter's biography has certainly suggested that there will be shocks in store for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a blameless life. What were the biggest surprises she uncovered, I ask?
"Now, come off it. Betty, I'm not giving away all the highlights before anybody's bought the book!" laughs Skeeter. "But I can promise that anybody who still thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a rude awakening! Let's just say that nobody hearing him rage against You-Know-Who would have dreamed that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth! And for a wizard who spent his later years pleading for tolerance, he wasn't exactly broad-minded when he was younger! Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an extremely murky past, not to mention that very fishy family, which he worked so hard to keep hushed up."
I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore's brother, Aberforth, whose conviction by the Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor scandal fifteen years ago.
"Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap," laughs Skeeter. "No, no, I'm talking about much worse than a brother with a fondness for fiddling about with goats, worse even than the Muggle-maiming father – Dumbledore couldn't keep either of them quiet anyway, they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it's the mother and the sister that intrigued me, and a little digging uncovered a
positive nest of nastiness – but, as I say, you'll have to wait for Chapters nine to twelve for full details. All I can say now is, it's no wonder Dumbledore never talked about how his nose got broken."
Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter deny the brilliance that led to Dumbledore's many magical discoveries?
"He had brains," she concedes, "although many now question whether he could really take full credit for all of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in Chapter sixteen, Ivor Dillonsby claims he had already discovered eight uses of dragon's blood when Dumbledore 'borrowed' his papers."
But the importance of some of Dumbledore's achievements cannot, I venture, be denied. What of his famous defeat of Grindelwald?
"Oh, now, I'm glad you mentioned Grindelwald," says Skeeter with such a tantalizing smile. "I'm afraid those who go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore's spectacular victory must brace themselves for a bombshell – or perhaps a Dungbomb. Very dirty Business indeed. All I'll say is, don't be so sure that there really was a spectacular duel of legend. After they've read my book, people may be forced to conclude that Grindelwald simply conjured a white handkerchief from the end of his wand and came quietly!"
Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this intriguing subject, so we turn instead to the relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her readers more than any other.
"Oh yes," says Skeeter, nodding briskly, "I devote an entire Chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship. It's been called unhealthy, even sinister. Again, your readers will have to buy my book for the whole story, but there is no question that Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from the word go. Whether that was really in the boy's best interests – well, we'll see. It's certainly an open secret that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence."
I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry Potter, whom she so famously interviewed last year: a breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke exclusively of his conviction that You-Know-Who had returned.
"Oh, yes, we've developed a closer bond," says Skeeter. "Poor Potter has few real friends, and we met at one of the most testing moments of his life – the Triwizard Tournament. I am probably one of the only people alive who can say that they know the real Harry Potter."
Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still circulating about Dumbledore's final hours. Does Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?
"Well, I don't want to say too much – it's all in the book – but eyewitnesses inside Hogwarts castle saw Potter running away from the scene moments after Dumbledore fell, jumped, or was pushed. Potter later gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man against whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it seems? That is for the Wizarding community to decide – once they've read my book."
On that intriguing note, I take my leave. There can be no doubt that Skeeter has quilled an instant bestseller. Dumbledore's legion of admirers, meanwhile, may well be trembling at what is soon to emerge about their hero.
Harry reached the bottom of the article, but continued to stare blankly at the page. Revulsion and fury rose in him like vomit; he balled up the newspaper and threw it, with all his force, at the wall, where it joined the rest of the rubbish heaped around his overflowing bin.
He began to stride blindly around the room, opening empty drawers and picking up books only to replace them on the same piles, barely conscious of what he was doing, as random phrases from Rita's article echoed in his head: An entire Chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship ... It's been called unhealthy, even sinister ... He dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth ... I've had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for...
"Lies!" Harry bellowed, and through the window he saw the next-door neighbor, who had paused to restart his lawn mower, look up nervously.
Harry sat down hard on the bed. The broken bit of mirror danced away from him; he picked it up and turned it over in his fingers, thinking, thinking of Dumbledore and the lies with which Rita Skeeter was defaming him ...
A flash of brightest blue. Harry froze, his cut finger slipping on the jagged edge of the mirror again. He had imagined it, he must have done. He glanced over his shoulder, but the wall was a sickly peach color of Aunt Petunia's choosing: There was nothing blue there for the mirror to reflect. He peered into the mirror fragment again, and saw nothing but his own bright green eye looking back at him.
He had imagined it, there was no other explanation; imagined it, because he had been thinking of his dead headmaster. If anything was certain, it was that the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore would never pierce him again.