Harry Potter ａｎｄ the Deathly Hallows  By J. K. Rowling         The dedication of this book is split seven ways.    To Neil    To Jessica    To David    To Kenzie    To Di    To Anne    And to You    If you have stuck with Harry until the very end.         Contents         One [goto]   The Dark Lord Ascending         Two [goto]   In Memorａｎｄum         Three [goto]   The Dursleys Departing         Four [goto]   The Seven Potters         Five [goto]   Fallen Warrior         Six [goto]   The Ghoul in Pajamas         Seven [goto]   The Will of Albus Dumbledore         Eight [goto]   The Wedding         Nine [goto]   A Place to Hide          Ten [goto]   Kreacher’s Tale         Eleven [goto]   The Bribe         Twelve [goto]   Magic is Might         Thirteen [goto]   The Muggle-born Registration Commission         Fourteen [goto]   The Thief         Fifteen [goto]   The Goblin’s Revenge         Sixteen [goto]   Godric’s Hollow         Seventeen [goto]   Bathilda’s Secret         Eighteen [goto]   The Life ａｎｄ Lies of Albus Dumbledore         Nineteen [goto]   The Silver Doe         Twenty [goto]   Xenophilius Lovegood         Twenty-One [goto]   The Tale of the Three Brothers         Twenty-Two [goto]   The Deathly Hallows         Twenty-Three [goto]   Malfoy Manor         Twenty-Four [goto]   The Wａｎｄmaker          Twenty-Five [goto]   Shell Cottage         Twenty-Six [goto]   Gringotts         Twenty-Seven [goto]   The Final Hiding Place         Twenty-Eight [goto]   The Missing Mirror         Twenty-Nine [goto]   The Lost Diadem         Thirty [goto]   The Sacking of Severus Snape         Thirty-One [goto]   The Battle of Hogwarts         Thirty-Two [goto]   The Elder Wａｎｄ         Thirty-Three [goto]   The Prince’s Tale         Thirty-Four [goto]   The Forest Again         Thirty-Five [goto]   King’s Cross         Thirty-Six [goto]   The Flaw in the Plan         Epilogue [goto]   
Chapter One  The Dark Lord Ascending      The two men appeared out of nowhere， a few yards apart in the narrow， moonlit  lane. For a second they stood quite still， wａｎｄs directed at each other’s chests; then，  recognizing each other， they stowed their wａｎｄs beneath their cloaks ａｎｄ started walking  briskly in the same direction.  "News?" asked the taller of the two.  "The best，" replied Severus Snape.  The lane was bordered on the left by wild， low-growing brambles， on the right by a high，  neatly manicured hedge. The men’s long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they  marched.  "Thought I might be late，" said Yaxley， his blunt features sliding in ａｎｄ out of sight as  the branches of overhanging trees broke the moonlight. "It was a little trickier than I  expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be  good?"  Snape nodded， but did not elaborate. They turned right， into a wide driveway that led  off the lane. The high hedge curved into them， running off into the distance beyond the  pair of imposing wrought-iron gates barring the men’s way. Neither of them broke step:  In silence both raised their left arms in a kind of salute ａｎｄ passed straight through， as  though the dark metal was smoke.    
The yew hedges muffled the sound of the men’s footsteps. There was a rustle  somewhere to their right: Yaxley drew his wａｎｄ again pointing it over his companion’s  head， but the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than a pure-white peacock，  strutting majestically along the top of the hedge.    
“He always did himself well， Lucius. Peacocks …” Yaxley thrust his wａｎｄ back  under his cloak with a snort.    
A hａｎｄsome manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive，  lights glinting in the diamond paned downstairs windows. Somewhere in the dark garden  beyond the hedge a fountain was playing. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as Snape ａｎｄ  Yaxley sped toward the front door， which swung inward at their approach， though  nobody had visibly opened it.    
The hallway was large， dimly lit， ａｎｄ sumptuously decorated， with a magnificent  carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the wall  followed Snape ａｎｄ Yaxley as they strode past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden  door leading into the next room， hesitated for the space of a heartbeat， then Snape turned  the bronze hａｎｄle.    
The drawing room was full of silent people， sitting at a long ａｎｄ ornate table. The  room’s usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the walls. Illumination  came from a roaring fire beneath a hａｎｄsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded  mirror. Snape ａｎｄ Yaxley lingered for a moment on the threshold. As their eyes grew  accustomed to the lack of light， they were drawn upward to the strangest feature of the  scene: an apparently unconscious human figure hanging upside down over the table，  revolving slowly as if suspended by an invisible rope， ａｎｄ reflected in the mirror ａｎｄ in  the bare， polished surface of the table below. None of the people seated underneath this     singular sight were looking at it except for a pale young man sitting almost directly below  it. He seemed unable to prevent himself from glancing upward every minute or so.    
“Yaxley. Snape，” said a high， clear voice from the head of the table. “You are  very nearly late.”    
The speaker was seated directly in front of the fireplace， so that it was difficult， at  first， for the new arrivals to make out more than his silhouette. As they drew nearer，  however， his face shone through the gloom， hairless， snakelike， with slits for nostrils ａｎｄ  gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a  pearly glow.    
“Severus， here，” said Voldemort， indicating the seat on his immediate right.  “Yaxley – beside Dolohov.”    
The two men took their allotted places. Most of the eyes around the table  followed Snape， ａｎｄ it was to him that Voldemort spoke first.    
“So?”    
“My Lord， the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current  place of safety on Saturday next， at nightfall.”    
The interest around the table sharpened palpably: Some stiffened， others fidgeted，  all gazing at Snape ａｎｄ Voldemort.    
“Saturday … at nightfall，” repeated Voldemort. His red eyes fastened upon  Snape’s black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away， apparently  fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape，  however， looked calmly back into Voldemort’s face ａｎｄ， after a moment or two，  Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into something like a smile.    
“Good. Very good. And this information comes –“    
“ – from the source we discussed，” said Snape.    
“My Lord.”    
Yaxley had leaned forward to look down the long table at Voldemort ａｎｄ Snape.  All faces turned to him.    
“My Lord， I have heard differently.”    
Yaxley waited， but Voldemort did not speak， so he went on， “Dawlish， the Auror，  let slip that Potter will not be moved until the thirtieth， the night before the boy turns  seventeen.”    
Snape was smiling.    
“My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it. No  doubt a Confundus Charm has been placed upon Dawlish. It would not be the first time;  he is known to be susceptible.”    
“I assure you， my Lord， Dawlish seemed quite certain，” said Yaxley.    
“If he has been Confunded， naturally he is certain，” said Snape. “I assure you，  Yaxley， the Auror Office will play no further part in the protection of Harry Potter. The  Order believes that we have infiltrated the Ministry.”    
“The Order’s got one thing right， then， eh?” said a squat man sitting a short  distance from Yaxley; he gave a wheezy giggle that was echoed here ａｎｄ there along the  table.    
Voldemort did not laugh. His gaze had wａｎｄered upward to the body revolving  slowly overhead， ａｎｄ he seemed to be lost in thought.    
“My Lord，” Yaxley went on， “Dawlish believes an entire party of Aurors will be  used to transfer the boy –“    
Voldemort held up a large white hａｎｄ， ａｎｄ Yaxley subsided at once， watching  resentfully as Voldemort turned back to Snape.    
“Where are they going to hide the boy next?”    
“At the home of one of the Order，” said Snape. “The place， according to the  source， has been given every protection that the Order ａｎｄ Ministry together could  provide. I think that there is little chance of taking him once he is there， my Lord， unless，  of course， the Ministry has fallen before next Saturday， which might give us the  opportunity to discover ａｎｄ undo enough of the enchantments to break through the rest.”    
“Well， Yaxley?” Voldemort called down the table， the firelight glinting strangely  in his red eyes. “Will the Ministry have fallen by next Saturday?”    
Once again， all heads turned. Yaxley squared his shoulders.    
“My Lord， I have good news on that score. I have – with difficulty， ａｎｄ after great  effort – succeeded in placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse.”    
Many of those sitting around Yaxley looked impressed; his neighbor， Dolohov， a  man with a long， twisted face， clapped him on the back.    
“It is a start，” said Voldemort. “But Thicknesse is only one man. Scrimgeour must  be surrounded by our people before I act. One failed attempt on the Minister’s life will  set me back a long way.”    
“Yes – my Lord， that is true – but you know， as Head of the Department of  Magical Law Enforcement， Thicknesse has regular contact not only with the Minister  himself， but also with the Heads of all the other Ministry departments. It will， I think， be  easy now that we have such a high-ranking official under our control， to subjugate the  others， ａｎｄ then they can all work together to bring Scrimgeour down.”    
“As long as our friend Thicknesse is not discovered before he has converted the  rest，” said Voldemort. “At any rate， it remains unlikely that the Ministry will be mine  before next Saturday. If we cannot touch the boy at his destination， then it must be done  while he travels.”    
“We are at an advantage there， my Lord，” said Yaxley， who seemed determined to  receive some portion of approval. “We now have several people planted within the  Department of Magical Transport. If Potter Apparates or uses the Floo Network， we shall  know immediately.”    
“He will not do either，” said Snape. “The Order is eschewing any form of  transport that is controlled or regulated by the Ministry; they mistrust everything to do  with the place.”    
“All the better，” said Voldemort. “He will have to move in the open. Easier to  take， by far.”    
Again， Voldemort looked up at the slowly revolving body as he went on， “I shall  attend to the boy in person. There have been too many mistakes where Harry Potter is  concerned. Some of them have been my own. That Potter lives is due more to my errors  than to his triumphs.”    
The company around the table watched Voldemort apprehensively， each of them，  by his or her expression， afraid that they might be blamed for Harry Potter’s continued  existence. Voldemort， however， seemed to be speaking more to himself than to any of  them， still addressing the unconscious body above him.    
“I have been careless， ａｎｄ so have been thwarted by luck ａｎｄ chance， those  wreckers of all but the best-laid plans. But I know better now. I understａｎｄ those things  that I did not understａｎｄ before. I must be the one to kill Harry Potter， ａｎｄ I shall be.”    
At these words， seemingly in response to them， a sudden wail sounded， a terrible，  drawn-out cry of misery ａｎｄ pain. Many of those at the table looked downward， startled，  for the sound had seemed to issue from below their feet.    
“Wormtail，” said Voldemort， with no change in his quiet， thoughtful tone， ａｎｄ  without removing his eyes from the revolving body above， “have I not spoken to you  about keeping our prisoner quiet?”    
“Yes， m-my Lord，” gasped a small man halfway down the table， who had been  sitting so low in his chair that it appeared， at first glance， to be unoccupied. Now he  scrambled from his seat ａｎｄ scurried from the room， leaving nothing behind him but a  curious gleam of silver.    
“As I was saying，” continued Voldemort， looking again at the tense faces of his  followers， “I understａｎｄ better now. I shall need， for instance， to borrow a wａｎｄ from one  of you before I go to kill Potter.”    
The faces around him displayed nothing but shock; he might have announced that  he wanted to borrow one of their arms.    
“No volunteers?” said Voldemort. “Let’s see … Lucius， I see no reason for you to  have a wａｎｄ anymore.”    
Lucius Malfoy looked up. His skin appeared yellowish ａｎｄ waxy in the firelight，  ａｎｄ his eyes were sunken ａｎｄ shadowed. When he spoke， his voice was hoarse.    
“My Lord?”    
“Your wａｎｄ， Lucius. I require your wａｎｄ.”    
“I …”    
Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight ahead， quite as pale  as he was， her long blonde hair hanging down her back， but beneath the table her slim  fingers closed briefly on his wrist. At her touch， Malfoy put his hａｎｄ into his robes，  withdrew a wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ passed it along to Voldemort， who held it up in front of his red  eyes， examining it closely.    
“What is it?”    
“Elm， my Lord，” whispered Malfoy.    
“And the core?”    
“Dragon – dragon heartstring.”    
“Good，” said Voldemort. He drew out his wａｎｄ ａｎｄ compared the lengths. Lucius  Malfoy made an involuntary movement; for a fraction of a second， it seemed he expected  to receive Voldemort’s wａｎｄ in exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed by  Voldemort， whose eyes widened maliciously.    
“Give you my wａｎｄ， Lucius? My wａｎｄ?”    
Some of the throng sniggered.    
“I have given you your liberty， Lucius， is that not enough for you? But I have  noticed that you ａｎｄ your family seem less than happy of late … What is it about my  presence in your home that displaces you， Lucius?”    
“Nothing – nothing， my Lord!”    
“Such lies Lucius … “    
The soft voice seemed to hiss on even after the cruel mouth had stopped moving.  One or two of the wizards barely repressed a shudder as the hissing grew louder;  something heavy could be heard sliding across the floor beneath the table.    
The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up Voldemort’s chair. It rose， seemingly  endlessly， ａｎｄ came to rest across Voldemort’s shoulders: its neck the thickness of a  man’s thigh; its eyes， with their vertical slits for pupils， unblinking. Voldemort stroked  the creature absently with long thin fingers， still looking at Lucius Malfoy.    
“Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return， my rise to  power， not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?”    
“Of course， my Lord，” said Lucius Malfoy. His hａｎｄ shook as he wiped sweat  from his upper lip. “We did desire it – we do.”    
To Malfoy’s left， his wife made an odd， stiff nod， her eyes averted from  Voldemort ａｎｄ the snake. To his right， his son， Draco， who had been gazing up at the  inert body overhead， glanced quickly at Voldemort ａｎｄ away again， terrified to make eye  contact.    
“My Lord，” said a dark woman halfway down the table， her voice constricted with  emotion， “it is an honor to have you here， in our family’s house. There can be no higher  pleasure.”    
She sat beside her sister， as unlike her in looks， with her dark hair ａｎｄ heavily  lidded eyes， as she was in bearing ａｎｄ demeanor; where Narcissa sat rigid ａｎｄ impassive，  Bellatrix leaned toward Voldemort， for mere words could not demonstrate her longing for  closeness.    
“No higher pleasure，” repeated Voldemort， his head tilted a little to one side as he  considered Bellatrix. “That means a great deal， Bellatrix， from you.”    
Her face flooded with color; her eyes welled with tears of delight.    
“My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!”    
“No higher pleasure … even compared with the happy event that， I hear， has  taken place in your family this week?”    
She stared at him， her lips parted， evidently confused.    
“I don’t know what you mean， my Lord.”    
“I’m talking about your niece， Bellatrix. And yours， Lucius ａｎｄ Narcissa. She has  just married the werewolf， Remus Lupin. You must be so proud.”    
There was an eruption of jeering laughter from around the table. Many leaned  forward to exchange gleeful looks; a few thumped the table with their fists. The giant  snake， disliking the disturbance， opened its mouth wide ａｎｄ hissed angrily， but the Death  Eaters did not hear it， so jubilant were they at Bellatrix ａｎｄ the Malfoys’ humiliation.  Bellatrix’s face， so recently flushed wit happiness， had turned an ugly， blotchy red.    
“She is no niece of ours， my Lord，” she cried over the outpouring of mirth. “We –  Narcissa ａｎｄ I – have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This  brat has nothing to do with either of us， nor any beast she marries.”    
“What say you， Draco?” asked Voldemort， ａｎｄ though his voice was quiet， it  carried clearly through the catcalls ａｎｄ jeers. “Will you babysit the cubs?”    
The hilarity mounted; Draco Malfoy looked in terror at his father， who was  staring down into his own lap， then caught his mother’s eye. She shook her head almost  imperceptibly， then resumed her own deadpan stare at the opposite wall.    
“Enough，” said Voldemort， stroking the angry snake. “Enough.”    
And the laughter died at once.    
“Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time，” he said as  Bellatrix gazed at him， breathless ａｎｄ imploring， “You must prune yours， must you not，  to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest.”    
“Yes， my Lord，” whispered Bellatrix， ａｎｄ her eyes swam with tears of gratitude  again. “At the first chance!”    
“You shall have it，” said Voldemort. “And in your family， so in the world … we  shall cut away the canker that infects us until only those of the true blood remain …”    
Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy’s wａｎｄ， pointed it directly at the slowly  revolving figure suspended over the table， ａｎｄ gave it a tiny flick. The figure came to life  with a groan ａｎｄ began to struggle against invisible bonds.    
“Do you recognize our guest， Severus?” asked Voldemort.    
Snape raised his eyes to the upside down face. All of the Death Eaters were  looking up at the captive now， as though they had been given permission to show  curiosity. As she revolved to face the firelight， the woman said in a cracked ａｎｄ terrified  voice， “Severus! Help me!”    
“Ah， yes，” said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.    
“And you， Draco?” asked Voldemort， stroking the snake’s snout with his wａｎｄ- free hａｎｄ. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken， he seemed  unable to look at her anymore.    
“But you would not have taken her classes，” said Voldemort. “For those of you  who do not know， we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who， until recently，  taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft ａｎｄ Wizardry.”    
There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A broad， hunched  woman with pointed teeth cackled.    
“Yes … Professor Burbage taught the children of witches ａｎｄ wizards all about  Muggles … how they are not so different from us … “    
One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape  again.    
“Severus … please … please … “    
“Silence，” said Voldemort， with another twitch of Malfoy’s wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ Charity fell  silent as if gagged. “Not content with corrupting ａｎｄ polluting the minds of Wizarding  children， last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the  Daily Prophet. Wizards， she says， must accept these thieves of their knowledge ａｎｄ  magic. The dwindling of the purebloods is， says Professor Burbage， a most desirable  circumstance … She would have us all mate with Muggles … or， no doubt， werewolves  … “    
Nobody laughed this time. There was no mistaking the anger ａｎｄ contempt in  Voldemort’s voice. For the third time， Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape. Tears  were pouring from her eyes into her hair. Snape looked back at her， quite impassive， as  she turned slowly away from him again.    
“Avada Kedavra”    
The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell， with a  resounding crash， onto the table below， which trembled ａｎｄ creaked. Several of the Death  Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.    
“Dinner， Nagini，” said Voldemort softly， ａｎｄ the great snake swayed ａｎｄ slithered  from his shoulders onto the polished wood.         Chapter Two    In Memorａｎｄum         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.     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 have that  Kingsley bloke."    
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.         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 long- haired; 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 Eater shot 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.         Chapter Five    Fallen Warrior         "Hagrid?"    
Harry struggled to raise himself out of the debris of metal ａｎｄ leather that  surrounded him; his hａｎｄs sank into inches of muddy water as he tried to stａｎｄ. He could  not understａｎｄ where Voldemort had gone ａｎｄ expected him to swoop out of the  darkness at any moment. Something hot ａｎｄ wet was trickling down his chin ａｎｄ from  his forehead. He crawled out of the pond ａｎｄ stumbled toward the great dark mass on the  ground that was Hagrid.    
"Hagrid? Hagrid， talk to me –"    
But the dark mass did not stir.    
"Who’s there? Is it Potter? Are you Harry Potter?"    
Harry did not recognize the man’s voice. Then a woman shouted. "They’ve  crashed. Ted! Crashed in the garden!"    
Harry’s head was swimming.    
"Hagrid，" he repeated stupidly， ａｎｄ his knees buckled.    
The next thing he knew， he was lying on his back on what felt like cushions， with  a burning sensation in his ribs ａｎｄ right arm. His missing tooth had been regrown. The  scar on his forehead was still throbbing.    
"Hagrid?"    
He opened his eyes ａｎｄ saw that he was lying on a sofa in an unfamiliar， lamplit  sitting room. His rucksack lay on the floor a short distance away， wet ａｎｄ muddy. A fair- haired， big-bellied man was watching Harry anxiously.    
"Hagrid’s fine， son，" said the man， "the wife’s seeing to him now. How are you  feeling? Anything else broken? I’ve fixed your ribs， your tooth， ａｎｄ your arm. I’m Ted， by  the way， Ted Tonks – Dora’s father."    
Harry sat up too quickly. Lights popped in front of his eyes ａｎｄ he felt sick ａｎｄ  giddy.    
"Voldemort –"    
"Easy， now，" said Ted Tonks， placing a hａｎｄ on Harry’s shoulder ａｎｄ pushing him  back against the cushions. "That was a nasty crash you just had. What happened，  anyway? Something go wrong with the bike? Arthur Weasley overstretch himself again，  him ａｎｄ his Muggle contraptions?"    
"No，" said Harry， as his scar pulsed like an open wound. "Death Eaters， loads of  them – we were chased –"    
"Death Eaters?" said Ted sharply. "What d’you mean， Death Eaters? I thought  they didn’t know you were being moved tonight， I thought –"    
"They knew，" said Harry.    
Ted Tonks looked up at the ceiling as though he could see through it to the sky  above.    
"Well， we know our protective charms hold， then， don’t we? They shouldn’t be  able to get within a hundred yards of the place in any direction."    
Now Harry understood why Voldemort had vanished; it had been at the point  when the motorbike crossed the barrier of the Order’s charms. He only hoped they would  continue to work: He imagined Voldemort， a hundred yards above them as they spoke，  looking for a way to penetrate what Harry visualized as a great transparent bubble.    
He swung his legs off the sofa; he needed to see Hagrid with his own eyes before  he would believe that he was alive. He had barely stood up， however， when a door  opened ａｎｄ Hagrid squeezed through it， his face covered in mud ａｎｄ blood， limping a  little but miraculously alive.    
"Harry!"    
Knocking over two delicate tables ａｎｄ an aspidistra， he covered the floor between  them in two strides ａｎｄ pulled Harry into a hug that nearly cracked his newly repaired  ribs. "Blimey， Harry， how did yeh get out o’ that? I thought we were both goners."    
"Yeah， me too. I can’t believe –"    
Harry broke off. He had just noticed the woman who had entered the room behind  Hagrid.    
"You!" he shouted， ａｎｄ he thrust his hａｎｄ into his pocket， but it was empty.    
"Your wａｎｄ’s here， son，" said Ted， tapping it on Harry’s arm. "It fell right beside  you， I picked it up…And that’s my wife you’re shouting at."    
"Oh， I’m – I’m sorry."    
As she moved forward into the room， Mrs. Tonks’s resemblance to her sister  Bellatrix became much less pronounced: Her hair was a light’s oft brown ａｎｄ her eyes  were wider ａｎｄ kinder. Nevertheless， she looked a little haughty after Harry’s  exclamation.    
"What happened to our daughter?" she asked. "Hagrid said you were ambushed;  where is Nymphadora?"    
"I don’t know，" said Harry. "We don’t know what happened to anyone else."    
She ａｎｄ Ted exchanged looks. A mixture of fear ａｎｄ guilt gripped Harry at the  sight of their expressions， if any of the others had died， it was his fault， all his fault. He  had consented to the plan， given them his hair . . .    
"The Portkey，" he said， remembering all of a sudden. "We’ve got to get back to  the Burrow ａｎｄ find out – then we’ll be able to send you word， or – or Tonks will， once  she’s –"    
"Dora’ll be ok， ’Dromeda，" said Ted. "She knows her stuff， she’s been in plenty of  tight spots with the Aurors. The Portkey’s through here，" he added to Harry. "It’s  supposed to leave in three minutes， if you want to take it."    
"Yeah， we do，" said Harry. He seized his rucksack， swung it onto his shoulders. "I  –"    
He looked at Mrs. Tonks， wanting to apologize for the state of fear in which he  left her ａｎｄ for which he felt so terribly responsible， but no words occurred to him that he  did not seem hollow ａｎｄ insincere.    
"I’ll tell Tonks – Dora – to send word， when she . . . Thanks for patching us up，  thanks for everything， I –"    
He was glad to leave the room ａｎｄ follow Ted Tonks along a short hallway ａｎｄ  into a bedroom. Hagrid came after them， bending low to avoid hitting his head on the  door lintel.    
"There you go， son. That’s the Portkey."    
Mr. Tonks was pointing to a small， silver-backed hairbrush lying on the dressing  table.    
"Thanks，" said Harry， reaching out to place a finger on it， ready to leave.    
"Wait a moment，" said Hagrid， looking around. "Harry， where’s Hedwig?"    
"She . . . she got hit，" said Harry.    
The realization crashed over him: He felt ashamed of himself as the tears stung  his eyes. The owl had been his companion， his one great link with the magical world  whenever he had been forced to return to the Dursleys.    
Hagrid reached out a great hａｎｄ ａｎｄ patted him painfully on the shoulder.    
"Never mind，" he said gruffly， "Never mind. She had a great old life –"    
"Hagrid!" said Ted Tonks warningly， as the hairbrush glowed bright blue， ａｎｄ  Hagrid only just got his forefinger to it in time.    
With a jerk behind the navel as though an invisible hook ａｎｄ line had dragged  him forward， Harry was pulled into nothingness， spinning uncontrollably， his finger glued  to the Portkey as he ａｎｄ Hagrid hurtled away from Mr. Tonks. Second later， Harry’s feet  slammed onto hard ground ａｎｄ he fell onto his hａｎｄs ａｎｄ knees in the yard of the Burrow.  He heard screams. Throwing aside the no longer glowing hairbrush， Harry stood up，  swaying slightly， ａｎｄ saw Mrs. Weasley ａｎｄ Ginny running down the steps by the back  door as Hagrid， who had also collapsed on lａｎｄing， clambered laboriously to his feet.    
"Harry? You are the real Harry? What happened? Where are the others?" cried  Mrs. Weasley.    
"What d’you mean? Isn’t anyone else back?" Harry panted.    
The answer was clearly etched in Mrs. Weasley’s pale face.    
"The Death Eaters were waiting for us，" Harry told her， "We were surrounded the  moment we took off – they knew it was tonight – I don’t know what happened to anyone     else， four of them chased us， it was all we could do to get away， ａｎｄ then Voldemort  caught up with us –"    
He could hear the self-justifying note in his voice， the plea for her to understａｎｄ  why he did not know what had happened to her sons， but –    
"Thank goodness you’re all right，" she said， pulling him into a hug he did not feel  he deserved.    
"Haven’t go’ any brａｎｄy， have yeh， Molly?" asked Hagrid a little shakily， "Fer  medicinal purposes?"    
She could have summoned it by magic， but as she hurried back toward the  crooked house， Harry knew that she wanted to hide her face. He turned to Ginny ａｎｄ she  answered his unspoken plea for information at once.    
"Ron ａｎｄ Tonks should have been back first， but they missed their Portkey， it  came back without them，" she said， pointing at a rusty oil can lying on the ground nearby.  "And that one，" she pointed at an ancient sneaker， "should have been Dad ａｎｄ Fred’s，  they were supposed to be second. You ａｎｄ Hagrid were third ａｎｄ，" she checked her  watch， "if they made it， George ａｎｄ Lupin aught to be back in about a minute."    
Mrs. Weasley reappeared carrying a bottle of brａｎｄy， which she hａｎｄed to Hagrid.  He uncorked it ａｎｄ drank it straight down in one.    
"Mum!" shouted Ginny pointing to a spot several feet away.    
A blue light had appeared in the darkness: It grew larger ａｎｄ brighter， ａｎｄ Lupin  ａｎｄ George appeared， spinning ａｎｄ then falling. Harry knew immediately that there was  something wrong: Lupin was supporting George， who was unconscious ａｎｄ whose face  was covered in blood.    
Harry ran forward ａｎｄ seized George’s legs. Together， he ａｎｄ Lupin carried  George into the house ａｎｄ through the kitchen to the living room， where they laid him on  the sofa. As the lamplight fell across George’s head， Ginny gasped ａｎｄ Harry’s stomach  lurched: One of George’s ears was missing. The side of his head ａｎｄ neck were drenched  in wet， shockingly scarlet blood.    
No sooner had Mrs. Weasley bent over her son that Lupin grabbed Harry by the  upper arm ａｎｄ dragged him， none too gently， back into the kitchen， where Hagrid was  still attempting to ease his bulk through the back door.    
"Oi!" said Hagrid indignantly， "Le’ go of him! Le’ go of Harry!"    
Lupin ignored him.    
"What creature sat in the corner the first time that Harry Potter visited my office  at Hogwarts?" he said， giving Harry a small shake. "Answer me!"    
"A – a grindylow in a tank， wasn’t it?"    
Lupin released Harry ａｎｄ fell back against a kitchen cupboard.    
"Wha’ was tha’ about?" roared Hagrid.    
"I’m sorry， Harry， but I had to check，" said Lupin tersely. "We’ve been betrayed.  Voldemort knew that you were being moved tonight ａｎｄ the only people who could have  told him were directly involved in the plan. You might have been an impostor."    
"So why aren’ you checkin’ me?" panted Hagrid， still struggling with the door.    
"You’re half-giant，" said Lupin， looking up at Hagrid. "The Polyjuice Potion is  designed for human use only."    
"None of the Order would have told Voldemort we were moving tonight，" said  Harry. The idea was dreadful to him， he could not believe it of any of them. "Voldemort     only caught up with me toward the end， he didn’t know which one I was in the beginning.  If he’d been in on the plan he’d have known from the start I was the one with Hagrid."    
"Voldemort caught up with you?" said Lupin sharply. "What happened? How did  you escape?"    
Harry explained how the Death Eaters pursuing them had seemed to recognize  him as the true Harry， how they had abａｎｄoned the chase， how they must have  summoned Voldemort， who had appeared just before he ａｎｄ Hagrid had reached the  sanctuary of Tonks’s parents.    
"They recognized you? But how? What had you done?"    
"I . . ." Harry tried to remember; the whole journey seemed like a blur of panic  ａｎｄ confusion. "I saw Stan Shunpike . . . . You know， the bloke who was the conductor  on the Knight Bus? And I tried to Disarm him instead of – well， he doesn’t know what  he’s doing， does he? He must be Imperiused!"    
Lupin looked aghast.    
"Harry， the time for Disarming is past! These people are trying to capture ａｎｄ kill  you! At least Stun if you aren’t prepared to kill!"    
"We were hundreds of feet up! Stan’s not himself， ａｎｄ if I Stunned him ａｎｄ he’d  fallen， he’d have died the same as if I’d used Avada Kedavra! Expelliarmus saved me  from Voldemort two years ago，" Harry added defiantly. Lupin was reminding him of the  sneering Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith， who had jeered at Harry for wanting to teach  Dumbledore’s Army how to Disarm.    
"Yes， Harry，" said Lupin with p