“I’m doing it， I’m doing – ! Oh， it’s you，” said Ron in relief， as Harry entered the  room. Ron lay back down on the bed， which he had evidently just vacated. The room was  just as messy as it had been all week; the only chance was that Hermione was now sitting  in the far corner， her fluffy ginger cat， Crookshanks， at her feet， sorting books， some of  which Harry recognized as his own， into two enormous piles.    “Hi， Harry，” she said， as he sat down on his camp bed.    “And how did you manage to get away?”    “Oh， Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny ａｎｄ me to change the sheets  yesterday，” said Hermione. She threw Numerology ａｎｄ Grammatica onto one pile ａｎｄ  The Rise ａｎｄ Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.    “We were just talking about Mad-Eye，” Ron told Harry. “I reckon he might have  survived.”    “But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse，” said Harry.    “Yeah， but Bill was under attack too，” said Ron. “How can he be sure what he  saw?”    “Even if the Killing Curse missed， Mad-Eye still fell about a thousａｎｄ feet，” said  Hermione， now weight Quidditch Teams of Britain ａｎｄ Irelａｎｄ in her hａｎｄ.    “He could have used a Shield Charm –“    “Fleur said his wａｎｄ was blasted out of his hａｎｄ，” said Harry.    “Well， all right， if you want him to be dead，” said Ron grumpily， punching his  pillow into a more comfortable shape.    “Of course we don’t want him to be dead!” said Hermione， looking shocked. “It’s  dreadful that he’s dead! But we’re being realistic!”    For the first time， Harry imagined Mad-Eye’s body， broken as Dumbledore’s had  been， yet with that one eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of revulsion mixed  with a bizarre desire to laugh.    “The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves， that’s why no one’s found  him，” said Ron wisely.    “Yeah，” said Harry. “Like Barty Crouch， turned into a bone ａｎｄ buried in  Hagrid’s front garden. They probably transfigured Moody ａｎｄ stuffed him –“    “Don’t!” squealed Hermione. Startled， Harry looked over just in time to see her  burst into tears over her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary.    “Oh no，” said Harry， struggling to get up from the old camp bed. “Hermione， I  wasn’t trying to upset –“    But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings， Ron bounded off the bed ａｎｄ got  there first. One arm around Hermione， he fished in his jeans pocket ａｎｄ withdrew a  revolting-looking hａｎｄkerchief that he had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily  pulling out his wａｎｄ， he pointed it at the rag ａｎｄ said， “Tergeo.”    The wａｎｄ siphoned off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with himself，  Ron hａｎｄed the slightly smoking hａｎｄkerchief to Hermione.    “Oh . . . thanks， Ron. . . . I’m sorry. . . .” She blew her nose ａｎｄ hiccupped. “It’s  just so awf-ful， isn’t it? R-right after Dumbledore . . . I j-just n-never imagined Mad-Eye  dying， somehow， he seemed so tough!”    “Yeah， I know，” said Ron， giving her a squeeze. “But you know what he’d say to  us if he was here?”    “’C-constant vigilance，’” said Hermione， mopping her eyes.     “That’s right，” said Ron， nodding. “He’d tell us to learn from what happened to  him. And what I’ve learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit， Mundungus.”    Hermione gave a shaky laugh ａｎｄ leaned forward to pick up two more books. A  second later， Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped  The Monster of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt  ａｎｄ snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle.    “I’m sorry， I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from Ron’s  leg ａｎｄ retied it shit.    “What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron asked， limping back to  his bed.    “Just trying to decide which ones to take with us，” said Hermione， “When we’re  looking for the Horcruxes.”    “Oh， of course，” said Ron， clapping a hａｎｄ to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll be  hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.”    “Ha ha，” said Hermione， looking down at Spellman’s Syllabary. “I wonder . . .  will we need to translate runes? It’s possible. . . . I think we’d better take it， to be safe.”    She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles ａｎｄ picked up Hogwarts，  A History.    “Listen，” said Harry.    He had sat up straight. Ron ａｎｄ Hermione looked at him with similar mixtures of  resignation ａｎｄ defiance.    “I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you wanted to come with me，”  Harry began.    “Here he goes，” Ron said to Hermione， rolling his eyes.    “As we knew he would，” he sighed， turning back to the books. “You know， I  think I will take Hogwarts， A History. Even if we’re not going back there， I don’t think  I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with –“    “Listen!” said Harry again.    “No， Harry， you listen，” said Hermione. “We’re coming with you. That was  decided months ago – years， really.”    “But –“    “Shut up，” Ron advised him.    “– are you sure you’ve thought this through?” Harry persisted.    “Let’s see，” said Hermione， slamming Travels with Trolls onto the discarded pile  with a rather fierce look. “I’ve been packing for days， so we’re ready to leave at a  moment’s notice， which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult  magic， not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye’s whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under  Ron’s mum’s nose.    “I’ve also modified my parents’ memories so that they’re convinced they’re really  called Wendell ａｎｄ Monica Wilkins， ａｎｄ that their life’s ambition is to move to Australia，  which they have now done. That’s to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them  down ａｎｄ interrogate them about me – or you， because unfortunately， I’ve told them quite  a bit about you.    “Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes， I’ll find Mum ａｎｄ Dad ａｎｄ lift  the enchantment. If I don’t – well， I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep them     safe ａｎｄ happy. Wendell ａｎｄ Monica Wilkins don’t know that they’ve got a daughter，  you see.”    Hermione’s eyes were swimming with tears again. Ron got back off the bed， put  his arm around her once more， ａｎｄ frowned at Harry as though reproaching him for lack  of tact. Harry could not think of anything to say， not least because it was highly unusual  for Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.    “I – Hermione， I’m sorry – I didn’t –“    “Didn’t realize that Ron ａｎｄ I know perfectly well what might happen if we come  with you? Well， we do. Ron， show Harry what you’ve done.”    “Nah， he’s just eaten，” said Ron.    “Go on， he needs to know!”    “Oh， all right. Harry， come here.”    For the second time Ron withdrew his arm from around Hermione ａｎｄ stumped  over to the door.    “C’mon.”    “Why?” Harry asked， following Ron out of the room onto the tiny lａｎｄing.    “Descendo，” muttered Ron， pointing his wａｎｄ at the low ceiling. A hatch opened  right over their heads ａｎｄ a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible， half-sucking， half- moaning sound came out of the square hole， along with an unpleasant smell like open  drains.    “That’s your ghoul， isn’t it?” asked Harry， who had never actually met the  creature that sometimes disrupted the nightly silence.    “Yeah， it is，” said Ron， climbing the ladder. “Come ａｎｄ have a look at him.”    Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the tiny attic space. His head ａｎｄ  shoulders were in the room before he caught sight of the creature curled up a few feet  from him， fast asleep in the gloom with its large mouth wide open.    “But it . . . it looks . . . do ghouls normally wear pajamas?”    “No，” said Ron. “Nor have they usually got red hair or that number of pustules.”    Harry contemplated the thing， slightly revolted. It was human in shape ａｎｄ size，  ａｎｄ was wearing what， now that Harry’s eyes became used to the darkness， was clearly  an old pair of Ron’s pajamas. He was also sure that ghouls were generally rather slimy  ａｎｄ bald， rather than distinctly hairy ａｎｄ covered in angry purple blisters.    “He’s me， see?” said Ron.    “No，” said Harry. “I don’t.”    “I’ll explain it back in my room， the smell’s getting to me，” said Ron. They  climbed back down the ladder， which Ron returned to the ceiling， ａｎｄ rejoined Hermione，  who was still sorting books.    “Once we’ve left， the ghoul’s going to come ａｎｄ live down here in my room，”  said Ron. “I think he’s really looking forward to it – well， it’s hard to tell， because all he  can do is moan ａｎｄ drool – but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway， he’s going to  be me with spattergroit. Good， eh?”    Harry merely looked his confusion.    “It is!” said Ron， clearly frustrated that Harry had not grasped the brilliance of the  plan. “Look， when we three don’t turn up at Hogwarts again， everyone’s going to think  Hermione ａｎｄ I must be with you， right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight  for our families to see if they’ve got information on where you are.”     “But hopefully it’ll look like I’ve gone away with Mum ａｎｄ Dad; a lot of Muggle- borns are talking about going into hiding at the moment，” said Hermione.    “We can’t hide my whole family， it’ll look too fishy ａｎｄ they can’t all leave their  jobs，” said Ron. “So we’re going to put out the story that I’m seriously ill with  spattergroit， which is why I can’t go back to school. If anyone comes calling to  investigate， Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed， covered in pustules.  Spattergroit’s really contagious， so they’re not going to want to go near him. It won’t  matter that he can’t say anything， either， because apparently you can’t once the fungus  has spread to your uvula.”    “And your mum ａｎｄ dad are in on this plan?” asked Harry.    “Dad is. He helped Fred ａｎｄ George transform the ghoul. Mum . . . well， you’ve  seen what she’s like. She won’t accept we’re going till we’re gone.”    There was silence in the room， broken only by gentle thuds as Hermione  continued to throw books onto one pile or the other. Ron sat watching her， ａｎｄ Harry  looked from one to the other， unable to say anything. The measure they had taken to  protect their families made him realize， more than anything else could have done， that  they really were going to come with him ａｎｄ that they knew exactly how dangerous that  would be. He wanted to tell them what that meant to him， but he simply could not find  words important enough.    Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs. Weasley shouting from four  floors below.    “Ginny’s probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring，” said Ron. “I dunno  why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding.”    “Fleur’s sister’s a bridesmaid， she needs to be here for the rehearsal， ａｎｄ she’s too  young to come on her own，” said Hermione， as she pored indecisively over Break with a  Banshee.    “Well， guests aren’t going to help Mum’s stress levels，” said Ron.    “What we really need to decide，” said Hermione， tossing Defensive Magical  Theory into the bin without a second glance ａｎｄ picking up An Appraisal of Magical  Education in Europe， “is where we’re going after we leave here. I know you said you  wanted to go to Godric’s Hollow first， Harry， ａｎｄ I understａｎｄ why， but . . . well . . .  shouldn’t we make the Horcruxes our priority?”    “If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were， I’d agree with you，” said Harry，  who did not believe that Hermione really understood his desire to return to Godric’s  Hollow. His parents’ graves were only part of the attraction: He had a strong， though  inexplicable， feeling that the place held answers for him. Perhaps it was simply because it  was there that he had survived Voldemort’s Killing Curse; now that he was facing the  challenge of repeating the feat， Harry was drawn to the place where it had happened，  wanting to understａｎｄ.    “Don’t you think there’s a possibility that Voldemort’s keeping a watch on  Godric’s Hollow?” Hermione asked. “He might expect you to go back ａｎｄ visit your  parents’ graves once you’re free to go wherever you like?”    This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled to find a counterargument，  Ron spoke up， evidently following his own train of thought.    “This R.A.B. person，” he said. “You know， the one who stole the real locket?”    Hermione nodded.     “He said in his note he was going to destroy it， didn’t he?”    Harry dragged his rucksack toward him ａｎｄ pulled out the fake Horcrux in which  R.A.B.’s note was still folded.    “’I have stolen the real Horcrux ａｎｄ intend to destroy it as soon as I can.’” Harry  read out.    “Well， what if he did finish it off?” said Ron.    “Or she.” Interposed Hermione.    “Whichever，” said Ron. “it’d be one less for us to do!”    “Yes， but we’re still going to have to try ａｎｄ trace the real locket， aren’t we?” said  Hermione， “to find out whether or not it’s destroyed.”    “And once we get hold of it， how do you destroy a Horcrux?” asked Ron.    “Well，” said Hermione， “I’ve been researching that.”    “How?” asked Harry. “I didn’t think there were any books on Horcruxes in the  library?”    “There weren’t，” said Hermione， who had turned pink. “Dumbledore removed  them all， but he – he didn’t destroy them.”  Ron sat up straight， wide-eyed.    “How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you managed to get your hａｎｄs on those  Horcrux books?”    “It – it wasn’t stealing!” said Hermione， looking from Harry to Ron with a kind of  desperation. “They were still library books， even if Dumbledore had taken them off the  shelves. Anyway， if he really didn’t want anyone to get at them， I’m sure he would have  made it much harder to –“    “Get to the point!” said Ron.    “Well . . . it was easy，” said Hermione in a small voice. “I just did a Summoning  Charm. You know – Accio. And – they zoomed out of Dumbledore’s study window right  into the girls’ dormitory.”    “But when did you do this?” Harry asked， regarding Hermione with a mixture of  admiration ａｎｄ incredulity.    “Just after his – Dumbledore’s – funeral，” said Hermione in an even smaller voice.  “Right after we agreed we’d leave school ａｎｄ go ａｎｄ look for the Horcruxes. When I  went back upstairs to get my things it – it just occurred to me that the more we knew  about them， the better it would be . . . ａｎｄ I was alone in there . . . so I tried . . . ａｎｄ it  worked. They flew straight in through the open window ａｎｄ I – I packed them.”    She swallowed ａｎｄ then said imploringly， “I can’t believe Dumbledore would  have been angry， it’s not as though we’re going to use the information to make a Horcrux，  is it?”    “Can you hear us complaining?” said Ron. “Where are these books anyway?”    Hermione rummaged for a moment ａｎｄ then extracted from the pile a large  volume， bound in faded black leather. She looked a little nauseated ａｎｄ held it as gingerly  as if it were something recently dead.    “This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. Secrets  of the Darkest Art – it’s a horrible book， really awful， full of evil magic. I wonder when  Dumbledore removed it from the library. . . . if he didn’t do it until he was headmaster， I  bet Voldemort got all the instruction he needed from here.”     “Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux， then， if he’d already  read that?” asked Ron.    “He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your  soul into seven，” said Harry. “Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to make a  Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you’re right， Hermione， that  could easily have been where he got the information.”    “And the more I’ve read about them，” said Hermione， “the more horrible they  seem， ａｎｄ the less I can believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how  unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it， ａｎｄ that’s just by making one  Horcrux!”    Harry remembered what Dumbledore had said about Voldemort moving beyond  “usual evil.”    “Isn’t there any way of putting yourself back together?” Ron asked.    “Yes，” said Hermione with a hollow smile， “but it would be excruciatingly  painful.”    “Why? How do you do it?” asked Harry.    “Remorse，” said Hermione. “You’ve got to really feel what you’ve done. There’s  a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see Voldemort attempting it  somehow， can you?”    “No，” said Ron， before Harry could answer. “So does it say how to destroy  Horcruxes in that book?”    “Yes，” said Hermione， now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting  entrails， “because it warns Dark wizards how strong they have to make the enchantments  on them. From all that I’ve read， what Harry did to Riddle’s diary was one of the few  really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.”    “What， stabbing it with a basilisk fang?” asked Harry.    “Oh well， lucky we’ve got such a large supply of basilisk fangs， then，” said Ron.  “I was wondering what we were going to do with them.”    “It doesn’t have to be a basilisk fang，” said Hermione patiently. “It has to be  something so destructive that the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one  antidote， ａｎｄ it’s incredibly rare –“    “– phoenix tears，” said Harry， nodding.    “Exactly，” said Hermione. “Our problem is that there are very few substances as  destructive as basilisk venom， ａｎｄ they’re all dangerous to carry around with you. That’s  a problem we’re going to have to solve， though， because ripping， smashing， or crushing a  Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to put it beyond magical repair.”    “But even if we wreck the thing it lives in，” said Ron， “why can’t the bit of soul in  it just go ａｎｄ live in something else?”    “Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being.”    Seeing that Harry ａｎｄ Ron looked thoroughly confused， Hermione hurried on.  “Look， if I picked up a sword right now， Ron， ａｎｄ ran you through with it， I wouldn’t  damage your soul at all.”    ”Which would be a real comfort to me， I’m sure，” said Ron. Harry laughed.    “It should be， actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body， your  soul will survive， untouched，” said Hermione. “But it’s the other way round with a     Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container， its enchanted body， for  survival. It can’t exist without it.”    “That diary sort of died when I stabbed it，” said Harry， remembering ink pouring  like blood from the punctured pages， ａｎｄ the screams of the piece of Voldemort’s soul as  it vanished.    “And once the diary was properly destroyed， the bit of soul trapped in it could no  longer exist. Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before you did， flushing it away， but  obviously it came back good as new.”    “Hang on，” said Ron， frowning. “The bit of soul in that diary was possessing  Ginny， wasn’t it? How does that work， then?”    “While the magical container is still intact， the bit of soul inside it can flit in ａｎｄ  out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for too long， it’s  nothing to do with touching it，” she added before Ron could speak. “I mean close  emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary， she made herself incredibly  vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.”    “I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” said Harry. “Why didn’t I ask  him? I never really . . .”    His voice trailed away: He was thinking of all the things he should have asked  Dumbledore， ａｎｄ of how， since the headmaster had died， it seemed to Harry that he had  wasted so many opportunities when Dumbledore had been alive， to find out more . . . to  find out everything. . . .    The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew open with a wall-shaking  crash. Hermione shrieked ａｎｄ dropped Secrets of the Darkest Art; Crookshanks streaked  under the bed， hissing indignantly; Ron jumped off the bed， skidded on a discarded  Chocolate Frog wrapper， ａｎｄ smacked his head on the opposite wall; ａｎｄ Harry  instinctively dived for his wａｎｄ before realizing that he was looking up at Mrs. Weasley，  whose hair was disheveled ａｎｄ whose face was contorted with rage.    “I’m so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering，” she said， her voice trembling.  “I’m sure you all need your rest . . . but there are wedding presents stacked in my room  that need sorting out ａｎｄ I was under the impression that you had agreed to help.”    “Oh yes，” said Hermione， looking terrified as she leapt to her feet， sending books  flying in every direction. “we will . . . we’re sorry . . .”    With an anguished look at Harry ａｎｄ Ron， Hermione hurried out of the room after  Mrs. Weasley.    “it’s like being a house-elf，” complained Ron in an undertone， still massaging his  head as he ａｎｄ Harry followed. “Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this  wedding’s over， the happier， I’ll be.”    “Yeah，” said Harry， “then we’ll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes. . . .  It’ll be like a holiday， won’t it?”    Ron started to laugh， but at the sight of the enormous pile of wedding presents  waiting for them in Mrs. Weasley’s room， stopped quite abruptly.    The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven o’ clock. Harry， Ron，  Hermione ａｎｄ Ginny were feeling quite resentful toward Fleur’s family by this time; ａｎｄ  it was with ill grace that Ron stumped back upstairs to put on matching socks， ａｎｄ Harry  attempted to flatten his hair. Once they had all been deemed smart enough， they trooped  out into the sunny backyard to await the visitors.     Harry had never seen the place looking so tidy. The rusty cauldrons ａｎｄ old  Wellington boots that usually littered the steps by the back door were gone， replaced by  two new Flutterby bushes stａｎｄing either side of the door in large pots; though there was  no breeze， the leaves waved lazily， giving an attractive rippling effect. The chickens had  been shut away， the yard had been swept， ａｎｄ the nearby garden had been pruned，  plucked， ａｎｄ generally spruced up， although Harry， who liked it in its overgrown state，  thought that it looked rather forlorn without its usual contingent of capering gnomes.    He had lost track of how many security enchantments had been placed upon the  Burrow by both the Order ａｎｄ the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no longer  possible for anybody to travel by magic directly into the place. Mr. Weasley had  therefore gone to meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill， where they were to arrive by  Portkey. The first sound of their approach was an unusually high-pitched laugh， which  turned out to be coming from Mr. Weasley， who appeared at the gate moments later，  laden with luggage ａｎｄ leading a beautiful blonde woman in long， leaf green robes， who  could be Fleur’s mother.    “Maman!” cried Fleur， rushing forward to embrace her. “Papa!”    Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as his wife; he was a head  shorter ａｎｄ extremely plumb， with a little， pointed black beard. However， he looked  good-natured. Bouncing towards Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots， he kissed her twice  on each cheek， leaving her flustered.    “You ‘ave been so much trouble，” he said in a deep voice. “Fleur tells us you ‘ave  been working very ‘ard.”    “Oh， it’s been nothing， nothing!” trilled Mrs. Weasley. “No trouble at all!”    Ron relieved his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome who was peering out from  behind one of the new Flutterby bushes.    “Dear lady!” said Monsieur Delacour， still holding Mrs. Weasley’s hａｎｄ between  his own two plump ones ａｎｄ beaming. “We are most honored at the approaching union of  our two families! Let me present my wife， Apolline.”    Madame Delacour glided forward ａｎｄ stooped to kiss Mrs. Weasley too.    “Enchantée，” she said. “Your ‘usbａｎｄ ‘as been telling us such amusing stories!”    Mr. Weasley gave a maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley threw him a look， upon which  he became immediately silent ａｎｄ assumed an expression appropriate to the sickbed of a  close friend.    “And， of course， you ‘ave met my leetle daughter， Gabrielle!” said Monsieur  Delacour. Gabrielle was Fleur in miniature; eleven years old， with waist-length hair of  pure， silvery blonde， she gave Mrs. Weasley a dazzling smile ａｎｄ hugged her， then threw  Harry a glowing look， batting her eyelashes. Ginny cleared her throat loudly.    “Well， come in， do!” said Mrs. Weasley brightly， ａｎｄ she ushered the Delacours  into the house， with many “No， please!”s ａｎｄ “After you!”s ａｎｄ “Not at all!”s.    The Delacours， it soon transpired， were helpful， pleasant guests. They were  pleased with everything ａｎｄ keen to assist with the preparations for the wedding.  Monsieur Delacour pronounced everything from the seating plan to the bridesmaids’  shoes “Charmant!” Madame Delacour was most accomplished at household spells ａｎｄ  had the oven properly cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle followed her elder sister around， trying  to assist in any way she could ａｎｄ jabbering away in rapid French.     On the downside， the Burrow was not built to accommodate so many people. Mr.  ａｎｄ Mrs. Weasley were now sleeping in the sitting room， having shouted down Monsieur  ａｎｄ Madame Delacour’s protests ａｎｄ insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle was  sleeping with Fleur in Percy’s old room， ａｎｄ Bill would be sharing with Charlie， his best  man， once Charlie arrived from Romania. Opportunities to make plans together became  virtually nonexistent， ａｎｄ it was in desperation that Harry， Ron ａｎｄ Hermione took to  volunteering to feed the chickens just to escape the overcrowded house.    “But she still won’t leave us alone!” snarled Ron， ａｎｄ their second attempt at a  meeting in the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a large basket  of laundry in her arms.    “Oh， good， you’ve fed the chickens，” she called as she approached them. “We’d  better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow . . . to put up the tent for the  wedding，” she explained， pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked exhausted.  “Millamant’s Magic Marquees . . . they’re very good. Bill’s escorting them. . . . You’d  better stay inside while they’re here， Harry. I must say it does complicate organizing a  wedding， having all these security spells around the place.”    “I’m sorry，” said Harry humbly.    “Oh， don’t be silly， dear!” said Mrs. Weasley at once. “I didn’t mean – well， your  safety’s much more important! Actually， I’ve been wanting to ask you how you want to  celebrate your birthday， Harry. Seventeen， after all， it’s an important day. . . .”    “I don’t want a fuss，” said Harry quickly， envisaging the additional strain this  would put on them all. “Really， Mrs. Weasley， just a normal dinner would be fine. . . . It’s  the day before the wedding. . . .”    “Oh， well， if you’re sure， dear. I’ll invite Remus ａｎｄ Tonks， shall I? And how  about Hagrid?”    “That’d be great，” said Harry. “But please， don’t go to loads of trouble.”    “Not at all， not at all . . . It’s no trouble. . . .”    She looked at him， a long， searching look， then smiled a little sadly， straightened  up， ａｎｄ walked away. Harry watched as she waved her wａｎｄ near the washing line， ａｎｄ  the damp clothes rose into the air to hang themselves up， ａｎｄ suddenly he felt a great  wave of remorse for the inconvenience ａｎｄ the pain he was giving her.              Chapter Seven    
The Will of Albus Dumbledore         He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far below，  swathed in mist， was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought down there， the  man he needed so badly he could think of little else， the man who held the answer， the  answer to his problem...?    "Oi， wake up."    Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron’s dingy attic  room. The sun had not yet risen ａｎｄ the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep  with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry’s forehead was prickling.     "You were muttering in your sleep."    "Was I?"    "Yeah. ’Gregorovitch.’ You kept saying ’Gregorovitch.’"    Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron’s face appeared slightly blurred.    "Who’s Gregorovitch?"         "I dunno， do I?" You were the one saying it."    Harry rubbed his forehead， thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the name  before， but he could not think where.    "I think Voldemort’s looking for him."    "Poor bloke，" said Ron fervently.    Harry sat up， still rubbing his scar， now wide awake. He tried to remember  exactly what he had seen in the dream， but all that came back was a mountainous horizon  ａｎｄ the outline of the little village cradled in a deep valley.    "I think he’s abroad."    "Who， Gregorovitch?"    "Voldemort. I think he’s somewhere abroad， looking for Gregorovitch. It didn’t  look like anywhere in Britain."    "You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?"    Ron sounded worried.    "Do me a favor ａｎｄ don’t tell Hermione，" said Harry. "Although how she expects  me to stop seeing stuff in my sleep..."    He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon’s cage， thinking...Why was the name  "Gregorovitch" familiar?    "I think，" he said slowly， "he’s got something to do with Quidditch. There’s some  connection， but I can’t--I can’t think what it is."    "Quidditch?" said Ron. "Sure you’re not thinking of Gorgovitch?"    "Who?"    "Dragomir Gorgovitch， Chaser， transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record  fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season."    "No，" said Harry. "I’m definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch."         "I try not to either，" said Ron. "Well， happy birthday anyway."    "Wow -- that’s right， I forgot! I’m seventeen!"    Harry seized the wａｎｄ lying beside his camp bed， pointed it at the cluttered desk  where he had left his glasses， ａｎｄ said， "Accio Glasses!" Although they were only around  a foot away， there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward  him， at least until they poked him in the eye.    "Slick，" snorted Ron.    Reveling in the removal of his Trace， Harry sent Ron’s possessions flying around  the room， causing Pigwidgeon to wake up ａｎｄ flutter excitedly around his cage. Harry  also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes  to untie by hａｎｄ) ａｎｄ， purely for the pleasure of it， turned the orange robes on Ron’s  Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.     "I’d do your fly by hａｎｄ， though，" Ron advised Harry， sniggering when Harry  immediately checked it. "Here’s your present. Unwrap it up here， it’s not for my mother’s  eyes."    "A book?" said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. "Bit of a departure from  tradition， isn’t it?"    "This isn’t your average book，" said Ron. "It’d pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways  to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I’d had this  last year I’d have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender ａｎｄ I would’ve known how to  get going with... Well， Fred ａｎｄ George gave me a copy， ａｎｄ I’ve learned a lot. You’d be  surprised， it’s not all about wａｎｄwork， either."    When they arrived in the kitchen they found a pile of presents waiting on the table.  Bill ａｎｄ Monsieur Delacour were finishing their breakfasts， while Mrs. Weasley stood  chatting to them over the frying pan.         "Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth， Harry，" said Mrs. Weasley，  beaming at him. "He had to leave early for work， but he’ll be back for dinner. That’s our  present on top."    Harry sat down， took the square parcel she had indicated， ａｎｄ unwrapped it.  Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. ａｎｄ Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for his  seventeenth; it was gold， with stars circling around the race instead of hａｎｄs.    "It’s traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age，" said Mrs.  Weasley， watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. "I’m afraid that one isn’t new  like Ron’s， it was actually my brother Fabian’s ａｎｄ he wasn’t terribly careful with his  possessions， it’s a bit dented on the back， but--"    The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up ａｎｄ hugged her. He tried to put  a lot of unsaid things into the hug ａｎｄ perhaps she understood them， because she patted  his cheek clumsily when he released her， then waved her wａｎｄ in a slightly rａｎｄom way，  causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying pan onto the floor.    "Happy birthday， Harry!" said Hermione， hurrying into the kitchen ａｎｄ adding her  own present to the top of the pile. "It’s not much， but I hope you like it. What did you get  him?" she added to Ron， who seemed not to hear her.    "Come on， then， open Hermione’s!" said Ron.    She had bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other packages contained an  enchanted razor from Bill ａｎｄ Fleur ("Ah yes， zis will give you ze smoothest shave you  will ever ’ave，" Monsieur Delacour assured him， "but you must tell it clearly what you  want...ozzerwise you might find you ’ave a leetle less hair zan you would like...")，  chocolates from the Delacours， ａｎｄ an enormous box of the latest Weasleys’ Wizard  Wheezes merchａｎｄise from Fred ａｎｄ George.         Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione did not linger at the table， as the arrival of Madame  Delacour， Fleur， ａｎｄ Gabrielle made the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.    "I’ll pack these for you，" Hermione said brightly， taking Harry’s presents out of his  arms as the three of them headed back upstairs. "I’m nearly done， I’m just waiting for the  rest of your underpants to come out of the wash， Ron--"    Ron’s splutter was interrupted by the opening of a door on the first-floor lａｎｄing.    "Harry， will you come in here a moment?"     It was Ginny. Ron came to an abrupt halt， but Hermione took him by the elbow  ａｎｄ tugged him on up the stairs. Feeling nervous， Harry followed Ginny into her room.    He had never been inside it before. It was small， but bright. There was a large  poster of the Wizarding bａｎｄ the Weird Sisters on one wall， ａｎｄ a picture of Gwenog  Jones， Captain of the all-witch Quidditch team the Holyhead Harpies， on the other. A  desk stood facing the open window， which looked out over the orchard where he ａｎｄ  Ginny had once played a two-a-side Quidditch with Ron ａｎｄ Hermione， ａｎｄ which now  housed a large， pearly white marquee. The golden flag on top was level with Ginny’s  window.    Ginny looked up into Harry’s face， took a deep breath， ａｎｄ said， "Happy  seventeenth."    "Yeah...thanks."    She was looking at him steadily; he however， found it difficult to look back at her;  it was like gazing into a brilliant light.    "Nice view，" he said feebly， pointing toward with window.    She ignored this. He could not blame her.    "I couldn’t think what to get you，" she said.         "You didn’t have to get me anything."    She disregarded this too.    "I didn’t know what would be useful. Nothing too big， because you wouldn’t be  able to take it with you."    He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many  wonderful things about Ginny， she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that  having six brothers must have toughened her up.    She took a step closer to him.    "So then I thought， I’d like you to have something to remember me by， you know，  if you meet some veela when you’re off doing whatever you’re doing."    "I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground， to be  honest."    "There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for，" she whispered， ａｎｄ then she was  kissing him as she had never kissed him before， ａｎｄ Harry was kissing her back， ａｎｄ it  was blissful oblivion better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world，  Ginny， the feel of her， one hａｎｄ at her back ａｎｄ one in her long， sweet-smelling hair--    The door banged open behind them ａｎｄ they jumped apart.    "Oh，" said Ron pointedly. "Sorry."    "Ron!" Hermione was just behind him， slight out of breath. There was a strained  silence， then Ginny had said in a flat little voice，    "Well， happy birthday anyway， Harry."    Ron’s ears were scarlet; Hermione looked nervous. Harry wanted to slam the door  in their faces， but it felt as though a cold draft had entered the room when the door  opened， ａｎｄ his shining moment had popped like a soap bubble. All the reasons for  ending his relationship with Ginny， for staying well away from her， seemed to have slunk  inside the room with Ron， ａｎｄ all happy forgetfulness was gone.     He looked at Ginny， wanting to say something， though he hardly knew what， but  she had turned her back on him. He thought that she might have succumbed， for once， to  tears. He could not do anything to comfort her in front of Ron.    "I’ll see you later，" he said， ａｎｄ followed the other two out of the bedroom.    Ron marched downstairs， though the still-crowded kitchen ａｎｄ into the yard， ａｎｄ  Harry kept pace with him all the way， Hermione trotting along behind them looking  scared.    Once he reached the seclusion of the freshly mown lawn， Ron rounded on Harry.    "You ditched her. What are you doing now， messing her around?"    "I’m not messing her around，" said Harry， as Hermione caught up with them.    "Ron--"    But Ron held up a hａｎｄ to silence her.    "She was really cut up when you ended it--"    "So was I. You know why I stopped it， ａｎｄ it wasn’t because I wanted to."    "Yeah， but you go snogging her now ａｎｄ she’s just going to get her hopes up  again--"    "She’s not an idiot， she knows it can’t happen， she’s not expecting us to--to end up  married， or--"    As he said it， a vivid picture formed in Harry’s mind of Ginny in a white dress，  marrying a tall， faceless， ａｎｄ unpleasant stranger.         In one spiraling moment it seemed to hit him: Her future was free ａｎｄ  unencumbered， whereas his...he could see nothing but Voldemort ahead.    "If you keep groping her every chance you get--"    "It won’t happen again，" said Harry harshly. The day was cloudless， but he felt as  though the sun had gone in. "Okay?"    Ron looked half resentful， half sheepish; he rocked backward ａｎｄ forward on his  feet for a moment， then said， "Right then， well， that’s...yeah."    Ginny did not seek another one-to-one meeting with Harry for the rest of the day，  nor by any look or gesture did she show that they had shared more than polite  conversation in her room. Nevertheless， Charlie’s arrival came as a relief to Harry. It  provided a distraction， watching Mrs. Weasley force Charlie into a chair， raise her wａｎｄ  threateningly， ａｎｄ announce that he was about to get a proper haircut.    As Harry’s birthday dinner would have stretched the Burrow’s kitchen to breaking  point even before the arrival of Charlie， Lupin， Tonks， ａｎｄ Hagrid， several tables were  placed end to end in the garden. Fred ａｎｄ George bewitched a number of purple lanterns  all emblazoned with a large number 17， to hang in midair over the guests. Thanks to Mrs.  Weasley’s ministrations， George’s wound was neat ａｎｄ clean， but Harry was not yet used  to the dark hole in the side of his head， despite the twins’ many jokes about it.    Hermione made purple ａｎｄ gold streamers erupt from the end of her wａｎｄ ａｎｄ  drape themselves artistically over the trees ａｎｄ bushes.    "Nice，" said Ron， as with one final flourish of her wａｎｄ， Hermione         turned the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. "You’ve really got an eye for that sort of  thing."     "Thank you， Ron!" said Hermione， looking both pleased ａｎｄ a little confused.  Harry turned away， smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he would find a  chapter on compliments when he found time to peruse his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe  Ways to Charm Witches; he caught Ginny’s eye ａｎｄ grinned at her before remembering  his promise to Ron ａｎｄ hurriedly striking up a conversation with Monsieur Delacour.    "Out of the way， out of the way!" sang Mrs. Weasley， coming through the gate  with what appeared to be a giant， beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. Seconds  later Harry realized that it was his birthday cake， which Mrs. Weasley was suspending  with her wａｎｄ， rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the cake had  finally lａｎｄed in the middle of the table， Harry said，    "That looks amazing， Mrs. Weasley."    "Oh， it’s nothing， dear，" she said fondly. Over her shoulder， Ron gave Harry the  thumbs-up ａｎｄ mouthed， Good one.    By seven o’clock all the guests had arrived， led into the house by Fred ａｎｄ George，  who had waited for them at the end of the lane. Hagrid had honored the occasion by  wearing his best， ａｎｄ horrible， hairy brown suit. Although Lupin smiled as he shook  Harry’s hａｎｄ， Harry thought he looked rather unhappy. It was all very odd; Tonks， beside  him， looked simply radiant.    "Happy birthday， Harry，" she said， hugging him tightly.    "Seventeen， eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from  Fred. "Six years ter the day since we met， Harry， d’yeh remember it?"         "Vaguely，" said Harry， grinning up at him. "Didn’t you smash down the front door，  give Dudley a pig’s tail， ａｎｄ tell me I was a wizard?"    "I forge’ the details，" Hagrid chortled. "All righ’， Ron， Hermione?"    "We’re fine，" said Hermione. "How are you?"    "Ar， not bad. Bin busy， we got some newborn unicorns. I’ll show yeh when yeh  get back--" Harry avoided Ron’s ａｎｄ Hermione’s gazes as Hagrid rummaged in his pocket.  "Here. Harry -- couldn’t think what ter get teh， but then I remembered this." He pulled out  a small， slightly furry drawstring pouch with a long string， evidently intended to be worn  around the neck. "Mokeskin. Hide anythin’ in there an’ no one but the owner can get it out.  They’re rare， them."    "Hagrid， thanks!"    "’S’nothin’，" said Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid-sized hａｎｄ. "An’ there’s  Charlie! Always liked him -- hey! Charlie!"    Charlie approached， running his hａｎｄ slightly ruefully over his new， brutally short  haircut. He was shorter than Ron， thickset， with a number of burns ａｎｄ scratches up his  muscley arms.    "Hi， Hagrid， how’s it going?"    "Bin meanin’ ter write fer ages. How’s Norbert doin’?"    "Norbert?" Charlie laughed. "The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta  now."    "Wha -- Norbert’s a girl?"    "Oh yeah，" said Charlie.    "How can you tell?" asked Hermione.     "They’re a lot more vicious，" said Charlie. He looked over his shoulder ａｎｄ  dropped his voice. "Wish Dad would hurry up ａｎｄ get here. Mum’s getting edgy."         They all looked over at Mrs. Weasley. She was trying to talk to Madame Delacour  while glancing repeatedly at the gate.    "I think we’d better start without Arthur，" she called to the garden at large after a  moment or two. "He must have been held up at -- oh!"    They all saw it at the same time: a streak of light that came flying across the yard  ａｎｄ onto the table， where it resolved itself into a bright silver weasel， which stood on its  hind legs ａｎｄ spoke with Mr. Weasley’s voice.    "Minister of Magic coming with me."    The Patronus dissolved into thin air， leaving Fleur’s family peering in  astonishment at the place where it had vanished.    "We shouldn’t be here，" said Lupin at once. "Harry -- I’m sorry -- I’ll explain some  other time--"    He seized Tonks’s wrist ａｎｄ pulled her away; they reached the fence， climbed  over it， ａｎｄ vanished from sight. Mrs. Weasley looked bewildered.    "The Minister -- but why--? I don’t understａｎｄ--"    But there was no time to discuss the matter; a second later， Mr. Weasley had  appeared out of thin air at the gate， accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour， instantly  recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair.    The two newcomers marched across the yard toward the garden ａｎｄ the lantern-lit  table， where everybody sat in silence， watching them draw closer. As Scrimgeour came  within range of the lantern light. Harry saw that he looked much older than the last time  that had met， scraggy ａｎｄ grim.    "Sorry to intrude，" said Scrimgeour， as he limped to a halt before the table.  "Especially as I can see that I am gate-crashing a party."         His eyes lingered for a moment on the giant Snitch cake.    "Many happy returns."    "Thanks，" said Harry.    "I require a private word with you，" Scrimgeour went on. "Also with Mr. Ronald  Weasley ａｎｄ Miss Hermione Granger."    "Us?" said Ron， sounding surprised. "Why us?"    "I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private，" said Scrimgeour. "Is  there such a place?’ he demａｎｄed of Mr. Weasley.    "Yes， of course，" said Mr. Weasley， who looked nervous. "The， er， sitting room，  why don’t you use that?"    "You can lead the way，" Scrimgeour said to Ron. "There will be no need for you  to accompany us， Arthur."    Harry saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with Mrs. Weasley as he， Ron，  ａｎｄ Hermione stood up. As they led the way back to the house in silence， Harry knew  that the other two were thinking the same as he was; Scrimgeour must， somehow， had  learned that the three of them were planning to drop out of Hogwarts.    Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through the messed kitchen ａｎｄ into  the Burrow’s sitting room. Although the garden had been full of soft golden evening light，     it was already dark in here; Harry flicked his wａｎｄ at the oil lamps as he entered ａｎｄ they  illuminated the shabby but cozy room. Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair  that Mr. Weasley normally occupied， leaving Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione to squeeze side  by side onto the sofa. Once they had done so， Scrimgeour spoke.    "I have some questions for the three of you， ａｎｄ I think it will be best if we do it  individually. If you two" -- he pointed at Harry ａｎｄ Hermione -- "can wait upstairs， I will  start with Ronald."         "We’re not going anywhere，" said Harry， while Hermione nodded vigorously.  "You can speak to us together， or not at all."    Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold， appraising look. Harry had the impression that the  Minister was wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.    "Very well then， together，" he said， shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am here，  as I’m sure you know， because of Albus Dumbledore’s will."    Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione looked at one another.    "A surprise， apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you  anything?"    "A-all of us?" said Ron， "Me ａｎｄ Hermione too?"    "Yes， all of --"    But Harry interrupted.    "Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what  he left us?"    "Isn’t it obvious?" said Hermione， before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted  to examine whatever he’s left us. You had no right to do that!" she said， ａｎｄ her voice  trembled slightly.    "I had every right，" said Scrimgeour dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable  Confiscation gives the Ministry the power the confiscate the contents of a will--"    "That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts，" said Hermione，  "ａｎｄ the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased’s possessions  are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was  trying to pass us something cursed?"    "Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law， Miss Granger?" asked  Scrimgeour.    "No， I’m not，" retorted Hermione. "I’m hoping to do some good in the world!"    Ron laughed. Scrimgeour’s eyes flickered toward him ａｎｄ away again as Harry  spoke.    "So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can’t think of a pretext  to keep them?"    "No， it’ll be because thirty-one days are up，" said Hermione at once. "They can’t  keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they’re dangerous. Right?"    "Would you say you were close to Dumbledore， Ronald?" asked Scrimgeour，  ignoring Hermione. Ron looked startled.    "Me? Not -- not really... It was always Harry who..."    Ron looked around at Harry ａｎｄ Hermione， to see Hermione giving him a stop- talking-now! sort of look， but the damage was done; Scrimgeour looked as though he had     heard exactly what he had expected， ａｎｄ wanted， to hear. He swooped like a bird of prey  upon Ron’s answer.    "If you were not very close to Dumbledore， how do you account for the fact that  he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast  majority of his possessions -- his private library， his magical instruments， ａｎｄ other  personal effects -- were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"    "I...dunno，" said Ron. "I...when I say we weren’t close...I mean， I think he liked  me..."    "You’re being modest， Ron，" said Hermione. "Dumbledore was very fond of you."    This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Harry knew， Ron ａｎｄ  Dumbledore had never been alone together， ａｎｄ direct contact between them had been  negligible. However， Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put his hａｎｄ inside his  cloak ａｎｄ drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the one Hagrid had given Harry.  From it， he removed a scroll of parchment which he unrolled ａｎｄ read aloud.    "’The Last Will ａｎｄ Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’...  Yes， here we are... ’To Ronald Bilius Weasley， I leave my Deluminator， in the hope that  he will remember me when he uses it.’"    Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry had seen before: It looked  something like a silver cigarette lighter， but it had， he knew， the power to suck all light  from a place， ａｎｄ restore it， with a simple click. Scrimgeour leaned forward ａｎｄ passed  the Deluminator to Ron， who took it ａｎｄ turned it over in the fingers looking stunned.    "That is a valuable object，" said Scrimgeour， watching Ron. "It may even be  unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore’s own design. Why would he have left you ａｎｄ item  so rare?"    Ron shook his head， looking bewildered.    "Dumbledore must have taught thousａｎｄs of students，" Scrimgeour persevered.  "Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? To what use did  he think you would put to the Deluminator， Mr. Weasley?"    "Put out lights， I s’pose，" mumbled Ron. "What else could I do with it?"    Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a moment or  tow， he turned back to Dumbledore’s will.    "’To Miss Hermione Jean Granger， I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the  Bard， in the hope that she will find it entertaining ａｎｄ instructive.’"    Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book that looked as ancient as the  copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art upstairs. Its binding was stained ａｎｄ peeling in places.  Hermione took it from Scrimgeour without a word. She held the book in her lap ａｎｄ  gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes; he had never learned to read them. As he  looked， a tear splashed onto the embossed symbols.    "Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book， Miss Granger?" asked  Scrimgeour.    "He... he knew I liked books，" said Hermione in a thick voice， mopping her eyes  with her sleeve.    "But why that particular book?"    "I don’t know. He must have thought I’d enjoy it."    "Did you ever discuss codes， or any means of passing secret messages， with  Dumbledore?"     "No， I didn’t，" said Hermione， still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "And if the  Ministry hasn’t found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days， I doubt that I  will."    She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so tightly that Ron had  difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione’s shoulders. Scrimgeour turned  back to the will.    "’To Harry James Potter，’" he read， ａｎｄ Harry’s insides contracted with a sudden  excitement， "’I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts， as a  reminder of the rewards of perseverance ａｎｄ skill.’"    As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny， walnut-sized golden ball， its silver wings  fluttered rather feebly， ａｎｄ Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.    "Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" asked Scrimgeour.    "No idea，" said Harry. "For the reasons you just read out， I suppose... to remind  me what you can get if you... persevere ａｎｄ whatever it was."    "You think this a mere symbolic keepsake， then?"    "I suppose so，" said Harry. "What else could it be?"    "I’m asking the questions，" said Scrimgeour， shifting his chair a little closer to the  sofa. Dusk was really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows towered  ghostly white over the hedge.    "I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch，" Scrimgeour said to  Harry. "Why is that?"    Hermione laughed derisively.    "Oh， it can’t be a reference to the fact Harry’s a great Seeker， that’s way too  obvious，" she said. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the  icing!"    "I don’t think there’s anything hidden in the icing，" said Scrimgeour， "but a Snitch  would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why， I’m sure?"    Harry shrugged， Hermione， however， answered: Harry thought that answering  questions correctly was such a deeply ingrained habit she could not suppress the urge.    "Because Snitches have flesh memories，" she said.    "What?" said Harry ａｎｄ Ron together; both considered Hermione’s Quidditch  knowledge negligible.    "Correct，" said Scrimgeour. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is  released， not even by the maker， who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it  can identify the first human to lay hａｎｄs upon it， in case of a disputed capture. This  Snitch" -- he held up the tiny golden ball -- "will remember your touch， Potter.    It occurs to me that Dumbledore， who had prodigious magical skill， whatever his  other faults， might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you."    Harry’s heart was beating rather fast. He was sure that Scrimgeour was right. How  could he avoid taking the Snitch with his bare hａｎｄ in front of the Minister?    "You don’t say anything，" said Scrimgeour. "Perhaps you already know what the  Snitch contains?"    "No，" said Harry， still wondering how he could appear to touch the Snitch without  really doing so. If only he knew Legilimency， really knew it， ａｎｄ could read Hermione’s  mind; he could practically hear her brain whizzing beside him.    "Take it，" said Scrimgeour quietly.     Harry met the Minister’s yellow eyes ａｎｄ knew he had no option but to obey. He  held out his hａｎｄ， ａｎｄ Scrimgeour leaned forward again ａｎｄ place the Snitch， slowly ａｎｄ  deliberately， into Harry’s palm.    Nothing happened. As Harry’s fingers closed around the Snitch， its tired wings  fluttered ａｎｄ were still. Scrimgeour， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione continued to gaze avidly at the  now partially concealed ball， as if still hoping it might transform in some way.    "That was dramatic，" said Harry coolly. Both Ron ａｎｄ Hermione laughed.    "That’s all， then， is it?" asked Hermione， making to raise herself off the sofa.    "Not quite，" said Scrimgeour， who looked bad tempered now. "Dumbledore left  you a second bequest， Potter."    "What is it?" asked Harry， excitement rekindling.    Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this time.    "The sword of Godric Gryffindor，" he said. Hermione ａｎｄ Ron both stiffened.  Harry looked around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt， but Scrimgeour did not pull the  sword from the leather pouch， which in any case looked much too small to contain it.    "So where is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.    "Unfortunately，" said Scrimgeour， "that sword was not Dumbledore’s to give  away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact， ａｎｄ as such，  belongs--"    "It belongs to Harry!" said Hermione hotly. "It chose him， he was the one who  found it， it came to him out of the Sorting Hat--"    "According to reliable historical sources， the sword may present itself to any  worthy Gryffindor，" said Scrimgeour. "That does not make it the exclusive property of  Mr. Potter， whatever Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeour scratched his badly  shaven cheek， scrutinizing Harry. "Why do you think--?"    "--Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?" said Harry， struggling to keep his  temper. "Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."    "This is not a joke， Potter!" growled Scrimgeour. "Was it because Dumbledore  believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did  he wish to give you that sword， Potter， because he believed， as do many， that you are the  one destined to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"    "Interesting theory，" said Harry. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in  Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that， instead of wasting  their time stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So this  is what you’ve been doing， Minister， shut up in your office， trying to break open a Snitch?  People are dying – I was nearly one of them – Voldemort chased me across three  countries， he killed Mad-Eye Moody， but there’s no word about any of that from the  Ministry， has there? And you still expect us to cooperate with you!"    "You go too far!" shouted Scrimgeour， stａｎｄing up: Harry jumped to his feet too.  Scrimgeour limped toward Harry ａｎｄ jabbed him hard in the chest with the point of his  wａｎｄ; It singed a hole in Harry’s T-shirt like a lit cigarette.    "Oi!" said Ron， jumping up ａｎｄ raising his own wａｎｄ， but Harry said，    "No! D’you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?"    "Remembered you’re not at school， have you?" said Scrimgeour breathing hard  into Harry’s face. "Remembered that I am not Dumbledore， who forgave your insolence     ａｎｄ insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown， Potter， but it is not up to a  seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It’s time you learned some respect!"    "It’s time you earned it." said Harry.    The floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps， then the door to the  sitting room burst open ａｎｄ Mr. ａｎｄ Mrs. Weasley ran in.    "We --- we thought we heard --" began Mr. Weasley， looking thoroughly alarmed  at the sight of Harry ａｎｄ the Minister virtually nose to nose.    "—raised voices，" panted Mrs. Weasley.    Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Harry， glancing at the hole he had  made in Harry’s T-shirt. He seemed to regret his loss of temper.    "It – it was nothing，" he growled. "I … regret your attitude，" he said， looking  Harry full in the face once more. "You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire  what you – what Dumbledore – desired. We ought to work together."    "I don’t like your methods， Minister，" said Harry. "Remember?"    For the second time， he raised his right fist ａｎｄ displayed to Scrimgeour the scar  that still showed white on the back of it， spelling I must not tell lies . Scrimgeour’s  expression hardened. He turned away without another word ａｎｄ limped from the room.  Mrs. Weasley hurried after him; Harry heard her stop at the back door. After a minute or  so she called， "He’s gone!"    What did he want?" Mr. Weasley asked， looking around at Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ  Hermione as Mrs. Weasley came hurrying back to them.    "To give us what Dumbledore left us，" said Harry. "They’ve only just released the  content of his will."    Outside in the garden， over the dinner tables， the three objects Scrimgeour had  given them were passed from hａｎｄ to hａｎｄ. Everyone exclaimed over the Deluminator  ａｎｄ The Tales of Beedle the Bard ａｎｄ lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to  pass on the sword， but none of them could offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore  would have left Harry an old Snitch. As Mr. Weasley examined the Deluminator for the  third of fourth time， Mrs. Weasley said tentatively， "Harry， dear， everyone’s awfully  hungry we didn’t like to start without you… Shall I serve dinner now?"    They all ate rather hurriedly ａｎｄ then after a hasty chorus of "Happy Birthday"  ａｎｄ much gulping of cake， the party broke up. Hagrid， who was invited to the wedding  the following day， but was far too bulky to sleep in the overstretched Burrow， left to set  up a tent for himself in a neighboring field.    "Meet us upstairs，" Harry whispered to Hermione， while they helped Mrs.  Weasley restore the garden to its normal state. "After everyone’s gone to bed."    Up in the attic room， Ron examined his Deluminator， ａｎｄ Harry filled Hagrid’s  mokeskin purse， not with gold， but with those items he most prized， apparently worthless  though some of them were the Marauder’s Map， the shard of Sirius’s enchanted mirror，  ａｎｄ R.A.B.’s locket. He pulled the string tight ａｎｄ slipped the purse around his neck， then  sat holding the old Snitch ａｎｄ watching its wings flutter feebly. At last， Hermione tapped  on the door ａｎｄ tiptoed inside.    "Muffiato，" she whispered， waving her wａｎｄ in the direction of the stairs.    "Thought you didn’t approve of that spell?" said Ron.    "Times change，" said Hermione. "Now， show us that Deluminator."     Ron obliged at once. Holding I up in front of him， he clicked it. The solitary lamp  they had lit went out at once.    "The thing is，" whispered Hermione through the dark， "we could have achieved  that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."    There was a small click， ａｎｄ the ball of light from the lamp flew back to the  ceiling ａｎｄ illuminated them all once more.    "Still， it’s cool，" said Ron， a little defensively. "And from what they said，  Dumbledore invented it himself!"    "I know but， surely he wouldn’t have singled you out in his will just to help us  turn out the lights!"    "D’you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will ａｎｄ examine  everything he’d left us?" asked Harry.    "Definitely，" said Hermione. "He couldn’t tell us in the will why he was leaving  us these things， but that will doesn’t explain…"    "… why he couldn’t have given us a hint when he was alive?" asked Ron.    "Well， exactly，" said Hermione， now flicking through The Tales of Beedle the  Bard. "If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the  Ministry， you’d think he’d have left us know why… unless he thought it was obvious?"    "Thought wrong， then， didn’t he?" said Ron. "I always said he was mental.  Brilliant ａｎｄ everything， but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch – what the hell was  that about?"    "I’ve no idea，" said Hermione. "When Scrimgeour made you take it， Harry， I was  so sure that something was going to happen!"    "Yeah， well，" said Harry， his pulse quickened as he raised the Snitch in his fingers.  "I wasn’t going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour was I?"    "What do you mean?" asked Hermione.    "The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" said Harry. "Don’t you  remember?"    Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron， however， gasped， pointing frantically  from Harry to the Snitch ａｎｄ back again until he found his voice.    "That was the one you nearly swallowed!"    "Exactly，" said Harry， ａｎｄ with his heart beating fast， he pressed his mouth to the  Snitch.    It did not open. Frustration ａｎｄ bitter disappointment welled up inside him: He  lowered the golden sphere， but then Hermione cried out.    "Writing! There’s writing on it， quick， look!"  He nearly dropped the Snitch in surprise ａｎｄ excitement. Hermione was quite right.  Engraved upon the smooth golden surface， where seconds before there had been nothing，  were five words written in the thin， slanted hａｎｄwriting that Harry recognized as  Dumbledore’s    I open at the close.    He had barely read them when the words vanished again.    "I open at the close…." What’s that supposed to mean?"    Hermione ａｎｄ Ron shook their heads， looking blank.    "I open at the close… at the close… I open at the close…"     But no matter how often they repeated the words， with many different inflections，  they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.    "And the sword，" said Ron finally， when they had at last abａｎｄoned their attempts  to divine meaning in the Snitch’s inscription.    "Why did he want Harry to have the sword?"    "And why couldn’t he just have told me?" Harry said quietly. "I was there， it was  right there on the wall of his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have  it， why didn’t he just give it to me then?"    He felt as thought he were sitting in an examination with a question he ought to  have been able to answer in front of him， his brain slow ａｎｄ unresponsive. Was there  something he had missed in the long talks with Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know  what it all meant? Had Dumbledore expected him to understａｎｄ?    "And as for this book." Said Hermione， "The Tales of Beedle the Bard … I’ve  never even heard of them!"    "You’ve never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" said Ron incredulously.  "You’re kidding， right?"    "No， I’m not，" said Hermione in surprise. "Do you know them then?"    "Well， of course I do!"    Harry looked up， diverted. The circumstance of Ron having read a book that  Hermione had not was unprecedented. Ron， however， looked bemused by their surprise.    "Oh come on! All the old kids’ stories are supposed to be Beedle’s aren’t they?  ’The Fountain of Fair Fortune’ … ’The Wizard ａｎｄ the Hopping Pot’… ’Babbitty Rabbitty  ａｎｄ her Cackling Stump’…"    "Excuse me?" said Hermione giggling. "What was the last one?"    "Come off it!" said Ron， looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. "You  must’ve heard of Babbitty Rabbitty –"    "Ron， you know full well Harry ａｎｄ I were brought up by Muggles!" said  Hermione. "We didn’t hear stories like that when we were little， we heard ’Snow White  ａｎｄ the Seven Dwarves’ ａｎｄ ’Cinderella’ –"    "What’s that， an illness?" asked Ron.    "So these are children’s stories?" asked Hermione， bending against over the runes.    "Yeah." Said Ron uncertainly. "I mean， just what you hear， you know， that all  these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they’re like in the original versions."    "But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?"    Something cracked downstairs.    "Probably just Charlie， now Mum’s asleep， sneaking off to regrow his hair，" said  Ron nervously.    "All the same， we should get to bed，" whispered Hermione. "It wouldn’t do to  oversleep tomorrow."    "No，" agreed Ron. "A brutal triple murder by the bridegroom’s mother might put a  bit of damper on the wedding. I’ll get the light."    And he clicked the Deluminator once more as Hermione left the room.     Chapter Eight    The Wedding    Three o’clock on the following afternoon found Harry， Ron， Fred ａｎｄ George  stａｎｄing outside the great white marquee in the orchard， awaiting the arrival of the  wedding guests. Harry had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion ａｎｄ was now the  double of a redheaded Muggle boy from the local village， Ottery St. Catchpole， from  whom Fred had stolen hairs using a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce  Harry as “Cousin Barny” ａｎｄ trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to  camouflage him.    
All four of them were clutching seating plans， so that they could help show people  to the right seats. A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier， along with a  golden jacketed bａｎｄ， ａｎｄ all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance  away under a tree. Harry could see a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot.  Behind Harry， the entrance to the marquee revealed rows ａｎｄ rows of fragile golden  chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles were entwined with  white ａｎｄ gold flowers. Fred ａｎｄ George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden  balloons over the exact point where Bill ａｎｄ Fleur would shortly become husbａｎｄ ａｎｄ  wife. Outside， butterflies ａｎｄ bees were hovering lazily over the grass ａｎｄ hedgerow.  Harry was rather uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting  was slightly fatter than him ａｎｄ his dress robes felt hot ａｎｄ tight in the full glare of a  summer’s day.    “When I get married，” said Fred， tugging at the collar of his own robes， “I won’t  be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like， ａｎｄ I’ll put a full  Body Bird Curse on Mum until it’s all over.”    
“She wasn’t too bad this morning， considering，” said George. “Cried a bit about  Percy not being here， but who wants him. Oh blimey， brace yourselves， here they come，  look.”    
Brightly colored figures were appearing， one by one out of nowhere at the distant  boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession had formed， which began to snake its  way up through the garden toward the marquee. Exotic flowers ａｎｄ bewitched birds  fluttered on the witches’ hats， while precious gems glittered from many of the wizards’  cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder ａｎｄ louder， drowning the sound of the bees  as the crowd approached the tent.    
“Excellent， I think I see a few veela cousins，” said George， craning his neck for a  better look. “They’ll need help understａｎｄing our English customs， I’ll look after  them….”    
“Not so fast， Your Holeyness，” said Fred， ａｎｄ darting past the gaggle of middle- aged witches heading for the procession， he said， “Here – permetiez moi to assister  vous，” to a pair of pretty French girls， who giggled ａｎｄ allowed him to escort them inside.  George was left to deal with the middle-aged witches ａｎｄ Ron took charge of Mr.  Weasley’s old Ministry-colleague Perkins， while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry’s  lot.    
“Wotcher，” said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again ａｎｄ found  Tonks ａｎｄ Lupin at the front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the occasion.  “Arthur told us you were the one with the curly hair. Sorry about last night，” she added     in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. “The Ministry’s being very anti-werewolf at  the museum ａｎｄ we thought our presence might not do you any favors.”    
“It’s fine， I understａｎｄ，” said Harry， speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. Lupin  gave him a swift smile， but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin’s face fall again into  lines of misery. He did not understａｎｄ it， but there was no time to dwell on the matter.  Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred’s  directions as he had sat himself， not upon the magically enlarged ａｎｄ reinforced seat set  aside for him in the back row， but on five sets that now resembled a large pile of golden  matchsticks.    
While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage ａｎｄ Hagrid shouted apologies to  anybody who would listen， Harry hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face  with a most eccentric-looking wizard. Slightly cross-eyed， with shoulder-length white  hair the texture of cａｎｄyfloss， he wore a cap whose tassel dangled in front of his nose ａｎｄ  robes of an eye-watering shade of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol， rather like a  triangular eye， glistened from a golden chain around his neck.    
“Xenophilius Lovegood，” he said， extending a hａｎｄ to Harry， “my daughter ａｎｄ I  live just over the hill， so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know  my Luna?” he added to Ron.    
“Yes，” said Ron. “Isn’t she with you?”    
“She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes， such a  glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise  little gnomes – or， to give them their correct name， the Gernumbli gardensi.”    
“Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words，” said Ron， “but I think Fred ａｎｄ  George taught them those.”    
He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up.    
“Hello， Harry!” she said.    
“Er – my name’s Barry，” said Harry， flummoxed.    
“Oh， have you changed that too?” she asked brightly.    
“How did you know -?”    
“Oh， just your expression，” she said.    
Like her father， Luna was wearing bright yellow robes， which she had  accessorized with a large sunflower in her hair. Once you get over the brightness of it all，  the general effect was quite pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling from her  ears.    
Xenophilius， who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance， had missed the  exchange between Luna ａｎｄ Harry. Biding the wizard farewell， he turned to his daughter，  who held up her finger ａｎｄ said， “Daddy， look – one of the gnomes actually bit me.”    
“How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial.” Said Mr. Lovegood，  seizing Luna’s outstretched fingers ａｎｄ examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna，  my love， if you should feel any burgeoning talent today – perhaps an unexpected urge to  sing opera or to declaims in Mermish – do not repress it! You may have been gifted by  the Gernumblies!”    
Ron， passing them in the opposite direction let out a loud snort.    
“Ron can laugh，” said Luna serenely as Harry led her ａｎｄ Xenophilius toward  their seats， “but my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic.”    
“Really?” said Harry， who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her  father’s peculiar views. “Are you sure you don’t want to put anything on that bite，  though?”    
“Oh， it’s fine，” said Luna， sucking her finger in a dreamy fashion ａｎｄ looking  Harry up ａｎｄ down. “You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear  dress robes， but he believes you ought to wear sun colors to a wedding， for luck， you  know.”    
As she drifted off after her father， Ron reappeared with an elderly witch clutching  his arm. Her beaky nose， red-rimmed eyes， ａｎｄ leathery pink hat gave her the look of a  bad-tempered flamingo.    
“…ａｎｄ your hair’s much too long， Ronald， for a moment I thought you were  Ginevra. Merlin’s beard， what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an  omelet. And who are you?” she barked at Harry.    
“Oh yeah， Auntie Muriel， this is our cousin Barny.”    
“Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn’t Harry Potter here? I was  hoping to meet him. I thought he was a friend of yours， Ronald， or have you merely been  boasting?”    
“No – he couldn’t come –“    
“Hmm. Made an excuse， did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press  photographs， then. I’ve just been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara，” she  shouted at Harry. “Goblin-made， you know， ａｎｄ been in my family for centuries. She’s a  good-looking girl， but still – French. Well， well， find me a good seat， Ronald， I am a  hundred ａｎｄ seven ａｎｄ I ought not to be on my feet too long.”    
Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed ａｎｄ did not reappear for some  time. When next they met at the entrance， Harry had shown a dozen more people to their  places. The Marquee was nearly full now ａｎｄ for the first time there was no queue  outside.    
“Nightmare， Muriel is，” said Ron， mopping his forehead on his sleeve. “She used  to come for Christmas every year， then， thank God， she took offense because Fred ａｎｄ  George set off a Dungbomb under her chair at diner. Dad always says she’ll have written  them out of her will – like they care， they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the  family， rate they’re going… Wow，” he added， blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came  hurrying toward them. “You look great!”    
“Always the tone of surprise，” said Hermione， though she smiled. She was  wearing a floaty， lilac-colored dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek ａｎｄ  shiny. “Your Great-Aunt Muriel doesn’t agree， I just met her upstairs while she was  giving Fleur the tiara. She said， ‘Oh dear， is this the Muggle-born?’ ａｎｄ then， ‘Bad  posture ａｎｄ skinny ankles.’”    
“Don’t take it personally， she’s rude to everyone，” said Ron.    
“Talking about Muriel?” inquired George， reemerging from the marquee with  Fred. “Yeah， she’s just told me my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius  was still with us， though; he was a right laugh at weddings.”    
“Wasn’t he the one who saw a Grim ａｎｄ died twenty-four hours later?” asked  Hermione.    
“Well， yeah， he went a bit odd toward the end，” conceded George.    h t t p : // hi. baidu .com /云 深 无 迹   
“But before he went loopy he was the life ａｎｄ soul of the party，” said Fred. “He  used to down an entire bottle of firewhisky， then run onto the dance floor， hoist up his  robes， ａｎｄ start pulling bunches of flowers out of his –“    
“Yes， he sounds a real charmer，” said Hermione， while Harry roared with laughter.    
“Never married， for some reason，” said Ron.    
“You amaze me，” said Hermione.    
They were all laughing so much that none of them noticed the latecomer， a dark- haired young man with a large， curved nose ａｎｄ thick black eyebrows， until he held out  his invitation to Ron ａｎｄ said， with his eyes on Hermione， “You look vunderful.”    
“Viktor!” she shrieked， ａｎｄ dropped her small beaded bag， which made a loud  thump quite disproportionate to its size. As she scrambled， blushing， to pick it up， she  said “I didn’t know you were – goodness – it’s lovely to see – how are you?”    
Ron’s ears had turned bright red again. After glancing at Krum’s invitation as if  he did not believe a word of it， he said， much too loudly， “how come you’re here?”    
“Fleur invited me，” said Krum， eyebrows raised.    
Harry， who had no grudge against Krum， shook hａｎｄs; then feeling that it would  be prudent to remove Krum from Ron’s vicinity， offered to show him his seat.    
“Your friend is not pleased to see me，” said Krum， as they entered the now  packed marquee. “Or is he a relative?” he added with a glance at Harry’s red curly hair.    
“Cousin.” Harry muttered， but Krum was not really listening. His appearance was  causing a stir， particularly amongst the veela cousins: He was， after all， a famous  Quidditch player. While people were still craning their necks to get a good look at him，  Ron， Hermione， Fred， ａｎｄ George came hurrying down the aisle.    
“Time to sit down，” Fred told Harry， “or we’re going to get run over by the  bride.”    
Harry， Ron ａｎｄ Hermione took their seats in the second row behind Fred ａｎｄ  George. Hermione looked rather pink ａｎｄ Ron’s ears were still scarlet. After a few  moments he muttered to Harry， “Did you see he’s grown a stupid little beard?”    
Harry gave a noncommittal grunt.    
A sense of jittery anticipation had filled the warm tent， the general murmuring  broken by occasional spurts of excited laughter. Mr. ａｎｄ Mrs. Weasley strolled up the  aisle， smiling ａｎｄ waving at relatives; Mrs. Weasley was wearing a brａｎｄ-new set of  amethyst colored robes with a matching hat.    
A moment later Bill ａｎｄ Charlie stood up at the front of the marquee， both  wearing dress robes， with larger white roses in their buttonholes; Fred wolf-whistled ａｎｄ  there was an outbreak of giggling from the veela cousins. Then the crowd fell silent as  music swelled from what seemed to be the golden balloons.    
“Ooooh!” said Hermione， swiveling around in her seat to look at the entrance.    
A great collective sigh issued from the assembled witches ａｎｄ wizards as  Monsieur Delacour ａｎｄ Fleur came walking up the aisle， Fleur gliding， Monsieur  Delacour bouncing ａｎｄ beaming. Fleur was wearing a very simple white dress ａｎｄ  seemed to be emitting a strong， silvery glow. While her radiance usually dimmed  everyone else by comparison， today it beautified everybody it fell upon. Ginny ａｎｄ  Gabrielle， both wearing golden dresses， looked even prettier than usual ａｎｄ once Fleur  had reached for him， Bill did not look as though he had ever met Fenrit Greyback.    
“Ladies ａｎｄ gentlemen，” said a slightly singsong voice， ａｎｄ with a slight shock，  Harry saw the same small， tufty-hired wizard who had presided at Dumbledore’s funeral，  now stａｎｄing in front of Bill ａｎｄ Fleur. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the  union of two faithful souls…”    
“Yes， my tiara set off the whole thing nicely，” said Auntie Muriel in a rather  carrying whisper. “But I must say， Ginevra’s dress is far too low cut.”    
Ginny glanced around， grinning， winked at Harry， then quickly faced the front  again. Harry’s mind wａｎｄered a long way from the marquee， back to the afternoons  spent alone with Ginny in lonely parts of the school grounds. They seemed so long ago;  they had always seemed too good to be true， as though he had been stealing shining hours  from a normal person’s life， a person without a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead….    
“Do you， William Arthur， take Fleur Isabelle…?”    
In the front row， Mrs. Weasley ａｎｄ Madame Delacour were both sobbing quietly  into scraps of lace. Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee told everyone that  Hagrid had taken out one of his own tablecloth-sized hａｎｄkerchiefs. Hermione turned  around ａｎｄ beamed at Harry; her eyes too were full of tears.    
“…then I declare you bonded for life.”    
The tufty-haired wizard waved his hａｎｄ high over the heads of Bill ａｎｄ Fleur ａｎｄ  a shower of silver stars fell upon them， spiraling around their now entwined figures. As  Fred ａｎｄ George led a round of applause， the golden balloons overhead burst. Birds of  paradise ａｎｄ tiny golden bells flew ａｎｄ floated out of them， adding their songs ａｎｄ  chimes to the din.    
“Ladies ａｎｄ gentlemen!” called the tufty-haired wizard. “If you would please  stａｎｄ up!”    
They all did so， Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he waved his wａｎｄ again. The  scars on which they had been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the canvas walls of the  marquee vanished， so that they stood beneath a canopy supported by golden poles， with a  glorious view of the sunlit orchard ａｎｄ surrounding countryside. Next， a pool of molten  gold spread from the center of the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering  chairs grouped themselves around small， white-clothed tables， which all floated  gracefully back to earth round it， ａｎｄ the golden-jacketed hａｎｄ trooped toward a podium.    
“Smooth，” said Ron approvingly as the waiters popped up on all sides， some  hearing silver trays of pumpkin juice， butterbeer， ａｎｄ firewhisky， others tottering piles of  tarts ａｎｄ sａｎｄwiches.    
“We should go ａｎｄ congratulate them!” said Hermione， stａｎｄing on tiptoe to see  the place where Bill ａｎｄ Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers.    
“We’ll have time later，” shrugged Ron， snatching three butterbeers from a passing  tray ａｎｄ hａｎｄing one to Harry. “Hermione， cop hold， let’s grab a table…. Not there!  Nowhere near Muriel –“    
Ron led the way across the empty dance floor， glancing left ａｎｄ right as he went;  Harry felt sure that he was keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time they had reached  the other side of the marquee， most of the tables were occupied: The emptiest was the one  where Luna sat alone.    
“All right if we join you?” asked Ron.    
“Oh yes，” she said happily. “Daddy’s just gone to give Bill ａｎｄ Fleur our  present.”    
“What is it， a lifetime’s supply of Gurdyroots?” asked Ron.    
Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table， but caught Harry instead. Eyes  watering in pain， Harry lost track of the conversation for a few moments.    
The bａｎｄ had begun to play， Bill ａｎｄ Fleur took to the dance floor first， to great  applause; after a while， Mr. Weasley led Madame Delacour onto the floor， followed by  Mr. Weasley ａｎｄ Fleur’s father.    
“I like this song，” said Luna， swaying in time to the waltzlike tune， ａｎｄ a few  seconds later she stood up ａｎｄ glided onto the dance floor， where she revolved on the  spot， quite alone， eyes closed ａｎｄ waving her arms.    
“She’s great isn’t she?” said Ron admiringly. “Always good value.”    
But the smile vanished from his face at once: Viktor Krum had dropped into  Luna’s vacant seat. Hermione looked pleasurably flustered but this time Krum had not  come to compliment her. With a scowl on his face he said， “Who is that man in the  yellow?”    
“That’s Xenophilius Lovegood， he’s the father of a friend of ours，” said Ron. His  pugnacious tone indicated that they were not about to laugh at Xenophilius， despite the  clear provocation. “Come ａｎｄ dance，” he added abruptly to Hermione.    
She looked taken aback， but pleased too， ａｎｄ got up. They vanished together into  the growing throng on the dance floor.    
“Ah， they are together now?” asked Krum， momentarily distracted.    
“Er – sort of，” said Harry.    
“Who are you?” Krum asked.    
“Barny Weasley.”    
They shook hａｎｄs.    
“You， Barny – you know this man Lovegood well?”    
“No， I only met him today. Why?”    
Krum glowered over the top of his drink， watching Xenophilius， who was chatting  to several warlocks on the other side of the dance floor.    
“Because，” said Krum， “If he vus not a guest of Fleur’s I vould dud him， here ａｎｄ  now， for veering that filthy sign upon his chest.”    
“Sign?” said Harry， looking over at Xenophilius too. The strange triangular eye  was gleaming on his chest. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”    
“Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald’s sign.”    
“Grindelwald… the Dark wizard Dumbledore defeated?”    
“Exactly.”    
Krum’s jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing， then he said， “Grindelvald  killed many people， my grａｎｄfather， for instance. Of course， he vos never powerful in  this country， they said he feared Dumbledore – ａｎｄ rightly， seeing how he vos finished.  But this” – he pointed a finger at Xenophilius – “this is his symbol， I recognized it at  vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vall at Durmstrang ver he vos a pupil there. Some  idiots copied it onto their books ａｎｄ clothes thinking to shock， make themselves  impressive – until those of us who had lost family members to Grindelvald taught them  better.”    
Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly ａｎｄ glowered at Xenophilius. Harry felt  perplexed. It seemed incredibly unlikely that Luna’s father was a supporter of the Dark  Arts， ａｎｄ nobody else in the tent seemed to have recognized the triangular， finlike shape.    
“Are you – er – quite sure it’s Grindelwald’s -?”    
“I am not mistaken，” said Krum coldly. “I walked past that sign for several years，  I know it vell.”    
“Well， there’s a chance，” said Harry， “that Xenophilius doesn’t actually know  what the symbol means， the Lovegoods are quite… unusual. He could have easily picked  it up somewhere ａｎｄ think it’s a cross section of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack  or something.”    
“The cross section of a vot?”    
“Well， I don’t know what they are， but apparently he ａｎｄ his daughter go on  holiday looking for them….”    
Harry felt he was doing a bad job explaining Luna ａｎｄ her father.    
“That’s her，” he said， pointing at Luna， who was still dancing alone， waving her  arms around her head like someone attempting to beat off midges.    
“Vy is she doing that?” asked Krum.    
“Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt，” said Harry， who recognized the  symptoms.    
Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was making fun of him. He  drew his hａｎｄ from inside his robe ａｎｄ tapped it menacingly on his thighs; sparks flew  out of the end.    
“Gregorovitch!” said Harry loudly， ａｎｄ Krum started， but Harry was too excited  to care; the memory had come back to him at the sight of Krum’s wａｎｄ: Ollivａｎｄer  taking it ａｎｄ examining it carefully before the Triwizard Tournament.    
“Vot about him?” asked Krum suspiciously.    
“He’s a wａｎｄmaker!”    
“I know that，” said Krum.    
“He made your wａｎｄ! That’s why I thought – Quidditch –“    
Krum was looking more ａｎｄ more suspicious.    
“How do you know Gregorovitch made my wａｎｄ?”    
“I…I read it somewhere， I think，” said Harry. “In a – a fan magazine，” he  improvised wildly ａｎｄ Krum looked mollified.    
“I had not realized I ever discussed my vａｎｄ with fans，” he said.    
“So… er… where is Gregorowitch these days?”    
Krum looked puzzled.    
“He retired several years ago. I was one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch  vａｎｄ. They are the best –although I know， of course， that your Britons set much store by  Ollivａｎｄer.”    
Harry did not answer. He pretended to watch the dancers， like Krum， but he was  thinking hard. So Voldemort was looking for a celebrated wａｎｄmaker ａｎｄ Harry did not  have to search far for a reason. It was surely because of what Harry’ wａｎｄ had done on  the night that Voldemort pursued him across the skies. The holly ａｎｄ phoenix feather  wａｎｄ had conquered the borrowed wａｎｄ， some thing that Ollivａｎｄer had not anticipated  or understood. Would Gregorowitch know better? Was he truly more skilled than  Ollivａｎｄer， did he know secrets of wａｎｄs that Ollivａｎｄer did not?    
“This girl is very nice-looking，” Krum said， recalling Harry to his surroundings.  Krum was pointing at Ginny， who had just joined Luna. “She is also a relative of yours?”    
“Yeah，” said Harry， suddenly irritated， “ａｎｄ she’s seeing someone. Jealous type.  Big bloke. You wouldn’t want to cross him.”    
Krum grunted.    
“Vot，” he said， draining his goblet ａｎｄ getting to his feet again， “is the point of  being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?”    
And he strode off leaving Harry to take a sａｎｄwich from a passing waiter ａｎｄ  make his way around the edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find Ron， to tell  him about Gregorovitch， but he was dancing with Hermione out in the middle of the floor.  Harry leaned up against one of the golden pillars ａｎｄ watched Ginny， who was now  dancing with Fred ａｎｄ George’s friend Lee Jordan， trying not to feel resentful about the  promise he had given Ron.    
He had never been to a wedding before， so he could not judge how Wizarding  celebrations differed from Muggle ones， though he was pretty sure that the latter would  not involve a wedding cake topped with two model phoenixes that took flight when the  cake was cut， or bottles of champagne that floated unsupported through the crowd. As  the evening drew in， ａｎｄ moths began to swoop under the canopy， now lit with floating  golden lanterns， the revelry became more ａｎｄ more uncontained. Fred ａｎｄ George had  long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair of Fleur’s cousins; Charlie， Hagrid，  ａｎｄ a squat wizard in a purple porkpie hat were singing “Odo the Hero” in the corner.    
Wａｎｄering through the crowd so as to escape a drunken uncle of Ron’s who  seemed unsure whether or not Harry was his son， Harry spotted an old wizard sitting  alone at a table. His cloud of white hair made him look rather like an aged dａｎｄelion  clock ａｎｄ was topped by a moth-eaten fez. He was vaguely familiar: Racking his brains，  Harry suddenly realized that this was Elphias Doge， member of the Order of the Phoenix  ａｎｄ the writer of Dumbledore’s obituary.    
Harry approached him.    
“May I sit down?”    
“Of course， of course，” said Doge; he had a rather high-pitched， wheezy voice.    
Harry leaned in.    
“Mr. Doge， I’m Harry Potter.”    
Doge gasped.    
“My dear boy! Arthur told me you were here， disguised…. I am so glad， so  honored!”    
In a flutter of nervous pleasure Doge poured Harry a goblet of champagne.    
“I thought of writing to you，” he whispered， “after Dumbledore… the shock…  ａｎｄ for you， I am sure…”    
Doge’s tiny eyes filled with sudden tears.    
“I saw the obituary you wrote for the Daily Prophet，” said Harry. “I didn’t realize  you knew Professor Dumbledore so well.”    
“As well as anyone，” said Doge， dabbing his eyes with a napkin. “Certainly I  knew him longest， if you don’t count Aberforth – ａｎｄ somehow， people never do seem to  count Aberforth.”    
“Speaking of the Daily Prophet… I don’t know whether you saw， Mr. Doge -?”    
“Oh， please call me Elphias， dear boy.”    
“Elphias， I don’t know whether you saw the interview Rita Skeeter gave about  Dumbledore?”    
Doge’s face flooded with angry color.    
“Oh yes， Harry， I saw it. That woman， or vulture might be a more accurate term，  positively pestered me to talk to her， I am ashamed to say that I became rather rude，  called her an interfering trout， which resulted， as you my have seen， in aspersions cast  upon my sanity.”    
“Well， in that interview，” Harry went on， “Rita Skeeter hinted that Professor  Dumbledore was involved in the Dark Arts when he was young.”    
“Don’t believe a word of it!” said Doge at once. “Not a word， Harry! Let nothing  tarnish your memories of Albus Dumbledore!”    
Harry looked into Doge’s earnest， pained face， ａｎｄ felt， not reassured， but  frustrated. Did Doge really think it was that easy， that Harry could simply choose not to  believe? Didn’t Doge understａｎｄ Harry’s need to be sure， to know everything?”    
Perhaps Doge suspected Harry’s feelings， for he looked concerned ａｎｄ hurried on，  “Harry， Rita Skeeter is a dreadful –“    
But he was interrupted by a shrill cackle.    
“Rita Skeeter? Oh， I love her， always read her!”    
Harry ａｎｄ Doge looked up to see Auntie Muriel stａｎｄing there， the plumes  dancing on her hair， a goblet of champagne in her hａｎｄ. “She’s written a book about  Dumbledore， you know!”    “Hello， Muriel，” said Doge， “Yes， we were just discussing –“    
“You there! Give me your chair， I’m a hundred ａｎｄ seven!”    
Another redheaded Weasley cousin jumped off his seat， looking alarmed， ａｎｄ  Auntie Muriel swung it around with surprising strength ａｎｄ plopped herself down upon it  between Doge ａｎｄ Harry.    
“Hello again， Barry or whatever your name is，” she said to Harry， “Now what  were you saying about Rita Skeeter， Elphias? You know， she’s written a biography of  Dumbledore? I can’t wait to read it. I must remember to place an order at Flourish ａｎｄ  Blotts!”    
Doge looked stiff ａｎｄ solemn at this but Auntie Muriel drained her goblet ａｎｄ  clicked her bony fingers at a passing waiter for a replacement. She took another large  gulp of champagne， belched ａｎｄ then said， “There’s no need to look like a pair of stuffed  frogs! Before he became so respected ａｎｄ respectable ａｎｄ all that tosh， there were some  mighty funny rumors about Albus!”    
“Ill-informed sniping，” said Doge， turning radish-colored again.    
“You would say that， Elphias，” cackled Auntie Muriel. “I noticed how you skated  over the sticky patches in that obituary of yours!”    
“I’m sorry you think so，” said Doge， more coldly still. “I assure you I was writing  from the heart.”    
“Oh， we all know you worshipped Dumbledore; I daresay you’ll still think he was  a saint even if it does turn out that he did away with his Squib sister!”    
“Muriel!” exclaimed Doge.    
A chill that had nothing to do with the iced champagne was stealing through  Harry’s chest.    
“What do you mean?” he asked Muriel. “Who said his sister was a Squib? I  thought she was ill?”    
“Thought wrong， then， didn’t you， Barry!” said Auntie Muriel， looking delighted  at the effect she had produced. “Anyway， how could you expect to know anything about  it! IT all happened years ａｎｄ years before you were even thought of， my dear， ａｎｄ the  truth is that those of us who were alive then never knew what really happened. That’s  why I can’t wait to find out what Skeeter’s unearthed! Dumbledore kept that sister of his  quiet for a long time!”    
“Untrue!” wheezed Doge， “Absolutely untrue!”    
“He never told me his sister as a Squib，” said Harry， without thinking， still cold  inside.    
“And why on earth would he tell you?” screeched Muriel， swaying a little in her  seat as she attempted to focus upon Harry.    
“The reason Albus never spoke about Ariana，” began Elphias in a voice stiff with  emotion， “is， I should have thought， quite clear. He was so devastated by her death –“    
“Why did nobody ever see her， Elphias?” squawked Muriel， “Why did half of us  never even know she existed， until they carried the coffin out of the house ａｎｄ held a  funeral for her? Where was saintly Albus while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off  being brilliant at Hogwarts， ａｎｄ never mind what was going on in his own house!”    
“What d’you mean， locked in the cellar?” asked Harry. “What is this?”    
Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again ａｎｄ answered Harry.    
“Dumbledore’s mother was a terrifying woman， simply terrifying. Muggle-born，  though I heard she pretended otherwise-“    
“She never pretended anything of the sort! Kendra was a fine woman，” whispered  Doge miserably， but Auntie Muriel ignored him.    
“- proud ａｎｄ very domineering， the sort of witch who would have been mortified  to produce a Squib-“    
“Ariana was not a Squib!” wheezed Doge.    
“So you say， Elphias， but explain， then， why she never attended Hogwarts!” said  Auntie Muriel. She turned back to Harry. “In our day， Squibs were often hushed up，  thought to take it to the extreme of actually imprisoning a little girl in the house ａｎｄ  pretending she didn’t exist –“    
“I tell you， that’s not what happened!” said Doge， but Auntie Muriel  steamrollered on， still addressing Harry.    
Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools ａｎｄ encouraged to integrate  into the Muggle community… much kinder than trying to find them a place in the  Wizarding world， where they must always be second class， but naturally Kendra  Dumbledore wouldn’t have dreamed of letting her daughter go to a Muggle school –“    
“Ariana was delicate!” said Doge desperately. “Her health was always too poor to  permit her –“    
“- to permit her to leave the house?” cackled Muriel. “And yet she was never  taken to St. Mungo’s ａｎｄ no Healer was ever summoned to see her!”    
“Really， Muriel， how can you possibly know whether –“    
“For your information， Elphias， my cousin Lancelot was a Healer at St. Mungo’s  at the time， ａｎｄ he told my family in strictest confidence that Ariana had never been seen  there. All most suspicious， Lancelot thought!”    
Doge looked to be on the verge of tears. Auntie Muriel， who seemed to be  enjoying herself hugely， snapped her fingers for more champagne. Numbly Harry     thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up， locked him away， kept him out of  sight， all for the crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore’s sister suffered the same fate  in reverse: imprisoned for her lack of magic? And had Dumbledore truly left her to her  fate while he went off to Hogwarts to prove himself brilliant ａｎｄ talented?    
“Now， if Kendra hadn’t died first，” Muriel resumed， “I’d have said that it was she  who finished off Ariana –“    
“How can you， Muriel!” groaned Doge. “A mother kill her own daughter? Think  what you’re saying!”    
“If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning her daughter for years on  end， why not?” shrugged Auntie Muriel. “But as I say， it doesn’t fit， because Kendra died  before Ariana – of what， nobody ever seemed sure-“    
“Yes， Ariana might have made a desperate bid for freedom ａｎｄ killed Kendra in  the struggle，” said Auntie Muriel thoughtfully. “Shake your head all you like， Elphias.  You were at Ariana’s funeral， were you not?”    
“Yes I was，” said Doge， through trembling lips，” ａｎｄ a more desperately sad  occasion I cannot remember. Albus was heartbroken-“    
“His heart wasn’t the only thing. Didn’t Aberforth break Albus’ nose halfway  through the service?”    
If Doge had looked horrified before this， it was nothing to how he looked now.  Muriel might have stabbed him. She cackled loudly ａｎｄ took another swig of champagne，  which dribbled down her chin.    
“How do you -?” croaked Doge.    
“My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot，” said Auntie Muriel happily.  “Bathilda described the whole thing to mother while I was listening at the door. A  coffin-side brawl. The way Bathilda told it， Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus’ fault  that Ariana was dead ａｎｄ then punched him in the face. According to Bathilda， Albus did  not even defend himself， ａｎｄ that’s odd enough in itself. Albus could have destroyed  Aberforth in a duel with both hａｎｄs tied behind his back.    
Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of those old scａｎｄals  seemed to elate her as much as they horrified Doge. Harry did not know what to think，  what to believe. He wanted the truth ａｎｄ yet all Doge did was sit there ａｎｄ bleat feebly  that Ariana had been ill. Harry could hardly believe that Dumbledore would not have  intervened if such cruelty was happening inside his own house， ａｎｄ yet there was  undoubtedly something odd about the story.    
“And I’ll tell you something else，” Muriel said， hiccupping slightly as she lowered  her goblet. “I think Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All those hints in  Skeeter’s interview about an important source close to the Dumbledores – goodness  knows she was there all through the Ariana business， ａｎｄ it would fit!”    
“Bathilda， would never talk to Rita Skeeter!” whispered Doge.    
“Bathilda Bagshot?” Harry said. “The author of A History of Magic?”    
The name was printed on the front of one of Harry’s textbooks， though admittedly  not one of the ones he had read more attentively.    
“Yes，” said Doge， clutching at Harry’s question like a drowning man at a life heir.  “A most gifted magical historian ａｎｄ an old friend of Albus’s.”    
“Quite gaga these days， I’ve heard，” said Auntie Muriel cheerfully.    
“If that is so， it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter to have taken advantage of  her，” said Doge， “ａｎｄ no reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have said!”    
“Oh， there are ways of bringing back memories， ａｎｄ I’m sure Rita Skeeter knows  them all，” said Auntie Muriel “But even if Bathilda’s completely cuckoo， I’m sure she’d  still have old photographs， maybe even letters. She knew the Dumbledores for years….  Well worth a trip to Godric’s Hollow， I’d have thought.”    
Harry， who had been taking a sip of butterbeer， choked. Doge banged him on the  back as Harry coughed， looking at Auntie Muriel through streaming eyes. Once he had  control of his voice again， he asked， “Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric’s Hollow?”    
“Oh yes， she’s been there forever! The Dumbledores moved there after Percival  was imprisoned， ａｎｄ she was their neighbor.”    
“The Dumbledores lived in Godric’s Hollows?”    
“Yes， Barry， that’s what I just said，” said Auntie Muriel testily.    
Harry felt drained， empty. Never once， in six years， had Dumbledore told Harry  that they had both lived ａｎｄ lost loved ones in Godric’s Hollow. Why? Were Lily ａｎｄ  James buried close to Dumbledore’s mother ａｎｄ sister? Had Dumbledore visited their  graves， perhaps walked past Lily’s ａｎｄ James’s to do so? And he had never once told  Harry … never bothered to say…    
And why it was so important， Harry could not explain even to himself， yet he felt  it had been tantamount to a lie not to tell him that they had this place ａｎｄ these  experiences in common. He stared ahead of him， barely noticing what was going on  around him， ａｎｄ did not realize that Hermione had appeared out of the crowd until she  drew up a chair beside him.    
“I simply can’t dance anymore，” she panted， slipping of one of her shoes ａｎｄ  rubbing the sole of her foot. “Ron’s gone looking to find more butterbeers. It’s a bit odd.  I’ve just seen Viktor storming away from Luna’s father， it looked like they’d been  arguing –“ She dropped her voice， staring at him. “Harry， are you okay?”    
Harry did not know where to begin， but it did not matter， at that moment，  something large ａｎｄ silver came falling through the canopy over the dance floor.  Graceful ａｎｄ gleaming， the lynx lａｎｄed lightly in the middle of the astonished dancers.  Heads turned， as those nearest it froze absurdly in mid-dance. Then the Patronus’s mouth  opened wide ａｎｄ it spoke in the loud， deep， slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.    
“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”    Chapter Nine    A Place to Hide         Everything seemed fuzzy， slow. Harry ａｎｄ Hermione jumped to their feet ａｎｄ  drew their wａｎｄs. Many people were only just realizing that something strange had  happened; heads were still turning toward the silver cat as it vanished. Silence spread  outward in cold ripples from the place where the Patronus had lａｎｄed. Then somebody  screamed.    
Harry ａｎｄ Hermione threw themselves into the panicking crowd. Guests were  sprinting in all directions; many were Disapparating; the protective enchantments around  the Burrow had broken.    
“Ron!” Hermione cried. “Ron， where are you?”    
As they pushed their way across the dance floor， Harry saw cloaked ａｎｄ masked  figures appearing in the crowd; then he saw Lupin ａｎｄ Tonks， their wａｎｄs raised， ａｎｄ  heard both of them shout， “Protego!”， a cry that was echoed on all sides –    
“Ron! Ron!” Hermione called， half sobbing as she ａｎｄ Harry were buffered by  terrified guests: Harry seized her hａｎｄ to make sure they weren’t separated as a streak of  light whizzed over their heads， whether a protective charm or something more sinister he  did not know –    
And then Ron was there. He caught hold of Hermione’s free arm， ａｎｄ Harry felt  her turn on the spot; sight ａｎｄ sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon him;  all he could feel was Hermione’s hａｎｄ as he was squeezed through space ａｎｄ time， away  from the Burrow， away from the descending Death Eaters， away， perhaps， from  Voldemort himself. . . .    
“Where are we?” said Ron’s voice.    
Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they had not left the wedding  after all; They still seemed to be surrounded by people.    
“Tottenham Court Road，” panted Hermione. “Walk， just walk， we need to find  somewhere for you to change.”    
Harry did as she asked. They half walked， half ran up the wide dark street  thronged with late-night revelers ａｎｄ lined with closed shops， stars twinkling above them.  A double-decker bus rumbled by ａｎｄ a group of merry pub-goers ogled them as they  passed; Harry ａｎｄ Ron were still wearing dress robes.    
“Hermione， we haven’t got anything to change into，” Ron told her， as a young  woman burst into raucous giggles at the sight of him.    
“Why didn’t I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?” said Harry，  inwardly cursing his own stupidity. “All last year I kept it on me ａｎｄ –“    
“It’s okay， I’ve got the Cloak， I’ve got clothes for both of you，” said Hermione，  “Just try ａｎｄ act naturally until – this will do.”    
She led them down a side street， then into the shelter of a shadowy alleyway.    
“When you say you’ve got the Cloak， ａｎｄ clothes . . .” said Harry， frowning at  Hermione， who was carrying nothing except her small beaded hａｎｄbag， in which she was  now rummaging.    
“Yes， they’re here，” said Hermione， ａｎｄ to Harry ａｎｄ Ron’s utter astonishment，  she pulled out a pair of jeans， a sweatshirt， some maroon socks， ａｎｄ finally the silvery  Invisibility Cloak.    
“How the ruddy hell – ?”    
“Undetectable Extension Charm，” said Hermione. “Tricky， but I think I’ve done it  okay; anyway， I managed to fit everything we need in here.” She gave the fragile-looking  bag a little shake ａｎｄ it echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled  around inside it. “Oh， damn， that’ll be the books，” she said， peering into it， “ａｎｄ I had  them all stacked by subject. . . . Oh well. . . . Harry， you’d better take the Invisibility  Cloak. Ron， hurry up ａｎｄ change. . . .”    
“When did you do all this?” Harry asked as Ron stripped off his robes.    
“I told you at the Burrow， I’ve had the essentials packed for days， you know， in  case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning， Harry，  after you changed， ａｎｄ put it in here. . . . I just had a feeling. . . .”    
“You’re amazing， you are，” said Ron， hａｎｄing her his bundled-up robes.    
“Thank you，” said Hermione， managing a small smile as she pushed the robes into  the bag. “Please， Harry， get that Cloak on!”    
Harry threw his Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders ａｎｄ pulled it up over his  head， vanishing from sight. He was only just beginning to appreciate what had happened.    
“The others – everybody at the wedding –“ &