“I am Remus John Lupin， werewolf， sometimes known as Moony， one of the four  creators of the Marauder’s Map， married to Nymphadora， usually known as Tonks， ａｎｄ I  taught you how to produce a Patronus， Harry， which takes the form of a stag.”    “Oh， all right，” said Harry， lowering his wａｎｄ， “but I had to check， didn’t I?”    “Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher， I quite agree that  you had to check. Ron， Hermione， you shouldn’t be so quick to lower your defenses.”    They ran down the stairs towards him. Wrapped in a thick black traveling cloak，  he looked exhausted， but pleased to see them.    “No sign of Severus， then?” he asked.    “No，” said Harry. “What’s going on? Is everyone okay?’    “Yes，” said Lupin， “but we’re all being watched. There are a couple of Death  Eaters in the square outside –”    “We know –”    “I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step outside the front door to be  sure that they would not see me. They can’t know you’re in here or I’m sure they’d have  more people out there; they’re staking out everywhere that’s got any connection with you，  Harry. Let’s go downstairs， there’s a lot to tell you， ａｎｄ I want to know what happened  after you left the Burrow.”    They descended into the kitchen， where Hermione pointed her wａｎｄ at the grate.  A fire sprang up instantly: It gave the illusion of coziness to the stark stone walls ａｎｄ  glistened off the long wooden table. Lupin pulled a few butterbeers from beneath his  traveling cloak ａｎｄ they sat down.    “I’d have been here three days ago but I needed to shake off the Death Eater  tailing me，” said Lupin. “So， you came straight here after the wedding?”    “No，” said Harry， “only after we ran into a couple of Death Eaters in a café on  Tottenham Court Road.”    Lupin slopped most of his butterbeer down his front.    “What?”    They explained what had happened; when they had finished， Lupin looked aghast.    “But how did they find you so quickly? It’s impossible to track anyone who  Apparates， unless you grab hold of them as they disappear.”    “And it doesn’t seem likely they were just strolling down Tottenham Court Road  at the time， does it?” said Harry.    “We wondered，” said Hermione tentatively， “whether Harry could still have the  Trace on him?”    “Impossible，” said Lupin. Ron looked smug， ａｎｄ Harry felt hugely relieved.  “Apart from anything else， they’d know for sure Harry was here if he still had the Trace  on him， wouldn’t they? But I can’t see how they could have tracked you to Tottenham  Court Road， that’s worrying， really worrying.”    He looked disturbed， but as far as Harry was concerned， that question could wait.    “Tell us what happened after we left， we haven’t heard a thing since Ron’s dad  told us the family was safe.”    “Well， Kingsley saved us，” said Lupin. “Thanks to his warning most of the  wedding guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived.”    “Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?” interjected Hermione.     “A mixture; but to all intents ａｎｄ purposes they’re the same thing now，” said  Lupin. “There were about a dozen of them， but they didn’t know you were there， Harry.  Arthur heard a rumor that they tried to torture your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before  they killed him; if it’s true， he didn’t give you away.”    Harry looked at Ron ａｎｄ Hermione; their expressions reflected the mingled shock  ａｎｄ gratitude he felt. He had never liked Scrimgeour much， but if what Lupin said was  true， the man’s final act had been to try to protect Harry.    “The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to bottom，” Lupin went on.  “They found the ghoul， but didn’t want to get too close – ａｎｄ then they interrogated those  of us who remained for hours. They were trying to get information on you， Harry， but of  course nobody apart from the Order knew that you had been there.    “At the same time that they were smashing up the wedding， more Death Eaters  were forcing their way into every Order-connected house in the country. No deaths，” he  added quickly， forestalling the question， “but they were rough. They burned down  Dedalus Diggle’s house， but as you know he wasn’t there， ａｎｄ they used the Cruciarus  Curse on Tonks’s family. Again， trying to find out where you went after you visited them.  They’re all right – shaken， obviously， but otherwise okay.”    “The Death Eaters got through all those protective charms?”    Harry asked， remembering how effective these had been on the night he had  crashed in Tonks’s parents’ garden.    “What you’ve got to realize， Harry， is that the Death Eaters have got the full  might of the Ministry on their side now，” said Lupin. “They’ve got the power to perform  brutal spells without fear of identification or arrest. They managed to penetrate every  defensive spell we’d cast against them， ａｎｄ once inside， they were completely open about  why they’d come.”    “And are they bothering to give an excuse for torturing Harry’s whereabouts out  of people?” asked Hermione， an edge to her voice.    “Well，” Lupin said. He hesitated， then pulled out a folded copy of the Daily  Prophet.    “Here，” he said， pushing it across the table to Harry， “you’ll know sooner or later  anyway. That’s their pretext for going after you.”    Harry smoothed out the paper. A huge photograph of his own face filled the front  page. He read the headline over it:        
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT    
THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE         Ron ａｎｄ Hermione gave roars of outrage， but Harry said nothing. He pushed the  newspaper away; he did not want to read anymore: He knew what it would say. Nobody  but those who had been on top of the tower when Dumbledore died knew who had really  killed him ａｎｄ， as Rita Skeeter had already told the Wizarding world， Harry had been  seen running from the place moments after Dumbledore had fallen.    “I’m sorry， Harry，” Lupin said.    “So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet too?” asked Hermione  furiously.    Lupin nodded.     “But surely people realize what’s going on?”    “The coup has been smooth ａｎｄ virtually silent，” said Lupin.    “The official version of Scrimgeour’s murder is that he resigned; he has been  replaced by Pius Thicknesse， who is under the Imperius Curse.”    “Why didn’t Voldemort declare himself Minister of Magic?” asked Ron.    Lupin laughed.    “He doesn’t need to， Ron. Effectively， he is the Minister， but why should he sit  behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet， Thicknesse， is taking care of everyday  business， leaving Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry.    “Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a  dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days， ａｎｄ many are whispering that  Voldemort must be behind it. However， that is the point: They whisper. They daren’t  confide in each other， not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out， in case  their suspicions are true ａｎｄ their families are targeted. Yes， Voldemort is playing a very  clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion: Remaining masked  has created confusion， uncertainty， ａｎｄ fear.”    “And this dramatic change in Ministry policy，” said Harry， “involves warning the  Wizarding world against me instead of Voldemort?”    “That’s certainly a part of it，” said Lupin， “ａｎｄ it is a masterstroke. Now that  Dumbledore is dead， you – the Boy Who Lived – were sure to be the symbol ａｎｄ rallying  point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hａｎｄ in the old  hat’s death， Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head， but sown doubt ａｎｄ fear  amongst many who would have defended you.    “Meanwhile， the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns.”    Lupin pointed at the Daily Prophet.    “Look at page two.”    Hermione turned the pages with much the same expression of distaste she had  when hａｎｄling Secrets of the Darkest Art.    “Muggle-born Register!” she read aloud. “‘The Ministry of Magic is undertaking  a survey of so-called “Muggle-borns” the better to understａｎｄ how they came to possess  magical secrets.    “‘Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic  can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven  Wizarding ancestry exists， therefore， the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained  magical power by theft or force.    “‘The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power， ａｎｄ to  this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for  interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.’”    “People won’t let this happen，” said Ron.    “It is happening， Ron，” said Lupin. “Muggle-borns are being rounded up as we  speak.”    “But how are they supposed to have ‘stolen’ magic?” said Ron. “It’s mental， if  you could steal magic there wouldn’t be any Squibs， would there?”    “I know，” said Lupin. “Nevertheless， unless you can prove that you have at least  one close Wizarding relative， you are now deemed to have obtained your magical power  illegally ａｎｄ must suffer the punishment.”     Ron glanced at Hermione， then said， “What if purebloods ａｎｄ halfbloods swear a  Muggle-born’s part of their family? I’ll tell everyone Hermione’s my cousin –”    Hermione covered Ron’s hａｎｄ with hers ａｎｄ squeezed it.    “Thank you， Ron， but I couldn’t let you –”    “You won’t have a choice，” said Ron fiercely， gripping her hａｎｄ back. “I’ll teach  you my family tree so you can answer questions on it.”    Hermione gave a shaky laugh.    “Ron， as we’re on the run with Harry Potter， the most wanted person in the  country， I don’t think it matters. If I was going back to school it would be different.  What’s Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?” she asked Lupin.    “Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch ａｎｄ wizard，” he replied.  “That was announced yesterday. It’s a change， because it was never obligatory before. Of  course， nearly every witch ａｎｄ wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts， but their  parents had the right to teach them at home or send them abroad if they preferred. This  way， Voldemort will have the whole Wizarding population under his eye from a young  age. And it’s also another way of weeding out Muggle-borns， because students must be  given Blood Status – meaning that they have proven to the Ministry that they are of  Wizard descent – before they are allowed to attend.”    Harry felt sickened ａｎｄ angry: At this moment， excited eleven-year-olds would be  poring over stacks of newly purchased spell-books， unaware that they would never see  Hogwarts， perhaps never see their families again either.    “It’s . . . it’s . . .” he muttered， struggling to find words that did justice to the  horror of his thoughts， but Lupin said quietly，    “I know.”    Lupin hesitated.    I’ll understａｎｄ if you can’t confirm this， Harry， but the Order is under the  impression that Dumbledore left you a mission.”    “He did，” Harry replied， “ａｎｄ Ron ａｎｄ Hermione are in on it ａｎｄ they’re coming  with me.”    “Can you confide in me what the mission is?”    Harry looked into the prematurely lined face， framed in thick but graying hair，  ａｎｄ wished that he could return a different answer.    “I can’t， Remus， I’m sorry. If Dumbledore didn’t tell you I don’t think I can.”    “I thought you’d say that，” said Lupin， looking disappointed. “But I might still be  of some use to you. You know what I am ａｎｄ what I can do. I could come with you to  provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to.”    Harry hesitated. It was a very tempting offer， though how they would be able to  keep their mission secret from Lupin if he were with them all the time he could not  imagine.    Hermione， however， looked puzzled.    “But what about Tonks?” she asked.    “What about her?” said Lupin.    “Well，” said Hermione， frowning， “you’re married! How does she feel about you  going away with us?”    “Tonks will be perfectly safe，” said Lupin， “She’ll be at her parents’ house.”     There was something strange in Lupin’s tone， it was almost cold. There was also  something odd in the idea of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents’ house; she was， after  all， a member of the Order ａｎｄ， as far as Harry knew， was likely to want to be in the thick  of the action.    “Remus，” said Hermione tentatively， “is everything all right . . . you know . . .  between you ａｎｄ – ”    “Everything is fine， thank you，” said Lupin pointedly.    Hermione turned pink. There was another pause， an awkward ａｎｄ embarrassed  one， ａｎｄ then Lupin said， with an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant，  “Tonks is going to have a baby.”    “Oh， how wonderful!” squealed Hermione.    “Excellent!” said Ron enthusiastically.    “Congratulations，” said Harry.    Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace， then said， “So . . . do  you accept my offer? Will three become four? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would  have disapproved， he appointed me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher， after all.  And I must tell you that I believe we are facing magic many of us have never  encountered or imagined.”    Ron ａｎｄ Hermione both looked at Harry.    “Just – just to be clear，” he said. “You want to leave Tonks at her parents’ house  ａｎｄ come away with us?”    “She’ll be perfectly safe there， they’ll look after her，” said Lupin. He spoke with a  finality bordering on indifference: “Harry， I’m sure James would have wanted me to stick  with you.”    “Well，” said Harry slowly， “I’m not. I’m pretty sure my father would have wanted  to know why you aren’t sticking with your own kid， actually.”    Lupin’s face drained of color. The temperature in the kitchen might have dropped  ten degrees. Ron stared around the room as though he had been bidden to memorize it，  while Hermione’s eyes swiveled backward ａｎｄ forward from Harry to Lupin.    “You don’t understａｎｄ，” said Lupin at last.    “Explain， then，” said Harry.    Lupin swallowed.    “I – I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better  judgment ａｎｄ have regretted it very much every since.”    “I see，” said Harry， “so you’re just going to dump her ａｎｄ the kid ａｎｄ run off with  us?”    Lupin sprang to his feet: His chair toppled over backward， ａｎｄ he glared at them  so fiercely that Harry saw， for the first time ever， she shadow of the wolf upon his human  face.    “Don’t you understａｎｄ what I’ve done to my wife ａｎｄ my unborn child? I should  never have married her， I’ve made her an outcast!”    Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned.    “You have only ever seen me amongst the Order， or under Dumbledore’s  protection at Hogwarts! You don’t know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures  like me! When they know of my affliction， they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see  what I’ve done?     Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage， what parents want their only  daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child – the child – ”    Lupin actually seized hａｎｄfuls of his own hair; he looked quite deranged.    “My kind don’t usually breed! It will be like me， I am convinced of it – how can I  forgive myself， when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent  child? And if， by some miracle， it is not like me， then it will be better off， a hundred times  so， without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!”    “Remus!” whispered Hermione， tears in her eyes. “Don’t say that – how could  any child be ashamed of you?”    “Oh， I don’t know， Hermione，” said Harry. “I’d be pretty ashamed of him.”    Harry did not know where his rage was coming from， but it had propelled him to  his feet too. Lupin looked as though Harry had hit him.    “If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad，” Harry said， “what will they do  to a half-werewolf whose father’s in the Order? My father died trying to protect my  mother ａｎｄ me， ａｎｄ you reckon he’d tell you to abａｎｄon your kid to go on an adventure  with us?”    “How – how dare you?” said Lupin. “This is not about a desire for – for danger or  personal glory – how dare you suggest such a – ”    “I think you’re feeling a bit of a daredevil，” Harry said， “You fancy stepping into  Sirius’s shoes –”    “Harry， no!” Hermione begged him， but he continued to glare into Lupin’s livid  face.    “I’d never have believed this，” Harry said. “The man who taught me to fight  dementors – a coward.”    Lupin drew his wａｎｄ so fast that Harry had barely reached for his own; there was  a loud bang ａｎｄ he felt himself flying backward as if punched; as he slammed into the  kitchen wall ａｎｄ slid to the floor， he glimpsed the tail of Lupin’s cloak disappearing  around the door.    “Remus， Remus， come back!” Hermione cried， but Lupin did not respond. A  moment later they heard the front door slam.    “Harry!” wailed Hermione. “How could you?”    “It was easy，” said Harry. He stood up， he could feel a lump swelling where his  head had hit the wall. He was still so full of anger he was shaking.    “Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped at Hermione.    “Don’t you start on her!” snarled Ron.    “No – no – we mustn’t fight!” said Hermione， launching herself between them.    “You shouldn’t have said that stuff to Lupin，” Ron told Harry.    “He had it coming to him，” said Harry. Broken images were racing each other  through his mind: Sirius falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended， broken， in  midair; a flash of green light ａｎｄ his mother’s voice， begging for mercy . . .    “Parents，” said Harry， “shouldn’t leave their kids unless – unless they’ve got to.”    “Harry –“ said Hermione， stretching out a consoling hａｎｄ， but he shrugged it off  ａｎｄ walked away， his eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured. He had once spoken to  Lupin out of that fireplace， seeking reassurance about James， ａｎｄ Lupin had consoled  him. Now Lupin’s tortured white face seemed to swim in the air before him. He felt a     sickening surge of remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke， but Harry felt sure that  they were looking at each other behind his back， communicating silently.    He turned around ａｎｄ caught them turning hurriedly away form each other.    “I know I shouldn’t have called him a coward.”    “No， you shouldn’t，” said Ron at once.    “But he’s acting like one.”    “All the same . . .” said Hermione.    “I know，” said Harry. “But if it makes him go back to Tonks， it’ll be worth it，  won’t it?”    He could not keep the plea out of his voice. Hermione looked sympathetic， Ron  uncertain. Harry looked down at his feet， thinking of his father. Would James have  backed Harry in what he had said to Lupin， or would he have been angry at how his son  had treated his old friend?    The silent kitchen seemed to hum with the shock of the recent scene ａｎｄ with Ron  ａｎｄ Hermione’s unspoken reproaches. The Daily Prophet Lupin had brought was still  lying on the table， Harry’s own face staring up at the ceiling from the front page. He  walked over to it ａｎｄ sat down， opened the paper at rａｎｄom， ａｎｄ pretended to read. He  could not take in the words; his mind was still too full of the encounter with Lupin. He  was sure that Ron ａｎｄ Hermione had resumed their silent communications on the other  side of the Prophet. He turned a page loudly， ａｎｄ Dumbledore’s name leapt out at him. It  was a moment or two before he took in the meaning of the photograph， which showed a  family group. Beneath the photograph were the words: The Dumbledore family， left to  right: Albus; Percival， holding newborn Ariana; Kendra， ａｎｄ Aberforth.    His attention caught， Harry examined the picture more carefully. Dumbledore’s  father， Percival， was a good-looking man with eyes that seemed to twinkle even in this  faded old photograph. The baby， Ariana， was a little longer than a loaf of bread ａｎｄ no  more distinctive-looking. The mother， Kendra， had jet black hair pulled into a high bun.  Her face had a carved quality about it. Harry thought of photos of Native Americans he’d  seen as he studied her dark eyes， high cheekbones， ａｎｄ straight nose， formally composed  above a high-necked silk gown. Albus ａｎｄ Aberforth wore matching lacy collared jackets  ａｎｄ had identical， shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus looked several years older， but  otherwise the two boys looked very alike， for this was before Albus’s nose had been  broken ａｎｄ before he started wearing glasses.    The family looked quite happy ａｎｄ normal， smiling serenely up out of the  newspaper. Baby Ariana’s arm waved vaguely out of her shawl. Harry looked above the  picture ａｎｄ saw the headline:        
EXCLUSIVE EXTRACT FROM UPCOMING    
BIOGRAPHY OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE    
by Rita Skeeter         Thinking it could hardly make him feel any worse than he already did， Harry  began to read:          Proud ａｎｄ haughty， Kendra Dumbledore could not bear to remain in Mould-on-the- Wold after her husbａｎｄ Percival’s well-publicized arrest ａｎｄ imprisonment in  Azkaban. She therefore decided to uproot the family ａｎｄ relocate to Godric’s Hollow，  the village that was later to gain fame as the scene of Harry Potter’s strange escape  from You-Know-Who.    
Like Mould-on-the-Wold， Godric’s Hollow was home to a number of Wizarding  families， but as Kendra knew none of them， she would be spared the curiosity about  her husbａｎｄ’s crime she had faced in her former village. By repeatedly rebuffing the  friendly advances of her new Wizarding neighbors， she soon ensured that her family  was left well alone.    
“Slammed the door in my face when I went around to welcome her with a batch  of homemade Cauldron Cakes，” says Bathilda Bagshot. “The first year they were  there I only ever saw the two boys. Wouldn’t have known there was a daughter if I  hadn’t been picking Plangentines by moonlight the winter after they moved in， ａｎｄ  saw Kendra leading Ariana out into the back garden. Walked her round the lawn once，  keeping a firm grip on her， then took her back inside. Didn’t know what to make of  it.”    
It seems that Kendra thought the move to Godric’s Hollow was the perfect  opportunity to hide Ariana once ａｎｄ for all， something she had probably been  planning for years. The timing was significant. Ariana was barely seven years old  when she vanished from sight， ａｎｄ seven is the age by which most experts agree that  magic will have revealed itself， if present. Nobody now alive remembers Ariana ever  demonstrating even the slightest sign of magical ability. It seems clear， therefore， that  Kendra made a decision to hide her daughter’s existence rather than suffer the shame  of admitting that she had produced a Squib. Moving away from the friends ａｎｄ  neighbors who knew Ariana would， of course， make imprisoning her all the easier.  The tiny number of people who henceforth knew of Ariana’s existence could be  counted upon to keep the secret， including her two brothers， who had deflected  awkward questions with the answer their mother had taught them. “My sister is too  frail for school.”    
Next week: Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts – the Prizes ａｎｄ the Pretense.        
Harry had been wrong: What he had read had indeed made him feel worse. He  looked back at the photograph of the apparently happy family. Was it true? How could he  find out? He wanted to go to Godric’s Hollow， even if Bathilda was in no fit state to talk  to him: he wanted to visit the place where he ａｎｄ Dumbledore had both lost loved ones.  He was in the process of lowering the newspaper， to ask Ron’s ａｎｄ Hermione’s opinions，  when a deafening crack echoed around the kitchen.    
For the first time in three days Harry had forgotten all about Kreacher. His  immediate thought was that Lupin had burst back into the room， ａｎｄ for a split second， he  did not take in the mass of struggling limbs that had appeared out of thin air right beside  his chair. He hurried to his feet as Kreacher disentangled himself ａｎｄ， bowing low to  Harry， croaked， “Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher， Master.”    
Mundungus scrambled up ａｎｄ pulled out his wａｎｄ; Hermione， however， was too  quick for him.    
“Expelliarmus!”    
Mundungus’s wａｎｄ soared into the air， ａｎｄ Hermione caught it. Wild-eyed，  Mundungus dived for the stairs. Ron rugby-tackled him ａｎｄ Mundungus hit the stone  floor with a muffled crunch.    
“What?” he bellowed， writhing in his attempts to free himself from Ron’s grip.  “Wha’ve I done? Setting a bleedin’ ‘house-elf on me， what are you playing at， wha’ve I  done， lemme go， lemme go， of – ”    
“You’re not in much of a position to make threats，” said Harry. He threw aside  the newspaper， crossed the kitchen in a few strides， ａｎｄ dropped to his knees beside  Mundungus， who stopped struggling ａｎｄ looked terrified. Ron got up， panting， ａｎｄ  watched as Harry pointed his wａｎｄ deliberately at Mundungus’s nose. Mundungus stank  of stale sweat ａｎｄ tobacco smoke. His hair was matted ａｎｄ his robes stained.    
“Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief， Master，” croaked the elf.  “Fletcher knows how to avoid capture， has many hidey-holes ａｎｄ accomplices.  Nevertheless， Kreacher cornered the thief in the end.”    
“You’ve done really well， Kreacher，” said Harry， ａｎｄ the elf bowed low.    
“Right， we’ve got a few questions for you，” Harry told Mundungus， who shouted  at once.    
“I panicked， okay? I never wanted to come along， no offense， mate， but I never  volunteered to die for you， an’ that was bleedin’ You-Know-Who come flying at me，  anyone woulda got outta there. I said all along I didn’t wanna do it –”    
“For your information， none of the rest of us Disapparated，” said Hermione.    
“Well， you’re a bunch of bleedin’ ‘eroes then， aren’t you， but I never pretended I  was up for killing meself –”    
“We’re not interested in why you ran out on Mad-Eye，” said Harry， moving his  wａｎｄ a little closer to Mundungus’s baggy， bloodshot eyes. “We already knew you were  an unreliable bit of scum.”    
“Well then， why the ‘ell am I being ‘unted down by ‘ouse-elves? Or is this about  them goblets again? I ain’t got none of ‘em left， or you could ‘ave ‘em –”    
“It’s not about the goblets either， although you’re getting warmer，” said Harry.  “Shut up ａｎｄ listen.”    
It felt wonderful to have something to do， someone of whom he could demａｎｄ  some small portion of truth. Harry’s wａｎｄ was now so close to the bridge of  Mundungus’s nose that Mundungus had gone cross-eyed trying to keep it in view.    
“When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable，” Harry began， but  Mundungus interrupted him again.    
“Sirius never cared about any of the junk –”    
There was the sound of pattering fee， a blaze of shining copper， an echoing clang，  ａｎｄ a shriek of agony; Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus ａｎｄ hit him over the head  with a saucepan.    
“Call ‘im off， call ‘im off， ‘e should be locked up!” screamed Mundungus，  cowering as Kreacher raised the heavy-bottomed pan again.    
“Kreacher， no!” shouted Harry.    
Kreacher’s thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan， still held aloft.    
“Perhaps just one more， Master Harry， for luck?”    
Ron laughed.    
“We need him conscious， Kreacher， but if he needs persuading， you can do the  honors，” said Harry.    
“Thank you very much， Master，” said Kreacher with a bow， ａｎｄ he retreated a  short distance， his great pale eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing.    
“When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find，” Harry began  again， “you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there.”  Harry’s mouth was suddenly dry: He could sense Ron ａｎｄ Hermione’s tension ａｎｄ  excitement too. “What did you do with it?”    
“Why?” asked Mundungus. “Is it valuable?”    
“You’ve still got it!” cried Hermione.    
“No， he hasn’t，” said Ron shrewdly. “He’s wondering whether he should have  asked more money for it.”    
“More?” said Mundungus. “That wouldn’t have been effing difficult . . .bleedin’  gave it away， di’n’ I? No choice.”    
“What do you mean?”    
“I was selling in Diagon Alley ａｎｄ she come up to me ａｎｄ asks if I’ve got a  license for trading in magical artifacts. Bleedin’ snoop. She was gonna fine me， but she  took a fancy to the locket an’ told me she’d take it ａｎｄ let me off that time， ａｎｄ to fink  meself lucky.”    
“Who was this woman?” asked Harry.    
“I dunno， some Ministry hag.”    
Mundungus considered for a moment， brow wrinkled.    
“Little woman. Bow on top of ‘er head.”    
He frowned ａｎｄ then added， “Looked like a toad.”    
Harry dropped his wａｎｄ: It hit Mundungus on the nose ａｎｄ shot red sparks into  his eyebrows， which ignited.    
“Aquamenti!” screamed Hermione， ａｎｄ a jet of water streamed from her wａｎｄ，  engulfing a spluttering ａｎｄ choking Mundungus.    
Harry looked up ａｎｄ saw his own shock reflected in Ron’s ａｎｄ Hermione’s faces.  The scars on the back of his right hａｎｄ seemed to be tingling again.         Chapter Twelve    Magic is Might        
As August wore on， the square of unkempt grass in the middle of Grimmauld  Place shriveled in the sun until it was brittle ａｎｄ brown. The inhabitants of number  twelve were never seen by anyone in the surrounding houses， ａｎｄ nor was number twelve  itself. The muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had long since accepted the amusing  mistake in the numbering that had caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.    
And yet the square was now attracting a trickle of visitors who seemed to find the  anomaly most intriguing. Barely a day passed without one or two people arriving in  Grimmauld Place with no other purpose， or so it seemed， than to lean against the railings  facing numbers eleven ａｎｄ thirteen， watching the join between the two houses. The  lurkers were never the same two days running， although they all seemed to share a dislike     for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to eccentric  dressers ａｎｄ took little notice， though occasionally one of them might glance back，  wondering why anyone would wear cloaks in this heat.    
The watchers seemed to be gleaning little satisfaction from their vigil.  Occasionally one of them started forward excitedly， as if they had seen something  interesting at last， only to fall back looking disappointed.    
On the first day of September there were more people lurking in the square than  ever before. Half a dozen men in long cloaks stood silent ａｎｄ watchful， gazing as ever at  houses eleven ａｎｄ thirteen， but the thing for which they were waiting still appeared  elusive. As evening drew in， bringing with it an unexpected gust of chilly rain for the first  time in weeks， there occurred one of those inexplicable moments when they appeared to  have seen something interesting. The man with the twisted face pointed ａｎｄ his closest  companion， a podgy， pallid man， started forward， but a moment later they had relaxed  into their previous state of inactivity， looking frustrated ａｎｄ disappointed.    
Meanwhile， inside number twelve， Harry had just entered the hall. He had nearly  lost his balance as he Apparated onto the top step just outside the front door， ａｎｄ thought  that the Death Eaters might have caught a glimpse of his momentarily exposed elbow.  Shutting the front door carefully behind him， he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak， draped  it over his arm， ａｎｄ hurried along the gloomy hallway toward the door that led to the  basement， a stolen copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in his hａｎｄ.    
The usual low whisper of “Severus Snape” greeted him， the chill wind swept him，  ａｎｄ his tongue rolled up for a moment.    
“I didn’t kill you，” he said， once it had unrolled， then held his breath as the dusty  jinx-figure exploded. He waited until he was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen， out  of earshot of Mrs. Black ａｎｄ clear of the dust cloud， before calling， “I’ve got news， ａｎｄ  you won’t like it.”    
The kitchen was almost unrecognizable. Every surface now shone; Copper pots  ａｎｄ pans had been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleamed; the goblets  ａｎｄ plates already laid for dinner glinted in the light from a merrily blazing fire， on which  a cauldron was simmering. Nothing in the room， however， was more dramatically  different than the house-elf who now came hurrying toward Harry， dressed in a snowy- white towel， his ear hair as clean ａｎｄ fluffy as cotton wool， Regulus’s locket bouncing on  his thin chest.    
“Shoes off， if you please， Master Harry， ａｎｄ hａｎｄs washed before dinner，”  croaked Kreacher， seizing the Invisibility Cloak ａｎｄ slouching off to hang it on a hook on  the wall， beside a number of old-fashioned robes that had been freshly laundered.    
“What’s happened?” Ron asked apprehensively. He are Hermione had been  pouring over a sheaf of scribbled notes ａｎｄ hａｎｄ drawn maps that littered the end of the  long kitchen table， but now they watched Harry as he strode toward them ａｎｄ threw down  the newspaper on top of their scattered parchment.    
A large picture of a familiar， hook-nosed， black-haired man stared up at them all，  beneath a headline that read:        
SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER        
“No!” said Ron ａｎｄ Hermione loudly.    
Hermione was quickest; she snatched up the newspaper ａｎｄ began to read the  accompanying story out loud.    
“Severus Snape， long-stａｎｄing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft  ａｎｄ wizardry， was today appointed headmaster in the most important of several staffing  changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies  teacher， Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother， Amycus， fills the  position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”    
“ ‘I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions ａｎｄ values  –‘ Like committing murder ａｎｄ cutting off people’s ears， I suppose! Snape， headmaster!  Snape in Dumbledore’s study – Merlin’s pants!” she shrieked， making both Harry ａｎｄ  Ron jump. She leapt up from the table ａｎｄ hurtled from the room， shouting as she went，  “I’ll be back in a minute!”    
“’Merlin’s pants’?” repeated Ron， looking amused. “She must be upset.” He  pulled the newspaper toward him ａｎｄ perused the article about Snape.    
“The other teachers won’t stａｎｄ for this， McGonagall ａｎｄ Flitwick ａｎｄ Sprout all  know the truth， they know how Dumbledore died. They won’t accept Snape as  headmaster. And who are these Carrows?”    
“Death Eaters，” said Harry. “There are pictures of them inside. They were at the  top of the tower when Snape killed Dumbledore， so it’s all friends together. And，” Harry  went on bitterly， drawing up a chair， “I can’t see that the other teachers have got any  choice but to stay. If the Ministry ａｎｄ Voldemort are behind Snape it’ll be a choice  between staying ａｎｄ teaching， or a nice few years in Azkaban – ａｎｄ that’s if they’re  lucky. I reckon they’ll stay to try ａｎｄ protect the students.”    
Kreacher came bustling to the table with a large curcen in his hａｎｄs， ａｎｄ ladled  out soup into pristine bowls， whistling between his teeth as he did so.    
“Thanks， Kreacher，” said Harry， flipping over the Prophet so as not to have to  look at Snape’s face. “Well， at least we know exactly where Snape is now.”    
He began to spoon soup into his mouth. The quality of Kreacher’s cooking had  improved dramatically ever since he had been given Regulus’s locket: Today’s French  onion was as good as Harry had ever tasted.    
“There are still a load of Death Eaters watching this house，” he told Ron as he ate，  “more than usual. It’s like they’re hoping we’ll march out carrying our school trunks ａｎｄ  head off for the Hogwarts Express.”    
Ron glanced at his watch.    
“I’ve been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six hours ago. Weird， not  being on it， isn’t it?”    
In his mind’s eye Harry seemed to see the scarlet steam engine as he ａｎｄ Ron had  once followed it by air， shimmering between fields ａｎｄ hills， a rippling scarlet caterpillar.  He was sure Ginny， Neville， ａｎｄ Luna were sitting together at this moment， perhaps  wondering where he， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione were， or debating how best to undermine  Snape’s new regime.    
“They nearly saw me coming back in just now，” Harry said， “I lａｎｄed badly on  the top step， ａｎｄ the Cloak slipped.”    
“I do that every time. Oh， here she is，” Ron added， craning around in his seat to  watch Hermione reentering the kitchen. “And what in the name of Merlin’s most baggy  Y Fronts was that about?”    
“I remembered this，” Hermione panted.    
She was carrying a large， framed picture， which she now lowered to the floor  before seizing her small， beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening it， she  proceeded to force the painting inside ａｎｄ despite the fact that it was patently too large to  fit inside the tiny bag， within a few seconds it had vanished， like so much ease， into the  bag’s capacious depths.    
“Phineas Nigellus，” Hermione explained as she threw the bag onto the kitchen  table with the usual sonorous， clanking crash.    
“Sorry?” said Ron， but Harry understood. The painted image of Phineas Nigellus  Black was able to travel between his portrait in Grimmauld Place ａｎｄ the one that hung in  the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts: the circular cower-top room where Snape was no  doubt sitting right now， in triumphant possession of Dumbledore’s collection of delicate，  silver magical instruments， the stone Pensieve， the Sorting Hat ａｎｄ， unless it ad been  moved elsewhere， the sword of Gryffindor.    
“Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this house for him，” Hermione  explained to Ron as she resumed her seat. “But let him try it now， all Phineas Nigellus  will be able to see is the inside of my hａｎｄbag.”    
“Good thinking!” said Ron， looking impressed.    
“Thank you，” smiled Hermione， pulling her soup toward her. “So， Harry， what  else happened today?”    
“Nothing，” said Harry. “Watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign  of her. Saw your dad though， Ron. He looks fine.”    
Ron nodded his appreciation of this news. The had agreed that it was far too  dangerous to try ａｎｄ communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walked in ａｎｄ out of the  Ministry， because he was always surrounded by other Ministry workers. It was， however，  reassuring to catch these glimpses of him， even if he did look very strained ａｎｄ anxious.    
“Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work，”  Ron said. “That’s why we haven’t seen Umbridge， she’d never walk， she’d think she’s  too important.”    
“And what about that funny old witch ａｎｄ that little wizard in the navy robes?”  Hermione asked.    
“Oh yeah， the bloke from Magical Maintenance，” said Ron.    
“How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?” Hermione asked， her  soupspoon suspended in midair.    
“Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes.”    
“But you never told us that!”    
Hermione dropped her spoon ａｎｄ pulled toward her the sheaf of notes ａｎｄ maps  that she ａｎｄ Ron had been examining when Harry had entered the kitchen.    
“There’s nothing in here about navy blue robes， nothing!” she said， flipping  feverishly through the pages.    
“Well， dies it really matter?”    
“Ron， it all matters! If we’re going to get into the Ministry ａｎｄ not give ourselves  away when they’re bound to be on the lookout for intruders， every little detail matters!  We’ve been over ａｎｄ over this， I mean， what’s the point of all these reconnaissance trips  if you aren’t even bothering to tell us –“    
“Blimey， Hermione， I forget one little thing – “    
“You do realize， don’t you， that there’s probably no more dangerous place in the  whole world for us to be right now than the Ministry of –“    
“I think we should do it tomorrow，” said Harry.    
Hermione stopped dead， her jaw hanging; Ron choked a little over his soup.    
“Tomorrow?” repeated Hermione. “You aren’t serious， Harry?”    
“I am，” said Harry. “I don’t think we’re going to be much better prepared than we  are now even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we  put it off， the farther away that locket could be. There’s already a good chance Umbridge  has chucked it away; the thing doesn’t open.”    
“Unless，” said Ron， “she’s found a way of opening it ａｎｄ she’s now possessed.”    
“Wouldn’t make any difference to her， she was so evil in the first place，” Harry  shrugged.    
Hermione was biting her lip， deep in thought.    
“We know everything important，” Harry went on， addressing Hermione. “We  know they’ve stopped Apparition in ａｎｄ out of the Ministry; We know only the most  senior Ministry members are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now，  because Ron heard those two Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know roughly  where Umbridge’s office is， because of what you heard the bearded bloke saying to his  mate –“    
“’I’ll be up on level one， Dolores wants to see me，’” Hermione recited  immediately.    
“Exactly，” said Harry. “And we know you get in using those funny coins， or  tokens， or whatever they are， because I saw that witch borrowing one from her friend – “    
“But we haven’t got any!”    
“If the plan works， we will have，” Harry continued calmly.    
“I don’t know， Harry， I don’t know … There are an awful lot of things that could  go wrong， so much relies on chance … “    
That’ll be true even if we spend another three months preparing，” said Harry. “It’s  time to act.”    
He could tell from Ron’s ａｎｄ Hermione’s faces that they were scared; he was not  particularly confident himself， ａｎｄ yet he was sure the time had come to put their plan  into operation.    
They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the Invisibility  Cloak ａｎｄ spy on the official entrance to the Ministry， which Ron， thanks to Mr. Weasley，  had known since childhood. They had tailed Ministry workers on their way in，  eavesdropped on their conversations， ａｎｄ learned by careful observation which of them  could be relied upon to appear， alone， at the same time every day. Occasionally there had  been a chance to sneak a Daily Prophet out of somebody’s briefcase. Slowly they had  built up the sketchy maps ａｎｄ notes now stacked in front of Hermione.    
“All right，” said Ron slowly， “let’s say we go for it tomorrow … I think it should  just be me ａｎｄ Harry.”    
“Oh， don’t start that again!” sighed Hermione. “I thought we’d settled this.”    
“It’s one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak， but this is different.  Hermione，” Ron jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously.  “You’re on the list of Muggle-borns who didn’t present themselves for interrogation!”    
“And you’re supposed to be dying of spattergroit at the Burrow! If anyone  shouldn’t go， it’s Harry， he’s got a ten-thousａｎｄ-Galleon price on his head – “    
“Fine， I’ll stay here，” said Harry. “Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort，  won’t you?”    
As Ron ａｎｄ Hermione laughed， pain shot through the scar on Harry’s forehead.  His hａｎｄ jumped to it. He saw Hermione’s eyes narrow， ａｎｄ he tried to pass off the  movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes.    
“Well， if all three of us go we’ll have to Disapparate separately，” Ron was saying.  “We can’t all fit under the Cloak anymore.”    
Harry’s scar was becoming more ａｎｄ more painful. He stood up. At once，  Kreacher hurried forward.    
“Master has not finished his soup， would master prefer the savory stew， or else the  treacle tart to which Master is so partial?”    
“Thanks， Kreacher， but I’ll be back in a minute – er – bathroom.”    
Aware that Hermione was watching him suspiciously， Harry hurried up the stairs  to the hall ａｎｄ then to the first lａｎｄing， where he dashed into the bathroom ａｎｄ bolted the  door again. Grunting with pain， he slumped over the black basin with its taps in the form  of open-mouthed serpents ａｎｄ closed his eyes ….    
He was gliding along a twilit street. The buildings on either side of him had high，  timbered gables; they looked like gingerbread houses. He approached one of them， then  saw the whiteness of his own long-fingered hａｎｄ against the door. He knocked. He felt a  mounting excitement …    
The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her face fell as she looked into  Harry’s face: humor gone， terror replacing it ….    
“Gregorovitch?” said a high， cold voice.    
She shook her head: She was trying to close the door. A white hａｎｄ held it steady，  prevented her shutting him out …    
“I want Gregorovitch.”    
“Er wohnt hier nicht mehr!” she cried， shaking her head. “He no live here! He no  live here! I know him not!”    
Abａｎｄoning the attempt to close the door， she began to back away down the dark  hall， ａｎｄ Harry followed， gliding toward her， ａｎｄ his long-fingered hａｎｄ had drawn his  wａｎｄ.    
“where is he?”    
“Das weiff ich nicht! He move! I know not， I know not!”    
He raised his hａｎｄ. She screamed. Two young children came running into the hall.  She tried to shield them with her arms. There was a flash of green light –    
“Harry! HARRY!”    
He opened his eyes; he had sunk to the floor. Hermione was pounding on the door  again.    
“Harry， open up!”    
He had shouted out， he knew it. He got up ａｎｄ unbolted the door; Hermione  toppled inside at once， regained her balance， ａｎｄ looked around suspiciously. Ron was  right behind her， looking unnerved as he pointed his wａｎｄ into the corners of the chilly  bathroom.    
“What were you doing?” asked Hermione sternly.    
“What d’you think I was doing?” asked Harry with feeble bravado.    
“You were yelling your head off!” said Ron.    
“Oh yeah … I must’ve dozed off or – “    
“Harry， please don’t insult our intelligence，” said Hermione， taking deep breaths.  “We know your scar hurt downstairs， ａｎｄ you’re white as a sheet.”    
Harry sat down on the edge of the bath.    
“Fine. I’ve just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he’s probably killed  her whole family. And he didn’t need to. It was Cedric all over again， they were just there  … “    
“Harry， you aren’t supposed to let this happen anymore!” Hermione cried， her  voice echoing through the bathroom. “Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! HE  thought the connection was dangerous – Voldemort can use it， Harry! What good is it to  watch him kill ａｎｄ torture， how can it help?”    
“Because it means I know what he’s doing，” said Harry.    
“So you’re not even going to try to shut him out?”    
“Hermione， I can’t. You know I’m lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of  it.”    
“You never really tried!” she said hotly. “I don’t get it， Harry – do you like having  this special connection or relationship or what – whatever – “    
She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood up.    
“Like it?” he said quietly. “Would you like it?”    
“I – no – I’m sorry， Harry. I just didn’t mean – “    
“I hate it， I hate the fact that he can get inside me， that I have to watch him when  he’s most dangerous. But I’m going to use it.”    
“Dumbledore –“    
“Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice， nobody else’s. I want to know why he’s  after Gregorovitch.”    
“Who?”    
“He’s a foreign wａｎｄmaker，” said Harry. “He made Krum’s wａｎｄ ａｎｄ Krum  reckons he’s brilliant.”    
“But according to you，” said Ron， “Voldemort’s got Ollivａｎｄer locked up  somewhere. If he’s already got a wａｎｄmaker， what does he need another one for?”    
“Maybe he agrees with Krum， maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better … or else  he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wａｎｄ did when he was chasing  me， because Ollivａｎｄer didn’t know.”    
Harry glanced into the cracked， dusty mirror ａｎｄ saw Ron ａｎｄ Hermione  exchanging skeptical looks behind his back.    
“Harry， you keep talking about what your wａｎｄ did，” said Hermione， “but you  made it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own  power?”    
“Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort， Hermione! We both  know what really happened!”    
They glared at each other; Harry knew that he had not convinced Hermione ａｎｄ  that she was marshaling counterarguments， against both his theory on his wａｎｄ ａｎｄ the  fact that he was permitting himself to see into Voldemort’s mind. To his relief， Ron  intervened.    
“Drop it，” he advised her. “It’s up to him. And if we’re going to the Ministry  tomorrow， don’t you reckon we should go over the plan?”    
Reluctantly， as the other two could tell， Hermione let the matter rest， though  Harry was quite sure she would attack again at the first opportunity. In the meantime，  they returned to the basement kitchen， where Kreacher served them all stew ａｎｄ treacle  tart.    
They did not get to bed until late that night， after spending hours going over ａｎｄ  over their plan until they could recite it， word perfect， to each other. Harry， who was now  sleeping in Sirius’s room， lay in bed with his wａｎｄlight trained on the old photograph of  his father， Sirius， Lupin， ａｎｄ Pettigrew， ａｎｄ muttered the plan to himself for another ten  minutes. As he extinguished his wａｎｄ， however， he was thinking not of Polyjuice Potion，  Puking Pastilles， or the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he though of  Gregorovitch the wａｎｄmaker， ａｎｄ how long he could hope to remain hidden while  Voldemort sought him so determinedly.    
Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.    
“You look terrible，” was Ron’s greeting as he entered the room to wake Harry.    
“Not for long，” said Harry， yawning.    
They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. She was being served coffee ａｎｄ  hot rolls by Kreacher ａｎｄ wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry associated  with exam review.    
“Robes，” she said under her breath， acknowledging their presence with a nervous  nod ａｎｄ continuing to poke around in her beaded bag， “Polyjuice Potion … Invisibiliity  Cloak … Decoy Detonators … You should each take a couple just in case … Puking  Pastilles， Nosebleed Norgat， Extendable Ears …”    
They gulped down their breakfast， then set off upstairs， Kreacher bowing them  out ａｎｄ promising to have a steak-ａｎｄ-kidney pie ready for them when they returned.    
“Bless him，” said Ron fondly， “ａｎｄ when you think I used to fantasize about  cutting off his head ａｎｄ sticking it on the wall.”    
They made their way onto the front step with immense caution. They could see a  couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.    
Hermione Disapparated with Ron first， then came back for Harry.    
After the usual brief spell of darkness ａｎｄ near suffocation， Harry found himself  in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place. It was  as yet deserted， except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not  usually appear here until at least eight o’clock.    
“Right then，” said Hermione， checking her watch. “she ought to be here in about  five minutes. When I’ve Stunned her –“    
“Hermione， we know，” said Ron sternly. “And I thought we were supposed to  open the door before she got here?”    
Hermione squealed.    
“I nearly forgot! Stａｎｄ back –“    
She pointed her wａｎｄ at the padlocked ａｎｄ heavily graffitied fire door beside  them， which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led， as they knew from  their careful scouting trips， into an empty theater. Hermione pulled the door back toward  her， to make it look as thought it was still closed.    
“And now，” she said， turning， back to face the other two in the alleyway， “we put  on the Cloak again –“    
“—ａｎｄ we wait，” Ron finished， throwing it over Hermione’s head like a blanket  over a birdcage ａｎｄ rolling his eyes at Harry.    
Little more than a minute later， there was a tiny pop ａｎｄ a little Ministry witch  with flyaway gray hair Apparated feet from them， blinking a little in the sudden  brightness: the sun had just come out from behind a cloud. She barely had time to enjoy  the unexpected warmth， however， before Hermione’s silent Stunning Spell hit her in the  chest ａｎｄ she toppled over.    
“Nicely done， Hermione，” said Ron， emerging behind a bin beside the theater  door as Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak. Together they carried the little witch into  the dark passageway that led backstage. Hermione plucked a few hairs from the witch’s  head ａｎｄ added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion she had taken from the beaded  bag. Ron was rummaging through the little witch’s hａｎｄbag.    
“She’s Mafalda Hopkirk，” he said， reading a small card that identified their victim  as an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. “You’d better take this， Hermione，  ａｎｄ here are the tokens.”    
He passed her several small golden coins， all embossed with the letters M.O.M.，  which he had taken from the witch’s purse.    
Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion， which was now a pleasant heliotrope color，  ａｎｄ within seconds stood before them， the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As she removed  Mafalda’s spectacles ａｎｄ put them on， Harry checked his watch.    
“We’re running late， Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any second.”    
They hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda; Harry ａｎｄ Ron threw the  Invisibility Cloak over themselves but Hermione remained in view， waiting. Seconds  later there was another pop， ａｎｄ a small， ferrety looking wizard appeared before them.    
“Oh， hello， Mafalda.”    
“Hello!” said Hermione in a quavery voice， “How are you today?”    
“Not so good， actually，” replied the little wizard， who looked thoroughly  downcast.    
As Hermione ａｎｄ the wizard headed for the main road， Harry ａｎｄ Ron crept along  behind them.    
“I’m sorry to hear you’re under the weather，” said Hermione， talking firmly over  the little wizard ａｎｄ he tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential to stop him  from reaching the street. “Here， have a sweet.”    
“Eh? Oh， no thanks –“    
“I insist!” said Hermione aggressively， shaking the bag of pastilles in his face.  Looking rather alarmed， the little wizard took one.    
The effect was instantaneous. The moment the pastille touched his tongue， the  little wizard started vomiting so hard that he did not even notice as Hermione yanked a  hａｎｄful of hairs from the top of his head.    
“Oh dear!” she said， as he splattered the alley with sick. “Perhaps you’d better  take the day off!”    
“No – no!” He choked ａｎｄ retched， trying to continue on his way despite being  unable to walk straight. “I must – today – must go – “    
“But that’s just silly!” said Hermione， alarmed. “You can’t go to work in this state  – I think you ought to go to St. Mungo’s ａｎｄ get them to sort you out.”    
The wizard had collapsed， heaving， onto all fours， still trying to crawl toward the  main street.    
“You simply can’t go to work like this!” cried Hermione.    
At last he seemed to accept the truth of her words. Using a reposed Hermione to  claw his way back into a stａｎｄing position， he turned on the spot ａｎｄ vanished， leaving  nothing behind but the bag Ron had snatched from his hａｎｄ as he went ａｎｄ some flying  chunks of vomit.    
“Urgh，” said Hermione， holding up the skirt of her robe to avoid the puddles of  sick. “It would have made much less mess to Stun him too.”    
“Yeah，” said Ron， emerging from under the cloak holding the wizard’s bag， “but I  still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention. Keen on  his job， though， isn’t he? Chuck us the hair ａｎｄ the potion， then.”    
Within two minutes， Ron stood before them， as small ａｎｄ ferrety as the sick  wizard， ａｎｄ wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag.    
“Weird he wasn’t wearing them today， wasn’t it， seeing how much he wanted to  go? Anyway， I’m Reg Cattermole， according to the label in the back.”    
“Now wait here，” Hermione told Harry， who was still under the Invisibility Cloak，  “ａｎｄ we’ll be back with some hairs for you.”    
He had to wait ten minutes， but it seemed much longer to Harry， skulking alone in  the sick-splattered alleyway beside the door concealing the Stunned Mafalda. Finally Ron  ａｎｄ Hermione reappeared.    
“We don’t know who he is，” Hermione said， passing Harry several curly black  hairs， “but he’s gone home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here， he’s pretty tall， you’ll need  bigger robes …”    
She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had laundered for them， ａｎｄ Harry  retired to take the potion ａｎｄ change.    
Once the painful transformation was complete he was more than six feet tall ａｎｄ，  from what he could tell from his well-muscled arms， powerfully built. He also had a  beard. Stowing the Invisibility Cloak ａｎｄ his glasses inside his new robes， he rejoined the  other two.    
“Blimey， that’s scary，” said Ron， looking up at Harry， who now towered over him.    
“Take one of Mafalda’s tokens，” Hermione told Harry， “ａｎｄ let’s go， it’s nearly  nine.”    
They stepped out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards along the crowded  pavement there were spiked black railings flanking two flights of stairs， one labeled  GENTLEMEN， the other LADIES.    
“See you in a moment， then，” said Hermione nervously， ａｎｄ she tottered off down  the steps to LADIES. Harry ａｎｄ Ron joined a number of oddly dressed men descending  into what appeared to be an ordinary underground public toilet， tiled in grimy black ａｎｄ  white.    
“Morning， Reg!” called another wizard in navy blue robes as he let himself into a  cubicle by ｉｎｓｅｒｔing his golden token into a slot in the door. “Blooming pain in the bum，  this， eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Who are they expecting to turn up， Harry  Potter?”    
The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron gave a forced chuckle.    
“Yeah，” he said， “stupid， isn’t it?”    
And he ａｎｄ Harry let themselves into adjoining cubicles.    
To Harry’s left ａｎｄ right came the sound of flushing. He crouched down ａｎｄ  peered through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle， just in time to see a pair of booted  feet climbing into the toilet next door. He looked left ａｎｄ saw Ron blinking at him.    
“We have to flush ourselves in?” he whispered.    
“Looks like it，” Harry whispered back; his voice came out deep ａｎｄ gravelly.    
They both stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish， Harry clambered into the toilet.    
He knew at once that he had done the right thing; thought he appeared to be  stａｎｄing in water， his shoes， feet， ａｎｄ robes remained quite dry. He reached up， pulled the  chain， ａｎｄ next moment had zoomed down a short chute， emerging out of a fireplace into  the Ministry of Magic.    
He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body than he was accustomed to.  The great Atrium seemed darker than Harry remembered it. Previously a golden fountain  had filled the center of the hall， casting shimmering spots of light over the polished  wooden floor ａｎｄ walls. Now a gigantic statue of black stone dominated the scene. It was  rather frightening， this vast sculpture of a witch ａｎｄ a wizard sitting on ornately carved  thrones， looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them.  Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words MAGIC IS MIGHT.    
Harry received a heavy blow on the back of the legs. Another wizard had just  flown out of the fireplace behind him.    
“Out of the way， can’t y – oh， sorry， Runcorn.”    
Clearly frightened， the balding wizard hurried away. Apparently the man who  Harry was impersonating， Runcorn， was intimidating.    
“Psst!” said a voice， ａｎｄ he looked around to see a whispy little witch ａｎｄ the  ferrety wizard from Magical Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the statue.  Harry hastened to join them.    
“You got in all right， then?” Hermione whispered to Harry.    
“No， he’s still stuck in the hog，” said Ron.    
“Oh， very funny … It’s horrible， isn’t it?” she said to Harry， who was staring up  at the statue. “Have you seen what they’re sitting on?”    
Harry looked more closely ａｎｄ realized that what he had thought were  decoratively carved thrones were actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds ａｎｄ  hundreds of naked bodies， men， women， ａｎｄ children， all with rather stupid， ugly faces，  twisted ａｎｄ pressed together to support the weight of the hａｎｄsomely robed wizards.    
“Muggles，” whispered Hermione， “In their rightful place. Come on， let’s get  going.”    
They joined the stream of witches ａｎｄ wizards moving toward the golden gates at  the end of the hall， looking around as surreptitiously as possible， but there was no sign of  the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge. They passed through the gates ａｎｄ into a  smaller hall， where queues were forming in front of twenty golden grilles housing as  many lifts. They had barely joined the nearest one when a voice said， “Cattermole!”    
They looked around: Harry’s stomach turned over. One of the Death Eaters who  had witnessed Dumbledore’s death was striding toward them. The Ministry workers  beside them fell silent， their eyes downcast; Harry could feel fear rippling through them.     The man’s scowling， slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent，  sweeping robes， which were embroidered with much gold thread. Someone in the crowd  around the lifts called sycophantically， “Morning， Yaxley!” Yaxley ignored them.    
“I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office，  Cattermole. It’s still raining in there.”    
Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else would intervene， but nobody  spoke.    
“Raining … in your office? That’s – that’s not good， is it?”    
Ron gave a nervous laugh. Yaxley’s eyes widened.    
“You think it’s funny， Cattermole， do you?”    
A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the lift ａｎｄ bustled off.    
“No，” said Ron， “no， of course –“    
“You realize that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife，  Cattermole? In fact， I’m quite surprised you’re not down there holding her hａｎｄ while  she waits. Already given her up as a bad job， have you? Probably wise. Be sure ａｎｄ  marry a pureblood next time.”    
Hermione had let out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley looked at her. She cough  feebly ａｎｄ turned away.    
“I – I –“ stammered Ron.    
“But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood，” said Yaxley， “—not that any  woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth – ａｎｄ the Head of Department of  Magical Law Enforcement needed a job doing， I would make it my priority to do this job，  Cattermole. Do you understａｎｄ me?”    
“Yes，” whispered Ron.    
“Then attend to it， Cattermole， ａｎｄ if my office is not completely dry within an  hour， your wife’s Blood Status will be in even greater doubt than it is now.”    
The golden grille before them clattered open. With a nod ａｎｄ unpleasant smile to  Harry， who was evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of Cattermole， Yaxley  swept away toward another lift. Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione entered theirs， but nobody  followed them: It was as if they were infectious. The grilles shut with a clang ａｎｄ the lift  began to move upward.    
“What am I going to do?” Ron asked the other two at once; he looked stricken. “If  I don’t turn up， my wife … I mean， Cattermole’s wife – “    
“We’ll come with you， we should stick together –“ began Harry， but Ron shook  his head feverishly.    
“That’s mental， we haven’t got much time. You two find Umbridge， I’ll go ａｎｄ  sort out Yaxley’s office – but how do I stop a raining?”    
“Try Finite Incantatem，” said Hermione at once， “that should stop the rain if it’s a  hex or curse; if it doesn’t something’s gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm， which  will be more difficult to fix， so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his  belongings – “    
“Say it again， slowly – “ said Ron， searching his pockets desperately for a quill，  but at that moment the lift juddered to a halt. A disembodied female voice said， “Level  four， Department for the Regulation ａｎｄ Control of Magical Creatures， incorporating  Beast， Being， ａｎｄ Spirit Divisions， Goblin Liaison Office， ａｎｄ Pest Advisory Bureau，”     ａｎｄ the grilles slid open again， admitting a couple of wizards ａｎｄ several pale violet  paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the ceiling of the lift.    
“Morning， Albert，” said a bushily whiskered man， smiling at Harry. He glanced  over at Ron ａｎｄ Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more; Hermione was now  whispering frantic instructions to Ron. The wizard leaned toward Harry， leering， ａｎｄ  muttering “Dirk Cresswell， eh? From Goblin Liaison? Nice one， Albert. I’m pretty  confident I’ll get his job now!”    
He winked. Harry smiled back， hoping that this would suffice. The lift stopped;  the grilles opened once more.    
“Level two， Department of Magical Law Enforcement， including the Improper  Use of Magic Office， Auror Headquarters， ａｎｄ Wizengamot Administration Services，”  said the disembodied witch’s voice.    
Harry saw Hermione give Ron a little push ａｎｄ he hurried out of the lift， followed  by the other wizards， leaving Harry ａｎｄ Hermione alone. The moment the golden door  had closed Hermione said， very fast， “Actually， Harry， I think I’d better go after him， I  don’t think he knows what he’s doing ａｎｄ if he gets caught the whole thing – “    
“Level one， Minister of Magic ａｎｄ Support Staff.”    
The golden grilles slid apart again ａｎｄ Hermione gasped. Four people stood  before them， two of them deep in conversation: a long-haired wizard wearing magnificent  robes of black ａｎｄ gold， ａｎｄ a squat， toadlike witch wearing a velvet bow in her short  hair ａｎｄ clutching a clipboard to her chest.         Chapter Thirteen    The Muggle-Born Registration Commission        
“Ah， Mafalda!” said Umbridge， looking at Hermione. “Travers sent you， did he?”    
“Y-yes，” squeaked Hermione.    
“God， you’ll do perfectly well.” Umbridge spoke to the wizard in black ａｎｄ gold.  “That’s that problem solved. Minister， if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping we  shall be able to start straightaway.” She consulted her clipboard. “Ten people today ａｎｄ  one of them the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut， tut… even here， in the heart of the  Ministry!” She stepped into the lift besides Hermione， as did the two wizards who had  been listening to Umbridge’s conversation with the Minister. “We’ll go straight down，  Mafalda， you’ll find everything you need in the courtroom. Good morning， Albert， aren’t  you getting out?”    
“Yes， of course，” said Harry in Runcorn’s deep voice.    
Harry stepped out of the life. The golden grilles clanged shut behind him.  Glancing over his shoulder， Harry saw Hermione’s anxious face sinking back out of sight，  a tall wizard on either side of her， Umbridge’s velvet hair-bow level with her shoulder.    
“What brings you here， Runcorn?” asked the new Minister of Magic. His long  black hair ａｎｄ beard were streaked with silver ａｎｄ a great overhanging forehead  shadowed his glinting eyes， putting Harry in the mind of a crab looking out from beneath  a rock.    
“Needed a quick word with，” Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second， “Arthur  Weasley. Someone said he was up on level one.”    
“Ah，” said Plum Thicknesse. “Has he been caught having contact with an  Undesirable?”    
“No，” said Harry， his throat dry. “No， nothing like that.”    
“Ah， well. It’s only a matter of time，” said Thicknesse. “If you ask me， the blood  traitors are as bad as the Mudbloods. Good day， Runcorn.”    
“Good day， Minister.”    
Harry watched Thicknesse march away along the thickly carpeted corridor. The  moment the Minister had passed out of sight， Harry tugged the Invisibility Cloak out  from under his heavy black cloak， threw it over himself， ａｎｄ set off along the corridor in  the opposite direction. Runcorn was so tall that Harry was forced to stoop to make sure  his big feet were hidden.    
Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As he passed gleaming wooden door after  gleaming wooden door， each bearing a small plaque with the owner’s name ａｎｄ  occupation upon it， the might of the Ministry， its complexity， its impenetrability， seemed  to force itself upon him so that the plan he had been carefully concocting with Ron ａｎｄ  Hermione over the past four weeks seemed laughably childish. They had concentrated all  their efforts on getting inside without being detected: They had not given a moment’s  thought to what they would do if they were forced to separate. Now Hermione was stuck  in court proceedings， which would undoubtedly last hours; Ron was struggling to do  magic that Harry was sure was beyond him， a woman’s liberty possibly depending on the  outcome， ａｎｄ he， Harry， was wａｎｄering around on the top floor when he knew perfectly  well that his quarry had just gone down in the lift.    
He stopped walking， leaned against a wall， ａｎｄ tried to decide what to do. The  silence pressed upon him: There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps here the  purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as though the Muffliato charm had been cast  over the place.    
Her office must be up here， Harry thought.    
It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep her jewelry in her office， but  on the other hａｎｄ it seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. He therefore set off  along the corridor again， passing nobody but a frowning wizard who was murmuring  instructions to a quill that floated in front of him， scribbling on a trail of parchment.    
Now paying attention to the names on the doors， Harry turned a corner. Halfway  along the next corridor he emerged into a wide， open space where a dozen witches ａｎｄ  wizards sat in rows at small desks not unlike school desks， though much more highly  polished ａｎｄ free from graffiti. Harry paused to watch them， for the effect was quite  mesmerizing. They were all waving ａｎｄ twiddling their wａｎｄs in unison， ａｎｄ squares of  colored paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds，  Harry realized that there was a rhythm to the proceedings， that the papers all formed the  same pattern ａｎｄ after a few more seconds he realized what he was watching was the  creation of pamphlets – that the paper squares were pages， which， when assembled，  folded ａｎｄ magicked into place， fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.    
Harry crept closer， although the workers were so intent on what they were doing  that he doubted they would notice a carpet-muffled footstep， ａｎｄ he slid a completed     pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch. He examined it beneath the Invisibility  Cloak. Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:         Mudbloods    ａｎｄ the Dangers They Pose to    a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society        
Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of  its petals， being strangled by a green weed with fangs ａｎｄ a scowl. There was no author’s  name upon the pamphlet， but again， the scars on the back of his right hａｎｄ seemed to  tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch beside him confirmed his suspicion as she  said， still waving ａｎｄ twirling her wａｎｄ， “Will the old hag be interrogating Mudbloods all  day， does anyone know?”    
“Careful，” said the wizard beside her， glancing around nervously; one of his pages  slipped ａｎｄ fell to the floor.    
“What， has she got magic ears as well as an eye， now?”    
The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door facing the space full of  pamphlet-makers; Harry looked too， ａｎｄ the rage reared in him like a snake. Where there  might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door， a large， round eye with a bright blue  iris had been set into the wood – an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who had  known Alastor Moody.    
For a split second Harry forgot where he was ａｎｄ what he was doing there: He  even forgot that he was invisible. He strode straight over to the door to examine the eye.  It was not moving. It gazed blindly upward， frozen. The plaque beneath it read:         Dolores Umbridge    Senior Undersecretary to the Minister        
Below that a slightly shinier new plaque read:         Head of the Muggle-Born    Registration Commission        
Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: Though they were intent upon  their work， he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door of an empty  office opened in front of them. He therefore withdrew from an inner pocket an odd object  with little waving legs ａｎｄ a rubber-bulbed horn for a body. Crouching down beneath the  Cloak， he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground.    
It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches ａｎｄ wizards in front of  him. A few moments later， during which Harry waited with his hａｎｄ upon the doorknob，  there came a loud bang ａｎｄ a great deal of acrid smoke billowed from a corner. The  young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew everywhere as she ａｎｄ her  fellows jumped up， looking around for the source of the commotion. Harry turned the  doorknob， stepped into Umbridge’s office， ａｎｄ closed the door behind him.    
He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge’s office  at Hogwarts: Lace draperies， doilies ａｎｄ dried flowers covered every surface. The walls  bore the same ornamental plates， each featuring a highly colored， beribboned kitten，  gamboling ａｎｄ frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy，  flowered cloth. Behind Mad-eye’s eye， a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy  on the workers on the other side of the door. Harry took a look through it ａｎｄ saw that  they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched the telescope out  of the door， leaving a hole behind， pulled the magical eyeball out of it， ａｎｄ placed it in his  pocket. The he turned to face the room again， raised his wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ murmured， “Accio  Locker.”    
Nothing happened， but he had not expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew all  about protective charms ａｎｄ spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk ａｎｄ began  pulling open all the drawers. He saw quills ａｎｄ notebooks ａｎｄ Spellotape; enchanted  paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer ａｎｄ had be beaten back; a fussy little  lace box full of spare hair bows ａｎｄ clips; but no sign of a locket.    
There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set to searching it. Like Filch’s  filing cabinet at Hogwarts， it was full of folders， each labeled with a name. It was not  until Harry reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract him from  the search: Mr. Weasley’s file.    
He pulled it out ａｎｄ opened it.         Arthur Weasley    Blood Status:    Pureblood， but with unacceptable pro-Muggle  leanings. Known member of the Order of the  Phoenix.    Family:    Wife (pureblood)， seven children， two  youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son  currently at home， seriously ill， Ministry  inspectors have confirmed.    Security Status:    TRACKED. All movements are being  monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No.  1 will contact (has stayed with Weasley  family previously)            
“Undesirable Number One，” Harry muttered under his breath as he replaced Mr.  Weasley’s folder ａｎｄ shut the drawer. He had an idea he knew who that was， ａｎｄ sure  enough， as he straightened up ａｎｄ glanced around the office for fresh hiding places he  saw a poster of himself on the wall， with the words UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 emblazoned  across his chest. A little pink note was stuck to it with a picture of a kitten in the corner.  Harry moved across to read it ａｎｄ saw that Umbridge had written， “To be punished.”    
Angrier than ever， he proceeded to grope in the bottoms of the vases ａｎｄ baskets  of dried flowers， but was not at all surprised that the locket was not there. He gave the  office one last sweeping look， ａｎｄ his heart skipped a beat. Dumbledore was staring at  him from a small rectangular mirror， propped up on a bookcase beside the desk.    
Harry crossed the room at a run ａｎｄ snatched it up， but realized that the moment  he touched it that it was not a mirror at all. Dumbledore was smiling wistfully out of the     front cover of a glossy book. Harry had not immediately noticed the curly green writing  across his hat – The Life ａｎｄ Lies of Albus Dumbledore – nor the slightly smaller writing  across his chest: “by Rita Skeeter， bestselling author of Armａｎｄo Dippet: Master or  Moron?”    
Harry opened the book at rａｎｄom ａｎｄ saw a full-page photograph of two teenage  boys， both laughing immoderately with their arms around each other’s shoulders.  Dumbledore， now with elbow-length hair， had grown a tiny wispy beard that recalled the  one on Krum’s chin that had so annoyed Ron. The boy who roared in silent amusement  beside Dumbledore had a gleeful， wild look about him. His golden hair fell in curls to his  shoulders. Harry wondered whether it was a young Doge， but before he could check the  caption， the door of the office opened.    
If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder as he entered， Harry would  not have had time to pull the Invisibility Cloak over himself. As it was， he thought  Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of movement， because for a moment or two he  remained quite still， staring curiously at the place where Harry had just vanished. Perhaps  deciding that that all he had seen was Dumbledore scratching his nose on the front of the  book， for Harry had hastily replaced it upon the shelf. Thicknesse finally walked to the  desk ａｎｄ pointed his wａｎｄ at the quill stａｎｄing ready in the ink pot. It sprang out ａｎｄ  began scribbling a note to Umbridge. Very slowly， hardly daring to breathe， Harry  backed out of the office into the open area beyond.    
The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy  Detonator， which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. Harry hurried off up the corridor  as the young witch said， “I bet it sneaked up here from Experimental Charms， they’re so  careless， remember that poisonous duck?”    
Speeding back toward the lifts， Harry reviewed his options. It had never been  likely that the locket was here at the Ministry， ａｎｄ there was no hope of bewitching its  whereabouts out of Umbridge while she was sitting in a crowded court. Their priority  now had to be to leave the Ministry before they were exposed， ａｎｄ try again another day.  The first thing to do was to find Ron， ａｎｄ then they could work out a way of extracting  Hermione from the courtroom.    
The lift was empty when it arrived. Harry jumped in ａｎｄ pulled off the Invisibility  Cloak as it started its descent. To his enormous relief， when it rattled to a halt at level two，  a soaking-wet ａｎｄ wild-eyed Ron got in.    
“M-morning，” he stammered to Harry as the lift set off again.    
“Ron， it’s me， Harry!”    
“Harry! Blimey， I forgot what you looked like – why isn’t Hermione with you?”    
“She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge， she couldn’t refuse， ａｎｄ – “    
But before Harry could finish the lift had stopped again. The doors opened ａｎｄ  Mr. Weasley walked inside， talking to an elderly witch whose blonde hair was teased so  high it resembled an anthill.    
“… I quite understａｎｄ what you’re saying， Wakａｎｄa， but I’m afraid I cannot be  party to – “    
Mr. Weasley broke off; he had noticed Harry. It was very strange to have Mr.  Weasley glare at him with that much dislike. The lift doors closed ａｎｄ the four of them  trundled downward once more.    
“Oh hello， Reg，” said Mr. Weasley， looking around at the sound of steady  dripping from Ron’s robes. “Isn’t your wife in for questioning today? Er – what’s  happened to you? Why are you so wet?”    
“Yaxley’s office is raining，” said Ron. He addressed Mr. Weasley’s shoulder， ａｎｄ  Harry felt sure he was scared that his father might recognize him if they looked directly  into each other’s eyes. “I couldn’t stop it， so they’ve sent me to get Bernie – Pillsworth， I  think they said –“    
“Yes， a lot of offices have been raining lately，” said Mr. Weasley. “Did you try  Meterolojinx Recanto? It worked for Bletchley.”    
“Meteolojinx Recanto?” whispered Ron. “No， I didn’t. Thanks， D – I mean，  thanks， Arthur.”    
The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill hair left， ａｎｄ Ron darted past  her out of sight. Harry made to follow him， but found his path blocked as Percy Weasley  strode into the lift， his nose buried in some papers he was reading.    
Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy realize he was in a lit with  his father. He glanced up， saw Mr. Weasley， turned radish red， ａｎｄ left the lift the  moment the doors opened again. For the second time， Harry tried to get out， but this time  found his way blocked by Mr. Weasley’s arm.    
“One moment， Runcorn.”    
The lift doors closed ａｎｄ as they clanked down another floor， Mr. Weasley said，  “I hear you had information about Dirk Cresswell.”    
Harry had the impression that Mr. Weasley’s anger was no less because of the  brush with Percy. He decided his best chance was to act stupid.    
“Sorry?” he said.    
“Don’t pretend， Runcorn，” said Mr. Weasley fiercely. “You tracked down the  wizard who faked his family tree， didn’t you?”    
“I – so what if I did?” said Harry.    
“So Dirk Cresswell is ten times the wizard you are，” said Mr. Weasley quietly， as  the lift sank ever lower. “And if he survives Azkaban， you’ll have to answer to him， not  to mention his wife， his sons， ａｎｄ his friends –“    
“Arthur，” Harry interrupted， “you know you’re being tracked， don’t you?”    
“Is that a threat， Runcorn?” said Mr. Weasley loudly.    
“No，” said Harry， “it’s a fact! They’re watching your every move –“    
The lift doors opened. They had reached the Atrium. Mr. Weasley gave Harry a  scathing look ａｎｄ swept from the lift. Harry stood there， shaken. He wished he was  impersonating somebody other than Runcorn…. The lift doors clanged shut.    
Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak ａｎｄ put it back on. He would try to  extricate Hermione on his own while Ron was dealing with the raining office. When the  doors opened， he stepped out into a torch-lit stone passageway quite different from the  wood-paneled ａｎｄ carpeted corridors above. As the left rattled away again， Harry  shivered slightly， looking toward the distant black door that marked the entrance to the  Department of Mysteries.    
He set off， his destination not the black door， but the doorway he remembered on  the left hａｎｄ side， which opened onto the flight of stairs down to the court chambers. His  mind grappled with possibilities as he crept down them: He still had a couple of Decoy  Detonators， but perhaps it would be better to simply knock on the courtroom door， enter     as Runcorn， ａｎｄ ask for a quick word with Mafalda? Of course， he did not know whether  Runcorn was sufficiently important to get away with this， ａｎｄ even if he managed it，  Hermione’s non-reappearance might trigger a search before they were clear of the  Ministry….    
Lost in thought， he did not immediately register the unnatural chill that was  creeping over him， as if he were descending into fog. It was becoming colder ａｎｄ colder  with every step he took; a cold that reached right down his throat ａｎｄ tore at his lungs.  And then he felt that stealing sense of despair， or hopelessness， filling him， expａｎｄing  inside him….    
Dementors， he thought.    
And as he reached the foot of the stairs ａｎｄ turned to his right he saw a dreadful  scene. The dark passage outside the courtrooms was packed with tall， black-hooded  figures， their faces completely hidden， their ragged breathing the only sound in the place.  The petrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning sat huddled ａｎｄ shivering on hard  wooden benches. Most of them were hiding their faces in their hａｎｄs， perhaps in an  instinctive attempt to shield themselves from the dementors’ greedy mouths. Some were  accompanied by families， others sat alone. The dementors were gliding up ａｎｄ down in  front of them， ａｎｄ the cold， ａｎｄ the hopelessness， ａｎｄ the despair of the place laid  themselves upon Harry like a curse….    
Fight it， he told himself， but he knew that he could not conjure a Patronus here  without revealing himself instantly. So he moved forward as silently as he could， ａｎｄ  with every step he took numbness seemed to steal over his brain， but he forced himself to  think of Hermione ａｎｄ of Ron， who needed him.    
Moving through the towering black figures was terrifying: The eyeless faces  hidden beneath their hoods turned as he passed， ａｎｄ he felt sure that they sensed him，  sensed， perhaps， a human presence that still had some hope， some resilience….    
And then， abruptly ａｎｄ shockingly amid the frozen silence， one of the dungeon  doors on the left of the corridor was flung open ａｎｄ screams echoed out of it.    
“No， no， I’m half-blood， I’m half-blood， I tell you! My father was a wizard， he  was， look him up， Arkie Alderton， he’s a well known broomstick designer， look him up， I  tell you – get your hａｎｄs off me， get your hａｎｄs off –“    
“This is your final warning，” said Umbridge’s soft voice， magically magnified so  that it sounded clearly over the man’s desperate screams. “If you struggle， you will be  subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss.”    
The man’s screams subsided， but dry sobs echoed through the corridor.    
“Take him away，” said Umbridge.    
Two dementors appeared in the doorway of the courtroom， their rotting， scabbed  hａｎｄs clutching the upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting. They glided  away down the corridor with him， ａｎｄ the darkness they trailed behind them swallowed  him from sight.    
“Next – Mary Cattermole，” called Umbridge.    
A small woman stood up; she was trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair was  smoothed back into a bun ａｎｄ she wore long plain robes. Her face was completely  bloodless. As she passed the dementors， Harry saw her shudder.    
“Spare us，” spat Yaxley. “The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies.”    
Mrs. Cattermole’s sobs masked Harry’s footsteps as he made his way carefully  toward the steps that led up to the raised platform. The moment he had passed the place  where the Patronus cat patrolled， he felt the change in temperature: It was warm ａｎｄ  comfortable here. The Patronus， he was sure， was Umbridge’s， ａｎｄ it glowed brightly  because she was so happy here， in her element， upholding the twisted laws she had  helped to write. Slowly ａｎｄ very carefully he edged his way along the platform behind  Umbridge， Yaxley， ａｎｄ Hermione， taking a seat behind the latter. He was worried about  making Hermione jump. He thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon Umbridge ａｎｄ  Yaxley， but even murmuring the word might cause Hermione alarm. Then Umbridge  raised her voice to address Mrs. Cattermole， ａｎｄ Harry seized his chance.    
“I’m behind you，” he whispered into Hermione’s ear.    
As he had expected， she jumped so violently she nearly overturned the bottle of  ink with which she was supposed to be recording the interview， but both Umbridge ａｎｄ  Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs. Cattermole， ａｎｄ this went unnoticed.    
“A wａｎｄ was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today， Mrs.  Cattermole，” Umbridge was saying. “Eight-ａｎｄ-three-quarter inches， cherry， unicorn-hair  core. Do you recognize the description?”    
Mrs. Cattermole nodded， mopping her eyes on her sleeve.    
“Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wａｎｄ?”    
He did it instinctively， without any sort of plan， because he hated the sight of her  walking alone into the dungeon: As the door began to swing closed， he slipped into the  courtroom behind her.    
It was not the same room in which he had once been interrogated for improper use  of magic. This one was much smaller， though the ceiling was quite as high it gave the  claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the bottom of a deep well.    
There were more dementors in here， casting their freezing aura over the place;  they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest from the high， raised platform.  Here， behind a balustrade， sat Umbridge， with Yaxley on one side of her， ａｎｄ Hermione，  quite as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole， on the other. At the foot of the platform， a bight- silver， long-haired cat prowled up ａｎｄ down， up ａｎｄ down， ａｎｄ Harry realized that it was  there to protect the prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the dementors: That  was for the accused to feel， not the accusers.    
“Sit down，” said Umbridge in her soft， silky voice.    
Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the middle of the floor beneath the  raised platform. The moment she had sat down， chains clinked out of the arms of the  chair ａｎｄ bound her there.    
“You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?” asked Umbridge.    
Mrs. Cattermole gave a single， shaky nod.    
“Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?”    
Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears.    
“I don’t know where he is， he was supposed to meet me here!”    
Umbridge ignored her.    
“Mother to Maisie， Ellie ａｎｄ Alfred Cattermole?”  Mrs. Cattermole sobbed harder than ever.    
“They’re frightened， they think that I might not come home –“    
“T-took?” sobbed Mrs. Cattermole. “I didn’t t-take it from anybody. I b-bought it  when I was eleven years old. It – it – it – chose me.”    
She cried harder than ever.    
Umbridge laughed a soft girlish laugh that made Harry want to attack her. She  leaned forward over the barrier， the better to observe her victim， ａｎｄ something gold  swung forward too， ａｎｄ dangled over the void: the locket.    
Hermione had seen it; she let out a little squeak， but Umbridge ａｎｄ Yaxley， still  intent upon their prey， were deaf to everything else.    
“No，” said Umbridge， “no， I don’t think so， Mrs. Cattermole. Wａｎｄs only choose  witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that  was sent to you here – Mafalda， pass them to me.”    
Umbridge held out a small hａｎｄ: She looked so toadlike at that moment that  Harry was quite surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers. Hermione’s hａｎｄs  were shaking with shock. She fumbled in a pile of documents balanced on the chair  beside her， finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment with Mrs. Cattermole’s name on it.    
“That’s – that’s pretty， Dolores，” she said， pointing at the pendant gleaming in the  ruffled folds of Umbridge’s blouse.    
“What?” snapped Umbridge， glancing down. “Oh yes – an old family heirloom，”  she said， patting the locket lying on her large bosom. “The S stａｎｄs for Selwyn…. I am  related to the Selwyns…. Indeed， there are few pure-blood families to whom I am not  related. …A pity，” she continued in a louder voice， flicking through Mrs. Cattermole’s  questionnaire， “that the same cannot be said for you. ‘Parents professions:  greengrocers’.”    
Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below， the fluffy silver cat patrolled up ａｎｄ down， ａｎｄ  the dementors stood waiting in the corners.    
It was Umbridge’s lie that brought the blood surging into Harry’s brain ａｎｄ  obliterated his sense of caution – that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a petty  criminal was being used to bolster her own pure-blood credentials. He raised his wａｎｄ，  not even troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak， ａｎｄ said，  “Stupefy!”    
There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled ａｎｄ her forehead hit the edge  of the balustrade: Mrs. Cattermole’s papers slid off her lap onto the floor ａｎｄ， down  below， the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold air hit them like an oncoming wind:  Yaxley， confused， looked around for the source of the trouble ａｎｄ saw Harry’s  disembodied hａｎｄ ａｎｄ wａｎｄ pointing at him. He tried to draw his own wａｎｄ， but too late:  “Stupefy!”    
Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor.    
“Harry!”    
“Hermione， if you think I was going to sit here ａｎｄ let her pretend –“    
“Harry， Mrs. Cattermole!”    
Harry whirled around， throwing off the Invisibility Cloak; down below， the  dementors had moved out of their corners; they were gliding toward the woman chained  to the chair: Whether because the Patronus had vanished or because they sensed that their  masters were no longer in control， they seemed to have abａｎｄoned restraint. Mrs.  Cattermole let out a terrible scream of fear as a slimy， scabbed hａｎｄ grasped her chin ａｎｄ  forced her face back.    
“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”    
The silver stag soared from the tip of Harry’s wａｎｄ ａｎｄ leaped toward the  dementors， which fell back ａｎｄ melted into the dark shadows again. The stag’s light，  more powerful ａｎｄ more warming than the cat’s protection， filled the whole dungeon as it  cantered around the room.    
“Get the Horcrux，” Harry told Hermione.    
He ran back down the steps， stuffing the Invisibility Cloak into his back， ａｎｄ  approached Mrs. Cattermole.    
“You?” she whispered， gazing into his face. “But – but Reg said you were the one  who submitted my name for questioning!”    
“Did I?” muttered Harry， tugging at the chains binding her arms， “Well， I’ve had  a change of heart. Diffindo!” Nothing happened. “Hermione， how do I get rid of these  chains?”  “Wait， I’m trying something up here –“    
“Hermione， we’re surrounded by dementors!”    
“I know that， Harry， but if she wakes up ａｎｄ the locket’s gone – I need to  duplicate it – Geminio! There… That should fool her….”    
Hermione came running downstairs.    
“Let’s see…. Relashio!”    
The chains clinked ａｎｄ withdrew into the arms of the chair. Mrs. Cattermole  looked just as frightened as ever before.    
“I don’t understａｎｄ，” she whispered.    
“You’re going to leave here with us，” said Harry， pulling her to her feet. “Go  home， grab your children， ａｎｄ get out， get out of the country if you’ve got to. Disguise  yourselves ａｎｄ run. You’ve seen how it is， you won’t get anything like a fair hearing  here.”    
“Harry，” said Hermione， “how are we going to get out of here with all those  dementors outside the door?”    
“Patronuses，” said Harry， pointing his wａｎｄ at his own. The stag slowed ａｎｄ  walked， still gleaming brightly， toward the door. “As many as we can muster; do yours，  Hermione.”    
“Expec – Expecto patronum，” said Hermione. Nothing happened.    
“It’s the only spell she ever has trouble with，” Harry told a completely bemused  Mrs. Cattermole. “Bit unfortunate， really… Come on Hermione….”    
‘Expecto patronum!”    
A silver otter burst from the end of Hermione’s wａｎｄ ａｎｄ swam gracefully  through the air to join the stag.    
“C’mon，” said Harry， ａｎｄ he led Hermione ａｎｄ Mrs. Cattermole to the door.    
When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there were cries of shock from the  people waiting outside. Harry looked around; the dementors were falling back on both  sides of them， melding into the darkness， scattering before the silver creatures.    
“It’s been decided that you should all go home ａｎｄ go into hiding with your  families，” Harry told the waiting Muggle-born， who were dazzled by the light of the  Patronuses ａｎｄ still cowering slightly. “Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the  Ministry. That’s the – er – new official position. Now， if you’ll just follow the Patronuses，  you’ll be able to leave the Atrium.”    
They managed to get up the stone stops without being intercepted， but as they  approached the lifts Harry started to have misgivings. If they emerged into the Atrium  with a silver stag， ａｎｄ otter soaring alongside it， ａｎｄ twenty or so people， half of them  accused Muggle-borns， he could not help feeling that they would attract unwanted  attention. He had just reached this unwelcome conclusion when the lift clanged to a halt  in front of them.    
“Reg!” screamed Mrs. Cattermole， ａｎｄ she threw herself into Ron’s arms.  “Runcorn let me out， he attacked Umbridge ａｎｄ Yaxley， ａｎｄ he’s told all of us to leave  the country. I think we’d better do it， Reg， I really do， let’s hurry home ａｎｄ fetch the  children ａｎｄ – why are you so wet?”    
“Water，” muttered Ron， disengaging himself. “Harry， they know there are  intruders inside the Ministry， something about a hole in Umbridge’s office door. I reckon  we’ve got five minutes if that –“    
Hermione’s Patronus vanished with a pop as she turned a horror struck face to  Harry.    
“Harry， if we’re trapped here – !”    
“We won’t be if we move fast，” said Harry. He addressed the silent group behind  them， who were all gawping at him.    
“Who’s got wａｎｄs?”    
About half of them raised their hａｎｄs.    
“Okay， all of you who haven’t got wａｎｄs need to attach yourself to somebody  who has. We’ll need to be fast before they stop us. Come on.”    
They managed to cram themselves into two lifts. Harry’s Patronus stood sentinel  before the golden grilles as they shut ａｎｄ the lifts began to rise.    
“Level eight，” said the witch’s cool voice， “Atrium.”    
Harry knew at once that they were in trouble. The Atrium was full of people  moving from fireplace to fireplace， sealing them off.    
“Harry!” squeaked Hermione. “What are we going to – ?”    
“STOP!” Harry thundered， ａｎｄ the powerful voice of Runcorn echoed through the  Atrium: The wizards sealing the fireplaces froze. “Follow me，” he whispered to the group  of terrified Muggle-borns， who moved forward in a huddle， shepherded by Ron ａｎｄ  Hermione.    
“What’s up， Albert?” said the same balding wizard who had followed Harry out  of the fireplace earlier. He looked nervous.    
“This lot need to leave before you seal the exits，” said Harry with all the authority  he could muster.    
The group of wizards in front of him looked at one another.    
“We’ve been told to seal all exits ａｎｄ not let anyone –“    
“Are you contradicting me?” Harry blustered. “Would you like me to have your  family tree examined， like I had Dirk Cresswell’s?”    
“Sorry!” gasped the balding wizard， backing away. “I didn’t mean nothing， Albert，  but I thought… I thought they were in for questioning ａｎｄ…”    
“Their blood is pure，” said Harry， ａｎｄ his deep voice echoed impressively through  the hall. “Purer than many of yours， I daresay. Off you go，” he boomed to the Muggle- borns， who scurried forward into the fireplaces ａｎｄ began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry  wizards hung back， some looking confused， others scared ａｎｄ fearful. Then:    
“Mary!”    
Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole， no longer  vomiting but pale ａｎｄ wan， had just come running out of a lift.    
“R- Reg?”    
She looked from her husbａｎｄ to Ron， who swore loudly.    
The balding wizard gaped， his head turning ludicrously from one Reg Cattermole  to the other.    
“Hey – what’s going on? What is this?”    
“Seal the exit! SEAL IT!”    
Yaxley had burst out of another lift ａｎｄ was running toward the group beside the  fireplaces， into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole had now vanished. As  the balding wizard lifted his wａｎｄ， Harry raised an enormous fist ａｎｄ punched him，  sending him flying through the air.    
“He’s been helping Muggle-borns escape， Yaxley!” Harry shouted.    
The balding wizard’s colleagues set up ａｎｄ uproar， under cover of which Ron  grabbed Mrs. Cattermole， pulled her into the still-open fireplace， ａｎｄ disappeared.  Confused， Yaxley looked from Harry to the punched wizard， while the real Reg  Cattermole screamed， “My wife! Who was that with my wife? What’s going on?”    
Harry saw Yaxley’s head turn， saw an inkling of truth dawn on that brutish face.    
“Come on!” Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her hａｎｄ ａｎｄ they jumped into  the fireplace together as Yaxley’s curse sailed over Harry’s head. They spun for a few  seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flung open the door: Ron  was stａｎｄing there beside the sinks， still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole.    
“Reg， I don’t understａｎｄ –“    
“Let go， I’m not your husbａｎｄ， you’ve got to go home!”    
There was a noise in the cubicle behind them; Harry looked around; Yaxley had  just appeared.    
“LET’S GO!” Harry yelled. He seized Hermione by the hａｎｄ ａｎｄ Ron by the arm  ａｎｄ turned on the stop.    
Darkness engulfed them， along with the sensation of compressing hａｎｄs， but  something was wrong…. Hermione’s hａｎｄ seemed to be sliding out of his grip….    
He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see ａｎｄ  the only solid things in the world were Ron’s arm ａｎｄ Hermione’s fingers， which were  slowly slipping away….    
And then he saw the door to number twelve， Grimmauld Place， with its serpent  door knocker， but before he could draw breath， there was a scream ａｎｄ a flash of purple  light: Hermione’s hａｎｄ was suddenly vicelike upon his ａｎｄ everything went dark again.    Chapter Fourteen    The Thief         Harry opened his eyes ａｎｄ was dazzled by gold ａｎｄ green; he had no idea what  had happened， he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves ａｎｄ twigs.  Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened， he blinked ａｎｄ realized that the  gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves far above him. Then an     object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself onto his hａｎｄs ａｎｄ knees， ready to  face some small， fierce creature， but saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around，  Harry saw that they ａｎｄ Hermione were lying on a forest floor， apparently alone.    
Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest， ａｎｄ for a moment， even though  he knew how foolish ａｎｄ dangerous it would be for them to appear in the grounds of  Hogwarts， his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut.  However， in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan ａｎｄ Harry to start  crawling toward him， he realized that this was not the Forbidden Forest; The trees looked  younger， they were more widely spaced， the ground clearer.    
He met Hermione， also on her hａｎｄs ａｎｄ knees， at Ron’s head. The moment his  eyes fell upon Ron， all other concerns fled Harry’s mind， for blood drenched the whole of  Ron’s left side ａｎｄ his face stood out， grayish-white， against the leaf-strewn earth. The  Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was halfway between Cattermole ａｎｄ himself  in appearance， his hair turning redder ａｎｄ redder as his face drained of the little color it  had left.    
“What’s happened to him?”    
“Splinched，” said Hermione， her fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve， where the  blood was wettest ａｎｄ darkest.    
Harry watched， horrified， as she tore open Ron’s short. He had always thought of  Splinching as something comical， but this . . . His insides crawled unpleasantly as  Hermione laid bare Ron’s upper arm， where a great chunk of flesh was missing， scooped  cleanly away as though by a knife.    
“Harry， quickly， in my bag， there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’– “    
“Bag – right –“    
Harry sped to the place where Hermione had lａｎｄed， seized the tiny beaded bag，  ａｎｄ thrust his hａｎｄ inside it. At once， object after object began presenting itself to his  touch: He felt the leather spines of books， woolly sleeves of jumpers， heels of shoes –    
“Quickly!”    
He grabbed his wａｎｄ from the ground ａｎｄ pointed it into the depths of the  magical bag.    
“Accio Dittany!”    
A small brown bottle zoomed out of the bag; he caught it ａｎｄ hastened back to  Hermione ａｎｄ Ron， whose eyes were now half-closed， strips of white eyeball all that  were visible between his lids.    
“He’s fainted，” said Hermione， who was also rather pale; she no longer looked  like Mafalda， though her hair was still gray in places. “Unstopper it for me， Harry， my  hａｎｄs are shaking.”    
Harry wrenched the stopper off the little bottle， Hermione took it ａｎｄ poured three  drops of the potion onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke billowed upward ａｎｄ when  it had cleared， Harry saw that the bleeding had stopped. The wound now looked several  days old; new skin stretched over what had just been open flesh.    
“Wow，” said Harry.    
“It’s all I feel safe doing，” said Hermione shakily. “There are spells that would put  him completely right， but I daren’t try in case I do them wrong ａｎｄ cause more  damage. . . . He’s lost so much blood already. . . .”    
“How did he get hurt? I mean” – Harry shook his head， trying to clear it， to make  sense of whatever had just taken place – “why are we here? I thought we were going back  to Grimmauld Place?”    
Hermione took a deep breath. She looked close to tears.    
“Harry， I don’t think we’re going to be able to go back there.”    
“What d’you – ?”    
“As we Disapparated， Yaxley caught hold of me ａｎｄ I couldn’t get rid of him， he  was too strong， ａｎｄ he was still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place， ａｎｄ  then – well， I think he must have seen the door， ａｎｄ thought we were stopping there， so  he slackened his grip ａｎｄ I managed to sake him off ａｎｄ I brought us here instead!”    
“But then， where’s he? Hang on. . . . You don’t mean he’s at Grimmauld Place?  He can’t get in there?”    
Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she nodded.    
“Harry， I think he can. I – I forced him to let go with a Revulsion Jinx， but I’d  already taken him inside the Fidelius Charm’s protection. Since Dumbledore died， we’re  Secret-Keepers， so I’ve given him the secret， haven’t I?”    
There was no pretending; Harry was sure she was right. It was a serious blow. If  Yaxley could now get inside the house， there was no way that they could return. Even  now， he could be bringing other Death Eaters in there by Apparition. Gloomy ａｎｄ  oppressive though the house was， it had been their one safe refuge; even， now that  Kreacher was so much happier ａｎｄ friendlier， a kind of home. With a twinge of regret  that had nothing to do with food， Harry imagined the house-elf busying himself over the  steak-ａｎｄ-kidney pie that Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione would never eat.    
“Harry， I’m sorry， I’m so sorry!”    
“Don’t be stupid， it wasn’t your fault! If anything， it was mine. . . .”    
Harry put his hａｎｄ in his pocket ａｎｄ drew out Mad-Eye’s eye. Hermione recoiled，  looking horrified.    
“Umbridge had stuck it to her office door， to spy on people. I couldn’t leave it  there . . . but that’s how they knew there were intruders.”    
Before Hermione could answer， Ron groaned ａｎｄ opened his eyes. He was still  gray ａｎｄ his face glistened with sweat.    
“How d’you feel?” Hermione whispered.    
“Lousy，” croaked Ron， wincing as he felt his injured arm. “Where are we?”    
“In the woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup，” said Hermione. “I  wanted somewhere enclosed， undercover， ａｎｄ this was –“    
“– the first place you thought of，” Harry finished for her， glancing around at the  apparently deserted glade. He could not help remembering what had happened the last  time they had Apparated to the first place Hermione had thought of – how Death Eaters  had found them within minutes. Had it been Legilimency? Did Voldemort or his  henchmen know， even now， where Hermione had taken them?    
“D’you reckon we should move on?” Ron asked Harry， ａｎｄ Harry could tell by  the look on Ron’s face that he was thinking the same.    
“I dunno.”  Ron still looked pale ａｎｄ clammy. He had made no attempt to sit up ａｎｄ it looked  as though he was too weak to do so. The prospect of moving him was daunting.    
“Let’s stay here for now，” Harry said.    
Looking relieved， Hermione sprang to her feet.    
“Where are you going?” asked Ron.    
“If we’re staying， we should put some protective enchantments around the place，”  she replied， ａｎｄ raising her wａｎｄ， she began to walk in a wide circle around Harry ａｎｄ  Ron， murmuring incantations as she went. Harry saw little disturbances in the  surrounding air: It was as if Hermione had cast a heat haze upon their clearing.    
“Salvio Hexia . . . Protego Totalum . . . Repello Muggletum . . . Muffliato . . . You  could get out the tent， Harry. . . .”    
“Tent?”    
“In the bag!”    
“In the . . . of course，” said Harry.    
He did not bother to grope inside it this time， but used another Summoning Charm.  The tent emerged in a lumpy mass of canvas， ropes， ａｎｄ poles. Harry recognized it， partly  because of the smell of cats， as the same tent in which they had slept on the night of the  Quidditch World Cup.    
“I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?” he asked， starting  to disentangle the pent pegs.    
“Apparently he didn’t want it back， his lumbago’s so bad，” said Hermione， now  performing complicated figure-of-eight movements with her wａｎｄ. “so Ron’s dad said I  could borrow it. Erecto!” she added， pointing her wａｎｄ at the misshapen canvas， which in  one fluid m