"YOU-KNOW-WHO， then!" Harry shouted， goaded past endurance. "If there was  one place that was really important to You-Know-Who， it was Hogwarts!"    
"Oh， come on，" scoffed Ron. "His school?"    
"Yeah， his school! It was his first real home， the place that meant he was special:  it meant everything to him， ａｎｄ even after he left—"    
"This is You-Know-Who we’re talking about， right? Not you?" inquired Ron. He  was tugging at the chain of the Horcrux around his neck; Harry was visited by a desire to  seize it ａｎｄ throttle him.    
"You told us that You-Know-Who asked Dumbledore to give him a job after he  left，" said Hermione.    
"That’s right，" said Harry.    
"And Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come back to try ａｎｄ find something，  probably another founder’s object， to make into another Horcrux?"    
“Yeah，” said Harry.    
“But he didn’t get the job， did he?” said Hermione. “So he never got the chance to  find a founder’s object there ａｎｄ hide it in the school!”    
“Okay， then，” said Harry， defeated. “Forget Hogwarts.”    
Without any other leads， they traveled into London ａｎｄ， hidden beneath the  Invisibility Cloak， search for the orphanage in which Voldemort had been raised.  Hermione stole into a library ａｎｄ discovered from their records that the place had been  demolished many years before. They visited its site ａｎｄ found a tower block of offices.    
“We could try digging in to foundations?” Hermione suggested halfheartedly.    
“He wouldn’t have hidden a Horcrux here，” Harry said. He had known it all along.  The orphanage had been the place Voldemort had been determined to escape; he would  never have hidden a part of his soul there. Dumbledore had shown Harry that Voldemort  sought grａｎｄeur or mystique in his hiding places; this dismal gray corner of London was  as far removed as you could imagine from Hogwarts of the Ministry or a building like  Gringotts， the Wizarding banks， with its gilded doors ａｎｄ marble floors.    
Even without any new idea， they continued to move through the countryside，  pitching the tent in a different place each night for security. Every morning they made  sure that they had removed all clues to their presence， then set off to find another lonely     ａｎｄ secluded spot， traveling by Apparition to more woods， to the shadowy crevices of  cliffs， to purple moors， gorse-covered mountainsides， ａｎｄ once a sheltered ａｎｄ pebbly  cove. Every twelve hours or so they passed the Horcrux between them as though they  were playing some perverse， slow-motion game of pass-the-parcel， where they dreaded  the music stopping because the reward was twelve hours of increased fear ａｎｄ anxiety.    
Harry’s scare kept prickling. It happened most often， he noticed， when he was  wearing the Horcrux. Sometimes he could not stop himself reacting to the pain.    
“What? What did you see?” demａｎｄed Ron， whenever he noticed Harry wince.    
“A face，” muttered Harry， every time. “The same face. The thief who stole from  Gregorovitch.”    
And Ron would turn away， making no effort to hide his disappointment. Harry  knew that Ron was hoping to bear news of his family or the rest of the Order of the  Phoenix， but after all， he， Harry， was not a television aerial; he could only see what  Voldemort was thinking at the time， not tune in to whatever took his fancy. Apparently  Voldemort was dwelling endlessly on the unknown youth with the gleeful face， whose  name ａｎｄ whereabouts， Harry felt sure， Voldemort knew no better than he did. As  Harry’s scar continued to burn ａｎｄ the merry， blond-haired boy swam tantalizingly in his  memory， he learned to suppress any sign of pain or discomfort， for the other two showed  nothing but impatience at the mention of the thief. He could not entirely blame them，  when they were so desperate for a lean on the Horcruxes.    
As the days stretched into weeks， Harry began to suspect that Ron ａｎｄ Hermione  were having conversations without， ａｎｄ about， him. Several times they stopped talking  abruptly when Harry entered the tent， ａｎｄ twice he came accidentally upon them， huddled  a little distance away， heads together ａｎｄ talking fast; both times they fell silent when  they realized he was approaching them ａｎｄ hastened to appear busy collecting wood or  water.    
Harry could not help wondering whether they had only agreed to come on what  now felt like a pointless ａｎｄ rambling journey because they thought he had some secret  plan that they would learn in due course. Ton was making no effort to hide his bad mood，  ａｎｄ Harry was starting to fear that Hermione too was disappointed by his poor leadership.  In desperation he tried to think of further Horcrux locations， but the only one that  continued to occur to him was Hogwarts， ａｎｄ as neither of the others thought this at all  likely， he stopped suggesting it.    
Autumn rolled over the countryside as they moved through it. They were now  pitching the tent on mulches of fallen leaves. Natural mists joined those cast by the  dementors; wind ａｎｄ rain added to their troubles. The fact that Hermione was getting  better at identifying edible fungi could not altogether compensate for their continuing  isolation， the lack of other people’s company， or their total ignorance of what was going  on in the war against Voldemort.    
“My mother，” said Ron on night， as they sat in the tent on a riverbank in Wales，  “can make good food appear out of thin air.”    
He prodded moodily at the lumps of charred gray fish on his plate. Harry glanced  automatically at Ron’s neck ａｎｄ saw， as he has expected， the golden chain of the Horcrux  glinting there. He managed to fight down the impulse to swear at Ron， whose attitude  would， he knew， improve slightly when the time came to take off the locket.    
“Your mother can’t produce food out of thin air，” said Hermione. “no one can.  Food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental  Transfigura—”    
“Oh， speak English， can’t you?” Ron said， prising a fish out from between his  teeth.    
“It’s impossible to make good food out of nothing! You can Summon it if you  know where it is， you can transform it， you can increase the quantity if you’ve already got  some—”    
“Well， don’t bother increasing this， it’s disgusting，” said Ron.    
“Harry caught the fish ａｎｄ I did my best with it! I notice I’m always the one who  ends up sorting out the food， because I’m a girl， I suppose!”    
“No， it’s because you’re supposed to be the best at magic!” shot back Ron.    
Hermione jumped up ａｎｄ bits of roast pike slid off her tin plate onto the floor.    
“You can do the cooking tomorrow， Ron， you can find the ingredients ａｎｄ try ａｎｄ  charm them into something worth eating， ａｎｄ I’ll sit here ａｎｄ pull faces ａｎｄ moan ａｎｄ  you can see you—”    
“Shut up!，” said Harry， leaping to his feet ａｎｄ holding up both hａｎｄs. “Shut up  now!”    
Hermione looked outraged.    
“How can you side with him， he hardly ever does the cook—”    
“Hermione， be quiet， I can hear someone!”    
He was listening hard， his hａｎｄs still raised， warning them not to talk. Then， over  the rush ａｎｄ gush of the dark river beside them， he heard voices again. He looked around  at the Sneakoscope. It was not moving.    
“You cast the Muffliato charm over us， right?” he whispered to Hermione.    
“I did everything，” she whispered back， “Muffliato， Muggle-Repelling ａｎｄ  Disillusionment Charms， all of it. They shouldn’t be able to hear of see us， whoever they  are.”    
Heavy scuffing ａｎｄ scraping noises， plus the sound of dislodged stones ａｎｄ twigs，  told them that several people were clambering down the steep， wooded slope that  descended to the narrow bank where they had pitched the tent. They drew their wａｎｄs，  waiting. The enchantments they had cast around themselves ought to be sufficient， in the  near total darkness， to shield them from the notice of Muggles ａｎｄ normal witches ａｎｄ  wizards. If these were Death Eaters， then perhaps their defenses were about to be tested  by Dark Magic for the first time.    
The voices became louder but no more intelligible as the group of men reached  the bank. Harry estimated that their owners were fewer than twenty feet away， but the  cascading river made it impossible to tell for sure. Hermione snatched up the beaded bag  ａｎｄ started to rummage; after a moment she drew out three Extendible Ears ａｎｄ threw  one each to Harry ａｎｄ Ron， who hastily ｉｎｓｅｒｔed the ends of the flesh-colored strings into  their ears ａｎｄ fed the other ends out of the tent entrance.    
Within seconds Harry heard a weary male voice.    
“There ought to be a few salmon in here， or d’you reckon it’s too early in the  season? Accio Salmon!”    
There were several distinct splashes ａｎｄ then the slapping sounds of fish against  flesh. Somebody grunted appreciatively. Harry pressed the Extendable ear deeper into his     own: Over the murmur of the river he could make out more voices， but they were not  speaking English or any human language he had ever heard. It was a rough ａｎｄ  unmelodious tongue， a string of rattling， guttural noises， ａｎｄ there seemed to be two  speakers， one with a slightly lower， slower voice than the other.    
A fire danced into life on the other side of the canvas， large shadows passed  between tent ａｎｄ flames. The delicious smell of baking salmon wafted tantalizingly in  their direction. Then came the clinking of cutlery on plates， ａｎｄ the first man spoke again.    
“Here， Griphook， Gornuk.”    
Goblins! Hermione mouthed at Harry， who nodded.    
“Thank you，” said the goblins together in English.    
“So， you three have been on the run how long?” asked a new， mellow， ａｎｄ  pleasant voice; it was vaguely familiar to Harry， who pictured a round-bellied， cheerful- faced man.    
“Six weeks . . . Seven . . . I forget，” said the tired man. “Met up with Griphook in  the first couple of days ａｎｄ joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have a but  of company.” There was a pause， while knives scraped plates ａｎｄ tin mugs were picked  up ａｎｄ replaced on the ground. “What made you leave， Ted?” continued the man.    
“Knew they were coming for me，” replied mellow-voiced Ted， ａｎｄ Harry  suddenly knew who he was: Tonks’s father. “Heard Death Eaters were in the area last  week ａｎｄ decided I’d better run for it. Refused to register as a Muggle-born on principle，  see， so I knew it was a matter of time， knew I’d have to leave in the end. My wife should  be okay， she’s pure-blood. And then I net Dean here， what， a few days ago， son?”    
“Yeah，” said another voice， ａｎｄ Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione stared at each other，  silent but besides themselves with excitement， sure they recognized the voice of Dean  Thomas， their fellow Gryffindor.    
“Muggle-born， eh?” asked the first man.    
“Not sure ，” said Dean. “My dad left my mum when I was a kid. I’ve got no proof  he was a wizard， though.”    
There was silence for a while， except for the sounds of munching; then Ted spoke  again.    
“I’ve got to say， Dirk， I’m surprised to run into you. Pleased， but surprised. Word  was that you’d been caught.”    
“I was，” said Dirk. “I was halfway to Azkaban when I made a break for it.  Stunned Dawlish， ａｎｄ nicked his broom. It was easier than you’d think; I don’t reckon  he’s quite right at the moment .Might be Confunded. If so， I’d like to shake the hａｎｄ of  the witch or wizard who did it， probably saved my life.”    
There was another pause in which the fire crackled ａｎｄ the river rushed on. The  Ted said， “And where do you two fit in? I， er， had the impression the goblins were for  You-Know-Who， on the whole.”    
“You had a false impression，” said the higher-voiced of the goblins. “We take no  sides. This is a wizards’ war.”    
“How come you’re in hiding， then?”    
“I deemed in prudent，” said the deeper-voiced goblin. “Having refused what I  considered an impertinent request， I could see that my person safety was in jeopardy.”    
“What did they ask you to do?” asked Ted.    
“Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race，” replied the goblin， his voice rougher  ａｎｄ less human as he said it. “I am not a house-elf.”    
“What about you， Griphook?”    
“Similar reasons，” said the higher voiced goblin. “Gringotts is no longer under the  sole control of my race. I recognize no Wizarding master.”    
He added something under his breath in Gobbledegook， ａｎｄ Gornuk laughed.    
“What’s the joke?” asked Dean.    
“He said，” replied Dirk， “that there are things wizards don’t recognize， either.”    
There was a short pause.    
“I don’t get it，” said Dean.    
“I had my small revenge before I left，，” said Griphook in English.    
“Good man—goblin， I should say，” amended Ted hastily. “Didn’t manage to lock  a Death Eater up in one of the old high-security vaults， I suppose?”    
“If I had， the sword would not have helped him break out，” replied Griphook.  Gornuk laughed again ａｎｄ even Dirk gave a dry chuckle.    
“Dean ａｎｄ I are still missing something here，” said Ted.    
“So is Severus Snape， though he does not know it，” said Griphook， ａｎｄ the two  goblins roared with malicious laughter. Inside the tent Harry’s breathing was shallow  with excitement: He ａｎｄ Hermione stared at each other， listening as hard as they could.    
“Didn’t you hear about that， Ted?” asked Dirk. “About the kids who tried to steal  Gryffindor’s sword out of Snape’s office at Hogwarts?”    
An electric current seemed to course through Harry， jangling his every nerve as he  stood rooted to the spot.    
“Never heard a word，” said Ted， “Not in the Prophet， was it?”    
“Hardly，” chortled Dirk. “Griphook here told me， he heard about it from Bill  Weasley who works for the bank. One of the kids who tried to take the sword was Bill’s  younger sister.”    
Harry glanced toward Hermione ａｎｄ Ron， both of whom were clutching the  Extendable Ears as tightly as lifelines.    
“She ａｎｄ a couple of friends got into Snape’s office ａｎｄ smashed open the glass  case where he was apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them as they were trying  to smuggle it down the staircase.    
“Ah， God bless ‘em，” said Ted. “What did they think， that they’d be able to use  the sword on You-Know-Who? Or on Snape himself?    
“Well， whatever they thought they were going to do with it， Snape decided the  sword wasn’t safe where it was，” said Dirk. “Couple of days later， once he’d got the say- so from You-Know-Who， I imagine， he sent it down to London to be kept in Gringotts  instead.”    
The goblins started to laugh again.    
“I’m still not seeing the joke，” said Ted.    
“It’s a fake，” rasped Griphook.    
“The sword of Gryffindor!”    
“Oh yes. It is a copy—en excellent copy， it is true—but it was Wizard-made. The  original was forged centuries ago by goblins ａｎｄ had certain properties only goblin-made  armor possesses. Wherever the genuine sword of Gryffindor is， it is not in a vault at  Gringotts bank.”    
“I see，” said Ted. “And I take it you didn’t bother telling the Death Eaters this/’    
“I saw no reason to trouble them with the information，” said Griphook smugly，  ａｎｄ now Ted ａｎｄ Dean joined in Gornuk ａｎｄ Dirk’s laughter.    
Inside the tent， Harry closed his eyes， willing someone to ask the question he  needed answered， ａｎｄ after a minute that seemed ten， Dean obliged: he was (Harry  remembered with a jolt) an ex-boyfriend of Ginny’s too.    
“What happened to Ginny ａｎｄ all the others? The ones who tried to steal it?”    
“Oh， they were punished， ａｎｄ cruelly，” said Griphook indifferently.    
“They’re okay， though?” asked Ted quickly， “I mean， the Weasleys don’t need  any more of their kids injured， do they?”    
“They suffered no serious injury， as far as I am aware，” said Griphook.    
“Lucky for them，” said Ted. “With Snape’s track record I suppose we should just  be glad they’re still alive.”    
“You believe that story， then， do you， Ted?” asked Dirk.” You believe Snape  killed Dumbledore?    
“Course I do，” said Ted. “You’re not going to sit there ａｎｄ tell me you think  Potter had anything to do with it?”    
“Hard to know what to believe these days，” muttered Dirk.    
“I know Harry Potter，” said Dean. “And I reckon he’s the real thing—the Chosen  One， or whatever you want to call it.”    
“Yeah， there’s a lot would like to believe he’s that， son，” said Dirk， “me included.  But where is he? Run for it， by the looks of things. You’d think if he knew anything we  don’t， or had anything special going for him， he’d be out there now fighting， rallying  resistance， instead of hiding. And you know， the Prophet made a pretty good case against  him—”    
“The Prophet?” scoffed Ted. “You deserve to be lied to if you’re still reading that  much， Dirk. You want the facts， try the Quibbler.”    
There was a sudden explosion of choking ａｎｄ retching， plus a good deal of  thumping， by the sound of it. Dirk had swallowed a fish bone. At last he sputtered， “The  Quibbler? That lunatic rag of Xeno Lovegood’s?”    
“It’s not so lunatic these days，” said Ted. “You want to give it a look， Xeno is  printing all the stuff the Prophet’s ignoring， not a single mention of Crumple-Horned  Snorkacks in the last issue. How long they’ll let him get with it， mind， I don’t know. But  Xeno says， front page of every issue， that any wizard who’s against You-Know-Who  ought to make helping Harry Potter their number-one priority.”    
“Hard to help a boy who’s vanished off the face of the earth，” said Dirk.    
“Listen， the fact that they haven’t caught him yet’s one hell of an achievement，”  said Ted. “I’d take tips from him gladly; it’s what we’re trying to do， stay free， isn’t it?”    
“Yeah， well， you’ve got a point there，” said Dirk heavily. “With the whole of the  Ministry ａｎｄ all their informers looking for him， I’d have expected him to be caught by  now. Mind， who’s to say they haven’t already caught ａｎｄ killed him without publicizing  it?”    
“Ah， don’t say that， Dirk，” murmured Ted.    
There was a long pause filled with more clattering of knives ａｎｄ forks. When they  spoke again it was to discuss whether they ought to sleep on the back or retreat back up     the wooded slope. Deciding the trees would give better cover， they extinguished their fire，  then clambered back up the incline， their voices fading away.    
Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione reeled in the Extendable Ears. Harry， who had found  the need to remain silent increasingly difficult the longer they eavesdropped， now found  himself unable to say more then， “Ginny—the sword—”    
“I know!” said Hermione.    
She lunged for the tiny beaded bag， this time sinking her arm in it right up to the  armpit.    
“Here . . . we . . . are . . .” she said between gritted teeth， ａｎｄ she pulled at  something that was evidently in the depths of the bag. Slowly the edge of an ornate  picture frame came into sight. Harry hurried to help her. As they lifted the empty portrait  of Phineas Nigellus free of Hermione’s bag， she kept her wａｎｄ pointing at it， ready to  cast a spell at any moment.    
“If somebody swapped the real sword for the face while it was in Dumbledore’s  office，” she panted， as they propped the painting against the side of the tent， “Phineas  Nigellus would have seen it happen， he hangs right beside the case!”    
“Unless he was asleep，” said Harry， but he still held his breath as Hermione knelt  down in front of the empty canvas， her wａｎｄ directed at its center， cleared her throat， then  said:    
“Er—Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?”    
Nothing happened.    
“Phineas Nigellus?” said Hermione again. “Professor Black? Please could we talk  to you? Please?”    
“’Please’ always helps，” said a cold， snide voice， ａｎｄ Phineas Nigellus slid into  his portrait. At one， Hermione cried:    
“Obscura!”    
A black blindfold appeared over Phineas Nigellus’s clever， dark eyes， causing  him to bump into the frame ａｎｄ shriek with pain.    
“What—how dare—what are you—?”    
“I’m very sorry， Professor Black，” said Hermione， “but it’s a necessary  precaution!”    
“remove this foul addition at once! Remove it， I say! You are ruining a great work  of art! Where am I? What is going on?”    
“Never mind where we are，” said Harry， ａｎｄ Phineas Nigellus froze， abａｎｄoning  his attempts to peel off the painted blindfold.    
“Can that possible be the voice of the elusive Mr. Potter?”    
“Maybe，” said Harry， knowing that this would keep Phineas Nigellus’s interest.  “We’ve got a couple of questions to ask you—about the sword of Gryffindor.”    
“Ah，” said Phineas Nigellus， now turning his head this way ａｎｄ that in an effort to  catch sight of Harry， “yes. That silly girl acted most unwisely there—”    
“Shut up about my sister，” said Ron roughly， Phineas Nigellus raised supercilious  eyebrows.    
“Who else is here?” he asked， turning his head from side to side. “Your tone  displeases me! The girl ａｎｄ her friends were foolhardily in the extreme. Thieving from  the headmaster.”    
“They weren’t thieving，” said Harry. “That sword isn’t Snape’s.”    
“It belongs to Professor Snape’s school，” said Phineas Nigellus. “Exactly what  claim did the Weasley girl have upon it? She deserved her punishment， as did the idiot  Longbottom ａｎｄ the Lovegood oddity!”    
“Neville is not an idiot ａｎｄ Luna is not an oddity!” said Hermione.    
“Where am I?” repeated Phineas Nigellus， starting to wrestle with the blindfold  again. “Where have you brought me? Why have you removed me from the house of my  forebears?”    
“never mind that! How did Snape punish Ginny， Neville， ａｎｄ Luna?” asked Harry  urgently.    
“Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest， to do some work for the  oaf， Hagrid.”    
“Hagrid’s not an oaf!” said Hermione shrilly.    
“And Snape might’ve though that was a punishment，” said Harry， “buy Ginny，  Neville， ａｎｄ Luna probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The Forbidden Forest . . .  they’ve faced plenty worse than the Forbidden Forest， big deal!”    
He felt relieved; he had been imagining horrors， the Cruciatus Curse at the very  least.    
“What we really wanted to know， Professor Black， is whether anyone else has， um，  taken out the sword at all? Maybe it’s been taken away for cleaning—or something!”    
Phineas Nigellus paused again in his struggles to free his eyes ａｎｄ sniggered.    
“Muggle-born，” he said， “Goblin-made armor does not require cleaning， simple  girl. Goblin’s silver repels mundane dirt， imbibing only that which strengthens it.”    
“Don’t call Hermione simple，” said Harry.    
“I grow weary of contradiction，” said Phineas Nigellus. “perhaps it is time for me  to return to the headmaster’s office.?”    
Still blindfolded， he began groping the side of his frame， trying to feel his way out  of his picture ａｎｄ back into the one at Hogwarts. Harry had a sudden inspiration.    
“Dumbledore! Can’t you bring us Dumbledore?”    
“I beg your pardon?” asked Phineas Nigellus.    
“Professor Dumbledore’s portrait—couldn’t you bring him along， here， into  yours?”    
Phineas Nigellus turned his face in the direction of Harry’s voice.    
“Evidently it is not only Muggle-borns who are ignorant， Potter. The portraits of  Hogwarts may commune with each other， but they cannot travel outside of the castle  except to visit a painting of themselves elsewhere. Dumbledore cannot come here with  me， ａｎｄ after the treatment I have received at your hａｎｄs， I can assure you that I will not  be making a return visit!”    
Slightly crestfallen， Harry watched Phineas redouble his attempts to leave his  frame.    
“Professor Black，” said Hermione， “couldn’t you just tell us， please， when was the  last time the sword was taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out， I mean?”    
Phineas snorted impatiently.    
“I believe that the last time I saw the sword of Gryffindor leave its case was when  Professor Dumbledore used it to break open a ring.”    
Hermione whipped around to look at Harry. Neither of them dared say more in  front of Phineas Nigellus， who had at least managed to locate the exit.    
“Well， good night to you，” he said a little waspishly， ａｎｄ he began to move out of  sight again. Only the edge of his hat brim remained in view when Harry gave a sudden  shout.    
“Wait! Have you told Snape you saw this?”    
Phineas Nigellus stuck his blindfolded head back into the picture.    
“Professor Snape has more important things on his mind that the many  eccentricities of Albus Dumbledore. Good-bye， Potter!”    
And with that， he vanished completely， leaving behind him nothing but his murky  backdrop.    
“Harry!” Hermione cried.    
“I know!” Harry shouted. Unable to contain himself， he punched the air; it was  more than he had dared to hope for. He strode up ａｎｄ down the tent， feeling that he could  have run a mile; he did not even feel hungry anymore. Hermione was squashing Phineas  Nigellus’s back into the beaded bag; when she had fastened the clasp she threw the bag  aside ａｎｄ raised a shining face to Harry.    
“The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades imbibe only that which  strengthens them—Harry， that sword’s impregnated with basilisk venom!”    
“And Dumbledore didn’t five it to me because he still needed it， he wanted to use  it on the locket—”    
“—ａｎｄ he must have realized they wouldn’t let you have it if he put it in his  will—”    
“—so he made a copy—”    
“—ａｎｄ put a fake in the glass case—”    
“—ａｎｄ he left the real one—where?”    
They gazed at east other Harry felt that the answer was dangling invisibly in the  air above them， tantalizingly close. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Or had he， in fact，  told Harry， but Harry had not realized it at the time?”    
“Think!” whispered Hermione. “Think! Where would he have left it?”    
“Not at Hogwarts，” said Harry， resuming his pacing.    
“Somewhere in Hogsmeade?” suggested Hermione.    
“The Shrieking Shack?” said Harry. “Nobody ever goes in there.”    
“But Snape knows how to get in， wouldn’t that be a bit risky?”    
“Dumbledore trusted Snape，” Harry reminded her.    
“Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the swords，” said Hermione.    
“Yeah， you’re right!” said Harry， ａｎｄ he felt even more cheered at the thought  that Dumbledore had had some reservations， however faint， about Snape’s  trustworthiness. “So， would he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade， then?  What d’you reckon， Ron? Ron?”    
Harry looked around. For one bewildered moment he thought that Ron had left  the tent， then realized that Ron was lying in the shadow of a bunk， looking stony.    
“Oh， remembered me， have you?” he said.    
“What?”    
Ron snorted as he stared up at the underside of the upper bunk.    
“You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.”    
Perplexed， Harry looked to Hermione for help， but she shook her head， apparently  as nonplussed as he was.    
“What’s the problem?” asked Harry.    
“Problem? There’s no problem，” said Ron， still refusing to look at Harry. “Not  according to you， anyways.”    
There were several plunks on the canvas over their heads. It had started to rain.    
“Well， you’ve obviously got a problem，” said Harry. “Spit it out， will you?”    
Ron swung his long legs off the bed ａｎｄ sat up. He looked mean， unlike himself.    
“All right， I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up ａｎｄ down the tent because  there’s some other damn thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don’t  know.”    
“I don’t know?” repeated Harry. “I don’t know?”    
Plunk， plunk， plunk. The rain was falling harder ａｎｄ heavier; it pattered on the  leaf-strewn bank all around them ａｎｄ into the river chattering through the dark. Dread  doused Harry’s jubilation; Ron was saying exactly what he had suspected ａｎｄ feared him  to be thinking.    
“It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here，” said Ron， “you know， with  my arm mangled ａｎｄ nothing to eat ａｎｄ freezing my backside off every night. I just  hoped， you know， after we’d been running round a few weeks， we’d have achieved  something.”    
“Ron，” Hermione said， but in such a quiet voice that Ron could pretend not to  have heard it over the loud tattoo the rain was beating on the tent.    
“I thought you knew what you’d signed up for，” said Harry.    
“Yeah， I thought I did too.”    
“So what part of it isn’t living up to your expectations?” asked Harry. Anger was  coming to his defense now. “Did you think we’d be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a  Horcrux every other day? Did you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?”    
“We thought you knew what you were doing!” shouted Ron， stａｎｄing up， ａｎｄ his  words Harry like scalding knives. “We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do， we  thought you had a real plan!”    
“Ron!” said Hermione， this time clearly audible over the rain thundering on the  tent roof， but again， he ignored her.    
“Well， sorry to let you down，” said Harry， his voice quite calm even though he  felt hollow， inadequate. “I’ve been straight with you from the start. I told you everything  Dumbledore told me. And in the case you haven’t noticed， we’ve found one Horcrux—”    
“Yeah， ａｎｄ we’re about as near getting rid of it as we are to finding the rest of  them—nowhere effing near in other words.”    
“take off the locket， Ron，” Hermione said， her voice unusually high. “Please take  it off. You wouldn’t be talking like this if you hadn’t been wearing it all day.”    
“Yeah， he would，” said Harry， who did not want excuses made for Ron. “D’you  think I haven’t noticed the two of you whispering behind my back? D’you think I didn’t  guess you were thinking this stuff?    
“Harry， we weren’t—”    
“Don’t lie!” Ron hurled at her. “You said it too， you said you were disappointed，  you said you’d thought he had a bit more to go on than—”    
“I didn’t say it like that—Harry， I didn’t!” she cried.    
The rain was pounding the tent， tears were pouring down Hermione’s face， ａｎｄ  the excitement of a few minutes before had vanished as if it had never been， a short-lived     firework that had flared ａｎｄ died， leaving everything dark， wet， ａｎｄ cold. The sword of  Gryffindor was hidden they knew not where， ａｎｄ their were three teenagers in a tent  whose only achievement was not， yet， to be dead.    
“So why are you still here?” Harry asked Ron.    
“Search me，” said Ron.    
“Go home then，” said Harry.    
“Yeah， maybe I will!” shouted Ron， ａｎｄ he took several steps toward Harry， who  did not back away. “Didn’t you hear what they said about my sister? But you don’t give a  rat’s fart， do you， it’s only the Forbidden Forest， Harry I’ve-Faced-Worse Potter doesn’t  care what happened to her in there—well， I do， all right， giant spiders ａｎｄ mental stuff—”    
“I was only saying—she was with the others， they were with Hagrid—”    
“Yeah， I get it， you don’t care! And what about the rest of my family， ‘the  Weasleys don’t need another kid injured，’ did you hear that?” “Yeah， I—”    
“Not bothered what it meant， though?”    
“Ron!” said Hermione， forcing her way between them. “I don’t think it means  anything new has happened， anything we don’t know about; think， Ron， Bill’s already  scared， plenty of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now， ａｎｄ you’re  supposed to be on your deathbed with spattergroit， I’m sure that’s all he meant—”    
“Oh， you’re sure， are you? Right then， well， I won’t bother myself about them.  It’s all right for you， isn’t it， with your parents safely out of the way—”    
“My parents are dead!” Harry bellowed.    
“And mine could be going the same way!” yelled Ron.    
“Then GO!” roared Harry. “Go back to them， pretend you’re got over your  spattergroit ａｎｄ Mummy’ll be able to feed you up ａｎｄ—”    
Ron made a sudden movement: Harry reacted， but before either wａｎｄ was clear of  its owner’s pocket， Hermione had raised her own.    
“Prestego!” she cried， ａｎｄ an invisible shield expａｎｄed between her ａｎｄ Harry on  the one side ａｎｄ Ron on the other; all of them were forced backward a few steps by the  strength of the spell， ａｎｄ Harry ａｎｄ Ron glared from either side of the transparent barrier  as though they were seeing each other clearly for the first time. Harry felt a corrosive  hatred toward Ron: Something had broken between them.    
“Leave the Horcrux，” Harry said.    
Ron wrenched the chain from over his head ａｎｄ cast the locket into a nearby chair.  He turned to Hermione.    
“What are you doing?”    
“What do you mean?”    
“Are you staying， or what?”    
“I . . .” She looked anguished. “Yes—yes， I’m staying. Ron， we said we’d go with  Harry， we said we’d help—”    
“I get it. You choose him.”    
“Ron， no—please—come back， come back!”    
She was impeded by her own Shield Charm; by the time she had removed it he  had already stormed into the night. Harry stood quite still ａｎｄ silent， listening to her  sobbing ａｎｄ calling Ron’s name amongst the trees.    
After a few minutes she returned， her sopping hair plastered to her face.    
“He’s g-g-gone! Disapparated!”    
She threw herself into a chair， curled up， ａｎｄ started to cry.    
Harry felt dazed. He stooped， picked up the Horcrux， ａｎｄ placed it around his  own neck. He dragged blankets off Ron’s bunk ａｎｄ threw them over Hermione. Then he  climbed onto his own bed ａｎｄ stared up at the dark canvas roof， listening to the pounding  of the rain.         Chapter Sixteen    Godric’s Hollow        
When Harry woke the following day it was several seconds before he  remembered what had happened. Then he hoped childishly， that it had been a dream， that  Ron was still there ａｎｄ had never left. Yet by turning his head on his pillow he could see  Ron’s deserted bunk. It was like a dead body in the way it seems to draw his eyes. Harry  jumped down from his own bed， keeping his eyes averted from Ron’s. Hermione， who  was already busy in the kitchen， did not wish Harry good morning， but turned    her face away quickly as he went by. He’s gone， Harry told himself. He’s gone. He had to  keep thinking it as he washed ａｎｄ dressed as though repetition would dull the shock of it.  He’s gone ａｎｄ he’s not coming back. And that was the simple truth of it， Harry knew，  because their protective enchantments meant that it would be impossible， once they  vacated this spot， for Ron to find them again. He ａｎｄ Hermione ate breakfast in silence.  Hermione’s eyes were puffy ａｎｄ red; she looked as if she had not slept. They packed up  their things， Hermione dawdling. Harry knew why she wanted to spin out their time on  the riverbank; several times he saw her look up eagerly， ａｎｄ he was sure she had deluded  herself into thinking that she heard footsteps through the heavy rain， but no red-haired  figure appeared between the trees. Every time Harry imitated her， looked around ( for he  could not help hoping a little， himself) ａｎｄ saw nothing but rain-swept woods， another  little parcel of fury exploded inside him. He could hear Ron saying， "We thought you  knew what you were doing!"， ａｎｄ he resumed packing with a hard knot in the pit of his  stomach.    
The muddy river beside them was rising rapidly ａｎｄ would soon spill over onto their  bank. They had lingered a good hour after they would usually have departed their  campsite. Finally having entirely repacked the beaded bag three times， Hermione seemed  unable to find any more reasons to delay: She ａｎｄ Harry gasped hａｎｄs ａｎｄ Disapparated，  reappearing on a windswept heather-covered hillside. The instant they arrived， Hermione  dropped Harry’s hａｎｄ ａｎｄ walked away from him， finally sitting down on a large rock，  her face on her knees， shaking with what he knew were sobs. He watched her， supposing  that he ought to go ａｎｄ comfort her， but something kept him rooted to the spot.  Everything inside him felt cold ａｎｄ tight: Again he saw the contemptuous expression on  Ron’s face. Harry strode off through the heather， walking in a large circle with the  distraught Hermione at its center， casting the spell she usually performed to ensure their  protection.    
They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few days. Harry was determined never to  mention his name again ａｎｄ Hermione seemed to know that it was no use forcing the  issue， although sometimes at night when she thought he was sleeping， he would hear her     crying. Meanwhile Harry had started bringing out the Marauder’s map ａｎｄ examining it  by wａｎｄlight. He was waiting for the moment when Ron’s labeled dot would reappear in  the corridors of Hogwarts， proving that he had returned to the comfortable castle，  protected by his status of pureblood. However， Ron did not appear on the map ａｎｄ after a  while Harry found himself taking it out simply to stare at Ginny’s name in the girl’s  dormitory， wondering whether the intensity with which he gazed at it might break into  her sleep， that she would somehow know he was thinking about her， hoping that she was  all right.    
By day， hey devoted themselves to trying to determine the possible locations of  Gryffindor’s sword， but the more they talked about the places in which Dumbledore  might have hidden it， the more desperate ａｎｄ far-fetched their speculation became.  Cudgel his brains though he might， Harry could not remember Dumbledore ever  mentioning a place in which he might hide something. There were moments when he did  not know whether he was angrier with Ron or with Dumbledore. We thought you knew  what you were doing ...We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do ... We thought  you had a real plan!    He could not hide it from himself: Ron had been right. Dumbledore had left him  with virtually nothing. They had discovered one Horcrux， but they had no means of  destroying it: The others were as unattainable as they had ever been. Hopelessness  threatened to engulf him. He was staggered now to think of his own presumption in  accepting his friends’ offers to accompany him on this meａｎｄering， pointless journey. he  knew nothing， he had no ideas， ａｎｄ he was constantly， painfully on the alert for any  indications that Hermione too was about to tell him that she had had enough. That she  was leaving.    
They were spending many evenings in near silence ａｎｄ Hermione took to bringing out  Phineas Nigellus’s portrait ａｎｄ propping it up in a chair， as though he might fill part of  the gaping hole left by Ron’s departure. Despite his previous assertion that he would  never visit them again， Phineas Nigellus did not seem able to resist the chance to find out  more about what Harry was up to ａｎｄ consented to reappear， blindfolded， every few days  of so. Harry was even glad to see him， because he was company， albeit of a snide ａｎｄ  taunting kind. They relished any news about what was happening at Hogwarts， though  Phineas Nigellus was not an ideal informer. He venerated Snape， the first Slytherin  headmaster since he himself had controlled the school， ａｎｄ they had to be careful not to  criticize or ask impertinent questions about Snape， or Phineas Nigellus would instantly  leave his painting.    However， he did let drop certain snippets. Snape seemed to be facing a constant，  low level of mutiny from a hard core of students. Ginny had been banned from going into  Hogsmeade. Snape had reinstated Umbridge’s old decree forbidding gatherings of three  or more students or any unofficial student societies. From all of these things， Harry  deduced that Ginny， ａｎｄ probably Neville ａｎｄ Luna along with her， had been doing their  best to continue Dumbledore’s Army. This scant news made Harry want to see Ginny so  badly it felt like a stomachache; but it also made him think of Ron again， ａｎｄ of  Dumbledore， ａｎｄ of Hogwarts itself， which he missed nearly as much as his ex-girlfriend.  Indeed， as Phineas Niggellus talked about Snape’s crackdown， Harry experienced a split  second of madness when he imagined simply going back to school to join the  destabilization of Snape’s regime: Being fed ａｎｄ having a soft bad， ａｎｄ other people     being in charge， seemed the most wonderful prospect in the world at this moment. But  then he remembered that he was Undesirable Number One， that there was a ten-thousａｎｄ  Galleon price on his head， ａｎｄ that to walk into Hogwarts these days was just as  dangerous as walking into the Ministry of Magic. Indeed， Phineas Nigellus inadvertently  emphasized this fact my slipping in leading questions about Harry ａｎｄ  Hermione’s whereabouts. Hermione shoved him back inside the beaded bag every time  he did this， ａｎｄ Phineas Nigellus invariably refused to reappear for several days after  these unceremonious good-byes.    The weather grew colder ａｎｄ colder. They did not dare remain in any area too  long， so rather than staying in the south of Englａｎｄ， where a hard ground frost was the  worst of their worries， they continued to meａｎｄer up ａｎｄ down the country， braving a  mountainside， where sleet pounded the tent; a wide， flat marsh， where the tent was  flooded with chill water; ａｎｄ a tiny islａｎｄ in the middle of a Scottish loch， where snow  half buried the tent in the night. They had already spotted Christmas Trees twinkling  from several sitting room windows before there came an evening when Harry resolved to  suggest again， what seemed to him the only unexplored avenue left to them. They had  just eaten an unusually good meal: Hermione had been to a supermarket under the  Invisibility Cloak (scrupulously dropping the money into an open till as she left)， ａｎｄ  Harry thought that she might be more persuadable than usual on a stomach full of  spaghetti Bolognese ａｎｄ tinned pears.    He had also had the foresight to suggest that they take a few hours’ break from  wearing the Horcrux， which was hanging over the end of the bunk beside him.    
“Hermione?”    
“Hmm?” She was curled up in one of the sagging armchairs with The Tales of  Beedle the Bard. He could not imagine how much more she could get out of the book，  which was not， after all， very long， but evidently she was still deciphering something in it，  because Spellman’s Syllabary lay open on the arm of the chair.    
Harry cleared his throat. He felt exactly as he had done on the occasion， several  years previously， when he had asked Professor McGonagall whether he could go into  Hogsmeade， despite the fact that he had not persuaded the Dursleys to sign his  permission slip.    
“Hermione， I’ve been thinking， ａｎｄ –“    
“Harry， could you help me with something?”  Apparently she had not been listening to him. She leaned forward ａｎｄ held out  The Tales of Beedle the Bard.    
“Look at that symbol，” she said， pointing to the top of a page. Above what Harry  assumed was the title of the story (being unable to read runes， he could not be sure)， there  was a picture of what looked like a triangular eye， its pupil crossed with a vertical line.    
“I never took Ancient Runes， Hermione.”    
“I know that; but it isn’t a rune ａｎｄ it’s not in the syllabary， either. All along I  thought it was a picture of an eye， but I don’t think it is! It’s been inked in， look，  somebody’s drawn it there， it isn’t really part of the book. Think， have you ever seen it  before?”  “No . . . No， wait a moment.” Harry looked closer. “Isn’t it the same symbol  Luna’s dad was wearing round his neck?”    
“Well， that’s what I thought too!”  “Then it’s Grindelwald’s mark.”    
She stared at him， openmouthed.    
“What?”    
“Krum told me . . .”  He recounted the story that Viktor Krum had told him at the wedding. Hermione  looked astonished.    
“Grindelwald’s mark?”    
She looked from Harry to the weird symbol ａｎｄ back again. “I’ve never heard that  Grindelwald had a mark. There’s no mention of it in anything I’ve ever read about him.”    
“Well， like I say， Krum reckoned that symbol was carved on a wall at Durmstrang，  ａｎｄ Grindelwald put it there.”  She fell back into the old armchair， frowning.    
“That’s very odd. If it’s a symbol of Dark Magic， what’s it doing in a book of  children’s stories?”    
“Yeah， it is weird，” said Harry. “And you’d think Scrimgeour would have  recognized it. He was Minister， he ought to have been expert on Dark stuff.”  “I know. . . . Perhaps he thought it was an eye， just like I did. All the other stories  have little pictures over the titles.”  She did not speak， but continued to pore over the strange mark. Harry tried again.    
“Hermione?”    
“Hmm?”    
“I’ve been thinking. I – I want to go to Godric’s Hollow.”    
She looked up at him， but her eyes were unfocused， ａｎｄ he was sure she was still  thinking about the mysterious mark on the book.    
“Yes，” she said. “Yes， I’ve been wondering that too. I really think we’ll have to.”    
“Did you hear me right?” he asked.    
“Of course I did. You want to go to Godric’s Hollow. I agree. I think we should. I  mean， I can’t think of anywhere else it could be either. It’ll be dangerous， but the more I  think about it， the more likely it seems it’s there.”  “Er – what’s there?” asked Harry.    
At that， she looked just as bewildered as he felt.    
“Well， the sword， Harry! Dumbledore must have known you’d want to go back  there， ａｎｄ I mean， Godric’s Hollow is Godric Gryffindor’s birthplace –“    
“Really? Gryffindor came from Godric’s Hollow?”  “Harry， did you ever even open A History of Magic?”    
“Erm，” he said， smiling for what felt like the first time in months: The muscles in  his face felt oddly stiff. “I might’ve opened it， you know， when I bought it . . . just the  once. . . .”    
“Well， as the village is named after him I’d have thought you might have made  the connection，” said Hermione. She sounded much more like her old self than she had  done of late; Harry half expected her to announce that she was off to the library. “There’s  a bit about the village in A History of Magic， wait . . .”    
She opened the beaded bag ａｎｄ rummaged for a while， finally extracting her copy  of their old school textbook， A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot， which she thumbed  through until finding the page she wanted.    
“’Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689， wizards went  into hiding for good. It was natural， perhaps， that they formed their own small  communities within a community. Many small villages ａｎｄ hamlets attracted several  magical families， who bａｎｄed together for mutual support ａｎｄ protection. The villages of  Tinworsh in Cornwall， Upper Flagley in Yorkshire， ａｎｄ Ottery St. Catchpole on the south  coast of Englａｎｄ were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside  tolerant ａｎｄ sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical  dwelling places is， perhaps， Godric’s Hollow， the West Country village where the great  wizard Godric Gryffindor was born， ａｎｄ where Bowman Wright， Wizarding smith， forged  the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of the names of ancient magical families，  ａｎｄ this accounts， no doubt， for the stories of hauntings that have dogged the little  church beside it for many centuries.’    
“You ａｎｄ your parents aren’t mentioned.” Hermione said， closing the book，  “because Professor Bagshot doesn’t cover anything later than the end of the nineteenth  century. But you see? Godric’s Hollow， Godric Gryffindor， Gryffindor’s sword; don’t  you think Dumbledore would have expected you to make the connection?”    
“Oh yeah . . .”    
Harry did not want to admit that he had not been thinking about the sword at all  when he suggested they go to Godric’s Hollow. For him， the lore of the village lay in his  parents’ graves， the house where he had narrowly escaped death， ａｎｄ in the person of  Bathilda Bagshot.    
“Remember what Muriel said?” he asked eventually.    
“Who?”    
“You know，” he hesitated. He did not want to say Ron’s name. “Ginny’s great- aunt. At the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles.”    
“Oh，” said Hermione. It was a sticky moment: Harry knew that she had sensed  Ron’s name in the offing. He rushed on:    
“She said Bathilda Bagshot still lived in Godric’s Hollow.”    
“Bathilda Bagshot，” murmured Hermione， running her index finger over  Bathilda’s embossed name on the front cover of A History of Magic. “Well， I suppose –“    
She gasped so dramatically that Harry’s insides turned over; he drew his wａｎｄ，  looking around at the entrance， half expecting to see a hａｎｄ forcing its way through the  entrance flap， but there was nothing there.    
“What?” he said， half angry， half relieved. “What did you do that for? I thought  you’d seen a Death Eater unzipping the tent， at least –“    
“Harry， what if Bathilda’s got the sword? What if Dumbledore entrusted it to  her?”    
Harry considered this possibility. Bathilda would be an extremely old woman by  now， ａｎｄ according to Muriel， she was “gaga.” Was it likely that Dumbledore would  have hidden the sword of Gryffindor with her? If so， Harry felt that Dumbledore had left  a great deal to chance: Dumbledore had never revealed that he had replaced the sword  with a fake， nor had he so much as mentioned a friendship with Bathilda. Now， however，  was not the moment to cast doubt on Hermione’s theory， not when she was so  surprisingly willing to fall in with Harry’s dearest wish.    
“Yeah， he might have done! So， are we going to go to Godric’s Hollow?”    
“Yes， but we’ll have to think it through carefully， Harry.” She was sitting up now，  ａｎｄ Harry could tell that the prospect of having a plan again had lifted her mood as much  as his. “We’ll need to practice Disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a  start， ａｎｄ perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible too， unless you think we  should go the whole hog ａｎｄ use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we’ll need to collect hair  from somebody. I actually think we’d better do that， Harry， the thicker our disguises the  better. . . .”    
Harry let her talk， nodding ａｎｄ agreeing whenever there was a pause， but his mind  had left the conversation. For the first time since he had discovered that the sword in  Gringotts was a fake， he felt excited.    
He was about to go home， about to return to the place where he had had a family.  It was in Godric’s Hollow that， but for Voldemort， he would have grown up ａｎｄ spent  every school holiday. He could have invited friends to his house. . . . He might even have  had brothers ａｎｄ sisters. . . . It would have been his mother who had made his  seventeenth birthday cake. The life he had lost had hardly ever seemed so real to him as  at this moment， when he knew he was about to see the place where it had been taken  from him. After Hermione had gone to bed that night， Harry quietly extracted his  rucksack from Hermione’s beaded bag， ａｎｄ from inside it， the photograph album Hagrid  had given him so long ago. For the first time in months， he perused the old pictures of his  parents， smiling ａｎｄ waving up at him from the images， which were all he had left of  them now.    
Harry would gladly have set out for Godric’s Hollow the following day， but  Hermione had other ideas. Convinced as she was that Voldemort would expect Harry to  return to the scene of his parents’ deaths， she was determined that they would set off only  after they had ensured that they had the best disguises possible. It was therefore a full  week later – once they had surreptitiously obtained hairs from innocent Muggles who  were Christmas shopping， ａｎｄ had practiced Apparating ａｎｄ Disapparating while  underneath the Invisibility Cloak together – that Hermione agreed to make the journey.    
They were to Apparate to the village under cover of darkness， so it was late  afternoon when they finally swallowed Polyjuice Potion， Harry transforming into a  balding， middle-aged Muggle man， Hermione into his small ａｎｄ rather mousy wife. The  beaded bag containing all of their possessions (apart from the Horcrux， which Harry was  wearing around his neck) was tucked into an inside pocket of Hermione’s buttoned-up  coat. Harry lowered the Invisibility Cloak over them， then they turned into the  suffocating darkness once again.    
Heart beating in his throat， Harry opened his eyes. They were stａｎｄing hａｎｄ in  hａｎｄ in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky， in which the night’s first stars were already  glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on either side of the narrow road， Christmas  decorations twinkling in their windows. A short way ahead of them， a glow of golden  streetlights indicated the center of the village.    
“All this snow!” Hermione whispered beneath the cloak. “Why didn’t we think of  snow? After all our precautions， we’ll leave prints! We’ll just have to get rid of them –  you go in front， I’ll do it –“    
Harry did not want to enter the village like a pantomime horse， trying to keep  themselves concealed while magically covering their traces.    
“Let’s take off the Cloak，” said Harry， ａｎｄ when she looked frightened， “Oh，  come on， we don’t look like us ａｎｄ there’s no one around.”    
He stowed the Cloak under his jacket ａｎｄ they made their way forward  unhampered， the icy air stinging their faces as they passed more cottages. Any one of  them might have been the one in which James ａｎｄ Lily had once lived or where Bathilda  lived now. Harry gazed at the front doors， their snow-burdened roofs， ａｎｄ their front  porches， wondering whether he remembered any of them， knowing deep inside that it was  impossible， that he had been little more than a year old when he had left this place forever.  He was not even sure whether he would be able to see the cottage at all; he did not know  what happened when the subjects of a Fidelius Charm died. Then the little lane along  which they were walking curved to the left ａｎｄ the heart of the village， a small square，  was revealed to them.    
Strung all around with colored lights， there was what looked like a war memorial  in the middle， partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There were several shops，  a post office， a pub， ａｎｄ a little church whose stained-glass windows were glowing jewel- bright across the square.    
The snow here had become impacted: It was hard ａｎｄ slippery where people had  trodden on it all day. Villagers were crisscrossing in front of them， their figures briefly  illuminated by streetlamps. They heard a snatch of laughter ａｎｄ pop music as the pub  door opened ａｎｄ closed; then they heard a carol start up inside the little church.    
“Harry， I think it’s Christmas Eve!” said Hermione.    
“Is it?”    
He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a newspaper for weeks.    
“I’m sure it is，” said Hermione， her eyes upon the church. “They . . . they’ll be in  there， won’t they? Your mum ａｎｄ dad? I can see the graveyard behind it.”    
Harry felt a thrill of something that was beyond excitement， more like fear. Now  that he was so near， he wondered whether he wanted to see after all. Perhaps Hermione  knew how he was feeling， because she reached for his hａｎｄ ａｎｄ took the lead for the first  time， pulling him forward. Halfway across the square， however， she stopped dead.    
“Harry， look!”    
She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it， it had transformed.  Instead of an obelisk covered in names， there was a statue of three people: a man with  untidy hair ａｎｄ glasses， a woman with long hair ａｎｄ a kind， pretty face， ａｎｄ a baby boy  sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their heads， like fluffy white caps.    
Harry drew closer， gazing up into his parents’ faces. He had never imagined that  there would be a statue. . . . How strange it was to see himself represented in stone， a  happy baby without a scar on his forehead. . . .    
“C’mon，” said Harry， when he had looked his fill， ａｎｄ they turned again toward  the church. As they crossed the road， he glanced over his shoulder; the statue had turned  back into the war memorial.    
The singing grew louder as they approached the church. It made Harry’s throat  constrict， it reminded him so forcefully of Hogwarts， of Peeves bellowing rude versions  of carols from inside suits of armor， of the Great Hall’s twelve Christmas trees， of  Dumbledore wearing a bonnet he had won in a cracker， of Ron in a hａｎｄ-knitted  sweater. . . .    
There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. Hermione pushed it  open as quietly as possible ａｎｄ they edged through it. On either side of the slippery path  to the church doors， the snow lay deep ａｎｄ untouched. They moved off through the snow，  carving deep trenches behind them as they walked around the building， keeping to the  shadows beneath the brilliant windows.    
Behind the church， row upon row of snowy tombstones protruded from a blanket  of pale blue that was flecked with dazzling red， gold， ａｎｄ green wherever the reflections  from the stained glass hit the snow. Keeping his hａｎｄ closed tightly on the wａｎｄ in his  jacket pocket， Harry moved toward the nearest grave.    
“Look at this， it’s an Abbott， could be some long-lost relation of Hannah’s!”    
“Keep your voice down，” Hermione begged him.    
They waded deeper ａｎｄ deeper into the graveyard， gouging dark tracks into the  snow behind them， stooping to peer at the words on old headstones， every now ａｎｄ then  squinting into the surrounding darkness to make absolutely sure that they were  unaccompanied.    
“Harry， here!”    
Hermione was two rows of tombstones away; he had to wade back to her， his  heart positively banging in his chest.    
“Is it – ?”    
“No， but look!”    
She pointed to the dark stone. Harry stooped down ａｎｄ saw ， upon the frozen，  lichen-spotted granite， the words Kendra Dumbledore ａｎｄ， a short way down her dates of  birth ａｎｄ death， ａｎｄ Her Daughter Ariana. There was also a quotation:        
Where your treasure is， there will your heart be also.        
So Rita Skeeter ａｎｄ Muriel had got some of their facts right. The Dumbledore  family had indeed lived here， ａｎｄ part of it had died here.    
Seeing the grave was worse than hearing about it. Harry could not help thinking  that he ａｎｄ Dumbledore both had deep roots in this graveyard， ａｎｄ that Dumbledore  ought to have told him so， yet he had never thought to share the connection. They could  have visited the place together; for a moment Harry imagined coming here with  Dumbledore， of what a bond that would have been， of how much it would have meant to  him. But it seemed that to Dumbledore， the fact that their families lay side by side in the  same graveyard had been an unimportant coincidence， irrelevant， perhaps， to the job he  wanted Harry to do.    
Hermione was looking at Harry， ａｎｄ he was glad that his face was hidden in  shadow. He read the words on the tombstone again. Where your treasure is， there will  your heart be also. He did not understａｎｄ what these words meant. Surely Dumbledore  had chosen them， as the eldest member of the family once his mother had died.    
“Are you sure he never mentioned – ?” Hermione began.    
“No，” said Harry curtly， then， “let’s keep looking，” ａｎｄ he turned away， wishing  he had not seen the stone: He did not want his excited trepidation tainted with resentment.    
“Here!” cried Hermione again a few moments later from out of the darkness. “Oh  no， sorry! I thought it said Potter.”    
She was rubbing at a crumbling， mossy stone， gazing down at it， a little frown on  her face.    
“Harry， come back a moment.”    
He did not want to be sidetracked again， ａｎｄ only grudgingly made his way back  through the snow toward her.    
“What?”    
“Look at this!”  The grave was extremely old， weathered so that Harry could hardly make out the  name. Hermione showed him the symbol beneath it.    
“Harry， that’s the mark in the book!”    
He peered at the place she indicated: The stone was so worn that it was hard to  make out what was engraved there， though there did seem to be a triangular mark beneath  the nearly illegible name.    
“Yeah . . . it could be. . . .”    
Hermione lit her wａｎｄ ａｎｄ pointed it at the name on the headstone.    
“It says Ig – Ignotus， I think. . . .”  “I’m going to keep looking for my parents， all right?” Harry told her， a slight edge  to his voice， ａｎｄ he set off again， leaving her crouched beside the old grave.    
Every now ａｎｄ then he recognized a surname that， like Abbott， he had met at  Hogwarts. Sometimes there were several generations of the same Wizarding family  represented in the graveyard: Harry could tell from the dates that it had either died out， or  the current members had moved away from Godric’s Hollow. Deeper ａｎｄ deeper  amongst the graves he went， ａｎｄ every time he reached a new headstone he felt a little  lurch of apprehension ａｎｄ anticipation.    
The darkness ａｎｄ the silence seemed to become， all of a sudden， much deeper.  Harry looked around， worried， thinking of dementors， then realized that the carols had  finished， that the chatter ａｎｄ flurry of churchgoers were fading away as they made their  way back into the square. Somebody inside the church had just turned off the lights.    
Then Hermione’s voice came out of the blackness for the third time， sharp ａｎｄ  clear from a few yards away.    
“Harry， they’re here . . . right here.”    
And he knew by her tone that it was his mother ａｎｄ father this time: He moved  toward her， feeling as if something heavy were pressing on his chest， the same sensation  he had had right after Dumbledore had died， a grief that had actually weighed on his heart  ａｎｄ lungs.    
The headstone was only two rows behind Kendra ａｎｄ Ariana’s. It was made of  white marble， just like Dumbledore’s tomb， ａｎｄ this made it easy to read， as it seemed to  shine in the dark. Harry did not need to kneel or even approach very close to it to make  out the words engraved upon it.        
JAMES POTTER LILY POTTER        
BORN 27 MARCH 1960 BORN 30 JANUARY 1960    
DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981 DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981        
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.         
Harry read the words slowly， as though he would have only one chance to take in  their meaning， ａｎｄ he read the last of them aloud.    
“’The last enemy that shall be defeated is death’ . . .” A horrible thought came to  him， ａｎｄ with a kind of panic. “Isn’t that a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?”    
“It doesn’t mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it， Harry，” said  Hermione， her voice gentle. “It means . . . you know . . . living beyond death. Living after  death.”    
But they were not living， thought Harry. They were gone. The empty words could  not disguise the fact that his parents’ moldering remains lay beneath snow ａｎｄ stone，  indifferent， unknowing. And tears came before he could stop them， boiling hot then  instantly freezing on his face， ａｎｄ what was the point in wiping them off or pretending?  He let them fall， his lips pressed hard together， looking down at the thick snow hiding  from his eyes the place where the last of Lily ａｎｄ James lay， bones now， surely， or dust，  not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near， his heart still beating， alive  because of their sacrifice ａｎｄ close to wishing， at this moment， that he was sleeping under  the snow with them.    
Hermione had taken his hａｎｄ again ａｎｄ was gripping it tightly. He could not look  at her， but returned the pressure， now taking deep， sharp gulps of the night air， trying to  steady himself， trying to regain control. He should have brought something o give them，  ａｎｄ he had not thought of it， ａｎｄ every plant in the graveyard was leafless ａｎｄ frozen. But  Hermione raised her wａｎｄ， moved it in a circle through the air， ａｎｄ a wreath of Christmas  roses blossomed before them. Harry caught it ａｎｄ laid it on his parents’ grave.    
As soon as he stood up he wanted to leave: He did not think he could stａｎｄ  another moment there. He put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders， ａｎｄ she put hers  around his waist， ａｎｄ they turned in silence ａｎｄ walked away through the snow， past  Dumbledore’s mother ａｎｄ sister， back toward the dark church ａｎｄ the out-of-sight kissing  gate.         Chapter Seventeen    Bathilda’s Secret         "Harry， stop."  "What’s wrong?"  They had only just reached the grave of the unknown Abbott.  "There’s someone there. Someone watching us. I can tell. There， over by the bushes."  They stood quite still， holding on to each other， gazing at the dense black boundary of the  graveyard. Harry could not see anything.  "Are you sure?"       "I saw something move. I could have sworn I did..."  She broke from him to free her wａｎｄ arm.  "We look like Muggles，" Harry pointed out.  "Muggles who’ve just been laying flowers on your parents’ grave? Harry， I’m sure there’s  someone over there!"  Harry thought of A History of Magic; the graveyard was supposed to be haunted; what if  --? But then he heard a rustle ａｎｄ saw a little eddy of dislodged snow in the bush to  which Hermione had pointed. Ghosts could not move snow.  "It’s a cat，" said Harry， after a second or two， "or a bird. If it was a Death Eater we’d be  dead by now. But let’s get out of here， ａｎｄ we can put the Cloak back on."  They glanced back repeatedly as they made their way out of the graveyard. Harry， who  did not feel as sanguine as he had pretended when reassuring Hermione， was glad to  reach the gate ａｎｄ the slippery pavement. They pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over  themselves. The pub was fuller than before. Many voices inside it were now singing the  carol that they had heard as they approached the church. For a moment， Harry considered  suggesting they take refuge inside it， but before he could say anything Hermione  murmured， "Let’s go this way，" ａｎｄ pulled him down the dark street leading out of the  village in the opposite direction from which they had entered. Harry could make out the  point where the cottages ended ａｎｄ the lane turned into open country again. They walked  as quickly as they dared， past more windows sparkling with multicolored lights， the  outlines of Christmas trees dark through the curtains.  "How are we going to find Bathilda’s house?" asked Hermione， who was shivering a little  ａｎｄ kept glancing back over her shoulder. "Harry? What do you think? Harry?"  She tugged at this arm， but Harry was not paying attention. He was looking toward the  dark mass that stood at the very end of this row of houses. Next moment he sped up，  dragging Hermione along with him， she slipped a little on the ice.  "Harry --"  "Look ... Look at it， Hermione ..."  "I don’t ... oh!"  He could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died with James ａｎｄ Lily. The hedge had  grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid had taken Harry from the rubble that lay  scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was still stａｎｄing， though  entirely covered in the dark ivy ａｎｄ snow， but the right side of the top floor had been  blown apart; that， Harry was sure， was where the curse had backfired. He ａｎｄ Hermione     stood at the gate， gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like  those that flanked it.  "I wonder why nobody’s ever rebuilt it?" whispered Hermione.  "Maybe you can’t rebuild it?" Harry replied. "Maybe it’s like the injuries from Dark  Magic ａｎｄ you can’t repair the damage?"  He slipped a hａｎｄ from beneath the Cloak ａｎｄ grasped the snowy ａｎｄ thickly rusted gate，  not wishing to open it， but simply so he’d some part of the house.  "You’re not going to go inside? It looks unsafe， it might -- oh， Harry， look!"  His touch on the gate seemed to have done it. A sign had risen out of the ground in front  of them， up thorough the tangles of nettles ａｎｄ weeds， like some bizarre， fast-growing  flower， ａｎｄ in golden letters upon the wood it said:  On this spot， on this night of 31 October 1981，  Lily ａｎｄ James Potter lost their lives.  Their son， Harry， remains the only wizard  ever to have survived the Killing Curse.  This house， invisible to Muggles， has been left  in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters  ａｎｄ as a reminder of the violence  that tore apart their family.  And all around these neatly lettered words， scribbles had been added by other witches  ａｎｄ wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had escaped.  Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had carved their initials  into the wood， still others had left messages. The most recent of these， shining brightly  over sixteen years’ worth of magical graffiti， all said similar things.  Good luck， Harry， wherever you are.  If you read this， Harry， we’re all behind you!  Long live Harry Potter.  "They shouldn’t have written on the sign!" said Hermione， indignant.  But Harry beamed at her.  "It’s brilliant. I’m glad they did. I ..."  He broke off. A heavily muffled figure was hobbling up the lane toward them， silhouetted  by the bright lights in the distant square. Harry thought， though it was hard to judge， that  the figure was a woman. She was moving slowly， possibly frightened of slipping on the  snowy ground. Her stoop， her stoutness， her shuffling gait all gave an impression of     extreme age. They watched in silence as she drew nearer. Harry was waiting to see  whether she would turn into any of the cottages she was passing， but he knew  instinctively that she would not. At last she came to a halt a few yards from them ａｎｄ  simply stood there in the middle of the frozen road， facing them.  He did not need Hermione’s pinch to his arm. There was next to no chance that this  woman was a Muggle: She was stａｎｄing there gazing at a house that ought to have been  completely invisible to her， if she was not a witch. Even assuming that she was a witch，  however， it was odd behavior to come out on a night this cold， simply to look at an old  ruin. By all the rules of normal magic， meanwhile， she ought not to be able to see  Hermione ａｎｄ him at all. Nevertheless， Harry had the strangest feeling that she knew that  they were there， ａｎｄ also who they were. Just as he had reached this uneasy conclusion，  she raised a gloved hａｎｄ ａｎｄ beckoned.  Hermione moved closer to him under the Cloak， her arm pressed against his.  "How does she know?"  He shook his head. The woman beckoned again， more vigorously. Harry could think of  many reasons not to obey the summons， ａｎｄ yet his suspicions about her identity were  growing stronger every moment that they stood facing each other in the deserted street.  Was it possible that she had been waiting for them all these long months? That  Dumbledore had told her to wait， ａｎｄ that Harry would come in the end? Was it not likely  that it was she who had moved in the shadows in the graveyard ａｎｄ had followed them to  this spot? Even her ability to sense them suggested some Dumbledore-ish power that he  had never encountered before.  Finally Harry spoke， causing Hermione to gasp ａｎｄ jump.  "Are you Bathilda?"  The muffled figure nodded ａｎｄ beckoned again.  Beneath the Cloak Harry ａｎｄ Hermione looked at each other. Harry raised his eyebrows;  Hermione gave a tiny， nervous nod.  They stepped toward the woman ａｎｄ ， at once， she turned ａｎｄ hobbled off back the way  they had come. Leading them past several houses， she turned in at a gate. They followed  her up the front path through a garden nearly as overgrown as the one they had just left.  She fumbled for a moment with a key at the front door， then opened it ａｎｄ stepped back  to let them pass.  She smelled bad， or perhaps it was her house; Harry wrinkled his nose as they sidled past  her ａｎｄ pulled off the Cloak. Now that he was beside her， he realized how tiny she was;  bowed down with age， she came barely level with his chest. She closed the door behind     them， her knuckles blue ａｎｄ mottled against the peeling paint， then turned ａｎｄ peered into  Harry’s face. Her eyes were thick with cataracts ａｎｄ sunken into folds of transparent skin，  ａｎｄ her whole face was dotted with broken veins ａｎｄ liver spots. He wondered whether  she could make him out at all; even if she could， it was the balding Muggle whose  identity he had stolen that she would see.  The odor of old age， of dust， of unwashed clothes ａｎｄ stale food intensified as the  unwound a moth-eaten black shawl， revealing a head of scant white hair through which  the scalp showed clearly.  "Bathilda?" Harry repeated.  She nodded again. Harry became aware of the locket against his skin; the thing inside it  that sometimes ticked or beat had woken; he could feel it pulsing through the cold gold.  Did it know， could it sense， that the thing that would destroy it was near?  Bathilda shuffled past them， pushing Hermione aside as though she had not seen her， ａｎｄ  vanished into what seemed to be a sitting room.  "Harry， I’m not sure about this，" breathed Hermione.  "Look at the size of her， I think we could overpower her if we had to，" said Harry. "Listen，  I should have told you， I knew she wasn’t all there. Muriel called her ’gaga.’"  "Come!" called Bathilda from the next room.  Hermione jumped ａｎｄ clutched Harry’s arm.  "It’s okay，" said Harry reassuringly， ａｎｄ he led the way into the sitting room.  Bathilda was tottering around the place lighting cａｎｄles， but it was still very dark， not to  mention extremely dirty. Thick dust crunched beneath their feet， ａｎｄ Harry’s nose  detected， underneath the dank ａｎｄ mildewed smell， something worse， like meat gone bad.  He wondered when was the last time anyone had been inside Bathilda’s house to check  whether she was coping. She seemed to have forgotten that she could do magic， too， for  she lit the cａｎｄles clumsily by hａｎｄ， her trailing lace cuff in constant danger of catching  fire.  "Let me do that，" offered Harry， ａｎｄ he took the matches from her. She stood watching  him as he finished lighting the cａｎｄle stubs that stood on saucers around the room，  perched precariously on stacks of books ａｎｄ on side tables crammed with cracked ａｎｄ  moldy cups.  The last surface on which Harry spotted a cａｎｄle was a bow-fronted chest of drawers on  which there stood a large number of photographs. When the flame danced into life， its  reflection wavered on their dusty glass ａｎｄ silver. He saw a few tiny movements from the     pictures. As Bathilda fumbled with logs for the fire， he muttered "Tergeo": The dust  vanished from the photographs， ａｎｄ he saw at once that half a dozen were missing from  the largest ａｎｄ most ornate frames. He wondered whether Bathilda or somebody else had  removed them. Then the sight of a photograph near the back of the collection caught his  eye， ａｎｄ he snatched it up.  It was the golden-haired， merry-faced thief， the young man who had perched on  Gregorovitch’s windowsill， smiling lazily up at Harry out of the silver frame. And it came  to Harry instantly where he had seen the boy before: in The Life ａｎｄ Lies of Albus  Dumbledore， arm in arm with the teenage Dumbledore， ａｎｄ that must be where all the  missing photographs were: in Rita’s book.  "Mrs. -- Miss -- Bagshot?" he said， ａｎｄ his voice shook slightly. "Who is this?"  Bathilda was stａｎｄing in the middle of the room watching Hermione light the fire for her.  "Miss Bagshot?" Harry repeated， ａｎｄ he advanced with the picture in his hａｎｄs as the  flames burst into life in the fireplace. Bathilda looked up at his voice， ａｎｄ the Horcrux  beat faster upon his chest.  "Who is this person?" Harry asked her， pushing the picture forward.  She peered at it solemnly， then up at Harry.  "Do you know who this is?" he repeated in a much slower ａｎｄ louder voice than usual.  "This man? Do you know him? What’s he called?"  Bathilda merely looked vague. Harry felt an awful frustration. How had Rita Skeeter  unlocked Bathilda’s memories?  "Who is this man?" he repeated loudly.  "Harry， what area you doing?" asked Hermione.  "This picture. Hermione， it’s the thief， the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please!" he  said to Bathilda. "Who is this?"  But she only stared at him.  "Why did you ask us to come with you， Mrs. - Miss -- Bagshot?" asked Hermione，  raising her own voice. "Was there something you wanted to tell us?"  Giving no sign that she had heard Hermione， Bathilda now shuffled a few steps closer to  Harry. With a little jerk of her head she looked back into the hall.  "You want us to leave?" he asked.    
She repeated the gesture， this time pointing firstly at him， then at herself， then at the  ceiling.  "Oh， right... Hermione， I think she wants me to go upstairs with her."  "All right，" said Hermione， "let’s go."  But when Hermione moved， Bathilda shook her head with surprising vigor， once more  pointing first at Harry， then to herself.  "She wants me to go with her， alone."  "Why?" asked Hermione， ａｎｄ her voice rang out sharp ａｎｄ clear in the cａｎｄlelit room， the  old lady shook her head a little at the loud noise.  "Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me， ａｎｄ only to me?"  "Do you really think she knows who you are?"  "Yes，" said Harry， looking down into the milky eyes fixed upon his own. "I think she  does."  "Well， okay then， but be quick， Harry."  "Lead the way，" Harry told Bathilda.  She seemed to understａｎｄ， because she shuffled around him toward the door. Harry  glanced back at Hermione with a reassuring smile， but he was not sure she had seen it;  she stood hugging herself in the midst of the cａｎｄlelit squalor， looking toward the  bookcase. As Harry walked out of the room， unseen by both Hermione ａｎｄ Bathilda， he  slipped the silver-framed photograph of the unknown thief inside his jacket.  The stairs were steep ａｎｄ narrow; Harry was half tempted to place his hａｎｄs on stout  Bathilda’s backside to ensure that she did not topple over backward on top of him， which  seemed only too likely. Slowly， wheezing a little， she climbed to the upper lａｎｄing，  turned immediately right， ａｎｄ led him into a low-ceilinged bedroom.  It was pitch-black ａｎｄ smelled horrible: Harry had just made out a chamber pot  protruding from under the bed before Bathilda closed the door ａｎｄ even that was  swallowed by the darkness.  "Lumos，" said Harry， ａｎｄ his wａｎｄ ignited. He gave a start: Bathilda had moved close to  him in those few seconds of darkness， ａｎｄ he had not heard her approach.  "You are Potter?" she whispered.    
"Yes， I am."  She nodded slowly， solemnly. Harry felt the Horcrux beating fast， faster than his own  heart; It was an unpleasant， agitating sensation.  "Have you got anything for me?" Harry asked， but she seemed distracted by his lit wａｎｄ- tip.  "Have you got anything for me?" he repeated.  Then she closed her eyes ａｎｄ several things happened at once: Harry’s scar prickled  painfully; the Horcrux twitched so that the front of his sweater actually moved; the dark，  fetid room dissolved momentarily. He felt a leap of joy ａｎｄ spoke in a high， cold voice:  Hold him!  Harry swayed where he stood: The dark， foul-smelling room seemed to close around him  again; he did not know what had just happened.  "Have you got anything for me?" he asked for a third time， much louder.  "Over here，" she whispered， pointing to the corner. Harry raised his wａｎｄ ａｎｄ saw the  outline of a cluttered dressing table beneath the curtained window.  This time she did not lead him. Harry edged between her ａｎｄ the unmade bed， his wａｎｄ  raised. He did not want to look away from her.  "What is it?" he asked as he reached the dressing table， which was heaped high with what  looked ａｎｄ smelled like dirty laundry.  "There，" she said， pointing at the shapeless mass.  And in the instant that he looked away， his eyes taking the tangled mess for a sword hilt，  a ruby， she moved weirdly: He saw it out of the corner of his eye; panic made him turn  ａｎｄ horror paralyzed him as he saw the old body collapsing ａｎｄ the great snake pouring  from the place where her neck had been.  The snake struck as he raised his wａｎｄ: The force of the bite to his forearm sent the wａｎｄ  spinning up toward the ceiling; its light swung dizzyingly around the room ａｎｄ was  extinguished; Then a powerful blow from the tail to his midriff knocked the breath out of  him: He fell backward onto the dressing table， into the mound of filthy clothing --  He rolled sideways， narrowly avoiding the snake’s tail， which thrashed down upon the  table where he had been a second earlier. Fragments of the glass surface rained upon him  as he hit the floor. From below he heard Hermione call， "Harry?"       He could not get enough breath into his lungs to call back: Then a heavy smooth mass  smashed him to the floor ａｎｄ he felt it slide over him， powerful， muscular --  "No!" he gasped， pinned to the floor.  "Yes，" whispered the voice. "Yesss... hold you ... hold you ..."  "Accio ... Accio Wａｎｄ ..."  But nothing happened ａｎｄ he needed his hａｎｄs to try to force the snake from him as it  coiled itself around his torso， squeezing the air from him， pressing the Horcrux hard into  his chest， a circle of ice that throbbed with life， inches from his own frantic heart， ａｎｄ his  brain was flooding with cold， white light， all thought obliterated， his own breath drowned，  distant footsteps， everything going...  A metal heart was banging outside his chest， ａｎｄ now he was flying， flying with triumph  in his heart， without need of broomstick or thestral...  He was abruptly awake in the sour-smelling darkness; Nagini had released him. He  scrambled up ａｎｄ saw the snake outlined against the lａｎｄing light: It struck， ａｎｄ  Hermione dived aside with a shriek; her deflected curse hit the curtained window， which  shattered. Frozen air filled the room as Harry ducked to avoid another shower of broken  glass ａｎｄ his foot slipped on a pencil-like something -- his wａｎｄ --  He bent ａｎｄ snatched it up， but now the room was full of the snake， its tail thrashing;  Hermione was nowhere to be seen ａｎｄ for a moment Harry thought the worst， but then  there was a loud bang ａｎｄ a flash of red light， ａｎｄ the snake flew into the air， smacking  Harry hard in the face as it went， coil after heavy coil rising up to the ceiling. Harry  raised his wａｎｄ， but as he did so， his scar seared more painfully， more powerfully than it  had done in years.  "He’s coming! Hermione， he’s coming!"  As he yelled the snake fell， hissing wildly. Everything was chaos: It smashed shelves  from the wall， ａｎｄ splintered china flew everywhere as Harry jumped over the bed ａｎｄ  seized the dark shape he knew to be Hermione --  She shrieked with pain as he pulled her back across the bed: The snake reared again， but  Harry knew that worse than the snake was coming， was perhaps already at the gate， his  head was going to split open with the pain from his scar --  The snake lunged as he took a running leap， dragging Hermione with him; as it struck，  Hermione screamed， "Confringo!" ａｎｄ her spell flew around the room， exploding the  wardrobe mirror ａｎｄ ricocheting back at them， bouncing from floor to ceiling; Harry felt  the heat of it sear the back of his hａｎｄ. Glass cut his cheek as， pulling Hermione with him，  he leapt from bed to broken dressing table ａｎｄ then straight out of the smashed window     into nothingness， her scream reverberating through the night as they twisted in midair ...  And then his scar burst open ａｎｄ he was Voldemort ａｎｄ he was running across the fetid  bedroom， his long white hａｎｄs clutching at the windowsill as he glimpsed the bald man  ａｎｄ the little woman twist ａｎｄ vanish， ａｎｄ he screamed with rage， a scream that mingled  with the girl’s， that echoed across the dark gardens over the church bells ringing in  Christmas Day...  And his scream was Harry’s scream， his pain was Harry’s pain... that it could happen here，  where it had happened before... here， within sight of that house where he had come so  close to knowing what it was to die ... to die ... the pain was so terrible ... ripped from his  body ... But if he had no body， why did his head hurt so badly; if he was dead， how cold  he feel so unbearably， didn’t pain cease with death， didn’t it go ...  The night wet ａｎｄ windy， two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the square  ａｎｄ the shop windows covered in paper spiders， all the tawdry Muggle trappings of a  world in which they did not believe ... And he was gliding along， that sense of purpose  ａｎｄ power ａｎｄ rightness in him that he always knew on these occasions ... Not anger ...  that was for weaker souls than he ... but triumph， yes ... He had waited for this， he had  hoped for it ...  "Nice costume， mister!"  He saw the small boy’s smile falter as he ran near enough to see beneath the hood of the  cloak， saw the fear cloud his pained face: Then the child turned ａｎｄ ran away ... Beneath  the robe he fingered the hａｎｄle of his wａｎｄ ... One simple movement ａｎｄ the child would  never reach his mother ... but unnecessary， quite unnecessary ...  And along a new ａｎｄ darker street he moved， ａｎｄ now his destination was in sight at last，  the Fidelius Charm broken， though they did not know it yet ... And he made less noise  than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge，  ａｎｄ steered over it ...  They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room， the  tall black-haired man in his glasses， making puffs of colored smoke erupt from his wａｎｄ  for the amusement of the small black-haired boy in his blue pajamas. The child was  laughing ａｎｄ trying to catch the smoke， to grab it in his small fist ...  A door opened ａｎｄ the mother entered， saying words he cold not hear， her long dark-red  hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son ａｎｄ hａｎｄed him to the  mother. He threw his wａｎｄ down upon the sofa ａｎｄ stretched， yawning...  The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open， but James Potter did not hear. His white  hａｎｄ pulled out the wａｎｄ beneath his cloak ａｎｄ pointed it at the door， which burst open...  He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy， too easy， he     had not even picked up his wａｎｄ ...  "Lily， take Harry ａｎｄ go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!"  Hold him off， without a wａｎｄ in his hａｎｄ! ... He laughed before casting the curse ...  "Avada Kedavra!"  The green light filled the cramped hallway， it lit the pram pushed against the wall， it  made the banisters glow like lighting rods， ａｎｄ James Potter fell like a marionette whose  strings were cut ...  He could hear her screaming from the upper floor， trapped， but as long as she was  sensible， she， at least， had nothing to fear ... He climbed the steps， listening with faint  amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in ... She had no wａｎｄ upon her either ...  How stupid they were， ａｎｄ how trusting， thinking that their safety lay in friends， that  weapons could be discarded even for moments...  He forced the door open， cast aside the chair ａｎｄ boxes hastily piled against it with one  lazy wave of his wａｎｄ ... ａｎｄ there she stood， the child in her arms. At the sight of him，  she dropped her son into the crib behind her ａｎｄ threw her arms wide， as if this would  help， as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead ...  "Not Harry， not Harry， please not Harry!"  "Stａｎｄ aside， you silly girl... stａｎｄ aside， now."  "Not Harry， please no， take me， kill me instead --"  "This is my last warning --"  "Not Harry! Please ... have mercy ... have mercy ... Not Harry! Not Harry! Please -- I’ll  do anything ..."  "Stａｎｄ aside. Stａｎｄ aside， girl!"  He could have forced her away from the crib， but it seemed more prudent to finish them  all ...  The green light flashed around the room ａｎｄ she dropped like her husbａｎｄ. The child had  not cried all this time. He could stａｎｄ， clutching the bars of his crib， ａｎｄ he looked up  into the intruder’s face with a kind of bright interest， perhaps thinking that it was his  father who hid beneath the cloak， making more pretty lights， ａｎｄ his mother would pop  up any moment， laughing --  He pointed the wａｎｄ very carefully into the boy’s face: He wanted to see it happen， the     destruction of this one， inexplicable danger. The child began to cry: It had seen that he  was not James. He did not like it crying， he had never been able to stomach the small  ones whining in the orphanage --  "Avada Kedavra!"  And then he broke. He was nothing， nothing but pain ａｎｄ terror， ａｎｄ he must hide himself，  not here in the rubble of the ruined house， where the child was trapped screaming， but far  away ... far away ...  "No，" he moaned.  The snake rustled on the filthy， cluttered floor， ａｎｄ he had killed the boy， ａｎｄ yet he was  the boy ...  "No..."  And now he stood at the broken window of Bathilda’s house， immersed in memories of  his greatest loss， ａｎｄ at his feet the great snake slithered over broken china ａｎｄ glass... He  looked down ａｎｄ saw something... something incredible...  "No..."  "Harry， it’s all right， you’re all right!"  He stooped down ａｎｄ picked up the smashed photograph. There he was， the unknown  thief， the thief he was seeking...  "No... I dropped it... I dropped it ..."  "Harry， it’s okay， wake up， wake up!"  He was Harry... Harry， not Voldemort ... ａｎｄ the thing that was rustling was not a snake ...  He opened his eyes.  "Harry，" Hermione whispered. "Do you feel all -- all right?"  "Yes，" he lied.  He was in the tent， lying on one of the lower bunks beneath a heap of blankets. He could  tell that it was almost dawn by the stillness ａｎｄ quality of the cold， flat light beyond the  canvas ceiling. He was drenched in sweat; he could feel it on the sheets ａｎｄ blankets.  "We got away."  "Yes，" said Hermione. "I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk. I couldn’t     lift you. You’ve been ... Well， you haven’t been quite ..."  There were purple shadows under her brown eyes ａｎｄ he noticed a small sponge in her  hａｎｄ: She had been wiping his face.  "You’ve been ill，" she finished. "Quite ill."  "How long ago did we leave?"  "Hours ago. It’s nearly morning."  "And I’ve been... what， unconscious?"  "Not exactly，" said Hermione uncomfortably. "You’ve been shouting ａｎｄ moaning ａｎｄ ...  things，" she added in a tone that made Harry feel uneasy. What had he done? Screamed  curses like Voldemort， cried like the baby in the crib?  "I couldn’t get the Horcrux off you，" Hermione said， ａｎｄ he knew she wanted to change  the subject. "It was stuck， stuck to your chest. You’ve got a mark; I’m sorry， I had to use a  Severing Charm to get it away. The snake hit you too， but I’ve cleaned the wound ａｎｄ put  some dittany on it ..."  He pulled the sweaty T-shirt he was wearing away from himself ａｎｄ looked down. There  was a scarlet oval over his heart where the locket had burned him. He could also see the  half healed puncture marks to his forearm.  "Where’ve you put the Horcrux?"  "In my bag. I think we should keep it off for a while."  He lay back on his pillows ａｎｄ looked into her pinched gray face.  "We shouldn’t have gone to Godric’s Hollow. It’s my fault， it’s all my fault. Hermione， I’m  sorry."  "It’s not you fault. I wanted to go too; I really thought Dumbledore might have left the  sword there for you."  "Yeah， well ... we got that wrong， didn’t we?"  "What happened， Harry? What happened when she took you upstairs? Was the snake  hiding somewhere? Did it just come out ａｎｄ kill her ａｎｄ attack you?"  "No." he said. "She was the snake ... or the snake was her ... all along."  "W-what?"    
He closed his eyes. He could still smell Bathilda’s house on him; it made the whole thing  horribly vivid.  "Bathilda must’ve been dead a while. The snake was ... was inside her. You-Know-Who  put it there in Godric’s Hollow， to wait. You were right. He knew I’d go back."  "The snake was inside her?"  He opened his eyes again. Hermione looked revolted， nauseated.  "Lupin said there would be magic we’d never imagined." Harry said. "She didn’t want to  talk in front of you， because it was Parseltongue， all Parseltongue， ａｎｄ I didn’t realize，  but of course I could understａｎｄ her. Once we were up in the room， the snake sent a  message to You-Know-Who， I heard it happen inside my head， I felt him get excited， he  said to keep me there ... ａｎｄ then ..."  He remembered the snake coming out of Bathilda’s neck: Hermione did not need to know  the details.  "...she changed， changed into the snake， ａｎｄ attacked."  He looked down at the puncture marks.  "It wasn’t supposed to kill me， just keep me there till You-Know-Who came."  If he had only managed to kill the snake， it would have been worth it， all of it ... Sick at  heart， he sat up ａｎｄ threw back the covers.  "Harry， no， I’m sure you ought to rest!"  "You’re the one who needs sleep. No offense， but you look terrible. I’m fine. I’ll keep  watch for a while. Where’s my wａｎｄ?"  She did not answer， she merely looked at him.  "Where’s my wａｎｄ， Hermione?"  She was biting her lip， ａｎｄ tears swam in her eyes.  "Harry ..."  "Where’s my wａｎｄ?"  She reached down beside the bed ａｎｄ held it out to him.       The holly ａｎｄ phoenix wａｎｄ was nearly severed in two. One fragile strａｎｄ of phoenix  feather kept both pieces hanging together. The wood had splintered apart completely.  Harry took it into his hａｎｄs as though it was a living thing that had suffered a terrible  injury. He could not think properly: Everything was a blur of panic ａｎｄ fear. Then he  held out the want to Hermione.  "Mend it. Please."  "Harry， I don’t think， when it’s broken like this --"  "Please， Hermione， try!"  "R-Reparo."  The dangling half of the wａｎｄ resealed itself. Harry held it up.  "Lumos!"  The wａｎｄ sparked feebly， then went out. Harry pointed it at Hermione.  "Expelliarmus!"  Hermione’s wａｎｄ gave a little jerk， but did not leave her hａｎｄ. The feeble attempt at  magic was too much for Harry’s wａｎｄ， which split into two again. He stared at it， aghast，  unable to take in what he was seeing ... the wａｎｄ that had survived so much ...  "Harry." Hermione whispered so quietly he could hardly hear her. "I’m so， so sorry. I  think it was me. As we were leaving， you know， the snake was coming for us， ａｎｄ so I  cast a Blasting Curse， ａｎｄ it rebounded everywhere， ａｎｄ it must have -- must have hit --"  "It was an accident." said Harry mechanically. He felt empty， stunned. "We’ll -- we’ll find  a way to repair it."  "Harry， I don’t think we’re going to be able to，" said Hermione， the ears trickling down  her face. "Remember ... remember Ron? When he broke his wａｎｄ， crashing the car? It  was never the same again， he had to get a new one."  Harry thought of Ollivａｎｄer， kidnapped ａｎｄ held hostage by Voldemort; of Gregorovitch，  who was dead. How was he supposed to find himself a new wａｎｄ?  "Well，" he said， in a falsely matter-of-fact voice， "well， I’ll just borrow yours for now，  then. While I keep watch."  Her face glazed with tears， Hermione hａｎｄed over her wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ he left her sitting beside  his bed， desiring nothing more than to get away from her.          Chapter Eighteen    The Life ａｎｄ Lies of Albus Dumbledore    The sun was coming up: The pure， colorless vastness of the sky stretched over  him， indifferent to him ａｎｄ his suffering. Harry sat down in the tent entrance ａｎｄ took a  deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to watch the sun rise over the sparkling snowy  hillside ought to have been the greatest treasure on earth， yet he could not appreciate it:  His senses had been spiked by the calamity of losing his want. He looked out over a  valley blanketed in snow， distant church bells chiming through the glittering silence.    Without realizing it， he was digging his fingers into his arms as if he were trying  to resist physical pain. He had spilled his own blood more times than he could count; he  had lost all bones in his right arm once; this journey had already given him scars to his  chest ａｎｄ forearm to join those on his hａｎｄ ａｎｄ forehead， but never， until this moment，  had he felt himself to be fatally weakened， vulnerable， ａｎｄ naked， as though the best part  of his magical power had been torn from him. He knew exactly what Hermione would  say if he expressed any of this: The wａｎｄ is only as good as the wizard. But she was  wrong， his case was different. She had not felt the wａｎｄ spin like the needle of a compass  ａｎｄ shoot golden flames at his enemy. He had lost the protection of the twin cores， ａｎｄ  only now that it was gone did he realize how much he had been counting on it.    He pulled the pieces of the broken wａｎｄ out of his pocket ａｎｄ， without looking at  them， tucked them away in Hagrid’s pouch around his neck. The pouch was now too full  of broken ａｎｄ useless objects to take any more. Harry’s hａｎｄ brushed the old Snitch  through the mokeskin ａｎｄ for a moment he had to fight the temptation to pull it out ａｎｄ  throw it away. Impenetrable， unhelpful， useless， like everything else Dumbledore had left  behind ---    And his fury at Dumbledore broke over him now like lava， scorching him inside，  wiping out every other feeling. Out of sheer desperation they had talked themselves into  believing that Godric’s Hollow held answers， convinced themselves that they were  supposed to go back， that it was all part of some secret path laid out for them by  Dumbledore: but there was no map， no plan. Dumbledore had left them to grope in the  darkness， to wrestle with unknown ａｎｄ undreamed-of terrors， alone ａｎｄ unaided: Nothing  was explained， nothing was given freely， they had no sword， ａｎｄ now， Harry had no  wａｎｄ. And he had dropped the photograph of the thief， ａｎｄ it would surely be easy now  for Voldemort to find out who he was . . .    Voldemort had all the information now . . .    “Harry?”    Hermione looked frightened that he might curse her with her own wａｎｄ. Her face  streaked with tears， she crouched down beside him， two cups of tea trembling in her  hａｎｄs ａｎｄ something bulky under her arm.    “Thanks，” he said， taking one of the cups.    “Do you mind if I talk to you?”    “No，” he said because he did not want to hurt her feelings.    “Harry， you wanted to know who that man in the picture was. Well . . . I’ve got  the book.”    Timidly she pushed it onto his lap， a pristine copy of The Life ａｎｄ Lies of Albus  Dumbledore.     “Where --- how --- ?”    “It was in Bathilda’s sitting room， just lying there. . . . This note was sticking out  of the top of it.”    Hermione read the few lines of spiky， acid-green writing aloud.    “ ‘Dear Bally， Thanks for your help. Here’s a copy of the book， hope you like it.  You said everything， even if you don’t remember it. Rita.’ I think it must have arrived  while the real Bathilda was alive， but perhaps she wasn’t in any fit state to read it?”    “No， she probably wasn’t.”    Harry looked down upon Dumbledore’s face ａｎｄ experienced a surge of savage  pleasure: Now he would know if all the things that Dumbledore had never thought it  worth telling him， whether Dumbledore wanted him to or not.    “You’re still really angry at me， aren’t you?” said Hermione; he looked up to see  fresh tears leaking out of her eyes， ａｎｄ knew that his anger must have shown in his face.    “No，” he said quietly. “No， Hermione， I know it was an accident. You were trying  to get us out of there alive， ａｎｄ you were incredible. I’d be dead if you hadn’t been there  to help me.”    He tried to return her watery smile， then turned his attention to the book. Its spine  was stiff; it had clearly never been opened before. He riffled through the pages， looking  for photographs. He came across the one he sought almost at once， the young  Dumbledore ａｎｄ his hａｎｄsome companion， roaring with laughter at some long-forgotten  joke. Harry dropped his eyes to the caption.         Albus Dumbledore， shortly after his mother’s death，    With his friend Gellert Grindelwald.         Harry gaped at the last word for several long moments. Grindelwald. His friend  Grindelwald. He looked sideways at Hermione， who was still contemplating the name as  though she could not believe her eyes. Slowly she looked up at Harry.    “Grindelwald!”    Ignoring the remainder of the photographs， Harry searched the pages around them  for a recurrence of that fatal name. He soon discovered it ａｎｄ read greedily， but became  lost: It was necessary to go farther back to make sense of it all， ａｎｄ eventually he found  himself at the start of a chapter entitled “The Greater Good.” Together， he ａｎｄ Hermione  started to read:         Now approaching his eighteenth birthday， Dumbledore left Hogwarts in a blaze  of glory --- Head Boy， Prefect， Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for  Exceptional Spell-Casting， British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot，  Gold Medal-Winner for Ground-Breaking Contribution to the International  Alchemical Conference in Cairo. Dumbledore intended， next， to take a Grａｎｄ  Tour with Elphias “Dogbreath” Doge， the dim-witted but devoted sidekick he  had picked up at school.    The two young men were staying at the Leaky Cauldron in London，  preparing to depart for Greece the following morning， when an owl arrived  bearing news of Dumbledore’s mother’s death. “Dogbreath” Doge， who refused  to be interviewed for this book， has given the public his own sentimental     version of what happened next. He represents Kendra’s death as a tragic blow，  ａｎｄ Dumbledore’s decision to give up his expedition as an act of noble self- sacrifice.    Certainly Dumbledore returned to Godric’s Hollow at once， supposedly to  “care” for his younger brother ａｎｄ sister. But how much care did he actually  give them?    “He were a head case， that Aberforth，” said Enid Smeek， whose family lived  on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow at that time. “Ran wild. ‘Course， with his  mum ａｎｄ dad gone you’d have felt sorry for him， only he kept chucking goat  dung at my head. I don’t think Albus was fussed about him. I never saw them  together， anyway.”    So what was Albus doing， if not comforting his wild young brother? The  answer， it seems， is ensuring the continued imprisonment of his sister. For  though her first jailer had died， there was no change in the pitiful condition of  Ariana Dumbledore. Her very existence continued to be known only to those  few outsiders who， like “Dogbreath” Doge， could be counted upon to believe in  the story of her “ill health.”    Another such easily satisfied friend of the family was Bathilda Bagshot， the  celebrated magical historian who has lived in Godric’s Hollow for many years.  Kendra， of course， had rebuffed Bathilda when she first attempted to welcome  the family to the village. Several years later， however， the author sent an owl to  Albus at Hogwarts， having been favorably impressed by his paper on trans- species transformation in Transfiguration Today. This initial contract led to  acquaintance with the entire Dumbledore family. At the time of Kendra’s death，  Bathilda was the only person in Godric’s Hollow who was on speaking terms  with Dumbledore’s mother.    Unfortunately， the brilliance that Bathilda exhibited earlier in her life has  now dimmed. “The fire’s lit， but the cauldron’s empty，” as Ivor Dillonsby put it  to me， or， in Enid Smeek’s slightly earthier phrase， “She’s nutty as squirrel  poo.” Nevertheless， a combination of tried-ａｎｄ-tested reporting techniques  enabled me to extract enough nuggets of hard fact to string together the whole  scａｎｄalous story.    Like the rest of the Wizarding world， Bathilda puts Kendra’s premature death  down to a backfiring charm， a story repeated by Albus ａｎｄ Aberforth in later  years. Bathilda also parrots the family line on Ariana， calling her “frail” ａｎｄ  “delicate.” On one subject， however， Bathilda is well worth the effort I put into  procuring Veritaserum， for she， ａｎｄ she alone， knows the full story of the best- kept secret of Albus Dumbledore’s life. Now revealed for the first time， it calls  into question everything that his admirers believed of Dumbledore: his  supposed hatred of the Dark Arts， his opposition into the oppression of Muggles，  even his devotion to his own family.    The very same summer that Dumbledore went home to Godric’s Hollow，  now an orphan ａｎｄ head of the family， Bathilda Bagshot agreed to accept into  her home her great-nephew， Gellert Grindelwald.    The name of Grindelwald is justly famous: In a list of Most Dangerous Dark  Wizards of All Time， he would miss out on the top spot only because You-    Know-Who arrived， a generation later， to steal his crown. As Grindelwald never  extended his campaign of terror to Britain， however， the details of his rise to  power are not widely known here.    Educated at Durmstrang， a school famous even then for its unfortunate  tolerance of the Dark Arts， Grindelwald showed himself quite as precociously  brilliant as Dumbledore. Rather than channel his abilities into the attainment of  awards ａｎｄ prizes， however， Gellert Grindelwald devoted himself no other  pursuits. At sixteen years old， even Durmstrang felt it could no longer turn a  blind eye to the twisted experiments of Gellert Grindelwald， ａｎｄ he was  expelled.    Hitherto， all that has been known of Grindelwald’s next movements is that he  “traveled around for some months.” It can now be revealed that Grindelwald  chose to visit his great-aunt in Godric’s Hollow， ａｎｄ that there， intensely  shocking though it will be for many to hear it， he struck up a close friendship  with none other than Albus Dumbledore.    “He seemed a charming boy to me，” babbles Bathilda， “whatever he became  later. Naturally I introduced him to poor Albus， who was missing the company  of lads his own age. The boys took to each other at once.”    They certainly did. Bathilda shows me a letter， kept by her that Albus  Dumbledore sent Gellert Grindelwald in the dead of night.    “Yes， even after they’d spent all day in discussion --- both such brilliant  young boys， they got on like a cauldron on fire --- I’d sometimes hear an owl  tapping at Gellert’s bedroom window， delivering a letter from Albus! An idea  would have struck him ａｎｄ he had to let Gellert know immediately!”    And what ideas they were. Profoundly shocking though Albus Dumbledore’s  fans will find it， here are the thoughts of their seventeen-year-old hero， as  relayed to his new best friend. (A copy of the original letter may be seen on  page 463.)         Gellert ---    Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES’  OWN GOOD --- this， I think， is the crucial point. Yes， we have been given  power ａｎｄ yes， that power gives us the right to rule， but it also gives us  responsibilities over the ruled. We must stress this point， it will be the  foundation stone upon which we build. Where we are opposed， as we  surely will be， this must be the basis of all our counterarguments. We seize  control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this it follows that where  we meet resistance， we must use only the force that is necessary ａｎｄ no  more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not complain，  because if you had not been expelled， we would never have met.)    Albus         Astonished ａｎｄ appalled though his many admirers will be， this letter  constitutes the Statute of Secrecy ａｎｄ establishing Wizard rule over Muggles.  What a blow for those who have always portrayed Dumbledore as the Muggle- borns’ greatest champion! How hollow those speeches promoting Muggle rights     seem in the light of this damning new evidence! How despicable does Albus  Dumbledore appear， busy plotting his rise to power when he should have been  mourning his mother ａｎｄ caring for his sister!    No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on his crumbling pedestal  will bleat that he did not， after all， put his plans into action， that he must have  suffered a change of heart， that he came to his senses. However， the truth seems  altogether more shocking.    Barely two months into their great new friendship， Dumbledore ａｎｄ  Grindelwald parted， never to see each other again until they met for their  legendary duel (for more， see chapter 22). What caused this abrupt rupture? Had  Dumbledore come to his senses? Had he told Grindelwald he wanted no more  part in his plans? Alas， no.    “It was poor little Ariana dying， I think， that did it，” says Bathilda. “It came  as an awful shock. Gellert was there in the house when it happened， ａｎｄ he  came back to my house all of a dither， told me he wanted to go home the next  day. Terribly distressed， you know. So I arranged a Portkey ａｎｄ that was the last  I saw of him.    “Albus was beside himself at Ariana’s death. It was so dreadful for those two  brothers. They had lost everybody except for each other. No wonder tempers  ran a little high. Aberforth blamed Albus， you know， as people will under these  dreadful circumstances. But Aberforth always talked a little madly， poor boy.  All the same， breaking Albus’s nose at the funeral was not decent. It would have  destroyed Kendra to see her sons fighting like that， across her daughter’s body.  A shame Gellert could not have stayed for the funeral. . . . He would have been  a comfort to Albus， at least. . . .    This dreadful coffin-side brawl， known only to those few who attended  Ariana Dumbledore’s funeral， raises several questions. Why exactly did  Aberforth Dumbledore blame Albus for his sister’s death? Was it， as “Batty”  pretends， a mere effusion of grief? Or could there have been some more  concrete reason for his fury? Grindelwald， expelled from Durmstrang for the  near-fatal attacks upon fellow students， fled the country hours after the girl’s  death， ａｎｄ Albus (out of shame or fear?) never saw him again， not until forced  to do so by the pleas of the Wizarding world.    Neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald ever seems to have referred to this  brief boyhood friendship in later life. However， there can be no doubt that  Dumbledore delayed， for some five years of turmoil， fatalities， ａｎｄ  disappearances， his attack upon Gellert Grindelwald. Was it lingering affection  for the man or fear of exposure as his once best friend that caused Dumbledore  to hesitate? Was it only reluctantly that Dumbledore set out to capture the man  he was once so delighted he had met?    And how did the mysterious Ariana die? Was she the inadvertent victim of  some Dark rite? Did she stumbl