Choking ａｎｄ retching， soaking ａｎｄ colder than he had ever been in his life， he  came to facedown in the snow. Somewhere， close by， another person was panting ａｎｄ  coughing ａｎｄ staggering around， as she had come when the snake attacked....Yet it did  not sound like her， not with those deep coughs， no judging by the weight of the  footsteps....    
Harry had no strength to lift his head ａｎｄ see his savior’s identity. All he could do  was raise a shaking hａｎｄ to his throat ａｎｄ feel the place where the locket had cut tightly  into his flesh. It was gone. Someone had cut him free. Then a panting voice spoke from  over his head.    
"Are -- you -- mental?"    
Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could have given Harry the strength to  get up. Shivering violently， he staggered to his feet. There before him stood Ron， fully  dressed but drenched to the skin， his hair plastered to his face， the sword of Gryffindor in  one hａｎｄ ａｎｄ the Horcrux dangling from its broken chain in the other.    
"Why the hell，" panted Ron， holding up the Horcrux， which swung backward ａｎｄ  forward on its shortened chain in some parody of hypnosis， "didn’t you take the thing off  before you dived?"    
Harry could not answer. The silver doe was nothing， nothing compared with  Ron’s reappearance; he could not believe it. Shuddering with cold， he caught up the pile  of clothes still lying at the water’s edge ａｎｄ began to pull them on. As he dragged  sweater after sweater over his head， Harry stared at Ron， half expecting him to have  disappeared every time he lost sight of him， ａｎｄ yet he had to be real: He had just dived  into the pool， he had saved Harry’s life.    
"It was y-you?" Harry said at last， his teeth chattering， his voice weaker than usual  due to his near-strangulation.    
"Well， yeah，" said Ron， looking slightly confused.    
"Y-you cast that doe?"    
"What? No， of course not! I thought it was you doing it!"    
"My Patronus is a stag."    
"Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers."    
Harry put Hagrid’s pouch back around his neck， pulled on a final sweater， stooped  to pick up Hermione’s wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ faced Ron again.    
"How come you’re here?"    
Apparently Ron had hoped that this point would come up later， if at all.    
"Well， I’ve -- you know -- I’ve come back. If --" He cleared his throat. "You  know. You still want me."    
There was a pause， in which the subject of Ron’s departure seemed to rise like a  wall between them. Yet he was here. He had returned. He had just saved Harry’s life.    
Ron looked down at his hａｎｄs. He seemed momentarily surprised to see the  things he was holding.    
"Oh yeah， I got it out，" he said， rather unnecessarily， holding up the sword for  Harry’s inspection. "That’s why you jumped in， right?"    
"Yeah，" said Harry. "But I don’t understａｎｄ. How did you get here? How did  you find us?"    
"Long story，" said Ron. "I’ve been looking for you for hours， it’s a big forest， isn’t  it? And I was just thinking I’d have to go kip under a tree ａｎｄ wait for morning when I  saw that dear coming ａｎｄ you following."    
"You didn’t see anyone else?"    
"No，" said Ron. "I --"    
But he hesitated， glancing at two trees growing close together some yards away.    
"I did think I saw something move over there， but I was running to the pool at the  time， because you’d gone in ａｎｄ you hadn’t come up， so I wasn’t going to make a detour  to -- hey!"    
Harry was already hurrying to the place that Ron had indicated. The two oaks  grew close together; there was a gap of only a few inches between the trunks at eye level，  an ideal place to see but not be seen. The ground around the roots， however， was free of  snow， ａｎｄ Harry could see no sign of footprints. He walked back to where Ron stood  waiting， still holding the sword ａｎｄ the Horcrux.    
"Anything there?" Ron asked.    
"No，" said Harry.    
"So how did the sword get in that pool?"    
"Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there."    
They both looked at the ornate silver sword， its rubied hilt glinting a little in the  light from Hermione’s wａｎｄ.    
"You reckon this is the real one?" asked Ron.    
"One way to find out， isn’t there?" said Harry.    
The Horcrux was still swinging from Ron’s hａｎｄ. The locket was twitching  slightly. Harry knew that the thing inside it was agitated again. It had sensed the  presence of the sword ａｎｄ had tried to kill Harry rather than let him possess it. Now was  not the time for long discussions; now was the moment to destroy once ａｎｄ for all. Harry  looked around， holding Hermione’s wａｎｄ high， ａｎｄ saw the place: a flattish rock lying in  the shadow of a sycamore tree.    
"Come here." he said ａｎｄ he led the way， brushed snow from the rock’s surface，  ａｎｄ held out his hａｎｄ for the Horcrux. When Ron offered the sword， however， Harry  shook his head.    
"No you should do it."    
"Me?" said Ron， looking shocked. "Why?"    
"Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it’s supposed to be you."    
He was not being kind or generous. As certainly as he had known that the doe  was benign， he knew that Ron had to be the one to wield the sword. Dumbledore had at  least taught Harry something about certain kinds of magic， of the incalculable power of  certain acts.    
"I’m going to open it，" said Harry， "ａｎｄ you will stab it. Straightaway okay?  Because whatever’s in there will put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the Diary tried to kill  me."    
"How are you going to open it?" asked Ron. He looked terrified    
"I’m going to ask it to open， using Parseltongue，" said Harry. The answer came so  readily to his lips that thought that he had always known it deep down: Perhaps it had  taken his recent encounter with Nagini to make him realize it. He looked at the  serpentine S， inlaid with glittering green stones: It was easy to visualize it as a miniscule  snake， curled upon the cold rock.    
"No!" said Ron. "Don’t open it! I’m serious!"    
"Why not?" asked Harry. "Let’s get rid of the damn thing， it’s been months --"    
"I can’t， Harry， I’m serious -- you do it --"    
"But why?"    
"Because that thing’s bad for me!" said Ron， backing away from the locket on the  rock. "I can’t hａｎｄle it! I’m not making excuses， for what I was like， but it affects me  worse than it affects you ａｎｄ Hermione， it made me think stuff -- stuff that I was thinking  anyway， but it made everything worse. I can’t explain it， ａｎｄ then I’d take it off ａｎｄ I’d  get my head straight again， ａｎｄ then I’d have to put the effing thing back on -- I can’t do it  Harry!"    
He had backed away， the sword dragging at his side， shaking his head.    
"You can do it，" said Harry， "you can! You’ve just got the sword， I know it’s  supposed to be you who uses it. Please just get rid of it Ron."    
The sound of his name seemed to act like a stimulant. Ron swallowed， then still  breathing hard through his long nose， moved back toward the rock.    
"Tell me when，" he croaked.    
"On three，" said Harry， looking back down at the locket ａｎｄ narrowing his eyes，  concentrating on the letter S， imagining a serpent， while the contents of the locket rattled  like a trapped cockroach. It would have been easy to pity it， except that the cut around  Harry’s neck still burned.    
"One . . . two . . . three . . .open."    
The last word came as a hiss ａｎｄ a snarl ａｎｄ the golden doors of the locket swung  wide open with a little click.    
Behind both of the glass windows within blinked a living eye， dark ａｎｄ hａｎｄsome  as Tom Riddle’s eyes had been before he turned them scarlet ａｎｄ slit-pupiled    
"Stab，" said Harry， holding the locket steady on the rock.    
Ron raised the sword in his shaking hａｎｄs: The point dangled over the frantically  swiveling eyes， ａｎｄ Harry gripped the locket tightly， bracing himself， already imagining  blood pouring from the empty windows.    
Then a voice hissed from out the Horcrux.    
"I have seen your heart， ａｎｄ it is mine."    
"Don’t listen to it!" Harry said harshly. "Stab it!"    
"I have seen your dreams， Ronald Weasley， ａｎｄ I have seen your fears. All you  desire is possible， but all that you dread is also possible...."    
"Stab!" shouted Harry， his voice echoed off the surrounding trees， the sword point  trembled， ａｎｄ Ron gazed down into Riddle’s eyes.    
"Least loved， always， by the mother who craved a daughter . . . Least loved， now，  by the girl who prefers your friend . . . Second best， always， eternally overshadowed . . ."    "Ron， stab it now!" Harry bellowed: He could feel the locket quivering in the grip ａｎｄ  was scared of what was coming. Ron raised the sword still higher， ａｎｄ as he did so，  Riddle’s eyes gleamed scarlet.       Out of the locket’s two windows， out of the eyes， there bloomed like two grotesque  bubbles， the heads of Harry ａｎｄ Hermione， weirdly distorted.         Ron yelled in shock ａｎｄ backed away as the figures blossomed out of the locket， first  chests， then waists， then legs， until they stood in the locket， side by side like trees with a  common root， swaying over Ron ａｎｄ the real Harry， who had snatched his fingers away  from the locket as it burned， suddenly， white-hot.         "Ron!" he shouted， but the Riddle-Harry was now speaking with Voldemort’s voice ａｎｄ  Ron was gazing， mesmerized， into its face.         "Why return? We were better without you， happier without you， glad of your absence....  We laughed at your stupidity， your cowardice， your presumption--"         "Presumption!" echoed the Riddle-Hermione， who was more beautiful ａｎｄ yet more  terrible than the real Hermione: She swayed， cackling， before Ron， who looked horrified，  yet transfixed， the sword hanging pointlessly at his side. "Who could look at you， who  would ever look at you， beside Harry Potter? What have you ever done， compared with  the Chosen One? What are you， compared with the Boy Who Lived?"         "Ron， stab it， STAB IT!" Harry yelled， but Ron did not move. His eyes were wide， ａｎｄ  the Riddle-Harry ａｎｄ the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them， their hair swirling like  flames， their eyes shining red， their voices lifted in an evil duet.         "Your mother confessed，" sneered Riddle-Harry， while Riddle-Hermione jeered， "that she  would have preferred me as a son， would be glad to exchange..."         "Who wouldn’t prefer him， what woman would take you， you are nothing， nothing，  nothing to him，" crooned Riddle-Hermione， ａｎｄ she stretched like a snake ａｎｄ entwined  herself around Riddle-Harry， wrapping him in a close embrace: Their lips met.       On the ground in front of them， Ron’s face filled with anguish. he raised the sword high，  his arms shaking.    
"Do it， Ron!" Harry yelled.       Ron looked toward him， ａｎｄ Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes.       "Ron --?"         The sword flashed， plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way， there as a clang of metal  ａｎｄ a long， drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around， slipping in the snow， wａｎｄ held  ready to defend himself， but there was nothing to fight.         The monstrous versions of himself ａｎｄ Hermione were gone: There was only Ron，  stａｎｄing there with the sword held slackly in his hａｎｄ， looking down at the shattered  remains of the locket on the flat rock.         Slowly， Harry walked back to him， hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing  heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all， but their normal blue: they were also wet.       Harry stooped， pretending he had not seen， ａｎｄ picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had  pierced the glass in both windows: Riddle’s eyes were gone， ａｎｄ the stained silk lining of  the locket was smoking slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had vanished;  torturing Ron had been its final act. The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to  his knees， his head in his arms. He was shaking， but not， Harry realized， from cold. Harry  crammed the broken locket into his pocket， knelt down beside Ron， ａｎｄ placed a hａｎｄ  cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off.         "After you left，" he said in a low voice， grateful for the fact that Ron’s face was hidden，  "she cried for a week. Probably longer， only she didn’t want me to see. There were loads  of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone..."         He could not finish; it was now that Ron was here again that Harry fully realized how  much his absence had cost them.         "She’s like my sister，" he went on. "I love her like a sister ａｎｄ I reckon that she feels the  same way about me. It’s always been like that. I thought you knew."         Ron did not respond， but turned his face away from Harry ａｎｄ wiped his nose noisily on  his sleeve. Harry got to his feet again ａｎｄ walked to where Ron’s enormous rucksack lay  yards away， discarded as Ron had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning. He  hoisted it onto his own back ａｎｄ walked back to Ron， who clambered to his feet as Harry  approached， eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed.         "I’m sorry，" he said in a thick voice. "I’m sorry I left. I know I was a -- a --"         He looked around at the darkness， as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down  upon him ａｎｄ claim him.          "You’ve sort of made up for it tonight，" said Harry. "Getting the sword. Finishing off the  Horcrux. Saving my life."         "That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was，" Ron mumbled.         "Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was" said Harry. "I’ve been trying to  tell you that for years."         Simultaneously they walked forward ａｎｄ hugged， Harry gripping the still-sopping back  of Ron’s jacket.         "And now，" said Harry as they broke apart， "all we’ve got to do is find that tent again."         But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the dark forest with the doe had seemed  lengthy， with Ron by his side， the journey back seemed to take a surprisingly short time.  Harry could not wait to wake Hermione， ａｎｄ it was with quickening excitement that he  entered the tent， Ron lagging a little behind him.         It was gloriously warm after the pool ａｎｄ the forest， the only illumination the bluebell  flames still shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast asleep， curled up under  her blankets， ａｎｄ did not move until Harry had said her name several times.         "Hermione!"         She stirred， then sat up quickly， pushing her hair out of her face.       "What’s wrong? Harry? Are you all right?"         "It’s okay， everything’s fine. More than fine， I’m great. There’s someone here."         "What do you mean? Who --?"         She saw Ron， who stood there holding the sword ａｎｄ dripping onto the threadbare carpet.  Harry backed into a shadowy corner， slipped off Ron’s rucksack， ａｎｄ attempted to blend  in with the canvas.         Hermione slid out of her bunk ａｎｄ moved like a sleepwalker toward Ron， her eyes upon  his pale face. She stopped right in front of him， her lips slightly parted， her eyes wide.  Ron gave a weak hopeful smile ａｎｄ half raised his arms.         Hermione launched herself forward ａｎｄ started punching every inch of him that she could  reach.         "Ouch -- ow -- gerroff! What the --? Hermione -- OW!"          "You -- complete -- arse -- Ronald -- Weasley!"         She punctuated every word with a blow: Ron backed away， shielding his head as  Hermione advanced.         "You -- crawl -- back -- here -- after -- weeks -- ａｎｄ -- weeks -- oh， where’s my wａｎｄ?"         She looked as though ready to wrestle it out of Harry’s hａｎｄs ａｎｄ he reacted instinctively.         "Protego!"         The invisible shield erupted between Ron ａｎｄ Hermione. The force of it knocked her  backward onto the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth， she lept up again.       "Hermione!" said Harry. "Calm --"         "I will not calm down!" she screamed. Never before had he seen her lose control like this;  she looked quite demented. "Give me back my wａｎｄ! Give it back to me!"         "Hermione， will you please --"         "Don’t you tell me what do， Harry Potter!" she screeched. "Don’t you dare! Give it back  now! And YOU!"         She was pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It was like a malediction， ａｎｄ Harry could not  blame Ron for retreating several steps.         "I cam running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back"  "I know，" Ron said， "Hermione， I’m sorry， I’m really --"         "Oh， you’re sorry!"         She laughed a high-pitched， out-of-control sound; Ron looked at Harry for help， but  Harry merely grimaced his helplessness.         "You came back after weeks -- weeks -- ａｎｄ you think it’s all going to be all right if you  just say sorry?"         "Well， what else can I say?" Ron shouted， ａｎｄ Harry was glad that Ron was fighting back.         "Oh， I don’t know!" yelled Hermione with awful sarcasm. "Rack your brains， Ron， that  should only take a couple of seconds --"         "Hermione，" interjected Harry， who considered this a low blow， "he just saved my --"          "I don’t care!" she screamed. "I don’t care what he’s done! Weeks ａｎｄ weeks， we could  have been dead for all he knew --"         "I knew you weren’t dead!" bellowed Ron， drowning her voice for the first time， ａｎｄ  approaching as close as he could with the Shield Charm between them. "Harry’s all over  the Prophet， all over the radio， they’re looking for you everywhere， all these rumors ａｎｄ  mental stories， I knew I’d hear straight off if you were dead， you don’t know what it’s  been like --"         "What it’s been like for you??         Her voice was not so shrill only bats would be able to hear it soon， but she had reached a  level of indignation that rendered her temporarily speechless， ａｎｄ Ron seized his  opportunity.         "I wanted to come back the minute I’d Disapparated， but I walked straight into a gang of  Snatchers， Hermione， ａｎｄ I couldn’t go anywhere!"  "A gang of what?" asked Harry， as Hermione threw herself down into a chair with her  arms ａｎｄ legs crossed so tightly it seemed unlikely that she would unravel them for  several years.         "Snatchers，" said Ron. "They’re everywhere -- gangs trying to earn gold by rounding up  Muggle-borns ａｎｄ blood traitors， there’s a reward from the Ministry for everyone  captured. I was on my own ａｎｄ I look like I might be school age; they got really excited，  thought I was a Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get out of being dragged to  the Ministry."         "What did you say to them?"  "Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could think of."  "And they believed that?"  "They weren’t the brightest. One of them was definitely part troll， the smell of him...."         Ron glanced at Hermione， clearly hopeful she might soften at this small instance of  humor， but her expression remained stony above her tightly knotted limbs.         "Anyway， they had a row about whether I was Stan or not. It was a bit pathetic to be  honest， but there were still five of them ａｎｄ only one of me， ａｎｄ they’d taken my wａｎｄ.  Then two of them got into a fight ａｎｄ while the others were distracted I managed to hit  the one holding me in the stomach， grabbed his wａｎｄ， Disarmed the bloke holding mine，  ａｎｄ Disapparated. I didn’t do it so well. Splinched myself again" -- Ron held up his right  hａｎｄ to show two missing fingernails: Hermione raised her eyebrows coldly -- "ａｎｄ I     came out miles from where you were. By the time I got back to that bit of riverbank  where we’d been ... you were gone."         "Gosh， what a gripping story，" Hermione said in the lofty voice she adopted when  wishing to wound. "You must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went to Godric’s  Hollow ａｎｄ， let’s think， what happened there， Harry? Oh yes， You-Know-Who’s snake  turned up， it nearly killed both of us， ａｎｄ then You-Know-Who himself arrived ａｎｄ  missed us by about a second."  "What?" Ron said， gaping from her to Harry， but Hermione ignored him.       "Imagine losing fingernails， Harry! That really puts our sufferings into perspective，  doesn’t it?"  "Hermione，" said Harry quietly， "Ron just saved my life."         She appeared not to have heard him.       "One thing I would like to know， though，" she said， fixing her eyes on a spot a foot over  Ron’s head. "How exactly did you find us tonight? That’s important. Once we know， we’ll  be able to make sure we’re not visited by anyone else we don’t want to see."         Ron glared at her， then pulled a small silver object from his jeans pocket.       "This."         She had to look at Ron to see what he was showing them.         "The Deluminator?" she asked， so surprised she forgot to look cold ａｎｄ fierce.         "It doesn’t just turn the lights on ａｎｄ off，" said Ron. "I don’t know how it works or why it  happened then ａｎｄ not any other time， because I’ve been wanting to come back ever since  I left. But I was listening to the radio really early on Christmas morning ａｎｄ I heard ... I  heard you."         He was looking at Hermione.         "You heard me on the radio?" she asked incredulously.         "No， I heard you coming out of my pocket. Your voice，" he held up the Deluminator  again， "came out of this."         "And what exactly did I say?" asked Hermione， her tone somewhere between skepticism  ａｎｄ curiosity.         "My name. ’Ron.’ And you said ... something about a wａｎｄ...."          Hermione turned a fiery shade of scarlet. Harry remembered: it had been the first time  Won’s name had been said aloud by either of them since the day he had left; Hermione  had mentioned it when talking about repairing Harry’s wａｎｄ.         "So I took it out，" Ron went on， looking at the Deluminator， "ａｎｄ it didn’t seem different  or anything， but I was sure I’d heard you. So I clicked it. And the light went out in my  room， but another light appeared right outside the window."         Ron raised his empty hａｎｄ ａｎｄ pointed in front of him， his eyes focused on something  neither Harry nor Hermione could see.         "It was a ball of light， kind of pulsing， ａｎｄ bluish， like that light you get around a Portkey，  you know?"         "Yeah，" said Harry ａｎｄ Hermione together automatically.         "I knew this was it，" said Ron. "I grabbed my stuff ａｎｄ packed it， then I put on my  rucksack ａｎｄ went out into the garden.         "The little ball of light was hovering there， waiting for me， ａｎｄ when I came out it  bobbed along a bit ａｎｄ I followed it behind the shed ａｎｄ then it ... well， it went inside  me."         "Sorry?" said Harry， sure he had not heard correctly.         "It sort of floated toward me，" said Ron， illustrating the movement with his free index  finger， "right to my chest， ａｎｄ then -- it just went straight through. It was here，" he  touched a point close to his heard， "I could feel it， it was hot. And once it was inside me， I  knew what I was supposed to do. I knew it would take me where I needed to go. So I  Disapparated ａｎｄ came out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere...."         "We were there，" said Harry. "We spent two nights there， ａｎｄ the second night I kept  thinking I could hear someone moving around in the dark ａｎｄ calling out!"  "Yeah， well， that would’ve been me，" said Ron. "Your protective spells work， anyway，  because I couldn’t see you ａｎｄ I couldn’t hear you. I was sure you were around， though，  so in the end I got in my sleeping bag ａｎｄ waited for one of you to appear. I thought  you’d have to show yourselves when you packed up the tent."         "No， actually，" said Hermione. "We’ve been Disapparating under the Invisibility Cloak as  an extra precaution. And we left really early， because as Harry says， we’d heard  somebody blundering around."         "Well， I stayed on that hill all day，" said Ron. "I kept hoping you’d appear. But when it  started to get dark I knew I must have missed you， so I clicked the Deluminator again， the     blue light came out ａｎｄ went inside me， ａｎｄ I Disapparated ａｎｄ arrived here in these  woods. I still couldn’t see you， so I just had to hope one of you would show yourselves in  the end -- ａｎｄ Harry did. Well， I saw the doe first， obviously."         "You saw the what?" said Hermione sharply.         They explained what had happened ａｎｄ as the story of the silver doe ａｎｄ the sword in the  pool unfolded， Hermione frowned form one to the other of them， concentrating so hard  she forgot to keep her limbs locked together.       "But it must have been a Patronus!" she said. "Couldn’t you see who was casting it?  Didn’t you see anyone? And it led you to the sword! I can’t believe this! Then what  happened?"         Ron explained how he had watched Harry jump into the pool， ａｎｄ had waited for him to  resurface; how he had realized that something was wrong， dived in， ａｎｄ saved Harry，  then returned for the sword. He got as far as the opening of the locket， then hesitated， ａｎｄ  Harry cut in.         "-- ａｎｄ Ron stabbed it with the sword."         "And ... ａｎｄ it went? Just like that?" she whispered.         "Well， it -- it screamed，" said Harry with half a glance at Ron. "Here."         He threw the locket into her lap; gingerly she picked it up ａｎｄ examined its punctured  windows.         Deciding that it was at last safe to do so， Harry removed the Shield Charm with a wave of  Hermione’s wａｎｄ ａｎｄ turned to Ron.       "Did you just say now that you got away from the snatchers with a spare wａｎｄ?"         "What?" said Ron， who had been watching Hermione examining the locket. "Oh -- oh  yeah."         He tugged open a buckle on his rucksack ａｎｄ pulled a short dark wａｎｄ out of his pocket.  "Here， I figured it’s always hａｎｄy to have a backup."         "You were right，" said Harry， holding out his hａｎｄ. "Mine’s broken."         "You’re kidding?" Ron said， but at that moment Hermione got to her feet， ａｎｄ he looked  apprehensive again.         Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag， then climbed back into her  bed ａｎｄ settled down without another word.          Ron passed Harry the new wａｎｄ.         "About the best you could hope for， I think，" murmured Harry.         "Yeah，" said Ron. "Could’ve been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?"         "I still haven’t ruled it out，" came Hermione’s muffled voice from beneath her blankets，  but Harry saw Ron smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out of his rucksack.              Chapter Twenty    Xenophilius Lovegood         Harry had not expected Hermione’s anger to abate over night ａｎｄ was  therefore unsurprised that she communicated mainly by dirty looks ａｎｄ  pointed silences the next morning. Ron responded by maintaining an  unnaturally somber demeanor in her presence as an outward sign of continuing  remorse. In fact， when all three of them were together Harry felt like the  only non-mourner at a poorly attended funeral. During those few moments he  spent alone with Harry， however (collecting water ａｎｄ searching the  undergrowth for mushrooms). Ron became shamelessly cheery.  "Someone helped us，" he kept saying， "Someone sent that doe， Someone’s on  our side， One Horcrux down， mate!"  Bolstered by the destruction of the locket they set to debating the possible  locations of the other Horcruxes ａｎｄ even though they had discussed the  matter so often before. Harry felt optimistic， certain that more  breakthroughs would succeed the first. Hermione’s sulkiness could not mar  his buoyant spirits; The sudden upswing in their fortunes， the appearance of  the mysterious due， the recovery of Gryffindor’s sword， ａｎｄ above all， Ron’s  return made Harry so happy that it was quite difficult to maintain a  straight face.  Late in the afternoon he ａｎｄ Ron escaped Hermione’s baleful presence again  ａｎｄ under the pretense of scouring the bare hedges for nonexistent  blackberries， they continued their ongoing exchange of news. Harry had  finally managed to tell Ron the whole story of his ａｎｄ Hermione’s various  wａｎｄerings， right up to the full story of what had happened at Godric’s  Hollow; Ron was now filling Harry in on everything he had discovered about  the wider Wizarding world during his weeks away.       "... ａｎｄ how did you find out about the Taboo?" he asked Harry after  explaining the many desperate attempts of Muggle-borns to evade the  Ministry."  "The what?"  "You ａｎｄ Hermione have stopped saying You-Know-Who’s name!"  "Oh， yeah， Well， it’s just a bad habit we’ve slipped into，" said Harry. "But  I haven’t got a problem calling him V ---"  "NO!" roared Ron， causing Harry to jump into the hedge ａｎｄ Hermione (nose  buried in a book at the tent entrance) to scowl over at them. "Sorry，" said  Ron， wrenching Harry back out of the brambles， "but the name’s been jinxed，  Harry， that’s how they track people! Using his name breaks protective  enchantments， it causes some kind of magical disturbance --- it’s how they  found us in Tottenham Court Road!"  "Because we used his *name*?"  "Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit， it makes sense. It was only people  who were serious about stａｎｄing up to him， like Dumbledore， who even dared  use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it， anyone who says it is trackable ---  quick-ａｎｄ-easy way to find Order members! They nearly got Kingsley ---"  "You’re kidding?"  "Yeah， a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him， Bill said but he fought his way  out. He’s on the run now just like us." Ron scratched his chin  thoughtfully with  the end of his wａｎｄ. "You don’t reckon Kingsley could have sent that doe?"  "His Patronus is a lynx， we saw it at the wedding， remember?"  "Oh yeah..."  They moved farther along the hedge， away from the tent ａｎｄ Hermione.  "Harry... you don’t reckon it could’ve been Dumbledore?"  "Dumbledore what?"  Ron looked a little embarrassed， but said in a low voice， "Dumbledore ... the  doe? I mean，" Ron was watching Harry out of the corners of his eyes， "he had  the real sword last， didn’t he?       Harry did not laugh at Ron， because he understood too well the longing  behind the question. The idea that Dumbledore had managed to come back to  them， that he was watching over them， would have inexpressibly comforting.  He shook his head.  "Dumbledore’s dead，" he said. "I saw it happen， I saw the body. He’s  definitely gone. Anyway his Patronus was a phoenix， not a doe"  "Patronuses can change， though can’t they?" said Ron， "Tonks’s changed  didn’t it?"  Yeah， but if Dumbledore was alive， why wouldn’t he show himself? Why  wouldn’t he just hａｎｄ us the sword?  "Search me，" said Ron. "Same reason he didn’t give it to you while he was  alive? Same reason he left you an old Snitch ａｎｄ Hermione a book of kid’s  stories?"  "Which is what?" asked Harry， turning to look Ron full in the face desperate  for the answer.  "I dunno，" said Ron. "Sometimes I’ve thought， when I’ve been a bit hacked  off， he was having a laugh or --- or he just wanted to make it more  difficult， But I don’t think so， not anymore. He knew what he was doing when  he gave me the Deluminator， didn’t he? He -- well，" Ron’s ears turned bright  red ａｎｄ he became engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet， which he prodded  with his toe， "he must’ve known I’d run out on you."  "No，" Harry corrected him. "He must’ve known you’d always want to come  back."  Ron looked grateful， but still awkward. Partly to change the subject， Harry  said， "Speaking of Dumbledore， have you heard what Skeeter wrote about him?"  "Oh yeah，" said Ron at once， "people are talking about it quite a lot.  ’Course， if things were different it’d be huge news， Dumbledore being pals  with Grindelwald， but now it’s just something to laugh about for people who  didn’t like Dumbledore， ａｎｄ a bit of a slap in the face for everyone who  thought he was such a good bloke. I don’t know that it’s such a big deal，  though. He was really young when they --"  "Our age，" said Harry， just as he had retorted to Hermione， ａｎｄ something in  his face seemed to decide Ron against pursuing the subject.  A large spider sat in the middle of a frosted web in the brambles. Harry  took aim at it with the wａｎｄ Ron had given him the previous night， which     Hermione had since condescended to examine， ａｎｄ had decided was made of  blackthorn.  "*Engorgio*"  "The spider gave a little shiver， bouncing slightly in the web. Harry tried  again. This time the spider grew slightly larger.  "Stop that，" said Ron sharply， " I’m sorry I said Dumbledore was young，  okay?"  Harry had forgotten Ron’s hatred of spiders.  "Sorry --- *Reducio*"  The spider did not shrink. Harry looked down at the blackthorn wａｎｄ. Every  minor spell he had cast with it so far that day had seemed less powerful  than those he had produced with his phoenix wａｎｄ. The new one felt  intrusively unfamiliar， like having somebody else’s hａｎｄ sewn to the end of  his arm.  "You just need to practice，" said Hermione， who had approached them  noiselessly from behind ａｎｄ had stood watching anxiously as Harry tried to  enlarge ａｎｄ reduce the spider. "It’s all a matter of confidence Harry."  He knew why she wanted it to be all right; She still felt guilty about  breaking his wａｎｄ. He bit back the retort that sprung to his lips， that she  could take the blackthorn wａｎｄ if she thought it made no difference， ａｎｄ he  would have hers instead. Keen for them all to be friends again， however， he  agreed; but when Ron gave Hermione a tentative smile， she stalked off ａｎｄ  vanished behind her book once more.  All three of them returned to the tent when darkness fell， ａｎｄ Harry took  first watch. Sitting in the entrance， he tried to make the blackthorn wａｎｄ  levitate small stones at his feet; but his magic still seemed clumsier ａｎｄ  less powerful than it had done before. Hermione was lying on her bunk  reading， while Ron， after many nervous glances up at her， had taken a small  wooden wireless out of his rucksack ａｎｄ started to try to tune it.  "There’s this one program，" he told Harry in a low voice， "that tells the  news like it really is. All the others are on You-Know-Who’s side ａｎｄ are  following the Ministry line， but this one ... you wait till you hear it， it’s  great. Only they can’t do it every night， they have to keep changing  locations in case they’re raided ａｎｄ you need a password to tune in ...  Trouble is， I missed the last one..."       He drummed lightly on the top of the radio with his wａｎｄ muttering rａｎｄom  words under his breath. He threw Hermione many covert glances， plainly  fearing an angry outburst， but for all the notice she took of him he might  not have been there. For ten minutes or so Ron tapped ａｎｄ muttered， Hermione  turned the pages of her book， ａｎｄ Harry continued to practice with the  blackthorn wａｎｄ.  Finally Hermione climbed down from her bunk. Ron ceased his tapping at once.  "If it’s annoying you， I’ll stop!" he told Hermione nervously.  Hermione did not deign to respond， but approached Harry.  "We need to talk，" she said.  He looked at the book still clutched in her hａｎｄ. It was * The Life ａｎｄ Lies  of Albus Dumbledore.*  "What?" he said apprehensively. It flew through his mind that there was a  chapter on him in there; he was not sure he felt up to hearing Rita’s  version of his relationship with Dumbledore. Hermione’s answer however， was  completely unexpected.  "I want to go ａｎｄ see Xenophilius Lovegood."  He stared at her.  "Sorry?"         “Xenophilius Lovegood， Luna’s father. I want to go ａｎｄ talk to him!”    “er – why?”    She took a deep breath， as though bracing herself， ａｎｄ said， “It’s that mark， the  mark in Beedle the Bard. Look at this!”    She thrust The Life ａｎｄ Lies of Albus Dumbledore under Harry’s unwilling eyes  ａｎｄ saw a photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore had written Grindelwald，  with Dumbledore’s familiar thin， slanting hａｎｄwriting. He hated seeing absolute proof  that Dumbledore really had written those words， that they had not been Rita’s invention.    “The signature，” said Hermione. “Look at the signature， Harry!”    He obeyed. For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about， but， looking  more closely with the aid of his lit wａｎｄ， he saw that Dumbledore had replaced the A of  Albus with a tiny version of the same triangular mark inscribed upon The Tales of Beedle  the Bard.    “Er – what are you -- ?” said Ron tentatively， but Hermione quelled him with a  look ａｎｄ turned back to Harry.    “It keeps cropping up， doesn’t it?” she said. “I know Viktor said it was  Grindelwald’s mark， but it was definitely on that old grave in Godric’s Hollow， ａｎｄ the     dates on the headstone were long before Grindelwald came along! And now this! Well，  we can’t ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means – I don’t even know whether  Grindelwald’s still alive – but we can ask Mr. Lovegood. He was wearing the symbol at  the wedding. I’m sure this is important， Harry!”    Harry did not answer immediately. He looked into her intense， eager face ａｎｄ  then out into the surrounding darkness， thinking. After a long pause he said， “Hermione，  we don’t need another Godric’s Hollow. We talked ourselves into going there， ａｎｄ –”    
“But it keeps appearing， Harry! Dumbledore left me The Tales of Beedle the Bard，  how do you know we’re not supposed to find out about the sign?”    
“Here we go again!” Harry felt slightly exasperated. “We keep trying to convince  ourselves Dumbledore left us secret signs ａｎｄ clues –“    
“The Deluminator turned out to be pretty useful，” piped up Ron. “I think  Hermione’s right， I think we ought to go ａｎｄ see Lovegood.”    
Harry threw him a dark look. He was quite sure that Ron’s support of Hermione  had little to do with a desire to know the meaning of the triangular rune.    
“It won’t be like Godric’s Hollow，” Ron added， “Lovegood’s on your side， Harry，  The Quibbler’s been for you all along， it keeps telling everyone they’ve got to help you!”    
“I’m sure this is important!” said Hermione earnestly.    
“But don’t you think if it was， Dumbledore would have told me about it before he  died?”    
“Maybe . . . maybe it’s something you need to find out for yourself，” said  Hermione with a faint air of clutching at straws.    
“Yeah，” said Ron sycophantically， “that makes sense.”    
“No， it doesn’t，” snapped Hermione， “but I still think we ought to talk to Mr.  Lovegood. A symbol that links Dumbledore， Grindelwald， ａｎｄ Godric’s Hollow? Harry，  I’m sure we ought to know about this!”    
“I think we should vote on it，” said Ron. “Those in favor of going to see Love  good –”    
His hａｎｄ flew into the air before Hermione’s. Her lips quivered suspiciously as  she raised her own.    
“Outvoted， Harry， sorry，” said Ron， clapping him on the back.    
“Fine，” said Harry， half amused， half irritated. “Only， once we’ve seen Lovegood，  let’s try ａｎｄ look for some more Horcruxes， shall we? Where do the Lovegood’s live，  anyway? Do either of you know?    
“Yeah， they’re not far from my place，” said Ron. “I dunno exactly where， but  Mum ａｎｄ Dad always point toward the hills whenever they mention them. Shouldn’t be  hard to find.”    
When Hermione had returned to her bunk， Harry lowered his voice.    
“You only agreed to try ａｎｄ get back in her good books.”    
“All’s fair in love ａｎｄ war，” said Ron brightly， “ａｎｄ this is a bit of both. Cheer up，  it’s the Christmas holidays， Luna’ll be home!”    
They had an excellent view of the village of Ottery St. Catchopole from the  breezy hillside to which they Disapparated next morning. From their high vantage point  the village looked like a collection of toy houses in the great slanting shafts of sunlight  stretching to earth in the breaks between clouds. They stood for a minute or two looking  toward the Burrow， their hａｎｄs shadowing their eyes， but all they could make out were     the high hedges ａｎｄ trees of the orchard， which afforded the crooked little house  protection from Muggle eyes.    
“It’s weird， being this near， but not going to visit，” said Ron.    
“Well， it’s not like you haven’t just seen them. You were there for Christmas，”  said Hermione coldly.    
“I wasn’t at the Burrow!” said Ron with an incredulous laugh. “Do you think I  was going to go back there ａｎｄ tell them all I’d walked out on you? Yeah， Fred ａｎｄ  George would’ve been great about it. And Ginny， she’d have been really understａｎｄing.”    
“But where have you been， then?” asked Hermione， surprised.    
“Bill ａｎｄ Fleur’s new place. Shell cottage. Bill’s always been decent to me. He –  he wasn’t impressed when he heard what I’d done， but he didn’t go on about it. He knew  I was really sorry. None of the rest of the family know I was there. Bill told Mum he ａｎｄ  Fleur weren’t going home for Christmas because they wanted to spend it alone. You  know， first holiday after they were married. I don’t think Fleur minded. You know how  much she hates Celestina Warbeck.”    
Ron turned his back on the Burrow.    
“Let’s try up here，” he said， leading the way over the top of the hill.    
They walked for a few hours， Harry， at Hermione’s insistence， hidden beneath the  Invisibility Cloak. The cluster of low hills appeared to be uninhabited apart from one  small cottage， which seemed deserted.    
“Do you think it’s theirs， ａｎｄ they’ve gone away for Christmas?” said Hermione，  peering through the window at a neat little kitchen with geraniums on the windowsill.  Ron snorted.    
“Listen， I’ve got a feeling you’d be able to tell who lived there if you looked  through the Lovegoods’ window. Let’s try the next lot of hills.”    
So they Disapparated a few miles farther north.    
“Aha!” shouted Ron， as the wind whipped their hair ａｎｄ clothes. Ron was  pointing upward， toward the top of the hill on which they had appeared， where a most  strange-looking house rose vertically against the sky， a great black cylinder with a  ghostly moon hanging behind it in the afternoon sky. “That’s got to be Luna’s house，  who else would live in a place like that? It looks like a giant rook!”    
“It’s nothing like a bird，” said Hermione， frowning at the tower.    
“I was talking about a chess rook，” said Ron. “A castle to you.”    
Ron’s legs were the longest ａｎｄ he reached the top of the hill first. When Harry  ａｎｄ Hermione caught up with him， panting ａｎｄ clutching stitches in their sides， they  found him grinning broadly.    
“It’s theirs，” said Ron. “Look.”    
Three hａｎｄ-painted signs had been tacked to a broke-down gate. The first read，    
THE QUIBBLER. EDITOR， X. LOVEGOOD         the second，    
PICK YOUR OWN MISTLETOE         the third，    
KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS         
The gate creaked as they opened it. The zigzagging path leading to the front door  was overgrown with a variety of odd plants， including a bush covered in orange  radishlike fruit Luna sometimes wore as earrings. Harry thought he recognized a  Snargaluff ａｎｄ gave the wizened stump a wide berth. Two aged crab apple trees， bent  with the wind， stripped of leaves but still heavy with berry-sized red fruits ａｎｄ bushy  crowns of white beaded mistletoe， stood sentinel on either side of the front door. A little  owl with a slightly flattened hawklike head peered down at them from one of the  branches.    
“You’d better take off the Invisibility Cloak， Harry，” said Hermione. “It’s you Mr.  Lovegood wants to help， not us.”    
He did as she suggested， hａｎｄing her the Cloak to stow in the beaded bag. She  then rapped three times on the thick black door， which was studded with iron nails ａｎｄ  bore a knocker shaped like an eagle.    Barely ten seconds passed， then the door was flung open ａｎｄ there stood  Xenophilius Lovegood， barefoot ａｎｄ wearing what appeared to be a stained  nightshirt. His long white cａｎｄyfloss hair was dirty ａｎｄ unkempt. Xenophilius  had been positively dapper at Bill ａｎｄ Fleur’s wedding by comparison.  "What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?" he cried in a  high-pitched， querulous voice， looking first at Hermione， then at Ron， ａｎｄ  finally at Harry， upon which his mouth fell open in a perfect， comical O.  "Hello， Mr. Lovegood，" said Harry， holding out his hａｎｄ， "I’m Harry，  Harry Potter."  Xenophilius did not take Harry’s hａｎｄ， although the eye that was not  pointing inward at his nose slid straight to the scar on Harry’s forehead.  "Would it be okay if we came in?" asked Harry. "There’s something we’d  like to ask you."  "I . . . I’m not sure that’s advisable，" whispered Xenophilius， He  swallowed ａｎｄ cast a quick look around the garden. "Rather a shock . . . My  word . . . I . . . I’m afraid I don’t really think I ought to ---"  "It wont take long" said Harry， slightly disappointed by this  less-than-warm welcome.  "I --- oh， all right then. Come in， quickly， Quickly!"  They were barely over the threshold when Xenophilius slammed the door  shut behind them， They were stａｎｄing in the most peculiar kitchen Harry had  ever seen. The room was perfectly circular， so that he felt like being  inside a giant pepper pot. Everything was curved to fit the walls - the  stove， the sink， ａｎｄ the cupboards - ａｎｄ all of it had been painted with  flowers， insects， ａｎｄ birds in bright primary colors. Harry thought he  recognized Luna’s styles. The effect in such ａｎｄ enclosed space， was  slightly overwhelming.  In the middle of the floor， a wrought-iron spiral staircase ld to the  upper levels. There was a great deal of clattering ａｎｄ banging coming from  overhead: Harry wondered what Luna could be doing.  "You’d better come up." said Xenophilius， still looking extremely  uncomfortable， ａｎｄ he led the way.  The room above seemed to be a combination of living room ａｎｄ workplace，     ａｎｄ as such， was even more cluttered than the kitchen. Though much smaller  ａｎｄ entirely round， the room somewhat resembled the Room of Requirement on  the unforgettable occasion that it had transformed itself into a gigantic  labyrinth comprised of centuries of hidden objects. There were piles upon  piles of books ａｎｄ papers on every surface. Delicately made models of  creatures Harry did not recognize， all flapping wings or snapping jaws， hung  from the ceiling.  Luna was not there: The thing that was making such a racket was a wooden  object covered in magically turning cogs ａｎｄ wheels， It looked like the  bizarre offspring of a workbench ａｎｄ a set of shelves， but after a moment  Harry deduced that it was an old-fashioned printing press， due to the fact  that it was churning out Quibblers.  "Excuse me，" said Xenophilius， ａｎｄ he strode over to the machine， seized  grubbily tablecloth from beneath an immense number of books ａｎｄ papers，  which all tumbled onto the floor， ａｎｄ threw it over the press， somewhat  muffling the loud bangs ａｎｄ clatters. He then faced Harry.  "Why have you come here?"  Before Harry could speak， however， Hermione let out a small cry of shock.  "Mr. Lovegood - what’s that?"  See was pointing at an enormous， gray spiral horn， not unlike that of a  unicorn， which had been mounted on the wall， protruding several feet into  the room.  "It is the horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack，" said Xenophilius.  "No it isn’t!" said Hermione.  "Hermione，" muttered Harry， embarrassed， "now’s not the moment -"  "But Harry， it’s an Erumpent horn! It’s a Class B Tradeable Material ａｎｄ  it’s an extraordinary dangerous thing to have in a house!"  "How’d you know it’s an Erumpent horn?" asked Ron， edging away from the  horn as fast as he could， given the extreme clutter of the room.  "There’s a description in Fantastic Beasts ａｎｄ Where to Find Them! Mr.  Lovegood， you need to get rid of it straightaway， don’t you know it can  explode at the slightest touch?"  "The Crumple Horned Snorkack" said Xenophilius very clearly， a mulish  look upon his face， “is a shy ａｎｄ highly magical creature， ａｎｄ it’s horn -"  "Mr. Lovegood. I recognize the grooved markings around the base， that’s  an Erumpent horn ａｎｄ it’s incredibly dangerous - I don’t know where you got  it-"  "I bought it，" said Xenophilius dogmatically. "Two weeks ago， from a  delightful young wizard who knew my interest in the exquisite Snorkack. A  Christmas surprise for my Luna. Now，" he said， turning to Harry， "why  exactly have you come here， Mr. Potter?"  "We need some help，" said Harry， before Hermione could start again.  "Ah，" said Xenophilius， "Help， Hmm."  His good eye moved again to Harry’s scar. He seemed simultaneously  terrified ａｎｄ mesmerized.  "Yes. The thing is ... helping Harry Potter ... rather dangerous..."    
"Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s their first duty to  help Harry?" said Ron. "In that magazine of yours?"  Xenophilius glanced behind him at the concealed printing press， still  banging ａｎｄ clattering beneath the tablecloth.  "Er - yes， I have expressed that view. however -"  "That’s for everyone else to do， not you personally?" said Ron.  Xenophilius did not answer. He kept swallowing， his eyes darting between  the three of them. Harry had the impression that he was undergoing some  painful internal struggle.  "Where’s Luna?" asked Hermione. "Let’s see what she thinks."  Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself. Finally he said in  a shaky voice difficult to hear over the noise of the printing press， "Luna  is down at the stream， fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She...she will like  to see you. I’ll go ａｎｄ call her ａｎｄ then - yes， very well. I shall try to  help you."  He disappeared down the spiral staircase ａｎｄ they heard the front open  ａｎｄ close. They looked at each other.  "Cowardly old wart，" said Ron. "Luna’s got ten times his guts."  "He’s probably worried about what’ll happen to them if the Death Eaters  find out I was here" said Harry.  "Well， I agree with Ron， " said Hermione， "Awful old hypocrite， telling  everyone else to help you ａｎｄ trying to worm our of it himself. And for  heaven’s sake keep away from that horn."  Harry crossed to the window on the far side of the room. He could see a  stream， a thin， glittering ribbon lying far below them at the base of the  hill. They were very high up; a bird fluttered past the window as he stared  in the direction of the Burrow， now invisible beyond another line of hills.  Ginny was over there somewhere. They were closer to each other today than  they had been since Bill ａｎｄ Fleur’s wedding， but she could have no idea he  was gazing toward her now， thinking of her. He suppose he ought to be glad  of it; anyone he came into contact with was in danger， Xenophilius’s attitude  proved that.  he turned away from the windows ａｎｄ his gaze fell upon another peculiar  object stａｎｄing upon the cluttered， curved slide board; a stone but of a  beautiful but austere-looking witch wearing a most bizarre-looking  headdress. Two objects that resembled golden ear trumpets curved out from  the sides. A tiny pair of glittering blue wing was stuck to a leather strap  that ran over the top of her head， while one of the orange radishes had been  stuck to a second strap around her forehead.  "Look at this，" said Harry.  "Fetching，" said Ron. "Surprised he didn’t hear that to the wedding."  They heard the front door close， ａｎｄ a moment later Xenophilius climbed  back up the spiral staircase into the room， his thin legs now encase in  Wellington boots， bearing a tray of ill-assorted teacups ａｎｄ a steaming  teapot.  "Ah， you have spotted my pet invention，" he said， shoving the tray into     Hermione’s arms ａｎｄ joining Harry at the statue’s side.  "Modeled， fittingly enough， upon the head of the beautiful Rowens Ravenclaw，  ’Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure!’"  He indicated the objects like ear trumpets.  "These are the Wrackpurt siphons - to remove all sources of distraction  from the thinker’s immediate area. Here， "he pointed out the tiny wings， "a  billywig propeller， to induce an elevated frame of mind. Finally， "he  pointed to the orange radish， "the dirigible Plum， so as to enhance the  ability to accept the extraordinary."  Xenophilius strode back to the tea tray， which Hermione had managed to  balance precariously on one of the cluttered side tables.  "May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?" said Xenophilius. "We  make it ourselves." As he started to pour out the drink， which was as deeply  purple as beetroot juice， he added， "Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge， she  is most excited that you are here She ought not to be too long， she has  caught nearly enough Plumpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit down ａｎｄ  help yourselves to sugar.  "Now，" he remove a tottering pile of papers from an armchair ａｎｄ sat  down， his Wellingtoned legs crossed， "how may I help you， Mr. Potter?"  "Well，" said Harry， glancing at Hermione， who nodded encouragingly，  "it’s about that symbol you were wearing around your neck at Bill ａｎｄ  Fleur’s wedding， Mr. Lovegood. We wondered what it meant."  Xenophilius raised his eyebrows.  "Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?"                   Chapter Twenty-One    The Tale of the Three Brothers         Harry turned to look at Ron ａｎｄ Hermione. Neither of them seemed to have  understood what Xenophilius had said either.    "The Deathly Hallows?"    "That’s right，" said Xenophilius. "You haven’t heard of them? I’m not surprised.  Very， very few wizards believe. Witness that knuckle-headed young man at your  brother’s wedding，" he nodded at Ron， "who attacked me for sporting the symbol of a  well-known Dark wizard! Such ignorance. There is nothing Dark about the Hallows – at  least not in that crude sense. One simply uses the symbol to reveal oneself to other  believers， in the hope that they might help one with the Quest."    He stirred several lumps of sugar into his Gurdyroot infusion ａｎｄ drank some.    "I’m sorry，" said Harry， "I still don’t really understａｎｄ."    To be polite， he took a sip from his cup too， ａｎｄ almost gagged: The stuff was  quite disgusting， as though someone had liquidized bogey-flavored Every Flavor Beans.     "Well， you see， believers seek the Deathly Hallows，" said Xenophilius， smacking  his lips in apparent appreciation of the Gurdyroot infusion.    "But what are the Deathly Hallows?" asked Hermione.    Xenophilius set aside his empty teacup.    "I assume that you are familiar with ’The Tale of the Three Brothers’?"    Harry said， "No，" but Ron ａｎｄ Hermione both said， "Yes." Xenophilius nodded  gravely.    "Well， well， Mr. Potter， the whole thing starts with ’The Tale of the Three  Brothers’ . . . I have a copy somewhere . . ."    He glanced vaguely around the room， at the piles of parchment ａｎｄ books， but  Hermione said， "I’ve got a copy， Mr. Lovegood， I’ve got it right here."    And she pulled out The Tales of Beedle the Bard from the small， beaded bag.    "The original?" inquired Xenophilius sharply， ａｎｄ when she nodded， he said，  "Well then， why don’t you read it out aloud? Much the best way to make sure we all  understａｎｄ."    "Er. . . all right，" said Hermione nervously. She opened the book， ａｎｄ Harry saw  that the symbol they were investigating headed the top of the page as she gave a little  cough， ａｎｄ began to read.    "’There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely， winding road  at twilight –’"    "Midnight， our mum always told us，" said Ron， who had stretched out， arms  behind his head， to listen. Hermione shot him a look of annoyance.    "Sorry， I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!" said Ron.    "Yeah， because we really need a bit more fear in our lives，" said Harry before he  could stop himself. Xenophilius did not seem to be paying much attention， but was  staring out of the window at the sky. "Go on， Hermione."    "In time， the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through ａｎｄ too  dangerous to swim across. However， these brothers were learned in the magical arts， ａｎｄ  so they simply waved their wａｎｄs ａｎｄ made a bridge appear across the treacherous  water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded  figure.    "’And Death spoke to them –’"    "Sorry，" interjected Harry， "but Death spoke to them?"    "It’s a fairy tale， Harry!"    "Right， sorry. Go on."    "’And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of the  three new victims， for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. He  pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic， ａｎｄ said that each had  earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him.    "’So the oldest brother， who was a combative man， asked for a wａｎｄ more  powerful than any in existence: a wａｎｄ that must always win duels for its owner， a wａｎｄ  worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! So Death crossed to an elder tree on the  banks of the river， fashioned a wａｎｄ from a branch that hung there， ａｎｄ gave it to the  oldest brother.    "’Then the second brother， who was an arrogant man， decided that he wanted to  humiliate Death still further， ａｎｄ asked for the power to recall others from Death. So     Death picked up a stone from the riverbank ａｎｄ gave it to the second brother， ａｎｄ told  him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead.    "’And then Death asked the third ａｎｄ youngest brother what he would like. The  youngest brother was the humblest ａｎｄ also the wisest of the brothers， ａｎｄ he did not  trust Death. So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place  without being followed by Death. And Death， most unwillingly， hａｎｄed over his own  Cloak of Invisibility.’"    "Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry interrupted again.    "So he can sneak up on people，" said Ron. "Sometimes he gets bored of running at  them， flapping his arms ａｎｄ shrieking . . . sorry， Hermione."    "’Then Death stood aside ａｎｄ allowed the three brothers to continue on their way，  ａｎｄ they did so talking with wonder of the adventure they had had ａｎｄ admiring Death’s  gifts.    "’In due course the brothers separated， each for his own destination.    "’The first brother traveled on for a week more， ａｎｄ reaching a distant village，  sought out a fellow wizard with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally， with the Elder Wａｎｄ  as his weapon， he could not fail to win the duel that followed. Leaving his enemy dead  upon the floor the oldest brother proceeded to an inn， where he boasted loudly of the  powerful wａｎｄ he had snatched from Death himself， ａｎｄ of how it made him invincible.    "’That very night， another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay， wine- sodden upon his bed. The thief took the wａｎｄ ａｎｄ for good measure， slit the oldest  brother’s throat.    "’And so Death took the first brother for his own.    "’Meanwhile， the second brother journeyed to his own home， where he lived alone.  Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead， ａｎｄ turned it thrice in  his hａｎｄ. To his amazement ａｎｄ his delight， the figure of the girl he had once hoped to  marry， before her untimely death， appeared at once before him.    "’Yet she was sad ａｎｄ cold， separated from him as by a veil. Though she had  returned to the mortal world， she did not truly belong there ａｎｄ suffered. Finally the  second brother， driven mad with hopeless longing， killed himself so as to truly join her.    "’And so Death took the second brother from his own.    "’But though Death searched for the third brother for many years， he was never  able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother  finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility ａｎｄ gave it to his son. And the he greeted Death  as an old friend， ａｎｄ went with him gladly， ａｎｄ， equals， they departed this life.’"    Hermione closed the book. It was a moment or two before Xenophilius seemed to  realize that she had stopped reading; then he withdrew his gaze from the window ａｎｄ  said: "Well， there you are."    "Sorry?" said Hermione， sounding confused.    "Those are the Deathly Hallows，" said Xenophilius.    He picked up a quill from a packed table at his elbow， ａｎｄ pulled a torn piece of  parchment from between more books.    "The Elder Wａｎｄ，" he said， ａｎｄ drew a straight vertical line upon the parchment.  "The Resurrection Stone，" he said， ａｎｄ added a circle on top of the line. "The Cloak of  Invisibility，" he finished， enclosing both line ａｎｄ circle in a triangle， to make the symbols  that so intrigued Hermione. "Together，" he said， "the Deathly Hallows."     "But there’s no mention of the words ’Deathly Hallows’ in the story，" said  Hermione.    "Well， of course not，" said Xenophilius， maddeningly smug. "That is a children’s  tale， told to amuse rather than to instruct. Those of us who understａｎｄ these matters，  however， recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects， or Hallows， which， if  united， will make the possessor master of Death."    There was a short silence in which Xenophilius glanced out of the window.  Already the sun was low in the sky.    "Luna ought to have enough Plimpies soon，" he said quietly.    "When you say ’master of Death’ –"said Ron.    "Master，" said Xenophilius， waving an airy hａｎｄ. "Conqueror. Vanquisher.  Whichever term you prefer."    "But then . . . do you mean . . ." said Hermione slowly， ａｎｄ Harry could tell that  she was trying to keep any trace of skepticism out of her voice， "that you believe these  objects – these Hallows – really exist?"    Xenophilius raised his eyebrows again.    "Well， of course."    "But，" said Hermione， ａｎｄ Harry could hear her restraint starting to crack， "Mr.  Lovegood， how can you possibly believe – ?"    "Luna has told me all about you， young lady，" said Xenophilius. "You are， I  gather， not unintelligent， but painfully limited. Narrow. Close-minded."    "Perhaps you ought to try on the hat， Hermione，" said Ron， nodding toward the  ludicrous headdress. His voice shook with the strain of not laughing.    "Mr. Lovegood，" Hermione began again， "We all know that there are such things  as Invisibility Cloaks. They are rare， but they exist. But –"    "Ah， but the Third Hallow is a true Cloak of Invisibility， Miss Granger! I mean to  say， it is not a traveling cloak imbued with a Disillusionment Charm， or carrying a  Bedazzling Hex， or else woven from Demiguise hair， which will hide one initially but  fade with the years until it turns opaque. We are talking about a cloak that really ａｎｄ truly  renders the wearer completely invisible， ａｎｄ endures eternally， giving constant ａｎｄ  impenetrable concealment， no matter what spells are cast at it. How many cloaks have  you ever seen like that， Miss Granger?"    Hermione opened her mouth to answer， then closed it again， looking more  confused than ever. She， Harry ａｎｄ Ron glanced at one another， ａｎｄ Harry knew that they  were all thinking the same thing. It so happened that a cloak exactly like the one  Xenophilius had just described was in the room with them at that very moment.    "Exactly，" said Xenophilius， as if he had defeated them all in reasoned argument.  "None of you have ever seen such a thing. The possessor would be immeasurably rich，  would he not?"    He glanced out of the window again. The sky was now tinged with the faintest  trace of pink.    "All right，" said Hermione， disconcerted. "Say the Cloak existed. . . what about  that stone， Mr. Lovegood? The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?"    "What of it?"    "Well， how can that be real?"    "Prove that is not，" said Xenophilius.     Hermione looked outraged.    "But that’s – I’m sorry， but that’s completely ridiculous! How can I possibly prove  it doesn’t exist? Do you expect me to get hold of – of all the pebbles in the world ａｎｄ test  them? I mean， you could claim that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is  that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!"    "Yes， you could，" said Xenophilius. "I am glad to see that you are opening your  mind a little."    "So the Elder Wａｎｄ，" said Harry quickly， before Hermione could retort， "you  think that exists too?"    "Oh， well， in that case there is endless evidence，" said Xenophilius. "The Elder  Wａｎｄ is the Hallow that is most easily traced， because of the way in which it passes from  hａｎｄ to hａｎｄ."    "Which is what?" asked Harry.    "Which is that the possessor of the wａｎｄ must capture it from its previous owner，  if he is to be truly master of it，" said Xenophilius. "Surely you have heard of the way the  wａｎｄ came to Egbert the Egregious， after his slaughter of Emeric the Evil? Of how  Godelot died in his own cellar after his son， Hereward， took the wａｎｄ from him? Of the  dreadful Loxias， who took the wａｎｄ from Baraabas Deverill， whom he had killed? The  bloody trail of the Elder Wａｎｄ is splattered across the pages of Wizarding history."    Harry glanced at Hermione. She was frowning at Xenophilius， but she did not  contradict him.    "So where do you think the Elder Wａｎｄ is now?" asked Ron.    "Alas， who knows?" said Xenophilius， as he gazed out of the window. "Who  knows where the Elder Wａｎｄ lies hidden? The trail goes cold with Arcus ａｎｄ Livius.  Who can say which of them really defeated Loxias， ａｎｄ which took the wａｎｄ? And who  can say who may have defeated them? History， alas， does not tell us."    There was a pause. Finally Hermione asked stiffly， "Mr. Lovegood， does the  Peverell family have anything to do with the Deathly Hallows?"    Xenophilius looked taken aback as something shifted in Harry’s memory， but he  could not locate it. Peverell. . . he had heard that name before. . .    "But you have been misleading me， young woman!" said Xenophilius， now sitting  up much straighter in his chair ａｎｄ goggling at Hermione. "I thought you were new to the  Hallows Quest! Many of us Questers believe that the Peverells have everything –  everything! – to do with the Hallows!"    "Who are the Peverells?" asked Ron.    "That was the name on the grave with the mark on it， in Godric’s Hollow，" said  Hermione， still watching Xenophilius. "Ignotus Peverell."    "Exactly!" said Xenophilius， his forefinger raised pedantically. "The sign of the  Death Hallows on Ignotus’s grave is conclusive proof!"    "Of what?" asked Ron.    "Why， that the three brothers in the story were actually the three Peverell brothers，  Antioch， Cadmus ａｎｄ Ignotus! That they were the original owners of the Hallows!"    With another glance at the window he got to his feet， picked up the tray， ａｎｄ  headed for the spiral staircase.    "You will stay for dinner?" he called， as he vanished downstairs again.  "Everybody always requests our recipe for Freshwater Plimply soup."     "Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St. Mungo’s，" said Ron under his  breath.    Harry waited until they could hear Xenophilius moving about in the kitchen  downstairs before speaking.    "What do you think?" he asked Hermione.    "Oh， Harry，" she said wearily， "it’s a pile of utter rubbish. This can’t be what the  sign really means. This must just be his weird take on it. What a waste of time."    "I s’pose this is the man who brought us Crumple-Horned Snorkacks，" said Ron.    "You didn’t believe it either?" Harry asked him.    "Nah， that story’s just one of those things you tell kids to teach them lessons， isn’t  it? ’Don’t go looking for trouble， don’t go pick fights， don’t go messing around with stuff  that’s best left alone! Just keep your head down， mind your own business， ａｎｄ you’ll be  okay. Come to think of it，" Ron added， "maybe that story’s why elder wａｎｄs are supposed  to be unlucky."    "What are you talking about?"    "One of those superstitions， isn’t it? ’May-born witches will marry Muggles.’ ’Jinx  by twilight， undone by midnight.’ ’Wａｎｄ of cider， never prosper.’ You must have heard  them. My mum’s full of them."    "Harry ａｎｄ I were raised by Muggles，" Hermione reminded him. "We were taught  different superstitions." She sighed deeply as a rather pungent smell drifted up from the  kitchen. The one good thing about her exasperation with Xenophilius was that it seemed  to have made her forget that she was annoyed at Ron. "I think you’re right，" she told him.  "It’s just a morality tale， it’s obvious which gift is best， which one you’d choose –"    The three of them spoke at the same time: Hermione said， "the Cloak，" Ron said，  "the wａｎｄ，" ａｎｄ Harry said， "the stone."    They looked at each other， half surprised， half amused.    "You’re supposed to say the Cloak，" Ron told Hermione， "but you wouldn’t need  to be invisible if you had the wａｎｄ. An unbeatable wａｎｄ， Hermione， come on!"       "We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak，" said Harry， "And it’s helped us rather a lot， in  case you hadn’t noticed!" said Hermione. "Whereas the wａｎｄ would be bound to attract  trouble--"  "Only if you shouted about it，" argued Ron. "Only if you were prat enough to go dancing  around waving it over your head， ａｎｄ singing， ’I’ve got an unbeatable want， come ａｎｄ  have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut --"  -Yes， but could you keep your trap shut?" said Hermione， looking skeptical. "You know  the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about extra-powerful  wａｎｄs for hundreds of years."  "There have?" asked Harry.  Hermione looked exasperated: The expression was so endearingly familiar that Harry ａｎｄ  Ron grinned at each other.  "The Deathstick， the Wａｎｄ of Destiny， they crop up under different names through the  centuries， usually in the possession of some Dark wizard who’s boasting about them.  Professor Binns mentioned some of them， but -- oh it’s all nonsense. Wａｎｄs are only as  powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards just like to boast that theirs are  bigger ａｎｄ better than other people’s"     "But how do you know，" said Harry， "that those wants -- the Deathstick， ａｎｄ the Wａｎｄ of  Destiny -- aren’t the same want， surfacing over the centuries under different names?"  "What if they’re all really the Elder Wａｎｄ， made by Death?" said Ron.  Harry laughed: The strange idea that had occurred to him was after all， ridiculous. His  wａｎｄ， he reminded himself， had been of holly， not elder， ａｎｄ it had been made by  Ollivａｎｄer， whatever it had done that night Voldemort had pursued him across the skies  ａｎｄ if it had been unbeatable， how could it have been broken?  "So why would you take the stone?" Ron asked him.  "Well， if you could bring people back， we could have Sirius...Mad- Eye...Dumbledore...my parents..."  Neither Ron nor Hermione smiled.  "But according to Beedle the Bard， they wouldn’t want to come back， would they?" said  Harry， thinking about the tail they had just heard. "I don’t suppose there have been loads  of other stories about a stone that can raise the dead， have there?: he asked Hermione.  "No，" she replied sadly. "I don’t think anyone except Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves  that’s possible. Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer’s Stone; you know，  instead of a stone to make you immortal， a stone to reverse death."  The smell from the kitchen was getting stronger. It was something like burning  underpants. Harry wondered whether it would be possible to eat enough of whatever  Xenophilius was cooking to spare his feelings.  "What about the Cloak， though?" said Ron slowly. "Don’t you realize， he’s right? I’ve got  so used to Harry’s Cloak ａｎｄ how good it is， I never stopped to think. I’ve never heard of  one like Harry’s. It’s infallible. We’ve never been spotted under it --"  "Of course not -- we’re invisible when we’re under it， Ron!"  "But all the stuff he said about other cloaks， ａｎｄ they’re not exactly ten a Knut， you know，  is true! It’s never occurred to me before but I’ve heard stuff about charms wearing off  cloaks when they get old， or them being ripped apart by spells so they’ve got holes，  Harry’s was owned by his dad， so it’s not exactly new， is it， but it’s just ... perfect!"  "Yes， all right， but Ron， the stone..."  As they argued in whispers， Harry moved around the room， only half listening. Reaching  the spiral stair， he raised his eyes absently to the next level ａｎｄ was distracted at once.  His own face was looking back at him from the ceiling of the room above. After a  moment’s bewilderment， he realized that it was not a mirror， but a painting. Curious， he  began to clime the stairs.  "Harry， what are you doing? I don’t think you should look around when he’s not here!"  But Harry had already reached the next level. Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling  with five beautifully painted faces: Harry， Ron， Hermione， Ginny， ａｎｄ Neville. They  were not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts moved， but there was a certain magic about  them all the same. Harry thought they breathed. What appeared to be a fine golden chains  wove around the pictures linking them together， but after examining them for a minute or  so， Harry realized that the chains were actually one work repeated a thousａｎｄ times in  golden ink: friends... friends... friends...  Harry felt a great rush of affection for Luna. He looked around the room. There was a  large photograph beside the bed， of a young Luna ａｎｄ a woman who looked very like her.  They were hugging. Luna looked rather better-groomed in this picture than Harry had  ever seen her in life. The picture was dusty. This struck Harry as slightly odd. He stared     around. Something was wrong. The pale blue carpet was also thick with dust. There were  no clothes in the wardrobe， whose doors stood ajar. The bed had a cold， unfriendly look，  as though it had not been slept in for weeks. A single cobweb stretched over the nearest  window across the blood red sky.  "What’s wrong?" Hermione asked as Harry descended the staircase， but before he could  respond， Xenophilius reached the top of the stairs from the kitchen， now holding a tray  laden with bowls.  "Mr. Lovegood，" said Harry. "Where’s Luna?"  "Excuse me?"  "Where’s Luna?"  Xenophilius halted on the top step.  "I -- I’ve already told you. She is down at the Botions Bridge fishing for Plimpies."  "So why have you only laid that tray for four?"  Xenophilius tried to speak， but no sound came out. The only noise was the continued  chugging of the printing press， ａｎｄ a slight rattle from the tray as Xenophilius’s hａｎｄs  shook.  "I don’t think Luna’s been here for weeks." said Harry. "Her clothes are gone， her bed  hasn’t been slept in. Where is she? ａｎｄ why do you keep looking out of the window?"  Xenophilius dropped the tray. The bowls bounced ａｎｄ smashed Harry， Ron， ａｎｄ  Hermione drew their wａｎｄs. Xenophilius froze his hａｎｄ about to enter his pocket. At that  moment the printing press have a huge bank ａｎｄ numerous Quibblers came streaming  across the floor from underneath the tablecloth， the press fell silent at last. Hermione  stooped down ａｎｄ picked up one of the magazines， her wａｎｄ still pointing at Mr.  Lovegood.  "Harry， look at this" He strode over to her as quickly as he could through all the clutter.  The front of the Quibbler carried his own picture， emblazoned with the words  "Undesirable Number One" ａｎｄ captioned with the reward money.  "The Quibbler’s going for a new angle， then?: Harry asked coldly， his mind working very  fast. "Is that what you were doing when you went into the garden， Mr. Lovegood?  Sending an owl to the Ministry?  Xenophilius licked his lips  "They took my Luna，" he whispered， "Because of what I’ve been writing. They took my  Luna ａｎｄ I don’t know where she is， what they’ve done to her. But they might give her  back to me if I -- If I--"  "Hａｎｄ over Harry?" Hermione finished for him.  "No deal." said Ron flatly. "Get out of the way， we’re leaving."  Xenophilius looked ghastly， a century old， his lips drawn back into a dreadful leer.  "They will be here any moment. I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must not  leave."  He spread his arms in front of the staircase， ａｎｄ Harry had a sudden vision of his mother  doing the same thing in front of his crib.  "Don’t make us hurt you，" Harry said. "Get out of the way， Mr. Lovegood."  "HARRY!" Hermione screamed.  Figures on broomsticks were flying past the windows. As the three of them looked away  from him. Xenophilius drew his wａｎｄ. Harry realized their mistake just in time. He  launched himself sideways， shoving Ron ａｎｄ Hermione out of harm’s way as     Xenophilius’s Stunning Spell soared across the room ａｎｄ hit the Erumpent horn.  There was a colossal explosion. The sound of it seemed to blow the room apart.  Fragments of wood ａｎｄ paper ａｎｄ rubble flew in all directions， along with an  impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Harry flew through the air， then crashed to the  floor， unable to see as debris rained upon him， his arms over his head. He heard  Hermione’s scream， Ron’s yell， ａｎｄ a series of sickening metallic thuds which told him  that Xenophilius had been blasted off his feet ａｎｄ fallen backward down the spiral stairs.  Half buried in rubble， Harry tried to raise himself. He could barely breathe or see for dust.  Half of the ceiling had fall in ａｎｄ the end of Luna’s bead was hanging through the hole.  The bust of Rowena Ravenclaw lay beside him with half its face missing fragments of  torn parchment were floating through the air， ａｎｄ most of the printing press lay on its side，  blocking the top of the staircase to the kitchen. Then another white shape moved close by，  ａｎｄ Hermione， coated in dust like a second statue， pressed his finger to her lips.  The door downstairs crashed open.  "Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry， Travers?" said a rough voice. "Didn’t I tell  you this nutter was just raving as usual?" There was a bang ａｎｄ a scream of pain from  Xenophilius.  "No...no...upstairs...Potter!"  "I told you last week Lovegood， we weren’t coming back for anything less than some  solid information! Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your daughter for  that stupid bleeding headdress? And the week before" -- Another bang， another squeal --  "When you thought we’d give her back if you offered us proof there are Cumple" -- Bang  -- "Headed"--bang--"Snorkacks?"  "No -- no -- I beg of you!" sobbed Xenophilius. "It really is Potter， Really!"  "And now it turns out you only called us here to try ａｎｄ blow us up!" roared the Death  Eater， ａｎｄ there was a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of agony from  Xenophilius.  "The place looks like it’s about to fall in， Selwyn，" said a cool second voice， echoing up  the mangled staircase. "The stairs are completely blocked. Could try clearing it? Might  bring the place down."  "You lying piece of filth." shouted the wizard named Selwyn.  "You have never seen Potter in your life， have you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us，  did you? And you think you’ll get your girl back like this?"  "I swear...I swear...Potter’s upstairs!"  "Homenum revelio." said the voice at the foot of the stairs. Harry heard Hermione gasp，  ａｎｄ he had the odd sensation something was swooping low over him， immersing his body  in its shadow.  "There’s someone up there all right， Selwyn，" said the second man sharply.  "It’s Potter， I tell you， it’s Potter!" sobbed Xenophilius. "Please...please...give me Luna，  just let me have Luna..."  "You can have your little girl， Lovegood，" said Selwyn， "if you get up those stairs ａｎｄ  bring me down Harry Potter. But if this is a plot， if it’s a trick， if you’ve got an accomplice  waiting up there to ambush us， we’ll see if we can spare a bit of your daughter for you to  bury."  Xenophilius gave a wail of fear ａｎｄ despair. There were scurryings ａｎｄ scrapings.  Xenophilius was trying to get through the debris on the stairs.     "Come on，" Harry whispered， "we’ve got to get out of here."  He started to dig himself out under cover of all the noise Xenophilius was making on the  staircase. Ron was buried the deepest. Harry ａｎｄ Hermione climbed， as quietly as they  could， over all the wreckage to where he lay， trying to prise a heavy chest of drawers off  his legs. While Xenophilius banging ａｎｄ scraping drew nearer ａｎｄ nearer， Hermione  managed to free Ron with the use of a Hover Charm.  "All right." breathed Hermione， as the broken printing press blocking the top of the stairs  begin to tremble. Xenophilius was feet away from them. She was still white with dust.  "Do you trust me Harry?"  Harry nodded.  "Okay then." Hermione whispered. "give me the invisibility Cloak. Ron， you’re going to  put it on."  "Me? But Harry --"  "Please， Ron! Harry， hold on tight to my hａｎｄ， Ron grab my shoulder."  Harry held out his left hａｎｄ. Ron vanished beneath the Cloak. The printing press blocking  the stairs was vibrating. Xenophilius was trying to shift it using a Hover Charm. Harry  did not know what Hermione was waiting for.  "Hold tight" she whispered. "Hold tight...any second..."  Xenophilius’s paper-white face appeared over the top of the sideboard.  "Obliviate!" cried Hermione， pointing her want first into his face then at the floor beneath  them. "Deprimo!"  She had blasted a hole in the sitting room floor. They fell like boulders. Harry still  holding onto her hａｎｄ for dear life， there was a scream from below， ａｎｄ he glimpsed two  men trying to get out of the way as vast quantities of rubble ａｎｄ broken furniture rained  all around them from the shattered ceiling. Hermione twisted in midair ａｎｄ thundering of  the collapsing house rang in Harry’s ears as she dragged him once more into darkness.         Chapter Twenty-Two    The Deathly Hallows        
Harry fell， panting， onto grass ａｎｄ scrambled up at once. They seemed to have  lａｎｄed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a circle around  them， waving her wａｎｄ.    
“Protego Totalum…Salvio Hexia…”    
“That treacherous old bleeder.” Ron panted， emerging from beneath the  Invisibility Cloak ａｎｄ throwing it to Harry. “Hermione you’re a genius， a total genius. I  can’t believe we got out of that.”    
“Cave Inimicum…Didn’t I say it was an Frumpent horn， didn’t I tell him? And  now his house has been blown apart!”    
“Serves him right，” said Ron， examining his torn jeans ａｎｄ the cuts to his legs，  “What’d you reckon they’ll do to him?”    
“Oh I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione， “That’s why I wanted the  Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left， so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t  been lying!”    
“Why hide me though?” asked Ron.    
“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergrolt， Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna  because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew  you’re with him?”    
“But what about your mum ａｎｄ dad?”    
“They’re in Australia，” said Hermione， “They should be all right. They don’t  know anything.”    “You’re a genius，” Ron repeated， looking awed.    Yeah， you are， Hermione，” agreed Harry fervently. “I don’t know what we’d do  without you.”    She beamed， but became solemn at once.    “What about Luna?”    “Well， if they’re telling the truth ａｎｄ she’s still Alive ---“ began Ron.    “Don’t say that， don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. “She must be alive， she must!”    “Then she’ll be in Azkaban， I expect，” said Ron. “Whether she survives the place，  though…Loads don’t…”    “She will，” said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s  tough， Luna， much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates  about Wrackspurts ａｎｄ Nargles.”    “I hope you’re right，” said Hermione. She passed a hａｎｄ over her eyes. “I’d feel  so sorry for Xenophilius if ---“    “---if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters， yeah，” said Ron.    They put up the tent ａｎｄ retreated inside it， where Ron made them tea. After their  narrow escape， the chilly， musty old place felt like home: safe， familiar， ａｎｄ friendly.    “Oh， why did we go there?” groaned Hermione after a few minutes’ silence.  “Harry， you were right， it was Godric’s Hollow all over again， a complete waste of time!  The Deathly Hallows…such rubbish…although actually，” a sudden thought seemed to  have struck her， “he might have made it all up， mightn’t he? He probably doesn’t believe  in the Deathly Hallows at all， he just wanted to keep us talking until the Death Eaters  arrived!”    “I don’t think so，” said Ron. “It’s a damn sight harder making stuff up when  you’re under stress than you’d think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught me. It  was much easier pretending to be Stan， because I knew a bit about him， than inventing a  whole new person. Old Lovegood was under loads of pressure， trying to make sure we  stayed put. I reckon he told us the truth， or what he thinks is the truth， just to keep us  talking.”    “Well， I don’t suppose it matters，” sighed Hermione. “Even if he was being  honest， I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life.”    “Hang on， though，” said Ron. “The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a  myth， wasn’t it?”    “But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist， Ron!”    “You keep saying that， but one of them can，” said Ron. “Harry’s Invisibility  Cloak ---“    “The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a story，” said Hermione firmly. “A story about  how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the  Invisibility Cloak， we’d have everything we need already!”     “I don’t know. We could do with an unbeatable wａｎｄ，” said Harry， turning the  blackthorn wａｎｄ he so disliked over in his fingers.    “There’s no such thing， Harry!”    “You said there have been loads of wａｎｄs --- the Deathstick ａｎｄ whatever they  were called ---“    “All right， even if you want to kid yourself the Elder Wａｎｄ’s real， what about the  Resurrection Stone?” Her fingers sketched quotation marks around the name， ａｎｄ her  tone dripped sarcasm. “No magic can raise the dead， ａｎｄ that’s that!”    “When my wａｎｄ connected with You-Know-Who’s， it made my mum ａｎｄ dad  appear…ａｎｄ Cedric…”    “But they weren’t really back from the dead， were they?” said Hermione. “Those  kind of ---of pale imitations aren’t the same as truly bringing someone back to life.”    “But she， the girl in the tale， didn’t really come back， did she? The story says that  once people are dead， they belong with the dead. But the second brother still got to see  her ａｎｄ talk to her， didn’t he? He even lived with her for a while…”    He saw concern ａｎｄ something less easily definable in Hermione’s expression.  Then， as she glanced at Ron， Harry realized that it was fear: He had scared her with his  talk of living with dead people.    “So that Peverell bloke who’s buried in Godric’s Hollow，” he said hastily， trying  to sound robustly sane， “you don’t know anything about him， then?”    “No，” she replied， looking relieved at the change of subject. “I looked him up  after I saw the mark on his grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything important，  I’m sure he’d be in one of our books. The only place I’ve managed to find the name  ‘Peverell’ Is Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. I borrowed it from Kreacher，”  she explained as Ron raised his eyebrows. “It lists the pure-blood families that are now  extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells were one of the earliest families to  vanish.”    “Extinct in the male line?” repeated Ron.    “It means the name died out，” said Hermione， “centuries ago， in the case of the  Peverells. They could still have descendents， though， they’d just be called something  different.”    And then it came to Harry in one shining piece， the memory that had stirred at the  sound of the name “Peverell”: a filthy old man brａｎｄishing an ugly ring in the face of a  Ministry official， ａｎｄ he cried aloud， “Marvolo Gaunt!”    “Sorry said Ron ａｎｄ Hermione together.    “Marvolo Gaunt! You-Know-Who’s grａｎｄfather! In the Pensieve! With  Dumbledore! Marvolo Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!”    Ron ａｎｄ Hermione looked bewildered.    “The ring， the ring that became the Horcrux， Marvolo Gaunt said it had the  Peverell coat of arms on it! I saw him waving it in the bloke from the Ministry’s face， he  nearly shoved it up his nose!”    “The Peverell coat of arms?” said Hermione sharply. “Could you see what it  looked like?”    “Not really，” said Harry， trying to remember. “There was nothing fancy on there，  as far as I could see; maybe a few scratches. I only ever saw it really close up after it had  been cracked open.”     Harry saw Hermione’s comprehension in the sudden widening of her eyes. Ron  was looking from one to the other， astonished.    “Blimey…You reckon it was this sign again? The sign of the Hallows?    “Why not said Harry excitedly， “Marvolo Gaunt was an ignorant old git who lived  like a pig， all he cared about was his ancestry. If that ring had been passed down through  the centuries， he might not have known what it really was. There were no books in that  house， ａｎｄ trust me， he wasn’t the type to read fairy tales to his kids. He’d have loved to  think the scratches on the stone were a coat of arms， because as far as he was concerned，  having pure blood made you practically royal.”    “Yes…ａｎｄ that’s all very interesting，” said Hermione cautiously， “but Harry， if  you’re thinking what I think you’re think ---“    “Well， why not? Why not? said Harry， abａｎｄoning caution. “It was a stone，  wasn’t it?” He looked at Ron for support. “What if it was the Resurrection Stone?”    Ron’s mouth fell open.    “Blimey --- but would it still work if Dumbledore broke --- ?”    “Work? Work? Ron， it never worked! There’s no such thing as a Resurrection  Stone!”    Hermione leapt to her feet， looking exasperated ａｎｄ angry. Harry you’re trying to  fit everything into the Hallows story ---“    “Fit everything in?” he repeated. “Hermione， it fits of its own accord! I know the  sign of the Deathly Hallows was on that stone! Gaunt said he was descended from the  Peverells!”    “A minute ago you told us you never saw the mark on the stone properly!”    “Where’d you reckon the ring is now?” Ron asked Harry. “What did Dumbledore  do with it after he broke it open?”    “But Harry’s imagination was racing ahead， far beyond Ron ａｎｄ Hermione’s…    Three objects， or Hallows， which， if united， will make the possessor master of  Death…Master…Conqueror…Vanquisher…The last enemy that shall be destroyed is  death…    And he saw himself， possessor of the Hallows， facing Voldemort， whose  Horcruxes were no match…Neither can live while the other survives…Was this the  answer? Hallows versus Horcruxes? Was there a way after all， to ensure that he was the  one who triumphed? If he were the master of the Deathly Hallows， would he be safe?    “Harry?”    But he scarcely heard Hermione: He had pulled out his Invisibility Cloak ａｎｄ was  running it through his fingers， the cloth supple as water， light as air. He had never seen  anything to equal it in his nearly seven years in the Wizarding world. The Cloak was  exactly what Xenophilius had described: A cloak that really ａｎｄ truly renders the wearer  completely invisible， ａｎｄ endures eternally， giving constant ａｎｄ impenetrable  concealment， no matter what spells are cast at it…    And then， with a gasp， he remembered—    “Dumbledore had my Cloak the night my parents died!”    His voice shook ａｎｄ he could feel the color in his face， but he did not care.    “My mum told Sirius that Dumbledore borrowed the Cloak! This is why! He  wanted to examine it， because he thought it was the third Hallow! Ignotus Peverell is  buried in Godric’s Hollow…” Harry was walking blindly around the tent， feeling as     though great new vistas of truth were opening all around him. “He’s my ancestor. I’m  descended from the third brother! It all makes sense!”    “He felt armed in certainty， in his belief in the Hallows， as if the mere idea of  possessing them was giving him protection， ａｎｄ he felt joyous as he turned back to the  other two.    “Harry，” said Hermione again， but he was busy undoing the pouch around his  neck， his fingers shaking hard.    “Read it，” he told her， pushing his mother’s letter into her hａｎｄ. “Read it!  Dumbledore had the Cloak， Hermione! Why else would he want it? He didn’t need a  Cloak， he could perform a Disillusionment Charm so powerful that he made himself  completely invisible without one!”    Something fell to the floor ａｎｄ rolled， glittering， under a chair: He had dislodged  the Snitch when he pulled out the letter. He stooped to pick it up， ａｎｄ then the newly  tapped spring of fabulous discoveries threw him another gift， ａｎｄ shock ａｎｄ wonder  erupted inside him so that he shouted out.    “IT’S IN HERE! He left me the ring – it’s in the Snitch!”    “You --- you reckon?”    He could not understａｎｄ why Ron looked taken aback. It was so obvious， so clear  to Harry. Everything fit， everything…His Cloak was the third Hallow， ａｎｄ when he  discovered how to open the Snitch he would have the second， ａｎｄ then all he needed to  do was find the first Hallow， the Elder Wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ then ---    But it was as though a curtain fell on a lit stage: All his excitement， all his hope  ａｎｄ happiness were extinguished at a stroke， ａｎｄ he stood alone in the darkness， ａｎｄ the  glorious spell was broken.    “That’s what he’s after.”    The change in his voice made Ron ａｎｄ Hermione look even more scared.    “You-Know-Who’s after the Elder Wａｎｄ.”    He turned his back on their strained， incredulous faces. He knew it was the truth.  It all made sense， Voldemort was not seeking a new wａｎｄ; he was seeking an old wａｎｄ， a  very old wａｎｄ indeed. Harry walked to the entrance of the tent， forgetting about Ron ａｎｄ  Hermione as he looked out into the night， thinking…    Voldemort had been raised in a Muggle orphanage. Nobody could have told him  The Tales of Beedle the Bard when he was a child， any more than Harry had heard them.  Hardly any wizards believed in the Deathly Hallows. Was it likely that Voldemort knew  about them?    Harry gazed into the darkness…If Voldemort had known about the Deathly  Hallows， surely he would have sought them， done anything to possess them: three objects  that made the possessor master of Death? If he had known about the Deathly Hallows， he  might not have needed Horcruxes in the first place. Didn’t the simple fact that he had  taken a Hallow， ａｎｄ turned it into a Horcrux， demonstrate that he did not know this last  great Wizarding secret?    Which meant that Voldemort sought the Elder Wａｎｄ without realizing its full  power， without understａｎｄing that it was one of three…for the wａｎｄ was the Hallow that  could not be hidden， whose existence was best known…The bloody trail of the Elder  Wａｎｄ is splattered across the pages of Wizarding history…     Harry watched the cloudy sky， curves of smoke-gray ａｎｄ silver sliding over the  face of the white moon. He felt lightheaded with amazement at his discoveries.    He turned back into the tent. It was a shock to see Ron ａｎｄ Hermione stａｎｄing  exactly where he had left them， Hermione still holding Lily’s letter， Ron at her side  looking slightly anxious. Didn’t they realize how far they had traveled in the last few  minutes?    “This is it?” Harry said， trying to bring them inside the glow of his own  astonished certainty， “This explains everything. The Deathly Hallows are real ａｎｄ I’ve  got one --- maybe two ---“    He held up the Snitch.    “--- ａｎｄ You-Know-Who’s chasing the third， but he doesn’t realize…he just  thinks it’s a powerful wａｎｄ ---“    “Harry，” said Hermione， moving across to him ａｎｄ hａｎｄing him back Lily’s letter，  “I’m sorry， but I think you’ve got this wrong， all wrong.”    “But don’t you see? It all fits ---“    “Not， it doesn’t，” she said. “It doesn’t. Harry， you’re just getting carried away.  Please，” she said as she started to speak， “please just answer me this: If the Deathly  Hallows really existed， ａｎｄ Dumbledore knew about them， knew that the person who  possessed all of them would be master of Death --- Harry， why wouldn’t he have told  you? Why?”    He had his answer ready.    “But you said it， Hermione! You’ve got to find out about them for yourself! It’s a  Quest!”    “But I only said that to try ａｎｄ persuade you to come to the Lovegoods’!” cried  Hermione in exasperation. “I didn’t really believe it!”    Harry took no notice.    “Dumbledore usually let me find out stuff for myself. He let me try my strength，  take risks. This feels like the kind of thing he’d do.”    “Harry， this isn’t a game， this isn’t practice! This is the real thing， ａｎｄ  Dumbledore left you very clear instructions: Find ａｎｄ destroy the Horcruxes! That  symbol doesn’t mean anything， forget the Deathly Hallows， we can’t afford to get  sidetracked ---“    Harry was barely listening to her. He was turning the Snitch over ａｎｄ over in his  hａｎｄs， half expecting it to break open， to reveal the Resurrection Stone， to prove to  Hermione that he was right， that the Deathly Hallows were real.    She appealed to Ron.    “You don’t believe in this， do you?”    Harry looked up， Ron hesitated.    “I dunno…I mean…bits of it sort of fit together，” said Ron awkwardly， “But  when you look at the whole thing…” He took a deep breath. “I think we’re supposed to  get rid of Horcruxes， Harry. That’s what Dumbledore told us to do. Maybe…maybe we  should forget about this Hallows business.”    “Thank you， Ron，” said Hermione. “I’ll take first watch.”    And she strode past Harry ａｎｄ sat down in the tent entrance bringing the action to  a fierce full stop.     But Harry hardly slept that night. The idea of the Deathly Hallows had taken  possession of him， ａｎｄ he could not rest while agitating thoughts whirled through his  mind: the wａｎｄ， the stone， ａｎｄ the Cloak， if he could just possess them all…    I open at the close…But what was the close? Why couldn’t he have the stone  now? If only he had the stone， he could ask Dumbledore these questions in person…ａｎｄ  Harry murmured words to the Snitch in the darkness， trying everything， even  Parseltongue， but the golden ball would not open…    And the wａｎｄ， the Elder Wａｎｄ， where was that hidden? Where was Voldemort  searching now? Harry wished his scar would burn ａｎｄ show him Voldemort’s thoughts，  because for the first time ever， he ａｎｄ Voldemort were united in wanting the very same  thing…Hermione would not like that idea， of course…But then， she did not  believe….Xenophilius had been right， in a way…Limited， Narrow， Close-minded. The  truth was that she was scared of the idea of the Deathly Hallows， especially of the  Resurrection Stone…ａｎｄ Harry pressed his mouth again to the Snitch， kissing it， nearly  swallowing it， but the cold medal did not yield…    It was nearly dawn when he remembered Luna， alone in a cell in Azkaban，  surrounded by dementors， ａｎｄ he suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He had forgotten all  about her in his feverish contemplation of the Hallows. If only they could rescue her， but  dementors in those numbers would be virtually unassailable. Now he came to think about  it， he had not tried casting a Patronus with the blackthorn wａｎｄ…He must try that in the  morning…    If only there was a way of getting a better wａｎｄ…    And desire for the Elder Wａｎｄ， the Deathstick， unbeatable， invincible， swallowed  him once more…    They packed up the tent next morning ａｎｄ moved on through a dreary shower of  rain. The downpour pursued them to the coast， where they pitched the tent that night， ａｎｄ  persisted through the whole week， through sodden lａｎｄscapes that Harry found bleak ａｎｄ  depressing. He could think only of the Deathly Hallows. It was as though a flame had  been lit inside him that nothing， not Hermione’s flat disbelief nor Ron’s persistent doubts，  could extinguish. And yet the fiercer the longing for the Hallows burned inside him， the  less joyful it made him. He blamed Ron ａｎｄ Hermione: Their determined indifference  was as bad as the relentless rain for dampening his spirits， but neither could erode his  certainty， which remained absolute. Harry’s belief in ａｎｄ longing for the Hallows  consumed him so much that he felt isolated from the other two ａｎｄ their obsession with  the Horcruxes.    “Obsession?” said Hermione in a low fierce voice， when Harry was careless  enough to use the word one evening， after Hermione had told him off for his lack of  interest in locating more Horcruxes. “We’re not the one with an obsession， Harry! We’re  the ones trying to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!”    But he was impervious to the veiled criticism. Dumbledore had left the sign of the  Hallows for Hermione to decipher， ａｎｄ he had also， Harry remained convinced of it， left  the Resurrection Stone hidden in the golden Snitch. Neither can live while the other  survives…master of Death…Why didn’t Ron ａｎｄ Hermione understａｎｄ?    “’The last enemy shall be destroyed is death，’” Harry quoted calmly.    “I thought it was You-Know-Who we were supposed to be fighting?” Hermione  retorted， ａｎｄ Harry gave up on her.     Even the mystery of the silver doe， which the other two insisted on discussing，  seemed less important to Harry now， a vaguely interesting sideshow. The only other thing  that mattered to him was that his scar had begun to prickle again， although he did all he  could to hide this fact from the other two. He sought solitude whenever it happened， but  was disappointed by what he saw. The visions he ａｎｄ Voldemort were sharing had  changed in quality; they had become blurred， shifting as though they were moving in ａｎｄ  out of focus. Harry was just able to make out the indistinct features of an object that  looked like a skull， ａｎｄ something like a mountain that was more shadow than substance.  Used to images sharp as reality， Harry was disconcerted by the change. He was worried  that the connection between himself ａｎｄ Voldemort had been damaged， a connection that  he both feared ａｎｄ， whatever he had told Hermione， prized. Somehow Harry connected  these unsatisfying， vague images with the destruction of his wａｎｄ， as if it was the  blackthorn wａｎｄ’s fault that he could no longer see into Voldemort’s mind as well as  before.    As the weeks crept on， Harry could not help but notice， even through his new self- absorption， that Ron seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he was determined to  make up for having walked out on them， perhaps because Harry’s descent into  listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership qualities， Ron was the one now  encouraging ａｎｄ exhorting the other two into action.    “Three Horcruxes left，” he kept saying. “We need a plan of action， come on!  Where haven’t we looked? Let’s go through it again. The orphanage…”    Diagon Alley， Hogwarts， the Riddle House， Borgin ａｎｄ Burkes， Albania， every  place that they knew Tom Riddle had ever lived or worked， visited or murdered， Ron ａｎｄ  Hermione raked over them again， Harry joining in only to stop Hermione pestering him.  He would have been happy to sit alone in silence， trying to read Voldemort’s thoughts， to  find out more about the Elder Wａｎｄ， but Ron insisted on journeying to ever more  unlikely places simply， Harry was aware， to keep them moving.    “You never know，” was Ron’s constant refrain. “Upper Flagley is a Wizarding  village， he might’ve wanted to live there. Let’s go ａｎｄ have a poke around.”    These frequent forays into Wizarding territory brought them within occasional  sight of Snatchers.    “Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death Eaters，” said Ron. “The lot that  got me were a bit pathetic， but Bill recons some of them are really dangerous. They said  on Potterwatch ---“    “On what?” said Harry.    “Potterwatch， didn’t I tell you that’s what it was called? The program I keep  trying to get on the radio， the only one that tells the truth about what’s going on! Nearly  all of the programs are following You-Know-Who’s line， all except Potterwatch， I really  want you to hear it， but it’s tricky tuning in…”    Ron spent evening after evening using his wａｎｄ to beat out various rhythms on  top of the wireless while the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch snatches of  advice on how to treat dragonpox， ａｎｄ once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot，  Strong Love.” While he taped， Ron continued to try to hit on the correct password，  muttering strings of rａｎｄom words under his breath.    “They’re normally something to do with the Order，” he told them. “Bill had a real  knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end…”     “But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Harry was sitting in the tent  entrance， on guard duty， staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had forced their  way through the chilly ground， when Ron shouted excitedly from inside the tent.    “I’ve got it， I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in here， Harry.”    Roused for the first time in days from his contemplation of the Deathly Hallows，  Harry hurried back inside the tent to find Ron ａｎｄ Hermione kneeling on the floor beside  the little radio. Hermione， who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just for  something to do， was sitting open-mouthed， staring at the tiny speaker， from which a  most familiar voice was issuing.    “…apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves， which was due to a  number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”    “But that’s Lee Jordan!” said Hermione.    “I know!” beamed Ron. “Cool， eh?”    “…now found ourselves another secure location，” Lee was saying， ａｎｄ I’m  pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening.  Evening， boys!”    “Hi.”    “Evening， River.”    “’River’” that’s Lee，” Ron explained. “They’ve all got code names， but you can  usually tell ---“    “Shh!” said Hermione.    “But before we hear from Royal ａｎｄ Romulus，” Lee went on， “let’s take a  moment to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News ａｎｄ Daily  Prophet don’t think important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform  our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks ａｎｄ Dirk Cresswell.”    Harry felt a sick， swooping in his belly. He， Ron， ａｎｄ Hermione gazed at one  another in horror.    “A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born  Dean Thomas ａｎｄ a second goblin， both believed to have been traveling with Tonks，  Cresswell， ａｎｄ Gornuk， may have escaped. If Dean is listening， or if anyone has any  knowledge of his whereabouts， his parents ａｎｄ sisters are desperate for news.    “Meanwhile， in Gaddley， a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their  home. Muggle authorities are attributing their deaths to a gas leak， but members of the  Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse --- more evidence， as if it  were needed， of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational  sport under the new regime.    “Finally， we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot  have been discovered in Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months  ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmist