Chapter 1: The Other Minister

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his
office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without
leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from
the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the
wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories
of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much
space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the
print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see
the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent
had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the
terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed
reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the
government's fault.

The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these
accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his
government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was
outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on
bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were
at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars
into the watery depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that
it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-
publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen
the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to
both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior
Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he
was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?

"A grim mood has gripped the country," the opponent had concluded,
barely concealing his own broad grin.

And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it
himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather
was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... It wasn't right, it
wasn't normal...

He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it
went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he
looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine
marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the
unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and
moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing
itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room,
that he heard a soft cough behind him.

He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark
glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to
face the empty room.

"Hello?" he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody
would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive
voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was
coming -- as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough -- from the
froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small,
dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond
immediately. Sincerely, Fudge."

The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.

"Er," said the Prime Minister, "listen... It's not a very good time for me...
I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the President of--"

"That can be rearranged," said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister's
heart sank. He had been afraid of that.

"But I really was rather hoping to speak--"

"We shall arrange for the President to forget to call. He will telephone
tomorrow night instead," said the little man. "Kindly respond immediately to
Mr. Fudge."

"I... oh... very well," said the Prime Minister weakly. "Yes, I'll see
Fudge."

He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had
barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a
relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in
the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to
betray a flicker of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the
flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a
rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped
cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.

"Ah... Prime Minister," said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his
hand outstretched. "Good to see you again."

The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said
nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional
appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally
meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge
was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his
face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in
politicians before, and it never boded well.

"How can I help you?" he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly and
gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Difficult to know where to begin," muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair,
sitting down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. "What a week,
what a week..."

"Had a bad one too, have you?" asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping
to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any
extra helpings from Fudge.

"Yes, of course," said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking
morosely at the Prime Minister. "I've been having the same week you have,
Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge... the Bones and Vance murders... not
to mention the ruckus in the West Country..."

"You--er--your--I mean to say, some of your people were--were involved
in those--those things, were they?"

Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look. "Of course they
were," he said, "Surely you've realized what's going on?"

"I..." hesitated the Prime Minister.

It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge's visits
so much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being
made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this
from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime
Minister. He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would
haunt him until his dying day.

He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that
was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a
cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait
talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive
and introduce himself

Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the
election had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly terrified to find a
portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a
self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand.
He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that
there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and
his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the
Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community
and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was,
said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on
responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under
control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at
this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime
Minister in a fatherly sort of way.

"Not to worry," he had said, "it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll
only bother you if there's something really serious going on our end,
something that's likely to affect the Muggles--the non-magical population, I
should say. Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a
lot better than your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window,
thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition."

At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. "You're--you're not
a hoax, then?"

It had been his last, desperate hope.

"No," said Fudge gently. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look."

And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.

Chapter 2: Spinner's End

Many miles away the chilly mist that had pressed against the Prime
Minister's windows drifted over a dirty river that wound between overgrown,
rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared
up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the
black water and no sign of life apart from a scrawny fox that had slunk down
the bank to nose hopefully at some old fish-and-chip wrappings in the tall
grass.

But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin
air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange
new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments,
then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.

With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized.

"Wait!"

The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the
undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a
flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.

The second figure turned over the animal with its toe.

"Just a fox," said a woman's voice dismissively from under the hood. "I
thought perhaps an Auror--Cissy, wait!"

But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at the flash of light, was
already scrambling up the bank the fox had just fallen down.

"Cissy--Narcissa--listen to me--"

The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other
wrenched it away.

"Go back, Bella!"

"You must listen to me!"

"I've listened already. I've made my decision. Leave me alone!"

The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the bank, where a line of
old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street. The other
woman, Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood looking across the
road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull
and blind in the darkness.

"He lives here?" asked Bella in a voice of contempt. "Here? In this
Muggle dunghill? We must be the first of our kind ever to set foot--"

But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped through a gap in the rusty
railings and was already hurrying across the road.

"Cissy, waitl"

Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw Narcissa darting
through an alley between the houses into a second, almost identical street.
Some of the streetlamps were broken; the two women were running between
patches of light and deep darkness. The pursuer caught up with her prey just
as she turned another corner, this time succeeding in catching hold of her
arm and swinging her around so that they faced each other.

"Cissy, you must not do this, you can't trust him--"

"The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn't he?"

"The Dark Lord is... I believe... mistaken," Bella panted, and her eyes
gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that
they were indeed alone. "In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan
to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord's--"

"Let go, Bella!" snarled Narcissa, and she drew a wand from beneath her
cloak, holding it threateningly in the other's face. Bella merely laughed.

"Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn't--"

"There is nothing I wouldn't do anymore!" Narcissa breathed, a note of
hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there
was another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister's arm as though burned.

"Narcissa!"

But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Rubbing her hand, her pursuer followed
again, keeping her distance now, as they moved deeper into the deserted
labyrinth of brick houses. At last, Narcissa hurried up a street named
Spinner's End, over which the towering mill chimney seemed to hover like a
giant admonitory finger. Her footsteps echoed on the cobbles as she passed
boarded and broken windows, until she reached the very last house, where a
dim light glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs room.

She had knocked on the door before Bella, cursing under her breath, had
caught up. Together they stood waiting, panting slightly, breathing in the
smell of the dirty river that was carried to them on the night breeze. After a
few seconds, they heard movement behind the door and it opened a crack. A
sliver of a man could be seen looking out at them, a man with long black
hair parted in curtains around a sallow face and black eyes.

Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale that she seemed to shine in
the darkness; the long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the
look of a drowned person.

"Narcissa!" said the man, opening the door a little wider, so that the light
fell upon her and her sister too. "What a pleasant surprise!

"Severus," she said in a strained whisper. "May I speak to you? It's
urgent."

"But of course."

He stood back to allow her to pass him into the house. Her still-hooded
sister followed without invitation.

"Snape," she said curtly as she passed him.

"Bellatrix," he replied, his thin mouth curling into a slightly mocking
smile as he closed the door with a snap behind them.

They had stepped directly into a tiny sitting room, which had the feeling
of a dark, padded cell. The walls were completely covered in books, most of
them bound in old black or brown leather; a threadbare sofa, an old armchair,
and a rickety table stood grouped together in a pool of dim light cast by a
candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place had an air of neglect, as
though it was not usually inhabited.

Snape gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off her cloak, cast it aside,
and sat down, staring at her white and trembling hands clasped in her lap.
Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly. Dark as her sister was fair, with
heavily lidded eyes and a strong jaw, she did not take her gaze from Snape
as she moved to stand behind Narcissa.

"So, what can I do for you?" Snape asked, settling himself in the armchair
opposite the two sisters.

"We... we are alone, aren't we?" Narcissa asked quietly.

'Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail's here, but we're not counting vermin, are
we?"

He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him and with a bang, a
hidden door flew open, revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man
stood frozen.

"As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests," said Snape
lazily.

The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps and moved into the
room. He had small, watery eyes, a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant
simper. His left hand was caressing his right, which looked as though it was
encased in a bright silver glove.

"Narcissa!" he said, in a squeaky voice. "And Bellatrix! How charming--"

"Wormtail will get us drinks, if you'd like them," said Snape. "And then
he will return to his bedroom."

Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown something at him.

"I am not your servant!" he squeaked, avoiding Snape's eye.

"Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to
assist me."

"To assist, yes--but not to make you drinks and--and clean your house!"

"I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more dangerous
assignments," said Snape silkily. "This can be easily arranged: I shall speak
to the Dark Lord--"

"I can speak to him myself if I want to!"

"Of course you can," said Snape, sneering. "But in the meantime, bring us
drinks. Some of the elf-made wine will do."

Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though he might argue, but
then turned and headed through a second hidden door. They heard banging
and a clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back, bearing a dusty bottle
and three glasses upon a tray. He dropped these on the rickety table and
scurried from their presence, slamming the book-covered door behind him.

Snape poured out three glasses of  bloodred wine and handed two of them
to the sisters. Narcissa murmured a word of thanks, whilst Bellatrix said
nothing, but continued to glower at Snape. This did not seem to discompose
him; on the contrary, he looked rather amused.

"The Dark Lord," he said, raising his glass and draining it.

The sisters copied him. Snape refilled their glasses. As Narcissa took her
second drink she said in a rush, "Severus, I'm sorry to come here like this,
but I had to see you. I think you are the only one who can help me--"

Snape held up a hand to stop her, then pointed his wand again at the
concealed staircase door. There was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by
the sound of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs.

"My apologies," said Snape. "He has lately taken to listening at doors, I
don't know what he means by it... You were saying, Narcissa?"

She took a great, shuddering breath and started again.

"Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to
anyone, but--"

"Then you ought to hold your tongue!" snarled Bellatrix. "Particularly in
present company!"

'"Present company'?" repeated Snape sardonically. "And what am I to
understand by that, Bellatrix?"

"That I don't trust you, Snape, as you very well know!"

Narcissa let out a noise that might have been a dry sob and covered her
face with her hands. Snape set his glass down upon the table and sat back
again, his hands upon the arms of his chair, smiling into Bellatrix's
glowering face.

"Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is bursting to say; it will
save tedious interruptions. Well, continue, Bellatrix," said Snape. "Why is it
that you do not trust me?"

"A hundred reasons!" she said loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to
slam her glass upon the table. "Where to start! Where were you when the
Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him when he
vanished? What have you been doing all these years that you've lived in
Dumbledore's pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord procuring the
Sorcerer's Stone? Why did you not return at once when the Dark Lord was
reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago when we battled to retrieve the
prophecy for the Dark Lord? And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive,
when you have had him at your mercy for five years?"

She paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the color high in her
cheeks. Behind her, Narcissa sat motionless, her face still hidden in her
hands.

Snape smiled.

"Before I answer you — oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going to answer! You can
carry my words back to the others who whisper behind my back, and carry
false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I answer you, I say, let
me ask a question in turn. Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not
asked me each and every one of those questions? And do you really think
that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here
talking to you?"

She hesitated.

"I know he believes you, but..."

"You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him?
Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished
Legilimens the world has ever seen?"

Bellatrix said nothing, but looked, for the first time, a little discomfited.
Snape did not press the point. He picked up his drink again, sipped it, and
continued, "You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was where he
had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
because he wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I
presume, that it was on the Dark Lord's orders that I took up the post?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened her mouth, but Snape
forestalled her.

"You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the
same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius" — he
inclined his head slightly to Narcissa — "and many others did not attempt to
find him. I believed him finished. I am not proud of it, I was wrong, but
there it is... If he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would
have very few followers left."

"He'd have me!" said Bellatrix passionately. "I, who spent many years in
Azkaban for him!"

"Yes, indeed, most admirable," said Snape in a bored voice. "Of i nurse,
you weren't a lot of use to him in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly
fine —"

"Gesture!" she shrieked; in her fury she looked slightly mad. "While I
endured the Dementors, you remained at Hogwarts, com-lortably playing
Dumbledore's pet!"

"Not quite," said Snape calmly. "He wouldn't give me the Defense
Against the Dark Arts job, you know. Seemed to think it might, ah, bring
about a relapse ,.. tempt me into my old ways."

"This was your sacrifice for the Dark Lord, not to teach your favorite
subject?" she jeered. "Why did you stay there all that time, Snape? Still
spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?"

"Hardly," said Snape, "although the Dark Lord is pleased that I never
deserted my post: I had sixteen years of information on Dumbledore to give
him when he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back present than
endless reminiscences of how unpleasant Azkaban is..."

"But you stayed —"

"Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed," said Snape, betraying a hint of impatience for
the first time. "I had a comfortable job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban.
They were rounding up the Death Eaters, you know. Dumbledore's
protection kept me out of jail; it was most convenient and I used it. I repeat:
The Dark Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see why you do.

"I think you next wanted to know," he pressed on, ;i little more loudly, for
Bellatrix showed every sign of interrupting, "why I stood between the Dark
Lord and the Sorcerer's Stone. That is easily answered. He did not know
whether he could trust me. He thought, like you, that I had turned from
faithful Death Eater to Dumbledore's stooge. He was in a pitiable condition,
very weak, sharing the body of a mediocre wizard. He did not dare reveal
himself to a former ally if that ally might turn him over to Dumbledore or
the Ministry. I deeply regret that he did not trust me. He would have
returned to power three years sooner. As it was, I saw only greedy and
unworthy Quirrell attempting to steal the stone and, I admit, I did all I could
to thwart him."

Bellatrix's mouth twisted as though she had taken an unpleasant dose of
medicine.

"But you didn't return when he came back, you didn't fly back to him at
once when you felt the Dark Mark burn —"

"Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on Dumbledore's orders."

"On Dumbledore's — ?" she began, in tones of outrage.

不懂E文!

"Think!" said Snape, impatient again. "Think! By waiting two hours, just
two hours, I ensured that I could remain at Hogwarts as a spy! By allowing
Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the Dark Lord's side
because I was ordered to, I have been able to pass information on
Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix ever since! Consider, Bellatrix:
The Dark Mark had been growing stronger for months. I knew he must be
about to return, all the Death Eaters knew! I had plenty of time to think
about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to escape like Karkaroff,
didn't I?

"The Dark Lord's initial displeasure at my lateness vanished entirely, 1
assure you, when I explained that 1 remained faithful, although Dumbledore
thought I was his man. Yes, the Dark Lord thought that I had left him
forever, but he was wrong."

"But what use have you been?" sneered Bellatrix. "What useful
information have we had from you?"

"My information has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord," said
Snape. "If he chooses not to share it with you —"

"He shares everything with me!" said Bellatrix, firing up at once. "He
calls me his most loyal, his most faithful —"

"Does he?" said Snape, his voice delicately inflected to suggest his
disbelief. "Does he still, after the fiasco at the Ministry?"

"That was not my fault!" said Bellatrix, flushing. "The Dark Lord has, in
the past, entrusted me with his most precious — if Lucius hadn't —"

"Don't you dare — don't you dare blame my husband!" said Narcissa, in a
low and deadly voice, looking up at her sister.

"There is no point apportioning blame," said Snape smoothly. "What is
done, is done."

"But not by you!" said Bellatrix furiously. "No, you were once again
absent while the rest of us ran dangers, were you not, Snape?"

"My orders were to remain behind," said Snape. "Perhaps you disagree
with the Dark Lord, perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have
noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the Order of the
Phoenix? And — forgive me — you speak of dangers... you were facing six
teenagers, were you not?"

"They were joined, as you very well know, by half of the Order before
long!" snarled Bellatrix. "And, while we are on the subject of the Order, you
still claim you cannot reveal the whereabouts of their headquarters, don't
you?"

"I am not the Secret-Keeper; I cannot speak the name of the place. You
understand how the enchantment works, I think? The Dark Lord is satisfied
with the information I have passed him on the Order. It led, as perhaps you
have guessed, to the recent capture and murder of Emmeline Vance, and it
certainly helped dispose of Sirius Black, though I give you full credit for
finishing him off."

He inclined his head and toasted her. Her expression did nor soften.

"You are avoiding my last question, Snape. Harry Potter. You could have
killed him at any point in the past five years. You have not done it. Why?"

"Have you discussed this matter with the Dark Lord?" asked Snape.

"He... lately, we... I am asking you, Snape!"

"If I had murdered Harry Potter, the Dark Lord could not have used his
blood to regenerate, making him invincible —"

"You claim you foresaw his use of the boy!" she jeered.

"I do not claim it; I had no idea of his plans; I have already confessed that
I thought the Dark Lord dead. I am merely trying to explain why the Dark
Lord is not sorry that Potter survived, at least until a year ago..."

"But why did you keep him alive?"

"Have you not understood me? It was only Dumbledore's protection that
was keeping me out of Azkaban! Do you disagree that murdering his
favorite student might have turned him against me? But there was more to it
than that. I should remind you that when Potter first arrived at Hogwarts
there were still many stories circulating about him, rumors that he himself
was a great Dark wizard, which was how he had survived the Dark Lord's
attack. Indeed, many of the Dark Lords old followers thought Potter might
be a standard around which we could all rally once more. I was curious, 1
admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set fool in the
castle.

"Of course, it became apparent to me very quickly that he had no
extraordinary talent at all. He has fought his way out of a number of tight
corners by a simple combination of sheer luck and more talented friends. He
is mediocre to the last degree, though as obnoxious and self-satisfied as was
his father before him. I have done my utmost to have him thrown out of
Hogwarts, where I believe he scarcely belongs, but kill him, or allow him to
be killed in front of me? I would have been a fool to risk it with Dumbledore
close at hand."

"And through all this we are supposed to believe Dumbledore has never
suspected you?" asked Bellatrix. "He has no idea of your true allegiance, he
trusts you implicitly still?"

"I have played my part well," said Snape. "And you overlook
Dumbledore's greatest weakness: He has to believe the best of people. I spun
him a tale of deepest remorse when I joined his staff, fresh from my Death
Eater days, and he embraced me with open arms — though, as I say, never
allowing me nearer the Dark Arts than he could help. Dumbledore has been
a great wizard — oh yes, he has," (for Bellatrix had made a scathing noise),
"the Dark Lord acknowledges it. I am pleased to say, however, that
Dumbledore is growing old. The duel with the Dark Lord last month shook
him. He has since sustained a serious injury because his reactions are slower
than they once were. But through all these years, he has never stopped
trusting Severus Snape, and therein lies my great value to the Dark Lord."

Bellatrix still looked unhappy, though she appeared unsure how best to
attack Snape next. Taking advantage of her silence, Snape turned to her
sister.

"Now... you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?"

Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with despair.

"Yes, Severus. I — I think you are the only one who can help me, I have
nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and..."

She closed her eyes and two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids.

"The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it," Narcissa continued, her
eyes still closed. "He wishes none to know of the plan. It is... very secret.
But —"

"If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak," said Snape at once. "The
Dark Lord's word is law."

Narcissa gasped as though he had doused her with cold water. Bellatrix
looked satisfied for the first time since she had entered the house.

"There!" she said triumphantly to her sister. "Even Snape says so: You
were told not to talk, so hold your silence!"

But Snape had gotten to his feet and strode to the small window, peered
through the curtains at the deserted street, then closed them again with a jerk.
He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning.

"It so happens that I know of the plan," he said in a low voice. "I am one
of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the
secret, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark
Lord."

"I thought you must know about it!" said Narcissa, breathing more freely.
"He trusts you so, Severus..."

"You know about the plan?" said Bellatrix, her fleeting expression of
satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. "You know?"

"Certainly," said Snape. "But what help do you require, Nar-cissa? If you
are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid
there is no hope, none at all."

"Severus," she whispered, tears sliding down her pale cheeks. "My son...
my only son..."

"Draco should be proud," said Bellatrix indifferently. "The Dark I ,ord is
granting him a great honor. And I will say this for Draco: I Ic isn't shrinking
away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at
the prospect —"

Narcissa began to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly all the while at
Snape.

"That's because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store! Why,
Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance lor Lucius's
mistake, I know it!"

Snape said nothing. He looked away from the sight of her tears as though
they were indecent, but he could not pretend not to hear her.

"That's why he's chosen Draco, isn't it?" she persisted. "To punish
Lucius?"

"If Draco succeeds," said Snape, still looking away from her, "he will be
honored above all others."

"But he won't succeed!" sobbed Narcissa. "How can he, when the Dark
Lord himself— ?"

Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve.

"I only meant... that nobody has yet succeeded... Severus... please... You
are, you have always been, Draco's favorite teacher... You are Lucius's old
friend... I beg you... You are the Dark Lord's favorite, his most trusted
advisor... Will you speak to him, persuade him — ?"

"The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not stupid enough to
attempt it," said Snape flatly. "I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not
angry with Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge. He got himself
captured, along with how many others, and failed to retrieve the prophecy
into the bargain. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed."

"Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!" choked Narcissa. "He
does not mean him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!"

When Snape said nothing, Narcissa seemed to lose what little self-
restraint she still possessed. Standing up, she staggered to Snape and seized
the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling onto his chest,
she gasped, "You could do it. You could do it instead of Draco, Severus.
You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond
all of us —"

Snape caught hold of her wrists and removed her clutching hands.
Looking down into her tearstained face, he said slowly, "He intends me to
do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You
see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at
Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my useful role as spy."

"In other words, it doesn't matter to him if Draco is killed!"

"The Dark Lord is very angry," repeated Snape quietly. "He failed to hear
the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive
easily."

She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the (loor.

"My only son... my only son..."

"You should be proud!" said Bellatrix ruthlessly. "If I had sons, I would
be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!"

Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched at her long blonde
hair. Snape stooped, seized her by the arms, lifted her up, iind steered her
back onto the sofa. He then poured her more wine iind forced the glass into
her hand.

"Narcissa, that's enough. Drink this. Listen to me."

She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she took a shaky sip.

"It might be possible... for me to help Draco."

She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes huge.

"Severus — oh, Severus — you would help him? Would you look after
him, see he comes to no harm?"

"I can try."

She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table as she slid off the
sofa into a kneeling position at Snape's feet, seized his hand in both of hers,
and pressed her lips to it.

"If you are there to protect him... Severus, will you swear it? Will you
make the Unbreakable Vow?"

"The Unbreakable Vow?"

Snape's expression was blank, unreadable. Bellatrix, however, let out a
cackle of triumphant laughter.

"Aren't you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he'll try, I'm sure... The usual empty
words, the usual slithering out of action... oh, on the Dark Lord's orders, of
course!"

Snape did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were fixed upon Narcissa's
tear-filled blue ones as she continued to clutch his hand.

"Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow," he said quietly.
"Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder."

Bellatrix's mouth fell open. Snape lowered himself so that he was
kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath Bellatrix's astonished gaze, they
grasped right hands.

"You will need your wand, Bellatrix," said Snape coldly.

She drew it, still looking astonished.

"And you will need to move a little closer," he said.

She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and placed the tip of her
wand on their linked hands.

Narcissa spoke.

"Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts ta fulfill the
Dark Lord's wishes?"

"I will," said Snape.

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way
around their hands like a red-hot wire.

"And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?"

"I will," said Snape.

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the
first, making a fine, glowing chain.

"And, should it prove necessary... if it seems Draco will fail..." whispered
Narcissa (Snape's hand twitched within hers, but he did not draw away),
"will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to
perform?"

There was a moment's silence. Bellatrix watched, her wand upon their
clasped hands, her eyes wide.

"I will," said Snape.

Bellatrix's astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a third unique flame,
which shot from the wand, twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly
around their clasped hands, like a fiery snake.

Chapter 3: Will And Won't

Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a chair beside his
bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening
street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against
the cold win-dowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The
misty fug his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of
the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of all color, so
that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.

The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of
rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a
number of spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled robes on his
bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The
headline of one blared:

HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?

Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the
Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted
once more.

"We're not allowed to talk about it, don't ask me anything" said one
agitated Obliviator, who refused to give his name as he left the Ministry last
night.

Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed
that the disturbance centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.

Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused even to confirm the
existence of such a place, a growing number of the Wizarding community
believe that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in Azkaban for trespass
and attempted theft were attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that
prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife that it concerns Harry
Potter, the only person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse, and
who is also known to have been at the Ministry on the night in question.
Some are going so far as to call Potter "the Chosen One," believing that the
prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-
Must-No t-Be-Named.

The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown,
although {ctd. page2, column 5)

A second newspaper lay beside die first. This one bore die headline:

SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE

Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture
of a man with a lionlike mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The
picture was moving — the man was waving at the ceiling.

Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department
of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of
Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the
Wizardmg community, though rumors of a rift between the new Minister
and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot,
surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.

Scrimgeours representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at
once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the
topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to  (ctd. page 3, 
column 2)

To the left of this paper sat another, which had been folded so that a story
bearing the title ministry guarantees students' sapety was visible.

Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of
the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of
students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this
autumn.

"For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its
stringent new security plans," said the Minister, although an insider
confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex
array of countercurses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to
the protection of Hogwarts School.

Most seem reassured by the new Minister's tough stand on student safety.
Said Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, "My grandson, Neville — a good friend of
Harry Potter's, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at
the Ministry in June and —

But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage.standing on
top of it. Inside it was a magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed
the room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to gaze at her snoring
master. Once or twice she clicked her beak impatiently, but Harry was too
deeply asleep to hear her.

A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its lid was open; it
looked expectant; yet it was almost empty but for a residue of old underwear,
sweets, empty ink bottles, and broken quills that

coated the very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet
emblazoned with the words:

----ISSUED ON BEHALF OF----
The Ministry of Magic
PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK
FORCES

The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization
calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security
guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.

1.  You are advised not to leave the house alone.

2.  Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever
possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.

3.  Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that
all family members are aware of emergency  measures  such  as  Shield 
and  Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members,
Side-Along-Apparition.

4.  Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to
detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion
(see page 2).

5.  Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is
acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at
once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).

6.  Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other
building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.

7.  Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be
using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an In-ferius, or encounter with
same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.

Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or
so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm
clock, repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on the sill, showing
one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's relaxed hand, was a
piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this
letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been
delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.

Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this
coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have
been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter
to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this
more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this
Friday,

I am yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at
this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he
had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a
reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to
keep rereading Dumbledore's words; Harry had sent back his "yes" with the
delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: Either
Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.

怎么中文的发不过去啊？

But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was
going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their
company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go
wrong — his reply to Dumbledore's letter might have gone astray;
Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn
out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had
not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack
again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to
shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.

The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at
that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out.

Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily
straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed
his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A
tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.

Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked
over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach
from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of
robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell
rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, "Who the
blazes is calling at this lime of night?"

Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the
other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore
might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered
over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep
voice say, "Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has
told you I would be coming for him?"

Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several
steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of
arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall,
thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were
perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling
cloak and.1 pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as
bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dress-
ing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny
eyes.

"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I
was coming," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "However, let us assume that you
have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on
doorsteps in these troubled times."

He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind
him.

"It is a long time since my last visit," said Dumbledore, peering down his
crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. "I must say, your agapanthus are
flourishing."

Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would
return to him, and soon — the vein pulsing in his uncles temple was
reaching danger point — but something about Dumbledore seemed to have
robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant
wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle
Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to
bully.

"Ah, good evening Harry," said Dumbledore, looking up at him through
his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. "Excellent,
excellent."

These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he
was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say "excellent" was a
man with whom he could never see eye to eye.

"I don't mean to be rude —" he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness
in every syllable.

"--yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often," Dumbledore
finished the sentence gravely. "Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah,
and this must be Petunia."

The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing
rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through
her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather
horsey face registered nothing but shock.


"Albus Dumbledore," said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to
effect an introduction. "We have corresponded, of course." Harry thought
this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an
exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. "And this must
be your son, Dudley?"

Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large,
blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly
disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and I car. Dumbledore
waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were
going to say anything, but as the ?.ilcncc stretched on he smiled.

"Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?"

Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. I lurry, still
clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last lew stairs and followed
Dumbledore, who had settled himself in i he armchair nearest the fire and
was taking in the surroundings wilh an expression of benign interest. He
looked quite extraordinarily out of place.

"Aren't —- aren't we leaving, sir?" Harry asked anxiously.

"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to dis-i us.s
first," said Dumbledore. "And I would prefer not to do so in (he open. We
shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."

"You will, will you?"

Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, iind
Dudley skulking behind them both.

"Yes," said Dumbledore simply, "I shall."

He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick,
the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of
the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the
wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.

"We may as well be comfortable," said Dumbledore pleasantly.

As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that his hand was
blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away. 
||  |  ?  <|'?|

"Sir — what happened to your — ?"

"Later, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Please sit down."

Harry took the remaining armchair, choosing not to look at the Dursleys,
who seemed stunned into silence.

"I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment,"
Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon, "but the evidence so far suggests that
that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."

A third twitch of the wand, and a dusty bottle and five glasses appeared in
midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honey-colored
liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the room.

"Madam Rosmertas finest oak-matured mead," said Dumbledore, raising
his glass to Harry, who caught hold of his own and sipped. He had never
tasted anything like it before, but enjoyed it immensely. The Dursleys, after
quick, scared looks at one another, tried to ignore their glasses completely, a
difficult feat, as they were nudging them gently on the sides of their heads.
Harry could not suppress a suspicion that Dumbledore was rather enjoying
himself.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, turning toward him, "a difficulty has
arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order
of the Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius's will was
discovered a week ago and that he left you every-ihing he owned."

Over on the sofa, Uncle Vernons head turned, but Harry did not look at
him, nor could he think of anything to say except, "Oh. Right."

"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward," Dumbledore went on. "You
add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at (iringotts, and you
inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of
the legacy —"

我到了。