"His godfather's dead?" said Uncle Vernon loudly from the sofa.
1 )umbledore and Harry both turned to look at him. The glass of mead was
now knocking quite insistently on the side of Vernons head; he attempted to
beat it away. "He's dead? His godfather?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. He did not ask Harry why he had not confided in
the Dursleys. "Our problem," he continued to Harry, as if there had been no
interruption, "is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

"He's been left a house?" said Uncle Vernon greedily, his small eyes
narrowing, but nobody answered him.

"You can keep using it as headquarters," said Harry. "I don't care. You
can have it, I don't really want it." Harry never wanted to set foot in number
twelve, Grimmauld Place again if he could help it. He thought he would be
haunted forever by the memory of Sirius prowling its dark musty rooms
alone, imprisoned within the place he had wanted so desperately to leave.

"That is generous," said Dumbledore. "We have, however, vacated the
building temporarily."

"Why?" 

"Well," said Dumbledore, ignoring the mutterings of Uncle Vernon, who
was now being rapped smartly over the head by the persistent glass of mead,
"Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct
line, to the next male with the name of 'Black.' Sirius was the very last of the
line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were
childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have
the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has
been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other
than a pureblood."

A vivid image of the shrieking, spitting portrait of Sirius's mother that
hung in the hall of number twelve, Grimmauld Place flashed into Harry's
mind. "I bet there has," he said.

"Quite," said Dumbledore. "And if such an enchantment exists, then the
ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living
relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."

Without realizing what he was doing, Harry sprang to his feet; the
telescope and trainers in his lap rolled across the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange,
Sirius's killer, inherit his house?

"No," he said.

"Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it either," said
Dumbledore calmly. "The situation is fraught with complications. We do not
know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for
example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed
from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at
any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have
clarified the position,"

"But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?"

"Fortunately," said Dumbledore, "there is a simple test."

He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his chair, but before he
could do anything else, Uncle Vernon shouted, "Will you get these ruddy
things off us?"

Harry looked around; all three of the Dursleys were cowering with their
arms over their heads as their glasses bounced up and down on their skulls,
their contents flying everywhere.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Dumbledore politely, and he raised his wand
again. All three glasses vanished. "But it would have been better manners to
drink it, you know."

It looked as though Uncle Vernon was bursting with any number of
unpleasant retorts, but he merely shrank back into the cushions with Aunt
Petunia and Dudley and said nothing, keeping his small piggy eyes on
Dumbledore's wand.

"You see," Dumbledore said, turning back to Harry and again speaking as
though Uncle Vernon had not uttered, "if you have indeed inherited the
house, you have also inherited —"

He flicked his wand for a fifth time. There was a loud crack, and a house-
elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous
bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys' shag carpet and covered in grimy
rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising shriek; nothing this filthy had
entered her house in living memory. Dudley drew his large, bare, pink feet
off the floor and sat with them raised almost above his head, as though he
thought the creature might run up his pajama trousers, and Uncle Vernon
bellowed, "What the hell is that?"

"Kreacher," finished Dumbledore.

"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" croaked the house-elf,
quite as loudly as Uncle Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling
lii.s ears. "Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to
the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter
brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't —"

"As you can see, Harry," said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher's
continued croaks of "wont, won't, won't," "Kreacher is showing a certain
reluctance to pass into your ownership."

"I don't care," said Harry again, looking with disgust at the writhing,
stamping house-elf. "I don't want him."

"Won't, won't, won't, won't —"

"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange?
Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the
Phoenix for the past year?"

"Won't, won't, won't, won't —"

Harry stared at Dumbledore. He knew that Kreacher could not be
permitted to go and live with Bellatrix Lestrange, but the idea of owning him,
of having responsibility for the creature that had betrayed Sirius, was
repugnant.

"Give him an order," said Dumbledore. "If he has passed into your
ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some
other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."

"Won't, won't, won't, WON'T!"

Kreacher's voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to
say, except, "Kreacher, shut up!"

It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He
grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After
a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the
carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet,
giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.

"Well, that simplifies matters," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "It means
that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number
twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."

"Do I — do I have to keep him with me?" Harry asked, aghast, us
Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.

"Not if you don't want to," said Dumbledore. "If I might make ii
suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In
that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him."

"Yeah," said Harry in relief, "yeah, I'll do that. Er — Kreacher — I want
you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-
elves."

Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in
the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with
another loud crack, vanished.

"Good," said Dumbledore. "There is also the matter of the hip-pogriff,
Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but
Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different
arrangements —"

"No," said Harry at once, "he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak
would prefer that."

"Hagrid will be delighted," said Dumbledore, smiling. "He was thrilled to
see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of
Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him 'Witherwings' for the time being,
though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they
once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?"

Erm...

"Doubtful that I would turn up?" Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.

"I'll just go and — er — finish off," said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up
his fallen telescope and trainers.

It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed;
at last he had managed to extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed,
screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, and forced the lid of his
trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding
Hedwig's cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs,

He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was not waiting in the
hall, which meant that he had to return to the living room.

Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite
at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did
not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, "Professor — I'm ready now."

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Just one last thing, then." And he turned to
speak to the Dursleys once more.

"As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a years time —"

"No," said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's
arrival.

"I'm sorry?" said Dumbledore politely.

"No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't
turn eighteen until the year after next."

"Ah," said Dumbledore pleasantly, "but in the Wizarding world, we come
of age at seventeen."

Uncle Vernoii muttered, "Preposterous," but Dumbledore ignored him,

"Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort Was
returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of
open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on
a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I
left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about
his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him ;is
though he were your own."

Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and
he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from
him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.

"You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has
known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can
be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have
inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you."

Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinc-lively, as
though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.

"Us — mistreat Dudders? What d'you — ?" began Uncle Vernon
furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell
as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.

"The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful
protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he
has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least,
grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the
moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he
becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to
this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the
protection continues until that time."

None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as
though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated.
Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt
Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.

"Well, Harry... time for us to be off," said Dumbledore at last, standing up
and straightening his long black cloak. "Until we meet again," he said to the
Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as
they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.

"Bye," said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who
paused beside Harry's trunk, upon which Hedwig's cage was perched.

"We do not want to be encumbered by these just now," he said, pulling
out his wand again. "I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there.
However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case."

Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not
to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside
pocket of his jacket, Dumbiedore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and
Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front
door opened onto cool, misty darkness.

"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty
temptress, adventure."

Chapter 4: Horace Slughorn

Despite the fact that he had spent every waking moment of the past few
days hoping desperately that Dumbledore would indeed come to fetch him,
Harry felt distinctly awkward as they set off down Privet Drive together. He
had never had a proper conversation with the headmaster outside of
Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between them. The memory of
their last face-to-face encounter kept intruding too, and it rather heightened
Harry's sense of embarrassment; he had shouted a lot on that occasion, not to
mention done his best to smash several of Dumbledore's most prized
possessions.

Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed.

"Keep your wand at the ready, Harry," he said brightly.

"But I thought I'm not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?"

"If there is an attack," said Dumbledore, "I give you permission to use any
counterjinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you
need worry about being attacked tonight."

"Why not, sir?"

"You are with me," said Dumbledore simply. "This will do, Harry."

He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.

"You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test," he said.

"No," said Harry. "I thought you had to be seventeen?"

"You do," said Dumbledore. "So you will need to hold on to my arm very
tightly. My left, if you don't mind — as you have noticed, my wand arm is a
little fragile at the moment."

Harry gripped Dumbledore's proffered forearm.

"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Well, here we go."

Harry felt Dumbledore's arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip;
the next thing he knew, everything went black; he was being pressed very
hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands
tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his
head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then —-

He gulped great lungfulls of cold night air and opened his streaming eyes.
He felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It
was a few seconds before he realized that Privet Drive had vanished. He and
Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village
square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches.
His comprehension catching up with his senses, Harry realized that he had
just Apparated for the first time in his life.

"Are you all right?" asked Dumbledore, looking down at him solicitously.
"The sensation does take some getting used to."

"I'm fine," said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as though they had left
Privet Drive rather reluctantly. "But I think I might prefer brooms..."

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around
his neck, and said, "This way."

He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According
to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.

"So tell me, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Your scar... has it been hurting at
all?"

Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed i he
lightning-shaped mark.

"No," he said, "and I've been wondering about that. I thought it would be
burning all the time now Voldemort's getting so powerful again."

He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied
expression.

"I, on the other hand, thought otherwise," said Dumbledore. "Lord
Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and
feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing
Occlumency against you."

"Well, I'm not complaining," said Harry, who missed neither the
disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort's mind.

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry
looked sideways at Dumbledore again. "Professor?"

"Harry?"

"Er — where exactly are we?"

"This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton."

"And what are we doing here?"

"Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you," said Dumbledore. "Well, I have
lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are,
once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old
colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts." 

"How can I help with that, sir?"

"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely. "Left
here, Harry."

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the
windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two
weeks persisted here too. Thinking of Dementors, Harry cast a look over his
shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket.

"Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old
colleague's house?"

"Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door," said
Dumbledore. "Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity
of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically
protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance —"

"— you can't Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds," said
Harry quickly. "Hermione Granger told me."

"And she is quite right. We turn left again."

The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Harry wondered why
Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but
now that conversation had been established, he had more pressing questions
to ask.

"Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked..."

"Correct," said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street. "He has
been replaced, as ] am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to
be Head of the Auror office."

"Is he... Do you think he's good?" asked Harry.

"An interesting question," said Dumbledore. "He is able, certainly. A
more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius."

"Yes, but I meant —"

"I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought
Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not under-estimate Lord
Voldemort."

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the
disagreement with Scrimgeour that the Daily Prophet had reported, and he
did not have the nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed ii. "And... sir... I
saw about Madam Bones."

"Yes," said Dumbledore quietly. "A terrible loss. She was a great witch.
Just up here, I think — ouch."

He had pointed with his injured hand.

"Professor, what happened to your … ?"

"I have no time to explain now," said Dumbledore. "It is a thrilling tale, I
wish to do it justice."

He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not being snubbed, and
that he had permission to keep asking questions.

Sir — I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures
we should all take against the Death Eaters..."

"Yes, I received one myself," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you
find it useful?"

"Not really."

"No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my
favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and
not an impostor."

"I didn't..." Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being
reprimanded or not.

"For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry... although of course, if I were
a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences
before impersonating myself."

"Er... right," said Harry. "Well, on that leaflet, it said something about
Inferi. What exactly are they? The leaflet wasn't very clear."

"They are corpses," said Dumbledore calmly. "Dead bodies that have been
bewitched to do a Dark wizard's bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a
long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful... He killed
enough people to make an army of them, of course. This is the place, Harry,
just here..."

They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. Harry
was too busy digesting the horrible idea of Inferi to have much attention left
for anything else, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped
dead and Harry walked into him.

"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear."

Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt his
heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges.

Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted.

"Wand out and follow me, Harry," he said quietly.

He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path,
Harry at his heels, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised
and at the ready.

"Lumos."

Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To
the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft,
Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry right behind him.

A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay
splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther
away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across
the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay
deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and
china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore raised his wand even
higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly
red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry's small intake of
breath made Dumbledore look around.

"Not pretty, is it?" he said heavily. "Yes, something horrible has happened
here."

Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the
wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he
might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but
there was no sign of a body.

"Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?"
Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would
have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.

"I don't think so," said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed
armchair lying on its side.

"You mean he's — ?"

"Still here somewhere? Yes."

And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand
into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, "Ouch!"

"Good evening, Horace," said Dumbledore, straightening up again.

Harrys jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an
armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was
massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an
aggrieved and watery eye.

"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he said gruffly,
clambering to his feet. "It hurt."

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his
enormous, silver, walruslike mustache, and the highly polished buttons on
the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas.
The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.

"What gave it away?" he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing
his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just
been discovered pretending to be an armchair.

"My dear Horace," said Dumbledore, looking amused, "if the Death
Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the
house."

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.

"The Dark Mark," he muttered. "Knew there was something... ah well.
Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my
upholstery when you entered the room."

He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.

"Would you like my assistance clearing up?" asked Dumbledore politely.

"Please," said the other.

They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and
waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion.

The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-lormed in
midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves
as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and
reignited; avast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering
across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips,
cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.

"What kind of blood was that, incidentally?" asked Dumbledore loudly
over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather flock.

"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a
deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the
ceiling.

There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.

"Yes, dragon," repeated the wizard conversationally. "My last bottle, and
prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable."

He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard
and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.

"Hmm. Bit dusty."

He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his
gaze fell upon Harry.

"Oho," he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the
lightning-shaped scar it bore. "Oho!"

"This," said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, "is
Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old Friend and colleague of mine, Horace
Slughorn."

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. "So that's how
you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus."

He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a
man trying to resist temptation.

"I suppose we can have a drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old
time's sake?"

Slughorn hesitated.

"All right then, one drink," he said ungraciously.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike
the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside
the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat
with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to
keep him as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been
busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell
immediately upon Harry.

"Hmpf," he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his
eyes. "Here —" He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without
invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank into the cushions of the
repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not
touch the floor.

"Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not so well," said Slughorn at once. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism
too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue."

"And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome
for us at such short notice," said Dumbledore. "You can't have had more
than three minutes' warning?"

Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, "Two. Didn't hear my Intruder
Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still," he added sternly, seeming to pull
himself back together again, "the fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A
tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature
comforts."

He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was
stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were
soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump
cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at
a rich, fussy old lady.

"You're not yet as old as I am, Horace," said Dumbledore.

"Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself," said
Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured
hand. "Reactions not what they were, I see."

"You're quite right," said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to
reveal the tips of those burned and blackened ringers; the sight of them made
the back of Harry's neck prickle unpleasantly. "1 am undoubtedly slower
than I was. But on the other hand..."

He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its
compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had
never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of
what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked
down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and
Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.

"So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace... are they for the
Death Eaters' benefit, or mine?" asked Dumbledore.

"What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer
like me?" demanded Slughorn.

"I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to
coercion, torture, and murder," said Dumbledore. "Are you really telling me
that they haven't come recruiting yet?"

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, "I
haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay
in one place more than a week. Move from Mug-gle house to Muggle house
— the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — it's been
very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know how, one
simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of
Sneako-scopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the
piano."

"Ingenious," said Dumbledore. "But it sounds a rather tiring existence for
a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return
to Hogwarts —"

"If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that
pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in
hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge
left! If that's how you treat teachers these days —"

"Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd," said Dumbledore. "I
think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and
call a horde of angry centaurs 'filthy half-breeds.'"

"That's what she did, did she?" said Slughorn. "Idiotic woman. Never
liked her."

Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.

"Sorry," Harry said hastily. "It's just — I didn't like her either."

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.

"Are you leaving?" asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.

"No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom," said
Dumbledore.

"Oh," said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. "Second on the left down the
hall."

Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him,
there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed
uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, then
crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.

"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you," he said abruptly.

Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn's watery eyes slid over Harry's
scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.

"You look very like your father."

"Yeah, I've been told," said Harry.

"Except for your eyes. You've got —-"

"My mother's eyes, yeah." Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit
wearing.

"Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course,
but she was one of mine. Your mother," Slughorn added, in answer to
Harrys questioning look. "Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught.
Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have
been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too."

"Which was your House?"

"I was Head of Slytherin," said Slughorn. "Oh, now," he went on quickly,
seeing the expression on Harry's face and wagging a stubby ringer at him,
"don't go holding that against me! You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose?
Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius
Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of
years — died a few weeks ago —"

It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry's intestines and held
them tight.

"Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father's at school. The whole
Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor!
Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came
along, but I'd have liked the set."

He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction.
Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on
the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside.

"Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I
found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."

"One of my best friends is Muggle-born," said Harry, "and she's the best
in our year."

"Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?" said Slughorn.

"Not really," said Harry coldly.

Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. "You mustn't think I'm
prejudiced!" he said. "No, no, no! Haven't I just said your mother was one of
my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after
her too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another
Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside
information on the goings-on at Gringotts!"

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and
pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each
peopled with tiny moving occupants.

"All ex-students, all signed. You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the
Daily Prophet, he's always interested to hear my take on the day's news. And
Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all
because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkisss who gave
him his first job! And at the back — you'll see her if you just crane your
neck — that's Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies...
People are always astonished to hear I'm on first-name terms with the
Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!"

This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.

"And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?" asked
Harry, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet
tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors
craving his advice and opinions could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls.

"Of course not," he said, looking down at Harry. "I have been out of touch
with everybody for a year."

Harry had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he
looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"Still... the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very
well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hog-warts just now
would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the
Phoenix! And while I'm sure they're very admirable and brave and all the
rest of it, I don't personally fancy the mortality rate —"

"You don't have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts," said Harry, who
could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice: It was hard to
sympathize with Slughorn's cosseted existence when he remembered Sirius,
crouching in a cave and living on rats. "Most of the teachers aren't in it, and
none of them has ever been killed — well, unless you count Quirrell, and he
got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort."

Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could
not bear to hear Voldemort's name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed:
Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored.

"I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumble-dore's
headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't
he?" Harry went on.

Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking
over Harry's words.

"Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought
a fight with Dumbledore," he muttered grudgingly. "And I suppose one
could argue that as I have not joined the Death Kilters, He-Who-Must-Not-
Be-Named can hardly count me a friend... in which case, I might well be
safer a little closer to Albus... I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones's death did
not shake me... If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection..."

Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had
forgotten he was in the house.

"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said. "You've been a very long lime. Upset
stomach?"

"No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines," said Dumbledore. "I
do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace's
hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave."

Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn sinned
taken aback.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one."

"Lost...?"

Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he
watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket.

"Well, I'm sorry you don't want the job, Horace," said Dumbledore,
raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. "Hogwarts would have been
glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding,
you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to."

"Yes... well... very gracious... as I say..."

"Good-bye, then."

"Bye," said Harry.

They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.

"All right, all right, I'll do it!"

Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to
the sitting room.

"You will come out of retirement?"

"Yes, yes," said Slughorn impatiently. "I must be mad, but yes."

"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, we shall see
you on the first of September."

"Yes, I daresay you will," grunted Slughorn.

As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn's voice floated after them,
"I'll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they
set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.

"Well done, Harry," said Dumbledore.

"I didn't do anything," said Harry in surprise.

"Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain
by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"

"Er..."

Harry wasn't sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had
been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said
to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good
witch.

"Horace," said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say
any of this, "likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the
successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these
people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the
backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites
at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for
their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those
who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace
formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making
introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping
some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized
pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin
liaison Office."

Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider,
spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large
and juicy flies a little closer.

"I tell you all this," Dumbledore continued, "not to turn you against
Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put
you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You
would be the jewel of his collection; 'the Boy Who Lived'... or, as they call
you these days, 'the Chosen One.'"

At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist
stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard a few weeks ago,
words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him: Neither can live
while the other survives...

Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed
earlier.

"This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm."

Braced this time, Harry was ready for the Apparition, but still found it
unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to
breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside Dumbledore and
looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the
world: the Burrow. In spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept
through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it. Ron was in
there... and so was Mrs. Weasley, who could cook better than anyone he
knew...

"If you don't mind, Harry," said Dumbledore, as they passed through the
gate, "I'd like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in
here?"

Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the
Weasleys kept their broomsticks. A little puzzled, Harry followed
Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the
average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it
glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry.

"I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, but I am pleased and
a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that
happened at the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius would have
been proud of you."

Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. He did not think
he could stand to discuss Sirius; it had been painful enough to hear Uncle
Vernon say "His godfather's dead?" and even worse to hear Siriuss name
thrown out casually by Slughorn.

"It was cruel," said Dumbledore softly, "that you and Sirius had such a
short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and
happy relationship."

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing
Dumbledore's hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might
even suspect that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all his time
at the Dursleys' lying on his bed, refusing meals, and staring at the misted
window, full of the chill emptiness i hat he had come to associate with
Dementors.

"It's just hard," Harry said finally, in a low voice, "to realize he won't
write to me again."

His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt stupid for admitting it,
but the fact that he had had someone outside Hogwarts who cared what
happened to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best things about
discovering his godfather... and now the post owls would never bring him
that comfort again...

"Sirius represented much to you that you had never known before," said
Dumbledore gently. "Naturally, the loss is devastat-ing...

"But while I was at the Dursleys'..." interrupted Harry, his voice growing
stronger, "I realized I cant shut myself away or — or crack up. Sirius
wouldn't have wanted that, would he? And anyway, life's too short... Look at
Madam Bones, look at Emmeline Vance... It could be me next, couldn't it?
But if it is," he said fiercely, now looking straight into Dumbledore's blue
eyes gleaming in the wandlight, "I'll make sure I take as many Death Eaters
with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it."

"Spoken both like your mother and father's son and Sirius's true godson!"
said Dumbledore, with an approving pat on Harry's back. "I take my hat off
to you — or I would, if I were not afraid of showering you in spiders.

"And now, Harry, on a closely related subject... I gather that you have
been taking the Daily Prophet over the last two weeks?"

"Yes," said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster.

"Then you will have seen that there have been not so much leaks as floods
concerning your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?"

"Yes," said Harry again. "And now everyone knows that I'm the one —

"No, they do not," interrupted Dumbledore. "There are only two people in
the whole world who know the full contents of the prophecy made about you
and Lord Voldemort, and they are both standing in this smelly, spidery
broom shed. It is true, however, that many have guessed, correctly, that
Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy
concerned you.

"Now, I think I am correct in saying that you have not told anybody that
you know what the prophecy said?"

"No," said Harry.

"A wise decision, on the whole," said Dumbledore. "Although I think you
ought to relax it in favor of your friends, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss
Hermione Granger. Yes," he continued, when Harry looked startled, "I think
they ought to know. You do them a disservice by not confiding something
this important to them."

"I didn't want —"

"— to worry or frighten them?" said Dumbledore, surveying Harry over
the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Or perhaps, to confess that you yourself
are worried and frightened? You need your friends, Harry. As you so rightly
said, Sirius would not have wanted you to shut yourself away."

Harry said nothing, but Dumbledore did not seem to require an answer.
He continued, "On a different, though related, subject, it is my wish that you
take private lessons with me this year."

"Private — with you?" said Harry, surprised out of his preoccupied
silence.

"Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education."

What will you be teaching me, sir?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," said Dumbledore airily.

Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not elaborate, so ho asked
something else that had been bothering him slightly.

"If I'm having lessons with you, I won't have to do Occlumency lessons
with Snape, will I?"

''Professor Snape, Harry — and no, you will not."

"Good," said Harry in relief, "because they were a —"

He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought.

"I think the word 'fiasco' would be a good one here," said Dumbledore,
nodding.

Harry laughed.

"Well, that means I won't see much of Professor Snape from now on," he
said, "because he won't let me carry on Potions unless I get 'Outstanding' in
my OWL., which I know I haven't."

"Don't count your owls before they are delivered," said Dumbledore
gravely. "Which, now I think of it, ought to be some time later today. Now,
two more things, Harry, before we part.

"Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all i imes
from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you
understand me?"

Harry nodded.

"And lastly, while you stay here, the Burrow has been given the highest
security the Ministry of Magic can provide. These measures have caused a
certain amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly — all their post, for
instance, is being searched at the Ministry before being sent on. They do not
mind in the slightest, for their only concern is your safety. However, it
would be poor repayment if you risked your neck while staying with them."

"I understand," said Harry quickly.

"Very well, then," said Dumbledore, pushing open the broom shed door
and stepping out into the yard. "I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not
deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are."

Chapter 5: An Excess Of Phlegm

Harry and Dumbledore approached the back door of the Burrow, which
was surrounded by the familiar litter of old Wellington boots and rusty
cauldrons; Harry could hear the soft clucking of sleepy chickens coming
from a distant shed. Dumbledore knocked three times and Harry saw sudden
movement behind the kitchen window.

"Who's there?" said a nervous voice he recognized as Mrs. Weasley's.
"Declare yourself!"

"It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry."

The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley, short, plump, and
wearing an old green dressing gown.

"Harry, dear! Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright, you said not to
expect you before morning!"

"We were lucky," said Dumbledore, ushering Harry over the threshold.
"Slughorn proved much more persuadable than I had expected. Harry's
doing, of course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!"

Harry looked around and saw that Mrs. Weasley was not alone, despite
the lateness of the hour. A young witch with a pale, heart-shaped face and
mousy brown hair was sitting at the table clutching a large mug between her
hands.

"Hello, Professor," she said. " Wotcher, Harry."

"Hi, Tonks."

Harry thought she looked drawn, even ill, and there was something forced
in her smile. Certainly her appearance was less colorful than usual without
her customary shade of bubble-gum-pink hair.

"I'd better be off," she said quickly, standing up and pulling her cloak
around her shoulders. "Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Molly"

"Please don't leave on my account," said Dumbledore courteously, "I
cannot stay, I have urgent matters to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour."

"No, no, I need to get going," said Tonks, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes.
"'Night..."

"Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Remus and Mad-Eye are
coming... ?"

"No, really, Molly... thanks anyway... Good night, every-one.

Tonks hurried past Dumbledore and Harry into the yard; a few paces
beyond the doorstep, she turned on the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry
noticed that Mrs. Weasley looked troubled.

"Well, I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Take care
of yourself. Molly, your servant."

He made Mrs. Weasley a bow and followed Tonks, vanishing at precisely
the same spot. Mrs. Weasley closed the door on the empty yard and then
steered Harry by the shoulders into the full glow of the lantern on the table
to examine his appearance.

"You're like Ron," she sighed, looking him up and down. "Both of you
look as though you've had Stretching jinxes put on you. I swear Ron's grown
four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are you hungry, Harry?"

"Yeah, I am," said Harry, suddenly realizing just how hungry he was,

"Sit down, dear, I'll knock something up."

As Harry sat down, a furry ginger cat with a squashed face lumped onto
his knees and settled there, purring.

"So Hermione's here?" he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind
the ears.

"Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday," said Mrs. Weasley,
rapping a large iron pot with her wand. It bounced onto the stove with a loud
clang and began to bubble at once. "Everyone's in bed, of course, we didn't
expect you for hours. Here you are..."

She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew toward Harry, and
tipped over; Mrs. Weasley slid a bowl nearly beneath it just in lime to catch
the stream of thick, steaming onion soup.

"Bread, dear?"

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."

She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of bread and a knife soared
gracefully onto the table; as the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped
back onto the stove, Mrs. Weasley sat down opposite him.

"So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?"

Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak.

"He taught Arthur and me," said Mrs. Weasley. "He was at Hog-warts for
ages, started around the same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like
him?"

His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a noncommittal
jerk of the head.

"I know what you mean," said Mrs. Weasley, nodding wisely. "Of course
he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur's never liked him much.
The Ministry's littered with Slughorn's old favorites, he was always good at
giving leg ups, but he never had much time for Arthur... didn't seem to think
he was enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn
makes mistakes. I don't know whether Ron's told you in any of his letters...
it's only just happened... but Arthur's been promoted!"

It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say
this.

Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could
feel his throat blistering. "That's great!" he gasped.

"You are sweet," beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes
for emotion at the news. "Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new
offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur's heading the Office
for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and
Protective Objects. It's a big job, he's got ten people reporting to him now!"

"What exactly?"

"Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have
been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard
against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of
thing... so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of
bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make
your ears fall off... Well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like
Mundungus Hotelier, who've never done an honest day's work in their lives
and are taking advantage of how frightened everybody is, but every now and
then something really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur confiscated a box
of cursed Sneakoscopes that were almost certainly planted by a Death Eater.
So you see, it's a very important job, and I tell him it's just silly to miss
dealing with spark plugs and toasters and all the rest of that Muggle
rubbish." Mrs. Weasley ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been
Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark plugs.

"Is Mr. Weasley still at work?" Harry asked.

"Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he's a tiny bit late... He said he'd be back
around midnight..."

She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of
a pile of sheets in the washing basket at the end of the table. Harry
recognized it at once: It had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a
family member, and usually hung on i he Weasleys' sitting room wall,
though its current position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to
carrying it around the house with her. Every single one of its nine hands was
now pointing at "mortal peril."

"It's been like that for a while now," said Mrs. Weasley, in an un-
convincingly casual voice, "ever since You-Know-Who came back into the
open. I suppose everybody's in mortal danger now... I don't think it can be
just our family... but I don't know anyone else who's got a clock like this, so
I can't check. Oh!"

With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock's face. Mr. Weasley's
hand had switched to "traveling."

"He's coming!"

And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs.
Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her
face pressed against the wood she called softly, "Arthur, is that you?"

GOD

"Yes," came Mr. Weasley's weary voice. "But I would say that even if I
were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!"

"Oh, honestly..."

"Molly!"

"All right, all right... What is your dearest ambition?"

"To find out how airplanes stay up."

Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr.
Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained
firmly shut.

"Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!"

"Arthur, really, this is just silly..."

"What do you like me to call you when we're alone together?"

Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley
had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and
neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could
against the bowl.

"Mollywobbles," whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the
edge of the door.

"Correct," said Mr. Weasley. "Now you can let me in."

Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-
haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty
traveling cloak.

"I still don't see why we have to go through that every time you come
home," said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband
out of his cloak. "I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of
you before impersonating you!"

"I know, dear, but it's Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example.
Something smells good... onion soup?"

Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.

"Harry! We didn't expect you until morning!"

They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry
as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.

"Thanks, Molly. It's been a tough night. Some idiot's started selling
Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them around your neck and you'll be able to
change your appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all for ten
Galleons!"

"And what really happens when you put them on?"

"Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color, but a couple of
people have also sprouted tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St.
Mungo's didn't have enough to do already!"

"It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George would find funny," said
Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. "Are you sure... ?"

"Of course I am!" said Mr. Weasley. "The boys wouldn't do anything like
that now, not when people are desperate for protection!"

"So is that why you're late, Metamorph-Medals?"

"No, we got wind of a nasty backfiring jinx down in Elephant and Castle,
but luckily the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the
time we got there..."

Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.

"Bed," said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. "I've got Fred and
George's room all ready for you, you'll have it to yourself."

"Why, where are they?"

"Oh, they're in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop
as they're so busy," said Mrs. Weasley. "I must say, I didn't approve at first,
but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dear, your
trunks already up there."

"'Night, Mr. Weasley," said Harry, pushing back his chair. Crookshanks
leapt lightly from his lap and slunk out of the room.

"G'night, Harry," said Mr. Weasley.

Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the washing basket as they
left the kitchen. All the hands were once again at "mortal peril."

Fred and George's bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Weasley
pointed her wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once,
bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of flowers
had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could
not disguise the lingering smell of what Harry thought was gunpowder. A
considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of
unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry's school
trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary
warehouse.

Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large
wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been
waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good
night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something
hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky
purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling
to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.

Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what
sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he
heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight
seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he
groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other.

"Wuzzgoinon?"

"We didn't know you were here already!" said a loud and excited voice,
and he received a sharp blow to the top of the head.

"Ron, don't hit him!" said a girl's voice reproachfully.

Harry's hand found his glasses and he shoved them on, though I he light
was so bright he could hardly see anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered
in front of him for a moment; he blinked and Ron Weasley came into focus,
grinning down at him.

"All right?"

"Never been better," said Harry, rubbing the top of his head and slumping
back onto his pillows. "You?"

"Not bad," said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and sitting on it.
"When did you get here? Mum's only just told us!"

"About one o'clock this morning."

"Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?"

"Same as usual," said Harry, as Hermione perched herself on the edge of
his bed, "they didn't talk to me much, but I like it better that way. How're
you, Hermione?"

"Oh, I'm fine," said Hermione, who was scrutinizing Harry as though he
was sickening for something. He thought he knew what was behind this, and
as he had no wish to discuss Sirius's death or any other miserable subject at
the moment, he said, "What's the time? Have I missed breakfast?"

"Don't worry about that, Mum's bringing you up a tray; she reckons you
look underfed," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "So, what's been going on?"

"Nothing much, I've just been stuck at my aunt and uncle's, haven't I?"

"Come off it!" said Ron. "You've been off with Dumbledore!"

"It wasn't that exciting. He just wanted me to help him persuade this old
teacher to come out of retirement. His name's Horace Slughorn."

"Oh," said Ron, looking disappointed. "We thought..."

Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron changed tack at top
speed.