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Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince

by

J. K. Rowling

Table of Contents:
1. The Other Minister
2. Spinner's End
3. Will and Won't
4. Horace Slughorn
5. An Excess of Phlegm
6. Draco's Detour
7. The Slug Club
8. Snape Victorious
9. The Half-Blood Prince
10. The Hour of Gaunt
11. Hermioine's Helping Hand
12. Silver & Opals
13. The Secret Riddle
14. Felix Felicis
15. The Unbreakable Vow
16. A Very Frosty Christmas
17. A Sluggish Memory
18. Birthday Surprises
19. Elf Trails
20. Lord Voldemort's Request
21. The Unknowable Room
22. After Burial
23. Horcruxes
24. Sectumsempra
25. The Seer Overheard
26. The Cave
27. The Lightning-Struck Towel
28. Flight of the Prince
29. The Phoenix Lament
30. The White Tomb

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.

"But," said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing
on the corner of his next speech, "but why--why has nobody told me--?"

"The Minister of Magic only reveals him--or herself to the Muggle Prime
Minister of the day," said Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket.
"We find it the best way to maintain secrecy."

"But then," bleated the Prime Minister, "why hasn't a former Prime
Minister warned me--?"

At this, Fudge had actually laughed.

"My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?"

Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped
into the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime
Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never,
as long as he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in
the wide world would believe him?

The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to
convince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by
lack of sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid
himself of all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the
gerbil to his delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down
the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the
Prime Minister's dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to
remove. When several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the
Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to pry it from the
wall, the Prime Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to
hope that the thing remained motionless and silent for the rest of his term in
office. Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye
the occupant of the painting yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once
or twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch
of muddy-brown canvas behind. However, he had trained himself not to look
at the picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were
playing tricks on him when anything like this happened.

Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had
been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the
imminent arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet
and in a state of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask
why he was dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about
a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named "Serious"
Black, something that sounded like "Hogwarts," and a boy called Harry
Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.

"...I've just come from Azkaban," Fudge had panted, tipping a large
amount of water out of the rim of his bowler hat into his pocket. "Middle of
the North Sea, you know, nasty flight... the Dementors are in uproar"--he
shuddered--"they've never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to
you, Prime Minister. Black's a known Muggle killer and may be planning to
rejoin You-Know-Who... But of course, you don't even know who You-
Know-Who is!" He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a
moment, then said, "Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... Have a
whiskey..."

The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own
office, let alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge
pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of
thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a
chair.

Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to
say a certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which
he had thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last
Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.

"So you think that..." He had squinted down at the name in his left hand.
"Lord Vol--"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" snarled Fudge.

"I'm sorry... You think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive,
then?"

"Well, Dumbledore says he is," said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-
striped cloak under his chin, "but we've never found him. If you ask me, he's
not dangerous unless he's got support, so it's Black we ought to be worrying
about. You'll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don't see
each other again, Prime Minister! Good night."

But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-
looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the
Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that
was what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been
"involved," but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-
Know-Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it
was an isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all
memory modifications as they spoke.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Fudge had added. "We're importing three
foreign dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine,
but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells
me that it's down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're
bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country."

"I--what--dragons?" spluttered the Prime Minister.

"Yes, three," said Fudge. "And a sphinx. Well, good day to you."

The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes
would be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had
erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been
a mass breakout from Azkaban.

"A mass breakout?" repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely.

"No need to worry, no need to worry!" shouted Fudge, already with one
foot in the flames. "We'll have them rounded up in no time--just thought you
ought to know!"

And before the Prime Minister could shout, "Now, wait just one
moment!" Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks.

Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was
not a foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge's
assurances at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each
other, nor that Fudge was becoming more flustered with each visit. Little
though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called
Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but
fear that the next time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still.
The site, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking
disheveled and fretful and sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not
know exactly why he was there, was about the worst thing that had
happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week.

"How should I know what's going on in the--er--Wizarding community?"
snapped the Prime Minister now. "I have a country to run and quite enough
concerns at the moment without--"

"We have the same concerns," Fudge interrupted. "The Brock-dale Bridge
didn't wear out. That wasn't really a hurricane. Those murders were not the
work of Muggles. And Herbert Chorley's family would be safer without him.
We are currently making arrangements to have him transferred to St.
Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be
affected tonight."

"What do you... I'm afraid I... What?" blustered the Prime Minister.

Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, "Prime Minister, I am very sorry
to have to tell you that he's back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back."

"Back? When you say 'back'... he's alive? I mean--"

The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the details of that horrible
conversation of three years previously, when Fudge had told him about the
wizard who was feared above all others, the wizard who had committed a
thousand terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance fifteen years
earlier.

"Yes, alive," said Fudge. "That is--I don't know--is a man alive if he can't
be killed? I don't really understand it, and Dumbledore won't explain
properly--but anyway, he's certainly got a body and is walking and talking
and killing, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he's alive."

The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit
of wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him
cast around for any details he could remember of their previous
conversations.

"Is Serious Black with--er--He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Black? Black?" said Fudge distractedly, turning his bowler rapidly in his
fingers. "Sirius Black, you mean? Merlin's beard, no. Black's dead. Turns
out we were--er--mistaken about Black. He was innocent after all. And he
wasn't in league with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named either. I mean," he
added defensively, spinning the bowler hat still faster, "all the evidence
pointed--we had more than fifty eyewitnesses--but anyway, as I say, he's
dead. Murdered, as a matter of fact. On Ministry of Magic premises. There's
going to be an inquiry, actually..."

To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting stab of pity for
Fudge at this point. It was, however, eclipsed almost immediately by a glow
of smugness at the thought that, deficient though he himself might be in the
area of materializing out of fireplaces, there had never been a murder in any
of the government departments under his charge... Not yet, anyway...

While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk,
Fudge continued, "But Blacks by-the-by now. The point is, we're at war,
Prime Minister, and steps must be taken."

"At war?" repeated the Prime Minister nervously. "Surely that's a little bit
of an overstatement?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his
followers who broke out of Azkaban in January," said Fudge, speaking more
and more rapidly and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a lime-green blur.
"Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The
Brockdale Bridge--he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle
killing unless I stood aside for him and--"

"Good grief, so it's your fault those people were killed and I'm having to
answer questions about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I
don't know what else!" said the Prime Minister furiously.

"My fault!" said Fudge, coloring up. "Are you saying you would have
caved in to blackmail like that?"

"Maybe not," said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the
room, "but I would have put all my efforts into catching the blackmailer
before he committed any such atrocity!"

"Do you really think I wasn't already making every effort?" demanded
Fudge heatedly. "Every Auror in the Ministry was--and is--trying to find him
and round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the
most powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for
almost three decades!"

"So I suppose you're going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West
Country too?" said the Prime Minister, his temper rising with every pace he
took. It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters
and not to be able to tell the public, almost worse than it being the
government's fault after all.

"That was no hurricane," said Fudge miserably.

"Excuse me!" barked the Prime Minister, now positively stamping up and
down. "Trees uprooted, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries--"

"It was the Death Eaters," said Fudge. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's
followers. And... and we suspect giant involvement."

The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible
wall. "What involvement?"

Fudge grimaced. "He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the
grand effect," he said. "The Office of Misinformation has been working
around the clock, we've had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the
memories of all the Muggles who saw what really happened, we've got most
of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
running around Somerset, but we can't find the giant--it's been a disaster."

"You don't say!" said the Prime Minister furiously.

"I won't deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry," said Fudge.
"What with all that, and then losing Amelia Bones."

"Losing who?"

"Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person,
because she was a very gifted witch and--and all the evidence was that she
put up a real fight."

Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning
his bowler hat.

"But that murder was in the newspapers," said the Prime Minister,
momentarily diverted from his anger. "Our newspapers. Amelia Bones... it
just said she was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a--a nasty
killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you
see."

Fudge sighed. "Well, of course they are," he said. "Killed in a room that
was locked from the inside, wasn't she? We, on the other hand, know exactly
who did it, not that that gets us any further toward catching him. And then
there was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn't hear about that one--"

"Oh yes I did!" said the Prime Minister. "It happened just around the
corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it,
'breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister's backyard--'"

"And as if all that wasn't enough," said Fudge, barely listening to the
Prime Minister, "we've got Dementors swarming all over the place, attacking
people left, right, and center..."

Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to
the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.

"I thought Dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban," he said cautiously.

"They did," said Fudge wearily. "But not anymore. They've deserted the
prison and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't
a blow."

"But," said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, "didn't
you tell me they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of
people?"

"That's right. And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist."

提醒楼上几位，没有发完，请勿打扰。

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of
invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading
despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.

"Now see here, Fudge--you've got to do something! It's your
responsibility as Minister of Magic!"

"My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of
Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding
community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I've never
known them so united in my whole term of office!" said Fudge, with a brave
attempt at a smile.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his
indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt
for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.

"I'm very sorry," he said finally. "If there's anything I can do?"

"It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here
tonight to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my
successor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of course, he's very busy
at the moment, with so much going on."

Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long
curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill.
Catching Fudge's eye, the portrait said, "He'll be here in a moment, he's just
finishing a letter to Dumbledore."

"I wish him luck," said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. "I've been
writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won't budge.
If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be... Well, maybe
Scrimgeour will have more success."

Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was
broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp,
official voice.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly
respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic."

"Yes, yes, fine," said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely
flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again, rose up, and
revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments
later onto the antique rug.

Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment's hesitation, the Prime Minister
did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long
black robes, and look around.

The Prime Minister's first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour
looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of gray in his mane of
tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a
pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even
though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of
shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why
the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in
these dangerous times.

"How do you do?" said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then pulled out
a wand from under his robes.

"Fudge told you everything?" he asked, striding over to the door and
tapping the keyhole with his wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click.

"Er--yes," said the Prime Minister. "And if you don't mind, I'd rather that
door remained unlocked."

"I'd rather not be interrupted," said Scrimgeour shortly, "or watched," he
added, pointing his wand at the windows, so that the curtains swept across
them. "Right, well, I'm a busy man, so let's get down lo business. First of all,
we need to discuss your security."

The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest height and replied, "I
am perfectly happy with the security I've already got, thank you very--"

"Well, we're not," Scrimgeour cut in. "It'll be a poor lookout for the
Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new
secretary in your outer office--"

"I'm not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that's what you're
suggesting!" said the Prime Minister hotly. "He's highly efficient, gets
through twice the work the rest of them--"

"That's because he's a wizard," said Scrimgeour, without a flicker of a
smile. "A highly trained Auror, who has been assigned to you for your
protection."

"Now, wait a moment!" declared the Prime Minister. "You can't just put
your people into my office, I decide who works for me--"

"I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?" said Scrimgeour coldly.

"I am--that's to say, I was--"

"Then there's no problem, is there?" said Scrimgeour.

"I... well, as long as Shacklebolt's work continues to be... er... excellent,"
said the Prime Minister lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him.

"Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister," he continued. "The
one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck."

"What about him?" asked the Prime Minister.

"He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed Imperius Curse," said
Scrimgeour. "It's addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous."

"He's only quacking!" said the Prime Minister weakly. "Surely a bit of a
rest... Maybe go easy on the drink..."

"A team of Healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and
Injuries are examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle
three of them," said Scrimgeour. "I think it best that we remove him from
Muggle society for a while."

"I... well... He'll be all right, won't he?" said the Prime Minister anxiously.

Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace.

"Well, that's really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of
developments, Prime Minister--or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to
come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to
stay on in an advisory capacity."

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as
though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his
pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime
Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words
he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.

"But for heaven's sake--you're wizards! You can do magic! Surely you
can sort out--well--anything!"

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look
with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, "The
trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister."

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright
green fire and vanished.

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.

"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.