Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7

by J. K. Rowling

  “‘C-constant vigilance,’” said Hermione, mopping her eyes.

  “That’s right,” said Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I’ve learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus.”

  Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped The Monster Book of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from Ron’s leg and retied it shit.

  “What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron asked, limping back to his bed.

  “Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,” said Hermione, “When we’re looking for the Horcruxes.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.”

  “Ha ha,” said Hermione, looking down at Spellman’s Syllabary. “I wonder… will we need to translate runes? It’s possible… I think we’d better take it, to be safe.”

  She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History.

  “Listen,” said Harry.

  He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance.

  “I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you wanted to come with me,” Harry began.

  “Here he goes,” Ron said to Hermione, rolling his eyes.

  “As we knew he would,” she sighed, turning back to the books. “You know, I think I will take Hogwarts, A History. Even if we’re not going back there, I don’t think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with—”

  “Listen!” said Harry again.

  “No, Harry, you listen,” said Hermione. “We’re coming with you. That was decided months ago—years, really.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up,” Ron advised him.

  “—are you sure you’ve thought this through?” Harry persisted.

  “Let’s see,” said Hermione, slamming Travels with Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look. “I’ve been packing for days, so we’re ready to leave at a moment’s notice, which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye’s whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under Ron’s mum’s nose.

  “I’ve also modified my parents’ memories so that they’re convinced they’re really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life’s ambition is to move to Australia, which they have now done. That’s to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me—or you, because unfortunately, I’ve told them quite a bit about you.

  “Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I’ll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don’t—well, I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don’t know that they’ve got a daughter, you see.”

  Hermione’s eyes were swimming with tears again. Ron got back off the bed, put his arm around her once more, and frowned at Harry as though reproaching him for lack of tact. Harry could not think of anything to say, not least because it was highly unusual for Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.

  “I—Hermione, I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

  “Didn’t realize that Ron and I know perfectly well what might happen if we come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you’ve done.”

  “Nah, he’s just eaten,” said Ron.

  “Go on, he needs to know!”

  “Oh, all right. Harry, come here.”

  For the second time Ron withdrew his arm from around Hermione and stumped over to the door.

  “C’mon.”

  “Why?” Harry asked, following Ron out of the room onto the tiny landing.

  “Descendo,” muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the low ceiling. A hatch opened right over their heads and a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible, half-sucking, half-moaning sound came out of the square hole, along with an unpleasant smell like open drains.

  “That’s your ghoul, isn’t it?” asked Harry, who had never actually met the creature that sometimes disrupted the nightly silence.

  “Yeah, it is,” said Ron, climbing the ladder. “Come and have a look at him.”

  Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the tiny attic space. His head and shoulders were in the room before he caught sight of the creature curled up a few feet from him, fast asleep in the gloom with its large mouth wide open.

  “But it… it looks… do ghouls normally wear pajamas?”

  “No,” said Ron. “Nor have they usually got red hair or that number of pustules.”

  Harry contemplated the thing, slightly revolted. It was human in shape and size, and was wearing what, now that Harry’s eyes became used to the darkness, was clearly an old pair of Ron’s pajamas. He was also sure that ghouls were generally rather slimy and bald, rather than distinctly hairy and covered in angry purple blisters.

  “He’s me, see?” said Ron.

  “No,” said Harry. “I don’t.”

  “I’ll explain it back in my room, the smell’s getting to me,” said Ron. They climbed back down the ladder, which Ron returned to the ceiling, and rejoined Hermione, who was still sorting books.

  “Once we’ve left, the ghoul’s going to come and live down here in my room,” said Ron. “I think he’s really looking forward to it—well, it’s hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool—but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he’s going to be me with spattergroit. Good, eh?”

  Harry merely looked his confusion.

  “It is!” said Ron, clearly frustrated that Harry had not grasped the brilliance of the plan. “Look, when we three don’t turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone’s going to think Hermione and I must be with you, right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight for our families to see if they’ve got information on where you are.”

  “But hopefully it’ll look like I’ve gone away with Mum and Dad; a lot of Muggle-borns are talking about going into hiding at the moment,” said Hermione.

  “We can’t hide my whole family, it’ll look too fishy and they can’t all leave their jobs,” said Ron. “So we’re going to put out the story that I’m seriously ill with spattergroit, which is why I can’t go back to school. If anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit’s really contagious, so they’re not going to want to go near him. It won’t matter that he can’t say anything, either, because apparently you can’t once the fungus has spread to your uvula.”

  “And your mum and dad are in on this plan?” asked Harry.

  “Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. Mum… well, you’ve seen what she’s like. She won’t accept we’re going till we’re gone.”

  There was silence in the room, broken only by gentle thuds as Hermione continued to throw books onto one pile or the other. Ron sat watching her, and Harry looked from one to the other, unable to say anything. The measure they had taken to protect their families made him realize, more than anything else could have done, that they really were going to come with him and that they knew exactly how dangerous that would be. He wanted to tell them what that meant to him, but he simply could not find words important enough.

  Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs. Weasley shouting from four floors below.

  “Ginny’s probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring,” said Ron. “I dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding.”

  “Fleur’s sister’s a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she’s too young to come on her own,” said Hermione, as she pored indecisively over Break with a Banshee.

  “Well, guests aren’t going to help Mum’s str
ess levels,” said Ron.

  “What we really need to decide,” said Hermione, tossing Defensive Magical Theory into the bin without a second glance and picking up An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, “is where we’re going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go to Godric’s Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why, but… well… shouldn’t we make the Horcruxes our priority?”

  “If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I’d agree with you,” said Harry, who did not believe that Hermione really understood his desire to return to Godric’s Hollow. His parents’ graves were only part of the attraction: He had a strong, though inexplicable, feeling that the place held answers for him. Perhaps it was simply because it was there that he had survived Voldemort’s Killing Curse; now that he was facing the challenge of repeating the feat, Harry was drawn to the place where it had happened, wanting to understand.

  “Don’t you think there’s a possibility that Voldemort’s keeping a watch on Godric’s Hollow?” Hermione asked. “He might expect you to go back and visit your parents’ graves once you’re free to go wherever you like?”

  This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled to find a counterargument, Ron spoke up, evidently following his own train of thought.

  “This R. A. B. person,” he said. “You know, the one who stole the real locket?”

  Hermione nodded.

  “He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn’t he?”

  Harry dragged his rucksack toward him and pulled out the fake Horcrux in which R. A. B.’s note was still folded.

  “‘I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.’” Harry read out.

  “Well, what if he did finish it off?” said Ron.

  “Or she,” interposed Hermione.

  “Whichever,” said Ron. “it’d be one less for us to do!”

  “Yes, but we’re still going to have to try and trace the real locket, aren’t we?” said Hermione, “to find out whether or not it’s destroyed.”

  “And once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a Horcrux?” asked Ron.

  “Well,” said Hermione, “I’ve been researching that.”

  “How?” asked Harry. “I didn’t think there were any books on Horcruxes in the library?”

  “There weren’t,” said Hermione, who had turned pink. “Dumbledore removed them all, but he—he didn’t destroy them.”

  Ron sat up straight, wide-eyed.

  “How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?”

  “It—it wasn’t stealing!” said Hermione, looking from Harry to Ron with a kind of desperation. “They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the shelves. Anyway, if he really didn’t want anyone to get at them, I’m sure he would have made it much harder to—”

  “Get to the point!” said Ron.

  “Well… it was easy,” said Hermione in a small voice. “I just did a Summoning Charm. You know—Accio. And—they zoomed out of Dumbledore’s study window right into the girls’ dormitory.”

  “But when did you do this?” Harry asked, regarding Hermione with a mixture of admiration and incredulity.

  “Just after his—Dumbledore’s—funeral,” said Hermione in an even smaller voice. “Right after we agreed we’d leave school and go and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get my things it—it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better it would be… and I was alone in there… so I tried… and it worked. They flew straight in through the open window and I—I packed them.”

  She swallowed and then said imploringly, “I can’t believe Dumbledore would have been angry, it’s not as though we’re going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?”

  “Can you hear us complaining?” said Ron. “Where are these books anyway?”

  Hermione rummaged for a moment and then extracted from the pile a large volume, bound in faded black leather. She looked a little nauseated and held it as gingerly as if it were something recently dead.

  “This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. Secrets of the Darkest Art—it’s a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library… if he didn’t do it until he was headmaster, I bet Voldemort got all the instruction he needed from here.”

  “Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he’d already read that?” asked Ron.

  “He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into seven,” said Harry. “Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you’re right, Hermione, that could easily have been where he got the information.”

  “And the more I’ve read about them,” said Hermione, “the more horrible they seem, and the less I can believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that’s just by making one Horcrux!”

  Harry remembered what Dumbledore had said about Voldemort moving beyond “usual evil.”

  “Isn’t there any way of putting yourself back together?” Ron asked.

  “Yes,” said Hermione with a hollow smile, “but it would be excruciatingly painful.”

  “Why? How do you do it?” asked Harry.

  “Remorse,” said Hermione. “You’ve got to really feel what you’ve done. There’s a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?”

  “No,” said Ron, before Harry could answer. “So does it say how to destroy Horcruxes in that book?”

  “Yes,” said Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting entrails, “because it warns Dark wizards how strong they have to make the enchantments on them. From all that I’ve read, what Harry did to Riddle’s diary was one of the few really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.”

  “What, stabbing it with a basilisk fang?” asked Harry.

  “Oh well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then,” said Ron. “I was wondering what we were going to do with them.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a basilisk fang,” said Hermione patiently. “It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare—”

  “—phoenix tears,” said Harry, nodding.

  “Exactly,” said Hermione. “Our problem is that there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they’re all dangerous to carry around with you. That’s a problem we’re going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to put it beyond magical repair.”

  “But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” said Ron, “why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?”

  “Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being.”

  Seeing that Harry and Ron looked thoroughly confused, Hermione hurried on. “Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn’t damage your soul at all.”

  “Which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” said Ron. Harry laughed.

  “It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive, untouched,” said Hermione. “But it’s the other way round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can’t exist without it.”

  “That diary sort of died when I stabbed it,” said Harry, remembering ink pouring like blood from the punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of Voldemort’s soul as it vanished.

  “And once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped in it could no longer exist. Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before you did, flushing it away, but obviously it came back good as new.”

  “Hang on,” said Ro
n, frowning. “The bit of soul in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that work, then?”

  “While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for too long, it’s nothing to do with touching it,” she added before Ron could speak. “I mean close emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux.”

  “I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” said Harry. “Why didn’t I ask him? I never really…”

  His voice trailed away: He was thinking of all the things he should have asked Dumbledore, and of how, since the headmaster had died, it seemed to Harry that he had wasted so many opportunities when Dumbledore had been alive, to find out more… to find out everything…

  The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieked and dropped Secrets of the Darkest Art; Crookshanks streaked under the bed, hissing indignantly; Ron jumped off the bed, skidded on a discarded Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the opposite wall; and Harry instinctively dived for his wand before realizing that he was looking up at Mrs. Weasley, whose hair was disheveled and whose face was contorted with rage.

  “I’m so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m sure you all need your rest… but there are wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help.”

  “Oh yes,” said Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt to her feet, sending books flying in every direction. “we will… we’re sorry…”

  With an anguished look at Harry and Ron, Hermione hurried out of the room after Mrs. Weasley.

  “It’s like being a house-elf,” complained Ron in an undertone, still massaging his head as he and Harry followed. “Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding’s over, the happier I’ll be.”

  “Yeah,” said Harry, “then we’ll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes… It’ll be like a holiday, won’t it?”