Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7

by J. K. Rowling

  As the weeks crept on, Harry could not help but notice, even through his new self-absorption, that Ron seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he was determined to make up for having walked out on them, perhaps because Harry’s descent into listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership qualities, Ron was the one now encouraging and exhorting the other two into action.

  “Three Horcruxes left,” he kept saying. “We need a plan of action, come on! Where haven’t we looked? Let’s go through it again. The orphanage…”

  Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Riddle House, Borgin and Burkes, Albania, every place that they knew Tom Riddle had ever lived or worked, visited or murdered, Ron and Hermione raked over them again, Harry joining in only to stop Hermione pestering him. He would have been happy to sit alone in silence, trying to read Voldemort’s thoughts, to find out more about the Elder Wand, but Ron insisted on journeying to ever more unlikely places simply, Harry was aware, to keep them moving.

  “You never know,” was Ron’s constant refrain. “Upper Flagley is a Wizarding village, he might’ve wanted to live there. Let’s go and have a poke around.”

  These frequent forays into Wizarding territory brought them within occasional sight of Snatchers.

  “Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death Eaters,” said Ron. “The lot that got me were a bit pathetic, but Bill recons some of them are really dangerous. They said on Potterwatch—”

  “On what?” said Harry.

  “Potterwatch, didn’t I tell you that’s what it was called? The program I keep trying to get on the radio, the only one that tells the truth about what’s going on! Nearly all of the programs are following You-Know-Who’s line, all except Potterwatch, I really want you to hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in…”

  Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch snatches of advice on how to treat dragonpox, and once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.” While he taped, Ron continued to try to hit on the correct password, muttering strings of random words under his breath.

  “They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he told them. “Bill had a real knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end…”

  But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Harry was sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty, staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron shouted excitedly from inside the tent.

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in here, Harry.”

  Roused for the first time in days from his contemplation of the Deathly Hallows, Harry hurried back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione kneeling on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione, who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed, staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most familiar voice was issuing.

  “…apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”

  “But that’s Lee Jordan!” said Hermione.

  “I know!” beamed Ron. “Cool, eh?”

  “…now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee was saying, “and I’m pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!”

  “Hi.”

  “Evening, River.”

  “‘River’—that’s Lee,” Ron explained. “They’ve all got code names, but you can usually tell—”

  “Shh!” said Hermione.

  “But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee went on, “let’s take a moment to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don’t think important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”

  Harry felt a sick, swooping in his belly. He, Ron, and Hermione gazed at one another in horror.

  “A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news.

  “Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities are attributing their deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse—more evidence, as if it were needed, of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational sport under the new regime.

  “Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic.

  “Listeners, I’d like to invite you now to join us in a minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters.”

  Silence fell, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not speak. Half of Harry yearned to hear more, half of him was afraid of what might come next. It was the first time he had felt fully connected to the outside world for a long time.

  “Thank you,” said Lee’s voice. “And now we can return to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”

  “Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring.

  “Kingsley!” burst out Ron.

  “We know!” said Hermione, hushing him.

  “Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” said Kingsley. “However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”

  “And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be ‘Wizards first’?” asked Lee.

  “I’d say that it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to ‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’” replied Kingsley. “We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.”

  “Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for Minister of Magic if we ever get out of this mess,” said Lee. “And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’”

  “Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice. Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper.

  “We know it’s Lupin!”

  “Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?”

  “I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”

  A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry. Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things he had said when they had last met?

  “And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?”

  “I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly, “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”

  Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears.

  “Nearly always right,” she repeated.

>   “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Ron in surprise. “Bill told me Lupin’s living with Tonks again! And apparently she’s getting pretty big too…”

  “…and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee was saying.

  “Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” said Lupin.

  “At least he’s still alive!” muttered Ron.

  “We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid”—all three of them gasped, and so nearly missed the rest of the sentence—“well-known gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to have hosted a ‘Support Harry Potter’ party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.”

  “I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, if you’ve got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?” asked Lee.

  “It would tend to give you an edge,” agreed Lupin gravely. “May I just add that while we here at Potterwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge even the most devoted of Harry’s supporters against following Hagrid’s lead. ‘Support Harry Potter’ parties are unwise in the present climate.”

  “Indeed they are, Romulus,” said Lee, “so we suggest that you continue to show your devotion to the man with the lightning scar by listening to Potterwatch! And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new correspondent. Rodent?”

  “‘Rodent’?” said yet another familiar voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione cried out together:

  “Fred!”

  “No—is it George?”

  “It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it was said,

  “I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’!”

  “Oh, all right then, ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”

  “Yes, River, I can,” said Fred. “As our listeners will know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.”

  “Which suits him, of course,” said Kingsley. “The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself.”

  “Agreed,” said Fred. “So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill people with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.”

  For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry was laughing: He could feel the weight of tension leaving him.

  “And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” asked Lee.

  “Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?” asked Fred. “Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long way away if you’re planning to take any risks. I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first!”

  “Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,” said Lee. ”Listeners, that brings us to the end of another Potterwatch. We don’t know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ Keep each other safe: Keep faith. Good night.”

  The radio’s dial twirled and the lights behind the tuning panel went out. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still beaming. Hearing familiar, friendly voices was an extraordinary tonic; Harry had become so used to their isolation he had nearly forgotten that other people were resisting Voldemort. It was like waking from a long sleep.

  “Good, eh?” said Ron happily.

  “Brilliant,” said Harry.

  “It’s so brave of them,” sighed Hermione admiringly. “If they were found…”

  “Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” said Ron. “Like us.”

  “But did you hear what Fred said?” asked Harry excitedly; now the broadcast was over, his thoughts turned around toward his all consuming obsession. “He’s abroad! He’s still looking for the Wand, I knew it!”

  “Harry—”

  “Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol—”

  “HARRY, NO!”

  “—demort’s after the Elder Wand!”

  “The name’s Taboo!” Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounded outside the tent. “I told you, Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore—we’ve got to put the protection back around us—quickly—it’s how they find—”

  But Ron stopped talking, and Harry knew why. The Sneakoscope on the table had lit up and begun to spin; they could hear voices coming nearer and nearer: rough, excited voices. Ron pulled the Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked it: Their lamps went out.

  “Come out of there with your hands up!” came a rasping voice through the darkness. “We know you’re in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care who we curse!”

  23. MALFOY MANOR

  Harry looked around at the other two, now mere outlines in the darkness. He saw Hermione point her wand, set toward the outside, but into his face; there was a bang, a burst of white light, and he buckled in agony, unable to see. He could feel his face swelling rapidly under his hands as heavy footfalls surrounded him.

  “Get up, vermin.”

  Unknown hands dragged Harry roughly off the ground, before he could stop them, someone had rummaged through his pockets and removed the blackthorn wand. Harry clutched at his excruciatingly painful face, which felt unrecognizable beneath his fingers, tight, swollen, and puffy as though he had suffered some violent allergic reaction. His eyes had been reduced to slits through which he could barely see; his glasses fell off as he was bundled out of the tent: all he could make out were the blurred shapes of four or five people wrestling Ron and Hermione outside too.

  “Get—off—her!” Ron shouted. There was the unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting flesh: Ron grunted in pain and Hermione screamed, “No! Leave him alone, leave him alone!”

  “Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done to him if he’s on my list,” said the horribly familiar, rasping voice. “Delicious girl… what a treat… I do enjoy the softness of the skin…”

  Harry’s stomach turned over. He knew who this was, Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who was permitted to wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired savagery.

  “Search the tent!” said another voice.

  Harry was thrown face down onto the ground. A thud told him that Ron had been cast down beside him. They could hear footsteps and crashes; the men were pushing over chairs inside the tent as they searched.

  “Now, let’s see who we’ve got,” said Greyback’s gloating voice from overhead, and Harry was rolled over onto his back. A beam of wand light fell onto his face and Greyback laughed.

  “I’ll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?”

  Harry did not answer immediately.

  “I said,” repeated Greyback, and Harry received a blow to the diaphragm that made him double over in pain. “what happened to
you?”

  “Stung,” Harry muttered. “Been Stung.”

  “Yeah, looks like it,” said a second voice.

  “What’s your name?” snarled Greyback.

  “Dudley,” said Harry.

  “And your first name?”

  “I—Vernon. Vernon Dudley.”

  “Check the list, Scabior,” said Greyback, and Harry head him move sideways to look down at Ron, instead. “And what about you, ginger?”

  “Stan Shunpike,” said Ron.

  “Like ’ell you are,” said the man called Scabior. “We know Stan Shunpike, ’e’s put a bit of work our way.”

  There was another thud.

  “I’b Bardy,” said Ron, and Harry could tell that his mouth was full of blood. “Bardy Weasley.”

  “A Weasley?” rasped Greyback. “So you’re related to blood traitors even if you’re not a Mudblood. And lastly, your pretty little friend…”

  The relish in his voice made Harry’s flesh crawl.

  “Easy, Greyback,” said Scabior over the jeering of the others.

  “Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet. We’ll see if she’s a bit quicker at remembering her name than Barny. Who are you, girly?”

  “Penelope Clearwater,” said Hermione. She sounded terrified, but convincing.

  “What’s your blood status?”

  “Half-Blood,” said Hermione.

  “Easy enough to check,” said Scabior. “But the ’ole lot of ’em look like they could still be ’ogwarts age—”

  “We’b lebt,” said Ron.

  “Left, ’ave you, ginger?” said Scabior. “And you decided to go camping? And you thought, just for a laugh, you’d use the Dark Lord’s name?”