Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7

by J. K. Rowling

  “Nod a laugh,” said Ron. “Aggiden.”

  “Accident?”

  There was more jeering laughter.

  “You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s name, Weasley?” growled Greyback. “The Order of the Phoenix. Mean anything to you?”

  “Doh.”

  “Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members have been tracked that way. We’ll see. Bind them up with the other two prisoners!”

  Someone yanked Harry up by the hair, dragged him a short way, pushed him down into a sitting position, then started binding him back-to-back with other people. Harry was still half blind, barely able to see anything through his puffed-up eyes. When at last the man tying then had walked away, Harry whispered to the other prisoners.

  “Anyone still got a wand?”

  “No,” said Ron and Hermione from either side of him.

  “This is all my fault. I said the name. I’m sorry—”

  “Harry?”

  It was a new, but familiar voice, and it came from directly behind Harry, from the person tied to Hermione’s left.

  “Dean?”

  “It is you! If they find out who they’ve got—! They’re Snatchers, they’re only looking for truants to sell for gold—”

  “Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback was saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots marched close by Harry and they heard more crashes from inside the tent. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and these truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?” he roared.

  “Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley un ’ere, Greyback.”

  “Interesting,” said Greyback. “That’s interesting.”

  He crouched down beside Harry, who saw, through the infinitesimal gap left between his swollen eyelids, a face covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, with pointed brown teeth and sores in the corners of his mouth. Greyback smelled as he had done at the top of the tower where Dumbledore had died: of dirt, sweat, and blood.

  “So you aren’t wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on that list under a different name? What house were you in at Hogwarts?”

  “Slytherin,” said Harry automatically.

  “Funny ’ow they all thinks we wants to ’ear that,” leered Scabior out of the shadows. “But none of ’em can tell us where the common room is.”

  “It’s in the dungeons,” said Harry clearly. “You enter through the wall. It’s full of skulls and stuff and its under the lake, so the light’s all green.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Well, well, looks like we really ’ave caught a little Slytherin,” said Scabior. “Good for you, Vernon, ’cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who’s your father?”

  “He works at the Ministry,” Harry lied. He knew that his whole story would collapse with the smallest investigation, but on the other hand, he only had until his face regained its usual appearance before the game was up in any case. “Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

  “You know what, Greyback,” said Scabior. “I think there is a Dudley in there.”

  Harry could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck, get them safely out of this?

  “Well, well,” said Greyback, and Harry could hear the tiniest note of trepidation in that callous voice, and knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had just indeed just attacked and bound the son of a Ministry Official. Harry’s heart was pounding against the ropes around his ribs; he would not have been surprised to know that Greyback could see it. “If you’re telling the truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry. I expect your father’ll reward us just for picking you up.”

  “But,” said Harry, his mouth bone dry, “if you just let us—”

  “Hey!” came a shout from inside the tent. “Look at this, Greyback!”

  A dark figure came bustling toward them, and Harry saw a glint of silver to the light of their wands. They had found Gryffindor’s sword.

  “Ve-e-ery nice,” said Greyback appreciatively, taking it from his companion. “Oh, very nice indeed. Looks goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like this?”

  “It’s my father’s,” Harry lied, hoping against hope that it was too dark for Greyback to see the name etched just below the hilt. “We borrowed it to cut firewood—”

  “’Ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the Prophet!”

  As Scabior said it, Harry’s scar, which was stretched tight across his distended forehead, burned savagely. More clearly than he could make out anything around him, he saw a towering building, a grim fortress, jet-black and forbidding: Voldemort’s thoughts had suddenly become razor-sharp again; he was gliding toward the gigantic building with a sense of calmly euphoric purpose…

  So close… So close… With a huge effort of will Harry closed his mind to Voldemort’s thoughts, pulling himself back to where he sat, tied to Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Griphook in the darkness, listening to Greyback and Scabior.

  “‘Hermione Granger,’” Scabior was saying, “‘the Mudblood who is known to be traveling with ’Arry Potter.’”

  Harry’s scar burned in the silence, but he made a supreme effort to keep himself present, nor to slip into Voldemort’s mind. He heard the creak of Greyback’s boots as he crouched down, in front of Hermione.

  “You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you.”

  “It isn’t! It isn’t me!”

  Hermione’s terrified squeak was as good as a confession.

  “‘…known to be traveling with Harry Potter,’” repeated Greyback quietly.

  A stillness had settled over the scene. Harry’s scar was exquisitely painful, but he struggled with all his strength against the pull of Voldemort’s thoughts. It had never been so important to remain in his own right mind.

  “Well, this changed things, doesn’t it?” whispered Greyback. Nobody spoke: Harry sensed the gang of Snatchers watching, frozen, and felt Hermione’s arm trembling against his. Greyback got up and took a couple of steps to where Harry sat, crouching down again to stare closely at his misshapen features.

  “What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” he asked softly, his breath foul in Harry’s nostrils as he pressed a filthy finger to the taught scar.

  “Don’t touch it!” Harry yelled; he could not stop himself, he thought he might be sick from the pain of it.

  “I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” breathed Greyback.

  “I found glasses!” yelped one of the Snatchers skulking in the background. “There was glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait—”

  And seconds later Harry’s glasses had been rammed back onto his face. The Snatchers were closing in now, peering at him.

  “It is!” rasped Greyback. “We’ve caught Potter!”

  They all took several steps backward, stunned by what they had done. Harry, still fighting to remain present in his own splitting head, could think of nothing to say. Fragmented visions were breaking across the surface of his mind—

  —He was hiding around the high walls of the black fortress—

  No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave danger—

  —looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest tower—

  He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in low voices—

  —Time to fly…

  “…To the Ministry?”

  “To hell with the Ministry,” growled Greyback. “They’ll take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who.”

  “Will you summon ’im? ’ere?” said Scabior, sounding awed, terrified.

  “No,” snarled Greyback, “I haven’t got—they say he’s using the Malfoy’s place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.”

  Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback ha
d not been granted this highest honor.

  Harry’s scar seared again—

  —and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the windows at the very top of the tower—

  “…completely sure it’s him? ’Cause if it ain’t, Greyback, we’re dead.”

  “Who’s in charge here?” roared Greyback, covering his moment of inadequacy. “I say that’s Potter, and him plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along, any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get the girl thrown in!”

  —The window was the merest slit in the black rock, not big enough for a man to enter… A skeletal figure was just visible through it, curled beneath a blanket… Dead, or sleeping…?

  “All right!” said Scabior. “All right, we’re in! And what about the rest of ’em, Greyback, what’ll we do with ’em?”

  “Might as well take the lot. We’ve got two Mudbloods, that’s another ten Galleons. Give me the sword as well. If they’re rubies, that’s another small fortune right there.”

  The prisoners were dragged to their feet. Harry could hear Hermione’s breathing, fast and terrified.

  “Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do Potter!” said Greyback, seizing a fistful of Harry’s hair; Harry could feel his long yellow nails scratching his scalp. “On three! One—two—three—”

  They Disapparated, pulling the prisoners with them. Harry struggled, trying to throw off Greyback’s hand, but it was hopeless: Ron and Hermione were squeezed tightly against him on either side; he could not separate from the group, and as the breath was squeezed out of him his scar seared more painfully still—

  —as he forced himself through the slit of a window like a snake and landed, lightly as vapor inside the cell-like room—

  The prisoners lurched into one another as they landed in a country lane. Harry’s eyes, still puffy, took a moment to acclimatize, then he saw a pair of wrought-iron gates at the foot of what looked like a long drive. He experienced the tiniest trickle of relief. The worst had not happened yet: Voldemort was not here. He was, Harry knew, for he was fighting to resist the vision, in some strange, fortresslike place, at the top of a tower. How long it would take Voldemort to get to this place, once he knew that Harry was here, was another matter…

  One of the Snatchers strode to the gates and shook them.

  “How do we get in? They’re locked, Greyback, I can’t—blimey!”

  He whipped his hands away in fright. The iron was contorting, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and coils into a frightening face, which spoke in a clanging, echoing voice. “State your purpose!”

  “We’ve got Potter!” Greyback roared triumphantly. “We’ve captured Harry Potter!”

  The gates swung open.

  “Come on!” said Greyback to his men, and the prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to-back to the four other prisoners. Closing his puffy eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught…

  The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face… The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone…

  “So, you have come. I thought you would… one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”

  “You lie!”

  As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.

  Light spilled out over all of them.

  “What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice.

  “We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” rasped Greyback.

  “Who are you?”

  “You know me!” There was resentment in the werewolf’s voice. “Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”

  Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle around too.

  “I know ’es swollen, ma’am, but it’s ’im!” piped up Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ’is scar. And this ’ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been traveling around with ’im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ’im, and we’ve got ’is wand as well! ’Ere, ma’am—”

  Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the blackthorn wand at her. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Bring them in,” she said.

  Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.

  “Follow me,” said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”

  The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.

  “What is this?”

  The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now. He could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though his scar was still burning.

  “They say they’ve got Potter,” said Narcissa’s cold voice. “Draco, come here.”

  Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.

  Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.

  “Well, boy?” rasped the werewolf.

  Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.

  His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by Hermione’s jinx. His black hair reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood there, he would have wondered who was wearing his glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact with Draco as the latter approached.

  “Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”

  “I can’t—I can’t be sure,” said Draco. He was keeping his distance from Greyback, and seemed as scared of looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.

  “But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”

  Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.

  “Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv—”

  “Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly.

  “Of course not, of course not!” said Lucius impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes. With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he was peering out from between the bars of a cage.

  “What did you do to him?” Lucius asked Greyback. “How did he get into this state?”

  “That wasn’t us.”

  “Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” said Lucius.

  His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead.

  “There’s something there,” he whispered. “it could be the scar, stretched tight… Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”
/>   Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.

  “I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away toward the fireplace where his mother stood watching.

  “We had better be certain, Lucius,” Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice. “Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord… They say this is his”—she was looking closely at the blackthorn wand—“but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description… If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”

  “What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback. Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light fell on Hermione instead.

  “Wait,” said Narcissa sharply. “Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”

  “I… maybe… yeah.”

  “But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” shouted Lucius, striding around the bound prisoners to face Ron. “It’s them, Potter’s friends—Draco, look at him, isn’t it Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name—?”

  “Yeah,” said Draco again, his back to the prisoners. “It could be.”

  The drawing room door opened behind Harry. A woman spoke, and the sound of the voice wound Harry’s fear to an even higher pitch.

  “What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?”

  Bellatrix Lestrange walked slowly around the prisoners, and stopped on Harry’s right, staring at Hermione through her heavily lidded eyes.

  “But surely,” she said quietly, “this is the Mudblood girl? This is Grander?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s Granger!” cried Lucius, “And beside her, we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!”

  “Potter?” shrieked Bellatrix, and she backed away, the better to take in Harry.

  “Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!”

  She dragged back her left sleeve: Harry saw the Dark Mark burned into the flesh of her arm, and knew that she was about to touch it, to summon her beloved master—