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Chapter 5
Fallen Warrior
Hagrid?” Harry struggled to raise himself out of the debris of metal and leather that surrounded him: his hands sank into inches of muddy water as he tried to stand. He could not understand where Voldemort had gone and expected him to swoop out of the darkness at any moment. Something hot and wet was trickling down his chin and from his forehead. He crawled out of the pond and stumbled toward the great dark mass on the ground that was Hagrid. “Hagrid? Hagrid. Talk to me— ” But the dark mass did not stir. “Who’s there? Is it Potter? Are you Harry Potter?” Harry did not recognize the man’s voice. Then a woman shouted, “They’ve crashed, Ted! Crashed in the garden!” Harry’s head was swimming. “Hagrid.” he repeated stupidly, and his knees buckled. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back on what felt like cushions, with a burning sensation in his ribs and right arm.
His missing tooth had been regrown. The scar on his forehead was still throbbing. “Hagrid?” He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on a sofa in an unfamiliar, lamplit sitting room. His rucksack lay on the floor a short distance away, wed and muddy. A fair-haired, big-bellied man was watching Harry anxiously. “Hagrid’s fine, son,” said the man, “the wife’s seeing to him now. How are you feeling? Anything else broken? I’ve fixed your ribs, your tooth, and your arm. I’m Ted, by the way, Ted Tonks— Dora’s father.” Harry sat up too quickly: Lights popped in front of his eyes and he felt sick and giddy. “Voldemort— ” “Easy, now,” said Ted Tonks, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder and pushing him back against the cushions. “That was a nasty crash you just had. What happened, anyway? Something go wrong with the bike? Arthur Weasley overstretch himself again, him and his Muggle contraptions?” “No,” said Harry, as his scar pulsed like an open wound. “Death Eaters, loads of them—we were chased— ” “Death eaters?” said Ted sharply. “What d’you mean, Death Eaters? I thought they didn’t know you were being moved tonight, I thought— ” “They knew,” said Harry. Ted Tonks looked up at the ceiling as though he could see through to the sky above. Well, we know our protective charms hold, then, don’t we? They shouldn’t be able to get within a hundred yards of the place in any direction.” Now Harry understood why Voldemort had vanished: it had been at the point when the motorbike crossed the barrier of the Order’s charms. He only hoped they would continue to work: He imagined Voldemort, a hundred yards above them as they spoke, looking for a way to pe*****te what Harry visualized as a great transparent bubble. He swung his legs off the sofa; he needed to see Hagrid with his own eyes before he would believe that he was alive. He had barely stood up, however, when a door opened and Hagrid squeezed through it, his face covered in mud and blood, limping a little but miraculously alive. “Harry!” Knocking over two delicate tables and an aspidistra, he covered the floor between them in two strides and pulled Harry into a hug that nearly cracked his newly repaired ribs. “Blimey, Harry, how did yeh get out o’ that? I thought we were both goners.” “Yeah, me too. I can’t believe— ” Harry broke off. He had just noticed the woman who had entered the room behind Hagrid. “You!” he shouted, and he thrust his hand into his pocket, but it was empty. “Your wand’s here, son,” said Ted, tapping it on Harry’s arm. “It fell tight beside you, I picked it up. And that’s my wife you’re shouting at.” “Oh, I’m— I’m sorry.” As shed moved forward into the room, Mrs. Tonks’s resemblance to her sister Bellatrix became much less pronounced.
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Chapter 4
The Seven Potters
Harry ran back upstairs to his bedroom, arriving at the window just in time to see the Dursleys’ cat swinging out of the drive and off up the road. Dedalus’s top hat was visible between Aunt Petunia and Dudley in the backseat. The car turned right at the end of Privet Drive, its windows burned scarlet for a moment in the now setting sun, and then it was gone. Harry picked up Hedwig’s cage, his Firebolt, and his rucksack, gave his unnaturally tidy bedroom one last sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way back downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage, broomstick, and bag near the foot of the stairs. The light was fading rapidly now, the hall full of shadows in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know that he was about to leave the house for the last time. Long ago, when he had been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy themselves, the hours of solitude had been a rare treat: Pausing only to sneak something tasty from the fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley’s computer, or put on the television and flicked through the channels to his heart’s content. It gave him an odd, empty feeling to remember those times; it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost. “Don’t you want to take a last look at the place?” he asked Hedwig, who was still sulking, with her head under her wing. “We’ll never be here again. Don’t you want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories . . . Dudley puked on it after I saved him from the dementors. . . . Turns out he was grateful after all, can you believe it? . . . And last summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door. . . .” Harry lost the thread of his thoughts for a moment and Hedwig did nothing to help him retrieve it, but continued to sit with her head under her wing. Harry turned his back on the front door. “And under here, Hedwig”—Harry pulled open a door under the stairs— “is where I used to sleep; You never knew me then— Blimey, it’s small, I’d forgotten. . . .” Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and umbrellas, remembering how he used to wake every morning looking up at the underside of the staircase, which was more often than not adorned with a spider or two. Those had been the days before he had known anything about his true identity; before he had found out how his parents had died or why such strange things often happened around him. But Harry could still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even in those days: confused dreams involving flashes of green light and once—Uncle Vernon had nearly crashed the car when Harry had recounted it— a flying motorbike . . . There was a sudden, deafening roar from somewhere nearby. Harry straightened up with a jerk and smacked the top of his head on the low door frame. Pausing only to employ a few of Uncle Vernon’s choicest swear words, he staggered back into the kitchen, clutching his head and staring out of the window into the back garden. The darkness seemed to be rippling, the air itself quivering. Then, one by one, figures began to pop into sight as their Disillusionment Charms lifted. Dominating the scene was Hagrid, wearing a helmet and goggles and sitting astride an enormous motorbike with a black sidecar attached. All around him other people were dismounting from brooms and, in two cases, skeletal, black winged horses. Wrenching open the back door, Harry hurtled into their midst. There was a general cry of greeting as Hermione flung her arms around him, Ron clapped him on the back, and Hagrid said, “All righ’, Harry? Ready fer the off?” “Definitely,” said Harry, beaming around at them all. “But I wasn’t expecting this many of you!” “Change of plan,” growled Mad-Eye, who was holding two enormous, bulging sacks, and whose magical eye was spinning from darkening sky to house to garden with dizzying rapidity. “Let’s get undercover before we talk you through it.”


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Chapter 3
The Dursleys Departing
The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stair and a voice yelled, “Oi, You!” Sixteen years of being addressed thus left Harry in no doubt whom his uncle was calling; nevertheless, he did not immediately respond. He was still gazing at the mirror fragment in which, for a split second, he had thought he say Dumbledore’s eye. It was not until his uncle bellowed, “BOY!” that Harry got slowly to his feet and headed for the bedroom door, pausing to add the piece of broken mirror to the rucksack filled with things he would be taking with him. “You took your time!” roared Vernon Dursley when Harry appeared at the top of the stairs. “Get down here, I want a word!” Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his jeans pockets. When he reached the living room he found all three Dursleys. They were dressed for traveling: Uncle Vernon in a fawn zip-up jacket, Aunt Petunia in a neat salmon-colored coat, and Dudly, Harry’s large, blond, muscular cousin, in his leather jacket.
“Yes?” asked Harry. “Sit down!” said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his eyebrows. “Please!” added Uncle Vernon, wincing slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat. Harry sat. He though he knew what was coming. His uncle began to pace up and down, Aunt Petunia and Dudley following his movements with anxious expressions. Finally, his large purple face crumpled with concentration, Uncle Vernon stopped in front of Harry and spoke. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “What a surprise,” said Harry. “Don’t you talk in that tone—” began Aunt Petunia in a shrill voice, but Vern Dursley waved her down. “It’s all a lot of claptrap,” said Uncle Vernon, glaring at Harry with piggy little eyes. “I’ve decided I don’t believe a word of it. We’re staying put, we’re not going anywhere.” Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Vernon Dursley had been changing his mind every twenty-four hours for the past four weeks, packing and unpacking ad repacking the car with every change of heart. Harry’s favorite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, unaware that Dud ley had added his dumbbells to his case since the last time it had been unpacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the boot and collapsed with roars of pain and much swearing. “According to you,” Vernon Dursley said now, resuming his pacing up and down the living room, “we—Petunia, Dudley, and I— are in danger. From— from—” “Some of ‘my lot,’ right,” said Harry. “Well, I don’t believe it,” repeated Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt in front of Harry again. “I was awake half the night thinking it’s over, and I believe it’s a plot to get the house.” “The house?” repeated Harry. “What house?” “This house!” shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein in his forehead starting to pulse. “Our house! House prices are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the way and then you’re go ing to do a bit of hocus-pocus and before we know it the deeds will be in your name and— ” “Are you out of your mind?” demanded Harry. “A plot to get this house? Are you actually as stupid as you look?” “Don’t you dare—!” squealed Aunt Petunia, but again, Ver non waved her down: Slights on his personal appearance were, it seemed, as nothing to the danger he has spotted. “Just in case you’ve forgotten,” said Harry, “I’ve already got a house, my godfather left me one. So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?” There was silence. Harry thought he had rather impressed his uncle with this argument. “You claim,” said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet again, “that this Lord Thing— ” “—Voldemort,” said Harry impatiently, “and we’ve been through this about a hundred times already. This isn’t a claim, it’s fact, Dumbledore told you last year, and Kingsley and Mr. Weasley— ” Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that his uncle was attempting to ward of recollections of the unannounced visit, a few days into Harry’s summer holidays, of two fully grown wizards. The arrival on the doorstep of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most unpleasant shock to the Dursleys. Harry had to admit, however, that as Mr. Weasley had once demolished half of the living room, his reappearance could not have been expected to delight Uncle Vernon. “—Kingsley and Mr. Weasley explained it all as well,” Harry pressed on remorselessly. “Once I’m seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break, and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding you hostage I’d come and try to rescue you.” Uncle Vernon’s and Harry’s eyes met. Harry was sure that in that instant they were both wondering the same thing.
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Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows C2 - Share To World
Chapter 2
In Memoriam
Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left and sweating under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china. He had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom door. “What the?” He looked around, the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley’s idea of a clever b***y trap. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap. It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four days left of being unable to perform magic. but he had to admit to himself that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he came to think of it particularly in light of his immediate plans it seemed a serious flaw in his magical education. Making a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done, he used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could, before returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him. Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the first time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his hand into this mulch, experienced a stabbing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand, and withdrawn it to see a lot of blood. He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk again, he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that flickered feebly between SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY and POTTER STINKS, a cracked and worn out Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he finally discovered the sharp edge that had done the damage. He recognized it at once. It was a two-inch-long fragment of the enchanted mirror that his dead godfather, Sirius, had given him.
Harry laid it aside and felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing more remained of his godfather’s last gift except powdered glass, which clung to the deepest layer of debris like glittering grit. Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which he had cut himself, seeing nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the fragment on top of that morning’s Daily Prophet, which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret and of longing the discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the rubbish in the trunk. It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, and sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them from now on. His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, and most of his textbooks were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He wondered what his aunt and uncle would do with them; burn them in the dead of night, probably, as if they were the evidence of some dreadful crime. His Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books, the photograph album Hagrid had once given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had been repacked into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder’s Map and the locket with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place on honor not because it was valuable—in all usual senses it was worthless—but because of what it had cost to attain it. This left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his desk beside his snowy owl, Hedwig: one for each of the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive this summer. He got up off the floor, stretched, and moved across to his desk. Hedwig made no movement as he began to flick through the newspapers, throwing them into the rubbish pile one by one. The owl as asleep, or else faking: she was angry with Harry about the limited amount of time she was allowed out of her cage at the moment. As he neared the bottom of the pile of newspapers, Harry slowed down, searching for one particular issue that he knew had arrived shortly after he had returned to Privet Drive for the summer; he remembered that there had been a small mention on the front about the resignation of Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts. At last he found it. Turning to page ten, he sank into his desk chair and reread the article he had been looking for.
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Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows C1 - Share To World
Chapter 1 The Dark Lord Ascending
The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other’s chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction. “News?” asked the taller of the two. “The best,” replied Severus Snape. The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles, on the right by a high, nearty manicured hedge. The men’s long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they marched. “Thought I might be late,” said Yaxley, his blunt features sliding in and out of sight as the branches of overhanging tress broke the moonlight. “It was a little trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You should confident that your reception will be good?” Snape nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned right, into a wide driveway that led off the lane. The high hedge curved with them, running off into the distance beyond the pair of impressive wrought-iron gates barring the men’s way. Neither of them broke step: In silence both raised their left arms in a kind of salute and passed straight through, as though the dark metal were smoke. The yew hedges muffled the sound of the men’s footsteps. There was a rustle somewhere to their right; Yaxley drew his wand again, pointing it over his companion’s head, but the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than a pure-white peacock, strutting majestically along the top of the hedge. “He always did himself well, Lucius. Peacocks . . . ” Yaxley thrust his wand back under his cloak with a snort. A handsome manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive, lights glinting in the diamond-paned down stairs windows. Somewhere in the dark garden beyond the hedge a fountain was playing. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as Snape and Yaxley sped toward the front door, which swung inward at their approach, though nobody had visibly opened it. The hallway was large, dimly light, and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the walls followed Snape and Yaxley as they strode past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden door leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, then Snape turned the bronze handle. The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a long and ornate table. The room’s usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the walls. Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror. Snape and Yaxley lingered for a moment on the thresh old. As their eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, they were drawn upward to the strangest feature of the scene; an apparently unconscious human figure hanging upside down over the table, revolving slowly as if suspended by an invisible rope, and reflected in the mirror and in the bare, polished surface of the table below. He seemed unable to prevent himself from glancing upward every minute or so. “Yaxley, Snape,” said a high, clear voice from the head of the table. “You are very nearly late.” The speaker was seated directly in front of the fireplace, so that it was difficult, at first, for the new arrivals to make out more than his silhouette. As they drew nearer, however, this face shone through the gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow. “Severus, here,” said Voldemort, indicating the seat on his immediate right. “Yaxley—beside Dolohov.” The two men took their allotted places. Most of the eyes around the table followed Snape, and it was to him that Voldemort spoke first. “So?” “My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at night fall.” The interest around the table sharpened palpably; Some stiffened, others fidgeted, all gazing at Snape and Voldemort. “Saturday . . . at nightfall,” repeated Voldemort. His red eyes fastened upon Snape’s black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape, however, looked calmly back into Voldemort’s face and, after a moment or two. Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into something like a smile. “Good. Very good. And this information comes— ” “— from the source we discussed,” said Snape. “My Lord.” Yaxley had leaned forward to look down the long table at Voldemort and Snape.
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