The Dark Lord
Ascending
T
he 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
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Chapter 1
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 downstairs 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
2
The Dark Lord Ascending
beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded
mirror. Snape and Yaxley lingered for a moment on the threshold. 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 nightfall.”
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
3
Chapter 1
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. All faces turned to him.
“My Lord, I have heard differently,”
Yaxley waited but Voldemort did not speak, so he went on,
“Dawlish, the Auror, let slip that Potter will not be moved until
the thirtieth, the night before the boy turns seventeen.”
Snape was smiling,
“My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail;
this must be it. No doubt a Confundus Charm has been placed
upon Dawlish. It would not be the first time; he is known to be
susceptible.”
“I assure you, my Lord, Dawlish seemed quite certain,” said
Yaxley.
“If he has been Confunded, naturally he is certain,” said Snape.
“I assure you, Yaxley, the Auror Office will play no further part in
the protection of Harry Potter. The Order believes that we have
infiltrated the Ministry.”
“The Order’s got one thing right, then, eh?” said a squat man
sitting a short distance from Yaxley; he gave a wheezy giggle that
was echoed here and there along the table.
Voldemort did not laugh. His gaze had wandered upward to
4
The Dark Lord Ascending
the body revolving slowly overhead, and he seemed to be lost in
thought.
“My Lord,” Yaxley went on, “Dawlish believes an entire party
of Aurors will be used to transfer the boy— ”
Voldemort held up a large white hand, and Yaxley subsided at
once, watching resentfully as Voldemort turned back to Snape.
“Where are they going to hide the boy next?”
“At the home of one of the Order,” said Snape. “The place,
according to the source, has been given every protection that the
Order and Ministry together could provide. I think that there is
little chance of taking him once he is there, my Lord, unless, of
course, the Ministry has fallen before next Saturday, which might
give us the opportunity to discover and undo enough of the enchantments to break through the rest.”
“Well, Yaxley?” Voldemort called down the table, the firelight
glinting strangely in his red eyes. “Will the Ministry have fallen
by next Saturday?”
Once again, all heads turned. Yaxley squared his shoulders.
“My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have—with difficulty, and after great effort— succeeded in placing an Imperius
Curse upon Pius Thicknesse.” Many of those sitting around Yaxley looked impressed; his neighbor, Dolohov, a man with a long,
twisted face, clapped him on the back.
“It is a start,” said Voldemort. “But Thicknesse is only one
man. Scrimgeour must be surrounded by our people before I act.
One failed attempt on the Minister’s life will set me back a long
way.”
“Yes—my Lord, that is true—but you know, as Head of the
Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Thicknesse has regular
5
Chapter 1
contact not only with the Minister himself, but also with the Heads
of all the other Ministry departments. I will, I think, be easy now
that we have such a high-ranking official under our control, to
subjugate the others, and then they can all work together to bring
Scrimgeour down.”
“As long as our friend Thicknesse is not discovered before he
has converted the rest,” said Voldemort. “At any rate, it remains
unlikely that the Ministry will be mine before next Saturday. If we
cannot touch the boy at his destination, the it must be done while
he travels.”
“We are at an advantage there, my Lord,” said Yaxley, who
seemed determined to receive some portion of approval. “We now
have several people planted within the Department of Magical
Transport. If Potter Apparates or uses the Floo Network, we shall
know immediately.”
“He will not do either,” said Snape. “The order is eschewing any
form of transport that is controlled or regulated by the Ministry;
they mistrust everything to do with the place.”
“All the better,” said Voldemort. “He will have to move in the
open. Easier to take, by far.”
Again, Voldemort looked up at the slowly revolving body as he
went on, “I shall attend to the boy in person. There have been too
many mistakes where Harry Potter is concerned. Some of them
have been my own. That Potter lives is due more to my errors
than to his triumphs.”
The company around the table watched Voldemort apprehensively, each of them, by his or her expression, afraid that they
might be blamed for Harry Potter’s continued existence. Voldemort, however, seemed to be speaking more to himself than to any
6
The Dark Lord Ascending
of them, still addressing the unconscious body above him.
“I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and
chance, those wreckers of all but the best-laid plans. But I know
better now. I understand those things that I did not understand
before. I must be the one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall be.”
At these words, seemingly in response to them, a sudden wail
sounded, a terrible, drawn-out cry of misery and pain. Many of
those at the table looked downward, startled, for the sound had
seemed to issue from below their feet.
“Wormtail,” said Voldemort, with no change in his quiet,
thoughtful tone, and without removing his eyes from the revolving
body above, “have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner
quiet?”
“Yes, m–my Lord,” gasped a small man halfway down the table,
who had been sitting so low in his chair that it had appeared, at
first glance, to be unoccupied. Now he scrambled from his seat and
scurried from the room, leaving nothing behind him but a curious
gleam of silver.
“As I was saying,” continued Voldemort, looking again at the
tense faces of his followers, “I understand better now. I shall need,
for instance, to borrow a wand from one of you before I go to kill
Potter.”
The faces around his displayed nothing but shock; he might
have announced that he wanted to borrow one of their arms.
“No volunteers?” said Voldemort. “Let’s see . . . Lucius, I see
no reason for you to have a wand anymore.”
Lucius Malfoy looked up. His skin appeared yellowish and waxy
in the firelight, and his eyes were sunken and shadowed. When he
spoke, his voice was hoarse.
7
Chapter 1
“My Lord?”
“Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand.”
“I . . . ”
Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight
ahead, quite as pale as he was, her long blonde hair hanging down
her back, but beneath the table her slim fingers closed briefly on his
wrist. At her touch, Malfoy put his hand into his robes, withdrew
a wand, and passed it along to Voldemort, who held it up in from
of his red eyes, examining it closely.
“What is it?”
“Elm, my Lord,” whispered Malfoy.
“And the core?”
“Dragon—dragon heartstring.”
“Good,” said Voldemort. He drew out his own wand and compared the lengths. Lucius Malfoy made an involuntary movement;
for a fraction of a second, it seemed he expected to receive Voldemort’s want in exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed
by Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously.
“Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?”
Some of the throng sniggered.
“I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for
you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than
happy of late . . . What is it about my presence in your home that
displeases you, Lucius?”
“Nothing—nothing, my Lord!”
“Such lies, Lucius . . . ”
The soft voice seems to hiss on even after the cruel mouth had
stopped moving. One or two of the wizards barely repressed a
shudder as the hissing grew louder; something heavy could be heard
8
The Dark Lord Ascending
sliding across the floor beneath the table.
The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up Voldemort’s chair.
It rose, seemingly endlessly, and came to rest across Voldemort’s
shoulders; its neck the thickness of a man’s thigh; its eyes, with
their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort stroked the
creature absently with long thin fingers, still looking at Lucius
Malfoy.
“Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my
return, my rise to power, not the very thing they professed to desire
for so many years?”
“Of course, my Lord,” said Lucius Malfoy. His hand shook as
he wiped sweat from his upper lip. “We did desire it—we do.”
To Malfoy’s left, his wife made an odd, stiff nod, her eyes
averted from Voldemort and the snake. To his right, his son, Draco,
who had been gazing up at the inert body overhead, glanced quickly
at Voldemort and away again, terrified to make eye contact.
“My Lord,” said a dark woman halfway down the table, her
voice constricted with emotion, “it is an honor to have you here,
in our family’s house. There can be no higher pleasure.”
She sat beside her sister, as unlike her in looks, with her dark
hair and heavily lidded eyes, as she was in bearing and demeanor;
where Narcissa sat rigid and impassive, Bellatrix leaned toward
Voldemort, for mere words could not demonstrate her longer for
closeness.
“No higher pleasure,” repeated Voldemort, his head tilted a
little to one side as he considered Bellatrix. “That means a great
deal, Bellatrix, from you,”
Her face flooded with color; her eyes welled with tears of delight.
“My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!”
9
Chapter 1
“No higher pleasure . . . even compared with the happy event
that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?”
She stared at him, her lips parted, evidently confused.
“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”
“I’m talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And your, Lucius and
Narcissa. She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You
must be so proud.”
There was an eruption of jeering laughter from around the table.
Many leaned forward to exchange gleeful looks, a few thumped the
table with their fists. The great snake, disliking the disturbance,
opened its mouth and hissed angrily, but the Death Eaters did
not hear it, so jubilant were they at Bellatrix and the Malfoys’
humiliation. Bellatrix’s face, so recently flushed with happiness,
had turned an ugly, blotchy red.
“She is no niece of ours, my Lord,” she cried over the outpouring
of mirth. “We—Narcissa and I—have never set eyes on our sister
since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with
either of us, nor any beast she marries.”
“What say you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, and though his voice
was quiet, it carried clearly through the catcalls and jeers. “Will
you babysit the cubs?”
The hilarity mounted; Draco Malfoy looked in terror at his
father, who was staring down into his own lap, then caught his
mother’s eye. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, then resumed her own deadpan stare at the opposite wall.
“Enough,” said Voldemort, stroking the angry snake.
“Enough.”
And the laughter died at once.
“Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over
10
The Dark Lord Ascending
time,” he said as Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring.
“You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut
away those parts that threaten the health of the rest.”
“Yes, my Lord,” whispered Bellatrix, and her eyes swam with
tears of gratitude again. “At the first chance!”
“You shall have it,” said Voldemort. “And in your family, so
in the world . . . we shall cut away the canker that infects us until
only those of the true blood remain . . . ”
Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy’s wand, pointed it directly at
the slowly revolving figure suspended over the table, and gave it
a tiny flick. The figure came to life with a groan and began to
struggle against invisible bonds.
“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” asked Voldemort.
Snape raised his eyes to the upside down face. All of the Death
Eaters were looking up at the captive now, as though they had
been given permission to show curiosity. As she revolved to face
the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice. “Severus! Help me!”
“Ah, yes,” said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.
“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout
with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that
the woman had woken, he seems unable to look at her anymore.
“But you would not have taken her classes,” said Voldemort.
“For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by
Charity Burbage, who until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A
broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled.
“Yes . . . Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and
11
Chapter 1
wizards all about Muggles . . . how they are not so different from
us . . . ”
One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage
revolved to face Snape again.
“Severus . . . please . . . please . . . ”
“Silence,” said Voldemort, with another twitch of Malfoy’s
wand, and Charity fell silent as if gagged. “Not content with
corrupting and polluting the minds of Wizarding children, last
week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept
those thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling
of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable
circumstance . . . She would have use all mate with Muggles . . . or,
no doubt, werewolves . . . ”
Nobody laughed this time; There was no mistaking the anger
and contempt in Voldemort’s voice. For the third time, Charity
Burbage revolved to face Snape. Tears were pouring from her eyes
into her hair. Snape looked back at her, quite impassive, as she
turned slowly away from his again.
“Avada Kedavra.”
The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room.
Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which
trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in
their chairs. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.
“Dinner, Nagini,” said Voldemort softly, and the great snake
swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.
12
Chapter 2
In Memoriam
H
arry 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
booby 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
13
Chapter 2
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
14
In Memoriam
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
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Chapter 2
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.
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REMEMBERED
by Elphias Doge
I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our
first day at Hogwarts. Our mutual attraction was
undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves to be outsiders. I had contracted dragon pox
shortly before arriving at school, and while I was
no longer contagious, my pockmarked visage and
greenish hue did not encourage many to approach
me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts
under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a
year previously, his father, Percival, had been convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon
three young Muggles.
Albus never attempted to deny that his father
(who was to die in Azkaban) had committed this
crime; on the contrary, when I plucked up courage
to ask him, he assured me that he knew his father
to be guilty. Beyond that, Dumbledore refused to
speak of the sad business, though many attempted
to make him do so. Some, indeed, were disposed to
praise his father’s action and assumed that Albus
too was a Muggle-hater. They could not have been
more mistaken. As anybody who knew Albus would
attest, he never revealed the remotest anti-Muggle
tendency. Indeed, his determined support for Mug16
In Memoriam
gle rights gained him many enemies in subsequent
years.
In a matter of months, however, Albus’s own
fame had begun to eclipse that of his father. By
the end of his first year he would never again be
known as the son of a Muggle-hater, but as nothing
more or less than the most brilliant student ever
seen at the school. Those of us who were privileged
to be his friends benefited from his example, not to
mention his help and encouragement, with which he
was always generous. He confessed to me in later life
that he knew even then that his greatest pleasure
lay in teaching.
He not only won every prize of note that the
school offered, he was soon in regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the
day, including Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist; Bathilda Bagshot, the noted historian; and
Adalbert Waffling, the magical theoretician. Several of his papers found their way into learned publications such as Transfiguration Today, Challenges
in Charming, and The Practical Potioneer. Dumbledore’s future career seemed likely to be meteoric,
and the only question that remained was when he
would become Minister of Magic. Though it was often predicted in later years that he was on the point
of taking the job, however, he never had Ministerial
ambitions.
Three years after we had started at Hogwarts,
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Chapter 2
Albus’s brother, Aberforth, arrived at school. They
were not alike; Aberforth was never bookish and,
unlike Albus, preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than through reasoned discussion. However, it is quite wrong to suggest, as some have, that
the brothers were not friends. They rubbed along
as comfortably as two such different boys could do.
In fairness to Aberforth, it must be admitted that
living in Albus’s shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable experience. Being continually
outshone was an occupational hazard of being his
friend and cannot have been any more pleasurable
as a brother.
When Albus and I left Hogwarts we intended to
take the then-traditional tour of the world together,
visiting and observing foreign wizards, before pursuing our separate careers. However, tragedy intervened. On the very eve of our trip, Albus’s
mother, Kendra, died, leaving Albus the head, and
sole breadwinner, of the family. I postponed my departure long enough to pay my respects at Kendra’s
funeral, then left for what was now to be a solitary journey. With a younger brother and sister to
care for, and little gold left to them, there could no
longer be any question of Albus accompanying me.
That was the period of our lives when we had
least contact. I wrote to Albus, describing, perhaps insensitively, the wonders of my journey, from
narrow escapes from chimeras in Greece to the ex18
In Memoriam
periments of Egyptian alchemists. His letters told
me little of his day-to-day life, which I guessed to
be frustratingly dull for such a brilliant wizard. Immersed in my own experiences, it was with horror
that I heard, toward the end of my year’s travels,
that yet another tragedy had struck the Dumbledores: the death of his sister, Ariana.
Though Ariana had been in poor health for a
long time, the blow, coming so soon after the loss
of their mother, had a profound effect on both of
her brothers. All those closest to Albus-and I count
myself one of that lucky number-agree that Ariana’s
death, and Albus’s feeling of personal responsibility
for it (though of course, he was guiltless), left their
mark upon him forevermore.
I returned home to find a young man who had
experienced a much older person’s suffering. Albus was more reserved than before, and much less
lighthearted. To add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had led, not to a renewed closeness between
Albus and Aberforth, but to an estrangement. (In
time this would lift-in later years they reestablished,
if not a close relationship, then certainly a cordial
one.) However, he rarely spoke of his parents or of
Ariana from then on, and his friends learned not to
mention them.
Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following years. Dumbledore’s innumerable contributions to the state of Wizarding knowledge, including
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Chapter 2
his discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood,
will benefit generations to come, as will the wisdom
he displayed in the many judgments he made while
Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. They say, still,
that no Wizarding duel ever matched that between
Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945. Those who
witnessed it have written of the terror and the awe
they felt as they watched these two extraordinary
wizards do battle. Dumbledore’s triumph, and its
consequences for the Wizarding world, are considered a turning point in magical history to match the
introduction of the International Statute of Secrecy
or the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he
could find something to value in anyone, however
apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe
that his early losses endowed him with great humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his friendship
more than I can say, but my loss is as nothing compared to the Wizarding world’s. That he was the
most inspiring and the best loved of all Hogwarts
headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he
lived, working always for the greater good and, to
his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a
small boy with dragon pox as he was on the day
that I met him.
Harry finished reading but continued to gaze at the picture accompanying the obituary. Dumbledore was wearing his familiar,
kindly smile, but as he peered over the top of his half-moon specta20
In Memoriam
cles, he gave the impression, even in newsprint, of betraying Harry,
whose sadness mingled with a sense of humiliation.
He had thought he knew Dumbledore quite well, but ever since
reading this obituary he had been forced to recognize that he had
barely known him at all. Never one had he imagined Dumbledore’s childhood or youth; it was as though he had sprung into
being as Harry had known him, venerable and silver-haired and
old. The idea of a teenage Dumbledore was simply odd, like trying
to imagine a stupid Hermione or a friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.
He had never thought to ask Dumbledore about his past. No
doubt it would have felt strange, impertinent even, but after all, it
had been common knowledge that Dumbledore had taken part in
that legendary duel with Grindelwald, and Harry had not thought
to ask Dumbledore what that had been like, nor about any of his
other famous achievements. No, they had always discussed Harry,
Harry’s past, Harry’s future, Harry’s plans . . . and it seemed to
Harry now, despite the fact that his future was so dangerous and
so uncertain, that he had missed irreplaceable opportunities when
he had failed to ask Dumbledore more about himself, even though
the only personal question he had ever asked his headmaster was
also the only on he suspected that Dumbledore had not answered
honestly:
“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”
“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”
After several minutes’ thought, Harry tore the obituary out of
the Prophet, folded it carefully, and tucked it inside the first volume
of Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts.
Then he threw the rest of the newspaper into the rubbish pile and
turned to face the room. It was much tidier. The only things left
21
Chapter 2
out of place were today’s Daily Prophet, still lying on the bed, and
on top of it, the piece of broken mirror.
Harry moved across the room, slid the mirror fragment off today’s Daily Prophet, still lying on the bed, and on top of it, the
piece of broken mirror.
Harry moved across the room, slid the mirror fragment off today’s Prophet, and unfolded the newspaper. He had merely glanced
at the headline when he had taken the rolled-up paper from the
delivery owl early that morning and thrown it aside, after nothing that it said nothing about Voldemort. Harry was sure that
the Ministry was leaning on the Prophet to suppress news about
Voldemort. It was only now, therefore, that he saw what he had
missed.
Across the bottom half of the front page a smaller headline was
set over a picture of Dumbledore striding along looking harried:
DUMBLEDORE—THE TRUTH AT LAST?
Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed
genius considered by many to be the greatest wizard
of his generation. Stripping away the popular image of serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Rita Skeeter
reveals the disturbed childhood, the lawless youth,
the lifelong feuds, and the guilty secrets that Dumbledore carried to his grave. WHY was the man
tipped to be Minister of Magic content to remain a
mere headmaster? WHAT was the real purpose of
the secret organization known as the Order of the
Phoenix? HOW did Dumbledore really meet his
end?
22
In Memoriam
The answers to these and many more questions
are explored in the explosive new biography, The
Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter,
exclusively interviewed by Betty Braithwaite, page
13, inside.
Harry ripped open the paper and found page thirteen. The
article was topped with a picture showing another familiar face:
a woman wearing jeweled glasses with elaborately curled blonde
hair, her teeth bared in what was clearly supposed to be a winning
smile, wiggling her fingers up at him. Doing his best to ignore this
nauseating image, Harry read on.
In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and
softer than her famously ferocious quill-portraits
might suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her
cozy home, she leads me straight into the kitchen
for a cup of tea, a slice of pound cake and, it goes
without saying, a steaming vat of freshest gossip.
“Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer’s
dream,” says Skeeter. “Such a long, full life. I’m
sure my book will be the first of very, very many.”
Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her
nine-hundred-page book was completed a mere four
weeks after Dumbledore’s mysterious death in June.
I ask her how she managed this superfast feat.
“Oh, when you’ve been a journalist as long as
I have, working to a deadline is second nature. I
knew that the Wizarding world as clamoring for the
full story and I wanted to be the first to meet that
need.”
23
Chapter 2
I mentioned the recent, widely publicized remarks of Elphias Doge, Special Advisor to the Wizengamot and longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore’s, that “Skeeter’s book contains less fact than
a Chocolate frog card.”
Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.
“Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him
a few years back about merpeople rights, bless him.
Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting
at the bottom of Lake Windermere, kept telling me
to watch out for trout.”
And yet Elphias Doge’s accusations of inaccuracy have been echoed in many places. Does Skeeter
really feel that four short weeks have been enough
to gain a full picture of Dumbledore’s long and extraordinary life?
“Oh, my dear,” beams Skeeter, rapping me affectionately across the knuckles, “you know as well
as I do how much information can be generated by
a fat bag of Galleons, a refusal to hear the word
‘no,’ and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill! People
were queuing to dish the dirt on Dumbledore anyway. Not everyone thought he was so wonderful,
you know—he trod on an awful lot of important
toes. But old Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because I’ve had access to a source most
journalists would swap their wands for, one who has
never spoken in public before and who was close to
Dumbledore during the most turbulent and disturb24
In Memoriam
ing phase of his youth.”
The advance publicity of Skeeter’s biography has
certainly suggested that there will be shocks in store
for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a
blameless life. What were the biggest surprises she
uncovered, I ask?
“Now, come off it, Betty, I’m not giving away all
the highlights before anybody’s bought the book!”
laughs Skeeter. “But I can promise that anybody who still thinks Dumbledore was white as his
beard is in for a rude awakening! Let’s just say
that nobody hearing him rage against You-KnowWho would have dreamed that he dabbled in the
Dark Arts himself in his youth! And for a wizard
who spent his later years pleading for tolerance, he
wasn’t exactly broad-minded when he was younger!
Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an extremely murky
past, not to mention that very fishy family, which
he worked so hard to keep hushed up.”
I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth, whose conviction by the
Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor
scandal fifteen years ago.
“Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap.”
laughs Skeeter. “No, no, I’m talking about much
worse than a brother with a fondness for fiddling
about with goats, worse even than the Mugglemaiming father—Dumbledore couldn’t keep either
of them quiet anyway, they were both charged by
25
Chapter 2
the Wizengamot. No, it’s the mother and the sister
that intrigued me, and a little digging uncovered a
positive nest of nastiness—but, as I say, you’ll have
to wait for chapters nine to twelve for full details.
All I can say now is, it’s no wonder Dumbledore
never talked about how his nose got broken.”
Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter
deny the brilliance that led to Dumbledore’s many
magical discoveries?
“He had brains,” she concedes, “although many
now question whether he could really take full credit
for all of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in
chapter sixteen, Ivor Dillonsby claims he had already discovered eight uses of dragon’s blood when
Dumbledore ‘borrowed’ his papers.”
But the importance of some of Dumbledore’s
achievements cannot, I venture, be denied. What
of his famous defeat of Grindelwald?
“Oh, now, I’m glad you mentioned Grindelwald,” says Skeeter with a tantalizing smile. “I’m
afraid those who go dewy eyed over Dumbledore’s
spectacular victory must brace themselves for a
bombshell— or perhaps a Dungbomb. very dirty
business indeed. All I’ll say is, don’t be so sure that
there really was the spectacular duel of legend. After they’ve read my book, people may be forced to
conclude that Grindelwald simply conjured a white
handkerchief from the end of his wand and came
quietly!”
26
In Memoriam
Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this
intriguing subject, so we turn instead to the relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her readers
more than any other.
“Oh yes,” says Skeeter, nodding briskly, “I devote an entire chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even
sinister. Again, your readers will have to buy my
book for the whole story, but there is no question
that Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from the word go. Whether that was really in
the boy’s best interests—well, we’ll see. It’s certainly an open secret that Potter has had a most
troubled adolescence.”
I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry
Potter, whom she so famously interviewed last year:
a breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke exclusively of his conviction that You-Know-Who had
returned.
“Oh, yes, we’ve developed a close bond,” says
Skeeter. “Poor Potter has few real friends, and we
met at one of the most testing moments of his life—
the Triwizard Tournament. I am probably one of
the only people alive who can say that they know
the real Harry Potter.”
Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still
circulating about Dumbledore’s final hours. Does
Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?
27
Chapter 2
“Well, I don’t wan to say too much—it’s all in
the book—but the eyewitnesses inside Hogwarts
castle saw Potter running away from the scene
moments after Dumbledore fell, jumped, or was
pushed. Potter later gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man against whom he has a notorious
grudge. Is everything as it seems? That is for the
Wizarding community to decide— once they’ve read
my book.”
On that intriguing note, I take my leave. there
can be no doubt that Skeeter has quilled an instant
bestseller, Dumbledore’s legions of admirers, meanwhile, may well be trembling at what is soon to
emerge about their hero.
Harry reached the bottom of the article, but continued to stare
blankly at the page. Revulsion and fury rose in him like vomit;
he balled up the newspaper and threw it, with all his force, at the
wall, where it joined the rest of the rubbish heaped around his
overflowing bin.
He began to stride blindly around the room, opening empty
drawers and picking up books only to replace them on the same
piles, barely conscious of what he was doing, as random phrases
from Rita’s article echoed in his head: An entire chapter to
the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship . . . It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister . . . He dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in
his youth . . . I’ve had access to a source most journalists would
swap their wands for . . .
“Lies!” Harry bellowed, and though the window he saw the
next-door neighbor, who had paused to restart his lawn mower,
28
In Memoriam
look up nervously.
Harry sat down hard on the bed. The broken bit of mirror
danced away from him; he picked it up and turned it over in his
fingers, thinking, thinking of Dumbledore and the lies with which
Rita Skeeter was defaming him. . . .
A flash of brightest blue. Harry froze, his cut finger slipping on
the jagged edge of the mirror again. He had imagined it, he must
have done. He glanced over his shoulder, but the wall was a sickly
peach color of Aunt Petunia’s choosing: There was nothing blue
there for the mirror to reflect. He peered into the mirror fragment
again, and saw nothing but his own bright green eye looking back
at him.
He had imagined it, there was no other explanation; imagined it,
because he had been thinking of his dead headmaster. If anything
was certain, it was that the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore
would never pierce him again.
29
Chapter 3
The Dursleys Departing
T
he 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.
30
The Dursleys Departing
“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 Dudley 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
31
Chapter 3
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 going 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, Vernon 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
32
The Dursleys Departing
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. Then
Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry resumed, “You’ve got to go into
hiding and the Order wants to help. You’re being offered serious
protection, the best there is.”
Uncle Vernon said nothing, but continued to pace up and down.
Outside the sun hung low over the privet hedges. The next-door
neighbor’s lawn mower stalled again.
“I thought there was a Ministry of Magic?” asked Vernon Dursley abruptly.
“There is,” said Harry, surprised.
“Well, then, why can’t they protect us? It seems to me that, as
innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than harboring a marked
man, we ought to qualify for government protection!”
Harry laughed; he could not stop himself. It was so typical of
his uncle to put his hopes in the establishment, even within this
world that he despised and mistrusted.
“You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said,” Harry
replied. “We think the Ministry has been infiltrated.”
Uncle Vernon stroke to the fireplace and back, breathing so
33
Chapter 3
heavily that his great black mustache tippled, his face still purple
with concentration.
“All right,” he said, stopping in front of Harry yet again. “All
right, let’s say, for the sake of argument, we accept this protection.
I still don’t see why we can’t have that Kingsley bloke.”
Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but with difficulty. This
question has also been addressed half a dozen times.
“As I’ve told you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Kingsley is
protecting the Mug— I mean, your Prime Minister.”
“Exactly—he’s the best!” said Uncle Vernon, pointing at the
blank television screen. The Dursleys had spotted Kingsley on the
news, walking along discreetly behind the Muggle Prime Minister
as he visited a hospital. This, and the fact that Kingsley had
mastered the knack of dressing like a Muggle, not to mention a
certain reassuring something in his slow, deep voice, had caused
the Dursleys to take to Kingsley in a way that they had certainly
not done with any other wizard, although it was true that they
had never seen him with his earring in.
“Well, he’s taken,” said Harry. “But Hestia Jones and Dedalus
Diggle are more than up to the job— ”
“If we’d even seen CVs . . . ” began Uncle Vernon, but Harry
lost patience. Getting to his feet, he advanced on his uncle, now
pointing at the TV set himself.
“These accidents aren’t accidents— the crashes and explosions
and derailments and whatever else has happened since we last
watched the new. People are disappearing and dying and he’s
behind it—Voldemort. I’ve told you this over and over again, he
kills Muggles for fun. Even the fogs— they’re caused by dementors,
and if you can’t remember what they are, ask your son!”
34
The Dursleys Departing
Dudley’s hands jerked upward to cover his mouth. With his
parents’ and Harry’s eyes upon him, he slowly lowered them again
and asked, “There are . . . more of them?”
“More?” laughed Harry. “More than the two that attacked
us, you mean? Of course there are, there are hundreds, maybe
thousands by this time, seeing as they feed of fear and despair— ”
“All right, all right,” blustered Vernon Dursley. “You’ve made
your point— ”
“I hope so,” said Harry, “because once I’m seventeen, all
of them—Death Eaters, dementors, maybe even Inferi—which
means dead bodies enchanted by a Dark Wizard—will be able
to find you and will certainly attack you. And if you remember
the last time you tried to outrun wizards, I think you’ll agree you
need help.”
There was a brief silence in which the distant echo of Hagrid
smashing something down a wooden front door seemed to reverberate through the intervening years. Aunt Petunia was looking
at Uncle Vernon; Dudley was staring at Harry. Finally Uncle Vernon blurted out, “But what about my work? What about Dudley’s
school? I don’t suppose those things matter to a bunch of layabout
wizards— ”
“Don’t you understand?” shouted Harry. “They will torture
and kill you like they did my parents!”
“Dad,” said Dudley in a loud voice, “Dad— I’m going with these
Order people.”
“Dudley,” said Harry, “for the first time in your life, you’re
talking sense.”
He knew that the battle was won. If Dudley was frightened
enough to accept the Order’s help, his parents would accompany
35
Chapter 3
him: There could be no question of being separated from their
Duddykins. Harry glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
“They’ll be here in about five minutes,” he said, and when
none of the Dursleys replied, he left the room. The prospect of
parting—probably forever— from his aunt, uncle, and cousin was
one that he was able to contemplate quite cheerfully, but there was
nevertheless a certain awkwardness in the air. What did you say
to one another at the end of sixteen years’ solid dislike?
Back in his bedroom, Harry fiddled aimlessly with his rucksack,
then poked a couple of own nuts through the bars of Hedwig’s cage.
They fell with dull thuds to the bottom, where she ignored them.
“We’re leaving soon, really soon,” Harry told her. “And then
you’ll be able to fly again.”
The doorbell rang. Harry hesitated, then headed back out of
his room and downstairs. It was too much to expect Hestia and
Dedalus to cope with the Dursleys on their own.
“Harry Potter!” squeaked an excited voice, the moment Harry
had opened the door, a small man in a mauve top hat was sweeping
him a deep bow. “An honor, as ever!”
“Thanks, Dedalus,” said Harry, bestowing a small and embarrassed smile upon the dark-haired Hestia. “It’s really good of
you to do this . . . They’re through here, my aunt and uncle and
cousin . . . ”
“Good day to you, Harry Potter’s relatives!” said Dedalus happily, striding into the living room. The Dursleys did not look at all
happy to be addressed thus; Harry half expected another change
of mind. Dudley shrank nearer to his mother at the sight of the
witch and wizard.
“I see you are packed and ready. Excellent! The plan, as Harry
36
The Dursleys Departing
has told you, is a simple one,” said Dedalus, pulling an immense
pocket watch out of his waistcoat and examining it. “We shall
be leaving before Harry does. Due to the danger of using magic
in your house—Harry being still underage, it could provide the
Ministry with an excuse to arrest him—we shall be driving, say,
ten miles or so, before Disapparating to the safe location we have
picked out for you. You know how to drive, I take it?” he asked
Uncle Vernon politely.
“Know how to—? Of course I ruddy well know how to drive!”
spluttered Uncle Vernon.
“Very clever of you, sir, very clever. I personally would be
utterly bamboozled by all those buttons and knobs,” said Dedalus.
He was clearly under the impression that he was flattering Vernon
Dursley, who was visibly losing confidence in the plan with every
word Dedalus spoke.
“Can’t even drive,” he muttered under his breath, his mustache rippling indignantly, but fortunately neither Dedalus or Hestia seemed to hear him.
“You, Harry,” Dedalus continued, “will wait here for your
guard. There has been a little change in the arrangements— ”
“What d’you mean?” said Harry at once. “I thought Mad-Eye
was going to come and take me by Side-Along-Apparition?”
“Can’t do it,” said Hestia tersely. “Mad-Eye will explain.”
The Dursleys, who had listened to all of this with looks of utter
incomprehension on their faces, jumped as a loud voice screeched,
“Hurry up!” Harry looked all around the room before realizing
that the voice had issued from Dedalus’s pocket watch.
“Quite right, we’re operating to a very tight schedule,” said
Dedalus, nodding at his watch and tucking it back into his waist37
Chapter 3
coat. “We are attempting to time your departure from the house
with your family’s Disapparition, Harry: thus, the charm breaks
as the moment you all head for safety.” He turned to the Dursleys.
“Well, are we all packed and ready to go?”
None of them answered him. Uncle Vernon was still staring,
appalled, at the bulge in Dedalus’s waistcoat pocket.
“Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus,” murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it would be tactless for them
to remain in the room while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged
loving, possibly tearful farewells.
“There’s no need,” Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon made
any further explanation unnecessary by saying loudly,
“Well, this is good-bye, then, boy.”
He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry’s hand, but at
the last moment seemed unable to face it, and merely closed his fist
and began swinging it backward and forward like a metronome.
“Ready, Diddy?” asked Aunt Petunia, fussily checking the clasp
of her handbag so as to avoid looking at Harry altogether.
Dudley did not answer, but stood there with his mouth slightly
ajar, reminding Harry a little of the giant, Grawp.
“Come along, then,” said Uncle Vernon.
He had already reached the living room door when Dudley
mumbled, “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand, popkin?” asked Aunt Petunia,
looking up at her son.
Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at Harry.
“Why isn’t he coming with us?”
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze where they stood, staring
at Dudley as though he had just expressed a desire to become a
38
The Dursleys Departing
ballerina.
“What?” said Uncle Vernon loudly.
“Why isn’t he coming too?” asked Dudley.
“Well, he—he doesn’t want to,” said Uncle Vernon, turning to
glare at Harry and asking, “You don’t want to, do you?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Harry.
“There you are,” Uncle Vernon told Dudley. “Now come on,
we’re off.”
He marched out of the room. They heard the front door open,
but Dudley did not move and after a few faltering steps Aunt
Petunia stopped too.
“What now?” barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the doorway.
It seems that Dudley was struggling with concepts too difficult to put into words. After sever moments of apparently painful
internal struggle he said, “But where’s he going to go?”
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other. It was
clear that Dudley was frightening them. Hestia Jones broke the
silence.
“But . . . surely you know where your nephew is going?” she
asked, looking bewildered.
“Certainly we know,” said Vernon Dursley. “He’s off with some
of your lot, isn’t he? Right, Dudley, let’s get in the car, you heard
the man, we’re in a hurry,”
Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front door, but
Dudley did not follow.
“Off with some of our lot?”
Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude before.
Witches and wizards seems stunned that his closest living relatives
39
