Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7

by J. K. Rowling

  “You go too far!” shouted Scrimgeour, standing up.

  Harry jumped to his feet too. Scrimgeour limped toward Harry and jabbed him hard in the chest with the point of his wand; It singed a hole in Harry’s T-shirt like a lit cigarette.

  “Oi!” said Ron, jumping up and raising his own wand, but Harry said,

  “No! D’you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?”

  “Remembered you’re not at school, have you?” said Scrimgeour breathing hard into Harry’s face. “Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It’s time you learned some respect!”

  “It’s time you earned it,” said Harry.

  The floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps, then the door to the sitting room burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in.

  “We—we thought we heard—” began Mr. Weasley, looking thoroughly alarmed at the sight of Harry and the Minister virtually nose to nose.

  “—raised voices,” panted Mrs. Weasley.

  Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Harry, glancing at the hole he had made in Harry’s T-shirt. He seemed to regret his loss of temper.

  “It—it was nothing,” he growled. “I… regret your attitude,” he said, looking Harry full in the face once more. “You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you—what Dumbledore—desired. We ought to work together.”

  “I don’t like your methods, Minister,” said Harry. “Remember?”

  For the second time, he raised his right fist and displayed to Scrimgeour the scar that still showed white on the back of it, spelling I must not tell lies. Scrimgeour’s expression hardened. He turned away without another word and limped from the room. Mrs. Weasley hurried after him; Harry heard her stop at the back door. After a minute or so she called, “He’s gone!”

  “What did he want?” Mr. Weasley asked, looking around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Mrs. Weasley came hurrying back to them.

  “To give us what Dumbledore left us,” said Harry. “They’ve only just released the content of his will.”

  Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the three objects Scrimgeour had given them were passed from hand to hand. Everyone exclaimed over the Deluminator and The Tales of Beedle the Bard and lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to pass on the sword, but none of them could offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore would have left Harry an old Snitch. As Mr. Weasley examined the Deluminator for the third of fourth time, Mrs. Weasley said tentatively, “Harry, dear, everyone’s awfully hungry we didn’t like to start without you… Shall I serve dinner now?”

  They all ate rather hurriedly and then after a hasty chorus of “Happy Birthday” and much gulping of cake, the party broke up. Hagrid, who was invited to the wedding the following day, but was far too bulky to sleep in the overstretched Burrow, left to set up a tent for himself in a neighboring field.

  “Meet us upstairs,” Harry whispered to Hermione, while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore the garden to its normal state. “After everyone’s gone to bed.”

  Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator, and Harry filled Hagrid’s mokeskin purse, not with gold, but with those items he most prized, apparently worthless though some of them were the Marauder’s Map, the shard of Sirius’s enchanted mirror, and R. A. B.’s locket. He pulled the string tight and slipped the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old Snitch and watching its wings flutter feebly. At last, Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed inside.

  “Muffliato,” she whispered, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs.

  “Thought you didn’t approve of that spell?” said Ron.

  “Times change,” said Hermione. “Now, show us that Deluminator.”

  Ron obliged at once. Holding it up in front of him, he clicked it. The solitary lamp they had lit went out at once.

  “The thing is,” whispered Hermione through the dark, “we could have achieved that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.”

  There was a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flew back to the ceiling and illuminated them all once more.

  “Still, it’s cool,” said Ron, a little defensively. “And from what they said, Dumbledore invented it himself!”

  “I know, but surely he wouldn’t have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out the lights!”

  “D’you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he’d left us?” asked Harry.

  “Definitely,” said Hermione. “He couldn’t tell us in the will why he was leaving us these things, but that will doesn’t explain…”

  “…why he couldn’t have given us a hint when he was alive?” asked Ron.

  “Well, exactly,” said Hermione, now flicking through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. “If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you’d think he’d have left us know why… unless he thought it was obvious?”

  “Thought wrong, then, didn’t he?” said Ron. “I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch—what the hell was that about?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Hermione. “When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure that something was going to happen!”

  “Yeah, well,” said Harry, his pulse quickened as he raised the Snitch in his fingers. “I wasn’t going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour, was I?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Hermione.

  “The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?” said Harry. “Don’t you remember?”

  Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however, gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to the Snitch and back again until he found his voice.

  “That was the one you nearly swallowed!”

  “Exactly,” said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, he pressed his mouth to the Snitch.

  It did not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside him: He lowered the golden sphere, but then Hermione cried out.

  “Writing! There’s writing on it, quick, look!”

  He nearly dropped the Snitch in surprise and excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon the smooth golden surface, where seconds before there had been nothing, were five words written in the thin, slanted handwriting that Harry recognized as Dumbledore’s:

  I open at the close.

  He had barely read them when the words vanished again.

  “‘I open at the close…’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.

  “I open at the close… at the close… I open at the close…”

  But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different inflections, they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.

  “And the sword,” said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their attempts to divine meaning in the Snitch’s inscription. “Why did he want Harry to have the sword?”

  “And why couldn’t he just have told me?” Harry said quietly. “I was there, it was right there on the wall of his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have it, why didn’t he just give it to me then?”

  He felt as thought he were sitting in an examination with a question he ought to have been able to answer in front of him, his brain slow and unresponsive. Was there something he had missed in the long talks with Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know what it all meant? Had Dumbledore expected him to understand?

  “And as for this book,” said Hermione, “The Tales of Beedle the Bard… I’ve never even heard of them!”

  “You’ve never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?” said Ron incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Hermione in surprise. “Do you know them then?”

  “Well, of course I do!”

  Ha
rry looked up, diverted. The circumstance of Ron having read a book that Hermione had not was unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by their surprise.

  “Oh come on! All the old kids’ stories are supposed to be Beedle’s, aren’t they? The Fountain of Fair Fortune… The Wizard and the Hopping Pot… Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump…”

  “Excuse me?” said Hermione giggling. “What was the last one?”

  “Come off it!” said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. “You must’ve heard of Babbitty Rabbitty—”

  “Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up by Muggles!” said Hermione. “We didn’t hear stories like that when we were little, we heard Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and Cinderella—”

  “What’s that, an illness?” asked Ron.

  “So these are children’s stories?” asked Hermione, bending against over the runes.

  “Yeah.” Said Ron uncertainly. “I mean, just what you hear, you know, that all these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they’re like in the original versions.”

  “But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?”

  Something cracked downstairs.

  “Probably just Charlie, now Mum’s asleep, sneaking off to regrow his hair,” said Ron nervously.

  “All the same, we should get to bed,” whispered Hermione. “It wouldn’t do to oversleep tomorrow.”

  “No,” agreed Ron. “A brutal triple murder by the bridegroom’s mother might put a bit of damper on the wedding. I’ll get the light.”

  And he clicked the Deluminator once more as Hermione left the room.

  8. THE WEDDING

  Three o’clock on the following afternoon found Harry, Ron, Fred and George standing outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding guests. Harry had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and was now the double of a redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, from whom Fred had stolen hairs using a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce Harry as “Cousin Barny” and trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to camouflage him.

  All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help show people to the right seats. A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier, along with a golden jacketed band, and all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance away under a tree. Harry could see a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot. Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and wife. Outside, butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow. Harry was rather uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting was slightly fatter than him and his dress robes felt hot and tight in the full glare of a summer’s day.

  “When I get married,” said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, “I won’t be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll put a full Body-Bind Curse on Mum until it’s all over.”

  “She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” said George. “Cried a bit about Percy not being here, but who wants him. Oh blimey, brace yourselves, here they come, look.”

  Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession had formed, which began to snake its way up through the garden toward the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds fluttered on the witches’ hats, while precious gems glittered from many of the wizards’ cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent.

  “Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins,” said George, craning his neck for a better look. “They’ll need help understanding our English customs, I’ll look after them…”

  “Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged witches heading for the procession, he said, “Here—permetiez moi to assister vous,” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took charge of Mr. Weasley’s old Ministry-colleague Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry’s lot.

  “Wotcher,” said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again and found Tonks and Lupin at the front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the occasion. “Arthur told us you were the one with the curly hair. Sorry about last night,” she added in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. “The Ministry’s being very anti-werewolf at the museum and we thought our presence might not do you any favors.”

  “It’s fine, I understand,” said Harry, speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. Lupin gave him a swift smile, but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin’s face fall again into lines of misery. He did not understand it, but there was no time to dwell on the matter. Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred’s directions as he had sat himself, not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat set aside for him in the back row, but on five sets that now resembled a large pile of golden matchsticks.

  While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid shouted apologies to anybody who would listen, Harry hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face with a most eccentric-looking wizard. Slightly cross-eyed, with shoulder-length white hair the texture of candyfloss, he wore a cap whose tassel dangled in front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.

  “Xenophilius Lovegood,” he said, extending a hand to Harry, “my daughter and I live just over the hill, so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know my Luna?” he added to Ron.

  “Yes,” said Ron. “Isn’t she with you?”

  “She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise little gnomes—or, to give them their correct name, the Gernumbli gardensi.”

  “Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,” said Ron, “but I think Fred and George taught them those.”

  He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up.

  “Hello, Harry!” she said.

  “Er—my name’s Barny,” said Harry, flummoxed.

  “Oh, have you changed that too?” she asked brightly.

  “How did you know—?”

  “Oh, just your expression,” she said.

  Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow robes, which she had accessorized with a large sunflower in her hair. Once you get over the brightness of it all, the general effect was quite pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling from her ears.

  Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance, had missed the exchange between Luna and Harry. Biding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, “Daddy, look—one of the gnomes actually bit me.”

  “How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial,” said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched fingers and examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today—perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaims in Mermish—do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!”

  Ron, passing them in the opposite direction let out a loud snort.

  “Ron can laugh,” said Luna serenely as Harry led her and Xenophilius toward their seats, “but my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic.”

  “Really?” said Harry, who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her father’s peculiar views. “Are you sure you don’t want to put anything on that bite, though?”

  “Oh, it’s fine,” said Luna, suckin
g her finger in a dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down. “You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear dress robes, but he believes you ought to wear sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know.”

  As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and leathery pink hat gave her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.

  “…and your hair’s much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin’s beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet. And who are you?” she barked at Harry.

  “Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our cousin Barny.”

  “Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn’t Harry Potter here? I was hoping to meet him. I thought he was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely been boasting?”

  “No—he couldn’t come—”

  “Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press photographs, then. I’ve just been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara,” she shouted at Harry. “Goblin-made, you know, and been in my family for centuries. She’s a good-looking girl, but still—French. Well, well, find me a good seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought not to be on my feet too long.”

  Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and did not reappear for some time. When next they met at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more people to their places. The Marquee was nearly full now and for the first time there was no queue outside.

  “Nightmare, Muriel is,” said Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. “She used to come for Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offense because Fred and George set off a Dungbomb under her chair at dinner. Dad always says she’ll have written them out of her will—like they care, they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they’re going… Wow,” he added, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward them. “You look great!”

  “Always the tone of surprise,” said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a floaty, lilac-colored dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek and shiny. “Your Great-Aunt Muriel doesn’t agree, I just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the tiara. She said, ‘Oh dear, is this the Muggle-born?’ and then, ‘Bad posture and skinny ankles.’”