Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince hp-6

by J. K. Rowling

  Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie’s potion and passed on to Ron’s with a grimace. He did not linger over Ron’s cauldron, but backed away swiftly, retching slightly.

  “And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to show me?”

  Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm.

  Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “You’ve got a nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, you’re like your mother… well, I can’t fault you… a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!”

  Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair, bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry.

  “And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “That’s the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. “Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of potion-making, it’s undoubtedly from Lily he gets it… yes, Harry, yes, if you’ve got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick… although as they don’t work on everything, and are pretty rare, it’s still worth knowing how to mix antidotes…”

  The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled something that looked like cat sick over himself. Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.

  “Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!”

  Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon.

  Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left; both looked rather annoyed. At last Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room.

  “Come on, now, Harry, you’ll be late for your next lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase.

  “Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away…”

  “Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?”

  Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, “What did you say?”

  “I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see—”

  “Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered Slughorn.

  His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow.

  “Dumbledore’s shown you that—that memory,” said Slughorn. “Well? Hasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.

  “Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. “Of course… well, if you’ve seen that memory, Harry, you’ll know that I don’t know anything—anything—” he repeated the word forcefully “—about Horcruxes.”

  He seized his dragonskin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door.

  “Sir,” said Harry desperately, “I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory—”

  “Did you?” said Slughorn. “Then you were wrong, weren’t you? WRONG!”

  He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him.

  Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn’t slipped him a bezoar, too.

  “It would’ve just looked stupid if we’d both done it!” said Harry irritably. “Look, I had to try and soften him up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn’t I? Oh, will you get a grip!” he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name.

  Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione’s attitudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack.

  When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind. Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch practice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else. Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him.

  Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first lime in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick with the bezoar.

  “I haven’t found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!” she told him. “Not a single one! I’ve been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions—nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Most Evil—listen—‘of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction’… I mean, why mention it, then?” she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a ghostly wail. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag.

  The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years’ first Apparition lesson, which was scheduled for a Saturday morning so that no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds.

  When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron had come down with Lavender) they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout—the Heads of House—and a small wizard whom Harry took to be the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colourless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry wondered whether constant disappearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish.

  “Good morning,” said the Ministry wizard, when all the students had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry-Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time—”

  “Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” barked Professor McGonagall.

  Everybody looked round. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered argument. Harry glanced quickly at Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy’s rudeness than the fact that McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house.

  “—by which time, many of you may be ready to take your test,” Twycross continued, as though there had been no interruption.

  “As you may know, it is usually impossible to Apparate or Disapparate w
ithin Hogwarts. The Headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable you to practise. May I emphasise that you will not be able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try.

  “I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you.”

  There was a great scrambling and jostling as people separated, banged into each other, and ordered others out of their space. The Heads of House moved among the students, marshalling them into position and breaking up arguments.

  “Harry, where are you going?” demanded Hermione.

  But Harry did not answer; he was moving quickly through the crowd, past the place where Professor Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a few Ravenclaws, all of whom wanted to be near the front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivvying the Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie Macmillan, he managed to position himself right at the back of the crowd, directly behind Malfoy, who was taking advantage of the general upheaval to continue his argument with Crabbe, standing five feet away and looking mutinous.

  “I don’t know how much longer, all right?” Malfoy shot at him, oblivious to Harry standing right behind him. “It’s taking longer than I thought it would.”

  Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to second-guess what he was going to say.

  “Look, it’s none of your business what I’m doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you’re told and keep a lookout!”

  “I tell my friends what I’m up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me,” Harry said, just loud enough for Malfoy to hear him.

  Malfoy spun round on the spot, his hand flying to his wand, but at that precise moment the four Heads of House shouted, “Quiet!” and silence fell again. Malfoy turned slowly to face the front.

  “Thank you,” said Twycross. “Now then…”

  He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops instantly appeared on the floor in from of every student.

  “The important things to remember when Apparating are the three Ds!” said Twycross. “Destination, Determination, Deliberation!”

  “Step one: fix your mind firmly upon the desired destination,” said Twycross. “In this case, the interior of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that destination now.”

  Everybody looked around furtively, to check that everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily did as they were told. Harry gazed at the circular patch of dusty floor enclosed by his hoop and tried hard to think of nothing else. This proved impossible, as he couldn’t stop puzzling over what Malfoy was doing that needed lookouts.

  “Step two,” said Twycross, “focus your determination to occupy the visualised space! Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your body!”

  Harry glanced around surreptitiously. A little way to his left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as though he was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg. Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze to his own hoop.

  “Step three,” called Twycross, “and only when I give the command… lum on the spot, feeling your way into nothingness, moving with deliberation. On my command, now… one—”

  Harry glanced around again; lots of people were looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate so quickly.

  Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he had already forgotten what the three Ds stood for.

  “—THREE!”

  Harry spun on the spot, lost his balance and nearly fell over. He was not the only one. The whole Hall was suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on his back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had done a kind of pirouetting leap into his hoop and looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him.

  “Never mind, never mind,” said Twycross dryly, who did not seem to have expected anything better. “Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original positions…”

  The second atlempt was no better than the first. The third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did anything exciting happen. There was a horrible screech of pain and everybody looked around, terrified, to see Susan Bones of Hufflepuff wobbling in her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away where she had started.

  The Heads of House converged on her; there was a great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking horrified.

  “Splinching, or the separation of random body parts,” said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, “occurs when the mind is insufficiently determined. You must concentrate continually upon your destination, and move, without haste, but with deliberation… thus.”

  Twycross stepped forwards, turned gracefully on the spot with his arms outstretched and vanished in a swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall. “Remember the three Ds,” he said, “and try again… one—two—three—”

  But an hour later, Susan’s Splinching was still ihe most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his neck, he merely said, “Until next Saturday, everybody, and do not forget: Destination. Determination. Deliberation.”

  With that, he waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops, and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began moving towards the Entrance Hall.

  “How did you do?” asked Ron, hurrying towards Harry. “I think I felt something the last time I tried—a kind of tingling in my feet.”

  “I expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won,” said a voice behind them, and Hermione stalked past, smirking.

  “I didn’t feel anything,” said Harry, ignoring this interruption. “But I don’t care about that now—”

  “What d’you mean, you don’t care… don’t you want to learn to Apparate?” said Ron incredulously.

  “I’m not fussed, really. I prefer flying,” said Harry, glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was, and speeding up as they came into the Entrance Hall. “Look, hurry up, will you, there’s something I want to do…”

  Perplexed, Ron followed Harry back to Gryffindor Tower at a run. They were temporarily detained by Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth floor shut and was refusing to let anyone pass until they set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Ron simply turned back and took one of their trusted short cuts. Within five minutes, they were climbing through the portrait hole.

  “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing, then?” asked Ron, panting slightly.

  “Up here,” said Harry, and he crossed the common room and led the way through the door to the boys’ staircase.

  Their dormitory was, as Harry had hoped, empty. He flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it, while Ron watched impatiently.

  “Harry…”

  “Malfoy’s using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was arguing with Crabbe just now. I want to know… aha.”

  He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped with the tip of his wand.

  “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good… or Malfoy is.”

  At once, the Marauder’s Map appeared on the parchment’s surface. Here was a detailed plan of every one of the castle’s floors and, moving around it, the tiny, labelled black dots that signified each of the castle’s occupants.

  “Help me find Malfoy,” said Harry urgently.

  He laid the map upon his bed and he and Ron leaned over it, searching.

  “There!” said Ron, after a minute or so. “He’s in the Slytherin common room, look… with Parkinson and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle…”

  Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but rallied almost at once.

  “Well, I’m keeping an eye on him from now on,” he said firmly. “And the moment I see him lurking somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch outside, it’ll be on with the old Invisibil
ity Cloak and off to find out what he’s—”

  He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.

  Despite his determination to catch Malfoy out, Harry had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks. Although he consulted the map as often as he could, sometimes making unnecessary visits to the bathroom between lessons to search it, he did not once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admittedly, he spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle on their own more often than usual, sometimes remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them, but impossible to locate on the map at all. This was most mysterious. Harry toyed with the possibility that Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but could not see how he could be doing it, given the very high level of security now operating within the castle. He could only suppose that he was missing Malfoy amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots upon the map. As for the fact that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle appeared to be going their different ways when they were usually inseparable, these things happened as people got older—Ron and Hermione, Harry reflected sadly, were living proof.

  February moved towards March with no change in the weather except that it became windy as well as wet. To general indignation, a sign went up on all common-room noticeboards that the next trip into Hogsmeade had been cancelled. Ron was furious.

  “It was on my birthday!” he said, “I was looking forward to that!”

  “Not a big surprise, though, is it?” said Harry. “Not after what happened to Katie.”

  She had still not returned from St. Mungo’s. What was more, further disappearances had been reported in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of students at Hogwarts.

  “But now all I’ve got to look forward to is stupid Apparition!” said Ron grumpily. “Big birthday treat…”

  Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult as ever, though a few more people had managed to Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high and there was a certain amount of ill-feeling towards Wilkie Twycross and his three Ds, which had inspired a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which were Dog-breath and Dung-head.