Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince hp-6

by J. K. Rowling

  Harry tore past Hagrid and his opponent, took aim at Snape’s back, and yelled, “Stupefy!”

  He missed; the jet of red light soared past Snape’s head; Snape shouted, “Run, Draco!” and turned. Twenty yards apart, he and Harry looked at each other before raising their wands simultaneously.

  “Cruc—”

  But Snape parried the curse, knocking Harry backward off his feet before he could complete it; Harry rolled over and scrambled back up again as the huge Death Eater behind him yelled, “Incendio!” Harry heard an explosive bang and a dancing orange light spilled over all of them: Hagrid’s house was on fire.

  “Fang’s in there, yer evil—!” Hagrid bellowed.

  “Cruc—” yelled Harry for the second time, aiming for the figure ahead illuminated in the dancing firelight, but Snape blocked the spell again. Harry could see him sneering.

  “No Unforgivable Curses from you, Potter!” he shouted over the rushing of the flames, Hagrid’s yells, and the wild yelping of the trapped Fang. “You haven’t got the nerve or the ability—”

  “Incarc—” Harry roared, but Snape deflected the spell with an almost lazy flick of his arm.

  “Fight back!” Harry screamed at him. “Fight back, you cowardly—”

  “Coward, did you call me, Potter?” shouted Snape. “Your father would never attack me unless it was four on one, what would you call him, I wonder?”

  “Stupe—”

  “Blocked again and again and again until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!” sneered Snape, deflecting the curse once more. “Now come!” he shouted at the huge Death Eater behind Harry. “It is time to be gone, before the Ministry turns up—”

  “Impedi—”

  But before he could finish this jinx, excruciating pain hit Harry; he keeled over in the grass. Someone was screaming, he would surely die of this agony, Snape was going to torture him to death or madness—

  “No!” roared Snape’s voice and the pain stopped as suddenly as it had started; Harry lay curled on the dark grass, clutching his wand and panting; somewhere overhead Snape was shouting, “Have you forgotten our orders? Potter belongs to the Dark Lord—we are to leave him! Go! Go!”

  And Harry felt the ground shudder under his face as the brother and sister and the enormous Death Eater obeyed, running toward the gates. Harry uttered an inarticulate yell of rage: In that instant, he cared not whether he lived or died. Pushing himself to his feet again, he staggered blindly toward Snape, the man he now hated as much as he hated Voldemort himself—

  “Sectum—”

  Snape flicked his wand and the curse was repelled yet again; but Harry was mere feet away now and he could see Snape’s face clearly at last: He was no longer sneering or jeering; the blazing flames showed a face full of rage. Mustering all his powers of concentration, Harry thought, Levi—

  “No, Potter!” screamed Snape. There was a loud BANG and Harry was soaring backward, hitting the ground hard again, and this time his wand flew out of his hand. He could hear Hagrid yelling and Fang howling as Snape closed in and looked down on him where he lay, wandless and defenseless as Dumbledore had been. Snape’s pale face, illuminated by the flaming cabin, was suffused with hatred just as it had been before he had cursed Dumbledore.

  “You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It was I who invented them—I, the Half-Blood Prince! And you’d turn my inventions on me, like your filthy father, would you? I don’t think so… no—”

  Harry had dived for his wand; Snape shot a hex at it and it flew feet away into the darkness and out of sight.

  “Kill me then,” panted Harry, who felt no fear at all, but only rage and contempt. “Kill me like you killed him, you coward—”

  “DON’T—” screamed Snape, and his face was suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the burning house behind them, “—CALL ME COWARD!”

  And he slashed at the air: Harry felt a white-hot, whiplike something hit him across the face and was slammed backward into the ground. Spots of light burst in front of his eyes and for a moment all the breath seemed to have gone from his body, then he heard a rush of wings above him and something enormous obscured the stars. Buckbeak had flown at Snape, who staggered backward as the razor-sharp claws slashed at him. As Harry raised himself into a sitting position, his head still swimming from its last contact with the ground, he saw Snape running as hard as he could, the enormous beast flapping behind him and screeching as Harry had never heard him screech—

  Harry struggled to his feet, looking around groggily for his wand, hoping to give chase again, but even as his fingers fumbled in the grass, discarding twigs, he knew it would be too late, and sure enough, by the time he had located his wand, he turned only to see the hippogriff circling the gates. Snape had managed to Disapparate just beyond the school’s boundaries.

  “Hagrid,” muttered Harry, still dazed, looking around. “HAGRID?”

  He stumbled toward the burning house as an enormous figure emerged from out of the flames carrying Fang on his back. With a cry of thankfulness, Harry sank to his knees; he was shaking in every limb, his body ached all over, and his breath came in painful stabs.

  “Yeh all righ’, Harry? Yeh all righ’? Speak ter me, Harry…”

  Hagrid’s huge, hairy face was swimming above Harry, blocking out the stars. Harry could smell burnt wood and dog hair; he put out a hand and felt Fang’s reassuringly warm and alive body quivering beside him.

  “I’m all right,” panted Harry. “Are you?”

  “’Course I am… take more’n that ter finish me.”

  Hagrid put his hands under Harry’s arms and raised him up with such force that Harry’s feet momentarily left the ground before Hagrid set him upright again. He could see blood trickling down Hagrid’s cheek from a deep cut under one eye, which was swelling rapidly.

  “We should put out your house,” said Harry, “the charm’s ‘Aguamenti’…”

  “Knew it was summat like that,” mumbled Hagrid, and he raised a smoldering pink, flowery umbrella and said, “Aguamenti!”

  A jet of water flew out of the umbrella tip. Harry raised his wand arm, which felt like lead, and murmured “Aguamenti” too: Together, he and Hagrid poured water on the house until the last flame was extinguished.

  “S’not too bad,” said Hagrid hopefully a few minutes later, looking at the smoking wreck. “Nothin Dumbledore won’ be able to put righ’…”

  Harry felt a searing pain in his stomach at the sound of the name. In the silence and the stillness, horror rose inside him.

  “Hagrid…”

  “I was bindin’ up a couple o’ bowtruckle legs when I heard ’em coming,” said Hagrid sadly, still staring at his wrecked cabin. “They’ll bin burnt ter twigs, poor little things…”

  “Hagrid…”

  “But what happened, Harry? I jus’ saw them Death Eaters runnin’ down from the castle, but what the ruddy hell was Snape doin’ with ’em? Where’s he gone—was he chasin’ them?”

  “He…” Harry cleared his throat; it was dry from panic and the smoke. “Hagrid, he killed…”

  “Killed?” said Hagrid loudly, staring down at Harry. “Snape killed? What’re yeh on abou’, Harry?”

  “Dumbledore,” said Harry. “Snape killed… Dumbledore.”

  Hagrid simply looked at him, the little of his face that could be seen completely blank, uncomprehending.

  “Dumbledore wha, Harry?”

  “He’s dead. Snape killed him…”

  “Don’ say that,” said Hagrid roughly. “Snape kill Dumbledore—don’ be stupid, Harry. Wha’s made yeh say tha’?”

  “I saw it happen.”

  “Yeh couldn’ have.”

  “I saw it, Hagrid.”

  Hagrid shook his head; his expression was disbelieving but sympathetic, and Harry knew that Hagrid thought he had sustained a blow to the head, that he was confused, perhaps by the aftereffects of
a jinx…

  “What musta happened was, Dumbledore musta told Snape ter go with them Death Eaters,” Hagrid said confidently. “I suppose he’s gotta keep his cover. Look, let’s get yeh back up ter the school. Come on, Harry…”

  Harry did not attempt to argue or explain. He was still shaking uncontrollably. Hagrid would find out soon enough, too soon… As they directed their steps back toward the castle, Harry saw that many of its windows were lit now. He could imagine, clearly, the scenes inside as people moved from room to room, telling each other that Death Eaters had got in, that the Mark was shining over Hogwarts, that somebody must have been killed…

  The oak front doors stood open ahead of them, light flooding out onto the drive and the lawn. Slowly, uncertainly, dressing-gowned people were creeping down the steps, looking around nervously for some sign of the Death Eaters who had fled into the night. Harry’s eyes, however, were fixed upon the ground at the foot of the tallest tower. He imagined that he could see a black, huddled mass lying in the grass there, though he was really too far away to see anything of the sort. Even as he stared wordlessly at the place where he thought Dumbledore’s body must lie, however, he saw people beginning to move toward it.

  “What’re they all lookin’ at?” said Hagrid, as he and Harry approached the castle front, Fang keeping as close as he could to their ankles. “Wha’s that lyin’ on the grass?” Hagrid added sharply, heading now toward the foot of the Astronomy Tower, where a small crowd was congregating. “See it, Harry? Right at the foot of the tower? Under where the Mark… Blimey… yeh don’ think someone got thrown—?”

  Hagrid fell silent, the thought apparently too horrible to express aloud. Harry walked alongside him, feeling the aches and pains in his face and his legs where the various hexes of the last half hour had hit him, though in an oddly detached way, as though somebody near him was suffering them. What was real and inescapable was the awful pressing feeling in his chest…

  He and Hagrid moved, dreamlike, through the murmuring crowd to the very front, where the dumbstruck students and teachers had left a gap.

  Harry heard Hagrid’s moan of pain and shock, but he did not stop; he walked slowly forward until he reached the place where Dumbledore lay and crouched down beside him.

  He had known there was no hope from the moment that the full Body-Bind Curse Dumbledore had placed upon him lifted, known that it could have happened only because its caster was dead, but there was still no preparation for seeing him here, spread-eagled, broken: the greatest wizard Harry had ever, or would ever, meet.

  Dumbledore’s eyes were closed; but for the strange angle of his arms and legs, he might have been sleeping. Harry reached out, straightened the half-moon spectacles upon the crooked nose, and wiped a trickle of blood from the mouth with his own sleeve. Then he gazed down at the wise old face and tried to absorb the enormous and incomprehensible truth: that never again would Dumbledore speak to him, never again could he help—

  The crowd murmured behind Harry. After what seemed like a long time, he became aware that he was kneeling upon something hard and looked down.

  The locket they had managed to steal so many hours before had fallen out of Dumbledore’s pocket. It had opened, perhaps due to the force with which it hit the ground. And although he could not feel more shock or horror or sadness than he felt already, Harry knew, as he picked it up, that there was something wrong—

  He turned the locket over in his hands. This was neither as large as the locket he remembered seeing in the Pensieve, nor were there any markings upon it, no sign of the ornate S that was supposed to be Slytherin’s mark. Moreover, there was nothing inside but for a scrap of folded parchment wedged tightly into the place where a portrait should have been.

  Automatically, without really thinking about what he was doing, Harry pulled out the fragment of parchment, opened it, and read by the light of the many wands that had now been lit behind him:

  To the Dark Lord

  I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.

  I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.

  R. A. B.

  Harry neither knew nor cared what the message meant. Only one thing mattered: This was not a Horcrux. Dumbledore had weakened himself by drinking that terrible potion for nothing. Harry crumpled the parchment in his hand, and his eyes burned with tears as behind him Fang began to howl.

  29. THE PHEONIX LAMENT

  “C ’mere, Harry…”

  “No.”

  “Yeh can’ stay here, Harry… Come on, now…”

  “No.”

  He did not want to leave Dumbledore’s side, he did not want to move anywhere. Hagrid’s hand on his shoulder was trembling. Then another voice said, “Harry, come on.”

  A much smaller and warmer hand had enclosed his and was pulling him upward. He obeyed its pressure without really thinking about it. Only as he walked blindly back through the crowd did he realize, from a trace of flowery scent on the air, that it was Ginny who was leading him back into the castle. Incomprehensible voices battered him, sobs and shouts and wails stabbed the night, but Harry and Ginny walked on, back up the steps into the entrance hall. Faces swam on the edges of Harry’s vision, people were peering at him, whispering, wondering, and Gryffindor rubies glistened on the floor like drops of blood as they made their way toward the marble staircase.

  “We’re going to the hospital wing,” said Ginny.

  “I’m not hurt,” said Harry.

  “It’s McGonagall’s orders,” said Ginny. “Everyone’s up there, Ron and Hermione and Lupin and everyone—”

  Fear stirred in Harry’s chest again: He had forgotten the inert figures he had left behind.

  “Ginny, who else is dead?”

  “Don’t worry, none of us.”

  “But the Dark Mark—Malfoy said he stepped over a body—”

  “He stepped over Bill, but it’s all right, he’s alive.”

  There was something in her voice, however, that Harry knew boded ill.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure… he’s a—a bit of a mess, that’s all. Greyback attacked him. Madam Pomfrey says he won’t—won’t look the same anymore…”

  Ginny’s voice trembled a little.

  “We don’t really know what the aftereffects will be—I mean, Greyback being a werewolf, but not transformed at the time.”

  “But the others… There were other bodies on the ground…”

  “Neville and Professor Flitwick are both hurt, but Madam Pomfrey says they’ll be all right. And a Death Eater’s dead, he got hit by a Killing Curse that huge blond one was firing off everywhere—Harry, if we hadn’t had your Felix potion, I think we’d all have been killed, but everything seemed to just miss us—”

  They had reached the hospital wing. Pushing open the doors, Harry saw Neville lying, apparently asleep, in a bed near the door. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Tonks, and Lupin were gathered around another bed near the far end of the ward. At the sound of the doors opening, they all looked up. Hermione ran to Harry and hugged him; Lupin moved forward too, looking anxious.

  “Are you all right, Harry?”

  “I’m fine… How’s Bill?”

  Nobody answered. Harry looked over Hermione’s shoulder and saw an unrecognizable face lying on Bill’s pillow, so badly slashed and ripped that he looked grotesque. Madam Pomfrey was dabbing at his wounds with some harsh-smelling green ointment. Harry remembered how Snape had mended Malfoy’s Sectumsempra wounds so easily with his wand.

  “Can’t you fix them with a charm or something?” he asked the matron.

  “No charm will work on these,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I’ve tried everything I know, but there is no cure for werewolf bites.”

  “But he wasn’t bitten at the full moon,” said Ron, who was gazing down into his brother’s fa
ce as though he could somehow force him to mend just by staring. “Greyback hadn’t transformed, so surely Bill won’t be a—a real—?”

  He looked uncertainly at Lupin.

  “No, I don’t think that Bill will be a true werewolf,” said Lupin, “but that does not mean that there won’t be some contamination. Those are cursed wounds. They are unlikely ever to heal fully, and—and Bill might have some wolfish characteristics from now on.”

  “Dumbledore might know something that’d work, though,” Ron said. “Where is he? Bill fought those maniacs on Dumbledore’s orders, Dumbledore owes him, he can’t leave him in this state—”

  “Ron—Dumbledore’s dead,” said Ginny.

  “No!” Lupin looked wildly from Ginny to Harry, as though hoping the latter might contradict her, but when Harry did not, Lupin collapsed into a chair beside Bill’s bed, his hands over his face. Harry had never seen Lupin lose control before; he felt as though he was intruding upon something private, indecent. He turned away and caught Ron’s eye instead, exchanging in silence a look that confirmed what Ginny had said.

  “How did he die?” whispered Tonks. “How did it happen?”

  “Snape killed him,” said Harry. “I was there, I saw it. We arrived back on the Astronomy Tower because that’s where the Mark was… Dumbledore was ill, he was weak, but I think he realized it was a trap when we heard footsteps running up the stairs. He immobilized me, I couldn’t do anything, I was under the Invisibility Cloak—and then Malfoy came through the door and disarmed him—”

  Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth and Ron groaned. Luna’s mouth trembled.

  “—more Death Eaters arrived—and then Snape—and Snape did it. The Avada Kedavra.”

  Harry couldn’t go on.

  Madam Pomfrey burst into tears. Nobody paid her any attention except Ginny, who whispered, “Shh! Listen!”