Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (45 page)

'What kept you?' he asked, as Harry sank into the armchair next to Hermione's.

Harry didn't answer. He was in a state of shock. Half of him wanted to tell Ron and Hermione what had just happened, but the other half wanted to take the secret with him to the grave.

'Are you all right, Harry?' Hermione asked, peering at him over the tip of her quill.

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. In truth, he didn't know whether he was all right or not. 'What's up?' said Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a clearer view of Harry. 'What's happened?'

Harry didn't quite know how to set about telling them, and still wasn't sure whether he wanted to. Just as he had decided not to say anything, Hermione took matters out of his hands.

'Is it Cho?' she asked in a businesslike way. 'Did she corner you after the meeting?'

Numbly surprised, Harry nodded. Ron sniggered, breaking off when Hermione caught his eye.

'So - er - what did she want?' he asked in a mock casual voice.

'She -' Harry began, rather hoarsely; he cleared his throat and tried again. 'She - er -'

'Did you kiss?' asked Hermione briskly.

Ron sat up so fast he sent his ink bottle flying all over the rug. Disregarding this completely, he stared avidly at Harry.

'Well?' he demanded.

Harry looked from Ron's expression of mingled curiosity and hilarity to Hermione's slight frown, and nodded.

'HA!'

Ron made a triumphant gesture with his fist and went into a raucous peal of laughter that made several timid-looking second-years over beside the window jump. A reluctant grin spread over Harry's face as he watched Ron rolling around on the hearthrug.

Hermione gave Ron a look of deep disgust and returned to her letter.

'Well?' Ron said finally, looking up at Harry. 'How was it?'

Harry considered for a moment.

'Wet,' he said truthfully.

Ron made a noise that might have indicated jubilation or disgust, it was hard to tell.

'Because she was crying,' Harry continued heavily.

'Oh,' said Ron, his smile fading slightly. 'Are you that bad at kissing?'

'Dunno,' said Harry, who hadn't considered this, and immediately felt rather worried. 'Maybe I am.'

'Of course you're not,' said Hermione absently, still scribbling away at her letter.

'How do you know?' said Ron very sharply.

'Because Cho spends half her time crying these days,' said Hermione vaguely. 'She does it at mealtimes, in the loos, all over the place.'

'You'd think a bit of kissing would cheer her up,' said Ron, grinning.

'Ron,' said Hermione in a dignified voice, dipping the point of her quill into her inkpot, 'you are the most insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to meet.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' said Ron indignantly. 'What sort of person cries while someone's kissing them?'

'Yeah,' said Harry, slightly desperately, 'who does?'

Hermione looked at the pair of them with an almost pitying expression on her face.

'Don't you understand how Cho's feeling at the moment?' she asked.

'No,' said Harry and Ron together.

Hermione sighed and laid down her quill.

'Well, obviously, she's feeling very sad, because of Cedric dying. Then I expect she's feeling confused because she liked Cedric and now she likes Harry, and she can't work out who she likes best. Then she'll be feeling guilty, thinking it's an insult to Cedric's memory to be kissing Harry at all, and she'll be worrying about what everyone else might say about her if she starts going out with Harry. And she probably can't work out what her feelings towards Harry are, anyway, because he was the one who was with Cedric when Cedric died, so that's all very mixed up and painful. Oh, and she's afraid she's going to be thrown off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team because she's been flying so badly.'

A slightly stunned silence greeted the end of this speech, then Ron said, 'One person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode.'

'Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have,' said Hermione nastily picking up her quill again.

'She was the one who started it,' said Harry. 'I wouldn'tVe - she just sort of came at me - and next thing she's crying all over me - I didn't know what to do —'

'Don't blame you, mate,' said Ron, looking alarmed at the very thought.

'You just had to be nice to her,' said Hermione, looking up anxiously. 'You were, weren't you?'

'Well,' said Harry, an unpleasant heat creeping up his face, 'I sort of - patted her on the back a bit.'

Hermione looked as though she was restraining herself from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty.

'Well, I suppose it could have been worse,' she said. 'Are you going to see her again?'

Til have to, won't I?' said Harry. 'We've got DA meetings, haven't we?'

'You know what I mean,' said Hermione impatiently.

Harry said nothing. Hermione's words opened up a whole new vista of frightening possibilities. He tried to imagine going somewhere with Cho — Hogsmeade, perhaps - and being alone with her for hours at a time. Of course, she would have been expecting him to ask her out after what had just happened… the thought made his stomach clench painfully.

'Oh well,' said Hermione distantly, buried in her letter once more, 'you'll have plenty of opportunities to ask her.'

'What if he doesn't want to ask her?' said Ron, who had been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd expression on his face.

'Don't be silly,' said Hermione vaguely, 'Harry's liked her for ages, haven't you, Harry?'

He did not answer. Yes, he had liked Cho for ages, but whenever he had imagined a scene involving the two of them it had always featured a Cho who was enjoying herself, as opposed to a Cho who was sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder.

'Who're you writing the novel to, anyway?' Ron asked Hermione, trying to read the bit of parchment now trailing on the floor. Hermione hitched it up out of sight.

'Viktor.'

'Krum?'

'How many other Viktors do we know?'

Ron said nothing, but looked disgruntled. They sat in silence for another twenty minutes, Ron finishing his Transfiguration essay with many snorts of impatience and crossings-out, Hermione writing steadily to the very end of the parchment, rolling it up carefully and sealing it, and Harry staring into the fire, wishing more than anything that Sirius's head would appear there and give him some advice about girls. But the fire merely crackled lower and lower, until the red-hot embers crumbled into ash and, looking around, Harry saw that they were, yet again, the last ones in the common room.

'Well, night,' said Hermione, yawning widely as she set olf up the girls' staircase.

'What does she see in Krum?' Ron demanded, as he and Harry climbed the boys' stairs.

'Well,' said Harry, considering the matter, 'I's'pose he's older, isn't he… and he's an international Quidditch player…'

'Yeah, but apart from that,' said Ron, sounding aggravated. 'I mean, he's a grouchy git, isn't he?'

'Bit grouchy, yeah,' said Harry, whose thoughts were still on Cho.

They pulled off their robes and put on pyjamas in silence; Dean, Seamus and Neville were already asleep. Harry put his glasses on his bedside table and got into bed but did not pull the hangings closed around his four-poster; instead, he stared at the patch of starry sky visible through the window next to Neville's bed. If he had known, this time last night, that in twenty-four hours' time he would have kissed Cho Chang…

'Night,' grunted Ron, from somewhere to his right.

'Night,' said Harry.

Maybe next time… if there was a next time… she'd be a bit happier. He ought to have asked her out; she had probably been expecting it and was now really angry with him… or was she lying in bed, still crying about Cedric? He did not know what to think. Hermione's explanation had made it all seem more complicated rather than easier to understand.

That's what they should teach us here, he thought, turning over on to his side, how girls' brains work… it'd be more useful than Divination, anyway…

Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted somewhere out in the night.

Harry dreamed he was back in the DA room. Cho was accusing him of luring her there under false pretences; she said he had promised her a hundred and fifty Chocolate Frog Cards if she showed up. Harry protested… Cho shouted, 'Cedricgave me loads of Chocolate Frog Cards, look!' And she pulled out fistfuls of Cards from inside her robes and threw them into the air. Then she turned into Hermione, who said, 'You did promise her, you know, Harry… I think you'd better give her something else instead… how about your Firebolt?' And Harry was protesting that he could not give Cho his Firebolt, because Umbridge had it, and anyway the whole thing was ridiculous, he'd only come to the DA room to put up some Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby's head…

The dream changed…

His body felt smooth, powerful and flexible. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold stone… he was flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly… it was dark, yet he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colours… he was turning his head… at first glance the corridor was empty… but no… a man was sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping on to his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark…

Harry put out his tongue… he tasted the man's scent on the air… he was alive but drowsy… sitting in front of a door at the end of the corridor…

Harry longed to bite the man… but he must master the impulse… he had more important work to do…

But the man was stirring… a silver Cloak fell from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt… he had no choice… he reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man's flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood…

The man was yelling in pain… then he fell silent… he slumped backwards against the wall… blood was splattering on to the floor…

His forehead hurt terribly… it was aching fit to burst…

'Harry! HARRY!'

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bed covers were twisted all around him like a strait-jacket; he felt as though a white-hot poker were being applied to his forehead.

'Harry!'

Ron was standing over him looking extremely frightened. There were more figures at the foot of Harry's bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him… he rolled right over and vomited over the edge of the mattress.

'He's really ill,' said a scared voice. 'Should we call someone?'

'Harry! Harry!'

He had to tell Ron, it was very important that he tell him… taking great gulps of air, Harry pushed himself up in bed, willing himself not to throw up again, the pain half-blinding him.

'Your dad,' he panted, his chest heaving. 'Your dad's… been attacked…'

'What?' said Ron uncomprehendingly.

'Your dad! He's been bitten, it's serious, there was blood everywhere…"

'I'm going for help,' said the same scared voice, and Harry heard footsteps running out of the dormitory.

'Harry, mate,' said Ron uncertainly, 'you… you were just dreaming…'

'No!' said Harry furiously; it was crucial that Ron understand.

'It wasn't a dream… not an ordinary dream… I was there, I saw it… I did it…'

He could hear Seamus and Dean muttering but did not care. The pain in his forehead was subsiding slightly, though he was still sweating and shivering feverishly. He retched again and Ron leapt backwards out of the way.

'Harry, you're not well,' he said shakily. 'Neville's gone for help.'

'I'm fine!' Harry choked, wiping his mouth on his pyjamas and shaking uncontrollably. There's nothing wrong with me, it's your dad you've got to worry about - we need to find out where he is - he's bleeding like mad - I was - it was a huge snake.'

He tried to get out of bed but Ron pushed him back into it; Dean and Seamus were still whispering somewhere nearby. Whether one minute passed or ten, Harry did not know; he simply sat there shaking, feeling the pain recede very slowly from his scar… then there were hurried footsteps coming up the stairs and he heard Neville's voice again.

'Over here, Professor.'

Professor McGonagall came hurrying into the dormitory in her tartan dressing gown, her glasses perched lopsidedly on the bridge of her bony nose.

'What is it, Potter? Where does it hurt?'

He had never been so pleased to see her; it was a member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now, not someone fussing over him and prescribing useless potions.

'It's Ron's dad,' he said, sitting up again. 'He's been attacked by a snake and it's serious, I saw it happen.'

'What do you mean, you saw it happen?' said Professor McGonagall, her dark eyebrows contracting.

'I don't know… I was asleep and then I was there…'

'You mean you dreamed this?'

'No!' said Harry angrily; would none of them understand? 'I was having a dream at first about something completely different, something stupid… and then this interrupted it. It was real, I didn't imagine it. Mr Weasley was asleep on the floor and he was attacked by a gigantic snake, there was a load of blood, he collapsed, someone's got to find out where he is…'

Professor McGonagall was gazing at him through her lopsided spectacles as though horrified at what she was seeing.

'I'm not lying and I'm not mad!' Harry told her, his voice rising to a shout. 'I tell you, I saw it happen!'

'I believe you, Potter,' said Professor McGonagall curtly. 'Put on your dressing gown - we're going to see the Headmaster.'

Harry was so relieved she was taking him seriously that he did not hesitate, but jumped out of bed at once, pulled on his dressing gown and pushed his glasses back on to his nose.

'Weasley, you ought to come too,' said Professor McGonagall.

They followed Professor McGonagall past the silent figures of Neville, Dean and Seamus, out of the dormitory, down the spiral stairs into the common room, through the portrait hole and off along the Fat Lady's moonlit corridor. Harry felt as though the panic inside him might spill over at any moment; he wanted to run, to yell for Dumbledore; Mr Weasley was bleeding as they walked along so sedately, and what if those fangs (Harry tried hard not to think 'my fangs') had been poisonous? They passed Mrs. Norris, who turned her lamplike eyes upon them and hissed faintly, but Professor McGonagall said, 'Shoo!' Mrs. Norris slunk away into the shadows, and in a few minutes they had reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

'Fizzing Whizzbee,' said Professor McGonagall.

The gargoyle sprang to life and leapt aside; the wall behind it split in two to reveal a stone staircase that was moving continually upwards like a spiral escalator. The three of them stepped on to the moving stairs; the wall closed behind them with a thud and they were moving upwards in tight circles until they reached the highly polished oak door with the brass knocker shaped like a griffin.

Though it was now well past midnight there were voices coming from inside the room, a positive babble of them. It sounded as though Dumbledore was entertaining at least a dozen people.

Professor McGonagall rapped three times with the griffin knocker and the voices ceased abruptly as though someone had switched them all off. The door opened of its own accord and Professor McGonagall led Harry and Ron inside.

The room was in half-darkness; the strange silver instruments standing on tables were silent and still rather than whirring and emitting puffs of smoke as they usually did; the portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses covering the walls were all snoozing in their frames. Behind the door, a magnificent red and gold bird the size of a swan dozed on its perch with its head under its wing.

'Oh, it's you, Professor McGonagall… and… ah.'

Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before him. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered purple and gold dressing gown over a snowy white nightshirt, but seemed wide-awake, his penetrating light blue eyes fixed intently upon Professor McGonagall.

'Professor Dumbledore, Potter has had a… well, a nightmare,' said Professor McGonagall. 'He says…'

'It wasn't a nightmare,' said Harry quickly.

Professor McGonagall looked round at Harry, frowning slightly.

'Very well, then, Potter, you tell the Headmaster about it.'

'I… well, I was asleep…' said Harry and, even in his terror and his desperation to make Dumbledore understand, he felt slightly irritated that the Headmaster was not looking at him, but examining his own interlocked fingers. 'But it wasn't an ordinary dream… it was real… I saw it happen…' He took a deep breath, 'Ron's dad - Mr Weasley - has been attacked by a giant snake.'

The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he had said them, sounding slightly ridiculous, even comic. There was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and stared meditatively at the ceiling. Ron looked from Harry to Dumbledore, white-faced and shocked.

'How did you see this?' Dumbledore asked quietly, still not looking at Harry.

'Well… I don't know,' said Harry, rather angrily - what did it matter? 'Inside my head, I suppose -'

'You misunderstand me,' said Dumbledore, still in the same calm tone. 'I mean… can you remember — er - where you were positioned as you watched this attack happen? Were you perhaps standing beside the victim, or else looking down on the scene from above?'

This was such a curious question that Harry gaped at Dumbledore; it was almost as though he knew…

'I was the snake,' he said. 'I saw it all from the snake's point of view.'

Nobody else spoke for a moment, then Dumbledore, now looking at Ron who was still whey-faced, asked in a new and sharper voice, 'Is Arthur seriously injured?'

'Yes,' said Harry emphatically - why were they all so slow on the uptake, did they not realise how much a person bled when fangs that long pierced their side? And why could Dumbledore not do him the courtesy of looking at him?

But Dumbledore stood up, so quickly it made Harry jump, and addressed one of the old portraits hanging very near the ceiling. 'Everard?' he said sharply. 'And you too, Dilys!'

A sallow-faced wizard with a short black fringe and an elderly witch with long silver ringlets in the frame beside him, both of whom seemed to have been in the deepest of sleeps, opened their eyes immediately.

'You were listening?' said Dumbledore.

The wizard nodded; the witch said, 'Naturally.'

The man has red hair and glasses,' said Dumbledore. 'Everard, you will need to raise the alarm, make sure he is found by the right people -'

Both nodded and moved sideways out of their frames, but instead of emerging in neighbouring pictures (as usually happened at Hogwarts) neither reappeared. One frame now contained nothing but a backdrop of dark curtain, the other a handsome leather armchair. Harry noticed that many of the other headmasters and mistresses on the walls, though snoring and drooling most convincingly, kept sneaking peeks at him from under their eyelids, and he suddenly understood who had been talking when they had knocked.

'Everard and Dilys were two of Hogwarts's most celebrated Heads,' Dumbledore said, now sweeping around Harry, Ron and Professor McGonagall to approach the magnificent sleeping bird on his perch beside the door. Their renown is such that both have portraits hanging in other important wizarding institutions. As they are free to move between their own portraits, they can tell us what may be happening elsewhere…"

'But Mr Weasley could be anywhere!' said Harry.

'Please sit down, all three of you,' said Dumbledore, as though Harry had not spoken, 'Everard and Dilys may not be back for several minutes. Professor McGonagall, if you could draw up extra chairs.'

Professor McGonagall pulled her wand from the pocket of her dressing gown and waved it; three chairs appeared out of thin air, straight-backed and wooden, quite unlike the comfortable chintz armchairs that Dumbledore had conjured up at Harry's hearing. Harry sat down, watching Dumbledore over his shoulder. Dumbledore was now stroking Fawkes's plumed golden head with one finger. The phoenix awoke immediately. He stretched his beautiful head high and observed Dumbledore through bright, dark eyes.

'We will need,' Dumbledore said very quietly to the bird, 'a warning.'

There was a flash of fire and the phoenix had gone.

Dumbledore now swooped down upon one of the fragile silver instruments whose function Harry had never known, carried it over to his desk, sat down facing them again and tapped it gently with the tip of his wand.

The instrument tinkled into life at once with rhythmic clinking noises. Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued from the minuscule silver tube at the top. Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brow furrowed. After a few seconds, the tiny puffs became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and coiled in the air… a serpent's head grew out of the end of it, opening its mouth wide. Harry wondered whether the instrument was confirming his story: he looked eagerly at Dumbledore for a sign that he was right, but Dumbledore did not look up.

'Naturally, naturally,' murmured Dumbledore apparently to himself, still observing the stream of smoke without the slightest sign of surprise. 'But in essence divided?'

Harry could make neither head nor tail of this question. The smoke serpent, however, split itself instantly into two snakes, both coiling and undulating in the dark air. With a look of grim satisfaction, Dumbledore gave the instrument another gentle tap with his wand: the clinking noise slowed and died and the smoke serpents grew faint, became a formless haze and vanished.

Dumbledore replaced the instrument on its spindly little table. Harry saw many of the old headmasters in the portraits follow him with their eyes, then, realising that Harry was watching them, hastily pretend to be sleeping again. Harry wanted to ask what the strange silver instrument was for, but before he could do so, there was a shout from the top of the wall to their right; the wizard called Everard had reappeared in his portrait, panting slightly.

'Dumbledore!'

'What news?' said Dumbledore at once.

'I yelled until someone came running,' said the wizard, who was mopping his brow on the curtain behind him, 'said I'd heard something moving downstairs - they weren't sure whether to believe me but went down to check - you know there are no portraits down there to watch from. Anyway, they carried him up a few minutes later. He doesn't look good, he's covered in blood, I ran along to Elfrida Cragg's portrait to get a good view as they left -'

'Good,' said Dumbledore as Ron made a convulsive movement. 'I take it Dilys will have seen him arrive, then -'

And moments later, the silver-ringleted witch had reappeared in her picture, too; she sank, coughing, into her armchair and said, 'Yes, they've taken him to St Mungo's, Dumbledore… they carried him past my portrait… he looks bad…'

Thank you,' said Dumbledore. He looked round at Professor McGonagall.

'Minerva, I need you to go and wake the other Weasley children.'

'Of course…'

Professor McGonagall got up and moved swiftly to the door. Harry cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was looking terrified.

'And Dumbledore - what about Molly?' said Professor McGonagall, pausing at the door.

That will be a job for Fawkes when he has finished keeping a lookout for anybody approaching,' said Dumbledore. 'But she may already know… that excellent clock of hers…'

Harry knew Dumbledore was referring to the clock that told, not the time, but the whereabouts and conditions of the various Weasley family members, and with a pang he thought that Mr Weasley's hand must, even now, be pointing at mortal peril. But it was very late. Mrs. Weasley was probably asleep, not watching the clock. Harry felt cold as he remembered Mrs. Weasley's Boggart turning into Mr Weasley's lifeless body, his glasses askew, blood running down his face… but Mr Weasley wasn't going to die… he couldn't…

Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard behind Harry and Ron. He emerged from it carrying a blackened old kettle, which he placed carefully on his desk. He raised his wand and murmured, 'Portus!' For a moment the kettle trembled, glowing with an odd blue light; then it quivered to rest, as solidly black as ever.

Dumbledore marched over to another portrait, this time of a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard, who had been painted wearing the Slytherin colours of green and silver and was apparently sleeping so deeply that he could not hear Dumbledore's voice when he attempted to rouse him.

'Phineas. Phineas.'

The subjects of the portraits lining the room were no longer pretending to be asleep; they were shifting around in their frames, the better to watch what was happening. When the clever-looking wizard continued to feign sleep, some of them shouted his name, too.

'Phineas! Phineas! PHINEAS!'

He could not pretend any longer; he gave a theatrical jerk and opened his eyes wide.

'Did someone call?'

'I need you to visit your other portrait again, Phineas,' said Dumbledore. 'I've got another message.'

'Visit my other portrait?' said Phineas in a reedy voice, giving a long, fake yawn (his eyes travelling around the room and focusing on Harry). 'Oh, no, Dumbledore, I am too tired tonight.'

Something about Phineas's voice was familiar to Harry, where had he heard it before? But before he could think, the portraits on the surrounding walls broke into a storm of protest.

'Insubordination, sir!' roared a corpulent, red-nosed wizard, brandishing his fists. 'Dereliction of duty!'

'We are honour-bound to give service to the present Headmaster of Hogwarts!' cried a frail-looking old wizard whom Harry recognised as Dumbledore's predecessor, Armando Dippet. 'Shame on you, Phineas!'

'Shall I persuade him, Dumbledore?' called a gimlet-eyed witch, raising an unusually thick wand that looked not unlike a birch rod.

'Oh, very well,' said the wizard called Phineas, eyeing the wand with mild apprehension, 'though he may well have destroyed my picture by now, he's done away with most of the family -'

'Sirius knows not to destroy your portrait,' said Dumbledore, and Harry realised immediately where he had heard Phineas's voice before: issuing from the apparently empty frame in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. 'You are to give him the message that Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife, children and Harry Potter will be arriving at his house shortly. Do you understand?'

'Arthur Weasley, injured, wife and children and Harry Potter coming to stay,' repeated Phineas in a bored voice. 'Yes, yes… very well

He sloped away into the frame of the portrait and disappeared from view at the very moment the study door opened again. Fred, George and Ginny were ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all three of them looking dishevelled and shocked, still in their night things.

'Harry - what's going on?' asked Ginny, who looked frightened. 'Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad get hurt -'

'Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix,' said Dumbledore, before Harry could speak. 'He has been taken to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you back to Sirius's house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than The Burrow. You will meet your mother there.'

'How're we going?' asked Fred, looking shaken. Tloo powder?'

'No,' said Dumbledore, Tloo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey.' He indicated the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. 'We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back… I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you -'