Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Chapter 6 -
The Ghoul in Pajamas
The shock of losing Mad-Eye hung over the
house in the days that followed; Harry kept expecting to see him
stumping in through the back door like the other Order members, who
passed in and out to relay news. Harry felt that nothing but action
would assuage his feelings of guilt and grief and that he ought to
set out on his mission to find and destroy Horcruxes as soon as
possible.
“Well, you can’t do anything about the” –
Ron mouthed the word Horcruxes – “till you’re
seventeen. You’ve still got the Trace on you. And we can plan
here as well as anywhere, can’t we? Or,” he dropped his
voice to a whisper, “d’you reckon you already know
where the You-Know-Whats are?” “No,” Harry
admitted. “I think Hermione’s been doing a bit of
research,” said Ron. “She said she was saving it for
when you got here.” They were sitting at the breakfast table;
Mr. Weasley and Bill had just left for work. Mrs. Weasley had gone
upstairs to wake Hermione and Ginny, while Fleur had drifted off to
take a bath. “The Trace’ll break on the
thirty-first,” said Harry. “That means I only need to
stay here four days. Then I can –“ “Five
days,” Ron corrected him firmly. “We’ve got to
stay for the wedding. They’ll kill us if we miss it.”
Harry understood “they” to mean Fleur and Mrs. Weasley.
“It’s one extra day,” said Ron, when Harry looked
mutinous. “Don’t they realize how important
–?” “’Course they don’t,” said
Ron. “They haven’t got a clue. And now you mention it,
I wanted to talk to you about that.” Ron glanced toward the
door into the hall to check that Mrs. Weasley was not returning
yet, then leaned in closer to Harry. “Mum’s been trying
to get it out of Hermione and me. What we’re off to do.
She’ll try you next, so brace yourself. Dad and
Lupin’ve both asked as well, but when we said Dumbledore told
you not to tell anyone except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, though.
She’s determined.” Ron’s prediction came true
within hours. Shortly before lunch, Mrs. Weasley detached Harry
from the others by asking him to help identify a lone man’s
sock that she thought might have come out of his rucksack. Once she
had him cornered in the tiny scullery off the kitchen, she started.
“Ron and Hermione seem to think that the three of you are
dropping out of Hogwarts,” she began in a light, casual tone.
“Oh,” said Harry. “Well, yeah. We are.” The
mangle turned of its own accord in a corner, wringing out what
looked like one of Mr. Weasley’s vests. “May I ask why
you are abandoning your education?” said Mrs. Weasley.
“Well, Dumbledore left me . . . stuff to do,” mumbled
Harry. “Ron and Hermione know about it, and they want to come
too.” “What sort of ‘stuff’?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t –“ “Well,
frankly, I think Arthur and I have a right to know, and I’m
sure Mr. And Mrs. Granger would agree!” said Mrs. Weasley.
Harry had been afraid of the “concerned parent” attack.
He forced himself to look directly into her eyes, noticing as he
did so that they were precisely the same shade of brown as
Ginny’s. This did not help. “Dumbledore didn’t
want anyone else to know, Mrs. Weasley. I’m sorry. Ron and
Hermione don’t have to come, it’s their choice
–“ “I don’t see that you have to go
either!” she snapped, dropping all pretense now.
“You’re barely of age, any of you! It’s utter
nonsense, if Dumbledore needed work doing, he had the whole Order
at his command! Harry, you must have misunderstood him. Probably he
was telling you something he wanted done, and you took it to mean
that he wanted you–“ “I didn’t
misunderstand,” said Harry flatly. “It’s got to
be me.” He handed her back the single sock he was supposed to
be identifying, which was patterned with golden bulrushes.
“And that’s not mine. I don’t support Puddlemere
United.” “Oh, of course not,” said Mrs. Weasley
with a sudden and rather unnerving return to her casual tone.
“I should have realized. Well, Harry, while we’ve still
got you here, you won’t mind helping with the preparations
for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, will you? There’s still
so much to do.” “No – I – of course
not,” said Harry, disconcerted by this sudden change of
subject. “Sweet of you,” she replied, and she smiled as
she left the scullery. From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept
Harry, Ron and Hermione so busy with preparations for the wedding
that they hardly had any time to think. The kindest explanation of
this behavior would have been that Mrs. Weasley wanted to distract
them all from thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of their recent
journey. After two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of
color-matching favors, ribbons, and flowers, of de-gnoming the
garden and helping Mrs. Weasley cook vast batches of
canapés, however, Harry started to suspect her of a
different motive. All the jobs she handed out seemed to keep him,
Ron, and Hermione away from one another; he had not had a chance to
speak to the two of them alone since the first night, when he had
told them about Voldemort torturing Ollivander. “I think Mum
thinks that if she can stop the three of you getting together and
planning, she’ll be able to delay you leaving,” Ginny
told Harry in an undertone, as they laid the table for dinner on
the third night of his stay. “And then what does she
think’s going to happen?” Harry muttered.
“Someone else might kill off Voldemort while she’s
holding us here making vol-au-vents?” He had spoken without
thinking, and saw Ginny’s face whiten. “So it’s
true?” she said. “That’s what you’re trying
to do?” “I – not – I was joking,”
said Harry evasively. They stared at each other, and there was
something more than shock in Ginny’s expression. Suddenly
Harry became aware that this was the first time that he had been
alone with her since those stolen hours in secluded corners of the
Hogwarts grounds. He was sure she was remembering them too. Both of
them jumped as the door opened, and Mr. Weasley, Kingsley, and Bill
walked in. They were often joined by other Order members for dinner
now, because the Burrow had replaced number twelve, Grimmauld Place
as the headquarters. Mr. Weasley had explained that after the death
of Dumbledore, their Secret-Keeper, each of the people to whom
Dumbledore had confided Grimmauld Place’s location had become
a Secret-Keeper in turn. “And as there are around twenty of
us, that greatly dilutes the power of the Fidelius Charm. Twenty
times as many opportunities for the Death Eaters to get the secret
out of somebody. We can’t expect it to hold much
longer.” “But surely Snape will have told the Death
Eaters the address by now?” asked Harry. “Well, Mad-Eye
set up a couple of curses against Snape in case he turns up there
again. We hope they’ll be strong enough both to keep him out
and to bind his tongue if he tries to talk about the place, but we
can’t be sure. It would have been insane to keep using the
place as headquarters now that its protection has become so
shaky.” The kitchen was so crowded that evening it was
difficult to maneuver knives and forks. Harry found himself crammed
beside Ginny; the unsaid things that had just passed between them
made him wish they had been separated by a few more people. He was
trying so hard to avoid brushing her arm he could barely cut his
chicken. “No news about Mad-Eye?” Harry asked Bill.
“Nothing,” replied Bill. They had not been able to hold
a funeral for Moody, because Bill and Lupin had failed to recover
his body. It had been difficult to know where he might have fallen,
given the darkness and the confusion of the battle. “The
Daily Prophet hasn’t said a word about him dying or about
finding the body,” Bill went on. “But that
doesn’t mean much. It’s keeping a lot quiet these
days.” “And they still haven’t called a hearing
about all the underage magic I used escaping the Death
Eaters?” Harry called across the table to Mr. Weasley, who
shook his head. “Because they know I had no choice or because
they don’t want me to tell the world Voldemort attacked
me?” “The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn’t
want to admit that You-Know-Who is as powerful as he is, nor that
Azkaban’s seen a mass breakout.” “Yeah, why tell
the public the truth?” said Harry, clenching his knife so
tightly that the faint scars on the back of his right hand stood
out, white against his skin: I must not tell lies.
“Isn’t anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to
him?” asked Ron angrily. “Of course, Ron, but people
are terrified,” Mr. Weasley replied, “terrified that
they will be next to disappear, their children the next to be
attacked! There are nasty rumors going around; I for one
don’t believe the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts
resigned. She hasn’t been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile
Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day; I just hope
he’s working on a plan.” There was a pause in which
Mrs. Weasley magicked the empty plates onto the work surface and
served apple tart. “We must decide ‘ow you will be
disguised, ‘Arry,” said Fleur, once everyone had
pudding. “For ze wedding,” she added, when he looked
confused. “Of course, none of our guests are Death Eaters,
but we cannot guarantee zat zey will not let something slip after
zey ‘ave ‘ad champagne.” From this, Harry
gathered that she still suspected Hagrid. “Yes, good
point,” said Mrs. Weasley from the top of the table where she
sat, spectacles perched on the end of her nose, scanning an immense
list of jobs that she had scribbled on a very long piece of
parchment. “Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room
yet?” “Why?” exclaimed Ron, slamming his spoon
down and glaring at his mother. “Why does my room have to be
cleaned out? Harry and I are fine with it the way it is!”
“We are holding your brother’s wedding here in a few
days’ time, young man –“ “And are they
getting married in my bedroom?” asked Ron furiously.
“No! So why in the name of Merlin’s saggy left
–“ “Don’t talk to your mother like
that,” said Mr. Weasley firmly. “And do as you’re
told.” Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his
spoon and attacked the last few mouthfuls of his apple tart.
“I can help, some of it’s my mess.” Harry told
Ron, but Mrs. Weasley cut across him. “No, Harry, dear,
I’d much rather you helped Arthur much out the chickens, and
Hermione, I’d be ever so grateful if you’d change the
sheets for Monsieur and Madame Delacour; you know they’re
arriving at eleven tomorrow morning.” But as it turned out,
there was very little to do for the chickens. “There’s
no need to, er, mention it to Molly,” Mr. Weasley told Harry,
blocking his access to the coop, “but, er, Ted Tonks sent me
most of what was left of Sirius’s bike and, er, I’m
hiding – that’s to say, keeping – it in here.
Fantastic stuff: There’s an exhaust gaskin, as I believe
it’s called, the most magnificent battery, and it’ll be
a great opportunity to find out how brakes work. I’m going to
try and put it all back together again when Molly’s not
– I mean, when I’ve got time.” When they returned
to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so Harry slipped
upstairs to Ron’s attic bedroom. “I’m doing it,
I’m doing – ! Oh, it’s you,” said Ron in
relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed,
which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as
it had been all week; the only chance was that Hermione was now
sitting in the far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at
her feet, sorting books, some of which Harry recognized as his own,
into two enormous piles. “Hi, Harry,” she said, as he
sat down on his camp bed. “And how did you manage to get
away?” “Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny
and me to change the sheets yesterday,” said Hermione. She
threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The Rise and Fall
of the Dark Arts onto the other. “We were just talking about
Mad-Eye,” Ron told Harry. “I reckon he might have
survived.” “But Bill saw him hit by the Killing
Curse,” said Harry. “Yeah, but Bill was under attack
too,” said Ron. “How can he be sure what he saw?”
“Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a
thousand feet,” said Hermione, now weight Quidditch Teams of
Britain and Ireland in her hand. “He could have used a Shield
Charm –“ “Fleur said his wand was blasted out of
his hand,” said Harry. “Well, all right, if you want
him to be dead,” said Ron grumpily, punching his pillow into
a more comfortable shape. “Of course we don’t want him
to be dead!” said Hermione, looking shocked.
“It’s dreadful that he’s dead! But we’re
being realistic!” For the first time, Harry imagined
Mad-Eye’s body, broken as Dumbledore’s had been, yet
with that one eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of
revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh. “The Death
Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that’s why no
one’s found him,” said Ron wisely. “Yeah,”
said Harry. “Like Barty Crouch, turned into a bone and buried
in Hagrid’s front garden. They probably transfigured Moody
and stuffed him –“ “Don’t!” squealed
Hermione. Startled, Harry looked over just in time to see her burst
into tears over her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary. “Oh
no,” said Harry, struggling to get up from the old camp bed.
“Hermione, I wasn’t trying to upset –“ But
with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounded off the bed
and got there first. One arm around Hermione, he fished in his
jeans pocket and withdrew a revolting-looking handkerchief that he
had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling out his
wand, he pointed it at the rag and said, “Tergeo.” The
wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with
himself, Ron handed the slightly smoking handkerchief to Hermione.
“Oh . . . thanks, Ron. . . . I’m sorry. . . .”
She blew her nose and hiccupped. “It’s just so awf-ful,
isn’t it? R-right after Dumbledore . . . I j-just n-never
imagined Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, giving her a squeeze.
“But you know what he’d say to us if he was
here?” “’C-constant vigilance,’” said
Hermione, mopping her eyes. “That’s right,” said
Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn from what happened
to him. And what I’ve learned is not to trust that cowardly
little squit, Mundungus.” Hermione gave a shaky laugh and
leaned forward to pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had
snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped
The Monster of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from
its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as
Harry wrenched the book from Ron’s leg and retied it shit.
“What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron
asked, limping back to his bed. “Just trying to decide which
ones to take with us,” said Hermione, “When we’re
looking for the Horcruxes.” “Oh, of course,” said
Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll
be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.” “Ha
ha,” said Hermione, looking down at Spellman’s
Syllabary. “I wonder . . . will we need to translate runes?
It’s possible. . . . I think we’d better take it, to be
safe.” She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two
piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History. “Listen,” said
Harry. He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at him with
similar mixtures of resignation and defiance. “I know you
said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you wanted to come with
me,” Harry began. “Here he goes,” Ron said to
Hermione, rolling his eyes. “As we knew he would,” he
sighed, turning back to the books. “You know, I think I will
take Hogwarts, A History. Even if we’re not going back there,
I don’t think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it
with –“ “Listen!” said Harry again.
“No, Harry, you listen,” said Hermione.
“We’re coming with you. That was decided months ago
– years, really.” “But –“ “Shut
up,” Ron advised him. “– are you sure
you’ve thought this through?” Harry persisted.
“Let’s see,” said Hermione, slamming Travels with
Trolls onto the discarded pile with a rather fierce look.
“I’ve been packing for days, so we’re ready to
leave at a moment’s notice, which for your information has
included doing some pretty difficult magic, not to mention
smuggling Mad-Eye’s whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right
under Ron’s mum’s nose. “I’ve also modified
my parents’ memories so that they’re convinced
they’re really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that
their life’s ambition is to move to Australia, which they
have now done. That’s to make it more difficult for Voldemort
to track them down and interrogate them about me – or you,
because unfortunately, I’ve told them quite a bit about you.
“Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I’ll
find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don’t –
well, I think I’ve cast a good enough charm to keep them safe
and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don’t know that
they’ve got a daughter, you see.” Hermione’s eyes
were swimming with tears again. Ron got back off the bed, put his
arm around her once more, and frowned at Harry as though
reproaching him for lack of tact. Harry could not think of anything
to say, not least because it was highly unusual for Ron to be
teaching anyone else tact. “I – Hermione, I’m
sorry – I didn’t –“ “Didn’t
realize that Ron and I know perfectly well what might happen if we
come with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you’ve
done.” “Nah, he’s just eaten,” said Ron.
“Go on, he needs to know!” “Oh, all right. Harry,
come here.” For the second time Ron withdrew his arm from
around Hermione and stumped over to the door.
“C’mon.” “Why?” Harry asked,
following Ron out of the room onto the tiny landing.
“Descendo,” muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the low
ceiling. A hatch opened right over their heads and a ladder slid
down to their feet. A horrible, half-sucking, half-moaning sound
came out of the square hole, along with an unpleasant smell like
open drains. “That’s your ghoul, isn’t it?”
asked Harry, who had never actually met the creature that sometimes
disrupted the nightly silence. “Yeah, it is,” said Ron,
climbing the ladder. “Come and have a look at him.”
Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the tiny attic
space. His head and shoulders were in the room before he caught
sight of the creature curled up a few feet from him, fast asleep in
the gloom with its large mouth wide open. “But it . . . it
looks . . . do ghouls normally wear pajamas?”
“No,” said Ron. “Nor have they usually got red
hair or that number of pustules.” Harry contemplated the
thing, slightly revolted. It was human in shape and size, and was
wearing what, now that Harry’s eyes became used to the
darkness, was clearly an old pair of Ron’s pajamas. He was
also sure that ghouls were generally rather slimy and bald, rather
than distinctly hairy and covered in angry purple blisters.
“He’s me, see?” said Ron. “No,” said
Harry. “I don’t.” “I’ll explain it
back in my room, the smell’s getting to me,” said Ron.
They climbed back down the ladder, which Ron returned to the
ceiling, and rejoined Hermione, who was still sorting books.
“Once we’ve left, the ghoul’s going to come and
live down here in my room,” said Ron. “I think
he’s really looking forward to it – well, it’s
hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool – but
he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he’s going to be
me with spattergroit. Good, eh?” Harry merely looked his
confusion. “It is!” said Ron, clearly frustrated that
Harry had not grasped the brilliance of the plan. “Look, when
we three don’t turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone’s
going to think Hermione and I must be with you, right? Which means
the Death Eaters will go straight for our families to see if
they’ve got information on where you are.” “But
hopefully it’ll look like I’ve gone away with Mum and
Dad; a lot of Muggle-borns are talking about going into hiding at
the moment,” said Hermione. “We can’t hide my
whole family, it’ll look too fishy and they can’t all
leave their jobs,” said Ron. “So we’re going to
put out the story that I’m seriously ill with spattergroit,
which is why I can’t go back to school. If anyone comes
calling to investigate, Mum or Dad can show them the ghoul in my
bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit’s really contagious,
so they’re not going to want to go near him. It won’t
matter that he can’t say anything, either, because apparently
you can’t once the fungus has spread to your uvula.”
“And your mum and dad are in on this plan?” asked
Harry. “Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the
ghoul. Mum . . . well, you’ve seen what she’s like. She
won’t accept we’re going till we’re gone.”
There was silence in the room, broken only by gentle thuds as
Hermione continued to throw books onto one pile or the other. Ron
sat watching her, and Harry looked from one to the other, unable to
say anything. The measure they had taken to protect their families
made him realize, more than anything else could have done, that
they really were going to come with him and that they knew exactly
how dangerous that would be. He wanted to tell them what that meant
to him, but he simply could not find words important enough.
Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs. Weasley
shouting from four floors below. “Ginny’s probably left
a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring,” said Ron. “I
dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the
wedding.” “Fleur’s sister’s a bridesmaid,
she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and she’s too young
to come on her own,” said Hermione, as she pored indecisively
over Break with a Banshee. “Well, guests aren’t going
to help Mum’s stress levels,” said Ron. “What we
really need to decide,” said Hermione, tossing Defensive
Magical Theory into the bin without a second glance and picking up
An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, “is where
we’re going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted
to go to Godric’s Hollow first, Harry, and I understand why,
but . . . well . . . shouldn’t we make the Horcruxes our
priority?” “If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were,
I’d agree with you,” said Harry, who did not believe
that Hermione really understood his desire to return to
Godric’s Hollow. His parents’ graves were only part of
the attraction: He had a strong, though inexplicable, feeling that
the place held answers for him. Perhaps it was simply because it
was there that he had survived Voldemort’s Killing Curse; now
that he was facing the challenge of repeating the feat, Harry was
drawn to the place where it had happened, wanting to understand.
“Don’t you think there’s a possibility that
Voldemort’s keeping a watch on Godric’s Hollow?”
Hermione asked. “He might expect you to go back and visit
your parents’ graves once you’re free to go wherever
you like?” This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled
to find a counterargument, Ron spoke up, evidently following his
own train of thought. “This R.A.B. person,” he said.
“You know, the one who stole the real locket?” Hermione
nodded. “He said in his note he was going to destroy it,
didn’t he?” Harry dragged his rucksack toward him and
pulled out the fake Horcrux in which R.A.B.’s note was still
folded. “’I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to
destroy it as soon as I can.’” Harry read out.
“Well, what if he did finish it off?” said Ron.
“Or she.” Interposed Hermione. “Whichever,”
said Ron. “it’d be one less for us to do!”
“Yes, but we’re still going to have to try and trace
the real locket, aren’t we?” said Hermione, “to
find out whether or not it’s destroyed.” “And
once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a Horcrux?” asked
Ron. “Well,” said Hermione, “I’ve been
researching that.” “How?” asked Harry. “I
didn’t think there were any books on Horcruxes in the
library?” “There weren’t,” said Hermione,
who had turned pink. “Dumbledore removed them all, but he
– he didn’t destroy them.” Ron sat up straight,
wide-eyed. “How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you
managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?” “It
– it wasn’t stealing!” said Hermione, looking
from Harry to Ron with a kind of desperation. “They were
still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the
shelves. Anyway, if he really didn’t want anyone to get at
them, I’m sure he would have made it much harder to
–“ “Get to the point!” said Ron.
“Well . . . it was easy,” said Hermione in a small
voice. “I just did a Summoning Charm. You know – Accio.
And – they zoomed out of Dumbledore’s study window
right into the girls’ dormitory.” “But when did
you do this?” Harry asked, regarding Hermione with a mixture
of admiration and incredulity. “Just after his –
Dumbledore’s – funeral,” said Hermione in an even
smaller voice. “Right after we agreed we’d leave school
and go and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back upstairs to get
my things it – it just occurred to me that the more we knew
about them, the better it would be . . . and I was alone in there .
. . so I tried . . . and it worked. They flew straight in through
the open window and I – I packed them.” She swallowed
and then said imploringly, “I can’t believe Dumbledore
would have been angry, it’s not as though we’re going
to use the information to make a Horcrux, is it?” “Can
you hear us complaining?” said Ron. “Where are these
books anyway?” Hermione rummaged for a moment and then
extracted from the pile a large volume, bound in faded black
leather. She looked a little nauseated and held it as gingerly as
if it were something recently dead. “This is the one that
gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. Secrets of
the Darkest Art – it’s a horrible book, really awful,
full of evil magic. I wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the
library. . . . if he didn’t do it until he was headmaster, I
bet Voldemort got all the instruction he needed from here.”
“Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then,
if he’d already read that?” asked Ron. “He only
approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your
soul into seven,” said Harry. “Dumbledore was sure
Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the time he asked
Slughorn about them. I think you’re right, Hermione, that
could easily have been where he got the information.”
“And the more I’ve read about them,” said
Hermione, “the more horrible they seem, and the less I can
believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how
unstable you make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and
that’s just by making one Horcrux!” Harry remembered
what Dumbledore had said about Voldemort moving beyond “usual
evil.” “Isn’t there any way of putting yourself
back together?” Ron asked. “Yes,” said Hermione
with a hollow smile, “but it would be excruciatingly
painful.” “Why? How do you do it?” asked Harry.
“Remorse,” said Hermione. “You’ve got to
really feel what you’ve done. There’s a footnote.
Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can’t see
Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?” “No,”
said Ron, before Harry could answer. “So does it say how to
destroy Horcruxes in that book?” “Yes,” said
Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting
entrails, “because it warns Dark wizards how strong they have
to make the enchantments on them. From all that I’ve read,
what Harry did to Riddle’s diary was one of the few really
foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.” “What,
stabbing it with a basilisk fang?” asked Harry. “Oh
well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of basilisk fangs,
then,” said Ron. “I was wondering what we were going to
do with them.” “It doesn’t have to be a basilisk
fang,” said Hermione patiently. “It has to be something
so destructive that the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk
venom only has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare
–“ “– phoenix tears,” said Harry,
nodding. “Exactly,” said Hermione. “Our problem
is that there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk
venom, and they’re all dangerous to carry around with you.
That’s a problem we’re going to have to solve, though,
because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won’t do the
trick. You’ve got to put it beyond magical repair.”
“But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” said Ron,
“why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in
something else?” “Because a Horcrux is the complete
opposite of a human being.” Seeing that Harry and Ron looked
thoroughly confused, Hermione hurried on. “Look, if I picked
up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I
wouldn’t damage your soul at all.” ”Which would
be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” said Ron. Harry
laughed. “It should be, actually! But my point is that
whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive,
untouched,” said Hermione. “But it’s the other
way round with a Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on
its container, its enchanted body, for survival. It can’t
exist without it.” “That diary sort of died when I
stabbed it,” said Harry, remembering ink pouring like blood
from the punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of
Voldemort’s soul as it vanished. “And once the diary
was properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped in it could no
longer exist. Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before you did,
flushing it away, but obviously it came back good as new.”
“Hang on,” said Ron, frowning. “The bit of soul
in that diary was possessing Ginny, wasn’t it? How does that
work, then?” “While the magical container is still
intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and out of someone if
they get too close to the object. I don’t mean holding it for
too long, it’s nothing to do with touching it,” she
added before Ron could speak. “I mean close emotionally.
Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself
incredibly vulnerable. You’re in trouble if you get too fond
of or dependent on the Horcrux.” “I wonder how
Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” said Harry. “Why
didn’t I ask him? I never really . . .” His voice
trailed away: He was thinking of all the things he should have
asked Dumbledore, and of how, since the headmaster had died, it
seemed to Harry that he had wasted so many opportunities when
Dumbledore had been alive, to find out more . . . to find out
everything. . . . The silence was shattered as the bedroom door
flew open with a wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieked and dropped
Secrets of the Darkest Art; Crookshanks streaked under the bed,
hissing indignantly; Ron jumped off the bed, skidded on a discarded
Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the opposite wall;
and Harry instinctively dived for his wand before realizing that he
was looking up at Mrs. Weasley, whose hair was disheveled and whose
face was contorted with rage. “I’m so sorry to break up
this cozy little gathering,” she said, her voice trembling.
“I’m sure you all need your rest . . . but there are
wedding presents stacked in my room that need sorting out and I was
under the impression that you had agreed to help.” “Oh
yes,” said Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt to her
feet, sending books flying in every direction. “we will . . .
we’re sorry . . .” With an anguished look at Harry and
Ron, Hermione hurried out of the room after Mrs. Weasley.
“it’s like being a house-elf,” complained Ron in
an undertone, still massaging his head as he and Harry followed.
“Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this
wedding’s over, the happier, I’ll be.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “then we’ll have
nothing to do except find Horcruxes. . . . It’ll be like a
holiday, won’t it?” Ron started to laugh, but at the
sight of the enormous pile of wedding presents waiting for them in
Mrs. Weasley’s room, stopped quite abruptly. The Delacours
arrived the following morning at eleven o’ clock. Harry, Ron,
Hermione and Ginny were feeling quite resentful toward
Fleur’s family by this time; and it was with ill grace that
Ron stumped back upstairs to put on matching socks, and Harry
attempted to flatten his hair. Once they had all been deemed smart
enough, they trooped out into the sunny backyard to await the
visitors. Harry had never seen the place looking so tidy. The rusty
cauldrons and old Wellington boots that usually littered the steps
by the back door were gone, replaced by two new Flutterby bushes
standing either side of the door in large pots; though there was no
breeze, the leaves waved lazily, giving an attractive rippling
effect. The chickens had been shut away, the yard had been swept,
and the nearby garden had been pruned, plucked, and generally
spruced up, although Harry, who liked it in its overgrown state,
thought that it looked rather forlorn without its usual contingent
of capering gnomes. He had lost track of how many security
enchantments had been placed upon the Burrow by both the Order and
the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no longer possible for
anybody to travel by magic directly into the place. Mr. Weasley had
therefore gone to meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where
they were to arrive by Portkey. The first sound of their approach
was an unusually high-pitched laugh, which turned out to be coming
from Mr. Weasley, who appeared at the gate moments later, laden
with luggage and leading a beautiful blonde woman in long, leaf
green robes, who could be Fleur’s mother.
“Maman!” cried Fleur, rushing forward to embrace her.
“Papa!” Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as
attractive as his wife; he was a head shorter and extremely plumb,
with a little, pointed black beard. However, he looked
good-natured. Bouncing towards Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots,
he kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.
“You ‘ave been so much trouble,” he said in a
deep voice. “Fleur tells us you ‘ave been working very
‘ard.” “Oh, it’s been nothing,
nothing!” trilled Mrs. Weasley. “No trouble at
all!” Ron relieved his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome
who was peering out from behind one of the new Flutterby bushes.
“Dear lady!” said Monsieur Delacour, still holding Mrs.
Weasley’s hand between his own two plump ones and beaming.
“We are most honored at the approaching union of our two
families! Let me present my wife, Apolline.” Madame Delacour
glided forward and stooped to kiss Mrs. Weasley too.
“Enchantée,” she said. “Your ‘usband
‘as been telling us such amusing stories!” Mr. Weasley
gave a maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley threw him a look, upon which he
became immediately silent and assumed an expression appropriate to
the sickbed of a close friend. “And, of course, you
‘ave met my leetle daughter, Gabrielle!” said Monsieur
Delacour. Gabrielle was Fleur in miniature; eleven years old, with
waist-length hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gave Mrs. Weasley a
dazzling smile and hugged her, then threw Harry a glowing look,
batting her eyelashes. Ginny cleared her throat loudly.
“Well, come in, do!” said Mrs. Weasley brightly, and
she ushered the Delacours into the house, with many “No,
please!”s and “After you!”s and “Not at
all!”s. The Delacours, it soon transpired, were helpful,
pleasant guests. They were pleased with everything and keen to
assist with the preparations for the wedding. Monsieur Delacour
pronounced everything from the seating plan to the
bridesmaids’ shoes “Charmant!” Madame Delacour
was most accomplished at household spells and had the oven properly
cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle followed her elder sister around,
trying to assist in any way she could and jabbering away in rapid
French. On the downside, the Burrow was not built to accommodate so
many people. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now sleeping in the sitting
room, having shouted down Monsieur and Madame Delacour’s
protests and insisted they take their bedroom. Gabrielle was
sleeping with Fleur in Percy’s old room, and Bill would be
sharing with Charlie, his best man, once Charlie arrived from
Romania. Opportunities to make plans together became virtually
nonexistent, and it was in desperation that Harry, Ron and Hermione
took to volunteering to feed the chickens just to escape the
overcrowded house. “But she still won’t leave us
alone!” snarled Ron, and their second attempt at a meeting in
the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a
large basket of laundry in her arms. “Oh, good, you’ve
fed the chickens,” she called as she approached them.
“We’d better shut them away again before the men arrive
tomorrow . . . to put up the tent for the wedding,” she
explained, pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked
exhausted. “Millamant’s Magic Marquees . . .
they’re very good. Bill’s escorting them. . . .
You’d better stay inside while they’re here, Harry. I
must say it does complicate organizing a wedding, having all these
security spells around the place.” “I’m
sorry,” said Harry humbly. “Oh, don’t be silly,
dear!” said Mrs. Weasley at once. “I didn’t mean
– well, your safety’s much more important! Actually,
I’ve been wanting to ask you how you want to celebrate your
birthday, Harry. Seventeen, after all, it’s an important day.
. . .” “I don’t want a fuss,” said Harry
quickly, envisaging the additional strain this would put on them
all. “Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be
fine. . . . It’s the day before the wedding. . . .”
“Oh, well, if you’re sure, dear. I’ll invite
Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?”
“That’d be great,” said Harry. “But please,
don’t go to loads of trouble.” “Not at all, not
at all . . . It’s no trouble. . . .” She looked at him,
a long, searching look, then smiled a little sadly, straightened
up, and walked away. Harry watched as she waved her wand near the
washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air to hang
themselves up, and suddenly he felt a great wave of remorse for the
inconvenience and the pain he was giving her.
Linix - How to 
