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“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.”