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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.