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 “Don’t you think they might wonder what’s happened if they wake up and find
themselves in a place that looks like it’s just been bombed?”

 “Oh right, yeah . . .”

 Ron struggled for a moment before managing to extract his wand from his pocket.

 “It’s no wonder I can’t get it out, Hermione, you packed my old jeans, they’re
tight.”

 “Oh, I’m so sorry,” hissed Hermione, and as she dragged the waitress out of sight
of the windows, Harry heard her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron could stick his
wand instead.

 Once the café was restored to its previous condition, they heaved the Death Eaters
back into their booth and propped them up facing each other. “But how did they find us?”
Hermione asked, looking from one inert man to the other. “How did they know where we
were?”

 She turned to Harry.

 “You – you don’t think you’ve still got your Trace on you, do you, Harry?”

 “He can’t have,” said Ron. “The Trace breaks at seventeen, that’s Wizarding law,
you can’t put it on an adult.”

 “As far as you know,” said Hermione. “What if the Death Eaters have found a
way to put it on a seventeen-year-old?”

 “But Harry hasn’t been near a Death Eater in the last twenty-four hours. Who’s
supposed to have put a Trace back on him?”

 Hermione did not reply. Harry felt contaminated, tainted: Was that really how the
Death Eaters had found them?

 “If I can’t use magic, and you can’t use magic near me, without us giving away
our position – “ he began.

 “We’re not splitting up!” said Hermione firmly.

 “We need a safe place to hide,” said Ron. “Give us time to think things through.”

 “Grimmauld Place,” said Harry.

 The other two gaped.

 “Don’t be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!”

 “Ron’s dad said they’ve put up jinxes against him – and even if they haven’t
worked,” he pressed on as Hermione began to argue “so what? I swear, I’d like nothing
better than to meet Snape!”

 “But –“

 “Hermione, where else is there? It’s the best chance we’ve got. Snape’s only one
Death Eater. If I’ve still got the Trace on me, we’ll have whole crowds of them on us
wherever else we go.”

 She could not argue, though she looked as if she would have liked to. While she
unlocked the café door, Ron clicked the Deluminator to release the café’s light. Then, on
Harry’s count of three, they reversed the spells upon their three victims, and before the
waitress or either of the Death Eaters could do more than stir sleepily, Harry, Ron and
Hermione had turned on the spot and vanished into the compressing darkness once more.

 Seconds later Harry’s lungs expanded gratefully and he opened his eyes: They
were now standing in the middle of a familiar small and shabby square. Tall, dilapidated
houses looked down on them from every side. Number twelve was visible to them, for
they had been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its Secret-Keeper, and they rushed
toward it, checking every few yards that they were not being followed or observed. They
raced up the stone steps, and Harry tapped the front door once with his wand. They heard
a series of metallic clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the door swung open with a
creak and they hurried over the threshold.

 As Harry closed the door behind them, the old-fashioned gas lamps sprang into
life, casting flickering light along the length of the hallway. It looked just as Harry
remembered it: eerie, cobwebbed, the outlines of the house-elf heads on the wall
throwing odd shadows up the staircase. Long dark curtains concealed the portrait of
Sirius’s mother. The only thing that was out of place was the troll’s leg umbrella stand,
which was lying on its side as if Tonks had just knocked it over again.

 “I think somebody’s been in here,” Hermione whispered, pointing toward it.

 “That could’ve happened as the Order left,” Ron murmured back.

 “So where are these jinxes they put up against Snape?” Harry asked.

 “Maybe they’re only activated if he shows up?” suggested Ron.

 Yet they remained close together on the doormat, backs against the door, scared
to move farther into the house.

 “Well, we can’t stay here forever,” said Harry, and he took a step forward.

 “Severus Snape?”

 Mad-Eye Moody’s voice whispered out of the darkness, making all three of them
jump back in fright. “We’re not Snape!” croaked Harry, before something whooshed over
him like cold air and his tongue curled backward on itself, making it impossible to speak.
Before he had time to feel inside his mouth, however, his tongue had unraveled again.

 The other two seemed to have experienced the same unpleasant sensation. Ron
was making retching noises; Hermione stammered, “That m-must have b-been the T-
Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for Snape!”

 Gingerly Harry took another step forward. Something shifted in the shadows at
the end of the hall, and before any of them could say another word, a figure had risen up
out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored, and terrible; Hermione screamed and so did Mrs.
Black, her curtains flying open; the gray figure was gliding toward them, faster and faster,

its waist-length hair and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken, fleshless, with empty
eye sockets: Horribly familiar, dreadfully altered, it raised a wasted arm, pointing at
Harry.

 “No!” Harry shouted, and though he had raised his wand no spell occurred to him.
“No! It wasn’t us! We didn’t kill you –“

 On the word kill, the figure exploded in a great cloud of dust: Coughing, his eyes
watering, Harry looked around to see Hermione crouched on the floor by the door with
her arms over her head, and Ron, who was shaking from head to foot, patting her
clumsily on the shoulder and saying, “It’s all r-right. . . . It’s g-gone. . . .”

 Dust swirled around Harry like mist, catching the blue gaslight, as Mrs. Black
continued to scream.

 “Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on the house of my fathers –“

 “SHUT UP!” Harry bellowed, directing his wand at her, and with a bang and a
burst of red sparks, the curtains swung shut again, silencing her.

 “That . . . that was . . . “ Hermione whimpered, as Ron helped her to her feet.

 “Yeah,” said Harry, “but it wasn’t really him, was it? Just something to scare
Snape.”
Had it worked, Harry wondered, or had Snape already blasted the horror-figure
aside as casually as he had killed the real Dumbledore? Nerves still tingling, he led the
other two up the hall, half-expecting some new terror to reveal itself, but nothing moved
except for a mouse skittering along the skirting board.

 “Before we go any farther, I think we’d better check,” whispered Hermione, and
she raised her wand and said, “Homenum revelio.”

 Nothing happened.

 “Well, you’ve just had a big shock,” said Ron kindly. “What was that supposed to
do?”

 “It did what I meant it to do!” said Hermione rather crossly. “That was a spell to
reveal human presence, and there’s nobody here except us!”
“And old Dusty,” said Ron, glancing at the patch of carpet from which the corpse-
figure had risen.

 “Let’s go up,” said Hermione with a frightened look at the same spot, and she led
the way up the creaking stairs to the drawing room on the first floor.

 Hermione waved her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, then, shivering slightly in
the drafty room, she perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her. Ron
crossed to the window and moved the heavy velvet curtains aside an inch.

 “Can’t see anyone out there,” he reported. “And you’d think, if Harry still had a
Trace on him, they’d have followed us here. I know they can’t get in the house, but –
what’s up, Harry?”

 Harry had given a cry of pain: His scar had burned against as something flashed
across his mind like a bright light on water. He saw a large shadow and felt a fury that
was not his own pound through his body, violent and brief as an electric shock.

 “What did you see?” Ron asked, advancing on Harry. “Did you see him at my
place?”

 “No, I just felt anger – he’s really angry –“

 “But that could be at the Burrow,” said Ron loudly. “What else? Didn’t you see
anything? Was he cursing someone?”

 “No, I just felt anger – I couldn’t tell –“

 Harry felt badgered, confused, and Hermione did not help as she said in a
frightened voice, “Your scar, again? But what’s going on? I thought that connection had
closed!”

 “It did, for a while,” muttered Harry; his scar was still painful, which made it hard
to concentrate. “I – I think it’s started opening again whenever he loses control, that’s
how it used to –“

 “But then you’ve got to close your mind!” said Hermione shrilly. “Harry,
Dumbledore didn’t want you to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it down, that’s
why you were supposed to use Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false images
in your mind, remember –“

 “Yeah, I do remember, thanks,” said Harry through gritted teeth; he did not need
Hermione to tell him that Voldemort had once used this selfsame connection between
them to lead him into a trap, nor that it had resulted in Sirius’s death. He wished that he
had not told them what he had seen and felt; it made Voldemort more threatening, as
though he were pressing against the window of the room, and still the pain in his scar was
building and he fought it: It was like resisting the urge to be sick.

 He turned his back on Ron and Hermione, pretending to examine the old tapestry
of the Black family tree on the wall. Then Hermione shrieked: Harry drew his wand again
and spun around to see a silver Patronus soar through the drawing room window and land
upon the floor in front of them, where it solidified into the weasel that spoke with the
voice of Ron’s father.

 “Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched.”

 The Patronus dissolved into nothingness. Ron let out a noise between a whimper
and a groan and dropped onto the sofa: Hermione joined him, gripping his arm.

 “They’re all right, they’re all right!” she whispered, and Ron half laughed and
hugged her.

 “Harry,” he said over Hermione’s shoulder, “I –“

 “It’s not a problem,” said Harry, sickened by the pain in his head. “It’s your
family, ‘course you were worried. I’d feel the same way.” He thought of Ginny. “I do feel
the same way.”

 The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as it had back in the garden of
the Burrow. Faintly he heard Hermione say “I don’t want to be on my own. Could we use
the sleeping bags I’ve brought and camp in here tonight?”

 He heard Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much longer. He had to succumb.

 “Bathroom,” he muttered, and he left the room as fast as he could without running.

 He barely made it: Bolting the door behind him with trembling hands, he grasped
his pounding head and fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, he felt the rage that
did not belong to him possess his soul, saw a long room lit only by firelight, and the giant
blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming and writhing, and a slighter figure standing
over him, wand outstretched, while Harry spoke in a high, cold, merciless voice.

 “More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not
sure that he will forgive this time. . . . You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry
Potter has escaped again? Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure. . . . Do it,
or feel my wrath yourself!”

 A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed
white face – with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and
opened his eyes.

 He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, his nose inches from one of
the silver serpent tails that supported the large bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy’s gaunt,
petrified face seemed burned on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had
seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.

 There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped as Hermione’s voice rang
out.

 “Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I’ve got it here.”

 “Yeah, great, thanks,” he said, fighting to keep his voice casual as he stood up to let her in.