Slowly they had built up the sketchy

Slowly they had built up the sketchy maps and notes now stacked in front of Hermione.

“All right,” said Ron slowly, “let’s say we go for it tomorrow … I think it should just be me and Harry.”

“Oh, don’t start that again!” sighed Hermione. “I thought we’d settled this.”

“It’s one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak, but this is different. Hermione,“ Ron jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously. ”You’re on the list of Muggle-borns who didn’t present themselves for interrogation!“

“And you’re supposed to be dying of spattergroit at the Burrow! If anyone shouldn’t go, it’s Harry, he’s got a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his head – ”

“Fine, I’ll stay here,“ said Harry. ”Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort, won’t you?“

As Ron and Hermione laughed, pain shot through the scar on Harry’s forehead. His hand jumped to it. He saw Hermione’s eyes narrow, and he tried to pass off the movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Well, if all three of us go we’ll have to Disapparate separately,” Ron was saying. “We can’t all fit under the Cloak anymore.”

Harry’s scar was becoming more and more painful. He stood up. At once, Kreacher hurried forward.

“Master has not finished his soup, would master prefer the savory stew, or else the treacle tart to which Master is so partial?”

“Thanks, Kreacher, but I’ll be back in a minute – er – bathroom.”

Aware that Hermione was watching him suspiciously, Harry hurried up the stairs to the hall and then to the first landing, where he dashed into the bathroom and bolted the door again. Grunting with pain, he slumped over the black basin with its taps in the form of open-mouthed serpents and closed his eyes ….

He was gliding along a twilit street. The buildings on either side of him had high, timbered gables; they looked like gingerbread houses. He approached one of them, then saw the whiteness of his own long-fingered hand against the door. He knocked. He felt a mounting excitement …

The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her face fell as she looked into Harry’s face: humor gone, terror replacing it ….

“Gregorovitch?” said a high, cold voice.

She shook her head: She was trying to close the door. A white hand held it steady, prevented her shutting him out …

“I want Gregorovitch.”

“Er wohnt hier nicht mehr!“ she cried, shaking her head. ”He no live here! He no live here! I know him not!“

Abandoning the attempt to close the door, she began to back away down the dark hall, and Harry followed, gliding toward her, and his long-fingered hand had drawn his wand.

“Where is he?”

“Das wei? ich nicht! He move! I know not, I know not!“

He raised his hand. She screamed. Two young children came running into the hall. She tried to shield them with her arms. There was a flash of green light –

“Harry! HARRY!”

He opened his eyes; he had sunk to the floor. Hermione was pounding on the door again.

“Harry, open up!”

He had shouted out, he knew it. He got up and unbolted the door; Hermione toppled inside at once, regained her balance, and looked around suspiciously. Ron was right behind her, looking unnerved as he pointed his wand into the corners of the chilly bathroom.

“What were you doing?” asked Hermione sternly.

“What d’you think I was doing?“ asked Harry with feeble bravado.

“You were yelling your head off!” said Ron.

“Oh yeah … I must’ve dozed off or – ”