The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it “the Riddle House,” even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a hill overlooking the village, some of its windows boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied. 
 
The Little Hagletons all agreed that the old house was “creepy.” Half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss when topics for gossip were scarce. The story had been picked over so many times, and had been embroidered in so many places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was anymore. Every version of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty years before, at daybreak on a fine summer’s morning when the Riddle House had still been well kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing room to find all three Riddles dead. 
 
The maid had run screaming down the hill into the village and roused as many people as she could. 
 
“Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!” 
 
The police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse. All the villagers cared about was the identity of their murderer — for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night. 
 
The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to have turned out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Riddles’ cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested. 
 
“Frank!” cried several people. “Never!” 
 
Frank Bryce was the Riddles’ gardener. He lived alone in a run-down cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever since. 
There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and hear more details. 
 
“Always thought he was odd,” she told the eagerly listening villagers, after her fourth sherry. “Unfriendly, like. I’m sure if I’ve offered him a cuppa once, I’ve offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn’t.” 
 
“Ah, now,” said a woman at the bar, “he had a hard war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That’s no reason to —” 
 
“Who else had a key to the back door, then?” barked the cook. “There’s been a spare key hanging in the gardener’s cottage far back as I can remember! Nobody forced the door last night! No broken windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big house while we was all sleeping…” 
 
The villagers exchanged dark looks. 
 
“I always thought that he had a nasty look about him, right enough,” grunted a man at the bar. 
 
“War turned him funny, if you ask me,” said the landlord. 
 
“Told you I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of Frank, didn’t I, Dot?” said an excited woman in the corner. 
 
“Horrible temper,” said Dot, nodding fervently. “I remember, when he was a kid…” 
 
By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the Riddles. But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent, and that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Riddles’ deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and the police were quite sure Frank had invented him. 
 
Then, just when things were looking very serious for Frank, the report on the Riddles’ bodies came back and changed everything. The police had never read an odder report. A team of doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangles, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all appeared to be in perfect health — apart from the fact that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as though determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror upon his or her face — but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of three people being frightened to death? 
 
As there was no proof that the Riddles had been murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go. The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone’s surprise, and amid a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. 
“As far as I’m concerned, he killed them, and I don’t care what the police say,” said Dot in the Hanged Man. “And if he had any decency, he’d leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it.” 
 
But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and then the next — for neither family stayed long. 
 
Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into disrepair. 
 
The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they said in the village that he kept it for “tax reasons,” though nobody was very clear what these might be. The wealthy owner continued to pay Frank to do the gardening, however. Frank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but could be seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them. 
 
Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend with either. Boys from the village made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they broke into the old house for a dare. They knew that old Frank’s devotion to the house and the grounds amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, thought him a murderer. So when Frank awoke one night in August and saw something very odd up at the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had gone one step further in their attempts to punish him. 
 
It was Frank’s bad leg that woke him; it was paining him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and limped downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of refilling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at once what was going on. The boys had broken into the house again, and judging by the flickering quality of the light, they had started a fire. 
 
Frank had no telephone, in any case, he had deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had taken him in for questioning about the Riddles’ deaths. He put down the kettle at once, hurried back upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and was soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picked up his walking stick, which was propped against the wall, and set off into the night. 
 
The front door of the Riddle House bore no sign of being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank limped around to the back of the house until he reached a door almost completely hidden by ivy, took out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the door noiselessly. 
 
He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank had not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although it was very dark, he remembered where the door into the hall was, and he groped his way towards it, his nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears pricked for any sound of footsteps or voices from overhead. He reached the hall, which was a little lighter owing to the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door, and started to climb the stairs, blessing the dust that lay thick upon the stone, because it muffled the sound of his feet and stick. On the landing, Frank turned right, and saw at once where the intruders were: At the every end of the passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond. 
 
The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. This surprised him. Then he stopped moving and listened intently, for a man’s voice spoke within the room; it sounded timid and fearful. 
 
“There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry.” 
 
“Later,” said a second voice. This too belonged to a man — but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank’s neck stand up. “Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.” 
 
Frank turned his right ear toward the door, the better to hear. There came the clink of a bottle being put down upon some hard surface, and then the dull scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor. Frank caught a glimpse of a small man, his back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He was wearing a long black cloak, and there was a bald patch at the back of his head. Then he went out of sight again. 
 
“Where is Nagini?” said the cold voice. 
 
“I — I don’t know, My Lord,” said the first voice nervously. “She set out to explore the house, I think…” 
 
“You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail,” said the second voice. “I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly.” 
 
Brow furrowed, Frank inclined his good ear still closer to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause, and then the man called Wormtail spoke again.  
 
“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?” 
 
“A week,” said the cold voice. “Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over.” 
 
Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and rotated it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax, he had heard the word “Quidditch,” which was not a word at all. 
 
“The — the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?” said Wormtail. (Frank dug his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) “Forgive me, but — I do not understand – why should we wait until the World Cup is over?” 
 
“Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait.” 
 
Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had distinctly heard the words “Ministry of Magic,” “wizards,” and “Muggles.” Plainly, each of these expressions meant something secret, and Frank could think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and criminals. Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and listened more closely still. 
 
“Your Lordship is still determined, then?” Wormtail said quietly. 
 
“Certainly I am determined, Wormtail.” There was a note of menace in the cold voice now. 
A slight pause followed — and the Wormtail spoke, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he was forcing himself to say this before he lost his nerve. 
 
“It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.” 
 
Another pause, more protracted, and then — 
 
“Without Harry Potter?” breathed the second voice softly. “I see…” 
 
“My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!” said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. “The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard — any wizard — the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while — you know that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person —” 
 
“I could use another wizard,” said the cold voice softly, “that is true…” 
 
“My Lord, it makes sense,” said Wormtail, sounding thoroughly relieved now. “Laying hands on Harry Potter would be so difficult, he is so well protected —” 
 
“And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder… perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?” 
 
“My Lord! I — I have no wish to leave you, none at all —” 
 
“Do not lie to me!” hissed the second voice. “I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me…” 
 
“No! My devotion to Your Lordship —” 
 
“Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?” 
 
“But you seem so much stronger, My Lord —” 
 
“Liar,” breathed the second voice. “I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!” 
 
Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell silent at once. For a few seconds, Frank could hear nothing but the fire crackling. Then the second man spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss. 
 
“I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail — courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldermort’s wrath —” 
 
“My Lord, I must speak!” said Wormtail, panic in his voice now. “All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkin’s disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder —” 
 
“If?” whispered the second voice. “If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition… Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us —” 
 
“I am a faithful servant,” said Wormtail, the merest trace of sullenness in his voice. 
 
“Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement.” 
 
“I found you,” said Wormtail, and there was definitely a sulky edge to his voice now. “I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins.” 
 
“That is true,” said the second man, sounding amused. “A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail — though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?” 
 
“I — I thought she might be useful, My Lord —” 
 
“Liar,” said the second voice again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than ever. “However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform…” 
 
“R-really, My Lord? What —?” Wormtail sounded terrified again. 
 
“Ah, Wormtail, you don’t want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end… but I promise you, you will have the honor of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins.” 
 
“You… you…” Wormtail’s voice suddenly sounded hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. “You… are going… to kill me too?” 
 
“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns…” 
 
Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh — an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech. 
 
“We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail.” 
 
Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse — with amusement. He was dangerous — a madman. And he was planning more murders — this boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was — was in danger — Frank knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the time to go to the police. He would creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box in the village… but the cold voice was speaking again, and Frank remained where he was, frozen to the spot, listening with all his might. 
 
“One more murder… my faithful servant at Hogwarts… Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet… I think I hear Nagini…” 
 
And the second man’s voice changed. He started making noises such as Frank had never heard before; he was hissing and spitting without drawing breath. Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or seizure. 
 
And then Frank heard movement behind him in the dark passageway. He turned to look, and found himself paralyzed with fright. Something was slithering toward him along the dark corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of firelight, he realized with a thrill of terror that it was a gigantic snake, at least twelve feet long. Horrified, transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer — What was he to do? The only means of escape was into the room where the two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would surely kill him — 
But before he had made his decision, the snake was level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it was passing; it was following the spitting, hissing noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap. 
 
There was sweat on Frank’s forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea… This man could talk to snakes. Frank didn’t understand what was going on. He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot-water bottle. The problem was that his legs didn’t seem to want to move. As he stood there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again. 
 
“Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail,” it said. 
 
“In-indeed, My Lord?” said Wormtail. 
 
“Indeed, yes,” said the voice, “According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say.” 
 
Frank didn’t have a chance to hide himself. There were footsteps and then the door of the room was flung wide open. 
 
A short, balding man with graying hair, a pointed nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a mixture of fear and alarm in his face. 
 
“Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?” The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Frank couldn’t see the speaker. The snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog. Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. Though still deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer grip on his walking stick and limped over the threshold. 
 
The fire was the only source of light in the room; it cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Frank stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it seemed to be even smaller than his servant, for Frank couldn’t even see the back of his head. 
 
“You heard everything, Muggle?” said the cold voice. 
 
“What’s that you’re calling me?” said Frank defiantly, for now that he was inside the room, now that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; it had always been so in the war. 
 
“I am calling you a Muggle,” said the voice coolly. “It means that you are not a wizard.” 
 
“I don’t know what you mean by wizard,” said Frank, his voice growing steadier. “All I know is I’ve heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You’ve done murder and you’re planning more! And I’ll tell you this too,” he added, on a sudden inspiration, “my wife knows I’m up here, and if I don’t come back —” 
“You have no wife,” said the cold voice, very quietly. “Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody that you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows… he always knows…” 
 
“Is that right?” said Frank roughly. “Lord, is it? Well, I don’t think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn ‘round and face me like a man, why don’t you?” 
 
“But I am not a man, Muggle,” said the cold voice, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. “I am much, much more than a man. However… why not? I will face you… Wormtail, come turn my chair around.” 
 
The servant gave a whimper. 
 
“You heard me, Wormtail.” 
 
Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything than approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug. 
 
And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor. 

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start. 
 
Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.  
 
He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other hand reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the window. 
 
Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair. He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.  
 
Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real… There had been two people he knew and one he didn’t… He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember… The dim picture of a darkened room came to him… There had been a snake on a hearth rug… a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail… and a cold, high voice… the voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought…  
 
He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible… All Harry knew was that at the moment when Voldemort’s chair had swung around, and he, Harry, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken him… or had that been the pain in his scar? 
 
And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused. Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried to hold on to them… Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed, though Harry could not remember the name… and they had been plotting to kill someone else… him! 
 
Harry took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes, and stared around his bedroom as though expecting to see something unusual there. As it happened, there was an extraordinary number of unusual things in this room. A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks. Rolls of parchment littered that part of his desk that was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which his snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book lay open; Harry had been reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures in this book were all moving. Men in bright orange robes were zooming in and out of sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another. 
 
Harry walked over to the book, picked it up, and watched on of the wizards score a spectacular goal by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. Then he snapped the book shut. Even Quidditch — in Harry’s opinion, the best sport in the world — couldn’t distract him at the moment. He placed Flying with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below. 
 
Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street would be expected to look in the early hours of Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far as Harry could see through the darkness, there wasn’t a living creature in sight, not even a cat. 
 
And yet… and yet… Harry went restlessly back to the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his scar again. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him; Harry was no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost all the bones from his right arm once and had them painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long afterward. Only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet from an airborn broomstick. He was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.  
 
No, the thing that was bothering Harry was the last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because Voldemort had been close by… But Voldemort couldn’t be here, now… The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible…  
 
Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly as he heard his cousin Dudley give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room. 
 
Harry shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in the house with him except Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless. 
 
Asleep was the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it wasn’t as though they were ever any help to him awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were Harry’s only living relatives. They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that Harry was about as welcome in their house as dry rot. They had explained away Harry’s long absences at Hogwarts over the last three years by telling everyone that he went to St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. They knew perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, Harry wasn’t allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but they were still apt to blame him for anything that went wrong about the house. Harry had never been able to confide in them or tell them anything about his life in the wizarding world. The very idea of going to them when they awoke, and telling them about his scar hurting him, and about his worries about Voldemort, was laughable.  
 
And yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry had come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would still have had parents…  
 
Harry had been a year old the night that Voldemort — the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years — arrived at his house and killed his father and mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on Harry; he had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power — and, incredibly, it had not worked. Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort. Harry had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his 
forehead, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort’s followers had disbanded, and Harry Potter had become famous.  
 
It had been enough of a shock for Harry to discover, on his eleventh birthday, that he was a wizard; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew his name. Harry had arrived at Hogwarts to find that heads turned and whispers followed him wherever he went. But he was used to it now: At the end of this summer, he would be starting his fourth year at Hogwarts, and Harry was already counting the days until he would be back at the castle again. 
 
But there was still a fortnight to go before he went back to school. He looked hopelessly around his room again, and his eye paused on the birthday cards his two best friends had sent him at the end of July. What would they say if Harry wrote to them and told them about his scar hurting? 
 
At once, Hermione Granger’s voice seemed to fill his head, shrill and panicky. 
 
“Your scar hurt? Harry, that’s really serious… Write to Professor Dumbledore! And I’ll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions… Maybe there’s something in there about curse scars…” 
 
Yes, that would be Hermione’s advice: Go straight to the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult a book. Harry stared out of the window at the inky blue-black sky. He doubted very much whether a book could help him now. As far as he knew, he was the only living person to have survived a curse like Voldemort’s; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that he would find his symptoms listed in Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. As for informing the headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full length wizard’s robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry’s owl had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would he write? 
 
	Dear Professor Dumbledore,  
		Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. 
	Yours sincerely, 
	Harry Potter. 
 
Even inside his head the words sounded stupid.  
 
And so he tried to imagine his other best friend, Ron Weasley’s, reaction, and in a moment, Ron’s red hair and long-nosed, freckled face seemed to swim before Harry, wearing a bemused expression. 
 
“Your scar hurt? But… but You-Know-Who can’t be near you now, can he? I mean… you’d know, wouldn’t you? He’d be trying to do you in again, wouldn’t be? I dunno, Harry, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit… I’ll ask Dad…” 
 
Mr. Weasley was a fully qualified wizard who worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, but he didn’t have any particular expertise in the matter of curses, as far as Harry knew. In any case, Harry didn’t like the idea of the whole Weasley family knowing that he, Harry, was getting jumpy about a few moments’ pain. Mrs. Weasley would fuss worse than 
Hermione, and Fred and George, Ron’s sixteen- year-old twin brothers, might think Harry was losing his nerve. The Weasleys were Harry’s favorite family in the world; he was hoping that they might invite him to stay any time now (Ron had mentioned something about the Quidditch World Cup), and he somehow didn’t want his visit punctuated with anxious inquiries about his scar. 
 
Harry kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. What he really wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit it to himself) was someone like - someone like a parent: an adult wizard whose advice he could ask without feeling stupid, someone who cared about him, who had had experience with Dark Magic…  
 
And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious, that he couldn’t believe it had taken so long - Sirius. 
 
Harry leapt up from the bed, hurried across the room, and sat down at his desk; he pulled a piece of parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill with ink, wrote Dear Sirius, then paused, wondering how best to phrase his problem, still marveling at the fact that he hadn’t thought of Sirius straight away. But then, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising - after all, he had only found out that Sirius was his godfather two months ago. 
 
There was a simple reason for Sirius’s complete absence from Harry’s life until then - Sirius had been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts when he had escaped. Yet Sirius had been innocent - the murders for which he had been convicted had been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort’s supporter, whom nearly everybody now believed dead. Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew otherwise, however; they had come face-to-face with Wormtail only the previous year, though only Professor Dumbledore had believed their story.  
 
For one glorious hour, Harry had believed that he was leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius had offered him a home once his name had been cleared. But the chance had been snatched away from him - Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius had had to flee for his life. Harry had helped him escape on the back of a hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, Sirius had been on the run. The home Harry might have had if Wormtail had not escaped had been haunting him all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to the Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them forever. 
 
Nevertheless, Sirius had been of some help to Harry, even if he couldn’t be with him. It was due to Sirius that Harry now had all his school things in his bedroom with him. The Dursleys had never allowed this before; their general wish of keeping Harry as miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the cupboard under the stairs every summer prior to this. But their attitude had changed since they had found out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a godfather - for Harry had conveniently forgotten to tell them that Sirius was innocent.  
 
Harry had received two letters from Sirius since he had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Hedwig had not approved of these flashy intruders; she had been most reluctant to allow them to drink from her water tray before flying off again. Harry, on the other hand, had liked them; they put him in mind of palm trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever Sirius was (Sirius never said, in case the letters were intercepted), he was enjoying himself. Somehow, Harry found it hard to imaging dementors surviving for long in bright sunlight, perhaps that was why Sirius had gone South. Sirius’s letters, which were now hidden beneath the highly useful loose floorboards under Harry’s bed, sounded cheerful, and in both of them he had reminded Harry to call on him if ever Harry needed to. Well, he needed to right now, all right…  
 
Harry’s lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray light that precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room. Finally, when the sun had risen, when his bedroom walls had turned gold, and when sounds of movement could be heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s room, Harry cleared his desk of crumpled pieces of parchment and reread his finished letter. 
 
	Dear Sirius, 
 
	Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it could hardly get through my window. Things are the same as usual here. Dudley’s diet isn’t going too well. My aunt found him smuggling doughnuts into his room yesterday. They told him they’d have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing it, so he got really angry and chucked his PlayStation out of the window. That’s a sort of computer thing you can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn’t even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind off things. 
 
	I’m okay, mainly because the Dursleys are terrified you might turn up and turn them all into bats if I ask you to.  
A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don’t reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward? 
 
	I’ll send this with Hedwig when she gets back; she’s off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for me.  
 
	Harry 
 
Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was no point putting in the dream; he didn’t want it to look as though he was too worried. He folded up the parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for when Hedwig returned. Then he got to his feet, stretched, and opened his wardrobe once more. Without glancing at his reflection he started to get dressed before going down to breakfast. 
 
By the time Harry arrived in the kitchen, the three Dursleys were already seated around the table. None of them looked up as he entered or sat down. Uncle Vernon’s large red face was hidden behind the morning’s Daily Mail, and Aunt Petunia was cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her horselike teeth. 
 
Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow seemed to be taking up even more space than usual. This was saying something, as he always took up an entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt Petunia put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto Dudley’s plate with a tremulous “There you are, Diddy darling,” Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant turn since he had come home for the summer with his end-of-year report. 
 
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had managed to find excuses for his bad marks as usual: Aunt Petunia always insisted that Dudley was a very gifted boy whose teachers didn’t understand him, while Uncle Vernon maintained that “he didn’t want some swotty little nancy boy for a son anyway.” They also skated over the accusations of bullying in the report - “He’s a boisterous little boy, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly!” Aunt Petunia had said tearfully. 
 
However, at the bottom of the report there were a few well-chosen comments from the school nurse that not even Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could explain away. No matter how much Aunt Petunia wailed that Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the school outfitters didn’t stock knickerbockers big enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen what 
Aunt Petunia’s eyes - so sharp when it came to spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in observing the comings and goings of the neighbors - simply refused to see: that far from needing extra nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale. 
 
So - after many tantrums, after arguments that shook Harry’s bedroom floor, and many tears from Aunt Petunia - the new regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been emptied of all Dudley’s favorite things - fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers and filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of things that Uncle Vernon called “rabbit food.” To make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt Petunia had insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She now passed a grapefruit quarter to Harry. He noticed that it was a lot smaller than Dudley’s. Aunt Petunia seemed to feel that the best way to keep up Dudley’s morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get more to eat than Harry.  
 
But Aunt Petunia didn’t know what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea that Harry was not following the diet at all. The moment he had got wind of the fact that he was expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks, Harry had sent Hedwig to his friends with pleas for help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had returned from Hermione’s house with a large box stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione’s parents were dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had obliged with a sack full of his own homemade rock cakes. (Harry hadn’t touched these; he had had too much experience of Hagrid’s cooking.) Mrs. Weasley, however, had sent the family owl, Errol, with an enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies. Poor Errol, who was elderly and feeble, had needed a full five days to recover from the journey. And then on Harry’s birthday (which the Dursleys had completely ignored) he had received four superb birthday cakes, one each from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, and Sirius. Harry still had two of them left, and so, looking forward to a real breakfast when he got back upstairs, he ate his grapefruit without complaint. 
 
Uncle Vernon laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit quarter. 
 
“Is this it?” he said grumpily to Aunt Petunia. 
 
Aunt Petunia gave him a severe look, and then nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished his own grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Harry’s with a very sour look in his piggy little eyes. 
 
Uncle Vernon gave a great sigh, which ruffled his large, bushy mustache, and picked up his spoon. 
 
The doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon heaved himself out of his chair and set off down the hall. Quick as a flash, while his mother was occupied with the kettle, Dudley stole the rest of Uncle Vernon’s grapefruit. 
 
Harry heard talking at the door, and someone laughing, and Uncle Vernon answering curtly. Then the front door closed, and the sound of ripping paper came from the hall. 
 
Aunt Petunia set the teapot down on the table and looked curiously around to see where Uncle Vernon had got to. She didn’t have to wait long to find out; after about a minute, he was back. He looked livid. 
 
“You,” he barked at Harry. “In the living room. Now.” 
 
Bewildered, wondering what on earth he was supposed to have done this time, Harry got up and followed Uncle Vernon out of the kitchen and into the next room. Uncle Vernon closed the door sharply behind both of them. 
 
“So,” he said, marching over to the fireplace and turning to face Harry as though he were about to pronounce him under arrest. “So.” 
 
Harry would have dearly loved to have said, “So what?” but he didn’t feel that Uncle Vernon’s temper should be tested this early in the morning, especially when it was already under severe strain from lack of food. He therefore settled for looking politely puzzled. 
 
“This just arrived,” said Uncle Vernon. He brandished a piece of purple writing paper at Harry. “A letter. About you.” 
 
Harry’s confusion increased. Who would be writing to Uncle Vernon about him? Who did he know who sent letters by the postman? 
 
Uncle Vernon glared at Harry, then looked down at the letter and began to read aloud: 
 
	Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, 
 
	We have never been introduced, but I am sure you have heard a great deal from Harry about my son Ron. 
 
	As Harry might have told you, the final of the Quidditch World Cup takes place this Monday night, and my husband, Arthur, has just managed to get prime tickets through his connections at the Department of Magical Games and Sports. I do hope you will allow us to take Harry to the match, as this really is a once-in-a lifetime opportunity; Britain hasn’t hosted the cup for thirty years, and tickets are extremely hard to come by. We would of course be glad to have Harry stay for the remainder of the summer holidays, and to see him safely onto the train back to school. 
 
	It would be best for Harry to send us your answer as quickly as possible in the normal way, because the Muggle postman has never delivered to our house, and I am not sure he even knows where it is. 
 
	Hoping to see Harry soon, 
 
	Yours sincerely, 
 
	Molly Weasley 
 
	P.S. I do hope we’ve put enough stamps on. 
 
Uncle Vernon finished reading, put his hand back into his breast pocket, and drew out something else. 
 
“Look at this,” he growled. 
 
He held up the envelope in which Mrs. Weasley’s letter had come, and Harry had to fight down a laugh. Every bit of it was covered in stamps except for a square inch on the front, into which Mrs. Weasley had squeezed the Dursleys’ address in minute writing. 
 
“She did put enough stamps on, then,” said Harry, trying to sound as though Mrs. Weasley’s was a mistake anyone could make. His uncle’s eyes flashed. 
 
“The postman noticed,” he said through gritted teeth. “Very interested to know where this letter came from, he was. That’s why he rang the doorbell. Seemed to think it was funny.” 
Harry didn’t say anything. Other people might not understand why Uncle Vernon was making a fuss about too many stamps, but Harry had lived with the Dursleys too long not to know how touchy they were about anything even slightly out of the ordinary. Their worst fear was that someone would find out that they were connected (however distantly) with people like Mrs. Weasley. 
 
Uncle Vernon was still glaring at Harry, who tried to keep his expression neutral. If he didn’t do or say anything stupid, he might just be in for the treat of a lifetime. He waited for Uncle Vernon to say something, but he merely continued to glare. 
 
Harry decided to break the silence. 
 
“So - can I go then?” he asked. 
 
A slight spasm crossed Uncle Vernon’s large purple face. The mustache bristled. Harry thought he knew what was going on behind the mustache: a furious battle as two of Uncle Vernon’s most fundamental instincts came into conflict. Allowing Harry to go would make Harry happy, something Uncle Vernon had struggled against for thirteen years. On the other hand, allowing Harry to disappear to the Weasleys’ for the rest of the summer would get rid of him two weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped, and Uncle Vernon hated having Harry in the house. To give himself thinking time, it seemed, he looked down at Mrs. Weasley’s letter again. 
 
“Who is this woman?” he said, staring at the signature with distaste. 
 
“You’ve seen her,” said Harry. “She’s my friend Ron’s mother, she was meeting him off the Hog - off the school train at the end of last term.” 
 
He had almost said “Hogwarts Express,” and that was a sure way to get his uncle’s temper up. Nobody ever mentioned the name of Harry’s school aloud in the Dursley household. 
 
Uncle Vernon screwed up his enormous face as though trying to remember something very unpleasant. 
 
“Dumpy sort of woman?” he growled finally. “Load of children with red hair?” 
 
Harry frowned. He thought it was a bit rich of Uncle Vernon to call anyone “dumpy,” when his own son, Dudley, had finally achieved what he’d been threatening to do since the age of three, and become wider than he was tall. Uncle Vernon was perusing the letter again. 
 
“Quidditch,” he muttered under his breath. “Quidditch - what is this rubbish?” 
 
Harry felt a second stab of annoyance. 
 
“It’s a sport,” he said shortly. “Played on broom- “ 
 
“All right, all right!” said Uncle Vernon loudly. Harry saw, with some satisfaction, that his uncle looked vaguely panicky. Apparently his nerves couldn’t stand the sound of the word “broomsticks” in his living room. He took refuge in perusing the letter again. Harry saw his lips form the words “send us your answer… in the normal way.” He scowled. 
 
“What does she mean, ‘the normal way’?” he spat. 
 
“Normal for us,” said Harry, and before his uncle could stop him, he added, “you know, owl post. That’s what’s normal for wizards.” 
 
Uncle Vernon looked as outraged as if Harry had just uttered a disgusting swearword. Shaking with anger, he shot a nervous look through the window, as though expecting to see some of the neighbors with their ears pressed against the glass. 
 
“How many times do I have to tell you not to mention that unnaturalness under my roof?” he hissed, his face now a rich plum color. “You stand there, in the clothes Petunia and I have put on your ungrateful back -” 
 
“Only after Dudley finished with them,” said Harry coldly, and indeed, he was dressed in a sweatshirt so large for him that he had had to roll back the sleeves five times so as to be able to use his hands, and which fell past the knees of his extremely baggy jeans. 
 
“I will not be spoken to like that!” said Uncle Vernon, trembling with rage. 
 
But Harry wasn’t going to stand for this. Gone were the days when he had been forced to take every single one of the Dursleys’ stupid rules. He wasn’t following Dudley’s diet, and he wasn’t going to let Uncle Vernon stop him from going to the Quidditch World Cup, not if he could help it. Harry took a deep, steadying breath and then said, “Okay, I can’t see the World Cup. Can I go now, then? Only I’ve got a letter to Sirius I want to finish. You know - my godfather.” 
 
He had done it, he had said the magic words. Now he watched the purple recede blotchily from Uncle Vernon’s face, making it look like badly mixed black currant ice cream. 
 
“You’re - you’re writing to him, are you?” said Uncle Vernon, in a would-be calm voice - but Harry had seen the pupils of his tiny eyes contract with sudden fear. 
 
“Well - yeah,” said Harry, casually. “It’s been a while since he heard from me, and, you know, if he doesn’t he might start thinking something’s wrong.” 
 
He stopped there to enjoy the effect of these words. He could almost see the cogs working under Uncle Vernon’s thick, dark, neatly parted hair. If he tried to stop Harry writing to Sirius, Sirius would think Harry was being mistreated. If he told Harry he couldn’t go to the Quidditch World Cup, Harry would write and tell Sirius, who would know Harry was being mistreated. There was only one thing for Uncle Vernon to do. Harry could see the conclusion forming in his uncle’s mind as though the great mustached face were transparent. Harry tried not to smile, to keep his own face as blank as possible. And then – 

“Well, all right then. You can go to this ruddy… this stupid… this World Cup thing. You write and tell these - these Weasleys they’re to pick you up, mind. I haven’t got time to go dropping you off all over the country. And you can spend the rest of the summer there. And you can tell your - your godfather… tell him… tell him you’re going.” 
 
“Okay then,” said Harry brightly. 
 
He turned and walked toward the living room door, fighting the urge to jump into the air and whoop. He was going… he was going to the Weasleys’, he was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup! Outside in the hall he nearly ran into Dudley, who had been lurking behind the door, clearly hoping to overhear Harry being told off. He looked shocked to see the broad grin on Harry’s face. 
 
“That was an excellent breakfast, wasn’t it?” said Harry. “I feel really full, don’t you?” 
 
Laughing at the astonished look on Dudley’s face, Harry took the stairs three at a time, and hurled himself back into his bedroom. 
 
The first thing he saw was that Hedwig was back. She was sitting in her cage, staring at Harry with her enormous amber eyes, and clicking her beak in the way that meant she was annoyed about something. Exactly what was annoying her became apparent almost at once. 
 
“OUCH!” said Harry as what appeared to be a small, gray, feathery tennis ball collided with the side of his head. Harry massaged the spot furiously, looking up to see what had hit him, and saw a minute owl, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, whizzing excitedly around the room like a loose firework. Harry then realized that the owl had dropped a letter at his feet. Harry bent down, recognized Ron’s handwriting, then tore open the envelope. Inside was a hastily scribbled 
note. 
 
	Harry - DAD GOT THE TICKETS - Ireland versus Bulgaria, Monday night. Mum’s writing to the Muggles to ask you to stay. They might already have the letter, I don’t know how fast Muggle post is. Thought I’d send this with Pig anyway. 
 
Harry stared at the word “Pig,” then looked up at the tiny owl now zooming around the light fixture on the ceiling. He had never seen anything that looked less like a pig. Maybe he couldn’t read Ron’s writing. He went back to the letter:  
 
	We’re coming for you whether the Muggles like it or not, you can’t miss the World Cup, only Mum and Dad reckon it’s better if we pretend to ask their permission first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer pronto, and we’ll come and get you at five o’clock on Sunday. If they say no, send Pig back pronto and we’ll come and get you at five o’clock on Sunday anyway.  
 
	Hermione’s arriving this afternoon. Percy’s started work - the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Don’t mention anything about Abroad while you’re here unless you want the pants bored off you. 
 
	See you soon –  
 
	Ron 
 
“Calm down!” Harry said as the small owl flew low over his head, twittering madly with what Harry could only assume was pride at having delivered the letter to the right person. “Come here, I need you to take my answer back!” 
 
The owl fluttered down on top of Hedwig’s cage. Hedwig looked coldly up at it, as though daring it to try and come any closer. 
 
Harry seized his eagle-feather quill once more, grabbed a fresh piece of parchment, and wrote: 
 
	Ron, it’s all okay, the Muggles say I can come. See you five o’clock tomorrow. Can’t wait.  
 
	Harry 
 
He folded this note up very small, and with immense difficulty, tied it to the tiny owl’s leg as it hopped on the spot with excitement. The moment the note was secure, the owl was off again; it zoomed out of the window and out of sight. 
 
Harry turned to Hedwig. 
 
“Feeling up to a long journey?” he asked her. 
 
Hedwig hooted in a dignified sort of a way. 
 
“Can you take this to Sirius for me?” he said, picking up his letter. “Hang on… I just want to finish it.” 
 
He unfolded the parchment and hastily added a postscript. 
 
If you want to contact me, I’ll be at my friend Ron Weasley’s for the rest of the summer. His dad’s got us tickets for the Quidditch World Cup! 
 
The letter finished, he tied it to Hedwig’s leg; she kept unusually still, as though determined to show him how a real post owl should behave. 
 
“I’ll be at Ron’s when you get back, all right?” Harry told her. 
 
She nipped his finger affectionately, then, with a soft swooshing noise, spread her enormous wings and soared out of the open window. Harry watched her out of sight, then crawled under his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled out a large chunk of birthday cake. He sat there on the floor eating it, savoring the happiness that was flooding through him. He had cake, and Dudley had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer’s day, he would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow, his scar felt perfectly normal again, and he was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to feel worried about anything - even Lord Voldemort. 
 
By twelve o’clock the next day, Harry’s school trunk was packed with his school things and all his most prized possessions - the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited from his father, the broomstick he had gotten from Sirius, the enchanted map of Hogwarts he had been given by Fred and George Weasley last year. He had emptied his hiding place under the loose floorboard of all food, double-checked every nook and cranny of his bedroom for forgotten spellbooks or quills, and taken down the chart on the wall counting down the days to September the first, on which he liked to cross off the days remaining until his return to Hogwarts.  
 
The atmosphere inside number four, Privet Drive was extremely tense. The imminent arrival at their house of an assortment of wizards was making the Dursleys uptight and irritable. Uncle Vernon had looked downright alarmed when Harry informed him that the Weasleys would be arriving at five o’clock the very next day. 
 
“I hope you told them to dress properly, these people,” he snarled at once. “I’ve seen the sort of stuff your lot wear. They’d better have the decency to put on normal clothes, that’s all.” 
 
Harry felt a slight sense of foreboding. He had rarely seen Mr. or Mrs. Weasley wearing anything that the Dursleys would call “normal.” Their children might don Muggle clothing during the holidays, but Mr. and Mrs. Weasley usually wore long robes in varying states of shabbiness. Harry wasn’t bothered about what the neighbors would think, but he was anxious about how rude the Dursleys might be to the Weasleys if they turned up looking like their worst idea of wizards. 
 
Uncle Vernon had put on his best suit. To some people, this might have looked like a gesture of welcome, but Harry knew it was because Uncle Vernon wanted to look impressive and intimidating. Dudley, on the other hand, looked somehow diminished. This was not because the diet was at last taking effect, but due to fright. Dudley had emerged from his last encounter with a fully grown wizard with a curly pig’s tail poking out of the seat of his trousers, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had had to pay for its removal at a private hospital in London. It wasn’t altogether surprising, therefore, that Dudley kept running his hand nervously over his backside, and walking sideways from room to room, so as not to present the same target to the enemy. 
 
Lunch was an almost silent meal. Dudley didn’t even protest at the food (cottage cheese and grated celery). Aunt Petunia wasn’t, eating anything at all. Her arms were folded, her lips were pursed, and she seemed to be chewing her tongue, as though biting back the furious diatribe she longed to throw at Harry. 
 
“They’ll be driving, of course?” Uncle Vernon barked across the table. 
 
“Er,” said Harry. 
He hadn’t thought of that. How were the Weasleys going to pick him up? They didn’t have a car anymore; the old Ford Anglia they had once owned was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. But Mr. Weasley had borrowed a Ministry of Magic car last year; possibly he would do the same today? 
 
“I think so,” said Harry. 
 
Uncle Vernon snorted into his mustache. Normally, Uncle Vernon would have asked what car Mr. Weasley drove; he tended to judge other men by how big and expensive their cars were. But Harry doubted whether Uncle Vernon would have taken to Mr. Weasley even if he drove a Ferrari. 
 
Harry spent most of the afternoon in his bedroom; he couldn’t stand watching Aunt Petunia peer out through the net curtains every few seconds, as though there had been a warning about an escaped rhinoceros. Finally, at a quarter to five, Harry went back downstairs and into the living room. 
 
Aunt Petunia was compulsively straightening cushions. Uncle Vernon was pretending to read the paper, but his tiny eyes were not moving, and Harry was sure he was really listening with all his might for the sound of an approaching car. Dudley was crammed into an armchair, his porky hands beneath him, clamped firmly around his bottom. Harry couldn’t take the tension; he left the room and went and sat on the stairs in the hall, his eyes on his watch and his heart pumping fast from excitement and nerves. 
 
But five o’clock came and then went. Uncle Vernon, perspiring slightly in his suit, opened the front door, peered up and down the street, then withdrew his head quickly. 
 
“They’re late!” he snarled at Harry. 
 
“I know,” said Harry. “Maybe - er - the traffic’s bad, or something.” 
 
Ten past five… then a quarter past five… Harry was starting to feel anxious himself now. At half past, he heard Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia conversing in terse mutters in the living room. 
 
“No consideration at all.” 
 
“We might’ve had an engagement.” 
 
“Maybe they think they’ll get invited to dinner if they’re late.” 
 
“Well, they most certainly won’t be,” said Uncle Vernon, and Harry heard him stand up and start pacing the living room. “They’ll take the boy and go, there’ll be no hanging around. That’s if they’re coming at all. Probably mistaken the day. I daresay their kind don’t set much store by punctuality. Either that or they drive some tin-pot car that’s broken d- AAAAAAARRRRRGH!” 
 
Harry jumped up. From the other side of the living room door came the sounds of the three Dursleys scrambling, panic-stricken, across the room. Next moment Dudley came flying into the hall, looking terrified. 
 
“What happened?” said Harry. “What’s the matter?” 
 
But Dudley didn’t seem able to speak. Hands still clamped over his buttocks, he waddled as fast as he could into the kitchen. Harry hurried into the living room. Loud bangings and scrapings were coming from behind the Dursleys’ boarded-up fireplace, which had a fake coal fire plugged in front of it. 
 
“What is it?” gasped Aunt Petunia, who had backed into the wall and was staring, terrified, toward the fire. “What is it, Vernon?” 
 
But they were left in doubt barely a second longer. Voices could be heard from inside the blocked fireplace. 
 
“Ouch! Fred, no - go back, go back, there’s been some kind of mistake – tell George not to - OUCH! George, no, there’s no room, go back quickly and tell Ron-” 
 
“Maybe Harry can hear us, Dad - maybe he’ll be able to let us out-” 
 
There was a loud hammering of fists on the boards behind the electric fire. 
 
“Harry? Harry, can you hear us?” 
 
The Dursleys rounded on Harry like a pair of angry wolverines. 
 
“What is this?” growled Uncle Vernon. “What’s going on?” 
 
“They - they’ve tried to get here by Floo powder,” said Harry, fighting a mad desire to laugh. “They can travel by fire - only you’ve blocked the fireplace – hang on -” 
 
He approached the fireplace and called through the boards. 
 
“Mr. Weasley? Can you hear me?” 
 
The hammering stopped. Somebody inside the chimney piece said, “Shh!” 
 
“Mr. Weasley, it’s Harry… the fireplace has been blocked up. You won’t be able to get through there.” 
 
“Damn!” said Mr. Weasley’s voice. “What on earth did they want to block up the fireplace for?” 
 
“They’ve got an electric fire,” Harry explained. 
 
“Really?” said Mr. Weasley’s voice excitedly. “Eclectic, you say? With a plug? Gracious, I must see that… Let’s think… ouch, Ron!” 
 
Ron’s voice now joined the others’. 
 
“What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?” 
 
“Oh no, Ron,” came Fred’s voice, very sarcastically. “No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.” 
 
“Yeah, we’re having the time of our lives here,” said George, whose voice sounded muffled, as though he was squashed against the wall. 
 
“Boys, boys…” said Mr. Weasley vaguely. “I’m trying to think what to do… Yes… only way… Stand back, Harry.” 
 
Harry retreated to the sofa. Uncle Vernon, however, moved forward. 
 
“Wait a moment!” he bellowed at the fire. “What exactly are you going to -” 
 
BANG. 
 
The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded-up fireplace burst outward, expelling Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and Ron in a cloud of rubble and loose chippings. Aunt Petunia shrieked and fell backward over the coffee table; Uncle Vernon caught her before she hit the floor, and gaped, speechless, at the Weasleys, all of whom had bright red hair, including Fred and George, who were identical to the last freckle. 
 
“That’s better,” panted Mr. Weasley, brushing dust from his long green robes and straightening his glasses. “Ah - you must be Harry’s aunt and uncle!” 
 
Tall, thin, and balding, he moved toward Uncle Vernon, his hand outstretched, but Uncle Vernon backed away several paces, dragging Aunt Petunia. Words utterly failed Uncle Vernon. His best suit was covered in white dust, which had settled in his hair and mustache and made him look as though he had just aged thirty years. 
 
“Er - yes - sorry about that,” said Mr. Weasley, lowering his hand and looking over his shoulder at the blasted fireplace. “It’s all my fault. It just didn’t occur to me that we wouldn’t be able to get out at the other end. I had your fireplace connected to the Floo Network, you see - just for an afternoon, you know, so we could get Harry. Muggle fireplaces aren’t supposed to be connected, strictly speaking - but I’ve got a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel and he fixed it for me. I can put it right in a jiffy, though, don’t worry. I’ll light a fire to send the boys back, and then I can repair your fireplace before I Disapparate.”  
 
Harry was ready to bet that the Dursleys hadn’t understood a single word of this. They were still gaping at Mr. Weasley, thunderstruck. Aunt Petunia staggered upright again and hid behind Uncle Vernon. 
 
“Hello, Harry!” said Mr. Weasley brightly. “Got your trunk ready?” 
 
“It’s upstairs,” said Harry, grinning back. 
 
“We’ll get it,” said Fred at once. Winking at Harry, he and George left the room. 
 
They knew where Harry’s bedroom was, having once rescued him from it in the dead of night. Harry suspected that Fred and George were hoping for a glimpse of Dudley; they had heard a lot about him from Harry. 
 
“Well,” said Mr. Weasley, swinging his arms slightly, while he tried to find words to break the very nasty silence. “Very - erm - very nice place you’ve got here.” As the usually spotless living room was now covered in dust and bits of brick, this remark didn’t go down too well with the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon’s face purpled once more, and Aunt Petunia started chewing her tongue again. However, they seemed too scared to actually say anything. 
 
Mr. Weasley was looking around. He loved everything to do with Muggles. Harry could see him itching to go and examine the television and the video recorder.  
 
“They run off eckeltricity, do they?” he said knowledgeably. “Ah yes, I can see the plugs. I collect plugs,” he added to Uncle Vernon. “And batteries. Got a very large collection of batteries. My wife thinks I’m mad, but there you are.” 
 
Uncle Vernon clearly thought Mr. Weasley was mad too. He moved ever so slightly to the right, screening Aunt Petunia from view, as though he thought Mr. Weasley might suddenly run at them and attack. Dudley suddenly reappeared in the room. Harry could hear the clunk of his trunk on the stairs, and knew that the sounds had scared Dudley out of the kitchen. Dudley edged along the wall, gazing at Mr. Weasley with terrified eyes, and attempted to conceal himself behind his mother and father. Unfortunately, Uncle Vernon’s bulk, while sufficient to hide bony Aunt Petunia, was nowhere near enough to conceal Dudley. 
 
“Ah, this is your cousin, is it, Harry?” said Mr. Weasley, taking another brave stab at making conversation. 
 
“Yep,” said Harry, “that’s Dudley.” 
 
He and Ron exchanged glances and then quickly looked away from each other; the temptation to burst out laughing was almost overwhelming. Dudley was still clutching his bottom as though afraid it might fall off. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed genuinely concerned at Dudley’s peculiar behavior. Indeed, from the tone of his voice when he next spoke, Harry was quite sure that Mr. Weasley thought Dudley was quite as mad as the Dursleys thought he was, except that Mr. Weasley felt sympathy rather than fear. 
“Having a good holiday, Dudley?” he said kindly. 
 
Dudley whimpered. Harry saw his hands tighten still harder over his massive backside. 
 
Fred and George came back into the room carrying Harry’s school trunk. They glanced around as they entered and spotted Dudley. Their faces cracked into identical evil grins. 
 
“Ah, right,” said Mr. Weasley. “Better get cracking then.” 
 
He pushed up the sleeves of his robes and took out his wand. Harry saw the Dursleys draw back against the wall as one. 
 
“Incendio!” said Mr. Weasley, pointing his wand at the hole in the wall behind him. 
 
Flames rose at once in the fireplace, crackling merrily as though they had been burning for hours. Mr. Weasley took a small drawstring bag from his pocket, untied it, took a pinch of the powder inside, and threw it onto the flames, which turned emerald green and roared higher than ever. 
 
“Off you go then, Fred,” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
“Coming,” said Fred. “Oh no - hang on -” 
 
A bag of sweets had spilled out of Fred’s pocket and the contents were now rolling in every direction - big, fat toffees in brightly colored wrappers. Fred scrambled around, cramming them back into his pocket, then gave the Dursleys a cheery wave, stepped forward, and walked right into the fire, saying “the Burrow!” Aunt Petunia gave a little shuddering gasp. There was a whooshing sound, and Fred vanished. 
 
“Right then, George,” said Mr. Weasley, “you and the trunk.” 
 
Harry helped George carry the trunk forward into the flames and turn it onto its end so that he could hold it better. Then, with a second whoosh, George had cried “the Burrow!” and vanished too. 
 
“Ron, you next,” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
“See you,” said Ron brightly to the Dursleys. He grinned broadly at Harry, then stepped into the fire, shouted “the Burrow!” and disappeared. Now Harry and Mr. Weasley alone remained. 
“Well… ‘bye then,” Harry said to the Dursleys. 
 
They didn’t say anything at all. Harry moved toward the fire, but just as he reached the edge of the hearth, Mr. Weasley put out a hand and held him back. He was looking at the Dursleys in amazement. 
 
“Harry said good-bye to you,” he said. “Didn’t you hear him?” 
 
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry muttered to Mr. Weasley. “Honestly, I don’t care.”  
 
Mr. Weasley did not remove his hand from Harry’s shoulder. 
 
“You aren’t going to see your nephew till next summer,” he said to Uncle Vernon in mild indignation. “Surely you’re going to say good-bye?” 
 
Uncle Vernon’s face worked furiously. The idea of being taught consideration by a man who had just blasted away half his living room wall seemed to be causing him intense suffering. But Mr. Weasley’s wand was still in his hand, and Uncle Vernon’s tiny eyes darted to it once, before he said, very resentfully, “Good-bye, then.” 
 
“See you,” said Harry, putting one foot forward into the green flames, which felt pleasantly like warm breath. At that moment, however, a horrible gagging sound erupted behind him, and Aunt Petunia started to scream. Harry wheeled around. Dudley was no longer standing behind his parents. He was kneeling beside the coffee table, and he was gagging and sputtering on a foot-long, purple, slimy thing that was protruding from his mouth. One bewildered second later, Harry realized that the foot-long thing was Dudley’s tongue - and that a brightly colored toffee wrapper lay on the floor before him. 
 
Aunt Petunia hurled herself onto the ground beside Dudley, seized the end of his swollen tongue, and attempted to wrench it out of his mouth; unsurprisingly, Dudley yelled and sputtered worse than ever, trying to fight her off. Uncle Vernon was bellowing and waving his arms around, and Mr. Weasley had to shout to make himself heard. 
 
“Not to worry, I can sort him out!” he yelled, advancing on Dudley with his wand outstretched, but Aunt Petunia screamed worse than ever and threw herself on top of Dudley, shielding him from Mr. Weasley. 
 
“No, really!” said Mr. Weasley desperately. “It’s a simple process it was the toffee - my son Fred - real practical joker - but it’s only an Engorgement Charm - at least, I think it is - please, I can correct it -” 
 
But far from being reassured, the Dursleys became more panic- stricken; Aunt Petunia was sobbing hysterically, tugging Dudley’s tongue as though determined to rip it out; Dudley appeared to be suffocating under the combined pressure of his mother and his tongue; and Uncle Vernon, who had lost control completely, seized a china figure from on top of the sideboard and threw it very hard at Mr. Weasley, who ducked, causing the ornament to shatter in the blasted fireplace. 
 
“Now really!” said Mr. Weasley angrily, brandishing his wand. “I’m trying to help!” 
 
Bellowing like a wounded hippo, Uncle Vernon snatched up another ornament. 
 
“Harry, go! Just go!” Mr. Weasley shouted, his wand on Uncle Vernon. “I’ll sort this out!” 
 
Harry didn’t want to miss the fun, but Uncle Vernon’s second ornament narrowly missed his left ear, and on balance he thought it best to leave the situation to Mr. Weasley. He stepped into the fire, looking over his shoulder as he said “the Burrow!” His last fleeting glimpse of the living room was of Mr. Weasley blasting a third ornament out of Uncle Vernon’s hand with his wand, Aunt Petunia screaming and lying on top of Dudley, and Dudley’s tongue lolling around like a great slimy python. But next moment Harry had begun to spin very fast, and the Dursleys’ living room was whipped out of sight in a rush of emerald-green flames.  
 
Harry spun faster and faster, elbows tucked tightly to his sides, blurred fireplaces flashing past him, until he started to feel sick and closed his eyes. Then, when at last he felt himself slowing down, he threw out his hands and came to a halt in time to prevent himself from falling face forward out of the Weasleys’ kitchen fire. 
 
“Did he eat it?” said Fred excitedly, holding out a hand to pull Harry to his feet. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, straightening up. “What was it?” 
 
“Ton-Tongue Toffee,” said Fred brightly. “George and I invented them, and we’ve been looking for someone to test them on all summer…” 
 
The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter; Harry looked around and saw that Ron and George were sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with two red-haired people Harry had never seen before, though he knew immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie, the two eldest Weasley brothers. 
 
“How’re you doing, Harry?” said the nearer of the two, grinning at him and holding out a large hand, which Harry shook, feeling calluses and blisters under his fingers. This had to be Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania. Charlie was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.  
 
Bill got to his feet, smiling, and also shook Harry’s hand. Bill came as something of a surprise. Harry knew that he worked for the wizarding bank, Gringotts, and that Bill had been Head Boy at Hogwarts; Harry had always imagined Bill to be an older version of Percy: fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone around. However, Bill was - there was no other word for it - cool. He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. Bill’s clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Harry recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of dragon hide. 
 
Before any of them could say anything else, there was a faint popping noise, and Mr. Weasley appeared out of thin air at George’s shoulder. He was looking angrier than Harry had ever seen him. 
 
“That wasn’t funny Fred!” he shouted. “What on earth did you give that Muggle boy?” 
 
“I didn’t give him anything,” said Fred, with another evil grin. “I just dropped it… It was his fault he went and ate it, I never told him to.” 
“You dropped it on purpose!” roared Mr. Weasley. “You knew he’d eat it, you knew he was on a diet -” 
 
“How big did his tongue get?” George asked eagerly. 
 
“It was four feet long before his parents would let me shrink it!” 
 
Harry and the Weasleys roared with laughter again. 
 
“It isn’t funny!” Mr. Weasley shouted. “That sort of behavior seriously undermines wizard-Muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons. 
  
“We didn’t give it to him because he’s a Muggle!” said Fred indignantly. 
 
“No, we gave it to him because he’s a great bullying git,” said George. “Isn’t he, Harry?” 
 
“Yeah, he is, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry earnestly. 
 
“That’s not the point!” raged Mr. Weasley. “You wait until I tell your mother -” 
 
“Tell me what?” said a voice behind them. 
 
Mrs. Weasley had just entered the kitchen. She was a short, plump woman with a very kind face, though her eyes were presently narrowed with suspicion. 
 
“Oh hello, Harry, dear,” she said, spotting him and smiling. Then her eyes snapped back to her husband. “Tell me what, Arthur?” 
 
Mr. Weasley hesitated. Harry could tell that, however angry he was with Fred and George, he hadn’t really intended to tell Mrs. Weasley what had happened. There was a silence, while Mr. Weasley eyed his wife nervously. Then two girls appeared in the kitchen doorway behind Mrs. Weasley. One, with very bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth, was Harry’s and Ron’s friend, Hermione Granger. The other, who was small and red-haired, was Ron’s younger sister, Ginny. Both of them smiled at Harry, who grinned back, which made Ginny go scarlet - she had been very taken with Harry ever since his first visit to the Burrow. 
 
“Tell me what, Arthur?” Mrs. Weasley repeated, in a dangerous sort of voice. 
 
“It’s nothing, Molly,” mumbled Mr. Weasley, “Fred and George just - but I’ve had words with them -” 
 
“What have they done this time?” said Mrs. Weasley. “If it’s got anything to do with Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes -” 
 
“Why don’t you show Harry where he’s sleeping, Ron?” said Hermione from the doorway. 
“He knows where he’s sleeping,” said Ron, “in my room, he slept there last -” 
 
“We can all go,” said Hermione pointedly. 
 
“Oh,” said Ron, cottoning on. “Right.” 
 
“Yeah, we’ll come too,” said George. 
 
“You stay where you are!” snarled Mrs. Weasley. 
 
Harry and Ron edged out of the kitchen, and they, Hermione, and Ginny set off along the narrow hallway and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged through the house to the upper stories. 
 
“What are Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” Harry asked as they climbed. 
 
Ron and Ginny both laughed, although Hermione didn’t. 
 
“Mum found this stack of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and George’s room,” said Ron quietly. “Great long price lists for stuff they’ve invented. Joke stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads of stuff. It was brilliant, I never knew they’d been inventing all that…” 
 
“We’ve been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they were actually making things,” said Ginny. “We thought they just liked the noise.” 
 
“Only, most of the stuff - well, all of it, really - was a bit dangerous,” said Ron, “and, you know, they were planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren’t allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms… She’s furious at them anyway. They didn’t get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.” 
 
O.W.L.s were Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the examinations Hogwarts students took at the age of fifteen. 
 
“And then there was this big row,” Ginny said, “because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop.” 
 
Just then a door on the second landing opened, and a face poked out wearing horn-rimmed 
glasses and a very annoyed expression. 
 
“Hi, Percy,” said Harry. 
 
“Oh hello, Harry,” said Percy. “I was wondering who was making all the noise. I’m trying to work in here, you know I’ve got a report to finish for the office – and it’s rather difficult to concentrate when people keep thundering up and down the stairs.” 
 
“We’re not thundering, “said Ron irritably. “We’re walking. Sorry if we’ve disturbed the top-secret workings of the Ministry of Magic.” 
“What are you working on?” said Harry. 
 
“A report for the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” said Percy smugly. “We’re trying to standardize cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin - leakages have been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a year -” 
 
“That’ll change the world, that report will,” said Ron. “Front page of the Daily Prophet, I expect, cauldron leaks.” 
 
Percy went slightly pink. 
 
“You might sneer, Ron,” he said heatedly, “but unless some sort of international law is imposed we might well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow bottomed products that seriously endanger -” 
 
“Yeah, yeah, all right,” said Ron, and he started off upstairs again. Percy slammed his bedroom door shut. As Harry, Hermione, and Ginny followed Ron up three more flights of stairs, shouts from the kitchen below echoed up to them. It sounded as though Mr. Weasley had told Mrs. Weasley about the toffees. The room at the top of the house where Ron slept looked much as it had the last time that Harry had come to stay: the same posters of Ron’s favorite Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, were whirling and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, and the fish tank on the windowsill, which had previously held frog spawn, now contained one extremely large frog. Ron’s old rat, Scabbers, was here no more, but instead there was the tiny gray owl that had delivered Ron’s letter to Harry in Privet Drive. It was hopping up and down in a small cage and twittering madly. 
 
“Shut up, Pig,” said Ron, edging his way between two of the four beds that had been squeezed into the room. “Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie are in their room,” he told Harry. “Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because he’s got to work.” 
 
“Er - why are you calling that owl Pig?” Harry asked Ron. 
 
“Because he’s being stupid,” said Ginny, “Its proper name is Pigwidgeon.” 
 
“Yeah, and that’s not a stupid name at all,” said Ron sarcastically. “Ginny named him,” he explained to Harry. “She reckons it’s sweet. And I tried to change it, but it was too late, he won’t answer to anything else. So now he’s Pig. I’ve got to keep him up here because he annoys Errol and Hermes. He annoys me too, come to that. 
 
Pigwidgeon zoomed happily around his cage, hooting shrilly. Harry knew Ron too well to take him seriously. He had moaned continually about his old rat, Scabbers, but had been most upset when Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, appeared to have eaten him. 
 
“Where’s Crookshanks?” Harry asked Hermione now. 
 
“Out in the garden, I expect,” she said. “He likes chasing gnomes. He’s never seen any before.” 
“Percy’s enjoying work, then?” said Harry, sitting down on one of the beds and watching the Chudley Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the ceiling. 
 
“Enjoying it?” said Ron darkly. “I don’t reckon he’d come home if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed. Just don’t get him onto the subject of his boss. According to Mr. Crouch… as I was saying to Mr. Crouch… Mr. Crouch is of the opinion… Mr. Crouch was telling me… They’ll be announcing their engagement any day now.” 
 
“Have you had a good summer, Harry?” said Hermione. “Did you get our food parcels and everything?” 
 
“Yeah, thanks a lot,” said Harry. “They saved my life, those cakes.”  
 
“And have you heard from -?” Ron began, but at a look from Hermione he fell silent. Harry knew Ron had been about to ask about Sirius. Ron and Hermione had been so deeply involved in helping Sirius escape from the Ministry of Magic that they were almost as concerned about Harry’s godfather as he was. However, discussing him in front of Ginny was a bad idea. Nobody but themselves and Professor Dumbledore knew about how Sirius had escaped, or believed in his innocence. 
 
“I think they’ve stopped arguing,” said Hermione, to cover the awkward moment, because Ginny was looking curiously from Ron to Harry. “Shall we go down and help your mum with dinner?” 
 
“Yeah, all right,” said Ron. The four of them left Ron’s room and went back downstairs to find Mrs. Weasley alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered. 
 
“We’re eating out in the garden,” she said when they came in. “There’s just not room for eleven people in here. Could you take the plates outside, girls? Bill and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and forks, please, you two,” she said to Ron and Harry, pointing her wand a little more vigorously than she had intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which shot out of their skins so fast that they ricocheted off the walls and ceiling. 
 
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she snapped, now directing her wand at a dustpan, which hopped off the sideboard and started skating across the floor, scooping up the potatoes. “Those two!” she burst out savagely, now pulling pots and pans out of a cupboard, and Harry knew she meant Fred and George. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to them, I really don’t. No ambition, unless you count making as much trouble as they possibly can…” 
 
Mrs. Weasley slammed a large copper saucepan down on the kitchen table and began to wave her wand around inside it. A creamy sauce poured from the wand tip as she stirred. 
 
“It’s not as though they haven’t got brains,” she continued irritably, taking the saucepan over to the stove and lighting it with a further poke of her wand, “but they’re wasting them, and unless they pull themselves together soon, they’ll be in real trouble. I’ve had more owls from Hogwarts about them than the rest put together. If they carry on the way they’re going, they’ll end up in front of the Improper Use of Magic Office.” 
Mrs. Weasley jabbed her wand at the cutlery drawer, which shot open. Harry and Ron both jumped out of the way as several knives soared out of it, flew across the kitchen, and began chopping the potatoes, which had just been tipped back into the sink by the dustpan. 
 
“I don’t know where we went wrong with them,” said Mrs. Weasley, putting down her wand and starting to pull out still more saucepans. “It’s been the same for years, one thing after another, and they won’t listen to - OH NOT AGAIN!” 
 
She had picked up her wand from the table, and it had emitted a loud squeak and turned into a giant rubber mouse. “One of their fake wands again!” she shouted. “How many times have I told them not to leave them lying around?” 
 
She grabbed her real wand and turned around to find that the sauce on the stove was smoking. 
 
“C’mon,” Ron said hurriedly to Harry, seizing a handful of cutlery from the open drawer, “let’s go and help Bill and Charlie.” 
 
They left Mrs. Weasley and headed out the back door into the yard.  
 
They had only gone a few paces when Hermione’s bandy-legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, came pelting out of the garden, bottle-brush tail held high in the air, chasing what looked like a muddy potato on legs. Harry recognized it instantly as a gnome. Barely ten inches high, its horny little feet pattered very fast as it sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the door. Harry could hear the gnome giggling madly as Crookshanks inserted a paw into the boot, trying to reach it. Meanwhile, a very loud crashing noise was coming from the other side of the house. The source of the commotion was revealed as they entered the garden, and saw that Bill and Charlie both had their wands out, and were making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other’s out of the air. Fred and George were cheering, Ginny was laughing, and Hermione was hovering near the hedge, apparently torn between amusement and anxiety. Bill’s table caught Charlie’s with a huge bang and knocked one of its legs off. There was a clatter from overhead, and they all looked up to see Percy’s head poking out of a window on the second floor. 
 
“Will you keep it down?!” he bellowed. 
 
“Sorry, Perce,” said Bill, grinning. “How’re the cauldron bottoms coming on?” 
 
“Very badly,” said Percy peevishly, and he slammed the window shut. Chuckling, Bill and Charlie directed the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a flick of his wand, Bill reattached the table leg and conjured tablecloths from nowhere. 
 
By seven o’clock, the two tables were groaning under dishes and dishes of Mrs. Weasley’s excellent cooking, and the nine Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky. To somebody who had been living on meals of increasingly stale cake all summer, this was paradise, and at first, Harry listened rather than talked as he helped himself to chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes, and salad. 
 
At the far end of the table, Percy was telling his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms. 
 
“I’ve told Mr. Crouch that I’ll have it ready by Tuesday,” Percy was saying pompously. “That’s a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he’ll be grateful I’ve done it in good time, I mean, its extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We’re just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman -” 
 
“I like Ludo,” said Mr. Weasley mildly. “He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favor: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble - a lawnmower with unnatural powers - I smoothed the whole thing over.” 
 
“Oh Bagman’s likable enough, of course,” said Percy dismissively, “but how he ever got to be Head of Department… when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I can’t see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what’s happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?” 
 
“Yes, I was asking Ludo about that,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning. “He says Bertha’s gotten lost plenty of times before now - though must say, if it was someone in my department, I’d be worried…” 
 
“Oh Bertha’s hopeless, all right,” said Percy. “I hear she’s been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than she’s worth… but all the same, Bagman ought to be trying to find her. Mr. Crouch has been taking a personal interest, she worked in our department at one time, you know, and I think Mr. Crouch was quite fond of her - but Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of Albania. However” - Percy heaved an impressive sigh and took a deep swig of elderflower wine - “we’ve got quite enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical 
Cooperation without trying to find members of other departments too. As you know, we’ve got another big event to organize right after the World Cup.”  
 
Percy cleared his throat significantly and looked down toward the end of the table where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting. “You know the one I’m talking about, Father.” He raised his voice slightly. “The top-secret one.” 
 
Ron rolled his eyes and muttered to Harry and Hermione, “He’s been trying to get us to ask what that event is ever since he started work. Probably an exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons.” 
In the middle of the table, Mrs. Weasley was arguing with Bill about his earring, which seemed to be a recent acquisition. 
 
“… with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?” 
 
“Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure,” said Bill patiently. 
 
“And your hair’s getting silly, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, fingering her wand lovingly.” I wish you’d let me give it a trim…” 
 
“I like it,” said Ginny, who was sitting beside Bill. “You’re so old-fashioned, Mum. Anyway, it’s nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore’s…” Next to Mrs. Weasley, Fred, George, and Charlie were all talking spiritedly about the World Cup. 
 
“It’s got to be Ireland,” said Charlie thickly, through a mouthful of potato. “They flattened Peru in the semifinals.” 
 
“Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though,” said Fred. 
 
“Krum’s one decent player, Ireland has got seven,” said Charlie shortly. “I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing, that was.” 
 
“What happened?” said Harry eagerly, regretting more than ever his isolation from the wizarding world when he was stuck on Privet Drive. 
 
“Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten,” said Charlie gloomily. “Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg.” 
 
Harry had been on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team ever since his first year at Hogwarts and owned one of the best racing brooms in the world, a Firebolt. Flying came more naturally to Harry than anything else in the magical world, and he played in the position of Seeker on the Gryffindor House team. 
 
Mr. Weasley conjured up candles to light the darkening garden before they had their homemade strawberry ice cream, and by the time they had finished, moths were fluttering low over the table, and the warm air was perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle. Harry was feeling extremely well fed and at peace with the world as he watched several gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly and closely pursued by Crookshanks. 
 
Ron looked carefully up the table to check that the rest of the family were all busy talking, then he said very quietly to Harry, “So - have you heard from Sirius lately?” 
 
Hermione looked around, listening closely. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry softly, “twice. He sounds okay. I wrote to him yesterday. He might write back while I’m here.” 
 
He suddenly remembered the reason he had written to Sirius, and for a moment was on the verge of telling Ron and Hermione about his scar hurting again, and about the dream that had awoken him… but he really didn’t want to worry them just now, not when he himself was feeling so happy and peaceful. 
 
“Look at the time,” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly, checking her wristwatch. “You really should be in bed, the whole lot of you you’ll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, if you leave your school list out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow in Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might not be time after the World Cup, the match went on for five days last time.” 
 
“Wow - hope it does this time!” said Harry enthusiastically. 
 
“Well, I certainly don’t,” said Percy sanctimoniously. “I shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would be if I was away from work for five days.” 
 
“Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again, eh, Perce?” said Fred.  
 
“That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!” said Percy, going very red in the face. “It was nothing personal!” 
 
“It was,” Fred whispered to Harry as they got up from the table. “We sent it.” 
 
Harry felt as though he had barely lain down to steep in Ron’s room when he was being shaken awake by Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“Time to go, Harry, dear,” she whispered, moving away to wake Ron. 
  
Harry felt around for his glasses, put them on, and sat up. It was still dark outside. Ron muttered indistinctly as his mother roused him. At the foot of Harry’s mattress he saw two large, disheveled shapes emerging from tangles of blankets. 
 
“‘S’ time already?” said Fred groggily. 
 
They dressed in silence, too sleepy to talk, then, yawning and stretching, the four of them headed downstairs into the kitchen. 
 
Mrs. Weasley was stirring the contents of a large pot on the stove, while Mr. Weasley was sitting at the table, checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets. He looked up as the boys entered and spread his arms so that they could see his clothes more clearly. He was wearing what appeared to be a golfing sweater and a very old pair of jeans, slightly too big for him and held up with a thick leather belt. 
 
“What d’you think?” he asked anxiously. “We’re supposed to go incognito - do I look like a Muggle, Harry?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, smiling, “very good.” 
 
“Where’re Bill and Charlie and Per-Per-Percy?” said George, failing to stifle a huge yawn. 
 
“Well, they’re Apparating, aren’t they?” said Mrs. Weasley, heaving the large pot over to the table and starting to ladle porridge into bowls. “So they can have a bit of a lie-in.” 
 
Harry knew that Apparating meant disappearing from one place and reappearing almost instantly in another, but had never known any Hogwarts student to do it, and understood that it was very difficult. 
 
“So they’re still in bed?” said Fred grumpily, pulling his bowl of porridge toward him. “Why can’t we Apparate too?” 
 
“Because you’re not of age and you haven’t passed your test,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “And where have those girls got to?” 
 
She bustled out of the kitchen and they heard her climbing the stairs.  
“You have to pass a test to Apparate?” Harry asked. 
 
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Weasley, tucking the tickets safely into the back pocket of his jeans. “The Department of Magical Transportation had to fine a couple of people the other day for Apparating without a license. It’s not easy, Apparition, and when it’s not done property it can lead to nasty complications. This pair I’m talking about went and splinched themselves.” 
 
Everyone around the table except Harry winced. 
 
“Er - splinched?” said Harry. 
 
“They left half of themselves behind,” said Mr. Weasley, now spooning large amounts of treacle onto his porridge. “So, of course, they were stuck. Couldn’t move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit of paperwork, I can tell you, what with the Muggles who spotted the body parts they’d left behind…” 
 
Harry had a sudden vision of a pair of legs and an eyeball lying abandoned on the pavement of Privet Drive. 
 
“Were they okay?” he asked, startled. 
 
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Weasley matter-of-factly. “But they got a heavy fine, and I don’t think they’ll be trying it again in a hurry. You don’t mess around with Apparition. There are plenty of adult wizards who don’t bother with it. Prefer brooms - slower, but safer.” 
 
“But Bill and Charlie and Percy can all do it?” 
 
“Charlie had to take the test twice,” said Fred, grinning. “He failed the first time. Apparated five miles south of where he meant to, right on top of some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?” 
 
“Yes, well, he passed the second time,” said Mrs. Weasley, marching back into the kitchen amid hearty sniggers. 
 
“Percy only passed two weeks ago,” said George. “He’s been Apparating downstairs every morning since, just to prove he can.” There were footsteps down the passageway and Hermione and Ginny came into the kitchen, both looking pale and drowsy. 
 
“Why do we have to be up so early?” Ginny said, rubbing her eyes and sitting down at the table. 
 
“We’ve got a bit of a walk,” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
“Walk?” said Harry. “What, are we walking to the World Cup?” 
 
“No, no, that’s miles away,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We only need to walk a short way. It’s just that it’s very difficult for a large number of wizards to congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the Quidditch World Cup…” 
 
“George!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all jumped. 
 
“What?” said George, in an innocent tone that deceived nobody. 
 
“What is that in your pocket?” 
 
“Nothing!” 
 
“Don’t you lie to me!” 
 
Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George’s pocket and said, “Accio!” 
 
Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of George’s pocket; he made a grab for them but missed, and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley’s outstretched hand. 
 
“We told you to destroy them!” said Mrs. Weasley furiously, holding up what were unmistakably more Ton-Tongue Toffees. “We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!” 
 
It was an unpleasant scene; the twins had evidently been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as possible, and it was only by using her Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to find them all.  
 
“Accio! Accio! Accio!” she shouted, and toffees zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of George’s jacket and the turn-ups of Fred’s jeans.  
 
“We spent six months developing those!” Fred shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away. 
 
“Oh a fine way to spend six months!” she shrieked. “No wonder you didn’t get more O.W.L.s!” 
 
All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as they took their departure. Mrs. Weasley was still glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the cheek, though not nearly as much as the twins, who had each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and walked out without a word to her. 
 
“Well, have a lovely time,” said Mrs. Weasley, “and behave yourselves,” she called after the twins’ retreating backs, but they did not look back or answer. “I’ll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy along around midday,” Mrs. Weasley said to Mr. Weasley, as he, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny set off across the dark yard after Fred and George. 
 
It was chilly and the moon was still out. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was drawing closer. Harry, having been thinking about thousands of wizards speeding toward the Quidditch World Cup, sped up to walk with Mr. Weasley. 
“So how does everyone get there without all the Muggles noticing?” he asked. 
 
“It’s been a massive organizational problem,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “The trouble is, about a hundred thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of course, we just haven’t got a magical site big enough to accommodate them all. There are places Muggles can’t penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as possible.  The whole Ministry’s been working on it for months. First, of course, we have to stagger the arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle transport, but we can’t have too many clogging up their buses and trains - remember, wizards are coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of course, but we have to set up safe points for them to appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there’s a handy wood they’re using as the Apparition point. For those who don’t want to Apparate, or can’t, we use Portkeys. 
They’re objects that are used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to. There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that’s where we’re headed.” 
 
Mr. Weasley pointed ahead of them, where a large black mass rose beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. 
 
“What sort of objects are Portkeys?” said Harry curiously. 
 
“Well, they can be anything,” said Mr. Weasley. “Unobtrusive things, obviously, so Muggles don’t go picking them up and playing with them… stuff they’ll just think is litter…” 
 
They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they made their way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. Harry’s hands and feet were freezing. Mr. Weasley kept checking his watch.  
 
They didn’t have breath to spare for talking as they began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tuffets of grass. Each breath Harry took was sharp in his chest and his legs were starting to seize up when, at last, his feet found level ground. 
 
“Whew,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater. “Well, we’ve made good time - we’ve got ten minutes.” 
 
Hermione came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side. 
 
“Now we just need the Portkey,” said Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting around at the ground. “It won’t be big… Come on…” 
 
They spread out, searching. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rent the still air. 
“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we’ve got it.” 
 
Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop. 
 
“Amos!” said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed. 
 
Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who was holding a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand. 
 
“This is Amos Diggory, everyone,” said Mr. Weasley. “He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?” 
 
Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts. “Hi,” said Cedric, looking around at them all. Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who merely nodded. They had 
never quite forgiven Cedric for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year. 
 
“Long walk, Arthur?” Cedric’s father asked.  
 
“Not too bad,” said Mr. Weasley. “We live just on the other side of the village there. You?” 
 
“Had to get up at two, didn’t we, Ced? I tell you, I’ll be glad when he’s got his Apparition test. Still… not complaining… Quidditch World Cup, wouldn’t miss it for a sackful of Galleons - and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy…” Amos Diggory peered good-naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. “All these yours, Arthur?” 
 
“Oh no, only the redheads,” said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children. “This is Hermione, friend of Ron’s - and Harry, another friend -”  
 
“Merlin’s beard,” said Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. “Harry? Harry Potter?” 
 
“Er - yeah,” said Harry. 
 
Harry was used to people looking curiously at him when they met him, used to the way their eyes moved at once to the lightning scar on his forehead, but it always made him feel uncomfortable. 
 
“Ced’s talked about you, of course,” said Amos Diggory. “Told us all about playing against you last year… I said to him, I said - Ced, that’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will… You beat Harry Potter!” 
 
Harry couldn’t think of any reply to this, so he remained silent. Fred and George were both scowling again. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed.  
“Harry fell off his broom, Dad,” he muttered. “I told you… it was an accident…” 
 
“Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you?” roared Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. “Always modest, our Ced, always the gentleman… but the best man won, I’m sure Harry’d say the same, wouldn’t you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s the better flier!” 
 
“Must be nearly time,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. “Do you know whether we’re waiting for any more, Amos?” 
 
“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn’t get tickets,” said Mr. Diggory. “There aren’t any more of us in this area, are there?” 
 
“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Weasley. “Yes, it’s a minute off… We’d better get ready…” 
He looked around at Harry and Hermione. “You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a finger will do -” 
 
With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the nine of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory. They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. 
 
Nobody spoke. It suddenly occurred to Harry how odd this would look if a Muggle were to walk up here now… nine people, two of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in the semidarkness, waiting…  
 
“Three…” muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, ‘two… one…” 
 
It happened immediately: Harry felt as though a hook just behind his navel had been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. His feet left the ground; he could feel Ron and Hermione on either side of him, their shoulders banging into his; they were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; his forefinger was stuck to the boot as though it was pulling him magnetically onward and then - His feet slammed into the ground; Ron staggered into him and he fell over; the 
Portkey hit the ground near his head with a heavy thud. Harry looked up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric were still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else was on the ground. 
 
“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” said a voice. 
 
Harry disentangled himself from Ron and got to his feet. They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. 
 
“Morning, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Harry could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football. 
 
“Hello there, Arthur,” said Basil wearily. “Not on duty, eh? It’s all right for some… We’ve been here all night… You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite… Weasley… Weasley…” He consulted his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. Diggory… second field… ask for Mr. Payne.” 
 
“Thanks, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned everyone to follow him. They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. 
 
After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Harry could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They said good-bye to the Diggorys and approached the cottage door. A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Harry knew at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for several acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them. 
 
“Morning!” said Mr. Weasley brightly. 
 
“Morning,” said the Muggle. 
 
“Would you be Mr. Roberts?” 
 
“Aye, I would,” said Mr. Roberts. “And who’re you?” 
 
“Weasley - two tents, booked a couple of days ago?” 
 
“Aye,” said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. “You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?” 
 
“That’s it,” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr. Roberts. 
 
“Ah - right - certainly -” said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry toward him. “Help me, Harry,” he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This one’s a - a - a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now… So this is a five?” 
 
“A twenty,” Harry corrected him in an undertone, uncomfortably aware of Mr. Roberts trying to catch every word. 
 
“Ah yes, so it is… I don’t know, these little bits of paper…” 
 
“You foreign?” said Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley returned with the correct notes. 
 
“Foreign?” repeated Mr. Weasley, puzzled. 
 
“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,” said Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley closely. “I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.” 
 
“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley nervously. 
 
Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some change. 
 
“Never been this crowded,” he said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. “Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up…” 
 
“Is that right?” said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn’t give it to him. 
 
“Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There’s a bloke walking ‘round in a kilt and a poncho.” 
 
“Shouldn’t he?” said Mr. Weasley anxiously 
 
“It’s like some sort of… I dunno… like some sort of rally,” said Mr. Roberts. “They all seem to know each other. Like a big party.” 
 
At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr. Roberts’s front door. 
 
“Obliviate!” he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts. 
 
Instantly, Mr. Roberts’s eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted, and a took of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Harry recognized the symptoms of one who had just had his memory modified. 
 
“A map of the campsite for you,” Mr. Roberts said placidly to Mr. Weasley. “And your change.” 
 
“Thanks very much,” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: His chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he muttered to Mr. Weasley, “Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman’s not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security Blimey, I’ll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur.” He Disapparated. 
 
“I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports,” said Ginny, looking surprised. “He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn’t he?” 
 
“He should,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling, and leading them through the gates into the campsite, “but Ludo’s always been a bit… well… lax about security. You couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.” 
 
They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent so obviously magical that Harry could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.  
 
“Always the same,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us.” 
 
They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read WEEZLY. 
 
“Couldn’t have a better spot!” said Mr. Weasley happily. “The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we’re as close as we could be.” He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. “Right,” he said excitedly, “no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land. We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be too difficult… Muggles do it all the time… Here, Harry, where do you reckon we should start?” 
 
Harry had never been camping in his life; the Dursleys had never taken him on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave him with Mrs. Figg, an old neighbor. However, he and Hermione worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it came to using the mallet, they finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents. 
All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards, Harry thought, but the trouble was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they would be a party of ten. Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem too; she gave Harry a quizzical look as Mr. Weasley dropped to his hands and knees and entered the first tent. 
 
“We’ll be a bit cramped,” he called, “but I think we’ll all squeeze in. Come and have a look.” 
 
Harry bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt his jaw drop. He had walked into what looked like an old-fashioned, three room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs. Figg’s house: There were crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats. 
 
“Well, it’s not for long,” said Mr. Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. “I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.” 
 
He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. “We’ll need water…” 
 
“There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us,” said Ron, who had followed Harry inside the tent and seemed completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. “It’s on the other side of the field.” 
 
“Well, why don’t you, Harry, and Hermione go and get us some water then” - Mr. Weasley handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans - “and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire?” 
 
“But we’ve got an oven,” said Ron. “Why can’t we just -” 
 
“Ron, anti-Muggle security!” said Mr. Weasley, his face shining with anticipation. “When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I’ve seen them at it!” 
 
After a quick tour of the girls’ tent, which was slightly smaller than the boys’, though without the smell of cats, Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.  
 
Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there must be in the world; he had never really thought much about those in other countries. 
 
Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Harry had never seen witches and wizards this young before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent. 

“How many times, Kevin? You don’t - touch - Daddy’s - wand - yecchh! “ 
 
She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells - “You bust slug! You bust slug!” 
 
A short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Harry, Ron, and Hermione he muttered distractedly, “In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose -” 
 
Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: THE SALEM WITCHES’ INSTITUTE. Harry caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents they passed, and though he couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited. 
 
“Er - is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?” said Ron.  
 
It wasn’t just Ron’s eyes. They had walked into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces could be seen under those that had their flaps open. Then, from behind them, they heard their names. 
 
“Harry! Ron! Hermione!” 
 
It was Seamus Finnigan, their fellow Gryffindor fourth year. He was sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who had to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor. “Like the decorations?” said Seamus, grinning. “The Ministry’s not too happy.” 
 
“Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colors?” said Mrs. Finnigan. “You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting Ireland, of course?” she added, eyeing Harry, Ron, and Hermione beadily. When they had assured her that they were indeed supporting Ireland, they set off again, though, as Ron said, “Like we’d say anything else surrounded by that lot.”  
 
“I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?” said Hermione. 
 
“Let’s go and have a look,” said Harry, pointing to a large patch of tents upfield, where the Bulgarian flag - white, green, and red - was fluttering in the breeze. The tents here had not been bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them had the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture was, of course, moving, but all it did was blink and scowl. 
 
“Krum,” said Ron quietly. 
 
“What?” said Hermione. 
 
“Krum!” said Ron. “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!” 
 
“He looks really grumpy,” said Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at them. 
 
“Really grumpy?” Ron raised his eyes to the heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He’s unbelievable. He’s really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He’s a genius, you wait until tonight, you’ll see.” 
 
There was already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Harry, Ron, and Hermione joined it, right behind a pair of men who were having a heated argument. One of them was a very old wizard who was wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other was clearly a Ministry wizard; he was holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation. 
 
“Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious –  
 
“I bought this in a Muggle shop,” said the old wizard stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.” 
 
“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,” said the Ministry wizard, and he brandished the pinstriped trousers. 
 
“I’m not putting them on,” said old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ‘round my privates, thanks.” 
 
Hermione was overcome with such a strong fit of the giggles at this point that she had to duck out of the queue and only returned when Archie had collected his water and moved away. Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, they made their way back through the campsite. Here and there, they saw more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old captain of Harry’s House Quidditch team, who had just left Hogwarts, dragged Harry over to his parents’ tent to introduce him, and told him excitedly that he had just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team. Next they were hailed by Ernie 
Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on they saw Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waved and smiled at Harry, who slopped quite a lot of water down his front as he waved back. More to stop Ron from smirking than anything, Harry hurriedly pointed out a large group of teenagers whom he had never seen before. 
 
“Who d’you reckon they are?” he said. “They don’t go to Hogwarts, do they?” 
 
“‘Spect they go to some foreign school,” said Ron. “I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil… this was years and years ago… and he wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn’t afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said he wasn’t going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up.” 
 
Harry laughed but didn’t voice the amazement he felt at hearing about other wizarding schools. He supposed, now that he saw representatives of so many nationalities in the campsite, that he had been stupid never to realize that Hogwarts couldn’t be the only one. He glanced at Hermione, who looked utterly unsurprised by the information. No doubt she had run across the news about other wizarding schools in some book or other. 
 
“You’ve been ages,” said George when they finally got back to the Weasleys’ tents.  
 
“Met a few people,” said Ron, setting the water down. “You’ve not got that fire started yet?” 
 
“Dad’s having fun with the matches,” said Fred. 
 
Mr. Weasley was having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Splintered matches littered the ground around him, but he looked as though he was having the time of his life. 
 
“Oops!” he said as he managed to light a match and promptly dropped it in surprise. 
 
“Come here, Mr. Weasley,” said Hermione kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly. 
 
At last they got the fire lit, though it was at least another hour before it was hot enough to cook anything. There was plenty to watch while they waited, however. Their tent seemed to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr. Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for Harry’s and Hermione’s benefit; his own children knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested. 
 
“That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office… Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he’s with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he’s had those horns for a while now… Hello, Arnie… Arnold Peasegood, he’s an Obliviator - member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know… and that’s Bode and Croaker… they’re Unspeakables…” 
 
“They’re what?” 
 
“From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to…” 
 
At last, the fire was ready, and they had just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them. 
 
“Just Apparated, Dad,” said Percy loudly. “Ah, excellent, lunch!” 
 
They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them. 
 
“Aha!” he said. “The man of the moment! Ludo!” 
 
Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Harry had seen so far, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Harry thought), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy. 
 
“Ahoy there!” Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement. 
 
“Arthur, old man,” he puffed as he reached the campfire, “what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming… and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements… Not much for me to do!” 
 
Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air. 
Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression. 
 
“Ah - yes,” said Mr. Weasley, grinning, “this is my son Percy. He’s just started at the Ministry - and this is Fred - no, George, sorry - that’s Fred - Bill, Charlie, Ron - my daughter, Ginny and Ron’s friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.” 
 
Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he heard Harry’s name, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry’s forehead. 
 
“Everyone,” Mr. Weasley continued, “this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve got such good tickets-” 
 
Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had been nothing. 
 
“Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” he said eagerly, jingling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. “I’ve already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first - I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years - and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a weeklong match.” 
 
“Oh… go on then,” said Mr. Weasley. “Let’s see… a Galleon on Ireland to win?” 
“A Galleon?” Ludo Bagman looked slightly disappointed, but recovered himself. “Very well, very well… any other takers?” 
 
“They’re a bit young to be gambling,” said Mr. Weasley. “Molly wouldn’t like -” 
 
“We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts,” said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all their money, “that Ireland wins - but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we’ll throw in a fake wand.” 
 
“You don’t want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that,” Percy hissed, but Bagman didn’t seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared with laughter. 
 
“Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in years! I’d pay five Galleons for that!” 
 
Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval. 
 
“Boys,” said Mr. Weasley under his breath, “I don’t want you betting… That’s all your savings… Your mother -” 
 
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!” boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. “They’re old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance… I’ll give you excellent odds on that one… We’ll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we…” 
 
Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins’ names. 
 
“Cheers,” said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away into the front of his robes. Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley. 
 
“Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number’s making difficulties, and I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Barty’ll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.” 
 
“Mr. Crouch?” said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. “He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll…” 
 
“Anyone can speak Troll,” said Fred dismissively. “All you have to do is point and grunt.” 
 
Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil. 
 
“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr. Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all. 
 
“Not a dicky bird,” said Bagman comfortably. “But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha… memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.” 
 
“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to look for her?” Mr. Weasley suggested tentatively as Percy handed Bagman his tea. 
 
“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh - talk of the devil! Barty!” 
 
A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short gray hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were very highly polished. Harry could see at once why Percy idolized him. Percy was a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr. Crouch had 
complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could have passed for a bank manager; Harry doubted even Uncle Vernon would have spotted him for what he really was. 
 
“Pull up a bit of grass, Barry,” said Ludo brightly, patting the ground beside him. 
 
“No thank you, Ludo,” said Crouch, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box.” 
 
“Oh is that what they’re after?” said Bagman. “I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.” 
 
“Mr. Crouch!” said Percy breathlessly, sunk into a kind of halfbow that made him look like a hunchback. “Would you like a cup of tea?” 
 
“Oh,” said Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. “Yes - thank you, Weatherby.” 
 
Fred and George choked into their own cups. Percy, very pink around the ears, busied himself with the kettle. 
 
“Oh and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, Arthur,” said Mr. Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon Mr. Weasley. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.” 
 
Mr. Weasley heaved a deep sigh. 
 
“I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?” 
 
“I doubt it,” said Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from Percy. “He’s desperate to export here.” 
 
“Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?” said Bagman. 
 
“Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family vehicle,” said Mr. Crouch. “I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve - but that was before carpets were banned, of course.” 
 
He spoke as though he wanted to leave nobody in any doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the law. 
 
“So, been keeping busy, Barty?” said Bagman breezily. 
 
“Fairly,” said Mr. Crouch dryly. “Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.” 
 
“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over?” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
Ludo Bagman looked shocked. 
 
“Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun… Still, it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to took forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?” 
 
Mr. Crouch raised his eyebrows at Bagman. 
 
“We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details -” 
 
“Oh details!” said Bagman, waving the word away like a cloud of midges. “They’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s happening at Hogwarts -” 
 
“Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,” said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks short. “Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.” 
 
He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily. 
 
“See you all later!” he said. “You’ll be up in the Top Box with me - I’m commentating!” He waved, Barty Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated. 
 
“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” said Fred at once. “What were they talking about?” 
 
“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Mr.Weasley, smiling. 
 
“It’s classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it,” said Percy stiffly. “Mr. Crouch was quite right not to disclose it.” 
 
“Oh shut up, Weatherby,” said Fred. 
 
A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretence disappeared: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere. 
 
Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous rosettes - green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria - which were squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries that played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening 
themselves. 
 
“Been saving my pocket money all summer for this,” Ron told Harry as they and Hermione strolled through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Ron purchased a dancing shamrock hat and a large green rosette, he also bought a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walked backward and forward over Ron’s hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him. 
 
“Wow, look at these!” said Harry, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except that they were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials. 
 
“Omnioculars,” said the saleswizard eagerly. “You can replay action… slow everything down… and they flash up a play-by- play breakdown if you need it. Bargain - ten Galleons each.” 
 
“Wish I hadn’t bought this now,” said Ron, gesturing at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars 
. 
“Three pairs,” said Harry firmly to the wizard. 
 
“No - don’t bother,” said Ron, going red. He was always touchy about the fact that Harry, who had inherited a small fortune from his parents, had much more money than he did. 
 
“You won’t be getting anything for Christmas,” Harry told him, thrusting Omnioculars into his and Hermione’s hands. “For about ten years, mind.” 
 
“Fair enough,” said Ron, grinning. 
 
“Oooh, thanks, Harry,” said Hermione. “And I’ll get us some programs, look -”  
 
Their money bags considerably lighter, they went back to the tents. Bill, Charlie, and Ginny were all sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley was carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George had no souvenirs as they had given Bagman all their gold. 
 
And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed into life in the trees, lighting a path to the field. 
 
“It’s time!” said Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. “Come on, let’s go!” 
 
Clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; Harry couldn’t stop grinning. They walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though Harry could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, he could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it. 
 
“Seats a hundred thousand,” said Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck look on Harry’s face. “Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again… bless them,” he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards. 
 
“Prime seats!” said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.” 
 
The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley’s party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Harry, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys, looked down upon a scene the likes of which he could never have imagined. 
 
A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. The field looked smooth as velvet from their lofty position. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at Harry’s eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant’s hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching it, Harry saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field.  
 
The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family - safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burgler Buzzer… Mrs. Shower’s All Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain!… Gladrags Wizardwear - London, Paris, Hogsmeade…  
 
Harry tore his eyes away from the sign and looked over his shoulder to see who else was sharing the box with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs were so short they stuck out in front of it on the chair, was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it had its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long, batlike ears were oddly familiar…  
 
“Dobby?” said Harry incredulously. 
 
The tiny creature looked up and stretched its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato. It wasn’t Dobby – it was, however, unmistakably a house-elf, as Harry’s friend Dobby had been. Harry had set Dobby free from his old owners, the Malfoy family. 
 
“Did sir just call me Dobby?” squeaked the elf curiously from between its fingers. Its voice was higher even than Dobby’s had been, a teeny, quivering squeak of a voice, and Harry suspected though it was very hard to tell with a house-elf – that this one might just be female. Ron and Hermione spun around in their seats to look. Though they had heard a lot about Dobby from Harry, they had never actually met him. Even Mr. Weasley looked around in interest. 
 
“Sorry,” Harry told the elf, “I just thought you were someone I knew.” 
 
“But I knows Dobby too, sir!” squeaked the elf. She was shielding her face, as though blinded by light, though the Top Box was not brightly lit. “My name is Winky, sir - and you, sir -” Her dark brown eyes widened to the size of side plates as they rested upon Harry’s scar. “You is surely Harry Potter!” 
 
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry. 
 
“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” she said, lowering her hands very slightly and looking awestruck. 
 
“How is he?” said Harry. “How’s freedom suiting him?” 
 
“Ah, sir,” said Winky, shaking her head, “ah sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.” 
 
“Why?” said Harry, taken aback. “What’s wrong with him?” 
 
“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” said Winky sadly. “Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another position, sir.” 
 
“Why not?” said Harry. 
 
Winky lowered her voice by a half-octave and whispered, “He is wanting paying for his work, sir.” 
 
“Paying?” said Harry blankly. “Well - why shouldn’t he be paid?” 
 
Winky looked quite horrified at the idea and closed her fingers slightly so that her face was half-hidden again. 
 
“House-elves is not paid, sir!” she said in a muffled squeak. “No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear you’s up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin.” 
 
“Well, it’s about time he had a bit of fun,” said Harry. 
 
“House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry Potter,” said Winky firmly, from behind her hands. “House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter” - she glanced toward the edge of the box and gulped - “but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.” 
 
“Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like heights?” said Harry, frowning. 
 
“Master - master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy,” said Winky, tilting her head toward the empty space beside her. “Winky is wishing she is back in master’s tent, Harry Potter, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.” 
 
She gave the edge of the box another frightened look and hid her eyes completely again. Harry turned back to the others. 
 
“So that’s a house-elf?” Ron muttered. “Weird things, aren’t they?” 
 
“Dobby was weirder,” said Harry fervently. 
 
Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium. 
 
“Wild!” he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side. “I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again… and again… and again…” 
 
Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through her velvetcovered, tasseled program. 
 
“‘A display from the team mascots will precede the match,’” she read aloud. 
 
“Oh that’s always worth watching,” said Mr. Weasley. “National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.” 
 
The box filled gradually around them over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, arrived, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like an old friend. They had met before, and Fudge shook Harry’s hand in a fatherly fashion, asked how he was, and introduced him to the wizards on either side of him. 
 
“Harry Potter, you know,” he told the Bulgarian minister loudly, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn’t seem to understand a word of English. “Harry Potter… oh come on now, you know who he is… the boy who survived You-Know-Who… you do know who he is -” 
 
The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar and started gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it. 
  
“Knew we’d get there in the end,” said Fudge wearily to Harry. “I’m no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat… Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places… ah, and here’s Lucius!” 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Dobby the house-elf’s former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman Harry supposed must be Draco’s mother. Harry and Draco Malfoy had been enemies ever since their very first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembled his father. His mother was blonde too; tall and slim, she would have been nice-looking if she hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose. 
 
“Ah, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?” 
 
“How do you do, how do you do?” said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk - Obalonsk - Mr. - well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else - you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?” 
 
It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other and Harry vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts’ bookshop, and they had had a fight. Mr. Malfoy’s cold gray eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row. 
 
“Good lord, Arthur,” he said softly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?” 
 
Fudge, who wasn’t listening, said, “Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.” 
 
“How - how nice,” said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile. 
Mr. Malfoy’s eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. Harry knew exactly what was making Mr. Malfoy’s lip curl like that. The Malfoys prided themselves on being purebloods; in other words, they considered anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy didn’t dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron, and Hermione one contemptuous look, then settled himself between his mother and father. 
 
“Slimy gits,” Ron muttered as he, Harry, and Hermione turned to face the field again. Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box. 
 
“Everyone ready?” he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. “Minister - ready to go?” 
 
“Ready when you are, Ludo,” said Fudge comfortably. 
 
Ludo whipped out his wand, directed it at his own throat, and said “Sonorus!” and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands. 
 
“Ladies and gentlemen… welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!” 
 
The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waved, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans - A Risk With Every Mouthful!) and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0. 
 
“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce… the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!” 
 
The right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval. 
 
“I wonder what they’ve brought,” said Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. “Aaah!” He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. “Veela!” 
 
“What are veel -?” 
 
But a hundred veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Harry’s question was answered for him. Veela were women… the most beautiful women Harry had ever seen… except that they weren’t - they couldn’t be - human. This puzzled Harry for a moment while he tried to guess what exactly they could be; what could make their skin shine moon-bright like that, or their white-gold hair fan out behind them without wind… but then the music started, and Harry stopped worrying about them not being human - in fact, he stopped worrying about anything at all.  
 
The veela had started to dance, and Harry’s mind had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that he kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen.  
 
And as the veela danced faster and faster, wild, half-formed thoughts started chasing through Harry’s dazed mind. He wanted to do something very impressive, right now. Jumping from the box into the stadium seemed a good idea… but would it be good enough? 
 
“Harry, what are you doing?” said Hermione’s voice from a long way off. 
 
The music stopped. Harry blinked. He was standing up, and one of his legs was resting on the wall of the box. Next to him, Ron was frozen in an attitude that looked as though he were about to dive from a springboard.  
 
Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t want the veela to go. Harry was with them; he would, of course, be supporting Bulgaria, and he wondered vaguely why he had a large green shamrock pinned to his chest. Ron, meanwhile, was absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the hat out of his hands. 
 
“You’ll be wanting that,” he said, “once Ireland have had their say.” 
 
“Huh?” said Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela, who had now lined up along one side of the field. 
 
Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up and pulled Harry back into his seat. “Honestly!” she said. 
 
“And now,” roared Ludo Bagman’s voice, “kindly put your wands in the air… for the Irish National Team Mascots!” 
 
Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaaahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it –  
“Excellent!” yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Harry realized that it was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green. 
 
“Leprechauns!” said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold. 
 
“There you go,” Ron yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into Harry’s hand, “for the Omnioculars! Now you’ve got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!” 
 
The great shamrock dissolved, the leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from the veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match. 
 
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome - the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you - Dimitrov!” 
 
A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters. 
 
“Ivanova!” 
 
A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out. 
 
“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand - Krum!” 
 
“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Harry quickly focused his own. 
 
Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overgrown bird of prey. It was hard to believe he was only eighteen. 
 
“And now, please greet - the Irish National Quidditch Team!” yelled Bagman.  “Presenting - Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand - Lynch!” 
 
Seven green blurs swept onto the field; Harry spun a small dial on the side of his Omnioculars and slowed the players down enough to read the word “Firebolt” on each of their brooms and see their names, embroidered in silver, upon their backs. 
 
“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!” 
 
A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Uncle Vernon’s, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. 
 
Harry spun the speed dial on his Omnioculars back to normal, watching closely as Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open - four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and (Harry saw it for the briefest moment, before it sped out of sight) the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls. 
 
“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screamed Bagman. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!” 
 
It was Quidditch as Harry had never seen it played before. He was pressing his Omnioculars so hard to his glasses that they were cutting into the bridge of his nose. The speed of the players was incredible - the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. 
 
Harry spun the slow dial on the right of his Omnioculars again, pressed the play by- play button on the top, and he was immediately watching in slow motion, while glittering purple lettering flashed across the lenses and the noise of the crowd pounded against his eardrums. 
HAWKSHEAD ATTACKING FORMATION, he read as he watched the three Irish Chasers zoom closely together, Troy in the center, slightly ahead of Mullet and Moran, bearing down upon the Bulgarians. PORSKOFF PLOY flashed up next, as Troy made as though to dart upward with the Quaffle, drawing away the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova and dropping the Quaffle to Moran. One of the Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov, swung hard at a passing Bludger with his small club, knocking it into Moran’s path; Moran ducked to avoid the Bludger and dropped the Quaffle; and Levski, soaring beneath, caught it - “TROY SCORES!” roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!” 
 
“What?” Harry yelled, looking wildly around through his Omnioculars. “But Levski’s got the Quaffle!” 
 
“Harry, if you’re not going to watch at normal speed, you’re going to miss things!” shouted Hermione, who was dancing up and down, waving her arms in the air while Troy did a lap of honor around the field. Harry looked quickly over the top of his Omnioculars and saw that the leprechauns watching from the sidelines had all risen into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were watching them sulkily. 
 
Furious with himself, Harry spun his speed dial back to normal as play resumed.  
 
Harry knew enough about Quidditch to see that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another’s minds as they positioned themselves, and the rosette on Harry’s chest kept squeaking their names: “Troy - Mullet - Mo ran!” And within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty-zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the greenclad supporters.  
 
The match became still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria’s first goal. 
 
“Fingers in your ears!” bellowed Mr. Weasley as the veela started to dance in celebration. Harry screwed up his eyes too; he wanted to keep his mind on the game. After a few seconds, he chanced a glance at the field. The veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.  
 
“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova - oh I say!” roared Bagman. One hundred thousand wizards gasped as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Harry followed their descent through his Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was – 
 
“They’re going to crash!” screamed Hermione next to Harry. 
 
She was half right - at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats. 
 
“Fool!” moaned Mr. Weasley. “Krum was feinting!” 
 
“It’s time-out!” yelled Bagman’s voice, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!” 
 
“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie said reassuringly to Ginny, who was hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what Krum was after, of course…” 
 
Harry hastily pressed the replay and play-by-play buttons on his Omnioculars, twiddled the speed dial, and put them back up to his eyes. He watched as Krum and Lynch dived again in slow motion. WRONSKI DEFENSIVE FEINT - DANGEROUS SEEKER DIVERSION read the shining purple lettering across his lenses. He saw Krum’s face contorted with concentration as he pulled out of the dive just in time, while Lynch was flattened, and he understood - Krum hadn’t seen the Snitch at all, he was just making Lynch copy him. Harry had never seen anyone fly like that; Krum hardly looked as though he was using a broomstick at all; he moved so easily through the air that he looked unsupported and weightless. Harry turned his Omnioculars back to normal and focused them on Krum. He was now circling high above Lynch, who was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. Harry, focusing still more closely upon Krum’s face, saw his dark eyes darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. He was using the time while Lynch was revived to look for the Snitch without interference. 
 
Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his Firebolt, and kicked back off into the air. His revival seemed to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Harry had seen so far. 
 
After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland had pulled ahead by ten more goals. They were now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game was starting to get dirtier. As Mullet shot toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over so quickly Harry didn’t catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast, told him it had been a foul.  
“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing — excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informed the roaring spectators. “And - yes, it’s a penalty to Ireland!” 
 
The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form the words “HA, HA, HA!” The veela on the other side of the field leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again. 
As one, the Weasley boys and Harry stuffed their fingers into their ears, but Hermione, who hadn’t bothered, was soon tugging on Harry’s arm. He turned to look at her, and she pulled his fingers impatiently out of his ears.  
 
“Look at the referee!” she said, giggling. 
 
Harry looked down at the field. Hassan Mostafa had landed right in front of the dancing veela, and was acting very oddly indeed. He was flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly. 
 
“Now, we can’t have that!” said Ludo Bagman, though he sounded highly amused. “Somebody slap the referee!” 
 
A mediwizard came tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicked Mostafa hard in the shins. Mostafa seemed to come to himself; Harry, watching through the Omnioculars again, saw that he looked exceptionally embarrassed and had started shouting at the veela, who had stopped dancing and were looking mutinous. 
 
“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” said Bagman’s voice. “Now there’s something we haven’t seen before… Oh this could turn nasty…” 
 
It did: The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating toward the leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words “HEE, HEE, HEE.” Mostafa was not impressed by the Bulgarians’ arguments, however; he was jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when 
they refused, he gave two short blasts on his whistle. 
 
“Two penalties for Ireland!” shouted Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. “And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms… yes… there they go… and Troy takes the Quaffle.” Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom. 
 
“Foul!” roared the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great wave of green. “Foul!” echoed Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice. “Dimitrov skins Moran - deliberately flying to collide there - and it’s got to be another penalty - yes, there’s the whistle!” 
 
The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this time, they formed a giant hand, which was making a very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves across the field and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. Watching through his Omnioculars, Harry saw that they didn’t look remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruelbeaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders - 
 
“And that, boys,” yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below, “is why you should never go for looks alone!” 
 
Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; meanwhile, the pitched battle below was nothing to the one taking place above. Harry turned this way and that, staring through his Omnioculars, as the Quaffie changed hands with the speed of a bullet. 
 
“Levski - Dimitrov - Moran - Troy - Mullet - Ivanova - Moran again - Moran - MORAN SCORES!” 
 
But the cheers of the Irish supporters were barely heard over the shrieks of the veela, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry members’ wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game recommenced immediately; now Levski had the Quaffle, now Dimitrov - The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger, and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face. 
 
There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum’s nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa didn’t blow his whistle. He had become distracted, and Harry couldn’t blame him; one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight. 
Harry wanted someone to realize that Krum was injured; even though he was supporting Ireland, Krum was the most exciting player on the field. Ron obviously felt the same. 
 
“Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look at him -” 
 
“Look at Lynch!” Harry yelled. 
 
For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, and Harry was quite sure that this was no Wronski Feint; this was the real thing…  
 
“He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouted. “He’s seen it! Look at him go!” Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on… but Krum was on his tail. How he could see where he was going, Harry had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again - 
 
“They’re going to crash!” shrieked Hermione. 
 
“They’re not!” roared Ron. 
“Lynch is!” yelled Harry. 
 
And he was right - for the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.  
 
“The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” bellowed Charlie, along the row. 
 
“He’s got it - Krum’s got it - it’s all over!” shouted Harry. 
 
Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand. 
 
The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and louder and erupted into screams of delight. 
 
“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. 
 
“KRUM GETS THE SNITCH - BUT IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!” 
 
“What did he catch the Snitch for?” Ron bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, applauding with his hands over his head. “He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!” 
 
“He knew they were never going to catch up!” Harry shouted back over all the noise, also applauding loudly. “The Irish Chasers were too good… He wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all…  
 
“He was very brave, wasn’t he?” Hermione said, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. “He looks a terrible mess…” 
 
Harry put his Omnioculars to his eyes again. It was hard to see what was happening below, because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, but he could just make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and refused to let them mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. 
 
Flags were waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the veela were shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn. 
 
“Vell, ve fought bravely,” said a gloomy voice behind Harry. He looked around; it was the Bulgarian Minister of Magic. 
 
“You can speak English!” said Fudge, sounding outraged. “And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!” 
 
“Veil, it vos very funny,” said the Bulgarian minister, shrugging.  
 
“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!” roared Bagman. 
 
Harry’s eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light, as the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Squinting toward the entrance, he saw two panting wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he’d been using sign language all day for nothing. 
 
“Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers - Bulgaria!” Bagman shouted.  
 
And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was applauding appreciatively; Harry could see thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and winking in their direction. 
 
One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of each as they shook hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. Harry noticed that he seemed much less coordinated on the ground. He was slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when Krum’s name 
was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.  
 
And then came the Irish team. Aidan Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked strangely unfocused. But he grinned happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its approval. Harry’s hands were numb with clapping. 
 
At last, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan Lynch on the back of Confolly’s, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, “Quietus.” 
 
“They’ll be talking about this one for years,” he said hoarsely, “a really unexpected twist, that…  shame it couldn’t have lasted longer… Ah yes… yes, I owe you… how much?” 
 
For Fred and George had just scrambled over the backs of their seats and were standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched. 
 
“Don’t tell your mother you’ve been gambling,” Mr. Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made their way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs. 
 
“Don’t worry, Dad,” said Fred gleefully, “we’ve got big plans for this money. We don’t want it confiscated.” 
 
Mr. Weasley looked for a moment as though he was going to ask what these big plans were, but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he didn’t want to know. 
 
They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the stadium and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all, and given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in. They were soon arguing enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley got drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it was only when Ginny fell asleep right at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that Mr. Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays and insisted that everyone go to bed. Hermione and Ginny went into the next tent, and Harry and the rest of the Weasleys changed into pajamas and clambered into their bunks. From the other side of the campsite they could still hear much singing and the odd echoing bang. 
 
“Oh I am glad I’m not on duty,” muttered Mr. Weasley sleepily. “I wouldn’t fancy having to go and tell the Irish they’ve got to stop celebrating.” 
 
Harry, who was on a top bunk above Ron, lay staring up at the canvas ceiling of the tent, watching the glow of an occasional leprechaun lantern flying overhead, and picturing again some of Krum’s more spectacular moves. He was itching to get back on his own Firebolt and try out the Wronski Feint… Somehow Oliver Wood had never managed to convey with all his wriggling diagrams what that move was supposed to look like… Harry saw himself in robes that had his name on the back, and imagined the sensation of hearing a hundred-thousand-strong crowd roar, as Ludo Bagman’s voice echoed throughout the stadium, “I give you… Potter!” 
 
Harry never knew whether or not he had actually dropped off to sleep – his fantasies of flying like Krum might well have slipped into actual dreams - all he knew was that, quite suddenly, Mr. Weasley was shouting.  
 
“Get up! Ron - Harry - come on now, get up, this is urgent!” 
 
Harry sat up quickly and the top of his head hit canvas. 
 
“S’ matter?” he said. 
 
Dimly, he could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. He could hear screams, and the sound of people running. He slipped down from the bunk and reached for his clothes, but Mr. Weasley, who had pulled on his jeans over his own pajamas, said, “No time, Harry - just grab a jacket and get outside - quickly!” 
 
Harry did as he was told and hurried out of the tent, Ron at his heels. By the light of the few fires that were still burning, he could see people running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. 
 
Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene. A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. Harry squinted at them… They didn’t seem to have faces… Then he realized that their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air. 
 
Two of the figures were very small. More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. Once or twice Harry saw one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder. 
 
The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and Harry recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee. 
 
“That’s sick,” Ron muttered, watching the smallest Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. “That is really sick…” 
 
Hermione and Ginny came hurrying toward them, pulling coats over their nightdresses, with Mr. Weasley right behind them. At the same moment, Bill, Charlie, and Percy emerged from the boys’ tent, fully dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their wands out. 
 
“We’re going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. “You lot - get into the woods, and stick together. I’ll come and fetch you when we’ve sorted this out!” 
 
Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting away toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tore after them. Ministry wizards were dashing from every direction toward the source of the trouble. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was coming ever closer. 
 
“C’mon,” said Fred, grabbing Ginny’s hand and starting to pull her toward the wood. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George followed. They all looked back as they reached the trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was larger than ever; they could see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the center, but they were having great difficulty. It looked as though they were scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall. 
 
The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night air. 
 
Harry felt himself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces he could not see. Then he heard Ron yell with pain. 
 
“What happened?” said Hermione anxiously, stopping so abruptly that Harry walked into her. “Ron, where are you? Oh this is stupid - lumos!” 
 
She illuminated her wand and directed its narrow beam across the path. Ron was lying sprawled on the ground. 
 
“Tripped over a tree root,” he said angrily, getting to his feet again.  
 
“Well, with feet that size, hard not to,” said a drawling voice from behind them. 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned sharply. Draco Malfoy was standing alone nearby, leaning against a tree, looking utterly relaxed. His arms folded, he seemed to have been watching the scene at the campsite through a gap in the trees. Ron told Malfoy to do something that Harry knew he would never have dared say in front of Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“Language, Weasley,” said Malfoy, his pale eyes glittering. “Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?” 
 
He nodded at Hermione, and at the same moment, a blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite, and a flash of green light momentarily lit the trees around them. 
 
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Hermione defiantly.  
 
“Granger, they’re after Muggles,” said Malfoy. “D’you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around… they’re moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh.” 
 
“Hermione’s a witch,” Harry snarled. 
 
“Have it your own way, Potter,” said Malfoy, grinning maliciously. “If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood, stay where you are.” 
 
“You watch your mouth!” shouted Ron. Everybody present knew that “Mudblood” was a very offensive term for a witch or wizard of Muggle parentage. 
 
 “Never mind, Ron,” said Hermione quickly, seizing Ron’s arm to restrain him as he took a step toward Malfoy. There came a bang from the other side of the trees that was louder than anything 
they had heard several people nearby screamed. Malfoy chuckled softly. 
 
“Scare easily, don’t they?” he said lazily. “I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to - trying to rescue the Muggles?” 
 
“Where’re your parents?” said Harry, his temper rising. “Out there wearing masks, are they?” 
 
Malfoy turned his face to Harry, still smiling. 
 
“Well… if they were, I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?” 
 
“Oh come on,” said Hermione, with a disgusted look at Malfoy, “let’s go and find the others.” 
 
“Keep that big bushy head down, Granger,” sneered Malfoy. 
 
“Come on,” Hermione repeated, and she pulled Harry and Ron up the path again. 
 
“I’ll bet you anything his dad is one of that masked lot!” said Ron hotly. 
 
“Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch him!” said Hermione fervently. “Oh I can’t believe this. Where have the others got to?” 
 
Fred, George, and Ginny were nowhere to be seen, though the path was packed with plenty of other people, all looking nervously over their shoulders toward the commotion back at the campsite. A huddle of teenagers in pajamas was arguing vociferously a little way along the path. When they saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a girl with thick curly hair turned and said quickly,  
 
“Oü est Madame Maxime? Nous l’avons perdue -” 
 
“Er - what?” said Ron. 
 
“Oh…” The girl who had spoken turned her back on him, and as they walked on they distinctly heard her say, “Ogwarts.” 
 
“Beauxbatons,” muttered Hermione. 
 
“Sorry?” said Harry. 
 
“They must go to Beauxbatons,” said Hermione. “You know… Beauxbatons Academy of Magic… I read about it in An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe.” 
 
“Oh… yeah… right,” said Harry. 
 
“Fred and George can’t have gone that far,” said Ron, pulling out his wand, lighting it like Hermione’s, and squinting up the path. Harry dug in the pockets of his jacket for his own wand - but it wasn’t there. The only thing he could find was his Omnioculars. 
 
“Ah, no, I don’t believe it… I’ve lost my wand!” 
 
“You’re kidding!” 
 
Ron and Hermione raised their wands high enough to spread the narrow beams of light farther on the ground; Harry looked all around him, but his wand was nowhere to be seen. 
 
“Maybe it’s back in the tent,” said Ron. 
 
“Maybe it fell out of your pocket when we were running?” Hermione suggested anxiously. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, “maybe…  
 
He usually kept his wand with him at all times in the wizarding world, and finding himself without it in the midst of a scene like this made him feel very vulnerable. A rustling noise nearby made all three of them jump. Winky the house-elf was fighting her way out of a clump of bushes nearby. She was moving in a most peculiar fashion, apparently with great difficulty; it was as though someone invisible were trying to hold her back. 
 
“There is bad wizards about!” she squeaked distractedly as she leaned forward and labored to keep running. “People high - high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!” 
 
And she disappeared into the trees on the other side of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the force that was restraining her. 
 
“What’s up with her?” said Ron, looking curiously after Winky. “Why can’t she run properly?” 
 
“Bet she didn’t ask permission to hide,” said Harry. He was thinking of Dobby: Every time he had tried to do something the Malfoys wouldn’t like, the house-elf had been forced to start beating himself up. 
 
“You know, house-elves get a very raw deal!” said Hermione indignantly. “It’s slavery, that’s what it is! That Mr. Crouch made her go up to the top of the stadium, and she was terrified, and he’s got her bewitched so she can’t even run when they start trampling tents! Why doesn’t anyone do something about it?” 
 
“Well, the elves are happy, aren’t they?” Ron said. “You heard old Winky back at the match… ‘House-elves is not supposed to have fun’… that’s what she likes, being bossed around…” 
 
“It’s people like you, Ron,” Hermione began hotly, “who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just because they’re too lazy to -” 
 
Another loud bang echoed from the edge of the wood. 
 
“Let’s just keep moving, shall we?” said Ron, and Harry saw him glance edgily at Hermione. Perhaps there was truth in what Malfoy had said; perhaps Hermione was in more danger than they were. They set off again, Harry still searching his pockets, even though he knew his wand wasn’t there. 
 
They followed the dark path deeper into the wood, still keeping an eye out for Fred, George, and Ginny. They passed a group of goblins who were cackling over a sack of gold that they had undoubtedly won betting on the match, and who seemed quite unperturbed by the trouble at the campsite. Farther still along the path, they walked into a patch of silvery light, and when they looked through the trees, they saw three tall and beautiful veela standing in a clearing, surrounded by a gaggle of young wizards, all of whom were talking very loudly. 
 
“I pull down about a hundred sacks of Galleons a year!” one of them shouted. “I’m a dragon killer for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.” 
 
“No, you’re not!” yelled his friend. “You’re a dishwasher at the Leaky Cauldron… but I’m a vampire hunter, I’ve killed about ninety so far -” 
 
A third young wizard, whose pimples were visible even by the dim, silvery light of the veela, now cut in, “I’m about to become the youngest ever Minister of Magic, I am.” 
 
Harry snorted with laughter. He recognized the pimply wizard: His name was Stan Shunpike, and he was in fact a conductor on the triple-decker Knight Bus. He turned to tell Ron this, but Ron’s face had gone oddly slack, and next second Ron was yelling, “Did I tell you I’ve invented a broomstick that’ll reach Jupiter?” 
 
“Honestly!” said Hermione, and she and Harry grabbed Ron firmly by the arms, wheeled him around, and marched him away. By the time the sounds of the veela and their admirers had faded completely, they were in the very heart of the wood. They seemed to be alone now; everything was much quieter. 
 
Harry looked around. “I reckon we can just wait here, you know. We’ll hear anyone coming a mile off.” 
 
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when Ludo Bagman emerged from behind a tree right ahead of them. 
 
Even by the feeble light of the two wands, Harry could see that a great change had come over Bagman. He no longer looked buoyant and rosy-faced; there was no more spring in his step. He looked very white and strained. 
 
“Who’s that?” he said, blinking down at them, trying to make out their faces. “What are you doing in here, all alone?” 
 
They looked at one another, surprised. 
 
“Well - there’s a sort of riot going on,” said Ron. 
 
Bagman stared at him. 
 
“What?” 
 
“At the campsite… some people have got hold of a family of Muggles…  
 
Bagman swore loudly. 
 
“Damn them!” he said, looking quite distracted, and without another word, he Disapparated with a small pop! 
 
“Not exactly on top of things, Mr. Bagman, is he?” said Hermione, frowning. 
 
“He was a great Beater, though,” said Ron, leading the way off the path into a small clearing, and sitting down on a patch of dry grass at the foot of a tree. “The Wimbourne Wasps won the league three times in a row while he was with them.” 
 
He took his small figure of Krum out of his pocket, set it down on the ground, and watched it walk around. Like the real Krum, the model was slightly duck-footed and round-shouldered, much less impressive on his splayed feet than on his broomstick. Harry was listening for noise from the campsite. Everything seemed much quieter; perhaps the riot was over. 
 
“I hope the others are okay,” said Hermione after a while. 
 
“They’ll be fine,” said Ron. 
 
“Imagine if your dad catches Lucius Malfoy,” said Harry, sitting down next to Ron and watching the small figure of Krum slouching over the fallen leaves. “He’s always said he’d like to get something on him.” 
 
“That’d wipe the smirk off old Draco’s face, all right,” said Ron. 
 
“Those poor Muggles, though,” said Hermione nervously. “What if they can’t get them down?” 
 
“They will,” said Ron reassuringly. “They’ll find a way.” 
“Mad, though, to do something like that when the whole Ministry of Magic’s out here tonight!” said Hermione. “I mean, how do they expect to get away with it? Do you think they’ve been drinking, or are they just -” 
 
But she broke off abruptly and looked over her shoulder. Harry and Ron looked quickly around too. It sounded as though someone was staggering toward their clearing. They waited, listening to the sounds of the uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the footsteps came to a sudden halt. 
 
“Hello?” called Harry. 
 
There was silence. Harry got to his feet and peered around the tree. It was too dark to see very far, but he could sense somebody standing just beyond the range of his vision. 
 
“Who’s there?” he said. 
  
And then, without warning, the silence was rent by a voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; and it uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like a spell. 
 
“MORSMORDRE!” 
 
And something vast, green, and glittering erupted from the patch of darkness Harry’s eyes had been struggling to penetrate; it flew up over the treetops and into the sky. 
 
“What the -?” gasped Ron as he sprang to his feet again, staring up at the thing that had appeared. 
 
For a split second, Harry thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation. 
 
Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with screams. Harry didn’t understand why, but the only possible cause was the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. He scanned the darkness for the person who had conjured the skull, but he couldn’t see anyone. 
 
“Who’s there?” he called again. 
 
“Harry, come on, move!” Hermione had seized the collar of his jacket and was tugging him backward. 
 
“What’s the matter?” Harry said, startled to see her face so white and terrified. 
 
“It’s the Dark Mark, Harry!” Hermione moaned, pulling him as hard as she could. “You-Know-Who’s sign!” 
 
“Voldemort’s - “Harry, come on!” 
 
Harry turned - Ron was hurriedly scooping up his miniature Krum - the three of them started across the clearing - but before they had taken a few hurried steps, a series of popping noises announced the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, surrounding them. 
 
Harry whirled around, and in an instant, he registered one fact: Each of these wizards had his wand out, and every wand was pointing right at himself, Ron, and Hermione. 
Without pausing to think, he yelled, “DUCK!” 
 
He seized the other two and pulled them down onto the ground. 
 
“STUPEFY!” roared twenty voices - there was a blinding series of flashes and Harry felt the hair on his head ripple as though a powerful wind had swept the clearing. Raising his head a fraction of an inch he saw jets of fiery red light flying over them from the wizards’ wands, crossing one another, bouncing off tree trunks, rebounding into the darkness— 
 
“Stop!” yelled a voice he recognized. “STOP! That’s my son!” 
 
Harry’s hair stopped blowing about. He raised his head a little higher. The wizard in front of him had lowered his wand. He rolled over and saw Mr. Weasley striding toward them, looking terrified. 
 
“Ron - Harry” - his voice sounded shaky - “Hermione - are you all right?” 
 
“Out of the way, Arthur,” said a cold, curt voice. 
 
It was Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards were closing in on them. Harry got to his feet to face them. Mr. Crouch’s face was taut with rage. 
 
“Which of you did it?” he snapped, his sharp eyes darting between them. “Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?” 
 
“We didn’t do that!” said Harry, gesturing up at the skull. 
 
“We didn’t do anything!” said Ron, who was rubbing his elbow and looking indignantly at his father. “What did you want to attack us for?” 
 
“Do not lie, sir!” shouted Mr. Crouch. His wand was still pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes were popping - he looked slightly mad. “You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!” 
 
“Barty,” whispered a witch in a long woolen dressing gown, “they’re kids, Barty, they’d never have been able to.” 
 
“Where did the Mark come from, you three?” said Mr. Weasley quickly. 
 
“Over there,” said Hermione shakily, pointing at the place where they had heard the voice. “There was someone behind the trees… they shouted words – an incantation -” 
 
“Oh, stood over there, did they?” said Mr. Crouch, turning his popping eyes on Hermione now, disbelief etched all over his face. “Said an incantation, did they? You seem very well informed about how that Mark is summoned, missy -” 
 
But none of the Ministry wizards apart from Mr. Crouch seemed to think it remotely likely that Harry, Ron, or Hermione had conjured the skull; on the contrary, at Hermione’s words, they had all raised their wands again and were pointing in the direction she had indicated, squinting through the dark trees. 
 
“We’re too late,” said the witch in the woolen dressing gown, shaking her head. “They’ll have Disapparated.” 
 
“I don’t think so,” said a wizard with a scrubby brown beard. It was Amos Diggory, Cedric’s father. “Our Stunners went right through those trees… There’s a good chance we got them…  
 
“Amos, be careful!” said a few of the wizards warningly as Mr. Diggory squared his shoulders, raised his wand, marched across the clearing, and disappeared into the darkness. Hermione watched him vanish with her hands over her mouth. A few seconds later, they heard Mr. Diggory shout. 
 
“Yes! We got them! There’s someone here! Unconscious! It’s - but - blimey.. 
 
“You’ve got someone?” shouted Mr. Crouch, sounding highly disbelieving. “Who? Who is it?” 
 
They heard snapping twigs, the rustling of leaves, and then crunching footsteps as Mr. Diggory reemerged from behind the trees. He was carrying a tiny, limp figure in his arms. Harry recognized the tea towel at once. It was Winky. Mr. Crouch did not move or speak as Mr. Diggory deposited his elf on the ground at his feet. The other Ministry wizards were all staring at Mr. Crouch. For a few seconds Crouch remained transfixed, his eyes blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky. Then he appeared to come to life again. 
 
“This - cannot - be,” he said jerkily. “No -” 
 
He moved quickly around Mr. Diggory and strode off toward the place where he had found Winky. 
 
“No point, Mr. Crouch,” Mr. Diggory called after him. “There’s no one else there.” 
 
But Mr. Crouch did not seem prepared to take his word for it. They could hear him moving around and the rustling of leaves as he pushed the bushes aside, searching. 
 
“Bit embarrassing,” Mr. Diggory said grimly, looking down at Winky’s unconscious form. “Barty Crouch’s house-elf… I mean to say…” 
“Come off it, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “you don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a wizard’s sign. It requires a wand.” 
 
“Yeah,” said Mr. Diggory, “and she had a wand.” 
 
“What?” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
“Here, look.” Mr. Diggory held up a wand and showed it to Mr. Weasley. “Had it in her hand. So that’s clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.” 
 
Just then there was another pop, and Ludo Bagman Apparated right next to Mr. Weasley. Looking breathless and disorientated, he spun on the spot, goggling upward at the emerald-green skull. 
 
“The Dark Mark!” he panted, almost trampling Winky as he turned inquiringly to his colleagues. “Who did it? Did you get them? Barty! What’s going on?” 
 
Mr. Crouch had returned empty-handed. His face was still ghostly white, and his hands and his toothbrush mustache were both twitching. 
 
“Where have you been, Barty?” said Bagman. “Why weren’t you at the match? Your elf was saving you a seat too - gulping gargoyles!” Bagman had just noticed Winky lying at his feet. “What happened to her?” 
 
“I have been busy, Ludo,” said Mr. Crouch, still talking in the same jerky fashion, barely moving his lips. “And my elf has been stunned.” 
 
“Stunned? By you lot, you mean? But why -?” 
 
Comprehension dawned suddenly on Bagman’s round, shiny face; he looked up at the skull, down at Winky, and then at Mr. Crouch. 
 
“No!” he said. “Winky? Conjure the Dark Mark? She wouldn’t know how! She’d need a wand, for a start!” 
 
“And she had one,” said Mr. Diggory. “I found her holding one, Ludo. If it’s all right with you, Mr. Crouch, I think we should hear what she’s got to say for herself.” 
 
Crouch gave no sign that he had heard Mr. Diggory, but Mr. Diggory seemed to take his silence for assent. He raised his own wand, pointed it at Winky, and said, “Ennervate!” 
 
Winky stirred feebly. Her great brown eyes opened and she blinked several times in a bemused sort of way. Watched by the silent wizards, she raised herself shakily into a sitting position. 
She caught sight of Mr. Diggory’s feet, and slowly, tremulously, raised her eyes to stare up into his face; then, more slowly still, she looked up into the sky. Harry could see the floating skull reflected twice in her enormous, glassy eyes. She gave a gasp, looked wildly around the crowded clearing, and burst into terrified sobs. 
 
“Elf!” said Mr. Diggory sternly. “Do you know who I am? I’m a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!” 
 
Winky began to rock backward and forward on the ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts.  
Harry was reminded forcibly of Dobby in his moments of terrified disobedience. 
 
“As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago,” said Mr. Diggory. “And you were discovered moments later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you please!” 
 
“I - I - I is not doing it, sir!” Winky gasped. “I is not knowing how, sir!” 
 
“You were found with a wand in your hand!” barked Mr. Diggory, brandishing it in front of her. And as the wand caught the green light that was filling the clearing from the skull above, Harry recognized it. 
 
“Hey - that’s mine!” he said 
 
Everyone in the clearing looked at him. 
 
“Excuse me?” said Mr. Diggory, incredulously. 
 
“That’s my wand!” said Harry. “I dropped it!” 
 
“You dropped it?” repeated Mr. Diggory in disbelief. “Is this a confession? You threw it aside after you conjured the Mark?” 
 
“Amos, think who you’re talking to!” said Mr. Weasley, very angrily. “Is Harry Potter likely to conjure the Dark Mark?” 
  
“Er - of course not,” mumbled Mr. Diggory. “Sorry… carried away…”  
 
“I didn’t drop it there, anyway,” said Harry, jerking his thumb toward the trees beneath the skull. “I missed it right after we got into the wood.” 
 
“So,” said Mr. Diggory, his eyes hardening as he turned to look at Winky again, cowering at his feet. “You found this wand, eh, elf? And you picked it up and thought you’d have some fun with it, did you?” 
 
“I is not doing magic with it, sir!” squealed Winky, tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and bulbous nose. “I is… I is… I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing how!” 
 
“It wasn’t her!” said Hermione. She looked very nervous, speaking up in front of all these Ministry wizards, yet determined all the same. “Winky’s got a squeaky little voice, and the voice we heard doing the incantation was much deeper!” She looked around at Harry and Ron, appealing for their support. “It didn’t sound anything like Winky, did it?” 
 
“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It definitely didn’t sound like an elf.” 
 
“Yeah, it was a human voice,” said Ron. 
 
“Well, we’ll soon see,” growled Mr. Diggory, looking unimpressed. “There’s a simple way of discovering the last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know that?” 
 
Winky trembled and shook her head frantically, her ears flapping, as Mr. Diggory raised his own wand again and placed it tip to tip with Harry’s. 
 
“Prior Incantato!” roared Mr. Diggory. 
 
Harry heard Hermione gasp, horrified, as a gigantic serpent-tongued skull erupted from the point where the two wands met, but it was a mere shadow of the green skull high above them; it looked as though it were made of thick gray smoke: the ghost of a spell. 
 
“Deletrius!” Mr. Diggory shouted, and the smoky skull vanished in a wisp of smoke. 
 
“So,” said Mr. Diggory with a kind of savage triumph, looking down upon Winky, who was still shaking convulsively. 
 
“I is not doing it!” she squealed, her eyes rolling in terror. “I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a good elf, I isn’t using wands, I isn’t knowing how!” 
 
“You’ve been caught red-handed, elf!” Mr. Diggory roared. “Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!” 
 
“Amos,” said Mr. Weasley loudly, “think about it… precious few wizards know how to do that spell… Where would she have learned it?” 
 
“Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” said Mr. Crouch, cold anger in every syllable, “that I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?” 
 
There was a deeply unpleasant silence. Amos Diggory looked horrified. “Mr. Crouch… not… not at all.” 
 
“You have now come very close to accusing the two people in this clearing who are least likely to conjure that Mark!” barked Mr. Crouch. “Harry Potter – and myself. I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s story, Amos?” 
 
“Of course - everyone knows -” muttered Mr. Diggory, looking highly discomforted. 
“And I trust you remember the many proofs I have given, over a long career, that I despise and detest the Dark Arts and those who practice them?” Mr. Crouch shouted, his eyes bulging again. 
 
“Mr. Crouch, I - I never suggested you had anything to do with it!” Amos Diggory muttered again, now reddening behind his scrubby brown beard. 
 
“If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!” shouted Mr. Crouch. “Where else would she have learned to conjure it?” 
 
“She - she might’ve picked it up anywhere -” 
 
“Precisely, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley. “She might have picked it up anywhere… Winky?” he said kindly, turning to the elf, but she flinched as though he too was shouting at her. “Where exactly did you find Harry’s wand?” 
 
Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel so violently that it was fraying beneath her fingers. 
 
“I - I is finding it… finding it there, sir…” she whispered, “there… in the trees, sir. 
 
“You see, Amos?” said Mr. Weasley. “Whoever conjured the Mark could have Disapparated right after they’d done it, leaving Harry’s wand behind. A clever thing to do, not using their own wand, which could have betrayed them. And Winky here had the misfortune to come across the wand moments later and pick it up.” 
 
“But then, she’d have been only a few feet away from the real culprit!” said Mr. Diggory impatiently. “Elf? Did you see anyone?” 
 
Winky began to tremble worse than ever. Her giant eyes flickered from Mr. Diggory, to Ludo Bagman, and onto Mr. Crouch. Then she gulped and said, “I is seeing no one, sir… no one…” 
 
“Amos,” said Mr. Crouch curtly, “I am fully aware that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.” 
 
Mr. Diggory looked as though he didn’t think much of this suggestion at all, but it was clear to Harry that Mr. Crouch was such an important member of the Ministry that he did not dare refuse him. 
 
“You may rest assured that she will be punished,” Mr. Crouch added coldly.  
 
“M-m-master…” Winky stammered, looking up at Mr. Crouch, her eyes brimming with tears. “M-m-master, p-p-please…” 
 
Mr. Crouch stared back, his face somehow sharpened, each line upon it more deeply etched. There was no pity in his gaze. 
 
“Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible,” he said slowly. “I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she disobeyed me. This means clothes.”  
 
“No!” shrieked Winky, prostrating herself at Mr. Crouch’s feet. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!” 
 
Harry knew that the only way to turn a house-elf free was to present it with proper garments. It was pitiful to see the way Winky clutched at her tea towel as she sobbed over Mr. Crouch’s feet. 
 
“But she was frightened!” Hermione burst out angrily, glaring at Mr. Crouch. “Your elf’s scared of heights, and those wizards in masks were levitating people! You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their way!” 
 
Mr. Crouch took a step backward, freeing himself from contact with the elf, whom he was surveying as though she were something filthy and rotten that was contaminating his over-shined shoes. 
 
“I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me,” he said coldly, looking over at Hermione. “I have no use for a servant who forgets what is due to her master, and to her master’s reputation.” 
 
Winky was crying so hard that her sobs echoed around the clearing. There was a very nasty silence, which was ended by Mr. Weasley, who said quietly, “Well, I think I’ll take my lot back to the tent, if nobody’s got any objections. Amos, that wand’s told us all it can - if Harry could have it back, please -” 
 
Mr. Diggory handed Harry his wand and Harry pocketed it. 
 
“Come on, you three,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. But Hermione didn’t seem to want to move; her eyes were still upon the sobbing elf. “Hermione!” Mr. Weasley said, more urgently. She turned and followed Harry and Ron out of the clearing and off through the trees. 
 
“What’s going to happen to Winky?” said Hermione, the moment they had left the clearing. 
 
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Weasley. 
 
“The way they were treating her!” said Hermione furiously. “Mr. Diggory, calling her ‘elf’ all the time… and Mr. Crouch! He knows she didn’t do it and he’s still going to sack her! He didn’t care how frightened she’d been, or how upset she was - it was like she wasn’t even human!” 
 
“Well, she’s not,” said Ron. 
 
Hermione rounded on him. 
 
“That doesn’t mean she hasn’t got feelings, Ron. It’s disgusting the way -” 
 
“Hermione, I agree with you,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, beckoning her on, “but now is not the time to discuss elf rights. I want to get back to the tent as fast as we can. What happened to the others?” 
 
“We lost them in the dark,” said Ron. “Dad, why was everyone so uptight about that skull thing?” 
 
“I’ll explain everything back at the tent,” said Mr. Weasley tensely. 
 
But when they reached the edge of the wood, their progress was impeded. A large crowd of frightened-looking witches and wizards was congregated there, and when they saw Mr. Weasley coming toward them, many of them surged forward.  
 
“What’s going on in there?” 
 
“Who conjured it?” 
 
“Arthur - it’s not - Him?” 
 
“Of course it’s not Him,” said Mr. Weasley impatiently. “We don’t know who it was; it looks like they Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to get to bed.” 
 
He led Harry, Ron, and Hermione through the crowd and back into the campsite. 
 
All was quiet now; there was no sign of the masked wizards, though several ruined tents were still smoking.  
 
Charlie’s head was poking out of the boys’ tent. 
 
“Dad, what’s going on?” he called through the dark. “Fred, George, and Ginny got back okay, but the others -” 
 
“I’ve got them here,” said Mr. Weasley, bending down and entering the tent. Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered after him. 
 
Bill was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was sporting a bloody nose. Fred, George, and Ginny looked unhurt, though shaken. 
 
“Did you get them, Dad?” said Bill sharply. “The person who conjured the Mark?” 
 
“No,” said Mr. Weasley. “We found Barry Crouch’s elf holding Harry’s wand, but we’re none the wiser about who actually conured the Mark.” 
 
“What?” said Bill, Charlie, and Percy together. “Harry’s wand?” said Fred. 
  
“Mr. Crouch’s elf” said Percy, sounding thunderstruck. 
 
With some assistance from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley explained what had happened in the woods. When they had finished their story, Percy swelled indignantly. 
 
“Well, Mr. Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like that!” he said. “Running away when he’d expressly told her not to… embarrassing him in front of the whole Ministry… how would that have looked, if she’d been brought up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control” 
 
“She didn’t do anything - she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” Hermione snapped at Percy, who looked very taken aback. Hermione had always got on fairly well with Percy - better, indeed, than any of the others. 
 
“Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch’s position can’t afford a house-elf who’s going to run amok with a wand!” said Percy pompously, recovering himself. 
 
“She didn’t run amok!” shouted Hermione. “She just picked it up off the ground!” 
 
“Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing was?” said Ron impatiently. “It wasn’t hurting anyone… Why’s it such a big deal?” 
 
“I told you, it’s You-Know-Who’s symbol, Ron,” said Hermione, before anyone else could answer. “I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.” 
 
“And it hasn’t been seen for thirteen years,” said Mr. Weasley quietly. “Of course people panicked… it was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again.” 
 
“I don’t get it,” said Ron, frowning. “I mean… it’s still only a shape in the sky…” 
 
“Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed,” said Mr. Weasley. “The terror it inspired… you have no idea, you’re too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you’re about to find inside…” Mr. Weasley winced. “Everyone’s worst fear… the very worst.” 
 
There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said, “Well, it didn’t help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we’d got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses before they hit the ground, though. They’re having their memories modified right now.” 
 
“Death Eaters?” said Harry. “What are Death Eaters?” 
 
“It’s what You-Know-Who’s supporters called themselves,” said Bill. “I think we saw what’s left of them tonight - the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway.” 
 
“We can’t prove it was them, Bill,” said Mr. Weasley. “Though it probably was,” he added hopelessly. 
 
“Yeah, I bet it was!” said Ron suddenly. “Dad, we met Draco Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us his dad was one of those nutters in masks! And we all know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-Who!” 
 
“But what were Voldemort’s supporters -” Harry began. Everybody flinched – like most of the wizarding world, the Weasleys always avoided saying Voldemort’s name. “Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “What were You-Know-Who’s supporters up to, levitating Muggles? I mean, what was the point?” 
 
“The point?” said Mr. Weasley with a hollow laugh. “Harry, that’s their idea of fun. Half the Muggle killings back when You-Know-Who was in power were done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn’t resist reminding us all that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them,” he finished disgustedly. 
 
“But if they were the Death Eaters, why did they Disapparate when they saw the Dark Mark?” said Ron. “They’d have been pleased to see it, wouldn’t they?” 
 
“Use your brains, Ron,” said Bill. “If they really were Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of Azkaban when You-Know-Who lost power, and told all sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture people. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the rest of us to see him come back. They denied they’d ever been involved with him when he lost his powers, and went back to their daily lives… I don’t reckon he’d be over-pleased with them, do you?” 
 
“So… whoever conjured the Dark Mark…” said Hermione slowly, “were they doing it to show support for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?” 
 
“Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,” said Mr. Weasley. “But I’ll tell you this… it was only the Death Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it. I’d be very surprised if the person who did it hadn’t been a Death Eater once, even if they’re not now… Listen, it’s very late, and if your mother hears what’s happened she’ll be worried sick. We’ll get a few more hours sleep and then try and get an early Portkey out of here.” 
 
Harry got back into his bunk with his head buzzing. He knew he ought to feel exhausted: It was nearly three in the morning, but he felt wide-awake – wide awake, and worried. 
 
Three days ago - it felt like much longer, but it had only been three days - he had awoken with his scar burning. And tonight, for the first time in thirteen years, Lord Voldemort’s mark had appeared in the sky. What did these things mean? He thought of the letter he had written to Sirius before leaving Privet Drive. Would Sirius have gotten it yet? When would he reply? Harry lay looking up at the canvas, but no flying fantasies came to him now to ease him to sleep, and it was a long time after Charlie’s snores filled the tent that Harry finally dozed off. 
 
Mr. Weasley woke them after only a few hours sleep. He used magic to pack up the tents, and they left the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange, dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague “Merry Christmas.” 
 
“He’ll be all right,” said Mr. Weasley quietly as they marched off onto the moor. “Sometimes, when a person’s memory’s modified, it makes him a bit disorientated for a while… and that was a big thing they had to make him forget.” 
 
They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when they reached it, they found a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible. Mr. Weasley had a hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. They walked back through Ottery St. 
Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane. 
 
“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!” 
 
Mrs. Weasley, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand. 
 
“Arthur - I’ve been so worried - so worried-” 
 
She flung her arms around Mr. Weasley’s neck, and the Daily Prophet fell out of her limp hand onto the ground. Looking down, Harry saw the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops. 
 
“You’re all right,” Mrs. Weasley muttered distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at them all with red eyes, “you’re alive… Oh boys…” And to everybody’s surprise, she seized Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads banged together. 
 
“Ouch! Mum - you’re strangling us -” 
 
“I shouted at you before you left!” Mrs. Weasley said, starting to sob. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough OW.L.s? Oh Fred… George…” 
“Come on, now, Molly, we’re all perfectly okay,” said Mr. Weasley soothingly, prising her off the twins and leading her back toward the house. “Bill,” he added in an undertone, “pick up that paper, I want to see what it says…” 
 
When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and Hermione had made Mrs. Weasley a cup of very strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insisted on pouring a shot of Ogdens Old  Firewhiskey, Bill handed his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley scanned the front page while Percy looked over his shoulder. 
 
“I knew it,” said Mr. Weasley heavily. “Ministry blunders… culprits not apprehended… lax security… Dark wizards running unchecked… national disgrace… Who wrote this? Ah… of course… Rita Skeeter.” 
 
“That woman’s got it in for the Ministry of Magic!” said Percy furiously. “Last week she was saying we’re wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn’t specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans —” 
 
“Do us a favor, Perce,” said Bill, yawning, “and shut up.” 
 
“I’m mentioned,” said Mr. Weasley, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he reached the bottom of the Daily Prophet article. 
 
“Where?” spluttered Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea and whiskey. “If I’d seen that, I’d have known you were alive!” 
 
“Not by name,” said Mr. Weasley. “Listen to this: ‘If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.’ Oh really,” said Mr. Weasley in 
exasperation, handing the paper to Percy. “Nobody was hurt. What was I supposed to say? Rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods… well, there certainly will be rumors now she’s printed that.” 
 
He heaved a deep sigh. “Molly, I’m going to have to go into the office; this is going to take some smoothing over.” 
 
“I’ll come with you, Father,” said Percy importantly. “Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my cauldron report in person.” 
 
He bustled out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looked most upset. “Arthur, you’re supposed to be on holiday! This hasn’t got anything to do with your office; surely they can handle this without you?” 
 
“I’ve got to go, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’ve made things worse. I’ll just change into my robes and I’ll be off…” 
 
“Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry suddenly, unable to contain himself, “Hedwig hasn’t arrived with a letter for me, has she?” 
 
“Hedwig, dear?” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. “No… no, there hasn’t been any post at all.” 
 
Ron and Hermione looked curiously at Harry. With a meaningful look at both of them he said, “All right if I go and dump my stuff in your room, Ron?” 
 
“Yeah… think I will too,” said Ron at once. “Hermione?” 
 
“Yes,” she said quickly, and the three of them marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs. 
 
“What’s up, Harry?” said Ron, the moment they had closed the door of the attic room behind them. 
 
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Harry said. “On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting again.” 
 
Ron’s and Hermione’s reactions were almost exactly as Harry had imagined them back in his bedroom on Privet Drive. Hermione gasped and started making suggestions at once, mentioning a number of reference books, and everybody from Albus Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse. Ron simply looked dumbstruck. 
 
“But - he wasn’t there, was he? You-Know-Who? I mean - last time your scar kept hurting, he was at Hogwarts, wasn’t he?” 
 
“I’m sure he wasn’t on Privet Drive,” said Harry. “But I was dreaming about him… him and Peter - you know, Wormtail. I can’t remember all of it now, but they were plotting to kill… someone.” 
 
He had teetered for a moment on the verge of saying “me,” but couldn’t bring himself to make Hermione look any more horrified than she already did. 
 
“It was only a dream,” said Ron bracingly. “Just a nightmare.” 
 
“Yeah, but was it, though?” said Harry, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s weird, isn’t it…? My scar hurts, and three days later the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort’s sign’s up in the sky again.” 
 
“Don’t - say - his - name!” Ron hissed through gritted teeth. 
 
“And remember what Professor Trelawney said?” Harry went on, ignoring Ron. “At the end of last year?” 
Professor Trelawney was their Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione’s terrified look vanished as she let out a derisive snort. 
 
“Oh Harry, you aren’t going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?”  
 
“You weren’t there,” said Harry. “You didn’t hear her. This time was different. I told you, she went into a trance - a real one. And she said the Dark Lord would rise again… greater and more terrible than ever before… and he’d manage it because his servant was going to go back to him… and that night Wormtail escaped.” 
 
There was a silence in which Ron fidgeted absentmindedly with a hole in his Chudley Cannons bedspread. 
 
“Why were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harry?” Hermione asked. “Are you expecting a letter?” 
 
“I told Sirius about my scar,” said Harry, shrugging. “I’m waiting for his answer.” 
 
“Good thinking!” said Ron, his expression clearing. “I bet Sirius’ll know what to do!” 
 
“I hoped he’d get back to me quickly,” said Harry. 
 
“But we don’t know where Sirius is… he could be in Africa or somewhere, couldn’t he?” said Hermione reasonably. “Hedwig’s not going to manage that journey in a few days.” 
 
“Yeah, I know,” said Harry, but there was a leaden feeling in his stomach as he looked out of the window at the Hedwig-free sky. 
 
“Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, Harry” said Ron. “Come on - three on three, Bill and Charlie and Fred and George will play… You can try out the Wronski Feint… “ 
 
“Ron,” said Hermione, in an I-don’t-think-you’re-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, “Harry doesn’t want to play Quidditch right now… He’s worried, and he’s tired… We all need to go to bed…” 
 
“Yeah, I want to play Quidditch,” said Harry suddenly. “Hang on, I’ll get my Firebolt.” 
 
Hermione left the room, muttering something that sounded very much like “Boys.” 
 
Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy was at home much over the following week. Both left the house each morning before the rest of the family got up, and returned well after dinner every night. 
 
“It’s been an absolute uproar,” Percy told them importantly the Sunday evening before they were due to return to Hogwarts. “I’ve been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to cinders.” 
“Why are they all sending Howlers?” asked Ginny, who was mending her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire. 
 
“Complaining about security at the World Cup,” said Percy. “They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus Fletcher’s put in a claim for a twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi, but I’ve got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak propped on sticks.” 
 
Mrs. Weasley glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Harry liked this clock. It was completely useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each of them was engraved with one of the Weasley family’s names. There were no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member might be. “Home,” “school,” and “work” were there, but there was also “traveling,” “lost,” “hospital,” “prison,” and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, “mortal 
peril.” 
 
Eight of the hands were currently pointing to the “home” position, but Mr. Weasley’s, which was the longest, was still pointing to “work.” Mrs. Weasley sighed. 
 
“Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You- Know-Who,” she said. “They’re working him far too hard. His dinner’s going to be ruined if he doesn’t come home soon.” 
 
“Well, Father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake at the match, doesn’t he?” said Percy. “If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first -” 
 
“Don’t you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!” said Mrs. Weasley, flaring up at once. 
 
“If Dad hadn’t said anything, old Rita would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented,” said Bill, who was playing chess with Ron. “Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts’ Charm Breakers once, and called me ‘a long-haired pillock’?” 
 
“Well, it is a bit long, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “If you’d just let me -”  
 
“No, Mum.” 
 
Rain lashed against the living room window. Hermione was immersed in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley had bought for her, Harry, and Ron in Diagon Alley. Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry was polishing his Firebolt, the broomstick servicing kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday open at his feet. Fred and George were sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment. 
 
“What are you two up to?” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on the twins.  
 
“Homework,” said Fred vaguely. 
 
“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” said Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late,” said George. 
 
“You’re not by any chance writing out a new order form, are you?” said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. “You wouldn’t be thinking of restarting Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?” 
 
“Now, Mum,” said Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation?” 
 
Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“Oh your father’s coming!” she said suddenly, looking up at the clock again.  
 
Mr. Weasley’s hand had suddenly spun from “work” to “traveling”; a second later it had shuddered to a halt on “home” with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen. 
“Coming, Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room. A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked completely exhausted. 
 
“Well, the fat’s really in the fire now,” he told Mrs. Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and toyed unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. “Rita Skeeter’s been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about poor old Bertha going missing, so that’ll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago.” 
 
“Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks,” said Percy swiftly.  
 
“Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn’t found out about Winky,” said Mr. Weasley irritably. “There’d be a week’s worth of headlines in his house-elf being caught holding the wand that conjured the Dark Mark.” 
 
“I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while irresponsible, did not conjure the Mark?” said Percy hotly. 
 
“If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!” said Hermione angrily. 
 
“Now look here, Hermione!” said Percy. “A high-ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves unswerving obedience from his servants -” 
 
“His slave, you mean!” said Hermione, her voice rising passionately, “because he didn’t pay Winky, did he?” 
 
“I think you’d all better go upstairs and check that you’ve packed properly!” said Mrs. Weasley, breaking up the argument. “Come on now, all of you…” 
 
Harry repacked his broomstick servicing kit, put his Firebolt over his shoulder, and went back upstairs with Ron. The rain sounded even louder at the top of the house, accompanied by loud whistlings and moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls from the ghoul who lived in the attic. Pigwidgeon began twittering and zooming around his cage when they entered. The sight of the half-packed trunks seemed to have sent him into a frenzy of excitement. 
 
“Bung him some Owl Treats,” said Ron, throwing a packet across to Harry. “It might shut him up.” 
 
Harry poked a few Owl Treats through the bars of Pigwidgeon’s cage, then turned to his trunk. Hedwig’s cage stood next to it, still empty. 
 
“It’s been over a week,” Harry said, looking at Hedwig’s deserted perch. “Ron, you don’t reckon Sirius has been caught, do you?” 
 
“Nah, it would’ve been in the Daily Prophet,” said Ron. “The Ministry would want to show they’d caught someone, wouldn’t they?” 
  
“Yeah, I suppose…” 
  
“Look, here’s the stuff Mum got for you in Diagon Alley. And she’s got some gold out of your vault for you… and she’s washed all your socks.” 
 
He heaved a pile of parcels onto Harry’s camp bed and dropped the money bag and a load of socks next to it. Harry started unwrapping the shopping. Apart from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by Miranda Goshawk, he had a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for his potion-making kit - he had been running low on spine of lionfish and essence of belladonna. He was just piling underwear into his cauldron when Ron made a loud noise of disgust behind him. 
 
“What is that supposed to be?” 
 
He was holding up something that looked to Harry like a long, maroon velvet dress. It had a moldy-looking lace frill at the collar and matching lace cuffs. There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Weasley entered, carrying an armful of freshly laundered Hogwarts robes. 
 
“Here you are,” she said, sorting them into two piles. “Now, mind you pack them properly so they don’t crease.” 
 
“Mum, you’ve given me Ginny’s new dress,” said Ron, handing it out to her. 
“Of course I haven’t,” said Mrs. Weasley. “That’s for you. Dress robes.”  
 
“What?” said Ron, looking horror-struck. 
 
“Dress robes!” repeated Mrs. Weasley. “It says on your school list that you’re supposed to have dress robes this year… robes for formal occasions.” 
 
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Ron in disbelief. “I’m not wearing that, no way.”  
 
“Everyone wears them, Ron!” said Mrs. Weasley crossly. “They’re all like that! Your father’s got some for smart parties!” 
 
“I’ll go starkers before I put that on,” said Ron stubbornly. 
 
“Don’t be so silly,” said Mrs. Weasley. “You’ve got to have dress robes, they’re on your list! I got some for Harry too… show him, Harry…” 
 
In some trepidation, Harry opened the last parcel on his camp bed. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, however; his dress robes didn’t have any lace on them at all - in fact, they were more or less the same as his school ones, except that they were bottle green instead of black. 
 
“I thought they’d bring out the color of your eyes, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley fondly. 
 
“Well, they’re okay!” said Ron angrily, looking at Harry’s robes. “Why couldn’t I have some like that?” 
 
“Because… well, I had to get yours secondhand, and there wasn’t a lot of choice!” said Mrs. Weasley, flushing. 
 
Harry looked away. He would willingly have split all the money in his Gringotts vault with the Weasleys, but he knew they would never take it.  
 
“I’m never wearing them,” Ron was saying stubbornly. “Never.” 
 
“Fine,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “Go naked. And, Harry, make sure you get a picture of him. Goodness knows I could do with a laugh.” 
 
She left the room, slamming the door behind her. There was a funny spluttering noise from behind them. Pigwidgeon was choking on an overlarge Owl Treat.  
 
“Why is everything I own rubbish?” said Ron furiously, striding across the room to unstick Pigwidgeon’s beak. 
 
There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when Harry awoke next morning. Heavy rain was still splattering against the window as he got dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; they would change into their school robes on the Hogwarts Express. 
 
He, Ron, Fred, and George had just reached the first-floor landing on their way down to breakfast, when Mrs. Weasley appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking harassed. 
 
“Arthur!” she called up the staircase. “Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!”  
 
Harry flattened himself against the wall as Mr. Weasley came clattering past with his robes on back-to-front and hurtled out of sight. When Harry and the others entered the kitchen, they saw Mrs. Weasley rummaging anxiously in the drawers – 
 
“I’ve got a quill here somewhere!” - and Mr. Weasley bending over the fire, talking to - 
 
Harry shut his eyes hard and opened them again to make sure that they were 
working properly. 
 
Amos Diggory’s head was sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It was talking very fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying around it and the flames licking its ears. 
 
“… Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d’you-call-’ems - please-men. Arthur, you’ve got to get over there —” 
 
“Here!” said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled quill into Mr. Weasley’s hands. 
 
“- it’s a real stroke of luck I heard about it,” said Mr. Diggory’s head. “I had to come into the office early to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets hold of this one, Arthur —” 
 
“What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asked Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes. 
 
Mr. Diggory’s head rolled its eyes. “Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins.” 
 
“What did the dustbins do?” asked Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically. 
 
“Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell,” said Mr. Diggory. “Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the pleasemen turned up -” 
 
Mr. Weasley groaned. 
 
“And what about the intruder?” 
 
“Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Diggory’s head, rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of his record — we’ve got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department — what are exploding dustbins worth?” 
 
“Might be a caution,” said Mr. Weasley, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. “Mad-Eye didn’t use his wand? He didn’t actually attack anyone?” 
 
“I’ll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window,” said Mr. Diggory, “but they’ll have a job proving it, there aren’t any casualties.” 
 
“All right, I’m off,” Mr. Weasley said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again. 
 
Mr. Diggory’s head looked around at Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“Sorry about this, Molly,” it said, more calmly, “bothering you so early and everything… but Arthur’s the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye’s supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he had to choose last night…” 
 
“Never mind, Amos,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Sure you won’t have a bit of toast or anything before you go?” 
 
“Oh go on, then,” said Mr. Diggory. 
 
Mrs. Weasley took a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs, and transferred it into Mr. Diggory’s mouth. “Fanks,” he said in a muffled voice, and then, with a small pop, vanished. 
 
Harry could hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried good-byes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and the girls. Within five minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his robes on the right way now, dragging a comb through his hair. 
 
“I’d better hurry - you have a good term, boys,” said Mr. Weasley to Harry, Ron, and the twins, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to Disapparate. 
 
“Molly, are you going to be all right taking the kids to King’s Cross?” 
 
“Of course I will,” she said. “You just look after Mad-Eye, we’ll be fine.” 
 
As Mr. Weasley vanished, Bill and Charlie entered the kitchen. 
 
“Did someone say Mad-Eye?” Bill asked. “What’s he been up to now.” 
 
“He says someone tried to break into his house last night,” said Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“Mad-Eye Moody?” said George thoughtfully, spreading marmalade on his toast. “Isn’t he that nutter -” 
 
“Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody,” said Mrs. Weasley sternly. 
 
“Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn’t he?” said Fred quietly as Mrs. Weasley left the room.  
 
“Birds of a feather…” 
 
“Moody was a great wizard in his time,” said Bill. 
 
“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” said Charlie. 
 
“Dumbledore’s not what you’d call normal, though, is he?” said Fred. “I mean, I know he’s a genius and everything…” 
 
“Who is Mad-Eye?” asked Harry. 
 
“He’s retired, used to work at the Ministry,” said Charlie. “I met him once when Dad took me into work with him. He was an Auror - one of the best… a Dark wizard catcher,” he added, seeing Harry’s blank look “Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. He made himself loads of enemies, though… the families of people he caught, mainly… and I heard he’s been getting really paranoid in his old age. Doesn’t trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards everywhere.” 
 
Bill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needed to get to work.  
 
“I just can’t justify taking more time off at the moment,” he told them. “Mr. Crouch is really starting to rely on me.” 
 
“Yeah, you know what, Percy?” said George seriously. “I reckon he’ll know your name soon.” 
 
Mrs. Weasley had braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take them into London. 
 
“Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us,” Mrs. Weasley whispered to Harry as they stood in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving six heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. “But there weren’t any to spare… Oh dear, they don’t look happy, do they?” 
 
Harry didn’t like to tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi drivers rarely transported overexcited owls, and Pigwidgeon was making an earsplitting racket. Nor did it help that a number of Filibuster’s Fabulous No-Heat, Wet-Start Fireworks went off unexpectedly when Fred’s trunk sprang open, causing the driver carrying it to yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks clawed his way up the man’s leg. 
 
The journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that they were jammed in the back of the taxis with their trunks. Crookshanks took quite a while to recover from the fireworks, and by the time they entered London, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all severely scratched. They were very relieved to get out at King’s Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder than ever, and they got soaked carrying their trunks across the busy road and into the station. 
 
Harry was used to getting onto platform nine and three-quarters by now. It was a simple matter of walking straight through the apparently solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky part was doing this in an unobtrusive way, so as to avoid attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups today; Harry, Ron, and Hermione (the most conspicuous, since they were accompanied by Pigwidgeon and Crookshanks) went first; they leaned casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it… and as they did so, platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front of them. 
 
The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts students and parents on the platform appeared like dark ghosts. Pigwidgeon became noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the mist. Harry, Ron, and Hermione set off to find seats, and were soon stowing their luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. They then hopped back down onto the platform to say good-bye to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie. 
 
“I might be seeing you all sooner than you think,” said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny good-bye. 
 
“Why?” said Fred keenly. 
 
“You’ll see,” said Charlie. “Just don’t tell Percy I mentioned it… it’s ‘classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,’ after all.” 
 
“Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year,” said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train. 
 
“Why?” said George impatiently. 
 
“You’re going to have an interesting year,” said Bill, his eyes twinkling. “I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it.” 
“A bit of what?” said Ron. 
 
But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. Weasley chivvied them toward the train doors. 
 
“Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley,” said Hermione as they climbed on board, closed the door, and leaned out of the window to talk to her. 
 
“Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry. 
 
“Oh it was my pleasure, dears,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I’d invite you for Christmas, but… well, I expect you’re all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with… one thing and another.” 
 
“Mum!” said Ron irritably. “What d’you three know that we don’t?” 
 
“You’ll find out this evening, I expect,” said Mrs. Weasley, smiling. “It’s going to be very exciting - mind you, I’m very glad they’ve changed the rules -” 
 
“What rules?” said Harry, Ron, Fred, and George together. 
 
“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you… Now, behave, won’t you? Won’t you, Fred? And you, George?” 
 
The pistons hissed loudly and the train began to move. 
 
“Tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts!” Fred bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie sped away from them. “What rules are they changing?” 
 
But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had Disapparated. 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went back to their compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows made it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undid his trunk, pulled out his maroon dress robes, and flung them over Pigwidgeon’s cage to muffle his hooting. 
 
“Bagman wanted to tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts,” he said grumpily, sitting down next to Harry. “At the World Cup, remember? But my own mother won’t say. Wonder what —” 
 
“Shh!” Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. Harry and Ron listened, and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door. 
 
“… Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore - the man’s such a Mudblood-lover - and Durmstrang doesn’t admit that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn’t like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense 
rubbish we do…” 
 
Hermione got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy’s voice. 
 
“So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?” she said angrily. “I wish he had gone, then we wouldn’t have to put up with him.” 
 
“Durmstrang’s another wizarding school?” said Harry. 
 
“Yes,” said Hermione sniffily, “and it’s got a horrible reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts.” 
 
“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Ron vaguely. “Where is it? What country?” 
 
“Well, nobody knows, do they?” said Hermione, raising her eyebrows. 
 
“Er - why not?” said Harry. 
 
“There’s traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal their secrets,” said Hermione matter-of-factly. 
 
“Come off it,” said Ron, starting to laugh. “Durmstrang’s got to be about the same size as Hogwarts — how are you going to hide a great big castle?”  
 
“But Hogwarts is hidden,” said Hermione, in surprise. “Everyone knows that… well, everyone who’s read Hogwarts, A History, anyway.” 
 
“Just you, then,” said Ron. “So go on - how d’you hide a place like Hogwarts?” 
 
“It’s bewitched,” said Hermione. “If a Muggle looks at it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE.” 
 
“So Durmstrang’ll just look like a ruin to an outsider too?” 
 
“Maybe,” said Hermione, shrugging, “or it might have Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup stadium. And to keep foreign wizards from finding it, they’ll have made it Unplottable -” 
 
“Come again?” 
 
“Well, you can enchant a building so it’s impossible to plot on a map, can’t you?” 
 
“Er… if you say so,” said Harry. 
 
“But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “Somewhere very cold, because they’ve got fur capes as part of their uniforms.” 
 
“Ah, think of the possibilities,” said Ron dreamily. “It would’ve been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and make it look like an accident… Shame his mother likes him…” 
 
The rain became heavier and heavier as the train moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for them to share. 
Several of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, extremely forgetful boy who had been brought up by his formidable witch of a grandmother. Seamus was still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic seemed to be wearing off now; it was still squeaking “Troy - Mullet - Moran!” but in a very feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk, buried herself once more in The 
Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and started trying to learn a Summoning Charm. 
Neville listened jealously to the others’ conversation as they relived the Cup match. 
 
“Gran didn’t want to go,” he said miserably. “Wouldn’t buy tickets. It sounded amazing though.” 
 
“It was,” said Ron. “Look at this, Neville…  
 
He rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack and pulled out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. 
 
“Oh wow,” said Neville enviously as Ron tipped Krum onto his pudgy hand. 
 
“We saw him right up close, as well,” said Ron. “We were in the Top Box -” 
 
“For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.” 
 
Draco Malfoy had appeared in the doorway. Behind him stood Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appeared to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently they had overheard the conversation through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus had left ajar. 
 
“Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,” said Harry coolly. 
 
“Weasley… what is that?” said Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon’s cage. A sleeve of Ron’s dress robes was dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, the moldy lace cuff very obvious. 
 
Ron made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy was too quick for him; he seized the sleeve and pulled. 
 
“Look at this!” said Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up Ron’s robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, “Weasley, you weren’t thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean - they were very fashionable in about eighteen ninety…  
 
“Eat dung, Malfoy!” said Ron, the same color as the dress robes as he snatched them back out of Malfoy’s grip. Malfoy howled with derisive laughter; Crabbe and Goyle guffawed stupidly. 
 
“So… going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money involved as well, you know… you’d be able to afford some decent robes if you won…” 
 
“What are you talking about?” snapped Ron. 
 
“Are you going to enter?” Malfoy repeated. “I suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?” 
 
“Either explain what you’re on about or go away, Malfoy,” said Hermione testily, over the top of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4. 
 
A gleeful smile spread across Malfoy’s pale face 
 
“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he said delightedly. “You’ve got a father and brother at the Ministry and you don’t even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago… heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry… Maybe your father’s too junior to know about it, Weasley… yes… they probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of him…” 
 
Laughing once more, Malfoy beckoned to Crabbe and Goyle, and the three of them disappeared. 
Ron got to his feet and slammed the sliding compartment door so hard behind them that the glass shattered. 
  
“Ron!” said Hermione reproachfully, and she pulled out her wand, muttered “Reparo!” and the glass shards flew back into a single pane and back into the door. 
 
“Well… making it look like he knows everything and we don’t…” Ron snarled. “‘Father’s always associated with the top peopie at the Ministry’… Dad could’ve got a promotion any time… he just likes it where he is…” 
 
“Of course he does,” said Hermione quietly. “Don’t let Malfoy get to you, Ron -” 
 
“Him! Get to me!? As if!” said Ron, picking up one of the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into a pulp. 
 
Ron’s bad mood continued for the rest of the journey. He didn’t talk much as they changed into their school robes, and was still glowering when the Hogwarts Express slowed down at last and finally stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station. 
 
As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up Crookshanks in her cloak and Ron left his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as they left the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads. 
 
“Hi, Hagrid!” Harry yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform. 
 
“All righ’, Harry?” Hagrid bellowed back, waving. “See yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!” 
 
First years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid. 
 
“Oooh, I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this weather,” said Hermione fervently, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville climbed gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward 
Hogwarts Castle. 
 
Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Harry could see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who had 
occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up only when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble staircase. 
 
“Blimey,” said Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, “if that keeps up the lake’s going to overflow. I’m soak - ARRGH!” 
 
A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ron’s head and exploded. Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggered sideways into Harry, just as a second water bomb dropped - narrowly missing Hermione, it burst at Harry’s feet, sending a wave of cold water over his sneakers into his socks. People all around them shrieked and started pushing one another in their efforts to get out of the line of fire. Harry looked up and saw, floating twenty feet above them, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim again. 
 
“PEEVES!” yelled an angry voice. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!” Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling. 
 
“Ouch - sorry, Miss Granger -” 
 
“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasped, massaging her throat. 
 
“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her square-rimmed spectacles. 
 
“Not doing nothing!” cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall. “Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!” And he aimed another bomb at a group of second years who had just arrived. 
 
“I shall call the headmaster!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “I’m warning you, Peeves -” 
 
Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely. 
 
“Well, move along, then!” said Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. “Into the Great Hall, come on!” 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione slipped and slid across the entrance hall and through the double doors on the right, Ron muttering furiously under his breath as he pushed his sopping hair off his face. 
 
The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer in here. Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking extra-festive, and insuring that his head didn’t wobble too much on his partially severed neck. 
 
“Good evening,” he said, beaming at them. 
 
“Says who?” said Harry, taking off his sneakers and emptying them of water. “Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I’m starving.” 
 
The Sorting of the new students into Houses took place at the start of every school year, but by an unlucky combination of circumstances, Harry hadn’t been present at one since his own. He was quite looking forward to it. Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice called down the table. 
 
“Hiya, Harry!” 
 
It was Colin Creevey, a third year to whom Harry was something of a hero. 
 
“Hi, Colin,” said Harry warily. 
 
“Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother’s starting! My brother Dennis!” 
 
“Er - good,” said Harry. 
 
“He’s really excited!” said Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. “I just hope he’s in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?” 
 
“Er - yeah, all right,” said Harry. He turned back to Hermione, Ron, and Nearly Headless Nick.  
 
“Brothers and sisters usually go in the same Houses, don’t they?” he said. He was judging by the Weasleys, all seven of whom had been put into Gryffindor. 
 
“Oh no, not necessarily,” said Hermione. “Parvati Patil’s twin’s in Ravenclaw, and they’re identical. You’d think they’d be together, wouldn’t you?” 
Harry looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of course, was still fighting his way across the lake with the first years; Professor McGonagall was presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but there was another empty chair too, and Harry couldn’t think who else was missing. 
 
“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Hermione, who was also looking up at the teachers. 
 
They had never yet had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. Harry’s favorite by far had been Professor Lupin, who had resigned last year. He looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there. 
 
“Maybe they couldn’t get anyone!” said Hermione, looking anxious. 
 
Harry scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway gray hair. She was talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor Sinistra’s other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape - Harry’s least favorite person at Hogwarts. Harry’s loathing of Snape was matched only by Snape’s hatred of him, a hatred which had, if possible, intensified last year, when Harry had helped Sirius escape right under Snape’s overlarge nose – Snape and Sirius had been enemies since their own school days.  
 
On Snape’s other side was an empty seat, which Harry guessed was Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sat Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore’s long, thin fingers were together and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought. Harry glanced up at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the sky outside, and he had never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashed across it. 
 
“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, beside Harry, “I could eat a hippogriff.” 
 
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Ron, and Hermione were wet, it was nothing to how these first years looked. They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school - all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was wrapped in what Harry recognized as Hagrid’s moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it hooked as though he were draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face protruded from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he had lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught Colin Creevey’s eye, gave a double thumbs-up, and mouthed, ‘I fell in the lake!’ He looked positively delighted about it. 
Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty patched wizard’s hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song: 
 
A thousand years or more ago, 
When I was newly sewn, 
There lived four wizards of renown, 
Whose names are still well known: 
Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor, 
Fair Ravenclaw, from glen, 
Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad, 
Shrewd Slytherin, from fin. 
They shared a wish, a hope, a dream, 
They hatched a daring plan 
To educate young sorcerers 
Thus Hogwarts School began. 
Now each of these four founders 
Formed their own house, for each 
Did value different virtues 
In the ones they had to teach. 
By Gryffindor, the bravest were 
Prized far beyond the rest; 
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest 
Would always be the best; 
For Hufflepuff, hard workers were 
Most worthy of admission; 
And power-hungry Slytherin 
Loved those of great ambition. 
While still alive they did divide 
Their favorites from the throng, 
Yet how to pick the worthy ones 
When they were dead and gone?
‘Twas Gryffindor who found the way,
He whipped me off his head 
The founders put some brains in me 
So I could choose instead! 
Now slip me snug about your ears, 
I’ve never yet been wrong, 
I’ll have a look inside your mind
And tell where you belong! 
 
The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished. 
 
“That’s not the song it sang when it Sorted us,” said Harry, clapping along with everyone else. 
 
“Sings a different one every year,” said Ron. “It’s got to be a pretty boring life, hasn’t it, being a hat? I suppose it spends all year making up the next one.” 
 
Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll of parchment. 
 
“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool,” she told the first years. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table. 
 
“Ackerley, Stewart!” 
 
A boy walked forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picked up the Sorting Hat, put it on, and sat down on the stool. 
“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat. 
 
Stewart Ackerley took off the hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was applauding him. Harry caught a glimpse of Cho, the Ravenclaw Seeker, cheering Stewart Ackerley as he sat down. For a fleeting second, Harry had a strange desire to join the Ravenclaw table too. 
 
“Baddock, Malcolm!” 
 
“SLYTHERIN!” 
 
The table on the other side of the hall erupted with cheers; Harry could see Malfoy clapping as Baddock joined the Slytherins. Harry wondered whether Baddock knew that Slytherin House had turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other. Fred and George hissed Malcolm Baddock as he sat down. 
 
“Branstone, Eleanor!” 
 
“HUFFLEPUFF!” 
 
“Cauldwell, Owen!” 
 
“HUFFLEPUFF!” 
 
“Creevey, Dennis!” 
 
Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered forward, tripping over Hagrid’s moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into the Hall through a door behind the teachers’ table. About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard, looked slightly alarming – a misleading impression, for Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew Hagrid to possess a very kind nature. He winked at them as he sat down at the end of the staff table and watched Dennis Creevey putting on the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opened wide— - 
 
“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouted. 
 
Hagrid clapped along with the Gryffindors as Dennis Creevey, beaming widely, took off the hat, placed it back on the stool, and hurried over to join his brother.  
 
“Colin, I fell in!” he said shrilly, throwing himself into an empty seat. “It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!” 
 
“Cool!” said Colin, just as excitedly. “It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!” 
 
“Wow!” said Dennis, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster. 
 
“Dennis! Dennis! See that boy down there? The one with the black hair and glasses? See him? Know who he is, Dennis?” 
 
Harry looked away, staring very hard at the Sorting Hat, now Sorting Emma Dobbs. 
 
The Sorting continued; boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passed the L’s. 
 
“Oh hurry up,” Ron moaned, massaging his stomach. 
 
“Now, Ron, the Sorting’s much more important than food,” said Nearly Headless Nick as  
“Madley, Laura!” became a Hufflepuff.  
 
“Course it is, if you’re dead,” snapped Ron. 
 
“I do hope this year’s batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch,” said Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as “McDonald, Natalie!” joined the Gryffindor table. “We don’t want to break our winning streak, do we?” 
 
Gryffindor had won the Inter-House Championship for the last three years in a row. 
 
“Pritchard, Graham!” 
 
“SLYTHERIN!” 
 
“Quirke, Orla!” 
 
“RAVENCLAW!” 
 
And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” (“HUFFLEPUFF!”), the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away. “About time,” said Ron, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate. 
 
Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome. 
 
“I have only two words to say to you,” he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. “Tuck in.” 
 
“Hear, hear!” said Harry and Ron loudly as the empty dishes filled magically before their eyes. 
Nearly Headless Nick watched mournfully as Harry, Ron, and Hermione loaded their own plates. 
 
“Aaah, ‘at’s be’er,” said Ron, with his mouth full of mashed potato.  
 
“You’re lucky there’s a feast at all tonight, you know,” said Nearly Headless Nick. “There was trouble in the kitchens earlier.” 
 
“Why? Wha’ ‘appened?” said Harry, through a sizable chunk of steak. 
 
“Peeves, of course,” said Nearly Headless Nick, shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. “The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast - well, it’s quite out of the question, you know what he’s like, utterly uncivilized, can’t see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost’s council - the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance – but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down.” 
 
The Bloody Baron was the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt and silent specter covered in silver bloodstains. He was the only person at Hogwarts who could really control Peeves. 
 
“Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something,” said Ron darkly. 
 
“So what did he do in the kitchens?” 
 
“Oh the usual,” said Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. “Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits—” 
 
Clang. 
 
Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione paid no attention. 
 
“There are house-elves here?” she said, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at Hogwarts?” 
 
“Certainly,” said Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. “The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”  
 
“I’ve never seen one!” said Hermione. 
 
“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?” said Nearly Headless Nick. “They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning… see to the fires and so on… I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that you don’t know it’s there?” 
 
Hermione stared at him. 
 
“But they get paid?” she said. “They get holidays, don’t they? And - and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?” 
 
Nearly Headless Nick chortled so much that his ruff slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck. 
“Sick leave and pensions?” he said, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. “House-elves don’t want sick leave and pensions!” 
 
Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her. 
 
“Oh c’mon, ‘Er-my-knee,” said Ron, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. “Oops — sorry, ‘Arry —” He swallowed. “You won’t get them sick leave by starving yourself!” 
 
“Slave labor,” said Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labor.” 
 
And she refused to eat another bite. 
 
The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings. 
 
“Treacle tart, Hermione!” said Ron, deliberately wafting its smell toward her. “Spotted dick, look! Chocolate gateau!” 
 
But Hermione gave him a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that he gave up. 
 
When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard. 
 
“So!” said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. “Now that we are all fed and watered,” (“Hmph!” said Hermione) “I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.  
 
“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it.”  
 
The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched. He continued, “As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. 
 
“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.” 
 
“What?” Harry gasped. He looked around at Fred and George, his fellow members of the Quidditch team. They were mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbhedore went on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -” 
 
But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open. 
 
A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers’ table. 
 
A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped.  
 
The lightning had thrown the man’s face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike any Harry had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man’s eyes that made him frightening.  
 
One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye - and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man’s head, so that all they could see was whiteness.  
 
The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbhedore shook it, muttering words Harry couldn’t hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.   
The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students. 
 
“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.” 
 
It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students chapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him. 
 
“Moody?” Harry muttered to Ron. “Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?” 
 
“Must be,” said Ron in a low, awed voice. 
 
“What happened to him?” Hermione whispered. “What happened to his face?” 
 
“Dunno,” Ron whispered back, watching Moody with fascination. 
 
Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground, and Harry saw, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot. 
 
Dumbledore cleared his throat. 
 
“As I was saying,” he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.” 
 
“You’re JOKING!” said Fred Weasley loudly. 
 
The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively. 
 
“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” he said, “though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar.” 
 
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly. 
 
“Er - but maybe this is not the time… no…” said Dumbledore, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament… well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely. 
 
“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities - until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.” 
 
“Death toll?” Hermione whispered, looking alarmed. But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry himself was far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago. 
 
“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger. 
 
“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.” 
 
“I’m going for it!” Fred Weasley hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, Harry could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once more. 
 
“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he said, “the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age - that is to say, seventeen years or older - will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This” — Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins were suddenly looking furious - “is a measure we feel is  necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion.” His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over Fred’s and George’s mutinous faces. “I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen. 
 
“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!” 
 
Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall. 
 
“They can’t do that!” said George Weasley, who had not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but was standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”  
 
“They’re not stopping me entering,” said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. “The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!” 
 
“Yeah,” said Ron, a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, a thousand Galleons…” 
 
“Come on,” said Hermione, “we’ll be the only ones left here if you don’t move.”  
 
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who were under seventeen from entering the tournament. 
 
“Who’s this impartial judge who’s going to decide who the champions are?” said Harry. 
 
“Dunno,” said Fred, “but it’s them we’ll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, George…” 
 
“Dumbledore knows you’re not of age, though,” said Ron. 
 
“Yeah, but he’s not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?” said Fred shrewdly. “Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he’ll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore’s trying to stop us giving our names.” 
 
“People have died, though!” said Hermione in a worried voice as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase. 
 
“Yeah,” said Fred airily, “but that was years ago, wasn’t it? Anyway, where’s the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get ‘round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?” 
 
“What d’you reckon?” Ron asked Harry. “Be cool to enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want someone older… Dunno if we’ve learned enough…” 
 
“I definitely haven’t,” came Neville’s gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. “I expect my gran’d want me to try, though. She’s always going on about how I should be upholding the family honor. I’ll just have to — oops…” 
 
Neville’s foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it was second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville’s memory was notoriously poor. Harry and Ron seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily. 
 
“Shut it, you,” said Ron, banging down its visor as they passed. They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which was concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress. 
 
“Password?” she said as they approached. 
 
“Balderdash,” said George, “a prefect downstairs told me.” 
 
The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Harry distinctly heard her mutter “Slave labor” before bidding them good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls’ dormitory. 
 
Harry, Ron, and Neville climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they reached their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot. Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed; Seamus had pinned his Ireland rosette to his headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of Viktor Krum over his bedside table. His old poster of the West Ham football team was pinned right next to it. 
 
“Mental,” Ron sighed, shaking his head at the completely stationary soccer players. 
 
Harry, Ron, and Neville got into their pajamas and into bed. Someone - a house-elf, no doubt - had placed warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and listening to the storm raging outside. 
 
“I might go in for it, you know,” Ron said sleepily through the darkness, “if Fred and George find out how to… the tournament… you never know, do you?” 
 
“S’pose not…” 
 
Harry rolled over in bed, a series of dazzling new pictures forming in his mind’s eye… He had hoodwinked the impartial judge into believing he was seventeen… he had become Hogwarts  champion… he was standing on the grounds, his arms raised in triumph in front of the whole school, all of whom were applauding and screaming… he had just won the Triwizard Tournament. Cho’s face stood out particularly clearly in the blurred crowd, her face glowing with admiration… Harry grinned into his pillow, exceptionally glad that Ron couldn’t see what he could. 
 
The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirled overhead as Harry, Ron, and Hermione examined their new course schedules at breakfast. A few seats along, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were discussing magical methods of aging themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament. 
 
“Today’s not bad… outside all morning,” said Ron, who was running his finger down the Monday column of his schedule. “Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures… damn it, we’re still with the Slytherins…” 
 
“Double Divination this afternoon,” Harry groaned, looking down. Divination was his least favorite subject, apart from Potions. Professor Trelawney kept predicting Harry’s death, which he found extremely annoying. 
 
“You should have given it up like me, shouldn’t you?” said Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. “Then you’d be doing something sensible like Arithmancy.” 
 
“You’re eating again, I notice,” said Ron, watching Hermione adding liberal amounts of jam to her toast too. 
 
“I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights,” said Hermione haughtily. 
 
“Yeah… and you were hungry,” said Ron, grinning. 
 
There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, Harry looked up, but there was no sign of white among the mass of brown and gray. The owls circled the tables, looking for the people to whom their letters and packages were addressed. A large tawny owl soared down to Neville Longbottom and deposited a parcel into his lap - Neville almost alway forgot to pack something. On the other side of the Hall Draco Malfoy’s eagle owl had landed on his shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment in his stomach, Harry returned to his porridge. Was it possible that something had happened to Hedwig, and that Sirius hadn’t even got his letter? 
 
His preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable patch until they arrived in greenhouse three, but here he was distracted by Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants Harry had ever seen. Indeed, they looked less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each was squirming slightly and had a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appeared to be full of liquid. 
 
“Bubotubers,” Professor Sprout told them briskly. “They need squeezing. You will collect the pus -” 
 
“The what?” said Seamus Finnigan, sounding revolted.  
 
“Pus, Finnigan, pus,” said Professor Sprout, “and it’s extremely valuable, so don’t waste it. You will collect the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, bubotuber pus.” Squeezing the bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large amount of thick yellowish-green liquid burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol. They caught it in the bottles as Professor Sprout had 
indicated, and by the end of the lesson had collected several pints. “This’ll keep Madam Pomfrey happy,” said Professor Sprout, stoppering the last bottle with a cork. “An excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne, bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples.” 
 
“Like poor Eloise Midgen,” said Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff, in a hushed voice. “She tried to curse hers off.” 
 
“Silly girl,” said Professor Sprout, shaking her head. “But Madam Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the end.” 
 
A booming bell echoed from the castle across the wet grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the class separated; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and the Gryffindors heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid’s small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. 
 
Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There were several open wooden crates on the ground at his feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents more closely. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling noise reached their ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions. 
 
“Mornin’!” Hagrid said, grinning at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Be’er wait fer the Slytherins, they won’ want ter miss this - Blast-Ended Skrewts!” 
 
“Come again?” said Ron. 
 
Hagrid pointed down into the crates. 
 
“Eurgh!” squealed Lavender Brown, jumping backward. “Eurgh” just about summed up the Blast-Ended Skrewts in Harry’s opinion. They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling over one  aother, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small phut, it would be propelled forward several inches. 
“On’y jus’ hatched,” said Hagrid proudly, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ‘em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!” 
 
“And why would we want to raise them?” said a cold voice. 
 
The Slytherins had arrived. The speaker was Draco Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle were chuckling appreciatively at his words. 
 
Hagrid looked stumped at the question. 
 
“I mean, what do they do?” asked Malfoy. “What is the point of them?” 
 
Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard; there was a few seconds’ pause, then he said roughly, “Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ‘em today. Now, yeh’ll wan’ ter try ‘em on a few diff’rent things - I’ve never had ‘em before, not sure what they’ll go fer - I got ant eggs an’ frog livers an’ a bit o’ grass snake - just try ‘em out with a bit of each.” 
 
“First pus and now this,” muttered Seamus. 
 
Nothing but deep affection for Hagrid could have made Harry, Ron, and Hermione pick up squelchy handfuls of frog liver and lower them into the crates to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts. Harry couldn’t suppress the suspicion that the whole thing was entirely pointless, because the skrewts didn’t seem to have mouths. 
 
“Ouch!” yelled Dean Thomas after about ten minutes. “It got me.” 
 
Hagrid hurried over to him, looking anxious. 
 
“Its end exploded!” said Dean angrily, showing Hagrid a burn on his hand. 
 
“Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,” said Hagrid, nodding. 
 
“Eurgh!” said Lavender Brown again. “Eurgh, Hagrid, what’s that pointy thing on it?” 
 
“Ah, some of ‘em have got stings,” said Hagrid enthusiastically (Lavender quickly withdrew her hand from the box). “I reckon they’re the males… The females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies… I think they might be ter suck blood.” 
 
“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive,” said Malfoy sarcastically. “Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?” 
 
“Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean they’re not useful,” Hermione snapped. “Dragon blood’s amazingly magical, but you wouldn’t want a dragon for a pet, would you?” 
 
Harry and Ron grinned at Hagrid, who gave them a furtive smile from behind his bushy beard. Hagrid would have liked nothing better than a pet dragon, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew only too well - he had owned one for a brief period during their first year, a vicious Norwegian Ridgeback by the name of Norbert. Hagrid simply loved monstrous creatures, the more lethal, the better. 
 
“Well, at least the skrewts are small,” said Ron as they made their way back up to the castle for lunch an hour later. 
 
“They are now,” said Hermione in an exasperated voice, “but once Hagrid’s found out what they eat, I expect they’ll be six feet long.” 
 
“Well, that won’t matter if they turn out to cure seasickness or something, will it?” said Ron, grinning slyly at her. 
 
“You know perfectly well I only said that to shut Malfoy up,” said Hermione. “As a matter of fact I think he’s right. The best thing to do would be to stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking us all.” 
 
They sat down at the Gryffindor table and helped themselves to lamb chops and potatoes. Hermione began to eat so fast that Harry and Ron stared at her.  
 
“Er - is this the new stand on elf rights?” said Ron. “You’re going to make yourself puke instead?” 
 
“No,” said Hermione, with as much dignity as she could muster with her mouth bulging with sprouts. “I just want to get to the library.” 
 
“What?” said Ron in disbelief. “Hermione - it’s the first day back! We haven’t even got homework yet!” 
 
Hermione shrugged and continued to shovel down her food as though she had not eaten for days. Then she leapt to her feet, said, “See you at dinner!” and departed at high speed. 
 
When the bell rang to signal the start of afternoon lessons, Harry and Ron set off for North Tower where, at the top of a tightly spiraling staircase, a silver stepladder led to a circular trapdoor in the ceiling, and the room where Professor Trelawney lived. 
 
The familiar sweet perfume spreading from the fire met their nostrils as they emerged at the top of the stepladder. As ever, the curtains were all closed; the circular room was bathed in a dim reddish light cast by the many lamps, which were all draped with scarves and shawls. Harry and Ron walked through the mass of occupied chintz chairs and poufs that cluttered the room, and sat down at the same small circular table. 
 
“Good day,” said the misty voice of Professor Trelawney right behind Harry, making him jump. 
 
A very thin woman with enormous glasses that made her eyes appear far too large for her face, Professor Trelawney was peering down at Harry with the tragic expression she always wore whenever she saw him. The usual large amount of beads, chains, and bangles glittered upon her person in the firelight. 
 
“You are preoccupied, my dear,” she said mournfully to Harry. “My inner eye sees past your brave face to the troubled soul within. And I regret to say that your worries are not baseless. I see difficult times ahead for you, alas… most difficult… I fear the thing you dread will indeed come to pass… and perhaps sooner than you think…” 
 
Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. Ron rolled his eyes at Harry, who looked stonily back. Professor Trelawney swept past them and seated herself in a large winged armchair before the fire, facing the class. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who deeply admired Professor Trelawney, were sitting on poufs very close to her. 
 
“My dears, it is time for us to consider the stars,” she said. “The movements of the planets and the mysterious portents they reveal only to those who understand the steps of the celestial dance. Human destiny may be deciphered by the planetary rays, which intermingle…” 
 
But Harry’s thoughts had drifted. The perfumed fire always made him feel sleepy and dull-witted, and Professor Trelawney’s rambling talks on fortune-telling never held him exactly spellbound - though he couldn’t help thinking about what she had just said to him. ‘I fear the thing you dread will indeed come to pass… ’ 
 
But Hermione was right, Harry thought irritably, Professor Trelawney really was an old fraud. He wasn’t dreading anything at the moment at all… well, unless you counted his fears that Sirius had been caught… but what did Professor Trelawney know? He had long since come to the conclusion that her brand of fortunetelling was really no more than lucky guesswork and a spooky manner. 
 
Except, of course, for that time at the end of last term, when she had made the prediction about Voldemort rising again… and Dumbledore himself had said that he thought that trance had been genuine, when Harry had described it to him.  
 
“Harry!” Ron muttered. 
 
“What?” 
 
Harry looked around; the whole class was staring at him. He sat up straight; he had been almost dozing off, lost in the heat and his thoughts. 
 
“I was saying, my dear, that you were clearly born under the baleful influence of Saturn,” said Professor Trelawney, a faint note of resentment in her voice at the fact that he had obviously not been hanging on her words. 
 
“Born under - what, sorry?” said Harry. 
 
“Saturn, dear, the planet Saturn!” said Professor Trelawney, sounding definitely irritated that he wasn’t riveted by this news. “I was saying that Saturn was surely in a position of power in the heavens at the moment of your birth… Your dark hair… your mean stature… tragic losses so  young in life… I think I am right in saying, my dear, that you were born in midwinter?” 
 
“No,” said Harry, “I was born in July.” 
 
Ron hastily turned his laugh into a hacking cough. 
 
Half an hour later, each of them had been given a complicated circular chart, and was attempting to fill in the position of the planets at their moment of birth. It was dull work, requiring much consultation of timetables and calculation of angles. 
 
“I’ve got two Neptunes here,” said Harry after a while, frowning down at his piece of parchment, “that can’t be right, can it?” 
 
“Aaaaah,” said Ron, imitating Professor Trelawney’s mystical whisper, “when two Neptunes appear in the sky, it is a sure sign that a midget in glasses is being born, Harry…” 
 
Seamus and Dean, who were working nearby, sniggered loudly, though not loudly enough to mask the excited squeals from Lavender Brown - “Oh Professor, look! I think I’ve got an unaspected planet! Oooh, which one’s that, Professor?”  
 
“It is Uranus, my dear,” said Professor Trelawney, peering down at the chart. 
 
“Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender?” said Ron. 
 
Most unfortunately, Professor Trelawney heard him, and it was this, perhaps, that made her give them so much homework at the end of the class. 
 
“A detailed analysis of the way the planetary movements in the coming month will affect you, with reference to your personal chart,” she snapped, sounding much more like Professor McGonagall than her usual airy-fairy self. “I want it ready to hand in next Monday, and no excuses!” 
 
“Miserable old bat,” said Ron bitterly as they joined the crowds descending the staircases back to the Great Hall and dinner. “That’ll take all weekend, that will…” 
 
“Lots of homework?” said Hermione brightly, catching up with them. “Professor Vector didn’t give us any at all!” 
 
“Well, bully for Professor Vector,” said Ron moodily. 
 
They reached the entrance hall, which was packed with people queuing for dinner. They had just joined the end of the line, when a loud voice rang out behind them. 
 
“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!” 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing there, each looking thoroughly pleased about something. 
 
“What?” said Ron shortly. 
 
“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” said Malfoy, brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet and speaking very loudly, so that everyone in the packed entrance hall could hear. “Listen to this!” 
 
FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC 
 
It seems as though the Ministry of Magic’s troubles are not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of 
Muggle Artifacts Office.” 
 
Malfoy looked up. 
 
“Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley. It’s almost as though he’s a complete nonentity, isn’t it?” he crowed. 
 
Everyone in the entrance hall was listening now. Malfoy straightened the paper with a flourish and read on: 
 
Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of “Mad-Eye” Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr. Moody’s heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene. 
 
“And there’s a picture, Weasley!” said Malfoy, flipping the paper over and holding it up. “A picture of your parents outside their house - if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?” 
 
Ron was shaking with fury. Everyone was staring at him. 
 
“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” said Harry. “C’mon, Ron…” 
 
“Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?” 
“You know your mother, Malfoy?” said Harry - both he and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy - “that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?” 
 
Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink. 
 
“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.” 
 
“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” said Harry, turning away. 
 
BANG! 
 
Several people screamed - Harry felt something white-hot graze the side of his face - he plunged his hand into his robes for his wand, but before he’d even touched it, he heard a second loud BANG, and a roar that echoed through the entrance hall. 
 
“OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!” 
 
Harry spun around. Professor Moody was limping down the marble staircase. His wand was out and it was pointing right at a pure white ferret, which was shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where Malfoy had been standing. There was a terrified silence in the entrance hall. Nobody but Moody was moving a muscle. Moody turned to look at Harry — at least, his normal eye was looking at Harry; the other one was pointing into the back of his head. 
 
“Did he get you?” Moody growled. His voice was low and gravelly. 
 
“No,” said Harry, “missed.” 
 
“LEAVE IT!” Moody shouted. 
 
“Leave - what?” Harry said, bewildered. 
 
“Not you - him!” Moody growled, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Crabbe, who had just frozen, about to pick up the white ferret. It seemed that Moody’s rolling eye was magical and could see out of the back of his head. 
 
Moody started to limp toward Crabbe, Goyle, and the ferret, which gave a terrified squeak and took off, streaking toward the dungeons. 
 
“I don’t think so!” roared Moody, pointing his wand at the ferret again - it flew ten feet into the air, fell with a smack to the floor, and then bounced upward once more. 
 
“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” growled Moody as the ferret bounced higher and higher, squealing in pain. “Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do…” 
The ferret flew through the air, its legs and tail flailing helplessly. “Never - do - that - again -” said Moody, speaking each word as the ferret hit the stone floor and bounced upward again. 
 
“Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice. 
 
Professor McGonagall was coming down the marble staircase with her arms full of books. 
 
“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” said Moody calmly, bouncing the ferret still higher. 
 
“What - what are you doing?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s progress through the air. 
 
“Teaching,” said Moody. 
 
“Teach - Moody, is that a student?” shrieked Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her arms. 
 
“Yep,” said Moody. 
 
“No!” cried Professor McGonagall, running down the stairs and pulling out her wand; a moment later, with a loud snapping noise, Draco Malfoy had reappeared, lying in a heap on the floor with his sleek blond hair all over his now brilliantly pink face. He got to his feet, wincing. 
 
“Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!” said Professor McGonagall wealdy. “Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?” 
 
“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” said Moody, scratching his chin unconcernedly, “but I thought a good sharp shock -” 
  
“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!”  
 
“I’ll do that, then,” said Moody, staring at Malfoy with great dislike. 
 
Malfoy, whose pale eyes were still watering with pain and humiliation, looked malevolently up at Moody and muttered something in which the words “my father” were distinguishable. 
 
“Oh yeah?” said Moody quietly, limping forward a few steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around the hall. “Well, I know your father of old, boy… You tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son… you tell him that from me… Now, your Head of House’ll be Snape, will it?” 
 
“Yes,” said Malfoy resentfully. 
 
“Another old friend,” growled Moody. “I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape… Come on, you…” 
 
And he seized Malfoy’s upper arm and marched him off toward the dungeons. 
 
Professor McGonagall stared anxiously after them for a few moments, then waved her wand at her fallen books, causing them to soar up into the air and back into her arms. 
 
“Don’t talk to me,” Ron said quietly to Harry and Hermione as they sat down at the Gryffindor table a few minutes later, surrounded by excited talk on all sides about what had just happened. 
 
“Why not?” said Hermione in surprise. 
 
“Because I want to fix that in my memory forever,” said Ron, his eyes closed and an uplifted expression on his face. “Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret.” 
 
Harry and Hermione both laughed, and Hermione began doling beef casserole onto each of their plates. 
 
“He could have really hurt Malfoy, though,” she said. “It was good, really, that Professor McGonagall stopped it -” 
 
“Hermione!” said Ron furiously, his eyes snapping open again, “you’re ruining the best moment of my life!” 
 
Hermione made an impatient noise and began to eat at top speed again.  
 
“Don’t tell me you’re going back to the library this evening?” said Harry, watching her. 
 
“Got to,” said Hermione thickly. “Loads to do.” 
 
“But you told us Professor Vector -” 
 
“It’s not schoolwork,” she said. Within five minutes, she had cleared her plate and departed. No sooner had she gone than her seat was taken by Fred Weasley.  
 
“Moody!” he said. “How cool is he?” 
 
“Beyond cool,” said George, sitting down opposite Fred. “Supercool,” said the twins’ best friend, Lee Jordan, sliding into the seat beside George. “We had him this afternoon,” he told Harry and Ron. 
 
“What was it like?” said Harry eagerly. 
 
Fred, George, and Lee exchanged looks full of meaning. 
 
“Never had a lesson like it,” said Fred. 
 
“He knows, man,” said Lee. 
“Knows what?” said Ron, leaning forward. 
 
“Knows what it’s like to be out there doing it,” said George impressively. 
 
“Doing what?” said Harry. 
 
“Fighting the Dark Arts,” said Fred. 
 
“He’s seen it all,” said George. 
 
“Mazing,” said Lee. 
 
Ron dived into his bag for his schedule. 
 
“We haven’t got him till Thursday!” he said in a disappointed voice. 
 
The next two days passed without great incident, unless you counted Neville melting his sixth cauldron in Potions. Professor Snape, who seemed to have attained new levels of vindictiveness over the summer, gave Neville detention, and Neville returned from it in a state of nervous collapse, having been made to disembowel a barrel full of horned toads. 
 
“You know why Snape’s in such a foul mood, don’t you?” said Ron to Harry as they watched Hermione teaching Neville a Scouring Charm to remove the frog guts from under his fingernails. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Moody.” 
 
It was common knowledge that Snape really wanted the Dark Arts job, and he had now failed to get it for the fourth year running. Snape had disliked all of their previous Dark Arts teachers, and shown it - but he seemed strangely wary of displaying overt animosity to Mad-Eye Moody. Indeed, whenever Harry saw the two of them together - at mealtimes, or when they passed in the corridors - he had the distinct impression that Snape was avoiding Moody’s eye, whether magical or normal. 
 
“I reckon Snape’s a bit scared of him, you know,” Harry said thoughtfully. 
 
“Imagine if Moody turned Snape into a horned toad,” said Ron, his eyes misting over, “and bounced him all around his dungeon…” 
 
The Gryffindor fourth years were looking forward to Moody’s first lesson so much that they arrived early on Thursday lunchtime and queued up outside his classroom before the bell had even rung. The only person missing was Hermione, who turned up just in time for the lesson. 
 
“Been in the -” 
 
“Library.” Harry finished her sentence for her. “C’mon, quick, or we won’t get decent seats.” 
 
They hurried into three chairs right in front of the teacher’s desk, took out their copies of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, and waited, unusually quiet. Soon they heard Moody’s distinctive clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he entered the room, looking as strange and frightening as ever. They could just see his clawed, wooden foot protruding from underneath his robes. 
 
“You can put those away,” he growled, stumping over to his desk and sitting down, “those books. You won’t need them.” 
 
They returned the books to their bags, Ron looking excited. 
 
Moody took out a register, shook his long mane of grizzled gray hair out of his twisted and scarred face, and began to call out names, his normal eye moving steadily down the list while his magical eye swiveled around, fixing upon each student as he or she answered. 
 
“Right then,” he said, when the last person had declared themselves present, “I’ve had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you’ve had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures - you’ve covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?”  
 
There was a general murmur of assent. 
 
“But you’re behind - very behind - on dealing with curses,” said Moody. “So I’m here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I’ve got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark -” 
 
“What, aren’t you staying?” Ron blurted out. 
 
Moody’s magical eye spun around to stare at Ron; Ron looked extremely apprehensive, but after a moment Moody smiled - the first time Harry had seen him do so. The effect was to make his heavily scarred face look more twisted and contorted than ever, but it was nevertheless good to know that he ever did anything as friendly as smile. Ron looked deeply relieved. 
 
“You’ll be Arthur Weasley’s son, eh?” Moody said. “Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago… Yeah, I’m staying just the one year. Special favor to Dumbledore… One year, and then back to my quiet retirement.” 
 
He gave a harsh laugh, and then clapped his gnarled hands together.  
 
“So - straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore’s got a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you’re up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you’ve never seen? A wizard who’s about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I’m talking.” 
 
Lavender jumped and blushed. She had been showing Parvati her completed horoscope under the desk. Apparently Moody’s magical eye could see through solid wood, as well as out of the back of his head. 
 
“So… do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?” 
 
Several hands rose tentatively into the air, including Ron’s and Hermione’s. Moody pointed at Ron, though his magical eye was still fixed on Lavender.  
“Er,” said Ron tentatively, “my dad told me about one… Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?” 
 
“Ah, yes,” said Moody appreciatively. “Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse.” 
 
Moody got heavily to his mismatched feet, opened his desk drawer, and took out a glass jar. Three large black spiders were scuttling around inside it. Harry felt Ron recoil slightly next to him - Ron hated spiders. Moody reached into the jar, caught one of the spiders, and held it in the palm of his hand so that they could all see it. He then pointed his wand at it and muttered, “Imperio!” 
 
The spider leapt from Moody’s hand on a fine thread of silk and began to swing backward and forward as though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly, then did a back flip, breaking the thread and landing on the desk, where it began to cartwheel in circles. Moody jerked his wand, and the spider rose onto two of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakably a tap dance. 
Everyone was laughing - everyone except Moody. 
 
“Think it’s funny, do you?” he growled. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?” 
 
The laughter died away almost instantly. 
 
“Total control,” said Moody quietly as the spider balled itself up and began to roll over and over. “I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats…” 
 
Ron gave an involuntary shudder. 
 
“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius Curse,” said Moody, and Harry knew he was talking about the days in which Voldemort had been all-powerful. “Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will.  
 
“The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I’ll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he barked, and everyone jumped. 
 
Moody picked up the somersaulting spider and threw it back into the jar. 
 
“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?” 
 
Hermione’s hand flew into the air again and so, to Harry’s slight surprise, did Neville’s. The only class in which Neville usually volunteered information was Herbology which was easily his best subject. Neville looked surprised at his own daring. 
 
“Yes?” said Moody, his magical eye rolling right over to fix on Neville. 
 
“There’s one - the Cruciatus Curse,” said Neville in a small but distinct voice. 
 
Moody was looking very intently at Neville, this time with both eyes. 
 
“Your name’s Longbottom?” he said, his magical eye swooping down to check the register again. 
 
Neville nodded nervously, but Moody made no further inquiries. Turning back to the class at large, he reached into the jar for the next spider and placed it upon the desktop, where it remained motionless, apparently too scared to move. 
 
“The Cruciatus Curse,” said Moody. “Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea,” he said, pointing his wand at the spider. “Engorgio!” 
 
The spider swelled. It was now larger than a tarantula. Abandoning all pretense, Ron pushed his chair backward, as far away from Moody’s desk as possible. Moody raised his wand again, pointed it at the spider, and muttered, “Crucio!” 
 
At once, the spider’s legs bent in upon its body; it rolled over and began to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side. No sound came from it, but Harry was sure that if it could have given voice, it would have been screaming. Moody did not remove his wand, and the spider started to shudder and jerk more violently - “Stop it!” Hermione said shrilly. 
 
Harry looked around at her. She was looking, not at the spider, but at Neville, and Harry, following her gaze, saw that Neville’s hands were clenched upon the desk in front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes wide and horrified. Moody raised his wand. The spider’s legs relaxed, but it continued to twitch. 
 
“Reducio,” Moody muttered, and the spider shrank back to its proper size. He put it back into the jar. 
 
“Pain,” said Moody softly. “You don’t need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse… That one was very popular once too. 
 
“Right… anyone know any others?” 
 
Harry looked around. From the looks on everyone’s faces, he guessed they were all wondering what was going to happen to the last spider. Hermione’s hand shook slightly as, for the third time, she raised it into the air. 
 
“Yes?” said Moody, looking at her. 
 
“Avada Kedavra,” Hermione whispered. 
 
Several people looked uneasily around at her, including Ron. 
 
“Ah,” said Moody, another slight smile twisting his lopsided mouth. “Yes, the last and worst. Avada Kedavra… the Killing Curse.” 
 
He put his hand into the glass jar, and almost as though it knew what was coming, the third spider scuttled frantically around the bottom of the jar, trying to evade Moody’s fingers, but he trapped it, and placed it upon the desktop. It started to scuttle frantically across the wooden surface. 
 
Moody raised his wand, and Harry felt a sudden thrill of foreboding.  
 
“Avada Kedavra!” Moody roared. 
 
There was a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something was soaring through the air - instantaneously the spider rolled over onto its back, unmarked, but unmistakably dead. Several of the students stifled cries; Ron had thrown himself backward and almost toppled off his seat as the spider skidded toward him. 
 
Moody swept the dead spider off the desk onto the floor. 
 
“Not nice,” he said calmly. “Not pleasant. And there’s no countercurse. There’s no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and he’s sitting right in front of me.” 
 
Harry felt his face redden as Moody’s eyes (both of them) looked into his own. He could feel everyone else looking around at him too. Harry stared at the blank blackboard as though fascinated by it, but not really seeing it at all…  
 
So that was how his parents had died… exactly like that spider. Had they been unblemished and unmarked too? Had they simply seen the flash of green light and heard the rush of speeding death, before life was wiped from their bodies? 
 
Harry had been picturing his parents’ deaths over and over again for three years now, ever since he’d found out they had been murdered, ever since he’d found out what had happened that night: Wormtail had betrayed his parents’ whereabouts to Voldemort, who had come to find them at their cottage. How Voldemort had killed Harry’s father first. How James Potter had tried to hold him off, while he shouted at his wife to take Harry and run… Voldemort had advanced on Lily 
Potter, told her to move aside so that he could kill Harry… how she had begged him to kill her instead, refused to stop shielding her son… and so Voldemort had murdered her too, before turning his wand on Harry. 
 
Harry knew these details because he had heard his parents’ voices when he had fought the dementors last year - for that was the terrible power of the dementors: to force their victims to relive the worst memories of their lives, and drown, powerless, in their own despair. 
 
Moody was speaking again, from a great distance, it seemed to Harry. With a massive effort, he pulled himself back to the present and listened to what Moody was saying. 
 
“Avada Kedavra’s a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it - you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it. 
 
“Now, if there’s no countercurse, why am I showing you? Because you’ve got to know. You’ve got to appreciate what the worst is. You don’t want to find yourself in a situation where you’re facing it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roared, and the whole class jumped again. 
 
“Now… those three curses - Avada Kedavra, Imperius, and Cruciatus - are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get out your quills… copy this down…” 
 
They spent the rest of the lesson taking notes on each of the Unforgivable Curses. No one spoke until the bell rang - but when Moody had dismissed them and they had left the classroom, a torrent of talk burst forth. Most people were discussing the curses in awed voices –  
 
“Did you see it twitch?”  
 
“- and when he killed it – just like that!” 
 
They were talking about the lesson, Harry thought, as though it had been some sort of spectacular show, but he hadn’t found it very entertaining - and nor, it seemed, had Hermione. 
 
“Hurry up,” she said tensely to Harry and Ron. 
 
“Not the ruddy library again?” said Ron. 
 
“No,” said Hermione curtly, pointing up a side passage. “Neville.” Neville was standing alone, halfway up the passage, staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same horrified, wide-eyed look he had worn when Moody had demonstrated the Cruciatus Curse. 
 
“Neville?” Hermione said gently. 
 
Neville looked around. 
 
“Oh hello,” he said, his voice much higher than usual. “Interesting lesson, wasn’t it? I wonder what’s for dinner, I’m - I’m starving, aren’t you?” 
 
“Neville, are you all right?” said Hermione. 
 
“Oh yes, I’m fine,” Neville gabbled in the same unnaturally high voice. “Very interesting dinner - I mean lesson - what’s for eating?” 
 
Ron gave Harry a startled look. 
“Neville, what -?” 
 
But an odd clunking noise sounded behind them, and they turned to see Professor Moody limping toward them. All four of them fell silent, watching him apprehensively, but when he spoke, it was in a much lower and gentler growl than they had yet heard. 
 
“It’s all right, sonny,” he said to Neville. “Why don’t you come up to my office? Come on… we can have a cup of tea…” 
 
Neville looked even more frightened at the prospect of tea with Moody. He neither moved nor spoke. Moody turned his magical eye upon Harry. 
 
“You all right, are you, Potter?” 
 
“Yes,” said Harry, almost defiantly. 
 
Moody’s blue eye quivered slightly in its socket as it surveyed Harry. Then he said, “You’ve got to know. It seems harsh, maybe, but you’ve got to know. No point pretending… well… come on, Longbottom, I’ve got some books that might interest you.” 
 
Neville looked pleadingly at Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but they didn’t say anything, so Neville had no choice but to allow himself to be steered away, one of Moody’s gnarled hands on his shoulder. 
 
“What was that about?” said Ron, watching Neville and Moody turn the corner. 
 
“I don’t know,” said Hermione, looking pensive. 
 
“Some lesson, though, eh?” said Ron to Harry as they set off for the Great Hall. “Fred and George were right, weren’t they? He really knows his stuff, Moody, doesn’t he? When he did Avada Kedavra, the way that spider just died, just snuffed it right -” 
 
But Ron fell suddenly silent at the look on Harry’s face and didn’t speak again until they reached the Great Hall, when he said he supposed they had better make a start on Professor Trelawney’s predictions tonight, since they would take hours. 
 
Hermione did not join in with Harry and Ron’s conversation during dinner, but ate furiously fast, and then left for the library again. Harry and Ron walked back to Gryffindor Tower, and Harry, who had been thinking of nothing else all through dinner, now raised the subject of the Unforgivable Curses himself. 
 
“Wouldn’t Moody and Dumbledore be in trouble with the Ministry if they knew we’d seen the curses?” Harry asked as they approached the Fat Lady. 
 
“Yeah, probably,” said Ron. “But Dumbledore’s always done things his way, hasn’t he, and Moody’s been getting in trouble for years, I reckon. Attacks first and asks questions later - look at his dustbins. Balderdash.” 
 
The Fat Lady swung forward to reveal the entrance hole, and they climbed into the Gryffindor common room, which was crowded and noisy. 
 
“Shall we get our Divination stuff, then?” said Harry. 
 
“I s’pose,” Ron groaned. 
 
They went up to the dormitory to fetch their books and charts, to find Neville there alone, sitting on his bed, reading. He looked a good deal calmer than at the end of Moody’s lesson, though still not entirely normal. His eyes were rather red.  
 
“You all right, Neville?” Harry asked him. 
 
“Oh yes,” said Neville, “I’m fine, thanks. Just reading this book Professor Moody lent me…” 
 
He held up the book: Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. 
 
“Apparently, Professor Sprout told Professor Moody I’m really good at Herbology,” Neville said.  
 
There was a faint note of pride in his voice that Harry had rarely heard there before.  
 
“He thought I’d like this.” 
 
Telling Neville what Professor Sprout had said, Harry thought, had been a very tactful way of cheering Neville up, for Neville very rarely heard that he was good at anything. It was the sort of thing Professor Lupin would have done.  
 
Harry and Ron took their copies of Unfogging the Future back down to the common room, found a table, and set to work on their predictions for the coming month. An hour later, they had made very little progress, though their table was littered with bits of parchment bearing sums and symbols, and Harry’s brain was as fogged as though it had been filled with the fumes from Professor Trelawney’s fire. 
 
“I haven’t got a clue what this lot’s supposed to mean,” he said, staring down at a long list of calculations. 
 
“You know,” said Ron, whose hair was on end because of all the times he had run his fingers through it in frustration, “I think it’s back to the old Divination standby.” 
 
“What - make it up?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Ron, sweeping the jumble of scrawled notes off the table, dipping his pen into some ink, and starting to write. 
 
“Next Monday,” he said as he scribbled, “I am likely to develop a cough, owing to the unlucky conjunction of Mars and Jupiter.” He looked up at Harry. “You know her - just put in loads of misery, she’ll lap it up.” 
 
“Right,” said Harry, crumpling up his first attempt and lobbing it over the heads of a group of chattering first years into the fire. “Okay… on Monday, I will be in danger of- er - burns.” 
 
“Yeah, you will be,” said Ron darkly, “we’re seeing the skrewts again on Monday. Okay, Tuesday, I’ll… erm…” 
 
“Lose a treasured possession,” said Harry, who was flicking through Unfogging the Future for ideas. 
 
“Good one,” said Ron, copying it down. “Because of… erm… Mercury. Why don’t you get stabbed in the back by someone you thought was a friend?” 
 
“Yeah… cool…” said Harry, scribbling it down, “because… Venus is in the twelfth house.” 
 
“And on Wednesday, I think I’ll come off worst in a fight.” 
 
“Aaah, I was going to have a fight. Okay, I’ll lose a bet.” 
 
“Yeah, you’ll be betting I’ll win my fight…”  
 
They continued to make up predictions (which grew steadily more tragic) for another hour, while the common room around them slowly emptied as people went up to bed. Crookshanks wandered over to them, leapt lightly into an empty chair, and stared inscrutably at Harry, rather as Hermione might look if she knew they weren’t doing their homework properly.  
 
Staring around the room, trying to think of a kind of misfortune he hadn’t yet used, Harry saw Fred and George sitting together against the opposite wall, heads together, quills out, poring over a single piece of parchment. It was most unusual to see Fred and George hidden away in a corner and working silently; they usually liked to be in the thick of things and the noisy center of attention. There was something secretive about the way they were working on the piece of parchment, and Harry was reminded of how they had sat together writing something back at the Burrow. He had thought then that it was another order form for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but it didn’t look like that this time; if it had been, they would surely have let Lee Jordan in on the joke. He wondered whether it had anything to do with entering the Triwizard Tournament. 
 
As Harry watched, George shook his head at Fred, scratched out something with his quill, and said, in a very quiet voice that nevertheless carried across the almost deserted room, “No - that sounds like we’re accusing him. Got to be careful…” 
 
Then George looked over and saw Harry watching him. Harry grinned and quickly returned to his predictions - he didn’t want George to think he was eavesdropping. 
 
Shortly after that, the twins rolled up their parchment, said good night, and went off to bed. Fred and George had been gone ten minutes or so when the portrait hole opened and Hermione climbed into the common room carrying a sheaf of parchment in one hand and a box whose contents rattled as she walked in the other. Crookshanks arched his back, purring. 
 
“Hello,” she said, “I’ve just finished!” 
 
“So have I!” said Ron triumphantly, throwing down his quill. 
 
Hermione sat down, laid the things she was carrying in an empty armchair, and pulled Ron’s predictions toward her. 
 
“Not going to have a very good month, are you?” she said sardonically as Crookshanks curled up in her lap. 
 
“Ah well, at least I’m forewarned,” Ron yawned. 
 
“You seem to be drowning twice,” said Hermione. 
 
“Oh am I?” said Ron, peering down at his predictions. “I’d better change one of them to getting trampled by a rampaging hippogriff.” 
 
“Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious you’ve made these up?” said Hermione.  
 
“How dare you!” said Ron, in mock outrage. “We’ve been working like house-elves here!” 
 
Hermione raised her eyebrows. 
 
“It’s just an expression,” said Ron hastily. 
 
Harry laid down his quill too, having just finished predicting his own death by decapitation. 
 
“What’s in the box?” he asked, pointing at it. 
 
“Funny you should ask,” said Hermione, with a nasty look at Ron. She took off the lid and showed them the contents. Inside were about fifty badges, all of different colors, but all bearing the same letters: S. P. E.W. 
 
“Spew?” said Harry, picking up a badge and looking at it. “What’s this about?” 
 
“Not spew,” said Hermione impatiently. “It’s S-P-E-W. Stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.” 
 
“Never heard of it,” said Ron. 
 
“Well, of course you haven’t,” said Hermione briskly, “I’ve only just started it.” 
 
“Yeah?” said Ron in mild surprise. “How many members have you got?” 
 
“Well - if you two join - three,” said Hermione. 
 
“And you think we want to walk around wearing badges saying ‘spew,’ do you?” said Ron. 
 
“S-P-E-W!” said Hermione hotly. “I was going to put Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status - but it wouldn’t fit. So that’s the heading of our manifesto.” 
 
She brandished the sheaf of parchment at them. 
 
“I’ve been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf enslavement goes back centuries. I can’t believe no one’s done anything about it before now.” 
 
“Hermione - open your ears,” said Ron loudly. “They. Like. It. They like being enslaved!” 
 
“Our short-term aims,” said Hermione, speaking even more loudly than Ron, and acting as though she hadn’t heard a word, “are to secure house-elves fair wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims include changing the law about nonwand use, and trying to get an elf into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they’re shockingly underrepresented.” 
 
“And how do we do all this?” Harry asked. 
 
“We start by recruiting members,” said Hermione happily. “I thought two Sickles to join - that buys a badge - and the proceeds can fund our leaflet campaign. You’re treasurer, Ron - I’ve got you a collecting tin upstairs - and Harry, you’re secretary, so you might want to write down everything I’m saying now, as a record of our first meeting.” 
 
There was a pause in which Hermione beamed at the pair of them, and Harry sat, torn between exasperation at Hermione and amusement at the look on Ron’s face. The silence was broken, not by Ron, who in any case looked as though he was temporarily dumbstruck, but by a soft tap, tap on the window. Harry looked across the now empty common room and saw, illuminated by the moonlight, a snowy owl perched on the windowsill. 
 
“Hedwig!” he shouted, and he launched himself out of his chair and across the room to pull open the window. 
 
Hedwig flew inside, soared across the room, and landed on the table on top of Harry’s predictions. 
 
“About time!” said Harry, hurrying after her. 
 
“She’s got an answer!” said Ron excitedly, pointing at the grubby piece of parchment tied to Hedwig’s leg. 
 
Harry hastily untied it and sat down to read, whereupon Hedwig fluttered onto his knee, hooting softly. 
 
“What does it say?” Hermione asked breathlessly. 
 
The letter was very short, and looked as though it had been scrawled in a great hurry. Harry read it aloud: 
 
Harry - 
 
I’m flying north immediately. This news about your scar is the latest in a series of strange rumors that have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to Dumbledore - they’re saying he’s got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he’s reading the signs, even if no one else is. I’ll be in touch soon. My best to Ron and Hermione. Keep your eyes open, Harry. 
 
Sirius 
 
Harry looked up at Ron and Hermione, who stared back at him. 
 
“He’s flying north?” Hermione whispered. “He’s coming back?” 
 
“Dumbledore’s reading what signs?” said Ron, looking perplexed. “Harry - what’s up?” 
 
For Harry had just hit himself in the forehead with his fist, jolting Hedwig out of his lap. 
 
“I shouldn’t’ve told him!” Harry said furiously. 
 
“What are you on about?” said Ron in surprise. 
 
“It’s made him think he’s got to come back!” said Harry, now slamming his fist on the table so that Hedwig landed on the back of Ron’s chair, hooting indignantly. “Coming back, because he thinks I’m in trouble! And there’s nothing wrong with me! And I haven’t got anything for you,” Harry snapped at Hedwig, who was clicking her beak expectantly, “you’ll have to go up to the Owlery if you want food.” 
 
Hedwig gave him an extremely offended look and took off for the open window, cuffing him around the head with her outstretched wing as she went.  
 
“Harry,” Hermione began, in a pacifying sort of voice. 
 
“I’m going to bed,” said Harry shortly. “See you in the morning.” 
Upstairs in the dormitory he pulled on his pajamas and got into his four-poster, but he didn’t feel remotely tired. 
 
If Sirius came back and got caught, it would be his, Harry’s, fault. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? A few seconds’ pain and he’d had to blab… If he’d just had the sense to keep it to himself. 
 
He heard Ron come up into the dormitory a short while later, but did not speak to him. For a long time, Harry lay staring up at the dark canopy of his bed. The dormitory was completely silent, and, had he been less preoccupied, Harry would have realized that the absence of Neville’s usual snores meant that he was not the only one lying awake. 
 
Early next morning, Harry woke with a plan fully formed in his mind, as though his sleeping brain had been working on it all night. He got up, dressed in the pale dawn light, left the dormitory without waking Ron, and went back down to the deserted common room. Here he took a piece of parchment from the table upon which his Divination homework still lay and wrote the following letter: 
 
Dear Sirius, 
 
I reckon I just imagined my scar hurting, I was half asleep when I wrote to you last time. There’s no point coming back, everything’s fine here. Don’t worry about me, my head feels completely normal. 
 
Harry 
 
He then climbed out of the portrait hole, up through the silent castle (held up only briefly by Peeves, who tried to overturn a large vase on him halfway along the fourth-floor corridor), finally arriving at the Owlery, which was situated at the top of West Tower. 
 
The Owlery was a circular stone room, rather cold and drafty, because none of the windows had glass in them. The floor was entirely covered in straw, owl droppings, and the regurgitated skeletons of mice and voles. Hundreds upon hundreds of owls of every breed imaginable were nestled here on perches that rose right up to the top of the tower, nearly all of them asleep, though here and there a round amber eye glared at Harry. He spotted Hedwig nestled between a barn owl and a tawny, and hurried over to her, sliding a little on the dropping-strewn floor.  
 
It took him a while to persuade her to wake up and then to look at him, as she kept shuffling around on her perch, showing him her tail. She was evidently still furious about his lack of gratitude the previous night. In the end, it was Harry suggesting she might be too tired, and that perhaps he would ask Ron to borrow Pigwidgeon, that made her stick out her leg and allow him to tie the letter to it. 
 
“Just find him, all right?” Harry said, stroking her back as he carried her on his arm to one of the holes in the wall. “Before the dementors do.” 
 
She nipped his finger, perhaps rather harder than she would ordinarily have done, but hooted softly in a reassuring sort of way all the same. Then she spread her wings and took off into the sunrise. Harry watched her fly out of sight with the familiar feeling of unease back in his stomach. He had been so sure that Sirius’s reply would alleviate his worries rather than increasing them. 
 
“That was a lie, Harry,” said Hermione sharply over breakfast, when he told her and Ron what he had done. “You didn’t imagine your scar hurting and you know it.” 
 
“So what?” said Harry. “He’s not going back to Azkaban because of me.” 
 
“Drop it,” said Ron sharply to Hermione as she opened her mouth to argue some more, and for once, Hermione heeded him, and fell silent. 
 
Harry did his best not to worry about Sirius over the next couple of weeks. True, he could not stop himself from looking anxiously around every morning when the post owls arrived, nor, late at night before he went to sleep, prevent himself from seeing horrible visions of Sirius, cornered by dementors down some dark London street, but betweentimes he tried to keep his mind off his godfather. He wished he still had Quidditch to distract him; nothing worked so well on a troubled mind as a good, hard training session. On the other hand, their lessons were becoming more difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly Moody’s Defense Against the Dark Arts. 
 
To their surprise, Professor Moody had announced that he would be putting the Imperius Curse on each of them in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see whether they could resist its effects. 
 
“But - but you said it’s illegal, Professor,” said Hermione uncertainly as Moody cleared away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. “You said - to use it against another human was -” 
 
“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,” said Moody, his magical eye swiveling onto Hermione and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. “If you’d rather learn the hard way - when someone’s putting it on you so they can control you completely - fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.” He pointed one gnarled finger toward the door. Hermione went very pink and muttered something about not meaning that she wanted to leave. Harry and Ron grinned at each other. They knew Hermione would rather eat bubotuber pus than miss such an important lesson. 
 
Moody began to beckon students forward in turn and put the Imperius Curse upon them. Harry watched as, one by one, his classmates did the most extraordinary things under its influence. Dean Thomas hopped three times around the room, singing the national anthem. Lavender Brown imitated a squirrel. Neville performed a series of quite astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them seemed to be able to fight off the curse, and each of them recovered only when Moody had removed it. 
 
“Potter,” Moody growled, “you next.” 
 
Harry moved forward into the middle of the classroom, into the space that Moody had cleared of desks. Moody raised his wand, pointed it at Harry, and said, “Imperio!” 
 
It was the most wonderful feeling. Harry felt a floating sensation as every thought and worry in his head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. He stood there feeling immensely relaxed, only dimly aware of everyone watching him. 
And then he heard Mad-Eye Moody’s voice, echoing in some distant chamber of his empty brain: Jump onto the desk… jump onto the desk…  
 
 Harry bent his knees obediently, preparing to spring.  
 
Jump onto the desk…  
 
Why, though? Another voice had awoken in the back of his brain. Stupid thing to do, really, said the voice. 
 
 Jump onto the desk…  
 
No, I don’t think I will, thanks, said the other voice, a little more firmly… no, I don’t really want to.  
 
Jump! NOW! 
 
The next thing Harry felt was considerable pain. He had both jumped and tried to prevent himself from jumping - the result was that he’d smashed headlong into the desk knocking it over, and, by the feeling in his legs, fractured both his kneecaps.  
 
“Now, that’s more like it!” growled Moody’s voice, and suddenly, Harry felt the empty, echoing feeling in his head disappear. He remembered exactly what was happening, and the pain in his knees seemed to double. 
 
“Look at that, you lot… Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it! We’ll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention - watch his eyes, that’s where you see it - very good, Potter, very good indeed! They’ll have trouble controlling you!” 
 
“The way he talks,” Harry muttered as he hobbled out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class an hour later (Moody had insisted on putting Harry through his paces four times in a row, until Harry could throw off the curse entirely), “you’d think we were all going to be attacked any second.” 
 
“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, who was skipping on every alternate step. He had had much more difficulty with the curse than Harry, though Moody assured him the effects would wear off by lunchtime. “Talk about paranoid…” Ron glanced nervously over his shoulder to check that Moody was definitely out of earshot and went on. “No wonder they were glad to get shot of him at the Ministry. Did you hear him telling Seamus what he did to that witch who shouted ‘Boo’ behind him on April Fools’ Day? And when are we supposed to read up on resisting the Imperius Curse with everything else we’ve got to do?” 
 
All the fourth years had noticed a definite increase in the amount of work they were required to do this term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of Transfiguration homework she had assigned. 
 
“You are now entering a most important phase of your magical education!” she told them, her eyes glinting dangerously behind her square spectacles. “Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer —” 
 
“We don’t take O.W.L.s till fifth year!” said Dean Thomas indignantly. 
 
“Maybe not, Thomas, but believe me, you need all the preparation you can get! Miss Granger remains the only person in this class who has managed to turn a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!” 
 
Hermione, who had turned rather pink again, seemed to be trying not to look too pleased with herself. 
 
Harry and Ron were deeply amused when Professor Trelawney told them that they had received top marks for their homework in their next Divination class. She read out large portions of their predictions, commending them for their unflinching acceptance of the horrors in store for them - but they were less amused when she asked them to do the same thing for the month after next; both of them were running out of ideas for catastrophes. 
 
Meanwhile Professor Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic, had them writing weekly essays on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century. Professor Snape was forcing them to research antidotes. They took this one seriously, as he had hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before Christmas to see if their antidote worked. Professor Flitwick had asked them to read three extra books in preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms. 
 
Even Hagrid was adding to their workload. The Blast-Ended Skrewts were growing at a remarkable pace given that nobody had yet discovered what they ate. Hagrid was delighted, and as part of their “project,” suggested that they come down to his hut on alternate evenings to observe the skrewts and make notes on their extraordinary behavior. 
 
“I will not,” said Draco Malfoy flatly when Hagrid had proposed this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out of his sack. “I see enough of these foul things during lessons, thanks.” 
 
Hagrid’s smile faded off his face. 
 
“Yeh’ll do wha’ yer told,” he growled, “or I’ll be takin’ a leaf outta Professor Moody’s book… I hear yeh made a good ferret, Malfoy.” 
 
The Gryffindors roared with laughter. Malfoy flushed with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody’s punishment was still sufficiently painful to stop him from retorting. Harry, Ron, and Hermione returned to the castle at the end of the lesson in high spirits; seeing Hagrid put down Malfoy was particularly satisfying, especially because Malfoy had done his very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year. 
 
When they arrived in the entrance hall, they found themselves unable to proceed owing to the large crowd of students congregated there, all milling around a large sign that had been erected at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of the three, stood on tiptoe to see over the heads in front of them and read the sign aloud to the other two: 
 
TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT 
 
THE DELEGATIONS FROM BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O’CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY – 
 
“Brilliant!” said Harry. “It’s Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison us all!” 
 
STUDENTS WILL RETURN THEIR BAGS AND BOOKS TO THEIR DORMITORIES AND ASSEMBLE IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE TO GREET OUR GUESTS BEFORE THE WELCOMING FEAST. 
 
“Only a week away!” said Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his eyes gleaming. “I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I’ll go and tell him…” 
 
“Cedric?” said Ron blankly as Ernie hurried off. 
 
“Diggory,” said Harry. “He must be entering the tournament.” 
 
“That idiot, Hogwarts champion?” said Ron as they pushed their way through the chattering crowd toward the staircase. 
 
“He’s not an idiot. You just don’t like him because he beat Gryffindor at Quidditch,” said Hermione. “I’ve heard he’s a really good student - and he’s a prefect.” 
 
She spoke as though this settled the matter. 
 
“You only like him because he’s handsome,” said Ron scathingly. 
 
“Excuse me, I don’t like people just because they’re handsome!” said Hermione indignantly. 
 
Ron gave a loud false cough, which sounded oddly like “Lockhart!” 
 
The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall had a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where Harry went: the Triwizard Tournament. 
 
Rumors were flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the tournament would involve, how the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from themselves. Harry noticed too that the castle seemed to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sat huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as 
they felt their raw pink faces. The suits of armor were suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, was behaving so ferociously to any students who forgot to wipe their shoes that he terrified a pair of first-year girls into hysterics. Other members of the staff seemed oddly tense too. 
 
“Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can’t even perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone from Durmstrang!” Professor McGonagall barked at the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during which Neville had accidentally transplanted his own ears onto a cactus. 
 
When they went down to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, they found that the Great Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hung from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for Gryffiindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teachers’ table, the largest banner of all bore the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large letter H. 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down beside Fred and George at the Gryffindor table. Once again, and most unusually, they were sitting apart from everyone else and conversing in low voices. Ron led the way over to them.  
 
“It’s a bummer, all right,” George was saying gloomily to Fred. “But if he won’t talk to us in person, we’ll have to send him the letter after all. Or we’ll stuff it into his hand. He can’t avoid us forever.” 
 
“Who’s avoiding you?” said Ron, sitting down next to them. 
 
“Wish you would,” said Fred, looking irritated at the interruption. 
 
“What’s a bummer?” Ron asked George. 
 
“Having a nosy git like you for a brother,” said George. 
 
“You two got any ideas on the Triwizard Tournament yet?” Harry asked. “Thought any more about trying to enter?” 
 
“I asked McGonagall how the champions are chosen but she wasn’t telling,” said George bitterly. “She just told me to shut up and get on with transfiguring my raccoon.” 
 
“Wonder what the tasks are going to be?” said Ron thoughtfully. “You know, I bet we could do them, Harry. We’ve done dangerous stuff before…” 
 
“Not in front of a panel of judges, you haven’t,” said Fred. “McGonagall says the champions get awarded points according to how well they’ve done the tasks.” 
 
“Who are the judges?” Harry asked. 
 
“Well, the Heads of the participating schools are always on the panel,” said Hermione, and everyone looked around at her, rather surprised, “because all three of them were injured during the Tournament of 1792, when a cockatrice the champions were supposed to be catching went on the rampage.”  
 
She noticed them all looking at her and said, with her usual air of impatience that nobody else had read all the books she had, “It’s all in Hogwarts, A History. Though, of course, that book’s not entirely reliable. A Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more accurate title. Or A Highly Biased and Selective History of Hogwarts, Which Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School.” 
 
“What are you on about?” said Ron, though Harry thought he knew what was coming. 
 
“House-elves!” said Hermione, her eyes flashing. “Not once, in over a thousand pages, does Hogwarts, A History mention that we are all colluding in the oppression of a hundred slaves!” 
 
Harry shook his head and applied himself to his scrambled eggs. His and Ron’s lack of enthusiasm had done nothing whatsoever to curb Hermione’s determination to pursue justice for house-elves. 
 
True, both of them had paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. badge, but they had only done it to keep her quiet. Their Sickles had been wasted, however; if anything, they seemed to have made Hermione more vociferous. She had been badgering Harry and Ron ever since, first to wear the badges, then to persuade others to do the same, and she had also taken to rattling around the Gryffindor common room every evening, cornering people and shaking the collecting tin under their noses. 
 
“You do realize that your sheets are changed, your fires lit, your classrooms cleaned, and your food cooked by a group of magical creatures who are unpaid and enslaved?” she kept saying fiercely. 
 
Some people, like Neville, had paid up just to stop Hermione from glowering at them. A few seemed mildly interested in what she had to say, but were reluctant to take a more active role in campaigning. Many regarded the whole thing as a joke. Ron now rolled his eyes at the ceiling, which was flooding them all in autumn sunlight, and Fred became extremely interested in his bacon (both twins had refused to buy a S.P.E.W. badge). George, however, leaned in toward Hermione. 
 
“Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens, Hermione?” 
 
“No, of course not,” said Hermione curtly, “I hardly think students are supposed to -” 
 
“Well, we have,” said George, indicating Fred, “loads of times, to nick food. And we’ve met them, and they’re happy. They think they’ve got the best job in the world -” 
“That’s because they’re uneducated and brainwashed!” Hermione began hotly, but her next few words were drowned out by the sudden whooshing noise from overhead, which announced the arrival of the post owls. Harry looked up at once, and saw Hedwig soaring toward him. Hermione stopped talking abruptly; she and Ron watched Hedwig anxiously as she fluttered down onto Harry’s shoulder, folded her wings, and held out her leg wearily. 
 
Harry pulled off Sirius’s reply and offered Hedwig his bacon rinds, which she ate gratefully. Then, checking that Fred and George were safely immersed in further discussions about the Triwizard Tournament, Harry read out Sirius’s letter in a whisper to Ron and Hermione. 
 
Nice try, Harry. 
 
I’m back in the country and well hidden. I want you to keep me posted on everything that’s going on at Hogwarts. Don’t use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and don’t worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don’t forget what I said about your scar. 
 
Sirius 
 
“Why d’you have to keep changing owls?” Ron asked in a low voice. 
 
“Hedwig’ll attract too much attention,” said Hermione at once. “She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps returning to wherever he’s hiding… I mean, they’re not native birds, are they?” 
 
Harry rolled up the letter and slipped it inside his robes, wondering whether he felt more or less worried than before. He supposed that Sirius managing to get back without being caught was something. He couldn’t deny either that the idea that Sirius was much nearer was reassuring; at least he wouldn’t have to wait so long for a response every time he wrote. 
 
“Thanks, Hedwig,” he said, stroking her. She hooted sleepily, dipped her beak briefly into his goblet of orange juice, then took off again, clearly desperate for a good long sleep in the Owlery. 
 
There was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air that day. Nobody was very attentive in lessons, being much more interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; even Potions was more bearable than usual, as it was half an hour shorter. When the bell rang early, Harry, Ron, and Hermione hurried up to Gryffindor Tower, deposited their bags and books as they had been instructed, pulled on their cloaks, and rushed back downstairs into the entrance hall. 
 
The Heads of Houses were ordering their students into lines. 
 
“Weasley, straighten your hat,” Professor McGonagall snapped at Ron. “Miss Patil, take that ridiculous thing out of your hair.” 
 
Parvati scowled and removed a large ornamental butterfly from the end of her plait. 
 
“Follow me, please,” said Professor McGonagall. “First years in front… no pushing…”  
They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the castle. It was a cold, clear evening; dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Harry, standing between Ron and Hermione in the fourth row from the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering with anticipation among the other first years. 
 
“Nearly six,” said Ron, checking his watch and then staring down the drive that led to the front gates. “How d’you reckon they’re coming? The train?” 
 
“I doubt it,” said Hermione. 
 
“How, then? Broomsticks?” Harry suggested, looking up at the starry sky. 
 
“I don’t think so… not from that far away…” 
 
“A Portkey?” Ron suggested. “Or they could Apparate - maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?” 
 
“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how often do I have to tell you?” said Hermione impatiently. 
 
They scanned the darkening grounds excitedly, but nothing was moving; everything was still, silent, and quite as usual. Harry was starting to feel cold. He wished they’d hurry up… Maybe the foreign students were preparing a dramatic entrance… He remembered what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: “always the same - we can’t resist showing off when we get together…” 
 
And then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers - “Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!” 
 
“Where?” said many students eagerly, all looking in different directions.  
 
“There!” yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest. 
 
Something large, much larger than a broomstick - or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks - was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing larger all the time. 
 
“It’s a dragon!” shrieked one of the first years, losing her head completely. 
 
“Don’t be stupid… it’s a flying house!” said Dennis Creevey. 
 
Dennis’s guess was closer… As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, they saw a gigantic, powderblue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant. 
 
The front three rows of students drew backward as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed - then, with an almighty crash that made Neville jump backward onto a Slytherin fifth year’s foot, the horses’ hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes. 
 
Harry just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened. A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage - a shoe the size of a child’s sled - 
followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped. 
 
Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in his life, and that was Hagrid; he doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow - maybe simply because he was used to Hagrid - this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face; large, 
black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers. 
 
Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman. 
 
Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it. 
 
“My dear Madame Maxime,” he said. “Welcome to Hogwarts.” 
 
“Dumbly-dort,” said Madame Maxime in a deep voice. “I ‘ope I find you well?” 
 
“In excellent form, I thank you,” said Dumbledore. 
 
“My pupils,” said Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her. 
 
Harry, whose attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads. From what Harry could see of them (they were standing in Madame Maxime’s enormous shadow), they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.  
 
“’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked. 
“He should be here any moment,” said Dumbledore. “Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?” 
 
“Warm up, I think,” said Madame Maxime. “But ze ‘orses -” 
 
“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them,” said Dumbledore, “the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other - er - charges.” 
 
“Skrewts,” Ron muttered to Harry, grinning. 
 
“My steeds require - er - forceful ‘andling,” said Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubted whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. “Zey are very strong…” 
 
“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,” said Dumbledore, smiling.  
 
“Very well,” said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. “Will you please inform zis ‘Agrid zat ze ‘orses drink only single-malt whiskey?” 
 
“It will be attended to,” said Dumbledore, also bowing. 
 
“Come,” said Madame Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her and her students to pass up the stone steps. 
 
“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s horses are going to be?” Seamus Finnigan said, leaning around Lavender and Parvati to address Harry and Ron. 
 
“Well, if they’re any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid won’t be able to handle them,” said Harry. “That’s if he hasn’t been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder what’s up with them?” 
 
“Maybe they’ve escaped,” said Ron hopefully. 
 
“Oh don’t say that,” said Hermione with a shudder. “Imagine that lot loose on the grounds…” 
 
They stood, shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing hopefully up at the sky. 
 
For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by Madame Maxime’s huge horses snorting and stamping. But then - “Can you hear something?” said Ron suddenly. Harry listened; a loud and oddly eerie noise was drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a riverbed. 
 
“The lake!” yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. “Look at the lake!” 
 
From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water - except that the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks - and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake’s floor… What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool… and then Harry saw the rigging…  
 
“It’s a mast!” he said to Ron and Hermione. 
 
Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank. 
 
People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship’s portholes. All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle… but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort:  sleek and silver, like his hair. 
 
“Dumbledore!” he called heartily as he walked up the slope. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?” 
 
“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replied. Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice; when he stepped into the light pouring from the front doors of the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When he reached Dumbledore, he shook hands with both of his own. 
 
“Dear old Hogwarts,” he said, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Harry noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd. “How good it is to be here, how good… Viktor, come along, into the warmth… you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold…” 
 
Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As the boy passed, Harry caught a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He didn’t need the punch on the arm Ron gave him, or the hiss in his ear, to recognize that profile.  
 
“Harry - it’s Krum!” 
 
“I don’t believe it!” Ron said, in a stunned voice, as the Hogwarts students filed back up the steps behind the party from Durmstrang. “Krum, Harry! Viktor Krum!” 
 
“For heaven’s sake, Ron, he’s only a Quidditch player,” said Hermione. 
 
“Only a Quidditch player?” Ron said, looking at her as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “Hermione - he’s one of the best Seekers in the world! I had no idea he was still at school!” 
 
As they recrossed the entrance hall with the rest of the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall, Harry saw Lee Jordan jumping up and down on the soles of his feet to get a better look at the back of Krum’s head. Several sixth-year girls were frantically searching their pockets as they walked - “Oh I don’t believe it, I haven’t got a single quill on me -” 
 
“D’you think he’d sign my hat in lipstick?” 
 
“Really,” Hermione said loftily as they passed the girls, now squabbling over the lipstick. 
 
“I’m getting his autograph if I can,” said Ron. “You haven’t got a quill, have you, Harry?” 
 
“Nope, they’re upstairs in my bag,” said Harry. 
 
They walked over to the Gryffindor table and sat down. Ron took care to sit on the side facing the doorway, because Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students were still gathered around it, apparently unsure about where they should sit. The students from Beauxbatons had chosen seats at the Ravenclaw table. They were looking around the Great Hall with glum expressions on their faces. Three of them were still clutching scarves and shawls around their heads. 
 
“It’s not that cold,” said Hermione defensively. “Why didn’t they bring cloaks?” 
 
“Over here! Come and sit over here!” Ron hissed. “Over here! Hermione, budge up, make a space -” 
 
“What?” 
 
“Too late,” said Ron bitterly. 
 
Viktor Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students had settled themselves at the Slytherin table. Harry could see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looking very smug about this. As he watched, Malfoy bent forward to speak to Krum.  
 
“Yeah, that’s right, smarm up to him, Malfoy,” said Ron scathingly. “I bet Krum can see right through him, though… bet he gets people fawning over him all the time… Where d’you reckon they’re going to sleep? We could offer him a space in our dormitory, Harry… I wouldn’t mind giving him my bed, I could kip on a camp bed.” 
 
Hermione snorted. 
 
“They look a lot happier than the Beauxbatons lot,” said Harry. The Durmstrang students were pulling off their heavy furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of interest; a couple of them were picking up the golden plates and goblets and examining them, apparently impressed. 
 
Up at the staff table, Filch, the caretaker, was adding chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honor of the occasion. Harry was surprised to see that he added four chairs, two on either side of Dumbledore’s. “But there are only two extra people,” Harry said. “Why’s Filch putting out four chairs, who else is coming?” 
 
“Eh?” said Ron vaguely. He was still staring avidly at Krum. 
 
When all the students had entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, the staff entered, filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last in line were Professor Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on Dumbledore’s left-hand side. Dumbledore remained standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall. 
 
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and - most particularly - guests,” said Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.” 
 
One of the Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler around her head gave what was unmistakably a derisive laugh. 
 
“No one’s making you stay!” Hermione whispered, bristling at her.  
 
“The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” said Dumbledore. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!” 
 
He sat down, and Harry saw Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation. 
 
The plates in front of them filled with food as usual. The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have pulled out all the stops; there was a greater variety of dishes in front of them than Harry had ever seen, including several that were definitely foreign. 
 
“What’s that?” said Ron, pointing at a large dish of some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside a large steak-and-kidney pudding. 
 
“Bouillabaisse,” said Hermione. 
 
“Bless you,” said Ron. 
 
“It’s French,” said Hermione, “I had it on holiday summer before last. It’s very nice.” 
 
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Ron, helping himself to black pudding. 
 
The Great Hall seemed somehow much more crowded than usual, even though there were barely twenty additional students there; perhaps it was because their differently colored uniforms stood out so clearly against the black of the Hogwarts’ robes. Now that they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep bloodred. 
 
Hagrid sidled into the Hall through a door behind the staff table twenty minutes after the start of the feast. He slid into his seat at the end and waved at Harry, Ron, and Hermione with a very heavily bandaged hand. 
 
“Skrewts doing all right, Hagrid?” Harry called. 
 
“Thrivin’,” Hagrid called back happily. 
 
“Yeah, I’ll just bet they are,” said Ron quietly. “Looks like they’ve finally found a food they like, doesn’t it? Hagrid’s fingers.” 
 
At that moment, a voice said, “Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?” It was the girl from Beauxbatons who had laughed during Dumbledore’s speech. She had finally removed her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth. 
 
Ron went purple. He stared up at her, opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out except a faint gurgling noise. 
 
“Yeah, have it,” said Harry, pushing the dish toward the girl. 
  
“You ‘ave finished wiz it?” 
 
“Yeah,” Ron said breathlessly. “Yeah, it was excellent.” 
 
The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully off to the Ravenclaw table. Ron was still goggling at the girl as though he had never seen one before. Harry started to laugh. The sound seemed to jog Ron back to his senses. 
 
“She’s a veela!” he said hoarsely to Harry. 
“Of course she isn’t!” said Hermione tartly. “I don’t see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!” 
 
But she wasn’t entirely right about that. As the girl crossed the Hall, many boys’ heads turned, and some of them seemed to have become temporarily speechless, just like Ron. 
 
“I’m telling you, that’s not a normal girl!” said Ron, leaning sideways so he could keep a clear view of her. “They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts!” 
 
“They make them okay at Hogwarts,” said Harry without thinking. Cho happened to be sitting only a few places away from the girl with the silvery hair. 
 
“When you’ve both put your eyes back in,” said Hermione briskly, “you’ll be able to see who’s just arrived.” 
 
She was pointing up at the staff table. The two remaining empty seats had just been filled. Ludo Bagman was now sitting on Professor Karkaroff’s other side, while Mr. Crouch, Percy’s boss, was next to Madame Maxime. “What are they doing here?” said Harry in surprise. 
 
“They organized the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t they?” said Hermione. “I suppose they wanted to be here to see it start.” 
 
When the second course arrived they noticed a number of unfamiliar desserts too. Ron examined an odd sort of pale blancmange closely, then moved it carefully a few inches to his right, so that it would be clearly visible from the Ravenclaw table. The girl who looked like a veela appeared to have eaten enough, however, and did not come over to get it. 
 
Once the golden plates had been wiped clean, Dumbledore stood up again. A pleasant sort of tension seemed to fill the Hall now. Harry felt a slight thrill of excitement, wondering what was coming. Several seats down from them, Fred and George were leaning forward, staring at Dumbledore with great concentration. 
 
“The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket —” 
 
“The what?” Harry muttered. 
 
Ron shrugged. 
 
“-just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation” - there was a smattering of polite applause - “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.” 
 
There was a much louder round of applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he looked so much more likable. He acknowledged it with a jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or wave when his name was announced. Remembering him in his neat suit at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry thought he looked strange in wizard’s robes. His toothbrush mustache and severe parting looked very odd next to Dumbledore’s long white hair and beard. 
 
“Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts.” 
 
At the mention of the word “champions,” the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, “The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.” 
 
Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the Hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked extremely old. A murmur of excited interest rose from the watching students; Dennis Creevey actually stood on his chair to see it properly, but, being so tiny, his head hardly rose above anyone else’s. 
 
“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman,” said Dumbledore as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, “and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways… their magical prowess - their daring - their powers of deduction - and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.” 
 
At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing. 
 
“As you know, three champions compete in the tournament,” Dumbledore went on calmly, “one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.” 
 
Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked slowly open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames. Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet carefully on top of it, where it 
would be clearly visible to everyone in the Hall.  
 
“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” said Dumbledore. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete. 
“To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation,” said Dumbledore, “I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.  
 
“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.” 
 
“An Age Line!” Fred Weasley said, his eyes glinting, as they all made their way across the Hall to the doors into the entrance hall. “Well, that should be fooled by an Aging Potion, shouldn’t it? And once your name’s in that goblet, you’re laughing - it can’t tell whether you’re seventeen or not!” 
 
“But I don’t think anyone under seventeen will stand a chance,” said Hermione, “we just haven’t learned enough…” 
 
“Speak for yourself,” said George shortly. “You’ll try and get in, won’t you, Harry?” 
 
Harry thought briefly of Dumbledore’s insistence that nobody under seventeen should submit their name, but then the wonderful picture of himself winning the Triwizard Tournament filled his mind again… He wondered how angry Dumbledore would be if someone younger than seventeen did find a way to get over the Age Line. 
 
“Where is he?” said Ron, who wasn’t listening to a word of this conversation, but looking through the crowd to see what had become of Krum. “Dumbledore didn’t say where the Durmstrang people are sleeping, did he?”  
 
But this query was answered almost instantly; they were level with the Slytherin table now, and Karkaroff had just bustled up to his students.  
 
“Back to the ship, then,” he was saying. “Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send for some mulled wine from the kitchens?” 
 
Harry saw Krum shake his head as he pulled his furs back on. “Professor, I vood like some vine,” said one of the other Durmstrang boys hopefully. 
 
“I wasn’t offering it to you, Poliakoff,” snapped Karkaroff, his warmly paternal air vanishing in an instant. “I notice you have dribbled food all down the front of your robes again, disgusting boy -” 
 
Karkaroff turned and led his students toward the doors, reaching them at exactly the same moment as Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry stopped to let him walk through first. 
 
“Thank you,” said Karkaroff carelessly, glancing at him. And then Karkaroff froze. He turned his head back to Harry and stared at him as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. Behind their headmaster, the students from Durmstrang came to a halt too. Karkaroff’s eyes moved slowly up Harry’s face and fixed upon his scar. 
 
The Durmstrang students were staring curiously at Harry too. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw comprehension dawn on a few of their faces. The boy with food all down his front nudged the girl next to him and pointed openly at Harry’s forehead. 
 
“Yeah, that’s Harry Potter,” said a growling voice from behind them. 
 
Professor Karkaroff spun around. Mad-Eye Moody was standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his magical eye glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang headmaster. 
 
The color drained from Karkaroff’s face as Harry watched. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear came over him. 
 
“You!” he said, staring at Moody as though unsure he was really seeing him. 
 
“Me,” said Moody grimly. “And unless you’ve got anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You’re blocking the doorway.” 
 
It was true; half the students in the Hall were now waiting behind them, looking over one another’s shoulders to see what was causing the holdup. 
 
Without another word, Professor Karkaroff swept his students away with him. Moody watched him until he was out of sight, his magical eye fixed upon his back, a look of intense dislike upon his mutilated face. 
 
As the next day was Saturday, most students would normally have breakfasted late. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were not alone in rising much earlier than they usually did on weekends. When they went down into the entrance hall, they saw about twenty people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It had been placed in the center of the hall on the stool that normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line had been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in every direction. 
 
“Anyone put their name in yet?” Ron asked a third-year girl eagerly. 
 
“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replied. “But I haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.” 
 
“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all gone to bed,” said Harry. “I would’ve if it had been me… wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?” 
 
Someone laughed behind Harry. Turning, he saw Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited. 
“Done it,” Fred said in a triumphant whisper to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. “Just taken it.” 
 
“What?” said Ron. 
 
“The Aging Potion, dung brains,” said Fred. 
 
“One drop each,” said George, rubbing his hands together with glee. “We only need to be a few months older.” 
 
“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins,” said Lee, grinning broadly. 
 
“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” said Hermione warningly. “I’m sure Dumbledore will have thought of this.” 
 
Fred, George, and Lee ignored her. 
 
“Ready?” Fred said to the other two, quivering with excitement. “C’mon, then - I’ll go first -” 
 
Harry watched, fascinated, as Fred pulled a slip of parchment out of his pocket bearing the words Fred Weasley - Hogwarts. Fred walked right up to the edge of the line and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon him, he took a great breath and stepped over the line. 
 
For a split second Harry thought it had worked - George certainly thought so, for he let out a yell of triumph and leapt after Fred - but next moment, there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were hurled out of the golden circle as though they had been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They landed painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and to add insult to injury, there was a loud popping noise, and both of them sprouted identical long white beards. 
 
The entrance hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and George joined in, once they had gotten to their feet and taken a good look at each other’s beards. 
 
“I did warn you,” said a deep, amused voice, and everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore coming out of the Great Hall. He surveyed Fred and George, his eyes twinkling. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.” 
 
Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione, also chortling, went in to breakfast. 
 
The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every corner. Harry led the way over to Dean and Seamus, who were discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering. 
“There’s a rumor going around that Warrington got up early and put his name in,” Dean told Harry. “That big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth.”  
 
Harry, who had played Quidditch against Warrington, shook his head in disgust. 
 
“We can’t have a Slytherin champion!” 
 
“And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory,” said Seamus contemptuously. 
 
“But I wouldn’t have thought he’d have wanted to risk his good looks.” 
 
“Listen!” said Hermione suddenly. 
 
People were cheering out in the entrance hall. They all swiveled around in their seats and saw Angelina Johnson coming into the Hall, grinning in an embarrassed sort of way. A tall black girl who played Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Angelina came over to them, sat down, and said, “Well, I’ve done it! Just put my name in!” 
 
“You’re kidding!” said Ron, looking impressed. 
 
“Are you seventeen, then?” asked Harry. 
 
“Course she is, can’t see a beard, can you?” said Ron. 
 
“I had my birthday last week,” said Angelina. 
 
“Well, I’m glad someone from Gryffindor’s entering,” said Hermione. “I really hope you get it, Angelina!” 
 
“Thanks, Hermione,” said Angelina, smiling at her. 
 
“Yeah, better you than Pretty-Boy Diggory,” said Seamus, causing several Hufflepuffs passing their table to scowl heavily at him. 
 
“What’re we going to do today, then?” Ron asked Harry and Hermione when they had finished breakfast and were leaving the Great Hall. 
 
“We haven’t been down to visit Hagrid yet,” said Harry. 
 
“Okay,” said Ron, “just as long as he doesn’t ask us to donate a few fingers to the skrewts.” 
 
A look of great excitement suddenly dawned on Hermione’s face. 
 
“I’ve just realized - I haven’t asked Hagrid to join S.P.E.W. yet!” she said brightly. 
 
“Wait for me, will you, while I nip upstairs and get the badges?” 
“What is it with her?” said Ron, exasperated, as Hermione ran away up the marble staircase. 
 
“Hey, Ron,” said Harry suddenly. “It’s your friend…” 
 
The students from Beauxbatons were coming through the front doors from the grounds, among them, the veela-girl. Those gathered around the Goblet of Fire stood back to let them pass, watching eagerly. 
 
Madame Maxime entered the hall behind her students and organized them into a line. One by one, the Beauxbatons students stepped across the Age Line and dropped their slips of parchment into the blue-white flames. As each name entered the fire, it turned briefly red and emitted sparks. 
 
“What d’you reckon’ll happen to the ones who aren’t chosen?” Ron muttered to Harry as the veela-girl dropped her parchment into the Goblet of Fire. “Reckon they’ll go back to school, or hang around to watch the tournament?” 
 
“Dunno,” said Harry. “Hang around, I suppose… Madame Maxime’s staying to judge, isn’t she?” 
 
When all the Beauxbatons students had submitted their names, Madame Maxime led them back out of the hall and out onto the grounds again. 
 
“Where are they sleeping, then?” said Ron, moving toward the front doors and staring after them. 
A loud rattling noise behind them announced Hermione’s reappearance with the box of S.P.E.W. badges. 
 
“Oh good, hurry up,” said Ron, and he jumped down the stone steps, keeping his eyes on the back of the veela-girl, who was now halfway across the lawn with Madame Maxime. 
 
As they neared Hagrid’s cabin on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the mystery of the Beauxbatons’ sleeping quarters was solved. The gigantic powder-blue carriage in which they had arrived had been parked two hundred yards from Hagrid’s front door, and the students were climbing back inside it. The elephantine flying horses that had pulled the carriage were now grazing in a makeshift paddock alongside it. Harry knocked on Hagrid’s door, and Fang’s booming barks answered instantly. 
 
“Bout time!” said Hagrid, when he’d flung open the door. “Thought you lot’d forgotten where I live!” 
 
“We’ve been really busy, Hag -” Hermione started to say, but then she stopped dead, looking up at Hagrid, apparently lost for words. 
 
Hagrid was wearing his best (and very horrible) hairy brown suit, plus a checked yellow-and-orange tie. This wasn’t the worst of it, though; he had evidently tried to tame his hair, using large quantities of what appeared to be axle grease. It was now slicked down into two bunches - perhaps he had tried a ponytail like Bill’s, but found he had too much hair. The look didn’t really suit Hagrid at all. For a moment, Hermione goggled at him, then, obviously deciding not to comment, she said, “Erm - where are the skrewts.” 
 
“Out by the pumpkin patch,” said Hagrid happily. “They’re get-tin’ massive, mus’ be nearly three foot long now. On’y trouble is, they’ve started killin’ each other.” 
 
“Oh no, really?” said Hermione, shooting a repressive look at Ron, who, staring at Hagrid’s odd hairstyle, had just opened his mouth to say something about it. 
 
“Yeah,” said Hagrid sadly. “S’ okay, though, I’ve got ‘em in separate boxes now. Still got abou’ twenty.” 
 
“Well, that’s lucky,” said Ron. Hagrid missed the sarcasm. 
 
Hagrid’s cabin comprised a single room, in one corner of which was a gigantic bed covered in a patchwork quilt. A similarly enormous wooden table and chairs stood in front of the fire beneath the quantity of cured hams and dead birds hanging from the ceiling. They sat down at the table while Hagrid started to make tea, and were soon immersed in yet more discussion of the Triwizard Tournament. Hagrid seemed quite as excited about it as they were. 
 
“You wait,” he said, grinning. “You jus’ wait. Yer going ter see some stuff yeh’ve never seen before. Firs’ task… ah, but I’m not supposed ter say.” 
 
“Go on, Hagrid!” Harry, Ron, and Hermione urged him, but he just shook his head, grinning. 
 
“I don’ want ter spoil it fer yeh,” said Hagrid. “But it’s gonna be spectacular, I’ll tell yeh that. Them champions’re going ter have their work cut out. Never thought I’d live ter see the Triwizard Tournament played again!” 
 
They ended up having lunch with Hagrid, though they didn’t eat much – Hagrid had made what he said was a beef casserole, but after Hermione unearthed a large talon in hers, she, Harry, and Ron rather lost their appetites. However, they enjoyed themselves trying to make Hagrid tell them what the tasks in the tournament were going to be, speculating which of the entrants were likely to be selected as champions, and wondering whether Fred and George were beardless 
yet. A light rain had started to fall by midafternoon; it was very cozy sitting by the fire, listening to the gentle patter of the drops on the window, watching Hagrid darning his socks and arguing with Hermione about house-elves - for he flatly refused to join S.P.E.W. when she showed him her badges. 
 
“It’d be doin’ ‘em an unkindness, Hermione,” he said gravely, threading a massive bone needle with thick yellow yarn. “It’s in their nature ter look after humans, that’s what they like, see? Yeh’d be makin’ ‘em unhappy ter take away their work, an’ insutin’ ‘em if yeh tried ter pay ‘em.” 
 
“But Harry set Dobby free, and he was over the moon about it!” said Hermione. “And we heard he’s asking for wages now!” 
 
“Yeah, well, yeh get weirdos in every breed. I’m not sayin’ there isn’t the odd elf who’d take freedom, but yeh’ll never persuade most of ‘em ter do it - no, nothin’ doin’, Hermione.” 
 
Hermione looked very cross indeed and stuffed her box of badges back into her cloak pocket. 
 
By half past five it was growing dark, and Ron, Harry, and Hermione decided it was time to get back up to the castle for the Halloween feast - and, more important, the announcement of the school champions. 
 
“I’ll come with yeh,” said Hagrid, putting away his darning. “Jus’ give us a sec.”  
 
Hagrid got up, went across to the chest of drawers beside his bed, and began searching for something inside it. They didn’t pay too much attention until a truly horrible smell reached their nostrils. Coughing, Ron said, “Hagrid, what’s that?” 
 
“Eh?” said Hagrid, turning around with a large bottle in his hand. “Don’ yeh like it?” 
 
“Is that aftershave?” said Hermione in a slightly choked voice. 
 
“Er - eau de cologne,” Hagrid muttered. He was blushing. 
 
“Maybe it’s a bit much,” he said gruffly. “I’ll go take it off, hang on…” 
 
He stumped out of the cabin, and they saw him washing himself vigorously in the water barrel outside the window. 
 
“Eau de cologne?” said Hermione in amazement. “Hagrid?” 
 
“And what’s with the hair and the suit?” said Harry in an undertone. 
 
“Look!” said Ron suddenly, pointing out of the window. Hagrid had just straightened up and turned ‘round. If he had been blushing before, it was nothing to what he was doing now. Getting to their feet very cautiously, so that Hagrid wouldn’t spot them, Harry, Ron, and Hermione peered through the window and saw that Madame Maxime and the Beauxbatons students had just emerged from their carriage, clearly about to set off for the feast too. They couldn’t hear what Hagrid was saying, but he was talking to Madame Maxime with a rapt, misty-eyed 
expression Harry had only ever seen him wear once before - when he had been looking at the baby dragon, Norbert. 
 
“He’s going up to the castle with her!” said Hermione indignantly. “I thought he was waiting for us!” 
 
Without so much as a backward glance at his cabin, Hagrid was trudging off up the grounds with Madame Maxime, the Beaux-batons students following in their wake, jogging to keep up with their enormous strides. 
 
“He fancies her!” said Ron incredulously. “Well, if they end up having children, they’ll be setting a world record - bet any baby of theirs would weigh about a ton.” 
 
They let themselves out of the cabin and shut the door behind them. It was surprisingly dark outside. Drawing their cloaks more closely around themselves, they set off up the sloping lawns. 
 
“Ooh it’s them, look!” Hermione whispered. 
 
The Durmstrang party was walking up toward the castle from the lake. Viktor Krum was walking side by side with Karkaroff, and the other Durmstrang students were straggling along behind them. Ron watched Krum excitedly, but Krum did not look around as he reached the front doors a little ahead of Hermione, Ron, and Harry and proceeded through them. 
 
When they entered the candlelit Great Hall it was almost full. The Goblet of Fire had been moved; it was now standing in front of Dumbledore’s empty chair at the teachers’ table. Fred and George - clean-shaven again - seemed to have taken their disappointment fairly well. 
 
“Hope it’s Angelina,” said Fred as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down. 
 
“So do I!” said Hermione breathlessly. “Well, we’ll soon know!” 
 
The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual. Perhaps because it was their second feast in two days, Harry didn’t seem to fancy the extravagantly prepared food as much as he would have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging by the constantly craning necks, the impatient expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished eating yet, Harry simply wanted the plates to clear, and to hear who had been selected as champions. 
 
At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite uninterested, almost bored. 
 
“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber” - he indicated the door behind the staff table - “where they will be receiving their first instructions.” 
 
He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting… A few people kept checking their watches…  
 
“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispered, two seats away from Harry. 
 
The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it - the whole room gasped. 
 
Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white. 
 
“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.” 
 
“No surprises there!” yelled Ron as a storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. Harry saw Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber. 
 
“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!” 
 
The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames. 
 
“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!” 
 
“It’s her, Ron!” Harry shouted as the girl who so resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. 
 
“Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Hermione said over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party. “Disappointed” was a bit of an understatement, Harry thought. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms. 
 
When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next…  
 
And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment. 
 
“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cedric Diggory!” 
 
“No!” said Ron loudly, but nobody heard him except Harry; the uproar from the next table was too great. Every single Hufflepuff had jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers’ table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.  
“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —” 
 
But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him. 
 
The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment. 
 
Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out - “Harry Potter.” 
 
Harry sat there, aware that every head in the Great Hall had turned to look at him. He was stunned. He felt numb. He was surely dreaming. He had not heard correctly. 
 
There was no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry bees, was starting to fill the Hall; some students were standing up to get a better look at Harry as he sat, frozen, in his seat. Up at the top table, Professor McGonagall had got to her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Professor Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning slightly. Harry turned to Ron and Hermione; beyond them, he saw the long Gryffindor table all watching him, openmouthed. 
 
“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry said blankly. “You know I didn’t.” 
 
Both of them stared just as blankly back. 
 
At the top table, Professor Dumbledore had straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall. 
 
“Harry Potter!” he called again. “Harry! Up here, if you please!” 
 
“Go on,” Hermione whispered, giving Harry a slight push. 
 
Harry got to his feet, trod on the hem of his robes, and stumbled slightly. He set off up the gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. It felt like an immensely long walk; the top table didn’t seem to be getting any nearer at all, and he could feel hundreds and hundreds of eyes upon him, as though each were a searchlight. The buzzing grew louder and louder. After what seemed like an hour, he was right in front of Dumbledore, feeling the stares of all the teachers upon 
him. 
 
“Well… through the door, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He wasn’t smiling. Harry moved off along the teachers’ table. Hagrid was seated right at the end. He did not wink at Harry, or wave, or give any of his usual signs of greeting. He looked completely astonished and stared at Harry as he passed like everyone else. 
 
Harry went through the door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him. The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the one next to it, which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear. 
 
Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fire. They looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames. Krum, hunched up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from the other two. Cedric was standing with his hands behind his back, staring into the fire.  
 
Fleur Delacour looked around when Harry walked in and threw back her sheet of long, silvery hair. 
 
“What is it?” she said. “Do zey want us back in ze Hall?” 
 
She thought he had come to deliver a message. Harry didn’t know how to explain what had just happened. He just stood there, looking at the three champions. It struck him how very tall all of them were. 
 
There was a sound of scurrying feet behind him, and Ludo Bagman entered the room. He took Harry by the arm and led him forward. 
 
“Extraordinary!” he muttered, squeezing Harry’s arm. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen… lady,” he added, approaching the fireside and addressing the other three. “May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion?” 
 
Viktor Krum straightened up. His surly face darkened as he surveyed Harry. Cedric looked nonplussed. He looked from Bagman to Harry and back again as though sure he must have misheard what Bagman had said. Fleur Delacour, however, tossed her hair, smiling, and said, “Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman.” 
 
“Joke?” Bagman repeated, bewildered. “No, no, not at all! Harry’s name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!” 
 
Krum’s thick eyebrows contracted slightly. Cedric was still looking politely bewildered. Fleur frowned. 
 
“But evidently zair ‘as been a mistake,” she said contemptuously to Bagman. “E cannot compete. ‘E is too young.” 
 
“Well… it is amazing,” said Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and smiling down at Harry. “But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name’s come out of the goblet… I mean, I don’t think there can be any ducking out at this stage… It’s down in the rules, you’re obliged… Harry will just have to do the best he —” 
 
The door behind them opened again, and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore, followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape. Harry heard the buzzing of the hundreds of students on the other side of the wall, before Professor McGonagall closed the door. 
  
“Madame Maxime!” said Fleur at once, striding over to her headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!” 
 
Somewhere under Harry’s numb disbelief he felt a ripple of anger. Little boy? Madame Maxime had drawn herself up to her full, and considerable, height. The top of her handsome head brushed the candle-filled chandelier, and her gigantic black-satin bosom swelled. 
 
“What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?” she said imperiously.  
 
“I’d rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore,” said Professor Karkaroff. He was wearing a steely smile, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. “Two Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions – or have I not read the rules carefully enough?” 
 
He gave a short and nasty laugh. 
 
“C’est impossible,” said Madame Maxime, whose enormous hand with its many superb opals was resting upon Fleur’s shoulder. “Ogwarts cannot ‘ave two champions. It is most injust.” 
 
“We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff, his steely smile still in place, though his eyes were colder than ever. “Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools.” 
 
“It’s no one’s fault but Potter’s, Karkaroff,” said Snape softly. His black eyes were alight with malice. “Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here -” 
 
“Thank you, Severus,” said Dumbledore firmly, and Snape went quiet, though his eyes still glinted malevolently through his curtain of greasy black hair. 
 
Professor Dumbledore was now looking down at Harry, who looked right back at him, trying to discern the expression of the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles. 
 
“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” he asked calmly.  
 
“No,” said Harry. He was very aware of everybody watching him closely. Snape made a soft noise of impatient disbelief in the shadows. 
 
“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?” said Professor Dumbledore, ignoring Snape. 
 
“No,” said Harry vehemently. 
 
“Ah, but of course ‘e is lying!” cried Madame Maxime. Snape was now shaking his head, his lip curling. 
 
“He could not have crossed the Age Line,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. “I am sure we are all agreed on that -” 
“Dumbly-dorr must ‘ave made a mistake wiz ze line,” said Madame Maxime, shrugging. 
 
“It is possible, of course,” said Dumbledore politely. 
 
“Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!” said Professor McGonagall angrily. “Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I’m sure that should be good enough for everybody else!” 
 
She shot a very angry look at Professor Snape. 
 
“Mr. Crouch… Mr. Bagman,” said Karkaroff, his voice unctuous once more, “you are our - er - objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?” 
 
Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr. Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice. 
 
“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.” 
 
“Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,” said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed. 
 
“I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students,” said Karkaroff. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. “You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It’s only fair, Dumbledore.” 
 
“But Karkaroff, it doesn’t work like that,” said Bagman. “The Goblet of Fire’s just gone out - it won’t reignite until the start of the next tournament -” 
 
“- in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!” exploded Karkaroff. “After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!”  
 
“Empty threat, Karkaroff,” growled a voice from near the door. “You can’t leave your champion now. He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” 
 
Moody had just entered the room. He limped toward the fire, and with every right step he took, there was a loud clunk. 
 
“Convenient?” said Karkaroff. “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Moody.” Harry could tell he was trying to sound disdainful, as though what Moody was saying was barely worth his notice, but his hands gave him away; they had balled themselves into fists. 
 
“Don’t you?” said Moody quietly. “It’s very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter’s name in that goblet knowing he’d have to compete if it came out.” 
 
“Evidently, someone ‘oo wished to give ‘Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!” said Madame Maxime. 
 
“I quite agree, Madame Maxime,” said Karkaroff, bowing to her. “I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards -” 
 
“If anyone’s got reason to complain, it’s Potter,” growled Moody, “but… funny thing… I don’t hear him saying a word…” 
 
“Why should ‘e complain?” burst out Fleur Delacour, stamping her foot. “E ‘as ze chance to compete, ‘asn’t ‘e? We ‘ave all been ‘oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money - zis is a chance many would die for!” 
 
“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl. 
 
An extremely tense silence followed these words. Ludo Bagman, who was looking very anxious indeed, bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, “Moody, old man… what a thing to say!” 
 
“We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn’t discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime,” said Karkaroff loudly. “Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons. 
 
“Imagining things, am I?” growled Moody. “Seeing things, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy’s name in that goblet…” 
 
“Ah, what evidence is zere of zat?” said Madame Maxime, throwing up her huge hands. 
 
“Because they hoodwinked a very powerful magical object!” said Moody. “It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament… I’m guessing they submitted Potter’s name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in his category…” 
 
“You seem to have given this a great deal of thought, Moody,” said Karkaroff coldly, “and a very ingenious theory it is - though of course, I heard you recently got it into your head that one of your birthday presents contained a cunningly disguised basilisk egg, and smashed it to pieces before realizing it was a carriage clock. So you’ll understand if we don’t take you entirely seriously…” 
“There are those who’ll turn innocent occasions to their advantage,” Moody retorted in a menacing voice. “It’s my job to think the way Dark wizards do, Karkaroff - as you ought to remember…” 
 
“Alastor!” said Dumbledore warningly. Harry wondered for a moment whom he was speaking to, but then realized “Mad-Eye” could hardly be Moody’s real first name. Moody fell silent, though still surveying Karkaroff with satisfaction - Karkaroff’s face was burning. 
 
“How this situation arose, we do not know,” said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room. “It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do…  
 
“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr -” 
 
“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.” 
 
Dumbledore waited, but Madame Maxime did not speak, she merely glared. She wasn’t the only one either. Snape looked furious; Karkaroff livid; Bagman, however, looked rather excited. 
 
“Well, shall we crack on, then?” he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. “Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honors?” 
 
Mr. Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie. 
 
“Yes,” he said, “instructions. Yes… the first task…” 
 
He moved forward into the firelight. Close up, Harry thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there at the Quidditch World Cup.  
 
“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he told Harry, Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor, “so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard… very important.  
 
“The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges. 
 
“The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.” 
 
Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore. 
 
“I think that’s all, is it, Albus?” 
“I think so,” said Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?” 
 
“No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,” said Mr. Crouch. “It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment… I’ve left young Weatherby in charge… Very enthusiastic… a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…  
 
“You’ll come and have a drink before you go, at least?” said Dumbledore. 
 
“Come on, Barty, I’m staying!” said Bagman brightly. “It’s all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!” 
 
“I think not, Ludo,” said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience. 
 
“Professor Karkaroff - Madame Maxime - a nightcap?” said Dumbledore. 
 
But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur’s shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Harry could hear them both talking very fast in French as they went off into the Great Hall. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence. 
 
“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you go up to bed,” said Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. “I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.” 
 
Harry glanced at Cedric, who nodded, and they left together. 
 
The Great Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smiles of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality. 
 
“So,” said Cedric, with a slight smile. “We’re playing against each other again!”  
 
“I s’pose,” said Harry. He really couldn’t think of anything to say. The inside of his head seemed to be in complete disarray, as though his brain had been ransacked. 
 
“So… tell me…” said Cedric as they reached the entrance hall, which was now lit only by torches in the absence of the Goblet of Fire. “How did you get your name in?” 
 
“I didn’t,” said Harry, staring up at him. “I didn’t put it in. I was telling the truth.” 
 
“Ah… okay,” said Cedric. Harry could tell Cedric didn’t believe him. “Well… see you, then.” 
 
Instead of going up the marble staircase, Cedric headed for a door to its right. Harry stood listening to him going down the stone steps beyond it, then, slowly, he started to climb the marble ones. 
 
Was anyone except Ron and Hermione going to believe him, or would they all think he’d put himself in for the tournament? Yet how could anyone think that, when he was facing competitors who’d had three years’ more magical education than he had - when he was now facing tasks that not only sounded very dangerous, but which were to be performed in front of hundreds of people? Yes, he’d thought about it… he’d fantasized about it… but it had been a joke, really, an idle sort of dream… he’d never really, seriously considered entering.. 
 
But someone else had considered it… someone else had wanted him in the tournament, and had made sure he was entered. Why? To give him a treat? He didn’t think so, somehow… To see him make a fool of himself? Well, they were likely to get their wish… But to get him killed? Was Moody just being his usual paranoid self? Couldn’t someone have put Harry’s name in the goblet as a trick, a practical joke? Did anyone really want him dead? 
 
Harry was able to answer that at once. Yes, someone wanted him dead, someone had wanted him dead ever since he had been a year old… Lord Voldemort. But how could Voldemort have ensured that Harry’s name got into the Goblet of Fire? Voldemort was supposed to be far away, in some distant country, in hiding, alone… feeble and powerless…  
 
Yet in that dream he had had, just before he had awoken with his scar hurting, Voldemort had not been alone… he had been talking to Wormtail… plotting Harry’s murder. Harry got a shock to find himself facing the Fat Lady already. He had barely noticed where his feet were carrying him. It was also a surprise to see that she was not alone in her frame. The wizened witch who had flitted into her neighbor’s painting when he had joined the champions downstairs was now sitting smugly beside the Fat Lady. She must have dashed through every picture lining seven staircases to reach here before him. Both she and the Fat Lady were looking down at him with the keenest interest. 
 
“Well, well, well,” said the Fat Lady, “Violet’s just told me everything. Who’s just been chosen as school champion, then?” 
 
“Balderdash,” said Harry dully. 
 
“It most certainly isn’t!” said the pale witch indignantly. 
 
“No, no, Vi, it’s the password,” said the Fat Lady soothingly, and she swung forward on her hinges to let Harry into the common room. 
 
The blast of noise that met Harry’s ears when the portrait opened almost knocked him backward. Next thing he knew, he was being wrenched inside the common room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and was facing the whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom were screaming, applauding, and whistling. 
 
“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” bellowed Fred; he looked half annoyed, half deeply impressed. 
 
“How did you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!” roared George.  
“I didn’t,” Harry said. “I don’t know how -” 
 
But Angelina had now swooped down upon him; “Oh if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s a Gryffindor -” 
 
“You’ll be able to pay back Diggory for that last Quidditch match, Harry!” shrieked Katie Bell, another of the Gryffindor Chasers. 
 
“We’ve got food, Harry, come and have some -” 
 
“I’m not hungry, I had enough at the feast -” 
 
But nobody wanted to hear that he wasn’t hungry; nobody wanted to hear that he hadn’t put his name in the goblet; not one single person seemed to have noticed that he wasn’t at all in the mood to celebrate… Lee Jordan had unearthed a Gryffindor banner from somewhere, and he insisted on draping it around Harry like a cloak. Harry couldn’t get away; whenever he tried to sidle over to the staircase up to the dormitories, the crowd around him closed ranks, forcing another butterbeer on him, stuffing crisps and peanuts into his hands… Everyone wanted to know how he had done it, how he had tricked Dumbledore’s Age Line and managed to get his name into the goblet…  
 
“I didn’t,” he said, over and over again, “I don’t know how it happened.” 
 
But for all the notice anyone took, he might just as well not have answered at all.  
 
“I’m tired!” he bellowed finally, after nearly half an hour. “No, seriously, George - I’m going to bed -” 
 
He wanted more than anything to find Ron and Hermione, to find a bit of sanity, but neither of them seemed to be in the common room. Insisting that he needed to sleep, and almost flattening the little Creevey brothers as they attempted to waylay him at the foot of the stairs, Harry managed to shake everyone off and climb up to the dormitory as fast as he could. 
 
To his great relief, he found Ron was lying on his bed in the otherwise empty dormitory, still fully dressed. He looked up when Harry slammed the door behind him. 
 
“Where’ve you been?” Harry said. 
 
“Oh hello,” said Ron. 
 
He was grinning, but it was a very odd, strained sort of grin. Harry suddenly became aware that he was still wearing the scarlet Gryffindor banner that Lee had tied around him. He hastened to take it off, but it was knotted very tightly. Ron lay on the bed without moving, watching Harry struggle to remove it. 
 
“So,” he said, when Harry had finally removed the banner and thrown it into a corner. “Congratulations.” 
 
“What d’you mean, congratulations?” said Harry, staring at Ron. There was definitely something wrong with the way Ron was smiling: It was more like a grimace. 
 
“Well… no one else got across the Age Line,” said Ron. “Not even Fred and George. What did you use - the Invisibility Cloak?” 
 
“The Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t have got me over that line,” said Harry slowly.  
 
“Oh right,” said Ron. “I thought you might’ve told me if it was the cloak… because it would’ve covered both of us, wouldn’t it? But you found another way, did you?” 
 
“Listen,” said Harry, “I didn’t put my name in that goblet. Someone else must’ve done it.” 
 
Ron raised his eyebrows. 
 
“What would they do that for?” 
 
“I dunno,” said Harry. He felt it would sound very melodramatic to say, “To kill me.” 
 
Ron’s eyebrows rose so high that they were in danger of disappearing into his hair. 
 
“It’s okay, you know, you can tell me the truth,” he said. “If you don’t want everyone else to know, fine, but I don’t know why you’re bothering to lie, you didn’t get into trouble for it, did you? That friend of the Fat Lady’s, that Violet, she’s already told us all Dumbledore’s letting you enter. A thousand Galleons prize money, eh? And you don’t have to do end-of-year tests either…” 
 “I didn’t put my name in that goblet!” said Harry, starting to feel angry. 
 
“Yeah, okay,” said Ron, in exactly the same sceptical tone as Cedric. “Only you said this morning you’d have done it last night, and no one would’ve seen you… I’m not stupid, you know.” 
 
“You’re doing a really good impression of it,” Harry snapped. 
 
“Yeah?” said Ron, and there was no trace of a grin, forced or otherwise, on his face now. “You want to get to bed, Harry. I expect you’ll need to be up early tomorrow for a photo-call or something.” 
 
He wrenched the hangings shut around his four-poster, leaving Harry standing there by the door, staring at the dark red velvet curtains, now hiding one of the few people he had been sure would believe him. 
 
When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him a moment to remember why he felt so miserable and worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of his own four-poster, intending to talk to Ron, to force Ron to believe him - only to find that Ron’s bed was empty; he had obviously gone down to breakfast. 
 
Harry dressed and went down the spiral staircase into the common room. The moment he appeared, the people who had already finished breakfast broke into applause again. The prospect of going down into the Great Hall and facing the rest of the Gryffindors, all treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting; it was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to be cornered by the Creevey brothers, who were both beckoning frantically to him to join them. He walked resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open, climbed out of it, and found himself face-to-face with Hermione. 
 
“Hello,” she said, holding up a stack of toast, which she was carrying in a napkin. “I brought you this… Want to go for a walk?” 
 
“Good idea,” said Harry gratefully. 
 
They went downstairs, crossed the entrance hall quickly without looking in at the Great Hall, and were soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where the Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in the water. It was a chilly morning, and they kept moving, munching their toast, as Harry told Hermione exactly what had happened after he had left the Gryffindor table the night before. 
 
To his immense relief, Hermione accepted his story without question. 
 
“Well, of course I knew you hadn’t entered yourself,” she said when he’d finished telling her about the scene in the chamber off the Hall. “The look on your face when Dumbledore read out your name! But the question is, who did put it in? Because Moody’s right, Harry… I don’t think any student could have done it… they’d never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over Dumbledore’s -” 
 
“Have you seen Ron?” Harry interrupted. 
 
Hermione hesitated. 
 
“Erm… yes… he was at breakfast,” she said. 
 
“Does he still think I entered myself?” 
 
“Well… no, I don’t think so… not really,” said Hermione awkwardly. 
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘not really’?” 
 
“Oh Harry, isn’t it obvious?” Hermione said despairingly. “He’s jealous!” 
 
“Jealous?” Harry said incredulously. “Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?” 
 
“Look,” said Hermione patiently, “it’s always you who gets all the attention, you know it is. I know it’s not your fault,” she added quickly, seeing Harry open his mouth furiously. “I know you don’t ask for it… but - well - you know, Ron’s got all those brothers to compete against at home, and you’re his best friend, and you’re really famous - he’s always shunted to one side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this is just one time too many…  
 
“Great,” said Harry bitterly. “Really great. Tell him from me I’ll swap any time he wants. Tell him from me he’s welcome to it… People gawping at my forehead everywhere I go…” 
 
“I’m not teiling him anything,” Hermione said shortly. “Tell him yourself. It’s the only way to sort this out.” 
 
“I’m not running around after him trying to make him grow up!” Harry said, so loudly that several owls in a nearby tree took flight in alarm. “Maybe he’ll believe I’m not enjoying myself once I’ve got my neck broken or -” 
 
“That’s not funny,” said Hermione quietly. “That’s not funny at all.” She looked extremely anxious. “Harry, I’ve been thinking - you know what we’ve got to do, don’t you? Straight away, the moment we get back to the castle?” 
 
“Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the -” 
 
“Write to Sirius. You’ve got to tell him what’s happened. He asked you to keep him posted on everything that’s going on at Hogwarts… It’s almost as if he expected something like this to happen. I brought some parchment and a quill out with me -” 
 
“Come off it,” said Harry, looking around to check that they couldn’t be overheard, but the grounds were quite deserted. “He came back to the country just because my scar twinged. He’ll probably come bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone’s entered me in the Triwizard Tournament -” 
 
“He’d want you to tell him,” said Hermione sternly. “He’s going to find out anyway.” 
 
“How?” 
 
“Harry, this isn’t going to be kept quiet,” said Hermione, very seriously. “This tournament’s famous, and you’re famous. I’ll be really surprised if there isn’t anything in the Daily Prophet about you competing… You’re already in half the books about You-Know-Who, you know… and Sirius would rather hear it from you, I know he would.” 
 
“Okay, okay, I’ll write to him,” said Harry, throwing his last piece of toast into the lake. They both stood and watched it floating there for a moment, before a large tentacle rose out of the water and scooped it beneath the surface. Then they returned to the castle. 
 
“Whose owl am I going to use?” Harry said as they climbed the stairs. “He told me not to use Hedwig again.” 
 
“Ask Ron if you can borrow -” 
 
“I’m not asking Ron for anything,” Harry said flatly. 
 
“Well, borrow one of the school owls, then, anyone can use them,” said Hermione.  
 
They went up to the Owlery. Hermione gave Harry a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink, then strolled around the long lines of perches, looking at all the different owls, while Harry sat down against a wall and wrote his letter. 
 
Dear Sirius, 
 
You told me to keep you posted on what’s happening at Hogwarts, so here goes – I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Triwizard Tournament’s happening this year and on Saturday night I got picked as a fourth champion. I don’t who put my name in the Goblet of Fire, because I didn’t. The other Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory, from Hufflepuff 
 
He paused at this point, thinking. He had an urge to say something about the large weight of anxiety that seemed to have settled inside his chest since last night, but he couldn’t think how to translate this into words, so he simply dipped his quill back into the ink bottle and wrote, 
 
Hope you’re okay, and Buckbeak –  
 
Harry 
 
“Finished,” he told Hermione, getting to his feet and brushing straw off his robes. At this, Hedwig fluttered down onto his shoulder and held out her leg. 
 
“I can’t use you,” Harry told her, looking around for the school owls. “I’ve got to use one of these.” 
 
Hedwig gave a very loud hoot and took off so suddenly that her talons cut into his shoulder. She kept her back to Harry all the time he was tying his letter to the leg of a large barn owl. When the barn owl had flown off, Harry reached out to stroke Hedwig, but she clicked her beak furiously and soared up into the rafters out of reach. 
 
“First Ron, then you,” Harry said angrily. “This isn’t my fault.” 
 
If Harry had thought that matters would improve once everyone got used to the idea of him being champion, the following day showed him how mistaken he was. He could no longer avoid the rest of the school once he was back at lessons - and it was clear that the rest of the school, just like the Gryffindors, thought Harry had entered himself for the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors, however, they did not seem impressed. 
 
The Hufflepuffs, who were usually on excellent terms with the Gryffindors, had turned remarkably cold toward the whole lot of them. One Herbology lesson was enough to demonstrate this. It was plain that the Hufflepuffs felt that Harry had stolen their champion’s glory; a feeling exacerbated, perhaps, by the fact that Hufflepuff House very rarely got any glory, and that Cedric was one of the few who had ever given them any, having beaten Gryffindor once at Quidditch. Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch Fletchley, with whom Harry normally got on very well, did not talk to him even though they were repotting Bouncing Bulbs at the same tray - though they did laugh rather unpleasantly when one of the Bouncing Bulbs wriggled free from Harry’s grip and smacked him hard in the face. Ron wasn’t talking to Harry either. Hermione sat between them, making very forced conversation, but though both answered her normally, they avoided making eye contact with each other. Harry thought even Professor Sprout seemed distant with him - but then, she was Head of Hufflepuff House.  
 
He would have been looking forward to seeing Hagrid under normal circumstances, but Care of Magical Creatures meant seeing the Slytherins too – the first time he would come face-to-face with them since becoming champion. 
 
Predictably, Malfoy arrived at Hagrid’s cabin with his familiar sneer firmly in place. 
 
“Ah, look, boys, it’s the champion,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle the moment he got within earshot of Harry. “Got your autograph books? Better get a signature now, because I doubt he’s going to be around much longer… Half the Triwizard champions have died… how long d’you reckon you’re going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task’s my bet.” 
 
Crabbe and Goyle guffawed sycophantically, but Malfoy had to stop there, because Hagrid emerged from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended Skrewt. To the class’s horror, Hagrid proceeded to explain that the reason the skrewts had been killing one another was an excess of pent-up energy, and that the solution would be for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk. The only good thing about this plan was that it distracted Malfoy completely. 
 
“Take this thing for a walk?” he repeated in disgust, staring into one of the boxes. “And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?” 
 
“Roun’ the middle,” said Hagrid, demonstrating. “Er - yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus’ as an extra precaution, like. Harry - you come here an’ help me with this big one…  
 
Hagrid’s real intention, however, was to talk to Harry away from the rest of the class. He waited until everyone else had set off with their skrewts, then turned to Harry and said, very seriously, “So - yer competin’, Harry. In the tournament. School champion.” 
 
“One of the champions,” Harry corrected him. 
 
Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes looked very anxious under his wild eyebrows. 
 
“No idea who put yeh in fer it, Harry?” 
 
“You believe I didn’t do it, then?” said Harry, concealing with difficulty the rush of gratitude he felt at Hagrid’s words. 
 
“Course I do,” Hagrid grunted. “Yeh say it wasn’ you, an’ I believe yeh - an’ Dumbledore believes yer, an’ all.” 
 
“Wish I knew who did do it,” said Harry bitterly. 
 
The pair of them looked out over the lawn; the class was widely scattered now, and all in great difficulty. The skrewts were now over three feet long, and extremely powerful. No longer shell-less and colorless, they had developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny armor. They looked like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs - but still without recognizable heads or eyes. They had become immensely strong and very hard to control. 
 
“Look like they’re havin’ fun, don’ they?” Hagrid said happily. Harry assumed he was talking about the skrewts, because his classmates certainly weren’t; every now and then, with an alarming bang, one of the skrewts’ ends would explode, causing it to shoot forward several yards, and more than one person was being dragged along on their stomach, trying desperately to get back on their feet. 
 
“Ah, I don’ know, Harry,” Hagrid sighed suddenly, looking back down at him with a worried expression on his face. “School champion… everythin’ seems ter happen ter you, doesn’ it?” 
 
Harry didn’t answer. Yes, everything did seem to happen to him… that was more or less what Hermione had said as they had walked around the lake, and that was the reason, according to her, that Ron was no longer talking to him. The next few days were some of Harry’s worst at Hogwarts. The closest he had ever come to feeling like this had been during those months, in his second year, when a large part of the school had suspected him of attacking his fellow students. But Ron had been on his side then. He thought he could have coped with the rest of the school’s behavior if he could just have had Ron back as a friend, but he wasn’t going to try and persuade Ron to talk to him if Ron didn’t want to. Nevertheless, it was lonely with dislike pouring in on him from all sides. 
 
He could understand the Hufflepuffs’ attitude, even if he didn’t like it; they had their own champion to support. He expected nothing less than vicious insults from the Slytherins - he was highly unpopular there and always had been, because he had helped Gryffindor beat them so often, both at Quidditch and in the Inter-House Championship. But he had hoped the Ravenclaws might have found it in their hearts to support him as much as Cedric. He was wrong, however. Most Ravenclaws seemed to think that he had been desperate to earn himself a bit more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his name. 
 
Then there was the fact that Cedric looked the part of a champion so much more than he did. Exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and gray eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more admiration these days, Cedric or Viktor Krum. Harry actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been so keen to get Krum’s autograph begging Cedric to sign their school bags one lunchtime. 
 
Meanwhile there was no reply from Sirius, Hedwig was refusing to come anywhere near him, Professor Trelawney was predicting his death with even more certainty than usual, and he did so badly at Summoning Charms in Professor Flitwick’s class that he was given extra homework - the only person to get any, apart from Neville. 
 
“It’s really not that difficult, Harry,” Hermione tried to reassure him as they left Flitwick’s class - she had been making objects zoom across the room to her all lesson, as though she were some sort of weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and lunascopes. “You just weren’t concentrating properly -” 
 
“Wonder why that was,” said Harry darkly as Cedric Diggory walked past, surrounded by a large group of simpering girls, all of whom looked at Harry as though he were a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt. “Still - never mind, eh? Double Potions to look forward to this afternoon...” 
 
Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snape and the Slytherins, all of whom seemed determined to punish Harry as much as possible for daring to become school champion, was about the most unpleasant thing Harry could imagine. He had already struggled through one Friday’s worth, with Hermione sitting next to him intoning “ignore them, ignore them, ignore them” under her breath, and he couldn’t see why today should be any better. 
 
When he and Hermione arrived at Snape’s dungeon after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, each and every one of them wearing a large badge on the front of his or her robes. For one wild moment Harry thought they were S.P.E.W. badges - then he saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit underground passage: 
 
SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY—THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION! 
 
“Like them, Potter?” said Malfoy loudly as Harry approached. “And this isn’t all they do - look!” 
 
He pressed his badge into his chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green: POTTER STINKS! 
 
The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them pressed their badges too, until the message POTTER STINKS was shining brightly all around Harry. He felt the heat rise in his face and neck. 
 
“Oh very funny,” Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were laughing harder than anyone, “really witty.”  
 
Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn’t laughing, but he wasn’t sticking up for Harry either. 
 
“Want one, Granger?” said Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.” 
 
Some of the anger Harry had been feeling for days and days seemed to burst through a dam in his chest. He had reached for his wand before he’d thought what he was doing. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor. 
 
“Harry!” Hermione said warningly. 
 
“Go on, then, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, drawing out his own wand. “Moody’s not here to look after you now - do it, if you’ve got the guts -” 
 
For a split second, they looked into each other’s eyes, then, at exactly the same time, both acted. 
 
“Funnunculus!” Harry yelled. 
 
“Densaugeo!” screamed Malfoy. 
 
Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in midair, and ricocheted off at angles — Harry’s hit Goyle in the face, and Malfoy’s hit Hermione. Goyle bellowed and put his hands to his nose, where great ugly boils were springing up - Hermione, whimpering in panic, was clutching her mouth.  
 
“Hermione!” 
 
Ron had hurried forward to see what was wrong with her; Harry turned and saw Ron dragging Hermione’s hand away from her face. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Hermione’s front teeth - already larger than average - were now growing at an alarming rate; she was looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth elongated, past her bottom lip, toward her chin - panic-stricken, she felt them and let out a terrified cry. 
 
“And what is all this noise about?” said a soft, deadly voice. 
 
Snape had arrived. The Slytherins clamored to give their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow finger at Malfoy and said, “Explain.” 
 
“Potter attacked me, sir -” 
 
“We attacked each other at the same time!” Harry shouted. 
 
“- and he hit Goyle - look -” 
 
Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi. 
 
“Hospital wing, Goyle,” Snape said calmly. 
 
“Malfoy got Hermione!” Ron said. “Look!” 
 
He forced Hermione to show Snape her teeth - she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar. Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at Hermione from behind Snape’s back. 
 
Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, “I see no difference.” 
 
Hermione let out a whimper; her eyes filled with tears, she turned on her heel and ran, ran all the way up the corridor and out of sight. 
 
It was lucky, perhaps, that both Harry and Ron started shouting at Snape at the same time; lucky their voices echoed so much in the stone corridor, for in the confused din, it was impossible for him to hear exactly what they were calling him. He got the gist, however. 
 
“Let’s see,” he said, in his silkiest voice. “Fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of detentions.” 
 
Harry’s ears were ringing. The injustice of it made him want to curse Snape into a thousand slimy pieces. He passed Snape, walked with Ron to the back of the dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto the table. Ron was shaking with anger too - for a moment, it felt as though everything was back to normal between them, but then Ron turned and sat down with Dean and Seamus instead, leaving Harry alone at his table. On the other side of the dungeon, Malfoy turned his back on Snape and pressed his badge, smirking. POTTER STINKS flashed once more 
across the room. Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, picturing horrific things 
happening to him… If only he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse… he’d have Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching. 
 
“Antidotes!” said Snape, looking around at them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. “You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting someone on whom to test one…” 
 
Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and Harry knew what was coming. Snape was going to poison him. Harry imagined picking up his cauldron, and sprinting to the front of the class, and bringing it down on Snape’s greasy head - And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in on Harry’s thoughts. 
 
It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, beaming at Harry, and walked up to Snape’s desk at the front of the room. 
 
“Yes?” said Snape curtly. 
 
“Please, sir, I’m supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs.” Snape stared down his hooked nose at Colin, whose smile faded from his eager face. 
 
“Potter has another hour of Potions to complete,” said Snape coldly. “He will come upstairs when this class is finished.” 
 
Colin went pink. 
 
“Sir - sir, Mr. Bagman wants him,” he said nervously. “All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs…” 
 
Harry would have given anything he owned to have stopped Colin saying those last few words. He chanced half a glance at Ron, but Ron was staring determinedly at the ceiling. 
 
“Very well, very well,” Snape snapped. “Potter, leave your things here, I want you back down here later to test your antidote.” 
 
“Please, sir - he’s got to take his things with him,” squeaked Cohn. “All the champions…” 
 
“Very well!” said Snape. “Potter - take your bag and get out of my sight!” 
 
Harry swung his bag over his shoulder, got up, and headed for the door. As he walked through the Slytherin desks, POTTER STINKS flashed at him from every direction. 
 
“It’s amazing, isn’t it, Harry?” said Colin, starting to speak the moment Harry had closed the dungeon door behind him. “Isn’t it, though? You being champion?”  
 
“Yeah, really amazing,” said Harry heavily as they set off toward the steps into the entrance hall. “What do they want photos for, Colin?” 
 
“The Daily Prophet, I think!” 
 
“Great,” said Harry dully. “Exactly what I need. More publicity.” 
 
“Good luck!” said Colin when they had reached the right room. Harry knocked on the door and entered. 
 
He was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who was wearing magenta robes. 
 
Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fheur were in conversation. Fheur looked a good deal happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light. A paunchy man, holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye. 
 
Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly, and bounded forward. 
 
“Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come… nothing to worry about, it’s just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment -” 
 
“Wand weighing?” Harry repeated nervously. 
 
“We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they’re your most important tools in the tasks ahead,” said Bagman. “The expert’s upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there’s going to be a little photoshoot. This is Rita Skeeter,” he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. “She’s doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet…” 
 
“Maybe not that small, Ludo,” said Rita Skeeter, her eyes on Harry. 
 
Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson. 
 
“I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?” she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Harry. “The youngest champion, you know… to add a bit of color?” 
 
“Certainly!” cried Bagman. “That is - if Harry has no objection?” 
 
“Er -” said Harry. 
 
“Lovely,” said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry’s upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him out of the room again and opening a nearby door. 
 
“We don’t want to be in there with all that noise,” she said. “Let’s see… ah, yes, this is nice and cozy.” 
 
It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her. 
“Come along, dear - that’s right - lovely,” said Rita Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them into darkness. “Let’s see now…” 
 
She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that they could see what they were doing. 
 
“You won’t mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally…” 
 
“A what?” said Harry. 
 
Rita Skeeter’s smile widened. Harry counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly. 
 
“Testing… my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter.” 
 
Harry hooked down quickly at the quill. The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started to scribble, skidding across the parchment: 
 
Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, who’s savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations – 
 
“Lovely,” said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her handbag. Now she leaned toward Harry and said, “So, Harry… what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?” 
 
“Er -” said Harry again, but he was distracted by the quill. Even though he wasn’t speaking, it was dashing across the parchment, and in its wake he could make out a fresh sentence:  
 
An ugly scar, souvenier of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes – 
 
“Ignore the quill, Harry,” said Rita Skeeter firmly. Reluctantly Harry looked up at her instead. “Now — why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry?” 
 
“I didn’t,” said Harry. “I don’t know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn’t put it in there.” 
 
Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow. 
 
“Come now, Harry, there’s no need to be scared of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn’t really have entered at all. But don’t worry about that. Our readers hove a rebel.” 
“But I didn’t enter,” Harry repeated. “I don’t know who -” 
 
“How do you feel about the tasks ahead?” said Rita Skeeter. “Excited? Nervous?” 
 
“I haven’t really thought… yeah, nervous, I suppose,” said Harry. His insides squirmed uncomfortably as he spoke. 
 
“Champions have died in the past, haven’t they?” said Rita Skeeter briskly. “Have you thought about that at all?” 
 
“Well… they say it’s going to be a lot safer this year,” said Harry. 
 
The quill whizzed across the parchment between them, back and forward as though it were skating. 
 
“Of course, you’ve looked death in the face before, haven’t you?” said Rita Skeeter, watching him closely. “How would you say that’s affected you?” 
 
“Er,” said Harry, yet again. 
 
“Do you think that the trauma in your past might have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that perhaps you were tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because - “ 
 
“I didn’t enter,” said Harry, starting to feel irritated. 
 
“Can you remember your parents at all?” said Rita Skeeter, talking over him. 
 
“No,” said Harry. 
 
“How do you think they’d feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?” 
 
Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth was he to know how his parents would feel if they were alive? He could feel Rita Skeeter watching him very intently. Frowning, he avoided her gaze and hooked down at words the quill had just written: 
 
Tears fill those startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember. 
 
“I have NOT got tears in my eyes!” said Harry loudly. 
 
Before Rita Skeeter could say a word, the door of the broom cupboard was pulled open. Harry looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard. 
 
“Dumbledore!” cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight - but Harry noticed that her quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from the box of Magical Mess Remover, and Rita’s clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. “How are you?” she said, standing up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. “I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards’ Conference?” 
 
“Enchantingly nasty,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat.” 
 
Rita Skeeter didn’t look remotely abashed. 
 
“I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street -” 
 
“I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita,” said Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, “but I’m afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard.”  
 
Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry hurried back into the room. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly next to Cedric, hooking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sitting - Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the 
Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment. 
 
“May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?” said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges’ table and talking to the champions. “He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament.” 
 
Harry hooked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before - he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had bought his own wand over three years ago in Diagon Alley. 
 
“Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?” said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room. 
 
Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Olhivander and handed him her wand. 
 
“Hmm…” he said. 
 
He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it chose to his eyes and examined it carefully. 
 
“Yes,” he said quietly, “nine and a half inches… inflexible… rosewood… and containing… dear me…” 
 
“An ‘air from ze ‘ead of a veela,” said Fleur. “One of my grandmuzzer’s.” 
 
So Fleur was part veela, thought Harry, making a mental note to tell Ron… then he remembered that Ron wasn’t speaking to him. 
 
“Yes,” said Mr. Ollivander, “yes, I’ve never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands… however, to each his own, and if this suits you…” 
 
Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, “Orchideous!” and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip. 
 
“Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order,” said Mr. Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. “Mr. Diggory, you next.”  Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he passed her. 
 
“Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn’t it?” said Mr. Ollivander, with much more enthusiasm, as Cedric handed over his wand. “Yes, I remember it well. Containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly fine male unicorn… must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches… ash… pleasantly springy. It’s in fine condition… You treat it regularly?” 
 
“Polished it last night,” said Cedric, grinning. 
 
Harry hooked down at his own wand. He could see finger marks all over it. He gathered a fistful of robe from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he desisted. 
 
Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of Cedric’s wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, “Mr. Krum, if you please.” 
 
Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes. 
 
“Hmm,” said Mr. Olhivander, “this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I’m much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I… however…” 
 
He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes. 
 
“Yes… hornbeam and dragon heartstring?” he shot at Krum, who nodded. “Rather thicker than one usually sees… quite rigid… ten and a quarter inches… Avis!”  
 
The hornbeam wand let off a blast hike a gun, and a number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight. 
“Good,” said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. “Which leaves… Mr. Potter.” 
 
Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr. Ollivander. He handed over his wand. 
 
“Aaaah, yes,” said Mr. Ohlivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember.” 
 
Harry could remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened yesterday…  
 
Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander’s shop with Hagrid to buy a wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then started handing him wands to try. Harry had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him - this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry had been so compatible with this wand. “Curious,” he had said, “curious,” and not until Harry asked what was curious had Mr. Olhivander explained that the phoenix feather in Harry’s wand had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort’s. 
 
Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its relation to Voldemort’s wand was something it couldn’t help - rather as he couldn’t help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn’t about to tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement if he did. 
 
Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry’s wand than anyone else’s. Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect condition. 
 
“Thank you all,” said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges’ table. “You may go back to your lessons now - or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end-” 
 
Feeling that at last something had gone right today, Harry got up to leave, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat. 
 
“Photos, Dumbledore, photos!” cried Bagman excitedly. “All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?” 
 
“Er - yes, let’s do those first,” said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Harry again. “And then perhaps some individual shots.” 
 
The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn’t stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, whom Harry would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were free to go. Harry went down to dinner. Hermione wasn’t there - he supposed she was still in the hospital wing having her teeth fixed. He ate alone at the end of the table, then returned to Gryffindor Tower, thinking of all the extra work on Summoning Charms that he had to do. Up in the dormitory, he came across Ron. 
 
“You’ve had an owl,” said Ron brusquely the moment he walked in. He was pointing at Harry’s pillow. The school barn owl was waiting for him there. 
 
“Oh - right,” said Harry. 
 
“And we’ve got to do our detentions tomorrow night, Snape’s dungeon,” said Ron. He then walked straight out of the room, not looking at Harry. For a moment, Harry considered going after him - he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to talk to him or hit him, both seemed quite appealing - but the lure of Sirius’s answer was too strong. Harry strode over to the barn owl, took the letter off its leg, and unrolled it. 
 
Harry - 
 
I can’t say everything I would like to in a letter, it’s too risky in case the owl is intercepted - we need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o’clock in the morning on the 22nd ofNovember? 
 
I know better than anyone that you can look after yourself and while you’re around Dumbledore and Moody I don’t think anyone will be able to hurt you. However, someone seems to be having a good try. Entering you in that tournament would have been very risky, especially right under Dumbkdore’s nose. 
 
Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of November as quickly as you can. 
 
Sirius 
 
The prospect of talking face-to-face with Sirius was all that sustained Harry over the next fortnight, the only bright spot on a horizon that had never looked darker. The shock of finding himself school champion had worn off slightly now, and the fear of what was facing him had started to sink in. The first task was drawing steadily nearer; he felt as though it were crouching ahead of him like some horrific monster, barring his path. He had never suffered nerves like these; they were way beyond anything he had experienced before a Quidditch match, not even his last one against Slytherin, which had decided who would win the Quidditch Cup. Harry was finding it hard to think about the future at all; he felt as though his whole life had been heading up to, and would finish with, the first task.  
 
Admittedly, he didn’t see how Sirius was going to make him feel any better about having to perform an unknown piece of difficult and dangerous magic in front of hundreds of people, but the mere sight of a friendly face would be something at the moment. Harry wrote back to Sirius saying that he would be beside the common room fire at the time Sirius had suggested; and he and Hermione spent a long time going over plans for forcing any stragglers out of the common room on the night in question. If the worst came to the worst, they were going to drop a bag of Dungbombs, but they hoped they wouldn’t have to resort to that - Filch would skin them alive. 
 
In the meantime, life became even worse for Harry within the confines of the castle, for Rita Skeeter had published her piece about the Triwizard Tournament, and it had turned out to be not so much a report on the tournament as a highly colored life story of Harry. Much of the front page had been given over to a picture of Harry; the article (continuing on pages two, six, and seven) had been all about Harry, the names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions 
(misspelled) had been squashed into the last line of the article, and Cedric hadn’t been mentioned at all. 
 
The article had appeared ten days ago, and Harry still got a sick, burning feeling of shame in his stomach every time he thought about it. Rita Skeeter had reported him saying an awful lot of things that he couldn’t remember ever saying in his life, let alone in that broom cupboard. 
 
I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know they’d be very proud of me if they could see me now… Yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, I’m not ashamed to admit it… I know nothing will hurt me during the tournament, because they’re watching over me…  
 
But Rita Skeeter had gone even further than transforming his “er’s” into long, sickly sentences: She had interviewed other people about him too. 
 
Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school. 
 
From the moment the article had appeared, Harry had had to endure people — Slytherins, mainly — quoting it at him as he passed and making sneering comments. 
 
“Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in Transfiguration?” 
 
“Since when have you been one of the top students in the school, Potter? Or is this a school you and Longbottom have set up together?” 
 
“Hey - Harry!” 
 
“Yeah, that’s right!” Harry found himself shouting as he wheeled around in the corridor, having had just about enough. “I’ve just been crying my eyes out over my dead mum, and I’m just off to do a bit more…”  
 
“No - it was just - you dropped your quill.” 
 
It was Cho. Harry felt the color rising in his face. 
 
“Oh - right - sorry,” he muttered, taking the quill back. 
 
“Er… good luck on Tuesday,” she said. “I really hope you do well.” 
 
Which left Harry feeling extremely stupid. 
 
Hermione had come in for her fair share of unpleasantness too, but she hadn’t yet started yelling at innocent bystanders; in fact, Harry was full of admiration for the way she was handling the situation. 
 
“Stunningly pretty? Her?” Pansy Parkinson had shrieked the first time she had come face-to-face with Hermione after Rita’s article had appeared. “What was she judging against - a chipmunk?” 
 
“Ignore it,” Hermione said in a dignified voice, holding her head in the air and stalking past the sniggering Slytherin girls as though she couldn’t hear them. “Just ignore it, Harry.” 
 
But Harry couldn’t ignore it. Ron hadn’t spoken to him at all since he had told him about Snape’s detentions. Harry had half hoped they would make things up during the two hours they were forced to pickle rats’ brains in Snape’s dungeon, but that had been the day Rita’s article had appeared, which seemed to have confirmed Ron’s belief that Harry was really enjoying all the attention. 
 
Hermione was furious with the pair of them; she went from one to the other, trying to force them to talk to each other, but Harry was adamant: He would talk to Ron again only if Ron admitted that Harry hadn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire and apologized for calling him a liar. 
 
“I didn’t start this,” Harry said stubbornly. “It’s his problem.” 
 
“You miss him!” Hermione said impatiently. “And I know he misses you -” 
 
“Miss him?” said Harry. “I don’t miss him…” 
 
But this was a downright lie. Harry liked Hermione very much, but she just wasn’t the same as Ron. There was much less laughter and a lot more hanging around in the library when Hermione was your best friend. Harry still hadn’t mastered Summoning Charms, he seemed to have developed something of a block about them, and Hermione insisted that learning the theory would help. They consequently spent a lot of time poring over books during their lunchtimes. 
 
Viktor Krum was in the library an awful lot too, and Harry wondered what he was up to. Was he studying, or was he looking for things to help him through the first task? Hermione often complained about Krum being there - not that he ever bothered them - but because groups of giggling girls often turned up to spy on him from behind bookshelves, and Hermione found the noise distracting.  
 
“He’s not even good-looking!” she muttered angrily, glaring at Krum’s sharp profile. “They only like him because he’s famous! They wouldn’t look twice at him if he couldn’t do that WonkyFaint thing -” 
 
“Wronski Feint,” said Harry, through gritted teeth. Quite apart from liking to get Quidditch terms correct, it caused him another pang to imagine Ron’s expression if he could have heard Hermione talking about Wonky-Faints. 
 
It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. The days until the first task seemed to slip by as though someone had fixed the clocks to work at double speed. Harry’s feeling of barely controlled panic was with him wherever he went, as everpresent as the snide comments about the Daily Prophet article. 
 
On the Saturday before the first task, all students in the third year and above were permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade. Hermione told Harry that it would do him good to get away from the castle for a bit, and Harry didn’t need much persuasion. 
 
“What about Ron, though?” he said. “Don’t you want to go with him?” 
 
“Oh… well…” Hermione went slightly pink. “I thought we might meet up with him in the Three Broomsticks…” 
 
“No,” said Harry flatly. 
 
“Oh Harry, this is so stupid -” 
 
“I’ll come, but I’m not meeting Ron, and I’m wearing my Invisibility Cloak.” 
 
“Oh all right then…” Hermione snapped, “but I hate talking to you in that cloak, I never know if I’m looking at you or not.” 
 
So Harry put on his Invisibility Cloak in the dormitory, went back downstairs, and together he and Hermione set off for Hogsmeade. 
 
Harry felt wonderfully free under the cloak; he watched other students walking past them as they entered the village, most of them sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges, but no horrible remarks came his way for a change, and nobody was quoting that stupid article. 
 
“People keep looking at me now,” said Hermione grumpily as they came out of Honeydukes Sweetshop later, eating large cream-filled chocolates. “They think I’m talking to myself.” 
 
“Don’t move your lips so much then.” 
 
“Come on, please just take off your cloak for a bit, no one’s going to bother you here.” 
 
“Oh yeah?” said Harry. “Look behind you.” 
 
Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend had just emerged from the Three Broomsticks pub. Talking in low voices, they passed right by Hermione without hooking at her. Harry backed into the wall of Honeydukes to stop Rita Skeeter from hitting him with her crocodile-skin handbag. When they were gone, Harry said, “She’s staying in the village. I bet she’s coming to watch the first task.” 
 
As he said it, his stomach flooded with a wave of molten panic. He didn’t mention this; he and Hermione hadn’t discussed what was coming in the first task much; he had the feeling she didn’t want to think about it. 
 
“She’s gone,” said Hermione, looking right through Harry toward the end of the street. “Why don’t we go and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it’s a bit cold, isn’t it? You don’t have to talk to Ron!” she added irritably, correctly interpreting his silence. 
 
The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but also with a variety of magical people Harry rarely saw anywhere else. Harry supposed that as Hogsmeade was the only all-wizard village in Britain, it was a bit of a haven for creatures like hags, who were not as adept as wizards at disguising themselves. 
 
It was very hard to move through crowds in the Invisibility Cloak, in case you accidentally trod on someone, which tended to lead to awkward questions. Harry edged slowly toward a spare table in the corner while Hermione went to buy drinks. On his way through the pub, Harry spotted Ron, who was sitting with Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Resisting the urge to give Ron a good hard poke in the back of the head, he finally reached the table and sat down at it. 
 
Hermione joined him a moment later and slipped him a butterbeer under his cloak. 
 
“I look like such an idiot, sitting here on my own,” she muttered. “Lucky I brought something to do.” 
 
And she pulled out a notebook in which she had been keeping a record of S.P.E.W. members. Harry saw his and Ron’s names at the top of the very short list. 
 
It seemed a long time ago that they had sat making up those predictions together, and Hermione had turned up and appointed them secretary and treasurer. 
 
“You know, maybe I should try and get some of the villagers involved in S.P.E.W.,” Hermione said thoughtfully, looking around the pub. 
 
“Yeah, right,” said Harry. He took a swig of butterbeer under his cloak. “Hermione, when are you going to give up on this spew stuff?” 
 
“When house-elves have decent wages and working conditions!” she hissed back. “You know, I’m starting to think it’s time for more direct action. I wonder how you get into the school kitchens?” 
 
“No idea, ask Fred and George,” said Harry. 
 
Hermione lapsed into thoughtful silence, while Harry drank his butterbeer, watching the people in the pub. All of them looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot were swapping Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table; both of them sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges on their cloaks. 
 
Right over by the door he saw Cho and a large group of her Ravenclaw friends. She wasn’t wearing a Cedric badge though… This cheered up Harry very slightly. 
 
What wouldn’t he have given to be one of these people, sitting around laughing and talking, with nothing to worry about but homework? He imagined how it would have felt to be here if his name hadn’t come out of the Goblet of Fire. He wouldn’t be wearing the Invisibility Cloak, for one thing. Ron would be sitting with him. The three of them would probably be happily imagining what deadly dangerous task the school champions would be facing on Tuesday. He’d have been really hooking forward to it, watching them do whatever it was… cheering on 
Cedric with everyone else, safe in a seat at the back of the stands…  
 
He wondered how the other champions were feeling. Every time he had seen Cedric lately, he had been surrounded by admirers and looking nervous but excited. Harry glimpsed Fleur Delacour from time to time in the corridors; she looked exactly as she always did, haughty and unruffled. And Krum just sat in the library, poring over books. 
 
Harry thought of Sirius, and the tight, tense knot in his chest seemed to ease slightly. He would be speaking to him in just over twelve hours, for tonight was the night they were meeting at the common room fire - assuming nothing went wrong, as everything else had done lately…  
 
“Look, it’s Hagrid!” said Hermione. 
 
The back of Hagrid’s enormous shaggy head - he had mercifully abandoned his bunches - emerged over the crowd. Harry wondered why he hadn’t spotted him at once, as Hagrid was so large, but standing up carefully, he saw that Hagrid had been leaning low, talking to Professor Moody. Hagrid had his usual enormous tankard in front of him, but Moody was drinking from his hip flask. Madam Rosmerta, the pretty landlady, didn’t seem to think much of this; she was looking askance at Moody as she collected glasses from tables around them. Perhaps she thought it was an insult to her mulled mead, but Harry knew better. Moody had told them all during their last Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that he preferred to prepare his own food and drink at all times, as it was so easy for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup. 
 
As Harry watched, he saw Hagrid and Moody get up to leave. He waved, then remembered that Hagrid couldn’t see him. Moody, however, paused, his magical eye on the corner where Harry was standing. He tapped Hagrid in the small of the back (being unable to reach his shoulder), muttered something to him, and then the pair of them made their way back across the pub toward Harry and Hermione’s table. 
 
“All right, Hermione?” said Hagrid loudly. 
 
“Hello,” said Hermione, smiling back. 
 
Moody limped around the table and bent down; Harry thought he was reading the S.P.E.W. notebook, until he muttered, “Nice cloak, Potter.” 
 
Harry stared at him in amazement. The large chunk missing from Moody’s nose was particularly obvious at a few inches’ distance. Moody grinned. 
 
“Can your eye - I mean, can you -?” 
 
“Yeah, it can see through Invisibility Cloaks,” Moody said quietly. “And it’s come in useful at times, I can tell you.” 
 
Hagrid was beaming down at Harry too. Harry knew Hagrid couldn’t see him, but Moody had obviously told Hagrid he was there. Hagrid now bent down on the pretext of reading the S.P.E.W. notebook as well, and said in a whisper so low that only Harry could hear it, “Harry, meet me tonight at midnight at me cabin. Wear that cloak.”  
 
Straightening up, Hagrid said loudly, “Nice ter see yeh, Hermione,” winked, and departed. Moody followed him. 
 
“Why does Hagrid want me to meet him at midnight?” Harry said, very surprised. 
 
“Does he?” said Hermione, looking startled. “I wonder what he’s up to? I don’t know whether you should go, Harry…” She looked nervously around and hissed, “It might make you late for Sirius.” 
It was true that going down to Hagrid’s at midnight would mean cutting his meeting with Sirius very fine indeed; Hermione suggested sending Hedwig down to Hagrid’s to tell him he couldn’t go - always assuming she would consent to take the note, of course - Harry, however, thought it better just to be quick at whatever Hagrid wanted him for. He was very curious to know what this might be; Hagrid had never asked Harry to visit him so late at night. 
 
At half past eleven that evening, Harry, who had pretended to go up to bed early, pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over himself and crept back downstairs through the common room. Quite a few people were still in there. The Creevey brothers had managed to get hold of a stack of Support Cedric Diggory! badges and were trying to bewitch them to make them say Support Harry Potter! instead. So far, however, all they had managed to do was get the badges stuck on POTTER STINKS. Harry crept past them to the portrait hole and waited for a minute or so, keeping an eye on his watch. Then Hermione opened the Fat Lady for him from outside as they had planned. He slipped past her with a whispered “Thanks!” and set off through the castle. 
 
The grounds were very dark. Harry walked down the lawn toward the lights shining in Hagrid’s cabin. The inside of the enormous Beauxbatons carriage was also lit up; Harry could hear Madame Maxime talking inside it as he knocked on Hagrid’s front door. 
 
“You there, Harry?” Hagrid whispered, opening the door and looking around. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, slipping inside the cabin and pulling the cloak down off his head. “What’s up?” 
 
“Got summat ter show yeh,” said Hagrid. 
 
There was an air of enormous excitement about Hagrid. He was wearing a flower that resembled an oversized artichoke in his buttonhole. It looked as though he had abandoned the use of axle grease, but he had certainly attempted to comb his hair - Harry could see the comb’s broken teeth tangled in it. 
 
“What’re you showing me?” Harry said warily, wondering if the skrewts had laid eggs, or Hagrid had managed to buy another giant three-headed dog off a stranger in a pub. 
 
“Come with me, keep quiet, an’ keep yerself covered with that cloak,” said Hagrid. “We won’ take Fang, he won’ like it…  
 
“Listen, Hagrid, I can’t stay long… I’ve got to be back up at the castle by one o’clock -” 
 
But Hagrid wasn’t listening; he was opening the cabin door and striding off into the night. Harry hurried to follow and found, to his great surprise, that Hagrid was leading him to the Beauxbatons carriage. 
 
“Hagrid, what -?” 
 
“Shhh!” said Hagrid, and he knocked three times on the door bearing the crossed golden wands. 
Madame Maxime opened it. She was wearing a silk shawl wrapped around her massive shoulders. She smiled when she saw Hagrid. 
 
“Ah, ‘Agrid… it is time?” 
 
“Bong-sewer,” said Hagrid, beaming at her, and holding out a hand to help her down the golden steps. 
 
Madame Maxime closed the door behind her, Hagrid offered her his arm, and they set off around the edge of the paddock containing Madame Maxime’s giant winged horses, with Harry, totally bewildered, running to keep up with them. Had Hagrid wanted to show him Madame Maxime? He could see her any old time he wanted… she wasn’t exactly hard to miss… But it seemed that Madame Maxime was in for the same treat as Harry, because after a while she said playfully, “Wair is it you are taking me, ‘Agrid?”  
 
“Yeh’ll enjoy this,” said Hagrid gruffly, “worth seein’, trust me. On’y - don’ go tellin’ anyone I showed yeh, right? Yeh’re not s’posed ter know.”  
 
“Of course not,” said Madame Maxime, fluttering her long black eyelashes.  
 
And still they walked, Harry getting more and more irritated as he jogged along in their wake, checking his watch every now and then. Hagrid had some harebrained scheme in hand, which might make him miss Sirius. If they didn’t get there soon, he was going to turn around, go straight back to the castle, and leave Hagrid to enjoy his moonlit stroll with Madame Maxime. 
But then - when they had walked so far around the perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake were out of sight - Harry heard something. Men were shouting up ahead… then came a deafening, earsplitting roar… Hagrid led Madame Maxime around a clump of trees and came to a halt. Harry hurried up alongside them - for a split second, he thought he was seeing bonfires, and men darting around them - and then his mouth fell open.  
 
Dragons. Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting - torrents of fire were shooting into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks. There was a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth-scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting 
mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a gigantic black one, more lizardhike than the others, which was nearest to them. 
 
At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, were attempting to control them, pulling on the chains connected to heavy leather straps around their necks and legs. Mesmerized, Harry looked up, high above him, and saw the eyes of the black dragon, with vertical pupils like a cat’s, bulging with either fear or rage, he couldn’t tell which… It was making a horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream. 
 
“Keep back there, Hagrid!” yelled a wizard near the fence, straining on the chain he was holding. “They can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I’ve seen this Horntail do forty!” 
 
“Is’n’ it beautiful?” said Hagrid softly. 
 
“It’s no good!” yelled another wizard. “Stunning Spells, on the count of three!” 
 
Harry saw each of the dragon keepers pull out his wand. 
 
“Stupefy!” they shouted in unison, and the Stunning Spells shot into the darkness like fiery rockets, bursting in showers of stars on the dragons’ scaly hides - Harry watched the dragon nearest to them teeter dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide in a silent howl; its nostrils were suddenly devoid of flame, though still smoking - then, very slowly, it fell. Several tons of sinewy, scalyblack dragon hit the ground with a thud that Harry could have sworn made the trees behind him quake. 
 
The dragon keepers lowered their wands and walked forward to their fallen charges, each of which was the size of a small hill. They hurried to tighten the chains and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they forced deep into the ground with their wands. 
 
“Wan’ a closer look?” Hagrid asked Madame Maxime excitedly. The pair of them moved right up to the fence, and Harry followed. The wizard who had warned Hagrid not to come any closer turned, and Harry realized who it was: Charlie Weasley. 
 
“All right, Hagrid?” he panted, coming over to talk. “They should be okay now - we put them out with a Sleeping Draft on the way here, thought it might be better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet - but, like you saw, they weren’t happy, not happy at all -” 
 
“What breeds you got here, Charlie?” said Hagrid, gazing at the closest dragon, the black one, with something chose to reverence. Its eyes were still just open. Harry could see a strip of gleaming yellow beneath its wrinkled black eyelid.  
 
“This is a Hungarian Horntail,” said Charlie. “There’s a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one — a Swedish Short-Snout, that blue-gray — and a Chinese Fireball, that’s the red.” 
Charlie looked around; Madame Maxime was strolling away around the edge of the enclosure, gazing at the stunned dragons. 
 
“I didn’t know you were bringing her, Hagrid,” Charlie said, frowning. “The champions aren’t supposed to know what’s coming - she’s bound to tell her student, isn’t she?” 
 
“Jus’ thought she’d like ter see ‘em,” shrugged Hagrid, still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons. 
 
“Really romantic date, Hagrid,” said Charlie, shaking his head. 
 
“Four…” said Hagrid, “so it’s one fer each o’ the champions, is it? What’ve they gotta do - fight ‘em?” 
“Just get past them, I think,” said Charlie. “We’ll be on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the ready. They wanted nesting mothers, I don’t know why… but I tell you this, I don’t envy the one who gets the Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end’s as dangerous as its front, look.” 
 
Charlie pointed toward the Horntail’s tail, and Harry saw long, bronze-colored spikes protruding along it every few inches. 
 
Five of Charlie’s fellow keepers staggered up to the Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They placed them carefully at the Horntail’s side. Hagrid let out a moan of longing.  
 
“I’ve got them counted, Hagrid,” said Charlie sternly. Then he said, “How’s Harry?” 
 
“Fine,” said Hagrid. He was still gazing at the eggs. 
 
“Just hope he’s still fine after he’s faced this lot,” said Charlie grimly, looking out over the dragons’ enclosure. “I didn’t dare tell Mum what he’s got to do for the first task; she’s already having kittens about him…” Charlie imitated his mother’s anxious voice. “How could they let him enter that tournament, he’s much too young! I thought they were all safe, I thought there was going to be an age limit! She was in floods after that Daily Prophet article about him. ‘He still cries about his parents! Oh bless him, I never knew!’” 
 
Harry had had enough. Trusting to the fact that Hagrid wouldn’t miss him, with the attractions of four dragons and Madame Maxime to occupy him, he turned silently and began to walk away, back to the castle. 
 
He didn’t know whether he was glad he’d seen what was coming or not. Perhaps this way was better. The first shock was over now. Maybe if he’d seen the dragons for the first time on Tuesday, he would have passed out cold in front of the whole school… but maybe he would anyway… He was going to be armed with his wand - which, just now, felt like nothing more than a narrow strip of wood — against a fifty-foot-high, scaly, spike-ridden, fire-breathing dragon. And he had to get past it. With everyone watching. How? 
 
Harry sped up, skirting the edge of the forest; he had just under fifteen minutes to get back to the fireside and talk to Sirius, and he couldn’t remember, ever, wanting to talk to someone more than he did right now — when, without warning, he ran into something very solid. 
 
Harry fell backward, his glasses askew, clutching the cloak around him. A voice nearby said, “Ouch! Who’s there?” 
 
Harry hastily checked that the cloak was covering him and hay very still, staring up at the dark outline of the wizard he had hit. He recognized the goatee… it was Karkaroff. 
 
“Who’s there?” said Karkaroff again, very suspiciously, looking around in the darkness. Harry remained still and silent. After a minute or so, Karkaroff seemed to decide that he had hit some sort of animal; he was looking around at waist height, as though expecting to see a dog. Then he crept back under the cover of the trees and started to edge forward toward the place where the dragons were. 
 
Very slowly and very carefully, Harry got to his feet and set off again as fast as he could without making too much noise, hurrying through the darkness back toward Hogwarts. 
 
He had no doubt whatsoever what Karkaroff was up to. He had sneaked off his ship to try and find out what the first task was going to be. He might even have spotted Hagrid and Madame Maxime heading off around the forest together – they were hardly difficult to spot at a distance… and now all Karkaroff had to do was follow the sound of voices, and he, like Madame Maxime, would know what was in store for the champions. 
 
By the looks of it, the only champion who would be facing the unknown on Tuesday was Cedric. 
Harry reached the castle, slipped in through the front doors, and began to climb the marble stairs; he was very out of breath, but he didn’t dare slow down… He had less than five minutes to get up to the fire. 
 
“Balderdash!” he gasped at the Fat Lady, who was snoozing in her frame in front of the portrait hole. 
 
“If you say so,” she muttered sleepily, without opening her eyes, and the picture swung forward to admit him. Harry climbed inside. The common room was deserted, and, judging by the fact that it smelled quite normal, Hermione had not needed to set off any Dungbombs to ensure that he and Sirius got privacy. Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and threw himself into an armchair in front of the fire. The room was in semidarkness; the flames were the only source of light. Nearby, on a table, the Support Cedric Diggory! badges the Creeveys had been trying to improve were glinting in the firelight. They now read POTTER REALLY STINKS. Harry looked back into the flames, and jumped. Sirius’s head was sitting in the fire. If Harry hadn’t seen Mr. Diggory do exactly this back in the Weasleys’ kitchen, it would have scared him out of his wits. 
 
Instead, his face breaking into the first smile he had worn for days, he scrambled out of his chair, crouched down by the hearth, and said, “Sirius - how’re you doing?” 
 
Sirius looked different from Harry’s memory of him. When they had said goodbye, Sirius’s face had been gaunt and sunken, surrounded by a quantity of long, black, matted hair - but the hair was short and clean now, Sirius’s face was fuller, and he looked younger, much more like the only photograph Harry had of him, which had been taken at the Potters’ wedding. 
 
“Never mind me, how are you?” said Sirius seriously. 
 
“I’m -” For a second, Harry tried to say “fine” - but he couldn’t do it. Before he could stop himself, he was talking more than he’d talked in days - about how no one believed he hadn’t entered the tournament of his own free will, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him in the Daily Prophet, how he couldn’t walk down a corridor without being sneered at - and about Ron, Ron not believing him, Ron’s jealousy…  
“… and now Hagrid’s just shown me what’s coming in the first task, and it’s dragons, Sirius, and I’m a goner,” he finished desperately. 
 
Sirius looked at him, eyes full of concern, eyes that had not yet lost the look that Azkaban had given them - that deadened, haunted look He had let Harry talk himself into silence without interruption, but now he said, “Dragons we can deal with, Harry, but we’ll get to that in a minute - I haven’t got long here… I’ve broken into a wizarding house to use the fire, but they could be back at any time. There are things I need to warn you about.” 
 
“What?” said Harry, feeling his spirits slip a further few notches… Surely there could be nothing worse than dragons coming? 
 
“Karkaroff,” said Sirius. “Harry, he was a Death Eater. You know what Death Eaters are, don’t you?” 
 
“Yes - he - what?” 
 
“He was caught, he was in Azkaban with me, but he got released. I’d bet everything that’s why Dumbledore wanted an Auror at Hogwarts this year – to keep an eye on him. Moody caught Karkaroff. Put him into Azkaban in the first place.” 
 
“Karkaroff got released?” Harry said slowly - his brain seemed to be struggling to absorb yet another piece of shocking information. “Why did they release him?” 
 
“He did a deal with the Ministry of Magic,” said Sirius bitterly. “He said he’d seen the error of his ways, and then he named names… he put a load of other people into Azkaban in his place… He’s not very popular in there, I can tell you. And since he got out, from what I can tell, he’s been teaching the Dark Arts to every student who passes through that school of his. So watch out for the Durmstrang champion as well.” 
 
“Okay,” said Harry slowly. “But… are you saying Karkaroff put my name in the goblet? Because if he did, he’s a really good actor. He seemed furious about it. He wanted to stop me from competing.” 
 
“We know he’s a good actor,” said Sirius, “because he convinced the Ministry of Magic to set him free, didn’t he? Now, I’ve been keeping an eye on the Daily Prophet, Harry…” 
 
“- you and the rest of the world,” said Harry bitterly. 
 
“- and reading between the lines of that Skeeter woman’s article last month, Moody was attacked the night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she says it was another false alarm,” Sirius said hastily, seeing Harry about to speak, “but I don’t think so, somehow. I think someone tried to stop him from getting to Hogwarts. I think someone knew their job would be a lot more difficult with him around. And no one’s going to look into it too closely; Mad-Eye’s heard intruders a bit too often. But that doesn’t mean he can’t still spot the real thing. Moody was the best Auror the Ministry ever had.”  
“So… what are you saying?” said Harry slowly. “Karkaroff’s trying to kill me? But - why?” 
 
Sirius hesitated. 
 
“I’ve been hearing some very strange things,” he said slowly. “The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active than usual lately. They showed themselves at the Quidditch World Cup, didn’t they? Someone set off the Dark Mark… and then - did you hear about that Ministry of Magic witch who’s gone missing?” 
 
“Bertha Jorkins?” said Harry. 
 
“Exactly… she disappeared in Albania, and that’s definitely where Voldemort was rumored to be last… and she would have known the Triwizard Tournament was coming up, wouldn’t she?” 
 
“Yeah, but… it’s not very likely she’d have walked straight into Voldemort, is it?” said Harry. 
 
“Listen, I knew Bertha Jorkins,” said Sirius grimly. “She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy, but no brains, none at all. It’s not a good combination, Harry. I’d say she’d be very easy to lure into a trap.” 
 
“So… so Voldemort could have found out about the tournament?” said Harry. “Is that what you mean? You think Karkaroff might be here on his orders?” 
 
“I don’t know,” said Sirius slowly, “I just don’t know… Karkaroff doesn’t strike me as the type who’d go back to Voldemort unless he knew Voldemort was powerful enough to protect him. But whoever put your name in that goblet did it for a reason, and I can’t help thinking the tournament would be a very good way to attack you and make it hook like an accident.” 
 
“Looks hike a really good plan from where I’m standing,” said Harry grinning bleaky. “They’ll just have to stand back and let the dragons do their stuff.” 
 
“Right - these dragons,” said Sirius, speaking very quickly now. “There’s a way, Harry. Don’t be tempted to try a Stunning Spell - dragons are strong and too powerfully magical to be knocked out by a single Stunner, you need about half a dozen wizards at a time to overcome a dragon -” 
 
“Yeah, I know, I just saw,” said Harry. 
 
“But you can do it alone,” said Sirius. “There is away, and a simple spell’s all you need. Just -” 
 
But Harry held up a hand to silence him, his heart suddenly pounding as though it would burst. He could hear footsteps coming down the spiral staircase behind him. 
 
“Go!” he hissed at Sirius. “Go! There’s someone coming!” 
 
Harry scrambled to his feet, hiding the fire - if someone saw Sirius’s face within the walls of Hogwarts, they would raise an almighty uproar - the Ministry would get dragged in - he, Harry, would be questioned about Sirius’s whereabouts - Harry heard a tiny pop! in the fire behind him and knew Sirius had gone. He watched the bottom of the spiral staircase. Who had decided to go for a stroll at one o’clock in the morning, and stopped Sirius from telling him how to get past a 
dragon? It was Ron. Dressed in his maroon paisley pajamas, Ron stopped dead facing 
Harry across the room, and looked around. 
 
“Who were you talking to?” he said. 
 
“What’s that got to do with you?” Harry snarled. “What are you doing down here at this time of night?” 
 
“I just wondered where you -” Ron broke off, shrugging. “Nothing. I’m going back to bed.” 
 
“Just thought you’d come nosing around, did you?” Harry shouted. He knew that Ron had no idea what he’d walked in on, knew he hadn’t done it on purpose, but he didn’t care - at this moment he hated everything about Ron, right down to the several inches of bare ankle showing beneath his pajama trousers. 
 
“Sorry about that,” said Ron, his face reddening with anger. “Should’ve realized you didn’t want to be disturbed. I’ll let you get on with practicing for your next interview in peace.” 
 
Harry seized one of the POTTER REALLY STINKS badges off the table and chucked it, as hard as he could, across the room. It hit Ron on the forehead and bounced off. 
 
“There you go,” Harry said. “Something for you to wear on Tuesday. You might even have a scar now, if you’re lucky… That’s what you want, isn’t it?” 
 
He strode across the room toward the stairs; he half expected Ron to stop him, he would even have liked Ron to throw a punch at him, but Ron just stood there in his too-small pajamas, and Harry, having stormed upstairs, lay awake in bed fuming for a long time afterward and didn’t hear him come up to bed. 
 
Harry got up on Sunday morning and dressed so inattentively that it was a while before he realized he was trying to pull his hat onto his foot instead of his sock. When he’d finally got all his clothes on the right parts of his body, he hurried off to find Hermione, locating her at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, where she was eating breakfast with Ginny. Feeling too queasy to eat, Harry waited until Hermione had swallowed her last spoonful of porridge, then dragged her out onto the grounds. There, he told her all about the dragons, and about everything Sirius had said, while they took another long walk around the lake. 
 
Alarmed as she was by Sirius’s warnings about Karkaroff, Hermione still thought that the dragons were the more pressing problem. 
 
“Let’s just try and keep you alive until Tuesday evening,” she said desperately, “and then we can worry about Karkaroff.” 
 
They walked three times around the lake, trying all the way to think of a simple spell that would subdue a dragon. Nothing whatsoever occurred to them, so they retired to the library instead. Here, Harry pulled down every book he could find on dragons, and both of them set to work searching through the large pile. 
 
“Talon-clipping by charms… treating scale-rot… This is no good, this is for nutters like Hagrid who want to keep them healthy…  
 
“Dragons are extremely difficult to slay, owing to the ancient magic that imbues their thick hides, which none but the most powerful spells can penetrate… ’ But Sirius said a simple one would do it…  
 
“Let’s try some simple spellbooks, then,” said Harry, throwing aside Men Who Love Dragons Too Much. 
 
He returned to the table with a pile of spellbooks, set them down, and began to flick through each in turn, Hermione whispering nonstop at his elbow. 
 
“Well, there are Switching Spells… but what’s the point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs for wine-gums or something that would make it less dangerous… The trouble is, like that book said, not much is going to get through a dragon’s hide… I’d say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really haven’t got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall… unless you’re supposed to put the spell on yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But they’re not simple spells, I mean, we haven’t done any of those in class, I only know about them because I’ve been doing O.W.L. practice papers…” 
 
“Hermione,” Harry said, through gritted teeth, “will you shut up for a bit, please? I m trying to concentrate.” 
 
But all that happened, when Hermione fell silent, was that Harry’s brain filled with a sort of blank buzzing, which didn’t seem to allow room for concentration. He stared hopelessly down the index of Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed. Instant scalping… but dragons had no hair… pepper breath… that would probably increase a dragon’s firepower… horn tongue… just what he needed, to give it an extra weapon…  
 
“Oh no, he’s back again, why can’t he read on his stupid ship?” said Hermione irritably as Viktor Krum slouched in, cast a surly look over at the pair of them, and settled himself in a distant corner with a pile of books. “Come on, Harry, we’ll go back to the common room… his fan club’ll be here in a moment, twittering away… “ 
 
And sure enough, as they left the library, a gang of girls tiptoed past them, one of them wearing a Bulgaria scarf tied around her waist. 
 
Harry barely slept that night. When he awoke on Monday morning, he seriously considered for the first time ever just running away from Hogwarts. But as he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast time, and thought about what leaving the castle would mean, he knew he couldn’t do it. It was the only place he had ever been happy… well, he supposed he must have been happy with his parents too, but he couldn’t remember that. 
 
Somehow, the knowledge that he would rather be here and facing a dragon than back on Privet Drive with Dudley was good to know; it made him feel slightly calmer. He finished his bacon with difficulty (his throat wasn’t working too well), and as he and Hermione got up, he saw Cedric Diggory leaving the Hufflepuff table. 
 
Cedric still didn’t know about the dragons… the only champion who didn’t, if Harry was right in thinking that Maxime and Karkaroff would have told Fleur and Krum…  
 
“Hermione, I’ll see you in the greenhouses,” Harry said, coming to his decision as he watched Cedric leaving the Hall. “Go on, I’ll catch you up.” 
 
“Harry, you’ll be late, the bell’s about to ring -” 
 
“I’ll catch you up, okay?” 
 
By the time Harry reached the bottom of the marble staircase, Cedric was at the top. He was with a load of sixth-year friends. Harry didn’t want to talk to Cedric in front of them; they were among those who had been quoting Rita Skeeter’s article at him every time he went near them. He followed Cedric at a distance and saw that he was heading toward the Charms corridor. This gave Harry an idea. Pausing at a distance from them, he pulled out his wand, and took careful aim. 
 
“Diffindo!” 
Cedric’s bag split. Parchment, quills, and books spilled out of it onto the floor. Several bottles of ink smashed. 
 
“Don’t bother,” said Cedric in an exasperated voice as his friends bent down to help him. “Tell Flitwick I’m coming, go on…” 
 
This was exactly what Harry had been hoping for. He slipped his wand back into his robes, waited until Cedric’s friends had disappeared into their classroom, and hurried up the corridor, which was now empty of everyone but himself and Cedric.  
 
“Hi,” said Cedric, picking up a copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration that was now splattered with ink. “My bag just split… brand-new and all…” 
 
“Cedric,” said Harry, “the first task is dragons.” 
 
“What?” said Cedric, looking up. 
 
“Dragons,” said Harry, speaking quickly, in case Professor Flitwick came out to see where Cedric had got to. “They’ve got four, one for each of us, and we’ve got to get past them.” 
 
Cedric stared at him. Harry saw some of the panic he’d been feeling since Saturday night flickering in Cedric’s gray eyes. 
 
“Are you sure?” Cedric said in a hushed voice. 
 
“Dead sure,” said Harry. “I’ve seen them.” 
 
“But how did you find out? We’re not supposed to know…” 
 
“Never mind,” said Harry quickly - he knew Hagrid would be in trouble if he told the truth. “But I’m not the only one who knows. Fleur and Krum will know by now - Maxime and Karkaroff both saw the dragons too.” 
 
Cedric straightened up, his arms full of inky quills, parchment, and books, his ripped bag dangling off one shoulder. He stared at Harry, and there was a puzzled, almost suspicious look in his eyes. 
 
“Why are you telling me?” he asked. 
 
Harry looked at him in disbelief. He was sure Cedric wouldn’t have asked that if he had seen the dragons himself. Harry wouldn’t have let his worst enemy face those monsters unprepared - well, perhaps Malfoy or Snape…  
 
“It’s just… fair, isn’t it?” he said to Cedric. “We all know now… we’re on an even footing, aren’t we?” 
 
Cedric was still hooking at him in a slightly suspicious way when Harry heard a familiar clunking noise behind him. He turned around and saw Mad-Eye Moody emerging from a nearby classroom. 
 
“Come with me, Potter,” he growled. “Diggory, off you go.” 
 
Harry stared apprehensively at Moody. Had he overheard them? 
 
“Er - Professor, I’m supposed to be in Herbology -” 
 
“Never mind that, Potter. In my office, please…  
 
Harry followed him, wondering what was going to happen to him now. What if Moody wanted to know how he’d found out about the dragons? Would Moody go to Dumbledore and tell on Hagrid, or just turn Harry into a ferret? Well, it might be easier to get past a dragon if he were a ferret, Harry thought dully, he’d be smaller, much less easy to see from a height of fifty feet…  
He followed Moody into his office. Moody closed the door behind them and turned to look at Harry, his magical eye fixed upon him as well as the normal one. 
 
“That was a very decent thing you just did, Potter,” Moody said quietly. 
 
Harry didn’t know what to say; this wasn’t the reaction he had expected at all. 
 
“Sit down,” said Moody, and Harry sat, looking around. 
 
He had visited this office under two of its previous occupants. In Professor Lockhart’s day, the walls had been plastered with beaming, winking pictures of Professor Lockhart himself. When Lupin had lived here, you were more likely to come across a specimen of some fascinating new Dark creature he had procured for them to study in class. Now, however, the office was full of a number of exceptionally odd objects that Harry supposed Moody had used in the days when he had been an Auror. 
 
On his desk stood what looked hike a large, cracked, glass spinning top; Harry recognized it at once as a Sneakoscope, because he owned one himself, though it was much smaller than Moody’s. In the corner on a small table stood an object that looked something like an extra-squiggly, golden television aerial. It was humming slightly. What appeared to be a mirror hung opposite Harry on the wall, but it was not reflecting the room. Shadowy figures were moving around inside it, none of them clearly in focus. 
 
“Like my Dark Detectors, do you?” said Moody, who was watching Harry closely. 
 
“What’s that?” Harry asked, pointing at the squiggly golden aerial. 
 
“Secrecy Sensor. Vibrates when it detects concealment and lies… no use here, of course, too much interference - students in every direction lying about why they haven’t done their homework. Been humming ever since I got here. I had to disable my Sneakoscope because it wouldn’t stop whistling. It’s extra-sensitive, picks up stuff about a mile around. Of course, it could be picking up more than kid stuff,” he added in a growl. 
 
“And what’s the mirror for?” 
 
“Oh that’s my Foe-Glass. See them out there, skulking around? I’m not really in trouble until I see the whites of their eyes. That’s when I open my trunk.” 
 
He let out a short, harsh laugh, and pointed to the large trunk under the window. It had seven keyholes in a row. Harry wondered what was in there, until Moody’s next question brought him sharply back to earth. 
 
“So… found out about the dragons, have you?” 
 
Harry hesitated. He’d been afraid of this - but he hadn’t told Cedric, and he certainly wasn’t going to tell Moody, that Hagrid had broken the rules. 
 
“It’s all right,” said Moody, sitting down and stretching out his wooden leg with a groan. “Cheating’s a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and always has been.” 
 
“I didn’t cheat,” said Harry sharply. “It was - a sort of accident that I found out.” 
 
Moody grinned. “I wasn’t accusing you, laddie. I’ve been telling Dumbledore from the start, he can be as high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old Karkaroff and Maxime won’t be. They’ll have told their champions everything they can. They want to win. They want to beat Dumbledore. They’d like to prove he’s only human.” 
 
Moody gave another harsh laugh, and his magical eye swiveled around so fast it made Harry feel queasy to watch it. 
 
“So… got any ideas how you’re going to get past your dragon yet?” said Moody. 
 
“No,” said Harry. 
 
“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” said Moody gruffly. “I don’t show favoritism, me. I’m just going to give you some good, general advice. And the first bit is – play to your strengths.” 
 
“I haven’t got any,” said Harry, before he could stop himself.  
 
“Excuse me,” growled Moody, “you’ve got strengths if I say you’ve got them. Think now. What are you best at?” 
 
Harry tried to concentrate. What was he best at? Well, that was easy, really – 
 
“Quidditch,” he said dully, “and a fat lot of help -” 
 
“That’s right,” said Moody, staring at him very hard, his magical eye barely moving at all. “You’re a damn good flier from what I’ve heard.” 
 
“Yeah, but…” Harry stared at him. “I’m not allowed a broom, I’ve only got my wand…” 
 
“My second piece of general advice,” said Moody loudly, interrupting him, “is to use a nice, simple spell that will enable you to get what you need.” 
 
Harry looked at him blankly. What did he need? 
 
“Come on, boy…” whispered Moody. “Put them together… it’s not that difficult…” 
 
And it clicked. He was best at flying. He needed to pass the dragon in the air. For that, he needed his Firebolt. And for his Fire-bolt, he needed – 
 
“Hermione,” Harry whispered, when he had sped into greenhouse three minutes later, uttering a  
hurried apology to Professor Sprout as he passed her. “Hermione - I need you to help me.” 
 
“What d’you think I’ve been trying to do, Harry?” she whispered back, her eyes round with anxiety over the top of the quivering Flutterby Bush she was pruning.  
 
“Hermione, I need to learn how to do a Summoning Charm properly by tomorrow afternoon.” 
 
And so they practiced. They didn’t have lunch, but headed for a free classroom, where Harry tried with all his might to make various objects fly across the room toward him. He was still having problems. The books and quills kept losing heart halfway across the room and dropping hike stones to the floor. 
 
“Concentrate, Harry, concentrate…” 
 
“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” said Harry angrily. “A great big dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason… Okay, try again…” 
 
He wanted to skip Divination to keep practicing, but Hermione refused pointblank to skive off Arithmancy, and there was no point in staying without her. He therefore had to endure over an hour of Professor Trelawney, who spent half the lesson telling everyone that the position of Mars with relation to Saturn at that moment meant that people born in July were in great danger of sudden, violent deaths. 
 
“Well, that’s good,” said Harry loudly, his temper getting the better of him, “just as long as it’s not drawn-out. I don’t want to suffer.” 
 
Ron looked for a moment as though he was going to laugh; he certainly caught Harry’s eye for the first time in days, but Harry was still feeling too resentful toward Ron to care. He spent the rest of the lesson trying to attract small objects toward him under the table with his wand. He managed to make a fly zoom straight into his hand, though he wasn’t entirely sure that was his prowess at Summoning Charms - perhaps the fly was just stupid. 
 
He forced down some dinner after Divination, then returned to the empty classroom with Hermione, using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers. They kept practicing until past midnight. They would have stayed longer, but Peeves turned up and, pretending to think that Harry wanted things thrown at him, started chucking chairs across the room. Harry and Hermione left in a hurry before the noise attracted Filch, and went back to the Gryffindor common room, which was now mercifully empty. 
 
At two o’clock in the morning, Harry stood near the fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books, quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of Gobstones, and Neville’s toad, Trevor. Only in the last hour had Harry really got the hang of the Summoning Charm. 
 
“That’s better, Harry, that’s loads better,” Hermione said, looking exhausted but very pleased. 
 
“Well, now we know what to do next time I can’t manage a spell,” Harry said, throwing a rune dictionary back to Hermione, so he could try again, “threaten me with a dragon. Right…” He raised his wand once more. “Accio Dictionary!” The heavy book soared out of Hermione’s hand, flew across the room, and Harry caught it. 
 
“Harry, I really think you’ve got it!” said Hermione delightedly. 
 
“Just as long as it works tomorrow,” Harry said. “The Firebolt’s going to be much farther away than the stuff in here, it’s going to be in the castle, and I’m going to be out there on the grounds…” 
 
“That doesn’t matter,” said Hermione firmly. “Just as long as you’re concentrating really, really hard on it, it’ll come. Harry, we’d better get some sleep… you’re going to need it.” 
 
Harry had been focusing so hard on learning the Summoning Charm that evening that some of his blind panic had heft him. It returned in full measure, however, on the following morning. The atmosphere in the school was one of great tension and excitement. Lessons were to stop at midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons’ enclosure - though of course, they didn’t yet know what they would find there. 
 
Harry felt oddly separate from everyone around him, whether they were wishing him good luck or hissing “We’ll have a box of tissues ready, Potter” as he passed. 
 
It was a state of nervousness so advanced that he wondered whether he mightn’t just lose his head when they tried to lead him out to his dragon, and start trying to curse everyone in sight. Time was behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, History of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch… and then (where had the morning gone? the last of the dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall was hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Lots of people were watching. 
 
“Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now… You have to get ready for your first task.” 
 
“Okay,” said Harry, standing up, his fork falling onto his plate with a clatter. 
 
“Good luck, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “You’ll be fine!” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry in a voice that was most unlike his own. 
 
He left the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall. She didn’t seem herself either; in fact, she looked nearly as anxious as Hermione. As she walked him down the stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon, she put her hand on his shoulder. 
 
“Now, don’t panic,” she said, “just keep a cool head… We’ve got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand… The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you… Are you all right?” 
 
“Yes,” Harry heard himself say. “Yes, I’m fine.” 
 
She was leading him toward the place where the dragons were, around the edge of the forest, but when they approached the clump of trees behind which the enclosure would be clearly visible, Harry saw that a tent had been erected, its entrance facing them, screening the dragons from view. 
 
“You’re to go in here with the other champions,” said Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice, “and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in there… he’ll be telling you the - the procedure… Good luck.” 
 
“Thanks,” said Harry, in a flat, distant voice. She left him at the entrance of the tent. Harry went inside. 
 
Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a how wooden stool. She didn’t look nearly as composed as usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum looked even surlier than usual, which Harry supposed was his way of showing nerves. Cedric was pacing up and down. When Harry entered, Cedric gave him a small smile, which Harry returned, feeling the muscles in his face working rather hard, as though they had forgotten how to do it. 
 
“Harry! Good-o!” said Bagman happily, looking around at him. “Come in, come in, make yourself at home!” 
 
Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown cartoon figure, standing amid all the pale-faced champions. He was wearing his old Wasp robes again. “Well, now we’re all here - time to fill you in!” said Bagman brightly. “When the audience has assembled, I’m going to be offering each of you this bag” - he held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them - “from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face! There are different - er - 
varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too… ah, yes… your task is to collect the golden egg!” 
  
Harry glanced around. Cedric had nodded once, to show that he understood Bagman’s words, and then started pacing around the tent again; he looked slightly green. Fleur Delacour and Krum hadn’t reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be sick if they opened their mouths; that was certainly how Harry felt. But they, at least, had volunteered for this…  
 
And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking… Harry felt as separate from the crowd as though they were a different species. And then – it seemed like about a second later to Harry - Bagman was opening the neck of the purple silk sack. 
 
“Ladies first,” he said, offering it to Fleur Delacour. 
 
She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon - a Welsh Green. It had the number two around its neck And Harry knew, by the fact that Fleur showed no sign of surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he had been right: Madame Maxime had told her what was coming. 
 
The same held true for Krum. He pulled out the scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number three around its neck. He didn’t even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground. 
 
Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came the blueish-gray Swedish Short - Snout, the number one tied around its neck. Knowing what was left, Harry put his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the Hungarian Horntail, and the number four. It stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared its minuscule fangs.  
 
“Well, there you are!” said Bagman. “You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I’m going to have to leave you in a moment, because I’m commentating. Mr. Diggory, you’re first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, all right? Now… Harry… could I have a quick word? Outside?” 
 
“Er… yes,” said Harry blankly, and he got up and went out of the tent with Bagman, who walked him a short distance away, into the trees, and then turned to him with a fatherly expression on his face. 
 
“Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?” 
 
“What?” said Harry. “I - no, nothing.” 
 
“Got a plan?” said Bagman, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Because I don’t mind sharing a few pointers, if you’d like them, you know. I mean,” Bagman continued, lowering his voice still further, “you’re the underdog here, Harry… Anything I can do to help…” 
 
“No,” said Harry so quickly he knew he had sounded rude, “no - I - I know what I’m going to do, thanks.” 
 
“Nobody would know, Harry,” said Bagman, winking at him. 
 
“No, I’m fine,” said Harry, wondering why he kept telling people this, and wondering whether he had ever been less fine. “I’ve got a plan worked out, I -” 
 
A whistle had blown somewhere. 
 
“Good lord, I’ve got to run!” said Bagman in alarm, and he hurried off. 
 
Harry walked back to the tent and saw Cedric emerging from it, greener than ever. Harry tried to wish him luck as he walked past, but all that came out of his mouth was a sort of hoarse grunt. 
Harry went back inside to Fleur and Krum. Seconds hater, they heard the roar of the crowd, which meant Cedric had entered the enclosure and was now face-to face with the living counterpart of his model. 
 
It was worse than Harry could ever have imagined, sitting there and listening. The crowd screamed… yelled… gasped like a single many-headed entity, as Cedric did whatever he was doing to get past the Swedish Short-Snout. Krum was still staring at the ground. Fleur had now taken to retracing Cedric’s steps, around and around the tent. And Bagman’s commentary made everything much, much worse… Horrible pictures formed in Harry’s mind as he heard: “Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow”… “He’s taking risks, this one!”… “Clever move - pity it didn’t work!” 
 
And then, after about fifteen minutes, Harry heard the deafening roar that could mean only one thing: Cedric had gotten past his dragon and captured the golden egg. 
 
“Very good indeed!” Bagman was shouting. “And now the marks from the judges!” 
 
But he didn’t shout out the marks; Harry supposed the judges were holding them up and showing them to the crowd. 
 
“One down, three to go!” Bagman yelled as the whistle blew again. “Miss Delacour, if you please!” 
 
Fleur was trembling from head to foot; Harry felt more warmly toward her than he had done so far as she heft the tent with her head held high and her hand clutching her wand. He and Krum were left alone, at opposite sides of the tent, avoiding each other’s gaze. 
 
The same process started again…“Oh I’m not sure that was wise!” they could hear Bagman shouting gleefully. “Oh… nearly! Careful now… good lord, I thought she’d had it then!” 
 
Ten minutes later, Harry heard the crowd erupt into applause once more… Fleur must have been successful too. A pause, while Fleur’s marks were being shown… more clapping… then, for the third time, the whistle. 
 
“And here comes Mr. Krum!” cried Bagman, and Krum slouched out, leaving Harry quite alone. 
 
He felt much more aware of his body than usual; very aware of the way his heart was pumping fast, and his fingers tingling with fear… yet at the same time, he seemed to be outside himself, seeing the walls of the tent, and hearing the crowd, as though from far away. 
 
“Very daring!” Bagman was yelling, and Harry heard the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd drew its collective breath. “That’s some nerve he’s showing - and - yes, he’s got the egg!” 
 
Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass; Krum had finished – it would be Harry’s turn any moment. 
 
He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. He waited. And then he heard the whistle blow. He walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside him. And now he was walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence. 
 
He saw everything in front of him as though it was a very highly colored dream. 
 
There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he’d last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, heaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, Harry didn’t know or care. It was time to do what he had to do… to focus his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance. 
 
He raised his wand. 
 
“Accio Firebolt!” he shouted. 
 
Harry waited, every fiber of him hoping, praying… If it hadn’t worked… if it wasn’t coming… He seemed to be looking at everything around him through some sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of faces around him swim strangely…  
 
And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind him; he turned and saw his Firebolt hurtling toward him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside him, waiting for him to mount. The crowd was making even more noise… Bagman was shouting something… but Harry’s ears were not working properly anymore… listening wasn’t important…  
He swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground. And a second later, something miraculous happened…  
 
As he soared upward, as the wind rushed through his hair, as the crowd’s faces became mere flesh-colored pinpnicks below, and the Horntail shrank to the size of a dog, he realized that he had heft not only the ground behind, but also his fear… He was back where he belonged…  
 
This was just another Quidditch match, that was all… just another Quidditch match, and that Horntail was just another ugly opposing team. 
 
He looked down at the clutch of eggs and spotted the gold one, gleaming against its cement-colored fellows, residing safely between the dragon’s front legs.  
 
“Okay,” Harry told himself, “diversionary tactics… let’s go…” 
 
He dived. The Horntail’s head followed him; he knew what it was going to do and pulled out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where he would have been had he not swerved away… but Harry didn’t care… that was no more than dodging a Bludger. 
 
“Great Scott, he can fly!” yelled Bagman as the crowd shrieked and gasped. “Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?” 
 
Harry soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still following his progress; its head revolving on its long neck - if he kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy – but better not push it too long, or it would be breathing fire again – 
 
Harry plummeted just as the Horntail opened its mouth, but this time he was less lucky - he missed the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes — 
 
He could feel it stinging, he could hear screaming and groans from the crowd, but the cut didn’t seem to be deep… Now he zoomed around the back of the Horntail, and a possibility occurred to him…  
 
The Horntail didn’t seem to want to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on Harry, she was afraid to move too far from them… but he had to persuade her to do it, or he’d never get near them… The trick was to do it carefully, gradually…  
 
He began to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make her breathe fire to stave him off, but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept her eyes on him. Her head swayed this way and that, watching him out of those vertical pupils, her fangs bared…  
 
He flew higher. The Horntail’s head rose with him, her neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, hike a snake before its charmer… Harry rose a few more feet, and she let out a roar of exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was longing to swat; her tail thrashed again, but he was too high to reach now… She shot fire into the air, which he dodged… Her jaws opened wide…  
 
“Come on,” Harry hissed, swerving tantalizingly above her, “come on, come and get me… up you get now…” 
 
And then she reared, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small airplane - and Harry dived. Before the dragon knew what he had done, or where he had disappeared to, he was speeding toward the ground as fast as he could go, toward the eggs now unprotected by her clawed front legs - he had taken his hands off his Firebolt - he had seized the golden egg –  
 
And with a huge spurt of speed, he was off, he was soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely under his uninjured arm, and it was as though somebody had just turned the volume back up - for the first time, he became properly aware of the noise of the crowd, which was screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup - 
 
“Look at that!” Bagman was yelling. “Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr. Potter!” 
 
Harry saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to subdue the Horntail, and, over at the entrance to the enclosure, Professor McGonagalh, Professor Moody, and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, all of them waving him toward them, their smiles evident even from this distance. He flew back over the stands, the noise of the crowd pounding his eardrums, and came in smoothly to land, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks… He had got through the first task, he had survived. 
 
“That was excellent, Potter!” cried Professor McGonagall as he got off the Firebolt - which from her was extravagant praise. He noticed that her hand shook as she pointed at his shoulder. “You’ll need to see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your score… Over there, she’s had to mop up Diggory already…” 
 
“Yeh did it, Harry!” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Yeh did it! An’ agains’ the Horntail an’ all, an’ yeh know Charlie said that was the wors’ - “ 
 
“Thanks, Hagrid,” said Harry loudly, so that Hagrid wouldn’t blunder on and reveal that he had shown Harry the dragons beforehand. 
 
Professor Moody looked very pleased too; his magical eye was dancing in its socket. 
 
“Nice and easy does the trick, Potter,” he growled. 
 
“Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please…” said Professor McGonagall. 
 
Harry walked out of the enclosure, still panting, and saw Madam Pomfrey standing at the mouth of a second tent, looking worried. 
 
“Dragons!” she said, in a disgusted tone, pulling Harry inside. The tent was divided into cubicles; he could make out Cedric’s shadow through the canvas, but Cedric didn’t seem to be badly injured; he was sitting up, at least. Madam Pomfrey examined Harry’s shoulder, talking furiously all the while. “Last year dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school next? You’re very lucky… this is quite shallow… it’ll need cleaning before I heal it up, though…” 
 
She cleaned the cut with a dab of some purple liquid that smoked and stung, but then poked his shoulder with her wand, and he felt it heal instantly. “Now, just sit quietly for a minute - sit! And then you can go and get your score.” 
 
She bustled out of the tent and he heard her go next door and say, “How does it feel now, Diggory?” 
 
Harry didn’t want to sit still: He was too full of adrenaline. He got to his feet, wanting to see what was going on outside, but before he’d reached the mouth of the tent, two people had come darting inside - Hermione, followed closely by Ron.  
 
“Harry, you were brilliant!” Hermione said squeakily. There were fingernail marks on her face where she had been clutching it in fear. “You were amazing! You really were!” 
 
But Harry was looking at Ron, who was very white and staring at Harry as though he were a ghost. 
 
“Harry,” he said, very seriously, “whoever put your name in that goblet - I – I reckon they’re trying to do you in!” 
 
It was as though the last few weeks had never happened - as though Harry were meeting Ron for the first time, right after he’d been made champion. 
 
“Caught on, have you?” said Harry coldly. “Took you long enough.” 
 
Hermione stood nervously between them, looking from one to the other. Ron opened his mouth uncertainly. Harry knew Ron was about to apologize and suddenly he found he didn’t need to hear it. 
 
“It’s okay,” he said, before Ron could get the words out. “Forget it.” 
 
“No,” said Ron, “I shouldn’t’ve -” 
 
“Forget it, “Harry said. 
 
Ron grinned nervously at him, and Harry grinned back 
 
Hermione burst into tears. 
 
“There’s nothing to cry about!” Harry told her, bewildered. 
 
“You two are so stupid!” she shouted, stamping her foot on the ground, tears splashing down her front. Then, before either of them could stop her, she had given both of them a hug and dashed away, now positively howling. 
 
“Barking mad,” said Ron, shaking his head. “Harry, c’mon, they’ll be putting up your scores…” 
 
Picking up the golden egg and his Firebolt, feeling more elated than he would have believed possible an hour ago, Harry ducked out of the tent, Ron by his side, talking fast. 
 
“You were the best, you know, no competition. Cedric did this weird thing where he Transfigured a rock on the ground… turned it into a dog… he was trying to make the dragon go for the dog instead of him. Well, it was a pretty cool bit of Transfiguration, and it sort of worked, because he did get the egg, but he got burned as well - the dragon changed its mind halfway through and decided it would rather have him than the Labrador; he only just got away. And that Fleur girl tried this sort of charm, I think she was trying to put it into a trance - well, that kind of worked too, it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and this great jet of flame shot out, and her skirt caught fire - she put it out with a bit of water out of her wand. And Krum - you won’t believe this, but he didn’t even think of flying! He was probably the best after you, though. Hit it with some sort of spell right in the eye. Only thing is, it went trampling around in agony and squashed half the real eggs - they took marks off for that, he wasn’t supposed to do any damage to them.” 
 
Ron drew breath as he and Harry reached the edge of the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken away, Harry could see where the five judges were sitting - right at the other end, in raised seats draped in gold. 
 
“It’s marks out of ten from each one,” Ron said, and Harry squinting up the field, saw the first judge - Madame Maxime - raise her wand in the air. What hooked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it, which twisted itself into a large figure eight.  
 
“Not bad!” said Ron as the crowd applauded. “I suppose she took marks off for your shoulder…” 
 
Mr. Crouch came next. He shot a number nine into the air.  
 
“Looking good!” Ron yelled, thumping Harry on the back. 
 
Next, Dumbledore. He too put up a nine. The crowd was cheering harder than ever. 
 
Ludo Bagman - ten. 
 
“Ten?” said Harry in disbelief. “But… I got hurt… What’s he playing at?” 
 
“Harry, don’t complain!” Ron yelled excitedly. 
 
And now Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused for a moment, and then a number shot out of his wand too - four. 
 
“What?” Ron bellowed furiously. “Four? You lousy, biased scumbag, you gave Krum ten!” 
 
But Harry didn’t care, he wouldn’t have cared if Karkaroff had given him zero; Ron’s indignation on his behalf was worth about a hundred points to him. He didn’t tell Ron this, of course, but his heart felt lighter than air as he turned to leave the enclosure. And it wasn’t just Ron… those weren’t only Gryffindors cheering in the crowd. When it had come to it, when they had seen what he was facing, most of the school had been on his side as well as Cedric’s… He didn’t care about the Slytherins, he could stand whatever they threw at him now. 
 
“You’re tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!” said Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet them as they set off back toward the school. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I’ve got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I’d tell her what happened - but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah - and they told me to tell you you’ve got to hang around for a few more minutes… Bagman wants a word, back in the champions’ tent.” 
 
Ron said he would wait, so Harry reentered the tent, which somehow looked quite different now: friendly and welcoming. He thought back to how he’d felt while dodging the Horntail, and compared it to the long wait before he’d walked out to face it… There was no comparison; the wait had been immeasurably worse. Fleur, Cedric, and Krum all came in together. One side of Cedric’s face was covered in a thick orange paste, which was presumably mending his burn. He 
grinned at Harry when he saw him.  
 
“Good one, Harry.” 
 
“And you,” said Harry, grinning back. 
 
“Well done, all of you!” said Ludo Bagman, bouncing into the tent and looking as pleased as though he personally had just got past a dragon. “Now, just a quick few words. You’ve got a nice long break before the second task, which will take place at half past nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth - but we’re giving you something to think about in the meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs you’re all holding, you will see that they open… see the hinges there? You need to solve the clue inside the egg - because it will tell you what the second task is, and enable you to prepare for it! All clear? Sure? Well, off you go, then!” 
 
Harry left the tent, rejoined Ron, and they started to walk back around the edge of the forest, talking hard; Harry wanted to hear what the other champions had done in more detail. Then, as they rounded the clump of trees behind which Harry had first heard the dragons roar, a witch leapt out from behind them. 
 
It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid-green robes today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended perfectly against them. 
 
“Congratulations, Harry!” she said, beaming at him. “I wonder if you could give me a quick word? How you felt facing that dragon? How you feel now, about the fairness of the scoring?” 
 
“Yeah, you can have a word,” said Harry savagely. “Good-bye.” 
 
And he set off back to the castle with Ron. 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery that evening to find Pigwidgeon, so that Harry could send Sirius a letter telling him that he had managed to get past his dragon unscathed. On the way, Harry filled Ron in on everything Sirius had told him about Karkaroff. Though shocked at first to hear that Karkaroff had been a Death Eater, by the time they entered the Owlery Ron was saying that they ought to have suspected it all along. 
 
“Fits, doesn’t it?” he said. “Remember what Malfoy said on the train, about his dad being friends with Karkaroff? Now we know where they knew each other. They were probably running around in masks together at the World Cup… I’ll tell you one thing, though, Harry, if it was Karkaroff who put your name in the goblet, he’s going to be feeling really stupid now, isn’t he? Didn’t work, did it? You only got a scratch! Come here - I’ll do it -” 
 
Pigwidgeon was so overexcited at the idea of a delivery he was flying around and around Harry’s head, hooting incessantly. Ron snatched Pigwidgeon out of the air and held him still while Harry attached the letter to his leg. 
 
“There’s no way any of the other tasks are going to be that dangerous, how could they be?” Ron went on as he carried Pigwidgeon to the window. “You know what? I reckon you could win this tournament, Harry, I’m serious.” 
 
Harry knew that Ron was only saying this to make up for his behavior of the last few weeks, but he appreciated it all the same. Hermione, however, leaned against the Owlery wall, folded her arms, and frowned at Ron. 
 
“Harry’s got a long way to go before he finishes this tournament,” she said seriously. “If that was the first task, I hate to think what’s coming next.” 
 
“Right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” said Ron. “You and Professor Trelawney should get together sometime.” 
 
He threw Pigwidgeon out of the window. Pigwidgeon plummeted twelve feet before managing to pull himself back up again; the letter attached to his leg was much longer and heavier than usual - Harry hadn’t been able to resist giving Siriusa blow-by-blow account of exactly how he had swerved, circled, and dodged the Horntail. They watched Pigwidgeon disappear into the darkness, and then Ron said, “Well, we’d better get downstairs for your surprise party, Harry - Fred and George should have nicked enough food from the kitchens by now.” 
 
Sure enough, when they entered the Gryffindor common room it exploded with cheers and yells again. There were mountains of cakes and flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Lee Jordan had let off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, so that the air was thick with stars and sparks; and Dean Thomas, who was very good at drawing, had put up some impressive new banners, most of which depicted Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head on his Firebolt, though a couple showed Cedric with his head on fire. 
 
Harry helped himself to food; he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel properly hungry, and sat down with Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t believe how happy he felt; he had Ron back on his side, he’d gotten through the first task, and he wouldn’t have to face the second one for three months. 
 
“Blimey, this is heavy,” said Lee Jordan, picking up the golden egg, which Harry had left on a table, and weighing it in his hands. “Open it, Harry, go on! Let’s just see what’s inside it!” 
 
“He’s supposed to work out the clue on his own,” Hermione said swiftly. “It’s in the tournament rules…” 
 
“I was supposed to work out how to get past the dragon on my own too,” Harry muttered, so only Hermione could hear him, and she grinned rather guiltily. 
 
“Yeah, go on, Harry, open it!” several people echoed. 
 
Lee passed Harry the egg, and Harry dug his fingernails into the groove that ran all the way around it and prised it open. 
 
It was hollow and completely empty - but the moment Harry opened it, the most horrible noise, a loud and screechy wailing, filled the room. The nearest thing to it Harry had ever heard was the ghost orchestra at Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party, who had all been playing the musical saw. 
 
“Shut it!” Fred bellowed, his hands over his ears. 
 
“What was that?” said Seamus Finnigan, staring at the egg as Harry slammed it shut again. “Sounded like a banshee… Maybe you’ve got to get past one of those next, Harry!” 
 
“It was someone being tortured!” said Neville, who had gone very white and spilled sausage rolls all over the floor. “You’re going to have to fight the Cruciatus Curse!” 
 
“Don’t be a prat, Neville, that’s illegal,” said George. “They wouldn’t use the Cruciatus Curse on the champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing… maybe you’ve got to attack him while he’s in the shower. Harry.” 
 
“Want a jam tart, Hermione?” said Fred. 
 
Hermione looked doubtfully at the plate he was offering her. Fred grinned. 
 
“It’s all right,” he said. “I haven’t done anything to them. It’s the custard creams you’ve got to watch -” 
 
Neville, who had just bitten into a custard cream, choked and spat it out. Fred laughed. 
 
“Just my little joke, Neville…” 
 
Hermione took a jam tart. Then she said, “Did you get all this from the kitchens, Fred?” 
 
“Yep,” said Fred, grinning at her. He put on a high-pitched squeak and imitated a house-elf. “‘Anything we can get you, sir, anything at all!’ They’re dead helpful… get me a roast ox if I said I was peckish.” 
 
“How do you get in there?” Hermione said in an innocently casual sort of voice.  
 
“Easy,” said Fred, “concealed door behind a painting of a bowl of fruit. Just tickle the pear, and it giggles and -” He stopped and looked suspiciously at her. “Why?”  
 
“Nothing,” said Hermione quickly. 
 
“Going to try and lead the house-elves out on strike now, are you?” said George. “Going to give up all the leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?” 
 
Several people chortled. Hermione didn’t answer. 
 
“Don’t you go upsetting them and telling them they’ve got to take clothes and salaries!” said Fred warningly. “You’ll put them off their cooking!” 
 
Just then, Neville caused a slight diversion by turning into a large canary. 
 
“Oh - sorry, Neville!” Fred shouted over all the laughter. “I forgot - it was the custard creams we hexed -” 
 
Within a minute, however, Neville had molted, and once his feathers had fallen off, he reappeared looking entirely normal. He even joined in laughing. “Canary Creams!” Fred shouted to the excitable crowd. “George and I invented them - seven Sickles each, a bargain!” 
 
It was nearly one in the morning when Harry finally went up to the dormitory with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. Before he pulled the curtains of his four-poster shut. Harry set his tiny model of the Hungarian Horntail on the table next to his bed, where it yawned, curled up, and closed its eyes. Really, Harry thought, as he pulled the hangings on his four-poster closed, Hagrid had a point… they were all right, really, dragons…  
 
The start of December brought wind and sleet to Hogwarts. Drafty though the castle always was in winter. Harry was glad of its fires and thick walls every time he passed the Durmstrang ship on the lake, which was pitching in the high winds, its black sails billowing against the dark skies. He thought the Beauxbatons caravan was likely to be pretty chilly too. Hagrid, he noticed, was keeping Madame Maxime’s horses well provided with their preferred drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from the trough in the comer of their paddock was enough to make the entire Careof Magical Creatures class light-headed. This was unhelpful, as they were still tending the horrible skrewts and needed their wits about them. 
 
“I’m not sure whether they hibernate or not,” Hagrid told the shivering class in the windy pumpkin patch next lesson. “Thought we’d jus’ try an see if they fancied a kip… we’ll jus’ settle ‘em down in these boxes…” 
 
There were now only ten skrewts left; apparently their desire to kill one another had not been exercised out of them. Each of them was now approaching six feet in length. Their thick gray armor; their powerful, scuttling legs; their fire-blasting ends; their stings and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the most repulsive things Harry had ever seen. The class looked dispiritedly at the enormous boxes Hagrid had brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy blankets.  
 
“We’ll jus’ lead ‘em in here,” Hagrid said, “an’ put the lids on, and we’ll see what happens.” 
 
But the skrewts, it transpired, did not hibernate, and did not appreciate being forced into pillow-lined boxes and nailed in. Hagrid was soon yelling, “Don panic, now, don’ panic!” while the skrewts rampaged around the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class - Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in the lead - had fled into Hagrid’s cabin through the back door and barricaded themselves in; Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were among those who remained outside trying to help Hagrid. Together they managed to restrain and tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of numerous burns and cuts; finally, only one skrewt was left. 
 
“Don’ frighten him, now!” Hagrid shouted as Ron and Harry used their wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at the skrewt, which was advancing menacingly on them, its sting arched, quivering, over its back. “Jus’ try an slip the rope ‘round his sting, so he won hurt any o’ the others!” 
 
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want that!” Ron shouted angrily as he and Harry backed into the wall of Hagrid’s cabin, still holding the skrewt off with their sparks. 
 
“Well, well, well… this does look like fun.” 
 
Rita Skeeter was leaning on Hagrid’s garden fence, looking in at the mayhem. She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm. 
 
Hagrid launched himself forward on top of the skrewt that was cornering Harry and Ron and flattened it; a blast of fire shot out of its end, withering the pumpkin plants nearby. 
 
“Who’re you?” Hagrid asked Rita Skeeter as he slipped a loop of rope around the skrewt’s sting and tightened it. 
 
“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter,” Rita replied, beaming at him. Her gold teeth glinted. 
“Thought Dumbledore said you weren’ allowed inside the school anymore,” said Hagrid, frowning slightly as he got off the slightly squashed skrewt and started tugging it over to its fellows. 
 
Rita acted as though she hadn’t heard what Hagrid had said. 
 
“What are these fascinating creatures called?” she asked, beaming still more widely. 
 
“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” grunted Hagrid. 
 
“Really?” said Rita, apparently full of lively interest. “I’ve never heard of them before… where do they come from?” 
 
Harry noticed a dull red flush rising up out of Hagrid’s wild black beard, and his heart sank. Where had Hagrid got the skrewts from? Hermione, who seemed to be thinking along these lines, said quickly, “They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Aren’t they. Harry?” 
 
“What? Oh yeah… ouch… interesting,” said Harry as she stepped on his foot. 
 
“Ah, you’re here. Harry!” said Rita Skeeter as she looked around. “So you like Care of Magical Creatures, do you? One of your favorite lessons?” 
 
“Yes,” said Harry stoutly. Hagrid beamed at him. 
 
“Lovely,” said Rita. “Really lovely. Been teaching long?” she added to Hagrid. Harry noticed her eyes travel over Dean (who had a nasty cut across one cheek). Lavender (whose robes were badly singed), Seamus (who was nursing several burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where most of the class stood, their noses pressed against the glass waiting to see if the coast was clear. 
 
“This is o’ny me second year,” said Hagrid. 
 
“Lovely… I don’t suppose you’d like to give an interview, would you? Share some of your experience of magical creatures? The Prophet does a zoological column every Wednesday, as I’m sure you know. We could feature these - er - Bang- Ended Scoots.” 
 
“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” Hagrid said eagerly. “Er - yeah, why not?” 
 
Harry had a very bad feeling about this, but there was no way of communicating it to Hagrid without Rita Skeeter seeing, so he had to stand and watch in silence as Hagrid and Rita Skeeter made arrangements to meet in the Three Broomsticks for a good long interview later that week. Then the bell rang up at the castle, signaling the end of the lesson. 
 
“Well, good-bye, Harry!” Rita Skeeter called merrily to him as he set off with Ron and Hermione. “Until Friday night, then, Hagrid!” 
 
“She’ll twist everything he says,” Harry said under his breath. 
 
“Just as long as he didn’t import those skrewts illegally or anything,” said Hermione desperately. They looked at one another - it was exactly the sort of thing Hagrid might do. 
 
“Hagrids been in loads of trouble before, and Dumbledores never sacked him,” said Ron consolingly. “Worst that can happen is Hagrid’ll have to get rid of the skrewts. Sorry… did I say worst? I meant best.” 
 
Harry and Hermione laughed, and, feeling slightly more cheerful, went off to lunch. 
 
Harry thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that afternoon; they were still doing star charts and predictions, but now that he and Ron were friends once more, the whole thing seemed very funny again. Professor Trelawney, who had been so pleased with the pair of them when they had been predicting their own horrific deaths, quickly became irritated as they sniggered through her explanation of the various ways in which Pluto could disrupt everyday life. 
 
“I would think,” she said, in a mystical whisper that did not conceal her obvious annoyance, “that some of us” - she stared very meaningfully at Harry- “might be a little less frivolous had they seen what I have seen during my crystal gazing last night. As I sat here, absorbed in my needlework, the urge to consult the orb overpowered me. I arose, I settled myself before it, and I gazed into its crystalline depths… and what do you think I saw gazing back at me?” 
 
“An ugly old bat in outsize specs?” Ron muttered under his breath. 
 
Harry fought hard to keep his face straight. 
 
“Death, my dears.” 
 
Parvati and Lavender both put their hands over their mouths, looking horrified. 
 
“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, nodding impressively, “it comes, ever closer, it circles overhead like a vulture, ever lower… ever lower over the castle…” She stared pointedly at Harry, who yawned very widely and obviously. 
 
“It’d be a bit more impressive if she hadn’t done it about eighty times before,” Harry said as they finally regained the fresh air of the staircase beneath Professor Trelawney’s room. “But if I’d dropped dead every time she’s told me I’m going to, I’d be a medical miracle.” 
 
“You’d be a sort of extra-concentrated ghost,” said Ron, chortling, as they passed the Bloody Baron going in the opposite direction, his wide eyes staring sinisterly. 
 
“At least we didn’t get homework. I hope Hermione got loads off Professor Vector, I love not working when she is…” 
 
But Hermione wasn’t at dinner, nor was she in the library when they went to look for her afterward. The only person in there was Viktor Krum. Ron hovered behind the bookshelves for a while, watching Krum, debating in whispers with Harry whether he should ask for an autograph - but then Ron realized that six or seven girls were lurking in the next row of books, debating exactly the same thing, and he lost his enthusiasm for the idea. 
 
“Wonder where she’s got to?” Ron said as he and Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower. 
 
“Dunno… balderdash.” 
 
But the Fat Lady had barely begun to swing forward when the sound of racing feet behind them announced Hermione’s arrival. 
 
“Harry!” she panted, skidding to a halt beside him (the Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised. “Harry, you’ve got to come - you’ve got to come, the most amazing thing’s happened- please -” 
 
She seized Harry’s arm and started to try to drag him back along the corridor. “What’s the matter?” Harry said. 
 
“I’ll show you when we get there - oh come on, quick -” 
 
Harry looked around at Ron; he looked back at Harry, intrigued. 
 
“Okay,” Harry said, starting off back down the corridor with Hermione, Ron hurrying to keep up. 
 
“Oh don’t mind me!” the Fat Lady called irritably after them. “Don’t apologize for bothering me! I’ll just hang here, wide open, until you get back, shall I?” 
 
“Yeah, thanks!” Ron shouted over his shoulder. 
 
“Hermione, where are we going?” Harry asked, after she had led them down through six floors, and started down the marble staircase into the entrance hall. 
 
“You’ll see, you’ll see in a minute!” said Hermione excitedly. 
 
She turned left at the bottom of the staircase and hurried toward the door through which Cedric Diggory had gone the night after the Goblet of Fire had regurgitated his and Harry’s names. Harry had never been through here before. He and Ron followed Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the one that led to Snape’s dungeon, they found themselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that were mainly of food. 
 
“Oh hang on…” said Harry slowly, halfway down the corridor. “Wait a minute, Hermione…” 
 
“What?” She turned around to look at him, anticipation all over her face. 
 
“I know what this is about,” said Harry. 
 
He nudged Ron and pointed to the painting just behind Hermione. It showed a gigantic silver fruit bowl. 
 
“Hermione!” said Ron, cottoning on. “You’re trying to rope us into that spew stuff again!” 
 
“No, no, I’m not!” she said hastily. “And it’s not spew, Ron -” 
 
“Changed the name, have you?” said Ron, frowning at her. “What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I’m not barging into that kitchen and trying to make them stop work, I’m not doing it -” 
 
“I’m not asking you to!” Hermione said impatiently. “I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found - oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!” 
 
She seized his arm again, pulled him in front of the picture of the giant fruit bowl, stretched out her forefinger, and tickled the huge green pear. It began to squirm, chuckling, and suddenly turned into a large green door handle. Hermione seized it, pulled the door open, and pushed Harry hard in the back, forcing him inside. 
 
He had one brief glimpse of an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end, when something small hurtled toward him from the middle of the room, squealing, “Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!” 
 
Next second all the wind had been knocked out of him as the squealing elf hit him hard in the midriff, hugging him so tightly he thought his ribs would break. 
 
“D-Dobby?” Harry gasped. 
 
“It is Dobby, sir, it is!” squealed the voice from somewhere around his navel. “Dobby has been hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry Potter has come to see him, sir!” 
 
Dobby let go and stepped back a few paces, beaming up at Harry, his enormous, green, tennis-ball-shaped eyes brimming with tears of happiness. He looked almost exactly as Harry remembered him; the pencil-shaped nose, the batlike ears, the long fingers and feet - all except the clothes, which were very different. When Dobby had worked for the Malfoys, he had always worn the same filthy old pillowcase. Now, however, he was wearing the strangest assortment of garments Harry had ever seen; he had done an even worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the World Cup. He was wearing a tea cozy for a hat, on which he had pinned a number of bright badges; a tie patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of what looked like children’s soccer shorts, and odd socks. One of these, Harry saw, was the black one Harry had removed from his own foot and tricked Mr. Malfoy into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free. The other was covered in pink and orange stripes. 
 
“Dobby, what’re you doing here?” Harry said in amazement.  
 
“Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!” Dobby squealed excitedly. “Professor Dumbledore gave Dobby and Winky jobs, sir! 
 
“Winky?” said Harry. “She’s here too?” 
 
“Yes, sir, yes!” said Dobby, and he seized Harry’s hand and pulled him off into the kitchen between the four long wooden tables that stood there. Each of these tables, Harry noticed as he passed them, was positioned exactly beneath the four House tables above, in the Great Hall. At the moment, they were clear of food, dinner having finished, but he supposed that an hour ago they had been laden with dishes that were then sent up through the ceiling to their counterparts above. 
 
At least a hundred little elves were standing around the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as Dobby led Harry past them. They were all wearing the same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts crest, and tied, as Winky’s had been, like a toga. 
 
Dobby stopped in front of the brick fireplace and pointed. 
 
“Winky, sir!” he said. 
 
Winky was sitting on a stool by the fire. Unlike Dobby, she had obviously not foraged for clothes. She was wearing a neat little skirt and blouse with a matching blue hat, which had holes in it for her large ears. However, while every one of Dobby’s strange collection of garments was so clean and well cared for that it looked brand-new, Winky was plainly not taking care other clothes at all. There were soup stains all down her blouse and a burn in her skirt. 
 
“Hello, Winky,” said Harry. 
 
Winky’s lip quivered. Then she burst into tears, which spilled out of her great brown eyes and splashed down her front, just as they had done at the Quidditch World Cup. 
 
“Oh dear,” said Hermione. She and Ron had followed Harry and Dobby to the end of the kitchen. “Winky, don’t cry, please don’t…” 
 
But Winky cried harder than ever. Dobby, on the other hand, beamed up at Harry.  
 
“Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?” he squeaked loudly, over Winky’s sobs. 
 
“Er - yeah, okay,” said Harry. 
 
Instantly, about six house-elves came trotting up behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits. 
 
“Good service!” Ron said, in an impressed voice. Hermione frowned at him, but the elves all looked delighted; they bowed very low and retreated. 
 
“How long have you been here, Dobby?” Harry asked as Dobby handed around the tea. 
 
“Only a week. Harry Potter, sir!” said Dobby happily. “Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult indeed -” 
 
At this, Winky howled even harder, her squashed-tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though she made no effort to stem the flow. 
 
“Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!” Dobby squeaked. “But Dobby hasn’t found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!” 
 
The house-elves all around the kitchen, who had been listening and watching with interest, all looked away at these words, as though Dobby had said something rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, said, “Good for you, Dobby!” 
 
“Thank you, miss!” said Dobby, grinning toothily at her. “But most wizards doesn’t want a house-elf who wants paying, miss. ‘That’s not the point of a house-elf,’ they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby’s face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid. Harry Potter… Dobby likes being free!” 
 
The Hogwarts house-elves had now started edging away from Dobby, as though he were carrying something contagious. Winky, however, remained where she was, though there was a definite increase in the volume other crying.  
 
“And then, Harry Potter, Dobby goes to visit Winky, and finds out Winky has been freed too, sir!” said Dobby delightedly. 
 
At this, Winky flung herself forward off her stool and lay face-down on the flagged stone floor, beating her tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with misery. Hermione hastily dropped down to her knees beside her and tried to comfort her, but nothing she said made the slightest difference. Dobby continued with his story, shouting shrilly over Winky’s screeches. 
 
“And then Dobby had the idea. Harry Potter, sir! ‘Why doesn’t Dobby and Winky find work together?’ Dobby says. ‘Where is there enough work for two house elves?’ says Winky. And Dobby thinks, and it comes to him, sir! Hogwarts! So Dobby and Winky came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir, and Professor Dumbledore took us on!” 
 
Dobby beamed very brightly, and happy tears welled in his eyes again. 
 
“And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!” 
 
“That’s not very much!” Hermione shouted indignantly from the floor, over Winky’s continued screaming and fist-beating. 
 
“Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off,” said Dobby, suddenly giving a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much leisure and riches were frightening, “but Dobby beat him down, miss… Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn’t wanting too much, miss, he likes work better.” 
 
“And how much is Professor Dumbledore paying you, Winky?” Hermione asked kindly. 
 
If she had thought this would cheer up Winky, she was wildly mistaken. Winky did stop crying, but when she sat up she was glaring at Hermione through her massive brown eyes, her whole face sopping wet and suddenly furious. 
 
“Winky is a disgraced elf, but Winky is not yet getting paid!” she squeaked. “Winky is not sunk so low as that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!” 
 
“Ashamed?” said Hermione blankly. “But - Winky, come on! It’s Mr. Crouch who should be ashamed, not you! You didn’t do anything wrong, he was really horrible to you -” 
 
But at these words, Winky clapped her hands over the holes in her hat, flattening her ears so that she couldn’t hear a word, and screeched, “You is not insulting my master, miss! You is not insulting Mr. Crouch! Mr. Crouch is a good wizard, miss! Mr. Crouch is right to sack bad Winky!” 
 
“Winky is having trouble adjusting, Harry Potter,” squeaked Dobby confidentially. “Winky forgets she is not bound to Mr. Crouch anymore; she is allowed to speak her mind now, but she won’t do it.” 
 
“Can’t house-elves speak their minds about their masters, then?” Harry asked. 
 
“Oh no, sir, no,” said Dobby, looking suddenly serious. “‘Tis part of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We upholds the family’s honor, and we never speaks ill of them - though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said we is free to - to-” 
 
Dobby looked suddenly nervous and beckoned Harry closer. Harry bent forward. 
 
Dobby whispered, “He said we is free to call him a - a barmy old codger if we likes, sir!” 
 
Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle. 
 
“But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter,” he said, talking normally again, and shaking his head so that his ears flapped. “Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and our silence for him.” 
 
“But you can say what you like about the Malfoys now?” Harry asked him, grinning. 
 
A slightly fearful look came into Dobby’s immense eyes. 
 
“Dobby - Dobby could,” he said doubtfully. He squared his small shoulders. “Dobby could tell Harry Potter that his old masters were - were - bad Dark wizards’.” 
 
Dobby stood for a moment, quivering all over, horror-struck by his own daring - then he rushed over to the nearest table and began banging his head on it very hard, squealing, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” 
 
Harry seized Dobby by the back of his tie and pulled him away from the table.  
 
“Thank you. Harry Potter, thank you,” said Dobby breathlessly, rubbing his head.  
 
“You just need a bit of practice,” Harry said. 
 
“Practice!” squealed Winky furiously. “You is ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dobby, talking that way about your masters!” 
 
“They isn’t my masters anymore, Winky!” said Dobby defiantly. “Dobby doesn’t care what they think anymore!” 
 
“Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!” moaned Winky, tears leaking down her face once more. “My poor Mr. Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after the Crouches all my life, and my mother is doing it before me, and my grandmother is doing it before her… oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was freed? Oh the shame, the shame!” She buried her face in her skirt again and bawled. 
 
“Winky,” said Hermione firmly, “I’m quite sure Mr. Crouch is getting along perfectly well without you. We’ve seen him, you know -” 
 
“You is seeing my master?” said Winky breathlessly, raising her tearstained face out of her skirt once more and goggling at Hermione. “You is seeing him here at Hogwarts?” 
 
“Yes,” said Hermione, “he and Mr. Bagman are judges in the Triwizard Tournament.” 
 
“Mr. Bagman comes too?” squeaked Winky, and to Harry’s great surprise (and Ron’s and Hermione’s too, by the looks on their faces), she looked angry again. “Mr. Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn’t liking him, oh no, not at all!” 
 
“Bagman - bad?” said Harry. 
“Oh yes,” Winky said, nodding her head furiously, “My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky is not saying… Winky - Winky keeps her master’s secrets…” 
 
She dissolved yet again in tears; they could hear her sobbing into her skirt, “Poor master, poor master, no Winky to help him no more!” 
 
They couldn’t get another sensible word out of Winky. They left her to her crying and finished their tea, while Dobby chatted happily about his life as a free elf and his plans for his wages. 
 
“Dobby is going to buy a sweater next, Harry Potter!” he said happily, pointing at his bare chest, 
 
“Tell you what, Dobby,” said Ron, who seemed to have taken a great liking to the elf, “I’ll give you the one my mum knits me this Christmas, I always get one from her. You don’t mind maroon, do you?” 
 
Dobby was delighted. 
 
“We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you,” Ron told him, “but it’ll go well with your tea cozy.” 
 
As they prepared to take their leave, many of the surrounding elves pressed in upon them, offering snacks to take back upstairs. Hermione refused, with a pained look at the way the elves kept bowing and curtsying, but Harry and Ron loaded their pockets with cream cakes and pies. 
 
“Thanks a lot!” Harry said to the elves, who had all clustered around the door to say good night. “See you, Dobby!” 
 
“Harry Potter… can Dobby come and see you sometimes, sir?” Dobby asked tentatively. 
 
“‘Course you can,” said Harry, and Dobby beamed. 
 
“You know what?” said Ron, once he, Hermione, and Harry had left the kitchens behind and were climbing the steps into the entrance hall again. “All these years I’ve been really impressed with Fred and George, nicking food from the kitchens - well, it’s not exactly difficult, is it? They can’t wait to give it away!” 
 
“I think this is the best thing that could have happened to those elves, you know,” said Hermione, leading the way back up the marble staircase. “Dobby coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see how happy he is, being free, and slowly it’ll dawn on them that they want that too!” 
 
“Let’s hope they don’t look too closely at Winky,” said Harry. 
 
“Oh she’ll cheer up,” said Hermione, though she sounded a bit doubtful. “Once the shock’s worn off, and she’s got used to Hogwarts, she’ll see how much better off she is without that Crouch man.” 
 
“She seems to love him,” said Ron thickly (he had just started on a cream cake).  
 
“Doesn’t think much of Bagman, though, does she?” said Harry. “Wonder what Crouch says at home about him?” 
 
“Probably says he’s not a very good Head of Department,” said Hermione, “and let’s face it… he’s got a point, hasn’t he?” 
 
“I’d still rather work for him than old Crouch,” said Ron. “At least Bagman’s got a sense of humor.” 
 
“Don’t let Percy hear you saying that,” Hermione said, smiling slightly.  
 
“Yeah, well, Percy wouldn’t want to work for anyone with a sense of humor, would he?” said Ron, now starting on a chocolate eclair. “Percy wouldn’t recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby’s tea cozy.” 
 
“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?” 
 
Professor McGonagall’s irritated voice cracked like a whip through the Transfiguration class on Thursday, and Harry and Ron both jumped and looked up. 
 
It was the end of the lesson; they had finished their work; the guinea fowl they had been changing into guinea pigs had been shut away in a large cage on Professor McGonagall’s desk (Neville’s still had feathers); they had copied down their homework from the blackboard (“Describe, with examples, the ways in which Transforming Spells must be adapted when performing Cross-Species Switches”}. 
 
The bell was due to ring at any moment, and Harry and Ron, who had been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George’s fake wands at the back of the class, looked up, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry, a rubber haddock. 
 
“Now that Potter and Weasley have been kind enough to act their age,” said Professor McGonagall, with an angry look at the pair of them as the head of Harry’s haddock drooped and fell silently to the floor - Ron’s parrot’s beak had severed it moments before - “I have something to say to you all. 
 
“The Yule Ball is approaching - a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above - although you may invite a younger student if you wish -” 
 
Lavender Brown let out a shrill giggle. Parvati Patil nudged her hard in the ribs, her face working furiously as she too fought not to giggle. They both looked around at Harry, Professor McGonagall ignored them, which Harry thought was distinctly unfair, as she had just told off him and Ron. 
 
“Dress robes will be worn,” Professor McGonagall continued, “and the ball will start at eight o’clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then -” 
 
Professor McGonagall stared deliberately around the class. 
 
“The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to - er - let our hair down,” she said, in a disapproving voice. 
 
Lavender giggled harder than ever, with her hand pressed hard against her mouth to stifle the sound. Harry could see what was funny this time: Professor McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, looked as though she had never let her hair down in any sense. 
 
“But that does NOT mean,” Professor McGonagall went on, “that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way.” 
 
The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders. 
 
Professor McGonagall called above the noise, “Potter - a word, if you please.” 
 
Assuming this had something to do with his headless rubber haddock, Harry proceeded gloomily to the teacher’s desk. Professor McGonagall waited until the rest of the class had gone, and then said, “Potter, the champions and their partners -” 
 
“What partners?” said Harry. 
 
Profesor McGonagall looked suspiciously at him, as though she thought he was trying to be funny. 
 
“Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter,” she said coldly. “Your dance partners.”  
 
Harry’s insides seemed to curl up and shrivel. 
 
“Dance partners?” He felt himself going red. “I don’t dance,” he said quickly. 
 
“Oh yes, you do,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “That’s what I’m telling you. Traditionally, the champions and their partners open the ball.” 
  
Harry had a sudden mental image of himself in a top hat and tails, accompanied by a girl in the sort of frilly dress Aunt Petunia always wore to Uncle Vernon’s work parties. 
 
“I’m not dancing,” he said. 
 
“It is traditional,” said Professor McGonagall firmly. “You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school. So make sure you get yourself a partner, Potter.” 
 
“But-I don’t-” 
 
“You heard me, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall in a very final sort of way.  
 
A week ago Harry would have said finding a partner for a dance would be a cinch compared to taking on a Hungarian Horntail. But now that he had done the latter, and was facing the prospect of asking a girl to the ball, he thought he’d rather have another round with the dragon. 
 
Harry had never known so many people to put their names down to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; he always did, of course, because the alternative was usually going back to Privet Drive, but he had always been very much in the minority before now. This year, however, everyone in the fourth year and above seemed to be staying, and they all seemed to Harry to be obsessed with the coming ball - or at least all the girls were, and it was amazing how many girls Hogwarts suddenly seemed to hold; he had never quite noticed that before. Girls giggling and whispering in the corridors, girls shrieking with laughter as boys passed them, girls excitedly comparing notes on what they were going to wear on Christmas night…  
 
“Why do they have to move in packs?” Harry asked Ron as a dozen or so girls walked past them, sniggering and staring at Harry. “How’re you supposed to get one on their own to ask them?” 
 
“Lasso one?” Ron suggested. “Got any idea who you’re going to try?” 
 
Harry didn’t answer. He knew perfectly well whom he’d like to ask, but working up the nerve was something else… Cho was a year older than he was; she was very pretty; she was a very good Quidditch player, and she was also very popular. Ron seemed to know what was going on inside Harry’s head. 
 
“Listen, you’re not going to have any trouble. You’re a champion. You’ve just beaten a Hungarian Horntail. I bet they’ll be queuing up to go with you.”  
 
In tribute to their recently repaired friendship, Ron had kept the bitterness in his voice to a bare minimum. Moreover, to Harry’s amazement, he turned out to be quite right. 
 
A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom Harry had never spoken in his life asked him to go to the ball with her the very next day. Harry was so taken aback he said no before he’d even stopped to consider the matter. The girl walked off looking rather hurt, and Harry had to endure Dean’s, Seamus’s, and Ron’s taunts about her all through History of Magic. The following day, two more girls asked him, a second year and (to his horror) a fifth year who looked as though she might knock him out if he refused. 
 
“She was quite good-looking,” said Ron fairly, after he’d stopped laughing.  
  
“She was a foot taller than me,” said Harry, still unnerved. “Imagine what I’d look like trying to dance with her.” 
 
Hermione’s words about Krum kept coming back to him. “They only like him because he’s famous!” Harry doubted very much if any of the girls who had asked to be his partner so far would have wanted to go to the ball with him if he hadn’t been a school champion. Then he wondered if this would bother him if Cho asked him. 
 
On the whole, Harry had to admit that even with the embarrassing prospect of opening the ball before him, life had definitely improved since he had got through the first task. He wasn’t attracting nearly as much unpleasantness in the corridors anymore, which he suspected had a lot to do with Cedric - he had an idea Cedric might have told the Hufflepuffs to leave Harry alone, in gratitude for Harry’s tipoff about the dragons. There seemed to be fewer Support Cedric Diggory! badges around too. Draco Malfoy, of course, was still quoting Rita Skeeter’s article to him at every possible opportunity, but he was getting fewer and fewer laughs out of it - and just to heighten Harry’s feeling of well-being, no story about Hagrid had appeared in the Daily Prophet. 
 
“She didn’ seem very int’rested in magical creatures, ter tell yeh the truth,” Hagrid said, when Harry, Ron, and Hermione asked him how his interview with Rita Skeeter had gone during the last Care of Magical Creatures lesson of the term. To their very great relief, Hagrid had given up on direct contact with the skrewts now, and they were merely sheltering behind his cabin today, sitting at a trestle table and preparing a fresh selection of food with which to tempt the skrewts. 
 
“She jus’ wanted me ter talk about you, Harry,” Hagrid continued in a low voice. “Well, I told her we’d been friends since I went ter fetch yeh from the Dursleys. ‘Never had to tell him off in four years?’ she said. ‘Never played you up in lessons, has he?’ I told her no, an she didn’ seem happy at all. Yeh’d think she wanted me to say yeh were horrible, Harry.” 
 
“‘Course she did,” said Harry, throwing lumps of dragon liver into a large metal bowl and picking up his knife to cut some more. “She can’t keep writing about what a tragic little hero I am, it’ll get boring.” 
 
“She wants a new angle, Hagrid,” said Ron wisely as he shelled salamander eggs. “You were supposed to say Harry’s a mad delinquent!” 
 
“But he’s not!” said Hagrid, looking genuinely shocked. 
 
“She should’ve interviewed Snape,” said Harry grimly. “He’d give her the goods on me any day. ‘Potter has been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this school… ’” 
 
“Said that, did he?” said Hagrid, while Ron and Hermione laughed. “Well, yeh might’ve bent a few rules. Harry, bu’ yeh’re all righ’ really, aren’ you?” 
 
“Cheers, Hagrid,” said Harry, grinning. 
 
“You coming to this ball thing on Christmas Day, Hagrid?” said Ron. 
 
“Though’ I might look in on it, yeah,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Should be a good do, I reckon. You’ll be openin the dancin’, won yeh, Harry? Who’re you takin’?” 
 
“No one, yet,” said Harry, feeling himself going red again. Hagrid didn’t pursue the subject. 
 
The last week of term became increasingly boisterous as it progressed. Rumors about the Yule Ball were flying everywhere, though Harry didn’t believe half of them - for instance, that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had booked the Weird Sisters. Exactly who or what the Weird Sisters were Harry didn’t know, never having had access to a wizard’s wireless, but he deduced from the wild excitement of those who had grown up listening to the WWN (Wizarding Wireless 
Network) that they were a very famous musical group.  
Some of the teachers, like little Professor Flitwick, gave up trying to teach them much when their minds were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play games in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of it talking to Harry about the perfect Summoning Charm Harry had used during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Other teachers were not so generous. Nothing would ever deflect Professor Binns, for example, from plowing on through his notes on goblin rebellions - as Binns hadn’t let his own death stand in the way of continuing to teach, they supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn’t going to put him off. It was amazing how he could make even bloody and vicious goblin riots sound as boring as Percy’s cauldron-bottom report. Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term. 
 
“Evil, he is,” Ron said bitterly that night in the Gryffindor common room. “Springing a test on us on the last day. Ruining the last bit of term with a whole load of studying.” 
 
“Mmm… you’re not exactly straining yourself, though, are you?” said Hermione, looking at him over the top of her Potions notes. Ron was busy building a card castle out of his Exploding Snap pack - a much more interesting pastime than with Muggle cards, because of the chance that the whole thing would blow up at any second. 
 
“It’s Christmas, Hermione,” said Harry lazily; he was rereading Flying with the Cannons for the tenth time in an armchair near the fire. Hermione looked severely over at him too. 
 
“I’d have thought you’d be doing something constructive, Harry, even if you don’t want to learn your antidotes!” 
 
“Like what?” Harry said as he watched Joey Jenkins of the Cannons belt a Bludger toward a Ballycastle Bats Chaser. 
 
“That egg!” Hermione hissed. 
 
“Come on, Hermione, I’ve got till February the twenty-fourth,” Harry said.  
 
He had put the golden egg upstairs in his trunk and hadn’t opened it since the celebration party after the first task. There were still two and a half months to go until he needed to know what all the screechy wailing meant, after all.  
 
“But it might take weeks to work it out!” said Hermione. “You’re going to look a real idiot if everyone else knows what the next task is and you don’t!” 
 
“Leave him alone, Hermione, he’s earned a bit of a break,” said Ron, and he placed the last two cards on top of the castle and the whole lot blew up, singeing his eyebrows. 
 
“Nice look Ron… go well with your dress robes, that will.” 
 
It was Fred and George. They sat down at the table with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Ron felt how much damage had been done. 
 
“Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?” George asked. 
 
“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” said Ron. “Why?” 
 
“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” said Fred sarcastically. 
 
“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great prat,” said George. 
 
“Who d’you two keep writing to, eh?” said Ron. 
 
“Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you too,” said Fred, waving his wand threateningly. “So… you lot got dates for the ball yet?” 
 
“Nope,” said Ron. 
 
“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone,” said Fred. 
 
“Who’re you going with, then?” said Ron. 
 
“Angelina,” said Fred promptly, without a trace of embarrassment. 
 
“What?” said Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked her?” 
 
“Good point,” said Fred. He turned his head and called across the common room, “Oy! Angelina!” 
 
Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near the fire, looked over at him. 
 
“What?” she called back. 
 
“Want to come to the ball with me?” 
 
Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look. 
 
“All right, then,” she said, and she turned back to Alicia and carried on chatting with a bit of a grin on her face. 
 
“There you go,” said Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of cake.” 
 
He got to his feet, yawning, and said, “We’d better use a school owl then, George, come on…” 
 
They left. Ron stopped feeling his eyebrows and looked across the smoldering wreck of his card castle at Harry. 
“We should get a move on, you know… ask someone. He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of trolls.” 
 
Hermione let out a sputter of indignation. 
 
“A pair of… what, excuse me?” 
 
“Well - you know,” said Ron, shrugging. “I’d rather go alone than with – with Eloise Midgen, say.” 
 
“Her acne’s loads better lately - and she’s really nice!” 
 
“Her nose is off-center,” said Ron. 
 
“Oh I see,” Hermione said, bristling. “So basically, you’re going to take the best looking girl who’ll have you, even if she’s completely horrible?” 
 
“Er - yeah, that sounds about right,” said Ron. 
 
“I’m going to bed,” Hermione snapped, and she swept off toward the girls’ staircase without another word. 
 
The Hogwarts staff, demonstrating a continued desire to impress the visitors from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, seemed determined to show the castle at its best this Christmas. When the decorations went up. Harry noticed that they were the most stunning he had yet seen inside the school. Everlasting icicles had been attached to the banisters of the marble staircase; the usual twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall were bedecked with everything from luminous holly berries to real, hooting, golden owls, and the suits of armor had all been bewitched to sing carols whenever anyone passed them. It was quite something to hear “O Come, All Ye Faithful” sung by an empty helmet that only knew half the words. Several times, Filch the caretaker had to extract Peeves from inside the armor, where he had taken to hiding, filling in the gaps in the songs with lyrics of his own invention, all of which were very rude. 
 
And still Harry hadn’t asked Cho to the ball. He and Ron were getting very nervous now, though as Harry pointed out, Ron would look much less stupid than he would without a partner; Harry was supposed to be starting the dancing with the other champions.  
 
“I suppose there’s always Moaning Myrtle,” he said gloomily, referring to the ghost who haunted the girls’ toilets on the second floor. 
 
“Harry - we’ve just got to grit our teeth and do it,” said Ron on Friday morning, in a tone that suggested they were planning the storming of an impregnable fortress. 
 
“When we get back to the common room tonight, we’ll both have partners - agreed?” 
 
“Er… okay,” said Harry. 
But every time he glimpsed Cho that day - during break, and then lunchtime, and once on the way to History of Magic - she was surrounded by friends. Didn’t she ever go anywhere alone? Could he perhaps ambush her as she was going into a bathroom? But no - she even seemed to go there with an escort of four or five girls. Yet if he didn’t do it soon, she was bound to have been asked by somebody else. 
 
He found it hard to concentrate on Snape’s Potions test, and consequently forgot to add the key ingredient - a bezoar - meaning that he received bottom marks. He didn’t care, though; he was too busy screwing up his courage for what he was about to do. When the bell rang, he grabbed his bag, and hurried to the dungeon door. 
 
“I’ll meet you at dinner,” he said to Ron and Hermione, and he dashed off upstairs. 
 
He’d just have to ask Cho for a private word, that was all… He hurried off through the packed corridors looking for her, and (rather sooner than he had expected) he found her, emerging from a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.  
 
“Er - Cho? Could I have a word with you?” 
 
Giggling should be made illegal Harry thought furiously, as all the girls around Cho started doing it. She didn’t, though. She said, “Okay,” and followed him out of earshot other classmates. 
Harry turned to look at her and his stomach gave a weird lurch as though he had missed a step going downstairs. 
 
“Er,” he said. 
 
He couldn’t ask her. He couldn’t. But he had to. Cho stood there looking puzzled, watching him. The words came out before Harry had quite got his tongue around them. 
 
“Wangoballwime?” 
 
“Sorry?” said Cho. 
 
“D’you - d’you want to go to the ball with me?” said Harry. Why did he have to go red now? Why? 
 
“Oh!” said Cho, and she went red too. “Oh Harry, I’m really sorry,” and she truly looked it. “I’ve already said I’ll go with someone else.” 
 
“Oh,” said Harry. 
 
It was odd; a moment before his insides had been writhing like snakes, but suddenly he didn’t seem to have any insides at all. 
 
“Oh okay,” he said, “no problem.” 
 
“I’m really sorry,” she said again. 
 
“That’s okay,” said Harry. 
 
They stood there looking at each other, and then Cho said, “Well-” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry. 
 
“Well, ‘bye,” said Cho, still very red. She walked away. 
 
Harry called after her, before he could stop himself. 
 
“Who’re you going with?” 
 
“Oh - Cedric,” she said. “Cedric Diggory.” 
 
“Oh right,” said Harry. 
 
His insides had come back again. It felt as though they had been filled with lead in their absence. 
Completely forgetting about dinner, he walked slowly back up to Gryffindor Tower, Cho’s voice echoing in his ears with every step he took. “Cedric – Cedric Diggory.” He had been starting to quite like Cedric - prepared to overlook the fact that he had once beaten him at Quidditch, and was handsome, and popular, and nearly everyone’s favorite champion. Now he suddenly realized that Cedric was in fact a useless pretty boy who didn’t have enough brains to fill an eggcup. 
 
“Fairy lights,” he said dully to the Fat Lady - the password had been changed the previous day. 
 
“Yes, indeed, dear!” she trilled, straightening her new tinsel hair band as she swung forward to admit him. 
 
Entering the common room, Harry looked around, and to his surprise he saw Ron sitting ashen-faced in a distant corner. Ginny was sitting with him, talking to him in what seemed to be a low, soothing voice. 
 
“What’s up, Ron?” said Harry, joining them. 
 
Ron looked up at Harry, a sort of blind horror in his face. 
 
“Why did I do it?” he said wildly. “I don’t know what made me do it!  
 
“What?” said Harry. 
 
“He - er - just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball with him,” said Ginny. She looked as though she was fighting back a smile, but she kept patting Ron’s arm sympathetically. 
 
“You what?’ said Harry. 
“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped again. “What was I playing at? There were people - all around - I’ve gone mad - everyone watching! I was just walking past her in the entrance hall - she was standing there talking to Diggory - and it sort of came over me - and I asked her!” 
 
Ron moaned and put his face in his hands. He kept talking, though the words were barely distinguishable. 
 
“She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn’t even answer. And then - I dunno - I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it.” 
 
“She’s part veela,” said Harry. “You were right - her grandmother was one. It wasn’t your fault, I bet you just walked past when she was turning on the old charm for Diggory and got a blast of it - but she was wasting her time. He’s going with Cho Chang.” 
 
Ron looked up. 
 
“I asked her to go with me just now,” Harry said dully, “and she told me.” 
 
Ginny had suddenly stopped smiling. 
 
“This is mad,” said Ron. “We’re the only ones left who haven’t got anyone - well, except Neville. Hey - guess who he asked? Hermione!” 
 
“What?” said Harry, completely distracted by this startling news. 
 
“Yeah, I know!” said Ron, some of the color coming back into his face as he started to laugh. “He told me after Potions! Said she’s always been really nice, helping him out with work and stuff - but she told him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if! She just didn’t want to go with Neville… I mean, who would?” 
 
“Don’t!” said Ginny, annoyed. “Don’t laugh -” 
 
Just then Hermione climbed in through the portrait hole. 
 
“Why weren’t you two at dinner?” she said, coming over to join them. 
 
“Because - oh shut up laughing, you two - because they’ve both just been turned down by girls they asked to the ball!” said Ginny. 
 
That shut Harry and Ron up. 
 
“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” said Ron sourly. 
 
“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” said Hermione loftily. “Eloise Midgen starting to look quite pretty now, is she? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone somewhere who’ll have you.” 
But Ron was staring at Hermione as though suddenly seeing her in a whole new light. 
 
“Hermione, Neville’s right - you are a girl…” 
 
“Oh well spotted,” she said acidly. 
 
“Well - you can come with one of us!” 
 
“No, I can’t,” snapped Hermione. 
 
“Oh come on,” he said impatiently, “we need partners, we’re going to look really stupid if we haven’t got any, everyone else has…” 
 
“I can’t come with you,” said Hermione, now blushing, “because I’m already going with someone.” 
 
“No, you’re not!” said Ron. “You just said that to get rid of Neville!” 
 
“Oh did I?” said Hermione, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!” 
 
Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again. 
 
“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” he said. “That do? Will you come now?”  
 
“I’ve already told you!” Hermione said very angrily. “I’m going with someone else!” 
 
And she stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories again. 
 
“She’s lying,” said Ron flatly, watching her go. 
 
“She’s not,” said Ginny quietly. 
 
“Who is it then?” said Ron sharply. 
 
“I’m not telling you, it’s her business,” said Ginny. 
 
“Right,” said Ron, who looked extremely put out, “this is getting stupid. Ginny, you can go with Harry, and I’ll just -” 
 
“I can’t,” said Ginny, and she went scarlet too. “I’m going with - with Neville. He asked me when Hermione said no, and I thought… well… I’m not going to be able to go otherwise, I’m not in fourth year.” She looked extremely miserable. “I think I’ll go and have dinner,” she said, and she got up and walked off to the portrait hole, her head bowed. 
 
Ron goggled at Harry. 
“What’s got into them?” he demanded. 
 
But Harry had just seen Parvati and Lavender come in through the portrait hole. The time had come for drastic action. 
 
“Wait here,” he said to Ron, and he stood up, walked straight up to Parvati, and said, “Parvati? Will you go to the ball with me?” 
 
Parvati went into a fit of giggles. Harry waited for them to subside, his fingers crossed in the pocket of his robes. 
 
“Yes, all right then,” she said finally, blushing furiously. 
 
“Thanks,” said Harry, in relief. “Lavender - will you go with Ron?” 
 
“She’s going with Seamus,” said Parvati, and the pair of them giggled harder than ever. 
 
Harry sighed. 
 
“Can’t you think of anyone who’d go with Ron?” he said, lowering his voice so that Ron wouldn’t hear. 
 
“What about Hermione Granger?” said Parvati. 
 
“She’s going with someone else.” 
 
Parvati looked astonished. 
 
“Ooooh - who?” she said keenly. 
 
Harry shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “So what about Ron?” 
 
“Well…” said Parvati slowly, “I suppose my sister might… Padma, you know… in Ravenclaw. I’ll ask her if you like.” 
 
“Yeah, that would be great,” said Harry. “Let me know, will you?” 
  
And he went back over to Ron, feeling that this ball was a lot more trouble than it was worth, and hoping very much that Padma Patil’s nose was dead center. 
 
Despite the very heavy load of homework that the fourth years had been given for the holidays Harry was in no mood to work when term ended, and spent the week leading up to Christmas enjoying himself as fully as possible along with everyone else. Gryffindor Tower was hardly less crowded now than during term-time; it seemed to have shrunk slightly too, as its inhabitants were being so much rowdier than usual. Fred and George had had a great success with their Canary Creams, and for the first couple of days of the holidays, people kept bursting into feather all over the place. Before long, however, all the Gryffindors had learned to treat food anybody else offered them with extreme caution, in case it had a Canary Cream concealed in the center, and George confided to Harry that he and Fred were now working on developing something else. Harry made a mental note never to accept so much as a crisp from Fred and George in future. He still hadn’t forgotten Dudley and the Ton-Tongue Toffee. 
 
Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds now. The pale blue Beauxbatons carriage looked like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the iced gingerbread house that was Hagrid’s cabin, while the Durmstrang ship’s portholes were glazed with ice, the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in the kitchen were outdoing themselves with a series of rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only Fleur Delacour seemed to be able to find anything to complain about. 
 
“It is too ‘eavy, all zis ‘Ogwarts food,” they heard her saying grumpily as they left the Great Hall behind her one evening (Ron skulking behind Harry, keen not to be spotted by Fleur). “I will not fit into my dress robes!” 
 
“Oooh there’s a tragedy,” Hermione snapped as Fleur went out into the entrance hall. “She really thinks a lot of herself, that one, doesn’t she?” 
 
“Hermione - who are you going to the ball with?” said Ron. 
 
He kept springing this question on her, hoping to startle her into a response by asking it when she least expected it. However, Hermione merely frowned and said, “I’m not telling you, you’ll just make fun of me.” 
 
“You’re joking, Weasley!” said Malfoy, behind them. “You’re not telling me someone’s asked that to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?”  
 
Harry and Ron both whipped around, but Hermione said loudly, waving to somebody over Malfoys shoulder, “Hello, Professor Moody!” 
 
Malfoy went pale and jumped backward, looking wildly around for Moody, but he was still up at the staff table, finishing his stew. 
 
“Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?” said Hermione scathingly, and she, Harry, and Ron went up the marble staircase laughing heartily. 
 
“Hermione,” said Ron, looking sideways at her, suddenly frowning, “your teeth…” 
 
“What about them?” she said. 
 
“Well, they’re different… I’ve just noticed…” 
 
“Of course they are - did you expect me to keep those fangs Malfoy gave me?” 
 
“No, I mean, they’re different to how they were before he put that hex on you… They’re all… straight and - and normal-sized.” 
 
Hermione suddenly smiled very mischievously, and Harry noticed it too: It was a very different smile from the one he remembered. 
 
“Well… when I went up to Madam Pomfrey to get them shrunk, she held up a mirror and told me to stop her when they were back to how they normally were,” she said. “And I just… let her carry on a bit.” She smiled even more widely. 
 
“Mum and Dad won’t be too pleased. I’ve been trying to persuade them to let me shrink them for ages, but they wanted me to carry on with my braces. You know, they’re dentists, they just don’t think teeth and magic should - look! Pigwidgeons back!” 
 
Ron’s tiny owl was twittering madly on the top of the icicle-laden banisters, a scroll of parchment tied to his leg. People passing him were pointing and laughing, and a group of third-year girls paused and said, “Oh look at the weeny owl! Isn’t he cute?” 
 
“Stupid little feathery git!” Ron hissed, hurrying up the stairs and snatching up Pigwidgeon. “You bring letters to the addressee! You don’t hang around showing off!” 
 
Pigwidgeon hooted happily, his head protruding over Ron’s fist. The third-year girls all looked very shocked. 
 
“Clear off!” Ron snapped at them, waving the fist holding Pigwidgeon, who hooted more happily than ever as he soared through the air. “Here - take it, Harry,” Ron added in an undertone as the third-year girls scuttled away looking scandalized. He pulled Sirius’s reply off Pigwidgeons leg. Harry pocketed it, and they hurried back to Gryffindor Tower to read it. 
 
Everyone in the common room was much too busy in letting off more holiday steam to observe what anyone else was up to. Ron, Harry, and Hermione sat apart from everyone else by a dark window that was gradually filling up with snow, and Harry read out: 
 
Dear Harry, 
 
Congratulations on getting past the Horntail. Whoever put your name in that goblet shouldn’t be feeling too happy right now! I was going to suggest a Conjunctivitus Curse, as a dragon’s eyes are its weakest point –  
 
“That’s what Krum did!” Hermione whispered – 
 
But your way was better, I’m impressed. 
 
Don’t get complacent, though, Harry. You’ve only done one task; whoever put you in for the tournament’s got plenty more opportunity if they’re trying to hurt you. Keep your eyes open -particularly when the person we discussed is around and concentrate on keeping yourself out of trouble. Keep in touch, I still want to hear about anything unusual. 
 
Sirius 
 
“He sounds exactly like Moody,” said Harry quietly, tucking the letter away again inside his robes. “‘Constant vigilance!’ You’d think I walk around with my eyes shut, banging off the walls…” 
 
“But he’s right, Harry,” said Hermione, “you have still got two tasks to do. You really ought to have a look at that egg, you know, and start working out what it means…” 
 
“Hermione, he’s got ages!” snapped Ron. “Want a game of chess, Harry?” 
 
“Yeah, okay,” said Harry. Then, spotting the look on Hermione’s face, he said, “Come on, how’m I supposed to concentrate with all this noise going on? I won’t even be able to hear the egg over this lot.” 
 
“Oh I suppose not,” she sighed, and she sat down to watch their chess match, which culminated in an exciting checkmate of Ron’s, involving a couple of recklessly brave pawns and a very violent bishop.  
 
Harry awoke very suddenly on Christmas Day. Wondering what had caused his abrupt return to consciousness, he opened his eyes, and saw something with very large, round, green eyes staring back at him in the darkness, so close they were almost nose to nose. 
 
“Dobby!” Harry yelled, scrambling away from the elf so fast he almost fell out of bed. “Don’t do that!” 
 
“Dobby is sorry, sir!” squeaked Dobby anxiously, jumping backward with his long fingers over his mouth. “Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter ‘Merry Christmas’ and bring him a present, Sir! Harry Potter did say Dobby could come and see him sometimes, sir!” 
 
“It’s okay,” said Harry, still breathing rather faster than usual, while his heart rate returned to normal. “Just - just prod me or something in future, all right, don’t bend over me like that…” 
 
Harry pulled back the curtains around his four-poster, took his glasses from his bedside table, and put them on. His yell had awoken Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville. All of them were peering through the gaps in their own hangings, heavyeyed and tousle-haired. 
 
“Someone attacking you, Harry?” Seamus asked sleepily. 
 
“No, it’s just Dobby,” Harry muttered. “Go back to sleep.” 
 
“Nah… presents!” said Seamus, spotting the large pile at the foot of his bed. Ron, Dean, and Neville decided that now they were awake they might as well get down to some present-opening too. Harry turned back to Dobby, who was now standing nervously next to Harrys bed, still looking worried that he had upset Harry. There was a Christmas bauble tied to the loop on top of his tea cozy. 
 
“Can Dobby give Harry Potter his present?” he squeaked tentatively. 
 
“‘Course you can,” said Harry. “Er… I’ve got something for you too.” 
 
It was a lie; he hadn’t bought anything for Dobby at all, but he quickly opened his trunk and pulled out a particularly knobbly rolled-up pair of socks. They were his oldest and foulest, mustard yellow, and had once belonged to Uncle Vernon. The reason they were extra-knobbly was that Harry had been using them to cushion his Sneakoscope for over a year now. He pulled out the Sneako-scope and handed the socks to Dobby, saying, “Sorry, I forgot to wrap them…” 
 
But Dobby was utterly delighted. 
 
“Socks are Dobby’s favorite, favorite clothes, sir!” he said, ripping off his odd ones and pulling on Uncle Vernon’s. “I has seven now, sir… But sir…” he said, his eyes widening, having pulled both socks up to their highest extent, so that they reached to the bottom of his shorts, “they has made a mistake in the shop, Harry Potter, they is giving you two the same!” 
 
“Ah, no, Harry, how come you didn’t spot that?” said Ron, grinning over from his own bed, which was now strewn with wrapping paper. “Tell you what, Dobby - here you go - take these two, and you can mix them up properly. And here’s your sweater.” 
 
He threw Dobby a pair of violet socks he had just unwrapped, and the handknitted sweater Mrs. Weasley had sent, Dobby looked quite overwhelmed. 
 
“Sir is very kind!” he squeaked, his eyes brimming with tears again, bowing deeply to Ron. “Dobby knew sir must be a great wizard, for he is Harry Potter’s greatest friend, but Dobby did not know that he was also as generous of spirit, as noble, as selfless -” 
 
“They’re only socks,” said Ron, who had gone slightly pink around the ears, though he looked rather pleased all the same. “Wow, Harry -” He had just opened Harry’s present, a Chudley Cannon hat. “Cool!” He jammed it onto his head, where it clashed horribly with his hair. 
 
Dobby now handed Harry a small package, which turned out to be - socks. 
 
“Dobby is making them himself, sir!” the elf said happily. “He is buying the wool out of his wages, sir!” 
 
The left sock was bright red and had a pattern of broomsticks upon it; the right sock was green with a pattern of Snitches. 
 
“They’re… they’re really… well, thanks, Dobby,” said Harry, and he pulled them on, causing Dobby’s eyes to leak with happiness again. 
 
“Dobby must go now, sir, we is already making Christmas dinner in the kitchens!” said Dobby, and he hurried out of the dormitory, waving good-bye to Ron and the others as he passed. 
 
Harry’s other presents were much more satisfactory than Dobby’s odd socks – with the obvious exception of the Dursleys’, which consisted of a single tissue, an all time low - Harry supposed they too were remembering the Ton-Tongue Toffee. 
 
Hermione had given Harry a book called Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland; Ron, a bulging bag of Dungbombs; Sirius, a handy penknife with attachments to unlock any lock and undo any knot; and Hagrid, a vast box of sweets including all Harrys favorites: Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Chocolate Frogs, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, and Fizzing Whizbees. There was also, of course, Mrs. Weasley’s usual package, including a new sweater (green, with a picture of a dragon on it - Harry supposed Charlie had told her all about the Horntail), and a large quantity of homemade mince pies. 
  
Harry and Ron met up with Hermione in the common room, and they went down to breakfast together. They spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where everyone was enjoying their presents, then returned to the Great Hall for a magnificent lunch, which included at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas puddings, and large piles of Cribbage’s Wizarding Crackers. 
 
They went out onto the grounds in the afternoon; the snow was untouched except for the deep channels made by the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students on their way up to the castle. Hermione chose to watch Harry and the Weasleys’ snowball fight rather than join in, and at five o’clock said she was going back upstairs to get ready for the ball. 
 
“What, you need three hours?” said Ron, looking at her incredulously and paying for his lapse in concentration when a large snowball, thrown by George, hit him hard on the side of the head. “Who’re you going with?” he yelled after Hermione, but she just waved and disappeared up the stone steps into the castle. 
 
There was no Christmas tea today, as the ball included a feast, so at seven o’clock, when it had become hard to aim properly, the others abandoned their snowball fight and trooped back to the common room. The Fat Lady was sitting in her frame with her friend Violet from downstairs, both of them extremely tipsy, empty boxes of chocolate liqueurs littering the bottom other picture. 
“Lairy fights, that’s the one!” she giggled when they gave the password, and she swung forward to let them inside. 
 
Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville changed into their dress robes up in their dormitory, all of them looking very self-conscious, but none as much as Ron, who surveyed himself in the long mirror in the corner with an appalled look on his face. There was just no getting around the fact that his robes looked more like a dress than anything else. In a desperate attempt to make them look more manly, he used a Severing Charm on the ruff and cuffs. It worked fairly well; at least he was now lace-free, although he hadn’t done a very neat job, and the edges still looked 
depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.  
 
“I still can’t work out how you two got the best-looking girls in the year,” muttered Dean. 
 
“Animal magnetism,” said Ron gloomily, pulling stray threads out of his cuffs. 
 
The common room looked strange, full of people wearing different colors instead of the usual mass of black. Parvati was waiting for Harry at the foot of the stairs. She looked very pretty indeed, in robes of shocking pink, with her long dark plait braided with gold, and gold bracelets glimmering at her wrists. Harry was relieved to see that she wasn’t giggling. 
 
“You - er - look nice,” he said awkwardly. 
 
“Thanks,” she said. “Padma’s going to meet you in the entrance hall,” she added to Ron. 
 
“Right,” said Ron, looking around. “Where’s Hermione?” 
 
Parvati shrugged. “Shall we go down then, Harry?” 
 
“Okay,” said Harry, wishing he could just stay in the common room. Fred winked at Harry as he passed him on the way out of the portrait hole. 
 
The entrance hall was packed with students too, all milling around waiting for eight o’clock, when the doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those people who were meeting partners from different Houses were edging through the crowd trying to find one another. Parvati found her sister, Padma, and led her over to Harry and Ron. 
 
“Hi,” said Padma, who was looking just as pretty as Parvati in robes of bright turquoise. She didn’t look too enthusiastic about having Ron as a partner, though; her dark eyes lingered on the frayed neck and sleeves of his dress robes as she looked him up and down. 
 
“Hi,” said Ron, not looking at her, but staring around at the crowd. “Oh no…” 
 
He bent his knees slightly to hide behind Harry, because Fleur Delacour was passing, looking stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and accompanied by the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, Roger Davies. When they had disappeared, Ron stood straight again and stared over the heads of the crowd. 
“Where is Hermione?” he said again. 
 
A group of Slytherins came up the steps from their dungeon common room. Malfoy was in front; he was wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high collar, which in Harry’s opinion made him look like a vicar. Pansy Parkinson in very frilly robes of pale pink was clutching Malfoy’s arm. Crabbe and Goyle were both wearing green; they resembled moss-colored boulders, and neither of them, Harry was pleased to see, had managed to find a partner. 
 
The oak front doors opened, and everyone turned to look as the Durmstrang students entered with Professor Karkaroff. Krum was at the front of the party, accompanied by a pretty girl in blue robes Harry didn’t know. Over their heads he saw that an area of lawn right in front of the castle had been transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights - meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were sitting in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and fluttering over the 
statues of what seemed to be Father Christmas and his reindeer. 
 
Then Professor McGonagall’s voice called, “Champions over here, please!” 
 
Parvati readjusted her bangles, beaming; she and Harry said, “See you in a minute” to Ron and Padma and walked forward, the chattering crowd parting to let them through. Professor McGonagall, who was wearing dress robes of red tartan and had arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim other hat, told them to wait on one side of the doors while everyone else went inside; they were to enter the Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students had sat down. 
 
Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies stationed themselves nearest the doors; Davies looked so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her. Cedric and Cho were close to Harry too; he looked away from them so he wouldn’t have to talk to them. His eyes fell instead on the girl next to Krum. His jaw dropped. 
 
It was Hermione. 
 
But she didn’t look like Hermione at all. She had done something with her hair; it was no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was holding herself differently, somehow - or maybe it was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she usually had slung over her back. 
 
She was also smiling - rather nervously, it was true - but the reduction in the size of her front teeth was more noticeable than ever; Harry couldn’t understand how he hadn’t spotted it before. 
 
“Hi, Harry!” she said. “Hi, Parvati!” 
 
Parvati was gazing at Hermione in unflattering disbelief. She wasn’t the only one either; when the doors to the Great Hall opened, Krum’s fan club from the library stalked past, throwing Hermione looks of deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gaped at her as she walked by with Malfoy, and even he didn’t seem to be able to find an insult to throw at her. Ron, however, walked right past Hermione without looking at her. 
 
Once everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor McGonagall told the champions and their partners to get in line in pairs and to follow her. They did so, and everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered and started walking up toward a large round table at the top of the Hall, where the judges were sitting. The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each 
seating about a dozen people. 
 
Harry concentrated on not tripping over his feet. Parvati seemed to be enjoying herself; she was beaming around at everybody, steering Harry so forcefully that he felt as though he were a show dog she was putting through its paces. He caught sight of Ron and Padma as he neared the top table. Ron was watching Hermione pass with narrowed eyes. Padma was looking sulky. 
 
Dumbledore smiled happily as the champions approached the top table, but Karkaroff wore an expression remarkably like Ron’s as he watched Krum and Hermione draw nearer. Ludo Bagman, tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow stars, was clapping as enthusiastically as any of the students; and Madame Maxime, who had changed her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of lavender silk, was applauding them politely. But Mr. Crouch, Harry suddenly realized, was not there. The fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy Weasley. 
 
When the champions and their partners reached the table, Percy drew out the empty chair beside him, staring pointedly at Harry. Harry took the hint and sat down next to Percy, who was wearing brand-new, navy-blue dress robes and an expression of such smugness that Harry thought it ought to be fined. 
 
“I’ve been promoted,” Percy said before Harry could even ask, and from his tone, he might have been announcing his election as supreme ruler of the universe. “I’m now Mr. Crouch’s personal assistant, and I’m here representing him.” 
 
“Why didn’t he come?” Harry asked. He wasn’t looking forward to being lectured on cauldron bottoms all through dinner.  
 
“I’m afraid to say Mr. Crouch isn’t well, not well at all. Hasn’t been right since the World Cup. Hardly surprising - overwork. He’s not as young as he was – though still quite brilliant, of course, the mind remains as great as it ever was. But the World Cup was a fiasco for the whole Ministry, and then, Mr. Crouch suffered a huge personal shock with the misbehavior of that house-elf of his, Blinky, or whatever she was called. Naturally, he dismissed her immediately afterward, but - well, as I say, he’s getting on, he needs looking after, and I think he’s found a 
definite drop in his home comforts since she left. And then we had the tournament to arrange, and the aftermath of the Cup to deal with - that revolting Skeeter woman buzzing around - no, poor man, he’s having a well earned, quiet Christmas. I’m just glad he knew he had someone he could rely upon to take his place.” 
Harry wanted very much to ask whether Mr. Crouch had stopped calling Percy “Weatherby” yet, but resisted the temptation. 
 
There was no food as yet on the glittering golden plates, but small menus were lying in front of each of them. Harry picked his up uncertainly and looked around - there were no waiters. Dumbledore, however, looked carefully down at his own menu, then said very clearly to his plate, “Pork chops!” 
 
And pork chops appeared. Getting the idea, the rest of the table placed their orders with their plates too. Harry glanced up at Hermione to see how she felt about this new and more complicated method of dining - surely it meant plenty of extra work for the house-elves? - but for once, Hermione didn’t seem to be thinking about S.P.E.W. She was deep in talk with Viktor Krum and hardly seemed to notice what she was eating. 
 
It now occurred to Harry that he had never actually heard Krum speak before, but he was certainly talking now, and very enthusiastically at that. 
 
“Veil, ve have a castle also, not as big as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking,” he was telling Hermione. “Ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. But ve have grounds larger even than these - though in vinter, ve have very little daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer ve are flying every day, over the lakes and the mountains -” 
 
“Now, now, Viktor!” said Karkaroff with a laugh that didn’t reach his cold eyes, “don’t go giving away anything else, now, or your charming friend will know exactly where to find us!” 
 
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Igor, all this secrecy… one would almost think you didn’t want visitors.” 
 
“Well, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff, displaying his yellowing teeth to their fullest extent, “we are all protective of our private domains, are we not? Do we not jealously guard the halls of learning that have been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud that we alone know our school’s secrets, and right to protect them?” 
 
“Oh I would never dream of assuming I know all Hogwarts’ secrets, Igor,” said Dumbledore amicably. “Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong turning on the way to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I have never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of chamber pots. When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that the room had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it. Possibly it is only accessible at five-thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon - or when 
the seeker has an exceptionally full bladder.” 
 
Harry snorted into his plate of goulash. Percy frowned, but Harry could have sworn Dumbledore had given him a very small wink. 
 
Meanwhile Fleur Delacour was criticizing the Hogwarts decorations to Roger Davies. 
 
“Zis is nothing,” she said dismissively, looking around at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall. “At ze Palace of Beauxbatons, we ‘ave ice sculptures all around ze dining chamber at Chreestmas. Zey do not melt, of course… zey are like ‘uge statues of diamond, glittering around ze place. And ze food is seemply superb. And we ‘ave choirs of wood nymphs, ‘oo serenade us as we eat. We ‘ave none of zis ugly armor in ze ‘alls, and eef a poltergeist ever entaired into Beauxbatons, ‘e would be expelled like zat.” She slapped her hand onto the table impatiently. 
 
Roger Davies was watching her talk with a very dazed look on his face, and he kept missing his mouth with his fork. Harry had the impression that Davies was too busy staring at Fleur to take in a word she was saying. 
 
“Absolutely right,” he said quickly, slapping his own hand down on the table in imitation of Fleur. “Like that. Yeah.” 
 
Harry looked around the Hall. Hagrid was sitting at one of the other staff tables; he was back in his horrible hairy brown suit and gazing up at the top table. Harry saw him give a small wave, and looking around, saw Madame Maxime return it, her opals glittering in the candlelight. 
 
Hermione was now teaching Krum to say her name properly; he kept calling her “Hermy-own.” 
 
“Her-my-oh-nee,” she said slowly and clearly.  
 
“Herm-own-ninny.”  
 
“Close enough,” she said, catching Harry’s eye and grinning. 
 
When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore stood up and asked the students to do the same. Then, with a wave of his wand, all the tables zoomed back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and then he conjured a raised platform into existence along the right wall. A set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes were set upon it. 
 
The Weird Sisters now trooped up onto the stage to wildly enthusiastic applause; they were all extremely hairy and dressed in black robes that had been artfully ripped and torn. They picked up their instruments, and Harry, who had been so interested in watching them that he had almost forgotten what was coming, suddenly realized that the lanterns on all the other tables had gone out, and that the other champions and their partners were standing up. 
 
“Come on!” Parvati hissed. “We’re supposed to dance!” 
 
Harry tripped over his dress robes as he stood up. The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune; Harry walked onto the brightly lit dance floor, carefully avoiding catching anyone’s eye (he could see Seamus and Dean waving at him and sniggering), and next moment, Parvati had seized his hands, placed one around her waist, and was holding the other tightly in hers. 
 
It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Harry thought, revolving slowly on the spot (Parvati was steering). He kept his eyes fixed over the heads of the watching people, and very soon many of them too had come onto the dance floor, so that the champions were no longer the center of attention. Neville and Ginny were dancing nearby - he could see Ginny wincing frequently as Neville trod on her feet – and Dumbledore was waltzing with Madame Maxime. He was so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very 
gracefully for a woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody was doing an extremely ungainly two-step with Professor Sinistra, who was nervously avoiding his wooden leg. 
 
“Nice socks Potter,” Moody growled as he passed, his magical eye staring through Harry’s robes. 
 
“Oh - yeah, Dobby the house-elf knitted them for me,” said Harry, grinning. 
 
“He is so creepy!” Parvati whispered as Moody clunked away. “I don’t think that eye should be allowed.” 
  
Harry heard the final, quavering note from the bagpipe with relief. The Weird Sisters stopped playing, applause filled the hall once more, and Harry let go of Parvati at once. 
 
“Let’s sit down, shall we?” 
 
“Oh - but - this is a really good one!” Parvati said as the Weird Sisters struck up a new song, which was much faster. 
 
“No, I don’t like it,” Harry lied, and he led her away from the dance floor, past Fred and Angelina, who were dancing so exhuberantly that people around them were backing away in fear of injury, and over to the table where Ron and Padma were sitting. 
 
“How’s it going?” Harry asked Ron, sitting down and opening a bottle of butterbeer. 
 
Ron didn’t answer. He was glaring at Hermione and Krum, who were dancing nearby. Padma was sitting with her arms and legs crossed, one foot jiggling in time to the music. Every now and then she threw a disgruntled look at Ron, who was completely ignoring her. Parvati sat down on Harry’s other side, crossed her arms and legs too, and within minutes was asked to dance by a boy from Beauxbatons. 
 
“You don’t mind, do you, Harry?” Parvati said. 
 
“What?” said Harry, who was now watching Cho and Cedric. 
 
“Oh never mind,” snapped Parvati, and she went off with the boy from Beauxbatons. When the song ended, she did not return. 
 
Hermione came over and sat down in Parvati’s empty chair. She was a bit pink in the face from dancing. 
 
“Hi,” said Harry. Ron didn’t say anything. 
“It’s hot, isn’t it?” said Hermione, fanning herself with her hand. “Viktors just gone to get some drinks.” 
 
Ron gave her a withering look. “Viktor?” he said. “Hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet?” 
 
Hermione looked at him in surprise. “What’s up with you?” she said. 
 
“If you don’t know,” said Ron scathingly, “I’m not going to tell you.” 
 
Hermione stared at him, then at Harry, who shrugged. 
 
“Ron, what -?” 
 
“He’s from Durmstrang!” spat Ron. “He’s competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You - you’re -” Ron was obviously casting around for words strong enough to describe Hermione’s crime, “fraternizing with the enemy, that’s what you’re doing!” 
 
Hermione’s mouth fell open. 
 
“Don’t be so stupid!” she said after a moment. “The enemy! Honestly - who was the one who was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him up in their dormitory?” 
 
Ron chose to ignore this. “I s’pose he asked you to come with him while you were both in the library?” 
 
“Yes, he did,” said Hermione, the pink patches on her cheeks glowing more brightly. “So what?” 
 
“What happened - trying to get him to join spew, were you?” 
 
“No, I wasn’t! If you really want to know, he - he said he’d been coming up to the library every day to try and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage!” 
 
Hermione said this very quickly, and blushed so deeply that she was the same color as Parvati’s robes. 
 
“Yeah, well - that’s his story,” said Ron nastily. 
 
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” 
 
“Obvious, isn’t it? He’s Karkaroff’s student, isn’t he? He knows who you hang around with… He’s just trying to get closer to Harry - get inside information on him - or get near enough to jinx him -” 
 
Hermione looked as though Ron had slapped her. When she spoke, her voice quivered. 
 
“For your information, he hasn’t asked me one single thing about Harry, not one -”  
 
Ron changed tack at the speed of light. 
 
“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads together during those cozy little library sessions -” 
 
“I’d never help him work out that egg!” said Hermione, looking outraged. “Never. How could you say something like that - I want Harry to win the tournament. Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?” 
 
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” sneered Ron. 
 
“This whole tournament’s supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with them!” said Hermione hotly. 
 
“No it isn’t!” shouted Ron. “It’s about winning!” 
 
People were starting to stare at them. 
 
“Ron,” said Harry quietly, “I haven’t got a problem with Hermione coming with Krum -” 
 
But Ron ignored Harry too. 
 
“Why don’t you go and find Vicky, he’ll be wondering where you are,” said Ron.  
 
“Don’t call him Vicky!” 
 
Hermione jumped to her feet and stormed off across the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd. Ron watched her go with a mixture of anger and satisfaction on his face. 
 
“Are you going to ask me to dance at all?” Padma asked him. 
 
“No,” said Ron, still glaring after Hermione. 
 
“Fine,” snapped Padma, and she got up and went to join Parvati and the Beauxbatons boy, who conjured up one of his friends to join them so fast that Harry could have sworn he had zoomed him there by a Summoning Charm. 
 
“Vare is Herm-own-ninny?” said a voice. 
 
Krum had just arrived at their table clutching two butterbeers. 
 
“No idea,” said Ron mulishly, looking up at him. “Lost her, have you?” 
 
Krum was looking surly again. 
“Veil, if you see her, tell her I haff drinks,” he said, and he slouched off. 
 
“Made friends with Viktor Krum, have you, Ron?” 
 
Percy had bustled over, rubbing his hands together and looking extremely pompous. “Excellent! That’s the whole point, you know - international magical cooperation!” 
 
To Harry’s displeasure, Percy now took Padma’s vacated seat. The top table was now empty; Professor Dumbledore was dancing with Professor Sprout, Ludo Bagman with Professor McGonagall; Madame Maxime and Hagrid were cutting a wide path around the dance floor as they waltzed through the students, and Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. When the next song ended, everybody applauded once more, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman kiss Professor McGonagall’s hand and make his way back through the crowds, at which point Fred and George 
accosted him.  
 
“What do they think they’re doing, annoying senior Ministry members?” Percy hissed, watching Fred and George suspiciously. “No respect…” 
 
Ludo Bagman shook off Fred and George fairly quickly, however, and, spotting Harry, waved and came over to their table. 
 
“I hope my brothers weren’t bothering you, Mr. Bagman?” said Percy at once.  
 
“What? Oh not at all, not at all!” said Bagman. “No, they were just telling me a bit more about those fake wands of theirs. Wondering if I could advise them on the marketing. I’ve promised to put them in touch with a couple of contacts of mine at Zonko’s Joke Shop…” 
   
Percy didn’t look happy about this at all, and Harry was prepared to bet he would be rushing to tell Mrs. Weasley about this the moment he got home. Apparently Fred and George’s plans had grown even more ambitious lately, if they were hoping to sell to the public. Bagman opened his mouth to ask Harry something, but Percy diverted him. 
 
“How do you feel the tournament’s going, Mr. Bagman? Our department’s quite satisfied - the hitch with the Goblet of Fire” - he glanced at Harry - “was a little unfortunate, of course, but it seems to have gone very smoothly since, don’t you think?” 
  
“Oh yes,” Bagman said cheerfully, “it’s all been enormous fun. How’s old Barty doing? Shame he couldn’t come.” 
 
“Oh I’m sure Mr. Crouch will be up and about in no time,” said Percy importantly, “but in the meantime, I’m more than willing to take up the slack. Of course, it’s not all attending balls” - he laughed airily - “oh no, I’ve had to deal with all sorts of things that have cropped up in his absence - you heard Ali Bashir was caught smuggling a consignment of flying carpets into the country? And then we’ve been trying to persuade the Transylvanians to sign the International Ban on Dueling. I’ve got a meeting with their Head of Magical Cooperation in the new year -” 
 
“Let’s go for a walk,” Ron muttered to Harry, “get away from Percy…” 
 
Pretending they wanted more drinks Harry and Ron left the table, edged around the dance floor, and slipped out into the entrance hall. The front doors stood open, and the fluttering fairy lights in the rose garden winked and twinkled as they went down the front steps, where they found themselves surrounded by bushes; winding, ornamental paths; and large stone statues. Harry could hear splashing water, which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, people were sitting on 
carved benches. He and Ron set off along one of the winding paths through the rosebushes, but they had gone only a short way when they heard an unpleasantly familiar voice. 
 
“… don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.” 
 
“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroffs voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it _”  
 
“Then flee,” said Snapes voice curtly. “Flee - I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.” 
 
Snape and Karkaroff came around the corner. Snape had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart, his expression most ill-natured. Squeals issued from many of the bushes, and dark shapes emerged from them. 
 
“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!” Snape snarled as a girl ran past him. “And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!” as a boy went rushing after her. “And what are you two doing?” he added, catching sight of Harry and Ron on the path ahead. Karkaroff, Harry saw, looked slightly discomposed to see them standing there. His hand went nervously to his goatee, and he began winding it around his finger. 
 
“We’re walking,” Ron told Snape shortly. “Not against the law, is it?” 
 
“Keep walking, then!” Snape snarled, and he brushed past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind him. Karkaroff hurried away after Snape. Harry and Ron continued down the path. 
 
“What’s got Karkaroff all worried?” Ron muttered. 
 
“And since when have he and Snape been on first-name terms?”said Harry slowly.  
  
They had reached a large stone reindeer now, over which they could see the sparkling jets of a tall fountain. The shadowy outlines of two enormous people were visible on a stone bench, watching the water in the moonlight. And then Harry heard Hagrid speak. 
 
“Momen’ I saw yeh, I knew,” he was saying, in an oddly husky voice.  
  
Harry and Ron froze. This didn’t sound like the sort of scene they ought to walk in on, somehow… Harry looked around, back up the path, and saw Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies standing half-concealed in a rosebush nearby. He tapped Ron on the shoulder and jerked his head toward them, meaning that they could easily sneak off that way without being noticed (Fleur and Davies looked very busy to Harry), but Ron, eyes widening in horror at the sight of Fleur, shook his head vigorously, and pulled Harry deeper into the shadows behind the reindeer. 
 
“What did you know, ‘Agrid?” said Madame Maxime, a purr in her low voice. 
 
Harry definitely didn’t want to listen to this; he knew Hagrid would hate to be overheard in a situation like this (he certainly would have) - if it had been possible he would have put his fingers in his ears and hummed loudly, but that wasn’t really an option. Instead he tried to interest himself in a beetle crawling along the stone reindeer’s back, but the beetle just wasn’t interesting enough to block out Hagrid’s next words. 
 
“I jus’ knew… knew you were like me… Was it yer mother or yer father?” 
 
“I - I don’t know what you mean, ‘Agrid…” 
 
“It was my mother,” said Hagrid quietly. “She was one o’ the las’ ones in Britain. ‘Course, I can’ remember her too well… she left, see. When I was abou’ three. She wasn’ really the maternal sort. Well… it’s not in their natures, is it? Dunno what happened to her… might be dead fer all I know…” 
 
Madame Maxime didn’t say anything. And Harry, in spite of himself, took his eyes off the beetle and looked over the top of the reindeer’s antlers, listening… He had never heard Hagrid talk about his childhood before.  
 
“Me dad was broken-hearted when she wen’. Tiny little bloke, my dad was. By the time I was six I could lift him up an’ put him on top o’ the dresser if he annoyed me. Used ter make him  laugh…” Hagrid’s deep voice broke. Madame Maxime was listening, motionless, apparently staring at the silvery fountain. “Dad raised me… but he died, o’ course, jus’ after I started school. Sorta had ter make me own way after that. Dumbledore was a real help, mind. Very kind ter me, he was…” 
 
Hagrid pulled out a large spotted silk handkerchief and blew his nose heavily.  
 
“So… anyway… enough abou’ me. What about you? Which side you got it on?”  
  
But Madame Maxime had suddenly got to her feet. 
 
“It is chilly,” she said - but whatever the weather was doing, it was nowhere near as cold as her voice. “I think I will go in now.” 
 
“Eh?” said Hagrid blankly. “No, don go! I’ve - I’ve never met another one before!” 
 
“Anuzzer what, precisely?” said Madame Maxime, her tone icy. 
 
Harry could have told Hagrid it was best not to answer; he stood there in the shadows gritting his teeth, hoping against hope he wouldn’t - but it was no good. 
 
“Another half-giant, o’ course!” said Hagrid. 
 
“‘Ow dare you!” shrieked Madame Maxime. Her voice exploded through the peaceful night air like a foghorn; behind him. Harry heard Fleur and Roger fall out of their rosebush. “I ‘ave nevair been more insulted in my life! ‘Alf-giant? Moi? I ‘ave - I ‘ave big bones!” 
 
She stormed away; great multicolored swarms of fairies rose into the air as she passed, angrily pushing aside bushes. Hagrid was still sitting on the bench, staring after her. It was much too dark to make out his expression. Then, after about a minute, he stood up and strode away, not back to the castle, but off out into the dark grounds in the direction of his cabin. 
 
“C’mon,” Harry said, very quietly to Ron. “Let’s go…” 
 
But Ron didn’t move. 
 
“What’s up?” said Harry, looking at him. 
 
Ron looked around at Harry, his expression very serious indeed. 
 
“Did you know?” he whispered. “About Hagrid being half-giant?” 
 
“No,” Harry said, shrugging. “So what?” 
 
He knew immediately, from the look Ron was giving him, that he was once again revealing his ignorance of the wizarding world. Brought up by the Dursleys, there were many things that wizards took for granted that were revelations to Harry, but these surprises had become fewer with each successive year. Now, however, he could tell that most wizards would not have said  
“So what?” upon finding out that one of their friends had a giantess for a mother. 
 
“I’ll explain inside,” said Ron quietly, “c’mon…” 
 
Fleur and Roger Davies had disappeared, probably into a more private clump of bushes. Harry and Ron returned to the Great Hall. Parvati and Padma were now sitting at a distant table with a whole crowd of Beauxbatons boys, and Hermione was once more dancing with Krum. Harry and Ron sat down at a table far removed from the dance floor. 
 
“So?” Harry prompted Ron. “What’s the problem with giants?” 
 
“Well, they’re… they’re…” Ron struggled for words. “… not very nice,” he finished lamely. 
 
“Who cares?” Harry said. “There’s nothing wrong with Hagrid!” 
 
“I know there isn’t, but… blimey, no wonder he keeps it quiet,” Ron said, shaking his head. “I always thought he’d got in the way of a bad Engorgement Charm when he was a kid or something. Didn’t like to mention it…” 
 
“But what’s it matter if his mother was a giantess?” said Harry. 
 
“Well… no one who knows him will care, ‘cos they’ll know he’s not dangerous,” said Ron slowly. “But… Harry, they’re just vicious, giants. It’s like Hagrid said, it’s in their natures, they’re like trolls… they just like killing, everyone knows that. There aren’t any left in Britain now, though.” 
 
“What happened to them?” 
 
“Well, they were dying out anyway, and then loads got themselves killed by Aurors. There’re supposed to be giants abroad, though… They hide out in mountains mostly…” 
 
“I don’t know who Maxime thinks she’s kidding,” Harry said, watching Madame Maxime sitting alone at the judges’ table, looking very somber. “If Hagrid’s half giant, she definitely is. Big bones… the only thing that’s got bigger bones than her is a dinosaur.” 
 
Harry and Ron spent the rest of the ball discussing giants in their corner, neither of them having any inclination to dance. Harry tried not to watch Cho and Cedric too much; it gave him a strong desire to kick something. 
 
When the Weird Sisters finished playing at midnight, everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause and started to wend their way into the entrance hall. Many people were expressing the wish that the ball could have gone on longer, but Harry was perfectly happy to be going to bed; as far as he was concerned, the evening hadn’t been much fun. 
 
Out in the entrance hall, Harry and Ron saw Hermione saying good night to Krum before he went back to the Durmstrang ship. She gave Ron a very cold look and swept past him up the marble staircase without speaking. Harry and Ron followed her, but halfway up the staircase Harry heard someone calling him. 
 
“Hey-Harry!” 
 
It was Cedric Diggory. Harry could see Cho waiting for him in the entrance hall below.  
“Yeah?” said Harry coldly as Cedric ran up the stairs toward him. 
 
Cedric looked as though he didn’t want to say whatever it was in front of Ron, who shrugged, looking bad-tempered, and continued to climb the stairs. 
 
“Listen…” Cedric lowered his voice as Ron disappeared. “I owe you one for telling me about the dragons. You know that golden egg? Does yours wail when you open it?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry. 
 
“Well… take a bath, okay?” 
 
“What?” 
 
“Take a bath, and - er - take the egg with you, and - er - just mull things over in the hot water. It’ll help you think… Trust me.” 
 
Harry stared at him. 
 
“Tell you what,” Cedric said, “use the prefects’ bathroom. Fourth door to the left of that statue of Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. Password’s ‘pine fresh.’ Gotta go… want to say good night -” 
 
He grinned at Harry again and hurried back down the stairs to Cho. 
 
Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower alone. That had been extremely strange advice. Why would a bath help him to work out what the wailing egg meant? Was Cedric pulling his leg? Was he trying to make Harry look like a fool, so Cho would like him even more by comparison? 
 
The Fat Lady and her friend Vi were snoozing in the picture over the portrait hole. Harry had to yell “Fairy lights!” before he woke them up, and when he did, they were extremely irritated. He climbed into the common room and found Ron and Hermione having a blazing row. Standing ten feet apart, they were bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face. 
 
“Well, if you don’t like it, you know what the solution is, don’t you?” yelled Hermione; her hair was coming down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was screwed up in anger. 
 
“Oh yeah?” Ron yelled back. “What’s that?” 
 
“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!” 
  
Ron mouthed soundlessly like a goldfish out of water as Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up the girls’ staircase to bed. Ron turned to look at Harry. 
 
“Well,” he sputtered, looking thunderstruck, “well - that just proves – completely missed the point -” 
 
Harry didn’t say anything. He liked being back on speaking terms with Ron too much to speak his mind right now - but he somehow thought that Hermione had gotten the point much better than Ron had. 
 
Everybody got up late on Boxing Day. The Gryffindor common room was much quieter than it had been lately, many yawns punctuating the lazy conversations. Hermione’s hair was bushy again; she confessed to Harry that she had used liberal amounts of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion on it for the ball, “but it’s way too much bother to do every day,” she said matter-of-factly, scratching a purring Crookshanks behind the ears. 
 
Ron and Hermione seemed to have reached an unspoken agreement not to discuss their argument. They were being quite friendly to each other, though oddly formal. Ron and Harry wasted no time in telling Hermione about the conversation they had overheard between Madame Maxime and Hagrid, but Hermione didn’t seem to find the news that Hagrid was a half-giant nearly as shocking as Ron did. 
 
“Well, I thought he must be,” she said, shrugging. “I knew he couldn’t be pure giant because they’re about twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about giants. They can’t all be horrible… It’s the same sort of prejudice that people have toward werewolves… It’s just bigotry, isn’t it?” 
 
Ron looked as though he would have liked to reply scathingly, but perhaps he didn’t want another row, because he contented himself with shaking his head disbelievingly while Hermione wasn’t looking. 
 
It was time now to think of the homework they had neglected during the first week of the holidays. Everybody seemed to be feeling rather flat now that Christmas was over - everybody except Harry, that is, who was starting (once again) to feel slightly nervous. 
 
The trouble was that February the twenty-fourth looked a lot closer from this side of Christmas, and he still hadn’t done anything about working out the clue inside the golden egg. He therefore started taking the egg out of his trunk every time he went up to the dormitory, opening it, and listening intently, hoping that this time it would make some sense. He strained to think what the sound reminded him of, apart from thirty musical saws, but he had never heard anything else like it. He closed the egg, shook it vigorously, and opened it again to see if the sound had changed, but it hadn’t. He tried asking the egg questions, shouting over all the wailing, but nothing happened. He even threw the egg across the room - though he hadn’t really expected that to help. 
 
Harry had not forgotten the hint that Cedric had given him, but his less-than friendly feelings toward Cedric just now meant that he was keen not to take his help if he could avoid it. In any case, it seemed to him that if Cedric had really wanted to give Harry a hand, he would have been a lot more explicit. He, Harry, had told Cedric exactly what was coming in the first task - and Cedric’s idea of a fair exchange had been to tell Harry to take a bath. Well, he didn’t need that sort of rubbishy help - not from someone who kept walking down corridors hand in hand with Cho, anyway. And so the first day of the new term arrived, and Harry set off to lessons, weighed down with books, parchment, and quills as usual, but also with the lurking worry of the egg heavy in his stomach, as though he were carrying that around with him too. 
 
Snow was still thick upon the grounds, and the greenhouse windows were covered in condensation so thick that they couldn’t see out of them in Herbology. Nobody was looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures much in this weather, though as Ron said, the skrewts would probably warm them up nicely, either by chasing them, or blasting off so forcefully that Hagrid’s cabin would catch fire. 
 
When they arrived at Hagrid ‘s cabin, however, they found an elderly witch with closely cropped gray hair and a very prominent chin standing before his front door. 
 
“Hurry up, now, the bell rang five minutes ago,” she barked at them as they struggled toward her through the snow. 
 
“Who’re you?” said Ron, staring at her. “Wheres Hagrid?” 
 
“My name is Professor Grubbly-Plank,” she said briskly. “I am your temporary Care of Magical Creatures teacher.” 
 
“Where’s Hagrid?” Harry repeated loudly. 
 
“He is indisposed,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank shortly. 
 
Soft and unpleasant laughter reached Harrys ears. He turned; Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins were joining the class. All of them looked gleeful, and none of them looked surprised to see Professor Grubbly-Plank. 
 
“This way, please,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and she strode off around the paddock where the Beauxbatons horses were shivering. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed her, looking back over their shoulders at Hagrid’s cabin. All the curtains were closed. Was Hagrid in there, alone and ill? 
 
“What’s wrong with Hagrid?” Harry said, hurrying to catch up with Professor Grubbly-Plank. 
 
“Never you mind,” she said as though she thought he was being nosy. 
 
“I do mind, though,” said Harry hotly. “What’s up with him?” 
 
Professor Grubbly-Plank acted as though she couldn’t hear him. She led them past the paddock where the huge Beauxbatons horses were standing, huddled against the cold, and toward a tree on the edge of the forest, where a large and beautiful unicorn was tethered. 
 
Many of the girls “ooooohed!” at the sight of the unicorn. “Oh it’s so beautiful!” whispered Lavender Brown. “How did she get it? They’re supposed to be really hard to catch!” 
  
The unicorn was so brightly white it made the snow all around look gray. It was pawing the ground nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back its horned head. 
 
“Boys keep back!” barked Professor Grubbly-Plank, throwing out an arm and catching Harry hard in the chest. “They prefer the woman’s touch, unicorns. Girls to the front, and approach with care, come on, easy does it…” 
 
She and the girls walked slowly forward toward the unicorn, leaving the boys standing near the paddock fence, watching. The moment Professor Grubbly-Plank was out of earshot. Harry turned to Ron. 
 
“What d’you reckons wrong with him? You don’t think a skrewt -?” 
 
“Oh he hasn’t been attacked, Potter, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Malfoy softly. “No, he’s just too ashamed to show his big, ugly face.” 
 
“What d’you mean?” said Harry sharply. 
 
Malfoy put his hand inside the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded page of newsprint. 
 
“There you go,” he said. “Hate to break it to you. Potter…” 
 
He smirked as Harry snatched the page, unfolded it, and read it, with Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville looking over his shoulder. It was an article topped with a picture of Hagrid looking extremely shifty. 
 
DUMBLEDORE’S GIANT MISTAKE 
 
Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. In September of this year, he hired Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, the notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given Moody’s well-known habit of attacking anybody who makes a sudden movement in his presence. Mad-Eye Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly when set beside the part-human Dumbledore employs to teach Care of Magical Creatures. 
 
Rubeus Hagrid, who admits to being expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, has enjoyed the position of gamekeeper at the school ever since a job secured for him by Dumbledore. Last year, however, Hagrid used his mysterious influence over the headmaster to secure the additional post of Care of Magical Creatures teacher, over the heads of many better-qualified candidates. 
 
An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, Hagrid has been using his newfound authority to terrify the students in his care with a succession of horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind eye, Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series of lessons that many admit to being “very frightening.” ‘I was attacked by a hippogriff, and my friend Vincent Crabbe got a bad bite off a flobberworm,” says Draco Malfoy, a fourth-year student. “We all hate Hagrid, but we’re just too scared to say anything.” 
 
Hagrid has no intention of ceasing his campaign of intimidation, however. In conversation with a Daily Prophet reporter last month, he admitted breeding creatures he has dubbed “Blast-Ended Skrewts,” highly dangerous crosses between manti-cores and fire-crabs. The creation of new breeds of magical creature is, of course, an activity usually closely observed by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Hagrid, however, considers himself to be above such petty restrictions. 
 
“I was just having some fun,” he says, before hastily changing the subject. As if this were not enough, the Daily Prophet has now unearthed evidence that Hagrid is not - as he has always pretended - a pure-blood wizard. He is not, in fact, even pure human. His mother, we can exclusively reveal, is none other than the giantess Fridwulfa, whose whereabouts are currently unknown. Bloodthirsty and brutal, the giants brought themselves to the point of extinction by 
warring amongst themselves during the last century. The handful that remained joined the ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and were responsible for some of the worst mass Muggle killings of his reign of terror. 
 
While many of the giants who served He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were killed by Aurors working against the Dark Side, Fridwulfa was not among them. It is possible she escaped to one of the giant communities still existing in foreign mountain ranges. If his antics during Care of Magical Creatures lessons are any guide, however, Fridwulfa’s son appears to have inherited her brutal nature. 
 
In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is reputed to have developed a close friendship with the boy who brought around You-Know-Who’s fall from power - thereby driving Hagrid’s own mother, like the rest of You-Know-Who’s supporters, into hiding. Perhaps Harry Potter is unaware of the unpleasant truth about his large friend – but Albus Dumbledore surely has a duty to ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow students, is warned about the dangers of associating with part-giants. 
 
Harry finished reading and looked up at Ron, whose mouth was hanging open. 
 
“How did she find out?” he whispered. 
 
But that wasn’t what was bothering Harry. 
 
“What d’you mean, ‘we all hate Hagrid’?” Harry spat at Malfoy. “What’s this rubbish about him” - he pointed at Crabbe - “getting a bad bite off a flobberworm? They haven’t even got teeth!” 
 
Crabbe was sniggering, apparently very pleased with himself. 
 
“Well, I think this should put an end to the oaf’s teaching career,” said Malfoy, his eyes glinting. “Half-giant… and there was me thinking he’d just swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro when he was young… None of the mummies and daddies are going to like this at all… They’ll be worried he’ll eat their kids, ha, ha…” 
 
“You-” 
 
“Are you paying attention over there?” 
 
Professor Grubbly-Planks voice carried over to the boys; the girls were all clustered around the unicorn now, stroking it. Harry was so angry that the Daily Prophet article shook in his hands as he turned to stare unseeingly at the unicorn, whose many magical properties Professor Grubbly-Plank was now enumerating in a loud voice, so that the boys could hear too. 
 
“I hope she stays, that woman!” said Parvati Patil when the lesson had ended and they were all heading back to the castle for lunch. “That’s more what I thought Care of Magical Creatures would be like… proper creatures like unicorns, not monsters…” 
 
“What about Hagrid?” Harry said angrily as they went up the steps. 
 
“What about him?” said Parvati in a hard voice. “He can still be gamekeeper, can’t he?” 
 
Parvati had been very cool toward Harry since the ball. He supposed that he ought to have paid her a bit more attention, but she seemed to have had a good time all the same. She was certainly telling anybody who would listen that she had made arrangements to meet the boy from Beauxbatons in Hogsmeade on the next weekend trip. 
 
“That was a really good lesson,” said Hermione as they entered the Great Hall. “I didn’t know half the things Professor Grubbly-Plank told us about uni -” 
 
“Look at this!” Harry snarled, and he shoved the Daily Prophet article under Hermione’s nose. 
Hermione’s mouth fell open as she read. Her reaction was exactly the same as Ron’s. 
 
“How did that horrible Skeeter woman find out? You don’t think Hagrid told her?”  
 
“No,” said Harry, leading the way over to the Gryffindor table and throwing himself into a chair, furious. “He never even told us, did he? I reckon she was so mad he wouldn’t give her loads of horrible stuff about me, she went ferreting around to get him back.” 
 
“Maybe she heard him telling Madame Maxime at the ball,” said Hermione quietly. 
 
“We’d have seen her in the garden!” said Ron. “Anyway, she’s not supposed to come into school anymore, Hagrid said Dumbledore banned her…”  
“Maybe she’s got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry, ladling chicken casserole onto his plate and splashing it everywhere in his anger. “Sort of thing she’d do, isn’t it, hide in bushes listening to people.” 
 
“Like you and Ron did, you mean,” said Hermione. 
 
“We weren’t trying to hear him!” said Ron indignantly. “We didn’t have any choice! The stupid prat, talking about his giantess mother where anyone could have heard him!” 
 
“We’ve got to go and see him,” said Harry. “This evening, after Divination. Tell him we want him back… you do want him back?” he shot at Hermione. 
 
“I - well, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t make a nice change, having a proper Care of Magical Creatures lesson for once - but I do want Hagrid back, of course I do!” Hermione added hastily, quailing under Harry’s furious stare. 
 
So that evening after dinner, the three of them left the castle once more and went down through the frozen grounds to Hagrid’s cabin. They knocked, and Fang’s booming barks answered. 
 
“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry shouted, pounding on the door. “Open up!” 
 
Hagrid didn’t answer. They could hear Fang scratching at the door, whining, but it didn’t open. They hammered on it for ten more minutes; Ron even went and banged on one of the windows, but there was no response. 
 
“What’s he avoiding us for?” Hermione said when they had finally given up and were walking back to the school. “He surely doesn’t think we’d care about him being half-giant?” 
 
But it seemed that Hagrid did care. They didn’t see a sign of him all week. He didn’t appear at the staff table at mealtimes, they didn’t see him going about his gamekeeper duties on the grounds, and Professor Grubbly-Plank continued to take the Care of Magical Creatures classes. Malfoy was gloating at every possible opportunity. 
 
“Missing your half-breed pal?” he kept whispering to Harry whenever there was a teacher around, so that he was safe from Harry’s retaliation. “Missing the elephantman?” 
 
There was a Hogsmeade visit halfway through January. Hermione was very surprised that Harry was going to go. 
 
“I just thought you’d want to take advantage of the common room being quiet,” she said. “Really get to work on that egg.” 
 
“Oh I - I reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea what it’s about now,” Harry lied.  
 
“Have you really?” said Hermione, looking impressed. “Well done!” 
 
Harrys insides gave a guilty squirm, but he ignored them. He still had five weeks to work out that egg clue, after all, and that was ages… whereas if he went into Hogsmeade, he might run into Hagrid, and get a chance to persuade him to come back. 
 
He, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together on Saturday and set off through the cold, wet grounds toward the gates. As they passed the Durmstrang ship moored in the lake, they saw Viktor Krum emerge onto the deck, dressed in nothing but swimming trunks. He was very skinny indeed, but apparently a lot tougher than he looked, because he climbed up onto the side of the ship, stretched out his arms, and dived, right into the lake. 
 
“He’s mad!” said Harry, staring at Krums dark head as it bobbed out into the middle of the lake. “It must be freezing, it’s January!” 
 
“It’s a lot colder where he comes from,” said Hermione. “I suppose it feels quite warm to him.” 
 
“Yeah, but there’s still the giant squid,” said Ron. He didn’t sound anxious – if anything, he sounded hopeful. Hermione noticed his tone of voice and frowned. 
 
“He’s really nice, you know,” she said. “He’s not at all like you’d think, coming from Durmstrang. He likes it much better here, he told me.” 
 
Ron said nothing. He hadn’t mentioned Viktor Krum since the ball, but Harry had found a miniature arm under his bed on Boxing Day, which had looked very much as though it had been snapped off a small model figure wearing Bulgarian Quidditch robes. 
 
Harry kept his eyes skinned for a sign of Hagrid all the way down the slushy High Street, and suggested a visit to the Three Broomsticks once he had ascertained that Hagrid was not in any of the shops. 
 
The pub was as crowded as ever, but one quick look around at all the tables told Harry that Hagrid wasn’t there. Heart sinking, he went up to the bar with Ron and Hermione, ordered three butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta, and thought gloomily that he might just as well have stayed behind and listened to the egg wailing after all. 
 
“Doesn’t he ever go into the office?” Hermione whispered suddenly. “Look!”  
 
She pointed into the mirror behind the bar, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman reflected there, sitting in a shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman was talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of whom had their arms crossed and were looking rather menacing. 
 
It was indeed odd. Harry thought, that Bagman was here at the Three Broomsticks on a weekend when there was no Triwizard event, and therefore no judging to be done. He watched Bagman in the mirror. He was looking strained again, quite as strained as he had that night in the forest before the Dark Mark had appeared. But just then Bagman glanced over at the bar, saw Harry, and stood up. 
 
“In a moment, in a moment!” Harry heard him say brusquely to the goblins, and Bagman hurried through the pub toward Harry, his boyish grin back in place. 
 
“Harry!” he said. “How are you? Been hoping to run into you! Everything going all right?” 
“Fine, thanks,” said Harry. 
  
“Wonder if I could have a quick, private word, Harry?” said Bagman eagerly. 
 
“You couldn’t give us a moment, you two, could you?” 
 
“Er - okay,” said Ron, and he and Hermione went off to find a table. 
 
Bagman led Harry along the bar to the end furthest from Madam Rosmerta. 
 
“Well, I just thought I’d congratulate you again on your splendid performance against that Horntail, Harry,” said Bagman. “Really superb.” 
 
“Thanks,” said Harry, but he knew this couldn’t be all that Bagman wanted to say, because he could have congratulated Harry in front of Ron and Hermione. 
 
Bagman didn’t seem in any particular rush to spill the beans, though. Harry saw him glance into the mirror over the bar at the goblins, who were all watching him and Harry in silence through their dark, slanting eyes. 
 
“Absolute nightmare,” said Bagman to Harry in an undertone, noticing Harry watching the goblins too. “Their English isn’t too good… it’s like being back with all the Bulgarians at the Quidditch World Cup… but at least they used sign language another human could recognize. This lot keep gabbling in Gobbledegook… and I only know one word of Gobbledegook. Bladvak. It means ‘pickax.’ I don’t like to use it in case they think I’m threatening them.” 
 
He gave a short, booming laugh. 
 
“What do they want?” Harry said, noticing how the goblins were still watching Bagman very closely. 
 
“Er - well…” said Bagman, looking suddenly nervous. “They… er… they’re looking for Barty Crouch.” 
 
“Why are they looking for him here?” said Harry. “He’s at the Ministry in London, isn’t he?” 
 
“Er… as a matter of fact, I’ve no idea where he is,” said Bagman. “He’s sort of… stopped coming to work. Been absent for a couple of weeks now. Young Percy, his assistant, says he’s ill. Apparently he’s just been sending instructions in by owl. But would you mind not mentioning that to anyone Harry? Because Rita Skeeter’s still poking around everywhere she can, and I’m willing to bet she’d work up Bartys illness into something sinister. Probably say he’s gone missing like Bertha Jorkins.” 
 
“Have you heard anything about Bertha Jorkins?” Harry asked. 
 
“No,” said Bagman, looking strained again. “I’ve got people looking, of course…” (About time, thought Harry) “and it’s all very strange. She definitely arrived in Albania, because she met her second cousin there. And then she left the cousin’s house to go south and see an aunt… and she seems to have vanished without trace en route. Blowed if I can see where she’s got to… she doesn’t seem the type to elope, for instance… but still… What are we doing, talking about goblins and Bertha Jorkins? I really wanted to ask you” - he lowered his voice - “how are you getting on with your golden egg?” 
 
“Er… not bad,” Harry said untruthfully. 
 
Bagman seemed to know he wasn’t being honest. 
 
“Listen, Harry,” he said (still in a very low voice), “I feel very bad about all this… you were thrown into this tournament, you didn’t volunteer for it… and if…” (his voice was so quiet now, Harry had to lean closer to listen) “if I can help at all… a prod in the right direction… I’ve taken a liking to you… the way you got past that dragon… well, just say the word.” 
 
Harry stared up into Bagman’s round, rosy face and his wide, baby-blue eyes.  
 
“We’re supposed to work out the clues alone, aren’t we?” he said, careful to keep his voice casual and not sound as though he was accusing the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports of breaking the rules. 
 
“Well… well, yes,” said Bagman impatiently, “but - come on. Harry - we all want a Hogwarts victory, don’t we?” 
 
“Have you offered Cedric help?” Harry said. 
 
The smallest of frowns creased Bagman’s smooth face. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I - well, like I say, I’ve taken a liking to you. Just thought I’d offer…” 
 
“Well, thanks,” said Harry, “but I think I’m nearly there with the egg… couple more days should crack it.” 
 
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was refusing Bagman’s help, except that Bagman was almost a stranger to him, and accepting his assistance would feel somehow much more like cheating than asking advice from Ron, Hermione, or Sirius. 
 
Bagman looked almost affronted, but couldn’t say much more as Fred and George turned up at that point. 
 
“Hello, Mr. Bagman,” said Fred brightly. “Can we buy you a drink?”  
 
“Er… no,” said Bagman, with a last disappointed glance at Harry, “no, thank you, boys…” 
 
Fred and George looked quite as disappointed as Bagman, who was surveying Harry as though he had let him down badly. 
 
“Well, I must dash,” he said. “Nice seeing you all. Good luck, Harry.”  
 
He hurried out of the pub. The goblins all slid off their chairs and exited after him. Harry went to rejoin Ron and Hermione. 
 
“What did he want?” Ron said, the moment Harry had sat down. 
 
“He offered to help me with the golden egg,” said Harry. 
 
“He shouldn’t be doing that!” said Hermione, looking very shocked. “He’s one of the judges! And anyway, you’ve already worked it out - haven’t you?” 
 
“Er… nearly,” said Harry. 
 
“Well, I don’t think Dumbledore would like it if he knew Bagman was trying to persuade you to cheat!” said Hermione, still looking deeply disapproving. “I hope he’s trying to help Cedric as much!” 
 
“He’s not, I asked,” said Harry. 
 
“Who cares if Diggorys getting help?” said Ron. Harry privately agreed. 
 
“Those goblins didn’t look very friendly,” said Hermione, sipping her butterbeer. “What were they doing here?” 
 
“Looking for Crouch, according to Bagman,” said Harry. “He’s still ill. Hasn’t been into work.” 
 
“Maybe Percys poisoning him,” said Ron. “Probably thinks if Crouch snuffs it he’ll be made head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.” 
 
Hermione gave Ron a don’t-joke-about-things-like-that look, and said, “Funny, goblins looking for Mr. Crouch… They’d normally deal with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” 
 
“Crouch can speak loads of different languages, though,” said Harry. “Maybe they need an interpreter.” 
 
“Worrying about poor ‘ickle goblins, now, are you?” Ron asked Hermione. “Thinking of starting up S.P.U.G. or something? Society for the Protection of Ugly Goblins?” 
 
“Ha, ha, ha,” said Hermione sarcastically. “Goblins don’t need protection. Haven’t you been listening to what Professor Binns has been telling us about goblin rebellions?” 
 
“No,” said Harry and Ron together. 
 
“Well, they’re quite capable of dealing with wizards,” said Hermione, taking another sip of butterbeer. “They’re very clever. They’re not like house-elves, who never stick up for themselves.” 
 
“Uh-oh,” said Ron, staring at the door. 
 
Rita Skeeter had just entered. She was wearing banana-yellow robes today; her long nails were painted shocking pink, and she was accompanied by her paunchy photographer. She bought drinks, and she and the photographer made their way through the crowds to a table nearby. Harry, Ron, and Hermione glaring at her as she approached. She was talking fast and looking very satisfied about something. 
 
“… didn’t seem very keen to talk to us, did he, Bozo? Now, why would that be, do you think?  
And what’s he doing with a pack of goblins in town anyway? Showing them the sights… what nonsense… he was always a bad liar. Reckon something’s up? Think we should do a bit of digging? ‘Disgraced Ex-Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman… ’ Snappy start to a sentence, Bozo - we just need to find a story to fit it -” 
 
“Trying to ruin someone else’s life?” said Harry loudly. 
 
A few people looked around. Rita Skeeter’s eyes widened behind her jeweled spectacles as she saw who had spoken. 
 
“Harry!” she said, beaming. “How lovely! Why don’t you come and join-?”  
 
“I wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot broomstick,” said Harry furiously. “What did you do that to Hagrid for, eh?” 
 
Rita Skeeter raised her heavily penciled eyebrows. 
 
“Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am merely doing my-” 
 
“Who cares if he’s half-giant?” Harry shouted. “There’s nothing wrong with him!” 
 
The whole pub had gone very quiet. Madam Rosmerta was staring over from behind the bar, apparently oblivious to the fact that the flagon she was filling with mead was overflowing. 
Rita Skeeters smile flickered very slightly, but she hitched it back almost at once; she snapped open her crocodile-skin handbag, pulled out her Quick-Quotes Quill, and said, “How about giving me an interview about the Hagrid you know. Harry? The man behind the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the reasons behind it. Would you call him a father substitute?” 
 
Hermione stood up very abruptly, her butterbeer clutched in her hand as though it were a grenade. 
 
“You horrible woman,” she said, through gritted teeth, “you don’t care, do you, anything for a story, and anyone will do, wont they? Even Ludo Bagman -”  
  
“Sit down, you silly little girl, and don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” said Rita Skeeter coldly, her eyes hardening as they fell on Hermione. “I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl… not that it needs it -” she added, eyeing Hermione’s bushy hair. 
 
“Let’s go,” said Hermione, “c’mon. Harry - Ron…” 
 
They left; many people were staring at them as they went. Harry glanced back as they reached the door. Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill was out; it was zooming backward and forward over a piece of parchment on the table. 
 
“She’ll be after you next, Hermione,” said Ron in a low and worried voice as they walked quickly back up the street. 
 
“Let her try!” said Hermione defiantly; she was shaking with rage. “I’ll show her! Silly little girl, am I? Oh, I’ll get her back for this. First Harry, then Hagrid…” 
 
“You don’t want to go upsetting Rita Skeeter,” said Ron nervously. “I’m serious, Hermione, she’ll dig up something on you -” 
 
“My parents don’t read the Daily Prophet. She can’t scare me into hiding!” said Hermione, now striding along so fast that it was all Harry and Ron could do to keep up with her. The last time Harry had seen Hermione in a rage like this, she had hit Draco Malfoy around the face. “And Hagrid isn’t hiding anymore! He should never have let that excuse for a human being upset him! Come on!” 
 
Breaking into a run, she led them all the way back up the road, through the gates flanked by winged boars, and up through the grounds to Hagrid’s cabin. The curtains were still drawn, and they could hear Fang barking as they approached. 
 
“Hagrid!” Hermione shouted, pounding on his front door. “Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there! Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid, get out here, you’re just being -” 
 
The door opened. Hermione said, “About t-!” and then stopped, very suddenly, because she had found herself face-to-face, not with Hagrid, but with Albus Dumbledore. 
 
“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, smiling down at them. 
 
“We-er-we wanted to see Hagrid,” said Hermione in a rather small voice. 
 
“Yes, I surmised as much,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “Why don’t you come in?” 
 
“Oh… um… okay,” said Hermione. 
She, Ron, and Harry went into the cabin; Fang launched himself upon Harry the moment he entered, barking madly and trying to lick his ears. Harry fended off Fang and looked around. 
Hagrid was sitting at his table, where there were two large mugs of tea. He looked a real mess. His face was blotchy, his eyes swollen, and he had gone to the other extreme where his hair was concerned; far from trying to make it behave, it now looked like a wig of tangled wire. 
 
“Hi, Hagrid,” said Harry. 
 
Hagrid looked up. 
 
“‘Lo,” he said in a very hoarse voice. 
 
“More tea, I think,” said Dumbledore, closing the door behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, drawing out his wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appeared in midair along with a plate of cakes. Dumbledore magicked the tray onto the table, and everybody sat down. There was a slight pause, and then Dumbledore said, “Did you by any chance hear what Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid?” 
 
Hermione went slightly pink, but Dumbledore smiled at her and continued, “Hermione, Harry, and Ron still seem to want to know you, judging by the way they were attempting to break down the door.” 
 
“Of course we still want to know you!” Harry said, staring at Hagrid. “You don’t think anything that Skeeter cow - sorry, Professor,” he added quickly, looking at Dumbledore. 
 
“I have gone temporarily deaf and haven’t any idea what you said. Harry,” said Dumbledore, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the ceiling. 
 
“Er-right,” said Harry sheepishly. “I just meant-Hagrid, how could you think we’d care what that-woman-wrote about you?” 
 
Two fat tears leaked out of Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes and fell slowly into his tangled beard. 
 
“Living proof of what I’ve been telling you, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the ceiling. “I have shown you the letters from the countless parents who remember you from their own days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I sacked you, they would have something to say about it -” 
 
“Not all of ‘em,” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Not all of ‘em wan me ter stay.”  
 
“Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal popularity, I’m afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time,” said Dumbledore, now peering sternly over his half-moon spectacles. “Not a week has passed since I became headmaster of this school when I haven’t had at least one owl complaining about the way I run it. But what should I do? Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to anybody?” 
 
“Yeh - yeh’re not half-giant!” said Hagrid croakily. 
 
“Hagrid, look what I’ve got for relatives!” Harry said furiously. “Look at the Dursleys!” 
 
“An excellent point,” said Professor Dumbledore. “My own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for practicing inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the papers, but did Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He held his head high and went about his business as usual! Of course, I’m not entirely sure he can read, so that may not have been bravery…” 
  
“Come back and teach, Hagrid,” said Hermione quietly, “please come back, we really miss you.” 
 
Hagrid gulped. More tears leaked out down his cheeks and into his tangled beard. Dumbledore stood up. “I refuse to accept your resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on Monday,” he said. “You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good afternoon to you all.” 
 
Dumbledore left the cabin, pausing only to scratch Fangs ears. When the door had shut behind him, Hagrid began to sob into his dustbin-lid-sized hands. Hermione kept patting his arm, and at last, Hagrid looked up, his eyes very red indeed, and said, “Great man, Dumbledore… great man…” 
 
“Yeah, he is,” said Ron. “Can I have one of these cakes, Hagrid?” 
 
“Help yerself,” said Hagrid, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. “Ar, he’s righ’, o’ course - yeh’re all righ’… I bin stupid… my ol’ dad woulda bin ashamed o’ the way I’ve bin behavin’…”  
More tears leaked out, but he wiped them away more forcefully, and said, “Never shown you a picture of my old dad, have I? Here…” 
 
Hagrid got up, went over to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a picture of a short wizard with Hagrid’s crinkled black eyes, beaming as he sat on top of Hagrid’s shoulder. Hagrid was a good seven or eight feet tall, judging by the apple tree beside him, but his face was beardless, young, round, and smooth - he looked hardly older than eleven. 
 
“Tha was taken jus’ after I got inter Hogwarts,” Hagrid croaked. “Dad was dead chuffed… thought I migh’ not be a wizard, see, ‘cos me mum… well, anyway. ‘Course, I never was great shakes at magic, really… but at least he never saw me expelled. Died, see, in me second year…” 
Dumbledore was the one who stuck up for me after Dad went. Got me the gamekeeper job… trusts people, he does. Gives ‘em second chances… tha’s what sets him apar’ from other heads, see. He’ll accept anyone at Hogwarts, s’long as they’ve got the talent. Knows people can turn out okay even if their families weren’… well… all tha’ respectable. But some don understand that. There’s some who’d always hold it against yeh… there’s some who’d even pretend they just had big bones rather than stand up an’ say - I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed. ‘Never be ashamed,’ my ol’ dad used ter say, ‘there’s some who’ll hold it against you, but they’re not worth botherin’ with.’ An’ he was right. I’ve bin an idiot. I’m not botherin’ with her no more, I promise yeh that. Big bones… I’ll give her big bones.” 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another nervously; Harry would rather have taken fifty Blast-Ended Skrewts for a walk than admit to Hagrid that he had overheard him talking to Madame Maxime, but Hagrid was still talking, apparently unaware that he had said anything odd. 
 
“Yeh know wha, Harry?” he said, looking up from the photograph of his father, his eyes very bright, “when I firs’ met you, you reminded me o’ me a bit. Mum an’ Dad gone, an’ you was feelin’ like yeh wouldn’ fit in at Hogwarts, remember? Not sure yeh were really up to it… an’ now look at yeh, Harry! School champion!” 
 
He looked at Harry for a moment and then said, very seriously, “Yeh know what I’d love Harry? I’d love yeh ter win, I really would. It’d show ‘em all… yeh don’ have ter be pure-blood ter do it. Yeh don have ter be ashamed of what yeh are. It’d show ‘em Dumbledore’s the one who’s got it righ’, lettin’ anyone in as long as they can do magic. How you doin’ with that egg, Harry?” 
 
“Great,” said Harry. “Really great.” 
 
Hagrid’s miserable face broke into a wide, watery smile. 
 
“Tha’s my boy… you show ‘em, Harry, you show ‘em. Beat ‘em all.” 
 
Lying to Hagrid wasn’t quite like lying to anyone else. Harry went back to the castle later that afternoon with Ron and Hermione, unable to banish the image of the happy expression on Hagrid’s whiskery face as he had imagined Harry winning the tournament. The incomprehensible egg weighed more heavily than ever on Harrys conscience that evening, and by the time he had got into bed, he had made up his mind - it was time to shelve his pride and see if Cedric’s hint was worth anything. 
 
Harry had no idea how long a bath he would need to work out the secret of the golden egg, he decided to do it at night, when he would be able to take as much time as he wanted. Reluctant though he was to accept more favors from Cedric, he also decided to use the prefects’ bathroom; far fewer people were allowed in there, so it was much less likely that he would be disturbed. 
 
Harry planned his excursion carefully, because he had been caught out of bed and out-of-bounds by Filch the caretaker in the middle of the night once before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. The Invisibility Cloak would, of course, be essential, and as an added precaution, Harry thought he would take the Marauders Map, which, next to the cloak, was the most useful aid to rule-breaking Harry owned. The map showed the whole of Hogwarts, including its many shortcuts and secret passageways and, most important of all, it revealed the people inside the castle as minuscule, labeled dots, moving around the corridors, so that Harry would be forewarned if somebody was approaching the bathroom. 
 
On Thursday night, Harry sneaked up to bed, put on the cloak, crept back downstairs, and, just as he had done on the night when Hagrid had shown him the dragons, waited for the portrait hole to open. This time it was Ron who waited outside to give the Fat Lady the password (“banana fritters”), “Good luck,” Ron muttered, climbing into the room as Harry crept out past him. 
 
It was awkward moving under the cloak tonight, because Harry had the heavy egg under one arm and the map held in front of his nose with the other. However, the moonlit corridors were empty and silent, and by checking the map at strategic intervals, Harry was able to ensure that he wouldn’t run into anyone he wanted to avoid. When he reached the statue of Boris the Bewildered, a lost-looking wizard with his gloves on the wrong hands, he located the right door, leaned close to it, and muttered the password, “Pine fresh,” just as Cedric had told him. 
 
The door creaked open. Harry slipped inside, bolted the door behind him, and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, looking around. 
  
His immediate reaction was that it would be worth becoming a prefect just to be able to use this bathroom. It was softly lit by a splendid candle-filled chandelier, and everything was made of white marble, including what looked like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor. About a hundred golden taps stood all around the pools edges, each with a differently colored Jewel set into its handle. There was also a diving board. Long white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile of fluffy white towels sat in a corner, and there was a 
single golden-framed painting on the wall. It featured a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her long hair over her face. It fluttered every time she snored. 
 
Harry moved forward, looking around, his footsteps echoing off the walls. Magnificent though the bathroom was - and quite keen though he was to try out a few of those taps - now he was here he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that Cedric might have been having him on. How on earth was this supposed to help solve the mystery of the egg? Nevertheless, he put one of the Huffy towels, the cloak, the map, and the egg at the side of the swimming-pool-sized bath, then knelt down and turned on a few of the taps. 
 
He could tell at once that they carried different sorts of bubble bath mixed with the water, though it wasn’t bubble bath as Harry had ever experienced it. One tap gushed pink and blue bubbles the size of footballs; another poured ice-white foam so thick that Harry thought it would have supported his weight if he’d cared to test it; a third sent heavily perfumed purple clouds hovering over the surface of the water. Harry amused himself for awhile turning the taps on and off, particularly enjoying the effect of one whose jet bounced off the surface of the water in large arcs. Then, when the deep pool was full of hot water, foam, and bubbles, which took a very short time considering its size, Harry turned off all the taps, pulled off his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown, and slid into the water.  
 
It was so deep that his feet barely touched the bottom, and he actually did a couple of lengths before swimming back to the side and treading water, staring at the egg. Highly enjoyable though it was to swim in hot and foamy water with clouds of different-colored steam wafting all around him, no stroke of brilliance came to him, no sudden burst of understanding. Harry stretched out his arms, lifted the egg in his wet hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the marble walls, but it sounded just as incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the echoes. He snapped it shut again, worried that the sound would attract Filch, wondering whether that hadn’t been Cedric’s plan - and then, making him jump so badly that he dropped the egg, which clattered away across the bathroom 
floor, someone spoke. 
 
“I’d try putting it in the water, if I were you.” 
 
Harry had swallowed a considerable amount of bubbles in shock. He stood up, sputtering, and saw the ghost of a very glum-looking girl sitting cross-legged on top of one of the taps. It was Moaning Myrtle, who was usually to be heard sobbing in the S-bend of a toilet three floors below. 
 
“Myrtle!” Harry said in outrage, “I’m - I’m not wearing anything!” 
 
The foam was so dense that this hardly mattered, but he had a nasty feeling that Myrtle had been spying on him from out of one of the taps ever since he had arrived. 
 
“I closed my eyes when you got in,” she said, blinking at him through her thick spectacles. “You haven’t been to see me for ages.” 
 
“Yeah… well…” said Harry, bending his knees slightly, just to make absolutely sure Myrtle couldn’t see anything but his head, “I’m not supposed to come into your bathroom, am I? It’s a girls’ one.” 
 
“You didn’t used to care,” said Myrtle miserably. “You used to be in there all the time.” 
This was true, though only because Harry, Ron, and Hermione had found Myrtle’s out-of-order toilets a convenient place to brew Polyjuice Potion in secret – a forbidden potion that had turned him and Ron into living replicas of Crabbe and Goyle for an hour, so that they could sneak into the Slytherin common room. 
 
“I got told off for going in there.” said Harry, which was half-true; Percy had once caught him coming out of Myrtles bathroom. “I thought I’d better not come back after that.” 
 
“Oh… I see…” said Myrtle, picking at a spot on her chin in a morose sort of way. “Well… anyway… I’d try the egg in the water. That’s what Cedric Diggory did.” 
 
“Have you been spying on him too?” said Harry indignantly. “What d’you do, sneak up here in the evenings to watch the prefects take baths?” 
 
“Sometimes,” said Myrtle, rather slyly, “but I’ve never come out to speak to anyone before.” 
 
“I’m honored,” said Harry darkly. “You keep your eyes shut!” 
 
He made sure Myrtle had her glasses well covered before hoisting himself out of the bath, wrapping the towel firmly around his waist, and going to retrieve the egg. 
 
Once he was back in the water, Myrtle peered through her fingers and said, “Go on, then… open it under the water!” 
 
Harry lowered the egg beneath the foamy surface and opened it… and this time, it did not wail. A gurgling song was coming out of it, a song whose words he couldnt distinguish through the water. 
 
“You need to put your head under too,” said Myrtle, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying bossing him around. “Go on!” 
 
Harry took a great breath and slid under the surface - and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the bubble-filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices singing to him from the open egg in his hands: 
 
“Come seek us where our voices sound, 
 
We cannot sing above the ground, 
 
And while you re searching, ponder this: 
 
We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss, 
 
An hour long you’ll have to look, 
 
And to recover what we took, 
But past an hour- the prospect’s black, 
 
Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back” 
 
Harry let himself float back upward and broke the bubbly surface, shaking his hair out of his eyes. 
 
“Hear it?” said Myrtle. 
 
“Yeah… ‘Come seek us where our voices sound… ’ and if I need persuading… hang on, I need to listen again…” He sank back beneath the water. It took three more underwater renditions of the egg’s song before Harry had it memorized; then he trod water for a while, thinking hard, while Myrtle sat and watched him. 
 
“I’ve got to go and look for people who can’t use their voices above the ground…” he said slowly. “Er… who could that be?” 
 
“Slow, aren’t you?” 
 
He had never seen Moaning Myrtle so cheerful, apart from the day when a dose of PolyJuice Potion had given Hermione the hairy face and tail of a cat. Harry stared around the bathroom, thinking… if the voices could only be heard underwater, then it made sense for them to belong to underwater creatures. He ran this theory past Myrtle, who smirked at him. 
 
“Well, thats what Diggory thought,” she said. “He lay there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages and ages… nearly all the bubbles had gone…” 
 
“Underwater…” Harry said slowly. “Myrtle… what lives in the lake, apart from the giant squid?” 
 
“Oh all sorts,” she said. “I sometimes go down there… sometimes don’t have any choice, if someone flushes my toilet when I’m not expecting it…” 
  
Trying not to think about Moaning Myrtle zooming down a pipe to the lake with the contents of a toilet. Harry said, “Well, does anything in there have a human voice? Hang on -” 
 
Harry’s eyes had fallen on the picture of the snoozing mermaid on the wall.  
 
“Myrtle, there aren’t merpeople in there, are there?” 
 
“Oooh, very good,” she said, her thick glasses twinkling, “it took Diggory much longer than that! And that was with her awake too” - Myrtle jerked her head toward the mermaid with an expression of great dislike on her glum face - “giggling and showing off and flashing her fins…” 
 
“Thats it, isn’t it?” said Harry excitedly. “The second tasks to go and find the merpeople in the lake and… and…” 
But he suddenly realized what he was saying, and he felt the excitement drain out of him as though someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach. He wasn’t a very good swimmer; he’d never had much practice. Dudley had had lessons in his youth, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, no doubt hoping that Harry would drown one day, hadn’t bothered to give him any. A couple of lengths of this bath were all very well, but that lake was very large, and very deep… and merpeople would surely live right at the bottom…  
  
“Myrtle,” Harry said slowly, “how am I supposed to breathe?” 
 
At this, Myrtle’s eyes filled with sudden tears again. 
 
“Tactless!” she muttered, groping in her robes for a handkerchief. 
 
“What’s tactless?” said Harry, bewildered. 
 
“Talking about breathing in front of me!” she said shrilly, and her voice echoed loudly around the bathroom. “When I can’t… when I haven’t… not for ages…” 
 
She buried her face in her handkerchief and sniffed loudly. Harry remembered how touchy Myrtle had always been about being dead, but none of the other ghosts he knew made such a fuss about it. 
  
“Sorry,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t mean - I just forgot…” 
 
“Oh yes, very easy to forget Myrtle’s dead,” said Myrtle, gulping, looking at him out of swollen eyes. “Nobody missed me even when I was alive. Took them hours and hours to find my body - I know, I was sitting there waiting for them. Olive Hornby came into the bathroom – ‘Are you in here again, sulking, Myrtle?’ she said, ‘because Professor Dippet asked me to look for you -’ And then she saw my body… ooooh, she didn’t forget it until her dying day, I made sure of that… followed her around and reminded her, I did. I remember at her brother’s wedding -” 
 
But Harry wasn’t listening; he was thinking about the merpeople’s song again.  
 
“We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss.” That sounded as though they were going to steal something of his, something he had to get back. What were they going to take?  
 
“—and then, of course, she went to the Ministry of Magic to stop me stalking her, so I had to come back here and live in my toilet.” 
 
“Good,” said Harry vaguely. “Well, I’m a lot further on than I was… Shut your eyes again, will you? I’m getting out.” 
 
He retrieved the egg from the bottom of the bath, climbed out, dried himself, and pulled on his pajamas and dressing gown again. 
 
“Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again sometime?” Moaning Myrtle asked mournfully as Harry picked up the Invisibility Cloak. 
 
“Er… I’ll try,” Harry said, though privately thinking the only way he’d be visiting Myrtle’s bathroom again was if every other toilet in the castle got blocked. “See you. Myrtle… thanks for your help.” 
 
“Bye, ‘bye,” she said gloomily, and as Harry put on the Invisibllity Cloak he saw her zoom back up the tap. 
 
Out in the dark corridor, Harry examined the Marauders Map to check that the coast was still clear. Yes, the dots belonging to Filch and his cat, Mrs. Norris, were safely in their office… nothing else seemed to be moving apart from Peeves, though he was bouncing around the trophy room on the floor above… Harry had taken his first step back toward Gryffindor Tower when something else on the map caught his eye… something distinctly odd. 
 
Peeves was not the only thing that was moving. A single dot was flitting around a room in the bottom left-hand corner - Snapes office. But the dot wasn’t labeled “Severus Snape”… it was Bartemius Crouch. Harry stared at the dot. Mr. Crouch was supposed to be too ill to go to work or to come to the Yule Ball - so what was he doing, sneaking into Hogwarts at one o’clock in the morning? Harry watched closely as the dot moved around and around the room, pausing here and there…  
 
Harry hesitated, thinking… and then his curiosity got the better of him. He turned and set off in the opposite direction toward the nearest staircase. He was going to see what Crouch was up to. 
 
Harry walked down the stairs as quietly as possible, though the faces in some of the portraits still turned curiously at the squeak of a floorboard, the rustle of his pajamas. He crept along the corridor below, pushed aside a tapestry about halfway along, and proceeded down a narrower staircase, a shortcut that would take him down two floors. He kept glancing down at the map, wondering… It just didn’t seem in character, somehow, for correct, law-abiding Mr. Crouch to be sneaking around somebody else’s office this late at night…  
 
And then, halfway down the staircase, not thinking about what he was doing, not concentrating on anything but the peculiar behavior of Mr. Crouch, Harrys leg suddenly sank right through the trick step Neville always forgot to jump. He gave an ungainly wobble, and the golden egg, still damp from the bath, slipped from under his arm. He lurched forward to try and catch it, but too late; the egg fell down the long staircase with a bang as loud as a bass drum on every step - the 
Invisibility Cloak slipped - Harry snatched at it, and the Marauder s Map fluttered out of his hand and slid down six stairs, where, sunk in the step to above his knee, he couldn’t reach it. 
 
The golden egg fell through the tapestry at the bottom of the staircase, burst open, and began wailing loudly in the corridor below. Harry pulled out his wand and struggled to touch the Marauder s Map, to wipe it blank, but it was too far away to reach – 
 
Pulling the cloak back over himself Harry straightened up, listening hard with his eyes screwed up with fear… and, almost immediately – 
 
“PEEVES!” 
 
It was the unmistakable hunting cry of Filch the caretaker. Harry could hear his rapid, shuffling footsteps coming nearer and nearer, his wheezy voice raised in fury. 
 
“What’s this racket? Wake up the whole castle, will you? I’ll have you, Peeves, I’ll have you, you’ll… and what is this?” 
 
Filch’s footsteps halted; there was a clink of metal on metal and the wailing stopped - Filch had picked up the egg and closed it. Harry stood very still, one leg still Jammed tightly in the magical step, listening. Any moment now, Filch was going to pull aside the tapestry, expecting to see Peeves… and there would be no Peeves… but if he came up the stairs, he would spot the Marauder’s Map… and Invisibility Cloak or not, the map would show “Harry Potter” standing exactly where he was. 
 
“Egg?” Filch said quietly at the foot of the stairs. “My sweet!” - Mrs. Norris was obviously with him - “This is a Triwizard clue! This belongs to a school champion!” 
 
Harry felt sick; his heart was hammering very fast - 
 
“PEEVES!” Filch roared gleefully. “You’ve been stealing!” 
 
He ripped back the tapestry below, and Harry saw his horrible, pouchy face and bulging, pale eyes staring up the dark and (to Filch) deserted staircase.  
 
“Hiding, are you?” he said softly. “I’m coming to get you, Peeves… You’ve gone and stolen a Triwizard clue, Peeves… Dumbledore’ll have you out of here for this, you filthy, pilfering poltergeist…” 
 
Filch started to climb the stairs, his scrawny, dust-colored cat at his heels. Mrs. Morris’s lamp-like eyes, so very like her masters, were fixed directly upon Harry. He had had occasion before now to wonder whether the Invisibility Cloak worked on cats… Sick with apprehension, he watched Filch drawing nearer and nearer in his old flannel dressing gown - he tried desperately to pull his trapped leg free, but it merely sank a few more inches - any second now, Filch was going to spot the map or walk right into him - 
 
“Filch? Whats going on?” 
 
Filch stopped a few steps below Harry and turned. At the foot of the stairs stood the only person who could make Harry’s situation worse: Snape. He was wearing a long gray nightshirt and he looked livid. 
 
“It’s Peeves, Professor,” Filch whispered malevolently. “He threw this egg down the stairs.” 
Snape climbed up the stairs quickly and stopped beside Filch. Harry gritted his teeth, convinced his loudly thumping heart would give him away at any second…  
 
“Peeves?” said Snape softly, staring at the egg in Filch’s hands. “But Peeves couldn’t get into my office…” 
 
“This egg was in your office. Professor?” 
 
“Of course not,” Snape snapped. “I heard banging and wailing -” 
 
“Yes, Professor, that was the egg -” 
 
“- I was coming to investigate -” 
 
“- Peeves threw it. Professor -” 
 
“- and when I passed my office, I saw that the torches were lit and a cupboard door was ajar! Somebody has been searching it!” 
 
“But Peeves couldn’t -” 
 
“I know he couldn’t, Filch!” Snape snapped again. “I seal my office with a spell none but a wizard could break!” Snape looked up the stairs, straight through Harry, and then down into the corridor below. “I want you to come and help me search for the intruder, Filch.” 
 
“I - yes, Professor - but -” 
 
Filch looked yearningly up the stairs, right through Harry, who could see that he was very reluctant to forgo the chance of cornering Peeves. Go, Harry pleaded with him silently, go with Snape… go… Mrs. Norris was peering around Filch’s legs… Harry had the distinct impression that she could smell him… Why had he filled that bath with so much perfumed foam? 
 
“The thing is, Professor,” said Filch plaintively, “the headmaster will have to listen to me this time. Peeves has been stealing from a student, it might be my chance to get him thrown out of the castle once and for all -” 
 
“Filch, I don’t give a damn about that wretched poltergeist; it’s my office that’s -” Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. 
 
Snape stopped talking very abruptly. He and Filch both looked down at the foot of the stairs. Harry saw Mad-Eye Moody limp into sight through the narrow gap between their heads. Moody was wearing his old traveling cloak over his nightshirt and leaning on his staff as usual. 
 
“Pajama party, is it?” he growled up the stairs. 
 
“Professor Snape and I heard noises, Professor,” said Filch at once. “Peeves the Poltergeist, throwing things around as usual - and then Professor Snape discovered that someone had broken into his off -” 
 
“Shut up!” Snape hissed to Filch. 
 
Moody took a step closer to the foot of the stairs. Harry saw Moodys magical eye travel over Snape, and then, unmistakably, onto himself. 
 
Harrys heart gave a horrible jolt. Moody could see through Invisibility Cloaks… he alone could see the full strangeness of the scene: Snape in his nightshirt, Filch clutching the egg, and he, Harry, trapped in the stairs behind them. Moody’s lopsided gash of a mouth opened in surprise. For a few seconds, he and Harry stared straight into each other’s eyes. Then Moody closed his mouth and turned his blue eye upon Snape again. 
 
“Did I hear that correctly, Snape?” he asked slowly. “Someone broke into your office?” 
 
“It is unimportant,” said Snape coldly.  
 
“On the contrary,” growled Moody, “it is very important. Who’d want to break into your office?” 
 
“A student, I daresay,” said Snape. Harry could see a vein flickering horribly on Snape’s greasy temple. “It has happened before. Potion ingredients have gone missing from my private store cupboard… students attempting illicit mixtures, no doubt…” 
 
“Reckon they were after potion ingredients, eh?” said Moody. “Not hiding anything else in your office, are you?” 
 
Harry saw the edge of Snapes sallow face turn a nasty brick color, the vein in his temple pulsing more rapidly. 
 
“You know I’m hiding nothing, Moody,” he said in a soft and dangerous voice, “as you’ve searched my office pretty thoroughly yourself.” 
 
Moodys face twisted into a smile. “Auror’s privilege, Snape. Dumbledore told me to keep an eye -” 
 
“Dumbledore happens to trust me,” said Snape through clenched teeth. “I refuse to believe that he gave you orders to search my office!” 
 
“Course Dumbledore trusts you,” growled Moody. “He’s a trusting man, isn’t he? Believes in second chances. But me - I say there are spots that don’t come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d’you know what I mean?” 
 
Snape suddenly did something very strange. He seized his left forearm convulsively with his right hand, as though something on it had hurt him.  
Moody laughed. “Get back to bed, Snape.” 
 
“You don’t have the authority to send me anywhere!” Snape hissed, letting go of his arm as though angry with himself. “I have as much right to prowl this school after dark as you do!” 
 
“Prowl away,” said Moody, but his voice was full of menace. “I look forward to meeting you in a dark corridor some time… You’ve dropped something, by the way…” 
 
With a stab of horror Harry saw Moody point at the Marauders Map, still lying on the staircase six steps below him. As Snape and Filch both turned to look at it, Harry threw caution to the winds; he raised his arms under the cloak and waved furiously at Moody to attract his attention, mouthing “It’s mine! Mine!” 
 
Snape had reached out for it, a horrible expression of dawning comprehension on his face - 
 
“Accio Parchment!” 
 
The map flew up into the air, slipped through Snapes outstretched fingers, and soared down the stairs into Moodys hand. 
 
“My mistake,” Moody said calmly. “It’s mine - must’ve dropped it earlier -”  
 
But Snape’s black eyes were darting from the egg in Filch’s arms to the map in Moodys hand, and Harry could tell he was putting two and two together, as only Snape could…  
 
“Potter,” he said quietly. 
 
“What’s that?” said Moody calmly, folding up the map and pocketing it. 
 
“Potter!” Snape snarled, and he actually turned his head and stared right at the place where Harry was, as though he could suddenly see him. “That egg is Potters egg. That piece of parchment belongs to Potter. I have seen it before, I recognize it! Potter is here! Potter, in his Invisibility Cloak!” 
 
Snape stretched out his hands like a blind man and began to move up the stairs; Harry could have sworn his over-large nostrils were dilating, trying to sniff Harry out - trapped. Harry leaned backward, trying to avoid Snapes fingertips, but any moment now- 
 
“There’s nothing there, Snape!” barked Moody, “but I’ll be happy to tell the headmaster how quickly your mind jumped to Harry Potter!” 
 
“Meaning what?” Snape turned again to look at Moody, his hands still outstretched, inches from Harry’s chest. 
 
“Meaning that Dumbledore’s very interested to know who’s got it in for that boy!” said Moody, limping nearer still to the foot of the stairs. “And so am I, Snape… very interested…” The torchlight flickered across his mangled face, so that the scars, and the chunk missing from his nose, looked deeper and darker than ever. 
 
Snape was looking down at Moody, and Harry couldn’t see the expression on his face. For a moment, nobody moved or said anything. Then Snape slowly lowered his hands. 
 
“I merely thought,” said Snape, in a voice of forced calm, “that if Potter was wandering around after hours again… it’s an unfortunate habit of his… he should be stopped. For - for his own safety.”  
 
“Ah, I see,” said Moody softly. “Got Potter’s best interests at heart, have you?” 
 
There was a pause. Snape and Moody were still staring at each other, Mrs. Norris gave a loud meow, still peering around Filch’s legs, looking for the source of Harry’s bubble-bath smell. 
 
“I think I will go back to bed,” Snape said curtly. 
 
“Best idea you’ve had all night,” said Moody. “Now, Filch, if you’ll just give me that egg-” 
 
“No!” said Filch, clutching the egg as though it were his firstborn son. “Professor Moody, this is evidence of Peeves’ treachery!” 
 
“It’s the property of the champion he stole it from,” said Moody. “Hand it over, now.” 
 
Snape swept downstairs and passed Moody without another word. Filch made a chirruping noise to Mrs. Norris, who stared blankly at Harry for a few more seconds before turning and following her master. Still breathing very fast. Harry heard Snape walking away down the corridor; Filch handed Moody the egg and disappeared from view too, muttering to Mrs. Norris. “Never mind my sweet… we’ll see Dumbledore in the morning… tell him what Peeves was up to…” 
 
A door slammed. Harry was left staring down at Moody, who placed his staff on the bottommost stair and started to climb laboriously toward him, a dull clunk on every other step. 
 
“Close shave Potter,” he muttered. 
 
“Yeah… I - er… thanks,” said Harry weakly. 
 
“What is this thing?” said Moody, drawing the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket and unfolding it. 
 
“Map of Hogwarts,” said Harry, hoping Moody was going to pull him out of the staircase soon; his leg was really hurting him. 
 
“Merlins beard,” Moody whispered, staring at the map, his magical eye going haywire. “This… this is some map. Potter!” 
 
“Yeah, it’s… quite useful,” Harry said. His eyes were starting to water from the pain. “Er - Professor Moody, d’you think you could help me -?” 
 
“What? Oh! Yes… yes, of course…” 
 
Moody took hold of Harrys arms and pulled; Harrys leg came free of the trick step, and he climbed onto the one above it. Moody was still gazing at the map. “Potter…” he said slowly, “you didn’t happen, by any chance, to see who broke into Snapes office, did you? On this map, I mean?” 
 
“Er… yeah, I did…” Harry admitted. “It was Mr. Crouch.” 
 
Moodys magical eye whizzed over the entire surface of the map. He looked suddenly alarmed. 
 
“Crouch?” he said. “You’re - you’re sure Potter?” 
 
“Positive,” said Harry. 
 
“Well, he’s not here anymore,” said Moody, his eye still whizzing over the map. “Crouch… that’s very - very interesting…” 
 
He said nothing for almost a minute, still staring at the map. Harry could tell that this news meant something to Moody and very much wanted to know what it was. He wondered whether he dared ask. Moody scared him slightly… yet Moody had just helped him avoid an awful lot of trouble…  
 
“Er… Professor Moody… why d’you reckon Mr. Crouch wanted to look around Snapes office?” 
 
Moodys magical eye left the map and fixed, quivering, upon Harry. It was a penetrating glare, and Harry had the impression that Moody was sizing him up, wondering whether to answer or not, or how much to tell him. 
 
“Put it this way Potter,” Moody muttered finally, “they say old Mad-Eye’s obsessed with catching Dark wizards… but I’m nothing - nothing - compared to Barty Crouch.” 
 
He continued to stare at the map. Harry was burning to know more. 
 
“Professor Moody?” he said again. “D’you think… could this have anything to do with… maybe Mr. Crouch thinks there’s something going on…” 
 
“Like what?” said Moody sharply. 
 
Harry wondered how much he dare say. He didn’t want Moody to guess that he had a source of information outside Hogwarts; that might lead to tricky questions about Sirius. 
 
“I don’t know,” Harry muttered, “odd stuffs been happening lately, hasn’t it? It’s been in the Daily Prophet… the Dark Mark at the World Cup, and the Death Eaters and everything…” 
 
Both of Moody’s mismatched eyes widened. 
 
“You’re a sharp boy. Potter,” he said. His magical eye roved back to the Marauder’s Map.  “Crouch could be thinking along those lines,” he said slowly. “Very possible… there have been some funny rumors flying around lately - helped along by Rita Skeeter, of course. It’s making a lot of people nervous, I reckon.” A grim smile twisted his lopsided mouth. “Oh if there’s one thing I hate,” he muttered, more to himself than to Harry, and his magical eye was fixed on the 
left-hand corner of the map, “its a Death Eater who walked free…” 
 
Harry stared at him. Could Moody possibly mean what Harry thought he meant? 
 
“And now I want to ask you a question Potter,” said Moody in a more businesslike tone. 
 
Harrys heart sank; he had thought this was coming. Moody was going to ask where he had got this map, which was a very dubious magical object - and the story of how it had fallen into his hands incriminated not only him, but his own father, Fred and George Weasley, and Professor Lupin, their last Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Moody waved the map in front of Harry, who braced himself- 
 
“Can I borrow this?” 
 
“Oh!” said Harry. 
 
He was very fond of his map, but on the other hand, he was extremely relieved that Moody wasn’t asking where he’d got it, and there was no doubt that he owed Moody a favor. 
 
“Yeah, okay.” 
 
“Good boy,” growled Moody. “I can make good use of this… this might be exactly what I’ve been looking for… Right, bed, Potter, come on, now…” 
  
They climbed to the top of the stairs together, Moody still examining the map as though it was a treasure the like of which he had never seen before. They walked in silence to the door of Moody’s office, where he stopped and looked up at Harry. 
 
“You ever thought of a career as an Auror, Potter?” 
 
“No,” said Harry, taken aback. 
 
“You want to consider it,” said Moody, nodding and looking at Harry thoughtfully. “Yes, indeed… and incidentally… I’m guessing you werent just taking that egg for a walk tonight?” 
 
“Er - no,” said Harry, grinning. “I’ve been working out the clue.” 
Moody winked at him, his magical eye going haywire again. “Nothing like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas, Potter… See you in the morning…” 
 
He went back into his office, staring down at the Marauders Map again, and closed the door behind him. 
 
Harry walked slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, lost in thought about Snape, and Crouch, and what it all meant… Why was Crouch pretending to be ill, if he could manage to get to Hogwarts when he wanted to? What did he think Snape was concealing in his office? And Moody thought he. Harry, ought to be an Auror! Interesting idea… but somehow. Harry thought, as he got quietly into his four-poster ten minutes later, the egg and the cloak now safely back in his trunk, he thought he’d like to check how scarred the rest of them were before he chose it as a career. 
 
“You said you’d already worked out that egg clue!” said Hermione indignantly. 
 
“Keep your voice down!” said Harry crossly. “I just need to - sort of fine-tune it, all right?” 
 
He, Ron, and Hermione were sitting at the very back of the Charms class with a table to themselves. They were supposed to be practicing the opposite of the Summoning Charm today - the Banishing Charm. Owing to the potential for nasty accidents when objects kept flying across the room. Professor Flitwick had given each student a stack of cushions on which to practice, the theory being that these wouldn’t hurt anyone if they went off target. It was a good theory, but it wasn’t working very well. Neville’s aim was so poor that he kept accidentally sending much heavier things flying across the room - Professor Flitwick, for instance.  
 
“Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?” Harry hissed as Professor Flitwick went whizzing resignedly past them, landing on top of a large cabinet. “I’m trying to tell you about Snape and Moody…” 
 
This class was an ideal cover for a private conversation, as everyone was having far too much fun to pay them any attention. Harry had been recounting his adventures of the previous night in whispered installments for the last half hour. 
 
“Snape said Moodys searched his office as well?” Ron whispered, his eyes alight with interest as he Banished a cushion with a sweep of his wand (it soared into the air and knocked Parvati’s hat off). “What… d’you reckon Moody’s here to keep an eye on Snape as well as Karkaroff?” 
 
“Well, I dunno if that’s what Dumbledore asked him to do, but he’s definitely doing it,” said Harry, waving his wand without paying much attention, so that his cushion did an odd sort of belly flop off the desk. “Moody said Dumbledore only lets Snape stay here because he’s giving him a second chance or something…” 
 
“What?” said Ron, his eyes widening, his next cushion spinning high into the air, ricocheting off the chandelier, and dropping heavily onto Flitwick’s desk. “Harry… maybe Moody thinks Snape put your name in the Goblet of Fire!” 
 
“Oh Ron,” said Hermione, shaking her head sceptically, “we thought Snape was trying to kill Harry before, and it turned out he was saving Harry’s life, remember?” 
 
She Banished a cushion and it flew across the room and landed in the box they were all supposed to be aiming at. Harry looked at Hermione, thinking… it was true that Snape had saved his life once, but the odd thing was, Snape definitely loathed him, just as he’d loathed Harry’s father when they had been at school together. Snape loved taking points from Harry, and had certainly never missed an opportunity to give him punishments, or even to suggest that he should be suspended from the school. 
 
“I don’t care what Moody says,” Hermione went on. “Dumbledore’s not stupid. He was right to trust Hagrid and Professor Lupin, even though loads of people wouldn’t have given them jobs, so why shouldn’t he be right about Snape, even if Snape is a bit -” 
 
“- evil,” said Ron promptly. “Come on, Hermione, why are all these Dark wizard catchers searching his office, then?” 
 
“Why has Mr. Crouch been pretending to be ill?” said Hermione, ignoring Ron. “Its a bit funny, isn’t it, that he can’t manage to come to the Yule Ball, but he can get up here in the middle of the night when he wants to?” 
 
“You just don’t like Crouch because of that elf, Winky,” said Ron, sending a cushion soaring into the window. 
 
“You just want to think Snapes up to something,” said Hermione, sending her cushion zooming neatly into the box. 
 
“I just want to know what Snape did with his first chance, if he’s on his second one,” said Harry grimly, and his cushion, to his very great surprise, flew straight across the room and landed neatly on top of Hermione’s.  
 
Obedient to Sirius’s wish of hearing about anything odd at Hogwarts, Harry sent him a letter by brown owl that night, explaining all about Mr. Crouch breaking into Snape s office, and Moody and Snape’s conversation. Then Harry turned his attention in earnest to the most urgent problem facing him: how to survive underwater for an hour on the twenty-fourth of February. 
 
Ron quite liked the idea of using the Summoning Charm again - Harry had explained about Aqua-Lungs, and Ron couldn’t see why Harry shouldn’t Summon one from the nearest Muggle town. Hermione squashed this plan by pointing out that, in the unlikely event that Harry managed to learn how to operate an Aqua- Lung within the set limit of an hour, he was sure to be disqualified for breaking the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy - it was too much to hope that no Muggles would spot an Aqua-Lung zooming across the countryside to Hogwarts. 
 
“Of course, the ideal solution would be for you to Transfigure yourself into a submarine or something,” Hermione said. “If only we’d done human Transfiguration already! But I don’t think we start that until sixth year, and it can go badly wrong if you don’t know what you’re doing…” 
 
“Yeah, I don’t fancy walking around with a periscope sticking out of my head,” said Harry. “I s’pose I could always attack someone in front of Moody; he might do it for me…” 
 
“I don’t think he’d let you choose what you wanted to be turned into, though,” said Hermione seriously. “No, I think your best chance is some sort of charm.”  
 
So Harry, thinking that he would soon have had enough of the library to last him a lifetime, buried himself once more among the dusty volumes, looking for any spell that might enable a human to survive without oxygen. However, though he, Ron, and Hermione searched through their lunchtimes, evenings, and whole weekends - though Harry asked Professor McGonagall for a note of permission to use the Restricted Section, and even asked the irritable, vulture-like librarian Madam Pince, for help - they found nothing whatsoever that would enable Harry to spend an hour underwater and live to tell the tale. 
 
Familiar flutterings of panic were starting to disturb Harry now, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate in class again. The lake, which Harry had always taken for granted as just another feature of the grounds, drew his eyes whenever he was near a classroom window, a great, iron-gray mass of chilly water, whose dark and icy depths were starting to seem as distant as the moon. 
 
Just as it had before he faced the Horntail, time was slipping away as though somebody had bewitched the clocks to go extra-fast. There was a week to go before February the twenty-fourth (there was still time)… there were five days to go (he was bound to find something soon)… three days to go (please let me find something… please)… With two days left. Harry started to go off food again. The only good thing about breakfast on Monday was the return of the brown owl he had sent to Sirius. He pulled off the parchment, unrolled it, and saw the shortest letter Sirius had ever written to him.  
 
Send date of next Hogsmeade weekend by return owl. 
 
Harry turned the parchment over and looked at the back, hoping to see something else, but it was blank. 
 
“Weekend after next,” whispered Hermione, who had read the note over Harrys shoulder. “Here - take my quill and send this owl back straight away.”  
 
Harry scribbled the dates down on the back of Sirius’s letter, tied it onto the brown owl’s leg, and watched it take flight again. What had he expected? Advice on how to survive underwater? He had been so intent on telling Sirius all about Snape and Moody he had completely forgotten to mention the eggs clue. 
 
“What’s he want to know about the next Hogsmeade weekend for?” said Ron.  
 
“Dunno,” said Harry dully. The momentary happiness that had flared inside him at the sight of the owl had died. “Come on… Care of Magical Creatures.” 
 
Whether Hagrid was trying to make up for the Blast-Ended Skrewts, or because there were now only two skrewts left, or because he was trying to prove he could do anything that Professor Grubbly-Plank could. Harry didnt know, but Hagrid had been continuing her lessons on unicorns ever since he’d returned to work. It turned out that Hagrid knew quite as much about unicorns as he did about monsters, though it was clear that he found their lack of poisonous fangs disappointing. 
Today he had managed to capture two unicorn foals. Unlike full-grown unicorns, they were pure gold. Parvati and Lavender went into transports of delight at the sight of them, and even Pansy Parkinson had to work hard to conceal how much she liked them. 
 
“Easier ter spot than the adults,” Hagrid told the class. “They turn silver when they’re abou’ two years old, an’ they grow horns at aroun four. Don’ go pure white till they’re full grown, ‘round about seven. They’re a bit more trustin when they’re babies… don mind boys so much… C’mon, move in a bit, yeh can pat ‘em if yeh want… give ‘em a few o’ these sugar lumps…  
 
“You okay Harry?” Hagrid muttered, moving aside slightly, while most of the others swarmed around the baby unicorns. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry.  
 
“Jus’ nervous, eh?” said Hagrid. 
 
“Bit,” said Harry. 
 
“Harry,” said Hagrid, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder, so that Harry’s knees buckled under its weight, “I’d’ve bin worried before I saw yeh take on tha Horntail, but I know now yeh can do anythin’ yeh set yer mind ter. I’m not worried at all. Yeh’re goin ter be fine. Got yer clue worked out, haven’ yeh?” 
 
Harry nodded, but even as he did so, an insane urge to confess that he didn’t have any idea how to survive at the bottom of the lake for an hour came over him. He looked up at Hagrid - perhaps he had to go into the lake sometimes, to deal with the creatures in it? He looked after everything else on the grounds, after all- 
 
“Yeh’re goin’ ter win,” Hagrid growled, patting Harrys shoulder again, so that Harry actually felt himself sink a couple of inches into the soft ground. “I know it. I can feel it. Yeh’re goin’ ter win, Harry” 
 
Harry just couldn’t bring himself to wipe the happy, confident smile off Hagrid’s face. Pretending he was interested in the young unicorns, he forced a smile in return, and moved forward to pat them with the others. 
 
By the evening before the second task Harry felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare. He was fully aware that even if, by some miracle, he managed to find a suitable spell, he’d have a real job mastering it overnight. How could he have let this happen? Why hadn’t he got to work on the egg’s clue sooner? Why had he ever let his mind wander in class - what if a teacher had once mentioned how to breathe underwater? 
 
He sat with Hermione and Ron in the library as the sun set outside, tearing feverishly through page after page of spells, hidden from one another by the massive piles of books on the desk in front of each of them. Harry s heart gave a huge leap every time he saw the word “water” on a page, but more often than not it was merely “Take two pints of water, half a pound of shredded mandrake leaves, and a newt…” 
 
“I don’t reckon it can be done,” said Rons voice flatly from the other side of the table. “There’s nothing. Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up puddles and ponds, that Drought Charm, but that was nowhere near powerful enough to drain the lake.” 
 
“There must be something,” Hermione muttered, moving a candle closer to her. Her eyes were so tired she was poring over the tiny print of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes with her nose about an inch from the page. “They’d never have set a task that was undoable.” 
 
“They have,” said Ron. “Harry, just go down to the lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the merpeople to give back whatever they’ve nicked, and see if they chuck it out. Best you can do, mate.” 
 
“There’s a way of doing it!” Hermione said crossly. “There just has to be!”  
 
She seemed to be taking the library’s lack of useful information on the subject as a personal insult; it had never failed her before. 
 
“I know what I should have done,” said Harry, resting, face-down, on Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts. “I should’ve learned to be an Animagus like Sirius.”  
 
An Animagus was a wizard who could transform into an animal. 
 
“Yeah, you could’ve turned into a goldfish any time you wanted!” said Ron. 
 
“Or a frog,” yawned Harry. He was exhausted.  
 
“It takes years to become an Animagus, and then you have to register yourself and everything,” said Hermione vaguely, now squinting down the index of Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their 
Solutions. “Professor McGonagall told us, remember… you’ve got to register yourself with the Improper Use of Magic Office… what animal you become, and your markings, so you can’t abuse it…” 
 
“Hermione, I was joking,” said Harry wearily. “I know I haven’t got a chance of turning into a frog by tomorrow morning…” 
 
“Oh this is no use,” Hermione said, snapping shut Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. “Who on earth wants to make their nose hair grow into ringlets?” 
 
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Fred Weasleys voice. “Be a talking point, wouldn’t it?”  
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up. Fred and George had just emerged from behind some bookshelves. 
 
“What’re you two doing here?” Ron asked. 
 
“Looking for you,” said George. “McGonagall wants you, Ron. And you, Hermione.” 
 
“Why?” said Hermione, looking surprised. 
 
“Dunno… she was looking a bit grim, though,” said Fred. 
 
“We’re supposed to take you down to her office,” said George. 
 
Ron and Hermione stared at Harry, who felt his stomach drop. Was Professor McGonagall about to tell Ron and Hermione off? Perhaps she’d noticed how much they were helping him, when he ought to be working out how to do the task alone? 
 
“We’ll meet you back in the common room,” Hermione told Harry as she got up to go with Ron - both of them looked very anxious. “Bring as many of these books as you can, okay?” 
 
“Right,” said Harry uneasily. 
 
By eight o’clock Madam Pince had extinguished all the lamps and came to chivvy Harry out of the library. Staggering under the weight of as many books as he could carry, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room, pulled a table into a corner, and continued to search. There was nothing in Madcap Magic for Wacky Warlocks… nothing in A Guide to Medieval Sorcery… not one mention of underwater exploits in An Anthology of Eighteenth-Century Charms, or in 
Dreadful Denizens of the Deep, or Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now Youve Wised Up. 
 
Crookshanks crawled into Harrys lap and curled up, purring deeply. The common room emptied slowly around Harry. People kept wishing him luck for the next morning in cheery, confident voices like Hagrid s, all of them apparently convinced that he was about to pull off another stunning performance like the one he had managed in the first task. Harry couldn’t answer them, he just nodded, feeling as though there were a golfball stuck in his throat. By ten to midnight, he 
was alone in the room with Crookshanks. He had searched all the remaining books, and Ron and Hermione had not come back. 
 
It’s over, he told himself. You can’t do it. You’ll just have to go down to the lake in the morning and tell the judges…  
 
He imagined himself explaining that he couldn’t do the task. He pictured Bagman’s look of round-eyed surprise, Karkaroffs satisfied, yellow-toothed smile. He could almost hear Fleur Delacour saying “I knew it… ‘e is too young, ‘e is only a little boy.” He saw Malfoy flashing his POTTER STINKS badge at the front of the crowd, saw Hagrid s crestfallen, disbelieving face…  
Forgetting that Crookshanks was on his lap. Harry stood up very suddenly; Crookshanks hissed angrily as he landed on the floor, gave Harry a disgusted look, and stalked away with his bottlebrush tail in the air, but Harry was already hurrying up the spiral staircase to his dormitory… He would grab the Invisibility Cloak and go back to the library, he’d stay there all night if he had to…  
 
“Lumos,” Harry whispered fifteen minutes later as he opened the library door. 
 
Wand tip alight, he crept along the bookshelves, pulling down more books – books of hexes and charms, books on merpeople and water monsters, books on famous witches and wizards, on magical inventions, on anything at all that might include one passing reference to underwater survival. He carried them over to a table, then set to work, searching them by the narrow beam of his wand, occasionally checking his watch…  
 
One in the morning… two in the morning… the only way he could keep going was to tell himself, over and over again, next book… in the next one… the next one…  
 
The mermaid in the painting in the prefects’ bathroom was laughing. Harry was bobbing like a cork in bubbly water next to her rock, while she held his Firebolt over his head. 
 
“Come and get it!” she giggled maliciously. “Come on, jump!” 
 
“I can’t,” Harry panted, snatching at the Firebolt, and struggling not to sink. “Give it to me!” 
 
But she just poked him painfully in the side with the end of the broomstick, laughing at him. 
 
“That hurts - get off- ouch -” 
 
“Harry Potter must wake up, sir!” 
 
“Stop poking me -” 
 
“Dobby must poke Harry Potter, sir, he must wake up!” 
 
Harry opened his eyes. He was still in the library; the Invisibility Cloak had slipped off his head as he’d slept, and the side of his face was stuck to the pages of Where There’s a Wand, There’s a Way. He sat up, straightening his glasses, blinking in the bright daylight. 
 
“Harry Potter needs to hurry!” squeaked Dobby. “The second task starts in ten minutes, and Harry Potter -” 
 
“Ten minutes?” Harry croaked. “Ten - ten minutes?” 
 
He looked down at his watch. Dobby was right. It was twenty past nine. A large, dead weight seemed to fall through Harry’s chest into his stomach. 
 
“Hurry, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, plucking at Harry’s sleeve. “You is supposed to be down by the lake with the other champions, sir!” 
 
“It’s too late, Dobby,” Harry said hopelessly. “I’m not doing the task, I don’t know how-” 
 
“Harry Potter will do the task!” squeaked the elf. “Dobby knew Harry had not found the right book, so Dobby did it for him!” 
 
“What?” said Harry. “But you don’t know what the second task is -” 
 
“Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Wheezy -”  
 
“Find my what?” 
 
“- and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!” 
 
“What’s a Wheezy?” 
 
“Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy-Wheezy who is giving Dobby his sweater!” Dobby plucked at the shrunken maroon sweater he was now wearing over his shorts. 
 
“What?” Harry gasped. “They’ve got… they’ve got Ron?” 
 
“The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!” squeaked Dobby. “‘But past an hour- ‘“ 
 
“- ‘the prospect’s black,’” Harry recited, staring, horror-struck, at the elf. “‘Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.’ Dobby - what’ve I got to do?” 
 
“You has to eat this, sir!” squeaked the elf, and he put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a ball of what looked like slimy, grayish-green rat tails. “Right before you go into the lake, sir - gillyweed!” 
 
“What’s it do?” said Harry, staring at the gillyweed.  
 
“It will make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!” 
 
“Dobby,” said Harry frantically, “listen - are you sure about this?” 
 
He couldn’t quite forget that the last time Dobby had tried to “help” him, he had ended up with no bones in his right arm. 
 
“Dobby is quite sure, sir!” said the elf earnestly. “Dobby hears things, sir, he is a house-elf, he goes all over the castle as he lights the fires and mops the floors. Dobby heard Professor McGonagall and Professor Moody in the staffroom, talking about the next task… Dobby cannot let Harry Potter lose his Wheezy!” 
 
Harrys doubts vanished. Jumping to his feet he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into his bag, grabbed the gillyweed, and put it into his pocket, then tore out of the library with Dobby at his heels. 
“Dobby is supposed to be in the kitchens, sir!” Dobby squealed as they burst into the corridor. “Dobby will be missed - good luck, Harry Potter, sir, good luck!” 
 
“See you later, Dobby!” Harry shouted, and he sprinted along the corridor and down the stairs, three at a time. 
 
The entrance hall contained a few last-minute stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast and heading through the double oak doors to watch the second task. 
 
They stared as Harry flashed past, sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as he leapt down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly grounds. 
 
As he pounded down the lawn he saw that the seats that had encircled the dragons’ enclosure in November were now ranged along the opposite bank, rising in stands that were packed to the bursting point and reflected in the lake below. The excited babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water as Harry ran flat-out around the other side of the lake toward the judges, who were sitting at another golddraped table at the water’s edge. Cedric, Fleur, and Krum were beside the judges’ table, watching Harry sprint toward them. 
 
“I’m… here…” Harry panted, skidding to a halt in the mud and accidentally splattering Fleurs robes. 
 
“Where have you been?” said a bossy, disapproving voice. “The task’s about to start!” 
 
Harry looked around. Percy Weasley was sitting at the judges’ table - Mr. Crouch had failed to turn up again. 
 
“Now, now, Percy!” said Ludo Bagman, who was looking intensely relieved to see Harry. “Let him catch his breath!” 
 
Dumbledore smiled at Harry, but Karkaroff and Madame Maxime didn’t look at all pleased to see him… It was obvious from the looks on their faces that they had thought he wasn’t going to turn up. 
 
Harry bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath; he had a stitch in his side that felt as though he had a knife between his ribs, but there was no time to get rid of it; Ludo Bagman was now moving among the champions, spacing them along the bank at intervals of ten feet. Harry was on the very end of the line, next to Krum, who was wearing swimming trunks and was holding his wand ready. 
 
“All right. Harry?” Bagman whispered as he moved Harry a few feet farther away from Krum. “Know what you’re going to do?” 
 
“Yeah,” Harry panted, massaging his ribs. 
 
Bagman gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze and returned to the judges’ table; he pointed his wand at his throat as he had done at the World Cup, said, “Sonorus!” and his voice boomed out across the dark water toward the stands. 
 
“Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One… two… three!” 
 
The whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air; the stands erupted with cheers and applause; without looking to see what the other champions were doing, Harry pulled off his shoes and socks, pulled the handful of gillyweed out of his pocket, stuffed it into his mouth, and waded out into the lake. 
 
It was so cold he felt the skin on his legs searing as though this were fire, not icy water. His sodden robes weighed him down as he walked in deeper; now the water was over his knees, and his rapidly numbing feet were slipping over silt and flat, slimy stones. He was chewing the gillyweed as hard and fast as he could; it felt unpleasantly slimy and rubbery, like octopus tentacles. Waist-deep in the freezing water he stopped, swallowed, and waited for something to happen. 
 
He could hear laughter in the crowd and knew he must look stupid, walking into the lake without showing any sign of magical power. The part of him that was still dry was covered in goose pimples; half immersed in the icy water, a cruel breeze lifting his hair, Harry started to shiver violently. He avoided looking at the stands; the laughter was becoming louder, and there were catcalls and jeering from the Slytherins…  
 
Then, quite suddenly, Harry felt as though an invisible pillow had been pressed over his mouth and nose. He tried to draw breath, but it made his head spin; his lungs were empty, and he suddenly felt a piercing pain on either side of his neck - Harry clapped his hands around his throat and felt two large slits just below his ears, flapping in the cold air… He had gills. Without pausing to think, he did the only thing that made sense - he flung himself forward into the water. 
 The first gulp of icy lake water felt like the breath of life. His head had stopped spinning; he took another great gulp of water and felt it pass smoothly through his gills, sending oxygen back to his brain. He stretched out his hands in front of him and stared at them. They looked green and ghostly under the water, and they had become webbed. He twisted around and looked at his bare feet - they had become elongated and the toes were webbed too: 
 
It looked as though he had sprouted flippers. 
 
The water didn’t feel icy anymore either… on the contrary, he felt pleasantly cool and very light… Harry struck out once more, marveling at how far and fast his flipper-like feet propelled him through the vater, and noticing how clearly he could see, and how he no longer seemed to need to blink. He had soon swum so far into the lake that he could no longer see the bottom. He flipped over and dived into its depths. 
 
Silence pressed upon his ears as he soared over a strange, dark, foggy landscape. He could only see ten feet around him, so that as he sped throuugh the water new scenes seemed to loom suddenly out of the incoming darkness: forests of rippling, tangled black weed, wide plains of mud littered with dull, glimmering stones. He swam deeper and deeper, out toward the middle of the lake, his eyes wide, staring through the eerily gray-lit water around him to the shadow beyond, where the water became opaque. 
 
Small fish flickered past him like silver darts. Once or twice he thought he saw something larger moving ahead of him, but when he got nearer, he discovered it to be nothing but a large, blackened log, or a dense clump of weed. There was no sign of any of the other champions, merpeople, Ron - nor, thankfully, the giant squid. 
 
Light green weed stretched ahead of him as far as he could see, two feet deep, like a meadow of very overgrown grass. Harry was staring unblinkingly ahead of him, trying to discern shapes through the gloom… and then, without warning, something grabbed hold of his ankle. 
 
Harry twisted his body around and saw a grindylow, a small, horned water demon, poking out of the weed, its long fingers clutched tightly around Harry’s leg, its pointed fangs bared - Harry stuck his webbed hand quickly inside his robes and fumbled for his wand. By the time he had grasped it, two more grindylows had risen out of the weed, had seized handfuls of Harry’s robes, and were attempting to drag him down. 
 
“Relashio!” Harry shouted, except that no sound came out… A large bubble issued from his mouth, and his wand, instead of sending sparks at the grindylows, pelted them with what seemed to be a jet of boiling water, for where it struck them, angry red patches appeared on their green skin. Harry pulled his ankle out of the grindylows grip and swam, as fast as he could, occasionally sending more jets of hot water over his shoulder at random; every now and then he felt one of the grindylows snatch at his foot again, and he kicked out, hard; finally, he felt his 
foot connect with a horned skull, and looking back, saw the dazed grindylow floating away, cross-eyed, while its fellows shook their fists at Harry and sank back into the weed. 
 
Harry slowed down a little, slipped his wand back inside his robes, and looked around, listening again. He turned full circle in the water, the silence pressing harder than ever against his eardrums. He knew he must be even deeper in the lake now, but nothing was moving but the rippling weed.  
 
“How are you getting on?” 
 
Harry thought he was having a heart attack. He whipped around and saw Moaning Myrtle floating hazily in front of him, gazing at him through her thick, pearly glasses. 
 
“Myrtle!” Harry tried to shout - but once again, nothing came out of his mouth but a very large bubble. Moaning Myrtle actually giggled. 
 
“You want to try over there!” she said, pointing. “I won’t come with you… I don’t like them much, they always chase me when I get too close…” 
Harry gave her the thumbs-up to show his thanks and set off once more, careful to swim a bit higher over the weed to avoid any more grindylows that might be lurking there. 
 
He swam on for what felt like at least twenty minutes. He was passing over vast expanses of black mud now, which swirled murkily as he disturbed the water. Then, at long last, he heard a snatch of haunting mersong.  
 
“An hour long you’ll have to look, 
 
And to recover what we took…” 
 
Harry swam faster and soon saw a large rock emerge out of the muddy water ahead. It had paintings of merpeople on it; they were carrying spears and chasing what looked like the giant squid. Harry swam on past the rock, following the mersong. 
 
“… your time’s half gone, so tarry not 
 
Lest what you seek stays here to rot…” 
 
A cluster of crude stone dwellings stained with algae loomed suddenly out of the gloom on all sides. Here and there at the dark windows, Harry saw faces… faces that bore no resemblance at all to the painting of the mermaid in the prefects’ bathroom…  
 
The merpeople had grayish skin and long, wild, dark green hair. Their eyes were yellow, as were their broken teeth, and they wore thick ropes of pebbles around their necks. They leered at Harry as he swam past; one or two of them emerged from their caves to watch him better, their powerful, silver fish tails beating the water, spears clutched in their hands. 
 Harry sped on, staring around, and soon the dwellings became more numerous; there were gardens of weed around some of them, and he even saw a pet grindylow tied to a stake outside one door. Merpeople were emerging on all sides now, watching him eagerly, pointing at his webbed hands and gills, talking behind their hands to one another. Harry sped around a corner and a very strange sight met his eyes. 
 
A whole crowd of merpeople was floating in front of the houses that lined what looked like a mer-version of a village square. A choir of merpeople was singing in the middle, calling the champions toward them, and behind them rose a crude sort of statue; a gigantic merperson hewn from a boulder. Four people were bound tightly to the tail of the stone merperson. 
 
Ron was tied between Hermione and Cho Chang. There was also a girl who looked no older than eight, whose clouds of silvery hair made Harry feel sure that she was Fleur Delacour’s sister. All four of them appeared to be in a very deep sleep. Their heads were lolling onto their shoulders, and fine streams of bubbles kept issuing from their mouths. 
 
Harry sped toward the hostages, half expecting the merpeople to lower their spears and charge at him, but they did nothing. The ropes of weed tying the hostages to the statue were thick, slimy, and very strong. For a fleeting second he thought of the knife Sirius had bought him for  Christmas - locked in his trunk in the castle a quarter of a mile away, no use to him whatsoever. 
He looked around. Many of the merpeople surrounding them were carrying spears. He swam swiftly toward a seven-foot-tall merman with a long green beard and a choker of shark fangs and tried to mime a request to borrow the spear. The merman laughed and shook his head. 
 
“We do not help,” he said in a harsh, croaky voice. 
 
“Come ON!” Harry said fiercely (but only bubbles issued from his mouth), and he tried to pull the spear away from the merman, but the merman yanked it back, still shaking his head and laughing. 
 
Harry swirled around, staring about. Something sharp… anything…  
 
There were rocks littering the lake bottom. He dived and snatched up a particularly jagged one and returned to the statue. He began to hack at the ropes binding Ron, and after several minutes’ hard work, they broke apart. Ron floated, unconscious, a few inches above the lake bottom, drifting a little in the ebb of the water. 
 
Harry looked around. There was no sign of any of the other champions. What were they playing at? Why didn’t they hurry up? He turned back to Hermione, raised the jagged rock, and began to hack at her bindings too – 
 
At once, several pairs of strong gray hands seized him. Half a dozen mermen were pulling him away from Hermione, shaking their green-haired heads, and laughing. 
 
“You take your own hostage,” one of them said to him. “Leave the others…” 
 
“No way!” said Harry furiously - but only two large bubbles came out. 
 
“Your task is to retrieve your own friend… leave the others…”  
 
“She’s my friend too!” Harry yelled, gesturing toward Hermione, an enormous silver bubble 
emerging soundlessly from his lips. “And I don’t want them to die either!”  
 
Cho’s head was on Hermiones shoulder; the small silver-haired girl was ghostly green and pale. Harry struggled to fight off the mermen, but they laughed harder than ever, holding him back. Harry looked wildly around. Where were the other champions? Would he have time to take Ron to the surface and come back down for Hermione and the others? Would he be able to find them again? He looked down at his watch to see how much time was left - it had stopped working. 
 
But then the merpeople around him pointed excitedly over his head. Harry looked up and saw Cedric swimming toward them. There was an enormous bubble around his head, which made his features look oddly wide and stretched.   
“Got lost!” he mouthed, looking panic-stricken. “Fleur and Krum’re coming now!” 
Feeling enormously relieved, Harry watched Cedric pull a knife out of his pocket and cut Cho free. He pulled her upward and out of sight. 
 
Harry looked around, waiting. Where were Fleur and Krum? Time was getting short, and according to the song, the hostages would be lost after an hour…  
 
The merpeople started screeching animatedly. Those holding Harry loosened their grip, staring behind them. Harry turned and saw something monstrous cutting through the water toward them: a human body in swimming trunks with the head of a shark… It was Krum. He appeared to have transfigured himself- but badly. 
 
The shark-man swam straight to Hermione and began snapping and biting at her ropes; the trouble was that Krum’s new teeth were positioned very awkwardly for biting anything smaller than a dolphin, and Harry was quite sure that if Krum wasn’t careful, he was going to rip Hermione in half. Darting forward Harry hit Krum hard on the shoulder and held up the jagged stone. Krum seized it and began to cut Hermione free. Within seconds, he had done it; he grabbed Hermione around the waist, and without a backward glance, began to rise rapidly with her toward the surface. 
 
Now what? Harry thought desperately. If he could be sure that Fleur was coming… But still no sign. There was nothing to be done except…  
 
He snatched up the stone, which Krum had dropped, but the mermen now closed in around Ron and the little girl, shaking their heads at him. Harry pulled out his wand. 
 
“Get out of the way!” 
 
Only bubbles flew out of his mouth, but he had the distinct impression that the mermen had understood him, because they suddenly stopped laughing. Their yellowish eyes were fixed upon Harry’s wand, and they looked scared. There might be a lot more of them than there were of him, but Harry could tell, by the looks on their faces, that they knew no more magic than the giant squid did. 
 
“You’ve got until three!” Harry shouted; a great stream of bubbles burst from him, but he held up three fingers to make sure they got the message. “One…” (he put down a finger) “two…” (he put down a second one) - They scattered. Harry darted forward and began to hack at the ropes binding the small girl to the statue, and at last she was free. He seized the little girl around the waist, grabbed the neck of Rons robes, and kicked off from the bottom. 
 
It was very slow work. He could no longer use his webbed hands to propel himself forward; he worked his flippers furiously, but Ron and Fleur’s sister were like potato-filled sacks dragging him back down… He fixed his eyes skyward, though he knew he must still be very deep, the water above him was so dark…  
 
Merpeople were rising with him. He could see them swirling around him with ease, watching him struggle through the water… Would they pull him back down to the depths when the time was up? Did they perhaps eat humans? Harry’s legs were seizing up with the effort to keep swimming; his shoulders were aching horribly with the effort of dragging Ron and the girl…  
 
He was drawing breath with extreme difficulty. He could feel pain on the sides of his neck again… he was becoming very aware of how wet the water was in his mouth… yet the darkness was definitely thinning now… he could see daylight above him…  
 
He kicked hard with his flippers and discovered that they were nothing more than feet… water was flooding through his mouth into his lungs… he was starting to feel dizzy, but he knew light and air were only ten feet above him… he had to get there… he had to…  
 
Harry kicked his legs so hard and fast it felt as though his muscles were screaming in protest; his very brain felt waterlogged, he couldn’t breathe, he needed oxygen, he had to keep going, he could not stop – 
 
And then he felt his head break the surface of the lake; wonderful, cold, clear air was making his wet face sting; he gulped it down, feeling as though he had never breathed properly before, and, panting, pulled Ron and the little girl up with him. All around him, wild, green-haired heads were emerging out of the water with him, but they were smiling at him. 
 
The crowd in the stands was making a great deal of noise; shouting and screaming, they all seemed to be on their feet; Harry had the impression they thought that Ron and the little girl might be dead, but they were wrong… both of them had opened their eyes; the girl looked scared and confused, but Ron merely expelled a great spout of water, blinked in the bright light, turned to Harry, and said, “Wet, this, isn’t it?” Then he spotted Fleur’s sister. “What did you bring her for?” 
 
“Fleur didn’t turn up, I couldn’t leave her,” Harry panted. 
 
“Harry, you prat,” said Ron, “you didn’t take that song thing seriously, did you? Dumbledore wouldn’t have let any of us drown!” 
 
“The song said -” 
 
“It was only to make sure you got back inside the time limit!” said Ron. “I hope you didn’t waste time down there acting the hero!” 
 
Harry felt both stupid and annoyed. It was all very well for Ron; he’d been asleep, he hadn’t felt how eerie it was down in the lake, surrounded by spear-carrying merpeople who’d looked more than capable of murder. 
 
“C’mon,” Harry said shortly, “help me with her, I don’t think she can swim very well.” 
 
They pulled Fleur’s sister through the water, back toward the bank where the judges stood watching, twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of honor, singing their horrible screechy songs. 
Harry could see Madam Pomfrey fussing over Hermione, Krum, Cedric, and Cho, all of whom were wrapped in thick blankets. 
 
Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman stood beaming at Harry and Ron from the bank as they swam nearer, but Percy, who looked very white and somehow much younger than usual, came splashing out to meet them. Meanwhile Madame Maxime was trying to restrain Fleur Delacour, who was quite hysterical, fighting tooth and nail to return to the water. 
 
“Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she ‘urt?” 
 
“She’s fine!” Harry tried to tell her, but he was so exhausted he could hardly talk, let alone shout. 
 
Percy seized Ron and was dragging him back to the bank (“Gerroff, Percy, I’m all right!”); Dumbledore and Bagman were pulling Harry upright; Fleur had broken free of Madame Maxime and was hugging her sister. 
 
“It was ze grindylows… zey attacked me… oh Gabrielle, I thought… I thought…” 
 
“Come here, you,” said Madam Pomfrey. She seized Harry and pulled him over to Hermione and the others, wrapped him so tightly in a blanket that he felt as though he were in a straitjacket, and forced a measure of very hot potion down his throat. 
 
Steam gushed out of his ears. 
 
“Harry, well done!” Hermione cried. “You did it, you found out how all by yourself!” 
 
“Well -” said Harry. He would have told her about Dobby, but he had just noticed Karkaroff watching him. He was the only judge who had not left the table; the only judge not showing signs of pleasure and relief that Harry, Ron, and Fleur’s sister had got back safely. “Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry, raising his voice slightly so that Karkaroff could hear him. 
 
“You haff a water beetle in your hair, Herm-own-ninny,” said Krum. Harry had the impression that Krum was drawing her attention back onto himself; perhaps to remind her that he had just rescued her from the lake, but Hermione brushed away the beetle impatiently and said, “You’re well outside the time limit, though, Harry… Did it take you ages to find us?” 
 
“No… I found you okay…” 
 
Harry’s feeling of stupidity was growing. Now he was out of the water, it seemed perfectly clear that Dumbledores safety precautions wouldn’t have permitted the death of a hostage just because their champion hadn’t turned up. Why hadn’t he just grabbed Ron and gone? He would have been first back… Cedric and Krum hadn’t wasted time worrying about anyone else; they hadn’t taken the mersong seriously…  
 
Dumbledore was crouching at the water’s edge, deep in conversation with what seemed to be the chief merperson, a particularly wild and ferocious-looking female. He was making the same sort of screechy noises that the merpeople made when they were above water; clearly, Dumbledore could speak Mermish. Finally he straightened up, turned to his fellow judges, and said, “A conference before we give the marks, I think.” 
 
The judges went into a huddle. Madam Pomfrey had gone to rescue Ron from Percy’s clutches; she led him over to Harry and the others, gave him a blanket and some Pepperup Potion, then went to fetch Fleur and her sister. Fleur had many cuts on her face and arms and her robes were torn, but she didn’t seem to care, nor would she allow Madam Pomfrey to clean them. 
 
“Look after Gabrielle,” she told her, and then she turned to Harry. “You saved ‘er,” she said breathlessly. “Even though she was not your ‘ostage.” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, who was now heartily wishing he’d left all three girls tied to the statue. 
 
Fleur bent down, kissed Harry twice on each cheek (he felt his face burn and wouldn’t have been surprised if steam was coming out of his ears again), then said to Ron, “And you too-you ‘elped” 
 
“Yeah,” said Ron, looking extremely hopeful, “yeah, a bit -” 
 
Fleur swooped down on him too and kissed him. Hermione looked simply furious, but just then, Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice boomed out beside them, making them all jump, and causing the crowd in the stands to go very quiet. 
  
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows…  
 
“Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points.” 
 
Applause from the stands. 
 
“I deserved zero,” said Fleur throatily, shaking her magnificent head.  
 
“Cedric Diggory, who also used the Bubble-Head Charm, was first to return with his hostage, though he returned one minute outside the time limit of an hour.” 
 
Enormous cheers from the Hufflepuffs in the crowd; Harry saw Cho give Cedric a glowing look.  
 
“We therefore award him forty-seven points.” 
 
Harrys heart sank. If Cedric had been outside the time limit, he most certainly had been. 
 
“Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and was second to return with his hostage. We award him forty points.” 
Karkaroff clapped particularly hard, looking very superior.  
 
“Harry Potter used gillyweed to great effect,” Bagman continued. “He returned last, and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety, not merely his own.” 
 
Ron and Hermione both gave Harry half-exasperated, half-commiserating looks.  
 
“Most of the judges,” and here, Bagman gave Karkaroff a very nasty look, “feel that this shows moral fiber and merits full marks. However… Mr. Potter’s score is forty-five points.” 
 
Harry’s stomach leapt - he was now tied for first place with Cedric. Ron and Hermione, caught by surprise, stared at Harry, then laughed and started applauding hard with the rest of the crowd. 
 
“There you go. Harry!” Ron shouted over the noise. “You weren’t being thick after all - you were showing moral fiber!” 
 
Fleur was clapping very hard too, but Krum didn’t look happy at all. He attempted to engage Hermione in conversation again, but she was too busy cheering Harry to listen. 
 
“The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June,” continued Bagman. “The champions will be notified of what is coming precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions.” 
 
It was over. Harry thought dazedly, as Madam Pomfrey began herding the champions and hostages back to the castle to get into dry clothes… it was over, he had got through… he didn’t  have to worry about anything now until June the twenty-fourth…  
 
Next time he was in Hogsmeade, Harry decided as he walked back up the stone steps into the castle, he was going to buy Dobby a pair of socks for every day of the year. 
 
One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task was that everybody was very keen to hear details of what had happened down in the lake, which meant that Ron was getting to share Harry’s limelight for once. Harry noticed that Ron’s version of events changed subtly with every retelling. At first, he gave what seemed to be the truth; it tallied with Hermione’s story, anyway - Dumbledore had put all the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor McGonagall’s office, first assuring them that they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water. One week later, however, Ron was telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to beat him into submission before tying him up. 
 
“But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve,” he assured Padma Patil, who seemed to be a lot keener on Ron now that he was getting so much attention and was making a point of talking to him every time they passed in the corridors. “I could’ve taken those mer-idiots any time I wanted.” 
 
“What were you going to do, snore at them?” said Hermione waspishly. People had been teasing her so much about being the thing that Viktor Krum would most miss that she was in a rather tetchy mood. 
 
Ron’s ears went red, and thereafter, he reverted to the bewitched sleep version of events. 
 
As they entered March the weather became drier, but cruel winds skinned their hands and faces every time they went out onto the grounds. There were delays in the post because the owls kept being blown off course. The brown owl that Harry had sent to Sirius with the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend turned up at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers sticking up the wrong way; Harry had no sooner torn off Sirius’s reply than it took flight, clearly afraid it was going to be sent outside again. 
 
Sirius’s letter was almost as short as the previous one. 
 
Be at stile at end of road out of Hogsmeade (past Dervish and Banges) at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. Bring as much food as you can. 
 
“He hasn’t come back to Hogsmeade?” said Ron incredulously. 
 
“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” said Hermione. 
 
“I can’t believe him,” said Harry tensely, “if he’s caught…” 
 
“Made it so far, though, hasn’t he?” said Ron. “And it’s not like the place is swarming with dementors anymore.” 
Harry folded up the letter, thinking. If he was honest with himself, he really wanted to see Sirius again. He therefore approached the final lesson of the afternoon - double Potions - feeling considerably more cheerful than he usually did when descending the steps to the dungeons. 
 
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in a huddle outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson’s gang of Slytherin girls. All of them were looking at something Harry couldn’t see and sniggering heartily. Pansys pug-like face peered excitedly around Goyle’s broad back as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached. 
 
“There they are, there they are!” she giggled, and the knot of Slytherins broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy had a magazine in her hands - Witch Weekly. The moving picture on the front showed a curly-haired witch who was smiling toothily and pointing at a large sponge cake with her wand. 
 
“You might find something to interest you in there, Granger!” Pansy said loudly, and she threw the magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opened, and Snape beckoned them all inside. 
 
Hermione, Harry, and Ron headed for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape had turned his back on them to write up the ingredients of todays potion on the blackboard, Hermione hastily rifled through the magazine under the desk. At last, in the center pages, Hermione found what they were looking for. 
 
Harry and Ron leaned in closer. A color photograph of Harry headed a short piece entitled: 
 
Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache 
 
A boy like no other, perhaps - yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss. 
 
Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys’ affections. Krum, who is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays, and insists that he has “never felt this way about any other girl.” 
 
However, it might not be Miss Granger’s doubtful natural charms that have captured these unfortunate boys’ interest. 
 
“She’s really ugly,” says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, “but she’d be well up to making a Love Potion, she’s quite brainy. I think that’s how she’s doing it.” 
 
Love Potions are, of course, banned at Hogwarts, and no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart on a worthier candidate. 
 
“I told you!” Ron hissed at Hermione as she stared down at the article. “I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of- of scarlet woman!” 
  
Hermione stopped looking astonished and snorted with laughter. “Scarlet woman?” she repeated, shaking with suppressed giggles as she looked around at Ron. 
 
“It’s what my mum calls them,” Ron muttered, his ears going red. 
 
“If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,” said Hermione, still giggling, as she threw Witch Weekly onto the empty chair beside her. “What a pile of old rubbish.” 
 
She looked over at the Slytherins, who were all watching her and Harry closely across the room to see if they had been upset by the article. Hermione gave them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry, and Ron started unpacking the ingredients they would need for their Wit-Sharpening Potion. 
 
“There’s something funny, though,” said Hermione ten minutes later, holding her pestle suspended over a bowl of scarab beetles. “How could Rita Skeeter have known…?” 
 
“Known what?” said Ron quickly. “You haven’t been mixing up Love Potions, have you?” 
 
“Don’t be stupid,” Hermione snapped, starting to pound up her beetles again. “No, it’s just… how did she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?” 
 
Hermione blushed scarlet as she said this and determinedly avoided Ron’s eyes. 
 
“What?” said Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud clunk. 
 
“He asked me right after he’d pulled me out of the lake,” Hermione muttered. “After he’d got rid of his shark’s head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges so they wouldn’t hear, and he said, if I wasn’t doing anything over the summer, would I like to -” 
 
“And what did you say?” said Ron, who had picked up his pestle and was grinding it on the desk, a good six inches from his bowl, because he was looking at Hermione. 
 
“And he did say he’d never felt the same way about anyone else,” Hermione went on, going so red now that Harry could almost feel the heat coming from her, “but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him? She wasn’t there… or was she? Maybe she has got an Invisibility Cloak; maybe she sneaked onto the grounds to watch the second task…” 
 
“And what did you say?” Ron repeated, pounding his pestle down so hard that it dented the desk. 
“Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry were okay to-” 
 
“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is Miss Granger,” said an icy voice right behind them, and all three of them jumped, “I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.” 
 
Snape had glided over to their desk while they were talking. The whole class was now looking around at them; Malfoy took the opportunity to flash POTTER STINKS across the dungeon at Harry. 
 
“Ah… reading magazines under the table as well?” Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. “A further ten points from Gryffindor… oh but of course…” Snapes black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita Skeeter’s article. “Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings…” 
 
The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud.  
 
“‘Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache… dear, dear. Potter, what’s ailing you now? ‘A boy like no other, perhaps…’” 
 
Harry could feel his face burning. Snape was pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse when read by Snape. Even Hermione was blushing scarlet now.  
 
“‘… Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate.’ How very touching,” sneered Snape, rolling up the magazine to continued gales of laughter from the Slytherins. “Well, I think I had better separate the three of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than on your tangled love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, beside Miss Parkinson. Potter - that table in front of my desk. Move. Now.”  
 
Furious, Harry threw his ingredients and his bag into his cauldron and dragged it up to the front of the dungeon to the empty table. Snape followed, sat down at his desk and watched Harry unload his cauldron. Determined not to look at Snape, Harry resumed the mashing of his scarab beetles, imagining each one to have Snape’s face. 
 
“All this press attention seems to have inflated your already over-large head Potter,” said Snape quietly, once the rest of the class had settled down again. Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to provoke him; he had done this before. No doubt he was hoping for an excuse to take a round fifty points from Gryffindor before the end of the class. 
 
“You might be laboring under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,” Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him (Harry continued to pound his scarab beetles, even though he had already reduced them to a very fine powder), “but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him.” 
Harry tipped the powdered beetles into his cauldron and started cutting up his ginger roots. His hands were shaking slightly out of anger, but he kept his eyes down, as though he couldn’t hear what Snape was saying to him. 
 
“So I give you fair warning, Potter,” Snape continued in a sorter and more dangerous voice, “pint-sized celebrity or not - if I catch you breaking into my office one more time -” 
 
“I haven’t been anywhere near your office!” said Harry angrily, forgetting his feigned deafness. 
 
“Don’t lie to me,” Snape hissed, his fathomless black eyes boring into Harrys. “Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. Both come from my private stores, and I know who stole them.” 
 
Harry stared back at Snape, determined not to blink or to look guilty. In truth, he hadn’t stolen either of these things from Snape. Hermione had taken the boomslang skin back in their second year - they had needed it for the Polyjuice Potion - and while Snape had suspected Harry at the time, he had never been able to prove it. Dobby, of course, had stolen the gillyweed. 
 
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry lied coldly. 
 
“You were out of bed on the night my office was broken into!” Snape hissed. “I know it Potter! Now, Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but I will not tolerate your behavior! One more nighttime stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!” 
 
“Right,” said Harry coolly, turning back to his ginger roots. “I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go in there.” 
 
Snape’s eyes flashed. He plunged a hand into the inside of his black robes. For one wild moment. Harry thought Snape was about to pull out his wand and curse him - then he saw that Snape had drawn out a small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. Harry stared at it. 
 
“Do you know what this is Potter?” Snape said, his eyes glittering dangerously again. 
 
“No,” said Harry, with complete honesty this time. 
 
“It is Veritaserum - a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear,” said Snape viciously. “Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips” - he shook the crystal bottle slightly - “right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then Potter… then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.” 
 
Harry said nothing. He turned back to his ginger roots once more, picked up his knife, and started slicing them again. He didn’t like the sound of that Truth Potion at all, nor would he put it past Snape to slip him some. He repressed a shudder at the thought of what might come spilling out of his mouth if Snape did it… quite apart from landing a whole lot of people in trouble - Hermione and Dobby for a start - there were all the other things he was concealing… like the fact that he was in contact with Sirius… and - his insides squirmed at the thought - how he felt about Cho… He tipped his ginger roots into the cauldron too, and wondered whether he ought to take a leaf out of Moody s book and start drinking only from a private hip flask. 
 
There was a knock on the dungeon door. 
 
“Enter,” said Snape in his usual voice. 
 
The class looked around as the door opened. Professor Karkaroff came in. Everyone watched him as he walked up toward Snape’s desk. He was twisting his finger around his goatee and looking agitated. 
 
“We need to talk,” said Karkaroff abruptly when he had reached Snape. He seemed so determined that nobody should hear what he was saying that he was barely opening his lips; it was as though he were a rather poor ventriloquist. Harry kept his eyes on his ginger roots, listening hard. 
 
“I’ll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff,” Snape muttered, but Karkaroff interrupted him. 
 
“I want to talk now, while you can’t slip off, Severus. You’ve been avoiding me.”  
 
“After the lesson,” Snape snapped. 
 
Under the pretext of holding up a measuring cup to see if he’d poured out enough armadillo bile, Harry sneaked a sidelong glance at the pair of them. Karkaroff looked extremely worried, and Snape looked angry. 
 
Karkaroff hovered behind Snape’s desk for the rest of the double period. He seemed intent on preventing Snape from slipping away at the end of class. Keen to hear what Karkaroff wanted to say, Harry deliberately knocked over his bottle of armadillo bile with two minutes to go to the bell, which gave him an excuse to duck down behind his cauldron and mop up while the rest of the class moved noisily toward the door. 
 
“What’s so urgent?” he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff. 
 
“This,” said Karkaroff, and Harry, peering around the edge of his cauldron, saw Karkaroff pull up the left-hand sleeve of his robe and show Snape something on his inner forearm. 
 
“Well?” said Karkaroff, still making every effort not to move his lips. “Do you see? It’s never been this clear, never since -” 
 
“Put it away!” snarled Snape, his black eyes sweeping the classroom.  
 
“But you must have noticed -” Karkaroff began in an agitated voice. 
 
“We can talk later, Karkaroff!” spat Snape. “Potter! What are you doing?” 
 
“Clearing up my armadillo bile, Professor,” said Harry innocently, straightening up and showing Snape the sodden rag he was holding. 
 
Karkaroff turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon. He looked both worried and angry. Not wanting to remain alone with an exceptionally angry Snape, Harry threw his books and ingredients back into his bag and left at top speed to tell Ron and Hermione what he had just witnessed. 
 
They left the castle at noon the next day to find a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather was milder than it had been all year, and by the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all three of them had taken off their cloaks and thrown them over their shoulders. The food Sirius had told them to bring was in Harry’s bag; they had sneaked a dozen chicken legs, a loaf of bread, and a flask of pumpkin juice from the lunch table. 
 
They went into Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present for Dobby, where they had fun selecting the most lurid socks they could find, including a pair patterned with flashing gold and silver stars, and another that screamed loudly when they became too smelly. Then, at half past one, they made their way up the High Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out toward the edge of the village. 
 
Harry had never been in this direction before. The winding lane was leading them out into the wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were fewer here, and their gardens larger; they were walking toward the foot of the mountain in whose shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner and saw a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for them, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar…  
 
“Hello, Sirius,” said Harry when they had reached him. 
 
The black dog sniffed Harry’s bag eagerly, wagged its tail once, then turned and began to trot away from them across the scrubby patch of ground that rose to meet the rocky foot of the mountain. Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed over the stile and followed. 
 
Sirius led them to the very foot of the mountain, where the ground was covered with boulders and rocks. It was easy for him, with his four paws, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon out of breath. They followed Sirius higher, up onto the mountain itself. For nearly half an hour they climbed a steep, winding, and stony path, following Sirius’s wagging tail, sweating in the sun, the shoulder straps of Harry’s bag cutting into his shoulders. 
 
Then, at last, Sirius slipped out of sight, and when they reached the place where he had vanished, they saw a narrow fissure in the rock. They squeezed into it and found themselves in a cool, dimly lit cave. Tethered at the end of it, one end of his rope around a large rock, was Buckbeak the hippogriff. Half gray horse, half giant eagle, Buckbeak’s fierce orange eye flashed at the sight of them. All three of them bowed low to him, and after regarding them imperiously for a moment, Buckbeak bent his scaly front knees and allowed Hermione to rush forward and stroke his feathery neck. Harry, however, was looking at the black dog, which had just turned into his godfather. 
 
Sirius was wearing ragged gray robes; the same ones he had been wearing when he had left Azkaban. His black hair was longer than it had been when he had appeared in the fire, and it was untidy and matted once more. He looked very thin.  
 
“Chicken!” he said hoarsely after removing the old Daily Prophets from his mouth and throwing them down onto the cave floor. 
 
Harry pulled open his bag and handed over the bundle of chicken legs and bread.  
 
“Thanks,” said Sirius, opening it, grabbing a drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing off a large chunk with his teeth. “I’ve been living off rats mostly. Can’t steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I’d draw attention to myself.” He grinned up at Harry, but Harry returned the grin only reluctantly. 
 
“What’re you doing here, Sirius?” he said. 
 
“Fulfilling my duty as godfather,” said Sirius, gnawing on the chicken bone in a very doglike way. “Don’t worry about it, I’m pretending to be a lovable stray.” He was still grinning, but seeing the anxiety in Harrys face, said more seriously, “I want to be on the spot. Your last letter… well, let’s just say things are getting fishier. I’ve been stealing the paper every time someone throws one out, and by the looks of things, I’m not the only one who’s getting worried.” 
 
He nodded at the yellowing Daily Prophets on the cave floor, and Ron picked them up and unfolded them. Harry, however, continued to stare at Sirius. 
 
“What if they catch you? What if you’re seen?” 
 
“You three and Dumbledore are the only ones around here who know I’m an Animagus,” said Sirius, shrugging, and continuing to devour the chicken leg.  
 
Ron nudged Harry and passed him the Daily Prophets. There were two: The first bore the headline Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch, the second, Ministry Witch Still Missing-Minister of Magic Now Personally Involved. 
 
Harry scanned the story about Crouch. Phrases jumped out at him: hasn’t been seen in public since November… house appears deserted… St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline comment… Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of critical illness…  
 
“They’re making it sound like he’s dying,” said Harry slowly. “But he can’t be that ill if he managed to get up here…” 
 
“My brothers Crouch’s personal assistant,” Ron informed Sirius. “He says Crouch is suffering from overwork.” 
 
“Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up close,” said Harry slowly, still reading the story. “The night my name came out of the goblet…” 
 
“Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn’t he?” said Hermione, an edge to her voice. She was stroking Buckbeak, who was crunching up Sirius’s chicken bones. “I bet he wishes he hadn’t done it now - bet he feels the difference now she’s not there to look after him.” 
 
“Hermione’s obsessed with house-elfs,” Ron muttered to Sirius, casting Hermione a dark look. Sirius, however, looked interested. 
 
“Crouch sacked his house-elf?” 
 
“Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup,” said Harry, and he launched into the story of the Dark Mark’s appearance, and Winky being found with Harrys wand clutched in her hand, and Mr. Crouch’s fury. When Harry had finished, Sirius was on his feet again and had started pacing up and down the cave. 
 
“Let me get this straight,” he said after a while, brandishing a fresh chicken leg. “You first saw the elf in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?” 
 
“Right,” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione together. 
 
“But Crouch didn’t turn up for the match?” 
 
“No,” said Harry. “I think he said he’d been too busy.”  
  
Sirius paced all around the cave in silence. Then he said, “Harry, did you check your pockets for your wand after you’d left the Top Box?” 
 
“Erm…” Harry thought hard. “No,” he said finally. “I didn’t need to use it before we got in the forest. And then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was in there were my Omnioculars.”  
He stared at Sirius. “Are you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand in the Top Box?” 
 
“It’s possible,” said Sirius. 
 
“Winky didn’t steal that wand!” Hermione insisted. 
 
“The elf wasn’t the only one in that box,” said Sirius, his brow furrowed as he continued to pace.  
 
“Who else was sitting behind you?” 
 
“Loads of people,” said Harry. “Some Bulgarian ministers… Cornelius Fudge… the Malfoys…” 
 
“The Malfoys!” said Ron suddenly, so loudly that his voice echoed all around the cave, and Buckbeak tossed his head nervously. “I bet it was Lucius Malfoy!” 
 
“Anyone else?” said Sirius. 
 
“No one,” said Harry. 
 
“Yes, there was, there was Ludo Bagman,” Hermione reminded him. 
 
“Oh yeah…” 
 
“I don’t know anything about Bagman except that he used to be Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps,” said Sirius, still pacing. “What’s he like?” 
 
“He’s okay,” said Harry. “He keeps offering to help me with the Triwizard Tournament.” 
 
“Does he, now?” said Sirius, frowning more deeply. “I wonder why he’d do that?” 
 
“Says he’s taken a liking to me,” said Harry. 
 
“Hmm,” said Sirius, looking thoughtful. 
 
“We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark appeared,” Hermione told Sirius.  
 
“Remember?” she said to Harry and Ron. 
 
“Yeah, but he didn’t stay in the forest, did he?” said Ron. “The moment we told him about the riot, he went off to the campsite.” 
 
“How d’you know?” Hermione shot back. “How d’you know where he Disapparated to?” 
 
“Come off it,” said Ron incredulously. “Are you saying you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?” 
 
“It’s more likely he did it than Winky,” said Hermione stubbornly. 
 
“Told you,” said Ron, looking meaningfully at Sirius, “told you she’s obsessed with house -” 
 
But Sirius held up a hand to silence Ron. 
 
“When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf had been discovered holding Harry’s wand, what did Crouch do?” 
 
“Went to look in the bushes,” said Harry, “but there wasn’t anyone else there.” 
 
“Of course,” Sirius muttered, pacing up and down, “of course, he’d want to pin it on anyone but his own elf… and then he sacked her?” 
 
“Yes,” said Hermione in a heated voice, “he sacked her, just because she hadn’t stayed in her tent and let herself get trampled -” 
 
“Hermione, will you give it a rest with the elf!” said Ron. 
 
Sirius shook his head and said, “She’s got the measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you want to know what a mans like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.” 
 
He ran a hand over his unshaven face, evidently thinking hard. 
 
“All these absences of Barty Crouch’s… he goes to the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn’t bother to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to that too… It’s not like Crouch. If he’s ever taken a day off work because of illness before this, I’ll eat Buckbeak.” 
 
“D’you know Crouch, then?” said Harry. 
 
Sirius’s face darkened. He suddenly looked as menacing as he had the night when Harry first met him, the night when Harry still believed Sirius to be a murderer. 
 
“Oh I know Crouch all right,” he said quietly. “He was the one who gave the order for me to be sent to Azkaban - without a trial.” 
 
“What?” said Ron and Hermione together. 
 
“You’re kidding!” said Harry. 
 
“No, I’m not,” said Sirius, taking another great bite of chicken. “Crouch used to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, didn’t you know?” 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione shook their heads.  
 
“He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic,” said Sirius. “He’s a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully magical - and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort supporter,” he said, reading the look on Harrys face. “No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against the Dark Side. But then a lot of people who were against the Dark Side… well, you wouldn’t understand… you’re too young…” 
 
“That’s what my dad said at the World Cup,” said Ron, with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Try us, why don’t you?” 
 
A grin flashed across Sirius’s thin face. 
“All right, I’ll try you…” He walked once up the cave, back again, and then said, “Imagine that Voldemort’s powerful now. You don’t know who his supporters are, you don’t know who’s working for him and who isn’t; you know he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You’re scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing… the  Ministry of Magic’s in disarray, they don’t know what to do, they’re trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere… panic… confusion… that’s how it used to be. 
 
“Well, times like that bring out the best in some people and the worst in others. Crouch’s principles might’ve been good in the beginning - I wouldn’t know. He rose quickly through the Ministry, and he started ordering very harsh measures against Voldemorts supporters. The Aurors were given new powers - powers to kill rather than capture, for instance. And I wasn’t the only one who was handed straight to the dementors without trial. Crouch fought violence with violence, and authorized the use of the Unforgivable Curses against suspects. I would say he became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark Side. He had his supporters, mind you - plenty of people thought he was going about things the right way, and there were a lot of witches and wizards clamoring for him to take over as Minister of Magic. When Voldemort disappeared, it looked like only a matter of time until Crouch got the top job. But then something rather unfortunate happened…” Sirius smiled grimly. “Crouch’s own son was caught with a group of Death Eaters who’d managed to talk their way out of Azkaban. Apparently they were trying to find Voldemort and return him to power.” 
 
“Crouch’s son was caught?” gasped Hermione. 
 
“Yep,” said Sirius, throwing his chicken bone to Buckbeak, flinging himself back down on the ground beside the loaf of bread, and tearing it in half. “Nasty little shock for old Barty, I’d imagine. Should have spent a bit more time at home with his family, shouldn’t he? Ought to have left the office early once in a while… gotten to know his own son.” 
 
He began to wolf down large pieces of bread. 
 
“Was his son a Death Eater?” said Harry. 
 
“No idea,” said Sirius, still stuffing down bread. “I was in Azkaban myself when he was brought in. This is mostly stuff I’ve found out since I got out. The boy was definitely caught in the company of people I’d bet my life were Death Eaters – but he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like the house-elf.” 
 
“Did Crouch try and get his son off?” Hermione whispered. 
 
Sirius let out a laugh that was much more like a bark. 
  
“Crouch let his son off? I thought you had the measure of him, Hermione! Anything that threatened to tarnish his reputation had to go; he had dedicated his whole life to becoming Minister of Magic. You saw him dismiss a devoted house-elf because she associated him with the Dark Mark again - doesn’t that tell you what he’s like? Crouch’s fatherly affection stretched just far enough to give his son a trial, and by all accounts, it wasn’t much more than an excuse for Crouch to show how much he hated the boy… then he sent him straight to Azkaban.” 
 
“He gave his own son to the dementors?” asked Harry quietly. 
 
“That’s right,” said Sirius, and he didn’t look remotely amused now. “I saw the dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars in my cell door. He can’t have been more than nineteen. They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though… they all went quiet in the end… except when they shrieked in their sleep…” 
 
For a moment, the deadened look in Sirius’s eyes became more pronounced than ever, as though shutters had closed behind them. 
 
“So he’s still in Azkaban?” Harry said. 
 
“No,” said Sirius dully. “No, he’s not in there anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in.” 
 
“He died?” 
 
“He wasn’t the only one,” said Sirius bitterly. “Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died herself, 
apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his sons body. The dementors buried him outside the fortress; I watched them do it.” 
 
Sirius threw aside the bread he had just lifted to his mouth and instead picked up the flask of pumpkin juice and drained it. 
 
“So old Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he had it made,” he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “One moment, a hero, poised to become Minister of Magic… next, his son dead, his wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I’ve heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity. Once the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly astray. 
The conclusion was that his father never cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top job, and Crouch was shunted sideways into the Department of International Magical Cooperation.” 
 
There was a long silence. Harry was thinking of the way Crouch’s eyes had bulged as he’d looked down at his disobedient house-elf back in the wood at the Quidditch World Cup. This, then, must have been why Crouch had overreacted to Winky being found beneath the Dark Mark. It had brought back memories of his son, and the old scandal, and his fall from grace at the Ministry. 
 
“Moody says Crouch is obsessed with catching Dark wizards,” Harry told Sirius.  
 
“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s become a bit of a mania with him,” said Sirius, nodding. “If you ask me, he still thinks he can bring back the old popularity by catching one more Death Eater.” 
 
“And he sneaked up here to search Snape’s office!” said Ron triumphantly, looking at Hermione. 
 
“Yes, and that doesn’t make sense at all,” said Sirius. 
 
“Yeah, it does!” said Ron excitedly, but Sirius shook his head. 
 
“Listen, if Crouch wants to investigate Snape, why hasn’t he been coming to judge the tournament? It would be an ideal excuse to make regular visits to Hogwarts and keep an eye on him.” 
 
“So you think Snape could be up to something, then?” asked Harry, but Hermione broke in. 
 
“Look, I don’t care what you say, Dumbledore trusts Snape -” 
 
“Oh give it a rest, Hermione,” said Ron impatiently. “I know Dumbledores brilliant and everything, but that doesn’t mean a really clever Dark wizard couldn’t fool him -” 
 
“Why did Snape save Harry’s life in the first year, then? Why didn’t he just let him die?” 
 
“I dunno - maybe he thought Dumbledore would kick him out-” 
 
“What d’you think, Sirius?” Harry said loudly, and Ron and Hermione stopped bickering to listen. 
 
“I think they’ve both got a point,” said Sirius, looking thoughtfully at Ron and Hermione. “Ever since I found out Snape was teaching here, I’ve wondered why Dumbledore hired him. Snape’s always been fascinated by the Dark Arts, he was famous for it at school. Slimy, oily, greasy-haired kid, he was,” Sirius added, and Harry and Ron grinned at each other. “Snape knew more curses when he arrived at school than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of a gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be Death Eaters.” 
 
Sirius held up his fingers and began ticking off names. 
 
“Rosier and Wilkes - they were both killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort fell. The Lestranges - they’re a married couple - they’re in Azkaban. Avery – from what I’ve heard he wormed his way out of trouble by saying he’d been acting under the Imperius Curse - he’s still at large. But as far as I know, Snape was never even accused of being a Death Eater - not that that means much. Plenty of them were never caught. And Snape s certainly clever and cunning enough to keep himself out of trouble.” 
 
“Snape knows Karkaroff pretty well, but he wants to keep that quiet,” said Ron.  
 
“Yeah, you should’ve seen Snape’s face when Karkaroff turned up in Potions yesterday!” said Harry quickly. “Karkaroff wanted to talk to Snape, he says Snape’s been avoiding him. Karkaroff looked really worried. He showed Snape something on his arm, but I couldn’t see what it was.” 
 
“He showed Snape something on his arm?” said Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He ran his fingers distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugged again. “Well, I’ve no idea what that’s about… but if Karkaroff s genuinely worried, and he’s going to Snape for answers…” 
 
Sirius stared at the cave wall, then made a grimace of frustration. 
 
“There’s still the fact that Dumbledore trusts Snape, and I know Dumbledore trusts where a lot of other people wouldn’t, but I just can’t see him letting Snape teach at Hogwarts if he’d ever worked for Voldemort.” 
 
“Why are Moody and Crouch so keen to get into Snapes office then?” said Ron stubbornly. 
 
“Well,” said Sirius slowly, “I wouldn’t put it past Mad-Eye to have searched every single teacher’s office when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I’m not sure he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he’s seen, it’s not surprising. I’ll say this for Moody, though, he never killed if he could help it. Always brought people in alive where possible. He was tough, but he never descended to the level of the Death Eaters. Crouch, though… he’s a different matter… is he really ill? If he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to Snape’s office? And if he’s not… what’s he up to? What was he doing at the World Cup that was so important he didn’t turn up in the Top Box? What’s he been doing while he should have been judging the tournament?” 
 
Sirius lapsed into silence, still staring at the cave wall. Buckbeak was ferreting around on the rocky floor, looking for bones he might have overlooked. Finally, Sirius looked up at Ron. 
 
“You say your brother s Crouch’s personal assistant? Any chance you could ask him if he’s seen Crouch lately?” 
 
“I can try,” said Ron doubtfully. “Better not make it sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything dodgy, though. Percy loves Crouch.” 
 
“And you might try and find out whether they’ve got any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you’re at it,” said Sirius, gesturing to the second copy of the Daily Prophet.  
 
“Bagman told me they hadn’t,” said Harry. 
 
“Yes, he’s quoted in the article in there,” said Sirius, nodding at the paper.  “Blustering on about how bad Bertha’s memory is. Well, maybe she’s changed since I knew her, but the Bertha I knew wasn’t forgetful at all - quite the reverse. She was a bit dim, but she had an excellent memory for gossip. It used to get her into a lot of trouble; she never knew when to keep her mouth shut. I can see her being a bit of a liability at the Ministry of Magic… maybe that’s why Bagman didn’t bother to look for her for so long…” 
 
Sirius heaved an enormous sigh and rubbed his shadowed eyes. 
 
“What’s the time?” 
 
Harry checked his watch, then remembered it hadn’t been working since it had spent over an hour in the lake. 
 
“It’s half past three,” said Hermione. 
 
“You’d better get back to school,” Sirius said, getting to his feet. “Now listen…” He looked particularly hard at Harry. “I don’t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you’re not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you.” 
 
“No one’s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of grindylows,” Harry said, but Sirius scowled at him. 
  
“I don’t care… I’ll breathe freely again when this tournament’s over, and that’s not until June. And don’t forget, if you’re talking about me among yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?” 
 
He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and went to pat Buckbeak good-bye.  
 
“I’ll walk to the edge of the village with you,” said Sirius, “see if I can scrounge another paper.” 
 
He transformed into the great black dog before they left the cave, and they walked back down the mountainside with him, across the boulder-strewn ground, and back to the stile. Here he allowed each of them to pat him on the head, before turning and setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village. Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way back into Hogsmeade and up toward Hogwarts. 
  
“Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?” Ron said as they walked up the drive to the castle. “But maybe he doesn’t care… It’d probably just make him admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves rules. He’d just say Crouch was refusing to break them for his own son.” 
 
“Percy would never throw any of his family to the dementors,” said Hermione severely. 
 
“I don’t know,” said Ron. “If he thought we were standing in the way of his career… Percy’s really ambitious, you know…” 
 
They walked up the stone steps into the entrance hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafted toward them from the Great Hall. 
 
“Poor old Snuffles,” said Ron, breathing deeply. “He must really like you. Harry… Imagine having to live off rats.” 
 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery after breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy, asking, as Sirius had suggested, whether he had seen Mr. Crouch lately. They used Hedwig, because it had been so long since she’d had a job. When they had watched her fly out of sight through the Owlery window, they proceeded down to the kitchen to give Dobby his new socks. 
 
The house-elves gave them a very cheery welcome, bowing and curtsying and bustling around making tea again. Dobby was ecstatic about his present.  
 
“Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!” he squeaked, wiping large tears out of his enormous eyes. 
 
“You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby, you really did,” said Harry. 
 
“No chance of more of those eclairs, is there?” said Ron, who was looking around at the beaming and bowing house-elves. 
 
“You’ve just had breakfast!” said Hermione irritably, but a great silver platter of eclairs was already zooming toward them, supported by four elves. 
 
“We should get some stuff to send up to Snuffles,” Harry muttered. 
 
“Good idea,” said Ron. “Give Pig something to do. You couldn’t give us a bit of extra food, could you?” he said to the surrounding elves, and they bowed delightedly and hurried off to get some more. 
 
“Dobby, where’s Winky?” said Hermione, who was looking around. 
 
“Winky is over there by the fire, miss,” said Dobby quietly, his ears drooping slightly. 
 
“Oh dear,” said Hermione as she spotted Winky. 
 
Harry looked over at the fireplace too. Winky was sitting on the same stool as last time, but she had allowed herself to become so filthy that she was not immediately distinguishable from the smoke-blackened brick behind her. Her clothes were ragged and unwashed. She was clutching a bottle of butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring into the fire. As they watched her, she gave an enormous hiccup. 
 
“Winky is getting through six bottles a day now,” Dobby whispered to Harry.  
 
“Well, it’s not strong, that stuff,” Harry said. 
 
But Dobby shook his head. “‘Tis strong for a house-elf, sir,” he said.  
 
Winky hiccuped again. The elves who had brought the eclairs gave her disapproving looks as they returned to work. 
 
“Winky is pining, Harry Potter,” Dobby whispered sadly. “Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks Mr. Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is her master now.” 
 
“Hey, Winky,” said Harry, struck by a sudden inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down, “you don’t know what Mr. Crouch might be up to, do you? Because he’s stopped turning up to judge the Triwizard Tournament.” 
 
Winky’s eyes flickered. Her enormous pupils focused on Harry. She swayed slightly again and then said, “M - Master is stopped - hic - coming?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, “we haven’t seen him since the first task. The Daily Prophet’s saying he’s ill.” 
 
Winky swayed some more, staring blurrily at Harry. 
 
“Master- hic- ill?” 
 
Her bottom lip began to tremble. 
 
“But we’re not sure if that’s true,” said Hermione quickly. 
 
“Master is needing his - his - Winky!” whimpered the elf. “Master cannot - hic - manage - hic - all by himself…”  
 
“Other people manage to do their own housework, you know, Winky,” Hermione said severely. 
 
“Winky - hic - is not only - hic - doing housework for Mr. Crouch!” Winky squeaked indignantly, swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer down her already heavily stained blouse. “Master is - hic - trusting Winky with - hic – the most important - hic - the most secret…” 
 
“What?” said Harry. 
 
But Winky shook her head very hard, spilling more butterbeer down herself.  
 
“Winky keeps - hic - her master’s secrets,” she said mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning up at Harry with her eyes crossed. “You is - hic - nosing, you is.” 
 
“Winky must not talk like that to Harry Potter!” said Dobby angrily. “Harry Potter is brave and noble and Harry Potter is not nosy!”  
“He is nosing - hic - into my master’s - hic - private and secret - hic - Winky is a good house-elf- hic - Winky keeps her silence - hic - people trying to - hic – pry and poke - hic -” 
 
Winky’s eyelids drooped and suddenly, without warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One of them picked up the bottle; the others covered Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the ends in neatly, hiding her from view. 
 
“We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!” squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. “We is hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and miss!” 
 
“She’s unhappy!” said Hermione, exasperated. “Why don’t you try and cheer her up instead of covering her up?” 
 
“Begging your pardon, miss,” said the house-elf, bowing deeply again, “but house-elves has no right to be unhappy when there is work to be done and masters to be served.” 
 
“Oh for heavens sake!” Hermione cried. “Listen to me, all of you! You’ve got just as much right as wizards to be unhappy! You’ve got the right to wages and holidays and proper clothes, you don’t have to do everything you’re told - look at Dobby!” 
 
“Miss will please keep Dobby out of this,” Dobby mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the kitchen. They were suddenly looking at Hermione as though she were mad and dangerous. 
 
“We has your extra food!” squeaked an elf at Harry’s elbow, and he shoved a large ham, a dozen cakes, and some fruit into Harry’s arms. “Good-bye!” 
 
The house-elves crowded around Harry, Ron, and Hermione and began shunting them out of the kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of their backs. 
 
“Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!” Dobby called miserably from the hearth, where he was standing next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky. 
 
“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you, Hermione?” said Ron angrily as the kitchen door slammed shut behind them. “They won’t want us visiting them now! We could’ve tried to get more stuff out of Winky about Crouch!” 
 
“Oh as if you care about that!” scoffed Hermione. “You only like coming down here for the food!” 
 
It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over their homework in the common room that he took Sirius’s food up to the Owlery that evening on his own. 
 
Pigwidgeon was much too small to carry an entire ham up to the mountain by himself, so Harry enlisted the help of two school screech owls as well. When they had set off into the dusk, looking extremely odd carrying the large package between them Harry leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds, at the dark, rustling treetops of the Forbidden Forest, and the rippling sails of the Durmstrang ship. An eagle owl flew through the coil of smoke rising from Hagrids 
chimney; it soared toward the castle, around the Owlery, and out of sight. Looking down, Harry saw Hagrid digging energetically in front of his cabin. Harry wondered what he was doing; it looked as though he were making a new vegetable patch. As he watched, Madame Maxime emerged from the Beauxbatons carriage and walked over to Hagrid. She appeared to be trying to engage him in conversation. Hagrid leaned upon his spade, but did not seem keen to prolong their talk, because Madame Maxime returned to the carriage shortly afterward. 
 
Unwilling to go back to Gryffindor Tower and listen to Ron and Hermione snarling at each other, Harry watched Hagrid digging until the darkness swallowed him and the owls around Harry began to awake, swooshing past him into the night. By breakfast the next day Ron’s and Hermione’s bad moods had burnt out, and to Harrys relief, Ron’s dark predictions that the house-elves would send substandard food up to the Gryffindor table because Hermione had insulted them proved false; the bacon, eggs, and kippers were quite as good as usual. 
 
When the post owls arrived, Hermione looked up eagerly; she seemed to be expecting something. 
 
“Percy won’t’ve had time to answer yet,” said Ron. “We only sent Hedwig yesterday.” 
 
“No, it’s not that,” said Hermione. “I’ve taken out a subscription to the Daily Prophet. I’m getting sick of finding everything out from the Slytherins.” 
 
“Good thinking!” said Harry, also looking up at the owls. “Hey, Hermione, I think you’re in luck -” 
 
A gray owl was soaring down toward Hermione. 
 
“It hasn’t got a newspaper, though,” she said, looking disappointed. “It’s -”  
 
But to her bewilderment, the gray owl landed in front of her plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a brown owl, and a tawny. 
 
“How many subscriptions did you take out?” said Harry, seizing Hermione’s goblet before it was knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of whom were jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter first. 
 
“What on earth -?” Hermione said, taking the letter from the gray owl, opening it, and starting to read. “Oh really!” she sputtered, going rather red. 
 
“What’s up?” said Ron. 
 
“It,’s - oh how ridiculous -” 
 
She thrust the letter at Harry, who saw that it was not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet.  
 
YOU ARE A WICKED GIRL. HARRY POTTER DESERVES BETTER. GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM MUGGLE. 
 
“They’re all like it!” said Hermione desperately, opening one letter after another. “‘Harry Potter can do much better than the likes of you… ’ ‘You deserve to be boiled in frog spawn… ’ Ouch!” 
 
She had opened the last envelope, and yellowish-green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushed over her hands, which began to erupt in large yellow boils. 
 
“Undiluted bubotuber pus!” said Ron, picking up the envelope gingerly and sniffing it. 
 
“Ow!” said Hermione, tears starting in her eyes as she tried to rub the pus off her hands with a napkin, but her fingers were now so thickly covered in painful sores that it looked as though she were wearing a pair of thick, knobbly gloves. 
 
“You’d better get up to the hospital wing,” said Harry as the owls around Hermione took flight. “We’ll tell Professor Sprout where you’ve gone…” 
 
“I warned her!” said Ron as Hermione hurried out of the Great Hall, cradling her hands. “I warned her not to annoy Rita Skeeter! Look at this one…” He read out one of the letters Hermione had left behind: “‘I read In Witch Weekly about how you are playing Harry Potter false and that boy has had enough hardship and I will be sending you a curse by next post as soon as I can find a big enough envelope.’ Blimey, she’d better watch out for herself.” 
 
Hermione didn’t turn up for Herbology. As Harry and Ron left the greenhouse for their Care of Magical Creatures class, they saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle descending the stone steps of the castle. Pansy Parkinson was whispering and giggling behind them with her gang of Slytherin girls. Catching sight of Harry, Pansy called, “Potter, have you split up with your girlfriend? Why was she so upset at breakfast?” 
 
Harry ignored her; he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much trouble the Witch Weekly article had caused. 
 
Hagrid, who had told them last lesson that they had finished with unicorns, was waiting for them outside his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his feet. Harry’s heart sank at the sight of the crates - surely not another skrewt hatching? - but when he got near enough to see inside, he found himself looking at a number of flurry black creatures with long snouts. Their front paws were curiously flat, like spades, and they were blinking up at the class, looking politely puzzled at all the attention. 
 
“These’re nifflers,” said Hagrid, when the class had gathered around. “Yeh find ‘em down mines mostly. They like sparkly stuff… There yeh go, look.” 
 
One of the nifflers had suddenly leapt up and attempted to bite Pansy Parkinson’s watch off her wrist. She shrieked and jumped backward. 
 
“Useful little treasure detectors,” said Hagrid happily. “Thought we’d have some fun with ‘em today. See over there?” He pointed at the large patch of freshly turned earth Harry had watched him digging from the Owlery window. “I’ve buried some gold coins. I’ve got a prize fer whoever picks the niffler that digs up most. Jus’ take off all yer valuables, an’ choose a niffler, an get ready ter set ‘em loose.” 
 
Harry took off his watch, which he was only wearing out of habit, as it didn’t work anymore, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he picked up a niffler. It put its long snout in Harry’s ear and sniffed enthusiastically. It was really quite cuddly.  
 
“Hang on,” said Hagrid, looking down into the crate, “there’s a spare niffler here… who’s missin? Where’s Hermione?” 
 
“She had to go to the hospital wing,” said Ron. 
 
“We’ll explain later,” Harry muttered; Pansy Parkinson was listening. 
 
It was easily the most fun they had ever had in Care of Magical Creatures. The nifflers dived in and out of the patch of earth as though it were water, each scurrying back to the student who had released it and spitting gold into their hands. Ron’s was particularly efficient; it had soon filled his lap with coins. 
 
“Can you buy these as pets, Hagrid?” he asked excitedly as his niffler dived back into the soil, splattering his robes. 
 
“Yer mum wouldn’ be happy, Ron,” said Hagrid, grinning. “They wreck houses, nifflers. I reckon they’ve nearly got the lot, now,” he added, pacing around the patch of earth while the nifflers continued to dive. “I on’y buried a hundred coins. Oh there y’are, Hermione!” 
 
Hermione was walking toward them across the lawn. Her hands were very heavily bandaged and she looked miserable. Pansy Parkinson was watching her beadily. 
 
“Well, let’s check how yeh’ve done!” said Hagrid. “Count yer coins! An’ there’s no point tryin’ ter steal any, Goyle,” he added, his beetle-black eyes narrowed. “It’s leprechaun gold. Vanishes after a few hours.” 
 
Goyle emptied his pockets, looking extremely sulky. It turned out that Ron’s niffler had been most successful, so Hagrid gave him an enormous slab of Honeydukes chocolate for a prize. The bell rang across the grounds for lunch; the rest of the class set off back to the castle, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione stayed behind to help Hagrid put the nifflers back in their boxes. Harry noticed Madame Maxime watching them out other carriage window. 
 
“What yeh done ter your hands, Hermione?” said Hagrid, looking concerned. 
 
Hermione told him about the hate mail she had received that morning, and the envelope full of bubotuber pus. 
 
“Aaah, don worry,” said Hagrid gendy, looking down at her. “I got some o’ those letters an all, after Rita Skeeter wrote abou me mum. ‘Yeh’re a monster an yeh should be put down.’ ‘Yer mother killed innocent people an if you had any decency you d jump in a lake.’” 
 
“No!” said Hermione, looking shocked. 
 
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, heaving the niffler crates over by his cabin wall. “They’re jus’ nutters, Hermione. Don’ open ‘em if yeh get any more. Chuck ‘em straigh’ in the fire.” 
 
“You missed a really good lesson,” Harry told Hermione as they headed back toward the castle. “They’re good, nifflers, aren’t they, Ron?” 
 
Ron, however, was frowning at the chocolate Hagrid had given him. He looked thoroughly put out about something. 
 
“What’s the matter?” said Harry. “Wrong flavor?” 
 
“No,” said Ron shortly. “Why didn’t you tell me about the gold?” 
 
“What gold?” said Harry. 
 
“The gold I gave you at the Quidditch World Cup,” said Ron. “The leprechaun gold I gave you for my Omnioculars. In the Top Box. Why didn’t you tell me it disappeared?” 
 
Harry had to think for a moment before he realized what Ron was talking about. 
 
“Oh…” he said, the memory coming back to him at last. “I dunno… I never noticed it had gone. I was more worried about my wand, wasn’t I?”  
 
They climbed the steps into the entrance hall and went into the Great Hall for lunch. 
 
“Must be nice,” Ron said abruptly, when they had sat down and started serving themselves roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. “To have so much money you don’t notice if a pocketful of Galleons goes missing.” 
 
“Listen, I had other stuff on my mind that night!” said Harry impatiently. “We all did, remember?” 
 
“I didn’t know leprechaun gold vanishes,” Ron muttered. “I thought I was paying you back. You shouldn’t’ve given me that Chudley Cannon hat for Christmas.”  
 
“Forget it, all right?” said Harry. 
 
Ron speared a roast potato on the end of his fork, glaring at it. Then he said, “I hate being poor.” 
 
Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Neither of them really knew what to say. 
 
“It’s rubbish,” said Ron, still glaring down at his potato. “I don’t blame Fred and George for trying to make some extra money. Wish I could. Wish I had a niffler.” 
 
“Well, we know what to get you next Christmas,” said Hermione brightly. Then, when Ron continued to look gloomy, she said, “Come on, Ron, it could be worse. At least your fingers aren’t full of pus.” Hermione was having a lot of difficulty managing her knife and fork, her fingers were so stiff and swollen. “I hate that Skeeter woman!” she burst out savagely. “I’ll get her back for this if it’s the last thing I do!” 
 
Hate mail continued to arrive for Hermione over the following week, and although she followed Hagrid’s advice and stopped opening it, several of her ill-wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the Gryffindor table and shrieked insults at her for the whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn’t read Witch Weekly knew all about the supposed Harry-Krum-Hermione triangle now. Harry was getting sick of telling people that Hermione wasn’t his girlfriend. 
 
“It’ll die down, though,” he told Hermione, “if we just ignore it… People got bored with that stuff she wrote about me last time. 
 
“I want to know how she’s listening into private conversations when she’s supposed to be banned from the grounds!” said Hermione angrily. 
 
Hermione hung back in their next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody something. The rest of the class was very eager to leave; Moody had given them such a rigorous test of hex-deflection that many of them were nursing small injuries. Harry had such a bad case of Twitchy Ears, he had to hold his hands clamped over them as he walked away from the class. 
 
“Well, Rita’s definitely not using an Invisibility Cloak!” Hermione panted five minutes later, catching up with Harry and Ron in the entrance hall and pulling Harrys hand away from one of his wiggling ears so that he could hear her. “Moody says he didn’t see her anywhere near the judges’ table at the second task, or anywhere near the lake!” 
 
“Hermione, is there any point in telling you to drop this?” said Ron. 
 
“No!” said Hermione stubbornly. “I want to know how she heard me talking to Viktor! And how she found out about Hagrids mum!” 
 
“Maybe she had you bugged,” said Harry. 
“Bugged?” said Ron blankly. “What… put fleas on her or something?” 
 
Harry started explaining about hidden microphones and recording equipment. Ron was fascinated, but Hermione interrupted them. 
 
“Aren’t you two ever going to read Hogwarts, A History?” 
 
“What’s the point?” said Ron. “You know it by heart, we can just ask you.” 
 
“All those substitutes for magic Muggles use - electricity, computers, and radar, and all those things - they all go haywire around Hogwarts, there’s too much magic in the air. No, Rita’s using magic to eavesdrop, she must be… If I could just find out what it is… ooh, if it’s illegal, I’ll have her…” 
 
“Haven’t we got enough to worry about?” Ron asked her. “Do we have to start a vendetta against Rita Skeeter as well?” 
 
“I’m not asking you to help!” Hermione snapped. “I’ll do it on my own!” 
 
She marched back up the marble staircase without a backward glance. Harry was quite sure she was going to the library.  
 
“What’s the betting she comes back with a box of I Hate Rita Skeeter badges?” said Ron. 
 
Hermione, however, did not ask Harry and Ron to help her pursue vengeance against Rita Skeeter, for which they were both grateful, because their workload was mounting ever higher in the days before the Easter holidays. Harry frankly marveled at the fact that Hermione could research magical methods of eavesdropping as well as everything else they had to do. He was working flat-out just to get through all their homework, though he made a point of sending regular food packages up to the cave in the mountain for Sirius; after last summer, Harry had not forgotten what it felt like to be continually hungry. He enclosed notes to Sirius, telling him that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and that they were still waiting for an answer from Percy. 
 
Hedwig didn’t return until the end of the Easter holidays. Percy’s letter was enclosed in a package of Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley had sent. Both Harrys and Ron’s were the size of dragon eggs and full of homemade toffee. Hermiones, however, was smaller than a chicken egg. Her face fell when she saw it.  
 
“Your mum doesn’t read Witch Weekly, by any chance, does she, Ron?” she asked quietly. 
 
“Yeah,” said Ron, whose mouth was full of toffee. “Gets it for the recipes.” 
 
Hermione looked sadly at her tiny egg. 
 
“Don’t you want to see what Percy’s written?” Harry asked her hastily.  
Percys letter was short and irritated. 
 
As I am constantly telling the Daily Prophet, Mr. Crouch is taking a well-deserved break. He is sending in regular owls with instructions. No, I haven’t actually seen him, but I think I can be trusted to know my own superior’s handwriting. I have quite enough to do at the moment without trying to quash these ridiculous rumors.  
 
Please don’t bother me again unless it’s something important. Happy Easter. 
 
The start of the summer term would normally have meant that Harry was training hard for the last Quidditch match of the season. This year, however, it was the third and final task in the Triwizard Tournament for which he needed to prepare, but he still didn’t know what he would have to do. Finally, in the last week of May, Professor McGonagall held him back in Transfiguration. 
 
“You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at nine o’clock. Potter,” she told him. “Mr. Bagman will be there to tell the champions about the third task.”  
 
So at half past eight that night. Harry left Ron and Hermione in Gryffindor Tower and went downstairs. As he crossed the entrance hall, Cedric came up from the Hufflepuff common room. 
 
“What d’you reckon it’s going to be?” he asked Harry as they went together down the stone steps, out into the cloudy night. “Fleur keeps going on about underground tunnels; she reckons we’ve got to find treasure.” 
 
“That wouldn’t be too bad,” said Harry, thinking that he would simply ask Hagrid for a niffler to do the job for him. 
 
They walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch stadium, turned through a gap in the stands, and walked out onto the field. 
 
“What’ve they done to it?” Cedric said indignantly, stopping dead. 
 
The Quidditch field was no longer smooth and flat. It looked as though somebody had been building long, low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in every direction. 
 
“They’re hedges!” said Harry, bending to examine the nearest one. 
 
“Hello there!” called a cheery voice. 
 
Ludo Bagman was standing in the middle of the field with Krum and Fleur. Harry and Cedric made their way toward them, climbing over the hedges. Fleur beamed at Harry as he came nearer. Her attitude toward him had changed completely since he had saved her sister from the lake. 
 
“Well, what d’you think?” said Bagman happily as Harry and Cedric climbed over the last hedge. “Growing nicely, aren’t they? Give them a month and Hagrid’ll have them twenty feet high. Don’t worry,” he added, grinning, spotting the less than- happy expressions on Harrys and Cedric’s faces, “you’ll have your Quidditch field back to normal once the task is over! Now, I imagine you can guess what we’re making here?” 
 
No one spoke for a moment. Then - 
 
“Maze,” grunted Krum. 
 
“That’s right!” said Bagman. “A maze. The third task’s really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks.” 
 
“We semply ‘ave to get through the maze?” said Fleur. 
 
“There will be obstacles,” said Bagman happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hagrid is providing a number of creatures… then there will be spells that must be broken… all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champions who are leading on points will get a head start into the maze.” Bagman grinned at Harry and Cedric. “Then Mr. Krum will enter… then Miss Delacour. But you’ll all be in with a fighting chance, depending how well you get past the obstacles. Should be fun, eh?” 
 
Harry, who knew only too well the kind of creatures that Hagrid was likely to provide for an event like this, thought it was unlikely to be any fun at all. However, he nodded politely like the other champions.  
“Very well… if you haven’t got any questions, we’ll go back up to the castle, shall we, it’s a bit chilly…” 
 
Bagman hurried alongside Harry as they began to wend their way out of the growing maze. Harry had the feeling that Bagman was going to start offering to help him again, but just then, Krum tapped Harry on the shoulder. 
 
“Could I haff a vord?” 
 
“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, slightly surprised. 
 
“Vill you valk vith me?” 
 
“Okay,” said Harry curiously. 
 
Bagman looked slightly perturbed. 
 
“I’ll wait for you. Harry, shall I?” 
 
“No, it’s okay, Mr. Bagman,” said Harry, suppressing a smile, “I think I can find the castle on my own, thanks.” 
 
Harry and Krum left the stadium together, but Krum did not set a course for the Durmstrang ship. Instead, he walked toward the forest. 
 
“What’re we going this way for?” said Harry as they passed Hagrid s cabin and the illuminated Beauxbatons carriage. 
 
“Don’t vont to be overheard,” said Krum shortly. 
 
When at last they had reached a quiet stretch of ground a short way from the Beauxbatons horses’ paddock, Krum stopped in the shade of the trees and turned to face Harry. 
 
“I vant to know,” he said, glowering, “vot there is between you and Hermy-ownninny.” 
 
Harry, who from Krum’s secretive manner had expected something much more serious than this, stared up at Krum in amazement. 
 
“Nothing,” he said. But Krum glowered at him, and Harry, somehow struck anew by how tall Krum was, elaborated. “We’re friends. She’s not my girlfriend and she never has been. It’s just that Skeeter woman making things up.” 
 
“Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often,” said Krum, looking suspiciously at Harry. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, “because were friends.” 
 
He couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation with Viktor Krum, the famous International Quidditch player. It was as though the eighteen-year-old Krum thought he Harry, was an equal - a real rival – 
 
“You haff never… you haff not…” 
 
“No,” said Harry very firmly. 
 
Krum looked slightly happier. He stared at Harry for a few seconds, then said, “You fly very veil. I vos votching at the first task.” 
 
“Thanks,” said Harry, grinning broadly and suddenly feeling much taller himself. “I saw you at the Quidditch World Cup. The Wronski Feint, you really -” 
 
But something moved behind Krum in the trees, and Harry, who had some experience of the sort of thing that lurked in the forest, instinctively grabbed Krum’s arm and pulled him around. 
 
“Vot is it?” 
 
Harry shook his head, staring at the place where he’d seen movement. He slipped his hand inside his robes, reaching for his wand. 
 
Suddenly a man staggered out from behind a tall oak. For a moment, Harry didn’t recognize him… then he realized it was Mr. Crouch. 
 
He looked as though he had been traveling for days. The knees of his robes were ripped and bloody, his face scratched; he was unshaven and gray with exhaustion. His neat hair and mustache were both in need of a wash and a trim. His strange appearance, however, was nothing to the way he was behaving. Muttering and gesticulating, Mr. Crouch appeared to be talking to someone that he alone could see. He reminded Harry vividly of an old tramp he had seen once when out shopping with the Dursleys. That man too had been conversing wildly with thin air; Aunt Petunia had seized Dudley’s hand and pulled him across the road to avoid him; Uncle Vernon had then treated the family to a long rant about what he would like to do with beggars and vagrants. 
 
“Vosn’t he a judge?” said Krum, staring at Mr. Crouch. “Isn’t he vith your Ministry?” 
 
Harry nodded, hesitated for a moment, then walked slowly toward Mr. Crouch, who did not look at him, but continued to talk to a nearby tree. 
 
“… and when you’ve done that, Weatherby, send an owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of Durmstrang students who will be attending the tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will be twelve…” 
 
“Mr. Crouch?” said Harry cautiously. 
 
“… and then send another owl to Madame Maxime, because she might want to up the number of students she’s bringing, now Karkaroff’s made it a round dozen… do that, Weatherby, will you? Will you? Will…” 
 
Mr. Crouch’s eyes were bulging. He stood staring at the tree, muttering soundlessly at it. Then he staggered sideways and fell to his knees. 
 
“Mr. Crouch?” Harry said loudly. “Are you all right?” 
 
Crouch’s eyes were rolling in his head. Harry looked around at Krum, who had followed him into the trees, and was looking down at Crouch in alarm. 
 
“Vot is wrong with him?” 
 
“No idea,” Harry muttered. “Listen, you’d better go and get someone -” 
 
“Dumbledore!” gasped Mr. Crouch. He reached out and seized a handful of Harrys robes, dragging him closer, though his eyes were staring over Harry’s head. “I need… see… Dumbledore…” 
“Okay,” said Harry, “if you get up, Mr. Crouch, we can go up to the-”  
 
“I’ve done… stupid… thing…” Mr. Crouch breathed. He looked utterly mad. His eyes were rolling and bulging, and a trickle of spittle was sliding down his chin. Every word he spoke seemed to cost him a terrible effort. “Must… tell… Dumbledore…” 
 
“Get up, Mr. Crouch,” said Harry loudly and clearly. “Get up, I’ll take you to Dumbledore!” 
 
Mr. Crouch’s eyes rolled forward onto Harry. 
 
“Who… you?” he whispered. 
 
“I’m a student at the school,” said Harry, looking around at Krum for some help, but Krum was hanging back, looking extremely nervous. 
 
“You’re not… his?” whispered Crouch, his mouth sagging. 
 
“No,” said Harry, without the faintest idea what Crouch was talking about. 
 
“Dumbledore’s?” 
 
“That’s right,” said Harry. 
 
Crouch was pulling him closer; Harry tried to loosen Crouch’s grip on his robes, but it was too powerful. 
 
“Warn… Dumbledore…” 
 
“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let go of me,” said Harry. “Just let go, Mr. Crouch, and I’ll get him…” 
 
“Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be arriving shortly, we are attending a concert tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Fudge.” 
 
Crouch was now talking fluently to a tree again, and seemed completely unaware that Harry was there, which surprised Harry so much he didn’t notice that Crouch had released him. 
 
“Yes, my son has recently gained twelve O.W.L.S, most satisfactory, yes, thank you, yes, very proud indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have time to draft a response…” 
 
“You stay here with him!” Harry said to Krum. “I’ll get Dumbledore, I’ll be quicker, I know where his office is -” 
 
“He is mad,” said Krum doubtfully, staring down at Crouch, who was still gabbling to the tree, apparently convinced it was Percy. 
“Just stay with him,” said Harry, starting to get up, but his movement seemed to trigger another abrupt change in Mr. Crouch, who seized him hard around the knees and pulled Harry back to the ground. 
 
“Don’t… leave… me!” he whispered, his eyes bulging again. “I… escaped… must warn… must tell… see Dumbledore… my fault… all my fault… Bertha… dead… all my fault… my son… my fault… tell Dumbledore… Harry Potter… the Dark Lord… stronger… Harry Potter…” 
 
“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr. Crouch!” said Harry. He looked furiously around at Krum. “Help me, will you?” 
 
Looking extremely apprehensive, Krum moved forward and squatted down next to Mr. Crouch. 
 
“Just keep him here,” said Harry, pulling himself free of Mr. Crouch. “I’ll be back with Dumbledore.” 
 
“Hurry, von’t you?” Krum called after him as Harry sprinted away from the forest and up through the dark grounds. They were deserted; Bagman, Cedric, and Fleur had disappeared. Harry tore up the stone steps, through the oak front doors, and off up the marble staircase, toward the second floor. 
 
Five minutes later he was hurtling toward a stone gargoyle standing halfway along an empty corridor. 
 
“Sher - sherbet lemon!” he panted at it. 
 
This was the password to the hidden staircase to Dumbledore’s office - or at least, it had been two years ago. The password had evidently changed, however, for the stone gargoyle did not spring to life and jump aside, but stood frozen, glaring at Harry malevolently. 
 
“Move!” Harry shouted at it. “C’mon!” 
 
But nothing at Hogwarts had ever moved just because he shouted at it; he knew it was no good. He looked up and down the dark corridor. Perhaps Dumbledore was in the staffroom? He started running as fast as he could toward the staircase – 
 
“POTTER!” 
 
Harry skidded to a halt and looked around. Snape had just emerged from the hidden staircase behind the stone gargoyle. The wall was sliding shut behind him even as he beckoned Harry back toward him. 
 
“What are you doing here, Potter?” 
 
“I need to see Professor Dumbledore!” said Harry, running back up the corridor and skidding to a standstill in front of Snape instead. “It’s Mr. Crouch… he’s just turned up… he’s in the forest… he’s asking -” 
 
“What is this rubbish?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering. “What are you talking about?” 
 
“Mr. Crouch!” Harry shouted. “From the Ministry! He’s ill or something - he’s in the forest, he wants to see Dumbledore! Just give me the password up to -”  
 
“The headmaster is busy. Potter,” said Snape, his thin mouth curling into an unpleasant smile. 
 
“I’ve got to tell Dumbledore!” Harry yelled. 
 
“Didn’t you hear me. Potter?” 
 
Harry could tell Snape was thoroughly enjoying himself, denying Harry the thing he wanted when he was so panicky. 
 
“Look,” said Harry angrily, “Crouch isn’t right - he’s - he’s out of his mind – he says he wants to warn -” 
 
The stone wall behind Snape slid open. Dumbledore was standing there, wearing long green robes and a mildly curious expression. “Is there a problem?” he said, looking between Harry and Snape. 
 
“Professor!” Harry said, sidestepping Snape before Snape could speak, “Mr. Crouch is here - he’s down in the forest, he wants to speak to you!”  
 
Harry expected Dumbledore to ask questions, but to his relief, Dumbledore did nothing of the sort. 
 
“Lead the way,” he said promptly, and he swept off along the corridor behind Harry, leaving Snape standing next to the gargoyle and looking twice as ugly 
 
“What did Mr. Crouch say. Harry?” said Dumbledore as they walked swiftly down the marble staircase. 
 
“Said he wants to warn you… said he’s done something terrible… he mentioned his son… and Bertha Jorkins… and - and Voldemort… something about Voldemort getting stronger…” 
 
“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he quickened his pace as they hurried out into the pitch-darkness. 
 
“He’s not acting normally,” Harry said, hurrying along beside Dumbledore. “He doesn’t seem to know where he is. He keeps talking like he thinks Percy Weasley’s there, and then he changes, and says he needs to see you… I left him with Viktor Krum.” 
“You did?” said Dumbledore sharply, and he began to take longer strides still, so that Harry was running to keep up. “Do you know if anybody else saw Mr. Crouch?” 
 
“No,” said Harry. “Krum and I were talking, Mr. Bagman had just finished telling us about the third task, we stayed behind, and then we saw Mr. Crouch coming out of the forest -” 
 
“Where are they?” said Dumbledore as the Beauxbatons carriage emerged from the darkness. 
 
“Over here,” said Harry, moving in front of Dumbledore, leading the way through the trees. He couldn’t hear Crouch’s voice anymore, but he knew where he was going; it hadn’t been much past the Beauxbatons carriage… somewhere around here…  
 
“Viktor?” Harry shouted. 
 
No one answered. 
 
“They were here,” Harry said to Dumbledore. “They were definitely somewhere around here…” 
 “Lumos,” Dumbledore said, lighting his wand and holding it up. 
 
Its narrow beam traveled from black trunk to black trunk, illuminating the ground. And then it fell upon a pair of feet. 
 
Harry and Dumbledore hurried forward. Krum was sprawled on the forest floor. He seemed to be unconscious. There was no sign at all of Mr. Crouch. Dumbledore bent over Krum and gently lifted one of his eyelids. 
 
“Stunned,” he said softly. His half-moon glasses glittered in the wandlight as he peered around at the surrounding trees. 
 
“Should I go and get someone?” said Harry. “Madam Pomfrey?” 
 
“No,” said Dumbledore swiftly. “Stay here.” 
 
He raised his wand into the air and pointed it in the direction of Hagrid’s cabin. Harry saw something silvery dart out of it and streak away through the trees like a ghostly bird. Then Dumbledore bent over Krum again, pointed his wand at him, and muttered, “Ennervate.” 
 
Krum opened his eyes. He looked dazed. When he saw Dumbledore, he tried to sit up, but Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder and made him lie still.  
 
“He attacked me!” Krum muttered, putting a hand up to his head. “The old madman attacked me! I vos looking around to see vare Potter had gone and he attacked from behind!” 
 
“Lie still for a moment,” Dumbledore said. 
 
The sound of thunderous footfalls reached them, and Hagrid came panting into sight with Fang at his heels. He was carrying his crossbow. 
 
“Professor Dumbledore!” he said, his eyes widening. “Harry - what the -?”  
 
“Hagrid, I need you to fetch Professor Karkaroff,” said Dumbledore. “His student has been attacked. When you’ve done that, kindly alert Professor Moody -” 
 
“No need, Dumbledore,” said a wheezy growl. “I’m here.” 
 
Moody was limping toward them, leaning on his staff, his wand lit. 
 
“Damn leg,” he said furiously. “Would’ve been here quicker… what’s happened? Snape said something about Crouch -” 
  
“Crouch?” said Hagrid blankly. 
 
“Karkaroff, please, Hagrid!” said Dumbledore sharply. 
  
“Oh yeah… right y’are, Professor…” said Hagrid, and he turned and disappeared into the dark trees, Fang trotting after him. 
  
“I don’t know where Barty Crouch is,” Dumbledore told Moody, “but it is essential that we find him.” 
  
“I’m onto it,” growled Moody, and he pulled out his wand and limped off into the forest. 
 
Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke again until they heard the unmistakable sounds of Hagrid and Fang returning. Karkaroff was hurrying along behind them. He was wearing his sleek silver furs, and he looked pale and agitated. 
 
“What is this?” he cried when he saw Krum on the ground and Dumbledore and Harry beside him. “What’s going on?” 
 
“I vos attacked!” said Krum, sitting up now and rubbing his head. “Mr. Crouch or votever his name -” 
 
“Crouch attacked you? Crouch attacked you? The Triwizard judge?” 
 
“Igor,” Dumbledore began, but Karkaroff had drawn himself up, clutching his furs around him, looking livid. 
 
“Treachery!” he bellowed, pointing at Dumbledore. “It is a plot! You and your Ministry of Magic have lured me here under false pretenses, Dumbledore! This is not an equal competition! First you sneak Potter into the tournament, though he is underage! Now one of your Ministry friends attempts to put my champion out of action! I smell double-dealing and corruption in this whole affair, and you, Dumbledore, you, with your talk of closer international wizarding links, of rebuilding old ties, of forgetting old differences - here’s what I think of you!” 
 
Karkaroff spat onto the ground at Dumbledore’s feet. In one swift movement, Hagrid seized the front of Karkaroff’s furs, lifted him into the air, and slammed him against a nearby tree. 
 
“Apologize!” Hagrid snarled as Karkaroff gasped for breath, Hagrid’s massive fist at his throat, his feet dangling in midair. 
 
“Hagrid, no!” Dumbledore shouted, his eyes flashing. 
 
Hagrid removed the hand pinning Karkaroff to the tree, and Karkaroff slid all the way down the trunk and slumped in a huddle at its roots; a few twigs and leaves showered down upon his head. 
 
“Kindly escort Harry back up to the castle, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply. 
 
Breathing heavily, Hagrid gave Karkaroff a glowering look. 
 
“Maybe I’d better stay here. Headmaster…” 
 
“You will take Harry back to school, Hagrid,” Dumbledore repeated firmly. “Take him right up to Gryffindor Tower. And Harry - I want you to stay there. Anything you might want to do - any owls you might want to send - they can wait until morning, do you understand me?” 
 
“Er - yes,” said Harry, staring at him. How had Dumbledore known that, at that very moment, he had been thinking about sending Pigwidgeon straight to Sirius, to tell him what had happened? 
 
“I’ll leave Fang with yeh Headmaster,” Hagrid said, staring menacingly at Karkaroff, who was still sprawled at the foot of the tree, tangled in furs and tree roots. “Stay, Fang. C’mon, Harry.” 
 
They marched in silence past the Beauxbatons carriage and up toward the castle. 
 
“How dare he,” Hagrid growled as they strode past the lake. “How dare he accus Dumbledore. Like Dumbledore’d do anythin’ like that. Like Dumbledore wanted you in the tournament in the firs’ place. Worried! I dunno when I seen Dumbledore more worried than he’s bin lately. An’ you!” Hagrid suddenly said angrily to Harry, who looked up at him, taken aback. “What were yeh doin’, wanderin’ off with ruddy Krum? He’s from Durmstrang, Harry! Coulda jinxed yeh right there, couldn he? Hasn’ Moody taught yeh nothin’? ‘Magine lettin him lure yeh off on yer 
own -” 
 
“Krum’s all right!” said Harry as they climbed the steps into the entrance hall. “He wasn’t trying to jinx me, he just wanted to talk about Hermione -” 
 
“I’ll be havin’ a few words with her, an’ all,” said Hagrid grimly, stomping up the stairs. “The less you lot ‘ave ter do with these foreigners, the happier yeh’ll be. Yeh can trust any of ‘em.” 
 
“You were getting on all right with Madame Maxime,” Harry said, annoyed.  
 
“Don’ you talk ter me abou’ her!” said Hagrid, and he looked quite frightening for a moment. “I’ve got her number now! Tryin’ ter get back in me good books, tryin’ ter get me ter tell her what’s comin in the third task. Ha! You can’ trust any of’em!”  
 
Hagrid was in such a bad mood, Harry was quite glad to say good-bye to him in front of the Fat Lady. He clambered through the portrait hole into the common room and hurried straight for the corner where Ron and Hermione were sitting, to tell them what had happened. 
 
“It comes down to this,” said Hermione, rubbing her forehead. “Either Mr. Crouch attacked Viktor, or somebody else attacked both of them when Viktor wasn’t looking.” 
 
“It must’ve been Crouch,” said Ron at once. “That’s why he was gone when Harry and Dumbledore got there. He’d done a runner.” 
 
“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shaking his head. “He seemed really weak - I don’t reckon he was up to Disapparating or anything.” 
 
“You can’t Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds, haven’t I told you enough times?” said Hermione. 
 
“Okay… hows this for a theory,” said Ron excitedly. “Krum attacked Crouch - no, wait for it - and then Stunned himself!” 
 
“And Mr. Crouch evaporated, did he?” said Hermione coldly. 
 
“Oh yeah…” 
 
It was daybreak. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had crept out of their dormitories very early and hurried up to the Owlery together to send a note to Sirius. Now they were standing looking out at the misty grounds. All three of them were puffy-eyed and pale because they had been talking late into the night about Mr. Crouch.  
 
“Just go through it again, Harry,” said Hermione. “What did Mr. Crouch actually say?” 
 
“I’ve told you, he wasn’t making much sense,” said Harry. “He said he wanted to warn Dumbledore about something. He definitely mentioned Bertha Jorkins, and he seemed to think she was dead. He kept saying stuff was his fault… He mentioned his son.” 
 
“Well, that was his fault,” said Hermione testily. 
 
“He was out of his mind,” said Harry. “Half the time he seemed to think his wife and son were still alive, and he kept talking to Percy about work and giving him instructions.” 
 
“And… remind me what he said about You-Know-Who?” said Ron tentatively. 
 
“I’ve told you,” Harry repeated dully. “He said he’s getting stronger.” 
 
There was a pause. Then Ron said in a falsely confident voice, “But he was out of his mind, like you said, so half of it was probably just raving…” 
“He was sanest when he was trying to talk about Voldemort,” said Harry, and Ron winced at the sound of the name. “He was having real trouble stringing two words together, but that was when he seemed to know where he was, and know what he wanted to do. He just kept saying he had to see Dumbledore.” 
 
Harry turned away from the window and stared up into the rafters. The many perches were half-empty; every now and then, another owl would swoop in through one of the windows, returning from its night’s hunting with a mouse in its beak. 
 
“If Snape hadn’t held me up,” Harry said bitterly, “we might’ve got there in time. ‘The headmaster is busy. Potter… what’s this rubbish, Potter?’ Why couldn’t he have just got out of the way?” 
 
“Maybe he didn’t want you to get there!” said Ron quickly. “Maybe - hang on - how fast d’you reckon he could’ve gotten down to the forest? D’you reckon he could’ve beaten you and Dumbledore there?” 
 
“Not unless he can turn himself into a bat or something,” said Harry. 
 
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Ron muttered. 
 
“We need to see Professor Moody,” said Hermione. “We need to find out whether he found Mr. Crouch.”  
 
“If he had the Marauder’s Map on him, it would’ve been easy,” said Harry. 
 
“Unless Crouch was already outside the grounds,” said Ron, “because it only shows up to the boundaries, doesn’t -” 
 
“Shh!” said Hermione suddenly. 
 
Somebody was climbing the steps up to the Owlery. Harry could hear two voices arguing, coming closer and closer. 
 
“- that’s blackmail, that is, we could get into a lot of trouble for that-” 
 
“- we’ve tried being polite; it’s time to play dirty, like him. He wouldn’t like the Ministry of Magic knowing what he did -” 
 
“I’m telling you, if you put that in writing, it’s blackmail!” 
 
“Yeah, and you won’t be complaining if we get a nice fat payoff, will you?” 
 
The Owlery door banged open. Fred and George came over the threshold, then froze at the sight of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 
  
“What’re you doing here?” Ron and Fred said at the same time. 
 
“Sending a letter,” said Harry and George in unison. 
 
“What, at this time?” said Hermione and Fred. 
 
Fred grinned. 
 
“Fine - we won’t ask you what you’re doing, if you don’t ask us,” he said. He was holding a sealed envelope in his hands. Harry glanced at it, but Fred, whether accidentally or on purpose, shifted his hand so that the name on it was covered. 
 
“Well, don’t let us hold you up,” Fred said, making a mock bow and pointing at the door. 
 
Ron didn’t move. “Who’re you blackmailing?” he said. 
 
The grin vanished from Fred’s face. Harry saw George half glance at Fred, before smiling at Ron. 
 
“Don’t be stupid, I was only joking,” he said easily. 
 
“Didn’t sound like that,” said Ron. 
 
Fred and George looked at each other. Then Fred said abruptly, “I’ve told you before, Ron, keep your nose out if you like it the shape it is. Can’t see why you would, but -” 
 
“It’s my business if you’re blackmailing someone,” said Ron. “George’s right, you could end up in serious trouble for that.” 
 
“Told you, I was joking,” said George. He walked over to Fred, pulled the letter out of his hands, and began attaching it to the leg of the nearest barn owl. “You’re starting to sound a bit like our dear older brother, you are, Ron. Carry on like this and you’ll be made a prefect.” 
 
“No, I won’t!” said Ron hotly. 
 
George carried the barn owl over to the window and it took off. George turned around and grinned at Ron. 
 
“Well, stop telling people what to do then. See you later.” 
 
He and Fred left the Owlery. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at one another. 
 
“You don’t think they know something about all this, do you?” Hermione whispered. “About Crouch and everything?” 
  
“No,” said Harry. “If it was something that serious, they’d tell someone. They’d tell Dumbledore.” 
 
Ron, however, was looking uncomfortable. 
 
“What’s the matter?” Hermione asked him. 
 
“Well…” said Ron slowly, “I dunno if they would. They’re… they’re obsessed with making money lately, I noticed it when I was hanging around with them - when - you know -” 
 
“We weren’t talking.” Harry finished the sentence for him. “Yeah, but blackmail…”  
 
“It’s this joke shop idea they’ve got,” said Ron. “I thought they were only saying it to annoy Mum, but they really mean it, they want to start one. They’ve only got a year left at Hogwarts, they keep going on about how it’s time to think about their future, and Dad can’t help them, and they need gold to get started.” 
 
Hermione was looking uncomfortable now. 
 
“Yes, but… they wouldn’t do anything against the law to get gold.” 
 
“Wouldn’t they?” said Ron, looking skeptical. “I dunno… they don’t exactly mind breaking rules, do they?” 
 
“Yes, but this is the law” said Hermione, looking scared. “This isn’t some silly school rule… They’ll get a lot more than detention for blackmail! Ron… maybe you’d better tell Percy…” 
 
“Are you mad?” said Ron. “Tell Percy? He’d probably do a Crouch and turn them in.” 
 
He stared at the window through which Fred and George’s owl had departed, then said, “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.” 
 
“D’you think it’s too early to go and see Professor Moody?” Hermione said as they went down the spiral staircase. 
 
“Yes,” said Harry. “He’d probably blast us through the door if we wake him at the crack of dawn; he’ll think we’re trying to attack him while he’s asleep. Let’s give it till break.” 
 
History of Magic had rarely gone so slowly. Harry kept checking Ron’s watch, having finally discarded his own, but Ron’s was moving so slowly he could have sworn it had stopped working too. All three of them were so tired they could happily have put their heads down on the desks and slept; even Hermione wasn’t taking her usual notes, but was sitting with her head on her hand, gazing at Professor Binns with her eyes out of focus. 
 
When the bell finally rang, they hurried out into the corridors toward the Dark Arts classroom and found Professor Moody leaving it. He looked as tired as they felt. The eyelid of his normal eye was drooping, giving his face an even more lopsided appearance than usual. 
 
“Professor Moody?” Harry called as they made their way toward him through the crowd. 
 
“Hello, Potter,” growled Moody. His magical eye followed a couple of passing first years, who sped up, looking nervous; it rolled into the back of Moody’s head and watched them around the corner before he spoke again. 
 
“Come in here.” 
 
He stood back to let them into his empty classroom, limped in after them, and closed the door. 
 
“Did you find him?” Harry asked without preamble. “Mr. Crouch?” 
 
“No,” said Moody. He moved over to his desk, sat down, stretched out his wooden leg with a slight groan, and pulled out his hip flask. 
 
“Did you use the map?” Harry said. 
 
“Of course,” said Moody, taking a swig from his flask. “Took a leaf out of your book, Potter. Summoned it from my office into the forest. He wasn’t anywhere on there.” 
 
“So he did Disapparate?” said Ron. 
 
“You can’t Disapparate on the grounds, Ron!” said Hermione. “There are other ways he could have disappeared, aren’t there, Professor?” 
 
Moody’s magical eye quivered as it rested on Hermione. “You’re another one who might think about a career as an Auror,” he told her. “Mind works the right way Granger.” 
 
Hermione flushed pink with pleasure. 
 
“Well, he wasn’t invisible,” said Harry. “The map shows invisible people. He must’ve left the grounds, then.” 
 
“But under his own steam?” said Hermione eagerly, “or because someone made him?” 
 
“Yeah, someone could’ve - could’ve pulled him onto a broom and flown off with him, couldn’t they?” said Ron quickly, looking hopefully at Moody as if he too wanted to be told he had the makings of an Auror. 
 
“We can’t rule out kidnap,” growled Moody. 
 
“So,” said Ron, “d’you reckon he’s somewhere in Hogsmeade?” 
“Could be anywhere,” said Moody, shaking his head. “Only thing we know for sure is that he’s not here.” 
 
He yawned widely, so that his scars stretched, and his lopsided mouth revealed a number of missing teeth. Then he said, “Now, Dumbledore’s told me you three fancy yourselves as investigators, but there’s nothing you can do for Crouch. The Ministry’ll be looking for him now, Dumbledore’s notified them. Potter, you just keep your mind on the third task.” 
 
“What?” said Harry. “Oh yeah…” 
 
He hadn’t given the maze a single thought since he’d left it with Krum the previous night. 
 
“Should be right up your street, this one,” said Moody, looking up at Harry and scratching his scarred and stubbly chin. “From what Dumbledore’s said, you’ve managed to get through stuff like this plenty of times. Broke your way through a series of obstacles guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone in your first year, didn’t you?”  
 
“We helped,” Ron said quickly. “Me and Hermione helped.” 
 
Moody grinned. 
 
“Well, help him practice for this one, and I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t win,” said Moody. “In the meantime… constant vigilance, Potter. Constant vigilance.” 
 
He took another long draw from his hip flask, and his magical eye swiveled onto the window. The topmost sail of the Durmstrang ship was visible through it. 
 
“You two,” counseled Moody, his normal eye on Ron and Hermione, “you stick close to Potter, all right? I’m keeping an eye on things, but all the same… you can never have too many eyes out.” 
 
Sirius sent their owl back the very next morning. It fluttered down beside Harry at the same moment that a tawny owl landed in front of Hermione, clutching a copy of the Daily Prophet in its beak. She took the newspaper, scanned the first few pages, said, “Ha! She hasn’t got wind of Crouch!” then joined Ron and Harry in reading what Sirius had to say on the mysterious events of the night before last. 
 
Harry - what do you think you are playing at, walking off into the forest with Viktor Krum? I want you to swear, by return owl, that you are not going to go walking with anyone else at night. There is somebody highly dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to me that they wanted to stop Crouch from seeing Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from them in the dark. You could have been killed. 
 
Your name didn’t get into the Goblet of Fire by accident. If someone’s trying to attack you, they’re on their last chance. Stay close to Ron and Hermione, do not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and arm yourself for the third task. Practice Stunning and Disarming. A few hexes wouldn’t go amiss either. There’s nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your head down and look after yourself. I’m waiting for your letter giving me your word you won’t stray out-of-bounds again. 
 
Sirius 
 
“Who’s he, to lecture me about being out-of-bounds?” said Harry in mild indignation as he folded up Sirius’s letter and put it inside his robes. “After all the stuff he did at school!” 
 
“He’s worried about you!” said Hermione sharply. “Just like Moody and Hagrid! So listen to them!” 
 
“No one’s tried to attack me all year,” said Harry. “No one’s done anything to me at 
all-” 
 
“Except put your name in the Goblet of Fire,” said Hermione. “And they must’ve done that for a reason Harry. Snuffles is right. Maybe they’ve been biding their time. Maybe this is the task they’re going to get you.” 
 
“Look,” said Harry impatiently, “let’s say Sirius is right, and someone Stunned Krum to kidnap Crouch. Well, they would’ve been in the trees near us, wouldn’t they? But they waited till I was out of the way until they acted, didn’t they? So it doesn’t look like I’m their target, does it?” 
 
“They couldn’t have made it look like an accident if they’d murdered you in the forest!” said Hermione. “But if you die during a task-” 
 
“They didn’t care about attacking Krum, did they?” said Harry. “Why didn’t they just polish me off at the same time? They could’ve made it look like Krum and I had a duel or something.” 
 
“Harry, I don’t understand it either,” said Hermione desperately. “I just know there are a lot of odd things going on, and I don’t like it… Moody’s right - Sirius is right - you’ve got to get in training for the third task, straight away. And you make sure you write back to Sirius and promise him you’re not going to go sneaking off alone again.” 
 
The Hogwarts grounds never looked more inviting than when Harry had to stay indoors. For the next few days he spent all of his free time either in the library with Hermione and Ron, looking up hexes, or else in empty classrooms, which they sneaked into to practice. Harry was concentrating on the Stunning Spell, which he had never used before. The trouble was that practicing it involved certain sacrifices on Ron’s and Hermione’s part. 
 
“Can’t we kidnap Mrs. Norris?” Ron suggested on Monday lunchtime as he lay flat on his back in the middle of their Charms classroom, having just been Stunned and reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a row. “Let’s Stun her for a bit. Or you could use Dobby, Harry, I bet he’d do anything to help you. I’m not complaining or anything” - he got gingerly to his feet, rubbing his backside - “but I’m aching all over…” 
 
“Well, you keep missing the cushions, don’t you!” said Hermione impatiently, rearranging the pile of cushions they had used for the Banishing Spell, which Flitwick had left in a cabinet. “Just try and fall backward!” 
 
“Once you’re Stunned, you can’t aim too well, Hermione!” said Ron angrily. “Why don’t you take a turn?” 
 
“Well, I think Harry’s got it now, anyway,” said Hermione hastily. “And we don’t have to worry about Disarming, because he’s been able to do that for ages… I think we ought to start on some of these hexes this evening.”  
 
She looked down the list they had made in the library. 
 
“I like the look of this one,” she said, “this Impediment Curse. Should slow down anything that’s trying to attack you Harry. We’ll start with that one.” 
 
The bell rang. They hastily shoved the cushions back into Flitwicks cupboard and slipped out of the classroom. 
  
“See you at dinner!” said Hermione, and she set off for Arithmancy, while Harry and Ron headed toward North Tower, and Divination. Broad strips of dazzling gold sunlight tell across the corridor from the high windows. The sky outside was so brightly blue it looked as though it had been enameled. 
 
“It’s going to be boiling in Trelawney’s room, she never puts out that fire,” said Ron as they started up the staircase toward the silver ladder and the trapdoor. 
 
He was quite right. The dimly lit room was swelteringly hot. The fumes from the perfumed fire were heavier than ever. Harrys head swam as he made his way over to one of the curtained windows. While Professor Trelawney was looking the other way, disentangling her shawl from a lamp, he opened it an inch or so and settled back in his chintz armchair, so that a soft breeze played across his face. It was extremely comfortable. 
 
“My dears,” said Professor Trelawney, sitting down in her winged armchair in front of the class and peering around at them all with her strangely enlarged eyes, “we have almost finished our work on planetary divination. Today, however, will be an excellent opportunity to examine the effects of Mars, for he is placed most interestingly at the present time. If you will all look this way, I will dim the lights…” 
 
She waved her wand and the lamps went out. The fire was the only source of light now. Professor Trelawney bent down and lifted, from under her chair, a miniature model of the solar system, contained within a glass dome. It was a beautiful thing; each of the moons glimmered in place around the nine planets and the fiery sun, all of them hanging in thin air beneath the glass. Harry watched lazily as Professor Trelawney began to point out the fascinating angle Mars was making to Neptune. 
 
The heavily perfumed fumes washed over him, and the breeze from the window played across his face. He could hear an insect humming gently somewhere behind the curtain. His eyelids began to droop…  
 
He was riding on the back of an eagle owl, soaring through the clear blue sky toward an old, ivy-covered house set high on a hillside. Lower and lower they flew, the wind blowing pleasantly in Harry’s face, until they reached a dark and broken window in the upper story of the house and entered. Now they were flying along a gloomy passageway, to a room at the very end… through the door they went, into a dark room whose windows were boarded up…  
 
Harry had left the owl’s back… he was watching, now, as it fluttered across the room, into a chair with its back to him… There were two dark shapes on the floor beside the chair… both of them were stirring…  
 
One was a huge snake… the other was a man… a short, balding man, a man with watery eyes and a pointed nose… he was wheezing and sobbing on the hearth rug…  
 
“You are in luck, Wormtail,” said a cold, high-pitched voice from the depths of the chair in which the owl had landed. “You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead.” 
 
“My Lord!” gasped the man on the floor. “My Lord, I am… I am so pleased… and so sorry…” 
 
“Nagini,” said the cold voice, “you are out of luck. I will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all… but never mind, never mind… there is still Harry Potter…” 
 
The snake hissed. Harry could see its tongue fluttering. 
 
“Now, Wormtail,” said the cold voice, “perhaps one more little reminder why I will not tolerate another blunder from you…” 
 
“My Lord… no… I beg you…” 
 
The tip of a wand emerged from around the back of the chair. It was pointing at Wormtail. 
 
“Crucio!” said the cold voice. 
 
Wormtail screamed, screamed as though every nerve in his body were on fire, the screaming filled Harry’s ears as the scar on his forehead seared with pain; he was yelling too… Voldemort would hear him, would know he was there…  
 
“Harry! Harry!” 
 
Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of Professor Trelawney’s room with his hands over his face. His scar was still burning so badly that his eyes were watering. The pain had been real. The whole class was standing around him, and Ron was kneeling next to him, looking terrified. 
 
“You all right?” he said. 
 
“Of course he isn’t!” said Professor Trelawney, looking thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loomed over Harry, gazing at him. “What was it Potter? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?” 
 
“Nothing,” Harry lied. He sat up. He could feel himself shaking. He couldn’t stop himself from looking around, into the shadows behind him; Voldemorts voice had sounded so close…  
 
“You were clutching your scar!” said Professor Trelawney. “You were rolling on the floor, clutching your scar! Come now Potter, I have experience in these matters!” 
 
Harry looked up at her. 
 
“I need to go to the hospital wing, I think,” he said. “Bad headache.” 
 
“My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room!” said Professor Trelawney. “If you leave now, you may lose the opportunity to see further than you have ever -” 
 
“I don’t want to see anything except a headache cure,” said Harry. 
 
He stood up. The class backed away. They all looked unnerved. 
 
“See you later,” Harry muttered to Ron, and he picked up his bag and headed for the trapdoor, ignoring Professor Trelawney, who was wearing an expression of great frustration, as though she had just been denied a real treat. 
 
When Harry reached the bottom of her stepladder, however, he did not set off for the hospital wing. He had no intention whatsoever of going there. Sirius had told him what to do if his scar hurt him again, and Harry was going to follow his advice: He was going straight to Dumbledore’s office. He marched down the corridors, thinking about what he had seen in the dream… it had been as vivid as the one that had awoken him on Privet Drive… He ran over the details in his mind, trying to make sure he could remember them… He had heard Voldemort accusing Wormtail of making a blunder… but the owl had brought good news, the blunder had been repaired, somebody was dead… so Wormtail was not going to be fed to the snake… he, Harry, was going to be fed to it instead…  
 
Harry had walked right past the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledores office without noticing. He blinked, looked around, realized what he had done, and retraced his steps, stopping in front of it. Then he remembered that he didn’t know the password. 
 
“Sherbet lemon?” he tried tentatively. 
The gargoyle did not move. 
 
“Okay,” said Harry, staring at it, “Pear Drop. Er - Licorice Wand. Fizzing Whizbee. Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum. Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans… oh no, he doesn’t like them, does he?… oh just open, can’t you?” he said angrily. “I really need to see him, its urgent!” 
 
The gargoyle remained immovable. 
 
Harry kicked it, achieving nothing but an excruciating pain in his big toe. 
 
“Chocolate Frog!” he yelled angrily, standing on one leg. “Sugar Quill! Cockroach Cluster!” 
 
The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside. Harry blinked. 
 
“Cockroach Cluster?” he said, amazed. “I was only joking…” 
 
He hurried through the gap in the walls and stepped onto the foot of a spiral stone staircase, which moved slowly upward as the doors closed behind him, taking him up to a polished oak door with a brass door knocker. 
 
He could hear voices from inside the office. He stepped off the moving staircase and hesitated, listening. 
 
“Dumbledore, I’m afraid I don’t see the connection, don’t see it at all!” It was the voice of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. “Ludo says Berthas perfectly capable of getting herself lost. I agree we would have expected to have found her by now, but all the same, we’ve no evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at all. As for her disappearance being linked with Barty Crouch’s!” 
 
“And what do you thinks happened to Barty Crouch, Minister?” said Moody’s growling voice. 
 
“I see two possibilities, Alastor,” said Fudge. “Either Crouch has finally cracked - more than likely, I’m sure you’ll agree, given his personal history - lost his mind, and gone wandering off somewhere -” 
  
“He wandered extremely quickly, if that is the case, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore calmly. 
 
“Or else - well…” Fudge sounded embarrassed. “Well, I’ll reserve judgment until after I’ve seen the place where he was found, but you say it was just past the Beauxbatons carriage? Dumbledore, you know what that woman is?” 
 
“I consider her to be a very able headmistress - and an excellent dancer,” said Dumbledore quietly. 
 
“Dumbledore, come!” said Fudge angrily. “Don’t you think you might be prejudiced in her favor because of Hagrid? They don’t all turn out harmless - if, indeed, you can call Hagrid harmless, with that monster fixation he’s got -” 
 
“I no more suspect Madame Maxime than Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, just as calmly. “I think it possible that it is you who are prejudiced, Cornelius.”  
 
“Can we wrap up this discussion?” growled Moody. 
 
“Yes, yes, let’s go down to the grounds, then,” said Fudge impatiently. 
 
“No, it’s not that,” said Moody, “it’s just that Potter wants a word with you, Dumbledore. He’s just outside the door.” 
 
The door of the office opened. 
 
“Hello, Potter,” said Moody. “Come in, then.” 
 
Harry walked inside. He had been inside Dumbledore’s office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently. 
 
Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore’s desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat.  
 
“Harry!” said Fudge jovially, moving forward. “How are you?” 
 
“Fine,” Harry lied. 
 
“We were just talking about the night when Mr. Crouch turned up on the grounds,” said Fudge. “It was you who found him, was it not?” 
 
“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to pretend that he hadn’t overheard what they had been saying, he added, “I didn’t see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she’d have a job hiding, wouldn’t she?” 
 
Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge’s back, his eyes twinkling. 
 
“Yes, well,” said Fudge, looking embarrassed, “we’re about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you’ll excuse us… perhaps if you just go back to your class -” 
 
“I wanted to talk to you. Professor,” Harry said quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift, searching look. 
 
“Wait here for me, Harry,” he said. “Our examination of the grounds will not take long.” 
 
They trooped out in silence past him and closed the door. After a minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of Moody’s wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor below. He looked around. 
 
“Hello, Fawkes,” he said. 
 
Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore’s phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Harry. 
 
Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, thinking about what he had just heard, and running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped hurting now. 
 
He felt much calmer, somehow, now that he was in Dumbledore’s office, knowing he would shortly be telling him about the dream. Harry looked up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one he himself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in his second year. The sword had once belonged to Godric Gryffindor, founder of Harry’s House. He was gazing at it, remembering how it had come to his aid when he had thought all hope was lost, when he noticed a patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the glass case. He looked around for the source of the light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly from within a black cabinet behind him, whose door had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated, glanced at Fawkes, then got up, walked across the office, and pulled open the cabinet door. 
 
A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around the edge: runes and symbols that Harry did not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the basin’s contents, which were like nothing Harry had ever seen before. He could not tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked like light made liquid - or like wind made solid - Harry couldn’t make up his mind. 
 
He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four years’ experience of the magical world told him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them. 
 
The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast. Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. The silvery substance had become transparent; it looked like glass. He looked down into it expecting to see the stone bottom of the basin - and saw instead an enormous room below the surface of the mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling. 
 
The room was dimly lit; he thought it might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his nose was a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair stood in the very center of the room. There was something about the chair that gave Harry an ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were usually tied to it. 
 
Where was this place? It surely wasn’t Hogwarts; he had never seen a room like that here in the castle. Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers at Hogwarts. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting for something; even though he could only see the tops of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one another. 
 The basin being circular, and the room he was observing square, Harry could not make out what was going on in the corners of it. He leaned even closer, tilting his head, trying to see…  
 
The tip of his nose touched the strange substance into which he was staring. Dumbledore’s office gave an almighty lurch - Harry was thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance inside the basin – 
 
But his head did not hit the stone bottom. He was falling through something icycold and black; it was like being sucked into a dark whirlpool –  
 
And suddenly, Harry found himself sitting on a bench at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. He looked up at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which he had just been staring, but there was nothing there but dark, solid stone. 
 
Breathing hard and fast Harry looked around him. Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and there were at least two hundred of them) was looking at him. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that a fourteen-year-old boy had just dropped from the ceiling into their midst. Harry turned to the wizard next to him on the bench and uttered a loud cry of surprise that reverberated around the silent room. 
 
He was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore. 
 
“Professor!” Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to - I was just looking at that basin in your cabinet - I - where are we?” 
 
But Dumbledore didn’t move or speak. He ignored Harry completely. Like every other wizard on the benches, he was staring into the far corner of the room, where there was a door. 
 
Harry gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then around at the silently watchful crowd, then back at Dumbledore. And then it dawned on him…  
 
Once before Harry had found himself somewhere that nobody could see or hear him. That time, he had fallen through a page in an enchanted diary, right into somebody else’s memory… and unless he was very much mistaken, something of the sort had happened again…  
 
Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in from of Dumbledore’s face. Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or indeed move at all. And that, in Harry’s opinion, settled the matter. Dumbledore wouldn’t ignore him like that. He was inside a memory, and this was not the present-day Dumbledore. Yet it couldn’t be that long ago… the Dumbledore sitting next to him now was silver-haired, just like the present-day Dumbledore. But what was 
this place? What were all these wizards waiting for? Harry looked around more carefully. The room, as he had suspected when observing it from above, was almost certainly underground - more of a dungeon than a room, he thought. There was a bleak and forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so that they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms.  
 
Before Harry could reach any conclusions about the place in which they were, he heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three people entered - or at least one man, flanked by two dementors. 
 
Harry’s insides went cold. The dementors - tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed - were gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the room, each grasping one of the man’s arms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between them looked as though he was about to faint, and Harry couldn’t blame him… he knew the dementors could not touch him inside a memory, but he remembered their power only too well. The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the man in the chained chair and glided back out of the room. The door swung shut behind them.  
 
Harry looked down at the man now sitting in the chair and saw that it was Karkaroff. 
 
Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as Harry watched, the chains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked their way up Karkaroff’s arms, binding him there. 
 
“Igor Karkaroff,” said a curt voice to Harry’s left. Harry looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing up in the middle of the bench beside him. Crouch’s hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he looked fit and alert. “You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us.” 
 
Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair. 
 
“I have, sir,” he said, and although his voice was very scared, Harry could still hear the familiar unctuous note in it. “I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I - I know that the Ministry is trying to - to round up the last of the Dark Lords supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can…” 
 
There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Harry heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledores other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, “Filth.” 
 
Harry leaned forward so that he could see past Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there - except that there was a very noticeable difference in his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike. 
 
“Crouch is going to let him out,” Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. “He’s done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he’s got enough new names. Let’s hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors.” 
 
Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose. “Ah, I was forgetting… you don’t like the dementors, do you, Albus?” said Moody with a sardonic smile. 
 
“No,” said Dumbledore calmly, “I’m afraid I don’t. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures.” 
 
“But for filth like this…” Moody said softly. 
 
“You say you have names for us, Karkaroff,” said Mr. Crouch. “Let us hear them, please.” 
 
“You must understand,” said Karkaroff hurriedly, “that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy… He preferred that we - I mean to say, his supporters - and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them -” 
 
“Get on with it,” sneered Moody. 
 
“- we never knew the names of every one of our fellows - He alone knew exactly who we all were -” 
  
“Which was a wise move, wasn’t it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in,” muttered Moody. 
 
“Yet you say you have some names for us?” said Mr. Crouch. 
 
“I - I do,” said Karkaroff breathlessly. “And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely -” 
 
“These names are?” said Mr. Crouch sharply. 
 
Karkaroff drew a deep breath. 
 
“There was Antonin Dolohov,” he said. “I - I saw him torture countless Muggles and - and non-supporters of the Dark Lord.”  
 
“And helped him do it,” murmured Moody. 
 
“We have already apprehended Dolohov,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after yourself.” 
 
“Indeed?” said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. “I - I am delighted to hear it!” 
 
But he didn’t look it. Harry could tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless. 
 
“Any others?” said Crouch coldly. 
 
“Why, yes… there was Rosier,” said Karkaroff hurriedly. “Evan Rosier.”  
 
“Rosier is dead,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle.” 
 
“Took a bit of me with him, though,” whispered Moody to Harry’s right. Harry looked around at him once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore. 
 
“No - no more than Rosier deserved!” said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now.  
 
Harry could see that he was starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff’s eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting. 
 
“Any more?” said Crouch. 
 
“Yes!” said Karkaroff. “There was Travers - he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber - he specialized in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!” 
 
Harry could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together. 
 
“Rookwood?” said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. “Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?” 
 
“The very same,” said Karkaroff eagerly. “I believe he used a network of wellplaced wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information -” 
 
“But Travers and Mulciber we have,” said Mr. Crouch. “Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide -” 
 
“Not yet!” cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. “Wait, I have more!”  
 
Harry could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard. 
 
“Snape!” he shouted. “Severus Snape!” 
 
“Snape has been cleared by this council,” said Crouch disdainfully. “He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore.” 
 
“No!” shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. “I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!” 
 
Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. 
 
“I have given evidence already on this matter,” he said calmly. “Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort’s downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.” 
 
Harry turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep skepticism behind Dumbledore’s back. 
 
“Very well, Karkaroff,” Crouch said coldly, “you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime…” 
 
Mr. Crouch’s voice faded. Harry looked around; the dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything was fading; he could see only his own body - all else was swirling darkness…  
 
And then, the dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in a different seat, still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr. Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talking to one another, almost as though they were at some sort of sporting event. Harry noticed a witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite. 
 
She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a younger Rita Skeeter. Harry looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing different robes. Mr. Crouch looked more tired and somehow fiercer, gaunter… Harry understood. It was a different memory, a different day… a different trial. 
 
The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked into the room.  
 
This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at the height of his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn’t broken now; he was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair, but it did not bind him there as it had bound Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at a couple of them, and managed a small smile. 
 
“Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges relating to the activities of the Death Eaters,” said Mr. Crouch. “We have heard the evidence against you, and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have anything to add to your testimony before we pronounce judgment?” 
Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Ludo Bagman, a Death Eater? 
 
“Only,” said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, “well - I know I’ve been a bit of an idiot -” 
 
One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding seats smiled indulgently. Mr. Crouch did not appear to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity and dislike. 
 
“You never spoke a truer word, boy,” someone muttered dryly to Dumbledore behind Harry. He looked around and saw Moody sitting there again. “If I didn’t know he’d always been dim, I’d have said some of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain…” 
 
“Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing information to Lord Voldemort’s supporters,” said Mr. Crouch. “For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment in Azkaban lasting no less than -” 
 
But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding benches. Several of the witches and wizards around the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even their fists, at Mr. Crouch. 
 
“But I’ve told you, I had no idea!” Bagman called earnestly over the crowd’s babble, his round blue eyes widening. “None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of my dad’s… never crossed my mind he was in with You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting me a job in the Ministry later on… once my Quidditch days are over, you know… I mean, I can’t keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life, can I?”  
 
There were titters from the crowd. 
 
“It will be put to the vote,” said Mr. Crouch coldly. He turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. “The jury will please raise their hands… those in favor of imprisonment…” 
 
Harry looked toward the right-hand side of the dungeon. Not one person raised their hand. Many of the witches and wizards around the walls began to clap. One of the witches on the jury stood up. 
 
“Yes?” barked Crouch. 
 
“We’d just like to congratulate Mr. Bagman on his splendid performance for England in the Quidditch match against Turkey last Saturday,” the witch said breathlessly. 
 
Mr. Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and bowed, beaming.  
 
“Despicable,” Mr. Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon. “Rookwood get him a job indeed… The day Ludo Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeed for the Ministry…” 
  
And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had returned, Harry looked around. He and Dumbledore were still sitting beside Mr. Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr. Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands. 
 
Harry looked up at Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter and grayer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple. 
 
“Bring them in,” he said, and his voice echoed through the silent dungeon.  
 
The door in the corner opened yet again. Six dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whispered to one another.  
 
The dementors placed each of the four people in the four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and more nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around the crowd; a woman with thick, shining dark hair and heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained chair as though it were a throne; and a boy in his late teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was shivering, his strawcolored hair all over his face, his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her seat whimpering into her handkerchief. 
  
Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face.  
 
“You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law,” he said clearly, “so that we may pass judgment on you, for a crime so heinous -” 
 
“Father,” said the boy with the straw-colored hair. “Father… please…”  
 
“- that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,” said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son’s voice. 
 
“We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror - Frank Longbottom - and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -” 
 
“Father, I didn’t!” shrieked the boy in chains below. “I didn’t, I swear it. Father, don’t send me back to the dementors -”  
 
“You are further accused,” bellowed Mr. Crouch, “of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom’s wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury -” 
 
“Mother!” screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward and forward. “Mother, stop him. Mother, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me!” 
 
“I now ask the jury,” shouted Mr. Crouch, “to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!” 
 
In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls began to clap as it had for Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy began to scream. “No! Mother, no! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t know! Don’t send me there, don’t let him!” 
 
The dementors were gliding back into the room. The boys’ three companions rose quietly from their seats; the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, “The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!” 
 
But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Harry could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle. 
 
“I’m your son!” he screamed up at Crouch. “I’m your son!” 
 
“You are no son of mine!” bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. “I have no son!” 
 
The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed. 
 
“Take them away!” Crouch roared at the dementors, spit flying from his mouth. “Take them away, and may they rot there!” 
 
“Father! Father, I wasn’t involved! No! No! Father, please!” 
 
“I think Harry, it is time to return to my office,” said a quiet voice in Harrys ear.  
 
Harry started. He looked around. Then he looked on his other side. 
 
There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on his right, watching Crouch’s son being dragged away by the dementors - and there was an Albus Dumbledore on his left, looking right at him. 
 
“Come,” said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put his hand under Harrys elbow. Harry felt himself rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around him; for a moment, all was blackness, and then he felt as though he had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on his feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore’s sunlit office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of him, and Albus Dumbledore was standing beside him. 
 
“Professor,” Harry gasped, “I know I shouldn’t’ve - I didn’t mean - the cabinet door was sort of open and -” 
 
“I quite understand,” said Dumbledore. He lifted the basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the polished top, and sat down in the chair behind it. He motioned for Harry to sit down opposite him. 
 
Harry did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents had returned to their original, silvery-white state, swirling and rippling beneath his gaze. 
 
“What is it?” Harry asked shakily. 
 
“This? It is called a Pensieve,” said Dumbledore. “I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind.” 
 
“Er,” said Harry, who couldn’t truthfully say that he had ever felt anything of the sort. 
 
“At these times,” said Dumbledore, indicating the stone basin, “I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one’s mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one’s leisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form.” 
 
“You mean… that stuff’s your thoughts?” Harry said, staring at the swirling white substance in the basin. 
 
“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Let me show you.” 
 
Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his robes and placed the tip into his own silvery hair, near his temple. When he took the wand away, hair seemed to be clinging to it - but then Harry saw that it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange silvery-white substance that filled the Pensieve. Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the basin, and Harry, astonished, saw his own face swimming around the surface of the bowl. Dumbledore placed his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would pan for fragments of gold… and Harry saw his own face change smoothly into Snape’s, who opened his mouth and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly.  
 
“It’s coming back… Karkaroff’s too… stronger and clearer than ever…” 
 
“A connection I could have made without assistance,” Dumbledore sighed, “but never mind.” He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, who was gaping at Snape’s face, which was continuing to swirl around the bowl. “I was using the Pensieve when Mr. Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away rather hastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door properly. Naturally, it would have attracted your attention.” 
 
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled. 
 
Dumbledore shook his head. “Curiosity is not a sin,” he said. “But we should exercise caution with our curiosity… yes, indeed…” 
 
Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose out of it, a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen, who began to revolve slowly, with her feet still in the basin. She took no notice whatsoever of Harry or Professor Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as Snape’s had done, as though it were coming from the depths of the stone basin. 
 
“He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday…” 
 
“But why Bertha,” said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, “why did you have to follow him in the first place?” 
 
“Bertha?” Harry whispered, looking up at her. “Is that - was that Bertha Jorkins?”  
 
“Yes,” said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the basin again; Bertha sank back into them, and they became silvery and opaque once more. “That was Bertha as I remember her at school.” 
 
The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated Dumbledore’s face, and it struck Harry suddenly how very old he was looking. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man. 
 
“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me something.” 
 
“Yes,” said Harry. “Professor - I was in Divination just now, and - er - I fell asleep.” 
 
He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was coming, but Dumbledore merely said, “Quite understandable. Continue.” 
 
“Well, I had a dream,” said Harry. “A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail… you know who Wormtail-” 
 
“I do know,” said Dumbledore promptly. “Please continue.” 
 
“Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like, Wormtail’s blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, Wormtail wouldn’t be fed to the snake - there was a snake beside his chair. He said - he said he’d be feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail - and my scar hurt,” Harry said. “It woke me up, it hurt so badly.” 
 
Dumbledore merely looked at him. 
 
“Er - that’s all,” said Harry. 
 
“I see,” said Dumbledore quietly. “I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?” 
 
“No, I - how did you know it woke me up over the summer?” said Harry, astonished. 
 
“You are not Sirius’s only correspondent,” said Dumbledore. “I have also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place for him to stay.” 
 
Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed his wand tip to his temple, removed another shining silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that Harry couldn’t make out anything clearly: It was merely a blur of color.  
 
“Professor?” he said quietly, after a couple of minutes. 
 
Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Harry. 
 
“My apologies,” he said quietly. He sat back down at his desk.  
 
“D’you - d’you know why my scar’s hurting me?” 
 
Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a moment, and then said, “I have a theory, no more than that… It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.” 
 
“But… why?” 
 
“Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed,” said Dumbledore. “That is no ordinary scar.” 
 
“So you think… that dream… did it really happen?” 
 
“It is possible,” said Dumbledore. “I would say - probable. Harry - did you see Voldemort?” 
 
“No,” said Harry. “Just the back of his chair. But - there wouldn’t have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he hasn’t got a body, has he? But… but then how could he have held the wand?” Harry said slowly. 
 
“How indeed?” muttered Dumbledore. “How indeed…” 
 
Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledore was gazing across the room, and, every now and then, placing his wand tip to his temple and adding another shining silver thought to the seething mass within the Pensieve. 
 
“Professor,” Harry said at last, “do you think he’s getting stronger?” 
“Voldemort?” said Dumbledore, looking at Harry over the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look Dumbledore had given him on other occasions, and always made Harry feel as though Dumbledore were seeing right through him in a way that even Moody’s magical eye could not. “Once again Harry, I can only give you my suspicions.” 
 
Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and wearier, than ever. “The years of Voldemort’s ascent to power,” he said, “were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished without a trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr. Crouch too has disappeared… within these very grounds. And there was a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort’s father grew up, and he has not been seen since last August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, unlike most of my Ministry friends.” 
 
Dumbledore looked very seriously at Harry. 
 
“These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The Ministry disagrees - as you may have heard, while waiting outside my office.” 
 
Harry nodded. Silence fell between them again, Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then. Harry felt as though he ought to go, but his curiosity held him in his chair. 
 
“Professor?” he said again. 
 
“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore. 
 
“Er… could I ask you about… that court thing I was in… in the Pensieve?” 
 
“You could,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I attended it many times, but some trials come back to me more clearly than others… particularly now…” 
 
“You know - you know the trial you found me in? The one with Crouch’s son? Well… were they talking about Neville’s parents?” 
 
Dumbledore gave Harry a very sharp look. “Has Neville never told you why he has been brought up by his grandmother?” he said. 
 
Harry shook his head, wondering, as he did so, how he could have failed to ask Neville this, in almost four years of knowing him. 
 
“Yes, they were talking about Nevilles parents,” said Dumbledore. “His father, Frank, was an Auror just like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured for information about Voldemort’s whereabouts after he lost his powers, as you heard.” 
 
“So they’re dead?” said Harry quietly. 
 
“No,” said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness Harry had never heard there before. “They are insane. They are both in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I believe Neville visits them, with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do not recognize him.” 
 
Harry sat there, horror-struck. He had never known… never, in four years, bothered to find out…   
“The Longbottoms were very popular,” said Dumbledore. “The attacks on them came after Voldemort’s fall from power, just when everyone thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was under great pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, the Longbottoms’ evidence was - given their condition - none too reliable.” 
 
“Then Mr. Crouch’s son might not have been involved?” said Harry slowly. Dumbledore shook his head. 
 
“As to that, I have no idea.” 
 
Harry sat in silence once more, watching the contents of the Pensieve swirl. There were two more questions he was burning to ask… but they concerned the guilt of living people…  
 
“Er,” he said, “Mr. Bagman…” 
 
“… has never been accused of any Dark activity since,” said Dumbledore calmly.  
 
“Right,” said Harry hastily, staring at the contents of the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly now that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts. 
 
“And… er…” 
 
But the Pensieve seemed to be asking his question for him. 
 
Snape’s face was swimming on the surface again. Dumbledore glanced down into it, and then up at Harry. 
 
“No more has Professor Snape,” he said. 
 
Harry looked into Dumbledore’s light blue eyes, and the thing he really wanted to know spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it. 
 
“What made you think he’d really stopped supporting Voldemort, Professor?” 
 
Dumbledore held Harrys gaze for a few seconds, and then said, “That, Harry, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself.” 
 
Harry knew that the interview was over; Dumbledore did not look angry, yet there was a finality in his tone that told Harry it was time to go. He stood up, and so did Dumbledore. 
“Harry,” he said as Harry reached the door. “Please do not speak about Neville’s parents to anybody else. He has the right to let people know, when he is ready.” 
 
“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, turning to go. 
 
“And-” 
 
Harry looked back. Dumbledore was standing over the Pensieve, his face lit from beneath by its silvery spots of light, looking older than ever. He stared at Harry for a moment, and then said, “Good luck with the third task.” 
 
“Dumbledore reckons You-Know-Who’s getting stronger again as well?” Ron whispered. 
 
Everything Harry had seen in the Pensieve, nearly everything Dumbledore had told and shown him afterward, he had now shared with Ron and Hermione - and, of course, with Sirius, to whom Harry had sent an owl the moment he had left Dumbledore’s office. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat up late in the common room once again that night, talking it all over until Harry’s mind was reeling, until he understood what Dumbledore had meant about a head becoming so full of thoughts that it would have been a relief to siphon them off. 
 
Ron stared into the common room fire. Harry thought he saw Ron shiver slightly, even though the evening was warm. 
 
“And he trusts Snape?” Ron said. “He really trusts Snape, even though he knows he was a Death Eater?” 
 
“Yes,” said Harry. 
 
Hermione had not spoken for ten minutes. She was sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her knees. Harry thought she too looked as though she could have done with a Pensieve. 
 
“Rita Skeeter,” she muttered finally. 
 
“How can you be worrying about her now?” said Ron, in utter disbelief. 
 
“I’m not worrying about her,” Hermione said to her knees. “I’m just thinking… remember what she said to me in the Three Broomsticks? ‘I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl.’ This is what she meant, isn’t it? She reported his trial, she knew he’d passed information to the Death Eaters. And Winky too, remember… ‘Ludo Bagman’s a bad wizard.’ Mr. Crouch would have been furious he got off, he would have talked about it at home.” 
 
“Yeah, but Bagman didn’t pass information on purpose, did he?” Hermione shrugged. 
 
“And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked Crouch?” Ron said, turning back to Harry. 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, “but he’s only saying that because Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage.” 
 
“We never thought of her, did we?” said Ron slowly. “Mind you, she’s definitely got giant blood, and she doesn’t want to admit it-” 
 
“Of course she doesn’t,” said Hermione sharply, looking up. “Look what happened to Hagrid when Rita found out about his mother. Look at Fudge, jumping to conclusions about her, just because she’s part giant. Who needs that sort of prejudice? I’d probably say I had big bones if I knew that’s what I’d get for telling the truth.” 
 
Hermione looked at her watch. “We haven’t done any practicing!” she said, looking shocked. “We were going to do the Impediment Curse! We’ll have to really get down to it tomorrow! Come on. Harry, you need to get some sleep.” 
 
Harry and Ron went slowly upstairs to their dormitory. As Harry pulled on his pajamas, he looked over at Nevilles bed. True to his word to Dumbledore, he had not told Ron and Hermione about Neville s parents. As Harry took off his glasses and climbed into his four-poster, he imagined how it must feel to have parents still living but unable to recognize you. He often got sympathy from strangers for being an orphan, but as he listened to Nevilles snores, he thought that Neville deserved it more than he did. Lying in the darkness, Harry felt a rush of anger and 
hate toward the people who had tortured Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom… He remembered the jeers of the crowd as Crouch’s son and his companions had been dragged from the court by the dementors… He understood how they had felt… Then he remembered the milk-white face of the screaming boy and realized with a jolt that he had died a year later…  
 
It was Voldemort, Harry thought, staring up at the canopy of his bed in thedarkness, it all came back to Voldemort… He was the one who had torn these families apart, who had ruined all these lives…  
 
Ron and Hermione were supposed to be studying for their exams, which would finish on the day of the third task, but they were putting most of their efforts into helping Harry prepare.  
 
“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione said shortly when Harry pointed this out to them and said he didn’t mind practicing on his own for a while, “at least we’ll get top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. We’d never have found out about all these hexes in class.” 
 
“Good training for when we’re all Aurors,” said Ron excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a wasp that had buzzed into the room and making it stop dead in midair. 
 
The mood in the castle as they entered June became excited and tense again. Everyone was looking forward to the third task, which would take place a week before the end of term. Harry was practicing hexes at every available moment. He felt more confident about this task than either of the others. Difficult and dangerous though it would undoubtedly be, Moody was right: Harry had managed to find his way past monstrous creatures and enchanted barriers before now, and this time he had some notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay ahead. 
 
Tired of walking in on Harry, Hermione, and Ron all over the school, Professor McGonagall had given them permission to use the empty Transfiguration classroom at lunchtimes. Harry had soon mastered the Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and obstruct attackers; the Reductor Curse, which would enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermiones that would make his wand point due north, therefore enabling him to check whether he was going in the right direction within the maze. He was still having trouble with the Shield Charm, though. This was supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around himself that deflected minor curses; Hermione managed to shatter it with a well-placed Jelly-Legs Jinx, and Harry wobbled around the room for ten minutes afterward before she had looked up the counterjinx. 
 
“You’re still doing really well, though,” Hermione said encouragingly, looking down her list and crossing off those spells they had already learned. “Some of these are bound to come in handy.” 
 
“Come and look at this,” said Ron, who was standing by the window. He was staring down onto the grounds. “What’s Malfoy doing?” 
 
Harry and Hermione went to see. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in the shadow of a tree below. Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be keeping a lookout; both were smirking. Malfoy was holding his hand up to his mouth and speaking into it.  
 
“He looks like he’s using a walkie-talkie,” said Harry curiously. 
 
“He can’t be,” said Hermione, “I’ve told you, those sorts of things don’t work around Hogwarts. Come on, Harry,” she added briskly, turning away from the window and moving back into the middle of the room, “let’s try that Shield Charm again.” 
 
Sirius was sending daily owls now. Like Hermione, he seemed to want to concentrate on getting Harry through the last task before they concerned themselves with anything else. He reminded Harry in every letter that whatever might be going on outside the walls of Hogwarts was not Harry’s responsibility, nor was it within his power to influence it. 
 
If Voldemort is really getting stronger again, he wrote, my priority is to ensure your safety. He cannot hope to lay hands on you while you are under Dumbledore’s protection, but all the same, take no risks: Concentrate on getting through that maze safely, and then we can turn our attention to other matters. 
 
Harry’s nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth drew closer, but they were not as bad as those he had felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing, he was confident that, this time, he had done everything in his power to prepare for the task. For another, this was the final hurdle, and however well or badly he did, the tournament would at last be over, which would be an enormous relief. 
 
Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor table on the morning of the third task. The post owls appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from Sirius. It was only a piece of parchment, folded over and bearing a muddy paw print on its front, but Harry appreciated it all the same. A screech owl arrived for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of the Daily Prophet as usual. She unfolded the paper, glanced at the front page, and spat out a mouthful of pumpkin juice all over it. 
 
“What?” said Harry and Ron together, staring at her. “Nothing,” said Hermione quickly, trying to shove the paper out of sight, but Ron grabbed it. He stared at the headline and said, “No way. Not today. That old cow.” 
 
“What?” said Harry. “Rita Skeeter again?” 
 
“No,” said Ron, and just like Hermione, he attempted to push the paper out of sight. 
 
“It’s about me, isn’t it?” said Harry. 
 
“No,” said Ron, in an entirely unconvincing tone. But before Harry could demand to see the paper Draco Malfoy shouted across the Great Hall from the Slytherin table. 
 
“Hey, Potter! Potter! How’s your head? You feeling all right? Sure you’re not going to go berserk on us?” 
 
Malfoy was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet too. Slytherins up and down the table were sniggering, twisting in their seats to see Harry’s reaction. 
 
“Let me see it,” Harry said to Ron. “Give it here.” 
 
Very reluctantly, Ron handed over the newspaper. Harry turned it over and found himself staring at his own picture, beneath the banner headline: 
 
‘HARRY POTTER DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS’ 
 
The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has recently come to light about Harry Potter’s strange behavior, which casts doubts upon his suitability to compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School. 
 
Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson, your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying. 
 
It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potters brain was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You- Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is still hurting is an expression of his deep-seated confusion. 
 
“He might even be pretending,” said one specialist. “This could be a plea for attention.” 
 
The Daily Prophet, however, has unearthed worrying facts about Harry Potter that Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from the wizarding public. 
 
“Potter can speak Parseltongue,” reveals Draco Malfoy, a Hogwarts fourth year. “There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago, and most people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his temper at a dueling club and set a snake on another boy. It was all hushed up, though. But he’s made friends with werewolves and giants too. We think he’d do anything for a bit of power.” 
 
Parseltongue, the ability to converse with snakes, has long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most famous Parselmouth of our times is none other than You-Know-Who himself. A member of the Dark Force Defense League, who wished to remain unnamed, stated that he would regard any wizard who could speak Parseltongue “as worthy of investigation. Personally, I would be highly suspicious of anybody who could converse with snakes, as serpents are often used in the worst kinds of Dark Magic, and are historically associated with evildoers.” Similarly, “anyone who seeks out the company of such vicious creatures as werewolves and giants would appear to have a fondness for violence.” 
 
Albus Dumbledore should surely consider whether a boy such as this should be allowed to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Some fear that Potter might resort to the Dark Arts in his desperation to win the tournament, the third task of which takes place this evening. 
 
“Gone off me a bit, hasn’t she?” said Harry lightly, folding up the paper. 
 
Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were laughing at him, tapping their heads with their fingers, pulling grotesquely mad faces, and waggling their tongues like snakes. 
 
“How did she know your scar hurt in Divination?” Ron said. “There’s no way she was there, there’s no way she could’ve heard -” 
 
“The window was open,” said Harry. “I opened it to breathe.”  
 
“You were at the top of North Tower!” Hermione said. “Your voice couldn’t have carried all the way down to the grounds!” 
 
“Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be researching magical methods of bugging!” said Harry. “You tell me how she did it!” 
 
“I’ve been trying!” said Hermione. “But I… but…” 
 
An odd, dreamy expression suddenly came over Hermione’s face. She slowly raised a hand and ran her fingers through her hair. 
 
“Are you all right?” said Ron, frowning at her. 
 
“Yes,” said Hermione breathlessly. She ran her fingers through her hair again, and then held her hand up to her mouth, as though speaking into an invisible walkietalkie. Harry and Ron stared at each other. 
 
“I’ve had an idea,” Hermione said, gazing into space. “I think I know… because then no one would be able to see… even Moody… and she’d have been able to get onto the window ledge… but she’s not allowed… she’s definitely not allowed… I think we’ve got her! Just give me two  seconds in the library - just to make sure!” 
 
With that, Hermione seized her school bag and dashed out of the Great Hall. 
 
“Oy!” Ron called after her. “We’ve got our History of Magic exam in ten minutes! Blimey,” he said, turning back to Harry, “she must really hate that Skeeter woman to risk missing the start of an exam. What’re you going to do in Binns’s class – read again?” 
 
Exempt from the end-of-term tests as a Triwizard champion, Harry had been sitting in the back of every exam class so far, looking up fresh hexes for the third task. 
 
“S’pose so,” Harry said to Ron; but just then. Professor McGonagall came walking alongside the Gryffindor table toward him. 
 
“Potter, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast,” she said. 
 
“But the task’s not till tonight!” said Harry, accidentally spilling scrambled eggs down his front, afraid he had mistaken the time. 
 
“I’m aware of that, Potter,” she said. “The champions’ families are invited to watch the final task, you know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them.” She moved away. Harry gaped after her. 
 
“She doesn’t expect the Dursleys to turn up, does she?” he asked Ron blankly.  
 
“Dunno,” said Ron. “Harry, I’d better hurry, I’m going to be late for Binns. See you later.” 
 
Harry finished his breakfast in the emptying Great Hall. He saw Fleur Delacour get up from the Ravenclaw table and join Cedric as he crossed to the side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off to join them shortly afterward. Harry stayed where he was. He really didn’t want to go into the chamber. He had no family - no family who would turn up to see him risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up, thinking that he might as well go up to the library and do a spot more hex research, the door of the side chamber opened, and Cedric stuck his head out. 
 
“Harry, come on, they’re waiting for you!” 
 
Utterly perplexed Harry got up. The Dursleys couldn’t possibly be here, could they? He walked across the Hall and opened the door into the chamber. Cedric and his parents were just inside the door. Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. He had inherited his fathers hooked nose. On the other side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her mother. Fleur’s little sister, Gabrielle, was holding her mother’s hand. She waved at Harry, who waved back, grinning. Then he saw Mrs. Weasley and Bill standing in front of the fireplace, beaming at him.  
“Surprise!” Mrs. Weasley said excitedly as he smiled broadly and walked over to them. “Thought we’d come and watch you. Harry!” She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. 
 
“You all right?” said Bill, grinning at Harry and shaking his hand. “Charlie wanted to come, but he couldn’t get time off. He said you were incredible against the Horntail.” 
 
Fleur Delacour, Harry noticed, was eyeing Bill with great interest over her mother’s shoulder. Harry could tell she had no objection whatsoever to long hair or earrings with fangs on them. 
 
“This is really nice of you,” Harry muttered to Mrs. Weasley. “I thought for a moment - the Dursleys -” 
 
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Weasley, pursing her lips. She had always refrained from criticizing the Dursleys in front of Harry, but her eyes flashed every time they were mentioned. 
 
“It’s great being back here,” said Bill, looking around the chamber (Violet, the Fat Lady’s friend, winked at him from her frame). “Haven’t seen this place for five years. Is that picture of the mad knight still around? Sir Cadogan?” 
 
“Oh yeah,” said Harry, who had met Sir Cadogan the previous year.  
 
“And the Fat Lady?” said Bill. 
 
“She was here in my time,” said Mrs. Weasley. “She gave me such a telling off one night when I got back to the dormitory at four in the morning -” 
 
“What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in the morning?” said Bill, surveying his mother with amazement. 
 
Mrs. Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling. 
 
“Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll,” she said. “He got caught by Apollyon Pringle - he was the caretaker in those days - your father’s still got the marks.” 
 
“Fancy giving us a tour, Harry?” said Bill. 
 
“Yeah, okay,” said Harry, and they made their way back toward the door into the Great Hall. As they passed Amos Diggory, he looked around. 
 
“There you are, are you?” he said, looking Harry up and down. 
 
“Bet you’re not feeling quite as full of yourself now Cedrics caught you up on points, are you?” 
 
“What?” said Harry. 
 
“Ignore him,” said Cedric in a low voice to Harry, frowning after his father. “He’s been angry ever since Rita Skeeters article about the Triwizard Tournament – you know, when she made out you were the only Hogwarts champion.” 
 
“Didn’t bother to correct her, though, did he?” said Amos Diggory, loudly enough for Harry to hear as he started to walk out of the door with Mrs. Weasley and Bill. “Still… you’ll show him, Ced. Beaten him once before, haven’t you?”  
 
“Rita Skeeter goes out of her way to cause trouble, Amos!” Mrs. Weasley said angrily. “I would have thought you’d know that, working at the Ministry!” 
 
Mr. Diggory looked as though he was going to say something angry, but his wife laid a hand on his arm, and he merely shrugged and turned away.  
 
Harry had a very enjoyable morning walking over the sunny grounds with Bill and Mrs. Weasley, showing them the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang ship. Mrs. Weasley was intrigued by the Whomping Willow, which had been planted after she had left school, and reminisced at length about the gamekeeper before Hagrid, a man called Ogg. 
 
“How’s Percy?” Harry asked as they walked around the greenhouses. 
 
“Not good,” said Bill. 
 
“He’s very upset,” said Mrs. Weasley, lowering her voice and glancing around. “The Ministry wants to keep Mr. Crouch’s disappearance quiet, but Percy’s been hauled in for questioning about the instructions Mr. Crouch has been sending in. They seem to think there’s a chance they weren’t genuinely written by him. Percy’s been under a lot of strain. They’re not letting him fill in for Mr. Crouch as the fifth judge tonight. Cornelius Fudge is going to be doing it.” 
 
They returned to the castle for lunch. 
 
“Mum - Bill!” said Ron, looking stunned, as he joined the Gryffindor table. “What’re you doing here?” 
 
“Come to watch Harry in the last task!” said Mrs. Weasley brightly. “I must say, it makes a lovely change, not having to cook. How was your exam?” 
 
“Oh… okay,” said Ron. “Couldn’t remember all the goblin rebels’ names, so I invented a few. It’s all right,” he said, helping himself to a Cornish pasty, while Mrs. Weasley looked stern, “they’re all called stuff like Bodrod the Bearded and Urg the Unclean; it wasn’t hard.” 
 
Fred, George, and Ginny came to sit next to them too, and Harry was having such a good time he felt almost as though he were back at the Burrow; he had forgotten to worry about that evening’s task, and not until Hermione turned up, halfway through lunch, did he remember that she had had a brainwave about Rita Skeeter. 
 
“Are you going to tell us -?” 
 
Hermione shook her head warningly and glanced at Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“Hello, Hermione,” said Mrs. Weasley, much more stiffly than usual. 
 
“Hello,” said Hermione, her smile faltering at the cold expression on Mrs. Weasley’s face. 
 
Harry looked between them, then said, “Mrs. Weasley, you didn’t believe that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote in Witch Weekly, did you? Because Hermione’s not my girlfriend.” 
 
“Oh!” said Mrs. Weasley “No - of course I didn’t!” 
 
But she became considerably warmer toward Hermione after that. 
 
Harry, Bill, and Mrs. Weasley whiled away the afternoon with a long walk around the castle, and then returned to the Great Hall for the evening feast. Ludo Bagman and Cornelius Fudge had joined the staff table now. Bagman looked quite cheerful, but Cornelius Fudge, who was sitting next to Madame Maxime, looked stern and was not talking. Madame Maxime was concentrating on her plate, and Harry thought her eyes looked red. Hagrid kept glancing along the table at her. 
 
There were more courses than usual, but Harry, who was starting to feel really nervous now, didn’t eat much. As the enchanted ceiling overhead began to fade from blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rose to his feet at the staff table, and silence fell. 
 
“Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes’ time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now.” 
 
Harry got up. The Gryffindors all along the table were applauding him; the Weasleys and Hermione all wished him good luck, and he headed off out of the Great Hall with Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor. 
 
“Feeling all right. Harry?” Bagman asked as they went down the stone steps onto the grounds. “Confident?” 
 
“I’m okay,” said Harry. It was sort of true; he was nervous, but he kept running over all the hexes and spells he had been practicing in his mind as they walked, and the knowledge that he could remember them all made him feel better. 
 
They walked onto the Quidditch field, which was now completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge ran all the way around the edge of it. There was a gap right in front of them: the entrance to the vast maze. The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy. 
 
Five minutes later, the stands had begun to fill; the air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. The sky was a deep, clear blue now, and the first stars were starting to appear. Hagrid, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick came walking into the stadium and approached Bagman and the champions. They were wearing large, red, luminous stars on their hats, all except Hagrid, who had his on the back of his moleskin vest. 
 
“We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze,” said Professor McGonagall to the champions. “If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?” 
 
The champions nodded. 
 
“Off you go, then!” said Bagman brightly to the four patrollers. 
 
“Good luck. Harry,” Hagrid whispered, and the four of them walked away in different directions, to station themselves around the maze. Bagman now pointed his wand at his throat, muttered, “Sonorus,” and his magically magnified voice echoed into the stands. 
 
“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eighty-five points each - Mr. Cedric Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!” The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. “In second place, with eighty points - Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!” More applause. “And in third place – Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!” 
 
Harry could just make out Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione applauding Fleur politely, halfway up the stands. He waved up at them, and they waved back, beaming at him. 
 
“So… on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” said Bagman. “Three - two - one -” 
 
He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Harry and Cedric hurried forward into the maze. 
 The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment they entered the maze. Harry felt almost as though he were underwater again. He pulled out his wand, muttered, “Lumos,” and heard Cedric do the same just behind him. 
 
After about fifty yards, they reached a fork. They looked at each other.  
 
“See you,” Harry said, and he took the left one, while Cedric took the right. 
 
Harry heard Bagman’s whistle for the second time. Krum had entered the maze. Harry sped up. His chosen path seemed completely deserted. He turned right, and hurried on, holding his wand high over his head, trying to see as far ahead as possible. Still, there was nothing in sight. 
 
Bagman’s whistle blew in the distance for the third time. All of the champions were now inside. 
 
Harry kept looking behind him. The old feeling that he was being watched was upon him. The maze was growing darker with every passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to navy. He reached a second fork.  
 
“Point Me,” he whispered to his wand, holding it flat in his palm. 
 
The wand spun around once and pointed toward his right, into solid hedge. That way was north, and he knew that he needed to go northwest for the center of the maze. The best he could do was to take the left fork and go right again as soon as possible. 
 
The path ahead was empty too, and when Harry reached a right turn and took it, he again found his way unblocked. Harry didn’t know why, but the lack of obstacles was unnerving him. Surely he should have met something by now? It felt as though the maze were luring him into a false sense of security. Then he heard movement right behind him. He held out his wand, ready to attack, but its beam fell only upon Cedric, who had just hurried out of a path on the right-hand side. 
 
Cedric looked severely shaken. The sleeve of his robe was smoking. 
 
“Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts!” he hissed. “They’re enormous - I only just got away!” 
 
He shook his head and dived out of sight, along another path. Keen to put plenty of distance between himself and the skrewts, Harry hurried off again. Then, as he turned a corner, he saw… a dementor gliding toward him. Twelve feet tall, its face hidden by its hood, its rotting, scabbed hands outstretched, it advanced, sensing its way blindly toward him. Harry could hear its rattling breath; he felt clammy coldness stealing over him, but knew what he had to do…  
 
He summoned the happiest thought he could, concentrated with all his might on the thought of getting out of the maze and celebrating with Ron and Hermione, raised his wand, and cried, “Expecto Patronum!” 
 
A silver stag erupted from the end of Harry’s wand and galloped toward the dementor, which fell back and tripped over the hem of its robes… Harry had never seen a dementor stumble. 
 
“Hang on!” he shouted, advancing in the wake of his silver Patronus, “You’re a boggart! Riddikulus!” 
 
There was a loud crack, and the shape-shifter exploded in a wisp of smoke. The silver stag faded from sight. Harry wished it could have stayed, he could have used some company… but he moved on, quickly and quietly as possible, listening hard, his wand held high once more. 
 
Left… right… left again… Twice he found himself facing dead ends. He did the Four-Point Spell again and found that he was going too far east. He turned back, took a right turn, and saw an odd golden mist floating ahead of him. 
 
Harry approached it cautiously, pointing the wand’s beam at it. This looked like some kind of enchantment. He wondered whether he might be able to blast it out of the way. 
 
“Reducio!” he said. 
 
The spell shot straight through the mist, leaving it intact. He supposed he should have known better; the Reductor Curse was for solid objects. What would happen if he walked through the mist? Was it worth chancing it, or should he double back? 
 
He was still hesitating when a scream shattered the silence. 
 
“Fleur?” Harry yelled. 
 
There was silence. He stared all around him. What had happened to her? Her scream seemed to have come from somewhere ahead. He took a deep breath and ran through the enchanted mist. 
 
The world turned upside down. Harry was hanging from the ground, with his hair on end, his glasses dangling off his nose, threatening to fall into the bottomless sky. He clutched them to the end of his nose and hung there, terrified. It felt as though his feet were glued to the grass, which had now become the ceiling. Below him the dark, star-spangled heavens stretched endlessly. He felt as though if he tried to move one of his feet, he would fall away from the earth completely. 
 
Think, he told himself, as all the blood rushed to his head, think…  
 
But not one of the spells he had practiced had been designed to combat a sudden reversal of ground and sky. Did he dare move his foot? He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He had two choices - try and move, or send up red sparks, and get rescued and disqualified from the task. 
 
He shut his eyes, so he wouldn’t be able to see the view of endless space below him, and pulled his right foot as hard as he could away from the grassy ceiling. 
 
Immediately, the world righted itself. Harry fell forward onto his knees onto the wonderfully solid ground. He felt temporarily limp with shock. He took a deep, steadying breath, then got up again and hurried forward, looking back over his shoulder as he ran away from the golden mist, which twinkled innocently at him in the moonlight. 
 
He paused at a junction of two paths and looked around for some sign of Fleur. He was sure it had been she who had screamed. What had she met? Was she all right? There was no sign of red sparks - did that mean she had got herself out of trouble, or was she in such trouble that she couldn’t reach her wand? Harry took the right fork with a feeling of increasing unease… but at the same time, he couldn’t help thinking. One champion down…  
 
The cup was somewhere close by, and it sounded as though Fleur was no longer in the running. He’d got this far, hadn’t he? What if he actually managed to win? Fleetingly, and for the first time since he’d found himself champion, he saw again that image of himself, raising the Triwizard Cup in front of the rest of the school…  
 
He met nothing for ten minutes, but kept running into dead ends. Twice he took the same wrong turning. Finally, he found a new route and started to jog along it, his wandlight waving, making his shadow flicker and distort on the hedge walls. 
 
Then he rounded another corner and found himself facing a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Cedric was right - it was enormous. Ten feet long, it looked more like a giant scorpion than anything. Its long sting was curled over its back. Its thick armor glinted in the light from Harry’s wand, which he pointed at it.  
 
“Stupefy!” 
 
The spell hit the skrewt’s armor and rebounded; Harry ducked just in time, but could smell burning hair; it had singed the top of his head. The skrewt issued a blast of fire from its end and flew forward toward him. 
 
“Impedimenta!” Harry yelled. The spell hit the skrewt’s armor again and ricocheted off; Harry staggered back a few paces and fell over. 
 
“IMPEDIMENTA!” 
 
The skrewt was inches from him when it froze - he had managed to hit it on its fleshy, shell-less underside. Panting, Harry pushed himself away from it and ran, hard, in the opposite direction - the Impediment Curse was not permanent; the skrewt would be regaining the use of its legs at any moment. 
 
He took a left path and hit a dead end, a right, and hit another; forcing himself to stop, heart hammering, he performed the Four-Point Spell again, backtracked, and chose a path that would take him northwest. 
 
He had been hurrying along the new path for a few minutes, when he heard something in the path running parallel to his own that made him stop dead.  
 
“What are you doing?” yelled Cedric’s voice. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” 
 
And then Harry heard Krum’s voice. 
 
“Crucio!” 
 
The air was suddenly full of Cedric’s yells. Horrified, Harry began sprinting up his path, trying to find a way into Cedric’s. When none appeared, he tried the Reductor Curse again. It wasn’t very effective, but it burned a small hole in the hedge through which Harry forced his leg, kicking at the thick brambles and branches until they broke and made an opening; he struggled through it, tearing his robes, and looking to his right, saw Cedric jerking and twitching on the ground, Krum standing over him. 
 
Harry pulled himself up and pointed his wand at Krum just as Krum looked up. Krum turned and began to run. 
 
“Stupefy!” Harry yelled. 
 
The spell hit Krum in the back; he stopped dead in his tracks, fell forward, and lay motionless, facedown in the grass. Harry-dashed over to Cedric, who had stopped twitching and was lying there panting, his hands over his face. 
 
“Are you all right?” Harry said roughly, grabbing Cedric’s arm. 
 
“Yeah,” panted Cedric. “Yeah… I don’t believe it… he crept up behind me… I heard him, I turned around, and he had his wand on me…” 
 
Cedric got up. He was still shaking. He and Harry looked down at Krum. 
 
“I can’t believe this… I thought he was all right,” Harry said, staring at Krum. 
 
“So did I,” said Cedric. 
 
“Did you hear Fleur scream earlier?” said Harry. 
 
“Yeah,” said Cedric. “You don’t think Krum got her too?” 
 
“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly. 
 
“Should we leave him here?” Cedric muttered. 
 
“No,” said Harry. “I reckon we should send up red sparks. Someone’ll come and collect him… otherwise he’ll probably be eaten by a skrewt.” 
 
“He’d deserve it,” Cedric muttered, but all the same, he raised his wand and shot a shower of red sparks into the air, which hovered high above Krum, marking the spot where he lay. 
 Harry and Cedric stood there in the darkness for a moment, looking around them. 
 
Then Cedric said, “Well… I s’pose we’d better go on…” 
 
“What?” said Harry. “Oh… yeah… right…” 
 
It was an odd moment. He and Cedric had been briefly united against Krum – now the fact that they were opponents came back to Harry. The two of them proceeded up the dark path without speaking, then Harry turned left, and Cedric right. 
Cedric’s footsteps soon died away. 
 
Harry moved on, continuing to use the Four-Point Spell, making sure he was moving in the right direction. It was between him and Cedric now. His desire to reach the cup first was now burning stronger than ever, but he could hardly believe what he’d just seen Krum do. The use of an Unforgivable Curse on a fellow human being meant a life term in Azkaban, that was what Moody had told them. Krum surely couldn’t have wanted the Triwizard Cup that badly… Harry sped up. 
 
Every so often he hit more dead ends, but the increasing darkness made him feel sure he was getting near the heart of the maze. Then, as he strode down a long, straight path, he saw movement once again, and his beam of wandlight hit an extraordinary creature, one which he had only seen in picture form, in his Monster Book of Monsters. 
 
It was a sphinx. It had the body of an over-large lion: great clawed paws and a long yellowish tail ending in a brown tuft. Its head, however, was that of a woman. She turned her long, almond-shaped eyes upon Harry as he approached. He raised his wand, hesitating. She was not crouching as if to spring, but pacing from side to side of the path, blocking his progress. Then she spoke, in a deep, hoarse voice. 
 
“You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past me.” 
 
“So… so will you move, please?” said Harry, knowing what the answer was going to be. 
 
“No,” she said, continuing to pace. “Not unless you can answer my riddle. Answer on your first guess - I let you pass. Answer wrongly - I attack. Remain silent – I will let you walk away from me unscathed.” 
 
Harry’s stomach slipped several notches. It was Hermione who was good at this sort of thing, not him. He weighed his chances. If the riddle was too hard, he could keep silent, get away from the sphinx unharmed, and try and find an alternative route to the center. 
 
“Okay,” he said. “Can I hear the riddle?” 
 
The sphinx sat down upon her hind legs, in the very middle of the path, and recited: 
 
“First think of the person who lives in disguise, 
 
Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies. 
 
Next, tell me what’s always the last thing to mend, 
 
The middle of middle and end of the end? 
 
And finally give me the sound often heard 
 
During the search for a hard-to-find word. 
 
Now string them together, and answer me this, 
 
Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?” 
 
Harry gaped at her. 
 
“Could I have it again… more slowly?” he asked tentatively. She blinked at him, smiled, and repeated the poem. “All the clues add up to a creature I wouldn’t want to kiss?” Harry asked. 
 
She merely smiled her mysterious smile. Harry took that for a “yes.” Harry cast his mind around. There were plenty of animals he wouldn’t want to kiss; his immediate thought was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, but something told him that wasn’t the answer. He’d have to try and work out the clues…  
 
“A person in disguise,” Harry muttered, staring at her, “who lies… er… that’d be a - an impostor. No, that’s not my guess! A - a spy? I’ll come back to that… could you give me the next clue again, please?” 
 
She repeated the next lines of the poem. 
 
“‘The last thing to mend,’” Harry repeated. “Er… no idea… ‘middle of middle’… could I have the last bit again?” 
 
She gave him the last four lines. 
 
“‘The sound often heard during the search for a hard-to-find word,’” said Harry. “Er… that’d be… er… hang on - ‘er’! Er’s a sound!” 
 
The sphinx smiled at him. 
 
“Spy… er… spy… er…” said Harry, pacing up and down. “A creature I wouldn’t want to kiss… a spider!” 
 
The sphinx smiled more broadly. She got up, stretched her front legs, and then moved aside for him to pass. 
 
“Thanks!” said Harry, and, amazed at his own brilliance, he dashed forward. 
 
He had to be close now, he had to be… His wand was telling him he was bang on course; as long as he didn’t meet anything too horrible, he might have a chance…  
 
Harry broke into a run. He had a choice of paths up ahead. “Point Me!” he whispered again to his wand, and it spun around and pointed him to the right-hand one. He dashed up this one and saw light ahead. 
The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a hundred yards away. Suddenly a dark figure hurtled out onto the path in front of him. 
 
Cedric was going to get there first. Cedric was sprinting as fast as he could toward the cup, and Harry knew he would never catch up, Cedric was much taller, had much longer legs - 
 
Then Harry saw something immense over a hedge to his left, moving quickly along a path that intersected with his own; it was moving so fast Cedric was about to run into it, and Cedric, his eyes on the cup, had not seen it – 
 
“Cedric!” Harry bellowed. “On your left!” 
 
Cedric looked around just in time to hurl himself past the thing and avoid colliding with it, but in his haste, he tripped. Harry saw Cedric’s wand fly out of his hand as a gigantic spider stepped into the path and began to bear down upon Cedric. 
 
“Stupefy!” Harry yelled; the spell hit the spider’s gigantic, hairy black body, but for all the good it did, he might as well have thrown a stone at it; the spider jerked, scuttled around, and ran at Harry instead. 
 
“Stupefy! Impedimenta! Stupefy!” 
 
But it was no use - the spider was either so large, or so magical, that the spells were doing no more than aggravating it. Harry had one horrifying glimpse of eight shining black eyes and razor-sharp pincers before it was upon him. 
 
He was lifted into the air in its front legs; struggling madly, he tried to kick it; his leg connected with the pincers and next moment he was in excruciating pain. He could hear Cedric yelling “Stupefy!” too, but his spell had no more effect than Harry’s - Harry raised his wand as the spider opened its pincers once more and shouted “Expelliarmus!” 
 
It worked - the Disarming Spell made the spider drop him, but that meant that Harry fell twelve feet onto his already injured leg, which crumpled beneath him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the spider’s underbelly, as he had done with the skrewt, and shouted “Stupefy!’’ just as Cedric yelled the same thing. 
 
The two spells combined did what one alone had not: The spider keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby hedge, and strewing the path with a tangle of hairy legs. 
 
“Harry!” he heard Cedric shouting. “You all right? Did it fall on you?”  
 
“No,” Harry called back, panting. He looked down at his leg. It was bleeding freely. He could see some sort of thick, gluey secretion from the spider’s pincers on his torn robes. He tried to get up, but his leg was shaking badly and did not want to support his weight. He leaned against the hedge, gasping for breath, and looked around. 
 
Cedric was standing feet from the Triwizard Cup, which was gleaming behind him. 
 
“Take it, then,” Harry panted to Cedric. “Go on, take it. You’re there.” 
 
But Cedric didn’t move. He merely stood there, looking at Harry. Then he turned to stare at the cup. Harry saw the longing expression on his face in its golden light. Cedric looked around at Harry again, who was now holding onto the hedge to support himself. Cedric took a deep breath. 
 
“You take it. You should win. That’s twice you’ve saved my neck in here.” 
 
“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Harry said. He felt angry; his leg was very painful, he was aching all over from trying to throw off the spider, and after all his efforts, Cedric had beaten him to it, just as he’d beaten Harry to ask Cho to the ball. “The one who reaches the cup first gets the points. That’s you. I’m telling you, I’m not going to win any races on this leg.” 
 
Cedric took a few paces nearer to the Stunned spider, away from the cup, shaking his head. 
 
“No,” he said. 
 
“Stop being noble,” said Harry irritably. “Just take it, then we can get out of here.”   
  
Cedric watched Harry steadying himself, holding tight to the hedge. 
 
“You told me about the dragons,” Cedric said. “I would’ve gone down in the first task if you hadn’t told me what was coming.” 
 
“I had help on that too,” Harry snapped, trying to mop up his bloody leg with his robes. “You helped me with the egg - we’re square.” 
 
“I had help on the egg in the first place,” said Cedric. 
 
“We’re still square,” said Harry, testing his leg gingerly; it shook violently as he put weight on it; he had sprained his ankle when the spider had dropped him. 
 
“You should’ve got more points on the second task,” said Cedric mulishly. “You stayed behind to get all the hostages. I should’ve done that.” 
 
“I was the only one who was thick enough to take that song seriously!” said Harry bitterly. “Just take the cup!” 
 
“No,” said Cedric. 
 
He stepped over the spider’s tangled legs to join Harry, who stared at him. Cedric was serious. He was walking away from the sort of glory Hufflepuff House hadn’t had in centuries. 
 
“Go on,” Cedric said. He looked as though this was costing him every ounce of resolution he had, but his face was set, his arms were folded, he seemed decided. 
 
Harry looked from Cedric to the cup. For one shining moment, he saw himself emerging from the maze, holding it. He saw himself holding the Triwizard Cup aloft, heard the roar of the crowd, saw Cho’s face shining with admiration, more clearly than he had ever seen it before… and then the picture faded, and he found himself staring at Cedric’s shadowy, stubborn face. 
 
“Both of us,” Harry said. 
 
“What?” 
 
“We’ll take it at the same time. It’s still a Hogwarts victory. We’ll tie for it.” 
 
Cedric stared at Harry. He unfolded his arms. 
 
“You - you sure?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah… we’ve helped each other out, haven’t we? We both got here. Let’s just take it together.” 
 
For a moment, Cedric looked as though he couldn’t believe his ears; then his face split in a grin. 
 
“You’re on,” he said. “Come here.” 
 
He grabbed Harrys arm below the shoulder and helped Harry limp toward the plinth where the cup stood. When they had reached it, they both held a hand out over one of the cup’s gleaming handles. 
 
“On three, right?” said Harry. “One - two - three -” 
 
He and Cedric both grasped a handle. 
 
Instantly, Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel. His feet had left the ground. He could not unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was pulling him onward in a howl of wind and swirling color, Cedric at his side. 
 
Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured leg gave way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head. 
 
“Where are we?” he said. 
 
Cedric shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around. They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously traveled miles - perhaps hundreds of miles - for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside. 
 
Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry. 
 
“Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?” he asked. 
 
“Nope,” said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. “Is this supposed to be part of the task?” 
 
“I dunno,” said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous. “Wands out, d’you reckon?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the suggestion rather than him. 
 
They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched. 
 
“Someone’s coming,” he said suddenly. 
 
Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between the graves. Harry couldn’t make out a face, but from the way it was walking and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And - several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all the time - Harry saw that the thing in the persons arms looked like a baby… or was it merely a bundle of robes? 
 
Harry lowered his wand slightly and glanced sideways at Cedric. Cedric shot him a quizzical look. They both turned back to watch the approaching figure. It stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. For a second Harry and Cedric and the short figure simply looked at one another. 
 
And then, without warning, Harry’s scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; his wand slipped from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open. 
 
From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say, “Kill the spare.” 
 
A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words to the night: 
 
“Avada Kedavra!” 
 
A blast of green light blazed through Harry’s eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes. 
 
Cedric was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. He was dead. 
 
For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared into Cedric’s face, at his open gray eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised. And then, before Harry’s mind had accepted what he was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet. 
 
The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, lit his wand, and was dragging Harry toward the marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it flickering in the wandlight before he was forced around and slammed against it.  
 
TOM RIDDLE 
 
The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords around Harry, tying him from neck to ankles to the headstone. Harry could hear shallow, fast breathing from the depths of the hood; he struggled, and the man hit him - hit him with a hand that had a finger missing. And Harry realized who was under the hood. It was Wormtail. 
 
“You!” he gasped. 
 
But Wormtail, who had finished conjuring the ropes, did not reply; he was busy checking the tightness of the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, rumbling over the knots. Once sure that Harry was bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn’t move an inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it roughly into Harry’s mouth; then, without a word, he turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn’t make a sound, nor could he see where Wormtail had gone; he couldn’t turn his head to see beyond the 
headstone; he could see only what was right in front of him. 
 
Cedric’s body was lying some twenty feet away. Some way beyond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the Triwizard Cup. Harry’s wand was on the ground at Cedric’s feet. The bundle of robes that Harry had thought was a baby was close by, at the foot of the grave. It seemed to be stirring fretfully. Harry watched it, and his scar seared with pain again… and he suddenly knew that he didn’t want to see what was in those robes… he didn’t want that bundle opened…  
 
He could hear noises at his feet. He looked down and saw a gigantic snake slithering through the grass, circling the headstone where he was tied. Wormtail’s fast, wheezy breathing was growing louder again. It sounded as though he was forcing something heavy across the ground. Then he came back within Harry’s range of vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone cauldron to the foot of the grave. It was full of what seemed to be water - Harry could hear it slopping around 
- and it was larger than any cauldron Harry had ever used; a great stone belly large enough for a full-grown man to sit in. 
 
The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying to free itself. Now Wormtail was busying himself at the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly there were crackling names beneath it. The large snake slithered away into the darkness. The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very fast. The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was thickening, blurring the outline of Wormtail tending the fire. The movements beneath the robes became more agitated. And Harry heard the high, cold voice again. 
 
“Hurry!” 
 
The whole surface of the water was alight with sparks now. It might have been encrusted with diamonds. 
 
“It is ready Master.” 
 
“Now…” said the cold voice. 
 
Wormtail pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing what was inside them, and Harry let out a yell that was strangled in the wad of material blocking his mouth. 
 
It was as though Wormtail had flipped over a stone and revealed something ugly, slimy, and blind - but worse, a hundred times worse. The thing Wormtail had been carrying had the shape of a crouched human child, except that Harry had never seen anything less like a child. It was hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs were thin and feeble, and its face - no child alive ever had a face like that - flat and snakelike, with gleaming red eyes. 
 
The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin arms, put them around Wormtail’s neck, and Wormtail lifted it. As he did so, his hood fell back, and Harry saw the look of revulsion on Wormtail’s weak, pale face in the firelight as he carried the creature to the rim of the cauldron. For one moment, Harry saw the evil, flat face illuminated in the sparks dancing on the surface of the potion. And then Wormtail lowered the creature into the cauldron; there was a hiss, and it 
vanished below the surface; Harry heard its frail body hit the bottom with a soft thud. 
 
Let it drown, Harry thought, his scar burning almost past endurance, please… let it drown…  
 
Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night. 
 
“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!” 
 
The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Wormtail’s command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. 
 
And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs. 
 
“Flesh - of the servant - w-willingly given - you will - revive - your master.” 
 
He stretched his right hand out in front of him - the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward. 
 
Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a second before it happened – he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. 
 
Harry couldn’t stand to look… but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s closed eyelids…  
 
Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of him.  
 
“B-blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will… resurrect your foe.” 
 
Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too tightly… Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver dagger shaking in Wormtails remaining hand. He felt its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes. Wormtail, still panting with pain, rumbled in his pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it. 
 
He staggered back to the cauldron with Harrys blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing. 
 
The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing happened…  
 
Let it have drowned. Harry thought, let it have gone wrong…  
 
And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn’t see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor hanging in the air… It’s gone wrong, he thought… it’s drowned… please… please let it be dead…  
 
But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron. 
 
“Robe me,” said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them onehanded over his master’s head. 
 
The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry… and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snakes with slits for nostrils…  
 
Lord Voldemort had risen again. 
 
Voldemort looked away from Harry and began examining his own body. His hands were like large, pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cats, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant. He took not the slightest notice of Wormtail, who lay twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great snake, which had 
slithered back into sight and was circling Harry again, hissing. Voldemort slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Wormtail, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh. 
Wormtail’s robes were shining with blood now; he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them. 
 
“My Lord…” he choked, “my Lord… you promised… you did promise…” 
 
“Hold out your arm,” said Voldemort lazily. 
 
“Oh Master… thank you, Master…” 
 
He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again. 
 
“The other arm, Wormtail.” 
 
“Master, please… please…” 
 
Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tattoo - a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth - the image that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping. 
 
“It is back,” he said softly, “they will all have noticed it… and now, we shall see… now we shall know…” 
 
He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm. 
 
The scar on Harry s forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black. 
 
A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard. 
“How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?” 
 
He began to pace up and down before Harry and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face. 
 
“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool… very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child… and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death…” 
 
Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass. 
 
“You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was… He didn’t like magic, my father…  
 
“He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage… but I vowed to find him… I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name… Tom Riddle…” 
 
Still he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to grave. 
 
“Listen to me, reliving family history…” he said quietly, “why, I am growing quite sentimental… But look, Harry! My true family returns…” 
 
The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward… slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort and kissed the hem of his black robes. 
 
“Master… Master” he murmured. 
 
The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered. 
 
“Welcome, Death Eaters,” said Voldemort quietly. “Thirteen years… thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday, we are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?” 
He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening. 
 
“I smell guilt,” he said. “There is a stench or guilt upon the air.” 
 
A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare to step back from him. 
 
“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! And I ask myself… why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?” 
 
No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding arm. 
 
“And I answer myself,” whispered Voldemort, “they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment…  
 
“And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living? 
 
“And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort… perhaps they now pay allegiance to another… perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?” 
 
At the mention of Dumbledore’s name, the members of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them. 
 
“It is a disappointment to me… I confess myself disappointed…” 
 
One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort’s feet. 
 
“Master!” he shrieked, “Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!” 
 
Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand. 
 
“Crucio!” 
 
The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked; Harry was sure the sound must carry to the houses around… Let the police come, he thought desperately… anyone… anything…  
 
Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping. 
 
“Get up, Avery,” said Voldemort softly. “Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years… I want thirteen years’ repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?” 
 
He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob. 
 
“You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don’t you?” 
 
“Yes, Master,” moaned Wormtail, “please. Master… please…” 
 
“Yet you helped return me to my body,” said Voldemort coolly, watching Wormtail sob on the ground. “Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me… and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers…” 
 
Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. A streak of what looked like molten silver hung shining in the wand’s wake. Momentarily shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as moonlight, which soared downward and fixed itself upon Wormtails bleeding wrist. 
 
Wormtail’s sobbing stopped abruptly. His breathing harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder. 
 
“My Lord,” he whispered. “Master… it is beautiful… thank you… thank you…” 
 
He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort’s robes. 
 
“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail,” said Voldemort. 
 
“No, my Lord… never, my Lord…” 
 
Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle, staring at his powerful new hand, his face still shining with tears. Voldemort now approached the man on Wormtail’s right. 
 
“Lucius, my slippery friend,” he whispered, halting before him. “I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius… Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay… but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?” 
 
“My Lord, I was constantly on the alert,” came Lucius Malfoy’s voice swiftly from beneath the hood. “Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -” 
 
“And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?” said Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly. “Yes, I know all about that, Lucius… You have disappointed me… I expect more faithful service in the future.” 
 
“Of course, my Lord, of course… You are merciful, thank you…” 
 
Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the space - large enough for two people - that separated Malfoy and the next man. 
 
“The Lestranges should stand here,” said Voldemort quietly. “But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me… When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us… they are our natural allies… we will recall the banished giants… I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear…” 
 
He walked on. Some of the Death Eaters he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them. 
 
“Macnair… destroying dangerous beasts for the Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord Voldemort will provide…” 
 
“Thank you, Master… thank you,” murmured Macnair. 
 
“And here” - Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures - “we have Crabbe… you will do better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you, Goyle?” 
 
They bowed clumsily, muttering dully. 
 
“Yes, Master…” 
 
“We will, Master…” 
 
“The same goes for you, Nott,” said Voldemort quietly as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyles shadow. 
 
“My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful -” 
 
“That will do,” said Voldemort. 
 
He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he could see people standing there. 
 
“And here we have six missing Death Eaters… three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return… he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever… he will be killed, of course… and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service.” 
 
The Death Eaters stirred, and Harry saw their eyes dart sideways at one another through their masks. 
 
“He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young friend arrived here tonight…  
 
“Yes,” said Voldemort, a grin curling his lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry’s direction. “Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honor.” 
 
There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy’s voice spoke from under the mask. 
 
“Master, we crave to know… we beg you to tell us… how you have achieved this… this miracle… how you managed to return to us…” 
 
“Ah, what a story it is, Lucius,” said Voldemort. “And it begins - and ends – with my young friend here.” 
 
He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry, so that the eyes of the whole circle were upon the two of them. The snake continued to circle.  
 
“You know, of course, that they have called this boy my downfall?” Voldemort said softly, his red eyes upon Harry, whose scar began to burn so fiercely that he almost screamed in agony. “You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him. His mother died in the attempt to save him – and unwittingly provided him with a protection I admit I had not foreseen… I could not touch the boy.” 
 
Voldemort raised one of his long white fingers and put it very close to Harry’s cheek. 
 
“His mother left upon him the traces other sacrifice… This is old magic, I should have remembered it, I was foolish to overlook it… but no matter. I can touch him now.” 
 
Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch him, and thought his head would burst with the pain. Voldemort laughed softly in his ear, then took the finger away and continued addressing the Death Eaters. 
 
“I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah… pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost… but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know… I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal - to conquer death. And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or more of my experiments had worked… for I had not been killed, though the curse should have done it. Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest creature alive, and without the means to help myself… for I had no body, and every spell that might have helped me required the use of a wand…  
“I remember only forcing myself, sleeplessly, endlessly, second by second, to exist… I settled in a faraway place, in a forest, and I waited… Surely, one of my faithful Death Eaters would try and find me… one of them would come and perform the magic I could not, to restore me to a body… but I waited in vain…” 
 
The shiver ran once more around the circle of listening Death Eaters. Voldemort let the silence spiral horribly before continuing. 
 
“Only one power remained to me. I could possess the bodies of others. But I dared not go where other humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors were still abroad and searching for me. I sometimes inhabited animals - snakes, of course, being my preference - but I was little better off inside them than as pure spirit, for their bodies were ill adapted to perform magic… and my possession of them shortened their lives; none of them lasted long…  
 
“Then… four years ago… the means for my return seemed assured. A wizard - young, foolish, and gullible - wandered across my path in the forest I had made my home. Oh, he seemed the very chance I had been dreaming of… for he was a teacher at Dumbledore’s school… he was easy to bend to my will… he brought me back to this country, and after a while, I took possession of his body, to supervise him closely as he carried out my orders. But my plan failed. I did not manage to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone. I was not to be assured immortal life. I was thwarted… thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter…” 
 
Silence once more; nothing was stirring, not even the leaves on the yew tree. The Death Eaters were quite motionless, the glittering eyes in their masks fixed upon Voldemort, and upon Harry. 
 
“The servant died when I left his body, and I was left as weak as ever I had been,” Voldemort continued. “I returned to my hiding place far away, and I will not pretend to you that I didn’t then fear that I might never regain my powers… Yes, that was perhaps my darkest hour… I could not hope that I would be sent another wizard to possess… and I had given up hope, now, that any of my Death Eaters cared what had become of me…” 
 
One or two of the masked wizards in the circle moved uncomfortably, but Voldemort took no notice. 
 
“And then, not even a year ago, when I had almost abandoned hope, it happened at last… a servant returned to me. Wormtail here, who had faked his own death to escape justice, was driven out of hiding by those he had once counted friends, and decided to return to his master. He sought me in the country where it had long been rumored I was hiding… helped, of course, by the rats he met along the way. Wormtail has a curious affinity with rats, do you not, Wormtail? His filthy little friends told him there was a place, deep in an Albanian forest, that they avoided, where small animals like themselves had met their deaths by a dark shadow that 
possessed them…  
 
“But his journey back to me was not smooth, was it, Wormtail? For, hungry one night, on the edge of the very forest where he had hoped to find me, he foolishly stopped at an inn for some food… and who should he meet there, but one Bertha Jorkins, a witch from the Ministry of Magic. 
 
“Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort. This might have been the end of Wormtail, and of my last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail - displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him - convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her… he brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams… for - with a little persuasion - she became a veritable mine of information. 
 
“She told me that the Triwizard Tournament would be played at Hogwarts this year. She told me that she knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too willing to help me, if I could only contact him. She told me many things… but the means I used to break the Memory Charm upon her were powerful, and when I had extracted all useful information from her, her mind and body were both damaged beyond repair. She had now served her purpose. I could not possess her. I disposed of her.” 
 
Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless. 
 
“Wormtail’s body, of course, was ill adapted for possession, as all assumed him dead, and would attract far too much attention if noticed. However, he was the able-bodied servant I needed, and, poor wizard though he is, Wormtail was able to follow the instructions I gave him, which would return me to a rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I would be able to inhabit while awaiting the essential ingredients for true rebirth… a spell or two of my own invention… a little help from my dear Nagini,” Voldemorts red eyes fell upon the continually circling snake, “a potion concocted from unicorn blood, and the snake venom Nagini provided… I was soon returned to an almost human form, and strong enough to travel. 
 
“There was no hope of stealing the Sorcerer’s Stone anymore, for I knew that Dumbledore would have seen to it that it was destroyed. But I was willing to embrace mortal life again, before chasing immortality. I set my sights lower… I would settle for my old body back again, and my old strength.  
 
“I knew that to achieve this - it is an old piece of Dark Magic, the potion that revived me tonight - I would need three powerful ingredients. Well, one of them was already at hand, was it not, Wormtail? Flesh given by a servant…  
 
“My father’s bone, naturally, meant that we would have to come here, where he was buried. But the blood of a foe… Wormtail would have had me use any wizard, would you not, Wormtail? Any wizard who had hated me… as so many of them still do. But I knew the one I must use, if I was to rise again, more powerful than I had been when I had fallen. I wanted Harry Potters blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago… for the 
lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too…  
 
“But how to get at Harry Potter? For he has been better protected than I think even he knows, protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, when it fell to him to arrange the boy’s future. Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the boy’s protection as long as he is in his relations’ care. Not even I can touch him there… Then, of course, there was the Quidditch World Cup… I thought his protection might be weaker there, away from his relations and Dumbledore, but I was not yet strong enough to attempt kidnap in the midst of a horde of Ministry wizards. And then, the boy would return to Hogwarts, where he is under the crooked nose of that Muggle-loving fool from morning until night. So how could I take him? 
 
“Why… by using Bertha Jorkins’s information, of course. Use my one faithful Death Eater, stationed at Hogwarts, to ensure that the boy’s name was entered into the Goblet of Fire. Use my Death Eater to ensure that the boy won the tournament - that he touched the Triwizard Cup first - the cup which my Death Eater had turned into a Portkey, which would bring him here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore’s help and protection, and into my waiting arms. And here he is… the boy you all believed had been my downfall…” 
 
Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned to face Harry. He raised his wand.  
 
“Crucio!” 
 
It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling madly in his head; he wanted it to end… to black out… to die…  
 
And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort’s father, looking up into those bright red eyes through a kind of mist. The night was ringing with the sound of the Death Eaters’ laughter. 
 
“You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me,” said Voldemort. “But I want there to be no mistake in anybody’s mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger. Just a little longer, Nagini,” he whispered, and the snake glided away through the grass to where the Death Eaters stood watching. 
 
“Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand.” 
 
Wormtail approached Harry, who scrambled to find his feet, to support his own weight before the ropes were untied. Wormtail raised his new silver hand, pulled out the wad of material gagging Harry, and then, with one swipe, cut through the bonds tying Harry to the gravestone. 
 
There was a split second, perhaps, when Harry might have considered running for it, but his injured leg shook under him as he stood on the overgrown grave, as the Death Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter circle around him and Voldemort, so that the gaps where the missing Death Eaters should have stood were filled.  
 
Wormtail walked out of the circle to the place where Cedric’s body lay and returned with Harry’s wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry’s hand without looking at him. Then Wormtail resumed his place in the circle of watching Death Eaters. 
 
“You have been taught how to duel Harry Potter?” said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness. 
 
At these words Harry remembered, as though from a former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago… All he had learned there was the Disarming Spell, “Expelliarmus”… and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He had never learned anything that could possibly fit him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against which Moody had always warned… the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse – and Voldemort was right - his mother was not here to die for him this time… He was quite unprotected…  
 
“We bow to each other. Harry,” said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. “Come, the niceties must be observed… Dumbledore would like you to show manners… Bow to death, Harry…” 
 
The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemorts lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him… he was not going to give him that satisfaction…  
 
“I said, bow,” Voldemort said, raising his wand - and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever. 
 
“Very good,” said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted too. “And now you face me, like a man… straight-backed and proud, the way your father died…  
 
“And now - we duel.” 
Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was… White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he’d ever screamed in his life - 
 
And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort. 
 
“A little break,” said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, “a little pause… That hurt, didn’t it Harry? You don’t want me to do that again, do you?” 
 
Harry didn’t answer. He was going to die like Cedric, those pitiless red eyes were telling him so… he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it… but he wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t going to obey Voldemort… he wasn’t going to beg…  
 
“I asked you whether you want me to do that again,” said Voldemort softly. 
 
“Answer me! Imperio” 
 
And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought… Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming… just answer no… say no… just answer no…  
 
I will not, said a stronger voice, in the back of his head, I won’t answer… Just answer no…  
 
I won’t do it, I won’t say it…  
 
Just answer no…  
 
“I WON’T!” 
 
And these words burst from Harry’s mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him - back rushed the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body - back rushed the realization of where he was, and what he was facing…  
 
“You won’t?” said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. “You won’t say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die… Perhaps another little dose of pain?” 
 
Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him. 
 
“We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry,” said Voldemort’s soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. “You cannot hide from me. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry? Come out, Harry… come out and play, then… it will be quick… it might even be painless… I would not know… I have never died…” 
 
Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the end had come. There was no hope… no help to be had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort s feet… he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defense was possible…  
 
Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face around the headstone. Harry stood up… he gripped his wand tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself around the headstone, facing Voldemort.  
 
Voldemort was ready. As Harry shouted, “Expelliarmus!” Voldemort cried, “Avada Kedavra!” 
 
A jet of green light issued from Voldemorts wand just as a jet of red light blasted from Harry’s - they met in midair - and suddenly Harry’s wand was vibrating as though an electric charge were surging through it; his hand seized up around it; he couldn’t have released it if he’d wanted to - and a narrow beam of light connected the two wands, neither red nor green, but bright, deep gold. Harry, following the beam with his astonished gaze, saw that Voldemort’s long white fingers too were gripping a wand that was shaking and vibrating. 
 
And then - nothing could have prepared Harry for this - he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of shimmering golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of Voldemort’s father and then came to rest on a patch of ground that was clear and free of graves… The Death Eaters were shouting; they were asking Voldemort for instructions; they were closing in, reforming the circle 
around Harry and Voldemort, the snake slithering at their heels, some of them drawing their wands – 
 
The golden thread connecting Harry and Voldemort splintered; though the wands remained connected, a thousand more beams arced high over Harry and Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light, beyond which the Death Eaters circled like jackals, their cries strangely muffled now…  
 
“Do nothing!” Voldemort shrieked to the Death Eaters, and Harry saw his red eyes wide with astonishment at what was happening, saw him fighting to break the thread of light still connecting his wand with Harry’s; Harry held onto his wand more tightly, with both hands, and the golden thread remained unbroken. “Do nothing unless I command you!” Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters. 
 
And then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air… It was coming from every thread of the light-spun web vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. It was a sound Harry recognized, though he had heard it only once before in his life: phoenix song. 
 
It was the sound of hope to Harry… the most beautiful and welcome thing he had ever heard in his life… He felt as though the song were inside him instead of just around him… It was the sound he connected with Dumbledore, and it was almost as though a friend were speaking in his ear…  
 
Don’t break the connection. 
 
I know. Harry told the music, I know I mustn’t… but no sooner had he thought it, than the thing became much harder to do. His wand began to vibrate more powerfully than ever… and now the beam between him and Voldemort changed too… it was as though large beads of light were sliding up and down the thread connecting the wands - Harry felt his wand give a shudder under his hand as the light beads began to slide slowly and steadily his way… The direction of the beams movement was now toward him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder angrily…  
 
As the closest bead of light moved nearer to Harrys wand tip, the wood beneath his fingers grew so hot he feared it would burst into flame. The closer that bead moved, the harder Harry’s wand vibrated; he was sure his wand would not survive contact with it; it felt as though it was about to shatter under his fingers – 
 
He concentrated every last particle of his mind upon forcing the bead back toward Voldemort, his ears full of phoenix song, his eyes furious, fixed… and slowly, very slowly, the beads quivered to a halt, and then, just as slowly, they began to move the other way… and it was Voldemort’s wand that was vibrating extra-hard now… Voldemort who looked astonished, and almost fearful…  
 
One of the beads of light was quivering, inches from the tip of Voldemorts wand. Harry didn’t understand why he was doing it, didn’t know what it might achieve… but he now concentrated as he had never done in his life on forcing that bead of light right back into Voldemort s wand… and slowly… very slowly… it moved  along the golden thread… it trembled for a moment… and then  it connected…  
 
At once, Voldemorts wand began to emit echoing screams of pain… then - Voldemort’s red eyes widened with shock - a dense, smoky hand flew out of the tip of it and vanished… the ghost of the hand he had made Wormtail… more shouts of pain… and then something much larger began to blossom from Voldemorts wand tip, a great, grayish something, that looked as though it were 
made of the solidest, densest smoke… It was a head… now a chest and arms… the torso of Cedric Diggory. 
 
If ever Harry might have released his wand from shock, it would have been then, but instinct kept him clutching his wand tightly, so that the thread of golden light remained unbroken, even though the thick gray ghost of Cedric Diggory (was it a ghost? it looked so solid) emerged in its entirety from the end of Voldemort s wand, as though it were squeezing itself out of a very narrow tunnel… and this shade of Cedric stood up, and looked up and down the golden thread of light, and spoke. 
 
“Hold on. Harry,” it said. 
 
Its voice was distant and echoing. Harry looked at Voldemort… his wide red eyes were still shocked… he had no more expected this than Harry had… and, very dimly Harry heard the frightened yells of the Death Eaters, prowling around the edges of the golden dome… More screams of pain from the wand… and then something else emerged from its tip… the dense shadow of a second head, quickly followed by arms and torso… an old man Harry had seen only in a dream was now pushing himself out of the end of the wand just as Cedric had done… and his ghost, or his shadow, or whatever it was, fell next to Cedric’s, and surveyed Harry and Voldemort, and the golden web, and the connected wands, with mild surprise, leaning on his walking stick…  
 
“He was a real wizard, then?” the old man said, his eyes on Voldemort. “Killed me, that one did… You fight him, boy…” 
 
But already, yet another head was emerging… and this head, gray as a smoky statue, was a woman’s… Harry, both arms shaking now as he fought to keep his wand still, saw her drop to the ground and straighten up like the others, staring…  
 
The shadow of Bertha Jorkins surveyed the battle before her with wide eyes. 
 
“Don’t let go, now!” she cried, and her voice echoed like Cedrics as though from very far away. “Don’t let him get you, Harry - don’t let go!” 
 
She and the other two shadowy figures began to pace around the inner walls of the golden web, while the Death Eaters flitted around the outside of it… and Voldemort’s dead victims whispered as they circled the duelers, whispered words of encouragement to Harry, and hissed words Harry couldn’t hear to Voldemort. And now another head was emerging from the tip of Voldemorts wand… and Harry knew when he saw it who it would be… he knew, as though he had expected it from the moment when Cedric had appeared from the wand… knew, because the man appearing was the one he’d thought of more than any other tonight…  
 
The smoky shadow of a tall man with untidy hair fell to the ground as Bertha had done, straightened up, and looked at him… and Harry, his arms shaking madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his father. 
 
“Your mother’s coming…” he said quietly. “She wants to see you… it will be all right… hold on…” 
 
And she came… first her head, then her body… a young woman with long hair, the smoky, shadowy form of Lily Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort’s wand, fell to the ground, and straightened like her husband. She walked close to Harry, looking down at him, and she spoke in the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his victims prowled around him, could not hear…  
 
“When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments… but we will give you time… you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts… do you understand, Harry?” 
 
“Yes,” Harry gasped, fighting now to keep a hold on his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his fingers. 
 
“Harry…” whispered the figure of Cedric, “take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents…” 
 
“I will,” said Harry, his face screwed up with the effort of holding the wand.  
 
“Do it now,” whispered his father’s voice, “be ready to run… do it now…” 
 
“NOW!” Harry yelled; he didn’t think he could have held on for another moment anyway - he pulled his wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the phoenix song died - but the shadowy figures of Voldemort’s victims did not disappear - they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his gaze - 
 
And Harry ran as he had never run in his life, knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he passed; he zigzagged behind headstones, feeling their curses following him, hearing them hit the headstones - he was dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Cedric’s body, no longer aware of the pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do - 
 
“Stun him!” he heard Voldemort scream. 
 
Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a marble angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand more tightly, he dashed out from behind the angel – 
 
“Impedimenta!” he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him. 
 
From a muffled yell, he thought he had stopped at least one of them, but there was no time to stop and look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard more wand blasts behind him; more jets of light flew over his head as he fell, stretching out his hand to grab Cedric’s arm…  
 
“Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” shrieked Voldemort. Harry’s hand had closed on Cedric’s wrist; one tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of reach – 
 
Voldemort’s red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his wand. 
 
“Accio!” Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup. It flew into the air and soared toward him. Harry caught it by the handle – 
 
He heard Voldemort s scream of fury at the same moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that meant the Portkey had worked - it was speeding him away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along with him… They were going back. 
 
Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Cedric’s body. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting… waiting for someone to do something… something to happen… and all the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead…  
 
A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams… He remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass…  
 
Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over. 
 
“Harry! Harry!” 
 
He opened his eyes. 
 
He was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer; Harry felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps. 
 
He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people moving in them, the stars above.  
 
Harry let go of the cup, but he clutched Cedric to him even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized Dumbledore’s wrist, while Dumbledore’s face swam in and out of focus. 
 
“He’s back,” Harry whispered. “He’s back. Voldemort.” 
 
“What’s going on? What’s happened?” 
 
The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down over Harry; it looked white, appalled. 
 
“My God - Diggory!” it whispered. “Dumbledore - he’s dead!” 
 
The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them gasped it to those around them… and then others shouted it - screeched it - into the night –  
“He’s dead!” “He’s dead!” “Cedric Diggory! Dead!” 
 
“Harry, let go of him,” he heard Fudge’s voice say, and he felt fingers trying to pry him from Cedric’s limp body, but Harry wouldn’t let him go. Then Dumbledore’s face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer. 
 
“Harry, you can’t help him now. It’s over. Let go.” 
 
“He wanted me to bring him back,” Harry muttered - it seemed important to explain this. “He wanted me to bring him back to his parents…” 
 
“That’s right. Harry… just let go now…” 
 
Dumbledore bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from the ground and set him on his feet. Harry swayed. His head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him - “What’s happened?” “What’s wrong with him?” “Diggorys dead!” 
 
“He’ll need to go to the hospital wing!” Fudge was saying loudly. “He’s ill, he’s injured –  
Dumbledore, Diggory’s parents, they’re here, they’re in the stands…” 
 
“I’ll take Harry, Dumbledore, I’ll take him -” 
 
“No, I would prefer-” 
 
“Dumbledore, Amos Diggorys running… he’s coming over… Don’t you think you should tell him - before he sees -?” 
 
“Harry, stay here -” 
 
Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically… The scene flickered oddly before Harry’s eyes…  
 
“It’s all right, son, I’ve got you… come on… hospital wing…” 
 
“Dumbledore said stay,” said Harry thickly, the pounding in his scar making him feel as though he was about to throw up; his vision was blurring worse than ever. 
 
“You need to lie down… Come on now…” 
 
Someone larger and stronger than he was was half pulling, half carrying him through the frightened crowd. Harry heard people gasping, screaming, and shouting as the man supporting him pushed a path through them, taking him back to the castle. Across the lawn, past the lake and the Durmstrang ship, Harry heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the man helping him walk. 
 
“What happened Harry?” the man asked at last as he lifted Harry up the stone steps. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. It was Mad-Eye Moody. 
 
“Cup was a Portkey,” said Harry as they crossed the entrance hall. “Took me and Cedric to a graveyard… and Voldemort was there… Lord Voldemort…”  
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Up the marble stairs…  
 
“The Dark Lord was there? What happened then?” 
 
“Killed Cedric… they killed Cedric…” 
 
“And then?” 
 
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Along the corridor…  
 
“Made a potion… got his body back…” 
 
“The Dark Lord got his body back? He’s returned?” 
 
“And the Death Eaters came… and then we dueled…” 
 
“You dueled with the Dark Lord?” 
 
“Got away… my wand… did something funny… I saw my mum and dad… they came out of his wand…” 
 
“In here Harry… in here, and sit down… You’ll be all right now… drink this…” 
 
Harry heard a key scrape in a lock and felt a cup being pushed into his hands. 
 
“Drink it… you’ll feel better… come on, now. Harry, I need to know exactly what happened…” 
 
Moody helped tip the stuff down Harrys throat; he coughed, a peppery taste burning his throat. Moody’s office came into sharper focus, and so did Moody himself… He looked as white as Fudge had looked, and both eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Harry’s face. 
 
“Voldemort’s back, Harry? You’re sure he’s back? How did he do it?” 
 
“He took stuff from his father’s grave, and from Wormtail, and me,” said Harry. 
 
His head felt clearer; his scar wasn’t hurting so badly; he could now see Moodys face distinctly, even though the office was dark. He could still hear screaming and shouting from the distant Quidditch field. 
 
“What did the Dark Lord take from you?” said Moody. 
“Blood,” said Harry, raising his arm. His sleeve was ripped where Wormtail’s dagger had torn it. 
 
Moody let out his breath in a long, low hiss. 
 
“And the Death Eaters? They returned?” 
 
“Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them…” 
 
“How did he treat them?” Moody asked quietly. “Did he forgive them?”  
 
But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have told Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway – 
 
“There’s a Death Eater at Hogwarts! There’s a Death Eater here - they put my name in the Goblet of Fire, they made sure I got through to the end -” 
 
Harry tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back down. 
 
“I know who the Death Eater is,” he said quietly. 
 
“Karkaroff?” said Harry wildly. “Where is he? Have you got him? Is he locked up?” 
 
“Karkaroff?” said Moody with an odd laugh. “Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them… but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has ways of tracking his enemies.” 
 
“Karkaroff’s gone? He ran away? But then - he didn’t put my name in the goblet?” 
 
“No,” said Moody slowly. “No, he didn’t. It was I who did that.” 
 
Harry heard, but didn’t believe. 
 
“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t do that… you can’t have done…” 
 
“I assure you I did,” said Moody, and his magical eye swung around and fixed upon the door, and Harry knew he was making sure that there was no one outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his wand and pointed it at Harry. 
 
“He forgave them, then?” he said. “The Death Eaters who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?” 
 
“What?” said Harry. 
 
He was looking at the wand Moody was pointing at him. This was a bad joke, it had to be. 
 
“I asked you,” said Moody quietly, “whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn’t even brave Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky.” 
 
“You fired… What are you talking about…?” 
 
“I told you Harry… I told you. If there’s one thing I hate more than any other, it’s a Death Eater who walked free. They turned their backs on my master when he needed them most. I expected him to punish them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt them, Harry…” Moody’s face was suddenly lit with an insane smile. “Tell me he told them that I, I alone remained faithful… prepared to risk everything to deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all… you” 
 
“You didn’t… it - it can’t be you…” 
 
“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the name of a different school? I did. Who frightened off every person I thought might try to hurt you or prevent you from winning the tournament? I did. Who nudged Hagrid into showing you the dragons? I did. Who helped you see the only way you could beat the dragon? I did” 
 
Moody’s magical eye had now left the door. It was fixed upon Harry. His lopsided mouth leered more widely than ever. 
 
“It hasn’t been easy, Harry, guiding you through these tasks without arousing suspicion. I have had to use every ounce of cunning I possess, so that my hand would not be detectable in your success. Dumbledore would have been very suspicious if you had managed everything too easily. As long as you got into that maze, preferably with a decent head start - then, I knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the other champions and leaving your way clear. But I also had to contend with your stupidity. The second task… that was when I was most afraid we would fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you hadn’t worked out the egg’s clue, so I had to give you another hint -” 
 
“You didn’t,” Harry said hoarsely. “Cedric gave me the clue -” 
 
“Who told Cedric to open it underwater? I did. I trusted that he would pass the information on to you. Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter. I was sure Cedric would want to repay you for telling him about the dragons, and so he did. But even then, Potter, even then you seemed likely to fail. I was watching all the time… all those hours in the library. Didn’t you realize that the book you needed was in your dormitory all along? I planted it there early on, I gave it to the Longbottom boy, don’t you remember? Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. It would have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed. I expected you to ask everyone and anyone you could for help. Longbottom would have told you in an instant. But you did not… you did not… You have a streak of pride and independence that might have ruined all. 
 
“So what could I do? Feed you information from another innocent source. You told me at the Yule Ball a house-elf called Dobby had given you a Christmas present. I called the elf to the staffroom to collect some robes for cleaning. I staged a loud conversation with Professor McGonagall about the hostages who had been taken, and whether Potter would think to use gillyweed. And your little elf friend ran straight to Snape’s office and then hurried to find you…” 
 
Moodys wand was still pointing directly at Harry’s heart. Over his shoulder, foggy shapes were moving in the Foe-Glass on the wall. 
 
“You were so long in that lake, Potter, I thought you had drowned. But luckily, Dumbledore took your idiocy for nobility, and marked you high for it. I breathed again. 
 
“You had an easier time of it than you should have in that maze tonight, of course,” said Moody. “I was patrolling around it, able to see through the outer hedges, able to curse many obstacles out of your way. I Stunned Fleur Delacour as she passed. I put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so that he would finish Diggory and leave your path to the cup clear.” 
 
Harry stared at Moody. He just didn’t see how this could be… Dumbledore’s friend, the famous Auror… the one who had caught so many Death Eaters… It made no sense… no sense at all…  
 
The foggy shapes in the Foe-Glass were sharpening, had become more distinct. Harry could see the outlines of three people over Moody’s shoulder, moving closer and closer. But Moody wasn’t watching them. His magical eye was upon Harry. 
 
“The Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill you Potter, and he so wanted to,” whispered Moody. “Imagine how he will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I gave you to him - the thing he needed above all to regenerate - and then I killed you for him. I will be honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I will be his dearest, his closest supporter… closer than a son…” 
 
Moody’s normal eye was bulging, the magical eye fixed upon Harry. The door was barred, and Harry knew he would never reach his own wand in time…  
 
“The Dark Lord and I,” said Moody, and he looked completely insane now, towering over Harry, leering down at him, “have much in common. Both of us, for instance, had very disappointing fathers… very disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And both of us had the pleasure… the very great pleasure… of killing our fathers to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!” 
 
“You’re mad,” Harry said - he couldn’t stop himself- “you’re mad!” 
 
“Mad, am I?” said Moody, his voice rising uncontrollably. “We’ll see! We’ll see who’s mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him - and now - I conquer you!” 
 
Moody raised his wand, he opened his mouth; Harry plunged his own hand into his robes - 
 
“Stupefy!” There was a blinding flash of red light, and with a great splintering and crashing, the door of Moody’s office was blasted apart – 
Moody was thrown backward onto the office floor. Harry, still staring at the place where Moody’s face had been, saw Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and Professor McGonagall looking back at him out of the Foe-Glass. He looked around and saw the three of them standing in the doorway, Dumbledore in front, his wand outstretched. 
 
At that moment, Harry fully understood for the first time why people said Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon Dumbledore’s face as he stared down at the unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody was more terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There was no benign smile upon Dumbledore’s face, no twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from 
Dumbledore as though he were giving off burning heat.  
 
He stepped into the office, placed a foot underneath Moodys unconscious body, and kicked him over onto his back, so that his face was visible. Snape followed him, looking into the Foe-Glass, where his own face was still visible, glaring into the room. Professor McGonagall went straight to Harry. 
 
“Come along, Potter,” she whispered. The thin line of her mouth was twitching as though she was about to cry. “Come along… hospital wing…” 
 
“No,” said Dumbledore sharply. 
 
“Dumbledore, he ought to - look at him - he’s been through enough tonight -” 
 
“He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered tonight, and why,” 
 
“Moody,” Harry said. He was still in a state of complete disbelief. “How can it have been Moody?” 
 
“This is not Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore quietly. “You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would not have removed you from my sight after what happened tonight. The moment he took you, I knew - and I followed.” 
 
Dumbledore bent down over Moody’s limp form and put a hand inside his robes. He pulled out Moody’s hip flask and a set of keys on a ring. Then he turned to Professors McGonagall and Snape. 
 
“Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and bring up the house-elf called Winky. Minerva, kindly go down to Hagrid’s house, where you will find a large black dog sitting in the pumpkin patch. Take the dog up to my office, tell him I will be with him shortly, then come back here.” 
 
If either Snape or McGonagall found these instructions peculiar, they hid their confusion. Both turned at once and left the office. Dumbledore walked over to the trunk with seven locks, fitted the first key in the lock, and opened it. It contained a mass of spell-books. Dumbledore closed the trunk, placed a second key in the second lock, and opened the trunk again. The spellbooks had vanished; this time it contained an assortment of broken Sneako-scopes, some parchment and quills, and what looked like a silvery Invisibility Cloak. Harry watched, astounded, as 
Dumbledore placed the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth keys in their respective locks, reopening the trunk each time, and revealing different contents each time. Then he placed the seventh key in the lock, threw open the lid, and Harry let out a cry of amazement. 
 
He was looking down into a kind of pit, an underground room, and lying on the floor some ten feet below, apparently fast asleep, thin and starved in appearance, was the real Mad-Eye Moody. His wooden leg was gone, the socket that should have held the magical eye looked empty beneath its lid, and chunks of his grizzled hair were missing. Harry stared, thunderstruck, between the sleeping Moody in the trunk and the unconscious Moody lying on the floor of the office. 
 
Dumbledore climbed into the trunk, lowered himself, and fell lightly onto the floor beside the sleeping Moody. He bent over him.  
 
“Stunned - controlled by the Imperius Curse - very weak,” he said. “Of course, they would have needed to keep him alive. Harry, throw down the imposter’s cloak - he’s freezing. Madam Pomfrey will need to see him, but he seems in no immediate danger.” 
 
Harry did as he was told; Dumbledore covered Moody in the cloak, tucked it around him, and clambered out of the trunk again. Then he picked up the hip flask that stood upon the desk, unscrewed it, and turned it over. A thick glutinous liquid splattered onto the office floor. 
 
“Polyjuice Potion, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “You see the simplicity of it, and the brilliance. For Moody never does drink except from his hip flask, he’s well known for it. The imposter needed, of course, to keep the real Moody close by, so that he could continue making the potion. You see his hair…” Dumbledore looked down on the Moody in the trunk. “The imposter has been cutting it off all year, see where it is uneven? But I think, in the excitement of tonight, our fake Moody 
might have forgotten to take it as frequendy as he should have done… on the hour… every hour… We shall see.” 
 
Dumbledore pulled out the chair at the desk and sat down upon it, his eyes fixed upon the unconscious Moody on the floor. Harry stared at him too. Minutes passed in silence…  
 
Then, before Harry’s very eyes, the face of the man on the floor began to change. The scars were disappearing, the skin was becoming smooth; the mangled nose became whole and started to shrink. The long mane of grizzled gray hair was withdrawing into the scalp and turning the color of straw. Suddenly, with a loud clunk, the wooden leg fell away as a normal leg regrew in its place; next moment, the magical eyeball had popped out of the man’s face as a real eye replaced it; it rolled away across the floor and continued to swivel in every direction. 
 
Harry saw a man lying before him, pale-skinned, slightly freckled, with a mop of fair hair. He knew who he was. He had seen him in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, had watched him being led away from court by the dementors, trying to convince Mr. Crouch that he was innocent… but he was lined around the eyes now and looked much older…  
 
There were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor. Snape had returned with Winky at his heels. Professor McGonagall was right behind them.  
 
“Crouch!” Snape said, stopping dead in the doorway. “Barty Crouch!” 
 
“Good heavens,” said Professor McGonagall, stopping dead and staring down at the man on the floor. 
 
Filthy, disheveled, Winky peered around Snape’s legs. Her mouth opened wide and she let out a piercing shriek. 
 
“Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you doing here?” 
 
She flung herself forward onto the young man’s chest. 
 
“You is killed him! You is killed him! You is killed Master’s son!” 
 
“He is simply Stunned, Winky,” said Dumbledore. “Step aside, please. Severus, you have the potion?” 
 
Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which he had threatened Harry in class. Dumbledore got up, bent over the man on the floor, and pulled him into a sitting position against the wall beneath the Foe-Glass, in which the reflections of Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall were still glaring down upon them all. Winky remained on her knees, trembling, her hands over her face. Dumbledore forced the mans mouth open and 
poured three drops inside it. Then he pointed his wand at the mans chest and said, “Ennervate.” 
 
Crouch’s son opened his eyes. His face was slack, his gaze unfocused.  
 
Dumbledore knelt before him, so that their faces were level. 
 
“Can you hear me?” Dumbledore asked quietly. 
 
The man’s eyelids flickered. 
 
“Yes,” he muttered. 
 
“I would like you to tell us,” said Dumbledore softly, “how you came to be here. How did you escape from Azkaban?” 
 
Crouch took a deep, shuddering breath, then began to speak in a flat, expressionless voice. 
 
“My mother saved me. She knew she was dying. She persuaded my father to rescue me as a last favor to her. He loved her as he had never loved me. He agreed. They came to visit me. They gave me a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of my mother’s hairs. She took a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of my hairs. We took on each other’s appearance.” 
 
Winky was shaking her head, trembling. 
 
“Say no more. Master Barty, say no more, you is getting your father into trouble!” 
 
But Crouch took another deep breath and continued in the same flat voice. 
 
“The dementors are blind. They sensed one healthy, one dying person entering Azkaban. They sensed one healthy, one dying person leaving it. My father smuggled me out, disguised as my mother, in case any prisoners were watching through their doors. 
 
“My mother died a short while afterward in Azkaban. She was careful to drink Polyjuice Potion until the end. She was buried under my name and bearing my appearance. Everyone believed her to be me.” 
 
The man’s eyelids flickered. 
 
“And what did your father do with you, when he had got you home?” said Dumbledore quietly. 
 
“Staged my mother’s death. A quiet, private funeral. That grave is empty. The house-elf nursed me back to health. Then I had to be concealed. I had to be controlled. My father had to use a number of spells to subdue me. When I had recovered my strength, I thought only of finding my master… of returning to his service.” 
 
“How did your father subdue you?” said Dumbledore. 
 
“The Imperius Curse,” Moody said. “I was under my fathers control. I was forced to wear an Invisibility Cloak day and night. I was always with the house-elf. She was my keeper and caretaker. She pitied me. She persuaded my father to give me occasional treats. Rewards for my good behavior.” 
 
“Master Barty, Master Barty,” sobbed Winky through her hands. “You isn’t ought to tell them, we is getting in trouble…” 
 
“Did anybody ever discover that you were still alive?” said Dumbledore softly. “Did anyone know except your father and the house-elf?” 
 
“Yes,” said Crouch, his eyelids flickering again. “A witch in my father’s office. Bertha Jorkins. She came to the house with papers for my father s signature. He was not at home. Winky showed her inside and returned to the kitchen, to me. But Bertha Jorkins heard Winky talking to me. She came to investigate. She heard enough to guess who was hiding under the Invisibility Cloak. My father arrived home. She confronted him. He put a very powerful Memory Charm on her to make her forget what she’d found out. Too powerful. He said it damaged her memory permanently.” 
 
“Why is she coming to nose into my masters private business?” sobbed Winky. “Why isn’t she leaving us be?” 
 
“Tell me about the Quidditch World Cup,” said Dumbledore. 
 
“Winky talked my father into it,” said Crouch, still in the same monotonous voice. “She spent months persuading him. I had not left the house for years. I had loved Quidditch. Let him go, she said. He will be in his Invisibility Cloak. He can watch. Let him smell fresh air for once. She said my mother would have wanted it. She told my father that my mother had died to give me freedom. She had not saved me for a life of imprisonment. He agreed in the end. 
 
“It was carefully planned. My father led me and Winky up to the Top Box early in the day. Winky was to say that she was saving a seat for my father. I was to sit there, invisible. When everyone had left the box, we would emerge. Winky would appear to be alone. Nobody would ever know. 
 
“But Winky didn’t know that I was growing stronger. I was starting to fight my father’s Imperius Curse. There were times when I was almost myself again. There were brief periods when I seemed outside his control. It happened, there, in the Top Box. It was like waking from a deep sleep. I found myself out in public, in the middle of the match, and I saw, in front of me, a wand sticking out of a boys pocket. I had not been allowed a wand since before Azkaban. I stole it. Winky didn’t know. Winky is frightened of heights. She had her face hidden.” 
 
“Master Barty, you bad boy!” whispered Winky, tears trickling between her fingers. 
 
“So you took the wand,” said Dumbledore, “and what did you do with it?” 
 
“We went back to the tent,” said Crouch. “Then we heard them. We heard the Death Eaters. The ones who had never been to Azkaban. The ones who had never suffered for my master. They had turned their backs on him. They were not enslaved, as I was. They were free to seek him, but they did not. They were merely making sport of Muggles. The sound of their voices awoke me. My mind was clearer than it had been in years. I was angry. I had the wand. I wanted to attack them for their disloyalty to my master. My father had left the tent; he had gone to free the Muggles. Winky was afraid to see me so angry. She used her own brand of magic to bind me to her. She pulled me from the tent, pulled me into the forest, away from the Death Eaters. I tried to hold her back. I wanted to return to the campsite. I wanted to show those Death Eaters what loyalty to the Dark Lord meant, and to punish them for their lack of it. I used the stolen wand to cast the Dark Mark into the sky.  
 
“Ministry wizards arrived. They shot Stunning Spells everywhere. One of the spells came through the trees where Winky and I stood. The bond connecting us was broken. We were both Stunned. 
 
“When Winky was discovered, my father knew I must be nearby. He searched the bushes where she had been found and felt me lying there. He waited until the other Ministry members had left the forest. He put me back under the Imperius Curse and took me home. He dismissed Winky. She had failed him. She had let me acquire a wand. She had almost let me escape.” 
 
Winky let out a wail of despair. 
 
“Now it was just Father and I, alone in the house. And then… and then…” 
 
Crouch’s head rolled on his neck, and an insane grin spread across his face. “My master came for me. 
 
“He arrived at our house late one night in the arms of his servant Wormtail. My master had found out that I was still alive. He had captured Bertha Jorkins in Albania. He had tortured her. She told him a great deal. She told him about the Triwizard Tournament. She told him the old Auror, Moody, was going to teach at Hogwarts. He tortured her until he broke through the Memory Charm my father had placed upon her. She told him I had escaped from Azkaban. She told him my father kept me imprisoned to prevent me from seeking my master. And so my master knew that I was still his faithful servant - perhaps the most faithful of all. My master conceived a plan, based upon the information Bertha had given him. He needed me. He arrived at our house near midnight. My father answered the door.” 
 
The smile spread wider over Crouch’s face, as though recalling the sweetest memory of his life. Winky’s petrified brown eyes were visible through her fingers. She seemed too appalled to speak. 
 
“It was very quick. My father was placed under the Imperius Curse by my master. Now my father was the one imprisoned, controlled. My master forced him to go about his business as usual, to act as though nothing was wrong. And I was released. I awoke. I was myself again, alive as I hadn’t been in years. 
 
“And what did Lord Voldemort ask you to do?” said Dumbledore. 
 
“He asked me whether I was ready to risk everything for him. I was ready. It was my dream, my greatest ambition, to serve him, to prove myself to him. He told me he needed to place a faithful servant at Hogwarts. A servant who would guide Harry Potter through the Triwizard Tournament without appearing to do so. A servant who would watch over Harry Potter. Ensure he reached the Triwizard Cup. Turn the cup into a Portkey, which would take the first person to touch it to my 
master. But first -” 
 
“You needed Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were blazing, though his voice remained calm. 
 
“Wormtail and I did it. We had prepared the Polyjuice Potion beforehand. We journeyed to his house. Moody put up a struggle. There was a commotion. We managed to subdue him just in time. Forced him into a compartment of his own magical trunk. Took some of his hair and added it to the potion. I drank it; I became Moody’s double. I took his leg and his eye. I was ready to face Arthur Weasley when he arrived to sort out the Muggles who had heard a disturbance. I 
made the dustbins move around the yard. I told Arthur Weasley I had heard intruders in my yard, who had set off the dustbins. Then I packed up Moody’s clothes and Dark detectors, put them in the trunk with Moody, and set off for Hogwarts. I kept him alive, under the Imperius Curse. I wanted to be able to question him. To find out about his past, learn his habits, so that I could fool even Dumbledore. I also needed his hair to make the Polyjuice Potion. The other ingredients were easy. I stole boom-slang skin from the dungeons. When the Potions master found me in his office, I said I was under orders to search it.” 
 
“And what became of Wormtail after you attacked Moody?” said Dumbledore. 
 
“Wormtail returned to care for my master, in my father’s house, and to keep watch over my father.” 
 
“But your father escaped,” said Dumbledore. 
 
“Yes. After a while he began to fight the Imperius Curse just as I had done. There were periods when he knew what was happening. My master decided it was no longer safe for my father to leave the house. He forced him to send letters to the Ministry instead. He made him write and say he was ill. But Wormtail neglected his duty. He was not watchful enough. My father escaped. My master guessed that he was heading for Hogwarts. My father was going to tell Dumbledore everything, to confess. He was going to admit that he had smuggled me from Azkaban. 
 
“My master sent me word of my father’s escape. He told me to stop him at all costs. So I waited and watched. I used the map I had taken from Harry Potter. The map that had almost ruined everything.” 
 
“Map?” said Dumbledore quickly. “What map is this?” 
 
“Potter’s map of Hogwarts. Potter saw me on it. Potter saw me stealing more ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion from Snape’s office one night. He thought I was my father. We have the same first name. I took the map from Potter that night. I told him my father hated Dark wizards. Potter believed my father was after Snape. 
 
“For a week I waited for my father to arrive at Hogwarts. At last, one evening, the map showed my father entering the grounds. I pulled on my Invisibility Cloak and went down to meet him. He was walking around the edge of the forest. Then Potter came, and Krum. I waited. I could not hurt Potter; my master needed him. Potter ran to get Dumbledore. I Stunned Krum. I killed my father.” 
 
“Noooo!” wailed Winky. “Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you saying?”  
 
“You killed your father,” Dumbledore said, in the same soft voice. “What did you do with the body?” 
 
“Carried it into the forest. Covered it with the Invisibility Cloak. I had the map with me. I watched Potter run into the castle. He met Snape. Dumbledore joined them. I watched Potter bringing Dumbledore out of the castle. I walked back out of the forest, doubled around behind them, went to meet them. I told Dumbledore Snape had told me where to come. 
 
“Dumbledore told me to go and look for my father. I went back to my father’s body. Watched the map. When everyone was gone, I Transfigured my father’s body. He became a bone… I buried it, while wearing the Invisibility Cloak, in the freshly dug earth in front of Hagrid’s cabin.” 
 
There was complete silence now, except for Winky’s continued sobs. Then Dumbledore said, “And tonight…” 
 
“I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup into the maze before dinner,” whispered Barty Crouch.  
 
“Turned it into a Portkey. My master’s plan worked. He is returned to power and I will be honored by him beyond the dreams of wizards.” 
 
The insane smile lit his features once more, and his head drooped onto his shoulder as Winky wailed and sobbed at his side. 
 
Dumbledore stood up. He stared down at Barty Crouch for a moment with disgust on his face. Then he raised his wand once more and ropes flew out of it, ropes that twisted themselves around Barty Crouch, binding him tightly. He turned toProfessor McGonagall. 
 
“Minerva, could I ask you to stand guard here while I take Harry upstairs?” 
 
“Of course,” said Professor McGonagall. She looked slightly nauseous, as though she had just watched someone being sick. However, when she drew out her wand and pointed it at Barty Crouch, her hand was quite steady. 
 
“Severus” - Dumbledore turned to Snape - “please tell Madam Pomfrey to come down here; we need to get Alastor Moody into the hospital wing. Then go down into the grounds, find Cornelius Fudge, and bring him up to this office. He will undoubtedly want to question Crouch himself. Tell him I will be in the hospital wing in half an hour’s time if he needs me.” 
 
Snape nodded silently and swept out of the room. 
 
“Harry?” Dumbledore said gently. 
 
Harry got up and swayed again; the pain in his leg, which he had not noticed all the time he had been listening to Crouch, now returned in full measure. He also realized that he was shaking. Dumbledore gripped his arm and helped him out into the dark corridor. 
 
“I want you to come up to my office first. Harry,” he said quiedy as they headed up the passageway. “Sirius is waiting for us there.” 
 
Harry nodded. A kind of numbness and a sense of complete unreality were upon him, but he did not care; he was even glad of it. He didn’t want to have to think about anything that had happened since he had first touched the Triwizard Cup. He didn’t want to have to examine the memories, fresh and sharp as photographs, which kept flashing across his mind. Mad-Eye Moody, inside the trunk. Wormtail, slumped on the ground, cradling his stump of an arm. Voldemort, rising from the steaming cauldron. Cedric… dead… Cedric, asking to be returned to his parents…  
 
“Professor,” Harry mumbled, “where are Mr. and Mrs. Diggory?” 
 
“They are with Professor Sprout,” said Dumbledore. His voice, which had been so calm throughout the interrogation of Barty Crouch, shook very slightly for the first time. “She was Head of Cedric’s house, and knew him best.” 
 
They had reached the stone gargoyle. Dumbledore gave the password, it sprang aside, and he and Harry went up the moving spiral staircase to the oak door.  
 
Dumbledore pushed it open. Sirius was standing there. His face was white and gaunt as it had been when he had escaped Azkaban. In one swift moment, he had crossed the room. 
 
“Harry, are you all right? I knew it - I knew something like this - what happened?” 
 
His hands shook as he helped Harry into a chair in front of the desk. 
 
“What happened?” he asked more urgently. 
 
Dumbledore began to tell Sirius everything Barty Crouch had said. Harry was only half listening. So tired every bone in his body was aching, he wanted nothing more than to sit here, undisturbed, for hours and hours, until he fell asleep and didn’t have to think or feel anymore. 
 
There was a soft rush of wings. Fawkes the phoenix had left his perch, flown across the office, and landed on Harry’s knee. 
 
“‘Lo, Fawkes,” said Harry quietly. He stroked the phoenix’s beautiful scarlet-and gold plumage. Fawkes blinked peacefully up at him. There was something comforting about his warm weight. 
Dumbledore stopped talking. He sat down opposite Harry, behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who avoided his eyes. Dumbledore was going to question him. He was going to make Harry relive everything. 
 
“I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze Harry,” said Dumbledore. 
 
“We can leave that till morning, can’t we, Dumbledore?” said Sirius harshly. He had put a hand on Harrys shoulder. “Let him have a sleep. Let him rest.” 
 
Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, but Dumbledore took no notice of Sirius’s words. He leaned forward toward Harry. 
 
Very unwillingly, Harry raised his head and looked into those blue eyes. 
 
“If I thought I could help you,” Dumbledore said gently, “by putting you into an enchanted sleep and allowing you to postpone the moment when you would have to think about what has happened tonight, I would do it. But I know better. Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you. I ask you to demonstrate your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what happened.” 
 
The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his stomach, warming him, and strengthening him. 
He took a deep breath and began to tell them. As he spoke, visions of everything that had passed that night seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the sparkling surface of the potion that had revived Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating between the graves around them; he saw Cedric’s body, lying on the ground beside the cup. 
 
Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to say something, his hand still tight on Harry’s shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop him, and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier to keep going now he had started. It was even a relief; he felt almost as though something poisonous were being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit of determination he had to keep talking, yet he sensed that once he had finished, he would feel better. 
 
When Harry told of Wormtail piercing his arm with the dagger, however, Sirius let out a vehement exclamation and Dumbledore stood up so quickly that Harry started. Dumbledore walked around the desk and told Harry to stretch out his arm.  
 
Harry showed them both the place where his robes were torn and the cut beneath them. 
 
“He said my blood would make him stronger than if he’d used someone else’s,” Harry told Dumbledore. “He said the protection my - my mother left in me - he’d have it too. And he was right - he could touch me without hurting himself, he touched my face.” 
 
For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he saw a gleam of something like triumph in Dumbledore’s eyes. But next second Harry was sure he had imagined it, for when Dumbledore had returned to his seat behind the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had ever seen him. 
 
“Very well,” he said, sitting down again. “Voldemort has overcome that particular barrier. Harry, continue, please.” 
 
Harry went on; he explained how Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron, and told them all he could remember of Voldemort’s speech to the Death Eaters. Then he told how Voldemort had untied him, returned his wand to him, and prepared to duel. 
 
But when he reached the part where the golden beam of light had connected his and Voldemort’s wands, he found his throat obstructed. He tried to keep talking, but the memories of what had come out of Voldemort’s wand were flooding into his mind. He could see Cedric emerging, see the old man, Bertha Jorkins… his father… his mother…  
 
He was glad when Sirius broke the silence. 
 
“The wands connected?” he said, looking from Harry to Dumbledore. “Why?” 
 
Harry looked up at Dumbledore again, on whose face there was an arrested look. “Priori Incantatem,” he muttered. 
 
His eyes gazed into Harry’s and it was almost as though an invisible beam of understanding shot between them. 
 
“The Reverse Spell effect?” said Sirius sharply. 
 
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore. “Harry’s wand and Voldemorts wand share cores. Each of them contains a feather from the tail of the same phoenix. This phoenix, in fact,” he added, and he pointed at the scarlet-and-gold bird, perching peacefully on Harry’s knee. 
 
“My wand’s feather came from Fawkes?” Harry said, amazed. 
 
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Mr. Ollivander wrote to tell me you had bought the second wand, the moment you left his shop four years ago.” 
 
“So what happens when a wand meets its brother?” said Sirius. 
 
“They will not work properly against each other,” said Dumbledore. “If, however, the owners of the wands force the wands to do battle… a very rare effect will take place. One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate spells it has performed - in reverse. The most recent first… and then those which preceded it…” 
 
He looked interrogatively at Harry, and Harry nodded. 
 
“Which means,” said Dumbledore slowly, his eyes upon Harry’s face, “that some form of Cedric must have reappeared.” 
 
Harry nodded again. 
 
“Diggory came back to life?” said Sirius sharply. 
 
“No spell can reawaken the dead,” said Dumbledore heavily. “All that would have happened is a kind of reverse echo. A shadow of the living Cedric would have emerged from the wand… am I correct, Harry?” 
 
“He spoke to me,” Harry said. He was suddenly shaking again. “Th… the ghost Cedric, or whatever he was, spoke.” 
 
“An echo,” said Dumbledore, “which retained Cedric’s appearance and character. I am guessing other such forms appeared… less recent victims of Voldemort’s wand…” 
 
“An old man,” Harry said, his throat still constricted. “Bertha Jorkins. And…” 
 
“Your parents?” said Dumbledore quietly. 
 
“Yes,” said Harry. 
 
Sirius’s grip on Harry’s shoulder was now so tight it was painful. 
 
“The last murders the wand performed,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “In reverse order. More would have appeared, of course, had you maintained the connection. Very well, Harry, these echoes, these shadows… what did they do?” 
 
Harry described how the figures that had emerged from the wand had prowled the edges of the golden web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how the shadow of Harry’s mother had told him what to do, how Cedric’s had made its final request. 
 
At this point Harry found he could not continue. He looked around at Sirius and saw that he had his face in his hands. 
 
Harry suddenly became aware that Fawkes had left his knee. The phoenix had fluttered to the floor. It was resting its beautiful head against Harry’s injured leg, and thick, pearly tears were falling from its eyes onto the wound left by the spider. The pain vanished. The skin mended. His leg was repaired. 
 
“I will say it again,” said Dumbledore as the phoenix rose into the air and resettled itself upon the perch beside the door. “You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you tonight Harry. You have shown bravery equal to those who died fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers. You have shouldered a grown wizard’s burden and found yourself equal to it - and you have now given us all we have a right to expect. You will come with me to the hospital wing. I do not want you returning to the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some peace… Sirius, would you like to stay with him?” 
 
Sirius nodded and stood up. He transformed back into the great black dog and walked with Harry and Dumbledore out of the office, accompanying them down a flight of stairs to the hospital wing. 
 
When Dumbledore pushed open the door Harry saw Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione grouped around a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey. They appeared to be demanding to know where Harry was and what had happened to him. All of them whipped around as Harry, Dumbledore, and the black dog entered, and Mrs. Weasley let out a kind of muffled scream. 
 
“Harry! Oh Harry!” 
 
She started to hurry toward him, but Dumbledore moved between them. 
 
“Molly,” he said, holding up a hand, “please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay with him,” he added, looking around at Ron, Hermione, and Bill too, “you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening.” 
     
Mrs. Weasley nodded. She was very white. She rounded on Ron, Hermione, and Bill as though they were being noisy, and hissed, “Did you hear? He needs quiet!” 
 
“Headmaster,” said Madam Pomfrey, staring at the great black dog that was Sirius, “may I ask what -?” 
 
“This dog will be remaining with Harry for a while,” said Dumbledore simply. “I assure you, he is extremely well trained. Harry - I will wait while you get into bed.” 
 
Harry felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude to Dumbledore for asking the others not to question him. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want them there; but the thought of explaining it all over again, the idea of reliving it one more time, was more than he could stand. 
 
“I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with Fudge, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I would like you to remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the school.” He left. 
 
As Madam Pomfrey led Harry to a nearby bed, he caught sight of the real Moody lying motionless in a bed at the far end of the room. His wooden leg and magical eye were lying on the bedside table. 
 
“Is he okay?” Harry asked. 
 
“He’ll be fine,” said Madam Pomfrey, giving Harry some pajamas and pulling screens around him. He took off his robes, pulled on the pajamas, and got into bed. Ron, Hermione, Bill, Mrs. Weasley, and the black dog came around the screen and settled themselves in chairs on either side of him. Ron and Hermione were looking at him almost cautiously, as though scared of him. 
 
“I’m all right,” he told them. “Just tired.” 
 
Mrs. Weasleys eyes filled with tears as she smoothed his bed-covers unnecessarily. 
 
Madam Pomfrey, who had bustled off to her office, returned holding a small bottle of some purple potion and a goblet. 
 
“You’ll need to drink all of this. Harry,” she said. “It’s a potion for dreamless sleep.” 
 
Harry took the goblet and drank a few mouthfuls. He felt himself becoming drowsy at once. Everything around him became hazy; the lamps around the hospital wing seemed to be winking at him in a friendly way through the screen around his bed; his body felt as though it was sinking deeper into the warmth of the feather matress. Before he could finish the potion, before he could say another word, his exhaustion had carried him off to sleep. 
 
Harry woke up, so warm, so very sleepy, that he didn’t open his eyes, wanting to drop off again. The room was still dimly lit; he was sure it was still nighttime and had a feeling that he couldn’t have been asleep very long. 
 
Then he heard whispering around him. 
 
“They’ll wake him if they don’t shut up!” 
 
“What are they shouting about? Nothing else can have happened, can it?” 
 
Harry opened his eyes blearily. Someone had removed his glasses. He could see the fuzzy outlines of Mrs. Weasley and Bill close by. Mrs. Weasley was on her feet. 
 
“That’s Fudge’s voice,” she whispered. “And that’s Minerva McGonagall’s, isn’t it? But what are they arguing about?” 
 
Now Harry could hear them too: people shouting and running toward the hospital wing. 
 
“Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva -” Cornelius Fudge was saying loudly.  
 
“You should never have brought it inside the castle!” yelled Professor McGonagall. “When Dumbledore finds out -” 
 
Harry heard the hospital doors burst open. Unnoticed by any of the people around his bed, all of whom were staring at the door as Bill pulled back the screens, Harry sat up and put his glasses back on. 
 
Fudge came striding up the ward. Professors McGonagall and Snape were at his heels. 
 
“Where’s Dumbledore?” Fudge demanded of Mrs. Weasley. 
 
“He’s not here,” said Mrs. Weasley angrily. “This is a hospital wing. Minister, don’t you think you’d do better to -” 
 
But the door opened, and Dumbledore came sweeping up the ward. 
 
“What has happened?” said Dumbledore sharply, looking from Fudge to Professor McGonagall. “Why are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I’m surprised at you - I asked you to stand guard over Barty Crouch -” 
 
“There is no need to stand guard over him anymore, Dumbledore!” she shrieked. “The Minister has seen to that!” 
 
Harry had never seen Professor McGonagall lose control like this. There were angry blotches of color in her cheeks, and a hands were balled into fists; she was trembling with fury.- 
 
“When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater responsible for tonight’s events,” said Snape, in a low voice; he seemed to feel his personal safety was in question. “He insisted on summoning a dementor to accompany him into the castle. He brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch -” 
“I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!” McGonagall fumed. “I told him you would never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, but -” 
 
“My dear woman!” roared Fudge, who likewise looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him, “as Minister of Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring protection with me when interviewing a possibly dangerous -” 
 
But Professor McGonagall’s voice drowned Fudge’s. 
 
“The moment that - that thing entered the room,” she screamed, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over, “it swooped down on Crouch and - and -” 
 
Harry felt a chill in his stomach as Professor McGonagall struggled to find words to describe what had happened. He did not need her to finish her sentence. He knew what the dementor must have done. It had administered its fatal kiss to Barty Crouch. It had sucked his soul out through his mouth. He was worse than dead. 
 
“By all accounts, he is no loss!” blustered Fudge. “It seems he has been responsible for several deaths’.” 
 
“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. “He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people.” 
 
“Why he killed them? Well, that’s no mystery, is it?” blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who’s instructions!” 
 
“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those peoples deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body.”  
 
Fudge looked as though someone had just swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stared back at Dumbledore as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore. 
 
“You-Know-Who… returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore…” 
 
“As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you,” said Dumbledore, “we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort - learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins - went to free him from his father and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.” 
 
“See here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge, and Harry was astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face, “you - you can’t seriously believe that You-Know-Who - back? Come now, come now… certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who’s orders - but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore…” 
 
“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort’s rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office.” 
 
Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he was awake, but shook his head and said, “I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.” 
 
Fudge’s curious smile lingered. He too glanced at Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore, and said, “You are - er - prepared to take Harry’s word on this, are you, Dumbledore?” 
 
There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was baring his teeth at Fudge. 
 
“Certainly, I believe Harry,” said Dumbledore. His eyes were blazing now. “I heard Crouch’s confession, and I heard Harry’s account of what happened after he touched the Triwizard Cup; the two stories make sense, they explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer.” 
   
Fudge still had that strange smile on his face. Once again, he glanced at Harry before answering. 
 
“You are prepared to believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a boy who… well…” 
 
Fudge shot Harry another look, and Harry suddenly understood. 
 
“You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge,” he said quietly. 
 
Ron, Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, and Bill all jumped. None of them had realized that Harry was awake. 
 
Fudge reddened slightly, but a defiant and obstinate look came over his face. 
 
“And if I have?” he said, looking at Dumbledore. “If I have discovered that you’ve been keeping certain facts about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh? And having funny turns all over the place -” 
 
“I assume that you are referring to the pains Harry has been experiencing in his scar?” said Dumbledore coolly. 
 
“You admit that he has been having these pains, then?” said Fudge quickly. “Headaches? Nightmares? Possibly - hallucinations?” 
 
“Listen to me, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, taking a step toward Fudge, and once again, he seemed to radiate that indefinable sense of power that Harry had felt after Dumbledore had Stunned young Crouch. “Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling particularly murderous.” 
 
Fudge had taken half a step back from Dumbledore, but he looked no less stubborn. 
 
“You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I’ve never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before…” 
 
“Look, I saw Voldemort come back!” Harry shouted. He tried to get out of bed again, but Mrs. Weasley forced him back. “I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy -” 
 
Snape made a sudden movement, but as Harry looked at him, Snape’s eyes flew back to Fudge. 
 
“Malfoy was cleared!” said Fudge, visibly affronted. “A very old family - donations to excellent causes -” 
 
“Macnair!” Harry continued. 
 
“Also cleared! Now working for the Ministry!” 
 
“Avery - Nott - Crabbe - Goyle -” 
 
“You are merely repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!” said Fudge angrily. “You could have found those names in old reports of the trials! For heavens sake, Dumbledore - the boy was full of some crackpot story at the end of last year too - his tales are getting taller, and you’re still swallowing them - the boy can talk to snakes. Dumbledore, and you still think he’s trustworthy?” 
 
“You fool!” Professor McGonagall cried. “Cedric Diggory! Mr. Crouch! These deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!” 
 
“I see no evidence to the contrary!” shouted Fudge, now matching her anger, his face purpling. “It seems to me that you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilize everything we have worked for these last thirteen years!” 
 
Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had always thought of Fudge as a kindly figure, a little blustering, a little pompous, but essentially good-natured. But now a short, angry wizard stood before him, refusing, point-blank, to accept the prospect of disruption in his comfortable and ordered world - to believe that Voldemort could have risen. 
 
“Voldemort has returned,” Dumbledore repeated. “If you accept that fact straightaway Fudge, and take the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors -” 
“Preposterous!” shouted Fudge again. “Remove the dementors? I’d be kicked out of office for suggesting it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!” 
 
“The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord Voldemort’s most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!” said Dumbledore. “They will not remain loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed to stop him regaining the sort of power he had thirteen years ago!” 
 
Fudge was opening and closing his mouth as though no words could express his outrage. 
 
“The second step you must take - and at once,” Dumbledore pressed on, “is to send envoys to the giants.” 
 
“Envoys to the giants?” Fudge shrieked, finding his tongue again. “What madness is this?” 
 
“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too late,” said Dumbledore, “or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!” 
 
“You - you cannot be serious!” Fudge gasped, shaking his head and retreating further from Dumbledore. “If the magical community got wind that I had approached the giants - people hate them, Dumbledore - end of my career -”  
 
“You are blinded,” said Dumbledore, his voice rising now, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes blazing once more, “by the love of the office you hold, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has just destroyed the last remaining member of a pure-blood family as old as any - and see what that 
man chose to make of his life! I tell you now- take the steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered, in office or out, as one of the bravest and greatest Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act - and history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!” 
 
“Insane,” whispered Fudge, still backing away. “Mad…” 
 
And then there was silence. Madam Pomfrey was standing frozen at the foot of Harry’s bed, her hands over her mouth. Mrs.Weasley was still standing over Harry, her hand on his shoulder to prevent him from rising. Bill, Ron, and Hermione were staring at Fudge. 
 
“If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, “we have reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I - I shall act as I see fit.” 
 
Dumbledore’s voice carried no hint of a threat; it sounded like a mere statement, but Fudge bristled as though Dumbledore were advancing upon him with a wand.  
 
“Now, see here, Dumbledore,” he said, waving a threatening finger. “I’ve given you free rein, always. I’ve had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions, but I’ve kept quiet. There aren’t many who’d have let you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students without reference to the Ministry. But if you’re going to work against me -” 
 
“The only one against whom I intend to work,” said Dumbledore, “is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side.” 
 
It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He rocked backward and forward on his small feet for a moment and spun his bowler hat in his hands. Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, “He can’t be back, Dumbledore, he just can’t be…” 
 
Snape strode forward, past Dumbledore, pulling up the left sleeve of his robes as he went. He stuck out his forearm and showed it to Fudge, who recoiled. 
 
“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff s too. Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had 
returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord’s vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the fold.” 
 
Fudge stepped back from Snape too. He was shaking his head. He did not seem to have taken in a word Snape had said. He stared, apparently repelled by the ugly mark on Snape’s arm, then looked up at Dumbledore and whispered, “I don’t know what you and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I have no more to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the running of this school. I must return to the Ministry.” 
 
He had almost reached the door when he paused. He turned around, strode back down the dormitory, and stopped at Harry’s bed. 
 
“Your winnings,” he said shortly, taking a large bag of gold out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harrys bedside table. “One thousand Galleons. There should have been a presentation ceremony, but under the circumstances…” 
 
He crammed his bowler hat onto his head and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The moment he had disappeared, Dumbledore turned to look at the group around Harry’s bed. 
 
“There is work to be done,” he said. “Molly… am I right in thinking that I can count on you and Arthur?” 
 
“Of course you can,” said Mrs. Weasley. She was white to the lips, but she looked  resolute. “We know what Fudge is. It’s Arthur’s fondness for Muggles that has held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride.” 
 
“Then I need to send a message to Arthur,” said Dumbledore. “All those that we can persuade of the truth must be notified immediately, and he is well placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as shortsighted as Cornelius.” 
 
“I’ll go to Dad,” said Bill, standing up. “I’ll go now.” 
 
“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “Tell him what has happened. Tell him I will be in direct contact with him shortly. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry -” 
 
“Leave it to me,” said Bill. 
 
He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, kissed his mother on the cheek, pulled on his cloak, and strode quickly from the room. 
 
“Minerva,” said Dumbledore, turning to Professor McGonagall, “I want to see Hagrid in my office as soon as possible. Also - if she will consent to come – Madame Maxime.” 
 
Professor McGonagall nodded and left without a word. 
 
“Poppy,” Dumbledore said to Madam Pomfrey, “would you be very kind and go down to Professor Moodys office, where I think you will find a house-elf called Winky in considerable distress? Do what you can for her, and take her back to the kitchens. I think Dobby will look after her for us.” 
 
“Very - very well,” said Madam Pomfrey, looking startled, and she too left. 
 
Dumbledore made sure that the door was closed, and that Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps had died away, before he spoke again. 
 
“And now,” he said, “it is time for two of our number to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius… if you could resume your usual form.” 
 
The great black dog looked up at Dumbledore, then, in an instant, turned back into a man. 
 
Mrs. Weasley screamed and leapt back from the bed. 
 
“Sirius Black!” she shrieked, pointing at him. 
 
“Mum, shut up!” Ron yelled. “It’s okay!” 
 
Snape had not yelled or jumped backward, but the look on his face was one of mingled fury and horror. 
 
“Him!” he snarled, staring at Sirius, whose face showed equal dislike. “What is he doing here?” 
 
“He is here at my invitation,” said Dumbledore, looking between them, “as are you, Severus. I trust you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old differences and trust each other.” 
 
Harry thought Dumbledore was asking for a near miracle. Sirius and Snape were eyeing each other with the utmost loathing. 
 
“I will settle, in the short term,” said Dumbledore, with a bite of impatience in his voice, “for a lack of open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the same side now. Time is short, and unless the few of us who know the truth do not stand united, there is no hope for any us. 
 
Very slowly - but still glaring at each other as though each wished the othernothing but ill - Sirius and Snape moved toward each other and shook hands. They let go extremely quickly. 
 
“That will do to be going on with,” said Dumbledore, stepping between them once more. “Now I have work for each of you. Fudge’s attitude, though not unexpected, changes everything. Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher - the old crowd. Lie low at Lupin’s for a while; I will contact you there.” 
 
“But -” said Harry. 
 
He wanted Sirius to stay. He did not want to have to say goodbye again so quickly.  
 
“You’ll see me very soon. Harry,” said Sirius, turning to him. “I promise you. But I must do what I can, you understand, don’t you?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah… of course I do.” 
 
Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, and ran the length of the room to the door, whose handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone. 
 
“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready… if you are prepared…” 
 
“I am,” said Snape. 
 
He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.  
 
“Then good luck,” said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius. 
 
It was several minutes before Dumbledore spoke again. 
 
“I must go downstairs,” he said finally. “I must see the Diggorys. Harry - take the rest of your potion. I will see all of you later.” 
 
Harry slumped back against his pillows as Dumbledore disappeared. Hermione, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley were all looking at him. None of them spoke for a very long time. 
 
“You’ve got to take the rest of your potion Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said at last. Her hand nudged the sack of gold on his bedside cabinet as she reached for the bottle and the goblet. “You have a good long sleep. Try and think about something else for a while… think about what you’re going to buy with your winnings!” 
 
“I don’t want that gold,” said Harry in an expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have it. I shouldn’t have won it. It should’ve been Cedric’s.” 
 
The thing against which he had been fighting on and off ever since he had come out of the maze was threatening to overpower him. He could feel a burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling. 
 
“It wasn’t your fault. Harry,” Mrs. Weasley whispered. 
 
“I told him to take the cup with me,” said Harry. 
 
Now the burning feeling was in his throat too. He wished Ron would look away. Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as though by a mother. The full weight of everything he had seen that night seemed to fall in upon him as Mrs. Weasley held him to her. His mother s face, his father’s voice, the sight of Cedric, dead on the ground all started spinning in his head until he could hardly bear it, until he was screwing up his face against the howl of misery fighting to get out of him. 
 
There was a loud slamming noise, and Mrs. Weasley and Harry broke apart. Hermione was standing by the window. She was holding something tight in her hand. 
 
“Sorry,” she whispered. 
 
“Your potion, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley quickly, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. 
 
Harry drank it in one gulp. The effect was instantaneous. Heavy, irresistible waves of dreamless sleep broke over him; he fell back onto his pillows and thought no more. 
 
When he looked back, even a month later, Harry found he had only scattered memories of the next few days. It was as though he had been through too much to take in any more. The recollections he did have were very painful. The worst, perhaps, was the meeting with the Diggorys that took place the following morning.  
 
They did not blame him for what had happened; on the contrary, both thanked him for returning Cedric’s body to them. Mr. Diggory sobbed through most of the interview. Mrs. Diggory’s grief seemed to be beyond tears.  
 
“He suffered very little then,” she said, when Harry had told her how Cedric had died. “And after all, Amos… he died just when he’d won the tournament. He must have been happy.” 
 
When they got to their feet, she looked down at Harry and said, “You look after yourself, now.” 
 
Harry seized the sack of gold on the bedside table. 
 
“You take this,” he muttered to her. “It should’ve been Cedric’s, he got there first, you take it -” 
 
But she backed away from him. 
 
“Oh no, it’s yours, dear, I couldn’t… you keep it.” 
 
Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower the following evening. From what Hermione and Ron told him, Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning at breakfast. He had merely requested that they leave Harry alone, that nobody ask him questions or badger him to tell the story of what had happened in the maze. Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whispered behind their hands as he passed. He guessed that many of them had believed Rita Skeeter’s article about how disturbed and possibly dangerous he was. Perhaps they were formulating their own theories about how Cedric had died. He found he didn’t care very much. He liked it best when he was with Ron and Hermione and they were talking about other things, or else letting him sit in silence while they played chess. He felt as though all three of them had reached an understanding they didn’t need to put into words; that each was waiting for some sign, some word, of what was going on outside Hogwarts - and that it was useless to speculate about what might be coming until they knew anything for certain. The only time they touched upon the subject was when Ron told Harry about a meeting Mrs. Weasley had had with Dumbledore before going home. 
 
“She went to ask him if you could come straight to us this summer,” he said. “But he wants you to go back to the Dursleys, at least at first.”  
 
“Why?” said Harry. 
“She said Dumbledore’s got his reasons,” said Ron, shaking his head darkly. “I suppose we’ve got to trust him, haven’t we?” 
 
The only person apart from Ron and Hermione that Harry felt able to talk to was Hagrid. As there was no longer a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, they had those lessons free. They used the one on Thursday afternoon to go down and visit Hagrid in his cabin. It was a bright and sunny day; Fang bounded out of the open door as they approached, barking and wagging his tail madly. 
 
“Who’s that?” called Hagrid, coming to the door. “Harry!” 
 
He strode out to meet them, pulled Harry into a one-armed hug, ruffled his hair, and said, “Good ter see yeh, mate. Good ter see yeh.” 
 
They saw two bucket-size cups and saucers on the wooden table in front of the fireplace when they entered Hagrid’s cabin. 
 
“Bin havin’ a cuppa with Olympe,” Hagrid said. “She’s jus’ left.” 
 
“Who?” said Ron curiously. 
 
“Madame Maxime, o’ course!” said Hagrid. 
 
“You two made up, have you?” said Ron. 
 
“Dunno what yeh’re talkin’ about,” said Hagrid airily, fetching more cups from the dresser. When he had made tea and offered around a plate of doughy cookies, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Harry closely through his beetle-black eyes. 
 
“You all righ’?” he said gruffly 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry. 
 
“No, yeh’re not,” said Hagrid. “Course yeh’re not. But yeh will be.” 
 
Harry said nothing. 
 
“Knew he was goin’ ter come back,” said Hagrid, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up at him, shocked. “Known it fer years Harry. Knew he was out there, bidin’ his time. It had ter happen. Well, now it has, an’ we’ll jus’ have ter get on with it. We’ll fight. Migh’ be able ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That’s Dumbledores plan, anyway. Great man, Dumbledore. ‘S long as we’ve got him, I’m not too worried.” 
 
Hagrid raised his bushy eyebrows at the disbelieving expressions on their faces. 
 
“No good sittin’ worryin’ abou’ it,” he said. “What’s comin’ will come, an we’ll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha’ you did. Harry.” 
 
Hagrid’s chest swelled as he looked at Harry. 
 
“Yeh did as much as yer father would’ve done, an’ I can’ give yeh no higher praise than that.” 
 
Harry smiled back at him. It was the first time he’d smiled in days. “What’s Dumbledore asked you to do, Hagrid?” he asked. “He sent Professor McGonagall to ask you and Madame Maxime to meet him - that night.” 
 
“Got a little job fer me over the summer,” said Hagrid. “Secret, though. I’m not s’pposed ter talk abou’ it, no, not even ter you lot. Olympe - Madame Maxime ter you - might be comin’ with me. I think she will. Think I got her persuaded.” 
 
“Is it to do with Voldemort?” 
 
Hagrid flinched at the sound of the name. 
 
“Migh’ be,” he said evasively. “Now… who’d like ter come an’ visit the las’ skrewt with me? I was jokin’ - jokin’!” he added hastily, seeing the looks on their faces. 
 
It was with a heavy heart that Harry packed his trunk up in the dormitory on the night before his return to Privet Drive. He was dreading the Leaving Feast, which was usually a cause for celebration, when the winner of the Inter-House Championship would be announced. He had avoided being in the Great Hall when it was full ever since he had left the hospital wing, preferring to eat when it was nearly empty to avoid the stares of his fellow students. 
 
When he, Ron, and Hermione entered the Hall, they saw at once that the usual decorations were missing. The Great Hall was normally decorated with the winning House’s colors for the Leaving Feast. Tonight, however, there were black drapes on the wall behind the teachers’ table. Harry knew instantly that they were there as a mark of respect to Cedric. 
 
The real Mad-Eye Moody was at the staff table now, his wooden leg and his magical eye back in place. He was extremely twitchy, jumping every time someone spoke to him. Harry couldn’t blame him; Moodys fear of attack was bound to have been increased by his ten-month  imprisonment in his own trunk. Professor Karkaroff s chair was empty. Harry wondered, as he sat down with the other Gryffindors, where Karkaroff was now, and whether Voldemort had caught up with him. 
 
Madame Maxime was still there. She was sitting next to Hagrid. They were talking quietly together. Further along the table, sitting next to Professor McGonagall, was Snape. His eyes lingered on Harry for a moment as Harry looked at him. His expression was difficult to read. He looked as sour and unpleasant as ever. Harry continued to watch him, long after Snape had looked away. 
 
What was it that Snape had done on Dumbledores orders, the night that Voldemort had returned? And why… why… was Dumbledore so convinced that Snape was truly on their side? He had been their spy, Dumbledore had said so in the Pensieve. Snape had turned spy against Voldemort, “at great personal risk.” Was that the job he had taken up again? Had he made contact with the Death Eaters, perhaps? Pretended that he had never really gone over to Dumbledore, that he had been, like Voldemort himself, biding his time? 
 
Harry’s musings were ended by Professor Dumbledore, who stood up at the staff table. The Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy than it usually was at the Leaving Feast, became very quiet. 
 
“The end,” said Dumbledore, looking around at them all, “of another year.” 
 
He paused, and his eyes fell upon the Hufflepuff table. Theirs had been the most subdued table before he had gotten to his feet, and theirs were still the saddest and palest faces in the Hall. 
 
“There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight,” said Dumbledore, “but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here,” he gestured toward the Hufflepuffs, “enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory.” 
 
They did it, all of them; the benches scraped as everyone in the Hall stood, and raised their goblets, and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, “Cedric Diggory.” 
 
Harry caught a glimpse of Cho through the crowd. There were tears pouring silently down her face. He looked down at the table as they all sat down again.  
 
“Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff house,” Dumbledore continued. “He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about.” 
 
Harry raised his head and stared at Dumbledore. 
 
“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.” 
 
A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall. People were staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He looked perfectly calm as he watched them mutter themselves into silence. 
 
“The Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore continued, “does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so - either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.” 
 
Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall was turned toward Dumbledore now… or almost every face. Over at the Slytherin table Harry saw Draco Malfoy muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle. Harry felt a hot, sick swoop of anger in his stomach. He forced himself to look back at Dumbledore. 
 
“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedrics death,” Dumbledore went on. “I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.” 
 
A kind of ripple crossed the Great Hall as a few heads turned in Harry’s direction before flicking back to face Dumbledore. 
 
“Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort,” said Dumbledore. “He risked his own life to return Cedric’s body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor him.” 
 
Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed suit. They murmured his name, as they had murmured Cedric’s, and drank to him. But through a gap in the standing figures. 
 
Harry saw that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and many of the other Slytherins had remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets untouched. Dumbledore, who after all possessed no magical eye, did not see them. 
 
When everyone had once again resumed their seats, Dumbledore continued, “The Triwizard Tournament’s aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened - of Lord Voldemorts return - such ties are more important than ever before.” 
 
Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the Slytherin table. Krum, Harry saw, looked wary, almost frightened, as though he expected Dumbledore to say something harsh. 
 
“Every guest in this Hall,” said Dumbledore, and his eyes lingered upon the Durmstrang students, “will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again - in the light of Lord Voldemort’s return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemorts gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open. 
 
“It is my belief - and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken - that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst. 
 
“Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.” 
 
Harry’s trunk was packed; Hedwig was back in her cage on top of it. He, Ron, and Hermione were waiting in the crowded entrance hall with the rest of the fourth years for the carriages that would take them back to Hogsmeade station. It was another beautiful summer’s day. He supposed that Privet Drive would be hot and leafy, its flower beds a riot of color, when he arrived there that evening. The thought gave him no pleasure at all. 
 
“‘Arry!” 
 
He looked around. Fleur Delacour was hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Beyond her, far across the grounds Harry could see Hagrid helping Madame Maxime to back two of the giant horses into their harness. The Beauxbatons carriage was about to take off. 
 
“We will see each uzzer again, I ‘ope,” said Fleur as she reached him, holding out her hand. “I am ‘oping to get a job ‘ere, to improve my Eenglish.” 
 
“It’s very good already,” said Ron in a strangled sort of voice. Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled. 
 
“Good-bye, ‘Arry,” said Fleur, turning to go. “It ‘az been a pleasure meeting you!”  
 
Harrys spirits couldn’t help but lift slightly as he watched Fleur hurry back across the lawns to Madame Maxime, her silvery hair rippling in the sunlight. 
 
“Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting back,” said Ron. “D’ you reckon they can steer that ship without Karkaroff?” 
 
“Karkaroff did not steer,” said a gruff voice. “He stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork.” 
 
Krum had come to say good-bye to Hermione. “Could I have a vord?” he asked her. 
 
“Oh… yes… all right,” said Hermione, looking slightly flustered, and following Krum through the crowd and out of sight. 
 
“You’d better hurry up!” Ron called loudly after her. “The carriages’ll be here in a minute!” 
 
He let Harry keep a watch for the carriages, however, and spent the next few minutes craning his neck over the crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione might be up to. They returned quite soon. Ron stared at Hermione, but her face was quite impassive. 
 
“I liked Diggory,” said Krum abruptly to Harry. “He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang - with Karkaroff,” he added, scowling. 
 
“Have you got a new headmaster yet?” said Harry 
Krum shrugged. He held out his hand as Fleur had done, shook Harry’s hand, and then Ron’s. Ron looked as though he was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started walking away when Ron burst out, “Can I have your autograph?” 
 
Hermione turned away, smiling at the horseless carriages that were now trundling toward them up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed a fragment of parchment for Ron. 
 
The weather could not have been more different on the journey back to King’s Cross than it had been on their way to Hogwarts the previous September. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had managed to get a compartment to themselves. Pigwidgeon was once again hidden under Rons dress robes to stop him from hooting continually; Hedwig was dozing, her head under her wing, and Crookshanks was curled up in a spare seat like a large, furry ginger cushion. Harry, Ron, and Hermione talked more fully and freely than they had all week as the train sped them southward. Harry felt as though Dumbledore’s speech at the Leaving Feast had unblocked him, somehow. It was less painful to discuss what had happened now. They broke off their conversation about what action Dumbledore might be taking, even now, to stop Voldemort only when the lunch trolley arrived. 
 
When Hermione returned from the trolley and put her money back into her schoolbag, she dislodged a copy of the Daily Prophet that she had been carrying in there. Harry looked at it, unsure whether he really wanted to know what it might say, but Hermione, seeing him looking at it, said calmly, “There’s nothing in there. You can look for yourself, but there’s nothing at all. I’ve been checking every day. Just a small piece the day after the third task saying you won the tournament. They didn’t even mention Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me Fudge is 
forcing them to keep quiet.” 
 
“He’ll never keep Rita quiet,” said Harry. “Not on a story like this.” 
 
“Oh, Rita hasn’t written anything at all since the third task,” said Hermione in an oddly constrained voice. “As a matter of fact,” she added, her voice now trembling slightly, “Rita Skeeter isn’t going to be writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she wants me to spill the beans on her.” 
 
“What are you talking about?” said Ron. 
 
“I found out how she was listening in on private conversations when she wasn’t supposed to be coming onto the grounds,” said Hermione in a rush. 
 
Harry had the impression that Hermione had been dying to tell them this for days, but that she had restrained herself in light of everything else that had happened.  
 
“How was she doing it?” said Harry at once. 
 
“How did you find out?” said Ron, staring at her. 
 
“Well, it was you, really, who gave me the idea Harry,” she said. 
“Did I?” said Harry, perplexed. “How?” 
 
“Bugging,” said Hermione happily. 
 
“But you said they didn’t work -” 
 
“Oh not electronic bugs,” said Hermione. “No, you see… Rita Skeeter” - 
 
Hermiones voice trembled with quiet triumph - “is an unregistered Animagus. She can turn -” 
Hermione pulled a small sealed glass jar out other bag. “- into a beetle.” 
 
“You’re kidding,” said Ron. “You haven’t… she’s not…” 
 
“Oh yes she is,” said Hermione happily, brandishing the jar at them. 
 
Inside were a few twigs and leaves and one large, fat beetle. 
 
“That’s never - you’re kidding -” Ron whispered, lifting the jar to his eyes. 
 
“No, I’m not,” said Hermione, beaming. “I caught her on the windowsill in the hospital wing. Look very closely, and you’ll notice the markings around her antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she wears.” 
 
Harry looked and saw that she was quite right. He also remembered something. 
 
“There was a beetle on the statue the night we heard Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!” 
 
“Exactly,” said Hermione. “And Viktor pulled a beetle out of my hair after we’d had our conversation by the lake. And unless I’m very much mistaken, Rita was perched on the windowsill of the Divination class the day your scar hurt. She’s been buzzing around for stories all year.” 
 
“When we saw Malfoy under that tree…” said Ron slowly. 
 
“He was talking to her, in his hand,” said Hermione. “He knew, of course. That’s how she’s been getting all those nice little interviews with the Slytherins. They wouldn’t care that she was doing something illegal, as long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us and Hagrid.” 
 
Hermione took the glass jar back from Ron and smiled at the beetle, which buzzed angrily against the glass. 
 
“I’ve told her I’ll let her out when we get back to London,” said Hermione. “I’ve put an Unbreakable Charm on the jar, you see, so she can’t transform. And I’ve told her she’s to keep her quill to herself for a whole year. See if she can’t break the habit of writing horrible lies about people.” 
Smiling serenely, Hermione placed the beetle back inside her schoolbag. 
 
The door of the compartment slid open. 
 
“Very clever Granger,” said Draco Malfoy. 
 
Crabbe and Goyle were standing behind him. All three of them looked more pleased with themselves, more arrogant and more menacing, than Harry had ever seen them. 
 
“So,” said Malfoy slowly, advancing slightly into the compartment and looking slowly around at them, a smirk quivering on his lips. “You caught some pathetic reporter, and Potter’s Dumbledore’s favorite boy again. Big deal.”  
 
His smirk widened. Crabbe and Goyle leered. 
 
“Trying not to think about it, are we?” said Malfoy softly, looking around at all three of them. “Trying to pretend it hasn’t happened?” 
 
“Get out,” said Harry. 
 
He had not been this close to Malfoy since he had watched him muttering to Crabbe and Goyle during Dumbledores speech about Cedric. He could feel a kind of ringing in his ears. His hand gripped his wand under his robes. 
 
“You’ve picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!” He jerked his head at Ron and Hermione. “Too late now Potter! They’ll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord’s back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well - second - Diggory was the f-” 
 
It was as though someone had exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the blaze of the spells that had blasted from every direction, deafened by a series of bangs, Harry blinked and looked down at the floor. 
 
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were all lying unconscious in the doorway. He, Ron, and Hermione were on their feet, all three of them having used a different hex. Nor were they the only ones to have done so. 
 
“Thought we’d see what those three were up to,” said Fred matter-of-factly, stepping onto Goyle and into the compartment. He had his wand out, and so did George, who was careful to tread on Malfoy as he followed Fred inside. 
 
“Interesting effect,” said George, looking down at Crabbe. “Who used the Furnunculus Curse?” 
 
“Me,” said Harry. 
 
“Odd,” said George lightly. “I used Jelly-Legs. Looks as though those two shouldn’t be mixed. He seems to have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, let’s not leave them here, they don’t add much to the decor.” 
 
Ron, Harry, and George kicked, rolled, and pushed the unconscious Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle - each of whom looked distinctly the worse for the jumble of jinxes with which they had been hit - out into the corridor, then came back into the compartment and rolled the door shut. 
 
“Exploding Snap, anyone?” said Fred, pulling out a pack of cards. 
 
They were halfway through their fifth game when Harry decided to ask them.  
 
“You going to tell us, then?” he said to George. “Who you were blackmailing?” 
 
“Oh,” said George darkly. “That.” 
 
“It doesn’t matter,” said Fred, shaking his head impatiently. “It wasn’t anything important. Not now, anyway.” 
 
“We’ve given up,” said George, shrugging. 
 
But Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept on asking, and finally, Fred said, “All right, all right, if you really want to know… it was Ludo Bagman.” 
 
“Bagman?” said Harry sharply. “Are you saying he was involved in -” 
 
“Nah,” said George gloomily. “Nothing like that. Stupid git. He wouldn’t have the brains.” 
 
“Well, what, then?” said Ron. 
 
Fred hesitated, then said, “You remember that bet we had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry and Ron slowly. 
 
“Well, the git paid us in leprechaun gold he’d caught from the Irish mascots.”  
 
“So?” 
 
“So,” said Fred impatiently, “it vanished, didn’t it? By next morning, it had gone!” 
 
“But - it must’ve been an accident, mustn’t it?” said Hermione. 
 
George laughed very bitterly. 
 
“Yeah, that’s what we thought, at first. We thought if we just wrote to him, and told him he’d made a mistake, he’d cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at Hogwarts, but he was always making some excuse to get away from us.” 
 
“In the end, he turned pretty nasty,” said Fred. “Told us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn’t giving us anything.” 
 
“So we asked for our money back,” said George glowering. 
 
“He didn’t refuse!” gasped Hermione. 
 
“Right in one,” said Fred. 
 
“But that was all your savings!” said Ron. 
 
“Tell me about it,” said George. “‘Course, we found out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan’s dad had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as well. Turns out he’s in big trouble with the goblins. Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and took all the gold he had, and it still wasn’t enough to cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He’s lost everything gambling. Hasn’t got two Galleons to rub together. And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins back?” 
 
“How?” said Harry. 
 
“He put a bet on you, mate,” said Fred. “Put a big bet on you to win the tournament. Bet against the goblins.” 
 
“So that’s why he kept trying to help me win!” said Harry. “Well - I did win, didn’t I? So he can pay you your gold!” 
 
“Nope,” said George, shaking his head. “The goblins play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory, and Bagman was betting you’d win outright. So Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after the third task.” 
 
George sighed deeply and started dealing out the cards again. 
 
The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough; Harry wished it could have gone on all summer, in fact, and that he would never arrive at King’s Cross… but as he had learned the hard way that year, time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead, and all too soon, the Hogwarts Express was pulling in at platform nine and three-quarters. The usual confusion and noise filled the corridors as the students began to disembark. Ron and Hermione struggled out past Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, carrying their trunks. Harry, however, stayed put. 
 
“Fred - George - wait a moment.” 
 
The twins turned. Harry pulled open his trunk and drew out his Triwizard winnings. 
 
“Take it,” he said, and he thrust the sack into George’s hands. 
 
“What?” said Fred, looking flabbergasted. 
 
“Take it,” Harry repeated firmly. “I don’t want it.” 
 
“You’re mental,” said George, trying to push it back at Harry. 
 
“No, I’m not,” said Harry. “You take it, and get inventing. It’s for the joke shop.” 
 
“He is mental,” Fred said in an almost awed voice. 
 
“Listen,” said Harry firmly. “If you don’t take it, I’m throwing it down the drain. I don’t want it and I don’t need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need them more than usual before long.” 
 
“Harry,” said George weakly, weighing the money bag in his hands, “there’s got to be a thousand Galleons in here.” 
 
“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “Think how many Canary Creams that is.” 
 
The twins stared at him. 
 
“Just don’t tell your mum where you got it… although she might not be so keen for you to join the Ministry anymore, come to think of it…” 
 
“Harry,” Fred began, but Harry pulled out his wand. 
 
“Look,” he said flatly, “take it, or I’ll hex you. I know some good ones now. Just do me one favor, okay? Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they’re from you.” 
 
He left the compartment before they could say another word, stepping over Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were still lying on the floor, covered in hex marks. 
 
Uncle Vernon was waiting beyond the barrier. Mrs. Weasley was close by him. She hugged Harry very tightly when she saw him and whispered in his ear, “I think Dumbledore will let you come to us later in the summer. Keep in touch, Harry.” 
 
“See you. Harry,” said Ron, clapping him on the back. 
 
“‘Bye, Harry!” said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek. 
 
“Harry - thanks,” George muttered, while Fred nodded fervently at his side. 
Harry winked at them, turned to Uncle Vernon, and followed him silently from the station. There was no point worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the back of the Dursleys’ car. 
 
As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come… and he would have to meet it when it did.
I'd never given much thought to how I would die — though I'd had reason enough in
the last few months — but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.
I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of the hunter, and he
looked pleasantly back at me.
Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble,
even. That ought to count for something.
I knew that if I'd never gone to Forks, I wouldn't be facing death now. But, terrified as I
was, I couldn't bring myself to regret the decision. When life offers you a dream so far
beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end.
The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me.
1. First Sight
My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five
degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt —
sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was
a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks
exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more
than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its
gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few
months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer
until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three
summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.
It was to Forks that I now exiled myself— an action that I took with great horror. I
detested Forks.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling
city.
"Bella," my mom said to me — the last of a thousand times — before I got on the
plane. "You don't have to do this."
My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt a spasm of panic
as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained
mother to fend for herself ? Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get
paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she
got lost, but still…
"I want to go," I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so
frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now.
"Tell Charlie I said hi."
"I will."
"I'll see you soon," she insisted. "You can come home whenever you want — I'll come
right back as soon as you need me."
But I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise.
"Don't worry about me," I urged. "It'll be great. I love you, Mom."
She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane, and she was gone.
It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port
Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying doesn't bother me; the hour
in the car with Charlie, though, I was a little worried about.
Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased
that I was coming to live with him for the first time with any degree of permanence. He'd
already gotten me registered for high school and was going to help me get a car.
But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither of us was what anyone would call
verbose, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. I knew he was more than a
little confused by my decision — like my mother before me, I hadn't made a secret of my
distaste for Forks.
When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see it as an omen — just
unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbyes to the sun.
Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Charlie is Police
Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car,
despite the scarcity of my funds, was that I refused to be driven around town in a car with
red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.
Charlie gave me an awkward, one-armed hug when I stumbled my way off the plane.
"It's good to see you, Bells," he said, smiling as he automatically caught and steadied
me. "You haven't changed much. How's Renée?"
"Mom's fine. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't allowed to call him Charlie to his
face.
I had only a few bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for Washington.
My mom and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it was
still scanty. It all fit easily into the trunk of the cruiser.
"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he announced when we were strapped in.
"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed
to just "good car."
"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."
"Where did you find it?"
"Do you remember Billy Black down at La Push?" La Push is the tiny Indian
reservation on the coast.
"No."
"He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted.
That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful,
unnecessary things from my memory.
"He's in a wheelchair now," Charlie continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive
anymore, and he offered to sell me his truck cheap."
"What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression that this was the question
he was hoping I wouldn't ask.
"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine — it's only a few years old, really."
I hoped he didn't think so little of me as to believe I would give up that easily. "When
did he buy it?"
"He bought it in 1984, I think."
"Did he buy it new?"
"Well, no. I think it was new in the early sixties — or late fifties at the earliest," he
admitted sheepishly.
"Ch — Dad, I don't really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix it if
anything went wrong, and I couldn't afford a mechanic…"
"Really, Bella, the thing runs great. They don't build them like that anymore."
The thing, I thought to myself… it had possibilities — as a nickname, at the very least.
"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part I couldn't compromise on.
"Well, honey, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecoming gift." Charlie
peeked sideways at me with a hopeful expression.
Wow. Free.
"You didn't need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car."
"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking ahead at the road when he
said this. Charlie wasn't comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud. I inherited
that from him. So I was looking straight ahead as I responded.
"That's really nice, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that my being
happy in Forks is an impossibility. He didn't need to suffer along with me. And I never
looked a free truck in the mouth — or engine.
"Well, now, you're welcome," he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.
We exchanged a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was
pretty much it for Conversation. We stared out the windows in silence.
It was beautiful, of course; I couldn't deny that. Everything was green: the trees, their
trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered
with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the leaves.
It was too green — an alien planet.
Eventually we made it to Charlie's. He still lived in the small, two-bedroom house that
he'd bought with my mother in the early days of their marriage. Those were the only kind
of days their marriage had — the early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the
house that never changed, was my new — well, new to me — truck. It was a faded red
color, with big, rounded fenders and a bulbous cab. To my intense surprise, I loved it. I
didn't know if it would run, but I could see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid
iron affairs that never gets damaged — the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint
unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had destroyed.
"Wow, Dad, I love it! Thanks!" Now my horrific day tomorrow would be just that much
less dreadful. I wouldn't be faced with the choice of either walking two miles in the rain
to school or accepting a ride in the Chief's cruiser.
"I'm glad you like it," Charlie said gruffly, embarrassed again.
It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got the west bedroom that faced out
over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had been belonged to me since I was born.
The wooden floor, the light blue walls, the peaked ceiling, the yellowed lace curtains
around the window — these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Charlie
had ever made were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as I grew. The desk
now held a secondhand computer, with the phone line for the modem stapled along the
floor to the nearest phone jack. This was a stipulation from my mother, so that we could
stay in touch easily. The rocking chair from my baby days was still in the corner.
There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would have to share
with Charlie. I was trying not to dwell too much on that fact.
One of the best things about Charlie is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and
get settled, a feat that would have been altogether impossible for my mother. It was nice
to be alone, not to have to smile and look pleased; a relief to stare dejectedly out the
window at the sheeting rain and let just a few tears escape. I wasn't in the mood to go on
a real crying jag. I would save that for bedtime, when I would have to think about the
coming morning.
Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and fifty-seven — now
fifty-eight — students; there were more than seven hundred people in my junior class
alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together — their grandparents had
been toddlers together.
I would be the new girl from the big city, a curiosity, a freak.
Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could work this to my advantage.
But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. I should be tan, sporty, blond — a volleyball
player, or a cheerleader, perhaps — all the things that go with living in the valley of the
sun.
Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyes or red hair, despite
the constant sunshine. I had always been slender, but soft somehow, obviously not an
athlete; I didn't have the necessary hand-eye coordination to play sports without
humiliating myself — and harming both myself and anyone else who stood too close.
When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of bathroom
necessities and went to the communal bathroom to clean myself up after the day of travel.
I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed through my tangled, damp hair. Maybe it
was the light, but already I looked sallower, unhealthy. My skin could be pretty — it was
very clear, almost translucent-looking — but it all depended on color. I had no color here.
Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying to
myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fit in. And if I couldn't find a niche in a
school with three thousand people, what were my chances here?
I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well to
people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was
never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I
was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through
theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered
was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.
I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The constant whooshing of
the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the faded
old quilt over my head, and later added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until
after midnight, when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.
Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the
claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky here; it was like a cage.
Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked
him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me. Charlie left first, off
to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak
table in one of the three unmatching chairs and examined his small kitchen, with its dark
paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothing was changed.
My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some
sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized
family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in
Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful
nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. Those were
embarrassing to look at — I would have to see what I could do to get Charlie to put them
somewhere else, at least while I was living here.
It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie had never gotten over
my mom. It made me uncomfortable.
I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I
donned my jacket — which had the feel of a biohazard suit — and headed out into the
rain.
It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I reached for
the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. The
sloshing of my new waterproof boots was unnerving. I missed the normal crunch of
gravel as I walked. I couldn't pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a
hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under
my hood.
Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had obviously cleaned it up,
but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint.
The engine started quickly, to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top
volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus
that I hadn't expected.
Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before. The school was,
like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that it was a school; only
the sign, which declared it to be the Forks High School, made me stop. It looked like a
collection of matching houses, built with maroon-colored bricks. There were so many
trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? I
wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences, the metal detectors?
I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading front
office. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I would
get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped
unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark
hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the door.
Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a little
waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and
awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large
plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a
long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped
to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a
large, red-haired woman wearing glasses. She was wearing a purple t-shirt, which
immediately made me feel overdressed.
The red-haired woman looked up. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Isabella Swan," I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. I
was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Daughter of the Chief's flighty ex-wife, come
home at last.
"Of course," she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her
desk till she found the ones she was looking for. "I have your schedule right here, and a
map of the school." She brought several sheets to the counter to show roe.
She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map,
and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the
day. She smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled
back as convincingly as I could.
When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around
the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to see that most of the cars were older
like mine, nothing flashy. At home I'd lived in one of the few lower-income
neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing
to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny
Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the
thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me.
I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now; hopefully I wouldn't have
to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my bag,
slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I lied to
myself feebly. No one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the
truck.
I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with
teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed with relief.
Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black "3" was
painted on a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing gradually creeping
toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed
two unisex raincoats through the door.
The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to
hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a
porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin
wouldn't be a standout here.
I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate
identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name — not an
encouraging response — and of course I flushed tomato red. But at least he sent me to an
empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was harder for my new
classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down
on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bronte, Shakespeare,
Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting… and boring. I
wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that
was cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher
droned on.
When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin problems and hair
black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk to me.
"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" He looked like the overly helpful, chess club type.
"Bella," I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.
"Where's your next class?" he asked.
I had to check in my bag." Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six."
There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.
"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way…"Definitely over-helpful.
"I'm Eric," he added.
I smiled tentatively. "Thanks."
We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. I could have
sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I hoped I wasn't
getting paranoid.
"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?" he asked.
"Very."
"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"
"Three or four times a year."
"Wow, what must that be like?" he wondered.
"Sunny," I told him.
"You don't look very tan."
"My mother is part albino."
He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like clouds and a sense of
humor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm.
We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Eric walked
me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.
"Well, good luck," he said as I touched the handle. "Maybe we'll have some other
classes together." He sounded hopeful.
I smiled at him vaguely and went inside.
The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry teacher,
Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the
only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered,
blushed, and tripped over my own boots on the way to my seat.
After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each class. There was
always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me
questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a
lot. At least I never needed the map.
One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me to the
cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorter than my five feet four inches, but
her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of the difference between our heights. I couldn't
remember her name, so I smiled and nodded as she prattled about teachers and classes. I
didn't try to keep up.
We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me. I
forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them. They seemed impressed by her bravery
in speaking to me. The boy from English, Eric, waved at me from across the room.
It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with seven curious
strangers, that I first saw them.
They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible
in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating,
though they each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at
me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of
meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that
caught, and held, my attention.
They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big — muscled like a
serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another was taller, leaner, but still muscular,
and honey blond. The last was lanky, less bulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was
more boyish than the others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachers
here rather than students.
The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She had a beautiful figure, the
kind you saw on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, the kind that made
every girl around her take a hit on her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her
hair was golden, gently waving to the middle of her back. The short girl was pixielike,
thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black, cropped short and
pointing in every direction.
And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of
all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very
dark eyes despite the range in hair tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes —
purplish, bruiselike shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or
almost done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their features, were
straight, perfect, angular.
But all this is not why I couldn't look away.
I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly
beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed
pages of a fashion magazine. Or painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was
hard to decide who was the most beautiful — maybe the perfect blond girl, or the bronzehaired
boy.
They were all looking away — away from each other, away from the other students,
away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I watched, the small girl rose
with her tray — unopened soda, unbitten apple — and walked away with a quick,
graceful lope that belonged on a runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till
she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought
possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.
"Who are they ?" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd forgotten.
As she looked up to see who I meant — though already knowing, probably, from my
tone — suddenly he looked at her, the thinner one, the boyish one, the youngest, perhaps.
He looked at my neighbor for just a fraction of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered
to mine.
He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of embarrassment
I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance, his face held nothing of interest
— it was as if she had called his name, and he'd looked up in involuntary response,
already having decided not to answer.
My neighbor giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did.
"That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one who left was
Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife." She said this under her
breath.
I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a
bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect
lips barely opening. The other three still looked away, and yet I felt he was speaking
quietly to them.
Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had. But maybe
that was in vogue here — small town names? I finally remembered that my neighbor was
called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were two girls named Jessica in my
History class back home.
"They are… very nice-looking." I struggled with the conspicuous understatement.
"Yes!" Jessica agreed with another giggle. "They're all together though — Emmett and
Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live together." Her voice held all the
shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being
honest, I had to admit that even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip.
"Which ones are the Cullens?" I asked. "They don't look related…"
"Oh, they're not. Dr. Cullen is really young, in his twenties or early thirties. They're all
adopted. The Hales are brother and sister, twins — the blondes — and they're foster
children."
"They look a little old for foster children."
"They are now, Jasper and Rosalie are both eighteen, but they've been with Mrs. Cullen
since they were eight. She's their aunt or something like that."
"That's really kind of nice — for them to take care of all those kids like that, when
they're so young and everything."
"I guess so," Jessica admitted reluctantly, and I got the impression that she didn't like
the doctor and his wife for some reason. With the glances she was throwing at their
adopted children, I would presume the reason was jealousy. "I think that Mrs. Cullen can't
have any kids, though," she added, as if that lessened their kindness.
Throughout all this conversation, my eyes flickered again and again to the table where
the strange family sat. They continued to look at the walls and not eat.
"Have they always lived in Forks?" I asked. Surely I would have noticed them on one
of my summers here.
"No," she said in a voice that implied it should be obvious, even to a new arrival like
me. "They just moved down two years ago from somewhere in Alaska."
I felt a surge of pity, and relief. Pity because, as beautiful as they were, they were
outsiders, clearly not accepted. Relief that I wasn't the only newcomer here, and certainly
not the most interesting by any standard.
As I examined them, the youngest, one of the Cullens, looked up and met my gaze, this
time with evident curiosity in his expression. As I looked swiftly away, it seemed to me
that his glance held some kind of unmet expectation.
"Which one is the boy with the reddish brown hair?" I asked. I peeked at him from the
corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me, but not gawking like the other students
had today — he had a slightly frustrated expression. I looked down again.
"That's Edward. He's gorgeous, of course, but don't waste your time. He doesn't date.
Apparently none of the girls here are good-looking enough for him." She sniffed, a clear
case of sour grapes. I wondered when he'd turned her down.
I bit my lip to hide my smile. Then I glanced at him again. His face was turned away,
but I thought his cheek appeared lifted, as if he were smiling, too.
After a few more minutes, the four of them left the table together. They all were
noticeably graceful — even the big, brawny one. It was unsettling to watch. The one
named Edward didn't look at me again.
I sat at the table with Jessica and her friends longer than I would have if I'd been sitting
alone. I was anxious not to be late for class on my first day. One of my new
acquaintances, who considerately reminded me that her name was Angela, had Biology II
with me the next hour. We walked to class together in silence. She was shy, too.
When we entered the classroom, Angela went to sit at a black-topped lab table exactly
like the ones I was used to. She already had a neighbor. In fact, all the tables were filled
but one. Next to the center aisle, I recognized Edward Cullen by his unusual hair, sitting
next to that single open seat.
As I walked down the aisle to introduce myself to the teacher and get my slip signed, I
was watching him surreptitiously. Just as I passed, he suddenly went rigid in his seat. He
stared at me again, meeting my eyes with the strangest expression on his face — it was
hostile, furious. I looked away quickly, shocked, going red again. I stumbled over a book
in the walkway and had to catch myself on the edge of a table. The girl sitting there
giggled.
I'd noticed that his eyes were black — coal black.
Mr. Banner signed my slip and handed me a book with no nonsense about
introductions. I could tell we were going to get along. Of course, he had no choice but to
send me to the one open seat in the middle of the room. I kept my eyes down as I went to
sit by him, bewildered by the antagonistic stare he'd given me.
I didn't look up as I set my book on the table and took my seat, but I saw his posture
change from the corner of my eye. He was leaning away from me, sitting on the extreme
edge of his chair and averting his face like he smelled something bad. Inconspicuously, I
sniffed my hair. It smelled like strawberries, the scent of my favorite shampoo. It seemed
an innocent enough odor. I let my hair fall over my right shoulder, making a dark curtain
between us, and tried to pay attention to the teacher.
Unfortunately the lecture was on cellular anatomy, something I'd already studied. I took
notes carefully anyway, always looking down.
I couldn't stop myself from peeking occasionally through the screen of my hair at the
strange boy next to me. During the whole class, he never relaxed his stiff position on the
edge of his chair, sitting as far from me as possible. I could see his hand on his left leg
was clenched into a fist, tendons standing out under his pale skin. This, too, he never
relaxed. He had the long sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his elbows, and his
forearm was surprisingly hard and muscular beneath his light skin. He wasn't nearly as
slight as he'd looked next to his burly brother.
The class seemed to drag on longer than the others. Was it because the day was finally
coming to a close, or because I was waiting for his tight fist to loosen? It never did; he
continued to sit so still it looked like he wasn't breathing. What was wrong with him?
Was this his normal behavior? I questioned my judgment on Jessica's bitterness at lunch
today. Maybe she was not as resentful as I'd thought.
It couldn't have anything to do with me. He didn't know me from Eve.
I peeked up at him one more time, and regretted it. He was glaring down at me again,
his black eyes full of revulsion. As I flinched away from him, shrinking against my chair,
the phra seif looks could kill suddenly ran through my mind.
At that moment, the bell rang loudly, making me jump, and Edward Cullen was out of
his seat. Fluidly he rose — he was much taller than I'd thought — his back to me, and he
was out the door before anyone else was out of their seat.
I sat frozen in my seat, staring blankly after him. He was so mean. It wasn't fair. I began
gathering up my things slowly, trying to block the anger that filled me, for fear my eyes
would tear up. For some reason, my temper was hardwired to my tear ducts. I usually
cried when I was angry, a humiliating tendency.
"Aren't you Isabella Swan?" a male voice asked.
I looked up to see a cute, baby-faced boy, his pale blond hair carefully gelled into
orderly spikes, smiling at me in a friendly way. He obviously didn't think I smelled bad.
"Bella," I corrected him, with a smile.
"I'm Mike."
"Hi, Mike."
"Do you need any help finding your next class?"
"I'm headed to the gym, actually. I think I can find it."
"That's my next class, too." He seemed thrilled, though it wasn't that big of a
coincidence in a school this small.
We walked to class together; he was a chatterer — he supplied most of the
conversation, which made it easy for me. He'd lived in California till he was ten, so he
knew how I felt about the sun. It turned out he was in my English class also. He was the
nicest person I'd met today.
But as we were entering the gym, he asked, "So, did you stab Edward Cullen with a
pencil or what? I've never seen him act like that."
I cringed. So I wasn't the only one who had noticed. And, apparently, that wasn't
Edward Cullen's usual behavior. I decided to play dumb.
"Was that the boy I sat next to in Biology?" I asked artlessly.
"Yes," he said. "He looked like he was in pain or something."
"I don't know," I responded. "I never spoke to him."
"He's a weird guy." Mike lingered by me instead of heading to the dressing room. "If I
were lucky enough to sit by you, I would have talked to you."
I smiled at him before walking through the girls' locker room door. He was friendly and
clearly admiring. But it wasn't enough to ease my irritation.
The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform but didn't make me dress down for
today's class. At home, only two years of RE. were required. Here, P.E. was mandatory
all four years. Forks was literally my personal hell on Earth.
I watched four volleyball games running simultaneously. Remembering how many
injuries I had sustained — and inflicted — playing volleyball, I felt faintly nauseated.
The final bell rang at last. I walked slowly to the office to return my paperwork. The
rain had drifted away, but the wind was strong, and colder. I wrapped my arms around
myself.
When I walked into the warm office, I almost turned around and walked back out.
Edward Cullen stood at the desk in front of me. I recognized again that tousled bronze
hair. He didn't appear to notice the sound of my entrance. I stood pressed against the back
wall, waiting for the receptionist to be free.
He was arguing with her in a low, attractive voice. I quickly picked up the gist of the
argument. He was trying to trade from sixth-hour Biology to another time — any other
time.
I just couldn't believe that this was about me. It had to be something else, something
that happened before I entered the Biology room. The look on his face must have been
about another aggravation entirely. It was impossible that this stranger could take such a
sudden, intense dislike to me.
The door opened again, and the cold wind suddenly gusted through the room, rustling
the papers on the desk, swirling my hair around my face. The girl who came in merely
stepped to the desk, placed a note in the wire basket, and walked out again. But Edward
Cullen's back stiffened, and he turned slowly to glare at me — his face was absurdly
handsome — with piercing, hate-filled eyes. For an instant, I felt a thrill of genuine fear,
raising the hair on my arms. The look only lasted a second, but it chilled me more than
the freezing wind. He turned back to the receptionist.
"Never mind, then," he said hastily in a voice like velvet. "I can see that it's impossible.
Thank you so much for your help." And he turned on his heel without another look at me,
and disappeared out the door.
I went meekly to the desk, my face white for once instead of red, and handed her the
signed slip.
"How did your first day go, dear?" the receptionist asked maternally.
"Fine," I lied, my voice weak. She didn't look convinced.
When I got to the truck, it was almost the last car in the lot. It seemed like a haven,
already the closest thing to home I had in this damp green hole. I sat inside for a while,
just staring out the windshield blankly. But soon I was cold enough to need the heater, so
I turned the key and the engine roared to life. I headed back to Charlie's house, fighting
tears the whole way there.
2. Open Book
The next day was better… and worse.
It was better because it wasn't raining yet, though the clouds were dense and opaque. It
was easier because I knew what to expect of my day. Mike came to sit by me in English,
and walked me to my next class, with Chess Club Eric glaring at him all the while; that
was nattering. People didn't look at me quite as much as they had yesterday. I sat with a
big group at lunch that included Mike, Eric, Jessica, and several other people whose
names and faces I now remembered. I began to feel like I was treading water, instead of
drowning in it.
It was worse because I was tired; I still couldn't sleep with the wind echoing around the
house. It was worse because Mr. Varner called on me in Trig when my hand wasn't raised
and I had the wrong answer. It was miserable because I had to play volleyball, and the
one time I didn't cringe out of the way of the ball, I hit my teammate in the head with it.
And it was worse because Edward Cullen wasn't in school at all.
All morning I was dreading lunch, fearing his bizarre glares. Part of me wanted to
confront him and demand to know what his problem was. While I was lying sleepless in
my bed, I even imagined what I would say. But I knew myself too well to think I would
really have the guts to do it. I made the Cowardly Lion look like the terminator.
But when I walked into the cafeteria with Jessica — trying to keep my eyes from
sweeping the place for him, and failing entirely — I saw that his four siblings of sorts
were sitting together at the same table, and he was not with them.
Mike intercepted us and steered us to his table. Jessica seemed elated by the attention,
and her friends quickly joined us. But as I tried to listen to their easy chatter, I was
terribly uncomfortable, waiting nervously for the moment he would arrive. I hoped that
he would simply ignore me when he came, and prove my suspicions false.
He didn't come, and as time passed I grew more and more tense.
I walked to Biology with more confidence when, by the end of lunch, he still hadn't
showed. Mike, who was taking on the qualities of a golden retriever, walked faithfully by
my side to class. I held my breath at the door, but Edward Cullen wasn't there, either. I
exhaled and went to my seat. Mike followed, talking about an upcoming trip to the beach.
He lingered by my desk till the bell rang. Then he smiled at me wistfully and went to sit
by a girl with braces and a bad perm. It looked like I was going to have to do something
about Mike, and it wouldn't be easy. In a town like this, where everyone lived on top of
everyone else, diplomacy was essential. I had never been enormously tactful; I had no
practice dealing with overly friendly boys.
I was relieved that I had the desk to myself, that Edward was absent. I told myself that
repeatedly. But I couldn't get rid of the nagging suspicion that I was the reason he wasn't
there. It was ridiculous, and egotistical, to think that I could affect anyone that strongly. It
was impossible. And yet I couldn't stop worrying that it was true.
When the school day was finally done, and the blush was fading out of my cheeks from
the volleyball incident, I changed quickly back into my jeans and navy blue sweater. I
hurried from the girls' locker room, pleased to find that I had successfully evaded my
retriever friend for the moment. I walked swiftly out to the parking lot. It was crowded
now with fleeing students. I got in my truck and dug through my bag to make sure I had
what I needed.
Last night I'd discovered that Charlie couldn't cook much besides fried eggs and bacon.
So I requested that I be assigned kitchen detail for the duration of my stay. He was
willing enough to hand over the keys to the banquet hall. I also found out that he had no
food in the house. So I had my shopping list and the cash from the jar in the cupboard
labeled FOOD MONEY, and I was on my way to the Thriftway.
I gunned my deafening engine to life, ignoring the heads that turned in my direction,
and backed carefully into a place in the line of cars that were waiting to exit the parking
lot. As I waited, trying to pretend that the earsplitting rumble was coming from someone
else's car, I saw the two Cullens and the Hale twins getting into their car. It was the shiny
new Volvo. Of course. I hadn't noticed their clothes before — I'd been too mesmerized by
their faces. Now that I looked, it was obvious that they were all dressed exceptionally
well; simply, but in clothes that subtly hinted at designer origins. With their remarkable
good looks, the style with which they carried themselves, they could have worn dishrags
and pulled it off. It seemed excessive for them to have both looks and money. But as far
as I could tell, life worked that way most of the time. It didn't look as if it bought them
any acceptance here.
No, I didn't fully believe that. The isolation must be their desire; I couldn't imagine any
door that wouldn't be opened by that degree of beauty.
They looked at my noisy truck as I passed them, just like everyone else. I kept my eyes
straight forward and was relieved when I finally was free of the school grounds.
The Thriftway was not far from the school, just a few streets south, off the highway. It
was nice to be inside the supermarket; it felt normal. I did the shopping at home, and I
fell into the pattern of the familiar task gladly. The store was big enough inside that I
couldn't hear the tapping of the rain on the roof to remind me where I was.
When I got home, I unloaded all the groceries, stuffing them in wherever I could find
an open space. I hoped Charlie wouldn't mind. I wrapped potatoes in foil and stuck them
in the oven to bake, covered a steak in marinade and balanced it on top of a carton of
eggs in the fridge.
When I was finished with that, I took my book bag upstairs. Before starting my
homework, I changed into a pair of dry sweats, pulled my damp hair up into a pony-tail,
and checked my e-mail for the first time. I had three messages.
"Bella," my mom wrote…
Write me as soon as you get in. Tell me how your flight was. Is it raining? I miss you
already. I'm almost finished packing for Florida, but I can't find my pink blouse. Do you
know where I put it? Phil says hi. Mom.
I sighed and went to the next. It was sent eight hours after the first.
"Bella," she wrote…
Why haven't you e-mailed me yet? What are you waiting for? Mom.
The last was from this morning.
Isabella,
If I haven't heard from you by 5:30 p.m. today I'm calling Charlie.
I checked the clock. I still had an hour, but my mom was well known for jumping the
gun.
Mom,
Calm down. I'm writing right now. Don't do anything rash.
Bella.
I sent that, and began again.
Mom,
Everything is great. Of course it's raining. I was waiting for something to write about.
School isn't bad, just a little repetitive. I met some nice kids who sit by me at lunch.
Your blouse is at the dry cleaners - you were supposed to pick it up Friday.
Charlie bought me a truck, can you believe it? I love it. It's old, but really sturdy, which
is good, you know, for me.
I miss you, too. I'll write again soon, but I'm not going to check my e-mail every five
minutes. Relax, breathe. I love you.
Bella.
I had decided to read Wuthering Heights — the novel we were currently studying in
English — yet again for the fun of it, and that's what I was doing when Charlie came
home. I'd lost track of the time, and I hurried downstairs to take the potatoes out and put
the steak in to broil.
"Bella?" my father called out when he heard me on the stairs.
Who else? I thought to myself.
"Hey, Dad, welcome home."
"Thanks." He hung up his gun belt and stepped out of his boots as I bustled about the
kitchen. As far as I was aware, he'd never shot the gun on the job. But he kept it ready.
When I came here as a child, he would always remove the bullets as soon as he walked in
the door. I guess he considered me old enough now not to shoot myself by accident, and
not depressed enough to shoot myself on purpose.
"What's for dinner?" he asked warily. My mother was an imaginative cook, and her
experiments weren't always edible. I was surprised, and sad, that he seemed to remember
that far back.
"Steak and potatoes," I answered, and he looked relieved.
He seemed to feel awkward standing in the kitchen doing nothing; he lumbered into the
living room to watch TV while I worked. We were both more comfortable that way. I
made a salad while the steaks cooked, and set the table.
I called him in when dinner was ready, and he sniffed appreciatively as he walked into
the room.
"Smells good, Bell."
"Thanks."
We ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't uncomfortable. Neither of us was
bothered by the quiet. In some ways, we were well suited for living together.
"So, how did you like school? Have you made any friends?" he asked as he was taking
seconds.
"Well, I have a few classes with a girl named Jessica. I sit with her friends at lunch. And
there's this boy, Mike, who's very friendly. Everybody seems pretty nice." With one
outstanding exception.
"That must be Mike Newton. Nice kid — nice family. His dad owns the sporting goods
store just outside of town. He makes a good living off all the backpackers who come
through here."
"Do you know the Cullen family?" I asked hesitantly.
"Dr. Cullen's family? Sure. Dr. Cullen's a great man."
"They… the kids… are a little different. They don't seem to fit in very well at school."
Charlie surprised me by looking angry.
"People in this town," he muttered. "Dr. Cullen is a brilliant surgeon who could
probably work in any hospital in the world, make ten times the salary he gets here," he
continued, getting louder. "We're lucky to have him — lucky that his wife wanted to live
in a small town. He's an asset to the community, and all of those kids are well behaved
and polite. I had my doubts, when they first moved in, with all those adopted teenagers. I
thought we might have some problems with them. But they're all very mature — I haven't
had one speck of trouble from any of them. That's more than I can say for the children of
some folks who have lived in this town for generations. And they stick together the way a
family should — camping trips every other weekend… Just because they're newcomers,
people have to talk."
It was the longest speech I'd ever heard Charlie make. He must feel strongly about
whatever people were saying.
I backpedaled. "They seemed nice enough to me. I just noticed they kept to themselves.
They're all very attractive," I added, trying to be more complimentary.
"You should see the doctor," Charlie said, laughing. "It's a good thing he's happily
married. A lot of the nurses at the hospital have a hard time concentrating on their work
with him around."
We lapsed back into silence as we finished eating. He cleared the table while I started
on the dishes. He went back to the TV, and after I finished washing the dishes by hand —
no dishwasher — I went upstairs unwillingly to work on my math homework. I could feel
a tradition in the making.
That night it was finally quiet. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted.
The rest of the week was uneventful. I got used to the routine of my classes. By Friday I
was able to recognize, if not name, almost all the students at school. In Gym, the kids on
my team learned not to pass me the ball and to step quickly in front of me if the other
team tried to take advantage of my weakness. I happily stayed out of their way.
Edward Cullen didn't come back to school.
Every day, I watched anxiously until the rest of the Cullens entered the cafeteria
without him. Then I could relax and join in the lunchtime conversation. Mostly it
centered around a trip to the La Push Ocean Park in two weeks that Mike was putting
together. I was invited, and I had agreed to go, more out of politeness than desire.
Beaches should be hot and dry.
By Friday I was perfectly comfortable entering my Biology class, no longer worried
that Edward would be there. For all I knew, he had dropped out of school. I tried not to
think about him, but I couldn't totally suppress the worry that I was responsible for his
continued absence, ridiculous as it seemed.
My first weekend in Forks passed without incident. Charlie, unused to spending time in
the usually empty house, worked most of the weekend. I cleaned the house, got ahead on
my homework, and wrote my mom more bogusly cheerful e-mail. I did drive to the
library Saturday, but it was so poorly stocked that I didn't bother to get a card; I would
have to make a date to visit Olympia or Seattle soon and find a good bookstore. I
wondered idly what kind of gas mileage the truck got… and shuddered at the thought.
The rain stayed soft over the weekend, quiet, so I was able to sleep well.
People greeted me in the parking lot Monday morning. I didn't know all their names,
but I waved back and smiled at everyone. It was colder this morning, but happily not
raining. In English, Mike took his accustomed seat by my side. We had a pop quiz on
Wuthering Heights. It was straightforward, very easy.
All in all, I was feeling a lot more comfortable than I had thought I would feel by this
point. More comfortable than I had ever expected to feel here.
When we walked out of class, the air was full of swirling bits of white. I could hear
people shouting excitedly to each other. The wind bit at my cheeks, my nose.
"Wow," Mike said. "It's snowing."
I looked at the little cotton fluffs that were building up along the sidewalk and swirling
erratically past my face.
"Ew." Snow. There went my good day.
He looked surprised. "Don't you like snow?"
"No. That means it's too cold for rain." Obviously. "Besides, I thought it was supposed
to come down in flakes — you know, each one unique and all that. These just look like
the ends of Q-tips."
"Haven't you ever seen snow fall before?" he asked incredulously.
"Sure I have." I paused." On TV."
Mike laughed. And then a big, squishy ball of dripping snow smacked into the back of
his head. We both turned to see where it came from. I had my suspicions about Eric, who
was walking away, his back toward us — in the wrong direction for his next class. Mike
appatently had the same notion. He bent over and began scraping together a pile of the
white mush.
"I'll see you at lunch, okay?" I kept walking as I spoke. "Once people start throwing wet
stuff, I go inside."
He just nodded, his eyes on Eric's retreating figure.
Throughout the morning, everyone chattered excitedly about the snow; apparently it
was the first snowfall of the new year. I kept my mouth shut. Sure, it was drier than rain
— until it melted in your socks.
I walked alertly to the cafeteria with Jessica after Spanish. Mush balls were flying
everywhere. I kept a binder in my hands, ready to use it as a shield if necessary. Jessica
thought I was hilarious, but something in my expression kept her from lobbing a
snowball at me herself.
Mike caught up to us as we walked in the doors, laughing, with ice melting the spikes
in his hair. He and Jessica were talking animatedly about the snow fight as we got in line
to buy food. I glanced toward that table in the corner out of habit. And then I froze where
I stood. There were five people at the table.
Jessica pulled on my arm.
"Hello? Bella? What do you want?"
I looked down; my ears were hot. I had no reason to feel self-conscious, I reminded
myself. I hadn't done anything wrong.
"What's with Bella?" Mike asked Jessica.
"Nothing," I answered. "I'll just get a soda today." I caught up to the end of the line.
"Aren't you hungry?" Jessica asked.
"Actually, I feel a little sick," I said, my eyes still on the floor.
I waited for them to get their food, and then followed them to a table, my eyes on my
feet.
I sipped my soda slowly, my stomach churning. Twice Mike asked, with unnecessary
concern, how I was feeling.
I told him it was nothing, but I was wondering if I should play it up and escape to the
nurse's office for the next hour.
Ridiculous. I shouldn't have to run away.
I decided to permit myself one glance at the Cullen family's table. If he was glaring at
me, I would skip Biology, like the coward I was.
I kept my head down and glanced up under my lashes. None of them were looking this
way. I lifted my head a little.
They were laughing. Edward, Jasper, and Emmett all had their hair entirely saturated
with melting snow. Alice and Rosalie were leaning away as Emmett shook his dripping
hair toward them. They were enjoying the snowy day, just like everyone else — only they
looked more like a scene from a movie than the rest of us.
But, aside from the laughter and playfulness, there was something different, and I
couldn't quite pinpoint what that difference was. I examined Edward the most carefully.
His skin was less pale, I decided — flushed from the snow fight maybe — the circles
under his eyes much less noticeable. But there was something more. I pondered, staring,
trying to isolate the change.
"Bella, what are you staring at?" Jessica intruded, her eyes following my stare.
At that precise moment, his eyes flashed over to meet mine.
I dropped my head, letting my hair fall to conceal my face. I was sure, though, in the
instant our eyes met, that he didn't look harsh or unfriendly as he had the last time I'd
seen him. He looked merely curious again, unsatisfied in some way.
"Edward Cullen is staring at you," Jessica giggled in my ear.
"He doesn't look angry, does he?" I couldn't help asking.
"No," she said, sounding confused by my question. "Should he be?"
"I don't think he likes me," I confided. I still felt queasy. I put my head down on my
arm.
"The Cullens don't like anybody…well, they don't notice anybody enough to like them.
But he's still staring at you."
"Stop looking at him," I hissed.
She snickered, but she looked away. I raised my head enough to make sure that she did,
contemplating violence if she resisted.
Mike interrupted us then — he was planning an epic battle of the blizzard in the
parking lot after school and wanted us to join. Jessica agreed enthusiastically. The way
she looked at Mike left little doubt that she would be up for anything he suggested. I kept
silent. I would have to hide in the gym until the parking lot cleared.
For the rest of the lunch hour I very carefully kept my eyes at my own table. I decided
to honor the bargain I'd made with myself. Since he didn't look angry, I would go to
Biology. My stomach did frightened little flips at the thought of sitting next to him again.
I didn't really want to walk to class with Mike as usual — he seemed to be a popular
target for the snowball snipers — but when we went to the door, everyone besides me
groaned in unison. It was raining, washing all traces of the snow away in clear, icy
ribbons down the side of the walkway. I pulled my hood up, secretly pleased. I would be
free to go straight home after Gym.
Mike kept up a string of complaints on the way to building four.
Once inside the classroom, I saw with relief that my table was still empty. Mr. Banner
was walking around the room, distributing one microscope and box of slides to each
table. Class didn't start for a few minutes, and the room buzzed with conversation. I kept
my eyes away from the door, doodling idly on the cover of my notebook.
I heard very clearly when the chair next to me moved, but my eyes stayed carefully
focused on the pattern I was drawing.
"Hello," said a quiet, musical voice.
I looked up, stunned that he was speaking to me. He was sitting as far away from me as
the desk allowed, but his chair was angled toward me. His hair was dripping wet,
disheveled — even so, he looked like he'd just finished shooting a commercial for hair
gel. His dazzling face was friendly, open, a slight smile on his flawless lips. But his eyes
were careful.
"My name is Edward Cullen," he continued. "I didn't have a chance to introduce myself
last week. You must be Bella Swan."
My mind was spinning with confusion. Had I made up the whole thing? He was
perfectly polite now. I had to speak; he was waiting. But I couldn't think of anything
conventional to say.
"H-how do you know my name?" I stammered.
He laughed a soft, enchanting laugh.
"Oh, I think everyone knows your name. The whole town's been waiting for you to
arrive."
I grimaced. I knew it was something like that.
"No," I persisted stupidly. "I meant, why did you call me Bella?"
He seemed confused. "Do you prefer Isabella?"
"No, I like Bella," I said. "But I think Charlie — I mean my dad — must call me
Isabella behind my back — that's what everyone here seems to know me as," I tried to
explain, feeling like an utter moron.
"Oh." He let it drop. I looked away awkwardly.
Thankfully, Mr. Banner started class at that moment. I tried to concentrate as he
explained the lab we would be doing today. The slides in the box were out of order.
Working as lab partners, we had to separate the slides of onion root tip cells into the
phases of mitosis they represented and label them accordingly. We weren't supposed to
use our books. In twenty minutes, he would be coming around to see who had it right.
"Get started," he commanded.
"Ladies first, partner?" Edward asked. I looked up to see him smiling a crooked smile
so beautiful that I could only stare at him like an idiot.
"Or I could start, if you wish." The smile faded; he was obviously wondering if I was
mentally competent.
"No," I said, flushing. "I'll go ahead."
I was showing off, just a little. I'd already done this lab, and I knew what I was looking
for. It should be easy. I snapped the first slide into place under the microscope and
adjusted it quickly to the 40X objective. I studied the slide briefly.
My assessment was confident." Prophase."
"Do you mind if I look?" he asked as I began to remove the slide. His hand caught
mine, to stop me, as he asked. His fingers were ice-cold, like he'd been holding them in a
snowdrift before class. But that wasn't why I jerked my hand away so quickly. When he
touched me, it stung my hand as if an electric current had passed through us.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, pulling his hand back immediately. However, he continued to
reach for the microscope. I watched him, still staggered, as he examined the slide for an
even shorter time than I had.
"Prophase," he agreed, writing it neatly in the first space on our worksheet. He swiftly
switched out the first slide for the second, and then glanced at it cursorily.
"Anaphase," he murmured, writing it down as he spoke.
I kept my voice indifferent. "May I?"
He smirked and pushed the microscope to me.
I looked through the eyepiece eagerly, only to be disappointed. Dang it, he was right.
"Slide three?" I held out my hand without looking at him.
He handed it to me; it seemed like he was being careful not to touch my skin again.
I took the most fleeting look I could manage.
"Interphase." I passed him the microscope before he could ask for it. He took a swift
peek, and then wrote it down. I would have written it while he looked, but his clear,
elegant script intimidated me. I didn't want to spoil the page with my clumsy scrawl.
We were finished before anyone else was close. I could see Mike and his partner
comparing two slides again and again, and another group had their book open under the
table.
Which left me with nothing to do but try to not look at him… unsuccessfully. I glanced
up, and he was staring at me, that same inexplicable look of frustration in his eyes.
Suddenly I identified that subtle difference in his face.
"Did you get contacts?" I blurted out unthinkingly.
He seemed puzzled by my unexpected question. "No."
"Oh," I mumbled. "I thought there was something different about your eyes."
He shrugged, and looked away.
In fact, I was sure there was something different. I vividly remembered the flat black
color of his eyes the last time he'd glared at me — the color was striking against the
background of his pale skin and his auburn hair. Today, his eyes were a completely
different color: a strange ocher, darker than butterscotch, but with the same golden tone. I
didn't understand how that could be, unless he was lying for some reason about the
contacts. Or maybe Forks was making me crazy in the literal sense of the word.
I looked down. His hands were clenched into hard fists again.
Mr. Banner came to our table then, to see why we weren't working. He looked over our
shoulders to glance at the completed lab, and then stared more intently to check the
answers.
"So, Edward, didn't you think Isabella should get a chance with the microscope?" Mr.
Banner asked.
"Bella," Edward corrected automatically. "Actually, she identified three of the five."
Mr. Banner looked at me now; his expression was skeptical.
"Have you done this lab before?" he asked.
I smiled sheepishly. "Not with onion root."
"Whitefish blastula?"
"Yeah."
Mr. Banner nodded. "Were you in an advanced placement program in Phoenix ?"
"Yes."
"Well," he said after a moment, "I guess it's good you two are lab partners." He
mumbled something else as he walked away. After he left, I began doodling on my
notebook again.
"It's too bad about the snow, isn't it?" Edward asked. I had the feeling that he was
forcing himself to make small talk with me. Paranoia swept over me again. It was like he
had heard my conversation with Jessica at lunch and was trying to prove me wrong.
"Not really," I answered honestly, instead of pretending to be normal like everyone else.
I was still trying to dislodge the stupid feeling of suspicion, and I couldn't concentrate.
"You don't like the cold." It wasn't a question.
"Or the wet."
"Forks must be a difficult place for you to live," he mused.
"You have no idea," I muttered darkly.
He looked fascinated by what I said, for some reason I couldn't imagine. His face was
such a distraction that I tried not to look at it any more than courtesy absolutely
demanded.
"Why did you come here, then?"
No one had asked me that — not straight out like he did, demanding.
"It's… complicated."
"I think I can keep up," he pressed.
I paused for a long moment, and then made the mistake of meeting his gaze. His dark
gold eyes confused me, and I answered without thinking.
"My mother got remarried," I said.
"That doesn't sound so complex," he disagreed, but he was suddenly sympathetic.
"When did that happen?"
"Last September." My voice sounded sad, even to me.
"And you don't like him," Edward surmised, his tone still kind.
"No, Phil is fine. Too young, maybe, but nice enough."
"Why didn't you stay with them?"
I couldn't fathom his interest, but he continued to stare at me with penetrating eyes, as if
my dull life's story was somehow vitally important.
"Phil travels a lot. He plays ball for a living." I half-smiled.
"Have I heard of him?" he asked, smiling in response.
"Probably not. He doesn't play well. Strictly minor league. He moves around a lot."
"And your mother sent you here so that she could travel with him." He said it as an
assumption again, not a question.
My chin raised a fraction." No, she did not send me here. I sent myself."
His eyebrows knit together. "I don't understand," he admitted, and he seemed
unnecessarily frustrated by that fact.
I sighed. Why was I explaining this to him? He continued to stare at me with obvious
curiosity.
"She stayed with me at first, but she missed him. It made her unhappy… so I decided it
was time to spend some quality time with Charlie." My voice was glum by the time I
finished.
"But now you're unhappy," he pointed out.
"And?" I challenged.
"That doesn't seem fair." He shrugged, but his eyes were still intense.
I laughed without humor. "Hasn't anyone ever told you? Life isn't fair."
"I believe I have heard that somewhere before," he agreed dryly.
"So that's all," I insisted, wondering why he was still staring at me that way.
His gaze became appraising. "You put on a good show," he said slowly. "But I'd be
willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone see."
I grimaced at him, resisting the impulse to stick out my tongue like a five-year-old, and
looked away.
"Am I wrong?"
I tried to ignore him.
"I didn't think so," he murmured smugly.
"Why does it matter to you ?" I asked, irritated. I kept my eyes away, watching the
teacher make his rounds.
"That's a very good question," he muttered, so quietly that I wondered if he was talking
to himself. However, after a few seconds of silence, I decided that was the only answer I
was going to get.
I sighed, scowling at the blackboard.
"Am I annoying you?" he asked. He sounded amused.
I glanced at him without thinking… and told the truth again." Not exactly. I'm more
annoyed at myself. My face is so easy to read — my mother always calls me her open
book." I frowned.
"On the contrary, I find you very difficult to read." Despite everything that I'd said and
he'd guessed, he sounded like he meant it.
"You must be a good reader then," I replied.
"Usually." He smiled widely, flashing a set of perfect, ultrawhite teeth.
Mr. Banner called the class to order then, and I turned with relief to listen. I was in
disbelief that I'd just explained my dreary life to this bizarre, beautiful boy who may or
may not despise me. He'd seemed engrossed in our conversation, but now I could see,
from the corner of my eye, that he was leaning away from me again, his hands gripping
the edge of the table with unmistakable tension.
I tried to appear attentive as Mr. Banner illustrated, with transparencies on the overhead
projector, what I had seen without difficulty through the microscope. But my thoughts
were unmanageable.
When the bell finally rang, Edward rushed as swiftly and as gracefully from the room
as he had last Monday. And, like last Monday, I stared after him in amazement.
Mike skipped quickly to my side and picked up my books for me. I imagined him with
a wagging tail.
"That was awful," he groaned. "They all looked exactly the same. You're lucky you had
Cullen for a partner."
"I didn't have any trouble with it," I said, stung by his assumption. I regretted the snub
instantly. "I've done the lab before, though," I added before he could get his feelings hurt.
"Cullen seemed friendly enough today," he commented as we shrugged into our
raincoats. He didn't seem pleased about it.
I tried to sound indifferent. "I wonder what was with him last Monday."
I couldn't concentrate on Mike's chatter as we walked to Gym, and RE. didn't do much
to hold my attention, either. Mike was on my team today. He chivalrously covered my
position as well as his own, so my woolgathering was only interrupted when it was my
turn to serve; my team ducked warily out of the way every time I was up.
The rain was just a mist as I walked to the parking lot, but I was happier when I was in
the dry cab. I got the heater running, for once not caring about the mind-numbing roar of
the engine. I unzipped my jacket, put the hood down, and fluffed my damp hair out so the
heater could dry it on the way home.
I looked around me to make sure it was clear. That's when I noticed the still, white
figure. Edward Cullen was leaning against the front door of the Volvo, three cars down
from me, and staring intently in my direction. I swiftly looked away and threw the truck
into reverse, almost hitting a rusty Toyota Corolla in my haste. Lucky for the Toyota, I
stomped on the brake in time. It was just the sort of car that my truck would make scrap
metal of. I took a deep breath, still looking out the other side of my car, and cautiously
pulled out again, with greater success. I stared straight ahead as I passed the Volvo, but
from a peripheral peek, I would swear I saw him laughing.
3. Phenomenon
When I opened my eyes in the morning, something was different.
It was the light. It was still the gray-green light of a cloudy day in the forest, but it was
clearer somehow. I realized there was no fog veiling my window.
I jumped up to look outside, and then groaned in horror.
A fine layer of snow covered the yard, dusted the top of my truck, and whitened the
road. But that wasn't the worst part. All the rain from yesterday had frozen solid —
coating the needles on the trees in fantastic, gorgeous patterns, and making the driveway
a deadly ice slick. I had enough trouble not falling down when the ground was dry; it
might be safer for me to go back to bed now.
Charlie had left for work before I got downstairs. In a lot of ways, living with Charlie
was like having my own place, and I found myself reveling in the aloneness instead of
being lonely.
I threw down a quick bowl of cereal and some orange juice from the carton. I felt
excited to go to school, and that scared me. I knew it wasn't the stimulating learning
environment I was anticipating, or seeing my new set of friends. If I was being honest
with myself, I knew I was eager to get to school because I would see Edward Cullen. And
that was very, very stupid.
I should be avoiding him entirely after my brainless and embarrassing babbling
yesterday. And I was suspicious of him; why should he lie about his eyes? I was still
frightened of the hostility I sometimes felt emanating from him, and I was still tonguetied
whenever I pictured his perfect face. I was well aware that my league and his league
were spheres that did not touch. So I shouldn't be at all anxious to see him today.
It took every ounce of my concentration to make it down the icy brick driveway alive. I
almost lost my balance when I finally got to the truck, but I managed to cling to the side
mirror and save myself. Clearly, today was going to be nightmarish.
Driving to school, I distracted myself from my fear of falling and my unwanted
speculations about Edward Cullen by thinking about Mike and Eric, and the obvious
difference in how teenage boys responded to me here. I was sure I looked exactly the
same as I had in Phoenix. Maybe it was just that the boys back home had watched me
pass slowly through all the awkward phases of adolescence and still thought of me that
way. Perhaps it was because I was a novelty here, where novelties were few and far
between. Possibly my crippling clumsiness was seen as endearing rather than pathetic,
casting me as a damsel in distress. Whatever the reason, Mike's puppy dog behavior and
Eric's apparent rivalry with him were disconcerting. I wasn't sure if I didn't prefer being
ignored.
My truck seemed to have no problem with the black ice that covered the roads. I drove
very slowly, though, not wanting to carve a path of destruction through Main Street.
When I got out of my truck at school, I saw why I'd had so little trouble. Something
silver caught my eye, and I walked to the back of the truck — carefully holding the side
for support — to examine my tires. There were thin chains crisscrossed in diamond
shapes around them. Charlie had gotten up who knows how early to put snow chains on
my truck. My throat suddenly felt tight. I wasn't used to being taken care of, and Charlie's
unspoken concern caught me by surprise.
I was standing by the back corner of the truck, struggling to fight back the sudden wave
of emotion the snow chains had brought on, when I heard an odd sound.
It was a high-pitched screech, and it was fast becoming painfully loud. I looked up,
startled.
I saw several things simultaneously. Nothing was moving in slow motion, the way it
does in the movies. Instead, the adrenaline rush seemed to make my brain work much
faster, and I was able to absorb in clear detail several things at once.
Edward Cullen was standing four cars down from me, staring at me in horror. His face
stood out from a sea of faces, all frozen in the same mask of shock. But of more
immediate importance was the dark blue van that was skidding, tires locked and
squealing against the brakes, spinning wildly across the ice of the parking lot. It was
going to hit the back corner of my truck, and I was standing between them. I didn't even
have time to close my eyes.
Just before I heard the shattering crunch of the van folding around the truck bed,
something hit me, hard, but not from the direction I was expecting. My head cracked
against the icy blacktop, and I felt something solid and cold pinning me to the ground. I
was lying on the pavement behind the tan car I'd parked next to. But I didn't have a
chance to notice anything else, because the van was still coming. It had curled gratingly
around the end of the truck and, still spinning and sliding, was about to collide with me
again.
A low oath made me aware that someone was with me, and the voice was impossible
not to recognize. Two long, white hands shot out protectively in front of me, and the van
shuddered to a stop a foot from my face, the large hands fitting providentially into a deep
dent in the side of the van's body.
Then his hands moved so fast they blurred. One was suddenly gripping under the body
of the van, and something was dragging me, swinging my legs around like a ragdoll's, till
they hit the tire of the tan car. A groaning metallic thud hurt my ears, and the van settled,
glass popping, onto the asphalt — exactly where, a second ago, my legs had been.
It was absolutely silent for one long second before the screaming began. In the abrupt
bedlam, I could hear more than one person shouting my name. But more clearly than all
the yelling, I could hear Edward Cullen's low, frantic voice in my ear.
"Bella? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." My voice sounded strange. I tried to sit up, and realized he was holding me
against the side of his body in an iron grasp.
"Be careful," he warned as I struggled. "I think you hit your head pretty hard."
I became aware of a throbbing ache centered above my left ear.
"Ow," I said, surprised.
"That's what I thought." His voice, amazingly, sounded like he was suppressing
laughter.
"How in the…" I trailed off, trying to clear my head, get my bearings. "How did you
get over here so fast?"
"I was standing right next to you, Bella," he said, his tone serious again.
I turned to sit up, and this time he let me, releasing his hold around my waist and
sliding as far from me as he could in the limited space. I looked at his concerned,
innocent expression and was disoriented again by the force of his gold-colored eyes.
What was I asking him?
And then they found us, a crowd of people with tears streaming down their faces,
shouting at each other, shouting at us.
"Don't move," someone instructed.
"Get Tyler out of the van!" someone else shouted.
There was a flurry of activity around us. I tried to get up, but Edward's cold hand
pushed my shoulder down.
"Just stay put for now."
"But it's cold," I complained. It surprised me when he chuckled under his breath. There
was an edge to the sound.
"You were over there," I suddenly remembered, and his chuckle stopped short. "You
were by your car."
His expression turned hard. "No, I wasn't."
"I saw you." All around us was chaos. I could hear the gruffer voices of adults arriving
on the scene. But I obstinately held on to our argument; I was right, and he was going to
admit it.
"Bella, I was standing with you, and I pulled you out of the way." He unleashed the full,
devastating power of his eyes on me, as if trying to communicate something crucial.
"No." I set my jaw.
The gold in his eyes blazed. "Please, Bella."
"Why?" I demanded.
"Trust me," hepleaded, his soft voice overwhelming.
I could hear the sirens now. "Will you promise to explain everything to me later?"
"Fine," he snapped, abruptly exasperated.
"Fine," I repeated angrily.
It took six EMTs and two teachers — Mr. Varner and Coach Clapp — to shift the van
far enough away from us to bring the stretchers in. Edward vehemently refused his, and I
tried to do the same, but the traitor told them I'd hit my head and probably had a
concussion. I almost died of humiliation when they put on the neck brace. It looked like
the entire school was there, watching soberly as they loaded me in the back of the
ambulance. Edward got to ride in the front. It was maddening.
To make matters worse, Chief Swan arrived before they could get me safely away.
"Bella!" he yelled in panic when he recognized me on the stretcher.
"I'm completely fine, Char — Dad," I sighed. "There's nothing wrong with me."
He turned to the closest EMT for a second opinion. I tuned him out to consider the
jumble of inexplicable images churning chaotically in my head. When they'd lifted me
away from the car, I had seen the deep dent in the tan car's bumper — a very distinct dent
that fit the contours of Edward's shoulders… as if he had braced himself against the car
with enough force to damage the metal frame…
And then there was his family, looking on from the distance, with expressions that
ranged from disapproval to fury but held no hint of concern for their brother's safety.
I tried to think of a logical solution that could explain what I had just seen — a solution
that excluded the assumption that I was insane.
Naturally, the ambulance got a police escort to the county hospital. I felt ridiculous the
whole time they were unloading me. What made it worse was that Edward simply glided
through the hospital doors under his own power. I ground my teeth together.
They put me in the emergency room, a long room with a line of beds separated by
pastel-patterned curtains. A nurse put a pressure cuff on my arm and a thermometer under
my tongue. Since no one bothered pulling the curtain around to give me some privacy, I
decided I wasn't obligated to wear the stupid-looking neck brace anymore. When the
nurse walked away, I quickly unfastened the Velcro and threw it under the bed.
There was another flurry of hospital personnel, another stretcher brought to the bed next
to me. I recognized Tyler Crowley from my Government class beneath the bloodstained
bandages wrapped tightly around his head. Tyler looked a hundred times worse than I
felt. But he was staring anxiously at me.
"Bella, I'm so sorry!"
"I'm fine, Tyler — you look awful, are you all right?" As we spoke, nurses began
unwinding his soiled bandages, exposing a myriad of shallow slices all over his forehead
and left cheek.
He ignored me. "I thought I was going to kill you! I was going too fast, and I hit the ice
wrong…" He winced as one nurse started dabbing at his face.
"Don't worry about it; you missed me."
"How did you get out of the way so fast? You were there, and then you were gone…"
"Umm… Edward pulled me out of the way."
He looked confused. "Who?"
"Edward Cullen — he was standing next to me." I'd always been a terrible liar; I didn't
sound convincing at all.
"Cullen? I didn't see him… wow, it was all so fast, I guess. Is he okay?"
"I think so. He's here somewhere, but they didn't make him use a stretcher."
I knew I wasn't crazy. What had happened? There was no way to explain away what I'd
seen.
They wheeled me away then, to X-ray my head. I told them there was nothing wrong,
and I was right. Not even a concussion. I asked if I could leave, but the nurse said I had to
talk to a doctor first. So I was trapped in the ER, waiting, harassed by Tyler 's constant
apologies and promises to make it up to me. No matter how many times I tried to
convince him I was fine, he continued to torment himself. Finally, I closed my eyes and
ignored him. He kept up a remorseful mumbling.
"Is she sleeping?" a musical voice asked. My eyes flew open.
Edward was standing at the foot of my bed, smirking. I glared at him. It wasn't easy —
it would have been more natural to ogle.
"Hey, Edward, I'm really sorry —"Tyler began.
Edward lifted a hand to stop him.
"No blood, no foul," he said, flashing his brilliant teeth. He moved to sit on the edge of
Tyler 's bed, facing me. He smirked again.
"So, what's the verdict?" he asked me.
"There's nothing wrong with me at all, but they won't let me go," I complained. "How
come you aren't strapped to a gurney like the rest of us?"
"It's all about who you know," he answered. "But don't worry, I came to spring you."
Then a doctor walked around the corner, and my mouth fell open. He was young, he
was blond… and he was handsomer than any movie star I'd ever seen. He was pale,
though, and tired-looking, with circles under his eyes. From Charlie's description, this
had to be Edward's father.
"So, Miss Swan," Dr. Cullen said in a remarkably appealing voice, "how are you
feeling?"
"I'm fine," I said, for the last time, I hoped.
He walked to the lightboard on the wall over my head, and turned it on.
"Your X-rays look good," he said. "Does your head hurt? Edward said you hit it pretty
hard."
"It's fine," I repeated with a sigh, throwing a quick scowl toward Edward.
The doctor's cool fingers probed lightly along my skull. He noticed when I winced.
"Tender?" he asked.
"Not really." I'd had worse.
I heard a chuckle, and looked over to see Edward's patronizing smile. My eyes
narrowed.
"Well, your father is in the waiting room — you can go home with him now. But come
back if you feel dizzy or have trouble with your eyesight at all."
"Can't I go back to school?" I asked, imagining Charlie trying to be attentive.
"Maybe you should take it easy today."
I glanced at Edward. "Does he get to go to school?"
"Someone has to spread the good news that we survived," Edward said smugly.
"Actually," Dr. Cullen corrected, "most of the school seems to be in the waiting room."
"Oh no," I moaned, covering my face with my hands.
Dr. Cullen raised his eyebrows. "Do you want to stay?"
"No, no!" I insisted, throwing my legs over the side of the bed and hopping down
quickly. Too quickly — I staggered, and Dr. Cullen caught me. He looked concerned.
"I'm fine," I assured him again. No need to tell him my balance problems had nothing
to do with hitting my head.
"Take some Tylenol for the pain," he suggested as he steadied me.
"It doesn't hurt that bad," I insisted.
"It sounds like you were extremely lucky," Dr. Cullen said, smiling as he signed my
chart with a flourish.
"Lucky Edward happened to be standing next to me," I amended with a hard glance at
the subject of my statement.
"Oh, well, yes," Dr. Cullen agreed, suddenly occupied with the papers in front of him.
Then he looked away, at Tyler, and walked to the next bed. My intuition flickered; the
doctor was in on it.
"I'm afraid that you'll have to stay with us just a little bit longer," he said to Tyler, and
began checking his cuts.
As soon as the doctor's back was turned, I moved to Edward's side.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" I hissed under my breath. He took a step back from
me, his jaw suddenly clenched.
"Your father is waiting for you," he said through his teeth.
I glanced at Dr. Cullen and Tyler.
"I'd like to speak with you alone, if you don't mind," I pressed.
He glared, and then turned his back and strode down the long room. I nearly had to run
to keep up. As soon as we turned the corner into a short hallway, he spun around to face
me.
"What do you want?" he asked, sounding annoyed. His eyes were cold.
His unfriendliness intimidated me. My words came out with less severity than I'd
intended. "You owe me an explanation," I reminded him.
"I saved your life — I don't owe you anything."
I flinched back from the resentment in his voice. "You promised."
"Bella, you hit your head, you don't know what you're talking about." His tone was
cutting.
My temper flared now, and I glared defiantly at him. "There's nothing wrong with my
head."
He glared back. "What do you want from me, Bella?"
"I want to know the truth," I said. "I want to know why I'm lying for you."
"What do you think happened?" he snapped.
It came out in a rush.
"All I know is that you weren't anywhere near me —Tyler didn't see you, either, so
don't tell me I hit my head too hard. That van was going to crush us both — and it didn't,
and your hands left dents in the side of it — and you left a dent in the other car, and
you're not hurt at all — and the van should have smashed my legs, but you were holding
it up…" I could hear how crazy it sounded, and I couldn't continue. I was so mad I could
feel the tears coming; I tried to force them back by grinding my teeth together.
He was staring at me incredulously. But his face was tense, defensive.
"You think I lifted a van off you?" His tone questioned my sanity, but it only made me
more suspicious. It was like a perfectly delivered line by a skilled actor.
I merely nodded once, jaw tight.
"Nobody will believe that, you know." His voice held an edge of derision now.
"I'm not going to tell anybody." I said each word slowly, carefully controlling my anger.
Surprise flitted across his face. "Then why does it matter?"
"It matters to me," I insisted. "I don't like to lie — so there'd better be a good reason
why I'm doing it."
"Can't you just thank me and get over it?"
"Thank you." I waited, fuming and expectant.
"You're not going to let it go, are you?"
"No."
"In that case… I hope you enjoy disappointment."
We scowled at each other in silence. I was the first to speak, trying to keep myself
focused. I was in danger of being distracted by his livid, glorious face. It was like trying
to stare down a destroying angel.
"Why did you even bother?" I asked frigidly.
He paused, and for a brief moment his stunning face was unexpectedly vulnerable.
"I don't know," he whispered.
And then he turned his back on me and walked away.
I was so angry, it took me a few minutes until I could move. When I could walk, I made
my way slowly to the exit at the end of the hallway.
The waiting room was more unpleasant than I'd feared. It seemed like every face I
knew in Forks was there, staring at me. Charlie rushed to my side; I put up my hands.
"There's nothing wrong with me," I assured him sullenly. I was still aggravated, not in
the mood for chitchat.
"What did the doctor say?"
"Dr. Cullen saw me, and he said I was fine and I could go home." I sighed. Mike and
Jessica and Eric were all there, beginning to converge on us. "Let's go," I urged.
Charlie put one arm behind my back, not quite touching me, and led me to the glass
doors of the exit. I waved sheepishly at my friends, hoping to convey that they didn't
need to worry anymore. It was a huge relief— the first time I'd ever felt that way — to
get into the cruiser.
We drove in silence. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I barely knew Charlie
was there. I was positive that Edward's defensive behavior in the hall was a confirmation
of the bizarre things I still could hardly believe I'd witnessed.
When we got to the house, Charlie finally spoke.
"Um… you'll need to call Renée." He hung his head, guilty.
I was appalled. "You told Mom!"
"Sorry."
I slammed the cruiser's door a little harder than necessary on my way out.
My mom was in hysterics, of course. I had to tell her I felt fine at least thirty times
before she would calm down. She begged me to come home — forgetting the fact that
home was empty at the moment — but her pleas were easier to resist than I would have
thought. I was consumed by the mystery Edward presented. And more than a little
obsessed by Edward himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I wasn't as eager to escape Forks as I
should be, as any normal, sane person would be.
I decided I might as well go to bed early that night. Charlie continued to watch me
anxiously, and it was getting on my nerves. I stopped on my way to grab three Tylenol
from the bathroom. They did help, and, as the pain eased, I drifted to sleep.
That was the first night I dreamed of Edward Cullen.
4. Invitations
In my dream it was very dark, and what dim light there was seemed to be radiating
from Edward's skin. I couldn't see his face, just his back as he walked away from me,
leaving me in the blackness. No matter how fast I ran, I couldn't catch up to him; no
matter how loud I called, he never turned. Troubled, I woke in the middle of the night and
couldn't sleep again for what seemed like a very long time. After that, he was in my
dreams nearly every night, but always on the periphery, never within reach.
The month that followed the accident was uneasy, tense, and, at first, embarrassing.
To my dismay, I found myself the center of attention for the rest of that week. Tyler
Crowley was impossible, following me around, obsessed with making amends to me
somehow. I tried to convince him what I wanted more than anything else was for him to
forget all about it — especially since nothing had actually happened to me — but he
remained insistent. He followed me between classes and sat at our now-crowded lunch
table. Mike and Eric were even less friendly toward him than they were to each other,
which made me worry that I'd gained another unwelcome fan.
No one seemed concerned about Edward, though I explained over and over that he was
the hero — how he had pulled me out of the way and had nearly been crushed, too. I tried
to be convincing. Jessica, Mike, Eric, and everyone else always commented that they
hadn't even seen him there till the van was pulled away.
I wondered to myself why no one else had seen him standing so far away, before he
was suddenly, impossibly saving my life. With chagrin, I realized the probable cause —
no one else was as aware of Edward as I always was. No one else watched him the way I
did. How pitiful.
Edward was never surrounded by crowds of curious bystanders eager for his firsthand
account. People avoided him as usual. The Cullens and the Hales sat at the same table as
always, not eating, talking only among themselves. None of them, especially Edward,
glanced my way anymore.
When he sat next to me in class, as far from me as the table would allow, he seemed
totally unaware of my presence. Only now and then, when his fists would suddenly ball
up — skin stretched even whiter over the bones — did I wonder if he wasn't quite as
oblivious as he appeared.
He wished he hadn't pulled me from the path of Tyler 's van — there was no other
conclusion I could come to.
I wanted very much to talk to him, and the day after the accident I tried. The last time
I'd seen him, outside the ER, we'd both been so furious. I still was angry that he wouldn't
trust me with the truth, even though I was keeping my part of the bargain flawlessly. But
he had in fact saved my life, no matter how he'd done it. And, overnight, the heat of my
anger faded into awed gratitude.
He was already seated when I got to Biology, looking straight ahead. I sat down,
expecting him to turn toward me. He showed no sign that he realized I was there.
"Hello, Edward," I said pleasantly, to show him I was going to behave myself.
He turned his head a fraction toward me without meeting my gaze, nodded once, and
then looked the other way.
And that was the last contact I'd had with him, though he was there, a foot away from
me, every day. I watched him sometimes, unable to stop myself— from a distance,
though, in the cafeteria or parking lot. I watched as his golden eyes grew perceptibly
darker day by day. But in class I gave no more notice that he existed than he showed
toward me. I was miserable. And the dreams continued.
Despite my outright lies, the tenor of my e-mails alerted Renée to my depression, and
she called a few times, worried. I tried to convince her it was just the weather that had me
down.
Mike, at least, was pleased by the obvious coolness between me and my lab partner. I
could see he'd been worried that Edward's daring rescue might have impressed me, and
he was relieved that it seemed to have the opposite effect. He grew more confident,
sitting on the edge of my table to talk before Biology class started, ignoring Edward as
completely as he ignored us.
The snow washed away for good after that one dangerously icy day. Mike was
disappointed he'd never gotten to stage his snowball fight, but pleased that the beach trip
would soon be possible. The rain continued heavily, though, and the weeks passed.
Jessica made me aware of another event looming on the horizon — she called the first
Tuesday of March to ask my permission to invite Mike to the girls' choice spring dance in
two weeks.
"Are you sure you don't mind… you weren't planning to ask him?" she persisted when I
told her I didn't mind in the least.
"No, Jess, I'm not going," I assured her. Dancing was glaringly outside my range of
abilities.
"It will be really fun." Her attempt to convince me was halfhearted. I suspected that
Jessica enjoyed my inexplicable popularity more than my actual company.
"You have fun with Mike," I encouraged.
The next day, I was surprised that Jessica wasn't her usual gushing self in Trig and
Spanish. She was silent as she walked by my side between classes, and I was afraid to ask
her why. If Mike had turned her down, I was the last person she would want to tell.
My fears were strengthened during lunch when Jessica sat as far from Mike as possible,
chatting animatedly with Eric. Mike was unusually quiet.
Mike was still quiet as he walked me to class, the uncomfortable look on his face a bad
sign. But he didn't broach the subject until I was in my seat and he was perched on my
desk. As always, I was electrically aware of Edward sitting close enough to touch, as
distant as if he were merely an invention of my imagination.
"So," Mike said, looking at the floor, "Jessica asked me to the spring dance."
"That's great." I made my voice bright and enthusiastic. "You'll have a lot of fun with
Jessica."
"Well…" He floundered as he examined my smile, clearly not happy with my response.
"I told her I had to think about it."
"Why would you do that?" I let disapproval color my tone, though I was relieved he
hadn't given her an absolute no.
His face was bright red as he looked down again. Pity shook my resolve.
"I was wondering if… well, if you might be planning to ask me."
I paused for a moment, hating the wave of guilt that swept through me. But I saw, from
the corner of my eye, Edward's head tilt reflexively in my direction.
"Mike, I think you should tell her yes," I said.
"Did you already ask someone?" Did Edward notice how Mike's eyes flickered in his
direction?
"No," I assured him. "I'm not going to the dance at all."
"Why not?" Mike demanded.
I didn't want to get into the safety hazards that dancing presented, so I quickly made
new plans.
"I'm going to Seattle that Saturday," I explained. I needed to get out of town anyway —
it was suddenly the perfect time to go.
"Can't you go some other weekend?"
"Sorry, no," I said. "So you shouldn't make Jess wait any longer — it's rude."
"Yeah, you're right," he mumbled, and turned, dejected, to walk back to his seat. I
closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to push the guilt and
sympathy out of my head. Mr. Banner began talking. I sighed and opened my eyes.
And Edward was staring at me curiously, that same, familiar edge of frustration even
more distinct now in his black eyes.
I stared back, surprised, expecting him to look quickly away. But instead he continued
to gaze with probing intensity into my eyes. There was no question of me looking away.
My hands started to shake.
"Mr. Cullen?" the teacher called, seeking the answer to a question that I hadn't heard.
"The Krebs Cycle," Edward answered, seeming reluctant as he turned to look at Mr.
Banner.
I looked down at my book as soon as his eyes released me, trying to find my place.
Cowardly as ever, I shifted my hair over my right shoulder to hide my face. I couldn't
believe the rush of emotion pulsing through me — just because he'd happened to look at
me for the first time in a half-dozen weeks. I couldn't allow him to have this level of
influence over me. It was pathetic. More than pathetic, it was unhealthy.
I tried very hard not to be aware of him for the rest of the hour, and, since that was
impossible, at least not to let him know that I was aware of him. When the bell rang at
last, I turned my back to him to gather my things, expecting him to leave immediately as
usual.
"Bella?" His voice shouldn't have been so familiar to me, as if I'd known the sound of it
all my life rather than for just a few short weeks.
I turned slowly, unwillingly. I didn't want to feel what I knew I would feel when I
looked at his too-perfect face. My expression was wary when I finally turned to him; his
expression was unreadable. He didn't say anything.
"What? Are you speaking to me again?" I finally asked, an unintentional note of
petulance in my voice.
His lips twitched, fighting a smile. "No, not really," he admitted.
I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly through my nose, aware that I was gritting my
teeth. He waited.
"Then what do you want, Edward?" I asked, keeping my eyes closed; it was easier to
talk to him coherently that way.
"I'm sorry." He sounded sincere. "I'm being very rude, I know. But it's better this way,
really."
I opened my eyes. His face was very serious.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, my voice guarded.
"It's better if we're not friends," he explained. "Trust me."
My eyes narrowed. I'd heard that before.
"It's too bad you didn't figure that out earlier," I hissed through my teeth. "You could
have saved yourself all this regret."
"Regret?” The word, and my tone, obviously caught him off guard. "Regret for what?"
"For not just letting that stupid van squish me."
He was astonished. He stared at me in disbelief.
When he finally spoke, he almost sounded mad. "You think I regret saving your life?"
"I know you do," I snapped.
"You don't know anything." He was definitely mad.
I turned my head sharply away from him, clenching my jaw against all the wild
accusations I wanted to hurl at him. I gathered my books together, then stood and walked
to the door. I meant to sweep dramatically out of the room, but of course I caught the toe
of my boot on the door jamb and dropped my books. I stood there for a moment, thinking
about leaving them. Then I sighed and bent to pick them up. He was there; he'd already
stacked them into a pile. He handed them to me, his face hard.
"Thank you," I said icily.
His eyes narrowed.
"You're welcome," he retorted.
I straightened up swiftly, turned away from him again, and stalked off to Gym without
looking back.
Gym was brutal. We'd moved on to basketball. My team never passed me the ball, so
that was good, but I fell down a lot. Sometimes I took people with me. Today I was worse
than usual because my head was so filled with Edward. I tried to concentrate on my feet,
but he kept creeping back into my thoughts just when I really needed my balance.
It was a relief, as always, to leave. I almost ran to the truck; there were just so many
people I wanted to avoid. The truck had suffered only minimal damage in the accident. I'd
had to replace the taillights, and if I'd had a real paint job, I would have touched that up.
Tyler 's parents had to sell their van for parts.
I almost had a stroke when I rounded the corner and saw a tall, dark figure leaning
against the side of my truck. Then I realized it was just Eric. I started walking again.
"Hey, Eric," I called.
"Hi, Bella."
"What's up?" I said as I was unlocking the door. I wasn't paying attention to the
uncomfortable edge in his voice, so his next words took me by surprise.
"Uh, I was just wondering… if you would go to the spring dance with me? " His voice
broke on the last word.
"I thought it was girls' choice," I said, too startled to be diplomatic.
"Well, yeah," he admitted, shamefaced.
I recovered my composure and tried to make my smile warm. "Thank you for asking
me, but I'm going to be in Seattle that day."
"Oh," he said. "Well, maybe next time."
"Sure," I agreed, and then bit my lip. I wouldn't want him to take that too literally.
He slouched off, back toward the school. I heard a low chuckle.
Edward was walking past the front of my truck, looking straight forward, his lips
pressed together. I yanked the door open and jumped inside, slamming it loudly behind
me. I revved the engine deafeningly and reversed out into the aisle. Edward was in his car
already, two spaces down, sliding out smoothly in front of me, cutting me off. He stopped
there — to wait for his family; I could see the four of them walking this way, but still by
the cafeteria. I considered taking out the rear of his shiny Volvo, but there were too many
witnesses. I looked in my rearview mirror. A line was beginning to form. Directly behind
me, Tyler Crowley was in his recently acquired used Sentra, waving. I was too
aggravated to acknowledge him.
While I was sitting there, looking everywhere but at the car in front of me, I heard a
knock on my passenger side window. I looked over; it was Tyler. I glanced back in my
rearview mirror, confused. His car was still running, the door left open. I leaned across
the cab to crank the window down. It was stiff. I got it halfway down, then gave up.
"I'm sorry, Tyler, I'm stuck behind Cullen." I was annoyed — obviously the holdup
wasn't my fault.
"Oh, I know — I just wanted to ask you something while we're trapped here." He
grinned.
This could not be happening.
"Will you ask me to the spring dance?" he continued.
"I'm not going to be in town, Tyler." My voice sounded a little sharp. I had to remember
it wasn't his fault that Mike and Eric had already used up my quota of patience for the
day.
"Yeah, Mike said that," he admitted.
"Then why —"
He shrugged. "I was hoping you were just letting him down easy."
Okay, it was completely his fault.
"Sorry, Tyler," I said, working to hide my irritation. "I really am going out of town."
"That's cool. We still have prom."
And before I could respond, he was walking back to his car. I could feel the shock on
my face. I looked forward to see Alice, Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper all sliding into the
Volvo. In his rearview mirror, Edward's eyes were on me. He was unquestionably shaking
with laughter, as if he'd heard every word Tyler had said. My foot itched toward the gas
pedal… one little bump wouldn't hurt any of them, just that glossy silver paint job. I
revved the engine.
But they were all in, and Edward was speeding away. I drove home slowly, carefully,
muttering to myself the whole way.
When I got home, I decided to make chicken enchiladas for dinner. It was a long
process, and it would keep me busy. While I was simmering the onions and chilies, the
phone rang. I was almost afraid to answer it, but it might be Charlie or my mom.
It was Jessica, and she was jubilant; Mike had caught her after school to accept her
invitation. I celebrated with her briefly while I stirred. She had to go, she wanted to call
Angela and Lauren to tell them. I suggested — with casual innocence — that maybe
Angela, the shy girl who had Biology with me, could ask Eric. And Lauren, a standoffish
girl who had always ignored me at the lunch table, could ask Tyler; I'd heard he was still
available. Jess thought that was a great idea. Now that she was sure of Mike, she actually
sounded sincere when she said she wished I would go to the dance. I gave her my Seattle
excuse.
After I hung up, I tried to concentrate on dinner — dicing the chicken especially; I
didn't want to take another trip to the emergency room. But my head was spinning, trying
to analyze every word Edward had spoken today. What did he mean, it was better if we
weren't friends?
My stomach twisted as I realized what he must have meant. He must see how absorbed
I was by him; he must not want to lead me on… so we couldn't even be friends…
because he wasn't interested in me at all.
Of course he wasn't interested in me, I thought angrily, my eyes stinging — a delayed
reaction to the onions. I wasn't interesting. And he was. Interesting… and brilliant… and
mysterious… and perfect… and beautiful… and possibly able to lift full-sized vans with
one hand.
Well, that was fine. I could leave him alone. I would leave him alone. I would get
through my self-imposed sentence here in purgatory, and then hopefully some school in
the Southwest, or possibly Hawaii, would offer me a scholarship. I focused my thoughts
on sunny beaches and palm trees as I finished the enchiladas and put them in the oven.
Charlie seemed suspicious when he came home and smelled the green peppers. I
couldn't blame him — the closest edible Mexican food was probably in southern
California. But he was a cop, even if just a small-town cop, so he was brave enough to
take the first bite. He seemed to like it. It was fun to watch as he slowly began trusting
me in the kitchen.
"Dad?" I asked when he was almost done.
"Yeah, Bella?"
"Um, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to Seattle for the day a week from
Saturday… if that's okay?" I didn't want to ask permission — it set a bad precedent —
but I felt rude, so I tacked it on at the end.
"Why?" He sounded surprised, as if he were unable to imagine something that Forks
couldn't offer.
"Well, I wanted to get few books — the library here is pretty limited — and maybe look
at some clothes." I had more money than I was used to having, since, thanks to Charlie, I
hadn't had to pay for a car. Not that the truck didn't cost me quite a bit in the gas
department.
"That truck probably doesn't get very good gas mileage," he said, echoing my thoughts.
"I know, I'll stop in Montesano and Olympia — and Tacoma if I have to."
"Are you going all by yourself?" he asked, and I couldn't tell if he was suspicious I had
a secret boyfriend or just worried about car trouble.
"Yes."
"Seattle is a big city — you could get lost," he fretted.
"Dad, Phoenix is five times the size of Seattle — and I can read a map, don't worry
about it."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
I tried to be crafty as I hid my horror.
"That's all right, Dad, I'll probably just be in dressing rooms all day — very boring."
"Oh, okay." The thought of sitting in women's clothing stores for any period of time
immediately put him off.
"Thanks." I smiled at him.
"Will you be back in time for the dance?"
Grrr. Only in a town this small would a father know when the high school dances were.
"No — I don't dance, Dad." He, of all people, should understand that — I didn't get my
balance problems from my mother.
He did understand. "Oh, that's right," he realized.
The next morning, when I pulled into the parking lot, I deliberately parked as far as
possible from the silver Volvo. I didn't want to put myself in the path of too much
temptation and end up owing him a new car. Getting out of the cab, I fumbled with my
key and it fell into a puddle at my feet. As I bent to get it, a white hand flashed out and
grabbed it before I could. I jerked upright. Edward Cullen was right next to me, leaning
casually against my truck.
"How do you do that?" I asked in amazed irritation.
"Do what?" He held my key out as he spoke. As I reached for it, he dropped it into my
palm.
"Appear out of thin air."
"Bella, it's not my fault if you are exceptionally unobservant." His voice was quiet as
usual — velvet, muted.
I scowled at his perfect face. His eyes were light again today, a deep, golden honey
color. Then I had to look down, to reassemble my now-tangled thoughts.
"Why the traffic jam last night?" I demanded, still looking away. "I thought you were
supposed to be pretending I don't exist, not irritating me to death."
"That was for Tyler 's sake, not mine. I had to give him his chance." He snickered.
"You…" I gasped. I couldn't think of a bad enough word. It felt like the heat of my
anger should physically burn him, but he only seemed more amused.
"And I'm not pretending you don't exist," he continued.
"So you are trying to irritate me to death? Since Tyler 's van didn't do the job?"
Anger flashed in his tawny eyes. His lips pressed into a hard line, all signs of humor
gone.
"Bella, you are utterly absurd," he said, his low voice cold.
My palms tingled — I wanted so badly to hit something. I was surprised at myself. I
was usually a nonviolent person. I turned my back and started to walk away.
"Wait," he called. I kept walking, sloshing angrily through the rain. But he was next to
me, easily keeping pace.
"I'm sorry, that was rude," he said as we walked. I ignored him. "I'm not saying it isn't
true," he continued, "but it was rude to say it, anyway."
"Why won't you leave me alone?" I grumbled.
"I wanted to ask you something, but you sidetracked me," he chuckled. He seemed to
have recovered his good humor.
"Do you have a multiple personality disorder?" I asked severely.
"You're doing it again."
I sighed." Fine then. What do you want to ask?"
"I was wondering if, a week from Saturday — you know, the day of the spring dance
—"
"Are you trying to be funny ?" I interrupted him, wheeling toward him. My face got
drenched as I looked up at his expression.
His eyes were wickedly amused. "Will you please allow me to finish?"
I bit my lip and clasped my hands together, interlocking my fingers, so I couldn't do
anything rash.
"I heard you say you were going to Seattle that day, and I was wondering if you wanted
a ride."
That was unexpected.
"What?" I wasn't sure what he was getting at.
"Do you want a ride to Seattle ?"
"With who?" I asked, mystified.
"Myself, obviously." He enunciated every syllable, as if he were talking to someone
mentally handicapped.
I was still stunned. "Why?"
"Well, I was planning to go to Seattle in the next few weeks, and, to be honest, I'm not
sure if your truck can make it."
"My truck works just fine, thank you very much for your concern." I started to walk
again, but I was too surprised to maintain the same level of anger.
"But can your truck make it there on one tank of gas?" He matched my pace again.
"I don't see how that is any of your business." Stupid, shiny Volvo owner.
"The wasting of finite resources is everyone's business."
"Honestly, Edward." I felt a thrill go through me as I said his name, and I hated it. "I
can't keep up with you. I thought you didn't want to be my friend."
"I said it would be better if we weren't friends, not that I didn't want to be."
"Oh, thanks, now that's all cleared up. "Heavy sarcasm. I realized I had stopped
walking again. We were under the shelter of the cafeteria roof now, so I could more easily
look at is face. Which certainly didn't help my clarity of thought.
"It would be more…prudent for you not to be my friend," he explained. "But I'm tired
of trying to stay away from you, Bella."
His eyes were gloriously intense as he uttered that last sentence, his voice smoldering. I
couldn't remember how to breathe.
"Will you go with me to Seattle ?" he asked, still intense.
I couldn't speak yet, so I just nodded.
He smiled briefly, and then his face became serious.
"You really should stay away from me," he warned. "I'll see you in class."
He turned abruptly and walked back the way we'd come.
5. Blood Type
I made my way to English in a daze. I didn't even realize when I first walked in that
class had already started.
"Thank you for joining us, Miss Swan," Mr. Mason said in a disparaging tone.
I flushed and hurried to my seat.
It wasn't till class ended that I realized Mike wasn't sitting in his usual seat next to me. I
felt a twinge of guilt. But he and Eric both met me at the door as usual, so I figured I
wasn't totally unforgiven. Mike seemed to become more himself as we walked, gaining
enthusiasm as he talked about the weather report for this weekend. The rain was supposed
to take a minor break, and so maybe his beach trip would be possible. I tried to sound
eager, to make up for disappointing him yesterday. It was hard; rain or no rain, it would
still only be in the high forties, if we were lucky.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur. It was difficult to believe that I hadn't just
imagined what Edward had said, and the way his eyes had looked. Maybe it was just a
very convincing dream that I'd confused with reality. That seemed more probable than
that I really appealed to him on any level.
So I was impatient and frightened as Jessica and I entered the cafeteria. I wanted to see
his face, to see if he'd gone back to the cold, indifferent person I'd known for the last
several weeks. Or if, by some miracle, I'd really heard what I thought I'd heard this
morning. Jessica babbled on and on about her dance plans — Lauren and Angela had
asked the other boys and they were all going together — completely unaware of my
inattention.
Disappointment flooded through me as my eyes unerringly focused on his table. The
other four were there, but he was absent. Had he gone home? I followed the still-babbling
Jessica through the line, crushed. I'd lost my appetite — I bought nothing but a bottle of
lemonade. I just wanted to go sit down and sulk.
"Edward Cullen is staring at you again," Jessica said, finally breaking through my
abstraction with his name. "I wonder why he's sitting alone today."
My head snapped up. I followed her gaze to see Edward, smiling crookedly, staring at
me from an empty table across the cafeteria from where he usually sat. Once he'd caught
my eye, he raised one hand and motioned with his index finger for me to join him. As I
stared in disbelief, he winked.
"Does he mean you ?" Jessica asked with insulting astonishment in her voice.
"Maybe he needs help with his Biology homework," I muttered for her benefit. "Um,
I'd better go see what he wants."
I could feel her staring after me as I walked away.
When I reached his table, I stood behind the chair across from him, unsure.
"Why don't you sit with me today?" he asked, smiling.
I sat down automatically, watching him with caution. He was still smiling. It was hard
to believe that someone so beautiful could be real. I was afraid that he might disappear in
a sudden puff of smoke, and I would wake up.
He seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
"This is different," I finally managed.
"Well…" He paused, and then the rest of the words followed in a rush. "I decided as
long as I was going to hell, I might as well do it thoroughly."
I waited for him to say something that made sense. The seconds ticked by.
"You know I don't have any idea what you mean," I eventually pointed out.
"I know." He smiled again, and then he changed the subject. "I think your friends are
angry with me for stealing you."
"They'll survive." I could feel their stares boring into my back.
"I may not give you back, though," he said with a wicked glint in his eyes.
I gulped.
He laughed. "You look worried."
"No," I said, but, ridiculously, my voice broke. "Surprised, actually… what brought all
this on?"
"I told you — I got tired of trying to stay away from you. So I'm giving up." He was
still smiling, but his ocher eyes were serious.
"Giving up?" I repeated in confusion.
"Yes — giving up trying to be good. I'm just going to do what I want now, and let the
chips fall where they may." His smile faded as he explained, and a hard edge crept into
his voice.
"You lost me again."
The breathtaking crooked smile reappeared.
"I always say too much when I'm talking to you — that's one of the problems."
"Don't worry — I don't understand any of it," I said wryly.
"I'm counting on that."
"So, in plain English, are we friends now?"
"Friends…" he mused, dubious.
"Or not," I muttered.
He grinned. "Well, we can try, I suppose. But I'm warning you now that I'm not a good
friend for you." Behind his smile, the warning was real.
"You say that a lot," I noted, trying to ignore the sudden trembling in my stomach and
keep my voice even.
"Yes, because you're not listening to me. I'm still waiting for you to believe it. If you're
smart, you'll avoid me."
"I think you've made your opinion on the subject of my intellect clear, too." My eyes
narrowed.
He smiled apologetically.
"So, as long as I'm being… not smart, we'll try to be friends?" I struggled to sum up the
confusing exchange.
"That sounds about right."
I looked down at my hands wrapped around the lemonade bottle, not sure what to do
now.
"What are you thinking?" he asked curiously.
I looked up into his deep gold eyes, became befuddled, and, as usual, blurted out the
truth.
"I'm trying to figure out what you are."
His jaw tightened, but he kept his smile in place with some effort.
"Are you having any luck with that?" he asked in an offhand tone.
"Not too much," I admitted.
He chuckled. "What are your theories?"
I blushed. I had been vacillating during the last month between Bruce Wayne and Peter
Parker. There was no way I was going to own up to that.
"Won't you tell me?" he asked, tilting his head to one side with a shockingly tempting
smile.
I shook my head. "Too embarrassing."
"That's really frustrating, you know," he complained.
"No," I disagreed quickly, my eyes narrowing, "I can't imagine why that would be
frustrating at all — just because someone refuses to tell you what they're thinking, even if
all the while they're making cryptic little remarks specifically designed to keep you up at
night wondering what they could possibly mean… now, why would that be frustrating?"
He grimaced.
"Or better," I continued, the pent-up annoyance flowing freely now, "say that person
also did a wide range of bizarre things — from saving your life under impossible
circumstances one day to treating you like a pariah the next, and he never explained any
of that, either, even after he promised. That, also, would be very non-frustrating."
"You've got a bit of a temper, don't you?"
"I don't like double standards."
We stared at each other, unsmiling.
He glanced over my shoulder, and then, unexpectedly, he snickered.
"What?"
"Your boyfriend seems to think I'm being unpleasant to you — he's debating whether or
not to come break up our fight." He snickered again.
"I don't know who you're talking about," I said frostily. "But I'm sure you're wrong,
anyway."
"I'm not. I told you, most people are easy to read."
"Except me, of course."
"Yes. Except for you." His mood shifted suddenly; his eyes turned brooding. "I wonder
why that is."
I had to look away from the intensity of his stare. I concentrated on unscrewing the lid
of my lemonade. I took a swig, staring at the table without seeing it.
"Aren't you hungry?" he asked, distracted.
"No." I didn't feel like mentioning that my stomach was already full — of butterflies.
"You?" I looked at the empty table in front of him.
"No, I'm not hungry." I didn't understand his expression — it looked like he was
enjoying some private joke.
"Can you do me a favor?" I asked after a second of hesitation.
He was suddenly wary. "That depends on what you want."
"It's not much," I assured him.
He waited, guarded but curious.
"I just wondered… if you could warn me beforehand the next time you decide to ignore
me for my own good. Just so I'm prepared." I looked at the lemonade bottle as I spoke,
tracing the circle of the opening with my pinkie finger.
"That sounds fair." He was pressing his lips together to keep from laughing when I
looked up.
"Thanks."
"Then can I have one answer in return?" he demanded.
"One."
"Tell me one theory."
Whoops. "Not that one."
"You didn't qualify, you just promised one answer," he reminded me.
"And you've broken promises yourself," I reminded him back.
"Just one theory — I won't laugh."
"Yes, you will." I was positive about that.
He looked down, and then glanced up at me through his long black lashes, his ocher
eyes scorching.
"Please?" he breathed, leaning toward me.
I blinked, my mind going blank. Holy crow, how did he do that?
"Er, what?" I asked, dazed.
"Please tell me just one little theory." His eyes still smoldered at me.
"Um, well, bitten by a radioactive spider?" Was he a hypnotist, too? Or was I just a
hopeless pushover?
"That's not very creative," he scoffed.
"I'm sorry, that's all I've got," I said, miffed.
"You're not even close," he teased.
"No spiders?"
"Nope."
"And no radioactivity?"
"None."
"Dang," I sighed.
"Kryptonite doesn't bother me, either," he chuckled.
"You're not supposed to laugh, remember?"
He struggled to compose his face.
"I'll figure it out eventually," I warned him.
"I wish you wouldn't try." He was serious again.
"Because… ?"
"What if I'm not a superhero? What if I'm the bad guy?" He smiled playfully, but his
eyes were impenetrable.
"Oh," I said, as several things he'd hinted fell suddenly into place. "I see."
"Do you?" His face was abruptly severe, as if he were afraid that he'd accidentally said
too much.
"You're dangerous?" I guessed, my pulse quickening as I intuitively realized the truth of
my own words. He was dangerous. He'd been trying to tell me that all along.
He just looked at me, eyes full of some emotion I couldn't comprehend.
"But not bad," I whispered, shaking my head. "No, I don't believe that you're bad."
"You're wrong." His voice was almost inaudible. He looked down, stealing my bottle
lid and then spinning it on its side between his fingers. I stared at him, wondering why I
didn't feel afraid. He meant what he was saying — that was obvious. But I just felt
anxious, on edge… and, more than anything else, fascinated. The same way I always felt
when I was near him.
The silence lasted until I noticed that the cafeteria was almost empty.
I jumped to my feet. "We're going to be late."
"I'm not going to class today," he said, twirling the lid so fast it was just a blur.
"Why not?"
"It's healthy to ditch class now and then." He smiled up at me, but his eyes were still
troubled.
"Well, I'm going," I told him. I was far too big a coward to risk getting caught.
He turned his attention back to his makeshift top. "I'll see you later, then."
I hesitated, torn, but then the first bell sent me hurrying out the door — with a last
glance confirming that he hadn't moved a centimeter.
As I half-ran to class, my head was spinning faster than the bottle cap. So few questions
had been answered in comparison to how many new questions had been raised. At least
the rain had stopped.
I was lucky; Mr. Banner wasn't in the room yet when I arrived. I settled quickly into my
seat, aware that both Mike and Angela were staring at me. Mike looked resentful; Angela
looked surprised, and slightly awed.
Mr. Banner came in the room then, calling the class to order. He was juggling a few
small cardboard boxes in his arms. He put them down on Mike's table, telling him to start
passing them around the class.
"Okay, guys, I want you all to take one piece from each box," he said as he produced a
pair of rubber gloves from the pocket of his lab jacket and pulled them on. The sharp
sound as the gloves snapped into place against his wrists seemed ominous to me. "The
first should be an indicator card," he went on, grabbing a white card with four squares
marked on it and displaying it. "The second is a four-pronged applicator —" he held up
something that looked like a nearly toothless hair pick "— and the third is a sterile microlancet."
He held up a small piece of blue plastic and split it open. The barb was invisible
from this distance, but my stomach flipped.
"I'll be coming around with a dropper of water to prepare your cards, so please don't
start until I get to you." He began at Mike's table again, carefully putting one drop of
water in each of the four squares. "Then I want you to carefully prick your finger with the
lancet…" He grabbed Mike's hand and jabbed the spike into the tip of Mike's middle
finger. Oh no. Clammy moisture broke out across my forehead.
"Put a small drop of blood on each of the prongs." He demonstrated, squeezing Mike's
finger till the blood flowed. I swallowed convulsively, my stomach heaving.
"And then apply it to the card," he finished, holding up the dripping red card for us to
see. I closed my eyes, trying to hear through the ringing in my ears.
"The Red Cross is having a blood drive in Port Angeles next weekend, so I thought you
should all know your blood type." He sounded proud of himself. "Those of you who
aren't eighteen yet will need a parent's permission — I have slips at my desk."
He continued through the room with his water drops. I put my cheek against the cool
black tabletop and tried to hold on to my consciousness. All around me I could hear
squeals, complaints, and giggles as my classmates skewered their fingers. I breathed
slowly in and out through my mouth.
"Bella, are you all right?" Mr. Banner asked. His voice was close to my head, and it
sounded alarmed.
"I already know my blood type, Mr. Banner," I said in a weak voice. I was afraid to
raise my head.
"Are you feeling faint?"
"Yes, sir," I muttered, internally kicking myself for not ditching when I had the chance.
"Can someone take Bella to the nurse, please?" he called.
I didn't have to look up to know that it would be Mike who volunteered.
"Can you walk?" Mr. Banner asked.
"Yes," I whispered. Just let me get out of here, I thought. I'll crawl.
Mike seemed eager as he put his arm around my waist and pulled my arm over his
shoulder. I leaned against him heavily on the way out of the classroom.
Mike towed me slowly across campus. When we were around the edge of the cafeteria,
out of sight of building four in case Mr. Banner was watching, I stopped.
"Just let me sit for a minute, please?" I begged.
He helped me sit on the edge of the walk.
"And whatever you do, keep your hand in your pocket," I warned. I was still so dizzy. I
slumped over on my side, putting my cheek against the freezing, damp cement of the
sidewalk, closing my eyes. That seemed to help a little.
"Wow, you're green, Bella," Mike said nervously.
"Bella?" a different voice called from the distance.
No! Please let me be imagining that horribly familiar voice.
"What's wrong — is she hurt?" His voice was closer now, and he sounded upset. I
wasn't imagining it. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to die. Or, at the very least, not to
throw up.
Mike seemed stressed. "I think she's fainted. I don't know what happened, she didn't
even stick her finger."
"Bella." Edward's voice was right beside me, relieved now. "Can you hear me?"
"No," I groaned. "Go away."
He chuckled.
"I was taking her to the nurse," Mike explained in a defensive tone, "but she wouldn't
go any farther."
"I'll take her," Edward said. I could hear the smile still in his voice. "You can go back to
class."
"No," Mike protested. "I'm supposed to do it."
Suddenly the sidewalk disappeared from beneath me. My eyes flew open in shock.
Edward had scooped me up in his arms, as easily as if I weighed ten pounds instead of a
hundred and ten.
"Put me down!" Please, please let me not vomit on him. He was walking before I was
finished talking.
"Hey!" Mike called, already ten paces behind us.
Edward ignored him. "You look awful," he told me, grinning.
"Put me back on the sidewalk," I moaned. The rocking movement of his walk was not
helping. He held me away from his body, gingerly, supporting all my weight with just his
arms — it didn't seem to bother him.
"So you faint at the sight of blood?" he asked. This seemed to entertain him.
I didn't answer. I closed my eyes again and fought the nausea with all my strength,
clamping my lips together.
"And not even your own blood," he continued, enjoying himself.
I don't know how he opened the door while carrying me, but it was suddenly warm, so I
knew we were inside.
"Oh my," I heard a female voice gasp.
"She fainted in Biology," Edward explained.
I opened my eyes. I was in the office, and Edward was striding past the front counter
toward the nurse's door. Ms. Cope, the redheaded front office receptionist, ran ahead of
him to hold it open. The grandmotherly nurse looked up from a novel, astonished, as
Edward swung me into the room and placed me gently on the crackly paper that covered
the brown vinyl mattress on the one cot. Then he moved to stand against the wall as far
across the narrow room as possible. His eyes were bright, excited.
"She's just a little faint," he reassured the startled nurse. "They're blood typing in
Biology."
The nurse nodded sagely. "There's always one."
He muffled a snicker.
"Just lie down for a minute, honey; it'll pass."
"I know," I sighed. The nausea was already fading.
"Does this happen a lot?" she asked.
"Sometimes," I admitted. Edward coughed to hide another laugh.
"You can go back to class now," she told him.
"I'm supposed to stay with her." He said this with such assured authority that — even
though she pursed her lips — the nurse didn't argue it further.
"I'll go get you some ice for your forehead, dear," she said to me, and then bustled out
of the room.
"You were right," I moaned, letting my eyes close.
"I usually am — but about what in particular this time?"
"Ditching is healthy." I practiced breathing evenly.
"You scared me for a minute there," he admitted after a pause. His tone made it sound
like he was confessing a humiliating weakness. "I thought Newton was dragging your
dead body off to bury it in the woods."
"Haha." I still had my eyes closed, but I was feeling more normal every minute.
"Honestly — I've seen corpses with better color. I was concerned that I might have to
avenge your murder."
"Poor Mike. I'll bet he's mad."
"He absolutely loathes me," Edward said cheerfully.
"You can't know that," I argued, but then I wondered suddenly if he could.
"I saw his face — I could tell."
"How did you see me? I thought you were ditching." I was almost fine now, though the
queasiness would probably pass faster if I'd eaten something for lunch. On the other
hand, maybe it was lucky my stomach was empty.
"I was in my car, listening to a CD." Such a normal response — it surprised me.
I heard the door and opened my eyes to see the nurse with a cold compress in her hand.
"Here you go, dear." She laid it across my forehead. "You're looking better," she added.
"I think I'm fine," I said, sitting up. Just a little ringing in my ears, no spinning. The
mint green walls stayed where they should.
I could see she was about to make me lie back down, but the door opened just then, and
Ms. Cope stuck her head in.
"We've got another one," she warned.
I hopped down to free up the cot for the next invalid.
I handed the compress back to the nurse. "Here, I don't need this."
And then Mike staggered through the door, now supporting a sallow-looking Lee
Stephens, another boy in our Biology class. Edward and I drew back against the wall to
give them room.
"Oh no," Edward muttered. "Go out to the office, Bella."
I looked up at him, bewildered.
"Trust me — go."
I spun and caught the door before it closed, darting out of the infirmary. I could feel
Edward right behind me.
"You actually listened to me." He was stunned.
"I smelled the blood," I said, wrinkling my nose. Lee wasn't sick from watching other
people, like me.
"People can't smell blood," he contradicted.
"Well, I can — that's what makes me sick. It smells like rust… and salt."
He was staring at me with an unfathomable expression.
"What?" I asked.
"It's nothing."
Mike came through the door then, glancing from me to Edward. The look he gave
Edward confirmed what Edward had said about loathing. He looked back at me, his eyes
glum.
"You look better," he accused.
"Just keep your hand in your pocket," I warned him again.
"It's not bleeding anymore," he muttered. "Are you going back to class?"
"Are you kidding? I'd just have to turn around and come back."
"Yeah, I guess… So are you going this weekend? To the beach?" While he spoke, he
flashed another glare toward Edward, who was standing against the cluttered counter,
motionless as a sculpture, staring off into space.
I tried to sound as friendly as possible. "Sure, I said I was in."
"We're meeting at my dad's store, at ten." His eyes flickered to Edward again,
wondering if he was giving out too much information. His body language made it clear
that it wasn't an open invitation.
"I'll be there," I promised.
"I'll see you in Gym, then," he said, moving uncertainly toward the door.
"See you," I replied. He looked at me once more, his round face slightly pouting, and
then as he walked slowly through the door, his shoulders slumped. A swell of sympathy
washed over me. I pondered seeing his disappointed face again… in Gym.
"Gym," I groaned.
"I can take care of that." I hadn't noticed Edward moving to my side, but he spoke now
in my ear. "Go sit down and look pale," he muttered.
That wasn't a challenge; I was always pale, and my recent swoon had left a light sheen
of sweat on my face. I sat in one of the creaky folding chairs and rested my head against
the wall with my eyes closed. Fainting spells always exhausted me.
I heard Edward speaking softly at the counter.
"Ms. Cope?"
"Yes?" I hadn't heard her return to her desk.
"Bella has Gym next hour, and I don't think she feels well enough. Actually, I was
thinking I should take her home now. Do you think you could excuse her from class?"
His voice was like melting honey. I could imagine how much more overwhelming his
eyes would be.
"Do you need to be excused, too, Edward?" Ms. Cope fluttered. Why couldn't I do that?
"No, I have Mrs. Goff, she won't mind."
"Okay, it's all taken care of. You feel better, Bella," she called to me. I nodded weakly,
hamming it up just a bit.
"Can you walk, or do you want me to carry you again?" With his back to the
receptionist, his expression became sarcastic.
"I'll walk."
I stood carefully, and I was still fine. He held the door for me, his smile polite but his
eyes mocking. I walked out into the cold, fine mist that had just begun to fall. It felt nice
— the first time I'd enjoyed the constant moisture falling out of the sky — as it washed
my face clean of the sticky perspiration.
"Thanks," I said as he followed me out. "It's almost worth getting sick to miss Gym."
"Anytime." He was staring straight forward, squinting into the rain.
"So are you going? This Saturday, I mean?" I was hoping he would, though it seemed
unlikely. I couldn't picture him loading up to carpool with the rest of the kids from
school; he didn't belong in the same world. But just hoping that he might gave me the
first twinge of enthusiasm I'd felt for the outing.
"Where are you all going, exactly?" He was still looking ahead, expressionless.
"Down to La Push, to First Beach." I studied his face, trying to read it. His eyes seemed
to narrow infinitesimally.
He glanced down at me from the corner of his eye, smiling wryly. "I really don't think I
was invited."
I sighed. "I just invited you."
"Let's you and I not push poor Mike any further this week. We don't want him to snap."
His eyes danced; he was enjoying the idea more than he should.
"Mike-schmike." I muttered, preoccupied by the way he'd said "you and I." I liked it
more than I should.
We were near the parking lot now. I veered left, toward my truck. Something caught my
jacket, yanking me back.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, outraged. He was gripping a fistful of my
jacket in one hand.
I was confused. "I'm going home."
"Didn't you hear me promise to take you safely home? Do you think I'm going to let
you drive in your condition?" His voice was still indignant.
"What condition? And what about my truck?" I complained.
"I'll have Alice drop it off after school." He was towing me toward his car now, pulling
me by my jacket. It was all I could do to keep from falling backward. He'd probably just
drag me along anyway if I did.
"Let go!" I insisted. He ignored me. I staggered along sideways across the wet sidewalk
until we reached the Volvo. Then he finally freed me — I stumbled against the passenger
door.
"You are so pushy !" I grumbled.
"It's open," was all he responded. He got in the driver's side.
"I am perfectly capable of driving myself home!" I stood by the car, fuming. It was
raining harder now, and I'd never put my hood up, so my hair was dripping down my
back.
He lowered the automatic window and leaned toward me across the seat. "Get in,
Bella."
I didn't answer. I was mentally calculating my chances of reaching the truck before he
could catch me. I had to admit, they weren't good.
"I'll just drag you back," he threatened, guessing my plan.
I tried to maintain what dignity I could as I got into his car. I wasn't very successful — I
looked like a half-drowned cat and my boots squeaked.
"This is completely unnecessary," I said stiffly.
He didn't answer. He fiddled with the controls, turning the heater up and the music
down. As he pulled out of the parking lot, I was preparing to give him the silent treatment
— my face in full pout mode — but then I recognized the music playing, and my
curiosity got the better of my intentions.
"Clair deLune?" I asked, surprised.
"You know Debussy?" He sounded surprised, too.
"Not well," I admitted. "My mother plays a lot of classical music around the house — I
only know my favorites."
"It's one of my favorites, too." He stared out through the rain, lost in thought.
I listened to the music, relaxing against the light gray leather seat. It was impossible not
to respond to the familiar, soothing melody. The rain blurred everything outside the
window into gray and green smudges. I began to realize we were driving very fast; the
car moved so steadily, so evenly, though, I didn't feel the speed. Only the town flashing
by gave it away.
"What is your mother like?" he asked me suddenly.
I glanced over to see him studying me with curious eyes.
"She looks a lot like me, but she's prettier," I said. He raised his eyebrows. "I have too
much Charlie in me. She's more outgoing than I am, and braver. She's irresponsible and
slightly eccentric, and she's a very unpredictable cook. She's my best friend." I stopped.
Talking about her was making me depressed.
"How old are you, Bella?" His voice sounded frustrated for some reason I couldn't
imagine. He'd stopped the car, and I realized we were at Charlie's house already. The rain
was so heavy that I could barely see the house at all. It was like the car was submerged
under a river.
"I'm seventeen," I responded, a little confused.
"You don't seem seventeen."
His tone was reproachful; it made me laugh.
"What?" he asked, curious again.
"My mom always says I was born thirty-five years old and that I get more middle-aged
every year." I laughed, and then sighed. "Well, someone has to be the adult." I paused for
a second. "You don't seem much like a junior in high school yourself," I noted.
He made a face and changed the subject.
"So why did your mother marry Phil?"
I was surprised he would remember the name; I'd mentioned it just once, almost two
months ago. It took me a moment to answer.
"My mother… she's very young for her age. I think Phil makes her feel even younger.
At any rate, she's crazy about him." I shook my head. The attraction was a mystery to me.
"Do you approve?" he asked.
"Does it matter?" I countered. "I want her to be happy… and he is who she wants."
"That's very generous… I wonder," he mused.
"What?"
"Would she extend the same courtesy to you, do you think? No matter who your choice
was?" He was suddenly intent, his eyes searching mine.
"I-I think so," I stuttered. "But she's the parent, after all. It's a little bit different."
"No one too scary then," he teased.
I grinned in response. "What do you mean by scary? Multiple facial piercings and
extensive tattoos?"
"That's one definition, I suppose."
"What's your definition?"
But he ignored my question and asked me another. "Do you think that I could be
scary?" He raised one eyebrow, and the faint trace of a smile lightened his face.
I thought for a moment, wondering whether the truth or a lie would go over better. I
decided to go with the truth. "Hmmm… I think you could be, if you wanted to."
"Are you frightened of me now?" The smile vanished, and his heavenly face was
suddenly serious.
"No." But I answered too quickly. The smile returned.
"So, now are you going to tell me about your family?" I asked to distract him. "It's got
to be a much more interesting story than mine."
He was instantly cautious. "What do you want to know?"
"The Cullens adopted you?" I verified.
"Yes."
I hesitated for a moment. "What happened to your parents?"
"They died many years ago." His tone was matter-of-fact.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled.
"I don't really remember them that clearly. Carlisle and Esme have been my parents for
a long time now."
"And you love them." It wasn't a question. It was obvious in the way he spoke of them.
"Yes." He smiled. "I couldn't imagine two better people."
"You're very lucky."
"I know I am."
"And your brother and sister?"
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.
"My brother and sister, and Jasper and Rosalie for that matter, are going to be quite
upset if they have to stand in the rain waiting for me."
"Oh, sorry, I guess you have to go." I didn't want to get out of the car.
"And you probably want your truck back before Chief Swan gets home, so you don't
have to tell him about the Biology incident." He grinned at me.
"I'm sure he's already heard. There are no secrets in Forks." I sighed.
He laughed, and there was an edge to his laughter.
"Have fun at the beach… good weather for sunbathing." He glanced out at the sheeting
rain.
"Won't I see you tomorrow?"
"No. Emmett and I are starting the weekend early."
"What are you going to do?" A friend could ask that, right? I hoped the disappointment
wasn't too apparent in my voice.
"We're going to be hiking in the Goat Rocks Wilderness, just south of Rainier."
I remembered Charlie had said the Cullens went camping frequently.
"Oh, well, have fun." I tried to sound enthusiastic. I don't think I fooled him, though. A
smile was playing around the edges of his lips.
"Will you do something for me this weekend?" He turned to look me straight in the
face, utilizing the full power of his burning gold eyes.
I nodded helplessly.
"Don't be offended, but you seem to be one of those people who just attract accidents
like a magnet. So… try not to fall into the ocean or get run over or anything, all right?"
He smiled crookedly.
The helplessness had faded as he spoke. I glared at him.
"I'll see what I can do," I snapped as I jumped out into the rain. I slammed the door
behind me with excessive force.
He was still smiling as he drove away.
6. Scary Stories
As I sat in my room, trying to concentrate on the third act of Macbeth, I was really
listening for my truck. I would have thought, even over the pounding rain, I could have
heard the engine's roar. But when I went to peek out the curtain — again — it was
suddenly there.
I wasn't looking forward to Friday, and it more than lived up to my non-expectations.
Of course there were the fainting comments. Jessica especially seemed to get a kick out
of that story. Luckily Mike had kept his mouth shut, and no one seemed to know about
Edward's involvement. She did have a lot of questions about lunch, though.
"So what did Edward Cullen want yesterday?" Jessica asked in Trig.
"I don't know," I answered truthfully. "He never really got to the point."
"You looked kind of mad," she fished.
"Did I?" I kept my expression blank.
"You know, I've never seen him sit with anyone but his family before. That was weird."
"Weird," I agreed. She seemed annoyed; she flipped her dark curls impatiently — I
guessed she'd been hoping to hear something that would make a good story for her to
pass on.
The worst part about Friday was that, even though I knew he wasn't going to be there, I
still hoped. When I walked into the cafeteria with Jessica and Mike, I couldn't keep from
looking at his table, where Rosalie, Alice, and Jasper sat talking, heads close together.
And I couldn't stop the gloom that engulfed me as I realized I didn't know how long I
would have to wait before I saw him again.
At my usual table, everyone was full of our plans for the next day. Mike was animated
again, putting a great deal of trust in the local weatherman who promised sun tomorrow.
I'd have to see that before I believed it. But it was warmer today — almost sixty. Maybe
the outing wouldn't be completely miserable.
I intercepted a few unfriendly glances from Lauren during lunch, which I didn't
understand until we were all walking out of the room together. I was right behind her, just
a foot from her slick, silver blond hair, and she was evidently unaware of that.
"…don't know why Bella" — she sneered my name — "doesn't just sit with the Cullens
from now on."
I heard her muttering to Mike. I'd never noticed what an unpleasant, nasal voice she
had, and I was surprised by the malice in it. I really didn't know her well at all, certainly
not well enough for her to dislike me — or so I'd thought. "She's my friend; she sits with
us," Mike whispered back loyally, but also a bit territorially. I paused to let Jess and
Angela pass me. I didn't want to hear any more.
That night at dinner, Charlie seemed enthusiastic about my trip to La Push in the
morning. I think he felt guilty for leaving me home alone on the weekends, but he'd spent
too many years building his habits to break them now. Of course he knew the names of
all the kids going, and their parents, and their great-grandparents, too, probably. He
seemed to approve. I wondered if he would approve of my plan to ride to Seattle with
Edward Cullen. Not that I was going to tell him.
"Dad, do you know a place called Goat Rocks or something like that? I think it's south
of Mount Rainier," I asked casually.
"Yeah — why?"
I shrugged. "Some kids were talking about camping there."
"It's not a very good place for camping." He sounded surprised." Too many bears. Most
people go there during the hunting season."
"Oh," I murmured. "Maybe I got the name wrong."
I meant to sleep in, but an unusual brightness woke me. I opened my eyes to see a clear
yellow light streaming through my window. I couldn't believe it. I hurried to the window
to check, and sure enough, there was the sun. It was in the wrong place in the sky, too
low, and it didn't seem to be as close as it should be, but it was definitely the sun. Clouds
ringed the horizon, but a large patch of blue was visible in the middle. I lingered by the
window as long as I could, afraid that if I left the blue would disappear again.
The Newtons ' Olympic Outfitters store was just north of town. I'd seen the store, but I'd
never stopped there — not having much need for any supplies required for being
outdoors over an extended period of time. In the parking lot I recognized Mike's
Suburban and Tyler's Sentra. As I pulled up next to their vehicles, I could see the group
standing around in front of the Suburban. Eric was there, along with two other boys I had
class with; I was fairly sure their names were Ben and Conner. Jess was there, flanked by
Angela and Lauren. Three other girls stood with them, including one I remembered
falling over in Gym on Friday. That one gave me a dirty look as I got out of the truck, and
whispered something to Lauren. Lauren shook out her cornsilk hair and eyed me
scornfully.
So it was going to be one of those days.
At least Mike was happy to see me.
"You came!" he called, delighted. "And I said it would be sunny today, didn't I?"
"I told you I was coming," I reminded him.
"We're just waiting for Lee and Samantha… unless you invited someone," Mike added.
"Nope," I lied lightly, hoping I wouldn't get caught in the lie. But also wishing that a
miracle would occur, and Edward would appear.
Mike looked satisfied.
"Will you ride in my car? It's that or Lee's mom's minivan."
"Sure."
He smiled blissfully. It was so easy to make Mike happy.
"You can have shotgun," he promised. I hid my chagrin. It wasn't as simple to make
Mike and Jessica happy at the same time. I could see Jessica glowering at us now.
The numbers worked out in my favor, though. Lee brought two extra people, and
suddenly every seat was necessary. I managed to wedge Jess in between Mike and me in
the front seat of the Suburban. Mike could have been more graceful about it, but at least
Jess seemed appeased.
It was only fifteen miles to La Push from Forks, with gorgeous, dense green forests
edging the road most of the way and the wide Quillayute River snaking beneath it twice. I
was glad I had the window seat. We'd rolled the windows down — the Suburban was a
bit claustrophobic with nine people in it — and I tried to absorb as much sunlight as
possible.
I'd been to the beaches around La Push many times during my Forks summers with
Charlie, so the mile-long crescent of First Beach was familiar to me. It was still
breathtaking. The water was dark gray, even in the sunlight, white-capped and heaving to
the gray, rocky shore. Islands rose out of the steel harbor waters with sheer cliff sides,
reaching to uneven summits, and crowned with austere, soaring firs. The beach had only
a thin border of actual sand at the water's edge, after which it grew into millions of large,
smooth stones that looked uniformly gray from a distance, but close up were every shade
a stone could be: terra-cotta, sea green, lavender, blue gray, dull gold. The tide line was
strewn with huge driftwood trees, bleached bone white in the salt waves, some piled
together against the edge of the forest fringe, some lying solitary, just out of reach of the
waves.
There was a brisk wind coming off the waves, cool and briny. Pelicans floated on the
swells while seagulls and a lone eagle wheeled above them. The clouds still circled the
sky, threatening to invade at any moment, but for now the sun shone bravely in its halo of
blue sky.
We picked our way down to the beach, Mike leading the way to a ring of driftwood logs
that had obviously been used for parties like ours before. There was a fire circle already
in place, filled with black ashes. Eric and the boy I thought was named Ben gathered
broken branches of driftwood from the drier piles against the forest edge, and soon had a
teepee-shaped construction built atop the old cinders.
"Have you ever seen a driftwood fire?" Mike asked me. I was sitting on one of the
bone-colored benches; the other girls clustered, gossiping excitedly, on either side of me.
Mike kneeled by the fire, lighting one of the smaller sticks with a cigarette lighter.
"No," I said as he placed the blazing twig carefully against the teepee.
"You'll like this then — watch the colors." He lit another small branch and laid it
alongside the first. The flames started to lick quickly up the dry wood.
"It's blue," I said in surprise.
"The salt does it. Pretty, isn't it?" He lit one more piece, placed it where the fire hadn't
yet caught, and then came to sit by me. Thankfully, Jess was on his other side. She turned
to him and claimed his attention. I watched the strange blue and green flames crackle
toward the sky.
After a half hour of chatter, some of the boys wanted to hike to the nearby tidal pools. It
was a dilemma. On the one hand, I loved the tide pools. They had fascinated me since I
was a child; they were one of the only things I ever looked forward to when I had to
come to Forks. On the other hand, I'd also fallen into them a lot. Not a big deal when
you're seven and with your dad. It reminded me of Edward's request — that I not fall into
the ocean.
Lauren was the one who made my decision for me. She didn't want to hike, and she was
definitely wearing the wrong shoes for it. Most of the other girls besides Angela and
Jessica decided to stay on the beach as well. I waited until Tyler and Eric had committed
to remaining with them before I got up quietly to join the pro-hiking group. Mike gave
me a huge smile when he saw that I was coming.
The hike wasn't too long, though I hated to lose the sky in the woods. The green light of
the forest was strangely at odds with the adolescent laughter, too murky and ominous to
be in harmony with the light banter around me. I had to watch each step I took very
carefully, avoiding roots below and branches above, and I soon fell behind. Eventually I
broke through the emerald confines of the forest and found the rocky shore again. It was
low tide, and a tidal river flowed past us on its way to the sea. Along its pebbled banks,
shallow pools that never completely drained were teeming with life.
I was very cautious not to lean too far over the little ocean ponds. The others were
fearless, leaping over the rocks, perching precariously on the edges. I found a very stablelooking
rock on the fringe of one of the largest pools and sat there cautiously, spellbound
by the natural aquarium below me. The bouquets of brilliant anemones undulated
ceaselessly in the invisible current, twisted shells scurried about the edges, obscuring the
crabs within them, starfish stuck motionless to the rocks and each other, while one small
black eel with white racing stripes wove through the bright green weeds, waiting for the
sea to return. I was completely absorbed, except for one small part of my mind that
wondered what Edward was doing now, and trying to imagine what he would be saying if
he were here with me.
Finally the boys were hungry, and I got up stiffly to follow them back. I tried to keep up
better this time through the woods, so naturally I fell a few times. I got some shallow
scrapes on my palms, and the knees of my jeans were stained green, but it could have
been worse.
When we got back to First Beach, the group we'd left behind had multiplied. As we got
closer we could see the shining, straight black hair and copper skin of the newcomers,
teenagers from the reservation come to socialize.
The food was already being passed around, and the boys hurried to claim a share while
Eric introduced us as we each entered the driftwood circle. Angela and I were the last to
arrive, and, as Eric said our names, I noticed a younger boy sitting on the stones near the
fire glance up at me in interest. I sat down next to Angela, and Mike brought us
sandwiches and an array of sodas to choose from, while a boy who looked to be the
oldest of the visitors rattled off the names of the seven others with him. All I caught was
that one of the girls was also named Jessica, and the boy who noticed me was named
Jacob.
It was relaxing to sit with Angela; she was a restful kind of person to be around — she
didn't feel the need to fill every silence with chatter. She left me free to think undisturbed
while we ate. And I was thinking about how disjointedly time seemed to flow in Forks,
passing in a blur at times, with single images standing out more clearly than others. And
then, at other times, every second was significant, etched in my mind. I knew exactly
what caused the difference, and it disturbed me.
During lunch the clouds started to advance, slinking across the blue sky, darting in front
of the sun momentarily, casting long shadows across the beach, and blackening the
waves. As they finished eating, people started to drift away in twos and threes. Some
walked down to the edge of the waves, trying to skip rocks across the choppy surface.
Others were gathering a second expedition to the tide pools. Mike — with Jessica
shadowing him — headed up to the one shop in the village. Some of the local kids went
with them; others went along on the hike. By the time they all had scattered, I was sitting
alone on my driftwood log, with Lauren and Tyler occupying themselves by the CD
player someone had thought to bring, and three teenagers from the reservation perched
around the circle, including the boy named Jacob and the oldest boy who had acted as
spokesperson.
A few minutes after Angela left with the hikers, Jacob sauntered over to take her place
by my side. He looked fourteen, maybe fifteen, and had long, glossy black hair pulled
back with a rubber band at the nape of his neck. His skin was beautiful, silky and russetcolored;
his eyes were dark, set deep above the high planes of his cheekbones. He still
had just a hint of childish roundness left around his chin. Altogether, a very pretty face.
However, my positive opinion of his looks was damaged by the first words out of his
mouth.
"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?"
It was like the first day of school all over again.
"Bella," I sighed.
"I'm Jacob Black." He held his hand out in a friendly gesture. "You bought my dad's
truck."
"Oh," I said, relieved, shaking his sleek hand. "You're Billy's son. I probably should
remember you."
"No, I'm the youngest of the family — you would remember my older sisters."
"Rachel and Rebecca," I suddenly recalled. Charlie and Billy had thrown us together a
lot during my visits, to keep us busy while they fished. We were all too shy to make much
progress as friends. Of course, I'd kicked up enough tantrums to end the fishing trips by
the time I was eleven.
"Are they here?" I examined the girls at the ocean's edge, wondering if I would
recognize them now.
"No." Jacob shook his head. "Rachel got a scholarship to Washington State, and
Rebecca married a Samoan surfer — she lives in Hawaii now."
"Married. Wow." I was stunned. The twins were only a little over a year older than I
was.
"So how do you like the truck?" he asked.
"I love it. It runs great."
"Yeah, but it's really slow," he laughed. "I was so relived when Charlie bought it. My
dad wouldn't let me work on building another car when we had a perfectly good vehicle
right there."
"It's not that slow," I objected.
"Have you tried to go over sixty?"
"No," I admitted.
"Good. Don't." He grinned.
I couldn't help grinning back. "It does great in a collision," I offered in my truck's
defense.
"I don't think a tank could take out that old monster," he agreed with another laugh.
"So you build cars?" I asked, impressed.
"When I have free time, and parts. You wouldn't happen to know where I could get my
hands on a master cylinder for a 1986 Volkswagen Rabbit?" he added jokingly. He had a
pleasant, husky voice.
"Sorry," I laughed, "I haven't seen any lately, but I'll keep my eyes open for you." As if I
knew what that was. He was very easy to talk with.
He flashed a brilliant smile, looking at me appreciatively in a way I was learning to
recognize. I wasn't the only one who noticed.
"You know Bella, Jacob?" Lauren asked — in what I imagined was an insolent tone —
from across the fire.
"We've sort of known each other since I was born," he laughed, smiling at me again.
"How nice." She didn't sound like she thought it was nice at all, and her pale, fishy eyes
narrowed.
"Bella," she called again, watching my face carefully, "I was just saying to Tyler that it
was too bad none of the Cullens could come out today. Didn't anyone think to invite
them?" Her expression of concern was unconvincing.
"You mean Dr. Carlisle Cullen's family?" the tall, older boy asked before I could
respond, much to Lauren's irritation. He was really closer to a man than a boy, and his
voice was very deep.
"Yes, do you know them?" she asked condescendingly, turning halfway toward him.
"The Cullens don't come here," he said in a tone that closed the subject, ignoring her
question.
Tyler, trying to win back her attention, asked Lauren's opinion on a CD he held. She
was distracted.
I stared at the deep-voiced boy, taken aback, but he was looking away toward the dark
forest behind us. He'd said that the Cullens didn't come here, but his tone had implied
something more — that they weren't allowed; they were prohibited. His manner left a
strange impression on me, and I tried to ignore it without success.
Jacob interrupted my meditation. "So is Forks driving you insane yet?"
"Oh, I'd say that's an understatement." I grimaced. He grinned understandingly.
I was still turning over the brief comment on the Cullens, and I had a sudden
inspiration. It was a stupid plan, but I didn't have any better ideas. I hoped that young
Jacob was as yet inexperienced around girls, so that he wouldn't see through my sure-tobe-
pitiful attempts at flirting.
"Do you want to walk down the beach with me?" I asked, trying to imitate that way
Edward had of looking up from underneath his eyelashes. It couldn't have nearly the
same effect, I was sure, but Jacob jumped up willingly enough.
As we walked north across the multihued stones toward the driftwood seawall, the
clouds finally closed ranks across the sky, causing the sea to darken and the temperature
to drop. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket.
"So you're, what, sixteen?" I asked, trying not to look like an idiot as I fluttered my
eyelids the way I'd seen girls do on TV.
"I just turned fifteen," he confessed, flattered.
"Really?" My face was full of false surprise. "I would have thought you were older."
"I'm tall for my age," he explained.
"Do you come up to Forks much?" I asked archly, as if I was hoping for a yes. I
sounded idiotic to myself. I was afraid he would turn on me with disgust and accuse me
of my fraud, but he still seemed flattered.
"Not too much," he admitted with a frown. "But when I get my car finished I can go up
as much as I want — after I get my license," he amended.
"Who was that other boy Lauren was talking to? He seemed a little old to be hanging
out with us." I purposefully lumped myself in with the youngsters, trying to make it clear
that I preferred Jacob.
"That's Sam — he's nineteen," he informed me.
"What was that he was saying about the doctor's family?" I asked innocently.
"The Cullens? Oh, they're not supposed to come onto the reservation." He looked away,
out toward James Island, as he confirmed what I'd thought I'd heard in Sam's voice.
"Why not?"
He glanced back at me, biting his lip. "Oops. I'm not supposed to say anything about
that."
"Oh, I won't tell anyone, I'm just curious." I tried to make my smile alluring, wondering
if I was laying it on too thick.
He smiled back, though, looking allured. Then he lifted one eyebrow and his voice was
even huskier than before.
"Do you like scary stories?" he asked ominously.
"I love them," I enthused, making an effort to smolder at him.
Jacob strolled to a nearby driftwood tree that had its roots sticking out like the
attenuated legs of a huge, pale spider. He perched lightly on one of the twisted roots
while I sat beneath him on the body of the tree. He stared down at the rocks, a smile
hovering around the edges of his broad lips. I could see he was going to try to make this
good. I focused on keeping the vital interest I felt out of my eyes.
"Do you know any of our old stories, about where we came from — the Quileutes, I
mean?" he began.
"Not really," I admitted.
"Well, there are lots of legends, some of them claiming to date back to the Flood —
supposedly, the ancient Quileutes tied their canoes to the tops of the tallest trees on the
mountain to survive like Noah and the ark." He smiled, to show me how little stock he
put in the histories. "Another legend claims that we descended from wolves — and that
the wolves are our brothers still. It's against tribal law to kill them.
"Then there are the stories about the cold ones." His voice dropped a little lower.
"The cold ones?" I asked, not faking my intrigue now.
"Yes. There are stories of the cold ones as old as the wolf legends, and some much more
recent. According to legend, my own great-grandfather knew some of them. He was the
one who made the treaty that kept them off our land." He rolled his eyes.
"Your great-grandfather?" I encouraged.
"He was a tribal elder, like my father. You see, the cold ones are the natural enemies of
the wolf—well, not the wolf, really, but the wolves that turn into men, like our ancestors.
You would call them werewolves."
"Werewolves have enemies?"
"Only one."
I stared at him earnestly, hoping to disguise my impatience as admiration.
"So you see," Jacob continued, "the cold ones are traditionally our enemies. But this
pack that came to our territory during my great-grandfather's time was different. They
didn't hunt the way others of their kind did — they weren't supposed to be dangerous to
the tribe. So my great-grandfather made a truce with them. If they would promise to stay
off our lands, we wouldn't expose them to the pale-faces." He winked at me.
"If they weren't dangerous, then why… ?"I tried to understand, struggling not to let him
see how seriously I was considering his ghost story.
"There's always a risk for humans to be around the cold ones, even if they're civilized
like this clan was. You never know when they might get too hungry to resist." He
deliberately worked a thick edge of menace into his tone.
"What do you mean, 'civilized'?"
"They claimed that they didn't hunt humans. They supposedly were somehow able to
prey on animals instead."
I tried to keep my voice casual. "So how does it fit in with the Cullens ? Are they like
the cold ones your great grandfather met?"
"No." He paused dramatically. "They are the same ones."
He must have thought the expression on my face was fear inspired by his story. He
smiled, pleased, and continued.
"There are more of them now, a new female and a new male, but the rest are the same.
In my great-grandfather's time they already knew of the leader, Carlisle. He'd been here
and gone before your people had even arrived." He was fighting a smile.
"And what are they?" I finally asked. "What are the cold ones?"
He smiled darkly.
"Blood drinkers," he replied in a chilling voice. "Your people call them vampires."
I stared out at the rough surf after he answered, not sure what my face was exposing.
"You have goose bumps," he laughed delightedly.
"You're a good storyteller," I complimented him, still staring into the waves.
"Pretty crazy stuff, though, isn't it? No wonder my dad doesn't want us to talk about it
to anyone."
I couldn't control my expression enough to look at him yet. "Don't worry, I won't give
you away."
"I guess I just violated the treaty," he laughed.
"I'll take it to the grave," I promised, and then I shivered.
"Seriously, though, don't say anything to Charlie. He was pretty mad at my dad when he
heard that some of us weren't going to the hospital since Dr. Cullen started working
there."
"I won't, of course not."
"So do you think we're a bunch of superstitious natives or what?" he asked in a playful
tone, but with a hint of worry. I still hadn't looked away from the ocean.
I turned and smiled at him as normally as I could.
"No. I think you're very good at telling scary stories, though. I still have goose bumps,
see?" I held up my arm.
"Cool." He smiled.
And then the sound of the beach rocks clattering against each other warned us that
someone was approaching. Our heads snapped up at the same time to see Mike and
Jessica about fifty yards away, walking toward us.
"There you are, Bella," Mike called in relief, waving his arm over his head.
"Is that your boyfriend?" Jacob asked, alerted by the jealous edge in Mike's voice. I was
surprised it was so obvious.
"No, definitely not," I whispered. I was tremendously grateful to Jacob, and eager to
make him as happy as possible. I winked at him, carefully turning away from Mike to do
so. He smiled, elated by my inept flirting.
"So when I get my license…" he began.
"You should come see me in Forks. We could hang out sometime." I felt guilty as I said
this, knowing that I'd used him. But I really did like Jacob. He was someone I could
easily be friends with.
Mike had reached us now, with Jessica still a few paces back. I could see his eyes
appraising Jacob, and looking satisfied at his obvious youth.
"Where have you been?" he asked, though the answer was right in front of him.
"Jacob was just telling me some local stories," I volunteered. "It was really interesting."
I smiled at Jacob warmly, and he grinned back.
"Well," Mike paused, carefully reassessing the situation as he watched our camaraderie.
"We're packing up — it looks like it's going to rain soon."
We all looked up at the glowering sky. It certainly did look like rain.
"Okay." I jumped up. "I'm coming."
"It was nice to see you again," Jacob said, and I could tell he was taunting Mike just a
bit.
"It really was. Next time Charlie comes down to see Billy, I'll come, too," I promised.
His grin stretched across his face. "That would be cool."
"And thanks," I added earnestly.
I pulled up my hood as we tramped across the rocks toward the parking lot. A few drops
were beginning to fall, making black spots on the stones where they landed. When we got
to the Suburban the others were already loading everything back in. I crawled into the
backseat by Angela and Tyler, announcing that I'd already had my turn in the shotgun
position. Angela just stared out the window at the escalating storm, and Lauren twisted
around in the middle seat to occupy Tyler 's attention, so I could simply lay my head back
on the seat and close my eyes and try very hard not to think.
7. Nightmare
I told Charlie I had a lot of homework to do, and that I didn't want anything to eat.
There was a basketball game on that he was excited about, though of course I had no idea
what was special about it, so he wasn't aware of anything unusual in my face or tone.
Once in my room, I locked the door. I dug through my desk until I found my old
headphones, and I plugged them into my little CD player. I picked up a CD that Phil had
given to me for Christmas. It was one of his favorite bands, but they used a little too
much bass and shrieking for my tastes. I popped it into place and lay down on my bed. I
put on the headphones, hit Play, and turned up the volume until it hurt my ears. I closed
my eyes, but the light still intruded, so I added a pillow over the top half of my face.
I concentrated very carefully on the music, trying to understand the lyrics, to unravel
the complicated drum patterns. By the third time I'd listened through the CD, I knew all
the words to the choruses, at least. I was surprised to find that I really did like the band
after all, once I got past the blaring noise. I'd have to thank Phil again.
And it worked. The shattering beats made it impossible for me to think — which was
the whole purpose of the exercise. I listened to the CD again and again, until I was
singing along with all the songs, until, finally, I fell asleep.
I opened my eyes to a familiar place. Aware in some corner of my consciousness that I
was dreaming, I recognized the green light of the forest. I could hear the waves crashing
against the rocks somewhere nearby. And I knew that if I found the ocean, I'd be able to
see the sun. I was trying to follow the sound, but then Jacob Black was there, tugging on
my hand, pulling me back toward the blackest part of the forest.
"Jacob? What's wrong?" I asked. His face was frightened as he yanked with all his
strength against my resistance; I didn't want to go into the dark.
"Run, Bella, you have to run!" he whispered, terrified.
"This way, Bella!" I recognized Mike's voice calling out of the gloomy heart of the
trees, but I couldn't see him.
"Why?" I asked, still pulling against Jacob's grasp, desperate now to find the sun.
But Jacob let go of my hand and yelped, suddenly shaking, falling to the dim forest
floor. He twitched on the ground as I watched in horror.
"Jacob!" I screamed. But he was gone. In his place was a large red-brown wolf with
black eyes. The wolf faced away from me, pointing toward the shore, the hair on the back
of his shoulders bristling, low growls issuing from between his exposed fangs.
"Bella, run!" Mike cried out again from behind me. But I didn't turn. I was watching a
light coming toward me from the beach.
And then Edward stepped out from the trees, his skin faintly glowing, his eyes black
and dangerous. He held up one hand and beckoned me to come to him. The wolf growled
at my feet.
I took a step forward, toward Edward. He smiled then, and his teeth were sharp,
pointed.
"Trust me," he purred.
I took another step.
The wolf launched himself across the space between me and the vampire, fangs aiming
for the jugular.
"No!" I screamed, wrenching upright out of my bed.
My sudden movement caused the headphones to pull the CD player off the bedside
table, and it clattered to the wooden floor.
My light was still on, and I was sitting fully dressed on the bed, with my shoes on. I
glanced, disoriented, at the clock on my dresser. It was five-thirty in the morning.
I groaned, fell back, and rolled over onto my face, kicking off my boots. I was too
uncomfortable to get anywhere near sleep, though. I rolled back over and unbuttoned my
jeans, yanking them off awkwardly as I tried to stay horizontal. I could feel the braid in
my hair, an uncomfortable ridge along the back of my skull. I turned onto my side and
ripped the rubber band out, quickly combing through the plaits with my fingers. I pulled
the pillow back over my eyes.
It was all no use, of course. My subconscious had dredged up exactly the images I'd
been trying so desperately to avoid. I was going to have to face them now.
I sat up, and my head spun for a minute as the blood flowed downward. First things
first, I thought to myself, happy to put it off as long as possible. I grabbed my bathroom
bag.
The shower didn't last nearly as long as I hoped it would, though. Even taking the time
to blow-dry my hair, I was soon out of things to do in the bathroom. Wrapped in a towel,
I crossed back to my room. I couldn't tell if Charlie was still asleep, or if he had already
left. I went to look out my window, and the cruiser was gone. Fishing again.
I dressed slowly in my most comfy sweats and then made my bed — something I never
did. I couldn't put it off any longer. I went to my desk and switched on my old computer.
I hated using the Internet here. My modem was sadly outdated, my free service
substandard; just dialing up took so long that I decided to go get myself a bowl of cereal
while I waited.
I ate slowly, chewing each bite with care. When I was done, I washed the bowl and
spoon, dried them, and put them away. My feet dragged as I climbed the stairs. I went to
my CD player first, picking it up off the floor and placing it precisely in the center of the
table. I pulled out the headphones, and put them away in the desk drawer. Then I turned
the same CD on, turning it down to the point where it was background noise.
With another sigh, I turned to my computer. Naturally, the screen was covered in popup
ads. I sat in my hard folding chair and began closing all the little windows. Eventually
I made it to my favorite search engine. I shot down a few more pop-ups and then typed in
one word.
Vampire.
It took an infuriatingly long time, of course. When the results came up, there was a lot
to sift through — everything from movies and TV shows to role-playing games,
underground metal, and gothic cosmetic companies.
Then I found a promising site — Vampires A—Z. I waited impatiently for it to load,
quickly clicking closed each ad that flashed across the screen. Finally the screen was
finished — simple white background with black text, academic-looking. Two quotes
greeted me on the home page:
Throughout the vast shadowy world of ghosts and demons there is no figure so terrible,
no figure so dreaded and abhorred, yet dight with such fearful fascination, as the
vampire, who is himself neither ghost nor demon, but yet who partakes the dark natures
and possesses the mysterious and terrible qualities of both. —Rev. Montague Summers
If there is in this world a well-attested account, it is that of the vampires. Nothing is
lacking: official reports, affidavits of well-known people, of surgeons, of priests, of
magistrates; the judicial proof is most complete. And with all that, who is there who
believes in vampires? —Rousseau
The rest of the site was an alphabetized listing of all the different myths of vampires
held throughout the world. The first I clicked on, the Danag, was a Filipino vampire
supposedly responsible for planting taro on the islands long ago. The myth continued that
the Danag worked with humans for many years, but the partnership ended one day when
a woman cut her finger and a Danag sucked her wound, enjoying the taste so much that it
drained her body completely of blood.
I read carefully through the descriptions, looking for anything that sounded familiar, let
alone plausible. It seemed that most vampire myths centered around beautiful women as
demons and children as victims; they also seemed like constructs created to explain away
the high mortality rates for young children, and to give men an excuse for infidelity.
Many of the stories involved bodiless spirits and warnings against improper burials.
There wasn't much that sounded like the movies I'd seen, and only a very few, like the
Hebrew Estrie and the Polish Upier, who were even preoccupied with drinking blood.
Only three entries really caught my attention: the Romanian Varacolaci, a powerful
undead being who could appear as a beautiful, pale-skinned human, the Slovak Nelapsi, a
creature so strong and fast it could massacre an entire village in the single hour after
midnight, and one other, the Stregoni benefici.
About this last there was only one brief sentence.
Stregoni benefici: An Italian vampire, said to be on the side of goodness, and a mortal
enemy of all evil vampires.
It was a relief, that one small entry, the one myth among hundreds that claimed the
existence of good vampires.
Overall, though, there was little that coincided with Jacob's stories or my own
observations. I'd made a little catalogue in my mind as I'd read and carefully compared it
with each myth. Speed, strength, beauty, pale skin, eyes that shift color; and then Jacob's
criteria: blood drinkers, enemies of the werewolf, cold-skinned, and immortal. There
were very few myths that matched even one factor.
And then another problem, one that I'd remembered from the small number of scary
movies that I'd seen and was backed up by today's reading — vampires couldn't come out
in the daytime, the sun would burn them to a cinder. They slept in coffins all day and
came out only at night.
Aggravated, I snapped off the computer's main power switch, not waiting to shut things
down properly. Through my irritation, I felt overwhelming embarrassment. It was all so
stupid. I was sitting in my room, researching vampires. What was wrong with me? I
decided that most of the blame belonged on the doorstep of the town of Forks — and the
entire sodden Olympic Peninsula, for that matter.
I had to get out of the house, but there was nowhere I wanted to go that didn't involve a
three-day drive. I pulled on my boots anyway, unclear where I was headed, and went
downstairs. I shrugged into my raincoat without checking the weather and stomped out
the door.
It was overcast, but not raining yet. I ignored my truck and started east on foot, angling
across Charlie's yard toward the ever-encroaching forest. It didn't take long till I was deep
enough for the house and the road to be invisible, for the only sound to be the squish of
the damp earth under my feet and the sudden cries of the jays.
There was a thin ribbon of a trail that led through the forest here, or I wouldn't risk
wandering on my own like this. My sense of direction was hopeless; I could get lost in
much less helpful surroundings. The trail wound deeper and deeper into the forest, mostly
east as far as I could tell. It snaked around the Sitka spruces and the hemlocks, the yews
and the maples. I only vaguely knew the names of the trees around me, and all I knew
was due to Charlie pointing them out to me from the cruiser window in earlier days.
There were many I didn't know, and others I couldn't be sure about because they were so
covered in green parasites.
I followed the trail as long as my anger at myself pushed me forward. As that started to
ebb, I slowed. A few drops of moisture trickled down from the canopy above me, but I
couldn't be certain if it was beginning to rain or if it was simply pools left over from
yesterday, held high in the leaves above me, slowly dripping their way back to the earth.
A recently fallen tree — I knew it was recent because it wasn't entirely carpeted in moss
— rested against the trunk of one of her sisters, creating a sheltered little bench just a few
safe feet off the trail. I stepped over the ferns and sat carefully, making sure my jacket
was between the damp seat and my clothes wherever they touched, and leaned my
hooded head back against the living tree.
This was the wrong place to have come. I should have known, but where else was there
to go? The forest was deep green and far too much like the scene in last night's dream to
allow for peace of mind. Now that there was no longer the sound of my soggy footsteps,
the silence was piercing. The birds were quiet, too, the drops increasing in frequency, so
it must be raining above. The ferns stood higher than my head, now that I was seated, and
I knew someone could walk by on the path, three feet away, and not see me.
Here in the trees it was much easier to believe the absurdities that embarrassed me
indoors. Nothing had changed in this forest for thousands of years, and all the myths and
legends of a hundred different lands seemed much more likely in this green haze than
they had in my clear-cut bedroom.
I forced myself to focus on the two most vital questions I had to answer, but I did so
unwillingly.
First, I had to decide if it was possible that what Jacob had said about the Cullens could
be true.
Immediately my mind responded with a resounding negative. It was silly and morbid to
entertain such ridiculous notions. But what, then? I asked myself. There was no rational
explanation for how I was alive at this moment. I listed again in my head the things I'd
observed myself: the impossible speed and strength, the eye color shifting from black to
gold and back again, the inhuman beauty, the pale, frigid skin. And more — small things
that registered slowly — how they never seemed to eat, the disturbing grace with which
they moved. And the way be
sometimes spoke, with unfamiliar cadences and phrases that better fit the style of a
turn-of-the-century novel than that of a twenty-first-century classroom. He had skipped
class the day we'd done blood typing. He hadn't said no to the beach trip till he heard
where we were going. He seemed to know what everyone around him was thinking…
except me. He had told me he was the villain, dangerous…
Could the Cullens be vampires?
Well, they were something. Something outside the possibility of rational justification
was taking place in front of my incredulous eyes. Whether it be Jacob's cold ones or my
own superhero theory, Edward Cullen was not… human. He was something more.
So then — maybe. That would have to be my answer for now.
And then the most important question of all. What was I going to do if it was true?
If Edward was a vampire — I could hardly make myself think the words — then what
should I do? Involving someone else was definitely out. I couldn't even believe myself;
anyone I told would have me committed.
Only two options seemed practical. The first was to take his advice: to be smart, to
avoid him as much as possible. To cancel our plans, to go back to ignoring him as far as I
was able. To pretend there was an impenetrably thick glass wall between us in the one
class where we were forced together. To tell him to leave me alone — and mean it this
time.
I was gripped in a sudden agony of despair as I considered that alternative. My mind
rejected the pain, quickly skipping on to the next option.
I could do nothing different. After all, if he was something… sinister, he'd done nothing
to hurt me so far. In fact, I would be a dent in Tyler's fender if he hadn't acted so quickly.
So quickly, I argued with myself, that it might have been sheer reflexes. But if it was a
reflex to save lives, how bad could he be? I retorted. My head spun around in answerless
circles.
There was one thing I was sure of, if I was sure of anything. The dark Edward in my
dream last night was a reflection only of my fear of the word Jacob had spoken, and not
Edward himself. Even so, when I'd screamed out in terror at the werewolf's lunge, it
wasn't fear for the wolf that brought the cry of "no" to my lips. It was fear that he would
be harmed — even as he called to me with sharp-edged fangs, I feared for him.
And I knew in that I had my answer. I didn't know if there ever was a choice, really. I
was already in too deep. Now that I knew —if I knew — I could do nothing about my
frightening secret. Because when I thought of him, of his voice, his hypnotic eyes, the
magnetic force of his personality, I wanted nothing more than to be with him right now.
Even if… but I couldn't think it. Not here, alone in the darkening forest. Not while the
rain made it dim as twilight under the canopy and pattered like footsteps across the
matted earthen floor. I shivered and rose quickly from my place of concealment, worried
that somehow the path would have disappeared with the rain.
But it was there, safe and clear, winding its way out of the dripping green maze. I
followed it hastily, my hood pulled close around my face, becoming surprised, as I nearly
ran through the trees, at how far I had come. I started to wonder if I was heading out at
all, or following the path farther into the confines of the forest. Before I could get too
panicky, though, I began to glimpse some open spaces through the webbed branches. And
then I could hear a car passing on the street, and I was free, Charlie's lawn stretched out
in front of me, the house beckoning me, promising warmth and dry socks.
It was just noon when I got back inside. I went upstairs and got dressed for the day,
jeans and a t-shirt, since I was staying indoors. It didn't take too much effort to
concentrate on my task for the day, a paper on Macbeth that was due Wednesday. I settled
into outlining a rough draft contentedly, more serene than I'd felt since… well, since
Thursday afternoon, if I was being honest.
That had always been my way, though. Making decisions was the painful part for me,
the part I agonized over. But once the decision was made, I simply followed through —
usually with relief that the choice was made. Sometimes the relief was tainted by despair,
like my decision to come to Forks. But it was still better than wrestling with the
alternatives.
This decision was ridiculously easy to live with. Dangerously easy.
And so the day was quiet, productive — I finished my paper before eight. Charlie came
home with a large catch, and I made a mental note to pick up a book of recipes for fish
while I was in Seattle next week. The chills that flashed up my spine whenever I thought
of that trip were no different than the ones I'd felt before I'd taken my walk with Jacob
Black. They should be different, I thought. I should be afraid — I knew I should be, but I
couldn't feel the right kind of fear.
I slept dreamlessly that night, exhausted from beginning my day so early, and sleeping
so poorly the night before. I woke, for the second time since arriving in Forks, to the
bright yellow light of a sunny day. I skipped to the window, stunned to see that there was
hardly a cloud in the sky, and those there were just fleecy little white puffs that couldn't
possibly be carrying any rain. I opened the window — surprised when it opened silently,
without sticking, not having opened it in who knows how many years — and sucked in
the relatively dry air. It was nearly warm and hardly windy at all. My blood was electric
in my veins.
Charlie was finishing breakfast when I came downstairs, and he picked up on my mood
immediately.
"Nice day out," he commented.
"Yes," I agreed with a grin.
He smiled back, his brown eyes crinkling around the edges. When Charlie smiled, it
was easier to see why he and my mother had jumped too quickly into an early marriage.
Most of the young romantic he'd been in those days had faded before I'd known him, as
the curly brown hair — the same color, if not the same texture, as mine — had dwindled,
slowly revealing more and more of the shiny skin of his forehead. But when he smiled I
could see a little of the man who had run away with Renée when she was just two years
older than I was now.
I ate breakfast cheerily, watching the dust moats stirring in the sunlight that streamed in
the back window. Charlie called out a goodbye, and I heard the cruiser pull away from
the house. I hesitated on my way out the door, hand on my rain jacket. It would be
tempting fate to leave it home. With a sigh, I folded it over my arm and stepped out into
the brightest light I'd seen in months.
By dint of much elbow grease, I was able to get both windows in the truck almost
completely rolled down. I was one of the first ones to school; I hadn't even checked the
clock in my hurry to get outside. I parked and headed toward the seldom-used picnic
benches on the south side of the cafeteria. The benches were still a little damp, so I sat on
my jacket, glad to have a use for it. My homework was done — the product of a slow
social life — but there were a few Trig problems I wasn't sure I had right. I took out my
book industriously, but halfway through rechecking the first problem I was daydreaming,
watching the sunlight play on the red-barked trees. I sketched inattentively along the
margins of my homework. After a few minutes, I suddenly realized I'd drawn five pairs of
dark eyes staring out of the page at me. I scrubbed them out with the eraser.
"Bella!" I heard someone call, and it sounded like Mike.
I looked around to realize that the school had become populated while I'd been sitting
there, absentminded. Everyone was in t-shirts, some even in shorts though the
temperature couldn't be over sixty. Mike was coming toward me in khaki shorts and a
striped Rugby shirt, waving.
"Hey, Mike," I called, waving back, unable to be halfhearted on a morning like this.
He came to sit by me, the tidy spikes of his hair shining golden in the light, his grin
stretching across his face. He was so delighted to see me, I couldn't help but feel
gratified.
"I never noticed before — your hair has red in it," he commented, catching between his
fingers a strand that was fluttering in the light breeze.
"Only in the sun."
I became just a little uncomfortable as he tucked the lock behind my ear.
"Great day, isn't it?"
"My kind of day," I agreed.
"What did you do yesterday?" His tone was just a bit too proprietary.
"I mostly worked on my essay." I didn't add that I was finished with it — no need to
sound smug.
He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Oh yeah — that's due Thursday, right?"
"Um, Wednesday, I think."
"Wednesday?" He frowned. "That's not good… What are you writing yours on?"
"Whether Shakespeare's treatment of the female characters is misogynistic."
He stared at me like I'd just spoken in pig Latin.
"I guess I'll have to get to work on that tonight," he said, deflated. "I was going to ask if
you wanted to go out."
"Oh." I was taken off guard. Why couldn't I ever have a pleasant conversation with
Mike anymore without it getting awkward?
"Well, we could go to dinner or something… and I could work on it later." He smiled at
me hopefully.
"Mike…" I hated being put on the spot. "I don't think that would be the best idea."
His face fell. "Why?" he asked, his eyes guarded. My thoughts flickered to Edward,
wondering if that's where his thoughts were as well.
"I think… and if you ever repeat what I'm saying right now I will cheerfully beat you to
death," I threatened, "but I think that would hurt Jessica's feelings."
He was bewildered, obviously not thinking in that direction at all. "Jessica?"
"Really, Mike, are you blind ?"
"Oh," he exhaled — clearly dazed. I took advantage of that to make my escape.
"It's time for class, and I can't be late again." I gathered my books up and stuffed them
in my bag.
We walked in silence to building three, and his expression was distracted. I hoped
whatever thoughts he was immersed in were leading him in the right direction.
When I saw Jessica in Trig, she was bubbling with enthusiasm. She, Angela, and
Lauren were going to Port Angeles tonight to go dress shopping for the dance, and she
wanted me to come, too, even though I didn't need one. I was indecisive. It would be nice
to get out of town with some girlfriends, but Lauren would be there. And who knew what
I could be doing tonight… But that was definitely the wrong path to let my mind wander
down. Of course I was happy about the sunlight. But that wasn't completely responsible
for the euphoric mood I was in, not even close.
So I gave her a maybe, telling her I'd have to talk with Charlie first.
She talked of nothing but the dance on the way to Spanish, continuing as if without an
interruption when class finally ended, five minutes late, and we were on our way to
lunch. I was far too lost in my own frenzy of anticipation to notice much of what she said.
I was painfully eager to see not just him but all the Cullens — to compare them with the
new suspicions that plagued my mind. As I crossed the threshold of the cafeteria, I felt
the first true tingle of fear slither down my spine and settle in my stomach. Would they be
able to know what I was thinking? And then a different feeling jolted through me —
would Edward be waiting to sit with me again?
As was my routine, I glanced first toward the Cullens ' table. A shiver of panic trembled
in my stomach as I realized it was empty. With dwindling hope, my eyes scoured the rest
of the cafeteria, hoping to find him alone, waiting for me. The place was nearly filled —
Spanish had made us late — but there was no sign of Edward or any of his family.
Desolation hit me with crippling strength.
I shambled along behind Jessica, not bothering to pretend to listen anymore.
We were late enough that everyone was already at our table. I avoided the empty chair
next to Mike in favor of one by Angela. I vaguely noticed that Mike held the chair out
politely for Jessica, and that her face lit up in response.
Angela asked a few quiet questions about the Macbeth paper, which I answered as
naturally as I could while spiraling downward in misery. She, too, invited me to go with
them tonight, and I agreed now, grasping at anything to distract myself.
I realized I'd been holding on to a last shred of hope when I entered Biology, saw his
empty seat, and felt a new wave of disappointment.
The rest of the day passed slowly, dismally. In Gym, we had a lecture on the rules of
badminton, the next torture they had lined up for me. But at least it meant I got to sit and
listen instead of stumbling around on the court. The best part was the coach didn't finish,
so I got another day off tomorrow. Never mind that the day after they would arm me with
a racket before unleashing me on the rest of the class.
I was glad to leave campus, so I would be free to pout and mope before I went out
tonight with Jessica and company. But right after I walked in the door of Charlie's house,
Jessica called to cancel our plans. I tried to be happy that Mike had asked her out to
dinner — I really was relieved that he finally seemed to be catching on — but my
enthusiasm sounded false in my own ears. She rescheduled our shopping trip for
tomorrow night.
Which left me with little in the way of distractions. I had fish marinating for dinner,
with a salad and bread left over from the night before, so there was nothing to do there. I
spent a focused half hour on homework, but then I was through with that, too. I checked
my e-mail, reading the backlog of letters from my mother, getting snippier as they
progressed to the present. I sighed and typed a quick response.
Mom,
Sorry. I've been out. I went to the beach with some friends. And I had to write a paper.
My excuses were fairly pathetic, so I gave up on that.
It's sunny outside today - I know, I'm shocked, too - so I'm going to go outside and soak
up as much vitamin D as I can. I love you,
Bella.
I decided to kill an hour with non-school-related reading. I had a small collection of
books that came with me to Forks, the shabbiest volume being a compilation of the works
of Jane Austen. I selected that one and headed to the backyard, grabbing a ragged old
quilt from the linen cupboard at the top of the stairs on my way down.
Outside in Charlie's small, square yard, I folded the quilt in half and laid it out of the
reach of the trees' shadows on the thick lawn that would always be slightly wet, no matter
how long the sun shone. I lay on my stomach, crossing my ankles in the air, flipping
through the different novels in the book, trying to decide which would occupy my mind
the most thoroughly. My favorites were Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility.
I'd read the first most recently, so I started into Sense and Sensibility, only to remember
after I began three that the hero of the story happened to be named Edward. Angrily, I
turned to Mansfield Park, but the hero of that piece was named Edmund, and that was just
too close. Weren't there any other names available in the late eighteenth century? I
snapped the book shut, annoyed, and rolled over onto my back. I pushed my sleeves up as
high as they would go, and closed my eyes. I would think of nothing but the warmth on
my skin, I told myself severely. The breeze was still light, but it blew tendrils of my hair
around my face, and that tickled a bit. I pulled all my hair over my head, letting it fan out
on the quilt above me, and focused again on the heat that touched my eyelids, my
cheekbones, my nose, my lips, my forearms, my neck, soaked through my light shirt…
The next thing I was conscious of was the sound of Charlie's cruiser turning onto the
bricks of the driveway. I sat up in surprise, realizing the light was gone, behind the trees,
and I had fallen asleep. I looked around, muddled, with the sudden feeling that I wasn't
alone.
"Charlie?" I asked. But I could hear his door slamming in front of the house.
I jumped up, foolishly edgy, gathering the now-damp quilt and my book. I ran inside to
get some oil heating on the stove, realizing that dinner would be late. Charlie was
hanging up his gun belt and stepping out of his boots when I came in.
"Sorry, Dad, dinner's not ready yet — I fell asleep outside." I stifled a yawn.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I wanted to catch the score on the game, anyway."
I watched TV with Charlie after dinner, for something to do. There wasn't anything on I
wanted to watch, but he knew I didn't like baseball, so he turned it to some mindless
sitcom that neither of us enjoyed. He seemed happy, though, to be doing something
together. And it felt good, despite my depression, to make him happy.
"Dad," I said during a commercial, "Jessica and Angela are going to look at dresses for
the dance tomorrow night in Port Angeles, and they wanted me to help them choose… do
you mind if I go with them?"
"Jessica Stanley?" he asked.
"And Angela Weber." I sighed as I gave him the details.
He was confused. "But you're not going to the dance, right?"
"No, Dad, but I'm helping them find dresses — you know, giving them constructive
criticism." I wouldn't have to explain this to a woman.
"Well, okay." He seemed to realize that he was out of his depth with the girlie stuff. "It's
a school night, though."
"We'll leave right after school, so we can get back early. You'll be okay for dinner,
right?"
"Bells, I fed myself for seventeen years before you got here," he reminded me.
"I don't know how you survived," I muttered, then added more clearly, "I'll leave some
things for cold-cut sandwiches in the fridge, okay? Right on top."
It was sunny again in the morning. I awakened with renewed hope that I grimly tried to
suppress. I dressed for the warmer weather in a deep blue V-neck blouse — something I'd
worn in the dead of winter in Phoenix.
I had planned my arrival at school so that I barely had time to make it to class. With a
sinking heart, I circled the full lot looking for a space, while also searching for the silver
Volvo that was clearly not there. I parked in the last row and hurried to English, arriving
breathless, but subdued, before the final bell.
It was the same as yesterday — I just couldn't keep little sprouts of hope from budding
in my mind, only to have them squashed painfully as I searched the lunchroom in vain
and sat at my empty Biology table.
The Port Angeles scheme was back on again for tonight and made all the more
attractive by the fact that Lauren had other obligations. I was anxious to get out of town
so I could stop glancing over my shoulder, hoping to see him appearing out of the blue
the way he always did. I vowed to myself that I would be in a good mood tonight and not
ruin Angela's or Jessica's enjoyment in the dress hunting. Maybe I could do a little clothes
shopping as well. I refused to think that I might be shopping alone in Seattle this
weekend, no longer interested in the earlier arrangement. Surely he wouldn't cancel
without at least telling me.
After school, Jessica followed me home in her old white Mercury so that I could ditch
my books and truck. I brushed through my hair quickly when I was inside, feeling a slight
lift of excitement as I contemplated getting out of Forks. I left a note for Charlie on the
table, explaining again where to find dinner, switched my scruffy wallet from my school
bag to a purse I rarely used, and ran out to join Jessica. We went to Angela's house next,
and she was waiting for us. My excitement increased exponentially as we actually drove
out of the town limits.
8. Port Angeles
Jess drove faster than the Chief, so we made it to Port Angeles by four. It had been a
while since I'd had a girls' night out, and the estrogen rush was invigorating. We listened
to whiny rock songs while Jessica jabbered on about the boys we hung out with. Jessica's
dinner with Mike had gone very well, and she was hoping that by Saturday night they
would have progressed to the first-kiss stage. I smiled to myself, pleased. Angela was
passively happy to be going to the dance, but not really interested in Eric. Jess tried to get
her to confess who her type was, but I interrupted with a question about dresses after a
bit, to spare her. Angela threw a grateful glance my way.
Port Angeles was a beautiful little tourist trap, much more polished and quaint than
Forks. But Jessica and Angela knew it well, so they didn't plan to waste time on the
picturesque boardwalk by the bay. Jess drove straight to the one big department store in
town, which was a few streets in from the bay area's visitor-friendly face.
The dance was billed as semiformal, and we weren't exactly sure what that meant. Both
Jessica and Angela seemed surprised and almost disbelieving when I told them I'd never
been to a dance in Phoenix.
"Didn't you ever go with a boyfriend or something?" Jess asked dubiously as we
walked through the front doors of the store.
"Really," I tried to convince her, not wanting to confess my dancing problems. "I've
never had a boyfriend or anything close. I didn't go out much."
"Why not?" Jessica demanded.
"No one asked me," I answered honestly.
She looked skeptical. "People ask you out here," she reminded me, "and you tell them
no." We were in the juniors' section now, scanning the racks for dress-up clothes.
"Well, except for Tyler," Angela amended quietly.
"Excuse me?" I gasped. "What did you say?"
"Tyler told everyone he's taking you to prom," Jessica informed me with suspicious
eyes.
"He said what ?" I sounded like I was choking.
"I told you it wasn't true," Angela murmured to Jessica.
I was silent, still lost in shock that was quickly turning to irritation. But we had found
the dress racks, and now we had work to do.
"That's why Lauren doesn't like you," Jessica giggled while we pawed through the
clothes.
I ground my teeth. "Do you think that if I ran him over with my truck he would stop
feeling guilty about the accident? That he might give up on making amends and call it
even?"
"Maybe," Jess snickered. '"If that’s why he's doing this."
The dress selection wasn't large, but both of them found a few things to try on. I sat on
a low chair just inside the dressing room, by the three-way mirror, trying to control my
fuming.
Jess was torn between two — one a long, strapless, basic black number, the other a
knee-length electric blue with spaghetti straps. I encouraged her to go with the blue; why
not play up the eyes? Angela chose a pale pink dress that draped around her tall frame
nicely and brought out honey tints in her light brown hair. I complimented them both
generously and helped by returning the rejects to their racks. The whole process was
much shorter and easier than similar trips I'd taken with Renée at home. I guess there was
something to be said for limited choices.
We headed over to shoes and accessories. While they tried things on I merely watched
and critiqued, not in the mood to shop for myself, though I did need new shoes. The
girls'-night high was wearing off in the wake of my annoyance at Tyler, leaving room for
the gloom to move back in.
"Angela?" I began, hesitant, while she was trying on a pair of pinkstrappy heels — she
was overjoyed to have a date tall enough that she could wear high heels at all.
Jessica had drifted to the jewelry counter and we were alone.
"Yes?" She held her leg out, twisting her ankle to get a better view of the shoe.
I chickened out. "I like those."
"I think I'll get them — though they'll never match anything but the one dress," she
mused.
"Oh, go ahead — they're on sale," I encouraged. She smiled, putting the lid back on a
box that contained more practical-looking off-white shoes.
I tried again. "Um, Angela…" She looked up curiously.
"Is it normal for the…Cullens" — I kept my eyes on the shoes — "to be out of school a
lot?" I failed miserably in my attempt to sound nonchalant.
"Yes, when the weather is good they go backpacking all the time — even the doctor.
They're all real outdoorsy," she told me quietly, examining her shoes, too. She didn't ask
one question, let alone the hundreds that Jessica would have unleashed. I was beginning
to really like Angela.
"Oh." I let the subject drop as Jessica returned to show us the rhinestone jewelry she'd
found to match her silver shoes.
We planned to go to dinner at a little Italian restaurant on the boardwalk, but the dress
shopping hadn't taken as long as we'd expected. Jess and Angela were going to take their
clothes back to the car and then walk down to the bay. I told them I would meet them at
the restaurant in an hour — I wanted to look for a bookstore. They were both willing to
come with me, but I encouraged them to go have fun — they didn't know how
preoccupied I could get when surrounded by books; it was something I preferred to do
alone. They walked off to the car chattering happily, and I headed in the direction Jess
pointed out.
I had no trouble finding the bookstore, but it wasn't what I was looking for. The
windows were full of crystals, dream-catchers, and books about spiritual healing. I didn't
even go inside. Through the glass I could see a fifty-year-old woman with long, gray hair
worn straight down her back, clad in a dress right out of the sixties, smiling welcomingly
from behind the counter. I decided that was one conversation I could skip. There had to
be a normal bookstore in town.
I meandered through the streets, which were filling up with end-of-the-workday traffic,
and hoped I was headed toward downtown. I wasn't paying as much attention as I should
to where I was going; I was wrestling with despair. I was trying so hard not to think about
him, and what Angela had said… and more than anything trying to beat down my hopes
for Saturday, fearing a disappointment more painful than the rest, when I looked up to see
someone's silver Volvo parked along the street and it all came crashing down on me.
Stupid, unreliable vampire, I thought to myself.
I stomped along in a southerly direction, toward some glass-fronted shops that looked
promising. But when I got to them, they were just a repair shop and a vacant space. I still
had too much time to go looking for Jess and Angela yet, and I definitely needed to get
my mood in hand before I met back up with them. I ran my fingers through my hair a
couple of times and took some deep breaths before I continued around the corner.
I started to realize, as I crossed another road, that I was going the wrong direction. The
little foot traffic I had seen was going north, and it looked like the buildings here were
mostly warehouses. I decided to turn east at the next corner, and then loop around after a
few blocks and try my luck on a different street on my way back to the boardwalk.
A group of four men turned around the corner I was heading for, dressed too casually to
be heading home from the office, but they were too grimy to be tourists. As they
approached me, I realized they weren't too many years older than I was. They were
joking loudly among themselves, laughing raucously and punching each other's arms. I
scooted as far to the inside of the sidewalk as I could to give them room, walking swiftly,
looking past them to the corner.
"Hey, there!" one of them called as they passed, and he had to be talking to me since no
one else was around. I glanced up automatically. Two of them had paused, the other two
were slowing. The closest, a heavyset, dark-haired man in his early twenties, seemed to
be the one who had spoken. He was wearing a flannel shirt open over a dirty t-shirt, cutoff
jeans, and sandals. He took half a step toward me.
"Hello," I mumbled, a knee-jerk reaction. Then I quickly looked away and walked
faster toward the corner. I could hear them laughing at full volume behind me.
"Hey, wait!" one of them called after me again, but I kept my head down and rounded
the corner with a sigh of relief. I could still hear them chortling behind me.
I found myself on a sidewalk leading past the backs of several somber-colored
warehouses, each with large bay doors for unloading trucks, padlocked for the night. The
south side of the street had no sidewalk, only a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire
protecting some kind of engine parts storage yard. I'd wandered far past the part of Port
Angeles that I, as a guest, was intended to see. It was getting dark, I realized, the clouds
finally returning, piling up on the western horizon, creating an early sunset. The eastern
sky was still clear, but graying, shot through with streaks of pink and orange. I'd left my
jacket in the car, and a sudden shiver made me cross my arms tightly across my chest. A
single van passed me, and then the road was empty.
The sky suddenly darkened further, and, as I looked over my shoulder to glare at the
offending cloud, I realized with a shock that two men were walking quietly twenty feet
behind me.
They were from the same group I'd passed at the corner, though neither was the dark
one who'd spoken to me. I turned my head forward at once, quickening my pace. A chill
that had nothing to do with the weather made me shiver again. My purse was on a
shoulder strap and I had it slung across my body, the way you were supposed to wear it
so it wouldn't get snatched. I knew exactly where my pepper spray was — still in my
duffle bag under the bed, never unpacked. I didn't have much money with me, just a
twenty and some ones, and I thought about "accidentally" dropping my bag and walking
away. But a small, frightened voice in the back of my mind warned me that they might be
something worse than thieves.
I listened intently to their quiet footsteps, which were much too quiet when compared to
the boisterous noise they'd been making earlier, and it didn't sound like they were
speeding up, or getting any closer to me. Breathe, I had to remind myself. You don't know
they're following you. I continued to walk as quickly as I could without actually running,
focusing on the right-hand turn that was only a few yards away from me now. I could
hear them, staying as far back as they'd been before. A blue car turned onto the street
from the south and drove quickly past me. I thought of jumping out in front of it, but I
hesitated, inhibited, unsure that I was really being pursued, and then it was too late.
I reached the corner, but a swift glance revealed that it was only a blind drive to the
back of another building. I was half-turned in anticipation; I had to hurriedly correct and
dash across the narrow drive, back to the sidewalk. The street ended at the next corner,
where there was a stop sign. I concentrated on the faint footsteps behind me, deciding
whether or not to run. They sounded farther back, though, and I knew they could outrun
me in any case. I was sure to trip and go sprawling if I tried to go any faster. The footfalls
were definitely farther back. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder, and they were
maybe forty feet back now, I saw with relief. But they were both staring at me.
It seemed to take forever for me to get to the corner. I kept my pace steady, the men
behind me falling ever so slightly farther behind with every step. Maybe they realized
they had scared me and were sorry. I saw two cars going north pass the intersection I was
heading for, and I exhaled in relief. There would be more people around once I got off
this deserted street. I skipped around the corner with a grateful sigh.
And skidded to a stop.
The street was lined on both sides by blank, doorless, windowless walls. I could see in
the distance, two intersections down, streetlamps, cars, and more pedestrians, but they
were all too far away. Because lounging against the western building, midway down the
street, were the other two men from the group, both watching with excited smiles as I
froze dead on the sidewalk. I realized then that I wasn't being followed.
I was being herded.
I paused for only a second, but it felt like a very long time. I turned then and darted to
the other side of the road. I had a sinking feeling that it was a wasted attempt. The
footsteps behind me were louder now.
"There you are!" The booming voice of the stocky, dark-haired man shattered the
intense quiet and made me jump. In the gathering darkness, it seemed like he was looking
past me.
"Yeah," a voice called loudly from behind me, making me jump again as I tried to hurry
down the street. "We just took a little detour."
My steps had to slow now. I was closing the distance between myself and the lounging
pair too quickly. I had a good loud scream, and I sucked in air, preparing to use it, but my
throat was so dry I wasn't sure how much volume I could manage. With a quick
movement I slipped my purse over my head, gripping the strap with one hand, ready to
surrender it or use it as weapon as need demanded.
The thickset man shrugged away from the wall as I warily came to a stop, and walked
slowly into the street.
"Stay away from me," I warned in a voice that was supposed to sound strong and
fearless. But I was right about the dry throat — no volume.
"Don't be like that, sugar," he called, and the raucous laughter started again behind me.
I braced myself, feet apart, trying to remember through my panic what little selfdefense
I knew. Heel of the hand thrust upward, hopefully breaking the nose or shoving it
into the brain. Finger through the eye socket — try to hook around and pop the eye out.
And the standard knee to the groin, of course. That same pessimistic voice in my mind
spoke up then, reminding me that I probably wouldn't have a chance against one of them,
and there were four. Shut up! I commanded the voice before terror could incapacitate me.
I wasn't going out without taking someone with me. I tried to swallow so I could build up
a decent scream.
Headlights suddenly flew around the corner, the car almost hitting the stocky one,
forcing him to jump back toward the sidewalk. I dove into the road —this car was going
to stop, or have to hit me. But the silver car unexpectedly fishtailed around, skidding to a
stop with the passenger door open just a few feet from me.
"Get in," a furious voice commanded.
It was amazing how instantaneously the choking fear vanished, amazing how suddenly
the feeling of security washed over me — even before I was off the street — as soon as I
heard his voice. I jumped into the seat, slamming the door shut behind me.
It was dark in the car, no light had come on with the opening of the door, and I could
barely see his face in the glow from the dashboard. The tires squealed as he spun around
to face north, accelerating too quickly, swerving toward the stunned men on the street. I
caught a glimpse of them diving for the sidewalk as we straightened out and sped toward
the harbor.
"Put on your seat belt," he commanded, and I realized I was clutching the seat with both
hands. I quickly obeyed; the snap as the belt connected was loud in the darkness. He took
a sharp left, racing forward, blowing through several stop signs without a pause.
But I felt utterly safe and, for the moment, totally unconcerned about where we were
going. I stared at his face in profound relief, relief that went beyond my sudden
deliverance. I studied his flawless features in the limited light, waiting for my breath to
return to normal, until it occurred to me that his expression was murderously angry.
"Are you okay?" I asked, surprised at how hoarse my voice sounded.
"No," he said curtly, and his tone was livid.
I sat in silence, watching his face while his blazing eyes stared straight ahead, until the
car came to a sudden stop. I glanced around, but it was too dark to see anything beside
the vague outline of dark trees crowding the roadside. We weren't in town anymore.
"Bella?" he asked, his voice tight, controlled.
"Yes?" My voice was still rough. I tried to clear my throat quietly.
"Are you all right?" He still didn't look at me, but the fury was plain on his face.
"Yes," I croaked softly.
"Distract me, please," he ordered.
"I'm sorry, what?"
He exhaled sharply.
"Just prattle about something unimportant until I calm down," he clarified, closing his
eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
"Um." I wracked my brain for something trivial. "I'm going to run over Tyler Crowley
tomorrow before school?"
He was still squeezing his eyes closed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Why?"
"He's telling everyone that he's taking me to prom — either he's insane or he's still
trying to make up for almost killing me last… well, you remember it, and he think sprom
is somehow the correct way to do this. So I figure if I endanger his life, then we're even,
and he can't keep trying to make amends. I don't need enemies and maybe Lauren would
back off if he left me alone. I might have to total his Sentra, though. If he doesn't have a
ride he can't take anyone to prom…" I babbled on.
"I heard about that." He sounded a bit more composed.
"You did?" I asked in disbelief, my previous irritation flaring. "If he's paralyzed from
the neck down, he can't go to the prom, either," I muttered, refining my plan.
Edward sighed, and finally opened his eyes.
"Better?"
"Not really."
I waited, but he didn't speak again. He leaned his head back against the seat, staring at
the ceiling of the car. His face was rigid.
"What's wrong?" My voice came out in a whisper.
"Sometimes I have a problem with my temper, Bella." He was whispering, too, and as
he stared out the window, his eyes narrowed into slits. "But it wouldn't be helpful for me
to turn around and hunt down those…" He didn't finish his sentence, looking away,
struggling for a moment to control his anger again. "At least," he continued, "that's what
I'm trying to convince myself."
"Oh." The word seemed inadequate, but I couldn't think of a better response.
We sat in silence again. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was past six-thirty.
"Jessica and Angela will be worried," I murmured. "I was supposed to meet them."
He started the engine without another word, turning around smoothly and speeding
back toward town. We were under the streetlights in no time at all, still going too fast,
weaving with ease through the cars slowly cruising the boardwalk. He parallel-parked
against the curb in a space I would have thought much too small for the Volvo, but he slid
in effortlessly in one try. I looked out the window to see the lights of La Bella Italia, and
Jess and Angela just leaving, pacing anxiously away from us.
"How did you know where… ?"I began, but then I just shook my head. I heard the door
open and turned to see him getting out.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm taking you to dinner." He smiled slightly, but his eyes were hard. He stepped out of
the car and slammed the door. I fumbled with my seat belt, and then hurried to get out of
the car as well. He was waiting for me on the sidewalk.
He spoke before I could. "Go stop Jessica and Angela before I have to track them down,
too. I don't think I could restrain myself if I ran into your other friends again."
I shivered at the threat in his voice.
"Jess! Angela!" I yelled after them, waving when they turned. They rushed back to me,
the pronounced relief on both their faces simultaneously changing to surprise as they saw
who I was standing next to. They hesitated a few feet from us.
"Where have you been?" Jessica's voice was suspicious.
"I got lost," I admitted sheepishly. "And then I ran into Edward." I gestured toward him.
"Would it be all right if I joined you?" he asked in his silken, irresistible voice. I could
see from their staggered expressions that he had never unleashed his talents on them
before.
"Er… sure," Jessica breathed.
"Um, actually, Bella, we already ate while we were waiting — sorry," Angela
confessed.
"That's fine — I'm not hungry." I shrugged.
"I think you should eat something." Edward's voice was low, but full of authority. He
looked up at Jessica and spoke slightly louder. "Do you mind if I drive Bella home
tonight? That way you won't have to wait while she eats."
"Uh, no problem, I guess…" She bit her lip, trying to figure out from my expression
whether that was what I wanted. I winked at her. I wanted nothing more than to be alone
with my perpetual savior. There were so many questions that I couldn't bombard him with
till we were by ourselves.
"Okay." Angela was quicker than Jessica. "See you tomorrow, Bella… Edward." She
grabbed Jessica's hand and pulled her toward the car, which I could see a little ways
away, parked across First Street. As they got in, Jess turned and waved, her face eager
with curiosity. I waved back, waiting for them to drive away before I turned to face him.
"Honestly, I'm not hungry," I insisted, looking up to scrutinize his face. His expression
was unreadable.
"Humor me."
He walked to the door of the restaurant and held it open with an obstinate expression.
Obviously, there would be no further discussion. I walked past him into the restaurant
with a resigned sigh.
The restaurant wasn't crowded — it was the off-season in Port Angeles. The host was
female, and I understood the look in her eyes as she assessed Edward. She welcomed him
a little more warmly than necessary. I was surprised by how much that bothered me. She
was several inches taller than I was, and unnaturally blond.
"A table for two?" His voice was alluring, whether he was aiming for that or not. I saw
her eyes flicker to me and then away, satisfied by my obvious ordinariness, and by the
cautious, no-contact space Edward kept between us. She led us to a table big enough for
four in the center of the most crowded area of the dining floor.
I was about to sit, but Edward shook his head at me.
"Perhaps something more private?" he insisted quietly to the host. I wasn't sure, but it
looked like he smoothly handed her a tip. I'd never seen anyone refuse a table except in
old movies.
"Sure." She sounded as surprised as I was. She turned and led us around a partition to a
small ring of booths — all of them empty. "How's this?"
"Perfect." He flashed his gleaming smile, dazing her momentarily.
"Um" — she shook her head, blinking — "your server will be right out." She walked
away unsteadily.
"You really shouldn't do that to people," I criticized. "It's hardly fair."
"Do what?"
"Dazzle them like that — she's probably hyperventilating in the kitchen right now."
He seemed confused.
"Oh, come on," I said dubiously. "You have to know the effect you have on people."
He tilted his head to one side, and his eyes were curious. "I dazzle people?"
"You haven't noticed? Do you think everybody gets their way so easily?"
He ignored my questions. "Do I dazzle you ?"
"Frequently," I admitted.
And then our server arrived, her face expectant. The hostess had definitely dished
behind the scenes, and this new girl didn't look disappointed. She flipped a strand of short
black hair behind one ear and smiled with unnecessary warmth.
"Hello. My name is Amber, and I'll be your server tonight. What can I get you to
drink?" I didn't miss that she was speaking only to him.
He looked at me.
"I'll have a Coke." It sounded like a question.
"Two Cokes," he said.
"I'll be right back with that," she assured him with another unnecessary smile. But he
didn't see it. He was watching me.
"What?" I asked when she left.
His eyes stayed fixed on my face. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," I replied, surprised by his intensity.
"You don't feel dizzy, sick, cold… ?"
"Should I?"
He chuckled at my puzzled tone.
"Well, I'm actually waiting for you to go into shock." His face twisted up into that
perfect crooked smile.
"I don't think that will happen," I said after I could breathe again. "I've always been
very good at repressing unpleasant things."
"Just the same, I'll feel better when you have some sugar and food in you."
Right on cue, the waitress appeared with our drinks and a basket of breadsticks. She
stood with her back to me as she placed them on the table.
"Are you ready to order?" she asked Edward.
"Bella?" he asked. She turned unwillingly toward me.
I picked the first thing I saw on the menu. "Um… I'll have the mushroom ravioli."
"And you?" She turned back to him with a smile.
"Nothing for me," he said. Of course not.
"Let me know if you change your mind." The coy smile was still in place, but he wasn't
looking at her, and she left dissatisfied.
"Drink," he ordered.
I sipped at my soda obediently, and then drank more deeply, surprised by how thirsty I
was. I realized I had finished the whole thing when he pushed his glass toward me.
"Thanks," I muttered, still thirsty. The cold from the icy soda was radiating through my
chest, and I shivered.
"Are you cold?"
"It's just the Coke," I explained, shivering again.
"Don't you have a jacket?" His voice was disapproving.
"Yes." I looked at the empty bench next to me. "Oh — I left it in Jessica's car," I
realized.
Edward was shrugging out of his jacket. I suddenly realized that I had never once
noticed what he was wearing — not just tonight, but ever. I just couldn't seem to look
away from his face. I made myself look now, focusing. He was removing a light beige
leather jacket now; underneath he wore an ivory turtleneck sweater. It fit him snugly,
emphasizing how muscular his chest was.
He handed me the jacket, interrupting my ogling.
"Thanks," I said again, sliding my arms into his jacket. It was cold — the way my
jacket felt when I first picked it up in the morning, hanging in the drafty hallway. I
shivered again. It smelled amazing. I inhaled, trying to identify the delicious scent. It
didn't smell like cologne. The sleeves were much too long; I shoved them back so I could
free my hands.
"That color blue looks lovely with your skin," he said, watching me. I was surprised; I
looked down, flushing, of course.
He pushed the bread basket toward me.
"Really, I'm not going into shock," I protested.
"You should be — a normal person would be. You don't even look shaken." He seemed
unsettled. He stared into my eyes, and I saw how light his eyes were, lighter than I'd ever
seen them, golden butterscotch.
"I feel very safe with you," I confessed, mesmerized into telling the truth again.
That displeased him; his alabaster brow furrowed. He shook his head, frowning.
"This is more complicated than I'd planned," he murmured to himself.
I picked up a breadstick and began nibbling on the end, measuring his expression. I
wondered when it would be okay to start questioning him.
"Usually you're in a better mood when your eyes are so light," I commented, trying to
distract him from whatever thought had left him frowning and somber.
He stared at me, stunned. "What?"
"You're always crabbier when your eyes are black — I expect it then," I went on. "I
have a theory about that."
His eyes narrowed. "More theories?"
"Mm-hm." I chewed on a small bite of the bread, trying to look indifferent.
"I hope you were more creative this time… or are you still stealing from comic books?"
His faint smile was mocking; his eyes were still tight.
"Well, no, I didn't get it from a comic book, but I didn't come up with it on my own,
either," I confessed.
"And?" he prompted.
But then the waitress strode around the partition with my food. I realized we'd been
unconsciously leaning toward each other across the table, because we both straightened
up as she approached. She set the dish in front of me — it looked pretty good — and
turned quickly to Edward.
"Did you change your mind?" she asked. "Isn't there anything I can get you?" I may
have been imagining the double meaning in her words.
"No, thank you, but some more soda would be nice." He gestured with a long white
hand to the empty cups in front of me.
"Sure." She removed the empty glasses and walked away.
"You were saying?" he asked.
"I'll tell you about it in the car. If…" I paused.
"There are conditions?" He raised one eyebrow, his voice ominous.
"I do have a few questions, of course."
"Of course."
The waitress was back with two more Cokes. She sat them down without a word this
time, and left again.
I took a sip.
"Well, go ahead," he pushed, his voice still hard.
I started with the most undemanding. Or so I thought. "Why are you in Port Angeles ?"
He looked down, folding his large hands together slowly on the table. His eyes
flickered up at me from under his lashes, the hint of a smirk on his face.
"Next."
"But that's the easiest one," I objected.
"Next," he repeated.
I looked down, frustrated. I unrolled my silverware, picked up my fork, and carefully
speared a ravioli. I put it in my mouth slowly, still looking down, chewing while I
thought. The mushrooms were good. I swallowed and took another sip of Coke before I
looked up.
"Okay, then." I glared at him, and continued slowly. "Let's say, hypothetically of course,
that… someone… could know what people are thinking, read minds, you know — with a
few exceptions."
"Just one exception," he corrected, "hypothetically."
"All right, with one exception, then." I was thrilled that he was playing along, but I
tried to seem casual.
"How does that work? What are the limitations? How would… that someone… find
someone else at exactly the right time? How would he know she was in trouble?" I
wondered if my convoluted questions even made sense.
"Hypothetically?" he asked.
"Sure."
"Well, if… that someone…"
"Let's call him 'Joe,'" I suggested.
He smiled wryly. "Joe, then. If Joe had been paying attention, the timing wouldn't have
needed to be quite so exact." He shook his head, rolling his eyes. "Only you could get
into trouble in a town this small. You would have devastated their crime rate statistics for
a decade, you know."
"We were speaking of a hypothetical case," I reminded him frostily.
He laughed at me, his eyes warm.
"Yes, we were," he agreed. "Shall we call you 'Jane'?"
"How did you know?" I asked, unable to curb my intensity. I realized I was leaning
toward him again.
He seemed to be wavering, torn by some internal dilemma. His eyes locked with mine,
and I guessed he was making the decision right then whether or not to simply tell me the
truth.
"You can trust me, you know," I murmured. I reached forward, without thinking, to
touch his folded hands, but he slid them away minutely, and I pulled my hand back.
"I don't know if I have a choice anymore." His voice was almost a whisper. "I was
wrong — you're much more observant than I gave you credit for."
"I thought you were always right."
"I used to be." He shook his head again. "I was wrong about you on one other thing, as
well. You're not a magnet for accidents — that's not a broad enough classification. You
are a magnet for trouble. If there is anything dangerous within a ten-mile radius, it will
invariably find you."
"And you put yourself into that category?" I guessed.
His face turned cold, expressionless. "Unequivocally."
I stretched my hand across the table again — ignoring him when he pulled back slightly
once more — to touch the back of his hand shyly with my fingertips. His skin was cold
and hard, like a stone.
"Thank you." My voice was fervent with gratitude. "That's twice now."
His face softened. "Let's not try for three, agreed?"
I scowled, but nodded. He moved his hand out from under mine, placing both of his
under the table. But he leaned toward me.
"I followed you to Port Angeles," he admitted, speaking in a rush. "I've never tried to
keep a specific person alive before, and it's much more troublesome than I would have
believed. But that's probably just because it's you. Ordinary people seem to make it
through the day without so many catastrophes." He paused. I wondered if it should bother
me that he was following me; instead I felt a strange surge of pleasure. He stared, maybe
wondering why my lips were curving into an involuntary smile.
"Did you ever think that maybe my number was up the first time, with the van, and that
you've been interfering with fate?" I speculated, distracting myself.
"That wasn't the first time," he said, and his voice was hard to hear. I stared at him in
amazement, but he was looking down. "Your number was up the first time I met you."
I felt a spasm of fear at his words, and the abrupt memory of his violent black glare that
first day… but the overwhelming sense of safety I felt in his presence stifled it. By the
time he looked up to read my eyes, there was no trace of fear in them.
"You remember?" he asked, his angel's face grave.
"Yes." I was calm.
"And yet here you sit." There was a trace of disbelief in his voice; he raised one
eyebrow.
"Yes, here I sit… because of you." I paused. "Because somehow you knew how to find
me today… ?"I prompted.
He pressed his lips together, staring at me through narrowed eyes, deciding again. His
eyes flashed down to my full plate, and then back to me.
"You eat, I'll talk," he bargained.
I quickly scooped up another ravioli and popped it in my mouth.
"It's harder than it should be — keeping track of you. Usually I can find someone very
easily, once I've heard their mind before." He looked at me anxiously, and I realized I had
frozen. I made myself swallow, then stabbed another ravioli and tossed it in.
"I was keeping tabs on Jessica, not carefully — like I said, only you could find trouble
in Port Angeles — and at first I didn't notice when you took off on your own. Then, when
I realized that you weren't with her anymore, I went looking for you at the bookstore I
saw in her head. I could tell that you hadn't gone in, and that you'd gone south… and I
knew you would have to turn around soon. So I was just waiting for you, randomly
searching through the thoughts of people on the street — to see if anyone had noticed you
so I would know where you were. I had no reason to be worried… but I was strangely
anxious…" He was lost in thought, staring past me, seeing things I couldn't imagine.
"I started to drive in circles, still… listening. The sun was finally setting, and I was
about to get out and follow you on foot. And then —" He stopped, clenching his teeth
together in sudden fury. He made an effort to calm himself.
"Then what?" I whispered. He continued to stare over my head.
"I heard what they were thinking," he growled, his upper lip curling slightly back over
his teeth. "I saw your face in his mind." He suddenly leaned forward, one elbow
appearing on the table, his hand covering his eyes. The movement was so swift it startled
me.
"It was very… hard — you can't imagine how hard — for me to simply take you away,
and leave them… alive." His voice was muffled by his arm. "I could have let you go with
Jessica and Angela, but I was afraid if you left me alone, I would go looking for them,"
he admitted in a whisper.
I sat quietly, dazed, my thoughts incoherent. My hands were folded in my lap, and I
was leaning weakly against the back of the seat. He still had his face in his hand, and he
was as still as if he'd been carved from the stone his skin resembled.
Finally he looked up, his eyes seeking mine, full of his own questions.
"Are you ready to go home?" he asked.
"I'm ready to leave," I qualified, overly grateful that we had the hour-long ride home
together. I wasn't ready to say goodbye to him.
The waitress appeared as if she'd been called. Or watching.
"How are we doing?" she asked Edward.
"We're ready for the check, thank you." His voice was quiet, rougher, still reflecting the
strain of our conversation. It seemed to muddle her. He looked up, waiting.
"S-sure," she stuttered. "Here you go." She pulled a small leather folder from the front
pocket of her black apron and handed it to him.
There was a bill in his hand already. He slipped it into the folder and handed it right
back to her.
"No change." He smiled. Then he stood up, and I scrambled awkwardly to my feet.
She smiled invitingly at him again. "You have a nice evening."
He didn't look away from me as he thanked her. I suppressed a smile.
He walked close beside me to the door, still careful not to touch me. I remembered what
Jessica had said about her relationship with Mike, how they were almost to the first-kiss
stage. I sighed. Edward seemed to hear me, and he looked down curiously. I looked at the
sidewalk, grateful that he didn't seem to be able to know what I was thinking.
He opened the passenger door, holding it for me as I stepped in, shutting it softly
behind me. I watched him walk around the front of the car, amazed, yet again, by how
graceful he was. I probably should have been used to that by now — but I wasn't. I had a
feeling Edward wasn't the kind of person anyone got used to.
Once inside the car, he started the engine and turned the heater on high. It had gotten
very cold, and I guessed the good weather was at an end. I was warm in his jacket,
though, breathing in the scent of it when I thought he couldn't see.
Edward pulled out through the traffic, apparently without a glance, flipping around to
head toward the freeway.
"Now," he said significantly, "it's your turn."
9. Theory
"Can I ask just one more?" I pleaded as Edward accelerated much too quickly down the
quiet street. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to the road.
He sighed.
"One," he agreed. His lips pressed together into a cautious line.
"Well… you said you knew I hadn't gone into the bookstore, and that I had gone south.
I was just wondering how you knew that."
He looked away, deliberating.
"I thought we were past all the evasiveness," I grumbled.
He almost smiled.
"Fine, then. I followed your scent." He looked at the road, giving me time to compose
my face. I couldn't think of an acceptable response to that, but I filed it carefully away for
future study. I tried to refocus. I wasn't ready to let him be finished, now that he was
finally explaining things.
"And then you didn't answer one of my first questions…" I stalled.
He looked at me with disapproval. "Which one?"
"How does it work — the mind-reading thing? Can you read anybody's mind,
anywhere? How do you do it? Can the rest of your family… ?"I felt silly, asking for
clarification on make-believe.
"That's more than one," he pointed out. I simply intertwined my fingers and gazed at
him, waiting.
"No, it's just me. And I can't hear anyone, anywhere. I have to be fairly close. The more
familiar someone's… 'voice' is, the farther away I can hear them. But still, no more than a
few miles." He paused thoughtfully. "It's a little like being in a huge hall filled with
people, everyone talking at once. It's just a hum — a buzzing of voices in the
background. Until I focus on one voice, and then what they're thinking is clear.
"Most of the time I tune it all out — it can be very distracting. And then it's easier to
seem normal" — he frowned as he said the word — "when I'm not accidentally
answering someone's thoughts rather than their words."
"Why do you think you can't hear me?" I asked curiously.
He looked at me, his eyes enigmatic.
"I don't know," he murmured. "The only guess I have is that maybe your mind doesn't
work the same way the rest of theirs do. Like your thoughts are on the AM frequency and
I'm only getting FM." He grinned at me, suddenly amused.
"My mind doesn't work right? I'm a freak?" The words bothered me more than they
should — probably because his speculation hit home. I'd always suspected as much, and
it embarrassed me to have it confirmed.
"I hear voices in my mind and you're worried that you're the freak," he laughed. "Don't
worry, it's just a theory…" His face tightened. "Which brings us back to you."
I sighed. How to begin?
"Aren't we past all the evasions now?" he reminded me softly.
I looked away from his face for the first time, trying to find words. I happened to notice
the speedometer.
"Holy crow!" I shouted. "Slow down!"
"What's wrong?" He was startled. But the car didn't decelerate.
"You're going a hundred miles an hour!" I was still shouting. I shot a panicky glance
out the window, but it was too dark to see much. The road was only visible in the long
patch of bluish brightness from the headlights. The forest along both sides of the road
was like a black wall — as hard as a wall of steel if we veered off the road at this speed.
"Relax, Bella." He rolled his eyes, still not slowing.
"Are you trying to kill us?" I demanded.
"We're not going to crash."
I tried to modulate my voice. "Why are you in such a hurry?"
"I always drive like this." He turned to smile crookedly at me.
"Keep your eyes on the road!"
"I've never been in an accident, Bella — I've never even gotten a ticket." He grinned
and tapped his forehead. "Built-in radar detector."
"Very funny." I fumed. "Charlie's a cop, remember? I was raised to abide by traffic
laws. Besides, if you turn us into a Volvo pretzel around a tree trunk, you can probably
just walk away."
"Probably," he agreed with a short, hard laugh. "But you can't." He sighed, and I
watched with relief as the needle gradually drifted toward eighty. "Happy?"
"Almost."
"I hate driving slow," he muttered.
"This is slow?"
"Enough commentary on my driving," he snapped. "I'm still waiting for your latest
theory."
I bit my lip. He looked down at me, his honey eyes unexpectedly gentle.
"I won't laugh," he promised.
"I'm more afraid that you'll be angry with me."
"Is it that bad?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
He waited. I was looking down at my hands, so I couldn't see his expression.
"Go ahead." His voice was calm.
"I don't know how to start," I admitted.
"Why don't you start at the beginning… you said you didn't come up with this on your
own."
"No."
"What got you started — a book? A movie?" he probed.
"No — it was Saturday, at the beach." I risked a glance up at his face. He looked
puzzled.
"I ran into an old family friend —Jacob Black," I continued. "His dad and Charlie have
been friends since I was a baby."
He still looked confused.
"His dad is one of the Quileute elders." I watched him carefully. His confused
expression froze in place. "We went for a walk —" I edited all my scheming out of the
story "— and he was telling me some old legends — trying to scare me, I think. He told
me one…" I hesitated.
"Go on," he said.
"About vampires." I realized I was whispering. I couldn't look at his face now. But I
saw his knuckles tighten convulsively on the wheel.
"And you immediately thought of me?" Still calm.
"No. He… mentioned your family."
He was silent, staring at the road.
I was worried suddenly, worried about protecting Jacob.
"He just thought it was a silly superstition," I said quickly. "He didn't expect me to
think anything of it." It didn't seem like enough; I had to confess. "It was my fault, I
forced him to tell me."
"Why?"
"Lauren said something about you — she was trying to provoke me. And an older boy
from the tribe said your family didn't come to the reservation, only it sounded like he
meant something different. So I got Jacob alone and I tricked it out of him," I admitted,
hanging my head.
He startled me by laughing. I glared up at him. He was laughing, but his eyes were
fierce, staring ahead.
"Tricked him how?" he asked.
"I tried to flirt — it worked better than I thought it would." Disbelief colored my tone
as I remembered.
"I'd like to have seen that." He chuckled darkly. "And you accused me of dazzling
people — poor Jacob Black."
I blushed and looked out my window into the night.
"What did you do then?" he asked after a minute.
"I did some research on the Internet."
"And did that convince you?" His voice sounded barely interested. But his hands were
clamped hard onto the steering wheel.
"No. Nothing fit. Most of it was kind of silly. And then…" I stopped.
"What?"
"I decided it didn't matter," I whispered.
"It didn't matter ?" His tone made me look up — I had finally broken through his
carefully composed mask. His face was incredulous, with just a hint of the anger I'd
feared.
"No," I said softly. "It doesn't matter to me what you are."
A hard, mocking edge entered his voice. "You don't care if I'm a monster? If I'm not
human !"
"No."
He was silent, staring straight ahead again. His face was bleak and cold.
"You're angry," I sighed. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"No," he said, but his tone was as hard as his face. "I'd rather know what you're
thinking — even if what you're thinking is insane."
"So I'm wrong again?" I challenged.
"That's not what I was referring to. 'It doesn't matter'!" he quoted, gritting his teeth
together.
"I'm right?" I gasped.
"Does it matter ?"
I took a deep breath.
"Not really." I paused. "But I am curious." My voice, at least, was composed.
He was suddenly resigned. "What are you curious about?"
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen," he answered promptly.
"And how long have you been seventeen?"
His lips twitched as he stared at the road. "A while," he admitted at last.
"Okay." I smiled, pleased that he was still being honest with me. He stared down at me
with watchful eyes, much as he had before, when he was worried I would go into shock. I
smiled wider in encouragement, and he frowned.
"Don't laugh — but how can you come out during the daytime?"
He laughed anyway. "Myth."
"Burned by the sun?"
"Myth."
"Sleeping in coffins?"
"Myth." He hesitated for a moment, and a peculiar tone entered his voice. "I can't
sleep."
It took me a minute to absorb that. "At all?"
"Never," he said, his voice nearly inaudible. He turned to look at me with a wistful
expression. The golden eyes held mine, and I lost my train of thought. I stared at him
until he looked away.
"You haven't asked me the most important question yet." His voice was hard now, and
when he looked at me again his eyes were cold.
I blinked, still dazed. "Which one is that?"
"You aren't concerned about my diet?" he asked sarcastically.
"Oh," I murmured, "that."
"Yes, that." His voice was bleak. "Don't you want to know if I drink blood?"
I flinched. "Well, Jacob said something about that."
"What did Jacob say?" he asked flatly.
"He said you didn't… hunt people. He said your family wasn't supposed to be
dangerous because you only hunted animals."
"He said we weren't dangerous?" His voice was deeply skeptical.
"Not exactly. He said you weren’t supposed to be dangerous. But the Quileutes still
didn't want you on their land, just in case."
He looked forward, but I couldn't tell if he was watching the road or not.
"So was he right? About not hunting people?" I tried to keep my voice as even as
possible.
"The Quileutes have a long memory," he whispered.
I took it as a confirmation.
"Don't let that make you complacent, though," he warned me. "They're right to keep
their distance from us. We are still dangerous."
"I don't understand."
"We try," he explained slowly. "We're usually very good at what we do. Sometimes we
make mistakes. Me, for example, allowing myself to be alone with you."
"This is a mistake?" I heard the sadness in my voice, but I didn't know if he could as
well.
"A very dangerous one," he murmured.
We were both silent then. I watched the headlights twist with the curves of the road.
They moved too fast; it didn't look real, it looked like a video game. I was aware of the
time slipping away so quickly, like the black road beneath us, and I was hideously afraid
that I would never have another chance to be with him like this again — openly, the walls
between us gone for once. His words hinted at an end, and I recoiled from the idea. I
couldn't waste one minute I had with him.
"Tell me more," I asked desperately, not caring what he said, just so I could hear his
voice again.
He looked at me quickly, startled by the change in my tone. "What more do you want to
know?"
"Tell me why you hunt animals instead of people," I suggested, my voice still tinged
with desperation. I realized my eyes were wet, and I fought against the grief that was
trying to overpower me.
"I don’t want to be a monster." His voice was very low.
"But animals aren't enough?"
He paused. "I can't be sure, of course, but I'd compare it to living on tofu and soy milk;
we call ourselves vegetarians, our little inside joke. It doesn't completely satiate the
hunger — or rather thirst. But it keens us strong enough to resist. Most of the time." His
tone turned ominous. "Sometimes it's more difficult than others."
"Is it very difficult for you now?" I asked.
He sighed. "Yes."
"But you're not hungry now," I said confidently — stating, not asking.
"Why do you think that?"
"Your eyes. I told you I had a theory. I've noticed that people — men in particular —
are crabbier when they're hungry."
He chuckled. "You are observant, aren't you?"
I didn't answer; I just listened to the sound of his laugh, committing it to memory.
"Were you hunting this weekend, with Emmett?" I asked when it was quiet again.
"Yes." He paused for a second, as if deciding whether or not to say something. "I didn't
want to leave, but it was necessary. It's a bit easier to be around you when I'm not thirsty."
"Why didn't you want to leave?"
"It makes me… anxious… to be away from you." His eyes were gentle but intense, and
they seemed to be making my bones turn soft. "I wasn't joking when I asked you to try
not to fall in the ocean or get run over last Thursday. I was distracted all weekend,
worrying about you. And after what happened tonight, I'm surprised that you did make it
through a whole weekend unscathed." He shook his head, and then seemed to remember
something. "Well, not totally unscathed."
"What?"
"Your hands," he reminded me. I looked down at my palms, at the almost-healed
scrapes across the heels of my hands. His eyes missed nothing.
"I fell," I sighed.
"That's what I thought." His lips curved up at the corners. "I suppose, being you, it
could have been much worse — and that possibility tormented me the entire time I was
away. It was a very long three days. I really got on Emmett's nerves." He smiled ruefully
at me.
"Three days? Didn't you just get back today?"
"No, we got back Sunday."
"Then why weren't any of you in school?" I was frustrated, almost angry as I thought of
how much disappointment I had suffered because of his absence.
"Well, you asked if the sun hurt me, and it doesn't. But I can't go out in the sunlight —
at least, not where anyone can see."
"Why?"
"I'll show you sometime," he promised.
I thought about it for a moment.
"You might have called me," I decided.
He was puzzled. "But I knew you were safe."
"But I didn't know where you were. I —" I hesitated, dropping my eyes.
"What?" His velvety voice was compelling.
"I didn't like it. Not seeing you. It makes me anxious, too." I blushed to be saying this
out loud.
He was quiet. I glanced up, apprehensive, and saw that his expression was pained.
"Ah," he groaned quietly. "This is wrong."
I couldn't understand his response. "What did I say?"
"Don't you see, Bella? It's one thing for me to make myself miserable, but a wholly
other thing for you to be so involved." He turned his anguished eyes to the road, his
words flowing almost too fast for me to understand. "I don't want to hear that you feel
that way." His voice was low but urgent. His words cut me. "It's wrong. It's not safe. I'm
dangerous, Bella — please, grasp that."
"No." I tried very hard not to look like a sulky child.
"I'm serious," he growled.
"So am I. I told you, it doesn't matter what you are. It's too late."
His voice whipped out, low and harsh. "Never say that."
I bit my lip and was glad he couldn't know how much that hurt. I stared out at the road.
We must be close now. He was driving much too fast.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, his voice still raw. I just shook my head, not sure if
I could speak. I could feel his gaze on my face, but I kept my eyes forward.
"Are you crying?" He sounded appalled. I hadn't realized the moisture in my eyes had
brimmed over. I quickly rubbed my hand across my cheek, and sure enough, traitor tears
were there, betraying me.
"No," I said, but my voice cracked.
I saw him reach toward me hesitantly with his right hand, but then he stopped and
placed it slowly back on the steering wheel.
"I'm sorry." His voice burned with regret. I knew he wasn't just apologizing for the
words that had upset me.
The darkness slipped by us in silence.
"Tell me something," he asked after another minute, and I could hear him struggle to
use a lighter tone.
"Yes?"
"What were you thinking tonight, just before I came around the corner? I couldn't
understand your expression — you didn't look that scared, you looked like you were
concentrating very hard on something."
"I was trying to remember how to incapacitate an attacker — you know, self-defense. I
was going to smash his nose into his brain." I thought of the dark-haired man with a surge
of hate.
"You were going to fight them?" This upset him. "Didn't you think about running?"
"I fall down a lot when I run," I admitted.
"What about screaming for help?"
"I was getting to that part."
He shook his head. "You were right — I'm definitely fighting fate trying to keep you
alive."
I sighed. We were slowing, passing into the boundaries of Forks. It had taken less than
twenty minutes.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" I demanded.
"Yes — I have a paper due, too." He smiled. "I'll save you a seat at lunch."
It was silly, after everything we'd been through tonight, how that little promise sent
flutters through my stomach, and made me unable to speak.
We were in front of Charlie's house. The lights were on, my truck in its place,
everything utterly normal. It was like waking from a dream. He stopped the car, but I
didn't move.
"Do you promise to be there tomorrow?"
"I promise."
I considered that for a moment, then nodded. I pulled his jacket off, taking one last
whiff.
"You can keep it — you don't have a jacket for tomorrow," he reminded me.
I handed it back to him. "I don't want to have to explain to Charlie."
"Oh, right." He grinned.
I hesitated, my hand on the door handle, trying to prolong the moment.
"Bella?" he asked in a different tone — serious, but hesitant.
"Yes?" I turned back to him too eagerly.
"Will you promise me something?"
"Yes," I said, and instantly regretted my unconditional agreement. What if he asked me
to stay away from him? I couldn't keep that promise.
"Don't go into the woods alone."
I stared at him in blank confusion. "Why?"
He frowned, and his eyes were tight as he stared past me out the window.
"I'm not always the most dangerous thing out there. Let's leave it at that."
I shuddered slightly at the sudden bleakness in his voice, but I was relieved. This, at
least, was an easy promise to honor. "Whatever you say."
"I'll see you tomorrow," he sighed, and I knew he wanted me to leave now.
"Tomorrow, then." I opened the door unwillingly.
"Bella?" I turned and he was leaning toward me, his pale, glorious face just inches from
mine. My heart stopped beating.
"Sleep well," he said. His breath blew in my face, stunning me. It was the same
exquisite scent that clung to his jacket, but in a more concentrated form. I blinked,
thoroughly dazed. He leaned away.
I was unable to move until my brain had somewhat unscrambled itself. Then I stepped
out of the car awkwardly, having to use the frame for support. I thought I heard him
chuckle, but the sound was too quiet for me to be certain.
He waited till I had stumbled to the front door, and then I heard his engine quietly rev. I
turned to watch the silver car disappear around the corner. I realized it was very cold.
I reached for the key mechanically, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Charlie called from the living room. "Bella?"
"Yeah, Dad, it's me." I walked in to see him. He was watching a baseball game.
"You're home early."
"Am I?" I was surprised.
"It's not even eight yet," he told me. "Did you girls have fun?"
"Yeah — it was lots of fun." My head was spinning as I tried to remember all the way
back to the girls' night out I had planned. "They both found dresses."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm just tired. I did a lot of walking."
"Well, maybe you should go lie down." He sounded concerned. I wondered what my
face looked like.
"I'm just going to call Jessica first."
"Weren't you just with her?" he asked, surprised.
"Yes — but I left my jacket in her car. I want to make sure she brings it tomorrow."
"Well, give her a chance to get home first."
"Right," I agreed.
I went to the kitchen and fell, exhausted, into a chair. I was really feeling dizzy now. I
wondered if I was going to go into shock after all. Get a grip, I told myself.
The phone rang suddenly, startling me. I yanked it off the hook.
"Hello?" I asked breathlessly.
"Bella?"
"Hey, Jess, I was just going to call you."
"You made it home?" Her voice was relieved… and surprised.
"Yes. I left my jacket in your car — could you bring it to me tomorrow?"
"Sure. But tell me what happened!" she demanded.
"Um, tomorrow — in Trig, okay?"
She caught on quickly. "Oh, is your dad there?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow, then. Bye!" I could hear the impatience in her voice.
"Bye, Jess."
I walked up the stairs slowly, a heavy stupor clouding my mind. I went through the
motions of getting ready for bed without paying any attention to what I was doing. It
wasn't until I was in the shower — the water too hot, burning my skin — that I realized I
was freezing. I shuddered violently for several minutes before the steaming spray could
finally relax my rigid muscles. Then I stood in the shower, too tired to move, until the hot
water began to run out.
I stumbled out, wrapping myself securely in a towel, trying to hold the heat from the
water in so the aching shivers wouldn't return. I dressed for bed swiftly and climbed
under my quilt, curling into a ball, hugging myself to keep warm. A few small shudders
trembled through me.
My mind still swirled dizzily, full of images I couldn't understand, and some I fought to
repress. Nothing seemed clear at first, but as I fell gradually closer to unconsciousness, a
few certainties became evident.
About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second,
there was part of him — and I didn't know how potent that part might be — that thirsted
for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.
10. Interrogations
It was very hard, in the morning, to argue with the part of me that was sure last night
was a dream. Logic wasn't on my side, or common sense. I clung to the parts I couldn't
have imagined — like his smell. I was sure I could never have dreamed that up on my
own.
It was foggy and dark outside my window, absolutely perfect. He had no reason not to
be in school today. I dressed in my heavy clothes, remembering I didn't have a jacket.
Further proof that my memory was real.
When I got downstairs, Charlie was gone again — I was running later than I'd realized.
I swallowed a granola bar in three bites, chased it down with milk straight from the
carton, and then hurried out the door. Hopefully the rain would hold off until I could find
Jessica.
It was unusually foggy; the air was almost smoky with it. The mist was ice cold where
it clung to the exposed skin on my face and neck. I couldn't wait to get the heat going in
my truck. It was such a thick fog that I was a few feet down the driveway before I
realized there was a car in it: a silver car. My heart thudded, stuttered, and then picked up
again in double time.
I didn't see where he came from, but suddenly he was there, pulling the door open for
me.
"Do you want to ride with me today?" he asked, amused by my expression as he caught
me by surprise yet again. There was uncertainty in his voice. He was really giving me a
choice — I was free to refuse, and part of him hoped for that. It was a vain hope.
"Yes, thank you," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. As I stepped into the warm car, I
noticed his tan jacket was slung over the headrest of the passenger seat. The door closed
behind me, and, sooner than should be possible, he was sitting next to me, starting the
car.
"I brought the jacket for you. I didn't want you to get sick or something." His voice was
guarded. I noticed that he wore no jacket himself, just a light gray knit V-neck shirt with
long sleeves. Again, the fabric clung to his perfectly muscled chest. It was a colossal
tribute to his face that it kept my eyes away from his body.
"I'm not quite that delicate," I said, but I pulled the jacket onto my lap, pushing my
arms through the too-long sleeves, curious to see if the scent could possibly be as good as
I remembered. It was better.
"Aren't you?" he contradicted in a voice so low I wasn't sure if he meant for me to hear.
We drove through the fog-shrouded streets, always too fast, feeling awkward. I was, at
least. Last night all the walls were down… almost all. I didn't know if we were still being
as candid today. It left me tongue-tied. I waited for him to speak.
He turned to smirk at me. "What, no twenty questions today?"
"Do my questions bother you?" I asked, relieved.
"Not as much as your reactions do." He looked like he was joking, but I couldn't be
sure.
I frowned. "Do I react badly?"
"No, that's the problem. You take everything so coolly — it's unnatural. It makes me
wonder what you're really thinking."
"I always tell you what I'm really thinking."
"You edit," he accused.
"Not very much."
"Enough to drive me insane."
"You don't want to hear it," I mumbled, almost whispered. As soon as the words were
out, I regretted them. The pain in my voice was very faint; I could only hope he hadn't
noticed it.
He didn't respond, and I wondered if I had ruined the mood. His face was unreadable as
we drove into the school parking lot. Something occurred to me belatedly.
"Where's the rest of your family?" I asked — more than glad to be alone with him, but
remembering that his car was usually full.
"They took Rosalie's car." He shrugged as he parked next to a glossy red convertible
with the top up. "Ostentatious, isn't it?"
"Um, wow," I breathed. "If she has that, why does she ride with you?"
"Like I said, it's ostentatious. We try to blend in."
"You don't succeed." I laughed and shook my head as we got out of the car. I wasn't late
anymore; his lunatic driving had gotten me to school in plenty of time. "So why did
Rosalie drive today if it's more conspicuous?"
"Hadn't you noticed? I'm breaking all the rules now." He met me at the front of the car,
staying very close to my side as we walked onto campus. I wanted to close that little
distance, to reach out and touch him, but I was afraid he wouldn't like me to.
"Why do you have cars like that at all?" I wondered aloud. "If you're looking for
privacy?"
"An indulgence," he admitted with an impish smile. "We all like to drive fast."
"Figures," I muttered under my breath.
Under the shelter of the cafeteria roof's overhang, Jessica was waiting, her eyes about to
bug out of their sockets. Over her arm, bless her, was my jacket.
"Hey, Jessica," I said when we were a few feet away. "Thanks for remembering." She
handed me my jacket without speaking.
"Good morning, Jessica," Edward said politely. It wasn't really his fault that his voice
was so irresistible. Or what his eyes were capable of.
"Er… hi." She shifted her wide eyes to me, trying to gather her jumbled thoughts. "I
guess I'll see you in Trig." She gave me a meaningful look, and I suppressed a sigh. What
on earth was I going to tell her?
"Yeah, I'll see you then."
She walked away, pausing twice to peek back over her shoulder at us.
"What are you going to tell her?" Edward murmured.
"Hey, I thought you couldn't read my mind!" I hissed.
"I can't," he said, startled. Then understanding brightened his eyes. "However, I can
read hers — she'll be waiting to ambush you in class."
I groaned as I pulled off his jacket and handed it to him, replacing it with my own. He
folded it over his arm.
"So what are you going to tell her?"
"A little help?" I pleaded. "What does she want to know?"
He shook his head, grinning wickedly. "That's not fair."
"No, you not sharing what you know — now that’s not fair."
He deliberated for a moment as we walked. We stopped outside the door to my first
class.
"She wants to know if we're secretly dating. And she wants to know how you feel about
me," he finally said.
"Yikes. What should I say?" I tried to keep my expression very innocent. People were
passing us on their way to class, probably staring, but I was barely aware of them.
"Hmmm." He paused to catch a stray lock of hair that was escaping the twist on my
neck and wound it back into place. My heart spluttered hyperactively. "I suppose you
could say yes to the first… if you don't mind — it's easier than any other explanation."
"I don't mind," I said in a faint voice.
"And as for her other question… well, I'll be listening to hear the answer to that one
myself." One side of his mouth pulled up into my favorite uneven smile. I couldn't catch
my breath soon enough to respond to that remark. He turned and walked away.
"I'll see you at lunch," he called over his shoulder. Three people walking in the door
stopped to stare at me.
I hurried into class, flushed and irritated. He was such a cheater. Now I was even more
worried about what I was going to say to Jessica. I sat in my usual seat, slamming my bag
down in aggravation.
"Morning, Bella," Mike said from the seat next to me. I looked up to see an odd, almost
resigned look on his face. "How was Port Angeles ?"
"It was…" There was no honest way to sum it up. "Great," I finished lamely. "Jessica
got a really cute dress."
"Did she say anything about Monday night?" he asked, his eyes brightening. I smiled at
the turn the conversation had taken.
"She said she had a really good time," I assured him.
"She did?" he said eagerly.
"Most definitely."
Mr. Mason called the class to order then, asking us to turn in our papers. English and
then Government passed in a blur, while I worried about how to explain things to Jessica
and agonized over whether Edward would really be listening to what I said through the
medium of Jess's thoughts. How very inconvenient his little talent could be — when it
wasn't saving my life.
The fog had almost dissolved by the end of the second hour, but the day was still dark
with low, oppressing clouds. I smiled up at the sky.
Edward was right, of course. When I walked into Trig Jessica was sitting in the back
row, nearly bouncing off her seat in agitation. I reluctantly went to sit by her, trying to
convince myself it would be better to get it over with as soon as possible.
"Tell me everything!" she commanded before I was in the seat.
"What do you want to know?" I hedged.
"What happened last night?"
"He bought me dinner, and then he drove me home."
She glared at me, her expression stiff with skepticism. "How did you get home so fast?"
"He drives like a maniac. It was terrifying." I hoped he heard that.
"Was it like a date — did you tell him to meet you there?"
I hadn't thought of that. "No — I was very surprised to see him there."
Her lips puckered in disappointment at the transparent honesty in my voice.
"But he picked you up for school today?" she probed.
"Yes — that was a surprise, too. He noticed I didn't have a jacket last night," I
explained.
"So are you going out again?"
"He offered to drive me to Seattle Saturday because he thinks toy truck isn't up to it —
does that count?"
"Yes." She nodded.
"Well, then, yes."
"W-o-w." She exaggerated the word into three syllables. "Edward Cullen."
"I know," I agreed. "Wow" didn't even cover it.
"Wait!" Her hands flew up, palms toward me like she was stopping traffic. "Has he
kissed you?"
"No," I mumbled. "It's not like that."
She looked disappointed. I'm sure I did, too.
"Do you think Saturday… ?"She raised her eyebrows.
"I really doubt it." The discontent in my voice was poorly disguised.
"What did you talk about?" She pushed for more information in a whisper. Class had
started but Mr. Varner wasn't paying close attention and we weren't the only ones still
talking.
"I don't know, Jess, lots of stuff," I whispered back. "We talked about the English essay
a little." A very, very little. I think he mentioned it in passing.
"Please, Bella," she begged. "Give me some details."
"Well… okay, I've got one. You should have seen the waitress flirting with him — it
was over the top. But he didn't pay any attention to her at all." Let him make what he
could of that.
"That's a good sign," she nodded. "Was she pretty?"
"Very — and probably nineteen or twenty."
"Even better. He must like you."
"I think so, but it's hard to tell. He's always so cryptic," I threw in for his benefit,
sighing.
"I don't know how you're brave enough to be alone with him," she breathed.
"Why?" I was shocked, but she didn't understand my reaction.
"He's so… intimidating. I wouldn't know what to say to him." She made a face,
probably remembering this morning or last night, when he'd turned the overwhelming
force of his eyes on her.
"I do have some trouble with incoherency when I'm around him," I admitted.
"Oh well. He is unbelievably gorgeous." Jessica shrugged as if this excused any flaws.
Which, in her book, it probably did.
"There's a lot more to him than that."
"Really? Like what?"
I wished I had let it go. Almost as much as I was hoping he'd been kidding about
listening in.
"I can't explain it right… but he's even more unbelievable behind the face." The
vampire who wanted to be good — who ran around saving people's lives so he wouldn't
be a monster… I stared toward the front of the room.
"Is that possible ?" She giggled.
I ignored her, trying to look like I was paying attention to Mr. Varner.
"So you like him, then?" She wasn't about to give up.
"Yes," I said curtly.
"I mean, do you really like him?" she urged.
"Yes," I said again, blushing. I hoped that detail wouldn't register in her thoughts.
She'd had enough with the single syllable answers. "How much do you like him?"
"Too much," I whispered back. "More than he likes me. But I don't see how I can help
that." I sighed, one blush blending into the next.
Then, thankfully, Mr. Varner called on Jessica for an answer.
She didn't get a chance to start on the subject again during class, and as soon as the bell
rang, I took evasive action.
"In English, Mike asked me if you said anything about Monday night," I told her.
"You're kidding! What did you say?!" she gasped, completely sidetracked.
"I told him you said you had a lot of fun — he looked pleased."
"Tell me exactly what he said, and your exact answer!"
We spent the rest of the walk dissecting sentence structures and most of Spanish on a
minute description of Mike's facial expressions. I wouldn't have helped draw it out for as
long as I did if I wasn't worried about the subject returning to me.
And then the bell rang for lunch. As I jumped up out of my seat, shoving my books
roughly in my bag, my uplifted expression must have tipped Jessica off.
"You're not sitting with us today, are you?" she guessed.
"I don't think so." I couldn't be sure that he wouldn't disappear inconveniently again.
But outside the door to our Spanish class, leaning against the wall — looking more like
a Greek god than anyone had a right to — Edward was waiting for me. Jessica took one
look, rolled her eyes, and departed.
"See you later, Bella." Her voice was thick with implications. I might have to turn off
the ringer on the phone.
"Hello." His voice was amused and irritated at the same time. He had been listening, it
was obvious.
"Hi."
I couldn't think of anything else to say, and he didn't speak — biding his time, I
presumed — so it was a quiet walk to the cafeteria. Walking with Edward through the
crowded lunchtime rush was a lot like my first day here; everyone stared.
He led the way into the line, still not speaking, though his eyes returned to my face
every few seconds, their expression speculative. It seemed to me that irritation was
winning out over amusement as the dominant emotion in his face. I fidgeted nervously
with the zipper on my jacket.
He stepped up to the counter and filled a tray with food.
"What are you doing?" I objected. "You're not getting all that for me?"
He shook his head, stepping forward to buy the food.
"Half is for me, of course."
I raised one eyebrow.
He led the way to the same place we'd sat that one time before. From the other end of
the long table, a group of seniors gazed at us in amazement as we sat across from each
other. Edward seemed oblivious.
"Take whatever you want," he said, pushing the tray toward me.
"I'm curious," I said as I picked up an apple, turning it around in my hands, "what
would you do if someone dared you to eat food?"
"You're always curious." He grimaced, shaking his head. He glared at me, holding my
eyes as he lifted the slice of pizza off the tray, and deliberately bit off a mouthful, chewed
quickly, and then swallowed. I watched, eyes wide.
"If someone dared you to eat dirt, you could, couldn't you?" he asked condescendingly.
I wrinkled my nose. "I did once… on a dare," I admitted. "It wasn't so bad."
He laughed. "I suppose I'm not surprised." Something over my shoulder seemed to
catch his attention.
"Jessica's analyzing everything I do — she'll break it down for you later." He pushed
the rest of the pizza toward me. The mention of Jessica brought a hint of his former
irritation back to his features.
I put down the apple and took a bite of the pizza, looking away, knowing he was about
to start.
"So the waitress was pretty, was she?" he asked casually.
"You really didn't notice?"
"No. I wasn't paying attention. I had a lot on my mind."
"Poor girl." I could afford to be generous now.
"Something you said to Jessica… well, it bothers me." He refused to be distracted. His
voice was husky, and he glanced up from under his lashes with troubled eyes.
"I'm not surprised you heard something you didn't like. You know what they say about
eavesdropners," I reminded him.
"I warned you I would be listening."
"And I warned you that you didn't want to know everything I was thinking."
"You did," he agreed, but his voice was still rough. "You aren't precisely right, though. I
do want to know what you're thinking — everything. I just wish… that you wouldn't be
thinking some things."
I scowled. "That's quite a distinction."
"But that's not really the point at the moment."
"Then what is?" We were inclined toward each other across the table now. He had his
large white hands folded under his chin; I leaned forward, my right hand cupped around
my neck. I had to remind myself that we were in a crowded lunchroom, with probably
many curious eyes on us. It was too easy to get wrapped up in our own private, tense little
bubble.
"Do you truly believe that you care more for me than I do for you?" he murmured,
leaning closer to me as he spoke, his dark golden eyes piercing.
I tried to remember how to exhale. I had to look away before it came back to me.
"You're doing it again," I muttered.
His eyes opened wide with surprise. "What?"
"Dazzling me," I admitted, trying to concentrate as I looked back at him.
"Oh." He frowned.
"It's not your fault," I sighed. "You can't help it."
"Are you going to answer the question?"
I looked down. "Yes."
"Yes, you are going to answer, or yes, you really think that?" He was irritated again.
"Yes, I really think that." I kept my eyes down on the table, my eyes tracing the pattern
of the faux wood grains printed on the laminate. The silence dragged on. I stubbornly
refused to be the first to break it this time, fighting hard against the temptation to peek at
his expression.
Finally he spoke, voice velvet soft. "You're wrong."
I glanced up to see that his eyes were gentle.
"You can't know that," I disagreed in a whisper. I shook my head in doubt, though my
heart throbbed at his words and I wanted so badly to believe them.
"What makes you think so?" His liquid topaz eyes were penetrating — trying futilely, I
assumed, to lift the truth straight from my mind.
I stared back, struggling to think clearly in spite of his face, to find some way to
explain. As I searched for the words, I could see him getting impatient; frustrated by my
silence, he started to scowl. I lifted my hand from my neck, and held up one finger.
"Let me think," I insisted. His expression cleared, now that he was satisfied that I was
planning to answer. I dropped my hand to the table, moving my left hand so that my
palms were pressed together. I stared at my hands, twisting and untwisting my fingers, as
I finally spoke.
"Well, aside from the obvious, sometimes…" I hesitated. "I can't be sure —I don't know
how to read minds — but sometimes it seems like you're trying to say goodbye when
you're saying something else." That was the best I could sum up the sensation of anguish
that his words triggered in me at times.
"Perceptive," he whispered. And there was the anguish again, surfacing as he confirmed
my fear. "That's exactly why you're wrong, though," he began to explain, but then his
eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'the obvious'?"
"Well, look at me," I said, unnecessarily as he was already staring. "I'm absolutely
ordinary — well, except for bad things like all the near-death experiences and being so
clumsy that I'm almost disabled. And look at you." I waved my hand toward him and all
his bewildering perfection.
His brow creased angrily for a moment, then smoothed as his eyes took on a knowing
look. "You don't see yourself very clearly, you know. I'll admit you're dead-on about the
bad things," he chuckled blackly, "but you didn't hear what every human male in this
school was thinking on your first day."
I blinked, astonished. "I don't believe it…" I mumbled to myself.
"Trust me just this once — you are the opposite of ordinary."
My embarrassment was much stronger than my pleasure at the look that came into his
eyes when he said this. I quickly reminded him of my original argument.
"But I'm not saying goodbye," I pointed out.
"Don't you see? That's what proves me right. I care the most, because if I can do it" —
he shook his head, seeming to struggle with the thought — "if leaving is the right thing to
do, then I'll hurt myself to keep from hurting you, to keep you safe."
I glared. "And you don't think I would do the same?"
"You'd never have to make the choice."
Abruptly, his unpredictable mood shifted again; a mischievous, devastating smile
rearranged his features. "Of course, keeping you safe is beginning to feel like a full-time
occupation that requires my constant presence."
"No one has tried to do away with me today," I reminded him, grateful for the lighter
subject. I didn't want him to talk about goodbyes anymore. If I had to, I supposed I could
purposefully put myself in danger to keep him close… I banished that thought before his
quick eyes read it on my face. That idea would definitely get me in trouble.
"Yet," he added.
"Yet," I agreed; I would have argued, but now I wanted him to be expecting disasters.
"I have another question for you." His face was still casual.
"Shoot."
"Do you really need to go to Seattle this Saturday, or was that just an excuse to get out
of saying no to all your admirers?"
I made a face at the memory. "You know, I haven't forgiven you for the Tyler thing yet,"
I warned him. "It's your fault that he's deluded himself into thinking I'm going to prom
with him."
"Oh, he would have found a chance to ask you without me — I just really wanted to
watch your face," he chuckled, I would have been angrier if his laughter wasn't so
fascinating. "If I'd asked you, would you have turned me down?" he asked, still laughing
to himself.
"Probably not," I admitted. "But I would have canceled later — faked an illness or a
sprained ankle."
He was puzzled. "Why would you do that?"
I shook my head sadly. "You've never seen me in Gym, I guess, but I would have
thought you would understand."
"Are you referring to the fact that you can't walk across a flat, stable surface without
finding something to trip over?"
"Obviously."
"That wouldn't be a problem." He was very confident. "It's all in the leading." He could
see that I was about to protest, and he cut me off. "But you never told me — are you
resolved on going to Seattle, or do you mind if we do something different?"
As long as the "we" part was in, I didn't care about anything else.
"I'm open to alternatives," I allowed. "But I do have a favor to ask."
He looked wary, as he always did when I asked an open-ended question. "What?"
"Can I drive?"
He frowned. "Why?"
"Well, mostly because when I told Charlie I was going to Seattle, he specifically asked
if I was going alone and, at the time, I was. If he asked again, I probably wouldn't lie, but
I don't think he will ask again, and leaving my truck at home would just bring up the
subject unnecessarily. And also, because your driving frightens me."
He rolled his eyes. "Of all the things about me that could frighten you, you worry about
my driving." He shook his head in disgust, but then his eyes were serious again. "Won't
you want to tell your father that you're spending the day with me?" There was an
undercurrent to his question that I didn't understand.
"With Charlie, less is always more." I was definite about that. "Where are we going,
anyway?"
"The weather will be nice, so I'll be staying out of the public eye… and you can stay
with me, if you'd like to." Again, he was leaving the choice up to me.
"And you'll show me what you meant, about the sun?" I asked, excited by the idea of
unraveling another of the unknowns.
"Yes." He smiled, and then paused. "But if you don't want to be… alone with me, I'd
still rather you didn't go to Seattle by yourself. I shudder to think of the trouble you could
find in a city that size."
I was miffed. "Phoenix is three times bigger than Seattle — just in population. In
physical size —"
"But apparently," he interrupted me, "your number wasn't up in Phoenix. So I'd rather
you stayed near me." His eyes did that unfair smoldering thing again.
I couldn't argue, with the eyes or the motivation, and it was a moot point anyway. "As it
happens, I don't mind being alone with you."
"I know," he sighed, brooding. "You should tell Charlie, though."
"Why in the world would I do that?"
His eyes were suddenly fierce. "To give me some small incentive to bring you back."
I gulped. But, after a moment of thought, I was sure. "I think I'll take my chances."
He exhaled angrily, and looked away.
"Let's talk about something else," I suggested.
"What do you want to talk about?" he asked. He was still annoyed.
I glanced around us, making sure we were well out of anyone's hearing. As I cast my
eyes around the room, I caught the eyes of his sister, Alice, staring at me. The others were
looking at Edward. I looked away swiftly, back to him, and I. asked the first thing that
came to mind.
"Why did you go to that Goat Rocks place last weekend… to hunt? Charlie said it
wasn't a good place to hike, because of bears."
He stared at me as if I was missing something very obvious.
"Bears?” I gasped, and he smirked. "You know, bears are not in season," I added
sternly, to hide my shock.
"If you read carefully, the laws only cover hunting with weapons," he informed me.
He watched my face with enjoyment as that slowly sank in.
"Bears?" I repeated with difficulty.
"Grizzly is Emmett's favorite." His voice was still offhand, but his eyes were
scrutinizing my reaction. I tried to pull myself together.
"Hmmm," I said, taking another bite of pizza as an excuse to look down. I chewed
slowly, and then took a long drink of Coke without looking up.
"So," I said after a moment, finally meeting his now-anxious gaze. "What's your
favorite?"
He raised an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth turned down in disapproval.
"Mountain lion."
"Ah," I said in a politely disinterested tone, looking for my soda again.
"Of course," he said, and his tone mirrored mine, "we have to be careful not to impact
the environment with injudicious hunting. We try to focus on areas with an
overpopulation of predators — ranging as far away as we need. There's always plenty of
deer and elk here, and they'll do, but where's the fun in that?" He smiled teasingly.
"Where indeed," I murmured around another bite of pizza.
"Early spring is Emmett's favorite bear season — they're just coming out of
hibernation, so they're more irritable." He smiled at some remembered joke.
"Nothing more fun than an irritated grizzly bear," I agreed, nodding.
He snickered, shaking his head. "Tell me what you're really thinking, please."
"I'm trying to picture it — but I can't," I admitted. "How do you hunt a bear without
weapons?"
"Oh, we have weapons." He flashed his bright teeth in a brief, threatening smile. I
fought back a shiver before it could expose me. "Just not the kind they consider when
writing hunting laws. If you've ever seen a bear attack on television, you should be able
to visualize Emmett hunting."
I couldn't stop the next shiver that flashed down my spine. I peeked across the cafeteria
toward Emmett, grateful that he wasn't looking my way. The thick bands of muscle that
wrapped his arms and torso were somehow even more menacing now.
Edward followed my gaze and chuckled. I stared at him, unnerved.
"Are you like a bear, too?" I asked in a low voice.
"More like the lion, or so they tell me," he said lightly. "Perhaps our preferences are
indicative."
I tried to smile. "Perhaps," I repeated. But my mind was filled with opposing images
that I couldn't merge together. "Is that something I might get to see?"
"Absolutely not!" His face turned even whiter than usual, and his eyes were suddenly
furious. I leaned back, stunned and — though I'd never admit it to him — frightened by
his reaction. He leaned back as well, folding his arms across his chest.
"Too scary for me?" I asked when I could control my voice again.
"If that were it, I would take you out tonight," he said, his voice cutting. "You need a
healthy dose of fear. Nothing could be more beneficial for you."
"Then why?" I pressed, trying to ignore his angry expression.
He glared at me for a long minute.
"Later," he finally said. He was on his feet in one lithe movement. "We're going to be
late."
I glanced around, startled to see that he was right and the cafeteria was nearly vacant.
When I was with him, the time and the place were such a muddled blur that I completely
lost track of both. I jumped up, grabbing my bag from the back of my chair.
"Later, then," I agreed. I wouldn't forget.
11. Complications
Everyone watched us as we walked together to our lab table. I noticed that he no longer
angled the chair to sit as far from me as the desk would allow. Instead, he sat quite close
beside me, our arms almost touching.
Mr. Banner backed into the room then — what superb timing the man had — pulling a
tall metal frame on wheels that held a heavy-looking, outdated TV and VCR. A movie
day — the lift in the class atmosphere was almost tangible.
Mr. Banner shoved the tape into the reluctant VCR and walked to the wall to turn off
the lights.
And then, as the room went black, I was suddenly hyperaware that Edward was sitting
less than an inch from me. I was stunned by the unexpected electricity that flowed
through me, amazed that it was possible to be more aware of him than I already was. A
crazy impulse to reach over and touch him, to stroke his perfect face just once in the
darkness, nearly overwhelmed me. I crossed my arms tightly across my chest, my hands
balling into fists. I was losing my mind.
The opening credits began, lighting the room by a token amount. My eyes, of their own
accord, flickered to him. I smiled sheepishly as I realized his posture was identical to
mine, fists clenched under his arms, right down to the eyes, peering sideways at me. He
grinned back, his eyes somehow managing to smolder, even in the dark. I looked away
before I could start hyperventilating. It was absolutely ridiculous that I should feel dizzy.
The hour seemed very long. I couldn't concentrate on the movie — I didn't even know
what subject it was on. I tried unsuccessfully to relax, but the electric current that seemed
to be originating from somewhere in his body never slackened. Occasionally I would
permit myself a quick glance in his direction, but he never seemed to relax, either. The
overpowering craving to touch him also refused to fade, and I crushed my fists safely
against my ribs until my fingers were aching with the effort.
I breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Banner flicked the lights back on at the end of
class, and stretched my arms out in front of me, flexing my stiff fingers. Edward chuckled
beside me.
"Well, that was interesting," he murmured. His voice was dark and his eyes were
cautious.
"Umm," was all I was able to respond.
"Shall we?" he asked, rising fluidly.
I almost groaned. Time for Gym. I stood with care, worried my balance might have
been affected by the strange new intensity between us.
He walked me to my next class in silence and paused at the door; I turned to say
goodbye. His face startled me — his expression was torn, almost pained, and so fiercely
beautiful that the ache to touch him flared as strong as before. My goodbye stuck in my
throat.
He raised his hand, hesitant, conflict raging in his eyes, and then swiftly brushed the
length of my cheekbone with his fingertips. His skin was as icy as ever, but the trail his
fingers left on my skin was alarmingly warm — like I'd been burned, but didn't feel the
pain of it yet.
He turned without a word and strode quickly away from me.
I walked into the gym, lightheaded and wobbly. I drifted to the locker room, changing
in a trancelike state, only vaguely aware that there were other people surrounding me.
Reality didn't fully set in until I was handed a racket. It wasn't heavy, yet it felt very
unsafe in my hand. I could see a few of the other kids in class eyeing me furtively. Coach
Clapp ordered us to pair up into teams.
Mercifully, some vestiges of Mike's chivalry still survived; he came to stand beside me.
"Do you want to be a team?"
"Thanks, Mike — you don't have to do this, you know." I grimaced apologetically.
"Don't worry, I'll keep out of your way." He grinned. Sometimes it was so easy to like
Mike.
It didn't go smoothly. I somehow managed to hit myself in the head with my racket and
clip Mike's shoulder on the same swing. I spent the rest of the hour in the back corner of
the court, the racket held safely behind my back. Despite being handicapped by me, Mike
was pretty good; he won three games out of four single handedly. He gave me an
unearned high five when the coach finally blew the whistle ending class.
"So," he said as we walked off the court.
"So what?"
"You and Cullen, huh?" he asked, his tone rebellious. My previous feeling of affection
disappeared.
"That's none of your business, Mike," I warned, internally cursing Jessica straight to the
fiery pits of Hades.
"I don't like it," he muttered anyway.
"You don't have to," I snapped.
"He looks at you like… like you're something to eat," he continued, ignoring me.
I choked back the hysteria that threatened to explode, but a small giggle managed to get
out despite my efforts. He glowered at me. I waved and fled to the locker room.
I dressed quickly, something stronger than butterflies battering recklessly against the
walls of my stomach, my argument with Mike already a distant memory. I was wondering
if Edward would be waiting, or if I should meet him at his car. What if his family was
there? I felt a wave of real terror. Did they know that I knew? Was I supposed to know
that they knew that I knew, or not?
By the time I walked out of the gym, I had just about decided to walk straight home
without even looking toward the parking lot. But my worries were unnecessary. Edward
was waiting, leaning casually against the side of the gym, his breathtaking face
untroubled now. As I walked to his side, I felt a peculiar sense of release.
"Hi," I breathed, smiling hugely.
"Hello." His answering smile was brilliant. "How was Gym?"
My face fell a tiny bit. "Fine," I lied.
"Really?" He was unconvinced. His eyes shifted their focus slightly, looking over my
shoulder and narrowing. I glanced behind me to see Mike's back as he walked away.
"What?" I demanded.
His eyes slid back to mine, still tight. "Newton's getting on my nerves."
"You weren't listening again?" I was horror-struck. All traces of my sudden good humor
vanished.
"How's your head?" he asked innocently.
"You're unbelievable!" I turned, stomping away in the general direction of the parking
lot, though I hadn't ruled out walking at this point.
He kept up with me easily.
"You were the one who mentioned how I'd never seen you in Gym — it made me
curious." He didn't sound repentant, so I ignored him.
We walked in silence — a furious, embarrassed silence on my part — to his car. But I
had to stop a few steps away — a crowd of people, all boys, were surrounding it.
Then I realized they weren't surrounding the Volvo, they were actually circled around
Rosalie's red convertible, unmistakable lust in their eyes. None of them even looked up as
Edward slid between them to open his door. I climbed quickly in the passenger side, also
unnoticed.
"Ostentatious," he muttered.
"What kind of car is that?" I asked.
"An M3."
"I don't speak Car and Driver."
"It's a BMW." He rolled his eyes, not looking at me, trying to back out without running
over the car enthusiasts.
I nodded — I'd heard of that one.
"Are you still angry?" he asked as he carefully maneuvered his way out.
"Definitely."
He sighed. "Will you forgive me if I apologize?"
"Maybe… if you mean it. And if you promise not to do it again," I insisted.
His eyes were suddenly shrewd. "How about if I mean it, and I agree to let you drive
Saturday?" he countered my conditions.
I considered, and decided it was probably the best offer I would get. "Deal," I agreed.
"Then I'm very sorry I upset you." His eyes burned with sincerity for a protracted
moment — playing havoc with the rhythm of my heart — and then turned playful. "And
I'll be on your doorstep bright and early Saturday morning."
"Um, it doesn't help with the Charlie situation if an unexplained Volvo is left in the
driveway."
His smile was condescending now. "I wasn't intending to bring a car."
"How —"
He cut me off. "Don't worry about it. I'll be there, no car."
I let it go. I had a more pressing question.
"Is it later yet?" I asked significantly.
He frowned. "I supposed it is later."
I kept my expression polite as I waited.
He stopped the car. I looked up, surprised — of course we were already at Charlie's
house, parked behind the truck. It was easier to ride with him if I only looked when it was
over. When I looked back at him, he was staring at me, measuring with his eyes.
"And you still want to know why you can't see me hunt?" He seemed solemn, but I
thought I saw a trace of humor deep in his eyes.
"Well," I clarified, "I was mostly wondering about your reaction."
"Did I frighten you?" Yes, there was definitely humor there.
"No," I lied. He didn't buy it.
"I apologize for scaring you," he persisted with a slight smile, but then all evidence of
teasing disappeared. "It was just the very thought of you being there… while we hunted."
His jaw tightened.
"That would be bad?"
He spoke from between clenched teeth. "Extremely."
"Because… ?"
He took a deep breath and stared through the windshield at the thick, rolling clouds that
seemed to press down, almost within reach.
"When we hunt," he spoke slowly, unwillingly, "we give ourselves over to our senses…
govern less with our minds. Especially our sense of smell. If you were anywhere near me
when I lost control that way…" He shook his head, still gazing morosely at the heavy
clouds.
I kept my expression firmly under control, expecting the swift flash of his eyes to judge
my reaction that soon followed. My face gave nothing away.
But our eyes held, and the silence deepened — and changed. Flickers of the electricity
I'd felt this afternoon began to charge the atmosphere as he gazed unrelentingly into my
eyes. It wasn't until my head started to swim that I realized I wasn't breathing. When I
drew in a jagged breath, breaking the stillness, he closed his eyes.
"Bella, I think you should go inside now." His low voice was rough, his eyes on the
clouds again.
I opened the door, and the arctic draft that burst into the car helped clear my head.
Afraid I might stumble in my woozy state, I stepped carefully out of the car and shut the
door behind me without looking back. The whir of the automatic window unrolling made
me turn.
"Oh, Bella?" he called after me, his voice more even. He leaned toward the open
window with a faint smile on his lips.
"Yes?"
"Tomorrow it's my turn."
"Your turn to what?"
He smiled wider, flashing his gleaming teeth. "Ask the questions."
And then he was gone, the car speeding down the street and disappearing around the
corner before I could even collect my thoughts. I smiled as I walked to the house. It was
clear he was planning to see me tomorrow, if nothing else.
That night Edward starred in my dreams, as usual. However, the climate of my
unconsciousness had changed. It thrilled with the same electricity that had charged the
afternoon, and I tossed and turned restlessly, waking often. It was only in the early hours
of the morning that I finally sank into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
When I woke I was still tired, but edgy as well. I pulled on my brown turtleneck and the
inescapable jeans, sighing as I daydreamed of spaghetti straps and shorts. Breakfast was
the usual, quiet event I expected. Charlie fried eggs for himself; I had my bowl of cereal.
I wondered if he had forgotten about this Saturday. He answered my unspoken question
as he stood up to take his plate to the sink.
"About this Saturday…" he began, walking across the kitchen and turning on the
faucet.
I cringed. "Yes, Dad?"
"Are you still set on going to Seattle ?" he asked.
"That was the plan." I grimaced, wishing he hadn't brought it up so I wouldn't have to
compose careful half-truths.
He squeezed some dish soap onto his plate and swirled it around with the brush. "And
you're sure you can't make it back in time for the dance?"
"I'm not going to the dance, Dad." I glared.
"Didn't anyone ask you?" he asked, trying to hide his concern by focusing on rinsing
the plate.
I sidestepped the minefield. "It's a girl's choice."
"Oh." He frowned as he dried his plate.
I sympathized with him. It must be a hard thing, to be a father; living in fear that your
daughter would meet a boy she liked, but also having to worry if she didn't. How ghastly
it would be, I thought, shuddering, if Charlie had even the slightest inkling of exactly
what I did like.
Charlie left then, with a goodbye wave, and I went upstairs to brush my teeth and
gather my books. When I heard the cruiser pull away, I could only wait a few seconds
before I had to peek out of my window. The silver car was already there, waiting in
Charlie's spot on the driveway. I bounded down the stairs and out the front door,
wondering how long this bizarre routine would continue. I never wanted it to end.
He waited in the car, not appearing to watch as I shut the door behind me without
bothering to lock the dead-bolt. I walked to the car, pausing shyly before opening the
door and stepping in. He was smiling, relaxed — and, as usual, perfect and beautiful to an
excruciating degree.
"Good morning." His voice was silky. "How are you today?" His eyes roamed over my
face, as if his question was something more than simple courtesy.
"Good, thank you." I was always good — much more than good — when I was near
him.
His gaze lingered on the circles under my eyes. "You look tired."
"I couldn't sleep," I confessed, automatically swinging my hair around my shoulder to
provide some measure of cover.
"Neither could I," he teased as he started the engine. I was becoming used to the quiet
purr. I was sure the roar of my truck would scare me, whenever I got to drive it again.
I laughed. "I guess that's right. I suppose I slept just a little bit more than you did."
"I'd wager you did."
"So what did you do last night?" I asked.
He chuckled. "Not a chance. It's my day to ask questions."
"Oh, that's right. What do you want to know?" My forehead creased. I couldn't imagine
anything about me that could be in any way interesting to him.
"What's your favorite color?" he asked, his face grave.
I rolled my eyes. "It changes from day to day."
"What's your favorite color today?" He was still solemn.
"Probably brown." I tended to dress according to my mood.
He snorted, dropping his serious expression. "Brown?" he asked skeptically.
"Sure. Brown is warm. I miss brown. Everything that's supposed to be brown — tree
trunks, rocks, dirt — is all covered up with squashy green stuff here," I complained.
He seemed fascinated by my little rant. He considered for a moment, staring into my
eyes.
"You're right," he decided, serious again. "Brown is warm." He reached over, swiftly,
but somehow still hesitantly, to sweep my hair back behind my shoulder.
We were at the school by now. He turned back to me as he pulled into a parking space.
"What music is in your CD player right now?" he asked, his face as somber as if he'd
asked for a murder confession.
I realized I'd never removed the CD Phil had given me. When I said the name of the
band, he smiled crookedly, a peculiar expression in his eyes. He flipped open a
compartment under his car's CD player, pulled out one of thirty or so CDs that were
jammed into the small space, and handed it to me,
"Debussy to this?" He raised an eyebrow.
It was the same CD. I examined the familiar cover art, keeping my eyes down.
It continued like that for the rest of the day. While he walked me to English, when he
met me after Spanish, all through the lunch hour, he questioned me relentlessly about
every insignificant detail of my existence. Movies I'd liked and hated, the few places I'd
been and the many places I wanted to go, and books — endlessly books.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd talked so much. More often than not, I felt selfconscious,
certain I must be boring him. But the absolute absorption of his face, and his
never-ending stream of questions, compelled me to continue. Mostly his questions were
easy, only a very few triggering my easy blushes. But when I did flush, it brought on a
whole new round of questions.
Such as the time he asked my favorite gemstone, and I blurted out topaz before
thinking. He'd been flinging questions at me with such speed that I felt like I was taking
one of those psychiatric tests where you answer with the first word that comes to mind. I
was sure he would have continued down whatever mental list he was following, except
for the blush. My face reddened because, until very recently, my favorite gemstone was
garnet. It was impossible, while staring back into his topaz eyes, not to remember the
reason for the switch. And, naturally, he wouldn't rest until I'd admitted why I was
embarrassed.
"Tell me," he finally commanded after persuasion failed — failed only because I kept
my eyes safely away from his face.
"It's the color of your eyes today," I sighed, surrendering, staring down at my hands as I
fiddled with a piece of my hair. "I suppose if you asked me in two weeks I'd say onyx."
I'd given more information than necessary in my unwilling honesty, and I worried it
would provoke the strange anger that flared whenever I slipped and revealed too clearly
how obsessed I was.
But his pause was very short.
"What kinds of flowers do you prefer?" he fired off.
I sighed in relief, and continued with the psychoanalysis.
Biology was a complication again. Edward had continued with his quizzing up until Mr.
Banner entered the room, dragging the audiovisual frame again. As the teacher
approached the light switch, I noticed Edward slide his chair slightly farther away from
mine. It didn't help. As soon as the room was dark, there was the same electric spark, the
same restless craving to stretch my hand across the short space and touch his cold skin, as
yesterday.
I leaned forward on the table, resting my chin on my folded arms, my hidden fingers
gripping the table's edge as I fought to ignore the irrational longing that unsettled me. I
didn't look at him, afraid that if he was looking at me, it would only make self-control
that much harder. I sincerely tried to watch the movie, but at the end of the hour I had no
idea what I'd just seen. I sighed in relief again when Mr. Banner turned the lights on,
finally glancing at Edward; he was looking at me, his eyes ambivalent.
He rose in silence and then stood still, waiting for me. We walked toward the gym in
silence, like yesterday. And, also like yesterday, he touched my face wordlessly — this
time with the back of his cool hand, stroking once from my temple to my jaw — before
he turned and walked away.
Gym passed quickly as I watched Mike's one-man badminton show. He didn't speak to
me today, either in response to my vacant expression or because he was still angry about
our squabble yesterday. Somewhere, in a corner of my mind, I felt bad about that. But I
couldn't concentrate on him.
I hurried to change afterward, ill at ease, knowing the faster I moved, the sooner I
would be with Edward. The pressure made me more clumsy than usual, but eventually I
made it out the door, feeling the same release when I saw him standing there, a wide
smile automatically spreading across my face. He smiled in reaction before launching
into more cross-examination.
His questions were different now, though, not as easily answered. He wanted to know
what I missed about home, insisting on descriptions of anything he wasn't familiar with.
We sat in front of Charlie's house for hours, as the sky darkened and rain plummeted
around us in a sudden deluge.
I tried to describe impossible things like the scent of creosote — bitter, slightly
resinous, but still pleasant — the high, keening sound of the cicadas in July, the feathery
barrenness of the trees, the very size of the sky, extending white-blue from horizon to
horizon, barely interrupted by the low mountains covered with purple volcanic rock. The
hardest thing to explain was why it was so beautiful to me — to justify a beauty that
didn't depend on the sparse, spiny vegetation that often looked half dead, a beauty that
had more to do with the exposed shape of the land, with the shallow bowls of valleys
between the craggy hills, and the way they held on to the sun. I found myself using my
hands as I tried to describe it to him.
His quiet, probing questions kept me talking freely, forgetting, in the dim light of the
storm, to be embarrassed for monopolizing the conversation. Finally, when I had finished
detailing my cluttered room at home, he paused instead of responding with another
question.
"Are you finished?" I asked in relief.
"Not even close — but your father will be home soon."
"Charlie!" I suddenly recalled his existence, and sighed. I looked out at the raindarkened
sky, but it gave nothing away. "How late is it?" I wondered out loud as I
glanced at the clock. I was surprised by the time — Charlie would be driving home now.
"It’s twilight," Edward murmured, looking at the western horizon, obscured as it was
with clouds. His voice was thoughtful, as if his mind were somewhere far away. I stared
at him as he gazed unseeingly out the windshield.
I was still staring when his eyes suddenly shifted back to mine.
"It's the safest time of day for us," he said, answering the unspoken question in my
eyes. "The easiest time. But also the saddest, in a way… the end of another day, the
return of the night. Darkness is so predictable, don't you think?" He smiled wistfully.
"I like the night. Without the dark, we'd never see the stars." I frowned. "Not that you
see them here much."
He laughed, and the mood abruptly lightened.
"Charlie will be here in a few minutes. So, unless you want to tell him that you'll be
with me Saturday…" He raised one eyebrow.
"Thanks, but no thanks." I gathered my books, realizing I was stiff from sitting still so
long. "So is it my turn tomorrow, then?"
"Certainly not!" His face was teasingly outraged. "I told you I wasn't done, didn't I?"
"What more is there?"
"You'll find out tomorrow." He reached across to open my door for me, and his sudden
proximity sent my heart into frenzied palpitations.
But his hand froze on the handle.
"Not good," he muttered.
"What is it?" I was surprised to see that his jaw was clenched, his eyes disturbed.
He glanced at me for a brief second. "Another complication," he said glumly.
He flung the door open in one swift movement, and then moved, almost cringed,
swiftly away from me.
The flash of headlights through the rain caught my attention as a dark car pulled up to
the curb just a few feet away, facing us.
"Charlie's around the corner," he warned, staring through the downpour at the other
vehicle.
I hopped out at once, despite my confusion and curiosity. The rain was louder as it
glanced off my jacket.
I tried to make out the shapes in the front seat of the other car, but it was too dark. I
could see Edward illuminated in the glare of the new car's headlights; he was still staring
ahead, his gaze locked on something or someone I couldn't see. His expression was a
strange mix of frustration and defiance.
Then he revved the engine, and the tires squealed against the wet pavement. The Volvo
was out of sight in seconds.
"Hey, Bella," called a familiar, husky voice from the driver's side of the little black car.
"Jacob?" I asked, squinting through the rain. Just then, Charlie's cruiser swung around
the corner, his lights shining on the occupants of the car in front of me.
Jacob was already climbing out, his wide grin visible even through the darkness. In the
passenger seat was a much older man, a heavyset man with a memorable face — a face
that overflowed, the cheeks resting against his shoulders, with creases running through
the russet skin like an old leather jacket. And the surprisingly familiar eyes, black eyes
that seemed at the same time both too young and too ancient for the broad face they were
set in. Jacob’s father, Billy Black. I knew him immediately, though in the more than five
years since I'd seen him last I'd managed to forget his name when Charlie had spoken of
him my first day here. He was staring at me, scrutinizing my face, so I smiled tentatively
at him. His eyes were wide, as if in shock or fear, his nostrils flared. My smile faded.
Another complication, Edward had said.
Billy still stared at me with intense, anxious eyes. I groaned internally. Had Billy
recognized Edward so easily? Could he really believe the impossible legends his son had
scoffed at?
The answer was clear in Billy's eyes. Yes. Yes, he could.
12. Balancing
"Billy!" Charlie called as soon as he got out of the car.
I turned toward the house, beckoning to Jacob as I ducked under the porch. I heard
Charlie greeting them loudly behind me.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't see you behind the wheel, Jake," he said disapprovingly.
"We get permits early on the razz," Jacob said while I unlocked the door and flicked on
the porch light.
"Sure you do," Charlie laughed.
"I have to get around somehow." I recognized Billy's resonant voice easily, despite the
years. The sound of it made me feel suddenly younger, a child.
I went inside, leaving the door open behind me and turning on lights before I hung up
my jacket. Then I stood in the door, watching anxiously as Charlie and Jacob helped Billy
out of the car and into his wheelchair.
I backed out of the way as the three of them hurried in, shaking off the rain.
"This is a surprise," Charlie was saying.
"It's been too long," Billy answered. "I hope it's not a bad time." His dark eyes flashed
up to me again, their expression unreadable.
"No, it's great. I hope you can stay for the game."
Jacob grinned. "I think that's the plan — our TV broke last week."
Billy made a face at his son. "And, of course, Jacob was anxious to see Bella again," he
added. Jacob scowled and ducked his head while I fought back a surge of remorse.
Maybe I'd been too convincing on the beach.
"Are you hungry?" I asked, turning toward the kitchen. I was eager to escape Billy's
searching gaze.
"Naw, we ate just before we came," Jacob answered.
"How about you, Charlie?" I called over my shoulder as I fled around the corner.
"Sure," he replied, his voice moving in the direction of the front room and the TV. I
could hear Billy's chair follow.
The grilled cheese sandwiches were in the frying pan and I was slicing up a tomato
when I sensed someone behind me.
"So, how are things?" Jacob asked.
"Pretty good." I smiled. His enthusiasm was hard to resist. "How about you? Did you
finish your car?"
"No." He frowned. "I still need parts. We borrowed that one." He pointed with his
thumb in the direction of the front yard.
"Sorry. I haven't seen any… what was it you were looking for?"
"Master cylinder." He grinned. "Is something wrong with the truck?" he added
suddenly.
"No."
"Oh. I just wondered because you weren't driving it."
I stared down at the pan, pulling up the edge of a sandwich to check the bottom side. "I
got a ride with a friend."
"Nice ride." Jacob's voice was admiring. "I didn't recognize the driver, though. I
thought I knew most of the kids around here."
I nodded noncommittally, keeping my eyes down as I flipped sandwiches.
"My dad seemed to know him from somewhere."
"Jacob, could you hand me some plates? They're in the cupboard over the sink."
"Sure."
He got the plates in silence. I hoped he would let it drop now.
"So who was it?" he asked, setting two plates on the counter next to me.
I sighed in defeat. "Edward Cullen."
To my surprise, he laughed. I glanced up at him. He looked a little embarrassed.
"Guess that explains it, then," he said. "I wondered why my dad was acting so strange."
"That's right." I faked an innocent expression. "He doesn't like the Cullens."
"Superstitious old man," Jacob muttered under his breath.
"You don't think he'd say anything to Charlie?" I couldn't help asking, the words
coming out in a low rush.
Jacob stared at me for a moment, and I couldn't read the expression in his dark eyes. "I
doubt it," he finally answered. "I think Charlie chewed him out pretty good last time.
They haven't spoken much since — tonight is sort of a reunion, I think. I don't think he'd
bring it up again."
"Oh," I said, trying to sound indifferent.
I stayed in the front room after I carried the food out to Charlie, pretending to watch the
game while Jacob chattered at me. I was really listening to the men's conversation,
watching for any sign that Billy was about to rat me out, trying to think of ways to stop
him if he began.
It was a long night. I had a lot of homework that was going undone, but I was afraid to
leave Billy alone with Charlie. Finally, the game ended.
"Are you and your friends coming back to the beach soon?" Jacob asked as he pushed
his father over the lip of the threshold.
"I'm not sure," I hedged.
"That was fun, Charlie," Billy said.
"Come up for the next game," Charlie encouraged.
"Sure, sure," Billy said. "We'll be here. Have a good night." His eyes shifted to mine,
and his smile disappeared. "You take care, Bella," he added seriously.
"Thanks," I muttered, looking away.
I headed for the stairs while Charlie waved from the doorway.
"Wait, Bella," he said.
I cringed. Had Billy gotten something in before I'd joined them in the living room?
But Charlie was relaxed, still grinning from the unexpected visit.
"I didn't get a chance to talk to you tonight. How was your day?"
"Good." I hesitated with one foot on the first stair, searching for details I could safely
share. "My badminton team won all four games."
"Wow, I didn't know you could play badminton."
"Well, actually I can't, but my partner is really good," I admitted.
"Who is it?" he asked with token interest.
"Um… Mike Newton," I told him reluctantly.
"Oh yeah — you said you were friends with the Newton kid." He perked up. "Nice
family." He mused for a minute. "Why didn't you ask him to the dance this weekend?"
"Dad!" I groaned. "He's kind of dating my friend Jessica. Besides, you know I can't
dance."
"Oh yeah," he muttered. Then he smiled at me apologetically. "So I guess it's good
you'll be gone Saturday… I've made plans to go fishing with the guys from the station.
The weather's supposed to be real warm. But if you wanted to put your trip off till
someone could go with you, I'd stay home. I know I leave you here alone too much."
"Dad, you're doing a great job." I smiled, hoping my relief didn't show. "I've never
minded being alone — I'm too much like you." I winked at him, and he smiled his
crinkly-eyed smile.
I slept better that night, too tired to dream again. When I woke to the pearl gray
morning, my mood was blissful. The tense evening with Billy and Jacob seemed harmless
enough now; I decided to forget it completely. I caught myself whistling while I was
pulling the front part of my hair back into a barrette, and later again as I skipped down
the stairs. Charlie noticed.
"You're cheerful this morning," he commented over breakfast.
I shrugged. "It's Friday."
I hurried so I would be ready to go the second Charlie left. I had my bag ready, shoes
on, teeth brushed, but even though I rushed to the door as soon as I was sure Charlie
would be out of sight, Edward was faster. He was waiting in his shiny car, windows
down, engine off.
I didn't hesitate this time, climbing in the passenger side quickly, the sooner to see his
face. He grinned his crooked smile at me, stopping my breath and my heart. I couldn't
imagine how an angel could be any more glorious. There was nothing about him that
could be improved upon.
"How did you sleep?" he asked. I wondered if he had any idea how appealing his voice
was.
"Fine. How was your night?"
"Pleasant." His smile was amused; I felt like I was missing an inside joke.
"Can I ask what you did?" I asked.
"No." He grinned. "Today is still mine."
He wanted to know about people today: more about Renée, her hobbies, what we'd
done in our free time together. And then the one grandmother I'd known, my few school
friends — embarrassing me when he asked about boys I'd dated. I was relieved that I'd
never really dated anyone, so that particular conversation couldn't last long. He seemed as
surprised as Jessica and Angela by my lack of romantic history.
"So you never met anyone you wanted?" he asked in a serious tone that made me
wonder what he was thinking about.
I was grudgingly honest. "Not in Phoenix."
His lips pressed together into a hard line.
We were in the cafeteria at this point. The day had sped by in the blur that was rapidly
becoming routine. I took advantage of his brief pause to take a bite of my bagel.
"I should have let you drive yourself today," he announced, apropos of nothing, while I
chewed.
"Why?" I demanded.
"I'm leaving with Alice after lunch."
"Oh." I blinked, bewildered and disappointed. "That’s okay, it's not that far of a walk."
He frowned at me impatiently. "I'm not going to make you walk home. We'll go get
your truck and leave it here for you."
"I don't have my key with me," I sighed. "I really don't mind walking." What I minded
was losing my time with him.
He shook his head. "Your truck will be here, and the key will be in the ignition —
unless you're afraid someone might steal it." He laughed at the thought.
"All right," I agreed, pursing my lips. I was pretty sure my key was in the pocket of a
pair of jeans I wore Wednesday, under a pile of clothes in the laundry room. Even if he
broke into my house, or whatever he was planning, he'd never find it. He seemed to feel
the challenge in my consent. He smirked, overconfident.
"So where are you going?" I asked as casually as I could manage.
"Hunting," he answered grimly. "If I'm going to be alone with you tomorrow, I'm going
to take whatever precautions I can." His face grew morose… and pleading. "You can
always cancel, you know."
I looked down, afraid of the persuasive power of his eyes. I refused to be convinced to
fear him, no matter how real the danger might be. It doesn't matter, I repeated in my
head.
"No," I whispered, glancing back at his face. "I can't."
"Perhaps you're right," he murmured bleakly. His eyes seemed to darken in color as I
watched.
I changed the subject. "What time will I see you tomorrow?" I asked, already depressed
by the thought of him leaving now.
"That depends… it's a Saturday, don't you want to sleep in?" he offered.
"No," I answered too fast. He restrained a smile.
"The same time as usual, then," he decided. "Will Charlie be there?"
"No, he's fishing tomorrow." I beamed at the memory of how conveniently things had
worked out.
His voice turned sharp. "And if you don't come home, what will he think?"
"I have no idea," I answered coolly. "He knows I've been meaning to do the laundry.
Maybe he'll think I fell in the washer."
He scowled at me and I scowled back. His anger was much more impressive than mine.
"What are you hunting tonight?" I asked when I was sure I had lost the glowering
contest.
"Whatever we find in the park. We aren't going far." He seemed bemused by my casual
reference to his secret realities.
"Why are you going with Alice ?" I wondered.
"Alice is the most… supportive." He frowned as he spoke.
"And the others?" I asked timidly. "What are they?"
His brow puckered for a brief moment. "Incredulous, for the most part."
I peeked quickly behind me at his family. They sat staring off in different directions,
exactly the same as the first time I'd seen them. Only now they were four; their beautiful,
bronze-haired brother sat across from me, his golden eyes troubled.
"They don't like me," I guessed.
"That's not it," he disagreed, but his eyes were too innocent. "They don't understand
why I can't leave you alone."
I grimaced. "Neither do I, for that matter."
Edward shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling before he met my
gaze again. "I told you — you don't see yourself clearly at all. You're not like anyone I've
ever known. You fascinate me."
I glared at him, sure he was teasing now.
He smiled as he deciphered my expression. "Having the advantages I do," he
murmured, touching his forehead discreetly, "I have a better than average grasp of human
nature. People are predictable. But you… you never do what I expect. You always take
me by surprise."
I looked away, my eyes wandering back to his family, embarrassed and dissatisfied. His
words made me feel like a science experiment. I wanted to laugh at myself for expecting
anything else.
"That part is easy enough to explain," he continued. I felt his eyes on my face but I
couldn't look at him yet, afraid he might read the chagrin in my eyes. "But there's more…
and it's not so easy to put into words —"
I was still staring at the Cullens while he spoke. Suddenly Rosalie, his blond and
breathtaking sister, turned to look at me. No, not to look — to glare, with dark, cold eyes.
I wanted to look away, but her gaze held me until Edward broke off mid-sentence and
made an angry noise under his breath. It was almost a hiss.
Rosalie turned her head, and I was relieved to be free. I looked back at Edward — and I
knew he could see the confusion and fear that widened my eyes.
His face was tight as he explained. "I'm sorry about that. She's just worried. You see…
it's dangerous for more than just me if, after spending so much time with you so
publicly…" He looked down.
"If?"
"If this ends… badly." He dropped his head into his hands, as he had that night in Port
Angeles. His anguish was plain; I yearned to comfort him, but I was at a loss to know
how. My hand reached toward him involuntarily; quickly, though, I dropped it to the
table, fearing that my touch would only make things worse. I realized slowly that his
words should frighten me. I waited for that fear to come, but all I could seem to feel was
an ache for his pain.
And frustration — frustration that Rosalie had interrupted whatever he was about to
say. I didn't know how to bring it up again. He still had his head in his hands.
I tried to speak in a normal voice. "And you have to leave now?"
"Yes." He raised his face; it was serious for a moment, and then his mood shifted and he
smiled. "It's probably for the best. We still have fifteen minutes of that wretched movie
left to endure in Biology — I don't think I could take any more."
I started. Alice — her short, inky hair in a halo of spiky disarray around her exquisite,
elfin face — was suddenly standing behind his shoulder. Her slight frame was willowy,
graceful even in absolute stillness.
He greeted her without looking away from me. "Alice."
"Edward," she answered, her high soprano voice almost as attractive as his.
"Alice, Bella — Bella, Alice," he introduced us, gesturing casually with his hand, a wry
smile on his face.
"Hello, Bella." Her brilliant obsidian eyes were unreadable, but her smile was friendly.
"It's nice to finally meet you."
Edward flashed a dark look at her.
"Hi, Alice," I murmured shyly.
"Are you ready?" she asked him.
His voice was aloof. "Nearly. I'll meet you at the car."
She left without another word; her walk was so fluid, so sinuous that I felt a sharp pang
of jealousy.
"Should I say 'have fun,' or is that the wrong sentiment?" I asked, turning back to him.
"No, 'have fun' works as well as anything." He grinned.
"Have fun, then." I worked to sound wholehearted. Of course I didn't fool him.
"I'll try." He still grinned. "And you try to be safe, please."
"Safe in Forks — what a challenge."
"For you it is a challenge." His jaw hardened. "Promise."
"I promise to try to be safe," I recited. "I'll do the laundry tonight — that ought to be
fraught with peril."
"Don't fall in," he mocked.
"I'll do my best."
He stood then, and I rose, too.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I sighed.
"It seems like a long time to you, doesn't it?" he mused.
I nodded glumly.
"I'll be there in the morning," he promised, smiling his crooked smile. He reached
across the table to touch my face, lightly brushing along my cheekbone again. Then he
turned and walked away. I stared after him until he was gone.
I was sorely tempted to ditch the rest of the day, at the very least Gym, but a warning
instinct stopped me. I knew that if I disappeared now, Mike and others would assume I
was with Edward. And Edward was worried about the time we'd spent together
publicly… if things went wrong. I refused to dwell on the last thought, concentrating
instead on making things safer for him.
I intuitively knew — and sensed he did, too — that tomorrow would be pivotal. Our
relationship couldn't continue to balance, as it did, on the point of a knife. We would fall
off one edge or the other, depending entirely upon his decision, or his instincts. My
decision was made, made before I'd ever consciously chosen, and I was committed to
seeing it through. Because there was nothing more terrifying to me, more excruciating,
than the thought of turning away from him. It was an impossibility.
I went to class, feeling dutiful. I couldn't honestly say what happened in Biology; my
mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow. In Gym, Mike was speaking to me
again; he wished me a good time in Seattle. I carefully explained that I'd canceled my
trip, worried about my truck.
"Are you going to the dance with Cullen?" he asked, suddenly sulky.
"No, I'm not going to the dance at all."
"What are you doing, then?" he asked, too interested.
My natural urge was to tell him to butt out. Instead, I lied brightly.
"Laundry, and then I have to study for the Trig test or I'm going to fail."
"Is Cullen helping you study?"
"Edward," I emphasized, "is not going to help me study. He's gone away somewhere for
the weekend." The lies came more naturally than usual, I noted with surprise.
"Oh." He perked up. "You know, you could come to the dance with our group anyway
— that would be cool. We'd all dance with you," he promised.
The mental image of Jessica's face made my tone sharper than necessary.
"I'm not going to the dance, Mike, okay?"
"Fine." He sulked again. "I was just offering."
When the school day had finally ended, I walked to the parking lot without enthusiasm.
I did not especially want to walk home, but I couldn't see how he would have retrieved
my truck. Then again, I was starting to believe that nothing was impossible for him. The
latter instinct proved correct — my truck sat in the same space he'd parked his Volvo in
this morning. I shook my head, incredulous, as I opened the unlocked door and saw the
key in the ignition.
There was a piece of white paper folded on my seat. I got in and closed the door before
I unfolded it. Two words were written in his elegant script.
Be safe.
The sound of the truck roaring to life frightened me. I laughed at myself.
When I got home, the handle of the door was locked, the dead bolt unlocked, just as I'd
left it this morning. Inside, I went straight to the laundry room. It looked just the same as
I'd left it, too. I dug for my jeans and, after finding them, checked the pockets. Empty.
Maybe I'd hung my key up after all, I thought, shaking my head.
Following the same instinct that had prompted me to lie to Mike, I called Jessica on the
pretense of wishing her luck at the dance. When she offered the same wish for my day
with Edward, I told her about the cancellation. She was more disappointed than really
necessary for a third-party observer to be. I said goodbye quickly after that.
Charlie was absentminded at dinner, worried over something at work, I guessed, or
maybe a basketball game, or maybe he was just really enjoying the lasagna — it was hard
to tell with Charlie.
"You know, Dad…" I began, breaking into his reverie.
"What's that, Bell ?"
"I think you're right about Seattle. I think I'll wait until Jessica or someone else can go
with me."
"Oh," he said, surprised. "Oh, okay. So, do you want me to stay home?"
"No, Dad, don't change your plans. I've got a million things to do… homework,
laundry… I need to go to the library and the grocery store. I'll be in and out all day… you
go and have fun."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely, Dad. Besides, the freezer is getting dangerously low on fish — we're down
to a two, maybe three years' supply."
"You're sure easy to live with, Bella." He smiled.
"I could say the same thing about you," I said, laughing. The sound of my laughter was
off, but he didn't seem to notice. I felt so guilty for deceiving him that I almost took
Edward's advice and told him where I would be. Almost.
After dinner, I folded clothes and moved another load through the dryer. Unfortunately
it was the kind of job that only keeps hands busy. My mind definitely had too much free
time, and it was getting out of control. I fluctuated between anticipation so intense that it
was very nearly pain, and an insidious fear that picked at my resolve. I had to keep
reminding myself that I'd made my choice, and I wasn't going back on it. I pulled his note
out of my pocket much more often than necessary to absorb the two small words he'd
written. He wants me to be safe, I told myself again and again. I would just hold on to the
faith that, in the end, that desire would win out over the others. And what was my other
choice — to cut him out of my life? Intolerable. Besides, since I'd come to Forks, it really
seemed like my life was about him.
But a tiny voice in the back of my mind worried, wondering if it would hurt very
much… if it ended badly.
I was relieved when it was late enough to be acceptable for bedtime. I knew I was far
too stressed to sleep, so I did something I'd never done before. I deliberately took
unnecessary cold medicine — the kind that knocked me out for a good eight hours. I
normally wouldn't condone that type of behavior in myself, but tomorrow would be
complicated enough without me being loopy from sleep deprivation on top of everything
else. While I waited for the drugs to kick in, I dried my clean hair till it was impeccably
straight, and fussed over what I would wear tomorrow. With everything ready for the
morning, I finally lay in my bed. I felt hyper; I couldn't stop twitching. I got up and rifled
through my shoebox of CDs until I found a collection of Chopin's nocturnes. I put that on
very quietly and then lay down again, concentrating on relaxing individual parts of my
body. Somewhere in the middle of that exercise, the cold pills took effect, and I gladly
sank into unconsciousness.
I woke early, having slept soundly and dreamlessly thanks to my gratuitous drug use.
Though I was well rested, I slipped right back into the same hectic frenzy from the night
before. I dressed in a rush, smoothing my collar against my neck, fidgeting with the tan
sweater till it hung right over my jeans. I sneaked a swift look out the window to see that
Charlie was already gone. A thin, cottony layer of clouds veiled the sky. They didn't look
very lasting.
I ate breakfast without tasting the food, hurrying to clean up when I was done. I peeked
out the window again, but nothing had changed. I had just finished brushing my teeth and
was heading back downstairs when a quiet knock sent my heart thudding against my rib
cage.
I flew to the door; I had a little trouble with the simple dead bolt, but I yanked the door
open at last, and there he was. All the agitation dissolved as soon as I looked at his face,
calm taking its place. I breathed a sigh of relief — yesterday's fears seemed very foolish
with him here.
He wasn't smiling at first — his face was somber. But then his expression lightened as
he looked me over, and he laughed.
"Good morning," he chuckled.
"What's wrong?" I glanced down to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything important,
like shoes, or pants.
"We match." He laughed again. I realized he had a long, light tan sweater on, with a
white collar showing underneath, and blue jeans. I laughed with him, hiding a secret
twinge of regret — why did he have to look like a runway model when I couldn't?
I locked the door behind me while he walked to the truck. He waited by the passenger
door with a martyred expression that was easy to understand.
"We made a deal," I reminded him smugly, climbing into the driver's seat, and reaching
over to unlock his door.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Put your seat belt on — I'm nervous already."
I gave him a dirty look as I complied.
"Where to?" I repeated with a sigh.
"Take the one-oh-one north," he ordered.
It was surprisingly difficult to concentrate on the road while feeling his gaze on my
face. I compensated by driving more carefully than usual through the still-sleeping town.
"Were you planning to make it out of Forks before nightfall?"
"This truck is old enough to be your car's grandfather — have some respect," I retorted.
We were soon out of the town limits, despite his negativity. Thick underbrush and
green-swathed trunks replaced the lawns and houses.
"Turn right on the one-ten," he instructed just as I was about to ask. I obeyed silently.
"Now we drive until the pavement ends."
I could hear a smile in his voice, but I was too afraid of driving off the road and proving
him right to look over and be sure.
"And what's there, at the pavement's end?" I wondered.
"A trail."
"We're hiking?" Thank goodness I'd worn tennis shoes.
"Is that a problem?" He sounded as if he'd expected as much.
"No." I tried to make the lie sound confident. But if he thought my truck was slow…
"Don't worry, it's only five miles or so, and we're in no hurry."
Five miles. I didn't answer, so that he wouldn't hear my voice crack in panic. Five miles
of treacherous roots and loose stones, trying to twist my ankles or otherwise incapacitate
me. This was going to be humiliating.
We drove in silence for a while as I contemplated the coming horror.
"What are you thinking?" he asked impatiently after a few moments.
I lied again. "Just wondering where we're going."
"It's a place I like to go when the weather is nice." We both glanced out the windows at
the thinning clouds after he spoke.
"Charlie said it would be warm today."
"And did you tell Charlie what you were up to?" he asked.
"Nope."
"But Jessica thinks we're going to Seattle together?" He seemed cheered by the idea.
"No, I told her you canceled on me — which is true."
"No one knows you're with me?" Angrily, now.
"That depends… I assume you told Alice ?"
"That's very helpful, Bella," he snapped.
I pretended I didn't hear that.
"Are you so depressed by Forks that it's made you suicidal?" he demanded when I
ignored him.
"You said it might cause trouble for you… us being together publicly," I reminded him.
"So you're worried about the trouble it might cause me —if you don't come home ?" His
voice was still angry, and bitingly sarcastic.
I nodded, keeping my eyes on the road.
He muttered something under his breath, speaking so quickly that I couldn't understand.
We were silent for the rest of the drive. I could feel the waves of infuriated disapproval
rolling off of him, and I could think of nothing to say.
And then the road ended, constricting to a thin foot trail with a small wooden marker. I
parked on the narrow shoulder and stepped out, afraid because he was angry with me and
I didn't have driving as an excuse not to look at him. It was warm now, warmer than it
had been in Forks since the day I'd arrived, almost muggy under the clouds. I pulled off
my sweater and knotted it around my waist, glad that I'd worn the light, sleeveless shirt
— especially if I had five miles of hiking ahead of me.
I heard his door slam, and looked over to see that he'd removed his sweater, too. He was
facing away from me, into the unbroken forest beside my truck.
"This way," he said, glancing over his shoulder at me, eyes still annoyed. He started
into the dark forest.
"The trail?" Panic was clear in my voice as I hurried around the truck to catch up to
him.
"I said there was a trail at the end of the road, not that we were taking it."
"No trail?" I asked desperately.
"I won't let you get lost." He turned then, with a mocking smile, and I stifled a gasp.
His white shirt was sleeveless, and he wore it unbuttoned, so that the smooth white skin
of his throat flowed uninterrupted over the marble contours of his chest, his perfect
musculature no longer merely hinted at behind concealing clothes. He was too perfect, I
realized with a piercing stab of despair. There was no way this godlike creature could be
meant for me.
He stared at me, bewildered by my tortured expression.
"Do you want to go home?" he said quietly, a different pain than mine saturating his
voice.
"No." I walked forward till I was close beside him, anxious not to waste one second of
whatever time I might have with him.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle.
"I'm not a good hiker," I answered dully. "You'll have to be very patient."
"I can be patient — if I make a great effort." He smiled, holding my glance, trying to
lift me out of my sudden, unexplained dejection.
I tried to smile back, but the smile was unconvincing. He scrutinized my face.
"I'll take you home," he promised. I couldn't tell if the promise was unconditional, or
restricted to an immediate departure. I knew he thought it was fear that upset me, and I
was grateful again that I was the one person whose mind he couldn't hear.
"If you want me to hack five miles through the jungle before sundown, you'd better
start leading the way," I said acidly. He frowned at me, struggling to understand my tone
and expression.
He gave up after a moment and led the way into the forest.
It wasn't as hard as I had feared. The way was mostly flat, and he held the damp ferns
and webs of moss aside for me. When his straight path took us over fallen trees or
boulders, he would help me, lifting me by the elbow, and then releasing me instantly
when I was clear. His cold touch on my skin never failed to make my heart thud
erratically. Twice, when that happened, I caught a look on his face that made me sure he
could somehow hear it.
I tried to keep my eyes away from his perfection as much as possible, but I slipped
often. Each time, his beauty pierced me through with sadness.
For the most part, we walked in silence. Occasionally he would ask a random question
that he hadn't gotten to in the past two days of interrogation. He asked about my
birthdays, my grade school teachers, my childhood pets — and I had to admit that after
killing three fish in a row, I'd given up on the whole institution. He laughed at that, louder
than I was used to — bell-like echoes bouncing back to us from the empty woods.
The hike took me most of the morning, but he never showed any sign of impatience.
The forest spread out around us in a boundless labyrinth of ancient trees, and I began to
be nervous that we would never find our way out again. He was perfectly at ease,
comfortable in the green maze, never seeming to feel any doubt about our direction.
After several hours, the light that filtered through the canopy transformed, the murky
olive tone shifting to a brighter jade. The day had turned sunny, just as he'd foretold. For
the first time since we'd entered the woods, I felt a thrill of excitement — which quickly
turned to impatience.
"Are we there yet?" I teased, pretending to scowl.
"Nearly." He smiled at the change in my mood. "Do you see the brightness ahead?"
I peered into the thick forest. "Um, should I?"
He smirked. "Maybe it's a bit soon for your eyes."
"Time to visit the optometrist," I muttered. His smirk grew more pronounced.
But then, after another hundred yards, I could definitely see a lightening in the trees
ahead, a glow that was yellow instead of green. I picked up the pace, my eagerness
growing with every step. He let me lead now, following noiselessly.
I reached the edge of the pool of light and stepped through the last fringe of ferns into
the loveliest place I had ever seen. The meadow was small, perfectly round, and filled
with wildflowers — violet, yellow, and soft white. Somewhere nearby, I could hear the
bubbling music of a stream. The sun was directly overhead, filling the circle with a haze
of buttery sunshine. I walked slowly, awestruck, through the soft grass, swaying flowers,
and warm, gilded air. I halfway turned, wanting to share this with him, but he wasn't
behind me where I thought he'd be. I spun around, searching for him with sudden alarm.
Finally I spotted him, still under the dense shade of the canopy at the edge of the hollow,
watching me with cautious eyes. Only then did I remember what the beauty of the
meadow had driven from my mind — the enigma of Edward and the sun, which he'd
promised to illustrate for me today.
I took a step back toward him, my eyes alight with curiosity. His eyes were wary,
reluctant. I smiled encouragingly and beckoned to him with my hand, taking another step
back to him. He held up a hand in warning, and I hesitated, rocking back onto my heels.
Edward seemed to take a deep breath, and then he stepped out into the bright glow of
the midday sun.
13. Confessions
Edward in the sunlight was shocking. I couldn’t get used to it, though I'd been staring at
him all afternoon. His skin, white despite the faint flush from yesterday's hunting trip,
literally sparkled, like thousands of tiny diamonds were embedded in the surface. He lay
perfectly still in the grass, his shirt open over his sculpted, incandescent chest, his
scintillating arms bare. His glistening, pale lavender lids were shut, though of course he
didn't sleep. A perfect statue, carved in some unknown stone, smooth like marble,
glittering like crystal.
Now and then, his lips would move, so fast it looked like they were trembling. But,
when I asked, he told me he was singing to himself; it was too low for me to hear.
I enjoyed the sun, too, though the air wasn't quite dry enough for my taste. I would have
liked to lie back, as he did, and let the sun warm my face. But I stayed curled up, my chin
resting on my knees, unwilling to take my eyes off him. The wind was gentle; it tangled
my hair and ruffled the grass that swayed around his motionless form.
The meadow, so spectacular to me at first, paled next to his magnificence.
Hesitantly, always afraid, even now, that he would disappear like a mirage, too
beautiful to be real… hesitantly, I reached out one finger and stroked the back of his
shimmering hand, where it lay within my reach. I marveled again at the perfect texture,
satin smooth, cool as stone. When I looked up again, his eyes were open, watching me.
Butterscotch today, lighter, warmer after hunting. His quick smile turned up the corners
of his flawless lips.
"I don't scare you?" he asked playfully, but I could hear the real curiosity in his soft
voice.
"No more than usual."
He smiled wider; his teeth flashed in the sun.
I inched closer, stretched out my whole hand now to trace the contours of his forearm
with my fingertips. I saw that my fingers trembled, and knew it wouldn't escape his
notice.
"Do you mind?" I asked, for he had closed his eyes again.
"No," he said without opening his eyes. "You can't imagine how that feels." He sighed.
I lightly trailed my hand over the perfect muscles of his arm, followed the faint pattern
of bluish veins inside the crease at his elbow. With my other hand, I reached to turn his
hand over. Realizing what I wished, he flipped his palm up in one of those blindingly
fast, disconcerting movements of his. It startled me; my fingers froze on his arm for a
brief second.
"Sorry," he murmured. I looked up in time to see his golden eyes close again. "It's too
easy to be myself with you."
I lifted his hand, turning it this way and that as I watched the sun glitter on his palm. I
held it closer to my face, trying to see the hidden facets in his skin.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he whispered. I looked to see his eyes watching me,
suddenly intent. "It's still so strange for me, not knowing."
"You know, the rest of us feel that way all the time."
"It's a hard life." Did I imagine the hint of regret in his tone? "But you didn't tell me."
"I was wishing I could know what you were thinking…" I hesitated.
"And?"
"I was wishing that I could believe that you were real. And I was wishing that I wasn't
afraid."
"I don't want you to be afraid." His voice was just a soft murmur. I heard what he
couldn't truthfully say, that I didn't need to be afraid, that there was nothing to fear.
"Well, that's not exactly the fear I meant, though that's certainly something to think
about."
So quickly that I missed his movement, he was half sitting, propped up on his right arm,
his left palm still in my hands. His angel's face was only a few inches from mine. I might
have — should have — flinched away from his unexpected closeness, but I was unable to
move. His golden eyes mesmerized me.
"What are you afraid of, then?" he whispered intently.
But I couldn't answer. As I had just that once before, I smelled his cool breath in my
face. Sweet, delicious, the scent made my mouth water. It was unlike anything else.
Instinctively, unthinkingly, I leaned closer, inhaling.
And he was gone, his hand ripped from mine. In the time it took my eyes to focus, he
was twenty feet away, standing at the edge of the small meadow, in the deep shade of a
huge fir tree. He stared at me, his eyes dark in the shadows, his expression unreadable.
I could feel the hurt and shock on my face. My empty hands stung.
"I'm… sorry… Edward," I whispered. I knew he could hear.
"Give me a moment," he called, just loud enough for my less sensitive ears. I sat very
still.
After ten incredibly long seconds, he walked back, slowly for him. He stopped, still
several feet away, and sank gracefully to the ground, crossing his legs. His eyes never left
mine. He took two deep breaths, and then smiled in apology.
"I am so very sorry." He hesitated. "Would you understand what I meant if I said I was
only human?"
I nodded once, not quite able to smile at his joke. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins
as the realization of danger slowly sank in. He could smell that from where he sat. His
smile turned mocking.
"I'm the world's best predator, aren't I? Everything about me invites you in — my voice,
my face, even my smell. As if I need any of that!" Unexpectedly, he was on his feet,
bounding away, instantly out of sight, only to appear beneath the same tree as before,
having circled the meadow in half a second.
"As if you could outrun me," he laughed bitterly.
He reached up with one hand and, with a deafening crack, effortlessly ripped a twofoot-
thick branch from the trunk of the spruce. He balanced it in that hand for a moment,
and then threw it with blinding speed, shattering it against another huge tree, which shook
and trembled at the blow.
And he was in front of me again, standing two feet away, still as a stone.
"As if you could fight me off," he said gently.
I sat without moving, more frightened of him than I had ever been. I'd never seen him
so completely freed of that carefully cultivated facade. He'd never been less human… or
more beautiful. Face ashen, eyes wide, I sat like a bird locked in the eyes of a snake.
His lovely eyes seem to glow with rash excitement. Then, as the seconds passed, they
dimmed. His expression slowly folded into a mask of ancient sadness.
"Don't be afraid," he murmured, his velvet voice unintentionally seductive. "I
promise…" He hesitated. "I swear not to hurt you." He seemed more concerned with
convincing himself than me.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered again as he stepped closer, with exaggerated slowness.
He sat sinuously, with deliberately unhurried movements, till our faces were on the same
level, just a foot apart.
"Please forgive me," he said formally. "I can control myself. You caught me off guard.
But I'm on my best behavior now."
He waited, but I still couldn't speak.
"I'm not thirsty today, honestly." He winked.
At that I had to laugh, though the sound was shaky and breathless.
"Are you all right?" he asked tenderly, reaching out slowly, carefully, to place his
marble hand back in mine.
I looked at his smooth, cold hand, and then at his eyes. They were soft, repentant. I
looked back at his hand, and then deliberately returned to tracing the lines in his hand
with my fingertip. I looked up and smiled timidly.
His answering smile was dazzling.
"So where were we, before I behaved so rudely?" he asked in the gentle cadences of an
earlier century.
"I honestly can't remember."
He smiled, but his face was ashamed. "I think we were talking about why you were
afraid, besides the obvious reason."
"Oh, right."
"Well?"
I looked down at his hand and doodled aimlessly across his smooth, iridescent palm.
The seconds ticked by.
"How easily frustrated I am," he sighed. I looked into his eyes, abruptly grasping that
this was every bit as new to him as it was to me. As many years of unfathomable
experience as he had, this was hard for him, too. I took courage from that thought.
"I was afraid… because, for, well, obvious reasons, I can't stay with you. And I'm afraid
that I'd like to stay with you, much more than I should." I looked down at his hands as I
spoke. It was difficult for me to say this aloud.
"Yes," he agreed slowly. "That is something to be afraid of, indeed. Wanting to be with
me. That's really not in your best interest."
I frowned.
"I should have left long ago," he sighed. "I should leave now. But I don't know if I can."
"I don't want you to leave," I mumbled pathetically, staring down again.
"Which is exactly why I should. But don't worry. I'm essentially a selfish creature. I
crave your company too much to do what I should."
"I'm glad."
"Don't be!" He withdrew his hand, more gently this time; his voice was harsher than
usual. Harsh for him, still more beautiful than any human voice. It was hard to keep up —
his sudden mood changes left me always a step behind, dazed.
"It's not only your company I crave! Never forget that. Never forget I am more
dangerous to you than I am to anyone else." He stopped, and I looked to see him gazing
unseeingly into the forest.
I thought for a moment.
"I don't think I understand exactly what you mean — by that last part anyway," I said.
He looked back at me and smiled, his mood shifting yet again.
"How do I explain?" he mused. "And without frightening you again…hmmmm."
Without seeming to think about it, he placed his hand back in mine; I held it tightly in
both of mine. He looked at our hands.
"That's amazingly pleasant, the warmth." He sighed.
A moment passed as he assembled his thoughts.
"You know how everyone enjoys different flavors?" he began. "Some people love
chocolate ice cream, others prefer strawberry?"
I nodded.
"Sorry about the food analogy — I couldn't think of another way to explain."
I smiled. He smiled ruefully back.
"You see, every person smells different, has a different essence. If you locked an
alcoholic in a room full of stale beer, he'd gladly drink it. But he could resist, if he wished
to, if he were a recovering alcoholic. Now let's say you placed in that room a glass of
hundred-year-old brandy, the rarest, finest cognac — and filled the room with its warm
aroma — how do you think he would fare then?"
We sat silently, looking into each other's eyes — trying to read each other's thoughts.
He broke the silence first.
"Maybe that's not the right comparison. Maybe it would be too easy to turn down the
brandy. Perhaps I should have made our alcoholic a heroin addict instead."
"So what you're saying is, I'm your brand of heroin?" I teased, trying to lighten the
mood.
He smiled swiftly, seeming to appreciate my effort. "Yes, you are exactly my brand of
heroin."
"Does that happen often?" I asked.
He looked across the treetops, thinking through his response.
"I spoke to my brothers about it." He still stared into the distance. "To Jasper, every one
of you is much the same. He's the most recent to join our family. It's a struggle for him to
abstain at all. He hasn't had time to grow sensitive to the differences in smell, in flavor."
He glanced swiftly at me, his expression apologetic.
"Sorry," he said.
"I don't mind. Please don't worry about offending me, or frightening me, or whichever.
That's the way you think. I can understand, or I can try to at least. Just explain however
you can."
He took a deep breath and gazed at the sky again.
"So Jasper wasn't sure if he'd ever come across someone who was as" — he hesitated,
looking for the right word — "appealing as you are to me. Which makes me think not.
Emmett has been on the wagon longer, so to speak, and he understood what I meant. He
says twice, for him, once stronger than the other."
"And for you?"
"Never."
The word hung there for a moment in the warm breeze.
"What did Emmett do?" I asked to break the silence.
It was the wrong question to ask. His face grew dark, his hand clenched into a fist
inside mine. He looked away. I waited, but he wasn't going to answer.
"I guess I know," I finally said.
He lifted his eyes; his expression was wistful, pleading.
"Even the strongest of us fall off the wagon, don't we?"
"What are you asking? My permission?" My voice was sharper than I'd intended. I tried
to make my tone kinder — I could guess what his honesty must cost him. "I mean, is
there no hope, then?" How calmly I could discuss my own death!
"No, no!" He was instantly contrite. "Of course there's hope! I mean, of course I
won't…" He left the sentence hanging. His eyes burned into mine. "It's different for us.
Emmett… these were strangers he happened across. It was a long time ago, and he wasn't
as… practiced, as careful, as he is now."
He fell silent and watched me intently as I thought it through.
"So if we'd met… oh, in a dark alley or something…" I trailed off.
"It took everything I had not to jump up in the middle of that class full of children and
—" He stopped abruptly, looking away. "When you walked past me, I could have ruined
everything Carlisle has built for us, right then and there. If I hadn't been denying my
thirst for the last, well, too many years, I wouldn't have been able to stop myself." He
paused, scowling at the trees.
He glanced at me grimly, both of us remembering. "You must have thought I was
possessed."
"I couldn't understand why. How you could hate me so quickly…"
"To me, it was like you were some kind of demon, summoned straight from my own
personal hell to ruin me. The fragrance coming off your skin… I thought it would make
me deranged that first day. In that one hour, I thought of a hundred different ways to lure
you from the room with me, to get you alone. And I fought them each back, thinking of
my family, what I could do to them. I had to run out, to get away before I could speak the
words that would make you follow…"
He looked up then at my staggered expression as I tried to absorb his bitter memories.
His golden eyes scorched from under his lashes, hypnotic and deadly.
"You would have come," he promised.
I tried to speak calmly. "Without a doubt."
He frowned down at my hands, releasing me from the force of his stare. "And then, as I
tried to rearrange my schedule in a pointless attempt to avoid you, you were there — in
that close, warm little room, the scent was maddening. I so very nearly took you then.
There was only one other frail human there — so easily dealt with."
I shivered in the warm sun, seeing my memories anew through his eyes, only now
grasping the danger. Poor Ms. Cope; I shivered again at how close I'd come to being
inadvertently responsible for her death.
"But I resisted. I don't know how. I forced myself not to wait for you, not to follow you
from the school. It was easier outside, when I couldn't smell you anymore, to think
clearly, to make the right decision. I left the others near home — I was too ashamed to
tell them how weak I was, they only knew something was very wrong — and then I went
straight to Carlisle, at the hospital, to tell him I was leaving."
I stared in surprise.
"I traded cars with him — he had a full tank of gas and I didn't want to stop. I didn't
dare to go home, to face Esme. She wouldn't have let me go without a scene. She would
have tried to convince me that it wasn't necessary…
"By the next morning I was in Alaska." He sounded ashamed, as if admitting a great
cowardice. "I spent two days there, with some old acquaintances… but I was homesick. I
hated knowing I'd upset Esme, and the rest of them, my adopted family. In the pure air of
the mountains it was hard to believe you were so irresistible. I convinced myself it was
weak to run away. I'd dealt with temptation before, not of this magnitude, not even close,
but I was strong. Who were you, an insignificant little girl" — he grinned suddenly — "to
chase me from the place I wanted to be? So I came back…" He stared off into space.
I couldn't speak.
"I took precautions, hunting, feeding more than usual before seeing you again. I was
sure that I was strong enough to treat you like any other human. I was arrogant about it.
"It was unquestionably a complication that I couldn't simply read your thoughts to
know what your reaction was to me. I wasn't used to having to go to such circuitous
measures, listening to your words in Jessica's mind… her mind isn't very original, and it
was annoying to have to stoop to that. And then I couldn't know if you really meant what
you said. It was all extremely irritating." He frowned at the memory.
"I wanted you to forget my behavior that first day, if possible, so I tried to talk with you
like I would with any person. I was eager actually, hoping to decipher some of your
thoughts. But you were too interesting, I found myself caught up in your expressions…
and every now and then you would stir the air with your hand or your hair, and the scent
would stun me again…
"Of course, then you were nearly crushed to death in front of my eyes. Later I thought
of a perfectly good excuse for why I acted at that moment — because if I hadn't saved
you, if your blood had been spilled there in front of me, I don't think I could have stopped
myself from exposing us for what we are. But I only thought of that excuse later. At the
time, all I could think was, 'Not her.'"
He closed his eyes, lost in his agonized confession. I listened, more eager than rational.
Common sense told me I should be terrified. Instead, I was relieved to finally understand.
And I was filled with compassion for his suffering, even now, as he confessed his craving
to take my life.
I finally was able to speak, though my voice was faint. "In the hospital?"
His eyes flashed up to mine. "I was appalled. I couldn't believe I had put us in danger
after all, put myself in your power — you of all people. As if I needed another motive to
kill you." We both flinched as that word slipped out. "But it had the opposite effect," he
continued quickly. "I fought with Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper when they suggested that
now was the time… the worst fight we've ever had. Carlisle sided with me, and Alice."
He grimaced when he said her name. I couldn't imagine why. "Esme told me to do
whatever I had to in order to stay." He shook his head indulgently.
"All that next day I eavesdropped on the minds of everyone you spoke to, shocked that
you kept your word. I didn't understand you at all. But I knew that I couldn't become
more involved with you. I did my very best to stay as far from you as possible. And every
day the perfume of your skin, your breath, your hair… it hit me as hard as the very first
day."
He met my eyes again, and they were surprisingly tender.
"And for all that," he continued, "I'd have fared better if I had exposed us all at that first
moment, than if now, here — with no witnesses and nothing to stop me — I were to hurt
you."
I was human enough to have to ask. "Why?"
"Isabella." He pronounced my full name carefully, then playfully ruffled my hair with
his free hand. A shock ran through my body at his casual touch. "Bella, I couldn't live
with myself if I ever hurt you. You don't know how it's tortured me." He looked down,
ashamed again. "The thought of you, still, white, cold… to never see you blush scarlet
again, to never see that flash of intuition in your eyes when you see through my
pretenses… it would be unendurable." He lifted his glorious, agonized eyes to mine. "You
are the most important thing to me now. The most important thing to me ever."
My head was spinning at the rapid change in direction our conversation had taken.
From the cheerful topic of my impending demise, we were suddenly declaring ourselves.
He waited, and even though I looked down to study our hands between us, I knew his
golden eyes were on me. "You already know how I feel, of course," I finally said. "I'm
here… which, roughly translated, means I would rather die than stay away from you." I
frowned. "I'm an idiot."
"You are an idiot," he agreed with a laugh. Our eyes met, and I laughed, too. We
laughed together at the idiocy and sheer impossibility of such a moment.
"And so the lion fell in love with the lamb…" he murmured. I looked away, hiding my
eyes as I thrilled to the word.
"What a stupid lamb," I sighed.
"What a sick, masochistic lion." He stared into the shadowy forest for a long moment,
and I wondered where his thoughts had taken him.
"Why… ?"I began, and then paused, not sure how to continue.
He looked at me and smiled; sunlight glinted off his face, his teeth.
"Yes?"
"Tell me why you ran from me before."
His smile faded. "You know why."
"No, I mean, exactly what did I do wrong? I'll have to be on my guard, you see, so I
better start learning what I shouldn't do. This, for example" — I stroked the back of his
hand — "seems to be all right."
He smiled again. "You didn't do anything wrong, Bella. It was my fault."
"But I want to help, if I can, to not make this harder for you."
"Well…" He contemplated for a moment. "It was just how close you were. Most
humans instinctively shy away from us, are repelled by our alienness … I wasn't
expecting you to come so close. And the smell of your throat." He stopped short, looking
to see if he'd upset me.
"Okay, then," I said flippantly, trying to alleviate the suddenly tense atmosphere. I
tucked my chin. "No throat exposure."
It worked; he laughed. "No, really, it was more the surprise than anything else."
He raised his free hand and placed it gently on the side of my neck. I sat very still, the
chill of his touch a natural warning — a warning telling me to be terrified. But there was
no feeling of fear in me. There were, however, other feelings…
"You see," he said. "Perfectly fine."
My blood was racing, and I wished I could slow it, sensing that this must make
everything so much more difficult — the thudding of my pulse in my veins. Surely he
could hear it.
"The blush on your cheeks is lovely," he murmured. He gently freed his other hand. My
hands fell limply into my lap. Softly he brushed my cheek, then held my face between his
marble hands.
"Be very still," he whispered, as if I wasn't already frozen.
Slowly, never moving his eyes from mine, he leaned toward me. Then abruptly, but
very gently, he rested his cold cheek against the hollow at the base of my throat. I was
quite unable to move, even if I'd wanted to. I listened to the sound of his even breathing,
watching the sun and wind play in his bronze hair, more human than any other part of
him.
With deliberate slowness, his hands slid down the sides of my neck. I shivered, and I
heard him catch his breath. But his hands didn't pause as they softly moved to my
shoulders, and then stopped.
His face drifted to the side, his nose skimming across my collarbone. He came to rest
with the side of his face pressed tenderly against my chest.
Listening to my heart.
"Ah," he sighed.
I don't know how long we sat without moving. It could have been hours. Eventually the
throb of my pulse quieted, but he didn't move or speak again as he held me. I knew at any
moment it could be too much, and my life could end — so quickly that I might not even
notice. And I couldn't make myself be afraid. I couldn't think of anything, except that he
was touching me.
And then, too soon, he released me.
His eyes were peaceful.
"It won't be so hard again," he said with satisfaction.
"Was that very hard for you?"
"Not nearly as bad as I imagined it would be. And you?"
"No, it wasn't bad… for me."
He smiled at my inflection. "You know what I mean."
I smiled.
"Here." He took my hand and placed it against his cheek. "Do you feel how warm it
is?"
And it was almost warm, his usually icy skin. But I barely noticed, for I was touching
his face, something I'd dreamed of constantly since the first day I'd seen him.
"Don't move," I whispered.
No one could be still like Edward. He closed his eyes and became as immobile as stone,
a carving under my hand.
I moved even more slowly than he had, careful not to make one unexpected move. I
caressed his cheek, delicately stroked his eyelid, the purple shadow in the hollow under
his eye. I traced the shape of his perfect nose, and then, so carefully, his flawless lips. His
lips parted under my hand, and I could feel his cool breath on my fingertips. I wanted to
lean in, to inhale the scent of him. So I dropped my hand and leaned away, not wanting to
push him too far.
He opened his eyes, and they were hungry. Not in a way to make me fear, but rather to
tighten the muscles in the pit of my stomach and send my pulse hammering through my
veins again.
"I wish," he whispered, "I wish you could feel the… complexity… the confusion… I
feel. That you could understand."
He raised his hand to my hair, then carefully brushed it across my face.
"Tell me," I breathed.
"I don't think I can. I've told you, on the one hand, the hunger — the thirst — that,
deplorable creature that I am, I feel for you. And I think you can understand that, to an
extent. Though" — he half-smiled — "as you are not addicted to any illegal substances,
you probably can't empathize completely.
"But…" His fingers touched my lips lightly, making me shiver again. "There are other
hungers. Hungers I don't even understand, that are foreign to me."
"I may understand that better than you think."
"I'm not used to feeling so human. Is it always like this?"
"For me?" I paused. "No, never. Never before this."
He held my hands between his. They felt so feeble in his iron strength.
"I don't know how to be close to you," he admitted. "I don't know if I can."
I leaned forward very slowly, cautioning him with my eyes. I placed my cheek against
his stone chest. I could hear his breath, and nothing else.
"This is enough," I sighed, closing my eyes.
In a very human gesture, he put his arms around me and pressed his face against my
hair.
"You're better at this than you give yourself credit for," I noted.
"I have human instincts — they may be buried deep, but they're there."
We sat like that for another immeasurable moment; I wondered if he could be as
unwilling to move as I was. But I could see the light was fading, the shadows of the forest
beginning to touch us, and I sighed.
"You have to go."
"I thought you couldn't read my mind."
"It's getting clearer." I could hear a smile in his voice.
He took my shoulders and I looked into his face.
"Can I show you something?" he asked, sudden excitement flaring in his eyes.
"Show me what?"
"I'll show you how I travel in the forest." He saw my expression. "Don't worry, you'll be
very safe, and we'll get to your truck much faster." His mouth twitched up into that
crooked smile so beautiful my heart nearly stopped.
"Will you turn into a bat?" I asked warily.
He laughed, louder than I'd ever heard. "Like I haven't heard that one before!"
"Right, I'm sure you get that all the time."
"Come on, little coward, climb on my back."
I waited to see if he was kidding, but, apparently, he meant it. He smiled as he read my
hesitation, and reached for me. My heart reacted; even though he couldn't hear my
thoughts, my pulse always gave me away. He then proceeded to sling me onto his back,
with very little effort on my part, besides, when in place, clamping my legs and arms so
tightly around him that it would choke a normal person. It was like clinging to a stone.
"I'm a bit heavier than your average backpack," I warned.
"Hah!" he snorted. I could almost hear his eyes rolling. I'd never seen him in such high
spirits before.
He startled me, suddenly grabbing my hand, pressing my palm to his face, and inhaling
deeply.
"Easier all the time," he muttered.
And then he was running.
If I'd ever feared death before in his presence, it was nothing compared to how I felt
now.
He streaked through the dark, thick underbrush of the forest like a bullet, like a ghost.
There was no sound, no evidence that his feet touched the earth. His breathing never
changed, never indicated any effort. But the trees flew by at deadly speeds, always
missing us by inches.
I was too terrified to close my eyes, though the cool forest air whipped against my face
and burned them. I felt as if I were stupidly sticking my head out the window of an
airplane in flight. And, for the first time in my life, I felt the dizzy faintness of motion
sickness.
Then it was over. We'd hiked hours this morning to reach Edward's meadow, and now,
in a matter of minutes, we were back to the truck.
"Exhilarating, isn't it?" His voice was high, excited.
He stood motionless, waiting for me to climb down. I tried, but my muscles wouldn't
respond. My arms and legs stayed locked around him while my head spun uncomfortably.
"Bella?" he asked, anxious now.
"I think I need to lie down," I gasped.
"Oh, sorry." He waited for me, but I still couldn't move.
"I think I need help," I admitted.
He laughed quietly, and gently unloosened my stranglehold on his neck. There was no
resisting the iron strength of his hands. Then he pulled me around to face him, cradling
me in his arms like a small child. He held me for a moment, then carefully placed me on
the springy ferns.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
I couldn't be sure how I felt when my head was spinning so crazily. "Dizzy, I think."
"Put your head between your knees."
I tried that, and it helped a little. I breathed in and out slowly, keeping my head very
still. I felt him sitting beside me. The moments passed, and eventually I found that I could
raise my head. There was a hollow ringing sound in my ears.
"I guess that wasn't the best idea," he mused.
I tried to be positive, but my voice was weak. "No, it was very interesting."
"Hah! You're as white as a ghost — no, you're as white as me !"
"I think I should have closed my eyes."
"Remember that next time."
"Next time!" I groaned.
He laughed, his mood still radiant.
"Show-off," I muttered.
"Open your eyes, Bella," he said quietly.
And he was right there, his face so close to mine. His beauty stunned my mind — it was
too much, an excess I couldn't grow accustomed to.
"I was thinking, while I was running…" He paused.
"About not hitting the trees, I hope."
"Silly Bella," he chuckled. "Running is second nature tome, it's not something I have to
think about."
"Show-off," I muttered again.
He smiled.
"No," he continued, "I was thinking there was something I wanted to try." And he took
my face in his hands again.
I couldn't breathe.
He hesitated — not in the normal way, the human way.
Not the way a man might hesitate before he kissed a woman, to gauge her reaction, to
see how he would be received. Perhaps he would hesitate to prolong the moment, that
ideal moment of anticipation, sometimes better than the kiss itself.
Edward hesitated to test himself, to see if this was safe, to make sure he was still in
control of his need.
And then his cold, marble lips pressed very softly against mine.
What neither of us was prepared for was my response.
Blood boiled under my skin, burned in my lips. My breath came in a wild gasp. My
fingers knotted in his hair, clutching him to me. My lips parted as I breathed in his heady
scent.
Immediately I felt him turn to unresponsive stone beneath my lips. His hands gently,
but with irresistible force, pushed my face back. I opened my eyes and saw his guarded
expression.
"Oops," I breathed.
"That's an understatement."
His eyes were wild, his jaw clenched in acute restraint, yet he didn't lapse from his
perfect articulation. He held my face just inches from his. He dazzled my eyes.
"Should I… ?"I tried to disengage myself, to give him some room.
His hands refused to let me move so much as an inch.
"No, it's tolerable. Wait for a moment, please." His voice was polite, controlled.
I kept my eyes on his, watched as the excitement in them faded and gentled.
Then he smiled a surprisingly impish grin.
"There," he said, obviously pleased with himself.
"Tolerable?" I asked.
He laughed aloud. "I'm stronger than I thought. It's nice to know."
"I wish I could say the same. I'm sorry."
"You are only human, after all."
"Thanks so much," I said, my voice acerbic.
He was on his feet in one of his lithe, almost invisibly quick movements. He held out
his hand to me, an unexpected gesture. I was so used to our standard of careful noncontact.
I took his icy hand, needing the support more than I thought. My balance had not
yet returned.
"Are you still faint from the run? Or was it my kissing expertise?" How lighthearted,
how human he seemed as he laughed now, his seraphic face untroubled. He was a
different Edward than the one I had known. And I felt all the more besotted by him. It
would cause me physical pain to be separated from him now.
"I can't be sure, I'm still woozy," I managed to respond. "I think it's some of both,
though."
"Maybe you should let me drive."
"Are you insane?" I protested.
"I can drive better than you on your best day," he teased. "You have much slower
reflexes."
"I'm sure that's true, but I don't think my nerves, or my truck, could take it."
"Some trust, please, Bella."
My hand was in my pocket, curled tightly around the key. I pursed my lips, deliberated,
then shook my head with a tight grin.
"Nope. Not a chance."
He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
I started to step around him, heading for the driver's side. He might have let me pass if I
hadn't wobbled slightly. Then again, he might not have. His arm created an inescapable
snare around my waist.
"Bella, I've already expended a great deal of personal effort at this point to keep you
alive. I'm not about to let you behind the wheel of a vehicle when you can't even walk
straight. Besides, friends don't let friends drive drunk," he quoted with a chuckle. I could
smell the unbearably sweet fragrance coming off his chest.
"Drunk?" I objected.
"You're intoxicated by my very presence." He was grinning that playful smirk again.
"I can't argue with that," I sighed. There was no way around it; I couldn't resist him in
anything. I held the key high and dropped it, watching his hand flash like lightning to
catch it soundlessly. "Take it easy — my truck is a senior citizen."
"Very sensible," he approved.
"And are you not affected at all?" I asked, irked. "By my presence?"
Again his mobile features transformed, his expression became soft, warm. He didn't
answer at first; he simply bent his face to mine, and brushed his lips slowly along my jaw,
from my ear to my chin, back and forth. I trembled.
"Regardless," he finally murmured, "I have better reflexes."
14. Mind Over Matter
He could drive well, when he kept the speed reasonable, I had to admit. Like so many
things, it seemed to be effortless to him. He barely looked at the road, yet the tires never
deviated so much as a centimeter from the center of the lane. He drove one-handed,
holding my hand on the seat. Sometimes he gazed into the setting sun, sometimes he
glanced at me — my face, my hair blowing out the open window, our hands twined
together.
He had turned the radio to an oldies station, and he sang along with a song I'd never
heard. He knew every line.
"You like fifties music?" I asked.
"Music in the fifties was good. Much better than the sixties, or the seventies, ugh!" He
shuddered. "The eighties were bearable."
"Are you ever going to tell me how old you are?" I asked, tentative, not wanting to
upset his buoyant humor.
"Does it matter much?" His smile, to my relief, remained unclouded.
"No, but I still wonder…" I grimaced. "There's nothing like an unsolved mystery to
keep you up at night."
"I wonder if it will upset you," he reflected to himself. He gazed into the sun; the
minutes passed.
"Try me," I finally said.
He sighed, and then looked into my eyes, seeming to forget the road completely for a
time. Whatever he saw there must have encouraged him. He looked into the sun — the
light of the setting orb glittered off his skin in ruby-tinged sparkles — and spoke.
"I was born in Chicago in 1901." He paused and glanced at me from the corner of his
eyes. My face was carefully unsurprised, patient for the rest. He smiled a tiny smile and
continued. "Carlisle found me in a hospital in the summer of 1918. I was seventeen, and
dying of the Spanish influenza."
He heard my intake of breath, though it was barely audible to my own ears. He looked
down into my eyes again.
"I don't remember it well — it was a very long time ago, and human memories fade."
He was lost in his thoughts for a short time before he went on. "I do remember how it
felt, when Carlisle saved me. It's not an easy thing, not something you could forget."
"Your parents?"
"They had already died from the disease. I was alone. That was why he chose me. In all
the chaos of the epidemic, no one would ever realize I was gone."
"How did he… save you?"
A few seconds passed before he answered. He seemed to choose his words carefully.
"It was difficult. Not many of us have the restraint necessary to accomplish it. But
Carlisle has always been the most humane, the most compassionate of us… I don't think
you could find his equal throughout all of history." He paused. "For me, it was merely
very, very painful."
I could tell from the set of his lips, he would say no more on this subject. I suppressed
my curiosity, though it was far from idle. There were many things I needed to think
through on this particular issue, things that were only beginning to occur to me. No doubt
his quick mind had already comprehended every aspect that eluded me.
His soft voice interrupted my thoughts. "He acted from loneliness. That's usually the
reason behind the choice. I was the first in Carlisle's family, though he found Esme soon
after. She fell from a cliff. They brought her straight to the hospital morgue, though,
somehow, her heart was still beating."
"So you must be dying, then, to become…" We never said the word, and I couldn't
frame it now.
"No, that's just Carlisle. He would never do that to someone who had another choice."
The respect in his voice was profound whenever he spoke of his father figure. "It is easier
he says, though," he continued, "if the blood is weak." He looked at the now-dark road,
and I could feel the subject closing again.
"And Emmett and Rosalie?"
"Carlisle brought Rosalie to our family next. I didn't realize till much later that he was
hoping she would be to me what Esme was to him — he was careful with his thoughts
around me." He rolled his eyes. "But she was never more than a sister. It was only two
years later that she found Emmett. She was hunting — we were in Appalachia at the time
— and found a bear about to finish him off. She carried him back to Carlisle, more than a
hundred miles, afraid she wouldn't be able to do it herself. I'm only beginning to guess
how difficult that journey was for her." He threw a pointed glance in my direction, and
raised our hands, still folded together, to brush my cheek with the back of his hand.
"But she made it," I encouraged, looking away from the unbearable beauty of his eyes.
"Yes," he murmured. "She saw something in his face that made her strong enough. And
they've been together ever since. Sometimes they live separately from us, as a married
couple. But the younger we pretend to be, the longer we can stay in any given place.
Forks seemed perfect, so we all enrolled in high school." He laughed. "I suppose we'll
have to go to their wedding in a few years, again."
"Alice and Jasper?"
"Alice and Jasper are two very rare creatures. They both developed a conscience, as we
refer to it, with no outside guidance. Jasper belonged to another… family, a very different
kind of family. He became depressed, and he wandered on his own. Alice found him.
Like me, she has certain gifts above and beyond the norm for our kind."
"Really?" I interrupted, fascinated. "But you said you were the only one who could hear
people's thoughts."
"That's true. She knows other things. She sees things — things that might happen,
things that are coming. But it's very subjective. The future isn't set in stone. Things
change."
His jaw set when he said that, and his eyes darted to my face and away so quickly that I
wasn't sure if I only imagined it.
"What kinds of things does she see?"
"She saw Jasper and knew that he was looking for her before he knew it himself. She
saw Carlisle and our family, and they came together to find us. She's most sensitive to
non-humans. She always sees, for example, when another group of our kind is coming
near. And any threat they may pose."
"Are there a lot of… your kind?" I was surprised. How many of them could walk
among us undetected?
"No, not many. But most won't settle in any one place. Only those like us, who've given
up hunting you people" — a sly glance in my direction — "can live together with humans
for any length of time. We've only found one other family like ours, in a small village in
Alaska. We lived together for a time, but there were so many of us that we became too
noticeable. Those of us who live… differently tend to band together."
"And the others?"
"Nomads, for the most part. We've all lived that way at times. It gets tedious, like
anything else. But we run across the others now and then, because most of us prefer the
North."
"Why is that?"
We were parked in front of my house now, and he'd turned off the truck. It was very
quiet and dark; there was no moon. The porch light was off so I knew my father wasn't
home yet.
"Did you have your eyes open this afternoon?" he teased. "Do you think I could walk
down the street in the sunlight without causing traffic accidents? There's a reason why we
chose the Olympic Peninsula, one of the most sunless places in the world. It's nice to be
able to go outside in the day. You wouldn't believe how tired you can get of nighttime in
eighty-odd years."
"So that's where the legends came from?"
"Probably."
"And Alice came from another family, like Jasper?"
"No, and that is a mystery. Alice doesn't remember her human life at all. And she
doesn't know who created her. She awoke alone. Whoever made her walked away, and
none of us understand why, or how, he could. If she hadn't had that other sense, if she
hadn't seen Jasper and Carlisle and known that she would someday become one of us, she
probably would have turned into a total savage."
There was so much to think through, so much I still wanted to ask. But, to my great
embarrassment, my stomach growled. I'd been so intrigued, I hadn't even noticed I was
hungry. I realized now that I was ravenous.
"I’m sorry, I'm keeping you from dinner."
"I'm fine, really."
"I've never spent much time around anyone who eats food. I forget."
"I want to stay with you." It was easier to say in the darkness, knowing as I spoke how
my voice would betray me, my hopeless addiction to him.
"Can't I come in?" he asked.
"Would you like to?" I couldn't picture it, this godlike creature sitting in my father's
shabby kitchen chair.
"Yes, if it's all right." I heard the door close quietly, and almost simultaneously he was
outside my door, opening it for me.
"Very human," I complimented him.
"It's definitely resurfacing."
He walked beside me in the night, so quietly I had to peek at him constantly to be sure
he was still there. In the darkness he looked much more normal. Still pale, still dreamlike
in his beauty, but no longer the fantastic sparkling creature of our sunlit afternoon.
He reached the door ahead of me and opened it for me. I paused halfway through the
frame.
"The door was unlocked?"
"No, I used the key from under the eave."
I stepped inside, flicked on the porch light, and turned to look at him with my eyebrows
raised. I was sure I'd never used that key in front of him.
"I was curious about you."
"You spied on me?" But somehow I couldn't infuse my voice with the proper outrage. I
was flattered.
He was unrepentant. "What else is there to do at night?"
I let it go for the moment and went down the hall to the kitchen. He was there before
me, needing no guide. He sat in the very chair I'd tried to picture him in. His beauty lit up
the kitchen. It was a moment before I could look away.
I concentrated on getting my dinner, taking last night's lasagna from the fridge, placing
a square on a plate, heating it in the microwave. It revolved, filling the kitchen with the
smell of tomatoes and oregano. I didn't take my eyes from the plate of food as I spoke.
"How often?" I asked casually.
"Hmmm?" He sounded as if I had pulled him from some other train of thought.
I still didn't turn around. "How often did you come here?"
"I come here almost every night."
I whirled, stunned. "Why?"
"You're interesting when you sleep." He spoke matter-of-factly. "You talk."
"No!" I gasped, heat flooding my face all the way to my hairline. I gripped the kitchen
counter for support. I knew I talked in my sleep, of course; my mother teased me about it.
I hadn't thought it was something I needed to worry about here, though.
His expression shifted instantly to chagrin. "Are you very angry with me?"
"That depends!" I felt and sounded like I'd had the breath knocked out of me.
He waited.
"On?" he urged.
"What you heard!" I wailed.
Instantly, silently, he was at my side, taking my hands carefully in his.
"Don't be upset!" he pleaded. He dropped his face to the level of my eyes, holding my
gaze. I was embarrassed. I tried to look away.
"You miss your mother," he whispered. "You worry about her. And when it rains, the
sound makes you restless. You used to talk about home a lot, but it's less often now. Once
you said, 'It's too green.'" He laughed softly, hoping, I could see, not to offend me further.
"Anything else?" I demanded.
He knew what I was getting at. "You did say my name," he admitted.
I sighed in defeat. "A lot?"
"How much do you mean by 'a lot,' exactly?"
"Oh no!" I hung my head.
He pulled me against his chest, softly, naturally.
"Don't be self-conscious," he whispered in my ear. "If I could dream at all, it would be
about you. And I'm not ashamed of it."
Then we both heard the sound of tires on the brick driveway, saw the headlights flash
through the front windows, down the hall to us. I stiffened in his arms.
"Should your father know I'm here?" he asked.
"I'm not sure…" I tried to think it through quickly.
"Another time then…"
And I was alone.
"Edward!" I hissed.
I heard a ghostly chuckle, then nothing else.
My father's key turned in the door.
"Bella?" he called. It had bothered me before; who else would it be? Suddenly he didn't
seem so far off base.
"In here." I hoped he couldn't hear the hysterical edge to my voice. I grabbed my dinner
from the microwave and sat at the table as he walked in. His footsteps sounded so noisy
after my day with Edward.
"Can you get me some of that? I'm bushed." He stepped on the heels of his boots to take
them off, holding the back of Edward's chair for support.
I took my food with me, scarfing it down as I got his dinner. It burned my tongue. I
filled two glasses with milk while his lasagna was heating, and gulped mine to put out the
fire. As I set the glass down, I noticed the milk trembling and realized my hand was
shaking. Charlie sat in the chair, and the contrast between him and its former occupant
was comical.
"Thanks," he said as I placed his food on the table.
"How was your day?" I asked. The words were rushed; I was dying to escape to my
room.
"Good. The fish were biting… how about you? Did you get everything done that you
wanted to?"
"Not really — it was too nice out to stay indoors." I took another big bite.
"It was a nice day," he agreed. What an understatement, I thought to myself.
Finished with the last bite of lasagna, I lifted my glass and chugged the remains of my
milk.
Charlie surprised me by being observant. "Ina hurry ?"
"Yeah, I'm tired. I'm going to bed early."
"You look kinda keyed up," he noted. Why, oh why, did this have to be his night to pay
attention?
"Do I?" was all I could manage in response. I quickly scrubbed my dishes clean in the
sink, and placed them upside down on a dish towel to dry.
"It's Saturday," he mused.
I didn't respond.
"No plans tonight?" he asked suddenly.
"No, Dad, I just want to get some sleep."
"None of the boys in town your type, eh?" He was suspicious, but trying to play it cool.
"No, none of the boys have caught my eye yet." I was careful not to over-emphasize the
word boys in my quest to be truthful with Charlie.
"I thought maybe that Mike Newton… you said he was friendly."
"He's Justa friend, Dad."
"Well, you're too good for them all, anyway. Wait till you get to college to start
looking." Every father's dream, that his daughter will be out of the house before the
hormones kick in.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," I agreed as I headed up the stairs.
"'Night, honey," he called after me. No doubt he would be listening carefully all
evening, waiting for me to try to sneak out.
"See you in the morning, Dad." See you creeping into my room tonight at midnight to
check on me.
I worked to make my tread sound slow and tired as I walked up the stairs to my room. I
shut the door loud enough for him to hear, and then sprinted on my tiptoes to the window.
I threw it open and leaned out into the night. My eyes scanned the darkness, the
impenetrable shadows of the trees.
"Edward?" I whispered, feeling completely idiotic.
The quiet, laughing response came from behind me. "Yes?"
I whirled, one hand flying to my throat in surprise.
He lay, smiling hugely, across my bed, his hands behind his head, his feet dangling off
the end, the picture of ease.
"Oh!" I breathed, sinking unsteadily to the floor.
"I'm sorry." He pressed his lips together, trying to hide his amusement.
"Just give me a minute to restart my heart."
He sat up slowly, so as not to startle me again. Then he leaned forward and reached out
with his long arms to pick me up, gripping the tops of my arms like I was a toddler. He
sat me on the bed beside him.
"Why don't you sit with me," he suggested, putting a cold hand on mine. "How's the
heart?"
"You tell me — I'm sure you hear it better than I do."
I felt his quiet laughter shake the bed.
We sat there for a moment in silence, both listening to my heartbeat slow. I thought
about having Edward in my room, with my father in the house.
"Can I have a minute to be human?" I asked.
"Certainly." He gestured with one hand that I should proceed.
"Stay," I said, trying to look severe.
"Yes, ma'am." And he made a show of becoming a statue on the edge of my bed.
I hopped up, grabbing my pajamas from off the floor, my bag of toiletries off the desk. I
left the light off and slipped out, closing the door.
I could hear the sound from the TV rising up the stairs. I banged the bathroom door
loudly, so Charlie wouldn't come up to bother me.
I meant to hurry. I brushed my teeth fiercely, trying to be thorough and speedy,
removing all traces of lasagna. But the hot water of the shower couldn't be rushed. It
unknotted the muscles in my back, calmed my pulse. The familiar smell of my shampoo
made me feel like I might be the same person I had been this morning. I tried not to think
of Edward, sitting in my room, waiting, because then I had to start all over with the
calming process. Finally, I couldn't delay anymore. I shut off the water, toweling hastily,
rushing again. I pulled on my holey t-shirt and gray sweatpants. Too late to regret not
packing the Victoria's Secret silk pajamas my mother got me two birthdays ago, which
still had the tags on them in a drawer somewhere back home.
I rubbed the towel through my hair again, and then yanked the brush through it quickly.
I threw the towel in the hamper, flung my brush and toothpaste into my bag. Then I
dashed down the stairs so Charlie could see that I was in my pajamas, with wet hair.
"'Night, Dad."
"'Night, Bella." He did look startled by my appearance. Maybe that would keep him
from checking on me tonight.
I took the stairs two at a time, trying to be quiet, and flew into my room, closing the
door tightly behind me.
Edward hadn't moved a fraction of an inch, a carving of Adonis perched on my faded
quilt. I smiled, and his lips twitched, the statue coming to life.
His eyes appraised me, taking in the damp hair, the tattered shirt. He raised one
eyebrow. "Nice."
I grimaced.
"No, it looks good on you."
"Thanks," I whispered. I went back to his side, sitting cross-legged beside him. I looked
at the lines in the wooden floor.
"What was all that for?"
"Charlie thinks I'm sneaking out."
"Oh." He contemplated that. "Why?" As if he couldn't know Charlie's mind much more
clearly than I could guess.
"Apparently, I look a little overexcited."
He lifted my chin, examining my face.
"You look very warm, actually."
He bent his face slowly to mine, laying his cool cheek against my skin. I held perfectly
still.
"Mmmmmm…" he breathed.
It was very difficult, while he was touching me, to frame a coherent question. It took
me a minute of scattered concentration to begin.
"It seems to be… much easier for you, now, to be close to me."
"Does it seem that way to you?" he murmured, his nose gliding to the corner of my jaw.
I felt his hand, lighter than a moth's wing, brushing my damp hair back, so that his lips
could touch the hollow beneath my ear.
"Much, much easier," I said, trying to exhale.
"Hmm."
"So I was wondering…" I began again, but his fingers were slowly tracing my
collarbone, and I lost my train of thought.
"Yes?" he breathed.
"Why is that," my voice shook, embarrassing me, "do you think?"
I felt the tremor of his breath on my neck as he laughed. "Mind over matter."
I pulled back; as I moved, he froze — and I could no longer hear the sound of his
breathing.
We stared cautiously at each other for a moment, and then, as his clenched jaw
gradually relaxed, his expression became puzzled.
"Did I do something wrong?"
"No — the opposite. You’re driving me crazy," I explained.
He considered that briefly, and when he spoke, he sounded pleased. "Really?" A
triumphant smile slowly lit his face.
"Would you like a round of applause?" I asked sarcastically.
He grinned.
"I'm just pleasantly surprised," he clarified. "In the last hundred years or so," his voice
was teasing, "I never imagined anything like this. I didn't believe I would ever find
someone I wanted to be with… in another way than my brothers and sisters. And then to
find, even though it's all new to me, that I'm good at it… at being with you…"
"You're good at everything," I pointed out.
He shrugged, allowing that, and we both laughed in whispers.
"But how can it be so easy now?" I pressed. "This afternoon…"
"It's not easy," he sighed. "But this afternoon, I was still… undecided. I am sorry about
that, it was unforgivable for me to behave so."
"Not unforgivable," I disagreed.
"Thank you." He smiled. "You see," he continued, looking down now, "I wasn't sure if I
was strong enough…" He picked up one of my hands and pressed it lightly to his face.
"And while there was still that possibility that I might be… overcome" — he breathed in
the scent at my wrist — "I was… susceptible. Until I made up my mind that I was strong
enough, that there was no possibility at all that I would… that I ever could…"
I'd never seen him struggle so hard for words. It was so… human.
"So there's no possibility now?"
"Mind over matter," he repeated, smiling, his teeth bright even in the darkness.
"Wow, that was easy," I said.
He threw back his head and laughed, quietly as a whisper, but still exuberantly.
"Easy for you !" he amended, touching my nose with his fingertip.
And then his face was abruptly serious.
"I'm trying," he whispered, his voice pained. "If it gets to be… too much, I'm fairly sure
I'll be able to leave."
I scowled. I didn't like the talk of leaving.
"And it will be harder tomorrow," he continued. "I've had the scent of you in my head
all day, and I've grown amazingly desensitized. If I'm away from you for any length of
time, I'll have to start over again. Not quite from scratch, though, I think."
"Don't go away, then," I responded, unable to hide the longing in my voice.
"That suits me," he replied, his face relaxing into a gentle smile. "Bring on the shackles
— I'm your prisoner." But his long hands formed manacles around my wrists as he spoke.
He laughed his quiet, musical laugh. He'd laughed more tonight than I'd ever heard in all
the time I'd spent with him.
"You seem more… optimistic than usual," I observed. "I haven't seen you like this
before."
"Isn't it supposed to be like this?" He smiled. "The glory of first love, and all that. It's
incredible, isn't it, the difference between reading about something, seeing it in the
pictures, and experiencing it?"
"Very different," I agreed. "More forceful than I'd imagined."
"For example" — his words flowed swiftly now, I had to concentrate to catch it all
— "the emotion of jealousy. I've read about it a hundred thousand times, seen actors
portray it in a thousand different plays and movies. I believed I understood that one pretty
clearly. But it shocked me…" He grimaced. "Do you remember the day that Mike asked
you to the dance?"
I nodded, though I remembered that day for a different reason. "The day you started
talking to me again."
"I was surprised by the flare of resentment, almost fury, that I felt — I didn't recognize
what it was at first. I was even more aggravated than usual that I couldn't know what you
were thinking, why you refused him. Was it simply for your friend's sake? Was there
someone else? I knew I had no right to care either way. I tried not to care.
"And then the line started forming," he chuckled. I scowled in the darkness.
"I waited, unreasonably anxious to hear what you would say to them, to watch your
expressions. I couldn't deny the relief I felt, watching the annoyance on your face. But I
couldn't be sure.
"That was the first night I came here. I wrestled all night, while watching you sleep,
with the chasm between what I knew was right, moral, ethical, and what I wanted. I knew
that if I continued to ignore you as I should, or if I left for a few years, till you were gone,
that someday you would say yes to Mike, or someone like him. It made me angry.
"And then," he whispered, "as you were sleeping, you said my name. You spoke so
clearly, at first I thought you'd woken. But you rolled over restlessly and mumbled my
name once more, and sighed. The feeling that coursed through me then was unnerving,
staggering. And I knew I couldn't ignore you any longer." He was silent for a moment,
probably listening to the suddenly uneven pounding of my heart.
"But jealousy… it's a strange thing. So much more powerful than I would have thought.
And irrational! Just now, when Charlie asked you about that vile Mike Newton…" He
shook his head angrily.
"I should have known you'd be listening," I groaned.
"Of course."
"That made you feel jealous, though, really?"
"I'm new at this; you're resurrecting the human in me, and everything feels stronger
because it's fresh."
"But honestly," I teased, "for that to bother you, after I have to hear that Rosalie —
Rosalie, the incarnation of pure beauty, Rosalie — was meant for you. Emmett or no
Emmett, how can I compete with that?"
"There's no competition." His teeth gleamed. He drew my trapped hands around his
back, holding me to his chest. I kept as still as I could, even breathing with caution.
"I know there's no competition," I mumbled into his cold skin. "That's the problem."
"Of course Rosalie is beautiful in her way, but even if she wasn't like a sister to me,
even if Emmett didn't belong with her, she could never have one tenth, no, one hundredth
of the attraction you hold for me." He was serious now, thoughtful. "For almost ninety
years I've walked among my kind, and yours… all the time thinking I was complete in
myself, not realizing what I was seeking. And not finding anything, because you weren't
alive yet."
"It hardly seems fair," I whispered, my face still resting on his chest, listening to his
breath come and go. "I haven't had to wait at all. Why should I get off so easily?"
"You're right," he agreed with amusement. "I should make this harder for you,
definitely." He freed one of his hands, released my wrist, only to gather it carefully into
his other hand. He stroked my wet hair softly, from the top of my head to my waist. "You
only have to risk your life every second you spend with me, that's surely not much. You
only have to turn your back on nature, on humanity… what's that worth?"
"Very little — I don't feel deprived of anything."
"Not yet." And his voice was abruptly full of ancient grief.
I tried to pull back, to look in his face, but his hand locked my wrists in an unbreakable
hold.
"What —" I started to ask, when his body became alert. I froze, but he suddenly
released my hands, and disappeared. I narrowly avoided falling on my face.
"Lie down!" he hissed. I couldn't tell where he spoke from in the darkness.
I rolled under my quilt, balling up on my side, the way I usually slept. I heard the door
crack open, as Charlie peeked in to make sure I was where I was supposed to be. I
breathed evenly, exaggerating the movement.
A long minute passed. I listened, not sure if I'd heard the door close. Then Edward's
cool arm was around me, under the covers, his lips at my ear.
"You are a terrible actress — I'd say that career path is out for you."
"Darn it," I muttered. My heart was crashing in my chest.
He hummed a melody I didn't recognize; it sounded like a lullaby.
He paused. "Should I sing you to sleep?"
"Right," I laughed. "Like I could sleep with you here!"
"You do it all the time," he reminded me.
"But I didn't know you were here," I replied icily.
"So if you don't want to sleep…" he suggested, ignoring my tone. My breath caught.
"If I don't want to sleep… ?"
He chuckled. "What do you want to do then?"
I couldn't answer at first.
"I'm not sure," I finally said.
"Tell me when you decide."
I could feel his cool breath on my neck, feel his nose sliding along my jaw, inhaling.
"I thought you were desensitized."
"Just because I'm resisting the wine doesn't mean I can't appreciate the bouquet," he
whispered. "You have a very floral smell, like lavender… or freesia," he noted. "It's
mouthwatering."
"Yeah, it's an off day when I don't get somebody telling me how edible I smell."
He chuckled, and then sighed.
"I've decided what I want to do," I told him. "I want to hear more about you."
"Ask me anything."
I sifted through my questions for the most vital. "Why do you do it?" I said. "I still don't
understand how you can work so hard to resist what you…are. Please don’t
misunderstand, of course I'm glad that you do. I just don't see why you would bother in
the first place."
He hesitated before answering. "That's a good question, and you are not the first one to
ask it. The others — the majority of our kind who are quite content with our lot — they,
too, wonder at how we live. But you see, just because we've been… dealt a certain
hand… it doesn't mean that we can't choose to rise above — to conquer the boundaries of
a destiny that none of us wanted. To try to retain whatever essential humanity we can."
I lay unmoving, locked in awed silence.
"Did you fall asleep?" he whispered after a few minutes.
"No."
"Is that all you were curious about?"
I rolled my eyes. "Not quite."
"What else do you want to know?"
"Why can you read minds — why only you? And Alice, seeing the future… why does
that happen?"
I felt him shrug in the darkness. "We don't really know. Carlisle has a theory… he
believes that we all bring something of our strongest human traits with us into the next
life, where they are intensified — like our minds, and our senses. He thinks that I must
have already been very sensitive to the thoughts of those around me. And that Alice had
some precognition, wherever she was."
"What did he bring into the next life, and the others?"
"Carlisle brought his compassion. Esme brought her ability to love passionately.
Emmett brought his strength, Rosalie her… tenacity. Or you could call it pigheadedness."
he chuckled. "Jasper is very interesting. He was quite charismatic in his first life, able to
influence those around him to see things his way. Now he is able to manipulate the
emotions of those around him — calm down a room of angry people, for example, or
excite a lethargic crowd, conversely. It's a very subtle gift."
I considered the impossibilities he described, trying to take it in. He waited patiently
while I thought.
"So where did it all start? I mean, Carlisle changed you, and then someone must have
changed him, and so on…"
"Well, where did you come from? Evolution? Creation? Couldn't we have evolved in
the same way as other species, predator and prey? Or, if you don't believe that all this
world could have just happened on its own, which is hard for me to accept myself, is it so
hard to believe that the same force that created the delicate angelfish with the shark, the
baby seal and the killer whale, could create both our kinds together?"
"Let me get this straight — I'm the baby seal, right?"
"Right." He laughed, and something touched my hair — his lips?
I wanted to turn toward him, to see if it was really his lips against my hair. But I had to
be good; I didn't want to make this any harder for him than it already was.
"Are you ready to sleep?" he asked, interrupting the short silence. "Or do you have any
more questions?"
"Only a million or two."
"We have tomorrow, and the next day, and the next…" he reminded me. I smiled,
euphoric at the thought.
"Are you sure you won't vanish in the morning?" I wanted this to be certain. "You are
mythical, after all."
"I won't leave you." His voice had the seal of a promise in it.
"One more, then, tonight…" And I blushed. The darkness was no help — I'm sure he
could feel the sudden warmth under my skin.
"What is it?"
"No, forget it. I changed my mind."
"Bella, you can ask me anything."
I didn't answer, and he groaned.
"I keep thinking it will get less frustrating, not hearing your thoughts. But it just gets
worse and worse."
"I'm glad you can't read my thoughts. It's bad enough that you eavesdrop on my sleeptalking."
"Please?" His voice was so persuasive, so impossible to resist.
I shook my head.
"If you don't tell me, I'll just assume it's something much worse than it is," he
threatened darkly. "Please?" Again, that pleading voice.
"Well," I began, glad that he couldn't see my face.
"Yes?"
"You said that Rosalie and Emmett will get married soon… Is that… marriage… the
same as it is for humans?"
He laughed in earnest now, understanding. "Is that what you're getting at?"
I fidgeted, unable to answer.
"Yes, I suppose it is much the same," he said. "I told you, most of those human desires
are there, just hidden behind more powerful desires."
"Oh," was all I could say.
"Was there a purpose behind your curiosity?"
"Well, I did wonder… about you and me… someday…"
He was instantly serious, I could tell by the sudden stillness of his body. I froze, too,
reacting automatically.
"I don't think that… that… would be possible for us."
"Because it would be too hard for you, if I were that… close?"
"That's certainly a problem. But that's not what I was thinking of. It's just that you are
so soft, so fragile. I have to mind my actions every moment that we're together so that I
don't hurt you. I could kill you quite easily, Bella, simply by accident." His voice had
become just a soft murmur. He moved his icy palm to rest it against my cheek. "If I was
too hasty… if for one second I wasn't paying enough attention, I could reach out,
meaning to touch your face, and crush your skull by mistake. You don't realize how
incredibly breakable you are. I can never, never afford to lose any kind of control when
I'm with you."
He waited for me to respond, growing anxious when I didn't. "Are you scared?" he
asked.
I waited for a minute to answer, so the words would be true. "No. I'm fine."
He seemed to deliberate for a moment. "I'm curious now, though," he said, his voice
light again. "Have you ever… ?"He trailed off suggestively.
"Of course not." I flushed. "I told you I've never felt like this about anyone before, not
even close."
"I know. It's just that I know other people's thoughts. I know love and lust don't always
keep the same company."
"They do for me. Now, anyway, that they exist for me at all," I sighed.
"That's nice. We have that one thing in common, at least." He sounded satisfied.
"Your human instincts…" I began. He waited. "Well, do you find me attractive, in that
way, at all?"
He laughed and lightly rumpled my nearly dry hair.
"I may not be a human, but I am a man," he assured me.
I yawned involuntarily.
"I've answered your questions, now you should sleep," he insisted.
"I'm not sure if I can."
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No!" I said too loudly.
He laughed, and then began to hum that same, unfamiliar lullaby; the voice of an
archangel, soft in my ear.
More tired than I realized, exhausted from the long day of mental and emotional stress
like I'd never felt before, I drifted to sleep in his cold arms.
15. The Cullens
The muted light of yet another cloudy day eventually woke me. I lay with my arm
across my eyes, groggy and dazed. Something, a dream trying to be remembered,
struggled to break into my consciousness. I moaned and rolled on my side, hoping more
sleep would come. And then the previous day flooded back into my awareness.
"Oh!" I sat up so fast it made my head spin.
"Your hair looks like a haystack… but I like it." His unruffled voice came from the
rocking chair in the corner.
"Edward! You stayed!" I rejoiced, and thoughtlessly threw myself across the room and
into his lap. In the instant that my thoughts caught up with my actions, I froze, shocked
by my own uncontrolled enthusiasm. I stared up at him, afraid that I had crossed the
wrong line.
But he laughed.
"Of course," he answered, startled, but seeming pleased by my reaction. His hands
rubbed my back.
I laid my head cautiously against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his skin.
"I was sure it was a dream."
"You're not that creative," he scoffed.
"Charlie!" I remembered, thoughtlessly jumping up again and heading to the door.
"He left an hour ago — after reattaching your battery cables, I might add. I have to
admit I was disappointed. Is that really all it would take to stop you, if you were
determined to go?"
I deliberated where I stood, wanting to return to him badly, but afraid I might have
morning breath.
"You're not usually this confused in the morning," he noted. He held his arms open for
me to return. A nearly irresistible invitation.
"I need another human minute," I admitted.
"I'll wait."
I skipped to the bathroom, my emotions unrecognizable. I didn't know myself, inside or
out. The face in the mirror was practically a stranger — eyes too bright, hectic spots of
red across my cheekbones. After I brushed my teeth, I worked to straighten out the
tangled chaos that was my hair. I splashed my face with cold water, and tried to breathe
normally, with no noticeable success. I half-ran back to my room.
It seemed like a miracle that he was there, his arms still waiting for me. He reached out
to me, and my heart thumped unsteadily.
"Welcome back," he murmured, taking me into his arms.
He rocked me for a while in silence, until I noticed that his clothes were changed, his
hair smooth.
"You left?" I accused, touching the collar of his fresh shirt.
"I could hardly leave in the clothes I came in — what would the neighbors think?"
I pouted.
"You were very deeply asleep; I didn't miss anything." His eyes gleamed. "The talking
came earlier."
I groaned. "What did you hear?"
His gold eyes grew very soft. "You said you loved me."
"You knew that already," I reminded him, ducking my head.
"It was nice to hear, just the same."
I hid my face against his shoulder.
"I love you," I whispered.
"You are my life now," he answered simply.
There was nothing more to say for the moment. He rocked us back and forth as the
room grew lighter.
"Breakfast time," he said eventually, casually — to prove, I'm sure, that he remembered
all my human frailties.
So I clutched my throat with both hands and stared at him with wide eyes. Shock
crossed his face.
"Kidding!" I snickered. "And you said I couldn't act!"
He frowned in disgust. "That wasn't funny."
"It was very funny, and you know it." But I examined his gold eyes carefully, to make
sure that I was forgiven. Apparently, I was.
"Shall I rephrase?" he asked. "Breakfast time for the human."
"Oh, okay."
He threw me over his stone shoulder, gently, but with a swiftness that left me
breathless. I protested as he carried me easily down the stairs, but he ignored me. He sat
me right side up on a chair.
The kitchen was bright, happy, seeming to absorb my mood.
"What's for breakfast?" I asked pleasantly.
That threw him for a minute.
"Er, I'm not sure. What would you like?" His marble brow puckered.
I grinned, hopping up.
"That's all right, I fend for myself pretty well. Watch me hunt."
I found a bowl and a box of cereal. I could feel his eyes on me as I poured the milk and
grabbed a spoon. I sat my food on the table, and then paused.
"Can I get you anything?" I asked, not wanting to be rude.
He rolled his eyes. "Just eat, Bella."
I sat at the table, watching him as I took a bite. He was gazing at me, studying my every
movement. It made me self-conscious. I cleared my mouth to speak, to distract him.
"What's on the agenda for today?" I asked.
"Hmmm…" I watched him frame his answer carefully. "What would you say to
meeting my family?"
I gulped.
"Are you afraid now?" He sounded hopeful.
"Yes," I admitted; how could I deny it — he could see my eyes.
"Don't worry." He smirked. "I'll protect you."
"I'm not afraid of them," I explained. "I'm afraid they won't… like me. Won't they be,
well, surprised that you would bring someone… like me… home to meet them? Do they
know that I know about them?"
"Oh, they already know everything. They'd taken bets yesterday, you know" — he
smiled, but his voice was harsh — "on whether I'd bring you back, though why anyone
would bet against Alice, I can't imagine. At any rate, we don't have secrets in the family.
It's not really feasible, what with my mind reading and Alice seeing the future and all
that."
"And Jasper making you feel all warm and fuzzy about spilling your guts, don't forget
that."
"You paid attention," he smiled approvingly.
"I've been known to do that every now and then." I grimaced. "So did Alice see me
coming?"
His reaction was strange. "Something like that," he said uncomfortably, turning away so
I couldn't see his eyes. I stared at him curiously.
"Is that any good?" he asked, turning back to me abruptly and eyeing my breakfast with
a teasing look on his face. "Honestly, it doesn't look very appetizing."
"Well, it's no irritable grizzly…" I murmured, ignoring him when he glowered. I was
still wondering why he responded that way when I mentioned Alice. I hurried through my
cereal, speculating.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, the statue of Adonis again, staring abstractedly
out the back windows.
Then his eyes were back on me, and he smiled his heartbreaking smile.
"And you should introduce me to your father, too, I think."
"He already knows you," I reminded him.
"As your boyfriend, I mean."
I stared at him with suspicion. "Why?"
"Isn't that customary?" he asked innocently.
"I don't know," I admitted. My dating history gave me few reference points to work
with. Not that any normal rules of dating applied here. "That's not necessary, you know. I
don't expect you to… I mean, you don't have to pretend for me."
His smile was patient. "I'm not pretending."
I pushed the remains of my cereal around the edges of the bowl, biting my lip.
"Are you going to tell Charlie I'm your boyfriend or not?" he demanded.
"Is that what you are?" I suppressed my internal cringing at the thought of Edward and
Charlie and the word boy friend all in the same room at the same time.
"It's a loose interpretation of the word 'boy,' I'll admit."
"I was under the impression that you were something more, actually," I confessed,
looking at the table.
"Well, I don't know if we need to give him all the gory details." He reached across the
table to lift my chin with a cold, gentle finger. "But he will need some explanation for
why I'm around here so much. I don't want Chief Swan getting a restraining order put on
me."
"Will you be?" I asked, suddenly anxious. "Will you really be here?"
"As long as you want me," he assured me.
"I'll always want you," I warned him. "Forever."
He walked slowly around the table, and, pausing a few feet away, he reached out to
touch his fingertips to my cheek. His expression was unfathomable.
"Does that make you sad?" I asked.
He didn't answer. He stared into my eyes for an immeasurable period of time.
"Are you finished?" he finally asked.
I jumped up. "Yes."
"Get dressed — I'll wait here."
It was hard to decide what to wear. I doubted there were any etiquette books detailing
how to dress when your vampire sweetheart takes you home to meet his vampire family.
It was a relief to think the word to myself. I knew I shied away from it intentionally.
I ended up in my only skirt — long, khaki-colored, still casual. I put on the dark blue
blouse he'd once complimented. A quick glance in the mirror told me my hair was
entirely impossible, so I pulled it back into a pony tail.
"Okay." I bounced down the stairs. "I'm decent."
He was waiting at the foot of the stairs, closer than I'd thought, and I bounded right into
him. He steadied me, holding me a careful distance away for a few seconds before
suddenly pulling me closer.
"Wrong again," he murmured in my ear. "You are utterly indecent — no one should
look so tempting, it's not fair."
"Tempting how?" I asked. "I can change…"
He sighed, shaking his head. "You are so absurd." He pressed his cool lips delicately to
my forehead, and the room spun. The smell of his breath made it impossible to think.
"Shall I explain how you are tempting me?" he said. It was clearly a rhetorical question.
His fingers traced slowly down my spine, his breath coming more quickly against my
skin. My hands were limp on his chest, and I felt lightheaded again. He tilted his head
slowly and touched his cool lips to mine for the second time, very carefully, parting them
slightly.
And then I collapsed.
"Bella?" His voice was alarmed as he caught me and held me up.
"You… made… me… faint," I accused him dizzily.
"What am I going to do with you?" he groaned in exasperation. "Yesterday I kiss you,
and you attack me! Today you pass out on me!"
I laughed weakly, letting his arms support me while my head spun.
"So much for being good at everything," he sighed.
"That's the problem." I was still dizzy. "You're too good. Far, far too good."
"Do you feel sick?" he asked; he'd seen me like this before.
"No — that wasn't the same kind of fainting at all. I don't know what happened." I
shook my head apologetically, "I think I forgot to breathe."
"I can't take you anywhere like this."
"I'm fine," I insisted. "Your family is going to think I'm insane anyway, what's the
difference?"
He measured my expression for a moment. "I'm very partial to that color with your
skin," he offered unexpectedly. I flushed with pleasure, and looked away.
"Look, I'm trying really hard not to think about what I'm about to do, so can we go
already?" I asked.
"And you're worried, not because you're headed to meet a houseful of vampires, but
because you think those vampires won't approve of you, correct?"
"That's right," I answered immediately, hiding my surprise at his casual use of the word.
He shook his head. "You're incredible."
I realized, as he drove my truck out of the main part of town, that I had no idea where
he lived. We passed over the bridge at the Calawah River, the road winding northward,
the houses flashing past us growing farther apart, getting bigger. And then we were past
the other houses altogether, driving through misty forest. I was trying to decide whether
to ask or be patient, when he turned abruptly onto an unpaved road. It was unmarked,
barely visible among the ferns. The forest encroached on both sides, leaving the road
ahead only discernible for a few meters as it twisted, serpentlike, around the ancient trees.
And then, after a few miles, there was some thinning of the woods, and we were
suddenly in a small meadow, or was it actually a lawn? The gloom of the forest didn't
relent, though, for there were six primordial cedars that shaded an entire acre with their
vast sweep of branches. The trees held their protecting shadow right up to the walls of the
house that rose among them, making obsolete the deep porch that wrapped around the
first story.
I don't know what I had expected, but it definitely wasn't this. The house was timeless,
graceful, and probably a hundred years old. It was painted a soft, faded white, three
stories tall, rectangular and well proportioned. The windows and doors were either part of
the original structure or a perfect restoration. My truck was the only car in sight. I could
hear the river close by, hidden in the obscurity of the forest.
"Wow."
"You like it?" He smiled.
"It… has a certain charm."
He pulled the end of my ponytail and chuckled.
"Ready?" he asked, opening my door.
"Not even a little bit — let's go." I tried to laugh, but it seemed to get stuck in my
throat. I smoothed my hair nervously.
"You look lovely." He took my hand easily, without thinking about it.
We walked through the deep shade up to the porch. I knew he could feel my tension; his
thumb rubbed soothing circles into the back of my hand.
He opened the door for me.
The inside was even more surprising, less predictable, than the exterior. It was very
bright, very open, and very large. This must have originally been several rooms, but the
walls had been removed from most of the first floor to create one wide space. The back,
south-facing wall had been entirely replaced with glass, and, beyond the shade of the
cedars, the lawn stretched bare to the wide river. A massive curving staircase dominated
the west side of the room. The walls, the high-beamed ceiling, the wooden floors, and the
thick carpets were all varying shades of white.
Waiting to greet us, standing just to the left of the door, on a raised portion of the floor
by a spectacular grand piano, were Edward's parents.
I'd seen Dr. Cullen before, of course, yet I couldn't help but be struck again by his
youth, his outrageous perfection. At his side was Esme, I assumed, the only one of the
family I'd never seen before. She had the same pale, beautiful features as the rest of them.
Something about her heart-shaped face, her billows of soft, caramel-colored hair,
reminded me of the ingénues of the silent-movie era. She was small, slender, yet less
angular, more rounded than the others. They were both dressed casually, in light colors
that matched the inside of the house. They smiled in welcome, but made no move to
approach us. Trying not to frighten me, I guessed.
"Carlisle, Esme," Edward's voice broke the short silence, "this is Bella."
"You're very welcome, Bella." Carlisle's step was measured, careful as he approached
me. He raised his hand tentatively, and I stepped forward to shake hands with him.
"It's nice to see you again, Dr. Cullen."
"Please, call me Carlisle."
"Carlisle." I grinned at him, my sudden confidence surprising me. I could feel Edward's
relief at my side.
Esme smiled and stepped forward as well, reaching for my hand. Her cold, stone grasp
was just as I expected.
"It's very nice to know you," she said sincerely.
"Thank you. I'm glad to meet you, too." And I was. It was like meeting a fairy tale —
Snow White, in the flesh.
"Where are Alice and Jasper?" Edward asked, but no one answered, as they had just
appeared at the top of the wide staircase.
"Hey, Edward!" Alice called enthusiastically. She ran down the stairs, a streak of black
hair and white skin, coming to a sudden and graceful stop in front of me. Carlisle and
Esme shot warning glances at her, but I liked it. It was natural — for her, anyway.
"Hi, Bella!" Alice said, and she bounced forward to kiss my cheek. If Carlisle and Esme
had looked cautious before, they now looked staggered. There was shock in my eyes, too,
but I was also very pleased that she seemed to approve of me so entirely. I was startled to
feel Edward stiffen at my side. I glanced at his face, but his expression was unreadable.
"You do smell nice, I never noticed before," she commented, to my extreme
embarrassment.
No one else seemed to know quite what to say, and then Jasper was there — tall and
leonine. A feeling of ease spread through me, and I was suddenly comfortable despite
where I was. Edward stared at Jasper, raising one eyebrow, and I remembered what
Jasper could do.
"Hello, Bella," Jasper said. He kept his distance, not offering to shake my hand. But it
was impossible to feel awkward near him.
"Hello, Jasper." I smiled at him shyly, and then at the others. "It's nice to meet you all
— you have a very beautiful home," I added conventionally.
"Thank you," Esme said. "We're so glad that you came." She spoke with feeling, and I
realized that she thought I was brave.
I also realized that Rosalie and Emmett were nowhere to be seen, and I remembered
Edward's too-innocent denial when I'd asked him if the others didn't like me.
Carlisle's expression distracted me from this train of thought; he was gazing
meaningfully at Edward with an intense expression. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
Edward nod once.
I looked away, trying to be polite. My eyes wandered again to the beautiful instrument
on the platform by the door. I suddenly remembered my childhood fantasy that, should I
ever win a lottery, I would buy a grand piano for my mother. She wasn't really good —
she only played for herself on our secondhand upright — but I loved to watch her play.
She was happy, absorbed — she seemed like a new, mysterious being to me then,
someone outside the "mom" persona I took for granted. She'd put me through lessons, of
course, but like most kids, I whined until she let me quit.
Esme noticed my preoccupation.
"Do you play?" she asked, inclining her head toward the piano.
I shook my head. "Not at all. But it's so beautiful. Is it yours?"
"No," she laughed. "Edward didn't tell you he was musical?"
"No." I glared at his suddenly innocent expression with narrowed eyes. "I should have
known, I guess."
Esme raised her delicate eyebrows in confusion.
"Edward can do everything, right?" I explained.
Jasper snickered and Esme gave Edward a reproving look.
"I hope you haven't been showing off— it's rude," she scolded.
"Just a bit," he laughed freely. Her face softened at the sound, and they shared a brief
look that I didn't understand, though Esme's face seemed almost smug.
"He's been too modest, actually," I corrected.
"Well, play for her," Esme encouraged.
"You just said showing off was rude," he objected.
"There are exceptions to every rule," she replied.
"I'd like to hear you play," I volunteered.
"It's settled then." Esme pushed him toward the piano. He pulled me along, sitting me
on the bench beside him.
He gave me a long, exasperated look before he turned to the keys.
And then his fingers flowed swiftly across the ivory, and the room was filled with a
composition so complex, so luxuriant, it was impossible to believe only one set of hands
played. I felt my chin drop, my mouth open in astonishment, and heard low chuckles
behind me at my reaction.
Edward looked at me casually, the music still surging around us without a break, and
winked. "Do you like it?"
"You wrote this?" I gasped, understanding.
He nodded. "It's Esme's favorite."
I closed my eyes, shaking my head.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm feeling extremely insignificant."
The music slowed, transforming into something softer, and to my surprise I detected the
melody of his lullaby weaving through the profusion of notes.
"You inspired this one," he said softly. The music grew unbearably sweet.
I couldn't speak.
"They like you, you know," he said conversationally. "Esme especially."
I glanced behind me, but the huge room was empty now.
"Where did they go?"
"Very subtly giving us some privacy, I suppose."
I sighed. "They like me. But Rosalie and Emmett…" I trailed off, not sure how to
express my doubts.
He frowned. "Don't worry about Rosalie," he said, his eyes wide and persuasive. "She'll
come around."
I pursed my lips skeptically. "Emmett?"
"Well, he thinks I'm a lunatic, it's true, but he doesn't have a problem with you. He's
trying to reason with Rosalie."
"What is it that upsets her?" I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the answer.
He sighed deeply. "Rosalie struggles the most with… with what we are. It's hard for her
to have someone on the outside know the truth. And she's a little jealous."
"Rosalie is jealous of me?" I asked incredulously. I tried to imagine a universe in which
someone as breathtaking as Rosalie would have any possible reason to feel jealous of
someone like me.
"You're human." He shrugged. "She wishes that she were, too."
"Oh," I muttered, still stunned. "Even Jasper, though…"
"That's really my fault," he said. "I told you he was the most recent to try our way of
life. I warned him to keep his distance."
I thought about the reason for that, and shuddered.
"Esme and Carlisle… ?" I continued quickly, to keep him from noticing.
"Are happy to see me happy. Actually, Esme wouldn't care if you had a third eye and
webbed feet. All this time she's been worried about me, afraid that there was something
missing from my essential makeup, that I was too young when Carlisle changed me…
She's ecstatic. Every time I touch you, she just about chokes with satisfaction."
"Alice seems very… enthusiastic."
"Alice has her own way of looking at things," he said through tight lips.
"And you're not going to explain that, are you?"
A moment of wordless communication passed between us. He realized that I knew he
was keeping something from me. I realized that he wasn't going to give anything away.
Not now.
"So what was Carlisle telling you before?"
His eyebrows pulled together. "You noticed that, did you?"
I shrugged. "Of course."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a few seconds before answering. "He wanted to tell
me some news — he didn't know if it was something I would share with you."
"Will you?"
"I have to, because I'm going to be a little… overbearingly protective over the next few
days — or weeks — and I wouldn't want you to think I'm naturally a tyrant."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, exactly. Alice just sees some visitors coming soon. They know we're
here, and they're curious."
"Visitors?"
"Yes… well, they aren't like us, of course — in their hunting habits, I mean. They
probably won't come into town at all, but I'm certainly not going to let you out of my
sight till they're gone."
I shivered.
"Finally, a rational response!" he murmured. "I was beginning to think you had no
sense of self-preservation at all."
I let that one pass, looking away, my eyes wandering again around the spacious room.
He followed my gaze. "Not what you expected, is it?" he asked, his voice smug.
"No," I admitted.
"No coffins, no piled skulls in the corners; I don't even think we have cobwebs… what
a disappointment this must be for you," he continued slyly.
I ignored his teasing. "It's so light… so open."
He was more serious when he answered. "It's the one place we never have to hide."
The song he was still playing, my song, drifted to an end, the final chords shifting to a
more melancholy key. The last note hovered poignantly in the silence.
"Thank you," I murmured. I realized there were tears in my eyes. I dabbed at them,
embarrassed.
He touched the corner of my eye, trapping one I missed. He lifted his finger, examining
the drop of moisture broodingly. Then, so quickly I couldn't be positive that he really did,
he put his finger to his mouth to taste it.
I looked at him questioningly, and he gazed back for a long moment before he finally
smiled.
"Do you want to see the rest of the house?"
"No coffins?" I verified, the sarcasm in my voice not entirely masking the slight but
genuine anxiety I felt.
He laughed, taking my hand, leading me away from the piano.
"No coffins," he promised.
We walked up the massive staircase, my hand trailing along the satin-smooth rail. The
long hall at the top of the stairs was paneled with a honey-colored wood, the same as the
floorboards.
"Rosalie and Emmett's room…Carlisle 's office…Alice 's room…" He gestured as he
led me past the doors.
He would have continued, but I stopped dead at the end of the hall, staring
incredulously at the ornament hanging on the wall above my head. Edward chuckled at
my bewildered expression.
"You can laugh," he said. "It is sort of ironic."
I didn't laugh. My hand raised automatically, one finger extended as if to touch the large
wooden cross, its dark patina contrasting with the lighter tone of the wall. I didn't touch
it, though I was curious if the aged wood would feel as silky as it looked.
"It must be very old," I guessed.
He shrugged. "Early sixteen-thirties, more or less."
I looked away from the cross to stare at him.
"Why do you keep this here?" I wondered.
"Nostalgia. It belonged to Carlisle 's father."
"He collected antiques?" I suggested doubtfully.
"No. He carved this himself. It hung on the wall above the pulpit in the vicarage where
he preached."
I wasn't sure if my face betrayed my shock, but I returned to gazing at the simple,
ancient cross, just in case. I quickly did the mental math; the cross was over three
hundred and seventy years old. The silence stretched on as I struggled to wrap my mind
around the concept of so many years.
"Are you all right?" He sounded worried.
"How old is Carlisle?" I asked quietly, ignoring his question, still staring up.
"He just celebrated his three hundred and sixty-second birthday," Edward said. I looked
back at him, a million questions in my eyes.
He watched me carefully as he spoke.
"Carlisle was born in London, in the sixteen-forties, he believes. Time wasn't marked as
accurately then, for the common people anyway. It was just before Cromwell's rule,
though."
I kept my face composed, aware of his scrutiny as I listened. It was easier if I didn't try
to believe.
"He was the only son of an Anglican pastor. His mother died giving birth to him. His
father was an intolerant man. As the Protestants came into power, he was enthusiastic in
his persecution of Roman Catholics and other religions. He also believed very strongly in
the reality of evil. He led hunts for witches, werewolves… and vampires." I grew very
still at the word. I'm sure he noticed, but he went on without pausing.
"They burned a lot of innocent people — of course the real creatures that he sought
were not so easy to catch.
"When the pastor grew old, he placed his obedient son in charge of the raids. At first
Carlisle was a disappointment; he was not quick to accuse, to see demons where they did
not exist. But he was persistent, and more clever than his father. He actually discovered a
coven of true vampires that lived hidden in the sewers of the city, only coming out by
night to hunt. In those days, when monsters were not just myths and legends, that was the
way many lived.
"The people gathered their pitchforks and torches, of course" — his brief laugh was
darker now — "and waited where Carlisle had seen the monsters exit into the street.
Eventually one emerged."
His voice was very quiet; I strained to catch the words.
"He must have been ancient, and weak with hunger. Carlisle heard him call out in Latin
to the others when he caught the scent of the mob. He ran through the streets, and Carlisle
— he was twenty-three and very fast — was in the lead of the pursuit. The creature could
have easily outrun them, but Carlisle thinks he was too hungry, so he turned and attacked.
He fell on Carlisle first, but the others were close behind, and he turned to defend
himself. He killed two men, and made off with a third, leaving Carlisle bleeding in the
street."
He paused. I could sense he was editing something, keeping something from me.
"Carlisle knew what his father would do. The bodies would be burned — anything
infected by the monster must be destroyed. Carlisle acted instinctively to save his own
life. He crawled away from the alley while the mob followed the fiend and his victim. He
hid in a cellar, buried himself in rotting potatoes for three days. It's a miracle he was able
to keep silent, to stay undiscovered.
"It was over then, and he realized what he had become."
I'm not sure what my face was revealing, but he suddenly broke off.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I assured him. And, though I bit my lip in hesitation, he must have seen the
curiosity burning in my eyes.
He smiled. "I expect you have a few more questions for me."
"A few."
His smile widened over his brilliant teeth. He started back down the hall, pulling me
along by the hand. "Come on, then," he encouraged. "I'll show you."
16. Carlisle
He led me back to the room that he'd pointed out as Carlisle's office. He paused outside
the door for an instant.
"Come in," Carlisle's voice invited.
Edward opened the door to a high-ceilinged room with tall, west-facing windows. The
walls were paneled again, in a darker wood — where they were visible. Most of the wall
space was taken up by towering bookshelves that reached high above my head and held
more books than I'd ever seen outside a library.
Carlisle sat behind a huge mahogany desk in a leather chair. He was just placing a
bookmark in the pages of the thick volume he held. The room was how I'd always
imagined a college dean's would look — only Carlisle looked too young to fit the part.
"What can I do for you?" he asked us pleasantly, rising from his seat.
"I wanted to show Bella some of our history," Edward said. "Well, your history,
actually."
"We didn't mean to disturb you," I apologized.
"Not at all. Where are you going to start?"
"The Waggoner," Edward replied, placing one hand lightly on my shoulder and
spinning me around to look back toward the door we'd just come through. Every time he
touched me, in even the most casual way, my heart had an audible reaction. It was more
embarrassing with Carlisle there.
The wall we faced now was different from the others. Instead of bookshelves, this wall
was crowded with framed pictures of all sizes, some in vibrant colors, others dull
monochromes. I searched for some logic, some binding motif the collection had in
common, but I found nothing in my hasty examination.
Edward pulled me toward the far left side, standing me in front of a small square oil
painting in a plain wooden frame. This one did not stand out among the bigger and
brighter pieces; painted in varying tones of sepia, it depicted a miniature city full of
steeply slanted roofs, with thin spires atop a few scattered towers. A wide river filled the
foreground, crossed by a bridge covered with structures that looked like tiny cathedrals.
"London in the sixteen-fifties," Edward said.
"The London of my youth," Carlisle added, from a few feet behind us. I flinched; I
hadn't heard him approach. Edward squeezed my hand.
"Will you tell the story?" Edward asked. I twisted a little to see Carlisle's reaction.
He met my glance and smiled. "I would," he replied. "But I'm actually running a bit
late. The hospital called this morning — Dr. Snow is taking a sick day. Besides, you
know the stories as well as I do," he added, grinning at Edward now.
It was a strange combination to absorb — the everyday concerns of the town doctor
stuck in the middle of a discussion of his early days in seventeenth-century London.
It was also unsettling to know that he spoke aloud only for my benefit.
After another warm smile for me, Carlisle left the room.
I stared at the little picture of Carlisle's hometown for a long moment.
"What happened then?" I finally asked, staring up at Edward, who was watching me.
"When he realized what had happened to him?"
He glanced back to the paintings, and I looked to see which image caught his interest
now. It was a larger landscape in dull fall colors — an empty, shadowed meadow in a
forest, with a craggy peak in the distance.
"When he knew what he had become," Edward said quietly, "he rebelled against it. He
tried to destroy himself. But that's not easily done."
"How?" I didn't mean to say it aloud, but the word broke through my shock.
"He jumped from great heights," Edward told me, his voice impassive. "He tried to
drown himself in the ocean… but he was young to the new life, and very strong. It is
amazing that he was able to resist… feeding… while he was still so new. The instinct is
more powerful then, it takes over everything. But he was so repelled by himself that he
had the strength to try to kill himself with starvation."
"Is that possible?" My voice was faint.
"No, there are very few ways we can be killed."
I opened my mouth to ask, but he spoke before I could.
"So he grew very hungry, and eventually weak. He strayed as far as he could from the
human populace, recognizing that his willpower was weakening, too. For months he
wandered by night, seeking the loneliest places, loathing himself.
"One night, a herd of deer passed his hiding place. He was so wild with thirst that he
attacked without a thought. His strength returned and he realized there was an alternative
to being the vile monster he feared. Had he not eaten venison in his former life? Over the
next months his new philosophy was born. He could exist without being a demon. He
found himself again.
"He began to make better use of his time. He'd always been intelligent, eager to learn.
Now he had unlimited time before him. He studied by night, planned by day. He swam to
France and —"
"He swam to France ?"
"People swim the Channel all the time, Bella," he reminded me patiently.
"That's true, I guess. It just sounded funny in that context. Go on."
"Swimming is easy for us —"
"Everything is easy for you," I griped.
He waited, his expression amused.
"I won't interrupt again, I promise."
He chuckled darkly, and finished his sentence. "Because, technically, we don't need to
breathe."
"You —"
"No, no, you promised." He laughed, putting his cold finger lightly to my lips. "Do you
want to hear the story or not?"
"You can't spring something like that on me, and then expect me not to say anything," I
mumbled against his finger.
He lifted his hand, moving it to rest against my neck. The speed of my heart reacted to
that, but I persisted.
"You don't have to breathe?" I demanded.
"No, it's not necessary. Just a habit." He shrugged.
"How long can you go… without breathing?"
"Indefinitely, I suppose; I don't know. It gets a bit uncomfortable — being without a
sense of smell."
"A bit uncomfortable," I echoed.
I wasn't paying attention to my own expression, but something in it made him grow
somber. His hand dropped to his side and he stood very still, his eyes intent on my face.
The silence lengthened. His features were immobile as stone.
"What is it?" I whispered, touching his frozen face.
His face softened under my hand, and he sighed. "I keep waiting for it to happen."
"For what to happen?"
"I know that at some point, something I tell you or something you see is going to be too
much. And then you'll run away from me, screaming as you go." He smiled half a smile,
but his eyes were serious. "I won't stop you. I want this to happen, because I want you to
be safe. And yet, I want to be with you. The two desires are impossible to reconcile…"
He trailed off, staring at my face. Waiting.
"I'm not running anywhere," I promised.
"We'll see," he said, smiling again.
I frowned at him. "So, go on — Carlisle was swimming to France."
He paused, getting back into his story. Reflexively, his eyes flickered to another picture
— the most colorful of them all, the most ornately framed, and the largest; it was twice as
wide as the door it hung next to. The canvas overflowed with bright figures in swirling
robes, writhing around long pillars and off marbled balconies. I couldn't tell if it
represented Greek mythology, or if the characters floating in the clouds above were
meant to be biblical.
"Carlisle swam to France, and continued on through Europe, to the universities there.
By night he studied music, science, medicine — and found his calling, his penance, in
that, in saving human lives." His expression became awed, almost reverent. "I can't
adequately describe the struggle; it took Carlisle two centuries of torturous effort to
perfect his self-control. Now he is all but immune to the scent of human blood, and he is
able to do the work he loves without agony. He finds a great deal of peace there, at the
hospital…" Edward stared off into space for a long moment. Suddenly he seemed to
recall his purpose. He tapped his finger against the huge painting in front of us.
"He was studying in Italy when he discovered the others there. They were much more
civilized and educated than the wraiths of the London sewers."
He touched a comparatively sedate quartet of figures painted on the highest balcony,
looking down calmly on the mayhem below them. I examined the grouping carefully and
realized, with a startled laugh, that I recognized the golden-haired man.
"Solimena was greatly inspired by Carlisle's friends. He often painted them as gods,"
Edward chuckled. "Aro, Marcus, Caius," he said, indicating the other three, two blackhaired,
one snowy-white." Nighttime patrons of the arts."
"What happened to them?" I wondered aloud, my fingertip hovering a centimeter from
the figures on the canvas.
"They're still there." He shrugged. "As they have been for who knows how many
millennia. Carlisle stayed with them only for a short time, just a few decades. He greatly
admired their civility, their refinement, but they persisted in trying to cure his aversion to
'his natural food source,' as they called it. They tried to persuade him, and he tried to
persuade them, to no avail. At that point, Carlisle decided to try the New World. He
dreamed of finding others like himself. He was very lonely, you see.
"He didn't find anyone for a long time. But, as monsters became the stuff of fairy tales,
he found he could interact with unsuspecting humans as if he were one of them. He began
practicing medicine. But the companionship he craved evaded him; he couldn't risk
familiarity.
"When the influenza epidemic hit, he was working nights in a hospital in Chicago. He'd
been turning over an idea in his mind for several years, and he had almost decided to act
— since he couldn't find a companion, he would create one. He wasn't absolutely sure
how his own transformation had occurred, so he was hesitant. And he was loath to steal
anyone's life the way his had been stolen. It was in that frame of mind that he found me.
There was no hope for me; I was left in a ward with the dying. He had nursed my parents,
and knew I was alone. He decided to try…"
His voice, nearly a whisper now, trailed off. He stared unseeingly through the west
windows. I wondered which images filled his mind now, Carlisle's memories or his own.
I waited quietly.
When he turned back to me, a gentle angel's smile lit his expression.
"And so we've come full circle," he concluded.
"Have you always stayed with Carlisle, then?" I wondered.
"Almost always." He put his hand lightly on my waist and pulled me with him as he
walked through the door. I stared back at the wall of pictures, wondering if I would ever
get to hear the other stories.
Edward didn't say any more as we walked down the hall, so I asked, "Almost?"
He sighed, seeming reluctant to answer. "Well, I had a typical bout of rebellious
adolescence — about ten years after I was… born…created, whatever you want to call it.
I wasn't sold on his life of abstinence, and I resented him for curbing my appetite. So I
went off on my own for a time."
"Really?" I was intrigued, rather than frightened, as I perhaps should have been.
He could tell. I vaguely realized that we were headed up the next flight of stairs, but I
wasn't paying much attention to my surroundings.
"That doesn't repulse you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I guess… it sounds reasonable."
He barked a laugh, more loudly than before. We were at the top of the stairs now, in
another paneled hallway.
"From the time of my new birth," he murmured, "I had the advantage of knowing what
everyone around me was thinking, both human and non-human alike. That's why it took
me ten years to defy Carlisle — I could read his perfect sincerity, understand exactly why
he lived the way he did.
"It took me only a few years to return to Carlisle and recommit to his vision. I thought I
would be exempt from the… depression… that accompanies a conscience. Because I
knew the thoughts of my prey, I could pass over the innocent and pursue only the evil. If I
followed a murderer down a dark alley where he stalked a young girl — if I saved her,
then surely I wasn't so terrible."
I shivered, imagining only too clearly what he described — the alley at night, the
frightened girl, the dark man behind her. And Edward, Edward as he hunted, terrible and
glorious as a young god, unstoppable. Would she have been grateful, that girl, or more
frightened than before?
"But as time went on, I began to see the monster in my eyes. I couldn't escape the debt
of so much human life taken, no matter how justified. And I went back to Carlisle and
Esme. They welcomed me back like the prodigal. It was more than I deserved."
We'd come to a stop in front of the last door in the hall.
"My room," he informed me, opening it and pulling me through.
His room faced south, with a wall-sized window like the great room below. The whole
back side of the house must be glass. His view looked down on the winding Sol Duc
River, across the untouched forest to the Olympic Mountain range. The mountains were
much closer than I would have believed.
The western wall was completely covered with shelf after shelf of CDs. His room was
better stocked than a music store. In the corner was a sophisticated-looking sound system,
the kind I was afraid to touch because I'd be sure to break something. There was no bed,
only a wide and inviting black leather sofa. The floor was covered with a thick golden
carpet, and the walls were hung with heavy fabric in a slightly darker shade.
"Good acoustics?" I guessed.
He chuckled and nodded.
He picked up a remote and turned the stereo on. It was quiet, but the soft jazz number
sounded like the band was in the room with us. I went to look at his mind-boggling music
collection.
"How do you have these organized?" I asked, unable to find any rhyme or reason to the
titles.
He wasn't paying attention.
"Ummm, by year, and then by personal preference within that frame," he said absently.
I turned, and he was looking at me with a peculiar expression in his eyes.
"What?"
"I was prepared to feel… relieved. Having you know about everything, not needing to
keep secrets from you. But I didn't expect to feel more than that. I like it. It makes me…
happy." He shrugged, smiling slightly.
"I'm glad," I said, smiling back. I'd worried that he might regret telling me these things.
It was good to know that wasn't the case.
But then, as his eyes dissected my expression, his smile faded and his forehead creased.
"You're still waiting for the running and the screaming, aren't you?" I guessed.
A faint smile touched his lips, and he nodded.
"I hate to burst your bubble, but you're really not as scary as you think you are. I don't
find you scary at all, actually," I lied casually.
He stopped, raising his eyebrows in blatant disbelief. Then he flashed a wide, wicked
smile.
"You really shouldn't have said that," he chuckled.
He growled, a low sound in the back of his throat; his lips curled back over his perfect
teeth. His body shifted suddenly, half-crouched, tensed like a lion about to pounce.
I backed away from him, glaring.
"You wouldn't."
I didn't see him leap at me — it was much too fast. I only found myself suddenly
airborne, and then we crashed onto the sofa, knocking it into the wall. All the while, his
arms formed an iron cage of protection around me — I was barely jostled. But I still was
gasping as I tried to right myself.
He wasn't having that. He curled me into a ball against his chest, holding me more
securely than iron chains. I glared at him in alarm, but he seemed well in control, his jaw
relaxed as he grinned, his eyes bright only with humor.
"You were saying?" he growled playfully.
"That you are a very, very terrifying monster," I said, my sarcasm marred a bit by my
breathless voice.
"Much better," he approved.
"Um." I struggled. "Can I get up now?"
He just laughed.
"Can we come in?" a soft voice sounded from the hall.
I struggled to free myself, but Edward merely readjusted me so that I was somewhat
more conventionally seated on his lap. I could see it was Alice, then, and Jasper behind
her in the doorway. My cheeks burned, but Edward seemed at ease.
"Go ahead." Edward was still chuckling quietly.
Alice seemed to find nothing unusual in our embrace; she walked — almost danced, her
movements were so graceful — to the center of the room, where she folded herself
sinuously onto the floor. Jasper, however, paused at the door, his expression a trifle
shocked. He stared at Edward's face, and I wondered if he was tasting the atmosphere
with his unusual sensitivity.
"It sounded like you were having Bella for lunch, and we came to see if you would
share," Alice announced.
I stiffened for an instant, until I realized Edward was grinning — whether at her
comment or my response, I couldn't tell.
"Sorry, I don't believe I have enough to spare," he replied, his arms holding me
recklessly close.
"Actually," Jasper said, smiling despite himself as he walked into the room, "Alice says
there's going to be a real storm tonight, and Emmett wants to play ball. Are you game?"
The words were all common enough, but the context confused me. I gathered that Alice
was a bit more reliable than the weatherman, though.
Edward's eyes lit up, but he hesitated.
"Of course you should bring Bella," Alice chirped. I thought I saw Jasper throw a quick
glance at her.
"Do you want to go?" Edward asked me, excited, his expression vivid.
"Sure." I couldn't disappoint such a face. "Um, where are we going?"
"We have to wait for thunder to play ball — you'll see why," he promised.
"Will I need an umbrella?"
They all three laughed aloud.
"Will she?" Jasper asked Alice.
"No." She was positive. "The storm will hit over town. It should be dry enough in the
clearing."
"Good, then." The enthusiasm in Jasper's voice was catching, naturally. I found myself
eager, rather than scared stiff.
"Let's go see if Carlisle will come." Alice bounded up and to the door in a fashion that
would break any ballerina's heart.
"Like you don't know," Jasper teased, and they were swiftly on their way. Jasper
managed to inconspicuously close the door behind them.
"What will we be playing?" I demanded.
"You will be watching," Edward clarified. "We will be playing baseball."
I rolled my eyes. "Vampires like baseball?"
"It's the American pastime," he said with mock solemnity.
17. The Game
It was just beginning to drizzle when Edward turned onto my street. Up until that
moment, I'd had no doubt that he'd be staying with me while I spent a few interim hours
in the real world.
And then I saw the black car, a weathered Ford, parked in Charlie's driveway — and
heard Edward mutter something unintelligible in a low, harsh voice.
Leaning away from the rain under the shallow front porch, Jacob Black stood behind
his father's wheelchair. Billy's face was impassive as stone as Edward parked my truck
against the curb. Jacob stared down, his expression mortified.
Edward's low voice was furious. "This is crossing the line."
"He came to warn Charlie?" I guessed, more horrified than angry.
Edward just nodded, answering Billy's gaze through the rain with narrowed eyes.
I felt weak with relief that Charlie wasn't home yet.
"Let me deal with this," I suggested. Edward's black glare made me anxious.
To my surprise, he agreed. "That's probably best. Be careful, though. The child has no
idea."
I bridled a little at the word child. "Jacob is not that much younger than I am," I
reminded him.
He looked at me then, his anger abruptly fading. "Oh, I know," he assured me with a
grin.
I sighed and put my hand on the door handle.
"Get them inside," he instructed, "so I can leave. I'll be back around dusk."
"Do you want my truck?" I offered, meanwhile wondering how I would explain its
absence to Charlie.
He rolled his eyes. "I could walk home faster than this truck moves."
"You don't have to leave," I said wistfully.
He smiled at my glum expression. "Actually, I do. After you get rid of them" — he
threw a dark glance in the Blacks' direction — "you still have to prepare Charlie to meet
your new boyfriend." He grinned widely, showing all of his teeth.
I groaned. "Thanks a lot."
He smiled the crooked smile that I loved. "I'll be back soon," he promised. His eyes
flickered back to the porch, and then he leaned in to swiftly kiss me just under the edge of
my jaw. My heart lurched frantically, and I, too, glanced toward the porch. Billy's face
was no longer impassive, and his hands clutched at the armrests of his chair.
"Soon," I stressed as I opened the door and stepped out into the rain.
I could feel his eyes on my back as I half-ran through the light sprinkle toward the
porch.
"Hey, Billy. Hi, Jacob." I greeted them as cheerfully as I could manage. "Charlie's gone
for the day — I hope you haven't been waiting long."
"Not long," Billy said in a subdued tone. His black eyes were piercing. "I just wanted to
bring this up." He indicated a brown paper sack resting in his lap.
"Thanks," I said, though I had no idea what it could be. "Why don't you come in for a
minute and dry off?"
I pretended to be oblivious to his intense scrutiny as I unlocked the door, and waved
them in ahead of me.
"Here, let me take that," I offered, turning to shut the door. I allowed myself one last
glance at Edward. He was waiting, perfectly still, his eyes solemn.
"You'll want to put it in the fridge," Billy noted as he handed me the package. "It's some
of Harry Clearwater's homemade fish fry — Charlie's favorite. The fridge keeps it drier."
He shrugged.
"Thanks," I repeated, but with feeling this time. "I was running out of new ways to fix
fish, and he's bound to bring home more tonight."
"Fishing again?" Billy asked with a subtle gleam in his eye. "Down at the usual spot?
Maybe I'll run by and see him."
"No," I quickly lied, my face going hard. "He was headed someplace new… but I have
no idea where."
He took in my changed expression, and it made him thoughtful.
"Jake," he said, still appraising me. "Why don't you go get that new picture of Rebecca
out of the car? I'll leave that for Charlie, too."
"Where is it?" Jacob asked, his voice morose. I glanced at him, but he was staring at the
floor, his eyebrows pulling together.
"I think I saw it in the trunk," Billy said. "You may have to dig for it."
Jacob slouched back out into the rain.
Billy and I faced each other in silence. After a few seconds, the quiet started to feel
awkward, so I turned and headed to the kitchen. I could hear his wet wheels squeak
against the linoleum as he followed.
I shoved the bag onto the crowded top shelf of the fridge, and spun around to confront
him. His deeply lined face was unreadable.
"Charlie won't be back for a long time." My voice was almost rude.
He nodded in agreement, but said nothing.
"Thanks again for the fish fry," I hinted.
He continued nodding. I sighed and folded my arms across my chest.
He seemed to sense that I had given up on small talk. "Bella," he said, and then he
hesitated.
I waited.
"Bella," he said again, "Charlie is one of my best friends."
"Yes."
He spoke each word carefully in his rumbling voice. "I noticed you've been spending
time with one of the Cullens."
"Yes," I repeated curtly.
His eyes narrowed. "Maybe it's none of my business, but I don't think that is such a
good idea."
"You're right," I agreed. "It is none of your business."
He raised his graying eyebrows at my tone. "You probably don't know this, but the
Cullen family has an unpleasant reputation on the reservation."
"Actually, I did know that," I informed him in a hard voice. This surprised him. "But
that reputation couldn't be deserved, could it? Because the Cullens never set foot on the
reservation, do they?" I could see that my less than subtle reminder of the agreement that
both bound and protected his tribe pulled him up short.
"That's true," he acceded, his eyes guarded. "You seem… well informed about the
Cullens. More informed than I expected."
I stared him down. "Maybe even better informed than you are."
He pursed his thick lips as he considered that. "Maybe." he allowed, but his eyes were
shrewd. "Is Charlie as well informed?"
He had found the weak chink in my armor.
"Charlie likes the Cullens a lot," I hedged. He clearly understood my evasion. His
expression was unhappy, but unsurprised.
"It's not my business," he said. "But it may be Charlie's."
"Though it would be my business, again, whether or not I think that it's Charlie's
business, right?"
I wondered if he even understood my confused question as I struggled not to say
anything compromising. But he seemed to. He thought about it while the rain picked up
against the roof, the only sound breaking the silence.
"Yes," he finally surrendered. "I guess that's your business, too."
I sighed with relief. "Thanks, Billy."
"Just think about what you're doing, Bella," he urged.
"Okay," I agreed quickly.
He frowned. "What I meant to say was, don't do what you're doing."
I looked into his eyes, filled with nothing but concern for me, and there was nothing I
could say.
Just then the front door banged loudly, and I jumped at the sound.
"There's no picture anywhere in that car." Jacob's complaining voice reached us before
he did. The shoulders of his shirt were stained with the rain, his hair dripping, when he
rounded the corner.
"Hmm," Billy grunted, suddenly detached, spinning his chair around to face his son. "I
guess I left it at home."
Jacob rolled his eyes dramatically. "Great."
"Well, Bella, tell Charlie" — Billy paused before continuing — "that we stopped by, I
mean."
"I will," I muttered.
Jacob was surprised. "Are we leaving already?"
"Charlie's gonna be out late," Billy explained as he rolled himself past Jacob.
"Oh." Jacob looked disappointed. "Well, I guess I'll see you later, then, Bella."
"Sure," I agreed.
"Take care," Billy warned me. I didn't answer.
Jacob helped his father out the door. I waved briefly, glancing swiftly toward my nowempty
truck, and then shut the door before they were gone.
I stood in the hallway for a minute, listening to the sound of their car as it backed out
and drove away. I stayed where I was, waiting for the irritation and anxiety to subside.
When the tension eventually faded a bit, I headed upstairs to change out of my dressy
clothes.
I tried on a couple of different tops, not sure what to expect tonight. As I concentrated
on what was coming, what had just passed became insignificant. Now that I was removed
from Jasper's and Edward's influence, I began to make up for not being terrified before. I
gave up quickly on choosing an outfit — throwing on an old flannel shirt and jeans —
knowing I would be in my raincoat all night anyway.
The phone rang and I sprinted downstairs to get it. There was only one voice I wanted
to hear; anything else would be a disappointment. But I knew that if he wanted to talk to
me, he'd probably just materialize in my room.
"Hello?" I asked, breathless.
"Bella? It’s me," Jessica said.
"Oh, hey, Jess." I scrambled for a moment to come back down to reality. It felt like
months rather than days since I'd spoken to Jess. "How was the dance?"
"It was so much fun!" Jessica gushed. Needing no more invitation than that, she
launched into a minute-by-minute account of the previous night. I mmm'd and ahh'd at
the right places, but it wasn't easy to concentrate. Jessica, Mike, the dance, the school —
they all seemed strangely irrelevant at the moment. My eyes kept flashing to the window,
trying to judge the degree of light behind the heavy clouds.
"Did you hear what I said, Bella?" Jess asked, irritated.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said, Mike kissed me! Can you believe it?"
"That's wonderful, Jess," I said.
"So what did you do yesterday?" Jessica challenged, still sounding bothered by my lack
of attention. Or maybe she was upset because I hadn't asked for details.
"Nothing, really. I just hung around outside to enjoy the sun."
I heard Charlie's car in the garage.
"Did you ever hear anything more from Edward Cullen?"
The front door slammed and I could hear Charlie banging around under the stairs,
putting his tackle away.
"Um." I hesitated, not sure what my story was anymore.
"Hi there, kiddo!" Charlie called as he walked into the kitchen. I waved at him.
Jess heard his voice. "Oh, your dad's there. Never mind — we'll talk tomorrow. See you
in Trig."
"Seeya, Jess." I hung up the phone.
"Hey, Dad," I said. He was scrubbing his hands in the sink. "Where's the fish?"
"I put it out in the freezer."
"I'll go grab a few pieces before they freeze — Billy dropped off some of Harry
Clearwater's fish fry this afternoon." I worked to sound enthusiastic.
"He did?" Charlie's eyes lit up. "That's my favorite."
Charlie cleaned up while I got dinner ready. It didn't take long till we were sitting at the
table, eating in silence. Charlie was enjoying his food. I was wondering desperately how
to fulfill my assignment, struggling to think of a way to broach the subject.
"What did you do with yourself today?" he asked, snapping me out of my reverie.
"Well, this afternoon I just hung out around the house…" Only the very recent part of
this afternoon, actually. I tried to keep my voice upbeat, but my stomach was hollow.
"And this morning I was over at the Cullens '."
Charlie dropped his fork.
"Dr. Cullen's place?" he asked in astonishment.
I pretended not to notice his reaction. "Yeah."
"What were you doing there?" He hadn't picked his fork back up.
"Well, I sort of have a date with Edward Cullen tonight, and he wanted to introduce me
to his parents…Dad?"
It appeared that Charlie was having an aneurysm.
"Dad, are you all right?"
"You are going out with Edward Cullen?" he thundered.
Uh-oh. "I thought you liked the Cullens."
"He's too old for you," he ranted.
"We're both juniors," I corrected, though he was more right than he dreamed.
"Wait…" He paused. "Which one is Edwin?"
"Edward is the youngest, the one with the reddish brown hair." The beautiful one, the
godlike one…
"Oh, well, that's" — he struggled — "better, I guess. I don't like the look of that big
one. I'm sure he's a nice boy and all, but he looks too… mature for you. Is this Edwin
your boyfriend?"
"It's Edward, Dad."
"Is he?"
"Sort of, I guess."
"You said last night that you weren't interested in any of the boys in town." But he
picked up his fork again, so I could see the worst was over.
"Well, Edward doesn't live in town, Dad."
He gave me a disparaging look as he chewed.
"And, anyways," I continued, "it's kind of at an early stage, you know. Don't embarrass
me with all the boyfriend talk, okay?"
"When is he coming over?"
"He'll be here in a few minutes."
"Where is he taking you?"
I groaned loudly. "I hope you're getting the Spanish Inquisition out of your system now.
We're going to play baseball with his family."
His face puckered, and then he finally chuckled. "You’re playing baseball?"
"Well, I'll probably watch most of the time."
"You must really like this guy," he observed suspiciously.
I sighed and rolled my eyes for his benefit.
I heard the roar of an engine pull up in front of the house. I jumped up and started
cleaning my dishes.
"Leave the dishes, I can do them tonight. You baby me too much."
The doorbell rang, and Charlie stalked off to answer it. I was half a step behind him.
I hadn't realized how hard it was pouring outside. Edward stood in the halo of the porch
light, looking like a male model in an advertisement for raincoats.
"Come on in, Edward."
I breathed a sigh of relief when Charlie got his name right.
"Thanks, Chief Swan," Edward said in a respectful voice.
"Go ahead and call me Charlie. Here, I'll take your jacket."
"Thanks, sir."
"Have a seat there, Edward."
I grimaced.
Edward sat down fluidly in the only chair, forcing me to sit next to Chief Swan on the
sofa. I quickly shot him a dirty look. He winked behind Charlie's back.
"So I hear you're getting my girl to watch baseball." Only in Washington would the fact
that it was raining buckets have no bearing at all on the playing of outdoor sports.
"Yes, sir, that's the plan." He didn't look surprised that I'd told my father the truth. He
might have been listening, though.
"Well, more power to you, I guess."
Charlie laughed, and Edward joined in.
"Okay." I stood up. "Enough humor at my expense. Let's go." I walked back to the hall
and pulled on my jacket. They followed.
"Not too late, Bell."
"Don't worry, Charlie, I'll have her home early," Edward promised.
"You take care of my girl, all right?"
I groaned, but they ignored me.
"She'll be safe with me, I promise, sir."
Charlie couldn't doubt Edward's sincerity, it rang in every word.
I stalked out. They both laughed, and Edward followed me.
I stopped dead on the porch. There, behind my truck, was a monster Jeep. Its tires were
higher than my waist. There were metal guards over the headlights and tail-lights, and
four large spotlights attached to the crash bar. The hardtop was shiny red.
Charlie let out a low whistle.
"Wear your seat belts," he choked out.
Edward followed me around to my side and opened the door. I gauged the distance to
the seat and prepared to jump for it. He sighed, and then lifted me in with one hand. I
hoped Charlie didn't notice.
As he went around to the driver's side, at a normal, human pace, I tried to put on my
seat belt. But there were too many buckles.
"What's all this?" I asked when he opened the door.
"It's an off-roading harness."
"Uh-oh."
I tried to find the right places for all the buckles to fit, but it wasn't going too quickly.
He sighed again and reached over to help me. I was glad that the rain was too heavy to
see Charlie clearly on the porch. That meant he couldn't see how Edward's hands lingered
at my neck, brushed along my collarbones. I gave up trying to help him and focused on
not hyperventilating.
Edward turned the key and the engine roared to life. We pulled away from the house.
"This is a… um…big Jeep you have."
"It's Emmett's. I didn't think you'd want to run the whole way."
"Where do you keep this thing?"
"We remodeled one of the outbuildings into a garage."
"Aren't you going to put on your seat belt?"
He threw me a disbelieving look.
Then something sunk in.
"Run the whole way? As in, we're still going to run part of the way?" My voice edged
up a few octaves.
He grinned tightly. "You're not going to run."
"I’m going to be sick."
"Keep your eyes closed, you'll be fine."
I bit my lip, fighting the panic.
He leaned over to kiss the top of my head, and then groaned. I looked at him, puzzled.
"You smell so good in the rain," he explained.
"In a good way, or in a bad way?" I asked cautiously.
He sighed. "Both, always both."
I don't know how he found his way in the gloom and downpour, but he somehow found
a side road that was less of a road and more of a mountain path. For a long while
conversation was impossible, because I was bouncing up and down on the seat like a
jackhammer. He seemed to enjoy the ride, though, smiling hugely the whole way.
And then we came to the end of the road; the trees formed green walls on three sides of
the Jeep. The rain was a mere drizzle, slowing every second, the sky brighter through the
clouds.
"Sorry, Bella, we have to go on foot from here."
"You know what? I'll just wait here."
"What happened to all your courage? You were extraordinary this morning."
"I haven't forgotten the last time yet." Could it have been only yesterday?
He was around to my side of the car in a blur. He started unbuckling me.
"I'll get those, you go on ahead," I protested.
"Hmmm…" he mused as he quickly finished. "It seems I'm going to have to tamper
with your memory."
Before I could react, he pulled me from the Jeep and set my feet on the ground. It was
barely misting now; Alice was going to be right.
"Tamper with my memory?" I asked nervously.
"Something like that." He was watching me intently, carefully, but there was humor
deep in his eyes. He placed his hands against the Jeep on either side of my head and
leaned forward, forcing me to press back against the door. He leaned in even closer, his
face inches from mine. I had no room to escape.
"Now," he breathed, and just his smell disturbed my thought processes, "what exactly
are you worrying about?"
"Well, um, hitting a tree —" I gulped "— and dying. And then getting sick."
He fought back a smile. Then he bent his head down and touched his cold lips softly to
the hollow at the base of my throat.
"Are you still worried now?" he murmured against my skin.
"Yes." I struggled to concentrate. "About hitting trees and getting sick."
His nose drew a line up the skin of my throat to the point of my chin. His cold breath
tickled my skin.
"And now?" His lips whispered against my jaw.
"Trees," I gasped. "Motion sickness."
He lifted his face to kiss my eyelids. "Bella, you don't really think I would hit a tree, do
you?"
"No, but I might." There was no confidence in my voice. He smelled an easy victory.
He kissed slowly down my cheek, stopping just at the corner of my mouth.
"Would I let a tree hurt you?" His lips barely brushed against my trembling lower lip.
"No," I breathed. I knew there was a second part to my brilliant defense, but I couldn't
quite call it back.
"You see," he said, his lips moving against mine. "There's nothing to be afraid of, is
there?"
"No," I sighed, giving up.
Then he took my face in his hands almost roughly, and kissed me in earnest, his
unyielding lips moving against mine.
There really was no excuse for my behavior. Obviously I knew better by now. And yet I
couldn't seem to stop from reacting exactly as I had the first time. Instead of keeping
safely motionless, my arms reached up to twine tightly around his neck, and I was
suddenly welded to his stone figure. I sighed, and my lips parted.
He staggered back, breaking my grip effortlessly.
"Damn it, Bella!" he broke off, gasping. "You'll be the death of me, I swear you will."
I leaned over, bracing my hands against my knees for support.
"You're indestructible," I mumbled, trying to catch my breath.
"I might have believed that before I met you. Now let's get out of here before I do
something really stupid," he growled.
He threw me across his back as he had before, and I could see the extra effort it took for
him to be as gentle as he was. I locked my legs around his waist and secured my arms in
a choke hold around his neck.
"Don't forget to close your eyes," he warned severely.
I quickly tucked my face into his shoulder blade, under my own arm, and squeezed my
eyes shut.
And I could hardly tell we were moving. I could feel him gliding along beneath me, but
he could have been strolling down the sidewalk, the movement was so smooth. I was
tempted to peek, just to see if he was really flying through the forest like before, but I
resisted. It wasn't worth that awful dizziness. I contented myself with listening to his
breath come and go evenly.
I wasn't quite sure we had stopped until he reached back and touched my hair.
"It's over, Bella."
I dared to open my eyes, and, sure enough, we were at a standstill. I stiffly unlocked my
stranglehold on his body and slipped to the ground, landing on my backside.
"Oh!" I huffed as I hit the wet ground.
He stared at me incredulously, evidently not sure whether he was still too mad to find
me funny. But my bewildered expression pushed him over the edge, and he broke into a
roar of laughter.
I picked myself up, ignoring him as I brushed the mud and bracken off the back of my
jacket. That only made him laugh harder. Annoyed, I began to stride off into the forest.
I felt his arm around my waist.
"Where are you going, Bella?"
"To watch a baseball game. You don't seem to be interested in playing anymore, but I'm
sure the others will have fun without you."
"You're going the wrong way."
I turned around without looking at him, and stalked off in the opposite direction. He
caught me again.
"Don't be mad, I couldn't help myself. You should have seen your face." He chuckled
before he could stop himself.
"Oh, you're the only one who's allowed to get mad?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
"I wasn't mad at you."
"'Bella, you'll be the death of me'?" I quoted sourly.
"That was simply a statement of fact."
I tried to turn away from him again, but he held me fast.
"You were mad," I insisted.
"Yes."
"But you just said —"
"That I wasn't mad at you. Can't you see that, Bella?" He was suddenly intense, all trace
of teasing gone. "Don't you understand?"
"See what?" I demanded, confused by his sudden mood swing as much as his words.
"I'm never angry with you — how could I be? Brave, trusting… warm as you are."
"Then why?" I whispered, remembering the black moods that pulled him away from
me, that I'd always interpreted as well-justified frustration — frustration at my weakness,
my slowness, my unruly human reactions…
He put his hands carefully on both sides of my face. "I infuriate myself," he said gently.
"The way I can't seem to keep from putting you in danger. My very existence puts you at
risk. Sometimes I truly hate myself. I should be stronger, I should be able to —"
I placed my hand over his mouth. "Don't."
He took my hand, moving it from his lips, but holding it to his face.
"I love you," he said. "It's a poor excuse for what I'm doing, but it's still true."
It was the first time he'd said he loved me — in so many words. He might not realize it,
but I certainly did.
"Now, please try to behave yourself," he continued, and he bent to softly brush his lips
against mine.
I held properly still. Then I sighed.
"You promised Chief Swan that you would have me home early, remember? We'd better
get going."
"Yes, ma'am."
He smiled wistfully and released all of me but one hand. He led me a few feet through
the tall, wet ferns and draping moss, around a massive hemlock tree, and we were there,
on the edge of an enormous open field in the lap of the Olympic peaks. It was twice the
size of any baseball stadium.
I could see the others all there; Esme, Emmett, and Rosalie, sitting on a bare
outcropping of rock, were the closest to us, maybe a hundred yards away. Much farther
out I could see Jasper and Alice, at least a quarter of a mile apart, appearing to throw
something back and forth, but I never saw any ball. It looked like Carlisle was marking
bases, but could they really be that far apart?
When we came into view, the three on the rocks rose.
Esme started toward us. Emmett followed after a long look at Rosalie's back; Rosalie
had risen gracefully and strode off toward the field without a glance in our direction. My
stomach quivered uneasily in response.
"Was that you we heard, Edward?" Esme asked as she approached.
"It sounded like a bear choking," Emmett clarified.
I smiled hesitantly at Esme. "That was him."
"Bella was being unintentionally funny," Edward explained, quickly settling the score.
Alice had left her position and was running, or dancing, toward us. She hurtled to a
fluid stop at our feet. "It's time," she announced.
As soon as she spoke, a deep rumble of thunder shook the forest beyond us, and then
crashed westward toward town.
"Eerie, isn't it?" Emmett said with easy familiarity, winking at me.
"Let's go." Alice reached for Emmett's hand and they darted toward the oversized field;
she ran like a gazelle. He was nearly as graceful and just as fast — yet Emmett could
never be compared to a gazelle.
"Are you ready for some ball?" Edward asked, his eyes eager, bright.
I tried to sound appropriately enthusiastic. "Go team!"
He snickered and, after mussing my hair, bounded off after the other two. His run was
more aggressive, a cheetah rather than a gazelle, and he quickly overtook them. The grace
and power took my breath away.
"Shall we go down?" Esme asked in her soft, melodic voice, and I realized I was staring
openmouthed after him. I quickly reassembled my expression and nodded. Esme kept a
few feet between us, and I wondered if she was still being careful not to frighten me. She
matched her stride to mine without seeming impatient at the pace.
"You don't play with them?" I asked shyly.
"No, I prefer to referee — I like keeping them honest," she explained.
"Do they like to cheat, then?"
"Oh yes — you should hear the arguments they get into! Actually, I hope you don't, you
would think they were raised by a pack of wolves."
"You sound like my mom," I laughed, surprised.
She laughed, too. "Well, I do think of them as my children in most ways. I never could
get over my mothering instincts — did Edward tell you I had lost a child?"
"No," I murmured, stunned, scrambling to understand what lifetime she was
remembering.
"Yes, my first and only baby. He died just a few days after he was born, the poor tiny
thing," she sighed. "It broke my heart — that's why I jumped off the cliff, you know," she
added matter-of-factly.
"Edward just said you f-fell," I stammered.
"Always the gentleman." She smiled. "Edward was the first of my new sons. I've
always thought of him that way, even though he's older than I, in one way at least." She
smiled at me warmly. "That's why I'm so happy that he's found you, dear." The
endearment sounded very natural on her lips. "He's been the odd man out for far too long;
it's hurt me to see him alone."
"You don't mind, then?" I asked, hesitant again. "That I'm… all wrong for him?"
"No." She was thoughtful. "You're what he wants. It will work out, somehow," she said,
though her forehead creased with worry. Another peal of thunder began.
Esme stopped then; apparently, we'd reached the edge of the field. It looked as if they
had formed teams. Edward was far out in left field, Carlisle stood between the first and
second bases, and Alice held the ball, positioned on the spot that must be the pitcher's
mound.
Emmett was swinging an aluminum bat; it whistled almost untraceably through the air.
I waited for him to approach home plate, but then I realized, as he took his stance, that he
was already there — farther from the pitcher's mound than I would have thought possible.
Jasper stood several feet behind him, catching for the other team. Of course, none of them
had gloves.
"All right," Esme called in a clear voice, which I knew even Edward would hear, as far
out as he was. "Batter up."
Alice stood straight, deceptively motionless. Her style seemed to be stealth rather than
an intimidating windup. She held the ball in both hands at her waist, and then, like the
strike of a cobra, her right hand flicked out and the ball smacked into Jasper's hand.
"Was that a strike?" I whispered to Esme.
"If they don't hit it, it's a strike," she told me.
Jasper hurled the ball back to Alice 's waiting hand. She permitted herself a brief grin.
And then her hand spun out again.
This time the bat somehow made it around in time to smash into the invisible ball. The
crack of impact was shattering, thunderous; it echoed off the mountains — I immediately
understood the necessity of the thunderstorm.
The ball shot like a meteor above the field, flying deep into the surrounding forest.
"Home run," I murmured.
"Wait," Esme cautioned, listening intently, one hand raised. Emmett was a blur around
the bases, Carlisle shadowing him. I realized Edward was missing.
"Out!" Esme cried in a clear voice. I stared in disbelief as Edward sprang from the
fringe of the trees, ball in his upraised hand, his wide grin visible even to me.
"Emmett hits the hardest," Esme explained, "but Edward runs the fastest."
The inning continued before my incredulous eyes. It was impossible to keep up with the
speed at which the ball flew, the rate at which their bodies raced around the field.
I learned the other reason they waited for a thunderstorm to play when Jasper, trying to
avoid Edward's infallible fielding, hit a ground ball toward Carlisle. Carlisle ran into the
ball, and then raced Jasper to first base. When they collided, the sound was like the crash
of two massive falling boulders. I jumped up in concern, but they were somehow
unscathed.
"Safe," Esme called in a calm voice.
Emmett's team was up by one — Rosalie managed to flit around the bases after tagging
up on one of Emmett's long flies — when Edward caught the third out. He sprinted to my
side, sparkling with excitement.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"One thing's for sure, I'll never be able to sit through dull old Major League Baseball
again."
"And it sounds like you did so much of that before," he laughed.
"I am a little disappointed," I teased.
"Why?" he asked, puzzled.
"Well, it would be nice if I could find just one thing you didn't do better than everyone
else on the planet."
He flashed his special crooked smile, leaving me breathless.
"I'm up," he said, heading for the plate.
He played intelligently, keeping the ball low, out of the reach of Rosalie's always-ready
hand in the outfield, gaining two bases like lightning before Emmett could get the ball
back in play. Carlisle knocked one so far out of the field — with a boom that hurt my ears
— that he and Edward both made it in. Alice slapped them dainty high fives.
The score constantly changed as the game continued, and they razzed each other like
any street ballplayers as they took turns with the lead. Occasionally Esme would call
them to order. The thunder rumbled on, but we stayed dry, as Alice had predicted.
Carlisle was up to bat, Edward catching, when Alice suddenly gasped. My eyes were on
Edward, as usual, and I saw his head snap up to look at her. Their eyes met and
something flowed between them in an instant. He was at my side before the others could
ask Alice what was wrong.
"Alice?" Esme's voice was tense.
"I didn't see — I couldn't tell," she whispered.
All the others were gathered by this time.
"What is it, Alice?" Carlisle asked with the calm voice of authority.
"They were traveling much quicker than I thought. I can see I had the perspective
wrong before," she murmured.
Jasper leaned over her, his posture protective. "What changed?" he asked.
"They heard us playing, and it changed their path," she said, contrite, as if she felt
responsible for whatever had frightened her.
Seven pairs of quick eyes flashed to my face and away.
"How soon?" Carlisle said, turning toward Edward.
A look of intense concentration crossed his face.
"Less than five minutes. They're running — they want to play." He scowled.
"Can you make it?" Carlisle asked him, his eyes flicking toward me again.
"No, not carrying —" He cut short. "Besides, the last thing we need is for them to catch
the scent and start hunting."
"How many?" Emmett asked Alice.
"Three," she answered tersely.
"Three!" he scoffed. "Let them come." The steel bands of muscle flexed along his
massive arms.
For a split second that seemed much longer than it really was, Carlisle deliberated.
Only Emmett seemed unperturbed; the rest stared at Carlisle's face with anxious eyes.
"Let's just continue the game," Carlisle finally decided. His voice was cool and level.
"Alice said they were simply curious."
All this was said in a flurry of words that lasted only a few seconds. I had listened
carefully and caught most of it, though I couldn't hear what Esme now asked Edward
with a silent vibration of her lips. I only saw the slight shake of his head and the look of
relief on her face.
"You catch, Esme," he said. "I'll call it now." And he planted himself in front of me.
The others returned to the field, warily sweeping the dark forest with their sharp eyes.
Alice and Esme seemed to orient themselves around where I stood.
"Take your hair down," Edward said in a low, even voice.
I obediently slid the rubber band out of my hair and shook it out around me.
I stated the obvious. "The others are coming now."
"Yes, stay very still, keep quiet, and don't move from my side, please." He hid the stress
in his voice well, but I could hear it. He pulled my long hair forward, around my face.
"That won't help," Alice said softly. "I could smell her across the field."
"I know." A hint of frustration colored his tone.
Carlisle stood at the plate, and the others joined the game halfheartedly.
"What did Esme ask you?" I whispered.
He hesitated for a second before he answered. "Whether they were thirsty," he muttered
unwillingly.
The seconds ticked by; the game progressed with apathy now. No one dared to hit
harder than a bunt, and Emmett, Rosalie, and Jasper hovered in the infield. Now and
again, despite the fear that numbed my brain, I was aware of Rosalie's eyes on me. They
were expressionless, but something about the way she held her mouth made me think she
was angry.
Edward paid no attention to the game at all, eyes and mind ranging the forest.
"I'm sorry, Bella," he muttered fiercely. "It was stupid, irresponsible, to expose you like
this. I'm so sorry."
I heard his breath stop, and his eyes zeroed in on right field. He took a half step, angling
himself between me and what was coming.
Carlisle, Emmett, and the others turned in the same direction, hearing sounds of
passage much too faint for my ears.
18. The Hunt
They emerged one by one from the forest edge, ranging a dozen meters apart. The first
male into the clearing fell back immediately, allowing the other male to take the front,
orienting himself around the tall, dark-haired man in a manner that clearly displayed who
led the pack. The third was a woman; from this distance, all I could see of her was that
her hair was a startling shade of red.
They closed ranks before they continued cautiously toward Edward's family, exhibiting
the natural respect of a troop of predators as it encounters a larger, unfamiliar group of its
own kind.
As they approached, I could see how different they were from the Cullens. Their walk
was catlike, a gait that seemed constantly on the edge of shifting into a crouch. They
dressed in the ordinary gear of backpackers: jeans and casual button-down shirts in
heavy, weatherproof fabrics. The clothes were frayed, though, with wear, and they were
barefoot. Both men had cropped hair, but the woman's brilliant orange hair was filled
with leaves and debris from the woods.
Their sharp eyes carefully took in the more polished, urbane stance of Carlisle, who,
flanked by Emmett and Jasper, stepped guardedly forward to meet them. Without any
seeming communication between them, they each straightened into a more casual, erect
bearing.
The man in front was easily the most beautiful, his skin olive-toned beneath the typical
pallor, his hair a glossy black. He was of a medium build, hard-muscled, of course, but
nothing next to Emmett's brawn. He smiled an easy smile, exposing a flash of gleaming
white teeth.
The woman was wilder, her eyes shifting restlessly between the men facing her, and the
loose grouping around me, her chaotic hair quivering in the slight breeze. Her posture
was distinctly feline. The second male hovered unobtrusively behind them, slighter than
the leader, his light brown hair and regular features both nondescript. His eyes, though
completely still, somehow seemed the most vigilant.
Their eyes were different, too. Not the gold or black I had come to expect, but a deep
burgundy color that was disturbing and sinister.
The dark-haired man, still smiling, stepped toward Carlisle.
"We thought we heard a game," he said in a relaxed voice with the slightest of French
accents. "I'm Laurent, these are Victoria and James." He gestured to the vampires beside
him.
"I'm Carlisle. This is my family, Emmett and Jasper, Rosalie, Esme and Alice, Edward
and Bella." He pointed us out in groups, deliberately not calling attention to individuals. I
felt a shock when he said my name.
"Do you have room for a few more players?" Laurent asked sociably.
Carlisle matched Laurent's friendly tone. "Actually, we were just finishing up. But we'd
certainly be interested another time. Are you planning to stay in the area for long?"
"We're headed north, in fact, but we were curious to see who was in the neighborhood.
We haven't run into any company in a long time."
"No, this region is usually empty except for us and the occasional visitor, like
yourselves."
The tense atmosphere had slowly subsided into a casual conversation; I guessed that
Jasper was using his peculiar gift to control the situation.
"What's your hunting range?" Laurent casually inquired.
Carlisle ignored the assumption behind the inquiry. "The Olympic Range here, up and
down the Coast Ranges on occasion. We keep a permanent residence nearby. There's
another permanent settlement like ours up near Denali."
Laurent rocked back on his heels slightly.
"Permanent? How do you manage that?" There was honest curiosity in his voice.
"Why don't you come back to our home with us and we can talk comfortably?" Carlisle
invited. "It's a rather long story."
James and Victoria exchanged a surprised look at the mention of the word "home," but
Laurent controlled his expression better.
"That sounds very interesting, and welcome." His smile was genial. "We've been on the
hunt all the way down from Ontario, and we haven't had the chance to clean up in a
while." His eyes moved appreciatively over Carlisle's refined appearance.
"Please don't take offense, but we'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from hunting in this
immediate area. We have to stay inconspicuous, you understand," Carlisle explained.
"Of course." Laurent nodded. "We certainly won't encroach on your territory. We just
ate outside of Seattle, anyway," he laughed. A shiver ran up my spine.
"We'll show you the way if you'd like to run with us — Emmett and Alice, you can go
with Edward and Bella to get the Jeep," he casually added.
Three things seemed to happen simultaneously while Carlisle was speaking. My hair
ruffled with the light breeze, Edward stiffened, and the second male, James, suddenly
whipped his head around, scrutinizing me, his nostrils flaring.
A swift rigidity fell on all of them as James lurched one step forward into a crouch.
Edward bared his teeth, crouching in defense, a feral snarl ripping from his throat.
It was nothing like the playful sounds I'd heard from him this morning; it was the single
most menacing thing I had ever heard, and chills ran from the crown of my head to the
back of my heels.
"What's this?" Laurent exclaimed in open surprise. Neither James nor Edward relaxed
their aggressive poses. James feinted slightly to the side, and Edward shifted in response.
"She's with us." Carlisle's firm rebuff was directed toward James. Laurent seemed to
catch my scent less powerfully than James, but awareness now dawned on his face.
"You brought a snack?" he asked, his expression incredulous as he took an involuntary
step forward.
Edward snarled even more ferociously, harshly, his lip curling high above his
glistening, bared teeth. Laurent stepped back again.
"I said she's with us," Carlisle corrected in a hard voice.
"But she's human," Laurent protested. The words were not at all aggressive, merely
astounded.
"Yes." Emmett was very much in evidence at Carlisle's side, his eyes on James. James
slowly straightened out of his crouch, but his eyes never left me, his nostrils still wide.
Edward stayed tensed like a lion in front of me.
When Laurent spoke, his tone was soothing — trying to defuse the sudden hostility. "It
appears we have a lot to learn about each other."
"Indeed." Carlisle's voice was still cool.
"But we'd like to accept your invitation." His eyes flicked toward me and back to
Carlisle. "And, of course, we will not harm the human girl. We won't hunt in your range,
as I said."
James glanced in disbelief and aggravation at Laurent and exchanged another brief look
with Victoria, whose eyes still flickered edgily from face to face.
Carlisle measured Laurent's open expression for a moment before he spoke. "We'll
show you the way. Jasper, Rosalie, Esme?" he called. They gathered together, blocking
me from view as they converged. Alice was instantly at my side, and Emmett fell back
slowly, his eyes locked on James as he backed toward us.
"Let's go, Bella." Edward's voice was low and bleak.
This whole time I'd been rooted in place, terrified into absolute immobility. Edward had
to grip my elbow and pull sharply to break my trance. Alice and Emmett were close
behind us, hiding me. I stumbled alongside Edward, still stunned with fear. I couldn't hear
if the main group had left yet. Edward's impatience was almost tangible as we moved at
human speed to the forest edge.
Once we were into the trees, Edward slung me over his back without breaking stride. I
gripped as tightly as possible as he took off, the others close on his heels. I kept my head
down, but my eyes, wide with fright, wouldn't close. They plunged through the nowblack
forest like wraiths. The sense of exhilaration that usually seemed to possess Edward
as he ran was completely absent, replaced by a fury that consumed him and drove him
still faster. Even with me on his back, the others trailed behind.
We reached the Jeep in an impossibly short time, and Edward barely slowed as he flung
me in the backseat.
"Strap her in," he ordered Emmett, who slid in beside me.
Alice was already in the front seat, and Edward was starting the engine. It roared to life
and we swerved backward, spinning around to face the winding road.
Edward was growling something too fast for me to understand, but it sounded a lot like
a string of profanities.
The jolting trip was much worse this time, and the darkness only made it more
frightening. Emmett and Alice both glared out the side windows.
We hit the main road, and though our speed increased, I could see much better where
we were going. And we were headed south, away from Forks.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
No one answered. No one even looked at me.
"Dammit, Edward! Where are you taking me?"
"We have to get you away from here — far away — now." He didn't look back, his eyes
on the road. The speedometer read a hundred and five miles an hour.
"Turn around! You have to take me home!" I shouted. I struggled with the stupid
harness, tearing at the straps.
"Emmett," Edward said grimly.
And Emmett secured my hands in his steely grasp.
"No! Edward! No, you can't do this."
"I have to, Bella, now please be quiet."
"I won't! You have to take me back — Charlie will call the FBI! They'll be all over your
family —Carlisle and Esme ! They'll have to leave, to hide forever!"
"Calm down, Bella." His voice was cold. "We've been there before."
"Not over me, you don't! You're not ruining everything over me!" I struggled violently,
with total futility.
Alice spoke for the first time. "Edward, pull over."
He flashed her a hard look, and then sped up.
"Edward, let's just talk this through."
"You don't understand," he roared in frustration. I'd never heard his voice so loud; it
was deafening in the confines of the Jeep. The speedometer neared one hundred and
fifteen. "He's a tracker, Alice, did you see that? He's a tracker!"
I felt Emmett stiffen next to me, and I wondered at his reaction to the word. It meant
something more to the three of them than it did to me; I wanted to understand, but there
was no opening for me to ask.
"Pull over, Edward." Alice's tone was reasonable, but there was a ring of authority in it
I'd never heard before.
The speedometer inched passed one-twenty.
"Do it, Edward."
"Listen to me, Alice. I saw his mind. Tracking is his passion, his obsession — and he
wants her, Alice — her, specifically. He begins the hunt tonight."
"He doesn't know where —"
He interrupted her. "How long do you think it will take him to cross her scent in town?
His plan was already set before the words were out of Laurent's mouth."
I gasped, knowing where my scent would lead. "Charlie! You can't leave him there! You
can't leave him!" I thrashed against the harness.
"She's right," Alice said.
The car slowed slightly.
"Let's just look at our options for a minute," Alice coaxed.
The car slowed again, more noticeably, and then suddenly we screeched to a stop on the
shoulder of the highway. I flew against the harness, and then slammed back into the seat.
"There are no options," Edward hissed.
"I'm not leaving Charlie!" I yelled.
He ignored me completely.
"We have to take her back," Emmett finally spoke.
"No." Edward was absolute.
"He's no match for us, Edward. He won't be able to touch her."
"He'll wait."
Emmett smiled. "I can wait, too."
"You didn't see — you don't understand. Once he commits to a hunt, he's unshakable.
We'd have to kill him."
Emmett didn't seem upset by the idea. "That's an option."
"And the female. She's with him. If it turns into a fight, the leader will go with them,
too."
"There are enough of us."
"There's another option," Alice said quietly.
Edward turned on her in fury, his voice a blistering snarl. "There — is — no — other
— option!"
Emmett and I both stared at him in shock, but Alice seemed unsurprised. The silence
lasted for a long minute as Edward and Alice stared each other down.
I broke it. "Does anyone want to hear my plan?"
"No," Edward growled. Alice glared at him, finally provoked.
"Listen," I pleaded. "You take me back."
"No," he interrupted.
I glared at him and continued. "You take me back. I tell my dad I want to go home to
Phoenix. I pack my bags. We wait till this tracker is watching, and then we run. He'll
follow us and leave Charlie alone. Charlie won't call the FBI on your family. Then you
can take me any damned place you want."
They stared at me, stunned.
"It's not a bad idea, really." Emmett's surprise was definitely an insult.
"It might work — and we simply can't leave her father unprotected. You know that,"
Alice said.
Everyone looked at Edward.
"It's too dangerous — I don't want him within a hundred miles of her."
Emmett was supremely confident. "Edward, he's not getting through us."
Alice thought for a minute. "I don't see him attacking. He'll try to wait for us to leave
her alone."
"It won't take long for him to realize that's not going to happen."
"I demand that you take me home." I tried to sound firm.
Edward pressed his fingers to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Please," I said in a much smaller voice.
He didn't look up. When he spoke, his voice sounded worn.
"You're leaving tonight, whether the tracker sees or not. You tell Charlie that you can't
stand another minute in Forks. Tell him whatever story works. Pack the first things your
hands touch, and then get in your truck. I don't care what he says to you. You have fifteen
minutes. Do you hear me? Fifteen minutes from the time you cross the doorstep."
The Jeep rumbled to life, and he spun us around, the tires squealing. The needle on the
speedometer started to race up the dial.
"Emmett?" I asked, looking pointedly at my hands.
"Oh, sorry." He let me loose.
A few minutes passed in silence, other than the roar of the engine. Then Edward spoke
again.
"This is how it's going to happen. When we get to the house, if the tracker is not there, I
will walk her to the door. Then she has fifteen minutes." He glared at me in the rearview
mirror. "Emmett, you take the outside of the house. Alice, you get the truck. I'll be inside
as long as she is. After she's out, you two can take the Jeep home and tell Carlisle."
"No way," Emmett broke in. "I'm with you."
"Think it through, Emmett. I don't know how long I'll be gone."
"Until we know how far this is going to go, I'm with you."
Edward sighed. "If the tracker is there," he continued grimly, "we keep driving."
"We're going to make it there before him," Alice said confidently.
Edward seemed to accept that. Whatever his problem with Alice was, he didn't doubt
her now.
"What are we going to do with the Jeep?" she asked.
His voice had a hard edge. "You're driving it home."
"No, I'm not," she said calmly.
The unintelligible stream of profanities started again.
"We can't all fit in my truck," I whispered.
Edward didn't appear to hear me.
"I think you should let me go alone," I said even more quietly.
He heard that.
"Bella, please just do this my way, just this once," he said between clenched teeth.
"Listen, Charlie's not an imbecile," I protested. "If you're not in town tomorrow, he's
going to get suspicious."
"That's irrelevant. We'll make sure he's safe, and that's all that matters."
"Then what about this tracker? He saw the way you acted tonight. He's going to think
you're with me, wherever you are."
Emmett looked at me, insultingly surprised again. "Edward, listen to her," he urged. "I
think she's right."
"Yes, she is," Alice agreed.
"I can't do that." Edward's voice was icy.
"Emmett should stay, too," I continued. "He definitely got an eyeful of Emmett."
"What?" Emmett turned on me.
"You'll get a better crack at him if you stay," Alice agreed.
Edward stared at her incredulously. "You think I should let her go alone?"
"Of course not," Alice said. "Jasper and I will take her."
"I can't do that," Edward repeated, but this time there was a trace of defeat in his voice.
The logic was working on him.
I tried to be persuasive. "Hang out here for a week —" I saw his expression in the
mirror and amended "— a few days. Let Charlie see you haven't kidnapped me, and lead
this James on a wild-goose chase. Make sure he's completely off my trail. Then come and
meet me. Take a roundabout route, of course, and then Jasper and Alice can go home."
I could see him beginning to consider it.
"Meet you where?"
"Phoenix." Of course.
"No. He'll hear that's where you're going," he said impatiently.
"And you'll make it look like that's a ruse, obviously. He'll know that we'll know that
he's listening. He'll never believe I'm actually going where I say I am going."
"She's diabolical," Emmett chuckled.
"And if that doesn't work?"
"There are several million people in Phoenix," I informed him.
"It's not that hard to find a phone book."
"I won't go home."
"Oh?" he inquired, a dangerous note in his voice.
"I'm quite old enough to get my own place."
"Edward, we'll be with her," Alice reminded him.
"What are you going to do in Phoenix?" he asked her scathingly.
"Stay indoors."
"I kind of like it." Emmett was thinking about cornering James, no doubt.
"Shut up, Emmett."
"Look, if we try to take him down while she's still around, there's a much better chance
that someone will get hurt — she'll get hurt, or you will, trying to protect her. Now, if we
get him alone…" He trailed off with a slow smile. I was right.
The Jeep was crawling slowly along now as we drove into town. Despite my brave talk,
I could feel the hairs on my arms standing up. I thought about Charlie, alone in the house,
and tried to be courageous.
"Bella." Edward's voice was very soft. Alice and Emmett looked out their windows. "If
you let anything happen to yourself— anything at all — I'm holding you personally
responsible. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," I gulped.
He turned to Alice.
"Can Jasper handle this?"
"Give him some credit, Edward. He's been doing very, very well, all things considered."
"Can you handle this?" he asked.
And graceful little Alice pulled back her lips in a horrific grimace and let loose with a
guttural snarl that had me cowering against the seat in terror.
Edward smiled at her. "But keep your opinions to yourself," he muttered suddenly.
19. Goodbyes
Charlie was waiting up for me. All the house lights were on. My mind was blank as I
tried to think of a way to make him let me go. This wasn't going to be pleasant.
Edward pulled up slowly, staying well back from my truck. All three of them were
acutely alert, ramrod straight in their seats, listening to every sound of the wood, looking
through every shadow, catching every scent, searching for something out of place. The
engine cut off, and I sat, motionless, as they continued to listen.
"He's not here," Edward said tensely. "Let's go." Emmett reached over to help me get
out of the harness.
"Don't worry, Bella," he said in a low but cheerful voice, "we'll take care of things here
quickly."
I felt moisture filling up my eyes as I looked at Emmett. I barely knew him, and yet,
somehow, not knowing when I would see him again after tonight was anguishing. I knew
this was just a faint taste of the goodbyes I would have to survive in the next hour, and
the thought made the tears begin to spill.
"Alice, Emmett." Edward's voice was a command. They slithered soundlessly into the
darkness, instantly disappearing. Edward opened my door and took my hand, then drew
me into the protecting enclosure of his arm. He walked me swiftly toward the house, eyes
always roving through the night.
"Fifteen minutes," he warned under his breath.
"I can do this." I sniffled. My tears had given me an inspiration.
I stopped on the porch and took hold of his face in my hands. I looked fiercely into his
eyes.
"I love you," I said in a low, intense voice. "I will always love you, no matter what
happens now."
"Nothing is going to happen to you, Bella," he said just as fiercely.
"Just follow the plan, okay? Keep Charlie safe for me. He's not going to like me very
much after this, and I want to have the chance to apologize later."
"Get inside, Bella. We have to hurry." His voice was urgent.
"One more thing," I whispered passionately. "Don't listen to another word I say
tonight!" He was leaning in, and so all I had to do was stretch up on my toes to kiss his
surprised, frozen lips with as much force as I was capable of. Then I turned and kicked
the door open.
"Go away, Edward!" I yelled at him, running inside and slamming the door shut in his
still-shocked face.
"Bella?" Charlie had been hovering in the living room, and he was already on his feet.
"Leave me alone!" I screamed at him through my tears, which were flowing relentlessly
now. I ran up the stairs to my room, throwing the door shut and locking it. I ran to my
bed, flinging myself on the floor to retrieve my duffel bag. I reached swiftly between the
mattress and box spring to grab the knotted old sock that contained my secret cash hoard.
Charlie was pounding on my door.
"Bella, are you okay? What's going on?" His voice was frightened.
"I'm going borne," I shouted, my voice breaking in the perfect spot.
"Did he hurt you?" His tone edged toward anger.
"No!" I shrieked a few octaves higher. I turned to my dresser, and Edward was already
there, silently yanking out armfuls of random clothes, which he proceeded to throw to
me.
"Did he break up with you?" Charlie was perplexed.
"No!" I yelled, slightly more breathless as I shoved everything into the bag. Edward
threw another drawer's contents at me. The bag was pretty much full now.
"What happened, Bella?" Charlie shouted through the door, pounding again.
"I broke up with him!" I shouted back, jerking on the zipper of my bag. Edward's
capable hands pushed mine away and zipped it smoothly. He put the strap carefully over
my arm.
"I'll be in the truck — go!" he whispered, and pushed me toward the door. He vanished
out the window.
I unlocked the door and pushed past Charlie roughly, struggling with my heavy bag as I
ran down the stairs.
"What happened?" he yelled. He was right behind me. "I thought you liked him."
He caught my elbow in the kitchen. Though he was still bewildered, his grip was firm.
He spun me around to look at him, and I could see in his face that he had no intention
of letting me leave. I could think of only one way to escape, and it involved hurting him
so much that I hated myself for even considering it. But I had no time, and I had to keep
him safe.
I glared up at my father, fresh tears in my eyes for what I was about to do.
"I do like him — that's the problem. I can't do this anymore! I can't put down any more
roots here! I don't want to end up trapped in this stupid, boring town like Mom! I'm not
going to make the same dumb mistake she did. I hate it — I can't stay here another
minute!"
His hand dropped from my arm like I'd electrocuted him. I turned away from his
shocked, wounded face and headed for the door.
"Bells, you can't leave now. It's nighttime," he whispered behind me.
I didn't turn around. "I'll sleep in the truck if I get tired."
"Just wait another week," he pled, still shell-shocked. "Renée will be back by then."
This completely derailed me. "What?"
Charlie continued eagerly, almost babbling with relief as I hesitated. "She called while
you were out. Things aren't going so well in Florida, and if Phil doesn't get signed by the
end of the week, they're going back to Arizona. The assistant coach of the Sidewinders
said they might have a spot for another shortstop."
I shook my head, trying to reassemble my now-confused thoughts. Every passing
second put Charlie in more danger.
"I have a key," I muttered, turning the knob. He was too close, one hand extended
toward me, his face dazed. I couldn't lose any more time arguing with him. I was going to
have to hurt him further.
"Just let me go, Charlie." I repeated my mother's last words as she'd walked out this
same door so many years ago. I said them as angrily as I could manage, and I threw the
door open. "It didn't work out, okay? I really, really hate Forks!"
My cruel words did their job — Charlie stayed frozen on the doorstep, stunned, while I
ran into the night. I was hideously frightened of the empty yard. I ran wildly for the truck,
visualizing a dark shadow behind me. I threw my bag in the bed and wrenched the door
open. The key was waiting in the ignition.
"I'll call you tomorrow!" I yelled, wishing more than anything that I could explain
everything to him right then, knowing I would never be able to. I gunned the engine and
peeled out.
Edward reached for my hand.
"Pull over," he said as the house, and Charlie, disappeared behind us.
"I can drive," I said through the tears pouring down my cheeks.
His long hands unexpectedly gripped my waist, and his foot pushed mine off the gas
pedal. He pulled me across his lap, wrenching my hands free of the wheel, and suddenly
he was in the driver's seat. The truck didn't swerve an inch.
"You wouldn't be able to find the house," he explained.
Lights flared suddenly behind us. I stared out the back window, eyes wide with horror.
"It's just Alice," he reassured me. He took my hand again.
My mind was filled with the image of Charlie in the doorway. "The tracker?"
"He heard the end of your performance," Edward said grimly.
"Charlie?" I asked in dread.
"The tracker followed us. He's running behind us now."
My body went cold.
"Can we outrun him?"
"No." But he sped up as he spoke. The truck's engine whined in protest.
My plan suddenly didn't feel so brilliant anymore.
I was staring back at Alice's headlights when the truck shuddered and a dark shadow
sprung up outside the window.
My bloodcurdling scream lasted a fraction of a second before Edward's hand clamped
down on my mouth.
"It's Emmett!"
He released my mouth, and wound his arm around my waist.
"It's okay, Bella," he promised. "You're going to be safe."
We raced through the quiet town toward the north highway.
"I didn't realize you were still so bored with small-town life," he said conversationally,
and I knew he was trying to distract me. "It seemed like you were adjusting fairly well —
especially recently. Maybe I was just flattering myself that I was making life more
interesting for you."
"I wasn't being nice," I confessed, ignoring his attempt at diversion, looking down at
my knees. "That was the same thing my mom said when she left him. You could say I
was hitting below the belt."
"Don't worry. He'll forgive you." He smiled a little, though it didn't touch his eyes.
I stared at him desperately, and he saw the naked panic in my eyes.
"Bella, it's going to be all right."
"But it won't be all right when I'm not with you," I whispered.
"We'll be together again in a few days," he said, tightening his arm around me. "Don't
forget that this was your idea."
"It was the best idea — of course it was mine."
His answering smile was bleak and disappeared immediately.
"Why did this happen?" I asked, my voice catching. "Why me?"
He stared blackly at the road ahead. "It's my fault — I was a fool to expose you like
that." The rage in his voice was directed internally.
"That's not what I meant," I insisted. "I was there, big deal. It didn't bother the other
two. Why did this James decide to kill me? There're people all over the place, why me?"
He hesitated, thinking before he answered.
"I got a good look at his mind tonight," he began in a low voice. "I'm not sure if there's
anything I could have done to avoid this, once he saw you. It is partially your fault." His
voice was wry. "If you didn't smell so appallingly luscious, he might not have bothered.
But when I defended you… well, that made it a lot worse. He's not used to being
thwarted, no matter how insignificant the object. He thinks of himself as a hunter and
nothing else. His existence is consumed with tracking, and a challenge is all he asks of
life. Suddenly we've presented him with a beautiful challenge — a large clan of strong
fighters all bent on protecting the one vulnerable element. You wouldn't believe how
euphoric he is now. It's his favorite game, and we've just made it his most exciting game
ever." His tone was full of disgust.
He paused a moment.
"But if I had stood by, he would have killed you right then," he said with hopeless
frustration.
"I thought… I didn't smell the same to the others… as I do to you," I said hesitantly.
"You don't. But that doesn't mean that you aren't still a temptation to every one of them.
If you had appealed to the tracker — or any of them — the same way you appeal to me, it
would have meant a fight right there."
I shuddered.
"I don't think I have any choice but to kill him now," he muttered. "Carlisle won't like
it."
I could hear the tires cross the bridge, though I couldn't see the river in the dark. I knew
we were getting close. I had to ask him now.
"How can you kill a vampire?"
He glanced at me with unreadable eyes and his voice was suddenly harsh. "The only
way to be sure is to tear him to shreds, and then burn the pieces."
"And the other two will fight with him?"
"The woman will. I'm not sure about Laurent. They don't have a very strong bond —
he's only with them for convenience. He was embarrassed by James in the meadow…"
"But James and the woman — they'll try to kill you?" I asked, my voice raw.
"Bella, don't you dare waste time worrying about me. Your only concern is keeping
yourself safe and — please, please —trying not to be reckless."
"Is he still following?"
"Yes. He won't attack the house, though. Not tonight."
He turned off onto the invisible drive, with Alice following behind.
We drove right up to the house. The lights inside were bright, but they did little to
alleviate the blackness of the encroaching forest. Emmett had my door open before the
truck was stopped; he pulled me out of the seat, tucked me like a football into his vast
chest, and ran me through the door.
We burst into the large white room, Edward and Alice at our sides. All of them were
there; they were already on their feet at the sound of our approach. Laurent stood in their
midst. I could hear low growls rumble deep in Emmett's throat as he set me down next to
Edward.
"He's tracking us," Edward announced, glaring balefully at Laurent.
Laurent's face was unhappy. "I was afraid of that."
Alice danced to Jasper's side and whispered in his ear; her lips quivered with the speed
of her silent speech. They flew up the stairs together. Rosalie watched them, and then
moved quickly to Emmett's side. Her beautiful eyes were intense and — when they
flickered unwillingly to my face — furious.
"What will he do?" Carlisle asked Laurent in chilling tones.
"I'm sorry," he answered. "I was afraid, when your boy there defended her, that it would
set him off."
"Can you stop him?"
Laurent shook his head. "Nothing stops James when he gets started."
"We'll stop him," Emmett promised. There was no doubt what he meant.
"You can't bring him down. I've never seen anything like him in my three hundred
years. He's absolutely lethal. That's why I joined his coven."
His coven, I thought, of course. The show of leadership in the clearing was merely that,
a show.
Laurent was shaking his head. He glanced at me, perplexed, and back to Carlisle. "Are
you sure it's worth it?"
Edward's enraged roar filled the room; Laurent cringed back.
Carlisle looked gravely at Laurent. "I'm afraid you're going to have to make a choice."
Laurent understood. He deliberated for a moment. His eyes took in every face, and
finally swept the bright room.
"I'm intrigued by the life you've created here. But I won't get in the middle of this. I
bear none of you any enmity, but I won't go up against James. I think I will head north —
to that clan in Denali." He hesitated. "Don't underestimate James. He's got a brilliant
mind and unparalleled senses. He's every bit as comfortable in the human world as you
seem to be, and he won't come at you head on… I'm sorry for what's been unleashed
here. Truly sorry." He bowed his head, but I saw him flicker another puzzled look at me.
"Go in peace," was Carlisle's formal answer.
Laurent took another long look around himself, and then he hurried out the door.
The silence lasted less than a second.
"How close?" Carlisle looked to Edward.
Esme was already moving; her hand touched an inconspicuous keypad on the wall, and
with a groan, huge metal shutters began sealing up the glass wall. I gaped.
"About three miles out past the river; he's circling around to meet up with the female."
"What's the plan?"
"We'll lead him off, and then Jasper and Alice will run her south."
"And then?"
Edward's tone was deadly. "As soon as Bella is clear, we hunt him."
"I guess there's no other choice," Carlisle agreed, his face grim.
Edward turned to Rosalie.
"Get her upstairs and trade clothes," Edward commanded. She stared back at him with
livid disbelief.
"Why should I?" she hissed. "What is she to me? Except a menace — a danger you've
chosen to inflict on all of us."
I flinched back from the venom in her voice.
"Rose…" Emmett murmured, putting one hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.
But I was watching Edward carefully, knowing his temper, worried about his reaction.
He surprised me. He looked away from Rosalie as if she hadn't spoken, as if she didn't
exist.
"Esme?" he asked calmly.
"Of course," Esme murmured.
Esme was at my side in half a heartbeat, swinging me up easily into her arms, and
dashing up the stairs before I could gasp in shock.
"What are we doing?" I asked breathlessly as she set me down in a dark room
somewhere off the second-story hall.
"Trying to confuse the smell. It won't work for long, but it might help get you out." I
could hear her clothes falling to the floor.
"I don't think I'll fit…" I hesitated, but her hands were abruptly pulling my shirt over
my head. I quickly stripped my jeans off myself. She handed me something, it felt like a
shirt. I struggled to get my arms through the right holes. As soon as I was done she
handed me her slacks. I yanked them on, but I couldn't get my feet out; they were too
long. She deftly rolled the hems a few times so I could stand. Somehow she was already
in my clothes. She pulled me back to the stairs, where Alice stood, a small leather bag in
one hand. They each grabbed one of my elbows and half-carried me as they flew down
the stairs.
It appeared that everything had been settled downstairs in our absence. Edward and
Emmett were ready to leave, Emmett carrying a heavy-looking backpack over his
shoulder. Carlisle was handing something small to Esme. He turned and handed Alice the
same thing — it was a tiny silver cell phone.
"Esme and Rosalie will be taking your truck, Bella," he told me as he passed. I nodded,
glancing warily at Rosalie. She was glowering at Carlisle with a resentful expression.
"Alice, Jasper —take the Mercedes. You'll need the dark tint in the south."
They nodded as well.
"We're taking the Jeep."
I was surprised to see that Carlisle intended to go with Edward. I realized suddenly,
with a stab of fear, that they made up the hunting party.
"Alice," Carlisle asked, "will they take the bait?"
Everyone watched Alice as she closed her eyes and became incredibly still.
Finally her eyes opened. "He'll track you. The woman will follow the truck. We should
be able to leave after that." Her voice was certain.
"Let's go." Carlisle began to walk toward the kitchen.
But Edward was at my side at once. He caught me up in his iron grip, crushing me to
him. He seemed unaware of his watching family as he pulled my face to his, lifting my
feet off the floor. For the shortest second, his lips were icy and hard against mine. Then it
was over. He set me down, still holding my face, his glorious eyes burning into mine.
His eyes went blank, curiously dead, as he turned away.
And they were gone.
We stood there, the others looking away from me as the tears streaked noiselessly down
my face.
The silent moment dragged on, and then Esme's phone vibrated in her hand. It flashed
to her ear.
"Now," she said. Rosalie stalked out the front door without another glance in my
direction, but Esme touched my cheek as she passed.
"Be safe." Her whisper lingered behind them as they slipped out the door. I heard my
truck start thunderously, and then fade away.
Jasper and Alice waited. Alice's phone seemed to be at her ear before it buzzed.
"Edward says the woman is on Esme's trail. I'll get the car." She vanished into the
shadows the way Edward had gone.
Jasper and I looked at each other. He stood across the length of the entryway from
me… being careful.
"You're wrong, you know," he said quietly.
"What?" I gasped.
"I can feel what you're feeling now — and you are worth it."
"I'm not," I mumbled. "If anything happens to them, it will be for nothing."
"You're wrong," he repeated, smiling kindly at me.
I heard nothing, but then Alice stepped through the front door and came toward me with
her arms held out.
"May I?" she asked.
"You're the first one to ask permission." I smiled wryly.
She lifted me in her slender arms as easily as Emmett had, shielding me protectively,
and then we flew out the door, leaving the lights bright behind us.
20. Impatience
When I woke up I was confused. My thoughts were hazy, still twisted up in dreams and
nightmares; it took me longer than it should have to realize where I was.
This room was too bland to belong anywhere but in a hotel. The bedside lamps, bolted
to the tables, were a dead giveaway, as were the long drapes made from the same fabric
as the bedspread, and the generic watercolor prints on the walls.
I tried to remember how I got here, but nothing came at first.
I did remember the sleek black car, the glass in the windows darker than that on a
limousine. The engine was almost silent, though we'd raced across the black freeways at
more than twice the legal speed.
And I remembered Alice sitting with me on the dark leather backseat. Somehow, during
the long night, my head had ended up against her granite neck. My closeness didn't seem
to bother her at all, and her cool, hard skin was oddly comforting to me. The front of her
thin cotton shirt was cold, damp with the tears that streamed from my eyes until, red and
sore, they ran dry.
Sleep had evaded me; my aching eyes strained open even though the night finally
ended and dawn broke over a low peak somewhere in California. The gray light,
streaking across the cloudless sky, stung my eyes. But I couldn't close them; when I did,
the images that flashed all too vividly, like still slides behind my lids, were unbearable.
Charlie's broken expression — Edward's brutal snarl, teeth bared — Rosalie's resentful
glare — the keen-eyed scrutiny of the tracker — the dead look in Edward's eyes after he
kissed me the last time… I couldn't stand to see them. So I fought against my weariness
and the sun rose higher.
I was still awake when we came through a shallow mountain pass and the sun, behind
us now, reflected off the tiled rooftops of the Valley of the Sun. I didn't have enough
emotion left to be surprised that we'd made a three-day journey in one. I stared blankly at
the wide, flat expanse laid out in front of me. Phoenix — the palm trees, the scrubby
creosote, the haphazard lines of the intersecting freeways, the green swaths of golf
courses and turquoise splotches of swimming pools, all submerged in a thin smog and
embraced by the short, rocky ridges that weren't really big enough to be called
mountains.
The shadows of the palm trees slanted across the freeway — defined, sharper than I
remembered, paler than they should be. Nothing could hide in these shadows. The bright,
open freeway seemed benign enough. But I felt no relief, no sense of homecoming.
"Which way to the airport, Bella?" Jasper had asked, and I flinched, though his voice
was quite soft and un-alarming. It was the first sound, besides the purr of the car, to break
the long night's silence.
"Stay on the I-ten," I'd answered automatically. "We'll pass right by it."
My brain had worked slowly through the fog of sleep deprivation.
"Are we flying somewhere?" I'd asked Alice.
"No, but it's better to be close, just in case."
I remembered beginning the loop around Sky Harbor International… but not ending it.
I suppose that must have been when I'd fallen asleep.
Though, now that I'd chased the memories down, I did have a vague impression of
leaving the car — the sun was just falling behind the horizon — my arm draped over
Alice's shoulder and her arm firm around my waist, dragging me along as I stumbled
through the warm, dry shadows.
I had no memory of this room.
I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. The red numbers claimed it was three
o'clock, but they gave no indication if it was night or day. No edge of light escaped the
thick curtains, but the room was bright with the light from the lamps.
I rose stiffly and staggered to the window, pulling back the drapes.
It was dark outside. Three in the morning, then. My room looked out on a deserted
section of the freeway and the new long-term parking garage for the airport. It was
slightly comforting to be able to pinpoint time and place.
I looked down at myself. I was still wearing Esme's clothes, and they didn't fit very well
at all. I looked around the room, glad when I discovered my duffel bag on top of the low
dresser.
I was on my way to find new clothes when a light tap on the door made me jump.
"Can I come in?" Alice asked.
I took a deep breath. "Sure."
She walked in, and looked me over cautiously. "You look like you could sleep longer,"
she said.
I just shook my head.
She drifted silently to the curtains and closed them securely before turning back to me.
"We'll need to stay inside," she told me.
"Okay." My voice was hoarse; it cracked.
"Thirsty?" she asked.
I shrugged. "I'm okay. How about you?"
"Nothing unmanageable." She smiled. "I ordered some food for you, it's in the front
room. Edward reminded me that you have to eat a lot more frequently than we do."
I was instantly more alert. "He called?"
"No," she said, and watched as my face fell. "It was before we left."
She took my hand carefully and led me through the door into the living room of the
hotel suite. I could hear a low buzz of voices coming from the TV. Jasper sat motionlessly
at the desk in the corner, his eyes watching the news with no glimmer of interest.
I sat on the floor next to the coffee table, where a tray of food waited, and began
picking at it without noticing what I was eating.
Alice perched on the arm of the sofa and stared blankly at the TV like Jasper.
I ate slowly, watching her, turning now and then to glance quickly at Jasper. It began to
dawn on me that they were too still. They never looked away from the screen, though
commercials were playing now. I pushed the tray away, my stomach abruptly uneasy.
Alice looked down at me.
"What's wrong, Alice?" I asked.
"Nothing's wrong." Her eyes were wide, honest… and I didn't trust them.
"What do we do now?"
"We wait for Carlisle to call."
"And should he have called by now?" I could see that I was near the mark. Alice's eyes
flitted from mine to the phone on top of her leather bag and back.
"What does that mean?" My voice quavered, and I fought to control it. "That he hasn't
called yet?"
"It just means that they don't have anything to tell us."
But her voice was too even, and the air was harder to breathe.
Jasper was suddenly beside Alice, closer to me than usual.
"Bella," he said in a suspiciously soothing voice. "You have nothing to worry about.
You are completely safe here."
"I know that."
"Then why are you frightened?" he asked, confused. He might feel the tenor of my
emotions, but he couldn't read the reasons behind them.
"You heard what Laurent said." My voice was just a whisper, but I was sure they could
hear me. "He said James was lethal. What if something goes wrong, and they get
separated? If something happens to any of them, Carlisle, Emmett… Edward…" I gulped.
"If that wild female hurts Esme …" My voice had grown higher, a note of hysteria
beginning to rise in it. "How could I live with myself when it's my fault? None of you
should be risking yourselves for me —"
"Bella, Bella, stop," he interrupted me, his words pouring out so quickly they were hard
to understand. "You're worrying about all the wrong things, Bella. Trust me on this —
none of us are in jeopardy. You are under too much strain as it is; don't add to it with
wholly unnecessary worries. Listen to me!" he ordered, for I had looked away. "Our
family is strong. Our only fear is losing you."
"But why should you —"
Alice interrupted this time, touching my cheek with her cold fingers. "It's been almost a
century that Edward's been alone. Now he's found you. You can't see the changes that we
see, we who have been with him for so long. Do you think any of us want to look into his
eyes for the next hundred years if he loses you?"
My guilt slowly subsided as I looked into her dark eyes. But, even as the calm spread
over me, I knew I couldn't trust my feelings with Jasper there.
It was a very long day.
We stayed in the room. Alice called down to the front desk and asked them to ignore
our maid service for now. The windows stayed shut, the TV on, though no one watched it.
At regular intervals, food was delivered for me. The silver phone resting on Alice's bag
seemed to grow bigger as the hours passed.
My babysitters handled the suspense better than I did. As I fidgeted and paced, they
simply grew more still, two statues whose eyes followed me imperceptibly as I moved. I
occupied myself with memorizing the room; the striped pattern of the couches, tan,
peach, cream, dull gold, and tan again. Sometimes I stared at the abstract prints,
randomly finding pictures in the shapes, like I'd found pictures in the clouds as a child. I
traced a blue hand, a woman combing her hair, a cat stretching. But when the pale red
circle became a staring eye, I looked away.
As the afternoon wore on, I went back to bed, simply for something to do. I hoped that
by myself in the dark, I could give in to the terrible fears that hovered on the edge of my
consciousness, unable to break through under Jasper's careful supervision.
But Alice followed me casually, as if by some coincidence she had grown tired of the
front room at the same time. I was beginning to wonder exactly what sort of instructions
Edward had given her. I lay across the bed, and she sat, legs folded, next to me. I ignored
her at first, suddenly tired enough to sleep. But after a few minutes, the panic that had
held off in Jasper's presence began to make itself known. I gave up on the idea of sleep
quickly then, curling up into a small ball, wrapping my arms around my legs.
"Alice?" I asked.
"Yes?"
I kept my voice very calm. "What do you think they're doing?"
"Carlisle wanted to lead the tracker as far north as possible, wait for him to get close,
and then turn and ambush him. Esme and Rosalie were supposed to head west as long as
they could keep the female behind them. If she turned around, they were to head back to
Forks and keep an eye on your dad. So I imagine things are going well if they can't call. It
means the tracker is close enough that they don't want him to overhear."
"And Esme ?"
"I think she must be back in Forks. She won't call if there's any chance the female will
overhear. I expect they're all just being very careful."
"Do you think they're safe, really?"
"Bella, how many times do we have to tell you that there's no danger to us?"
"Would you tell me the truth, though?"
"Yes. I will always tell you the truth." Her voice was earnest.
I deliberated for a moment, and decided she meant it.
"Tell me then… how do you become a vampire?"
My question caught her off guard. She was quiet. I rolled over to look at her, and her
expression seemed ambivalent.
"Edward doesn't want me to tell you that," she said firmly, but I sensed she didn't agree.
"That's not fair. I think I have a right to know."
"I know."
I looked at her, waiting.
She sighed. "He'll be extremely angry."
"It's none of his business. This is between you and me. Alice, as a friend, I'm begging
you." And we were friends now, somehow — as she must have known we would be all
along.
She looked at me with her splendid, wise eyes… choosing.
"I'll tell you the mechanics of it," she said finally, "but I don't remember it myself, and
I've never done it or seen it done, so keep in mind that I can only tell you the theory."
I waited.
"As predators, we have a glut of weapons in our physical arsenal — much, much more
than really necessary. The strength, the speed, the acute senses, not to mention those of us
like Edward, Jasper, and I, who have extra senses as well. And then, like a carnivorous
flower, we are physically attractive to our prey."
I was very still, remembering how pointedly Edward had demonstrated the same
concept for me in the meadow.
She smiled a wide, ominous smile. "We have another fairly superfluous weapon. We're
also venomous," she said, her teeth glistening. "The venom doesn't kill — it's merely
incapacitating. It works slowly, spreading through the bloodstream, so that, once bitten,
our prey is in too much physical pain to escape us. Mostly superfluous, as I said. If we're
that close, the prey doesn't escape. Of course, there are always exceptions. Carlisle, for
example."
"So… if the venom is left to spread…" I murmured.
"It takes a few days for the transformation to be complete, depending on how much
venom is in the bloodstream, how close the venom enters to the heart. As long as the
heart keeps beating, the poison spreads, healing, changing the body as it moves through
it. Eventually the heart stops, and the conversion is finished. But all that time, every
minute of it, a victim would be wishing for death."
I shivered.
"It's not pleasant, you see."
"Edward said that it was very hard to do… I don't quite understand," I said.
"We're also like sharks in a way. Once we taste the blood, or even smell it for that
matter, it becomes very hard to keep from feeding. Sometimes impossible. So you see, to
actually bite someone, to taste the blood, it would begin the frenzy. It's difficult on both
sides — the blood-lust on the one hand, the awful pain on the other."
"Why do you think you don't remember?"
"I don't know. For everyone else, the pain of transformation is the sharpest memory
they have of their human life. I remember nothing of being human." Her voice was
wistful.
We lay silently, wrapped in our individual meditations.
The seconds ticked by, and I had almost forgotten her presence, I was so enveloped in
my thoughts.
Then, without any warning, Alice leaped from the bed, landing lightly on her feet. My
head jerked up as I stared at her, startled.
"Something's changed." Her voice was urgent, and she wasn't talking to me anymore.
She reached the door at the same time Jasper did. He had obviously heard our
conversation and her sudden exclamation. He put his hands on her shoulders and guided
her back to the bed, sitting her on the edge.
"What do you see?" he asked intently, staring into her eyes. Her eyes were focused on
something very far away. I sat close to her, leaning in to catch her low, quick voice.
"I see a room. It's long, and there are mirrors everywhere. The floor is wooden. He's in
the room, and he's waiting. There's gold… a gold stripe across the mirrors."
"Where is the room?"
"I don't know. Something is missing — another decision hasn't been made yet."
"How much time?"
"It's soon. He'll be in the mirror room today, or maybe tomorrow. It all depends. He's
waiting for something. And he's in the dark now."
Jasper's voice was calm, methodical, as he questioned her in a practiced way. "What is
he doing?"
"He's watching TV… no, he's running a VCR, in the dark, in another place."
"Can you see where he is?"
"No, it's too dark."
"And the mirror room, what else is there?"
"Just the mirrors, and the gold. It's a band, around the room. And there's a black table
with a big stereo, and a TV. He's touching the VCR there, but he doesn't watch the way he
does in the dark room. This is the room where he waits." Her eyes drifted, then focused
on Jasper's face.
"There's nothing else?"
She shook her head. They looked at each other, motionless.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
Neither of them answered for a moment, then Jasper looked at me.
"It means the tracker's plans have changed. He's made a decision that will lead him to
the mirror room, and the dark room."
"But we don't know where those rooms are?"
"No."
"But we do know that he won't be in the mountains north of Washington, being hunted.
He'll elude them." Alice's voice was bleak.
"Should we call?" I asked. They traded a serious look, undecided.
And the phone rang.
Alice was across the room before I could lift my head to look at it.
She pushed a button and held the phone to her ear, but she didn't speak first.
"Carlisle," she breathed. She didn't seem surprised or relieved, the way I felt.
"Yes," she said, glancing at me. She listened for a long moment.
"I just saw him." She described again the vision she'd seen. "Whatever made him get on
that plane… it was leading him to those rooms." She paused. "Yes," Alice said into the
phone, and then she spoke to me. "Bella?"
She held the phone out toward me. I ran to it.
"Hello?" I breathed.
"Bella," Edward said.
"Oh, Edward! I was so worried."
"Bella," he sighed in frustration, "I told you not to worry about anything but yourself."
It was so unbelievably good to hear his voice. I felt the hovering cloud of despair lighten
and drift back as he spoke.
"Where are you?"
"We're outside of Vancouver. Bella, I'm sorry — we lost him. He seems suspicious of us
— he's careful to stay just far enough away that I can't hear what he's thinking. But he's
gone now — it looks like he got on a plane. We think he's heading back to Forks to start
over." I could hear Alice filling in Jasper behind me, her quick words blurring together
into a humming noise.
"I know. Alice saw that he got away."
"You don't have to worry, though. He won't find anything to lead him to you. You just
have to stay there and wait till we find him again."
"I'll be fine. Is Esme with Charlie?"
"Yes — the female has been in town. She went to the house, but while Charlie was at
work. She hasn't gone near him, so don't be afraid. He's safe with Esme and Rosalie
watching."
"What is she doing?"
"Probably trying to pick up the trail. She's been all through the town during the night.
Rosalie traced her through the airport, all the roads around town, the school… she's
digging, Bella, but there's nothing to find."
"And you're sure Charlie's safe?"
"Yes, Esme won't let him out of her sight. And we'll be there soon. If the tracker gets
anywhere near Forks, we'll have him."
"I miss you," I whispered.
"I know, Bella. Believe me, I know. It's like you've taken half my self away with you."
"Come and get it, then," I challenged.
"Soon, as soon as I possibly can. I will make you safe first." His voice was hard.
"I love you," I reminded him.
"Could you believe that, despite everything I've put you through, I love you, too?"
"Yes, I can, actually."
"I'll come for you soon."
"I'll be waiting."
As soon as the phone went dead, the cloud of depression began to creep over me again.
I turned to give the phone back to Alice and found her and Jasper bent over the table,
where Alice was sketching on a piece of hotel stationery. I leaned on the back of the
couch, looking over her shoulder.
She drew a room: long, rectangular, with a thinner, square section at the back. The
wooden planks that made up the floor stretched lengthwise across the room. Down the
walls were lines denoting the breaks in the mirrors. And then, wrapping around the walls,
waist high, a long band. The band Alice said was gold.
"It's a ballet studio," I said, suddenly recognizing the familiar shapes.
They looked at me, surprised.
"Do you know this room?" Jasper's voice sounded calm, but there was an undercurrent
of something I couldn't identify. Alice bent her head to her work, her hand flying across
the page now, the shape of an emergency exit taking shape against the back wall, the
stereo and TV on a low table by the front right corner.
"It looks like a place I used to go for dance lessons — when I was eight or nine. It was
shaped just the same." I touched the page where the square section jutted out, narrowing
the back part of the room. "That's where the bathrooms were — the doors were through
the other dance floor. But the stereo was here" — I pointed to the left corner — "it was
older, and there wasn't a TV. There was a window in the waiting room — you would see
the room from this perspective if you looked through it."
Alice and Jasper were staring at me.
"Are you sure it's the same room?" Jasper asked, still calm.
"No, not at all — I suppose most dance studios would look the same — the mirrors, the
bar." I traced my finger along the ballet bar set against the mirrors. "It's just the shape that
looked familiar." I touched the door, set in exactly the same place as the one I
remembered.
"Would you have any reason to go there now?" Alice asked, breaking my reverie.
"No, I haven't been there in almost ten years. I was a terrible dancer — they always put
me in the back for recitals," I admitted.
"So there's no way it could be connected with you?" Alice asked intently.
"No, I don't even think the same person owns it. I'm sure it's just another dance studio,
somewhere."
"Where was the studio you went to?" Jasper asked in a casual voice.
"It was just around the corner from my mom's house. I used to walk there after
school…" I said, my voice trailing off. I didn't miss the look they exchanged.
"Here in Phoenix, then?" His voice was still casual.
"Yes," I whispered. "Fifty-eighth Street and Cactus."
We all sat in silence, staring at the drawing.
"Alice, is that phone safe?"
"Yes," she reassured me. "The number would just trace back to Washington."
"Then I can use it to call my mom."
"I thought she was in Florida."
"She is — but she's coming home soon, and she can't come back to that house while…"
My voice trembled. I was thinking about something Edward had said, about the redhaired
female at Charlie's house, at the school, where my records would be.
"How will you reach her?"
"They don't have a permanent number except at the house — she's supposed to check
her messages regularly."
"Jasper?" Alice asked.
He thought about it. "I don't think there's any way it could hurt — be sure you don't say
where you are, of course."
I reached eagerly for the phone and dialed the familiar number. It rang four times, and
then I heard my mom's breezy voice telling me to leave a message.
"Mom," I said after the beep, "it's me. Listen, I need you to do something. It's
important. As soon as you get this message, call me at this number." Alice was already at
my side, writing the number for me on the bottom of her picture. I read it carefully, twice.
"Please don't go anywhere until you talk to me. Don't worry, I'm okay, but I have to talk
to you right away, no matter how late you get this call, all right? I love you, Mom. Bye." I
closed my eyes and prayed with all my might that no unforeseen change of plans would
bring her home before she got my message.
I settled into the sofa, nibbling on a plate of leftover fruit, anticipating a long evening. I
thought about calling Charlie, but I wasn't sure if I should be home by now or not. I
concentrated on the news, watching out for stories about Florida, or about spring training
— strikes or hurricanes or terrorist attacks — anything that might send them home early.
Immortality must grant endless patience. Neither Jasper nor Alice seemed to feel the
need to do anything at all. For a while, Alice sketched the vague outline of the dark room
from her vision, as much as she could see in the light from the TV. But when she was
done, she simply sat, looking at the blank walls with her timeless eyes. Jasper, too,
seemed to have no urge to pace, or peek through the curtains, or run screaming out the
door, the way I did.
I must have fallen asleep on the couch, waiting for the phone to ring again. The touch
of Alice's cold hands woke me briefly as she carried me to the bed, but I was unconscious
again before my head hit the pillow.
21. Phone Call
I could feel it was too early again when I woke, and I knew I was getting the schedule
of my days and nights slowly reversed. I lay in my bed and listened to the quiet voices of
Alice and Jasper in the other room. That they were loud enough for me to hear at all was
strange. I rolled till my feet touched the floor and then staggered to the living room.
The clock on the TV said it was just after two in the morning. Alice and Jasper were
sitting together on the sofa, Alice sketching again while Jasper looked over her shoulder.
They didn't look up when I entered, too engrossed in Alice's work.
I crept to Jasper's side to peek.
"Did she see something more?" I asked him quietly.
"Yes. Something's brought him back to the room with the VCR, but it's light now."
I watched as Alice drew a square room with dark beams across its low ceiling. The
walls were paneled in wood, a little too dark, out of date. The floor had a dark carpet with
a pattern in it. There was a large window against the south wall, and an opening through
the west wall led to the living room. One side of that entrance was stone — a large tan
stone fireplace that was open to both rooms. The focus of the room from this perspective,
the TV and VCR, balanced on a too-small wooden stand, were in the southwest corner of
the room. An aged sectional sofa curved around in front of the TV, a round coffee table in
front of it.
"The phone goes there," I whispered, pointing.
Two pairs of eternal eyes stared at me.
"That's my mother's house."
Alice was already off the couch, phone in hand, dialing. I stared at the precise rendering
of my mother's family room. Uncharacteristically, Jasper slid closer to me. He lightly
touched his hand to my shoulder, and the physical contact seemed to make his calming
influence stronger. The panic stayed dull, unfocused.
Alice's lips were trembling with the speed of her words, the low buzzing impossible to
decipher. I couldn't concentrate.
"Bella," Alice said. I looked at her numbly.
"Bella, Edward is coming to get you. He and Emmett and Carlisle are going to take you
somewhere, to hide you for a while."
"Edward is coming?" The words were like a life vest, holding my head above the flood.
"Yes, he's catching the first flight out of Seattle. We'll meet him at the airport, and you'll
leave with him."
"But, my mother… he came here for my mother, Alice!" Despite Jasper, the hysteria
bubbled up in my voice.
"Jasper and I will stay till she's safe."
"I can't win, Alice. You can't guard everyone I know forever. Don't you see what he's
doing? He's not tracking me at all. He'll find someone, he'll hurt someone I love…Alice, I
can't —"
"We'll catch him, Bella," she assured me.
"And what if you get hurt, Alice? Do you think that's okay with me? Do you think it's
only my human family he can hurt me with?"
Alice looked meaningfully at Jasper. A deep, heavy fog of lethargy washed over me,
and my eyes closed without my permission. My mind struggled against the fog, realizing
what was happening. I forced my eyes open and stood up, stepping away from Jasper's
hand.
"I don't want to go back to sleep," I snapped.
I walked to my room and shut the door, slammed it really, so I could be free to go to
pieces privately. This time Alice didn't follow me. For three and a half hours I stared at
the wall, curled in a ball, rocking. My mind went around in circles, trying to come up
with some way out of this nightmare. There was no escape, no reprieve. I could see only
one possible end looming darkly in my future. The only question was how many other
people would be hurt before I reached it.
The only solace, the only hope I had left, was knowing that I would see Edward soon.
Maybe, if I could just see his face again, I would also be able to see the solution that
eluded me now.
When the phone rang, I returned to the front room, a little ashamed of my behavior. I
hoped I hadn't offended either of them, that they would know how grateful I was for the
sacrifices they were making on my account.
Alice was talking as rapidly as ever, but what caught my attention was that, for the first
time, Jasper was not in the room. I looked at the clock — it was five-thirty in the
morning.
"They're just boarding their plane," Alice told me. "They'll land at nine-forty-five." Just
a few more hours to keep breathing till he was here.
"Where's Jasper?"
"He went to check out."
"You aren't staying here?"
"No, we're relocating closer to your mother's house."
My stomach twisted uneasily at her words.
But the phone rang again, distracting me. She looked surprised, but I was already
walking forward, reaching hopefully for the phone.
"Hello?" Alice asked. "No, she's right here." She held the phone out to me. Your
mother, she mouthed.
"Hello?"
"Bella? Bella?" It was my mother's voice, in a familiar tone I had heard a thousand
times in my childhood, anytime I'd gotten too close to the edge of the sidewalk or strayed
out of her sight in a crowded place. It was the sound of panic.
I sighed. I'd been expecting this, though I'd tried to make my message as unalarming as
possible without lessening the urgency of it.
"Calm down, Mom," I said in my most soothing voice, walking slowly away from
Alice. I wasn't sure if I could lie as convincingly with her eyes on me. "Everything is
fine, okay? Just give me a minute and I'll explain everything, I promise."
I paused, surprised that she hadn't interrupted me yet.
"Mom?"
"Be very careful not to say anything until I tell you to." The voice I heard now was as
unfamiliar as it was unexpected. It was a man's tenor voice, a very pleasant, generic voice
— the kind of voice that you heard in the background of luxury car commercials. He
spoke very quickly.
"Now, I don't need to hurt your mother, so please do exactly as I say, and she'll be fine."
He paused for a minute while I listened in mute horror. "That's very good," he
congratulated. "Now repeat after me, and do try to sound natural. Please say, 'No, Mom,
stay where you are.'"
"No, Mom, stay where you are." My voice was barely more than a whisper.
"I can see this is going to be difficult." The voice was amused, still light and friendly.
"Why don't you walk into another room now so your face doesn't ruin everything?
There's no reason for your mother to suffer. As you're walking, please say, 'Mom, please
listen to me.' Say it now."
"Mom, please listen to me," my voice pleaded. I walked very slowly to the bedroom,
feeling Alice's worried stare on my back. I shut the door behind me, trying to think
clearly through the terror that gripped my brain.
"There now, are you alone? Just answer yes or no."
"Yes."
"But they can still hear you, I'm sure."
"Yes."
"All right, then," the agreeable voice continued, "say, 'Mom, trust me.'"
"Mom, trust me."
"This worked out rather better than I expected. I was prepared to wait, but your mother
arrived ahead of schedule. It's easier this way, isn't it? Less suspense, less anxiety for
you."
I waited.
"Now I want you to listen very carefully. I'm going to need you to get away from your
friends; do you think you can do that? Answer yes or no."
"No."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I was hoping you would be a little more creative than that. Do
you think you could get away from them if your mother's life depended on it? Answer yes
or no."
Somehow, there had to be a way. I remembered that we were going to the airport. Sky
Harbor International Airport: crowded, confusingly laid out…
"Yes."
"That's better. I'm sure it won't be easy, but if I get the slightest hint that you have any
company, well, that would be very bad for your mother," the friendly voice promised.
"You must know enough about us by now to realize how quickly I would know if you
tried to bring anyone along with you. And how little time I would need to deal with your
mother if that was the case. Do you understand? Answer yes or no."
"Yes." My voice broke.
"Very good, Bella. Now this is what you have to do. I want you to go to your mother's
house. Next to the phone there will be a number. Call it, and I'll tell you where to go from
there." I already knew where I would go, and where this would end. But I would follow
his instructions exactly. "Can you do that? Answer yes or no."
"Yes."
"Before noon, please, Bella. I haven't got all day," he said politely.
"Where's Phil?" I asked tersely.
"Ah, be careful now, Bella. Wait until I ask you to speak, please."
I waited.
"It's important, now, that you don't make your friends suspicious when you go back to
them. Tell them that your mother called, and that you talked her out of coming home for
the time being. Now repeat after me, 'Thank you, Mom.' Say it now."
"Thank you, Mom." The tears were coming. I tried to fight them back.
"Say, 'I love you, Mom, I'll see you soon.' Say it now."
"I love you, Mom." My voice was thick. "I'll see you soon," I promised.
"Goodbye, Bella. I look forward to seeing you again." He hung up.
I held the phone to my ear. My joints were frozen with terror — I couldn't unbend my
fingers to drop it.
I knew I had to think, but my head was filled with the sound of my mother's panic.
Seconds ticked by while I fought for control.
Slowly, slowly, my thoughts started to break past that brick wall of pain. To plan. For I
had no choices now but one: to go to the mirrored room and die. I had no guarantees,
nothing to give to keep my mother alive. I could only hope that James would be satisfied
with winning the game, that beating Edward would be enough. Despair gripped me; there
was no way to bargain, nothing I could offer or withhold that could influence him. But I
still had no choice. I had to try.
I pushed the terror back as well as I could. My decision was made. It did no good to
waste time agonizing over the outcome. I had to think clearly, because Alice and Jasper
were waiting for me, and evading them was absolutely essential, and absolutely
impossible.
I was suddenly grateful that Jasper was gone. If he had been here to feel my anguish in
the last five minutes, how could I have kept them from being suspicious? I choked back
the dread, the anxiety, tried to stifle it. I couldn't afford it now. I didn't know when he
would return.
I concentrated on my escape. I had to hope that my familiarity with the airport would
turn the odds in my favor. Somehow, I had to keep Alice away…
I knew Alice was in the other room waiting for me, curious. But I had to deal with one
more thing in private, before Jasper was back.
I had to accept that I wouldn't see Edward again, not even one last glimpse of his face
to carry with me to the mirror room. I was going to hurt him, and I couldn't say goodbye.
I let the waves of torture wash over me, have their way for a time. Then I pushed them
back, too, and went to face Alice.
The only expression I could manage was a dull, dead look. I saw her alarm and I didn't
wait for her to ask. I had just one script and I'd never manage improvisation now.
"My mom was worried, she wanted to come home. But it's okay, I convinced her to stay
away." My voice was lifeless.
"We'll make sure she's fine, Bella, don't worry."
I turned away; I couldn't let her see my face.
My eye fell on a blank page of the hotel stationery on the desk. I went to it slowly, a
plan forming. There was an envelope there, too. That was good.
"Alice," I asked slowly, without turning, keeping my voice level. "If I write a letter for
my mother, would you give it to her? Leave it at the house, I mean."
"Sure, Bella." Her voice was careful. She could see me coming apart at the seams. I
had to keep my emotions under better control.
I went into the bedroom again, and knelt next to the little bedside table to write.
"Edward," I wrote. My hand was shaking, the letters were hardly legible.
I love you. I am so sorry. He has my mom, and I have to try. I know it may not work. I
am so very, very sorry.
Don't be angry with Alice and Jasper. If I get away from them it will be a miracle. Tell
them thank you for me. Alice especially, please.
And please, please, don't come after him. That's what he wants. I think. I can't bear it if
anyone has to be hurt because of me, especially you. Please, this is the only thing I can
ask you now. For me.
I love you. Forgive me.
Bella
I folded the letter carefully, and sealed it in the envelope. Eventually he would find it. I
only hoped he would understand, and listen to me just this once.
And then I carefully sealed away my heart.
22. Hide-And-Seek
It had taken much less time than I'd thought — all the terror, the despair, the shattering
of my heart. The minutes were ticking by more slowly than usual. Jasper still hadn't come
back when I returned to Alice. I was afraid to be in the same room with her, afraid that
she would guess… and afraid to hide from her for the same reason.
I would have thought I was far beyond the ability to be surprised, my thoughts tortured
and unstable, but I was surprised when I saw Alice bent over the desk, gripping the edge
with two hands.
"Alice?"
She didn't react when I called her name, but her head was slowly rocking side to side,
and I saw her face. Her eyes were blank, dazed… My thoughts flew to my mother. Was I
already too late?
I hurried to her side, reaching out automatically to touch her hand.
"Alice!" Jasper's voice whipped, and then he was right behind her, his hands curling
over hers, loosening them from their grip on the table. Across the room, the door swung
shut with a low click.
"What is it?" he demanded.
She turned her face away from me, into his chest. "Bella," she said.
"I'm right here," I replied.
Her head twisted around, her eyes locking on mine, their expression still strangely
blank. I realized at once that she hadn't been speaking to me, she'd been answering
Jasper's question.
"What did you see?" I said — and there was no question in my flat, uncaring voice.
Jasper looked at me sharply. I kept my expression vacant and waited. His eyes were
confused as they flickered swiftly between Alice's face and mine, feeling the chaos… for
I could guess what Alice had seen now.
I felt a tranquil atmosphere settle around me. I welcomed it, using it to keep my
emotions disciplined, under control.
Alice, too, recovered herself.
"Nothing, really," she answered finally, her voice remarkably calm and convincing.
"Just the same room as before."
She finally looked at me, her expression smooth and withdrawn. "Did you want
breakfast?"
"No, I'll eat at the airport." I was very calm, too. I went to the bathroom to shower.
Almost as if I were borrowing Jasper's strange extra sense, I could feel Alice's wild —
though well-concealed — desperation to have me out of the room, to be alone with
Jasper. So she could tell him that they were doing something wrong, that they were going
to fail…
I got ready methodically, concentrating on each little task. I left my hair down, swirling
around me, covering my face. The peaceful mood Jasper created worked its way through
me and helped me think clearly. Helped me plan. I dug through my bag until I found my
sock full of money. I emptied it into my pocket.
I was anxious to get to the airport, and glad when we left by seven. I sat alone this time
in the back of the dark car. Alice leaned against the door, her face toward Jasper but,
behind her sunglasses, shooting glances in my direction every few seconds.
"Alice?" I asked indifferently.
She was wary. "Yes?"
"How does it work? The things that you see?" I stared out the side window, and my
voice sounded bored. "Edward said it wasn't definite… that things change?" It was harder
than I would have thought to say his name. That must have been what alerted Jasper, why
a fresh wave of serenity filled the car.
"Yes, things change…" she murmured — hopefully, I thought. "Some things are more
certain than others… like the weather. People are harder. I only see the course they're on
while they're on it. Once they change their minds — make a new decision, no matter how
small — the whole future shifts."
I nodded thoughtfully. "So you couldn't see James in Phoenix until he decided to come
here."
"Yes," she agreed, wary again.
And she hadn't seen me in the mirror room with James until I'd made the decision to
meet him there. I tried not to think about what else she might have seen. I didn't want my
panic to make Jasper more suspicious. They would be watching me twice as carefully
now, anyway, after Alice's vision. This was going to be impossible.
We got to the airport. Luck was with me, or maybe it was just good odds. Edward's
plane was landing in terminal four, the largest terminal, where most flights landed — so it
wasn't surprising that his was. But it was the terminal I needed: the biggest, the most
confusing. And there was a door on level three that might be the only chance.
We parked on the fourth floor of the huge garage. I led the way, for once more
knowledgeable about my surroundings than they were. We took the elevator down to
level three, where the passengers unloaded. Alice and Jasper spent a long time looking at
the departing flights board. I could hear them discussing the pros and cons of New York,
Atlanta, Chicago. Places I'd never seen. And would never see.
I waited for my opportunity, impatient, unable to stop my toe from tapping. We sat in
the long rows of chairs by the metal detectors, Jasper and Alice pretending to peoplewatch
but really watching me. Every inch I shifted in my seat was followed by a quick
glance out of the corner of their eyes. It was hopeless. Should I run? Would they dare to
stop me physically in this public place? Or would they simply follow?
I pulled the unmarked envelope out of my pocket and set it on top of Alice's black
leather bag. She looked at me.
"My letter," I said. She nodded, tucking it under the top flap. He would find it soon
enough.
The minutes passed and Edward's arrival grew closer. It was amazing how every cell in
my body seemed to know he was coming, to long for his coming. That made it very hard.
I found myself trying to think of excuses to stay, to see him first and then make my
escape. But I knew that was impossible if I was going to have any chance to get away.
Several times Alice offered to go get breakfast with me. Later, I told her, not yet.
I stared at the arrival board, watching as flight after flight arrived on time. The flight
from Seattle crept closer to the top of the board.
And then, when I had only thirty minutes to make my escape, the numbers changed. His
plane was ten minutes early. I had no more time.
"I think I'll eat now," I said quickly.
Alice stood. "I'll come with you."
"Do you mind if Jasper comes instead?" I asked. "I'm feeling a little…" I didn't finish
the sentence. My eyes were wild enough to convey what I didn't say.
Jasper stood up. Alice's eyes were confused, but — I saw to my relief— not suspicious.
She must be attributing the change in her vision to some maneuver of the tracker's rather
than a betrayal by me.
Jasper walked silently beside me, his hand on the small of my back, as if he were
guiding me. I pretended a lack of interest in the first few airport cafes, my head scanning
for what I really wanted. And there it was, around the corner, out of Alice's sharp sight:
the level-three ladies' room.
"Do you mind?" I asked Jasper as we passed. "I'll just be a moment."
"I'll be right here," he said.
As soon as the door shut behind me, I was running. I remembered the time I had gotten
lost from this bathroom, because it had two exits.
Outside the far door it was only a short sprint to the elevators, and if Jasper stayed
where he said he would, I'd never be in his line of sight. I didn't look behind me as I ran.
This was my only chance, and even if he saw me, I had to keep going. People stared, but
I ignored them. Around the corner the elevators were waiting, and I dashed forward,
throwing my hand between the closing doors of a full elevator headed down. I squeezed
in beside the irritated passengers, and checked to make sure that the button for level one
had been pushed. It was already lit, and the doors closed.
As soon as the door opened I was off again, to the sound of annoyed murmurs behind
me. I slowed myself as I passed the security guards by the luggage carousels, only to
break into a run again as the exit doors came into view. I had no way of knowing if Jasper
was looking for me yet.
I would have only seconds if he was following my scent. I jumped out the automatic
doors, nearly smacking into the glass when they opened too slowly.
Along the crowded curb there wasn't a cab in sight.
I had no time. Alice and Jasper were either about to realize I was gone, or they already
had. They would find me in a heartbeat.
A shuttle to the Hyatt was just closing its doors a few feet behind me.
"Wait!" I called, running, waving at the driver.
"This is the shuttle to the Hyatt," the driver said in confusion as he opened the doors.
"Yes," I huffed, "that's where I'm going." I hurried up the steps.
He looked askance at my luggage-less state, but then shrugged, not caring enough to
ask.
Most of the seats were empty. I sat as far from the other travelers as possible, and
watched out the window as first the sidewalk, and then the airport, drifted away. I
couldn't help imagining Edward, where he would stand at the edge of the road when he
found the end of my trail. I couldn't cry yet, I told myself. I still had a long way to go.
My luck held. In front of the Hyatt, a tired-looking couple was getting their last suitcase
out of the trunk of a cab. I jumped out of the shuttle and ran to the cab, sliding into the
seat behind the driver. The tired couple and the shuttle driver stared at me.
I told the surprised cabbie my mother's address. "I need to get there as soon as
possible."
"That's in Scottsdale," he complained.
I threw four twenties over the seat.
"Will that be enough?"
"Sure, kid, no problem."
I sat back against the seat, folding my arms across my lap. The familiar city began to
rush around me, but I didn't look out the windows. I exerted myself to maintain control. I
was determined not to lose myself at this point, now that my plan was successfully
completed. There was no point in indulging in more terror, more anxiety. My path was
set. I just had to follow it now.
So, instead of panicking, I closed my eyes and spent the twenty minutes' drive with
Edward.
I imagined that I had stayed at the airport to meet Edward. I visualized how I would
stand on my toes, the sooner to see his face. How quickly, how gracefully he would move
through the crowds of people separating us. And then I would run to close those last few
feet between us — reckless as always — and I would be in his marble arms, finally safe.
I wondered where we would have gone. North somewhere, so he could be outside in the
day. Or maybe somewhere very remote, so we could lay in the sun together again. I
imagined him by the shore, his skin sparkling like the sea. It wouldn't matter how long
we had to hide. To be trapped in a hotel room with him would be a kind of heaven. So
many questions I still had for him. I could talk to him forever, never sleeping, never
leaving his side.
I could see his face so clearly now… almost hear his voice. And, despite all the horror
and hopelessness, I was fleetingly happy. So involved was I in my escapist daydreams, I
lost all track of the seconds racing by.
"Hey, what was the number?"
The cabbie’s question punctured my fantasy, letting all the colors run out of my lovely
delusions. Fear, bleak and hard, was waiting to fill the empty space they left behind.
"Fifty-eight twenty-one." My voice sounded strangled. The cabbie looked at me,
nervous that I was having an episode or something.
"Here we are, then." He was anxious to get me out of his car, probably hoping I
wouldn't ask for my change.
"Thank you," I whispered. There was no need to be afraid, I reminded myself. The
house was empty. I had to hurry; my mom was waiting for me, frightened, depending on
me.
I ran to the door, reaching up automatically to grab the key under the eave. I unlocked
the door. It was dark inside, empty, normal. I ran to the phone, turning on the kitchen
light on my way. There, on the whiteboard, was a ten-digit number written in a small,
neat hand. My fingers stumbled over the keypad, making mistakes. I had to hang up and
start again. I concentrated only on the buttons this time, carefully pressing each one in
turn. I was successful. I held the phone to my ear with a shaking hand. It rang only once.
"Hello, Bella," that easy voice answered. "That was very quick. I'm impressed."
"Is my mom all right?"
"She's perfectly fine. Don't worry, Bella, I have no quarrel with her. Unless you didn't
come alone, of course." Light, amused.
"I'm alone." I'd never been more alone in my entire life.
"Very good. Now, do you know the ballet studio just around the corner from your
home?"
"Yes. I know how to get there."
"Well, then, I'll see you very soon."
I hung up.
I ran from the room, through the door, out into the baking heat.
There was no time to look back at my house, and I didn't want to see it as it was now —
empty, a symbol of fear instead of sanctuary. The last person to walk through those
familiar rooms was my enemy.
From the corner of my eye, I could almost see my mother standing in the shade of the
big eucalyptus tree where I'd played as a child. Or kneeling by the little plot of dirt
around the mailbox, the cemetery of all the flowers she'd tried to grow. The memories
were better than any reality I would see today. But I raced away from them, toward the
corner, leaving everything behind me.
I felt so slow, like I was running through wet sand — I couldn't seem to get enough
purchase from the concrete. I tripped several times, once falling, catching myself with my
hands, scraping them on the sidewalk, and then lurching up to plunge forward again. But
at last I made it to the corner. Just another street now; I ran, sweat pouring down my face,
gasping. The sun was hot on my skin, too bright as it bounced off the white concrete and
blinded me. I felt dangerously exposed. More fiercely than I would have dreamed I was
capable of, I wished for the green, protective forests of Forks… of home.
When I rounded the last corner, onto Cactus, I could see the studio, looking just as I
remembered it. The parking lot in front was empty, the vertical blinds in all the windows
drawn. I couldn't run anymore — I couldn't breathe; exertion and fear had gotten the best
of me. I thought of my mother to keep my feet moving, one in front of the other.
As I got closer, I could see the sign inside the door. It was handwritten on hot pink
paper; it said the dance studio was closed for spring break. I touched the handle, tugged
on it cautiously. It was unlocked. I fought to catch my breath, and opened the door.
The lobby was dark and empty, cool, the air conditioner thrumming. The plastic molded
chairs were stacked along the walls, and the carpet smelled like shampoo. The west dance
floor was dark, I could see through the open viewing window. The east dance floor, the
bigger room, was lit. But the blinds were closed on the window.
Terror seized me so strongly that I was literally trapped by it. I couldn't make my feet
move forward.
And then my mother's voice called.
"Bella? Bella?" That same tone of hysterical panic. I sprinted to the door, to the sound
of her voice.
"Bella, you scared me! Don't you ever do that to me again! " Her voice continued as I
ran into the long, high-ceilinged room.
I stared around me, trying to find where her voice was coming from. I heard her laugh,
and I whirled to the sound.
There she was, on the TV screen, tousling my hair in relief. It was Thanksgiving, and I
was twelve. We'd gone to see my grandmother in California, the last year before she died.
We went to the beach one day, and I'd leaned too far over the edge of the pier. She'd seen
my feet flailing, trying to reclaim my balance. "Bella? Bella?" she'd called to me in fear.
And then the TV screen was blue.
I turned slowly. He was standing very still by the back exit, so still I hadn't noticed him
at first. In his hand was a remote control. We stared at each other for a long moment, and
then he smiled.
He walked toward me, quite close, and then passed me to put the remote down next to
the VCR. I turned carefully to watch him.
"Sorry about that, Bella, but isn't it better that your mother didn't really have to be
involved in all this?" His voice was courteous, kind.
And suddenly it hit me. My mother was safe. She was still in Florida. She'd never
gotten my message. She'd never been terrified by the dark red eyes in the abnormally pale
face before me. She was safe.
"Yes," I answered, my voice saturated with relief.
"You don't sound angry that I tricked you."
"I'm not." My sudden high made me brave. What did it matter now? It would soon be
over. Charlie and Mom would never be harmed, would never have to fear. I felt almost
giddy. Some analytical part of my mind warned me that I was dangerously close to
snapping from the stress.
"How odd. You really mean it." His dark eyes assessed me with interest. The irises were
nearly black, just a hint of ruby around the edges. Thirsty. "I will give your strange coven
this much, you humans can be quite interesting. I guess I can see the draw of observing
you. It's amazing — some of you seem to have no sense of your own self-interest at all."
He was standing a few feet away from me, arms folded, looking at me curiously. There
was no menace in his face or stance. He was so very average-looking, nothing remarkable
about his face or body at all. Just the white skin, the circled eyes I'd grown so used to. He
wore a pale blue, long-sleeved shirt and faded blue jeans.
"I suppose you're going to tell me that your boyfriend will avenge you?" he asked,
hopefully it seemed to me.
"No, I don't think so. At least, I asked him not to."
"And what was his reply to that?"
"I don't know." It was strangely easy to converse with this genteel hunter. "I left him a
letter."
"How romantic, a last letter. And do you think he will honor it?" His voice was just a
little harder now, a hint of sarcasm marring his polite tone.
"I hope so."
"Hmmm. Well, our hopes differ then. You see, this was all just a little too easy, too
quick. To be quite honest, I'm disappointed. I expected a much greater challenge. And,
after all, I only needed a little luck."
I waited in silence.
"When Victoria couldn't get to your father, I had her find out more about you. There
was no sense in running all over the planet chasing you down when I could comfortably
wait for you in a place of my choosing. So, after I talked to Victoria, I decided to come to
Phoenix to pay your mother a visit. I'd heard you say you were going home. At first, I
never dreamed you meant it. But then I wondered. Humans can be very predictable; they
like to be somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. And wouldn't it be the perfect ploy, to go
to the last place you should be when you're hiding — the place that you said you'd be.
"But of course I wasn't sure, it was just a hunch. I usually get a feeling about the prey
that I'm hunting, a sixth sense, if you will. I listened to your message when I got to your
mother's house, but of course I couldn't be sure where you'd called from. It was very
useful to have your number, but you could have been in Antarctica for all I knew, and the
game wouldn't work unless you were close by.
"Then your boyfriend got on a plane to Phoenix. Victoria was monitoring them for me,
naturally; in a game with this many players, I couldn't be working alone. And so they told
me what I'd hoped, that you were here after all. I was prepared; I'd already been through
your charming home movies. And then it was simply a matter of the bluff.
"Very easy, you know, not really up to my standards. So, you see, I'm hoping you're
wrong about your boyfriend. Edward, isn't it?"
I didn't answer. The bravado was wearing off. I sensed that he was coming to the end of
his gloat. It wasn't meant for me anyway. There was no glory in beating me, a weak
human.
"Would you mind, very much, if I left a little letter of my own for your Edward?"
He took a step back and touched a palm-sized digital video camera balanced carefully
on top of the stereo. A small red light indicated that it was already running. He adjusted it
a few times, widened the frame. I stared at him in horror.
"I'm sorry, but I just don't think he'll be able to resist hunting me after he watches this.
And I wouldn't want him to miss anything. It was all for him, of course. You're simply a
human, who unfortunately was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and indisputably
running with the wrong crowd, I might add."
He stepped toward me, smiling. "Before we begin…"
I felt a curl of nausea in the pit of my stomach as he spoke. This was something I had
not anticipated.
"I would just like to rub it in, just a little bit. The answer was there all along, and I was
so afraid Edward would see that and ruin my fun. It happened once, oh, ages ago. The
one and only time my prey escaped me.
"You see, the vampire who was so stupidly fond of this little victim made the choice
that your Edward was too weak to make. When the old one knew I was after his little
friend, he stole her from the asylum where he worked — I never will understand the
obsession some vampires seem to form with you humans — and as soon as he freed her
he made her safe. She didn't even seem to notice the pain, poor little creature. She'd been
stuck in that black hole of a cell for so long. A hundred years earlier and she would have
been burned at the stake for her visions. In the nineteen-twenties it was the asylum and
the shock treatments. When she opened her eyes, strong with her fresh youth, it was like
she'd never seen the sun before. The old vampire made her a strong new vampire, and
there was no reason for me to touch her then." He sighed. "I destroyed the old one in
vengeance."
"Alice," I breathed, astonished.
"Yes, your little friend. I was surprised to see her in the clearing. So I guess her coven
ought to be able to derive some comfort from this experience. I get you, but they get her.
The one victim who escaped me, quite an honor, actually.
"And she did smell so delicious. I still regret that I never got to taste… She smelled
even better than you do. Sorry — I don't mean to be offensive. You have a very nice
smell. Floral, somehow…"
He took another step toward me, till he was just inches away. He lifted a lock of my
hair and sniffed at it delicately. Then he gently patted the strand back into place, and I felt
his cool fingertips against my throat. He reached up to stroke my cheek once quickly with
his thumb, his face curious. I wanted so badly to run, but I was frozen. I couldn't even
flinch away.
"No," he murmured to himself as he dropped his hand, "I don't understand." He sighed.
"Well, I suppose we should get on with it. And then I can call your friends and tell them
where to find you, and my little message."
I was definitely sick now. There was pain coming, I could see it in his eyes. It wouldn't
be enough for him to win, to feed and go. There would be no quick end like I'd been
counting on. My knees began to shake, and I was afraid I was going to fall.
He stepped back, and began to circle, casually, as if he were trying to get a better view
of a statue in a museum. His face was still open and friendly as he decided where to start.
Then he slumped forward, into a crouch I recognized, and his pleasant smile slowly
widened, grew, till it wasn't a smile at all but a contortion of teeth, exposed and
glistening.
I couldn't help myself— I tried to run. As useless as I knew it would be, as weak as my
knees already were, panic took over and I bolted for the emergency door.
He was in front of me in a flash. I didn't see if he used his hand or his foot, it was too
fast. A crushing blow struck my chest — I felt myself flying backward, and then heard
the crunch as my head bashed into the mirrors. The glass buckled, some of the pieces
shattering and splintering on the floor beside me.
I was too stunned to feel the pain. I couldn't breathe yet.
He walked toward me slowly.
"That's a very nice effect," he said, examining the mess of glass, his voice friendly
again. "I thought this room would be visually dramatic for my little film. That's why I
picked this place to meet you. It's perfect, isn't it?"
I ignored him, scrambling on my hands and knees, crawling toward the other door.
He was over me at once, his foot stepping down hard on my leg. I heard the sickening
snap before I felt it. But then I did feel it, and I couldn't hold back my scream of agony. I
twisted up to reach for my leg, and he was standing over me, smiling.
"Would you like to rethink your last request?" he asked pleasantly. His toe nudged my
broken leg and I heard a piercing scream. With a shock, I realized it was mine.
"Wouldn't you rather have Edward try to find me?" he prompted.
"No!" I croaked. "No, Edward, don't—" And then something smashed into my face,
throwing me back into the broken mirrors.
Over the pain of my leg, I felt the sharp rip across my scalp where the glass cut into it.
And then the warm wetness began to spread through my hair with alarming speed. I could
feel it soaking the shoulder of my shirt, hear it dripping on the wood below. The smell of
it twisted my stomach.
Through the nausea and dizziness I saw something that gave me a sudden, final shred of
hope. His eyes, merely intent before, now burned with an uncontrollable need. The blood
— spreading crimson across my white shirt, pooling rapidly on the floor — was driving
him mad with thirst. No matter his original intentions, he couldn't draw this out much
longer.
Let it be quick now, was all I could hope as the flow of blood from my head sucked my
consciousness away with it. My eyes were closing.
I heard, as if from underwater, the final growl of the hunter. I could see, through the
long tunnels my eyes had become, his dark shape coming toward me. With my last effort,
my hand instinctively raised to protect my face. My eyes closed, and I drifted.
23. The Angel
As I drifted, I dreamed.
Where I floated, under the dark water, I heard the happiest sound my mind could
conjure up — as beautiful, as uplifting, as it was ghastly. It was another snarl; a deeper,
wilder roar that rang with fury.
I was brought back, almost to the surface, by a sharp pain slashing my upraised hand,
but I couldn't find my way back far enough to open my eyes.
And then I knew I was dead.
Because, through the heavy water, I heard the sound of an angel calling my name,
calling me to the only heaven I wanted.
"Oh no, Bella, no!" the angel's voice cried in horror.
Behind that longed-for sound was another noise — an awful tumult that my mind shied
away from. A vicious bass growling, a shocking snapping sound, and a high keening,
suddenly breaking off…
I tried to concentrate on the angel's voice instead.
"Bella, please! Bella, listen to me, please, please, Bella, please!" he begged.
Yes, I wanted to say. Anything. But I couldn't find my lips.
"Carlisle!" the angel called, agony in his perfect voice. "Bella, Bella, no, oh please, no,
no!" And the angel was sobbing tearless, broken sobs.
The angel shouldn't weep, it was wrong. I tried to find him, to tell him everything was
fine, but the water was so deep, it was pressing on me, and I couldn't breathe.
There was a point of pressure against my head. It hurt. Then, as that pain broke through
the darkness to me, other pains came, stronger pains. I cried out, gasping, breaking
through the dark pool.
"Bella!" the angel cried.
"She's lost some blood, but the head wound isn't deep," a calm voice informed me.
"Watch out for her leg, it's broken."
A howl of rage strangled on the angel's lips.
I felt a sharp stab in my side. This couldn't be heaven, could it? There was too much
pain for that.
"Some ribs, too, I think," the methodical voice continued.
But the sharp pains were fading. There was a new pain, a scalding pain in my hand that
was overshadowing everything else.
Someone was burning me.
"Edward." I tried to tell him, but my voice was so heavy and slow. I couldn't understand
myself.
"Bella, you're going to be fine. Can you hear me, Bella? I love you."
"Edward," I tried again. My voice was a little clearer.
"Yes, I'm here."
"It hurts," I whimpered.
"I know, Bella, I know" — and then, away from me, anguished — "can't you do
anything?"
"My bag, please… Hold your breath, Alice, it will help, "Carlisle promised.
"Alice?" I groaned.
"She's here, she knew where to find you."
"My hand hurts," I tried to tell him.
"I know, Bella. Carlisle will give you something, it will stop."
"My hand is burning!" I screamed, finally breaking through the last of the darkness, my
eyes fluttering open. I couldn't see his face, something dark and warm was clouding my
eyes. Why couldn't they see the fire and put it out?
His voice was frightened. "Bella?"
"The fire! Someone stop the fire!" I screamed as it burned me.
"Carlisle! Her hand!"
"He bit her." Carlisle's voice was no longer calm, it was appalled.
I heard Edward catch his breath in horror.
"Edward, you have to do it." It was Alice's voice, close by my head. Cool fingers
brushed at the wetness in my eyes.
"No!" he bellowed.
"Alice," I moaned.
"There may be a chance," Carlisle said.
"What?" Edward begged.
"See if you can suck the venom back out. The wound is fairly clean." As Carlisle spoke,
I could feel more pressure on my head, something poking and pulling at my scalp. The
pain of it was lost in the pain of the fire.
"Will that work?" Alice's voice was strained.
"I don't know," Carlisle said. "But we have to hurry."
"Carlisle, I…" Edward hesitated. "I don't know if I can do that." There was agony in his
beautiful voice again.
"It's your decision, Edward, either way. I can't help you. I have to get this bleeding
stopped here if you're going to be taking blood from her hand."
I writhed in the grip of the fiery torture, the movement making the pain in my leg flare
sickeningly.
"Edward!" I screamed. I realized my eyes were closed again. I opened them, desperate
to find his face. And I found him. Finally, I could see his perfect face, staring at me,
twisted into a mask of indecision and pain.
"Alice, get me something to brace her leg!" Carlisle was bent over me, working on my
head. "Edward, you must do it now, or it will be too late."
Edward's face was drawn. I watched his eyes as the doubt was suddenly replaced with a
blazing determination. His jaw tightened. I felt his cool, strong fingers on my burning
hand, locking it in place. Then his head bent over it, and his cold lips pressed against my
skin.
At first the pain was worse. I screamed and thrashed against the cool hands that held me
back. I heard Alice's voice, trying to calm me. Something heavy held my leg to the floor,
and Carlisle had my head locked in the vise of his stone arms.
Then, slowly, my writhing calmed as my hand grew more and more numb. The fire was
dulling, focusing into an ever-smaller point.
I felt my consciousness slipping as the pain subsided. I was afraid to fall into the black
waters again, afraid I would lose him in the darkness.
"Edward," I tried to say, but I couldn't hear my voice. They could hear me.
"He's right here, Bella."
"Stay, Edward, stay with me…"
"I will." His voice was strained, but somehow triumphant.
I sighed contentedly. The fire was gone, the other pains dulled by a sleepiness seeping
through my body.
"Is it all out?" Carlisle asked from somewhere far away.
"Her blood tastes clean," Edward said quietly. "I can taste the morphine."
"Bella?" Carlisle called to me.
I tried to answer. "Mmmmm?"
"Is the fire gone?"
"Yes," I sighed. "Thank you, Edward."
"I love you," he answered.
"I know," I breathed, so tired.
I heard my favorite sound in the world: Edward's quiet laugh, weak with relief.
"Bella?" Carlisle asked again.
I frowned; I wanted to sleep. "What?"
"Where is your mother?"
"In Florida," I sighed. "He tricked me, Edward. He watched our videos." The outrage in
my voice was pitifully frail.
But that reminded me.
"Alice." I tried to open my eyes. "Alice, the video — he knew you, Alice, he knew
where you came from." I meant to speak urgently, but my voice was feeble. "I smell
gasoline," I added, surprised through the haze in my brain.
"It's time to move her," Carlisle said.
"No, I want to sleep," I complained.
"You can sleep, sweetheart, I'll carry you," Edward soothed me.
And I was in his arms, cradled against his chest — floating, all the pain gone.
"Sleep now, Bella" were the last words I heard.
24. An Impasse
My eyes opened to a bright, white light. I was in an unfamiliar room, a white room. The
wall beside me was covered in long vertical blinds; over my head, the glaring lights
blinded me. I was propped up on a hard, uneven bed — a bed with rails. The pillows were
flat and lumpy. There was an annoying beeping sound somewhere close by. I hoped that
meant I was still alive. Death shouldn't be this uncomfortable.
My hands were all twisted up with clear tubes, and something was taped across my
face, under my nose. I lifted my hand to rip it off.
"No, you don't." And cool fingers caught my hand.
"Edward?" I turned my head slightly, and his exquisite face was just inches from mine,
his chin resting on the edge of my pillow. I realized again that I was alive, this time with
gratitude and elation. "Oh, Edward, I'm so sorry!"
"Shhhh," he shushed me. "Everything's all right now."
"What happened?" I couldn't remember clearly, and my mind rebelled against me as I
tried to recall.
"I was almost too late. I could have been too late," he whispered, his voice tormented.
"I was so stupid, Edward. I thought he had my mom."
"He tricked us all."
"I need to call Charlie and my mom," I realized through the haze.
"Alice called them. Renée is here — well, here in the hospital. She's getting something
to eat right now."
"She's here?" I tried to sit up, but the spinning in my head accelerated, and his hand
pushed me gently down onto the pillows.
"She'll be back soon," he promised. "And you need to stay still."
"But what did you tell her?" I panicked. I had no interest in being soothed. My mom
was here and I was recovering from a vampire attack. "Why did you tell her I'm here?"
"You fell down two flights of stairs and through a window." He paused. "You have to
admit, it could happen."
I sighed, and it hurt. I stared down at my body under the sheet, the huge lump that was
my leg.
"How bad am I?" I asked.
"You have a broken leg, four broken ribs, some cracks in your skull, bruises covering
every inch of your skin, and you've lost a lot of blood. They gave you a few transfusions.
I didn't like it — it made you smell all wrong for a while."
"That must have been a nice change for you."
"No, I like how you smell."
"How did you do it?" I asked quietly. He knew what I meant at once.
"I'm not sure." He looked away from my wondering eyes, lifting my gauze-wrapped
hand from the bed and holding it gently in his, careful not to disrupt the wire connecting
me to one of the monitors.
I waited patiently for the rest.
He sighed without returning my gaze. "It was impossible… to stop," he whispered.
"Impossible. But I did." He looked up finally, with half a smile. "I must love you."
"Don't I taste as good as I smell?" I smiled in response. That hurt my face.
"Even better — better than I'd imagined."
"I'm sorry," I apologized.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Of all the things to apologize for."
"What should I apologize for?"
"For very nearly taking yourself away from me forever."
"I'm sorry," I apologized again.
"I know why you did it." His voice was comforting. "It was still irrational, of course.
You should have waited for me, you should have told me."
"You wouldn't have let me go."
"No," he agreed in a grim tone, "I wouldn't."
Some very unpleasant memories were beginning to come back to me. I shuddered, and
then winced.
He was instantly anxious. "Bella, what's wrong?"
"What happened to James?"
"After I pulled him off you, Emmett and Jasper took care of him." There was a fierce
note of regret in his voice.
This confused me. "I didn't see Emmett and Jasper there."
"They had to leave the room… there was a lot of blood."
"But you stayed."
"Yes, I stayed."
"And Alice, and Carlisle …" I said in wonder.
"They love you, too, you know."
A flash of painful images from the last time I'd seen Alice reminded me of something.
"Did Alice see the tape?" I asked anxiously.
"Yes." A new sound darkened his voice, a tone of sheer hatred.
"She was always in the dark, that's why she didn't remember."
"I know. She understands now." His voice was even, but his face was black with fury.
I tried to reach his face with my free hand, but something stopped me. I glanced down
to see the IV pulling at my hand.
"Ugh." I winced.
"What is it?" he asked anxiously — distracted, but not enough. The bleakness did not
entirely leave his eyes.
"Needles," I explained, looking away from the one in my hand. I concentrated on a
warped ceiling tile and tried to breathe deeply despite the ache in my ribs.
"Afraid of a needle," he muttered to himself under his breath, shaking his head. "Oh, a
sadistic vampire, intent on torturing her to death, sure, no problem, she runs off to meet
him. An IV, on the other hand…"
I rolled my eyes. I was pleased to discover that this reaction, at least, was pain-free. I
decided to change the subject.
"Why are you here?" I asked.
He stared at me, first confusion and then hurt touching his eyes. His brows pulled
together as he frowned. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No!" I protested, horrified by the thought. "No, I meant, why does my mother think
you're here? I need to have my story straight before she gets back."
"Oh," he said, and his forehead smoothed back into marble. "I came to Phoenix to talk
some sense into you, to convince you to come back to Forks." His wide eyes were so
earnest and sincere, I almost believed him myself. "You agreed to see me, and you drove
out to the hotel where I was staying with Carlisle and Alice — of course I was here with
parental supervision," he inserted virtuously, "but you tripped on the stairs on the way to
my room and… well, you know the rest. You don't need to remember any details, though;
you have a good excuse to be a little muddled about the finer points."
I thought about it for a moment. "There are a few flaws with that story. Like no broken
windows."
"Not really," he said. "Alice had a little bit too much fun fabricating evidence. It's all
been taken care of very convincingly — you could probably sue the hotel if you wanted
to. You have nothing to worry about," he promised, stroking my cheek with the lightest of
touches. "Your only job now is to heal."
I wasn't so lost to the soreness or the fog of medication that I didn't respond to his
touch. The beeping of the monitor jumped around erratically — now he wasn't the only
one who could hear my heart misbehave.
"That's going to be embarrassing," I muttered to myself.
He chuckled, and a speculative look came into his eye. "Hmm, I wonder…"
He leaned in slowly; the beeping noise accelerated wildly before his lips even touched
me. But when they did, though with the most gentle of pressure, the beeping stopped
altogether.
He pulled back abruptly, his anxious expression turning to relief as the monitor reported
the restarting of my heart.
"It seems that I'm going to have to be even more careful with you than usual." He
frowned.
"I was not finished kissing you," I complained. "Don't make me come over there."
He grinned, and bent to press his lips lightly to mine. The monitor went wild.
But then his lips were taut. He pulled away.
"I think I hear your mother," he said, grinning again.
"Don't leave me," I cried, an irrational surge of panic flooding through me. I couldn't let
him go — he might disappear from me again.
He read the terror in my eyes for a short second. "I won't," he promised solemnly, and
then he smiled. "I'll take a nap."
He moved from the hard plastic chair by my side to the turquoise faux-leather recliner
at the foot of my bed, leaning it all the way back, and closing his eyes. He was perfectly
still.
"Don't forget to breathe," I whispered sarcastically. He took a deep breath, his eyes still
closed.
I could hear my mother now. She was talking to someone, maybe a nurse, and she
sounded tired and upset. I wanted to jump out of the bed and run to her, to calm her,
promise that everything was fine. But I wasn't in any sort of shape for jumping, so I
waited impatiently.
The door opened a crack, and she peeked through.
"Mom!" I whispered, my voice full of love and relief.
She took in Edward's still form on the recliner, and tiptoed to my bedside.
"He never leaves, does he?" she mumbled to herself.
"Mom, I'm so glad to see you!"
She bent down to hug me gently, and I felt warm tears falling on my cheeks.
"Bella, I was so upset!"
"I'm sorry, Mom. But everything's fine now, it's okay," I comforted her.
"I'm just glad to finally see your eyes open." She sat on the edge of my bed.
I suddenly realized I didn't have any idea when it was. "How long have they been
closed?"
"It's Friday, hon, you've been out for a while."
"Friday?" I was shocked. I tried to remember what day it had been when… but I didn't
want to think about that.
"They had to keep you sedated for a while, honey — you've got a lot of injuries."
"I know." I could feel them.
"You're lucky Dr. Cullen was there. He's such a nice man… very young, though. And he
looks more like a model than a doctor…"
"You met Carlisle?"
"And Edward's sister Alice. She's a lovely girl."
"She is," I agreed wholeheartedly.
She glanced over her shoulder at Edward, lying with his eyes closed in the chair. "You
didn't tell me you had such good friends in Forks."
I cringed, and then moaned.
"What hurts?" she demanded anxiously, turning back to me. Edward's eyes flashed to
my face.
"It’s fine," I assured them. "I just have to remember not to move." He lapsed back into
his phony slumber.
I took advantage of my mother's momentary distraction to keep the subject from
returning to my less-than-candid behavior. "Where's Phil?" I asked quickly.
"Florida— oh, Bella! You'll never guess! Just when we were about to leave, the best
news!"
"Phil got signed?" I guessed.
"Yes! How did you guess! The Suns, can you believe it?"
"That's great, Mom," I said as enthusiastically as I could manage, though I had little
idea what that meant.
"And you'll like Jacksonville so much," she gushed while I stared at her vacantly. "I
was a little bit worried when Phil started talking about Akron, what with the snow and
everything, because you know how I hate the cold, but now Jacksonville! It's always
sunny, and the humidity really isn’t that bad. We found the cutest house, yellow, with
white trim, and a porch just like in an old movie, and this huge oak tree, and it's just a few
minutes from the ocean, and you'll have your own bathroom —"
"Wait, Mom!" I interrupted. Edward still had his eyes closed, but he looked too tense to
pass as asleep. "What are you talking about? I'm not going to Florida. I live in Forks."
"But you don't have to anymore, silly," she laughed. "Phil will be able to be around so
much more now… we've talked about it a lot, and what I'm going to do is trade off on the
away games, half the time with you, half the time with him."
"Mom." I hesitated, wondering how best to be diplomatic about this. "I want to live in
Forks. I'm already settled in at school, and I have a couple of girlfriends" — she glanced
toward Edward again when I reminded her of friends, so I tried another direction — "and
Charlie needs me. He's just all alone up there, and he can't cook at all."
"You want to stay in Forks?" she asked, bewildered. The idea was inconceivable to her.
And then her eyes flickered back toward Edward. "Why?"
"I told you — school, Charlie — ouch!" I'd shrugged. Not a good idea.
Her hands fluttered helplessly over me, trying to find a safe place to pat. She made do
with my forehead; it was unbandaged.
"Bella, honey, you hate Forks," she reminded me.
"It's not so bad."
She frowned and looked back and forth between Edward and me, this time very
deliberately.
"Is it this boy?" she whispered.
I opened my mouth to lie, but her eyes were scrutinizing my face, and I knew she
would see through that.
"He's part of it," I admitted. No need to confess how big a part. "So, have you had a
chance to talk with Edward?" I asked.
"Yes." She hesitated, looking at his perfectly still form. "And I want to talk to you about
that."
Uh-oh. "What about?" I asked.
"I think that boy is in love with you," she accused, keeping her voice low.
"I think so, too," I confided.
"And how do you feel about him?" She only poorly concealed the raging curiosity in
her voice.
I sighed, looking away. As much as I loved my mom, this was not a conversation I
wanted to have with her. "I'm pretty crazy about him." There — that sounded like
something a teenager with her first boyfriend might say.
"Well, he seems very nice, and, my goodness, he's incredibly good-looking, but you're
so young, Bella…" Her voice was unsure; as far as I could remember, this was the first
time since I was eight that she'd come close to trying to sound like a parental authority. I
recognized the reasonable-but-firm tone of voice from talks I'd had with her about men.
"I know that, Mom. Don't worry about it. It's just a crush," I soothed her.
"That's right," she agreed, easily pleased.
Then she sighed and glanced guiltily over her shoulder at the big, round clock on the
wall.
"Do you need to go?"
She bit her lip. "Phil's supposed to call in a little while… I didn't know you were going
to wake up…"
"No problem, Mom." I tried to tone down the relief so she wouldn't get her feelings
hurt. "I won't be alone."
"I'll be back soon. I've been sleeping here, you know," she announced, proud of herself.
"Oh, Mom, you don't have to do that! You can sleep at home — I'll never notice." The
swirl of painkillers in my brain was making it hard to concentrate even now, though,
apparently, I'd been sleeping for days.
"I was too nervous," she admitted sheepishly. "There's been some crime in the
neighborhood, and I don't like being there alone."
"Crime?" I asked in alarm.
"Someone broke into that dance studio around the corner from the house and burned it
to the ground — there's nothing left at all! And they left a stolen car right out front. Do
you remember when you used to dance there, honey?"
"I remember." I shivered, and winced.
"I can stay, baby, if you need me."
"No, Mom, I'll be fine. Edward will be with me."
She looked like that might be why she wanted to stay. "I'll be back tonight." It sounded
as much like a warning as it sounded like a promise, and she glanced at Edward again as
she said it.
"I love you, Mom."
"I love you, too, Bella. Try to be more careful when you walk, honey, I don't want to
lose you."
Edward's eyes stayed closed, but a wide grin flashed across his face.
A nurse came bustling in then to check all my tubes and wires. My mother kissed my
forehead, patted my gauze-wrapped hand, and left.
The nurse was checking the paper readout on my heart monitor.
"Are you feeling anxious, honey? Your heart rate got a little high there."
"I'm fine," I assured her.
"I'll tell your RN that you're awake. She'll be in to see you in a minute."
As soon as she closed the door, Edward was at my side.
"You stole a car?" I raised my eyebrows.
He smiled, unrepentant. "It was a good car, very fast."
"How was your nap?" I asked.
"Interesting." His eyes narrowed.
"What?"
He looked down while he answered. "I'm surprised. I thought Florida … and your
mother…well, I thought that's what you would want."
I stared at him uncomprehendingly. "But you'd be stuck inside all day in Florida. You'd
only be able to come out at night, just like a real vampire."
He almost smiled, but not quite. And then his face was grave. "I would stay in Forks,
Bella. Or somewhere like it," he explained." Someplace where I couldn't hurt you
anymore."
It didn't sink in at first. I continued to stare at him blankly as the words one by one
clicked into place in my head like a ghastly puzzle. I was barely conscious of the sound
of my heart accelerating, though, as my breathing became hyperventilation, I was aware
of the sharp aching in my protesting ribs.
He didn't say anything; he watched my face warily as the pain that had nothing to do
with broken bones, pain that was infinitely worse, threatened to crush me.
And then another nurse walked purposefully into the room. Edward sat still as stone as
she took in my expression with a practiced eye before turning to the monitors.
"Time for more pain meds, sweetheart?" she asked kindly, tapping the IV feed.
"No, no," I mumbled, trying to keep the agony out of my voice. "I don't need anything."
I couldn't afford to close my eyes now.
"No need to be brave, honey. It's better if you don't get too stressed out; you need to
rest." She waited, but I just shook my head.
"Okay," she sighed. "Hit the call button when you're ready."
She gave Edward a stern look, and threw one more anxious glance at the machinery,
before leaving.
His cool hands were on my face; I stared at him with wild eyes.
"Shhh, Bella, calm down."
"Don't leave me," I begged in a broken voice.
"I won't," he promised. "Now relax before I call the nurse back to sedate you."
But my heart couldn't slow.
"Bella." He stroked my face anxiously. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here as
long as you need me."
"Do you swear you won't leave me?" I whispered. I tried to control the gasping, at least.
My ribs were throbbing.
He put his hands on either side of my face and brought his face close to mine. His eyes
were wide and serious. "I swear."
The smell of his breath was soothing. It seemed to ease the ache of my breathing. He
continued to hold my gaze while my body slowly relaxed and the beeping returned to a
normal pace. His eyes were dark, closer to black than gold today.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes," I said cautiously.
He shook his head and muttered something unintelligible. I thought I picked out the
word "overreaction."
"Why did you say that?" I whispered, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Are you
tired of having to save me all the time? Do you want me to go away?"
"No, I don't want to be without you, Bella, of course not. Be rational. And I have no
problem with saving you, either — if it weren't for the fact that I was the one putting you
in danger… that I'm the reason that you're here."
"Yes, you are the reason." I frowned. "The reason I'm here —alive."
"Barely." His voice was just a whisper. "Covered in gauze and plaster and hardly able to
move."
"I wasn't referring to my most recent near-death experience," I said, growing irritated.
"I was thinking of the others — you can take your pick. If it weren't for you, I would be
rotting away in the Forks cemetery."
He winced at my words, but the haunted look didn't leave his eyes.
"That's not the worst part, though," he continued to whisper. He acted as if I hadn't
spoken. "Not seeing you there on the floor… crumpled and broken." His voice was
choked. "Not thinking I was too late. Not even hearing you scream in pain — all those
unbearable memories that I'll carry with me for the rest of eternity. No, the very worst
was feeling… knowing that I couldn't stop. Believing that I was going to kill you
myself."
"But you didn't."
"I could have. So easily."
I knew I needed to stay calm… but he was trying to talk himself into leaving me, and
the panic fluttered in my lungs, trying to get out.
"Promise me," I whispered.
"What?"
"You know what." I was starting to get angry now. He was so stubbornly determined to
dwell on the negative.
He heard the change in my tone. His eyes tightened. "I don't seem to be strong enough
to stay away from you, so I suppose that you'll get your way… whether it kills you or
not," he added roughly.
"Good." He hadn't promised, though — a fact that I had not missed. The panic was only
barely contained; I had no strength left to control the anger. "You told me how you
stopped… now I want to know why," I demanded.
"Why?" he repeated warily.
"Why you did it. Why didn't you just let the venom spread? By now I would be just like
you."
Edward's eyes seemed to turn flat black, and I remembered that this was something he'd
never intended me to know. Alice must have been preoccupied by the things she'd learned
about herself… or she'd been very careful with her thoughts around him — clearly, he'd
had no idea that she'd filled me in on the mechanics of vampire conversions. He was
surprised, and infuriated. His nostrils flared, his mouth looked as if it was chiseled from
stone.
He wasn't going to answer, that much was clear.
"I'll be the first to admit that I have no experience with relationships," I said. "But it just
seems logical… a man and woman have to be somewhat equal… as in, one of them can't
always be swooping in and saving the other one. They have to save each other equally."
He folded his arms on the side of my bed and rested his chin on his arms. His
expression was smooth, the anger reined in. Evidently he'd decided he wasn't angry with
me. I hoped I'd get a chance to warn Alice before he caught up with her.
"You have saved me," he said quietly.
"I can't always be Lois Lane," I insisted. "I want to be Superman, too."
"You don't know what you're asking." His voice was soft; he stared intently at the edge
of the pillowcase.
"I think I do."
"Bella, you don’t know. I've had almost ninety years to think about this, and I'm still not
sure."
"Do you wish that Carlisle hadn't saved you?"
"No, I don't wish that." He paused before continuing. "But my life was over. I wasn't
giving anything up."
"You are my life. You're the only thing it would hurt me to lose." I was getting better at
this. It was easy to admit how much I needed him.
He was very calm, though. Decided.
"I can't do it, Bella. I won't do that to you."
"Why not?" My throat rasped and the words weren't as loud as I'd meant them to be.
"Don't tell me it's too hard! After today, or I guess it was a few days ago… anyway, after
that, it should be nothing."
He glared at me.
"And the pain?" he asked.
I blanched. I couldn't help it. But I tried to keep my expression from showing how
clearly I remembered the feeling… the fire in my veins.
"That's my problem," I said. "I can handle it."
"It's possible to take bravery to the point where it becomes insanity."
"It's not an issue. Three days. Big deal."
Edward grimaced again as my words reminded him that I was more informed than he
had ever intended me to be. I watched him repress the anger, watched as his eyes grew
speculative.
"Charlie?" he asked curtly. "Renée?"
Minutes passed in silence as I struggled to answer his question. I opened my mouth, but
no sound came out. I closed it again. He waited, and his expression became triumphant
because he knew I had no true answer.
"Look, that's not an issue either," I finally muttered; my voice was as unconvincing as it
always was when I lied. "Renée has always made the choices that work for her — she'd
want me to do the same. And Charlie's resilient, he's used to being on his own. I can't take
care of them forever. I have my own life to live."
"Exactly," he snapped. "And I won't end it for you."
"If you're waiting for me to be on my deathbed, I've got news for you! I was just there!"
"You're going to recover," he reminded me.
I took a deep breath to calm myself, ignoring the spasm of pain it triggered. I stared at
him, and he stared back. There was no compromise in his face.
"No," I said slowly. "I'm not."
His forehead creased. "Of course you are. You may have a scar or two…"
"You're wrong," I insisted. "I'm going to die."
"Really, Bella." He was anxious now. "You'll be out of here in a few days. Two week at
most."
I glared at him. "I may not die now… but I'm going to die sometime. Every minute of
the day, I get closer. And I'm going to get old."
He frowned as what I was saying sunk in, pressing his long fingers to his temples and
closing his eyes. "That's how it's supposed to happen. How it should happen. How it
would have happened if I didn't exist — and I shouldn't exist."
I snorted. He opened his eyes in surprise. "That's stupid. That's like going to someone
who's just won the lottery, taking their money, and saying, 'Look, let's just go back to how
things should be. It's better that way.' And I'm not buying it."
"I'm hardly a lottery prize," he growled.
"That's right. You're much better."
He rolled his eyes and set his lips. "Bella, we're not having this discussion anymore. I
refuse to damn you to an eternity of night and that's the end of it."
"If you think that's the end, then you don't know me very well," I warned him. "You're
not the only vampire I know."
His eyes went black again. "Alice wouldn't dare."
And for a moment he looked so frightening that I couldn't help but believe it — I
couldn't imagine someone brave enough to cross him.
"Alice already saw it, didn't she?" I guessed. "That's why the things she says upset you.
She knows I'm going to be like you… someday."
"She's wrong. She also saw you dead, but that didn't happen, either."
"You'll never catch me betting against Alice."
We stared at each other for a very long time. It was quiet except for the whirring of the
machines, the beeping, the dripping, the ticking of the big clock on the wall. Finally, his
expression softened.
"So where does that leave us?" I wondered.
He chuckled humorlessly. "I believe it's called an impasse."
I sighed. "Ouch," I muttered.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, eyeing the button for the nurse.
"I'm fine," I lied.
"I don't believe you," he said gently.
"I'm not going back to sleep."
"You need rest. All this arguing isn't good for you."
"So give in," I hinted.
"Nice try." He reached for the button.
"No!"
He ignored me.
"Yes?" the speaker on the wall squawked.
"I think we're ready for more pain medication," he said calmly, ignoring my furious
expression.
"I'll send in the nurse." The voice sounded very bored.
"I won't take it," I promised.
He looked toward the sack of fluids hanging beside my bed. "I don't think they're going
to ask you to swallow anything."
My heart rate started to climb. He read the fear in my eyes, and sighed in frustration.
"Bella, you're in pain. You need to relax so you can heal. Why are you being so
difficult? They're not going to put any more needles in you now."
"I'm not afraid of the needles," I mumbled. "I'm afraid to close my eyes."
Then he smiled his crooked smile, and took my face between his hands. "I told you I'm
not going anywhere. Don't be afraid. As long as it makes you happy, I'll be here."
I smiled back, ignoring the ache in my cheeks. "You're talking about forever, you
know."
"Oh, you'll get over it — it's just a crush."
I shook my head in disbelief— it made me dizzy. "I was shocked when Renée
swallowed that one. I know you know better."
"That's the beautiful thing about being human," he told me. "Things change."
My eyes narrowed. "Don't hold your breath."
He was laughing when the nurse came in, brandishing a syringe.
"Excuse me," she said brusquely to Edward.
He got up and crossed to the end of the small room, leaning against the wall. He folded
his arms and waited. I kept my eyes on him, still apprehensive. He met my gaze calmly.
"Here you go, honey." The nurse smiled as she injected the medicine into my tube.
"You'll feel better now."
"Thanks," I mumbled, unenthusiastic. It didn't take long. I could feel the drowsiness
trickling through my bloodstream almost immediately.
"That ought to do it," she muttered as my eyelids drooped.
She must have left the room, because something cold and smooth touched my face.
"Stay." The word was slurred.
"I will," he promised. His voice was beautiful, like a lullaby. "Like I said, as long as it
makes you happy… as long as it's what's best for you."
I tried to shake my head, but it was too heavy. "'S not the same thing," I mumbled.
He laughed. "Don't worry about that now, Bella. You can argue with me when you wake
up."
I think I smiled. '"Kay."
I could feel his lips at my ear.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Me, too."
"I know," he laughed quietly.
I turned my head slightly… searching. He knew what I was after. His lips touched mine
gently.
"Thanks," I sighed.
"Anytime."
I wasn't really there at all anymore. But I fought against the stupor weakly. There was
just one more thing I wanted to tell him.
"Edward?" I struggled to pronounce his name clearly.
"Yes?"
"I'm betting on Alice," I mumbled.
And then the night closed over me.
Epilogue: An Occasion
Edward helped me into his car, being very careful of the wisps of silk and chiffon, the
flowers he'd just pinned into my elaborately styled curls, and my bulky walking cast. He
ignored the angry set of my mouth.
When he had me settled, he got in the driver's seat and headed back out the long,
narrow drive.
"At what point exactly are you going to tell me what's going on?" I asked grumpily. I
really hated surprises. And he knew that.
"I'm shocked that you haven't figured it out yet." He threw a mocking smile in my
direction, and my breath caught in my throat. Would I ever get used to his perfection?
"I did mention that you looked very nice, didn't I?" I verified.
"Yes." He grinned again. I'd never seen him dress in black before, and, with the contrast
against his pale skin, his beauty was absolutely surreal. That much I couldn't deny, even if
the fact that he was wearing a tuxedo made me very nervous.
Not quite as nervous as the dress. Or the shoe. Only one shoe, as my other foot was still
securely encased in plaster. But the stiletto heel, held on only by satin ribbons, certainly
wasn't going to help me as I tried to hobble around.
"I'm not coming over anymore if Alice is going to treat me like Guinea Pig Barbie when
I do," I griped. I'd spent the better part of the day in Alice's staggeringly vast bathroom, a
helpless victim as she played hairdresser and cosmetician. Whenever I fidgeted or
complained, she reminded me that she didn't have any memories of being human, and
asked me not to ruin her vicarious fun. Then she'd dressed me in the most ridiculous dress
— deep blue, frilly and off the shoulders, with French tags I couldn't read — a dress more
suitable for a runway than Forks. Nothing good could come of our formal attire, of that I
was sure. Unless… but I was afraid to put my suspicions into words, even in my own
head.
I was distracted then by the sound of a phone ringing. Edward pulled his cell phone
from a pocket inside his jacket, looking briefly at the caller ID before answering.
"Hello, Charlie," he said warily.
"Charlie?" I frowned.
Charlie had been… difficult since my return to Forks. He had compartmentalized my
bad experience into two defined reactions. Toward Carlisle he was almost worshipfully
grateful. On the other hand, he was stubbornly convinced that Edward was at fault —
because, if not for him, I wouldn't have left home in the first place. And Edward was far
from disagreeing with him. These days I had rules that hadn't existed before: curfews…
visiting hours.
Something Charlie was saying made Edward's eyes widen in disbelief, and then a grin
spread across his face.
"You're kidding!" He laughed.
"What is it?" I demanded.
He ignored me. "Why don't you let me talk to him?" Edward suggested with evident
pleasure. He waited for a few seconds.
"Hello, Tyler, this is Edward Cullen." His voice was very friendly, on the surface. I
knew it well enough to catch the soft edge of menace. What was Tyler doing at my
house? The awful truth began to dawn on me. I looked again at the inappropriate dress
Alice had forced me into.
"I'm sorry if there's been some kind of miscommunication, but Bella is unavailable
tonight." Edward's tone changed, and the threat in his voice was suddenly much more
evident as he continued. "To be perfectly honest, she'll be unavailable every night, as far
as anyone besides myself is concerned. No offense. And I'm sorry about your evening."
He didn't sound sorry at all. And then he snapped the phone shut, a huge smirk on his
face.
My face and neck flushed crimson with anger. I could feel the rage-induced tears
starting to fill my eyes.
He looked at me in surprise. "Was that last part a bit too much? I didn't mean to offend
you."
I ignored that.
"You're taking me to the prom !" I yelled.
It was embarrassingly obvious now. If I'd been paying any attention at all, I'm sure I
would have noticed the date on the posters that decorated the school buildings. But I'd
never dreamed he was thinking of subjecting me to this. Didn't he know me at all?
He wasn't expecting the force of my reaction, that was clear. He pressed his lips
together and his eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult, Bella."
My eyes flashed to the window; we were halfway to the school already.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I demanded in horror.
He gestured to his tuxedo. "Honestly, Bella, what did you think we were doing?"
I was mortified. First, because I'd missed the obvious. And also because the vague
suspicions — expectations, really — that I'd been forming all day, as Alice tried to
transform me into a beauty queen, were so far wide of the mark. My half-fearful hopes
seemed very silly now.
I'd guessed there was some kind of occasion brewing. But prom ! That was the furthest
thing from my mind.
The angry tears rolled over my cheeks. I remembered with dismay that I was very
uncharacteristically wearing mascara. I wiped quickly under my eyes to prevent any
smudges. My hand was unblackened when I pulled it away; maybe Alice had known I
would need waterproof makeup.
"This is completely ridiculous. Why are you crying?" he demanded in frustration.
"Because I'm mad!"
"Bella." He turned the full force of his scorching golden eyes on me.
"What?" I muttered, distracted.
"Humor me," he insisted.
His eyes were melting all my fury. It was impossible to fight with him when he cheated
like that. I gave in with poor grace.
"Fine," I pouted, unable to glare as effectively as I would have liked. "I'll go quietly.
But you'll see. I'm way overdue for more bad luck. I'll probably break my other leg. Look
at this shoe! It's a death trap!" I held out my good leg as evidence.
"Hmmm." He stared at my leg longer than was necessary. "Remind me to thank Alice
for that tonight."
"Alice is going to be there?" That comforted me slightly.
"With Jasper, and Emmett… and Rosalie," he admitted.
The feeling of comfort disappeared. There had been no progress with Rosalie, though I
was on quite good terms with her sometimes-husband. Emmett enjoyed having me
around — he thought my bizarre human reactions were hilarious… or maybe it was just
the fact that I fell down a lot that he found so funny. Rosalie acted as if I didn't exist.
While I shook my head to dispel the direction my thoughts had taken, I thought of
something else.
"Is Charlie in on this?" I asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Of course." He grinned, and then chuckled. "Apparently Tyler wasn't, though."
I gritted my teeth. How Tyler could be so delusional, I couldn't imagine. At school,
where Charlie couldn't interfere, Edward and I were inseparable — except for those rare
sunny days.
We were at the school now; Rosalie's red convertible was conspicuous in the parking
lot. The clouds were thin today, a few streaks of sunlight escaping through far away in the
west.
He got out and walked around the car to open my door. He held out his hand.
I sat stubbornly in my seat, arms folded, feeling a secret twinge of smugness. The lot
was crowded with people in formal dress: witnesses. He couldn't remove me forcibly
from the car as he might have if we'd been alone.
He sighed. "When someone wants to kill you, you're brave as a lion — and then when
someone mentions dancing…" He shook his head.
I gulped. Dancing.
"Bella, I won't let anything hurt you — not even yourself. I won't let go of you once, I
promise."
I thought about that and suddenly felt much better. He could see that in my face.
"There, now," he said gently, "it won't be so bad." He leaned down and wrapped one
arm around my waist. I took his other hand and let him lift me from the car.
He kept his arm tightly around me, supporting me as I limped toward the school.
In Phoenix, they held proms in hotel ballrooms. This dance was in the gym, of course.
It was probably the only room in town big enough for a dance. When we got inside, I
giggled. There were actual balloon arches and twisted garlands of pastel crepe paper
festooning the walls.
"This looks like a horror movie waiting to happen," I snickered.
"Well," he muttered as we slowly approached the ticket table — he was carrying most
of my weight, but I still had to shuffle and wobble my feet forward — "there are more
than enough vampires present."
I looked at the dance floor; a wide gap had formed in the center of the floor, where two
couples whirled gracefully. The other dancers pressed to the sides of the room to give
them space — no one wanted to stand in contrast with such radiance. Emmett and Jasper
were intimidating and flawless in classic tuxedos. Alice was striking in a black satin dress
with geometric cutouts that bared large triangles of her snowy white skin. And Rosalie
was… well, Rosalie. She was beyond belief. Her vivid scarlet dress was backless, tight to
her calves where it flared into a wide ruffled train, with a neckline that plunged to her
waist. I pitied every girl in the room, myself included.
"Do you want me to bolt the doors so you can massacre the unsuspecting townsfolk?" I
whispered conspiratorially.
"And where do you fit into that scheme?" He glared.
"Oh, I'm with the vampires, of course."
He smiled reluctantly. "Anything to get out of dancing."
"Anything."
He bought our tickets, then turned me toward the dance floor. I cringed against his arm
and dragged my feet.
"I've got all night," he warned.
Eventually he towed me out to where his family was twirling elegantly — if in a style
totally unsuitable to the present time and music. I watched in horror.
"Edward." My throat was so dry I could only manage a whisper. "I honestly can't
dance!" I could feel the panic bubbling up inside my chest.
"Don't worry, silly," he whispered back. "I can." He put my arms around his neck and
lifted me to slide his feet under mine.
And then we were whirling, too.
"I feel like I'm five years old," I laughed after a few minutes of effortless waltzing.
"You don't look five," he murmured, pulling me closer for a second, so that my feet
were briefly a foot from the ground.
Alice caught my eye on a turn and smiled in encouragement — I smiled back. I was
surprised to realize that I was actually enjoying myself… a little.
"Okay, this isn't half bad," I admitted.
But Edward was staring toward the doors, and his face was angry.
"What is it?" I wondered aloud. I followed his gaze, disoriented by the spinning, but
finally I could see what was bothering him. Jacob Black, not in a tux, but in a longsleeved
white shirt and tie, his hair smoothed back into his usual ponytail, was crossing
the floor toward us.
After the first shock of recognition, I couldn't help but feel bad for Jacob. He was
clearly uncomfortable — excruciatingly so. His face was apologetic as his eyes met mine.
Edward snarled very quietly.
"Behave!" I hissed.
Edward's voice was scathing. "He wants to chat with you."
Jacob reached us then, the embarrassment and apology even more evident on his face.
"Hey, Bella, I was hoping you would be here." Jacob sounded like he'd been hoping the
exact opposite. But his smile was just as warm as ever.
"Hi, Jacob." I smiled back. "What's up?"
"Can I cut in?" he asked tentatively, glancing at Edward for the first time. I was
shocked to notice that Jacob didn't have to look up. He must have grown half a foot since
the first time I'd seen him.
Edward's face was composed, his expression blank. His only answer was to set me
carefully on my feet, and take a step back.
"Thanks," Jacob said amiably.
Edward just nodded, looking at me intently before he turned to walk away.
Jacob put his hands on my waist, and I reached up to put my hands on his shoulders.
"Wow, Jake, how tall are you now?"
He was smug. "Six-two."
We weren't really dancing — my leg made that impossible. Instead we swayed
awkwardly from side to side without moving our feet. It was just as well; the recent
growth spurt had left him looking gangly and uncoordinated, he was probably no better a
dancer than I was.
"So, how did you end up here tonight?" I asked without true curiosity. Considering
Edward's reaction, I could guess.
"Can you believe my dad paid me twenty bucks to come to your prom?" he admitted,
slightly ashamed.
"Yes, I can," I muttered. "Well, I hope you're enjoying yourself, at least. Seen anything
you like?" I teased, nodding toward a group of girls lined up against the wall like pastel
confections.
"Yeah," he sighed. "But she's taken."
He glanced down to meet my curious gaze for just a second — then we both looked
away, embarrassed.
"You look really pretty, by the way," he added shyly.
"Um, thanks. So why did Billy pay you to come here?" I asked quickly, though I knew
the answer.
Jacob didn't seem grateful for the subject change; he looked away, uncomfortable again.
"He said it was a 'safe' place to talk to you. I swear the old man is losing his mind."
I joined in his laughter weakly.
"Anyway, he said that if I told you something, he would get me that master cylinder I
need," he confessed with a sheepish grin.
"Tell me, then. I want you to get your car finished." I grinned back. At least Jacob didn't
believe any of this. It made the situation a bit easier. Against the wall, Edward was
watching my face, his own face expressionless. I saw a sophomore in a pink dress eyeing
him with timid speculation, but he didn't seem to be aware of her.
Jacob looked away again, ashamed. "Don't get mad, okay?"
"There's no way I'll be mad at you, Jacob," I assured him. "I won't even be mad at Billy.
Just say what you have to."
"Well — this is so stupid, I'm sorry, Bella — he wants you to break up with your
boyfriend. He asked me to tell you 'please.'" He shook his head in disgust.
"He's still superstitious, eh?"
"Yeah. He was… kind of over the top when you got hurt down in Phoenix. He didn't
believe…"Jacob trailed off self-consciously.
My eyes narrowed. "I fell."
"I know that," Jacob said quickly.
"He thinks Edward had something to do with me getting hurt." It wasn't a question, and
despite my promise, I was angry.
Jacob wouldn't meet my eyes. We weren't even bothering to sway to the music, though
his hands were still on my waist, and mine around his neck.
"Look, Jacob, I know Billy probably won't believe this, but just so you know" — he
looked at me now, responding to the new earnestness in my voice — "Edward really did
save my life. If it weren't for Edward and his father, I'd be dead."
"I know," he claimed, but he sounded like my sincere words had affected him some.
Maybe he'd be able to convince Billy of this much, at least.
"Hey, I'm sorry you had to come do this, Jacob," I apologized. "At any rate, you get
your parts, right?"
"Yeah," he muttered. He was still looking awkward… upset.
"There's more?" I asked in disbelief.
"Forget it," he mumbled, "I'll get a job and save the money myself."
I glared at him until he met my gaze. "Just spit it out, Jacob."
"It's so bad."
"I don't care. Tell me," I insisted.
"Okay… but, geez, this sounds bad." He shook his head. "He said to tell you, no, to
warn you, that — and this is his plural, not mine" — he lifted one hand from my waist
and made little quotations marks in the air — '"We'll be watching.'" He watched warily
for my reaction.
It sounded like something from a mafia movie. I laughed out loud.
"Sorry you had to do this, Jake," I snickered.
"I don't mind that much." He grinned in relief. His eyes were appraising as they raked
quickly over my dress. "So, should I tell him you said to butt the hell out?" he asked
hopefully.
"No," I sighed. "Tell him I said thanks. I know he means well."
The song ended, and I dropped my arms.
His hands hesitated at my waist, and he glanced at my bum leg. "Do you want to dance
again? Or can I help you get somewhere?"
Edward answered for me. "That's all right, Jacob. I'll take it from here."
Jacob flinched, and stared wide-eyed at Edward, who stood just beside us.
"Hey, I didn't see you there," he mumbled. "I guess I'll see you around, Bella." He
stepped back, waving halfheartedly.
I smiled. "Yeah, I'll see you later."
"Sorry," he said again before he turned for the door.
Edward's arms wound around me as the next song started. It was a little up-tempo for
slow dancing, but that didn't seem to concern him. I leaned my head against his chest,
content.
"Feeling better?" I teased.
"Not really," he said tersely.
"Don't be mad at Billy," I sighed. "He just worries about me for Charlie's sake. It's
nothing personal."
"I'm not mad at Billy," he corrected in a clipped voice. "But his son is irritating me."
I pulled back to look at him. His face was very serious.
"Why?"
"First of all, he made me break my promise."
I stared at him in confusion.
He half-smiled. "I promised I wouldn't let go of you tonight," he explained.
"Oh. Well, I forgive you."
"Thanks. But there's something else." Edward frowned.
I waited patiently.
"He called you pretty," he finally continued, his frown deepening. "That's practically an
insult, the way you look right now. You're much more than beautiful."
I laughed. "You might be a little biased."
"I don't think that's it. Besides, I have excellent eyesight."
We were twirling again, my feet on his as he held me close.
"So are you going to explain the reason for all of this?" I wondered.
He looked down at me, confused, and I glared meaningfully at the crepe paper.
He considered for a moment, and then changed direction, spinning me through the
crowd to the back door of the gym. I caught a glimpse of Jessica and Mike dancing,
staring at me curiously. Jessica waved, and I smiled back quickly. Angela was there, too,
looking blissfully happy in the arms of little Ben Cheney; she didn't look up from his
eyes, a head lower than hers. Lee and Samantha, Lauren, glaring toward us, with Conner;
I could name every face that spiraled past me. And then we were outdoors, in the cool,
dim light of a fading sunset.
As soon as we were alone, he swung me up into his arms, and carried me across the
dark grounds till he reached the bench beneath the shadow of the madrone trees. He sat
there, keeping me cradled against his chest. The moon was already up, visible through the
gauzy clouds, and his face glowed pale in the white light. His mouth was hard, his eyes
troubled.
"The point?" I prompted softly.
He ignored me, staring up at the moon.
"Twilight, again," he murmured. "Another ending. No matter how perfect the day is, it
always has to end."
"Some things don't have to end," I muttered through my teeth, instantly tense.
He sighed.
"I brought you to the prom," he said slowly, finally answering my question, "because I
don't want you to miss anything. I don't want my presence to take anything away from
you, if I can help it. I want you to be human. I want your life to continue as it would have
if I'd died in nineteen-eighteen like I should have."
I shuddered at his words, and then shook my head angrily. "In what strange parallel
dimension would I ever have gone to prom of my own free will? If you weren't a
thousand times stronger than me, I would never have let you get away with this."
He smiled briefly, but it didn't touch his eyes. "It wasn't so bad, you said so yourself."
"That's because I was with you."
We were quiet for a minute; he stared at the moon and I stared at him. I wished there
was some way to explain how very uninterested I was in a normal human life.
"Will you tell me something?" he asked, glancing down at me with a slight smile.
"Don't I always?"
"Just promise you'll tell me," he insisted, grinning.
I knew I was going to regret this almost instantly. "Fine."
"You seemed honestly surprised when you figured out that I was taking you here," he
began.
"I was," I interjected.
"Exactly," he agreed. "But you must have had some other theory… I'm curious — what
did you think I was dressing you up for?"
Yes, instant regret. I pursed my lips, hesitating. "I don't want to tell you."
"You promised," he objected.
"I know."
"What's the problem?"
I knew he thought it was mere embarrassment holding me back. "I think it will make
you mad — or sad."
His brows pulled together over his eyes as he thought that through. "I still want to
know. Please?"
I sighed. He waited.
"Well… I assumed it was some kind of… occasion. But I didn't think it would be some
trite human thing… prom!" I scoffed.
"Human?" he asked flatly. He'd picked up on the key word.
I looked down at my dress, fidgeting with a stray piece of chiffon. He waited in silence.
"Okay," I confessed in a rush. "So I was hoping that you might have changed your
mind… that you were going to change me, after all."
A dozen emotions played across his face. Some I recognized: anger… pain… and then
he seemed to collect himself and his expression became amused.
"You thought that would be a black tie occasion, did you?" he teased, touching the lapel
of his tuxedo jacket.
I scowled to hide my embarrassment. "I don't know how these things work. To me, at
least, it seems more rational than prom does." He was still grinning. "It's not funny," I
said.
"No, you're right, it's not," he agreed, his smile fading. "I'd rather treat it like a joke,
though, than believe you're serious."
"But I am serious."
He sighed deeply. "I know. And you're really that willing?"
The pain was back in his eyes. I bit my lip and nodded.
"So ready for this to be the end," he murmured, almost to himself, "for this to be the
twilight of your life, though your life has barely started. You're ready to give up
everything."
"It's not the end, it's the beginning," I disagreed under my breath.
"I'm not worth it," he said sadly.
"Do you remember when you told me that I didn't see myself very clearly?" I asked,
raising my eyebrows. "You obviously have the same blindness."
"I know what I am."
I sighed.
But his mercurial mood shifted on me. He pursed his lips, and his eyes were probing.
He examined my face for a long moment.
"You're ready now, then?" he asked.
"Um." I gulped. "Yes?"
He smiled, and inclined his head slowly until his cold lips brushed against the skin just
under the corner of my jaw.
"Right now?" he whispered, his breath blowing cool on my neck. I shivered
involuntarily.
"Yes," I whispered, so my voice wouldn't have a chance to break. If he thought I was
bluffing, he was going to be disappointed. I'd already made this decision, and I was sure.
It didn't matter that my body was rigid as a plank, my hands balled into fists, my
breathing erratic…
He chuckled darkly, and leaned away. His face did look disappointed.
"You can't really believe that I would give in so easily," he said with a sour edge to his
mocking tone.
"A girl can dream."
His eyebrows rose. "Is that what you dream about? Being a monster?"
"Not exactly," I said, frowning at his word choice. Monster, indeed. "Mostly I dream
about being with you forever."
His expression changed, softened and saddened by the subtle ache in my voice.
"Bella." His fingers lightly traced the shape of my lips. "I will stay with you — isn't that
enough?"
I smiled under his fingertips. "Enough for now."
He frowned at my tenacity. No one was going to surrender tonight. He exhaled, and the
sound was practically a growl.
I touched his face. "Look," I said. "I love you more than everything else in the world
combined. Isn't that enough?"
"Yes, it is enough," he answered, smiling. "Enough for forever."
And he leaned down to press his cold lips once more to my throat.
I am a poor paralysed fellow who, for many years past, has been confined to a bed or a sofa. For the last six years I have occupied a small room, giving on to one of the side canals of Venice, and having no one about me but a deaf old woman, who makes my bed and attends to my food; and there I eke out a poor income of about thirty pounds a year by making water-colour drawings of flowers and fruit (they are the cheapest models in Venice), and these I send to a friend in London, who sells them to a dealer for small sums. But, on the whole, I am happy and content.
It is necessary that I should describe the position of my room rather minutely. Its only window is about five feet above the water of the canal, and above it the house projects some six feet, and overhangs the water, the projecting portion being supported by stout piles driven into the bed of the canal. This arrangement has the disadvantage (among others) of so limiting my upward view that I am unable to see more than about ten feet of the height of the house immediately opposite to me, although, by reaching as far out of the window as my infirmity will permit, I can see for a considerable distance up and down the canal, which does not exceed fifteen feet in width. But, although I can see but little of the material house opposite, I can see its reflection upside down in the canal, and I take a good deal of inverted interest in such of its inhabitants as show themselves from time to time (always upside down) on its balconies and at its windows.
When I first occupied my room, about six years ago, my attention was directed to the reflection of a little girl of thirteen or so (as nearly as I could judge), who passed every day on a balcony just above the upward range of my limited field of view. She had a glass of flowers and a crucifix on a little table by her side; and as she sat there, in fine weather, from early morning until dark, working assiduously all the time, I concluded that she earned her living by needle-work. She was certainly an industrious little girl, and, as far as I could judge by her upside-down reflection, neat in her dress and pretty. She had an old mother, an invalid, who, on warm days, would sit on the balcony with her, and it interested me to see the little maid wrap the old lady in shawls, and bring pillows for her chair, and a stool for her feet, and every now and again lay down her work and kiss and fondle the old lady for half a minute, and then take up her work again.
Time went by, and as the little maid grew up, her reflection grew down, and at last she was quite a little woman of, I suppose, sixteen or seventeen. I can only work for a couple of hours or so in the brightest part of the day, so I had plenty of time on my hands in which to watch her movements, and sufficient imagination to weave a little romance about her, and to endow her with a beauty which, to a great extent, I had to take for granted. I saw--or fancied that I could see--that she began to take an interest in my reflection (which, of course, she could see as I could see hers); and one day, when it appeared to me that she was looking right at it--that is to say when her reflection appeared to be looking right at me--I tried the desperate experiment of nodding to her, and to my intense delight her reflection nodded in reply. And so our two reflections became known to one another.
It did not take me very long to fall in love with her, but a long time passed before I could make up my mind to do more than nod to her every morning, when the old woman moved me from my bed to the sofa at the window, and again in the evening, when the little maid left the balcony for that day. One day, however, when I saw her reflection looking at mine, I nodded to her, and threw a flower into the canal. She nodded several times in return, and I saw her direct her mother's attention to the incident. Then every morning I threw a flower into the water for 'good morning', and another in the evening for 'goodnight', and I soon discovered that I had not altogether thrown them in vain, for one day she threw a flower to join mine, and she laughed and clapped her hands when she saw the two flowers join forces and float away together. And then every morning and every evening she threw her flower when I threw mine, and when the two flowers met she clapped her hands, and so did I; but when they were separated, as they sometimes were, owing to one of them having met an obstruction which did not catch the other, she threw up her hands in a pretty affectation of despair, which I tried to imitate but in an English and unsuccessful fashion. And when they were rudely run down by a passing gondola (which happened not unfrequently) she pretended to cry, and I did the same. Then, in pretty pantomime, she would point downwards to the sky to tell me that it was Destiny that had caused the shipwreck of our flowers, and I, in pantomime, not nearly so pretty, would try to convey to her that Destiny would be kinder next time, and that perhaps tomorrow our flowers would be more fortunate--and so the innocent courtship went on. One day she showed me her crucifix and kissed it, and thereupon I took a little silver crucifix that always stood by me, and kissed that, and so she knew that we were one in religion.
One day the little maid did not appear on her balcony, and for several days I saw nothing of her; and although I threw my flowers as usual, no flower came to keep it company. However, after a time, she reappeared, dressed in black, and crying often, and then I knew that the poor child's mother was dead, and, as far as I knew, she was alone in the world. The flowers came no more for many days, nor did she show any sign of recognition, but kept her eyes on her work, except when she placed her handkerchief to them. And opposite to her was the old lady's chair, and I could see that, from time to time, she would lay down her work and gaze at it, and then a flood of tears would come to her relief. But at last one day she roused herself to nod to me, and then her flower came, day by day, and my flower went forth to join it, and with varying fortunes the two flowers sailed away as of yore.
But the darkest day of all to me was when a good-looking young gondolier, standing right end uppermost in his gondola (for I could see him in the flesh), worked his craft alongside the house, and stood talking to her as she sat on the balcony. They seemed to speak as old friends--indeed, as well as I could make out, he held her by the hand during the whole of their interview which lasted quite half an hour. Eventually he pushed off, and left my heart heavy within me. But I soon took heart of grace, for as soon as he was out of sight, the little maid threw two flowers growing on the same stem--an allegory of which I could make nothing, until it broke upon me that she meant to convey to me that he and she were brother and sister, and that I had no cause to be sad. And thereupon I nodded to her cheerily, and she nodded to me, and laughed aloud, and I laughed in return, and all went on again as before.
Then came a dark and dreary time, for it became necessary that I should undergo treatment that confined me absolutely to my bed for many days, and I worried and fretted to think that the little maid and I should see each other no longer, and worse still, that she would think that I had gone away without even hinting to her that I was going. And I lay awake at night wondering how I could let her know the truth, and fifty plans flitted through my brain, all appearing to be feasible enough at night, but absolutely wild and impracticable in the morning. One day--and it was a bright day indeed for me--the old woman who tended me told me that a gondolier had inquired whether the English signor had gone away or had died; and so I learnt that the little maid had been anxious about me, and that she had sent her brother to inquire, and the brother had no doubt taken to her the reason of my protracted absence from the window.
From that day, and ever after during my three weeks of bed-keeping, a flower was found every morning on the ledge of my window, which was within easy reach of anyone in a boat; and when at last a day came when I could be moved, I took my accustomed place on my sofa at the window, and the little maid saw me, and stood on her head (so to speak) and clapped her hands upside down with a delight that was as eloquent as my right-end-up delight could be. And so the first time the gondolier passed my window I beckoned to him, and he pushed alongside, and told me, with many bright smiles, that he was glad indeed to see me well again. Then I thanked him and his sister for their many kind thoughts about me during my retreat, and I then learnt from him that her name was Angela, and that she was the best and purest maiden in all Venice, and that anyone might think himself happy indeed who could call her sister, but that he was happier even than her brother, for he was to be married to her, and indeed they were to be married the next day.
Thereupon my heart seemed to swell to bursting, and the blood rushed through my veins so that I could hear it and nothing else for a while. I managed at last to stammer forth some words of awkward congratulation, and he left me, singing merrily, after asking permission to bring his bride to see me on the morrow as they returned from church.
'For', said he, 'my Angela has known you very long--ever since she was a child, and she has often spoken to me of the poor Englishman who was a good Catholic, and who lay all day long for years and years on a sofa at a window, and she had said over and over again how dearly she wished she could speak to him and comfort him; and one day, when you threw a flower into the canal, she asked me whether she might throw another, and I told her yes, for he would understand that it meant sympathy for one sorely afflicted.'
And so I learned that it was pity, and not love, except indeed such love as is akin to pity, that prompted her to interest herself in my welfare, and there was an end of it all.
For the two flowers that I thought were on one stem were two flowers tied together (but I could not tell that), and they were meant to indicate that she and the gondolier were affianced lovers, and my expressed pleasure at this symbol delighted her, for she took it to mean that I rejoiced in her happiness.
And the next day the gondolier came with a train of other gondoliers, all decked in their holiday garb, and on his gondola sat Angela, happy, and blushing at her happiness. Then he and she entered the house in which I dwelt, and came into my room (and it was strange indeed, after so many years of inversion, to see her with her head above her feet!), and then she wished me happiness and a speedy restoration to good health (which could never be); and I in broken words and with tears in my eyes, gave her the little silver crucifix that had stood by my bed or my table for so many years. And Angela took it reverently, and crossed herself, and kissed it, and so departed with her delighted husband.
And as I heard the song of the gondoliers as they went their way--the song dying away in the distance as the shadows of the sundown closed around me--I felt that they were singing the requiem of the only love that had ever entered my heart.

The prettiest scenery in all England--and if I am contradicted in that assertion, I will say in all Europe--is in Devonshire, on the southern and southeastern skirts of Dartmoor, where the rivers Dart and Avon and Teign form themselves, and where the broken moor is half cultivated, and the wild-looking uplands fields are half moor. In making this assertion I am often met with much doubt, but it is by persons who do not really know the locality. Men and women talk to me on the matter who have travelled down the line of railway from Exeter to Plymouth, who have spent a fortnight at Torquay, and perhaps made an excursion from Tavistock to the convict prison on Dartmoor. But who knows the glories of Chagford? Who has walked through the parish of Manaton? Who is conversant with Lustleigh Cleeves and Withycombe in the moor? Who has explored Holne Chase? Gentle reader, believe me that you will be rash in contradicting me unless you have done these things.
There or thereabouts--I will not say by the waters of which little river it is washed--is the parish of Oxney Colne. And for those who would wish to see all the beauties of this lovely country a sojourn in Oxney Colne would be most desirable, seeing that the sojourner would then be brought nearer to all that he would delight to visit, than at any other spot in the country. But there is an objection to any such arrangement. There are only two decent houses in the whole parish, and these are--or were when I knew the locality--small and fully occupied by their possessors. The larger and better is the parsonage in which lived the parson and his daughter; and the smaller is the freehold residence of a certain Miss Le Smyrger, who owned a farm of a hundred acres which was rented by one Farmer Cloysey, and who also possessed some thirty acres round her own house which she managed herself, regarding herself to be quite as great in cream as Mr. Cloysey, and altogether superior to him in the article of cider. 'But yeu has to pay no rent, Miss,' Farmer Cloysey would say, when Miss Le Smyrger expressed this opinion of her art in a manner too defiant. 'Yeu pays no rent, or yeu couldn't do it.' Miss Le Smyrger was an old maid, with a pedigree and blood of her own, a hundred and thirty acres of fee-simple land on the borders of Dartmoor, fifty years of age, a constitution of iron, and an opinion of her own on every subject under the sun.
And now for the parson and his daughter. The parson's name was Woolsworthy--or Woolathy as it was pronounced by all those who lived around him--the Rev. Saul Woolsworthy; and his daughter was Patience Woolsworthy, or Miss Patty, as she was known to the Devonshire world of those parts. That name of Patience had not been well chosen for her for she was a hot-tempered damsel, warm in her convictions, and inclined to express them freely. She had but two closely intimate friends in the world, and by both of them this freedom of expression had been fully permitted to her since she was a child. Miss Le Smyrger and her father were well accustomed to her ways, and on the whole well satisfied with them. The former was equally free and equally warm-tempered as herself, and as Mr. Woolsworthy was allowed by his daughter to be quite paramount on his own subject--for he had a subject--he did not object to his daughter being paramount on all others. A pretty girl was Patience Woolsworthy at the time of which I am writing, and one who possessed much that was worthy of remark and admiration had she lived where beauty meets with admiration, or where force of character is remarked. But at Oxney Colne, on the borders of Dartmoor, there were few to appreciate her, and it seemed as though she herself had but little idea of carrying her talent further afield, so that it might not remain for ever wrapped in a blanket.
She was a pretty girl, tall and slender, with dark eyes and black hair. Her eyes were perhaps too round for regular beauty, and her hair was perhaps too crisp; her mouth was large and expressive; her nose was finely formed, though a critic in female form might have declared it to be somewhat broad. But her countenance altogether was very attractive--if only it might be seen without that resolution for dominion which occasionally marred it, though sometimes it even added to her attractions.
It must be confessed on behalf of Patience Woolsworthy that the circumstances of her life had peremptorily called upon her to exercise dominion. She had lost her mother when she was sixteen, and had had neither brother nor sister. She had no neighbours near her fit either from education or rank to interfere in the conduct of her life, excepting always Miss Le Smyrger. Miss Le Smyrger would have done anything for her, including the whole management of her morals and of the parsonage household, had Patience been content with such an arrangement. But much as Patience had ever loved Miss Le Smyrger, she was not content with this, and therefore she had been called on to put forth a strong hand of her own. She had put forth this strong hand early, and hence had come the character which I am attempting to describe. But I must say on behalf of this girl that it was not only over others that she thus exercised dominion. In acquiring that power she had also acquired the much greater power of exercising rule over herself.
But why should her father have been ignored in these family arrangements? Perhaps it may almost suffice to say, that of all living men her father was the man best conversant with the antiquities of the county in which he lived. He was the Jonathan Oldbuck of Devonshire, and especially of Dartmoor,--but without that decision of character which enabled Oldbuck to keep his womenkind in some kind of subjection, and probably enabled him also to see that his weekly bill did not pass their proper limits. Our Mr. Oldbuck, of Oxney Colne, was sadly deficient in these respects. As a parish pastor with but a small cure he did his duty with sufficient energy to keep him, at any rate, from reproach. He was kind and charitable to the poor, punctual in his services, forbearing with the farmers around him, mild with his brother clergymen, and indifferent to aught that bishop or archdeacon might think or say of him. I do not name this latter attribute as a virtue, but as a fact. But all these points were as nothing in the known character of Mr. Woolsworthy, of Oxney Colne. He was the antiquarian of Dartmoor. That was his line of life. It was in that capacity that he was known to the Devonshire world; it was as such that he journeyed about with his humble carpetbag, staying away from his parsonage a night or two at a time; it was in that character that he received now and again stray visitors in the single spare bedroom--not friends asked to see him and his girl because of their friendship--but men who knew something as to this buried stone, or that old land-mark. In all these things his daughter let him have his own way, assisting and encouraging him. That was his line of life, and therefore she respected it. But in all other matters she chose to be paramount at the parsonage.
Mr. Woolsworthy was a little man, who always wore, except on Sundays, grey clothes--clothes of so light a grey that they would hardly have been regarded as clerical in a district less remote. He had now reached a goodly age, being full seventy years old; but still he was wiry and active, and shewed but few symptoms of decay. His head was bald, and the few remaining locks that surrounded it were nearly white. But there was a look of energy about his mouth, and a humour in his light grey eye, which forbade those who knew him to regard him altogether as an old man. As it was, he could walk from Oxney Colne to Priestown, fifteen long Devonshire miles across the moor; and he who could do that could hardly be regarded as too old for work.
But our present story will have more to do with his daughter than with him. A pretty girl, I have said, was Patience Woolsworthy; and one, too, in many ways remarkable. She had taken her outlook into life, weighing the things which she had and those which she had not, in a manner very unusual, and, as a rule, not always desirable for a young lady. The things which she had not were very many. She had not society; she had not a fortune; she had not any assurance of future means of livelihood; she had not high hope of procuring for herself a position in life by marriage; she had not that excitement and pleasure in life which she read of in such books as found their way down to Oxney Colne Parsonage. It would be easy to add to the list of the things which she had not; and this list against herself she made out with the utmost vigour. The things which she had, or those rather which she assured herself of having, were much more easily counted. She had the birth and education of a lady, the strength of a healthy woman, and a will of her own. Such was the list as she made it out for herself, and I protest that I assert no more than the truth in saying that she never added to it either beauty, wit, or talent.
I began these descriptions by saying that Oxney Colne would, of all places, be the best spot from which a tourist could visit those parts of Devonshire, but for the fact that he could obtain there none of the accommodation which tourists require. A brother antiquarian might, perhaps, in those days have done so, seeing that there was, as I have said, a spare bedroom at the parsonage. Any intimate friend of Miss Le Smyrger's might be as fortunate, for she was also so provided at Oxney Colne, by which name her house was known. But Miss Le Smyrger was not given to extensive hospitality, and it was only to those who were bound to her, either by ties of blood or of very old friendship, that she delighted to open her doors. As her old friends were very few in number, as those few lived at a distance, and as her nearest relations were higher in the world than she was, and were said by herself to look down upon her, the visits made to Oxney Colne were few and far between.
But now, at the period of which I am writing, such a visit was about to be made. Miss Le Smyrger had a younger sister who had inherited a property in the parish of Oxney Colne equal to that of the lady who lived there; but this younger sister had inherited beauty also, and she therefore, in early life, had found sundry lovers, one of whom became her husband. She had married a man even then well to do in the world, but now rich and almost mighty; a Member of Parliament, a Lord of this and that board, a man who had a house in Eaton Square, and a park in the north of England; and in this way her course of life had been very much divided from that of our Miss Le Smyrger. But the Lord of the Government board had been blessed with various children, and perhaps it was now thought expedient to look after Aunt Penelope's Devonshire acres. Aunt Penelope was empowered to leave them to whom she pleased; and though it was thought in Eaton Square that she must, as a matter of course, leave them to one of the family, nevertheless a little cousinly intercourse might make the thing more certain. I will not say that this was the sole cause for such a visit, but in these days a visit was to be made by Captain Broughton to his aunt. Now Captain John Broughton was the second son of Alfonso Broughton, of Clapham Park and Eaton Square, Member of Parliament, and Lord of the aforesaid Government Board.
And what do you mean to do with him? Patience Woolsworthy asked of Miss Le Smyrger when that lady walked over from the Colne to say that her nephew John was to arrive on the following morning.
'Do with him? Why, I shall bring him over here to talk to your father.'
'He'll be too fashionable for that, and papa won't trouble his head about him if he finds that he doesn't care for Dartmoor.'
'Then he may fall in love with you, my dear.'
'Well, yes; there's that resource at any rate, and for your sake I dare say I should be more civil to him than papa. But he'll soon get tired of making love to me, and what you'll do then I cannot imagine.'
That Miss Woolsworthy felt no interest in the coming of the Captain I will not pretend to say. The advent of any stranger with whom she would be called on to associate must be matter of interest to her in that secluded place; and she was not so absolutely unlike other young ladies that the arrival of an unmarried young man would be the same to her as the advent of some patriarchal pater-familias. In taking that outlook into life of which I have spoken she had never said to herself that she despised those things from which other girls received the excitement, the joys, and the disappointment of their lives. She had simply given herself to understand that very little of such things would come in her way, and that it behoved her to live--to live happily if such might be possible--without experiencing the need of them. She had heard, when there was no thought of any such visit to Oxney Colne, that John Broughton was a handsome clever man--one who thought much of himself and was thought much of by others--that there had been some talk of his marrying a great heiress, which marriage, however had not taken place through unwillingness on his part, and that he was on the whole a man of more mark in the world than the ordinary captains of ordinary regiments.
Captain Broughton came to Oxney Colne, stayed there a fortnight--the intended period for his projected visit having been fixed at three or four days--and then went his way. He went his way back to his London haunts, the time of the year then being the close of the Easter holy-days; but as he did so he told his aunt that he should assuredly return to her in the autumn.
'And assuredly I shall be happy to see you, John--if you come with a certain purpose. If you have no such purpose, you had better remain away.'
'I shall assuredly come,' the Captain had replied, and then he had gone on his journey.
The summer passed rapidly by, and very little was said between Miss Le Smyrger and Miss Woolsworthy about Captain Broughton. In many respects--nay, I may say, as to all ordinary matters,--no two women could well be more intimate with each other than they were; and more than that, they had the courage each to talk to the other with absolute truth as to things concerning themselves--a courage in which dear friends often fail. But, nevertheless, very little was said between them about Captain John Broughton. All that was said may be here repeated.
'John says that he shall return here in August,' Miss Le Smyrger said as Patience was sitting with her in the parlour at Oxney Colne, on the morning after that gentleman's departure.
'He told me so himself,' said Patience; and as she spoke her round dark eyes assumed a look of more than ordinary self-will. If Miss Le Smyrger had intended to carry the conversation any further she changed her mind as she looked at her companion. Then, as I said, the summer ran by, and towards the close of the warm days of July, Miss Le Smyrger, sitting in the same chair in the same room, again took up the conversation.
'I got a letter from John this morning. He says that he shall be here on the third.'
'Does he?'
'He is very punctual to the time he named.'
'Yes; I fancy that he is a punctual man,' said Patience.
'I hope that you will be glad to see him,' said Miss Le Smyrger.
'Very glad to see him,' said Patience, with a bold clear voice; and then the conversation was again dropped, and nothing further was said till after Captain Broughton's second arrival in the parish.
Four months had then passed since his departure, and during that time Miss Woolsworthy had performed all her usual daily duties in their accustomed course. No one could discover that she had been less careful in her household matters than had been her wont, less willing to go among her poor neighbours, or less assiduous in her attentions to her father. But not the less was there a feeling in the minds of those around her that some great change had come upon her. She would sit during the long summer evenings on a certain spot outside the parsonage orchard, at the top of a small sloping field in which their solitary cow was always pastured, with a book on her knees before her, but rarely reading. There she would sit, with the beautiful view down to the winding river below her, watching the setting sun, and thinking, thinking, thinking--thinking of something of which she had never spoken. Often would Miss Le Smyrger come upon her there, and sometimes would pass her even without a word; but never--never once did she dare to ask of the matter of her thoughts. But she knew the matter well enough. No confession was necessary to inform her that Patience Woolsworthy was in love with John Broughton--ay, in love, to the full and entire loss of her whole heart.
On one evening she was so sitting till the July sun had fallen and hidden himself for the night, when her father came upon her as he returned from one of his rambles on the moor. 'Patty,' he said, 'you are always sitting there now. Is it not late? Will you not be cold?'
'No papa,' she said, 'I shall not be cold.'
'But won't you come to the house? I miss you when you come in so late that there's no time to say a word before we go to bed.'
She got up and followed him into the parsonage, and when they were in the sitting-room together, and the door was closed, she came up to him and kissed him. 'Papa,' she said, 'would it make you very unhappy if I were to leave you?'
'Leave me!' he said, startled by the serious and almost solemn tone of her voice. 'Do you mean for always?'
'If I were to marry, papa?'
'Oh, marry! No; that would not make me unhappy. It would make me very happy, Patty, to see you married to a man you would love;--very, very happy; though my days would be desolate without you.'
'That is it, papa. What would you do if I went from you?'
'What would it matter, Patty? I should be free, at any rate, from a load which often presses heavy on me now. What will you do when I shall leave you? A few more years and all will be over with me. But who is it, love? Has anybody said anything to you?'
'It was only an idea, papa. I don't often think of such a thing; but I did think of it then.' And so the subject was allowed to pass by. This had happened before the day of the second arrival had been absolutely fixed and made known to Miss Woolsworthy.
And then that second arrival took place. The reader may have understood from the words with which Miss Le Smyrger authorized her nephew to make his second visit to Oxney Colne that Miss Woolsworthy's passion was not altogether unauthorized. Captain Broughton had been told that he was not to come unless he came with a certain purpose; and having been so told, he still persisted in coming. There can be no doubt but that he well understood the purport to which his aunt alluded. 'I shall assuredly come,' he had said. And true to his word, he was now there.
Patience knew exactly the hour at which he must arrive at the station at Newton Abbot, and the time also which it would take to travel over those twelve up-hill miles from the station to Oxney. It need hardly be said that she paid no visit to Miss Le Smyrger's house on that afternoon; but she might have known something of Captain Broughton's approach without going thither. His road to the Colne passed by the parsonage-gate, and had Patience sat even at her bedroom window she must have seen him. But on such an evening she would not sit at her bedroom window;--she would do nothing which would force her to accuse herself of a restless longing for her lover's coming. It was for him to seek her. If he chose to do so, he knew the way to the parsonage.
Miss Le Smyrger--good, dear, honest, hearty Miss Le Smyrger, was in a fever of anxiety on behalf of her friend. It was not that she wished her nephew to marry Patience,--or rather that she had entertained any such wish when he first came among them. She was not given to match-making, and moreover thought, or had thought within herself, that they of Oxney Colne could do very well without any admixture from Eaton Square. Her plan of life had been that when old Mr. Woolsworthy was taken away from Dartmoor, Patience should live with her, and that when she also shuffled off her coil, then Patience Woolsworthy should be the maiden-mistress of Oxney Colne--of Oxney Colne and of Mr. Cloysey's farm--to the utter detriment of all the Broughtons. Such had been her plan before nephew John had come among them--a plan not to be spoken of till the coming of that dark day which should make Patience an orphan. But now her nephew had been there, and all was to be altered. Miss Le Smyrger's plan would have provided a companion for her old age; but that had not been her chief object. She had thought more of Patience than of herself, and now it seemed that a prospect of a higher happiness was opening for her friend.
'John,' she said, as soon as the first greetings were over, 'do you remember the last words that I said to you before you went away?' Now, for myself, I much admire Miss Le Smyrger's heartiness, but I do not think much of her discretion. It would have been better, perhaps, had she allowed things to take their course.
'I can't say that I do,' said the Captain. At the same time the Captain did remember very well what those last words had been.
'I am so glad to see you, so delighted to see you, if--if--if--,' and then she paused, for with all her courage she hardly dared to ask her nephew whether he had come there with the express purport of asking Miss Woolsworthy to marry him.
To tell the truth--for there is no room for mystery within the limits of this short story,--to tell, I say, at a word the plain and simple truth, Captain Broughton had already asked that question. On the day before he left Oxney Colne he had in set terms proposed to the parson's daughter, and indeed the words, the hot and frequent words, which previously to that had fallen like sweetest honey into the ears of Patience Woolsworthy, had made it imperative on him to do so. When a man in such a place as that has talked to a girl of love day after day, must not he talk of it to some definite purpose on the day on which he leaves her? Or if he do not, must he not submit to be regarded as false, selfish, and almost fraudulent? Captain Broughton, however, had asked the question honestly and truly. He had done so honestly and truly, but in words, or, perhaps, simply with a tone, that had hardly sufficed to satisfy the proud spirit of the girl he loved. She by that time had confessed to herself that she loved him with all her heart; but she had made no such confession to him. To him she had spoken no word, granted no favour, that any lover might rightfully regard as a token of love returned. She had listened to him as he spoke, and bade him keep such sayings for the drawing-rooms of his fashionable friends. Then he had spoken out and had asked for that hand,--not, perhaps, as a suitor tremulous with hope,--but as a rich man who knows that he can command that which he desires to purchase.
'You should think more of this,' she had said to him at last. 'If you would really have me for your wife, it will not be much to you to return here again when time for thinking of it shall have passed by.' With these words she had dismissed him, and now he had again come back to Oxney Colne. But still she would not place herself at the window to look for him, nor dress herself in other than her simple morning country dress, nor omit one item of her daily work. If he wished to take her at all, he should wish to take her as she really was, in her plain country life, but he should take her also with full observance of all those privileges which maidens are allowed to claim from their lovers. He should curtail no ceremonious observance because she was the daughter of a poor country parson who would come to him without a shilling, whereas he stood high in the world's books. He had asked her to give him all that she had, and that all she was ready to give, without stint. But the gift must be valued before it could be given or received. He also was to give her as much, and she would accept it as being beyond all price. But she would not allow that that which was offered to her was in any degree the more precious because of his outward worldly standing.
She would not pretend to herself that she thought he would come to her that afternoon, and therefore she busied herself in the kitchen and about the house, giving directions to her two maids as though the day would pass as all other days did pass in that household. They usually dined at four, and she rarely, in these summer months, went far from the house before that hour. At four precisely she sat down with her father, and then said that she was going up as far as Helpholme after dinner. Helpholme was a solitary farmhouse in another parish, on the border of the moor, and Mr. Woolsworthy asked her whether he should accompany her.
'Do, papa,' she said, 'if you are not too tired.' And yet she had thought how probable it might be that she should meet John Broughton on her walk. And so it was arranged; but, just as dinner was over, Mr. Woolsworthy remembered himself.
'Gracious me,' he said, 'how my memory is going! Gribbles, from Ivybridge, and old John Poulter, from Bovey, are coming to meet here by appointment. You can't put Helpholme off till tomorrow?'
Patience, however, never put off anything, and therefore at six o'clock, when her father had finished his slender modicum of toddy, she tied on her hat and went on her walk. She started forth with a quick step, and left no word to say by which route she would go. As she passed up along the little lane which led towards Oxney Colne she would not even look to see if he was coming towards her; and when she left the road, passing over a stone stile into a little path which ran first through the upland fields, and then across the moor ground towards Helpholme, she did not look back once, or listen for his coming step.
She paid her visit, remaining upwards of an hour with the old bedridden mother of the farmer of Helpholme. 'God bless you, my darling!' said the old lady as she left her; 'and send you someone to make your own path bright and happy through the world.' These words were still ringing in her ears with all their significance as she saw John Broughton waiting for her at the first stile which she had to pass after leaving the farmer's haggard.
'Patty,' he said, as he took her hand, and held it close within both his own, 'what a chase I have had after you!'
'And who asked you, Captain Broughton?' she answered, smiling. 'If the journey was too much for your poor London strength, could you not have waited till tomorrow morning, when you would have found me at the parsonage?' But she did not draw her hand away from him, or in any way pretend that he had not a right to accost her as a lover.
'No, I could not wait. I am more eager to see those I love than you seem to be.'
'How do you know whom I love, or how eager I might be to see them? There is an old woman there whom I love, and I have thought nothing of this walk with the object of seeing her.' And now, slowly drawing her hand away from him, she pointed to the farmhouse which she had left.
'Patty,' he said, after a minute's pause, during which she had looked full into his face with all the force of her bright eyes; 'I have come from London today, straight down here to Oxney, and from my aunt's house close upon your footsteps after you to ask you that one question. Do you love me?'
'What a Hercules?' she said, again laughing. 'Do you really mean that you left London only this morning? Why, you must have been five hours in a railway carriage and two in a post-chaise, not to talk of the walk afterwards. You ought to take more care of yourself, Captain Broughton!'
He would have been angry with her,--for he did not like to be quizzed,--had she not put her hand on his arm as she spoke, and the softness of her touch had redeemed the offence of her words.
'All that have I done,' said he, 'that I may hear one word from you.'
'That any word of mine should have such potency! But, let us walk on, or my father will take us for some of the standing stones of the moor. How have you found your aunt? If you only knew the cares that have sat on her dear shoulders for the last week past, in order that your high mightyness might have a sufficiency to eat and drink in these desolate half-starved regions.'
'She might have saved herself such anxiety. No one can care less for such things than I do.'
'And yet I think I have heard you boast of the cook of your club.' And then again there was silence for a minute or two.
'Patty,' said he, stopping again in the path; 'answer my question. I have a right to demand an answer. Do you love me?'
'And what if I do? What if I have been so silly as to allow your perfections to be too many for my weak heart? What then, Captain Broughton?'
'It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.'
'Perhaps not, indeed,' she said. It seemed as though she were resolved not to yield an inch in her own humour. And then again they walked on.
'Patty,' he said once more, 'I shall get an answer from you tonight,--this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall return tomorrow, and never revisit this spot again.'
'Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?'
'Very well,' he said; 'up to the end of this walk I can bear it all;--and one word spoken then will mend it all.'
During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him. She knew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly kill her to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with an ecstasy of joy. She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof of his devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover. And yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed to hear. That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb to her love for ever! That word once said, and there would be nothing for her but to spoil him with her idolatry! That word once said, and she must continue to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tired of hearing it! And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak it after that? She certainly would not speak it unless he asked her again without such threat. And so they walked on again in silence.
'Patty,' he said at last. 'By the heavens above us you shall answer me. Do you love me?'
She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face. She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands on his shoulders, she answered him. 'I do, I do, I do,' she said, 'with all my heart; with all my heart--with all my heart and strength.' And then her head fell upon his breast.
Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the warmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl whom he now held within his arms. She had said it now; the words had been spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and over again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true--true as her soul. And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage gate. He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of his day's journey. But he stopped her at every turn that he might press her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no more gibes now on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on his coming and going. With downright honesty she told him everything: how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion; how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old friend had told her that he was coming.
'And yet,' said he, 'you were not glad to see me!'
'Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt. But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledge that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seen you till tomorrow.' But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this caress gave the lie to her last words.
'No, do not come in tonight,' she said, when she reached the little wicket that led up the parsonage. 'Indeed you shall not. I could not behave myself properly if you did.'
'But I don't want you to behave properly.'
'Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper tonight.'
'Surely I may shake hands with your father.'
'Not tonight--not till--. John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tell him at once.'
'Certainly,' said he.
'And then you shall see him tomorrow. Let me see--at what hour shall I bid you come?'
'To breakfast.'
'No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey and the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.'
'I hate cold pie.'
'What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after breakfast. Come down--come down at two, or three; and then I will go back with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her tomorrow.' And so at last the matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.
When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon lore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till they should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and Poulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that Patience Woolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good.
'Papa,' she said, when Gribbles' long-drawn last word had been spoken at the door. 'Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would say if I were to leave you?'
'Yes, surely,' he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.
'I am going to leave you now,' she said. 'Dear, dearest father, how am I to go from you?'
'Going to leave me,' said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and thinking of nothing else.
Now there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old lady there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme pastures. But though owner in fee of all those wild acres and of the cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around him, either in manners or education. He had his merits, however; for he was honest, well to do in the world, and modest withal. How strong love had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come another love--or an ambition which might have grown to love. The young man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger. If there could be any hope for him, he would present himself as a suitor--on trial. He did not owe a shilling in the world, and had money by him--saved. He wouldn't ask the parson for a shilling of fortune. Such had been the tenor of his message, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully. 'He does not mean it,' Patience had said with her stern voice. 'Indeed he does, my dear. You may be sure he is in earnest,' Miss Le Smyrger had replied; 'and there is not an honester man in these parts.'
'Tell him,' said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of her friend's last speech, 'that it cannot be,--make him understand, you know--and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.' The matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the young farmer still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted a mistress. But all this came back upon the parson's mind when his daughter told him that she was about to leave him.
'Yes, dearest,' she said; and as she spoke, she now knelt at his knees. 'I have been asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.'
'Well, my love, if you will be happy--'
'I hope I shall; I think I shall. But you, papa?'
'You will not be far from us.'
'Oh, yes; in London.'
'In London.'
'Captain Broughton lives in London generally.'
'And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?'
'Yes, papa--who else? Is he not good? Will you not love him? Oh, papa, do not say that I am wrong to love him?'
He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had not thought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great man shall have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embraced her, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy, and would be happy in her happiness. 'My own Patty,' he said, 'I have ever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.' And then the evening wore away into the night, with many tears but still with much happiness.
Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Colne, made up his mind that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next morning. He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if possible, by himself. He had taken a step in life, the most important that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or no he had taken it with wisdom.
'Have you seen her?' said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he came into the drawing-room.
'Miss Woolsworthy you mean,' said he. 'Yes, I've seen her. As I found her out I took a long walk and happened to meet her. Do you know, aunt, I think I'll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have been on the move ever since.'
Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, so she handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room.
But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor when he did so was he able to sleep at once. Had this step that he had taken been a wise one? He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowed things to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men. He had formed views for himself, and had a theory of life. Money for money's sake he had declared to himself to be bad. Money, as a concomitant to things which were in themselves good, he had declared to himself to be good also. That concomitant in this affair of his marriage, he had now missed. Well; he had made up his mind to that, and would put up with the loss. He had means of living of his own, though means not so extensive as might have been desirable. That it would be well for him to become a married man, looking merely to that state of life as opposed to his present state, he had fully resolved. On that point, therefore, there was nothing to repent. That Patty Woolsworthy was good, affectionate, clever, and beautiful, he was sufficiently satisfied. It would be odd indeed if he were not so satisfied now, seeing that for the last four months he had declared to himself daily that she was so with many inward asseverations. And yet though he repeated now again that he was satisfied, I do not think that he was so fully satisfied of it as he had been throughout the whole of those four months. It is sad to say so, but I fear--I fear that such was the case. When you have your plaything how much of the anticipated pleasure vanishes, especially if it have been won easily!
He had told none of his family what were his intentions in this second visit to Devonshire, and now he had to bethink himself whether they would be satisfied. What would his sister say, she who had married the Honourable Augustus Gumbleton, gold-stick-in-waiting to Her Majesty's Privy Council? Would she receive Patience with open arms, and make much of her about London? And then how far would London suit Patience, or would Patience suit London? There would be much for him to do in teaching her, and it would be well for him to set about the lesson without loss of time. So far he got that night, but when the morning came he went a step further, and began mentally to criticize her manner to himself. It had been very sweet, that warm, that full, that ready declaration of love. Yes; it had been very sweet; but--but--; when, after her little jokes, she did confess her love, had she not been a little too free for feminine excellence? A man likes to be told that he is loved, but he hardly wishes that the girl he is to marry should fling herself at his head!
Ah me! yes; it was thus he argued to himself as on that morning he went through the arrangements of his toilet. 'Then he was a brute,' you say, my pretty reader. I have never said that he was not a brute. But this I remark, that many such brutes are to be met with in the beaten paths of the world's high highway. When Patience Woolsworthy had answered him coldly, bidding him go back to London and think over his love; while it seemed from her manner that at any rate as yet she did not care for him; while he was absent from her, and, therefore, longing for her, the possession of her charms, her talent, and bright honesty of purpose had seemed to him a thing most desirable. Now they were his own. They had, in fact, been his own from the first. The heart of this country-bred girl had fallen at the first word from his mouth. Had she not so confessed to him? She was very nice,--very nice indeed. He loved her dearly. But had he not sold himself too cheaply?
I by no means say that he was not a brute. But whether brute or no he was an honest man, and had no remotest dream, either then, on that morning, or during the following days on which such thoughts pressed more thickly on his mind--of breaking away from his pledged word. At breakfast on that morning he told all to Miss Le Smyrger, and that lady, with warm and gracious intentions, confided to him her purpose regarding her property. 'I have always regarded Patience as my heir,' she said, 'and shall do so still.'
'Oh, indeed,' said Captain Broughton.
'But it is a great, great pleasure to me to think that she will give back the little property to my sister's child. You will have your mother's, and thus it will all come together again.'
'Ah!' said Captain Broughton. He had his own ideas about property, and did not, even under existing circumstances, like to hear that his aunt considered herself at liberty to leave the acres away to one who was by blood quite a stranger to the family.
'Does Patience know of this?' he asked.
'Not a word,' said Miss Le Smyrger. And then nothing more was said upon the subject.
On that afternoon he went down and received the parson's benediction and congratulations with a good grace. Patience said very little on the occasion, and indeed was absent during the greater part of the interview. The two lovers then walked up to Oxney Colne, and there were more benedictions and more congratulations. 'All went merry as a marriage bell', at any rate as far as Patience was concerned. Not a word had yet fallen from that dear mouth, not a look had yet come over that handsome face, which tended in any way to mar her bliss. Her first day of acknowledged love was a day altogether happy, and when she prayed for him as she knelt beside her bed there was no feeling in her mind that any fear need disturb her joy.
I will pass over the next three or four days very quickly, merely saying that Patience did not find them so pleasant as that first day after her engagement. There was something in her lover's manner--something which at first she could not define--which by degrees seemed to grate against her feelings. He was sufficiently affectionate, that being a matter on which she did not require much demonstration; but joined to his affection there seemed to be--; she hardly liked to suggest to herself a harsh word, but could it be possible that he was beginning to think that she was not good enough for him? And then she asked herself the question--was she good enough for him? If there were doubt about that, the match should be broken off, though she tore her own heart out in the struggle. The truth, however, was this,--that he had begun that teaching which he had already found to be so necessary. Now, had any one essayed to teach Patience German or mathematics, with that young lady's free consent, I believe that she would have been found a meek scholar. But it was not probable that she would be meek when she found a self-appointed tutor teaching her manners and conduct without her consent.
So matters went on for four or five days, and on the evening of the fifth day, Captain Broughton and his aunt drank tea at the parsonage. Nothing very especial occurred; but as the parson and Miss Le Smyrger insisted on playing backgammon with devoted perseverance during the whole evening, Broughton had a good opportunity of saying a word or two about those changes in his lady-love which a life in London would require--and some word he said also--some single slight word, as to the higher station in life to which he would exalt his bride. Patience bore it--for her father and Miss Le Smyrger were in the room--she bore it well, speaking no syllable of anger, and enduring, for the moment, the implied scorn of the old parsonage. Then the evening broke up, and Captain Broughton walked back to Oxney Colne with his aunt. 'Patty,' her father said to her before they went to bed, 'he seems to me to be a most excellent young man.' 'Dear papa,' she answered, kissing him. 'And terribly deep in love,' said Mr. Woolsworthy. 'Oh, I don't know about that,' she answered, as she left him with her sweetest smile. But though she could thus smile at her father's joke, she had already made up her mind that there was still something to be learned as to her promised husband before she could place herself altogether in his hands. She would ask him whether he thought himself liable to injury from this proposed marriage; and though he should deny any such thought, she would know from the manner of his denial what his true feelings were.
And he, too, on that night, during his silent walk with Miss Le Smyrger, had entertained some similar thoughts. 'I fear she is obstinate', he had said to himself, and then he had half accused her of being sullen also. 'If that be her temper, what a life of misery I have before me!'
'Have you fixed a day yet?' his aunt asked him as they came near to her house.
'No, not yet; I don't know whether it will suit me to fix it before I leave.'
'Why, it was but the other day you were in such a hurry.'
'Ah--yes-I have thought more about it since then.'
'I should have imagined that this would depend on what Patty thinks,' said Miss Le Smyrger, standing up for the privileges of her sex. 'It is presumed that the gentleman is always ready as soon as the lady will consent.'
'Yes, in ordinary cases it is so; but when a girl is taken out of her own sphere--'
'Her own sphere! Let me caution you, Master John, not to talk to Patty about her own sphere.'
'Aunt Penelope, as Patience is to be my wife and not yours, I must claim permission to speak to her on such subjects as may seem suitable to me.' And then they parted--not in the best humour with each other.
On the following day Captain Broughton and Miss Woolsworthy did not meet till the evening. She had said, before those few ill-omened words had passed her lover's lips, that she would probably be at Miss Le Smyrger's house on the following morning. Those ill-omened words did pass her lover's lips, and then she remained at home. This did not come from sullenness, nor even from anger, but from a conviction that it would be well that she should think much before she met him again. Nor was he anxious to hurry a meeting. His thought--his base thought--was this; that she would be sure to come up to the Colne after him; but she did not come, and therefore in the evening he went down to her, and asked her to walk with him.
They went away by the path that led by Helpholme, and little was said between them till they had walked some mile together. Patience, as she went along the path, remembered almost to the letter the sweet words which had greeted her ears as she came down that way with him on the night of his arrival; but he remembered nothing of that sweetness then. Had he not made an ass of himself during these last six months? That was the thought which very much had possession of his mind.
'Patience,' he said at last, having hitherto spoken only an indifferent word now and again since they had left the parsonage, 'Patience, I hope you realize the importance of the step which you and I are about to take?'
'Of course I do,' she answered: 'what an odd question that is for you to ask!'
'Because,' said he, 'sometimes I almost doubt it. It seems to me as though you thought you could remove yourself from here to your new home with no more trouble than when you go from home up to the Colne.'
'Is that meant for a reproach, John?'
'No, not for a reproach, but for advice. Certainly not for a reproach.'
'I am glad of that.'
'But I should wish to make you think how great is the leap in the world which you are about to take.' Then again they walked on for many steps before she answered him.
'Tell me, then, John,' she said, when she had sufficiently considered what words she would speak;--and as she spoke a dark bright colour suffused her face, and her eyes flashed almost with anger. 'What leap do you mean? Do you mean a leap upwards?'
'Well, yes; I hope it will be so.'
'In one sense, certainly, it would be a leap upwards. To be the wife of the man I loved; to have the privilege of holding his happiness in my hand; to know that I was his own--the companion whom he had chosen out of all the world--that would, indeed, be a leap upward; a leap almost to heaven, if all that were so. But if you mean upwards in any other sense--'
'I was thinking of the social scale.'
'Then, Captain Broughton, your thoughts were doing me dishonour.'
'Doing you dishonour!'
'Yes, doing me dishonour. That your father is, in the world's esteem, a greater man than mine is doubtless true enough. That you, as a man, are richer than I am as a woman is doubtless also true. But you dishonour me, and yourself also, if these things can weigh with you now.'
'Patience,--I think you can hardly know what words you are saying to me.'
'Pardon me, but I think I do. Nothing that you can give me--no gifts of that description--can weigh aught against that which I am giving you. If you had all the wealth and rank of the greatest lord in the land, it would count as nothing in such a scale. If--as I have not doubted--if in return for my heart you have given me yours, then--then--then, you have paid me fully. But when gifts such as those are going, nothing else can count even as a make-weight.'
'I do not quite understand you,' he answered, after a pause. 'I fear you are a little high-flown.' And then, while the evening was still early, they walked back to the parsonage almost without another word.
Captain Broughton at this time had only one more full day to remain at Oxney Colne. On the afternoon following that he was to go as far as Exeter, and thence return to London. Of course it was to be expected, that the wedding day would be fixed before he went, and much had been said about it during the first day or two of his engagement. Then he had pressed for an early time, and Patience, with a girl's usual diffidence, had asked for some little delay. But now nothing was said on the subject; and how was it probable that such a matter could be settled after such a conversation as that which I have related? That evening, Miss Le Smyrger asked whether the day had been fixed. 'No,' said Captain Broughton harshly; 'nothing has been fixed.' 'But it will be arranged before you go.' 'Probably not,' he said; and then the subject was dropped for the time.
'John,' she said, just before she went to bed, 'if there be anything wrong between you and Patience, I conjure you to tell me.'
'You had better ask her,' he replied. 'I can tell you nothing.'
On the following morning he was much surprised by seeing Patience on the gravel path before Miss Le Smyrger's gate immediately after breakfast. He went to the door to open it for her, and she, as she gave him her hand, told him that she came up to speak to him. There was no hesitation in her manner, nor any look of anger in her face. But there was in her gait and form, in her voice and countenance, a fixedness of purpose which he had never seen before, or at any rate had never acknowledged.
'Certainly,' said he. 'Shall I come out with you, or will you come upstairs?'
'We can sit down in the summer-house,' she said; and thither they both went.
'Captain Broughton,' she said--and she began her task the moment that they were both seated--'You and I have engaged ourselves as man and wife, but perhaps we have been over rash.'
'How so?' said he.
'It may be--and indeed I will say more--it is the case that we have made this engagement without knowing enough of each other's character.'
'I have not thought so.'
'The time will perhaps come when you will so think, but for the sake of all that we most value, let it come before it is too late. What would be our fate--how terrible would be our misery, if such a thought should come to either of us after we have linked our lots together.'
There was a solemnity about her as she thus spoke which almost repressed him,--which for a time did prevent him from taking that tone of authority which on such a subject he would choose to adopt. But he recovered himself. 'I hardly think that this comes well from you,' he said.
'From whom else should it come? Who else can fight my battle for me; and, John, who else can fight that same battle on your behalf? I tell you this, that with your mind standing towards me as it does stand at present you could not give me your hand at the altar with true words and a happy conscience. Is it not true? You have half repented of your bargain already. Is it not so?'
He did not answer her; but getting up from his seat walked to the front of the summer-house, and stood there with his back turned upon her. It was not that he meant to be ungracious, but in truth he did not know how to answer her. He had half repented of his bargain.
'John,' she said, getting up and following him so that she could put her hand upon his arm, 'I have been very angry with you.'
'Angry with me!' he said, turning sharp upon her.
'Yes, angry with you. You would have treated me like a child. But that feeling has gone now. I am not angry now. There is my hand;--the hand of a friend. Let the words that have been spoken between us be as though they had not been spoken. Let us both be free.'
'Do you mean it?' he asked.
'Certainly I mean it.' As she spoke these words her eyes were filled with tears in spite of all the efforts she could make to restrain them; but he was not looking at her, and her efforts had sufficed to prevent any sob from being audible.
'With all my heart,' he said; and it was manifest from his tone that he had no thought of her happiness as he spoke. It was true that she had been angry with him--angry, as she had herself declared; but nevertheless, in what she had said and what she had done, she had thought more of his happiness than of her own. Now she was angry once again.
'With all your heart, Captain Broughton! Well, so be it. If with all your heart, then is the necessity so much the greater. You go tomorrow. Shall we say farewell now?'
'Patience, I am not going to be lectured.'
'Certainly not by me. Shall we say farewell now?'
'Yes, if you are determined.'
'I am determined. Farewell, Captain Broughton. You have all my wishes for your happiness.' And she held out her hand to him.
'Patience!' he said. And he looked at her with a dark frown, as though he would strive to frighten her into submission. If so, he might have saved himself any such attempt.
'Farewell, Captain Broughton. Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.' He gave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so. She lifted it to her lips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer-house down through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage.
During the whole of that day she said no word to anyone of what had occurred. When she was once more at home she went about her household affairs as she had done on that day of his arrival. When she sat down to dinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that she was unhappy, nor during the evening was there any expression in her face, or any tone in her voice, which excited his attention. On the following morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and the servant-girl brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour. But she would not see him. 'Laws miss, you ain't a quarrelled with your beau?' the poor girl said. 'No, not quarrelled,' she said; 'but give him that.' It was a scrap of paper containing a word or two in pencil. 'It is better that we should not meet again. God bless you.' And from that day to this, now more than ten years, they have never met.
'Papa,' she said to her father that afternoon, 'dear papa, do not be angry with me. It is all over between me and John Broughton. Dearest, you and I will not be separated.'
It would be useless here to tell how great was the old man's surprise and how true his sorrow. As the tale was told to him no cause was given for anger with anyone. Not a word was spoken against the suitor who had on that day returned to London with a full conviction that now at least he was relieved from his engagement. 'Patty, my darling child,' he said, 'may God grant that it be for the best!'
'It is for the best,' she answered stoutly. 'For this place I am fit; and I much doubt whether I am fit for any other.'
On that day she did not see Miss Le Smyrger, but on the following morning, knowing that Captain Broughton had gone off,--having heard the wheels of the carriage as they passed by the parsonage gate on his way to the station,--she walked up to the Colne.
'He has told you, I suppose?' said she.
'Yes,' said Miss Le Smyrger. 'And I will never see him again unless he asks your pardon on his knees. I have told him so. I would not even give him my hand as he went.'
'But why so, thou kindest one? The fault was mine more than his.'
'I understand. I have eyes in my head,' said the old maid. 'I have watched him for the last four or five days. If you could have kept the truth to yourself and bade him keep off from you, he would have been at your feet now, licking the dust from your shoes.'
'But, dear friend, I do not want a man to lick dust from my shoes.'
'Ah, you are a fool. You do not know the value of your own wealth.'
'True; I have been a fool. I was a fool to think that one coming from such a life as he has led could be happy with such as I am. I know the truth now. I have bought the lesson dearly--but perhaps not too dearly, seeing that it will never be forgotten.'
There was but little more said about the matter between our three friends at Oxney Colne. What, indeed, could be said? Miss Le Smyrger for a year or two still expected that her nephew would return and claim his bride; but he has never done so, nor has there been any correspondence between them. Patience Woolsworthy had learned her lesson dearly. She had given her whole heart to the man; and, though she so bore herself that no one was aware of the violence of the struggle, nevertheless the struggle within her bosom was very violent. She never told herself that she had done wrong; she never regretted her loss; but yet--yet!--the loss was very hard to bear. He also had loved her, but he was not capable of a love which could much injure his daily peace. Her daily peace was gone for many a day to come.
Her father is still living; but there is a curate now in the parish. In conjunction with him and with Miss Le Smyrger she spends her time in the concerns of the parish. In her own eyes she is a confirmed old maid; and such is my opinion also. The romance of her life was played out in that summer. She never sits now lonely on the hillside thinking how much she might do for one whom she really loved. But with a large heart she loves many, and, with no romance, she works hard to lighten the burdens of those she loves.
As for Captain Broughton, all the world knows that he did marry that great heiress with whom his name was once before connected, and that he is now a useful member of Parliament, working on committees three or four days a week with zeal that is indefatigable. Sometimes, not often, as he thinks of Patience Woolsworthy a smile comes across his face.

A stampede of huddled sheep, wildly scampering over the slaty shingle, emerged from the leaden mist that muffled the fell-top, and a shrill shepherd's whistle broke the damp stillness of the air. And presently a man's figure appeared, following the sheep down the hillside. He halted a moment to whistle curtly to his two dogs, who, laying back their ears, chased the sheep at top speed beyond the brow; then, his hands deep in his pockets, he strode vigorously forward. A streak of white smoke from a toiling train was creeping silently across the distance: the great, grey, desolate undulations of treeless country showed no other sign of life.
The sheep hurried in single file along a tiny track worn threadbare amid the brown, lumpy grass: and, as the man came round the mountain's shoulder, a narrow valley opened out beneath him--a scanty patchwork of green fields, and, here and there, a whitewashed farm, flanked by a dark cluster of sheltering trees.
The man walked with a loose, swinging gait. His figure was spare and angular: he wore a battered, black felt hat and clumsy, iron-bound boots: his clothes were dingy from long exposure to the weather. He had close-set, insignificant eyes, much wrinkled, and stubbly eyebrows streaked with grey. His mouth was close-shaven, and drawn by his abstraction into hard and taciturn lines; beneath his chin bristled an unkempt fringe of sandy-coloured hair.
When he reached the foot of the fell, the twilight was already blurring the distance. The sheep scurried, with a noisy rustling, across a flat, swampy stretch, over-grown with rushes, while the dogs headed them towards a gap in a low, ragged wall built of loosely-heaped boulders. The man swung the gate to after them, and waited, whistling peremptorily, recalling the dogs. A moment later, the animals reappeared, cringing as they crawled through the bars of the gate. He kicked out at them contemptuously, and mounting a stone stile a few yards further up the road, dropped into a narrow lane.
Presently, as he passed a row of lighted windows, he heard a voice call to him. He stopped, and perceived a crooked, white-bearded figure, wearing clerical clothes, standing in the garden gateway.
'Good-evening, Anthony. A raw evening this.'
'Ay, Mr. Blencarn, it is a bit frittish,' he answered. 'I've jest bin gittin' a few lambs off t'fell. I hope ye're keepin' fairly, an' Miss Rosa too.' He spoke briefly, with a loud, spontaneous cordiality.
'Thank ye, Anthony, thank ye. Rosa's down at the church, playing over the hymns for tomorrow. How's Mrs. Garstin?'
'Nicely, thank ye, Mr. Blencarn. She's wonderful active, is mother.'
'Well, good night to ye, Anthony,' said the old man, clicking the gate.
'Good night, Mr. Blencarn,' he called back.
A few minutes later the twinkling lights of the village came in sight, and from within the sombre form of the square-towered church, looming by the roadside, the slow, solemn strains of the organ floated out on the evening air. Anthony lightened his tread: then paused, listening; but, presently, becoming aware that a man stood, listening also, on the bridge some few yards distant, he moved forward again. Slackening his pace, as he approached, he eyed the figure keenly; but the man paid no heed to him, remaining, with his back turned, gazing over the parapet into the dark, gurgling stream.
Anthony trudged along the empty village street, past the gleaming squares of ruddy gold, starting on either side out of the darkness. Now and then he looked furtively backwards. The straight open road lay behind him, glimmering wanly: the organ seemed to have ceased: the figure on the bridge had left the parapet, and appeared to be moving away towards the church. Anthony halted, watching it till it had disappeared into the blackness beneath the churchyard trees. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he left the road, and mounted an upland meadow towards his mother's farm.
It was a bare, oblong house. In front, a whitewashed porch, and a narrow garden-plot, enclosed by a low iron railing, were dimly discernible: behind, the steep fell-side loomed like a monstrous, mysterious curtain hung across the night. He passed round the back into the twilight of a wide yard, cobbled and partially grass-grown, vaguely flanked by the shadowy outlines of long, low farm-buildings. All was wrapped in darkness: somewhere overhead a bat fluttered, darting its puny scream.
Inside, a blazing peat-fire scattered capering shadows across the smooth, stone floor, flickered among the dim rows of hams suspended from the ceiling and on the panelled cupboards of dark, glistening oak. A servant-girl, spreading the cloth for supper, clattered her clogs in and out of the kitchen: old Mrs. Garstin was stooping before the hearth, tremulously turning some girdle-cakes that lay roasting in the embers.
At the sound of Anthony's heavy tread in the passage, she rose, glancing sharply at the clock above the chimney-piece. She was a heavy-built woman, upright, stalwart almost, despite her years. Her face was gaunt and sallow; deep wrinkles accentuated the hardness of her features. She wore a black widow's cap above her iron-grey hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a soiled, chequered apron.
'Ye're varra late, Tony,' she remarked querulously.
He unloosened his woollen neckerchief, and when he had hung it methodically with his hat behind the door, answered:
''Twas terrible thick on t' fell-top, an' them two bitches be that senseless.'
She caught his sleeve, and, through her spectacles, suspiciously scrutinized his face.
'Ye did na meet wi' Rosa Blencarn?'
'Nay, she was in church, hymn-playin', wi' Luke Stock hangin' roond door,' he retorted bitterly, rebuffing her with rough impatience.
She moved away, nodding sententiously to herself. They began supper: neither spoke: Anthony sat slowly stirring his tea, and staring moodily into the flames: the bacon on his plate lay untouched. From time to time his mother, laying down her knife and fork, looked across at him in unconcealed asperity, pursing her wide, ungainly mouth. At last, abruptly setting down her cup, she broke out:
'I wonder ye hav'na mare pride, Tony. For hoo lang are ye goin' t' continue settin' mopin' and broodin' like a seck sheep? Ye'll jest mak yesself ill, an' then I reckon what ye'll prove satisfied. Ay, but I wonder ye hav'na more pride.'
But he made no answer, remaining unmoved, as if he had not heard.
Presently, half to himself, without raising his eyes, he murmured:
'Luke be goin' South, Monday.'
'Well, ye canna tak' oop wi' his leavin's anyways. It hasna coom't that, has it? Ye doan't intend settin' all t' parish a laughin' at ye a second occasion?'
He flushed dully, and bending over his plate, mechanically began his supper.
'Wa dang it,' he broke out a minute later, 'd'ye think I heed the cacklin' o' fifty parishes? Na, not I,' and, with a short, grim laugh, he brought his fist down heavily on the oak table.
'Ye're daft, Tony,' the old woman blurted.
'Daft or na daft, I tell ye this, mother, that I be forty-six year o' age this back-end, and there be some things I will na listen to. Rosa Blencarn's bonny enough for me.'
'Ay, bonny enough--I've na patience wi' ye. Bonny enough--tricked oot in her furbelows, gallivantin' wi' every royster fra Pe'rith. Bonny enough--that be all ye think on. She's bin a proper parson's niece--the giddy, feckless creature, an she'd mak' ye a proper sort o' wife, Tony Garstin, ye great, fond booby.'
She pushed back her chair, and, hurriedly clattering the crockery, began to clear away the supper.
'T' hoose be mine, t' Lord be praised,' she continued in a loud, hard voice, 'an' as long as he spare me, Tony, I'll na see Rosa Blencarn set foot inside it.'
Anthony scowled, without replying, and drew his chair to the hearth. His mother bustled about the room behind him. After a while she asked:
'Did ye pen t' lambs in t' back field?'
'Na, they're in Hullam bottom,' he answered curtly.
The door closed behind her, and by and by he could hear her moving overhead. Meditatively blinking, he filled his pipe clumsily, and pulling a crumpled newspaper from his pocket, sat on over the smouldering fire, reading and stolidly puffing.
II
The music rolled through the dark, empty church. The last, leaden flicker of daylight glimmered in through the pointed windows, and beyond the level rows of dusky pews, tenanted only by a litter of prayer-books, two guttering candles revealed the organ pipes, and the young girl's swaying figure.
She played vigorously. Once or twice the tune stumbled, and she recovered it impatiently, bending over the key-board, showily flourishing her wrists as she touched the stops. She was bare-headed (her hat and cloak lay beside her on a stool). She had fair, fluffy hair, cut short behind her neck; large, round eyes, heightened by a fringe of dark lashes; rough, ruddy cheeks, and a rosy, full-lipped, unstable mouth. She was dressed quite simply, in a black, close-fitting bodice, a little frayed at the sleeves. Her hands and neck were coarsely fashioned: her comeliness was brawny, literal, unfinished, as it were.
When at last the ponderous chords of the Amen faded slowly into the twilight, flushed, breathing a little quickly, she paused, listening to the stillness of the church. Presently a small boy emerged from behind the organ.
'Good evenin', Miss Rosa', he called, trotting briskly away down the aisle.
'Good night, Robert', she answered, absently.
After a while, with an impatient gesture, as if to shake some importunate thought from her mind, she rose abruptly, pinned on her hat, threw her cloak round her shoulders, blew out the candles, and groped her way through the church, towards the half-open door. As she hurried along the narrow pathway that led across the churchyard, of a sudden, a figure started out of the blackness.
'Who's that?' she cried, in a loud, frightened voice.
A man's uneasy laugh answered her.
'It's only me, Rosa. I didna' think t' scare ye. I've bin waitin' for ye, this hoor past.'
She made no reply, but quickened her pace. He strode on beside her.
'I'm off, Monday, ye know,' he continued. And, as she said nothing, 'Will ye na stop jest a minnit? I'd like t' speak a few words wi' ye before I go, an tomorrow I hev t' git over t' Scarsdale betimes,' he persisted.
'I don't want t' speak wi' ye: I don't want ever to see ye agin. I jest hate the sight o' ye.' She spoke with a vehement, concentrated hoarseness.
'Nay, but ye must listen to me. I will na be put off wi' fratchin speeches.'
And gripping her arm, he forced her to stop.
'Loose me, ye great beast,' she broke out.
'I'll na hould ye, if ye'll jest stand quiet-like. I meant t' speak fair t' ye, Rosa.'
They stood at a bend in the road, face to face quite close together. Behind his burly form stretched the dimness of a grey, ghostly field.
'What is't ye hev to say to me? Hev done wi' it quick,' she said sullenly.
'It be jest this, Rosa,' he began with dogged gravity. 'I want t' tell ye that ef any trouble comes t'ye after I'm gone--ye know t' what I refer--I want t' tell ye that I'm prepared t' act square by ye. I've written out on an envelope my address in London. Luke Stock, care o' Purcell and Co., Smithfield Market, London.'
'Ye're a bad, sinful man. I jest hate t' sight o' ye. I wish ye were dead.'
'Ay, but I reckon what ye'd ha best thought o' that before. Ye've changed yer whistle considerably since Tuesday. Nay, hould on,' he added, as she struggled to push past him. 'Here's t' envelope.'
She snatched the paper, and tore it passionately, scattering the fragments on to the road. When she had finished, he burst out angrily:
'Ye cussed, unreasonable fool.'
'Let me pass, ef ye've nought mare t'say,' she cried.
'Nay, I'll na part wi' ye this fashion. Ye can speak soft enough when ye choose.' And seizing her shoulders, he forced her backwards against the wall.
'Ye do look fine, an' na mistake, when ye're jest ablaze wi' ragin',' he laughed bluntly, lowering his face to hers.
'Loose me, loose me, ye great coward,' she gasped, striving to free her arms.
Holding her fast, he expostulated:
'Coom, Rosa, can we na part friends?'
'Part friends, indeed,' she retorted bitterly. 'Friends wi' the likes o' you. What d'ye tak me for? Let me git home, I tell ye. An' please God I'll never set eyes on ye again. I hate t' sight o' ye.'
'Be off wi' ye, then,' he answered, pushing her roughly back into the road. 'Be off wi' ye, ye silly. Ye canna say I hav na spak fair t' ye, an', by goom, ye'll na see me shally-wallyin this fashion agin. Be off wi' ye: ye can jest shift for yerself, since ye canna keep a civil tongue in yer head.'
The girl, catching at her breath, stood as if dazed, watching his retreating figure; then starting forward at a run, disappeared up the hill, into the darkness.
III
Old Mr. Blencarn concluded his husky sermon. The scanty congregation, who had been sitting, stolidly immobile in their stiff, Sunday clothes, shuffled to their feet, and the pewful of school children, in clamorous chorus, intoned the final hymn. Anthony stood near the organ, absently contemplating, while the rude melody resounded through the church, Rosa's deft manipulation of the key-board. The rugged lines of his face were relaxed to a vacant, thoughtful limpness, that aged his expression not a little: now and then, as if for reference, he glanced questioningly at the girl's profile.
A few minutes later the service was over, and the congregation sauntered out down the aisle. A gawky group of men remained loitering by the church door: one of them called to Anthony; but, nodding curtly, he passed on, and strode away down the road, across the grey upland meadows, towards home. As soon as he had breasted the hill, however, and was no longer visible from below, he turned abruptly to the left, along a small, swampy hollow, till he had reached the lane that led down from the fell-side.
He clambered over a rugged, moss-grown wall, and stood, gazing expectantly down the dark, disused roadway; then, after a moment's hesitation, perceiving nobody, seated himself beneath the wall, on a projecting slab of stone.
Overhead hung a sombre, drifting sky. A gusty wind rollicked down from the fell--huge masses of chilly grey, stripped of the last night's mist. A few dead leaves fluttered over the stones, and from off the fell-side there floated the plaintive, quavering rumour of many bleating sheep.
Before long, he caught sight of two figures coming towards him, slowly climbing the hill. He sat awaiting their approach, fidgeting with his sandy beard, and abstractedly grinding the ground beneath his heel. At the brow they halted: plunging his hands deep into his pockets, he strolled sheepishly towards them.
'Ah! good day t' ye, Anthony,' called the old man, in a shrill, breathless voice. ''Tis a long hill, an' my legs are not what they were. Time was when I'd think nought o' a whole day's tramp on t' fells. Ay, I'm gittin' feeble, Anthony, that's what 'tis. And if Rosa here wasn't the great, strong lass she is, I don't know how her old uncle'd manage;' and he turned to the girl with a proud, tremulous smile.
'Will ye tak my arm a bit, Mr. Blencarn? Miss Rosa'll be tired, likely,' Anthony asked.
'Nay, Mr. Garstin, but I can manage nicely,' the girl interrupted sharply.
Anthony looked up at her as she spoke. She wore a straw hat, trimmed with crimson velvet, and a black, fur-edged cape, that seemed to set off mightily the fine whiteness of her neck. Her large, dark eyes were fixed upon him. He shifted his feet uneasily, and dropped his glance.
She linked her uncle's arm in hers, and the three moved slowly forward. Old Mr. Blencarn walked with difficulty, pausing at intervals for breath. Anthony, his eyes bent on the ground, sauntered beside him, clumsily kicking at the cobbles that lay in his path.
When they reached the vicarage gate, the old man asked him to come inside.
'Not jest now, thank ye, Mr. Blencarn. I've that lot o' lambs t' see to before dinner. It's a grand marnin', this,' he added, inconsequently.
'Uncle's bought a nice lot o' Leghorns, Tuesday,' Rosa remarked. Anthony met her gaze; there was a grave, subdued expression on her face this morning, that made her look more of a woman, less of a girl.
'Ay, do ye show him the birds, Rosa. I'd be glad to have his opinion on 'em.'
The old man turned to hobble into the house, and Rosa, as she supported his arm, called back over her shoulder:
'I'll not be a minute, Mr. Garstin.'
Anthony strolled round to the yard behind the house, and waited, watching a flock of glossy-white poultry that strutted, perkily pecking, over the grass-grown cobbles.
'Ay, Miss Rosa, they're a bonny lot,' he remarked, as the girl joined him.
'Are they not?' she rejoined, scattering a handful of corn before her.
The birds scuttled across the yard with greedy, outstretched necks. The two stood, side by side, gazing at them.
'What did he give for 'em?' Anthony asked.
'Fifty-five shillings.'
'Ay,' he assented, nodding absently.
'Was Dr. Sanderson na seein' o' yer father yesterday?' he asked, after a moment.
'He came in t' forenoon. He said he was jest na worse.'
'Ye knaw, Miss Rosa, as I'm still thinkin' on ye,' he began abruptly, without looking up.
'I reckon it ain't much use,' she answered shortly, scattering another handful of corn towards the birds. 'I reckon I'll never marry. I'm jest weary o' bein' courted--'
'I would na weary ye wi' courtin',' he interrupted.
She laughed noisily.
'Ye are a queer customer, an' na mistake.'
'I'm a match for Luke Stock anyway,' he continued fiercely. 'Ye think nought o' taking oop wi' him--about as ranty, wild a young feller as ever stepped.'
The girl reddened, and bit her lip.
'I don't know what you mean, Mr. Garstin. It seems to me ye're might hasty in jumpin' t' conclusions.'
'Mabbe I kin see a thing or two,' he retorted doggedly.
'Luke Stock's gone to London, anyway.'
'Ay, an' a powerful good job too, in t' opinion o' some folks.'
'Ye're jest jealous,' she exclaimed, with a forced titter. 'Ye're jest jealous o' Luke Stock.'
'Nay, but ye need na fill yer head wi' that nonsense. I'm too deep set on ye t' feel jealousy,' he answered, gravely.
The smile faded from her face, as she murmured:
'I canna mak ye out, Mr. Garstin.'
'Nay, that ye canna. An' I suppose it's natural, considerin' ye're little more than a child, an' I'm a'most old enough to be yer father,' he retorted, with blunt bitterness.
'But ye know yer mother's took that dislike t' me. She'd never abide the sight o' me at Hootsey.'
He remained silent a moment, moodily reflecting.
'She'd jest ha't' git ower it. I see nought in that objection,' he declared.
'Nay, Mr. Garstin, it canna be. Indeed it canna be at all. Ye'd best jest put it right from yer mind, once and for all.'
'I'd jest best put it off my mind, had I? Ye talk like a child!' he burst out scornfully. 'I intend ye t' coom t' love me, an' I will na tak ye till ye do. I'll jest go on waitin' for ye, an', mark my words, my day 'ull coom at last.'
He spoke loudly, in a slow, stubborn voice, and stepped suddenly towards her. With a faint, frightened cry she shrank back into the doorway of the hen-house.
'Ye talk like a prophet. Ye sort o' skeer me.'
He laughed grimly, and paused, reflectively scanning her face. He seemed about to continue in the same strain; but, instead, turned abruptly on his heel, and strode away through the garden gate.
IV
For three hundred years there had been a Garstin at Hootsey: generation after generation had tramped the grey stretch of upland, in the spring-time scattering their flocks over the fell-sides, and, at the 'back-end', on dark, winter afternoons, driving them home again, down the broad bridle-path that led over the 'raise'. They had been a race of few words, 'keeping themselves to themselves', as the phrase goes; beholden to no man, filled with a dogged, churlish pride--an upright, old-fashioned race, stubborn, long-lived, rude in speech, slow of resolve.
Anthony had never seen his father, who had died one night, upon the fell-top, he and his shepherd, engulfed in the great snowstorm of 1849. Folks had said that he was the only Garstin who had failed to make old man's bones.
After his death, Jake Atkinson, from Ribblehead in Yorkshire, had come to live at Hootsey. Jake was a fine farmer, a canny bargainer, and very handy among the sheep, till he took to drink, and roystering every week with the town wenches up at Carlisle. He was a corpulent, deep-voiced, free-handed fellow: when his time came, though he died very hardly, he remained festive and convivial to the last. And for years afterwards, in the valley, his memory lingered: men spoke of him regretfully, recalling his quips, his feats of strength, and his choice breed of Herdwicke rams. But he left behind him a host of debts up at Carlisle, in Penrith, and in almost every market town--debts that he had long ago pretended to have paid with money that belonged to his sister. The widow Garstin sold the twelve Herdwicke rams, and nine acres of land: within six weeks she had cleared off every penny, and for thirteen months, on Sundays, wore her mourning with a mute, forbidding grimness: the bitter thought that, unbeknown to her, Jake had acted dishonestly in money matters, and that he had ended his days in riotous sin, soured her pride, imbued her with a rancorous hostility against all the world. For she was a very proud woman, independent, holding her head high, so folks said, like a Garstin bred and born; and Anthony, although some reckoned him quiet and of little account, came to take after her as he grew into manhood.
She took into her own hands the management of the Hootsey farm, and set the boy to work for her along with the two farm servants. It was twenty-five years now since his uncle Jake's death: there were grey hairs in his sandy beard; but he still worked for his mother, as he had done when a growing lad.
And now that times were grown to be bad (of late years the price of stock had been steadily falling; and the hay harvests had drifted from bad to worse) the widow Garstin no longer kept any labouring men; but lived, she and her son, year in and year out, in a close parsimonious way.
That had been Anthony Garstin's life--a dull, eventless sort of business, the sluggish incrustation of monotonous years. And until Rosa Blencarn had come to keep house for her uncle, he had never thought twice on a woman's face.
The Garstins had always been good church-goers, and Anthony, for years, had acted as churchwarden. It was one summer evening, up at the vicarage, whilst he was checking the offertory account, that he first set eyes upon her. She was fresh back from school at Leeds: she was dressed in a white dress: she looked, he thought, like a London lady.
She stood by the window, tall and straight and queenly, dreamily gazing out into the summer twilight, whilst he and her uncle sat over their business. When he rose to go, she glanced at him with quick curiosity; he hurried away, muttering a sheepish good night.
The next time that he saw her was in church on Sunday. He watched her shyly, with a hesitating, reverential discretion: her beauty seemed to him wonderful, distant, enigmatic. In the afternoon, young Mrs. Forsyth, from Longscale, dropped in for a cup of tea with his mother, and the two set off gossiping of Rosa Blencarn, speaking of her freely, in tones of acrimonious contempt. For a long while he sat silent, puffing at his pipe; but at last, when his mother concluded with, 'She looks t' me fair stuck-oop, full o' toonish airs an' graces,' despite himself, he burst out: 'Ye're jest wastin' yer breath wi' that cackle. I reckon Miss Blencarn's o' a different clay to us folks.' Young Mrs. Forsyth tittered immoderately, and the next week it was rumoured about the valley that 'Tony Garstin was gone luny over t' parson's niece.'
But of all this he knew nothing--keeping to himself, as was his wont, and being, besides, very busy with the hay harvest--until one day, at dinner-time, Henry Sisson asked if he'd started his courting; Jacob Sowerby cried that Tony'd been too slow in getting to work, for that the girl had been seen spooning in Crosby Shaws with Curbison the auctioneer, and the others (there were half-a-dozen of them lounging round the hay-waggon) burst into a boisterous guffaw. Anthony flushed dully, looking hesitatingly from the one to the other; then slowly put down his beer-can, and of a sudden, seizing Jacob by the neck, swung him heavily on the grass. He fell against the waggon-wheel, and when he rose the blood was streaming from an ugly cut in his forehead. And henceforward Tony Garstin's courtship was the common jest of all the parish.
As yet, however, he had scarcely spoken to her, though twice he had passed her in the lane that led up to the vicarage. She had given him a frank, friendly smile; but he had not found the resolution to do more than lift his hat. He and Henry Sisson stacked the hay in the yard behind the house; there was no further mention made of Rosa Blencarn; but all day long Anthony, as he knelt thatching the rick, brooded over the strange sweetness of her face, and on the fell-top, while he tramped after the ewes over the dry, crackling heather, and as he jogged along the narrow, rickety road, driving his cartload of lambs into the auction mart.
Thus, as the weeks slipped by, he was content with blunt, wistful ruminations upon her indistinct image. Jacob Sowerby's accusation, and several kindred innuendoes let fall by his mother, left him coolly incredulous; the girl still seemed to him altogether distant; but from the first sight of her face he had evolved a stolid, unfaltering conception of her difference from the ruck of her sex.
But one evening, as he passed the vicarage on his way down from the fells, she called to him, and with a childish, confiding familiarity asked for advice concerning the feeding of the poultry. In his eagerness to answer her as best he could, he forgot his customary embarrassment, and grew, for the moment, almost voluble, and quite at his ease in her presence. Directly her flow of questions ceased, however, the returning perception of her rosy, hesitating smile, and of her large, deep eyes looking straight into his face, perturbed him strangely, and, reddening, he remembered the quarrel in the hay-field and the tale of Crosby Shaws.
After this, the poultry became a link between them--a link which he regarded in all seriousness, blindly unconscious that there was aught else to bring them together, only feeling himself in awe of her, because of her schooling, her townish manners, her ladylike mode of dress. And soon, he came to take a sturdy, secret pride in her friendly familiarity towards him. Several times a week he would meet her in the lane, and they would loiter a moment together; she would admire his dogs, though he assured her earnestly that they were but sorry curs; and once, laughing at his staidness, she nick-named him 'Mr. Churchwarden'.
That the girl was not liked in the valley he suspected, curtly attributing her unpopularity to the women's senseless jealousy. Of gossip concerning her he heard no further hint; but instinctively, and partly from that rugged, natural reserve of his, shrank from mentioning her name, even incidentally, to his mother.
Now, on Sunday evenings, he often strolled up to the vicarage, each time quitting his mother with the same awkward affectation of casualness; and, on his return, becoming vaguely conscious of how she refrained from any comment on his absence, and appeared oddly oblivious of the existence of parson Blencarn's niece.
She had always been a sour-tongued woman; but, as the days shortened with the approach of the long winter months, she seemed to him to grow more fretful than ever; at times it was almost as if she bore him some smouldering, sullen resentment. He was of stubborn fibre, however, toughened by long habit of a bleak, unruly climate; he revolved the matter in his mind deliberately, and when, at last, after much plodding thought, it dawned upon him that she resented his acquaintance with Rosa Blencarn, he accepted the solution with an unflinching phlegm, and merely shifted his attitude towards the girl, calculating each day the likelihood of his meeting her, and making, in her presence, persistent efforts to break down, once for all, the barrier of his own timidity. He was a man not to be clumsily driven, still less, so he prided himself, a man to be craftily led.
It was close upon Christmas time before the crisis came. His mother was just home from Penrith market. The spring-cart stood in the yard, the old grey horse was steaming heavily in the still, frosty air.
'I reckon ye've come fast. T' ould horse is over hot,' he remarked bluntly, as he went to the animal's head.
She clambered down hastily, and, coming to his side, began breathlessly:
'Ye ought t' hev coom t' market, Tony. There's bin pretty goin's on in Pe'rith today. I was helpin' Anna Forsyth t' choose six yards o' sheetin' in Dockroy, when we sees Rosa Blencarn coom oot o' t' 'Bell and Bullock' in company we' Curbison and young Joe Smethwick. Smethwick was fair reelin' drunk, and Curbison and t' girl were a-houldin' on to him, to keep him fra fallin'; and then, after a bit, he puts his arm round the girl t' stiddy hisself, and that fashion they goes off, right oop t' public street--'
He continued to unload the packages, and to carry them mechanically one by one into the house. Each time, when he reappeared, she was standing by the steaming horse, busy with her tale.
'An' on t' road hame we passed t' three on' em in Curbison's trap, with Smethwick leein' in t' bottom, singin' maudlin' songs. They were passin' Dunscale village, an't' folks coom runnin' oot o' houses t' see 'em go past--'
He led the cart away towards the stable, leaving her to cry the remainder after him across the yard.
Half-an-hour later he came in for his dinner. During the meal not a word passed between them, and directly he had finished he strode out of the house. About nine o'clock he returned, lit his pipe, and sat down to smoke it over the kitchen fire.
'Where've ye bin, Tony?' she asked.
'Oop t' vicarage, courtin', he retorted defiantly, with his pipe in his mouth.
This was ten months ago; ever since he had been doggedly waiting. That evening he had set his mind on the girl, he intended to have her; and while his mother gibed, as she did now upon every opportunity, his patience remained grimly unflagging. She would remind him that the farm belonged to her, that he would have to wait till her death before he could bring the hussy to Hootsey: he would retort that as soon as the girl would have him, he intended taking a small holding over at Scarsdale. Then she would give way, and for a while piteously upbraid him with her old age, and with the memory of all the years she and he had spent together, and he would comfort her with a display of brusque, evasive remorse.
But, none the less, on the morrow, his thoughts would return to dwell on the haunting vision of the girl's face, while his own rude, credulous chivalry, kindled by the recollection of her beauty, stifled his misgivings concerning her conduct.
Meanwhile she dallied with him, and amused herself with the younger men. Her old uncle fell ill in the spring, and could scarcely leave the house. She declared that she found life in the valley intolerably dull, that she hated the quiet of the place, that she longed for Leeds, and the exciting bustle of the streets; and in the evenings she wrote long letters to the girl-friends she had left behind there, describing with petulant vivacity her tribe of rustic admirers. At the harvest-time she went back on a fortnight's visit to friends; the evening before her departure she promised Anthony to give him her answer on her return. But, instead, she avoided him, pretended to have promised in jest, and took up with Luke Stock, a cattle-dealer from Wigton.
V
It was three weeks since he had fetched his flock down from the fell.
After dinner he and his mother sat together in the parlour: they had done so every Sunday afternoon, year in and year out, as far back as he could remember.
A row of mahogany chairs, with shiny, horse-hair seats, were ranged round the room. A great collection of agricultural prize-tickets were pinned over the wall; and, on a heavy, highly-polished sideboard stood several silver cups. A heap of gilt-edged shavings filled the unused grate: there were gaudily-tinted roses along the mantelpiece, and, on a small table by the window, beneath a glass-case, a gilt basket filled with imitation flowers. Every object was disposed with a scrupulous precision: the carpet and the red-patterned cloth on the centre table were much faded. The room was spotlessly clean, and wore, in the chilly winter sunlight, a rigid, comfortless air.
Neither spoke, or appeared conscious of the other's presence. Old Mrs. Garstin, wrapped in a woollen shawl, sat knitting: Anthony dozed fitfully on a stiff-backed chair.
Of a sudden, in the distance, a bell started tolling. Anthony rubbed his eyes drowsily, and taking from the table his Sunday hat, strolled out across the dusky fields. Presently, reaching a rude wooden seat, built beside the bridle-path, he sat down and relit his pipe. The air was very still; below him a white filmy mist hung across the valley: the fell-sides, vaguely grouped, resembled hulking masses of sombre shadow; and, as he looked back, three squares of glimmering gold revealed the lighted windows of the square-towered church.
He sat smoking; pondering, with placid and reverential contemplation, on the Mighty Maker of the world--a world majestically and inevitably ordered; a world where, he argued, each object--each fissure in the fells, the winding course of each tumbling stream--possesses its mysterious purport, its inevitable signification....
At the end of the field two rams were fighting; retreating, then running together, and, leaping from the ground, butting head to head and horn to horn. Anthony watched them absently, pursuing his rude meditations.
... And the succession of bad seasons, the slow ruination of the farmers throughout the country, were but punishment meted out for the accumulated wickedness of the world. In the olden time God rained plagues upon the land: nowadays, in His wrath, He spoiled the produce of the earth, which, with His own hands, He had fashioned and bestowed upon men.
He rose and continued his walk along the bridle-path. A multitude of rabbits scuttled up the hill at his approach; and a great cloud of plovers, rising from the rushes, circled overhead, filling the air with a profusion of their querulous cries. All at once he heard a rattling of stones, and perceived a number of small pieces of shingle bounding in front of him down the grassy slope.
A woman's figure was moving among the rocks above him. The next moment, by the trimming of crimson velvet on her hat, he had recognized her. He mounted the slope with springing strides, wondering the while how it was she came to be there, that she was not in church playing the organ at afternoon service.
Before she was aware of his approach, he was beside her.
'I thought ye'd be in church--' he began.
She started: then, gradually regaining her composure, answered, weakly smiling:
'Mr. Jenkinson, the new schoolmaster, wanted to try the organ.'
He came towards her impulsively: she saw the odd flickers in his eyes as she stepped back in dismay.
'Nay, but I will na harm ye,' he said. 'Only I reckon what 'tis a special turn o' Providence, meetin' wi' ye oop here. I reckon what ye'll hev t' give me a square answer noo. Ye canna dilly-dally everlastingly.'
He spoke almost brutally; and she stood, white and gasping, staring at him with large, frightened eyes. The sheep-walk was but a tiny threadlike track: the slope of the shingle on either side was very steep: below them lay the valley; distant, lifeless, all blurred by the evening dusk. She looked about her helplessly for a means of escape.
'Miss Rosa,' he continued, in a husky voice, 'can ye na coom t' think on me? Think ye, I've bin waitin' nigh upon two year for ye. I've watched ye tak oop, first wi' this young fellar, and then wi' that, till soomtimes my heart's fit t' burst. Many a day, oop on t' fell-top, t' thought o' ye's nigh driven me daft, and I've left my shepherdin' jest t' set on a cairn in t' mist, picturin' an' broodin' on yer face. Many an evenin' I've started oop t' vicarage, wi' t' resolution t' speak right oot t' ye; but when it coomed t' point, a sort o' timidity seemed t' hould me back, I was that feared t' displease ye. I knaw I'm na scholar, an' mabbe ye think I'm rough-mannered. I knaw I've spoken sharply to ye once or twice lately. But it's jest because I'm that mad wi' love for ye: I jest canna help myself soomtimes--'
He waited, peering into her face. She could see the beads of sweat above his bristling eyebrows: the damp had settled on his sandy beard: his horny fingers were twitching at the buttons of his black Sunday coat.
She struggled to summon a smile; but her under-lip quivered, and her large dark eyes filled slowly with tears.
And he went on:
'Ye've coom t' mean jest everything to me. Ef ye will na hev me, I care for nought else. I canna speak t' ye in phrases: I'm jest a plain, unscholarly man: I canna wheedle ye, wi' cunnin' after t' fashion o' toon folks. But I can love ye wi' all my might, an' watch over ye, and work for ye better than any one o' em--'
She was crying to herself, silently, while he spoke. He noticed nothing, however: the twilight hid her face from him.
'There's nought against me,' he persisted. 'I'm as good a man as any one on 'em. Ay, as good a man as any one on 'em,' he repeated defiantly, raising his voice.
'It's impossible, Mr. Garstin, it's impossible. Ye've been very kind to me--' she added, in a choking voice.
'Wa dang it, I didna mean t' mak ye cry, lass,' he exclaimed, with a softening of his tone. 'There's nought for ye t' cry ower.'
She sank on to the stones, passionately sobbing in hysterical and defenceless despair. Anthony stood a moment, gazing at her in clumsy perplexity: then, coming close to her, put his hand on her shoulder, and said gently:
'Coom, lass, what's trouble? Ye can trust me.'
She shook her head faintly.
'Ay, but ye can though,' he asserted, firmly. 'Come, what is't?'
Heedless of him, she continued to rock herself to and fro, crooning in her distress:
'Oh! I wish I were dead!... I wish I could die!'
--'Wish ye could die?' he repeated. 'Why, whatever can't be that's troublin' ye like this? There, there, lassie, give ower: it 'ull all coom right, whatever it be--'
'No, no,' she wailed. 'I wish I could die!... I wish I could die!'
Lights were twinkling in the village below; and across the valley darkness was draping the hills. The girl lifted her face from her hands, and looked up at him with a scared, bewildered expression.
'I must go home: I must be getting home,' she muttered.
'Nay, but there's sommut mighty amiss wi' ye.'
'No, it's nothing... I don't know--I'm not well... I mean it's nothing... it'll pass over... you mustn't think anything of it.'
'Nay, but I canna stand by an see ye in sich trouble.'
'It's nothing, Mr. Garstin, indeed it's nothing,' she repeated.
'Ay, but I canna credit that,' he objected stubbornly.
She sent him a shifting, hunted glance.
'Let me get home... you must let me get home.'
She made a tremulous, pitiful attempt at firmness. Eyeing her keenly, he barred her path: she flushed scarlet, and looked hastily away across the valley.
'If ye'll tell me yer distress, mabbe I can help ye.'
'No, no, it's nothing... it's nothing.'
'If ye'll tell me yer distress, mabbe I can help ye,' he repeated, with a solemn, deliberate sternness. She shivered, and looked away again, vaguely, across the valley.
'You can do nothing: there's nought to be done,' she murmured drearily.
'There's a man in this business,' he declared.
'Let me go! Let me go!' she pleaded desperately.
'Who is't that's bin puttin' ye into this distress?' His voice sounded loud and harsh.
'No one, no one. I canna tell ye, Mr. Garstin.... It's no one,' she protested weakly. The white, twisted look on his face frightened her.
'My God!' he burst out, gripping her wrist, 'an' a proper soft fool ye've made o' me. Who is't, I tell ye? Who's t' man?'
'Ye're hurtin' me. Let me go. I canna tell ye.'
'And ye're fond o' him?'
'No, no. He's a wicked, sinful man. I pray God I may never set eyes on him again. I told him so.'
'But ef he's got ye into trouble, he'll hev t' marry ye,' he persisted with a brutal bitterness.
'I will not. I hate him!' she cried fiercely.
'But is he willin' t' marry ye?'
'I don't know ... I don't care ... he said so before he went away ... But I'd kill myself sooner than live with him.'
He let her hands fall and stepped back from her. She could only see his figure, like a sombre cloud, standing before her. The whole fell-side seemed still and dark and lonely. Presently she heard his voice again:
'I reckon what there's one road oot o' yer distress.'
She shook her head drearily.
'There's none. I'm a lost woman.'
'An' ef ye took me instead?' he said eagerly.
'I--I don't understand--'
'Ef ye married me instead of Luke Stock?'
'But that's impossible--the--the--'
'Ay, t' child. I know. But I'll tak t' child as mine.'
She remained silent. After a moment he heard her voice answer in a queer, distant tone:
'You mean that--that ye're ready to marry me, and adopt the child?'
'I do,' he answered doggedly.
'But people--your mother--?'
'Folks 'ull jest know nought about it. It's none o' their business. T' child 'ull pass as mine. Ye'll accept that?'
'Yes,' she answered, in a low, rapid voice.
'Ye'll consent t' hev me, ef I git ye oot o' yer trouble?'
'Yes,' she repeated, in the same tone.
She heard him draw a long breath.
'I said 't was a turn o' Providence, meetin' wi' ye oop here,' he exclaimed, with half-suppressed exultation.
Her teeth began to chatter a little: she felt that he was peering at her, curiously, through the darkness.
'An' noo,' he continued briskly, 'ye'd best be gettin' home. Give me ye're hand, an' I'll stiddy ye ower t' stones.'
He helped her down the bank of shingle, exclaiming: 'By goom, ye're stony cauld.' Once or twice she slipped: he supported her, roughly gripping her knuckles. The stones rolled down the steps, noisily, disappearing into the night.
Presently they struck the turf bridle-path, and, as they descended silently towards the lights of the village, he said gravely:
'I always reckoned what my day 'ud coom.'
She made no reply; and he added grimly:
'There'll be terrible work wi' mother over this.'
He accompanied her down the narrow lane that led past her uncle's house. When the lighted windows came in sight he halted.
'Good night, lassie,' he said kindly. 'Do ye give ower distressin' yeself.'
'Good night, Mr. Garstin,' she answered, in the same low, rapid voice in which she had given him her answer up on the fell.
'We're man an' wife plighted now, are we not?' he blurted timidly.
She held her face to his, and he kissed her on the cheek, clumsily.
VI
The next morning the frost had set in. The sky was still clear and glittering: the whitened fields sparkled in the chilly sunlight: here and there, on high, distant peaks, gleamed dainty caps of snow. All the week Anthony was to be busy at the fell-foot, wall-building against the coming of the winter storms: the work was heavy, for he was single-handed, and the stone had to be fetched from off the fell-side. Two or three times a day he led his rickety, lumbering cart along the lane that passed the vicarage gate, pausing on each journey to glance furtively up at the windows. But he saw no sign of Rosa Blencarn; and, indeed, he felt no longing to see her: he was grimly exultant over the remembrance of his wooing of her, and over the knowledge that she was his. There glowed within him a stolid pride in himself: he thought of the others who had courted her, and the means by which he had won her seemed to him a fine stroke of cleverness.
And so he refrained from any mention of the matter; relishing, as he worked, all alone, the days through, the consciousness of his secret triumph, and anticipating, with inward chucklings, the discomforted cackle of his mother's female friends. He foresaw without misgiving, her bitter opposition: he felt himself strong; and his heart warmed towards the girl. And when, at intervals, the brusque realization that, after all, he was to possess her swept over him, he gripped the stones, and swung them almost fiercely into their places.
All around him the white, empty fields seemed slumbering breathlessly. The stillness stiffened the leafless trees. The frosty air flicked his blood: singing vigorously to himself he worked with a stubborn, unflagging resolution, methodically postponing, till the length of the wall should be completed, the announcement of his betrothal.
After his reticent, solitary fashion, he was very happy, reviewing his future prospects, with a plain and steady assurance, and, as the week-end approached, coming to ignore the irregularity of the whole business: almost to assume, in the exaltation of his pride, that he had won her honestly; and to discard, stolidly, all thought of Luke Stock, of his relations with her, of the coming child that was to pass for his own.
And there were moments too, when, as he sauntered homewards through the dusk at the end of his day's work, his heart grew full to overflowing of a rugged, superstitious gratitude towards God in Heaven who had granted his desires.
About three o'clock on the Saturday afternoon he finished the length of wall. He went home, washed, shaved, put on his Sunday coat; and, avoiding the kitchen, where his mother sat knitting by the fireside, strode up to the vicarage.
It was Rosa who opened the door to him. On recognizing him she started, and he followed her into the dining-room. He seated himself, and began, brusquely:
'I've coom, Miss Rosa, t' speak t' Mr. Blencarn.'
Then added, eyeing her closely:
'Ye're lookin' sick, lass.'
Her faint smile accentuated the worn, white look on her face.
'I reckon ye've been frettin' yeself,' he continued gently, 'leein' awake o' nights, hev'n't yee, noo?'
She smiled vaguely.
'Well, but ye see I've coom t' settle t' whole business for ye. Ye thought mabbe that I was na a man o' my word.'
'No, no, not that,' she protested, 'but--but--'
'But what then?'
'Ye must not do it, Mr. Garstin ... I must just bear my own trouble the best I can--' she broke out.
'D'ye fancy I'm takin' ye oot of charity? Ye little reckon the sort o' stuff my love for ye's made of. Nay, Miss Rosa, but ye canna draw back noo.'
'But ye cannot do it, Mr. Garstin. Ye know your mother will na have me at Hootsey.... I could na live there with your mother.... I'd sooner bear my trouble alone, as best I can.... She's that stern is Mrs. Garstin. I couldn't look her in the face.... I can go away somewhere.... I could keep it all from uncle.'
Her colour came and went: she stood before him, looking away from him, dully, out of the window.
'I intend ye t' coom t' Hootsey. I'm na lad: I reckon I can choose my own wife. Mother'll hev ye at t' farm, right enough: ye need na distress yeself on that point--'
'Nay, Mr. Garstin, but indeed she will not, never... I know she will not... She always set herself against me, right from the first.'
'Ay, but that was different. T' case is all changed noo,' he objected doggedly.
'She'll support the sight of me all the less,' the girl faltered.
'Mother'll hev ye at Hootsey--receive ye willin' of her own free wish--of her own free wish, d'ye hear? I'll answer for that.'
He struck the table with his fist heavily. His tone of determination awed her: she glanced at him hurriedly, struggling with her irresolution.
'I knaw hoo t' manage mother. An' now,' he concluded, changing his tone, 'is yer uncle about t' place?'
'He's up the paddock, I think,' she answered.
'Well, I'll jest step oop and hev a word wi' him.'
'Ye're ... ye will na tell him.'
'Tut, tut, na harrowin' tales, ye need na fear, lass. I reckon ef I can tackle mother, I can accommodate myself t' parson Blencarn.'
He rose, and coming close to her, scanned her face.
'Ye must git t' roses back t' yer cheeks,' he exclaimed, with a short laugh, 'I canna be takin' a ghost t' church.'
She smiled tremulously, and he continued, laying one hand affectionately on her shoulder:
'Nay, but I was but jestin'. Roses or na roses, ye'll be t' bonniest bride in all Coomberland. I'll meet ye in Hullam lane, after church time, tomorrow,' he added, moving towards the door.
After he had gone, she hurried to the backdoor furtively. His retreating figure was already mounting the grey upland field. Presently, beyond him, she perceived her uncle, emerging through the paddock gate. She ran across the poultry yard, and mounting a tub, stood watching the two figures as they moved towards one another along the brow, Anthony vigorously trudging, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets; her uncle, his wideawake tilted over his nose, hobbling, and leaning stiffly on his pair of sticks. They met; she saw Anthony take her uncle's arm: the two, turning together, strolled away towards the fell.
She went back into the house. Anthony's dog came towards her, slinking along the passage. She caught the animal's head in her hands, and bent over it caressingly, in an impulsive outburst of almost hysterical affection.
VII
The two men returned towards the vicarage. At the paddock gate they halted, and the old man concluded:
'I could not have wished a better man for her, Anthony. Mabbe the Lord'll not be minded to spare me much longer. After I'm gone Rosa'll hev all I possess. She was my poor brother Isaac's only child. After her mother was taken, he, poor fellow, went altogether to the bad, and until she came here she mostly lived among strangers. It's been a wretched sort of childhood for her--a wretched sort of childhood. Ye'll take care of her, Anthony, will ye not? ... Nay, but I could not hev wished for a better man for her, and there's my hand on 't.'
'Thank ee, Mr. Blencarn, thank ee,' Anthony answered huskily, gripping the old man's hand.
And he started off down the lane homewards.
His heart was full of a strange, rugged exaltation. He felt with a swelling pride that God had entrusted to him this great charge--to tend her; to make up to her, tenfold, for all that loving care, which, in her childhood, she had never known. And together with a stubborn confidence in himself, there welled up within him a great pity for her--a tender pity, that, chastening with his passion, made her seem to him, as he brooded over that lonely childhood of hers, the more distinctly beautiful, the more profoundly precious. He pictured to himself, tremulously, almost incredulously, their married life--in the winter, his return home at nightfall to find her awaiting him with a glad, trustful smile; their evenings, passed together, sitting in silent happiness over the smouldering logs; or, in summer-time, the midday rest in the hay-fields when, wearing perhaps a large-brimmed hat fastened with a red ribbon, beneath her chin, he would catch sight of her, carrying his dinner, coming across the upland.
She had not been brought up to be a farmer's wife: she was but a child still, as the old parson had said. She should not have to work as other men's wives worked: she should dress like a lady, and on Sundays, in church, wear fine bonnets, and remain, as she had always been, the belle of all the parish.
And, meanwhile, he would farm as he had never farmed before, watching his opportunities, driving cunning bargains, spending nothing on himself, hoarding every penny that she might have what she wanted.... And, as he strode through the village, he seemed to foresee a general brightening of prospects, a sobering of the fever of speculation in sheep, a cessation of the insensate glutting, year after year, of the great winter marts throughout the North, a slackening of the foreign competition followed by a steady revival of the price of fatted stocks--a period of prosperity in store for the farmer at last.... And the future years appeared to open out before him, spread like a distant, glittering plain, across which, he and she, hand in hand, were called to travel together....
And then, suddenly, as his iron-bound boots clattered over the cobbled yard, he remembered, with brutal determination, his mother, and the stormy struggle that awaited him.
He waited till supper was over, till his mother had moved from the table to her place by the chimney corner. For several minutes he remained debating with himself the best method of breaking the news to her. Of a sudden he glanced up at her: her knitting had slipped on to her lap: she was sitting, bunched of a heap in her chair, nodding with sleep. By the flickering light of the wood fire, she looked worn and broken: he felt a twinge of clumsy compunction. And then he remembered the piteous, hunted look in the girl's eyes, and the old man's words when they had parted at the paddock gate, and he blurted out:
'I doot but what I'll hev t' marry Rosa Blencarn after all.'
She started, and blinking her eyes, said:
'I was jest takin' a wink o' sleep. What was 't ye were saying, Tony?'
He hesitated a moment, puckering his forehead into coarse rugged lines, and fidgeting noisily with his tea-cup. Presently he repeated:
'I doot but what I'll hev t' marry Rosa Blencarn after all.'
She rose stiffly, and stepping down from the hearth, came towards him.
'Mabbe I did na hear ye aright, Tony.' She spoke hurriedly, and though she was quite close to him, steadying herself with one hand clutching the back of his chair, her voice sounded weak, distant almost.
'Look oop at me. Look oop into my face,' she commanded fiercely.
He obeyed sullenly.
'Noo oot wi 't. What's yer meanin', Tony?'
'I mean what I say,' he retorted doggedly, averting his gaze.
'What d'ye mean by sayin' that ye've got t' marry her?'
'I tell yer I mean what I say,' he repeated dully.
'Ye mean ye've bin an' put t' girl in trouble?'
He said nothing; but sat staring stupidly at the floor.
'Look oop at me, and answer,' she commanded, gripping his shoulder and shaking him.
He raised his face slowly, and met her glance.
'Ay, that's aboot it,' he answered.
'This'll na be truth. It'll be jest a piece o' wanton trickery!' she cried.
'Nay, but't is truth,' he answered deliberately.
'Ye will na swear t' it?' she persisted.
'I see na necessity for swearin'.'
'Then ye canna swear t' it,' she burst out triumphantly.
He paused an instant; then said quietly:
'Ay, but I'll swear t' it easy enough. Fetch t' Book.'
She lifted the heavy, tattered Bible from the chimney-piece, and placed it before him on the table. He laid his lumpish fist on it.
'Say,' she continued with a tense tremulousness, 'say, I swear t' ye, mother, that 't is t' truth, t' whole truth, and noat but t' truth, s'help me God.'
'I swear t' ye, mother, it's truth, t' whole truth, and nothin' but t' truth, s'help me God,' he repeated after her.
'Kiss t' Book,' she ordered.
He lifted the Bible to his lips. As he replaced it on the table, he burst out into a short laugh:
'Be ye satisfied noo?'
She went back to the chimney corner without a word. The logs on the hearth hissed and crackled. Outside, amid the blackness the wind was rising, hooting through the firs, and past the windows.
After a long while he roused himself, and drawing his pipe from his pocket almost steadily, proceeded leisurely to pare in the palm of his hand a lump of black tobacco.
'We'll be asked in church Sunday,' he remarked bluntly.
She made no answer.
He looked across at her.
Her mouth was drawn tight at the corners: her face wore a queer, rigid aspect. She looked, he thought, like a figure of stone.
'Ye're not feeling poorly, are ye, mother?' he asked.
She shook her head grimly: then, hobbling out into the room, began to speak in a shrill, tuneless voice.
'Ye talked at one time o' takin' a farm over Scarsdale way. But ye'd best stop here. I'll no hinder ye. Ye can have t' large bedroom in t' front, and I'll move ower to what used to be my brother Jake's room. Ye knaw I've never had no opinion of t' girl, but I'll do what's right by her, ef I break my sperrit in t' doin' on't. I'll mak' t' girl welcome here: I'll stand by her proper-like: mebbe I'll finish by findin' soom good in her. But from this day forward, Tony, ye're na son o' mine. Ye've dishonoured yeself: ye've laid a trap for me--ay, laid a trap, that's t' word. Ye've brought shame and bitterness on yer ould mother in her ould age. Ye've made me despise t' varra sect o' ye. Ye can stop on here, but ye shall niver touch a penny of my money; every shillin' of 't shall go t' yer child, or to your child's children. Ay,' she went on, raising her voice, 'ay, ye've got yer way at last, and mebbe ye reckon ye've chosen a mighty smart way. But time 'ull coom when ye'll regret this day, when ye eat oot yer repentance in doost an' ashes. Ay, Lord 'ull punish ye, Tony, chastize ye properly. Ye'll learn that marriage begun in sin can end in nought but sin. Ay,' she concluded, as she reached the door, raising her skinny hand prophetically, 'ay, after I'm deed and gone, ye mind ye o' t' words o' t' apostle--"For them that hev sinned without t' law, shall also perish without t' law."'
And she slammed the door behind her.

Yes, most fellows' book of life may be said to begin at the chapter where woman comes in; mine did. She came in years ago, when I was a raw undergraduate. With the sober thought of retrospective analysis, I may say she was not all my fancy painted her; indeed now that I come to think of it there was no fancy about the vermeil of her cheeks, rather an artificial reality; she had her bower in the bar of the Golden Boar, and I was madly in love with her, seriously intent on lawful wedlock. Luckily for me she threw me over for a neighbouring pork butcher, but at the time I took it hardly, and it made me sex-shy. I was a very poor man in those days. One feels one's griefs more keenly then, one hasn't the wherewithal to buy distraction. Besides, ladies snubbed me rather, on the rare occasions I met them. Later I fell in for a legacy, the forerunner of several; indeed, I may say I am beastly rich. My tastes are simple too, and I haven't any poor relations. I believe they are of great assistance in getting rid of superfluous capital, wish I had some! It was after the legacy that women discovered my attractions. They found that there was something superb in my plainness (before, they said ugliness), something after the style of the late Victor Emanuel, something infinitely more striking than mere ordinary beauty. At least so Harding told me his sister said, and she had the reputation of being a clever girl. Being an only child, I never had the opportunity other fellows had of studying the undress side of women through familiar intercourse, say with sisters. Their most ordinary belongings were sacred to me. I had, I used to be told, ridiculous high-flown notions about them (by the way I modified those considerably on closer acquaintance). I ought to study them, nothing like a woman for developing a fellow. So I laid in a stock of books in different languages, mostly novels, in which women played title roles, in order to get up some definite data before venturing amongst them. I can't say I derived much benefit from this course. There seemed to be as great a diversity of opinion about the female species as, let us say, about the salmonidae.
My friend Ponsonby Smith, who is one of the oldest fly-fishers in the three kingdoms, said to me once: Take my word for it, there are only four true salmo; the salar, the trutta, the fario, the ferox; all the rest are just varieties, subgenuses of the above; stick to that. Some writing fellow divided all the women into good-uns and bad-uns. But as a conscientious stickler for truth, I must say that both in trout as in women, I have found myself faced with most puzzling varieties, that were a tantalizing blending of several qualities. I then resolved to study them on my own account. I pursued the Eternal Feminine in a spirit of purely scientific investigation. I knew you'd laugh sceptically at that, but it's a fact. I was impartial in my selection of subjects for observation--French, German, Spanish, as well as the home product. Nothing in petticoats escaped me. I devoted myself to the freshest ingenue as well as the experienced widow of three departed; and I may as well confess that the more I saw of her, the less I understood her. But I think they understood me. They refused to take me. When they weren't fleecing me, they were interested in the state of my soul (I preferred the former), but all humbugged me equally, so I gave them up. I took to rod and gun instead, pro salute animae; it's decidedly safer. I have scoured every country in the globe; indeed I can say that I have shot and fished in woods and waters where no other white man, perhaps ever dropped a beast or played a fish before. There is no life like the life of a free wanderer, and no lore like the lore one gleans in the great book of nature. But one must have freed one's spirit from the taint of the town before one can even read the alphabet of its mystic meaning.
What has this to do with the glove? True, not much, and yet it has a connection--it accounts for me.
Well, for twelve years I have followed the impulses of the wandering spirit that dwells in me. I have seen the sun rise in Finland and gild the Devil's Knuckles as he sank behind the Drachensberg. I have caught the barba and the gamer yellow fish in the Vaal river, taken muskelunge and black-bass in Canada, thrown a fly over guapote and cavallo in Central American lakes, and choked the monster eels of the Mauritius with a cunningly faked-up duckling. But I have been shy as a chub at the shadow of a woman.
Well, it happened last year I came back on business--another confounded legacy; end of June too, just as I was off to Finland. But Messrs. Thimble and Rigg, the highly respectable firm who look after my affairs, represented that I owed it to others, whom I kept out of their share of the legacy, to stay near town till affairs were wound up. They told me, with a view to reconcile me perhaps, of a trout stream with a decent inn near it; an unknown stream in Kent. It seems a junior member of the firm is an angler, at least he sometimes catches pike or perch in the Medway some way from the stream where the trout rise in audacious security from artificial lures. I stipulated for a clerk to come down with any papers to be signed, and started at once for Victoria. I decline to tell the name of my find, firstly because the trout are the gamest little fish that ever rose to fly and run to a good two pounds. Secondly, I have paid for all the rooms in the inn for the next year, and I want it to myself. The glove is lying on the table next me as I write. If it isn't in my breast-pocket or under my pillow, it is in some place where I can see it. It has a delicate grey body (su¨¨de, I think they call it) with a whipping of silver round the top, and a darker grey silk tag to fasten it. It is marked 5-3/4 inside, and has a delicious scent about it, to keep off moths, I suppose; naphthaline is better. It reminds me of a 'silver-sedge' tied on a ten hook. I startled the good landlady of the little inn (there is no village fortunately) when I arrived with the only porter of the tiny station laden with traps. She hesitated about a private sitting-room, but eventually we compromised matters, as I was willing to share it with the other visitor. I got into knickerbockers at once, collared a boy to get me worms and minnow for the morrow, and as I felt too lazy to unpack tackle, just sat in the shiny armchair (made comfortable by the successive sitting of former occupants) at the open window and looked out. The river, not the trout stream, winds to the right, and the trees cast trembling shadows into its clear depths. The red tiles of a farm roof show between the beeches, and break the monotony of blue sky background. A dusty waggoner is slaking his thirst with a tankard of ale. I am conscious of the strange lonely feeling that a visit to England always gives me. Away in strange lands, even in solitary places, one doesn't feel it somehow. One is filled with the hunter's lust, bent on a 'kill', but at home in the quiet country, with the smoke curling up from some fireside, the mowers busy laying the hay in swaths, the children tumbling under the trees in the orchards, and a girl singing as she spreads the clothes on the sweetbriar hedge, amidst a scene quick with home sights and sounds, a strange lack creeps in and makes itself felt in a dull, aching way. Oddly enough, too, I had a sense of uneasiness, a 'something going to happen'. I had often experienced it when out alone in a great forest, or on an unknown lake, and it always meant 'ware danger' of some kind. But why should I feel it here? Yet I did, and I couldn't shake it off. I took to examining the room. It was a commonplace one of the usual type. But there was a work-basket on the table, a dainty thing, lined with blue satin. There was a bit of lace stretched over shiny blue linen, with the needle sticking in it; such fairy work, like cobwebs seen from below, spun from a branch against a background of sky. A gold thimble, too, with initials, not the landlady's, I know. What pretty things, too, in the basket! A scissors, a capital shape for fly-making; a little file, and some floss silk and tinsel, the identical colour I want for a new fly I have in my head, one that will be a demon to kill. The northern devil I mean to call him. Some one looks in behind me, and a light step passes upstairs. I drop the basket, I don't know why. There are some reviews near it. I take up one, and am soon buried in an article on Tasmanian fauna. It is strange, but whenever I do know anything about a subject, I always find these writing fellows either entirely ignorant or damned wrong.
After supper, I took a stroll to see the river. It was a silver grey evening, with just the last lemon and pink streaks of the sunset staining the sky. There had been a shower, and somehow the smell of the dust after rain mingled with the mignonette in the garden brought back vanished scenes of small-boyhood, when I caught minnows in a bottle, and dreamt of a shilling rod as happiness unattainable. I turned aside from the road in accordance with directions, and walked towards the stream. Holloa! someone before me, what a bore! The angler is hidden by an elder-bush, but I can see the fly drop delicately, artistically on the water. Fishing upstream, too! There is a bit of broken water there, and the midges dance in myriads; a silver gleam, and the line spins out, and the fly falls just in the right place. It is growing dusk, but the fellow is an adept at quick, fine casting--I wonder what fly he has on--why, he's going to try downstream now? I hurry forward, and as I near him, I swerve to the left out of the way. S-s-s-s! a sudden sting in the lobe of my ear. Hey! I cry as I find I am caught; the tail fly is fast in it. A slight, grey-clad woman holding the rod lays it carefully down and comes towards me through the gathering dusk. My first impulse is to snap the gut and take to my heels, but I am held by something less tangible but far more powerful than the grip of the Limerick hook in my ear.
'I am very sorry!' she says in a voice that matched the evening, it was so quiet and soft; 'but it was exceedingly stupid of you to come behind like that.'
'I didn't think you threw such a long line; I thought I was safe,' I stammered.
'Hold this!' she says, giving me a diminutive fly-book, out of which she has taken a scissors. I obey meekly. She snips the gut.
'Have you a sharp knife? If I strip the hook you can push it through; it is lucky it isn't in the cartilage.'
I suppose I am an awful idiot, but I only handed her the knife, and she proceeded as calmly as if stripping a hook in a man's ear were an everyday occurrence. Her gown is of some soft grey stuff, and her grey leather belt is silver clasped. Her hands are soft and cool and steady, but there is a rarely disturbing thrill in their gentle touch. The thought flashed through my mind that I had just missed that, a woman's voluntary tender touch, not a paid caress, all my life.
'Now you can push it through yourself. I hope it won't hurt much.' Taking the hook, I push it through, and a drop of blood follows it. 'Oh!' she cries, but I assure her it is nothing, and stick the hook surreptitiously in my coat sleeve. Then we both laugh, and I look at her for the first time. She has a very white forehead, with little tendrils of hair blowing round it under her grey cap, her eyes are grey. I didn't see that then, I only saw they were steady, smiling eyes that matched her mouth. Such a mouth, the most maddening mouth a man ever longed to kiss, above a too-pointed chin, soft as a child's; indeed, the whole face looks soft in the misty light.
'I am sorry I spoilt your sport!' I say.
'Oh, that don't matter, it's time to stop. I got two brace, one a beauty.'
She is winding in her line, and I look in her basket; they are beauties, one two-pounder, the rest running from a half to a pound.
'What fly?'
'Yellow dun took that one, but your assailant was a partridge spider.' I sling her basket over my shoulder; she takes it as a matter of course, and we retrace our steps. I feel curiously happy as we walk towards the road; there is a novel delight in her nearness; the feel of woman works subtly and strangely in me; the rustle of her skirt as it brushes the black-heads in the meadow-grass, and the delicate perfume, partly violets, partly herself, that comes to me with each of her movements is a rare pleasure. I am hardly surprised when she turns into the garden of the inn, I think I knew from the first that she would.
'Better bathe that ear of yours, and put a few drops of carbolic in the water.' She takes the basket as she says it, and goes into the kitchen. I hurry over this, and go into the little sitting-room. There is a tray with a glass of milk and some oaten cakes upon the table. I am too disturbed to sit down; I stand at the window and watch the bats flitter in the gathering moonlight, and listen with quivering nerves for her step--perhaps she will send for the tray, and not come after all. What a fool I am to be disturbed by a grey-clad witch with a tantalizing mouth! That comes of loafing about doing nothing. I mentally darn the old fool who saved her money instead of spending it. Why the devil should I be bothered? I don't want it anyhow. She comes in as I fume, and I forget everything at her entrance. I push the armchair towards the table, and she sinks quietly into it, pulling the tray nearer. She has a wedding ring on, but somehow it never strikes me to wonder if she is married or a widow or who she may be. I am content to watch her break her biscuits. She has the prettiest hands, and a trick of separating her last fingers when she takes hold of anything. They remind me of white orchids I saw somewhere. She led me to talk; about Africa, I think. I liked to watch her eyes glow deeply in the shadow and then catch light as she bent forward to say something in her quick responsive way.
'Long ago when I was a girl,' she said once.
'Long ago?' I echo incredulously, 'surely not?'
'Ah, but yes, you haven't seen me in the daylight,' with a soft little laugh. 'Do you know what the gipsies say? "Never judge a woman or a ribbon by candle-light." They might have said moonlight equally well.'
She rises as she speaks, and I feel an overpowering wish to have her put out her hand. But she does not, she only takes the work-basket and a book, and says good night with an inclination of her little head.
I go over and stand next to her chair; I don't like to sit in it, but I like to put my hand where her head leant, and fancy, if she were there, how she would look up.
I woke next morning with a curious sense of pleasurable excitement. I whistled from very lightness of heart as I dressed. When I got down I found the landlady clearing away her breakfast things. I felt disappointed and resolved to be down earlier in future. I didn't feel inclined to try the minnow. I put them in a tub in the yard and tried to read and listen for her step. I dined alone. The day dragged terribly. I did not like to ask about her, I had a notion she might not like it. I spent the evening on the river. I might have filled a good basket, but I let the beggars rest. After all, I had caught fish enough to stock all the rivers in Great Britain. There are other things than trout in the world. I sit and smoke a pipe where she caught me last night. If I half close my eyes I can see hers, and her mouth, in the smoke. That is one of the curious charms of baccy, it helps to reproduce brain pictures. After a bit, I think 'perhaps she has left'. I get quite feverish at the thought and hasten back. I must ask. I look up at the window as I pass; there is surely a gleam of white. I throw down my traps and hasten up. She is leaning with her arms on the window-ledge staring out into the gloom. I could swear I caught a suppressed sob as I entered. I cough, and she turns quickly and bows slightly. A bonnet and gloves and lace affair and a lot of papers are lying on the table. I am awfully afraid she is going. I say--
'Please don't let me drive you away, it is so early yet. I half expected to see you on the river.'
'Nothing so pleasant; I have been up in town (the tears have certainly got into her voice) all day; it was so hot and dusty, I am tired out.'
The little servant brings in the lamp and a tray with a bottle of lemonade.
'Mistress hasn't any lemons, 'm, will this do?'
'Yes,' she says wearily, she is shading her eyes with her hand; 'anything; I am fearfully thirsty.'
'Let me concoct you a drink instead. I have lemons and ice and things. My man sent me down supplies today; I leave him in town. I am rather a dab at drinks; I learnt it from the Yankees; about the only thing I did learn from them I care to remember. Susan!' The little maid helps me to get the materials, and she watches me quietly. When I give it to her she takes it with a smile (she has been crying). That is an ample thank you. She looks quite old. Something more than tiredness called up those lines in her face.
* * * * *
Well, ten days passed, sometimes we met at breakfast, sometimes at supper, sometimes we fished together or sat in the straggling orchard and talked; she neither avoided me nor sought me. She is the most charming mixture of child and woman I ever met. She is a dual creature. Now I never met that in a man. When she is here without getting a letter in the morning or going to town, she seems like a girl. She runs about in her grey gown and little cap and laughs, and seems to throw off all thought like an irresponsible child. She is eager to fish, or pick gooseberries and eat them daintily, or sit under the trees and talk. But when she goes to town--I notice she always goes when she gets a lawyer's letter, there is no mistaking the envelope--she comes home tired and haggard-looking, an old woman of thirty-five. I wonder why. It takes her, even with her elasticity of temperament, nearly a day to get young again. I hate her to go to town; it is extraordinary how I miss her; I can't recall, when she is absent, her saying anything very wonderful, but she converses all the time. She has a gracious way of filling the place with herself, there is an entertaining quality in her very presence. We had one rainy afternoon; she tied me some flies (I shan't use any of them); I watched the lights in her hair as she moved, it is quite golden in some places, and she has a tiny mole near her left ear and another on her left wrist. On the eleventh day she got a letter but she didn't go to town, she stayed up in her room all day; twenty times I felt inclined to send her a line, but I had no excuse. I heard the landlady say as I passed the kitchen window: 'Poor dear! I'm sorry to lose her!' Lose her? I should think not. It has come to this with me that I don't care to face any future without her; and yet I know nothing about her, not even if she is a free woman. I shall find that out the next time I see her. In the evening I catch a glimpse of her gown in the orchard, and I follow her. We sit down near the river. Her left hand is lying gloveless next to me in the grass.
'Do you think from what you have seen of me, that I would ask a question out of any mere impertinent curiosity?'
She starts. 'No, I do not!'
I take up her hand and touch the ring. 'Tell me, does this bind you to any one?'
I am conscious of a buzzing in my ears and a dancing blurr of water and sky and trees, as I wait (it seems to me an hour) for her reply. I felt the same sensation once before, when I got drawn into some rapids and had an awfully narrow shave, but of that another time.
The voice is shaking.
'I am not legally bound to anyone, at least; but why do you ask?' she looks me square in the face as she speaks, with a touch of haughtiness I never saw in her before.
Perhaps the great relief I feel, the sense of joy at knowing she is free, speaks out of my face, for hers flushes and she drops her eyes, her lips tremble. I don't look at her again, but I can see her all the same. After a while she says--
'I half intended to tell you something about myself this evening, now I must. Let us go in. I shall come down to the sitting-room after your supper.' She takes a long look at the river and the inn, as if fixing the place in her memory; it strikes me with a chill that there is a goodbye in her gaze. Her eyes rest on me a moment as they come back, there is a sad look in their grey clearness. She swings her little grey gloves in her hand as we walk back. I can hear her walking up and down overhead; how tired she will be, and how slowly the time goes. I am standing at one side of the window when she enters; she stands at the other, leaning her head against the shutter with her hands clasped before her. I can hear my own heart beating, and, I fancy, hers through the stillness. The suspense is fearful. At length she says--
'You have been a long time out of England; you don't read the papers?'
'No.' A pause. I believe my heart is beating inside my head.
'You asked me if I was a free woman. I don't pretend to misunderstand why you asked me. I am not a beautiful woman, I never was. But there must be something about me, there is in some women, "essential femininity" perhaps, that appeals to all men. What I read in your eyes I have seen in many men's before, but before God I never tried to rouse it. Today (with a sob), I can say I am free, yesterday morning I could not. Yesterday my husband gained his case and divorced me!' she closes her eyes and draws in her under-lip to stop its quivering. I want to take her in my arms, but I am afraid to.
'I did not ask you any more than if you were free!'
'No, but I am afraid you don't quite take in the meaning. I did not divorce my husband, he divorced me, he got a decree nisi; do you understand now? (she is speaking with difficulty), do you know what that implies?'
I can't stand her face any longer. I take her hands, they are icy cold, and hold them tightly.
'Yes, I know what it implies, that is, I know the legal and social conclusion to be drawn from it--if that is what you mean. But I never asked you for that information. I have nothing to do with your past. You did not exist for me before the day we met on the river. I take you from that day and I ask you to marry me.'
I feel her tremble and her hands get suddenly warm. She turns her head and looks at me long and searchingly, then she says--
'Sit down, I want to say something!'
I obey, and she comes and stands next the chair. I can't help it, I reach up my arm, but she puts it gently down.
'No, you must listen without touching me, I shall go back to the window. I don't want to influence you a bit by any personal magnetism I possess. I want you to listen--I have told you he divorced me, the co-respondent was an old friend, a friend of my childhood, of my girlhood. He died just after the first application was made, luckily for me. He would have considered my honour before my happiness. I did not defend the case, it wasn't likely--ah, if you knew all? He proved his case; given clever counsel, willing witnesses to whom you make it worth while, and no defence, divorce is always attainable even in England. But remember: I figure as an adulteress in every English-speaking paper. If you buy last week's evening papers--do you remember the day I was in town?'--I nod--'you will see a sketch of me in that day's; someone, perhaps he, must have given it; it was from an old photograph. I bought one at Victoria as I came out; it is funny (with an hysterical laugh) to buy a caricature of one's own poor face at a news-stall. Yet in spite of that I have felt glad. The point for you is that I made no defence to the world, and (with a lifting of her head) I will make no apology, no explanation, no denial to you, now nor ever. I am very desolate and your attention came very warm to me, but I don't love you. Perhaps I could learn to (with a rush of colour), for what you have said tonight, and it is because of that I tell you to weigh what this means. Later, when your care for me will grow into habit, you may chafe at my past. It is from that I would save you.'
I hold out my hands and she comes and puts them aside and takes me by the beard and turns up my face and scans it earnestly. She must have been deceived a good deal. I let her do as she pleases, it is the wisest way with women, and it is good to have her touch me in that way. She seems satisfied. She stands leaning against the arm of the chair and says--
'I must learn first to think of myself as a free woman again, it almost seems wrong today to talk like this; can you understand that feeling?'
I nod assent.
'Next time I must be sure, and you must be sure,' she lays her fingers on my mouth as I am about to protest, 'S-sh! You shall have a year to think. If you repeat then what you have said today, I shall give you your answer. You must not try to find me. I have money. If I am living, I will come here to you. If I am dead, you will be told of it. In the year between I shall look upon myself as belonging to you, and render an account if you wish of every hour. You will not be influenced by me in any way, and you will be able to reason it out calmly. If you think better of it, don't come.'
I feel there would be no use trying to move her, I simply kiss her hands and say:
'As you will, dear woman, I shall be here.'
We don't say any more; she sits down on a footstool with her head against my knee, and I just smooth it. When the clocks strike ten through the house, she rises and I stand up. I see that she has been crying quietly, poor lonely little soul. I lift her off her feet and kiss her, and stammer out my sorrow at losing her, and she is gone. Next morning the little maid brought me an envelope from the lady, who left by the first train. It held a little grey glove; that is why I carry it always, and why I haunt the inn and never leave it for longer than a week; why I sit and dream in the old chair that has a ghost of her presence always; dream of the spring to come with the May-fly on the wing, and the young summer when midges dance, and the trout are growing fastidious; when she will come to me across the meadow grass, through the silver haze, as she did before; come with her grey eyes shining to exchange herself for her little grey glove.

She came 'to meet John Lefolle', but John Lefolle did not know he was to meet Winifred Glamorys. He did not even know he was himself the meeting-point of all the brilliant and beautiful persons, assembled in the publisher's Saturday Salon, for although a youthful minor poet, he was modest and lovable. Perhaps his Oxford tutorship was sobering. At any rate his head remained unturned by his precocious fame, and to meet these other young men and women--his reverend seniors on the slopes of Parnassus--gave him more pleasure than the receipt of 'royalties'. Not that his publisher afforded him much opportunity of contrasting the two pleasures. The profits of the Muse went to provide this room of old furniture and roses, this beautiful garden a-twinkle with Japanese lanterns, like gorgeous fire-flowers blossoming under the white crescent-moon of early June.
Winifred Glamorys was not literary herself. She was better than a poetess, she was a poem. The publisher always threw in a few realities, and some beautiful brainless creature would generally be found the nucleus of a crowd, while Clio in spectacles languished in a corner. Winifred Glamorys, however, was reputed to have a tongue that matched her eye; paralleling with whimsies and epigrams its freakish fires and witcheries, and, assuredly, flitting in her white gown through the dark balmy garden, she seemed the very spirit of moonlight, the subtle incarnation of night and roses.
When John Lefolle met her, Cecilia was with her, and the first conversation was triangular. Cecilia fired most of the shots; she was a bouncing, rattling beauty, chockful of confidence and high spirits, except when asked to do the one thing she could do--sing! Then she became--quite genuinely--a nervous, hesitant, pale little thing. However, the suppliant hostess bore her off, and presently her rich contralto notes passed through the garden, adding to its passion and mystery, and through the open French windows, John could see her standing against the wall near the piano, her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, her creamy throat swelling in the very abandonment of artistic ecstasy.
'What a charming creature!' he exclaimed involuntarily.
'That is what everybody thinks, except her husband,' Winifred laughed.
'Is he blind then?' asked John with his cloistral.
'Blind? No, love is blind. Marriage is never blind.'
The bitterness in her tone pierced John. He felt vaguely the passing of some icy current from unknown seas of experience. Cecilia's voice soared out enchantingly.
'Then, marriage must be deaf,' he said, 'or such music as that would charm it.'
She smiled sadly. Her smile was the tricksy play of moonlight among clouds of fa?ry.
'You have never been married,' she said simply.
'Do you mean that you, too, are neglected?' something impelled him to exclaim.
'Worse,' she murmured.
'It is incredible!' he cried. 'You!'
'Hush! My husband will hear you.'
Her warning whisper brought him into a delicious conspiracy with her. 'Which is your husband?' he whispered back.
'There! Near the casement, standing gazing open-mouthed at Cecilia. He always opens his mouth when she sings. It is like two toys moved by the same wire.'
He looked at the tall, stalwart, ruddy-haired Anglo-Saxon. 'Do you mean to say he--?'
'I mean to say nothing.'
'But you said--'
'I said "worse".'
'Why, what can be worse?'
She put her hand over her face. 'I am ashamed to tell you.' How adorable was that half-divined blush!
'But you must tell me everything.' He scarcely knew how he had leapt into this role of confessor. He only felt they were 'moved by the same wire'.
Her head drooped on her breast. 'He--beats--me.'
'What!' John forgot to whisper. It was the greatest shock his recluse life had known, compact as it was of horror at the revelation, shamed confusion at her candour, and delicious pleasure in her confidence.
This fragile, exquisite creature under the rod of a brutal bully!
Once he had gone to a wedding reception, and among the serious presents some grinning Philistine drew his attention to an uncouth club--'a wife-beater' he called it. The flippancy had jarred upon John terribly: this intrusive reminder of the customs of the slums. It grated like Billingsgate in a boudoir. Now that savage weapon recurred to him--for a lurid instant he saw Winifred's husband wielding it. Oh, abomination of his sex! And did he stand there, in his immaculate evening dress, posing as an English gentleman? Even so might some gentleman burglar bear through a salon his imperturbable swallow-tail.
Beat a woman! Beat that essence of charm and purity, God's best gift to man, redeeming him from his own grossness! Could such things be? John Lefolle would as soon have credited the French legend that English wives are sold in Smithfield. No! it could not be real that this flower-like figure was thrashed.
'Do you mean to say--?' he cried. The rapidity of her confidence alone made him feel it all of a dreamlike unreality.
'Hush! Cecilia's singing!' she admonished him with an unexpected smile, as her fingers fell from her face.
'Oh, you have been making fun of me.' He was vastly relieved. 'He beats you--at chess--or at lawn-tennis?'
'Does one wear a high-necked dress to conceal the traces of chess, or lawn-tennis?'
He had not noticed her dress before, save for its spiritual whiteness. Susceptible though he was to beautiful shoulders, Winifred's enchanting face had been sufficiently distracting. Now the thought of physical bruises gave him a second spasm of righteous horror. That delicate rose-leaf flesh abraded and lacerated!
'The ruffian! Does he use a stick or a fist?'
'Both! But as a rule he just takes me by the arms and shakes me like a terrier a rat. I'm all black and blue now.'
'Poor butterfly!' he murmured poetically.
'Why did I tell you?' she murmured back with subtler poetry.
The poet thrilled in every vein. 'Love at first sight', of which he had often read and often written, was then a reality! It could be as mutual, too, as Romeo's and Juliet's. But how awkward that Juliet should be married and her husband a Bill Sykes in broad-cloth!
II
Mrs. Glamorys herself gave 'At Homes', every Sunday afternoon, and so, on the morrow, after a sleepless night mitigated by perpended sonnets, the love-sick young tutor presented himself by invitation at the beautiful old house in Hampstead. He was enchanted to find his heart's mistress set in an eighteenth-century frame of small-paned windows and of high oak-panelling, and at once began to image her dancing minuets and playing on virginals. Her husband was absent, but a broad band of velvet round Winifred's neck was a painful reminder of his possibilities. Winifred, however, said it was only a touch of sore throat caught in the garden. Her eyes added that there was nothing in the pathological dictionary which she would not willingly have caught for the sake of those divine, if draughty moments; but that, alas! it was more than a mere bodily ailment she had caught there.
There were a great many visitors in the two delightfully quaint rooms, among whom he wandered disconsolate and admired, jealous of her scattered smiles, but presently he found himself seated by her side on a 'cosy corner' near the open folding-doors, with all the other guests huddled round a violinist in the inner room. How Winifred had managed it he did not know but she sat plausibly in the outer room, awaiting newcomers, and this particular niche was invisible, save to a determined eye. He took her unresisting hand--that dear, warm hand, with its begemmed artistic fingers, and held it in uneasy beatitude. How wonderful! She--the beautiful and adored hostess, of whose sweetness and charm he heard even her own guests murmur to one another--it was her actual flesh-and-blood hand that lay in his--thrillingly tangible. Oh, adventure beyond all merit, beyond all hoping!
But every now and then, the outer door facing them would open on some newcomer, and John had hastily to release her soft magnetic fingers and sit demure, and jealously overhear her effusive welcome to those innocent intruders, nor did his brow clear till she had shepherded them within the inner fold. Fortunately, the refreshments were in this section, so that once therein, few of the sheep strayed back, and the jiggling wail of the violin was succeeded by a shrill babble of tongues and the clatter of cups and spoons. 'Get me an ice, please--strawberry,' she ordered John during one of these forced intervals in manual flirtation; and when he had steered laboriously to and fro, he found a young actor beside her in his cosy corner, and his jealous fancy almost saw their hands dispart. He stood over them with a sickly smile, while Winifred ate her ice. When he returned from depositing the empty saucer, the player-fellow was gone, and in remorse for his mad suspicion he stooped and reverently lifted her fragrant finger-tips to his lips. The door behind his back opened abruptly.
'Goodbye,' she said, rising in a flash. The words had the calm conventional cadence, and instantly extorted from him--amid all his dazedness--the corresponding 'Goodbye'. When he turned and saw it was Mr. Glamorys who had come in, his heart leapt wildly at the nearness of his escape. As he passed this masked ruffian, he nodded perfunctorily and received a cordial smile. Yes, he was handsome and fascinating enough externally, this blonde savage.
'A man may smile and smile and be a villain,' John thought. 'I wonder how he'd feel, if he knew I knew he beats women.'
Already John had generalized the charge. 'I hope Cecilia will keep him at arm's length,' he had said to Winifred, 'if only that she may not smart for it some day.'
He lingered purposely in the hall to get an impression of the brute, who had begun talking loudly to a friend with irritating bursts of laughter, speciously frank-ringing. Golf, fishing, comic operas--ah, the Boeotian! These were the men who monopolized the ethereal divinities.
But this brusque separation from his particular divinity was disconcerting. How to see her again? He must go up to Oxford in the morning, he wrote her that night, but if she could possibly let him call during the week he would manage to run down again.
* * * * *
'Oh, my dear, dreaming poet,' she wrote to Oxford, 'how could you possibly send me a letter to be laid on the breakfast-table beside The Times! With a poem in it, too. Fortunately my husband was in a hurry to get down to the City, and he neglected to read my correspondence. (The unchivalrous blackguard,' John commented. 'But what can be expected of a woman beater?') Never, never write to me again at the house. A letter, care of Mrs. Best, 8A Foley Street, W.C., will always find me. She is my maid's mother. And you must not come here either, my dear handsome head-in-the-clouds, except to my 'At Homes', and then only at judicious intervals. I shall be walking round the pond in Kensington Gardens at four next Wednesday, unless Mrs. Best brings me a letter to the contrary. And now thank you for your delicious poem; I do not recognize my humble self in the dainty lines, but I shall always be proud to think I inspired them. Will it be in the new volume? I have never been in print before; it will be a novel sensation. I cannot pay you song for song, only feeling for feeling. Oh, John Lefolle, why did we not meet when I had still my girlish dreams? Now, I have grown to distrust all men--to fear the brute beneath the cavalier....'
* * * * *
Mrs. Best did bring her a letter, but it was not to cancel the appointment, only to say he was not surprised at her horror of the male sex, but that she must beware of false generalizations. Life was still a wonderful and beautiful thing--vide poem enclosed. He was counting the minutes till Wednesday afternoon. It was surely a popular mistake that only sixty went to the hour.
This chronometrical reflection recurred to him even more poignantly in the hour that he circumambulated the pond in Kensington Gardens. Had she forgotten--had her husband locked her up? What could have happened? It seemed six hundred minutes, ere, at ten past five she came tripping daintily towards him. His brain had been reduced to insanely devising problems for his pupils--if a man walks two strides of one and a half feet a second round a lake fifty acres in area, in how many turns will he overtake a lady who walks half as fast and isn't there?--but the moment her pink parasol loomed on the horizon, all his long misery vanished in an ineffable peace and uplifting. He hurried, bare-headed, to clasp her little gloved hand. He had forgotten her unpunctuality, nor did she remind him of it.
'How sweet of you to come all that way,' was all she said, and it was a sufficient reward for the hours in the train and the six hundred minutes among the nursemaids and perambulators. The elms were in their glory, the birds were singing briskly, the water sparkled, the sunlit sward stretched fresh and green--it was the loveliest, coolest moment of the afternoon. John instinctively turned down a leafy avenue. Nature and Love! What more could poet ask?
'No, we can't have tea by the Kiosk,' Mrs. Glamorys protested. 'Of course I love anything that savours of Paris, but it's become so fashionable. There will be heaps of people who know me. I suppose you've forgotten it's the height of the season. I know a quiet little place in the High Street.' She led him, unresisting but bemused, towards the gate, and into a confectioner's. Conversation languished on the way.
'Tea,' he was about to instruct the pretty attendant.
'Strawberry ices,' Mrs. Glamorys remarked gently. 'And some of those nice French cakes.'
The ice restored his spirits, it was really delicious, and he had got so hot and tired, pacing round the pond. Decidedly Winifred was a practical person and he was a dreamer. The pastry he dared not touch--being a genius--but he was charmed at the gaiety with which Winifred crammed cake after cake into her rosebud of a mouth. What an enchanting creature! how bravely she covered up her life's tragedy!
The thought made him glance at her velvet band--it was broader than ever.
'He has beaten you again!' he murmured furiously. Her joyous eyes saddened, she hung her head, and her fingers crumbled the cake. 'What is his pretext?' he asked, his blood burning.
'Jealousy,' she whispered.
His blood lost its glow, ran cold. He felt the bully's blows on his own skin, his romance turning suddenly sordid. But he recovered his courage. He, too, had muscles. 'But I thought he just missed seeing me kiss your hand.'
She opened her eyes wide. 'It wasn't you, you darling old dreamer.'
He was relieved and disturbed in one.
'Somebody else?' he murmured. Somehow the vision of the player-fellow came up.
She nodded. 'Isn't it lucky he has himself drawn a red-herring across the track? I didn't mind his blows--you were safe!' Then, with one of her adorable transitions, 'I am dreaming of another ice,' she cried with roguish wistfulness.
'I was afraid to confess my own greediness,' he said, laughing. He beckoned the waitress. 'Two more.'
'We haven't got any more strawberries,' was her unexpected reply. 'There's been such a run on them today.'
Winifred's face grew overcast. 'Oh, nonsense!' she pouted. To John the moment seemed tragic.
'Won't you have another kind?' he queried. He himself liked any kind, but he could scarcely eat a second ice without her.
Winifred meditated. 'Coffee?' she queried.
The waitress went away and returned with a face as gloomy as Winifred's. 'It's been such a hot day,' she said deprecatingly. 'There is only one ice in the place and that's Neapolitan.'
'Well, bring two Neapolitans,' John ventured.
'I mean there is only one Neapolitan ice left.'
'Well, bring that. I don't really want one.'
He watched Mrs. Glamorys daintily devouring the solitary ice, and felt a certain pathos about the parti-coloured oblong, a something of the haunting sadness of 'The Last Rose of Summer'. It would make a graceful, serio-comic triolet, he was thinking. But at the last spoonful, his beautiful companion dislocated his rhymes by her sudden upspringing.
'Goodness gracious,' she cried, 'how late it is!'
'Oh, you're not leaving me yet!' he said. A world of things sprang to his brain, things that he was going to say--to arrange. They had said nothing--not a word of their love even; nothing but cakes and ices.
'Poet!' she laughed. 'Have you forgotten I live at Hampstead?' She picked up her parasol.
'Put me into a hansom, or my husband will be raving at his lonely dinner-table.'
He was so dazed as to be surprised when the waitress blocked his departure with a bill. When Winifred was spirited away, he remembered she might, without much risk, have given him a lift to Paddington. He hailed another hansom and caught the next train to Oxford. But he was too late for his own dinner in Hall.
III
He was kept very busy for the next few days, and could only exchange a passionate letter or two with her. For some time the examination fever had been raging, and in every college poor patients sat with wet towels round their heads. Some, who had neglected their tutor all the term, now strove to absorb his omniscience in a sitting.
On the Monday, John Lefolle was good-naturedly giving a special audience to a muscular dunce, trying to explain to him the political effects of the Crusades, when there was a knock at the sitting-room door, and the scout ushered in Mrs. Glamorys. She was bewitchingly dressed in white, and stood in the open doorway, smiling--an embodiment of the summer he was neglecting. He rose, but his tongue was paralysed. The dunce became suddenly important--a symbol of the decorum he had been outraging. His soul, torn so abruptly from history to romance, could not get up the right emotion. Why this imprudence of Winifred's? She had been so careful heretofore.
'What a lot of boots there are on your staircase!' she said gaily.
He laughed. The spell was broken. 'Yes, the heap to be cleaned is rather obtrusive,' he said, 'but I suppose it is a sort of tradition.'
'I think I've got hold of the thing pretty well now, sir.' The dunce rose and smiled, and his tutor realized how little the dunce had to learn in some things. He felt quite grateful to him.
'Oh, well, you'll come and see me again after lunch, won't you, if one or two points occur to you for elucidation,' he said, feeling vaguely a liar, and generally guilty. But when, on the departure of the dunce, Winifred held out her arms, everything fell from him but the sense of the exquisite moment. Their lips met for the first time, but only for an instant. He had scarcely time to realize that this wonderful thing had happened before the mobile creature had darted to his book-shelves and was examining a Thucydides upside down.
'How clever to know Greek!' she exclaimed. 'And do you really talk it with the other dons?'
'No, we never talk shop,' he laughed. 'But, Winifred, what made you come here?'
'I had never seen Oxford. Isn't it beautiful?'
'There's nothing beautiful here,' he said, looking round his sober study.
'No,' she admitted; 'there's nothing I care for here,' and had left another celestial kiss on his lips before he knew it. 'And now you must take me to lunch and on the river.'
He stammered, 'I have--work.'
She pouted. 'But I can't stay beyond tomorrow morning, and I want so much to see all your celebrated oarsmen practising.'
'You are not staying over the night?' he gasped.
'Yes, I am,' and she threw him a dazzling glance.
His heart went pit-a-pat. 'Where?' he murmured.
'Oh, some poky little hotel near the station. The swell hotels are full.'
He was glad to hear she was not conspicuously quartered.
'So many people have come down already for Commem,' he said. 'I suppose they are anxious to see the Generals get their degrees. But hadn't we better go somewhere and lunch?'
They went down the stone staircase, past the battalion of boots, and across the quad. He felt that all the windows were alive with eyes, but she insisted on standing still and admiring their ivied picturesqueness. After lunch he shamefacedly borrowed the dunce's punt. The necessities of punting, which kept him far from her, and demanded much adroit labour, gradually restored his self-respect, and he was able to look the uncelebrated oarsmen they met in the eyes, except when they were accompanied by their parents and sisters, which subtly made him feel uncomfortable again. But Winifred, piquant under her pink parasol, was singularly at ease, enraptured with the changing beauty of the river, applauding with childish glee the wild flowers on the banks, or the rippling reflections in the water.
'Look, look!' she cried once, pointing skyward. He stared upwards, expecting a balloon at least. But it was only 'Keats' little rosy cloud', she explained. It was not her fault if he did not find the excursion unreservedly idyllic.
'How stupid,' she reflected, 'to keep all those nice boys cooped up reading dead languages in a spot made for life and love.'
'I'm afraid they don't disturb the dead languages so much as you think,' he reassured her, smiling. 'And there will be plenty of love-making during Commem.'
'I am so glad. I suppose there are lots of engagements that week.'
'Oh, yes--but not one per cent come to anything.'
'Really? Oh, how fickle men are!'
That seemed rather question-begging, but he was so thrilled by the implicit revelation that she could not even imagine feminine inconstancy, that he forebore to draw her attention to her inadequate logic.
So childish and thoughtless indeed was she that day that nothing would content her but attending a 'Viva', which he had incautiously informed her was public.
'Nobody will notice us,' she urged with strange unconsciousness of her loveliness. 'Besides, they don't know I'm not your sister.'
'The Oxford intellect is sceptical,' he said, laughing. 'It cultivates philosophical doubt.'
But, putting a bold face on the matter, and assuming a fraternal air, he took her to the torture-chamber, in which candidates sat dolefully on a row of chairs against the wall, waiting their turn to come before the three grand inquisitors at the table. Fortunately, Winifred and he were the only spectators; but unfortunately they blundered in at the very moment when the poor owner of the punt was on the rack. The central inquisitor was trying to extract from him information about Becket, almost prompting him with the very words, but without penetrating through the duncical denseness. John Lefolle breathed more freely when the Crusades were broached; but, alas, it very soon became evident that the dunce had by no means 'got hold of the thing'. As the dunce passed out sadly, obviously ploughed, John Lefolle suffered more than he. So conscience-stricken was he that, when he had accompanied Winifred as far as her hotel, he refused her invitation to come in, pleading the compulsoriness of duty and dinner in Hall. But he could not get away without promising to call in during the evening.
The prospect of this visit was with him all through dinner, at once tempting and terrifying. Assuredly there was a skeleton at his feast, as he sat at the high table, facing the Master. The venerable portraits round the Hall seemed to rebuke his romantic waywardness. In the common-room, he sipped his port uneasily, listening as in a daze to the discussion on Free Will, which an eminent stranger had stirred up. How academic it seemed, compared with the passionate realities of life. But somehow he found himself lingering on at the academic discussion, postponing the realities of life. Every now and again, he was impelled to glance at his watch; but suddenly murmuring, 'It is very late,' he pulled himself together, and took leave of his learned brethren. But in the street the sight of a telegraph office drew his steps to it, and almost mechanically he wrote out the message: 'Regret detained. Will call early in morning.'
When he did call in the morning, he was told she had gone back to London the night before on receipt of a telegram. He turned away with a bitter pang of disappointment and regret.
IV
Their subsequent correspondence was only the more amorous. The reason she had fled from the hotel, she explained, was that she could not endure the night in those stuffy quarters. He consoled himself with the hope of seeing much of her during the Long Vacation. He did see her once at her own reception, but this time her husband wandered about the two rooms. The cosy corner was impossible, and they could only manage to gasp out a few mutual endearments amid the buzz and movement, and to arrange a rendezvous for the end of July. When the day came, he received a heart-broken letter, stating that her husband had borne her away to Goodwood. In a postscript she informed him that 'Quicksilver was a sure thing'. Much correspondence passed without another meeting being effected, and he lent her five pounds to pay a debt of honour incurred through her husband's 'absurd confidence in Quicksilver'. A week later this horsey husband of hers brought her on to Brighton for the races there, and hither John Lefolle flew. But her husband shadowed her, and he could only lift his hat to her as they passed each other on the Lawns. Sometimes he saw her sitting pensively on a chair while her lord and thrasher perused a pink sporting-paper. Such tantalizing proximity raised their correspondence through the Hove Post Office to fever heat. Life apart, they felt, was impossible, and, removed from the sobering influences of his cap and gown, John Lefolle dreamed of throwing everything to the winds. His literary reputation had opened out a new career. The Winifred lyrics alone had brought in a tidy sum, and though he had expended that and more on despatches of flowers and trifles to her, yet he felt this extravagance would become extinguished under daily companionship, and the poems provoked by her charms would go far towards their daily maintenance. Yes, he could throw up the University. He would rescue her from this bully, this gentleman bruiser. They would live openly and nobly in the world's eye. A poet was not even expected to be conventional.
She, on her side, was no less ardent for the great step. She raged against the world's law, the injustice by which a husband's cruelty was not sufficient ground for divorce. 'But we finer souls must take the law into our own hands,' she wrote. 'We must teach society that the ethics of a barbarous age are unfitted for our century of enlightenment.' But somehow the actual time and place of the elopement could never get itself fixed. In September her husband dragged her to Scotland, in October after the pheasants. When the dramatic day was actually fixed, Winifred wrote by the next post deferring it for a week. Even the few actual preliminary meetings they planned for Kensington Gardens or Hampstead Heath rarely came off. He lived in a whirling atmosphere of express letters of excuse, and telegrams that transformed the situation from hour to hour. Not that her passion in any way abated, or her romantic resolution really altered: it was only that her conception of time and place and ways and means was dizzily mutable.
But after nigh six months of palpitating negotiations with the adorable Mrs. Glamorys, the poet, in a moment of dejection, penned the prose apophthegm, 'It is of no use trying to change a changeable person.'
V
But at last she astonished him by a sketch plan of the elopement, so detailed, even to band-boxes and the Paris night route via Dieppe, that no further room for doubt was left in his intoxicated soul, and he was actually further astonished when, just as he was putting his hand-bag into the hansom, a telegram was handed to him saying: 'Gone to Homburg. Letter follows.'
He stood still for a moment on the pavement in utter distraction. What did it mean? Had she failed him again? Or was it simply that she had changed the city of refuge from Paris to Homburg? He was about to name the new station to the cabman, but then, 'letter follows'. Surely that meant that he was to wait for it. Perplexed and miserable, he stood with the telegram crumpled up in his fist. What a ridiculous situation! He had wrought himself up to the point of breaking with the world and his past, and now--it only remained to satisfy the cabman!
He tossed feverishly all night, seeking to soothe himself, but really exciting himself the more by a hundred plausible explanations. He was now strung up to such a pitch of uncertainty that he was astonished for the third time when the 'letter' did duly 'follow'.
* * * * *
'Dearest,' it ran, 'as I explained in my telegram, my husband became suddenly ill'--('if she had only put that in the telegram,' he groaned)--'and was ordered to Homburg. Of course it was impossible to leave him in this crisis, both for practical and sentimental reasons. You yourself, darling, would not like me to have aggravated his illness by my flight just at this moment, and thus possibly have his death on my conscience.' ('Darling, you are always right,' he said, kissing the letter.) 'Let us possess our souls in patience a little longer. I need not tell you how vexatious it will be to find myself nursing him in Homburg--out of the season even--instead of the prospect to which I had looked forward with my whole heart and soul. But what can one do? How true is the French proverb, 'Nothing happens but the unexpected'! Write to me immediately Poste Restante, that I may at least console myself with your dear words.'
The unexpected did indeed happen. Despite draughts of Elizabeth-brunnen and promenades on the Kurhaus terrace, the stalwart woman beater succumbed to his malady. The curt telegram from Winifred gave no indication of her emotions. He sent a reply-telegram of sympathy with her trouble. Although he could not pretend to grieve at this sudden providential solution of their life-problem, still he did sincerely sympathize with the distress inevitable in connection with a death, especially on foreign soil.
He was not able to see her till her husband's body had been brought across the North Sea and committed to the green repose of the old Hampstead churchyard. He found her pathetically altered--her face wan and spiritualized, and all in subtle harmony with the exquisite black gown. In the first interview, he did not dare speak of their love at all. They discussed the immortality of the soul, and she quoted George Herbert. But with the weeks the question of their future began to force its way back to his lips.
'We could not decently marry before six months,' she said, when definitely confronted with the problem.
'Six months!' he gasped.
'Well, surely you don't want to outrage everybody,' she said, pouting.
At first he was outraged himself. What! She who had been ready to flutter the world with a fantastic dance was now measuring her footsteps. But on reflection he saw that Mrs. Glamorys was right once more. Since Providence had been good enough to rescue them, why should they fly in its face? A little patience, and a blameless happiness lay before them. Let him not blind himself to the immense relief he really felt at being spared social obloquy. After all, a poet could be unconventional in his work--he had no need of the practical outlet demanded for the less gifted.
VI
They scarcely met at all during the next six months--it had, naturally, in this grateful reaction against their recklessness, become a sacred period, even more charged with tremulous emotion than the engagement periods of those who have not so nearly scorched themselves. Even in her presence he found a certain pleasure in combining distant adoration with the confident expectation of proximity, and thus she was restored to the sanctity which she had risked by her former easiness. And so all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
When the six months had gone by, he came to claim her hand. She was quite astonished. 'You promised to marry me at the end of six months,' he reminded her.
'Surely it isn't six months already,' she said.
He referred her to the calendar, recalled the date of her husband's death.
'You are strangely literal for a poet,' she said. 'Of course I said six months, but six months doesn't mean twenty-six weeks by the clock. All I meant was that a decent period must intervene. But even to myself it seems only yesterday that poor Harold was walking beside me in the Kurhaus Park.' She burst into tears, and in the face of them he could not pursue the argument.
Gradually, after several interviews and letters, it was agreed that they should wait another six months.
'She is right,' he reflected again. 'We have waited so long, we may as well wait a little longer and leave malice no handle.'
The second six months seemed to him much longer than the first. The charm of respectful adoration had lost its novelty, and once again his breast was racked by fitful fevers which could scarcely calm themselves even by conversion into sonnets. The one point of repose was that shining fixed star of marriage. Still smarting under Winifred's reproach of his unpoetic literality, he did not intend to force her to marry him exactly at the end of the twelve-month. But he was determined that she should have no later than this exact date for at least 'naming the day'. Not the most punctilious stickler for convention, he felt, could deny that Mrs. Grundy's claim had been paid to the last minute.
The publication of his new volume--containing the Winifred lyrics--had served to colour these months of intolerable delay. Even the reaction of the critics against his poetry, that conventional revolt against every second volume, that parrot cry of over-praise from the very throats that had praised him, though it pained and perplexed him, was perhaps really helpful. At any rate, the long waiting was over at last. He felt like Jacob after his years of service for Rachel.
The fateful morning dawned bright and blue, and, as the towers of Oxford were left behind him he recalled that distant Saturday when he had first gone down to meet the literary lights of London in his publisher's salon. How much older he was now than then--and yet how much younger! The nebulous melancholy of youth, the clouds of philosophy, had vanished before this beautiful creature of sunshine whose radiance cut out a clear line for his future through the confusion of life.
At a florist's in the High Street of Hampstead he bought a costly bouquet of white flowers, and walked airily to the house and rang the bell jubilantly. He could scarcely believe his ears when the maid told him her mistress was not at home. How dared the girl stare at him so impassively? Did she not know by what appointment--on what errand--he had come? Had he not written to her mistress a week ago that he would present himself that afternoon?
'Not at home!' he gasped. 'But when will she be home?'
'I fancy she won't be long. She went out an hour ago, and she has an appointment with her dressmaker at five.'
'Do you know in what direction she'd have gone?'
'Oh, she generally walks on the Heath before tea.'
The world suddenly grew rosy again. 'I will come back again,' he said. Yes, a walk in this glorious air--heathward--would do him good.
As the door shut he remembered he might have left the flowers, but he would not ring again, and besides, it was, perhaps, better he should present them with his own hand, than let her find them on the hall table. Still, it seemed rather awkward to walk about the streets with a bouquet, and he was glad, accidentally to strike the old Hampstead Church, and to seek a momentary seclusion in passing through its avenue of quiet gravestones on his heathward way.
Mounting the few steps, he paused idly a moment on the verge of this green 'God's-acre' to read a perpendicular slab on a wall, and his face broadened into a smile as he followed the absurdly elaborate biography of a rich, self-made merchant who had taught himself to read, 'Reader, go thou and do likewise,' was the delicious bull at the end. As he turned away, the smile still lingering about his lips, he saw a dainty figure tripping down the stony graveyard path, and though he was somehow startled to find her still in black, there was no mistaking Mrs. Glamorys. She ran to meet him with a glad cry, which filled his eyes with happy tears.
'How good of you to remember!' she said, as she took the bouquet from his unresisting hand, and turned again on her footsteps. He followed her wonderingly across the uneven road towards a narrow aisle of graves on the left. In another instant she has stooped before a shining white stone, and laid his bouquet reverently upon it. As he reached her side, he saw that his flowers were almost lost in the vast mass of floral offerings with which the grave of the woman beater was bestrewn.
'How good of you to remember the anniversary,' she murmured again.
'How could I forget it?' he stammered, astonished. 'Is not this the end of the terrible twelve-month?'
The soft gratitude died out of her face. 'Oh, is that what you were thinking of?'
'What else?' he murmured, pale with conflicting emotions.
'What else! I think decency demanded that this day, at least, should be sacred to his memory. Oh, what brutes men are!' And she burst into tears.
His patient breast revolted at last. 'You said he was the brute!' he retorted, outraged.
'Is that your chivalry to the dead? Oh, my poor Harold, my poor Harold!'
For once her tears could not extinguish the flame of his anger. 'But you told me he beat you,' he cried.
'And if he did, I dare say I deserved it. Oh, my darling, my darling!' She laid her face on the stone and sobbed.
John Lefolle stood by in silent torture. As he helplessly watched her white throat swell and fall with the sobs, he was suddenly struck by the absence of the black velvet band--the truer mourning she had worn in the lifetime of the so lamented. A faint scar, only perceptible to his conscious eye, added to his painful bewilderment.
At last she rose and walked unsteadily forward. He followed her in mute misery. In a moment or two they found themselves on the outskirts of the deserted heath. How beautiful stretched the gorsy rolling country! The sun was setting in great burning furrows of gold and green--a panorama to take one's breath away. The beauty and peace of Nature passed into the poet's soul.
'Forgive me, dearest,' he begged, taking her hand.
She drew it away sharply. 'I cannot forgive you. You have shown yourself in your true colours.'
Her unreasonableness angered him again. 'What do you mean? I only came in accordance with our long-standing arrangement. You have put me off long enough.'
'It is fortunate I did put you off long enough to discover what you are.'
He gasped. He thought of all the weary months of waiting, all the long comedy of telegrams and express letters, the far-off flirtations of the cosy corner, the baffled elopement to Paris. 'Then you won't marry me?'
'I cannot marry a man I neither love nor respect.'
'You don't love me!' Her spontaneous kiss in his sober Oxford study seemed to burn on his angry lips.
'No, I never loved you.'
He took her by the arms and turned her round roughly. 'Look me in the face and dare to say you have never loved me.'
His memory was buzzing with passionate phrases from her endless letters. They stung like a swarm of bees. The sunset was like blood-red mist before his eyes.
'I have never loved you,' she said obstinately.
'You--!' His grasp on her arms tightened. He shook her.
'You are bruising me,' she cried.
His grasp fell from her arms as though they were red-hot. He had become a woman beater.