Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7 Page 33

  “Do it, Ron!” Harry yelled.

  Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes.

  “Ron—?”

  The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way, there as a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held ready to defend himself, but there was nothing to fight.

  The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone: There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock.

  Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue: they were also wet.

  Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had pierced the glass in both windows: Riddle’s eyes were gone, and the stained silk lining of the locket was smoking slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act. The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to his knees, his head in his arms. He was shaking, but not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry crammed the broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron, and placed a hand cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off.

  “After you left,” he said in a low voice, grateful for the fact that Ron’s face was hidden, “she cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see. There were loads of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone…”

  He could not finish; it was now that Ron was here again that Harry fully realized how much his absence had cost them.

  “She’s like my sister,” he went on. “I love her like a sister and I reckon that she feels the same way about me. It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.”

  Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from Harry and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve. Harry got to his feet again and walked to where Ron’s enormous rucksack lay yards away, discarded as Ron had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning. He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry approached, eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I know I was a—a—”

  He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down upon him and claim him.

  “You’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” said Harry. “Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving my life.”

  “That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron mumbled.

  “Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was,” said Harry. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”

  Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, Harry gripping the still-sopping back of Ron’s jacket.

  “And now,” said Harry as they broke apart, “all we’ve got to do is find that tent again.”

  But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the dark forest with the doe had seemed lengthy, with Ron by his side, the journey back seemed to take a surprisingly short time. Harry could not wait to wake Hermione, and it was with quickening excitement that he entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him.

  It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest, the only illumination the bluebell flames still shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast asleep, curled up under her blankets, and did not move until Harry had said her name several times.

  “Hermione!”

  She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face.

  “What’s wrong? Harry? Are you all right?”

  “It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine, I’m great. There’s someone here.”

  “What do you mean? Who—?”

  She saw Ron, who stood there holding the sword and dripping onto the threadbare carpet. Harry backed into a shadowy corner, slipped off Ron’s rucksack, and attempted to blend in with the canvas.

  Hermione slid out of her bunk and moved like a sleepwalker toward Ron, her eyes upon his pale face. She stopped right in front of him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide. Ron gave a weak hopeful smile and half raised his arms.

  Hermione launched herself forward and started punching every inch of him that she could reach.

  “Ouch—ow—gerroff! What the—? Hermione—OW!”

  “You—complete—arse—Ronald—Weasley!”

  She punctuated every word with a blow: Ron backed away, shielding his head as Hermione advanced.

  “You—crawl—back—here—after—weeks—and—weeks—oh, where’s my wand?”

  She looked as though ready to wrestle it out of Harry’s hands and he reacted instinctively.

  “Protego!”

  The invisible shield erupted between Ron and Hermione. The force of it knocked her backward onto the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth, she lept up again.

  “Hermione!” said Harry. “Calm—”

  “I will not calm down!” she screamed. Never before had he seen her lose control like this; she looked quite demented. “Give me back my wand! Give it back to me!”

  “Hermione, will you please—”

  “Don’t you tell me what do, Harry Potter!” she screeched. “Don’t you dare! Give it back now! And YOU!”

  She was pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It was like a malediction, and Harry could not blame Ron for retreating several steps.

  “I came running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back—”

  “I know,” Ron said, “Hermione, I’m sorry, I’m really—”

  “Oh, you’re sorry!”

  She laughed a high-pitched, out-of-control sound; Ron looked at Harry for help, but Harry merely grimaced his helplessness.

  “You came back after weeks—weeks—and you think it’s all going to be all right if you just say sorry?”

  “Well, what else can I say?” Ron shouted, and Harry was glad that Ron was fighting back.

  “Oh, I don’t know!” yelled Hermione with awful sarcasm. “Rack your brains, Ron, that should only take a couple of seconds—”

  “Hermione,” interjected Harry, who considered this a low blow, “he just saved my—”

  “I don’t care!” she screamed. “I don’t care what he’s done! Weeks and weeks, we could have been dead for all he knew—”

  “I knew you weren’t dead!” bellowed Ron, drowning her voice for the first time, and approaching as close as he could with the Shield Charm between them. “Harry’s all over the Prophet, all over the radio, they’re looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and mental stories, I knew I’d hear straight off if you were dead, you don’t know what it’s been like—”

  “What it’s been like for you??”

  Her voice was not so shrill only bats would be able to hear it soon, but she had reached a level of indignation that rendered her temporarily speechless, and Ron seized his opportunity.

  “I wanted to come back the minute I’d Disapparated, but I walked straight into a gang of Snatchers, Hermione, and I couldn’t go anywhere!”

  “A gang of what?” asked Harry, as Hermione threw herself down into a chair with her arms and legs crossed so tightly it seemed unlikely that she would unravel them for several years.

  “Snatchers,” said Ron. “They’re everywhere—gangs trying to earn gold by rounding up Muggle-borns and blood traitors, there’s a reward from the Ministry for everyone captured. I was on my own and I look like I might be school age; they got really excited, thought I was a Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get out of being dragged to the Ministry.”

  “What did you say to them?”

  “Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could think of.”

  “And they believed that?”

  “They weren’t the brightest. One of them was definitely part troll, the smell of him…”

  Ron glanced at Hermione, clearl
y hopeful she might soften at this small instance of humor, but her expression remained stony above her tightly knotted limbs.

  “Anyway, they had a row about whether I was Stan or not. It was a bit pathetic to be honest, but there were still five of them and only one of me, and they’d taken my wand. Then two of them got into a fight and while the others were distracted I managed to hit the one holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand, Disarmed the bloke holding mine, and Disapparated. I didn’t do it so well. Splinched myself again”—Ron held up his right hand to show two missing fingernails: Hermione raised her eyebrows coldly—“and I came out miles from where you were. By the time I got back to that bit of riverbank where we’d been… you were gone.”

  “Gosh, what a gripping story,” Hermione said in the lofty voice she adopted when wishing to wound. “You must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went to Godric’s Hollow and, let’s think, what happened there, Harry? Oh yes, You-Know-Who’s snake turned up, it nearly killed both of us, and then You-Know-Who himself arrived and missed us by about a second.”

  “What?” Ron said, gaping from her to Harry, but Hermione ignored him.

  “Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts our sufferings into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  “Hermione,” said Harry quietly, “Ron just saved my life.”

  She appeared not to have heard him.

  “One thing I would like to know, though,” she said, fixing her eyes on a spot a foot over Ron’s head. “How exactly did you find us tonight? That’s important. Once we know, we’ll be able to make sure we’re not visited by anyone else we don’t want to see.”

  Ron glared at her, then pulled a small silver object from his jeans pocket.

  “This.”

  She had to look at Ron to see what he was showing them.

  “The Deluminator?” she asked, so surprised she forgot to look cold and fierce.

  “It doesn’t just turn the lights on and off,” said Ron. “I don’t know how it works or why it happened then and not any other time, because I’ve been wanting to come back ever since I left. But I was listening to the radio really early on Christmas morning and I heard… I heard you.”

  He was looking at Hermione.

  “You heard me on the radio?” she asked incredulously.

  “No, I heard you coming out of my pocket. Your voice,” he held up the Deluminator again, “came out of this.”

  “And what exactly did I say?” asked Hermione, her tone somewhere between skepticism and curiosity.

  “My name. ‘Ron.’ And you said… something about a wand…”

  Hermione turned a fiery shade of scarlet. Harry remembered: it had been the first time Ron’s name had been said aloud by either of them since the day he had left; Hermione had mentioned it when talking about repairing Harry’s wand.

  “So I took it out,” Ron went on, looking at the Deluminator, “and it didn’t seem different or anything, but I was sure I’d heard you. So I clicked it. And the light went out in my room, but another light appeared right outside the window.”

  Ron raised his empty hand and pointed in front of him, his eyes focused on something neither Harry nor Hermione could see.

  “It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing, and bluish, like that light you get around a Portkey, you know?”

  “Yeah,” said Harry and Hermione together automatically.

  “I knew this was it,” said Ron. “I grabbed my stuff and packed it, then I put on my rucksack and went out into the garden.

  “The little ball of light was hovering there, waiting for me, and when I came out it bobbed along a bit and I followed it behind the shed and then it… well, it went inside me.”

  “Sorry?” said Harry, sure he had not heard correctly.

  “It sort of floated toward me,” said Ron, illustrating the movement with his free index finger, “right to my chest, and then—it just went straight through. It was here,” he touched a point close to his heart, “I could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me, I knew what I was supposed to do. I knew it would take me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated and came out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere…”

  “We were there,” said Harry. “We spent two nights there, and the second night I kept thinking I could hear someone moving around in the dark and calling out!”

  “Yeah, well, that would’ve been me,” said Ron. “Your protective spells work, anyway, because I couldn’t see you and I couldn’t hear you. I was sure you were around, though, so in the end I got in my sleeping bag and waited for one of you to appear. I thought you’d have to show yourselves when you packed up the tent.”

  “No, actually,” said Hermione. “We’ve been Disapparating under the Invisibility Cloak as an extra precaution. And we left really early, because as Harry says, we’d heard somebody blundering around.”

  “Well, I stayed on that hill all day,” said Ron. “I kept hoping you’d appear. But when it started to get dark I knew I must have missed you, so I clicked the Deluminator again, the blue light came out and went inside me, and I Disapparated and arrived here in these woods. I still couldn’t see you, so I just had to hope one of you would show yourselves in the end—and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously.”

  “You saw the what?” said Hermione sharply.

  They explained what had happened and as the story of the silver doe and the sword in the pool unfolded, Hermione frowned form one to the other of them, concentrating so hard she forgot to keep her limbs locked together.

  “But it must have been a Patronus!” she said. “Couldn’t you see who was casting it? Didn’t you see anyone? And it led you to the sword! I can’t believe this! Then what happened?”

  Ron explained how he had watched Harry jump into the pool, and had waited for him to resurface; how he had realized that something was wrong, dived in, and saved Harry, then returned for the sword. He got as far as the opening of the locket, then hesitated, and Harry cut in.

  “—and Ron stabbed it with the sword.”

  “And… and it went? Just like that?” she whispered.

  “Well, it—it screamed,” said Harry with half a glance at Ron. “Here.”

  He threw the locket into her lap; gingerly she picked it up and examined its punctured windows.

  Deciding that it was at last safe to do so, Harry removed the Shield Charm with a wave of Hermione’s wand and turned to Ron.

  “Did you just say now that you got away from the snatchers with a spare wand?”

  “What?” said Ron, who had been watching Hermione examining the locket. “Oh—oh yeah.”

  He tugged open a buckle on his rucksack and pulled a short dark wand out of his pocket. “Here, I figured it’s always handy to have a backup.”

  “You were right,” said Harry, holding out his hand. “Mine’s broken.”

  “You’re kidding?” Ron said, but at that moment Hermione got to her feet, and he looked apprehensive again.

  Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag, then climbed back into her bed and settled down without another word.

  Ron passed Harry the new wand.

  “About the best you could hope for, I think,” murmured Harry.

  “Yeah,” said Ron. “Could’ve been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?”

  “I still haven’t ruled it out,” came Hermione’s muffled voice from beneath her blankets, but Harry saw Ron smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out of his rucksack.

  20. XENOPHILIUS LOVEGOOD

  Harry had not expected Hermione’s anger to abate over night and was therefore unsurprised that she communicated mainly by dirty looks and pointed silences the next morning. Ron responded by maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor in her presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse. In fact, when all three of them were together Harry felt like the only non-mourner at a poorly attended funeral. During those few moments he spent alone with Harry, however (collecting water and searching the
undergrowth for mushrooms), Ron became shamelessly cheery.

  “Someone helped us,” he kept saying, “Someone sent that doe, Someone’s on our side, One Horcrux down, mate!”

  Bolstered by the destruction of the locket they set to debating the possible locations of the other Horcruxes and even though they had discussed the matter so often before, Harry felt optimistic, certain that more breakthroughs would succeed the first. Hermione’s sulkiness could not mar his buoyant spirits; The sudden upswing in their fortunes, the appearance of the mysterious doe, the recovery of Gryffindor’s sword, and above all, Ron’s return made Harry so happy that it was quite difficult to maintain a straight face.

  Late in the afternoon he and Ron escaped Hermione’s baleful presence again and under the pretense of scouring the bare hedges for nonexistent blackberries, they continued their ongoing exchange of news. Harry had finally managed to tell Ron the whole story of his and Hermione’s various wanderings, right up to the full story of what had happened at Godric’s Hollow; Ron was now filling Harry in on everything he had discovered about the wider Wizarding world during his weeks away.

  “…and how did you find out about the Taboo?” he asked Harry after explaining the many desperate attempts of Muggle-borns to evade the Ministry.

  “The what?”

  “You and Hermione have stopped saying You-Know-Who’s name!”

  “Oh, yeah, Well, it’s just a bad habit we’ve slipped into,” said Harry. “But I haven’t got a problem calling him V—”

  “NO!” roared Ron, causing Harry to jump into the hedge and Hermione (nose buried in a book at the tent entrance) to scowl over at them. “Sorry,” said Ron, wrenching Harry back out of the brambles, “but the name’s been jinxed, Harry, that’s how they track people! Using his name breaks protective enchantments, it causes some kind of magical disturbance—it’s how they found us in Tottenham Court Road!”

  “Because we used his name?”

  “Exactly! You’ve got to give them credit, it makes sense. It was only people who were serious about standing up to him, like Dumbledore, who even dared use it. Now they’ve put a Taboo on it, anyone who says it is trackable—quick-and-easy way to find Order members! They nearly got Kingsley—”