Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7 Read online

  Xenophilius looked taken aback as something shifted in Harry’s memory, but he could not locate it. Peverell… he had heard that name before…

  “But you have been misleading me, young woman!” said Xenophilius, now sitting up much straighter in his chair and goggling at Hermione. “I thought you were new to the Hallows Quest! Many of us Questers believe that the Peverells have everything—everything!—to do with the Hallows!”

  “Who are the Peverells?” asked Ron.

  “That was the name on the grave with the mark on it, in Godric’s Hollow,” said Hermione, still watching Xenophilius. “Ignotus Peverell.”

  “Exactly!” said Xenophilius, his forefinger raised pedantically. “The sign of the Death Hallows on Ignotus’s grave is conclusive proof!”

  “Of what?” asked Ron.

  “Why, that the three brothers in the story were actually the three Peverell brothers, Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus! That they were the original owners of the Hallows!”

  With another glance at the window he got to his feet, picked up the tray, and headed for the spiral staircase.

  “You will stay for dinner?” he called, as he vanished downstairs again. “Everybody always requests our recipe for Freshwater Plimply soup.”

  “Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St. Mungo’s,” said Ron under his breath.

  Harry waited until they could hear Xenophilius moving about in the kitchen downstairs before speaking.

  “What do you think?” he asked Hermione.

  “Oh, Harry,” she said wearily, “it’s a pile of utter rubbish. This can’t be what the sign really means. This must just be his weird take on it. What a waste of time.”

  “I s’pose this is the man who brought us Crumple-Horned Snorkacks,” said Ron.

  “You didn’t believe it either?” Harry asked him.

  “Nah, that story’s just one of those things you tell kids to teach them lessons, isn’t it? ‘Don’t go looking for trouble, don’t go pick fights, don’t go messing around with stuff that’s best left alone! Just keep your head down, mind your own business, and you’ll be okay. Come to think of it,” Ron added, “maybe that story’s why elder wands are supposed to be unlucky.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “One of those superstitions, isn’t it? ‘May-born witches will marry Muggles.’ ‘Jinx by twilight, undone by midnight.’ ‘Wand of cider, never prosper.’ You must have heard them. My mum’s full of them.”

  “Harry and I were raised by Muggles,” Hermione reminded him. “We were taught different superstitions.” She sighed deeply as a rather pungent smell drifted up from the kitchen. The one good thing about her exasperation with Xenophilius was that it seemed to have made her forget that she was annoyed at Ron. “I think you’re right,” she told him. “It’s just a morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one you’d choose—”

  The three of them spoke at the same time: Hermione said, “the Cloak,” Ron said, “the wand,” and Harry said, “the stone.”

  They looked at each other, half surprised, half amused.

  “You’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron told Hermione, “but you wouldn’t need to be invisible if you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, come on!”

  “We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry, “And it’s helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed!” said Hermione. “Whereas the wand would be bound to attract trouble—”

  “Only if you shouted about it,” argued Ron. “Only if you were prat enough to go dancing around waving it over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable wand, come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ As long as you kept your trap shut—”

  “—Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” said Hermione, looking skeptical. “You know the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about extra-powerful wands for hundreds of years.”

  “There have?” asked Harry.

  Hermione looked exasperated: The expression was so endearingly familiar that Harry and Ron grinned at each other.

  “The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up under different names through the centuries, usually in the possession of some Dark wizard who’s boasting about them. Professor Binns mentioned some of them, but—oh it’s all nonsense. Wands are only as powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better than other people’s.”

  “But how do you know,” said Harry, “that those wands—the Deathstick, and the Wand of Destiny—aren’t the same wand, surfacing over the centuries under different names?”

  “What if they’re all really the Elder Wand, made by Death?” said Ron.

  Harry laughed: The strange idea that had occurred to him was after all, ridiculous. His wand, he reminded himself, had been of holly, not elder, and it had been made by Ollivander, whatever it had done that night Voldemort had pursued him across the skies and if it had been unbeatable, how could it have been broken?

  “So why would you take the stone?” Ron asked him.

  “Well, if you could bring people back, we could have Sirius… Mad-Eye… Dumbledore… my parents…”

  Neither Ron nor Hermione smiled.

  “But according to Beedle the Bard, they wouldn’t want to come back, would they?” said Harry, thinking about the tale they had just heard. “I don’t suppose there have been loads of other stories about a stone that can raise the dead, have there?” he asked Hermione.

  “No,” she replied sadly. “I don’t think anyone except Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves that’s possible. Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer’s Stone; you know, instead of a stone to make you immortal, a stone to reverse death.”

  The smell from the kitchen was getting stronger. It was something like burning underpants. Harry wondered whether it would be possible to eat enough of whatever Xenophilius was cooking to spare his feelings.

  “What about the Cloak, though?” said Ron slowly. “Don’t you realize, he’s right? I’ve got so used to Harry’s Cloak and how good it is, I never stopped to think. I’ve never heard of one like Harry’s. It’s infallible. We’ve never been spotted under it—”

  “Of course not—we’re invisible when we’re under it, Ron!”

  “But all the stuff he said about other cloaks, and they’re not exactly ten a Knut, you know, is true! It’s never occurred to me before but I’ve heard stuff about charms wearing off cloaks when they get old, or them being ripped apart by spells so they’ve got holes, Harry’s was owned by his dad, so it’s not exactly new, is it, but it’s just… perfect!”

  “Yes, all right, but Ron, the stone…”

  As they argued in whispers, Harry moved around the room, only half listening. Reaching the spiral stair, he raised his eyes absently to the next level and was distracted at once. His own face was looking back at him from the ceiling of the room above. After a moment’s bewilderment, he realized that it was not a mirror, but a painting. Curious, he began to climb the stairs.

  “Harry, what are you doing? I don’t think you should look around when he’s not here!”

  But Harry had already reached the next level. Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with five beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville. They were not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain magic about them all the same. Harry thought they breathed. What appeared to be a fine golden chains wove around the pictures linking them together, but after examining them for a minute or so, Harry realized that the chains were actually one work repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends… friends… friends…

  Harry felt a great rush of affection for Luna. He looked around the room. There was a large photograph beside the bed, of a young Luna and a woman who looked very like her. They were hugging. Luna looked rather better-groomed in this picture than Harry had ever seen her in life. The picture was dusty. This struck Harry as slightly odd. He stared aro
und. Something was wrong. The pale blue carpet was also thick with dust. There were no clothes in the wardrobe, whose doors stood ajar. The bed had a cold, unfriendly look, as though it had not been slept in for weeks. A single cobweb stretched over the nearest window across the blood red sky.

  “What’s wrong?” Hermione asked as Harry descended the staircase, but before he could respond, Xenophilius reached the top of the stairs from the kitchen, now holding a tray laden with bowls.

  “Mr. Lovegood,” said Harry. “Where’s Luna?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where’s Luna?”

  Xenophilius halted on the top step.

  “I—I’ve already told you. She is down at the Botions Bridge fishing for Plimpies.”

  “So why have you only laid that tray for four?”

  Xenophilius tried to speak, but no sound came out. The only noise was the continued chugging of the printing press, and a slight rattle from the tray as Xenophilius’s hands shook.

  “I don’t think Luna’s been here for weeks,” said Harry. “Her clothes are gone, her bed hasn’t been slept in. Where is she? and why do you keep looking out of the window?”

  Xenophilius dropped the tray. The bowls bounced and smashed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew their wands. Xenophilius froze his hand about to enter his pocket. At that moment the printing press have a huge bank and numerous Quibblers came streaming across the floor from underneath the tablecloth, the press fell silent at last. Hermione stooped down and picked up one of the magazines, her wand still pointing at Mr. Lovegood.

  “Harry, look at this!”

  He strode over to her as quickly as he could through all the clutter.

  The front of The Quibbler carried his own picture, emblazoned with the words “Undesirable Number One” and captioned with the reward money.

  “The Quibbler’s going for a new angle, then?” Harry asked coldly, his mind working very fast. “Is that what you were doing when you went into the garden, Mr. Lovegood? Sending an owl to the Ministry?”

  Xenophilius licked his lips.

  “They took my Luna,” he whispered, “Because of what I’ve been writing. They took my Luna and I don’t know where she is, what they’ve done to her. But they might give her back to me if I—If I—”

  “Hand over Harry?” Hermione finished for him.

  “No deal,” said Ron flatly. “Get out of the way, we’re leaving.”

  Xenophilius looked ghastly, a century old, his lips drawn back into a dreadful leer.

  “They will be here any moment. I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must not leave.”

  He spread his arms in front of the staircase, and Harry had a sudden vision of his mother doing the same thing in front of his crib.

  “Don’t make us hurt you,” Harry said. “Get out of the way, Mr. Lovegood.”

  “HARRY!” Hermione screamed.

  Figures on broomsticks were flying past the windows. As the three of them looked away from him. Xenophilius drew his wand. Harry realized their mistake just in time. He launched himself sideways, shoving Ron and Hermione out of harm’s way as Xenophilius’s Stunning Spell soared across the room and hit the Erumpent horn. There was a colossal explosion. The sound of it seemed to blow the room apart. Fragments of wood and paper and rubble flew in all directions, along with an impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Harry flew through the air, then crashed to the floor, unable to see as debris rained upon him, his arms over his head. He heard Hermione’s scream, Ron’s yell, and a series of sickening metallic thuds which told him that Xenophilius had been blasted off his feet and fallen backward down the spiral stairs.

  Half buried in rubble, Harry tried to raise himself. He could barely breathe or see for dust. Half of the ceiling had fall in and the end of Luna’s bead was hanging through the hole. The bust of Rowena Ravenclaw lay beside him with half its face missing fragments of torn parchment were floating through the air, and most of the printing press lay on its side, blocking the top of the staircase to the kitchen. Then another white shape moved close by, and Hermione, coated in dust like a second statue, pressed his finger to her lips. The door downstairs crashed open.

  “Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry, Travers?” said a rough voice. “Didn’t I tell you this nutter was just raving as usual?”

  There was a bang and a scream of pain from Xenophilius.

  “No… no… upstairs… Potter!”

  “I told you last week, Lovegood, we weren’t coming back for anything less than some solid information! Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your daughter for that stupid bleeding headdress? And the week before”—Another bang, another squeal—“When you thought we’d give her back if you offered us proof there are Cumple”—Bang—“Headed”—bang—“Snorkacks?”

  “No—no—I beg of you!” sobbed Xenophilius. “It really is Potter, Really!”

  “And now it turns out you only called us here to try and blow us up!” roared the Death Eater, and there was a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of agony from Xenophilius.

  “The place looks like it’s about to fall in, Selwyn,” said a cool second voice, echoing up the mangled staircase. “The stairs are completely blocked. Could try clearing it? Might bring the place down.”

  “You lying piece of filth,” shouted the wizard named Selwyn.

  “You have never seen Potter in your life, have you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us, did you? And you think you’ll get your girl back like this?”

  “I swear… I swear… Potter’s upstairs!”

  “Homenum revelio,” said the voice at the foot of the stairs. Harry heard Hermione gasp, and he had the odd sensation something was swooping low over him, immersing his body in its shadow.

  “There’s someone up there all right, Selwyn,” said the second man sharply.

  “It’s Potter, I tell you, it’s Potter!” sobbed Xenophilius. “Please… please… give me Luna, just let me have Luna…”

  “You can have your little girl, Lovegood,” said Selwyn, “if you get up those stairs and bring me down Harry Potter. But if this is a plot, if it’s a trick, if you’ve got an accomplice waiting up there to ambush us, we’ll see if we can spare a bit of your daughter for you to bury.”

  Xenophilius gave a wail of fear and despair. There were scurryings and scrapings. Xenophilius was trying to get through the debris on the stairs.

  “Come on,” Harry whispered, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

  He started to dig himself out under cover of all the noise Xenophilius was making on the staircase. Ron was buried the deepest. Harry and Hermione climbed, as quietly as they could, over all the wreckage to where he lay, trying to prise a heavy chest of drawers off his legs. While Xenophilius banging and scraping drew nearer and nearer, Hermione managed to free Ron with the use of a Hover Charm.

  “All right,” breathed Hermione, as the broken printing press blocking the top of the stairs begin to tremble. Xenophilius was feet away from them. She was still white with dust.

  “Do you trust me, Harry?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Okay then,” Hermione whispered. “Give me the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, you’re going to put it on.”

  “Me? But Harry—”

  “Please, Ron! Harry, hold on tight to my hand, Ron, grab my shoulder.”

  Harry held out his left hand. Ron vanished beneath the Cloak. The printing press blocking the stairs was vibrating. Xenophilius was trying to shift it using a Hover Charm. Harry did not know what Hermione was waiting for.

  “Hold tight” she whispered. “Hold tight… any second…”

  Xenophilius’s paper-white face appeared over the top of the sideboard.

  “Obliviate!” cried Hermione, pointing her wand first into his face then at the floor beneath them. “Deprimo!”

  She had blasted a hole in the sitting room floor. They fell like boulders. Harry still holding onto her hand for dear life, there was a scream from below, and he glimpsed two
men trying to get out of the way as vast quantities of rubble and broken furniture rained all around them from the shattered ceiling. Hermione twisted in midair and thundering of the collapsing house rang in Harry’s ears as she dragged him once more into darkness.

  22. THE DEATHLY HALLOWS

  Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at once. They seemed to have landed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a circle around them, waving her wand.

  “Protego Totalum… Salvio Hexia…”

  “That treacherous old bleeder,” Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry. “Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius. I can’t believe we got out of that.”

  “Cave Inimicum… Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been blown apart!”

  “Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs, “What’d you reckon they’ll do to him?”

  “Oh I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione, “That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!”

  “Why hide me though?” asked Ron.

  “You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?”

  “But what about your mum and dad?”

  “They’re in Australia,” said Hermione, “They should be all right. They don’t know anything.”

  “You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed.

  “Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  She beamed, but became solemn at once.

  “What about Luna?”

  “Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive—” began Ron.

  “Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. “She must be alive, she must!”

  “Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron. “Whether she survives the place, though… Loads don’t…”