The Order of the Phoenix Read online

  Harry was surprised to find that this information did not hurt at all. Wanting to impress Cho seemed to belong to a past that was no longer quite connected with him; so much of what he had wanted before Sirius’s death felt that way these days … the week that had elapsed since he had last seen Sirius seemed to have lasted much, much longer; it stretched across two universes, the one with Sirius in it, and the one without.

  ‘You’re well out of it, mate,’ said Ron forcefully. ‘I mean, she’s quite good-looking and all that, but you want someone a bit more cheerful.’

  ‘She’s probably cheerful enough with someone else,’ said Harry, shrugging.

  ‘Who’s she with now, anyway?’ Ron asked Hermione, but it was Ginny who answered.

  ‘Michael Corner,’ she said.

  ‘Michael – but –’ said Ron, craning around in his seat to stare at her. ‘But you were going out with him!’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Ginny resolutely. ‘He didn’t like Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw at Quidditch, and got really sulky, so I ditched him and he ran off to comfort Cho instead.’ She scratched her nose absently with the end of her quill, turned The Quibbler upsidedown and began marking her answers. Ron looked highly delighted.

  ‘Well, I always thought he was a bit of an idiot,’ he said, prodding his queen forwards towards Harry’s quivering castle. ‘Good for you. Just choose someone – better – next time.’

  He cast Harry an oddly furtive look as he said it.

  ‘Well, I’ve chosen Dean Thomas, would you say he’s better?’ asked Ginny vaguely.

  ‘WHAT?’ shouted Ron, upending the chessboard: Crookshanks went plunging after the pieces and Hedwig and Pigwidgeon twittered and hooted angrily from overhead.

  As the train slowed down in the approach to King’s Cross, Harry thought he had never wanted to leave it less. He even wondered fleetingly what would happen if he simply refused to get off, but remained stubbornly sitting there until the first of September, when it would take him back to Hogwarts. When it finally puffed to a standstill, however, he lifted down Hedwig’s cage and prepared to drag his trunk from the train as usual.

  When the ticket inspector signalled to Harry, Ron and Hermione that it was safe to walk through the magical barrier between platforms nine and ten, however, he found a surprise awaiting him on the other side: a group of people standing there to greet him who he had not expected at all.

  There was Mad-Eye Moody, looking quite as sinister with his bowler hat pulled low over his magical eye as he would have done without it, his gnarled hands clutching a long staff, his body wrapped in a voluminous travelling cloak. Tonks stood just behind him, her bright bubble-gum-pink hair gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the dirty glass of the station ceiling, wearing heavily patched jeans and a bright purple T-shirt bearing the legend The Weird Sisters. Next to Tonks was Lupin, his face pale, his hair greying, a long and threadbare overcoat covering a shabby jumper and trousers. At the front of the group stood Mr and Mrs Weasley, dressed in their Muggle best, and Fred and George, who were both wearing brand-new jackets in some lurid green, scaly material.

  ‘Ron, Ginny!’ called Mrs Weasley, hurrying forwards and hugging her children tightly. ‘Oh, and Harry dear – how are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ lied Harry, as she pulled him into a tight embrace. Over her shoulder he saw Ron goggling at the twins’ new clothes.

  ‘What are they supposed to be?’ he asked, pointing at the jackets.

  ‘Finest dragonskin, little bro’,’ said Fred, giving his zip a little tweak. ‘Business is booming and we thought we’d treat ourselves.’

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ said Lupin, as Mrs Weasley let go of Harry and turned to greet Hermione.

  ‘Hi,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t expect … what are you all doing here?’

  ‘Well,’ said Lupin with a slight smile, ‘we thought we might have a little chat with your aunt and uncle before letting them take you home.’

  ‘I dunno if that’s a good idea,’ said Harry at once.

  ‘Oh, I think it is,’ growled Moody, who had limped a little closer. ‘That’ll be them, will it, Potter?’

  He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder; his magical eye was evidently peering through the back of his head and his bowler hat. Harry leaned an inch or so to the left to see where Mad-Eye was pointing and there, sure enough, were the three Dursleys, who looked positively appalled to see Harry’s reception committee.

  ‘Ah, Harry!’ said Mr Weasley, turning from Hermione’s parents, who he had just greeted enthusiastically, and who were now taking it in turns to hug Hermione. ‘Well – shall we do it, then?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon so, Arthur,’ said Moody.

  He and Mr Weasley took the lead across the station towards the Dursleys, who were apparently rooted to the floor. Hermione disengaged herself gently from her mother to join the group.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Mr Weasley pleasantly to Uncle Vernon as he came to a halt right in front of him. ‘You might remember me, my name’s Arthur Weasley.’

  As Mr Weasley had single-handedly demolished most of the Dursleys’ living room two years previously, Harry would have been very surprised if Uncle Vernon had forgotten him. Sure enough, Uncle Vernon turned a deeper shade of puce and glared at Mr Weasley, but chose not to say anything, partly, perhaps, because the Dursleys were outnumbered two to one. Aunt Petunia looked both frightened and embarrassed; she kept glancing around, as though terrified somebody she knew would see her in such company. Dudley, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to look small and insignificant, a feat at which he was failing extravagantly.

  ‘We thought we’d just have a few words with you about Harry,’ said Mr Weasley, still smiling.

  ‘Yeah,’ growled Moody. ‘About how he’s treated when he’s at your place.’

  Uncle Vernon’s moustache seemed to bristle with indignation. Possibly because the bowler hat gave him the entirely mistaken impression that he was dealing with a kindred spirit, he addressed himself to Moody.

  ‘I am not aware that it is any of your business what goes on in my house –’

  ‘I expect what you’re not aware of would fill several books, Dursley,’ growled Moody.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not the point,’ interjected Tonks, whose pink hair seemed to offend Aunt Petunia more than all the rest put together, for she closed her eyes rather than look at her. ‘The point is, if we find out you’ve been horrible to Harry –’

  ‘– And make no mistake, we’ll hear about it,’ added Lupin pleasantly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Weasley, ‘even if you won’t let Harry use the fellytone –’

  ‘Telephone,’ whispered Hermione.

  ‘– Yeah, if we get any hint that Potter’s been mistreated in any way, you’ll have us to answer to,’ said Moody.

  Uncle Vernon swelled ominously. His sense of outrage seemed to outweigh even his fear of this bunch of oddballs.

  ‘Are you threatening me, sir?’ he said, so loudly that passers-by actually turned to stare.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Mad-Eye, who seemed rather pleased that Uncle Vernon had grasped this fact so quickly.

  ‘And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?’ barked Uncle Vernon.

  ‘Well …’ said Moody, pushing back his bowler hat to reveal his sinisterly revolving magical eye. Uncle Vernon leapt backwards in horror and collided painfully with a luggage trolley. ‘Yes, I’d have to say you do, Dursley.’

  He turned from Uncle Vernon to Harry.

  ‘So, Potter … give us a shout if you need us. If we don’t hear from you for three days in a row, we’ll send someone along …’

  Aunt Petunia whimpered piteously. It could not have been plainer that she was thinking of what the neighbours would say if they caught sight of these people marching up the garden path.

  ‘Bye, then, Potter,’ said Moody, grasping Harry’s shoulder for a moment with a gnarled hand.

  ‘Take care, Harry,’ said Lupin quietly. ‘Keep in touch.�
�

  ‘Harry, we’ll have you away from there as soon as we can,’ Mrs Weasley whispered, hugging him again.

  ‘We’ll see you soon, mate,’ said Ron anxiously, shaking Harry’s hand.

  ‘Really soon, Harry,’ said Hermione earnestly. ‘We promise.’

  Harry nodded. He somehow could not find words to tell them what it meant to him, to see them all ranged there, on his side. Instead, he smiled, raised a hand in farewell, turned around and led the way out of the station towards the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley hurrying along in his wake.

  Titles available in the Harry Potter series (in reading order):

  Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

  Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

  Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

  Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

  Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

  Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

  Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

  Other titles available:

  Quidditch Through the Ages

  Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

  The Tales of Beedle the Bard

  Read on for the first chapter of the next book in the Harry Potter series...

  HARRY

  POTTER

  and the Half-Blood Prince

  J.K. ROWLING

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher

  This digital edition first published by Pottermore Limited in 2012

  First published in print in Great Britain in 2005 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  Copyright © J.K. Rowling 2005

  Cover illustrations by Claire Melinsky copyright © J.K. Rowling 2010

  Harry Potter characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of and © Warner Bros. Ent.

  J.K. Rowling has asserted her moral rights

  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78110-012-7

  www.pottermore.com

  by J.K. Rowling

  The unique online experience built around the Harry Potter books. Share and participate in the stories, showcase your own Potter-related creativity and discover even more about the world of Harry Potter from the author herself.

  Visit pottermore.com

  To Mackenzie,

  my beautiful daughter,

  I dedicate

  her ink and paper twin

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  The Other Minister

  TWO

  Spinner’s End

  THREE

  Will and Won’t

  FOUR

  Horace Slughorn

  FIVE

  An Excess of Phlegm

  SIX

  Draco’s Detour

  SEVEN

  The Slug Club

  EIGHT

  Snape Victorious

  NINE

  The Half-Blood Prince

  TEN

  The House of Gaunt

  ELEVEN

  Hermione’s Helping Hand

  TWELVE

  Silver and Opals

  THIRTEEN

  The Secret Riddle

  FOURTEEN

  Felix Felicis

  FIFTEEN

  The Unbreakable Vow

  SIXTEEN

  A Very Frosty Christmas

  SEVENTEEN

  A Sluggish Memory

  EIGHTEEN

  Birthday Surprises

  NINETEEN

  Elf Tails

  TWENTY

  Lord Voldemort’s Request

  TWENTY-ONE

  The Unknowable Room

  TWENTY-TWO

  After the Burial

  TWENTY-THREE

  Horcruxes

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sectumsempra

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Seer Overheard

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Cave

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Lightning-Struck Tower

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Flight of the Prince

  TWENTY-NINE

  The Phoenix Lament

  THIRTY

  The White Tomb

  — CHAPTER ONE —

  The Other Minister

  It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the president of a far-distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government’s fault.

  The Prime Minister’s pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was less than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below. And how dared anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicised murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?

  ‘A grim mood has gripped the country,’ the opponent had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin.

  And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July … it wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal …

  He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the windows, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.

  He froze, nose-to-nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned, very slowly, to face the empty room.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

  For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming – as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough – from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small and dirty oil-painting in the far corner of the room.

  ‘To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.’ The man in the painting looked enquiringly at the Prime Minister.

  ‘Er,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘listen … it’s not a very good time for me … I’m waiting for a telephone call, you see … from the president of –’

  ‘That can be rearranged,’ said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister’s heart sank. He had been
afraid of that.

  ‘But I really was rather hoping to speak –’

  ‘We shall arrange for the president to forget to call. He will telephone tomorrow night instead,’ said the little man. ‘Kindly respond immediately to Mr Fudge.’

  ‘I … oh … very well,’ said the Prime Minister weakly. ‘Yes, I’ll see Fudge.’

  He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out on to a rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pinstriped cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.

  ‘Ah … Prime Minister,’ said Cornelius Fudge, striding forwards with his hand outstretched. ‘Good to see you again.’

  The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder and greyer, and his face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded well.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he said, shaking Fudge’s hand very briefly and gesturing towards the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.