Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows hp-7 Read online

  “I was about to call him!” said Lucius, and his hand actually closed upon Bellatrix’s wrist, preventing her from touching the Mark. “I shall summon him, Bella. Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority—”

  “Your authority!” she sneered, attempting to wrench her hand from his grasp. “You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!”

  “This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy—”

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy,” interjected Greyback, “but it’s us that caught Potter, and it’s us that’ll be claiming the gold—”

  “Gold!” laughed Bellatrix, still attempting to throw off her brother-in-law, her free hand groping in her pocket for her wand. “Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the honor of his—of—”

  She stopped struggling, her dark eyes fixed upon something Harry could not see. Jubilant at her capitulation, Lucius threw her hand from him and ripped up his own sleeve—

  “STOP!” shrieked Bellatrix, “Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!”

  Lucius froze, his index finger hovering over his own Mark. Bellatrix strode out of Harry’s limited line of vision.

  “What is that?” he heard her say.

  “Sword,” grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher.

  “Give it to me.”

  “It’s not yours, missus, it’s mine, I reckon I found it.”

  There was a bang and a flash of red light; Harry knew that the Snatcher had been Stunned. There was a roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his wand.

  “What d’you think you’re playing at, woman?”

  “Stupefy!” she screamed, “Stupefy!”

  They were no match for her, even thought there were four of them against one of her: She was a witch, as Harry knew, with prodigious skill and no conscience. They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who had been forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched. Out of the corners of his eyes Harry saw Bellatrix bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword of Gryffindor gripped tightly in her hand, her face waxen.

  “Where did you get this sword?” she whispered to Greyback as she pulled his wand out of his unresisting grip.

  “How dare you?” he snarled, his mouth the only thing that could move as he was forced to gaze up at her. He bared his pointed teeth. “Release me, woman!”

  “Where did you find this sword?” she repeated, brandishing it in his face, “Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!”

  “It was in their tent,” rasped Greyback. “Release me, I say!”

  She waved her wand, and the werewolf sprang to his feet, but appeared too wary to approach her. He prowled behind an armchair, his filthy curved nails clutching its back.

  “Draco, move this scum outside,” said Bellatrix, indicating the unconscious men. “If you haven’t got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me.”

  “Don’t you dare speak to Draco like—” said Narcissa furiously, but Bellatrix screamed.

  “Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!”

  She stood, panting slightly, looking down at the sword, examining its hilt. Then she turned to look at the silent prisoners.

  “If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed,” she muttered, more to herself than to the others. “The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself… But if he finds out… I must… I must know…”

  She turned back to her sister again.

  “The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!”

  “This is my house, Bella, you don’t give orders in my—”

  “Do it! You have no idea of the danger we’re in!” shrieked Bellatrix. She looked frightening, mad; a thin stream of fire issued from her wand and burned a hole in the carpet.

  Narcissa hesitated for a moment, then addressed the werewolf.

  “Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.”

  “Wait,” said Bellatrix sharply. “All except… except for the Mudblood.”

  Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure.

  “No!” shouted Ron. “You can have me, keep me!”

  Bellatrix hit him across the face: the blow echoed around the room.

  “If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next,” she said. “Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them—yet.”

  She threw Greyback’s wand back to him, then took a short silver knife from under her robes. She cut Hermione free from the other prisoners, then dragged her by the hair into the middle of the room, while Greyback forced the rest of them to shuffle across to another door, into a dark passageway, his wand held out in front of him, projecting an invisible and irresistible force.

  “Reckon she’ll let me have a bit of the girl when she’s finished with her?” Greyback crooned as he forced them along the corridor. “I’d say I’ll get a bite or two, wouldn’t you, ginger?”

  Harry could feel Ron shaking. They were forced down a steep flight of stairs, still tied back-to-back and in danger of slipping and breaking their necks at any moment. At the bottom was a heavy door. Greyback unlocked it with a tap of his wand, then forced them into a dank and musty room and left them in total darkness. The echoing bang of the slammed cellar door had not died away before there was a terrible, drawn out scream from directly above them.

  “HERMIONE!” Ron bellowed, and he started to writhe and struggle against the ropes tying them together, so that Harry staggered. “HERMIONE!”

  “Be quiet!” Harry said. “Shut up. Ron, we need to work out a way—”

  “HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”

  “We need a plan, stop yelling—we need to get these ropes off—”

  “Harry?” came a whisper through the darkness. “Ron? Is that you?”

  Ron stopped shouting. There was a sound of movement close by them, then Harry saw a shadow moving closer.

  “Harry? Ron?”

  “Luna?”

  “Yes, it’s me! Oh no, I didn’t want you to be caught!”

  “Luna, can you help us get these ropes off?” said Harry.

  “Oh yes, I expect so… There’s an old nail we use if we need to break anything… Just a moment…”

  Hermione screamed again from overhead, and they could hear Bellatrix screaming too, but her words were inaudible, for Ron shouted again, “HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”

  “Mr. Ollivander?” Harry could hear Luna saying. “Mr. Ollivander, have you got the nail? If you just move over a little bit… I think it was beside the water jug.”

  She was back within seconds.

  “You’ll need to stay still,” she said.

  Harry could feel her digging at the rope’s tough fibers to work the knots free. From upstairs they heard Bellatrix’s voice.

  “I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?”

  “We found it—we found it—PLEASE!”

  Hermione screamed again; Ron struggled harder than ever, and the rusty nail slipped onto Harry’s wrist.

  “Ron, please stay still!” Luna whispered. “I can’t see what I’m doing—”

  “My pocket!” said Ron, “In my pocket, there’s a Deluminator, and it’s full of light!”

  A few seconds later, there was a click, and the luminescent spheres the Deluminator had sucked from the lamps in the tent flew into the cellar: Unable to rejoin their sources, they simply hung there, like tiny suns, flooding the underground room with light. Harry saw Luna, all eyes in her white face, and the motionless figure of Ollivander the wandmaker, curled up on the floor in the corner. Craning around, he caught sight of their fellow prisoners: Dean and Griphook the goblin, who seemed barely conscious, kept standing by the ropes that bound him to the humans.

  “Oh, that’s much easier, thanks, Ron,” said Luna, and
she began hacking at their bindings again. “Hello, Dean!”

  From above came Bellatrix’s voice.

  “You’re lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!”

  Another terrible scream—

  “HERMIONE!”

  “What else did you take? What else have you got? Tel me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”

  “There!”

  Harry felt the ropes fall away and turned, rubbing his wrists, to see Ron running around the cellar, looking up at the low ceiling, searching for a trapdoor. Dean, his face bruised and bloody, said “Thanks” to Luna and stood there, shivering, but Griphook sank onto the cellar floor, looking groggy and disoriented, many welts across his swarthy face.

  Ron was now trying to Disapparate without a wand.

  “There’s no way out, Ron,” said Luna, watching his fruitless efforts. “The cellar is completely escape-proof. I tried, at first. Mr. Ollivander has been here for a long time, he’s tried everything.”

  Hermione was screaming again: The sound went through Harry like physical pain. Barely conscious of the fierce prickling of his scar, he too started to run around the cellar, feeling the walls for he hardly knew what, knowing in his heart that it was useless.

  “What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!”

  Hermione’s screams echoed off the walls upstairs, Ron was half sobbing as he pounded the walls with his fists, and Harry in utter desperation seized Hagrid’s pouch from around his neck and groped inside it: He pulled out Dumbledore’s Snitch and shook it, hoping for he did not know what—nothing happened—he waved the broken halves of the phoenix wand, but they were lifeless—the mirror fragment fell sparkling to the floor, and he saw a gleam of brightest blue—

  Dumbledore’s eye was gazing at him out of the mirror.

  “Help us!” he yelled at it in mad desperation. “We’re in the cellar of Malfoy Manor, help us!”

  The eye blinked and was gone.

  Harry was not even sure that it had really been there. He tilted the shard of mirror this way and that, and saw nothing reflected there but the walls and ceiling of their prison, and upstairs Hermione was screaming worse than ever, and next to him Ron was bellowing, “HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”

  “How did you get into my vault?” they heard Bellatrix scream. “Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?”

  “We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobbed. “We’ve never been inside your vault… It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!”

  “A copy?” screeched Bellatrix. “Oh, a likely story!”

  “But we can find out easily!” came Lucius’s voice. “Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!”

  Harry dashed across the cellar to where Griphook was huddled on the floor.

  “Griphook,” he whispered into the goblin’s pointed ear, “you must tell them that sword’s a fake, they mustn’t know it’s the real one, Griphook, please—”

  He could hear someone scuttling own the cellar steps; next moment, Draco’s shaking voice spoke from behind the door.

  “Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don’t try anything, or I’ll kill you!”

  They did as they were bidden; as the lock turned, Ron clicked the Deluminator and the lights whisked back into his pocket, restoring the cellar’s darkness. The door flew open; Malfoy marched inside, wand held out in front of him, pale and determined. He seized the little goblin by the arm and backed out again, dragging Griphook with him. The door slammed shut and at the same moment a loud crack echoed inside the cellar.

  Ron clicked the Deluminator. Three balls of light flew back into the air from his pocket, revealing Dobby the house-elf, who had just Apparated into their midst.

  “DOB—!”

  Harry hit Ron on the arm to stop him shouting, and Ron looked terrified at his mistake. Footsteps crossed the ceiling overhead: Draco marching Griphook to Bellatrix.

  Dobby’s enormous, tennis-ball shaped eyes were wide; he was trembling from his feet to the tips of his ears. He was back in the home of his old masters, and it was clear that he was petrified.

  “Harry Potter,” he squeaked in the tiniest quiver of a voice, “Dobby has come to rescue you.”

  “But how did you—?”

  An awful scream drowned Harry’s words: Hermione was being tortured again. He cut to the essentials.

  “You can Disapparate out of this cellar?” he asked Dobby, who nodded, his ears flapping.

  “And you can take humans with you?”

  Dobby nodded again.

  “Right. Dobby, I want you to grab Luna, Dean, and Mr. Ollivander, and take them—take them to—”

  “Bill and Fleur’s,” said Ron. “Shell Cottage on the outskirts of Tinworth!”

  The elf nodded for a third time.

  “And then come back,” said Harry. “Can you do that, Dobby?”

  “Of course, Harry Potter,” whispered the little elf. He hurried over to Mr. Ollivander, who appeared to be barely conscious. He took one of the wandmaker’s hands in his own, then held out the other to Luna and Dean, neither of whom moved.

  “Harry, we want to help you!” Luna whispered.

  “We can’t leave you here,” said Dean.

  “Go, both of you! We’ll see you at Bill and Fleur’s.”

  As Harry spoke, his scar burned worse than ever, and for a few seconds he looked down, not upon the wandmaker, but on another man who was just as old, just as thin, but laughing scornfully.

  “Kill me, then, Voldemort, I welcome death! But my death will not bring you what you seek… There is so much you do not understand…”

  He felt Voldemort’s fury, but as Hermione screamed again he shut it out, returning to the cellar and the horror of his own present.

  “Go!” Harry beseeched to Luna and Dean. “Go! We’ll follow, just go!”

  They caught hold of the elf’s outstretched fingers. There was another loud crack, and Dobby, Luna, Dean, and Ollivander vanished.

  “What was that?” shouted Lucius Malfoy from over their heads. “Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar?”

  Harry and Ron stared at each other.

  “Draco—no, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!”

  Footsteps crossed the room overhead, then there was silence. Harry knew that the people in the drawing room were listening for more noises from the cellar.

  “We’re going to have to try and tackle him,” he whispered to Ron. They had no choice: The moment anyone entered the room and saw the absence of three prisoners, they were lost. “Leave the lights on,” Harry added, and as they heard someone descending the steps outside the door, they backed against the wall on either side of it.

  “Stand back,” came Wormtail’s voice. “Stand away from the door. I’m coming in.”

  The door flew open. For a split second Wormtail gazed into the apparently empty cellar, ablaze with light from the three miniature suns floating in midair. Then Harry and Ron launched themselves upon him. Ron seized Wormtail’s wand arm and forced it upwards. Harry slapped a hand to his mouth, muffling his voice. Silently they struggled: Wormtail’s wand emitted sparks; his silver hand closed around Harry’s throat.

  “What is it, Wormtail?” called Lucius Malfoy from above.

  “Nothing!” Ron called back, in a passable imitation of Wormtail’s wheezy voice. “All fine!”

  Harry could barely breathe.

  “You’re going to kill me?” Harry choked, attempting to prise off the metal fingers. “After I saved your life? You owe me, Wormtail!”

  The silver fingers slackened. Harry had not expected it: He wrenched himself free, astonished, keeping his hand over Wormtail’s mouth. He saw the ratlike man’s small watery eyes widen with fear and surprise: He seemed just as shocked as Harry at what his hand had done, at the tiny, merciful impulse it had betrayed, and he continued to struggle mo
re powerfully, as though to undo that moment of weakness.

  “And we’ll have that,” whispered Ron, tugging Wormtail’s wand from his other hand.

  Wandless, helpless, Pettigrew’s pupils dilated in terror. His eyes had slid from Harry’s face to something else. His own silver fingers were moving inexorably toward his own throat.

  “No—”

  Without pausing to think, Harry tried to drag back the hand, but there was no stopping it. The silver tool that Voldemort had given his most cowardly servant had turned upon its disarmed and useless owner; Pettigrew was reaping his reward for his hesitation, his moment of pity; he was being strangled before their eyes.

  “No!”

  Ron had released Wormtail too, and together he and Harry tried to pull the crushing metal fingers from around Wormtail’s throat, but it was no use. Pettigrew was turning blue.

  “Relashio!” said Ron, pointing the wand at the silver hand, but nothing happened; Pettigrew dropped to his knees, and at the same moment, Hermione gave a dreadful scream from overhead. Wormtail’s eyes rolled upward in his purple face; he gave a last twitch, and was still.

  Harry and Ron looked at each other, then leaving Wormtail’s body on the floor behind them, ran up the stairs and back into the shadowy passageway leading to the drawing room. Cautiously they crept along it until they reached the drawing room door, which was ajar. Now they had a clear view of Bellatrix looking down at Griphook, who was holding Gryffindor’s sword in his long-fingered hands. Hermione was lying at Bellatrix’s feet. She was barely stirring.

  “Well?” Bellatrix said to Griphook. “Is it the true sword?”

  Harry waited, holding his breath, fighting against the prickling of his scar.

  “No,” said Griphook. “It is a fake.”

  “Are you sure?” panted Bellatrix. “Quite sure?”

  “Yes,” said the goblin.

  Relief broke across her face, all tension drained from it.

  “Good,” she said, and with a casual flick of her wand she slashed another deep cut into the goblin’s face, and he dropped with a yell at her feet. She kicked him aside. “And now,” she said in a voice that burst with triumph, “we call the Dark Lord!”