also by j. k. rowling
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
Year One at Hogwarts
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Year Two at Hogwarts
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Year Three at Hogwarts
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Year Four at Hogwarts
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Year Five at Hogwarts
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Year Six at Hogwarts
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
Year Seven at Hogwarts
C H A P T E R-- O N E
Β 1 Β
DUDLEY DEMENTED
he hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and
a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet
Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and
lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use
of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual
car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet
Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows
thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The
only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his
back in a flower bed outside number four.
He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the
pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a
short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy
and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the up-
pers. Harry Potter's appearance did not endear him to the neighbors,
who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be pun-
ishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea
bush this evening he was quite invisible to passersby. In fact , the only way
way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia
stuck their heads out of the living room window and looked straight
down into the flower bed below.
On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his
idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on
the hot, hard earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at
him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or
shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he had
tried sitting down in the living room and watching television with his
aunt and uncle.
Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open win-
dow, Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, suddenly spoke. "Glad to see the
boy's stopped trying to butt in. Where is he anyway?"
"I don't know," said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. "Not in the
house."
Uncle Vernon grunted.
"Watching the news . . ." he said scathingly. "I'd like to know what
he's really up to. As if a normal boy cares what's on the news β Dud-
ley hasn't got a clue what's going on, doubt he knows who the Prime
Minister is! Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about his lot on
our news β"
"Vernon, shh!" said Aunt Petunia. "The window's open!"
"Oh β yes β sorry, dear . . ."
The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit 'N
Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-loving
old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was
frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that he was
concealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking
him around for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had
rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon's
voice floated out of the window again.
DUDLEY DEMENTED
Β 3 Β
"Dudders out for tea?"
"At the Polkisses'," said Aunt Petunia fondly. "He's got so many lit-
tle friends, he's so popular . . ."
Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were as-
tonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all his
dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang
every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that
Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every
evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and
throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at
it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent
most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers
from bins along the way.
The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o'clock
news reached Harry's ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps
tonight β after a month of waiting β would be the night β
"Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the
Spanish baggage-handlers' strike reaches its second week β"
"Give 'em a lifelong siesta, I would," snarled Uncle Vernon over the
end of the newsreader's sentence, but no matter: Outside in the flower
bed, Harry's stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had happened,
it would surely have been the first item on the news; death and de-
struction were more important than stranded holidaymakers. . . .
He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue sky.
Every day this summer had been the same: the tension, the expecta-
tion, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again . . . and
always, growing more insistent all the time, the question of why noth-
ing had happened yet. . . .
He kept listening, just in case there was some small clue, not rec-
ognized for what it really was by the Muggles β an unexplained
disappearance, perhaps, or some strange accident . . . but the baggage-handlers' strike was followed by news on the drought in the
Southeast ("I hope he's listening next door!" bellowed Uncle Vernon,
"with his sprinklers on at three in the morning!"); then a helicopter
that had almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous actress's di-
vorce from her famous husband ("as if we're interested in their sordid
affairs," sniffed Aunt Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively
in every magazine she could lay her bony hands on).
Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening sky as the
newsreader said, "And finally, Bungy the budgie has found a novel
way of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feath-
ers in Barnsley, has learned to water-ski! Mary Dorkins went to find
out more. . . ."
Harry opened his eyes again. If they had reached water-skiing
budgerigars, there was nothing else worth hearing. He rolled cau-
tiously onto his front and raised himself onto his knees and elbows,
preparing to crawl out from under the window.
He had moved about two inches when several things happened in
very quick succession.
A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot; a cat
streaked out from under a parked car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a
bellowed oath, and the sound of breaking china came from the Durs-
leys' living room, and as though Harry had been waiting for this
signal, he jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling from the waist-
band of his jeans a thin wooden wand as if he were unsheathing a
sword. But before he could draw himself up to full height, the top of
his head collided with the Dursleys' open window, and the resultant
crash made Aunt Petunia scream even louder.
Harry felt as if his head had been split in two; eyes streaming, he
swayed, trying to focus on the street and spot the source of the noise,
but he had barely staggered upright again when two large purple
hands reached through the open window and closed tightly around
his throat.
"Put β it β away!" Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry's ear. "Now!
Before β anyone β sees!"
"Get β off β me!" Harry gasped; for a few seconds they strug-
gled, Harry pulling at his uncle's sausage-like fingers with his left
hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wand. Then, as
the pain in the top of Harry's head gave a particularly nasty throb, Un-
cle Vernon yelped and released Harry as though he had received an
electric shock β some invisible force seemed to have surged through
his nephew, making him impossible to hold.
Panting, Harry fell forward over the hydrangea bush, straightened
up, and stared around. There was no sign of what had caused the loud
cracking noise, but there were several faces peering through various
nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back into his jeans
and tried to look innocent.
"Lovely evening!" shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at Mrs. Number
Seven, who was glaring from behind her net curtains. "Did you hear
that car backfire just now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!"
He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all the curious
neighbors had disappeared from their various windows, then the grin
became a grimace of rage as he beckoned Harry back toward him.
Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop just short of the
point at which Uncle Vernon's outstretched hands could resume their
strangling.
"What the devil do you mean by it, boy?" asked Uncle Vernon in a
croaky voice that trembled with fury.
"What do I mean by what?" said Harry coldly. He kept looking left
and right up the street, still hoping to see the person who had made
the cracking noise.
"Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside our β"
"I didn't make that noise," said Harry firmly.
Aunt Petunia's thin, horsey face now appeared beside Uncle Ver-
non's wide, purple one. She looked livid.
"Why were you lurking under our window?"
"Yes β yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our
window, boy?"
"Listening to the news," said Harry in a resigned voice.
His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage.
"Listening to the news! Again?"
"Well, it changes every day, you see," said Harry.
"Don't you be clever with me, boy! I want to know what you're re-
ally up to β and don't give me any more of this listening to the news
tosh! You know perfectly well that your lot . . ."
"Careful, Vernon!" breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon low-
ered his voice so that Harry could barely hear him, ". . . that your lot
don't get on our news!"
"That's all you know," said Harry.
The Dursleys goggled at him for a few seconds, then Aunt Petunia
said, "You're a nasty little liar. What are all those β" she too lowered
her voice so that Harry had to lip-read the next word, "β owls β
doing if they're not bringing you news?"
"Aha!" said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper. "Get out of that
one, boy! As if we didn't know you get all your news from those pesti-
lential birds!"
Harry hesitated for a moment. It cost him something to tell the
truth this time, even though his aunt and uncle could not possibly
know how bad Harry felt at admitting it.
"The owls . . . aren't bringing me news," said Harry tonelessly.
"I don't believe it," said Aunt Petunia at once.
"No more do I," said Uncle Vernon forcefully.
"We know you're up to something funny," said Aunt Petunia.
"We're not stupid, you know," said Uncle Vernon.
"Well, that's news to me," said Harry, his temper rising, and before
the Dursleys could call him back, he had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn, stepped over the low garden wall, and was striding off up
the street.
He was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have to face his
aunt and uncle later and pay the price for his rudeness, but he did not
care very much just at the moment; he had much more pressing mat-
ters on his mind.
Harry was sure that the cracking noise had been made by someone
Apparating or Disapparating. It was exactly the sound Dobby the
house-elf made when he vanished into thin air. Was it possible that
Dobby was here in Privet Drive? Could Dobby be following him right
at this very moment? As this thought occurred he wheeled around and
stared back down Privet Drive, but it appeared to be completely de-
serted again and Harry was sure that Dobby did not know how to
become invisible. . . .
He walked on, hardly aware of the route he was taking, for he had
pounded these streets so often lately that his feet carried him to his fa-
vorite haunts automatically. Every few steps he glanced back over his
shoulder. Someone magical had been near him as he lay among Aunt
Petunias dying begonias, he was sure of it. Why hadn't they spoken to
him, why hadn't they made contact, why were they hiding now?
And then, as his feeling of frustration peaked, his certainty leaked
away.
Perhaps it hadn't been a magical sound after all. Perhaps he was so
desperate for the tiniest sign of contact from the world to which he
belonged that he was simply overreacting to perfectly ordinary noises.
Could he be sure it hadn't been the sound of something breaking in-
side a neighbor's house?
Harry felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach and, before he
knew it, the feeling of hopelessness that had plagued him all summer
rolled over him once again. . . .
Tomorrow morning he would be awoken by the alarm at five o'clock so that he could pay the owl that delivered the Daily
Prophet β but was there any point in continuing to take it? Harry
merely glanced at the front page before throwing it aside these days;
when the idiots who ran the paper finally realized that Voldemort was
back it would be headline news, and that was the only kind Harry
cared about.
If he was lucky, there would also be owls carrying letters from his
best friends, Ron and Hermione, though any expectation he had had
that their letters would bring him news had long since been dashed.
"We can't say much about you-know-what, obviously. . . ." "We've been
told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray. . . ."
"We're quite busy but I can't give you details here. . . ." "There's a fair
amount going on, we'll tell you everything when we see you. . . ."
But when were they going to see him? Nobody seemed too both-
ered with a precise date. Hermione had scribbled, "I expect we'll be see-
ing you quite soon" inside his birthday card, but how soon was soon? As
far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in their letters, Hermione
and Ron were in the same place, presumably at Ron's parents' house.
He could hardly bear to think of the pair of them having fun at the
Burrow when he was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, he was so angry at
them that he had thrown both their birthday presents of Honeydukes
chocolates away unopened, though he had regretted this after eating
the wilting salad Aunt Petunia had provided for dinner that night.
And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why wasn't he,
Harry, busy? Hadn't he proved himself capable of handling much
more than they? Had they all forgotten what he had done? Hadn't it
been he who had entered that graveyard and watched Cedric being
murdered and been tied to that tombstone and nearly killed . . . ?
Don't think about that, Harry told himself sternly for the hundredth
time that summer. It was bad enough that he kept revisiting the grave-
yard in his nightmares, without dwelling on it in his waking moments
too.
He turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway along he
passed the narrow alleyway down the side of a garage where he had
first clapped eyes on his godfather. Sirius, at least, seemed to under-
stand how Harry was feeling; admittedly his letters were just as empty
of proper news as Ron and Hermione's, but at least they contained
words of caution and consolation instead of tantalizing hints:
"I know this must be frustrating for you. . . ." "Keep your nose clean
and everything will be okay. . . ." "Be careful and don't do anything
rash. . . ."
Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia Crescent, turned into
Magnolia Road, and headed toward the darkening play park, he had
(by and large) done as Sirius advised; he had at least resisted the temp-
tation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set off for the Burrow
by himself. In fact Harry thought his behavior had been very good
considering how frustrated and angry he felt at being stuck in Privet
Drive this long, reduced to hiding in flower beds in the hope of hear-
ing something that might point to what Lord Voldemort was doing.
Nevertheless, it was quite galling to be told not to be rash by a man
who had served twelve years in the wizard prison, Azkaban, escaped,
attempted to commit the murder he had been convicted for in the
first place, then gone on the run with a stolen hippogriff. . . .
Harry vaulted over the locked park gate and set off across the
parched grass. The park was as empty as the surrounding streets.
When he reached the swings he sank onto the only one that Dudley
and his friends had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around
the chain, and stared moodily at the ground. He would not be able to
hide in the Dursleys' flower bed again. Tomorrow he would have to
think of some fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime, he
had nothing to look forward to but another restless, disturbed night,
because even when he escaped nightmares about Cedric he had unset-
tling dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in dead ends and
locked doors, which he supposed had something to do with the trapped feeling he had when he was awake. Often the old scar on his
forehead prickled uncomfortably, but he did not fool himself that
Ron or Hermione or Sirius would find that very interesting any-
more. . . . In the past his scar hurting had warned that Voldemort was
getting stronger again, but now that Voldemort was back they would
probably remind him that its regular irritation was only to be ex-
pected. . . . Nothing to worry about . . . old news . . .
The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he wanted to yell
with fury. If it hadn't been for him, nobody would even have known
Voldemort was back! And his reward was to be stuck in Little Whing-
ing for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world,
reduced to squatting among dying begonias so that he could hear
about water-skiing budgerigars! How could Dumbledore have forgot-
ten him so easily? Why had Ron and Hermione got together without
inviting him along too? How much longer was he supposed to endure
Sirius telling him to sit tight and be a good boy; or resist the tempta-
tion to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Volde-
mort had returned? These furious thoughts whirled around in Harry's
head, and his insides writhed with anger as a sultry, velvety night fell
around him, the air full of the smell of warm, dry grass and the only
sound that of the low grumble of traffic on the road beyond the park
railings.
He did not know how long he had sat on the swing before the
sound of voices interrupted his musings and he looked up. The street-
lamps from the surrounding roads were casting a misty glow strong
enough to silhouette a group of people making their way across the
park. One of them was singing a loud, crude song. The others were
laughing. A soft ticking noise came from several expensive racing
bikes that they were wheeling along.
Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front was unmis-
takably his cousin, Dudley Dursley, wending his way home, accom-
panied by his faithful gang.
Dudley was as vast as ever, but a year's hard dieting and the discov-
ery of a new talent had wrought quite a change in his physique. As
Uncle Vernon delightedly told anyone who would listen, Dudley had
recently become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Cham-
pion of the Southeast. "The noble sport," as Uncle Vernon called it,
had made Dudley even more formidable than he had seemed to Harry
in the primary school days when he had served as Dudley's first
punching bag. Harry was not remotely afraid of his cousin anymore
but he still didn't think that Dudley learning to punch harder and
more accurately was cause for celebration. Neighborhood children all
around were terrified of him β even more terrified than they were of
"that Potter boy," who, they had been warned, was a hardened hooli-
gan who attended St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal
Boys.
Harry watched the dark figures crossing the grass and wondered
whom they had been beating up tonight. Look round, Harry found
himself thinking as he watched them. Come on . . . look round . . . I'm
sitting here all alone. . . . Come and have ago. . . .
If Dudley's friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to
make a beeline for him, and what would Dudley do then? He
wouldn't want to lose face in front of the gang, but he'd be terrified of
provoking Harry. . . . It would be really fun to watch Dudley's
dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond
. . . and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, Harry was ready β he
had his wand . . . let them try . . . He'd love to vent some of his frus-
tration on the boys who had once made his life hell β
But they did not turn around, they did not see him, they were al-
most at the railings. Harry mastered the impulse to call after them.
. . . Seeking a fight was not a smart move. . . . He must not use
magic. . . . He would be risking expulsion again. . . .
Dudley's gang's voices died; they were out of sight, heading along
Magnolia Road.
There you go, Sirius, Harry thought dully. Nothing rash. Kept my
nose clean. Exactly the opposite of what you'd have done . . .
He got to his feet and stretched. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon
seemed to feel that whenever Dudley turned up was the right time to
be home, and anytime after that was much too late. Uncle Vernon had
threatened to lock Harry in the shed if he came home after Dudley
again, so, stifling a yawn, still scowling, Harry set off toward the park
gate.
Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large, square houses
with perfectly manicured lawns, all owned by large, square owners
who drove very clean cars similar to Uncle Vernon's. Harry preferred
Little Whinging by night, when the curtained windows made patches
of jewel-bright colors in the darkness and he ran no danger of hearing
disapproving mutters about his "delinquent" appearance when he
passed the householders. He walked quickly, so that halfway along
Magnolia Road Dudley's gang came into view again; they were saying
their farewells at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry stepped
into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.
". . . squealed like a pig, didn't he?" Malcolm was saying, to guffaws
from the others.
"Nice right hook, Big D," said Piers.
"Same time tomorrow?" said Dudley.
"Round at my place, my parents are out," said Gordon.
"See you then," said Dudley.
"Bye Dud!"
"See ya, Big D!"
Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on before setting off
again. When their voices had faded once more he headed around the
corner into Magnolia Crescent and by walking very quickly he soon
came within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling along at his
ease, humming tunelessly.
"Hey, Big D!" Dudley turned.
"Oh," he grunted. "It's you."
"How long have you been 'Big D' then?" said Harry.
"Shut it," snarled Dudley, turning away again.
"Cool name," said Harry, grinning and falling into step beside his
cousin. "But you'll always be Ickle Diddykins to me."
"I said, SHUT IT!" said Dudley, whose ham-like hands had curled
into fists.
"Don't the boys know that's what your mum calls you?"
"Shut your face."
"You don't tell her to shut her face. What about 'popkin' and
'Dinky Diddydums,' can I use them then?"
Dudley said nothing. The effort of keeping himself from hitting
Harry seemed to be demanding all his self-control.
"So who've you been beating up tonight?" Harry asked, his grin
fading. "Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights
ago β"
"He was asking for it," snarled Dudley.
"Oh yeah?"
"He cheeked me."
"Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that's been taught to walk on
its hind legs? 'Cause that's not cheek, Dud, that's true . . ."
A muscle was twitching in Dudley's jaw. It gave Harry enormous
satisfaction to know how furious he was making Dudley; he felt as
though he was siphoning off his own frustration into his cousin, the
only outlet he had.
They turned right down the narrow alleyway where Harry had
first seen Sirius and which formed a shortcut between Magnolia
Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and much darker than the
streets it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their footsteps
were muffled between garage walls on one side and a high fence on
the other .
"Think you're a big man carrying that thing, don't you?" Dudley
said after a few seconds.
"What thing?"
"That β that thing you're hiding."
Harry grinned again.
"Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s'pose if you were,
you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time. . . ."
Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look sideways at it.
"You're not allowed," Dudley said at once. "I know you're not.
You'd get expelled from that freak school you go to."
"How d'you know they haven't changed the rules, Big D?"
"They haven't," said Dudley, though he didn't sound completely
convinced. Harry laughed softly.
"You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have
you?" Dudley snarled.
"Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat
up a ten-year-old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on
about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?"
"He was sixteen for your information," snarled Dudley, "and he was
out cold for twenty minutes after I'd finished with him and he was
twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing
out β"
"Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ fright-
ened of nasty Harry's wand?"
"Not this brave at night, are you?" sneered Dudley.
"This is night, Diddykins. That's what we call it when it goes all
dark like this."
"I mean when you're in bed!" Dudley snarled.
He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at his cousin.
From the little he could see of Dudley's large face, he was wearing a
strangely triumphant look.
"What d'you mean, I'm not brave in bed?" said Harry, completely nonplussed. "What β am I supposed to be frightened of pillows or
something?"
"I heard you last night," said Dudley breathlessly. "Talking in your
sleep. Moaning."
"What d'you mean?" Harry said again, but there was a cold, plung-
ing sensation in his stomach. He had revisited the graveyard last night
in his dreams.
Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter then adopted a high-pitched,
whimpering voice. " 'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!' Who's
Cedric β your boyfriend?"
"I β you're lying β" said Harry automatically. But his mouth had
gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn't lying β how else would he know
about Cedric?
" 'Dad! Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Boo-hoo!' "
"Shut up," said Harry quietly. "Shut up, Dudley, I'm warning you!"
" 'Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He's killed
Cedric! Dad, help me! He's going to β' Don't you point that thing at
me!"
Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing the wand di-
rectly at Dudley's heart. Harry could feel fourteen years' hatred of
Dudley pounding in his veins β what wouldn't he give to strike now,
to jinx Dudley so thoroughly he'd have to crawl home like an insect,
struck dumb, sprouting feelers β
"Don't ever talk about that again," Harry snarled. "D'you under-
stand me?"
"Point that thing somewhere else!"
"I said, do you understand me?"
"Point it somewhere else!"
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"GET THAT THING AWAY FROM β"
Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been
doused in icy water.
Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky
was suddenly pitch-black and lightless β the stars, the moon, the
misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant
grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening
was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total,
impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had
dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.
For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without
meaning to, despite the fact that he'd been resisting as hard as he
could β then his reason caught up with his senses β he didn't have
the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that,
trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a
weightless veil.
Dudley's terrified voice broke in Harry's ear.
"W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!"
"I'm not doing anything! Shut up and don't move!"
"I c-can't see! I've g-gone blind! I β"
"I said shut up!"
Harry stood stock-still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The
cold was so intense that he was shivering all over; goose bumps had
erupted up his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck were stand-
ing up β he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly
around, unseeing . . .
It was impossible. . . . They couldn't be here. . . . Not in Little
Whinging . . . He strained his ears. . . . He would hear them before
he saw them. . . .
"I'll t-tell Dad!" Dudley whimpered. "W-where are you? What are
you d-do β ?"
"Will you shut up?" Harry hissed, "I'm trying to lis β"
But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been
dreading.
There was something in the alleyway apart from themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a hor-
rible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air.
"C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I'll h-hit you, I swear I will!"
"Dudley, shut β"
WHAM!
A fist made contact with the side of Harry's head, lifting Harry off
his feet. Small white lights popped in front of Harry's eyes; for the sec-
ond time in an hour he felt as though his head had been cleaved in
two; next moment he had landed hard on the ground, and his wand
had flown out of his hand.
"You moron, Dudley!" Harry yelled, his eyes watering with pain, as
he scrambled to his hands and knees, now feeling around frantically in
the blackness. He heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley
fence, stumbling.
"DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT
IT!"
There was a horrible squealing yell, and Dudley's footsteps
stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a creeping chill behind him
that could mean only one thing. There was more than one.
"DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU
DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!" Harry muttered franti-
cally, his hands flying over the ground like spiders. "Where's β wand
β come on β Lumos!"
He said the spell automatically, desperate for light to help him in
his search β and to his disbelieving relief, light flared inches from his
right hand β the wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up, scram-
bled to his feet, and turned around.
His stomach turned over.
A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly toward him,
hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes,
sucking on the night as it came.
Stumbling backward, Harry raised his wand.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A silvery wisp of vapor shot from the tip of the wand and the de-
mentor slowed, but the spell hadn't worked properly; tripping over his
feet, Harry retreated farther as the dementor bore down upon him,
panic fogging his brain β concentrate β
A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the dementor's
robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry's ears.
"Expecto Patronum!"
His voice sounded dim and distant. . . . Another wisp of silver
smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand β he couldn't do
it anymore, he couldn't work the spell β
There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laugh-
ter. . . . He could smell the dementor's putrid, death-cold breath, fill-
ing his own lungs, drowning him β Think . . . something happy. . . .
But there was no happiness in him. . . . The dementor's icy fingers
were closing on his throat β the high-pitched laughter was growing
louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head β "Bow to death,
Harry. . . . It might even be painless. . . . I would not know. . . . I have
never died. . . ."
He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again β
And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he fought for
breath β
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harry's wand; its
antlers caught the dementor in the place where the heart should have
been; it was thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and as the stag
charged, the dementor swooped away, batlike and defeated.
"THIS WAY!" Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling around, he
sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. "DUDLEY?
DUDLEY!"
He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached them: Dudley
was curled on the ground, his arms clamped over his face; a second dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy
hands, prizing them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded
head toward Dudley's face as though about to kiss him. . . .
"GET IT!" Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring sound, the
silver stag he had conjured came galloping back past him. The de-
mentor's eyeless face was barely an inch from Dudley's when the silver
antlers caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, like its
fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into the darkness. The stag
cantered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.
Moon, stars, and streetlamps burst back into life. A warm breeze
swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in neighboring gardens and the mun-
dane rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again. Harry
stood quite still, all his senses vibrating, taking in the abrupt return to
normality. After a moment he became aware that his T-shirt was stick-
ing to him; he was drenched in sweat.
He could not believe what had just happened. Dementors here, in
Little Whinging . . .
Dudley lay curled up on the ground, whimpering and shaking.
Harry bent down to see whether he was in a fit state to stand up, but
then heard loud, running footsteps behind him; instinctively raising
his wand again, he spun on his heel to face the newcomer.
Mrs. Figg, their batty old neighbor, came panting into sight. Her
grizzled gray hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string
shopping bag was swinging from her wrist, and her feet were halfway
out of her tartan carpet slippers. Harry made to stow his wand hur-
riedly out of sight, but β
"Don't put it away, idiot boy!" she shrieked. "What if there are
more of them around? Oh, I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!" .....