Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (57 page)

‘Well, night,’ said Hermione, yawning widely as she set off up the girls’ staircase.

‘What does she see in Krum?’ Ron demanded, as he and Harry climbed the boys’ stairs.

‘Well,’ said Harry, considering the matter, ‘I s’pose he’s older, isn’t he … and he’s an international Quidditch player …’

‘Yeah, but apart from that,’ said Ron, sounding aggravated. ‘I mean, he’s a grouchy git, isn’t he?’

‘Bit grouchy, yeah,’ said Harry, whose thoughts were still on Cho.

They pulled off their robes and put on pyjamas in silence; Dean, Seamus and Neville were already asleep. Harry put his glasses on his bedside table and got into bed but did not pull the hangings closed around his four-poster; instead, he stared at the patch of starry sky visible through the window next to Neville’s bed. If he had known, this time last night, that in twenty-four hours’ time he would have kissed Cho Chang …

‘Night,’ grunted Ron, from somewhere to his right.

‘Night,’ said Harry.

Maybe next time … if there was a next time … she’d be a bit happier. He ought to have asked her out; she had probably been expecting it and was now really angry with him … or was she lying in bed, still crying about Cedric? He did not know what to think. Hermione’s explanation had made it all seem more complicated rather than easier to understand.

That’s what they should teach us here,
he thought, turning over on to his side,
how girls’ brains work … it’d be more useful than Divination, anyway …

Neville snuffled in his sleep. An owl hooted somewhere out in the night.

Harry dreamed he was back in the DA room. Cho was accusing him of luring her there under false pretences; she said he had promised her a hundred and fifty Chocolate Frog Cards if she showed up. Harry protested … Cho shouted,
‘Cedric gave me loads of Chocolate Frog Cards, look!
’ And she pulled out fistfuls of Cards from inside her robes and threw them into the air. Then she turned into Hermione, who said,
‘You did promise her, you know, Harry … I think you’d better give her something else instead … how about your Firebolt?’
And Harry was protesting that he could not give Cho his Firebolt, because Umbridge had it, and anyway the whole thing was ridiculous, he’d only come to the DA room to put up some Christmas baubles shaped like Dobby’s head …

The dream changed …

His body felt smooth, powerful and flexible. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold stone … he was flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly … it was dark, yet he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colours … he was turning his head … at first glance the corridor was empty … but no … a man was sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping on to his chest, his outline gleaming in the dark …

Harry put out his tongue … he tasted the man’s scent on the air … he was alive but drowsy … sitting in front of a door at the end of the corridor …

Harry longed to bite the man … but he must master the impulse … he had more important work to do …

But the man was stirring … a silver Cloak fell from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt … he had no choice … he reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man’s flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood …

The man was yelling in pain … then he fell silent … he slumped backwards against the wall … blood was splattering on to the floor …

His forehead hurt terribly … it was aching fit to burst …

‘Harry! HARRY!’

He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bed covers were twisted all around him like a straitjacket; he felt as though a white-hot poker were being applied to his forehead.

‘Harry!’

Ron was standing over him looking extremely frightened. There were more figures at the foot of Harry’s bed. He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him … he rolled right over and vomited over the edge of the mattress.

‘He’s really ill,’ said a scared voice. ‘Should we call someone?’

‘Harry!
Harry!
’

He had to tell Ron, it was very important that he tell him … taking great gulps of air, Harry pushed himself up in bed, willing himself not to throw up again, the pain half-blinding him.

‘Your dad,’ he panted, his chest heaving. ‘Your dad’s … been attacked …’

‘What?’ said Ron uncomprehendingly.

‘Your dad! He’s been bitten, it’s serious, there was blood everywhere …’

‘I’m going for help,’ said the same scared voice, and Harry heard footsteps running out of the dormitory.

‘Harry, mate,’ said Ron uncertainly, ‘you … you were just dreaming …’

‘No!’ said Harry furiously; it was crucial that Ron understand.

‘It wasn’t a dream … not an ordinary dream … I was there, I saw it … I
did
it …’

He could hear Seamus and Dean muttering but did not care. The pain in his forehead was subsiding slightly, though he was still sweating and shivering feverishly. He retched again and Ron leapt backwards out of the way.

‘Harry, you’re not well,’ he said shakily. ‘Neville’s gone for help.’

‘I’m fine!’ Harry choked, wiping his mouth on his pyjamas and shaking uncontrollably. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, it’s your dad you’ve got to worry about – we need to find out where he is – he’s bleeding like mad – I was – it was a huge snake.’

He tried to get out of bed but Ron pushed him back into it; Dean and Seamus were still whispering somewhere nearby. Whether one minute passed or ten, Harry did not know; he simply sat there shaking, feeling the pain recede very slowly from his scar … then there were hurried footsteps coming up the stairs and he heard Neville’s voice again.

‘Over here, Professor.’

Professor McGonagall came hurrying into the dormitory in her tartan dressing gown, her glasses perched lopsidedly on the bridge of her bony nose.

‘What is it, Potter? Where does it hurt?’

He had never been so pleased to see her; it was a member of the Order of the Phoenix he needed now, not someone fussing over him and prescribing useless potions.

‘It’s Ron’s dad,’ he said, sitting up again. ‘He’s been attacked by a snake and it’s serious, I saw it happen.’

‘What do you mean, you saw it happen?’ said Professor McGonagall, her dark eyebrows contracting.

‘I don’t know … I was asleep and then I was there …’

‘You mean you dreamed this?’

‘No!’ said Harry angrily; would none of them understand? ‘I was having a dream at first about something completely different, something stupid … and then this interrupted it. It was real, I didn’t imagine it. Mr Weasley was asleep on the floor and he was attacked by a gigantic snake, there was a load of blood, he collapsed, someone’s got to find out where he is …’

Professor McGonagall was gazing at him through her lopsided spectacles as though horrified at what she was seeing.

‘I’m not lying and I’m not mad!’ Harry told her, his voice rising to a shout. ‘I tell you, I saw it happen!’

‘I believe you, Potter,’ said Professor McGonagall curtly. ‘Put on your dressing gown – we’re going to see the Headmaster.’

Harry was so relieved she was taking him seriously that he did not hesitate, but jumped out of bed at once, pulled on his dressing gown and pushed his glasses back on to his nose.

‘Weasley, you ought to come too,’ said Professor McGonagall.

They followed Professor McGonagall past the silent figures of Neville, Dean and Seamus, out of the dormitory, down the spiral stairs into the common room, through the portrait hole and off along the Fat Lady’s moonlit corridor. Harry felt as though the panic inside him might spill over at any moment; he wanted to run, to yell for Dumbledore; Mr Weasley was bleeding as they walked along so sedately, and what if those fangs (Harry tried hard not to think ‘my fangs’) had been poisonous? They passed Mrs Norris, who turned her lamplike eyes upon them and hissed faintly, but Professor McGonagall said, ‘Shoo!’ Mrs Norris slunk away into the shadows, and in a few minutes they had reached the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore’s office.

‘Fizzing Whizzbee,’ said Professor McGonagall.

The gargoyle sprang to life and leapt aside; the wall behind it split in two to reveal a stone staircase that was moving continually upwards like a spiral escalator. The three of them stepped on to the moving stairs; the wall closed behind them with a thud and they were moving upwards in tight circles until they reached the highly polished oak door with the brass knocker shaped like a griffin.

Though it was now well past midnight there were voices coming from inside the room, a positive babble of them. It sounded as though Dumbledore was entertaining at least a dozen people.

Professor McGonagall rapped three times with the griffin knocker and the voices ceased abruptly as though someone had switched them all off. The door opened of its own accord and Professor McGonagall led Harry and Ron inside.

The room was in half-darkness; the strange silver instruments standing on tables were silent and still rather than whirring and emitting puffs of smoke as they usually did; the portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses covering the walls were all snoozing in their frames. Behind the door, a magnificent red and gold bird the size of a swan dozed on its perch with its head under its wing.

‘Oh, it’s you, Professor McGonagall … and …
ah.
’

Dumbledore was sitting in a high-backed chair behind his desk; he leaned forward into the pool of candlelight illuminating the papers laid out before him. He was wearing a magnificently embroidered purple and gold dressing gown over a snowy white nightshirt, but seemed wide-awake, his penetrating light blue eyes fixed intently upon Professor McGonagall.

‘Professor Dumbledore, Potter has had a … well, a nightmare,’ said Professor McGonagall. ‘He says …’

‘It wasn’t a nightmare,’ said Harry quickly.

Professor McGonagall looked round at Harry, frowning slightly.

‘Very well, then, Potter, you tell the Headmaster about it.’

‘I … well, I
was
asleep …’ said Harry and, even in his terror and his desperation to make Dumbledore understand, he felt slightly irritated that the Headmaster was not looking at him, but examining his own interlocked fingers. ‘But it wasn’t an ordinary dream … it was real … I saw it happen …’ He took a deep breath, ‘Ron’s dad – Mr Weasley – has been attacked by a giant snake.’

The words seemed to reverberate in the air after he had said them, sounding slightly ridiculous, even comic. There was a pause in which Dumbledore leaned back and stared meditatively at the ceiling. Ron looked from Harry to Dumbledore, white-faced and shocked.

‘How did you see this?’ Dumbledore asked quietly, still not looking at Harry.

‘Well … I don’t know,’ said Harry, rather angrily – what did it matter? ‘Inside my head, I suppose –’

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Dumbledore, still in the same calm tone. ‘I mean … can you remember – er – where you were positioned as you watched this attack happen? Were you perhaps standing beside the victim, or else looking down on the scene from above?’

This was such a curious question that Harry gaped at Dumbledore; it was almost as though he knew …

‘I was the snake,’ he said. ‘I saw it all from the snake’s point of view.’

Nobody else spoke for a moment, then Dumbledore, now looking at Ron who was still whey-faced, asked in a new and sharper voice, ‘Is Arthur seriously injured?’

‘
Yes
,’ said Harry emphatically – why were they all so slow on the uptake, did they not realise how much a person bled when fangs that long pierced their side? And why could Dumbledore not do him the courtesy of looking at him?

But Dumbledore stood up, so quickly it made Harry jump, and addressed one of the old portraits hanging very near the ceiling. ‘Everard?’ he said sharply. ‘And you too, Dilys!’

A sallow-faced wizard with a short black fringe and an elderly witch with long silver ringlets in the frame beside him, both of whom seemed to have been in the deepest of sleeps, opened their eyes immediately.

‘You were listening?’ said Dumbledore.

The wizard nodded; the witch said, ‘Naturally.’

‘The man has red hair and glasses,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Everard, you will need to raise the alarm, make sure he is found by the right people –’

Both nodded and moved sideways out of their frames, but instead of emerging in neighbouring pictures (as usually happened at Hogwarts) neither reappeared. One frame now contained nothing but a backdrop of dark curtain, the other a handsome leather armchair. Harry noticed that many of the other headmasters and mistresses on the walls, though snoring and drooling most convincingly, kept sneaking peeks at him from under their eyelids, and he suddenly understood who had been talking when they had knocked.

‘Everard and Dilys were two of Hogwarts’s most celebrated Heads,’ Dumbledore said, now sweeping around Harry, Ron and Professor McGonagall to approach the magnificent sleeping bird on his perch beside the door. ‘Their renown is such that both have portraits hanging in other important wizarding institutions. As they are free to move between their own portraits, they can tell us what may be happening elsewhere …’

‘But Mr Weasley could be anywhere!’ said Harry.

‘Please sit down, all three of you,’ said Dumbledore, as though Harry had not spoken, ‘Everard and Dilys may not be back for several minutes. Professor McGonagall, if you could draw up extra chairs.’

Professor McGonagall pulled her wand from the pocket of her dressing gown and waved it; three chairs appeared out of thin air, straight-backed and wooden, quite unlike the comfortable chintz armchairs that Dumbledore had conjured up at Harry’s hearing. Harry sat down, watching Dumbledore over his shoulder. Dumbledore was now stroking Fawkes’s plumed golden head with one finger. The phoenix awoke immediately. He stretched his beautiful head high and observed Dumbledore through bright, dark eyes.