Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Harry Potter, #7)

by J.K. Rowling

in his finger would have defeated him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he came to think of it — particularly in light of his immediate plans — this seemed a serious flaw in his magical education.

They say, still, that no Wizarding duel ever matched that between Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945.

If anything was certain, it was that the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore would never pierce him again.

He was still gazing at the mirror fragment in which, for a split second, he had thought he saw Dumbledore’s eye.

“They think I’m a waste of space, actually, but I’m used to —” “I don’t think you’re a waste of space.” If Harry had not seen Dudley’s lips move, he might not have believed

The real Harry thought that this might just be the most bizarre thing he had ever seen, and he had seen some extremely odd things.

So great was his discomfort that he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of number four, Privet Drive; by the time he looked over the edge of the sidecar he could no longer tell which one it was.

“Thank goodness,” Ginny whispered. They looked at each other; Harry wanted to hug her, hold on to her; he did not even care much that Mrs. Weasley was there,

The firewhisky seared Harry’s throat. It seemed to burn feeling back into him, dispelling the numbness and sense of unreality, firing him with something that was like courage.

But Dumbledore, like Mad-Eye, like Sirius, like his parents, like his poor owl, all were gone where Harry could never talk to them again.

“I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?” said Harry. “Why didn’t I ask him? I never really . . .” His voice tailed away: He was thinking of all the things he should have asked Dumbledore, and of how, since the headmaster had died, it seemed to Harry that he had wasted so many opportunities when Dumbledore had been alive, to find out more . . . to find out everything.

The sooner this wedding’s over, the happier I’ll be.” “Yeah,” said Harry, “then we’ll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes. . . . It’ll be like a holiday, won’t it?”

“She’s not an idiot, she knows it can’t happen, she’s not expecting us to — to end up married, or —” As he said it, a vivid picture formed in Harry’s mind of Ginny in a white dress, marrying a tall, faceless, and unpleasant stranger.

The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore’ . . . Yes, here we are . . . ‘To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it.’”

To Harry James Potter,’” he read, and Harry’s insides contracted with a sudden excitement, “‘I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.’” As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather feebly, and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.

“Dumbledore left you a second bequest, Potter.” “What is it?” asked Harry, excitement rekindling.

“I always said he was mental. Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch — what the hell was that about?”

“Vot,” he said, draining his goblet and getting to his feet again, “is the point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?”

Graceful and gleaming, the lynx landed lightly in the middle of the astonished dancers. Heads turned, as those nearest it froze absurdly in mid-dance. Then the Patronus’s mouth opened wide and it spoke in the loud, deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt. “The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.

Dear Padfoot, Thank you thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself,

Arthur heard a rumor that they tried to torture your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed him; if it’s true, he didn’t give you away.”

WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

“So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet too?” asked Hermione furiously. Lupin nodded. “But surely people realize what’s going on?” “The coup has been smooth and virtually silent,” said Lupin.

“People won’t let this happen,” said Ron. “It is happening, Ron,” said Lupin. “Muggle-borns are being rounded up as we speak.”

“Remus!” whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. “Don’t say that — how could any child be ashamed of you?” “Oh, I don’t know, Hermione,” said Harry. “I’d be pretty ashamed of him.” Harry did not know where his rage was coming from, but it had propelled

“I’d never have believed this,” Harry said. “The man who taught me to fight dementors — a coward.”

Broken images were racing each other through his mind: Sirius falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended, broken, in midair; a flash of green light and his mother’s voice, begging for mercy . . . “Parents,” said Harry, “shouldn’t leave their kids unless — unless they’ve got to.”

The Muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had long since accepted the amusing mistake in the numbering that had caused number eleven to sit beside number thirteen.

SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER

If anyone shouldn’t go, it’s Harry, he’s got a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his head —” “Fine, I’ll stay here,” said Harry. “Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort, won’t you?”

“We can’t all fit under the Cloak anymore.”

“Hermione, I can’t. You know I’m lousy at Occlumency, I never got the hang of it.” “You never really tried!” she said hotly. “I don’t get it, Harry — do you like having this special connection or relationship or what — whatever —”

The stag’s light, more powerful and more warming than the cat’s protection, filled the whole dungeon as it cantered around and around the room.

Every twelve hours or so they passed the Horcrux between them as though they were playing some perverse, slow-motion game of pass-the-parcel, where they dreaded the music stopping because the reward was twelve hours of increased fear and anxiety.

As the days stretched into weeks, Harry began to suspect that Ron and Hermione were having conversations without, and about, him.

In desperation he tried to think of further Horcrux locations, but the only one that continued to occur to him was Hogwarts, and as neither of the others thought this at all likely, he stopped suggesting it.

The sword of Gryffindor was hidden they knew not where, and they were three teenagers in a tent whose only achievement was not, yet, to be dead.

Harry and Ron glared from either side of the transparent barrier as though they were seeing each other clearly for the first time. Harry felt a corrosive hatred toward Ron: Something had broken between them.

Ron, we said we’d go with Harry, we said we’d help —” “I get it. You choose him.” “Ron, no — please — come back, come back!”

They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few days. Harry was determined never to mention his name again,

“Harry, I think it’s Christmas Eve!” said Hermione. “Is it?” He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a newspaper for weeks.

He had never imagined that there would be a statue. . . . How strange it was to see himself represented in stone, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead.

On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.

He wondered when was the last time anyone had been inside Bathilda’s house to check whether she was coping. She seemed to have forgotten that she could do magic, too, for she lit the candles clumsily by hand,

He saw it out of the corner of his eye; panic made him turn and horror paralyzed him as he saw the old body collapsing and the great snake pouring from the place where her neck had been. The snake struck as he raised his wand: The force of the bite to his forearm sent the wand spinning

A metal heart was banging outside his chest, and now he was flying, flying with triumph in his heart, without need of broomstick or thestral.

and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut.

“Avada Kedavra!” And then he broke: He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself,

“She didn’t want to talk in front of you, because it was Parseltongue, all Parseltongue, and I didn’t realize, but of course I could understand her. Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there . . . and then . . .”