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

by J.K. Rowling

He died as he lived: working always for the greater good and, to his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small boy with dragon pox as he was on the day that I met him.

“Very clever of you, sir, very clever, I personally would be utterly bamboozled by all those buttons and knobs,” said Dedalus. He was clearly under the impression that he was flattering Vernon Dursley, who was visibly losing confidence in the plan with every word Dedalus spoke.

“It’s fine,” Harry assured her. “It doesn’t matter, honestly.” “Doesn’t matter?” repeated Hestia, her voice rising ominously. “Don’t these people realize what you’ve been through? What danger you are in? The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti-Voldemort movement?” “Er — no, they don’t,” said Harry. “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 it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself. “Well . . . er . . . thanks, Dudley.”

Dudley gently released himself from his mother’s clutches and walked toward Harry, who had to repress an urge to threaten him with magic. Then Dudley held out his large, pink hand. “Blimey, Dudley,” said Harry over Aunt Petunia’s renewed sobs, “did the dementors blow a different personality into you?” “Dunno,” muttered Dudley. “See you, Harry.” “Yeah . . .” said Harry, taking Dudley’s hand and shaking it. “Maybe. Take care, Big D.”

“No!” he said loudly, his voice ringing through the kitchen. “No way!” “I told them you’d take it like this,” said Hermione with a hint of complacency. “If you think I’m going to let six people risk their lives — !” “— because it’s the first time for all of us,” said Ron. “This is different, pretending to be me —” “Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry,” said Fred earnestly. “Imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever.”

“You can’t do it if I don’t cooperate, you need me to give you some hair.” “Well, that’s that plan scuppered,” said George. “Obviously there’s no chance at all of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate.” “Yeah, thirteen of us against one bloke who’s not allowed to use magic; we’ve got no chance,” said Fred. “Funny,” said Harry, “really amusing.”

Fred and George turned to each other and said together, “Wow — we’re identical!” “I dunno, though, I think I’m still better-looking,” said Fred, examining his reflection in the kettle. “Bah,” said Fleur, checking herself in the microwave door, “Bill, don’t look at me — I’m ’ideous.”

“I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo,” said Ron, looking down at his bare chest. “Harry, your eyesight really is awful,” said Hermione, as she put on glasses.

“Arthur and Fred —” “I’m George,” said the twin at whom Moody was pointing. “Can’t you even tell us apart when we’re Harry?” “Sorry, George —” “I’m only yanking your wand, I’m Fred really —”

“The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair of us?” “‘Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him,’” said Lupin calmly.

“How do you feel, Georgie?” whispered Mrs. Weasley. George’s fingers groped for the side of his head. “Saintlike,” he murmured. “What’s wrong with him?” croaked Fred, looking terrified. “Is his mind affected?” “Saintlike,” repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother. “You see . . . I’m holy. Holey, Fred, geddit?” Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever. Color flooded Fred’s pale face. “Pathetic,” he told George. “Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humor before you, you go for holey?” “Ah well,” said George, grinning at his tear-soaked mother. “You’ll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum.”

“Hi, Harry — you are Harry, right?” “Yeah, I am,” said Harry, moving closer to the sofa. “Well, at least we got you back okay,” said George. “Why aren’t Ron and Bill huddled round my sickbed?”

“You’re okay,” he mumbled, before Hermione flew at him and hugged him tightly. “I thought — I thought —” “’M all right,” said Ron, patting her on the back. “’M fine.”

“Ron was great,” said Tonks warmly, relinquishing her hold on Lupin. “Wonderful. Stunned one of the Death Eaters, straight to the head, and when you’re aiming at a moving target from a flying broom —” “You did?” said Hermione, gazing up at Ron with her arms still around his neck. “Always the tone of surprise,” he said a little grumpily, breaking free.

“You think I’m a fool?” demanded Harry. “No, I think you’re like James,” said Lupin, “who would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his friends.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, giving her a squeeze. “But you know what he’d say to us if he was here?” “‘C-constant vigilance,’” said Hermione, mopping her eyes.

“What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron asked, limping back to his bed. “Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,” said Hermione. “When we’re looking for the Horcruxes.” “Oh, of course,” said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.”

“Once we’ve left, the ghoul’s going to come and live down here in my room,” said Ron. “I think he’s really looking forward to it — well, it’s hard to tell, because all he can do is moan and drool — but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he’s going to be me with spattergroit. Good, eh?”

“Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn’t damage your soul at all.” “Which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” said Ron. Harry laughed.

Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had indicated, and unwrapped it. Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling around the face instead of hands. “It’s traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age,” said Mrs. Weasley, watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. “I’m afraid that one isn’t new like Ron’s, it was actually my brother Fabian’s and he wasn’t terribly careful with his possessions, it’s a bit dented on the back, but —”

“Out of the way, out of the way!” sang Mrs. Weasley, coming through the gate with what appeared to be a giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the cake had finally landed in the middle of the table, Harry said, “That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley.” “Oh, it’s nothing, dear,” she said fondly. Over her shoulder, Ron gave Harry the thumbs-up and mouthed, Good one.

“All the same, we should get to bed,” whispered Hermione. “It wouldn’t do to oversleep tomorrow.” “No,” agreed Ron. “A brutal triple murder by the bridegroom’s mother might put a bit of a damper on the wedding. I’ll get the lights.”

“She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise little gnomes — or, to give them their correct name, the Gernumbli gardensi.” “Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,” said Ron, “but I think Fred and George taught them those.”

Wow,” he added, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward them. “You look great!” “Always the tone of surprise,” said Hermione, though she smiled.

“Talking about Muriel?” inquired George, reemerging from the marquee with Fred. “Yeah, she’s just told me my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius was still with us, though; he was a right laugh at weddings.” “Wasn’t he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty-four hours later?” asked Hermione. “Well, yeah, he went a bit odd toward the end,” conceded George.

“All right if we join you?” asked Ron. “Oh yes,” she said happily. “Daddy’s just gone to give Bill and Fleur our present.” “What is it, a lifetime’s supply of Gurdyroots?” asked Ron. Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, but caught Harry instead. Eyes watering in pain, Harry lost track of the conversation for a few moments.

“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

“I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in here. . . . I just had a feeling. . . .” “You’re amazing, you are,” said Ron, handing her his bundled-up robes. “Thank you,” said Hermione, managing a small smile as she pushed the robes into the bag. “Please, Harry, get that Cloak on!”

“Harry? Harry! Harry!” “I’m here!” he called. “What’s happened?” There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione burst inside. “We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” she said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him!” Ron’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below. “Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!”

“Ron! RON! Get up here, quick!” Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand. “What’s up? If it’s massive spiders again I want breakfast before I —”

“Kreacher, I’d, er, like you to have this,” he said, pressing the locket into the elf’s hand. “This belonged to Regulus and I’m sure he’d want you to have it as a token of gratitude for what you —” “Overkill, mate,” said Ron as the elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground. It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its protection their first priority while he was away. He then made two low bows to Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione’s direction that might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with the usual loud crack.

“Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master,” croaked the elf. “Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, Kreacher cornered the thief in the end.” “You’ve done really well, Kreacher,” said Harry, and the elf bowed low.

“Sirius never cared about any of the junk —” There was the sound of pattering feet, a blaze of shining copper, an echoing clang, and a shriek of agony: Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and hit him over the head with a saucepan. “Call ’im off, call ’im off, ’e should be locked up!” screamed Mundungus, cowering as Kreacher raised the heavy-bottomed pan again. “Kreacher, no!” shouted Harry. Kreacher’s thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan, still held aloft. “Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?” Ron laughed.

“Shoes off, if you please, Master Harry, and hands washed before dinner,” croaked Kreacher, seizing the Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a hook on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned robes that had been freshly laundered.

“Urgh,” said Hermione, holding up the skirts of her robe to avoid the puddles of sick. “It would have made much less mess to Stun him too.” “Yeah,” said Ron, emerging from under the cloak holding the wizard’s bag, “but I still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention.

“Harry, look!” She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it, it had transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there was a statue of three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother’s arms. Snow lay upon all their heads, like fluffy white caps.

Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping it tightly. He could not look at her, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the night air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control. He should have brought something to give them, and he had not thought of it, and every plant in the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione raised her wand, moved it in a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents’ grave.

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.

Good luck, Harry, wherever you are. If you read this, Harry, we’re all behind you! Long live Harry Potter.

“Are — you — mental?” Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could have given Harry the strength to get up. Shivering violently, he staggered to his feet. There before him stood Ron, fully dressed but drenched to the skin, his hair plastered to his face, the sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the Horcrux dangling from its broken chain in the other. “Why the hell,” panted Ron, holding up the Horcrux, which swung backward and forward on its shortened chain in some parody of hypnosis, “didn’t you take this thing off before you dived?”

“Ouch — ow — gerroff! What the — ? Hermione — OW!” “You — complete — arse — Ronald — Weasley!” She punctuated every word with a blow: Ron backed away, shielding his head as Hermione advanced.

Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag, then climbed back into her bed and settled down without another word. Ron passed Harry the new wand. “About the best you could hope for, I think,” murmured Harry. “Yeah,” said Ron. “Could’ve been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?” “I still haven’t ruled it out,” came Hermione’s muffled voice from beneath her blankets, but Harry saw Ron smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out of his rucksack.

He knew what he was doing when he gave me the Deluminator, didn’t he? He — well,” Ron’s ears turned bright red and he became engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he prodded with his toe, “he must’ve known I’d run out on you.” “No,” Harry corrected him. “He must’ve known you’d always want to come back.”

“The Elder Wand,” he said, and he drew a straight vertical line upon the parchment. “The Resurrection Stone,” he said, and he added a circle on top of the line. “The Cloak of Invisibility,” he finished, enclosing both line and circle in a triangle, to make the symbol that so intrigued Hermione. “Together,” he said, “the Deathly Hallows.”

Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with five beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville. They were not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain magic about them all the same: Harry thought they breathed. What appeared to be fine golden chains wove around the pictures, linking them together, but after examining them for a minute or so, Harry realized that the chains were actually one word, repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends . . . friends . . . friends . . .

“She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.”

“Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” said Kingsley. “However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”

“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?” “I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”

Rodent’?” said yet another familiar voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione cried out together: “Fred!” “No — is it George?” “It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it was said, “I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’!” “Oh, all right then. ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”

“You must not hurt Harry Potter,” he squeaked.