‘Oh, yes, we’ve developed a close bond,’ says Skeeter. ‘Poor Potter has few real friends, and we met at one of the most testing moments of his life – the Triwizard Tournament. I am probably one of the only people alive who can say that they know the real Harry Potter.’
Which leads us neatly to the many rumours still circulating about Dumbledore’s final hours. Does Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?
‘Well, I don’t want to say too much – it’s all in the book – but eye witnesses inside Hogwarts Castle saw Potter running away from the scene moments after Dumbledore fell, jumped or was pushed. Potter later gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man against whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it seems? That is for the wizarding community to decide – once they’ve read my book.’
On that intriguing note I take my leave. There can be no doubt that Skeeter has quilled an instant bestseller. Dumbledore’s legions of admirers, meanwhile, may well be trembling at what is soon to emerge about their hero.
Harry reached the bottom of the article, but continued to stare blankly at the page. Revulsion and fury rose in him like vomit; he balled up the newspaper and threw it, with all his force, at the wall, where it joined the rest of the rubbish heaped around his overflowing bin. He began to stride blindly around the room, opening empty drawers and picking up books only to replace them on the same piles, barely conscious of what he was doing, as random phrases from Rita’s article echoed in his head: an entire chapter to the whole Potter–Dumbledore relationship … it’s been called unhealthy, even sinister … he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth … I’ve had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for …
‘Lies!’ Harry bellowed, and through the window he saw the next-door neighbour, who had paused to restart his lawnmower, look up nervously.
Harry sat down hard on the bed. The broken bit of mirror danced away from him; he picked it up and turned it over in his fingers, thinking, thinking of Dumbledore and the lies with which Rita Skeeter was defaming him …
A flash of brightest blue. Harry froze, his cut finger slipping on the jagged edge of the mirror again. He had imagined it, he must have done. He glanced over his shoulder, but the wall was a sickly peach colour of Aunt Petunia’s choosing: there was nothing blue there for the mirror to reflect. He peered into the mirror fragment again, and saw nothing but his own bright green eye looking back at him.
He had imagined it, there was no other explanation; imagined it, because he had been thinking of his dead Headmaster. If anything was certain, it was that the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore would never pierce him again.
– CHAPTER THREE —
The Dursleys Departing
The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs and a voice yelled, ‘Oi! You!’
Sixteen years of being addressed thus left Harry in no doubt whom his uncle was calling; nevertheless, he did not immediately respond. He was still gazing at the mirror fragment in which, for a split second, he had thought he saw Dumbledore’s eye. It was not until his uncle bellowed ‘BOY!’ that Harry got slowly to his feet and headed for the bedroom door, pausing to add the piece of broken mirror to the rucksack filled with things he would be taking with him.
‘You took your time!’ roared Vernon Dursley when Harry appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Get down here, I want a word!’
Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his jeans pockets. When he reached the living room, he found all three Dursleys. They were dressed for travelling: Uncle Vernon in a fawn zip-up jacket, Aunt Petunia in a neat, salmon-coloured coat and Dudley, Harry’s large, blond, muscular cousin, in his leather jacket.
‘Yes?’ asked Harry.
‘Sit down!’ said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘Please!’ added Uncle Vernon, wincing slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat.
Harry sat. He thought he knew what was coming. His uncle began to pace up and down, Aunt Petunia and Dudley following his movements with anxious expressions. Finally, his large, purple face crumpled with concentration, Uncle Vernon stopped in front of Harry and spoke.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said.
‘What a surprise,’ said Harry.
‘Don’t you take that tone –’ began Aunt Petunia in a shrill voice, but Vernon Dursley waved her down.
‘It’s all a lot of claptrap,’ said Uncle Vernon, glaring at Harry with piggy little eyes. ‘I’ve decided I don’t believe a word of it. We’re staying put, we’re not going anywhere.’
Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Vernon Dursley had been changing his mind every twenty-four hours for the past four weeks, packing and unpacking and repacking the car with every change of heart. Harry’s favourite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, unaware that Dudley had added his dumb-bells to his case since the last time it had been unpacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the boot and collapsed with roars of pain and much swearing.
‘According to you,’ Vernon Dursley said now, resuming his pacing up and down the living room, ‘we – Petunia, Dudley and I – are in danger. From – from –’
‘Some of “my lot”, right,’ said Harry.
‘Well, I don’t believe it,’ repeated Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt in front of Harry again. ‘I was awake half the night thinking it all over, and I believe it’s a plot to get the house.’
‘The house?’ repeated Harry. ‘What house?’
‘This house!’ shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein in his forehead starting to pulse. ‘Our house! House prices are sky-rocketing round here! You want us out of the way and then you’re going to do a bit of hocus-pocus and before we know it the deeds will be in your name and –’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ demanded Harry. ‘A plot to get this house? Are you actually as stupid as you look?’
‘Don’t you dare –!’ squealed Aunt Petunia, but again, Vernon waved her down: slights on his personal appearance were, it seemed, as nothing to the danger he had spotted.
‘Just in case you’ve forgotten,’ said Harry, ‘I’ve already got a house, my godfather left me one. So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?’
There was silence. Harry thought he had rather impressed his uncle with this argument.
‘You claim,’ said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet again, ‘that this Lord Thing –’
‘Voldemort,’ said Harry impatiently, ‘and we’ve been through this about a hundred times already. This isn’t a claim, it’s fact, Dumbledore told you last year, and Kingsley and Mr Weasley –’
Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that his uncle was attempting to ward off recollections of the unannounced visit, a few days into Harry’s summer holidays, of two fully grown wizards. The arrival on the doorstep of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most unpleasant shock to the Dursleys. Harry had to admit, however, that as Mr Weasley had once demolished half of the living room, his reappearance could not have been expected to delight Uncle Vernon.
‘– Kingsley and Mr Weasley explained it all as well,’ Harry pressed on remorselessly. ‘Once I’m seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break, and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding you hostage I’d come and try to rescue you.’
Uncle Vernon’s and Harry’s eyes met. Harry was sure that in that instant they were both wondering the same thing. Then Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry resumed, ‘You’ve got to go into hiding and the Order wants to help. You’re being offered serious protection,