Meeting in the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a large basket

Of laundry in her arms.

“Oh, good, you’ve fed the chickens,” she called as she approached them. “We’d

Better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow . . . to put up the tent for the

wedding,” she explained, pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked exhausted.

“Millamant’s Magic Marquees . . . they’re very good. Bill’s escorting them. . . . You’d

better stay inside while they’re here, Harry. I must say it does complicate organizing a

wedding, having all these security spells around the place.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry humbly.

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear!” said Mrs. Weasley at once. “I didn’t mean – well, your

safety’s much more important! Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you how you want to

celebrate your birthday, Harry. Seventeen, after all, it’s an important day. . . .”

“I don’t want a fuss,” said Harry quickly, envisaging the additional strain this

would put on them all. “Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be fine. . . . It’s

the day before the wedding. . . .”

“Oh, well, if you’re sure, dear. I’ll invite Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how

about Hagrid?”

“That’d be great,” said Harry. “But please, don’t go to loads of trouble.”

“Not at all, not at all . . . It’s no trouble. . . .”

She looked at him, a long, searching look, then smiled a little sadly, straightened

Up, and walked away. Harry watched as she waved her wand near the washing line, and

The damp clothes rose into the air to hang themselves up, and suddenly he felt a great

Wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain he was giving her.

The Will of Albus Dumbledore

He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far below,

Swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought down there, the

Man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man who held the answer, the

answer to his problem...?

"Oi, wake up."

Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron's dingy attic

Room. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep

with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry's forehead was prickling.

"You were muttering in your sleep."

"Was I?"

"Yeah. 'Gregorovitch.' You kept saying 'Gregorovitch.'"

Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron's face appeared slightly blurred.

"Who's Gregorovitch?"

"I dunno, do I?" You were the one saying it."

Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the name

Before, but he could not think where.

"I think Voldemort's looking for him."

"Poor bloke," said Ron fervently.

Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. He tried to remember

Exactly what he had seen in the dream, but all that came back was a mountainous horizon

And the outline of the little village cradled in a deep valley.

"I think he's abroad."

"Who, Gregorovitch?"

"Voldemort. I think he's somewhere abroad, looking for Gregorovitch. It didn't

look like anywhere in Britain."

"You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?"

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 678