“Yeah? Well, I’m finding that hard at the moment,” Harry snarled.
“Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!” said Snape savagely. “Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak people, in other words — they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!”
“I am not weak,” said Harry in a low voice, fury now pumping through him so that he thought he might attack Snape in a moment.
“Then prove it! Master yourself!” spat Snape. “Control your anger, discipline your mind! We shall try again! Get ready, now! Legilimens!”
He was watching Uncle Vernon hammering the letter box shut. . . . A hundred dementors were drifting across the lake in the grounds toward him. . . . He was running along a windowless passage with Mr. Weasley. . . . They were drawing nearer to the plain black door at the end of the corridor. . . . Harry expected to go through it . . . but Mr. Weasley led him off to the left, down a flight of stone steps. . . .
“I KNOW! I KNOW!”
He was on all fours again on Snape’s office floor, his scar was prickling unpleasantly, but the voice that had just issued from his mouth was triumphant. He pushed himself up again to find Snape staring at him, his wand raised. It looked as though, this time, Snape had lifted the spell before Harry had even tried to fight back.
“What happened then, Potter?” he asked, eyeing Harry intently.
“I saw — I remembered,” Harry panted. “I’ve just realized . . .”
“Realized what?” asked Snape sharply.
Harry did not answer at once; he was still savoring the moment of blinding realization as he rubbed his forehead. . . .
He had been dreaming about a windowless corridor ending in a locked door for months, without once realizing that it was a real place. Now, seeing the memory again, he knew that all along he had been dreaming about the corridor down which he had run with Mr. Weasley on the twelfth of August as they hurried to the courtrooms in the Ministry. It was the corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries, and Mr. Weasley had been there the night that he had been attacked by Voldemort’s snake. . . .
He looked up at Snape.
“What’s in the Department of Mysteries?”
“What did you say?” Snape asked quietly and Harry saw, with deep satisfaction, that Snape was unnerved.
“I said, what’s in the Department of Mysteries, sir?” Harry said.
“And why,” said Snape slowly, “would you ask such a thing?”
“Because,” said Harry, watching Snape closely for a reaction, “that corridor I’ve just seen — I’ve been dreaming about it for months — I’ve just recognized it — it leads to the Department of Mysteries . . . and I think Voldemort wants something from —”
“I have told you not to say the Dark Lord’s name!”
They glared at each other. Harry’s scar seared again, but he did not care. Snape looked agitated. When he spoke again he sounded as though he was trying to appear cool and unconcerned.
“There are many things in the Department of Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand and none of which concern you, do I make myself plain?”
“Yes,” Harry said, still rubbing his prickling scar, which was becoming more painful.
“I want you back here same time on Wednesday, and we will continue work then.”
“Fine,” said Harry. He was desperate to get out of Snape’s office and find Ron and Hermione.
“You are to rid your mind of all emotion every night before sleep — empty it, make it blank and calm, you understand?”
“Yes,” said Harry, who was barely listening.
“And be warned, Potter . . . I shall know if you have not practiced . . .”
“Right,” Harry mumbled. He picked up his schoolbag, swung it over his shoulder, and hurried toward the office door. As he opened it he glanced back at Snape, who had his back to Harry and was scooping his own thoughts out of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand and replacing them carefully inside his own head. Harry left without another word, closing the door carefully behind him, his scar still throbbing painfully.
Harry found Ron and Hermione in the library, where they were working on Umbridge’s most recent ream of homework. Other students, nearly all of them fifth years, sat at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky outside the mullioned windows grew steadily blacker. The only other sound was the slight squeaking of one of Madam Pince’s shoes as the librarian prowled the aisles menacingly, breathing down the necks of those touching her precious books.
Harry felt shivery; his scar was still aching, he felt almost feverish. When he sat down opposite Ron and Hermione he caught sight of himself in the window opposite. He was very white, and his scar seemed to be showing up more clearly than usual.
“How did it go?” Hermione whispered, and then, looking concerned, “Are you all right, Harry?”
“Yeah . . . fine . . . I dunno,” said Harry impatiently, wincing as pain shot through his scar again. “Listen . . . I’ve just realized something . . .”
And he told them what he had just seen and deduced.
“So . . . so, are you saying . . .” whispered Ron, as Madam Pince swept past, squeaking slightly, “that the weapon — the thing You-Know-Who’s after — is in the Ministry of Magic?”
“In the Department of Mysteries, it’s got to be,” Harry whispered. “I saw that door when your dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it’s definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him.”
Hermione let out a long, slow sigh. “Of course,” she breathed.
“Of course what?” said Ron rather impatiently.