“Really soon, Harry,” said Hermione earnestly. “We promise.”
Harry nodded. He somehow could not find words to tell them what it meant to him, to see them all ranged there, on his side. Instead he smiled, raised a hand in farewell, turned around, and led the way out of the station toward the sunlit street, with Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley hurrying along in his wake.
Text copyright ? 2003 by J.K. Rowling.
Cover illustration by Olly Moss ? Pottermore Limited 2015.
Interior illustrations by Mary GrandPré ? 2003 by Warner Bros.
Harry Potter characters, names and related indicia are trademarks of and ? Warner Bros. Ent.
Harry Potter Publishing Rights ? J.K. Rowling.
This digital edition first published by Pottermore Limited in 2015
Published in print in the U.S.A. by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-78110-647-1
TO MACKENZIE,
MY BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER,
I DEDICATE
HER INK-AND-PAPER TWIN.
CONTENTS
ONE
The Other Minister
TWO
Spinner’s End
THREE
Will and Won’t
FOUR
Horace Slughorn
FIVE
An Excess of Phlegm
SIX
Draco’s Detour
SEVEN
The Slug Club
EIGHT
Snape Victorious
NINE
The Half-Blood Prince
TEN
The House of Gaunt
ELEVEN
Hermione’s Helping Hand
TWELVE
Silver and Opals
THIRTEEN
The Secret Riddle
FOURTEEN
Felix Felicis
FIFTEEN
The Unbreakable Vow
SIXTEEN
A Very Frosty Christmas
SEVENTEEN
A Sluggish Memory
EIGHTEEN
Birthday Surprises
NINETEEN
Elf Tails
TWENTY
Lord Voldemort’s Request
TWENTY-ONE
The Unknowable Room
TWENTY-TWO
After the Burial
TWENTY-THREE
Horcruxes
TWENTY-FOUR
Sectumsempra
TWENTY-FIVE
The Seer Overheard
TWENTY-SIX
The Cave
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Lightning-Struck Tower
TWENTY-EIGHT
Flight of the Prince
TWENTY-NINE
The Phoenix Lament
THIRTY
The White Tomb
CHAPTER ONE
THE OTHER MINISTER
It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government’s fault.
The Prime Minister’s pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?
“A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin.
And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July. . . . It wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal. . . .
He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.
He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.
“Hello?” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming — as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough — from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.
“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”