Hermione jumped up and bits of roast pike slid off her tin plate onto the floor.
“You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, you can find the ingredients and try and charm them into something worth eating, and I’ll sit here and pull faces and moan and you can see how you —”
“Shut up!” said Harry, leaping to his feet and holding up both hands. “Shut up now!”
Hermione looked outraged.
“How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook —”
“Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!”
He was listening hard, his hands still raised, warning them not to talk. Then, over the rush and gush of the dark river beside them, he heard voices again. He looked around at the Sneakoscope. It was not moving.
“You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?” he whispered to Hermione.
“I did everything,” she whispered back, “Muffliato, Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, all of it. They shouldn’t be able to hear or see us, whoever they are.”
Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of dislodged stones and twigs, told them that several people were clambering down the steep, wooded slope that descended to the narrow bank where they had pitched the tent. They drew their wands, waiting. The enchantments they had cast around themselves ought to be sufficient, in the near total darkness, to shield them from the notice of Muggles and normal witches and wizards. If these were Death Eaters, then perhaps their defenses were about to be tested by Dark Magic for the first time.
The voices became louder but no more intelligible as the group of men reached the bank. Harry estimated that their owners were fewer than twenty feet away, but the cascading river made it impossible to tell for sure. Hermione snatched up the beaded bag and started to rummage; after a moment she drew out three Extendable Ears and threw one each to Harry and Ron, who hastily inserted the ends of the flesh-colored strings into their ears and fed the other ends out of the tent entrance.
Within seconds Harry heard a weary male voice.
“There ought to be a few salmon in here, or d’you reckon it’s too early in the season? Accio Salmon!”
There were several distinct splashes and then the slapping sounds of fish against flesh. Somebody grunted appreciatively. Harry pressed the Extendable Ear deeper into his own: Over the murmur of the river he could make out more voices, but they were not speaking English or any human language he had ever heard. It was a rough and unmelodious tongue, a string of rattling, guttural noises, and there seemed to be two speakers, one with a slightly lower, slower voice than the other.
A fire danced into life on the other side of the canvas; large shadows passed between tent and flames. The delicious smell of baking salmon wafted tantalizingly in their direction. Then came the clinking of cutlery on plates, and the first man spoke again.
“Here, Griphook, Gornuk.”
Goblins! Hermione mouthed at Harry, who nodded.
“Thank you,” said the goblins together in English.
“So, you three have been on the run how long?” asked a new, mellow, and pleasant voice; it was vaguely familiar to Harry, who pictured a round-bellied, cheerful-faced man.
“Six weeks . . . seven . . . I forget,” said the tired man. “Met up with Griphook in the first couple of days and joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have a bit of company.” There was a pause, while knives scraped plates and tin mugs were picked up and replaced on the ground. “What made you leave, Ted?” continued the man.
“Knew they were coming for me,” replied mellow-voiced Ted, and Harry suddenly knew who he was: Tonks’s father. “Heard Death Eaters were in the area last week and decided I’d better run for it. Refused to register as a Muggle-born on principle, see, so I knew it was a matter of time, knew I’d have to leave in the end. My wife should be okay, she’s pure-blood. And then I met Dean here, what, a few days ago, son?”
“Yeah,” said another voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at each other, silent but beside themselves with excitement, sure they recognized the voice of Dean Thomas, their fellow Gryffindor.
“Muggle-born, eh?” asked the first man.
“Not sure,” said Dean. “My dad left my mum when I was a kid. I’ve got no proof he was a wizard, though.”
There was silence for a while, except for the sounds of munching; then Ted spoke again.
“I’ve got to say, Dirk, I’m surprised to run into you. Pleased, but surprised. Word was you’d been caught.”
“I was,” said Dirk. “I was halfway to Azkaban when I made a break for it, Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his broom. It was easier than you’d think; I don’t reckon he’s quite right at the moment. Might be Confunded. If so, I’d like to shake the hand of the witch or wizard who did it, probably saved my life.”
There was another pause in which the fire crackled and the river rushed on. Then Ted said, “And where do you two fit in? I, er, had the impression the goblins were for You-Know-Who, on the whole.”
“You had a false impression,” said the higher-voiced of the goblins. “We take no sides. This is a wizards’ war.”
“How come you’re in hiding, then?”
“I deemed it prudent,” said the deeper-voiced goblin. “Having refused what I considered an impertinent request, I could see that my personal safety was in jeopardy.”
“What did they ask you to do?” asked Ted.
“Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race,” replied the goblin, his voice rougher and less human as he said it. “I am not a house-elf.”
“What about you, Griphook?”
“Similar reasons,” said the higher-voiced goblin. “Gringotts is no longer under the sole control of my race. I recognize no Wizarding master.”
He added something under his breath in Gobbledegook, and Gornuk laughed.
“What’s the joke?” asked Dean.
“He said,” replied Dirk, “that there are things wizards don’t recognize, either.”
There was a short pause.