Well, Ron and Hermione were with me most of the time, said the voice in Harry’s head.

  Not all the time, though, Harry argued with himself. They didn’t fight Quirrell with me. They didn’t take on Riddle and the Basilisk. They didn’t get rid of all those Dementors the night Sirius escaped. They weren’t in that graveyard with me, the night Voldemort returned…

  And the same feeling of ill-usage that had overwhelmed him on the night he had arrived rose again. I’ve definitely done more, Harry thought indignantly. I’ve done more than either of them!

  But maybe, said the small voice fairly, maybe Dumbledore doesn’t choose prefects because they’ve got themselves into a load of dangerous situations… maybe he chooses them for other reasons… Ron must have something you don’t…

  Harry opened his eyes and stared through his fingers at the wardrobe’s clawed feet, remembering what Fred had said: “No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect…”

  Harry gave a small snort of laughter. A second later he felt sickened with himself.

  Ron had not asked Dumbledore to give him the prefect badge. This was not Ron’s fault. Was he, Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, going to sulk because he didn’t have a badge, laugh with the twins behind Ron’s back, ruin this for Ron when, for the first time, he had beaten Harry at something?

  At this point Harry heard Ron’s footsteps on the stairs again. He stood up, straightened his glasses, and hitched a grin on to his face as Ron bounded back through the door.

  “Just caught her!” he said happily. “She says she’ll get the Cleansweep if she can.”

  “Cool,” Harry said, and he was relieved to hear that his voice had stopped sounding hearty. “Listen—Ron—well done, mate.”

  The smile faded off Ron’s face.

  “I never thought it would be me!” he said, shaking his head. “I thought it would be you!”

  “Nah, I’ve caused too much trouble,” Harry said, echoing Fred.

  “Yeah,” said Ron, “yeah, I suppose… well, we’d better get our trunks packed, hadn’t we?”

  It was odd how widely their possessions seemed to have scattered themselves since they had arrived. It took them most of the afternoon to retrieve their books and belongings from all over the house and stow them back inside their school trunks. Harry noticed that Ron kept moving his prefects badge around, first placing it on his bedside table, then putting it into his jeans pocket, then taking it out and lying it on his folded robes, as though to see the effect of the red on the black. Only when Fred and George dropped in and offered to attach it to his forehead with a Permanent Sticking Charm did he wrap it tenderly in his maroon socks and lock it in his trunk.

  Mrs. Weasley returned from Diagon Alley around six o’clock, laden with books and carrying a long package wrapped in thick brown paper that Ron took from her with a moan of longing.

  “Never mind unwrapping it now, people are arriving for dinner, I want you all downstairs,” she said, but the moment she was out of sight Ron ripped off the paper in a frenzy and examined every inch of his new broom, an ecstatic expression on his face.

  Down in the basement Mrs. Weasley had hung a scarlet banner over the heavily laden dinner table, which read:

  CONGRATULATIONS

  RON AND HERMIONE

  NEW PREFECTS

  She looked in a better mood than Harry had seen her all holiday.

  “I thought we’d have a little party, not a sit-down dinner,” she told Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George and Ginny as they entered the room. “Your father and Bill are on their way, Ron. I’ve sent them both owls and they’re thrilled,” she added, beaming.

  Fred rolled his eyes.

  Sirius, Lupin, Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt were already there and Mad-Eye Moody stumped in shortly after Harry had got himself a Butterbeer.

  “Oh, Alastor, I am glad you’re here,” said Mrs. Weasley brightly, as Mad-Eye shrugged off his travelling cloak. “We’ve been wanting to ask you for ages—could you have a look in the writing desk in the drawing room and tell us what’s inside it? We haven’t wanted to open it just in case it’s something really nasty.”

  “No problem, Molly…”

  Moody’s electric-blue eye swivelled upwards and stared fixedly through the ceiling of the kitchen.

  “Drawing room…” he growled, as the pupil contracted. “Desk in the corner? Yeah, I see it… yeah, it’s a Boggart… want me to go up and get rid of it, Molly?”

  “No, no, I’ll do it myself later,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, “you have your drink. We’re having a little bit of a celebration, actually…” She gestured at the scarlet banner. “Fourth prefect in the family!” she said fondly, ruffling Ron’s hair.

  “Prefect, eh?” growled Moody, his normal eye on Ron and his magical eye swivelling around to gaze into the side of his head. Harry had the very uncomfortable feeling it was looking at him and moved away towards Sirius and Lupin.

  “Well, congratulations,” said Moody, still glaring at Ron with his normal eye, “authority figures always attract trouble, but I suppose Dumbledore thinks you can withstand most major jinxes or he wouldn’t have appointed you…”

  Ron looked rather startled at this view of the matter but was saved the trouble of responding by the arrival of his father and eldest brother. Mrs. Weasley was in such a good mood she did not even complain that they had brought Mundungus with them; he was wearing a long overcoat that seemed oddly lumpy in unlikely places and declined the offer to remove it and put it with Moody’s travelling cloak.

  “Well, I think a toast is in order,” said Mr. Weasley, when everyone had a drink. He raised his goblet. “To Ron and Hermione, the new Gryffindor prefects!”

  Ron and Hermione beamed as everyone drank to them, and then applauded.

  “I was never a prefect myself,” said Tonks brightly from behind Harry as everybody moved towards the table to help themselves to food. Her hair was tomato red and waist-length today; she looked like Ginny’s older sister. “My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary qualities.”

  “Like what?” said Ginny, who was choosing a baked potato.

  “Like the ability to behave myself,” said Tonks.

  Ginny laughed; Hermione looked as though she did not know whether to smile or not and compromised by taking an extra large gulp of Butterbeer and choking on it.

  “What about you, Sirius?” Ginny asked, thumping Hermione on the back.

  Sirius, who was right beside Harry, let out his usual bark-like laugh.

  “No one would have made me a prefect, I spent too much time in detention with James. Lupin was the good boy, he got the badge.”

  “I think Dumbledore might have hoped I would be able to exercise some control over my best friends,” said Lupin. “I need scarcely say that I failed dismally.”

  Harry’s mood suddenly lifted. His father had not been a prefect either. All at once the party seemed much more enjoyable; he loaded up his plate, feeling doubly fond of everyone in the room.

  Ron was rhapsodising about his new broom to anybody who would listen.

  “…nought to seventy in ten seconds, not bad, is it? When you think the Comet Two Ninety’s only nought to sixty and that’s with a decent tailwind according to Which Broomstick?”

  Hermione was talking very earnestly to Lupin about her view of elf rights.

  “I mean, it’s the same kind of nonsense as werewolf segregation, isn’t it? It all stems from this horrible thing wizards have of thinking they’re superior to other creatures…”

  Mrs. Weasley and Bill were having their usual argument about Bill’s hair.

  “…getting really out of hand, and you’re so good-looking, it would look much better shorter, wouldn’t it, Harry?”

  “Oh—I dunno—” said Harry, slightly alarmed at being asked his opinion; he slid away from them in the direction of Fred and George, who were huddled in a corner with Mundungus.

  Mundungus stopped talking when he saw Harry, but Fred winked and beckoned Harry closer.

  “Its OK,” he told Mundungus, “we can trust Harry, he’s our financial backer.”

  “Look what Dung’s got us,” said George, holding out his hand to Harry. It was full of what looked like shrivelled black pods. A faint rattling noise was coming from them, even though they were completely stationary.

  “Venomous Tentacula seeds,” said George. “We need them for the Skiving Snackboxes but they’re a Class C Non-Tradeable Substance so we’ve been having a bit of trouble getting hold of them.”

  “Ten Galleons the lot, then, Dung?” said Fred.

  “Wiv all the trouble I went to to get ’em?” said Mundungus, his saggy, bloodshot eyes stretching even wider. “I’m sorry, lads, but I’m not taking a Knut under twenty.”

  “Dung likes his little joke,” Fred said to Harry.

  “Yeah, his best one so far has been six Sickles for a bag of Knarl quills,” said George.

  “Be careful,” Harry warned them quietly.

  “What?” said Fred. “Mum’s busy cooing over Prefect Ron, we’re OK.”

  “But Moody could have his eye on you,” Harry pointed out.

  Mundungus looked nervously over his shoulder.

  “Good point, that,” he grunted. “All right, lads, ten it is, if you’ll take ’em quick.”

  “Cheers, Harry!” said Fred delightedly, when Mundungus had emptied his pockets into the twins’ outstretched hands and scuttled off towards the food. “We’d better get these upstairs…”

  Harry watched them go, feeling slightly uneasy. It had just occurred to him that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would want to know how Fred and George were financing their joke shop business when, as was inevitable, they finally found out about it. Giving the twins his Triwizard winnings had seemed a simple thing to do at the time, but what if it led to another family row and a Percy-like estrangement? Would Mrs. Weasley still feel that Harry was as good as her son il she lound out he had made it possible for Fred and George to start a career she thought quite unsuitable?

  Standing where the twins had left him, with nothing but a guilty weight in the pit of his stomach for company, Harry caught the sound of his own name. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice was audible even over the surrounding chatter.

  “…why Dumbledore didn’t make Potter a prefect?” said Kingsley.

  “He’ll have had his reasons,” replied Lupin.

  “But it would’ve shown confidence in him. It’s what I’d’ve done,” persisted Kingsley, “specially with the Daily Prophet having a go at him every few days…”

  Harry did not look round; he did not want Lupin or Kingsley to know he had heard. Though not remotely hungry, he followed Mundungus back towards the table. His pleasure in the party had evaporated as quickly as it had come; he wished he were upstairs in bed.

  Mad-Eye Moody was sniffing at a chicken-leg with what remained of his nose; evidently he could not detect any trace of poison, because he then tore a strip off it with his teeth.

  “…the handles made of Spanish oak with anti-jinx varnish and in-built vibration control—” Ron was saying to Tonks.

  Mrs. Weasley yawned widely.

  “Well, I think I’ll sort out that Boggart before I turn in… Arthur, I don’t want this lot up too late, all right? Night, Harry, dear.”

  She left the kitchen. Harry set down his plate and wondered whether he could follow her without attracting attention.

  “You all right, Potter?” grunted Moody.

  “Yeah, fine,” lied Harry.

  Moody took a swig from his hipflask, his electric-blue eye staring sideways at Harry.

  “Come here, I’ve got something that might interest you,” he said.

  From an inner pocket of his robes Moody pulled a very tattered old wizarding photograph.

  “Original Order of the Phoenix,” growled Moody. “Found it last night when I was looking for my spare Invisibility Cloak, seeing as Podmore hasn’t had the manners to return my best one… thought people might like to see it.”

  Harry took the photograph. A small crowd of people, some waving at him, others lifting their glasses, looked back up at him.

  “There’s me,” said Moody, unnecessarily pointing at himself. The Moody in the picture was unmistakeable, though his hair was slightly less grey and his nose was intact. “And there’s Dumbledore beside me, Dedalus Diggle on the other side… that’s Marlene McKinnon, she was killed two weeks after this was taken, they got her whole family. That’s Frank and Alice Longbottom—”

  Harry’s stomach, already uncomfortable, clenched as he looked at Alice Longbottom; he knew her round, friendly face very well, even though he had never met her, because she was the image of her son, Neville.

  “—poor devils,” growled Moody. “Better dead than what happened to them… and that’s Emmeline Vance, you’ve met her, and that there’s Lupin, obviously… Benjy Fenwick, he copped it too, we only ever found bits of him… shift aside there,” he added, poking the picture, and the little photographic people edged sideways, so that those who were partially obscured could move to the front.

  “That’s Edgar Bones… brother of Amelia Bones, they got him and his family, too, he was a great wizard… Sturgis Podmore, blimey, he looks young… Caradoc Dearborn, vanished six months after this, we never found his body… Hagrid, of course, looks exactly the same as ever… Elphias Doge, you’ve met him, I’d forgotten he used to wear that stupid hat… Gideon Prewett, it took five Death Eaters to kill him and his brother Fabian, they fought like heroes… budge along, budge along…”

  The little people in the photograph jostled among themselves and those hidden right at the back appeared at the forefront of the picture.

  “That’s Dumbledore’s brother Aberforth, only time I ever met him, strange bloke… that’s Dorcas Meadowes, Voldemort killed her personally… Sirius, when he still had short hair… and… there you go, thought that would interest you!”

  Harry’s heart turned over. His mother and father were beaming up at him, sitting on either side of a small, watery-eyed man whom Harry recognised at once as Wormtail, the one who had betrayed his parents’ whereabouts to Voldemort and so helped to bring about their deaths.

  “Eh?” said Moody.

  Harry looked up into Moody’s heavily scarred and pitted face. Evidently Moody was under the impression he had just given Harry a bit of a treat.

  “Yeah,” said Harry, once again attempting to grin. “Er… listen, I’ve just remembered, I haven’t packed my…”

  He was spared the trouble of inventing an object he had not packed. Sirius had just said, “What’s that you’ve got there, Mad-Eye?” and Moody had turned towards him. Harry crossed the kitchen, slipped through the door and up the stairs before anyone could call him back.

  He did not know why it had been such a shock; he had seen pictures of his parents before, after all, and he had met Wormtail but to have them sprung on him like that, when he was least expecting it… no one would like that, he thought angrily…

  And then, to see them surrounded by all those other happy faces… Benjy Eenwick, who had been found in bits, and Gideon Prewett, who had died like a hero, and the Longbottoms, who had been tortured into madness… all waving happily out of the photograph forever more, not knowing that they were doomed… well, Moody might find that interesting… he, Harry, found it disturbing…

  Harry tiptoed up the stairs in the hall past the stuffed elf-heads, glad to be on his own again, but as he approached the first landing he heard noises. Someone was sobbing in the drawing room.

  “Hello?” Harry said.

  There was no answer but the sobbing continued. He climbed the remaining stairs two at a time, walked across the landing and opened the drawing-room door.

  Someone was cowering against the dark wall, her wand in her hand, her whole body shaking with sobs. Sprawled on the dusty old carpet in a patch of moonlight, clearly dead, was Ron.

  All the air seemed to vanish from Harry’s lungs; he felt as though he were falling through the floor; his brain turned icy cold—Ron dead, no, it couldn’t be—

  But wait a moment, it couldn’t be—Ron was downstairs—

  “Mrs. Weasley?” Harry croaked.

  “R-r-riddikulus!” Mrs. Weasley sobbed, pointing her shaking wand at Ron’s body.

  Crack.

  Ron’s body turned into Bill’s, spread-eagled on his back, his eyes wide open and empty. Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever.

  “R-riddikulus!” she sobbed again.

  Crack.

  Mr. Weasley’s body replaced Bill’s, his glasses askew, a trickle of blood running down his face.

  “No!” Mrs. Weasley moaned. “No… riddikulus! Riddikulus! RID-DlKULUS!”

  Crack. Dead twins. Crack. Dead Percy. Crack. Dead Harry…

  “Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!” shouted Harry, staring down at his own dead body on the floor. “Let someone else—”

  “What’s going on?”

  Lupin had come running into the room, closely followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along behind them. Lupin looked from Mrs. Weasley to the dead Harry on the floor and seemed to understand in an instant. Pulling out his own wand, he said, very firmly and clearly:

  “Riddikulus!”

  Harry’s body vanished. A silvery orb hung in the air over the spot where it had lain. Lupin waved his wand once more and the orb vanished in a puff of smoke.

  “Oh—oh—oh!” gulped Mrs. Weasley, and she broke into a storm of crying, her face in her hands.

  “Molly,” said Lupin bleakly, walking over to her. “Molly—don’t…”

  Next second, she was sobbing her heart out on Lupin’s shoulder.

  “Molly, it was just a Boggart,” he said soothingly, patting her on the head, “just a stupid Boggart…”

  “I see them d-d-dead all the time!” Mrs. Weasley moaned into his shoulder. “All the t-t-time! I d-d-dream about it…”

  Sirius was staring at the patch of carpet where the Boggart, pretending to be Harry’s body, had lain. Moody was looking at Harry, who avoided his gaze. He had a funny feeling Moody’s magical eye had followed him all the way out of the kitchen.

  “D-d-don’t tell Arthur,” Mrs. Weasley was gulping now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. “I d-d-don’t want him to know… being silly…”