‘Don’t call Hermione simple,’ said Harry.

  ‘I grow weary of contradiction,’ said Phineas Nigellus. ‘Perhaps it is time for me to return to the Headmaster’s office?’

  Still blindfolded, he began groping the side of his frame, trying to feel his way out of his picture and back into the one at Hogwarts. Harry had a sudden inspiration.

  ‘Dumbledore! Can’t you bring us Dumbledore?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Phineas Nigellus.

  ‘Professor Dumbledore’s portrait – couldn’t you bring him along, here, into yours?’

  Phineas Nigellus turned his face in the direction of Harry’s voice.

  ‘Evidently it is not only Muggle-borns who are ignorant, Potter. The portraits of Hogwarts may commune with each other, but they cannot travel outside the castle except to visit a painting of themselves hanging elsewhere. Dumbledore cannot come here with me, and after the treatment I have received at your hands, I can assure you that I shall not be making a return visit!’

  Slightly crestfallen, Harry watched Phineas redouble his attempts to leave his frame.

  ‘Professor Black,’ said Hermione, ‘couldn’t you just tell us, please, when was the last time the sword was taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I mean?’

  Phineas snorted impatiently.

  ‘I believe that the last time I saw the sword of Gryffindor leave its case was when Professor Dumbledore used it to break open a ring.’

  Hermione whipped round to look at Harry. Neither of them dared say more in front of Phineas Nigellus, who had at last managed to locate the exit.

  ‘Well, goodnight to you,’ he said, a little waspishly, and he began to move out of sight again. Only the edge of his hat brim remained in view when Harry gave a sudden shout.

  ‘Wait! Have you told Snape you saw this?’

  Phineas Nigellus stuck his blindfolded head back into the picture.

  ‘Professor Snape has more important things on his mind than the many eccentricities of Albus Dumbledore. Goodbye, Potter!’

  And with that, he vanished completely, leaving behind him nothing but his murky backdrop.

  ‘Harry!’ Hermione cried.

  ‘I know!’ Harry shouted. Unable to contain himself, he punched the air: it was more than he had dared to hope for. He strode up and down the tent, feeling that he could have run a mile; he did not even feel hungry any more. Hermione was squashing Phineas Nigellus’s portrait back into the beaded bag; when she had fastened the clasp, she threw the bag aside and raised a shining face to Harry.

  ‘The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades imbibe only that which strengthens them – Harry, that sword’s impregnated with Basilisk venom!’

  ‘And Dumbledore didn’t give it to me because he still needed it, he wanted to use it on the locket –’

  ‘– and he must have realised they wouldn’t let you have it if he put it in his will –’

  ‘– so he made a copy –’

  ‘– and put a fake in the glass case –’

  ‘– and he left the real one … where?’

  They gazed at each other; Harry felt that the answer was dangling invisibly in the air above them, tantalisingly close. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Or had he, in fact, told Harry, but Harry had not realised it at the time?

  ‘Think!’ whispered Hermione. ‘Think! Where would he have left it?’

  ‘Not at Hogwarts,’ said Harry, resuming his pacing.

  ‘Somewhere in Hogsmeade?’ suggested Hermione.

  ‘The Shrieking Shack?’ said Harry. ‘Nobody ever goes in there.’

  ‘But Snape knows how to get in, wouldn’t that be a bit risky?’

  ‘Dumbledore trusted Snape,’ Harry reminded her.

  ‘Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the swords,’ said Hermione.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right!’ said Harry; and he felt even more cheered at the thought that Dumbledore had had some reservations, however faint, about Snape’s trustworthiness. ‘So, would he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade, then? What d’you reckon, Ron? Ron?’

  Harry looked around. For one bewildered moment he thought that Ron had left the tent, then realised that Ron was lying in the shadow of a lower bunk, looking stony.

  ‘Oh, remembered me, have you?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Ron snorted as he stared up at the underside of the upper bunk.

  ‘You two carry on. Don’t let me spoil your fun.’

  Perplexed, Harry looked to Hermione for help, but she shook her head, apparently as nonplussed as he was.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Problem? There’s no problem,’ said Ron, still refusing to look at Harry. ‘Not according to you, anyway.’

  There were several plunks on the canvas over their heads. It had started to rain.

  ‘Well, you’ve obviously got a problem,’ said Harry. ‘Spit it out, will you?’

  Ron swung his long legs off the bed and sat up. He looked mean, unlike himself.

  ‘All right, I’ll spit it out. Don’t expect me to skip up and down the tent because there’s some other damn thing we’ve got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff you don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know?’ repeated Harry. ‘I don’t know?’

  Plunk, plunk, plunk: the rain was falling harder and heavier; it pattered on the leaf-strewn bank all around them and into the river chattering through the dark. Dread doused Harry’s jubilation: Ron was saying exactly what he had suspected and feared him to be thinking.

  ‘It’s not like I’m not having the time of my life here,’ said Ron, ‘you know, with my arm mangled and nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every night. I just hoped, you know, after we’d been running round a few weeks, we’d have achieved something.’

  ‘Ron,’ Hermione said, but in such a quiet voice that Ron could pretend not to have heard it over the loud tattoo the rain was now beating on the tent.

  ‘I thought you knew what you’d signed up for,’ said Harry.

  ‘Yeah, I thought I did too.’

  ‘So what part of it isn’t living up to your expectations?’ asked Harry. Anger was coming to his defence now. ‘Did you think we’d be staying in five star hotels? Finding a Horcrux every other day? Did you think you’d be back to Mummy by Christmas?’

  ‘We thought you knew what you were doing!’ shouted Ron, standing up; and his words pierced Harry like scalding knives. ‘We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do, we thought you had a real plan!’

  ‘Ron!’ said Hermione, this time clearly audible over the rain thundering on the tent roof, but again, he ignored her.

  ‘Well, sorry to let you down,’ said Harry, his voice quite calm even though he felt hollow, inadequate. ‘I’ve been straight with you from the start, I told you everything Dumbledore told me. And in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve found one Horcrux –’

  ‘Yeah, and we’re about as near getting rid of it as we are to finding the rest of them – nowhere effing near, in other words!’

  ‘Take off the locket, Ron,’ Hermione said, her voice unusually high. ‘Please take it off. You wouldn’t be talking like this if you hadn’t been wearing it all day.’

  ‘Yeah, he would,’ said Harry, who did not want excuses made for Ron. ‘D’you think I haven’t noticed the two of you whispering behind my back? D’you think I didn’t guess you were thinking this stuff?’

  ‘Harry, we weren’t –’

  ‘Don’t lie!’ Ron hurled at her. ‘You said it too, you said you were disappointed, you said you’d thought he had a bit more to go on than –’

  ‘I didn’t say it like that – Harry, I didn’t!’ she cried.

  The rain was pounding the tent, tears were pouring down Hermione’s face, and the excitement of a few minutes before had vanished as if it had never been, a short-lived firework that had flared and died, leaving everything dark, wet and cold. The sword of Gryffindor was hidden they knew not where, and they were three teenagers in a tent whose only achievement was not, yet, to be dead.

  ‘So why are you still here?’ Harry asked Ron.

  ‘Search me,’ said Ron.

  ‘Go home then,’ said Harry.

  ‘Yeah, maybe I will!’ shouted Ron, and he took several steps towards Harry, who did not back away. ‘Didn’t you hear what they said about my sister? But you don’t give a rat’s fart, do you, it’s only the Forbidden Forest, Harry I’ve-Faced-Worse Potter doesn’t care what happens to her in here, well, I do, all right, giant spiders and mental stuff –’

  ‘I was only saying – she was with the others, they were with Hagrid –’

  ‘– yeah, I get it, you don’t care! And what about the rest of my family, “the Weasleys don’t need another kid injured”, did you hear that?’

  ‘Yeah, I –’

  ‘Not bothered what it meant, though?’

  ‘Ron!’ said Hermione, forcing her way between them, ‘I don’t think it means anything new has happened, anything we don’t know about; think, Ron, Bill’s already scarred, plenty of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now, and you’re supposed to be on your deathbed with spattergroit, I’m sure that’s all he meant –’

  ‘Oh, you’re sure, are you? Right then, well, I won’t bother myself about them. It’s all right for you two, isn’t it, with your parents safely out of the way –’

  ‘My parents are dead!’ Harry bellowed.

  ‘And mine could be going the same way!’ yelled Ron.

  ‘Then GO!’ roared Harry. ‘Go back to them, pretend you’ve got over your spattergroit and Mummy’ll be able to feed you up and –’

  Ron made a sudden movement: Harry reacted, but before either wand was clear of its owner’s pocket, Hermione had raised her own.

  ‘Protego!’ she cried, and an invisible shield expanded between her and Harry on the one side and Ron on the other; all of them were forced backwards a few steps by the strength of the spell and Harry and Ron glared from either side of the transparent barrier as though they were seeing each other clearly for the first time. Harry felt a corrosive hatred towards Ron: something had broken between them.

  ‘Leave the Horcrux,’ Harry said.

  Ron wrenched the chain from over his head and cast the locket into a nearby chair. He turned to Hermione.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you staying, or what?’

  ‘I …’ She looked anguished. ‘Yes – yes, I’m staying. Ron, we said we’d go with Harry, we said we’d help –’

  ‘I get it. You choose him.’

  ‘Ron, no – please – come back, come back!’

  She was impeded by her own Shield Charm; by the time she had removed it, he had already stormed into the night. Harry stood quite still and silent, listening to her sobbing and calling Ron’s name amongst the trees.

  After a few minutes she returned, her sopping hair plastered to her face.

  ‘He’s g – g – gone! Disapparated!’

  She threw herself into a chair, curled up and started to cry.

  Harry felt dazed. He stooped, picked up the Horcrux and placed it around his own neck. He dragged blankets off Ron’s bunk and threw them over Hermione. Then he climbed on to his own bed and stared up at the dark canvas roof, listening to the pounding of the rain.

  — CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

  Godric’s Hollow

  When Harry woke the following day, it was several seconds before he remembered what had happened. Then he hoped, childishly, that it had been a dream, that Ron was still there and had never left. Yet by turning his head on his pillow he could see Ron’s deserted bunk. It was like a dead body in the way it seemed to draw his eyes. Harry jumped down from his own bed, keeping his eyes averted from Ron’s. Hermione, who was already busy in the kitchen, did not wish Harry good morning, but turned her face away quickly as he went by.

  He’s gone, Harry told himself. He’s gone. He had to keep thinking it as he washed and dressed, as though repetition would dull the shock of it. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. And that was the simple truth of it, Harry knew, because their protective enchantments meant that it would be impossible, once they vacated this spot, for Ron to find them again.

  He and Hermione ate breakfast in silence. Hermione’s eyes were puffy and red; she looked as if she had not slept. They packed up their things, Hermione dawdling. Harry knew why she wanted to spin out their time on the riverbank; several times he saw her look up eagerly and he was sure she had deluded herself into thinking that she heard footsteps through the heavy rain, but no red-haired figure appeared between the trees. Every time Harry imitated her, looked round (for he could not help hoping a little himself) and saw nothing but rain-swept woods, another little parcel of fury exploded inside him. He could hear Ron saying ‘We thought you knew what you were doing!’, and he resumed packing with a hard knot in the pit of his stomach.

  The muddy river beside them was rising rapidly and would soon spill over on to their bank. They had lingered a good hour after they would usually have departed their campsite. Finally, having entirely repacked the beaded bag three times, Hermione seemed unable to find any more reasons to delay: she and Harry grasped hands and Disapparated, reappearing on a windswept, heather-covered hillside.

  The instant they arrived Hermione dropped Harry’s hand and walked away from him, finally sitting down on a large rock, her face on her knees, shaking with what he knew were sobs. He watched her, supposing that he ought to go and comfort her, but something kept him rooted to the spot. Everything inside him felt cold and tight: again he saw the contemptuous expression on Ron’s face. Harry strode off through the heather, walking in a large circle with the distraught Hermione at its centre, casting the spells she usually performed to ensure their protection.

  They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few days. Harry was determined never to mention his name again, and Hermione seemed to know that it was no use forcing the issue, although sometimes at night when she thought he was sleeping, he would hear her crying. Meanwhile, Harry had started bringing out the Marauder’s Map and examining it by wandlight. He was waiting for the moment when Ron’s labelled dot would reappear in the corridors of Hogwarts, proving that he had returned to the comfortable castle, protected by his status of pure-blood. However, Ron did not appear on the map, and after a while Harry found himself taking it out simply to stare at Ginny’s name in the girls’ dormitory, wondering whether the intensity with which he gazed at it might break into her sleep, that she would somehow know he was thinking about her, hoping that she was all right.

  By day, they devoted themselves to trying to determine the possible locations of Gryffindor’s sword, but the more they talked about the places in which Dumbledore might have hidden it, the more desperate and far-fetched their speculation became. Cudgel his brains though he might, Harry could not remember Dumbledore ever mentioning a place in which he might hide something. There were moments when he did not know whether he was angrier with Ron or with Dumbledore. We thought you knew what you were doing … we thought Dumbledore had told you what to do … we thought you had a real plan!

  He could not hide it from himself: Ron had been right. Dumbledore had left him with virtually nothing. They had discovered one Horcrux, but they had no means of destroying it: the others were as unattainable as they had ever been. Hopelessness threatened to engulf him. He was staggered, now, to think of his own presumption in accepting his friends’ offers to accompany him on this meandering, pointless journey. He knew nothing, he had no ideas, and he was constantly, painfully on the alert for any indication that Hermione, too, was about to tell him that she had had enough, that she was leaving.

  They were spending many evenings in near silence, and Hermione took to bringing out Phineas Nigellus’s portrait and propping it up in a chair, as though he might fill part of the gaping hole left by Ron’s departure. Despite his previous assertion that he would never visit them again, Phineas Nigellus did not seem able to resist the chance to find out more about what Harry was up to, and consented to reappear, blindfolded, every few days or so. Harry was even glad to see him, because he was company, albeit of a snide and taunting kind. They relished any news about what was happening at Hogwarts, though Phineas Nigellus was not an ideal informer. He venerated Snape, the first Slytherin Headmaster since he himself had controlled the school, and they had to be careful not to criticise, or ask impertinent questions about Snape, or Phineas Nigellus would instantly leave his painting.

  However, he did let drop certain snippets. Snape seemed to be facing a constant, low-level of mutiny from a hard core of students. Ginny had been banned from going into Hogsmeade. Snape had reinstated Umbridge’s old decree forbidding gatherings of three or more students, or any unofficial student societies.

  From all of these things, Harry deduced that Ginny, and probably Neville and Luna along with her, had been doing their best to continue Dumbledore’s Army. This scant news made Harry want to see Ginny so badly it felt like stomach ache; but it also made him think of Ron again, and of Dumbledore, and of Hogwarts itself, which he missed nearly as much as his ex-girlfriend. Indeed, as Phineas Nigellus talked about Snape’s crackdown, Harry experienced a split second of madness when he imagined simply going back to school to join the destabilisation of Snape’s regime: being fed, and having a soft bed, and other people being in charge seemed the most wonderful prospect in the world at that moment. But then he remembered that he was Undesirable Number One, that there was a ten thousand Galleon price on his head, and that to walk into Hogwarts these days was just as dangerous as walking into the Ministry of Magic. Indeed, Phineas Nigellus inadvertently emphasised this fact by slipping in leading questions about Harry and Hermione’s whereabouts. Hermione shoved him back inside the beaded bag every time he did this, and Phineas Nigellus invariably refused to reappear for several days after these unceremonious goodbyes.

  The weather grew colder and colder. They did not dare remain in any one area too long, so rather than staying in the south of England, where a hard ground frost was the worst of their worries, they continued to meander up and down the country, braving a mountainside, where sleet pounded the tent, a wide flat marsh, where the tent was flooded with chill water, and a tiny island in the middle of a Scottish loch, where snow half buried the tent in the night.