Chapter 3: Will And Won't


Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a chair beside his

bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening

street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against

the cold win-dowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The

misty fug his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of

the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of all color, so

that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.



The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of

rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a

number of spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled robes on his

bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The

headline of one blared:


HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?


Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the

Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted

once more.


"We're not allowed to talk about it, don't ask me anything" said one

agitated Obliviator, who refused to give his name as he left the Ministry last

night.

Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed

that the disturbance centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.


Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused even to confirm the

existence of such a place, a growing number of the Wizarding community

believe that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in Azkaban for trespass

and attempted theft were attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that

prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife that it concerns Harry

Potter, the only person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse, and

who is also known to have been at the Ministry on the night in question.

Some are going so far as to call Potter "the Chosen One," believing that the

prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-

Must-No t-Be-Named.


The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown,

although {ctd. page2, column 5)


A second newspaper lay beside die first. This one bore die headline:


SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE


Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture

of a man with a lionlike mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The

picture was moving -- the man was waving at the ceiling.


Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department

of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of

Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the

Wizardmg community, though rumors of a rift between the new Minister

and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot,

surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.


Scrimgeours representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at

once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the

topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 3,

column 2)


To the left of this paper sat another, which had been folded so that a story

bearing the title ministry guarantees students' sapety was visible.


Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of

the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of

students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this

autumn.


"For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its

stringent new security plans," said the Minister, although an insider

confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex

array of countercurses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to

the protection of Hogwarts School.


Most seem reassured by the new Minister's tough stand on student safety.

Said Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, "My grandson, Neville -- a good friend of

Harry Potter's, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at

the Ministry in June and --


But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage.standing on

top of it. Inside it was a magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed

the room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to gaze at her snoring

master. Once or twice she clicked her beak impatiently, but Harry was too

deeply asleep to hear her.


A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its lid was open; it

looked expectant; yet it was almost empty but for a residue of old

underwear, sweets, empty ink bottles, and broken quills that


coated the very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet

emblazoned with the words:


----ISSUED ON BEHALF OF----

The Ministry of Magic

PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK

FORCES


The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization

calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security

guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.


1. You are advised not to leave the house alone.

2. Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever

possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.


3. Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that

all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield

and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members,

Side-Along-Apparition.


4. Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to

detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion

(see page 2).


5. Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is

acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at

once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).


6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other

building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.


7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be

using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an In-ferius, or encounter with

same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.


Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or

so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm

clock, repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on the sill, showing

one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's relaxed hand, was a

piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this

letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been

delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.


Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this
coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have
been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter
to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this
more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this
Friday,

I am yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore


Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at

this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he

had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a

reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to

keep rereading Dumbledore's words; Harry had sent back his "yes" with the

delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: Either

Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.


But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was

going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their

company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go

wrong -- his reply to Dumbledore's letter might have gone astray;

Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn

out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had

not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack

again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to

shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.


The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at

that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out.


Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily

straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed

his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A

tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.


Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked

over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach

from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of

robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell

rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, "Who the

blazes is calling at this lime of night?"


Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the

other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore

might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered

over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep

voice say, "Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has

told you I would be coming for him?"


Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several

steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of

arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a

tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles

were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black

traveling cloak and.1 pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was

quite as bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce

dress-ing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his

tiny eyes.


"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I

was coming," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "However, let us assume that you

have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on

doorsteps in these troubled times."


He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind

him.


"It is a long time since my last visit," said Dumbledore, peering down his

crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. "I must say, your agapanthus are

flourishing."


Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would

return to him, and soon -- the vein pulsing in his uncles temple was

reaching danger point -- but something about Dumbledore seemed to have

robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant

wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle

Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to

bully.


"Ah, good evening Harry," said Dumbledore, looking up at him through

his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. "Excellent,

excellent."


These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he

was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say "excellent" was a

man with whom he could never see eye to eye.


"I don't mean to be rude --" he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness

in every syllable.


"--yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often," Dumbledore

finished the sentence gravely. "Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah,

and this must be Petunia."


The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing

rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through

her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather

horsey face registered nothing but shock.

"Albus Dumbledore," said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to

effect an introduction. "We have corresponded, of course." Harry thought

this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an

exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. "And this must

be your son, Dudley?"


Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large,

blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly

disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and I car. Dumbledore

waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were

going to say anything, but as the ·.ilcncc stretched on he smiled.


"Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?"


Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. I lurry, still

clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last lew stairs and followed

Dumbledore, who had settled himself in i he armchair nearest the fire and

was taking in the surroundings wilh an expression of benign interest. He

looked quite extraordinarily out of place.


"Aren't --- aren't we leaving, sir?" Harry asked anxiously.


"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to dis-i us.s

first," said Dumbledore. "And I would prefer not to do so in (he open. We

shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."


"You will, will you?"

Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, iind

Dudley skulking behind them both.


"Yes," said Dumbledore simply, "I shall."


He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick,

the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of

the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the

wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.


"We may as well be comfortable," said Dumbledore pleasantly.


As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that his hand was

blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned

away. ¦¦ ¦ · <¦'·¦


"Sir -- what happened to your -- ?"


"Later, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Please sit down."


Harry took the remaining armchair, choosing not to look at the Dursleys,

who seemed stunned into silence.


"I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment,"

Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon, "but the evidence so far suggests that

that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."

A third twitch of the wand, and a dusty bottle and five glasses appeared in

midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honey-colored

liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the

room.


"Madam Rosmertas finest oak-matured mead," said Dumbledore, raising

his glass to Harry, who caught hold of his own and sipped. He had never

tasted anything like it before, but enjoyed it immensely. The Dursleys, after

quick, scared looks at one another, tried to ignore their glasses completely, a

difficult feat, as they were nudging them gently on the sides of their heads.

Harry could not suppress a suspicion that Dumbledore was rather enjoying

himself.


"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, turning toward him, "a difficulty has

arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order

of the Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius's will was

discovered a week ago and that he left you every-ihing he owned."


Over on the sofa, Uncle Vernons head turned, but Harry did not look at

him, nor could he think of anything to say except, "Oh. Right."


"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward," Dumbledore went on. "You

add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at (iringotts, and you

inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of

the legacy --"

"His godfather's dead?" said Uncle Vernon loudly from the sofa. 1

)umbledore and Harry both turned to look at him. The glass of mead was

now knocking quite insistently on the side of Vernons head; he attempted to

beat it away. "He's dead? His godfather?"


"Yes," said Dumbledore. He did not ask Harry why he had not confided in

the Dursleys. "Our problem," he continued to Harry, as if there had been no

interruption, "is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place."


"He's been left a house?" said Uncle Vernon greedily, his small eyes

narrowing, but nobody answered him.


"You can keep using it as headquarters," said Harry. "I don't care. You

can have it, I don't really want it." Harry never wanted to set foot in number

twelve, Grimmauld Place again if he could help it. He thought he would be

haunted forever by the memory of Sirius prowling its dark musty rooms

alone, imprisoned within the place he had wanted so desperately to leave.


"That is generous," said Dumbledore. "We have, however, vacated the

building temporarily."


"Why?"


"Well," said Dumbledore, ignoring the mutterings of Uncle Vernon, who

was now being rapped smartly over the head by the persistent glass of mead,

"Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct

line, to the next male with the name of 'Black.' Sirius was the very last of the

line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were

childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have

the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has

been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other

than a pureblood."


A vivid image of the shrieking, spitting portrait of Sirius's mother that

hung in the hall of number twelve, Grimmauld Place flashed into Harry's

mind. "I bet there has," he said.


"Quite," said Dumbledore. "And if such an enchantment exists, then the

ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living

relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."


Without realizing what he was doing, Harry sprang to his feet; the

telescope and trainers in his lap rolled across the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange,

Sirius's killer, inherit his house?


"No," he said.


"Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it either," said

Dumbledore calmly. "The situation is fraught with complications. We do not

know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for

example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed

from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at

any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have

clarified the position,"

"But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?"


"Fortunately," said Dumbledore, "there is a simple test."


He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his chair, but before he

could do anything else, Uncle Vernon shouted, "Will you get these ruddy

things off us?"


Harry looked around; all three of the Dursleys were cowering with their

arms over their heads as their glasses bounced up and down on their skulls,

their contents flying everywhere.


"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Dumbledore politely, and he raised his wand

again. All three glasses vanished. "But it would have been better manners to

drink it, you know."


It looked as though Uncle Vernon was bursting with any number of

unpleasant retorts, but he merely shrank back into the cushions with Aunt

Petunia and Dudley and said nothing, keeping his small piggy eyes on

Dumbledore's wand.


"You see," Dumbledore said, turning back to Harry and again speaking as

though Uncle Vernon had not uttered, "if you have indeed inherited the

house, you have also inherited --"

He flicked his wand for a fifth time. There was a loud crack, and a house-

elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous

bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys' shag carpet and covered in grimy

rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising shriek; nothing this filthy had

entered her house in living memory. Dudley drew his large, bare, pink feet

off the floor and sat with them raised almost above his head, as though he

thought the creature might run up his pajama trousers, and Uncle Vernon

bellowed, "What the hell is that?"


"Kreacher," finished Dumbledore.


"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" croaked the house-

elf, quite as loudly as Uncle Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and

pulling lii.s ears. "Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher

belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go

to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't --"


"As you can see, Harry," said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher's

continued croaks of "wont, won't, won't," "Kreacher is showing a certain

reluctance to pass into your ownership."


"I don't care," said Harry again, looking with disgust at the writhing,

stamping house-elf. "I don't want him."


"Won't, won't, won't, won't --"

"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange?

Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the

Phoenix for the past year?"


"Won't, won't, won't, won't --"


Harry stared at Dumbledore. He knew that Kreacher could not be

permitted to go and live with Bellatrix Lestrange, but the idea of owning

him, of having responsibility for the creature that had betrayed Sirius, was

repugnant.


"Give him an order," said Dumbledore. "If he has passed into your

ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some

other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."


"Won't, won't, won't, WON'T!"


Kreacher's voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to

say, except, "Kreacher, shut up!"


It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He

grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After

a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the

carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet,

giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.

"Well, that simplifies matters," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "It means

that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number

twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."


"Do I -- do I have to keep him with me?" Harry asked, aghast, us

Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.


"Not if you don't want to," said Dumbledore. "If I might make ii

suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In

that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him."


"Yeah," said Harry in relief, "yeah, I'll do that. Er -- Kreacher -- I want

you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-

elves."


Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in

the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with

another loud crack, vanished.


"Good," said Dumbledore. "There is also the matter of the hip-pogriff,

Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but

Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different

arrangements --"


"No," said Harry at once, "he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak

would prefer that."

"Hagrid will be delighted," said Dumbledore, smiling. "He was thrilled to

see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of

Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him 'Witherwings' for the time being,

though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they

once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?"


Erm...


"Doubtful that I would turn up?" Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.


"I'll just go and -- er -- finish off," said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up

his fallen telescope and trainers.


It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed;

at last he had managed to extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed,

screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, and forced the lid of his

trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding

Hedwig's cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs,


He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was not waiting in the

hall, which meant that he had to return to the living room.


Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite

at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did

not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, "Professor -- I'm ready now."

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Just one last thing, then." And he turned to

speak to the Dursleys once more.


"As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a years time --"


"No," said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's

arrival.


"I'm sorry?" said Dumbledore politely.


"No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't

turn eighteen until the year after next."


"Ah," said Dumbledore pleasantly, "but in the Wizarding world, we come

of age at seventeen."


Uncle Vernoii muttered, "Preposterous," but Dumbledore ignored him,


"Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort Was

returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of

open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on

a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I

left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about

his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him ;is

though he were your own."

Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and

he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from

him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.


"You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has

known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can

be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have

inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you."


Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinc-lively, as

though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.


"Us -- mistreat Dudders? What d'you -- ?" began Uncle Vernon

furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell

as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.


"The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful

protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he

has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at

least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate

the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he

becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to

this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the

protection continues until that time."


None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as

though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated.

Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt

Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.


"Well, Harry... time for us to be off," said Dumbledore at last, standing up

and straightening his long black cloak. "Until we meet again," he said to the

Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as

they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.


"Bye," said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who

paused beside Harry's trunk, upon which Hedwig's cage was perched.


"We do not want to be encumbered by these just now," he said, pulling

out his wand again. "I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there.

However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case."


Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not

to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside

pocket of his jacket, Dumbiedore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and

Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front

door opened onto cool, misty darkness.


"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty

temptress, adventure."