He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far below, swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought down there, the man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man who held the answer, the answer to his problem...?



"Oi, wake up."



　　　Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron's dingy attic room. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry's forehead was prickling.



"You were muttering in your sleep."



"Was I?"



"Yeah. 'Gregorovitch.' You kept saying 'Gregorovitch.'"



Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron's face appeared slightly blurred.



"Who's Gregorovitch?"



"I dunno, do I?" You were the one saying it."



　　　Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the name before, but he could not think where.



"I think Voldemort's looking for him."



"Poor bloke," said Ron fervently.



　　　Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. He tried to remember exactly what he had seen in the dream, but all that came back was a mountainous horizon and the outline of the little village cradled in a deep valley.



"I think he's abroad."



"Who, Gregorovitch?"



　　　"Voldemort. I think he's somewhere abroad, looking for Gregorovitch. It didn't look like anywhere in Britain."



"You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?"



Ron sounded worried.



　　　"Do me a favor and don't tell Hermione," said Harry. "Although how she expects me to stop seeing stuff in my sleep..."



　　　He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon's cage, thinking...Why was the name "Gregorovitch" familiar?



　　　"I think," he said slowly, "he's got something to do with Quidditch. There's some connection, but I can't--I can't think what it is."



"Quidditch?" said Ron. "Sure you're not thinking of Gorgovitch?"



"Who?"



　　　"Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season."



"No," said Harry. "I'm definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch."



"I try not to either," said Ron. "Well, happy birthday anyway."



"Wow -- that's right, I forgot! I'm seventeen!"



　　　Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, "Accio Glasses!" Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye.



"Slick," snorted Ron.



　　　Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron's possessions flying around the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron's Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.



　　　"I'd do your fly by hand, though," Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry immediately checked it. "Here's your present. Unwrap it up here, it's not for my mother's eyes."



　　　"A book?" said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. "Bit of a departure from tradition, isn't it?"



　　　"This isn't your average book," said Ron. "It'd pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I'd had this last year I'd have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would've known how to get going with... Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I've learned a lot. You'd be surprised, it's not all about wandwork, either."



　　　When they arrived in the kitchen they found a pile of presents waiting on the table. Bill and Monsieur Delacour were finishing their breakfasts, while Mrs. Weasley stood chatting to them over the frying pan.



　　　"Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley, beaming at him. "He had to leave early for work, but he'll be back for dinner. That's our present on top."



　　　Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had indicated, and unwrapped it. Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling around the race instead of hands.



　　　"It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age," said Mrs. Weasley, watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. "I'm afraid that one isn't new like Ron's, it was actually my brother Fabian's and he wasn't terribly careful with his possessions, it's a bit dented on the back, but--"



　　　The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up and hugged her. He tried to put a lot of unsaid things into the hug and perhaps she understood them, because she patted his cheek clumsily when he released her, then waved her wand in a slightly random way, causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying pan onto the floor.



　　　"Happy birthday, Harry!" said Hermione, hurrying into the kitchen and adding her own present to the top of the pile. "It's not much, but I hope you like it. What did you get him?" she added to Ron, who seemed not to hear her.



"Come on, then, open Hermione's!" said Ron.



　　　She had bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other packages contained an enchanted razor from Bill and Fleur ("Ah yes, zis will give you ze smoothest shave you will ever 'ave," Monsieur Delacour assured him, "but you must tell it clearly what you want...ozzerwise you might find you 'ave a leetle less hair zan you would like..."), chocolates from the Delacours, and an enormous box of the latest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred and George.



　　　Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not linger at the table, as the arrival of Madame Delacour, Fleur, and Gabrielle made the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.



　　　"I'll pack these for you," Hermione said brightly, taking Harry's presents out of his arms as the three of them headed back upstairs. "I'm nearly done, I'm just waiting for the rest of your underpants to come out of the wash, Ron--"



Ron's splutter was interrupted by the opening of a door on the first-floor landing.



"Harry, will you come in here a moment?"



　　　It was Ginny. Ron came to an abrupt halt, but Hermione took him by the elbow and tugged him on up the stairs. Feeling nervous, Harry followed Ginny into her room.



　　　He had never been inside it before. It was small, but bright. There was a large poster of the Wizarding band the Weird Sisters on one wall, and a picture of Gwenog Jones, Captain of the all-witch Quidditch team the Holyhead Harpies, on the other. A desk stood facing the open window, which looked out over the orchard where he and Ginny had once played a two-a-side Quidditch with Ron and Hermione, and which now housed a large, pearly white marquee. The golden flag on top was level with Ginny's window.



　　　Ginny looked up into Harry's face, took a deep breath, and said, "Happy seventeenth."



"Yeah...thanks."



　　　She was looking at him steadily; he however, found it difficult to look back at her; it was like gazing into a brilliant light.



"Nice view," he said feebly, pointing toward with window.



She ignored this. He could not blame her.



"I couldn't think what to get you," she said.



"You didn't have to get me anything."



She disregarded this too.



　　　"I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be able to take it with you."



　　　He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that having six brothers must have toughened her up.



She took a step closer to him.



　　　"So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing."



　　　"I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be honest."



　　　"There's the silver lining I've been looking for," she whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair--



The door banged open behind them and they jumped apart.



"Oh," said Ron pointedly. "Sorry."



　　　"Ron!" Hermione was just behind him, slight out of breath. There was a strained silence, then Ginny had said in a flat little voice,



"Well, happy birthday anyway, Harry."



　　　Ron's ears were scarlet; Hermione looked nervous. Harry wanted to slam the door in their faces, but it felt as though a cold draft had entered the room when the door opened, and his shining moment had popped like a soap bubble. All the reasons for ending his relationship with Ginny, for staying well away from her, seemed to have slunk inside the room with Ron, and all happy forgetfulness was gone.



　　　He looked at Ginny, wanting to say something, though he hardly knew what, but she had turned her back on him. He thought that she might have succumbed, for once, to tears. He could not do anything to comfort her in front of Ron.



"I'll see you later," he said, and followed the other two out of the bedroom.



　　　Ron marched downstairs, though the still-crowded kitchen and into the yard, and Harry kept pace with him all the way, Hermione trotting along behind them looking scared.



Once he reached the seclusion of the freshly mown lawn, Ron rounded on Harry.



"You ditched her. What are you doing now, messing her around?"



"I'm not messing her around," said Harry, as Hermione caught up with them.



"Ron--"



But Ron held up a hand to silence her.



"She was really cut up when you ended it--"



"So was I. You know why I stopped it, and it wasn't because I wanted to."



　　　"Yeah, but you go snogging her now and she's just going to get her hopes up again--"



　　　"She's not an idiot, she knows it can't happen, she's not expecting us to--to end up married, or--"



　　　As he said it, a vivid picture formed in Harry's mind of Ginny in a white dress, marrying a tall, faceless, and unpleasant stranger.



　　　In one spiraling moment it seemed to hit him: Her future was free and unencumbered, whereas his...he could see nothing but Voldemort ahead.



"If you keep groping her every chance you get--"



　　　"It won't happen again," said Harry harshly. The day was cloudless, but he felt as though the sun had gone in. "Okay?"



　　　Ron looked half resentful, half sheepish; he rocked backward and forward on his feet for a moment, then said, "Right then, well, that's...yeah."



　　　Ginny did not seek another one-to-one meeting with Harry for the rest of the day, nor by any look or gesture did she show that they had shared more than polite conversation in her room. Nevertheless, Charlie's arrival came as a relief to Harry. It provided a distraction, watching Mrs. Weasley force Charlie into a chair, raise her wand threateningly, and announce that he was about to get a proper haircut.



　　　As Harry's birthday dinner would have stretched the Burrow's kitchen to breaking point even before the arrival of Charlie, Lupin, Tonks, and Hagrid, several tables were placed end to end in the garden. Fred and George bewitched a number of purple lanterns all emblazoned with a large number 17, to hang in midair over the guests. Thanks to Mrs. Weasley's ministrations, George's wound was neat and clean, but Harry was not yet used to the dark hole in the side of his head, despite the twins' many jokes about it.



　　　Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and drape themselves artistically over the trees and bushes.



"Nice," said Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione



turned the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. "You've really got an eye for that sort of thing."



　　　"Thank you, Ron!" said Hermione, looking both pleased and a little confused. Harry turned away, smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he would find a Chapter on compliments when he found time to peruse his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches; he caught Ginny's eye and grinned at her before remembering his promise to Ron and hurriedly" title="ad.仓促地，忙乱地">hurriedly striking up a conversation with Monsieur Delacour.



　　　"Out of the way, out of the way!" sang Mrs. Weasley, coming through the gate with what appeared to be a giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley was suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the cake had finally landed in the middle of the table, Harry said,



"That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley."



　　　"Oh, it's nothing, dear," she said fondly. Over her shoulder, Ron gave Harry the thumbs-up and mouthed, Good one.



　　　By seven o'clock all the guests had arrived, led into the house by Fred and George, who had waited for them at the end of the lane. Hagrid had honored the occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy brown suit. Although Lupin smiled as he shook Harry's hand, Harry thought he looked rather unhappy. It was all very odd; Tonks, beside him, looked simply radiant.



"Happy birthday, Harry," she said, hugging him tightly.



　　　"Seventeen, eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. "Six years ter the day since we met, Harry, d'yeh remember it?"



　　　"Vaguely," said Harry, grinning up at him. "Didn't you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig's tail, and tell me I was a wizard?"



"I forge' the details," Hagrid chortled. "All righ', Ron, Hermione?"



"We're fine," said Hermione. "How are you?"



　　　"Ar, not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn unicorns. I'll show yeh when yeh get back--" Harry avoided Ron's and Hermione's gazes as Hagrid rummaged in his pocket. "Here. Harry -- couldn't think what ter get teh, but then I remembered this." He pulled out a small, slightly furry drawstring pouch with a long string, evidently intended to be worn around the neck. "Mokeskin. Hide anythin' in there an' no one but the owner can get it out. They're rare, them."



"Hagrid, thanks!"



　　　"'S'nothin'," said Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid-sized hand. "An' there's Charlie! Always liked him -- hey! Charlie!"



　　　Charlie approached, running his hand slightly ruefully over his new, brutally short haircut. He was shorter than Ron, thickset, with a number of burns and scratches up his muscley arms.



"Hi, Hagrid, how's it going?"



"Bin meanin' ter write fer ages. How's Norbert doin'?"



　　　"Norbert?" Charlie laughed. "The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call her Norberta now."



"Wha -- Norbert's a girl?"



"Oh yeah," said Charlie.



"How can you tell?" asked Hermione.



　　　"They're a lot more vicious," said Charlie. He looked over his shoulder and dropped his voice. "Wish Dad would hurry up and get here. Mum's getting edgy."



　　　They all looked over at Mrs. Weasley. She was trying to talk to Madame Delacour while glancing repeatedly" title="ad.反复地；再三地">repeatedly at the gate.



　　　"I think we'd better start without Arthur," she called to the garden at large after a moment or two. "He must have been held up at -- oh!"



　　　They all saw it at the same time: a streak of light that came flying across the yard and onto the table, where it resolved itself into a bright silver weasel, which stood on its hind legs and spoke with Mr. Weasley's voice.



"Minister of Magic coming with me."



　　　The Patronus dissolved into thin air, leaving Fleur's family peering in astonishment at the place where it had vanished.



　　　"We shouldn't be here," said Lupin at once. "Harry -- I'm sorry -- I'll explain some other time--"



　　　He seized Tonks's wrist and pulled her away; they reached the fence, climbed over it, and vanished from sight. Mrs. Weasley looked bewildered.



"The Minister -- but why--? I don't understand--"



　　　But there was no time to discuss the matter; a second later, Mr. Weasley had appeared out of thin air at the gate, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour, instantly recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair.



　　　The two newcomers marched across the yard toward the garden and the lantern-lit table, where everybody sat in silence, watching them draw closer. As Scrimgeour came within range of the lantern light. Harry saw that he looked much older than the last time that had met, scraggy and grim.



　　　"Sorry to intrude," said Scrimgeour, as he limped to a halt before the table. "Especially as I can see that I am gate-crashing a party."



His eyes lingered for a moment on the giant Snitch cake.



"Many happy returns."



"Thanks," said Harry.



　　　"I require a private word with you," Scrimgeour went on. "Also with Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger."



"Us?" said Ron, sounding surprised. "Why us?"



　　　"I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private," said Scrimgeour. "Is there such a place?' he demanded of Mr. Weasley.



　　　"Yes, of course," said Mr. Weasley, who looked nervous. "The, er, sitting room, why don't you use that?"



　　　"You can lead the way," Scrimgeour said to Ron. "There will be no need for you to accompany us, Arthur."



　　　Harry saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with Mrs. Weasley as he, Ron, and Hermione stood up. As they led the way back to the house in silence, Harry knew that the other two were thinking the same as he was; Scrimgeour must, somehow, had learned that the three of them were planning to drop out of Hogwarts.



　　　Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through the messed kitchen and into the Burrow's sitting room. Although the garden had been full of soft golden evening light,



it was already dark in here; Harry flicked his wand at the oil lamps as he entered and they illuminated the shabby but cozy room. Scrimgeour sat himself in the sagging armchair that Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Harry, Ron, and Hermione to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. Once they had done so, Scrimgeour spoke.



　　　"I have some questions for the three of you, and I think it will be best if we do it individually. If you two" -- he pointed at Harry and Hermione -- "can wait upstairs, I will start with Ronald."



　　　"We're not going anywhere," said Harry, while Hermione nodded vigorously. "You can speak to us together, or not at all."



　　　Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry had the impression that the Minister was wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities this early.



　　　"Very well then, together," he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."



Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.



　　　"A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you anything?"



"A-all of us?" said Ron, "Me and Hermione too?"



"Yes, all of --"



But Harry interrupted.



　　　"Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what he left us?"



　　　"Isn't it obvious?" said Hermione, before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" she said, and her voice trembled slightly.



　　　"I had every right," said Scrimgeour dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable Confiscation gives the Ministry the power the confiscate the contents of a will--"



　　　"That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts," said Hermione, "and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us something cursed?"



　　　"Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" asked Scrimgeour.



"No, I'm not," retorted Hermione. "I'm hoping to do some good in the world!"



　　　Ron laughed. Scrimgeour's eyes flickered toward him and away again as Harry spoke.