Harry Potter and the Summer of the Dementors

The next day was to be the day of the Dementor hunt, and Harry knew that almost everyone - except him - would be involved. Nothing for him to do. Well then, a day, perhaps, to finish the Potions essay. It might at least take his mind off things.

The owl from Dean came in the late afternoon.

"Ron said to come for the weekend. He said he'd got a room for me and Olive." Harry wondered what Mrs Weasley would think of that. "We'll be in Grimmauld Place at six. Dean."

Harry packed a bag of his own and wandered outside shortly before six. He hadn't gone far before he saw Dean and Olive, hand in hand, walking towards him. He stopped and let them come alongside before turning back into Grimmauld Place.

As they walked along the pavement, he took Olive's elbow to stop her, just as Number Twelve appeared. Olive looked at the house then at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Security," he told her.

"Fair enough."

He let them in and they walked up to the fireplace. Dean rummaged in his bag for a small tin of powder.

"Had to sign for this stuff," he said. "They're not keen on Muggles using the Floo."

He took Olive's hand, and Harry passed him their bag. Dean threw down the handful of powder, cried 'The Burrow!' and the two of them disappeared in a whoosh of green smoke. Harry decided to do it the easy way and Apparate - though not completely soundlessly.

It wouldn't have mattered though - all the attention was on a coughing, spluttering Olive.

"I'm walking back!" she announced. Everyone grinned. "No, seriously."

Ron waved a hand at the two of them. "Mum, this is Dean and Olive."

"So I see, dear."

She passed Olive a glass of water, and slowly she recovered. "Thanks, Mrs ...err"

"Weasley, dear."

"Right."

Dean stepped forward. "Thanks for the invitation, Mrs Weasley," he said.

"Any Gryffindor is welcome here. Come on, you two, come outside. There's some supper. Only cold, I'm afraid."

Sitting in the evening sun was very pleasant. They were nibbling away at some pie when they heard a noise from inside. Mr Weasley appeared from the kitchen door.

"Arthur! I didn't expect you home so soon."

"Taking a break, dear. Things are quiet at the moment. I expect I'll have to pop back later." He noticed the two visitors. "And who are you two?"

"Dean Thomas, sir. I'm in Gryffindor with Ron and Harry."

"Merlin's beard, don't call me sir!"

"Yes, Mr Weasley."

"And?" he said, looking at Olive.

"Olive. Dean's boyfriend. And a Muggle."

"Are you? Are you really, by Jove? Tell me ..."

"Later, Arthur," said Mrs Weasley sternly.

"Oh, yes, well, of course." He sat down and took some of the pie.

Harry had been bursting to ask: "How's it going?"

"Very well, very well indeed. The goblins have been a great help. That was really good work, Harry." Harry felt a glow of warmth at those words. "There's a lot of what you might call mopping up going on."

"Don't give us all the details, Arthur. Not now," Mrs Weasley said quietly.

"No. Well, I expect it'll all be in the Prophet tomorrow. Arbuthnot's doing it properly, with some real press liaison."

"I'll wait until then to read it properly," said Mrs Weasley firmly. "Tonight we're going to relax and enjoy ourselves."

"Yes, dear."

Harry wasn't sure if he could wait until morning - thinking about how it might be going had felt as though a great weight had been pressing down on him all day long, and the thought of going to bed still not knowing ... mind you, he could hitch a ride back to the Ministry with Mr Weasley if he was going back that night. It would be rude, he knew, to leave Dean and Olive, but there was always Ron and Ginny to look after them.

But Mr Weasley was talking to Olive. "So when did you find out about Dean?"

"When we went to Harry's party. He said this friend of his from school was giving this big party, and did I want to go? And he'd always been very mysterious about his school, so I thought, yeah. Then he said that it would be full of wizards, and I laughed. Seriously, he said. Yeah, yeah, I went. So we go along to Lavender's and I saw her step into the fireplace - whoosh! And it came to our turn, and Dean said step into the fireplace with me, and I didn't know what would come next, but there was this big whoosh again and I was pulled along with Dean."

"Amazing," said Mr Weasley, his eyes sparkling. "And what did you think to the party?"

"Oh, great party. But it was when Harry came to cut the cake, and there was that funny little elf there, and then that old bloke pulled out the sword from nowhere. I mean - I suppose it was only then that I really did believe you were all wizards and not pulling tricks on me, or something."

Fleetingly, Harry wondered how Dumbledore would react to being called 'that old bloke'. Knowing Dumbledore, he'd just smile. He could also see that Olive was enjoying being the centre of attention.

"And Dean's going to take me for a ride on a broomstick, tomorrow, aren't you?"

"Yeah, if you want."

Eventually Mr Weasley stood up. "I'm sorry, Molly dear, I'm just popping back to the Ministry - just for a quarter of an hour or so."

"All right, dear - but I know what your quarter of an hours become."

"Depends how busy things are."

Harry stood up too, catching Mr Weasley's eye. "Do you mind if ...?"

"What? Oh no, come along."

Ron stood up too.

"No, Ron, you're staying to entertain our guests."

"Mum!"

"You can't all go - and Olive can't anyway, she'd not be allowed in the Ministry. I'm sure Harry will tell you all about it when he gets back."

Ron subsided again - he could see his mother's point, but Harry could see that he was itching to go. He felt guilty leaving Ron behind, but the urge to find out what had been happening was too much.

"I'll fill you in when I get back," he promised.

"Okay," Ron replied, rather disconsolately.

Mr Weasley moved into the shadows beyond the candlelight. "You okay for Apparating from here?" he asked quietly.

Harry nodded. "No problem."

"Right then."

The lights were burning low in Mr Weasley's office, and he murmured something, causing them to brighten. He quickly scanned the papers which were heaped high on his desk.

He picked one up, scanned through it, then turned to Harry: "Well, the body count - if you can call it that - of Dementors is 167 so far."

Harry gave a low whistle. "Wow. Any - casualties? On our side, I mean?"

Mr Weasley shook his head. "Not yet - not reported, anyway. Let's see if His Nibs is in."

Harry was slightly startled by that reference to the Minister, but Mr Weasley was already at the door. He tapped and opened it, and Harry heard the murmur of voices, and then: "Arthur! Come in."

Mr Weasley waved at Harry, who followed him in. The large study was in semi darkness, lit by not much more than the flames of the fire in the grate. Arbuthnot was in an armchair by the fireplace, and with him were Kingsley Shacklebolt and Raknuk.

"Harry! Couldn't keep away?"

"Not really. I mean - I really wanted to know how things are going."

"So far, so good. A drink, Arthur?"

"Please."

Arbuthnot produced a glass of dark looking fluid from somewhere, then hesitated. "Harry?"

"Er ..."

"I think you're entitled to something after all you've done. Sip it slowly, though."

Another glass appeared. He took it and sniffed it cautiously. Whatever was in there was obviously fairly potent.

"We do have a lot to thank you for, Mr Potter," said Raknuk quietly.

"It's been a success?"

"A success on two fronts," said Arbuthnot. "We've dealt with a lot of Dementors, and the goblin and wizard squads have worked very well together."

"As far as the goblins are concerned," said Raknuk, "that is the key phrase. 'Worked together'."

"We mustn't rush things, but yes, I think it bodes well for the future. More joint ventures will open a lot of people's eyes."

"On both sides," said Raknuk.

Harry took a cautious sip from the tumbler. The liquid seemed hot and fiery, and he swallowed very carefully. Fumes came back up his nose, and he did his utmost not to cough or splutter. He could see that whatever it was would take a great deal of getting used to.

"Sit down, you two," said Arbuthnot.

Armchairs appeared near the fire, and Harry sat down with some trepidation.

"A toast," said Arbuthnot. "To the downfall of the Dementors and to future co-operation between wizards and goblins!"

There was a murmur of agreement and Harry took another cautious sip. His tongue burned a little less this time.

"And a toast to Mr Potter," said Raknuk suddenly, "for making much of this possible."

Another murmur of agreement. Harry felt his face going red. In fact, he felt as red as the flames of the fire.

He shook his head. "Not me."

"Oh, yes," said Arbuthnot.

"No. I mean, you can't make something happen unless the time is right."

"Very true, Harry. But you also need something or someone to set things in motion, to start the ball rolling, to push the first pebble. And that's what you did."

"Yeah. I might have pushed a pebble."

"Don't underestimate yourself, Harry," came the deep voice of Kingsley. "None of this would have happened without you."

"Make the most of it. I'm back at Hogwarts in a fortnight."

"To win some more Quidditch matches?"

"Maybe. Beat Ravenclaw without any problem."

Now Arbuthnot did laugh. "I'll give you that."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the flames in the fire, and then Raknuk stood up. "I think I need to report back to the Council, if you don't mind, Minister."

Suddenly Arbuthnot was all business. "Of course. Send them my compliments. Kingsley, could you ...?"

"Certainly, Minister."

Kingsley and the goblin went to the door.

Arbuthnot yawned. He certainly did look tired: the firelight accentuated the lines of strain on his face. "Time I was off, too," he said. "It'll be busy enough in the morning."

"We'll be getting back to the Burrow," said Mr Weasley, taking the hint. "Come on, Harry."

Harry took a final sip of the tumbler and put it down.

"Acquired a taste for it yet?" asked Arbuthnot.

"Not really," confessed Harry.

"Fair enough."

Harry followed Mr Weasley back to his office. "Arbuthnot was right. It'll be bedlam tomorrow. Come on, back we go. There's not much more we can do here, and I need a good night's sleep."

Back in the Burrow Mr Weasley did indeed head straight upstairs, even foregoing the chance of another conversation with Olive. Meanwhile, out in the garden, Harry was being grilled by the others.

"There isn't much I can tell you. The only thing I know is that they've got 167 Dementors so far with no casualties. And there're teams of goblins working with the Ministry."

The others goggled at this.

"Goblins?" asked Ginny, in a tone of incredulity.

"Yeah. Well, it's a bit of a long story. I can fill you in on all that later."

"You'd better," warned Ron.

But Dean voiced another thought. "What if the rest of them start really going for people?"

"Wizards will be okay," said Ron. "It's Muggles who would really be the target."

"Not necessarily," said Ginny. "Not all wizards can produce a Patronus like you and Harry can."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"There's a risk in all this," said Harry. "We've just got to hope we scare them off enough to make them keep clear of people altogether."

"But they need people to live - to feed on."

"And that's how we'll know they're around, so we can hunt them down again."

"Well, I hope the Ministry know what they're doing."

"What are these Dementor things like?" asked Olive.

"You don't want to know," said Dean, taking her hand.

"I do," she said. "I mean, you're involved, aren't you?"

Dean looked at the others. Last year Dean had been part of a Dementor attack, and something funny had happened with his parents. Harry guessed Voldemort was involved somewhere - perhaps a plan that hadn't worked out. They had never been able to figure out what it had all been about.

"I can't describe them," said Dean. "Not properly, that is. They're - well, they have these long cloaks, and horrible scabbed skin, and they feed on people's happiness."

"What?" cried Olive.

"When they come close to you, all you can think of is all the worst things that ever happened to you."

"When I first met them, I heard my parents," said Harry. He'd never told anyone about this before except Remus.

Olive screwed her face up. "What do you mean?"

"Voldemort killed my parents when I was a baby. When those things come near me, I can hear the voices of my mother and father, and their screams - just before he killed them."

There was a long horrible silence, as everyone stared at him.

"Harry, mate, you should have told us ..."

Harry looked at Ron and tried to smile. "Yeah, maybe. But what difference would it have made?"

"We could have helped you," said Ginny.

"Well, it was Lupin who did that, when he taught me the Patronus charm. That's why I wanted to be so good at it."

"Well, you're that all right," said Ron.

"And you're not so bad yourself."

Ginny stood up. "Come on, you lot. No more of this. Bedtime."

"Mum's given you Fred and George's old room," Ron told Dean. Then even in the candlelight Harry could see his face beginning to glow red. "But, well, I mean ..."

"There're only single beds in there," Ginny finished for him.

"We'll manage," said Olive.

Ron snorted. Ginny turned and looked at him severely. "Don't be so adolescent."

This time Ron spluttered. "What do you mean?"

Ginny sighed. "Leave it."

She headed for the house, followed by Dean and Olive. Ron turned to Harry, and for a moment Harry that he was going to say something. Then Ron shook his head, and headed for the house in their wake.

He slept better now that he had some idea of what had happened during the Dementor hunt, but woke uneasily, his scar on his forehead prickling in a way it hadn't for a year or so. It wasn't really painful, but was there as a sort of background to his thoughts - rather like listening to a radio that hadn't been tuned quite right.

He was in Percy's room - a room that had been completely cleared, and the walls painted a uniform white as if to wipe out all traces of its previous occupant. He dressed and showered, then went downstairs. The others were all huddled round a copy of the Prophet which was strewn out across the table. Harry helped himself to tea and toast whilst the others picked their way through the paper.

"Oh my God," said Olive, looking at the pictures, "do they really look like that?"

"Worse," said Dean. "Particularly when you're close to."

Olive shuddered. "I hope I never meet one."

"Muggles can't see them anyway - only feel them."

"Is that right?"

"My cousin Dudley was attacked by one a couple of years ago - I've never seen anyone so sick afterwards," Harry told them.

"Is that when you were in trouble with the Ministry?" Dean asked.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. It was Umbridge who sent them."

"Umbridge??"

"That's right." He felt a surge of anger even at the thought of her, then did his best to damp it down. Emotions like that with his scar feeling as it did were probably not a good idea.

"That woman was really foul," Dean muttered.

"You can say that again," Hermione remarked.

"Umbridge?" queried Olive.

"A teacher we had last year."

"Oh."

"Anything new in the paper then?" Harry asked.

"Not really," Ron told him.

"The Ministry seem to have done a good job with the PR on this one," Hermione told him. "The stuff that's usually in the Prophet - well ..."

Harry finished his toast and looked outside. "Come on, it's a gorgeous day. Let's use it properly. A bit of flying?"

"Ooh, yes, please," said Olive.

Hermione cried off, saying she'd bring a deckchair outside into the sun. The Weasleys dug out their brooms, and gave a spare to Dean.

They didn't try to play any games: it was pleasurable enough just to enjoy the wind in his hair and feel the sun on his face. Dean was struggling with a rather ropey broom as well as the extra weight of Olive. When they touched down for a break and a glass of squash, Olive asked Harry if he'd give her a ride on the Firebolt.

"Hang on tight," he told her.

The extra weight did make a lot of difference. And he was wary of making any really violent manoeuvres with Olive on the broom. Still, they circled the fields and spiralled up before diving down to where Hermione was sitting - reading a book. Harry could see the expression on Ron's face, and the struggle he was having with himself not to make any remarks about wasting time reading on a day like this.

Mrs Weasley called them in for lunch, and by common consent no one talked about the Great Hunt. Mr Weasley was still in the office, although he had promised to be home by four.

They spent the afternoon lazing in the sun. Ron took Harry and Dean to see some of Dad's projects with Muggle bits and pieces he'd picked up, although the shed was beginning to look rather neglected now Mr Weasley had to spend so much time at the Ministry.

The three girls were in a huddle as the boys walked back, and Ron looked rather suspiciously at Ginny and Hermione, who maintained an air of innocence. Mr Weasley had popped back, so they all went in for tea.

The Great Hunt was going well, so he said. "Of course, one of the troubles is that we don't know exactly how many Dementors there are, but we've nobbled a fair few."

Hermione bit her lip. "It's still a pretty nasty thing, having to hunt them down like this."

Mr Weasley sighed. "Think of it like pest control. And next you'll say that they're sentient thinking beings, like us. Well, that's true. We can let them live and suck the happiness from Muggles and wizards, or kill them. And don't forget they're on You Know Who's side, too."

"You Know Who?" from Olive, inevitably.

There was an exchange of glances round the table. Eventually Dean said to her: "Look, I'll tell you later about him, okay? Not now."

Olive subsided.

"No more talk of it," said Mrs Weasley firmly. "I've told George and Fred that they're to join us tonight, and Bill's coming too. It's - well, it not going to be a party, but we're going to have supper outside, and relax."

Mr Weasley went upstairs to change, and Dean stood up, taking Olive's arm, and leading her outside.

"That's going to be a difficult conversation," said Ginny.

Ron stood up too. "Just going for a wash and a change." Ginny looked at him in mild surprise. "Got a problem with that?" demanded Ron.

"Not at all," said Ginny sweetly.

"Good!" and he marched off upstairs.

Ginny giggled a bit and nudged Hermione.

"What were you three girls huddling about earlier?" asked Harry curiously.

Ginny looked him straight in the eye. "We were asking Olive about the facts of life."

"The ..." Then he suddenly realised what she meant, and to his acute embarrassment, found himself going brick red. The two girls looked at him with interest.

"I hope it was informative," he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Oh, very," said Hermione.

"Fine."

I can't sit this one through, he said to himself. Instead he too stood up and made for the door. He could hear giggles from behind him, but resolutely ignored them. Perhaps he ought to ask Dean ... no. There was no way he was going to do that!

He could see Dean and Olive in the distance, walking along slowly, heads down, holding hands. It was all right being the Boy Who Lived, and battling Dementors, and Death Eaters and the like, but it didn't leave much time for things like ... well, what Dean and Olive got up to.

In frustration, he headed across the fields away from the other two, striding out, trying to make the exercise a substitute for thought. But even as he made for the gate, he heard a shout from behind him. Dean was waving at him.

It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do now: to go and talk to Olive about ... about Tom Riddle. He was damned if he was going to call him Lord Voldemort, or You Know Who. He was Tom Riddle. But Dean knew that he'd seen him waving, so with a sigh he turned back. Dean and Olive were walking towards him.

He could see Olive's face, and she was obviously more than a bit upset. He stopped, and waited for them to come over.

"You want to know about my parents, and all the rest of it," he said slightly wearily.

"Do you mind?" asked Olive tentatively.

He shook his head. "No, it's okay. Look, let's go and sit in the field there, and I'll tell you what happened."

They sat down, then Harry lay on his back, and stared at the sky.

He started with the arrival of Hagrid, and told Dean and Olive things he'd never told anyone before - not Ron, not Hermione, not Sirius or Remus. It came out unconsciously, a stream of all the things that had been lurking below the surface of his mind. He told them of his scar. Normally he never mentioned to anyone about its twinges - it was only when they incapacitated him that he had to own up to them. But now it didn't seem to matter. He told them of Cedric Diggory. 'Kill the spare'. He told them of Sirius.

How long he talked for he had no idea. He stopped out of simple exhaustion. Neither of the other two had said anything at all. He turned his head, and saw Olive curled up in Dean's protective arm.

He did his best to give them a smile. "Promise me something," he asked them. They nodded mutely. "You don't tell anyone, okay?"

"No one," said Dean. He was wide eyed: he half know half of what Harry had told him, but suddenly a lot of gaps had been filled in. Olive - he wasn't sure whether she'd understood a lot of what he'd been talking about, but she too nodded. "No one."

Harry looked back at the sky again.

"That's why Mrs Weasley wants a party tonight. To forget all this. One other promise."

"What's that?"

"Tonight we party. Okay?"

"Okay."

Harry hauled himself to his feet. "Come on."

They walked slowly back to the house. Ron, Hermione and Ginny were sitting outside, and watched them curiously as they walked up.

"What have you three been up to?" asked Ginny, as they got closer.

"Oh, Olive's just been telling me the facts of life, and I'm going for a cold shower now."

He marched on into the house to the splutterings of Ron and the giggles of Hermione.

Fred and George arrived at six, Bill soon after. But the peace of the evening was spoiled almost straightaway by Mrs Weasley. She was screaming at Fred and George, red in the face with anger.

"What do you mean - volunteered?"

"As I said, Mum," replied George with dignity, "we volunteered."

"Bloke from the Ministry approached us, and we said yes," Fred told her. "So what's the problem?"

"They've no business doing that," said Mrs Weasley, almost apoplectic.

"They've been asking loads of people, Mum," said Bill quietly. "Surprises me how they kept it so quiet. I've doing some of it too. Only reason that Charlie isn't is because he's not due back for another six weeks."

Mrs Weasley was wordless.

"Look, Mum," Bill went on. "Accept it. Fred and George are grown up. They're running their own business, and they're doing very well. It's up to them if they want to go round hunting Dementors. And someone's got to do it."

Mrs Weasley slowly subsided. "I suppose so. It was bad enough having Ron involved, but all of you ..."

"No one's been hurt, Mum," George told her, "except one stupid idiot who got in the way of a bolt from a crossbow."

Mrs Weasley sat down. "All right. But you're not to talk about it tonight. You'll only encourage the youngsters. Though Heaven knows, they'll get it all out of you later."

"Only sweetness and light this evening," promised George.

Mrs Weasley seemed a little mollified, and indeed the evening did become more relaxed, although the thought of the on going operation wasn't far from anyone's mind. Hermione was enthusiastic about what she had been doing at Gringott's, although the details went over everyone's head.

"How's the curse breaking going, Ron?" his father asked him.

"Great!" enthused Ron, and he launched into a story about an abandoned hoard of gold which he and Bill had spent a day getting their hands on.

"Ron was good," said Bill mildly. "I left a lot of it to him."

Harry could see Ron glowing again, but whether with embarrassment or pride he wasn't sure.

"So you're enjoying it?" his mother asked.

This was something of a loaded question. Harry knew the last thing Mrs Weasley wanted was for Ron to become an Auror, whereas working for Gringott's would be safer and more lucrative.

"Yeah. It's really good." Then Ron smiled. "I know what you're asking, Mum, and I haven't made my mind up yet. I've another year to go yet before I have to decide what I'm going to do."

"Fair enough," said his father. "You make your own mind up. There's no rush. I'm sure Bill will help you if you do think about Gringott's. And if you want to work for the Ministry - well, I can give you pointers for that. But when you do decide, make sure it's because it's something you really want to do."

"It's okay, Mum, Dad, I've worked that one for myself. At the moment - well, I dunno. Could be either. Or I might find something completely different."

"What about you, Harry?" asked Mrs Weasley. "Seems you're the only one who hasn't got things sorted."

"Professional Quidditch player," said Ron, which got a laugh from everyone.

"No, I'm not that good," said Harry. "Okay, I had a lucky break against the Cannons, but I think he wasn't taking me that seriously. It might have been different if he'd thought he was up against another professional. I'd need a lot more coaching before I could really make it. Oh, I think I'll still keep on playing when I leave Hogwarts - but not professionally."

"So what then?" asked Mrs Weasley.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well, there is the Ministry. I mean, Arbuthnot's in charge now, and I think things will be a lot easier for me there. But, like Ron, I'm not sure. Other things might come up."

Like Voldemort, for example. And as if he needed a reminder, his forehead twinged again.

Hermione was as observant as ever. "You're rubbing your scar again."

He had tried not to, but there had been times when his hand had gone up unconsciously. "Yeah, a bit. Twinges from time to time."

The atmosphere suddenly tensed up.

"Really?" said Mr Weasley.

Harry could tell that Mr Weasley was trying to make his voice as casual as he could. "On and off most of the day."

"Just twinges?"

"That's all. No dreams, no visions. It could mean anything."

Mr Weasley regarded him thoughtfully. "Even so. I know you don't like talking about it, and I know it's a very personal thing, but it is useful for the rest of us to know."

Harry forced a smile onto his face. "Yeah, I know. It's been pretty quiet up to now. But then, given what's happening, it's not entirely surprising it's registering something."

"Yes, it could be that. We don't know how close the link is between You Know Who and the Dementors, but just having them on the loose would suit his purposes."

"Arthur," said Mrs Weasley warningly.

"We'll keep it for later," Mr Weasley told her.

Despite the feeling everyone was making something of an effort, the evening went well, and it was nearly midnight before Fred and George, followed by Bill, said they were heading back.

Before they went, they helped clear up, and only then Apparated back home. Harry was in the kitchen, helping with the last bits and pieces, when his head seem to burst open. He staggered and almost fell to his feet, but Mr Weasley caught his elbow.

"Are you all right?"

Everyone was looking at him, something he hated. He nodded, although he was still feeling sick and faint after the sudden jolt.

"Come out in the garden."

Mr Weasley gave everyone else a warning look to keep clear, and steered Harry out. He stood in the cool night air, breathing down gulps of air.

"It's okay - I'm feeling better."

"Want to tell me about it?"

Harry paused for a few moments, then: "I don't know what happened - I don't know what it was all about. Just a sudden - jolt. Something's happened, but whether it's good or bad I've no idea."

Mr Weasley was silent for a few moments. "I'll pop in early tomorrow morning and see if anything's been reported."

"You don't have to."

"No, but something's up. We don't know what, but we might be able to tie it in to something that's just happened."

"I suppose so," said Harry reluctantly.

He could see the sense in that. It would be nice to know exactly what had triggered off his reaction. He stood and looked up at the stars. There was hardly a wisp of cloud in the sky.

"Could you go in and ask the others to go to bed?" he asked Mr Weasley.

"No problem. Put the lights out downstairs when you come inside."

Mr Weasley disappeared. Harry stayed in the garden, still looking upwards. His scar had become quiescent now: whatever Voldemort had been doing, it had stopped now. His breathing was back to normal now - he turned and saw the kitchen was empty. Time to go to bed.

He sat on the side of his bed, hesitating. What if he had another dream? And by now, by dream he meant connection with Voldemort. Or what if he didn't sleep at all?

Irritated with himself, he opened the window to the cool night breeze, extinguished the candles, and climbed under the covers.