Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - J. K. Rowling [203]
“Harry —” began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear.
“I haven’t got time to argue,” said Harry curtly. “Take this as well —”
He thrust the socks into Ron’s hands.
“Thanks,” said Ron. “Er — why do I need socks?”
“You need what’s wrapped in them, it’s the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. Say good-bye to her for me. I’d better go, Dumbledore’s waiting —”
“No!” said Hermione, as Ron unwrapped the tiny little bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. “We don’t want it, you take it, who knows what you’re going to be facing?”
“I’ll be fine, I’ll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I want to know you lot are okay. … Don’t look like that, Hermione, I’ll see you later. …”
And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole and toward the entrance hall.
Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out onto the topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side.
“I would like you to wear your cloak, please,” said Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it on before saying, “Very good. Shall we go?”
Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his own traveling cloak barely stirring in the still summer air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility Cloak, still panting and sweating rather a lot.
“But what will people think when they see you leaving, Professor?” Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy and Snape.
“That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,” said Dumbledore lightly. “I sometimes offer Rosmerta my custom, or else visit the Hog’s Head … or I appear to. It is as good a way as any of disguising one’s true destination.”
They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, lake water, and wood smoke from Hagrid’s cabin. It was difficult to believe that they were heading for anything dangerous or frightening.
“Professor,” said Harry quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, “will we be Apparating?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You can Apparate now, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I haven’t got a license.”
He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled everything by turning up a hundred miles from where he was supposed to go?
“No matter,” said Dumbledore, “I can assist you again.”
They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they walked, and by the time they reached the High Street night was falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting.
“— and stay out!” shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly ejecting a grubby-looking wizard. “Oh, hello, Albus … You’re out late …”
“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening … forgive me, I’m off to the Hog’s Head. … No offense, but I feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight. …”
A minute later they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog’s Head’s sign creaked a little, though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely empty.
“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” muttered Dumbledore, glancing around. “As long as nobody sees us go … now place your hand upon my arm, Harry. There is no need to grip too hard, I am merely guiding you. On the count of three … One … two … three …”
Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being compressed