Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J. K. Rowling [223]
He looked up at Snape.
“What’s in the Department of Mysteries?”
“What did you say?” Snape asked quietly and Harry saw, with deep satisfaction, that Snape was unnerved.
“I said, what’s in the Department of Mysteries, sir?” Harry said.
“And why,” said Snape slowly, “would you ask such a thing?”
“Because,” said Harry, watching Snape closely for a reaction, “that corridor I’ve just seen — I’ve been dreaming about it for months — I’ve just recognized it — it leads to the Department of Mysteries … and I think Voldemort wants something from —”
“I have told you not to say the Dark Lord’s name!”
They glared at each other. Harry’s scar seared again, but he did not care. Snape looked agitated. When he spoke again he sounded as though he was trying to appear cool and unconcerned.
“There are many things in the Department of Mysteries, Potter, few of which you would understand and none of which concern you, do I make myself plain?”
“Yes,” Harry said, still rubbing his prickling scar, which was becoming more painful.
“I want you back here same time on Wednesday, and we will continue work then.”
“Fine,” said Harry. He was desperate to get out of Snape’s office and find Ron and Hermione.
“You are to rid your mind of all emotion every night before sleep — empty it, make it blank and calm, you understand?”
“Yes,” said Harry, who was barely listening.
“And be warned, Potter … I shall know if you have not practiced …”
“Right,” Harry mumbled. He picked up his schoolbag, swung it over his shoulder, and hurried toward the office door. As he opened it he glanced back at Snape, who had his back to Harry and was scooping his own thoughts out of the Pensieve with the tip of his wand and replacing them carefully inside his own head. Harry left without another word, closing the door carefully behind him, his scar still throbbing painfully.
Harry found Ron and Hermione in the library, where they were working on Umbridge’s most recent ream of homework. Other students, nearly all of them fifth years, sat at lamp-lit tables nearby, noses close to books, quills scratching feverishly, while the sky outside the mullioned windows grew steadily blacker. The only other sound was the slight squeaking of one of Madam Pince’s shoes as the librarian prowled the aisles menacingly, breathing down the necks of those touching her precious books.
Harry felt shivery; his scar was still aching, he felt almost feverish. When he sat down opposite Ron and Hermione he caught sight of himself in the window opposite. He was very white, and his scar seemed to be showing up more clearly than usual.
“How did it go?” Hermione whispered, and then, looking concerned, “Are you all right, Harry?”
“Yeah … fine … I dunno,” said Harry impatiently, wincing as pain shot through his scar again. “Listen … I’ve just realized something. …”
And he told them what he had just seen and deduced.
“So … so, are you saying …” whispered Ron, as Madam Pince swept past, squeaking slightly, “that the weapon — the thing You-Know-Who’s after — is in the Ministry of Magic?”
“In the Department of Mysteries, it’s got to be,” Harry whispered. “I saw that door when your dad took me down to the courtrooms for my hearing and it’s definitely the same one he was guarding when the snake bit him.”
Hermione let out a long, slow sigh. “Of course,” she breathed.
“Of course what?” said Ron rather impatiently.
“Ron, think about it. … Sturgis Podmore was trying to get through a door at the Ministry of Magic. … It must have been that one, it’s too much of a coincidence!”
“How come Sturgis was trying to break in when he’s on our side?” said Ron.
“Well, I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “That is a bit odd. …”
“So what’s in the Department of Mysteries?” Harry asked Ron. “Has your dad ever mentioned anything about it?”