Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J. K. Rowling [325]
“Have you seen this?” said Ron.
“What?” said Harry, but eagerly this time — it had to be a sign that Sirius had been there, a clue — he strode back to where they were all standing, a little way down row ninety-seven, but found nothing except Ron staring at one of the dusty glass spheres on the shelves.
“What?” Harry repeated glumly.
“It’s — it’s got your name on,” said Ron.
Harry moved a little closer. Ron was pointing at one of the small glass spheres that glowed with a dull inner light, though it was very dusty and appeared not to have been touched for many years.
“My name?” said Harry blankly.
He stepped forward. Not as tall as Ron, he had to crane his neck to read the yellowish label affixed to the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery writing was written a date of some sixteen years previously, and below that:
Harry stared at it.
“What is it?” Ron asked, sounding unnerved. “What’s your name doing down here?”
He glanced along at the other labels on that stretch of shelf.
“I’m not here,” he said, sounding perplexed. “None of the rest of us are here. …”
“Harry, I don’t think you should touch it,” said Hermione sharply, as he stretched out his hand.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”
“Don’t, Harry,” said Neville suddenly. Harry looked around at him. Neville’s round face was shining slightly with sweat. He looked as though he could not take much more suspense.
“It’s got my name on,” said Harry.
And feeling slightly reckless, he closed his fingers around the dusty ball’s surface. He had expected it to feel cold, but it did not. On the contrary, it felt as though it had been lying in the sun for hours, as though the glow of light within was warming it. Expecting, even hoping, that something dramatic was going to happen, something exciting that might make their long and dangerous journey worthwhile after all, he lifted the glass ball down from its shelf and stared at it.
Nothing whatsoever happened. The others moved in closer around Harry, gazing at the orb as he brushed it free of the clogging dust.
And then, from right behind them, a drawling voice said, “Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.”
Beyond the Veil
Black shapes were emerging out of thin air all around them, blocking their way left and right; eyes glinted through slits in hoods, a dozen lit wand tips were pointing directly at their hearts. Ginny gave a gasp of horror.
“To me, Potter,” repeated the drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy as he held out his hand, palm up.
Harry’s insides plummeted sickeningly. They were trapped and outnumbered two to one.
“To me,” said Malfoy yet again.
“Where’s Sirius?” Harry said.
Several of the Death Eaters laughed. A harsh female voice from the midst of the shadowy figures to Harry’s left said triumphantly, “The Dark Lord always knows!”
“Always,” echoed Malfoy softly. “Now, give me the prophecy, Potter.”
“I want to know where Sirius is!”
“I want to know where Sirius is!” mimicked the woman to his left.
She and her fellow Death Eaters had closed in so that they were mere feet away from Harry and the others, the light from their wands dazzling Harry’s eyes.
“You’ve got him,” said Harry, ignoring the rising panic in his chest, the dread he had been fighting since they had first entered the ninety-seventh row. “He’s here. I know he is.”
“The little baby woke up fwightened and fort what it dweamed was twoo,” said the woman in a horrible, mock-baby voice. Harry felt Ron stir beside him.
“Don’t do anything,” he muttered. “Not yet —”
The woman who had mimicked him let out a raucous scream of laughter.
“You hear him? You hear him? Giving instructions to the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!”
“Oh, you don’t know Potter as I do, Bellatrix,” said Malfoy softly. “He has a great weakness for heroics; the Dark Lord understands this about him. Now give me the