Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J. K. Rowling [47]
But Harry was now looking at the name to the left of Andromeda’s burn: Bellatrix Black, which was connected by a double line to Rodolphus Lestrange.
“Lestrange …” Harry said aloud. The name had stirred something in his memory; he knew it from somewhere, but for a moment he couldn’t think where, though it gave him an odd, creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“They’re in Azkaban,” said Sirius shortly.
Harry looked at him curiously.
“Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with Barty Crouch, Junior,” said Sirius in the same brusque voice. “Rodolphus’s brother, Rabastan, was with them too.”
And Harry remembered: He had seen Bellatrix Lestrange inside Dumbledore’s Pensieve, the strange device in which thoughts and memories could be stored: a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes, who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort, her pride that she had tried to find him after his downfall and her conviction that she would one day be rewarded for her loyalty.
“You never said she was your —”
“Does it matter if she’s my cousin?” snapped Sirius. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re not my family. She’s certainly not my family. I haven’t seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming in to Azkaban. D’you think I’m proud of having relatives like her?”
“Sorry,” said Harry quickly, “I didn’t mean — I was just surprised, that’s all —”
“It doesn’t matter, don’t apologize,” Sirius mumbled at once. He turned away from the tapestry, his hands deep in his pockets. “I don’t like being back here,” he said, staring across the drawing room. “I never thought I’d be stuck in this house again.”
Harry understood completely. He knew how he would feel if forced, when he was grown up and thought he was free of the place forever, to return and live at number four, Privet Drive.
“It’s ideal for headquarters, of course,” Sirius said. “My father put every security measure known to Wizard-kind on it when he lived here. It’s Unplottable, so Muggles could never come and call — as if they’d have wanted to — and now Dumbledore’s added his protection, you’d be hard put to find a safer house anywhere. Dumbledore’s Secret-Keeper for the Order, you know — nobody can find headquarters unless he tells them personally where it is — that note Moody showed you last night, that was from Dumbledore. …” Sirius gave a short, barklike laugh. “If my parents could see the use it was being put to now … well, my mother’s portrait should give you some idea. …”
He scowled for a moment, then sighed.
“I wouldn’t mind if I could just get out occasionally and do something useful. I’ve asked Dumbledore whether I can escort you to your hearing — as Snuffles, obviously — so I can give you a bit of moral support, what d’you think?”
Harry felt as though his stomach had sunk through the dusty carpet. He had not thought about the hearing once since dinner the previous evening; in the excitement of being back with the people he liked best, of hearing everything that was going on, it had completely flown his mind. At Sirius’s words, however, the crushing sense of dread returned to him. He stared at Hermione and the Weasleys, all tucking into their sandwiches, and thought how he would feel if they went back to Hogwarts without him.
“Don’t worry,” Sirius said. Harry looked up and realized that Sirius had been watching him. “I’m sure they’re going to clear you, there’s definitely something in the International Statute of Secrecy about being allowed to use magic to save your own life.”
“But if they do expel me,” said Harry, quietly, “can I come back here and live with you?”
Sirius smiled sadly.
“We’ll see.”
“I’d feel a lot better about the hearing if I knew I didn’t have to go back to the Dursleys,” Harry pressed him.
“They must be bad if you prefer this place,” said Sirius gloomily.
“Hurry up, you two, or there won’t be any food left,” Mrs. Weasley called.
Sirius