Something huge and horned erupted from the wand. Head down, it charged toward the High Street, and out of sight.

“That’s not what I saw—” said the Death Eater, though was less certainly.

“Curfew’s been broken, you heard the noise,” one of his companions told the barman. “Someone was out on the streets against regulations—”

“If I want to put my cat out, I will, and be damned to your curfew!”

“You set off the Caterwauling Charm?”

“What if I did? Going to cart me off to Azkaban? Kill me for sticking my nose out my own front door? Do it, then, if you want to! But I hope for your sakes you haven’t pressed your little Dark Marks, and summoned him. He’s not going to like being called here, for me and my old cat, is he, now?”

“Don’t worry about us,” said one of the Death Eaters, “worry about yourself, breaking curfew!”

“And where will you lot traffic potions and poisons when my pub’s closed down? What will happen to your little sidelines then?”

“Are you threatening—?”

“I keep my mouth shut, it’s why you come here, isn’t it?”

“I still say I saw a stag Patronus!” shouted the first Death Eater.

“Stag?” roared the barman. “It’s a goat, idiot!”

“All right, we made a mistake,” said the second Death Eater. “Break curfew again and we won’t be so lenient!”

The Death Eaters strode back towards the High Street. Hermione moaned with relief, wove out from under the Cloak, and sat down on a wobble-legged chair. Harry drew the curtains, then pulled the Cloak off himself and Ron. They could hear the barman down below, rebolting the door of the bar, then climbing the stairs.

Harry’s attention was caught by something on the mantelpiece: a small, rectangular mirror, propped on top of it, right beneath the portrait of the girl.

The barman entered the room.

“You bloody fools,” he said gruffly, looking from one to the other of them. “What were you thinking, coming here?”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “You can’t thank you enough. You saved our lives!”

The barman grunted. Harry approached him looking up into the face: trying to see past the long, stringy, wire-gray hair beard. He wore spectacles. Behind the dirty lenses, the eyes were a piercing, brilliant blue.

“It’s your eye I’ve been seeing in the mirror.”

There was a silence in the room. Harry and the barman looked at each other.

“You sent Dobby.”

The barman nodded and looked around for the elf.

“Thought he’d be with you. Where’ve you left him?

“He’s dead,” said Harry, “Bellatrix Lestrange killed him.”

The barman face was impassive. After a few moments he said, “I’m sorry to hear it, I liked that elf.”

He turned away, lightning lamps with prods of his wand, not looking at any of them.

“You’re Aberforth,” said Harry to the man’s back.

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<== попередня сторінка	\|	наступна сторінка ==>
The silver stag burst from his wand and charged: The Dementors scattered and there was a triumphant yell from somewhere out of sight.	\|	He neither confirmed or denied it, but bent to light the fire.

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