It was a new, but familiar voice, and it came from directly behind Harry, from the person tied to Hermione’s left.

“Dean?”

“It is you! If they find out who they’ve got—! They’re Snatchers, they’re only looking for truants to sell for gold—”

“Not a bad little haul for one night,” Greyback was saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots marched close by Harry and they heard more crashes from inside the tent. “A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and these truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?” he roared.

“Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley un ’ere, Greyback.”

“Interesting,” said Greyback. “That’s interesting.”

He crouched down beside Harry, who saw, through the infinitesimal gap left between his swollen eyelids, a face covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, with pointed brown teeth and sores in the corners of his mouth. Greyback smelled as he had done at the top of the tower where Dumbledore had died: of dirt, sweat, and blood.

“So you aren’t wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on that list under a different name? What house were you in at Hogwarts?”

“Slytherin,” said Harry automatically.

“Funny ’ow they all thinks we wants to ’ear that,” leered Scabior out of the shadows. “But none of ’em can tell us where the common room is.”

“It’s in the dungeons,” said Harry clearly. “You enter through the wall. It’s full of skulls and stuff and its under the lake, so the light’s all green.”

There was a short pause.

“Well, well, looks like we really ’ave caught a little Slytherin,” said Scabior. “Good for you, Vernon, ’cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who’s your father?”

“He works at the Ministry,” Harry lied. He knew that his whole story would collapse with the smallest investigation, but on the other hand, he only had until his face regained its usual appearance before the game was up in any case. “Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

“You know what, Greyback,” said Scabior. “I think there is a Dudley in there.”

Harry could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck, get them safely out of this?

“Well, well,” said Greyback, and Harry could hear the tiniest note of trepidation in that callous voice, and knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had just indeed just attacked and bound the son of a Ministry Official. Harry’s heart was pounding against the ropes around his ribs; he would not have been surprised to know that Greyback could see it. “If you’re telling the truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry. I expect your father’ll reward us just for picking you up.”

“But,” said Harry, his mouth bone dry, “if you just let us—”

“Hey!” came a shout from inside the tent. “Look at this, Greyback!”

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<== попередня сторінка	\|	наступна сторінка ==>
Harry’s stomach turned over. He knew who this was, Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who was permitted to wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired savagery.	\|	A dark figure came bustling toward them, and Harry saw a glint of silver to the light of their wands. They had found Gryffindor’s sword.

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