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No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave danger—

—looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest tower—

He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in low voices—

—Time to fly…

“…To the Ministry?”

“To hell with the Ministry,” growled Greyback. “They’ll take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who.”

“Will you summon ’im? ’ere?” said Scabior, sounding awed, terrified.

“No,” snarled Greyback, “I haven’t got—they say he’s using the Malfoy’s place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.”

Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback had not been granted this highest honor.

Harry’s scar seared again—

—and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the windows at the very top of the tower—

“…completely sure it’s him? ’Cause if it ain’t, Greyback, we’re dead.”

“Who’s in charge here?” roared Greyback, covering his moment of inadequacy. “I say that’s Potter, and him plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along, any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get the girl thrown in!”

—The window was the merest slit in the black rock, not big enough for a man to enter… A skeletal figure was just visible through it, curled beneath a blanket… Dead, or sleeping…?

“All right!” said Scabior. “All right, we’re in! And what about the rest of ’em, Greyback, what’ll we do with ’em?”

“Might as well take the lot. We’ve got two Mudbloods, that’s another ten Galleons. Give me the sword as well. If they’re rubies, that’s another small fortune right there.”

The prisoners were dragged to their feet. Harry could hear Hermione’s breathing, fast and terrified.

“Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do Potter!” said Greyback, seizing a fistful of Harry’s hair; Harry could feel his long yellow nails scratching his scalp. “On three! One—two—three—”

They Disapparated, pulling the prisoners with them. Harry struggled, trying to throw off Greyback’s hand, but it was hopeless: Ron and Hermione were squeezed tightly against him on either side; he could not separate from the group, and as the breath was squeezed out of him his scar seared more painfully still—

—as he forced himself through the slit of a window like a snake and landed, lightly as vapor inside the cell-like room—

The prisoners lurched into one another as they landed in a country lane. Harry’s eyes, still puffy, took a moment to acclimatize, then he saw a pair of wrought-iron gates at the foot of what looked like a long drive. He experienced the tiniest trickle of relief. The worst had not happened yet: Voldemort was not here. He was, Harry knew, for he was fighting to resist the vision, in some strange, fortresslike place, at the top of a tower. How long it would take Voldemort to get to this place, once he knew that Harry was here, was another matter…

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