Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

“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!”

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.

“Ve-e-ery nice,” said Greyback appreciatively, taking it from his companion. “Oh, very nice indeed. Looks goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like this?”

“It’s my father’s,” Harry lied, hoping against hope that it was too dark for Greyback to see the name etched just below the hilt. “We borrowed it to cut firewood—”

“’Ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the Prophet!”

As Scabior said it, Harry’s scar, which was stretched tight across his distended forehead, burned savagely. More clearly than he could make out anything around him, he saw a towering building, a grim fortress, jet-black and forbidding: Voldemort’s thoughts had suddenly become razor-sharp again; he was gliding toward the gigantic building with a sense of calmly euphoric purpose…

So close… So close… With a huge effort of will Harry closed his mind to Voldemort’s thoughts, pulling himself back to where he sat, tied to Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Griphook in the darkness, listening to Greyback and Scabior.

“‘Hermione Granger,’” Scabior was saying, “‘the Mudblood who is known to be traveling with ’Arry Potter.’”

Harry’s scar burned in the silence, but he made a supreme effort to keep himself present, nor to slip into Voldemort’s mind. He heard the creak of Greyback’s boots as he crouched down, in front of Hermione.

“You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you.”

“It isn’t! It isn’t me!”

Hermione’s terrified squeak was as good as a confession.

“‘…known to be traveling with Harry Potter,’” repeated Greyback quietly.

A stillness had settled over the scene. Harry’s scar was exquisitely painful, but he struggled with all his strength against the pull of Voldemort’s thoughts. It had never been so important to remain in his own right mind.

“Well, this changed things, doesn’t it?” whispered Greyback. Nobody spoke: Harry sensed the gang of Snatchers watching, frozen, and felt Hermione’s arm trembling against his. Greyback got up and took a couple of steps to where Harry sat, crouching down again to stare closely at his misshapen features.

“What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?” he asked softly, his breath foul in Harry’s nostrils as he pressed a filthy finger to the taught scar.

“Don’t touch it!” Harry yelled; he could not stop himself, he thought he might be sick from the pain of it.

“I thought you wore glasses, Potter?” breathed Greyback.

“I found glasses!” yelped one of the Snatchers skulking in the background. “There was glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait—”

And seconds later Harry’s glasses had been rammed back onto his face. The Snatchers were closing in now, peering at him.

“It is!” rasped Greyback. “We’ve caught Potter!”

They all took several steps backward, stunned by what they had done. Harry, still fighting to remain present in his own splitting head, could think of nothing to say. Fragmented visions were breaking across the surface of his mind—

—He was hiding around the high walls of the black fortress—

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—