It was distinctly awkward as they set off down Privet Drive. Even Harry seemed aware of it, but Dumbledore seemed perfectly at ease.
"Keep your wand at the ready, Harry," he said brightly. "
But I thought I'm not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?"
"If there is an attack," said Dumbledore, "I give you permission to use any counter jinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight."
"Why not, sir?"
"You are with me," said Dumbledore simply. "This will do, Harry."
He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.
"You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test," he said.
"No," said Harry. "I thought you had to be seventeen?"
"You do," said Dumbledore. "So you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don't mind — as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment. You will have to grip Harry's arm. Do so tightly."
Harry gripped Dumbledore's proffered forearm while Delilah grabbed Harry's, making sure that she was holding on tightly. She didn't want to fall off and end up in the middle of nowhere.
"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Well, here we go."
Dumbledore started to turn, and abruptly everything turned black and she was being pressed very hard from all directions; she could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around her chest; her eyeballs were being forced back into her head; her eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then — She gulped great lungfuls of cold night air and opened her watery eyes. It was as though she had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. A few seconds later she realized that Privet Drive had disappeared. They were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches.
Her comprehension catching up with her senses, Delilah realized that she had just Apparated for the first time in her life. She leaned against a street lamp, trying to catch her breath.
"Are you all right?" asked Dumbledore. "The sensation does take some getting used to."
Delilah almost answered, but saw he was looking solicitously down at Harry, who was sitting on a bench, rubbing his ears..
"I'm fine," said Harry. "But I think I might prefer brooms...."
Delilah winced. She'd rather get used to apparating than fly over an ocean. At least apparating went by quickly.
Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more tightly around his neck, and said, "This way."
He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.
"So tell me, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Your scar... has it been hurting at all?"
Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark.
"No," he said, "and I've been wondering about that. I thought it would be burning all the time now Voldemort's getting so powerful again."
Delilah studied Dumbledore. He seemed satisfied, as if he had finally managed to get a wild rabbit to behave.
"I, on the other hand, thought otherwise," said Dumbledore. "Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you."
"Well, I'm not complaining," said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort's mind. They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore again.
"Professor?"
"Harry?"
Delilah.
Why were they just saying their names?
"Er — where exactly are we?"
"This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton."
"And what are we doing here?"
"Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you," said Dumbledore. "Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts."
Could they be there already?
"How can I help with that, sir?"
"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely. "Left here, Harry."
They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks persisted here too. Thinking of dementors, Delilah glanced over her shoulder, grasping her wand reassuringly.
"Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old colleague's house?"
"Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door," said Dumbledore. "Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance —"
"— you can't Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds," said Harry quickly. "Hermione Granger told me."
"And she is quite right. We turn left again."
The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Delilah wondered why Dumbledore didn't consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but then again Dumbledore did many strange things.
"Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked...." said Harry.
"Correct," said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street. "He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office."
Were they there yet so they could get it over with?
"Is he ... Do you think he's good?" asked Harry.
"An interesting question," said Dumbledore. "He is able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius."
"Yes, but I meant —"
"I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort."
Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the disagreement with Scrimgeour that the Daily Prophet had reported, and he did not have the nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed it.
"And ... sir ... I saw about Madam Bones."
"Yes," said Dumbledore quietly. "A terrible loss. She was a great witch. Just up here, I think — ouch."
He had pointed with his injured hand.
"Professor, what happened to your — ?"
"I have no time to explain now," said Dumbledore. "It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice."
He smiled at Harry to show he was not being snubbed, and that he had permission to keep asking questions.
"Sir — I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures we should all take against the Death Eaters...."
"Yes, I received one myself," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you find it useful?"
"Not really."
"No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and not an impostor."
"I didn't ..." Harry began. He probably didn't know if he was being reprimanded, but Dumbledore wouldn't do that to him.
"For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry ... although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself."
Exactly why the whole thing was pointless.
"Er ... right," said Harry. "Well, on that leaflet, it said something about Inferi. What exactly are they? The leaflet wasn't very clear."
"They are corpses," said Dumbledore calmly. "Dead bodies that have been bewitched to do a Dark wizard's bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful. ... He killed enough people to make an army of them, of course. This is the place, Harry, just here. ..."
Delilah sighed. Just as the conversation was getting interesting....
They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. As they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped dead and Harry walked into him, but Delilah managed to stop before she ran into Harry.
"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear."
Delilah followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt her heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges. Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted.
"Wand out and follow me, Harry," he said quietly.
He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path, Harry at his heels, Delilah watching their backs, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised and at the ready.
"Lumos."
Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open.
Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry and Delilah following behind.
A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier glittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything.
Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry gave a small intake of breath that made Dumbledore look around.
"Not pretty, is it?" he said heavily. "Yes, something horrible has happened here."
Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Delilah followed, gazing around, hoping not to find any remains hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but there was no sign of any.
"Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?" Harry suggested.
"I don't think so," said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.
"You mean he's — ?"
"Still here somewhere? Yes."
And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, "Ouch!"
"Good evening, Horace," said Dumbledore, straightening up again.
Delilah's eyes widened. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.
"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. "It hurt."
The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walrus-like mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.
"What gave it away?" he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly.
He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.
"My dear Horace," said Dumbledore, looking amused, "if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house."
The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.
"The Dark Mark," he muttered. "Knew there was something... ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room."
He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.
"Would you like my assistance clearing up?" asked Dumbledore politely.
"Please," said the other.
They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion. The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments reformed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; a vast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.
"What kind of blood was that, incidentally?" asked Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly fixed grandfather clock.
"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling. There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.
"Yes, dragon," repeated the wizard conversationally. "My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable."
He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.
"Hmm. Bit dusty." He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry.
"Oho," he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. "Oho!"
"This," said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, "is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn."
His eyes flicked to Delilah, who was leaning against the wall, wishing they could leave already.
"Who's the young lady?" he asked.
"Delilah Potter," Delilah said with a small wave.
Slughorn nodded then turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd.
"So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus."
He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.
"I suppose we can have a drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old time's sake?"
Slughorn hesitated.
"All right then, one drink," he said ungraciously.
Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp.
Harry took the seat, leaving Delilah to sit next to Dumbledore. It was as if Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep them as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.
"Hmpf," he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. "Here —"
He gave a drink to Dumbledore, handed one to Delilah, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.
"Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Dumbledore asked.
"Not so well," said Slughorn at once. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue."
"And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice," said Dumbledore. "You can't have had more than three minutes' warning?"
Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, "Two. Didn't hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still," he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, "the fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts."
He certainly had those, thought Delilah, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Delilah had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady.
"You're not yet as old as I am, Horace," said Dumbledore.
"Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself," said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured hand. "Reactions not what they were, I see."
"You're quite right," said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers. "I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand ..."
He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Delilah noticed a ring on his uninjured hand: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Delilah saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.
"So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace ... are they for the Death Eaters' benefit, or mine?" asked Dumbledore.
"What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?" demanded Slughorn.
"I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder," said Dumbledore. "Are you really telling me that they haven't come recruiting yet?"
Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, "I haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house — the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — it's been very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the piano."
"Ingenious," said Dumbledore. "But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts —"
"If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that's how you treat teachers these days —"
"Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd," said Dumbledore. "I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs 'filthy half-breeds.' "
"That's what she did, did she?" said Slughorn. "Idiotic woman. Never liked her."
Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.
"Sorry," Harry said hastily. "It's just — I didn't like her either."
Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.
"Are you leaving?" asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.
"No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom," said Dumbledore.
He probably wanted to give Harry a chance to convince Slughorn to return. He didn't look like much of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but he had done some serious transfiguration to make himself look like an armchair.
"Oh," said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. "Second on the left down the hall."
Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him, there was silence.
After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, then crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.
"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you," he said abruptly.
Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn's watery eyes slid over Harry's scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.
"You look very like your father."
"Yeah, I've been told," said Harry.
"Except for your eyes. You've got —"
"My mother's eyes, yeah." Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing.
"Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother," Slughorn added, in answer to Harry's questioning look. "Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.
"You look just like her," he added, motioning to Delilah. "Except you have your father's eyes, almost like you both were copies of your parents, but your eyes got switched."
There was a pause as Delilah and Harry looked at each other.
"Which was your House?" she asked, changing the topic. They went along with it.
"I was Head of Slytherin," said Slughorn.
"Oh, now," he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry's face and wagging a stubby finger at him, "don't go holding that against me! You'll both be Gryffindors like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families."
Harry glanced at Delilah.
"Actually I'm a Slytherin," she said.
Slughorn turned to her, suddenly more interested in her.
"Oh? Interesting. It's not unheard of. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of years — died a few weeks ago — Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father's at school. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I'd have liked the set."
He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside.
"Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."
"One of my best friends is Muggle-born," said Harry, "and she's the best in our year."
"Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?" said Slughorn.
"Not really," said Harry coldly. Delilah nodded her agreement.a
Slughorn looked down at him in surprise.
"You mustn't think I'm prejudiced!" he said. "No, no, no! Haven't I just said your mother was one of my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!"
He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each with tiny moving occupants.
"All ex-students, all signed. You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he's always interested to hear my take on the day's news. And Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkiss, who gave him his first job! And at the back — you'll see her if you just crane your neck — that's Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies.... People are always astonished to hear I'm on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!"
This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.
"And they all know where to find you, to send you stuff?" asked Delilah.
She couldn't help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him.
The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls.
"Of course not," he said, looking down at her. "I have been out of touch with everybody for a year."
Delilah had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged.
"Still... the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I'm sure they're very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don't personally fancy the mortality rate —"
"You don't have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts," said Harry, who was unable to keep a note of derision out of his voice.
"Most of the teachers aren't in it, and none of them has ever been killed — well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort."
Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest. Delilah had to resist the urge to smirk.
Harry ignored him and continued, "I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore's headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't he?"
Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Harry's words.
"Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore," he muttered grudgingly. "And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-WhoMust-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend... in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus.... I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones's death did not shake me.... If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection..."
Dumbledore re-entered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house.
"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said. "You've been a very long time. Upset stomach?"
"No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines," said Dumbledore. "I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, Delilah, we have trespassed upon Horace's hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave."
Not at all reluctant to obey, Delilah hurried to her feet.
Slughorn seemed taken aback.
"You're leaving?"
"Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one."
"Lost...?"
Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, Harry zip up his jacket, and Delilah pull her sweatshirt back on.
"Well, I'm sorry you don't want the job, Horace," said Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. "Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to."
"Yes... well... very gracious... as I say..."
"Good-bye, then."
"Bye," said Harry.
Delilah waved.
They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.
"All right, all right, I'll do it!"
Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.
"You will come out of retirement?"
"Yes, yes," said Slughorn impatiently. "I must be mad, but yes."
"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September."
"Yes, I daresay you will," grunted Slughorn.
As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn's voice floated after them, "I'll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!"
Dumbledore chuckled.
The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.
"Well done," said Dumbledore.
"I didn't do anything," said Harry in surprise.
"Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"
Delilah shrugged. Slughorn seemed alright, he was certainly pleasant in his own way, but he had also seemed vain and too surprised that a Muggle-born could be a good witch.
"Er..." Harry said, showing he wasn't sure either.
"Horace," said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to share his thoughts, "likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office."
Almost like a giant spider, Delilah thought, stretching its web to catch the best prey.
"I tell you all this," Dumbledore continued, "not to turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; 'the Boy Who Lived'... or, as they call you these days, 'the Chosen One.' "
Delilah rolled her eyes. Of course Slughorn would try to recruit him. Everyone seemed to want him on their team. Next thing she'd know Voldemort would try to make him a Death Eater.
Dumbledore stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier.
"This will do. If you will grasp my arm."
Braced this time, Delilah was ready for the Apparition, but still found it unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and she was able to breathe again, she was standing in a country lane beside Harry and looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of the Burrow.
"If you don't mind, Harry," said Dumbledore, as they passed through the gate, "I'd like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?"
Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks. He started walking, Harry following.
Delilah remained behind. She hadn't been told to stay, but she could tell when she wasn't wanted. She leaned against the wall next to the window, carefully staying in the shadows. The Weasleys were nice, but she wanted to make sure Harry was ok before going inside. Afterall he was with Dumbledore, who had indirectly caused him to be in danger every year for the past four years.
But why did Dumbledore have Harry, Ron, and Hermione do his dirty work at Hogwarts? If he was the best wizard of the century, certainly he could have dealt with Voldemort. He still could but no, for some mystical reason it would have to be Harry.
She glanced up, but they hadn't returned.
Even if there was a reason why it had to be him that she didn't know about, that was a best case scenario, and those rarely happened and worked out. Still, it was a possibility. Either way Delilah had just made up and started talking and getting along with Harry again, she didn't want him to get hurt again.
She looked again, but still they were in the outhouse. What were they talking about in there?
Delilah contemplated turning into her animagus form and eavesdropping, but decided against it. When they exited she mightn't have enough time to make it far enough away that they wouldn't think she had been listening and transform back.
The door to the outhouse opened, and Harry came out. He was unharmed, though his hair was full of spiders.
Delilah sighed from relief.