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"Harry's feet touched road."
He saw the
achingly familiar Hogsmeade High Street: dark shop fronts, and the
outline of black mountains beyond the village, and the curve in the road
ahead that led off toward Hogwarts, and light spilling from the windows
of the Three Broomsticks, and with a lurch of the heart he remembered,
with piercing accuracy, how he had landed here nearly a year before,
supporting a desperately weak Dumbledore; all this is a second, upon
landing-and then, even as he relaxed his grip upon Ron's and Hermione's
arms, it happened.
The air
was rent by a scream that sounded like Voldemort's when he had realized
the cup had been stolen: It tore at every nerve in Harry's body, and he
knew immediately that their appearance had caused it. Even as he looked
at the other two beneath the Cloak, the door of the Three Broomsticks
burst open and a dozen cloaked and hooded Death Eaters dashed into the
street, their wands aloft.
Harry
seized Ron's wrist as he raised his wand; there were too many of them to
Stun: Even attempting it would give away their position. One of the
Death Eaters waved his wand and the scream stopped, still echoing around
the distant mountains.
"Accio
Cloak!" roared one of the Death Eaters.
Harry
seized its folds, but it made no attempt to escape. The Summoning Charm
had not worked on it.
"Not under
your wrapper, then, Potter?" yelled the Death Eater who had tried the
charm, and then to his fellows, "Spread out. He's here."
Six of the
Death Eaters ran toward them: Harry, Ron, and Hermione backed as quickly
as possible down the nearest side street, and the Death Eaters missed
them by inches. They waited in the darkness, listening to the footsteps
running up and down, beams of light flying along the street from the
Death Eaters' searching wands.
"Let's
just leave!" Hermione whispered. "Disapparate now!"
"Great
idea," said Ron, but before Harry could reply a Death Eater shouted, "We know
you're here, Potter, and there's no getting away! We'll find you!"
"They were
ready for us," whispered Harry. "They set up that spell to tell them
we'd come. I reckon they've done something to keep us here, trap us --"
"What
about dementors?" called another Death Eater. "Let 'em have free rein,
they'd find him quick enough!"
"The Dark
Lord wants Potter dead by no hand but his --"
"-- an dementors won't kill him! The Dark Lord wants Potter's life, not his
soul. He'll be easier to kill if he's been Kissed first!"
There were
noises of agreement. Dread filled Harry: To repel dementors they would
have to produce Patronuses, which would give them away immediately.
"We're
going to have to try to Disapparate, Harry!" Hermione whispered.
Even as
she said it, he felt the unnatural cold begin to steal over the street.
Light was sucked from the environment right up to the stars, which
vanished. In the pitch-blackness, he felt Hermione take hold of his arm
and together, they turned on the spot.
The air
through which they needed to move seemed to have become solid: they
could not Disapparate; the Death Eaters had cast their charms
well. The cold was biting deeper and deeper into Harry's flesh. He, Ron,
and Hermione retreated down the side street, groping their way along the
wall, trying not to make a sound. Then, around the corner, gliding
noiselessly, came dementors, ten or more of them, visible because they
were of a denser darkness than their surroundings, with their black
cloaks and their scabbed and rotting hands. Could they sense fear in the
vicinity? Harry was sure of it: They seemed to be coming more quickly
now, taking those dragging, rattling breaths he detested, tasting
despair on the air, closing in --
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