J .K. Rowling - 06 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

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Chapter 1: The Other Minister ______________________________________ 3
Chapter 2: Spinner's End _________________________________________ 12
Chapter 3: Will And Won't ________________________________________ 22
Chapter 4: Horace Slughorn _______________________________________ 31
Chapter 5: An Excess Of Phlegm ___________________________________ 44
Chapter 6: Draco's Detour ________________________________________ 57
Chapter 7: The Slug Club _________________________________________ 69
Chapter 8 Victorious Snape________________________________________ 83
Chapter 9: The Half-Blood prince ___________________________________ 91
Chapter 10: The House of count __________________________________ 103
Chapter 11: Hermione's helping hand ______________________________ 115
Chapter 12: Silver and opals______________________________________ 125
Chapter 13: The secret riddle_____________________________________ 137
Chapter 14: Felix felicis__________________________________________ 148
Chapter 15: The Unbreakable Vow_________________________________ 160
Chapter 16: A very frosty Christmas________________________________ 172
Chapter 17: A sluggish memory ___________________________________ 185
Chapter 18: Birthday Surprises____________________________________ 197
Chapter 19: Elf Tails ____________________________________________ 212
Chapter 20: Lord Voldemort's Request______________________________ 224
Chapter 21: The Unknowable Room________________________________ 237
Chapter 22: After the Burial ______________________________________ 248
Chapter 23: Horcruxes __________________________________________ 260
Chapter 24: Sectumsempra ______________________________________ 272
Chapter 25: The Seer Overheard __________________________________ 283
Chapter 26: The Cave___________________________________________ 294
Chapter 27: The Lightning-Struck Tower ____________________________ 306
Chapter 28: Flight of the Prince ___________________________________ 316
Chapter 29: The Pheonix Lament__________________________________ 323
Chapter 30: The White Tomb_____________________________________ 334
Chapter 1: The Other Minister
It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office,
reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the
slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President
of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would
telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a
very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for
anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before
him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of
his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that
very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the
last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each
and every one of them was the government's fault.
The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations,
for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed
to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to sug-
gest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer
than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had
snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the
river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that
had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the
government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West
Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And
was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this
week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time
with his family?
"A grim mood has gripped the country," the opponent had concluded, barely
concealing his own broad grin.
And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself;
people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dis-
mal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... It wasn't right, it wasn't normal...
He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went
on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked
around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fire-
place facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable
chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the win-
dow, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It
was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough
behind him.
He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass.
He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the
empty room. : ¦
"Hello?" he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would
answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that
sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming — as
3
the Prime Minister had known at the first cough — from the froglike little man
wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the
far corner of the room.
"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immedi-
ately. Sincerely, Fudge."
The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.
"Er," said the Prime Minister, "listen... Its not a very good time for me... I'm
waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the President of — "
"That can be rearranged," said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister's heart
sank. He had been afraid of that.
"But I really was rather hoping to speak — "
"We shall arrange for the President to forget to call. He will telephone tomorrow
night instead," said the little man. "Kindly respond immediately to Mr. Fudge."
"I... oh ... very well," said the Prime Minister weakly. "Yes, I'll see Fudge."
He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had barely re-
sumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a relaxed and
unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in the empty grate
beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to betray a flicker of
surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the flames, spinning as fast
as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a rather fine antique rug,
brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped cloak, a lime-green bowler
hat in his hand.
"Ah... Prime Minister," said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his hand out-
stretched. "Good to see you again."
The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said nothing
at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional appear-
ances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally meant
that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge was look-
ing distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his face had a
crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians be-
fore, and it never boded well.
"How can I help you?" he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly and gesturing
toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.
"Difficult to know where to begin," muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair, sitting
down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. "What a week, what a
week..."
"Had a bad one too, have you?" asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping to con-
vey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any extra
helpings from Fudge.
"Yes, of course," said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking morosely at
the Prime Minister. "I've been having the same week you have, Prime Minister.
The Brockdale Bridge... the Bones and Vance murders... not to mention the
ruckus in the West Country..."
"You — er — your — I mean to say, some of your people were — were involved
in those — those things, were they?"
4
Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look. "Of course they were,"
he said, "Surely you've realized what's going on?"
"I..." hesitated the Prime Minister.
It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge's visits so
much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being made
to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this from his
very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime Minister. He
remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would haunt him until
his dying day.
He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that was
his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a cough
behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait talking to
him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive and introduce
himself
Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the election
had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly terrified to find a portrait talk-
ing to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a self-proclaimed
wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand. He had remained
speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that there were witches and
wizards still living in secret all over the world and his reassurances that he was
not to bother his head about them as the Ministry of Magic took responsibility
for the whole Wizarding community and prevented the non-magical population
from getting wind of them. It was, said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed
everything from regulations on responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the
dragon population under control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the
desk for support at this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the sLill-
dumbstruck Prime Minister in a fatherly sort of way.
"Not to worry," he had said, "it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll only
bother you if there's something really serious going on our end, something
that's likely to affect the Muggles — the non-magical population, I should say.
Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a lot better than
your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window, thought I was a hoax
planned by the opposition."
At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. "You're — you're not a
hoax, then?"
It had been his last, desperate hope.
"No," said Fudge gently. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look."
And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.
"But," said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing on the
corner of his next speech, "but why — why has nobody told me — ?"
"The Minister of Magic only reveals him — or herself to the Muggle Prime Minis-
ter of the day," said Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket. "We find it
the best way to maintain secrecy."
"But then," bleated the Prime Minister, "why hasn't a former Prime Minister
warned me — ?"
At this, Fudge had actually laughed.
5
"My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?"
Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped into
the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime Minister
had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never, as long as
he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in the wide world
would believe him?
The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to con-
vince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by lack of
sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid himself of
all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the gerbil to his
delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down the portrait of
the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the Prime Minister's
dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to remove. When several
carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the Chancellor of the Excheq-
uer had all tried unsuccessfully to prise it from the wall, the Prime Minister had
abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to hope that the thing remained
motionless and silent for the rest of his term in office. Occasionally he could
have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye the occupant of the painting
yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once or twice, simply walking out of
his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch of muddy-brown canvas behind.
However, he had trained himself not to look at the picture very much, and al-
ways to tell himself firmly that his eyes were playing tricks on him when any-
thing like this happened.
Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had been
alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the imminent
arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet and in a state
of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask why he was dripping
all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about a prison the Prime Min-
ister had never heard of, a man named "Serious" Black, something that
sounded like "Hogwarts," and a boy called Harry Potter, none of which made
the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.
"...I've just come from Azkaban," Fudge had panted, tipping a large amount of
water out of the rim of his bowler hat into his pocket. "Middle of the North Sea,
you know, nasty flight... the dementors are in uproar" — he shuddered —
"they've never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to you, Prime
Minister. Black's a known Muggle killer and may be planning to rejoin You-
Know-Who.... But of course, you don't even know who You-Know-Who is!" He
had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a moment, then said, "Well, sit
down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... Have a whiskey..."
The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own office, let
alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge pulled out his
wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of thin air, pushed
one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a chair.
Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to say a
certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which he had
thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last Fudge had
stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.
"So you think that..." He had squinted down at the name in his left hand. "Lord
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Vol — "
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" snarled Fudge.
"I'm sorry... You think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive, then?"
"Well, Dumbledore says he is," said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-striped
cloak under his chin, "but we've never found him. If you ask me, he's not dan-
gerous unless he's got support, so it's Black we ought to be worrying about.
You'll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don't see each
other again, Prime Minister! Good night."
But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-looking
Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the Prime
Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that was
what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been "in-
volved," but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-Know-
Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it was an iso-
lated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all memory modi-
fications as they spoke.
"Oh, and I almost forgot," Fudge had added. "We're importing three foreign
dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine, but the De-
partment for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells me that its
down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're bringing highly dan-
gerous creatures into the country."
"I — what — dragons?" spluttered the Prime Minister.
"Yes, three," said Fudge. "And a sphinx. Well, good day to you."
The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes would
be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had erupted out of
the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been a mass breakout
from Azkaban.
"A mass breakout?" repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely.
"No need to worry, no need to worry!" shouted Fudge, already with one foot in
the flames. "We'll have them rounded up in no time — just thought you ought
to know!"
And before the Prime Minister could shout, "Now, wait just one moment!"
Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks.
Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was not a
foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge's assurances at
their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each other, nor that
Fudge was becoming more flustered with each visit. Little though he liked to
think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called Fudge in his head, the
Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but fear that the next time
Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still. The site, therefore, of Fudge
stepping out of the fire once more, looking disheveled and fretful and sternly
surprised that the Prime Minister did not know exactly why he was there, was
about the worst thing that had happened in the course of this extremely
gloomy week.
"How should I know what's going on in the — er — Wizarding community?"
snapped the Prime Minister now. "I have a country to run and quite enough
7
concerns at the moment without — "
"We have the same concerns," Fudge interrupted. "The Brock-dale Bridge didn't
wear out. That wasn't really a hurricane. Those murders were not the work of
Muggles. And Herbert Chorley's family would be safer without him. We are cur-
rently making arrangements to have him transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital for
Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be effected tonight."
"What do you... I'm afraid I ... What?" blustered the Prime Minister.
Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, "Prime Minister, I am very sorry to
have to tell you that he's back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back."
"Back? When you say 'back'... he's alive? I mean — "
The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the details of that horrible conver-
sation of three years previously, when Fudge had told him about the wizard
who was feared above all others, the wizard who had committed a thousand
terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance fifteen years earlier.
"Yes, alive," said Fudge. "That is — I don't know — is a man alive if he can't be
killed? I don't really understand it, and Dumbledore won't explain properly —
but anyway, he's certainly got a body and is walking and talking and killing, so I
suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he's alive."
The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit of
wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him cast
around for any details he could remember of their previous conversations.
"Is Serious Black with — er — He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"
"Black? Black?" said Fudge distractedly, turning his bowler rapidly in his fingers.
"Sirius Black, you mean? Merlin's beard, no. Black's dead. Turns out we were —
er — mistaken about Black. He was innocent after all. And he wasn't in league
with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named either. I mean," he added defensively, spin-
ning the bowler hat still faster, "all the evidence pointed — we had more than
fifty eyewitnesses — but anyway, as I say, he's dead. Murdered, as a matter of
fact. On Ministry of Magic premises. There's going to be an inquiry, actually..."
To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting stab of pity for Fudge at
this point. It was, however, eclipsed almost immediately by a glow of smugness
at the thought that, deficient though he himself might be in the area of materi-
alizing out of fireplaces, there had never been a murder in any of the govern-
ment departments under his charge... Not yet, anyway...
While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk, Fudge
continued, "But Blacks by-the-by now. The point is, we're at war, Prime Minis-
ter, and steps must be taken."
"At war?" repeated the Prime Minister nervously. "Surely that's a little bit of an
overstatement?"
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his followers
who broke out of Azkaban in January," said Fudge, speaking more and more
rapidly and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a lime-green blur. "Since they
have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The Brockdale
Bridge — he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle killing unless I
stood aside for him and — "
"Good grief, so it's your fault those people were killed and I'm having to answer
8
questions about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I don't know
what else!" said the Prime Minister furiously.
"My fault!" said Fudge, coloring up. "Are you saying you would have caved in to
blackmail like that?"
"Maybe not," said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the room,
"but I would have put all my efforts into catching the blackmailer before he
committed any such atrocity!"
"Do you really think I wasn't already making every effort?" demanded Fudge
heatedly. "Every Auror in the Ministry was — and is — trying to find him and
round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the most
powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for almost three
decades!"
"So I suppose you're going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West
Country too?" said the Prime Minister, his temper rising with every pace he
took. It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters and
not to be able to tell the public, almost worse than it being the government's
fault after all.
"That was no hurricane," said Fudge miserably.
"Excuse me!" barked the Prime Minister, now positively stamping up and down.
"Trees uprooted, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries — "
"It was the Death Eaters," said Fudge. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's follow-
ers. And... and we suspect giant involvement."
The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible wall.
"What involvement?"
Fudge grimaced. "He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the grand
effect," he said. "The Office of Misinformation has been working around the
clock, we've had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the memories of all
the Muggles who saw what really happened, we've got most of the Department
for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures running around Somerset,
but we can't find the giant — it's been a disaster."
"You don't say!" said the Prime Minister furiously.
"I won't deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry," said Fudge. "What with
all that, and then losing Amelia Bones."
"Losing who?"
"Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We think
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person, because she
was a very gifted witch and — and all the evidence was that she put up a real
fight."
Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his
bowler hat.
"But that murder was in the newspapers," said the Prime Minister, momentarily
diverted from his anger. "Our newspapers. Amelia Bones... it just said she was
a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a — a nasty killing, wasn't it? It's
had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you see."
Fudge sighed. "Well, of course they are," he said. "Killed in a room that was
9
locked from the inside, wasn't she? We, on the other hand, know exactly who
did it, not that that gets us any further toward catching him. And then there
was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn't hear about that one — "
"Oh yes I did!" said the Prime Minister. "It happened just around the corner
from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it, 'breakdown of
law and order in the Prime Minister's backyard — '"
"And as if all that wasn't enough," said Fudge, barely listening to the Prime Min-
ister, "we've got dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left,
right, and center..."
Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to the
Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.
"I thought dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban," he said cautiously.
"They did," said Fudge wearily. "But not anymore. They've deserted the prison
and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't a blow."
"But," said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, "didn't you tell
me they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people?"
"That's right. And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist."
The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisi-
ble creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair
and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.
"Now see here, Fudge — you've got to do something! It's your responsibility as
Minister of Magic!"
"My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of Magic after
all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has
been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I've never known them so
united in my whole term of office!" said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile.
The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at
the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-
looking man sitting opposite him.
"I'm very sorry," he said finally. "If there's anything I can do?"
"It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here to-
night to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my suc-
cessor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of course, he's very busy at
the moment, with so much going on."
Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long curly
silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill. Catching Fudge's
eye, the portrait said, "He'll be here in a moment, he's just finishing a letter to
Dumbledore."
"I wish him luck," said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. "I've been writ-
ing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won't budge. If
he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be... Well, maybe
Scrimgeour will have more success."
Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was broken
almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official
voice.
10
摘要：

Chapter1:TheOtherMinister______________________________________3Chapter2:Spinner'sEnd_________________________________________12Chapter3:WillAndWon't________________________________________22Chapter4:HoraceSlughorn_______________________________________31Chapter5:AnExcessOfPhlegm____________________...

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