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"Yeah," said Harry and Ron slowly.

The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley, short, plump, and wearing an old green dressing gown.

'"Present company'?" repeated Snape sardonically. "And what urn I to understand by that, Bellatrix?"

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 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.

"Er--yes," said the Prime Minister. "And if you don't mind, I'd rather that door remained unlocked."

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"You're mental," said George, trying to push it back at Harry.

It was as though someone had exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the blaze of the spells that had blasted from every direction, deafened by a series of bangs, Harry blinked and looked down at the floor.

Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a chair beside his bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against the cold windowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The misty fug his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of all color, so that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.

The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.

When Hermione returned from the trolley and put her money back into her schoolbag, she dislodged a copy of the Daily Prophet that she had been carrying in there. Harry looked at it, unsure whether he really wanted to know what it might say, but Hermione, seeing him looking at it, said calmly, "There's nothing in there. You can look for yourself, but there's nothing at all. I've been checking every day. Just a small piece the day after the third task saying you won the tournament. They didn't even mention Cedric.

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Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat.

But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.

"No, really, Molly. . . thanks anyway. . . Good night, every-one.

"He's only quacking!" said the Prime Minister weakly. "Surely a bit of a rest... Maybe go easy on the drink..."

"Certainly," said Snape. "But what help do you require, Nar-cissa? If you are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid there is no hope, none at all."

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Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.

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"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..."

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"Well, that means I won't see much of Professor Snape from now on," he said, "because he won't let me carry on Potions unless I get 'Outstanding' in my OWL., which I know I haven't."

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"You look very like your father.",

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"You must listen to me!";

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