, but instead of emerging in neighbouring pictures (as usually happened at Hogwarts) neither reappeared. One frames now contained nothing but a backdrop of dark
curtain, the other a handsome leather armchair. Harry noticed that many of the other headmasters and mistresses on the walls, though snoring and drooling most convincingly, kept sneaking peeks at him from under their
eyelids, and he suddenly understood who had been talking when they had knocked.
‘Everard and Dilys were two of Hogwartss most celebrated Heads,’ Dumbledore said, now sweeping around Harry, Ron and Professor McGonagall to approach the magnificent sleeping bird on his perch beside the door. ‘Their
renown is such that both have portraits hanging in other important wizarding institutions. As they are free to move between their own portraits, they can tell us what may be happening elsewhere ...’
‘But Mr. Weasley could be anywhere!’ said Harry.
‘Please sit down, all three of you,’ said Dumbledore, as though Harry had not spoken, ‘Everard and Dilys may not be back for several minutes. Professor McGonagall, if you could draw up extra chairs.’
Professor McGonagall pulled her wand from the pocket of her dressing gown and waved it; three chairs appeared out of thin air, straight-backed and wooden, quite unlike the comfortable chintz armchairs that Dumbledore
had conjured up at Harry's hearing. Harry sat down, watching Dumbledore over his shoulder. Dumbledore was now stroking Fawkes's plumed golden head with one finger. The phoenix awoke immediately. He stretched his
beautiful head high and observed Dumbledore through bright, dark eyes.
‘We will need,’ Dumbledore said very quietly to the bird, ‘a warning.’
There was a flash of fire and the phoenix had gone.
Dumbledore now swooped down upon one of the fragile silver instruments whose function Harry had never known, carried it over to his desk, sat down facing them again and tapped it gently with the tip of his wand.
The instrument tinkled into life at once with rhythmic clinking noises. Tiny puffs of pale green smoke issued from the minuscule silver tube at the top. Dumbledore watched the smoke closely, his brow furrowed. After a few
seconds, the tiny puffs became a steady stream of smoke that thickened and coiled in the air ... a serpent's head grew out of the end of it, opening its mouth wide. Harry wondered whether the instrument was confirming his
story: he looked eagerly at Dumbledore for a sign that he was right, but Dumbledore did not look up.
‘Naturally, naturally,’ murmured Dumbledore apparently to himself, still observing the stream of smoke without the slightest sign of surprise. ‘But in essence divided?’
Harry could make neither head nor tail of this question. The smoke serpent, however, split itself instantly into two snakes, both coiling and undulating in the dark air. With a look of grim satisfaction, Dumbledore gave the
instrument another gentle tap with his wand: the clinking noise slowed and died and the smoke serpents grew faint, became a formless haze and vanished.
Dumbledore replaced the instrument on its spindly little table. Harry saw many of the old headmasters in the portraits follow him with their eyes, then, realising that Harry was watching them, hastily pretend to be sleeping
again. Harry wanted to ask what the strange silver instrument was for, but before he could do so, there was a shout from the top of the wall to their right; the wizard called Everard had reappeared in his portrait., panting
slightly.
‘Dumbledore!’
‘What news?’ said Dumbledore at once.
‘I yelled until someone came running,’ said the wizard, who was mopping his brow on the curtain behind him, ‘said I'd heard something moving downstairs—they weren't sure whether to believe me but went down to check—you
know there are no portraits down there to watch from. Anyway, they carried him up a few minutes later. He doesn't look good, he's covered in blood, I ran along to Elfrida Cragg's portrait to get a good view as they left—’
‘Good,’ said Dumbledore as Ron made a convulsive movement. ‘I take it Dilys will have seen him arrive, then—’
And moments later, the silver-ringleted witch had reappeared in her picture, too; she sank, coughing, into her armchair and said, ‘Yes, they've taken him to St. Mungo's, Dumbledore ... they carried him past my portrait ... he
looks bad ...’
‘Thank you,’ said Dumbledore. He looked round at Professor McGonagall.
‘Minerva, I need you to go and wake the other Weasley children.’
‘Of course ...’
Professor McGonagall got up and moved swiftly to the door. Harry cast a sideways glance at Ron, who was looking terrified.
‘And Dumbledore— what about Molly?’ said Professor McGonagall, pausing at the door.
‘That will be a job for Fawkes when he has finished keeping a lookout for anybody approaching,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But she may already know ... that excellent clock of hers ...’
Harry knew Dumbledore was referring to the clock that told, not the time, but the whereabouts and conditions of the various Weasley family members, and with a pang he thought that Mr. Weasley's hand must, even now, be
pointing at mortal peril.But it was very late. Mrs. Weasley was probably asleep, not watching the clock. Harry felt cold as he remembered Mrs. Weasley's boggart turning into Mr. Weasley's lifeless body, his glasses askew,
blood running down his face ... but Mr. Weasley wasn't going to die ... he couldn't ...
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