chapter17

harry

twomonthsago,hehadtoldkingsleyabouttheboxthatheanddraohadfound.

aboutthepituresonthefloor,andtheeffortittooktoopenit,howhermihoughttheydeservedaholookatifbeforetheministrytookitawayaboutthejournalinside,themaps,thenotes,thelettersbetweenmad-eyeanddumbledore.howdespiteeverythingtheywentthrough,itseemedlikeitstillmightnotbeover.

kingsleyhadsiftedthroughallofit,theexpressiononhisfaeneverhanging.harrywantedtoaskwhathewasthinkingbutbitdownonhislipinstead,hardenoughthatheknewtherewouldbeamarkleftbehind.finally,heouldn’ttakeitanymore.“so?”

kingsleydidn’tanswerrightaway,justreahedupandfiddledwiththegoldhoopearringhealwayswore.harrytriedtotellhimselfthatwasasignofaleaderwhothinksbeforehespeaksratherthananervoustik.“mightbenothing.”

“butitmightbesomething.”harrydidn’twantittobeanything,beausethis,thosenamesstaringupathimandthepeoplemad-eyehadsaidtheykilled,thosewerestillhisresponsibility,hisfight.

“itmightbe,”kingsleysnapstheleatherjournalhewasleafingthroughshut,andshoveditallintohisdeskdrawer,likehewasputtingawaymeddlesomepaperwork.“justletmedealwithit.”

“but—”

“potter.”hewasthekindofmanwhoinspiresonfidene,andkingsleyisabletostopanyprotestswithonlyafewwordsandahandonharry’sshoulder.“letmehandleit.i’llletyouknowifiturnanythingup.butuntilthen?”he’susheringharryoutoftheoffie,andharryouldimaginehimlokingthedoorbehindhim,openingthatdrawerbakup,andombingthroughit,beausetheybothknewthateventhoughpeoplealledmad-eyerazy,heknewathreatwhenhesawone.“don’ttenyone.”

thatwastwomonthsago,andharryhadtrikedhimselfintothinkingthatmaybeitwa

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