The Will of Albus Dumbledore

Hewaswalkingalongamountainroadinthecoolbluelightofdawn.Farbelow,swathedinmist,wastheshadowofasmalltown.Wasthemanhesoughtdownthere,themanheneededsobadlyhecouldthinkoflittleelse,themanwhoheldtheanswer,theanswertohisproblem...?

“Oi,wakeup.”

Harryopenedhiseyes.HewaslyingagainonthecampbedinRon’sdingyatticroom.Thesunhadnotyetrisenandtheroomwasstillshadowy.Pigwidgeonwasasleepwithhisheadunderhistinywing.ThescaronHarry’sforeheadwasprickling.

“Youweremutteringinyoursleep.”

“WasI?”

“Yeah.‘Gregorovitch.’Youkeptsaying‘Gregorovitch.’”

Harrywasnotwearinghisglasses;Ron’sfaceappearedslightlyblurred.

“Who’sGregorovitch?”

“Idunno,doI?Youweretheonesayingit.”

Harryrubbedhisforehead,thinking.Hehadavagueideahehadheardthenamebefore,buthecouldnotthinkwhere.

“IthinkVoldemort’slookingforhim.”

“Poorbloke,”saidRonfervently.

Harrysatup,stillrubbinghisscar,nowwideawake.Hetriedtorememberexactlywhathehadseeninthedream,butallthatcamebackwasamountainoushorizonandtheoutlineofthelittlevillagecradledinadeepvalley.

“Ithinkhe’sabroad.”

“Who,Gregorovitch?”

“Voldemort.Ithinkhe’ssomewhereabroad,lookingforGregorovitch.Itdidn’tlooklikeanywhereinBritain.”

“Youreckonyouwereseeingintohismindagain?”

Ronsoundedworried.

“Domeafavoranddon’ttellHermione,”saidHarry.

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