The bar of the Leaky Cauldron was nearly deserted. Tom, the stooped and toothless landlord, was polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of warlocks having a muttered conversation in the far corner glanced at Hermione and drew back into the shadows.
“Madam Lestrange,” murmured Tom, and as Hermione paused he inclined his head subserviently.
“Good morning,” said Hermione, and as Harry crept past, still carrying Griphook piggyback under the Cloak, he saw Tom look surprised.
“Too polite,” Harry whispered in Hermione’s ear as they passed out of the Inn into the tiny backyard. “You need to treat people like they’re scum!”
“Okay, okay!”
Hermione drew out Bellatrix’s wand and rapped a brick in the nondescript wall in front of them. At once the bricks began to whirl and spin: A hole appeared in the middle of them, which grew wider and wider, finally forming an archway onto the narrow cobbled street that was Diagon Alley.
It was quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and there were hardly and shoppers abroad. The crooked, cobbled street was much altered now from the bustling place Harry had visited before his first team at Hogwarts so many years before. More shops than ever were boarded up, though several new establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts had been created since his last visit. Harry’s own face glared down at him from posters plastered over many windows, always captioned with the words UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE.
A number of ragged people sat huddled in doorways. He heard them moaning to the few passersby, pleading for gold, insisting that they were really wizards. One man had a bloody bandage over his eye.
As they set off along the street, the beggars glimpsed Hermione. They seemed to melt away before her, drawing hoods over their faces and fleeing as fast as they could. Hermione looked after them curiously, until the man with the bloodied bandage came staggering right across her path.
“My children,” he bellowed, pointing at her. His voice was cracked, high-pitched, he sounded distraught. “Where are my children? What has he done with them? You know, you know!”
“I—I really—” stammered Hermione.
The man lunged at her, reaching for her throat. Then, with a bang and a burst of red light he was thrown backward onto the ground, unconscious. Ron stood there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock visible behind his beard. Faces appeared at the windows on either side of the street, while a little knot of prosperous-looking passerby gathered their robes about them and broke into gentle trots, keen to vacate the scene.
Their entrance into Diagon Alley could hardly have been more conspicuous; for a moment Harry wondered whether it might not be better to leave now and try to think of a different plan. Before they could move or consult one another, however, they heard a cry from behind them.
“Why, Madam Lestrange!”
Harry whirled around and Griphook tightened his hold around Harry’s neck: A tall, think wizard with a crown of bushy gray hair and a long, sharp nose was striding toward them.
“It’s Travers,” hissed the goblin into Harry’s ear, but at that moment Harry could not think who Travers was. Hermione had drawn herself up to full height and said with as much contempt as she could muster:
“And what do you want?”
Travers stopped in his tracks, clearly affronted.
“He’s another Death Eater!” breathed Griphook, and Harry sidled sideways to repeat the information into Hermione’s ear.
“I merely sought to greet you,” said Travers coolly, “but if my presence is not welcome…”
Harry recognized his voice now: Travers was one of the Death Eaters who had been summoned to Xenophilius’s house.
“No, no, not at all, Travers,” said Hermione quickly, trying to cover up her mistake. “How are you?”
“Well, I confess I am surprised to see you out and about, Bellatrix.”
“Really? Why?” asked Hermione.
“Well,” Travers coughed, “I heard that the Inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the… ah… escape.”
Harry willed Hermione to keep her head. If this was true, and Bellatrix was not supposed to be out in public—
“The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past,” said Hermione in a magnificent imitation of Bellatrix’s most contemptuous manner. “Perhaps your credit is not as good with him as mine is, Travers.”
Though the Death Eater looked offended, he also seemed less suspicious. He glanced down at the man Ron had just Stunned.
“How did it offend you?”
“It does not matter, it will not do so again,” said Hermione coolly.
“Some of these wandless can be troublesome,” said Travers. “While they do nothing but beg I have no objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead her case in the Ministry last week. ‘I’m a witch, sir, I’m a witch, let me prove it to you!” he said in a squeaky impersonation. “As if I was going to give her my wand—but whose wand,” said Travers curiously, “are you using at the moment, Bellatrix? I heard that your own was—”
“I have my wand here,” said Hermione coldly, holding up Bellatrix’s wand. “I don’t know what rumors you have been listening to, Travers, but you seem sadly misinformed.”
Travers seemed a little taken aback at that, and he turned instead to Ron.
“Who is your friend? I do not recognize him.”
“This is Dragomir Despard,” said Hermione; they had decided that a fictional foreigner was the safest cover for Ron to assume. “He speaks very little English, but he is in sympathy with the Dark Lord’s aims. He has traveled here from Transylvania to see our new regime.”
“Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?”
“’Ow you?” said Ron, holding out his hand.
Travers extended two fingers and shook Ron’s hand as though frightened of dirtying himself.
“So what brings you and your—ah—sympathetic friend to Diagon Alley this early?” asked Travers.
“I need to visit Gringotts,” said Hermione.
“Alas, I also,” said Travers. “Gold, filthy gold! We cannot live without it, yet I confess I deplore the necessity of consorting with our long-fingered friends.”
Harry felt Griphook’s clasped hands tighten momentarily around his neck.
“Shall we?” said Travers, gesturing Hermione forward.
Hermione had no choice but to fall into step beside him and head along the crooked, cobbled street toward the place where the snowy-white Gringotts stood towering over the other little shops. Ron sloped along beside them, and Harry and Griphook followed.
A watchful Death Eater was the very last thing they needed, and the worst of it was, with Travers matching at what he believed to be Bellatrix’s side, there was no means for Harry to communicate with Hermione or Ron. All too soon they arrived at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the great bronze doors. As Griphook had already warned them, the liveried goblins who usually flanked the entrance had been replaced by two wizards, both of whom were clutching long thin golden rods.
“Ah, Probity Probes,” signed Travers theatrically, “so crude—but so effective!”
And he set off up the steps, nodding left and right to the wizards, who raised the golden rods and passed them up and down his body. The Probes, Harry knew, detected spells of concealment and hidden magical objects. Knowing that he had only seconds, Harry pointed Draco’s wand at each of the guards in turn and murmured, “Confundo” twice. Unnoticed by Travers, who was looking through the bronze doors at the inner hall, each of the guards gave a little start as the spells hit them.
Hermione’s long black hair rippled behind her as she climbed the steps.
“One moment, madam,” said the guard, raising his Probe.
“But you’ve just done that!” said Hermione in Bellatrix’s commanding, arrogant voice. Travers looked around, eyebrows raised. The guard was confused. He stared down at the thin golden Probe and then at his companion, who said in a slightly dazed voice,