Harry Potter 06 - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

his insides were on fire.
    ‘No more, please, no more …’
    Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin.
    ‘We’re nearly there, Professor, drink this, drink it …’
    He supported Dumbledore’s shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass; Harry was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in more anguish than ever, ‘I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!’
    ‘Drink this, Professor, drink this …’
    Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, ‘KILL ME!’
    ‘This – this one will!’ gasped Harry. ‘Just drink this … it’ll be over … all over!’
    Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over on to his face.
    ‘No!’ shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin, flung himself down beside Dumbledore and heaved him over on to his back; Dumbledore’s glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. ‘No,’ said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, ‘no, you’re not dead, you said it wasn’t poison, wake up, wake up – Rennervate !’ he cried, his wand pointing at Dumbledore’s chest; there was a flash of red light but nothing happened. ‘ Rennervate – sir – please –’
    Dumbledore’s eyelids flickered; Harry’s heart leapt.
    ‘Sir, are you –?’
    ‘Water,’ croaked Dumbledore.
    ‘Water,’ panted Harry, ‘– yes –’
    He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden locket lying curled beneath it.
    ‘Aguamenti!’ he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his wand.
    The goblet filled with clear water; Harry dropped to his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head and brought the glass to his lips – but it was empty. Dumbledore groaned and began to pant.
    ‘But I had some – wait – Aguamenti !’ said Harry again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he approached Dumbledore’s mouth, the water vanished again.
    ‘Sir, I’m trying, I’m trying!’ said Harry desperately, but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear him; he had rolled on to his side and was drawing great, rattling breaths that sounded agonising. ‘Aguamenti – Aguamenti – AGUAMENTI!’
    The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now Dumbledore’s breathing was fading. His brain whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only way left to get water, because Voldemort had planned it so …
    He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to the brim of icy water that did not vanish.
    ‘Sir – here!’ Harry yelled, and lunging forwards he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore’s face.
    It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backwards across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving towards the rock: an army of the dead rising from the black water.
    ‘Petrificus Totalus!’ yelled Harry, struggling to cling on to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm: it released him, falling backwards into the water with a splash. He scrambled to his feet; but many more Inferi were already climbing on to the rock, their bony hands clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken faces leering.
    ‘Petrificus Totalus!’ Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming towards him. ‘Impedimenta! Incarcerous!’
    A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing on to the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at the air with his wand, Harry yelled, ‘Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!’
    But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: they walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched towards him, and