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

to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand.
    Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows and it was a few seconds before Harry’s eyes discerned the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks. It seemed to him a very strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking all light and the view of the valley below. He wondered whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could possibly live there, however, one of the windows was thrown open with a clatter and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking.
    Ogden moved forwards quietly and, it seemed to Harry, rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake.
    Then there was a rustle and a crack and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backwards so fast that he stood on the tails of his frock-coat and stumbled.
    ‘You’re not welcome.’
    The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any colour. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Harry could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces before he spoke.
    ‘Er – good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic –’
    ‘You’re not welcome.’
    ‘Er – I’m sorry – I don’t understand you,’ said Ogden nervously.
    Harry thought Ogden was being extremely dim; the stranger was making himself very clear in Harry’s opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in one hand and a short and rather bloody knife in the other.
    ‘You understand him, I’m sure, Harry?’ said Dumbledore quietly.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ said Harry, slightly nonplussed. ‘Why can’t Ogden –?’
    But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door again, he suddenly understood.
    ‘He’s speaking Parseltongue?’
    ‘Very good,’ said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling.
    The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other.
    ‘Now, look –’ Ogden began, but too late: there was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers.
    ‘Morfin!’ said a loud voice.
    An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair and wrinkled face, gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.
    ‘Ministry, is it?’ said the older man, looking down at Ogden.
    ‘Correct!’ said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. ‘And you, I take it, are Mr Gaunt?’
    ‘’S right,’ said Gaunt. ‘Got you in the face, did he?’
    ‘Yes, he did!’ snapped Ogden.
    ‘Should’ve made your presence known, shouldn’t you?’ said Gaunt aggressively. ‘This is private property. Can’t just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself.’
    ‘Defend himself against what, man?’ said Ogden, clambering back to his feet.
    ‘Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.’
    Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin.
    ‘Get in the house. Don’t argue.’
    This time, ready for it, Harry recognised Parseltongue; even while he could understand what was being said, he distinguished the weird hissing noise that was all Ogden could hear. Morfin seemed to be on the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again.
    ‘It’s your son I’m here to see, Mr Gaunt,’ said Ogden, as he