And he led them forward, between the towering rows of glass balls, some of which glowed softly as they passed. …
“He should be near here,” whispered Harry, convinced that every step was going to bring the ragged form of Sirius into view upon the darkened floor. “Anywhere here … really close …”
“Harry?” said Hermione tentatively, but he did not want to respond. His mouth was very dry now.
“Somewhere about … here …” he said.
They had reached the end of the row and emerged into more dim candlelight. There was nobody there at all. All was echoing, dusty silence.
“He might be …” Harry whispered hoarsely, peering down the alley next door. “Or maybe …” He hurried to look down the one beyond that.
“Harry?” said Hermione again.
“What?” he snarled.
“I … I don’t think Sirius is here.”
Nobody spoke. Harry did not want to look at any of them. He felt sick. He did not understand why Sirius was not here. He had to be here. This was where he, Harry, had seen him. …
He ran up the space at the end of the rows, staring down them. Empty aisle after empty aisle flickered past. He ran the other way, back past his staring companions. There was no sign of Sirius anywhere, nor any hint of a struggle.
“Harry?” Ron called.
“What?”
He did not want to hear what Ron had to say, did not want to hear Ron tell him he had been stupid, or suggest that they ought to go back to Hogwarts. But the heat was rising in his face and he felt as though he would like to skulk down here in the darkness for a long while before facing the brightness of the Atrium above and the others’ accusing stares. …
“Have you seen this?” said Ron.
“What?” said Harry, but eagerly this time — it had to be a sign that Sirius had been there, a clue — he strode back to where they were all standing, a little way down row ninety-seven, but found nothing except Ron staring at one of the dusty glass spheres on the shelves.
“What?” Harry repeated glumly.
“It’s — it’s got your name on,” said Ron.
Harry moved a little closer. Ron was pointing at one of the small glass spheres that glowed with a dull inner light, though it was very dusty and appeared not to have been touched for many years.
“My name?” said Harry blankly.
He stepped forward. Not as tall as Ron, he had to crane his neck to read the yellowish label affixed to the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery writing was written a date of some sixteen years previously, and below that:
S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.
Dark Lord
and (?) Harry Potter
Harry stared at it.
“What is it?” Ron asked, sounding unnerved. “What’s your name doing down here?”
He glanced along at the other labels on that stretch of shelf.
“I’m not here,” he said, sounding perplexed. “None of the rest of us are here. …”
“Harry, I don’t think you should touch it,” said Hermione sharply, as he stretched out his hand.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”
“Don’t, Harry,” said Neville suddenly. Harry looked around at him. Neville’s round face was shining slightly with sweat. He looked as though he could not take much more suspense.
“It’s got my name on,” said Harry.
And feeling slightly reckless, he closed his fingers around the dusty ball’s surface. He had expected it to feel cold, but it did not. On the contrary, it felt as though it had been lying in the sun for hours, as though the glow of light within was warming it. Expecting, even hoping, that something dramatic was going to happen, something exciting that might make their long and dangerous journey worthwhile after all, he lifted the glass ball down from its shelf and stared at it.
Nothing whatsoever happened. The others moved in closer around Harry, gazing at the orb as he brushed it free of the clogging dust.
And then, from right behind them, a drawling voice said, “Very good, Potter. Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me.
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