He opened his eyes; they stung and watered at the sight of the blazing white parchment. Slowly, he wrote two lines about the trolls, then read through what he had done so far. It did not seem very informative or detailed, yet he was sure Hermione's notes on the Confederation had gone on for pages and pages.

He closed his eyes again, trying to see them, trying to remember . . . the Confederation had met for the first time in France, yes, he had written that already . . .

Goblins had tried to attend and been ousted . . . he had written that, too . . .

And nobody from Liechtenstein had wanted to come . . .

Think, he told himself, his face in his hands, while all around him quills scratched out never-ending answers and the sand trickled through the hour-glass at the front . . .

He was walking along the cool, dark corridor to the Department of Mysteries again, walking with a firm and purposeful tread, breaking occasionally into a run, determined to reach his destination at last . . . the black door swung open for him as usual, and here he was in the circular room with its many doors . . .

Straight across the stone floor and through the second door . . . patches of dancing light on the walls and floor and that odd mechanical clicking, but no time to explore, he must hurry . . .

He jogged the last few feet to the third door, which swung open just like the others . . .

Once again he was in the cathedral-sized room full of shelves and glass spheres . . . his heart was beating very fast now . . . he was going to get there this time . . . when he reached number ninety-seven he turned left and hurried along the aisle between two rows . . .

But there was a shape on the floor at the very end, a black shape moving on the floor like a wounded animal . . . Harry's stomach contracted with fear . . . with excitement . . .

A voice issued from his own mouth, a high, cold voice empty of any human kindness . . .

'Take it for me . . . lift it down, now . . . I cannot touch it . . . but you can . . .'

The black shape on the floor shifted a little. Harry saw a long-fingered white hand clutching a wand rise at the end of his own arm . . . heard the high, cold voice say 'Crucio! '

The man on the floor let out a scream of pain, attempted to stand but fell back, writhing. Harry was laughing. He raised his wand, the curse lifted and the figure groaned and became motionless.

'Lord Voldemort is waiting . . .'

Very slowly, his arms trembling, the man on the ground raised his shoulders a few inches and lifted his head. His face was bloodstained and gaunt, twisted in pain yet rigid with defiance . . .

'You'll have to kill me,' whispered Sirius.

'Undoubtedly I shall in the end,' said the cold voice. 'But you will fetch it for me first, Black . . . you think you have felt pain thus far? Think again . . . we have hours ahead of us and nobody to hear you scream . . .'

But somebody screamed as Voldemort lowered his wand again; somebody yelled and fell sideways off a hot desk on to the cold stone floor; Harry awoke as he hit the ground, still yelling, his scar on fire, as the Great Hall erupted all around him.