Harry peered inside. Most of the cupboard was taken up with a very large and old-fashioned boiler, but in the foot of space underneath the pipes Kreacher had made himself something that looked like a nest. A jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle of it showed where Kreacher curled up to sleep every night. Here and there among the material were stale bread crusts and mouldy old bits of cheese. In a far corner glinted small objects and coins that Harry guessed Kreacher had saved, magpie-like, from Sirius's purge of the house, and he had also managed to retrieve the silver-framed family photographs that Sirius had thrown away over the summer. Their glass might be shattered, but still the little black-and-white people inside them peered up at him haughtily, including — he felt a little jolt in his stomach — the dark, heavy-lidded woman whose trial he had witnessed in Dumbledore's Pensieve: Bellatrix Lestrange. By the looks of it, hers was Kreacher's favourite photograph; he had placed it to the fore of all the others and had mended the glass clumsily with Spellotape.

'I think I'll just leave his present here,' said Hermione, laying the package neatly in the middle of the depression in the rags and blankets and closing the door quietly. 'He'll find it later, that'll be fine.'

'Come to think of it,' said Sirius, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as they closed the cupboard door, 'has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?'

'I haven't seen him since the night we came back here,' said Harry. 'You were ordering him out of the kitchen.'

'Yeah . . .' said Sirius, frowning. 'You know, I think that's the last time I saw him, too . . . he must be hiding upstairs somewhere.'

'He couldn't have left, could he?' said Harry. 'I mean, when you said "out", maybe he thought you meant get out of the house?'

'No, no, house-elves can't leave unless they're given clothes. They're tied to their family's house,' said Sirius.

'They can leave the house if they really want to,' Harry contradicted him. 'Dobby did, he left the Malfoy's' to give me warnings two years ago. He had to punish himself afterwards, but he still managed it.'

Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, 'I'll look for him later, I expect I'll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother's old bloomers or something. Of course, he might have crawled into the airing cupboard and died . . . but I mustn't get my hopes up.'

Fred, George and Ron laughed; Hermione, however, looked reproachful.

Once they had eaten their Christmas lunch, the Weasleys, Harry and Hermione were planning to pay Mr Weasley another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye and Lupin. Mundungus turned up in time for Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to 'borrow' a car for the occasion, as the Underground did not run on Christmas Day. The car, which Harry doubted very much had been taken with the consent of its owner, had been enlarged with a spell like the Weasleys' old Ford Anglia had once been. Although normally proportioned outside, ten people with Mundungus driving were able to fit into it quite comfortably. Mrs Weasley hesitated before getting inside — Harry knew her disapproval of Mundungus was battling with her dislike of travelling without magic — but, finally, the cold outside and her children's pleading triumphed, and she settled herself into the back seat between Fred and Bill with good grace.

The journey to St Mungo's was quite quick as there was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards was creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. Harry and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus drove off around the corner to wait for them. They strolled casually towards the window where the dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, stepped through the glass.

The reception area looked pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated St Mungo's had been coloured red and gold to become gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway; and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each one topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time they had been there, although halfway across the room Harry found himself shunted aside by a witch with a satsuma jammed up her left nostril.

'Family argument, eh?' smirked the blonde witch behind the desk. 'You're the third I've seen today . . . Spell Damage, fourth floor.'

They found Mr Weasley propped up in bed with the remains of his turkey dinner on a tray on his lap and a rather sheepish expression on his face.

'Everything all right, Arthur?' asked Mrs Weasley, after they had all greeted Mr Weasley and handed over their presents.

'Fine, fine,' said Mr Weasley, a little too heartily. 'You — er — haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?'

'No,' said Mrs Weasley suspiciously, 'why?'

'Nothing, nothing,' said Mr Weasley airily, starting to unwrap his pile of gifts. 'Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry — this is absolutely wonderful! ' For he had just opened Harry's gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers.

Mrs Weasley did not seem entirely satisfied with Mr Weasley's answer. As her husband leaned over to shake Harry's hand, she peered at the bandaging under his nightshirt.

'Arthur,' she said, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, 'you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow.'

'What?' said Mr Weasley, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. 'No, no — it's nothing — it's — I — '

He seemed to deflate under Mrs Weasley's piercing gaze.

'Well — now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea . . . he's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in . . . um . . . complementary medicine . . . I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies . . . well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on — on Muggle wounds — '

Mrs Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Mr Weasley; Bill muttered something about getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning.

'Do you mean to tell me,' said Mrs Weasley, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for cover, 'that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?'

'Not messing about, Molly, dear,' said Mr Weasley imploringly, 'it was just — just something Pye and I thought we'd try — only, most unfortunately — well, with these particular kinds of wounds — it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped — '

'Meaning? '

'Well . . . well, I don't know whether you know what — what stitches are?'

'It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together,' said Mrs Weasley with a snort of mirthless laughter, 'but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid — '

'I fancy a cup of tea, too,' said Harry, jumping to his feet.

Hermione, Ron and Ginny almost sprinted to the door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they heard Mrs Weasley shriek, 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?'

'Typical Dad,' said Ginny, shaking her head as they set off up the corridor. 'Stitches . . . I ask you . . .'

'Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,' said Hermione fairly. 'I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something. I wonder where the tearoom is?'

'Fifth floor,' said Harry, remembering the sign over the welcomewitch's desk.

They walked along the corridor, through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit.

'And what's that supposed to be?' he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.

' 'Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now — '

'Watch who you're calling gruesome!' said Ron, his ears turning red.

' — the only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked at the full moon in a barrel of eels' eyes — '

'I have not got spattergroit!'

'But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master — '

'They're freckles!' said Ron furiously. 'Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!'

He rounded on the others, who were all keeping determinedly straight faces.

'What floor's this?'

'I think it's the fifth,' said Hermione.

'Nah, it's the fourth,' said Harry, 'one more — '

But as he stepped on to the landing he came to an abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the double doors that marked the start of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man was peering out at them all with his nose pressed against the glass. He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes and a broad vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white teeth.

'Blimey!' said Ron, also staring at the man.

'Oh, my goodness,' said Hermione suddenly, sounding breathless. 'Professor Lockhart.'

Their ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher pushed open the doors and moved towards them, wearing a long lilac dressing gown.

'Well, hello there!' he said. 'I expect you'd like my autograph, would you?'

'Hasn't changed much, has he?' Harry muttered to Ginny, who grinned.

'Er — how are you, Professor?' said Ron, sounding slightly guilty. It had been Ron's malfunctioning wand that had damaged Professor Lockhart's memory so badly that he had landed in St Mungo's in the first place, though as Lockhart had been attempting to permanently wipe Harry and Ron's memories at the time, Harry's sympathy was limited.

'I'm very well indeed, thank you!' said Lockhart exuberantly, palling a rather battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. 'Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!'

'Er — we don't want any at the moment, thanks,' said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who asked, 'Professor, should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn't you be in a ward?'