With an enormous effort he pulled out of Voldemort’s mind again, back to where he stood, swaying, in the Room of Requirement, sweat pouring from his face and Ron holding him up.
“Are you all right, Harry?” Neville was saying. “What to sit down? I expect you’re tired, aren’t –?”
“No,” said Harry. He looked at Ron and Hermione, trying to tell them without words that Voldemort had just discovered the loss of one of the other Horcruxes. Time was running out fast: If Voldemort chose to visit Hogwarts next, they would miss their chance.
“We need to get going,” he said, and their expressions told him that they understood.
“What are we going to do, then, Harry?” asked Seamus. “What’s the plan?”
“Plan?” repeated Harry. He was exercising all his willpower to prevent himself succumbing again to Voldemort’s rage: His scar was still burning. “Well, there’s something we – Ron, Hermione, and I – need to do, and then we’ll get out of here.”
Nobody was laughing or whooping anymore. Neville looked confused.
“What d’you mean, ‘get out of here’?”
“We haven’t come back to stay,” said Harry, rubbing his scar, trying to soothe the pain. “There’s something important we need to do – ”
“What is it?”
“I – I can’t tell you.”
There was a ripple of muttering at this: Neville’s brows contracted.
“Why can’t you tell us? It’s something to do with fighting You-Know-Who, right?”
“Well, yeah – ”
“Then we’ll help you.”
The other members of Dumbledore’s Army were nodding, some enthusiastically, others solemnly. A couple of them rose from their chairs to demonstrate their willingness for immediate action.
“You don’t understand,” Harry seemed to have said that a lot in the last few hours. “We – we can’t tell you. We’ve got to do it – alone.”
“Why?” asked Neville.
“Because …” In his desperation to start looking for the missing Horcrux, or at least have a private discussion with Ron and Hermione about where they might commence their search. Harry found it difficult to gather his thoughts. His scar was still searing. “Dumbledore left the three of us a job,” he said carefully, “and we weren’t supposed to tell – I mean, he wanted us to do it, just the three of us.”
“We’re his army,” said Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army. We were all in it together, we’ve been keeping it going while you three have been off on your own – ”
“It hasn’t exactly been a picnic, mate,” said Ron.
“I never said it had, but I don’t see why you can’t trust us. Everyone in this room’s been fighting and they’ve been driven in here because the Carrows were hunting them down. Everyone in here’s proven they’re loyal to Dumbledore – loyal to you.”
“Look,” Harry began, without knowing what he was going to say, but it did not matter. The tunnel door had just opened behind him.
“We got your message, Neville! Hello you three, I thought you must be here!”
It was Luna and Dean. Seamus gave a great roar of delight and ran to hug his best friend.
“Hi, everyone!” said Luna happily. “Oh, it’s great to be back!”
“Luna,” said Harry distractedly, “what are you doing here? How did you –?”
“I sent for her,” said Neville, holding up the fake Galleon. “I promised her and Ginny that if you turned up I’d let them know. We all thought that if you came back, it would mean revolution. That we were going to overthrow Snape and the Carrows.”
“Of course that’s what it means,” said Luna brightly. “Isn’t it, Harry? We’re going to fight them out of Hogwarts?”
“Listen,” said Harry with a rising sense of panic, “I’m sorry, but that’s not what we came back for. There’s something we’ve got to do, and then – ”
“You’re going to leave us in this mess?” demanded Michael Cornet.
“No!” said Ron. “What we’re doing will benefit everyone in the end, it’s all about trying to get rid of You-Know-Who – ”
“Then let us help!” said Neville angrily. “We want to be a part of it!”
There was another noise behind them, and Harry turned. His heart seemed to fall: Ginny was now climbing through the hole in the wall, closely followed by Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Ginny gave Harry a radiant smile: He had forgotten, he had never fully appreciated, how beautiful she was, but he had never been less pleased to see her.
“Aberforth’s getting a bit annoyed,” said Fred, raising his hand in answer to several cries of greeting. “He wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway station.”
Harry’s mouth fell open. Right behind Lee Jordan came Harry’s old girlfriend, Cho Chang. She smiled at him.
“I got the message,” she said, holding up her own fake Galleon and she walked over to sit beside Michael Corner.
“So what’s the plan, Harry?” said George.
“There isn’t one,” said Harry, still disoriented by the sudden appearance of all these people, unable to take everything in while his scar was still burning so fiercely.
“Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My favorite kind,” said Fred.
“You’ve got to stop this!” Harry told Neville. “What did you call them all back for? This is insane – ”
“We’re fighting, aren’t we?” said Dean, taking out his fake Galleon. “The message said Harry was back, and we were going to fight! I’ll have to get a wand, though – ”
“You haven’t got a wand–?” began Seamus.
Ron turned suddenly to Harry.
“Why can’t they help?”
Friday, December 3, 2010
“Ron!”
“Ron!”
“Hermione!”
He had a confused impression of colored hangings, of lamps and many faces. The next moment, he, Ron, and Hermione were engulfed, hugged, pounded on the back, their hair ruffled, their hands shaken, by what seemed to be more than twenty people. They might have just won a Quidditch final.
“Okay, okay, calm down!” Neville called, and as the crowd backed away, Harry was able to take in their surroundings.
He did not recognize the dorm at all. It was enormous, and looked rather like the interior of a particularly sumptuous tree house, or perhaps a gigantic ship’s cabin. Multicolored hammocks were strung from the ceiling and from the balcony that ran around the dark wood-paneled and windowless walls, which were covered in bright tapestry hangings. Harry saw the gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; and the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. The silver and green of Slytherin alone were absent. There were bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped against the walls, and in the corner, a large wood-cased wireless.
“Where are we?”
“Room of Requirement, of course!” said Neville. “Surpassed itself, hasn’t it? The Carrows were chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a hideout: I managed to get through the door and this is what I found! Well, it wasn’t exactly like this when I arrived, it was a load smaller, there was only one hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it’s expanded as more and more of the D.A. have arrived.”
“And the Carrows can’t get in?” asked Harry, looking around for the door.
“No,” said Seamus Finnigan, whom Harry had not recognized until he spoke: Seamus’s face was bruised and puffy. “It’s a proper hideout, as long as one of us stays in here, they can’t get at us, the door won’t open. It’s all down to Neville. He really gets this room. You’ve got to ask for exactly what you need – like, ‘I don’t want any Carrow supporters to be able to get in’ – and it’ll do it for you! You’ve just got to make sure you close the loopholes. Neville’s the man!”
“It’s quite straightforward, really,” said Neville modestly. “I’d been in here about a day and a half, and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get something to eat, and that’s when the passage to Hog’s Head opened up. I went through it and met Aberforth. He’s been providing us with food, because for some reason, that’s the one thing the room doesn’t really do.”
“Yeah, well, food’s one of the five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” said Ron to general astonishment.
“So we’ve been hiding out here for nearly two weeks,” said Seamus, “and it just makes more hammocks every time we need room, and it even sprouted a pretty good bathroom once girls started turning up – ”
“ – and thought they’d quite like to wash, yes,” supplied Lavender Brown, whom Harry had not noticed until that point. Now that he looked around properly, he recognized many familiar faces. Both Patil twins were there, as were Terry Boot, Ernie Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner.
“Tell us what you’ve been up to, though,” said Ernie. “There’ve been so many rumors, we’ve been trying to keep up with you on Potterwatch.” He pointed at the wireless. “You didn’t break into Gringotts?”
“They did!” said Neville. “And the dragon’s true too!”
There was a smattering of applause and a few whoops; Ron took a bow.
“What were you after?” asked Seamus eagerly.
Before any of them could parry the question with one of their own, Harry felt a terrible, scorching pain in the lightning scar. As he turned his back hastily on the curious and delighted faces, the Room of Requirement vanished, and he was standing inside a ruined stone shack, and the rotting floorboards were ripped apart at his feet, a disinterred golden box lay open and empty beside the hole, and Voldemort’s scream of fury vibrated inside his head.
“Hermione!”
He had a confused impression of colored hangings, of lamps and many faces. The next moment, he, Ron, and Hermione were engulfed, hugged, pounded on the back, their hair ruffled, their hands shaken, by what seemed to be more than twenty people. They might have just won a Quidditch final.
“Okay, okay, calm down!” Neville called, and as the crowd backed away, Harry was able to take in their surroundings.
He did not recognize the dorm at all. It was enormous, and looked rather like the interior of a particularly sumptuous tree house, or perhaps a gigantic ship’s cabin. Multicolored hammocks were strung from the ceiling and from the balcony that ran around the dark wood-paneled and windowless walls, which were covered in bright tapestry hangings. Harry saw the gold Gryffindor lion, emblazoned on scarlet; the black badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; and the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. The silver and green of Slytherin alone were absent. There were bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped against the walls, and in the corner, a large wood-cased wireless.
“Where are we?”
“Room of Requirement, of course!” said Neville. “Surpassed itself, hasn’t it? The Carrows were chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a hideout: I managed to get through the door and this is what I found! Well, it wasn’t exactly like this when I arrived, it was a load smaller, there was only one hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it’s expanded as more and more of the D.A. have arrived.”
“And the Carrows can’t get in?” asked Harry, looking around for the door.
“No,” said Seamus Finnigan, whom Harry had not recognized until he spoke: Seamus’s face was bruised and puffy. “It’s a proper hideout, as long as one of us stays in here, they can’t get at us, the door won’t open. It’s all down to Neville. He really gets this room. You’ve got to ask for exactly what you need – like, ‘I don’t want any Carrow supporters to be able to get in’ – and it’ll do it for you! You’ve just got to make sure you close the loopholes. Neville’s the man!”
“It’s quite straightforward, really,” said Neville modestly. “I’d been in here about a day and a half, and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get something to eat, and that’s when the passage to Hog’s Head opened up. I went through it and met Aberforth. He’s been providing us with food, because for some reason, that’s the one thing the room doesn’t really do.”
“Yeah, well, food’s one of the five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration,” said Ron to general astonishment.
“So we’ve been hiding out here for nearly two weeks,” said Seamus, “and it just makes more hammocks every time we need room, and it even sprouted a pretty good bathroom once girls started turning up – ”
“ – and thought they’d quite like to wash, yes,” supplied Lavender Brown, whom Harry had not noticed until that point. Now that he looked around properly, he recognized many familiar faces. Both Patil twins were there, as were Terry Boot, Ernie Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner.
“Tell us what you’ve been up to, though,” said Ernie. “There’ve been so many rumors, we’ve been trying to keep up with you on Potterwatch.” He pointed at the wireless. “You didn’t break into Gringotts?”
“They did!” said Neville. “And the dragon’s true too!”
There was a smattering of applause and a few whoops; Ron took a bow.
“What were you after?” asked Seamus eagerly.
Before any of them could parry the question with one of their own, Harry felt a terrible, scorching pain in the lightning scar. As he turned his back hastily on the curious and delighted faces, the Room of Requirement vanished, and he was standing inside a ruined stone shack, and the rotting floorboards were ripped apart at his feet, a disinterred golden box lay open and empty beside the hole, and Voldemort’s scream of fury vibrated inside his head.
“You’re right,” said Harry
“You’re right,” said Harry, “but tell us about Hogwarts, Neville, we haven’t heard anything.”
“It’s been …. Well, it’s not really like Hogwarts anymore,” said Neville, the smile fading from his face as he spoke. “Do you know about the Carrows?”
“Those two Death Eaters who teach here?”
“They do more than teach,” said Neville. “They’re in charge of all discipline. They like punishment, the Carrows.”
“Like Umbridge?”
“Nah, they make her look tame. The other teachers are all supposed to refer us to the Carrows if we do anything wrong. They don’t, though, if they can avoid it. You can tell they all hate them as much as we do.”
“Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be Defense Against the Dark Arts, except now it’s just the Dark Arts. We’re supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who’ve earned detentions – ”
“What?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s united voices echoed up and down the passage.
“Yeah,” said Neville. “That’s how I got this one,” he pointed at a particularly deep gash in his cheek, “I refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they’ve ever been top in anything, I expect.”
“Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drive wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,” he indicated another slash to his face, “for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.”
“Blimey, Neville,” said Ron, “there’s a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.”
“You didn’t see her,” said Neville. “You wouldn’t have stood it either. The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Harry.”
“But they’ve used you as a knife sharpener,” said Ron, winding slightly as they passed a lamp and Neville’s injuries were thrown into even greater relief.
Neville shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to spill too much pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy but they won’t actually kill us.”
Harry did not know what was worse, the things that Neville was saying or the matter-of-fact tone in which he said them.
“The only people in real danger are the ones whose friends and relatives on the outside are giving trouble. They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovegood was getting a bit too outspoken in The Quibbler, so they dragged Luna off the train on the way back for Christmas.”
“Neville, she’s all right, we’ve seen her – ”
“Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me.”
From his pocket he pulled a golden coin, and Harry recognized it as one of the fake Galleons that Dumbledore’s Army had used to send one another messages.
“These have been great,” said Neville, beaming at Hermione. “The Carrows never rumbled how we were communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak out at night and put graffiti on the walls: Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting, stuff like that. Snape hated it.”
“You used to?” said Harry, who had noticed the past tense.
“Well, it got more difficult as time went on.” said Neville. “We lost Luna at Christmas, and Ginny never came back after Easter, and the three of us were sort of the leaders. The Carrows seemed to know I was behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they’d chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.”
“No kidding,” muttered Ron, as the passage began to slope upward.
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t ask people to go through what Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. But we were still fighting, doing underground stuff, right up until a couple of weeks ago. That’s when they decided there was only one way to stop me, I suppose, and they went for Gran.”
“They what?” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione together.
“Yeah,” said Neville, panting a little now, because the passage was climbing so steeply, “well, you can see their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping kids to force their relatives to behave. I s’pose it was only a matter of time before they did it the other way around. Thing was,” he faced them, and Harry was astonished to see that he was grinning, “they bit off a bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old witch living alone, they probably thought hey didn’t need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway,” Neville laughed, “Dawlish is still in St. Mungo’s and Gran’s on the run. She sent me a letter,” he clapped a hand to the breast pocket of his robes, “telling me she was proud of me, that I’m my parent’s son, and to keep it up.”
“Cool,” said Ron.
“Yea,” said Neville happily. “Only thing was, once they realized they had no hold over me, they decided Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don’t know whether they were planning to kill me or send me to Azkaban, either way, I knew it was time to disappear.”
“But,” said Ron, looking thoroughly confused, “aren’t – aren’t we heading straight back for Hogwarts?”
“‘Course,” said Neville. “You’ll see. We’re here.”
They turned a corner and there ahead of them was the end of the passage. Another short flight of steps led to a door just like the one hidden behind Ariana’s portrait. Neville pushed it open and climbed through. As Harry followed, he heard Neville call out for unseen people:
“Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you?”
As Harry emerged into the room behind the passage, there were several screams and yells: “HARRY!”
“It’s Potter, it’s POTTER!”
“It’s been …. Well, it’s not really like Hogwarts anymore,” said Neville, the smile fading from his face as he spoke. “Do you know about the Carrows?”
“Those two Death Eaters who teach here?”
“They do more than teach,” said Neville. “They’re in charge of all discipline. They like punishment, the Carrows.”
“Like Umbridge?”
“Nah, they make her look tame. The other teachers are all supposed to refer us to the Carrows if we do anything wrong. They don’t, though, if they can avoid it. You can tell they all hate them as much as we do.”
“Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be Defense Against the Dark Arts, except now it’s just the Dark Arts. We’re supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on people who’ve earned detentions – ”
“What?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s united voices echoed up and down the passage.
“Yeah,” said Neville. “That’s how I got this one,” he pointed at a particularly deep gash in his cheek, “I refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; Crabbe and Goyle love it. First time they’ve ever been top in anything, I expect.”
“Alecto, Amycus’s sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone. We’ve all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drive wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. I got this one,” he indicated another slash to his face, “for asking her how much Muggle blood she and her brother have got.”
“Blimey, Neville,” said Ron, “there’s a time and a place for getting a smart mouth.”
“You didn’t see her,” said Neville. “You wouldn’t have stood it either. The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Harry.”
“But they’ve used you as a knife sharpener,” said Ron, winding slightly as they passed a lamp and Neville’s injuries were thrown into even greater relief.
Neville shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. They don’t want to spill too much pure blood, so they’ll torture us a bit if we’re mouthy but they won’t actually kill us.”
Harry did not know what was worse, the things that Neville was saying or the matter-of-fact tone in which he said them.
“The only people in real danger are the ones whose friends and relatives on the outside are giving trouble. They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovegood was getting a bit too outspoken in The Quibbler, so they dragged Luna off the train on the way back for Christmas.”
“Neville, she’s all right, we’ve seen her – ”
“Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me.”
From his pocket he pulled a golden coin, and Harry recognized it as one of the fake Galleons that Dumbledore’s Army had used to send one another messages.
“These have been great,” said Neville, beaming at Hermione. “The Carrows never rumbled how we were communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak out at night and put graffiti on the walls: Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting, stuff like that. Snape hated it.”
“You used to?” said Harry, who had noticed the past tense.
“Well, it got more difficult as time went on.” said Neville. “We lost Luna at Christmas, and Ginny never came back after Easter, and the three of us were sort of the leaders. The Carrows seemed to know I was behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they’d chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.”
“No kidding,” muttered Ron, as the passage began to slope upward.
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t ask people to go through what Michael did, so we dropped those kinds of stunts. But we were still fighting, doing underground stuff, right up until a couple of weeks ago. That’s when they decided there was only one way to stop me, I suppose, and they went for Gran.”
“They what?” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione together.
“Yeah,” said Neville, panting a little now, because the passage was climbing so steeply, “well, you can see their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping kids to force their relatives to behave. I s’pose it was only a matter of time before they did it the other way around. Thing was,” he faced them, and Harry was astonished to see that he was grinning, “they bit off a bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old witch living alone, they probably thought hey didn’t need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway,” Neville laughed, “Dawlish is still in St. Mungo’s and Gran’s on the run. She sent me a letter,” he clapped a hand to the breast pocket of his robes, “telling me she was proud of me, that I’m my parent’s son, and to keep it up.”
“Cool,” said Ron.
“Yea,” said Neville happily. “Only thing was, once they realized they had no hold over me, they decided Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don’t know whether they were planning to kill me or send me to Azkaban, either way, I knew it was time to disappear.”
“But,” said Ron, looking thoroughly confused, “aren’t – aren’t we heading straight back for Hogwarts?”
“‘Course,” said Neville. “You’ll see. We’re here.”
They turned a corner and there ahead of them was the end of the passage. Another short flight of steps led to a door just like the one hidden behind Ariana’s portrait. Neville pushed it open and climbed through. As Harry followed, he heard Neville call out for unseen people:
“Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you?”
As Harry emerged into the room behind the passage, there were several screams and yells: “HARRY!”
“It’s Potter, it’s POTTER!”
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Ron yelled in shock and backed away
Ron yelled in shock and backed away as the figures blossomed out of the locket, first chests, then waists, then legs, until they stood in the locket, side by side like trees with a common root, swaying over Ron and the real Harry, who had snatched his fingers away from the locket as it burned, suddenly, white-hot.
“Ron!” he shouted, but the Riddle-Harry was now speaking with Voldemort’s voice and Ron was gazing, mesmerized, into its face.
“Why return? We were better without you, happier without you, glad of your absence…. We laughed at your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption–”
“Presumption!” echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was more beautiful and yet more terrible than the real Hermione: She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who looked horrified, yet transfixed, the sword hanging pointlessly at his side. “Who could look at you, who would ever look at you, beside Harry Potter? What have you ever done, compared with the Chosen One? What are you, compared with the Boy Who Lived?”
“Ron, stab it, STAB IT!” Harry yelled, but Ron did not move. His eyes were wide, and the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair swirling like flames, their eyes shining red, their voices lifted in an evil duet.
“Your mother confessed,” sneered Riddle-Harry, while Riddle-Hermione jeered, “that she would have preferred me as a son, would be glad to exchange…”
“Who wouldn’t prefer him, what woman would take you, you are nothing, nothing, nothing to him,” crooned Riddle-Hermione, and she stretched like a snake and entwined herself around Riddle-Harry, wrapping him in a close embrace: Their lips met.
On the ground in front of them, Ron’s face filled with anguish. he raised the sword high, his arms shaking.
“Do it, Ron!” Harry yelled.
Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes.
“Ron –?”
The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way, there as a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held ready to defend himself, but there was nothing to fight.
The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone: There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock.
Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue: they were also wet.
Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had pierced the glass in both windows: Riddle’s eyes were gone, and the stained silk lining of the locket was smoking slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act. The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to his knees, his head in his arms. He was shaking, but not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry crammed the broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron, and placed a hand cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off.
“After you left,” he said in a low voice, grateful for the fact that Ron’s face was hidden, “she cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see. There were loads of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone…”
He could not finish; it was now that Ron was here again that Harry fully realized how much his absence had cost them.
“She’s like my sister,” he went on. “I love her like a sister and I reckon that she feels the same way about me. It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.”
Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from Harry and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve. Harry got to his feet again and walked to where Ron’s enormous rucksack lay yards away, discarded as Ron had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning. He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry approached, eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I know I was a – a –”
He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down upon him and claim him.
“You’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” said Harry. “Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving my life.”
“That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron mumbled.
“Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was” said Harry. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”
Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, Harry gripping the still-sopping back of Ron’s jacket.
“And now,” said Harry as they broke apart, “all we’ve got to do is find that tent again.”
But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the dark forest with the doe had seemed lengthy, with Ron by his side, the journey back seemed to take a surprisingly short time. Harry could not wait to wake Hermione, and it was with quickening excitement that he entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him.
It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest, the only illumination the bluebell flames still shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast asleep, curled up under her blankets, and did not move until Harry had said her name several times.
“Hermione!”
She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face.
“What’s wrong? Harry? Are you all right?”
“It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine, I’m great. There’s someone here.”
“What do you mean? Who –?”
“Ron!” he shouted, but the Riddle-Harry was now speaking with Voldemort’s voice and Ron was gazing, mesmerized, into its face.
“Why return? We were better without you, happier without you, glad of your absence…. We laughed at your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption–”
“Presumption!” echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was more beautiful and yet more terrible than the real Hermione: She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who looked horrified, yet transfixed, the sword hanging pointlessly at his side. “Who could look at you, who would ever look at you, beside Harry Potter? What have you ever done, compared with the Chosen One? What are you, compared with the Boy Who Lived?”
“Ron, stab it, STAB IT!” Harry yelled, but Ron did not move. His eyes were wide, and the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair swirling like flames, their eyes shining red, their voices lifted in an evil duet.
“Your mother confessed,” sneered Riddle-Harry, while Riddle-Hermione jeered, “that she would have preferred me as a son, would be glad to exchange…”
“Who wouldn’t prefer him, what woman would take you, you are nothing, nothing, nothing to him,” crooned Riddle-Hermione, and she stretched like a snake and entwined herself around Riddle-Harry, wrapping him in a close embrace: Their lips met.
On the ground in front of them, Ron’s face filled with anguish. he raised the sword high, his arms shaking.
“Do it, Ron!” Harry yelled.
Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes.
“Ron –?”
The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way, there as a clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held ready to defend himself, but there was nothing to fight.
The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone: There was only Ron, standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock.
Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue: they were also wet.
Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had pierced the glass in both windows: Riddle’s eyes were gone, and the stained silk lining of the locket was smoking slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act. The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to his knees, his head in his arms. He was shaking, but not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry crammed the broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron, and placed a hand cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off.
“After you left,” he said in a low voice, grateful for the fact that Ron’s face was hidden, “she cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn’t want me to see. There were loads of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone…”
He could not finish; it was now that Ron was here again that Harry fully realized how much his absence had cost them.
“She’s like my sister,” he went on. “I love her like a sister and I reckon that she feels the same way about me. It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.”
Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from Harry and wiped his nose noisily on his sleeve. Harry got to his feet again and walked to where Ron’s enormous rucksack lay yards away, discarded as Ron had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning. He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry approached, eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a thick voice. “I’m sorry I left. I know I was a – a –”
He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down upon him and claim him.
“You’ve sort of made up for it tonight,” said Harry. “Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving my life.”
“That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,” Ron mumbled.
“Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was” said Harry. “I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.”
Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, Harry gripping the still-sopping back of Ron’s jacket.
“And now,” said Harry as they broke apart, “all we’ve got to do is find that tent again.”
But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the dark forest with the doe had seemed lengthy, with Ron by his side, the journey back seemed to take a surprisingly short time. Harry could not wait to wake Hermione, and it was with quickening excitement that he entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him.
It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest, the only illumination the bluebell flames still shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast asleep, curled up under her blankets, and did not move until Harry had said her name several times.
“Hermione!”
She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face.
“What’s wrong? Harry? Are you all right?”
“It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine, I’m great. There’s someone here.”
“What do you mean? Who –?”
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
“You have only ever seen me amongst the Order
“You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore’s protection at Hogwarts! You don’t know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures like me!
When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see what I’ve done?
Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child – the child – “
Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he looked quite deranged.
“My kind don’t usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it – how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!”
“Remus!” whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. “Don’t say that – how could any child be ashamed of you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Hermione,” said Harry. “I’d be pretty ashamed of him.”
Harry did not know where his rage was coming from, but it had propelled him to his feet too. Lupin looked as though Harry had hit him.
“If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad,” Harry said, “what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father’s in the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and you reckon he’d tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?”
“How – how dare you?” said Lupin. “This is not about a desire for – for danger or personal glory – how dare you suggest such a – ”
“I think you’re feeling a bit of a daredevil,” Harry said, “You fancy stepping into Sirius’s shoes – ”
“Harry, no!” Hermione begged him, but he continued to glare into Lupin’s livid face.
“I’d never have believed this,” Harry said. “The man who taught me to fight dementors – a coward.”
Lupin drew his wand so fast that Harry had barely reached for his own; there was a loud bang and he felt himself flying backward as if punched; as he slammed into the kitchen wall and slid to the floor, he glimpsed the tail of Lupin’s cloak disappearing around the door.
“Remus, Remus, come back!” Hermione cried, but Lupin did not respond. A moment later they heard the front door slam.
“Harry!” wailed Hermione. “How could you?”
“It was easy,” said Harry. He stood up, he could feel a lump swelling where his head had hit the wall. He was still so full of anger he was shaking.
“Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped at Hermione.
“Don’t you start on her!” snarled Ron.
“No – no – we mustn’t fight!” said Hermione, launching herself between them.
“You shouldn’t have said that stuff to Lupin,” Ron told Harry.
“He had it coming to him,” said Harry. Broken images were racing each other through his mind: Sirius falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended, broken, in midair; a flash of green light and his mother’s voice, begging for mercy…
“Parents,” said Harry, “shouldn’t leave their kids unless – unless they’ve got to.”
“Harry – ” said Hermione, stretching out a consoling hand, but he shrugged it off and walked away, his eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured. He had once spoken to Lupin out of that fireplace, seeking reassurance about James, and Lupin had consoled him. Now Lupin’s tortured white face seemed to swim in the air before him. He felt a sickening surge of remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry felt sure that they were looking at each other behind his back, communicating silently.
He turned around and caught them turning hurriedly away form each other.
“I know I shouldn’t have called him a coward.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” said Ron at once.
“But he’s acting like one.”
“All the same…” said Hermione.
“I know,” said Harry. “But if it makes him go back to Tonks, it’ll be worth it, won’t it?”
He could not keep the plea out of his voice. Hermione looked sympathetic, Ron uncertain. Harry looked down at his feet, thinking of his father. Would James have backed Harry in what he had said to Lupin, or would he have been angry at how his son had treated his old friend?
The silent kitchen seemed to hum with the shock of the recent scene and with Ron and Hermione’s unspoken reproaches. The Daily Prophet Lupin had brought was still lying on the table, Harry’s own face staring up at the ceiling from the front page. He walked over to it and sat down, opened the paper at random, and pretended to read. He could not take in the words; his mind was still too full of the encounter with Lupin. He was sure that Ron and Hermione had resumed their silent communications on the other side of the Prophet. He turned a page loudly, and Dumbledore’s name leapt out at him. It was a moment or two before he took in the meaning of the photograph, which showed a family group. Beneath the photograph were the words: The Dumbledore family, left to right: Albus; Percival, holding newborn Ariana; Kendra, and Aberforth.
When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see what I’ve done?
Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child – the child – “
Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he looked quite deranged.
“My kind don’t usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it – how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!”
“Remus!” whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. “Don’t say that – how could any child be ashamed of you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Hermione,” said Harry. “I’d be pretty ashamed of him.”
Harry did not know where his rage was coming from, but it had propelled him to his feet too. Lupin looked as though Harry had hit him.
“If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad,” Harry said, “what will they do to a half-werewolf whose father’s in the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and you reckon he’d tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?”
“How – how dare you?” said Lupin. “This is not about a desire for – for danger or personal glory – how dare you suggest such a – ”
“I think you’re feeling a bit of a daredevil,” Harry said, “You fancy stepping into Sirius’s shoes – ”
“Harry, no!” Hermione begged him, but he continued to glare into Lupin’s livid face.
“I’d never have believed this,” Harry said. “The man who taught me to fight dementors – a coward.”
Lupin drew his wand so fast that Harry had barely reached for his own; there was a loud bang and he felt himself flying backward as if punched; as he slammed into the kitchen wall and slid to the floor, he glimpsed the tail of Lupin’s cloak disappearing around the door.
“Remus, Remus, come back!” Hermione cried, but Lupin did not respond. A moment later they heard the front door slam.
“Harry!” wailed Hermione. “How could you?”
“It was easy,” said Harry. He stood up, he could feel a lump swelling where his head had hit the wall. He was still so full of anger he was shaking.
“Don’t look at me like that!” he snapped at Hermione.
“Don’t you start on her!” snarled Ron.
“No – no – we mustn’t fight!” said Hermione, launching herself between them.
“You shouldn’t have said that stuff to Lupin,” Ron told Harry.
“He had it coming to him,” said Harry. Broken images were racing each other through his mind: Sirius falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended, broken, in midair; a flash of green light and his mother’s voice, begging for mercy…
“Parents,” said Harry, “shouldn’t leave their kids unless – unless they’ve got to.”
“Harry – ” said Hermione, stretching out a consoling hand, but he shrugged it off and walked away, his eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured. He had once spoken to Lupin out of that fireplace, seeking reassurance about James, and Lupin had consoled him. Now Lupin’s tortured white face seemed to swim in the air before him. He felt a sickening surge of remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry felt sure that they were looking at each other behind his back, communicating silently.
He turned around and caught them turning hurriedly away form each other.
“I know I shouldn’t have called him a coward.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” said Ron at once.
“But he’s acting like one.”
“All the same…” said Hermione.
“I know,” said Harry. “But if it makes him go back to Tonks, it’ll be worth it, won’t it?”
He could not keep the plea out of his voice. Hermione looked sympathetic, Ron uncertain. Harry looked down at his feet, thinking of his father. Would James have backed Harry in what he had said to Lupin, or would he have been angry at how his son had treated his old friend?
The silent kitchen seemed to hum with the shock of the recent scene and with Ron and Hermione’s unspoken reproaches. The Daily Prophet Lupin had brought was still lying on the table, Harry’s own face staring up at the ceiling from the front page. He walked over to it and sat down, opened the paper at random, and pretended to read. He could not take in the words; his mind was still too full of the encounter with Lupin. He was sure that Ron and Hermione had resumed their silent communications on the other side of the Prophet. He turned a page loudly, and Dumbledore’s name leapt out at him. It was a moment or two before he took in the meaning of the photograph, which showed a family group. Beneath the photograph were the words: The Dumbledore family, left to right: Albus; Percival, holding newborn Ariana; Kendra, and Aberforth.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Chapter 2 In Memorandum
Chapter 2 In Memorandum
Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left and swearing under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china. He had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom door.
“What the –?”
He looked around, the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley’s idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap.
It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four days left of being unable to perform magic…but he had to admit to himself that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he came to think of it – particularly in light of his immediate plans – this seemed a serious flaw in his magical education. Making a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done, he used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could before returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.
Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the first time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom – old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his hand into this mulch, experienced a stabbing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand, and withdrawn it to see a lot of blood.
He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk again, he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that flickered feebly between SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY and POTTER STINKS, a cracked and worn-out Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he finally discovered the sharp edge that had done the damage. He recognized it at once. It was a two-inch-long fragment of the enchanted mirror that his dead godfather, Sirius, had given him. Harry laid it aside and felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing more remained of his godfather’s last gift except powdered glass, which clung to the deepest layer of debris like glittering grit.
Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which he had cut himself, seeing nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the fragment on top of that morning’s Daily prophet, which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret and of longing the discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the rubbish in the trunk.
It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, and sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them from now on.
His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, and most of his textbooks were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He wondered what his aunt and uncle would do with them; burn them in the dead of night, probably, as if they were evidence of some dreadful crime. His Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books, the photograph album Hagrid had once given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had been repacked into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder’s Map and the locket with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place of honor not because it was valuable – in all usual senses it was worthless – but because of what it had cost to attain it.
This left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his desk beside his snowy owl, Hedwig: one for each of the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive this summer.
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Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left and swearing under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china. He had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom door.
“What the –?”
He looked around, the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted. Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley’s idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap.
It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four days left of being unable to perform magic…but he had to admit to himself that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he came to think of it – particularly in light of his immediate plans – this seemed a serious flaw in his magical education. Making a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done, he used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could before returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.
Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the first time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom – old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his hand into this mulch, experienced a stabbing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand, and withdrawn it to see a lot of blood.
He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk again, he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that flickered feebly between SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY and POTTER STINKS, a cracked and worn-out Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he finally discovered the sharp edge that had done the damage. He recognized it at once. It was a two-inch-long fragment of the enchanted mirror that his dead godfather, Sirius, had given him. Harry laid it aside and felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing more remained of his godfather’s last gift except powdered glass, which clung to the deepest layer of debris like glittering grit.
Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which he had cut himself, seeing nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the fragment on top of that morning’s Daily prophet, which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret and of longing the discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the rubbish in the trunk.
It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, and sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them from now on.
His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, and most of his textbooks were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He wondered what his aunt and uncle would do with them; burn them in the dead of night, probably, as if they were evidence of some dreadful crime. His Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books, the photograph album Hagrid had once given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had been repacked into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder’s Map and the locket with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place of honor not because it was valuable – in all usual senses it was worthless – but because of what it had cost to attain it.
This left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his desk beside his snowy owl, Hedwig: one for each of the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive this summer.
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Monday, November 29, 2010
“There'll be a way around that,”
“There'll be a way around that,” said Harry dismissively. “You've done brilliantly, Dobby.”
“Kreacher's done well too,” said Hermione kindly; but far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, “The Mudblood
is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear —”
“Get out of it,” Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and Disapparated. “You'd better go and get some sleep too, Dobby.”
“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby happily, and he too vanished.
“How good is this?” said Harry enthusiastically, turning to Ron and Hermione the moment the room was elf-free again. “We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him
cornered now!”
“Yeah, it's great,” said Ron glumly, who was attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that had recently been an almost completed essay. Hermione pulled it toward
her and began siphoning the ink off with her wand.
“But what's all this about him going up there with a ‘variety of students'?” said Hermione. “How many people are in on it? You wouldn't think he'd trust lots of
them to know what he's doing...”
“Yeah, that is weird,” said Harry, frowning. “I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn't Crabbe's business what he was doing... so what's he telling all these... all
these...”
Harry's voice tailed away; he was staring at the fire. “God, I've been stupid,” he said quietly. “It's obvious, isn't it? There was a great vat of it down in the
dungeon... he could've nicked some any time during that lesson...”
“Nicked what?” said Ron.
“Polyjuice Potion. He stole some of the Polyjuice Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions lesson... There aren't a whole variety of students standing guard for
Malfoy... it's just Crabbe and Goyle as usual.... yeah, it all fits!” said Harry, jumping up and starting to pace in front of the fire. “They're stupid enough to do
what they're told even if he won't tell them what he's up to ... but he doesn't want them to be seen lurking around outside the Room of Requirement, so he's got them
taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people... those two girls I saw him with when he missed Quidditch—ha! Crabbe and Goyle!”
“Do you mean to say,” said Hermione in a hushed voice, “that that little girl whose scales I repaired —?”
“Yeah, of course!” said Harry loudly, staring at her. “Of course! Malfoy must've been inside the room at the time, so she—what am I talking about?—he dropped the
scales to tell Malfoy not to come out, because there was someone there! And there was that girl who dropped the toadspawn too! We've been walking past him all the time
and not realizing it!”
“He's got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?” guffawed Ron. “Blimey... no wonder they don't look too happy these days. I'm surprised they don't tell him to
stuff it...”
“Well, they wouldn't, would they, if he's shown them his Dark Mark?” said Harry.
“Hmmm... the Dark Mark we don't know exists,” said Hermione skeptically, rolling up Ron's dried essay before it could come to any more harm and handing it to him.
“We'll see,” said Harry confidently.
“Kreacher's done well too,” said Hermione kindly; but far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, “The Mudblood
is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear —”
“Get out of it,” Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and Disapparated. “You'd better go and get some sleep too, Dobby.”
“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby happily, and he too vanished.
“How good is this?” said Harry enthusiastically, turning to Ron and Hermione the moment the room was elf-free again. “We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him
cornered now!”
“Yeah, it's great,” said Ron glumly, who was attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that had recently been an almost completed essay. Hermione pulled it toward
her and began siphoning the ink off with her wand.
“But what's all this about him going up there with a ‘variety of students'?” said Hermione. “How many people are in on it? You wouldn't think he'd trust lots of
them to know what he's doing...”
“Yeah, that is weird,” said Harry, frowning. “I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn't Crabbe's business what he was doing... so what's he telling all these... all
these...”
Harry's voice tailed away; he was staring at the fire. “God, I've been stupid,” he said quietly. “It's obvious, isn't it? There was a great vat of it down in the
dungeon... he could've nicked some any time during that lesson...”
“Nicked what?” said Ron.
“Polyjuice Potion. He stole some of the Polyjuice Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions lesson... There aren't a whole variety of students standing guard for
Malfoy... it's just Crabbe and Goyle as usual.... yeah, it all fits!” said Harry, jumping up and starting to pace in front of the fire. “They're stupid enough to do
what they're told even if he won't tell them what he's up to ... but he doesn't want them to be seen lurking around outside the Room of Requirement, so he's got them
taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people... those two girls I saw him with when he missed Quidditch—ha! Crabbe and Goyle!”
“Do you mean to say,” said Hermione in a hushed voice, “that that little girl whose scales I repaired —?”
“Yeah, of course!” said Harry loudly, staring at her. “Of course! Malfoy must've been inside the room at the time, so she—what am I talking about?—he dropped the
scales to tell Malfoy not to come out, because there was someone there! And there was that girl who dropped the toadspawn too! We've been walking past him all the time
and not realizing it!”
“He's got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?” guffawed Ron. “Blimey... no wonder they don't look too happy these days. I'm surprised they don't tell him to
stuff it...”
“Well, they wouldn't, would they, if he's shown them his Dark Mark?” said Harry.
“Hmmm... the Dark Mark we don't know exists,” said Hermione skeptically, rolling up Ron's dried essay before it could come to any more harm and handing it to him.
“We'll see,” said Harry confidently.
unexpected, caught him around the middle and held him fast
unexpected, caught him around the middle and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby struggled, then went limp.
“Thank you, Harry Potter,” he panted. “Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters.”
Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy and said defiantly to Kreacher, “But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!”
“Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy,” Harry told Kreacher. “Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going.”
Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, “Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a
variety of—”
“Dobby, you tell me,” said Harry, cutting across Kreacher. “Has he been going anywhere he shouldn't have?”
“Harry Potter, sir,” squeaked Dobby, his great orblike eyes shining in the firelight, “the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still
keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters—”
“The Room of Requirement!” said Harry, smacking himself hard on the forehead with Advanced Potion-Making. Hermione and Ron stared at him. “That's where he's been
sneaking off to! That's where he's doing... whatever he's doing! And I bet that's why he's been disappearing off the map—come to think of it, I've never seen the Room
of Requirement on there!”
“Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there,” said Ron.
“I think it'll be part of the magic of the room,” said Hermione. “If you need it to be unplottable, it will be.”
“Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?” said Harry eagerly.
“No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,” said Dobby.
“No, it's not,” said Harry at once. “Malfoy got into our headquarters there last year, so I'll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem.”
“But I don't think you will, Harry,” said Hermione slowly. “Malfoy already knew exactly how we were using the room, didn't he, because that stupid Marietta had
blabbed. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don't know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don't know
what to ask it to transform into.”
“Thank you, Harry Potter,” he panted. “Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters.”
Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy and said defiantly to Kreacher, “But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!”
“Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy,” Harry told Kreacher. “Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going.”
Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, “Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a
variety of—”
“Dobby, you tell me,” said Harry, cutting across Kreacher. “Has he been going anywhere he shouldn't have?”
“Harry Potter, sir,” squeaked Dobby, his great orblike eyes shining in the firelight, “the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still
keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters—”
“The Room of Requirement!” said Harry, smacking himself hard on the forehead with Advanced Potion-Making. Hermione and Ron stared at him. “That's where he's been
sneaking off to! That's where he's doing... whatever he's doing! And I bet that's why he's been disappearing off the map—come to think of it, I've never seen the Room
of Requirement on there!”
“Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there,” said Ron.
“I think it'll be part of the magic of the room,” said Hermione. “If you need it to be unplottable, it will be.”
“Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?” said Harry eagerly.
“No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,” said Dobby.
“No, it's not,” said Harry at once. “Malfoy got into our headquarters there last year, so I'll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem.”
“But I don't think you will, Harry,” said Hermione slowly. “Malfoy already knew exactly how we were using the room, didn't he, because that stupid Marietta had
blabbed. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don't know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don't know
what to ask it to transform into.”
“Thanks a million,” said Ron
“Thanks a million,” said Ron. “Can I borrow your quill for the conclusion?” Harry, who had found nothing useful in the Half-Blood Prince's notes so far, looked
around; the three of them were now the only ones left in the common room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the
crackling of the fire and Ron scratching out one last paragraph on dementors using Hermione's quill. Harry had just closed the Half-Blood Prince's book, yawning, when
—
Crack.
Hermione let out a little shriek; Ron spilled ink all over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said, “Kreacher!”
The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own gnarled toes. “Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give—”
Crack.
Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat askew.
“Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!” he squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. “And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter
so they can make their reports together!”
“What is this?” asked Hermione, still looking shocked by these sudden appearances. “What's going on, Harry?”
Harry hesitated before answering, because he had not told Hermione about setting Kreacher and Dobby to tail Malfoy; house-elves were always such a touchy subject with
her.
“Well... they've been following Malfoy for me,” he said.
“Night and day,” croaked Kreacher.
“Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!” said Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood.
Hermione looked indignant.
“You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to—”
“No, of course I didn't,” said Harry quickly. “Dobby, you can sleep, all right? But has either of you found out anything?” he hastened to ask, before Hermione could
intervene again.
“Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood,” croaked Kreacher at once. “His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are
those of—”
“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!” squeaked Dobby angrily. “A bad boy who—who —”
He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though about to dive into it. Harry, to whom this was not entirely
around; the three of them were now the only ones left in the common room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the
crackling of the fire and Ron scratching out one last paragraph on dementors using Hermione's quill. Harry had just closed the Half-Blood Prince's book, yawning, when
—
Crack.
Hermione let out a little shriek; Ron spilled ink all over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said, “Kreacher!”
The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own gnarled toes. “Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give—”
Crack.
Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat askew.
“Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!” he squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. “And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter
so they can make their reports together!”
“What is this?” asked Hermione, still looking shocked by these sudden appearances. “What's going on, Harry?”
Harry hesitated before answering, because he had not told Hermione about setting Kreacher and Dobby to tail Malfoy; house-elves were always such a touchy subject with
her.
“Well... they've been following Malfoy for me,” he said.
“Night and day,” croaked Kreacher.
“Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!” said Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood.
Hermione looked indignant.
“You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to—”
“No, of course I didn't,” said Harry quickly. “Dobby, you can sleep, all right? But has either of you found out anything?” he hastened to ask, before Hermione could
intervene again.
“Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood,” croaked Kreacher at once. “His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are
those of—”
“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!” squeaked Dobby angrily. “A bad boy who—who —”
He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though about to dive into it. Harry, to whom this was not entirely
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Levicorpus (n-vbl)
Levicorpus (n-vbl)
While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared at the letters in brackets. N-vbl... that had to mean “non-
verbal.” Harry rather doubted he would be able to bring off this particular spell; he was still having difficulty with non-verbal spells, something Snape had been
quick to comment on in every D.A. class. On the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far.
Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside his head.
“Aaaaaaaargh!”
There was a flash of light and the room was full of voices: everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a yell. Harry sent Advanced Potion-Making flying in panic; Ron was
dangling upside-down in midair as though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the ankle.
“Sorry!” yelled Harry, as Dean and Seamus roared with laughter, and Neville picked himself up from the floor, having fallen out of bed. “Hang on—I'll let you down—
”
He groped for the potion book and riffled through it in a panic, trying to find the right page; at last he located it and deciphered the cramped word underneath the
spell: praying that this was the counter-jinx, Harry thought Liberacorpus! with all his might. There was another flash of light, and Ron fell in a heap onto his
mattress.
“Sorry,” repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and Seamus continued to roar with laughter.
“Tomorrow,” said Ron in a muffled voice, “I'd rather you set the alarm clock.”
By the time they had got dressed, padding themselves out with several of Mrs. Weasley's hand-knitted sweaters and carrying cloaks, scarves, and gloves, Ron's shock had
subsided and he had decided that Harry's new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in fact, that he lost no time in regaling Hermione with the story as they sat down
for breakfast.
“... and then there was another flash of light and I landed on the bed again!” Ron grinned, helping himself to sausages.
Hermione had not cracked a smile during this anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry disapproval upon Harry.
“Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?” she asked.
Harry frowned at her.
“Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?”
“Was it?”
“Well... yeah, it was, but so what?”
“So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?”
“Why does it matter if it's handwritten?” said Harry, preferring not to answer the rest of the question.
“Because it's probably not Ministry of Magic approved,” said Hermione. “And also,” she added, as Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, “because I'm starting to think
this Prince character was a bit dodgy.”
Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once.
While the wind and sleet pounded relentlessly on the windows, and Neville snored loudly, Harry stared at the letters in brackets. N-vbl... that had to mean “non-
verbal.” Harry rather doubted he would be able to bring off this particular spell; he was still having difficulty with non-verbal spells, something Snape had been
quick to comment on in every D.A. class. On the other hand, the Prince had proved a much more effective teacher than Snape so far.
Pointing his wand at nothing in particular, he gave it an upward flick and said Levicorpus! inside his head.
“Aaaaaaaargh!”
There was a flash of light and the room was full of voices: everyone had woken up as Ron had let out a yell. Harry sent Advanced Potion-Making flying in panic; Ron was
dangling upside-down in midair as though an invisible hook had hoisted him up by the ankle.
“Sorry!” yelled Harry, as Dean and Seamus roared with laughter, and Neville picked himself up from the floor, having fallen out of bed. “Hang on—I'll let you down—
”
He groped for the potion book and riffled through it in a panic, trying to find the right page; at last he located it and deciphered the cramped word underneath the
spell: praying that this was the counter-jinx, Harry thought Liberacorpus! with all his might. There was another flash of light, and Ron fell in a heap onto his
mattress.
“Sorry,” repeated Harry weakly, while Dean and Seamus continued to roar with laughter.
“Tomorrow,” said Ron in a muffled voice, “I'd rather you set the alarm clock.”
By the time they had got dressed, padding themselves out with several of Mrs. Weasley's hand-knitted sweaters and carrying cloaks, scarves, and gloves, Ron's shock had
subsided and he had decided that Harry's new spell was highly amusing; so amusing, in fact, that he lost no time in regaling Hermione with the story as they sat down
for breakfast.
“... and then there was another flash of light and I landed on the bed again!” Ron grinned, helping himself to sausages.
Hermione had not cracked a smile during this anecdote, and now turned an expression of wintry disapproval upon Harry.
“Was this spell, by any chance, another one from that potion book of yours?” she asked.
Harry frowned at her.
“Always jump to the worst conclusion, don't you?”
“Was it?”
“Well... yeah, it was, but so what?”
“So you just decided to try out an unknown, handwritten incantation and see what would happen?”
“Why does it matter if it's handwritten?” said Harry, preferring not to answer the rest of the question.
“Because it's probably not Ministry of Magic approved,” said Hermione. “And also,” she added, as Harry and Ron rolled their eyes, “because I'm starting to think
this Prince character was a bit dodgy.”
Both Harry and Ron shouted her down at once.
Chapter 12 Silver and Opals
Chapter 12 Silver and Opals
Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? Harry caught sight of the Headmaster only twice over the next few weeks. He rarely appeared at meals anymore, and Harry was
sure Hermione was right in thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was supposed to be giving Harry?
Dumbledore had said that the lessons were leading to something to do with the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted, and now he felt slightly abandoned.
Halfway through October came their first trip of the term to Hogsmeade. Harry had wondered whether these trips would still be allowed, given the increasingly tight
security measures around the school, but was pleased to know that they were going ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle grounds for a few hours.
Harry woke early on the morning of the trip, which was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. He did
not usually lie in bed reading his textbooks; that sort of behavior, as Ron rightly said, was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was simply weird that way. Harry
felt, however, that the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making hardly qualified as a textbook. The more Harry pored over the book, the more he realized how
much was in there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on potions that was earning him such a glowing reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative little
jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which Harry was sure, judging by the crossings-out and revisions, that the Prince had invented himself.
Harry had already attempted a few of the Prince's self-invented spells. There had been a hex that caused toenails to grow alarmingly fast (he had tried this on Crabbe
in the corridor, with very entertaining results); a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth (which he had twice used, to general applause, on an
unsuspecting Argus Filch); and, perhaps most useful of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy
conversations could be held in class with out being overheard. The only person who did not find these charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a rigidly disapproving
expression throughout and refused to talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato spell on anyone in the vicinity.
Sitting up in bed, Harry turned the book sideways so as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince some
trouble. There were many crossings-out and alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the page, the scribble:
Where was Dumbledore, and what was he doing? Harry caught sight of the Headmaster only twice over the next few weeks. He rarely appeared at meals anymore, and Harry was
sure Hermione was right in thinking that he was leaving the school for days at a time. Had Dumbledore forgotten the lessons he was supposed to be giving Harry?
Dumbledore had said that the lessons were leading to something to do with the prophecy; Harry had felt bolstered, comforted, and now he felt slightly abandoned.
Halfway through October came their first trip of the term to Hogsmeade. Harry had wondered whether these trips would still be allowed, given the increasingly tight
security measures around the school, but was pleased to know that they were going ahead; it was always good to get out of the castle grounds for a few hours.
Harry woke early on the morning of the trip, which was proving stormy, and whiled away the time until breakfast by reading his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. He did
not usually lie in bed reading his textbooks; that sort of behavior, as Ron rightly said, was indecent in anybody except Hermione, who was simply weird that way. Harry
felt, however, that the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making hardly qualified as a textbook. The more Harry pored over the book, the more he realized how
much was in there, not only the handy hints and shortcuts on potions that was earning him such a glowing reputation with Slughorn, but also the imaginative little
jinxes and hexes scribbled in the margins, which Harry was sure, judging by the crossings-out and revisions, that the Prince had invented himself.
Harry had already attempted a few of the Prince's self-invented spells. There had been a hex that caused toenails to grow alarmingly fast (he had tried this on Crabbe
in the corridor, with very entertaining results); a jinx that glued the tongue to the roof of the mouth (which he had twice used, to general applause, on an
unsuspecting Argus Filch); and, perhaps most useful of all, Muffliato, a spell that filled the ears of anyone nearby with an unidentifiable buzzing, so that lengthy
conversations could be held in class with out being overheard. The only person who did not find these charms amusing was Hermione, who maintained a rigidly disapproving
expression throughout and refused to talk at all if Harry had used the Muffliato spell on anyone in the vicinity.
Sitting up in bed, Harry turned the book sideways so as to examine more closely the scribbled instructions for a spell that seemed to have caused the Prince some
trouble. There were many crossings-out and alterations, but finally, crammed into a corner of the page, the scribble:
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
"Oh, mercy on us! I thought we weren't goin
"Oh, mercy on us! I thought we weren't going," his wife answered crossly.
"What, when...." He coughed and waved his hand. The prince took off his hat and moved away with his daughter.
"Ah! ah!" he sighed deeply. "Oh, poor things!"
"Yes, papa," answered Kitty. "And you must know they've three children, no servant, and scarcely any means. He gets something from the Academy," she went on briskly, trying to drown the distress that the queer change in Anna Pavlovna's manner to her had aroused in her.
"Oh, here's Madame Stahl," said Kitty, indicating an invalid carriage, where, propped on pillows, something in gray and blue was lying under a sunshade. This was Madame Stahl. Behind her stood the gloomy, healthy-looking German workman who pushed the carriage. Close by was standing a flaxen-headed Swedish count, whom Kitty knew by name. Several invalids were lingering near the low carriage, staring at the lady as though she were some curiosity.
The prince went up to her, and Kitty detected that disconcerting gleam of irony in his eyes. He went up to Madame Stahl, and addressed her with extreme courtesy and affability in that excellent French that so few speak nowadays.
"I don't know if you remember me, but I must recall myself to thank you for your kindness to my daughter," he said, taking off his hat and not putting it on again.
"Prince Alexander Shtcherbatsky," said Madame Stahl, lifting upon him her heavenly eyes, in which Kitty discerned a look of annoyance. "Delighted! I have taken a great fancy to your daughter."
"You are still in weak health?"
"Yes; I'm used to it," said Madame Stahl, and she introduced the prince to the Swedish count.
"You are scarcely changed at all," the prince said to her. "It's ten or eleven years since I had the honor of seeing you."
"Yes; God sends the cross and sends the strength to bear it. Often one wonders what is the goal of this life?... The other side!" she said angrily to Varenka, who had rearranged the rug over her feet not to her satisfaction.
"To do good, probably," said the prince with a twinkle in his eye.
"That is not for us to judge," said Madame Stahl, perceiving the shade of expression on the prince's face. "So you will send me that book, dear count? I'm very grateful to you," she said to the young Swede.
"Ah!" cried the prince, catching sight of the Moscow colonel standing near, and with a bow to Madame Stahl he walked away with his daughter and the Moscow colonel, who joined them.
"That's our aristocracy, prince!" the Moscow colonel said with ironical intention. He cherished a grudge against Madame Stahl for not making his acquaintance.
"She's just the same," replied the prince.
"Did you know her before her illness, prince--that's to say before she took to her bed?"
"Yes. She took to her bed before my eyes," said the prince.
"They say it's ten years since she has stood on her feet."
"She doesn't stand up because her legs are too short. She's a very bad figure."
"Papa, it's not possible!" cried Kitty.
"That's what wicked tongues say, my darling. And your Varenka catches it too," he added. "Oh, these invalid ladies!"
"Oh, no, papa!" Kitty objected warmly. "Varenka worships her. And then she does so much good! Ask anyone! Everyone knows her and Aline Stahl."
"Perhaps so," said the prince, squeezing her hand with his elbow; "but it's better when one does good so that you may ask everyone and no one knows."
Kitty did not answer, not because she had nothing to say, but because she did not care to reveal her secret thoughts even to her father. But, strange to say, although she had so made up her mind not to be influenced by her father's views, not to let him into her inmost sanctuary, she felt that the heavenly image of Madame Stahl, which she had carried for a whole month in her heart, had vanished, never to return, just as the fantastic figure made up of some clothes thrown down at random vanishes when one sees that it is only some garment lying there. All that was left was a woman with short legs, who lay down because she had a bad figure, and worried patient Varenka for not arranging her rug to her liking. And by no effort of the imagination could Kitty bring back the former Madame Stahl.
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"What, when...." He coughed and waved his hand. The prince took off his hat and moved away with his daughter.
"Ah! ah!" he sighed deeply. "Oh, poor things!"
"Yes, papa," answered Kitty. "And you must know they've three children, no servant, and scarcely any means. He gets something from the Academy," she went on briskly, trying to drown the distress that the queer change in Anna Pavlovna's manner to her had aroused in her.
"Oh, here's Madame Stahl," said Kitty, indicating an invalid carriage, where, propped on pillows, something in gray and blue was lying under a sunshade. This was Madame Stahl. Behind her stood the gloomy, healthy-looking German workman who pushed the carriage. Close by was standing a flaxen-headed Swedish count, whom Kitty knew by name. Several invalids were lingering near the low carriage, staring at the lady as though she were some curiosity.
The prince went up to her, and Kitty detected that disconcerting gleam of irony in his eyes. He went up to Madame Stahl, and addressed her with extreme courtesy and affability in that excellent French that so few speak nowadays.
"I don't know if you remember me, but I must recall myself to thank you for your kindness to my daughter," he said, taking off his hat and not putting it on again.
"Prince Alexander Shtcherbatsky," said Madame Stahl, lifting upon him her heavenly eyes, in which Kitty discerned a look of annoyance. "Delighted! I have taken a great fancy to your daughter."
"You are still in weak health?"
"Yes; I'm used to it," said Madame Stahl, and she introduced the prince to the Swedish count.
"You are scarcely changed at all," the prince said to her. "It's ten or eleven years since I had the honor of seeing you."
"Yes; God sends the cross and sends the strength to bear it. Often one wonders what is the goal of this life?... The other side!" she said angrily to Varenka, who had rearranged the rug over her feet not to her satisfaction.
"To do good, probably," said the prince with a twinkle in his eye.
"That is not for us to judge," said Madame Stahl, perceiving the shade of expression on the prince's face. "So you will send me that book, dear count? I'm very grateful to you," she said to the young Swede.
"Ah!" cried the prince, catching sight of the Moscow colonel standing near, and with a bow to Madame Stahl he walked away with his daughter and the Moscow colonel, who joined them.
"That's our aristocracy, prince!" the Moscow colonel said with ironical intention. He cherished a grudge against Madame Stahl for not making his acquaintance.
"She's just the same," replied the prince.
"Did you know her before her illness, prince--that's to say before she took to her bed?"
"Yes. She took to her bed before my eyes," said the prince.
"They say it's ten years since she has stood on her feet."
"She doesn't stand up because her legs are too short. She's a very bad figure."
"Papa, it's not possible!" cried Kitty.
"That's what wicked tongues say, my darling. And your Varenka catches it too," he added. "Oh, these invalid ladies!"
"Oh, no, papa!" Kitty objected warmly. "Varenka worships her. And then she does so much good! Ask anyone! Everyone knows her and Aline Stahl."
"Perhaps so," said the prince, squeezing her hand with his elbow; "but it's better when one does good so that you may ask everyone and no one knows."
Kitty did not answer, not because she had nothing to say, but because she did not care to reveal her secret thoughts even to her father. But, strange to say, although she had so made up her mind not to be influenced by her father's views, not to let him into her inmost sanctuary, she felt that the heavenly image of Madame Stahl, which she had carried for a whole month in her heart, had vanished, never to return, just as the fantastic figure made up of some clothes thrown down at random vanishes when one sees that it is only some garment lying there. All that was left was a woman with short legs, who lay down because she had a bad figure, and worried patient Varenka for not arranging her rug to her liking. And by no effort of the imagination could Kitty bring back the former Madame Stahl.
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Then the countess told her of more disagreements
Then the countess told her of more disagreements and intrigues against the work of the unification of the churches, and departed in haste, as she had that day to be at the meeting of some society and also at the Slavonic committee.
"It was all the same before, of course; but why was it I didn't notice it before?" Anna asked herself. "Or has she been very much irritated today? It's really ludicrous; her object is doing good; she a Christian, yet she's always angry; and she always has enemies, and always enemies in the name of Christianity and doing good."
After Countess Lidia Ivanovna another friend came, the wife of a chief secretary, who told her all the news of the town. At three o'clock she too went away, promising to come to dinner. Alexey Alexandrovitch was at the ministry. Anna, left alone, spent the time till dinner in assisting at her son's dinner (he dined apart from his parents) and in putting her things in order, and in reading and answering the notes and letters which had accumulated on her table.
The feeling of causeless shame, which she had felt on the journey, and her excitement, too, had completely vanished. In the habitual conditions of her life she felt again resolute and irreproachable.
She recalled with wonder her state of mind on the previous day. "What was it? Nothing. Vronsky said something silly, which it was easy to put a stop to, and I answered as I ought to have done. To speak of it to my husband would be unnecessary and out of the question. To speak of it would be to attach importance to what has no importance." She remembered how she had told her husband of what was almost a declaration made her at Petersburg by a young man, one of her husband's subordinates, and how Alexey Alexandrovitch had answered that every woman living in the world was exposed to such incidents, but that he had the fullest confidence in her tact, and could never lower her and himself by jealousy. "So then there's no reason to speak of it? And indeed, thank God, there's nothing to speak of," she told herself.
"It was all the same before, of course; but why was it I didn't notice it before?" Anna asked herself. "Or has she been very much irritated today? It's really ludicrous; her object is doing good; she a Christian, yet she's always angry; and she always has enemies, and always enemies in the name of Christianity and doing good."
After Countess Lidia Ivanovna another friend came, the wife of a chief secretary, who told her all the news of the town. At three o'clock she too went away, promising to come to dinner. Alexey Alexandrovitch was at the ministry. Anna, left alone, spent the time till dinner in assisting at her son's dinner (he dined apart from his parents) and in putting her things in order, and in reading and answering the notes and letters which had accumulated on her table.
The feeling of causeless shame, which she had felt on the journey, and her excitement, too, had completely vanished. In the habitual conditions of her life she felt again resolute and irreproachable.
She recalled with wonder her state of mind on the previous day. "What was it? Nothing. Vronsky said something silly, which it was easy to put a stop to, and I answered as I ought to have done. To speak of it to my husband would be unnecessary and out of the question. To speak of it would be to attach importance to what has no importance." She remembered how she had told her husband of what was almost a declaration made her at Petersburg by a young man, one of her husband's subordinates, and how Alexey Alexandrovitch had answered that every woman living in the world was exposed to such incidents, but that he had the fullest confidence in her tact, and could never lower her and himself by jealousy. "So then there's no reason to speak of it? And indeed, thank God, there's nothing to speak of," she told herself.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
‘You might ask— and with
‘You might ask— and with good reason—why it had to be so. Why could some wizarding family not have taken you in? Many would have done so more than gladly, would have been honoured and delighted to raise you as a son.
‘My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive. You were in more danger than perhaps anyone but I realised. Voldemort had been vanquished hours before, but his supporters—and many of them are almost as terrible as he—were still at large, angry, desperate and violent. And I had to make my decision, too, with regard to the years ahead. Did I believe that Voldemort was gone for ever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty or fifty years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure, too, knowing him as I have done, that he would not rest until he killed you.
‘I knew that Voldemort's knowledge of magic is perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. I knew that even my most complex and powerful protective spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he ever returned to full power.
‘But I knew, too, where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated—to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother's blood. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative.’
‘She doesn't love me,’ said Harry at once. ‘She doesn't give a damn—’
‘But she took you,’ Dumbledore cut across him. ‘She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you.’
‘I still don't— ’
‘While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, whilst you are there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years.’
‘Wait,’ said Harry. ‘Wait a moment.’
He sat up straighter in his chair, staring at Dumbledore.
‘You sent that Howler. You told her to remember—it was your voice—’
‘I thought,’ said Dumbledore, inclining his head slightly, ‘that she might need reminding of the pact she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the Dementor attack might have awoken her to the dangers of having you as a surrogate son.’
‘It did,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Well—my uncle more than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the Howler came she—she said I had to stay.’
He stared at the floor for a moment, then said, ‘But what's this got to do with—’
He could not say Sirius's name.
‘My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive. You were in more danger than perhaps anyone but I realised. Voldemort had been vanquished hours before, but his supporters—and many of them are almost as terrible as he—were still at large, angry, desperate and violent. And I had to make my decision, too, with regard to the years ahead. Did I believe that Voldemort was gone for ever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty or fifty years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure, too, knowing him as I have done, that he would not rest until he killed you.
‘I knew that Voldemort's knowledge of magic is perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. I knew that even my most complex and powerful protective spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he ever returned to full power.
‘But I knew, too, where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated—to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother's blood. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative.’
‘She doesn't love me,’ said Harry at once. ‘She doesn't give a damn—’
‘But she took you,’ Dumbledore cut across him. ‘She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet still she took you, and in doing so, she sealed the charm I placed upon you. Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood the strongest shield I could give you.’
‘I still don't— ’
‘While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort. He shed her blood, but it lives on in you and her sister. Her blood became your refuge. You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, whilst you are there he cannot hurt you. Your aunt knows this. I explained what I had done in the letter I left, with you, on her doorstep. She knows that allowing you houseroom may well have kept you alive for the past fifteen years.’
‘Wait,’ said Harry. ‘Wait a moment.’
He sat up straighter in his chair, staring at Dumbledore.
‘You sent that Howler. You told her to remember—it was your voice—’
‘I thought,’ said Dumbledore, inclining his head slightly, ‘that she might need reminding of the pact she had sealed by taking you. I suspected the Dementor attack might have awoken her to the dangers of having you as a surrogate son.’
‘It did,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Well—my uncle more than her. He wanted to chuck me out, but after the Howler came she—she said I had to stay.’
He stared at the floor for a moment, then said, ‘But what's this got to do with—’
He could not say Sirius's name.
‘Harry you know Professor
‘Harry you know Professor Snape had no choice but to pretend not to take you seriously in front of Dolores Umbridge,’ said Dumbledore steadily, ‘but as I have explained, he informed the Order as soon as possible about what you had said. It was he who deduced where you had gone when you did not return from the Forest. It was he, too, who gave Professor Umbridge fake Veritaserum when she was attempting to force you to tell her Sirius's whereabouts.’
Harry disregarded this; he felt a savage pleasure in blaming Snape, it seemed to be easing his own sense of dreadful guilt, and he wanted to hear Dumbledore agree with him.
‘Snape—Snape g —goaded Sirius about staying in the house—he made out Sirius was a coward— ’
‘Sirius was much too old and clever to have allowed such feeble taunts to hurt him,’ said Dumbledore.
‘Snape stopped giving me Occlumency lessons!’ Harry snarled. ‘He threw me out of his office!’
‘I am aware of it,’ said Dumbledore heavily. ‘I have already said that it was a mistake for me not to teach you myself, though I was sure, at the time, that nothing could have been more dangerous than to open your mind even further to Voldemort while in my presence—’
‘Snape made it worse, my scar always hurt worse after lessons with him—’ Harry remembered Ron's thoughts on the subject and plunged on ‘—how do you know he wasn't trying to soften me up for Voldemort, make it easier for him to get inside my— ’
‘I trust Severus Snape,’ said Dumbledore simply. ‘But I forgot—another old man's mistake— that some wounds run too deep for the healing. I thought Professor Snape could overcome his feelings about your father—I was wrong.’
‘But that's OK, is it?’ yelled Harry, ignoring the scandalised faces and disapproving mutterings of the portraits on the walls. ‘It's OK for Snape to hate my dad, but it's not OK for Sirius to hate Kreacher?’
‘Sirius did not hate Kreacher,’ said Dumbledore. ‘He regarded him as a servant unworthy of much interest or notice. Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike ... the fountain we destroyed tonight told a lie. We wizards have mistreated and abused our fellows for too long, and we are now reaping our reward.’
‘SO SIRIUS DESERVED WHAT HE GOT, DID HE?’ Harry yelled.
‘I did not say that, nor will you ever hear me say it,’ Dumbledore replied quietly. ‘Sirius was not a cruel man, he was kind to house-elves in general. He had no love for Kreacher, because Kreacher was a living reminder of the home Sirius had hated.’
‘Yeah, he did hate it!’ said Harry, his voice cracking, turning his back on Dumbledore and walking away. The sun was bright inside the room now and the eyes of all the portraits followed him as he walked, without realising what he was doing, without seeing the office at all. ‘You made him stay shut up in that house and he hated it, that's why he wanted to get out last night—’
‘I was trying to keep Sirius alive,’ said Dumbledore quietly.
‘People don't like being locked up!’ Harry said furiously, rounding on him. ‘You did it to me all last summer—’
Dumbledore closed his eyes and buried his face in his long-fingered hands. Harry watched him, but this uncharacteristic sign of exhaustion, or sadness, or whatever it was from Dumbledore, did not soften him. On the contrary, he felt even angrier that Dumbledore was showing signs of weakness. He had no business being weak when Harry wanted to rage and storm at him.
Dumbledore lowered his hands and surveyed Harry through his half-moon glasses.
‘It is time,’ he said, ‘for me to tell you what I should have told you five years ago, Harry. Please sit down. I am going to tell you everything. I ask only a little patience. You will have your chance to rage at me—to do whatever you like— when I have finished. I will not stop you.’
Harry glared at him for a moment, then flung himself back into the chair opposite Dumbledore and waited.
Dumbledore stared for a moment at the sunlit grounds outside the window, then looked back at Harry and said, ‘Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well—not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years.’
He paused. Harry said nothing.
Harry disregarded this; he felt a savage pleasure in blaming Snape, it seemed to be easing his own sense of dreadful guilt, and he wanted to hear Dumbledore agree with him.
‘Snape—Snape g —goaded Sirius about staying in the house—he made out Sirius was a coward— ’
‘Sirius was much too old and clever to have allowed such feeble taunts to hurt him,’ said Dumbledore.
‘Snape stopped giving me Occlumency lessons!’ Harry snarled. ‘He threw me out of his office!’
‘I am aware of it,’ said Dumbledore heavily. ‘I have already said that it was a mistake for me not to teach you myself, though I was sure, at the time, that nothing could have been more dangerous than to open your mind even further to Voldemort while in my presence—’
‘Snape made it worse, my scar always hurt worse after lessons with him—’ Harry remembered Ron's thoughts on the subject and plunged on ‘—how do you know he wasn't trying to soften me up for Voldemort, make it easier for him to get inside my— ’
‘I trust Severus Snape,’ said Dumbledore simply. ‘But I forgot—another old man's mistake— that some wounds run too deep for the healing. I thought Professor Snape could overcome his feelings about your father—I was wrong.’
‘But that's OK, is it?’ yelled Harry, ignoring the scandalised faces and disapproving mutterings of the portraits on the walls. ‘It's OK for Snape to hate my dad, but it's not OK for Sirius to hate Kreacher?’
‘Sirius did not hate Kreacher,’ said Dumbledore. ‘He regarded him as a servant unworthy of much interest or notice. Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike ... the fountain we destroyed tonight told a lie. We wizards have mistreated and abused our fellows for too long, and we are now reaping our reward.’
‘SO SIRIUS DESERVED WHAT HE GOT, DID HE?’ Harry yelled.
‘I did not say that, nor will you ever hear me say it,’ Dumbledore replied quietly. ‘Sirius was not a cruel man, he was kind to house-elves in general. He had no love for Kreacher, because Kreacher was a living reminder of the home Sirius had hated.’
‘Yeah, he did hate it!’ said Harry, his voice cracking, turning his back on Dumbledore and walking away. The sun was bright inside the room now and the eyes of all the portraits followed him as he walked, without realising what he was doing, without seeing the office at all. ‘You made him stay shut up in that house and he hated it, that's why he wanted to get out last night—’
‘I was trying to keep Sirius alive,’ said Dumbledore quietly.
‘People don't like being locked up!’ Harry said furiously, rounding on him. ‘You did it to me all last summer—’
Dumbledore closed his eyes and buried his face in his long-fingered hands. Harry watched him, but this uncharacteristic sign of exhaustion, or sadness, or whatever it was from Dumbledore, did not soften him. On the contrary, he felt even angrier that Dumbledore was showing signs of weakness. He had no business being weak when Harry wanted to rage and storm at him.
Dumbledore lowered his hands and surveyed Harry through his half-moon glasses.
‘It is time,’ he said, ‘for me to tell you what I should have told you five years ago, Harry. Please sit down. I am going to tell you everything. I ask only a little patience. You will have your chance to rage at me—to do whatever you like— when I have finished. I will not stop you.’
Harry glared at him for a moment, then flung himself back into the chair opposite Dumbledore and waited.
Dumbledore stared for a moment at the sunlit grounds outside the window, then looked back at Harry and said, ‘Five years ago you arrived at Hogwarts, Harry, safe and whole, as I had planned and intended. Well—not quite whole. You had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years.’
He paused. Harry said nothing.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Dumbledore.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Dumbledore. ‘You see, Kreacher was not able to betray us totally. He is not Secret Keeper for the Order, he could not give the Malfoy's our whereabouts, or tell them any of the Order's confidential plans that he had been forbidden to reveal. He was bound by the enchantments of his kind, which is to say that he could not disobey a direct order from his master, Sirius. But he gave Narcissa information of the sort that is very valuable to Voldemort, yet must have seemed much too trivial for Sirius to think of banning him from repeating it.’
‘Like what?’ said Harry.
‘Like the fact that the person Sirius cared most about in the world was you,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘Like the fact that you were coming to regard Sirius as a mixture of father and brother. Voldemort knew already, of course, that Sirius was in the Order, and that you knew where he was—but Kreacher's information made him realise that the one person for whom you would go to any lengths to rescue was Sirius Black.’
Harry's lips were cold and numb.
‘So ... when I asked Kreacher if Sirius was there last night ...’
‘The Malfoy's— undoubtedly on Voldemort's instructions—had told him he must find a way of keeping Sirius out of the way once you had seen the vision of Sirius being tortured. Then, if you decided to check whether Sirius was at home or not, Kreacher would be able to pretend he was not. Kreacher injured Buckbeak the hippogriff yesterday, and, at the moment when you made your appearance in the fire, Sirius was upstairs tending to him.’
There seemed to be very little air in Harry's lungs; his breathing was quick and shallow.
‘And Kreacher told you all this ... and laughed?’ he croaked.
‘He did not wish to tell me,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But I am a sufficiently accomplished Legilimens myself to know when I am being lied to and I—persuaded him—to tell me the full story, before I left for the Department of Mysteries.’
‘And,’ whispered Harry, his hands curled in cold fists on his knees, ‘and Hermione kept telling us to be nice to him—’
‘She was quite right, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I warned Sirius when we adopted twelve Grimmauld Place as our Headquarters that Kreacher must be treated with kindness and respect. I also told him that Kreacher could be dangerous to us. I do not think Sirius took me very seriously, or that he ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings as acute as a human's—’
‘Don't you blame —don't you—talk—about Sirius like—’ Harry's breath was constricted, he could not get the words out properly; but the rage that had subsided briefly flared in him again: he would not let Dumbledore criticise Sirius. ‘Kreacher's a lying—foul—he deserved—’
‘Kreacher is what he has been made by wizards, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Yes, he is to be pitied. His existence has been as miserable as your friend Dobby's. He was forced to do Sirius's bidding, because Sirius was the last of the family to which he was enslaved, but he felt no true loyalty to him. And whatever Kreacher's faults, it must be admitted that Sirius did nothing to make Kreacher's lot easier—’
‘DON'T TALK ABOUT SIRIUS LIKE THAT!’ Harry yelled.
He was on his feet again, furious, ready to fly at Dumbledore, who had plainly not understood Sirius at all, how brave he was, how much he had suffered ...
‘What about Snape?’ Harry spat. ‘You're not talking about him, are you? When I told him Voldemort had Sirius he just sneered at me as usual—’
‘Like what?’ said Harry.
‘Like the fact that the person Sirius cared most about in the world was you,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘Like the fact that you were coming to regard Sirius as a mixture of father and brother. Voldemort knew already, of course, that Sirius was in the Order, and that you knew where he was—but Kreacher's information made him realise that the one person for whom you would go to any lengths to rescue was Sirius Black.’
Harry's lips were cold and numb.
‘So ... when I asked Kreacher if Sirius was there last night ...’
‘The Malfoy's— undoubtedly on Voldemort's instructions—had told him he must find a way of keeping Sirius out of the way once you had seen the vision of Sirius being tortured. Then, if you decided to check whether Sirius was at home or not, Kreacher would be able to pretend he was not. Kreacher injured Buckbeak the hippogriff yesterday, and, at the moment when you made your appearance in the fire, Sirius was upstairs tending to him.’
There seemed to be very little air in Harry's lungs; his breathing was quick and shallow.
‘And Kreacher told you all this ... and laughed?’ he croaked.
‘He did not wish to tell me,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But I am a sufficiently accomplished Legilimens myself to know when I am being lied to and I—persuaded him—to tell me the full story, before I left for the Department of Mysteries.’
‘And,’ whispered Harry, his hands curled in cold fists on his knees, ‘and Hermione kept telling us to be nice to him—’
‘She was quite right, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I warned Sirius when we adopted twelve Grimmauld Place as our Headquarters that Kreacher must be treated with kindness and respect. I also told him that Kreacher could be dangerous to us. I do not think Sirius took me very seriously, or that he ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings as acute as a human's—’
‘Don't you blame —don't you—talk—about Sirius like—’ Harry's breath was constricted, he could not get the words out properly; but the rage that had subsided briefly flared in him again: he would not let Dumbledore criticise Sirius. ‘Kreacher's a lying—foul—he deserved—’
‘Kreacher is what he has been made by wizards, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Yes, he is to be pitied. His existence has been as miserable as your friend Dobby's. He was forced to do Sirius's bidding, because Sirius was the last of the family to which he was enslaved, but he felt no true loyalty to him. And whatever Kreacher's faults, it must be admitted that Sirius did nothing to make Kreacher's lot easier—’
‘DON'T TALK ABOUT SIRIUS LIKE THAT!’ Harry yelled.
He was on his feet again, furious, ready to fly at Dumbledore, who had plainly not understood Sirius at all, how brave he was, how much he had suffered ...
‘What about Snape?’ Harry spat. ‘You're not talking about him, are you? When I told him Voldemort had Sirius he just sneered at me as usual—’
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Snape, meanwhile, seemed to h
Snape, meanwhile, seemed to have decided to act as though Harry were invisible. Harry was, of course, well-used to this tactic, as it was one of Uncle Vernon's favourites, and on the whole was grateful he had to suffer nothing worse. In fact, compared to what he usually had to endure from Snape in the way of taunts and snide remarks, he found the new approach something of an improvement, and was pleased to find that when left well alone, he was able to concoct an Invigoration Draught quite easily. At the end of the lesson he scooped some of the potion into a flask, corked it and took it up to Snape's desk for marking, feeling that he might at last have scraped an ‘E'.
He had just turned away when he heard a smashing noise. Malfoy gave a gleeful yell of laughter. Harry whipped around. His potion sample lay in pieces on the floor and Snape was surveying him with a look of gloating pleasure.
‘Whoops,’ he said softly. ‘Another zero, then, Potter.’
Harry was too incensed to speak. He strode back to his cauldron, intending to fill another flask and force Snape to mark it, but saw to his horror that the rest of the contents had vanished.
‘I'm sorry!’ said Hermione, with her hands over her mouth. ‘I'm really sorry, Harry. I thought you'd finished, so I cleared up!’
Harry could not bring himself to answer. When the bell rang, he hurried out of the dungeon without a backwards glance, and made sure that he found himself a seat between Neville and Seamus for lunch so that Hermione could not start nagging him again about using Umbridge's office.
He was in such a bad mood by the time he got to Divination that he had quite forgotten his careers appointment with Professor McGonagall, remembering it only when Ron asked him why he wasn't in her office. He hurtled back upstairs and arrived out of breath, only a few minutes late.
‘Sorry, Professor,’ he panted, as he closed the door. ‘I forgot.’
‘No matter, Potter,’ she said briskly, but as she spoke, somebody else sniffed from the corner. Harry looked round.
Professor Umbridge was sitting there, a clipboard on her knee, a fussy little pie-frill around her neck and a small, horribly smug smile on her face.
‘Sit down, Potter,’ said Professor McGonagall tersely. Her hands shook slightly as she shuffled the many pamphlets littering her desk.
Harry sat down with his back to Umbridge and did his best to pretend he could not hear the scratching of her quill on her clipboard.
‘Well, Potter, this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have, and to help you decide which subjects you should continue into the sixth and seventh years,’ said Professor McGonagall. ‘Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?’
‘Er—’ said Harry.
He was finding the scratching noise from behind him very distracting.
‘Yes?’ Professor McGonagall prompted Harry.
‘Well, I thought of, maybe, being an Auror,’ Harry mumbled.
‘You'd need top grades for that,’ said Professor McGonagall, extracting a small, dark leaflet from under the mass on her desk and opening it. ‘They ask for a minimum of five NEWTs, and nothing under “Exceeds Expectations” grade, I see. Then you would be required to undergo a stringent series of character and aptitude tests at the Auror office. It's a difficult career path, Potter, they only take the best. In fact, I don't think anybody has been taken on in the last three years.’
At this moment, Professor Umbridge gave a very tiny cough, as though she was trying to see how quietly she could do it. Professor McGonagall ignored her.
‘You'll want to know which subjects you ought to take, I suppose?’ she went on, talking a little louder than before.
‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts, I suppose?’
‘Naturally,’ said Professor McGonagall crisply. ‘I would also advise—’
Professor Umbridge gave another cough, a little more audible this time. Professor McGonagall closed her eyes for a moment, opened them again, and continued as though nothing had happened.
He had just turned away when he heard a smashing noise. Malfoy gave a gleeful yell of laughter. Harry whipped around. His potion sample lay in pieces on the floor and Snape was surveying him with a look of gloating pleasure.
‘Whoops,’ he said softly. ‘Another zero, then, Potter.’
Harry was too incensed to speak. He strode back to his cauldron, intending to fill another flask and force Snape to mark it, but saw to his horror that the rest of the contents had vanished.
‘I'm sorry!’ said Hermione, with her hands over her mouth. ‘I'm really sorry, Harry. I thought you'd finished, so I cleared up!’
Harry could not bring himself to answer. When the bell rang, he hurried out of the dungeon without a backwards glance, and made sure that he found himself a seat between Neville and Seamus for lunch so that Hermione could not start nagging him again about using Umbridge's office.
He was in such a bad mood by the time he got to Divination that he had quite forgotten his careers appointment with Professor McGonagall, remembering it only when Ron asked him why he wasn't in her office. He hurtled back upstairs and arrived out of breath, only a few minutes late.
‘Sorry, Professor,’ he panted, as he closed the door. ‘I forgot.’
‘No matter, Potter,’ she said briskly, but as she spoke, somebody else sniffed from the corner. Harry looked round.
Professor Umbridge was sitting there, a clipboard on her knee, a fussy little pie-frill around her neck and a small, horribly smug smile on her face.
‘Sit down, Potter,’ said Professor McGonagall tersely. Her hands shook slightly as she shuffled the many pamphlets littering her desk.
Harry sat down with his back to Umbridge and did his best to pretend he could not hear the scratching of her quill on her clipboard.
‘Well, Potter, this meeting is to talk over any career ideas you might have, and to help you decide which subjects you should continue into the sixth and seventh years,’ said Professor McGonagall. ‘Have you had any thoughts about what you would like to do after you leave Hogwarts?’
‘Er—’ said Harry.
He was finding the scratching noise from behind him very distracting.
‘Yes?’ Professor McGonagall prompted Harry.
‘Well, I thought of, maybe, being an Auror,’ Harry mumbled.
‘You'd need top grades for that,’ said Professor McGonagall, extracting a small, dark leaflet from under the mass on her desk and opening it. ‘They ask for a minimum of five NEWTs, and nothing under “Exceeds Expectations” grade, I see. Then you would be required to undergo a stringent series of character and aptitude tests at the Auror office. It's a difficult career path, Potter, they only take the best. In fact, I don't think anybody has been taken on in the last three years.’
At this moment, Professor Umbridge gave a very tiny cough, as though she was trying to see how quietly she could do it. Professor McGonagall ignored her.
‘You'll want to know which subjects you ought to take, I suppose?’ she went on, talking a little louder than before.
‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts, I suppose?’
‘Naturally,’ said Professor McGonagall crisply. ‘I would also advise—’
Professor Umbridge gave another cough, a little more audible this time. Professor McGonagall closed her eyes for a moment, opened them again, and continued as though nothing had happened.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
‘Who?’ said Harry quickly.
‘Who?’ said Harry quickly.
‘Ginny Weasley,’ said Katie.
Harry gaped at her.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Angelina, pulling out her wand and flexing her arm, ‘but she's pretty good, actually. Nothing on you, of course,’ she said, throwing him a very dirty look, ‘but as we can't have you ...’
Harry bit back the retort he was longing to utter: did she imagine for a second that he did not regret his expulsion from the team a hundred times more than she did?
‘And what about the Beaters? he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
‘Andrew Kirke,’ said Alicia without enthusiasm, ‘and Jack Sloper. Neither of them are brilliant, but compared to the rest of the idiots who turned up ...’
The arrival of Ron, Hermione and Neville brought this depressing discussion to an end, and within five minutes the room was full enough to prevent Harry seeing Angelina's burning, reproachful looks.
‘OK,’ he said, calling them all to order. ‘I thought this evening we should just go over the things we've done so far, because it's the last meeting before the holidays and there's no point starting anything new right before a
three-week break—’
‘We're not doing anything new?’ said Zacharias Smith, in a disgruntled whisper loud enough to carry through the room. ‘If I'd known that, I wouldn't have come.’
‘We're all really sorry Harry didn't tell you, then,’ said Fred loudly.
Several people sniggered. Harry saw Cho laughing and felt the familiar swooping sensation in his stomach, as though he had missed a step going downstairs.
‘—we can practise in pairs,’ said Harry. ‘We'll start with the Impediment Jinx, for ten minutes, then we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again.’
They all divided up obediently; Harry partnered Neville as usual. The room was soon full of intermittent cries of ‘Impedimenta!’ People froze for a minute or so, during which their partner would stare aimlessly around the room
watching other pairs at work, then would unfreeze and take their turn at the jinx.
Neville had improved beyond all recognition. After a while, when Harry had unfrozen three times in a row, he had Neville join Ron and Hermione again so that he could walk around the room and watch the others. When he
passed Cho she beamed at him; he resisted the temptation to walk past her several more times.
After ten minutes on the Impediment Jinx, they laid out cushions all over the floor and started practising Stunning again. Space was really too confined to allow them all to work this spell at once; half the group observed the
others for a while, then swapped over.
Harry felt himself positively swelling with pride as he watched them all. True, Neville did Stun Padma Patil rather than Dean, at whom he had been aiming, but it was a much closer miss than usual, and everybody else had
made enormous progress.
At the end of an hour, Harry called a halt.
‘You're getting really good,’ he said, beaming around at them. ‘When we get back from the holidays we can start doing some of the big stuff—maybe even Patronuses.’
There was a murmur of excitement. The room began to clear in the usual twos and threes; most people wished Harry a ‘Happy Christmas’ as they went. Feeling cheerful, he collected up the cushions with Ron and Hermione
and stacked them neatly away. Ron and Hermione left before he did; he hung back a little, because Cho was still there and he was hoping to receive a ‘Merry Christmas’ from her.
‘No, you go on,’ he heard her say to her friend Marietta and his heart gave a jolt that seemed to take it into the region of his Adam's apple.
He pretended to be straightening the cushion pile. He was quite sure they were alone now and waited for her to speak. Instead, he heard a hearty sniff.
He turned and saw Cho standing in the middle of the room, tears pouring down her face.
‘Wha—?’
He didn't know what to do. She was simply standing there, crying silently.
‘What's up?’ he said, feebly.
She shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
‘I'm—sorry,’ she said thickly. ‘I suppose ... it's just ... learning all this stuff ... it just makes me ... wonder whether ... if he'd known it all ... he'd still be alive.’
Harry's heart sank right back past its usual spot and settled somewhere around his navel. He ought to have known. She wanted to talk about Cedric.
‘He did know this stuff,’ Harry said heavily. ‘He was really good at it, or he could never have got to the middle of that maze. But if Voldemort really wants to kill you, you don't stand a chance.’
She hiccoughed at the sound of Voldemort's name, but stared at Harry without flinching.
‘You survived when you were just a baby,’ she said quietly.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Harry wearily, moving towards the door, ‘I dunno why, nor does anyone else, so it's nothing to be proud of.’
‘Oh, don't go!’ said Cho, sounding tearful again. ‘I'm really sorry to get all upset like this ... I didn't mean to ...’
She hiccoughed again. She was very pretty even when her eyes were red and puffy. Harry felt thoroughly miserable. He'd have been so pleased with just a ‘Merry Christmas'.
‘I know it must be horrible for you,’ she said, mopping her eyes on her sleeve again. ‘Me mentioning Cedric, when you saw him die ... I suppose you just want to forget about it?’
Harry did not say anything to this; it was quite true, but he felt heartless saying it.
‘You're a r-really good teacher, you know,’ said Cho, with a watery smile. ‘I've never been able to Stun anything before.’
‘Thanks,’ said Harry awkwardly.
They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry felt a burning desire to run from the room and, at the same time, a complete inability to move his feet.
‘Mistletoe,’ said Cho quietly, pointing at the ceiling over his head.
‘Yeah,’ said Harry. His mouth was very dry. ‘It's probably full of Nargles, though.’
‘What are Nargles?’
‘No idea,’ said Harry. She had moved closer. His brain seemed to have been Stunned. ‘You'd have to ask Loony. Luna, I mean.’
Cho made a funny noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. She was even nearer to him now. He could have counted the freckles on her nose.
‘I really like you, Harry.’
He could not think. A tingling sensation was spreading through him, paralysing his arms, legs and brain.
She was much too close. He could see every tear clinging to her eyelashes ...
He returned to the common room half an hour later to find Hermione and Ron in the best seats by the fire; nearly everybody else had gone to bed. Hermione was writing a very long letter; she had already filled half a roll of
parchment, which was dangling from the edge of the table. Ron was lying on the hearthrug, trying to finish his Transfiguration homework.
‘What kept you?’ he asked, as Harry sank into the armchair next to Hermione's.
Harry didn't answer. He was in a state of shock. Half of him wanted to tell Ron and Hermione what had just happened, but the other half wanted to take the secret with him to the grave.
‘Are you all right, Harry?’ Hermione asked, peering at him over the tip of her quill.
Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. In truth, he didn't know whether he was all right or not. ‘What's up?’ said Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a clearer view of Harry. ‘What's happened?’
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‘Ginny Weasley,’ said Katie.
Harry gaped at her.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Angelina, pulling out her wand and flexing her arm, ‘but she's pretty good, actually. Nothing on you, of course,’ she said, throwing him a very dirty look, ‘but as we can't have you ...’
Harry bit back the retort he was longing to utter: did she imagine for a second that he did not regret his expulsion from the team a hundred times more than she did?
‘And what about the Beaters? he asked, trying to keep his voice even.
‘Andrew Kirke,’ said Alicia without enthusiasm, ‘and Jack Sloper. Neither of them are brilliant, but compared to the rest of the idiots who turned up ...’
The arrival of Ron, Hermione and Neville brought this depressing discussion to an end, and within five minutes the room was full enough to prevent Harry seeing Angelina's burning, reproachful looks.
‘OK,’ he said, calling them all to order. ‘I thought this evening we should just go over the things we've done so far, because it's the last meeting before the holidays and there's no point starting anything new right before a
three-week break—’
‘We're not doing anything new?’ said Zacharias Smith, in a disgruntled whisper loud enough to carry through the room. ‘If I'd known that, I wouldn't have come.’
‘We're all really sorry Harry didn't tell you, then,’ said Fred loudly.
Several people sniggered. Harry saw Cho laughing and felt the familiar swooping sensation in his stomach, as though he had missed a step going downstairs.
‘—we can practise in pairs,’ said Harry. ‘We'll start with the Impediment Jinx, for ten minutes, then we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again.’
They all divided up obediently; Harry partnered Neville as usual. The room was soon full of intermittent cries of ‘Impedimenta!’ People froze for a minute or so, during which their partner would stare aimlessly around the room
watching other pairs at work, then would unfreeze and take their turn at the jinx.
Neville had improved beyond all recognition. After a while, when Harry had unfrozen three times in a row, he had Neville join Ron and Hermione again so that he could walk around the room and watch the others. When he
passed Cho she beamed at him; he resisted the temptation to walk past her several more times.
After ten minutes on the Impediment Jinx, they laid out cushions all over the floor and started practising Stunning again. Space was really too confined to allow them all to work this spell at once; half the group observed the
others for a while, then swapped over.
Harry felt himself positively swelling with pride as he watched them all. True, Neville did Stun Padma Patil rather than Dean, at whom he had been aiming, but it was a much closer miss than usual, and everybody else had
made enormous progress.
At the end of an hour, Harry called a halt.
‘You're getting really good,’ he said, beaming around at them. ‘When we get back from the holidays we can start doing some of the big stuff—maybe even Patronuses.’
There was a murmur of excitement. The room began to clear in the usual twos and threes; most people wished Harry a ‘Happy Christmas’ as they went. Feeling cheerful, he collected up the cushions with Ron and Hermione
and stacked them neatly away. Ron and Hermione left before he did; he hung back a little, because Cho was still there and he was hoping to receive a ‘Merry Christmas’ from her.
‘No, you go on,’ he heard her say to her friend Marietta and his heart gave a jolt that seemed to take it into the region of his Adam's apple.
He pretended to be straightening the cushion pile. He was quite sure they were alone now and waited for her to speak. Instead, he heard a hearty sniff.
He turned and saw Cho standing in the middle of the room, tears pouring down her face.
‘Wha—?’
He didn't know what to do. She was simply standing there, crying silently.
‘What's up?’ he said, feebly.
She shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
‘I'm—sorry,’ she said thickly. ‘I suppose ... it's just ... learning all this stuff ... it just makes me ... wonder whether ... if he'd known it all ... he'd still be alive.’
Harry's heart sank right back past its usual spot and settled somewhere around his navel. He ought to have known. She wanted to talk about Cedric.
‘He did know this stuff,’ Harry said heavily. ‘He was really good at it, or he could never have got to the middle of that maze. But if Voldemort really wants to kill you, you don't stand a chance.’
She hiccoughed at the sound of Voldemort's name, but stared at Harry without flinching.
‘You survived when you were just a baby,’ she said quietly.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Harry wearily, moving towards the door, ‘I dunno why, nor does anyone else, so it's nothing to be proud of.’
‘Oh, don't go!’ said Cho, sounding tearful again. ‘I'm really sorry to get all upset like this ... I didn't mean to ...’
She hiccoughed again. She was very pretty even when her eyes were red and puffy. Harry felt thoroughly miserable. He'd have been so pleased with just a ‘Merry Christmas'.
‘I know it must be horrible for you,’ she said, mopping her eyes on her sleeve again. ‘Me mentioning Cedric, when you saw him die ... I suppose you just want to forget about it?’
Harry did not say anything to this; it was quite true, but he felt heartless saying it.
‘You're a r-really good teacher, you know,’ said Cho, with a watery smile. ‘I've never been able to Stun anything before.’
‘Thanks,’ said Harry awkwardly.
They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry felt a burning desire to run from the room and, at the same time, a complete inability to move his feet.
‘Mistletoe,’ said Cho quietly, pointing at the ceiling over his head.
‘Yeah,’ said Harry. His mouth was very dry. ‘It's probably full of Nargles, though.’
‘What are Nargles?’
‘No idea,’ said Harry. She had moved closer. His brain seemed to have been Stunned. ‘You'd have to ask Loony. Luna, I mean.’
Cho made a funny noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. She was even nearer to him now. He could have counted the freckles on her nose.
‘I really like you, Harry.’
He could not think. A tingling sensation was spreading through him, paralysing his arms, legs and brain.
She was much too close. He could see every tear clinging to her eyelashes ...
He returned to the common room half an hour later to find Hermione and Ron in the best seats by the fire; nearly everybody else had gone to bed. Hermione was writing a very long letter; she had already filled half a roll of
parchment, which was dangling from the edge of the table. Ron was lying on the hearthrug, trying to finish his Transfiguration homework.
‘What kept you?’ he asked, as Harry sank into the armchair next to Hermione's.
Harry didn't answer. He was in a state of shock. Half of him wanted to tell Ron and Hermione what had just happened, but the other half wanted to take the secret with him to the grave.
‘Are you all right, Harry?’ Hermione asked, peering at him over the tip of her quill.
Harry gave a half-hearted shrug. In truth, he didn't know whether he was all right or not. ‘What's up?’ said Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a clearer view of Harry. ‘What's happened?’
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Ron threw the Quaffle to Alicia, who passed back to Harry, who passed to George ...
Ron threw the Quaffle to Alicia, who passed back to Harry, who passed to George ...
‘Hey, Potter, how's your scar feeling?’ called Malfoy. ‘Sure you don't need a lie down? It must be, what, a whole week since you were in the hospital wing, that's a record for you, isn't it?’
George passed to Angelina; she reverse-passed to Harry, who had not been expecting it, but caught it in the very tips of his fingers and passed it quickly to Ron, who lunged for it and missed by inches.
‘Come on now, Ron,’ said Angelina crossly, as he dived for the ground again, chasing the Quaffle. ‘Pay attention.’
It would have been hard to say whether Ron's face or the Quaffle was a deeper scarlet when he again returned to playing height. Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team were howling with laughter.
On his third attempt, Ron caught the Quaffle; perhaps out of relief he passed it on so enthusiastically that it soared straight though Katie's outstretched hands and hit her hard in the face.
‘Sorry!’ Ron groaned, zooming forwards to see whether he had done any damage.
‘Get back in position, she's fine!’ barked Angelina. ‘But as you're passing to a teammate, do try not to knock her off her broom, won't you? We've got Bludgers for that!’
Katie's nose was bleeding. Down below, the Slytherins were stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George converged on Katie.
‘Here, take this,’ Fred told her, handing her something small anc purple from out of his pocket, ‘it'll clear it up in no time.’
‘All right,’ called Angelina, ‘Fred, George, go and get your bats and a Bludger. Ron, get up to the goalposts. Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We're going to aim for Ron's goal, obviously.’
Harry zoomed off after the twins to fetch the Snitch.
‘Ron's making a right pig's ear of things, isn't he?’ muttered George, as the three of them landed at the crate containing the balls and opened it to extract one of the Bludgers and the Snitch.
‘He's just nervous,’ said Harry, ‘he was fine when I was practising with him this morning.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope he hasn't peaked too soon,’ said Fred gloomily.
They returned to the air. When Angelina blew her whistle, Harry released the Snitch and Fred and George let fly the Bludger. From that moment on, Harry was barely aware of what the others were doing. It was his job to recapture the tiny fluttering golden ball that was worth a hundred and fifty points to the Seeker's team and doing so required enormous speed and skill. He accelerated, rolling and swerving in and out of the Chasers, the warm autumn air whipping his face, and the distant yells of the Slytherins so much meaningless roaring in his ears ... but too soon, the whistle brought him to a halt again.
‘Stop—stop— STOP!’ screamed Angelina. ‘Ron—you're not covering your middle post!’
Harry looked round at Ron, who was hovering in front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two completely unprotected.
‘Oh ... sorry ...’
‘You keep shifting around while you're watching the Chasers!’ said Angelina. ‘Either stay in centre position until you have to move to defend a hoop, or else circle the hoops, but don't drift vaguely off to one side, that's how you let in the last three goals!’
‘Sorry ...’ Ron repeated, his red face shining like a beacon against the bright blue sky.
‘And Katie, can't you do something about that nosebleed?’
‘It's just getting worse!’ said Katie thickly, attempting to stem the flow with her sleeve.
Harry glanced round at Fred, who was looking anxious and checking his pockets. He saw Fred pull out something purple, examine it for a second and then look round at Katie, evidently horror-struck.
‘Well, let's try again,’ said Angelina. She was ignoring the Slytherins, who had now set up a chant of ‘Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers,’ but there was a certain rigidity about her seat on the broom nevertheless.
This time they had been flying for barely three minutes when Angelinas whistle sounded. Harry, who had just sighted the Snitch circling the opposite goalpost, pulled up feeling distinctly aggrieved.
‘What now?’ he said impatiently to Alicia, who was nearest.
‘Katie,’ she said shortly.
Harry turned and saw Angelina, Fred and George all flying as fast as they could towards Katie. Harry and Alicia sped towards her, too. It was plain that Angelina had stopped training just in time; Katie was now chalk white and covered in blood.
‘She needs the hospital wing,’ said Angelina.
‘We'll take her,’ said Fred. ‘She—er—might have swallowed a Blood Blisterpod by mistake—’
‘Well, there's no point continuing with no Beaters and a Chaser gone,’ said Angelina glumly as Fred and George zoomed off towards the castle supporting Katie between them. ‘Come on, let's go and get changed.’
The Slytherins continued to chant as they trailed back into the changing rooms.
‘How was practice?’ asked Hermione rather coolly half an hour later, as Harry and Ron climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room.
‘It was—’ Harry began.
‘Completely lousy,’ said Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up at Ron and her frost mess seemed to melt.
‘Well, it was only your first one,’ she said consolingly, ‘it's bound to take time to—’
‘Who said it was me who made it lousy?’ snapped Ron.
‘No one,’ said Hermione, looking taken aback, ‘I thought—’
‘You thought I was bound to be rubbish?’
‘No, of course I didn't! Look, you said it was lousy so I just—’
‘Hey, Potter, how's your scar feeling?’ called Malfoy. ‘Sure you don't need a lie down? It must be, what, a whole week since you were in the hospital wing, that's a record for you, isn't it?’
George passed to Angelina; she reverse-passed to Harry, who had not been expecting it, but caught it in the very tips of his fingers and passed it quickly to Ron, who lunged for it and missed by inches.
‘Come on now, Ron,’ said Angelina crossly, as he dived for the ground again, chasing the Quaffle. ‘Pay attention.’
It would have been hard to say whether Ron's face or the Quaffle was a deeper scarlet when he again returned to playing height. Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team were howling with laughter.
On his third attempt, Ron caught the Quaffle; perhaps out of relief he passed it on so enthusiastically that it soared straight though Katie's outstretched hands and hit her hard in the face.
‘Sorry!’ Ron groaned, zooming forwards to see whether he had done any damage.
‘Get back in position, she's fine!’ barked Angelina. ‘But as you're passing to a teammate, do try not to knock her off her broom, won't you? We've got Bludgers for that!’
Katie's nose was bleeding. Down below, the Slytherins were stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George converged on Katie.
‘Here, take this,’ Fred told her, handing her something small anc purple from out of his pocket, ‘it'll clear it up in no time.’
‘All right,’ called Angelina, ‘Fred, George, go and get your bats and a Bludger. Ron, get up to the goalposts. Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We're going to aim for Ron's goal, obviously.’
Harry zoomed off after the twins to fetch the Snitch.
‘Ron's making a right pig's ear of things, isn't he?’ muttered George, as the three of them landed at the crate containing the balls and opened it to extract one of the Bludgers and the Snitch.
‘He's just nervous,’ said Harry, ‘he was fine when I was practising with him this morning.’
‘Yeah, well, I hope he hasn't peaked too soon,’ said Fred gloomily.
They returned to the air. When Angelina blew her whistle, Harry released the Snitch and Fred and George let fly the Bludger. From that moment on, Harry was barely aware of what the others were doing. It was his job to recapture the tiny fluttering golden ball that was worth a hundred and fifty points to the Seeker's team and doing so required enormous speed and skill. He accelerated, rolling and swerving in and out of the Chasers, the warm autumn air whipping his face, and the distant yells of the Slytherins so much meaningless roaring in his ears ... but too soon, the whistle brought him to a halt again.
‘Stop—stop— STOP!’ screamed Angelina. ‘Ron—you're not covering your middle post!’
Harry looked round at Ron, who was hovering in front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two completely unprotected.
‘Oh ... sorry ...’
‘You keep shifting around while you're watching the Chasers!’ said Angelina. ‘Either stay in centre position until you have to move to defend a hoop, or else circle the hoops, but don't drift vaguely off to one side, that's how you let in the last three goals!’
‘Sorry ...’ Ron repeated, his red face shining like a beacon against the bright blue sky.
‘And Katie, can't you do something about that nosebleed?’
‘It's just getting worse!’ said Katie thickly, attempting to stem the flow with her sleeve.
Harry glanced round at Fred, who was looking anxious and checking his pockets. He saw Fred pull out something purple, examine it for a second and then look round at Katie, evidently horror-struck.
‘Well, let's try again,’ said Angelina. She was ignoring the Slytherins, who had now set up a chant of ‘Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers,’ but there was a certain rigidity about her seat on the broom nevertheless.
This time they had been flying for barely three minutes when Angelinas whistle sounded. Harry, who had just sighted the Snitch circling the opposite goalpost, pulled up feeling distinctly aggrieved.
‘What now?’ he said impatiently to Alicia, who was nearest.
‘Katie,’ she said shortly.
Harry turned and saw Angelina, Fred and George all flying as fast as they could towards Katie. Harry and Alicia sped towards her, too. It was plain that Angelina had stopped training just in time; Katie was now chalk white and covered in blood.
‘She needs the hospital wing,’ said Angelina.
‘We'll take her,’ said Fred. ‘She—er—might have swallowed a Blood Blisterpod by mistake—’
‘Well, there's no point continuing with no Beaters and a Chaser gone,’ said Angelina glumly as Fred and George zoomed off towards the castle supporting Katie between them. ‘Come on, let's go and get changed.’
The Slytherins continued to chant as they trailed back into the changing rooms.
‘How was practice?’ asked Hermione rather coolly half an hour later, as Harry and Ron climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room.
‘It was—’ Harry began.
‘Completely lousy,’ said Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up at Ron and her frost mess seemed to melt.
‘Well, it was only your first one,’ she said consolingly, ‘it's bound to take time to—’
‘Who said it was me who made it lousy?’ snapped Ron.
‘No one,’ said Hermione, looking taken aback, ‘I thought—’
‘You thought I was bound to be rubbish?’
‘No, of course I didn't! Look, you said it was lousy so I just—’
Monday, November 15, 2010
We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus
Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle.
The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.
As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on the twelfth of August.
Hoping you are well,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Harry read the letter through twice. He was only vaguely aware of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia talking. Inside his head, all was icy and numb. One fact had penetrated his consciousness like a paralysing dart. He was expelled from Hogwarts. It was all over. He was never going back.
He looked up at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon was purple-faced, shouting, his fists still raised; Aunt Petunia had her arms around Dudley who was retching again.
Harry's temporarily stupefied brain seemed to reawaken. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. There was only one thing for it. He would have to run—now. Where he was going to go, Harry didn't know but he was certain of one thing: at Hogwarts or outside it, he needed his wand. In an almost dreamlike state, he pulled his wand out and turned to leave the kitchen.
‘Where d'you think you're going?’ yelled Uncle Venon. When Harry didn't reply, he pounded across the kitchen to block the doorway into the hall. ‘I haven't finished with you, boy!’
‘Get out of the way,’ said Harry quietly.
‘You're going to stay here and explain how my son—’
‘If you don't get out of the way I'm going to jinx you,’ said Harry, raising the wand.
‘You can't pull that one on me!’ snarled Uncle Vernon. ‘I know you're not allowed to use it outside that madhouse you call a school!’
The madhouse has chucked me out,’ said Harry. ‘So I can do whatever I like. You've got three seconds. One—two—’
A resounding CRACK filled the kitchen. Aunt Petunia screamed, Uncle Vernon yelled and ducked, but for the third time that night Harry was searching for the source of a disturbance he had not made. He spotted it at once: a dazed and ruffled-looking barn owl was sitting outside on the kitchen sill, having just collided with the closed window.
Ignoring Uncle Vernon's anguished yell of ‘OWLS!’ Harry crossed the room at a run and wrenched the window open. The owl stuck out its leg, to which a small roll of parchment was tied, shook its feathers, and took off the moment Harry had taken the letter. Hands shaking, Harry unfurled the second message, which was written very hastily and blotchily in black ink.
Harry—
Dumbledore's just arrived at the Ministry and he's trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE'S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANY MORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND.
Arthur Weasley
Dumbledore was trying to sort it all out ... what did that mean? how much power did Dumbledore have to override the Ministry of Magic? Was there a chance that he might be allowed back to Hogwarts, then? A small shoot of hope burgeoned in Harry's chest, almost immediately strangled by panic—how was he supposed to refuse to surrender his wand without doing magic? He'd have to duel with the Ministry representatives, and if he did that, he'd be lucky to escape Azkaban, let alone expulsion.
His mind was racing.... He could run for it and risk being captured by the Ministry, or stay put and wait for them to find him here. He was much more tempted by the former course, but he knew Mr. Weasley had his best interests at heart ... and, after all, Dumbledore had sorted out much worse than this before....
The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.
As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on the twelfth of August.
Hoping you are well,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
Harry read the letter through twice. He was only vaguely aware of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia talking. Inside his head, all was icy and numb. One fact had penetrated his consciousness like a paralysing dart. He was expelled from Hogwarts. It was all over. He was never going back.
He looked up at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon was purple-faced, shouting, his fists still raised; Aunt Petunia had her arms around Dudley who was retching again.
Harry's temporarily stupefied brain seemed to reawaken. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. There was only one thing for it. He would have to run—now. Where he was going to go, Harry didn't know but he was certain of one thing: at Hogwarts or outside it, he needed his wand. In an almost dreamlike state, he pulled his wand out and turned to leave the kitchen.
‘Where d'you think you're going?’ yelled Uncle Venon. When Harry didn't reply, he pounded across the kitchen to block the doorway into the hall. ‘I haven't finished with you, boy!’
‘Get out of the way,’ said Harry quietly.
‘You're going to stay here and explain how my son—’
‘If you don't get out of the way I'm going to jinx you,’ said Harry, raising the wand.
‘You can't pull that one on me!’ snarled Uncle Vernon. ‘I know you're not allowed to use it outside that madhouse you call a school!’
The madhouse has chucked me out,’ said Harry. ‘So I can do whatever I like. You've got three seconds. One—two—’
A resounding CRACK filled the kitchen. Aunt Petunia screamed, Uncle Vernon yelled and ducked, but for the third time that night Harry was searching for the source of a disturbance he had not made. He spotted it at once: a dazed and ruffled-looking barn owl was sitting outside on the kitchen sill, having just collided with the closed window.
Ignoring Uncle Vernon's anguished yell of ‘OWLS!’ Harry crossed the room at a run and wrenched the window open. The owl stuck out its leg, to which a small roll of parchment was tied, shook its feathers, and took off the moment Harry had taken the letter. Hands shaking, Harry unfurled the second message, which was written very hastily and blotchily in black ink.
Harry—
Dumbledore's just arrived at the Ministry and he's trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE'S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANY MORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND.
Arthur Weasley
Dumbledore was trying to sort it all out ... what did that mean? how much power did Dumbledore have to override the Ministry of Magic? Was there a chance that he might be allowed back to Hogwarts, then? A small shoot of hope burgeoned in Harry's chest, almost immediately strangled by panic—how was he supposed to refuse to surrender his wand without doing magic? He'd have to duel with the Ministry representatives, and if he did that, he'd be lucky to escape Azkaban, let alone expulsion.
His mind was racing.... He could run for it and risk being captured by the Ministry, or stay put and wait for them to find him here. He was much more tempted by the former course, but he knew Mr. Weasley had his best interests at heart ... and, after all, Dumbledore had sorted out much worse than this before....
Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police!
Diddy, darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?’
In all the kerfuffle nobody seemed to have noticed Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door and, while the Dursleys made their noisy progress down the hall towards the kitchen, Harry moved carefully and quietly towards the stairs.
‘Who did it, son? Give us names. We'll get them, don't worry.’
‘Shh! He's trying to say something, Vernon! What is it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!’
Harry's foot was on the bottom-most stair when Dudley found his voice.
‘Him.’
Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced for the explosion.
‘BOY! COME HERE!’
With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to follow the Dursleys.
The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green and clammy-looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through tiny, narrowed eyes.
‘What have you done to my son?’ he said in a menacing growl.
‘Nothing,’ said Harry, knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon wouldn't believe him.
‘What did he do to you, Diddy?’ Aunt Petunia said in a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of Dudley's leather jacket. ‘Was it—was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use—his thing?’
Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.
‘I didn't!’ Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. ‘I didn't do anything to him, it wasn't me, it was—’
But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the top of Uncle Vernon's head, it soared across the kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry's feet, turned gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off across the garden.
‘OWLS!’ bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen window shut. ‘OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!’
But Harry was already ripping open the envelope and pulling out the letter inside, his heart pounding somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple.
Dear Mr. Potter,
In all the kerfuffle nobody seemed to have noticed Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door and, while the Dursleys made their noisy progress down the hall towards the kitchen, Harry moved carefully and quietly towards the stairs.
‘Who did it, son? Give us names. We'll get them, don't worry.’
‘Shh! He's trying to say something, Vernon! What is it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!’
Harry's foot was on the bottom-most stair when Dudley found his voice.
‘Him.’
Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced for the explosion.
‘BOY! COME HERE!’
With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to follow the Dursleys.
The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green and clammy-looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through tiny, narrowed eyes.
‘What have you done to my son?’ he said in a menacing growl.
‘Nothing,’ said Harry, knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon wouldn't believe him.
‘What did he do to you, Diddy?’ Aunt Petunia said in a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of Dudley's leather jacket. ‘Was it—was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use—his thing?’
Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.
‘I didn't!’ Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. ‘I didn't do anything to him, it wasn't me, it was—’
But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the top of Uncle Vernon's head, it soared across the kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry's feet, turned gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off across the garden.
‘OWLS!’ bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen window shut. ‘OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!’
But Harry was already ripping open the envelope and pulling out the letter inside, his heart pounding somewhere in the region of his Adam's apple.
Dear Mr. Potter,
‘Yes—they— have!’ yelled Mrs
. Figg, swinging the bag of cat food at every bit of Mundungus she could reach. ‘And—it—had—better—be—you—and—you—can—tell— him—why—you—weren't—there—to—help!’
‘Keep your ‘airnet on!’ said Mundungus, his arms over his head, cowering. ‘I'm going, I'm going!’
And with another loud crack, he vanished.
‘I hope Dumbledore murders him!’ said Mrs. Figg furiously. ‘Now come on, Harry, what are you waiting for?’
Harry decided not to waste his remaining breath on pointing out that he could barely walk under Dudley's bulk. He gave the semi-conscious Dudley a heave and staggered onwards.
‘I'll take you to the door,’ said Mrs. Figg, as they turned into Privet Drive. ‘Just in case there are more of them around.... Oh my word, what a catastrophe ... and you had to fight them off yourself ... and Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing magic at all costs.... Well, it's no good crying over spilt potion, I suppose ... but the cat's among the pixies now...’
‘So,’ Harry panted, ‘Dumbledore's ... been having ... me followed?’
‘Of course he has,’ said Mrs. Figg impatiently. ‘Did you expect him to let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent.... Right ... get inside and stay there,’ she said, as they reached number four. ‘I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Harry quickly.
‘I'm going straight home,’ said Mrs. Figg, staring around the dark street and shuddering. ‘I'll need to wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. Goodnight.’
‘Hang on, don't go yet! I want to know—’
But Mrs. Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet slippers flopping, string bag clanking.
‘Wait!’ Harry shouted after her. He had a million questions to ask anyone who was in contact with Dumbledore; but within seconds Mrs. Figg was swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his slow, painful way up number four's garden path.
The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back inside the waistband of his jeans, rang the bell and watched Aunt Petunia's outline grow larger and larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the front door.
‘Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite—quite— Diddy, what's the matter?’
Harry looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out from under his arm just in time. Dudley swayed on the spot for a moment, his face pale green ... then he opened his mouth and vomited all over the doormat.
‘DIDDY! Diddy, what's the matter with you? Vernon? VERNON!’
Harry's uncle came galumphing out of the living room, walrus moustache blowing hither and thither as it always did when he was agitated. He hurried forwards to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in the pool of sick.
‘He's ill, Vernon!’
‘What is it, son? What's happened? Did Mrs. Polkiss give you something foreign for tea?’
‘Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you been lying on the ground?’
‘Hang on—you haven't been mugged, have you, son?’
Aunt Petunia screamed.
‘Keep your ‘airnet on!’ said Mundungus, his arms over his head, cowering. ‘I'm going, I'm going!’
And with another loud crack, he vanished.
‘I hope Dumbledore murders him!’ said Mrs. Figg furiously. ‘Now come on, Harry, what are you waiting for?’
Harry decided not to waste his remaining breath on pointing out that he could barely walk under Dudley's bulk. He gave the semi-conscious Dudley a heave and staggered onwards.
‘I'll take you to the door,’ said Mrs. Figg, as they turned into Privet Drive. ‘Just in case there are more of them around.... Oh my word, what a catastrophe ... and you had to fight them off yourself ... and Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing magic at all costs.... Well, it's no good crying over spilt potion, I suppose ... but the cat's among the pixies now...’
‘So,’ Harry panted, ‘Dumbledore's ... been having ... me followed?’
‘Of course he has,’ said Mrs. Figg impatiently. ‘Did you expect him to let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent.... Right ... get inside and stay there,’ she said, as they reached number four. ‘I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Harry quickly.
‘I'm going straight home,’ said Mrs. Figg, staring around the dark street and shuddering. ‘I'll need to wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. Goodnight.’
‘Hang on, don't go yet! I want to know—’
But Mrs. Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet slippers flopping, string bag clanking.
‘Wait!’ Harry shouted after her. He had a million questions to ask anyone who was in contact with Dumbledore; but within seconds Mrs. Figg was swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his slow, painful way up number four's garden path.
The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back inside the waistband of his jeans, rang the bell and watched Aunt Petunia's outline grow larger and larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the front door.
‘Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite—quite— Diddy, what's the matter?’
Harry looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out from under his arm just in time. Dudley swayed on the spot for a moment, his face pale green ... then he opened his mouth and vomited all over the doormat.
‘DIDDY! Diddy, what's the matter with you? Vernon? VERNON!’
Harry's uncle came galumphing out of the living room, walrus moustache blowing hither and thither as it always did when he was agitated. He hurried forwards to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in the pool of sick.
‘He's ill, Vernon!’
‘What is it, son? What's happened? Did Mrs. Polkiss give you something foreign for tea?’
‘Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you been lying on the ground?’
‘Hang on—you haven't been mugged, have you, son?’
Aunt Petunia screamed.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Mrs. Weasley was wiping her face on her apron,
and Fred, George, and Ginny were doing a kind of war dance to a chant that went: ‘He got off, he got off, he got off—’
‘That's enough! Settle down!’ shouted Mr. Weasley, though he too was smiling. ‘Listen, Sirius, Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry—’
‘What?’ said Sirius sharply.
‘He got off, he got off, he got off—’
‘Be quiet, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on Level Nine, then they went up to Fudge's office together. Dumbledore ought to know.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Sirius. ‘We'll tell him, don't worry.’
‘Well, I'd better get going, there's a vomiting toilet waiting for me in Bethnal Green. Molly, I'll be late, I'm covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in for dinner—’
‘He got off, he got off, he got off—’
‘That's enough—Fred—George—Ginny!’ said Mrs. Weasley, as Mr. Weasley left the kitchen. ‘Harry, dear, come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate breakfast....’
Ron and Hermione sat themselves down opposite him, looking happier than they had done since he had first arrived at Grimmauld Place, and Harry's feeling of giddy relief, which had been somewhat dented by his encounter
with Lucius Malfoy, swelled again. The gloomy house seemed warmer and more welcoming all of a sudden; even Kreacher looked less ugly as he poked his snoutlike nose into the kitchen to investigate the source of all the
noise.
’ ‘Course, once Dumbledore turned up on your side, there was no way they were going to convict you,’ said Ron happily, now dishing great mounds of mashed potato on to everyone's plates.
‘Yeah, he swung it for me,’ said Harry. He felt it would sound highly ungrateful, not to mention childish, to say, ‘I wish he'd talked to me, though. Or even looked at me.’
And as he thought this, the scar on his forehead burned so badly that he clapped his hand to it..
‘What's up?’ said Hermione, looking alarmed.
‘Scar,’ Harry mumbled. ‘But it's nothing.... It happens all the time now....’
None of the others had noticed a thing; all of them were now helping themselves to food while gloating over Harry's narrow escape; Fred, George, and Ginny were still singing. Hermione looked rather anxious, but before she
could say anything, Ron had said happily, ‘I bet Dumbledore turns up this evening, to celebrate with us, you know.’
‘I don't think he'll be able to, Ron,’ said Mrs. Weasley, setting a huge plate of roast chicken down in front of Harry. ‘He's really very busy at the moment.’
‘HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF. HE GOT OFF—’
‘SHUT UP!’ roared Mrs. Weasley.
Over the next few days Harry could not help noticing that there was one person within number twelve, Grimmauld Place, who did not seem wholly overjoyed that he would be returning to Hogwarts. Sirius had put up a very
good show of happiness on first hearing the news, wringing Harry's hand and beaming just like the rest of them. Soon, however, he was moodier and surlier than before, talking less to everybody, even Harry, and spending
increasing amounts of time shut up in his mother's room with Buckbeak.
‘Don't you go feeling guilty!’ said Hermione sternly, after Harry had confided some of his feelings to her and Ron while they scrubbed out a mouldy cupboard on the third floor a few days later. ‘You belong at Hogwarts and
Sirius knows it. Personally, I think he's being selfish.’
‘That's a bit harsh, Hermione,’ said Ron, frowning as he attempted to prise off a bit of mould that had attached itself firmly to his finger, ‘you wouldn't want to be stuck inside this house without any company.’
‘He'll have company!’ said Hermione. ‘It's Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, isn't it? He just got his hopes up that Harry would be coming to live here with him.’
‘I don't think that's true,’ said Harry, wringing out his cloth. ‘He wouldn't give me a straight answer when I asked him if I could.’
‘He just didn't want to get his own hopes up even more,’ said Hermione wisely. ‘And he probably felt a bit guilty himself, because I think a part of him was really hoping you'd be expelled. Then you'd both be outcasts together.’
‘Come off it!’ said Harry and Ron together, but Hermione merely shrugged.
‘Suit yourselves. But I sometimes think Ron's mum's right and Sirius gets confused about whether you're you or your father, Harry.’
‘So you think he's touched in the head?’ said Harry heatedly.
‘No, I just think he's been very lonely for a long time,’ said Hermione simply.
At this point, Mrs. Weasley entered the bedroom behind them.
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‘That's enough! Settle down!’ shouted Mr. Weasley, though he too was smiling. ‘Listen, Sirius, Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry—’
‘What?’ said Sirius sharply.
‘He got off, he got off, he got off—’
‘Be quiet, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on Level Nine, then they went up to Fudge's office together. Dumbledore ought to know.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Sirius. ‘We'll tell him, don't worry.’
‘Well, I'd better get going, there's a vomiting toilet waiting for me in Bethnal Green. Molly, I'll be late, I'm covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in for dinner—’
‘He got off, he got off, he got off—’
‘That's enough—Fred—George—Ginny!’ said Mrs. Weasley, as Mr. Weasley left the kitchen. ‘Harry, dear, come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate breakfast....’
Ron and Hermione sat themselves down opposite him, looking happier than they had done since he had first arrived at Grimmauld Place, and Harry's feeling of giddy relief, which had been somewhat dented by his encounter
with Lucius Malfoy, swelled again. The gloomy house seemed warmer and more welcoming all of a sudden; even Kreacher looked less ugly as he poked his snoutlike nose into the kitchen to investigate the source of all the
noise.
’ ‘Course, once Dumbledore turned up on your side, there was no way they were going to convict you,’ said Ron happily, now dishing great mounds of mashed potato on to everyone's plates.
‘Yeah, he swung it for me,’ said Harry. He felt it would sound highly ungrateful, not to mention childish, to say, ‘I wish he'd talked to me, though. Or even looked at me.’
And as he thought this, the scar on his forehead burned so badly that he clapped his hand to it..
‘What's up?’ said Hermione, looking alarmed.
‘Scar,’ Harry mumbled. ‘But it's nothing.... It happens all the time now....’
None of the others had noticed a thing; all of them were now helping themselves to food while gloating over Harry's narrow escape; Fred, George, and Ginny were still singing. Hermione looked rather anxious, but before she
could say anything, Ron had said happily, ‘I bet Dumbledore turns up this evening, to celebrate with us, you know.’
‘I don't think he'll be able to, Ron,’ said Mrs. Weasley, setting a huge plate of roast chicken down in front of Harry. ‘He's really very busy at the moment.’
‘HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF. HE GOT OFF—’
‘SHUT UP!’ roared Mrs. Weasley.
Over the next few days Harry could not help noticing that there was one person within number twelve, Grimmauld Place, who did not seem wholly overjoyed that he would be returning to Hogwarts. Sirius had put up a very
good show of happiness on first hearing the news, wringing Harry's hand and beaming just like the rest of them. Soon, however, he was moodier and surlier than before, talking less to everybody, even Harry, and spending
increasing amounts of time shut up in his mother's room with Buckbeak.
‘Don't you go feeling guilty!’ said Hermione sternly, after Harry had confided some of his feelings to her and Ron while they scrubbed out a mouldy cupboard on the third floor a few days later. ‘You belong at Hogwarts and
Sirius knows it. Personally, I think he's being selfish.’
‘That's a bit harsh, Hermione,’ said Ron, frowning as he attempted to prise off a bit of mould that had attached itself firmly to his finger, ‘you wouldn't want to be stuck inside this house without any company.’
‘He'll have company!’ said Hermione. ‘It's Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix, isn't it? He just got his hopes up that Harry would be coming to live here with him.’
‘I don't think that's true,’ said Harry, wringing out his cloth. ‘He wouldn't give me a straight answer when I asked him if I could.’
‘He just didn't want to get his own hopes up even more,’ said Hermione wisely. ‘And he probably felt a bit guilty himself, because I think a part of him was really hoping you'd be expelled. Then you'd both be outcasts together.’
‘Come off it!’ said Harry and Ron together, but Hermione merely shrugged.
‘Suit yourselves. But I sometimes think Ron's mum's right and Sirius gets confused about whether you're you or your father, Harry.’
‘So you think he's touched in the head?’ said Harry heatedly.
‘No, I just think he's been very lonely for a long time,’ said Hermione simply.
At this point, Mrs. Weasley entered the bedroom behind them.
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Local Firm Cleaning the Air for Beijing Olympics
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：113 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:29:11
Posted: 03/10/2004 at 12:00:00 AM PST by Larry M. Edwards
SAN DIEGO -- Four years from now, when athletes from around the world descend on Beijing, China, for the 2008 Olympics, the air quality will be noticeably better due to reduced emissions from the city's buses and other vehicles. The same will be true in Shanghai for soccer's World Cup in 2010. The cleaner air will be due in large part to a local manufacturer of a fuel additive that reduces exhaust emissions 30 to 40 percent or more.
The additive is an ester-based product dubbed Ethos Fuel Re-formulator and is produced by Ethos Environmental Inc. in South San Diego.
"The air quality regulations there are comparative to the 1950s here, so we are a solution for them," said Ethos President Enrique De Vilmorin. "If you take 15 percent off the emission rolls in any city, you're going to make a difference."
And with the price of gas at record levels in this country, Americans can also benefit from using the product, its proponents say.
In some cars, the addition of Ethos FR has improved gas mileage 50 percent or more, but the company's official line calls for a 7 to 19 percent improvement, depending on a number of factors, De Vilmorin said.
He stresses that a person's driving habits have a huge effect on gas mileage, so someone who drives with a lead foot on the accelerator is not going to see the improvement that someone driving more conservatively will.
But it's the reduced emissions he really wants to talk about, not improved mileage.
"That's really the only fair way to do a test, because there are a lot of variables that affect gas mileage," he said. However, because reduced emissions means that more of the fuel is converted into energy rather than going out the exhaust pipe, that also translates to reduced fuel consumption and improved gas mileage.
It pays for itself not only in lower fuel costs, he said, but because it will extend the life of the engine, and it will increase the likelihood of a vehicle passing the state-mandated smog test.
The product works because it is a super lubricator, explains Jerry Schnitzius, the general manager of Pacific Waste Services, the San Diego division of Allied Waste Industries, the second-largest trash collection company in the nation.
For three years, Allied has been adding Ethos FR to its truck fuel, reducing exhaust emissions, fuel consumption and maintenance costs. The product is also added to the power steering and transmission fluids.
"We're absolutely sold on it," Schnitzius said. "It reduced emissions from our trucks by 65 percent.
"It saves us money," he added. "It's also the right thing to do."
Two years ago, Allied received the Earth Day Corporate Award for making a difference to the environment and saving valuable resources, including money, crediting Ethos FR.
The company's cars have benefited from about a 10 percent improvement in gas mileage, Schnitzius said.
Posted: 03/10/2004 at 12:00:00 AM PST by Larry M. Edwards
SAN DIEGO -- Four years from now, when athletes from around the world descend on Beijing, China, for the 2008 Olympics, the air quality will be noticeably better due to reduced emissions from the city's buses and other vehicles. The same will be true in Shanghai for soccer's World Cup in 2010. The cleaner air will be due in large part to a local manufacturer of a fuel additive that reduces exhaust emissions 30 to 40 percent or more.
The additive is an ester-based product dubbed Ethos Fuel Re-formulator and is produced by Ethos Environmental Inc. in South San Diego.
"The air quality regulations there are comparative to the 1950s here, so we are a solution for them," said Ethos President Enrique De Vilmorin. "If you take 15 percent off the emission rolls in any city, you're going to make a difference."
And with the price of gas at record levels in this country, Americans can also benefit from using the product, its proponents say.
In some cars, the addition of Ethos FR has improved gas mileage 50 percent or more, but the company's official line calls for a 7 to 19 percent improvement, depending on a number of factors, De Vilmorin said.
He stresses that a person's driving habits have a huge effect on gas mileage, so someone who drives with a lead foot on the accelerator is not going to see the improvement that someone driving more conservatively will.
But it's the reduced emissions he really wants to talk about, not improved mileage.
"That's really the only fair way to do a test, because there are a lot of variables that affect gas mileage," he said. However, because reduced emissions means that more of the fuel is converted into energy rather than going out the exhaust pipe, that also translates to reduced fuel consumption and improved gas mileage.
It pays for itself not only in lower fuel costs, he said, but because it will extend the life of the engine, and it will increase the likelihood of a vehicle passing the state-mandated smog test.
The product works because it is a super lubricator, explains Jerry Schnitzius, the general manager of Pacific Waste Services, the San Diego division of Allied Waste Industries, the second-largest trash collection company in the nation.
For three years, Allied has been adding Ethos FR to its truck fuel, reducing exhaust emissions, fuel consumption and maintenance costs. The product is also added to the power steering and transmission fluids.
"We're absolutely sold on it," Schnitzius said. "It reduced emissions from our trucks by 65 percent.
"It saves us money," he added. "It's also the right thing to do."
Two years ago, Allied received the Earth Day Corporate Award for making a difference to the environment and saving valuable resources, including money, crediting Ethos FR.
The company's cars have benefited from about a 10 percent improvement in gas mileage, Schnitzius said.
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