Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh.
“It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?”
“Ah, yes, I remember,” said Voldemort, looking down at Neville, who was struggling back to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man’s-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. “But you are a pureblood, aren’t you, my brave boy?” Voldemort asked Neville, who stood facing him, his empty hands curled in fists.
“So what if I am?” said Neville loudly.
“You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom.”
“I’ll join you when hell freezes over,” said Neville. “Dumbledore’s Army!” he shouted, and there was an answering cheer from the crowd, whom Voldemort’s Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold.
“Very well,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard more danger in the silkiness of his voice than in the most powerful curse. “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head,” he said quietly, “be it.”
Still watching through his lashes, Harry saw Voldemort wave his wand. Seconds later, out of one of the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and landed in Voldemort’s hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.
“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” said Voldemort. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slythering, will suffice everyone. Won’t they, Neville Longbottom?”
He pointed his wand at Neville, who grew rigid and still, then forced the hat onto Neville’s head, so that it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the watching crowd in front of the castle, and as one, the Death Eaters raised their wands, holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.
“Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me,” said Voldemort, and with a flick of his wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.
Screams split the dawn, and Neville was a flame, rooted to the spot, unable to move, and Harry could not bear it: He must act - And then many things happened at the same moment.
They heard uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounded like hundreds of people came swarming over the out-of-sight walls and pelted toward the castle, uttering loud war cries. At the same time, Grawp came lumbering around the side of the castle and yelled, “HAGGER!” His cry was answered by roars from Voldemort’s giants: They ran at Grawp like bull elephants making the earth quake. Then came hooves and the twangs of bows, and arrows were suddenly falling amongst the Death Eaters, who broke ranks, shouting their surprise. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak from inside his robes, swung it over himself, and sprang to his feet, as Neville moved too.
In one swift, fluid motion, Neville broke free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him; the flaming hat fell off him and he drew from its depths something silver, with a glittering, rubied handle - The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over the roar of the oncoming crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or of the stampeding centaurs, and yet, it seemed to draw every eye. With a single stroke Neville sliced off the great snake’s head, which spun high into the air, gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall, and Voldemort’s mouth was open in a scream of fury that nobody could hear, and the snake’s body thudded to the ground at his feet. –
Friday, December 3, 2010
Harry shut his eyes tight again.
Harry shut his eyes tight again. He knew that they were approaching the castle and strained his ears to distinguish, above the gleeful voices of the Death Eaters and their tramping footsteps, signs of life from those within.
“Stop.”
The Death Eaters came to a halt; Harry heard them spreading out in a line facing the open front doors of the school. He could see, even though his closed lids, the reddish glow that meant light streamed upon him from the entrance hall. He waited. Any moment, the people for whom he had tried to die would see him, lying apparently dead, in Hagrid’s arms.
“NO!”
The scream was the more terrible because he had never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound. He heard another women laughing nearby, and knew that Bellatrix gloried in McGonagall’s despair. He squinted again for a single second and saw the open doorway filling with people, as the survivors of the battle came out onto the front steps to face their vanquishers and see the truth of Harry’s death for themselves. He saw Voldemort standing a little in front of him, stroking Nagini’s head with a single white finger. He closed his eyes again.
“No!”
“No!”
“Harry! HARRY!”
Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were worse than McGonagall’s; Harry wanted nothing more than to call back, yet he made himself lie silent, and their cries acted like a trigger; the crowd of survivors took up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eathers, until - “SILENCE!” cried Voldemort, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced upon them all. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”
Harry felt himself lowered onto the grass.
“You see?” said Voldemort, and Harry felt him striding backward and forward right beside the place where he lay. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”
“He beat you!” yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.
“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” said Voldemort, and there was a relish in his voice for the lie. “killed while trying to save himself – ”
But Voldemort broke off: Harry heard a scuffle and a shout, then another bang, a flash of light, and grunt of pain; he opened his eyes an infinitesimal amount. Someone had broken free of the crowd and charged at Voldemort: Harry saw the figure hit the ground. Disarmed, Voldemort throwing the challenger’s wand aside and laughing.
“And who is this?” he said in his soft snake’s hiss. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”
“Stop.”
The Death Eaters came to a halt; Harry heard them spreading out in a line facing the open front doors of the school. He could see, even though his closed lids, the reddish glow that meant light streamed upon him from the entrance hall. He waited. Any moment, the people for whom he had tried to die would see him, lying apparently dead, in Hagrid’s arms.
“NO!”
The scream was the more terrible because he had never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound. He heard another women laughing nearby, and knew that Bellatrix gloried in McGonagall’s despair. He squinted again for a single second and saw the open doorway filling with people, as the survivors of the battle came out onto the front steps to face their vanquishers and see the truth of Harry’s death for themselves. He saw Voldemort standing a little in front of him, stroking Nagini’s head with a single white finger. He closed his eyes again.
“No!”
“No!”
“Harry! HARRY!”
Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were worse than McGonagall’s; Harry wanted nothing more than to call back, yet he made himself lie silent, and their cries acted like a trigger; the crowd of survivors took up the cause, screaming and yelling abuse at the Death Eathers, until - “SILENCE!” cried Voldemort, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced upon them all. “It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”
Harry felt himself lowered onto the grass.
“You see?” said Voldemort, and Harry felt him striding backward and forward right beside the place where he lay. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”
“He beat you!” yelled Ron, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.
“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” said Voldemort, and there was a relish in his voice for the lie. “killed while trying to save himself – ”
But Voldemort broke off: Harry heard a scuffle and a shout, then another bang, a flash of light, and grunt of pain; he opened his eyes an infinitesimal amount. Someone had broken free of the crowd and charged at Voldemort: Harry saw the figure hit the ground. Disarmed, Voldemort throwing the challenger’s wand aside and laughing.
“And who is this?” he said in his soft snake’s hiss. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?”
“Move,” said Voldemort, and Hagrid stumbled forwar
“Move,” said Voldemort, and Hagrid stumbled forward, forcing his way through the close-growing trees, back through the forest.
Branches caught at Harry’s hair and robes, but he lay quiescent, his mouth lolling open, his eyes shut, and in the darkness, while the Death Eaters coed all around them, and while Hagrid sobbed blindly, nobody looked to see whether a pulse beat in the exposed neck of Harry Potter….
The two giants crashed along behind the Death Eaters; Harry could hear trees creaking and falling as they passed; they made so much din that birds toes shrieking into the sky, and even the jeers of the Death Eaters were drowned. The victorious procession marched on toward the open ground, and after a while Harry could tell, by the lightening of the darkness through his closed eyelids, that the trees were beginning to thin.
“BANE!”
Hagrid’s unexpected bellow nearly forced Harry’s eyes open. “Happy now, are yeh, that yeh didn’t fight, yeh cowardly bunch o’ nags? Are yeh happy Harry Potter’s – d-dead…?”
Hagrid could not continue, but broke down in fresh tears. Harry wondered how many centaurs were watching their procession pass; he dared not open his eyes to look. Some of the Death Eaters called insults at the centaurs as they left them behind. A little later, Harry sensed, by a freshening of the air, that they had reached the edge of the forest.
“Stop.”
Harry thought that Hagrid must have been forced to obey Voldemort’s command, because he lurched a little. And now a chill settled over them where they stood, and Harry heard the rasping breath of the dementors that patrolled the other trees. They would not affect him now.
The fact of his own survival burned inside him, a talisman against them, as though his father’s stag kept guardian in his heart.
Someone passed close by Harry, and he knew that it was Voldemort himself because he spoke a moment later, his voice magically magnified so that it swelled through the ground, crashing upon Harry’s eardrums.
“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”
“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”
There was silence in the grounds and from the castle. Voldemort was so close to him that Harry did not dare open his eyes again.
“Come,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard him move ahead, and Hagrid was forced to follow. Now Harry opened his eyes a fraction, and saw Voldemort striding in front them, wearing the great snake Nagini around his shoulders, now free of her enchanted cage. But Harry had no possibility of extracting the wand concealed under his robes without being noticed by the Death Eaters, who marched on the either side of them through the slowly lightening darkness….
“Harry,” sobbed Hagrid. “Oh, Harry… Harry…”
Branches caught at Harry’s hair and robes, but he lay quiescent, his mouth lolling open, his eyes shut, and in the darkness, while the Death Eaters coed all around them, and while Hagrid sobbed blindly, nobody looked to see whether a pulse beat in the exposed neck of Harry Potter….
The two giants crashed along behind the Death Eaters; Harry could hear trees creaking and falling as they passed; they made so much din that birds toes shrieking into the sky, and even the jeers of the Death Eaters were drowned. The victorious procession marched on toward the open ground, and after a while Harry could tell, by the lightening of the darkness through his closed eyelids, that the trees were beginning to thin.
“BANE!”
Hagrid’s unexpected bellow nearly forced Harry’s eyes open. “Happy now, are yeh, that yeh didn’t fight, yeh cowardly bunch o’ nags? Are yeh happy Harry Potter’s – d-dead…?”
Hagrid could not continue, but broke down in fresh tears. Harry wondered how many centaurs were watching their procession pass; he dared not open his eyes to look. Some of the Death Eaters called insults at the centaurs as they left them behind. A little later, Harry sensed, by a freshening of the air, that they had reached the edge of the forest.
“Stop.”
Harry thought that Hagrid must have been forced to obey Voldemort’s command, because he lurched a little. And now a chill settled over them where they stood, and Harry heard the rasping breath of the dementors that patrolled the other trees. They would not affect him now.
The fact of his own survival burned inside him, a talisman against them, as though his father’s stag kept guardian in his heart.
Someone passed close by Harry, and he knew that it was Voldemort himself because he spoke a moment later, his voice magically magnified so that it swelled through the ground, crashing upon Harry’s eardrums.
“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.”
“The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”
There was silence in the grounds and from the castle. Voldemort was so close to him that Harry did not dare open his eyes again.
“Come,” said Voldemort, and Harry heard him move ahead, and Hagrid was forced to follow. Now Harry opened his eyes a fraction, and saw Voldemort striding in front them, wearing the great snake Nagini around his shoulders, now free of her enchanted cage. But Harry had no possibility of extracting the wand concealed under his robes without being noticed by the Death Eaters, who marched on the either side of them through the slowly lightening darkness….
“Harry,” sobbed Hagrid. “Oh, Harry… Harry…”
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The gates swung open.
The gates swung open.
“Come on!“ said Greyback to his men, and the prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to-back to the four other prisoner. Closing his puffy eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught….
The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face…. The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone….
“So, you have come. I thought you would… one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”
“You lie!”
As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.
Light spilled out over all of them.
“What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice.
“We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” rasped Greyback.
“Who are you?”
“You know me!” There was resentment in the werewolf’s voice. “Fenrit Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”
Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle around too.
“I know ‘es swollen, ma’am, but it’s ‘im!” piped up Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ‘is scar. And this ‘ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been traveling around with ‘im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ‘im, and we’ve got ‘is wand as well! ‘Ere, ma’am – ”
Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the blackthorn wand at her. She raised her eyebrows.
“Bring them in,” she said.
Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.
“Follow me,” said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”
The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.
“What is this?”
The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now. He could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though his scar was still burning.
“They say they’ve got Potter,“ said Narcissa’s cold voice. ”Draco, come here.“
Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.
Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.
“Well, boy?” rasped the werewolf.
Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.
His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by Hermione’s jinx. His black hair reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood there, he would have wondered who was wearing his glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact with Draco as the latter approached.
“Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”
“I can’t – I can’t be sure,“ said Draco. He was keeping his distance from Greyback, and seemed as scared of looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.
“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”
Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.
“Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv – ”
“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly.
“Of course not, of course not!“ said Lucius impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes. With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he was peering out from between the bars of a cage.
“What did you do to him?” Lucius asked Greyback. “How did he get into this state?”
“That wasn’t us.”
“Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” said Lucius.
His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead.
“There’s something there,” he whispered. “it could be the scar, stretched tight….”
“Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”
Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.
“I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away toward the fireplace where his mother stood watching.
“We had better be certain, Lucius,“ Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice. ”Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord… They say this is his“ – she was looking closely at the blackthorn wand – ”but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description…. If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?“
“What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback. Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light fell on Hermione instead.
“Wait,“ said Narcissa sharply. “Yes – yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”
“I… maybe… yeah.”
“Come on!“ said Greyback to his men, and the prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to-back to the four other prisoner. Closing his puffy eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught….
The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face…. The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone….
“So, you have come. I thought you would… one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”
“You lie!”
As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.
Light spilled out over all of them.
“What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice.
“We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” rasped Greyback.
“Who are you?”
“You know me!” There was resentment in the werewolf’s voice. “Fenrit Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”
Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle around too.
“I know ‘es swollen, ma’am, but it’s ‘im!” piped up Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ‘is scar. And this ‘ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been traveling around with ‘im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ‘im, and we’ve got ‘is wand as well! ‘Ere, ma’am – ”
Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the blackthorn wand at her. She raised her eyebrows.
“Bring them in,” she said.
Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.
“Follow me,” said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”
The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.
“What is this?”
The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now. He could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though his scar was still burning.
“They say they’ve got Potter,“ said Narcissa’s cold voice. ”Draco, come here.“
Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.
Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.
“Well, boy?” rasped the werewolf.
Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.
His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by Hermione’s jinx. His black hair reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood there, he would have wondered who was wearing his glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact with Draco as the latter approached.
“Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”
“I can’t – I can’t be sure,“ said Draco. He was keeping his distance from Greyback, and seemed as scared of looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.
“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”
Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.
“Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv – ”
“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly.
“Of course not, of course not!“ said Lucius impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes. With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he was peering out from between the bars of a cage.
“What did you do to him?” Lucius asked Greyback. “How did he get into this state?”
“That wasn’t us.”
“Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” said Lucius.
His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead.
“There’s something there,” he whispered. “it could be the scar, stretched tight….”
“Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”
Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.
“I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away toward the fireplace where his mother stood watching.
“We had better be certain, Lucius,“ Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice. ”Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord… They say this is his“ – she was looking closely at the blackthorn wand – ”but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description…. If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?“
“What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback. Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light fell on Hermione instead.
“Wait,“ said Narcissa sharply. “Yes – yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”
“I… maybe… yeah.”
“Come on!“ said Greyback to his men, and the prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to-back to the four other prisoner. Closing his puffy eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught….
The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face…. The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone….
“So, you have come. I thought you would… one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”
“You lie!”
As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.
Light spilled out over all of them.
“What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice.
“We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” rasped Greyback.
“Who are you?”
“You know me!” There was resentment in the werewolf’s voice. “Fenrit Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”
Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle around too.
“I know ‘es swollen, ma’am, but it’s ‘im!” piped up Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ‘is scar. And this ‘ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been traveling around with ‘im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ‘im, and we’ve got ‘is wand as well! ‘Ere, ma’am – ”
Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the blackthorn wand at her. She raised her eyebrows.
“Bring them in,” she said.
Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.
“Follow me,” said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”
The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.
“What is this?”
The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now. He could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though his scar was still burning.
“They say they’ve got Potter,“ said Narcissa’s cold voice. ”Draco, come here.“
Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.
Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.
“Well, boy?” rasped the werewolf.
Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.
His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by Hermione’s jinx. His black hair reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood there, he would have wondered who was wearing his glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact with Draco as the latter approached.
“Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”
“I can’t – I can’t be sure,“ said Draco. He was keeping his distance from Greyback, and seemed as scared of looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.
“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”
Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.
“Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv – ”
“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly.
“Of course not, of course not!“ said Lucius impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes. With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he was peering out from between the bars of a cage.
“What did you do to him?” Lucius asked Greyback. “How did he get into this state?”
“That wasn’t us.”
“Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” said Lucius.
His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead.
“There’s something there,” he whispered. “it could be the scar, stretched tight….”
“Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”
Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.
“I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away toward the fireplace where his mother stood watching.
“We had better be certain, Lucius,“ Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice. ”Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord… They say this is his“ – she was looking closely at the blackthorn wand – ”but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description…. If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?“
“What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback. Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light fell on Hermione instead.
“Wait,“ said Narcissa sharply. “Yes – yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”
“I… maybe… yeah.”
“Come on!“ said Greyback to his men, and the prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to-back to the four other prisoner. Closing his puffy eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught….
The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face…. The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone….
“So, you have come. I thought you would… one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.”
“You lie!”
As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.
Light spilled out over all of them.
“What is this?” said a woman’s cold voice.
“We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!” rasped Greyback.
“Who are you?”
“You know me!” There was resentment in the werewolf’s voice. “Fenrit Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!”
Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle around too.
“I know ‘es swollen, ma’am, but it’s ‘im!” piped up Scabior. “If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ‘is scar. And this ‘ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who’s been traveling around with ‘im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ‘im, and we’ve got ‘is wand as well! ‘Ere, ma’am – ”
Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the blackthorn wand at her. She raised her eyebrows.
“Bring them in,” she said.
Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.
“Follow me,” said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. “My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.”
The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.
“What is this?”
The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now. He could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though his scar was still burning.
“They say they’ve got Potter,“ said Narcissa’s cold voice. ”Draco, come here.“
Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.
Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.
“Well, boy?” rasped the werewolf.
Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.
His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by Hermione’s jinx. His black hair reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood there, he would have wondered who was wearing his glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact with Draco as the latter approached.
“Well, Draco?” said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. “Is it? Is it Harry Potter?”
“I can’t – I can’t be sure,“ said Draco. He was keeping his distance from Greyback, and seemed as scared of looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.
“But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!”
Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.
“Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv – ”
“Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope Mr. Malfoy?” said Greyback menacingly.
“Of course not, of course not!“ said Lucius impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes. With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he was peering out from between the bars of a cage.
“What did you do to him?” Lucius asked Greyback. “How did he get into this state?”
“That wasn’t us.”
“Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me,” said Lucius.
His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead.
“There’s something there,” he whispered. “it could be the scar, stretched tight….”
“Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”
Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.
“I don’t know,” he said, and he walked away toward the fireplace where his mother stood watching.
“We had better be certain, Lucius,“ Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice. ”Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord… They say this is his“ – she was looking closely at the blackthorn wand – ”but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description…. If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?“
“What about the Mudblood, then?” growled Greyback. Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light fell on Hermione instead.
“Wait,“ said Narcissa sharply. “Yes – yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”
“I… maybe… yeah.”
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
And Harry was hurtling back out of those wide,
And Harry was hurtling back out of those wide, tunnellike pupils and Gregorovitch’s face was stricken with terror.
“Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?“ said the high cold voice.
“I do not know, I never knew, a young man – no – please – PLEASE!“
A scream that went on and on and then a burst of green light –
“Harry!“
He opened his eyes, panting, his forehead throbbing. He had passed out against the side of the tent, had slid sideways down the canvas, and was sprawled on the ground.
He looked up at Hermione, whose bushy hair obscured the tiny patch of sky visible through the dark branches high above them.
“Dream,“ he said, sitting up quickly and attempting to meet Hermione’s glower with a look of innocence. ”Must’ve dozed off, sorry.”
“I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol – ”
“Don’t say his name!” came Ron’s angry voice from the depths of the tent.
“Fine,“ retorted Hermione, “You-Know-Who’s mind, then!”
“I didn’t mean it to happen!“ Harry said. ”It was a dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?“
“If you just learned to apply Occlumency – ”
But Harry was not interested in being told off; he wanted to discuss what he had just seen.
“He’s found Gregorovitch, Hermione, and I think he’s killed him, but before he killed him he read Gregorovitch’s mind and I saw – ”
“I think I’d better take over the watch if you’re so tired you’re falling sleep,” said Hermione coldly.
“I can finish the watch!”
“No, you’re obviously exhausted. Go and lie down.”
She dropped down in the mouth of the tent, looking stubborn. Angry, but wishing to avoid a row, Harry ducked back inside.
Ron’s still-pale face was poking out from the lower bunk; Harry climbed into the one above him, lay down, and looked up at the dark canvas ceiling. After several moments, Ron spoke in a voice so low that it would not carry to Hermione, huddle in the entrance.
“What’s You-Know-Who doing?”
Harry screwed up his eyes in the effort to remember every detail, then whispered into the darkness.
“He found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, he was torturing him.”
“How’s Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new wand if he’s tied up?”
“I dunno…. It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Harry closed his eyes, thinking of all that he had seen and heard. The more he recalled, the less sense it made…. Voldemort had said nothing about Harry’s wand, nothing about the twin cores, nothing about Gregorovitch making a new and more powerful wand to beat Harry’s….
“He wanted something from Gregorovitch,” Harry said, eyes still closed tight. “He asked him to hand it over, but Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from him… and then… then…”
“Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?“ said the high cold voice.
“I do not know, I never knew, a young man – no – please – PLEASE!“
A scream that went on and on and then a burst of green light –
“Harry!“
He opened his eyes, panting, his forehead throbbing. He had passed out against the side of the tent, had slid sideways down the canvas, and was sprawled on the ground.
He looked up at Hermione, whose bushy hair obscured the tiny patch of sky visible through the dark branches high above them.
“Dream,“ he said, sitting up quickly and attempting to meet Hermione’s glower with a look of innocence. ”Must’ve dozed off, sorry.”
“I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol – ”
“Don’t say his name!” came Ron’s angry voice from the depths of the tent.
“Fine,“ retorted Hermione, “You-Know-Who’s mind, then!”
“I didn’t mean it to happen!“ Harry said. ”It was a dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?“
“If you just learned to apply Occlumency – ”
But Harry was not interested in being told off; he wanted to discuss what he had just seen.
“He’s found Gregorovitch, Hermione, and I think he’s killed him, but before he killed him he read Gregorovitch’s mind and I saw – ”
“I think I’d better take over the watch if you’re so tired you’re falling sleep,” said Hermione coldly.
“I can finish the watch!”
“No, you’re obviously exhausted. Go and lie down.”
She dropped down in the mouth of the tent, looking stubborn. Angry, but wishing to avoid a row, Harry ducked back inside.
Ron’s still-pale face was poking out from the lower bunk; Harry climbed into the one above him, lay down, and looked up at the dark canvas ceiling. After several moments, Ron spoke in a voice so low that it would not carry to Hermione, huddle in the entrance.
“What’s You-Know-Who doing?”
Harry screwed up his eyes in the effort to remember every detail, then whispered into the darkness.
“He found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, he was torturing him.”
“How’s Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new wand if he’s tied up?”
“I dunno…. It’s weird, isn’t it?”
Harry closed his eyes, thinking of all that he had seen and heard. The more he recalled, the less sense it made…. Voldemort had said nothing about Harry’s wand, nothing about the twin cores, nothing about Gregorovitch making a new and more powerful wand to beat Harry’s….
“He wanted something from Gregorovitch,” Harry said, eyes still closed tight. “He asked him to hand it over, but Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from him… and then… then…”
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
But as it turned out, there was very little
But as it turned out, there was very little to do for the chickens. “There’s no need to, er, mention it to Molly,” Mr. Weasley told Harry, blocking his access to the coop, “but, er, Ted Tonks sent me most of what was left of Sirius’s bike and, er, I’m hiding – that’s to say, keeping – it in here. Fantastic stuff: There’s an exhaust gaskin, as I believe it’s called, the most magnificent battery, and it’ll be a great opportunity to find out how brakes work. I’m going to try and put it all back together again when Molly’s not – I mean, when I’ve got time.”
When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so Harry slipped upstairs to Ron’s attic bedroom.
“I’m doing it, I’m doing –! Oh, it’s you,” said Ron in relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only chance was that Hermione was now sitting in the far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her feet, sorting books, some of which Harry recognized as his own, into two enormous piles.
“Hi, Harry,” she said, as he sat down on his camp bed.
“And how did you manage to get away?”
“Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets yesterday,” said Hermione. She threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.
“We were just talking about Mad-Eye,” Ron told Harry. “I reckon he might have survived.”
“But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse,” said Harry.
“Yeah, but Bill was under attack too,” said Ron. “How can he be sure what he saw?”
“Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand feet,” said Hermione, now weight Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland in her hand.
“He could have used a Shield Charm – ”
“Fleur said his wand was blasted out of his hand,” said Harry.
“Well, all right, if you want him to be dead,” said Ron grumpily, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape.
“Of course we don’t want him to be dead!” said Hermione, looking shocked. “It’s dreadful that he’s dead! But we’re being realistic!”
For the first time, Harry imagined Mad-Eye’s body, broken as Dumbledore’s had been, yet with that one eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh.
“The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that’s why no one’s found him,” said Ron wisely.
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Like Barty Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in Hagrid’s front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him – ”
“Don’t!” squealed Hermione. Startled, Harry looked over just in time to see her burst into tears over her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary.
“Oh no,” said Harry, struggling to get up from the old camp bed. “Hermione, I wasn’t trying to upset – ”
But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounded off the bed and got there first. One arm around Hermione, he fished in his jeans pocket and withdrew a revolting-looking handkerchief that he had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling out his wand, he pointed it at the rag and said, “Tergeo.”
The wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with himself, Ron handed the slightly smoking handkerchief to Hermione.
“Oh… thanks, Ron…. I’m sorry….” She blew her nose and hiccupped. “It’s just so awf-ful, isn’t it? R-right after Dumbledore… I j-just n-never imagined Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, giving her a squeeze. “But you know what he’d say to us if he was here?”
“‘C-constant vigilance,’” said Hermione, mopping her eyes.
“That’s right,” said Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I’ve learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus.”
Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped The Monster of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from Ron’s leg and retied it shit.
“What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron asked, limping back to his bed.
“Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,” said Hermione, “When we’re looking for the Horcruxes.”
“Oh, of course,” said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.”
“Ha ha,” said Hermione, looking down at Spellman’s Syllabary. “I wonder… will we need to translate runes? It’s possible…. I think we’d better take it, to be safe.”
She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History.
“Listen,” said Harry.
He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance.
“I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you wanted to come with me,” Harry began.
“Here he goes,” Ron said to Hermione, rolling his eyes.
“As we knew he would,” he sighed, turning back to the books. “You know, I think I will take Hogwarts, A History. Even if we’re not going back there, I don’t think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with – ”
“Listen!” said Harry again.
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When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so Harry slipped upstairs to Ron’s attic bedroom.
“I’m doing it, I’m doing –! Oh, it’s you,” said Ron in relief, as Harry entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only chance was that Hermione was now sitting in the far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her feet, sorting books, some of which Harry recognized as his own, into two enormous piles.
“Hi, Harry,” she said, as he sat down on his camp bed.
“And how did you manage to get away?”
“Oh, Ron’s mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets yesterday,” said Hermione. She threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.
“We were just talking about Mad-Eye,” Ron told Harry. “I reckon he might have survived.”
“But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse,” said Harry.
“Yeah, but Bill was under attack too,” said Ron. “How can he be sure what he saw?”
“Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand feet,” said Hermione, now weight Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland in her hand.
“He could have used a Shield Charm – ”
“Fleur said his wand was blasted out of his hand,” said Harry.
“Well, all right, if you want him to be dead,” said Ron grumpily, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape.
“Of course we don’t want him to be dead!” said Hermione, looking shocked. “It’s dreadful that he’s dead! But we’re being realistic!”
For the first time, Harry imagined Mad-Eye’s body, broken as Dumbledore’s had been, yet with that one eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh.
“The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that’s why no one’s found him,” said Ron wisely.
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Like Barty Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in Hagrid’s front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him – ”
“Don’t!” squealed Hermione. Startled, Harry looked over just in time to see her burst into tears over her copy of Spellman’s Syllabary.
“Oh no,” said Harry, struggling to get up from the old camp bed. “Hermione, I wasn’t trying to upset – ”
But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounded off the bed and got there first. One arm around Hermione, he fished in his jeans pocket and withdrew a revolting-looking handkerchief that he had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily pulling out his wand, he pointed it at the rag and said, “Tergeo.”
The wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with himself, Ron handed the slightly smoking handkerchief to Hermione.
“Oh… thanks, Ron…. I’m sorry….” She blew her nose and hiccupped. “It’s just so awf-ful, isn’t it? R-right after Dumbledore… I j-just n-never imagined Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Ron, giving her a squeeze. “But you know what he’d say to us if he was here?”
“‘C-constant vigilance,’” said Hermione, mopping her eyes.
“That’s right,” said Ron, nodding. “He’d tell us to learn from what happened to him. And what I’ve learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus.”
Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to pick up two more books. A second later, Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she had dropped The Monster of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron’s ankle.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from Ron’s leg and retied it shit.
“What are you doing with all those books anyway?” Ron asked, limping back to his bed.
“Just trying to decide which ones to take with us,” said Hermione, “When we’re looking for the Horcruxes.”
“Oh, of course,” said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. “I forgot we’ll be hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library.”
“Ha ha,” said Hermione, looking down at Spellman’s Syllabary. “I wonder… will we need to translate runes? It’s possible…. I think we’d better take it, to be safe.”
She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picked up Hogwarts, A History.
“Listen,” said Harry.
He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at him with similar mixtures of resignation and defiance.
“I know you said after Dumbledore’s funeral that you wanted to come with me,” Harry began.
“Here he goes,” Ron said to Hermione, rolling his eyes.
“As we knew he would,” he sighed, turning back to the books. “You know, I think I will take Hogwarts, A History. Even if we’re not going back there, I don’t think I’d feel right if I didn’t have it with – ”
“Listen!” said Harry again.
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Monday, November 29, 2010
Harry yelled, and lunging forward
Harry yelled, and lunging forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore's face.
It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and
the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere
Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of
the dead rising from the black water.
“Petrificus Totalus!” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm. It
released him, falling backward into the water with a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands
clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken faces leering.
“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him.
“Impedimenta! Incarcerous!”
A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at
the air with his wand, Harry yelled, “Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!”
But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: they walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched toward him,
and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began
to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one more dead guardian of a fragment of
Voldemort's shattered soul...
But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and
faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his arms, then
scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around.
Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch and
from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast lasso, encircling them all with warmth.
The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape the fire in which they were enclosed...
Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. Distracted by the
flames, the Inferi seemed unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with them, around them, the bewildered
Inferi accompanying them to the waters edge, where they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters.
Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his
efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were both safely
jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi
swarming below them did not dare resurface.
It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and
the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere
Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of
the dead rising from the black water.
“Petrificus Totalus!” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm. It
released him, falling backward into the water with a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands
clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken faces leering.
“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him.
“Impedimenta! Incarcerous!”
A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at
the air with his wand, Harry yelled, “Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!”
But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: they walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched toward him,
and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began
to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one more dead guardian of a fragment of
Voldemort's shattered soul...
But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and
faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his arms, then
scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around.
Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch and
from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast lasso, encircling them all with warmth.
The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape the fire in which they were enclosed...
Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. Distracted by the
flames, the Inferi seemed unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with them, around them, the bewildered
Inferi accompanying them to the waters edge, where they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters.
Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his
efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were both safely
jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi
swarming below them did not dare resurface.
Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst
Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire.
“No more, please, no more ...”
Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin.
“We're nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it...”
He supported Dumbledore's shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass; then Harry was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in
more anguish than ever, “I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!”
“Drink this, Professor. Drink this...”
Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, “KILL ME!”
“This—this one will!” gasped Harry. “Just drink this ... it'll be over ... all over!”
Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face.
“No!” shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over
onto his back; Dumbledore's glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. “No.” said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, “no, you're not dead, you said it wasn't
poison, wake up, wake up—Rennervate!” he cried, his wand pointing at Dumbledore's chest; there was a flash of red light but nothing happened. “Rennervate—sir—
please —”
Dumbledore's eyelids flickered; Harry's heart leapt.
“Sir, are you—?”
“Water,” croaked Dumbledore.
“Water,” panted Harry. “—yes —”
He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden locket lying curled beneath it.
“Aguamenti!” he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his wand.
The goblet filled with clear water; Harry dropped to his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and brought the glass to his lips—but it was empty. Dumbledore
groaned and began to pant.
“But I had some—wait—Aguamenti!” said Harry again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he approached
Dumbledore's mouth, the water vanished again.
“Sir, I'm trying, I'm trying!” said Harry desperately, but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear him; he had rolled onto his side and was drawing great,
rattling breaths that sounded agonizing. “Aguamenti—Aguamenti—AGUAMENTI!”
The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now Dumbledore's breathing was fading. His brain whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only way left to get
water, because Voldemort had planned it so ...
“No more, please, no more ...”
Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin.
“We're nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it...”
He supported Dumbledore's shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass; then Harry was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in
more anguish than ever, “I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!”
“Drink this, Professor. Drink this...”
Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, “KILL ME!”
“This—this one will!” gasped Harry. “Just drink this ... it'll be over ... all over!”
Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face.
“No!” shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over
onto his back; Dumbledore's glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. “No.” said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, “no, you're not dead, you said it wasn't
poison, wake up, wake up—Rennervate!” he cried, his wand pointing at Dumbledore's chest; there was a flash of red light but nothing happened. “Rennervate—sir—
please —”
Dumbledore's eyelids flickered; Harry's heart leapt.
“Sir, are you—?”
“Water,” croaked Dumbledore.
“Water,” panted Harry. “—yes —”
He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden locket lying curled beneath it.
“Aguamenti!” he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his wand.
The goblet filled with clear water; Harry dropped to his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and brought the glass to his lips—but it was empty. Dumbledore
groaned and began to pant.
“But I had some—wait—Aguamenti!” said Harry again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he approached
Dumbledore's mouth, the water vanished again.
“Sir, I'm trying, I'm trying!” said Harry desperately, but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear him; he had rolled onto his side and was drawing great,
rattling breaths that sounded agonizing. “Aguamenti—Aguamenti—AGUAMENTI!”
The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now Dumbledore's breathing was fading. His brain whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only way left to get
water, because Voldemort had planned it so ...
“Professor Dumbledore?”
“Professor Dumbledore?” said Harry, his voice strained. “Can you hear me?”
Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was
about to spill from it. Harry reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady.
“Professor, can you hear me?” he repeated loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern.
Dumbledore panted and then spoke in a voice Harry did not recognize, for he had never heard Dumbledore frightened like this.
“I don't want... don't make me...”
Harry stared into the whitened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and did not know what to do.
“...don't like... want to stop...” moaned Dumbledore.
“You... you can't stop, Professor,” said Harry. “You've got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had to keep drinking. Here...”
Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Harry forced the goblet back toward Dumbledore's mouth and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the remainder of the
potion inside.
“No ...” he groaned, as Harry lowered the goblet back into the basin and refilled it for him. “I don't want to. ... I don't want to... let me go...”
“It's all right, Professor,” said Harry, his hand shaking. “It's all right, I'm here —”
“Make it stop, make it stop,” moaned Dumbledore.
“Yes... yes, this'll make it stop,” lied Harry. He tipped the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore's open mouth. Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around
the vast chamber, across the dead black water.
“No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't want to...”
“It's all right, Professor, it's all right!” said Harry loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly scoop up the sixth gobletful of potion; the basin was now
half empty. “Nothing's happening to you, you're safe, it isn't real, I swear it isn't real—take this, now, take this...”
And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though it was an antidote Harry offered him, but upon draining the goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.
“It's all my fault, all my fault,” he sobbed. “Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again ...”
“This will make it stop, Professor,” Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of potion into Dumbledore's mouth.
Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Harry's trembling hands as he moaned,
“Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead ...”
“Here, drink this, drink this, you'll be all right,” said Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight
shut and shook from head to foot.
And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth goblet.
“Please, please, please, no ... not that, not that, I'll do anything ...”
“Just drink, Professor, just drink...”
Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was
about to spill from it. Harry reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady.
“Professor, can you hear me?” he repeated loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern.
Dumbledore panted and then spoke in a voice Harry did not recognize, for he had never heard Dumbledore frightened like this.
“I don't want... don't make me...”
Harry stared into the whitened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and did not know what to do.
“...don't like... want to stop...” moaned Dumbledore.
“You... you can't stop, Professor,” said Harry. “You've got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had to keep drinking. Here...”
Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Harry forced the goblet back toward Dumbledore's mouth and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the remainder of the
potion inside.
“No ...” he groaned, as Harry lowered the goblet back into the basin and refilled it for him. “I don't want to. ... I don't want to... let me go...”
“It's all right, Professor,” said Harry, his hand shaking. “It's all right, I'm here —”
“Make it stop, make it stop,” moaned Dumbledore.
“Yes... yes, this'll make it stop,” lied Harry. He tipped the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore's open mouth. Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around
the vast chamber, across the dead black water.
“No, no, no, no, I can't, I can't, don't make me, I don't want to...”
“It's all right, Professor, it's all right!” said Harry loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly scoop up the sixth gobletful of potion; the basin was now
half empty. “Nothing's happening to you, you're safe, it isn't real, I swear it isn't real—take this, now, take this...”
And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though it was an antidote Harry offered him, but upon draining the goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.
“It's all my fault, all my fault,” he sobbed. “Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I'll never, never again ...”
“This will make it stop, Professor,” Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of potion into Dumbledore's mouth.
Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Harry's trembling hands as he moaned,
“Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead ...”
“Here, drink this, drink this, you'll be all right,” said Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight
shut and shook from head to foot.
And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth goblet.
“Please, please, please, no ... not that, not that, I'll do anything ...”
“Just drink, Professor, just drink...”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Chapter 16 A Very Frosty Christmas
Chapter 16 A Very Frosty Christmas
“So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?”
“If you ask. that once more,” said Harry, “I'm going to stick this sprout—”
“I'm only checking!” said Ron. They were standing alone at the Burrow's kitchen sink, peeling a mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was drifting past the
window in front of them.
“Yes, Snape was offering to help him!” said Harry. “He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something—”
“An Unbreakable Vow?” said Ron, looking stunned. “Nah, he can't have... Are you sure?”
“Yes, I'm sure,” said Harry. “Why, what does it mean?”
“Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow...”
“I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?”
“You die,” said Ron simply. “Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when
Dad found us. He went mental,” said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. “Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum, Fred reckons his left buttock has never
been the same since.”
“Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock—”
“I beg your pardon?” said Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen.
“Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them.”
“I'll be seventeen in two and a bit months’ time,” said Ron grumpily, “and then I'll be able to do it by magic!”
“But meanwhile,” said George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, “we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a — whoops
-a-daisy!”
“You made me do that!” said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. “You wait, when I'm seventeen—”
“I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills,” yawned Fred.
“And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald,” said George, “what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called—unless our information is
faulty—Lavender Brown?”
Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased as he turned back to the sprouts. “Mind your own business.”
“What a snappy retort,” said Fred. “I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was... how did it happen?”
“What d'you mean?”
“Did she have an accident or something?”
“What?”
“Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Careful, now!”
Mrs. Weasley entered the room just in time to see Ron throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand.
“So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?”
“If you ask. that once more,” said Harry, “I'm going to stick this sprout—”
“I'm only checking!” said Ron. They were standing alone at the Burrow's kitchen sink, peeling a mountain of sprouts for Mrs. Weasley. Snow was drifting past the
window in front of them.
“Yes, Snape was offering to help him!” said Harry. “He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother to protect him, that he'd made an Unbreakable Oath or something—”
“An Unbreakable Vow?” said Ron, looking stunned. “Nah, he can't have... Are you sure?”
“Yes, I'm sure,” said Harry. “Why, what does it mean?”
“Well, you can't break an Unbreakable Vow...”
“I'd worked that much out for myself, funnily enough. What happens if you break it, then?”
“You die,” said Ron simply. “Fred and George tried to get me to make one when I was about five. I nearly did too, I was holding hands with Fred and everything when
Dad found us. He went mental,” said Ron, with a reminiscent gleam in his eyes. “Only time I've ever seen Dad as angry as Mum, Fred reckons his left buttock has never
been the same since.”
“Yeah, well, passing over Fred's left buttock—”
“I beg your pardon?” said Fred's voice as the twins entered the kitchen.
“Aaah, George, look at this. They're using knives and everything. Bless them.”
“I'll be seventeen in two and a bit months’ time,” said Ron grumpily, “and then I'll be able to do it by magic!”
“But meanwhile,” said George, sitting down at the kitchen table and putting his feet up on it, “we can enjoy watching you demonstrate the correct use of a — whoops
-a-daisy!”
“You made me do that!” said Ron angrily, sucking his cut thumb. “You wait, when I'm seventeen—”
“I'm sure you'll dazzle us all with hitherto unsuspected magical skills,” yawned Fred.
“And speaking of hitherto unsuspected skills, Ronald,” said George, “what is this we hear from Ginny about you and a young lady called—unless our information is
faulty—Lavender Brown?”
Ron turned a little pink, but did not look displeased as he turned back to the sprouts. “Mind your own business.”
“What a snappy retort,” said Fred. “I really don't know how you think of them. No, what we wanted to know was... how did it happen?”
“What d'you mean?”
“Did she have an accident or something?”
“What?”
“Well, how did she sustain such extensive brain damage? Careful, now!”
Mrs. Weasley entered the room just in time to see Ron throw the sprout knife at Fred, who had turned it into a paper airplane with one lazy flick of his wand.
“So that is why you have been avoiding me this term
“So that is why you have been avoiding me this term? You have feared my interference? You realize that, had anybody else failed to come to my office when I had told
them repeatedly to be there, Draco—”
“So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!” jeered Malfoy.
There was another pause. Then Snape said, “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things.”
“You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!”
“Listen to me,” said Snape, his voice so low now that Harry had to push his ear very hard against the keyhole to hear. “I am trying to help you. I swore to your
mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco—”
“Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to
work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!”
“What is your plan ?”
“It's none of your business!”
“If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you ...”
“I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!”
“You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes—”
“I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!”
“Keep your voice down!” spat Snape, for Malfoy's voice had risen excitedly. “If your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts
O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres—”
“What does it matter?” said Malfoy. “Defense Against the Dark Arts—it's all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts—”
“It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!” said Snape. “Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me!
You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle—”
“They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!”
“Then why not confide in me, and I can—”
“I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!”
There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, “You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but—”
Harry had barely a second's warning; he heard Malfoy's footsteps on the other side of the door and flung himself out of the way just as it burst open. Malfoy was
striding away down the corridor, past the open door of Slughorn's office, around the distant corner, and out of sight.
Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom. His expression unfathomable, he returned to the party. Harry remained
on the floor, hidden beneath the Cloak, his mind racing.
them repeatedly to be there, Draco—”
“So put me in detention! Report me to Dumbledore!” jeered Malfoy.
There was another pause. Then Snape said, “You know perfectly well that I do not wish to do either of those things.”
“You'd better stop telling me to come to your office then!”
“Listen to me,” said Snape, his voice so low now that Harry had to push his ear very hard against the keyhole to hear. “I am trying to help you. I swore to your
mother I would protect you. I made the Unbreakable Vow, Draco—”
“Looks like you'll have to break it, then, because I don't need your protection! It's my job, he gave it to me and I'm doing it, I've got a plan and it's going to
work, it's just taking a bit longer than I thought it would!”
“What is your plan ?”
“It's none of your business!”
“If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you ...”
“I have all the assistance I need, thanks, I'm not alone!”
“You were certainly alone tonight, which was foolish in the extreme, wandering the corridors without lookouts or backup, these are elementary mistakes—”
“I would've had Crabbe and Goyle with me if you hadn't put them in detention!”
“Keep your voice down!” spat Snape, for Malfoy's voice had risen excitedly. “If your friends Crabbe and Goyle intend to pass their Defense Against the Dark Arts
O.W.L. this time around, they will need to work a little harder than they are doing at pres—”
“What does it matter?” said Malfoy. “Defense Against the Dark Arts—it's all just a joke, isn't it, an act? Like any of us need protecting against the Dark Arts—”
“It is an act that is crucial to success, Draco!” said Snape. “Where do you think I would have been all these years, if I had not known how to act? Now listen to me!
You are being incautious, wandering around at night, getting yourself caught, and if you are placing your reliance in assistants like Crabbe and Goyle—”
“They're not the only ones, I've got other people on my side, better people!”
“Then why not confide in me, and I can—”
“I know what you're up to! You want to steal my glory!”
There was another pause, then Snape said coldly, “You are speaking like a child. I quite understand that your father's capture and imprisonment has upset you, but—”
Harry had barely a second's warning; he heard Malfoy's footsteps on the other side of the door and flung himself out of the way just as it burst open. Malfoy was
striding away down the corridor, past the open door of Slughorn's office, around the distant corner, and out of sight.
Hardly daring to breathe, Harry remained crouched down as Snape emerged slowly from the classroom. His expression unfathomable, he returned to the party. Harry remained
on the floor, hidden beneath the Cloak, his mind racing.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting
Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft, Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry right behind him.
A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry's small intake of breath made Dumbledore look around.
“Not pretty, is it?” he said heavily. “Yes, something horrible has happened here.”
Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body.
“Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?” Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.
“I don't think so,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.
“You mean he's—?”
“Still here somewhere? Yes.”
And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!”
“Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore, straightening up again.
Harry's jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.
“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.”
The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walruslike mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.
“What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.
“My dear Horace,” said Dumbledore, looking amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.”
The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.
“The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was something... ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.”
He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.
“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” asked Dumbledore politely.
“Please,” said the other.
They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion.
The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-formed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; avast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.
“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” asked Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather flock.
“On the walls? Dragon,” shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.
There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.
“Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally. “My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.”
He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.
“Hmm. Bit dusty.”
He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry.
“Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. “Oho!”
“This,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, “is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old Friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”
Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd.
“So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus.”
He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.
“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked Dumbledore. “For old time's sake?”
Slughorn hesitated.
“All right then, one drink,” he said ungraciously.
Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.
“Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. “Here —” He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.
“Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?” Dumbledore asked.
“Not so well,” said Slughorn at once. “Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.”
“And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,” said Dumbledore. “You can't have had more than three minutes’ warning?”
Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two. Didn't hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,” he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, “the fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”
He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady.
“You're not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said Dumbledore.
“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”
“You're quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry's neck prickle unpleasantly. “I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand...”
He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.
“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace... are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” asked Dumbledore.
“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded Slughorn.
“I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder,” said Dumbledore. “Are you really telling me that they haven't come recruiting yet?”
Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, “I haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house—the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands—it's been very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the piano.”
“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts—”
“If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that's how you treat teachers these days —”
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A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore raised his wand even higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry's small intake of breath made Dumbledore look around.
“Not pretty, is it?” he said heavily. “Yes, something horrible has happened here.”
Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but there was no sign of a body.
“Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?” Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.
“I don't think so,” said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed armchair lying on its side.
“You mean he's—?”
“Still here somewhere? Yes.”
And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, “Ouch!”
“Good evening, Horace,” said Dumbledore, straightening up again.
Harry's jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an aggrieved and watery eye.
“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he said gruffly, clambering to his feet. “It hurt.”
The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his enormous, silver, walruslike mustache, and the highly polished buttons on the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas. The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.
“What gave it away?” he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just been discovered pretending to be an armchair.
“My dear Horace,” said Dumbledore, looking amused, “if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.”
The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.
“The Dark Mark,” he muttered. “Knew there was something... ah well. Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.”
He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.
“Would you like my assistance clearing up?” asked Dumbledore politely.
“Please,” said the other.
They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion.
The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-formed in midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and reignited; avast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips, cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.
“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” asked Dumbledore loudly over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather flock.
“On the walls? Dragon,” shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the ceiling.
There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.
“Yes, dragon,” repeated the wizard conversationally. “My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.”
He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.
“Hmm. Bit dusty.”
He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his gaze fell upon Harry.
“Oho,” he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the lightning-shaped scar it bore. “Oho!”
“This,” said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, “is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old Friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”
Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd.
“So that's how you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus.”
He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a man trying to resist temptation.
“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” asked Dumbledore. “For old time's sake?”
Slughorn hesitated.
“All right then, one drink,” he said ungraciously.
Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to keep him as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell immediately upon Harry.
“Hmpf,” he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his eyes. “Here —” He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank into the cushions of the repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not touch the floor.
“Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?” Dumbledore asked.
“Not so well,” said Slughorn at once. “Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.”
“And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice,” said Dumbledore. “You can't have had more than three minutes’ warning?”
Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, “Two. Didn't hear my Intruder Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still,” he added sternly, seeming to pull himself back together again, “the fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”
He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at a rich, fussy old lady.
“You're not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said Dumbledore.
“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”
“You're quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry's neck prickle unpleasantly. “I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand...”
He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.
“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace... are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” asked Dumbledore.
“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded Slughorn.
“I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder,” said Dumbledore. “Are you really telling me that they haven't come recruiting yet?”
Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, “I haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house—the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands—it's been very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the piano.”
“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts—”
“If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that's how you treat teachers these days —”
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Vronsky's mother,
Vronsky's mother, on hearing of his connection, was at first pleased at it, because nothing to her mind gave such a finishing touch to a brilliant young man as a liaison in the highest society; she was pleased, too, that Madame Karenina, who had so taken her fancy, and had talked so much of her son, was, after all, just like all other pretty and well-bred women,--at least according to the Countess Vronskaya's ideas. But she had heard of late that her son had refused a position offered him of great importance to his career, simply in order to remain in the regiment, where he could be constantly seeing Madame Karenina. She learned that great personages were displeased with him on this account, and she changed her opinion. She was vexed, too, that from all she could learn of this connection it was not that brilliant, graceful, worldly liaison which she would have welcomed, but a sort of Wertherish, desperate passion, so she was told, which might well lead him into imprudence. She had not seen him since his abrupt departure from Moscow, and she sent her elder son to bid him come to see her.
This elder son, too, was displeased with his younger brother. He did not distinguish what sort of love his might be, big or little, passionate or passionless, lasting or passing (he kept a ballet girl himself, though he was the father of a family, so he was lenient in these matters), but he knew that this love affair was viewed with displeasure by those whom it was necessary to please, and therefore he did not approve of his brother's conduct.
Besides the service and society, Vronsky had another great interest--horses; he was passionately fond of horses.
That year races and a steeplechase had been arranged for the officers. Vronsky had put his name down, bought a thoroughbred English mare, and in spite of his love affair, he was looking forward to the races with intense, though reserved, excitement...
These two passions did not interfere with one another. On the contrary, he needed occupation and distraction quite apart from his love, so as to recruit and rest himself from the violent emotions that agitated him.
This elder son, too, was displeased with his younger brother. He did not distinguish what sort of love his might be, big or little, passionate or passionless, lasting or passing (he kept a ballet girl himself, though he was the father of a family, so he was lenient in these matters), but he knew that this love affair was viewed with displeasure by those whom it was necessary to please, and therefore he did not approve of his brother's conduct.
Besides the service and society, Vronsky had another great interest--horses; he was passionately fond of horses.
That year races and a steeplechase had been arranged for the officers. Vronsky had put his name down, bought a thoroughbred English mare, and in spite of his love affair, he was looking forward to the races with intense, though reserved, excitement...
These two passions did not interfere with one another. On the contrary, he needed occupation and distraction quite apart from his love, so as to recruit and rest himself from the violent emotions that agitated him.
Chapter 52
It need not be said that he did not speak of his love to any of his comrades, nor did he betray his secret even in the wildest drinking bouts (though indeed he was never so drunk as to lose all control of himself). And he shut up any of his thoughtless comrades who attempted to allude to his connection. But in spite of that, his love was known to all the town; everyone guessed with more or less confidence at his relations with Madame Karenina. The majority of the younger men envied him for just what was the most irksome factor in his love--the exalted position of Karenin, and the consequent publicity of their connection in society.
The greater number of the young women, who envied Anna and had long been weary of hearing her called virtuous, rejoiced at the fulfillment of their predictions, and were only waiting for a decisive turn in public opinion to fall upon her with all the weight of their scorn. They were already making ready their handfuls of mud to fling at her when the right moment arrived. The greater number of the middle-aged people and certain great personages were displeased at the prospect of the impending scandal in society.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
He was on the point of getting up
He was on the point of getting up, when the princess, noticing that he was silent, addressed him.
"Shall you be long in Moscow? You're busy with the district council, though, aren't you, and can't be away for long?"
"No, princess, I'm no longer a member of the council," he said. "I have come up for a few days."
"There's something the matter with him," thought Countess Nordston, glancing at his stern, serious face. "He isn't in his old argumentative mood. But I'll draw him out. I do love making a fool of him before Kitty, and I'll do it."
"Konstantin Dmitrievitch," she said to him, "do explain to me, please, what's the meaning of it. You know all about such things. At home in our village of Kaluga all the peasants and all the women have drunk up all they possessed, and now they can't pay us any rent. What's the meaning of that? You always praise the peasants so."
At that instant another lady came into the room, and Levin got up.
"Excuse me, countess, but I really know nothing about it, and can't tell you anything," he said, and looked round at the officer who came in behind the lady.
"That must be Vronsky," thought Levin, and, to be sure of it, glanced at Kitty. She had already had time to look at Vronsky, and looked round at Levin. And simply from the look in her eyes, that grew unconsciously brighter, Levin knew that she loved that man, knew it as surely as if she had told him so in words. But what sort of a man was he? Now, whether for good or for ill, Levin could not choose but remain; he must find out what the man was like whom she loved.
There are people who, on meeting a successful rival, no matter in what, are at once disposed to turn their backs on everything good in him, and to see only what is bad. There are people, on the other hand, who desire above all to find in that lucky rival the qualities by which he has outstripped them, and seek with a throbbing ache at heart only what is good. Levin belonged to the second class. But he had no difficulty in finding what was good and attractive in Vronsky. It was apparent at the first glance. Vronsky was a squarely built, dark man, not very tall, with a good-humored, handsome, and exceedingly calm and resolute face. Everything about his face and figure, from his short-cropped black hair and freshly shaven chin down to his loosely fitting, brand-new uniform, was simple and at the same time elegant. Making way for the lady who had come in, Vronsky went up to the princess and then to Kitty.
"Shall you be long in Moscow? You're busy with the district council, though, aren't you, and can't be away for long?"
"No, princess, I'm no longer a member of the council," he said. "I have come up for a few days."
"There's something the matter with him," thought Countess Nordston, glancing at his stern, serious face. "He isn't in his old argumentative mood. But I'll draw him out. I do love making a fool of him before Kitty, and I'll do it."
"Konstantin Dmitrievitch," she said to him, "do explain to me, please, what's the meaning of it. You know all about such things. At home in our village of Kaluga all the peasants and all the women have drunk up all they possessed, and now they can't pay us any rent. What's the meaning of that? You always praise the peasants so."
At that instant another lady came into the room, and Levin got up.
"Excuse me, countess, but I really know nothing about it, and can't tell you anything," he said, and looked round at the officer who came in behind the lady.
"That must be Vronsky," thought Levin, and, to be sure of it, glanced at Kitty. She had already had time to look at Vronsky, and looked round at Levin. And simply from the look in her eyes, that grew unconsciously brighter, Levin knew that she loved that man, knew it as surely as if she had told him so in words. But what sort of a man was he? Now, whether for good or for ill, Levin could not choose but remain; he must find out what the man was like whom she loved.
There are people who, on meeting a successful rival, no matter in what, are at once disposed to turn their backs on everything good in him, and to see only what is bad. There are people, on the other hand, who desire above all to find in that lucky rival the qualities by which he has outstripped them, and seek with a throbbing ache at heart only what is good. Levin belonged to the second class. But he had no difficulty in finding what was good and attractive in Vronsky. It was apparent at the first glance. Vronsky was a squarely built, dark man, not very tall, with a good-humored, handsome, and exceedingly calm and resolute face. Everything about his face and figure, from his short-cropped black hair and freshly shaven chin down to his loosely fitting, brand-new uniform, was simple and at the same time elegant. Making way for the lady who had come in, Vronsky went up to the princess and then to Kitty.
Chapter 14
Chapter 14
But at that very moment the princess came in. There was a look of horror on her face when she saw them alone, and their disturbed faces. Levin bowed to her, and said nothing. Kitty did not speak nor lift her eyes. "Thank God, she has refused him," thought the mother, and her face lighted up with the habitual smile with which she greeted her guests on Thursdays. She sat down and began questioning Levin about his life in the country. He sat down again, waiting for other visitors to arrive, in order to retreat unnoticed.
Five minutes later there came in a friend of Kitty's, married the preceding winter, Countess Nordston.
She was a thin, sallow, sickly, and nervous woman, with brilliant black eyes. She was fond of Kitty, and her affection for her showed itself, as the affection of married women for girls always does, in the desire to make a match for Kitty after her own ideal of married happiness; she wanted her to marry Vronsky. Levin she had often met at the Shtcherbatskys' early in the winter, and she had always disliked him. Her invariable and favorite pursuit, when they met, consisted in making fun of him.
"I do like it when he looks down at me from the height of his grandeur, or breaks off his learned conversation with me because I'm a fool, or is condescending to me. I like that so; to see him condescending! I am so glad he can't bear me," she used to say of him.
She was right, for Levin actually could not bear her, and despised her for what she was proud of and regarded as a fine characteristic--her nervousness, her delicate contempt and indifference for everything coarse and earthly.
The Countess Nordston and Levin got into that relation with one another not seldom seen in society, when two persons, who remain externally on friendly terms, despise each other to such a degree that they cannot even take each other seriously, and cannot even be offended by each other.
The Countess Nordston pounced upon Levin at once.
"Ah, Konstantin Dmitrievitch! So you've come back to our corrupt Babylon," she said, giving him her tiny, yellow hand, and recalling what he had chanced to say early in the winter, that Moscow was a Babylon. "Come, is Babylon reformed, or have you degenerated?" she added, glancing with a simper at Kitty.
"It's very flattering for me, countess, that you remember my words so well," responded Levin, who had succeeded in recovering his composure, and at once from habit dropped into his tone of joking hostility to the Countess Nordston. "They must certainly make a great impression on you."
But at that very moment the princess came in. There was a look of horror on her face when she saw them alone, and their disturbed faces. Levin bowed to her, and said nothing. Kitty did not speak nor lift her eyes. "Thank God, she has refused him," thought the mother, and her face lighted up with the habitual smile with which she greeted her guests on Thursdays. She sat down and began questioning Levin about his life in the country. He sat down again, waiting for other visitors to arrive, in order to retreat unnoticed.
Five minutes later there came in a friend of Kitty's, married the preceding winter, Countess Nordston.
She was a thin, sallow, sickly, and nervous woman, with brilliant black eyes. She was fond of Kitty, and her affection for her showed itself, as the affection of married women for girls always does, in the desire to make a match for Kitty after her own ideal of married happiness; she wanted her to marry Vronsky. Levin she had often met at the Shtcherbatskys' early in the winter, and she had always disliked him. Her invariable and favorite pursuit, when they met, consisted in making fun of him.
"I do like it when he looks down at me from the height of his grandeur, or breaks off his learned conversation with me because I'm a fool, or is condescending to me. I like that so; to see him condescending! I am so glad he can't bear me," she used to say of him.
She was right, for Levin actually could not bear her, and despised her for what she was proud of and regarded as a fine characteristic--her nervousness, her delicate contempt and indifference for everything coarse and earthly.
The Countess Nordston and Levin got into that relation with one another not seldom seen in society, when two persons, who remain externally on friendly terms, despise each other to such a degree that they cannot even take each other seriously, and cannot even be offended by each other.
The Countess Nordston pounced upon Levin at once.
"Ah, Konstantin Dmitrievitch! So you've come back to our corrupt Babylon," she said, giving him her tiny, yellow hand, and recalling what he had chanced to say early in the winter, that Moscow was a Babylon. "Come, is Babylon reformed, or have you degenerated?" she added, glancing with a simper at Kitty.
"It's very flattering for me, countess, that you remember my words so well," responded Levin, who had succeeded in recovering his composure, and at once from habit dropped into his tone of joking hostility to the Countess Nordston. "They must certainly make a great impression on you."
"My God! shall I myself really have to say
"My God! shall I myself really have to say it to him?" she thought. "Can I tell him I don't love him? That will be a lie. What am I to say to him? That I love someone else? No, that's impossible. I'm going away, I'm going away."
She had reached the door, when she heard his step. "No! it's not honest. What have I to be afraid of? I have done nothing wrong. What is to be, will be! I'll tell the truth. And with him one can't be ill at ease. Here he is," she said to herself, seeing his powerful, shy figure, with his shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight into his face, as thought imploring him to spare her, and gave her hand.
"It's not time yet; I think I'm too early," he said glancing round the empty drawing room. When he saw that his expectations were realized, that there was nothing to prevent him from speaking, his face became gloomy.
"Oh, no," said Kitty, and sat down at the table.
"But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone," be began, not sitting down, and not looking at her, so as not to lose courage.
"Mamma will be down directly. She was very much tired.... Yesterday..."
She talked on, not knowing what her lips were uttering, and not taking her supplicating and caressing eyes off him.
He glanced at her; she blushed, and ceased speaking.
"I told you I did not know whether I should be here long...that it depended on you..."
She dropped her head lower and lower, not knowing herself what answer she should make to what was coming.
"That it depended on you," he repeated. "I meant to say...I meant to say...I came for this...to be my wife!" he brought out, not knowing what he was saying; but feeling that the most terrible thing was said, he stopped short and looked at her...
She was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was feeling ecstasy. Her soul was flooded with happiness. She had never anticipated that the utterance of love would produce such a powerful effect on her. But it lasted only an instant. She remembered Vronsky. She lifted her clear, truthful eyes, and seeing his desperate face, she answered hastily:
"That cannot be...forgive me."
A moment ago, and how close she had been to him, of what importance in his life! And how aloof and remote from him she had become now!
"It was bound to be so," he said, not looking at her.
He bowed, and was meaning to retreat.
She had reached the door, when she heard his step. "No! it's not honest. What have I to be afraid of? I have done nothing wrong. What is to be, will be! I'll tell the truth. And with him one can't be ill at ease. Here he is," she said to herself, seeing his powerful, shy figure, with his shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight into his face, as thought imploring him to spare her, and gave her hand.
"It's not time yet; I think I'm too early," he said glancing round the empty drawing room. When he saw that his expectations were realized, that there was nothing to prevent him from speaking, his face became gloomy.
"Oh, no," said Kitty, and sat down at the table.
"But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone," be began, not sitting down, and not looking at her, so as not to lose courage.
"Mamma will be down directly. She was very much tired.... Yesterday..."
She talked on, not knowing what her lips were uttering, and not taking her supplicating and caressing eyes off him.
He glanced at her; she blushed, and ceased speaking.
"I told you I did not know whether I should be here long...that it depended on you..."
She dropped her head lower and lower, not knowing herself what answer she should make to what was coming.
"That it depended on you," he repeated. "I meant to say...I meant to say...I came for this...to be my wife!" he brought out, not knowing what he was saying; but feeling that the most terrible thing was said, he stopped short and looked at her...
She was breathing heavily, not looking at him. She was feeling ecstasy. Her soul was flooded with happiness. She had never anticipated that the utterance of love would produce such a powerful effect on her. But it lasted only an instant. She remembered Vronsky. She lifted her clear, truthful eyes, and seeing his desperate face, she answered hastily:
"That cannot be...forgive me."
A moment ago, and how close she had been to him, of what importance in his life! And how aloof and remote from him she had become now!
"It was bound to be so," he said, not looking at her.
He bowed, and was meaning to retreat.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
As Harry passed Umbridge beside the door
As Harry passed Umbridge beside the door, their eyes met. There was a nasty smile playing around her wide, slack mouth, but he did not care. Unless he was very much mistaken (and he was not planning on telling anybody, in case he was), he had just achieved an ‘Outstanding’ OWL.
On Friday, Harry and Ron had a day off while Hermione sat her Ancient Runes exam, and as they had the whole weekend in front of them they permitted themselves a break from revision. They stretched and yawned beside the open window, through which warm summer air was wafting as they played wizard chess. Harry could see Hagrid in the distance, teaching a class on the edge of the Forest. He was trying to guess what creatures they were examining—he thought it must be unicorns, because the boys seemed to be standing back a little—when the portrait hole opened and Hermione clambered in, looking thoroughly bad-tempered.
‘How were the Runes?’ said Ron, yawning and stretching.
‘I mis-translated ehwaz,’ said Hermione furiously. ‘It means partnership, not defence,I mixed it up with eihwaz.’
‘Ah well,’ said Ron lazily, ‘that's only one mistake, isn't it, you'll still get—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Hermione angrily. ‘It could be the one mistake that makes the difference between a pass and a fail. And what's more, someone's put another Niffler in Umbridge's office. I don't know how they got it through that new door, but I just walked past there and Umbridge is shrieking her head off—by the sound of it, it tried to take a chunk out of her leg—’
‘Good,’ said Harry and Ron together.
‘It is not good!’ said Hermione hotly. ‘She thinks it's Hagrid doing it, remember? And we do not want Hagrid chucked out!’
‘He's teaching at the moment; she can't blame him,’ said Harry, gesturing out of the window.
‘Oh, you're so naive sometimes, Harry. You really think Umbridge will wait for proof?’ said Hermione, who seemed determined to be in a towering temper, and she swept off towards the girls’ dormitories, banging the door behind her.
‘Such a lovely, sweet-tempered girl,’ said Ron, very quietly, prodding his queen forward to beat up one of Harry's knights.
Hermione's bad mood persisted for most of the weekend, though Harry and Ron found it quite easy to ignore as they spent most of Saturday and Sunday revising for Potions on Monday, the exam which Harry had been looking forward to least—and which he was sure would be the downfall of his ambitions to become an Auror. Sure enough, he found the written paper difficult, though he thought he might have got full marks on the question about Polyjuice Potion; he could describe its effects accurately, having taken it illegally in his second year.
The afternoon practical was not as dreadful as he had expected, it to be. With Snape absent from the proceedings, he found that he was much more relaxed than he usually was while making potions. Neville, who was sitting very near Harry, also looked happier than Harry had ever seen him during a Potions class. When Professor Marchbanks said, ‘Step away from your cauldrons, please, the examination is over,’ Harry corked his sample flask feeling that he might not have achieved a good grade but he had, with luck, avoided a fail.
‘Only four exams left,’ said Parvati Patil wearily as they headed back to Gryffindor common room.
‘Only!’ said Hermione snappishly. ‘I've got Arithmancy and it's probably the toughest subject there is!’
Nobody was foolish enough to snap back, so she was unable to vent her spleen on any of them and was reduced to telling off some first-years for giggling too loudly in the common room.
Harry was determined to perform well in Tuesday's Care of Magical Creatures exam so as not to let Hagrid down. The practical examination took place in the afternoon on the lawn on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where students were required to correctly identify the Knarl hidden among a dozen hedgehogs (the trick was to offer them all milk in turn: Knarls, highly suspicious creatures whose quills had many magical properties, generally went berserk at what they saw as an attempt to poison them); then demonstrate correct handling of a Bowtruckle; feed and clean out a Fire Crab without sustaining serious burns; and choose, from a wide selection of food, the diet they would give a sick unicorn.
On Friday, Harry and Ron had a day off while Hermione sat her Ancient Runes exam, and as they had the whole weekend in front of them they permitted themselves a break from revision. They stretched and yawned beside the open window, through which warm summer air was wafting as they played wizard chess. Harry could see Hagrid in the distance, teaching a class on the edge of the Forest. He was trying to guess what creatures they were examining—he thought it must be unicorns, because the boys seemed to be standing back a little—when the portrait hole opened and Hermione clambered in, looking thoroughly bad-tempered.
‘How were the Runes?’ said Ron, yawning and stretching.
‘I mis-translated ehwaz,’ said Hermione furiously. ‘It means partnership, not defence,I mixed it up with eihwaz.’
‘Ah well,’ said Ron lazily, ‘that's only one mistake, isn't it, you'll still get—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Hermione angrily. ‘It could be the one mistake that makes the difference between a pass and a fail. And what's more, someone's put another Niffler in Umbridge's office. I don't know how they got it through that new door, but I just walked past there and Umbridge is shrieking her head off—by the sound of it, it tried to take a chunk out of her leg—’
‘Good,’ said Harry and Ron together.
‘It is not good!’ said Hermione hotly. ‘She thinks it's Hagrid doing it, remember? And we do not want Hagrid chucked out!’
‘He's teaching at the moment; she can't blame him,’ said Harry, gesturing out of the window.
‘Oh, you're so naive sometimes, Harry. You really think Umbridge will wait for proof?’ said Hermione, who seemed determined to be in a towering temper, and she swept off towards the girls’ dormitories, banging the door behind her.
‘Such a lovely, sweet-tempered girl,’ said Ron, very quietly, prodding his queen forward to beat up one of Harry's knights.
Hermione's bad mood persisted for most of the weekend, though Harry and Ron found it quite easy to ignore as they spent most of Saturday and Sunday revising for Potions on Monday, the exam which Harry had been looking forward to least—and which he was sure would be the downfall of his ambitions to become an Auror. Sure enough, he found the written paper difficult, though he thought he might have got full marks on the question about Polyjuice Potion; he could describe its effects accurately, having taken it illegally in his second year.
The afternoon practical was not as dreadful as he had expected, it to be. With Snape absent from the proceedings, he found that he was much more relaxed than he usually was while making potions. Neville, who was sitting very near Harry, also looked happier than Harry had ever seen him during a Potions class. When Professor Marchbanks said, ‘Step away from your cauldrons, please, the examination is over,’ Harry corked his sample flask feeling that he might not have achieved a good grade but he had, with luck, avoided a fail.
‘Only four exams left,’ said Parvati Patil wearily as they headed back to Gryffindor common room.
‘Only!’ said Hermione snappishly. ‘I've got Arithmancy and it's probably the toughest subject there is!’
Nobody was foolish enough to snap back, so she was unable to vent her spleen on any of them and was reduced to telling off some first-years for giggling too loudly in the common room.
Harry was determined to perform well in Tuesday's Care of Magical Creatures exam so as not to let Hagrid down. The practical examination took place in the afternoon on the lawn on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where students were required to correctly identify the Knarl hidden among a dozen hedgehogs (the trick was to offer them all milk in turn: Knarls, highly suspicious creatures whose quills had many magical properties, generally went berserk at what they saw as an attempt to poison them); then demonstrate correct handling of a Bowtruckle; feed and clean out a Fire Crab without sustaining serious burns; and choose, from a wide selection of food, the diet they would give a sick unicorn.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
‘It seems so,’ said Snape coolly.
‘It seems so,’ said Snape coolly.
‘How do you know?’ said Harry urgently. ‘Is this just Professor Dumbledore guessing, or— ?’
‘I told you,’ said Snape, rigid in his chair, his eyes slits, ‘to call me “sir".
‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry impatiently, ‘but how do you know—'?
‘It is enough that we know,’ said Snape repressively. ‘The important point is that the Dark Lord is now aware that you are gaining access to his thoughts and feelings. He has also deduced that the process is likely to work in
reverse; that is to say, he has realised that he might be able to access your thoughts and feelings in return—’
‘And he might try and make me do things?’ asked Harry. ‘Sir?’ he added hurriedly.
‘He might,’ said Snape, sounding cold and unconcerned. ‘Which brings us back to Occlumency.’
Snape pulled out his wand from an inside pocket of his robes and Harry tensed in his chair, but Snape merely raised the wand to his temple and placed its tip into the greasy roots of his hair. When he withdrew it, some silvery
substance came away, stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer strand, which broke as he pulled the wand away from it and fell gracefully into the Pensieve, where it swirled silvery-white, neither gas nor liquid.
Twice more, Snape raised the wand to his temple and deposited the silvery substance into the stone basin, then, without offering any explanation of his behaviour, he picked up the Pensieve carefully, removed it to a shelf out
of their way and returned to face Harry with his wand held at the ready.
‘Stand up and take out your wand, Potter.’
Harry got to his feet, feeling nervous. They faced each other with the desk between them.
‘You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or defend yourself in any other way you can think of,’ said Snape.
‘And what are you going to do?’ Harry asked, eyeing Snape's wand apprehensively.
‘I am about to attempt to break into your mind,’ said Snape softly. ‘We are going to see how well you resist. I have been told that you have already shown aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse. You will find that similar
powers are needed for this ... brace yourself, now. Legilimens!’
Snape had struck before Harry was ready, before he had even begun to summon any force of resistance. The office swam in front of his eyes and vanished; image after image was racing through his mind like a flickering film
so vivid it blinded him to his surroundings.
He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle, and his heart was bursting with jealousy ... he was nine, and Ripper the bulldog was chasing him up a tree and the Dursleys were laughing below on the lawn ... he was
sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it was telling him he would do well in Slytherin ... Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face covered with thick black hair ... a hundred dementors were closing in on him beside the dark
lake ... Cho Chang was drawing nearer to him under the mistletoe ...
No, said a voice inside Harry's head, as the memory of Cho drew nearer, you're not watching that, you're not watching it, it's private—
He felt a sharp pain in his knee. Snape's office had come back into view and he realised that he had fallen to the floor; one of his knees had collided painfully with the leg of Snape's desk. He looked up at Snape, who had
lowered his wand and was rubbing his wrist. There was an angry weal there, like a scorch mark.
‘Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?’ asked Snape coolly.
‘No,’ said Harry bitterly, getting up from the floor.
‘I thought not,’ said Snape, watching him closely. ‘You let me get in too far. You lost control.’
‘Did you see everything I saw?’ Harry asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer.
‘Flashes of it,’ said Snape, his lip curling. ‘To whom did the dog belong?’
‘My Aunt Marge,’ Harry muttered, hating Snape.
‘Well, for a first attempt that was not as poor as it might have been,’ said Snape, raising his wand once more. ‘You managed to stop me eventually, though you wasted time and energy shouting. You must remain focused.
Repel me with your brain and you will not need to resort to your wand.’
‘I'm trying,’ said Harry angrily, ‘but you're not telling me how!’
‘Manners, Potter,’ said Snape dangerously. ‘Now, I want you to close your eyes.’
Harry threw him a filthy look before doing as he was told. He did not like the idea of standing there with his eyes shut while Snape faced him, carrying a wand.
‘Clear your mind, Potter,’ said Snape's cold voice. ‘Let go of all emotion ...’
But Harry's anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He could as easily detach his legs ...
‘You're not doing it, Potter ... you will need more discipline than this ... focus, now ...’
Harry tried to empty his mind, tried not to think, or remember, or feel ...
‘Let's go again ... on the count of three ... one—two—three—Legilimens!’
A great black dragon was rearing in front of him ... his father and mother were waving at him out of an enchanted mirror ... Cedric Diggory was lying on the ground with blank eyes staring at him ...
‘NOOOOOOO!’
Harry was on his knees again, his face buried in his hands, his brain aching as though someone had been trying to pull it from his skull.
‘Get up!’ said Snape sharply. ‘Get up! You are not trying, you are making no effort. You are allowing me access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!’
Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was.
‘I—am—making —an—effort,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘I told you to empty yourself of emotion!’
‘Yeah? Well, I'm finding that hard at the moment,’ Harry snarled.
‘Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!’ said Snape savagely. ‘Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be
provoked so easily—weak people, in other words—they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!’
‘I am not weak,’ said Harry in a low voice, fury now pumping through him so that he thought he might attack Snape in a moment.
‘Then prove it! Master yourself!’ spat Snape. ‘Control your anger, discipline your mind! We shall try again! Get ready, now! Legilimens!’
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‘How do you know?’ said Harry urgently. ‘Is this just Professor Dumbledore guessing, or— ?’
‘I told you,’ said Snape, rigid in his chair, his eyes slits, ‘to call me “sir".
‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry impatiently, ‘but how do you know—'?
‘It is enough that we know,’ said Snape repressively. ‘The important point is that the Dark Lord is now aware that you are gaining access to his thoughts and feelings. He has also deduced that the process is likely to work in
reverse; that is to say, he has realised that he might be able to access your thoughts and feelings in return—’
‘And he might try and make me do things?’ asked Harry. ‘Sir?’ he added hurriedly.
‘He might,’ said Snape, sounding cold and unconcerned. ‘Which brings us back to Occlumency.’
Snape pulled out his wand from an inside pocket of his robes and Harry tensed in his chair, but Snape merely raised the wand to his temple and placed its tip into the greasy roots of his hair. When he withdrew it, some silvery
substance came away, stretching from temple to wand like a thick gossamer strand, which broke as he pulled the wand away from it and fell gracefully into the Pensieve, where it swirled silvery-white, neither gas nor liquid.
Twice more, Snape raised the wand to his temple and deposited the silvery substance into the stone basin, then, without offering any explanation of his behaviour, he picked up the Pensieve carefully, removed it to a shelf out
of their way and returned to face Harry with his wand held at the ready.
‘Stand up and take out your wand, Potter.’
Harry got to his feet, feeling nervous. They faced each other with the desk between them.
‘You may use your wand to attempt to disarm me, or defend yourself in any other way you can think of,’ said Snape.
‘And what are you going to do?’ Harry asked, eyeing Snape's wand apprehensively.
‘I am about to attempt to break into your mind,’ said Snape softly. ‘We are going to see how well you resist. I have been told that you have already shown aptitude at resisting the Imperius Curse. You will find that similar
powers are needed for this ... brace yourself, now. Legilimens!’
Snape had struck before Harry was ready, before he had even begun to summon any force of resistance. The office swam in front of his eyes and vanished; image after image was racing through his mind like a flickering film
so vivid it blinded him to his surroundings.
He was five, watching Dudley riding a new red bicycle, and his heart was bursting with jealousy ... he was nine, and Ripper the bulldog was chasing him up a tree and the Dursleys were laughing below on the lawn ... he was
sitting under the Sorting Hat, and it was telling him he would do well in Slytherin ... Hermione was lying in the hospital wing, her face covered with thick black hair ... a hundred dementors were closing in on him beside the dark
lake ... Cho Chang was drawing nearer to him under the mistletoe ...
No, said a voice inside Harry's head, as the memory of Cho drew nearer, you're not watching that, you're not watching it, it's private—
He felt a sharp pain in his knee. Snape's office had come back into view and he realised that he had fallen to the floor; one of his knees had collided painfully with the leg of Snape's desk. He looked up at Snape, who had
lowered his wand and was rubbing his wrist. There was an angry weal there, like a scorch mark.
‘Did you mean to produce a Stinging Hex?’ asked Snape coolly.
‘No,’ said Harry bitterly, getting up from the floor.
‘I thought not,’ said Snape, watching him closely. ‘You let me get in too far. You lost control.’
‘Did you see everything I saw?’ Harry asked, unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer.
‘Flashes of it,’ said Snape, his lip curling. ‘To whom did the dog belong?’
‘My Aunt Marge,’ Harry muttered, hating Snape.
‘Well, for a first attempt that was not as poor as it might have been,’ said Snape, raising his wand once more. ‘You managed to stop me eventually, though you wasted time and energy shouting. You must remain focused.
Repel me with your brain and you will not need to resort to your wand.’
‘I'm trying,’ said Harry angrily, ‘but you're not telling me how!’
‘Manners, Potter,’ said Snape dangerously. ‘Now, I want you to close your eyes.’
Harry threw him a filthy look before doing as he was told. He did not like the idea of standing there with his eyes shut while Snape faced him, carrying a wand.
‘Clear your mind, Potter,’ said Snape's cold voice. ‘Let go of all emotion ...’
But Harry's anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He could as easily detach his legs ...
‘You're not doing it, Potter ... you will need more discipline than this ... focus, now ...’
Harry tried to empty his mind, tried not to think, or remember, or feel ...
‘Let's go again ... on the count of three ... one—two—three—Legilimens!’
A great black dragon was rearing in front of him ... his father and mother were waving at him out of an enchanted mirror ... Cedric Diggory was lying on the ground with blank eyes staring at him ...
‘NOOOOOOO!’
Harry was on his knees again, his face buried in his hands, his brain aching as though someone had been trying to pull it from his skull.
‘Get up!’ said Snape sharply. ‘Get up! You are not trying, you are making no effort. You are allowing me access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!’
Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was.
‘I—am—making —an—effort,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘I told you to empty yourself of emotion!’
‘Yeah? Well, I'm finding that hard at the moment,’ Harry snarled.
‘Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!’ said Snape savagely. ‘Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be
provoked so easily—weak people, in other words—they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!’
‘I am not weak,’ said Harry in a low voice, fury now pumping through him so that he thought he might attack Snape in a moment.
‘Then prove it! Master yourself!’ spat Snape. ‘Control your anger, discipline your mind! We shall try again! Get ready, now! Legilimens!’
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Chapter 17 Educational Decree Number Twenty-four
Chapter 17 Educational Decree Number Twenty-four
Harry felt happier for the rest of the weekend than he had done all term. He and Ron spent much of Sunday catching up with all their homework again, and although this could hardly be called fun, the last burst of autumn sunshine persisted, so rather than sitting hunched over tables in the common room they took their work outside and lounged in the shade of a large beech tree on the edge of the lake. Hermione, who of course was up to date with all her work, brought more wool outside with her and bewitched her knitting needles so that they flashed and clicked in midair beside her, producing more hats and scarves.
Knowing they were doing something to resist Umbridge and the Ministry and that he was a key part of the rebellion, gave Harry a feeling of immense satisfaction. He kept reliving Saturdays meeting in his mind: all those people, coming to him to learn Defence Against the Dark Arts ... and the looks on their faces as they had heard some of the things he had done ... and Cho praising his performance in the Triwizard Tournament—knowing all those people did not think him a lying weirdo, but someone to be admired, buoyed him up so much that he was still cheerful on Monday morning, despite the imminent prospect of all his least favourite classes.
He and Ron headed downstairs from their dormitory, discussing Angelina's idea that they were to work on a new move called the Sloth Grip Roll during that nights Quidditch practice, and not until they were halfway across the sunlit common room did they notice the addition to the room that had already attracted the attention of a small group of people.
A large sign had been affixed to the Grffindor noticeboard, so large it covered everything else on it—the lists of secondhand spellbooks for sale, the regular reminders of school rules from Argus Filch, the Quidditch team training timetable, the offers to barter certain Chocolate Frog Cards for others, the Weasleys’ latest advertisement for testers, the dates of the Hogsmeade weekends and the lost and found notices. The new sign was printed in large black letters and there was a highly official-looking seal at the bottom beside a neat and curly signature.
BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS
All student organisations, societies, teams, groups and clubs are
henceforth disbanded.
An organisation, society, team, group or club is hereby defined
as a regular meeting of three or more students.
Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor
(Professor Umbridge).
No student organisation, society, team, group or club may exist
without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.
Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an organisation,
society, team, group or club that has not been approved by
the High Inquisitor will be expelled.
The above is in accordance with Educational Decree
Number Twenty-four.
Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor
Harry and Ron read the notice over the heads of some anxious-looking second-years.
‘Does this mean they're going to shut down the Gobstones Club?’ one of them asked his friend.
‘I reckon you'll be OK with Gobstones,’ Ron said darkly, making the second-year jump. ‘I don't think we're going to be as lucky, though, do you?’ he asked Harry as the second-years hurried away.
Harry was reading the notice through again. The happiness that had filled him since Saturday was gone. His insides were pulsing with rage.
Harry felt happier for the rest of the weekend than he had done all term. He and Ron spent much of Sunday catching up with all their homework again, and although this could hardly be called fun, the last burst of autumn sunshine persisted, so rather than sitting hunched over tables in the common room they took their work outside and lounged in the shade of a large beech tree on the edge of the lake. Hermione, who of course was up to date with all her work, brought more wool outside with her and bewitched her knitting needles so that they flashed and clicked in midair beside her, producing more hats and scarves.
Knowing they were doing something to resist Umbridge and the Ministry and that he was a key part of the rebellion, gave Harry a feeling of immense satisfaction. He kept reliving Saturdays meeting in his mind: all those people, coming to him to learn Defence Against the Dark Arts ... and the looks on their faces as they had heard some of the things he had done ... and Cho praising his performance in the Triwizard Tournament—knowing all those people did not think him a lying weirdo, but someone to be admired, buoyed him up so much that he was still cheerful on Monday morning, despite the imminent prospect of all his least favourite classes.
He and Ron headed downstairs from their dormitory, discussing Angelina's idea that they were to work on a new move called the Sloth Grip Roll during that nights Quidditch practice, and not until they were halfway across the sunlit common room did they notice the addition to the room that had already attracted the attention of a small group of people.
A large sign had been affixed to the Grffindor noticeboard, so large it covered everything else on it—the lists of secondhand spellbooks for sale, the regular reminders of school rules from Argus Filch, the Quidditch team training timetable, the offers to barter certain Chocolate Frog Cards for others, the Weasleys’ latest advertisement for testers, the dates of the Hogsmeade weekends and the lost and found notices. The new sign was printed in large black letters and there was a highly official-looking seal at the bottom beside a neat and curly signature.
BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS
All student organisations, societies, teams, groups and clubs are
henceforth disbanded.
An organisation, society, team, group or club is hereby defined
as a regular meeting of three or more students.
Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor
(Professor Umbridge).
No student organisation, society, team, group or club may exist
without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor.
Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an organisation,
society, team, group or club that has not been approved by
the High Inquisitor will be expelled.
The above is in accordance with Educational Decree
Number Twenty-four.
Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor
Harry and Ron read the notice over the heads of some anxious-looking second-years.
‘Does this mean they're going to shut down the Gobstones Club?’ one of them asked his friend.
‘I reckon you'll be OK with Gobstones,’ Ron said darkly, making the second-year jump. ‘I don't think we're going to be as lucky, though, do you?’ he asked Harry as the second-years hurried away.
Harry was reading the notice through again. The happiness that had filled him since Saturday was gone. His insides were pulsing with rage.
Monday, November 15, 2010
She let go of him and said breathlessly
She let go of him and said breathlessly, ‘Well, what will it be? We gave Percy an owl, but you've already got one, of course.’
‘W-what do you mean?’ said Ron, looking as though he did not dare believe his ears.
‘You've got to have a reward for this!’ said Mrs. Weasley fondly. ‘How about a nice new set of dress robes?’
‘We've already bought him some,’ said Fred sourly, who looked as though he sincerely regretted this generosity.
‘Or a new cauldron, Charlie's old one's rusting through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers—’
‘Mum,’ said Ron hopefully, ‘can I have a new broom?’
Mrs. Weasley's face fell slightly; broomsticks were expensive.
‘Not a really good one!’ Ron hastened to add. ‘Just—just a new one for a change...’
Mrs. Weasley hesitated, then smiled.
‘Of course you can.... Well, I'd better get going if I've got a broom to buy too. I'll see you all later.... Little Ronnie, a prefect! And don't forget to pack your trunks.... A prefect... Oh, I'm all of a dither!’
She gave Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffed loudly, and bustled from the room.
Fred and George exchanged looks.
‘You don't mind if we don't kiss you, do you, Ron?’ said Fred in a falsely anxious voice.
‘We could curtsey, if you like,’ said George.
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ron, scowling at them.
‘Or what?’ said Fred, an evil grin spreading across his face. ‘Going to put us in detention?’
‘I'd love to see him try,’ sniggered George.
‘He could if you don't watch out!’ said Hermione angrily.
Fred and George burst out laughing, and Ron muttered, ‘Drop it, Hermione.’
‘We're going to have to watch our step, George,’ said Fred, pretending to tremble, ‘with these two on our case....’
‘Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally over,’ said George, shaking his head.
And with another loud crack, the twins Disapparated.
‘Those two!’ said Hermione furiously, staring up at the ceiling, through which they could now hear Fred and George roaring with laughter in the room upstairs. ‘Don't pay any attention to them, Ron, they're only jealous!’
‘I don't think they are,’ said Ron doubtfully, also looking up at the ceiling. They've always said only prats become prefects.... Still,’ he added on a happier note, ‘they've never had new brooms! I wish I could go with Mum and choose.... She'll never be able to afford a Nimbus, but there's the new Cleansweep out, that'd be great.... Yeah, I think I'll go and tell her I like the Cleansweep, just so she knows....’
He dashed from the room, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.
For some reason, Harry found he did not want to look at Hermione. He turned to his bed, picked up the pile of clean robes Mrs. Weasley had laid on it and crossed the room to his trunk.
‘Harry?’ said Hermione tentatively.
‘Well done, Hermione,’ said Harry, so heartily it did not sound like his voice at all, and, still not looking at her, ‘brilliant. Prefect. Great.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hermione. ‘Erm—Harry—could I borrow Hedwig so I can tell Mum and Dad? They'll be really pleased—I mean prefect is something they can understand.’
‘Yeah, no problem,’ said Harry, still in the horrible hearty voice that did not belong to him. ‘Take her!’
He leaned over his trunk, laid the robes on the bottom of it and pretended to be rummaging for something while Hermione crossed to the wardrobe and called Hedwig down. A few moments passed; Harry heard the door close but remained bent double, listening; the only sounds he could hear were the blank picture on the wall sniggering again and the wastepaper basket in the corner coughing up the owl droppings.
He straightened up and looked behind him. Hermione had left and Hedwig had gone. Harry hurried across the room, closed the door, then returned slowly to his bed and sank on to it, gazing unseeingly at the foot of the wardrobe.
He had forgotten completely about prefects being chosen in the fifth year. He had been too anxious about the possibility of being expelled to spare a thought for the fact that badges must be winging their way towards certain people. But if he had remembered ... if he had thought about it ... what would he have expected?
Not this, said a small and truthful voice inside his head.
Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands. He could not lie to himself; if he had known the prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected it to come to him, not Ron. Did this make him as arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself superior to everyone else? Did he really believe he was better than Ron?
No, said the small voice defiantly.
Was that true? Harry wondered, anxiously probing his own feelings.
‘W-what do you mean?’ said Ron, looking as though he did not dare believe his ears.
‘You've got to have a reward for this!’ said Mrs. Weasley fondly. ‘How about a nice new set of dress robes?’
‘We've already bought him some,’ said Fred sourly, who looked as though he sincerely regretted this generosity.
‘Or a new cauldron, Charlie's old one's rusting through, or a new rat, you always liked Scabbers—’
‘Mum,’ said Ron hopefully, ‘can I have a new broom?’
Mrs. Weasley's face fell slightly; broomsticks were expensive.
‘Not a really good one!’ Ron hastened to add. ‘Just—just a new one for a change...’
Mrs. Weasley hesitated, then smiled.
‘Of course you can.... Well, I'd better get going if I've got a broom to buy too. I'll see you all later.... Little Ronnie, a prefect! And don't forget to pack your trunks.... A prefect... Oh, I'm all of a dither!’
She gave Ron yet another kiss on the cheek, sniffed loudly, and bustled from the room.
Fred and George exchanged looks.
‘You don't mind if we don't kiss you, do you, Ron?’ said Fred in a falsely anxious voice.
‘We could curtsey, if you like,’ said George.
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ron, scowling at them.
‘Or what?’ said Fred, an evil grin spreading across his face. ‘Going to put us in detention?’
‘I'd love to see him try,’ sniggered George.
‘He could if you don't watch out!’ said Hermione angrily.
Fred and George burst out laughing, and Ron muttered, ‘Drop it, Hermione.’
‘We're going to have to watch our step, George,’ said Fred, pretending to tremble, ‘with these two on our case....’
‘Yeah, it looks like our law-breaking days are finally over,’ said George, shaking his head.
And with another loud crack, the twins Disapparated.
‘Those two!’ said Hermione furiously, staring up at the ceiling, through which they could now hear Fred and George roaring with laughter in the room upstairs. ‘Don't pay any attention to them, Ron, they're only jealous!’
‘I don't think they are,’ said Ron doubtfully, also looking up at the ceiling. They've always said only prats become prefects.... Still,’ he added on a happier note, ‘they've never had new brooms! I wish I could go with Mum and choose.... She'll never be able to afford a Nimbus, but there's the new Cleansweep out, that'd be great.... Yeah, I think I'll go and tell her I like the Cleansweep, just so she knows....’
He dashed from the room, leaving Harry and Hermione alone.
For some reason, Harry found he did not want to look at Hermione. He turned to his bed, picked up the pile of clean robes Mrs. Weasley had laid on it and crossed the room to his trunk.
‘Harry?’ said Hermione tentatively.
‘Well done, Hermione,’ said Harry, so heartily it did not sound like his voice at all, and, still not looking at her, ‘brilliant. Prefect. Great.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hermione. ‘Erm—Harry—could I borrow Hedwig so I can tell Mum and Dad? They'll be really pleased—I mean prefect is something they can understand.’
‘Yeah, no problem,’ said Harry, still in the horrible hearty voice that did not belong to him. ‘Take her!’
He leaned over his trunk, laid the robes on the bottom of it and pretended to be rummaging for something while Hermione crossed to the wardrobe and called Hedwig down. A few moments passed; Harry heard the door close but remained bent double, listening; the only sounds he could hear were the blank picture on the wall sniggering again and the wastepaper basket in the corner coughing up the owl droppings.
He straightened up and looked behind him. Hermione had left and Hedwig had gone. Harry hurried across the room, closed the door, then returned slowly to his bed and sank on to it, gazing unseeingly at the foot of the wardrobe.
He had forgotten completely about prefects being chosen in the fifth year. He had been too anxious about the possibility of being expelled to spare a thought for the fact that badges must be winging their way towards certain people. But if he had remembered ... if he had thought about it ... what would he have expected?
Not this, said a small and truthful voice inside his head.
Harry screwed up his face and buried it in his hands. He could not lie to himself; if he had known the prefect badge was on its way, he would have expected it to come to him, not Ron. Did this make him as arrogant as Draco Malfoy? Did he think himself superior to everyone else? Did he really believe he was better than Ron?
No, said the small voice defiantly.
Was that true? Harry wondered, anxiously probing his own feelings.
‘Oh, Mum's going to be revolting,’
‘Oh, Mum's going to be revolting,’ groaned George, thrusting the prefect badge back at Ron as though it might contaminate him.
Ron, who still had not said a word, took the badge, stared at it for a moment, then held it out to Harry as though asking mutely for confirmation that it was genuine. Harry took it. A large ‘P’ was superimposed on the Gryffindor lion. He had seen a badge just like this on Percy's chest on his very first day at Hogwarts.
The door banged open. Hermione came tearing into the room, her cheeks flushed and her hair flying. There was an envelope in her hand.
‘Did you—did you get—?’
She spotted the badge in Harry's hand and let out a shriek.
‘I knew it!’ she said excitedly, brandishing her letter. ‘Me too, Harry, me too!’
‘No,’ said Harry quickly, pushing the badge back into Ron's hand. ‘It's Ron, not me.’
‘It—what?’
‘Ron's prefect, not me,’ Harry said.
‘Ron?’ said Hermione, her jaw dropping. ‘But ... are you sure? I mean—’
She turned red as Ron looked round at her with a defiant expression on his lace.
‘It's my name on the letter,’ he said.
‘I....’ said Hermione, looking thoroughly bewildered. ‘I ... well ... wow! Well done, Ron! That's really—’
‘Unexpected,’ said George, nodding.
‘No,’ said Hermione, blushing harder than ever, ‘no it's not ... Ron's done loads of ... he's really...’
The door behind her opened a little wider and Mrs. Weasley backed into the room carrying a pile of freshly laundered robes.
‘Ginny said the booklists had come at last,’ she said, glancing around at all the envelopes as she made her way over to the bed and started sorting the robes into two piles. ‘If you give them to me I'll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while you're packing. Ron, I'll have to get you more pyjamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can't believe how fast you're growing ... what colour would you like?’
‘Get him red and gold to match his badge,’ said George, smirking.
‘Match his what?’ said Mrs. Weasley absently, rolling up a pair of maroon socks and placing them on Ron's pile.
‘His badge,’ said Fred, with the air of getting the worst over quickly. ‘His lovely shiny new prefect's badge.’
Fred's words took a moment to penetrate Mrs. Weasley's preoccupation with pyjamas.
‘His ... but ... Ron, you're not...?’
Ron held up his badge.
Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek just like Hermione's.
‘I don't believe it! I don't believe it! Oh, Ron, how wonderful! A prefect! That's everyone in the family!’
‘What are Fred and I, next-door neighbours?’ said George indignantly, as his mother pushed him aside and flung her arms around her youngest son.
‘Wait until your father hears! Ron, I'm so proud of you, what wonderful news, you could end up Head Boy just like Bill and Percy, it's the first step! Oh, what a thing to happen in the middle of all this worry, I'm just thrilled, oh, Ronnie—’
Fred and George were both making loud retching noises behind her back but Mrs. Weasley did not notice; arms tight around Ron's neck, she was kissing him all over his face, which had turned a brighter scarlet than his badge.
‘Mum ... don't ... Mum, get a grip....’ he muttered, trying to push her away.
Ron, who still had not said a word, took the badge, stared at it for a moment, then held it out to Harry as though asking mutely for confirmation that it was genuine. Harry took it. A large ‘P’ was superimposed on the Gryffindor lion. He had seen a badge just like this on Percy's chest on his very first day at Hogwarts.
The door banged open. Hermione came tearing into the room, her cheeks flushed and her hair flying. There was an envelope in her hand.
‘Did you—did you get—?’
She spotted the badge in Harry's hand and let out a shriek.
‘I knew it!’ she said excitedly, brandishing her letter. ‘Me too, Harry, me too!’
‘No,’ said Harry quickly, pushing the badge back into Ron's hand. ‘It's Ron, not me.’
‘It—what?’
‘Ron's prefect, not me,’ Harry said.
‘Ron?’ said Hermione, her jaw dropping. ‘But ... are you sure? I mean—’
She turned red as Ron looked round at her with a defiant expression on his lace.
‘It's my name on the letter,’ he said.
‘I....’ said Hermione, looking thoroughly bewildered. ‘I ... well ... wow! Well done, Ron! That's really—’
‘Unexpected,’ said George, nodding.
‘No,’ said Hermione, blushing harder than ever, ‘no it's not ... Ron's done loads of ... he's really...’
The door behind her opened a little wider and Mrs. Weasley backed into the room carrying a pile of freshly laundered robes.
‘Ginny said the booklists had come at last,’ she said, glancing around at all the envelopes as she made her way over to the bed and started sorting the robes into two piles. ‘If you give them to me I'll take them over to Diagon Alley this afternoon and get your books while you're packing. Ron, I'll have to get you more pyjamas, these are at least six inches too short, I can't believe how fast you're growing ... what colour would you like?’
‘Get him red and gold to match his badge,’ said George, smirking.
‘Match his what?’ said Mrs. Weasley absently, rolling up a pair of maroon socks and placing them on Ron's pile.
‘His badge,’ said Fred, with the air of getting the worst over quickly. ‘His lovely shiny new prefect's badge.’
Fred's words took a moment to penetrate Mrs. Weasley's preoccupation with pyjamas.
‘His ... but ... Ron, you're not...?’
Ron held up his badge.
Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek just like Hermione's.
‘I don't believe it! I don't believe it! Oh, Ron, how wonderful! A prefect! That's everyone in the family!’
‘What are Fred and I, next-door neighbours?’ said George indignantly, as his mother pushed him aside and flung her arms around her youngest son.
‘Wait until your father hears! Ron, I'm so proud of you, what wonderful news, you could end up Head Boy just like Bill and Percy, it's the first step! Oh, what a thing to happen in the middle of all this worry, I'm just thrilled, oh, Ronnie—’
Fred and George were both making loud retching noises behind her back but Mrs. Weasley did not notice; arms tight around Ron's neck, she was kissing him all over his face, which had turned a brighter scarlet than his badge.
‘Mum ... don't ... Mum, get a grip....’ he muttered, trying to push her away.
On the very last day of the holidays Harry
On the very last day of the holidays Harry was sweeping up Hedwig's owl droppings from the top of the wardrobe when Ron entered their bedroom carrying a couple of envelopes.
‘Booklists have arrived,’ he said, throwing one of the envelopes up to Harry, who was standing on a chair. ‘About time, I thought they'd forgotten, they usually come much earlier than this....’
Harry swept the last of the droppings into a rubbish bag and threw the bag over Ron's head into the wastepaper basket in the corner, which swallowed it and belched loudly. He then opened his letter. It contained two pieces of parchment: one the usual reminder that term started on the first of September; the other telling him which books he would need for the coming year.
‘Only two new ones,’ he said, reading the list, ‘The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, by Miranda Goshawk, and Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard.’
Crack.
Fred and George Apparated right beside Harry. He was so used to them doing this by now that he didn't even fall off his chair.
‘We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard book,’ said Fred conversationally.
‘Because it means Dumbledore's found a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,’ said George.
‘And about time too,’ said Fred.
‘What d'you mean?’ Harry asked, jumping down beside them.
Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the Extendable Ears a few weeks back,’ Fred told Harry, ‘and from what they were saying, Dumbledore was having real trouble finding anyone to do the job this year.’
‘Not surprising, is it, when you look at what's happened to the last four?’ said George.
‘One sacked, one dead, one's memory removed, and one locked in a trunk for nine months,’ said Harry, counting them off on his fingers. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’
‘What's up with you, Ron?’ asked Fred.
Ron did not answer. Harry looked round. Ron was standing very still with his mouth slightly open, gaping at his letter from Hogwarts.
‘What's the matter?’ said Fred impatiently, moving around Ron to look over his shoulder at the parchment.
Fred's mouth fell open, too.
‘Prefect?’ he said, staring incredulously at the letter. ‘Prefect?’
George leapt forward, seized the envelope in Ron's other hand and turned it upside-down. Harry saw something scarlet and gold fall into George's palm.
‘No way,’ said George in a hushed voice.
‘There's been a mistake,’ said Fred, snatching the letter out of Ron's grasp and holding it up to the light as though checking for a watermark. ‘No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect.’
The twins’ heads turned in unison and both of them stared at Harry.
‘We thought you were a cert!’ said Fred, in a tone that suggested Harry had tricked them in some way.
‘We thought Dumbledore was bound to pick you!’ said George indignantly.
‘Winning the Triwizard and everything!’ said Fred.
‘I suppose all the mad stuff must've counted against him,’ said George to Fred.
‘Yeah,’ said Fred slowly. ‘Yeah, you've caused too much trouble, mate. Well, at least one of you's got their priorities right.’
He strode over to Harry and clapped him on the back while giving Ron a scathing look.
‘Prefect ... ickle Ronnie the prefect...’
‘Booklists have arrived,’ he said, throwing one of the envelopes up to Harry, who was standing on a chair. ‘About time, I thought they'd forgotten, they usually come much earlier than this....’
Harry swept the last of the droppings into a rubbish bag and threw the bag over Ron's head into the wastepaper basket in the corner, which swallowed it and belched loudly. He then opened his letter. It contained two pieces of parchment: one the usual reminder that term started on the first of September; the other telling him which books he would need for the coming year.
‘Only two new ones,’ he said, reading the list, ‘The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, by Miranda Goshawk, and Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard.’
Crack.
Fred and George Apparated right beside Harry. He was so used to them doing this by now that he didn't even fall off his chair.
‘We were just wondering who assigned the Slinkhard book,’ said Fred conversationally.
‘Because it means Dumbledore's found a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,’ said George.
‘And about time too,’ said Fred.
‘What d'you mean?’ Harry asked, jumping down beside them.
Well, we overheard Mum and Dad talking on the Extendable Ears a few weeks back,’ Fred told Harry, ‘and from what they were saying, Dumbledore was having real trouble finding anyone to do the job this year.’
‘Not surprising, is it, when you look at what's happened to the last four?’ said George.
‘One sacked, one dead, one's memory removed, and one locked in a trunk for nine months,’ said Harry, counting them off on his fingers. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’
‘What's up with you, Ron?’ asked Fred.
Ron did not answer. Harry looked round. Ron was standing very still with his mouth slightly open, gaping at his letter from Hogwarts.
‘What's the matter?’ said Fred impatiently, moving around Ron to look over his shoulder at the parchment.
Fred's mouth fell open, too.
‘Prefect?’ he said, staring incredulously at the letter. ‘Prefect?’
George leapt forward, seized the envelope in Ron's other hand and turned it upside-down. Harry saw something scarlet and gold fall into George's palm.
‘No way,’ said George in a hushed voice.
‘There's been a mistake,’ said Fred, snatching the letter out of Ron's grasp and holding it up to the light as though checking for a watermark. ‘No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect.’
The twins’ heads turned in unison and both of them stared at Harry.
‘We thought you were a cert!’ said Fred, in a tone that suggested Harry had tricked them in some way.
‘We thought Dumbledore was bound to pick you!’ said George indignantly.
‘Winning the Triwizard and everything!’ said Fred.
‘I suppose all the mad stuff must've counted against him,’ said George to Fred.
‘Yeah,’ said Fred slowly. ‘Yeah, you've caused too much trouble, mate. Well, at least one of you's got their priorities right.’
He strode over to Harry and clapped him on the back while giving Ron a scathing look.
‘Prefect ... ickle Ronnie the prefect...’
Sunday, November 14, 2010
About You-Know-Who. He said his
‘“gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust—” ’
‘How do you remember stuff like that?’ asked Ron, looking at her in admiration.
‘I listen, Ron,’ said Hermione, with a touch of asperity.
‘So do I, but I still couldn't tell you exactly what—’
‘The point,’ Hermione pressed on loudly, ‘is that this sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. You-Know-Who's only been back two months and we've already started fighting among ourselves. And the
Sorting Hat's warning was the same: stand together, be united—’
‘And Harry got it right last night,’ retorted Ron. ‘If that means we're supposed to get matey with the Slytherins—fat chance.’
‘Well, I think it's a pity we're not trying for a bit of inter-house unity,’ said Hermione crossly.
They had reached the foot of the marble staircase. A line of fourth-year Ravenclaws was crossing the Entrance Hall; they caught sight of Harry and hurried to form a tighter group, as though frightened he might attack
stragglers.
‘Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like that,’ said Harry sarcastically.
They followed the Ravenclaws into the Great Hall, all looking instinctively at the staff table as they entered. Professor Grubbly-Plank was chatting to Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, and Hagrid was once again
conspicuous only by his absence. The enchanted ceiling above them echoed Harry's mood; it was a miserable rain-cloud grey.
‘Dumbledore didn't even mention how long that Grubbly-Plank woman's staying,’ he said, as they made their way across to the Gryffindor table.
‘Maybe ...’ said Hermione thoughtfully.
‘What?’ said both Harry and Ron together.
‘Well ... maybe he didn't want to draw attention to Hagrid not being here.’
‘What d'you mean, draw attention to it?’ said Ron, half-laughing. ‘How could we not notice?’
Before Hermione could answer, a tall black girl with long braided hair had marched up to Harry.
‘Hi, Angelina.’
‘Hi,’ she said briskly, ‘good summer?’ And without waiting for an answer, ‘Listen, I've been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.’
‘Nice one,’ said Harry, grinning at her; he suspected Angelina's pep talks might not be as long-winded as Oliver Wood's had been, which could only be an improvement.
‘Yeah, well, we need a new Keeper now Oliver's left. Tryouts are on Friday at five o'clock and I want the whole team there, all right? Then we can see how the new person'll fit in.’
‘OK,’ said Harry.
Angelina smiled at him and departed.
‘I'd forgotten Wood had left,’ said Hermione vaguely as she sat down beside Ron and pulled a plate of toast towards her. ‘I suppose that will make quite a difference to the team?’
‘I s'pose,’ said Harry, taking the bench opposite. ‘He was a good Keeper ...’
‘Still, it won't hurt to have some new blood, will it?’ said Ron.
With a whoosh and a clatter, hundreds of owls came soaring in through the upper windows. They descended all over the Hall, bringing letters and packages to their owners and showering the breakfasters with droplets of
water; it was clearly raining hard outside. Hedwig was nowhere to be seen, but Harry was hardly surprised; his only correspondent was Sirius, and he doubted Sirius would have anything new to tell him after only twenty-four
hours apart. Hermione, however, had to move her orange juice aside quickly to make way gor a large damp barn owl bearing a sodden Daily Prophet in its beak.
‘What are you still getting that for?’ said Harry irritably, thinking of Seamus as Hermione placed a Knut in the leather pouch on the owl's leg and it took off again. ‘I'm not bothering ... load of rubbish.’
‘It's best to know what the enemy is saying,’ said Hermione darkly, and she unfurled the newspaper and disappeared behind it, not emerging until Harry and Ron had finished eating.
‘Nothing,’ she said simply, rolling up the newspaper and laying it down by her plate. ‘Nothing about you or Dumbledore or anything.’
Professor McGonagall was now moving along the table handing out timetables.
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‘How do you remember stuff like that?’ asked Ron, looking at her in admiration.
‘I listen, Ron,’ said Hermione, with a touch of asperity.
‘So do I, but I still couldn't tell you exactly what—’
‘The point,’ Hermione pressed on loudly, ‘is that this sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. You-Know-Who's only been back two months and we've already started fighting among ourselves. And the
Sorting Hat's warning was the same: stand together, be united—’
‘And Harry got it right last night,’ retorted Ron. ‘If that means we're supposed to get matey with the Slytherins—fat chance.’
‘Well, I think it's a pity we're not trying for a bit of inter-house unity,’ said Hermione crossly.
They had reached the foot of the marble staircase. A line of fourth-year Ravenclaws was crossing the Entrance Hall; they caught sight of Harry and hurried to form a tighter group, as though frightened he might attack
stragglers.
‘Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like that,’ said Harry sarcastically.
They followed the Ravenclaws into the Great Hall, all looking instinctively at the staff table as they entered. Professor Grubbly-Plank was chatting to Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, and Hagrid was once again
conspicuous only by his absence. The enchanted ceiling above them echoed Harry's mood; it was a miserable rain-cloud grey.
‘Dumbledore didn't even mention how long that Grubbly-Plank woman's staying,’ he said, as they made their way across to the Gryffindor table.
‘Maybe ...’ said Hermione thoughtfully.
‘What?’ said both Harry and Ron together.
‘Well ... maybe he didn't want to draw attention to Hagrid not being here.’
‘What d'you mean, draw attention to it?’ said Ron, half-laughing. ‘How could we not notice?’
Before Hermione could answer, a tall black girl with long braided hair had marched up to Harry.
‘Hi, Angelina.’
‘Hi,’ she said briskly, ‘good summer?’ And without waiting for an answer, ‘Listen, I've been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.’
‘Nice one,’ said Harry, grinning at her; he suspected Angelina's pep talks might not be as long-winded as Oliver Wood's had been, which could only be an improvement.
‘Yeah, well, we need a new Keeper now Oliver's left. Tryouts are on Friday at five o'clock and I want the whole team there, all right? Then we can see how the new person'll fit in.’
‘OK,’ said Harry.
Angelina smiled at him and departed.
‘I'd forgotten Wood had left,’ said Hermione vaguely as she sat down beside Ron and pulled a plate of toast towards her. ‘I suppose that will make quite a difference to the team?’
‘I s'pose,’ said Harry, taking the bench opposite. ‘He was a good Keeper ...’
‘Still, it won't hurt to have some new blood, will it?’ said Ron.
With a whoosh and a clatter, hundreds of owls came soaring in through the upper windows. They descended all over the Hall, bringing letters and packages to their owners and showering the breakfasters with droplets of
water; it was clearly raining hard outside. Hedwig was nowhere to be seen, but Harry was hardly surprised; his only correspondent was Sirius, and he doubted Sirius would have anything new to tell him after only twenty-four
hours apart. Hermione, however, had to move her orange juice aside quickly to make way gor a large damp barn owl bearing a sodden Daily Prophet in its beak.
‘What are you still getting that for?’ said Harry irritably, thinking of Seamus as Hermione placed a Knut in the leather pouch on the owl's leg and it took off again. ‘I'm not bothering ... load of rubbish.’
‘It's best to know what the enemy is saying,’ said Hermione darkly, and she unfurled the newspaper and disappeared behind it, not emerging until Harry and Ron had finished eating.
‘Nothing,’ she said simply, rolling up the newspaper and laying it down by her plate. ‘Nothing about you or Dumbledore or anything.’
Professor McGonagall was now moving along the table handing out timetables.
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