“It is the only way, Nagini,” he whispered, and he looked around, and there was the great thick snake, now suspended in midair, twisting gracefully within the enchanted, protected space he had made for her, a starry, transparent sphere somewhere between a glittering cage and a tank.
With a gasp, Harry pulled back and opened his yees at the same moment his ears were assaulted with the screeches and cries, the smashes and bangs of battle.
“He’s in the Shrieking Shack. The snake’s with him, it’s got some sort of magical protection around it. He’s just sent Lucius Malfoy to find Snape.”
“Voldemort’s sitting in the shrieking Shack?” said Hermione, outraged. “He’s not – he’s not even FIGHTING?”
“He doesn’t think he needs to fight,” said Harry. “He thinks I’m going to go to him.”
“But why?”
“He knows I’m after Horcruxes – he’s keeping Nagini close beside him – obviously I’m going to have to go to him to get near the thing–”
“Right,” said Ron, squaring his shoulders. “So you can’t go, that’s what he wants, what he’s expecting. You stay here and look after Hermione, and I’ll go and get it–” Harry cut across Ron.
“You two stay here, I’ll go under the Cloak and I’ll be back as soon as I–”
“No,” said Hermione,, “it makes much more sense if I take the Cloak and–”
“Don’t even think about it,” Ron snarled at her. before Hermione could get farther than “Ron, I’m just as capable – The tapestry at the top of the staircase on which they stood was ripped open.
“POTTER!”
Two masked Death Eaters stood there, but even before their wands were fully raised, Hermione shouted “Glisseo!”
The stairs beneath their feet flattened into a chute and she, Harry, and Ron hurtled down it, unable to control their speed but so fast that the Death Eaters’ Stunning Spells flew far over their heads. They shot through the concealing tapestry at the bottom and spun onto the floor, hitting the opposite wall.
“Duro!” cried Hermione, pointing her wand at the tapestry, and there were two loud, sickening crunches as the tapestry turned to stone and the Death Eaters pursuing them crumpled against it.
“Get back!” shouted Ron, and he, Harry, and Hermione hurled themselves against a door as a herd of galloping desks thundered past, shepherded by a sprinting Professor McGonagall. She appeared not to notice them. Her hair had come down and there was a gash on her cheek. As she turned the corner, they heard her scream,
“CHARGE!”
“Harry, you get the Cloak on,” said Hermione. “Never mind us–”
But he threw it over all three of them; large though they were he doubted anyone would see their disembodied feet through the dust that clogged the air, the falling stone, the shimmer of spells. they ran down the next staircase and found themselves in a corridor full of duelers. The portraits on either side of the fighters were crammed with figures screaming advice and encouragement, while Death Eaters, both masked and unmasked, dueled students and teachers. Dean had won himself a wand, for he was face-to-face with Dolohov, Parvati with Travers. Harry, Ron and Hermione raised their wands at once, ready to strike, but the duelers were weaving and darting so much that there was a strong likelihood of hurting on of their own side if they cast curses. Even as they stood braced, looking for the opportunity to act, there came a great “Wheeeeee!” and looking up, Harry saw Peeves zooming over them, dropping Snargaluff pods down onto the Death Eaters, whose heads were suddenly engulfed in wriggling green tubers like fat worms.
“ARGH!”
A fistful of tubers had hit the Cloak over Ron’s head; the damp green roots were suspended improbably in midair as Ron tried to shake them loose.
“Someone’s invisible there!” shouted a masked Death Eater, pointing.
Friday, December 3, 2010
“Ron, we’re the only ones who can end i
“Ron, we’re the only ones who can end it! Please – Ron – we need the snake, we’ve got to kill the snake!” said Hermione.
But Harry knew how Ron felt: Pursuing another Horcrux could not bring the satisfaction of revenge; he too wanted to fight, to punish them, the people who had killed Fred, and he wanted to find the other Weasleys, and above all make sure, make quite sure, that Ginny was not – but he could not permit that idea to form in his mind – “We will fight!” Hermione said. “We’ll have to, to reach the snake! But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re supposed to be d-doing! We’re the only ones who can end it!”
She was crying too, and she wiped her face on her torn and singed sleeve as she spoke, but she took great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping a tight hold on Ron, she turned to Harry.
“You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he’ll have the snake with him, won’t he? Do it, Harry – look inside him!”
Why was it so easy? Because his scar had been burning for hours, yearning to show him Voldemort’s thoughts? He closed his eyes on her command, and at once, the screams and bangs and all the discordant sounds of the battle were drowned until they became distant, as though he stood far, far away from them…
He was standing in the middle of a desolate but strangely familiar room, with peeling paper on the walls and all the windows boarded up except for one. The sounds of the assault on the castle were muffled and distant. The single unblocked window revealed distant bursts of light where the castle stood, but inside the room was dark except for a solitary oil lamp.
He was rolling his wand between his fingers, watching it, his thoughts on the room in the castle, the secret room only he had ever found, the room, like the chamber, that you had to be clever and cunning and inquisitive to discover…He was confident that the boy would not find the diadem…although Dumbledore’s puppet had come much farther than he ever expected…too far…
“My Lord,” said a voice, desperate and cracked. He turned: there was Lucius Malfoy sitting in the darkest corner, ragged and still bearing the marks of the punishment he had received after the boy’s last escape. One of his eyes remained closed and puffy. “My Lord…please…my son…”
“If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did not come and join me, like the rest of the Slytherins. Perhaps he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?”
“No – never,” whispered Malfoy. “You must hope not.”
“Aren’t – aren’t you afraid, my Lord that Potter might die at another hand but yours?” asked Malfoy, his voice shaking. “Wouldn’t it be…forgive me…more prudent to call off this battle, enter the castle, and seek him y-yourself?”
“Do not pretend Lucius. You wish the battle to cease so that you can discover what has happened to your son. And I do not need to seek Potter. Before the night is out, Potter will have come to find me.”
Voldemort dropped his gaze once more to the wand in his fingers. It troubled him…and those things that troubled Lord Voldemort needed to be rearranged…“Go and fetch Snape.”
“Snape, m-my Lord?”
“Snape. Now. I need him. There is a – service – I require from him. Go.”
Frightened, stumbling a little through the gloom, Lucius left the room. Vodlemort continued to stand there, twirling the wand between his fingers, staring at it.
But Harry knew how Ron felt: Pursuing another Horcrux could not bring the satisfaction of revenge; he too wanted to fight, to punish them, the people who had killed Fred, and he wanted to find the other Weasleys, and above all make sure, make quite sure, that Ginny was not – but he could not permit that idea to form in his mind – “We will fight!” Hermione said. “We’ll have to, to reach the snake! But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re supposed to be d-doing! We’re the only ones who can end it!”
She was crying too, and she wiped her face on her torn and singed sleeve as she spoke, but she took great heaving breaths to calm herself as, still keeping a tight hold on Ron, she turned to Harry.
“You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he’ll have the snake with him, won’t he? Do it, Harry – look inside him!”
Why was it so easy? Because his scar had been burning for hours, yearning to show him Voldemort’s thoughts? He closed his eyes on her command, and at once, the screams and bangs and all the discordant sounds of the battle were drowned until they became distant, as though he stood far, far away from them…
He was standing in the middle of a desolate but strangely familiar room, with peeling paper on the walls and all the windows boarded up except for one. The sounds of the assault on the castle were muffled and distant. The single unblocked window revealed distant bursts of light where the castle stood, but inside the room was dark except for a solitary oil lamp.
He was rolling his wand between his fingers, watching it, his thoughts on the room in the castle, the secret room only he had ever found, the room, like the chamber, that you had to be clever and cunning and inquisitive to discover…He was confident that the boy would not find the diadem…although Dumbledore’s puppet had come much farther than he ever expected…too far…
“My Lord,” said a voice, desperate and cracked. He turned: there was Lucius Malfoy sitting in the darkest corner, ragged and still bearing the marks of the punishment he had received after the boy’s last escape. One of his eyes remained closed and puffy. “My Lord…please…my son…”
“If your son is dead, Lucius, it is not my fault. He did not come and join me, like the rest of the Slytherins. Perhaps he has decided to befriend Harry Potter?”
“No – never,” whispered Malfoy. “You must hope not.”
“Aren’t – aren’t you afraid, my Lord that Potter might die at another hand but yours?” asked Malfoy, his voice shaking. “Wouldn’t it be…forgive me…more prudent to call off this battle, enter the castle, and seek him y-yourself?”
“Do not pretend Lucius. You wish the battle to cease so that you can discover what has happened to your son. And I do not need to seek Potter. Before the night is out, Potter will have come to find me.”
Voldemort dropped his gaze once more to the wand in his fingers. It troubled him…and those things that troubled Lord Voldemort needed to be rearranged…“Go and fetch Snape.”
“Snape, m-my Lord?”
“Snape. Now. I need him. There is a – service – I require from him. Go.”
Frightened, stumbling a little through the gloom, Lucius left the room. Vodlemort continued to stand there, twirling the wand between his fingers, staring at it.
Chapter 32 The Elder Wand
Chapter 32 The Elder Wand
The world had ended, so why had the battle not ceased, the castle fallen silent in horror, and every combatant laid down their arms? Harry’s mind was in free fall, spinning out of control, unable to grasp the impossibility, because Fred Weasley could not be dead, the evidence of all his senses must be lying–And then a body fell past the hole blown into the side of the school and curses flew in at them from the darkness, hitting the wall behind their heads.
“Get down!” Harry shouted, as more curses flew through the night: He and Ron had both grabbed Hermione and pulled her to the floor, but Percy lay across Fred’s body, shielding it from further harm, and when Harry shouted “Percy, come on, we’ve got to move!” he shook his head.
“Percy!” Harry saw tear tracks streaking the grime coating Ron’s face as he seized his elder brother’s shoulders and pulled, but Percy would not budge. “Percy, you can’t do anything for him! We’re going to–”
Hermione screamed, and Harry, turning, did not need to ask why. A monstrous spider the size of a small car was trying to climb through the huge hole in the wall. one of Aragog’s descendants had joined the fight.
Ron and Harry shouted together; their spells collided and the monster was blown backward, its legs jerking horribly, and vanished into the darkness.
“It brought friends!” Harry called to the others, glancing over the edge of the castle through the hole in the wall the curses had blasted. More giant spiders were climbing the side of the building, liberated from the Forbidden Forest, into which the Death Eaters must have penetrated. Harry fired Stunning Spells down upon them, knocking the lead monster into its fellows, so that they rolled back down the building and out of sight. Then more curses came soaring over Harry’s head, so close he felt the force of them blow his hair.
“Let’s move, NOW!”
Pushing Hermione ahead of him with Ron, Harry stooped to seize Fred’s body under the armpit. Percy, realizing what Harry was trying to do, stopped clinging to the body and helped: together, crouching low to avoid the curses flying at them from the grounds, they hauled Fred out of the way.
“Here,” said Harry, and they placed him in a niche where a suit of armor had stood earlier. He could not bear to look at Fred a second longer than he had to, and after making sure that the body was well-hidden, he took off after Ron and Hermione. Malfoy and Goyle had vanished but at the end of the corridor, which was now full of dust and falling masonry, glass long gone from windows, he saw many people running backward and forward, whether friends or foes he could not tell. Rounding the corner, Percy let out a bull-like roar: “ROOKWOOD!” and sprinted off in the direction of a tall man, who was pursuing a couple of students. “Harry, in here!” Hermione screamed.
She had pulled Ron behind a tapestry. They seemed to be wrestling together, and for one mad second Harry thought that they were embracing again; then he saw that Hermione was trying to restrain Ron, to stop him running after Percy.
“Listen to me – LISTEN RON!”
“I wanna help – I wanna kill Death Eaters–”
His face was contorted, smeared with dust and smoke, and he was shaking with rage and grief.
The world had ended, so why had the battle not ceased, the castle fallen silent in horror, and every combatant laid down their arms? Harry’s mind was in free fall, spinning out of control, unable to grasp the impossibility, because Fred Weasley could not be dead, the evidence of all his senses must be lying–And then a body fell past the hole blown into the side of the school and curses flew in at them from the darkness, hitting the wall behind their heads.
“Get down!” Harry shouted, as more curses flew through the night: He and Ron had both grabbed Hermione and pulled her to the floor, but Percy lay across Fred’s body, shielding it from further harm, and when Harry shouted “Percy, come on, we’ve got to move!” he shook his head.
“Percy!” Harry saw tear tracks streaking the grime coating Ron’s face as he seized his elder brother’s shoulders and pulled, but Percy would not budge. “Percy, you can’t do anything for him! We’re going to–”
Hermione screamed, and Harry, turning, did not need to ask why. A monstrous spider the size of a small car was trying to climb through the huge hole in the wall. one of Aragog’s descendants had joined the fight.
Ron and Harry shouted together; their spells collided and the monster was blown backward, its legs jerking horribly, and vanished into the darkness.
“It brought friends!” Harry called to the others, glancing over the edge of the castle through the hole in the wall the curses had blasted. More giant spiders were climbing the side of the building, liberated from the Forbidden Forest, into which the Death Eaters must have penetrated. Harry fired Stunning Spells down upon them, knocking the lead monster into its fellows, so that they rolled back down the building and out of sight. Then more curses came soaring over Harry’s head, so close he felt the force of them blow his hair.
“Let’s move, NOW!”
Pushing Hermione ahead of him with Ron, Harry stooped to seize Fred’s body under the armpit. Percy, realizing what Harry was trying to do, stopped clinging to the body and helped: together, crouching low to avoid the curses flying at them from the grounds, they hauled Fred out of the way.
“Here,” said Harry, and they placed him in a niche where a suit of armor had stood earlier. He could not bear to look at Fred a second longer than he had to, and after making sure that the body was well-hidden, he took off after Ron and Hermione. Malfoy and Goyle had vanished but at the end of the corridor, which was now full of dust and falling masonry, glass long gone from windows, he saw many people running backward and forward, whether friends or foes he could not tell. Rounding the corner, Percy let out a bull-like roar: “ROOKWOOD!” and sprinted off in the direction of a tall man, who was pursuing a couple of students. “Harry, in here!” Hermione screamed.
She had pulled Ron behind a tapestry. They seemed to be wrestling together, and for one mad second Harry thought that they were embracing again; then he saw that Hermione was trying to restrain Ron, to stop him running after Percy.
“Listen to me – LISTEN RON!”
“I wanna help – I wanna kill Death Eaters–”
His face was contorted, smeared with dust and smoke, and he was shaking with rage and grief.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
“We need some help,” said Harry
“We need some help,” said Harry, before Hermione could start again.
“Ah,” said Xenophilius, “Help, Hmm.”
His good eye moved again to Harry’s scar. He seemed simultaneously terrified and mesmerized.
“Yes. The thing is… helping Harry Potter… rather dangerous…”
“Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s their first duty to help Harry?” said Ron. “In that magazine of yours?”
Xenophilius glanced behind him at the concealed printing press, still banging and clattering beneath the tablecloth.
“Er – yes, I have expressed that view. however – ”
“That’s for everyone else to do, not you personally?” said Ron.
Xenophilius did not answer. He kept swallowing, his eyes darting between the three of them. Harry had the impression that he was undergoing some painful internal struggle.
“Where’s Luna?” asked Hermione. “Let’s see what she thinks.”
Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself. Finally he said in a shaky voice difficult to hear over the noise of the printing press, “Luna is down at the stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She…she will like to see you. I’ll go and call her and then – yes, very well. I shall try to help you.”
He disappeared down the spiral staircase and they heard the front open and close. They looked at each other.
“Cowardly old wart,” said Ron. “Luna’s got ten times his guts.”
“He’s probably worried about what’ll happen to them if the Death Eaters find out I was here” said Harry.
“Well, I agree with Ron,“ said Hermione, ”Awful old hypocrite, telling everyone else to help you and trying to worm our of it himself. And for heaven’s sake keep away from that horn.“
Harry crossed to the window on the far side of the room. He could see a stream, a thin, glittering ribbon lying far below them at the base of the hill. They were very high up; a bird fluttered past the window as he stared in the direction of the Burrow, now invisible beyond another line of hills. Ginny was over there somewhere. They were closer to each other today than they had been since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but she could have no idea he was gazing toward her now, thinking of her. He suppose he ought to be glad of it; anyone he came into contact with was in danger, Xenophilius’s attitude proved that. he turned away from the windows and his gaze fell upon another peculiar object standing upon the cluttered, curved slide board; a stone but of a beautiful but austere-looking witch wearing a most bizarre-looking headdress. Two objects that resembled golden ear trumpets curved out from the sides. A tiny pair of glittering blue wing was stuck to a leather strap that ran over the top of her head, while one of the orange radishes had been stuck to a second strap around her forehead.
“Look at this,” said Harry.
“Fetching,“ said Ron. “Surprised he didn’t wear that to the wedding.”
They heard the front door close, and a moment later Xenophilius climbed back up the spiral staircase into the room, his thin legs now encase in Wellington boots, bearing a tray of ill-assorted teacups and a steaming teapot.
“Ah, you have spotted my pet invention,” he said, shoving the tray into Hermione’s arms and joining Harry at the statue’s side.
“Modeled, fittingly enough, upon the head of the beautiful Rowens Ravenclaw, ‘Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure!’“
He indicated the objects like ear trumpets.
“These are the Wrackpurt siphons – to remove all sources of distraction from the thinker’s immediate area. Here,“ he pointed out the tiny wings, ”a billywig propeller, to induce an elevated frame of mind. Finally,“ he pointed to the orange radish, ”the dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the ability to accept the extraordinary.“
Xenophilius strode back to the tea tray, which Hermione had managed to balance precariously on one of the cluttered side tables.
“May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?“ said Xenophilius. ”We make it ourselves.“ As he started to pour out the drink, which was as deeply purple as beetroot juice, he added, ”Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here She ought not to be too long, she has caught nearly enough Plumpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit down and help yourselves to sugar.“
“Now,” he remove a tottering pile of papers from an armchair and sat down, his Wellingtoned legs crossed, “how may I help you, Mr. Potter?”
“Well,“ said Harry, glancing at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly, “it’s about that symbol you were wearing around your neck at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Mr. Lovegood. We wondered what it meant.”
Xenophilius raised his eyebrows.
“Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?”
“Ah,” said Xenophilius, “Help, Hmm.”
His good eye moved again to Harry’s scar. He seemed simultaneously terrified and mesmerized.
“Yes. The thing is… helping Harry Potter… rather dangerous…”
“Aren’t you the one who keeps telling everyone it’s their first duty to help Harry?” said Ron. “In that magazine of yours?”
Xenophilius glanced behind him at the concealed printing press, still banging and clattering beneath the tablecloth.
“Er – yes, I have expressed that view. however – ”
“That’s for everyone else to do, not you personally?” said Ron.
Xenophilius did not answer. He kept swallowing, his eyes darting between the three of them. Harry had the impression that he was undergoing some painful internal struggle.
“Where’s Luna?” asked Hermione. “Let’s see what she thinks.”
Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself. Finally he said in a shaky voice difficult to hear over the noise of the printing press, “Luna is down at the stream, fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She…she will like to see you. I’ll go and call her and then – yes, very well. I shall try to help you.”
He disappeared down the spiral staircase and they heard the front open and close. They looked at each other.
“Cowardly old wart,” said Ron. “Luna’s got ten times his guts.”
“He’s probably worried about what’ll happen to them if the Death Eaters find out I was here” said Harry.
“Well, I agree with Ron,“ said Hermione, ”Awful old hypocrite, telling everyone else to help you and trying to worm our of it himself. And for heaven’s sake keep away from that horn.“
Harry crossed to the window on the far side of the room. He could see a stream, a thin, glittering ribbon lying far below them at the base of the hill. They were very high up; a bird fluttered past the window as he stared in the direction of the Burrow, now invisible beyond another line of hills. Ginny was over there somewhere. They were closer to each other today than they had been since Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but she could have no idea he was gazing toward her now, thinking of her. He suppose he ought to be glad of it; anyone he came into contact with was in danger, Xenophilius’s attitude proved that. he turned away from the windows and his gaze fell upon another peculiar object standing upon the cluttered, curved slide board; a stone but of a beautiful but austere-looking witch wearing a most bizarre-looking headdress. Two objects that resembled golden ear trumpets curved out from the sides. A tiny pair of glittering blue wing was stuck to a leather strap that ran over the top of her head, while one of the orange radishes had been stuck to a second strap around her forehead.
“Look at this,” said Harry.
“Fetching,“ said Ron. “Surprised he didn’t wear that to the wedding.”
They heard the front door close, and a moment later Xenophilius climbed back up the spiral staircase into the room, his thin legs now encase in Wellington boots, bearing a tray of ill-assorted teacups and a steaming teapot.
“Ah, you have spotted my pet invention,” he said, shoving the tray into Hermione’s arms and joining Harry at the statue’s side.
“Modeled, fittingly enough, upon the head of the beautiful Rowens Ravenclaw, ‘Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure!’“
He indicated the objects like ear trumpets.
“These are the Wrackpurt siphons – to remove all sources of distraction from the thinker’s immediate area. Here,“ he pointed out the tiny wings, ”a billywig propeller, to induce an elevated frame of mind. Finally,“ he pointed to the orange radish, ”the dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the ability to accept the extraordinary.“
Xenophilius strode back to the tea tray, which Hermione had managed to balance precariously on one of the cluttered side tables.
“May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?“ said Xenophilius. ”We make it ourselves.“ As he started to pour out the drink, which was as deeply purple as beetroot juice, he added, ”Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here She ought not to be too long, she has caught nearly enough Plumpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit down and help yourselves to sugar.“
“Now,” he remove a tottering pile of papers from an armchair and sat down, his Wellingtoned legs crossed, “how may I help you, Mr. Potter?”
“Well,“ said Harry, glancing at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly, “it’s about that symbol you were wearing around your neck at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Mr. Lovegood. We wondered what it meant.”
Xenophilius raised his eyebrows.
“Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?”
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
“Harry, please don’t insult our intelligence
“Harry, please don’t insult our intelligence,“ said Hermione, taking deep breaths. ”We know your scar hurt downstairs, and you’re white as a sheet.“
Harry sat down on the edge of the bath.
“Fine. I’ve just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he’s probably killed her whole family. And he didn’t need to. It was Cedric all over again, they were just there …“
“Harry, you aren’t supposed to let this happen anymore!“ Hermione cried, her voice echoing through the bathroom. ”Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! HE thought the connection was dangerous – Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?“
“Because it means I know what he’s doing,” said Harry.
“So you’re not even going to try to shut him out?“
“Hermione, I can’t. You know I’m lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of it.”
“You never really tried!“ she said hotly. ”I don’t get it, Harry – do you like having this special connection or relationship or what – whatever – “
She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood up.
“Like it?“ he said quietly. ”Would you like it?“
“I – no – I’m sorry, Harry. I just didn’t mean – ”
“I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when he’s most dangerous. But I’m going to use it.”
“Dumbledore – ”
“Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else’s. I want to know why he’s after Gregorovitch.”
“Who?”
“He’s a foreign wandmaker,” said Harry. “He made Krum’s wand and Krum reckons he’s brilliant.”
“But according to you,” said Ron, “Voldemort’s got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?”
“Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better … or else he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn’t know.”
Harry glanced into the cracked, dusty mirror and saw Ron and Hermione exchanging skeptical looks behind his back.
“Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did,“ said Hermione, ”but you made it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own power?
“
“Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what really happened!”
They glared at each other; Harry knew that he had not convinced Hermione and that she was marshaling counterarguments, against both his theory on his wand and the fact
that he was permitting himself to see into Voldemort’s mind. To his relief, Ron intervened.
“Drop it,” he advised her. “It’s up to him. And if we’re going to the Ministry tomorrow, don’t you reckon we should go over the plan?”
Reluctantly, as the other two could tell, Hermione let the matter rest, though Harry was quite sure she would attack again at the first opportunity. In the meantime, they returned to the basement kitchen, where Kreacher served them all stew and treacle tart.
They did not get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going over and over their plan until they could recite it, word perfect, to each other. Harry, who was now sleeping in Sirius’s room, lay in bed with his wandlight trained on the old photograph of his father, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew, and muttered the plan to himself for another ten minutes. As he extinguished his wand, however, he was thinking not of Polyjuice Potion, Puking Pastilles, or the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he thought of Gregorovitch the wandmaker, and how long he could hope to remain hidden while Voldemort sought him so determinedly.
Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.
“You look terrible,” was Ron’s greeting as he entered the room to wake Harry.
“Not for long,” said Harry, yawning.
They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. She was being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry associated with exam review.
“Robes,” she said under her breath, acknowledging their presence with a nervous nod and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag, “Polyjuice Potion …
Invisibility Cloak … Decoy Detonators … You should each take a couple just in case … Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Norgat, Extendable Ears …”
They gulped down their breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they returned.
“Bless him,“ said Ron fondly, ”and when you think I used to fantasize about cutting off his head and sticking it on the wall.“
They made their way onto the front step with immense caution. They could see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.
Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then came back for Harry.
After the usual brief spell of darkness and near suffocation, Harry found himself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place.
It was as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not usually appear here until at least eight o’clock.
“Right then,” said Hermione, checking her watch. “she ought to be here in about five minutes. When I’ve Stunned her – ”
“Hermione, we know,” said Ron sternly. “And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?”
Hermione squealed.
“I nearly forgot! Stand back – ”
Harry sat down on the edge of the bath.
“Fine. I’ve just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he’s probably killed her whole family. And he didn’t need to. It was Cedric all over again, they were just there …“
“Harry, you aren’t supposed to let this happen anymore!“ Hermione cried, her voice echoing through the bathroom. ”Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! HE thought the connection was dangerous – Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good is it to watch him kill and torture, how can it help?“
“Because it means I know what he’s doing,” said Harry.
“So you’re not even going to try to shut him out?“
“Hermione, I can’t. You know I’m lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of it.”
“You never really tried!“ she said hotly. ”I don’t get it, Harry – do you like having this special connection or relationship or what – whatever – “
She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood up.
“Like it?“ he said quietly. ”Would you like it?“
“I – no – I’m sorry, Harry. I just didn’t mean – ”
“I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him when he’s most dangerous. But I’m going to use it.”
“Dumbledore – ”
“Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else’s. I want to know why he’s after Gregorovitch.”
“Who?”
“He’s a foreign wandmaker,” said Harry. “He made Krum’s wand and Krum reckons he’s brilliant.”
“But according to you,” said Ron, “Voldemort’s got Ollivander locked up somewhere. If he’s already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?”
“Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better … or else he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, because Ollivander didn’t know.”
Harry glanced into the cracked, dusty mirror and saw Ron and Hermione exchanging skeptical looks behind his back.
“Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did,“ said Hermione, ”but you made it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own power?
“
“Because I know it wasn’t me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know what really happened!”
They glared at each other; Harry knew that he had not convinced Hermione and that she was marshaling counterarguments, against both his theory on his wand and the fact
that he was permitting himself to see into Voldemort’s mind. To his relief, Ron intervened.
“Drop it,” he advised her. “It’s up to him. And if we’re going to the Ministry tomorrow, don’t you reckon we should go over the plan?”
Reluctantly, as the other two could tell, Hermione let the matter rest, though Harry was quite sure she would attack again at the first opportunity. In the meantime, they returned to the basement kitchen, where Kreacher served them all stew and treacle tart.
They did not get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going over and over their plan until they could recite it, word perfect, to each other. Harry, who was now sleeping in Sirius’s room, lay in bed with his wandlight trained on the old photograph of his father, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew, and muttered the plan to himself for another ten minutes. As he extinguished his wand, however, he was thinking not of Polyjuice Potion, Puking Pastilles, or the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he thought of Gregorovitch the wandmaker, and how long he could hope to remain hidden while Voldemort sought him so determinedly.
Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.
“You look terrible,” was Ron’s greeting as he entered the room to wake Harry.
“Not for long,” said Harry, yawning.
They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. She was being served coffee and hot rolls by Kreacher and wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry associated with exam review.
“Robes,” she said under her breath, acknowledging their presence with a nervous nod and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag, “Polyjuice Potion …
Invisibility Cloak … Decoy Detonators … You should each take a couple just in case … Puking Pastilles, Nosebleed Norgat, Extendable Ears …”
They gulped down their breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they returned.
“Bless him,“ said Ron fondly, ”and when you think I used to fantasize about cutting off his head and sticking it on the wall.“
They made their way onto the front step with immense caution. They could see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the misty square.
Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then came back for Harry.
After the usual brief spell of darkness and near suffocation, Harry found himself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled to take place.
It was as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the first Ministry workers did not usually appear here until at least eight o’clock.
“Right then,” said Hermione, checking her watch. “she ought to be here in about five minutes. When I’ve Stunned her – ”
“Hermione, we know,” said Ron sternly. “And I thought we were supposed to open the door before she got here?”
Hermione squealed.
“I nearly forgot! Stand back – ”
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
None of them answered him
None of them answered him. Uncle Vernon was still staring appalled at the bulge in Dedalus’s waistcoat pocket.
“Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus,” murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it would be tactless for them to remain the room while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged loving, possibly tearful farewells.
“There’s no need,” Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon made any further explanation unnecessary by saying loudly, “Well, this is good-bye then boy.”
He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry’s hand, but at the last moment seemed unable to face it, and merely closed his fist and began swinging it backward and forward like a metronome.
“Ready, Duddy?” asked Petunia, fussily checking the clasp of her handbag so as to avoid looking at Harry altogether.
Dudley did not answer but stood there with his mouth slightly ajar, reminding Harry a little of the giant, Grawp.
“Come along, then,” said Uncle Vernon.
He had already reached the living room door when Dudley mumbled, “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand, popkin?” asked Petunia looking up at her son.
Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at Harry.
“Why isn’t he coming with us?”
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze when they stood staring at Dudley as though he had just expressed a desire to become a ballerina.
“What?” said Uncle Vernon loudly.
“Why isn’t he coming too?” asked Dudley.
“Well, he – doesn’t want to,” said Uncle Vernon, turning to glare at Harry and adding, “You don’t want to, do you?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Harry.
“There you are,” Uncle Vernon told Dudley. “Now come on we’re off.”
He marched out of the room. They heard the front door open, but Dudley did not move and after a few faltering steps Aunt Petunia stopped too.
“What now?” barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the doorway.
It seemed that Dudley was struggling with concepts too difficult to put into words. After several moments of apparently painful internal struggle he said, “But where’s he going to go?”
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other. It was clear that Dudley was frightening them. Hestia Jones broke the silence.
“But… surely you know where your nephew is going?” she asked looking bewildered.
“Certainly we know,” said Vernon Dursley. “He’s off with some of your lot, isn’t he? Right, Dudley, let’s get in the car, you heard the man, we’re in a hurry.”
Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front door, but Dudley did not follow.
“Off with some of our lot?”
Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude before Witches and wizards seemed stunned that his closed living relatives took so little interest in the famous Harry Potter.
“It’s fine,” Harry assured her. “It doesn’t matter, honestly.”
“Doesn’t matter?” repeated Hestia, her voice rising considerably.
“Don’t these people realize what you’ve been through? What danger you are in? The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti Voldemort movement?”
“Er – no, they don’t,” said Harry. “They think I’m a waste of space, actually but I’m used to – ”
“I don’t think you’re a waste of space”
If Harry had not seen Dudley’s lips move, he might not have believed it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself.
“Well… er… thanks, Dudley.”
Again, Dudley appeared to grapple with thoughts too unwieldy for expression before mumbling, “You saved my life,”
“Not really,” said Harry. “It was your soul the dementor would have taken…”
He looked curiously at his cousin. They had had virtually no contact during this summer or last, as Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly and kept to his room so much. It now dawned on Harry, however, that the cup of cold tea on which he had trodden that morning might not have been a booby trap at all. Although rather touched he was nevertheless quite relieved that Dudley appeared to have exhausted his ability to express his feelings. After opening his mouth once or twice more, Dudley subsided into scarlet-faced silence.
Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her an approving look that changed to outrage as Aunt Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather than Harry. “S-so sweet, Dudders…” she sobbed into his massive chest. “S-such a lovely b-boy… s-saying thank you…”
“But he hasn’t said thank you at all!” said Hestia indignantly. “He only said he didn’t think Harry was a waste of space!”
“Yea but coming from Dudley that’s like ‘I love you,’” said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.
“Are we going or not?” roared Uncle Vernon, reappearing yet again at the living room door. “I thought we were on a tight schedule!”
“Yes –yes, we are,” said Dedalus Diggle, who had been watching these exchanged with an air of bemusement and now seemed to pull himself together. “We really must be off. Harry – ”
He tripped forward and wrung Harry’s hand with both of his own.
“ – good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the Wizarding world rest upon your shoulders.”
“Oh,” said Harry, “right. Thanks.”
“Farwell, Harry,” said Hestia also clasping his hand. “Our thoughts go with you.”
“I hope everything’s okay,” said Harry with a glance toward Aunt Petunia and Dudley.
“Oh I’m sure we shall end up the best of chums,” said Diggle slightly, waving his hat as he left the room. Hestia followed him.
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“Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus,” murmured Hestia. She clearly felt that it would be tactless for them to remain the room while Harry and the Dursleys exchanged loving, possibly tearful farewells.
“There’s no need,” Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon made any further explanation unnecessary by saying loudly, “Well, this is good-bye then boy.”
He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry’s hand, but at the last moment seemed unable to face it, and merely closed his fist and began swinging it backward and forward like a metronome.
“Ready, Duddy?” asked Petunia, fussily checking the clasp of her handbag so as to avoid looking at Harry altogether.
Dudley did not answer but stood there with his mouth slightly ajar, reminding Harry a little of the giant, Grawp.
“Come along, then,” said Uncle Vernon.
He had already reached the living room door when Dudley mumbled, “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand, popkin?” asked Petunia looking up at her son.
Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at Harry.
“Why isn’t he coming with us?”
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze when they stood staring at Dudley as though he had just expressed a desire to become a ballerina.
“What?” said Uncle Vernon loudly.
“Why isn’t he coming too?” asked Dudley.
“Well, he – doesn’t want to,” said Uncle Vernon, turning to glare at Harry and adding, “You don’t want to, do you?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Harry.
“There you are,” Uncle Vernon told Dudley. “Now come on we’re off.”
He marched out of the room. They heard the front door open, but Dudley did not move and after a few faltering steps Aunt Petunia stopped too.
“What now?” barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the doorway.
It seemed that Dudley was struggling with concepts too difficult to put into words. After several moments of apparently painful internal struggle he said, “But where’s he going to go?”
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other. It was clear that Dudley was frightening them. Hestia Jones broke the silence.
“But… surely you know where your nephew is going?” she asked looking bewildered.
“Certainly we know,” said Vernon Dursley. “He’s off with some of your lot, isn’t he? Right, Dudley, let’s get in the car, you heard the man, we’re in a hurry.”
Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front door, but Dudley did not follow.
“Off with some of our lot?”
Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude before Witches and wizards seemed stunned that his closed living relatives took so little interest in the famous Harry Potter.
“It’s fine,” Harry assured her. “It doesn’t matter, honestly.”
“Doesn’t matter?” repeated Hestia, her voice rising considerably.
“Don’t these people realize what you’ve been through? What danger you are in? The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti Voldemort movement?”
“Er – no, they don’t,” said Harry. “They think I’m a waste of space, actually but I’m used to – ”
“I don’t think you’re a waste of space”
If Harry had not seen Dudley’s lips move, he might not have believed it. As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself.
“Well… er… thanks, Dudley.”
Again, Dudley appeared to grapple with thoughts too unwieldy for expression before mumbling, “You saved my life,”
“Not really,” said Harry. “It was your soul the dementor would have taken…”
He looked curiously at his cousin. They had had virtually no contact during this summer or last, as Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly and kept to his room so much. It now dawned on Harry, however, that the cup of cold tea on which he had trodden that morning might not have been a booby trap at all. Although rather touched he was nevertheless quite relieved that Dudley appeared to have exhausted his ability to express his feelings. After opening his mouth once or twice more, Dudley subsided into scarlet-faced silence.
Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her an approving look that changed to outrage as Aunt Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather than Harry. “S-so sweet, Dudders…” she sobbed into his massive chest. “S-such a lovely b-boy… s-saying thank you…”
“But he hasn’t said thank you at all!” said Hestia indignantly. “He only said he didn’t think Harry was a waste of space!”
“Yea but coming from Dudley that’s like ‘I love you,’” said Harry, torn between annoyance and a desire to laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley as if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.
“Are we going or not?” roared Uncle Vernon, reappearing yet again at the living room door. “I thought we were on a tight schedule!”
“Yes –yes, we are,” said Dedalus Diggle, who had been watching these exchanged with an air of bemusement and now seemed to pull himself together. “We really must be off. Harry – ”
He tripped forward and wrung Harry’s hand with both of his own.
“ – good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the Wizarding world rest upon your shoulders.”
“Oh,” said Harry, “right. Thanks.”
“Farwell, Harry,” said Hestia also clasping his hand. “Our thoughts go with you.”
“I hope everything’s okay,” said Harry with a glance toward Aunt Petunia and Dudley.
“Oh I’m sure we shall end up the best of chums,” said Diggle slightly, waving his hat as he left the room. Hestia followed him.
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Monday, November 29, 2010
“Well, although I did not see the Riddle
“Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out of the diary, what you described to me was a phenomenon I had never witnessed. A mere memory starting to act and
think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book. ... a
fragment of soul, I was almost sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this raised as many questions as it answered. What intrigued and alarmed me most was that
that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard.”
“I still don't understand,” said Harry.
“Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work—in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part in
preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess somebody
else, so that Slytherin's monster would be unleashed again.”
“Well, he didn't want his hard work to be wasted,” said Harry. “He wanted people to know he was Slytherin's heir, because he couldn't take credit at the time.”
“Quite correct,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “But don't you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts student, he
was being remarkably blasé about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the
self hidden and safe, not to fling it into somebody else's path and run the risk that they might destroy it—as indeed happened: that particular fragment of soul is no
more; you saw to that.
“The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made—or had been planning to make—more
Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense. Then you told me, two years
later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarming statement to his Death Eaters. ’I who have gone further than
anybody along the path that leads to immortality.’ That was what you told me he said. ’Further than anybody!’ And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death
Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, Harry, which I don't believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldomort
has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he had undergone seemed to me to be only explainable if his soul was mutilated beyond the
realms of what we might call usual evil...”
“So he's made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?” said Harry. “Why couldn't he make a Sorcerer's Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in
immortality?”
“Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years ago,” said Dumbledore. “But there are several reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer's Stone would appeal less
than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort.
“While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality. Therefore, Voldemort
would be entirely dependant on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to
operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course he was prepared to drink it if it
would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to
continue to rely on his Horcruxes. He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see ... or as close to immortal as any
man can be.
“But now, Harry, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than
anyone has ever been before. You heard him, Harry: ‘Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more piece... isn't seven the most powerfully
magical numbe...’ Isn't seven the most powerfully magical number. Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort.”
“He made seven Horcruxes?” said Harry, horror-struck, while several of the portraits on the walls made similar noises of shock and outrage. “But they could be
anywhere in the world—hidden—buried or invisible —”
think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book. ... a
fragment of soul, I was almost sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this raised as many questions as it answered. What intrigued and alarmed me most was that
that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard.”
“I still don't understand,” said Harry.
“Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work—in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part in
preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess somebody
else, so that Slytherin's monster would be unleashed again.”
“Well, he didn't want his hard work to be wasted,” said Harry. “He wanted people to know he was Slytherin's heir, because he couldn't take credit at the time.”
“Quite correct,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “But don't you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts student, he
was being remarkably blasé about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the
self hidden and safe, not to fling it into somebody else's path and run the risk that they might destroy it—as indeed happened: that particular fragment of soul is no
more; you saw to that.
“The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made—or had been planning to make—more
Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense. Then you told me, two years
later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarming statement to his Death Eaters. ’I who have gone further than
anybody along the path that leads to immortality.’ That was what you told me he said. ’Further than anybody!’ And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death
Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, Harry, which I don't believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldomort
has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he had undergone seemed to me to be only explainable if his soul was mutilated beyond the
realms of what we might call usual evil...”
“So he's made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?” said Harry. “Why couldn't he make a Sorcerer's Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in
immortality?”
“Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years ago,” said Dumbledore. “But there are several reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer's Stone would appeal less
than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort.
“While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality. Therefore, Voldemort
would be entirely dependant on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to
operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course he was prepared to drink it if it
would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to
continue to rely on his Horcruxes. He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see ... or as close to immortal as any
man can be.
“But now, Harry, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than
anyone has ever been before. You heard him, Harry: ‘Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more piece... isn't seven the most powerfully
magical numbe...’ Isn't seven the most powerfully magical number. Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort.”
“He made seven Horcruxes?” said Harry, horror-struck, while several of the portraits on the walls made similar noises of shock and outrage. “But they could be
anywhere in the world—hidden—buried or invisible —”
Slughorn looked deeply troubled now
Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: he was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting entering into
the conversation at all.
“Of course,” he muttered, “this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic...”
“Yes, sir, of course,” said Riddle quickly.
“But all the same, Tom... keep it quiet, what I've told—that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a
banned subject at Hogwarts, you know... Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it...”
“I won't say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he left, but not before Harry had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had
first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human...
“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us go...”
When Harry landed back on the office floor Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his desk. Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to speak.
“I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time,” said Dumbledore at last. “It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it tells me that
I am right, and also how very far there is still to go...”
Harry suddenly noticed that every single one of the old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits around the walls was awake and listening in on their
conversation. A corpulent, red nosed wizard had actually taken out an ear trumpet.
“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I am sure you understood the significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or take a few months, Tom
Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to make himself immortal.”
“You think he succeeded then, sir?” asked Harry. “He made a Horcrux? And that's why he didn't die when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden somewhere? A bit of
his soul was safe?”
“A bit... or more,” said Dumbledore. “You heard Voldemort, what he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more
than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store
it in many, separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know—as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew—no wizard had ever
done more than tear his soul in two.”
Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his thought, and then said, “Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul.”
“Where?” asked Harry. “How?”
“You handed it to me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “The diary, Riddle's diary, the one giving instructions on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets.”
“I don't understand, sir,” said Harry.
the conversation at all.
“Of course,” he muttered, “this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic...”
“Yes, sir, of course,” said Riddle quickly.
“But all the same, Tom... keep it quiet, what I've told—that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a
banned subject at Hogwarts, you know... Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it...”
“I won't say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he left, but not before Harry had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had
first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human...
“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us go...”
When Harry landed back on the office floor Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his desk. Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to speak.
“I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time,” said Dumbledore at last. “It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it tells me that
I am right, and also how very far there is still to go...”
Harry suddenly noticed that every single one of the old headmasters and headmistresses in the portraits around the walls was awake and listening in on their
conversation. A corpulent, red nosed wizard had actually taken out an ear trumpet.
“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I am sure you understood the significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or take a few months, Tom
Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to make himself immortal.”
“You think he succeeded then, sir?” asked Harry. “He made a Horcrux? And that's why he didn't die when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden somewhere? A bit of
his soul was safe?”
“A bit... or more,” said Dumbledore. “You heard Voldemort, what he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more
than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store
it in many, separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know—as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew—no wizard had ever
done more than tear his soul in two.”
Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his thought, and then said, “Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul.”
“Where?” asked Harry. “How?”
“You handed it to me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “The diary, Riddle's diary, the one giving instructions on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets.”
“I don't understand, sir,” said Harry.
It was very well done,
It was very well done, thought Harry, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. He, Harry, had had too much experience of trying to
wheedle information out of reluctant people not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been
working toward this moment for weeks.
“Well,” said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, “well, it can't hurt to give you an overview,
of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”
“I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir,” said Riddle.
His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement.
“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one
cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form ...”
Slughorn's face crumpled and Harry found himself remembering words he had heard nearly two years before:
“I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost... but still, I was alive.”
“... few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”
But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing.
“How do you split your soul?”
“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against
nature.”
“But how do you do it?”
“By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By commiting murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his
advantage: he would encase the torn portion —”
“Encase? But how—?”
“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!” said Slughoin shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. “Do I look as though I have tried it—do
I look like a killer?”
“No, sir, of course not,” said Riddle quickly. “I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to offend...”
“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn gruffly, “It is natural to feel some curiosity about these things... wizards of a certain caliber have always
been drawn to that aspect of magic...”
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don't understand, though—just out of curiosity. I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't
it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven—?”
“Merlin's beard, Tom!” yelped Slughorn. “Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case... bad enough to divide the soul... but to rip it
into seven pieces...”
wheedle information out of reluctant people not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been
working toward this moment for weeks.
“Well,” said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, “well, it can't hurt to give you an overview,
of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”
“I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir,” said Riddle.
His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement.
“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one
cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form ...”
Slughorn's face crumpled and Harry found himself remembering words he had heard nearly two years before:
“I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost... but still, I was alive.”
“... few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.”
But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing.
“How do you split your soul?”
“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against
nature.”
“But how do you do it?”
“By an act of evil—the supreme act of evil. By commiting murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his
advantage: he would encase the torn portion —”
“Encase? But how—?”
“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!” said Slughoin shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. “Do I look as though I have tried it—do
I look like a killer?”
“No, sir, of course not,” said Riddle quickly. “I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to offend...”
“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn gruffly, “It is natural to feel some curiosity about these things... wizards of a certain caliber have always
been drawn to that aspect of magic...”
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don't understand, though—just out of curiosity. I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't
it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven—?”
“Merlin's beard, Tom!” yelped Slughorn. “Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case... bad enough to divide the soul... but to rip it
into seven pieces...”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
“Good afternoon,” said Dumbledore, holding out his hand.
“Good afternoon,” said Dumbledore, holding out his hand.
Mrs. Cole simply gaped.
“My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.”
Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, “Oh yes. Well—well then—you'd better come into my room. Yes.”
She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited
Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.
“I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said Dumbledore.
“Are you family?” asked Mrs. Cole.
“No, I am a teacher,” said Dumbledore. “I have come to offer Tom a place at my school.”
“What school's this, then?”
“It is called Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.
“And how come you're interested in Tom?”
“We believe he has qualities we are looking for.”
“You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one.”
“Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —”
“Who registered him? His parents?”
There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his
velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole's desktop.
“Here,” said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make everything clear.”
Mrs. Cole's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.
“That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few
seconds before.
“Er—may I offer you a glass of gin?” she said in an extra-refined voice.
“Thank you very much,” said Dumbledore, beaming.
It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking
her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn't hesitate to press his advantage.
“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?”
“That's right,” said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold,
snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her
in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.”
Mrs. Cole simply gaped.
“My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.”
Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, “Oh yes. Well—well then—you'd better come into my room. Yes.”
She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited
Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.
“I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said Dumbledore.
“Are you family?” asked Mrs. Cole.
“No, I am a teacher,” said Dumbledore. “I have come to offer Tom a place at my school.”
“What school's this, then?”
“It is called Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.
“And how come you're interested in Tom?”
“We believe he has qualities we are looking for.”
“You mean he's won a scholarship? How can he have done? He's never been entered for one.”
“Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —”
“Who registered him? His parents?”
There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his
velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole's desktop.
“Here,” said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make everything clear.”
Mrs. Cole's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.
“That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few
seconds before.
“Er—may I offer you a glass of gin?” she said in an extra-refined voice.
“Thank you very much,” said Dumbledore, beaming.
It soon became clear that Mrs. Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking
her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn't hesitate to press his advantage.
“I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle's history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?”
“That's right,” said Mrs. Cole, helping herself to more gin. “I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold,
snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her
in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.”
She was greatly weakened by long suffering
She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother's courage. And now, if you will stand ...”
“Where are we going?” Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk.
“This time,” said Dumbledore, “we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry ...”
Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again... Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground;
he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.
“There I am,” said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart.
This younger Albus Dumbledore's long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances
due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.
“Nice suit, sir,” said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through
a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door
and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.
“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?”
“Oh,” said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. “Um... just a mo... MRS. COLE!” she bellowed over her shoulder.
Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore.
“Come in, she's on ‘er way.”
Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front
door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she
was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore.
“... and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets—chicken pox on top of everything
else,” she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just
crossed her threshold.
“Where are we going?” Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk.
“This time,” said Dumbledore, “we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry ...”
Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again... Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground;
he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.
“There I am,” said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart.
This younger Albus Dumbledore's long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances
due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.
“Nice suit, sir,” said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through
a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door
and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.
“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?”
“Oh,” said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. “Um... just a mo... MRS. COLE!” she bellowed over her shoulder.
Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore.
“Come in, she's on ‘er way.”
Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front
door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she
was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore.
“... and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley's oozing all over his sheets—chicken pox on top of everything
else,” she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just
crossed her threshold.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Chapter 1 The Other Minister
Chapter 1 The Other Minister
It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government's fault.
The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?
“A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin.
And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... it wasn't right, it wasn't normal...
He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.
He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.
“Hello?” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming—as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough— from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.
“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”
The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.
“Er,” said the Prime Minister, “listen... it's not a very good time for me... I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the president of—”
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It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the government's fault.
The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars into the watery depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?
“A grim mood has gripped the country,” the opponent had concluded, barely concealing his own broad grin.
And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... it wasn't right, it wasn't normal...
He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room, that he heard a soft cough behind him.
He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to face the empty room.
“Hello?” he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was coming—as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough— from the froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.
“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”
The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.
“Er,” said the Prime Minister, “listen... it's not a very good time for me... I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the president of—”
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Ah, you shall hear....
Ah, you shall hear.... We apologize in due form: we are in despair, we entreat forgiveness for the unfortunate misunderstanding. The government clerk with the sausages begins to melt, but he, too, desires to express his sentiments, and as soon as ever he begins to express them, he begins to get hot and say nasty things, and again I'm obliged to trot out all my diplomatic talents. I allowed that their conduct was bad, but I urged him to take into consideration their heedlessness, their youth; then, too, the young men had only just been lunching together. 'You understand. They regret it deeply, and beg you to overlook their misbehavior.' The government clerk was softened once more. 'I consent, count, and am ready to overlook it; but you perceive that my wife--my wife's a respectable woman --his been exposed to the persecution, and insults, and effrontery of young upstarts, scoundrels....' And you must understand, the young upstarts are present all the while, and I have to keep the peace between them. Again I call out all my diplomacy, and again as soon as the thing was about at an end, our friend the government clerk gets hot and red, and his sausages stand on end with wrath, and once more I launch out into diplomatic wiles."
"Ah, he must tell you this story!" said Betsy, laughing, to a lady to came into her box. "He has been making me laugh so."
"Well, bonne chance!" she added, giving Vronsky one finger of the hand in which she held her fan, and with a shrug of her shoulders she twitched down the bodice of her gown that had worked up, so as to be duly naked as she moved forward towards the footlights into the light of the gas, and the sight of all eyes.
Vronsky drove to the French theater, where he really had to see the colonel of his regiment, who never missed a single performance there. He wanted to see him, to report on the result of his mediation, which had occupied and amused him for the last three days. Petritsky, whom he liked, was implicated in the affair, and the other culprit was a capital fellow and first-rate comrade, who had lately joined the regiment, the young Prince Kedrov. And what was most important, the interests of the regiment were involved in it too.
Both the young men were in Vronsky's company. The colonel of the regiment was waited upon by the government clerk, Venden, with a complaint against his officers, who had insulted his wife. His young wife, so Venden told the story--he had been married half a year--was at church with her mother, and suddenly overcome by indisposition, arising from her interesting condition, she could not remain standing, she drove home in the first sledge, a smart-looking one, she came across. On the spot the officers set off in pursuit of her; she was alarmed, and feeling still more unwell, ran up the staircase home. Venden himself, on returning from his office, heard a ring at their bell and voices, went out, and seeing the intoxicated officers with a letter, he had turned them out. He asked for exemplary punishment.
"Yes, it's all very well," said the colonel to Vronsky, whom he had invited to come and see him. "Petritsky's becoming impossible. Not a week goes by without some scandal. This government clerk won't let it drop, he'll go on with the thing."
Vronsky saw all the thanklessness of the business, and that there could be no question of a duel in it, that everything must be done to soften the government clerk, and hush the matter up. The colonel had called in Vronsky just because he knew him to be an honorable and intelligent man, and, more than all, a man who cared for the honor of the regiment. They talked it over, and decided that Petritsky and Kedrov must go with Vronsky to Venden's to apologize. The colonel and Vronsky were both fully aware that Vronsky's name and rank would be sure to contribute greatly to softening of the injured husband's feelings.
And these two influences were not in fact without effect; though the result remained, as Vronsky had described, uncertain.
On reaching the French theater, Vronsky retired to the foyer with the colonel, and reported to him his success, or non-success. The colonel, thinking it all over, made up his mind not to pursue the matter further, but then for his own satisfaction proceeded to cross-examine Vronsky about his interview; and it was a long while before he could restrain his laughter, as Vronsky described how the government clerk, after subsiding for a while, would suddenly flare up again, as he recalled the details, and how Vronsky, at the last half word of conciliation, skillfully maneuvered a retreat, shoving Petritsky out before him.
"It's a disgraceful story, but killing. Kedrov really can't fight the gentleman! Was he so awfully hot?" he commented, laughing. "But what do you say to Claire today? She's marvelous," he went on, speaking of a new French actress. "However often you see her, every day she's different. It's only the French who can to that."
"Ah, he must tell you this story!" said Betsy, laughing, to a lady to came into her box. "He has been making me laugh so."
"Well, bonne chance!" she added, giving Vronsky one finger of the hand in which she held her fan, and with a shrug of her shoulders she twitched down the bodice of her gown that had worked up, so as to be duly naked as she moved forward towards the footlights into the light of the gas, and the sight of all eyes.
Vronsky drove to the French theater, where he really had to see the colonel of his regiment, who never missed a single performance there. He wanted to see him, to report on the result of his mediation, which had occupied and amused him for the last three days. Petritsky, whom he liked, was implicated in the affair, and the other culprit was a capital fellow and first-rate comrade, who had lately joined the regiment, the young Prince Kedrov. And what was most important, the interests of the regiment were involved in it too.
Both the young men were in Vronsky's company. The colonel of the regiment was waited upon by the government clerk, Venden, with a complaint against his officers, who had insulted his wife. His young wife, so Venden told the story--he had been married half a year--was at church with her mother, and suddenly overcome by indisposition, arising from her interesting condition, she could not remain standing, she drove home in the first sledge, a smart-looking one, she came across. On the spot the officers set off in pursuit of her; she was alarmed, and feeling still more unwell, ran up the staircase home. Venden himself, on returning from his office, heard a ring at their bell and voices, went out, and seeing the intoxicated officers with a letter, he had turned them out. He asked for exemplary punishment.
"Yes, it's all very well," said the colonel to Vronsky, whom he had invited to come and see him. "Petritsky's becoming impossible. Not a week goes by without some scandal. This government clerk won't let it drop, he'll go on with the thing."
Vronsky saw all the thanklessness of the business, and that there could be no question of a duel in it, that everything must be done to soften the government clerk, and hush the matter up. The colonel had called in Vronsky just because he knew him to be an honorable and intelligent man, and, more than all, a man who cared for the honor of the regiment. They talked it over, and decided that Petritsky and Kedrov must go with Vronsky to Venden's to apologize. The colonel and Vronsky were both fully aware that Vronsky's name and rank would be sure to contribute greatly to softening of the injured husband's feelings.
And these two influences were not in fact without effect; though the result remained, as Vronsky had described, uncertain.
On reaching the French theater, Vronsky retired to the foyer with the colonel, and reported to him his success, or non-success. The colonel, thinking it all over, made up his mind not to pursue the matter further, but then for his own satisfaction proceeded to cross-examine Vronsky about his interview; and it was a long while before he could restrain his laughter, as Vronsky described how the government clerk, after subsiding for a while, would suddenly flare up again, as he recalled the details, and how Vronsky, at the last half word of conciliation, skillfully maneuvered a retreat, shoving Petritsky out before him.
"It's a disgraceful story, but killing. Kedrov really can't fight the gentleman! Was he so awfully hot?" he commented, laughing. "But what do you say to Claire today? She's marvelous," he went on, speaking of a new French actress. "However often you see her, every day she's different. It's only the French who can to that."
Chapter 39
Chapter 39
"This is rather indiscreet, but it's so good it's an awful temptation to tell the story," said Vronsky, looking at her with his laughing eyes. "I'm not going to mention any names." "But I shall guess, so much the better."
"Well, listen: two festive young men were driving-"
"Officers of your regiment, of course?"
"I didn't say they were officers,--two young men who had been lunching."
"In other words, drinking."
"Possibly. They were driving on their way to dinner with a friend in the most festive state of mind. And they beheld a pretty woman in a hired sledge; she overtakes them, looks round at them, and, so they fancy anyway, nods to them and laughs. They, of course, follow her. They gallop at full speed. To their amazement, the fair one alights at the entrance of the very house to which they were going. The fair one darts upstairs to the top story. They get a glimpse of red lips under a short veil, and exquisite little feet."
"You describe it with such feeling that I fancy you must be one of the two."
"And after what you said, just now! Well, the young men go in to their comrade's; he was giving a farewell dinner. There they certainly did drink a little too much, as one always does at farewell dinners. And at dinner they inquire who lives at the top in that house. No one knows; only their host's valet, in answer to their inquiry whether any 'young ladies' are living on the top floor, answered that there were a great many of them about there. After dinner the two young men go into their host's study, and write a letter to the unknown fair one. They compose an ardent epistle, a declaration in fact, and they carry the letter upstairs themselves, so as to elucidate whatever might appear not perfectly intelligible in the letter."
"Why are you telling me these horrible stories? Well?"
"They ring. A maidservant opens the door, they hand her the letter, and assure the maid that they're both so in love that they'll die on the spot at the door. The maid, stupefied, carries in their messages. All at once a gentleman appears with whiskers like sausages, as red as a lobster, announces that there is no one living in the flat except his wife, and sends them both about their business."
"How do you know he had whiskers like sausages, as you say?"
"Ah, you shall hear. I've just been to make peace between them."
"Well, and what then?"
"That's the most interesting part of the story. It appears that it's a happy couple, a government clerk and his lady. The government clerk lodges a complaint, and I became a mediator, and such a mediator!... I assure you Talleyrand couldn't hold a candle to me."
"Why, where was the difficulty?"
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Chapter 2
Stepan Arkadyevitch was a truthful man in his relations with himself. He was incapable of deceiving himself and persuading himself that he repented of his conduct. He could not at this date repent of the fact that he, a handsome, susceptible man of thirty-four, was not in love with his wife, the mother of five living and two dead children, and only a year younger than himself. All he repented of was that he had not succeeded better in hiding it from his wife. But he felt all the difficulty of his position and was sorry for his wife, his children, and himself. Possibly he might have managed to conceal his sins better from his wife if he had anticipated that the knowledge of them would have had such an effect on her. He had never clearly thought out the subject, but he had vaguely conceived that his wife must long ago have suspected him of being unfaithful to her, and shut her eyes to the fact. He had even supposed that she, a worn-out woman no longer young or good-looking, and in no way remarkable or interesting, merely a good mother, ought from a sense of fairness to take an indulgent view. It had turned out quite the other way.
"Oh, it's awful! oh dear, oh dear! awful!" Stepan Arkadyevitch kept repeating to himself, and he could think of nothing to be done. "And how well things were going up till now! how well we got on! She was contented and happy in her children; I never interfered with her in anything; I let her manage the children and the house just as she liked. It's true it's bad HER having been a governess in our house. That's bad! There's something common, vulgar, in flirting with one's governess. But what a governess!" (He vividly recalled the roguish black eyes of Mlle. Roland and her smile.) "But after all, while she was in the house, I kept myself in hand. And the worst of it all is that she's already...it seems as if ill-luck would have it so! Oh, oh! But what, what is to be done?"
"Oh, it's awful! oh dear, oh dear! awful!" Stepan Arkadyevitch kept repeating to himself, and he could think of nothing to be done. "And how well things were going up till now! how well we got on! She was contented and happy in her children; I never interfered with her in anything; I let her manage the children and the house just as she liked. It's true it's bad HER having been a governess in our house. That's bad! There's something common, vulgar, in flirting with one's governess. But what a governess!" (He vividly recalled the roguish black eyes of Mlle. Roland and her smile.) "But after all, while she was in the house, I kept myself in hand. And the worst of it all is that she's already...it seems as if ill-luck would have it so! Oh, oh! But what, what is to be done?"
Most unpleasant of all was the first minute when
Most unpleasant of all was the first minute when, on coming, happy and good-humored, from the theater, with a huge pear in his hand for his wife, he had not found his wife in the drawing-room, to his surprise had not found her in the study either, and saw her at last in her bedroom with the unlucky letter that revealed everything in her hand.
She, his Dolly, forever fussing and worrying over household details, and limited in her ideas, as he considered, was sitting perfectly still with the letter in her hand, looking at him with an expression of horror, despair, and indignation.
"What's this? this?" she asked, pointing to the letter.
And at this recollection, Stepan Arkadyevitch, as is so often the case, was not so much annoyed at the fact itself as at the way in which he had met his wife's words.
There happened to him at that instant what does happen to people when they are unexpectedly caught in something very disgraceful. He did not succeed in adapting his face to the position in which he was placed towards his wife by the discovery of his fault. Instead of being hurt, denying, defending himself, begging forgiveness, instead of remaining indifferent even--anything would have been better than what he did do--his face utterly involuntarily (reflex spinal action, reflected Stepan Arkadyevitch, who was fond of physiology)--utterly involuntarily assumed its habitual, good-humored, and therefore idiotic smile.
This idiotic smile he could not forgive himself. Catching sight of that smile, Dolly shuddered as though at physical pain, broke out with her characteristic heat into a flood of cruel words, and rushed out of the room. Since then she had refused to see her husband.
"It's that idiotic smile that's to blame for it all," thought Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"But what's to be done? What's to be done?" he said to himself in despair, and found no answer
She, his Dolly, forever fussing and worrying over household details, and limited in her ideas, as he considered, was sitting perfectly still with the letter in her hand, looking at him with an expression of horror, despair, and indignation.
"What's this? this?" she asked, pointing to the letter.
And at this recollection, Stepan Arkadyevitch, as is so often the case, was not so much annoyed at the fact itself as at the way in which he had met his wife's words.
There happened to him at that instant what does happen to people when they are unexpectedly caught in something very disgraceful. He did not succeed in adapting his face to the position in which he was placed towards his wife by the discovery of his fault. Instead of being hurt, denying, defending himself, begging forgiveness, instead of remaining indifferent even--anything would have been better than what he did do--his face utterly involuntarily (reflex spinal action, reflected Stepan Arkadyevitch, who was fond of physiology)--utterly involuntarily assumed its habitual, good-humored, and therefore idiotic smile.
This idiotic smile he could not forgive himself. Catching sight of that smile, Dolly shuddered as though at physical pain, broke out with her characteristic heat into a flood of cruel words, and rushed out of the room. Since then she had refused to see her husband.
"It's that idiotic smile that's to blame for it all," thought Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"But what's to be done? What's to be done?" he said to himself in despair, and found no answer
Chapter 1
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys' house. The wife had discovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue with a French girl, who had been a governess in their family, and she had announced to her husband that she could not go on living in the same house with him. This position of affairs had now lasted three days, and not only the husband and wife themselves, but all the members of their family and household, were painfully conscious of it. Every person in the house felt that there was so sense in their living together, and that the stray people brought together by chance in any inn had more in common with one another than they, the members of the family and household of the Oblonskys. The wife did not leave her own room, the husband had not been at home for three days. The children ran wild all over the house; the English governess quarreled with the housekeeper, and wrote to a friend asking her to look out for a new situation for her; the man-cook had walked off the day before just at dinner time; the kitchen-maid, and the coachman had given warning.
Three days after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky--Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world-- woke up at his usual hour, that is, at eight o'clock in the morning, not in his wife's bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout, well-cared-for person on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again; he vigorously embraced the pillow on the other side and buried his face in it; but all at once he jumped up, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.
"Yes, yes, how was it now?" he thought, going over his dream. "Now, how was it? To be sure! Alabin was giving a dinner at Darmstadt; no, not Darmstadt, but something American. Yes, but then, Darmstadt was in America. Yes, Alabin was giving a dinner on glass tables, and the tables sang, Il mio tesoro--not Il mio tesoro though, but something better, and there were some sort of little decanters on the table, and they were women, too," he remembered.
Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a smile. "Yes, it was nice, very nice. There was a great deal more that was delightful, only there's no putting it into words, or even expressing it in one's thoughts awake." And noticing a gleam of light peeping in beside one of the serge curtains, he cheerfully dropped his feet over the edge of the sofa, and felt about with them for his slippers, a present on his last birthday, worked for him by his wife on gold-colored morocco. And, as he had done every day for the last nine years, he stretched out his hand, without getting up, towards the place where his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom. And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wife's room, but in his study, and why: the smile vanished from his face, he knitted his brows.
"Ah, ah, ah! Oo!..." he muttered, recalling everything that had happened. And again every detail of his quarrel with his wife was present to his imagination, all the hopelessness of his position, and worst of all, his own fault.
"Yes, she won't forgive me, and she can't forgive me. And the most awful thing about it is that it's all my fault--all my fault, though I'm not to blame. That's the point of the whole situation," he reflected. "Oh, oh, oh!" he kept repeating in despair, as he remembered the acutely painful sensations caused him by this quarrel.
Everything was in confusion in the Oblonskys' house. The wife had discovered that the husband was carrying on an intrigue with a French girl, who had been a governess in their family, and she had announced to her husband that she could not go on living in the same house with him. This position of affairs had now lasted three days, and not only the husband and wife themselves, but all the members of their family and household, were painfully conscious of it. Every person in the house felt that there was so sense in their living together, and that the stray people brought together by chance in any inn had more in common with one another than they, the members of the family and household of the Oblonskys. The wife did not leave her own room, the husband had not been at home for three days. The children ran wild all over the house; the English governess quarreled with the housekeeper, and wrote to a friend asking her to look out for a new situation for her; the man-cook had walked off the day before just at dinner time; the kitchen-maid, and the coachman had given warning.
Three days after the quarrel, Prince Stepan Arkadyevitch Oblonsky--Stiva, as he was called in the fashionable world-- woke up at his usual hour, that is, at eight o'clock in the morning, not in his wife's bedroom, but on the leather-covered sofa in his study. He turned over his stout, well-cared-for person on the springy sofa, as though he would sink into a long sleep again; he vigorously embraced the pillow on the other side and buried his face in it; but all at once he jumped up, sat up on the sofa, and opened his eyes.
"Yes, yes, how was it now?" he thought, going over his dream. "Now, how was it? To be sure! Alabin was giving a dinner at Darmstadt; no, not Darmstadt, but something American. Yes, but then, Darmstadt was in America. Yes, Alabin was giving a dinner on glass tables, and the tables sang, Il mio tesoro--not Il mio tesoro though, but something better, and there were some sort of little decanters on the table, and they were women, too," he remembered.
Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes twinkled gaily, and he pondered with a smile. "Yes, it was nice, very nice. There was a great deal more that was delightful, only there's no putting it into words, or even expressing it in one's thoughts awake." And noticing a gleam of light peeping in beside one of the serge curtains, he cheerfully dropped his feet over the edge of the sofa, and felt about with them for his slippers, a present on his last birthday, worked for him by his wife on gold-colored morocco. And, as he had done every day for the last nine years, he stretched out his hand, without getting up, towards the place where his dressing-gown always hung in his bedroom. And thereupon he suddenly remembered that he was not sleeping in his wife's room, but in his study, and why: the smile vanished from his face, he knitted his brows.
"Ah, ah, ah! Oo!..." he muttered, recalling everything that had happened. And again every detail of his quarrel with his wife was present to his imagination, all the hopelessness of his position, and worst of all, his own fault.
"Yes, she won't forgive me, and she can't forgive me. And the most awful thing about it is that it's all my fault--all my fault, though I'm not to blame. That's the point of the whole situation," he reflected. "Oh, oh, oh!" he kept repeating in despair, as he remembered the acutely painful sensations caused him by this quarrel.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
But not even the users of the Snackboxes
But not even the users of the Snackboxes could compete with that master of chaos, Peeves, who seemed to have taken Fred's parting words deeply to heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, toppling statues and vases; twice he shut Mrs. Norris inside a suit of armour, from which she was rescued, yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. Peeves smashed lanterns and snuffed out candles, juggled burning torches over the heads of screaming students, caused neatly stacked piles of parchment to topple into fires or out of windows; flooded the second floor when he pulled off all the taps in the bathrooms, dropped a bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast and, whenever he fancied a break, spent hours at a time floating along after Umbridge and blowing loud raspberries every time she spoke.
None of the staff but Filch seemed to be stirring themselves to help her. Indeed, a week after Fred and George's departure Harry witnessed Professor McGonagall walking right past Peeves, who was determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and could have sworn he heard her tell the poltergeist out of the corner of her mouth, ‘It unscrews the other way.’
To cap matters, Montague had still not recovered from his sojourn in the toilet; he remained confused and disorientated and his parents were to be observed one Tuesday morning striding up the front drive, looking extremely angry.
‘Should we say something?’ said Hermione in a worried voice, pressing her cheek against the Charms window so that she could see Mr. and Mrs. Montague marching inside. ‘About what happened to him? In case it helps Madam Pomfrey cure him?’
‘Course not, he'll recover,’ said Ron indifferently.
‘Anyway, more trouble for Umbridge, isn't it?’ said Harry in a satisfied voice.
He and Ron both tapped the teacups they were supposed to be charming with their wands. Harry's spouted four very short legs that could not reach the desk and wriggled pointlessly in midair. Ron's grew four very thin spindly legs that hoisted the cup off the desk with great difficulty, trembled for a few seconds, then folded, causing the cup to crack into two.
‘Reparo,’ said Hermione quickly, mending Ron's cup with a wave of her wand. ‘That's all very well, but what if Montague's permanently injured?’
‘Who cares?’ said Ron irritably, while his teacup stood up drunkenly again, trembling violently at the knees. ‘Montague shouldn't have tried to take all those points from Gryffindor, should he? If you want to worry about anyone, Hermione, worry about me!’
‘You?’ she said, catching her teacup as it scampered happily away across the desk on four sturdy little willow-patterned legs, and replacing it in front of her. ‘Why should I be worried about you?’
‘When Mum's next letter finally gets through Umbridge's screening process,’ said Ron bitterly, now holding his cup up while its frail legs tried feebly to support its weight, ‘I'm going to be in deep trouble. I wouldn't be surprised if she's sent another Howler.’
‘But—’
‘It'll be my fault Fred and George left, you wait,’ said Ron darkly. ‘She'll say I should've stopped them leaving, I should've grabbed the ends of their brooms and hung on or something ... yeah, it'll be all my fault.’
None of the staff but Filch seemed to be stirring themselves to help her. Indeed, a week after Fred and George's departure Harry witnessed Professor McGonagall walking right past Peeves, who was determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and could have sworn he heard her tell the poltergeist out of the corner of her mouth, ‘It unscrews the other way.’
To cap matters, Montague had still not recovered from his sojourn in the toilet; he remained confused and disorientated and his parents were to be observed one Tuesday morning striding up the front drive, looking extremely angry.
‘Should we say something?’ said Hermione in a worried voice, pressing her cheek against the Charms window so that she could see Mr. and Mrs. Montague marching inside. ‘About what happened to him? In case it helps Madam Pomfrey cure him?’
‘Course not, he'll recover,’ said Ron indifferently.
‘Anyway, more trouble for Umbridge, isn't it?’ said Harry in a satisfied voice.
He and Ron both tapped the teacups they were supposed to be charming with their wands. Harry's spouted four very short legs that could not reach the desk and wriggled pointlessly in midair. Ron's grew four very thin spindly legs that hoisted the cup off the desk with great difficulty, trembled for a few seconds, then folded, causing the cup to crack into two.
‘Reparo,’ said Hermione quickly, mending Ron's cup with a wave of her wand. ‘That's all very well, but what if Montague's permanently injured?’
‘Who cares?’ said Ron irritably, while his teacup stood up drunkenly again, trembling violently at the knees. ‘Montague shouldn't have tried to take all those points from Gryffindor, should he? If you want to worry about anyone, Hermione, worry about me!’
‘You?’ she said, catching her teacup as it scampered happily away across the desk on four sturdy little willow-patterned legs, and replacing it in front of her. ‘Why should I be worried about you?’
‘When Mum's next letter finally gets through Umbridge's screening process,’ said Ron bitterly, now holding his cup up while its frail legs tried feebly to support its weight, ‘I'm going to be in deep trouble. I wouldn't be surprised if she's sent another Howler.’
‘But—’
‘It'll be my fault Fred and George left, you wait,’ said Ron darkly. ‘She'll say I should've stopped them leaving, I should've grabbed the ends of their brooms and hung on or something ... yeah, it'll be all my fault.’
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
‘It must have been the aftermath of the vision,
‘It must have been the aftermath of the vision, that's all,’ said Sirius. ‘You were still thinking of the dream or whatever it was and—’
‘It wasn't that,’ said Harry, shaking his head, ‘it was like something rose up inside me, like there's a snake inside me.’
‘You need to sleep,’ said Sirius firmly. ‘You're going to have breakfast, then go upstairs to bed, and after lunch you can go and see Arthur with the others. You're in shock, Harry; you're blaming yourself for something you only
witnessed, and it's lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died. Just stop worrying.’
He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry, leaving Harry standing alone in the dark.
Everyone but Harry spent the rest of the morning sleeping. He went up to the bedroom he and Ron had shared over the last few weeks of summer, but while Ron crawled into bed and was asleep within minutes, Harry sat fully
clothed, hunched against the cold metal bars of the bedstead, keeping himself deliberately uncomfortable, determined not to fall into a doze, terrified that he might become the serpent again in his sleep and wake to find that
he had attacked Ron, or else slithered through the house after one of the others ...
When Ron woke up, Harry pretended to have enjoyed a refreshing nap too. Their trunks arrived from Hogwarts while they were eating lunch, so they could dress as Muggles for the trip to St. Mungo's. Everybody except Harry
was riotously happy and talkative as they changed out of their robes into jeans and sweatshirts. When Tonks and Mad-Eye turned up to escort them across London, they greeted them gleefully, laughing at the bowler hat
Mad-Eye was wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair was short and bright pink again, would attract far less attention on the Underground.
Tonks was very interested in Harry's vision of the attack on Mr. Weasley, something Harry was not remotely interested in discussing.
‘There isn't any Seer blood in your family, is there?’ she enquired curiously, as they sat side by side on a train rattling towards the heart of the city.
‘No,’ said Harry thinking of Professor Trelawney and feeling insulted.
‘No,’ said Tonks musingly, ‘no, I suppose it's not really prophecy you're doing, is it? I mean, you're not seeing the future, you're seeing the present ... it's odd, isn't it? Useful, though ...’
Harry didn't answer; fortunately, they got out at the next stop, a station in the very heart of London, and in the bustle of leaving the train he was able to allow Fred and George to get between himself and Tonks, who was
leading the way. They all followed her up the escalator, Moody clunking along at the back of the group, his bowler tilted low and one gnarled hand stuck in between the buttons of his coat, clutching his wand. Harry thought he
sensed the concealed eye staring hard at him. Trying to avoid any more questions about his dream, he asked Mad-Eye where St. Mungo's was hidden.
‘Not far from here,’ grunted Moody as they stepped out into the wintry air on a broad store-lined street packed with Christmas shoppers. He pushed Harry a little ahead of him and stumped along just behind; Harry knew the
eye was rolling in all directions under the tilted hat. ‘Wasn't easy to find a good location for a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough and we couldn't have it underground like the Ministry—wouldn't be healthy. In the
end they managed to get hold of a building up here. Theory was, sick wizards could come and go and just blend in with the crowd.’
He seized Harry's shoulder to prevent them being separated by a gaggle of shoppers plainly intent on nothing but making it into a nearby shop full of electrical gadgets.
‘Here we go,’ said Moody a moment later.
They had arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge & Dowse Ltd. The place had a shabby, miserable air; the window displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with their wigs askew,
standing at random and modelling fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on all the dusty doors read: ‘Closed for Refurbishment'. Harry distinctly heard a large woman laden with plastic shopping bags say to her
friend as they passed, ‘It's never open, that place ...’
‘Right,’ said Tonks, beckoning them towards a window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly female dummy. Its false eyelashes were hanging off and it was modelling a green nylon pinafore dress. ‘Everybody ready?’
They nodded, clustering around her. Moody gave Harry another shove between the shoulder blades to urge him forward and Tonks leaned close to the glass, looking up at the very ugly dummy, her breath steaming up the
glass. ‘Wotcher,’ she said, ‘we're here to see Arthur Weasley.’
Harry thought how absurd it was for Tonks to expect the dummy to hear her talking so quietly through a sheet of glass, with buses rumbling along behind her and all the racket of a street full of shoppers. Then he reminded
himself that dummies couldn't hear anyway. Next second, his mouth opened in shock as the dummy gave a tiny nod and beckoned with its jointed finger, and Tonks had seized Ginny and Mrs. Weasley by the elbows, stepped
right through the glass and vanished.
Fred, George and Ron stepped after them. Harry glanced around at the jostling crowd; not one of them seemed to have a glance to spare for window displays as ugly as those of Purge & Dowse Ltd; nor did any of them seem
to have noticed that six people had just melted into thin air in front of them.
‘C'mon,’ growled Moody, giving Harry yet another poke in the back, and together they stepped forward through what felt like a sheet of cool water, emerging quite warm and dry on the other side.
There was no sign of the ugly dummy or the space where she had stood. They were in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly
normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests. The room was scarcely less quiet than the street outside,
for many of the patients were making very peculiar noises: a sweaty-faced witch in the centre of the front row, who was fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the Daily Prophet, kept letting off a high-pitched whistle as steam
came pouring out of her mouth; a grubby-looking warlock in the corner clanged like a bell every time he moved and, with each clang, his head vibrated horribly so that he had to seize himself by the ears to hold it steady.
Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking questions and making notes on clipboards like Umbridge's. Harry noticed the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and bone,
crossed.
‘Are they doctors?’ he asked Ron quietly.
‘Doctors?’ said Ron, looking startled. ‘Those Muggle nutters that cut people up? Nah, they're Healers.’
‘Over here!’ called Mrs. Weasley, above the renewed clanging of the warlock in the corner, and they followed her to the queue in front of a plump blonde witch seated at a desk marked Enquiries.The wall behind her was
covered in notices and posters saying things like: A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE ANTI-DON'TS UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED HEALER. There was also a
large portrait of a witch with long silver ringlets which was labelled:
Dilys Derwent
St. Mungo's Healer 1722-1741
Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
1741-1768
Dilys was eyeing the Weasley party closely as though counting them; when Harry caught her eye she gave a tiny wink, walked sideways out of her portrait and vanished.
Meanwhile, at the front of the queue, a young wizard was performing an odd on-the-spot jig and trying, in between yelps of pain, to explain his predicament to the witch behind the desk.
‘It's these— ouch—shoes my brother gave me—ow—they re eating my—OUCH—feet—look at them, there must be some kind of—AARGH—jinx on them and I can't— AAAAARGH—get them off.’ He hopped from one foot to
the other as though dancing on hot coals.
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‘It wasn't that,’ said Harry, shaking his head, ‘it was like something rose up inside me, like there's a snake inside me.’
‘You need to sleep,’ said Sirius firmly. ‘You're going to have breakfast, then go upstairs to bed, and after lunch you can go and see Arthur with the others. You're in shock, Harry; you're blaming yourself for something you only
witnessed, and it's lucky you did witness it or Arthur might have died. Just stop worrying.’
He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left the pantry, leaving Harry standing alone in the dark.
Everyone but Harry spent the rest of the morning sleeping. He went up to the bedroom he and Ron had shared over the last few weeks of summer, but while Ron crawled into bed and was asleep within minutes, Harry sat fully
clothed, hunched against the cold metal bars of the bedstead, keeping himself deliberately uncomfortable, determined not to fall into a doze, terrified that he might become the serpent again in his sleep and wake to find that
he had attacked Ron, or else slithered through the house after one of the others ...
When Ron woke up, Harry pretended to have enjoyed a refreshing nap too. Their trunks arrived from Hogwarts while they were eating lunch, so they could dress as Muggles for the trip to St. Mungo's. Everybody except Harry
was riotously happy and talkative as they changed out of their robes into jeans and sweatshirts. When Tonks and Mad-Eye turned up to escort them across London, they greeted them gleefully, laughing at the bowler hat
Mad-Eye was wearing at an angle to conceal his magical eye and assuring him, truthfully, that Tonks, whose hair was short and bright pink again, would attract far less attention on the Underground.
Tonks was very interested in Harry's vision of the attack on Mr. Weasley, something Harry was not remotely interested in discussing.
‘There isn't any Seer blood in your family, is there?’ she enquired curiously, as they sat side by side on a train rattling towards the heart of the city.
‘No,’ said Harry thinking of Professor Trelawney and feeling insulted.
‘No,’ said Tonks musingly, ‘no, I suppose it's not really prophecy you're doing, is it? I mean, you're not seeing the future, you're seeing the present ... it's odd, isn't it? Useful, though ...’
Harry didn't answer; fortunately, they got out at the next stop, a station in the very heart of London, and in the bustle of leaving the train he was able to allow Fred and George to get between himself and Tonks, who was
leading the way. They all followed her up the escalator, Moody clunking along at the back of the group, his bowler tilted low and one gnarled hand stuck in between the buttons of his coat, clutching his wand. Harry thought he
sensed the concealed eye staring hard at him. Trying to avoid any more questions about his dream, he asked Mad-Eye where St. Mungo's was hidden.
‘Not far from here,’ grunted Moody as they stepped out into the wintry air on a broad store-lined street packed with Christmas shoppers. He pushed Harry a little ahead of him and stumped along just behind; Harry knew the
eye was rolling in all directions under the tilted hat. ‘Wasn't easy to find a good location for a hospital. Nowhere in Diagon Alley was big enough and we couldn't have it underground like the Ministry—wouldn't be healthy. In the
end they managed to get hold of a building up here. Theory was, sick wizards could come and go and just blend in with the crowd.’
He seized Harry's shoulder to prevent them being separated by a gaggle of shoppers plainly intent on nothing but making it into a nearby shop full of electrical gadgets.
‘Here we go,’ said Moody a moment later.
They had arrived outside a large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge & Dowse Ltd. The place had a shabby, miserable air; the window displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with their wigs askew,
standing at random and modelling fashions at least ten years out of date. Large signs on all the dusty doors read: ‘Closed for Refurbishment'. Harry distinctly heard a large woman laden with plastic shopping bags say to her
friend as they passed, ‘It's never open, that place ...’
‘Right,’ said Tonks, beckoning them towards a window displaying nothing but a particularly ugly female dummy. Its false eyelashes were hanging off and it was modelling a green nylon pinafore dress. ‘Everybody ready?’
They nodded, clustering around her. Moody gave Harry another shove between the shoulder blades to urge him forward and Tonks leaned close to the glass, looking up at the very ugly dummy, her breath steaming up the
glass. ‘Wotcher,’ she said, ‘we're here to see Arthur Weasley.’
Harry thought how absurd it was for Tonks to expect the dummy to hear her talking so quietly through a sheet of glass, with buses rumbling along behind her and all the racket of a street full of shoppers. Then he reminded
himself that dummies couldn't hear anyway. Next second, his mouth opened in shock as the dummy gave a tiny nod and beckoned with its jointed finger, and Tonks had seized Ginny and Mrs. Weasley by the elbows, stepped
right through the glass and vanished.
Fred, George and Ron stepped after them. Harry glanced around at the jostling crowd; not one of them seemed to have a glance to spare for window displays as ugly as those of Purge & Dowse Ltd; nor did any of them seem
to have noticed that six people had just melted into thin air in front of them.
‘C'mon,’ growled Moody, giving Harry yet another poke in the back, and together they stepped forward through what felt like a sheet of cool water, emerging quite warm and dry on the other side.
There was no sign of the ugly dummy or the space where she had stood. They were in what seemed to be a crowded reception area where rows of witches and wizards sat upon rickety wooden chairs, some looking perfectly
normal and perusing out-of-date copies of Witch Weekly, others sporting gruesome disfigurements such as elephant trunks or extra hands sticking out of their chests. The room was scarcely less quiet than the street outside,
for many of the patients were making very peculiar noises: a sweaty-faced witch in the centre of the front row, who was fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the Daily Prophet, kept letting off a high-pitched whistle as steam
came pouring out of her mouth; a grubby-looking warlock in the corner clanged like a bell every time he moved and, with each clang, his head vibrated horribly so that he had to seize himself by the ears to hold it steady.
Witches and wizards in lime-green robes were walking up and down the rows, asking questions and making notes on clipboards like Umbridge's. Harry noticed the emblem embroidered on their chests: a wand and bone,
crossed.
‘Are they doctors?’ he asked Ron quietly.
‘Doctors?’ said Ron, looking startled. ‘Those Muggle nutters that cut people up? Nah, they're Healers.’
‘Over here!’ called Mrs. Weasley, above the renewed clanging of the warlock in the corner, and they followed her to the queue in front of a plump blonde witch seated at a desk marked Enquiries.The wall behind her was
covered in notices and posters saying things like: A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE ANTI-DON'TS UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED HEALER. There was also a
large portrait of a witch with long silver ringlets which was labelled:
Dilys Derwent
St. Mungo's Healer 1722-1741
Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
1741-1768
Dilys was eyeing the Weasley party closely as though counting them; when Harry caught her eye she gave a tiny wink, walked sideways out of her portrait and vanished.
Meanwhile, at the front of the queue, a young wizard was performing an odd on-the-spot jig and trying, in between yelps of pain, to explain his predicament to the witch behind the desk.
‘It's these— ouch—shoes my brother gave me—ow—they re eating my—OUCH—feet—look at them, there must be some kind of—AARGH—jinx on them and I can't— AAAAARGH—get them off.’ He hopped from one foot to
the other as though dancing on hot coals.
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Fred shrugged.
Fred shrugged.
‘Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner making notes on a clipboard. You know what Flitwick's like, he treated her like a guest, didn't seem to bother him at all. She didn't say much. Asked Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes are normally like, Alicia told her they were really good, that was it.’
‘I can't see old Flitwick getting marked down,’ said George, ‘he usually gets everyone through their exams all right.’
‘Who've you got this afternoon?’ Fred asked Harry.
‘Trelawney—’
‘A “T” if ever I saw one.’
‘—and Umbridge herself.’
‘Well, be a good boy and keep your temper with Umbridge today,’ said George. ‘Angelina'll do her nut if you miss any more Quidditch practices.’
But Harry did not have to wait for Defence Against the Dark Arts to meet Professor Umbridge. He was pulling out his dream diary in a seat at the very back of the shadowy Divination room when Ron elbowed him in the ribs and, looking round, he saw Professor Umbridge emerging through the trapdoor in the floor. The class, which had been talking cheerily, fell silent at once. The abrupt fall in the noise level made Professor Trelawney, who had been wafting about handing out copies of The Dream Oracle, look round.
‘Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,’ said Professor Umbridge with her wide smile. ‘You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?’
Professor Trelawney nodded curtly and, looking very disgruntled, turned her back on Professor Umbridge and continued to give out books. Still smiling, Professor Umbridge grasped the back of the nearest armchair and pulled it to the front of the class so that it was a few inches behind Professor Trelawney's seat. She then sat down, took her clipboard from her flowery bag and looked up expectantly, waiting for the class to begin.
Professor Trelawney pulled her shawls tight about her with slightly trembling hands and surveyed the class through her hugely magnifying lenses.
‘We shall be continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,’ she said in a brave attempt at her usual mystic tones, though her voice shook slightly. ‘Divide into pairs, please, and interpret each others latest night-time visions with the aid of the Oracle.’
She made as though to sweep back to her seat, saw Professor Umbridge sitting right beside it, and immediately veered left towards Parvati and Lavender, who were already deep in discussion about Parvati's most recent dream.
Harry opened his copy of The Dream Oracle, watching Umbridge covertly. She was already making notes on her clipboard. After a few minutes she got to her feet and began to pace the room in ‘Trelawney's wake, listening to her conversations with students and posing questions here and there. Harry bent his head hurriedly over his book.
‘Think of a dream, quick,’ he told Ron, ‘in case the old toad comes our way.’
‘I did it last time,’ Ron protested, ‘it's your turn, you tell me one.’
‘Oh, I dunno ...’ said Harry desperately, who could not remember dreaming anything at all over the last few days. ‘Let's say I dreamed I was ... drowning Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that'll do ...’
Ron chortled as he opened his Dream Oracle.
‘OK, we've got to add your age to the date you had the dream, the number of letters in the subject ... would that be “drowning” or “cauldron” or “Snape"?’
‘It doesn't matter, pick any of them,’ said Harry, chancing a glance behind him. Professor Umbridge was now standing at Professor Trelawney's shoulder making notes while the Divination teacher questioned Neville about his dream diary.
‘What night did you dream this again?’ Ron said, immersed in calculations.
‘I dunno, last night, whenever you like,’ Harry told him, trying to listen to what Umbridge was saying to Professor Trelawney. They were only a table away from him and Ron now. Professor Umbridge was making another note on her clipboard and Professor Trelawney was looking extremely put out.
‘Now,’ said Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney, ‘you've been in this post how long, exactly?’
Professor Trelawney scowled at her, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection. After a slight pause in which she seemed to decide that the question was not so offensive that she could reasonably ignore it, she said in a deeply resentful tone, ‘Nearly sixteen years.’
‘Quite a period,’ said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. ‘So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?’
‘That's right,’ said Professor Trelawney shortly.
Professor Umbridge made another note.
‘And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?’
‘Yes,’ said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher.
Another note on the clipboard.
‘But I think— correct me if I am mistaken—that you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be possessed of Second Sight?’
‘Not that bad. Umbridge just lurked in the corner making notes on a clipboard. You know what Flitwick's like, he treated her like a guest, didn't seem to bother him at all. She didn't say much. Asked Alicia a couple of questions about what the classes are normally like, Alicia told her they were really good, that was it.’
‘I can't see old Flitwick getting marked down,’ said George, ‘he usually gets everyone through their exams all right.’
‘Who've you got this afternoon?’ Fred asked Harry.
‘Trelawney—’
‘A “T” if ever I saw one.’
‘—and Umbridge herself.’
‘Well, be a good boy and keep your temper with Umbridge today,’ said George. ‘Angelina'll do her nut if you miss any more Quidditch practices.’
But Harry did not have to wait for Defence Against the Dark Arts to meet Professor Umbridge. He was pulling out his dream diary in a seat at the very back of the shadowy Divination room when Ron elbowed him in the ribs and, looking round, he saw Professor Umbridge emerging through the trapdoor in the floor. The class, which had been talking cheerily, fell silent at once. The abrupt fall in the noise level made Professor Trelawney, who had been wafting about handing out copies of The Dream Oracle, look round.
‘Good afternoon, Professor Trelawney,’ said Professor Umbridge with her wide smile. ‘You received my note, I trust? Giving the time and date of your inspection?’
Professor Trelawney nodded curtly and, looking very disgruntled, turned her back on Professor Umbridge and continued to give out books. Still smiling, Professor Umbridge grasped the back of the nearest armchair and pulled it to the front of the class so that it was a few inches behind Professor Trelawney's seat. She then sat down, took her clipboard from her flowery bag and looked up expectantly, waiting for the class to begin.
Professor Trelawney pulled her shawls tight about her with slightly trembling hands and surveyed the class through her hugely magnifying lenses.
‘We shall be continuing our study of prophetic dreams today,’ she said in a brave attempt at her usual mystic tones, though her voice shook slightly. ‘Divide into pairs, please, and interpret each others latest night-time visions with the aid of the Oracle.’
She made as though to sweep back to her seat, saw Professor Umbridge sitting right beside it, and immediately veered left towards Parvati and Lavender, who were already deep in discussion about Parvati's most recent dream.
Harry opened his copy of The Dream Oracle, watching Umbridge covertly. She was already making notes on her clipboard. After a few minutes she got to her feet and began to pace the room in ‘Trelawney's wake, listening to her conversations with students and posing questions here and there. Harry bent his head hurriedly over his book.
‘Think of a dream, quick,’ he told Ron, ‘in case the old toad comes our way.’
‘I did it last time,’ Ron protested, ‘it's your turn, you tell me one.’
‘Oh, I dunno ...’ said Harry desperately, who could not remember dreaming anything at all over the last few days. ‘Let's say I dreamed I was ... drowning Snape in my cauldron. Yeah, that'll do ...’
Ron chortled as he opened his Dream Oracle.
‘OK, we've got to add your age to the date you had the dream, the number of letters in the subject ... would that be “drowning” or “cauldron” or “Snape"?’
‘It doesn't matter, pick any of them,’ said Harry, chancing a glance behind him. Professor Umbridge was now standing at Professor Trelawney's shoulder making notes while the Divination teacher questioned Neville about his dream diary.
‘What night did you dream this again?’ Ron said, immersed in calculations.
‘I dunno, last night, whenever you like,’ Harry told him, trying to listen to what Umbridge was saying to Professor Trelawney. They were only a table away from him and Ron now. Professor Umbridge was making another note on her clipboard and Professor Trelawney was looking extremely put out.
‘Now,’ said Umbridge, looking up at Trelawney, ‘you've been in this post how long, exactly?’
Professor Trelawney scowled at her, arms crossed and shoulders hunched as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection. After a slight pause in which she seemed to decide that the question was not so offensive that she could reasonably ignore it, she said in a deeply resentful tone, ‘Nearly sixteen years.’
‘Quite a period,’ said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. ‘So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?’
‘That's right,’ said Professor Trelawney shortly.
Professor Umbridge made another note.
‘And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?’
‘Yes,’ said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher.
Another note on the clipboard.
‘But I think— correct me if I am mistaken—that you are the first in your family since Cassandra to be possessed of Second Sight?’
Monday, November 15, 2010
‘What?’ said Harry in disbelief, as Ginny made a noise like an angry cat.
‘I know,’ said Ron in a low voice. ‘And it got worse. He said Dad was an idiot to run around with Dumbledore, that Dumbledore was heading for big trouble and Dad was going to go down with him, and that he—Percy—knew where his loyalty lay and it was with the Ministry. And if Mum and Dad were going to become traitors to the Ministry he was going to make sure everyone knew he didn't belong to our family any more. And he packed his bags the same night and left. He's living here in London now.’
Harry swore under his breath. He had always liked Percy least of Ron's brothers, but he had never imagined he would say such things to Mr. Weasley.
‘Mum's been in a right state,’ said Ron dully. ‘You know—crying and stuff. She came up to London to try and talk to Percy but he slammed the door in her face. I dunno what he does if he meets Dad at work—ignores him, I s'pose.’
‘But Percy must know Voldemort's back,’ said Harry slowly. ‘He's not stupid, he must know your mum and dad wouldn't risk everything without proof—’
‘Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row,’ said Ron, shooting Harry a furtive look. ‘Percy said the only evidence was your word and ... I dunno ... he didn't think it was good enough.’
‘Percy takes the Daily Prophet seriously,’ said Hermione tartly, and the others all nodded.
‘What are you talking about?’ Harry asked, looking around at them all. They were all regarding him warily.
‘Haven't—haven't you been getting the Daily Prophet?’ Hermione asked nervously.
‘Yeah, I have!’ said Harry.
‘Have you—er— been reading it thoroughly?’ Hermione asked, still more anxiously.
‘Not cover to cover,’ said Harry defensively. ‘If they were going to report anything about Voldemort it would be headline news, wouldn't it?’
The others flinched at the sound of the name. Hermione hurried on, ‘Well, you'd need to read it cover to cover to pick it up, but they—um—they mention you a couple of times a week.’
‘But I'd have seen—’
‘Not if you've only been reading the front page, you wouldn't,’ said Hermione, shaking her head. ‘I'm not talking about big articles. They just slip you in, like you're a standing joke.’
‘What d'you—?’
Harry swore under his breath. He had always liked Percy least of Ron's brothers, but he had never imagined he would say such things to Mr. Weasley.
‘Mum's been in a right state,’ said Ron dully. ‘You know—crying and stuff. She came up to London to try and talk to Percy but he slammed the door in her face. I dunno what he does if he meets Dad at work—ignores him, I s'pose.’
‘But Percy must know Voldemort's back,’ said Harry slowly. ‘He's not stupid, he must know your mum and dad wouldn't risk everything without proof—’
‘Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row,’ said Ron, shooting Harry a furtive look. ‘Percy said the only evidence was your word and ... I dunno ... he didn't think it was good enough.’
‘Percy takes the Daily Prophet seriously,’ said Hermione tartly, and the others all nodded.
‘What are you talking about?’ Harry asked, looking around at them all. They were all regarding him warily.
‘Haven't—haven't you been getting the Daily Prophet?’ Hermione asked nervously.
‘Yeah, I have!’ said Harry.
‘Have you—er— been reading it thoroughly?’ Hermione asked, still more anxiously.
‘Not cover to cover,’ said Harry defensively. ‘If they were going to report anything about Voldemort it would be headline news, wouldn't it?’
The others flinched at the sound of the name. Hermione hurried on, ‘Well, you'd need to read it cover to cover to pick it up, but they—um—they mention you a couple of times a week.’
‘But I'd have seen—’
‘Not if you've only been reading the front page, you wouldn't,’ said Hermione, shaking her head. ‘I'm not talking about big articles. They just slip you in, like you're a standing joke.’
‘What d'you—?’
Harry was not sure his anger had abated yet;
but his thirst for information was now overcoming his urge to keep shouting. He sank on to the bed opposite the others.
‘Is Bill here?’ he asked. ‘I thought he was working in Egypt?’
‘He applied for a desk job so he could come home and work for the Order,’ said Fred. ‘He says he misses the tombs, but,’ he smirked, ‘there are compensations....’
‘What d'you mean?’
‘Remember old Fleur Delacour?’ said George. ‘She's got a job at Gringotts to eemprove ‘er Eeenglish—’
‘—and Bill's been giving her a lot of private lessons,’ sniggered Fred.
‘Charlie's in the Order, too,’ said George, ‘but he's still in Romania. Dumbledore wants as many foreign wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie's trying to make contacts on his days off.’
‘Couldn't Percy do that?’ Harry asked. The last he had heard, the third Weasley brother was working in the Department of International Magical Co-operation at the Ministry of Magic.
At Harry's words, all the Weasleys and Hermione exchanged darkly significant looks.
‘Whatever you do, don't mention Percy in front of Mum and Dad,’ Ron told Harry in a tense voice.
‘Why not?’
‘Because every time Percy's name's mentioned, Dad breaks whatever he's holding and Mum starts crying,’ Fred said.
‘It's been awful,’ said Ginny sadly.
‘I think we're well shot of him,’ said George, with an uncharacteristically ugly look on his face.
‘What's happened?’ Harry said.
‘Percy and Dad had a row,’ said Fred. ‘I've never seen Dad row with anyone like that. It's normally Mum who shouts....’
‘It was the first week back after term ended,’ said Ron. ‘We were about to come and join the Order. Percy came home and told us he'd been promoted.’
‘You're kidding?’ said Harry.
Though he knew perfectly well that Percy was highly ambitious, Harry's impression was that Percy had not made a great success of his first job at the Ministry of Magic. Percy had committed the fairly large oversight of failing to notice that his boss was being controlled by Lord Voldemort (not that the Ministry had believed it—they all thought Mr. Crouch had gone mad).
‘Yeah, we were all surprised,’ said George, ‘because Percy got into a load of trouble about Crouch, there was an inquiry and everything. They said Percy ought to have realised Crouch was off his rocker and informed a superior. But you know Percy, Crouch left him in charge, he wasn't going to complain....’
‘So how come they promoted him?’
‘That's exactly what we wondered,’ said Ron, who seemed very keen to keep normal conversation going now that Harry had stopped yelling. ‘He came home really pleased with himself—even more pleased than usual, if you can imagine that—and told Dad he'd been offered a position in Fudge's own office. A really good one for someone only a year out of Hogwarts—Junior Assistant to the Minister. He expected Dad to be all impressed, I think.’
‘Only Dad wasn't,’ said Fred grimly.
‘Why not?’ said Harry.
‘Well, apparently Fudge has been storming round the Ministry checking that nobody's having any contact with Dumbledore,’ said George.
‘Dumbledore's name is mud with the Ministry these days, see,’ said Fred. ‘They all think he's just making trouble saying You-Know-Who's back.’
‘Dad says Fudge has made it clear that anyone who's in league with Dumbledore can clear out their desks,’ said George.
‘Trouble is, Fudge suspects Dad, he knows he's friendly with Dumbledore, and he's always thought Dad's a bit of a weirdo because of his Muggle obsession.’
‘But what's that got to do with Percy?’ asked Harry, confused.
‘I'm coming to that. Dad reckons Fudge only wants Percy in his office because he wants to use him to spy on the family—and Dumbledore.’
Harry let out a low whistle.
‘Bet Percy loved that.’
Ron laughed in a hollow sort of way.
‘He went completely berserk. He said—well, he said loads of terrible stuff. He said he's been having to struggle against Dad's lousy reputation ever since he joined the Ministry and that Dad's got no ambition and that's why we've always been—you know—not had a lot of money, I mean—’
‘Is Bill here?’ he asked. ‘I thought he was working in Egypt?’
‘He applied for a desk job so he could come home and work for the Order,’ said Fred. ‘He says he misses the tombs, but,’ he smirked, ‘there are compensations....’
‘What d'you mean?’
‘Remember old Fleur Delacour?’ said George. ‘She's got a job at Gringotts to eemprove ‘er Eeenglish—’
‘—and Bill's been giving her a lot of private lessons,’ sniggered Fred.
‘Charlie's in the Order, too,’ said George, ‘but he's still in Romania. Dumbledore wants as many foreign wizards brought in as possible, so Charlie's trying to make contacts on his days off.’
‘Couldn't Percy do that?’ Harry asked. The last he had heard, the third Weasley brother was working in the Department of International Magical Co-operation at the Ministry of Magic.
At Harry's words, all the Weasleys and Hermione exchanged darkly significant looks.
‘Whatever you do, don't mention Percy in front of Mum and Dad,’ Ron told Harry in a tense voice.
‘Why not?’
‘Because every time Percy's name's mentioned, Dad breaks whatever he's holding and Mum starts crying,’ Fred said.
‘It's been awful,’ said Ginny sadly.
‘I think we're well shot of him,’ said George, with an uncharacteristically ugly look on his face.
‘What's happened?’ Harry said.
‘Percy and Dad had a row,’ said Fred. ‘I've never seen Dad row with anyone like that. It's normally Mum who shouts....’
‘It was the first week back after term ended,’ said Ron. ‘We were about to come and join the Order. Percy came home and told us he'd been promoted.’
‘You're kidding?’ said Harry.
Though he knew perfectly well that Percy was highly ambitious, Harry's impression was that Percy had not made a great success of his first job at the Ministry of Magic. Percy had committed the fairly large oversight of failing to notice that his boss was being controlled by Lord Voldemort (not that the Ministry had believed it—they all thought Mr. Crouch had gone mad).
‘Yeah, we were all surprised,’ said George, ‘because Percy got into a load of trouble about Crouch, there was an inquiry and everything. They said Percy ought to have realised Crouch was off his rocker and informed a superior. But you know Percy, Crouch left him in charge, he wasn't going to complain....’
‘So how come they promoted him?’
‘That's exactly what we wondered,’ said Ron, who seemed very keen to keep normal conversation going now that Harry had stopped yelling. ‘He came home really pleased with himself—even more pleased than usual, if you can imagine that—and told Dad he'd been offered a position in Fudge's own office. A really good one for someone only a year out of Hogwarts—Junior Assistant to the Minister. He expected Dad to be all impressed, I think.’
‘Only Dad wasn't,’ said Fred grimly.
‘Why not?’ said Harry.
‘Well, apparently Fudge has been storming round the Ministry checking that nobody's having any contact with Dumbledore,’ said George.
‘Dumbledore's name is mud with the Ministry these days, see,’ said Fred. ‘They all think he's just making trouble saying You-Know-Who's back.’
‘Dad says Fudge has made it clear that anyone who's in league with Dumbledore can clear out their desks,’ said George.
‘Trouble is, Fudge suspects Dad, he knows he's friendly with Dumbledore, and he's always thought Dad's a bit of a weirdo because of his Muggle obsession.’
‘But what's that got to do with Percy?’ asked Harry, confused.
‘I'm coming to that. Dad reckons Fudge only wants Percy in his office because he wants to use him to spy on the family—and Dumbledore.’
Harry let out a low whistle.
‘Bet Percy loved that.’
Ron laughed in a hollow sort of way.
‘He went completely berserk. He said—well, he said loads of terrible stuff. He said he's been having to struggle against Dad's lousy reputation ever since he joined the Ministry and that Dad's got no ambition and that's why we've always been—you know—not had a lot of money, I mean—’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Ron, with a look of dawning comprehension.
Harry snorted. He walked around the room again, looking anywhere but at Ron and Hermione. ‘So, what have you two been doing, if you're not allowed in meetings?’ he demanded. ‘You said you'd been busy.’
‘We have,’ said Hermione quickly. ‘We've been decontaminating this house, it's been empty for ages and stuff's been breeding in here. We've managed to clean out the kitchen, most of the bedrooms and I think we're doing the drawing room tomo—AARGH!’
With two loud cracks, Fred and George, Ron's elder twin brothers, had materialised out of thin air in the middle of the room. Pigwidgeon twittered more wildly than ever and zoomed off to join Hedwig on top of the wardrobe.
‘Stop doing that!’ Hermione said weakly to the twins, who were as vividly red-haired as Ron, though stockier and slightly shorter.
‘Hello, Harry’ said George, beaming at him. ‘We thought we heard your dulcet tones.’
‘You don't want to bottle up your anger like that, Harry, let it all out,’ said Fred, also beaming. ‘There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn't hear you.’
‘You two passed your Apparation tests, then?’ asked Harry grumpily.
‘With distinction,’ said Fred, who was holding what looked like a piece of very long, flesh-coloured string.
‘It would have taken you about thirty seconds longer to walk down the stairs,’ said Ron.
‘Time is Galleons, little brother,’ said Fred. ‘Anyway, Harry, you're interfering with reception. Extendable Ears,’ he added in response to Harry's raised eyebrows, and held up the string which Harry now saw was trailing out on to the landing. ‘We're trying to hear what's going on downstairs.’
‘You want to be careful,’ said Ron, staring at the Ear, ‘if Mum sees one of them again...’
‘It's worth the risk, that's a major meeting they're having,’ said Fred.
The door opened and a long mane of red hair appeared.
‘Oh, hello, Harry!’ said Ron's younger sister, Ginny, brightly. ‘I thought I heard your voice.’
Turning to Fred and George, she said, ‘It's no-go with the Extendable Ears, she's gone and put an Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door.’
‘How d'you know?’ said George, looking crestfallen.
‘Tonks told me how to find out,’ said Ginny. ‘You just chuck stuff at the door and if it can't make contact the door's been Imperturbed. I've been flicking Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they just soar away from it, so there's no way the Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap.’
Fred heaved a deep sigh.
‘Shame. I really fancied finding out what old Snape's been up to.’
‘Snape!’ said Harry quickly. ‘Is he here?’
‘Yeah,’ said George, carefully closing the door and sitting down on one of the beds; Fred and Ginny followed. ‘Giving a report. Top secret.’
‘Git,’ said Fred idly.
‘He's on our side now,’ said Hermione reprovingly.
Ron snorted. ‘Doesn't stop him being a git. The way he looks at us when he sees us....’
‘Bill doesn't like him, either,’ said Ginny, as though that settled the matter.
‘We have,’ said Hermione quickly. ‘We've been decontaminating this house, it's been empty for ages and stuff's been breeding in here. We've managed to clean out the kitchen, most of the bedrooms and I think we're doing the drawing room tomo—AARGH!’
With two loud cracks, Fred and George, Ron's elder twin brothers, had materialised out of thin air in the middle of the room. Pigwidgeon twittered more wildly than ever and zoomed off to join Hedwig on top of the wardrobe.
‘Stop doing that!’ Hermione said weakly to the twins, who were as vividly red-haired as Ron, though stockier and slightly shorter.
‘Hello, Harry’ said George, beaming at him. ‘We thought we heard your dulcet tones.’
‘You don't want to bottle up your anger like that, Harry, let it all out,’ said Fred, also beaming. ‘There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn't hear you.’
‘You two passed your Apparation tests, then?’ asked Harry grumpily.
‘With distinction,’ said Fred, who was holding what looked like a piece of very long, flesh-coloured string.
‘It would have taken you about thirty seconds longer to walk down the stairs,’ said Ron.
‘Time is Galleons, little brother,’ said Fred. ‘Anyway, Harry, you're interfering with reception. Extendable Ears,’ he added in response to Harry's raised eyebrows, and held up the string which Harry now saw was trailing out on to the landing. ‘We're trying to hear what's going on downstairs.’
‘You want to be careful,’ said Ron, staring at the Ear, ‘if Mum sees one of them again...’
‘It's worth the risk, that's a major meeting they're having,’ said Fred.
The door opened and a long mane of red hair appeared.
‘Oh, hello, Harry!’ said Ron's younger sister, Ginny, brightly. ‘I thought I heard your voice.’
Turning to Fred and George, she said, ‘It's no-go with the Extendable Ears, she's gone and put an Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door.’
‘How d'you know?’ said George, looking crestfallen.
‘Tonks told me how to find out,’ said Ginny. ‘You just chuck stuff at the door and if it can't make contact the door's been Imperturbed. I've been flicking Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they just soar away from it, so there's no way the Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap.’
Fred heaved a deep sigh.
‘Shame. I really fancied finding out what old Snape's been up to.’
‘Snape!’ said Harry quickly. ‘Is he here?’
‘Yeah,’ said George, carefully closing the door and sitting down on one of the beds; Fred and Ginny followed. ‘Giving a report. Top secret.’
‘Git,’ said Fred idly.
‘He's on our side now,’ said Hermione reprovingly.
Ron snorted. ‘Doesn't stop him being a git. The way he looks at us when he sees us....’
‘Bill doesn't like him, either,’ said Ginny, as though that settled the matter.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
But the great black dog gave a joyful
bark and gambolled around them, snapping at pigeons and chasing its own tail. Harry couldn't help laughing. Sirius had been trapped inside for a very long time. Mrs. Weasley pursed her
lips in an almost Aunt Petunia-ish way.
It took them twenty minutes to reach King's Cross on foot and nothing more eventful happened during that time than Sirius scaring a couple of cats for Harry's entertainment. Once inside the station they lingered casually
beside the barrier between platforms nine and ten until the coast was clear, then each of them leaned against it in turn and fell easily through on to platform nine and three-quarters, where the Hogwarts Express stood
belching sooty steam over a platform packed with departing students and their families. Harry inhaled the familiar smell and felt his spirits soar.... He was really going back ...
‘I hope the others make it in time,’ said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, staring behind her at the wrought-iron arch spanning the platform, through which new arrivals would come.
‘Nice dog, Harry!’ called a tall boy with dreadlocks.
‘Thanks, Lee,’ said Harry, grinning, as Sirius wagged his tail frantically.
‘Oh good,’ said Mrs. Weasley, sounding relieved, ‘here's Alastor with the luggage, look...’
A porter's cap pulled low over his mismatched eyes, Moody came limping through the archway pushing a trolley loaded with their trunks.
‘All okay,’ he muttered to Mrs. Weasley and Tonks, ‘don't think we were followed....’
Seconds later, Mr. Weasley emerged on to the platform with Ron and Hermione. They had almost unloaded Moody's luggage trolley when Fred, George, and Ginny turned up with Lupin.
‘No trouble?’ growled Moody.
‘Nothing,’ said Lupin.
‘I'll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,’ said Moody, ‘that's the second time he's not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.’
‘Well, look after yourselves,’ said Lupin, shaking hands all round. He reached Harry last and gave him a clap on the shoulder. ‘You too, Harry. Be careful.’
‘Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled,’ said Moody, shaking Harry's hand too. ‘And don't forget, all of you—careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don't put it in a letter at all.’
‘It's been great meeting all of you,’ said Tonks, hugging Hermione and Ginny. ‘We'll see you soon, I expect.’
A warning whistle sounded; the students still on the platform started hurrying on to the train.
‘Quick, quick,’ said Mrs. Weasley distractedly, hugging them at random and catching Harry twice, ‘Write.... Be good.... If you've forgotten anything we'll send it on.... Onto the train, now, hurry....’
For one brief moment, the great black dog reared on to its hind legs and placed its front paws on Harry's shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoved Harry away towards the train door, hissing, ‘For heaven's sake, act more like a
dog, Sirius!’
‘See you!’ Harry called out of the open window as the train began to move, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny waved beside him. The figures of Tonks, Lupin, Moody, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shrank rapidly but the black dog
was bounding alongside the window, wagging its tail; blurred people on the platform were laughing to see it chasing the train, then they rounded a bend, and Sirius was gone.
‘He shouldn't have come with us,’ said Hermione in a worried voice.
‘Oh, lighten up,’ said Ron, ‘he hasn't seen daylight for months, poor bloke.’
‘Well,’ said Fred, clapping his hands together, ‘can't stand around chatting all day, we've got business to discuss with Lee. See you later,’ and he and George disappeared down the corridor to the right.
The train was gathering still more speed, so that the houses outside the window flashed past, and they swayed where they stood.
‘Shall we go and find a compartment, then?’ Harry asked.
Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.
‘Er,’ said Ron.
‘We're—well—Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage,’ Hermione said awkwardly.
Ron wasn't looking at Harry; he seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand.
‘Oh,’ said Harry. ‘Right. Fine.’
‘I don't think we'll have to stay there all journey,’ said Hermione quickly. ‘Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time.’
‘Fine,’ said Harry again. ‘Well, I—I might see you later, then.’
‘Yeah, definitely,’ said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. ‘It's a pain having to go down there, I'd rather—but we have to—I mean, I'm not enjoying it, I'm not Percy,’ he finished defiantly.
‘I know you're not,’ said Harry and he grinned. But as Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks, Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off towards the engine end of the train, Harry felt an odd sense of loss. He had never
travelled on the Hogwarts Express without Ron.
‘Come on,’ Ginny told him, ‘if we get a move on we'll be able to save them places.’
‘Right,’ said Harry, picking up Hedwig's cage in one hand and the handle of his trunk in the other. They struggled off down the corridor, peering through the glass-panelled doors into the compartments they passed, which
were already full. Harry could not help noticing that a lot of people stared back at him with great interest and that several of them nudged their neighbours and pointed him out. After he had met this behaviour in five
consecutive carriages he remembered that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered dully whether the people now staring and whispering believed the stories.
In the very last carriage they met Neville Longbottom, Harry's fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, Trevor.
‘Hi, Harry,’ he panted. ‘Hi, Ginny.... Everywhere's full.... I can't find a seat....’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Ginny, who had squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. ‘There's room in this one, there's only Loony Lovegood in here—’
Neville mumbled something about not wanting to disturb anyone.
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lips in an almost Aunt Petunia-ish way.
It took them twenty minutes to reach King's Cross on foot and nothing more eventful happened during that time than Sirius scaring a couple of cats for Harry's entertainment. Once inside the station they lingered casually
beside the barrier between platforms nine and ten until the coast was clear, then each of them leaned against it in turn and fell easily through on to platform nine and three-quarters, where the Hogwarts Express stood
belching sooty steam over a platform packed with departing students and their families. Harry inhaled the familiar smell and felt his spirits soar.... He was really going back ...
‘I hope the others make it in time,’ said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, staring behind her at the wrought-iron arch spanning the platform, through which new arrivals would come.
‘Nice dog, Harry!’ called a tall boy with dreadlocks.
‘Thanks, Lee,’ said Harry, grinning, as Sirius wagged his tail frantically.
‘Oh good,’ said Mrs. Weasley, sounding relieved, ‘here's Alastor with the luggage, look...’
A porter's cap pulled low over his mismatched eyes, Moody came limping through the archway pushing a trolley loaded with their trunks.
‘All okay,’ he muttered to Mrs. Weasley and Tonks, ‘don't think we were followed....’
Seconds later, Mr. Weasley emerged on to the platform with Ron and Hermione. They had almost unloaded Moody's luggage trolley when Fred, George, and Ginny turned up with Lupin.
‘No trouble?’ growled Moody.
‘Nothing,’ said Lupin.
‘I'll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,’ said Moody, ‘that's the second time he's not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.’
‘Well, look after yourselves,’ said Lupin, shaking hands all round. He reached Harry last and gave him a clap on the shoulder. ‘You too, Harry. Be careful.’
‘Yeah, keep your head down and your eyes peeled,’ said Moody, shaking Harry's hand too. ‘And don't forget, all of you—careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don't put it in a letter at all.’
‘It's been great meeting all of you,’ said Tonks, hugging Hermione and Ginny. ‘We'll see you soon, I expect.’
A warning whistle sounded; the students still on the platform started hurrying on to the train.
‘Quick, quick,’ said Mrs. Weasley distractedly, hugging them at random and catching Harry twice, ‘Write.... Be good.... If you've forgotten anything we'll send it on.... Onto the train, now, hurry....’
For one brief moment, the great black dog reared on to its hind legs and placed its front paws on Harry's shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoved Harry away towards the train door, hissing, ‘For heaven's sake, act more like a
dog, Sirius!’
‘See you!’ Harry called out of the open window as the train began to move, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny waved beside him. The figures of Tonks, Lupin, Moody, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shrank rapidly but the black dog
was bounding alongside the window, wagging its tail; blurred people on the platform were laughing to see it chasing the train, then they rounded a bend, and Sirius was gone.
‘He shouldn't have come with us,’ said Hermione in a worried voice.
‘Oh, lighten up,’ said Ron, ‘he hasn't seen daylight for months, poor bloke.’
‘Well,’ said Fred, clapping his hands together, ‘can't stand around chatting all day, we've got business to discuss with Lee. See you later,’ and he and George disappeared down the corridor to the right.
The train was gathering still more speed, so that the houses outside the window flashed past, and they swayed where they stood.
‘Shall we go and find a compartment, then?’ Harry asked.
Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.
‘Er,’ said Ron.
‘We're—well—Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage,’ Hermione said awkwardly.
Ron wasn't looking at Harry; he seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand.
‘Oh,’ said Harry. ‘Right. Fine.’
‘I don't think we'll have to stay there all journey,’ said Hermione quickly. ‘Our letters said we just get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors from time to time.’
‘Fine,’ said Harry again. ‘Well, I—I might see you later, then.’
‘Yeah, definitely,’ said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. ‘It's a pain having to go down there, I'd rather—but we have to—I mean, I'm not enjoying it, I'm not Percy,’ he finished defiantly.
‘I know you're not,’ said Harry and he grinned. But as Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks, Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off towards the engine end of the train, Harry felt an odd sense of loss. He had never
travelled on the Hogwarts Express without Ron.
‘Come on,’ Ginny told him, ‘if we get a move on we'll be able to save them places.’
‘Right,’ said Harry, picking up Hedwig's cage in one hand and the handle of his trunk in the other. They struggled off down the corridor, peering through the glass-panelled doors into the compartments they passed, which
were already full. Harry could not help noticing that a lot of people stared back at him with great interest and that several of them nudged their neighbours and pointed him out. After he had met this behaviour in five
consecutive carriages he remembered that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all summer what a lying show-off he was. He wondered dully whether the people now staring and whispering believed the stories.
In the very last carriage they met Neville Longbottom, Harry's fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, Trevor.
‘Hi, Harry,’ he panted. ‘Hi, Ginny.... Everywhere's full.... I can't find a seat....’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Ginny, who had squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. ‘There's room in this one, there's only Loony Lovegood in here—’
Neville mumbled something about not wanting to disturb anyone.
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