“But that’s a really serious thing to say!” said Hermione. “Are you – are you talking about your sister?”
Aberforth glared at her: His lips moved as if he were chewing the words he was holding back. Then he burst into speech.
“When my sister was six years old, she was attacked, by three Muggle boys. They’d seen her doing magic, spying through the back garden hedge: She was a kid, she couldn’t control it, no witch or wizard can at that age. What they saw, scared them, I expect. They forced their way through the hedge, and when she couldn’t show them the trick, they got a bit carried away trying to stop the little freak doing it.”
Hermione’s eyes were huge in the firelight; Ron looked slightly sick. Aberforth stood up, tall as Albus, and suddenly terrible in his anger and the intensity of his pain.
“It destroyed her, what they did: She was never right again. She wouldn’t use magic, but she couldn’t get rid of it; it turned inward and drove her mad, it exploded out of her when she couldn’t control it, and at times she was strange and dangerous. But mostly she was sweet and scared and harmless.”
“And my father went after the bastards that did it,” said Aberforth, “and attacked them. And they locked him up in Azkaban for it. He never said why he’d done it, because the Ministry had known what Ariana had become, she’d have been locked up in St. Mungo’s for good. They’d have seen her as a serious threat to the International Statute of Secrecy, unbalanced like she was, with magic exploding out of her at moments when she couldn’t keep it in any longer.”
“We had to keep her safe and quiet. We moved house, put it about she was ill, and my mother looked after her, and tried to keep her calm and happy.”
“I was her favourite,” he said, and as he said it, a grubby schoolboy seemed to look out through Aberforth’s wrinkles and wrangled beard. “Not Albus, he was always up in his bedroom when he was home, reading his books and counting his prizes, keeping up with his correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day,”
Aberforth succored. “He didn’t want to be bothered with her. She liked me best. I could get her to eat when she wouldn’t do it for my mother, I could calm her down, when she was in one of her rages, and when she was quiet, she used to help me feed the goats.”
“Then, when she was fourteen… See, I wasn’t there.” said Aberforth. “If I’d been there, I could have calmed her down. She had one of her rages, and my mother wasn’t as young as she was, and… it was an accident. Ariana couldn’t control it. But my mother was killed.”
Harry felt a horrible mixture of pity and repulsion; he did not want to hear any more, but Aberforth kept talking, and Harry wondered how long it had been since he had spoken about this; whether, in fact, he had ever spoken about it.
“So that put paid to Albus’s trip round the world with little Doge. The pair of ‘em came home for my mother’s funeral and then Doge went off on his own, and Albus settled down as head of the family. Ha!”
Aberforth spat into the fire.
“I’d have looked after her, I told him so, I didn’t care about school, I’d have stayed home and done it.
He told me I had to finish my education and he’d take over from my mother. Bit of a comedown for Mr. Brilliant, there’s no prizes for looking after your half-mad sister, stopping her blowing up the house every other day. But he did all right for a few weeks… till he came.“
And now a positively dangerous look crept over Aberforth’s face.
Friday, December 3, 2010
“What you’ve got to do,”
“What you’ve got to do,” said Aberforth, leaning forward, “is to get as far from here as from here as you can.”
“You don’t understand. There isn’t much time. We’ve got to get into the castle. Dumbledore – I mean, your brother – wanted us – ”
The firelight made the grimy lenses of Aberforth’s glasses momentarily opaque, a bright flat white, and Harry remembered the blind eyes of the giant spider, Aragog.
“My brother Albus wanted a lot of things,” said Aberforth, “and people had a habit of getting hurt while he was carrying out his grand plans. You get away from this school, Potter, and out of the country if you can. Forget my brother and his clever schemes. He’s gone where none of this can hurt him, and you don’t owe him anything.”
“You don’t understand.” said Harry again.
“Oh, don’t I?” said Aberforth quietly. “You don’t think I understood my own brother? Think you know Albus better than I did?”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Harry, whose brain felt sluggish with exhaustion and from the surfeit of food and wine. “It’s… he left me a job.”
“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Nice job, I hope? Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing you’d expect an unqualified wizard kid to be able to do without overstretching themselves?”
Ron gave a rather grim laugh. Hermione was looking strained.
“I-it’s not easy, no,” said Harry. “But I’ve got to – ”
“Got to? Why got to? He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Aberforth roughly. “Let it go, boy, before you follow him! Save yourself!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I – ” Harry felt overwhelmed; he could not explain, so he took the offensive instead. “But you’re fighting too, you’re in the Order of the Phoenix – ”
“I was,” said Aberforth. “The Order of the Phoenix is finished. You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone who’s pretending different’s kidding themselves. It’ll never be safe for you here, Potter, he wants you too badly. So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself. Best take these two with you.” He jerked a thumb at Ron and Hermione.
“They’ll be in danger long as they live now everyone knows they’ve been working with you.”
“I can’t leave,” said Harry. “I’ve got a job – ”
“Give it to someone else!”
“I can’t. It’s got to be me, Dumbledore explained it all – ”
“Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was he honest with you?”
Harry wanted him with all his heart to say “Yes,” but somehow the simple word would not rise to his lips, Aberforth seemed to know what he was thinking.
“I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother’s knee. Secrets and lies, that’s how we grew up, and Albus… he was a natural.”
The old man’s eyes traveled to the painting of the girl over the mantelpiece. It was, now Harry looked around properly, the only picture in the room. There was no photograph of Albus Dumbledore, nor of anyone else.
“Mr. Dumbledore” said Hermione rather timidly. “Is that your sister? Ariana?”
“Yes.” said Aberforth tersely. “Been reading Rita Skeeter, have you, missy?”
Even by the rosy light of the fire it was clear that Hermione had turned red.
“Elphias Doge mentioned her to us,” said Harry, trying to spare Hermione.
“That old berk,” muttered Aberforth, taking another swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my brother’s every ocrifice, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you three included, by the looks of it.”
Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the doubts and uncertainties about Dumbledore that had riddled him for months now. He had made his choice while he dug Dobby’s grave, he had decided to continue along the winding, dangerous path indicated for him by Albus Dumbledore, to accept that he had not been told everything that he wanted to know, but simply to trust. He had no desire to doubt again; he did not want o hear anything that would deflect him from his purpose. He met Aberforth’s gaze, which was so strikingly like his brothers’: The bright blue eyes gave the same impression that they were X-raying the object of their scrutiny, and Harry thought that Aberforth knew what he was thinking and despised him for it.
“Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very much,” said Hermione in a low voice.
“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Funny thing how many of the people my brother cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ‘em well alone.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hermione breathlessly.
“Never you mind,” said Aberforth.
“You don’t understand. There isn’t much time. We’ve got to get into the castle. Dumbledore – I mean, your brother – wanted us – ”
The firelight made the grimy lenses of Aberforth’s glasses momentarily opaque, a bright flat white, and Harry remembered the blind eyes of the giant spider, Aragog.
“My brother Albus wanted a lot of things,” said Aberforth, “and people had a habit of getting hurt while he was carrying out his grand plans. You get away from this school, Potter, and out of the country if you can. Forget my brother and his clever schemes. He’s gone where none of this can hurt him, and you don’t owe him anything.”
“You don’t understand.” said Harry again.
“Oh, don’t I?” said Aberforth quietly. “You don’t think I understood my own brother? Think you know Albus better than I did?”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Harry, whose brain felt sluggish with exhaustion and from the surfeit of food and wine. “It’s… he left me a job.”
“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Nice job, I hope? Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing you’d expect an unqualified wizard kid to be able to do without overstretching themselves?”
Ron gave a rather grim laugh. Hermione was looking strained.
“I-it’s not easy, no,” said Harry. “But I’ve got to – ”
“Got to? Why got to? He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Aberforth roughly. “Let it go, boy, before you follow him! Save yourself!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I – ” Harry felt overwhelmed; he could not explain, so he took the offensive instead. “But you’re fighting too, you’re in the Order of the Phoenix – ”
“I was,” said Aberforth. “The Order of the Phoenix is finished. You-Know-Who’s won, it’s over, and anyone who’s pretending different’s kidding themselves. It’ll never be safe for you here, Potter, he wants you too badly. So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself. Best take these two with you.” He jerked a thumb at Ron and Hermione.
“They’ll be in danger long as they live now everyone knows they’ve been working with you.”
“I can’t leave,” said Harry. “I’ve got a job – ”
“Give it to someone else!”
“I can’t. It’s got to be me, Dumbledore explained it all – ”
“Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was he honest with you?”
Harry wanted him with all his heart to say “Yes,” but somehow the simple word would not rise to his lips, Aberforth seemed to know what he was thinking.
“I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother’s knee. Secrets and lies, that’s how we grew up, and Albus… he was a natural.”
The old man’s eyes traveled to the painting of the girl over the mantelpiece. It was, now Harry looked around properly, the only picture in the room. There was no photograph of Albus Dumbledore, nor of anyone else.
“Mr. Dumbledore” said Hermione rather timidly. “Is that your sister? Ariana?”
“Yes.” said Aberforth tersely. “Been reading Rita Skeeter, have you, missy?”
Even by the rosy light of the fire it was clear that Hermione had turned red.
“Elphias Doge mentioned her to us,” said Harry, trying to spare Hermione.
“That old berk,” muttered Aberforth, taking another swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my brother’s every ocrifice, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you three included, by the looks of it.”
Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the doubts and uncertainties about Dumbledore that had riddled him for months now. He had made his choice while he dug Dobby’s grave, he had decided to continue along the winding, dangerous path indicated for him by Albus Dumbledore, to accept that he had not been told everything that he wanted to know, but simply to trust. He had no desire to doubt again; he did not want o hear anything that would deflect him from his purpose. He met Aberforth’s gaze, which was so strikingly like his brothers’: The bright blue eyes gave the same impression that they were X-raying the object of their scrutiny, and Harry thought that Aberforth knew what he was thinking and despised him for it.
“Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very much,” said Hermione in a low voice.
“Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Funny thing how many of the people my brother cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ‘em well alone.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hermione breathlessly.
“Never you mind,” said Aberforth.
“All right, we made a mistake,
“All right, we made a mistake,” said the second Death Eater. “Break curfew again and we won’t be so lenient!”
The Death Eaters strode back towards the High Street. Hermione moaned with relief, wove out from under the Cloak, and sat down on a wobble-legged chair. Harry drew the curtains then pulled the Cloak off himself and Ron. They could hear the barman down below, rebolting the door of the bar, then climbing the stairs.
Harry’s attention was caught by something on the mantelpiece: a small, rectangular mirror, propped on top of it, right beneath the portrait of the girl.
The barman entered the room.
“You bloody fools,” he said gruffly, looking from one to the other of them. “What were you thinking, coming here?”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “You can’t thank you enough. You saved our lives!”
The barman grunted. Harry approached him looking up into the face: trying to see past the long, stringy, wire-gray hair beard. He wore spectacles. Behind the dirty lenses, the eyes were a piercing, brilliant blue.
“It’s your eye I’ve been seeing in the mirror.”
There was a silence in the room. Harry and the barman looked at each other.
“You sent Dobby.”
The barman nodded and looked around for the elf.
“Thought he’d be with you. Where’ve you left him?”
“He’s dead,” said Harry, “Bellatrix Lestrange killed him.”
The barman face was impassive. After a few moments he said, “I’m sorry to hear it, I liked that elf.”
He turned away, lightning lamps with prods of his wand, not looking at any of them.
“You’re Aberforth,” said Harry to the man’s back.
He neither confirmed or denied it, but bent to light the fire.
“How did you get this?” Harry asked, walking across to Sirius’s mirror, the twin of the one he had broken nearly two years before.
“Bought it from Dung ‘bout a year ago,” said Aberforth. “Albus told me what it was. Been trying to keep an eye out for you.”
Ron gasped.
“The silver doe,” he said excitedly, “Was that you too?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Aberforth.
“Someone sent a doe Patronus to us!”
“Brains like that, you could be a Death Eater, son. Haven’t I just prove my Patronus is a goat?”
“Oh,” said Ron, “Yeah… well, I’m hungry!” he added defensively as his stomach gave an enormous rumble.
“I got food,” said Aberforth, and he sloped out of the room, reappearing moments later with a large loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which he set upon a small table in front of the fire.
Ravenous, they ate and drank, and for a while there was sound of chewing.
“Right then,” said Aberforth when the had eaten their fill and Harry and Ron sat slumped dozily in their chairs. “We need to think of the best way to get you out of here. Can’t be done by night, you heard what happens if anyone moves outdoors during darkness: Caterwauling Charm’s set off, they’ll be onto you like bowtruckles on doxy eggs. I don’t reckon I’ll be able to pass of a stag as a goat a second time. Wait for daybreak when curfew lifts, then you can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get right out of Hogsmeade, up into the mountains, and you’ll be able to Disapparate there. Might see Hagrid. He’s been hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever since they tried to arrest him.”
“We’re not leaving,” said Harry. “We need to get into Hogwarts.”
“Don’t be stupid, boy,” said Aberforth.
“We’ve got to,” said Harry.
The Death Eaters strode back towards the High Street. Hermione moaned with relief, wove out from under the Cloak, and sat down on a wobble-legged chair. Harry drew the curtains then pulled the Cloak off himself and Ron. They could hear the barman down below, rebolting the door of the bar, then climbing the stairs.
Harry’s attention was caught by something on the mantelpiece: a small, rectangular mirror, propped on top of it, right beneath the portrait of the girl.
The barman entered the room.
“You bloody fools,” he said gruffly, looking from one to the other of them. “What were you thinking, coming here?”
“Thank you,” said Harry. “You can’t thank you enough. You saved our lives!”
The barman grunted. Harry approached him looking up into the face: trying to see past the long, stringy, wire-gray hair beard. He wore spectacles. Behind the dirty lenses, the eyes were a piercing, brilliant blue.
“It’s your eye I’ve been seeing in the mirror.”
There was a silence in the room. Harry and the barman looked at each other.
“You sent Dobby.”
The barman nodded and looked around for the elf.
“Thought he’d be with you. Where’ve you left him?”
“He’s dead,” said Harry, “Bellatrix Lestrange killed him.”
The barman face was impassive. After a few moments he said, “I’m sorry to hear it, I liked that elf.”
He turned away, lightning lamps with prods of his wand, not looking at any of them.
“You’re Aberforth,” said Harry to the man’s back.
He neither confirmed or denied it, but bent to light the fire.
“How did you get this?” Harry asked, walking across to Sirius’s mirror, the twin of the one he had broken nearly two years before.
“Bought it from Dung ‘bout a year ago,” said Aberforth. “Albus told me what it was. Been trying to keep an eye out for you.”
Ron gasped.
“The silver doe,” he said excitedly, “Was that you too?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Aberforth.
“Someone sent a doe Patronus to us!”
“Brains like that, you could be a Death Eater, son. Haven’t I just prove my Patronus is a goat?”
“Oh,” said Ron, “Yeah… well, I’m hungry!” he added defensively as his stomach gave an enormous rumble.
“I got food,” said Aberforth, and he sloped out of the room, reappearing moments later with a large loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which he set upon a small table in front of the fire.
Ravenous, they ate and drank, and for a while there was sound of chewing.
“Right then,” said Aberforth when the had eaten their fill and Harry and Ron sat slumped dozily in their chairs. “We need to think of the best way to get you out of here. Can’t be done by night, you heard what happens if anyone moves outdoors during darkness: Caterwauling Charm’s set off, they’ll be onto you like bowtruckles on doxy eggs. I don’t reckon I’ll be able to pass of a stag as a goat a second time. Wait for daybreak when curfew lifts, then you can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get right out of Hogsmeade, up into the mountains, and you’ll be able to Disapparate there. Might see Hagrid. He’s been hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever since they tried to arrest him.”
“We’re not leaving,” said Harry. “We need to get into Hogwarts.”
“Don’t be stupid, boy,” said Aberforth.
“We’ve got to,” said Harry.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Contemplating the task ahead would
Contemplating the task ahead would not make it easier or the water warmer. He stepped to the pool’s edge and placed Hermione’s wand on the ground still lit. Then, trying not to imagine how much colder he was about to become or how violently he would soon be shivering, he jumped.
Every pore of his body screamed in protest. The very air in his lungs seemed to freeze solid as he was submerged to his shoulders in the frozen water. He could hardly breathe: trembling so violently the water lapped over the edges of the pool, he felt for the blade with his numb feet. He only wanted to dive once.
Harry put off the moment of total submersion from second to second, gasping and shaking, until he told himself that it must be done, gathered all his courage, and dived.
The cold was agony: It attacked him like fire. His brain itself seemed to have frozen as he pushed through the dark water to the bottom and reached out, groping for the sword. His fingers closed around the hilt; he pulled it upward.
Then something closed tight around his neck. He thought of water weeds, though nothing had brushed him as he dived, and raised his hand to free himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux had tightened and was slowly constricting his windpipe.
Harry kicked out wildly, trying to push himself back to the surface, but merely propelled himself into the rocky side of the pool. Thrashing, suffocating, he scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers unable to loosen it, and now little lights were popping inside his head, and he was going to drown, there was nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that closed around his chest were surely Death’s….
Choking and retching, soaking and colder than he had ever been in his life, he came to facedown in the snow. Somewhere, close by, another person was panting and coughing and staggering around, as she had come when the snake attacked….Yet it did not sound like her, not with those deep coughs, no judging by the weight of the footsteps….
Harry had no strength to lift his head and see his savior’s identity. All he could do was raise a shaking hand to his throat and feel the place where the locket had cut tightly into his flesh. It was gone. Someone had cut him free. Then a panting voice spoke from over his head.
“Are – you – mental?”
Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could have given Harry the strength to get up. Shivering violently, he staggered to his feet. There before him stood Ron, fully dressed but drenched to the skin, his hair plastered to his face, the sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the Horcrux dangling from its broken chain in the other.
“Why the hell,” panted Ron, holding up the Horcrux, which swung backward and forward on its shortened chain in some parody of hypnosis, “didn’t you take the thing off before you dived?”
Harry could not answer. The silver doe was nothing, nothing compared with Ron’s reappearance; he could not believe it. Shuddering with cold, he caught up the pile of clothes still lying at the water’s edge and began to pull them on. As he dragged sweater after sweater over his head, Harry stared at Ron, half expecting him to have disappeared every time he lost sight of him, and yet he had to be real: He had just dived into the pool, he had saved Harry’s life.
“It was y-you?” Harry said at last, his teeth chattering, his voice weaker than usual due to his near-strangulation.
“Well, yeah,” said Ron, looking slightly confused.
“Y-you cast that doe?”
“What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing it!”
“My Patronus is a stag.”
“Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers.”
Harry put Hagrid’s pouch back around his neck, pulled on a final sweater, stooped to pick up Hermione’s wand, and faced Ron again.
“How come you’re here?”
Apparently Ron had hoped that this point would come up later, if at all.
“Well, I’ve – you know – I’ve come back. If –” He cleared his throat. “You know. You still want me.”
There was a pause, in which the subject of Ron’s departure seemed to rise like a wall between them. Yet he was here. He had returned. He had just saved Harry’s life.
Ron looked down at his hands. He seemed momentarily surprised to see the things he was holding.
“Oh yeah, I got it out,” he said, rather unnecessarily, holding up the sword for Harry’s inspection. “That’s why you jumped in, right?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “But I don’t understand. How did you get here? How did you find us?”
“Long story,” said Ron. “I’ve been looking for you for hours, it’s a big forest, isn’t it? And I was just thinking I’d have to go kip under a tree and wait for morning when I saw that dear coming and you following.”
“You didn’t see anyone else?”
“No,” said Ron. “I –”
But he hesitated, glancing at two trees growing close together some yards away.
“I did think I saw something move over there, but I was running to the pool at the time, because you’d gone in and you hadn’t come up, so I wasn’t going to make a detour to – hey!”
Harry was already hurrying to the place that Ron had indicated. The two oaks grew close together; there was a gap of only a few inches between the trunks at eye level, an ideal place to see but not be seen. The ground around the roots, however, was free of snow, and Harry could see no sign of footprints. He walked back to where Ron stood waiting, still holding the sword and the Horcrux.
“Anything there?” Ron asked.
“No,” said Harry.
“So how did the sword get in that pool?”
“Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there.”
They both looked at the ornate silver sword, its rubied hilt glinting a little in the light from Hermione’s wand.
“You reckon this is the real one?” asked Ron.
“One way to find out, isn’t there?” said Harry.
Every pore of his body screamed in protest. The very air in his lungs seemed to freeze solid as he was submerged to his shoulders in the frozen water. He could hardly breathe: trembling so violently the water lapped over the edges of the pool, he felt for the blade with his numb feet. He only wanted to dive once.
Harry put off the moment of total submersion from second to second, gasping and shaking, until he told himself that it must be done, gathered all his courage, and dived.
The cold was agony: It attacked him like fire. His brain itself seemed to have frozen as he pushed through the dark water to the bottom and reached out, groping for the sword. His fingers closed around the hilt; he pulled it upward.
Then something closed tight around his neck. He thought of water weeds, though nothing had brushed him as he dived, and raised his hand to free himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux had tightened and was slowly constricting his windpipe.
Harry kicked out wildly, trying to push himself back to the surface, but merely propelled himself into the rocky side of the pool. Thrashing, suffocating, he scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers unable to loosen it, and now little lights were popping inside his head, and he was going to drown, there was nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that closed around his chest were surely Death’s….
Choking and retching, soaking and colder than he had ever been in his life, he came to facedown in the snow. Somewhere, close by, another person was panting and coughing and staggering around, as she had come when the snake attacked….Yet it did not sound like her, not with those deep coughs, no judging by the weight of the footsteps….
Harry had no strength to lift his head and see his savior’s identity. All he could do was raise a shaking hand to his throat and feel the place where the locket had cut tightly into his flesh. It was gone. Someone had cut him free. Then a panting voice spoke from over his head.
“Are – you – mental?”
Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could have given Harry the strength to get up. Shivering violently, he staggered to his feet. There before him stood Ron, fully dressed but drenched to the skin, his hair plastered to his face, the sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the Horcrux dangling from its broken chain in the other.
“Why the hell,” panted Ron, holding up the Horcrux, which swung backward and forward on its shortened chain in some parody of hypnosis, “didn’t you take the thing off before you dived?”
Harry could not answer. The silver doe was nothing, nothing compared with Ron’s reappearance; he could not believe it. Shuddering with cold, he caught up the pile of clothes still lying at the water’s edge and began to pull them on. As he dragged sweater after sweater over his head, Harry stared at Ron, half expecting him to have disappeared every time he lost sight of him, and yet he had to be real: He had just dived into the pool, he had saved Harry’s life.
“It was y-you?” Harry said at last, his teeth chattering, his voice weaker than usual due to his near-strangulation.
“Well, yeah,” said Ron, looking slightly confused.
“Y-you cast that doe?”
“What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing it!”
“My Patronus is a stag.”
“Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers.”
Harry put Hagrid’s pouch back around his neck, pulled on a final sweater, stooped to pick up Hermione’s wand, and faced Ron again.
“How come you’re here?”
Apparently Ron had hoped that this point would come up later, if at all.
“Well, I’ve – you know – I’ve come back. If –” He cleared his throat. “You know. You still want me.”
There was a pause, in which the subject of Ron’s departure seemed to rise like a wall between them. Yet he was here. He had returned. He had just saved Harry’s life.
Ron looked down at his hands. He seemed momentarily surprised to see the things he was holding.
“Oh yeah, I got it out,” he said, rather unnecessarily, holding up the sword for Harry’s inspection. “That’s why you jumped in, right?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “But I don’t understand. How did you get here? How did you find us?”
“Long story,” said Ron. “I’ve been looking for you for hours, it’s a big forest, isn’t it? And I was just thinking I’d have to go kip under a tree and wait for morning when I saw that dear coming and you following.”
“You didn’t see anyone else?”
“No,” said Ron. “I –”
But he hesitated, glancing at two trees growing close together some yards away.
“I did think I saw something move over there, but I was running to the pool at the time, because you’d gone in and you hadn’t come up, so I wasn’t going to make a detour to – hey!”
Harry was already hurrying to the place that Ron had indicated. The two oaks grew close together; there was a gap of only a few inches between the trunks at eye level, an ideal place to see but not be seen. The ground around the roots, however, was free of snow, and Harry could see no sign of footprints. He walked back to where Ron stood waiting, still holding the sword and the Horcrux.
“Anything there?” Ron asked.
“No,” said Harry.
“So how did the sword get in that pool?”
“Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there.”
They both looked at the ornate silver sword, its rubied hilt glinting a little in the light from Hermione’s wand.
“You reckon this is the real one?” asked Ron.
“One way to find out, isn’t there?” said Harry.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
“The official version of Scrimgeour’s
“The official version of Scrimgeour’s murder is that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse.”
“Why didn’t Voldemort declare himself Minister of Magic?” asked Ron.
Lupin laughed.
“He doesn’t need to, Ron. Effectively, he is the Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry.”
“Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren’t confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted. Yes, Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion:
Remaining masked has created confusion, uncertainty, and fear.”
“And this dramatic change in Ministry policy,” said Harry, “involves warning the Wizarding world against me instead of Voldemort?”
“That’s certainly a part of it,” said Lupin, “and it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you – the Boy Who Lived – were sure to be the symbol and rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hat’s death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who would have defended you.”
“Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns.”
Lupin pointed at the Daily Prophet.
“Look at page two.”
Hermione turned the pages with much the same expression of distaste she had when handling Secrets of the Darkest Art.
“Muggle-born Register!” she read aloud. “‘The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called ”Muggle-borns“ the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets.
“‘Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force.
“‘The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.’”
“People won’t let this happen,” said Ron.
“Why didn’t Voldemort declare himself Minister of Magic?” asked Ron.
Lupin laughed.
“He doesn’t need to, Ron. Effectively, he is the Minister, but why should he sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry.”
“Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren’t confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted. Yes, Voldemort is playing a very clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion:
Remaining masked has created confusion, uncertainty, and fear.”
“And this dramatic change in Ministry policy,” said Harry, “involves warning the Wizarding world against me instead of Voldemort?”
“That’s certainly a part of it,” said Lupin, “and it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you – the Boy Who Lived – were sure to be the symbol and rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hat’s death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who would have defended you.”
“Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns.”
Lupin pointed at the Daily Prophet.
“Look at page two.”
Hermione turned the pages with much the same expression of distaste she had when handling Secrets of the Darkest Art.
“Muggle-born Register!” she read aloud. “‘The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a survey of so-called ”Muggle-borns“ the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets.
“‘Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force.
“‘The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.’”
“People won’t let this happen,” said Ron.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
“My Lord?”
“My Lord?”
“Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand.”
“I …”
Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight ahead, quite as pale as he was, her long blonde hair hanging down her back, but beneath the table her slim fingers closed briefly on his wrist. At her touch, Malfoy put his hand into his robes, withdrew a wand, and passed it along to Voldemort, who held it up in front of his red eyes, examining it closely.
“What is it?”
“Elm, my Lord,” whispered Malfoy.
“And the core?”
“Dragon – dragon heartstring.”
“Good,” said Voldemort. He drew out his wand and compared the lengths. Lucius Malfoy made an involuntary movement; for a fraction of a second, it seemed he expected to receive Voldemort’s wand in exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed by Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously.
“Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?”
Some of the throng sniggered.
“I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late … What is it about my presence in your home that displaces you, Lucius?”
“Nothing – nothing, my Lord!”
“Such lies Lucius … ”
The soft voice seemed to hiss on even after the cruel mouth had stopped moving. One or two of the wizards barely repressed a shudder as the hissing grew louder; something heavy could be heard sliding across the floor beneath the table.
The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up Voldemort’s chair. It rose, seemingly endlessly, and came to rest across Voldemort’s shoulders: its neck the thickness of a man’s thigh; its eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort stroked the creature absently with long thin fingers, still looking at Lucius Malfoy.
“Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?”
“Of course, my Lord,” said Lucius Malfoy. His hand shook as he wiped sweat from his upper lip. “We did desire it – we do.”
To Malfoy’s left, his wife made an odd, stiff nod, her eyes averted from Voldemort and the snake. To his right, his son, Draco, who had been gazing up at the inert body overhead, glanced quickly at Voldemort and away again, terrified to make eye contact.
“My Lord,” said a dark woman halfway down the table, her voice constricted with emotion, “it is an honor to have you here, in our family’s house. There can be no higher pleasure.”
She sat beside her sister, as unlike her in looks, with her dark hair and heavily lidded eyes, as she was in bearing and demeanor; where Narcissa sat rigid and impassive, Bellatrix leaned toward Voldemort, for mere words could not demonstrate her longing for closeness.
“No higher pleasure,” repeated Voldemort, his head tilted a little to one side as he considered Bellatrix. “That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you.”
Her face flooded with color; her eyes welled with tears of delight.
“My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!”
“No higher pleasure … even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?”
She stared at him, her lips parted, evidently confused.
“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”
“I’m talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud.”
There was an eruption of jeering laughter from around the table. Many leaned forward to exchange gleeful looks; a few thumped the table with their fists. The giant snake, disliking the disturbance, opened its mouth wide and hissed angrily, but the Death Eaters did not hear it, so jubilant were they at Bellatrix and the Malfoys’ humiliation. Bellatrix’s face, so recently flushed with happiness, had turned an ugly, blotchy red.
“She is no niece of ours, my Lord,” she cried over the outpouring of mirth. “We – Narcissa and I – have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries.”
“What say you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, and though his voice was quiet, it carried clearly through the catcalls and jeers. “Will you babysit the cubs?”
The hilarity mounted; Draco Malfoy looked in terror at his father, who was staring down into his own lap, then caught his mother’s eye. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, then resumed her own deadpan stare at the opposite wall.
“Enough,” said Voldemort, stroking the angry snake. “Enough.”
And the laughter died at once.
“Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time,” he said as Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring, “You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest.”
“Yes, my Lord,” whispered Bellatrix, and her eyes swam with tears of gratitude again. “At the first chance!”
“You shall have it,” said Voldemort. “And in your family, so in the world … we shall cut away the cancer that infects us until only those of the true blood remain ...”
Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy’s wand, pointed it directly at the slowly revolving figure suspended over the table, and gave it a tiny flick. The figure came to life with a groan and began to struggle against invisible bonds.
“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” asked Voldemort.
Snape raised his eyes to the upside down face. All of the Death Eaters were looking up at the captive now, as though they had been given permission to show curiosity.
As she revolved to face the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, “Severus! Help me!”
“Ah, yes,” said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.
“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed unable to look at her anymore.
“But you would not have taken her classes,” said Voldemort. “For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled.
“Yes … Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles … how they are not so different from us …”
One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape again.
“Severus … please … please …”
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“Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand.”
“I …”
Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight ahead, quite as pale as he was, her long blonde hair hanging down her back, but beneath the table her slim fingers closed briefly on his wrist. At her touch, Malfoy put his hand into his robes, withdrew a wand, and passed it along to Voldemort, who held it up in front of his red eyes, examining it closely.
“What is it?”
“Elm, my Lord,” whispered Malfoy.
“And the core?”
“Dragon – dragon heartstring.”
“Good,” said Voldemort. He drew out his wand and compared the lengths. Lucius Malfoy made an involuntary movement; for a fraction of a second, it seemed he expected to receive Voldemort’s wand in exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed by Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously.
“Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?”
Some of the throng sniggered.
“I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late … What is it about my presence in your home that displaces you, Lucius?”
“Nothing – nothing, my Lord!”
“Such lies Lucius … ”
The soft voice seemed to hiss on even after the cruel mouth had stopped moving. One or two of the wizards barely repressed a shudder as the hissing grew louder; something heavy could be heard sliding across the floor beneath the table.
The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up Voldemort’s chair. It rose, seemingly endlessly, and came to rest across Voldemort’s shoulders: its neck the thickness of a man’s thigh; its eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort stroked the creature absently with long thin fingers, still looking at Lucius Malfoy.
“Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?”
“Of course, my Lord,” said Lucius Malfoy. His hand shook as he wiped sweat from his upper lip. “We did desire it – we do.”
To Malfoy’s left, his wife made an odd, stiff nod, her eyes averted from Voldemort and the snake. To his right, his son, Draco, who had been gazing up at the inert body overhead, glanced quickly at Voldemort and away again, terrified to make eye contact.
“My Lord,” said a dark woman halfway down the table, her voice constricted with emotion, “it is an honor to have you here, in our family’s house. There can be no higher pleasure.”
She sat beside her sister, as unlike her in looks, with her dark hair and heavily lidded eyes, as she was in bearing and demeanor; where Narcissa sat rigid and impassive, Bellatrix leaned toward Voldemort, for mere words could not demonstrate her longing for closeness.
“No higher pleasure,” repeated Voldemort, his head tilted a little to one side as he considered Bellatrix. “That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you.”
Her face flooded with color; her eyes welled with tears of delight.
“My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!”
“No higher pleasure … even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?”
She stared at him, her lips parted, evidently confused.
“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”
“I’m talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud.”
There was an eruption of jeering laughter from around the table. Many leaned forward to exchange gleeful looks; a few thumped the table with their fists. The giant snake, disliking the disturbance, opened its mouth wide and hissed angrily, but the Death Eaters did not hear it, so jubilant were they at Bellatrix and the Malfoys’ humiliation. Bellatrix’s face, so recently flushed with happiness, had turned an ugly, blotchy red.
“She is no niece of ours, my Lord,” she cried over the outpouring of mirth. “We – Narcissa and I – have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries.”
“What say you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, and though his voice was quiet, it carried clearly through the catcalls and jeers. “Will you babysit the cubs?”
The hilarity mounted; Draco Malfoy looked in terror at his father, who was staring down into his own lap, then caught his mother’s eye. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, then resumed her own deadpan stare at the opposite wall.
“Enough,” said Voldemort, stroking the angry snake. “Enough.”
And the laughter died at once.
“Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time,” he said as Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring, “You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest.”
“Yes, my Lord,” whispered Bellatrix, and her eyes swam with tears of gratitude again. “At the first chance!”
“You shall have it,” said Voldemort. “And in your family, so in the world … we shall cut away the cancer that infects us until only those of the true blood remain ...”
Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy’s wand, pointed it directly at the slowly revolving figure suspended over the table, and gave it a tiny flick. The figure came to life with a groan and began to struggle against invisible bonds.
“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” asked Voldemort.
Snape raised his eyes to the upside down face. All of the Death Eaters were looking up at the captive now, as though they had been given permission to show curiosity.
As she revolved to face the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, “Severus! Help me!”
“Ah, yes,” said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.
“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed unable to look at her anymore.
“But you would not have taken her classes,” said Voldemort. “For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled.
“Yes … Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles … how they are not so different from us …”
One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape again.
“Severus … please … please …”
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Monday, November 29, 2010
“Well,” said Dumbledore, still smiling
“Well,” said Dumbledore, still smiling, “to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds. If
I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too.”
“I see it still,” said Voldemort. “I merely wondered why you—who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post
of Minister —”
“Three times at the last count, actually,” said Dumbledore. “But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think.”
Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but waited, with a look of
pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first.
“I have returned,” he said, after a little while, “later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected... but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once
told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much
since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard.”
Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking.
“Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us,” he said quietly. “Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be
sorry to believe half of them.”
Voldemort's expression remained impassive as he said, “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.”
“You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do you?” asked Dumbledore delicately.
“Certainly,” said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. “I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been
pushed —”
“Of some kinds of magic,” Dumbledore corrected him quietly. “Of some. Of others, you remain... forgive me... woefully ignorant.”
For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage.
“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic,
Dumbledore.”
“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” suggested Dumbledore.
“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts?” said Voldemort. “Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with
your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves—or so rumor has it—the Death Eaters?”
Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort's eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare.
“My friends,” he said, after a moment's pause, “will carry on without me, I am sure.”
“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,” said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants.”
“You are mistaken,” said Voldemort.
I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too.”
“I see it still,” said Voldemort. “I merely wondered why you—who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post
of Minister —”
“Three times at the last count, actually,” said Dumbledore. “But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think.”
Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but waited, with a look of
pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first.
“I have returned,” he said, after a little while, “later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected... but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once
told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much
since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard.”
Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking.
“Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us,” he said quietly. “Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be
sorry to believe half of them.”
Voldemort's expression remained impassive as he said, “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.”
“You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do you?” asked Dumbledore delicately.
“Certainly,” said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. “I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been
pushed —”
“Of some kinds of magic,” Dumbledore corrected him quietly. “Of some. Of others, you remain... forgive me... woefully ignorant.”
For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage.
“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic,
Dumbledore.”
“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” suggested Dumbledore.
“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts?” said Voldemort. “Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with
your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves—or so rumor has it—the Death Eaters?”
Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort's eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare.
“My friends,” he said, after a moment's pause, “will carry on without me, I am sure.”
“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,” said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants.”
“You are mistaken,” said Voldemort.
“Now,” said Dumbledore,
“Now,” said Dumbledore, “if you don't mind, Harry, I want to pause once more to draw your attention to certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed another
murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for
gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just as he had
stolen his Uncle Morfin's ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah's cup and locket.”
“But,” said Harry, frowning, “it seems mad... risking everything, throwing away his job, just for those...”
“Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore. “I hope you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him, Harry, but you must
admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully his.”
“The locket maybe,” said Harry, “but why take the cup as well?”
“It had belonged to another of Hogwarts's founders,” said Dumbledore. “I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so
steeped in Hogwarts’ history. There were other reasons, I think... I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course.
“And now for the very last recollection I have to show you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn's memory for us. Ten years separates Hokey's
memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing...”
Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve.
“Whose memory is it?” he asked.
“Mine,” said Dumbledore.
And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass, landing in the very office he had just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his perch, and
there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Harry, though both hands were whole and undamaged and his face was,
perhaps, a little less lined. The one difference between the present-day office and this one was that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the
window in the dark and building up on the outside ledge.
The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, “Enter.”
Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had entered the room. His features were not those Harry had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron almost two years
ago: they were not as snake-like, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features
had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits
that Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders.
The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by appointment.
“Good evening, Tom,” said Dumbledore easily. “Won't you sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured—the very seat, by the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated in the present. “I
heard that you had become Headmaster,” he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. “A worthy choice.”
“I am glad you approve,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “May I offer you a drink?”
“That would be welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have come a long way.”
Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of wine and poured
one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his desk.
“So, Tom ... to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine.
“They do not call me ‘Tom’ anymore,” he said. “These days, I am known as —”
“I know what you are known as,” said Dumbledore, smiling, pleasantly. “But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about
old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.”
He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore's
refusal to use Voldemort's chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that Voldemort took it as such.
“I am surprised you have remained here so long,” said Voldemort after a short pause. “I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school.”
murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for
gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just as he had
stolen his Uncle Morfin's ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah's cup and locket.”
“But,” said Harry, frowning, “it seems mad... risking everything, throwing away his job, just for those...”
“Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore. “I hope you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him, Harry, but you must
admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully his.”
“The locket maybe,” said Harry, “but why take the cup as well?”
“It had belonged to another of Hogwarts's founders,” said Dumbledore. “I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so
steeped in Hogwarts’ history. There were other reasons, I think... I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course.
“And now for the very last recollection I have to show you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn's memory for us. Ten years separates Hokey's
memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing...”
Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve.
“Whose memory is it?” he asked.
“Mine,” said Dumbledore.
And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass, landing in the very office he had just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his perch, and
there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Harry, though both hands were whole and undamaged and his face was,
perhaps, a little less lined. The one difference between the present-day office and this one was that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the
window in the dark and building up on the outside ledge.
The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, “Enter.”
Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had entered the room. His features were not those Harry had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron almost two years
ago: they were not as snake-like, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features
had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits
that Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders.
The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by appointment.
“Good evening, Tom,” said Dumbledore easily. “Won't you sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured—the very seat, by the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated in the present. “I
heard that you had become Headmaster,” he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. “A worthy choice.”
“I am glad you approve,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “May I offer you a drink?”
“That would be welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have come a long way.”
Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of wine and poured
one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his desk.
“So, Tom ... to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine.
“They do not call me ‘Tom’ anymore,” he said. “These days, I am known as —”
“I know what you are known as,” said Dumbledore, smiling, pleasantly. “But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about
old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.”
He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore's
refusal to use Voldemort's chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that Voldemort took it as such.
“I am surprised you have remained here so long,” said Voldemort after a short pause. “I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school.”
“I thought—but a trick of the light
“I thought—but a trick of the light, I suppose —” said Hepzibah, looking unnerved, and Harry guessed that she too had seen the momentary red gleam in Voldemort's
eyes. “Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again... the usual enchantments...”
“Time to leave, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly, and as the little elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Harry once again above the elbow and together
they rose up through oblivion and back to Dumbledore's office.
“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,” said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating that Harry should do the same. “Hokey the house-elf was
convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident.”
“No way!” said Harry angrily.
“I see we are of one mind,” said Dumbledore. “Certainly, then are many similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the
blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death —”
“Hokey confessed?”
“She remembered putting something in her mistress's cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison,” said Dumbledore. “It was concluded
that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused —”
“Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!”
“Yes, that is my conclusion too,” said Dumbledore. “And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey —”
“— because she was a house-elf,” said Harry. He had rarely felt more in sympathy with the society Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W.
“Precisely,” said Dumbledore. “She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of
Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of
the existence of the cup and the locket.
“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah's family had realized that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had
many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the
assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His
superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very
long time.
eyes. “Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again... the usual enchantments...”
“Time to leave, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly, and as the little elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Harry once again above the elbow and together
they rose up through oblivion and back to Dumbledore's office.
“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,” said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating that Harry should do the same. “Hokey the house-elf was
convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident.”
“No way!” said Harry angrily.
“I see we are of one mind,” said Dumbledore. “Certainly, then are many similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the
blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death —”
“Hokey confessed?”
“She remembered putting something in her mistress's cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison,” said Dumbledore. “It was concluded
that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused —”
“Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!”
“Yes, that is my conclusion too,” said Dumbledore. “And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey —”
“— because she was a house-elf,” said Harry. He had rarely felt more in sympathy with the society Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W.
“Precisely,” said Dumbledore. “She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of
Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of
the existence of the cup and the locket.
“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah's family had realized that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had
many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the
assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His
superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very
long time.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass
Mumbling darkly, he stood back to let them pass. Hermione scurried in after Harry, looking rather frightened.
“Well?” said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden table, Fang laying his head immediately upon Harry's knee and drooling
all over his robes. “What's this? Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I'm lonely or summat?”
“No,” said Harry at once. “We wanted to see you.”
“We've missed you!” said Hermione tremulously.
“Missed me, have yeh?” snorted Hagrid. “Yeah. Righ'.”
He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of mahogany-brown tea in front
of them and a plate of his rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for Hagrid's cooking, and took one at once.
“Hagrid,” said Hermione timidly, when he joined them at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a brutality that suggested that each tuber had done him a
great personal wrong, “we really wanted to carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know.” Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought some bogeys
landed on the potatoes, and was inwardly thankful that they were not staying for dinner.
“We did!” said Hermione. “But none of us could fit it into our schedules!”
“Yeah. Righ',” said Hagrid again.
There was a funny squelching sound and they all looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek, and Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table away from the
large barrel standing in the corner that they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing.
“What are they, Hagrid?” asked Harry, trying to sound interested rather than revolted, but putting down his rock cake all the same.
“Jus’ giant grubs,” said Hagrid.
“And they grow into...?” said Ron, looking apprehensive.
“They won’ grow inter nuthin',” said Hagrid. “I got ‘em ter feed ter Aragog.”
And without warning, he burst into tears.
“Hagrid!” cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. “What
is it?”
“It's... him...” gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes streaming as he mopped his face with his apron. “It's... Aragog... I think he's dyin'... He got ill over the
summer an’ he's not gettin’ better... I don’ know what I'll do if he... if he... We've bin tergether so long...”
Hermione patted Hagrid's shoulder, looking at a complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how she felt. He had known Hagrid to present a vicious baby dragon with a
teddy bear, seen him croon over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this was perhaps the most
incomprehensible of all his monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog, who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which he and Ron had only narrowly
escaped four years previously.
“Is there—is there anything we can do?” Hermione asked, ignoring Ron's frantic grimaces and head-shakings.
“I don’ think there is, Hermione,” choked Hagrid, attempting to stem the flood of his tears. “See, the rest o’ the tribe ... Aragog's family... they're gettin’ a
bit funny now he's ill... bit restive ...”
“Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them,” said Ron in an undertone.
“... I don’ reckon it'd be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo',” Hagrid finished, blowing his nose hard on his apron and looking up. “But
thanks fer offerin', Hermione... It means a lot.”
After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for although neither Harry nor Ron had shown any inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous, gargantuan
spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for granted that they would have liked to have done and became his usual self once more.
“Ar, I always knew yeh'd find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables,” he said gruffly, pouring them more tea. “Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners —”
“We couldn't have done,” said Hermione. “We smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners when we were there last summer. It was in the Daily Prophet.”
“Ar, well then,” said Hagrid. “There's no way yeh could've done it... I'm sorry I've bin—yeh know—I've jus’ bin worried about Aragog ... an I did wonder whether,
if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin’ yeh —”
At which all three of them stated categorically and untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with
the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful.
“I'm starving,” said Harry, once the door had closed behind them and they were hurrying through the dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the rock cake after an
ominous cracking noise from one of his back teeth. “And I've got that detention with Snape tonight, I haven't got much time for dinner.”
“Well?” said Hagrid grumpily, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat down around his enormous wooden table, Fang laying his head immediately upon Harry's knee and drooling
all over his robes. “What's this? Feelin’ sorry for me? Reckon I'm lonely or summat?”
“No,” said Harry at once. “We wanted to see you.”
“We've missed you!” said Hermione tremulously.
“Missed me, have yeh?” snorted Hagrid. “Yeah. Righ'.”
He stomped around, brewing up tea in his enormous copper kettle, muttering all the while. Finally he slammed down three bucket-sized mugs of mahogany-brown tea in front
of them and a plate of his rock cakes. Harry was hungry enough even for Hagrid's cooking, and took one at once.
“Hagrid,” said Hermione timidly, when he joined them at the table and started peeling his potatoes with a brutality that suggested that each tuber had done him a
great personal wrong, “we really wanted to carry on with Care of Magical Creatures, you know.” Hagrid gave another great snort. Harry rather thought some bogeys
landed on the potatoes, and was inwardly thankful that they were not staying for dinner.
“We did!” said Hermione. “But none of us could fit it into our schedules!”
“Yeah. Righ',” said Hagrid again.
There was a funny squelching sound and they all looked around: Hermione let out a tiny shriek, and Ron leapt out of his seat and hurried around the table away from the
large barrel standing in the corner that they had only just noticed. It was full of what looked like foot-long maggots, slimy, white, and writhing.
“What are they, Hagrid?” asked Harry, trying to sound interested rather than revolted, but putting down his rock cake all the same.
“Jus’ giant grubs,” said Hagrid.
“And they grow into...?” said Ron, looking apprehensive.
“They won’ grow inter nuthin',” said Hagrid. “I got ‘em ter feed ter Aragog.”
And without warning, he burst into tears.
“Hagrid!” cried Hermione, leaping up, hurrying around the table the long way to avoid the barrel of maggots, and putting an arm around his shaking shoulders. “What
is it?”
“It's... him...” gulped Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes streaming as he mopped his face with his apron. “It's... Aragog... I think he's dyin'... He got ill over the
summer an’ he's not gettin’ better... I don’ know what I'll do if he... if he... We've bin tergether so long...”
Hermione patted Hagrid's shoulder, looking at a complete loss for anything to say. Harry knew how she felt. He had known Hagrid to present a vicious baby dragon with a
teddy bear, seen him croon over giant scorpions with suckers and stingers, attempt to reason with his brutal giant of a half-brother, but this was perhaps the most
incomprehensible of all his monster fancies: the gigantic talking spider, Aragog, who dwelled deep in the Forbidden Forest and which he and Ron had only narrowly
escaped four years previously.
“Is there—is there anything we can do?” Hermione asked, ignoring Ron's frantic grimaces and head-shakings.
“I don’ think there is, Hermione,” choked Hagrid, attempting to stem the flood of his tears. “See, the rest o’ the tribe ... Aragog's family... they're gettin’ a
bit funny now he's ill... bit restive ...”
“Yeah, I think we saw a bit of that side of them,” said Ron in an undertone.
“... I don’ reckon it'd be safe fer anyone but me ter go near the colony at the mo',” Hagrid finished, blowing his nose hard on his apron and looking up. “But
thanks fer offerin', Hermione... It means a lot.”
After that, the atmosphere lightened considerably, for although neither Harry nor Ron had shown any inclination to go and feed giant grubs to a murderous, gargantuan
spider, Hagrid seemed to take it for granted that they would have liked to have done and became his usual self once more.
“Ar, I always knew yeh'd find it hard ter squeeze me inter yer timetables,” he said gruffly, pouring them more tea. “Even if yeh applied fer Time-Turners —”
“We couldn't have done,” said Hermione. “We smashed the entire stock of Ministry Time-Turners when we were there last summer. It was in the Daily Prophet.”
“Ar, well then,” said Hagrid. “There's no way yeh could've done it... I'm sorry I've bin—yeh know—I've jus’ bin worried about Aragog ... an I did wonder whether,
if Professor Grubbly-Plank had bin teachin’ yeh —”
At which all three of them stated categorically and untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with
the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful.
“I'm starving,” said Harry, once the door had closed behind them and they were hurrying through the dark and deserted grounds; he had abandoned the rock cake after an
ominous cracking noise from one of his back teeth. “And I've got that detention with Snape tonight, I haven't got much time for dinner.”
After fixing the time of their first full practice
After fixing the time of their first full practice for the following Thursday, Harry, Ron, and Hermione bade goodbye to the rest of the team and headed off toward
Hagrid's. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling at last. Harry felt extremely hungry; he hoped there would be something
to eat at Hagrid's.
“I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,” Ron was saying happily. “Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it —”
“Yes, yes, you were magnificent,” said Hermione, looking amused.
“I was better than that McLaggen anyway,” said Ron in a highly satisfied voice. “Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he'd
been Confunded. ...”
To Harry's surprise, Hermione turned a very deep shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving
detail.
The great gray hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in front of Hagrid's cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them.
“Oh dear,” said Hermione nervously. “He's still a bit scary, isn't he?”
“Come off it, you've ridden him, haven't you?” said Ron. Harry stepped forward and bowed low to the hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking. After a few
seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too.
“How are you?” Harry asked him in a low voice, moving forward to stroke the feathery head. “Missing him? But you're okay here with Hagrid, aren't you?”
“Oi!” said a loud voice.
Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, was at his heels;
Fang gave a booming bark and bounded forward.
“Git away from him! He'll have yer fingers—oh. It's yeh lot.”
Fang was jumping up at Hermione and Ron, attempting to lick their ears. Hagrid stood and looked at them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin,
slamming the door behind him.
“Oh dear!” said Hermione, looking stricken.
“Don't worry about it,” said Harry grimly. He walked over to the door and knocked loudly.
“Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!”
There was no sound from within.
“If you don't open the door, we'll blast it open!” Harry said, pulling out his wand.
“Harry!” said Hermione, sounding shocked. “You can't possibly —”
“Yeah, I can!” said Harry. “Stand back —”
But before he could say anything else, the door flew open again as Harry had known it would, and there stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking, despite the
flowery apron, positively alarming.
“I'm a teacher!” he roared at Harry. “A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!”
“I'm sorry, sir,” said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes.
Hagrid looked stunned. “Since when have yeh called me ‘sir'?”
“Since when have you called me ‘Potter'?”
“Oh, very clever,” growled Hagrid. “Very amusin'. That's me outsmarted, innit? All righ', come in then, yeh ungrateful little...”
Hagrid's. A watery sun was trying to break through the clouds now and it had stopped drizzling at last. Harry felt extremely hungry; he hoped there would be something
to eat at Hagrid's.
“I thought I was going to miss that fourth penalty,” Ron was saying happily. “Tricky shot from Demelza, did you see, had a bit of spin on it —”
“Yes, yes, you were magnificent,” said Hermione, looking amused.
“I was better than that McLaggen anyway,” said Ron in a highly satisfied voice. “Did you see him lumbering off in the wrong direction on his fifth? Looked like he'd
been Confunded. ...”
To Harry's surprise, Hermione turned a very deep shade of pink at these words. Ron noticed nothing; he was too busy describing each of his other penalties in loving
detail.
The great gray hippogriff, Buckbeak, was tethered in front of Hagrid's cabin. He clicked his razor-sharp beak at their approach and turned his huge head toward them.
“Oh dear,” said Hermione nervously. “He's still a bit scary, isn't he?”
“Come off it, you've ridden him, haven't you?” said Ron. Harry stepped forward and bowed low to the hippogriff without breaking eye contact or blinking. After a few
seconds, Buckbeak sank into a bow too.
“How are you?” Harry asked him in a low voice, moving forward to stroke the feathery head. “Missing him? But you're okay here with Hagrid, aren't you?”
“Oi!” said a loud voice.
Hagrid had come striding around the corner of his cabin wearing a large flowery apron and carrying a sack of potatoes. His enormous boarhound, Fang, was at his heels;
Fang gave a booming bark and bounded forward.
“Git away from him! He'll have yer fingers—oh. It's yeh lot.”
Fang was jumping up at Hermione and Ron, attempting to lick their ears. Hagrid stood and looked at them all for a split second, then turned and strode into his cabin,
slamming the door behind him.
“Oh dear!” said Hermione, looking stricken.
“Don't worry about it,” said Harry grimly. He walked over to the door and knocked loudly.
“Hagrid! Open up, we want to talk to you!”
There was no sound from within.
“If you don't open the door, we'll blast it open!” Harry said, pulling out his wand.
“Harry!” said Hermione, sounding shocked. “You can't possibly —”
“Yeah, I can!” said Harry. “Stand back —”
But before he could say anything else, the door flew open again as Harry had known it would, and there stood Hagrid, glowering down at him and looking, despite the
flowery apron, positively alarming.
“I'm a teacher!” he roared at Harry. “A teacher, Potter! How dare yeh threaten ter break down my door!”
“I'm sorry, sir,” said Harry, emphasizing the last word as he stowed his wand inside his robes.
Hagrid looked stunned. “Since when have yeh called me ‘sir'?”
“Since when have you called me ‘Potter'?”
“Oh, very clever,” growled Hagrid. “Very amusin'. That's me outsmarted, innit? All righ', come in then, yeh ungrateful little...”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Chapter 68
Before the end of the course of drinking the waters, Prince Shtcherbatsky, who had gone on from Carlsbad to Baden and Kissingen to Russian friends--to get a breath of Russian air, as he said--came back to his wife and daughter.
The views of the prince and of the princess on life abroad were completely opposed. The princess thought everything delightful, and in spite of her established position in Russian society, she tried abroad to be like a European fashionable lady, which she was not--for the simple reason that she was a typical Russian gentlewoman; and so she was affected, which did not altogether suit her. The prince, on the contrary, thought everything foreign detestable, got sick of European life, kept to his Russian habits, and purposely tried to show himself abroad less European than he was in reality.
The prince returned thinner, with the skin hanging in loose bags on his cheeks, but in the most cheerful frame of mind. His good humor was even greater when he saw Kitty completely recovered. The news of Kitty's friendship with Madame Stahl and Varenka, and the reports the princess gave him of some kind of change she had noticed in Kitty, troubled the prince and aroused his habitual feeling of jealousy of everything that drew his daughter away from him, and a dread that his daughter might have got out of the reach of his influence into regions inaccessible to him. But these unpleasant matters were all drowned in the sea of kindliness and good humor which was always within him, and more so than ever since his course of Carlsbad waters.
The day after his arrival the prince, in his long overcoat, with his Russian wrinkles and baggy cheeks propped up by a starched collar, set off with his daughter to the spring in the greatest good humor.
It was a lovely morning: the bright, cheerful houses with their little gardens, the sight of the red-faced, red-armed, beer-drinking German waitresses, working away merrily, did the heart good. But the nearer they got to the springs the oftener they met sick people; and their appearance seemed more pitiable than ever among the everyday conditions of prosperous German life. Kitty was no longer struck by this contrast. The bright sun, the brilliant green of the foliage, the strains of the music were for her the natural setting of all these familiar faces, with their changes to greater emaciation or to convalescence, for which she watched. But to the prince the brightness and gaiety of the June morning, and the sound of the orchestra playing a gay waltz then in fashion, and above all, the appearance of the healthy attendants, seemed something unseemly and monstrous, in conjunction with these slowly moving, dying figures gathered together from all parts of Europe. In spite of his feeling of pride and, as it were, of the return of youth, with his favorite daughter on his arm, he felt awkward, and almost ashamed of his vigorous step and his sturdy, stout limbs. He felt almost like a man not dressed in a crowd.
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The views of the prince and of the princess on life abroad were completely opposed. The princess thought everything delightful, and in spite of her established position in Russian society, she tried abroad to be like a European fashionable lady, which she was not--for the simple reason that she was a typical Russian gentlewoman; and so she was affected, which did not altogether suit her. The prince, on the contrary, thought everything foreign detestable, got sick of European life, kept to his Russian habits, and purposely tried to show himself abroad less European than he was in reality.
The prince returned thinner, with the skin hanging in loose bags on his cheeks, but in the most cheerful frame of mind. His good humor was even greater when he saw Kitty completely recovered. The news of Kitty's friendship with Madame Stahl and Varenka, and the reports the princess gave him of some kind of change she had noticed in Kitty, troubled the prince and aroused his habitual feeling of jealousy of everything that drew his daughter away from him, and a dread that his daughter might have got out of the reach of his influence into regions inaccessible to him. But these unpleasant matters were all drowned in the sea of kindliness and good humor which was always within him, and more so than ever since his course of Carlsbad waters.
The day after his arrival the prince, in his long overcoat, with his Russian wrinkles and baggy cheeks propped up by a starched collar, set off with his daughter to the spring in the greatest good humor.
It was a lovely morning: the bright, cheerful houses with their little gardens, the sight of the red-faced, red-armed, beer-drinking German waitresses, working away merrily, did the heart good. But the nearer they got to the springs the oftener they met sick people; and their appearance seemed more pitiable than ever among the everyday conditions of prosperous German life. Kitty was no longer struck by this contrast. The bright sun, the brilliant green of the foliage, the strains of the music were for her the natural setting of all these familiar faces, with their changes to greater emaciation or to convalescence, for which she watched. But to the prince the brightness and gaiety of the June morning, and the sound of the orchestra playing a gay waltz then in fashion, and above all, the appearance of the healthy attendants, seemed something unseemly and monstrous, in conjunction with these slowly moving, dying figures gathered together from all parts of Europe. In spite of his feeling of pride and, as it were, of the return of youth, with his favorite daughter on his arm, he felt awkward, and almost ashamed of his vigorous step and his sturdy, stout limbs. He felt almost like a man not dressed in a crowd.
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Chapter 31
Chapter 31
Vronsky had not even tried to sleep all that night. He sat in his armchair, looking straight before him or scanning the people who got in and out. If he had indeed on previous occasions struck and impressed people who did not know him by his air of unhesitating composure, he seemed now more haughty and self-possessed than ever. He looked at people as if they were things. A nervous young man, a clerk in a law court, sitting opposite him, hated him for that look. The young man asked him for a light, and entered into conversation with him, and even pushed against him, to make him feel that he was not a thing, but a person. But Vronsky gazed at him exactly as he did at the lamp, and the young man made a wry face, feeling that he was losing his self-possession under the oppression of this refusal to recognize him as a person. Vronsky saw nothing and no one. He felt himself a king, not because he believed that he had made an impression on Anna--he did not yet believe that,--but because the impression she had made on him gave him happiness and pride.
What would come if it all he did not know, he did not even think. He felt that all his forces, hitherto dissipated, wasted, were centered on one thing, and bent with fearful energy on one blissful goal. And he was happy at it. He knew only that he had told her the truth, that he had come where she was, that all the happiness of his life, the only meaning in life for him, now lay in seeing and hearing her. And when he got out of the carriage at Bologova to get some seltzer water, and caught sight of Anna, involuntarily his first word had told her just what he thought. And he was glad he had told her it, that she knew it now and was thinking of it. He did not sleep all night. When he was back in the carriage, he kept unceasingly going over every position in which he had seen her, every word she had uttered, and before his fancy, making his heart faint with emotion, floated pictures of a possible future.
When he got out of the train at Petersburg, he felt after his sleepless night as keen and fresh as after a cold bath. He paused near his compartment, waiting for her to get out. "Once more," he said to himself, smiling unconsciously, "once more I shall see her walk, her face; she will say something, turn her head, glance, smile, maybe." But before he caught sight of her, he saw her husband, whom the station-master was deferentially escorting through the crowd. "Ah, yes! The husband." Only now for the first time did Vronsky realize clearly the fact that there was a person attached to her, a husband. He knew that she had a husband, but had hardly believed in his existence, and only now fully believed in him, with his head and shoulders, and his legs clad in black trousers; especially when he saw this husband calmly take her arm with a sense of property.
Seeing Alexey Alexandrovitch with his Petersburg face and severely self-confident figure, in his round hat, with his rather prominent spine, he believed in him, and was aware of a disagreeable sensation, such as a man might feel tortured by thirst, who, on reaching a spring, should find a dog, a sheep, or a pig, who has drunk of it and muddied the water. Alexey Alexandrovitch's manner of walking, with a swing of the hips and flat feet, particularly annoyed Vronsky. He could recognize in no one but himself an indubitable right to love her. But she was still the same, and the sight of her affected him the same way, physically reviving him, stirring him, and filling his soul with rapture. He told his German valet, who ran up to him from the second class, to take his things and go on, and he himself went up to her. He saw the first meeting between the husband and wife, and noted with a lover's insight the signs of slight reserve with which she spoke to her husband. "No, she does not love him and cannot love him," he decided to himself.
He had spoken courteously, deferentially
He had spoken courteously, deferentially, yet so firmly, so stubbornly, that for a long while she could make no answer.
"It's wrong, what you say, and I beg you, if you're a good man, to forget what you've said, as I forget it," she said at last.
"Not one word, not one gesture of yours shall I, could I, ever forget..."
"Enough, enough!" she cried trying assiduously to give a stern expression to her face, into which he was gazing greedily. And clutching at the cold door post, she clambered up the steps and got rapidly into the corridor of the carriage. But in the little corridor she paused, going over in her imagination what had happened. Though she could not recall her own words or his, she realized instinctively that the momentary conversation had brought them fearfully closer; and she was panic-stricken and blissful at it. After standing still a few seconds, she went into the carriage and sat down in her place. The overstrained condition which had tormented her before did not only come back, but was intensified, and reached such a pitch that she was afraid every minute that something would snap within her from the excessive tension. She did not sleep all night. But in that nervous tension, and in the visions that filled her imagination, there was nothing disagreeable or gloomy: on the contrary there was something blissful, glowing, and exhilarating. Towards morning Anna sank into a doze, sitting in her place, and when she waked it was daylight and the train was near Petersburg. At once thoughts of home, of husband and of son, and the details of that day and the following came upon her.
At Petersburg, as soon as the train stopped and she got out, the first person that attracted her attention was her husband. "Oh, mercy! why do his ears look like that?" she thought, looking at his frigid and imposing figure, and especially the ears that struck her at the moment as propping up the brim of his round hat. Catching sight of her, he came to meet her, his lips falling into their habitual sarcastic smile, and his big, tired eyes looking straight at her. An unpleasant sensation gripped at her heart when she met his obstinate and weary glance, as though she had expected to see him different. She was especially struck by the feeling of dissatisfaction with herself that she experienced on meeting him. That feeling was an intimate, familiar feeling, like a consciousness of hypocrisy, which she experienced in her relations with her husband. But hitherto she had not taken note of the feeling, now she was clearly and painfully aware of it.
"Yes, as you see, your tender spouse, as devoted as the first year after marriage, burned with impatience to see you," he said in his deliberate, high-pitched voice, and in that tone which he almost always took with her, a tone of jeering at anyone who should say in earnest what he said.
"Is Seryozha quite well?" she asked.
"And is this all the reward," said he, "for my ardor? He's quite well..."
"It's wrong, what you say, and I beg you, if you're a good man, to forget what you've said, as I forget it," she said at last.
"Not one word, not one gesture of yours shall I, could I, ever forget..."
"Enough, enough!" she cried trying assiduously to give a stern expression to her face, into which he was gazing greedily. And clutching at the cold door post, she clambered up the steps and got rapidly into the corridor of the carriage. But in the little corridor she paused, going over in her imagination what had happened. Though she could not recall her own words or his, she realized instinctively that the momentary conversation had brought them fearfully closer; and she was panic-stricken and blissful at it. After standing still a few seconds, she went into the carriage and sat down in her place. The overstrained condition which had tormented her before did not only come back, but was intensified, and reached such a pitch that she was afraid every minute that something would snap within her from the excessive tension. She did not sleep all night. But in that nervous tension, and in the visions that filled her imagination, there was nothing disagreeable or gloomy: on the contrary there was something blissful, glowing, and exhilarating. Towards morning Anna sank into a doze, sitting in her place, and when she waked it was daylight and the train was near Petersburg. At once thoughts of home, of husband and of son, and the details of that day and the following came upon her.
At Petersburg, as soon as the train stopped and she got out, the first person that attracted her attention was her husband. "Oh, mercy! why do his ears look like that?" she thought, looking at his frigid and imposing figure, and especially the ears that struck her at the moment as propping up the brim of his round hat. Catching sight of her, he came to meet her, his lips falling into their habitual sarcastic smile, and his big, tired eyes looking straight at her. An unpleasant sensation gripped at her heart when she met his obstinate and weary glance, as though she had expected to see him different. She was especially struck by the feeling of dissatisfaction with herself that she experienced on meeting him. That feeling was an intimate, familiar feeling, like a consciousness of hypocrisy, which she experienced in her relations with her husband. But hitherto she had not taken note of the feeling, now she was clearly and painfully aware of it.
"Yes, as you see, your tender spouse, as devoted as the first year after marriage, burned with impatience to see you," he said in his deliberate, high-pitched voice, and in that tone which he almost always took with her, a tone of jeering at anyone who should say in earnest what he said.
"Is Seryozha quite well?" she asked.
"And is this all the reward," said he, "for my ardor? He's quite well..."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
‘Let me out,’ he said. He was shaking from head to foot.
‘Let me out,’ he said. He was shaking from head to foot.
‘No,’ said Dumbledore simply.
For a few seconds they stared at each other.
‘Let me out,’ Harry said again.
‘No,’ Dumbledore repeated.
‘If you don't— if you keep me in here—if you don't let me—’
‘By all means continue destroying my possessions,’ said Dumbledore serenely. ‘I daresay I have too many.’
He walked around his desk and sat down behind it, watching Harry.
‘Let me out,’ Harry said yet again, in a voice that was cold and almost as calm as Dumbledore's.
‘Not until I have had my say,’ said Dumbledore.
‘Do you—do you think I want to—do you think I give a—I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU'VE GOT TO SAY!’ Harry roared. ‘I don't want to hear anything you've got to say!’
‘You will,’ said Dumbledore steadily. ‘Because you are not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. If you are to attack me, as I know you are close to doing, I would like to have thoroughly earned it.’
‘What are you talking—?’
‘It is my fault that Sirius died,’ said Dumbledore clearly. ‘Or should I say, almost entirely my fault—I will not be so arrogant as to claim responsibility for the whole. Sirius was a brave, clever and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger. Nevertheless, you should never have believed for an instant that there was any necessity for you to go to the Department of Mysteries tonight. If I had been open with you, Harry, as I should have been, you would have known a long time ago that Voldemort might try and lure you to the Department of Mysteries, and you would never have been tricked into going there tonight. And Sirius would not have had to come after you. That blame lies with me, and with me alone.’
Harry was still standing with his hand on the doorknob but was unaware of it. He was gazing at Dumbledore, hardly breathing, listening yet barely understanding what he was hearing.
‘Please sit down,’ said Dumbledore. It was not an order, it was a request.
Harry hesitated, then walked slowly across the room now littered with silver cogs and fragments of wood, and took the seat facing Dumbledore's desk.
‘Am I to understand,’ said Phineas Nigellus slowly from Harry's left, ‘that my great-great-grandson—the last of the Blacks—is dead?’
‘No,’ said Dumbledore simply.
For a few seconds they stared at each other.
‘Let me out,’ Harry said again.
‘No,’ Dumbledore repeated.
‘If you don't— if you keep me in here—if you don't let me—’
‘By all means continue destroying my possessions,’ said Dumbledore serenely. ‘I daresay I have too many.’
He walked around his desk and sat down behind it, watching Harry.
‘Let me out,’ Harry said yet again, in a voice that was cold and almost as calm as Dumbledore's.
‘Not until I have had my say,’ said Dumbledore.
‘Do you—do you think I want to—do you think I give a—I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU'VE GOT TO SAY!’ Harry roared. ‘I don't want to hear anything you've got to say!’
‘You will,’ said Dumbledore steadily. ‘Because you are not nearly as angry with me as you ought to be. If you are to attack me, as I know you are close to doing, I would like to have thoroughly earned it.’
‘What are you talking—?’
‘It is my fault that Sirius died,’ said Dumbledore clearly. ‘Or should I say, almost entirely my fault—I will not be so arrogant as to claim responsibility for the whole. Sirius was a brave, clever and energetic man, and such men are not usually content to sit at home in hiding while they believe others to be in danger. Nevertheless, you should never have believed for an instant that there was any necessity for you to go to the Department of Mysteries tonight. If I had been open with you, Harry, as I should have been, you would have known a long time ago that Voldemort might try and lure you to the Department of Mysteries, and you would never have been tricked into going there tonight. And Sirius would not have had to come after you. That blame lies with me, and with me alone.’
Harry was still standing with his hand on the doorknob but was unaware of it. He was gazing at Dumbledore, hardly breathing, listening yet barely understanding what he was hearing.
‘Please sit down,’ said Dumbledore. It was not an order, it was a request.
Harry hesitated, then walked slowly across the room now littered with silver cogs and fragments of wood, and took the seat facing Dumbledore's desk.
‘Am I to understand,’ said Phineas Nigellus slowly from Harry's left, ‘that my great-great-grandson—the last of the Blacks—is dead?’
‘My greatest strength, is it?’
‘My greatest strength, is it?’ said Harry, his voice shaking as he stared out at the Quidditch stadium, no longer seeing it. ‘You haven't got a clue ... you don't know ...’
‘What don't I know?’ asked Dumbledore calmly.
It was too much. Harry turned around, shaking with rage.
‘I don't want to talk about how I feel, all right?’
‘Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human—’
‘THEN—I—DON'T —WANT—TO—BE—HUMAN!’ Harry roared, and he seized the delicate silver instrument from the spindle-legged table beside him and flung it across the room; it shattered into a hundred tiny pieces against the wall. Several of the pictures let out yells of anger and fright, and the portrait of Armando Dippet said, ‘Really!’
‘I DON'T CARE!’ Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. ‘I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANY MORE—’
He seized the table on which the silver instrument had stood and threw that, too. It broke apart on the floor and the legs rolled in different directions.
‘You do care,’ said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. ‘You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.’
‘I—DON'T!’ Harry screamed, so loudly that he felt his throat might tear, and for a second he wanted to rush at Dumbledore and break him, too; shatter that calm old face, shake him, hurt him, make him feel some tiny part of the horror inside himself.
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ said Dumbledore, still more calmly. ‘You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care.’
‘YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I FEEL!’ Harry roared. ‘YOU—STANDING THERE—YOU—’
But words were no longer enough, smashing things was no more help; he wanted to run, he wanted to keep running and never look back, he wanted to be somewhere he could not see the clear blue eyes staring at him, that hatefully calm old face. He turned on his heel and ran to the door, seized the doorknob again and wrenched at it.
But the door would not open.
Harry turned back to Dumbledore.
‘What don't I know?’ asked Dumbledore calmly.
It was too much. Harry turned around, shaking with rage.
‘I don't want to talk about how I feel, all right?’
‘Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human—’
‘THEN—I—DON'T —WANT—TO—BE—HUMAN!’ Harry roared, and he seized the delicate silver instrument from the spindle-legged table beside him and flung it across the room; it shattered into a hundred tiny pieces against the wall. Several of the pictures let out yells of anger and fright, and the portrait of Armando Dippet said, ‘Really!’
‘I DON'T CARE!’ Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. ‘I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANY MORE—’
He seized the table on which the silver instrument had stood and threw that, too. It broke apart on the floor and the legs rolled in different directions.
‘You do care,’ said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. ‘You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.’
‘I—DON'T!’ Harry screamed, so loudly that he felt his throat might tear, and for a second he wanted to rush at Dumbledore and break him, too; shatter that calm old face, shake him, hurt him, make him feel some tiny part of the horror inside himself.
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ said Dumbledore, still more calmly. ‘You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care.’
‘YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I FEEL!’ Harry roared. ‘YOU—STANDING THERE—YOU—’
But words were no longer enough, smashing things was no more help; he wanted to run, he wanted to keep running and never look back, he wanted to be somewhere he could not see the clear blue eyes staring at him, that hatefully calm old face. He turned on his heel and ran to the door, seized the doorknob again and wrenched at it.
But the door would not open.
Harry turned back to Dumbledore.
‘Thank you,’ said Dumbledore softly.
‘Thank you,’ said Dumbledore softly.
He did not look at Harry at first, but walked over to the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown Fawkes usually stood.
‘Well, Harry,’ said Dumbledore, finally turning away from the baby bird, ‘you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night's events.’
Harry tried to say, ‘Good,’ but no sound came out. It seemed to him that Dumbledore was reminding him of the amount of damage he had caused, and although Dumbledore was for once looking at him directly, and although his expression was kindly rather than accusatory, Harry could not bear to meet his eyes.
‘Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend a little time in St. Mungos, but it seems she will make a full recovery.’
Harry contented himself with nodding at the carpet, which was growing lighter as the sky outside grew paler. He was sure all the: portraits around the room were listening closely to every word Dumbledore spoke, wondering where Dumbledore and Harry had been, and why there had been injuries.
‘I know how you're feeling, Harry,’ said Dumbledore very quietly.
‘No, you don't,’ said Harry, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong; white-hot anger leapt inside him; Dumbledore knew nothing about his feelings.
‘You see, Dumbledore?’ said Phineas Nigellus slyly. ‘Never try to understand the students. They hate it. They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, wallow in self-pity, stew in their own—’
‘That's enough, Phineas,’ said Dumbledore.
Harry turned his back on Dumbledore and stared determinedly out of the window. He could see the Quidditch stadium in the distance. Sirius had appeared there once, disguised as the shaggy black dog, so he could watch Harry play ... he had probably come to see whether Harry was as good as James had been ... Harry had never asked him ...
‘There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,’ said Dumbledore's voice. ‘On the contrary ... the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.’
Harry felt the white-hot anger lick his insides, blazing in the terrible emptiness, filling him with the desire to hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty words.
He did not look at Harry at first, but walked over to the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown Fawkes usually stood.
‘Well, Harry,’ said Dumbledore, finally turning away from the baby bird, ‘you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night's events.’
Harry tried to say, ‘Good,’ but no sound came out. It seemed to him that Dumbledore was reminding him of the amount of damage he had caused, and although Dumbledore was for once looking at him directly, and although his expression was kindly rather than accusatory, Harry could not bear to meet his eyes.
‘Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend a little time in St. Mungos, but it seems she will make a full recovery.’
Harry contented himself with nodding at the carpet, which was growing lighter as the sky outside grew paler. He was sure all the: portraits around the room were listening closely to every word Dumbledore spoke, wondering where Dumbledore and Harry had been, and why there had been injuries.
‘I know how you're feeling, Harry,’ said Dumbledore very quietly.
‘No, you don't,’ said Harry, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong; white-hot anger leapt inside him; Dumbledore knew nothing about his feelings.
‘You see, Dumbledore?’ said Phineas Nigellus slyly. ‘Never try to understand the students. They hate it. They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, wallow in self-pity, stew in their own—’
‘That's enough, Phineas,’ said Dumbledore.
Harry turned his back on Dumbledore and stared determinedly out of the window. He could see the Quidditch stadium in the distance. Sirius had appeared there once, disguised as the shaggy black dog, so he could watch Harry play ... he had probably come to see whether Harry was as good as James had been ... Harry had never asked him ...
‘There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,’ said Dumbledore's voice. ‘On the contrary ... the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.’
Harry felt the white-hot anger lick his insides, blazing in the terrible emptiness, filling him with the desire to hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty words.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Ginny continued to watch him thoughtfully
Ginny continued to watch him thoughtfully. More to give himself something to do than because he really wanted any, Harry unwrapped his Easter egg, broke off a large bit and put it into his mouth.
‘Well,’ said Ginny slowly, helping herself to a bit of egg, too, ‘if you really want to talk to Sirius, I expect we could think of a way to do it.’
‘Come on,’ said Harry dully. ‘With Umbridge policing the fires and reading all our mail?’
‘The thing about growing up with Fred and George,’ said Ginny thoughtfully, ‘is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve.’
Harry looked at her. Perhaps it was the effect of the chocolate—Lupin had always advised eating some after encounters with dementors—or simply because he had finally spoken aloud the wish that had been burning inside him for a week, but he felt a bit more hopeful.
‘WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?’
‘Oh damn,’ whispered Ginny, jumping to her feet. ‘I forgot—’
Madam Pince was swooping down on them, her shrivelled face contorted with rage.
‘Chocolate in the library!’ she screamed. ‘Out—out—OUT!’ And whipping out her wand, she caused Harry's books, bag and ink bottle to chase him and Ginny from the library, whacking them repeatedly over the head as they ran.
As though to underline the importance of their upcoming examinations, a batch of pamphlets, leaflets and notices concerning various wizarding careers appeared on the tables in Gryffindor Tower shortly before the end of the holidays, along with yet another notice on the board, which read:
CAREERS ADVICE
All fifth-years are required to attend a short meeting with their
Head of House during the first week of the summer term to discuss
their future careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below.
Harry looked down the list and found that he was expected in Professor McGonagall's office at half past two on Monday, which would mean missing most of Divination. He and the other fifth-years spent a considerable part of the final weekend of the Easter break reading all the careers information that had been left there for their perusal.
‘Well, I don't fancy Healing,’ said Ron on the last evening of the holidays. He was immersed in a leaflet that carried the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungo's on its front. ‘It says here you need at least “E” at NEWT level in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. I mean ... blimey ... don't want much, do they?’
‘Well, it's a very responsible job, isn't it?’ said Hermione absently.
She was poring over a bright pink and orange leaflet, that was headed, ‘SO YOU THINK YOU'D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE RELATIONS?’ ‘You don't seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles; all they want is an OWL in Muggle Studies: Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience and a good sense of fun!’
‘You'd need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle,’ said Harry darkly. ‘Good sense of when to duck, more like.’ He was halfway through a pamphlet on wizard banking. ‘Listen to this: Are you seeking a challenging career involving travel, adventure and substantial, danger-related treasure bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse-Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad ...They want Arithmancy, though; you could do it, Hermione!’
‘I don't much fancy banking,’ said Hermione vaguely, now immersed in: ‘HAVE YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES TO TRAIN SECURITY TROLLS?’
‘Hey,’ said a voice in Harry's ear. He looked round; Fred and George had come to join them. ‘Ginny's had a word with us about you,’ said Fred, stretching out his legs on the table in front of them and causing several booklets on careers with the Ministry of Magic to slide off on to the floor. ‘She says you need to talk to Sirius?’
‘What?’ said Hermione sharply, freezing with her hand halfway towards picking up ‘MAKE A BANG AT THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL ACCIDENTS AND CATASTROPHES'.
‘Yeah ...’ said Harry, trying to sound casual, ‘yeah, I thought I'd like—’
‘Don't be so ridiculous,’ said Hermione, straightening up and looking at him as though she could not believe her eyes. ‘With Umbridge groping around in the fires and frisking all the owls?’
‘Well, we think we can find a way around that,’ said George, stretching and smiling. ‘It's a simple matter of causing a diversion. Now, you might have noticed that we have been rather quiet on the mayhem front during the Easter holidays?’
‘What was the point, we asked ourselves, of disrupting leisure time?’ continued Fred. ‘No point at all, we answered ourselves. And of course, we'd have messed up people's revision, too, which would be the very last thing we'd want to do.’
He gave Hermione a sanctimonious little nod. She looked rather taken aback by this thoughtfulness.
‘But it's business as usual from tomorrow,’ Fred continued briskly. ‘And if we're going to be causing a bit of uproar, why not do it so that Harry can have his chat with Sirius?’
‘Well,’ said Ginny slowly, helping herself to a bit of egg, too, ‘if you really want to talk to Sirius, I expect we could think of a way to do it.’
‘Come on,’ said Harry dully. ‘With Umbridge policing the fires and reading all our mail?’
‘The thing about growing up with Fred and George,’ said Ginny thoughtfully, ‘is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve.’
Harry looked at her. Perhaps it was the effect of the chocolate—Lupin had always advised eating some after encounters with dementors—or simply because he had finally spoken aloud the wish that had been burning inside him for a week, but he felt a bit more hopeful.
‘WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?’
‘Oh damn,’ whispered Ginny, jumping to her feet. ‘I forgot—’
Madam Pince was swooping down on them, her shrivelled face contorted with rage.
‘Chocolate in the library!’ she screamed. ‘Out—out—OUT!’ And whipping out her wand, she caused Harry's books, bag and ink bottle to chase him and Ginny from the library, whacking them repeatedly over the head as they ran.
As though to underline the importance of their upcoming examinations, a batch of pamphlets, leaflets and notices concerning various wizarding careers appeared on the tables in Gryffindor Tower shortly before the end of the holidays, along with yet another notice on the board, which read:
CAREERS ADVICE
All fifth-years are required to attend a short meeting with their
Head of House during the first week of the summer term to discuss
their future careers. Times of individual appointments are listed below.
Harry looked down the list and found that he was expected in Professor McGonagall's office at half past two on Monday, which would mean missing most of Divination. He and the other fifth-years spent a considerable part of the final weekend of the Easter break reading all the careers information that had been left there for their perusal.
‘Well, I don't fancy Healing,’ said Ron on the last evening of the holidays. He was immersed in a leaflet that carried the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungo's on its front. ‘It says here you need at least “E” at NEWT level in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. I mean ... blimey ... don't want much, do they?’
‘Well, it's a very responsible job, isn't it?’ said Hermione absently.
She was poring over a bright pink and orange leaflet, that was headed, ‘SO YOU THINK YOU'D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE RELATIONS?’ ‘You don't seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles; all they want is an OWL in Muggle Studies: Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience and a good sense of fun!’
‘You'd need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle,’ said Harry darkly. ‘Good sense of when to duck, more like.’ He was halfway through a pamphlet on wizard banking. ‘Listen to this: Are you seeking a challenging career involving travel, adventure and substantial, danger-related treasure bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse-Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad ...They want Arithmancy, though; you could do it, Hermione!’
‘I don't much fancy banking,’ said Hermione vaguely, now immersed in: ‘HAVE YOU GOT WHAT IT TAKES TO TRAIN SECURITY TROLLS?’
‘Hey,’ said a voice in Harry's ear. He looked round; Fred and George had come to join them. ‘Ginny's had a word with us about you,’ said Fred, stretching out his legs on the table in front of them and causing several booklets on careers with the Ministry of Magic to slide off on to the floor. ‘She says you need to talk to Sirius?’
‘What?’ said Hermione sharply, freezing with her hand halfway towards picking up ‘MAKE A BANG AT THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL ACCIDENTS AND CATASTROPHES'.
‘Yeah ...’ said Harry, trying to sound casual, ‘yeah, I thought I'd like—’
‘Don't be so ridiculous,’ said Hermione, straightening up and looking at him as though she could not believe her eyes. ‘With Umbridge groping around in the fires and frisking all the owls?’
‘Well, we think we can find a way around that,’ said George, stretching and smiling. ‘It's a simple matter of causing a diversion. Now, you might have noticed that we have been rather quiet on the mayhem front during the Easter holidays?’
‘What was the point, we asked ourselves, of disrupting leisure time?’ continued Fred. ‘No point at all, we answered ourselves. And of course, we'd have messed up people's revision, too, which would be the very last thing we'd want to do.’
He gave Hermione a sanctimonious little nod. She looked rather taken aback by this thoughtfulness.
‘But it's business as usual from tomorrow,’ Fred continued briskly. ‘And if we're going to be causing a bit of uproar, why not do it so that Harry can have his chat with Sirius?’
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
‘You received the note I sent to your cabin this morning?’
‘You received the note I sent to your cabin this morning?’ said Umbridge, in the same loud, slow voice she had used with him earlier, as though she were addressing somebody both foreign and very slow. ‘Telling you that I
would be inspecting your lesson?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Hagrid brightly. ‘Glad yeh found the place all righ'! Well, as you can see— or, I dunno—can you? We're doin’ Thestrals today—’
‘I'm sorry?’ said Professor Umbridge loudly, cupping her hand around her ear and frowning. ‘What did you say?’
Hagrid looked a little confused.
‘Er—Thestrals!’ he said loudly. ‘Big—er—winged horses, yeh know!’
He flapped his gigantic arms hopefully. Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows at him and muttered as she made a note on her clipboard: ‘Has ... to ... resort ... to ... crude ... sign ... language.’
‘Well ... anyway ...’ said Hagrid, turning back to the class and looking slightly flustered, ‘erm ... what was I sayin?’
‘Appears ... to ... have ... poor ... short ... term ... memory,’ muttered Umbridge, loudly enough for everyone to hear her. Draco Malfoy looked as though Christmas had come a month early; Hermione, on the other hand, had
turned scarlet with suppressed rage.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Hagrid, throwing an uneasy glance at Umbridge's clipboard, but ploughing on valiantly. ‘Yeah, I was gonna tell yeh how come we got a herd. Yeah, so, we started off with a male an’ five females. This one,’ he
patted the first horse to have appeared, ‘name o’ Tenebrus, he's my special favourite, firs’ one born here in the Forest—’
‘Are you aware,’ Umbridge said loudly, interrupting him, ‘that the Ministry of Magic has classified Thestrals as “dangerous"?’
Harry's heart sank like a stone, but Hagrid merely chuckled.
‘Thestrals aren’ dangerous! All righ', they might take a bite outta yeh if yeh really annoy them —’
‘Shows ... signs ... of... pleasure ... at ... idea ... of... violence,’ muttered Umbridge, scribbling on her clipboard again.
‘No—come on!’ said Hagrid, looking a little anxious now. ‘I mean, a dog'll bite if yeh bait it, won’ it—but Thestrals have jus’ got a bad reputation because o’ the death thing—people used ter think they were bad omens, didn’
they? Jus’ didn’ understand, did they?’
Umbridge did not answer; she finished writing her last note, then looked up at Hagrid and said, again very loudly and slowly, ‘Please continue teaching as usual. I am going to walk,’ she mimed walking (Malfoy and Pansy
Parkinson were having silent fits of laughter) ‘among the students’ (she pointed around at individual members of the class) ‘and ask them questions.’ She pointed at her mouth to indicate talking.
Hagrid stared at her, clearly at a complete loss to understand why she was acting as though he did not understand normal English. Hermione had tears of fury in her eyes now.
‘You hag, you evil hag!’ she whispered, as Umbridge walked towards Pansy Parkinson. ‘I know what you're doing, you awiul, twisted, vicious—’
‘Erm ... anyway,’ said Hagrid, clearly struggling to regain the flow of his lesson, ‘so —Thestrals. Yeah. Well, there's loads o’ good stuff abou’ them ...’
‘Do you find,’ said Professor Umbridge in a ringing voice to Pansy Parkinson, ‘that you are able to understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?’
Just like Hermione, Pansy had tears in her eyes, but these were tears of laughter; indeed, her answer was almost incoherent because she was trying to suppress her giggles.
‘No ... because ... well ... it sounds ... like grunting a lot of the time ...’
Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard. The few unbruised bits of Hagrid's face flushed, but he tried to act as though he had not heard Pansy's answer.
‘Er ... yeah ... good stuff abou’ Thestrals. Well, once they're tamed, like this lot, yeh'll never be lost again. ‘Mazin’ sense o’ direction, jus’ tell ‘em where yeh want ter go—’
‘Assuming they can understand you, of course,’ said Malfoy loudly, and Pansy Parkinson collapsed in a fit of renewed giggles. Professor Umbridge smiled indulgently at them and then turned to Neville.
‘You can see the Thestrals, Longbottom, can you?’ she said.
Neville nodded.
‘Who did you see die?’ she asked, her tone indifferent.
‘My ... my grandad,’ said Neville.
‘And what do you think of them?’ she said, waving her stubby hand at the horses, who by now had stripped a great deal of the carcass down to bone.
‘Erm,’ said Neville nervously, with a glance at Hagrid. ‘Well, they're ... er ... OK ...’
‘Students ... are ... too ... intimidated ... to ... admit ... they ... are ... frightened,’ muttered Umbridge, making another note on her clipboard.
‘No!’ said Neville, looking upset. ‘No, I'm not scared of them!’
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would be inspecting your lesson?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Hagrid brightly. ‘Glad yeh found the place all righ'! Well, as you can see— or, I dunno—can you? We're doin’ Thestrals today—’
‘I'm sorry?’ said Professor Umbridge loudly, cupping her hand around her ear and frowning. ‘What did you say?’
Hagrid looked a little confused.
‘Er—Thestrals!’ he said loudly. ‘Big—er—winged horses, yeh know!’
He flapped his gigantic arms hopefully. Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows at him and muttered as she made a note on her clipboard: ‘Has ... to ... resort ... to ... crude ... sign ... language.’
‘Well ... anyway ...’ said Hagrid, turning back to the class and looking slightly flustered, ‘erm ... what was I sayin?’
‘Appears ... to ... have ... poor ... short ... term ... memory,’ muttered Umbridge, loudly enough for everyone to hear her. Draco Malfoy looked as though Christmas had come a month early; Hermione, on the other hand, had
turned scarlet with suppressed rage.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Hagrid, throwing an uneasy glance at Umbridge's clipboard, but ploughing on valiantly. ‘Yeah, I was gonna tell yeh how come we got a herd. Yeah, so, we started off with a male an’ five females. This one,’ he
patted the first horse to have appeared, ‘name o’ Tenebrus, he's my special favourite, firs’ one born here in the Forest—’
‘Are you aware,’ Umbridge said loudly, interrupting him, ‘that the Ministry of Magic has classified Thestrals as “dangerous"?’
Harry's heart sank like a stone, but Hagrid merely chuckled.
‘Thestrals aren’ dangerous! All righ', they might take a bite outta yeh if yeh really annoy them —’
‘Shows ... signs ... of... pleasure ... at ... idea ... of... violence,’ muttered Umbridge, scribbling on her clipboard again.
‘No—come on!’ said Hagrid, looking a little anxious now. ‘I mean, a dog'll bite if yeh bait it, won’ it—but Thestrals have jus’ got a bad reputation because o’ the death thing—people used ter think they were bad omens, didn’
they? Jus’ didn’ understand, did they?’
Umbridge did not answer; she finished writing her last note, then looked up at Hagrid and said, again very loudly and slowly, ‘Please continue teaching as usual. I am going to walk,’ she mimed walking (Malfoy and Pansy
Parkinson were having silent fits of laughter) ‘among the students’ (she pointed around at individual members of the class) ‘and ask them questions.’ She pointed at her mouth to indicate talking.
Hagrid stared at her, clearly at a complete loss to understand why she was acting as though he did not understand normal English. Hermione had tears of fury in her eyes now.
‘You hag, you evil hag!’ she whispered, as Umbridge walked towards Pansy Parkinson. ‘I know what you're doing, you awiul, twisted, vicious—’
‘Erm ... anyway,’ said Hagrid, clearly struggling to regain the flow of his lesson, ‘so —Thestrals. Yeah. Well, there's loads o’ good stuff abou’ them ...’
‘Do you find,’ said Professor Umbridge in a ringing voice to Pansy Parkinson, ‘that you are able to understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?’
Just like Hermione, Pansy had tears in her eyes, but these were tears of laughter; indeed, her answer was almost incoherent because she was trying to suppress her giggles.
‘No ... because ... well ... it sounds ... like grunting a lot of the time ...’
Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard. The few unbruised bits of Hagrid's face flushed, but he tried to act as though he had not heard Pansy's answer.
‘Er ... yeah ... good stuff abou’ Thestrals. Well, once they're tamed, like this lot, yeh'll never be lost again. ‘Mazin’ sense o’ direction, jus’ tell ‘em where yeh want ter go—’
‘Assuming they can understand you, of course,’ said Malfoy loudly, and Pansy Parkinson collapsed in a fit of renewed giggles. Professor Umbridge smiled indulgently at them and then turned to Neville.
‘You can see the Thestrals, Longbottom, can you?’ she said.
Neville nodded.
‘Who did you see die?’ she asked, her tone indifferent.
‘My ... my grandad,’ said Neville.
‘And what do you think of them?’ she said, waving her stubby hand at the horses, who by now had stripped a great deal of the carcass down to bone.
‘Erm,’ said Neville nervously, with a glance at Hagrid. ‘Well, they're ... er ... OK ...’
‘Students ... are ... too ... intimidated ... to ... admit ... they ... are ... frightened,’ muttered Umbridge, making another note on her clipboard.
‘No!’ said Neville, looking upset. ‘No, I'm not scared of them!’
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
There was a moment's pause in which Filch glared
There was a moment's pause in which Filch glared at Cho and Cho glared right back, then the caretaker turned on his heel and shuffled back towards the door. He stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back at Harry.
‘If I get so much as a whiff of a Dungbomb ...’
He stumped off down the stairs. Mrs. Norris cast a last longing look at the owls and followed him.
Harry and Cho looked at each other.
‘Thanks,’ Harry said.
‘No problem,’ said Cho, finally fixing the parcel to the barn owl's other leg, her face slightly pink. ‘You weren't ordering Dungbombs, were you?’
‘No,’ said Harry.
‘I wonder why he thought you were, then?’ she said as she carried the owl to the window.
Harry shrugged. He was quite as mystified by that as she was, though oddly it was not bothering him very much at the moment.
They left the Owlery together. At the entrance of a corridor that led towards the west wing of the castle, Cho said, ‘I'm going this way.Well, I'll ... I'll see you around, Harry.’
‘Yeah ... see you.’
She smiled at him and departed. Harry walked on, feeling quietly elated. He had managed to have an entire conversation with her and not embarrassed himself once ... you were really brave standing up to her like that ...Cho had called him brave ... she did not hate him for being alive ...
Of course, she had preferred Cedric, he knew that ... though if he'd only asked her to the Ball before Cedric had, things might have turned out differently ... she had seemed sincerely sorry that she'd had to refuse when Harry asked her ...
‘Morning,’ Harry said brightly to Ron and Hermione as he joined them at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.
‘What are you looking so pleased about?’ said Ron, eyeing Harry in surprise.
‘Erm ... Quidditch later,’ said Harry happily, pulling a large platter of bacon and eggs towards him.
‘Oh ... yeah ...’ said Ron. He put down the piece of toast he was eating and took a large swig of pumpkin juice. Then he said, ‘Listen ... you don't fancy going out a bit earlier with me, do you? Just to—er—give me some practice before training? So I can, you know, get my eye in a bit.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ said Harry.
‘Look, I don't think you should,’ said Hermione seriously. ‘You're both really behind on homework as it—’
But she broke off; the morning post was arriving and, as usual, the Daily Prophet was soaring towards her in the beak of a screech owl, which landed perilously close to the sugar bowl and held out a leg. Hermione pushed a Knut into its leather pouch, took the newspaper, and scanned the front page critically as the owl took off.
‘Anything interesting?’ said Ron. Harry grinned, knowing Ron was keen to keep her off the subject of homework.
‘No,’ she sighed, ‘just some guff about the bass player in the Weird Sisters getting married.’
Hermione opened the paper and disappeared behind it. Harry devoted himself to another helping of eggs and bacon. Ron was staring up at the high windows, looking slightly preoccupied.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Hermione suddenly. ‘Oh no ... Sirius!’
‘What's happened?’ said Harry, snatching at the paper so violently it ripped down the middle, with him and Hermione each holding one half.
’ “The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer ... blah blah blah ...is currently hiding in London!”‘Hermione read from her half in an anguished whisper.
‘Lucius Malfoy, I'll bet anything,’ said Harry in a low, furious voice. ‘He did recognise Sirius on the platform ...’
‘What?’ said Ron, looking alarmed. ‘You didn't say—’
‘Shh!’ said the other two.
‘... “Ministry warns wizarding community that Black is very dangerous ... killed thirteen people ... broke out of Azkaban ...” the usual rubbish,’ Hermione concluded, laying down her half of the paper and looking fearfully at Harry and Ron. ‘Well, he just won't be able to leave the house again, that's all,’ she whispered. ‘Dumbledore did warn him not to.’
Harry looked down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he had torn off. Most of the page was devoted to an advertisement for Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, which was apparently having a sale.
‘Hey!’ he said, flattening it down so Hermione and Ron could see it. ‘Look at this!’
‘I've got all the robes I want,’ said Ron.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Look ... this little piece here ...’
Ron and Hermione bent closer to read it; the item was barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of a column. It was headlined:
TRESPASS AT MINISTRY
Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the Wizcngamot charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watchwizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to force his way through a top-security door at one o'clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak, in his own defence, was convicted on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.
‘Sturgis Podmore?’ said Ron slowly. ‘He's that bloke who looks like his head's been thatched, isn't he? He's one of the Ord—
‘Ron, shh!’ said Hermione, casting a terrified look around them.
‘Six months in Azkaban!’ whispered Harry, shocked. ‘Just for trying to get through a door!’
‘Don't be silly, it wasn't just for trying to get through a door. What on earth was he doing at the Ministry of Magic at one o'clock in the morning?’ breathed Hermione.
D'you reckon he was doing something for the Order?’ Ron muttered.
‘Wait a moment ...’ said Harry slowly. ‘Sturgis was supposed to come and see us off, remember?’
The other two looked at him.
‘Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going to King's Cross, remember? And Moody was all annoyed because he didn't turn up; so he couldn't have been on a job for them, could he?’
‘Well, maybe they didn't expect him to get caught,’ said Hermione.
‘If I get so much as a whiff of a Dungbomb ...’
He stumped off down the stairs. Mrs. Norris cast a last longing look at the owls and followed him.
Harry and Cho looked at each other.
‘Thanks,’ Harry said.
‘No problem,’ said Cho, finally fixing the parcel to the barn owl's other leg, her face slightly pink. ‘You weren't ordering Dungbombs, were you?’
‘No,’ said Harry.
‘I wonder why he thought you were, then?’ she said as she carried the owl to the window.
Harry shrugged. He was quite as mystified by that as she was, though oddly it was not bothering him very much at the moment.
They left the Owlery together. At the entrance of a corridor that led towards the west wing of the castle, Cho said, ‘I'm going this way.Well, I'll ... I'll see you around, Harry.’
‘Yeah ... see you.’
She smiled at him and departed. Harry walked on, feeling quietly elated. He had managed to have an entire conversation with her and not embarrassed himself once ... you were really brave standing up to her like that ...Cho had called him brave ... she did not hate him for being alive ...
Of course, she had preferred Cedric, he knew that ... though if he'd only asked her to the Ball before Cedric had, things might have turned out differently ... she had seemed sincerely sorry that she'd had to refuse when Harry asked her ...
‘Morning,’ Harry said brightly to Ron and Hermione as he joined them at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.
‘What are you looking so pleased about?’ said Ron, eyeing Harry in surprise.
‘Erm ... Quidditch later,’ said Harry happily, pulling a large platter of bacon and eggs towards him.
‘Oh ... yeah ...’ said Ron. He put down the piece of toast he was eating and took a large swig of pumpkin juice. Then he said, ‘Listen ... you don't fancy going out a bit earlier with me, do you? Just to—er—give me some practice before training? So I can, you know, get my eye in a bit.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ said Harry.
‘Look, I don't think you should,’ said Hermione seriously. ‘You're both really behind on homework as it—’
But she broke off; the morning post was arriving and, as usual, the Daily Prophet was soaring towards her in the beak of a screech owl, which landed perilously close to the sugar bowl and held out a leg. Hermione pushed a Knut into its leather pouch, took the newspaper, and scanned the front page critically as the owl took off.
‘Anything interesting?’ said Ron. Harry grinned, knowing Ron was keen to keep her off the subject of homework.
‘No,’ she sighed, ‘just some guff about the bass player in the Weird Sisters getting married.’
Hermione opened the paper and disappeared behind it. Harry devoted himself to another helping of eggs and bacon. Ron was staring up at the high windows, looking slightly preoccupied.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Hermione suddenly. ‘Oh no ... Sirius!’
‘What's happened?’ said Harry, snatching at the paper so violently it ripped down the middle, with him and Hermione each holding one half.
’ “The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer ... blah blah blah ...is currently hiding in London!”‘Hermione read from her half in an anguished whisper.
‘Lucius Malfoy, I'll bet anything,’ said Harry in a low, furious voice. ‘He did recognise Sirius on the platform ...’
‘What?’ said Ron, looking alarmed. ‘You didn't say—’
‘Shh!’ said the other two.
‘... “Ministry warns wizarding community that Black is very dangerous ... killed thirteen people ... broke out of Azkaban ...” the usual rubbish,’ Hermione concluded, laying down her half of the paper and looking fearfully at Harry and Ron. ‘Well, he just won't be able to leave the house again, that's all,’ she whispered. ‘Dumbledore did warn him not to.’
Harry looked down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he had torn off. Most of the page was devoted to an advertisement for Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, which was apparently having a sale.
‘Hey!’ he said, flattening it down so Hermione and Ron could see it. ‘Look at this!’
‘I've got all the robes I want,’ said Ron.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Look ... this little piece here ...’
Ron and Hermione bent closer to read it; the item was barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of a column. It was headlined:
TRESPASS AT MINISTRY
Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the Wizcngamot charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watchwizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to force his way through a top-security door at one o'clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak, in his own defence, was convicted on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban.
‘Sturgis Podmore?’ said Ron slowly. ‘He's that bloke who looks like his head's been thatched, isn't he? He's one of the Ord—
‘Ron, shh!’ said Hermione, casting a terrified look around them.
‘Six months in Azkaban!’ whispered Harry, shocked. ‘Just for trying to get through a door!’
‘Don't be silly, it wasn't just for trying to get through a door. What on earth was he doing at the Ministry of Magic at one o'clock in the morning?’ breathed Hermione.
D'you reckon he was doing something for the Order?’ Ron muttered.
‘Wait a moment ...’ said Harry slowly. ‘Sturgis was supposed to come and see us off, remember?’
The other two looked at him.
‘Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going to King's Cross, remember? And Moody was all annoyed because he didn't turn up; so he couldn't have been on a job for them, could he?’
‘Well, maybe they didn't expect him to get caught,’ said Hermione.
Monday, November 15, 2010
He said the spell automatically, desperate for light
to help him in his search—and to his disbelieving relief, light flared inches from his right hand—the wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up, scrambled to his feet and turned around.
His stomach turned over.
A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly towards him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came.
Stumbling backwards, Harry raised his wand.
‘Expecto patronum!’
A silvery wisp of vapour shot from the tip of the wand and the Dementor slowed, but the spell hadn't worked properly; tripping over his own feet, Harry retreated further as the Dementor bore down upon him, panic fogging his brain—concentrate—
A pair of grey, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the Dementor's robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry's ears.
‘Expecto patronum!’
His voice sounded dim and distant.... Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand—he couldn't do it any more, he couldn't work the spell.
There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter.... He could smell the Dementor's putrid, death-cold breath filling his own lungs, drowning him— Think ... something happy....
But there was no happiness in him ... the Dementor's icy fingers were closing on his throat—the high-patched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head: ‘Bow to death, Harry.... It might even be painless.... I would not know.... I have never died....’
He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again—
And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he fought for breath.
‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’
An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harry's wand; it's antlers caught the Dementor in the place where the heart should have been; it was thrown backwards, weightless as darkness, and as the stag charged, the Dementor swooped away, bat-like and defeated.
‘THIS WAY!’ Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. ‘DUDLEY? DUDLEY!’
He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached them: Dudley was curled up on the ground, his arms clamped over his face. A second Dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prising them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded head towards Dudley's face as though about to kiss him....
‘GET IT!’ Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring sound, the silver stag he had conjured came galloping past him. The Dementor's eyeless face was barely an inch from Dudley's when the silver antlers caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into the darkness; the stag cantered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.
His stomach turned over.
A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly towards him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came.
Stumbling backwards, Harry raised his wand.
‘Expecto patronum!’
A silvery wisp of vapour shot from the tip of the wand and the Dementor slowed, but the spell hadn't worked properly; tripping over his own feet, Harry retreated further as the Dementor bore down upon him, panic fogging his brain—concentrate—
A pair of grey, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the Dementor's robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry's ears.
‘Expecto patronum!’
His voice sounded dim and distant.... Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand—he couldn't do it any more, he couldn't work the spell.
There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter.... He could smell the Dementor's putrid, death-cold breath filling his own lungs, drowning him— Think ... something happy....
But there was no happiness in him ... the Dementor's icy fingers were closing on his throat—the high-patched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head: ‘Bow to death, Harry.... It might even be painless.... I would not know.... I have never died....’
He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again—
And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he fought for breath.
‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’
An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harry's wand; it's antlers caught the Dementor in the place where the heart should have been; it was thrown backwards, weightless as darkness, and as the stag charged, the Dementor swooped away, bat-like and defeated.
‘THIS WAY!’ Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. ‘DUDLEY? DUDLEY!’
He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached them: Dudley was curled up on the ground, his arms clamped over his face. A second Dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prising them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded head towards Dudley's face as though about to kiss him....
‘GET IT!’ Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring sound, the silver stag he had conjured came galloping past him. The Dementor's eyeless face was barely an inch from Dudley's when the silver antlers caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into the darkness; the stag cantered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.
Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water.
Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch black and lightless—the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant rumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.
For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without meaning to, despite the fact that he'd been resisting as hard as he could—then his reason caught up with his senses—he didn't have the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.
Dudley's terrified voice broke in Harry's ear.
‘W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!’
‘I'm not doing anything! Shut up and don't move!’
‘I c-can't see! I've g-gone blind! I—’
‘I said shut up!’
Harry stood stock still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense he was shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up—he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing.
It was impossible.... They couldn't be here.... Not in Little Whinging.... He strained his ears.... He would hear them before he saw them....
‘I'll t-tell Dad!’ Dudley whimpered. ‘W-where are you? What are you d-do—?’
‘Will you shut up?’ Harry hissed, ‘I'm trying to lis—’
But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been dreading.
There was something in the alleyway apart from themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air.
‘C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I'll h-hit you, I swear I will!’
‘Dudley, shut—’
WHAM!
A fist made contact with the side of Harry's head, lifting him off his feet. Small white lights popped in front of his eyes. For the second time in an hour Harry felt as though his head had been cleaved in two; next moment, he had landed hard on the ground and his wand had flown out of his hand.
‘You moron, Dudley!’ Harry yelled, his eyes watering with pain as he scrambled to his hands and knees, feeling around frantically in the blackness. He heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley fence, stumbling.
‘DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!’
There was a horrible squealing yell and Dudley's footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a creeping chill behind him that could mean only one thing. There was more than one.
‘DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!’ Harry muttered frantically, his hands flying over the ground like spiders. ‘Where's—wand—come on—Lumos!’
For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without meaning to, despite the fact that he'd been resisting as hard as he could—then his reason caught up with his senses—he didn't have the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.
Dudley's terrified voice broke in Harry's ear.
‘W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!’
‘I'm not doing anything! Shut up and don't move!’
‘I c-can't see! I've g-gone blind! I—’
‘I said shut up!’
Harry stood stock still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense he was shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up—he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing.
It was impossible.... They couldn't be here.... Not in Little Whinging.... He strained his ears.... He would hear them before he saw them....
‘I'll t-tell Dad!’ Dudley whimpered. ‘W-where are you? What are you d-do—?’
‘Will you shut up?’ Harry hissed, ‘I'm trying to lis—’
But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been dreading.
There was something in the alleyway apart from themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air.
‘C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I'll h-hit you, I swear I will!’
‘Dudley, shut—’
WHAM!
A fist made contact with the side of Harry's head, lifting him off his feet. Small white lights popped in front of his eyes. For the second time in an hour Harry felt as though his head had been cleaved in two; next moment, he had landed hard on the ground and his wand had flown out of his hand.
‘You moron, Dudley!’ Harry yelled, his eyes watering with pain as he scrambled to his hands and knees, feeling around frantically in the blackness. He heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley fence, stumbling.
‘DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!’
There was a horrible squealing yell and Dudley's footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a creeping chill behind him that could mean only one thing. There was more than one.
‘DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!’ Harry muttered frantically, his hands flying over the ground like spiders. ‘Where's—wand—come on—Lumos!’
‘Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud?
But I s'pose, if you were, you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time....’
Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look sideways at it.
‘You're not allowed,’ Dudley said at once. ‘I know you're not. You'd get expelled from that freak school you go to.’
‘How d'you know they haven't changed the rules, Big D?’
‘They haven't,’ said Dudley, though he didn't sound completely convinced.
Harry laughed softly.
‘You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?’ Dudley snarled.
‘Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten year old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?’
‘He was sixteen, for your information,’ snarled Dudley, ‘and he was out cold for twenty minutes after I'd finished with him and he was twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing out—’
‘Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry's wand?’
‘Not this brave at night, are you?’ sneered Dudley.
‘This is night, Diddykins. That's what we call it when it goes all dark like this.’
‘I mean when you're in bed!’ Dudley snarled.
He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at his cousin.
From the little he could see of Dudley's large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant look.
‘What d'you mean, I'm not brave when I'm in bed?’ said Harry, Completely nonplussed. ‘What—am I supposed to be frightened of, pillows or something?’
‘I heard you last night,’ said Dudley breathlessly. ‘Talking in your sleep. Moaning.’
‘What d'you mean?’ Harry said again, but there was a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach. He had revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.
Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter, then adopted a high-pitched whimpering voice.
‘"Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!” Who's Cedric—your boyfriend?’
‘I—you're lying,’ said Harry automatically. But his mouth had gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn't lying—how else would he know about Cedric?
‘"Dad! Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Boo hoo!” ’
‘Shut up,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Shut up, Dudley, I'm warning you!’
‘"Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He's killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He's going to—” Don't you point that thing at me!’
Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing the wand directly at Dudley's heart. Harry could feel fourteen years’ hatred of Dudley pounding in his veins—what wouldn't he give to strike now, to jinx Dudley so thoroughly he'd have to crawl home like an insect, struck dumb, sprouting feelers—
‘Don't ever talk about that again,’ Harry snarled. ‘D'you understand me?’
‘Point that thing somewhere else!’
‘I said, do you understand me?’
‘Point it somewhere else!’
‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?’
‘GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—’
Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look sideways at it.
‘You're not allowed,’ Dudley said at once. ‘I know you're not. You'd get expelled from that freak school you go to.’
‘How d'you know they haven't changed the rules, Big D?’
‘They haven't,’ said Dudley, though he didn't sound completely convinced.
Harry laughed softly.
‘You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?’ Dudley snarled.
‘Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten year old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?’
‘He was sixteen, for your information,’ snarled Dudley, ‘and he was out cold for twenty minutes after I'd finished with him and he was twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing out—’
‘Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry's wand?’
‘Not this brave at night, are you?’ sneered Dudley.
‘This is night, Diddykins. That's what we call it when it goes all dark like this.’
‘I mean when you're in bed!’ Dudley snarled.
He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at his cousin.
From the little he could see of Dudley's large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant look.
‘What d'you mean, I'm not brave when I'm in bed?’ said Harry, Completely nonplussed. ‘What—am I supposed to be frightened of, pillows or something?’
‘I heard you last night,’ said Dudley breathlessly. ‘Talking in your sleep. Moaning.’
‘What d'you mean?’ Harry said again, but there was a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach. He had revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.
Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter, then adopted a high-pitched whimpering voice.
‘"Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!” Who's Cedric—your boyfriend?’
‘I—you're lying,’ said Harry automatically. But his mouth had gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn't lying—how else would he know about Cedric?
‘"Dad! Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Boo hoo!” ’
‘Shut up,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Shut up, Dudley, I'm warning you!’
‘"Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He's killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He's going to—” Don't you point that thing at me!’
Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing the wand directly at Dudley's heart. Harry could feel fourteen years’ hatred of Dudley pounding in his veins—what wouldn't he give to strike now, to jinx Dudley so thoroughly he'd have to crawl home like an insect, struck dumb, sprouting feelers—
‘Don't ever talk about that again,’ Harry snarled. ‘D'you understand me?’
‘Point that thing somewhere else!’
‘I said, do you understand me?’
‘Point it somewhere else!’
‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?’
‘GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—’
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Chapter 9 The Woes Of Mrs.Weasley
Dumbledore's abrupt departure took Harry completely by surprise. He remained sitting where he was in the chained chair, struggling with his feelings of shock and relief. The Wizengamot were all getting to their feet, talking,
gathering up their papers and packing them away. Harry stood up. Nobody seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention, except the toadlike witch on Fudge's right, who was now gazing down at him instead of at
Dumbledore. Ignoring her, he tried to catch Fudge's eye, or Madam Bones's, wanting to ask whether he was free to go, but Fudge seemed quite determined not to notice Harry, and Madam Bones was busy with her briefcase,
so he took a lew tentative steps towards the exit and, when nobody called him back, broke into a very fast walk.
He took the last lew steps at a run, wrenched open the door and almost collided with Mr. Weasley, who was standing right outside, looking pale and apprehensive.
‘Dumbledore didn't say—’
‘Cleared,’ Harry said, pulling the door closed behind him, ‘of all charges!’
Beaming, Mr Weasley seized Harry by the shoulders.
‘Harry, that's wonderful! Well, of course, they couldn't have found you guilty, not on the evidence, but even so, I can't pretend I wasn't—’
But Mr. Weasley broke off, because the courtroom door had ust opened again. The Wizengamot were filing out.
‘Merlin's beard!’ exclaimed Mr. Weasley wonderingly, pulling Harry aside to let them all pass. ‘You were tried by the full court?’
‘I think so,’ said Harry quietly.
One or two of the wizards nodded to Harry as they passed and a few, including Madam Bones, said, ‘Morning, Arthur,’ to Mr. Weasley, but most averted their eyes. Cornelius Fudge and the toadlike witch were almost the last
to leave the dungeon. Fudge acted as though Mr. Weasley and Harry were part of the wall, but again, the witch looked almost appraisingly at Harry as she passed. Last of all to pass was Percy. Like Fudge, he completely
ignored his father and Harry; he marched past clutching a large roll of parchment and a handful of spare quills, his back rigid and his nose in the air. The lines around Mr. Weasley's mouth tightened slightly, but other than this
he gave no sign that he had seen his third son.
‘I'm going to take you straight back so you can tell the others the good news,’ he said, beckoning Harry forwards as Percy's heels disappeared up the steps to Level Nine. ‘I'll drop you off on the way to that toilet in Bethnal
Green. Come on....’
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gathering up their papers and packing them away. Harry stood up. Nobody seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention, except the toadlike witch on Fudge's right, who was now gazing down at him instead of at
Dumbledore. Ignoring her, he tried to catch Fudge's eye, or Madam Bones's, wanting to ask whether he was free to go, but Fudge seemed quite determined not to notice Harry, and Madam Bones was busy with her briefcase,
so he took a lew tentative steps towards the exit and, when nobody called him back, broke into a very fast walk.
He took the last lew steps at a run, wrenched open the door and almost collided with Mr. Weasley, who was standing right outside, looking pale and apprehensive.
‘Dumbledore didn't say—’
‘Cleared,’ Harry said, pulling the door closed behind him, ‘of all charges!’
Beaming, Mr Weasley seized Harry by the shoulders.
‘Harry, that's wonderful! Well, of course, they couldn't have found you guilty, not on the evidence, but even so, I can't pretend I wasn't—’
But Mr. Weasley broke off, because the courtroom door had ust opened again. The Wizengamot were filing out.
‘Merlin's beard!’ exclaimed Mr. Weasley wonderingly, pulling Harry aside to let them all pass. ‘You were tried by the full court?’
‘I think so,’ said Harry quietly.
One or two of the wizards nodded to Harry as they passed and a few, including Madam Bones, said, ‘Morning, Arthur,’ to Mr. Weasley, but most averted their eyes. Cornelius Fudge and the toadlike witch were almost the last
to leave the dungeon. Fudge acted as though Mr. Weasley and Harry were part of the wall, but again, the witch looked almost appraisingly at Harry as she passed. Last of all to pass was Percy. Like Fudge, he completely
ignored his father and Harry; he marched past clutching a large roll of parchment and a handful of spare quills, his back rigid and his nose in the air. The lines around Mr. Weasley's mouth tightened slightly, but other than this
he gave no sign that he had seen his third son.
‘I'm going to take you straight back so you can tell the others the good news,’ he said, beckoning Harry forwards as Percy's heels disappeared up the steps to Level Nine. ‘I'll drop you off on the way to that toilet in Bethnal
Green. Come on....’
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Some Reflections on Bob Woodruffs China White Wash
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：119 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:29:43
"So near to the truth, yet so far." Thats the feeling I came away with after watching Bob Woodruffs recent China Inside Out documentary for ABC news. Its regrettable that a journalist of such a high caliber as Woodruff can get so close to a story and not really see it -- while helping to perpetuate a number of dangerous myths about China.
Woodruffs approach seemed very promising at first. He went to four different continents and countries in order to assess the global impacts of China, the countries being Angola, Brazil, Cambodia, and the United States.
The Angolan segment highlighted Chinas economic development model in Africa. The myth perpetrated in this segment is that the development has actually provided a net benefit to the people of Africa.
In fact, the real truth China is practicing a very sophisticated 21st century version of imperialism in which China loans African countries billions of dollars in exchange for encumbering natural resources. These resources range from oil and natural gas to copper, cobalt, and titanium. As part of its debt encumbrance strategy, China gets to reduce its unemployment rate by using a large Chinese construction workforce to actually do the work rather than relying so much on the native population.
In this segment, Woodruff makes repeated references to corruption. However, in a glaring omission, he fails to make explicit just how much of the billions in Chinese aid is actually siphoned off into offshore bank accounts held by the African elites. Nor does Woodruff highlight the intense poverty in the countriesChina is supposed to be "benefiting" -- other than offering a few images of slums.
That said, the absolute worst omission of the African segment is Woodruffs failure to mention the Darfur genocide in the Sudan. Instead, the only thing we get is a passing reference to Chinese aid to the Sudan in exchange for oil. In fact,China regularly trades its veto power at the UN for African resources in exchange for shielding African despots from UN interventions.
What made Woodruffs omission all the more galling is that Woodruff did an extensive interview with Chinas United Nations Ambassador Wang Guangya. This is the same reprehensible "diplomat" who has repeatedly blocked UN action on Darfur. (Wang also has blocked action following the sham Zimbabwe election and the attempts of the West to sanction Iran for its nuclear development). The failure to confront Wang on the Darfur question was tantamount to appeasement -- or, far worse, simple ignorance.
Woodruffs omissions were equally in evidence in his Brazil segment. The theme Woodruff drew here is that Chinas increasing consumption for soybeans is leading to deforestation of the Amazon and potential environmental problems. The biggest problems with this segment were a lack of visual imagery to portray the destruction of the Amazon, and the lack of science and statistics to explain how deforestation in the Amazon is likely to affect the global environment and crop production.
"So near to the truth, yet so far." Thats the feeling I came away with after watching Bob Woodruffs recent China Inside Out documentary for ABC news. Its regrettable that a journalist of such a high caliber as Woodruff can get so close to a story and not really see it -- while helping to perpetuate a number of dangerous myths about China.
Woodruffs approach seemed very promising at first. He went to four different continents and countries in order to assess the global impacts of China, the countries being Angola, Brazil, Cambodia, and the United States.
The Angolan segment highlighted Chinas economic development model in Africa. The myth perpetrated in this segment is that the development has actually provided a net benefit to the people of Africa.
In fact, the real truth China is practicing a very sophisticated 21st century version of imperialism in which China loans African countries billions of dollars in exchange for encumbering natural resources. These resources range from oil and natural gas to copper, cobalt, and titanium. As part of its debt encumbrance strategy, China gets to reduce its unemployment rate by using a large Chinese construction workforce to actually do the work rather than relying so much on the native population.
In this segment, Woodruff makes repeated references to corruption. However, in a glaring omission, he fails to make explicit just how much of the billions in Chinese aid is actually siphoned off into offshore bank accounts held by the African elites. Nor does Woodruff highlight the intense poverty in the countriesChina is supposed to be "benefiting" -- other than offering a few images of slums.
That said, the absolute worst omission of the African segment is Woodruffs failure to mention the Darfur genocide in the Sudan. Instead, the only thing we get is a passing reference to Chinese aid to the Sudan in exchange for oil. In fact,China regularly trades its veto power at the UN for African resources in exchange for shielding African despots from UN interventions.
What made Woodruffs omission all the more galling is that Woodruff did an extensive interview with Chinas United Nations Ambassador Wang Guangya. This is the same reprehensible "diplomat" who has repeatedly blocked UN action on Darfur. (Wang also has blocked action following the sham Zimbabwe election and the attempts of the West to sanction Iran for its nuclear development). The failure to confront Wang on the Darfur question was tantamount to appeasement -- or, far worse, simple ignorance.
Woodruffs omissions were equally in evidence in his Brazil segment. The theme Woodruff drew here is that Chinas increasing consumption for soybeans is leading to deforestation of the Amazon and potential environmental problems. The biggest problems with this segment were a lack of visual imagery to portray the destruction of the Amazon, and the lack of science and statistics to explain how deforestation in the Amazon is likely to affect the global environment and crop production.
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