Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.
“I open at the close… at the close… I open at the close…”
But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different inflections, they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.
“And the sword,” said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their attempts to divine meaning in the Snitch’s inscription.
“Why did he want Harry to have the sword?”
“And why couldn’t he just have told me?” Harry said quietly. “I was there, it was right there on the wall of his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have it, why didn’t he just give it to me then?”
He felt as thought he were sitting in an examination with a question he ought to have been able to answer in front of him, his brain slow and unresponsive. Was there something he had missed in the long talks with Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know what it all meant? Had Dumbledore expected him to understand?
“And as for this book.” Said Hermione, “The Tales of Beedle the Bard … I’ve never even heard of them!”
“You’ve never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?” said Ron incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not,” said Hermione in surprise. “Do you know them then?”
“Well, of course I do!”
Harry looked up, diverted. The circumstance of Ron having read a book that Hermione had not was unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by their surprise.
“Oh come on! All the old kids’ stories are supposed to be Beedle’s aren’t they? ‘The Fountain of Fair Fortune’ … ‘The Wizard and the Hopping Pot’… ‘Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump’…”
“Excuse me?” said Hermione giggling. “What was the last one?”
“Come off it!” said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. “You must’ve heard of Babbitty Rabbitty – ”
“Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up by Muggles!” said Hermione. “We didn’t hear stories like that when we were little, we heard ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarves’ and ‘Cinderella’ – ”
“What’s that, an illness?” asked Ron.
“So these are children’s stories?” asked Hermione, bending against over the runes.
“Yeah.” Said Ron uncertainly. “I mean, just what you hear, you know, that all these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they’re like in the original versions.”
“But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?”
Something cracked downstairs.
“Probably just Charlie, now Mum’s asleep, sneaking off to regrow his hair,” said Ron nervously.
“All the same, we should get to bed,” whispered Hermione. “It wouldn’t do to oversleep tomorrow.”
“No,” agreed Ron. “A brutal triple murder by the bridegroom’s mother might put a bit of damper on the wedding. I’ll get the light.”
And he clicked the Deluminator once more as Hermione left the room.
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Harry stood up, murmured
Harry stood up, murmured “See you in a bit” to Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, and followed Professor McGonagall back down the ward. The corridors outside were deserted and
the only sound was the distant phoenix song. It was several minutes before Harry became aware that they were not heading for Professor McGonagall's office, but for
Dumbledore's, and another few seconds before he realized that of course, she had been Deputy Headmistress... apparently she was now Headmistress ... so the room behind
the gargoyle was now hers.
In silence they ascended the moving spiral staircase and entered the circular office. He did not know what he had expected: that the room would be draped in black,
perhaps, or even that Dumbledore's body might be lying there. In fact, it looked almost exactly as it had done when he and Dumbledore had left it mere hours previously:
the silver instruments whirring and puffing on their spindle legged tables, Gryffindor's sword in its glass case gleaming in the moonlight, the Sorting Hat on a shelf
behind the desk, the Fawkes's perch stood empty, he was still crying his lament to the grounds. And a new portrait had joined the ranks of the dead headmasters and
headmistresses of Hogwarts: Dumbledore was slumbering in a golden frame over the desk, his half-moon spectacle perched upon his crooked nose, looking peaceful and
untroubled.
After glancing once at this portrait, Professor McGonagall made an odd movement as though steeling herself, then rounded the desk to look at Harry, her face taut and
lined.
“Harry,” she said, “I would like to know what you and Professor Dumbledore were doing this evening when you left the school.”
“I can't tell you that, Professor,” said Harry. He had expected the question and had his answer ready. It had been here, in this very room, that Dumbledore had told
him that he was to confide the contents of their lessons to nobody but Ron and Hermione.
“Harry, it might be important,” said Professor McGonagall.
“It is,” said Harry, “very, but he didn't want me to tell anyone.”
Professor McGonagall glared at him.
“Potter"—Harry registered the renewed use of his surname—"in the light of Professor Dumbledore's death, I think you must see that the situation has changed somewhat
—”
“I don't think so,” said Harry, shrugging. “Professor Dumbledore never told me to stop following his orders if he died.”
“But—”
“There's one thing you should know before the Ministry gets here, though. Madam Rosmerta's under the Imperius Curse, she was helping Malfoy and the Death Eaters,
that's how the necklace and the poisoned mead—”
“Rosmerta?” said Professor McGonagall incredulously, but before she could go on, there was a knock on the door behind them and Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and
Slughorn traipsed into the room, followed by Hagrid, who was still weeping copiously, his huge frame trembling with grief.
“Snape!” ejaculated Slughorn, who looked the most shaken, pale and sweating. “Snape! I taught him! I thought I knew him!”
But before any of them could respond to this, a sharp voice spoke from high on the wall: a sallow-faced wizard with a short black fringe had just walked back into his
empty canvas. “Minerva, the Minister will be here within seconds, he has just Disapparated from the Ministry.”
“Thank you, Everard,” said Professor McGonagall, and she turned quickly to her teachers.
“I want to talk about what happens to Hogwarts before he gets here,” she said quickly. “Personally, I am not convinced that the school should reopen next year. The
death of the Headmaster at the hands of one of our colleagues is a terrible stain upon Hogwarts’ history. It is horrible.”
the only sound was the distant phoenix song. It was several minutes before Harry became aware that they were not heading for Professor McGonagall's office, but for
Dumbledore's, and another few seconds before he realized that of course, she had been Deputy Headmistress... apparently she was now Headmistress ... so the room behind
the gargoyle was now hers.
In silence they ascended the moving spiral staircase and entered the circular office. He did not know what he had expected: that the room would be draped in black,
perhaps, or even that Dumbledore's body might be lying there. In fact, it looked almost exactly as it had done when he and Dumbledore had left it mere hours previously:
the silver instruments whirring and puffing on their spindle legged tables, Gryffindor's sword in its glass case gleaming in the moonlight, the Sorting Hat on a shelf
behind the desk, the Fawkes's perch stood empty, he was still crying his lament to the grounds. And a new portrait had joined the ranks of the dead headmasters and
headmistresses of Hogwarts: Dumbledore was slumbering in a golden frame over the desk, his half-moon spectacle perched upon his crooked nose, looking peaceful and
untroubled.
After glancing once at this portrait, Professor McGonagall made an odd movement as though steeling herself, then rounded the desk to look at Harry, her face taut and
lined.
“Harry,” she said, “I would like to know what you and Professor Dumbledore were doing this evening when you left the school.”
“I can't tell you that, Professor,” said Harry. He had expected the question and had his answer ready. It had been here, in this very room, that Dumbledore had told
him that he was to confide the contents of their lessons to nobody but Ron and Hermione.
“Harry, it might be important,” said Professor McGonagall.
“It is,” said Harry, “very, but he didn't want me to tell anyone.”
Professor McGonagall glared at him.
“Potter"—Harry registered the renewed use of his surname—"in the light of Professor Dumbledore's death, I think you must see that the situation has changed somewhat
—”
“I don't think so,” said Harry, shrugging. “Professor Dumbledore never told me to stop following his orders if he died.”
“But—”
“There's one thing you should know before the Ministry gets here, though. Madam Rosmerta's under the Imperius Curse, she was helping Malfoy and the Death Eaters,
that's how the necklace and the poisoned mead—”
“Rosmerta?” said Professor McGonagall incredulously, but before she could go on, there was a knock on the door behind them and Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and
Slughorn traipsed into the room, followed by Hagrid, who was still weeping copiously, his huge frame trembling with grief.
“Snape!” ejaculated Slughorn, who looked the most shaken, pale and sweating. “Snape! I taught him! I thought I knew him!”
But before any of them could respond to this, a sharp voice spoke from high on the wall: a sallow-faced wizard with a short black fringe had just walked back into his
empty canvas. “Minerva, the Minister will be here within seconds, he has just Disapparated from the Ministry.”
“Thank you, Everard,” said Professor McGonagall, and she turned quickly to her teachers.
“I want to talk about what happens to Hogwarts before he gets here,” she said quickly. “Personally, I am not convinced that the school should reopen next year. The
death of the Headmaster at the hands of one of our colleagues is a terrible stain upon Hogwarts’ history. It is horrible.”
“And what do you mean by zat?”
“And what do you mean by zat?” said Fleur suddenly and loudly. “What do you mean, ‘he was going to be married?'”
Mrs. Weasley raised her tear-stained face, looking startled. “Well—only that—”
“You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore?” demanded Fleur. “You theenk, because of these bites, he will not love me?”
“No, that's not what I—”
“Because ‘e will!” said Fleur, drawing herself up to her full height and throwing back her long mane of silver hair. “It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill
loving me!”
“Well, yes, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Weasley, “but I thought perhaps—given how—how he—”
“You thought I would not weesh to marry him? Or per'aps, you hoped?” said Fleur, her nostrils flaring. “What do I care how he looks? I am good-looking enough for
both of us, I theenk! All these scars show is zat my husband is brave! And I shall do zat!” she added fiercely, pushing Mrs. Weasley aside and snatching the ointment
from her.
Mrs. Weasley fell back against her husband and watched Fleur mopping up Bill's wounds with a most curious expression upon her face. Nobody said anything; Harry did not
dare move. Like everybody else, he was waiting for the explosion.
“Our Great-Auntie Muriel,” said Mrs. Weasley after a long pause, “has a very beautiful tiara—goblin-made—which I am sure I could persuade her to lend you for the
wedding. She is very fond of Bill, you know, and it would look lovely with your hair.”
“Thank you,” said Fleur stiffly. “I am sure zat will be lovely.”
And then, Harry did not quite see how it happened, both women were crying and hugging each other. Completely bewildered, wondering whether the world had gone mad, he
turned around: Ron looked as stunned as he felt and Ginny and Hermione were exchanging startled looks.
“You see!” said a strained voice. Tonks was glaring at Lupin. “She still wants to marry him, even though he's been bitten! She doesn't care!”
“It's different,” said Lupin, barely moving his lips and looking suddenly tense. “Bill will not be a full werewolf. The cases are completely—”
“But I don't care either, I don't care!” said Tonks, seizing the front of Lupin's robes and shaking them. “I've told you a million times...”
And the meaning of Tonks's Patronus and her mouse-colored hair, and the reason she had come running to find Dumbledore when she had heard a rumor someone had been
attacked by Greyback, all suddenly became clear to Harry; it had not been Sirius that Tonks had fallen in love with after all.
“And I've told you a million times,” said Lupin, refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the floor, “that I am too old for you, too poor... too dangerous...”
“I've said all along you're taking a ridiculous line on this, Remus,” said Mrs. Weasley over Fleur's shoulder as she patted her on the back.
“I am not being ridiculous,” said Lupin steadily. “Tonks deserves somebody young and whole.”
“But she wants you,” said Mr. Weasley, with a small smile. “And after all, Remus, young and whole men do not necessarily remain so.”
He gestured sadly at his son, lying between them.
“This is... not the moment to discuss it,” said Lupin, avoiding everybody's eyes as he looked around distractedly. “Dumbledore is dead. ...”
“Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody to think that there was a little more love in the world,” said Professor McGonagall curtly, just as the hospital
doors opened again and Hagrid walked in.
The little of his face that was not obscured by hair or beard was soaking and swollen; he was shaking with tears, a vast, spotted handkerchief in his hand.
“I've... I've done it, Professor,” he choked. “M-moved him. Professor Sprout's got the kids back in bed. Professor Flitwick's lyin down, but he says he'll be all
righ’ in a jiffy, an’ Professor Slughorn says the Ministry's bin informed.”
“Thank you, Hagrid,” said Professor McGonagall, standing up at once and turning to look at the group around Bill's bed. “I shall have to see the Ministry when they
get here. Hagrid, please tell the Heads of Houses—Slughorn can represent Slytherin— that I want to see them in my office forthwith. I would like you to join us too.”
As Hagrid nodded, turned, and shuffled out of the room again, she looked down at Harry. “Before I meet them I would like a quick word with you, Harry. If you'll come
with me...”
Mrs. Weasley raised her tear-stained face, looking startled. “Well—only that—”
“You theenk Bill will not wish to marry me anymore?” demanded Fleur. “You theenk, because of these bites, he will not love me?”
“No, that's not what I—”
“Because ‘e will!” said Fleur, drawing herself up to her full height and throwing back her long mane of silver hair. “It would take more zan a werewolf to stop Bill
loving me!”
“Well, yes, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Weasley, “but I thought perhaps—given how—how he—”
“You thought I would not weesh to marry him? Or per'aps, you hoped?” said Fleur, her nostrils flaring. “What do I care how he looks? I am good-looking enough for
both of us, I theenk! All these scars show is zat my husband is brave! And I shall do zat!” she added fiercely, pushing Mrs. Weasley aside and snatching the ointment
from her.
Mrs. Weasley fell back against her husband and watched Fleur mopping up Bill's wounds with a most curious expression upon her face. Nobody said anything; Harry did not
dare move. Like everybody else, he was waiting for the explosion.
“Our Great-Auntie Muriel,” said Mrs. Weasley after a long pause, “has a very beautiful tiara—goblin-made—which I am sure I could persuade her to lend you for the
wedding. She is very fond of Bill, you know, and it would look lovely with your hair.”
“Thank you,” said Fleur stiffly. “I am sure zat will be lovely.”
And then, Harry did not quite see how it happened, both women were crying and hugging each other. Completely bewildered, wondering whether the world had gone mad, he
turned around: Ron looked as stunned as he felt and Ginny and Hermione were exchanging startled looks.
“You see!” said a strained voice. Tonks was glaring at Lupin. “She still wants to marry him, even though he's been bitten! She doesn't care!”
“It's different,” said Lupin, barely moving his lips and looking suddenly tense. “Bill will not be a full werewolf. The cases are completely—”
“But I don't care either, I don't care!” said Tonks, seizing the front of Lupin's robes and shaking them. “I've told you a million times...”
And the meaning of Tonks's Patronus and her mouse-colored hair, and the reason she had come running to find Dumbledore when she had heard a rumor someone had been
attacked by Greyback, all suddenly became clear to Harry; it had not been Sirius that Tonks had fallen in love with after all.
“And I've told you a million times,” said Lupin, refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the floor, “that I am too old for you, too poor... too dangerous...”
“I've said all along you're taking a ridiculous line on this, Remus,” said Mrs. Weasley over Fleur's shoulder as she patted her on the back.
“I am not being ridiculous,” said Lupin steadily. “Tonks deserves somebody young and whole.”
“But she wants you,” said Mr. Weasley, with a small smile. “And after all, Remus, young and whole men do not necessarily remain so.”
He gestured sadly at his son, lying between them.
“This is... not the moment to discuss it,” said Lupin, avoiding everybody's eyes as he looked around distractedly. “Dumbledore is dead. ...”
“Dumbledore would have been happier than anybody to think that there was a little more love in the world,” said Professor McGonagall curtly, just as the hospital
doors opened again and Hagrid walked in.
The little of his face that was not obscured by hair or beard was soaking and swollen; he was shaking with tears, a vast, spotted handkerchief in his hand.
“I've... I've done it, Professor,” he choked. “M-moved him. Professor Sprout's got the kids back in bed. Professor Flitwick's lyin down, but he says he'll be all
righ’ in a jiffy, an’ Professor Slughorn says the Ministry's bin informed.”
“Thank you, Hagrid,” said Professor McGonagall, standing up at once and turning to look at the group around Bill's bed. “I shall have to see the Ministry when they
get here. Hagrid, please tell the Heads of Houses—Slughorn can represent Slytherin— that I want to see them in my office forthwith. I would like you to join us too.”
As Hagrid nodded, turned, and shuffled out of the room again, she looked down at Harry. “Before I meet them I would like a quick word with you, Harry. If you'll come
with me...”
“He must have known a spell we didn't,”
“He must have known a spell we didn't,” whispered McGonagall. “After all—he was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher... I just assumed that he was in a hurry
to chase after the Death Eaters who'd escaped up to the tower...”
“He was,” said Harry savagely, “but to help them, not to stop the... and I'll bet you had to have a Dark Mark to get through that barrier—so what happened when he
came back down?”
“Well, the big Death Eater had just fired off a hex that caused half the ceiling to fall in, and also broke the curse blocking the stairs,” said Lupin. “We all ran
forward—those of us who were still standing anyway—and then Snape and the boy emerged out of the dust—obviously, none of us attacked them—”
“We just let them pass,” said Tonks in a hollow voice. “We thought they were being chased by the Death Eaters—and next thing, the other Death Eaters and Greyback
were back and we were fighting again—I thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don't know what—”
“He shouted, ‘It's over,'” said Harry. “He'd done what he'd meant to do.”
They all fell silent. Fawkes's lament was still echoing over the dark grounds outside. As the music reverberated upon the air, unbidden, unwelcome thoughts slunk into
Harry's mind... had they taken Dumbledore's body from the foot of the tower yet? What would happen to it next? Where would it rest? He clenched his fists tighdy in his
pockets. He could feel the small cold lump of the fake Horcrux against the knuckles of his right hand.
The doors of the hospital wing burst open, making them all jump: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were striding up the ward, Fleur just behind them, her beautiful face terrified.
“Molly—Arthur—” said Professor McGonagall, jumping up and hurrying to greet them. “I am so sorry—”
“Bill,” whispered Mrs. Weasley, darting past Professor McGonagall as she caught sight of Bill's mangled face. “Oh, Bill!”
Lupin and Tonks had got up hastily and retreated so that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could get nearer to the bed. Mrs. Weasley bent over her son and pressed her lips to his
bloody forehead.
“You said Greyback attacked him?” Mr. Weasley asked Professor McGonagall distractedly. “But he hadn't transformed? So what does that mean? What will happen to Bill?
”
“We don't yet know,” said Professor McGonagall, looking helplessly at Lupin.
“There will probably be some contamination, Arthur,” said Lupin. “It is an odd case, possibly unique... we don't know what his behavior might be like when he
awakens...”
Mrs. Weasley took the nasty-smelling ointment from Madam Pomfrey and began dabbing at Bill's wounds.
“And Dumbledore ...” said Mr. Weasley. “Minerva, is it true ... is he really...?”
As Professor McGonagall nodded, Harry felt Ginny move beside him and looked at her. Her slightly narrowed eyes were fixed upon Fleur, who was gazing down at Bill with a
frozen expression on her face.
“Dumbledore gone,” whispered Mr. Weasley, but Mrs. Weasley had eyes only for her eldest son; she began to sob, tears falling onto Bill's mutilated face.
“Of course, it doesn't matter how he looks... it's not r-really important... but he was a very handsome little b-bo... always very handsome... and he was g-going to be
married!”
to chase after the Death Eaters who'd escaped up to the tower...”
“He was,” said Harry savagely, “but to help them, not to stop the... and I'll bet you had to have a Dark Mark to get through that barrier—so what happened when he
came back down?”
“Well, the big Death Eater had just fired off a hex that caused half the ceiling to fall in, and also broke the curse blocking the stairs,” said Lupin. “We all ran
forward—those of us who were still standing anyway—and then Snape and the boy emerged out of the dust—obviously, none of us attacked them—”
“We just let them pass,” said Tonks in a hollow voice. “We thought they were being chased by the Death Eaters—and next thing, the other Death Eaters and Greyback
were back and we were fighting again—I thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don't know what—”
“He shouted, ‘It's over,'” said Harry. “He'd done what he'd meant to do.”
They all fell silent. Fawkes's lament was still echoing over the dark grounds outside. As the music reverberated upon the air, unbidden, unwelcome thoughts slunk into
Harry's mind... had they taken Dumbledore's body from the foot of the tower yet? What would happen to it next? Where would it rest? He clenched his fists tighdy in his
pockets. He could feel the small cold lump of the fake Horcrux against the knuckles of his right hand.
The doors of the hospital wing burst open, making them all jump: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were striding up the ward, Fleur just behind them, her beautiful face terrified.
“Molly—Arthur—” said Professor McGonagall, jumping up and hurrying to greet them. “I am so sorry—”
“Bill,” whispered Mrs. Weasley, darting past Professor McGonagall as she caught sight of Bill's mangled face. “Oh, Bill!”
Lupin and Tonks had got up hastily and retreated so that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could get nearer to the bed. Mrs. Weasley bent over her son and pressed her lips to his
bloody forehead.
“You said Greyback attacked him?” Mr. Weasley asked Professor McGonagall distractedly. “But he hadn't transformed? So what does that mean? What will happen to Bill?
”
“We don't yet know,” said Professor McGonagall, looking helplessly at Lupin.
“There will probably be some contamination, Arthur,” said Lupin. “It is an odd case, possibly unique... we don't know what his behavior might be like when he
awakens...”
Mrs. Weasley took the nasty-smelling ointment from Madam Pomfrey and began dabbing at Bill's wounds.
“And Dumbledore ...” said Mr. Weasley. “Minerva, is it true ... is he really...?”
As Professor McGonagall nodded, Harry felt Ginny move beside him and looked at her. Her slightly narrowed eyes were fixed upon Fleur, who was gazing down at Bill with a
frozen expression on her face.
“Dumbledore gone,” whispered Mr. Weasley, but Mrs. Weasley had eyes only for her eldest son; she began to sob, tears falling onto Bill's mutilated face.
“Of course, it doesn't matter how he looks... it's not r-really important... but he was a very handsome little b-bo... always very handsome... and he was g-going to be
married!”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
“Is that all?” said Harry at once.
“Is that all?” said Harry at once. “Why did it go dark, what happened?”
“Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward,” said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry back into his seat. “When he awoke next morning, he was lying
on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo's ring had gone.
“Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big
house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father.
“The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra Curse does not usually leave any
sign of damage... the exception sits before me,” Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry's scar. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's
murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking
one of the murdered people.
“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only
the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at
once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his fathers ring
had disappeared. ‘He'll kill me for losing it,’ he told his captors over and over again. ‘He'll kill me for losing his ring.’ And that, apparently, was all he ever
said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor
souls who have expired within its walls.”
“So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?” said Harry, sitting up straight.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore. “We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, took his wand,
and proceeded across the valley to ‘the big house over the way.’ There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his
Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt
hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle's mind, laid Morfin's wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient
ring he wore, and departed.”
“And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?”
“Never,” said Dumbledore. “He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession.”
“But he had this real memory in him all the time!”
“Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him,” said Dumbledore, “and why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had
already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I
could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban.
Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died.”
“But how come the Ministry didn't realize that Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?” Harry asked angrily. “He was underage at the time, wasn't he? I thought they
could detect underage magic!”
“Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward,” said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry back into his seat. “When he awoke next morning, he was lying
on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo's ring had gone.
“Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big
house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father.
“The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra Curse does not usually leave any
sign of damage... the exception sits before me,” Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry's scar. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's
murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking
one of the murdered people.
“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only
the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at
once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his fathers ring
had disappeared. ‘He'll kill me for losing it,’ he told his captors over and over again. ‘He'll kill me for losing his ring.’ And that, apparently, was all he ever
said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor
souls who have expired within its walls.”
“So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?” said Harry, sitting up straight.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore. “We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, took his wand,
and proceeded across the valley to ‘the big house over the way.’ There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his
Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt
hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle's mind, laid Morfin's wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient
ring he wore, and departed.”
“And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?”
“Never,” said Dumbledore. “He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession.”
“But he had this real memory in him all the time!”
“Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him,” said Dumbledore, “and why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had
already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I
could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban.
Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died.”
“But how come the Ministry didn't realize that Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?” Harry asked angrily. “He was underage at the time, wasn't he? I thought they
could detect underage magic!”
Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed
Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until his face sank through the surface of the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling through
nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness.
It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere
Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only
light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an
armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his
right hand and a short knife in his left.
The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome—the teenage
Voldemort.
Voldemort's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the
many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.
“YOU!” he bellowed. “YOU!”
And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.
“Stop.”
Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they
contemplated each other. The man broke it.
”You speak it?”
”Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for
Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.
”Where is Marvolo?” he asked.
”Dead,” said the other. ”Died years ago, didn't he?”
Riddle frowned.
”Who are you, then?”
”I'm Morfin, ain't I?”
”Marvolo's son?”
”‘Course I am, then...”
Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand.
”I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin. ”You look mighty like that Muggle.”
”What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply.
”That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them.
”You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, i'n ‘e? He's older'n you, now I think on it...”
Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support.
”He come back, see,” he added stupidly.
Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, ”Riddle came back?”
”Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. ”Robbed us, mind, before she ran off. Where's the locket, eh,
where's Slytherin's locket?”
Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, ”Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you,
coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit... it's over...”
He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and Morfin's candle,
extinguishing everything... Dumbledore's fingers closed tightly around Harry's arm and they were soaring back into the present again. The soft golden light in
Dumbledore's office seemed to dazzle Harry's eyes after that impenetrable darkness.
nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness.
It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere
Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only
light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an
armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his
right hand and a short knife in his left.
The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome—the teenage
Voldemort.
Voldemort's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the
many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.
“YOU!” he bellowed. “YOU!”
And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.
“Stop.”
Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they
contemplated each other. The man broke it.
”You speak it?”
”Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for
Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.
”Where is Marvolo?” he asked.
”Dead,” said the other. ”Died years ago, didn't he?”
Riddle frowned.
”Who are you, then?”
”I'm Morfin, ain't I?”
”Marvolo's son?”
”‘Course I am, then...”
Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand.
”I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin. ”You look mighty like that Muggle.”
”What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply.
”That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them.
”You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, i'n ‘e? He's older'n you, now I think on it...”
Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support.
”He come back, see,” he added stupidly.
Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, ”Riddle came back?”
”Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. ”Robbed us, mind, before she ran off. Where's the locket, eh,
where's Slytherin's locket?”
Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, ”Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you,
coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit... it's over...”
He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and Morfin's candle,
extinguishing everything... Dumbledore's fingers closed tightly around Harry's arm and they were soaring back into the present again. The soft golden light in
Dumbledore's office seemed to dazzle Harry's eyes after that impenetrable darkness.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
“That's quite enough!”
“That's quite enough!” said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. “Madam—please—”
Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack.
“Put those away,” she said coldly to Harry and Ron. “If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.”
“Really?” said Harry, taking a step forward and gazing into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor, still resembled her sister's. He was as tall as she was now. “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?”
Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart.
“Really, you shouldn't accuse... dangerous thing to say... wands away, please!”
But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly.
“I see that being Dumbledore's favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you.”
Harry looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow... look at that... he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!”
Malfoy made an angry movement toward Harry, but stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly.
“Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!” Malfoy snarled.
“It's all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.”
Harry raised his wand higher.
“Harry, no!” moaned Hermione, grabbing his arm and attempting to push it down by his side. “Think... You mustn't... You'll be in such trouble...”
Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn't. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry.
“I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just...”
“Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away. “Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother, I don't think I want these anymore.”
He pulled the robes over his head and threw them onto the floor at Madam Malkin's feet.
“You're right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now I know the kind of scum that shops here... We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's.”
And with that, the pair of them strode out of the shop, Malfoy taking care to bang as hard as he could into Ron on the way out.
“Well, really!” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust.
She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron's and Harry's new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard's dress robes instead of witch's, and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see the back of them.
“Got ev'rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side.
“Just about,” said Harry. “Did you see the Malfoys?”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “But they wouldn’ dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, Harry. Don’ worry about them.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks, but before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books.
“Everyone all right?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's... stick close, now...”
Neither Harry nor Ron bought any ingredients at the Apothecary, seeing that they were no longer studying Potions, but both bought large boxes of owl nuts for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Then, with Mrs. Weasley checking her watch every minute or so, they headed farther along the street in search of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop run by Fred and George.
“We really haven't got too long,” Mrs. Weasley said. “So we'll just have a quick look around and then back to the car. We must be close, that's number ninety-two... ninety-four...”
“Whoa,"said Ron, stopping in his tracks.
Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop Fronts around them, Fred and Georges windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry's eyes began to water just looking at it. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:
Why Are You Worrying About You-Know-Who?
You SHOULD Be Worrying About
U-NO-POO—
the Constipation Sensation That's Gripping the Nation!
Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name “U-No-Poo.”
“They'll be murdered in their beds!” she whispered.
“No they won't!” said Ron, who, like Harry, was laughing. “This is brilliant!”
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Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack.
“Put those away,” she said coldly to Harry and Ron. “If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.”
“Really?” said Harry, taking a step forward and gazing into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor, still resembled her sister's. He was as tall as she was now. “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?”
Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart.
“Really, you shouldn't accuse... dangerous thing to say... wands away, please!”
But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly.
“I see that being Dumbledore's favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you.”
Harry looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow... look at that... he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!”
Malfoy made an angry movement toward Harry, but stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly.
“Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!” Malfoy snarled.
“It's all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.”
Harry raised his wand higher.
“Harry, no!” moaned Hermione, grabbing his arm and attempting to push it down by his side. “Think... You mustn't... You'll be in such trouble...”
Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn't. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry.
“I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just...”
“Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away. “Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother, I don't think I want these anymore.”
He pulled the robes over his head and threw them onto the floor at Madam Malkin's feet.
“You're right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now I know the kind of scum that shops here... We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's.”
And with that, the pair of them strode out of the shop, Malfoy taking care to bang as hard as he could into Ron on the way out.
“Well, really!” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust.
She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron's and Harry's new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard's dress robes instead of witch's, and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see the back of them.
“Got ev'rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side.
“Just about,” said Harry. “Did you see the Malfoys?”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “But they wouldn’ dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, Harry. Don’ worry about them.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks, but before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books.
“Everyone all right?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's... stick close, now...”
Neither Harry nor Ron bought any ingredients at the Apothecary, seeing that they were no longer studying Potions, but both bought large boxes of owl nuts for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Then, with Mrs. Weasley checking her watch every minute or so, they headed farther along the street in search of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop run by Fred and George.
“We really haven't got too long,” Mrs. Weasley said. “So we'll just have a quick look around and then back to the car. We must be close, that's number ninety-two... ninety-four...”
“Whoa,"said Ron, stopping in his tracks.
Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop Fronts around them, Fred and Georges windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry's eyes began to water just looking at it. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:
Why Are You Worrying About You-Know-Who?
You SHOULD Be Worrying About
U-NO-POO—
the Constipation Sensation That's Gripping the Nation!
Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name “U-No-Poo.”
“They'll be murdered in their beds!” she whispered.
“No they won't!” said Ron, who, like Harry, was laughing. “This is brilliant!”
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Monday, November 22, 2010
The next two obstacles
The next two obstacles, the water course and the barrier, were easily crossed, but Vronsky began to hear the snorting and thud of Gladiator closer upon him. He urged on his mare, and to his delight felt that she easily quickened her pace, and the thud of Gladiator's hoofs was again heard at the same distance away.
Vronsky was at the head of the race, just as he wanted to be and as Cord had advised, and now he felt sure of being the winner. His excitement, his delight, and his tenderness for Frou-Frou grew keener and keener. He longed to look round again, but he did not dare do this, and tried to be cool and not to urge on his mare so to keep the same reserve of force in her as he felt that Gladiator still kept. There remained only one obstacle, the most difficult; if he could cross it ahead of the others he would come in first. He was flying towards the Irish barricade, Frou-Frou and he both together saw the barricade in the distance, and both the man and the mare had a moment's hesitation. He saw the uncertainty in the mare's ears and lifted the whip, but at the same time felt that his fears were groundless; the mare knew what was wanted. She quickened her pace and rose smoothly, just as he had fancied she would, and as she left the ground gave herself up to the force of her rush, which carried her far beyond the ditch; and with the same rhythm, without effort, with the same leg forward, Frou-Frou fell back into her pace again.
"Bravo, Vronsky!" he heard shouts from a knot of men--he knew they were his friends in the regiment--who were standing at the obstacle. He could not fail to recognize Yashvin's voice though he did not see him.
"O my sweet!" he said inwardly to Frou-Frou, as he listened for what was happening behind. "He's cleared it!" he thought, catching the thud of Gladiator's hoofs behind him. There remained only the last ditch, filled with water and five feet wide. Vronsky did not even look at it, but anxious to get in a long way first began sawing away at the reins, lifting the mare's head and letting it go in time with her paces. He felt that the mare was at her very last reserve of strength; not her neck and shoulders merely were wet, but the sweat was standing in drops on her mane, her head, her sharp ears, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps. But he knew that she had strength left more than enough for the remaining five hundred yards. It was only from feeling himself nearer the ground and from the peculiar smoothness of his motion that Vronsky knew how greatly the mare had quickened her pace. She flew over the ditch as though not noticing it. She flew over it like a bird; but at the same instant Vronsky, to his horror, felt that he had failed to keep up with the mare's pace, that he had, he did not know how, made a fearful, unpardonable mistake, in recovering his seat in the saddle. All at once his position had shifted and he knew that something awful had happened. He could not yet make out what had happened, when the white legs of a chestnut horse flashed by close to him, and Mahotin passed at a swift gallop. Vronsky was touching the ground with one foot, and his mare was sinking on that foot. He just had time to free his leg when she fell on one side, gasping painfully, and, making vain efforts to rise with her delicate, soaking neck, she fluttered on the ground at his feet like a shot bird. The clumsy movement made by Vronsky had broken her back. But that he only knew much later. At that moment he knew only that Mahotin had down swiftly by, while he stood staggering alone on the muddy, motionless ground, and Frou-Frou lay gasping before him, bending her head back and gazing at him with her exquisite eyes. Still unable to realize what had happened, Vronsky tugged at his mare's reins. Again she struggled all over like a fish, and her shoulders setting the saddle heaving, she rose on her front legs but unable to lift her back, she quivered all over and again fell on her side. With a face hideous with passion, his lower jaw trembling, and his cheeks white, Vronsky kicked her with his heel in the stomach and again fell to tugging at the rein. She did not stir, but thrusting her nose into the ground, she simply gazed at her master with her speaking eyes.
"A--a--a!" groaned Vronsky, clutching at his head. "Ah! what have I done!" he cried. "The race lost! And my fault! shameful, unpardonable! And the poor darling, ruined mare! Ah! what have I done!"
A crowd of men, a doctor and his assistant, the officers of his regiment, ran up to him. To his misery he felt that he was whole and unhurt. The mare had broken her back, and it was decided to shoot her. Vronsky could not answer questions, could not speak to anyone. He turned, and without picking up his cap that had fallen off, walked away from the race course, not knowing where he was going. He felt utterly wretched. For the first time in his life he knew the bitterest sort of misfortune, misfortune beyond remedy, and caused by his own fault.
Yashvin overtook him with his cap, and led him home, and half an hour later Vronsky had regained his self-possession. But the memory of that race remained for long in his heart, the cruelest and bitterest memory of his life.
Vronsky was at the head of the race, just as he wanted to be and as Cord had advised, and now he felt sure of being the winner. His excitement, his delight, and his tenderness for Frou-Frou grew keener and keener. He longed to look round again, but he did not dare do this, and tried to be cool and not to urge on his mare so to keep the same reserve of force in her as he felt that Gladiator still kept. There remained only one obstacle, the most difficult; if he could cross it ahead of the others he would come in first. He was flying towards the Irish barricade, Frou-Frou and he both together saw the barricade in the distance, and both the man and the mare had a moment's hesitation. He saw the uncertainty in the mare's ears and lifted the whip, but at the same time felt that his fears were groundless; the mare knew what was wanted. She quickened her pace and rose smoothly, just as he had fancied she would, and as she left the ground gave herself up to the force of her rush, which carried her far beyond the ditch; and with the same rhythm, without effort, with the same leg forward, Frou-Frou fell back into her pace again.
"Bravo, Vronsky!" he heard shouts from a knot of men--he knew they were his friends in the regiment--who were standing at the obstacle. He could not fail to recognize Yashvin's voice though he did not see him.
"O my sweet!" he said inwardly to Frou-Frou, as he listened for what was happening behind. "He's cleared it!" he thought, catching the thud of Gladiator's hoofs behind him. There remained only the last ditch, filled with water and five feet wide. Vronsky did not even look at it, but anxious to get in a long way first began sawing away at the reins, lifting the mare's head and letting it go in time with her paces. He felt that the mare was at her very last reserve of strength; not her neck and shoulders merely were wet, but the sweat was standing in drops on her mane, her head, her sharp ears, and her breath came in short, sharp gasps. But he knew that she had strength left more than enough for the remaining five hundred yards. It was only from feeling himself nearer the ground and from the peculiar smoothness of his motion that Vronsky knew how greatly the mare had quickened her pace. She flew over the ditch as though not noticing it. She flew over it like a bird; but at the same instant Vronsky, to his horror, felt that he had failed to keep up with the mare's pace, that he had, he did not know how, made a fearful, unpardonable mistake, in recovering his seat in the saddle. All at once his position had shifted and he knew that something awful had happened. He could not yet make out what had happened, when the white legs of a chestnut horse flashed by close to him, and Mahotin passed at a swift gallop. Vronsky was touching the ground with one foot, and his mare was sinking on that foot. He just had time to free his leg when she fell on one side, gasping painfully, and, making vain efforts to rise with her delicate, soaking neck, she fluttered on the ground at his feet like a shot bird. The clumsy movement made by Vronsky had broken her back. But that he only knew much later. At that moment he knew only that Mahotin had down swiftly by, while he stood staggering alone on the muddy, motionless ground, and Frou-Frou lay gasping before him, bending her head back and gazing at him with her exquisite eyes. Still unable to realize what had happened, Vronsky tugged at his mare's reins. Again she struggled all over like a fish, and her shoulders setting the saddle heaving, she rose on her front legs but unable to lift her back, she quivered all over and again fell on her side. With a face hideous with passion, his lower jaw trembling, and his cheeks white, Vronsky kicked her with his heel in the stomach and again fell to tugging at the rein. She did not stir, but thrusting her nose into the ground, she simply gazed at her master with her speaking eyes.
"A--a--a!" groaned Vronsky, clutching at his head. "Ah! what have I done!" he cried. "The race lost! And my fault! shameful, unpardonable! And the poor darling, ruined mare! Ah! what have I done!"
A crowd of men, a doctor and his assistant, the officers of his regiment, ran up to him. To his misery he felt that he was whole and unhurt. The mare had broken her back, and it was decided to shoot her. Vronsky could not answer questions, could not speak to anyone. He turned, and without picking up his cap that had fallen off, walked away from the race course, not knowing where he was going. He felt utterly wretched. For the first time in his life he knew the bitterest sort of misfortune, misfortune beyond remedy, and caused by his own fault.
Yashvin overtook him with his cap, and led him home, and half an hour later Vronsky had regained his self-possession. But the memory of that race remained for long in his heart, the cruelest and bitterest memory of his life.
And little groups and solitary figures
And little groups and solitary figures among the public began running from place to place to get a better view. In the very first minute the close group of horsemen drew out, and it could be seen that they were approaching the stream in two's and three's and one behind another. To the spectators it seemed as though they had all started simultaneously, but to the racers there were seconds of difference that had great value to them.
Frou-Frou, excited and over-nervous, had lost the first moment, and several horses had started before her, but before reaching the stream, Vronsky, who was holding in the mare with all his force as she tugged at the bridle, easily overtook three, and there were left in front of him Mahotin's chestnut Gladiator, whose hind-quarters were moving lightly and rhythmically up and down exactly in front of Vronsky, and in front of all, the dainty mare Diana bearing Kuzovlev more dead than alive.
For the first instant Vronsky was not master either of himself or his mare. Up to the first obstacle, the stream, he could not guide the motions of his mare.
Gladiator and Diana came up to it together and almost at the same instant; simultaneously they rose above the stream and flew across to the other side; Frou-Frou darted after them, as if flying; but at the very moment when Vronsky felt himself in the air, he suddenly saw almost under his mare's hoofs Kuzovlev, who was floundering with Diana on the further side of the stream. (Kuzovlev had let go the reins as he took the leap, and the mare had sent him flying over her head.) Those details Vronsky learned later; at the moment all he saw was that just under him, where Frou-Frou must alight, Diana's legs or head might be in the way. But Frou-Frou drew up her legs and back in the very act of leaping, like a falling cat, and, clearing the other mare, alighted beyond her.
"O the darling!" thought Vronsky.
After crossing the stream Vronsky had complete control of his mare, and began holding her in, intending to cross the great barrier behind Mahotin, and to try to overtake him in the clear ground of about five hundred yards that followed it.
The great barrier stood just in front of the imperial pavilion. The Tsar and the whole court and crowds of people were all gazing at them--at him, and Mahotin a length ahead of him, as they drew near the "devil," as the solid barrier was called. Vronsky was aware of those eyes fastened upon him from all sides, but he saw nothing except the ears and neck of his own mare, the ground racing to meet him, and the back and white legs of Gladiator beating time swiftly before him, and keeping always the same distance ahead. Gladiator rose, with no sound of knocking against anything. With a wave of his short tail he disappeared from Vronsky's sight.
"Bravo!" cried a voice.
At the same instant, under Vronsky's eyes, right before him flashed the palings of the barrier. Without the slightest change in her action his mare flew over it; the palings vanished, and he heard only a crash behind him. The mare, excited by Gladiator's keeping ahead, had risen too soon before the barrier, and grazed it with her hind hoofs. But her pace never changed, and Vronsky, feeling a spatter of mud in his face, realized that he was once more the same distance from Gladiator. Once more he perceived in front of him the same back and short tail, and again the same swiftly moving white legs that got no further away.
At the very moment when Vronsky thought that now was the time to overtake Mahotin, Frou-Frou herself, understanding his thoughts, without any incitement on his part, gained ground considerably, and began getting alongside of Mahotin on the most favorable side, close to the inner cord. Mahotin would not let her pass that side. Vronsky had hardly formed the thought that he could perhaps pass on the outer side, when Frou-Frou shifted her pace and began overtaking him on the other side. Frou-Frou's shoulder, beginning by now to be dark with sweat, was even with Gladiator's back. For a few lengths they moved evenly. But before the obstacle they were approaching, Vronsky began working at the reins, anxious to avoid having to take the outer circle, and swiftly passed Mahotin just upon the declivity. He caught a glimpse of his mud-stained face as he flashed by. He even fancied that he smiled. Vronsky passed Mahotin, but he was immediately aware of him close upon him, and he never ceased hearing the even-thudding hoofs and the rapid and still quite fresh breathing of Gladiator.
Frou-Frou, excited and over-nervous, had lost the first moment, and several horses had started before her, but before reaching the stream, Vronsky, who was holding in the mare with all his force as she tugged at the bridle, easily overtook three, and there were left in front of him Mahotin's chestnut Gladiator, whose hind-quarters were moving lightly and rhythmically up and down exactly in front of Vronsky, and in front of all, the dainty mare Diana bearing Kuzovlev more dead than alive.
For the first instant Vronsky was not master either of himself or his mare. Up to the first obstacle, the stream, he could not guide the motions of his mare.
Gladiator and Diana came up to it together and almost at the same instant; simultaneously they rose above the stream and flew across to the other side; Frou-Frou darted after them, as if flying; but at the very moment when Vronsky felt himself in the air, he suddenly saw almost under his mare's hoofs Kuzovlev, who was floundering with Diana on the further side of the stream. (Kuzovlev had let go the reins as he took the leap, and the mare had sent him flying over her head.) Those details Vronsky learned later; at the moment all he saw was that just under him, where Frou-Frou must alight, Diana's legs or head might be in the way. But Frou-Frou drew up her legs and back in the very act of leaping, like a falling cat, and, clearing the other mare, alighted beyond her.
"O the darling!" thought Vronsky.
After crossing the stream Vronsky had complete control of his mare, and began holding her in, intending to cross the great barrier behind Mahotin, and to try to overtake him in the clear ground of about five hundred yards that followed it.
The great barrier stood just in front of the imperial pavilion. The Tsar and the whole court and crowds of people were all gazing at them--at him, and Mahotin a length ahead of him, as they drew near the "devil," as the solid barrier was called. Vronsky was aware of those eyes fastened upon him from all sides, but he saw nothing except the ears and neck of his own mare, the ground racing to meet him, and the back and white legs of Gladiator beating time swiftly before him, and keeping always the same distance ahead. Gladiator rose, with no sound of knocking against anything. With a wave of his short tail he disappeared from Vronsky's sight.
"Bravo!" cried a voice.
At the same instant, under Vronsky's eyes, right before him flashed the palings of the barrier. Without the slightest change in her action his mare flew over it; the palings vanished, and he heard only a crash behind him. The mare, excited by Gladiator's keeping ahead, had risen too soon before the barrier, and grazed it with her hind hoofs. But her pace never changed, and Vronsky, feeling a spatter of mud in his face, realized that he was once more the same distance from Gladiator. Once more he perceived in front of him the same back and short tail, and again the same swiftly moving white legs that got no further away.
At the very moment when Vronsky thought that now was the time to overtake Mahotin, Frou-Frou herself, understanding his thoughts, without any incitement on his part, gained ground considerably, and began getting alongside of Mahotin on the most favorable side, close to the inner cord. Mahotin would not let her pass that side. Vronsky had hardly formed the thought that he could perhaps pass on the outer side, when Frou-Frou shifted her pace and began overtaking him on the other side. Frou-Frou's shoulder, beginning by now to be dark with sweat, was even with Gladiator's back. For a few lengths they moved evenly. But before the obstacle they were approaching, Vronsky began working at the reins, anxious to avoid having to take the outer circle, and swiftly passed Mahotin just upon the declivity. He caught a glimpse of his mud-stained face as he flashed by. He even fancied that he smiled. Vronsky passed Mahotin, but he was immediately aware of him close upon him, and he never ceased hearing the even-thudding hoofs and the rapid and still quite fresh breathing of Gladiator.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Chapter 23
Chapter 23
Vronsky and Kitty waltzed several times round the room. After the first waltz Kitty went to her mother, and she had hardly time to say a few words to Countess Nordston when Vronsky came up again for the first quadrille. During the quadrille nothing of any significance was said: there was disjointed talk between them of the Korsunskys, husband and wife, whom he described very amusingly, as delightful children at forty, and of the future town theater; and only once the conversation touched her to the quick, when he asker her about Levin, whether he was here, and added that he liked him so much. But Kitty did not expect much from the quadrille. She looked forward with a thrill at her heart to the mazurka. She fancied that in the mazurka everything must be decided. The fact that he did not during the quadrille ask her for the mazurka did not trouble her. She felt sure she would dance the mazurka with him as she had done at former balls, and refused five young men, saying she was engaged for the mazurka. The whole ball up to the last quadrille was for Kitty an enchanted vision of delightful colors, sounds, and motions. she only sat down when she felt too tired and begged for a rest. But as she was dancing the last quadrille with one of the tiresome young men whom she could not refuse, she chanced to be vis-a-vis with Vronsky and Anna. She had not been near Anna again since the beginning of the evening, and now again she saw her suddenly quite new and surprising. She saw in her the signs of that excitement of success she knew so well in herself; she saw that she was intoxicated with the delighted admiration she was exciting. She knew that feeling and knew its signs, and saw them in Anna; saw the quivering, flashing light in her eyes, and the smile of happiness and excitement unconsciously playing on her lips, and the deliberate grace, precision, and lightness of her movements. "Who?" she asked herself. "All or one?" And not assisting the harassed young man she was dancing with in the conversation, the thread of which he had lost and could not pick up again, she obeyed with external liveliness the peremptory shouts of Korsunsky starting them all into the grand round, and then into the chaine, and at the same time she kept watch with a growing pang at her heart. "No, it's not the admiration of the crowd has intoxicated her, but the adoration of one. And that one? can it be he?" Every time he spoke to Anna the joyous light flashed into her eyes, and the smile of happiness curved her red lips. she seemed to make an effort to control herself, to try not to show these signs of delight, but they came out on her face of themselves. "But what of him?" Kitty looked at him and was filled with terror. What was pictured so clearly to Kitty in the mirror of Anna's face she saw in him. What had become of his always self-possessed resolute manner, and the carelessly serene expression of his face? Now every time he turned to her, he bent his head, as though he would have fallen at her feet, and in his eyes there was nothing but humble submission and dread. "I would not offend you," his eyes seemed every time to be saying, "but I want to save myself, and I don't know how." On his face was a look such as Kitty have never seen before.
Chapter 22
Chapter 22
The ball was only just beginning as Kitty and her mother walked up the great staircase, flooded with light, and lined with flowers and footmen in powder and red coats. From the rooms came a constant, steady hum, as from a hive, and the rustle of movement; and while on the landing between trees they gave last touches to their hair and dresses before the mirror, they heard from the ballroom the careful, distinct notes of the fiddles of the orchestra beginning the first waltz. A little old man in civilian dress, arranging his gray curls before another mirror, and diffusing an odor of scent, stumbled against them on the stairs, and stood aside, evidently admiring Kitty, whom he did not know. A beardless youth, one of those society youths whom the old Prince Shtcherbatsky called "young bucks," in an exceedingly open waistcoat, straightening his white tie as he went, bowed to them, and after running by, came back to ask Kitty for a quadrille. As the first quadrille had already been given to Vronsky, she had to promise this youth the second. An officer, buttoning his glove, stood aside in the doorway, and stroking his mustache, admired rosy Kitty.
Although her dress, her coiffure, and all the preparations for the ball had cost Kitty great trouble and consideration, at this moment she walked into the ballroom in her elaborate tulle dress over a pink slip as easily and simply as though all the rosettes and lace, all the minute details of her attire, had not cost her or her family a moment's attention, as though she had been born in that tulle and lace, with her hair done up high on her head, and a rose and two leaves on the top of it.
When, just before entering the ballroom, the princess, her mother, tried to turn right side out of the ribbon of her sash, Kitty had drawn back a little. She felt that everything must be right of itself, and graceful, and nothing could need setting straight.
The ball was only just beginning as Kitty and her mother walked up the great staircase, flooded with light, and lined with flowers and footmen in powder and red coats. From the rooms came a constant, steady hum, as from a hive, and the rustle of movement; and while on the landing between trees they gave last touches to their hair and dresses before the mirror, they heard from the ballroom the careful, distinct notes of the fiddles of the orchestra beginning the first waltz. A little old man in civilian dress, arranging his gray curls before another mirror, and diffusing an odor of scent, stumbled against them on the stairs, and stood aside, evidently admiring Kitty, whom he did not know. A beardless youth, one of those society youths whom the old Prince Shtcherbatsky called "young bucks," in an exceedingly open waistcoat, straightening his white tie as he went, bowed to them, and after running by, came back to ask Kitty for a quadrille. As the first quadrille had already been given to Vronsky, she had to promise this youth the second. An officer, buttoning his glove, stood aside in the doorway, and stroking his mustache, admired rosy Kitty.
Although her dress, her coiffure, and all the preparations for the ball had cost Kitty great trouble and consideration, at this moment she walked into the ballroom in her elaborate tulle dress over a pink slip as easily and simply as though all the rosettes and lace, all the minute details of her attire, had not cost her or her family a moment's attention, as though she had been born in that tulle and lace, with her hair done up high on her head, and a rose and two leaves on the top of it.
When, just before entering the ballroom, the princess, her mother, tried to turn right side out of the ribbon of her sash, Kitty had drawn back a little. She felt that everything must be right of itself, and graceful, and nothing could need setting straight.
"Who can that be?" said Dolly
"Who can that be?" said Dolly
"It's early for me to be fetched, and for anyone else it's late," observed Kitty.
"Sure to be someone with papers for me," put in Stepan Arkadyevitch. When Anna was passing the top of the staircase, a servant was running up to announce the visitor, while the visitor himself was standing under a lamp. Anna glancing down at once recognized Vronsky, and a strange feeling of pleasure and at the same time of dread of something stirred in her heart. He was standing still, not taking off his coat, pulling something out of his pocket. At the instant when she was just facing the stairs, he raised his eyes, caught sight of her, and into the expression of his face there passed a shade of embarrassment and dismay. With a slight inclination of her head she passed, hearing behind her Stepan Arkadyevitch's loud voice calling him to come up, and the quiet, soft, and composed voice of Vronsky refusing.
When Anna returned with the album, he was already gone, and Stepan Arkadyevitch was telling them that he had called to inquire about the dinner they were giving next day to a celebrity who had just arrived. "And nothing would induce him to come up. What a queer fellow he is!" added Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Kitty blushed. She thought that she was the only person who knew why he had come, and why he would not come up. "He has been at home," she thought, "and didn't find me, and thought I should be here, but he did not come up because he thought it late, and Anna's here."
All of them looked at each other, saying nothing, and began to look at Anna's album.
There was nothing either exceptional or strange in a man's calling at half-past nine on a friend to inquire details of a proposed dinner party and not coming in, but it seemed strange to all of them. Above all, it seemed strange and not right to Anna.
"It's early for me to be fetched, and for anyone else it's late," observed Kitty.
"Sure to be someone with papers for me," put in Stepan Arkadyevitch. When Anna was passing the top of the staircase, a servant was running up to announce the visitor, while the visitor himself was standing under a lamp. Anna glancing down at once recognized Vronsky, and a strange feeling of pleasure and at the same time of dread of something stirred in her heart. He was standing still, not taking off his coat, pulling something out of his pocket. At the instant when she was just facing the stairs, he raised his eyes, caught sight of her, and into the expression of his face there passed a shade of embarrassment and dismay. With a slight inclination of her head she passed, hearing behind her Stepan Arkadyevitch's loud voice calling him to come up, and the quiet, soft, and composed voice of Vronsky refusing.
When Anna returned with the album, he was already gone, and Stepan Arkadyevitch was telling them that he had called to inquire about the dinner they were giving next day to a celebrity who had just arrived. "And nothing would induce him to come up. What a queer fellow he is!" added Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Kitty blushed. She thought that she was the only person who knew why he had come, and why he would not come up. "He has been at home," she thought, "and didn't find me, and thought I should be here, but he did not come up because he thought it late, and Anna's here."
All of them looked at each other, saying nothing, and began to look at Anna's album.
There was nothing either exceptional or strange in a man's calling at half-past nine on a friend to inquire details of a proposed dinner party and not coming in, but it seemed strange to all of them. Above all, it seemed strange and not right to Anna.
Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Dolly came out of her room to the tea of the grown-up people. Stepan Arkadyevitch did not come out. He must have left his wife's room by the other door.
"I am afraid you'll be cold upstairs," observed Dolly, addressing Anna; "I want to move you downstairs, and we shall be nearer."
"Oh, please, don't trouble about me," answered Anna, looking intently into Dolly's face, trying to make out whether there had been a reconciliation or not.
"It will be lighter for you here," answered her sister-in-law.
"I assure you that I sleep everywhere, and always like a marmot."
"What's the question?" inquired Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming out of his room and addressing his wife.
From his tone both Kitty and Anna knew that a reconciliation had taken place.
"I want to move Anna downstairs, but we must hang up blinds. No one knows how to do it; I must see to it myself," answered Dolly addressing him.
"God knows whether they are fully reconciled," thought Anna, hearing her tone, cold and composed.
"Oh, nonsense, Dolly, always making difficulties," answered her husband. "Come, I'll do it all, if you like..."
"Yes, They must be reconciled," thought Anna.
"I know how you do everything," answered Dolly. "You tell Matvey to do what can't be done, and go away yourself, leaving him to make a muddle of everything," and her habitual, mocking smile curved the corners of Dolly's lips as she spoke.
"Full, full reconciliation, full," thought Anna; "thank God!" and rejoicing that she was the cause of it, she went up to Dolly and kissed her.
"Not at all. Why do you always look down on me and Matvey?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling hardly perceptibly, and addressing his wife.
The whole evening Dolly was, as always, a little mocking in her tone to her husband, while Stepan Arkadyevitch was happy and cheerful, but not so as to seem as though, having been forgiven, he had forgotten his offense.
At half-past nine o'clock a particularly joyful and pleasant family conversation over the tea-table at the Oblonskys' was broken up by an apparently simple incident. But this simple incident for some reason struck everyone as strange. Talking about common acquaintances in Petersburg, Anna got up quickly.
"She is in my album," she said; "and, by the way, I'll show you by Seryozha," she added, with a mother's smile of pride.
Towards ten o'clock, when she usually said good-night to her son, and often before going to a ball put him to bed herself, she felt depressed at being so far from him; and whatever she was talking about, she kept coming back in thought to her curly-headed Seryozha. She longed to look at his photograph and talk of him. Seizing the first pretext, she got up, and with her light, resolute step went for her album. The stairs up to her room came out on the landing of the great warm main staircase.
Just as she was leaving the drawing room, a ring was heard in the hall.
Dolly came out of her room to the tea of the grown-up people. Stepan Arkadyevitch did not come out. He must have left his wife's room by the other door.
"I am afraid you'll be cold upstairs," observed Dolly, addressing Anna; "I want to move you downstairs, and we shall be nearer."
"Oh, please, don't trouble about me," answered Anna, looking intently into Dolly's face, trying to make out whether there had been a reconciliation or not.
"It will be lighter for you here," answered her sister-in-law.
"I assure you that I sleep everywhere, and always like a marmot."
"What's the question?" inquired Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming out of his room and addressing his wife.
From his tone both Kitty and Anna knew that a reconciliation had taken place.
"I want to move Anna downstairs, but we must hang up blinds. No one knows how to do it; I must see to it myself," answered Dolly addressing him.
"God knows whether they are fully reconciled," thought Anna, hearing her tone, cold and composed.
"Oh, nonsense, Dolly, always making difficulties," answered her husband. "Come, I'll do it all, if you like..."
"Yes, They must be reconciled," thought Anna.
"I know how you do everything," answered Dolly. "You tell Matvey to do what can't be done, and go away yourself, leaving him to make a muddle of everything," and her habitual, mocking smile curved the corners of Dolly's lips as she spoke.
"Full, full reconciliation, full," thought Anna; "thank God!" and rejoicing that she was the cause of it, she went up to Dolly and kissed her.
"Not at all. Why do you always look down on me and Matvey?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling hardly perceptibly, and addressing his wife.
The whole evening Dolly was, as always, a little mocking in her tone to her husband, while Stepan Arkadyevitch was happy and cheerful, but not so as to seem as though, having been forgiven, he had forgotten his offense.
At half-past nine o'clock a particularly joyful and pleasant family conversation over the tea-table at the Oblonskys' was broken up by an apparently simple incident. But this simple incident for some reason struck everyone as strange. Talking about common acquaintances in Petersburg, Anna got up quickly.
"She is in my album," she said; "and, by the way, I'll show you by Seryozha," she added, with a mother's smile of pride.
Towards ten o'clock, when she usually said good-night to her son, and often before going to a ball put him to bed herself, she felt depressed at being so far from him; and whatever she was talking about, she kept coming back in thought to her curly-headed Seryozha. She longed to look at his photograph and talk of him. Seizing the first pretext, she got up, and with her light, resolute step went for her album. The stairs up to her room came out on the landing of the great warm main staircase.
Just as she was leaving the drawing room, a ring was heard in the hall.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
‘Hagrid's little brother,’ said Ron promptly
‘Hagrid's little brother,’ said Ron promptly. ‘Anyway, never mind that now. Harry, what did you find out in the fire? Has You-Know-Who got Sirius or—?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, as his scar gave another painful prickle, ‘and I'm sure Sirius is still alive, but I can't see how we're going to get there to help him.’
They all fell silent, looking rather scared; the problem facing them seemed insurmountable.
‘Well, we'll have to fly, won't we?’ said Luna, in the closest thing to a matter-of-fact voice Harry had ever heard her use.
‘OK,’ said Harry irritably, rounding on her. ‘First of all, “we” aren't doing anything if you're including yourself in that, and second of all, Ron's me only one with a broomstick that isn't being guarded by a security troll, so—’
‘I've got a broom!’ said Ginny.
‘Yeah, but you're not coming,’ said Ron angrily.
‘Excuse me, but I care what happens to Sirius as much as you do!’ said Ginny, her jaw set so that her resemblance to Fred and George was suddenly striking.
‘You're too—’ Harry began, but Ginny said fiercely, ‘I'm three years older than you were when you fought You-Know-Who over the Philosophers Stone, and it's because of me that Malfoy's stuck back in Umbridge's office with giant flying bogies attacking him—’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘We were all in the DA together,’ said Neville quietly. ‘It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know-Who, wasn't it? And this is the first chance we've had to do something real—or was that all just a game or something?’
‘No—of course it wasn't—’ said Harry impatiently.
‘Then we should come too,’ said Neville simply. ‘We want to help.’
‘That's right,’ said Luna, smiling happily.
Harry's eyes met Ron's. He knew Ron was thinking exactly what he was: if he could have chosen any members of the DA, in addition to himself, Ron and Hermione, to join him in the attempt to rescue Sirius, he would not have picked Ginny, Neville or Luna.
‘Well, it doesn't matter, anyway,’ said Harry through gritted teeth, ‘because we still don't know how to get there—’
‘I thought we'd settled that,’ said Luna maddeningly. ‘We're flying!’
‘Look,’ said Ron, barely containing his anger, ‘you might be able to fly without a broomstick but the rest of us can't sprout wings whenever we—’
‘There are ways of flying other than with broomsticks,’ said Luna serenely.
‘I s'pose we're going to ride on the back of the Kacky Snorgle or whatever it is?’ Ron demanded.
‘The Crumple-Horned Snorkack can't fly,’ said Luna in a dignified voice, ‘but they can, and Hagrid says they're very good at finding places their riders are looking for.’
Harry whirled round. Standing between two trees, their white eyes gleaming eerily, were two Thestrals, watching the whispered conversation as though they understood every word.
‘Yes!’ he whispered, moving towards them. They tossed their reptilian heads, throwing back long black manes, and Harry stretched out his hand eagerly and patted the nearest one's shining neck; how could he ever have thought them ugly?
‘Is it those mad horse things?’ said Ron uncertainly, staring at a point slightly to the left of the Thestral Harry was patting. ‘Those ones you can't see unless you've watched someone snuff it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry.
‘How many?’
‘Just two.’
‘Well, we need three,’ said Hermione, who was still looking a little shaken, but determined just the same.
‘Four, Hermione,’ said Ginny, scowling.
‘I think there are six of us, actually,’ said Luna calmly, counting.
‘Don't be stupid, we can't all go!’ said Harry angrily. ‘Look, you three—’ he pointed at Neville, Ginny and Luna, ‘you're not involved in this, you're not—’
They burst into more protests. His scar gave another, more painful, twinge. Every moment they delayed was precious; he did not have time to argue.
‘OK, fine, it's your choice,’ he said curtly, ‘but unless we can find more Thestrals you're not going to be able—’
‘Oh, more of them will come,’ said Ginny confidently, who like Ron was squinting in quite the wrong direction, apparently under the impression that she was looking at the horses.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because, in case you hadn't noticed, you and Hermione are both covered in blood,’ she said coolly, ‘and we know Hagrid lures Thestrals with raw meat. That's probably why these two turned up in the first place.’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, as his scar gave another painful prickle, ‘and I'm sure Sirius is still alive, but I can't see how we're going to get there to help him.’
They all fell silent, looking rather scared; the problem facing them seemed insurmountable.
‘Well, we'll have to fly, won't we?’ said Luna, in the closest thing to a matter-of-fact voice Harry had ever heard her use.
‘OK,’ said Harry irritably, rounding on her. ‘First of all, “we” aren't doing anything if you're including yourself in that, and second of all, Ron's me only one with a broomstick that isn't being guarded by a security troll, so—’
‘I've got a broom!’ said Ginny.
‘Yeah, but you're not coming,’ said Ron angrily.
‘Excuse me, but I care what happens to Sirius as much as you do!’ said Ginny, her jaw set so that her resemblance to Fred and George was suddenly striking.
‘You're too—’ Harry began, but Ginny said fiercely, ‘I'm three years older than you were when you fought You-Know-Who over the Philosophers Stone, and it's because of me that Malfoy's stuck back in Umbridge's office with giant flying bogies attacking him—’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘We were all in the DA together,’ said Neville quietly. ‘It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know-Who, wasn't it? And this is the first chance we've had to do something real—or was that all just a game or something?’
‘No—of course it wasn't—’ said Harry impatiently.
‘Then we should come too,’ said Neville simply. ‘We want to help.’
‘That's right,’ said Luna, smiling happily.
Harry's eyes met Ron's. He knew Ron was thinking exactly what he was: if he could have chosen any members of the DA, in addition to himself, Ron and Hermione, to join him in the attempt to rescue Sirius, he would not have picked Ginny, Neville or Luna.
‘Well, it doesn't matter, anyway,’ said Harry through gritted teeth, ‘because we still don't know how to get there—’
‘I thought we'd settled that,’ said Luna maddeningly. ‘We're flying!’
‘Look,’ said Ron, barely containing his anger, ‘you might be able to fly without a broomstick but the rest of us can't sprout wings whenever we—’
‘There are ways of flying other than with broomsticks,’ said Luna serenely.
‘I s'pose we're going to ride on the back of the Kacky Snorgle or whatever it is?’ Ron demanded.
‘The Crumple-Horned Snorkack can't fly,’ said Luna in a dignified voice, ‘but they can, and Hagrid says they're very good at finding places their riders are looking for.’
Harry whirled round. Standing between two trees, their white eyes gleaming eerily, were two Thestrals, watching the whispered conversation as though they understood every word.
‘Yes!’ he whispered, moving towards them. They tossed their reptilian heads, throwing back long black manes, and Harry stretched out his hand eagerly and patted the nearest one's shining neck; how could he ever have thought them ugly?
‘Is it those mad horse things?’ said Ron uncertainly, staring at a point slightly to the left of the Thestral Harry was patting. ‘Those ones you can't see unless you've watched someone snuff it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry.
‘How many?’
‘Just two.’
‘Well, we need three,’ said Hermione, who was still looking a little shaken, but determined just the same.
‘Four, Hermione,’ said Ginny, scowling.
‘I think there are six of us, actually,’ said Luna calmly, counting.
‘Don't be stupid, we can't all go!’ said Harry angrily. ‘Look, you three—’ he pointed at Neville, Ginny and Luna, ‘you're not involved in this, you're not—’
They burst into more protests. His scar gave another, more painful, twinge. Every moment they delayed was precious; he did not have time to argue.
‘OK, fine, it's your choice,’ he said curtly, ‘but unless we can find more Thestrals you're not going to be able—’
‘Oh, more of them will come,’ said Ginny confidently, who like Ron was squinting in quite the wrong direction, apparently under the impression that she was looking at the horses.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because, in case you hadn't noticed, you and Hermione are both covered in blood,’ she said coolly, ‘and we know Hagrid lures Thestrals with raw meat. That's probably why these two turned up in the first place.’
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Harry stared at her, utterly bewildered
Harry stared at her, utterly bewildered, as she seized a frilly napkin and dabbed at her shining face with it.
‘Cho?’ he said weakly, wishing Roger would seize his girlfriend and start kissing her again to stop her goggling at him and Cho.
‘Go on, leave!’ she said, now crying into the napkin. ‘I don't know why you asked me out in the first place if you're going to make arrangements to meet other girls right after me ... how many are you meeting after Hermione?’
‘It's not like that!’ said Harry, and he was so relieved at finally understanding what she was annoyed about that he laughed, which he realised a split second too late was also a mistake.
Cho sprang to her feet. The whole tearoom was quiet and everybody was watching them now.
‘I'll see you around, Harry,’ she said dramatically, and hiccoughing slightly she dashed to the door, wrenched it open and hurried off into the pouring rain.
‘Cho!’ Harry called after her, but the door had already swung shut behind her with a tuneful tinkle.
There was total silence within the teashop. Every eye was on Harry. He threw a Galleon down on to the table, shook pink confetti out of his hair, and followed Cho out of the door.
It was raining hard now and she was nowhere to be seen, he simply did not understand what had happened; half an hour ago they had been getting along fine.
‘Women!’ he muttered angrily, sloshing down the rain-washed street with his hands in his pockets. ‘What did she want to talk about Cedric for, anyway? Why does she always want to drag up a subject that makes her act like a
human hosepipe?’
He turned right and broke into a splashy run, and within minutes he was turning into the doorway of the Three Broomsticks. He knew he was too early to meet Hermione, but he thought it likely there would be someone in here
with whom he could spend the intervening time. He shook his wet hair out of his eyes and looked around. Hagrid was sitting alone in a corner, looking morose.
‘Hi, Hagrid!’ he said, when he had squeezed through the crammed tables and pulled up a chair beside him.
Hagrid jumped and looked down at Harry as though he barely recognised him. Harry saw that he had two fresh cuts on his face and several new bruises.
‘Oh, it's yeh, Harry,’ said Hagrid. ‘Yeh all righ?’
‘Yeah, I'm fine,’ lied Harry; but, next to this battered and mournful-looking Hagrid, he felt he didn't really have much to complain about. ‘Er—are you OK?’
‘Me?’ said Hagrid. ‘Oh yeah, I'm grand, Harry, grand.’
He gazed into the depths of his pewter tankard, which was the size of a large bucket, and sighed. Harry didn't know what to say to him. They sat side by side in silence for a moment. Then Hagrid said abruptly, ‘In the same
boat, yeh an’ me, aren’ we, ‘Arry?’
‘Er—’ said Harry.
‘Yeah ... I've said it before ... both outsiders, like,’ said Hagrid, nodding wisely. ‘An’ both orphans. Yeah ... both orphans.’
He took a great swig from his tankard.
‘Makes a diff'rence, havin’ a decent family,’ he said. ‘Me dad was decent. An’ your mum an’ dad were decent. If they'd lived, life woulda bin diff'rent, eh?’
‘Yeah ... I s'pose,’ said Harry cautiously. Hagrid seemed to be in a very strange mood.
‘Family,’ said Hagrid gloomily. ‘Whatever yeh say, blood's important ...’
And he wiped a trickle of it out of his eye.
‘Hagrid,’ said Harry, unable to stop himself, ‘where are you getting all these injuries?’
‘Eh?’ said Hagrid, looking startled. ‘Wha’ injuries?’
‘All those!’ said Harry, pointing at Hagrid's face.
‘Oh ... tha's jus’ normal bumps an’ bruises, Harry,’ said Hagrid dismissively ‘I got a rough job.’
He drained his tankard, set it back on the table and got to his feet.
‘I'll be seein’ yeh, Harry ... take care now.’
And he lumbered out of the pub looking wretched, and disappeared into the torrential rain. Harry watched him go, feeling miserable. Hagrid was unhappy and he was hiding something, but he seemed determined not to accept
help. What was going on? But before Harry could think about it any further, he heard a voice calling his name.
‘Harry! Harry, over here!’
Hermione was waving at him from the other side of the room. He got up and made his way towards her through the crowded pub. He was still a few tables away when he realised that Hermione was not alone. She was sitting at
a table with the unlikeliest pair of drinking mates he could ever have imagined: Luna Lovegood and none other than Rita Skeeter, ex-journalist on the Daily Prophet and one of Hermione's least favourite people in the world.
‘You're early!’ said Hermione, moving along to give him room to sit down. ‘I thought you were with Cho, I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least!’
‘Cho?’ said Rita at once, twisting round in her seat to stare avidly at Harry. ‘A girl?’
She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and groped within it.
‘Its none of your business if Harry's been with a hundred girls,’ Hermione told Rita coolly. ‘So you can put that away right now.’
Rita had been on the point of withdrawing an acid-green quill from her bag. Looking as though she had been forced to swallow Stinksap, she snapped her bag shut again.
‘What are you up to?’ Harry asked, sitting down and staring from Rita to Luna to Hermione.
‘Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived.’ said Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. ‘I suppose I'm allowed to talk to him, am I?’ she shot at Hermione.
‘Yes, I suppose you are,’ said Hermione coldly.
Unemployment did not suit Rita. The hair that had once been set in elaborate curls now hung lank and unkempt around her face. The scarlet paint on her two-inch talons was chipped and there were a couple of false jewels
missing from her winged glasses. She took another great gulp of her drink and said out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Pretty girl, is she, Harry?’
‘One more word about Harry's love life and the deal's off and that's a promise,’ said Hermione irritably.
‘What deal?’ said Rita, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘You haven't mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days ...’ She took a deep shuddering breath.
‘Yes, yes, one of these days you'll write more horrible stories about Harry and me,’ said Hermione indifferently. ‘Find someone who cares, why don't you?’
‘They've run plenty of horrible stories about Harry this year without my help,’ said Rita, shooting a sideways look at him over the top of her glass and adding in a rough whisper, ‘How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed?
Distraught? Misunderstood?’
‘He feels angry, of course,’ said Hermione in a hard, clear voice. ‘Because he's told the Minister for Magic the truth and the Minister's too much of an idiot to believe him.’
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‘Cho?’ he said weakly, wishing Roger would seize his girlfriend and start kissing her again to stop her goggling at him and Cho.
‘Go on, leave!’ she said, now crying into the napkin. ‘I don't know why you asked me out in the first place if you're going to make arrangements to meet other girls right after me ... how many are you meeting after Hermione?’
‘It's not like that!’ said Harry, and he was so relieved at finally understanding what she was annoyed about that he laughed, which he realised a split second too late was also a mistake.
Cho sprang to her feet. The whole tearoom was quiet and everybody was watching them now.
‘I'll see you around, Harry,’ she said dramatically, and hiccoughing slightly she dashed to the door, wrenched it open and hurried off into the pouring rain.
‘Cho!’ Harry called after her, but the door had already swung shut behind her with a tuneful tinkle.
There was total silence within the teashop. Every eye was on Harry. He threw a Galleon down on to the table, shook pink confetti out of his hair, and followed Cho out of the door.
It was raining hard now and she was nowhere to be seen, he simply did not understand what had happened; half an hour ago they had been getting along fine.
‘Women!’ he muttered angrily, sloshing down the rain-washed street with his hands in his pockets. ‘What did she want to talk about Cedric for, anyway? Why does she always want to drag up a subject that makes her act like a
human hosepipe?’
He turned right and broke into a splashy run, and within minutes he was turning into the doorway of the Three Broomsticks. He knew he was too early to meet Hermione, but he thought it likely there would be someone in here
with whom he could spend the intervening time. He shook his wet hair out of his eyes and looked around. Hagrid was sitting alone in a corner, looking morose.
‘Hi, Hagrid!’ he said, when he had squeezed through the crammed tables and pulled up a chair beside him.
Hagrid jumped and looked down at Harry as though he barely recognised him. Harry saw that he had two fresh cuts on his face and several new bruises.
‘Oh, it's yeh, Harry,’ said Hagrid. ‘Yeh all righ?’
‘Yeah, I'm fine,’ lied Harry; but, next to this battered and mournful-looking Hagrid, he felt he didn't really have much to complain about. ‘Er—are you OK?’
‘Me?’ said Hagrid. ‘Oh yeah, I'm grand, Harry, grand.’
He gazed into the depths of his pewter tankard, which was the size of a large bucket, and sighed. Harry didn't know what to say to him. They sat side by side in silence for a moment. Then Hagrid said abruptly, ‘In the same
boat, yeh an’ me, aren’ we, ‘Arry?’
‘Er—’ said Harry.
‘Yeah ... I've said it before ... both outsiders, like,’ said Hagrid, nodding wisely. ‘An’ both orphans. Yeah ... both orphans.’
He took a great swig from his tankard.
‘Makes a diff'rence, havin’ a decent family,’ he said. ‘Me dad was decent. An’ your mum an’ dad were decent. If they'd lived, life woulda bin diff'rent, eh?’
‘Yeah ... I s'pose,’ said Harry cautiously. Hagrid seemed to be in a very strange mood.
‘Family,’ said Hagrid gloomily. ‘Whatever yeh say, blood's important ...’
And he wiped a trickle of it out of his eye.
‘Hagrid,’ said Harry, unable to stop himself, ‘where are you getting all these injuries?’
‘Eh?’ said Hagrid, looking startled. ‘Wha’ injuries?’
‘All those!’ said Harry, pointing at Hagrid's face.
‘Oh ... tha's jus’ normal bumps an’ bruises, Harry,’ said Hagrid dismissively ‘I got a rough job.’
He drained his tankard, set it back on the table and got to his feet.
‘I'll be seein’ yeh, Harry ... take care now.’
And he lumbered out of the pub looking wretched, and disappeared into the torrential rain. Harry watched him go, feeling miserable. Hagrid was unhappy and he was hiding something, but he seemed determined not to accept
help. What was going on? But before Harry could think about it any further, he heard a voice calling his name.
‘Harry! Harry, over here!’
Hermione was waving at him from the other side of the room. He got up and made his way towards her through the crowded pub. He was still a few tables away when he realised that Hermione was not alone. She was sitting at
a table with the unlikeliest pair of drinking mates he could ever have imagined: Luna Lovegood and none other than Rita Skeeter, ex-journalist on the Daily Prophet and one of Hermione's least favourite people in the world.
‘You're early!’ said Hermione, moving along to give him room to sit down. ‘I thought you were with Cho, I wasn't expecting you for another hour at least!’
‘Cho?’ said Rita at once, twisting round in her seat to stare avidly at Harry. ‘A girl?’
She snatched up her crocodile-skin handbag and groped within it.
‘Its none of your business if Harry's been with a hundred girls,’ Hermione told Rita coolly. ‘So you can put that away right now.’
Rita had been on the point of withdrawing an acid-green quill from her bag. Looking as though she had been forced to swallow Stinksap, she snapped her bag shut again.
‘What are you up to?’ Harry asked, sitting down and staring from Rita to Luna to Hermione.
‘Little Miss Perfect was just about to tell me when you arrived.’ said Rita, taking a large slurp of her drink. ‘I suppose I'm allowed to talk to him, am I?’ she shot at Hermione.
‘Yes, I suppose you are,’ said Hermione coldly.
Unemployment did not suit Rita. The hair that had once been set in elaborate curls now hung lank and unkempt around her face. The scarlet paint on her two-inch talons was chipped and there were a couple of false jewels
missing from her winged glasses. She took another great gulp of her drink and said out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Pretty girl, is she, Harry?’
‘One more word about Harry's love life and the deal's off and that's a promise,’ said Hermione irritably.
‘What deal?’ said Rita, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘You haven't mentioned a deal yet, Miss Prissy you just told me to turn up. Oh, one of these days ...’ She took a deep shuddering breath.
‘Yes, yes, one of these days you'll write more horrible stories about Harry and me,’ said Hermione indifferently. ‘Find someone who cares, why don't you?’
‘They've run plenty of horrible stories about Harry this year without my help,’ said Rita, shooting a sideways look at him over the top of her glass and adding in a rough whisper, ‘How has that made you feel, Harry? Betrayed?
Distraught? Misunderstood?’
‘He feels angry, of course,’ said Hermione in a hard, clear voice. ‘Because he's told the Minister for Magic the truth and the Minister's too much of an idiot to believe him.’
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Harry kicked off from the ground
Harry kicked off from the ground, spraying mud in all directions, and shot upwards, the wind pulling him slightly off course.
He had no idea how he was going to see the Snitch in this weather; he was having enough difficulty seeing the one Bludger with which they were practising; a minute into the practice it almost unseated him and he had to use the Sloth Grip Roll to avoid it. Unfortunately, Angelina did not see this. In fact, she did not appear to be able to see anything; none of them had a clue what the others were doing. The wind was picking up; even at a distance Harry could hear the swishing, pounding sounds of the rain pummelling the surface of the lake.
Angelina kept them at it for nearly an hour before conceding defeat. She led her sodden and disgruntled team back into the changing rooms, insisting that the practice had not been a waste of time, though without any real conviction in her voice. Fred and George were looking particularly annoyed; both were bandy-legged and winced with every movement. Harry could hear them complaining in low voices as he towelled his hair dry.
‘I think a few of mine have ruptured,’ said Fred in a hollow voice.
‘Mine haven't,’ said George, through clenched teeth, ‘they're throbbing like mad ... feel bigger if anything.’
‘OUCH!’ said Harry.
He pressed the towel to his face, his eyes screwed tight with pain. The scar on his forehead had seared again, more painfully than it had in weeks.
‘What's up?’ said several voices.
Harry emerged from behind his towel; the changing room was blurred because he was not wearing his glasses, but he could still tell that everyone's face was turned towards him.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered, ‘I—poked myself in the eye, that's all.’
But he gave Ron a significant look and the two of them hung back as the rest of the team filed back outside, muffled in their cloaks, their hats pulled low over their ears.
‘What happened?’ said Ron, the moment Alicia had disappeared through the door. ‘Was it your scar?’
Harry nodded.
‘But ...’ looking scared, Ron strode across to the window and stared out into the rain, ‘he—he can't be near us now, can he?’
‘No,’ Harry muttered, sinking on to a bench and rubbing his forehead. ‘He's probably miles away. It hurt because ... he's ... angry.’
Harry had not meant to say that at all, and heard the words as though a stranger had spoken them—yet knew at once that they were true. He did not know how he knew it, but he did; Voldemort, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, was in a towering temper.
‘Did you see him?’ said Ron, looking horrified. ‘Did you ... get a vision, or something?’
Harry sat quite still, staring at his feet, allowing his mind and his memory to relax in the aftermath of the pain.
A confused tangle of shapes, a howling rush of voices ...
‘He wants something done, and it's not happening fast enough,’ he said.
Again, he felt surprised to hear the words coming out of his mouth, and yet was quite certain they were true.
‘But ... how do you know?’ said Ron.
Harry shook his head and covered his eyes with his hands, pressing down upon them with his palms. Little stars erupted in them. He felt Ron sit down on the bench beside him and knew Ron was staring at him.
‘Is this what it was about last time?’ said Ron in a hushed voice. ‘When your scar hurt in Umbridge's office? You-Know-Who was angry?’
Harry shook his head.
‘What is it, then?’
Harry was thinking himself back. He had been looking into Umbridge's face ... his scar had hurt ... and he had had that odd feeling in his stomach ... a strange, leaping feeling ... a happy feeling ... but of course, he had not recognised it for what it was, as he had been feeling so miserable himself ...
‘Last time, it was because he was pleased,’ he said. ‘Really pleased. He thought ... something good was going to happen. And the night before we came back to Hogwarts ...’ he thought back to the moment when his scar had hurt so badly in his and Ron's bedroom in Grimmauld Place ... he was furious.
He looked round at Ron, who was gaping at him.
‘You could take over from Trelawney, mate,’ he said in an awed voice.
‘I'm not making prophecies,’ said Harry.
‘No, you know what you're doing?’ Ron said, sounding both scared and impressed. ‘Harry, you're reading You-Know-Who's mind!’
‘No,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘It's more like ... his mood, I suppose. I'm just getting flashes of what mood he's in. Dumbledore said something like this was happening last year. He said that when Voldemort was near me, or when he was feeling hatred, I could tell. Well, now I'm feeling it when he's pleased, too ...’
There was a pause. The wind and rain lashed at the building.
‘You've got to tell someone,’ said Ron.
‘I told Sirius last time.’
‘Well, tell him about this time!’
‘Can't, can I?’ said Harry grimly. ‘Umbridge is watching the owls and the fires, remember?’
‘Well then, Dumbledore.’
‘I've just told you, he already knows,’ said Harry shortly, getting to his feet, taking his cloak off his peg and swinging it around him. ‘There's no point telling him again.’
Ron did up the fastening of his own cloak, watching Harry thoughtfully.
‘Dumbledore'd want to know,’ he said.
Harry shrugged.
‘C'mon ... we've still got Silencing Charms to practise.’
They hurried back through the dark grounds, sliding and stumbling up the muddy lawns, not talking. Harry was thinking hard. What was it that Voldemort wanted done that was not happening quickly enough?
‘... he's got other plans ... plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed ... stuff he can only get by stealth ... like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time.’
Harry had not thought about those words in weeks; he had been too absorbed in what was going on at Hogwarts, too busy dwelling on the ongoing battles with Umbridge, the injustice of all the Ministry interference ... but now they came back to him and made him wonder ... Voldemort's anger would make sense if he was no nearer to laying hands on the weapon, whatever it was. Had the Order thwarted him, stopped him from seizing it? Where was it kept? Who had it now?
‘Mimbulus mimbletonia,’ said Ron's voice and Harry came back to his senses just in time to clamber through the portrait hole into the common room.
It appeared that Hermione had gone to bed early, leaving Crookshanks curled in a nearby chair and an assortment of knobbly knitted elf hats lying on a table by the fire. Harry was rather grateful that she was not around, because he did not much want to discuss his scar hurting and have her urge him to go to Dumbledore, too. Ron kept throwing him anxious glances, but Harry pulled out his Charms books and set to work on finishing his essay, though he was only pretending to concentrate and by the time Ron said he was going up to bed, too, he had written hardly anything.
Midnight came and went while Harry was reading and rereading a passage about the uses of scurvy-grass, lovage and sneezewort and not taking in a word of it.
These plantes are moste efficacious in the inflaming of the braine, and are therefore much used in Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts, where the wizard is desirous of producing hot-headedness and recklessness ...
... Hermione said Sirius was becoming reckless cooped up in Grimmauld Place ...
... moste efficacious in the inflaming of the braine, and are therefore much used ...
... the Daily Prophet would think his brain was inflamed if they found out that he knew what Voldemort was feeling ...
... therefore much used in Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts ...
... confusing was the word, all right; why did he know what Voldemort was feeling? What was this weird connection between them, which Dumbledore had never been able to explain satisfactorily?
... where the wizard is desirous ...
... how Harry would like to sleep ...
... of producing hot-headedness ...
... it was warm and comfortable in his armchair before the fire, with the rain still beating heavily on the windowpanes, Crookshanks purring, and the crackling of the flames ...
The book slipped from Harry's slack grip and landed with a dull thud on the hearthrug. His head lolled sideways ...
He was walking once more along a windowless corridor, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As the door at the end of the passage loomed larger, his heart beat fast with excitement ... if he could only open it ... enter beyond ...
He stretched out his hand ... his fingertips were inches from it ...
‘Harry Potter, sir!’
He awoke with a start. The candles had all been extinguished in the common room, but there was something moving close by.
‘Whozair?’ said Harry, sitting upright in his chair. The fire was almost out, the room very dark.
‘Dobby has your owl, sir!’ said a squeaky voice.
‘Dobby?’ said Harry thickly, peering through the gloom towards the source of the voice.
Dobby the house-elf was standing beside the table on which Hermione had left half a dozen of her knitted hats. His large, pointed ears were now sticking out from beneath what looked like all the hats Hermione had ever knitted; he was wearing one on top of the other, so that his head seemed elongated by two or three feet, and on the very topmost bobble sat Hedwig, hooting serenely and obviously cured.
‘Dobby volunteered to return Harry Potter's owl,’ said the elf squeakily, with a look of positive adoration on his face, ‘Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well now, sir.’ He sank into a deep bow so that his pencil-like nose brushed the threadbare surface of the hearthrug and Hedwig gave an indignant hoot and fluttered on to the arm of Harry's chair.
‘Thanks, Dobby!’ said Harry, stroking Hedwig's head and blinking hard, trying to rid himself of the image of the door in his dream ... it had been very vivid. Surveying Dobby more closely, he noticed that the elf was also wearing several scarves and innumerable socks, so that his feet looked far too big for his body.
‘Er ... have you been taking all the clothes Hermione's been leaving out?’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Dobby happily. ‘Dobby has been taking some for Winky, too, sir.’
‘Yeah, how is Winky?’ asked Harry.
Bobby's ears drooped slightly.
‘Winky is still drinking lots, sir,’ he said sadly, his enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls, downcast. ‘She still does not care for clothes, Harry Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower any more, not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!’ Dobby sank into a deep bow again. ‘But Harry Potter does not seem happy,’ Dobby went on, straightening up again and kicking timidly at Harry. ‘Dobby heard him muttering in his sleep. Was Harry Potter having bad dreams?’
‘Not really bad,’ said Harry, yawning and rubbing his eyes. ‘I've had worse.’
The elf surveyed Harry out of his vast, orb-like eyes. Then he said very seriously, his ears drooping, ‘Dobby wishes he could help Harry Potter, for Harry Potter set Dobby free and Dobby is much, much happier now.’
He had no idea how he was going to see the Snitch in this weather; he was having enough difficulty seeing the one Bludger with which they were practising; a minute into the practice it almost unseated him and he had to use the Sloth Grip Roll to avoid it. Unfortunately, Angelina did not see this. In fact, she did not appear to be able to see anything; none of them had a clue what the others were doing. The wind was picking up; even at a distance Harry could hear the swishing, pounding sounds of the rain pummelling the surface of the lake.
Angelina kept them at it for nearly an hour before conceding defeat. She led her sodden and disgruntled team back into the changing rooms, insisting that the practice had not been a waste of time, though without any real conviction in her voice. Fred and George were looking particularly annoyed; both were bandy-legged and winced with every movement. Harry could hear them complaining in low voices as he towelled his hair dry.
‘I think a few of mine have ruptured,’ said Fred in a hollow voice.
‘Mine haven't,’ said George, through clenched teeth, ‘they're throbbing like mad ... feel bigger if anything.’
‘OUCH!’ said Harry.
He pressed the towel to his face, his eyes screwed tight with pain. The scar on his forehead had seared again, more painfully than it had in weeks.
‘What's up?’ said several voices.
Harry emerged from behind his towel; the changing room was blurred because he was not wearing his glasses, but he could still tell that everyone's face was turned towards him.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered, ‘I—poked myself in the eye, that's all.’
But he gave Ron a significant look and the two of them hung back as the rest of the team filed back outside, muffled in their cloaks, their hats pulled low over their ears.
‘What happened?’ said Ron, the moment Alicia had disappeared through the door. ‘Was it your scar?’
Harry nodded.
‘But ...’ looking scared, Ron strode across to the window and stared out into the rain, ‘he—he can't be near us now, can he?’
‘No,’ Harry muttered, sinking on to a bench and rubbing his forehead. ‘He's probably miles away. It hurt because ... he's ... angry.’
Harry had not meant to say that at all, and heard the words as though a stranger had spoken them—yet knew at once that they were true. He did not know how he knew it, but he did; Voldemort, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, was in a towering temper.
‘Did you see him?’ said Ron, looking horrified. ‘Did you ... get a vision, or something?’
Harry sat quite still, staring at his feet, allowing his mind and his memory to relax in the aftermath of the pain.
A confused tangle of shapes, a howling rush of voices ...
‘He wants something done, and it's not happening fast enough,’ he said.
Again, he felt surprised to hear the words coming out of his mouth, and yet was quite certain they were true.
‘But ... how do you know?’ said Ron.
Harry shook his head and covered his eyes with his hands, pressing down upon them with his palms. Little stars erupted in them. He felt Ron sit down on the bench beside him and knew Ron was staring at him.
‘Is this what it was about last time?’ said Ron in a hushed voice. ‘When your scar hurt in Umbridge's office? You-Know-Who was angry?’
Harry shook his head.
‘What is it, then?’
Harry was thinking himself back. He had been looking into Umbridge's face ... his scar had hurt ... and he had had that odd feeling in his stomach ... a strange, leaping feeling ... a happy feeling ... but of course, he had not recognised it for what it was, as he had been feeling so miserable himself ...
‘Last time, it was because he was pleased,’ he said. ‘Really pleased. He thought ... something good was going to happen. And the night before we came back to Hogwarts ...’ he thought back to the moment when his scar had hurt so badly in his and Ron's bedroom in Grimmauld Place ... he was furious.
He looked round at Ron, who was gaping at him.
‘You could take over from Trelawney, mate,’ he said in an awed voice.
‘I'm not making prophecies,’ said Harry.
‘No, you know what you're doing?’ Ron said, sounding both scared and impressed. ‘Harry, you're reading You-Know-Who's mind!’
‘No,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘It's more like ... his mood, I suppose. I'm just getting flashes of what mood he's in. Dumbledore said something like this was happening last year. He said that when Voldemort was near me, or when he was feeling hatred, I could tell. Well, now I'm feeling it when he's pleased, too ...’
There was a pause. The wind and rain lashed at the building.
‘You've got to tell someone,’ said Ron.
‘I told Sirius last time.’
‘Well, tell him about this time!’
‘Can't, can I?’ said Harry grimly. ‘Umbridge is watching the owls and the fires, remember?’
‘Well then, Dumbledore.’
‘I've just told you, he already knows,’ said Harry shortly, getting to his feet, taking his cloak off his peg and swinging it around him. ‘There's no point telling him again.’
Ron did up the fastening of his own cloak, watching Harry thoughtfully.
‘Dumbledore'd want to know,’ he said.
Harry shrugged.
‘C'mon ... we've still got Silencing Charms to practise.’
They hurried back through the dark grounds, sliding and stumbling up the muddy lawns, not talking. Harry was thinking hard. What was it that Voldemort wanted done that was not happening quickly enough?
‘... he's got other plans ... plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed ... stuff he can only get by stealth ... like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time.’
Harry had not thought about those words in weeks; he had been too absorbed in what was going on at Hogwarts, too busy dwelling on the ongoing battles with Umbridge, the injustice of all the Ministry interference ... but now they came back to him and made him wonder ... Voldemort's anger would make sense if he was no nearer to laying hands on the weapon, whatever it was. Had the Order thwarted him, stopped him from seizing it? Where was it kept? Who had it now?
‘Mimbulus mimbletonia,’ said Ron's voice and Harry came back to his senses just in time to clamber through the portrait hole into the common room.
It appeared that Hermione had gone to bed early, leaving Crookshanks curled in a nearby chair and an assortment of knobbly knitted elf hats lying on a table by the fire. Harry was rather grateful that she was not around, because he did not much want to discuss his scar hurting and have her urge him to go to Dumbledore, too. Ron kept throwing him anxious glances, but Harry pulled out his Charms books and set to work on finishing his essay, though he was only pretending to concentrate and by the time Ron said he was going up to bed, too, he had written hardly anything.
Midnight came and went while Harry was reading and rereading a passage about the uses of scurvy-grass, lovage and sneezewort and not taking in a word of it.
These plantes are moste efficacious in the inflaming of the braine, and are therefore much used in Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts, where the wizard is desirous of producing hot-headedness and recklessness ...
... Hermione said Sirius was becoming reckless cooped up in Grimmauld Place ...
... moste efficacious in the inflaming of the braine, and are therefore much used ...
... the Daily Prophet would think his brain was inflamed if they found out that he knew what Voldemort was feeling ...
... therefore much used in Confusing and Befuddlement Draughts ...
... confusing was the word, all right; why did he know what Voldemort was feeling? What was this weird connection between them, which Dumbledore had never been able to explain satisfactorily?
... where the wizard is desirous ...
... how Harry would like to sleep ...
... of producing hot-headedness ...
... it was warm and comfortable in his armchair before the fire, with the rain still beating heavily on the windowpanes, Crookshanks purring, and the crackling of the flames ...
The book slipped from Harry's slack grip and landed with a dull thud on the hearthrug. His head lolled sideways ...
He was walking once more along a windowless corridor, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As the door at the end of the passage loomed larger, his heart beat fast with excitement ... if he could only open it ... enter beyond ...
He stretched out his hand ... his fingertips were inches from it ...
‘Harry Potter, sir!’
He awoke with a start. The candles had all been extinguished in the common room, but there was something moving close by.
‘Whozair?’ said Harry, sitting upright in his chair. The fire was almost out, the room very dark.
‘Dobby has your owl, sir!’ said a squeaky voice.
‘Dobby?’ said Harry thickly, peering through the gloom towards the source of the voice.
Dobby the house-elf was standing beside the table on which Hermione had left half a dozen of her knitted hats. His large, pointed ears were now sticking out from beneath what looked like all the hats Hermione had ever knitted; he was wearing one on top of the other, so that his head seemed elongated by two or three feet, and on the very topmost bobble sat Hedwig, hooting serenely and obviously cured.
‘Dobby volunteered to return Harry Potter's owl,’ said the elf squeakily, with a look of positive adoration on his face, ‘Professor Grubbly-Plank says she is all well now, sir.’ He sank into a deep bow so that his pencil-like nose brushed the threadbare surface of the hearthrug and Hedwig gave an indignant hoot and fluttered on to the arm of Harry's chair.
‘Thanks, Dobby!’ said Harry, stroking Hedwig's head and blinking hard, trying to rid himself of the image of the door in his dream ... it had been very vivid. Surveying Dobby more closely, he noticed that the elf was also wearing several scarves and innumerable socks, so that his feet looked far too big for his body.
‘Er ... have you been taking all the clothes Hermione's been leaving out?’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Dobby happily. ‘Dobby has been taking some for Winky, too, sir.’
‘Yeah, how is Winky?’ asked Harry.
Bobby's ears drooped slightly.
‘Winky is still drinking lots, sir,’ he said sadly, his enormous round green eyes, large as tennis balls, downcast. ‘She still does not care for clothes, Harry Potter. Nor do the other house-elves. None of them will clean Gryffindor Tower any more, not with the hats and socks hidden everywhere, they finds them insulting, sir. Dobby does it all himself, sir, but Dobby does not mind, sir, for he always hopes to meet Harry Potter and tonight, sir, he has got his wish!’ Dobby sank into a deep bow again. ‘But Harry Potter does not seem happy,’ Dobby went on, straightening up again and kicking timidly at Harry. ‘Dobby heard him muttering in his sleep. Was Harry Potter having bad dreams?’
‘Not really bad,’ said Harry, yawning and rubbing his eyes. ‘I've had worse.’
The elf surveyed Harry out of his vast, orb-like eyes. Then he said very seriously, his ears drooping, ‘Dobby wishes he could help Harry Potter, for Harry Potter set Dobby free and Dobby is much, much happier now.’
Monday, November 15, 2010
‘And your name is?’ Professor Umbridge said to Dean.
Harry thrust his fist in the air. Again, Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him, but now several other people had their hands up, too.
‘And your name is?’ Professor Umbridge said to Dean.
‘Dean Thomas.’
‘Well, Mr Thomas?’
‘Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?’ said Dean. ‘If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk free.’
‘I repeat,’ said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean, ‘do you expect to be attacked during my classes?’
‘No, but—’
Professor Umbridge talked over him. ‘I do not wish to criticise the way things have been run in this school,’ she said, an unconvincing smile stretching her wide mouth, ‘but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention,’ she gave a nasty little laugh, ‘extremely dangerous half-breeds.’
‘If you mean Professor Lupin,’ piped up Dean angrily, ‘he was the best we ever—
‘Hand,Mr Thomas! As I was saying—you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—’
‘No we haven't,’ Hermione said, ‘we just—’
‘Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!’
Hermione put up her hand. Professor Umbridge turned away from her.
‘It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you.’
‘Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?’ said Dean hotly. ‘Mind you, we still learned loads.’
‘Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!’ trilled Professor Umbridge. ‘Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?’ she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up.
‘Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses and things?’
‘As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions,’ said Professor Umbridge dismissively.
‘Without ever practising them beforehand?’ said Parvati incredulously. ‘Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?’
‘I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—’
‘And what good's theory going to be in the real world?’ said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again.
Professor Umbridge looked up.
‘This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world,’ she said softly.
‘So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?’
‘There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, was reaching boiling point.
‘Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?’ enquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.
‘Hmm, let's think ...’ said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice. ‘Maybe ... Lord Voldemort?’
Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.
‘Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.’
The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry.
‘Now, let me make a few things quite plain.’
Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned towards them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.
‘You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—’
‘He wasn't dead,’ said Harry angrily, ‘but yeah, he's returned!’
‘Mr-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,’ said Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at him. ‘As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.’
‘It is NOT a lie!’ said Harry. ‘I saw him, I fought him!’
‘Detention, Mr Potter!’ said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. ‘Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie.The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, “Basics for Beginners".’
Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.
‘And your name is?’ Professor Umbridge said to Dean.
‘Dean Thomas.’
‘Well, Mr Thomas?’
‘Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?’ said Dean. ‘If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk free.’
‘I repeat,’ said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean, ‘do you expect to be attacked during my classes?’
‘No, but—’
Professor Umbridge talked over him. ‘I do not wish to criticise the way things have been run in this school,’ she said, an unconvincing smile stretching her wide mouth, ‘but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention,’ she gave a nasty little laugh, ‘extremely dangerous half-breeds.’
‘If you mean Professor Lupin,’ piped up Dean angrily, ‘he was the best we ever—
‘Hand,Mr Thomas! As I was saying—you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—’
‘No we haven't,’ Hermione said, ‘we just—’
‘Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!’
Hermione put up her hand. Professor Umbridge turned away from her.
‘It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you.’
‘Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?’ said Dean hotly. ‘Mind you, we still learned loads.’
‘Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!’ trilled Professor Umbridge. ‘Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?’ she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up.
‘Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses and things?’
‘As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions,’ said Professor Umbridge dismissively.
‘Without ever practising them beforehand?’ said Parvati incredulously. ‘Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?’
‘I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—’
‘And what good's theory going to be in the real world?’ said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again.
Professor Umbridge looked up.
‘This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world,’ she said softly.
‘So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?’
‘There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, was reaching boiling point.
‘Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?’ enquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.
‘Hmm, let's think ...’ said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice. ‘Maybe ... Lord Voldemort?’
Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.
‘Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.’
The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry.
‘Now, let me make a few things quite plain.’
Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned towards them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.
‘You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—’
‘He wasn't dead,’ said Harry angrily, ‘but yeah, he's returned!’
‘Mr-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,’ said Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at him. ‘As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.’
‘It is NOT a lie!’ said Harry. ‘I saw him, I fought him!’
‘Detention, Mr Potter!’ said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. ‘Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie.The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, “Basics for Beginners".’
Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.
‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,’ rang through the room.
‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,’ rang through the room.
‘Good,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘I should like you to turn to page five and read “Chapter One, Basics for Beginners". There will be no need to talk.’
Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all closely with those pouchy toad's eyes. Harry turned to page five of his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and started to read.
It was desperately dull, quite as bad as listening to Professor Binns. He felt his concentration sliding away from him; he had soon read the same line half a dozen times without taking in more than the first few words. Several silent minutes passed. Next to him, Ron was absent-mindedly turning his quill over and over in his fingers, staring at the same spot on the page. Harry looked right and received a surprise to shake him out of his torpor. Hermione had not even opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory.She was staring fixedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand in the air.
Harry could not remember Hermione ever neglecting to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the temptation to open any book that came under her nose. He looked at her enquiringly, but she merely shook her head slightly to indicate that she was not about to answer questions, and continued to stare at Professor Umbridge, who was looking just as resolutely in another direction.
After several more minutes had passed, however, Harry was not the only one watching Hermione. The chapter they had been instructed to read was so tedious that more and more people were choosing to watch Hermione's mute attempt to catch Professor Umbridge's eye rather than struggle on with ‘Basics for Beginners'.
When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the situation no longer.
‘Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?’ she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her.
‘Not about the chapter, no,’ said Hermione.
‘Well, we're reading just now,’ said Professor Umbridge, showing her small pointed teeth. ‘If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class.’
‘I've got a query about your course aims,’ said Hermione.
Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows.
‘And your name is?’
‘Hermione Granger,’ said Hermione.
‘Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,’ said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.
‘Well, I don't,’ said Hermione bluntly. ‘There's nothing written up there about using defensive spells.’
There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard.
‘Using defensive spells?’ Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. ‘Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?’
‘We're not going to use magic?’ Ron exclaimed loudly.
‘Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.—?’
‘Weasley,’ said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.
Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she addressed Hermione.
‘Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?’
‘Yes,’ said Hermione. ‘Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?’
‘Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?’ asked Professor Umbridge, in her falsely sweet voice.
‘No, but—’
‘Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the “whole point” of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new programme of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—’
‘What use is that?’ said Harry loudly. ‘If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a—’
‘Hand,Mr Potter!’ sang Professor Umbridge.
‘Good,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘I should like you to turn to page five and read “Chapter One, Basics for Beginners". There will be no need to talk.’
Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all closely with those pouchy toad's eyes. Harry turned to page five of his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and started to read.
It was desperately dull, quite as bad as listening to Professor Binns. He felt his concentration sliding away from him; he had soon read the same line half a dozen times without taking in more than the first few words. Several silent minutes passed. Next to him, Ron was absent-mindedly turning his quill over and over in his fingers, staring at the same spot on the page. Harry looked right and received a surprise to shake him out of his torpor. Hermione had not even opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory.She was staring fixedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand in the air.
Harry could not remember Hermione ever neglecting to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the temptation to open any book that came under her nose. He looked at her enquiringly, but she merely shook her head slightly to indicate that she was not about to answer questions, and continued to stare at Professor Umbridge, who was looking just as resolutely in another direction.
After several more minutes had passed, however, Harry was not the only one watching Hermione. The chapter they had been instructed to read was so tedious that more and more people were choosing to watch Hermione's mute attempt to catch Professor Umbridge's eye rather than struggle on with ‘Basics for Beginners'.
When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the situation no longer.
‘Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?’ she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her.
‘Not about the chapter, no,’ said Hermione.
‘Well, we're reading just now,’ said Professor Umbridge, showing her small pointed teeth. ‘If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class.’
‘I've got a query about your course aims,’ said Hermione.
Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows.
‘And your name is?’
‘Hermione Granger,’ said Hermione.
‘Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,’ said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.
‘Well, I don't,’ said Hermione bluntly. ‘There's nothing written up there about using defensive spells.’
There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard.
‘Using defensive spells?’ Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. ‘Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?’
‘We're not going to use magic?’ Ron exclaimed loudly.
‘Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.—?’
‘Weasley,’ said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.
Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she addressed Hermione.
‘Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?’
‘Yes,’ said Hermione. ‘Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?’
‘Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?’ asked Professor Umbridge, in her falsely sweet voice.
‘No, but—’
‘Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the “whole point” of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new programme of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—’
‘What use is that?’ said Harry loudly. ‘If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a—’
‘Hand,Mr Potter!’ sang Professor Umbridge.
‘Hermione and me have stopped arguing,’ he said, sitting down beside Harry.
‘Hermione and me have stopped arguing,’ he said, sitting down beside Harry.
‘Good,’ grunted Harry.
‘But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us,’ said Ron.
‘I ‘m not—’
‘I'm just passing on the message,’ said Ron, talking over him. ‘But I reckon she's right. It's not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you.’
‘I never said it —’
‘Good-day,’ said Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, again feeling both annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself. ‘And welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been following your fortunes most carefully over the holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all returned to Hogwarts safely—as, of course, I knew you would.
‘You will find on the tables before you copies of The Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is a most important means of divining the future and one that may very probably be tested in your OWL. Not, of course, that I believe examination passes or failures are of the remotest importance when it comes to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. However, the Headmaster likes you to sit the examination, so ...’
Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her subject above such sordid matters as examinations.
‘Turn, please, to the introduction and read what Imago has to say on the matter of dream interpretation. Then, divide into pairs. Use The Dream Oracle to interpret each other's most recent dreams. Carry on.’
The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that it was not a double period. By the time they had all finished reading the introduction of the book, they had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. At the table next to Harry and Ron, Dean had paired up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long-winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat; Harry and Ron merely looked at each other glumly.
‘I never remember my dreams,’ said Ron, ‘you say one.’
‘You must remember one of them,’ said Harry impatiently.
He was not going to share his dreams with anyone. He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmare about a graveyard meant, he did not need Ron or Proiessor Trelawney or the stupid Dream Oracle to tell him.
‘Well, I dreamed I was playing Quidditch the other night,’ said Ron, screwing up his face in an effort to remember. ‘What d'you reckon that means?’
‘Probably that you're going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something,’ said Harry, turning the pages of The Dream Oracle without interest. It was very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the Oracle and Harry was not cheered up when Professor Trelawney set them the task of keeping a dream diary for a month as homework. When the bell went, he and Ron led the way back down the ladder, Ron grumbling loudly.
‘D'you realise how much homework we've got already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of moonstones, and now we've got a month's dream diary from Trelawney! Fred and George weren't wrong about OWL year, were they? That Umbridge woman had better not give us any ...’
When they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom they found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teachers desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her head. Harry was again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.
The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.
‘Well, good afternoon!’ she said, when finally the whole class had sat down.
A few people mumbled ‘good afternoon’ in reply.
‘Tut, tut,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge". One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!’
‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,’ they chanted back at her.
‘There, now,’ said Professor Umbridge sweetly. That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.’
Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order ‘wands away’ had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Harry shoved his wand back inside his bag and pulled cut quill, ink and parchment. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:
Defence Against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles
‘Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?’ stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year.
‘You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.’
She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:
Course Aims:
1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.
For a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three course aims she asked, ‘Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.
‘I think we'll try that again,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, “Yes, Professor Umbridge", or “No, Professor Umbridge". So: has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
‘Good,’ grunted Harry.
‘But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us,’ said Ron.
‘I ‘m not—’
‘I'm just passing on the message,’ said Ron, talking over him. ‘But I reckon she's right. It's not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you.’
‘I never said it —’
‘Good-day,’ said Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, again feeling both annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself. ‘And welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been following your fortunes most carefully over the holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all returned to Hogwarts safely—as, of course, I knew you would.
‘You will find on the tables before you copies of The Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is a most important means of divining the future and one that may very probably be tested in your OWL. Not, of course, that I believe examination passes or failures are of the remotest importance when it comes to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. However, the Headmaster likes you to sit the examination, so ...’
Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her subject above such sordid matters as examinations.
‘Turn, please, to the introduction and read what Imago has to say on the matter of dream interpretation. Then, divide into pairs. Use The Dream Oracle to interpret each other's most recent dreams. Carry on.’
The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that it was not a double period. By the time they had all finished reading the introduction of the book, they had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. At the table next to Harry and Ron, Dean had paired up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long-winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat; Harry and Ron merely looked at each other glumly.
‘I never remember my dreams,’ said Ron, ‘you say one.’
‘You must remember one of them,’ said Harry impatiently.
He was not going to share his dreams with anyone. He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmare about a graveyard meant, he did not need Ron or Proiessor Trelawney or the stupid Dream Oracle to tell him.
‘Well, I dreamed I was playing Quidditch the other night,’ said Ron, screwing up his face in an effort to remember. ‘What d'you reckon that means?’
‘Probably that you're going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something,’ said Harry, turning the pages of The Dream Oracle without interest. It was very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the Oracle and Harry was not cheered up when Professor Trelawney set them the task of keeping a dream diary for a month as homework. When the bell went, he and Ron led the way back down the ladder, Ron grumbling loudly.
‘D'you realise how much homework we've got already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of moonstones, and now we've got a month's dream diary from Trelawney! Fred and George weren't wrong about OWL year, were they? That Umbridge woman had better not give us any ...’
When they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom they found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teachers desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her head. Harry was again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.
The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.
‘Well, good afternoon!’ she said, when finally the whole class had sat down.
A few people mumbled ‘good afternoon’ in reply.
‘Tut, tut,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge". One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!’
‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,’ they chanted back at her.
‘There, now,’ said Professor Umbridge sweetly. That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.’
Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order ‘wands away’ had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Harry shoved his wand back inside his bag and pulled cut quill, ink and parchment. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:
Defence Against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles
‘Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?’ stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year.
‘You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.’
She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:
Course Aims:
1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.
For a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three course aims she asked, ‘Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.
‘I think we'll try that again,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, “Yes, Professor Umbridge", or “No, Professor Umbridge". So: has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
Sunday, November 14, 2010
‘Fainting Fancies?’ Harry suggested quietly.
One by one, as though hit over the head with an invisible mallet, the first-years were slumping unconscious in their seats; some slid right on to the floor, others merely hung over the arms of their chairs, their tongues lolling
out. Most of the people watching were laughing; Hermione, however, squared her shoulders and marched directly over to where Fred and George now stood with clipboards, closely observing the unconscious first-years. Ron
rose halfway out of his chair, hovered uncertainly for a moment or two, then muttered to Harry, ‘She's got it under control,’ before sinking as low in his chair as his lanky frame permitted.
‘That's enough!’ Hermione said forcefully to Fred and George, both of whom looked up in mild surprise.
‘Yeah, you're right,’ said George, nodding, ‘this dosage looks strong enough, doesn't it?’
‘I told you this morning, you can't test your rubbish on students!’
‘We're paying them!’ said Fred indignantly.
‘I don't care, it could be dangerous!’
‘Rubbish,’ said Fred.
‘Calm down, Hermione, they're fine!’ said Lee reassuringly as he walked from first-year to first-year, inserting purple sweets into their open mouths.
‘Yeah, look, they're coming round now,’ said George.
A few of the first-years were indeed stirring. Several looked so shocked to find themselves lying on the floor, or dangling off their chairs, that Harry was sure Fred and George had not warned them what the sweets were going
to do.
‘Feel all right?’ said George kindly to a small dark-haired girl lying at his feet.
‘I—I think so,’ she said shakily.
‘Excellent,’ said Fred happily, but the next second Hermione had snatched both his clipboard and the paper bag of Fainting Fancies from his hands.
‘It is NOT excellent!’
‘Course it is, they're alive, aren't they?’ said Fred angrily.
‘You can't do this, what if you made one of them really ill?’
‘We're not going to make them ill, we've already tested them all on ourselves, this is just to see if everyone reacts the same—’
‘If you don't stop doing it, I'm going to—’
‘Put us in detention?’ said Fred, in an I'd-like-to-see-you-try-it voice.
‘Make us write lines?’ said George, smirking.
Onlookers all over the room were laughing. Hermione drew herself up to her full height; her eyes were narrowed and her bushy hair seemed to crackle with electricity.
‘No,’ she said, her voice quivering with anger, ‘but I will write to your mother.’
‘You wouldn't,’ said George, horrified, taking a step back from her.
‘Oh, yes, I would,’ said Hermione grimly. ‘I can't stop you eating the stupid things yourselves, but you're not to give them to the first-years,’
Fred and George looked thunderstruck. It was clear that as far as they were concerned, Hermione's threat was way below the belt. With a last threatening look at them, she thrust Fred's clipboard and the bag of Fancies back
into his arms, and stalked back to her chair by the fire.
Ron was now so low in his seat that his nose was roughly level with his knees.
‘Thank you for your support, Ron,’ Hermione said acidly.
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out. Most of the people watching were laughing; Hermione, however, squared her shoulders and marched directly over to where Fred and George now stood with clipboards, closely observing the unconscious first-years. Ron
rose halfway out of his chair, hovered uncertainly for a moment or two, then muttered to Harry, ‘She's got it under control,’ before sinking as low in his chair as his lanky frame permitted.
‘That's enough!’ Hermione said forcefully to Fred and George, both of whom looked up in mild surprise.
‘Yeah, you're right,’ said George, nodding, ‘this dosage looks strong enough, doesn't it?’
‘I told you this morning, you can't test your rubbish on students!’
‘We're paying them!’ said Fred indignantly.
‘I don't care, it could be dangerous!’
‘Rubbish,’ said Fred.
‘Calm down, Hermione, they're fine!’ said Lee reassuringly as he walked from first-year to first-year, inserting purple sweets into their open mouths.
‘Yeah, look, they're coming round now,’ said George.
A few of the first-years were indeed stirring. Several looked so shocked to find themselves lying on the floor, or dangling off their chairs, that Harry was sure Fred and George had not warned them what the sweets were going
to do.
‘Feel all right?’ said George kindly to a small dark-haired girl lying at his feet.
‘I—I think so,’ she said shakily.
‘Excellent,’ said Fred happily, but the next second Hermione had snatched both his clipboard and the paper bag of Fainting Fancies from his hands.
‘It is NOT excellent!’
‘Course it is, they're alive, aren't they?’ said Fred angrily.
‘You can't do this, what if you made one of them really ill?’
‘We're not going to make them ill, we've already tested them all on ourselves, this is just to see if everyone reacts the same—’
‘If you don't stop doing it, I'm going to—’
‘Put us in detention?’ said Fred, in an I'd-like-to-see-you-try-it voice.
‘Make us write lines?’ said George, smirking.
Onlookers all over the room were laughing. Hermione drew herself up to her full height; her eyes were narrowed and her bushy hair seemed to crackle with electricity.
‘No,’ she said, her voice quivering with anger, ‘but I will write to your mother.’
‘You wouldn't,’ said George, horrified, taking a step back from her.
‘Oh, yes, I would,’ said Hermione grimly. ‘I can't stop you eating the stupid things yourselves, but you're not to give them to the first-years,’
Fred and George looked thunderstruck. It was clear that as far as they were concerned, Hermione's threat was way below the belt. With a last threatening look at them, she thrust Fred's clipboard and the bag of Fancies back
into his arms, and stalked back to her chair by the fire.
Ron was now so low in his seat that his nose was roughly level with his knees.
‘Thank you for your support, Ron,’ Hermione said acidly.
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
What Do Navy SEALs Do When They Retire?
Author：James Kara Murat Source：none Hits：55 UpdateTime：2008-7-10 22:44:16
The U.S. Navy SEALs, or the United States Navy Sea, Air, and Land Forces, are the U.S. Navys elite Special Operations Forces. They conduct clandestine operations from the sea, air, and land. Navy SEALs are considered silent professionals who have acquired razor-sharp precision and are known to possess unbending standards coupled with uncompromising loyalty and sense of teamwork. Counterterrorism operations, direct action operations, unconventional warfare, and special reconnaissance are just a few of the missions included in their career as Navy SEALs.
Navy SEALs are subjected to training in a wide diversity of environments and on a great variety of fields. Each setting and mission requires them to employ special procedures, tactics, and techniques. Physically, emotionally, mentally, psychologically, the Navy SEALs are molded to face any task thrown at them on a mission. Hence, even after their Navy SEALs careers, they easily adapt to the civilian world of employment. The following are the most common jobs that ex-Navy SEALs men are known to be employed at:
o Business and Business Administration Ex-Navy SEALs make good financial administrators, human resources specialists, security administrators, social science specialists and the like. Aside from being capable of running their own businesses, ex-Navy SEALs are able to administer, supervise, monitor, and perform professional management services vital in an organizations operation, something they have learned to do in the Navy.
o Health Care From physicians to dentists, health scientist to health system administrator, physical therapist to occupational therapist, ex-Navy SEALs do not find it hard to get employment within these areas. Ex-Navy SEALs find it easy to be driven by the goal of providing high standards when it comes to medical care. Like their Navy SEALs training, they find it motivating and challenging to answer the needs of patients with various medical problems requiring medical management and creativity.
o Architecture/Engineering/Technical Support From civil, electrical, to environmental engineering jobs, architectural jobs, and other technical support jobs, ex-Navy SEALs are able to show excellence in this area that requires the application of general knowledge of mathematics and physical science. These kind of jobs may entail planning, designing, constructing, and maintaining structures and facilities that may be use for shelter, transportation, and so on and so forth.
o Trades and Specialized Skilled Occupations This category can include various occupations like fire protection and prevention specialist, maintenance mechanic, rehabilitation specialist, chef, electrician, and a whole lot more. These jobs require professional knowledge and abilities for full performance, something that ex-Navy SEALs have been equipped with during their training and in their navy career.
Whatever the job title, every position that ex-Navy SEALs seek after their navy career speaks of compassion, energy, and commitment. And like their SEALs career, they find these jobs professionally rewarding and emotionally satisfying.
The U.S. Navy SEALs, or the United States Navy Sea, Air, and Land Forces, are the U.S. Navys elite Special Operations Forces. They conduct clandestine operations from the sea, air, and land. Navy SEALs are considered silent professionals who have acquired razor-sharp precision and are known to possess unbending standards coupled with uncompromising loyalty and sense of teamwork. Counterterrorism operations, direct action operations, unconventional warfare, and special reconnaissance are just a few of the missions included in their career as Navy SEALs.
Navy SEALs are subjected to training in a wide diversity of environments and on a great variety of fields. Each setting and mission requires them to employ special procedures, tactics, and techniques. Physically, emotionally, mentally, psychologically, the Navy SEALs are molded to face any task thrown at them on a mission. Hence, even after their Navy SEALs careers, they easily adapt to the civilian world of employment. The following are the most common jobs that ex-Navy SEALs men are known to be employed at:
o Business and Business Administration Ex-Navy SEALs make good financial administrators, human resources specialists, security administrators, social science specialists and the like. Aside from being capable of running their own businesses, ex-Navy SEALs are able to administer, supervise, monitor, and perform professional management services vital in an organizations operation, something they have learned to do in the Navy.
o Health Care From physicians to dentists, health scientist to health system administrator, physical therapist to occupational therapist, ex-Navy SEALs do not find it hard to get employment within these areas. Ex-Navy SEALs find it easy to be driven by the goal of providing high standards when it comes to medical care. Like their Navy SEALs training, they find it motivating and challenging to answer the needs of patients with various medical problems requiring medical management and creativity.
o Architecture/Engineering/Technical Support From civil, electrical, to environmental engineering jobs, architectural jobs, and other technical support jobs, ex-Navy SEALs are able to show excellence in this area that requires the application of general knowledge of mathematics and physical science. These kind of jobs may entail planning, designing, constructing, and maintaining structures and facilities that may be use for shelter, transportation, and so on and so forth.
o Trades and Specialized Skilled Occupations This category can include various occupations like fire protection and prevention specialist, maintenance mechanic, rehabilitation specialist, chef, electrician, and a whole lot more. These jobs require professional knowledge and abilities for full performance, something that ex-Navy SEALs have been equipped with during their training and in their navy career.
Whatever the job title, every position that ex-Navy SEALs seek after their navy career speaks of compassion, energy, and commitment. And like their SEALs career, they find these jobs professionally rewarding and emotionally satisfying.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Form and Function: Making the Most of Your Kitchen
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：74 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:13:28
The kitchen is the center of your home, perhaps not in physical location but certainly in spirit. It is where the majority of activity takes place - where you prepare meals, where you eat them, where you hold important
discussions, where you congregate as a family and where you begin and end your days. Therefore, you want your kitchen to look as important as it is. To do that, you have to put thought and proper consideration into the
design and model of the room, and make sure that keep it up to date, whether that means making minor cosmetic changes or refurbishing the entire space.
Should you be forced to do the latter, you may have some financial hesitations; new cabinetry and countertops are not small expenses and will take a chunk out of your wallet, but in the end they will add to it, as well. After all,
remodeling your kitchen is one of the best investments you could make. It will not only recreate the room your family already flocks to, making it more enjoyable for all, but it will also add to the value of your property - nothing
lures in a homebuyer like state of the art appliances and cabinetry - so dont be afraid to invest a little more than you normally would into your kitchen. In the end, it will come back to you many times over.
But how should you spend this money? What is the most important thing to add or update in your kitchen?
That all depends on what you want your final product to be. You should create an image of the ideal kitchen in your mind, and then create a realistic replica on paper, detailing the different aspects of the room from the
cabinets to the counters to the fridge to the stools at the breakfast bar. Plot it all out, with prices, so that when you get to work, there are no lingering questions. And when you finish, there are no overwhelming regrets. Walk
into the remodel with a plan and youll be able to walk out happy.
And when making that plan, remember, your options are very nearly limitless. What you can do in your kitchen - what you can install in terms of appliances and componetry has grown to include almost anything. You can
install countertops with the traditional plastic laminate or you could opt for marble, ceramic, wood, natural stone and other synthetic solid surfaces. When you shop for appliances you will find they not only are functional but
also attractive, sleek and built to look good in any space - small or large. Youll have your option of any number of add-ons, which can turn an ordinary appliance into a godsend for your kitchen. And when youre selecting
color, whether it is for your cabinets or your walls, you will have the opportunity to sift through a rainbow of colors until you find the one that will perfectly match you and your family.
The kitchen is by far the most important room in the house. Keep it that way by maintaining its functionality and beauty. Make it a room that is not only where all the action occurs but also where all of the action wants to occur.
Draw people to it with an intelligent and artful remodel - youll be glad you did.
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The kitchen is the center of your home, perhaps not in physical location but certainly in spirit. It is where the majority of activity takes place - where you prepare meals, where you eat them, where you hold important
discussions, where you congregate as a family and where you begin and end your days. Therefore, you want your kitchen to look as important as it is. To do that, you have to put thought and proper consideration into the
design and model of the room, and make sure that keep it up to date, whether that means making minor cosmetic changes or refurbishing the entire space.
Should you be forced to do the latter, you may have some financial hesitations; new cabinetry and countertops are not small expenses and will take a chunk out of your wallet, but in the end they will add to it, as well. After all,
remodeling your kitchen is one of the best investments you could make. It will not only recreate the room your family already flocks to, making it more enjoyable for all, but it will also add to the value of your property - nothing
lures in a homebuyer like state of the art appliances and cabinetry - so dont be afraid to invest a little more than you normally would into your kitchen. In the end, it will come back to you many times over.
But how should you spend this money? What is the most important thing to add or update in your kitchen?
That all depends on what you want your final product to be. You should create an image of the ideal kitchen in your mind, and then create a realistic replica on paper, detailing the different aspects of the room from the
cabinets to the counters to the fridge to the stools at the breakfast bar. Plot it all out, with prices, so that when you get to work, there are no lingering questions. And when you finish, there are no overwhelming regrets. Walk
into the remodel with a plan and youll be able to walk out happy.
And when making that plan, remember, your options are very nearly limitless. What you can do in your kitchen - what you can install in terms of appliances and componetry has grown to include almost anything. You can
install countertops with the traditional plastic laminate or you could opt for marble, ceramic, wood, natural stone and other synthetic solid surfaces. When you shop for appliances you will find they not only are functional but
also attractive, sleek and built to look good in any space - small or large. Youll have your option of any number of add-ons, which can turn an ordinary appliance into a godsend for your kitchen. And when youre selecting
color, whether it is for your cabinets or your walls, you will have the opportunity to sift through a rainbow of colors until you find the one that will perfectly match you and your family.
The kitchen is by far the most important room in the house. Keep it that way by maintaining its functionality and beauty. Make it a room that is not only where all the action occurs but also where all of the action wants to occur.
Draw people to it with an intelligent and artful remodel - youll be glad you did.
uggs
chanel 2.55
burberry outlet
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