“And old Dusty,” said Ron, glancing at the patch of carpet from which the corpse-figure had risen.
“Let’s go up,” said Hermione with a frightened look at the same spot, and she led the way up the creaking stairs to the drawing room on the first floor.
Hermione waved her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, then, shivering slightly in the drafty room, she perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly around her. Ron crossed to the window and moved the heavy velvet curtains aside an inch.
“Can’t see anyone out there,” he reported. “And you’d think, if Harry still had a Trace on him, they’d have followed us here. I know they can’t get in the house, but – what’s up, Harry?”
Harry had given a cry of pain: His scar had burned against as something flashed across his mind like a bright light on water. He saw a large shadow and felt a fury that was not his own pound through his body, violent and brief as an electric shock.
“What did you see?” Ron asked, advancing on Harry. “Did you see him at my place?”
“No, I just felt anger – he’s really angry – ”
“But that could be at the Burrow,” said Ron loudly. “What else? Didn’t you see anything? Was he cursing someone?”
“No, I just felt anger – I couldn’t tell – ”
Harry felt badgered, confused, and Hermione did not help as she said in a frightened voice, “Your scar, again? But what’s going on? I thought that connection had closed!”
“It did, for a while,” muttered Harry; his scar was still painful, which made it hard to concentrate. “I – I think it’s started opening again whenever he loses control, that’s how it used to – ”
“But then you’ve got to close your mind!” said Hermione shrilly. “Harry, Dumbledore didn’t want you to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it down, that’s why you were supposed to use Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false images in your mind, remember – ”
“Yeah, I do remember, thanks,” said Harry through gritted teeth; he did not need Hermione to tell him that Voldemort had once used this selfsame connection between them to lead him into a trap, nor that it had resulted in Sirius’s death. He wished that he had not told them what he had seen and felt; it made Voldemort more threatening, as though he were pressing against the window of the room, and still the pain in his scar was building and he fought it: It was like resisting the urge to be sick.
He turned his back on Ron and Hermione, pretending to examine the old tapestry of the Black family tree on the wall. Then Hermione shrieked: Harry drew his wand again and spun around to see a silver Patronus soar through the drawing room window and land upon the floor in front of them, where it solidified into the weasel that spoke with the voice of Ron’s father.
“Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched.”
The Patronus dissolved into nothingness. Ron let out a noise between a whimper and a groan and dropped onto the sofa: Hermione joined him, gripping his arm.
“They’re all right, they’re all right!” she whispered, and Ron half laughed and hugged her.
“Harry,” he said over Hermione’s shoulder, “I – ”
“It’s not a problem,” said Harry, sickened by the pain in his head. “It’s your family, ‘course you were worried. I’d feel the same way.” He thought of Ginny. “I do feel the same way.”
The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as it had back in the garden of the Burrow. Faintly he heard Hermione say “I don’t want to be on my own. Could we use the sleeping bags I’ve brought and camp in here tonight?”
He heard Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much longer. He had to succumb.
“Bathroom,” he muttered, and he left the room as fast as he could without running.
He barely made it: Bolting the door behind him with trembling hands, he grasped his pounding head and fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, he felt the rage that did not belong to him possess his soul, saw a long room lit only by firelight, and the giant blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming and writhing, and a slighter figure standing over him, wand outstretched, while Harry spoke in a high, cold, merciless voice.
“More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time…. You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure…. Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!”
A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face – with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes.
He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, his nose inches from one of the silver serpent tails that supported the large bathtub. He sat up. Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed burned on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped as Hermione’s voice rang out.
“Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I’ve got it here.”
“Yeah, great, thanks,” he said, fighting to keep his voice casual as he stood up to let her in.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Chapter 10 Kreacher's Tale
Chapter 10 Kreacher's Tale
Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.
He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four house ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting complex mission Dumbledore had left him… Dumbledore…
The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?
Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore’s will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why hadn’t he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?
Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bad, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, “Lumos,” and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.
On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died? Harry’s gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s great-great grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts.
Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing where there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading Sirius. Harry had never entered his godfather’s bedroom before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle scrubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax banging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spiders web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.
The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that little of the wall’s silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume that Sirius’s parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the wall because he was sure they would not have appreciated their eldest son’s taste in decoration. Sirius seemed to have long gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold just to underline his difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and also (Harry had to admire Sirius’s nerve) several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the walls which was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.
With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father, his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James’s left was Lupin, even then a little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included or was it simply because Harry knew how it had been, that he saw these things in the picture? He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his parents from redecorating his room.
Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for Ron and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermione sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.
He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than twenty-four house ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting complex mission Dumbledore had left him… Dumbledore…
The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s death felt different now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?
Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore’s will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why hadn’t he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?
Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bad, picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, “Lumos,” and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.
On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died? Harry’s gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s great-great grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts.
Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing where there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading Sirius. Harry had never entered his godfather’s bedroom before. He pushed open the door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle scrubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax banging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the pictures on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spiders web stretched between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.
The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that little of the wall’s silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume that Sirius’s parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the wall because he was sure they would not have appreciated their eldest son’s taste in decoration. Sirius seemed to have long gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold just to underline his difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle motorcycles, and also (Harry had to admire Sirius’s nerve) several posters of bikini-clad Muggle girls. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the walls which was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.
With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father, his untidy black hair stuck up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius’s right stood Pettigrew, more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and Sirius had been. On James’s left was Lupin, even then a little shabby-looking, but he had the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and included or was it simply because Harry knew how it had been, that he saw these things in the picture? He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not budge. Sirius had taken no chances in preventing his parents from redecorating his room.
Harry looked around at the floor
Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was growing brightest. A shaft of light revealed bits of paper, books, and small objects scattered over the carpet.
Evidently Sirius’s bedroom had been reached too, although its contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with the covers and sundry pages littered the floor.
Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of paper, and examined them. He recognized one as a part of an old edition of A History of Magic, by Bathilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and crumpled. He smoothed it out.
Dear Padfoot,
Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going.
We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell – also Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the next about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.
Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that Dumbledore
Harry’s extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet eruptions sent joy and grief thundering its equal measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down.
He read the letter again, but could not take in any more meaning than he had done the first time, and was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She had made her “g”s the same way he did. He searched through the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son.
Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered voice.
They had a cat… perhaps it had perished, like his parents
Evidently Sirius’s bedroom had been reached too, although its contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with the covers and sundry pages littered the floor.
Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of paper, and examined them. He recognized one as a part of an old edition of A History of Magic, by Bathilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. The third was handwritten and crumpled. He smoothed it out.
Dear Padfoot,
Thank you, thank you, for Harry’s birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I’m enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he’s going to be a great Quidditch player but we’ve had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don’t take our eyes off him when he gets going.
We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn’t come, but the Order’s got to come first, and Harry’s not old enough to know it’s his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell – also Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the next about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.
Bathilda drops in most days, she’s a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore. I’m not sure he’d be pleased if he knew! I don’t know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that Dumbledore
Harry’s extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a kind of quiet eruptions sent joy and grief thundering its equal measure through his veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down.
He read the letter again, but could not take in any more meaning than he had done the first time, and was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She had made her “g”s the same way he did. He searched through the letter for every one of them, and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about him, Harry, her son.
Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, this time concentrating on the meaning. It was like listening to a half-remembered voice.
They had a cat… perhaps it had perished, like his parents
at Godric’s Hollow…
at Godric’s Hollow… or else fled when there was nobody left to feed it… Sirius had bought him his first broomstick… His parents had known Bathilda Bagshot; had Dumbledore introduced them? Dumbledore’s still got his Invisibility Cloak… there was something funny there…
Harry paused, pondering his mother’s words. Why had Dumbledore taken James’s Invisibility Cloak? Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling him years before, “I don’t need a cloak to become invisible” Perhaps some less gifted Order member had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted as a carrier? Harry passed on…
Wormy was here… Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed “down” had he? Was he aware that he was seeing James and Lily alive for the last time?
And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore –
That Dumbledore what? But there were any number of things that would seem incredible about Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks in a Transfiguration test, for instance or had taken up goat charming like Aberforth…
Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized papers, treating them in his eagerness, with as little consideration as the original searcher, he pulled open drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under the bed and armchair.
At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most of the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily’s letter and continued to look for the second sheet.
After another quarter of an hour, however he was forced to conclude that the rest of his mother’s letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be considered interesting to the Death Eaters… The only potentially useful thing he could see her was possible information on Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore – what?
“Harry? Harry? Harry!”
“I’m here!” he called, “What’s happened?”
There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione burst inside.
“We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” she said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him”
Ron’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below.
“Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!”
“Harry don’t just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anyway?” She gazed around the ransacked room. “What have you been doing?”
“Look what I’ve just found”
He held out his mother’s letter. Hermione took it out and read it while Harry watched her. When she reached the end of the page she looked up at him.
“Oh Harry…”
“And there’s this too”
He handed her the torn photograph, and Hermione smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.
“I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,” Harry said, “but it’s not here.”
Hermione glanced around.
“Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?”
“Someone had searched before me,” said Harry.
“I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?”
“Information on the Order, if it was Snape.”
“But you’d think he’d already have all he needed. I mean was in the Order, wasn’t he?”
“Well then,” said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, “what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?”
“Who?”
Harry paused, pondering his mother’s words. Why had Dumbledore taken James’s Invisibility Cloak? Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling him years before, “I don’t need a cloak to become invisible” Perhaps some less gifted Order member had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted as a carrier? Harry passed on…
Wormy was here… Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed “down” had he? Was he aware that he was seeing James and Lily alive for the last time?
And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore –
That Dumbledore what? But there were any number of things that would seem incredible about Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks in a Transfiguration test, for instance or had taken up goat charming like Aberforth…
Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps the rest of the letter was here somewhere. He seized papers, treating them in his eagerness, with as little consideration as the original searcher, he pulled open drawers, shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, and crawled under the bed and armchair.
At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to be most of the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after him. Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily’s letter and continued to look for the second sheet.
After another quarter of an hour, however he was forced to conclude that the rest of his mother’s letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable. His toy broomstick could hardly be considered interesting to the Death Eaters… The only potentially useful thing he could see her was possible information on Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore – what?
“Harry? Harry? Harry!”
“I’m here!” he called, “What’s happened?”
There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione burst inside.
“We woke up and didn’t know where you were!” she said breathlessly. She turned and shouted over her shoulder, “Ron! I’ve found him”
Ron’s annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below.
“Good! Tell him from me he’s a git!”
“Harry don’t just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here anyway?” She gazed around the ransacked room. “What have you been doing?”
“Look what I’ve just found”
He held out his mother’s letter. Hermione took it out and read it while Harry watched her. When she reached the end of the page she looked up at him.
“Oh Harry…”
“And there’s this too”
He handed her the torn photograph, and Hermione smiled at the baby zooming in and out of sight on the toy broom.
“I’ve been looking for the rest of the letter,” Harry said, “but it’s not here.”
Hermione glanced around.
“Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?”
“Someone had searched before me,” said Harry.
“I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What were they after, do you think?”
“Information on the Order, if it was Snape.”
“But you’d think he’d already have all he needed. I mean was in the Order, wasn’t he?”
“Well then,” said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, “what about information on Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, you know who she is?”
“Who?”
While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid
While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid shouted apologies to anybody who would listen, Harry hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face with a most eccentric-looking wizard. Slightly cross-eyed, with shoulder-length white hair the texture of candyfloss, he wore a cap whose tassel dangled in front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.
“Xenophilius Lovegood,” he said, extending a hand to Harry, “my daughter and I live just over the hill, so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know my Luna?” he added to Ron.
“Yes,” said Ron. “Isn’t she with you?”
“She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise little gnomes – or, to give them their correct name, the Gernumbli gardensi.”
“Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,” said Ron, “but I think Fred and George taught them those.”
He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up.
“Hello, Harry!” she said.
“Er – my name’s Barry,” said Harry, flummoxed.
“Oh, have you changed that too?” she asked brightly.
“How did you know -?”
“Oh, just your expression,” she said.
Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow robes, which she had accessorized with a large sunflower in her hair. Once you get over the brightness of it all, the general effect was quite pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling from her ears.
Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance, had missed the exchange between Luna and Harry. Biding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, “Daddy, look – one of the gnomes actually bit me.”
“How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial.” Said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched fingers and examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today – perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaims in Mermish – do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!”
Ron, passing them in the opposite direction let out a loud snort.
“Ron can laugh,” said Luna serenely as Harry led her and Xenophilius toward their seats, “but my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic.”
“Really?” said Harry, who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her father’s peculiar views. “Are you sure you don’t want to put anything on that bite, though?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” said Luna, sucking her finger in a dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down. “You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear dress robes, but he believes you ought to wear sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know.”
As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and leathery pink hat gave her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.
“…and your hair’s much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin’s beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet. And who are you?” she barked at Harry.
“Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our cousin Barny.”
“Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn’t Harry Potter here? I was hoping to meet him. I thought he was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely been boasting?”
“No – he couldn’t come – ”
“Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press photographs, then. I’ve just been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara,” she shouted at Harry. “Goblin-made, you know, and been in my family for centuries. She’s a good-looking girl, but still – French. Well, well, find me a good seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought not to be on my feet too long.”
Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and did not reappear for some time. When next they met at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more people to their places. The Marquee was nearly full now and for the first time there was no queue outside.
“Nightmare, Muriel is,” said Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. “She used to come for Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offense because Fred and George set off a Dungbomb under her chair at diner. Dad always says she’ll have written them out of her will – like they care, they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they’re going… Wow,” he added, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward them. “You look great!”
“Always the tone of surprise,” said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a floaty, lilac-colored dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek and shiny.
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“Xenophilius Lovegood,” he said, extending a hand to Harry, “my daughter and I live just over the hill, so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know my Luna?” he added to Ron.
“Yes,” said Ron. “Isn’t she with you?”
“She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise little gnomes – or, to give them their correct name, the Gernumbli gardensi.”
“Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,” said Ron, “but I think Fred and George taught them those.”
He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up.
“Hello, Harry!” she said.
“Er – my name’s Barry,” said Harry, flummoxed.
“Oh, have you changed that too?” she asked brightly.
“How did you know -?”
“Oh, just your expression,” she said.
Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow robes, which she had accessorized with a large sunflower in her hair. Once you get over the brightness of it all, the general effect was quite pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling from her ears.
Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance, had missed the exchange between Luna and Harry. Biding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, “Daddy, look – one of the gnomes actually bit me.”
“How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial.” Said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna’s outstretched fingers and examining the bleeding puncture marks. “Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today – perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaims in Mermish – do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!”
Ron, passing them in the opposite direction let out a loud snort.
“Ron can laugh,” said Luna serenely as Harry led her and Xenophilius toward their seats, “but my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic.”
“Really?” said Harry, who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her father’s peculiar views. “Are you sure you don’t want to put anything on that bite, though?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” said Luna, sucking her finger in a dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down. “You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear dress robes, but he believes you ought to wear sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know.”
As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and leathery pink hat gave her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.
“…and your hair’s much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin’s beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet. And who are you?” she barked at Harry.
“Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our cousin Barny.”
“Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn’t Harry Potter here? I was hoping to meet him. I thought he was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely been boasting?”
“No – he couldn’t come – ”
“Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press photographs, then. I’ve just been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara,” she shouted at Harry. “Goblin-made, you know, and been in my family for centuries. She’s a good-looking girl, but still – French. Well, well, find me a good seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought not to be on my feet too long.”
Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and did not reappear for some time. When next they met at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more people to their places. The Marquee was nearly full now and for the first time there was no queue outside.
“Nightmare, Muriel is,” said Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. “She used to come for Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offense because Fred and George set off a Dungbomb under her chair at diner. Dad always says she’ll have written them out of her will – like they care, they’re going to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they’re going… Wow,” he added, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward them. “You look great!”
“Always the tone of surprise,” said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a floaty, lilac-colored dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek and shiny.
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Monday, November 29, 2010
Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from Ginny
Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from Ginny. Professor McGonagall had risen to her feet and the mournful hum in the Hall died away at once.
“It is nearly time,” she said. “Please follow your Heads of House out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after me.”
They filed out from behind their benches in near silence. Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent long emerald-green robes
embroidered with silver. He had never seen Professor Sprout, Head of the Hufflepuffs, looking so clean; there was not a single patch on her hat, and when they reached
the Entrance Hall, they found Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she in a thick black veil that fell to her knees, he in an ancient black suit and tie reeking of
mothballs.
They were heading, as Harry saw when he stepped out on to the stone steps from the front doors, towards the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed his face as they
followed Professor McGonagall in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle ran down the centre of them: there was a marble table
standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It was the most beautiful summer's day.
An extraordinary assortment of people had already settled into half of the chairs: shabby and smart, old and young. Most Harry did not recognise, but there were a few
that he did, including members of the Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to vividest pink, Remus Lupin,
with whom she seemed to be holding hands, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragonskin.
Then there was Madame Maxime, who took up two-and-a-half chairs on her own, Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, Arabella Figg, Harry's Squib neighbour, the hairy
bass player from the wizarding group the Weird bisters, Ernie Prang, driver of the Knight Bus, Madam Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley, and some people whom
Harry merely knew by sight, such as the barman of the Hog's Head and the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts were there too, barely
visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they moved, shimmering insubstantially in the gleaming air.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny filed into seats at the end of a row beside the lake. People were whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in the grass, but
the birdsong was louder by far. The crowd continued to swell; with a great rush of affection for both of them, Harry saw Neville being helped into a seat by Luna. They
alone of all the DA had responded to Hermione's summons the night that Dumbledore had died, and Harry knew why: they were the ones who had missed the DA most ...
probably the ones who had checked their coins regularly in the hope that there would be another meeting ...
Cornelius Fudge walked past them towards the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual; Harry next recognised Rita Skeeter, who, he
was infuriated to see, had a notebook clutched in her red-taloned hand; and then, with a worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief upon
her toadlike face, a black velvet bow set atop her iron-coloured curls. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a sentinel near the water's edge, she
gave a start and scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away.
The staff were seated at last. Harry could see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row with Professor McGonagall. He wondered whether Scrimgeour or any
of these important people were really sorry that Dumbledore was dead. But then he heard music, strange otherworldly music and he forgot his dislike of the Ministry in
looking around for the source of it. He was not the only one: many heads were turning, searching, a little alarmed.
“In there,” whispered Ginny in Harry's ear.
And he saw them in the clear green sunlit water, inches below the surface, reminding him horribly of the Inferi; a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange language he
“It is nearly time,” she said. “Please follow your Heads of House out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after me.”
They filed out from behind their benches in near silence. Harry glimpsed Slughorn at the head of the Slytherin column, wearing magnificent long emerald-green robes
embroidered with silver. He had never seen Professor Sprout, Head of the Hufflepuffs, looking so clean; there was not a single patch on her hat, and when they reached
the Entrance Hall, they found Madam Pince standing beside Filch, she in a thick black veil that fell to her knees, he in an ancient black suit and tie reeking of
mothballs.
They were heading, as Harry saw when he stepped out on to the stone steps from the front doors, towards the lake. The warmth of the sun caressed his face as they
followed Professor McGonagall in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs had been set out in rows. An aisle ran down the centre of them: there was a marble table
standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It was the most beautiful summer's day.
An extraordinary assortment of people had already settled into half of the chairs: shabby and smart, old and young. Most Harry did not recognise, but there were a few
that he did, including members of the Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to vividest pink, Remus Lupin,
with whom she seemed to be holding hands, Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragonskin.
Then there was Madame Maxime, who took up two-and-a-half chairs on her own, Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron, Arabella Figg, Harry's Squib neighbour, the hairy
bass player from the wizarding group the Weird bisters, Ernie Prang, driver of the Knight Bus, Madam Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley, and some people whom
Harry merely knew by sight, such as the barman of the Hog's Head and the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts were there too, barely
visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they moved, shimmering insubstantially in the gleaming air.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny filed into seats at the end of a row beside the lake. People were whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in the grass, but
the birdsong was louder by far. The crowd continued to swell; with a great rush of affection for both of them, Harry saw Neville being helped into a seat by Luna. They
alone of all the DA had responded to Hermione's summons the night that Dumbledore had died, and Harry knew why: they were the ones who had missed the DA most ...
probably the ones who had checked their coins regularly in the hope that there would be another meeting ...
Cornelius Fudge walked past them towards the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual; Harry next recognised Rita Skeeter, who, he
was infuriated to see, had a notebook clutched in her red-taloned hand; and then, with a worse jolt of fury, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief upon
her toadlike face, a black velvet bow set atop her iron-coloured curls. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, who was standing like a sentinel near the water's edge, she
gave a start and scurried hastily into a seat a good distance away.
The staff were seated at last. Harry could see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row with Professor McGonagall. He wondered whether Scrimgeour or any
of these important people were really sorry that Dumbledore was dead. But then he heard music, strange otherworldly music and he forgot his dislike of the Ministry in
looking around for the source of it. He was not the only one: many heads were turning, searching, a little alarmed.
“In there,” whispered Ginny in Harry's ear.
And he saw them in the clear green sunlit water, inches below the surface, reminding him horribly of the Inferi; a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange language he
“‘Evil’ is a strong word,” said Hermione quietly.
“‘Evil’ is a strong word,” said Hermione quietly.
“You were the one who kept telling me the book was dangerous!”
“I'm trying to say, Harry, that you're pulling too much blame on yourself. I thought the Prince seemed to have a nasty sense of humour, but I would never have guessed
he was a potential killer ...”
“None of us could've guessed Snape would ... you know,” said Ron.
Silence fell between them, each of them lost in their own thoughts, but Harry was sure that they, like him, were thinking about the following morning, when Dumbledore's
body would be laid to rest. Harry had never attended a funeral before; there had been no body to bury when Sirius had died. He did not know what to expect and was a
little worried about what he might see, about how he would feel. He wondered whether Dumbledore's death would be more real to him once the funeral was over. Though he
had moments when the horrible fact of it threatened to overwhelm him, there were blank stretches of numbness where, despite the fact that nobody was talking about
anything else in the whole castle, he still found it difficult to believe that Dumbledore had really gone. Admittedly he had not, as he had with Sirius, looked
desperately for some kind of loophole, some way that Dumbledore would come back ... he felt in his pocket for the cold chain of the fake Horcrux, which he now carried
with him everywhere, not as a talisman, but as a reminder of what it had cost and what remained still to do.
Harry rose early to pack the next day; the Hogwarts Express would be leaving an hour after the funeral. Downstairs he found the mood in the Great Hall subdued.
Everybody was wearing their dress robes and no one seemed very hungry. Professor McGonagall had left the thronelike chair in the middle of the staff table empty.
Hagrid's chair was deserted too: Harry thought that perhaps he had not been able to face breakfast; but Snape's place had been unceremoniously filled by Rufus
Scrimgeour. Harry avoided his yellowish eyes as they scanned the Hall; Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Scrimgeour was looking for him. Among Scrimgeour's
entourage Harry spotted the red hair and horn-rimmed glasses of Percy Weasley. Ron gave no sign that he was aware of Percy, apart from stabbing pieces of kipper with
unwonted venom.
Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were muttering together. Hulking boys though they were, they looked oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of Malfoy
between them, bossing them around. Harry had not spared Malfoy much thought. His animosity was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten the fear in Malfoy's voice on
that Tower top, nor the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have killed Dumbledore. He
despised Malfoy still for his infatuation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest drop of pity mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry wondered, was Malfoy now, and what
was Voldemort making him do under threat of killing him and his parents?
“You were the one who kept telling me the book was dangerous!”
“I'm trying to say, Harry, that you're pulling too much blame on yourself. I thought the Prince seemed to have a nasty sense of humour, but I would never have guessed
he was a potential killer ...”
“None of us could've guessed Snape would ... you know,” said Ron.
Silence fell between them, each of them lost in their own thoughts, but Harry was sure that they, like him, were thinking about the following morning, when Dumbledore's
body would be laid to rest. Harry had never attended a funeral before; there had been no body to bury when Sirius had died. He did not know what to expect and was a
little worried about what he might see, about how he would feel. He wondered whether Dumbledore's death would be more real to him once the funeral was over. Though he
had moments when the horrible fact of it threatened to overwhelm him, there were blank stretches of numbness where, despite the fact that nobody was talking about
anything else in the whole castle, he still found it difficult to believe that Dumbledore had really gone. Admittedly he had not, as he had with Sirius, looked
desperately for some kind of loophole, some way that Dumbledore would come back ... he felt in his pocket for the cold chain of the fake Horcrux, which he now carried
with him everywhere, not as a talisman, but as a reminder of what it had cost and what remained still to do.
Harry rose early to pack the next day; the Hogwarts Express would be leaving an hour after the funeral. Downstairs he found the mood in the Great Hall subdued.
Everybody was wearing their dress robes and no one seemed very hungry. Professor McGonagall had left the thronelike chair in the middle of the staff table empty.
Hagrid's chair was deserted too: Harry thought that perhaps he had not been able to face breakfast; but Snape's place had been unceremoniously filled by Rufus
Scrimgeour. Harry avoided his yellowish eyes as they scanned the Hall; Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that Scrimgeour was looking for him. Among Scrimgeour's
entourage Harry spotted the red hair and horn-rimmed glasses of Percy Weasley. Ron gave no sign that he was aware of Percy, apart from stabbing pieces of kipper with
unwonted venom.
Over at the Slytherin table Crabbe and Goyle were muttering together. Hulking boys though they were, they looked oddly lonely without the tall, pale figure of Malfoy
between them, bossing them around. Harry had not spared Malfoy much thought. His animosity was all for Snape, but he had not forgotten the fear in Malfoy's voice on
that Tower top, nor the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death Eaters arrived. Harry did not believe that Malfoy would have killed Dumbledore. He
despised Malfoy still for his infatuation with the Dark Arts, but now the tiniest drop of pity mingled with his dislike. Where, Harry wondered, was Malfoy now, and what
was Voldemort making him do under threat of killing him and his parents?
She looked nervous even saying the name again.
She looked nervous even saying the name again.
“What about him?” asked Harry heavily, slumping back in his chair.
“Well, it's just that I was sort of right about the Half-Blood Prince business,” she said tentatively.
“D'you have to rub it in, Hermione? How do you think I feel about that now?”
“No—no—Harry, I didn't mean that!” she said hastily, looking around to check that they were not being overheard. “It's just that I was right about Eileen Prince
once owning the book. You see ... she was Snape's mother!”
“I thought she wasn't much of a looker,” said Ron. Hermione ignored him.
“I was going through the rest of the old Prophets and there was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later an
announcement saying that she'd given birth to a—”
“—murderer,” spat Harry.
“Well ... yes,” said Hermione. “So ... I was sort of right. Snape must have been proud of being “half a Prince", you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggle from what it
said in the Prophet.”
“Yeah, that fits,” said Harry. “He'd play up the pure-blood side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them ... he's just like Voldemort. Pure-blood
mother, Muggie father ... ashamed of his parentage, trying to make himself feared using the Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name—Lord Voldemort—the Half-
Blood Prince—how could Dumbledore have missed—?”
He broke off, looking out of the window. He could not stop himself dwelling upon Dumbledore's inexcusable trust in Snape ... but as Hermione had just inadvertently
reminded him, he, Harry, had been taken in just the same ... in spite of the increasing nastiness of those scribbled spells, he had refused to believe ill of the boy
who had been so clever, who had helped him so much ...
Helped him ... it was an almost unendurable thought, now ...
“I still don't get why he didn't turn you in for using that book,” said Ron. “He must've known where you were getting it all from.”
“He knew,” said Harry bitterly. “He knew when I used Sectumsempra. He didn't really need Legilimency ... he might even have known before then, with Slughom talking
about how brilliant I was at Potions ... shouldn't have left his old book in the bottom of that cupboard, should he?”
“But why didn't he turn you in?”
“I don't think he wanted to associate himself with that book,” said Hermione. “I don't think Dumbledore would have liked it very much if he'd known. And even if
Snape pretended it hadn't been his, Slughom would have recognised his writing at once. Anyway, the book was left in Snape's old classroom, and I'll bet Dumbledore knew
his mother was called ‘Prince'.”
“I should've shown the book to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “All that time he was showing me how Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I had proof Snape
was, too—”
“What about him?” asked Harry heavily, slumping back in his chair.
“Well, it's just that I was sort of right about the Half-Blood Prince business,” she said tentatively.
“D'you have to rub it in, Hermione? How do you think I feel about that now?”
“No—no—Harry, I didn't mean that!” she said hastily, looking around to check that they were not being overheard. “It's just that I was right about Eileen Prince
once owning the book. You see ... she was Snape's mother!”
“I thought she wasn't much of a looker,” said Ron. Hermione ignored him.
“I was going through the rest of the old Prophets and there was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later an
announcement saying that she'd given birth to a—”
“—murderer,” spat Harry.
“Well ... yes,” said Hermione. “So ... I was sort of right. Snape must have been proud of being “half a Prince", you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggle from what it
said in the Prophet.”
“Yeah, that fits,” said Harry. “He'd play up the pure-blood side so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them ... he's just like Voldemort. Pure-blood
mother, Muggie father ... ashamed of his parentage, trying to make himself feared using the Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name—Lord Voldemort—the Half-
Blood Prince—how could Dumbledore have missed—?”
He broke off, looking out of the window. He could not stop himself dwelling upon Dumbledore's inexcusable trust in Snape ... but as Hermione had just inadvertently
reminded him, he, Harry, had been taken in just the same ... in spite of the increasing nastiness of those scribbled spells, he had refused to believe ill of the boy
who had been so clever, who had helped him so much ...
Helped him ... it was an almost unendurable thought, now ...
“I still don't get why he didn't turn you in for using that book,” said Ron. “He must've known where you were getting it all from.”
“He knew,” said Harry bitterly. “He knew when I used Sectumsempra. He didn't really need Legilimency ... he might even have known before then, with Slughom talking
about how brilliant I was at Potions ... shouldn't have left his old book in the bottom of that cupboard, should he?”
“But why didn't he turn you in?”
“I don't think he wanted to associate himself with that book,” said Hermione. “I don't think Dumbledore would have liked it very much if he'd known. And even if
Snape pretended it hadn't been his, Slughom would have recognised his writing at once. Anyway, the book was left in Snape's old classroom, and I'll bet Dumbledore knew
his mother was called ‘Prince'.”
“I should've shown the book to Dumbledore,” said Harry. “All that time he was showing me how Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I had proof Snape
was, too—”
“... so eet ees lucky ‘e is marrying me
“... so eet ees lucky ‘e is marrying me,” said Fleur happily, plumping up Bill's pillows, “because ze British overcook their meat, I ‘ave always said this.”
“I suppose I'm just going to have to accept that he really is going to marry her,” sighed Ginny later that evening, as she, Harry, Ron and Hermione sat beside the
open window of the Gryffindor common room, looking out over the twilit grounds.
“She's not that bad,” said Harry. “Ugly, though,” he added hastily, as Ginny raised her eyebrows, and she let out a reluctant giggle.
“Well, I suppose if Mum can stand it, I can.”
“Anyone else we know died?” Ron asked Hermione, who was perusing the Evening Prophet.
Hermione winced at the forced toughness in his voice.
“No,” she said reprovingly, folding up the newspaper. “They're still looking for Snape, but no sign ...”
“Of course there isn't,” said Harry, who became angry every time this subject cropped up. “They won't find Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they've
never managed to do that in all this time ...”
“I'm going to go to bed,” yawned Ginny. “I haven't been sleeping that well since ... well ... I could do with some sleep.”
She kissed Harry (Ron looked away pointedly), waved at the other two and departed for the girls’ dormitories. The moment the door had closed behind her, Hermione
leaned forwards towards Harry with a most Hermione-ish look on her face.
“Harry, I found something out this morning, in the library ...”
“R.A.B.?” said Harry, sitting up straight.
He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth
about the real Horcrux had to be completed before he could move a little further along the dark and winding path stretching ahead of him, the path that he and
Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now knew he would have to journey alone. There might still be as many as four Horcruxes out there somewhere and each
would need to be found and eliminated before there was even a possibility that Voldemort could be killed. He kept reciting their names to himself, as though by listing
them he could bring them within reach: “the locket ... the cup ... the snake ... something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ... the locket ... the cup ... the snake ...
something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ...”
This mantra seemed to pulse through Harry's mind as he fell asleep at night, and his dreams were thick with cups, lockets and mysterious objects that he could not quite
reach, though Dumbledore helpfully offered Harry a rope ladder that turned to snakes the moment he began to climb ...
He had shown Hermione the note inside the locket the morning after Dumbledore's death, and although she had not immediately recognised the initials as belonging to some
obscure wizard about whom she had been reading, she had since been rushing off to the library a little more often than was strictly necessary for somebody who had no
homework to do.
“No,” she said sadly, “I've been trying, Harry, but I haven't found anything ... there are a couple of reasonably well-known wizards with those initials—Rosalind
Antigone Bungs ... Rupert “Axebanger” Brookstanton ... but they don't seem to fit at all. Judging by that note, the person who stole the Horcrux knew Voldemort, and I
can't find a shred of evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever had anything to do with him ... no, actually, it's about ... well, Snape.”
“I suppose I'm just going to have to accept that he really is going to marry her,” sighed Ginny later that evening, as she, Harry, Ron and Hermione sat beside the
open window of the Gryffindor common room, looking out over the twilit grounds.
“She's not that bad,” said Harry. “Ugly, though,” he added hastily, as Ginny raised her eyebrows, and she let out a reluctant giggle.
“Well, I suppose if Mum can stand it, I can.”
“Anyone else we know died?” Ron asked Hermione, who was perusing the Evening Prophet.
Hermione winced at the forced toughness in his voice.
“No,” she said reprovingly, folding up the newspaper. “They're still looking for Snape, but no sign ...”
“Of course there isn't,” said Harry, who became angry every time this subject cropped up. “They won't find Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they've
never managed to do that in all this time ...”
“I'm going to go to bed,” yawned Ginny. “I haven't been sleeping that well since ... well ... I could do with some sleep.”
She kissed Harry (Ron looked away pointedly), waved at the other two and departed for the girls’ dormitories. The moment the door had closed behind her, Hermione
leaned forwards towards Harry with a most Hermione-ish look on her face.
“Harry, I found something out this morning, in the library ...”
“R.A.B.?” said Harry, sitting up straight.
He did not feel the way he had so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery; he simply knew that the task of discovering the truth
about the real Horcrux had to be completed before he could move a little further along the dark and winding path stretching ahead of him, the path that he and
Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now knew he would have to journey alone. There might still be as many as four Horcruxes out there somewhere and each
would need to be found and eliminated before there was even a possibility that Voldemort could be killed. He kept reciting their names to himself, as though by listing
them he could bring them within reach: “the locket ... the cup ... the snake ... something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ... the locket ... the cup ... the snake ...
something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's ...”
This mantra seemed to pulse through Harry's mind as he fell asleep at night, and his dreams were thick with cups, lockets and mysterious objects that he could not quite
reach, though Dumbledore helpfully offered Harry a rope ladder that turned to snakes the moment he began to climb ...
He had shown Hermione the note inside the locket the morning after Dumbledore's death, and although she had not immediately recognised the initials as belonging to some
obscure wizard about whom she had been reading, she had since been rushing off to the library a little more often than was strictly necessary for somebody who had no
homework to do.
“No,” she said sadly, “I've been trying, Harry, but I haven't found anything ... there are a couple of reasonably well-known wizards with those initials—Rosalind
Antigone Bungs ... Rupert “Axebanger” Brookstanton ... but they don't seem to fit at all. Judging by that note, the person who stole the Horcrux knew Voldemort, and I
can't find a shred of evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever had anything to do with him ... no, actually, it's about ... well, Snape.”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
it let out a ghostly wail. “Oh, shut up,”
it let out a ghostly wail. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag.
The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of
chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years’ first Apparition lesson, which was scheduled for a Saturday morning so that
no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds.
When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron had come down with Lavender) they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the
enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout—the Heads of House—and a small wizard whom
Harry took to be the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colourless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a
single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry wondered whether constant disappearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail
build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish.
“Good morning,” said the Ministry wizard, when all the students had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be
your Ministry-Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time—”
“Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” barked Professor McGonagall.
Everybody looked round. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered
argument. Harry glanced quickly at Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy's rudeness than the fact that
McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house.
The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of
chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years’ first Apparition lesson, which was scheduled for a Saturday morning so that
no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds.
When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron had come down with Lavender) they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the
enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout—the Heads of House—and a small wizard whom
Harry took to be the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colourless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a
single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry wondered whether constant disappearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail
build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish.
“Good morning,” said the Ministry wizard, when all the students had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be
your Ministry-Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time—”
“Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” barked Professor McGonagall.
Everybody looked round. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered
argument. Harry glanced quickly at Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy's rudeness than the fact that
McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house.
He seized his dragonskin briefcase,
He seized his dragonskin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door.
“Sir,” said Harry desperately, “I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory—”
“Did you?” said Slughorn. “Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!”
He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him.
Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without
doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too.
“It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!” said Harry irritably. “Look, I had to try and soften him up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh,
will you get a grip!” he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name.
Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's attitudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time
being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the
attack.
When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind.
Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch practice. Unfortunately,
however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else.
Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities
to question him.
Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first time in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick
with the bezoar.
“I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!” she told him. “Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most
horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions—nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Most Evil—listen—"of the
Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction” ... I mean, why mention it, then?” she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut;
“Sir,” said Harry desperately, “I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory—”
“Did you?” said Slughorn. “Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!”
He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him.
Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without
doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too.
“It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!” said Harry irritably. “Look, I had to try and soften him up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh,
will you get a grip!” he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name.
Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's attitudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time
being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the
attack.
When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind.
Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch practice. Unfortunately,
however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else.
Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities
to question him.
Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first time in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick
with the bezoar.
“I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!” she told him. “Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most
horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions—nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Most Evil—listen—"of the
Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction” ... I mean, why mention it, then?” she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut;
Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie
Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie's potion and passed on to Ron's with a grimace. He did not linger over Ron's cauldron, but backed away swiftly,
retching slightly.
“And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to show me?”
Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm.
Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with
laughter.
“You've got a nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, you're like your mother ... well, I can't fault you
... a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!”
Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair,
bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry.
“And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry” she asked through gritted teeth.
“That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. “Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of
potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it ... yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick ... although as they don't
work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes ...”
The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled something that looked like cat sick over himself.
Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.
“Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!”
Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon.
Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left; both looked rather annoyed. At last
Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room.
“Come on, now, Harry, you'll be late for your next lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase.
“Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away ...”
“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”
Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, “What did you say?”
“I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see—”
“Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered Slughorn.
His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his
sweating brow.
“Dumbledore's shown you that—that memory,” said Slughorn. “Well? Hasn't he?”
“Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.
“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. “Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know
anything—anything—” he repeated the word forcefully “—about Horcruxes.”
retching slightly.
“And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to show me?”
Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm.
Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with
laughter.
“You've got a nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, you're like your mother ... well, I can't fault you
... a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!”
Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair,
bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry.
“And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry” she asked through gritted teeth.
“That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. “Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of
potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it ... yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick ... although as they don't
work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes ...”
The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled something that looked like cat sick over himself.
Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.
“Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!”
Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon.
Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left; both looked rather annoyed. At last
Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room.
“Come on, now, Harry, you'll be late for your next lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase.
“Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away ...”
“Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?”
Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, “What did you say?”
“I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see—”
“Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered Slughorn.
His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his
sweating brow.
“Dumbledore's shown you that—that memory,” said Slughorn. “Well? Hasn't he?”
“Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.
“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. “Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know
anything—anything—” he repeated the word forcefully “—about Horcruxes.”
“You sure the Prince hasn't got any tips
“You sure the Prince hasn't got any tips?” Ron muttered to Harry.
Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on Antidotes. There was Golpalott's Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had
recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince's hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding
it.
“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily.
Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy the spell she was doing because she was now so good at non-
verbal incantations that she did not need to say the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering, ’Specialis revelio!’ over his cauldron, which sounded
impressive, so Harry and Ron hastened to imitate him.
It took Harry only five minutes to realise that his reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into
his cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell
of bad eggs overwhelmed him. Hermione's expression could not have been any smugger; she had loathed being out-performed in every Potions class. She was now decanting
the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than anything else, Harry bent over
the Half-Blood Prince's book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force.
And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes.
Just shove a bezoar down their throats.
Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn't he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn't Snape mentioned them in their first ever Potions lesson? ‘A stone taken
from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons.’
It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate measures.
He hastened towards the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at the very back, a small card box
on which had been scribbled the word ‘Bezoars'.
He opened the box just as Slughorn called, “Two minutes left, everyone!” Inside were half a dozen shrivelled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than
real stones. Harry seized one, put the box back in the cupboard and hurried back to his cauldron.
“Time's ... UP!” called Slughorn genially. “Well, let's see how you've done! Blaise ... what have you got for me?”
Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into
her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up completely, and was merely trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing from his cauldron. Harry stood
there waiting, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand.
Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on Antidotes. There was Golpalott's Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had
recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince's hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding
it.
“Nothing,” said Harry gloomily.
Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy the spell she was doing because she was now so good at non-
verbal incantations that she did not need to say the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering, ’Specialis revelio!’ over his cauldron, which sounded
impressive, so Harry and Ron hastened to imitate him.
It took Harry only five minutes to realise that his reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into
his cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell
of bad eggs overwhelmed him. Hermione's expression could not have been any smugger; she had loathed being out-performed in every Potions class. She was now decanting
the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than anything else, Harry bent over
the Half-Blood Prince's book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force.
And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes.
Just shove a bezoar down their throats.
Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn't he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn't Snape mentioned them in their first ever Potions lesson? ‘A stone taken
from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons.’
It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate measures.
He hastened towards the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at the very back, a small card box
on which had been scribbled the word ‘Bezoars'.
He opened the box just as Slughorn called, “Two minutes left, everyone!” Inside were half a dozen shrivelled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than
real stones. Harry seized one, put the box back in the cupboard and hurried back to his cauldron.
“Time's ... UP!” called Slughorn genially. “Well, let's see how you've done! Blaise ... what have you got for me?”
Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into
her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up completely, and was merely trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing from his cauldron. Harry stood
there waiting, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand.
Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these days,
Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these days, seeing as Harry, Ron and Hermione had to share a desk. Today, Hermione moved her cauldron around the table so that
she was close to Ernie, and ignored both Harry and Ron.
“What've you done?” Ron muttered to Harry, looking at Hermione's haughty profile.
But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room.
“Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law ... who can tell me—? But Miss Granger can, of
course!”
Hermione recited at top speed: “Golpalott's-Third-Law-states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-
the-separale-components.”
“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true...”
Harry was going to have to take Slughorn's word for it that Golpalott's Third Law was true, because he had not understood any of it. Nobody apart from Hermione seemed
to be following what Slughorn said next, either.
“... which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion's ingredients by Scarpin's Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the
relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process,
transform these disparate elements—”
Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half-open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Ron kept forgetting that he could no longer rely on
Hermione to help him out of trouble when he failed to grasp what was going on.
“... and so,” finished Slughorn, “I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before
the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don't forget your protective gloves!”
Hermione had left her stool and was halfway towards Siughorn's desk before the rest of the class had realised it was time to move, and by the time Harry, Ron and Ernie
returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it.
“It's a shame that the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry,” she said brightly as she straightened up. “You have to understand the principles
involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!”
Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken from Siughorn's desk, which was a garish shade of pink, tipped it into his cauldron and lit a fire underneath it. He did
not have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at Ron, who was now standing there looking rather gormless, having copied everything Harry had
done.
she was close to Ernie, and ignored both Harry and Ron.
“What've you done?” Ron muttered to Harry, looking at Hermione's haughty profile.
But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room.
“Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law ... who can tell me—? But Miss Granger can, of
course!”
Hermione recited at top speed: “Golpalott's-Third-Law-states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-
the-separale-components.”
“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true...”
Harry was going to have to take Slughorn's word for it that Golpalott's Third Law was true, because he had not understood any of it. Nobody apart from Hermione seemed
to be following what Slughorn said next, either.
“... which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion's ingredients by Scarpin's Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the
relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process,
transform these disparate elements—”
Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half-open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Ron kept forgetting that he could no longer rely on
Hermione to help him out of trouble when he failed to grasp what was going on.
“... and so,” finished Slughorn, “I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before
the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don't forget your protective gloves!”
Hermione had left her stool and was halfway towards Siughorn's desk before the rest of the class had realised it was time to move, and by the time Harry, Ron and Ernie
returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it.
“It's a shame that the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry,” she said brightly as she straightened up. “You have to understand the principles
involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!”
Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken from Siughorn's desk, which was a garish shade of pink, tipped it into his cauldron and lit a fire underneath it. He did
not have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at Ron, who was now standing there looking rather gormless, having copied everything Harry had
done.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Quidditch team that Harry had joined in his first year.
Quidditch team that Harry had joined in his first year.
“I thought you'd get that, well done,” she called over, pointing at the Captains badge on Harry's chest. “Tell me when you call trials!”
“Don't be stupid,” said Harry, “you don't need to try out, I watched you play for five years...”
“You mustn't start off like that,” she said warningly. “For all you know, there's someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now
because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends....”
Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common room, snarling
and attempting to take bites of the tapestry. Crookshanks's yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close.
An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. Hermione was already queuing outside,
carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon.
“We got so much homework for Runes,” she said anxiously when Harry and Ron joined her. “A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by
Wednesday!”
“Shame,” yawned Ron.
“You wait,” she said resentfully. “I bet Snape gives us loads.”
The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the
queue immediately.
“Inside,” he said.
Harry looked around as they entered. Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows,
and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body
parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures.
“I have not asked you to take out your books,” said Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of
Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.”
His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry's than anyone else's.
“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe.”
You believe... like you haven't watched them all come and go, hoping you'd be next, thought Harry scathingly.
“Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I
shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced.”
Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view.
“The Dark Arts,” said Snape, “are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed,
sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.”
Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his
voice?
“Your defenses,” said Snape, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures,” he indicated a few of them
as he swept past, “give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse” (he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly
shrieking in agony) “feel the Dementor's Kiss” (a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall) “or provoke the aggression of the Inferius” (a bloody
mass upon ground).
“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using them?”
“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” said Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now...”
He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him.
“... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?”
Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well—Miss Granger?
“I thought you'd get that, well done,” she called over, pointing at the Captains badge on Harry's chest. “Tell me when you call trials!”
“Don't be stupid,” said Harry, “you don't need to try out, I watched you play for five years...”
“You mustn't start off like that,” she said warningly. “For all you know, there's someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now
because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends....”
Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common room, snarling
and attempting to take bites of the tapestry. Crookshanks's yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close.
An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. Hermione was already queuing outside,
carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon.
“We got so much homework for Runes,” she said anxiously when Harry and Ron joined her. “A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by
Wednesday!”
“Shame,” yawned Ron.
“You wait,” she said resentfully. “I bet Snape gives us loads.”
The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the
queue immediately.
“Inside,” he said.
Harry looked around as they entered. Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows,
and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body
parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures.
“I have not asked you to take out your books,” said Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of
Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.”
His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry's than anyone else's.
“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe.”
You believe... like you haven't watched them all come and go, hoping you'd be next, thought Harry scathingly.
“Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I
shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced.”
Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view.
“The Dark Arts,” said Snape, “are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed,
sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.”
Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his
voice?
“Your defenses,” said Snape, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures,” he indicated a few of them
as he swept past, “give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse” (he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly
shrieking in agony) “feel the Dementor's Kiss” (a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall) “or provoke the aggression of the Inferius” (a bloody
mass upon ground).
“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using them?”
“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” said Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now...”
He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him.
“... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?”
Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well—Miss Granger?
“Your adversary has
“Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform,” said Hermione, “which gives you a split-second advantage.”
“An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,” said Snape dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), “but correct in
essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of
course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some, “his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more, “lack.”
Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape looked away.
“You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal
silence. Carry on.”
Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class (everyone who had been a member of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year.
None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of
saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville's muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would
surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly, but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as they
practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task.
Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry
had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.
“Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here—let me show you—”
He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacted instinctively; all thought of non-verbal spells forgotten, he yelled, “Protego!”
His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling.
“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry stiffly.
“Yes, sir.”
“There's no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.” The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying. Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Snape,
however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively.
“Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Snape. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter... not even the Chosen One.”
“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.
“You really shouldn't have said it,” said Hermione, frowning at Ron. “What made you?”
“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!” fumed Harry. “I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a
change? What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible
stuff—”
“Well,” said Hermione, “I thought he sounded a bit like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, when you were telling us what it's like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn't just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and
your guts—well, wasn't that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?”
Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as The Standard Book of Spells that he did not argue.
“Harry! Hey, Harry!”
“An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,” said Snape dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), “but correct in
essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of
course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some, “his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more, “lack.”
Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape looked away.
“You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal
silence. Carry on.”
Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class (everyone who had been a member of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year.
None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of
saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville's muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would
surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly, but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as they
practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task.
Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry
had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.
“Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here—let me show you—”
He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacted instinctively; all thought of non-verbal spells forgotten, he yelled, “Protego!”
His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling.
“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry stiffly.
“Yes, sir.”
“There's no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.” The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying. Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Snape,
however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively.
“Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Snape. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter... not even the Chosen One.”
“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.
“You really shouldn't have said it,” said Hermione, frowning at Ron. “What made you?”
“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!” fumed Harry. “I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a
change? What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible
stuff—”
“Well,” said Hermione, “I thought he sounded a bit like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, when you were telling us what it's like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn't just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and
your guts—well, wasn't that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?”
Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as The Standard Book of Spells that he did not argue.
“Harry! Hey, Harry!”
Harry looked around; Jack Sloper,
Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment.
“For you,” panted Sloper. “Listen, I heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?”
“I'm not sure yet,” said Harry, thinking privately that Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. “I'll let you know.”
“Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend—”
But Harry was not listening; he had just recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron and Hermione,
unrolling the parchment as he went.
Dear Harry,
I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at eight p.m. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.
>Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.
“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Ron, who had read the message over Harry's shoulder and was looking perplexed.
“It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study,” said Harry in a low voice. “Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased... I won't be able to do his
detention!”
He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the
type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive
magic. After break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and Ron returned to the common room where they grudgingly started Snape's homework. This turned out to be so
complex that they still had not finished when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free period (though she considerably speeded up the process). They had only
just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon's double Potions and they beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's.
When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the
required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked
despite his rather pompous manner.
“Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, “didn't get a chance to speak in Defense Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson,
I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags... And how are you, Ron—Hermione?”
Before they could say more than “fine,” the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus
mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.
The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four
Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the one nearest a gold-colored
cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever inhaled: somehow it reminded him simultaneously of treacle tart, the woody smell of a
broomstick handle, and something flowery he thought he might have smelled at the Burrow. He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion's
fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, who grinned back lazily.
“Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and
don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making...”
“Sir?” said Harry, raising his hand.
“Harry, m'boy?”
“I haven't got a book or scales or anything—nor's Ron—we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see—”
“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention... not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we
can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts...”
Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage,
“For you,” panted Sloper. “Listen, I heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?”
“I'm not sure yet,” said Harry, thinking privately that Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. “I'll let you know.”
“Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend—”
But Harry was not listening; he had just recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron and Hermione,
unrolling the parchment as he went.
Dear Harry,
I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at eight p.m. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.
>Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.
“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Ron, who had read the message over Harry's shoulder and was looking perplexed.
“It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study,” said Harry in a low voice. “Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased... I won't be able to do his
detention!”
He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the
type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive
magic. After break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and Ron returned to the common room where they grudgingly started Snape's homework. This turned out to be so
complex that they still had not finished when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free period (though she considerably speeded up the process). They had only
just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon's double Potions and they beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's.
When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the
required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked
despite his rather pompous manner.
“Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, “didn't get a chance to speak in Defense Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson,
I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags... And how are you, Ron—Hermione?”
Before they could say more than “fine,” the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus
mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.
The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four
Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the one nearest a gold-colored
cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever inhaled: somehow it reminded him simultaneously of treacle tart, the woody smell of a
broomstick handle, and something flowery he thought he might have smelled at the Burrow. He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion's
fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, who grinned back lazily.
“Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and
don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making...”
“Sir?” said Harry, raising his hand.
“Harry, m'boy?”
“I haven't got a book or scales or anything—nor's Ron—we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see—”
“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention... not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we
can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts...”
Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage,
“So it's for sale, then? It isn't being... kept for anyone?”
“So it's for sale, then? It isn't being... kept for anyone?”
Mr. Borgin squinted at her. Harry had the nasty feeling he knew exactly what Hermione was up to. Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too because she suddenly threw caution to the winds.
“The thing is, that—er—boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he's a friend of mine, and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he's already reserved anything, I obviously don't want to get him the same thing,
so... um...”
It was a pretty lame story in Harry's opinion, and apparently Borgin thought so too.
“Out,” he said sharply. “Get out!”
Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her and put up the closed sign.
“Ah well,” said Ron, throwing the cloak back over Hermione. “Worth a try, but you were a bit obvious—”
“Well, next time you can show me how it's done, Master of Mystery!” she snapped.
Ron and Hermione bickered all the way back to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to stop so that they could dodge undetected around a very anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who had clearly
noticed their absence. Once in the shop, Harry whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, hid it in his bag, and joined in with the other two when they insisted, in answer to Mrs. Weasleys accusations, that they had been in the back
room all along, and that she could not have looked properly.
Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays pondering the meaning of Malfoy's behavior in Knockturn Alley. What disturbed him most was the satisfied look on
Malfoy's face as he had left the shop. Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be good news. To his slight annoyance, however, neither Ron nor Hermione seemed
quite as curious about Malfoy's activities as he was; or at least, they seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days.
“Yes, I've already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the windowsill in Fred and George's room with her feet up on
one of the cardboard boxes and had only grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced Rune Translation. “But haven't we agreed there could be a lot of
explanations?”
“Maybe he's broken his Hand of Glory,” said Ron vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his broomstick's bent tail twigs. “Remember that shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?
”
“But what about when he said, ‘Don't forget to keep that one safe'?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. “That sounded to me like Borgin's got another one of the
broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.”
“You reckon?” said Ron, now trying to scrape some dirt off his broom handle.
“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, he said, “Malfoy's father's in Azkaban. Don't you think Malfoy'd like revenge?”
Ron looked up, blinking.
“Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?”
“That's my point, I don't know!” said Harry, frustrated. “But he's up to something and I think we should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and—”
Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had just occurred to him.
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Mr. Borgin squinted at her. Harry had the nasty feeling he knew exactly what Hermione was up to. Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too because she suddenly threw caution to the winds.
“The thing is, that—er—boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he's a friend of mine, and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he's already reserved anything, I obviously don't want to get him the same thing,
so... um...”
It was a pretty lame story in Harry's opinion, and apparently Borgin thought so too.
“Out,” he said sharply. “Get out!”
Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her and put up the closed sign.
“Ah well,” said Ron, throwing the cloak back over Hermione. “Worth a try, but you were a bit obvious—”
“Well, next time you can show me how it's done, Master of Mystery!” she snapped.
Ron and Hermione bickered all the way back to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to stop so that they could dodge undetected around a very anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who had clearly
noticed their absence. Once in the shop, Harry whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, hid it in his bag, and joined in with the other two when they insisted, in answer to Mrs. Weasleys accusations, that they had been in the back
room all along, and that she could not have looked properly.
Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays pondering the meaning of Malfoy's behavior in Knockturn Alley. What disturbed him most was the satisfied look on
Malfoy's face as he had left the shop. Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be good news. To his slight annoyance, however, neither Ron nor Hermione seemed
quite as curious about Malfoy's activities as he was; or at least, they seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days.
“Yes, I've already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the windowsill in Fred and George's room with her feet up on
one of the cardboard boxes and had only grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced Rune Translation. “But haven't we agreed there could be a lot of
explanations?”
“Maybe he's broken his Hand of Glory,” said Ron vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his broomstick's bent tail twigs. “Remember that shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?
”
“But what about when he said, ‘Don't forget to keep that one safe'?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. “That sounded to me like Borgin's got another one of the
broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.”
“You reckon?” said Ron, now trying to scrape some dirt off his broom handle.
“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, he said, “Malfoy's father's in Azkaban. Don't you think Malfoy'd like revenge?”
Ron looked up, blinking.
“Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?”
“That's my point, I don't know!” said Harry, frustrated. “But he's up to something and I think we should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and—”
Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had just occurred to him.
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Chapter 62
Chapter 62
When Alexey Alexandrovitch reached the race-course, Anna was already sitting in the pavilion beside Betsy, in that pavilion where all the highest society had gathered. She caught sight of her husband in the distance. Two men, her husband and her lover, were the two centers of her existence, and unaided by her external senses she was aware of their nearness. She was aware of her husband approaching a long way off, and she could not help following him in the surging crowd in the midst of which he was moving. She watched his progress towards the pavilion, saw him now responding condescendingly to an ingratiating bow, now exchanging friendly, nonchalant greetings with his equals, now assiduously trying to catch the eye of some great one of this world, and taking off his big round hat that squeezed the tips of his ears. All these ways of his she knew, and all were hateful to her. "Nothing but ambition, nothing but the desire to get on, that's all there is in his soul," she thought; "as for these lofty ideals, love of culture, religion, they are only so many tools for getting on." From his glances towards the ladies' pavilion (he was staring straight at her, but did not distinguish his wife in the sea of muslin, ribbons, feathers, parasols and flowers) she saw that he was looking for her, but she purposely avoided noticing him.
"Alexey Alexandrovitch!" Princess Betsy called to him; "I'm sure you don't see your wife: here she is."
He smiled his chilly smile.
"There's so much splendor here that one's eyes are dazzled," he said, and he went into the pavilion. He smiled to his wife as a man should smile on meeting his wife after only just parting from her, and greeted the princess and other acquaintances, giving to each what was due--that is to say, jesting with the ladies and dealing out friendly greetings among the men. Below, near the pavilion, was standing an adjutant-general of whom Alexey Alexandrovitch had a high opinion, noted for his intelligence and culture. Alexey Alexandrovitch entered into conversation with him.
There was an interval between the races, and so nothing hindered conversation. The adjutant-general expressed his disapproval of races. Alexey Alexandrovitch replied defending them. Anna heard his high, measured tones, not losing one word, and every word struck her as false, and stabbed her ears with pain.
When the three-mile steeplechase was beginning, she bent forward and gazed with fixed eyes at Vronsky as he went up to his horse and mounted, and at the same time she heard that loathsome, never-ceasing voice of her husband. She was in an agony of terror for Vronsky, but a still greater agony was the never-ceasing, as it seemed to her, stream of her husband's shrill voice with its familiar intonations.
"Yes," he said;
"Yes," he said; "the doctor's been with me today and wasted an hour of my time. I feel that some one of our friends must have sent him: my health's so precious, it seems."
"No; what did he say?"
she questioned him about his health and what he had been doing, and tried to persuade him to take a rest and come out to her.
All this she said brightly, rapidly, and with a peculiar brilliance in her eyes. But Alexey Alexandrovitch did not now attach any special significance to this tone of hers. He heard only her words and gave them only the direct sense they bore. And he answered simply, though jestingly. There was nothing remarkable in all this conversation, but never after could Anna recall this brief scene without an agonizing pang of shame.
Seryozha came in preceded by his governess. If Alexey Alexandrovitch had allowed himself to observe he would have noticed the timid and bewildered eyes with which Seryozha glanced first at his father and then at his mother. But he would not see anything, and he did not see it.
"Ah, the young man! He's grown. Really, he's getting quite a man. How are you, young man?"
And he gave his hand to the scared child. Seryozha had been shy of his father before, and now, ever since Alexey Alexandrovitch had taken to calling him young man, and since that insoluble question had occurred to him whether Vronsky were a friend or a foe, he avoided his father. He looked round towards his mother as though seeking shelter. It was only with his mother that he was at ease. Meanwhile, Alexey Alexandrovitch was holding his son by the shoulder while he was speaking to the governess, and Seryozha was so miserably uncomfortable that Anna saw he was on the point of tears.
Anna, who had flushed a little the instant her son came in, noticing that Seryozha was uncomfortable, got up hurriedly, took Alexey Alexandrovitch's hand from her son's shoulder, and kissing the boy, led him out onto the terrace, and quickly came back.
"It's time to start, though," said she, glancing at her watch. "How is it Betsy doesn't come?..."
"Yes," said Alexey Alexandrovitch, and getting up, he folded his hands and cracked his fingers. "I've come to bring you some money, too, for nightingales, we know, can't live on fairy tales," he said. "You want it, I expect?"
"No, I don't...yes, I do," she said, not looking at him, and crimsoning to the roots of her hair. "But you'll come back here after the races, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes!" answered Alexey Alexandrovitch. "And here's the glory of Peterhof, Princess Tverskaya," he added, looking out of the window at the elegant English carriage with the tiny seats placed extremely high. "What elegance! Charming! Well, let us be starting too, then."
Princess Tverskaya did not get out of her carriage, but her groom, in high boots, a cape, and block hat, darted out at the entrance.
"I'm going; good-bye!" said Anna, and kissing her son, she went up to Alexey Alexandrovitch and held out her hand to him. "It was ever so nice of you to come."
Alexey Alexandrovitch kissed her hand.
"Well, au revoir, then! You'll come back for some tea; that's delightful!" she said, and went out, gay and radiant. But as soon as she no longer saw him, she was aware of the spot on her hand that his lips had touched, and she shuddered with repulsion.
"No; what did he say?"
she questioned him about his health and what he had been doing, and tried to persuade him to take a rest and come out to her.
All this she said brightly, rapidly, and with a peculiar brilliance in her eyes. But Alexey Alexandrovitch did not now attach any special significance to this tone of hers. He heard only her words and gave them only the direct sense they bore. And he answered simply, though jestingly. There was nothing remarkable in all this conversation, but never after could Anna recall this brief scene without an agonizing pang of shame.
Seryozha came in preceded by his governess. If Alexey Alexandrovitch had allowed himself to observe he would have noticed the timid and bewildered eyes with which Seryozha glanced first at his father and then at his mother. But he would not see anything, and he did not see it.
"Ah, the young man! He's grown. Really, he's getting quite a man. How are you, young man?"
And he gave his hand to the scared child. Seryozha had been shy of his father before, and now, ever since Alexey Alexandrovitch had taken to calling him young man, and since that insoluble question had occurred to him whether Vronsky were a friend or a foe, he avoided his father. He looked round towards his mother as though seeking shelter. It was only with his mother that he was at ease. Meanwhile, Alexey Alexandrovitch was holding his son by the shoulder while he was speaking to the governess, and Seryozha was so miserably uncomfortable that Anna saw he was on the point of tears.
Anna, who had flushed a little the instant her son came in, noticing that Seryozha was uncomfortable, got up hurriedly, took Alexey Alexandrovitch's hand from her son's shoulder, and kissing the boy, led him out onto the terrace, and quickly came back.
"It's time to start, though," said she, glancing at her watch. "How is it Betsy doesn't come?..."
"Yes," said Alexey Alexandrovitch, and getting up, he folded his hands and cracked his fingers. "I've come to bring you some money, too, for nightingales, we know, can't live on fairy tales," he said. "You want it, I expect?"
"No, I don't...yes, I do," she said, not looking at him, and crimsoning to the roots of her hair. "But you'll come back here after the races, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes!" answered Alexey Alexandrovitch. "And here's the glory of Peterhof, Princess Tverskaya," he added, looking out of the window at the elegant English carriage with the tiny seats placed extremely high. "What elegance! Charming! Well, let us be starting too, then."
Princess Tverskaya did not get out of her carriage, but her groom, in high boots, a cape, and block hat, darted out at the entrance.
"I'm going; good-bye!" said Anna, and kissing her son, she went up to Alexey Alexandrovitch and held out her hand to him. "It was ever so nice of you to come."
Alexey Alexandrovitch kissed her hand.
"Well, au revoir, then! You'll come back for some tea; that's delightful!" she said, and went out, gay and radiant. But as soon as she no longer saw him, she was aware of the spot on her hand that his lips had touched, and she shuddered with repulsion.
Chapter 61
"It's too early for Betsy," she thought, and glancing out of the window she caught sight of the carriage and the black hat of Alexey Alexandrovitch, and the ears that she knew so well sticking up each side of it. "How unlucky! Can he be going to stay the night?" she wondered, and the thought of all that might come of such a chance struck her as so awful and terrible that, without dwelling on it for a moment, she went down to meet him with a bright and radiant face; and conscious of the presence of that spirit of falsehood and deceit in herself that she had come to know of late, she abandoned herself to that spirit and began talking, hardly knowing what she was saying.
"Ah, how nice of you!" she said, giving her husband her hand, and greeting Sludin, who was like one of the family, with a smile. "You're staying the night, I hope?" was the first word the spirit of falsehood prompted her to utter; "and now we'll go together. Only it's a pity I've promised Betsy. She's coming for me."
Alexey Alexandrovitch knit his brows at Betsy's name.
"Oh, I'm not going to separate the inseparables," he said in his usual bantering tone. "I'm going with Mihail Vassilievitch. I'm ordered exercise by the doctors too. I'll walk, and fancy myself at the springs again."
"There's no hurry," said Anna. "Would you like tea?"
She rang.
"Bring in tea, and tell Seryozha that Alexey Alexandrovitch is here. Well, tell me, how have you been? Mihail Vassilievitch, you've not been to see me before. Look how lovely it is out on the terrace," she said, turning first to one and then to the other.
She spoke very simply and naturally, but too much and too fast. She was the more aware of this from noticing in the inquisitive look Mihail Vassilievitch turned on her that he was, as it were, keeping watch on her.
Mihail Vassilievitch promptly went out on the terrace.
She sat down beside her husband.
"You don't look quite well," she said.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
"What do you want now?" he said
"What do you want now?" he said, and went out to him in the passage. Left alone with Marya Nikolaevna, Levin turned to her.
"Have you been long with my brother?" he said to her.
"Yes, more than a year. Nikolay Dmitrievitch's health has become very poor. Nikolay Dmitrievitch drinks a great deal," she said.
"That is...how does he drink?"
"Drinks vodka, and it's bad for him."
"And a great deal?" whispered Levin.
"Yes," she said, looking timidly towards the doorway, where Nikolay Levin had reappeared.
"What were you talking about?" he said, knitting his brows, and turning his scarred eyes from one to the other. "What was it?"
"Oh, nothing," Konstantin answered in confusion.
"Oh, if you don't want to say, don't. Only it's no good your talking to her. She's a wench, and you're a gentleman," he said with a jerk of the neck. "You understand everything, I see, and have taken stock of everything, and look with commiseration on my shortcomings," he began again, raising his voice.
"Nikolay Dmitrievitch, Nikolay Dmitrievitch," whispered Marya Nikolaevna, again going up to him.
"Oh, very well, very well!... But where's the supper? Ah, here it is," he said, seeing a waiter with a tray. "Here, set it here," he added angrily, and promptly seizing the vodka, he poured out a glassful and drank it greedily. "Like a drink?" he turned to his brother, and at once became better humored.
"Well, enough of Sergey Ivanovitch. I'm glad to see you, anyway. After all's said and done, we're not strangers. Come, have a drink. Tell me what you're doing," he went on, greedily munching a piece of bread, and pouring out another glassful. "How are you living?"
"I live alone in the country, as I used to. I'm busy looking after the land," answered Konstantin, watching with horror the greediness with which his brother ate and drank, and trying to conceal that he noticed it.
"Why don't you get married?"
"It hasn't happened so," Konstantin answered, reddening a little.
"Why not? For me now...everything's at an end! I've made a mess of my life. But this I've said, and I say still, that if my share had been given me when I needed it, my whole life would have been different."
Konstantin made haste to change the conversation.
"Do you know your little Vanya's with me, a clerk in the countinghouse at Pokrovskoe."
Nikolay jerked his neck, and sank into thought.
"Have you been long with my brother?" he said to her.
"Yes, more than a year. Nikolay Dmitrievitch's health has become very poor. Nikolay Dmitrievitch drinks a great deal," she said.
"That is...how does he drink?"
"Drinks vodka, and it's bad for him."
"And a great deal?" whispered Levin.
"Yes," she said, looking timidly towards the doorway, where Nikolay Levin had reappeared.
"What were you talking about?" he said, knitting his brows, and turning his scarred eyes from one to the other. "What was it?"
"Oh, nothing," Konstantin answered in confusion.
"Oh, if you don't want to say, don't. Only it's no good your talking to her. She's a wench, and you're a gentleman," he said with a jerk of the neck. "You understand everything, I see, and have taken stock of everything, and look with commiseration on my shortcomings," he began again, raising his voice.
"Nikolay Dmitrievitch, Nikolay Dmitrievitch," whispered Marya Nikolaevna, again going up to him.
"Oh, very well, very well!... But where's the supper? Ah, here it is," he said, seeing a waiter with a tray. "Here, set it here," he added angrily, and promptly seizing the vodka, he poured out a glassful and drank it greedily. "Like a drink?" he turned to his brother, and at once became better humored.
"Well, enough of Sergey Ivanovitch. I'm glad to see you, anyway. After all's said and done, we're not strangers. Come, have a drink. Tell me what you're doing," he went on, greedily munching a piece of bread, and pouring out another glassful. "How are you living?"
"I live alone in the country, as I used to. I'm busy looking after the land," answered Konstantin, watching with horror the greediness with which his brother ate and drank, and trying to conceal that he noticed it.
"Why don't you get married?"
"It hasn't happened so," Konstantin answered, reddening a little.
"Why not? For me now...everything's at an end! I've made a mess of my life. But this I've said, and I say still, that if my share had been given me when I needed it, my whole life would have been different."
Konstantin made haste to change the conversation.
"Do you know your little Vanya's with me, a clerk in the countinghouse at Pokrovskoe."
Nikolay jerked his neck, and sank into thought.
"But why in a village? In the villages,
"But why in a village? In the villages, I think, there is plenty of work as it is. Why a locksmiths' association in a village?"
"Why? Because the peasants are just as much slaves as they ever were, and that's why you and Sergey Ivanovitch don't like people to try and get them out of their slavery," said Nikolay Levin, exasperated by the objection.
Konstantin Levin sighed, looking meanwhile about the cheerless and dirty room. This sigh seemed to exasperate Nikolay still more.
"I know your and Sergey Ivanovitch's aristocratic views. I know that he applies all the power of his intellect to justify existing evils."
"No; and what do you talk of Sergey Ivanovitch for?" said Levin, smiling.
"Sergey Ivanovitch? I'll tell you what for!" Nikolay Levin shrieked suddenly at the name of Sergey Ivanovitch. "I'll tell you what for.... But what's the use of talking? There's only one thing.... What did you come to me for? You look down on this, and you're welcome to,--and go away, in God's name go away!" he shrieked, getting up from his chair. "And go away, and go away!"
"I don't look down on it at all," said Konstantin Levin timidly. "I don't even dispute it."
At that instant Marya Nikolaevna came back. Nikolay Levin looked round angrily at her. She went quickly to him, and whispered something.
"I'm not well; I've grown irritable," said Nikolay Levin, getting calmer and breathing painfully; "and then you talk to me of Sergey Ivanovitch and his article. It's such rubbish, such lying, such self-deception. What can a man write of justice who knows nothing of it? Have you read his article?" he asked Kritsky, sitting down again at the table, and moving back off half of it the scattered cigarettes, so as to clear a space.
"I've not read it," Kritsky responded gloomily, obviously not desiring to enter into the conversation.
"Why not?" said Nikolay Levin, now turning with exasperation upon Kritsky.
"Because I didn't see the use of wasting my time over it."
"Oh, but excuse me, how did you know it would be wasting your time? That article's too deep for many people--that's to say it's over their heads. But with me, it's another thing; I see through his ideas, and I know where its weakness lies."
Everyone was mute. Kritsky got up deliberately and reached his cap.
"Won't you have supper? All right, good-bye! Come round tomorrow with the locksmith."
Kritsky had hardly gone out when Nikolay Levin smiled and winked.
"He's no good either," he said. "I see, of course..."
But at that instant Kritsky, at the door, called him...
"Why? Because the peasants are just as much slaves as they ever were, and that's why you and Sergey Ivanovitch don't like people to try and get them out of their slavery," said Nikolay Levin, exasperated by the objection.
Konstantin Levin sighed, looking meanwhile about the cheerless and dirty room. This sigh seemed to exasperate Nikolay still more.
"I know your and Sergey Ivanovitch's aristocratic views. I know that he applies all the power of his intellect to justify existing evils."
"No; and what do you talk of Sergey Ivanovitch for?" said Levin, smiling.
"Sergey Ivanovitch? I'll tell you what for!" Nikolay Levin shrieked suddenly at the name of Sergey Ivanovitch. "I'll tell you what for.... But what's the use of talking? There's only one thing.... What did you come to me for? You look down on this, and you're welcome to,--and go away, in God's name go away!" he shrieked, getting up from his chair. "And go away, and go away!"
"I don't look down on it at all," said Konstantin Levin timidly. "I don't even dispute it."
At that instant Marya Nikolaevna came back. Nikolay Levin looked round angrily at her. She went quickly to him, and whispered something.
"I'm not well; I've grown irritable," said Nikolay Levin, getting calmer and breathing painfully; "and then you talk to me of Sergey Ivanovitch and his article. It's such rubbish, such lying, such self-deception. What can a man write of justice who knows nothing of it? Have you read his article?" he asked Kritsky, sitting down again at the table, and moving back off half of it the scattered cigarettes, so as to clear a space.
"I've not read it," Kritsky responded gloomily, obviously not desiring to enter into the conversation.
"Why not?" said Nikolay Levin, now turning with exasperation upon Kritsky.
"Because I didn't see the use of wasting my time over it."
"Oh, but excuse me, how did you know it would be wasting your time? That article's too deep for many people--that's to say it's over their heads. But with me, it's another thing; I see through his ideas, and I know where its weakness lies."
Everyone was mute. Kritsky got up deliberately and reached his cap.
"Won't you have supper? All right, good-bye! Come round tomorrow with the locksmith."
Kritsky had hardly gone out when Nikolay Levin smiled and winked.
"He's no good either," he said. "I see, of course..."
But at that instant Kritsky, at the door, called him...
Chapter 25
Chapter 25
"So you see," pursued Nikolay Levin, painfully wrinkling his forehead and twitching.
It was obviously difficult for him to think of what to say and do.
"Here, do you see?"... He pointed to some sort of iron bars, fastened together with strings, lying in a corner of the room. "Do you see that? That's the beginning of a new thing we're going into. It's a productive association..."
Konstantin scarcely heard him. He looked into his sickly, consumptive face, and he was more and more sorry for him, and he could not force himself to listen to what his brother was telling him about the association. He saw that this association was a mere anchor to save him from self-contempt. Nikolay Levin went on talking:
"You know that capital oppresses the laborer. The laborers with us, the peasants, bear all the burden of labor, and are so placed that however much they work they can't escape from their position of beasts of burden. All the profits of labor, on which they might improve their position, and gain leisure for themselves, and after that education, all the surplus values are taken from them by the capitalists. And society's so constituted that the harder they work, the greater the profit of the merchants and landowners, while they stay beasts of burden to the end. And that state of things must be changed," he finished up, and he looked questioningly at his brother.
"Yes, of course," said Konstantin, looking at the patch of red that had come out on his brother's projecting cheek bones.
"And so we're founding a locksmiths' association, where all the production and profit and the chief instruments of production will be in common."
"Where is the association to be?" asked Konstantin Levin.
"In the village of Vozdrem, Kazan government."
"So you see," pursued Nikolay Levin, painfully wrinkling his forehead and twitching.
It was obviously difficult for him to think of what to say and do.
"Here, do you see?"... He pointed to some sort of iron bars, fastened together with strings, lying in a corner of the room. "Do you see that? That's the beginning of a new thing we're going into. It's a productive association..."
Konstantin scarcely heard him. He looked into his sickly, consumptive face, and he was more and more sorry for him, and he could not force himself to listen to what his brother was telling him about the association. He saw that this association was a mere anchor to save him from self-contempt. Nikolay Levin went on talking:
"You know that capital oppresses the laborer. The laborers with us, the peasants, bear all the burden of labor, and are so placed that however much they work they can't escape from their position of beasts of burden. All the profits of labor, on which they might improve their position, and gain leisure for themselves, and after that education, all the surplus values are taken from them by the capitalists. And society's so constituted that the harder they work, the greater the profit of the merchants and landowners, while they stay beasts of burden to the end. And that state of things must be changed," he finished up, and he looked questioningly at his brother.
"Yes, of course," said Konstantin, looking at the patch of red that had come out on his brother's projecting cheek bones.
"And so we're founding a locksmiths' association, where all the production and profit and the chief instruments of production will be in common."
"Where is the association to be?" asked Konstantin Levin.
"In the village of Vozdrem, Kazan government."
"Oh, so that's it?" he said.
"Oh, so that's it?" he said. "Well, come in; sit down. Like some supper? Masha, bring supper for three. No, stop a minute. Do you know who this is?" he said, addressing his brother, and indicating the gentleman in the jerkin: "This is Mr. Kritsky, my friend from Kiev, a very remarkable man. He's persecuted by the police, of course, because he's not a scoundrel."
And he looked round in the way he always did at everyone in the room. Seeing that the woman standing in the doorway was moving to go, he shouted to her, "Wait a minute, I said." And with the inability to express himself, the incoherence that Konstantin knew so well, he began, with another look round at everyone, to tell his brother Kritsky's story: how he had been expelled from the university for starting a benefit society for the poor students and Sunday schools; and how he had afterwards been a teacher in a peasant school, and how he had been driven out of that too, and had afterwards been condemned for something.
"You're of the Kiev university?" said Konstantin Levin to Kritsky, to break the awkward silence that followed.
"Yes, I was of Kiev," Kritsky replied angrily, his face darkening.
"And this woman," Nikolay Levin interrupted him, pointing to her, "is the partner of my life, Marya Nikolaevna. I took her out of a bad house," and he jerked his neck saying this; "but I love her and respect her, and any one who wants to know me," he added, raising his voice and knitting his brows, "I beg to love her and respect her. She's just the same as my wife, just the same. So now you know whom you've to do with. And if you think you're lowering yourself, well, here's the floor, there's the door."
And again his eyes traveled inquiringly over all of them.
"Why I should be lowering myself, I don't understand."
"Then, Masha, tell them to bring supper; three portions, spirits and wine.... No, wait a minute.... No, it doesn't matter.... Go along."
And he looked round in the way he always did at everyone in the room. Seeing that the woman standing in the doorway was moving to go, he shouted to her, "Wait a minute, I said." And with the inability to express himself, the incoherence that Konstantin knew so well, he began, with another look round at everyone, to tell his brother Kritsky's story: how he had been expelled from the university for starting a benefit society for the poor students and Sunday schools; and how he had afterwards been a teacher in a peasant school, and how he had been driven out of that too, and had afterwards been condemned for something.
"You're of the Kiev university?" said Konstantin Levin to Kritsky, to break the awkward silence that followed.
"Yes, I was of Kiev," Kritsky replied angrily, his face darkening.
"And this woman," Nikolay Levin interrupted him, pointing to her, "is the partner of my life, Marya Nikolaevna. I took her out of a bad house," and he jerked his neck saying this; "but I love her and respect her, and any one who wants to know me," he added, raising his voice and knitting his brows, "I beg to love her and respect her. She's just the same as my wife, just the same. So now you know whom you've to do with. And if you think you're lowering yourself, well, here's the floor, there's the door."
And again his eyes traveled inquiringly over all of them.
"Why I should be lowering myself, I don't understand."
"Then, Masha, tell them to bring supper; three portions, spirits and wine.... No, wait a minute.... No, it doesn't matter.... Go along."
Levin felt that, in spite of all the ugliness of his life
Levin felt that, in spite of all the ugliness of his life, his brother Nikolay, in his soul, in the very depths of his soul, was no more in the wrong than the people who despised him. He was not to blame for having been born with his unbridled temperament and his somehow limited intelligence. But he had always wanted to be good. "I will tell him everything, without reserve, and I will make him speak without reserve, too, and I'll show him that I love him, and so understand him," Levin resolved to himself, as, towards eleven o'clock, he reached the hotel of which he had the address.
"At the top, 12 and 13," the porter answered Levin's inquiry.
"At home?"
"Sure to be at home."
The door of No. 12 was half open, and there came out into the streak of light thick fumes of cheap, poor tobacco, and the sound of a voice, unknown to Levin; but he knew at once that his brother was there; he heard his cough.
As he went in the door, the unknown voice was saying:
"It all depends with how much judgment and knowledge the thing's done."
Konstantin Levin looked in at the door, and saw that the speaker was a young man with an immense shock of hair, wearing a Russian jerkin, and that a pockmarked woman in a woolen gown, without collar or cuffs, was sitting on the sofa. His brother was not to be seen. Konstantin felt a sharp pang at his heart at the thought of the strange company in which his brother spent his life. No one had heard him, and Konstantin, taking off his galoshes, listened to what the gentleman in the jerkin was saying. He was speaking of some enterprise.
"Well, the devil flay them, the privileged classes," his brother's voice responded, with a cough. "Masha! get us some supper and some wine if there's any left; or else go and get some."
The woman rose, came out from behind the screen, and saw Konstantin.
"There's some gentleman, Nikolay Dmitrievitch," she said.
"Whom do you want?" said the voice of Nikolay Levin, angrily.
"It's I," answered Konstantin Levin, coming forward into the light.
"Who's _I_?" Nikolay's voice said again, still more angrily. He could be heard getting up hurriedly, stumbling against something, and Levin saw, facing him in the doorway, the big, scared eyes, and the huge, thin, stooping figure of his brother, so familiar, and yet astonishing in it weirdness and sickliness.
He was even thinner than three years before, when Konstantin Levin had seen him last. He was wearing a short coat, and his hands and big bones seemed huger than ever. His hair had grown thinner, the same straight mustaches hid his lips, the same eyes gazed strangely and naively at his visitor.
"Ah, Kostya!" he exclaimed suddenly, recognizing his brother, and his eyes lit up with joy. But the same second he looked round at the young man, and gave the nervous jerk of his head and neck that Konstantin knew so well, as if his neckband hurt him; and a quite different expression, wild, suffering, and cruel, rested on his emaciated fact.
"I wrote to you and Sergey Ivanovitch both that I don't know you and don't want to know you. What is it you want?"
He was not at all the same as Konstantin had been fancying him. The worst and most tiresome part of his character, what made all relations with him so difficult, had been forgotten by Konstantin Levin when he thought of him, and now, when he saw his face, and especially that nervous twitching of his head, he remembered it all.
"I didn't want to see you for anything," he answered timidly. "I've simply come to see you."
His brother's timidity obviously softened Nikolay. His lips twitched.
"At the top, 12 and 13," the porter answered Levin's inquiry.
"At home?"
"Sure to be at home."
The door of No. 12 was half open, and there came out into the streak of light thick fumes of cheap, poor tobacco, and the sound of a voice, unknown to Levin; but he knew at once that his brother was there; he heard his cough.
As he went in the door, the unknown voice was saying:
"It all depends with how much judgment and knowledge the thing's done."
Konstantin Levin looked in at the door, and saw that the speaker was a young man with an immense shock of hair, wearing a Russian jerkin, and that a pockmarked woman in a woolen gown, without collar or cuffs, was sitting on the sofa. His brother was not to be seen. Konstantin felt a sharp pang at his heart at the thought of the strange company in which his brother spent his life. No one had heard him, and Konstantin, taking off his galoshes, listened to what the gentleman in the jerkin was saying. He was speaking of some enterprise.
"Well, the devil flay them, the privileged classes," his brother's voice responded, with a cough. "Masha! get us some supper and some wine if there's any left; or else go and get some."
The woman rose, came out from behind the screen, and saw Konstantin.
"There's some gentleman, Nikolay Dmitrievitch," she said.
"Whom do you want?" said the voice of Nikolay Levin, angrily.
"It's I," answered Konstantin Levin, coming forward into the light.
"Who's _I_?" Nikolay's voice said again, still more angrily. He could be heard getting up hurriedly, stumbling against something, and Levin saw, facing him in the doorway, the big, scared eyes, and the huge, thin, stooping figure of his brother, so familiar, and yet astonishing in it weirdness and sickliness.
He was even thinner than three years before, when Konstantin Levin had seen him last. He was wearing a short coat, and his hands and big bones seemed huger than ever. His hair had grown thinner, the same straight mustaches hid his lips, the same eyes gazed strangely and naively at his visitor.
"Ah, Kostya!" he exclaimed suddenly, recognizing his brother, and his eyes lit up with joy. But the same second he looked round at the young man, and gave the nervous jerk of his head and neck that Konstantin knew so well, as if his neckband hurt him; and a quite different expression, wild, suffering, and cruel, rested on his emaciated fact.
"I wrote to you and Sergey Ivanovitch both that I don't know you and don't want to know you. What is it you want?"
He was not at all the same as Konstantin had been fancying him. The worst and most tiresome part of his character, what made all relations with him so difficult, had been forgotten by Konstantin Levin when he thought of him, and now, when he saw his face, and especially that nervous twitching of his head, he remembered it all.
"I didn't want to see you for anything," he answered timidly. "I've simply come to see you."
His brother's timidity obviously softened Nikolay. His lips twitched.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
They had reached the end of
They had reached the end of the row and emerged into more dim candlelight, There was nobody there. All was echoing, dusty silence.
‘He might be ...’ Harry whispered hoarsely, peering down the next alley. ‘Or maybe ...’ He hurried to look down the one beyond that.
‘Harry?’ said Hermione again.
‘What?’ he snarled.
‘I ... I don't think Sirius is here.’
Nobody spoke. Harry did not want to look at any of them. He felt sick. He did not understand why Sirius was not here. He had to be here. This was where he, Harry, had seen him ...
He ran up the space at the end of the rows, staring down them. Empty aisle after empty aisle flickered past. He ran the other way, back past his staring companions. There was no sign of Sirius anywhere, nor any hint of a struggle.
‘Harry?’ Ron called.
‘What?’
He did not want to hear what Ron had to say; did not want to hear Ron tell him he had been stupid or suggest that they ought to go back to Hogwarts, but the heat was rising in his face and he felt as though he would like to skulk down here in the darkness for a long while before facing the brightness of the Atrium above and the others’ accusing stares ...
‘Have you seen this?’ said Ron.
‘What?’ said Harry, but eagerly this time—it had to be a sign that Sirius had been there, a clue. He strode back to where they were all standing, a little way down row ninety-seven, but found nothing except Ron staring at one of the dusty glass spheres on the shelf.
‘What?’ Harry repeated glumly.
‘It's—it's got your name on,’ said Ron.
Harry moved a little closer. Ron was pointing at one of the small glass spheres that glowed with a dull inner light, though it was very dusty and appeared not to have been touched for many years.
‘My name?’ said Harry blankly.
He stepped forwards. Not as tall as Ron, he had to crane his neck to read the yellowish label affixed to the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery writing was written a date of some sixteen years previously, and below that:
S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.
Dark Lord
and (?)Harry Potter
Harry stared at it.
‘He might be ...’ Harry whispered hoarsely, peering down the next alley. ‘Or maybe ...’ He hurried to look down the one beyond that.
‘Harry?’ said Hermione again.
‘What?’ he snarled.
‘I ... I don't think Sirius is here.’
Nobody spoke. Harry did not want to look at any of them. He felt sick. He did not understand why Sirius was not here. He had to be here. This was where he, Harry, had seen him ...
He ran up the space at the end of the rows, staring down them. Empty aisle after empty aisle flickered past. He ran the other way, back past his staring companions. There was no sign of Sirius anywhere, nor any hint of a struggle.
‘Harry?’ Ron called.
‘What?’
He did not want to hear what Ron had to say; did not want to hear Ron tell him he had been stupid or suggest that they ought to go back to Hogwarts, but the heat was rising in his face and he felt as though he would like to skulk down here in the darkness for a long while before facing the brightness of the Atrium above and the others’ accusing stares ...
‘Have you seen this?’ said Ron.
‘What?’ said Harry, but eagerly this time—it had to be a sign that Sirius had been there, a clue. He strode back to where they were all standing, a little way down row ninety-seven, but found nothing except Ron staring at one of the dusty glass spheres on the shelf.
‘What?’ Harry repeated glumly.
‘It's—it's got your name on,’ said Ron.
Harry moved a little closer. Ron was pointing at one of the small glass spheres that glowed with a dull inner light, though it was very dusty and appeared not to have been touched for many years.
‘My name?’ said Harry blankly.
He stepped forwards. Not as tall as Ron, he had to crane his neck to read the yellowish label affixed to the shelf right beneath the dusty glass ball. In spidery writing was written a date of some sixteen years previously, and below that:
S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D.
Dark Lord
and (?)Harry Potter
Harry stared at it.
They were there, they had found the place
They were there, they had found the place: high as a church and full of nothing but towering shelves covered in small, dusty glass orbs. They glimmered dully in the light issuing from more candle-brackets set at intervals along the shelves. Like those in the circular room behind them, their flames were burning blue. The room was very cold.
Harry edged forward and peered down one of the shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves. He could not hear anything or see the slightest sign of movement.
‘You said it was row ninety-seven,’ whispered Hermione.
‘Yeah,’ breathed Harry, looking up at the end of the closest row. Beneath the branch of blue-glowing candles protruding from it glimmered the silver figure fifty-three.
‘We need to go right, I think,’ whispered Hermione, squinting to the next row. ‘Yes ... that's fifty-four ...’
‘Keep your wands ready,’ Harry said softly.
They crept forward, glancing behind them as they went on down the long alleys of shelves, the further ends of which were in near-total darkness. Tiny, yellowing labels had been stuck beneath each glass orb on the shelves. Some of them had a weird, liquid glow; others were as dull and dark within as blown light bulbs.
They passed row eighty-four ... eighty-five ... Harry was listening hard for the slightest sound of movement, but Sirius might be gagged now, or else unconscious ... or, said an unbidden voice inside his head, he might already be dead ...
I'd have felt it, he told himself, his heart now hammering against his Adam's apple, I'd already know ...
‘Ninety-seven!’ whispered Hermione.
They stood grouped around the end of the row, gazing down the alley beside it. There was nobody there.
‘He's right down at the end,’ said Harry, whose mouth had become slightly dry. ‘You can't see properly from here.’
And he led them between the towering rows of glass balls, some of which glowed softly as they passed ...
‘He should be near here,’ whispered Harry, convinced that every step was going to bring the ragged form of Sirius into view on the darkened floor. ‘Anywhere here ... really close ...’
‘Harry?’ said Hermione tentatively, but he did not want to respond. His mouth was very dry.
‘Somewhere about ... here ...’ he said.
Harry edged forward and peered down one of the shadowy aisles between two rows of shelves. He could not hear anything or see the slightest sign of movement.
‘You said it was row ninety-seven,’ whispered Hermione.
‘Yeah,’ breathed Harry, looking up at the end of the closest row. Beneath the branch of blue-glowing candles protruding from it glimmered the silver figure fifty-three.
‘We need to go right, I think,’ whispered Hermione, squinting to the next row. ‘Yes ... that's fifty-four ...’
‘Keep your wands ready,’ Harry said softly.
They crept forward, glancing behind them as they went on down the long alleys of shelves, the further ends of which were in near-total darkness. Tiny, yellowing labels had been stuck beneath each glass orb on the shelves. Some of them had a weird, liquid glow; others were as dull and dark within as blown light bulbs.
They passed row eighty-four ... eighty-five ... Harry was listening hard for the slightest sound of movement, but Sirius might be gagged now, or else unconscious ... or, said an unbidden voice inside his head, he might already be dead ...
I'd have felt it, he told himself, his heart now hammering against his Adam's apple, I'd already know ...
‘Ninety-seven!’ whispered Hermione.
They stood grouped around the end of the row, gazing down the alley beside it. There was nobody there.
‘He's right down at the end,’ said Harry, whose mouth had become slightly dry. ‘You can't see properly from here.’
And he led them between the towering rows of glass balls, some of which glowed softly as they passed ...
‘He should be near here,’ whispered Harry, convinced that every step was going to bring the ragged form of Sirius into view on the darkened floor. ‘Anywhere here ... really close ...’
‘Harry?’ said Hermione tentatively, but he did not want to respond. His mouth was very dry.
‘Somewhere about ... here ...’ he said.
He took several paces back from the dais and wrenched his eyes from the veil.
He took several paces back from the dais and wrenched his eyes from the veil.
‘Let's go,’ he said.
‘That's what I've been trying to—well, come on, then!’ said Hermione, and she led the way back around the dais. On the other side, Ginny and Neville were staring, apparently entranced, at the veil too. Without speaking, Hermione took hold of Ginny's arm,
Ron grabbed Neville's, and they marched them firmly back to the lowest stone bench and clambered all the way back up to the door.
‘What d'you reckon that arch was?’ Harry asked Hermione as they regained the dark circular room.
‘I don't know, but whatever it was, it was dangerous,’ she said firmly, again inscribing a fiery cross on the door.
Once more, the wall span and became still again. Harry approached another door at random and pushed. It did not move.
‘What's wrong?’ said Hermione.
‘It's ... locked ...’ said Harry, throwing his weight at the door, but it didn't budge.
‘This is it, then, isn't it?’ said Ron excitedly, joining Harry in the attempt to force the door open. ‘Bound to be!’
‘Get out of the way!’ said Hermione sharply. She pointed her wand at the place where a lock would have been on an ordinary door and said, ‘Alohomora!’
Nothing happened.
‘Sirius's knife!’ said Harry. He pulled it out from inside his robes and slid it into the crack between the door and the wall. The others all watched eagerly as he ran it from top to bottom, withdrew it and then flung his shoulder again at the door. It remained as firmly shut as ever. What was more, when Harry looked down at the knife, he saw the blade had melted.
‘Right, we're leaving that room,’ said Hermione decisively.
‘But what if that's the one?’ said Ron, staring at it with a mixture of apprehension and longing.
‘It can't be, Harry could get through all the doors in his dream,’ said Hermione, marking the door with another fiery cross as Harry replaced the now-useless handle of Sirius's knife in his pocket.
‘You know what could be in there?’ said Luna eagerly, as the wall started to spin yet again.
‘Something blibbering, no doubt,’ said Hermione under her breath and Neville gave a nervous little laugh.
The wall slid to a halt and Harry, with a feeling of increasing desperation, pushed the next door open.
‘This is it!’
He knew it at once by the beautiful, dancing, diamond-sparkling light. As Harry's eyes became accustomed to the brilliant glare, he saw clocks gleaming from every surface, large and small, grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between the bookcases or standing on desks ranging the length of the room, so that a busy, relentless ticking filled the place like thousands of minuscule, marching footsteps. The source of the dancing, diamond-bright light was a towering crystal bell jar that stood at the far end of the room.
‘This way!’
Harry's heart was pumping frantically now that he knew they were on the right track; he led the way down the narrow space between the lines of desks, heading, as he had done in his dream, for the source of the light, the crystal bell jar quite as tall as he was that stood on a desk and appeared to be full of a billowing, glittering wind.
‘Oh, took!’ said Ginny, as they drew nearer, pointing at the very heart of the bell jar.
Drifting along in the sparkling current inside was a tiny, jewel-bright egg. As it rose in the jar, it cracked open and a hummingbird emerged, which was carried to the very top of the jar, but as it fell on the draught its feathers became bedraggled and damp again, and by the time it had been borne back to the bottom of the jar it had been enclosed once more in its egg.
‘Keep going!’ said Harry sharply, because Ginny showed signs of wanting to stop and watch the egg's progress back into a bird.
‘You dawdled enough by that old arch!’ she said crossly, but followed him past the bell jar to the only door behind it.
‘This is it,’ Harry said again, and his heart was now pumping so hard and fast he felt it must interfere with his speech, ‘it's through here—’
He glanced around at them all; they had their wands out and looked suddenly serious and anxious. He looked back at the door and pushed. It swung open.
‘Let's go,’ he said.
‘That's what I've been trying to—well, come on, then!’ said Hermione, and she led the way back around the dais. On the other side, Ginny and Neville were staring, apparently entranced, at the veil too. Without speaking, Hermione took hold of Ginny's arm,
Ron grabbed Neville's, and they marched them firmly back to the lowest stone bench and clambered all the way back up to the door.
‘What d'you reckon that arch was?’ Harry asked Hermione as they regained the dark circular room.
‘I don't know, but whatever it was, it was dangerous,’ she said firmly, again inscribing a fiery cross on the door.
Once more, the wall span and became still again. Harry approached another door at random and pushed. It did not move.
‘What's wrong?’ said Hermione.
‘It's ... locked ...’ said Harry, throwing his weight at the door, but it didn't budge.
‘This is it, then, isn't it?’ said Ron excitedly, joining Harry in the attempt to force the door open. ‘Bound to be!’
‘Get out of the way!’ said Hermione sharply. She pointed her wand at the place where a lock would have been on an ordinary door and said, ‘Alohomora!’
Nothing happened.
‘Sirius's knife!’ said Harry. He pulled it out from inside his robes and slid it into the crack between the door and the wall. The others all watched eagerly as he ran it from top to bottom, withdrew it and then flung his shoulder again at the door. It remained as firmly shut as ever. What was more, when Harry looked down at the knife, he saw the blade had melted.
‘Right, we're leaving that room,’ said Hermione decisively.
‘But what if that's the one?’ said Ron, staring at it with a mixture of apprehension and longing.
‘It can't be, Harry could get through all the doors in his dream,’ said Hermione, marking the door with another fiery cross as Harry replaced the now-useless handle of Sirius's knife in his pocket.
‘You know what could be in there?’ said Luna eagerly, as the wall started to spin yet again.
‘Something blibbering, no doubt,’ said Hermione under her breath and Neville gave a nervous little laugh.
The wall slid to a halt and Harry, with a feeling of increasing desperation, pushed the next door open.
‘This is it!’
He knew it at once by the beautiful, dancing, diamond-sparkling light. As Harry's eyes became accustomed to the brilliant glare, he saw clocks gleaming from every surface, large and small, grandfather and carriage, hanging in spaces between the bookcases or standing on desks ranging the length of the room, so that a busy, relentless ticking filled the place like thousands of minuscule, marching footsteps. The source of the dancing, diamond-bright light was a towering crystal bell jar that stood at the far end of the room.
‘This way!’
Harry's heart was pumping frantically now that he knew they were on the right track; he led the way down the narrow space between the lines of desks, heading, as he had done in his dream, for the source of the light, the crystal bell jar quite as tall as he was that stood on a desk and appeared to be full of a billowing, glittering wind.
‘Oh, took!’ said Ginny, as they drew nearer, pointing at the very heart of the bell jar.
Drifting along in the sparkling current inside was a tiny, jewel-bright egg. As it rose in the jar, it cracked open and a hummingbird emerged, which was carried to the very top of the jar, but as it fell on the draught its feathers became bedraggled and damp again, and by the time it had been borne back to the bottom of the jar it had been enclosed once more in its egg.
‘Keep going!’ said Harry sharply, because Ginny showed signs of wanting to stop and watch the egg's progress back into a bird.
‘You dawdled enough by that old arch!’ she said crossly, but followed him past the bell jar to the only door behind it.
‘This is it,’ Harry said again, and his heart was now pumping so hard and fast he felt it must interfere with his speech, ‘it's through here—’
He glanced around at them all; they had their wands out and looked suddenly serious and anxious. He looked back at the door and pushed. It swung open.
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