Happiness seemed to radiate from Dumbledore like light; like fire: Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content.
“Explain,” said Harry.
“But you already know,” said Dumbledore. He twiddled his thumbs together.
“I let him kill me,” said Harry. “Didn’t I?”
“You did,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “Go on!”
“So the part of his soul that was in me…”
Dumbledore nodded still more enthusiastically, urging Harry onward, a broad smile of encouragement on his face.
“… has it gone?”
“Oh yes!” said Dumbledore. “Yes, he destroyed it. Your soul is whole, and completely your own, Harry.”
“But then…”
Harry trembled over his shoulder to where the small, maimed creature trembled under the chair.
“What is that, Professor?”
“Something that is beyond either of our help,” said Dumbledore.
“But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse,” Harry started again, “and nobody died for me this time – how can I be alive?”
“I think you know,” said Dumbledore. “Think back. Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed and his cruelty.”
Harry thought. He let his gaze drift over his surroundings. If it was indeed a palace in which they sat, it was an odd one, with chairs set in little rows and bits of railing here and there, and still, he and Dumbledore and the stunted creatures under the chair were the only beings there. Then the answer rose to his lips easily, without effort.
“He took my blood,” said Harry.
“Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!”
“I live… while he lives? But I thought… I thought it was the other way around! I thought we both had to die? Or is it the same thing?”
He was distracted by the whimpering and thumping of the agonized creature behind them and glanced back at it yet again.
“Are you sure we can’t do anything?”
“There is no help possible.”
“Then explain… more,” said Harry, and Dumbledore smiled.
“You were the seventh Horcrux, Harry, the Horcrux he never meant to make. He had rendered his soul so unstable that it broke apart when he committed those acts of unspeakable evil, the murder of your parents, the attempted killing of a child. But what escaped from that room was even less than he knew. He left more than his body behind. He left part of himself latched to you, the would-be victim who had survived.”
Friday, December 3, 2010
Chapter 35 King's Cross
Chapter 35 King's Cross
He lay facedown, listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.
A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.
Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, Harry became conscious that he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able to see. In opening them, he discovered that he had eyes.
He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on which to be.
He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face. He was not wearing glasses anymore.
Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.
For the first time, he wished he were clothed.
He lay facedown, listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.
A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.
Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, Harry became conscious that he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able to see. In opening them, he discovered that he had eyes.
He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on which to be.
He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face. He was not wearing glasses anymore.
Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.
For the first time, he wished he were clothed.
He lay facedown, listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.
A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.
Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, Harry became conscious that he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able to see. In opening them, he discovered that he had eyes.
He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on which to be.
He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face. He was not wearing glasses anymore.
Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.
For the first time, he wished he were clothed.
He lay facedown, listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. Nobody was watching. Nobody else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.
A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.
Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, Harry became conscious that he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able to see. In opening them, he discovered that he had eyes.
He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on which to be.
He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face. He was not wearing glasses anymore.
Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.
For the first time, he wished he were clothed.
Voldemort’s expression did not change
Voldemort’s expression did not change. The red eyes seemed to burn in the firelight. Slowly he drew the Elder Wand between his long fingers.
“My Lord –”
Bellatrix had spoken: She sat closest to Voldemort, disheveled, her face a little bloody but otherwise unharmed.
Voldemort raised his hand to silence her, and she did not speak another word, but eyed him in worshipful fascination.
“I thought he would come,” said Voldemort in his high, clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. “I expected him to come.”
Nobody spoke. They seemed as scared as Harry, whose heart was now throwing itself against his ribs as though determined to escape the body he was about to cast aside. His hands were sweating as he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it beneath his robes, with his wand. He did not want to be tempted to fight.
“I was, it seems… mistaken,” said Voldemort.
“You weren’t.”
Harry said it as loudly as he could, with all the force he could muster: He did not want to sound afraid. The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his numb fingers, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw his parents, Sirius, and Lupin vanish as he stepped forward into the firelight. At that moment he felt that nobody mattered but Voldemort. It was just the two of them.
The illusion was gone as soon as it had come. The giants roared as the Death Eaters rose together, and there were many cries, gasps, even laughter. Voldemort had frozen where he stood, but his red eyes had found Harry, and he stared as Harry moved toward him, with nothing but the fire between them.
Then a voice yelled: “HARRY! NO!”
He turned: Hagrid was bound and trussed, tied to a tree nearby. His massive body shook the branches overhead as he struggled, desperate.
“NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT’RE YEH –?”
“QUIET!” shouted Rowle, and with a flick of his wand, Hagrid was silenced.
Bellatrix, who had leapt to her feet, was looking eagerly from Voldemort to Harry, her breast heaving. The only things that moved were the flames and the snake, coiling and uncoiling in the glittering cage behind Voldemort’s head.
Harry could feel his wand against his chest, but he made no attempt to draw it. He knew that the snake was too well protected, knew that if he managed to point the wand at Nagini, fifty curses would hit him first. And still, Voldemort and Harry looked at each other, and now Voldemort tilted his head a little to the side, considering the boy standing before him, and a singularly mirthless smile curled the lipless mouth.
“Harry Potter,” he said very softly. His voice might have been part of the spitting fire. “The Boy Who Lived.”
None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting: Everything was waiting. Hagrid was struggling, and Bellatrix was panting, and Harry thought inexplicably of Ginny, and her blazing look, and the feel of her lips on his – Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear –
He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.
“My Lord –”
Bellatrix had spoken: She sat closest to Voldemort, disheveled, her face a little bloody but otherwise unharmed.
Voldemort raised his hand to silence her, and she did not speak another word, but eyed him in worshipful fascination.
“I thought he would come,” said Voldemort in his high, clear voice, his eyes on the leaping flames. “I expected him to come.”
Nobody spoke. They seemed as scared as Harry, whose heart was now throwing itself against his ribs as though determined to escape the body he was about to cast aside. His hands were sweating as he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it beneath his robes, with his wand. He did not want to be tempted to fight.
“I was, it seems… mistaken,” said Voldemort.
“You weren’t.”
Harry said it as loudly as he could, with all the force he could muster: He did not want to sound afraid. The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his numb fingers, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw his parents, Sirius, and Lupin vanish as he stepped forward into the firelight. At that moment he felt that nobody mattered but Voldemort. It was just the two of them.
The illusion was gone as soon as it had come. The giants roared as the Death Eaters rose together, and there were many cries, gasps, even laughter. Voldemort had frozen where he stood, but his red eyes had found Harry, and he stared as Harry moved toward him, with nothing but the fire between them.
Then a voice yelled: “HARRY! NO!”
He turned: Hagrid was bound and trussed, tied to a tree nearby. His massive body shook the branches overhead as he struggled, desperate.
“NO! NO! HARRY, WHAT’RE YEH –?”
“QUIET!” shouted Rowle, and with a flick of his wand, Hagrid was silenced.
Bellatrix, who had leapt to her feet, was looking eagerly from Voldemort to Harry, her breast heaving. The only things that moved were the flames and the snake, coiling and uncoiling in the glittering cage behind Voldemort’s head.
Harry could feel his wand against his chest, but he made no attempt to draw it. He knew that the snake was too well protected, knew that if he managed to point the wand at Nagini, fifty curses would hit him first. And still, Voldemort and Harry looked at each other, and now Voldemort tilted his head a little to the side, considering the boy standing before him, and a singularly mirthless smile curled the lipless mouth.
“Harry Potter,” he said very softly. His voice might have been part of the spitting fire. “The Boy Who Lived.”
None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting: Everything was waiting. Hagrid was struggling, and Bellatrix was panting, and Harry thought inexplicably of Ginny, and her blazing look, and the feel of her lips on his – Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was still tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear –
He saw the mouth move and a flash of green light, and everything was gone.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
“Potterwatch, didn’t I tell yo
“Potterwatch, didn’t I tell you that’s what it was called? The program I keep trying to get on the radio, the only one that tells the truth about what’s going on! Nearly all of the programs are following You-Know-Who’s line, all except Potterwatch, I really want you to hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in…”
Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch snatches of advice on how to treat dragonpox, and once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.” While he taped, Ron continued to try to hit on the correct password, muttering strings of random words under his breath.
“They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he told them. “Bill had a real knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end…”
But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Harry was sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty, staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron shouted excitedly from inside the tent. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in here, Harry.”
Roused for the first time in days from his contemplation of the Deathly Hallows, Harry hurried back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione kneeling on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione, who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed, staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most familiar voice was issuing.
“…apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”
“But that’s Lee Jordan!” said Hermione.
“I know!” beamed Ron. “Cool, eh?”
“…now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee was saying, “and I’m pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!”
“Hi.”
“Evening, River.”
“‘River’ that’s Lee,” Ron explained. “They’ve all got code names, but you can usually tell –”
“Shh!” said Hermione.
“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee went on, “let’s take a moment to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don’t think important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”
Harry felt a sick, swooping in his belly. He, Ron, and Hermione gazed at one another in horror.
“A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news.”
“Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities are attributing their deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse – more evidence, as if it were needed, of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational sport under the new regime.”
“Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic.”
“Listeners, I’d like to invite you now to join us in a minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters.”
Silence fell, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not speak. Half of Harry yearned to hear more, half of him was afraid of what might come next. It was the first time he had felt fully connected to the outside world for a long time.
“Thank you,” said Lee’s voice. “And now we can return to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”
“Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring.
“Kingsley!” burst out Ron.
“We know!” said Hermione, hushing him.
Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch snatches of advice on how to treat dragonpox, and once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.” While he taped, Ron continued to try to hit on the correct password, muttering strings of random words under his breath.
“They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he told them. “Bill had a real knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end…”
But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Harry was sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty, staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron shouted excitedly from inside the tent. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in here, Harry.”
Roused for the first time in days from his contemplation of the Deathly Hallows, Harry hurried back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione kneeling on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione, who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed, staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most familiar voice was issuing.
“…apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”
“But that’s Lee Jordan!” said Hermione.
“I know!” beamed Ron. “Cool, eh?”
“…now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee was saying, “and I’m pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!”
“Hi.”
“Evening, River.”
“‘River’ that’s Lee,” Ron explained. “They’ve all got code names, but you can usually tell –”
“Shh!” said Hermione.
“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee went on, “let’s take a moment to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don’t think important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”
Harry felt a sick, swooping in his belly. He, Ron, and Hermione gazed at one another in horror.
“A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news.”
“Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their home. Muggle authorities are attributing their deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse – more evidence, as if it were needed, of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational sport under the new regime.”
“Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in Godric’s Hollow. The evidence is that she died several months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic.”
“Listeners, I’d like to invite you now to join us in a minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters.”
Silence fell, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not speak. Half of Harry yearned to hear more, half of him was afraid of what might come next. It was the first time he had felt fully connected to the outside world for a long time.
“Thank you,” said Lee’s voice. “And now we can return to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”
“Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring.
“Kingsley!” burst out Ron.
“We know!” said Hermione, hushing him.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Chapter 14 The Theif
Chapter 14 The Theif
Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and green; he had no idea what had happened, he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves and twigs.
Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened, he blinked and realized that the gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves far above him.
Then an object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around, Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a forest floor, apparently alone.
Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and for a moment, even though he knew how foolish and dangerous it would be for them to appear in the grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut. However, in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized that this was not the Forbidden Forest; The trees looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the ground clearer.
He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at Ron’s head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all other concerns fled Harry’s mind, for blood drenched the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stood out, grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his face drained of the little color it had left.
“What’s happened to him?”
“Splinched,” said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was wettest and darkest.
Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron’s short. He had always thought of Splinching as something comical, but this… His insides crawled unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron’s upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.
“Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’– “ He seized Hermione by the hand and Ron by the arm and turned on the stop.
Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of compressing hands, but something was wrong…. Hermione’s hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip….
He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see and the only solid things in the world were Ron’s arm and Hermione’s fingers, which were slowly slipping away….
And then he saw the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but before he could draw breath, there was a scream and a flash of purple light: Hermione’s hand was suddenly vicelike upon his and everything went dark again.
Chapter 14 The Theif
Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and green; he had no idea what had happened, he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves and twigs.
Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened, he blinked and realized that the gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves far above him.
Then an object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around, Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a forest floor, apparently alone.
Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and for a moment, even though he knew how foolish and dangerous it would be for them to appear in the grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut. However, in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized that this was not the Forbidden Forest; The trees looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the ground clearer.
He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at Ron’s head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all other concerns fled Harry’s mind, for blood drenched the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stood out, grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his face drained of the little color it had left.
“What’s happened to him?”
“Splinched,” said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was wettest and darkest.
Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron’s short. He had always thought of Splinching as something comical, but this… His insides crawled unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron’s upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.
“Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’– “
Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and green; he had no idea what had happened, he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves and twigs.
Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened, he blinked and realized that the gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves far above him.
Then an object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around, Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a forest floor, apparently alone.
Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and for a moment, even though he knew how foolish and dangerous it would be for them to appear in the grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut. However, in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized that this was not the Forbidden Forest; The trees looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the ground clearer.
He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at Ron’s head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all other concerns fled Harry’s mind, for blood drenched the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stood out, grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his face drained of the little color it had left.
“What’s happened to him?”
“Splinched,” said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was wettest and darkest.
Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron’s short. He had always thought of Splinching as something comical, but this… His insides crawled unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron’s upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.
“Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’– “ He seized Hermione by the hand and Ron by the arm and turned on the stop.
Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of compressing hands, but something was wrong…. Hermione’s hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip….
He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see and the only solid things in the world were Ron’s arm and Hermione’s fingers, which were slowly slipping away….
And then he saw the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its serpent door knocker, but before he could draw breath, there was a scream and a flash of purple light: Hermione’s hand was suddenly vicelike upon his and everything went dark again.
Chapter 14 The Theif
Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and green; he had no idea what had happened, he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves and twigs.
Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened, he blinked and realized that the gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of leaves far above him.
Then an object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, ready to face some small, fierce creature, but saw that the object was Ron’s foot. Looking around, Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a forest floor, apparently alone.
Harry’s first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and for a moment, even though he knew how foolish and dangerous it would be for them to appear in the grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the trees to Hagrid’s hut. However, in the few moments it took for Ron to give a low groan and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized that this was not the Forbidden Forest; The trees looked younger, they were more widely spaced, the ground clearer.
He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at Ron’s head. The moment his eyes fell upon Ron, all other concerns fled Harry’s mind, for blood drenched the whole of Ron’s left side and his face stood out, grayish-white, against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron was halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning redder and redder as his face drained of the little color it had left.
“What’s happened to him?”
“Splinched,” said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron’s sleeve, where the blood was wettest and darkest.
Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron’s short. He had always thought of Splinching as something comical, but this… His insides crawled unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron’s upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.
“Harry, quickly, in my bag, there’s a small bottle labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’– “
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Mrs. Weasley looked around and said
Mrs. Weasley looked around and said, “I can’t make it grow back, not when it’s been removed by Dark Magic. But it could’ve been so much worse…. He’s alive.”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Thank God.”
“Did I hear someone else in the yard?” Ginny asked.
“Hermione and Kingsley,” said Harry.
“Thank goodness,” Ginny whispered. They looked at each other; Harry wanted to hug her, hold on to her; he did not even care much that Mrs. Weasley was there, but before he could act on the impulse, there was a great crash from the kitchen.
“I’ll prove who I am, Kingsley, after I’ve seen my son, now back off if you know what’s good for you!”
Harry had never heard Mr. Weasley shout like that before. He burst into the living room, his bald patch gleaming with sweat, his spectacles askew, Fred right behind him, both pale but uninjured.
“Arthur!” sobbed Mrs. Weasley. “Oh thank goodness!”
“How is he?”
Mr. Weasley dropped to his knees beside George. For the first time since Harry had known him, Fred seemed to be lost for words. He gaped over the back of the sofa at his twin’s wound as if he could not believe what he was seeing.
Perhaps roused by the sound of Fred and their father’s arrival, George stirred.
“How do you feel, Georgie?” whispered Mrs. Weasley.
George’s fingers groped for the side of his head.
“Saintlike,” he murmured.
“What’s wrong with him?” croaked Fred, looking terrified. “Is his mind affected?”
“Saintlike,” repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother. “You see… I’m holy. Holey, Fred, geddit?”
Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever. Color flooded Fred’s pale face.
“Pathetic,” he told George. “Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humor before you, you go for holey?”
“Ah well,” said George, grinning at his tear-soaked mother. “You’ll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum.”
He looked around.
“Hi, Harry – you are Harry, right?”
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry, moving closer to the sofa.
“Well, at least we got you back okay,” said George. “Why aren’t Ron and Bill huddled round my sickbed?”
“They’re not back yet, George,” said Mrs. Weasley. George’s grin faded. Harry glanced at Ginny and motioned to her to accompany him back outside. As they walked through the kitchen she said in a low voice.
“Ron and Tonks should be back by now. They didn’t have a long journey; Auntie Muriel’s not that far from here.”
Harry said nothing. He had been trying to keep fear at bay ever since reaching the Burrow, but now it enveloped him, seeming to crawl over his skin, throbbing in his chest, clogging his throat. As they walked down the back steps into the dark yard, Ginny took his hand.
Kingsley was striding backward and forward, glancing up at the sky every time he turned. Harry was reminded of Uncle Vernon pacing the living room a million years ago.
Hagrid, Hermione, and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing upward in silence. None of them looked around when Harry and Ginny joined their silent vigil.
The minutes stretched into what might as well have been years. The slightest breath of wind made them all jump and turn toward the whispering bush or tree in the hope that one of the missing Order members might leap unscathed from its leaves –
And then a broom materialized directly above them and streaked toward the ground –
“It’s them!” screamed Hermione.
Tonks landed in a long skid that sent earth and pebbles everywhere.
“Remus!” Tonks cried as she staggered off the broom into Lupin’s arms. His face was set and white: He seemed unable to speak, Ron tripped dazedly toward Harry and Hermione.
“You’re okay,” he mumbled, before Hermione flew at him and hugged him tightly.
“I thought – I thought – ”
“‘M all right,” said Ron, patting her on the back. “‘M fine.”
“Ron was great,” said Tonks warmly, relinquishing her hold on Lupin. “Wonderful. Stunned one of the Death Eaters, straight to the head, and when you’re aiming at a moving target from a flying broom – ”
“You did?” said Hermione, gazing up at Ron with her arms still around his neck.
“Always the tone of surprise,” he said a little grumpily, breaking free. “Are we the last back?”
“No,” said Ginny, “we’re still waiting for Bill and Fleur and Mad-Eye and Mundungus. I’m going to tell Mum and Dad you’re okay, Ron – ”
She ran back inside.
“So what kept you? What happened?” Lupin sounded almost angry at Tonks.
“Bellatrix,” said Tonks. “She wants me quite as much as she wants Harry, Remus, She tried very hard to kill me. I just wish I’d got her, I owe Bellatrix. But we definitely injured Rodolphus…. Then we got to Ron’s Auntie Muriel’s and we missed our Portkey and she was fussing over us – ”
A muscle was jumping in Lupin’s jaw. He nodded, but seemed unable to say anything else.
“So what happened to you lot?” Tonks asked, turning to Harry, Hermione, and Kingsley.
They recounted the stories of their own journeys, but all the time the continued absence of Bill, Fleur, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus seemed to lie upon them like a frost, its icy bite harder and harder to ignore.
“I’m going to have to get back to Downing Street, I should have been there an hour ago,” said Kingsley finally, after a last sweeping gaze at the sky. “Let me know when they’re back.”
Lupin nodded. With a wave to the others, Kingsley walked away into the darkness toward the gate. Harry thought he heard the faintest pop as Kingsley Disapparated just beyond the Burrow’s boundaries.
Mr. And Mrs. Weasley came racing down the back steps, Ginny behind them. Both parents hugged Ron before turning to Lupin and Tonks.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley, “for our sons.”
“Don’t be silly, Molly,” said Tonks at once.
“How’s George?” asked Lupin.
“What’s wrong with him?” piped up Ron.
“He’s lost – ”
But the end of Mrs. Weasley’s sentence was drowned in a general outcry. A thestral had just soared into sight and landed a few feet from them. Bill and Fleur slid from its back, windswept but unhurt.
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“Yeah,” said Harry. “Thank God.”
“Did I hear someone else in the yard?” Ginny asked.
“Hermione and Kingsley,” said Harry.
“Thank goodness,” Ginny whispered. They looked at each other; Harry wanted to hug her, hold on to her; he did not even care much that Mrs. Weasley was there, but before he could act on the impulse, there was a great crash from the kitchen.
“I’ll prove who I am, Kingsley, after I’ve seen my son, now back off if you know what’s good for you!”
Harry had never heard Mr. Weasley shout like that before. He burst into the living room, his bald patch gleaming with sweat, his spectacles askew, Fred right behind him, both pale but uninjured.
“Arthur!” sobbed Mrs. Weasley. “Oh thank goodness!”
“How is he?”
Mr. Weasley dropped to his knees beside George. For the first time since Harry had known him, Fred seemed to be lost for words. He gaped over the back of the sofa at his twin’s wound as if he could not believe what he was seeing.
Perhaps roused by the sound of Fred and their father’s arrival, George stirred.
“How do you feel, Georgie?” whispered Mrs. Weasley.
George’s fingers groped for the side of his head.
“Saintlike,” he murmured.
“What’s wrong with him?” croaked Fred, looking terrified. “Is his mind affected?”
“Saintlike,” repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother. “You see… I’m holy. Holey, Fred, geddit?”
Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever. Color flooded Fred’s pale face.
“Pathetic,” he told George. “Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humor before you, you go for holey?”
“Ah well,” said George, grinning at his tear-soaked mother. “You’ll be able to tell us apart now, anyway, Mum.”
He looked around.
“Hi, Harry – you are Harry, right?”
“Yeah, I am,” said Harry, moving closer to the sofa.
“Well, at least we got you back okay,” said George. “Why aren’t Ron and Bill huddled round my sickbed?”
“They’re not back yet, George,” said Mrs. Weasley. George’s grin faded. Harry glanced at Ginny and motioned to her to accompany him back outside. As they walked through the kitchen she said in a low voice.
“Ron and Tonks should be back by now. They didn’t have a long journey; Auntie Muriel’s not that far from here.”
Harry said nothing. He had been trying to keep fear at bay ever since reaching the Burrow, but now it enveloped him, seeming to crawl over his skin, throbbing in his chest, clogging his throat. As they walked down the back steps into the dark yard, Ginny took his hand.
Kingsley was striding backward and forward, glancing up at the sky every time he turned. Harry was reminded of Uncle Vernon pacing the living room a million years ago.
Hagrid, Hermione, and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing upward in silence. None of them looked around when Harry and Ginny joined their silent vigil.
The minutes stretched into what might as well have been years. The slightest breath of wind made them all jump and turn toward the whispering bush or tree in the hope that one of the missing Order members might leap unscathed from its leaves –
And then a broom materialized directly above them and streaked toward the ground –
“It’s them!” screamed Hermione.
Tonks landed in a long skid that sent earth and pebbles everywhere.
“Remus!” Tonks cried as she staggered off the broom into Lupin’s arms. His face was set and white: He seemed unable to speak, Ron tripped dazedly toward Harry and Hermione.
“You’re okay,” he mumbled, before Hermione flew at him and hugged him tightly.
“I thought – I thought – ”
“‘M all right,” said Ron, patting her on the back. “‘M fine.”
“Ron was great,” said Tonks warmly, relinquishing her hold on Lupin. “Wonderful. Stunned one of the Death Eaters, straight to the head, and when you’re aiming at a moving target from a flying broom – ”
“You did?” said Hermione, gazing up at Ron with her arms still around his neck.
“Always the tone of surprise,” he said a little grumpily, breaking free. “Are we the last back?”
“No,” said Ginny, “we’re still waiting for Bill and Fleur and Mad-Eye and Mundungus. I’m going to tell Mum and Dad you’re okay, Ron – ”
She ran back inside.
“So what kept you? What happened?” Lupin sounded almost angry at Tonks.
“Bellatrix,” said Tonks. “She wants me quite as much as she wants Harry, Remus, She tried very hard to kill me. I just wish I’d got her, I owe Bellatrix. But we definitely injured Rodolphus…. Then we got to Ron’s Auntie Muriel’s and we missed our Portkey and she was fussing over us – ”
A muscle was jumping in Lupin’s jaw. He nodded, but seemed unable to say anything else.
“So what happened to you lot?” Tonks asked, turning to Harry, Hermione, and Kingsley.
They recounted the stories of their own journeys, but all the time the continued absence of Bill, Fleur, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus seemed to lie upon them like a frost, its icy bite harder and harder to ignore.
“I’m going to have to get back to Downing Street, I should have been there an hour ago,” said Kingsley finally, after a last sweeping gaze at the sky. “Let me know when they’re back.”
Lupin nodded. With a wave to the others, Kingsley walked away into the darkness toward the gate. Harry thought he heard the faintest pop as Kingsley Disapparated just beyond the Burrow’s boundaries.
Mr. And Mrs. Weasley came racing down the back steps, Ginny behind them. Both parents hugged Ron before turning to Lupin and Tonks.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley, “for our sons.”
“Don’t be silly, Molly,” said Tonks at once.
“How’s George?” asked Lupin.
“What’s wrong with him?” piped up Ron.
“He’s lost – ”
But the end of Mrs. Weasley’s sentence was drowned in a general outcry. A thestral had just soared into sight and landed a few feet from them. Bill and Fleur slid from its back, windswept but unhurt.
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Monday, November 29, 2010
Chapter 26 The Cave
Chapter 26 The Cave
Harry could smell salt and hear rushing waves; a light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out at moonlit sea and star-strewn sky. He was standing upon a high
outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few
large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the
past. It was a bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by any tree or sweep of grass or sand.
“What do you think?” asked Dumbledore. He might have been asking Harry's opinion on whether it was a good site for a picnic.
“They brought the kids from the orphanage here?” asked Harry, who could not imagine a less cozy spot for a day trip.
“Not here, precisely,” said Dumbledore. “There is a village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs behind us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little
sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited this spot. No Muggle could reach this rock unless they
were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats cannot approach the cliffs, the waters around them are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed down; magic would have
served better than ropes. And he brought two small children with him, probably for the pleasure of terrorizing them. I think the journey alone would have done it, don't
you?”
Harry looked up at the cliff again and felt goose bumps.
“But his final destination—and ours—lies a little farther on. Come.”
Dumbledore beckoned Harry to the very edge of the rock where a series of jagged niches made footholds leading down to boulders that lay half-submerged in water and
closer to the cliff. It was a treacherous descent and Dumbledore, hampered slightly by his withered hand, moved slowly. The lower rocks were slippery with seawater.
Harry could feel flecks of cold salt spray hitting his face.
Harry could smell salt and hear rushing waves; a light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out at moonlit sea and star-strewn sky. He was standing upon a high
outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few
large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the
past. It was a bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by any tree or sweep of grass or sand.
“What do you think?” asked Dumbledore. He might have been asking Harry's opinion on whether it was a good site for a picnic.
“They brought the kids from the orphanage here?” asked Harry, who could not imagine a less cozy spot for a day trip.
“Not here, precisely,” said Dumbledore. “There is a village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs behind us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little
sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited this spot. No Muggle could reach this rock unless they
were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats cannot approach the cliffs, the waters around them are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed down; magic would have
served better than ropes. And he brought two small children with him, probably for the pleasure of terrorizing them. I think the journey alone would have done it, don't
you?”
Harry looked up at the cliff again and felt goose bumps.
“But his final destination—and ours—lies a little farther on. Come.”
Dumbledore beckoned Harry to the very edge of the rock where a series of jagged niches made footholds leading down to boulders that lay half-submerged in water and
closer to the cliff. It was a treacherous descent and Dumbledore, hampered slightly by his withered hand, moved slowly. The lower rocks were slippery with seawater.
Harry could feel flecks of cold salt spray hitting his face.
“—and stay out!”
“—and stay out!” shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly ejecting a grubby-looking wizard. “Oh, hello, Albus ... you're out late ...”
“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening ... forgive me, I'm off to the Hog's Head ... no offence, but I feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight...”
A minute later they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog's Head's sign creaked a little, though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three
Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely empty.
“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” muttered Dumbledore, glancing around. “As long as nobody sees us go ... now place your hand upon my arm, Harry. There is
no need to grip too hard, I am merely guiding you. On the count of three—one ... two ... three ...”
Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being
compressed almost past endurance and then, just when he thought he must suffocate, the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was standing in cool darkness,
breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air.
“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening ... forgive me, I'm off to the Hog's Head ... no offence, but I feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight...”
A minute later they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog's Head's sign creaked a little, though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three
Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely empty.
“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” muttered Dumbledore, glancing around. “As long as nobody sees us go ... now place your hand upon my arm, Harry. There is
no need to grip too hard, I am merely guiding you. On the count of three—one ... two ... three ...”
Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being
compressed almost past endurance and then, just when he thought he must suffocate, the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was standing in cool darkness,
breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air.
“No!” said Hermione
“No!” said Hermione, as Ron unwrapped the tiny little bottle of golden potion, looking awestruck. “We don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be
facing?”
“I'Il be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I want to know you lot are okay ... don't look like that, Hermione, I'll see you later”
And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole towards the Entrance Hall.
Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out on to the topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side.
“I would like you to wear your Cloak, please,” said Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it on before saying, “Very good. Shall we go?”
Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his own travelling cloak barely stirring in the still summer air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility
Cloak, still panting and sweating rather a lot.
“But what will people think when they see you leaving, Professor?” Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy and Snape.
“That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,” said Dumbledore lightly. “I sometimes offer Rosmerta my custom, or else visit the Hog's Head ... or I appear to. It is as
good a way as any of disguising one's true destination.”
They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, lake water and wood smoke from Hagrid's cabin. It was
difficult to believe that they were heading for anything dangerous or frightening.
“Professor,” said Harry quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, “will we be Apparating?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You can Apparate now, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I haven't got a licence.”
He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled everything by turning up a hundred miles from where he was supposed to go?
“No matter,” said Dumbledore, “I can assist you again.”
They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they walked and by the time they reached the High Street night was
falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting.
facing?”
“I'Il be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I want to know you lot are okay ... don't look like that, Hermione, I'll see you later”
And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole towards the Entrance Hall.
Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out on to the topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side.
“I would like you to wear your Cloak, please,” said Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it on before saying, “Very good. Shall we go?”
Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his own travelling cloak barely stirring in the still summer air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility
Cloak, still panting and sweating rather a lot.
“But what will people think when they see you leaving, Professor?” Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy and Snape.
“That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,” said Dumbledore lightly. “I sometimes offer Rosmerta my custom, or else visit the Hog's Head ... or I appear to. It is as
good a way as any of disguising one's true destination.”
They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, lake water and wood smoke from Hagrid's cabin. It was
difficult to believe that they were heading for anything dangerous or frightening.
“Professor,” said Harry quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, “will we be Apparating?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You can Apparate now, I believe?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I haven't got a licence.”
He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled everything by turning up a hundred miles from where he was supposed to go?
“No matter,” said Dumbledore, “I can assist you again.”
They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they walked and by the time they reached the High Street night was
falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Hermione's schedule was so full that Harry could only
Hermione's schedule was so full that Harry could only talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did
not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, so Harry generally joined her in the library, which meant that their
conversations were held in whispers.
“He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. “I really couldn't care less.
”
She raised her quill and dotted an ‘i’ so ferociously that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish from the
lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced Potion-Making and continued to make notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the Prince's useful
additions to Libatius Borage's text.
“And incidentally,” said Hermione, after a few moments, “you need to be careful.”
“For the last time,” said Harry, speaking in a slightly hoarse tone after three-quarters of an hour's silence, “I am not giving back this book. I've learned more
from the Half-Blood Prince than Snape or Slughorn have taught me in—”
“I'm not talking about your stupid so-called Prince,” said Hermione, giving his book a nasty look as though it had been rude to her. “I'm talking about earlier. I
went into the girls’ bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to slip you a
love potion. They're all hoping they're going to get you to take them to Slughorn's party, and thay all seem to have bought Fred and George's love potions, which I'm
afraid to say probably work—”
“Why didn't you confiscate them then?” demanded Harry, it seemed extraordinary that Hermione's mania for upholding the rules could have abandoned her at this crucial
juncture.
“They didn't have the potions with them in the bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully, “They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt the Half-Blood Prince,” she gave
the book another scornful look, “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I'd just invite someone to go with you, that'll stop all the
others thinking they've still got a chance. It's tomorrow night, they're getting desperate.”
“There isn't anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry, who was still not trying to think about Ginny any more than he could help, despite the fact the fact that she
kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency.
“Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business.” said Hermione grimly.
She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which she was writing her Arithmancy essay and continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her with his mind a
long way away.
“Hang on a moment,” he said slowly. “I thought Filch had banned anything bought at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?”
“And when has anyone ever paid attention to what Filch has banned?” asked Hermione, still concentrating on her essay.
“But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these girls are able to bring love potions into the school?”
“Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes and cough potions,” said Hermione. “It's part of their Owl Order Service.”
“You know a lot about it.”
not notice what Harry was doing. Hermione refused to sit in the common room while Ron was there, so Harry generally joined her in the library, which meant that their
conversations were held in whispers.
“He's at perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” said Hermione, while the librarian, Madam Pince, prowled the shelves behind them. “I really couldn't care less.
”
She raised her quill and dotted an ‘i’ so ferociously that she punctured a hole in her parchment. Harry said nothing. He thought his voice might soon vanish from the
lack of use. He bent a little lower over Advanced Potion-Making and continued to make notes on Everlasting Elixirs, occasionally pausing to decipher the Prince's useful
additions to Libatius Borage's text.
“And incidentally,” said Hermione, after a few moments, “you need to be careful.”
“For the last time,” said Harry, speaking in a slightly hoarse tone after three-quarters of an hour's silence, “I am not giving back this book. I've learned more
from the Half-Blood Prince than Snape or Slughorn have taught me in—”
“I'm not talking about your stupid so-called Prince,” said Hermione, giving his book a nasty look as though it had been rude to her. “I'm talking about earlier. I
went into the girls’ bathroom just before I came in here and there were about a dozen girls in there, including that Romilda Vane, trying to decide how to slip you a
love potion. They're all hoping they're going to get you to take them to Slughorn's party, and thay all seem to have bought Fred and George's love potions, which I'm
afraid to say probably work—”
“Why didn't you confiscate them then?” demanded Harry, it seemed extraordinary that Hermione's mania for upholding the rules could have abandoned her at this crucial
juncture.
“They didn't have the potions with them in the bathroom,” said Hermione scornfully, “They were just discussing tactics. As I doubt the Half-Blood Prince,” she gave
the book another scornful look, “could dream up an antidote for a dozen different love potions at once, I'd just invite someone to go with you, that'll stop all the
others thinking they've still got a chance. It's tomorrow night, they're getting desperate.”
“There isn't anyone I want to invite,” mumbled Harry, who was still not trying to think about Ginny any more than he could help, despite the fact the fact that she
kept cropping up in his dreams in ways that made him devoutly thankful that Ron could not perform Legilimency.
“Well, just be careful what you drink, because Romilda Vane looked like she meant business.” said Hermione grimly.
She hitched up the long roll of parchment on which she was writing her Arithmancy essay and continued to scratch away with her quill. Harry watched her with his mind a
long way away.
“Hang on a moment,” he said slowly. “I thought Filch had banned anything bought at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?”
“And when has anyone ever paid attention to what Filch has banned?” asked Hermione, still concentrating on her essay.
“But I thought all the owls were being searched. So how come these girls are able to bring love potions into the school?”
“Fred and George send them disguised as perfumes and cough potions,” said Hermione. “It's part of their Owl Order Service.”
“You know a lot about it.”
Chapter 15 The Unbreakable Vow
Chapter 15 The Unbreakable Vow
Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already singlehandedly delivered the usual twelve Christmas trees to the
Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armor and
great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry
went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; fortunately, however, Harry's frequent nighttime wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the
castle's secret passageways, so that he was often, without too much difficulty, to navigate mistletoe-free routes between classes.
Ron, who might once have found the necessity of these detours excuse for jealousy rather than hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. Although Harry much
preferred this new laughing, joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly,
Harry had to put up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment that she was not kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly, Harry
found himself once more the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each other again.
Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione's bird attack, was taking a defensive and resentful tone.
“She can't complain,” he told Harry. “She snogged Krum. So she's found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it's a free country. I haven't done anything wrong.”
Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Quest). Determined as he was
to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight.
“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled. “I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with her, but she never said... just as
friends... I'm a free agent...”
Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron was watching him. Ron's voice trailed away in mutters, barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, though
Harry thought he caught the words “Krum” and “Can't complain” again.
Snow was swirling against the icy windows once more; Christmas was approaching fast. Hagrid had already singlehandedly delivered the usual twelve Christmas trees to the
Great Hall; garlands of holly and tinsel had been twisted around the banisters of the stairs; everlasting candles glowed from inside the helmets of suits of armor and
great bunches of mistletoe had been hung at intervals along the corridors. Large groups of girls tended to converge underneath the mistletoe bunches every time Harry
went past, which caused blockages in the corridors; fortunately, however, Harry's frequent nighttime wanderings had given him an unusually good knowledge of the
castle's secret passageways, so that he was often, without too much difficulty, to navigate mistletoe-free routes between classes.
Ron, who might once have found the necessity of these detours excuse for jealousy rather than hilarity, simply roared with laughter about it all. Although Harry much
preferred this new laughing, joking Ron to the moody, aggressive model he had been enduring for the last few weeks, the improved Ron came at a heavy price. Firstly,
Harry had to put up with the frequent presence of Lavender Brown, who seemed to regard any moment that she was not kissing Ron as a moment wasted; and secondly, Harry
found himself once more the best friend of two people who seemed unlikely ever to speak to each other again.
Ron, whose hands and forearms still bore scratches and cuts from Hermione's bird attack, was taking a defensive and resentful tone.
“She can't complain,” he told Harry. “She snogged Krum. So she's found out someone wants to snog me too. Well, it's a free country. I haven't done anything wrong.”
Harry did not answer, but pretended to be absorbed in the book they were supposed to have read before Charms next morning (Quintessence: A Quest). Determined as he was
to remain friends with both Ron and Hermione, he was spending a lot of time with his mouth shut tight.
“I never promised Hermione anything,” Ron mumbled. “I mean, all right, I was going to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with her, but she never said... just as
friends... I'm a free agent...”
Harry turned a page of Quintessence, aware that Ron was watching him. Ron's voice trailed away in mutters, barely audible over the loud crackling of the fire, though
Harry thought he caught the words “Krum” and “Can't complain” again.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
5. Should you feel that a family member
5. Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).
6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.
7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.
Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm clock, repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's relaxed hand, was a piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.
Dear Harry,
If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.
If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.
Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,
I am yours most sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading Dumbledore's words; Harry had sent back his “yes” with the delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: either Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.
But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go wrong—his reply to Dumbledore's letter might have gone astray; Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.
The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out.
Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.
Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, “Who the blazes is calling at this lime of night?”
Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, “Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?”
Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.
“Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.”
He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.
“It is a long time since my last visit,” said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. “I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing.”
Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon—the vein pulsing in his uncle's temple was reaching danger point—but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.
“Ah, good evening Harry,” said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. “Excellent, excellent.”
These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say “excellent” was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye.
“I don't mean to be rude —” he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable.
“—yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often,” Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. “Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia.”
The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.
“Albus Dumbledore,” said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to effect an introduction. “We have corresponded, of course.” Harry thought this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. “And this must be your son, Dudley?”
Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large, blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.
“Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?”
Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair nearest the fire and was taking in the surroundings wilh an expression of benign interest. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place.
“Aren't—aren't we leaving, sir?” Harry asked anxiously.
“Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first,” said Dumbledore. “And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer.”
“You will, will you?”
Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore simply, “I shall.”
He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick, the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.
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6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.
7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.
Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm clock, repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's relaxed hand, was a piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.
Dear Harry,
If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.
If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.
Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,
I am yours most sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading Dumbledore's words; Harry had sent back his “yes” with the delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: either Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.
But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go wrong—his reply to Dumbledore's letter might have gone astray; Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.
The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out.
Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.
Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, “Who the blazes is calling at this lime of night?”
Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, “Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?”
Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.
“Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.”
He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.
“It is a long time since my last visit,” said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. “I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing.”
Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon—the vein pulsing in his uncle's temple was reaching danger point—but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.
“Ah, good evening Harry,” said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. “Excellent, excellent.”
These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say “excellent” was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye.
“I don't mean to be rude —” he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable.
“—yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often,” Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. “Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia.”
The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.
“Albus Dumbledore,” said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to effect an introduction. “We have corresponded, of course.” Harry thought this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. “And this must be your son, Dudley?”
Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large, blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.
“Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?”
Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair nearest the fire and was taking in the surroundings wilh an expression of benign interest. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place.
“Aren't—aren't we leaving, sir?” Harry asked anxiously.
“Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first,” said Dumbledore. “And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer.”
“You will, will you?”
Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore simply, “I shall.”
He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick, the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.
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Monday, November 22, 2010
"And so," Alexey Alexandrovitch said to himself
"And so," Alexey Alexandrovitch said to himself, "questions as to her feelings, and so on, are questions for her conscience, with which I can have nothing to do. My duty is clearly defined. As the head of the family, I am a person bound in duty to guide her, and consequently, in part the person responsible; I am bound to point out the danger I perceive, to warn her, even to use my authority. I ought to speak plainly to her." And everything that he would say tonight to his wife took clear shape in Alexey Alexandrovitch's head. Thinking over what he would say, he somewhat regretted that he should have to use his time and mental powers for domestic consumption, with so little to show for it, but, in spite of that, the form and contents of the speech before him shaped itself as clearly and distinctly in his head as a ministerial report.
"I must say and express fully the following points: first, exposition of the value to be attached to public opinion and to decorum; secondly, exposition of religious significance of marriage; thirdly, if need be, reference to the calamity possibly ensuing to our son; fourthly, reference to the unhappiness likely to result to herself." And, interlacing his fingers, Alexey Alexandrovitch stretched them, and the joints of the fingers cracked. This trick, a bad habit, the cracking of his fingers, always soothed him, and gave precision to his thoughts, so needful to him at this juncture.
There was the sound of a carriage driving up to the front door. Alexey Alexandrovitch halted in the middle of the room.
A woman's step was heard mounting the stairs. Alexey Alexandrovitch, ready for his speech, stood compressing his crossed fingers, waiting to see if the crack would not come again. One joint cracked.
Already, from the sound of light steps on the stairs, he was aware that she was close, and though he was satisfied with his speech, he felt frightened of the explanation confronting him.
"I must say and express fully the following points: first, exposition of the value to be attached to public opinion and to decorum; secondly, exposition of religious significance of marriage; thirdly, if need be, reference to the calamity possibly ensuing to our son; fourthly, reference to the unhappiness likely to result to herself." And, interlacing his fingers, Alexey Alexandrovitch stretched them, and the joints of the fingers cracked. This trick, a bad habit, the cracking of his fingers, always soothed him, and gave precision to his thoughts, so needful to him at this juncture.
There was the sound of a carriage driving up to the front door. Alexey Alexandrovitch halted in the middle of the room.
A woman's step was heard mounting the stairs. Alexey Alexandrovitch, ready for his speech, stood compressing his crossed fingers, waiting to see if the crack would not come again. One joint cracked.
Already, from the sound of light steps on the stairs, he was aware that she was close, and though he was satisfied with his speech, he felt frightened of the explanation confronting him.
He did not undress
He did not undress, but walked up and down with his regular tread over the resounding parquet of the dining room, where one lamp was burning, over the carpet of the dark drawing room, in which the light was reflected on the big new portrait of himself handing over the sofa, and across her boudoir, where two candles burned, lighting up the portraits of her parents and woman friends, and the pretty knick-knacks of her writing table, that he knew so well. He walked across her boudoir to the bedroom door, and turned back again. At each turn in his walk, especially at the parquet of the lighted dining room, he halted and said to himself, "Yes, this I must decide and put a stop to; I must express my view of it and my decision." And he turned back again. "But express what--what decision?" he said to himself in the drawing room, and he found no reply. "But after all," he asked himself before turning into the boudoir, "what has occurred? Nothing. She was talking a long while with him. But what of that? Surely women in society can talk to whom they please. And then, jealousy means lowering both myself and her," he told himself as he went into her boudoir; but this dictum, which had always had such weight with him before, had now no weight and no meaning at all. And from the bedroom door he turned back again; but as he entered the dark drawing room some inner voice told him that it was not so, and that if others noticed it that showed that there was something. And he said to himself again in the dining room, "Yes, I must decide and put a stop to it, and express my view of it..." And again at the turn in the drawing room he asked himself, "Decide how?" And again he asked himself, "What had occurred?" and answered, "Nothing," and recollected that jealousy was a feeling insulting to his wife; but again in the drawing room he was convinced that something had happened. His thoughts, like his body, went round a complete circle, without coming upon anything new. He noticed this, rubbed his forehead, and sat down in her boudoir.
There, looking at her table, with the malachite blotting case lying at the top and an unfinished letter, his thoughts suddenly changed. He began to think of her, of what she was thinking and feeling. For the first time he pictured vividly to himself her personal life, her ideas, her desires, and the idea that she could and should have a separate life of her own seemed to him so alarming that he made haste to dispel it. It was the chasm which he was afraid to peep into. To put himself in thought and feeling in another person's place was a spiritual exercise not natural to Alexey Alexandrovitch. He looked on this spiritual exercise as a harmful and dangerous abuse of the fancy.
"And the worst of it all," thought he, "is that just now, at the very moment when my great work is approaching completion" (he was thinking of the project he was bringing forward at the time), "when I stand in need of all my mental peace and all my energies, just now this stupid worry should fall foul of me. But what's to be done? I'm not one of those men who submit to uneasiness and worry without having the force of character to face them."
"I must think it over, come to a decision, and put it out of my mind," he said aloud.
"The question of her feelings, of what has passed and may be passing in her soul, that's not my affair; that's the affair of her conscience, and falls under the head of religion," he said to himself, feeling consolation in the sense that he had found to which division of regulating principles this new circumstance could be properly referred.
"And so," Alexey Alexandrovitch said to himself, "questions as to her feelings, and so on, are questions for her conscience, with which I can have nothing to do. My duty is clearly defined. As the head of the family, I am a person bound in duty to guide her, and consequently, in part the person responsible; I am bound to point out the danger I perceive, to warn her, even to use my authority. I ought to speak plainly to her." And everything that he would say tonight to his wife took clear shape in Alexey Alexandrovitch's head. Thinking over what he would say, he somewhat regretted that he should have to use his time and mental powers for domestic consumption, with so little to show for it, but, in spite of that, the form and contents of the speech before him shaped itself as clearly and distinctly in his head as a ministerial report.
There, looking at her table, with the malachite blotting case lying at the top and an unfinished letter, his thoughts suddenly changed. He began to think of her, of what she was thinking and feeling. For the first time he pictured vividly to himself her personal life, her ideas, her desires, and the idea that she could and should have a separate life of her own seemed to him so alarming that he made haste to dispel it. It was the chasm which he was afraid to peep into. To put himself in thought and feeling in another person's place was a spiritual exercise not natural to Alexey Alexandrovitch. He looked on this spiritual exercise as a harmful and dangerous abuse of the fancy.
"And the worst of it all," thought he, "is that just now, at the very moment when my great work is approaching completion" (he was thinking of the project he was bringing forward at the time), "when I stand in need of all my mental peace and all my energies, just now this stupid worry should fall foul of me. But what's to be done? I'm not one of those men who submit to uneasiness and worry without having the force of character to face them."
"I must think it over, come to a decision, and put it out of my mind," he said aloud.
"The question of her feelings, of what has passed and may be passing in her soul, that's not my affair; that's the affair of her conscience, and falls under the head of religion," he said to himself, feeling consolation in the sense that he had found to which division of regulating principles this new circumstance could be properly referred.
"And so," Alexey Alexandrovitch said to himself, "questions as to her feelings, and so on, are questions for her conscience, with which I can have nothing to do. My duty is clearly defined. As the head of the family, I am a person bound in duty to guide her, and consequently, in part the person responsible; I am bound to point out the danger I perceive, to warn her, even to use my authority. I ought to speak plainly to her." And everything that he would say tonight to his wife took clear shape in Alexey Alexandrovitch's head. Thinking over what he would say, he somewhat regretted that he should have to use his time and mental powers for domestic consumption, with so little to show for it, but, in spite of that, the form and contents of the speech before him shaped itself as clearly and distinctly in his head as a ministerial report.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
"Ah, that's a new trick!" said Levin,
"Ah, that's a new trick!" said Levin, and he promptly ran up to the top to do this new trick.
"Don't break you neck! it needs practice!" Nikolay Shtcherbatsky shouted after him.
Levin went to the steps, took a run from above as best he cold, and dashed down, preserving his balance in this unwonted movement with his hands. On the last step he stumbled, but barely touching the ice with his hand, with a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off, laughing.
"How splendid, how nice he is!" Kitty was thinking at that time, as she came out of the pavilion with Mlle. Linon, and looked towards him with a smile of quiet affection, as though he were a favorite brother. "And can it be my fault, can I have done anything wrong? They talk of flirtation. I know it's not he that I love; but still I am happy with him, and he's so jolly. Only, why did he say that?..." she mused.
Catching sight of Kitty going away, and her mother meeting her at the steps, Levin, flushed from his rapid exercise, stood still and pondered a minute. He took off his skates, and overtook the mother and daughter at the entrance of the gardens.
"Delighted to see you," said Princess Shtcherbatskaya. "On Thursdays we are home, as always."
"Today, then?"
"We shall be pleased to see you," the princess said stiffly.
This stiffness hurt Kitty, and she could not resist the desire to smooth over her mother's coldness. She turned her head, and with a smile said:
"Good-bye till this evening."
At that moment Stepan Arkadyevitch, his hat cocked on one side, with beaming face and eyes, strode into the garden like a conquering hero. But as he approached his mother-in-law, he responded in a mournful and crestfallen tone to her inquiries about Dolly's health. After a little subdued and dejected conversation with his mother-in-law, he threw out his chest again, and put his arm in Levin's.
"Well, shall we set off?" he asked. "I've been thinking about you all this time, and I'm very, very glad you've come," he said, looking him in the face with a significant air.
"Yes, come along," answered Levin in ecstasy, hearing unceasingly the sound of that voice saying, "Good-bye till this evening," and seeing the smile with which it was said.
"To the England or the Hermitage?"
"I don't mind which."
"All right, then, the England," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, selecting that restaurant because he owed more there than at the Hermitage, and consequently considered it mean to avoid it. "Have you got a sledge? That's first-rate, for I sent my carriage home."
The friends hardly spoke all the way. Levin was wondering what that change in Kitty's expression had meant, and alternately assuring himself that there was hope, and falling into despair, seeing clearly that his hopes were insane, and yet all the while he felt himself quite another man, utterly unlike what he had been before her smile and those words, "Good-bye till this evening."
Stepan Arkadyevitch was absorbed during the drive in composing the menu of the dinner.
"You like trout, don't you?" he said to Levin as they were arriving.
"Eh?" responded Levin. "Turbot? Yes, I'm AWFULLY fond of turbot."
"Don't break you neck! it needs practice!" Nikolay Shtcherbatsky shouted after him.
Levin went to the steps, took a run from above as best he cold, and dashed down, preserving his balance in this unwonted movement with his hands. On the last step he stumbled, but barely touching the ice with his hand, with a violent effort recovered himself, and skated off, laughing.
"How splendid, how nice he is!" Kitty was thinking at that time, as she came out of the pavilion with Mlle. Linon, and looked towards him with a smile of quiet affection, as though he were a favorite brother. "And can it be my fault, can I have done anything wrong? They talk of flirtation. I know it's not he that I love; but still I am happy with him, and he's so jolly. Only, why did he say that?..." she mused.
Catching sight of Kitty going away, and her mother meeting her at the steps, Levin, flushed from his rapid exercise, stood still and pondered a minute. He took off his skates, and overtook the mother and daughter at the entrance of the gardens.
"Delighted to see you," said Princess Shtcherbatskaya. "On Thursdays we are home, as always."
"Today, then?"
"We shall be pleased to see you," the princess said stiffly.
This stiffness hurt Kitty, and she could not resist the desire to smooth over her mother's coldness. She turned her head, and with a smile said:
"Good-bye till this evening."
At that moment Stepan Arkadyevitch, his hat cocked on one side, with beaming face and eyes, strode into the garden like a conquering hero. But as he approached his mother-in-law, he responded in a mournful and crestfallen tone to her inquiries about Dolly's health. After a little subdued and dejected conversation with his mother-in-law, he threw out his chest again, and put his arm in Levin's.
"Well, shall we set off?" he asked. "I've been thinking about you all this time, and I'm very, very glad you've come," he said, looking him in the face with a significant air.
"Yes, come along," answered Levin in ecstasy, hearing unceasingly the sound of that voice saying, "Good-bye till this evening," and seeing the smile with which it was said.
"To the England or the Hermitage?"
"I don't mind which."
"All right, then, the England," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, selecting that restaurant because he owed more there than at the Hermitage, and consequently considered it mean to avoid it. "Have you got a sledge? That's first-rate, for I sent my carriage home."
The friends hardly spoke all the way. Levin was wondering what that change in Kitty's expression had meant, and alternately assuring himself that there was hope, and falling into despair, seeing clearly that his hopes were insane, and yet all the while he felt himself quite another man, utterly unlike what he had been before her smile and those words, "Good-bye till this evening."
Stepan Arkadyevitch was absorbed during the drive in composing the menu of the dinner.
"You like trout, don't you?" he said to Levin as they were arriving.
"Eh?" responded Levin. "Turbot? Yes, I'm AWFULLY fond of turbot."
"Is there anything troubling you?
"Is there anything troubling you?--though I've no right to ask such a question," he added hurriedly.
"Oh, why so?.... No, I have nothing to trouble me," she responded coldly; and she added immediately: "You haven't seen Mlle. Linon, have you?"
"Not yet."
"Go and speak to her, she likes you so much."
"What's wrong? I have offended her. Lord help me!" thought Levin, and he flew towards the old Frenchwoman with the gray ringlets, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling and showing her false teeth, she greeted him as an old friend.
"Yes, you see we're growing up," she said to him, glancing towards Kitty, "and growing old. Tiny bear has grown big now!" pursued the Frenchwoman, laughing, and she reminded him of his joke about the three young ladies whom he had compared to the three bears in the English nursery tale. "Do you remember that's what you used to call them?"
He remembered absolutely nothing, but she had been laughing at the joke for ten years now, and was fond of it.
"Now, go and skate, go and skate. Our Kitty has learned to skate nicely, hasn't she?"
When Levin darted up to Kitty her face was no longer stern; her eyes looked at him with the same sincerity and friendliness, but Levin fancied that in her friendliness there was a certain note of deliberate composure. And he felt depressed. After talking a little of her old governess and her peculiarities, she questioned him about his life.
"Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter, aren't you?" she said.
"No, I'm not dull, I am very busy," he said, feeling that she was holding him in check by her composed tone, which he would not have the force to break through, just as it had been at the beginning of the winter.
"Are you going to stay in town long?" Kitty questioned him.
"I don't know," he answered, not thinking of what he was saying. The thought that if he were held in check by her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back again without deciding anything came into his mind, and he resolved to make a struggle against it.
"How is it you don't know?"
"I don't know. It depends upon you," he said, and was immediately horror-stricken at his own words.
Whether it was that she had heard his words, or that she did not want to hear them, she made a sort of stumble, twice struck out, and hurriedly skated away from him. She skated up to Mlle. Linon, said something to her, and went towards the pavilion where the ladies took off their skates.
"My God! what have I done! Merciful God! help me, guide me," said Levin, praying inwardly, and at the same time, feeling a need of violent exercise, he skated about describing inner and outer circles.
At that moment one of the young men, the best of the skaters of the day, came out of the coffee-house in his skates, with a cigarette in his mouth. Taking a run, he dashed down the steps in his skates, crashing and bounding up and down. He flew down, and without even changing the position of his hands, skated away over the ice.
"Oh, why so?.... No, I have nothing to trouble me," she responded coldly; and she added immediately: "You haven't seen Mlle. Linon, have you?"
"Not yet."
"Go and speak to her, she likes you so much."
"What's wrong? I have offended her. Lord help me!" thought Levin, and he flew towards the old Frenchwoman with the gray ringlets, who was sitting on a bench. Smiling and showing her false teeth, she greeted him as an old friend.
"Yes, you see we're growing up," she said to him, glancing towards Kitty, "and growing old. Tiny bear has grown big now!" pursued the Frenchwoman, laughing, and she reminded him of his joke about the three young ladies whom he had compared to the three bears in the English nursery tale. "Do you remember that's what you used to call them?"
He remembered absolutely nothing, but she had been laughing at the joke for ten years now, and was fond of it.
"Now, go and skate, go and skate. Our Kitty has learned to skate nicely, hasn't she?"
When Levin darted up to Kitty her face was no longer stern; her eyes looked at him with the same sincerity and friendliness, but Levin fancied that in her friendliness there was a certain note of deliberate composure. And he felt depressed. After talking a little of her old governess and her peculiarities, she questioned him about his life.
"Surely you must be dull in the country in the winter, aren't you?" she said.
"No, I'm not dull, I am very busy," he said, feeling that she was holding him in check by her composed tone, which he would not have the force to break through, just as it had been at the beginning of the winter.
"Are you going to stay in town long?" Kitty questioned him.
"I don't know," he answered, not thinking of what he was saying. The thought that if he were held in check by her tone of quiet friendliness he would end by going back again without deciding anything came into his mind, and he resolved to make a struggle against it.
"How is it you don't know?"
"I don't know. It depends upon you," he said, and was immediately horror-stricken at his own words.
Whether it was that she had heard his words, or that she did not want to hear them, she made a sort of stumble, twice struck out, and hurriedly skated away from him. She skated up to Mlle. Linon, said something to her, and went towards the pavilion where the ladies took off their skates.
"My God! what have I done! Merciful God! help me, guide me," said Levin, praying inwardly, and at the same time, feeling a need of violent exercise, he skated about describing inner and outer circles.
At that moment one of the young men, the best of the skaters of the day, came out of the coffee-house in his skates, with a cigarette in his mouth. Taking a run, he dashed down the steps in his skates, crashing and bounding up and down. He flew down, and without even changing the position of his hands, skated away over the ice.
When he thought of her, he could call up
When he thought of her, he could call up a vivid picture of her to himself, especially the charm of that little fair head, so freely set on the shapely girlish shoulders, and so full of childish brightness and good humor. The childishness of her expression, together with the delicate beauty of her figure, made up her special charm, and that he fully realized. But what always struck him in her as something unlooked for, was the expression of her eyes, soft, serene, and truthful, and above all, her smile, which always transported Levin to an enchanted world, where he felt himself softened and tender, as he remembered himself in some days of his early childhood.
"Have you been here long?" she said, giving him her hand. "Thank you," she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.
"I? I've not long...yesterday...I mean today...I arrived," answered Levin, in his emotion not at once understanding her question. "I was meaning to come and see you," he said; and then, recollecting with what intention he was trying to see her, he was promptly overcome with confusion and blushed.
"I didn't know you could skate, and skate so well."
She looked at him earnestly, as though wishing to make out the cause of his confusion.
"Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up here that you are the best of skaters," she said, with her little black-gloved hand brushing a grain of hoarfrost off her muff.
"Yes, I used once to skate with passion; I wanted to reach perfection."
"You do everything with passion, I think,' she said smiling. "I should so like to see how you skate. Put on skates, and let us skate together."
"Skate together! Can that be possible?" thought Levin, gazing at her.
"I'll put them on directly," he said.
And he went off to get skates.
"It's a long while since we've seen you here, sir," said the attendant, supporting his foot, and screwing on the heel of the skate. "Except you, there's none of the gentlemen first-rate skaters. Will that be all right?" said he, tightening the strap.
"Oh, yes, yes; make haste, please," answered Levin, with difficulty restraining the smile of rapture which would overspread his face. "Yes," he thought, "this now is life, this is happiness! Together, she said; let us skate together! Speak to her now? But that's just why I'm afraid to speak--because I'm happy now, happy in hope, anyway.... And then?.... But I must! I must! I must! Away with weakness!"
Levin rose to his feet, took off his overcoat, and scurrying over the rough ice round the hut, came out on the smooth ice and skated without effort, as it were, by simple exercise of will, increasing and slackening speed and turning his course. He approached with timidity, but again her smile reassured him.
She gave him her hand, and they set off side by side, going faster and faster, and the more rapidly they moved the more tightly she grasped his hand.
"With you I should soon learn; I somehow feel confidence in you," she said to him.
"And I have confidence in myself when you are leaning on me," he said, but was at once panic-stricken at what he had said, and blushed. And indeed, no sooner had he uttered these words, when all at once, like the sun going behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and Levin detected the familiar change in her expression that denoted the working of thought; a crease showed on her smooth brow.
"Have you been here long?" she said, giving him her hand. "Thank you," she added, as he picked up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her muff.
"I? I've not long...yesterday...I mean today...I arrived," answered Levin, in his emotion not at once understanding her question. "I was meaning to come and see you," he said; and then, recollecting with what intention he was trying to see her, he was promptly overcome with confusion and blushed.
"I didn't know you could skate, and skate so well."
She looked at him earnestly, as though wishing to make out the cause of his confusion.
"Your praise is worth having. The tradition is kept up here that you are the best of skaters," she said, with her little black-gloved hand brushing a grain of hoarfrost off her muff.
"Yes, I used once to skate with passion; I wanted to reach perfection."
"You do everything with passion, I think,' she said smiling. "I should so like to see how you skate. Put on skates, and let us skate together."
"Skate together! Can that be possible?" thought Levin, gazing at her.
"I'll put them on directly," he said.
And he went off to get skates.
"It's a long while since we've seen you here, sir," said the attendant, supporting his foot, and screwing on the heel of the skate. "Except you, there's none of the gentlemen first-rate skaters. Will that be all right?" said he, tightening the strap.
"Oh, yes, yes; make haste, please," answered Levin, with difficulty restraining the smile of rapture which would overspread his face. "Yes," he thought, "this now is life, this is happiness! Together, she said; let us skate together! Speak to her now? But that's just why I'm afraid to speak--because I'm happy now, happy in hope, anyway.... And then?.... But I must! I must! I must! Away with weakness!"
Levin rose to his feet, took off his overcoat, and scurrying over the rough ice round the hut, came out on the smooth ice and skated without effort, as it were, by simple exercise of will, increasing and slackening speed and turning his course. He approached with timidity, but again her smile reassured him.
She gave him her hand, and they set off side by side, going faster and faster, and the more rapidly they moved the more tightly she grasped his hand.
"With you I should soon learn; I somehow feel confidence in you," she said to him.
"And I have confidence in myself when you are leaning on me," he said, but was at once panic-stricken at what he had said, and blushed. And indeed, no sooner had he uttered these words, when all at once, like the sun going behind a cloud, her face lost all its friendliness, and Levin detected the familiar change in her expression that denoted the working of thought; a crease showed on her smooth brow.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Chapter 31 Owls
Chapter 31 Owls
Ron's euphoria at helping Gryffindor scrape the Quidditch cup was such that he couldn't settle to anything next day. All he wanted to do was talk over the match, so Harry and Hermione found it very difficult to find an opening in which to mention Grawp. Not that either of them tried very hard; neither was keen to be the one to bring Ron back to reality in quite such a brutal fashion. As it was another fine, warm day, they persuaded him to join them in revising under the beech tree at the edge of the lake, where they had less chance of being overheard than in the common room. Ron was not particularly keen on this idea at first—he was thoroughly enjoying being patted on the back by every Gryffindor who walked past his chair, not to mention the occasional outbursts of ‘Weasley is our King'—but after a while he agreed that some fresh air might do him good.
They spread their books out in the shade of the beech tree and sat down while Ron talked them through his first save of the match for what felt like the dozenth time.
‘Well, I mean, I'd already let in that one of Davies's, so I wasn't feeling all that confident, but I dunno, when Bradley came towards me, just out of nowhere, I thought—you can do this! And I had about a second to decide which way to fly, you know, because he looked like he was aiming for the right goalhoop— my right, obviously, his left—but I had a funny feeling that he was feinting, and so I took the chance and flew left—his right, I mean—and—well—you saw what happened,’ he concluded modestly, sweeping his hair back quite unnecessarily so that it looked interestingly windswept and glancing around to see whether the people nearest to them—a bunch of gossiping third-year Hufflepuffs—had heard him. ‘And then, when Chambers came at me about five minutes later—What?’ Ron asked, having stopped mid-sentence at the look on Harry's face. ‘Why are you grinning?’
‘I'm not,’ said Harry quickly, and looked down at his Transfiguration notes, attempting to straighten his lace. The truth was that Ron had just reminded Harry forcibly of another Gryffindor Quidditch player who had once sat rumpling his hair under this very tree. ‘I'm just glad we won, that's all.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ron slowly, savouring the words, ‘we won.Did you see the look on Chang's face when Ginny got the Snitch right out from under her nose?’
‘I suppose she cried, did she?’ said Harry bitterly.
‘Well, yeah— more out of temper than anything, though ...’ Ron frowned slightly. ‘But you saw her chuck her broom away when she got back to the ground, didn't you?’
‘Er—’ said Harry.
‘Well, actually ... no, Ron,’ said Hermione with a heavy sigh, putting down her book and looking at him apologetically. ‘As a matter of fact, the only bit of the match Harry and I saw was Davies's first goal.’
Ron's carefully ruffled hair seemed to wilt with disappointment. ‘You didn't watch?’ he said faintly, looking from one to the other. ‘You didn't see me make any of those saves?’
‘Well—no,’ said Hermione, stretching out a placatory hand towards him. ‘But Ron, we didn't want to leave—we had to!’
‘Yeah?’ said Ron, whose face was growing rather red. ‘How come?’
‘It was Hagrid,’ said Harry. ‘He decided to tell us why he's been covered in injuries ever since he got back from the giants. He wanted us to go into the Forest with him, we had no choice, you know how he gets. Anyway ...’
The story was told in five minutes, by the end of which Ron's indignation had been replaced by a look of total incredulity.
‘He brought one back and hid it in the Forest?’
‘Yep,’ said Harry grimly.
‘No,’ said Ron, as though by saying this he could make it untrue. ‘No, he can't have.’
‘Well, he has,’ said Hermione firmly. ‘Grawp's about sixteen feet tall, enjoys ripping up twenty-foot pine trees, and knows me,’ she snorted, ‘as Hermy.’
Ron's euphoria at helping Gryffindor scrape the Quidditch cup was such that he couldn't settle to anything next day. All he wanted to do was talk over the match, so Harry and Hermione found it very difficult to find an opening in which to mention Grawp. Not that either of them tried very hard; neither was keen to be the one to bring Ron back to reality in quite such a brutal fashion. As it was another fine, warm day, they persuaded him to join them in revising under the beech tree at the edge of the lake, where they had less chance of being overheard than in the common room. Ron was not particularly keen on this idea at first—he was thoroughly enjoying being patted on the back by every Gryffindor who walked past his chair, not to mention the occasional outbursts of ‘Weasley is our King'—but after a while he agreed that some fresh air might do him good.
They spread their books out in the shade of the beech tree and sat down while Ron talked them through his first save of the match for what felt like the dozenth time.
‘Well, I mean, I'd already let in that one of Davies's, so I wasn't feeling all that confident, but I dunno, when Bradley came towards me, just out of nowhere, I thought—you can do this! And I had about a second to decide which way to fly, you know, because he looked like he was aiming for the right goalhoop— my right, obviously, his left—but I had a funny feeling that he was feinting, and so I took the chance and flew left—his right, I mean—and—well—you saw what happened,’ he concluded modestly, sweeping his hair back quite unnecessarily so that it looked interestingly windswept and glancing around to see whether the people nearest to them—a bunch of gossiping third-year Hufflepuffs—had heard him. ‘And then, when Chambers came at me about five minutes later—What?’ Ron asked, having stopped mid-sentence at the look on Harry's face. ‘Why are you grinning?’
‘I'm not,’ said Harry quickly, and looked down at his Transfiguration notes, attempting to straighten his lace. The truth was that Ron had just reminded Harry forcibly of another Gryffindor Quidditch player who had once sat rumpling his hair under this very tree. ‘I'm just glad we won, that's all.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ron slowly, savouring the words, ‘we won.Did you see the look on Chang's face when Ginny got the Snitch right out from under her nose?’
‘I suppose she cried, did she?’ said Harry bitterly.
‘Well, yeah— more out of temper than anything, though ...’ Ron frowned slightly. ‘But you saw her chuck her broom away when she got back to the ground, didn't you?’
‘Er—’ said Harry.
‘Well, actually ... no, Ron,’ said Hermione with a heavy sigh, putting down her book and looking at him apologetically. ‘As a matter of fact, the only bit of the match Harry and I saw was Davies's first goal.’
Ron's carefully ruffled hair seemed to wilt with disappointment. ‘You didn't watch?’ he said faintly, looking from one to the other. ‘You didn't see me make any of those saves?’
‘Well—no,’ said Hermione, stretching out a placatory hand towards him. ‘But Ron, we didn't want to leave—we had to!’
‘Yeah?’ said Ron, whose face was growing rather red. ‘How come?’
‘It was Hagrid,’ said Harry. ‘He decided to tell us why he's been covered in injuries ever since he got back from the giants. He wanted us to go into the Forest with him, we had no choice, you know how he gets. Anyway ...’
The story was told in five minutes, by the end of which Ron's indignation had been replaced by a look of total incredulity.
‘He brought one back and hid it in the Forest?’
‘Yep,’ said Harry grimly.
‘No,’ said Ron, as though by saying this he could make it untrue. ‘No, he can't have.’
‘Well, he has,’ said Hermione firmly. ‘Grawp's about sixteen feet tall, enjoys ripping up twenty-foot pine trees, and knows me,’ she snorted, ‘as Hermy.’
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Chapter 24 Occlumency
Chapter 24 Occlumency
Kreacher, it transpired, had been lurking in the attic. Sirius said he had found him up there, covered in dust, no doubt looking for more relics of the Black family to hide in his cupboard. Though Sirius seemed satisfied with this
story, it made Harry uneasy. Kreacher seemed to be in a better mood on his reappearance, his bitter muttering had subsided somewhat and he submitted to orders more docilely than usual, though once or twice Harry caught
the house-elf staring at him avidly, but always looking quickly away whenever he saw that Harry had noticed.
Harry did not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius, whose cheerfulness was evaporating fast now that Christmas was over. As the date of their departure back to Hogwarts drew nearer, he became more and more prone to
what Mrs. Weasley called ‘fits of the sullens', in which he would become taciturn and grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak's room for hours at a time. His gloom seeped through the house, oozing under doorways like some
noxious gas, so that all of them became infected by it.
Harry didn't want to leave Sirius again with only Kreacher for company; in fact, for the first time in his life, he was not looking forward to returning to Hogwarts. Going back to school would mean placing himself once again
under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge, who had no doubt managed to force through another dozen decrees in their absence; there was no Quidditch to look forward to now that he had been banned, there was every
likelihood that their burden of homework would increase as the exams drew even nearer; and Dumbledore remained as remote as ever. In fact, if it hadn't been for the DA, Harry thought he might have begged Sirius to let him
leave Hogwarts and remain in Grimmauld Place.
Then, on the very last day of the holidays, something happened that made Harry positively dread his return to school.
‘Harry, dear,’ said Mrs. Weasley poking her head into his and Ron's bedroom, where the pair of them were playing wizard chess watched by Hermione, Ginny and Crookshanks, ‘could you come down to the kitchen? Professor
Snape would like a word with you.’
Harry did not immediately register what she had said; one of his castles was engaged in a violent tussle with a pawn of Ron's and he was egging it on enthusiastically.
‘Squash him— squash him, he's only a pawn, you idiot. Sorry, Mrs. Weasley, what did you say?’
‘Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He'd like a word.’
Harry's mouth fell open in horror. He looked around at Ron, Hermione and Ginny, all of whom were gaping back at him. Crookshanks, whom Hermione had been restraining with difficulty for the past quarter of an hour, leapt
gleefully on to the board and set the pieces running for cover, squealing at the top of their voices.
‘Snape?’ said Harry blankly.
‘Professor Snape, dear,’ said Mrs. Weasley reprovingly. ‘Now come on, quickly, he says he can't stay long.’
‘What's he want with you?’ said Ron, looking unnerved as Mrs. Weasley withdrew from the room. ‘You haven't done anything, have you?’
‘No!’ said Harry indignantly, racking his brains to think what he could have done that would make Snape pursue him to Grimmauld Place. Had his last piece of homework perhaps earned a ‘T'?
A minute or two later, he pushed open the kitchen door to find Sirius and Snape both seated at the long kitchen table, glaring in opposite directions. The silence between them was heavy with mutual dislike. A letter lay open
on the table in front of Sirius.
‘Er,’ said Harry, to announce his presence.
Snape looked around at him, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair.
‘Sit down, Potter.’
‘You know,’ said Sirius loudly, leaning back on his rear chair legs and speaking to the ceiling, ‘I think I'd prefer it if you didn't give orders here, Snape. It's my house, you see.’
An ugly flush suffused Snape's pallid face. Harry sat down in a chair beside Sirius, facing Snape across the table.
‘I was supposed to see you alone, Potter,’ said Snape, the familiar sneer curling his mouth, ‘but Black—’
‘I'm his godfather,’ said Sirius, louder than ever.
‘I am here on Dumbledore's orders.’ said Snape, whose voice, by contrast, was becoming more and more quietly waspish, ‘but by all means stay, Black, I know you like to feel ... involved.’
‘What's that supposed to mean?’ said Sirius, letting his chair fall back on to all four legs with a loud bang.
‘Merely that I am sure you must feel—ah—frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful,’ Snape laid a delicate stress on the word, ‘for the Order.’
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Kreacher, it transpired, had been lurking in the attic. Sirius said he had found him up there, covered in dust, no doubt looking for more relics of the Black family to hide in his cupboard. Though Sirius seemed satisfied with this
story, it made Harry uneasy. Kreacher seemed to be in a better mood on his reappearance, his bitter muttering had subsided somewhat and he submitted to orders more docilely than usual, though once or twice Harry caught
the house-elf staring at him avidly, but always looking quickly away whenever he saw that Harry had noticed.
Harry did not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius, whose cheerfulness was evaporating fast now that Christmas was over. As the date of their departure back to Hogwarts drew nearer, he became more and more prone to
what Mrs. Weasley called ‘fits of the sullens', in which he would become taciturn and grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak's room for hours at a time. His gloom seeped through the house, oozing under doorways like some
noxious gas, so that all of them became infected by it.
Harry didn't want to leave Sirius again with only Kreacher for company; in fact, for the first time in his life, he was not looking forward to returning to Hogwarts. Going back to school would mean placing himself once again
under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge, who had no doubt managed to force through another dozen decrees in their absence; there was no Quidditch to look forward to now that he had been banned, there was every
likelihood that their burden of homework would increase as the exams drew even nearer; and Dumbledore remained as remote as ever. In fact, if it hadn't been for the DA, Harry thought he might have begged Sirius to let him
leave Hogwarts and remain in Grimmauld Place.
Then, on the very last day of the holidays, something happened that made Harry positively dread his return to school.
‘Harry, dear,’ said Mrs. Weasley poking her head into his and Ron's bedroom, where the pair of them were playing wizard chess watched by Hermione, Ginny and Crookshanks, ‘could you come down to the kitchen? Professor
Snape would like a word with you.’
Harry did not immediately register what she had said; one of his castles was engaged in a violent tussle with a pawn of Ron's and he was egging it on enthusiastically.
‘Squash him— squash him, he's only a pawn, you idiot. Sorry, Mrs. Weasley, what did you say?’
‘Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He'd like a word.’
Harry's mouth fell open in horror. He looked around at Ron, Hermione and Ginny, all of whom were gaping back at him. Crookshanks, whom Hermione had been restraining with difficulty for the past quarter of an hour, leapt
gleefully on to the board and set the pieces running for cover, squealing at the top of their voices.
‘Snape?’ said Harry blankly.
‘Professor Snape, dear,’ said Mrs. Weasley reprovingly. ‘Now come on, quickly, he says he can't stay long.’
‘What's he want with you?’ said Ron, looking unnerved as Mrs. Weasley withdrew from the room. ‘You haven't done anything, have you?’
‘No!’ said Harry indignantly, racking his brains to think what he could have done that would make Snape pursue him to Grimmauld Place. Had his last piece of homework perhaps earned a ‘T'?
A minute or two later, he pushed open the kitchen door to find Sirius and Snape both seated at the long kitchen table, glaring in opposite directions. The silence between them was heavy with mutual dislike. A letter lay open
on the table in front of Sirius.
‘Er,’ said Harry, to announce his presence.
Snape looked around at him, his face framed between curtains of greasy black hair.
‘Sit down, Potter.’
‘You know,’ said Sirius loudly, leaning back on his rear chair legs and speaking to the ceiling, ‘I think I'd prefer it if you didn't give orders here, Snape. It's my house, you see.’
An ugly flush suffused Snape's pallid face. Harry sat down in a chair beside Sirius, facing Snape across the table.
‘I was supposed to see you alone, Potter,’ said Snape, the familiar sneer curling his mouth, ‘but Black—’
‘I'm his godfather,’ said Sirius, louder than ever.
‘I am here on Dumbledore's orders.’ said Snape, whose voice, by contrast, was becoming more and more quietly waspish, ‘but by all means stay, Black, I know you like to feel ... involved.’
‘What's that supposed to mean?’ said Sirius, letting his chair fall back on to all four legs with a loud bang.
‘Merely that I am sure you must feel—ah—frustrated by the fact that you can do nothing useful,’ Snape laid a delicate stress on the word, ‘for the Order.’
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
‘Just a couple of people,’
‘Just a couple of people,’ Hermione repeated, checking her watch and looking anxiously towards the door. ‘I told them to be here about now and I'm sure they all know where it is—oh, look, this might be them now.’
The door of the pub had opened. A thick band of dusty sunlight split the room in two for a moment and then vanished, blocked by the incoming rush of a crowd of people.
First came Neville with Dean and Lavender, who were closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with (Harry's stomach did a back-flip) Cho and one of her usually-giggling girlfriends, then (on her own and looking so dreamy she might have walked in by accident) Luna Lovegood; then Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis Creevey Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff girl with a long plait clown her back whose name Harry did not know; three Ravenclaw boys he was pretty sure were called Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner and Terry Boot, Ginny, closely followed by a tall skinny blond boy with an upturned nose whom Harry recognised vaguely as being a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and, bringing up the rear, Fred and George Weasley with their friend Lee Jordan, all three of whom were carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko's merchandise.
‘A couple of people?’ said Harry hoarsely to Hermione. ‘A couple of people?’
‘Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular,’ said Hermione happily. ‘Ron, do you want to pull up some more chairs?’
The barman had frozen in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy it looked as though it had never been washed. Possibly, he had never seen his pub so full.
‘Hi,’ said Fred, reaching the bar first and counting his companions quickly, ‘could we have ... twenty-five Butterbeers, please?’
The barman glared at him for a moment, then, throwing down his rag irritably as though he had been interrupted in something very important, he started passing up dusty Butterbeers from under the bar.
‘Cheers,’ said Fred, handing them out. ‘Cough up, everyone, I haven't got enough gold for all of these ...’
Harry watched numbly as the large chattering group took their beers from Fred and rummaged in their robes to find coins. He could not imagine what all these people had turned up for until the horrible thought occurred to him that they might be expecting same kind of speech, at which he rounded on Hermione.
‘What have you been telling people?’ he said in a low voice. ‘What are they expecting?’
‘I've told you, they just want to hear what you've got to say,’ said Hermione soothingly; but Harry continued to look at her so furiously that she added quickly, ‘you don't have to do anything yet, I'll speak to them first.’
‘Hi, Harry,’ said Neville, beaming and taking a seat opposite him.
Harry tried to smile back, but did not speak; his mouth was exceptionally dry. Cho had just smiled at him and sat down on Ron's right. Her friend, who had curly reddish-blonde hair, did not smile, but gave Harry a thoroughly mistrustful look which plainly told him that, given her way, she would not be here at all.
In twos and threes the new arrivals settled around Harry, Ron and Hermione, some looking rather excited, others curious, Luna Lovegood gazing dreamily into space. When everybody had pulled up a chair, the chatter died out. Every eye was upon Harry.
‘Er,’ said Hermione, her voice slightly higher than usual out of nerves. ‘Well—er—hi.’
The group focused its attention on her instead, though eyes continued to dart back regularly to Harry.
‘Well ... erm ... well, you know why you're here. Erm ... well, Harry here had the idea—I mean’ (Harry had thrown her a sharp look) ‘I had the idea—that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defence Against the Dark Arts—and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us— ‘(Hermione's voice became suddenly much stronger and more confident) ‘— because nobody could call that Defence Against the Dark Arts—’ ('Hear, hear,’ said Anthony Goldstein, and Hermione looked heartened) ‘—Well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands.’
She paused, looked sideways at Harry and went on, ‘And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just in theory but doing the real spells—’
The door of the pub had opened. A thick band of dusty sunlight split the room in two for a moment and then vanished, blocked by the incoming rush of a crowd of people.
First came Neville with Dean and Lavender, who were closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with (Harry's stomach did a back-flip) Cho and one of her usually-giggling girlfriends, then (on her own and looking so dreamy she might have walked in by accident) Luna Lovegood; then Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis Creevey Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff girl with a long plait clown her back whose name Harry did not know; three Ravenclaw boys he was pretty sure were called Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner and Terry Boot, Ginny, closely followed by a tall skinny blond boy with an upturned nose whom Harry recognised vaguely as being a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and, bringing up the rear, Fred and George Weasley with their friend Lee Jordan, all three of whom were carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko's merchandise.
‘A couple of people?’ said Harry hoarsely to Hermione. ‘A couple of people?’
‘Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular,’ said Hermione happily. ‘Ron, do you want to pull up some more chairs?’
The barman had frozen in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy it looked as though it had never been washed. Possibly, he had never seen his pub so full.
‘Hi,’ said Fred, reaching the bar first and counting his companions quickly, ‘could we have ... twenty-five Butterbeers, please?’
The barman glared at him for a moment, then, throwing down his rag irritably as though he had been interrupted in something very important, he started passing up dusty Butterbeers from under the bar.
‘Cheers,’ said Fred, handing them out. ‘Cough up, everyone, I haven't got enough gold for all of these ...’
Harry watched numbly as the large chattering group took their beers from Fred and rummaged in their robes to find coins. He could not imagine what all these people had turned up for until the horrible thought occurred to him that they might be expecting same kind of speech, at which he rounded on Hermione.
‘What have you been telling people?’ he said in a low voice. ‘What are they expecting?’
‘I've told you, they just want to hear what you've got to say,’ said Hermione soothingly; but Harry continued to look at her so furiously that she added quickly, ‘you don't have to do anything yet, I'll speak to them first.’
‘Hi, Harry,’ said Neville, beaming and taking a seat opposite him.
Harry tried to smile back, but did not speak; his mouth was exceptionally dry. Cho had just smiled at him and sat down on Ron's right. Her friend, who had curly reddish-blonde hair, did not smile, but gave Harry a thoroughly mistrustful look which plainly told him that, given her way, she would not be here at all.
In twos and threes the new arrivals settled around Harry, Ron and Hermione, some looking rather excited, others curious, Luna Lovegood gazing dreamily into space. When everybody had pulled up a chair, the chatter died out. Every eye was upon Harry.
‘Er,’ said Hermione, her voice slightly higher than usual out of nerves. ‘Well—er—hi.’
The group focused its attention on her instead, though eyes continued to dart back regularly to Harry.
‘Well ... erm ... well, you know why you're here. Erm ... well, Harry here had the idea—I mean’ (Harry had thrown her a sharp look) ‘I had the idea—that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defence Against the Dark Arts—and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us— ‘(Hermione's voice became suddenly much stronger and more confident) ‘— because nobody could call that Defence Against the Dark Arts—’ ('Hear, hear,’ said Anthony Goldstein, and Hermione looked heartened) ‘—Well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands.’
She paused, looked sideways at Harry and went on, ‘And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just in theory but doing the real spells—’
Monday, November 15, 2010
He beckoned to Harry and led him out of Kingsley's cubicle
He beckoned to Harry and led him out of Kingsley's cubicle, through a second set of oak doors, into another passage, turned left, marched along another corridor, turned right into a dimly lit and distinctly shabby corridor, and finally reached a dead end, where a door on the left stood ajar, revealing a broom cupboard, and a door on the right bore a tarnished brass plaque reading Misuse of Muggle Artefacts.
Mr. Weasley's dingy office seemed to be slightly smaller than the broom cupboard. Two desks had been crammed inside it and there was barely space to move around them because of all the overflowing filing cabinets lining the walls, on top of which were tottering piles of files. The little wall space available bore witness to Mr. Weasley's obsessions; there were several posters of cars, including one of a dismantled engine, two illustrations of postboxes he seemed to have cut out of Muggle children's books, and a diagram showing how to wire a plug.
Sitting on top of Mr. Weasley's overflowing in-tray was an old toaster that was hiccoughing in a disconsolate way and a pair of empty leather gloves that were twiddling their thumbs. A photograph of the Weasley family stood beside the in-tray. Harry noticed that Percy appeared to have walked out of it.
‘We haven't got a window,’ said Mr. Weasley apologetically, taking off his bomber jacket and placing it on the back of his chair. ‘We've asked, but they don't seem to think we need one. Have a seat, Harry, doesn't look as if Perkins is in yet.’
Harry squeezed himself into the chair behind Perkins's desk while Mr. Weasley riffled through the sheaf of parchment Kingsley Shacklebolt had given him.
‘Ah,’ he said, grinning, as he extracted a copy of a magazine entitled The Quibbler from its midst, ‘yes...’ He flicked through it. ‘Yes, he's right, I'm sure Sirius will find that very amusing—oh dear, what's this now?’
A memo had just zoomed in through the open door and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccoughing toaster. Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read aloud, ‘"Third regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately.” This is getting ridiculous ...’
‘A regurgitating toilet?’
Mr. Weasley's dingy office seemed to be slightly smaller than the broom cupboard. Two desks had been crammed inside it and there was barely space to move around them because of all the overflowing filing cabinets lining the walls, on top of which were tottering piles of files. The little wall space available bore witness to Mr. Weasley's obsessions; there were several posters of cars, including one of a dismantled engine, two illustrations of postboxes he seemed to have cut out of Muggle children's books, and a diagram showing how to wire a plug.
Sitting on top of Mr. Weasley's overflowing in-tray was an old toaster that was hiccoughing in a disconsolate way and a pair of empty leather gloves that were twiddling their thumbs. A photograph of the Weasley family stood beside the in-tray. Harry noticed that Percy appeared to have walked out of it.
‘We haven't got a window,’ said Mr. Weasley apologetically, taking off his bomber jacket and placing it on the back of his chair. ‘We've asked, but they don't seem to think we need one. Have a seat, Harry, doesn't look as if Perkins is in yet.’
Harry squeezed himself into the chair behind Perkins's desk while Mr. Weasley riffled through the sheaf of parchment Kingsley Shacklebolt had given him.
‘Ah,’ he said, grinning, as he extracted a copy of a magazine entitled The Quibbler from its midst, ‘yes...’ He flicked through it. ‘Yes, he's right, I'm sure Sirius will find that very amusing—oh dear, what's this now?’
A memo had just zoomed in through the open door and fluttered to rest on top of the hiccoughing toaster. Mr. Weasley unfolded it and read aloud, ‘"Third regurgitating public toilet reported in Bethnal Green, kindly investigate immediately.” This is getting ridiculous ...’
‘A regurgitating toilet?’
Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.’
‘This is us, Harry,’ said Mr. Weasley, and they followed the witch out of the lift into a corridor lined with doors. ‘My office is on the other side of the floor.’
‘Mr. Weasley,’ said Harry, as they passed a window through which sunlight was streaming, ‘aren't we still underground?’
‘Yes, we are,’ said Mr. Weasley. ‘Those are enchanted windows. Magical Maintenance decide what weather we'll get every day. We had two months of hurricanes last time they were angling for a pay rise.... Just round here, Harry.’
They turned a corner, walked through a pair of heavy oak doors and emerged in a cluttered open area divided into cubicles, which was buzzing with talk and laughter. Memos were zooming in and out of cubicles like miniature rockets. A lopsided sign on the nearest cubicle read AUROR HEADQUARTERS.
Harry looked surreptitiously through the doorways as they passed. The Aurors had covered their cubicle walls with everything From pictures of wanted wizards and photographs of their families, to posters of their favourite Quidditch teams and articles from the Daily Prophet. A scarlet-robed man with a ponytail longer than Bill's was sitting with his boots up on his desk, dictating a report to his quill. A little further along, a witch with a patch over one eye was talking over the top of her cubicle wall to Kingsley Shacklebolt.
‘Morning, Weasley,’ said Kingsley carelessly, as they drew nearer. ‘I've been wanting a word with you, have you got a second?’
‘Yes, if it really is a second,’ said Mr. Weasley, ‘I'm in rather a hurry.’
They were talking as though they hardly knew each other and when Harry opened his mouth to say hello to Kingsley, Mr. Weasly stood on his foot. They followed Kingsley along the row and into the very last cubicle.
Harry received a slight shock; blinking down at him from every direction was Sirius's face. Newspaper cuttings and old photographs—even the one of Sirius being best man at the Potters’ wedding—papered the walls. The only Sirius-free space was a map of the world in which little red pins were glowing like jewels.
‘Here,’ said Kingsley brusquely to Mr. Weasley, shoving a sheaf of parchment into his hand. ‘I need as much information as possible on flying Muggle vehicles sighted in the last twelve months. We've received information that Black might still be using his old motorcycle.’
Kingsley tipped Harry an enormous wink and added, in a whisper, ‘Give him the magazine, he might find it interesting.’ Then he said in normal tones, ‘And don't take too long, Weasley, the delay on that firelegs report held our investigation up for a month.’
‘If you had read my report you would know that the term is “firearms",’ said Mr. Weasley coolly. ‘And I'm afraid you'll have to wait for information on motorcycles; we're extremely busy at the moment.’ He dropped his voice and said, ‘If you can get away before seven, Molly's making meatballs.’
‘This is us, Harry,’ said Mr. Weasley, and they followed the witch out of the lift into a corridor lined with doors. ‘My office is on the other side of the floor.’
‘Mr. Weasley,’ said Harry, as they passed a window through which sunlight was streaming, ‘aren't we still underground?’
‘Yes, we are,’ said Mr. Weasley. ‘Those are enchanted windows. Magical Maintenance decide what weather we'll get every day. We had two months of hurricanes last time they were angling for a pay rise.... Just round here, Harry.’
They turned a corner, walked through a pair of heavy oak doors and emerged in a cluttered open area divided into cubicles, which was buzzing with talk and laughter. Memos were zooming in and out of cubicles like miniature rockets. A lopsided sign on the nearest cubicle read AUROR HEADQUARTERS.
Harry looked surreptitiously through the doorways as they passed. The Aurors had covered their cubicle walls with everything From pictures of wanted wizards and photographs of their families, to posters of their favourite Quidditch teams and articles from the Daily Prophet. A scarlet-robed man with a ponytail longer than Bill's was sitting with his boots up on his desk, dictating a report to his quill. A little further along, a witch with a patch over one eye was talking over the top of her cubicle wall to Kingsley Shacklebolt.
‘Morning, Weasley,’ said Kingsley carelessly, as they drew nearer. ‘I've been wanting a word with you, have you got a second?’
‘Yes, if it really is a second,’ said Mr. Weasley, ‘I'm in rather a hurry.’
They were talking as though they hardly knew each other and when Harry opened his mouth to say hello to Kingsley, Mr. Weasly stood on his foot. They followed Kingsley along the row and into the very last cubicle.
Harry received a slight shock; blinking down at him from every direction was Sirius's face. Newspaper cuttings and old photographs—even the one of Sirius being best man at the Potters’ wedding—papered the walls. The only Sirius-free space was a map of the world in which little red pins were glowing like jewels.
‘Here,’ said Kingsley brusquely to Mr. Weasley, shoving a sheaf of parchment into his hand. ‘I need as much information as possible on flying Muggle vehicles sighted in the last twelve months. We've received information that Black might still be using his old motorcycle.’
Kingsley tipped Harry an enormous wink and added, in a whisper, ‘Give him the magazine, he might find it interesting.’ Then he said in normal tones, ‘And don't take too long, Weasley, the delay on that firelegs report held our investigation up for a month.’
‘If you had read my report you would know that the term is “firearms",’ said Mr. Weasley coolly. ‘And I'm afraid you'll have to wait for information on motorcycles; we're extremely busy at the moment.’ He dropped his voice and said, ‘If you can get away before seven, Molly's making meatballs.’
His eyes had darted from the silver visitor's badge on Harry's chest to his forehead.
His eyes had darted from the silver visitor's badge on Harry's chest to his forehead.
‘Thank you, Eric,’ said Mr. Weasley firmly, and grasping Harry by the shoulder he steered him away from the desk and back into the stream of wizards and witches walking through the golden gates.
Jostled slightly by the crowd, Harry followed Mr. Weasley through the gates into the smaller hall beyond, where at least twenty lifts stood behind wrought golden grilles. Harry and Mr. Weasley joined the crowd around one of them. Nearby, stood a big bearded wizard holding a large cardboard box which was emitting rasping noises.
‘All right, Arthur?’ said the wizard, nodding at Mr. Weasley.
‘What've you got there, Bob?’ asked Mr. Weasley, looking at the box.
‘We're not sure,’ said the wizard seriously. ‘We thought it was a bog-standard chicken until it started breathing fire. Looks like a serious breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding to me.’
With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry and Mr. Weasley stepped into the lift with the rest of the crowd and Harry found himself jammed against the back wall. Several witches and wizards were looking at him curiously; he stared at his feet to avoid catching anyone's eye, flattening his fringe as he did so. The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift ascended slowly, chains rattling, while the same cool female voice Harry had heard in the telephone box rang out again.
‘Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club and Ludicrous Patents Office.’
The lift doors opened; Harry glimpsed an untidy-looking corridor, with various posters of Quidditch teams tacked lopsidedly on the walls. One of the wizards in the lift, who was carrying an armful of broomsticks, extricated himself with difficulty and disappeared down the corridor. The doors closed, the lift juddered upwards again and the woman's voice announced:
‘Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Centre.’
Once again the lift doors opened and four or five witches and wizards got out; at the same time, several paper aeroplanes swooped into the lift. Harry stared up at them as they flapped idly around above his head; they were a pale violet colour and he could see MINISTRY OF MAGIC stamped along the edge of their wings.
‘Just inter-departmental memos,’ Mr. Weasley muttered to him. ‘We used to use owls, but the mess was unbelievable ... droppings all over the desks...’
As they clattered upwards again the memos flapped around the lamp swaying from the lift's ceiling.
‘Level Five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats.’
When the doors opened, two of the memos zoomed out with a few more of the witches and wizards, but several more memos zoomed in, so that the light from the lamp flickered and flashed overhead as they darted around it.
‘Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau.
’ ‘S'cuse,’ said the wizard carrying the fire-breathing chicken and he left the lift pursued by a little flock of memos. The doors clanged shut yet again.
‘Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee.’
Everybody left the lift on this floor except Mr. Weasley, Harry, and a witch who was reading an extremely long piece of parchment that was trailing on the floor. The remaining memos continued to soar around the lamp as the lift juddered upwards again, then the doors opened and the voice made its announcement.
‘Thank you, Eric,’ said Mr. Weasley firmly, and grasping Harry by the shoulder he steered him away from the desk and back into the stream of wizards and witches walking through the golden gates.
Jostled slightly by the crowd, Harry followed Mr. Weasley through the gates into the smaller hall beyond, where at least twenty lifts stood behind wrought golden grilles. Harry and Mr. Weasley joined the crowd around one of them. Nearby, stood a big bearded wizard holding a large cardboard box which was emitting rasping noises.
‘All right, Arthur?’ said the wizard, nodding at Mr. Weasley.
‘What've you got there, Bob?’ asked Mr. Weasley, looking at the box.
‘We're not sure,’ said the wizard seriously. ‘We thought it was a bog-standard chicken until it started breathing fire. Looks like a serious breach of the Ban on Experimental Breeding to me.’
With a great jangling and clattering a lift descended in front of them; the golden grille slid back and Harry and Mr. Weasley stepped into the lift with the rest of the crowd and Harry found himself jammed against the back wall. Several witches and wizards were looking at him curiously; he stared at his feet to avoid catching anyone's eye, flattening his fringe as he did so. The grilles slid shut with a crash and the lift ascended slowly, chains rattling, while the same cool female voice Harry had heard in the telephone box rang out again.
‘Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club and Ludicrous Patents Office.’
The lift doors opened; Harry glimpsed an untidy-looking corridor, with various posters of Quidditch teams tacked lopsidedly on the walls. One of the wizards in the lift, who was carrying an armful of broomsticks, extricated himself with difficulty and disappeared down the corridor. The doors closed, the lift juddered upwards again and the woman's voice announced:
‘Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparation Test Centre.’
Once again the lift doors opened and four or five witches and wizards got out; at the same time, several paper aeroplanes swooped into the lift. Harry stared up at them as they flapped idly around above his head; they were a pale violet colour and he could see MINISTRY OF MAGIC stamped along the edge of their wings.
‘Just inter-departmental memos,’ Mr. Weasley muttered to him. ‘We used to use owls, but the mess was unbelievable ... droppings all over the desks...’
As they clattered upwards again the memos flapped around the lamp swaying from the lift's ceiling.
‘Level Five, Department of International Magical Cooperation, incorporating the International Magical Trading Standards Body, the International Magical Office of Law and the International Confederation of Wizards, British Seats.’
When the doors opened, two of the memos zoomed out with a few more of the witches and wizards, but several more memos zoomed in, so that the light from the lamp flickered and flashed overhead as they darted around it.
‘Level Four, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being and Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau.
’ ‘S'cuse,’ said the wizard carrying the fire-breathing chicken and he left the lift pursued by a little flock of memos. The doors clanged shut yet again.
‘Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, including the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee.’
Everybody left the lift on this floor except Mr. Weasley, Harry, and a witch who was reading an extremely long piece of parchment that was trailing on the floor. The remaining memos continued to soar around the lamp as the lift juddered upwards again, then the doors opened and the voice made its announcement.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
‘What?’ said Ron indignantly, having managed
, finally, to swallow his food. ‘I'm not allowed to ask a simple question?’
‘Oh, forget it,’ said Hermione irritably, and the pair of them spent the rest of the meal in huffy silence.
Harry was too used to their bickering to bother trying to reconcile them; he felt it was a better use of his time to eat his way steadily through his steak and kidney pie, then a large plateful of his favourite treacle tart.
When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the Hall was starting to creep upwards again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking ceased immediately as all turned to face the Headmaster. Harry
was feeling pleasantly drowsy now. His four-poster bed was waiting somewhere above, wonderfully warm and soft ...
‘Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,’ said Dumbledore. ‘First-years ought to know that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-
bounds to students—and a few of our older students ought to know by now, too.’ (Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged smirks.)
‘Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which
can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door.
‘We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge,
our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.’
There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause, during which Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged slightly panicked looks; Dumbledore had not said for how long Grubbly-Plank would be teaching.
Dumbledore continued, ‘Tryouts for the house Quidditch teams will take place on the—’
He broke off, looking enquiringly at Professor Umbridge. As she was not much taller standing than sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood why Dumbledore had stopped talking, but then Professor Umbridge
cleared her throat, ‘Hem, hem,’ and it became clear that she had got to her feet and was intending to make a speech.
Dumbledore only looked taken aback for a moment, then he sat down smartly and looked alertly at Professor Umbridge as though he desired nothing better than to listen to her talk. Other members of staff were not as adept
at hiding their surprise. Professor Sprout's eyebrows had disappeared into her flyaway hair and Professor McGonagall's mouth was as thin as Harry had ever seen it. No new teacher had ever interrupted Dumbledore before.
Many of the students were smirking; this woman obviously did not know how things were done at Hogwarts.
‘Thank you, Headmaster,’ Professor Umbridge simpered, ‘for those kind words of welcome.’
Her voice was high-pitched, breathy and little-girlish and, again, Harry felt a powerful rush of dislike that he could not explain to himself; all he knew was that he loathed everything about her, from her stupid voice to her fluffy
pink cardigan. She gave another little throat-clearing cough ('hem, hem') and continued.
‘Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!’ She smiled, revealing very pointed teeth. ‘And to see such happy little faces looking up at me!’
Harry glanced around. None of the faces he could see looked happy. On the contrary, they all looked rather taken-aback at being addressed as though they were five years old.
‘I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all and I'm sure we'll be very good friends!’
Students exchanged looks at this; some of them were barely concealing grins.
‘I'll be her friend as long as I don't have to borrow that cardigan,’ Parvati whispered to Lavender, and both of them lapsed into silent giggles.
Professor Umbridge cleared her throat again ('hem, hem'), but when she continued, some of the breathiness had vanished from her voice. She sounded much more businesslike and now her words had a dull learned-by-heart
sound to them.
The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction.
The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down the generations lest we lose them for ever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and
polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.’
Professor Umbridge paused here and made a little bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bowed back to her. Professor McGonagall's dark eyebrows had contracted so that she looked positively hawklike, and Harry
distinctly saw her exchange a significant glance with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gave another little ‘hem, hem’ and went on with her speech.
‘Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There
again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and
innovation ...’
Harry found his attentiveness ebbing, as though his brain was slipping in and out of tune. The quiet that always filled the Hall when Dumbledore was speaking was breaking up as students put their heads together, whispering
and giggling. Over on the Ravenclaw table Cho Chang was chatting animatedly with her friends. A few seats along from Cho, Luna Lovegood had got out The Quibbler again. Meanwhile, at the Hufflepuff table Ernie Macmillan
was one of the few still staring at Professor Umbridge, but he was glassy-eyed and Harry was sure he was only pretending to listen in an attempt to live up to the new prefect's badge gleaming on his chest.
Professor Umbridge did not seem to notice the restlessness of her audience. Harry had the impression that a full-scale riot could have broken out under her nose and she would have ploughed on with her speech. The
teachers, however, were still listening very attentively, and Hermione seemed to be drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though, judging by her expression, they were not at all to her taste.
‘... because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded
and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and
pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.’
She sat down. Dumbledore clapped. The staff followed his lead, though Harry noticed that several of them brought their hands together only once or twice before stopping. A few students joined in, but most had been taken
unawares by the end of the speech, not having listened to more than a few words of it, and before they could start applauding properly, Dumbledore had stood up again.
‘Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘Now, as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held ...’
‘Yes, it certainly was illuminating,’ said Hermione in a low voice.
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‘Oh, forget it,’ said Hermione irritably, and the pair of them spent the rest of the meal in huffy silence.
Harry was too used to their bickering to bother trying to reconcile them; he felt it was a better use of his time to eat his way steadily through his steak and kidney pie, then a large plateful of his favourite treacle tart.
When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the Hall was starting to creep upwards again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking ceased immediately as all turned to face the Headmaster. Harry
was feeling pleasantly drowsy now. His four-poster bed was waiting somewhere above, wonderfully warm and soft ...
‘Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,’ said Dumbledore. ‘First-years ought to know that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-
bounds to students—and a few of our older students ought to know by now, too.’ (Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged smirks.)
‘Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which
can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door.
‘We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge,
our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.’
There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause, during which Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged slightly panicked looks; Dumbledore had not said for how long Grubbly-Plank would be teaching.
Dumbledore continued, ‘Tryouts for the house Quidditch teams will take place on the—’
He broke off, looking enquiringly at Professor Umbridge. As she was not much taller standing than sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood why Dumbledore had stopped talking, but then Professor Umbridge
cleared her throat, ‘Hem, hem,’ and it became clear that she had got to her feet and was intending to make a speech.
Dumbledore only looked taken aback for a moment, then he sat down smartly and looked alertly at Professor Umbridge as though he desired nothing better than to listen to her talk. Other members of staff were not as adept
at hiding their surprise. Professor Sprout's eyebrows had disappeared into her flyaway hair and Professor McGonagall's mouth was as thin as Harry had ever seen it. No new teacher had ever interrupted Dumbledore before.
Many of the students were smirking; this woman obviously did not know how things were done at Hogwarts.
‘Thank you, Headmaster,’ Professor Umbridge simpered, ‘for those kind words of welcome.’
Her voice was high-pitched, breathy and little-girlish and, again, Harry felt a powerful rush of dislike that he could not explain to himself; all he knew was that he loathed everything about her, from her stupid voice to her fluffy
pink cardigan. She gave another little throat-clearing cough ('hem, hem') and continued.
‘Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!’ She smiled, revealing very pointed teeth. ‘And to see such happy little faces looking up at me!’
Harry glanced around. None of the faces he could see looked happy. On the contrary, they all looked rather taken-aback at being addressed as though they were five years old.
‘I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all and I'm sure we'll be very good friends!’
Students exchanged looks at this; some of them were barely concealing grins.
‘I'll be her friend as long as I don't have to borrow that cardigan,’ Parvati whispered to Lavender, and both of them lapsed into silent giggles.
Professor Umbridge cleared her throat again ('hem, hem'), but when she continued, some of the breathiness had vanished from her voice. She sounded much more businesslike and now her words had a dull learned-by-heart
sound to them.
The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction.
The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down the generations lest we lose them for ever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and
polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.’
Professor Umbridge paused here and made a little bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bowed back to her. Professor McGonagall's dark eyebrows had contracted so that she looked positively hawklike, and Harry
distinctly saw her exchange a significant glance with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gave another little ‘hem, hem’ and went on with her speech.
‘Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There
again, progress for progress's sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and
innovation ...’
Harry found his attentiveness ebbing, as though his brain was slipping in and out of tune. The quiet that always filled the Hall when Dumbledore was speaking was breaking up as students put their heads together, whispering
and giggling. Over on the Ravenclaw table Cho Chang was chatting animatedly with her friends. A few seats along from Cho, Luna Lovegood had got out The Quibbler again. Meanwhile, at the Hufflepuff table Ernie Macmillan
was one of the few still staring at Professor Umbridge, but he was glassy-eyed and Harry was sure he was only pretending to listen in an attempt to live up to the new prefect's badge gleaming on his chest.
Professor Umbridge did not seem to notice the restlessness of her audience. Harry had the impression that a full-scale riot could have broken out under her nose and she would have ploughed on with her speech. The
teachers, however, were still listening very attentively, and Hermione seemed to be drinking in every word Umbridge spoke, though, judging by her expression, they were not at all to her taste.
‘... because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded
and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and
pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.’
She sat down. Dumbledore clapped. The staff followed his lead, though Harry noticed that several of them brought their hands together only once or twice before stopping. A few students joined in, but most had been taken
unawares by the end of the speech, not having listened to more than a few words of it, and before they could start applauding properly, Dumbledore had stood up again.
‘Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,’ he said, bowing to her. ‘Now, as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held ...’
‘Yes, it certainly was illuminating,’ said Hermione in a low voice.
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Triumph and Tragedy: David Hulme Discusses Middle East Tension
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：139 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:36:02
Israel's first Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion died in 1973. But if anything could bring him back to life it would have been US Presidential candidate Barack Obama's recent statement concerning Jerusalem. In a June speech to the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, Obama said he would work for peace with a Palestinian state alongside Israel and that, "Jerusalem will remain the capital of Israel, and it must remain undivided."
While music to Zionist ears, the notion of Jerusalem as Israeli capital implies the expulsion of the Palestinians who also claim the territory as their own. Mr. Obama, currently visiting the Middle East, later clarified what he called 'poor phrasing' by explaining that "we don't want barbed wire running through Jerusalem, similar to the way it was prior to the '67 war, that it is possible for us to create a Jerusalem that is cohesive and coherent."
According to Mid-East scholar David Hulme, merely looking at Jerusalem today or even back to the 1967 war when Israel took control of Jerusalem does not provide a long enough view to settle the Jerusalem question. In the Vision article Triumph and Tragedy in the Middle East, Hulme discusses the 60-year history of the State of Israel and the deep compassions that impede the development of the long-sought 'cohesive and coherent' agreements between peoples claiming the same homeland.
Hulme notes that the optimism of 1948 has given way to 60 years that "have proven more challenging and more tragic for both Israelis and Palestinians than Ben-Gurion could ever have imagined in those first heady days of statehood. And always at the heart of the seemingly endless conflict has been the holy city, Jerusalem."
In the companion article, David Ben-Gurion: For the Love of Zion, Hulme takes a longer look at the background of the man who established Jerusalem as Israel's benchmark possession. "A people which for two thousand five hundred years has steadfastly observed the oath which the first exiles swore on the rivers of Babylon not to forget Jerusalem," Ben-Gurion stated in a 1949 United Nations speech, "will never acquiesce in separation from Jerusalem."
Hulme offers a surprising solution to the problem that reaches beyond the geopolitical crosstalk that has failed to solve the Jerusalem question over the ensuing decades. That solution involves understanding how both historical and ideological factors create national identity and how the conflict between Israeli and Palestinian can be successfully mediated.
"Over the past century, not only Palestinians and Zionists but also Turks, Britons, and Jordanians have fought on Palestine's terrain of battle," Hulme writes in his text, Identity, Ideology, and the Future of Jerusalem. "[E]ach people has expressed aspects of its own identity and ideology vis- -vis Palestine."
Israel's first Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion died in 1973. But if anything could bring him back to life it would have been US Presidential candidate Barack Obama's recent statement concerning Jerusalem. In a June speech to the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, Obama said he would work for peace with a Palestinian state alongside Israel and that, "Jerusalem will remain the capital of Israel, and it must remain undivided."
While music to Zionist ears, the notion of Jerusalem as Israeli capital implies the expulsion of the Palestinians who also claim the territory as their own. Mr. Obama, currently visiting the Middle East, later clarified what he called 'poor phrasing' by explaining that "we don't want barbed wire running through Jerusalem, similar to the way it was prior to the '67 war, that it is possible for us to create a Jerusalem that is cohesive and coherent."
According to Mid-East scholar David Hulme, merely looking at Jerusalem today or even back to the 1967 war when Israel took control of Jerusalem does not provide a long enough view to settle the Jerusalem question. In the Vision article Triumph and Tragedy in the Middle East, Hulme discusses the 60-year history of the State of Israel and the deep compassions that impede the development of the long-sought 'cohesive and coherent' agreements between peoples claiming the same homeland.
Hulme notes that the optimism of 1948 has given way to 60 years that "have proven more challenging and more tragic for both Israelis and Palestinians than Ben-Gurion could ever have imagined in those first heady days of statehood. And always at the heart of the seemingly endless conflict has been the holy city, Jerusalem."
In the companion article, David Ben-Gurion: For the Love of Zion, Hulme takes a longer look at the background of the man who established Jerusalem as Israel's benchmark possession. "A people which for two thousand five hundred years has steadfastly observed the oath which the first exiles swore on the rivers of Babylon not to forget Jerusalem," Ben-Gurion stated in a 1949 United Nations speech, "will never acquiesce in separation from Jerusalem."
Hulme offers a surprising solution to the problem that reaches beyond the geopolitical crosstalk that has failed to solve the Jerusalem question over the ensuing decades. That solution involves understanding how both historical and ideological factors create national identity and how the conflict between Israeli and Palestinian can be successfully mediated.
"Over the past century, not only Palestinians and Zionists but also Turks, Britons, and Jordanians have fought on Palestine's terrain of battle," Hulme writes in his text, Identity, Ideology, and the Future of Jerusalem. "[E]ach people has expressed aspects of its own identity and ideology vis- -vis Palestine."
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
When Building A Log Cabin There Are Some Major Cost Factors
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：100 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:08:00
Having a log cabin built is an exciting time. Whether you are building a log cabin in the mountains to get away to or you are building one to live in permanently, it can be a beautiful home to live in. But just like any other home
on the market, it can become quite expensive to construct one.
When having a log home built or you, there are some major cost factors you will want to take into consideration. There are several things you can do to reduce the high cost of your cabin while still maintaining the incredible
design and uniqueness of a cabin home.
Before anything, you will want to get a turnkey cost estimate. A turnkey cost estimate refers to the total cost it will end up being to build your log home or timber home. Many times you can get a rough estimate of what it is
going to cost you to build the home of your dreams. Of course a lot will depend on whether you design it or not, what you decide to include in the log cabin and how large you want it to be.
If you get the estimate back and see that it is just outside of your budget, do not go on with the decision just because the floor plan has already been sketched out. Have your designer review the plan and suggest alterations
you can make to reduce the cost of the overall home.
There are several suggestions your designer will recommend to help you reduce some of the major cost factors. The first thing your designer will bring up is the size of the plan. Obviously, the overall size of the log cabin will
have the biggest affect on the cost because it affects all other facets of the home as well. If you reduce the size of the home, you are also reducing how many materials you need and many other things.
The next major cost factor your designer will recommend you changing is the complexity of the design. There is nothing quite like having a gorgeous timber home, but you do not necessarily have to have the most complex
design available. As you can guess for obvious reasons, the price is going to be hiked up with the more corners, roof ridge lines and roof valleys there are in your design. The more basic your design is the better off you are.
As mentioned above, the larger your home is the more materials you will need. But the choice of building materials you go with can run up the price as well. The more stone, marble and glass you use, the more you can expect
to pay. This does not mean you cannot include any of these materials in your home; but maybe use them lightly in your home.
The last thing you want to consider when building a log cabin is the site condition. This is typically something that many people overlook, but it can greatly reduce the cost of your home. Things like building a home on slope or
over roots can make it a far more expensive purchase. Try to pick out a location that is not going to require much other work to get it going.
Having a turnkey cost estimate done prior to having your log home built is highly recommended. You will be able to see the cost estimates for materials, labor, and what you can do to reduce the cost. It will be well worth it to
get an estimate so you do not end up spending far more than you had originally planned on for your log cabin.
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Having a log cabin built is an exciting time. Whether you are building a log cabin in the mountains to get away to or you are building one to live in permanently, it can be a beautiful home to live in. But just like any other home
on the market, it can become quite expensive to construct one.
When having a log home built or you, there are some major cost factors you will want to take into consideration. There are several things you can do to reduce the high cost of your cabin while still maintaining the incredible
design and uniqueness of a cabin home.
Before anything, you will want to get a turnkey cost estimate. A turnkey cost estimate refers to the total cost it will end up being to build your log home or timber home. Many times you can get a rough estimate of what it is
going to cost you to build the home of your dreams. Of course a lot will depend on whether you design it or not, what you decide to include in the log cabin and how large you want it to be.
If you get the estimate back and see that it is just outside of your budget, do not go on with the decision just because the floor plan has already been sketched out. Have your designer review the plan and suggest alterations
you can make to reduce the cost of the overall home.
There are several suggestions your designer will recommend to help you reduce some of the major cost factors. The first thing your designer will bring up is the size of the plan. Obviously, the overall size of the log cabin will
have the biggest affect on the cost because it affects all other facets of the home as well. If you reduce the size of the home, you are also reducing how many materials you need and many other things.
The next major cost factor your designer will recommend you changing is the complexity of the design. There is nothing quite like having a gorgeous timber home, but you do not necessarily have to have the most complex
design available. As you can guess for obvious reasons, the price is going to be hiked up with the more corners, roof ridge lines and roof valleys there are in your design. The more basic your design is the better off you are.
As mentioned above, the larger your home is the more materials you will need. But the choice of building materials you go with can run up the price as well. The more stone, marble and glass you use, the more you can expect
to pay. This does not mean you cannot include any of these materials in your home; but maybe use them lightly in your home.
The last thing you want to consider when building a log cabin is the site condition. This is typically something that many people overlook, but it can greatly reduce the cost of your home. Things like building a home on slope or
over roots can make it a far more expensive purchase. Try to pick out a location that is not going to require much other work to get it going.
Having a turnkey cost estimate done prior to having your log home built is highly recommended. You will be able to see the cost estimates for materials, labor, and what you can do to reduce the cost. It will be well worth it to
get an estimate so you do not end up spending far more than you had originally planned on for your log cabin.
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