With a tiny jerk of the head, Snape seemed to flick off an irksome fly.
“Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’s eyes, I am sure?“
“DON’T!” bellowed Snape. “Gone…dead…”
“Is this remorse, Severus?”
“I wish…I wish I were dead…“
“And what use would that be to anyone?” said Dumbledore coldly. “If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.”
Snape seemed to peer through a haze of pain, and Dumbledore’s words appeared to take a long time to reach him.
“What – what do you mean?”
“You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.”
“He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone – ”
“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.”
There was a long pause, and slowly Snape regained control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At last he said, “Very well. Very well. But never – never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear…especially Potter’s son…I want your word!”
“My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?” Dumbledore sighed, looking down into Snape’s ferocious, anguished face. “If you insist…”
The office dissolved but re-formed instantly. Snape was pacing up and down in front of Dumbledore.
“ – mediocre, arrogant as his father, a determined rule-breaker, delighted to find himself famous, attention-seeking and impertinent – ”
“You see what you expect to see, Severus,“ said Dumbledore, without raising his eyes from a copy of Transfiguration Today. ”Other teachers report that the boy is modest, likable, and reasonably talented. Personally, I find him an engaging child.“
Dumbledore turned a page, and said, without looking up, “Keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?”
A whirl of color, and now everything darkened, and Snape and Dumbledore stood a little apart in the entrance hall, while the last stragglers from the Yule Ball passed them on their way to bed.
“Well?” murmured Dumbledore.
“Karkaroff’s Mark is becoming darker too. He is panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell.” Snape looked sideways at Dumbledore’s crooked-nosed profile. “Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns.”
“Does he?” said Dumbledore softly, as Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies came giggling in from the grounds. “And are you tempted to join him?”
“No,“ said Snape, his black eyes on Fleur’s and Roger’s retreating figures. “I am not such a coward.”
“No,” agreed Dumbledore. “You are a braver man by far than Igor Karkaroff. You know, I sometimes think we Sort too soon…”
He walked away, leaving Snape looking stricken…
And now Harry stood in the headmaster’s office yet again. It was nighttime, and Dumbledore sagged sideways in the thronelike chair behind the desk, apparently semiconscious. His right hand dangled over the side, blackened and burned. Snape was muttering incantations, pointing his wand at the wrist of the hand, while with his left hand he tipped a goblet full of thick golden potion down Dumbledore’s throat. After a moment or two, Dumbledore’s eyelids fluttered and opened.
“Why,“ said Snape, without preamble, “why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?”
Marvolo Gaunt’s ring lay on the desk before Dumbledore. It was cracked; the sword of Gryffindor lay beside it.
Dumbledore grimaced.
“I…was a fool. Sorely tempted…”
“Tempted by what?”
Dumbledore did not answer.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating
Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating had been drowned by the sound of the wind in the branches. He stood before Snape with his robes whipping around him, and his face was illuminated from below in the light cast by his wand.
“Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?”
“No – no message – I’m here on my own account!”
Snape was wringing his hands. He looked a little mad, with his straggling black hair flying around him.
“I – I come with a warning – no, a request – please – ”
Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and branches still flew through the night air around them, silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced each other.
“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”
“The – the prophecy…the prediction…Trelawney…”
“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?”
“Everything – everything I heard!” said Snape. “That is why – it is for that reason – he thinks it means Lily Evans!”
“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of July – ”
“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down – kill them all – ”
“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore, “surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”
“I have – I have asked him – ”
“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore, and Harry had never heard so much contempt in his voice. Snape seemed to shrink a little, “You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?”
Snape said nothing, but merely looked up at Dumbledore.
“Hide them all, then,” he croaked. “Keep her – them – safe. Please.”
“And what will you give me in return, Severus?”
“In – in return?“ Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and Harry expected him to protest, but after a long moment he said, ”Anything.“
The hilltop faded, and Harry stood in Dumbledore’s office, and something was making a terrible sound, like a wounded animal. Snape was slumped forward in a chair and Dumbledore was standing over him, looking grim. After a moment or two, Snape raised his face, and he looked like a man who had lived a hundred years of misery since leaving the wild hilltop.
“I thought…you were going…to keep her…safe…”
“She and James put their faith in the wrong person,“ said Dumbledore. ”Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?“
Snape’s breathing was shallow.
“Her boy survives,” said Dumbledore.
“Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?”
“No – no message – I’m here on my own account!”
Snape was wringing his hands. He looked a little mad, with his straggling black hair flying around him.
“I – I come with a warning – no, a request – please – ”
Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and branches still flew through the night air around them, silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced each other.
“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”
“The – the prophecy…the prediction…Trelawney…”
“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?”
“Everything – everything I heard!” said Snape. “That is why – it is for that reason – he thinks it means Lily Evans!”
“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of July – ”
“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down – kill them all – ”
“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore, “surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”
“I have – I have asked him – ”
“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore, and Harry had never heard so much contempt in his voice. Snape seemed to shrink a little, “You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?”
Snape said nothing, but merely looked up at Dumbledore.
“Hide them all, then,” he croaked. “Keep her – them – safe. Please.”
“And what will you give me in return, Severus?”
“In – in return?“ Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and Harry expected him to protest, but after a long moment he said, ”Anything.“
The hilltop faded, and Harry stood in Dumbledore’s office, and something was making a terrible sound, like a wounded animal. Snape was slumped forward in a chair and Dumbledore was standing over him, looking grim. After a moment or two, Snape raised his face, and he looked like a man who had lived a hundred years of misery since leaving the wild hilltop.
“I thought…you were going…to keep her…safe…”
“She and James put their faith in the wrong person,“ said Dumbledore. ”Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?“
Snape’s breathing was shallow.
“Her boy survives,” said Dumbledore.
“They sneak out at night
“They sneak out at night. There’s something weird about that Lupin. Where does he keep going?”
“He’s ill,” said Lily. “They say he’s ill – ”
“Every month at the full moon?” said Snape.
“I know your theory,” said Lily, and she sounded cold. “Why are you so obsessed with them anyway? Why do you care what they’re doing at night?”
“I’m just trying to show you they’re not as wonderful as everyone seems to think they are.“
The intensity of his gaze made her blush.
“They don’t use Dark Magic, though.“ She dropped her voice. ”And you’re being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever’s down there – “
Snape’s whole face contorted and he spluttered, “Saved? Saved? You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re not going to – I won’t let you – ”
“Let me? Let me?“
Lily’s bright green eyes were slits. Snape backtracked at once.
“I didn’t mean – I just don’t want to see you made a fool of – He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!” The words seemed wrenched from him against his will. “And he’s not…everyone thinks…big Quidditch hero – ” Snape’s bitterness and dislike were rendering him incoherent, and Lily’s eyebrows were traveling farther and farther up her forehead.
“I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag,“ she said, cutting across Snape. ”I don’t need you to tell me that. But Mulciber’s and Avery’s idea of humor is just evil. Evil, Sev. I don’t understand how you can be friends with them.“
Harry doubted that Snape had even heard her strictures on Mulciber and Avery. The moment she had insulted James Potter, his whole body had relaxed, and as they walked away there was a new spring in Snape’s step…
And the scene dissolved…
Harry watched again as Snape left the Great Hall after sitting his O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, watched as he wandered away from the castle and strayed inadvertently close to the place beneath the beech tree where James, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew sat together. But Harry kept his distance this time, because he knew what happened after James had hoisted Severus into the air and taunted him; he knew what had been done and said, and it gave him no pleasure to hear it again… He watched as Lily joined the group and went to Snape’s defense. Distantly he heard Snape shout at her in his humiliation and his fury, the unforgivable word: “Mudblood.”
The scene changed…
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not interested.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Save your breath”
It was nighttime. Lily, who was wearing a dressing gown, stood with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.
“I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here.”
“I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just – ”
“Slipped out?“ There was no pity in Lily’s voice. ”It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends – you see, you don’t even deny it! You don’t even deny that’s what you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?“
He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.
“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”
“No – listen, I didn’t mean – ”
“ – to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?”
He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a contemptuous look she turned and climbed back through the portrait hole…
The corridor dissolved, and the scene took a little longer to reform: Harry seemed to fly through shifting shapes and colors until his surroundings solidified again and he stood on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in the darkness, the wind whistling through the branches of a few leafless trees. The adult Snape was panting, turning on the spot, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, waiting for something or for someone… His fear infected Harry too, even though he knew that he could not be harmed, and he looked over his shoulder, wondering what it was that Snape was waiting for – Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through the air. Harry thought of lightning, but Snape had dropped to his knees and his wand had flown out of his hand.
“Don’t kill me!”
“That was not my intention.”
“He’s ill,” said Lily. “They say he’s ill – ”
“Every month at the full moon?” said Snape.
“I know your theory,” said Lily, and she sounded cold. “Why are you so obsessed with them anyway? Why do you care what they’re doing at night?”
“I’m just trying to show you they’re not as wonderful as everyone seems to think they are.“
The intensity of his gaze made her blush.
“They don’t use Dark Magic, though.“ She dropped her voice. ”And you’re being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever’s down there – “
Snape’s whole face contorted and he spluttered, “Saved? Saved? You think he was playing the hero? He was saving his neck and his friends’ too! You’re not going to – I won’t let you – ”
“Let me? Let me?“
Lily’s bright green eyes were slits. Snape backtracked at once.
“I didn’t mean – I just don’t want to see you made a fool of – He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!” The words seemed wrenched from him against his will. “And he’s not…everyone thinks…big Quidditch hero – ” Snape’s bitterness and dislike were rendering him incoherent, and Lily’s eyebrows were traveling farther and farther up her forehead.
“I know James Potter’s an arrogant toerag,“ she said, cutting across Snape. ”I don’t need you to tell me that. But Mulciber’s and Avery’s idea of humor is just evil. Evil, Sev. I don’t understand how you can be friends with them.“
Harry doubted that Snape had even heard her strictures on Mulciber and Avery. The moment she had insulted James Potter, his whole body had relaxed, and as they walked away there was a new spring in Snape’s step…
And the scene dissolved…
Harry watched again as Snape left the Great Hall after sitting his O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, watched as he wandered away from the castle and strayed inadvertently close to the place beneath the beech tree where James, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew sat together. But Harry kept his distance this time, because he knew what happened after James had hoisted Severus into the air and taunted him; he knew what had been done and said, and it gave him no pleasure to hear it again… He watched as Lily joined the group and went to Snape’s defense. Distantly he heard Snape shout at her in his humiliation and his fury, the unforgivable word: “Mudblood.”
The scene changed…
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not interested.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Save your breath”
It was nighttime. Lily, who was wearing a dressing gown, stood with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.
“I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here.”
“I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just – ”
“Slipped out?“ There was no pity in Lily’s voice. ”It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends – you see, you don’t even deny it! You don’t even deny that’s what you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?“
He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.
“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”
“No – listen, I didn’t mean – ”
“ – to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?”
He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a contemptuous look she turned and climbed back through the portrait hole…
The corridor dissolved, and the scene took a little longer to reform: Harry seemed to fly through shifting shapes and colors until his surroundings solidified again and he stood on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in the darkness, the wind whistling through the branches of a few leafless trees. The adult Snape was panting, turning on the spot, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, waiting for something or for someone… His fear infected Harry too, even though he knew that he could not be harmed, and he looked over his shoulder, wondering what it was that Snape was waiting for – Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through the air. Harry thought of lightning, but Snape had dropped to his knees and his wand had flown out of his hand.
“Don’t kill me!”
“That was not my intention.”
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Chapter 22 The Deathly Hallows
Chapter 22 The Deathly Hallows
Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at once. They seemed to have landed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a circle around them, waving her wand.
“Protego Totalum…Salvio Hexia…”
“That treacherous old bleeder.” Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry. “Hermione you’re a genius, a total genius. I can’t believe we got out of that.”
“Cave Inimicum…Didn’t I say it was a Frumpent horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been blown apart!”
“Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs, “What’d you reckon they’ll do to him?”
“Oh I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione, “That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!”
“Why hide me though?” asked Ron.
“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergrolt, Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?”
“But what about your mum and dad?”
“They’re in Australia,” said Hermione, “They should be all right. They don’t know anything.”
“You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed.
“Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
She beamed, but became solemn at once.
“What about Luna?”
“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive –” began Ron.
“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. “She must be alive, she must!”
“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron. “Whether she survives the place, though…Loads don’t…”
“She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Hermione. She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if –”
“– if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah,” said Ron.
They put up the tent and retreated inside it, where Ron made them tea. After their narrow escape, the chilly, musty old place felt like home: safe, familiar, and friendly.
“Oh, why did we go there?” groaned Hermione after a few minutes’ silence. “Harry, you were right, it was Godric’s Hollow all over again, a complete waste of time! The Deathly Hallows…such rubbish…although actually,” a sudden thought seemed to have struck her, “he might have made it all up, mightn’t he? He probably doesn’t believe in the Deathly Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us talking until the Death Eaters arrived!”
“I don’t think so,” said Ron. “It’s a damn sight harder making stuff up when you’re under stress than you’d think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught me. It was much easier pretending to be Stan, because I knew a bit about him, than inventing a whole new person. Old Lovegood was under loads of pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put. I reckon he told us the truth, or what he thinks is the truth, just to keep us talking.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” sighed Hermione. “Even if he was being honest, I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life.”
“Hang on, though,” said Ron. “The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth, wasn’t it?”
“But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist, Ron!”
“You keep saying that, but one of them can,” said Ron. “Harry’s Invisibility Cloak –”
“The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a story,” said Hermione firmly. “A story about how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we’d have everything we need already!”
“I don’t know. We could do with an unbeatable wand,” said Harry, turning the blackthorn wand he so disliked over in his fingers.
“There’s no such thing, Harry!”
“You said there have been loads of wands – the Deathstick and whatever they were called –”
“All right, even if you want to kid yourself the Elder Wand’s real, what about the Resurrection Stone?” Her fingers sketched quotation marks around the name, and her tone dripped sarcasm. “No magic can raise the dead, and that’s that!”
“When my wand connected with You-Know-Who’s, it made my mum and dad appear…and Cedric…”
“But they weren’t really back from the dead, were they?” said Hermione. “Those kind of –of pale imitations aren’t the same as truly bringing someone back to life.”
“But she, the girl in the tale, didn’t really come back, did she? The story says that once people are dead, they belong with the dead. But the second brother still got to see her and talk to her, didn’t he? He even lived with her for a while…”
He saw concern and something less easily definable in Hermione’s expression. Then, as she glanced at Ron, Harry realized that it was fear: He had scared her with his talk of living with dead people.
“So that Peverell bloke who’s buried in Godric’s Hollow,” he said hastily, trying to sound robustly sane, “you don’t know anything about him, then?”
“No,” she replied, looking relieved at the change of subject. “I looked him up after I saw the mark on his grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything important, I’m sure he’d be in one of our books. The only place I’ve managed to find the name ‘Peverell’ Is Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. I borrowed it from Kreacher,” she explained as Ron raised his eyebrows. “It lists the pure-blood families that are now extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells were one of the earliest families to vanish.”
“Extinct in the male line?” repeated Ron.
Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at once. They seemed to have landed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a circle around them, waving her wand.
“Protego Totalum…Salvio Hexia…”
“That treacherous old bleeder.” Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry. “Hermione you’re a genius, a total genius. I can’t believe we got out of that.”
“Cave Inimicum…Didn’t I say it was a Frumpent horn, didn’t I tell him? And now his house has been blown apart!”
“Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs, “What’d you reckon they’ll do to him?”
“Oh I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione, “That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!”
“Why hide me though?” asked Ron.
“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergrolt, Ron! They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?”
“But what about your mum and dad?”
“They’re in Australia,” said Hermione, “They should be all right. They don’t know anything.”
“You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed.
“Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
She beamed, but became solemn at once.
“What about Luna?”
“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive –” began Ron.
“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione. “She must be alive, she must!”
“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron. “Whether she survives the place, though…Loads don’t…”
“She will,” said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. “She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think. She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Hermione. She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if –”
“– if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah,” said Ron.
They put up the tent and retreated inside it, where Ron made them tea. After their narrow escape, the chilly, musty old place felt like home: safe, familiar, and friendly.
“Oh, why did we go there?” groaned Hermione after a few minutes’ silence. “Harry, you were right, it was Godric’s Hollow all over again, a complete waste of time! The Deathly Hallows…such rubbish…although actually,” a sudden thought seemed to have struck her, “he might have made it all up, mightn’t he? He probably doesn’t believe in the Deathly Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us talking until the Death Eaters arrived!”
“I don’t think so,” said Ron. “It’s a damn sight harder making stuff up when you’re under stress than you’d think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught me. It was much easier pretending to be Stan, because I knew a bit about him, than inventing a whole new person. Old Lovegood was under loads of pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put. I reckon he told us the truth, or what he thinks is the truth, just to keep us talking.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” sighed Hermione. “Even if he was being honest, I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life.”
“Hang on, though,” said Ron. “The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth, wasn’t it?”
“But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist, Ron!”
“You keep saying that, but one of them can,” said Ron. “Harry’s Invisibility Cloak –”
“The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a story,” said Hermione firmly. “A story about how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we’d have everything we need already!”
“I don’t know. We could do with an unbeatable wand,” said Harry, turning the blackthorn wand he so disliked over in his fingers.
“There’s no such thing, Harry!”
“You said there have been loads of wands – the Deathstick and whatever they were called –”
“All right, even if you want to kid yourself the Elder Wand’s real, what about the Resurrection Stone?” Her fingers sketched quotation marks around the name, and her tone dripped sarcasm. “No magic can raise the dead, and that’s that!”
“When my wand connected with You-Know-Who’s, it made my mum and dad appear…and Cedric…”
“But they weren’t really back from the dead, were they?” said Hermione. “Those kind of –of pale imitations aren’t the same as truly bringing someone back to life.”
“But she, the girl in the tale, didn’t really come back, did she? The story says that once people are dead, they belong with the dead. But the second brother still got to see her and talk to her, didn’t he? He even lived with her for a while…”
He saw concern and something less easily definable in Hermione’s expression. Then, as she glanced at Ron, Harry realized that it was fear: He had scared her with his talk of living with dead people.
“So that Peverell bloke who’s buried in Godric’s Hollow,” he said hastily, trying to sound robustly sane, “you don’t know anything about him, then?”
“No,” she replied, looking relieved at the change of subject. “I looked him up after I saw the mark on his grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything important, I’m sure he’d be in one of our books. The only place I’ve managed to find the name ‘Peverell’ Is Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. I borrowed it from Kreacher,” she explained as Ron raised his eyebrows. “It lists the pure-blood families that are now extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells were one of the earliest families to vanish.”
“Extinct in the male line?” repeated Ron.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Now paying attention to the names on the doors
Now paying attention to the names on the doors, Harry turned a corner. Halfway along the next corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks not unlike school desks, though much more highly polished and free from graffiti. Harry paused to watch them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were all waving and twiddling their wands in unison, and squares of colored paper were flying in every direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Harry realized that there was a rhythm to the proceedings, that the papers all formed the same pattern and after a few more seconds he realized what he was watching was the creation of pamphlets – that the paper squares were pages, which, when assembled, folded and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each witch or wizard.
Harry crept closer, although the workers were so intent on what they were doing that he doubted they would notice a carpet-muffled footstep, and he slid a completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch. He examined it beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:
Mudbloods
and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society
Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. There was no author’s name upon the pamphlet, but again, the scars on the back of his right hand seemed to tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still waving and twirling her wand, “Will the old hag be interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?”
“Careful,” said the wizard beside her, glancing around nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the floor.
“What, has she got magic ears as well as an eye, now?”
The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Harry looked too, and the rage reared in him like a snake. Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood – an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who had known Alastor Moody.
For a split second Harry forgot where he was and what he was doing there: He even forgot that he was invisible. He strode straight over to the door to examine the eye.
It was not moving. It gazed blindly upward, frozen. The plaque beneath it read:
Dolores Umbridge
Senior Undersecretary to the Minister
Below that a slightly shinier new plaque read:
Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission
Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: Though they were intent upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door of an empty office opened in front of them. He therefore withdrew from an inner pocket an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a body. Crouching down beneath the Cloak, he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground.
It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments later, during which Harry waited with his hand upon the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great deal of acrid smoke billowed from a corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, looking around for the source of the commotion. Harry turned the doorknob, stepped into Umbridge’s office, and closed the door behind him.
He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge’s office at Hogwarts: Lace draperies, doilies and dried flowers covered every surface. The walls bore the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-eye’s eye, a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on the workers on the other side of the door. Harry took a look through it and saw that they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind, pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in his pocket. The he turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, “Accio Locker.”
Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk and began pulling open all the drawers. He saw quills and notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer and had be beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair bows and clips; but no sign of a locket.
There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set to searching it. Like Filch’s filing cabinet at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a name. It was not until Harry reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract him from the search: Mr. Weasley’s file.
He pulled it out and opened it.
Arthur Weasley
Blood Status:
Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of the Phoenix.
Family:
Wife (pureblood), seven children, two youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son currently at home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have confirmed.
Security Status:
TRACKED. All movements are being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1 will contact (has stayed with Weasley family previously)
Harry crept closer, although the workers were so intent on what they were doing that he doubted they would notice a carpet-muffled footstep, and he slid a completed pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch. He examined it beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:
Mudbloods
and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society
Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. There was no author’s name upon the pamphlet, but again, the scars on the back of his right hand seemed to tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch beside him confirmed his suspicion as she said, still waving and twirling her wand, “Will the old hag be interrogating Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?”
“Careful,” said the wizard beside her, glancing around nervously; one of his pages slipped and fell to the floor.
“What, has she got magic ears as well as an eye, now?”
The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door facing the space full of pamphlet-makers; Harry looked too, and the rage reared in him like a snake. Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood – an eye that was shockingly familiar to anybody who had known Alastor Moody.
For a split second Harry forgot where he was and what he was doing there: He even forgot that he was invisible. He strode straight over to the door to examine the eye.
It was not moving. It gazed blindly upward, frozen. The plaque beneath it read:
Dolores Umbridge
Senior Undersecretary to the Minister
Below that a slightly shinier new plaque read:
Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission
Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: Though they were intent upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door of an empty office opened in front of them. He therefore withdrew from an inner pocket an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a body. Crouching down beneath the Cloak, he placed the Decoy Detonator on the ground.
It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in front of him. A few moments later, during which Harry waited with his hand upon the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great deal of acrid smoke billowed from a corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, looking around for the source of the commotion. Harry turned the doorknob, stepped into Umbridge’s office, and closed the door behind him.
He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge’s office at Hogwarts: Lace draperies, doilies and dried flowers covered every surface. The walls bore the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, beribboned kitten, gamboling and frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered cloth. Behind Mad-eye’s eye, a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on the workers on the other side of the door. Harry took a look through it and saw that they were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched the telescope out of the door, leaving a hole behind, pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in his pocket. The he turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, “Accio Locker.”
Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew all about protective charms and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk and began pulling open all the drawers. He saw quills and notebooks and Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer and had be beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair bows and clips; but no sign of a locket.
There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set to searching it. Like Filch’s filing cabinet at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled with a name. It was not until Harry reached the bottommost drawer that he saw something to distract him from the search: Mr. Weasley’s file.
He pulled it out and opened it.
Arthur Weasley
Blood Status:
Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order of the Phoenix.
Family:
Wife (pureblood), seven children, two youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son currently at home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have confirmed.
Security Status:
TRACKED. All movements are being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1 will contact (has stayed with Weasley family previously)
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
As the curses came shooting across
As the curses came shooting across the intervening space again, Hagrid swerved and zigzagged: Harry knew that Hagrid did not dare use the dragon-fire button again, with Harry seated so insecurely. Harry sent Stunning Spell after Stunning Spell back at their pursuers, barely holding them off. He shot another blocking jinx at them: The closest Death Eater swerved to avoid it and his hood slipped, and by the red light of his next Stunning Spell, Harry saw the strangely blank face of Stanley Shunpike – Stan –
“Expelliarmus!“ Harry yelled.
“That’s him, it’s him, it’s the real one!”
The hooded Death Eater’s shout reached Harry even above the thunder of the motorbike’s engine: Next moment, both pursuers had fallen back and disappeared from view.
“Harry, what’s happened?” bellowed Hagrid. “Where’ve they gone?”
“I don’t know!”
But Harry was afraid: The hooded Death Eater had shouted, “It’s the real one!”; how had he known? He gazed around at the apparently empty darkness and felt its menace. Where were they?
He clambered around on the seat to face forward and seized hold of the back of Hagrid’s jacket.
“Hagrid, do the dragon-fire thing again, let’s get out of here!”
“Hold on tight, then, Harry!”
There was a deafening, screeching roar again and the white-blue fire shot from the exhaust: Harry felt himself slipping backwards off what little of the seat he had.
Hagrid flung backward upon him, barely maintaining his grip on the handlebars – “I think we’ve lost ‘em Harry, I think we’ve done it!” yelled Hagrid.
But Harry was not convinced; Fear lapped at him as he looked left and right for pursuers he was sure would come…. Why had they fallen back? One of them had still had a wand…. It’s him… it’s the real one…. They had said it right after he had tried to Disarm Stan….
“We’re nearly there, Harry, we’ve nearly made it!” shouted Hagrid.
Harry felt the bike drop a little, though the lights down on the ground still seemed remote as stars.
Then the scar on his forehead burned like fire: as a Death Eater appeared on either side of the bike, two Killing Curses missed Harry by millimeters, cast from behind – And then Harry saw him. Voldemort was flying like smoke on the wind, without broomstick or thestral to hold him, his snake-like face gleaming out of the blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again –
Hagrid let out a bellow of fear and steered the motorbike into a vertical dive. Clinging on for dear life, Harry sent Stunning Spells flying at random into the whirling night. He saw a body fly past him and knew he had hit one of them, but then he heard a bang and saw sparks from the engine; the motorbike spiraled through the air, completely out of control –
Green jets of light shot past them again. Harry had no idea which way was up, which down: His scar was still burning; he expected to die at any second. A hooded figure on a broomstick was feet from him, he saw it raise its arm –
“NO!”
With a shout of fury Hagrid launched himself off the bike at the Death Eater; to his horror, Harry saw both Hagrid and the Death Eater, falling out of sight, their combined weight too much for the broomstick –
Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream, “Mine!”
It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out of the way and heard, “Avada – ”
As the pain from Harry’s scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury. The remaining Death Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, “NO!” Somehow, Harry found his nose an inch from the dragon-fire button. He punched it with his wand-free hand and the bike shot more flames into the air, hurtling straight toward the ground.
“Hagrid!“ Harry called, holding on to the bike for dear life. “Hagrid – Accio Hagrid!”
The motorbike sped up, sucked towards the earth. Face level with the handlebars, Harry could see nothing but distant lights growing nearer and nearer: He was going to crash and there was nothing he could do about it. Behind him came another scream, “Your wand, Selwyn, give me your wand!”
He felt Voldemort before he saw him. Looking sideways, he stared into the red eyes and was sure they would be the last thing he ever saw: Voldemort preparing to curse him once more –
And then Voldemort vanished. Harry looked down and saw Hagrid spread-eagled on the ground below him. He pulled hard at the handlebars to avoid hitting him, groped for the brake, but with an earsplitting, ground trembling crash, he smashed into a muddy pond.
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“Expelliarmus!“ Harry yelled.
“That’s him, it’s him, it’s the real one!”
The hooded Death Eater’s shout reached Harry even above the thunder of the motorbike’s engine: Next moment, both pursuers had fallen back and disappeared from view.
“Harry, what’s happened?” bellowed Hagrid. “Where’ve they gone?”
“I don’t know!”
But Harry was afraid: The hooded Death Eater had shouted, “It’s the real one!”; how had he known? He gazed around at the apparently empty darkness and felt its menace. Where were they?
He clambered around on the seat to face forward and seized hold of the back of Hagrid’s jacket.
“Hagrid, do the dragon-fire thing again, let’s get out of here!”
“Hold on tight, then, Harry!”
There was a deafening, screeching roar again and the white-blue fire shot from the exhaust: Harry felt himself slipping backwards off what little of the seat he had.
Hagrid flung backward upon him, barely maintaining his grip on the handlebars – “I think we’ve lost ‘em Harry, I think we’ve done it!” yelled Hagrid.
But Harry was not convinced; Fear lapped at him as he looked left and right for pursuers he was sure would come…. Why had they fallen back? One of them had still had a wand…. It’s him… it’s the real one…. They had said it right after he had tried to Disarm Stan….
“We’re nearly there, Harry, we’ve nearly made it!” shouted Hagrid.
Harry felt the bike drop a little, though the lights down on the ground still seemed remote as stars.
Then the scar on his forehead burned like fire: as a Death Eater appeared on either side of the bike, two Killing Curses missed Harry by millimeters, cast from behind – And then Harry saw him. Voldemort was flying like smoke on the wind, without broomstick or thestral to hold him, his snake-like face gleaming out of the blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again –
Hagrid let out a bellow of fear and steered the motorbike into a vertical dive. Clinging on for dear life, Harry sent Stunning Spells flying at random into the whirling night. He saw a body fly past him and knew he had hit one of them, but then he heard a bang and saw sparks from the engine; the motorbike spiraled through the air, completely out of control –
Green jets of light shot past them again. Harry had no idea which way was up, which down: His scar was still burning; he expected to die at any second. A hooded figure on a broomstick was feet from him, he saw it raise its arm –
“NO!”
With a shout of fury Hagrid launched himself off the bike at the Death Eater; to his horror, Harry saw both Hagrid and the Death Eater, falling out of sight, their combined weight too much for the broomstick –
Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream, “Mine!”
It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death Eater swooping out of the way and heard, “Avada – ”
As the pain from Harry’s scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury. The remaining Death Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, “NO!” Somehow, Harry found his nose an inch from the dragon-fire button. He punched it with his wand-free hand and the bike shot more flames into the air, hurtling straight toward the ground.
“Hagrid!“ Harry called, holding on to the bike for dear life. “Hagrid – Accio Hagrid!”
The motorbike sped up, sucked towards the earth. Face level with the handlebars, Harry could see nothing but distant lights growing nearer and nearer: He was going to crash and there was nothing he could do about it. Behind him came another scream, “Your wand, Selwyn, give me your wand!”
He felt Voldemort before he saw him. Looking sideways, he stared into the red eyes and was sure they would be the last thing he ever saw: Voldemort preparing to curse him once more –
And then Voldemort vanished. Harry looked down and saw Hagrid spread-eagled on the ground below him. He pulled hard at the handlebars to avoid hitting him, groped for the brake, but with an earsplitting, ground trembling crash, he smashed into a muddy pond.
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Monday, November 29, 2010
“I understand what a nickname is,”
“I understand what a nickname is,” said Snape. The cold, black eyes were boring once more into Harry's; he tried not to look into them. Close your mind... close your
mind... but he had never learned how to do it properly...
“Do you know what I think, Potter?” said Snape, very quietly. “I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until
the end of term. What do you think, Potter?”
“I—I don't agree, sir,” said Harry, still refusing to look into Snape's eyes.
“Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions,” said Snape. “Ten o'clock Saturday morning, Potter. My office.”
“But sir,” said Harry, looking up desperately. “Quidditch... the last match of the—”
“Ten o'clock,” whispered Snape, with a smile that showed his yellow teeth. “Poor Gryffindor... fourth place this year, I fear...”
And he left the bathroom without another word, leaving Harry to stare into the cracked mirror, feeling sicker, he was sure, than Ron had ever felt in his life.
“I won't say ‘I told you so,'” said Hermione, an hour later in the common room.
“Leave it, Hermione,” said Ron angrily.
Harry had never made it to dinner; he had no appetite at all. He had just finished telling Ron, Hermione, and Ginny what had happened, not that there seemed to have
been much need. The news had traveled very fast: apparently Moaning Myrtle had taken it upon herself to pop up in every bathroom in the castle to tell the story; Malfoy
had already been visited in the hospital wing by Pansy Parkinson, who had lost no time in vilifying Harry far and wide, and Snape had told the staff precisely what had
happened. Harry had already been called out of the common room to endure fifteen highly unpleasant minutes in the company of Professor McGonagall, who had told him he
was lucky not to have been expelled and that she supported wholeheartedly Snape's punishment of detention every Saturday until the end of term.
“I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person,” Hermione said, evidently unable to stop herself. “And I was right, wasn't I.”
“No, I don't think you were,” said Harry stubbornly.
He was having a bad enough time without Hermione lecturing him; the looks on the Gryffindor team's faces when he had told them he would not be able to play on Saturday
had been the worst punishment of all. He could feel Ginny's eyes on him now but did not meet them; he did not want to see disappointment or anger there. He had just
told her that she would be playing Seeker on Saturday and that Dean would be rejoining the team as Chaser in her place. Perhaps, if they won, Ginny and Dean would make
up during the post-match euphoria... the thought went through Harry like an icy knife...
“Harry,” said Hermione, “how can you still stick up for that book when that spell —”
“Will you stop harping on about the book!” snapped Harry. “The Prince only copied it out! It's not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was
making a note of something that had been used against him!”
“I don't believe this,” said Hermione. “You're actually defending—”
“I'm not defending what I did!” said Harry quickly. “I wish I hadn't done it, and not just because I've got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn't've used a
spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you can't blame the Prince, he hadn't written ‘Try this out, it's really good'—he was just making notes for himself, wasn't
he, not for anyone else...”
mind... but he had never learned how to do it properly...
“Do you know what I think, Potter?” said Snape, very quietly. “I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until
the end of term. What do you think, Potter?”
“I—I don't agree, sir,” said Harry, still refusing to look into Snape's eyes.
“Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions,” said Snape. “Ten o'clock Saturday morning, Potter. My office.”
“But sir,” said Harry, looking up desperately. “Quidditch... the last match of the—”
“Ten o'clock,” whispered Snape, with a smile that showed his yellow teeth. “Poor Gryffindor... fourth place this year, I fear...”
And he left the bathroom without another word, leaving Harry to stare into the cracked mirror, feeling sicker, he was sure, than Ron had ever felt in his life.
“I won't say ‘I told you so,'” said Hermione, an hour later in the common room.
“Leave it, Hermione,” said Ron angrily.
Harry had never made it to dinner; he had no appetite at all. He had just finished telling Ron, Hermione, and Ginny what had happened, not that there seemed to have
been much need. The news had traveled very fast: apparently Moaning Myrtle had taken it upon herself to pop up in every bathroom in the castle to tell the story; Malfoy
had already been visited in the hospital wing by Pansy Parkinson, who had lost no time in vilifying Harry far and wide, and Snape had told the staff precisely what had
happened. Harry had already been called out of the common room to endure fifteen highly unpleasant minutes in the company of Professor McGonagall, who had told him he
was lucky not to have been expelled and that she supported wholeheartedly Snape's punishment of detention every Saturday until the end of term.
“I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person,” Hermione said, evidently unable to stop herself. “And I was right, wasn't I.”
“No, I don't think you were,” said Harry stubbornly.
He was having a bad enough time without Hermione lecturing him; the looks on the Gryffindor team's faces when he had told them he would not be able to play on Saturday
had been the worst punishment of all. He could feel Ginny's eyes on him now but did not meet them; he did not want to see disappointment or anger there. He had just
told her that she would be playing Seeker on Saturday and that Dean would be rejoining the team as Chaser in her place. Perhaps, if they won, Ginny and Dean would make
up during the post-match euphoria... the thought went through Harry like an icy knife...
“Harry,” said Hermione, “how can you still stick up for that book when that spell —”
“Will you stop harping on about the book!” snapped Harry. “The Prince only copied it out! It's not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was
making a note of something that had been used against him!”
“I don't believe this,” said Hermione. “You're actually defending—”
“I'm not defending what I did!” said Harry quickly. “I wish I hadn't done it, and not just because I've got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn't've used a
spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you can't blame the Prince, he hadn't written ‘Try this out, it's really good'—he was just making notes for himself, wasn't
he, not for anyone else...”
He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic
He gasped. Despite his haste, his panic, his fear of what awaited him back in the bathroom, he could not help but be overawed by what he was looking at. He was standing
in a room the size of a large cathedral, whose high windows were sending shafts of light down upon what looked like a city with towering walls, built of what Harry knew
must be objects hidden by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. There were alleyways and roads bordered by tetering piles of broken and damaged furniture, stowed away,
perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or else hidden by castle-proud house-elves. There were thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned or
graffitied or stolen. There were winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some still with enough life in them to hover half-heartedly over the mountains of other forbidden
items; there were chipped bottles of congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles whose contents still
shimmered evilly, several rusting swords, and a heavy, bloodstained axe.
Harry hurried forward into one of the many alleyways between all this hidden treasure. He turned right past an enormous stuffed troll, ran on a short way, took a left
at the broken Vanishing Cabinet in which Montague had got lost the previous year, finally pausing beside a large cupboard that seemed to have had acid thrown at its
blistered surface. He opened one of the cupboard's creaking doors: it had already been used as a hiding place for something in a cage that had long since died; its
skeleton had five legs. He stuffed the Half-Blood Prince's book behind the cage and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, his heart thumping horribly, gazing around
at all the clutter... would he be able to find this spot again amidst all this junk? Seizing the chipped bust of an ugly old warlock from on top of a nearby crate, he
stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was now hidden, perched a dusty old wig and a tarnished tiara on the statues head to make it more distinctive, then
sprinted back through the alleyways of hidden junk as fast as he could go, back to the door, back out onto the corridor, where he slammed the door behind him, and it
turned at once back into stone.
Harry ran flat-out toward the bathroom on the floor below, cramming Ron's copy of Advanced Potion-Making into his bag as he did so. A minute later, he was back in front
of Snape, who held out his hand wordlessly for Harry's schoolbag. Harry handed it over, panting, a searing pain in his chest, and waited.
One by one, Snape extracted Harry's books and examined them. Finally, the only book left was the Potions book, which he looked at very carefully before speaking.
“This is your copy of Advanced Potion-Making, is it, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry, still breathing hard.
“You're quite sure of that, are you, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry, with a touch more defiance.
“This is the copy of Advanced Potion-Making that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?”
“Yes,” said Harry firmly.
“Then why,” asked Snape, “does it have the name ‘Roonil Wazlib’ written inside the front cover?”
Harry's heart missed a beat. “That's my nickname,” he said.
“Your nickname,” repeated Snape.
“Yeah... that's what my friends call me,” said Harry.c
in a room the size of a large cathedral, whose high windows were sending shafts of light down upon what looked like a city with towering walls, built of what Harry knew
must be objects hidden by generations of Hogwarts inhabitants. There were alleyways and roads bordered by tetering piles of broken and damaged furniture, stowed away,
perhaps, to hide the evidence of mishandled magic, or else hidden by castle-proud house-elves. There were thousands and thousands of books, no doubt banned or
graffitied or stolen. There were winged catapults and Fanged Frisbees, some still with enough life in them to hover half-heartedly over the mountains of other forbidden
items; there were chipped bottles of congealed potions, hats, jewels, cloaks; there were what looked like dragon eggshells, corked bottles whose contents still
shimmered evilly, several rusting swords, and a heavy, bloodstained axe.
Harry hurried forward into one of the many alleyways between all this hidden treasure. He turned right past an enormous stuffed troll, ran on a short way, took a left
at the broken Vanishing Cabinet in which Montague had got lost the previous year, finally pausing beside a large cupboard that seemed to have had acid thrown at its
blistered surface. He opened one of the cupboard's creaking doors: it had already been used as a hiding place for something in a cage that had long since died; its
skeleton had five legs. He stuffed the Half-Blood Prince's book behind the cage and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, his heart thumping horribly, gazing around
at all the clutter... would he be able to find this spot again amidst all this junk? Seizing the chipped bust of an ugly old warlock from on top of a nearby crate, he
stood it on top of the cupboard where the book was now hidden, perched a dusty old wig and a tarnished tiara on the statues head to make it more distinctive, then
sprinted back through the alleyways of hidden junk as fast as he could go, back to the door, back out onto the corridor, where he slammed the door behind him, and it
turned at once back into stone.
Harry ran flat-out toward the bathroom on the floor below, cramming Ron's copy of Advanced Potion-Making into his bag as he did so. A minute later, he was back in front
of Snape, who held out his hand wordlessly for Harry's schoolbag. Harry handed it over, panting, a searing pain in his chest, and waited.
One by one, Snape extracted Harry's books and examined them. Finally, the only book left was the Potions book, which he looked at very carefully before speaking.
“This is your copy of Advanced Potion-Making, is it, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry, still breathing hard.
“You're quite sure of that, are you, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry, with a touch more defiance.
“This is the copy of Advanced Potion-Making that you purchased from Flourish and Blotts?”
“Yes,” said Harry firmly.
“Then why,” asked Snape, “does it have the name ‘Roonil Wazlib’ written inside the front cover?”
Harry's heart missed a beat. “That's my nickname,” he said.
“Your nickname,” repeated Snape.
“Yeah... that's what my friends call me,” said Harry.c
When Snape had performed his counter-curse
When Snape had performed his counter-curse for the third time, he half-lifted Malfoy into a standing position.
“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that ... come...”
He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door to say in a voice of cold fury, “And you, Potter... You wait here for me.”
It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson flowers
across its surface. He could not even find it in himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident enjoyment.
Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
“Go,” he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind her.
“I didn't mean it to happen,” said Harry at once. His voice echoed in the cold, watery space. “I didn't know what that spell did.”
But Snape ignored this. “Apparently I underestimated you, Potter,” he said quietly. “Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?”
“I—read about it somewhere.”
“Where?”
“It was—a library book,” Harry invented wildly. “I can't remember what it was call —”
“Liar,” said Snape. Harry's throat went dry. He knew what Snape was going to do and he had never been able to prevent it...
The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he struggled to block out all thought, but try as he might, the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making swam
hazily to the forefront of his mind.
And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst of this wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into Snape's black eyes, hoping against hope that Snape had not seen
what he feared, but —
“Bring me your schoolbag,” said Snape softly, “and all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now!”
There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most people were
walking the other way; they gaped at him, drenched in water and blood, but he answered none of the questions fired at him as he ran past.
He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been thinking to copy such a spell into his book? And what would happen
when Snape saw it? Would he tell Slughorn—Harry's stomach churned—how Harry had been achieving such good results in Potions all year? Would he confiscate or destroy
the book that had taught Harry so much... the book that had become a kind of guide and friend? Harry could not let it happen... he could not...
“Where've you—? Why are you soaking... is that blood?”
Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking bewildered at the sight of Harry.
“I need your book,” Harry panted. “Your Potions book. Quick... give it to me...”
“But what about the Half-Blood —”
“I'll explain later!”
Ron pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past him and back to the common room. Here, he seized his schoolbag,
ignoring the amazed looks of several people who had already finished their dinner, threw himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled off along the seventh-floor
corridor.
He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk.
I need a place to hide my book... I need a place to hide my book... I need a place to hide my book...
Three times he walked up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, there it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. Harry
wrenched it open, flung himself inside, and slammed it shut.
“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even that ... come...”
He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door to say in a voice of cold fury, “And you, Potter... You wait here for me.”
It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He stood up slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet floor. There were bloodstains floating like crimson flowers
across its surface. He could not even find it in himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be quiet, as she continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident enjoyment.
Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
“Go,” he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into her toilet at once, leaving a ringing silence behind her.
“I didn't mean it to happen,” said Harry at once. His voice echoed in the cold, watery space. “I didn't know what that spell did.”
But Snape ignored this. “Apparently I underestimated you, Potter,” he said quietly. “Who would have thought you knew such Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?”
“I—read about it somewhere.”
“Where?”
“It was—a library book,” Harry invented wildly. “I can't remember what it was call —”
“Liar,” said Snape. Harry's throat went dry. He knew what Snape was going to do and he had never been able to prevent it...
The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he struggled to block out all thought, but try as he might, the Half-Blood Prince's copy of Advanced Potion-Making swam
hazily to the forefront of his mind.
And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst of this wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into Snape's black eyes, hoping against hope that Snape had not seen
what he feared, but —
“Bring me your schoolbag,” said Snape softly, “and all of your schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now!”
There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward Gryffindor Tower. Most people were
walking the other way; they gaped at him, drenched in water and blood, but he answered none of the questions fired at him as he ran past.
He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had turned suddenly savage; what had the Prince been thinking to copy such a spell into his book? And what would happen
when Snape saw it? Would he tell Slughorn—Harry's stomach churned—how Harry had been achieving such good results in Potions all year? Would he confiscate or destroy
the book that had taught Harry so much... the book that had become a kind of guide and friend? Harry could not let it happen... he could not...
“Where've you—? Why are you soaking... is that blood?”
Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking bewildered at the sight of Harry.
“I need your book,” Harry panted. “Your Potions book. Quick... give it to me...”
“But what about the Half-Blood —”
“I'll explain later!”
Ron pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and handed it over; Harry sprinted off past him and back to the common room. Here, he seized his schoolbag,
ignoring the amazed looks of several people who had already finished their dinner, threw himself back out of the portrait hole, and hurtled off along the seventh-floor
corridor.
He skidded to a halt beside the tapestry of dancing trolls, closed his eyes, and began to walk.
I need a place to hide my book... I need a place to hide my book... I need a place to hide my book...
Three times he walked up and down in front of the stretch of blank wall. When he opened his eyes, there it was at last: the door to the Room of Requirement. Harry
wrenched it open, flung himself inside, and slammed it shut.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
now... it was natural that he should feel protective.
now... it was natural that he should feel protective... natural that he should want to look out for her... want to rip Dean limb from limb for kissing her... no... he
would have to control that particular brotherly feeling...
Ron gave a great grunting snore.
She's Ron's sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron's sister. She's out-of-bounds. He would not risk his friendship with Ron for anything. He punched his pillow into a
more comfortable shape and waited for sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny.
Harry awoke next morning feeling slightly dazed and confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had chased him with a Beater's bat, but by midday he would have happily
exchanged the dream Ron for the real one, who was not only cold-shouldering Ginny and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered Hermione with an icy, sneering
indifference. What was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to
keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys’ dormitory after swearing
angrily at several frightened first-years for looking at him.
To Harry's dismay, Ron's new aggression did not wear off over the next few days. Worse still, it coincided with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which made him
still more aggressive, so that during the final Quidditch practice before Saturday's match, he failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed
at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears.
“You shut up and leave her alone!” shouted Peakes, who was about two-thirds Ron's height, though admittedly carrying a heavy bat.
“ENOUGH!” bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron's direction and, remembering her reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex, soared over
to intervene before things got out of hand. “Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well today. Ron...” he waited
until the rest of the team were out of earshot before saying it, “you're my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I'm going to kick you off
the team.”
He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit him, but then something much worse happened: Ron seemed to sag on his broom. all the fight went out of him and he
said, “I resign. I'm pathetic.”
“You're not pathetic and you're not resigning!” said Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. “You can save anything when you're on form, it's a mental
problem you've got!”
“You calling me mental?”
“Yeah, maybe I am!”
They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron shook his head wearily.
would have to control that particular brotherly feeling...
Ron gave a great grunting snore.
She's Ron's sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron's sister. She's out-of-bounds. He would not risk his friendship with Ron for anything. He punched his pillow into a
more comfortable shape and waited for sleep to come, trying his utmost not to allow his thoughts to stray anywhere near Ginny.
Harry awoke next morning feeling slightly dazed and confused by a series of dreams in which Ron had chased him with a Beater's bat, but by midday he would have happily
exchanged the dream Ron for the real one, who was not only cold-shouldering Ginny and Dean, but also treating a hurt and bewildered Hermione with an icy, sneering
indifference. What was more, Ron seemed to have become, overnight, as touchy and ready to lash out as the average Blast-Ended Skrewt. Harry spent the day attempting to
keep the peace between Ron and Hermione with no success; finally, Hermione departed for bed in high dudgeon, and Ron stalked off to the boys’ dormitory after swearing
angrily at several frightened first-years for looking at him.
To Harry's dismay, Ron's new aggression did not wear off over the next few days. Worse still, it coincided with an even deeper dip in his Keeping skills, which made him
still more aggressive, so that during the final Quidditch practice before Saturday's match, he failed to save every single goal the Chasers aimed at him, but bellowed
at everybody so much that he reduced Demelza Robins to tears.
“You shut up and leave her alone!” shouted Peakes, who was about two-thirds Ron's height, though admittedly carrying a heavy bat.
“ENOUGH!” bellowed Harry, who had seen Ginny glowering in Ron's direction and, remembering her reputation as an accomplished caster of the Bat-Bogey Hex, soared over
to intervene before things got out of hand. “Peakes, go and pack up the Bludgers. Demelza, pull yourself together, you played really well today. Ron...” he waited
until the rest of the team were out of earshot before saying it, “you're my best mate, but carry on treating the rest of them like this and I'm going to kick you off
the team.”
He really thought for a moment that Ron might hit him, but then something much worse happened: Ron seemed to sag on his broom. all the fight went out of him and he
said, “I resign. I'm pathetic.”
“You're not pathetic and you're not resigning!” said Harry fiercely, seizing Ron by the front of his robes. “You can save anything when you're on form, it's a mental
problem you've got!”
“You calling me mental?”
“Yeah, maybe I am!”
They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron shook his head wearily.
“You don't know what you're talking about!
“You don't know what you're talking about!” Ron roared, trying to get a clear shot at Ginny around Harry, who was now standing in front of her with his arms
outstretched. “Just because I don't do it in public—!”
Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way.
“Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?” You —
A streak of orange light flew under Harry's left arm and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up against the wall.
“Don't be stupid —”
“Harry's snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it's only you who acts like it's something disgusting,
Ron, and that's because you've got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!”
And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Rich's
cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.
“C'mon,” said Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feet reached their ears.
They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor corridor. “Oi, out of the way!” Ron barked at a small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toad-
spawn.
Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he felt disoriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt must be something like this. It's just because she's
Ron's sister, he told himself. You just didn't like seeing her kissing Dean because she's Ron's sister...
But unbidden into his mind came an image of that same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead... the monster in his chest purred... but then he saw Ron
ripping open the tapestry curtain and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like “betrayal of trust"... “supposed to be my friend"...
“D'you think Hermione did snog Krum?” Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor
in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Ginny were quite alone—
“What?” he said confusedly. “Oh ... er ...”
The honest answer was “yes,” but he did not want to give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from the look on Harry's face.
“Dilligrout,” he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the common room.
Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.
Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder-brotherly.
They had lived, had they not, like brother and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years
outstretched. “Just because I don't do it in public—!”
Ginny screamed with derisive laughter, trying to push Harry out of the way.
“Been kissing Pigwidgeon, have you? Or have you got a picture of Auntie Muriel stashed under your pillow?” You —
A streak of orange light flew under Harry's left arm and missed Ginny by inches; Harry pushed Ron up against the wall.
“Don't be stupid —”
“Harry's snogged Cho Chang!” shouted Ginny, who sounded close to tears now. “And Hermione snogged Viktor Krum, it's only you who acts like it's something disgusting,
Ron, and that's because you've got about as much experience as a twelve-year-old!”
And with that, she stormed away. Harry quickly let go of Ron; the look on his face was murderous. They both stood there, breathing heavily, until Mrs. Norris, Rich's
cat, appeared around the corner, which broke the tension.
“C'mon,” said Harry, as the sound of Filch's shuffling feet reached their ears.
They hurried up the stairs and along a seventh-floor corridor. “Oi, out of the way!” Ron barked at a small girl who jumped in fright and dropped a bottle of toad-
spawn.
Harry hardly noticed the sound of shattering glass; he felt disoriented, dizzy; being struck by a lightning bolt must be something like this. It's just because she's
Ron's sister, he told himself. You just didn't like seeing her kissing Dean because she's Ron's sister...
But unbidden into his mind came an image of that same deserted corridor with himself kissing Ginny instead... the monster in his chest purred... but then he saw Ron
ripping open the tapestry curtain and drawing his wand on Harry, shouting things like “betrayal of trust"... “supposed to be my friend"...
“D'you think Hermione did snog Krum?” Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor
in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Ginny were quite alone—
“What?” he said confusedly. “Oh ... er ...”
The honest answer was “yes,” but he did not want to give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from the look on Harry's face.
“Dilligrout,” he said darkly to the Fat Lady, and they climbed through the portrait hole into the common room.
Neither of them mentioned Ginny or Hermione again; indeed, they barely spoke to each other that evening and got into bed in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.
Harry lay awake for a long time, looking up at the canopy of his four-poster and trying to convince himself that his feelings for Ginny were entirely elder-brotherly.
They had lived, had they not, like brother and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Chapter 2 Spinner's End
Many miles away the chilly mist that had pressed against the Prime Minister's windows drifted over a dirty river that wound between overgrown, rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the black water and no sign of life apart from a scrawny fox that had slunk down the bank to nose hopefully at some old fish-and-chip wrappings in the tall grass.
But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.
With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized.
“Wait!”
The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.
The second figure turned over the animal with its toe.
“Just a fox,” said a woman's voice dismissively from under the hood. “I thought perhaps an Auror—Cissy, wait!”
But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at the flash of light, was already scrambling up the bank the fox had just fallen down.
“Cissy—Narcissa—listen to me—”
The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other wrenched it away.
“Go back, Bella!”
“You must listen to me!”
“I've listened already. I've made my decision. Leave me alone!”
The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the bank, where a line of old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street. The other woman, Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood looking across the road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness.
“He lives here?” asked Bella in a voice of contempt. “Here? In this Muggle dunghill? We must be the first of our kind ever to set foot—”
But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped through a gap in the rusty railings and was already hurrying across the road.
“Cissy, wait!”
Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw Narcissa darting through an alley between the houses into a second, almost identical street. Some of the streetlamps were broken; the two women were running between patches of light and deep darkness. The pursuer caught up with her prey just as she turned another corner, this time succeeding in catching hold of her arm and swinging her around so that they faced each other.
“Cissy, you must not do this, you can't trust him—”
“The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn't he?”
“The Dark Lord is... I believe... mistaken,” Bella panted, and her eyes gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that they were indeed alone. “In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord's—”
“Let go, Bella!” snarled Narcissa, and she drew a wand from beneath her cloak, holding it threateningly in the other's face. Bella merely laughed.
“Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn't—”
“There is nothing I wouldn't do anymore!” Narcissa breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there was another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister's arm as though burned.
“Narcissa!”
But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Rubbing her hand, her pursuer followed again, keeping her distance now, as they moved deeper into the deserted labyrinth of brick houses. At last, Narcissa hurried up a street named Spinner's End, over which the towering mill chimney seemed to hover like a giant admonitory finger. Her footsteps echoed on the cobbles as she passed boarded and broken windows, until she reached the very last house, where a dim light glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs room.
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But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments, then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.
With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized.
“Wait!”
The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.
The second figure turned over the animal with its toe.
“Just a fox,” said a woman's voice dismissively from under the hood. “I thought perhaps an Auror—Cissy, wait!”
But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at the flash of light, was already scrambling up the bank the fox had just fallen down.
“Cissy—Narcissa—listen to me—”
The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other wrenched it away.
“Go back, Bella!”
“You must listen to me!”
“I've listened already. I've made my decision. Leave me alone!”
The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the bank, where a line of old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street. The other woman, Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood looking across the road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness.
“He lives here?” asked Bella in a voice of contempt. “Here? In this Muggle dunghill? We must be the first of our kind ever to set foot—”
But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped through a gap in the rusty railings and was already hurrying across the road.
“Cissy, wait!”
Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw Narcissa darting through an alley between the houses into a second, almost identical street. Some of the streetlamps were broken; the two women were running between patches of light and deep darkness. The pursuer caught up with her prey just as she turned another corner, this time succeeding in catching hold of her arm and swinging her around so that they faced each other.
“Cissy, you must not do this, you can't trust him—”
“The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn't he?”
“The Dark Lord is... I believe... mistaken,” Bella panted, and her eyes gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that they were indeed alone. “In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord's—”
“Let go, Bella!” snarled Narcissa, and she drew a wand from beneath her cloak, holding it threateningly in the other's face. Bella merely laughed.
“Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn't—”
“There is nothing I wouldn't do anymore!” Narcissa breathed, a note of hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there was another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister's arm as though burned.
“Narcissa!”
But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Rubbing her hand, her pursuer followed again, keeping her distance now, as they moved deeper into the deserted labyrinth of brick houses. At last, Narcissa hurried up a street named Spinner's End, over which the towering mill chimney seemed to hover like a giant admonitory finger. Her footsteps echoed on the cobbles as she passed boarded and broken windows, until she reached the very last house, where a dim light glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs room.
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Chapter 49
Gray old Laska, who had followed them, sat down warily opposite him and pricked up her ears. The sun was setting behind a thick forest, and in the glow of sunset the birch trees, dotted about in the aspen copse, stood out clearly with their hanging twigs, and their buds swollen almost to bursting.
From the thickest parts of the copse, where the snow still remained, came the faint sound of narrow winding threads of water running away. Tiny birds twittered, and now and then fluttered from tree to tree.
In the pauses of complete stillness there came the rustle of last year's leaves, stirred by the thawing of the earth and the growth of the grass.
"Imagine! One can hear and see the grass growing!" Levin said to himself, noticing a wet, slate-colored aspen leaf moving beside a blade of young grass. He stood, listened, and gazed sometimes down at the wet mossy ground, sometimes at Laska listening all alert, sometimes at the sea of bare tree tops that stretched on the slope below him, sometimes at the darkening sky, covered with white streaks of cloud.
A hawk flew high over a forest far away with slow sweep of its wings; another flew with exactly the same motion in the same direction and vanished. The birds twittered more and more loudly and busily in the thicket. An owl hooted not far off, and Laska, starting, stepped cautiously a few steps forward, and putting her head on one side, began to listen intently. Beyond the stream was heard the cuckoo. Twice she uttered her usual cuckoo call, and then gave a hoarse, hurried call and broke down.
"Imagine! the cuckoo already!" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, coming out from behind a bush.
"Yes, In hear it," answered Levin, reluctantly breaking the stillness with his voice, which sounded disagreeable to himself. "Now it's coming!"
Stepan Arkadyevitch's figure again went behind the bush, and Levin saw nothing but the bright flash of a match, followed by the red glow and blue smoke of a cigarette.
"Tchk! tchk!" came the snapping sound of Stepan Arkadyevitch cocking his gun.
"What's that cry?" asked Oblonsky, drawing Levin's attention to a prolonged cry, as though a colt were whinnying in a high voice, in play.
"I told them to bring the trap round; or would you rather walk?"
"I told them to bring the trap round; or would you rather walk?"
"No, we'd better drive," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, getting into the trap. He sat down, tucked the tiger-skin rug round him, and lighted a cigar. "How is it you don't smoke? A cigar is a sort of thing, not exactly a pleasure, but the crown and outward sign of pleasure. Come, this is life! How splendid it is! This is how In should like to live!"
"Why, who prevents you?" said Levin, smiling.
"No, you're a lucky man! You've got everything you like. You like horses--and you have them; dogs--you have them; shooting-- you have it; farming--you have it."
"Perhaps because I rejoice in what I have, and don't fret for what I haven't," said Levin, thinking of Kitty.
Stepan Arkadyevitch comprehended, looked at him, but said nothing.
Levin was grateful to Oblonsky for noticing, with his never-failing tact, that he dreaded conversation about the Shtcherbatskys, and so saying nothing about them. But now Levin was longing to find out what was tormenting him so, yet he had not the courage to begin.
"Come, tell me how things are going with you," said Levin, bethinking himself that it was not nice of him to think only of himself.
Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes sparkled merrily.
"You don't admit, I know, that one can be fond of new rolls when one has had one's rations of bread--to your mind it's a crime; but I don't count life as life without love," he said, taking Levin's question his own way. "What am I to do? I'm made that way. And really, one does so little harm to anyone, and gives oneself so much pleasure..."
"What! is there something new, then?" queried Levin.
"Yes, my boy, there is! There, do you see, you know the type of Ossian's women.... Women, such as one sees in dreams.... Well, these women are sometimes to be met in reality...and these women are terrible. Woman, don't you know, is such a subject that however much you study it, it's always perfectly new."
"Well, then, it would be better not to study it."
"No. Some mathematician has said that enjoyment lies in the search for truth, not in the finding it."
Levin listened in silence, and in spite of all the efforts he made, he could not in the least enter into the feelings of his friend and understand his sentiments and the charm of studying such women.
"No, we'd better drive," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, getting into the trap. He sat down, tucked the tiger-skin rug round him, and lighted a cigar. "How is it you don't smoke? A cigar is a sort of thing, not exactly a pleasure, but the crown and outward sign of pleasure. Come, this is life! How splendid it is! This is how In should like to live!"
"Why, who prevents you?" said Levin, smiling.
"No, you're a lucky man! You've got everything you like. You like horses--and you have them; dogs--you have them; shooting-- you have it; farming--you have it."
"Perhaps because I rejoice in what I have, and don't fret for what I haven't," said Levin, thinking of Kitty.
Stepan Arkadyevitch comprehended, looked at him, but said nothing.
Levin was grateful to Oblonsky for noticing, with his never-failing tact, that he dreaded conversation about the Shtcherbatskys, and so saying nothing about them. But now Levin was longing to find out what was tormenting him so, yet he had not the courage to begin.
"Come, tell me how things are going with you," said Levin, bethinking himself that it was not nice of him to think only of himself.
Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes sparkled merrily.
"You don't admit, I know, that one can be fond of new rolls when one has had one's rations of bread--to your mind it's a crime; but I don't count life as life without love," he said, taking Levin's question his own way. "What am I to do? I'm made that way. And really, one does so little harm to anyone, and gives oneself so much pleasure..."
"What! is there something new, then?" queried Levin.
"Yes, my boy, there is! There, do you see, you know the type of Ossian's women.... Women, such as one sees in dreams.... Well, these women are sometimes to be met in reality...and these women are terrible. Woman, don't you know, is such a subject that however much you study it, it's always perfectly new."
"Well, then, it would be better not to study it."
"No. Some mathematician has said that enjoyment lies in the search for truth, not in the finding it."
Levin listened in silence, and in spite of all the efforts he made, he could not in the least enter into the feelings of his friend and understand his sentiments and the charm of studying such women.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
"We have long been expecting you,
"We have long been expecting you," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, going into his room and letting Levin's hand go as though to show that here all danger was over. "I am very, very glad to see you," he went on. "Well, how are you? Eh? When did you come?"
Levin was silent, looking at the unknown faces of Oblonsky's two companions, and especially at the hand of the elegant Grinevitch, which had such long white fingers, such long yellow filbert-shaped nails, and such huge shining studs on the shirt-cuff, that apparently they absorbed all his attention, and allowed him no freedom of thought. Oblonsky noticed this at once, and smiled.
"Ah, to be sure, let me introduce you," he said. "My colleagues: Philip Ivanitch Nikitin, Mihail Stanislavitch Grinevitch"--and turning to Levin--"a district councilor, a modern district councilman, a gymnast who lifts thirteen stone with one hand, a cattle-breeder and sportsman, and my friend, Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, the brother of Sergey Ivonovitch Koznishev."
"Delighted," said the veteran.
"I have the honor of knowing your brother, Sergey Ivanovitch," said Grinevitch, holding out his slender hand with its long nails.
Levin frowned, shook hands coldly, and at once turned to Oblonsky. Though he had a great respect for his half-brother, an author well known to all Russia, he could not endure it when people treated him not as Konstantin Levin, but as the brother of the celebrated Koznishev.
"No, I am no longer a district councilor. I have quarreled with them all, and don't go to the meetings any more," he said, turning to Oblonsky.
"You've been quick about it!" said Oblonsky with a smile. "But how? why?"
Levin was silent, looking at the unknown faces of Oblonsky's two companions, and especially at the hand of the elegant Grinevitch, which had such long white fingers, such long yellow filbert-shaped nails, and such huge shining studs on the shirt-cuff, that apparently they absorbed all his attention, and allowed him no freedom of thought. Oblonsky noticed this at once, and smiled.
"Ah, to be sure, let me introduce you," he said. "My colleagues: Philip Ivanitch Nikitin, Mihail Stanislavitch Grinevitch"--and turning to Levin--"a district councilor, a modern district councilman, a gymnast who lifts thirteen stone with one hand, a cattle-breeder and sportsman, and my friend, Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin, the brother of Sergey Ivonovitch Koznishev."
"Delighted," said the veteran.
"I have the honor of knowing your brother, Sergey Ivanovitch," said Grinevitch, holding out his slender hand with its long nails.
Levin frowned, shook hands coldly, and at once turned to Oblonsky. Though he had a great respect for his half-brother, an author well known to all Russia, he could not endure it when people treated him not as Konstantin Levin, but as the brother of the celebrated Koznishev.
"No, I am no longer a district councilor. I have quarreled with them all, and don't go to the meetings any more," he said, turning to Oblonsky.
"You've been quick about it!" said Oblonsky with a smile. "But how? why?"
"I have just come, and very much wanted to see you
"I have just come, and very much wanted to see you," said Levin, looking shyly and at the same time angry and uneasily around.
"Well, let's go into my room," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who knew his friend's sensitive and irritable shyness, and, taking his arm, he drew him along, as though guiding him through dangers.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was on familiar terms with almost all his acquaintances, and called almost all of them by their Christian names: old men of sixty, boys of twenty, actors, ministers, merchants, and adjutant-generals, so that many of his intimate chums were to be found at the extreme ends of the social ladder, and would have been very much surprised to learn that they had, through the medium of Oblonsky, something in common. He was the familiar friend of everyone with whom he took a glass of champagne, and he took a glass of champagne with everyone, and when in consequence he met any of his disreputable chums, as he used in joke to call many of his friends, in the presence of his subordinates, he well knew how, with his characteristic tact, to diminish the disagreeable impression made on them. Levin was not a disreputable chum, but Oblonsky, with his ready tact, felt that Levin fancied he might not care to show his intimacy with him before his subordinates, and so he made haste to take him off into his room.
Levin was almost of the same age as Oblonsky; their intimacy did not rest merely on champagne. Levin had been the friend and companion of his early youth. They were fond of one another in spite of the difference of their characters and tastes, as friends are fond of one another who have been together in early youth. But in spite of this, each of them--as is often the way with men who have selected careers of different kinds--though in discussion he would even justify the other's career, in his heart despised it. It seemed to each of them that the life he led himself was the only real life, and the life led by his friend was a mere phantasm. Oblonsky could not restrain a slight mocking smile at the sight of Levin. How often he had seen him come up to Moscow from the country where he was doing something, but what precisely Stepan Arkadyevitch could never quite make out, and indeed he took no interest in the matter. Levin arrived in Moscow always excited and in a hurry, rather ill at ease and irritated by his own want of ease, and for the most part with a perfectly new, unexpected view of things. Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed at this, and liked it. In the same way Levin in his heart despised the town mode of life of his friend, and his official duties, which he laughed at, and regarded as trifling. But the difference was that Oblonsky, as he was doing the same as every one did, laughed complacently and good-humoredly, while Levin laughed without complacency and sometimes angrily.
"Well, let's go into my room," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who knew his friend's sensitive and irritable shyness, and, taking his arm, he drew him along, as though guiding him through dangers.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was on familiar terms with almost all his acquaintances, and called almost all of them by their Christian names: old men of sixty, boys of twenty, actors, ministers, merchants, and adjutant-generals, so that many of his intimate chums were to be found at the extreme ends of the social ladder, and would have been very much surprised to learn that they had, through the medium of Oblonsky, something in common. He was the familiar friend of everyone with whom he took a glass of champagne, and he took a glass of champagne with everyone, and when in consequence he met any of his disreputable chums, as he used in joke to call many of his friends, in the presence of his subordinates, he well knew how, with his characteristic tact, to diminish the disagreeable impression made on them. Levin was not a disreputable chum, but Oblonsky, with his ready tact, felt that Levin fancied he might not care to show his intimacy with him before his subordinates, and so he made haste to take him off into his room.
Levin was almost of the same age as Oblonsky; their intimacy did not rest merely on champagne. Levin had been the friend and companion of his early youth. They were fond of one another in spite of the difference of their characters and tastes, as friends are fond of one another who have been together in early youth. But in spite of this, each of them--as is often the way with men who have selected careers of different kinds--though in discussion he would even justify the other's career, in his heart despised it. It seemed to each of them that the life he led himself was the only real life, and the life led by his friend was a mere phantasm. Oblonsky could not restrain a slight mocking smile at the sight of Levin. How often he had seen him come up to Moscow from the country where he was doing something, but what precisely Stepan Arkadyevitch could never quite make out, and indeed he took no interest in the matter. Levin arrived in Moscow always excited and in a hurry, rather ill at ease and irritated by his own want of ease, and for the most part with a perfectly new, unexpected view of things. Stepan Arkadyevitch laughed at this, and liked it. In the same way Levin in his heart despised the town mode of life of his friend, and his official duties, which he laughed at, and regarded as trifling. But the difference was that Oblonsky, as he was doing the same as every one did, laughed complacently and good-humoredly, while Levin laughed without complacency and sometimes angrily.
"If they knew," he thought
"If they knew," he thought, bending his head with a significant air as he listened to the report, "what a guilty little boy their president was half an hour ago." And his eyes were laughing during the reading of the report. Till two o'clock the sitting would go on without a break, and at two o'clock there would be an interval and luncheon.
It was not yet two, when the large glass doors of the boardroom suddenly opened and someone came in.
All the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the Tsar and the eagle, delighted at any distraction, looked round at the door; but the doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the intruder, and closed the glass door after him.
When the case had been read through, Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and stretched, and by way of tribute to the liberalism of the times took out a cigarette in the boardroom and went into his private room. Two of the members of the board, the old veteran in the service, Nikitin, and the Kammerjunker Grinevitch, went in with him.
"We shall have time to finish after lunch," said Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"To be sure we shall!" said Nikitin.
"A pretty sharp fellow this Fomin must be," said Grinevitch of one of the persons taking part in the case they were examining.
Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned at Grinevitch's words, giving him thereby to understand that it was improper to pass judgment prematurely, and made him no reply.
"Who was that came in?" he asked the doorkeeper.
"Someone, your excellency, crept in without permission directly my back was turned. He was asking for you. I told him: when the members come out, then..."
"Where is he?"
"Maybe he's gone into the passage, but here he comes anyway. That is he," said the doorkeeper, pointing to a strongly built, broadshouldered man with a curly beard, who, without taking off his sheepskin cap, was running lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the stone staircase.b One of the members going down--a lean official with a portfolio--stood out of his way and looked disapprovingly at the legs of the stranger, then glanced inquiringly at Oblonsky.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was standing at the top of the stairs. His good-naturedly beaming face above the embroidered collar of his uniform beamed more than ever when he recognized the man coming up.
"Why, it's actually you, Levin, at last!" he said with a friendly mocking smile, scanning Levin as he approached. "How is it you have deigned to look me up in this den?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and not content with shaking hands, he kissed his friend. "Have you been here long?"
It was not yet two, when the large glass doors of the boardroom suddenly opened and someone came in.
All the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the Tsar and the eagle, delighted at any distraction, looked round at the door; but the doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the intruder, and closed the glass door after him.
When the case had been read through, Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and stretched, and by way of tribute to the liberalism of the times took out a cigarette in the boardroom and went into his private room. Two of the members of the board, the old veteran in the service, Nikitin, and the Kammerjunker Grinevitch, went in with him.
"We shall have time to finish after lunch," said Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"To be sure we shall!" said Nikitin.
"A pretty sharp fellow this Fomin must be," said Grinevitch of one of the persons taking part in the case they were examining.
Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned at Grinevitch's words, giving him thereby to understand that it was improper to pass judgment prematurely, and made him no reply.
"Who was that came in?" he asked the doorkeeper.
"Someone, your excellency, crept in without permission directly my back was turned. He was asking for you. I told him: when the members come out, then..."
"Where is he?"
"Maybe he's gone into the passage, but here he comes anyway. That is he," said the doorkeeper, pointing to a strongly built, broadshouldered man with a curly beard, who, without taking off his sheepskin cap, was running lightly and rapidly up the worn steps of the stone staircase.b One of the members going down--a lean official with a portfolio--stood out of his way and looked disapprovingly at the legs of the stranger, then glanced inquiringly at Oblonsky.
Stepan Arkadyevitch was standing at the top of the stairs. His good-naturedly beaming face above the embroidered collar of his uniform beamed more than ever when he recognized the man coming up.
"Why, it's actually you, Levin, at last!" he said with a friendly mocking smile, scanning Levin as he approached. "How is it you have deigned to look me up in this den?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, and not content with shaking hands, he kissed his friend. "Have you been here long?"
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Harry and Hermione exchanged miserable looks
Harry and Hermione exchanged miserable looks, Harry uncomfortably aware that he had already promised Hagrid that he would do whatever he asked.
‘What—what does that involve, exactly?’ Hermione enquired.
‘Not food or anythin'!’ said Hagrid eagerly. ‘He can get his own food, no problem. Birds an’ deer an’ stuff ... no, it's company he needs. I xxjus’ knew someone was carryin on trying ter help him a bit ... teachin’ him, yeh know.’
Harry said nothing, but turned to look back at the gigantic form lying asleep on the ground in front of them. Unlike Hagrid, who simply looked like an oversized human, Grawp looked strangely misshapen. What Harry had taken to be a vast mossy boulder to the left of the great earthen mound he now recognised as Grawp's head. It was much larger in proportion to the body than a human head, and was almost perfectly round and covered with tightly curling, close-growing hair the colour of bracken. The rim of a single large, fleshy ear was visible on top of the head, which seemed to sit, rather like Uncle Vernon's, directly upon the shoulders with little or no neck in between. The back, under what looked like a dirty brownish smock comprised of animal skins sewn roughly together, was very broad; and as Grawp slept, it seemed to strain a little at the rough seams of the skins. The legs were curled up under the body. Harry could see the soles of enormous, filthy, bare feet, large as sledges, resting one on top of the other on the earthy Forest floor.
‘You want us to teach him,’ Harry said in a hollow voice. He now understood what Firenze's warning had meant. His attempt is not working. He would do better to abandon it.Of course, the other creatures who lived in the Forest would have heard Hagrid's fruitless attempts to teach Grawp English.
‘Yeah—even if yeh jus’ talk ter him a bit,’ said Hagrid hopefully. ’ ‘Cause I reckon, if he can talk ter people, he'll understand more that we all like ‘im really, an’ want ‘im ter stay.’
Harry looked at Hermione, who peered back at him from between the fingers over her face.
‘Kind of makes you wish we had Norbert back, doesn't it?’ he said, and she gave a very shaky laugh.
‘Yeh'll do it, then?’ said Hagrid, who did not seem to have caugit what Harry had just said.
‘We'll ...’ said Harry, already bound by his promise. ‘We'll try, Hagrid.’
‘I knew I could count on yeh, Harry,’ Hagrid said, beaming in a very watery way and dabbing at his face with his handkerchief again. ‘An’ I don’ wan’ yeh ter put yerself out too much, like ... I know yeh've got exams ... if yeh could jus’ nip down here in yer Invisibility Cloak maybe once a week an’ have a little chat with ‘im. I'll wake ‘im up, then—introduce yeh—’
‘Wha—no!’ said Hermione, jumping up. ‘Hagrid, no, don't wake him, really, we don't need—’
But Hagrid had already stepped over the great tree trunk in front of them and was proceeding towards Grawp. When he was about ten feet away, he lifted a long, broken bough from the ground, smiled reassuringly over his shoulder at Harry and Hermione, then poked Grawp hard in the middle of the back with the end of the bough.
The giant gave a roar that echoed around the silent Forest; birds in the treetops overhead rose twittering from their perches and soared away. In front of Harry and Hermione, meanwhile, the gigantic Grawp was rising from the ground, which shuddered as he placed an enormous hand upon it to push himself on to his knees. He turned his head to see who and what had disturbed him.
‘All righ', Grawpy?’ said Hagrid, in a would-be cheery voice, backing away with the long bough raised, ready to poke Grawp again. ‘Had a nice sleep, eh?’
Harry and Hermione retreated as far as they could while still keeping the giant within their sights. Grawp knelt between two trees he had not yet uprooted. They looked up into his startlingly huge face that resembled a grey full moon swimming in the gloom of the clearing. It was as though the features had been hewn on to a great stone ball. The nose was stubby and shapeless, the mouth lopsided and full of misshapen yellow teeth the size of half-bricks; the eyes, small by giant standards, were a muddy greenish-brown and just now were half-gummed together with sleep. Grawp raised dirty knuckles, each as big as a cricket ball, to his eyes, rubbed vigorously, then, without warning, pushed himself to his feet with surprising speed and agility.
‘Oh my!’ Harry heard Hermione squeal, terrified, beside him.
The trees to which the other ends of the ropes around Grawp's wrists and ankles were attached creaked ominously. He was, as Hagrid had said, at least sixteen feet tall. Gazing blearily around, Grawp reached out a hand the size of a beach umbrella, seized a bird's nest from the upper branches of a towering pine and turned it upside-down with a roar of apparent displeasure that there was no bird in it; eggs fell like grenades towards the ground and Hagrid threw his arms over his head to protect himself.
‘What—what does that involve, exactly?’ Hermione enquired.
‘Not food or anythin'!’ said Hagrid eagerly. ‘He can get his own food, no problem. Birds an’ deer an’ stuff ... no, it's company he needs. I xxjus’ knew someone was carryin on trying ter help him a bit ... teachin’ him, yeh know.’
Harry said nothing, but turned to look back at the gigantic form lying asleep on the ground in front of them. Unlike Hagrid, who simply looked like an oversized human, Grawp looked strangely misshapen. What Harry had taken to be a vast mossy boulder to the left of the great earthen mound he now recognised as Grawp's head. It was much larger in proportion to the body than a human head, and was almost perfectly round and covered with tightly curling, close-growing hair the colour of bracken. The rim of a single large, fleshy ear was visible on top of the head, which seemed to sit, rather like Uncle Vernon's, directly upon the shoulders with little or no neck in between. The back, under what looked like a dirty brownish smock comprised of animal skins sewn roughly together, was very broad; and as Grawp slept, it seemed to strain a little at the rough seams of the skins. The legs were curled up under the body. Harry could see the soles of enormous, filthy, bare feet, large as sledges, resting one on top of the other on the earthy Forest floor.
‘You want us to teach him,’ Harry said in a hollow voice. He now understood what Firenze's warning had meant. His attempt is not working. He would do better to abandon it.Of course, the other creatures who lived in the Forest would have heard Hagrid's fruitless attempts to teach Grawp English.
‘Yeah—even if yeh jus’ talk ter him a bit,’ said Hagrid hopefully. ’ ‘Cause I reckon, if he can talk ter people, he'll understand more that we all like ‘im really, an’ want ‘im ter stay.’
Harry looked at Hermione, who peered back at him from between the fingers over her face.
‘Kind of makes you wish we had Norbert back, doesn't it?’ he said, and she gave a very shaky laugh.
‘Yeh'll do it, then?’ said Hagrid, who did not seem to have caugit what Harry had just said.
‘We'll ...’ said Harry, already bound by his promise. ‘We'll try, Hagrid.’
‘I knew I could count on yeh, Harry,’ Hagrid said, beaming in a very watery way and dabbing at his face with his handkerchief again. ‘An’ I don’ wan’ yeh ter put yerself out too much, like ... I know yeh've got exams ... if yeh could jus’ nip down here in yer Invisibility Cloak maybe once a week an’ have a little chat with ‘im. I'll wake ‘im up, then—introduce yeh—’
‘Wha—no!’ said Hermione, jumping up. ‘Hagrid, no, don't wake him, really, we don't need—’
But Hagrid had already stepped over the great tree trunk in front of them and was proceeding towards Grawp. When he was about ten feet away, he lifted a long, broken bough from the ground, smiled reassuringly over his shoulder at Harry and Hermione, then poked Grawp hard in the middle of the back with the end of the bough.
The giant gave a roar that echoed around the silent Forest; birds in the treetops overhead rose twittering from their perches and soared away. In front of Harry and Hermione, meanwhile, the gigantic Grawp was rising from the ground, which shuddered as he placed an enormous hand upon it to push himself on to his knees. He turned his head to see who and what had disturbed him.
‘All righ', Grawpy?’ said Hagrid, in a would-be cheery voice, backing away with the long bough raised, ready to poke Grawp again. ‘Had a nice sleep, eh?’
Harry and Hermione retreated as far as they could while still keeping the giant within their sights. Grawp knelt between two trees he had not yet uprooted. They looked up into his startlingly huge face that resembled a grey full moon swimming in the gloom of the clearing. It was as though the features had been hewn on to a great stone ball. The nose was stubby and shapeless, the mouth lopsided and full of misshapen yellow teeth the size of half-bricks; the eyes, small by giant standards, were a muddy greenish-brown and just now were half-gummed together with sleep. Grawp raised dirty knuckles, each as big as a cricket ball, to his eyes, rubbed vigorously, then, without warning, pushed himself to his feet with surprising speed and agility.
‘Oh my!’ Harry heard Hermione squeal, terrified, beside him.
The trees to which the other ends of the ropes around Grawp's wrists and ankles were attached creaked ominously. He was, as Hagrid had said, at least sixteen feet tall. Gazing blearily around, Grawp reached out a hand the size of a beach umbrella, seized a bird's nest from the upper branches of a towering pine and turned it upside-down with a roar of apparent displeasure that there was no bird in it; eggs fell like grenades towards the ground and Hagrid threw his arms over his head to protect himself.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and Ron all looked up at Harry.
She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and Ron all looked up at Harry.
‘How're you feeling?’ asked Hermione.
‘Fine,’ said Harry stiffly.
‘Oh, don't lie, Harry,’ she said impatiently. ‘Ron and Ginny say you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo's.’
‘They do, do they?’ said Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed quite unabashed.
‘Well, you have!’ she said. ‘And you won't look at any of us!’
‘It's you lot who won't look at me!’ said Harry angrily.
‘Maybe you're taking it in turns to look, and keep missing each other,’ suggested Hermione, the corners of her mouth twitching.
‘Very funny,’ snapped Harry, turning away.
‘Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,’ said Hermione sharply. ‘Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears—’
‘Yeah?’ growled Harry, his hands deep in his pockets as he watched the snow now falling thickly outside. ‘All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it.’
‘We wanted to talk toyou, Harry,’ said Ginny, ‘but as you've been hiding ever since we got back—’
‘I didn't want anyone to talk to me,’ said Harry, who was feeling more and more nettled.
‘Well, that was a bit stupid of you,’ said Ginny angrily, ‘seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels.’
Harry remained quite still as the impact of these words hit him. Then he wheeled round.
‘I forgot,’ he said.
‘Lucky you,’ said Ginny coolly.
‘I'm sorry,’ Harry said, and he meant it. ‘So ... so, do you think I'm being possessed, then?’
‘Well, can you remember everything you've been doing?’ Ginny asked. ‘Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?’
Harry racked his brains.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you,’ said Ginny simply. ‘When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.’
Harry hardly dared believe her, yet his heart was lightening almost in spite of himself.
‘That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though—’
‘Harry, you've had these dreams before,’ Hermione said. ‘You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year.’
‘This was different,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘I was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake ... what if Voldemort somehow transported me to London—?’
‘One day,’ said Hermione, sounding thoroughly exasperated, ‘you'll read Hogwarts: A History, and perhaps it will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparaie inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly
out of your dormitory, Harry.’
‘You didn't leave your bed, mate,’ said Ron. ‘I saw you thrashing around in your sleep for at least a minute before we could wake you up.’
Harry started pacing up and down the room again, thinking. What they were all saying was not only comforting, it made sense ... without really thinking, he took a sandwich from the plate on the bed and crammed it hungrily
into his mouth.
I'm not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like joining in as they heard Sirius tramping past their door towards Buckbeak's room, singing ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs’
at the top of his voice.
How could he have dreamed of returning to Privet Drive for Christmas? Sirius's delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, was infectious. He was no longer their sullen host of the summer; now
he seemed determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so
that by the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the house was barely recognisable. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow
glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view, and even the stuffed elf-heads on the hall wall wore Father
Christmas hats and beards.
Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.
‘Good haul this year,’ he informed Harry through a cloud of paper. ‘Thanks for the Broom Compass, it's excellent; beats Hermione's—she got me a homework planner—’
Harry sorted through his presents and found one with Hermione's handwriting on it. She had given him, too, a book that resembled a diary except that every time he opened a page it said aloud things like: ‘Do it today or later
you'll pay!’
Sirius and Lupin had given Harry a set of excellent books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving colour illustrations of all the counter-jinxes and hexes it described.
Harry flicked through the first volume eagerly; he could see it was going to be highly useful in his plans for the DA. Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably supposed to be an anti-theft
device, but unfortunately prevented Harry putting any money in without getting his fingers ripped off. Tonks's present was a small, working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched fly around the room, wishing he still had his
full-size version; Ron had given him an enormous box of Every-Flavour Beans, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the usual hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies, and Dobby a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected had been
done by the elf himself. He had just turned it upside-down to see whether it looked better that way when, with a loud crack, Fred and George Apparated at the foot of his bed.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said George. ‘Don't go downstairs for a bit.’
‘Why not?’ said Ron.
‘Mum's crying again,’ said Fred heavily. ‘Percy sent back his Christmas jumper.’
‘Without a note,’ added George. ‘Hasn't asked how Dad is or visited him or anything.’
‘We tried to comfort her,’ said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. ‘Told her Percy's nothing more than a humungous pile of rat droppings.’
‘Didn't work,’ said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. ‘So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.’
‘What's that supposed to be, anyway?’ asked Fred, squinting at Dobbys painting. ‘Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.’
‘It's Harry!’ said George, pointing at the back of the picture, ‘says so on the back!’
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‘How're you feeling?’ asked Hermione.
‘Fine,’ said Harry stiffly.
‘Oh, don't lie, Harry,’ she said impatiently. ‘Ron and Ginny say you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo's.’
‘They do, do they?’ said Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed quite unabashed.
‘Well, you have!’ she said. ‘And you won't look at any of us!’
‘It's you lot who won't look at me!’ said Harry angrily.
‘Maybe you're taking it in turns to look, and keep missing each other,’ suggested Hermione, the corners of her mouth twitching.
‘Very funny,’ snapped Harry, turning away.
‘Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,’ said Hermione sharply. ‘Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears—’
‘Yeah?’ growled Harry, his hands deep in his pockets as he watched the snow now falling thickly outside. ‘All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it.’
‘We wanted to talk toyou, Harry,’ said Ginny, ‘but as you've been hiding ever since we got back—’
‘I didn't want anyone to talk to me,’ said Harry, who was feeling more and more nettled.
‘Well, that was a bit stupid of you,’ said Ginny angrily, ‘seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels.’
Harry remained quite still as the impact of these words hit him. Then he wheeled round.
‘I forgot,’ he said.
‘Lucky you,’ said Ginny coolly.
‘I'm sorry,’ Harry said, and he meant it. ‘So ... so, do you think I'm being possessed, then?’
‘Well, can you remember everything you've been doing?’ Ginny asked. ‘Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?’
Harry racked his brains.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you,’ said Ginny simply. ‘When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.’
Harry hardly dared believe her, yet his heart was lightening almost in spite of himself.
‘That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though—’
‘Harry, you've had these dreams before,’ Hermione said. ‘You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year.’
‘This was different,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘I was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake ... what if Voldemort somehow transported me to London—?’
‘One day,’ said Hermione, sounding thoroughly exasperated, ‘you'll read Hogwarts: A History, and perhaps it will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparaie inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly
out of your dormitory, Harry.’
‘You didn't leave your bed, mate,’ said Ron. ‘I saw you thrashing around in your sleep for at least a minute before we could wake you up.’
Harry started pacing up and down the room again, thinking. What they were all saying was not only comforting, it made sense ... without really thinking, he took a sandwich from the plate on the bed and crammed it hungrily
into his mouth.
I'm not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like joining in as they heard Sirius tramping past their door towards Buckbeak's room, singing ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs’
at the top of his voice.
How could he have dreamed of returning to Privet Drive for Christmas? Sirius's delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, was infectious. He was no longer their sullen host of the summer; now
he seemed determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so
that by the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the house was barely recognisable. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow
glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view, and even the stuffed elf-heads on the hall wall wore Father
Christmas hats and beards.
Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.
‘Good haul this year,’ he informed Harry through a cloud of paper. ‘Thanks for the Broom Compass, it's excellent; beats Hermione's—she got me a homework planner—’
Harry sorted through his presents and found one with Hermione's handwriting on it. She had given him, too, a book that resembled a diary except that every time he opened a page it said aloud things like: ‘Do it today or later
you'll pay!’
Sirius and Lupin had given Harry a set of excellent books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving colour illustrations of all the counter-jinxes and hexes it described.
Harry flicked through the first volume eagerly; he could see it was going to be highly useful in his plans for the DA. Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably supposed to be an anti-theft
device, but unfortunately prevented Harry putting any money in without getting his fingers ripped off. Tonks's present was a small, working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched fly around the room, wishing he still had his
full-size version; Ron had given him an enormous box of Every-Flavour Beans, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the usual hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies, and Dobby a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected had been
done by the elf himself. He had just turned it upside-down to see whether it looked better that way when, with a loud crack, Fred and George Apparated at the foot of his bed.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said George. ‘Don't go downstairs for a bit.’
‘Why not?’ said Ron.
‘Mum's crying again,’ said Fred heavily. ‘Percy sent back his Christmas jumper.’
‘Without a note,’ added George. ‘Hasn't asked how Dad is or visited him or anything.’
‘We tried to comfort her,’ said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. ‘Told her Percy's nothing more than a humungous pile of rat droppings.’
‘Didn't work,’ said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. ‘So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.’
‘What's that supposed to be, anyway?’ asked Fred, squinting at Dobbys painting. ‘Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.’
‘It's Harry!’ said George, pointing at the back of the picture, ‘says so on the back!’
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
The bowl of Murtlap essence
The bowl of Murtlap essence fell to the floor and smashed. He became aware that he was on his feet, though he couldn't remember standing up. Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa. Ron and Hermione's smiles had vanished.
‘You don't know what it's like!You—neither of you—you've never had to face him, have you? You think it's just memorising a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you're in class or something? The whole time you're sure you know there's nothing between you and dying except your own—your own brain or guts or whatever—like you can think straight when you know you're about a nanosecond from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die— they've never taught us that in their classes, what it's like to deal with things like that—and you two sit there acting like I'm a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up—you just don't get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn't needed me—’
‘We weren't saying anything like that, mate,’ said Ron, looking aghast. ‘We weren't having a go at Diggory, we didn't—you've got the wrong end of the—’
He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken.
‘Harry,’ she said timidly, ‘don't you see? This ... this is exactly why we need you ... we need to know what it's r-really like ... facing him ... facing V-Voldemort.’
It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort's name and it was this, more than anything else, that calmed Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not smashed the bowl of Murtlap essence.
‘Well ... think about it,’ said Hermione quietly. ‘Please?’
Harry could not think of anything to say. He was feeling ashamed of his outburst already. He nodded, hardly aware of what he was agreeing to.
Hermione stood up.
‘Well, I'm off to bed,’ she said, in a voice that was clearly as natural as she could make it. ‘Erm ... night.’
Ron had got to his feet, too.
‘Coming?’ he said awkwardly to Harry.
‘Yeah,’ said Harry. ‘In ... in a minute. I'll just clear this up.’
He indicated the smashed bowl on the floor. Ron nodded and left.
‘Reparo,’ Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good as new, but there was no returning the Murtlap essence to the bowl.
He was suddenly so tired he was tempted to sink back into his armchair and sleep there, but instead he forced himself to his feet and followed Ron upstairs. His restless night was punctuated once more by dreams of long corridors and locked doors and he awoke next day with his scar prickling again.
‘You don't know what it's like!You—neither of you—you've never had to face him, have you? You think it's just memorising a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you're in class or something? The whole time you're sure you know there's nothing between you and dying except your own—your own brain or guts or whatever—like you can think straight when you know you're about a nanosecond from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die— they've never taught us that in their classes, what it's like to deal with things like that—and you two sit there acting like I'm a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up—you just don't get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn't needed me—’
‘We weren't saying anything like that, mate,’ said Ron, looking aghast. ‘We weren't having a go at Diggory, we didn't—you've got the wrong end of the—’
He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken.
‘Harry,’ she said timidly, ‘don't you see? This ... this is exactly why we need you ... we need to know what it's r-really like ... facing him ... facing V-Voldemort.’
It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort's name and it was this, more than anything else, that calmed Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not smashed the bowl of Murtlap essence.
‘Well ... think about it,’ said Hermione quietly. ‘Please?’
Harry could not think of anything to say. He was feeling ashamed of his outburst already. He nodded, hardly aware of what he was agreeing to.
Hermione stood up.
‘Well, I'm off to bed,’ she said, in a voice that was clearly as natural as she could make it. ‘Erm ... night.’
Ron had got to his feet, too.
‘Coming?’ he said awkwardly to Harry.
‘Yeah,’ said Harry. ‘In ... in a minute. I'll just clear this up.’
He indicated the smashed bowl on the floor. Ron nodded and left.
‘Reparo,’ Harry muttered, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good as new, but there was no returning the Murtlap essence to the bowl.
He was suddenly so tired he was tempted to sink back into his armchair and sleep there, but instead he forced himself to his feet and followed Ron upstairs. His restless night was punctuated once more by dreams of long corridors and locked doors and he awoke next day with his scar prickling again.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Chapter 6 The Noble And Most Ancient House Of Black
Mrs. Weasley followed them upstairs looking grim.
‘I want you all to go straight to bed, no talking,’ she said as they reached the first landing, ‘we've got a busy day tomorrow. I expect Ginny's asleep,’ she added to Hermione, ‘so try not to wake her up.’
‘Asleep, yeah, right,’ said Fred in an undertone, after Hermione bade them goodnight and they were climbing to the next floor. ‘If Ginny's not lying awake waiting for Hermione to tell her everything they said downstairs then I'm a Flobberworm....’
‘All right, Ron, Harry,’ said Mrs. Weasley on the second landing, pointing them into their bedroom. ‘Off to bed with you.’
’ ‘Night,’ Harry and Ron said to the twins.
‘Sleep tight,’ said Fred, winking.
Mrs. Weasley closed the door behind Harry with a sharp snap. The bedroom looked, if anything, even danker and gloomier than it had on first sight. The blank picture on the wall was now breathing very slowly and deeply, as though its invisible occupant was asleep. Harry put on his pyjamas, took off his glasses, and climbed into his chilly bed while Ron threw Owl Treats up on top of the wardrobe to pacify Hedwig and Pigwidgeon, who were clattering around and rustling their wings restlessly.
‘We can't let them out to hunt every night,’ Ron explained as he pulled on his maroon pyjamas. ‘Dumbledore doesn't want too many owls swooping around the square, thinks it'll look suspicious. Oh yeah ... I forgot....’
He crossed to the door and bolted it.
‘What're you doing that for?’
‘Kreacher,’ said Ron as he turned off the light. ‘First night I was here he came wandering in at three in the morning. Trust me, you don't want to wake up and find him prowling around your room. Anyway...’ He got into his bed, settled down under the covers, then turned to look at Harry in the darkness. Harry could see his outline by the moonlight filtering in through the grimy window, ‘what d'you reckon?’
Harry didn't need to ask what Ron meant.
‘I want you all to go straight to bed, no talking,’ she said as they reached the first landing, ‘we've got a busy day tomorrow. I expect Ginny's asleep,’ she added to Hermione, ‘so try not to wake her up.’
‘Asleep, yeah, right,’ said Fred in an undertone, after Hermione bade them goodnight and they were climbing to the next floor. ‘If Ginny's not lying awake waiting for Hermione to tell her everything they said downstairs then I'm a Flobberworm....’
‘All right, Ron, Harry,’ said Mrs. Weasley on the second landing, pointing them into their bedroom. ‘Off to bed with you.’
’ ‘Night,’ Harry and Ron said to the twins.
‘Sleep tight,’ said Fred, winking.
Mrs. Weasley closed the door behind Harry with a sharp snap. The bedroom looked, if anything, even danker and gloomier than it had on first sight. The blank picture on the wall was now breathing very slowly and deeply, as though its invisible occupant was asleep. Harry put on his pyjamas, took off his glasses, and climbed into his chilly bed while Ron threw Owl Treats up on top of the wardrobe to pacify Hedwig and Pigwidgeon, who were clattering around and rustling their wings restlessly.
‘We can't let them out to hunt every night,’ Ron explained as he pulled on his maroon pyjamas. ‘Dumbledore doesn't want too many owls swooping around the square, thinks it'll look suspicious. Oh yeah ... I forgot....’
He crossed to the door and bolted it.
‘What're you doing that for?’
‘Kreacher,’ said Ron as he turned off the light. ‘First night I was here he came wandering in at three in the morning. Trust me, you don't want to wake up and find him prowling around your room. Anyway...’ He got into his bed, settled down under the covers, then turned to look at Harry in the darkness. Harry could see his outline by the moonlight filtering in through the grimy window, ‘what d'you reckon?’
Harry didn't need to ask what Ron meant.
Who said none of us are putting the news out?’
Who said none of us are putting the news out?’ said Sirius. ‘Why d'you think Dumbledore's in such trouble?’
‘What d'you mean?’ Harry asked.
‘They're trying to discredit him,’ said Lupin. ‘Didn't you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported that he'd been voted out of the Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards because he's getting old and losing his grip, but it's not true; he was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a speech announcing Voldemort's return. They've demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot—that's the Wizard High Court—and they're talking about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, too.’
‘But Dumbledore says he doesn't care what they do as long as they don't take him off the Chocolate Frog Cards,’ said Bill, grinning.
‘It's no laughing matter,’ said Mr. Weasley sharply. ‘If he carries on defying the Ministry like this he could end up in Azkaban, and the last thing we want is to have Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows Dumbledore's out there and wise to what he's up to he's going to go cautiously. If Dumbledore's out of the way—well, You-Know-Who will have a clear field.’
‘But if Voldemort's trying to recruit more Death Eaters it's bound to get out that he's come back, isn't it?’ asked Harry desperately.
‘Voldemort doesn't march up to people's houses and bang on their front doors, Harry,’ said Sirius. ‘He tricks, jinxes and blackmails them. He's well-practised at operating in secret. In any case, gathering followers is only one thing he's interested in. He's got other plans too, plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed, and he's concentrating on those for the moment.’
‘What's he after apart from followers?’ Harry asked swiftly. He thought he saw Sirius and Lupin exchange the most fleeting of looks before Sirius answered, ‘Stuff he can only get by stealth.’
When Harry continued to look puzzled, Sirius said, ‘Like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time.’
‘When he was powerful before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like what kind of weapon?’ said Harry. ‘Something worse than the Avada Kedavra—?’
‘That's enough!’
Mrs. Weasley spoke from the shadows beside the door. Harry hadn't noticed her return from taking Ginny upstairs. Her arms were crossed and she looked furious.
‘I want you in bed, now. All of you,’ she added, looking around at Fred, George, Ron and Hermione.
‘You can't boss us—’ Fred began.
‘Watch me,’ snarled Mrs. Weasley. She was trembling slightly as she looked at Sirius. ‘You've given Harry plenty of information. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straightaway.’
‘Why not?’ said Harry quickly. ‘I'll join, I want to join, I want to fight.’
‘No.’
It was not Mrs Weasley who spoke this time, but Lupin.
‘The Order is comprised only of overage wizards,’ he said. ‘Wizards who have left school,’ he added, as Fred and George opened their mouths. ‘There are dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any of you... I think Molly's right, Sirius. We've said enough.’
Sirius half-shrugged but did not argue. Mrs. Weasley beckoned imperiously to her sons and Herrnione. One by one they stood up and Harry, recognising defeat, followed suit.
‘What d'you mean?’ Harry asked.
‘They're trying to discredit him,’ said Lupin. ‘Didn't you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported that he'd been voted out of the Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards because he's getting old and losing his grip, but it's not true; he was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a speech announcing Voldemort's return. They've demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot—that's the Wizard High Court—and they're talking about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, too.’
‘But Dumbledore says he doesn't care what they do as long as they don't take him off the Chocolate Frog Cards,’ said Bill, grinning.
‘It's no laughing matter,’ said Mr. Weasley sharply. ‘If he carries on defying the Ministry like this he could end up in Azkaban, and the last thing we want is to have Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows Dumbledore's out there and wise to what he's up to he's going to go cautiously. If Dumbledore's out of the way—well, You-Know-Who will have a clear field.’
‘But if Voldemort's trying to recruit more Death Eaters it's bound to get out that he's come back, isn't it?’ asked Harry desperately.
‘Voldemort doesn't march up to people's houses and bang on their front doors, Harry,’ said Sirius. ‘He tricks, jinxes and blackmails them. He's well-practised at operating in secret. In any case, gathering followers is only one thing he's interested in. He's got other plans too, plans he can put into operation very quietly indeed, and he's concentrating on those for the moment.’
‘What's he after apart from followers?’ Harry asked swiftly. He thought he saw Sirius and Lupin exchange the most fleeting of looks before Sirius answered, ‘Stuff he can only get by stealth.’
When Harry continued to look puzzled, Sirius said, ‘Like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time.’
‘When he was powerful before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like what kind of weapon?’ said Harry. ‘Something worse than the Avada Kedavra—?’
‘That's enough!’
Mrs. Weasley spoke from the shadows beside the door. Harry hadn't noticed her return from taking Ginny upstairs. Her arms were crossed and she looked furious.
‘I want you in bed, now. All of you,’ she added, looking around at Fred, George, Ron and Hermione.
‘You can't boss us—’ Fred began.
‘Watch me,’ snarled Mrs. Weasley. She was trembling slightly as she looked at Sirius. ‘You've given Harry plenty of information. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straightaway.’
‘Why not?’ said Harry quickly. ‘I'll join, I want to join, I want to fight.’
‘No.’
It was not Mrs Weasley who spoke this time, but Lupin.
‘The Order is comprised only of overage wizards,’ he said. ‘Wizards who have left school,’ he added, as Fred and George opened their mouths. ‘There are dangers involved of which you can have no idea, any of you... I think Molly's right, Sirius. We've said enough.’
Sirius half-shrugged but did not argue. Mrs. Weasley beckoned imperiously to her sons and Herrnione. One by one they stood up and Harry, recognising defeat, followed suit.
‘Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore's much cleverer than he is
‘Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore's much cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever asking Dumbledore for help and advice,’ said Lupin. ‘But it seems he's become fond of power, and much more confident. He loves being Minister for Magic and he's managed to convince himself that he's the clever one and Dumbledore's simply stirring up trouble for the sake of it.’
‘How can he think that?’ said Harry angrily. ‘How can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up—that I'd make it all up?’
‘Because accepting that Voldermort's back would mean trouble like the Ministry hasn't had to cope with for nearly fourteen years,’ said Sirius bitterly. ‘Fudge just can't bring himself to face it. It's so much more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore's lying to destabilise him.’
‘You see the problem,’ said Lupin. ‘While the Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from Voldemort it's hard to convince people he's back, especially as they really don't want to believe it in the first place. What's more, the Ministry's leaning heavily on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they're calling Dumbledore's rumour-mongering, so most of the wizarding community are completely unaware anything's happened, and that makes them easy targets for the Death Eaters if they're using the Imperius Curse.’
‘But you're telling people, aren't you?’ said Harry, looking around at Mr. Weasley, Sirius, Bill, Mundungus, Lupin and Tonks. ‘You're letting people know he's back?’
They all smiled humourlessly.
‘Well, as everyone thinks I'm a mad mass-murderer and the Ministry's put a ten thousand Galleon price on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start handing out leaflets, can I?’ said Sirius restlessly.
‘And I'm not a very popular dinner guest with most of the community,’ said Lupin. ‘It's an occupational hazard of being a werewolf.’
‘Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off,’ said Sirius, ‘and it's very important for us to have spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet Voldemort will have them.’
‘We've managed to convince a couple of people, though,’ said Mr. Weasley. Tonks here, for one—she's too young to have been in the Order of the Phoenix last time, and having Aurors on our side is a huge advantage— Kingsley Shacklebolt's been a real asset, too; he's in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he's been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in Tibet.’
‘But if none of you are putting the news out that Voldemort's back—’ Harry began.
‘How can he think that?’ said Harry angrily. ‘How can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up—that I'd make it all up?’
‘Because accepting that Voldermort's back would mean trouble like the Ministry hasn't had to cope with for nearly fourteen years,’ said Sirius bitterly. ‘Fudge just can't bring himself to face it. It's so much more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore's lying to destabilise him.’
‘You see the problem,’ said Lupin. ‘While the Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from Voldemort it's hard to convince people he's back, especially as they really don't want to believe it in the first place. What's more, the Ministry's leaning heavily on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they're calling Dumbledore's rumour-mongering, so most of the wizarding community are completely unaware anything's happened, and that makes them easy targets for the Death Eaters if they're using the Imperius Curse.’
‘But you're telling people, aren't you?’ said Harry, looking around at Mr. Weasley, Sirius, Bill, Mundungus, Lupin and Tonks. ‘You're letting people know he's back?’
They all smiled humourlessly.
‘Well, as everyone thinks I'm a mad mass-murderer and the Ministry's put a ten thousand Galleon price on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start handing out leaflets, can I?’ said Sirius restlessly.
‘And I'm not a very popular dinner guest with most of the community,’ said Lupin. ‘It's an occupational hazard of being a werewolf.’
‘Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off,’ said Sirius, ‘and it's very important for us to have spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet Voldemort will have them.’
‘We've managed to convince a couple of people, though,’ said Mr. Weasley. Tonks here, for one—she's too young to have been in the Order of the Phoenix last time, and having Aurors on our side is a huge advantage— Kingsley Shacklebolt's been a real asset, too; he's in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he's been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in Tibet.’
‘But if none of you are putting the news out that Voldemort's back—’ Harry began.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Chapter 11 The Sorting Hat's New Song
Harry did not want to tell the others that he and Luna were having the same hallucination, if that was what it was, so he said nothing more about the horses as he sat down inside the carriage and slammed the door behind
him. Nevertheless, he could not help watching the silhouettes of the horses moving beyond the window.
‘Did everyone see that Grubbly-Plank woman?’ asked Ginny. ‘What's she doing back here? Hagrid can't have left, can he?’
‘I'll be quite glad if he has,’ said Luna, ‘he isn't a very good teacher, is he?’
‘Yes, he is!’ said Harry, Ron and Ginny angrily.
Harry glared at Hermione. She cleared her throat and quickly said, ‘Erm ... yes ... he's very good.’
‘Well, we in Ravenclaw think he's a bit of a joke,’ said Luna, unfazed.
‘You've got a rubbish sense of humour then,’ Ron snapped, as the wheels below them creaked into motion.
Luna did not seem perturbed by Ron's rudeness; on the contrary, she simply watched him for a while as though he were a mildly interesting television programme.
Rattling and swaying, the carriages moved in convoy up the road. When they passed between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the gates to the school grounds, Harry leaned forwards to try and
see whether there were any lights on in Hagrid's cabin by the Forbidden Forest, but the grounds were in complete darkness. Hogwarts Castle, however, loomed ever closer: a towering mass of turrets, jet black against the
dark sky, here and there a window blazing fiery bright above them.
The carriages jingled to a halt near the stone steps leading up to the oak front doors and Harry got out of the carriage first. He turned again to look for lit windows down by the Forest, but there was definitely no sign of life
within Hagrid's cabin. Unwillingly, because he had half-hoped they would have vanished, he turned his eyes instead upon the strange, skeletal creatures standing quietly in the chill night air, their blank white eyes gleaming.
Harry had once before had the experience of seeing something that Ron could not, but that had been a reflection in a mirror, something much more insubstantial than a hundred very solid-looking beasts strong enough to pull
a fleet of carriages. If Luna was to be believed, the beasts had always been there but invisible. Why, then, could Harry suddenly see them, and why could Ron not?
‘Are you coming or what?’ said Ron beside him.
‘Oh ... yeah,’ said Harry quickly and they joined the crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the castle.
The Entrance Hall was ablaze with torches and echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.
The four long house tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in midair all along the tables, illuminating the
silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other houses, eyeing one another's new haircuts and robes. Again,
Harry noticed people putting their heads together to whisper as he passed; he gritted his teeth and tried to act as though he neither noticed nor cared.
Luna drifted away from them at the Ravenclaw table. The moment they reached Gryffindor's, Ginny was hailed by some fellow fourth-years and left to sit with them; Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville found seats together about
halfway down the table between Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor house ghost, and Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of whom gave Harry airy, overly-friendly greetings that made him quite sure they had
stopped talking about him a split second before. He had more important things to worry about, however: he was looking over the students’ heads to the staff table that ran along the top wall of the Hall.
‘He's not there.’
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him. Nevertheless, he could not help watching the silhouettes of the horses moving beyond the window.
‘Did everyone see that Grubbly-Plank woman?’ asked Ginny. ‘What's she doing back here? Hagrid can't have left, can he?’
‘I'll be quite glad if he has,’ said Luna, ‘he isn't a very good teacher, is he?’
‘Yes, he is!’ said Harry, Ron and Ginny angrily.
Harry glared at Hermione. She cleared her throat and quickly said, ‘Erm ... yes ... he's very good.’
‘Well, we in Ravenclaw think he's a bit of a joke,’ said Luna, unfazed.
‘You've got a rubbish sense of humour then,’ Ron snapped, as the wheels below them creaked into motion.
Luna did not seem perturbed by Ron's rudeness; on the contrary, she simply watched him for a while as though he were a mildly interesting television programme.
Rattling and swaying, the carriages moved in convoy up the road. When they passed between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the gates to the school grounds, Harry leaned forwards to try and
see whether there were any lights on in Hagrid's cabin by the Forbidden Forest, but the grounds were in complete darkness. Hogwarts Castle, however, loomed ever closer: a towering mass of turrets, jet black against the
dark sky, here and there a window blazing fiery bright above them.
The carriages jingled to a halt near the stone steps leading up to the oak front doors and Harry got out of the carriage first. He turned again to look for lit windows down by the Forest, but there was definitely no sign of life
within Hagrid's cabin. Unwillingly, because he had half-hoped they would have vanished, he turned his eyes instead upon the strange, skeletal creatures standing quietly in the chill night air, their blank white eyes gleaming.
Harry had once before had the experience of seeing something that Ron could not, but that had been a reflection in a mirror, something much more insubstantial than a hundred very solid-looking beasts strong enough to pull
a fleet of carriages. If Luna was to be believed, the beasts had always been there but invisible. Why, then, could Harry suddenly see them, and why could Ron not?
‘Are you coming or what?’ said Ron beside him.
‘Oh ... yeah,’ said Harry quickly and they joined the crowd hurrying up the stone steps into the castle.
The Entrance Hall was ablaze with torches and echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.
The four long house tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in midair all along the tables, illuminating the
silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other houses, eyeing one another's new haircuts and robes. Again,
Harry noticed people putting their heads together to whisper as he passed; he gritted his teeth and tried to act as though he neither noticed nor cared.
Luna drifted away from them at the Ravenclaw table. The moment they reached Gryffindor's, Ginny was hailed by some fellow fourth-years and left to sit with them; Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville found seats together about
halfway down the table between Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor house ghost, and Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, the last two of whom gave Harry airy, overly-friendly greetings that made him quite sure they had
stopped talking about him a split second before. He had more important things to worry about, however: he was looking over the students’ heads to the staff table that ran along the top wall of the Hall.
‘He's not there.’
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Japanese knotweed eradication continues
Author：Paul Phlorum Source：none Hits：120 UpdateTime：2008-7-10 22:42:55
Japanese knotweed is continuing to spread throughout the United Kingdom. Although attempts at Japanese knotweed eradication are quite intensive, weed control is still needed as the knotweed remains a significant problem.
The Victorians saw the first introduction of Japanese knotweed. Control of the invasive weed at that time was not considered necessary. However, after many years of freedom Japanese knotweed removal has become essential. As Japanese knotweed thrives away from its original habitat of volcanic and other harsh conditions, the United Kingdom has a perfect climate; consequently, the control of the plant is becoming more and more important. Japanese knotweed eradication is particularly difficult as the nature of the plant means that it grows quickly and weed control is necessary to stop regeneration as the roots will spread quickly; up to three to four inches a day.
Japanese knotweed removal is essential because the plant is very threatening as it can grow through parts of buildings, damaging foundations, drains, and even walls. Also, without effective Japanese knotweed eradication, the rhizomes (roots) of the Japanese plant can still continue to grow underground and appear elsewhere. Japanese knotweed removal does not always solve the problem. Weed control is also needed even after a site has been treated to maintain a Japanese knotweed free area.
Japanese knotweed spreads entirely by vegetative means. They reproduce through small pieces of stem and root cuttings. Therefore spreading the rhizomes on sites will exacerbate the Japanese knotweed problem, causing the need for further eradication.
As Japanese knotweed is such a virulently invasive plant, knotweed control needs to be applied to more than just the ability for it to spread from small pieces of root material. The plant typically springs up in April, when it begins its determined growth in all directions. Thousands of pounds can be added to site costs for Japanese knotweed eradication, it can grow anywhere on all sites across the United Kingdom. Its original habitat is harsh and the climate in the United Kingdom encourages its development, often enveloping our native vegetation. Leaving the problem of even a small amount of Japanese knotweed unchecked is a mistake as its fast growth and high voracity means it will grow to form a new plant from just a fragment of root. Therefore Japanese knotweed is becoming more and more common on sites that are disturbed by human activity including, in particular, many areas where development has been planned.
Japanese knotweed is continuing to spread throughout the United Kingdom. Although attempts at Japanese knotweed eradication are quite intensive, weed control is still needed as the knotweed remains a significant problem.
The Victorians saw the first introduction of Japanese knotweed. Control of the invasive weed at that time was not considered necessary. However, after many years of freedom Japanese knotweed removal has become essential. As Japanese knotweed thrives away from its original habitat of volcanic and other harsh conditions, the United Kingdom has a perfect climate; consequently, the control of the plant is becoming more and more important. Japanese knotweed eradication is particularly difficult as the nature of the plant means that it grows quickly and weed control is necessary to stop regeneration as the roots will spread quickly; up to three to four inches a day.
Japanese knotweed removal is essential because the plant is very threatening as it can grow through parts of buildings, damaging foundations, drains, and even walls. Also, without effective Japanese knotweed eradication, the rhizomes (roots) of the Japanese plant can still continue to grow underground and appear elsewhere. Japanese knotweed removal does not always solve the problem. Weed control is also needed even after a site has been treated to maintain a Japanese knotweed free area.
Japanese knotweed spreads entirely by vegetative means. They reproduce through small pieces of stem and root cuttings. Therefore spreading the rhizomes on sites will exacerbate the Japanese knotweed problem, causing the need for further eradication.
As Japanese knotweed is such a virulently invasive plant, knotweed control needs to be applied to more than just the ability for it to spread from small pieces of root material. The plant typically springs up in April, when it begins its determined growth in all directions. Thousands of pounds can be added to site costs for Japanese knotweed eradication, it can grow anywhere on all sites across the United Kingdom. Its original habitat is harsh and the climate in the United Kingdom encourages its development, often enveloping our native vegetation. Leaving the problem of even a small amount of Japanese knotweed unchecked is a mistake as its fast growth and high voracity means it will grow to form a new plant from just a fragment of root. Therefore Japanese knotweed is becoming more and more common on sites that are disturbed by human activity including, in particular, many areas where development has been planned.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Lets Look At A Coffee Plant
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：123 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:10:03
The coffee plant may not be as diverse as the number of coffee flavors out there (there's no coffee plant that grows coffee hazelnut beans), but they are equally interesting. Coffee plants can be classified into two major
species, the Coffea arabica and the Coffea canephora most commonly known as the robusta variety.
Coffea arabica is a much older species. Its roots can be traced back as far as the mountains of Kaffa, Ethiopia. It is indigenous in south-western Ethiopia. Even though the Arabica coffee is well accepted as the better tasting
variety, growing the plant can be a little daunting. The Arabica variety is more susceptible to diseases.
Most of the Arabica variety is now being planted in Latin America, East Africa and in Asia and the Pacific. It is highly notable that even though the same Arabica specie is being grown in these countries, each country produces
a slightly different kind of Arabica, having distinct flavors and characteristics. Aside from the flavors, highly noticeable differences will be observed in the coffee's aroma, the body or feel of the coffee as well as the acidity.
And not only does the location affect the characteristics of coffee but the method of processing the coffee beans can also have varying effects. Arabica varieties grow well in the highlands. It is known that they grow best at
altitudes between 3,000 to 6,000 feet. What the colder climate does is slow down the maturing time for the berry and creates a smaller and denser bean. The bean becomes less porous and contains less moisture which traps
the flavor within the bean.
The robusta variety, on the other hand, is a much sturdier plant. It contains 40-50% more caffeine than the Arabica. Even though its less superior in terms of taste, aroma and feel, robusta varieties are being cultivated since
their resilience allow them to be grown in areas where the Arabica kind can't grow.
The robusta coffee is somewhat bitter and has little flavor compared to the Arabica variety. Commercial and instant coffees are often made from robusta coffee beans. The coffee manufacturers use various techniques to
remove the bitter taste and the card board smell from the beans.
Aside from those two main species, other coffee species also exists. Coffea liberica and Coffea esliaca are some of the smaller specie coffee groups. The liberica coffee in particular can rival Arabica in taste, flavor and
aroma. Liberaca even costs some more than the robusta kind.
However, nothing beats coffees that are grown on smaller farm lands, estates or on peasant plots. The trick is in the handling of the plant during harvesting. If gathering the beans has been done haphazardly without quality
control, chances are the bean's overall taste, flavor and aroma will be compromised.
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The coffee plant may not be as diverse as the number of coffee flavors out there (there's no coffee plant that grows coffee hazelnut beans), but they are equally interesting. Coffee plants can be classified into two major
species, the Coffea arabica and the Coffea canephora most commonly known as the robusta variety.
Coffea arabica is a much older species. Its roots can be traced back as far as the mountains of Kaffa, Ethiopia. It is indigenous in south-western Ethiopia. Even though the Arabica coffee is well accepted as the better tasting
variety, growing the plant can be a little daunting. The Arabica variety is more susceptible to diseases.
Most of the Arabica variety is now being planted in Latin America, East Africa and in Asia and the Pacific. It is highly notable that even though the same Arabica specie is being grown in these countries, each country produces
a slightly different kind of Arabica, having distinct flavors and characteristics. Aside from the flavors, highly noticeable differences will be observed in the coffee's aroma, the body or feel of the coffee as well as the acidity.
And not only does the location affect the characteristics of coffee but the method of processing the coffee beans can also have varying effects. Arabica varieties grow well in the highlands. It is known that they grow best at
altitudes between 3,000 to 6,000 feet. What the colder climate does is slow down the maturing time for the berry and creates a smaller and denser bean. The bean becomes less porous and contains less moisture which traps
the flavor within the bean.
The robusta variety, on the other hand, is a much sturdier plant. It contains 40-50% more caffeine than the Arabica. Even though its less superior in terms of taste, aroma and feel, robusta varieties are being cultivated since
their resilience allow them to be grown in areas where the Arabica kind can't grow.
The robusta coffee is somewhat bitter and has little flavor compared to the Arabica variety. Commercial and instant coffees are often made from robusta coffee beans. The coffee manufacturers use various techniques to
remove the bitter taste and the card board smell from the beans.
Aside from those two main species, other coffee species also exists. Coffea liberica and Coffea esliaca are some of the smaller specie coffee groups. The liberica coffee in particular can rival Arabica in taste, flavor and
aroma. Liberaca even costs some more than the robusta kind.
However, nothing beats coffees that are grown on smaller farm lands, estates or on peasant plots. The trick is in the handling of the plant during harvesting. If gathering the beans has been done haphazardly without quality
control, chances are the bean's overall taste, flavor and aroma will be compromised.
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Monday, November 8, 2010
Treadmill WiFi Equipment Monitor - Making Running Much Cooler
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：119 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:43:18
A recently new addition to the fitness world is the treadmill wifi equipment monitor. Many companies are now offering these as a perk in addition to their high quality treadmills. Don't expect to get one of these with a low end model as these are very high quality.
What is it exactly? It's a heart rate monitor that sends the readings automatically to your treadmill. It is state of the art piece of equipment and requires absolutely no wires. When you own one of these you are getting your hands on one of the newest pieces of treadmill technology.
These new wireless heart rate monitors come in several styles. You can get one that straps around your chest. They also sell monitors that look like a watch. The monitor that straps around your chest is the most popular and readily available however.
Are they expensive? For such a high quality piece of equipment that is so important, you cannot afford not to have one. You can find them new and on sale for right under a hundred dollars. Some companies even offer free shipping and extra sales incentives to get your business. You will need to make sure you get one that is compatible with your treadmill.
How does it work? While using your treadmill you wear the wireless monitor. The monitor sends your information straight to your treadmill. You treadmill then shows your information on the console. By having you heart rate right in front of you, you will know if your heart rate is working in it's target heart range. If your heart is beating too fast you will know you need to slow down. If your heart rate is not fast enough, you will need to speed up to reach optimum results.
These wireless monitors are a lot more convenient that manually taking your pulse. You don't have to stop and count. Stopping interrupts your workout and the monitor is more accurate, as people make math errors.
These heart rate monitors are hands free and easy to install. They give fast and accurate pulse readings and continuously monitor your heart. These are highly suggested for anyone using a treadmill, but especially heart patients.
A treadmill wifi equipment monitor is one of the newest inventions in the treadmill world. Everyone who plans on buying a high quality treadmills should ask if this is available with their model. They are accurate and rather inexpensive for the important job they do.
A recently new addition to the fitness world is the treadmill wifi equipment monitor. Many companies are now offering these as a perk in addition to their high quality treadmills. Don't expect to get one of these with a low end model as these are very high quality.
What is it exactly? It's a heart rate monitor that sends the readings automatically to your treadmill. It is state of the art piece of equipment and requires absolutely no wires. When you own one of these you are getting your hands on one of the newest pieces of treadmill technology.
These new wireless heart rate monitors come in several styles. You can get one that straps around your chest. They also sell monitors that look like a watch. The monitor that straps around your chest is the most popular and readily available however.
Are they expensive? For such a high quality piece of equipment that is so important, you cannot afford not to have one. You can find them new and on sale for right under a hundred dollars. Some companies even offer free shipping and extra sales incentives to get your business. You will need to make sure you get one that is compatible with your treadmill.
How does it work? While using your treadmill you wear the wireless monitor. The monitor sends your information straight to your treadmill. You treadmill then shows your information on the console. By having you heart rate right in front of you, you will know if your heart rate is working in it's target heart range. If your heart is beating too fast you will know you need to slow down. If your heart rate is not fast enough, you will need to speed up to reach optimum results.
These wireless monitors are a lot more convenient that manually taking your pulse. You don't have to stop and count. Stopping interrupts your workout and the monitor is more accurate, as people make math errors.
These heart rate monitors are hands free and easy to install. They give fast and accurate pulse readings and continuously monitor your heart. These are highly suggested for anyone using a treadmill, but especially heart patients.
A treadmill wifi equipment monitor is one of the newest inventions in the treadmill world. Everyone who plans on buying a high quality treadmills should ask if this is available with their model. They are accurate and rather inexpensive for the important job they do.
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