“But she still won’t leave us alone!” snarled Ron, and their second attempt at a meeting in the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a large basket of laundry in her arms.
“Oh, good, you’ve fed the chickens,” she called as she approached them. “We’d better shut them away again before the men arrive tomorrow… to put up the tent for the wedding,” she explained, pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked exhausted. “Millamant’s Magic Marquees… they’re very good. Bill’s escorting them….
You’d better stay inside while they’re here, Harry. I must say it does complicate organizing a wedding, having all these security spells around the place.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harry humbly.
“Oh, don’t be silly, dear!” said Mrs. Weasley at once. “I didn’t mean – well, your safety’s much more important! Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask you how you
want to celebrate your birthday, Harry. Seventeen, after all, it’s an important day….”
“I don’t want a fuss,” said Harry quickly, envisaging the additional strain this would put on them all. “Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be fine….
It’s the day before the wedding….”
“Oh, well, if you’re sure, dear. I’ll invite Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how about Hagrid?”
“That’d be great,” said Harry. “But please, don’t go to loads of trouble.”
“Not at all, not at all… It’s no trouble….”
She looked at him, a long, searching look, then smiled a little sadly, straightened up, and walked away. Harry watched as she waved her wand near the washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air to hang themselves up, and suddenly he felt a great wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain he was giving her.
Chapter 7 The Will of Albus Dumbledore
He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far below, swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought down there, the man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man who held the answer, the answer to his problem…?
“Oi, wake up.”
Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron’s dingy attic room. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry’s forehead was prickling.
“You were muttering in your sleep.”
“Was I?”
“Yeah. ‘Gregorovitch.’ You kept saying ‘Gregorovitch.’”
Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron’s face appeared slightly blurred.
“Who’s Gregorovitch?”
“I dunno, do I? You were the one saying it.”
Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the name before, but he could not think where.
“I think Voldemort’s looking for him.”
“Poor bloke,” said Ron fervently.
Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. He tried to remember exactly what he had seen in the dream, but all that came back was a mountainous horizon and the outline of the little village cradled in a deep valley.
“I think he’s abroad.”
“Who, Gregorovitch?”
“Voldemort. I think he’s somewhere abroad, looking for Gregorovitch. It didn’t look like anywhere in Britain.”
“You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?”
Ron sounded worried.
“Do me a favor and don’t tell Hermione,” said Harry. “Although how she expects me to stop seeing stuff in my sleep…”
He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon’s cage, thinking…Why was the name “Gregorovitch” familiar?
“I think,” he said slowly, “he’s got something to do with Quidditch. There’s some connection, but I can’t–I can’t think what it is.”
“Quidditch?” said Ron. “Sure you’re not thinking of Gorgovitch?”
“Who?”
“Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season.”
“No,” said Harry. “I’m definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch.”
“I try not to either,” said Ron. “Well, happy birthday anyway.”
“Wow – that’s right, I forgot! I’m seventeen!”
Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk where he had left his glasses, and said, “Accio Glasses!” Although they were only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye.
“Slick,” snorted Ron.
Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron’s possessions flying around the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron’s Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.
“I’d do your fly by hand, though,” Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry immediately checked it. “Here’s your present. Unwrap it up here, it’s not for my mother’s eyes.”
“A book?” said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. “Bit of a departure from tradition, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t your average book,” said Ron. “It’d pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I’d had this last year I’d have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would’ve known how to get going with… Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I’ve learned a lot. You’d be surprised, it’s not all about wandwork, either.”
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Chapter 27 The Lightning-struck Tower
Chapter 27 The Lightning-struck Tower
Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved Dumbledore on to the top of the nearest boulder and then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore's weight still upon
him, Harry concentrated harder than he had ever done upon his destination: Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore's arm as tightly as he could, he stepped
forwards into that feeling of horrible compression.
He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes: the smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. He and Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the middle of the dark
High Street in Hogsmeade. For one horrible moment Harry's imagination showed him more Inferi creeping towards him around the sides of shops, but he blinked and saw that
nothing was stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a few streetlamps and lit upper windows.
“We did it, Professor!” Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realised that he had a searing stitch in his chest. “We did it! We got the Horcrux!”
Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had thrown Dumbledore off-balance; then he saw his face, paler and damper
than ever in the distant light of a streetlamp.
“Sir, are you all right?”
“I've been better,” said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “That potion ... was no health drink ...”
And to Harry's horror, Dumbledore sank on to the ground.
“Sir—it's okay, sir, you're going to be all right, don't worry—”
He looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen and all he could think was that he must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing.
“We need to get you up to the school, sir ... Madam Pomfrey ...”
“No,” said Dumbledore."It is ... Professor Snape whom I need ... but I do not think ... I can walk very far just yet ...”
“Right—sir, listen—I'm going to knock on a door, find a place you can stay—then I can run and get Madam—”
“Severus,” said Dumbledore clearly. “I need Severus ...”
“All right then, Snape—but I'm going to have to leave you for a moment so I can—”
Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard running footsteps. His heart leapt: somebody had seen, somebody knew they needed help—and looking around he saw Madam
Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street towards them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing-gown embroidered with dragons.
“I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn't think what to—but what's wrong with Albus?”
She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.
“He's hurt,” said Harry. “Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?”
Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved Dumbledore on to the top of the nearest boulder and then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore's weight still upon
him, Harry concentrated harder than he had ever done upon his destination: Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore's arm as tightly as he could, he stepped
forwards into that feeling of horrible compression.
He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes: the smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. He and Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the middle of the dark
High Street in Hogsmeade. For one horrible moment Harry's imagination showed him more Inferi creeping towards him around the sides of shops, but he blinked and saw that
nothing was stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a few streetlamps and lit upper windows.
“We did it, Professor!” Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realised that he had a searing stitch in his chest. “We did it! We got the Horcrux!”
Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had thrown Dumbledore off-balance; then he saw his face, paler and damper
than ever in the distant light of a streetlamp.
“Sir, are you all right?”
“I've been better,” said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “That potion ... was no health drink ...”
And to Harry's horror, Dumbledore sank on to the ground.
“Sir—it's okay, sir, you're going to be all right, don't worry—”
He looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen and all he could think was that he must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing.
“We need to get you up to the school, sir ... Madam Pomfrey ...”
“No,” said Dumbledore."It is ... Professor Snape whom I need ... but I do not think ... I can walk very far just yet ...”
“Right—sir, listen—I'm going to knock on a door, find a place you can stay—then I can run and get Madam—”
“Severus,” said Dumbledore clearly. “I need Severus ...”
“All right then, Snape—but I'm going to have to leave you for a moment so I can—”
Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard running footsteps. His heart leapt: somebody had seen, somebody knew they needed help—and looking around he saw Madam
Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street towards them on high-heeled, fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing-gown embroidered with dragons.
“I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn't think what to—but what's wrong with Albus?”
She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.
“He's hurt,” said Harry. “Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?”
Dumbledore was on his feet again
Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch and
from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast lasso, encircling them all with warmth.
The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape the fire in which they were enclosed...
Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. Distracted by the
flames, the Inferi seemed unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with them, around them, the bewildered
Inferi accompanying them to the waters edge, where they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters.
Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his
efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were both safely
jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi
swarming below them did not dare resurface.
“Sir,” panted Harry, “sir, I forgot—about fire—they were coming at me and I panicked —”
“Quite understandable,” murmured Dumbledore. Harry was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was.
They reached the bank with a little bump and Harry leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore. The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he let his wand hand
fall; the ring of fire vanished, but the Inferi did not emerge again from the water. The little boat sank into the water once more; clanking and tinkling, its chain
slithered back into the lake too. Dumbledore gave a great sigh and leaned against the cavern wall.
“I am weak...” he said.
“Don't worry, sir,” said Harry at once, anxious about Dumbledore's extreme pallor and by his air of exhaustion. “Don't worry, I'll get us back... lean on me, sir...
”
And pulling Dumbledore's uninjured arm around his shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back around the lake, bearing most of his weight.
“The protection was... after all... well-designed,” said Dumbledore faintly. “One alone could not have done it... you did well, very well, Harry...”
“Don't talk now,” said Harry, fearing how slurred Dumbledore's voice had become, how much his feet dragged, “save your energy, sir... we'll soon be out of here...”
“The archway will have sealed again... my knife ...”
“There's no need, I got cut on the rock,” said Harry firmly. “Just tell me where...”
“Here...”
Harry wiped his grazed forearm upon the stone: having received its tribute of blood, the archway reopened instantly. They crossed the outer cave, and Harry helped
Dumbledore back into the icy seawater that filled the crevice in the cliff.
“It's going to be all right, sir,” Harry said over and over again, more worried by Dumbledore's silence than he had been by his weakened voice. “We're nearly
there... I can Apparate us both back... don't worry...”
“I am not worried, Harry,” said Dumbledore, his voice a little stronger despite the freezing water. “I am with you.”
from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast lasso, encircling them all with warmth.
The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape the fire in which they were enclosed...
Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. Distracted by the
flames, the Inferi seemed unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with them, around them, the bewildered
Inferi accompanying them to the waters edge, where they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters.
Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his
efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were both safely
jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi
swarming below them did not dare resurface.
“Sir,” panted Harry, “sir, I forgot—about fire—they were coming at me and I panicked —”
“Quite understandable,” murmured Dumbledore. Harry was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was.
They reached the bank with a little bump and Harry leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore. The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he let his wand hand
fall; the ring of fire vanished, but the Inferi did not emerge again from the water. The little boat sank into the water once more; clanking and tinkling, its chain
slithered back into the lake too. Dumbledore gave a great sigh and leaned against the cavern wall.
“I am weak...” he said.
“Don't worry, sir,” said Harry at once, anxious about Dumbledore's extreme pallor and by his air of exhaustion. “Don't worry, I'll get us back... lean on me, sir...
”
And pulling Dumbledore's uninjured arm around his shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back around the lake, bearing most of his weight.
“The protection was... after all... well-designed,” said Dumbledore faintly. “One alone could not have done it... you did well, very well, Harry...”
“Don't talk now,” said Harry, fearing how slurred Dumbledore's voice had become, how much his feet dragged, “save your energy, sir... we'll soon be out of here...”
“The archway will have sealed again... my knife ...”
“There's no need, I got cut on the rock,” said Harry firmly. “Just tell me where...”
“Here...”
Harry wiped his grazed forearm upon the stone: having received its tribute of blood, the archway reopened instantly. They crossed the outer cave, and Harry helped
Dumbledore back into the icy seawater that filled the crevice in the cliff.
“It's going to be all right, sir,” Harry said over and over again, more worried by Dumbledore's silence than he had been by his weakened voice. “We're nearly
there... I can Apparate us both back... don't worry...”
“I am not worried, Harry,” said Dumbledore, his voice a little stronger despite the freezing water. “I am with you.”
The goblet filled and emptied once more
The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now Dumbledore's breathing was fading. His brain whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only way left to get
water, because Voldemort had planned it so ...
He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to the brim of icy water that did not vanish. “Sir—here!”
Harry yelled, and lunging forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore's face.
It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and
the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere
Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of
the dead rising from the black water.
“Petrificus Totalus!” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm. It
released him, falling backward into the water with a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands
clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken faces leering.
“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him.
“Impedimenta! Incarcerous!”
A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at
the air with his wand, Harry yelled, “Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!”
But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: they walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched toward him,
and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began
to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one more dead guardian of a fragment of
Voldemort's shattered soul...
But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and
faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his arms, then
scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around.
water, because Voldemort had planned it so ...
He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to the brim of icy water that did not vanish. “Sir—here!”
Harry yelled, and lunging forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore's face.
It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and
the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere
Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of
the dead rising from the black water.
“Petrificus Totalus!” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm. It
released him, falling backward into the water with a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands
clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing waterlogged rags, sunken faces leering.
“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him.
“Impedimenta! Incarcerous!”
A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at
the air with his wand, Harry yelled, “Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!”
But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: they walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched toward him,
and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began
to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one more dead guardian of a fragment of
Voldemort's shattered soul...
But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and
faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his arms, then
scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Lupin took his time chewing his turkey a
Lupin took his time chewing his turkey and swallowing before saying slowly, “Sometimes ... a great shock ... an emotional upheaval ...”
“It looked big, and it had four legs,” said Harry, struck by a sudden thought and lowering his voice. “Hey ... it couldn't be—?”
“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley suddenly. She had risen from her chair; her hand was pressed over her heart and she was staring out of the kitchen window. “Arthur—it's
Percy!”
“What?”
Mr. Weasley looked around. Everybody looked quickly at the window; Ginny stood up for a better look. There, sure enough, was Percy Weasley, striding across the snowy
yard, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone.
“Arthur, he's—he's with the Minister!”
And sure enough, the man Harry had seen in the Daily Prophet was following along in Percy's wake, limping slightly, his mane of graying hair and his black cloak flecked
with snow. Before any of them could say anything, before Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could do more than exchange stunned looks, the back door opened and there stood Percy.
There was a moment's painful silence. Then Percy said rather stiffly, “Merry Christmas, Mother.”
“Oh, Percy!” said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself into his arms.
Rufus Scrimgeour paused in the doorway, leaning on his walking stick and smiling as he observed this affecting scene.
“You must forgive this intrusion,” he said, when Mrs. Weasley looked around at him, beaming and wiping her eyes. “Percy and I were in the vicinity—working, you know
— and he couldn't resist dropping in and seeing you all.”
But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of the rest of the family. He stood, poker-straight and awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else's heads. Mr.
Weasley, Fred, and George were all observing him, stony-faced.
“Please, come in, sit down, Minister!” fluttered Mrs. Weasley, straightening her hat. “Have a little purkey, or some tooding... I mean —”
“No, no, my dear Molly,” said Scrimgeour. Harry guessed that he had checked her name with Percy before they entered the house. “I don't want to intrude, wouldn't be
here at all if Percy hadn't wanted to see you all so badly...”
“Oh, Perce!” said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up to kiss him.
“... we've only looked in for five minutes, so I'll have a stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. No, no, I assure you I don't want to butt in! Well, if
anybody cared to show me your charming garden... ah, that young man's finished, why doesn't he take a stroll with me?”
The atmosphere around the table changed perceptibly. Everybody looked from Scrimgeour to Harry. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour's pretense that he did not know Harry's
name convincing, or find it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and George also had clean plates.
“Yeah, all right,” said Harry into the silence.
He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour's talk that they had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look up his family, this must be the real reason that they had
come, so that Scrimgeour could speak to Harry alone.
“It's fine,” he said quietly, as he passed Lupin, who had half risen from his chair. “Fine,” he added, as Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to speak.
“Wonderful!” said Scrimgeour, standing back to let Harry pass through the door ahead of him. “We'll just take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I'll be off.
Carry on, everyone!”
Harry walked across the yard toward the Weasleys’ overgrown, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of the Auror
office; he looked tough and battle-scarred, very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat.
“Charming,” said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the indistinguishable plants. “Charming.”
Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was watching him.
“I've wanted to meet you for a very long time,” said Scrimgeour, after a few moments. “Did you know that?”
“No,” said Harry truthfully.
“It looked big, and it had four legs,” said Harry, struck by a sudden thought and lowering his voice. “Hey ... it couldn't be—?”
“Arthur!” said Mrs. Weasley suddenly. She had risen from her chair; her hand was pressed over her heart and she was staring out of the kitchen window. “Arthur—it's
Percy!”
“What?”
Mr. Weasley looked around. Everybody looked quickly at the window; Ginny stood up for a better look. There, sure enough, was Percy Weasley, striding across the snowy
yard, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. He was not, however, alone.
“Arthur, he's—he's with the Minister!”
And sure enough, the man Harry had seen in the Daily Prophet was following along in Percy's wake, limping slightly, his mane of graying hair and his black cloak flecked
with snow. Before any of them could say anything, before Mr. and Mrs. Weasley could do more than exchange stunned looks, the back door opened and there stood Percy.
There was a moment's painful silence. Then Percy said rather stiffly, “Merry Christmas, Mother.”
“Oh, Percy!” said Mrs. Weasley, and she threw herself into his arms.
Rufus Scrimgeour paused in the doorway, leaning on his walking stick and smiling as he observed this affecting scene.
“You must forgive this intrusion,” he said, when Mrs. Weasley looked around at him, beaming and wiping her eyes. “Percy and I were in the vicinity—working, you know
— and he couldn't resist dropping in and seeing you all.”
But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of the rest of the family. He stood, poker-straight and awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else's heads. Mr.
Weasley, Fred, and George were all observing him, stony-faced.
“Please, come in, sit down, Minister!” fluttered Mrs. Weasley, straightening her hat. “Have a little purkey, or some tooding... I mean —”
“No, no, my dear Molly,” said Scrimgeour. Harry guessed that he had checked her name with Percy before they entered the house. “I don't want to intrude, wouldn't be
here at all if Percy hadn't wanted to see you all so badly...”
“Oh, Perce!” said Mrs. Weasley tearfully, reaching up to kiss him.
“... we've only looked in for five minutes, so I'll have a stroll around the yard while you catch up with Percy. No, no, I assure you I don't want to butt in! Well, if
anybody cared to show me your charming garden... ah, that young man's finished, why doesn't he take a stroll with me?”
The atmosphere around the table changed perceptibly. Everybody looked from Scrimgeour to Harry. Nobody seemed to find Scrimgeour's pretense that he did not know Harry's
name convincing, or find it natural that he should be chosen to accompany the Minister around the garden when Ginny, Fleur, and George also had clean plates.
“Yeah, all right,” said Harry into the silence.
He was not fooled; for all Scrimgeour's talk that they had just been in the area, that Percy wanted to look up his family, this must be the real reason that they had
come, so that Scrimgeour could speak to Harry alone.
“It's fine,” he said quietly, as he passed Lupin, who had half risen from his chair. “Fine,” he added, as Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to speak.
“Wonderful!” said Scrimgeour, standing back to let Harry pass through the door ahead of him. “We'll just take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I'll be off.
Carry on, everyone!”
Harry walked across the yard toward the Weasleys’ overgrown, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of the Auror
office; he looked tough and battle-scarred, very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat.
“Charming,” said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the indistinguishable plants. “Charming.”
Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was watching him.
“I've wanted to meet you for a very long time,” said Scrimgeour, after a few moments. “Did you know that?”
“No,” said Harry truthfully.
“I didn't think of giving Kreacher anything
“I didn't think of giving Kreacher anything. Do people usually give their house-elves Christmas presents?” asked Harry, prodding the parcel cautiously.
“Hermione would,” said Ron. “But let's wait and see what it is before you start feeling guilty.”
A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt out of his camp bed; the package contained a large number of maggots.
“Nice,” said Ron, roaring with laughter. “Very thoughtful.”
“I'd rather have them than that necklace,” said Harry, which sobered Ron up at once.
Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur (on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted to waste one)
and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch's hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden
necklace.
“Fred and George gave them to me! Aren't they beautiful?”
“Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now we're washing our own socks,” said George, waving an airy hand. “Parsnips, Remus?”
“Harry, you've got a maggot in your hair,” said Ginny cheerfully, leaning across the table to pick it out; Harry felt goose bumps erupt up his neck that had nothing
to do with the maggot.
“'Ow ‘orrible,” said Fleur, with an affected little shudder.
“Yes, isn't it?” said Ron. “Gravy, Fleur?”
. In his eagerness to help her, he knocked the gravy boat flying; Bill waved his wand and the gravy soared up in the air and returned meekly to the boat.
“You are as bad as zat Tonks,” said Fleur to Ron, when she had finished kissing Bill in thanks. “She is always knocking —”
“I invited dear Tonks to come along today,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting down the carrots with unnecessary force and glaring at Fleur. “But she wouldn't come. Have you
spoken to her lately, Remus?”
“No, I haven't been in contact with anybody very much,” said Lupin. “But Tonks has got her own family to go to, hasn't she?”
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Maybe. I got the impression she was planning to spend Christmas alone, actually.”
She gave Lupin an annoyed look, as though it was all his fault she was getting Fleur for a daughter-in-law instead of Tonks, but Harry, glancing across at Fleur, who
was now feeding Bill bits of turkey off her own fork, thought that Mrs. Weasley was fighting a long-lost battle. He was, however, reminded of a question he had with
regard to Tonks, and who better to ask than Lupin, the man who knew all about Patronuses?
“Tonks's Patronus has changed its form,” he told him. “Snape said so anyway. I didn't know that could happen. Why would your Patronus change?”
“Hermione would,” said Ron. “But let's wait and see what it is before you start feeling guilty.”
A moment later, Harry had given a loud yell and leapt out of his camp bed; the package contained a large number of maggots.
“Nice,” said Ron, roaring with laughter. “Very thoughtful.”
“I'd rather have them than that necklace,” said Harry, which sobered Ron up at once.
Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur (on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted to waste one)
and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch's hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden
necklace.
“Fred and George gave them to me! Aren't they beautiful?”
“Well, we find we appreciate you more and more, Mum, now we're washing our own socks,” said George, waving an airy hand. “Parsnips, Remus?”
“Harry, you've got a maggot in your hair,” said Ginny cheerfully, leaning across the table to pick it out; Harry felt goose bumps erupt up his neck that had nothing
to do with the maggot.
“'Ow ‘orrible,” said Fleur, with an affected little shudder.
“Yes, isn't it?” said Ron. “Gravy, Fleur?”
. In his eagerness to help her, he knocked the gravy boat flying; Bill waved his wand and the gravy soared up in the air and returned meekly to the boat.
“You are as bad as zat Tonks,” said Fleur to Ron, when she had finished kissing Bill in thanks. “She is always knocking —”
“I invited dear Tonks to come along today,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting down the carrots with unnecessary force and glaring at Fleur. “But she wouldn't come. Have you
spoken to her lately, Remus?”
“No, I haven't been in contact with anybody very much,” said Lupin. “But Tonks has got her own family to go to, hasn't she?”
“Hmmm,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Maybe. I got the impression she was planning to spend Christmas alone, actually.”
She gave Lupin an annoyed look, as though it was all his fault she was getting Fleur for a daughter-in-law instead of Tonks, but Harry, glancing across at Fleur, who
was now feeding Bill bits of turkey off her own fork, thought that Mrs. Weasley was fighting a long-lost battle. He was, however, reminded of a question he had with
regard to Tonks, and who better to ask than Lupin, the man who knew all about Patronuses?
“Tonks's Patronus has changed its form,” he told him. “Snape said so anyway. I didn't know that could happen. Why would your Patronus change?”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak.
“He taught Arthur and me,” said Mrs. Weasley. “He was at Hogwarts for ages, started around the same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?”
His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a non-committal jerk of the head.
“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodding wisely. “Of course he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur's never liked him much. The Ministry's littered with Slughorn's old favorites, he was always good at giving leg ups, but he never had much time for Arthur... didn't seem to think he was enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn makes mistakes. I don't know whether Ron's told you in any of his letters... it's only just happened... but Arthur's been promoted!”
It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say this.
Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could feel his throat blistering.
“That's great!” he gasped.
“You are sweet,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news. “Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur's heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It's a big job, he's got ten people reporting to him now!”
“What exactly—?”
“Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of thing... so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of Bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make your ears fall off... Well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like Mundungus Hotelier, who've never done an honest day's work in their lives and are taking advantage of how frightened everybody is, but every now and then something really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur confiscated a box of cursed Sneakoscopes that were almost certainly planted by a Death Eater. So you see, it's a very important job, and I tell him it's just silly to miss dealing with spark plugs and toasters and all the rest of that Muggle rubbish.” Mrs. Weasley ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark-plugs.
“Is Mr. Weasley still at work?” Harry asked.
“Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he's a tiny bit late... He said he'd be back around midnight...”
She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of a pile of sheets in the washing basket at the end of the table. Harry recognized it at once: it had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a family member, and usually hung on the Weasleys’ sitting room wall, though its current position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to carrying it around the house with her. Every single one of its nine hands was now pointing at mortal peril.
“It's been like that for a while now,” said Mrs. Weasley, in an unconvincingly casual voice, “ever since You-Know-Who came back into the open. I suppose everybody's in mortal danger now... I don't think it can be just our family... but I don't know anyone else who's got a clock like this, so I can't check. Oh!”
With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock's face. Mr. Weasley's hand had switched to traveling.
“He's coming!”
And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs. Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her face pressed against the wood she called softly, “Arthur, is that you?”
“Yes,” came Mr. Weasley's weary voice. “But I would say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!”
“Oh, honestly...”
“Molly!”
“All right, all right... What is your dearest ambition?”
“To find out how airplanes stay up.”
Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained firmly shut.
“Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!”
“Arthur, really, this is just silly...”
“What do you like me to call you when we're alone together?”
Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could against the bowl.
“Mollywobbles,” whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door.
“Correct,” said Mr. Weasley. “Now you can let me in.”
Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling cloak.
“I still don't see why we have to go through that every time you come home,” said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak. “I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of you before impersonating you!”
“I know, dear, but it's Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example. Something smells good... onion soup?”
Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.
“Harry! We didn't expect you until morning!”
They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.
“Thanks, Molly. It's been a tough night. Some idiot's started selling Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them around your neck and you'll be able to change your appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all for ten Galleons!”
“And what really happens when you put them on?”
“Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color, but a couple of people have also sprouted tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St. Mungo's didn't have enough to do already!”
“It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George would find funny,” said Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. “Are you sure... ?”
“Of course I am!” said Mr. Weasley. “The boys wouldn't do anything like that now, not when people are desperate for protection!”
“So is that why you're late, Metamorph-Medals?”
“No, we got wind of a nasty backfiring jinx down in Elephant and Castle, but luckily the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the time we got there...”
Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.
“Bed,” said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. “I've got Fred and George's room all ready for you, you'll have it to yourself.”
“Why, where are they?”
“Oh, they're in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop as they're so busy,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I must say, I didn't approve at first, but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dear, your trunks already up there.”
“'Night, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, pushing back his chair. Crookshanks leapt lightly from his lap and slunk out of the room.
“G'night, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley.
Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the washing basket as they left the kitchen. All the hands were once again at mortal peril.
Fred and George's bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once, bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of flowers had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could not disguise the lingering smell of what Harry thought was gunpowder. A considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry's school trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary warehouse.
Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.
Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other.
“Wuzzgoinon?”
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His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a non-committal jerk of the head.
“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodding wisely. “Of course he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur's never liked him much. The Ministry's littered with Slughorn's old favorites, he was always good at giving leg ups, but he never had much time for Arthur... didn't seem to think he was enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn makes mistakes. I don't know whether Ron's told you in any of his letters... it's only just happened... but Arthur's been promoted!”
It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say this.
Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could feel his throat blistering.
“That's great!” he gasped.
“You are sweet,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news. “Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur's heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It's a big job, he's got ten people reporting to him now!”
“What exactly—?”
“Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of thing... so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of Bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make your ears fall off... Well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like Mundungus Hotelier, who've never done an honest day's work in their lives and are taking advantage of how frightened everybody is, but every now and then something really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur confiscated a box of cursed Sneakoscopes that were almost certainly planted by a Death Eater. So you see, it's a very important job, and I tell him it's just silly to miss dealing with spark plugs and toasters and all the rest of that Muggle rubbish.” Mrs. Weasley ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark-plugs.
“Is Mr. Weasley still at work?” Harry asked.
“Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he's a tiny bit late... He said he'd be back around midnight...”
She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of a pile of sheets in the washing basket at the end of the table. Harry recognized it at once: it had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a family member, and usually hung on the Weasleys’ sitting room wall, though its current position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to carrying it around the house with her. Every single one of its nine hands was now pointing at mortal peril.
“It's been like that for a while now,” said Mrs. Weasley, in an unconvincingly casual voice, “ever since You-Know-Who came back into the open. I suppose everybody's in mortal danger now... I don't think it can be just our family... but I don't know anyone else who's got a clock like this, so I can't check. Oh!”
With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock's face. Mr. Weasley's hand had switched to traveling.
“He's coming!”
And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs. Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her face pressed against the wood she called softly, “Arthur, is that you?”
“Yes,” came Mr. Weasley's weary voice. “But I would say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!”
“Oh, honestly...”
“Molly!”
“All right, all right... What is your dearest ambition?”
“To find out how airplanes stay up.”
Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained firmly shut.
“Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!”
“Arthur, really, this is just silly...”
“What do you like me to call you when we're alone together?”
Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could against the bowl.
“Mollywobbles,” whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door.
“Correct,” said Mr. Weasley. “Now you can let me in.”
Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling cloak.
“I still don't see why we have to go through that every time you come home,” said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak. “I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of you before impersonating you!”
“I know, dear, but it's Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example. Something smells good... onion soup?”
Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.
“Harry! We didn't expect you until morning!”
They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.
“Thanks, Molly. It's been a tough night. Some idiot's started selling Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them around your neck and you'll be able to change your appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all for ten Galleons!”
“And what really happens when you put them on?”
“Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color, but a couple of people have also sprouted tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St. Mungo's didn't have enough to do already!”
“It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George would find funny,” said Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. “Are you sure... ?”
“Of course I am!” said Mr. Weasley. “The boys wouldn't do anything like that now, not when people are desperate for protection!”
“So is that why you're late, Metamorph-Medals?”
“No, we got wind of a nasty backfiring jinx down in Elephant and Castle, but luckily the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the time we got there...”
Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.
“Bed,” said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. “I've got Fred and George's room all ready for you, you'll have it to yourself.”
“Why, where are they?”
“Oh, they're in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop as they're so busy,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I must say, I didn't approve at first, but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dear, your trunks already up there.”
“'Night, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, pushing back his chair. Crookshanks leapt lightly from his lap and slunk out of the room.
“G'night, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley.
Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the washing basket as they left the kitchen. All the hands were once again at mortal peril.
Fred and George's bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once, bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of flowers had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could not disguise the lingering smell of what Harry thought was gunpowder. A considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry's school trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary warehouse.
Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.
Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other.
“Wuzzgoinon?”
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Vronsky in amazement raised his head
Vronsky in amazement raised his head, and stared, as he knew how to stare, not into the Englishman's eyes, but at his forehead, astounded at the impertinence of his question. But realizing that in asking this the Englishman had been looking at him not as an employer, but as a jockey, he answered:
"I've got to go to Bryansky's; I shall be home within an hour."
"How often I'm asked that question today!" he said to himself, and he blushed, a thing which rarely happened to him. The Englishman looked gravely at him; and, as though he, too, knew where Vronsky was going, he added:
"The great thing's to keep quiet before a race," said he; "don't get out of temper or upset about anything."
"All right," answered Vronsky, smiling; and jumping into his carriage, he told the man to drive to Peterhof.
Before he had driven many paces away, the dark clouds that had been threatening rain all day broke, and there was a heavy downpour of rain.
"What a pity!" thought Vronsky, putting up the roof of the carriage. "It was muddy before, now it will be a perfect swamp." As he sat in solitude in the closed carriage, he took out his mother's letter and his brother's note, and read them through.
Yes, it was the same thing over and over again. Everyone, his mother, his brother, everyone thought fit to interfere in the affairs of his heart. This interference aroused in him a feeling of angry hatred--a feeling he had rarely known before. "What business is it of theirs? Why does everybody feel called upon to concern himself about me? And why do they worry me so? Just because they see that this is something they can't understand. If it were a common, vulgar, worldly intrigue, they would have left me alone. They feel that this is something different, that this is not a mere pastime, that this woman is dearer to me than life. And this is incomprehensible, and that's why it annoys them. Whatever our destiny is or may be, we have made it ourselves, and we do not complain of it," he said, in the word we linking himself with Anna. "No, they must needs teach us how to live. They haven't an idea of what happiness is; they don't know that without our love, for us there is neither happiness nor unhappiness--no life at all," he thought.
He was angry with all of them for their interference just because he felt in his soul that they, all these people, were right. He felt that the love that bound him to Anna was not a momentary impulse, which would pass, as worldly intrigues do pass, leaving no other traces in the life of either but pleasant or unpleasant memories. He felt all the torture of his own and her position, all the difficulty there was for them, conspicuous as they were in the eye of all the world, in concealing their love, in lying and deceiving; and in lying, deceiving, feigning, and continually thinking of others, when the passion that united them was so intense that they were both oblivious of everything else but their love.
He vividly recalled all the constantly recurring instances of inevitable necessity for lying and deceit, which were so against his natural bent. He recalled particularly vividly the shame he had more than once detected in her at this necessity for lying and deceit. And he experienced the strange feeling that had sometimes come upon him since his secret love for Anna. This was a feeling of loathing for something--whether for Alexey Alexandrovitch, or for himself, or for the whole world, he could not have said. But he always drove away this strange feeling. Now, too, he shook it off and continued the thread of his thoughts.
"Yes, she was unhappy before, but proud and at peace; and now she cannot be at peace and feel secure in her dignity, though she does not show it. Yes, we must put an end to it," he decided.
And for the first time the idea clearly presented itself that it was essential to put an end to this false position, and the sooner the better. "Throw up everything, she and I, and hide ourselves somewhere alone with our love," he said to himself.
"I've got to go to Bryansky's; I shall be home within an hour."
"How often I'm asked that question today!" he said to himself, and he blushed, a thing which rarely happened to him. The Englishman looked gravely at him; and, as though he, too, knew where Vronsky was going, he added:
"The great thing's to keep quiet before a race," said he; "don't get out of temper or upset about anything."
"All right," answered Vronsky, smiling; and jumping into his carriage, he told the man to drive to Peterhof.
Before he had driven many paces away, the dark clouds that had been threatening rain all day broke, and there was a heavy downpour of rain.
"What a pity!" thought Vronsky, putting up the roof of the carriage. "It was muddy before, now it will be a perfect swamp." As he sat in solitude in the closed carriage, he took out his mother's letter and his brother's note, and read them through.
Yes, it was the same thing over and over again. Everyone, his mother, his brother, everyone thought fit to interfere in the affairs of his heart. This interference aroused in him a feeling of angry hatred--a feeling he had rarely known before. "What business is it of theirs? Why does everybody feel called upon to concern himself about me? And why do they worry me so? Just because they see that this is something they can't understand. If it were a common, vulgar, worldly intrigue, they would have left me alone. They feel that this is something different, that this is not a mere pastime, that this woman is dearer to me than life. And this is incomprehensible, and that's why it annoys them. Whatever our destiny is or may be, we have made it ourselves, and we do not complain of it," he said, in the word we linking himself with Anna. "No, they must needs teach us how to live. They haven't an idea of what happiness is; they don't know that without our love, for us there is neither happiness nor unhappiness--no life at all," he thought.
He was angry with all of them for their interference just because he felt in his soul that they, all these people, were right. He felt that the love that bound him to Anna was not a momentary impulse, which would pass, as worldly intrigues do pass, leaving no other traces in the life of either but pleasant or unpleasant memories. He felt all the torture of his own and her position, all the difficulty there was for them, conspicuous as they were in the eye of all the world, in concealing their love, in lying and deceiving; and in lying, deceiving, feigning, and continually thinking of others, when the passion that united them was so intense that they were both oblivious of everything else but their love.
He vividly recalled all the constantly recurring instances of inevitable necessity for lying and deceit, which were so against his natural bent. He recalled particularly vividly the shame he had more than once detected in her at this necessity for lying and deceit. And he experienced the strange feeling that had sometimes come upon him since his secret love for Anna. This was a feeling of loathing for something--whether for Alexey Alexandrovitch, or for himself, or for the whole world, he could not have said. But he always drove away this strange feeling. Now, too, he shook it off and continued the thread of his thoughts.
"Yes, she was unhappy before, but proud and at peace; and now she cannot be at peace and feel secure in her dignity, though she does not show it. Yes, we must put an end to it," he decided.
And for the first time the idea clearly presented itself that it was essential to put an end to this false position, and the sooner the better. "Throw up everything, she and I, and hide ourselves somewhere alone with our love," he said to himself.
"Oh, no," answered the Englishman
"Oh, no," answered the Englishman. "Please, don't speak loud. The mare's fidgety," he added, nodding towards the horse-box, before which they were standing, and from which came the sound of restless stamping in the straw.
He opened the door, and Vronsky went into the horse-box, dimly lighted by one little window. In the horse-box stood a dark bay mare, with a muzzle on, picking at the fresh straw with her hoofs. Looking round him in the twilight of the horse-box, Vronsky unconsciously took in once more in a comprehensive glance all the points of his favorite mare. Frou-Frou was a beast of medium size, not altogether free from reproach, from a breeder's point of view. She was small-boned all over; though her chest was extremely prominent in front, it was narrow. Her hind-quarters were a little drooping, and in her fore-legs, and still more in her hind-legs, there was a noticeable curvature. The muscles of both hind- and fore-legs were not very thick; but across her shoulders the mare was exceptionally broad, a peculiarity specially striking now that she was lean from training. The bones of her legs below the knees looked no thicker than a finger from in front, but were extraordinarily thick seen from the side. She looked altogether, except across the shoulders, as it were, pinched in at the sides and pressed out in depth. But she had in the highest degree the quality that makes all defects forgotten: that quality was blood, the blood that tells, as the English expression has it. The muscles stood up sharply under the network of sinews, covered with this delicate, mobile skin, soft as satin, and they were hard a bone. Her clean-cut head with prominent, bright, spirited eyes, broadened out at the open nostrils, that showed the red blood in the cartilage within. About all her figure, and especially her head, there was a certain expression of energy, and, at the same time, of softness. She was one of those creatures which seem only not to speak because the mechanism of their mouth does not allow them to.
To Vronsky, at any rate, it seemed that she understood all he felt at that moment, looking at her.
Directly Vronsky went towards her, she drew in a deep breath, and, turning back her prominent eye till the white looked bloodshot, she started at the approaching figures from the opposite side, shaking her muzzle, and shifting lightly from one leg to the other.
"There, you see how fidgety she is," said the Englishman.
"There, darling! There!" said Vronsky, going up to the mare and speaking soothingly to her.
But the nearer he came, the more excited she grew. Only when he stood by her head, she was suddenly quieter, while the muscles quivered under her soft, delicate coat. Vronsky patted her strong neck, straightened over her sharp withers a stray lock of her mane that had fallen on the other side, and moved his face near her dilated nostrils, transparent as a bat's wing. She drew a loud breath and snorted out through her tense nostrils, started, pricked up her sharp ear, and put out her strong, black lip towards Vronsky, as though she would nip hold of his sleeve. But remembering the muzzle, she shook it and again began restlessly stamping one after the other her shapely legs.
"Quiet, darling, quiet!" he said, patting her again over her hind-quarters; and with a glad sense that his mare was in the best possible condition, he went out of the horse-box.
The mare's excitement had infected Vronsky. He felt that his heart was throbbing, and that he, too, like the mare, longed to move, to bite; it was both dreadful and delicious.
"Well, I rely on you, then," he said to the Englishman; "half-past six on the ground."
"All right," said the Englishman. "Oh, where are you going, my lord?" he asked suddenly, using the title "my lord," which he had scarcely ever used before.
He opened the door, and Vronsky went into the horse-box, dimly lighted by one little window. In the horse-box stood a dark bay mare, with a muzzle on, picking at the fresh straw with her hoofs. Looking round him in the twilight of the horse-box, Vronsky unconsciously took in once more in a comprehensive glance all the points of his favorite mare. Frou-Frou was a beast of medium size, not altogether free from reproach, from a breeder's point of view. She was small-boned all over; though her chest was extremely prominent in front, it was narrow. Her hind-quarters were a little drooping, and in her fore-legs, and still more in her hind-legs, there was a noticeable curvature. The muscles of both hind- and fore-legs were not very thick; but across her shoulders the mare was exceptionally broad, a peculiarity specially striking now that she was lean from training. The bones of her legs below the knees looked no thicker than a finger from in front, but were extraordinarily thick seen from the side. She looked altogether, except across the shoulders, as it were, pinched in at the sides and pressed out in depth. But she had in the highest degree the quality that makes all defects forgotten: that quality was blood, the blood that tells, as the English expression has it. The muscles stood up sharply under the network of sinews, covered with this delicate, mobile skin, soft as satin, and they were hard a bone. Her clean-cut head with prominent, bright, spirited eyes, broadened out at the open nostrils, that showed the red blood in the cartilage within. About all her figure, and especially her head, there was a certain expression of energy, and, at the same time, of softness. She was one of those creatures which seem only not to speak because the mechanism of their mouth does not allow them to.
To Vronsky, at any rate, it seemed that she understood all he felt at that moment, looking at her.
Directly Vronsky went towards her, she drew in a deep breath, and, turning back her prominent eye till the white looked bloodshot, she started at the approaching figures from the opposite side, shaking her muzzle, and shifting lightly from one leg to the other.
"There, you see how fidgety she is," said the Englishman.
"There, darling! There!" said Vronsky, going up to the mare and speaking soothingly to her.
But the nearer he came, the more excited she grew. Only when he stood by her head, she was suddenly quieter, while the muscles quivered under her soft, delicate coat. Vronsky patted her strong neck, straightened over her sharp withers a stray lock of her mane that had fallen on the other side, and moved his face near her dilated nostrils, transparent as a bat's wing. She drew a loud breath and snorted out through her tense nostrils, started, pricked up her sharp ear, and put out her strong, black lip towards Vronsky, as though she would nip hold of his sleeve. But remembering the muzzle, she shook it and again began restlessly stamping one after the other her shapely legs.
"Quiet, darling, quiet!" he said, patting her again over her hind-quarters; and with a glad sense that his mare was in the best possible condition, he went out of the horse-box.
The mare's excitement had infected Vronsky. He felt that his heart was throbbing, and that he, too, like the mare, longed to move, to bite; it was both dreadful and delicious.
"Well, I rely on you, then," he said to the Englishman; "half-past six on the ground."
"All right," said the Englishman. "Oh, where are you going, my lord?" he asked suddenly, using the title "my lord," which he had scarcely ever used before.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Chapter 18
Chapter 18
Vronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and at the door of the compartment he stopped short to make room for a lady who was getting out.
With the insight of a man of the world, from one glance at this lady's appearance Vronsky classified her as belonging to the best society. He begged pardon, and was getting into the carriage, but felt he must glance at her once more; not that she was very beautiful, not on account of the elegance and modest grace which were apparent in her whole figure, but because in the expression of her charming face, as she passed close by him, there was something peculiarly caressing and soft. As he looked round, she too turned her head. Her shining gray eyes, that looked dark from the thick lashes, rested with friendly attention on his face, as though she were recognizing him, and then promptly turned away to the passing crowd, as though seeking someone. In that brief look Vronsky had time to notice the suppressed eagerness which played over her face, and flitted between the brilliant eyes and the faint smile that curved her red lips. It was as though her nature were so brimming over with something that against her will it showed itself now in the flash of her eyes, and now in her smile. Deliberately she shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in the faintly perceptible smile.
Vronsky stepped into the carriage. His mother, a dried-up old lady with black eyes and ringlets, screwed up her eyes, scanning her son, and smiled slightly with her thin lips. Getting up from the seat and handing her maid a bag, she gave her little wrinkled hand to her son to kiss, and lifting his head from her hand, kissed him on the cheek.
"You got my telegram? Quite well? Thank God."
"You had a good journey?" said her son, sitting down beside her, and involuntarily listening to a woman's voice outside the door. He knew it was the voice of the lady he had met at the door.
"All the same I don't agree with you," said the lady's voice.
Vronsky followed the guard to the carriage, and at the door of the compartment he stopped short to make room for a lady who was getting out.
With the insight of a man of the world, from one glance at this lady's appearance Vronsky classified her as belonging to the best society. He begged pardon, and was getting into the carriage, but felt he must glance at her once more; not that she was very beautiful, not on account of the elegance and modest grace which were apparent in her whole figure, but because in the expression of her charming face, as she passed close by him, there was something peculiarly caressing and soft. As he looked round, she too turned her head. Her shining gray eyes, that looked dark from the thick lashes, rested with friendly attention on his face, as though she were recognizing him, and then promptly turned away to the passing crowd, as though seeking someone. In that brief look Vronsky had time to notice the suppressed eagerness which played over her face, and flitted between the brilliant eyes and the faint smile that curved her red lips. It was as though her nature were so brimming over with something that against her will it showed itself now in the flash of her eyes, and now in her smile. Deliberately she shrouded the light in her eyes, but it shone against her will in the faintly perceptible smile.
Vronsky stepped into the carriage. His mother, a dried-up old lady with black eyes and ringlets, screwed up her eyes, scanning her son, and smiled slightly with her thin lips. Getting up from the seat and handing her maid a bag, she gave her little wrinkled hand to her son to kiss, and lifting his head from her hand, kissed him on the cheek.
"You got my telegram? Quite well? Thank God."
"You had a good journey?" said her son, sitting down beside her, and involuntarily listening to a woman's voice outside the door. He knew it was the voice of the lady he had met at the door.
"All the same I don't agree with you," said the lady's voice.
Vronsky stood still and asked directly
Vronsky stood still and asked directly: "How so? Do you mean he made your belle-soeur an offer yesterday?"
"Maybe," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "I fancied something of the sort yesterday. Yes, if he went away early, and was out of humor too, it must mean it.... He's been so long in love, and I'm very sorry for him."
"So that's it! I should imagine, though, she might reckon on a better match," said Vronsky, drawing himself up and walking about again, "though I don't know him, of course," he added. "Yes, that is a hateful position! That's why most fellows prefer to have to do with Klaras. If you don't succeed with them it only proves that you've not enough cash, but in this case one's dignity's at stake. But here's the train."
The engine had already whistled in the distance. A few instants later the platform was quivering, and with puffs of steam hanging low in the air from the frost, the engine rolled up, with the lever of the middle wheel rhythmically moving up and down, and the stooping figure of the engine-driver covered with frost. Behind the tender, setting the platform more and more slowly swaying, came the luggage van with a dog whining in it. At last the passenger carriages rolled in, oscillating before coming to a standstill.
A smart guard jumped out, giving a whistle, and after him one by one the impatient passengers began to get down: an officer of the guards, holding himself erect, and looking severely about him; a nimble little merchant with a satchel, smiling gaily; a peasant with a sack over his shoulder.
Vronsky, standing beside Oblonsky, watched the carriages and the passengers, totally oblivious of his mother. What he had just heard about Kitty excited and delighted him. Unconsciously he arched his chest, and his eyes flashed. He felt himself a conqueror.
"Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment," said the smart guard, going up to Vronsky.
The guard's words roused him, and forced him to think of his mother and his approaching meeting with her. He did not in his heart respect his mother, and without acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her, though in accordance with the ideas of the set in which he lived, and with his own education, he could not have conceived of any behavior to his mother not in the highest degree respectful and obedient, and the more externally obedient and respectful his behavior, the less in his heart he respected and loved her.
"Maybe," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "I fancied something of the sort yesterday. Yes, if he went away early, and was out of humor too, it must mean it.... He's been so long in love, and I'm very sorry for him."
"So that's it! I should imagine, though, she might reckon on a better match," said Vronsky, drawing himself up and walking about again, "though I don't know him, of course," he added. "Yes, that is a hateful position! That's why most fellows prefer to have to do with Klaras. If you don't succeed with them it only proves that you've not enough cash, but in this case one's dignity's at stake. But here's the train."
The engine had already whistled in the distance. A few instants later the platform was quivering, and with puffs of steam hanging low in the air from the frost, the engine rolled up, with the lever of the middle wheel rhythmically moving up and down, and the stooping figure of the engine-driver covered with frost. Behind the tender, setting the platform more and more slowly swaying, came the luggage van with a dog whining in it. At last the passenger carriages rolled in, oscillating before coming to a standstill.
A smart guard jumped out, giving a whistle, and after him one by one the impatient passengers began to get down: an officer of the guards, holding himself erect, and looking severely about him; a nimble little merchant with a satchel, smiling gaily; a peasant with a sack over his shoulder.
Vronsky, standing beside Oblonsky, watched the carriages and the passengers, totally oblivious of his mother. What he had just heard about Kitty excited and delighted him. Unconsciously he arched his chest, and his eyes flashed. He felt himself a conqueror.
"Countess Vronskaya is in that compartment," said the smart guard, going up to Vronsky.
The guard's words roused him, and forced him to think of his mother and his approaching meeting with her. He did not in his heart respect his mother, and without acknowledging it to himself, he did not love her, though in accordance with the ideas of the set in which he lived, and with his own education, he could not have conceived of any behavior to his mother not in the highest degree respectful and obedient, and the more externally obedient and respectful his behavior, the less in his heart he respected and loved her.
"You know her, no doubt?"
"You know her, no doubt?"
"I think I do. Or perhaps not...I really am not sure," Vronsky answered heedlessly, with a vague recollection of something stiff and tedious evoked by the name Karenina.
"But Alexey Alexandrovitch, my celebrated brother-in-law, you surely must know. All the world knows him."
"I know him by reputation and by sight. I know that he's clever, learned, religious somewhat.... But you know that's not...not in my line," said Vronsky in English.
"Yes, he's a very remarkable man; rather a conservative, but a splendid man," observed Stepan Arkadyevitch, "a splendid man."
"Oh, well, so much the better for him," said Vronsky smiling. "Oh, you've come," he said, addressing a tall old footman of his mother's, standing at the door; "come here."
Besides the charm Oblonsky had in general for everyone, Vronsky had felt of late specially drawn to him by the fact that in his imagination he was associated with Kitty.
"Well, what do you say? Shall we give a supper on Sunday for the diva?" he said to him with a smile, taking his arm.
"Of course. I'm collecting subscriptions. Oh, did yo make the acquaintance of my friend Levin?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"Yes; but he left rather early."
"He's a capital fellow," pursued Oblonsky. "Isn't he?"
"I don't know why it is," responded Vronsky, "in all Moscow people--present company of course excepted," he put in jestingly, "there's something uncompromising. They are all on the defensive, lose their tempers, as though they all want to make one feel something..."
"Yes, that's true, it is so," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing good-humoredly.
"Will the train soon be in?" Vronsky asked a railway official.
"The train's signaled," answered the man.
The approach of the train was more and more evident by the preparatory bustle in the station, the rush of porters, the movement of policemen and attendants, and people meeting the train. Through the frosty vapor could be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing the rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could be heard on the distant rails, and the rumble of something heavy.
"No," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who felt a great inclination to tell Vronsky of Levin's intentions in regard to Kitty. "No, you've not got a true impression of Levin. He's a very nervous man, and is sometimes out of humor, it's true, but then he is often very nice. He's such a true, honest nature, and a heart of gold. But yesterday there were special reasons," pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a meaning smile, totally oblivious of the genuine sympathy he had felt the day before for his friend, and feeling the same sympathy now, only for Vronsky. "Yes, there were reasons why he could not help being either particularly happy or particularly unhappy."
"I think I do. Or perhaps not...I really am not sure," Vronsky answered heedlessly, with a vague recollection of something stiff and tedious evoked by the name Karenina.
"But Alexey Alexandrovitch, my celebrated brother-in-law, you surely must know. All the world knows him."
"I know him by reputation and by sight. I know that he's clever, learned, religious somewhat.... But you know that's not...not in my line," said Vronsky in English.
"Yes, he's a very remarkable man; rather a conservative, but a splendid man," observed Stepan Arkadyevitch, "a splendid man."
"Oh, well, so much the better for him," said Vronsky smiling. "Oh, you've come," he said, addressing a tall old footman of his mother's, standing at the door; "come here."
Besides the charm Oblonsky had in general for everyone, Vronsky had felt of late specially drawn to him by the fact that in his imagination he was associated with Kitty.
"Well, what do you say? Shall we give a supper on Sunday for the diva?" he said to him with a smile, taking his arm.
"Of course. I'm collecting subscriptions. Oh, did yo make the acquaintance of my friend Levin?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"Yes; but he left rather early."
"He's a capital fellow," pursued Oblonsky. "Isn't he?"
"I don't know why it is," responded Vronsky, "in all Moscow people--present company of course excepted," he put in jestingly, "there's something uncompromising. They are all on the defensive, lose their tempers, as though they all want to make one feel something..."
"Yes, that's true, it is so," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing good-humoredly.
"Will the train soon be in?" Vronsky asked a railway official.
"The train's signaled," answered the man.
The approach of the train was more and more evident by the preparatory bustle in the station, the rush of porters, the movement of policemen and attendants, and people meeting the train. Through the frosty vapor could be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing the rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could be heard on the distant rails, and the rumble of something heavy.
"No," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, who felt a great inclination to tell Vronsky of Levin's intentions in regard to Kitty. "No, you've not got a true impression of Levin. He's a very nervous man, and is sometimes out of humor, it's true, but then he is often very nice. He's such a true, honest nature, and a heart of gold. But yesterday there were special reasons," pursued Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a meaning smile, totally oblivious of the genuine sympathy he had felt the day before for his friend, and feeling the same sympathy now, only for Vronsky. "Yes, there were reasons why he could not help being either particularly happy or particularly unhappy."
Thursday, November 18, 2010
They traipsed back to the Gryffindor common room
They traipsed back to the Gryffindor common room to find it full. The commotion out in the grounds had woken several people, who had hastened to rouse their friends. Seamus and Dean, who had arrived ahead of Harry, Ron and Hermione, were now telling everyone what they had seen and heard from the top of the Astronomy Tower.
‘But why sack Hagrid now?’ asked Angelina Johnson, shaking her head. ‘It's not like Trelawney; he's been teaching much better than usual this year!’
‘Urnbridge hates part-humans,’ said Hermione bitterly, flopping down into an armchair. ‘She was always going to try and get Hagrid out.’
‘And she thought Hagrid was putting Nifflers in her office,’ piped up Katie Bell.
‘Oh, blimey,’ said Lee Jordan, covering his mouth. ‘It's me who's been putting the Nifflers in her office. Fred and George left me a couple; I've been levitating them in through her window.’
‘She'd have sacked him anyway,’ said Dean. ‘He was too close to Dumbledore.’
‘That's true,’ said Harry, sinking into an armchair beside Hermione's.
‘I just hope Professor McGonagall's all right,’ said Lavender tearfully.
‘They carried her back up to the castle, we watched through the dormitory window,’ said Colin Creevey. ‘She didn't look very well.’
‘Madam Pomfrey will sort her out,’ said Alicia Spinnet firmly. ‘She's never failed yet.’
It was nearly four in the morning before the common room cleared. Harry felt wide awake; the image of Hagrid sprinting away into the dark was haunting him; he was so angry with Umbridge he could not think of a punishment bad enough for her, though Ron's suggestion of having her fed to a box of starving Blast-Ended Skrewts had its merits. He fell asleep contemplating hideous revenges and arose from bed three hours later feeling distinctly unrested.
Their final exam, History of Magic, was not to take place until that afternoon. Harry would very much have liked to go back to bed after breakfast, but he had been counting on the morning for a spot of last-minute revision, so instead he sat with his head in his hands by the common-room window, trying hard not to doze off as he read through some of the three-and-a-half-feet-high stack of notes that Hermione had lent him.
The fifth-years entered the Great Hall at two o'clock and took their places in front of their face-down examination papers. Harry felt exhausted. He just wanted this to be over, so that he could go and sleep; then tomorrow, he and Ron were going to go down to the Quidditch pitch—he was going to have a fly on Ron's broom—and savour their freedom from revision.
‘Turn over your papers,’ said Professor Marchbanks from the front of the Hall, flicking over the giant hour-glass. ‘You may begin ’
Harry stared fixedly at the first question. It was several seconds before it occurred to him that he had not taken in a word of it; there was a wasp buzzing distractingly against one of the high windows. Slowly, tortuously, he at last began to write an answer.
He was finding it very difficult to remember names and kept confusing dates. He simply skipped question four (In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute to, or lead to better control of, goblin riots of the eighteenth century?), thinking that he would go back to it if he had time at the end. He had a stab at question five (How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1749 and what measures were introduced to prevent a recurrence?) but had a nagging suspicion that he had missed several important points; he had a feeling vampires had come into the story somewhere.
‘But why sack Hagrid now?’ asked Angelina Johnson, shaking her head. ‘It's not like Trelawney; he's been teaching much better than usual this year!’
‘Urnbridge hates part-humans,’ said Hermione bitterly, flopping down into an armchair. ‘She was always going to try and get Hagrid out.’
‘And she thought Hagrid was putting Nifflers in her office,’ piped up Katie Bell.
‘Oh, blimey,’ said Lee Jordan, covering his mouth. ‘It's me who's been putting the Nifflers in her office. Fred and George left me a couple; I've been levitating them in through her window.’
‘She'd have sacked him anyway,’ said Dean. ‘He was too close to Dumbledore.’
‘That's true,’ said Harry, sinking into an armchair beside Hermione's.
‘I just hope Professor McGonagall's all right,’ said Lavender tearfully.
‘They carried her back up to the castle, we watched through the dormitory window,’ said Colin Creevey. ‘She didn't look very well.’
‘Madam Pomfrey will sort her out,’ said Alicia Spinnet firmly. ‘She's never failed yet.’
It was nearly four in the morning before the common room cleared. Harry felt wide awake; the image of Hagrid sprinting away into the dark was haunting him; he was so angry with Umbridge he could not think of a punishment bad enough for her, though Ron's suggestion of having her fed to a box of starving Blast-Ended Skrewts had its merits. He fell asleep contemplating hideous revenges and arose from bed three hours later feeling distinctly unrested.
Their final exam, History of Magic, was not to take place until that afternoon. Harry would very much have liked to go back to bed after breakfast, but he had been counting on the morning for a spot of last-minute revision, so instead he sat with his head in his hands by the common-room window, trying hard not to doze off as he read through some of the three-and-a-half-feet-high stack of notes that Hermione had lent him.
The fifth-years entered the Great Hall at two o'clock and took their places in front of their face-down examination papers. Harry felt exhausted. He just wanted this to be over, so that he could go and sleep; then tomorrow, he and Ron were going to go down to the Quidditch pitch—he was going to have a fly on Ron's broom—and savour their freedom from revision.
‘Turn over your papers,’ said Professor Marchbanks from the front of the Hall, flicking over the giant hour-glass. ‘You may begin ’
Harry stared fixedly at the first question. It was several seconds before it occurred to him that he had not taken in a word of it; there was a wasp buzzing distractingly against one of the high windows. Slowly, tortuously, he at last began to write an answer.
He was finding it very difficult to remember names and kept confusing dates. He simply skipped question four (In your opinion, did wand legislation contribute to, or lead to better control of, goblin riots of the eighteenth century?), thinking that he would go back to it if he had time at the end. He had a stab at question five (How was the Statute of Secrecy breached in 1749 and what measures were introduced to prevent a recurrence?) but had a nagging suspicion that he had missed several important points; he had a feeling vampires had come into the story somewhere.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
‘It's ... horrible,’ said Hermione
‘It's ... horrible,’ said Hermione, looking shaken. She folded back page ten of the newspaper and handed it to Harry and Ron.
TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER
St. Mungo's Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderich Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a pot plant. Healers called to the scene were unable to revive Mr. Bode,
who had been injured in a workplace accident some weeks prior to his death.
Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr. Bode's ward at the time of the incident, has been suspended on full pay and was unavailable for comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the hospital said in a statement:
‘St. Mungo's deeply regrets the death of Mr. Bode, whose health was improving steadily prior to this tragic accident.
‘We have strict guidelines on the decorations permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked the dangers of the plant on Mr. Bode's bedside table. As his speech and
mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr. Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but a cutting of Devil's Snare which, when touched by the convalescent Mr. Bode,
throttled him instantly.
‘St. Mungo's is as yet unable to account for the presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch or wizard with information to come forward.’
‘Bode ...’ said Ron. ‘Bode.It rings a bell ...’
‘We saw him,’ Hermione whispered. ‘In St. Mungo's, remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart's, just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She—the Healer—said it was a Christmas
present.’
Harry looked back at the story. A feeling of horror was rising like bile in his throat.
‘How come we didn't recognise Devil's Snare? We've seen it before ... we could've stopped this from happening.’
‘Who expects Devil's Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a pot plant?’ said Ron sharply. ‘It's not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat, why didn't they check what they were buying?
’
‘Oh, come on, Ron!’ said Hermione shakily. ‘I don't think anyone could put Devil's Snare in a pot and not realise it tries to kill whoever touches it? This—this was murder ... a clever murder, as well ... if the plant was sent
anonymously, how's anyone ever going to find out who did it?’
Harry was not thinking about Devil's Snare. He was remembering taking the lift down to the ninth level of the Ministry on the day of his hearing and the sallow-faced man who had got in on the Atrium level.
‘I met Bode,’ he said slowly. ‘I saw him at the Ministry with your dad.’
Ron's mouth fell open.
‘I've heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable—he worked in the Department of Mysteries!’
They looked at each other for a moment, then Hermione pulled the newspaper back towards her, closed it, glared for a moment at the pictures of the ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leapt to her feet.
‘Where are you going?’ said Ron, startled.
‘To send a letter,’ said Hermione, swinging her bag on to her shoulder. ‘It ... well, I don't know whether ... but it's worth trying ... and I'm the only one who can.’
‘I hate it when she does that,’ grumbled Ron, as he and Harry got up from the table and made their own, slower way out of the Great Hall. ‘Would it kill her to tell us what she's up to for once? It'd take her about ten more
seconds—hey, Hagrid!’
Hagrid was standing beside the doors into the Entrance Hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to pass. He was still as heavily bruised as he had been on the day he had come back from his mission to the giants and there
was a new cut right across the bridge of his nose.
‘All righ', you two?’ he said, trying to muster a smile but managing only a kind of pained grimace.
‘Are you OK, Hagrid?’ asked Harry, following him as he lumbered after the Ravenclaws.
‘Fine, fine,’ said Hagrid with a feeble assumption of airiness; he waved a hand and narrowly missed concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who was passing. ‘Jus’ busy, yeh know, usual stuff—lessons ter prepare—
couple o’ salamanders got scale rot—an’ I'm on probation,’ he mumbled.
‘You're on probation?’ said Ron very loudly, so that many of the passing students looked around curiously. ‘Sorry—I mean—you're on probation?’ he whispered.
‘Yeah,’ said Hagrid. ’ ‘S'no more'n I expected, ter tell yer the truth. Yeh migh’ not've picked up on it, bu’ that inspection didn’ go too well, yeh know ... anyway,’ he sighed deeply. ‘Bes’ go an’ rub a bit more chilli powder on them
salamanders or their tails'll be hangin’ off ‘em next. See yeh, Harry ... Ron ...’
He trudged away, out of the front doors and down the stone steps into the damp grounds. Harry watched him go, wondering how much more bad news he could stand.
The fact that Hagrid was now on probation became common knowledge within the school over the next few days, but to Harry's indignation, hardly anybody appeared to be upset about it; indeed, some people, Draco Malfoy
prominent among them, seemed positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St. Mungo's, Harry, Ron and Hermione seemed to be the only people who knew or cared. There
was only one topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten escaped Death Eaters, whose story had finally filtered through the school from those few people who read the newspapers. Rumours were flying that some of
the convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, that they were supposed to be hiding out in the Shrieking Shack and that they were going to break into Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black had once done.
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TRAGIC DEMISE OF MINISTRY OF MAGIC WORKER
St. Mungo's Hospital promised a full inquiry last night after Ministry of Magic worker Broderich Bode, 49, was discovered dead in his bed, strangled by a pot plant. Healers called to the scene were unable to revive Mr. Bode,
who had been injured in a workplace accident some weeks prior to his death.
Healer Miriam Strout, who was in charge of Mr. Bode's ward at the time of the incident, has been suspended on full pay and was unavailable for comment yesterday, but a spokeswizard for the hospital said in a statement:
‘St. Mungo's deeply regrets the death of Mr. Bode, whose health was improving steadily prior to this tragic accident.
‘We have strict guidelines on the decorations permitted on our wards but it appears that Healer Strout, busy over the Christmas period, overlooked the dangers of the plant on Mr. Bode's bedside table. As his speech and
mobility improved, Healer Strout encouraged Mr. Bode to look after the plant himself, unaware that it was not an innocent Flitterbloom, but a cutting of Devil's Snare which, when touched by the convalescent Mr. Bode,
throttled him instantly.
‘St. Mungo's is as yet unable to account for the presence of the plant on the ward and asks any witch or wizard with information to come forward.’
‘Bode ...’ said Ron. ‘Bode.It rings a bell ...’
‘We saw him,’ Hermione whispered. ‘In St. Mungo's, remember? He was in the bed opposite Lockhart's, just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And we saw the Devil's Snare arrive. She—the Healer—said it was a Christmas
present.’
Harry looked back at the story. A feeling of horror was rising like bile in his throat.
‘How come we didn't recognise Devil's Snare? We've seen it before ... we could've stopped this from happening.’
‘Who expects Devil's Snare to turn up in a hospital disguised as a pot plant?’ said Ron sharply. ‘It's not our fault, whoever sent it to the bloke is to blame! They must be a real prat, why didn't they check what they were buying?
’
‘Oh, come on, Ron!’ said Hermione shakily. ‘I don't think anyone could put Devil's Snare in a pot and not realise it tries to kill whoever touches it? This—this was murder ... a clever murder, as well ... if the plant was sent
anonymously, how's anyone ever going to find out who did it?’
Harry was not thinking about Devil's Snare. He was remembering taking the lift down to the ninth level of the Ministry on the day of his hearing and the sallow-faced man who had got in on the Atrium level.
‘I met Bode,’ he said slowly. ‘I saw him at the Ministry with your dad.’
Ron's mouth fell open.
‘I've heard Dad talk about him at home! He was an Unspeakable—he worked in the Department of Mysteries!’
They looked at each other for a moment, then Hermione pulled the newspaper back towards her, closed it, glared for a moment at the pictures of the ten escaped Death Eaters on the front, then leapt to her feet.
‘Where are you going?’ said Ron, startled.
‘To send a letter,’ said Hermione, swinging her bag on to her shoulder. ‘It ... well, I don't know whether ... but it's worth trying ... and I'm the only one who can.’
‘I hate it when she does that,’ grumbled Ron, as he and Harry got up from the table and made their own, slower way out of the Great Hall. ‘Would it kill her to tell us what she's up to for once? It'd take her about ten more
seconds—hey, Hagrid!’
Hagrid was standing beside the doors into the Entrance Hall, waiting for a crowd of Ravenclaws to pass. He was still as heavily bruised as he had been on the day he had come back from his mission to the giants and there
was a new cut right across the bridge of his nose.
‘All righ', you two?’ he said, trying to muster a smile but managing only a kind of pained grimace.
‘Are you OK, Hagrid?’ asked Harry, following him as he lumbered after the Ravenclaws.
‘Fine, fine,’ said Hagrid with a feeble assumption of airiness; he waved a hand and narrowly missed concussing a frightened-looking Professor Vector, who was passing. ‘Jus’ busy, yeh know, usual stuff—lessons ter prepare—
couple o’ salamanders got scale rot—an’ I'm on probation,’ he mumbled.
‘You're on probation?’ said Ron very loudly, so that many of the passing students looked around curiously. ‘Sorry—I mean—you're on probation?’ he whispered.
‘Yeah,’ said Hagrid. ’ ‘S'no more'n I expected, ter tell yer the truth. Yeh migh’ not've picked up on it, bu’ that inspection didn’ go too well, yeh know ... anyway,’ he sighed deeply. ‘Bes’ go an’ rub a bit more chilli powder on them
salamanders or their tails'll be hangin’ off ‘em next. See yeh, Harry ... Ron ...’
He trudged away, out of the front doors and down the stone steps into the damp grounds. Harry watched him go, wondering how much more bad news he could stand.
The fact that Hagrid was now on probation became common knowledge within the school over the next few days, but to Harry's indignation, hardly anybody appeared to be upset about it; indeed, some people, Draco Malfoy
prominent among them, seemed positively gleeful. As for the freakish death of an obscure Department of Mysteries employee in St. Mungo's, Harry, Ron and Hermione seemed to be the only people who knew or cared. There
was only one topic of conversation in the corridors now: the ten escaped Death Eaters, whose story had finally filtered through the school from those few people who read the newspapers. Rumours were flying that some of
the convicts had been spotted in Hogsmeade, that they were supposed to be hiding out in the Shrieking Shack and that they were going to break into Hogwarts, just as Sirius Black had once done.
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Malfoy made a grotesque face,
Malfoy made a grotesque face, his mouth sagging open and his eyes rolling. Crabbe and Goyle gave their usual grunts of laughter; Pansy Parkinson shrieked with glee.
Something collided hard with Harry's shoulder, knocking him sideways. A split second later he realised that Neville had just charged past him, heading straight for Malfoy.
‘Neville, no!’
Harry leapt forward and seized the back of Neville's robes; Neville struggled frantically, his fists flailing, trying desperately to get at Malfoy who looked, for a moment, extremely shocked.
‘Help me!’ Harry flung at Ron, managing to get an arm around Neville's neck and dragging him backwards, away from the Slytherins. Crabbe and Goyle were flexing their arms as they stepped in front of Malfoy, ready for the fight. Ron seized Neville's arms, and together he and Harry succeeded in dragging Neville back into the Gryffindor line. Nevilles face was scarlet; the pressure Harry was exerting on his throat rendered him quite incomprehensible, but odd words spluttered from his mouth.
‘Not ... funny ... don't ... Mungo's ... show ... him ...’
The dungeon door opened. Snape appeared there. His black eyes swept up the Gryffindor line to the point where Harry and Ron were wrestling with Neville.
‘Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?’ Snape said in his cold, sneering voice. ‘Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention. Inside, all of you.’
Harry let go of Neville, who stood panting and glaring at him.
‘I had to stop you,’ Harry gasped, picking up his bag. ‘Crabbe and Goyle would've torn you apart.’
Neville said nothing; he merely snatched up his own bag and stalked off into the dungeon.
‘What in the name of Merlin,’ said Ron slowly, as they followed Neville, ‘was that about?’
Harry did not answer. He knew exactly why the subject of people who were in St. Mungo's because of magical damage to their brains was highly distressing to Neville, but he had sworn to Dumbledore that he would not tell anyone Neville's secret. Even Neville did not know Harry knew.
Harry, Ron and Hermione took their usual seats at the back of the class, pulled out parchment, quills and their copies of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.The class around them was whispering about what Neville had just done, but when Snape closed the dungeon door with an echoing bang, everybody immediately fell silent.
‘You will notice,’ said Snape, in his low, sneering voice, ‘that we have a guest with us today.’
He gestured towards the dim corner of the dungeon and Harry saw Professor Umbridge sitting there, clipboard on her knee. He glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione, his eyebrows raised. Snape and Umbridge, the two teachers he hated most. It was hard to decide which one he wanted to triumph over the other.
‘We are continuing with our Strengthening Solution today. You will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson; it correctly made they should have matured well over the weekend—instructions—’ he waved his wand again ‘—on the board. Carry on.’
Professor Umbridge spent the first half hour of the lesson making notes in her corner. Harry was very interested in hearing her question Snape; so interested, that he was becoming careless with his potion again.
‘Salamander blood, Harry!’ Hermione moaned, grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong ingredient for the third time, ‘not pomegranate juice!’
‘Right,’ said Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle and continuing to watch the corner. Umbridge had just got to her feet. ‘Ha,’ he said softly, as she strode between two lines of desks towards Snape, who was bending over Dean Thomas's cauldron.
‘Well, the class seem fairly advanced for their level,’ she said briskly to Snape's back. ‘Though I would question whether it is advisable to teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus.’
Snape straightened up slowly and turned to look at her.
‘Now ... how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?’ she asked, her quill poised over her clipboard.
‘Fourteen years,’ Snape replied. His expression was unfathomable. Harry, watching him closely, added a few drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned from turquoise to orange.
‘You applied first for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?’ Professor Umbridge asked Snape.
‘Yes,’ said Snape quietly.
‘But you were unsuccessful?’
Snape's lip curled.
‘Obviously.’
Professor Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard.
‘And you have applied regularly for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe?’
‘Yes,’ said Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He looked very angry.
‘Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?’ asked Umbridge.
‘I suggest you ask him,’ said Snape jerkily.
‘Oh, I shall,’ said Professor Umbridge, with a sweet smile.
‘I suppose this is relevant?’ Snape asked, his black eyes narrowed.
‘Oh yes,’ said Professor Umbridge, ‘yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teachers'—er—backgrounds.’
She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape looked round at Harry and their eyes met for a second. Harry hastily dropped his gaze to his potion, which was now congealing foully and giving off a. strong smell of burned rubber.
‘No marks again, then, Potter,’ said Snape maliciously, emptying Harry's cauldron with a wave of his wand. ‘You will write me an essay on the correct composition of this potion, indicating how and why you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry furiously. Snape had already given them homework and he had Quidditch practice this evening; this would mean another couple of sleepless nights. It did not seem possible that he had awoken that morning feeling very happy. All he felt now was a fervent desire for this day to end.
‘Maybe I'll skive off Divination,’ he said glumly, as they stood in the courtyard after lunch, the wind whipping at the hems of robes and brims of hats. ‘I'll pretend to be ill and do Snape's essay instead, then I won't have to stay up half the night.’
‘You can't skive off Divination,’ said Hermione severely.
Something collided hard with Harry's shoulder, knocking him sideways. A split second later he realised that Neville had just charged past him, heading straight for Malfoy.
‘Neville, no!’
Harry leapt forward and seized the back of Neville's robes; Neville struggled frantically, his fists flailing, trying desperately to get at Malfoy who looked, for a moment, extremely shocked.
‘Help me!’ Harry flung at Ron, managing to get an arm around Neville's neck and dragging him backwards, away from the Slytherins. Crabbe and Goyle were flexing their arms as they stepped in front of Malfoy, ready for the fight. Ron seized Neville's arms, and together he and Harry succeeded in dragging Neville back into the Gryffindor line. Nevilles face was scarlet; the pressure Harry was exerting on his throat rendered him quite incomprehensible, but odd words spluttered from his mouth.
‘Not ... funny ... don't ... Mungo's ... show ... him ...’
The dungeon door opened. Snape appeared there. His black eyes swept up the Gryffindor line to the point where Harry and Ron were wrestling with Neville.
‘Fighting, Potter, Weasley, Longbottom?’ Snape said in his cold, sneering voice. ‘Ten points from Gryffindor. Release Longbottom, Potter, or it will be detention. Inside, all of you.’
Harry let go of Neville, who stood panting and glaring at him.
‘I had to stop you,’ Harry gasped, picking up his bag. ‘Crabbe and Goyle would've torn you apart.’
Neville said nothing; he merely snatched up his own bag and stalked off into the dungeon.
‘What in the name of Merlin,’ said Ron slowly, as they followed Neville, ‘was that about?’
Harry did not answer. He knew exactly why the subject of people who were in St. Mungo's because of magical damage to their brains was highly distressing to Neville, but he had sworn to Dumbledore that he would not tell anyone Neville's secret. Even Neville did not know Harry knew.
Harry, Ron and Hermione took their usual seats at the back of the class, pulled out parchment, quills and their copies of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.The class around them was whispering about what Neville had just done, but when Snape closed the dungeon door with an echoing bang, everybody immediately fell silent.
‘You will notice,’ said Snape, in his low, sneering voice, ‘that we have a guest with us today.’
He gestured towards the dim corner of the dungeon and Harry saw Professor Umbridge sitting there, clipboard on her knee. He glanced sideways at Ron and Hermione, his eyebrows raised. Snape and Umbridge, the two teachers he hated most. It was hard to decide which one he wanted to triumph over the other.
‘We are continuing with our Strengthening Solution today. You will find your mixtures as you left them last lesson; it correctly made they should have matured well over the weekend—instructions—’ he waved his wand again ‘—on the board. Carry on.’
Professor Umbridge spent the first half hour of the lesson making notes in her corner. Harry was very interested in hearing her question Snape; so interested, that he was becoming careless with his potion again.
‘Salamander blood, Harry!’ Hermione moaned, grabbing his wrist to prevent him adding the wrong ingredient for the third time, ‘not pomegranate juice!’
‘Right,’ said Harry vaguely, putting down the bottle and continuing to watch the corner. Umbridge had just got to her feet. ‘Ha,’ he said softly, as she strode between two lines of desks towards Snape, who was bending over Dean Thomas's cauldron.
‘Well, the class seem fairly advanced for their level,’ she said briskly to Snape's back. ‘Though I would question whether it is advisable to teach them a potion like the Strengthening Solution. I think the Ministry would prefer it if that was removed from the syllabus.’
Snape straightened up slowly and turned to look at her.
‘Now ... how long have you been teaching at Hogwarts?’ she asked, her quill poised over her clipboard.
‘Fourteen years,’ Snape replied. His expression was unfathomable. Harry, watching him closely, added a few drops to his potion; it hissed menacingly and turned from turquoise to orange.
‘You applied first for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, I believe?’ Professor Umbridge asked Snape.
‘Yes,’ said Snape quietly.
‘But you were unsuccessful?’
Snape's lip curled.
‘Obviously.’
Professor Umbridge scribbled on her clipboard.
‘And you have applied regularly for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post since you first joined the school, I believe?’
‘Yes,’ said Snape quietly, barely moving his lips. He looked very angry.
‘Do you have any idea why Dumbledore has consistently refused to appoint you?’ asked Umbridge.
‘I suggest you ask him,’ said Snape jerkily.
‘Oh, I shall,’ said Professor Umbridge, with a sweet smile.
‘I suppose this is relevant?’ Snape asked, his black eyes narrowed.
‘Oh yes,’ said Professor Umbridge, ‘yes, the Ministry wants a thorough understanding of teachers'—er—backgrounds.’
She turned away, walked over to Pansy Parkinson and began questioning her about the lessons. Snape looked round at Harry and their eyes met for a second. Harry hastily dropped his gaze to his potion, which was now congealing foully and giving off a. strong smell of burned rubber.
‘No marks again, then, Potter,’ said Snape maliciously, emptying Harry's cauldron with a wave of his wand. ‘You will write me an essay on the correct composition of this potion, indicating how and why you went wrong, to be handed in next lesson, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry furiously. Snape had already given them homework and he had Quidditch practice this evening; this would mean another couple of sleepless nights. It did not seem possible that he had awoken that morning feeling very happy. All he felt now was a fervent desire for this day to end.
‘Maybe I'll skive off Divination,’ he said glumly, as they stood in the courtyard after lunch, the wind whipping at the hems of robes and brims of hats. ‘I'll pretend to be ill and do Snape's essay instead, then I won't have to stay up half the night.’
‘You can't skive off Divination,’ said Hermione severely.
Monday, November 15, 2010
We'd better change,’ said Hermione at last, and all of them opened their trunks with
We'd better change,’ said Hermione at last, and all of them opened their trunks with difficulty and pulled on their school robes. She and Ron pinned their prefect badges carefully to their chests. Harry saw Ron checking his reflection in the black window.
At last, the train began to slow down and they heard the usual racket up and down it as everybody scrambled to get their luggage and pets assembled, ready for departure. Ron and Hermione were supposed to supervise all this; they disappeared from the carriage again, leaving Harry and the others to look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon.
‘I'll carry that owl, if you like,’ said Luna to Harry, reaching out for Pigwidgeon as Neville stowed Trevor carefully in an inside pocket.
‘Oh—er—thanks,’ said Harry, handing her the cage and hoisting Hedwig's more securely into his arms.
They shuffled out of the compartment feeling the first sting of the night air on their faces as they joined the crowd in the corridor. Slowly, they moved towards the doors. Harry could smell the pine trees that lined the path down to the lake. He stepped down on to the platform and looked around, listening for the familiar call of ‘firs’ years over ‘ere ... firs’ years...’
But it did not come. Instead, a quite different voice, a brisk female one, was calling out, ‘First years line up over here, please! All first years to me!’
A lantern came swinging towards Harry and by its light he saw the prominent chin and severe haircut of Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken over Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a while the previous year.
‘Where's Hagrid?’ he said out loud.
‘I don't know,’ said Ginny, ‘but we'd better get out of the way, we're blocking the door.’
‘Oh, yeah...’
Harry and Ginny became separated as they moved off along the platform and out through the station. Jostled by the crowd, Harry squinted through the darkness for a glimpse of Hagrid; he had to be here, Harry had been relying on it—seeing Hagrid again was one of the things he'd been looking forward to most. But there was no sign of him.
He can't have left, Harry told himself as he shuffled slowly through a narrow doorway on to the road outside with the rest of the crowd. He's just got a cold or something....
He looked around for Ron or Hermione, wanting to know what they thought about the reappearance of Professor Grubbly-Plank, but neither of them was anywhere near him, so he allowed himself to be shunted forward onto the dark rain-washed road outside Hogsmeade Station.
Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches that always took the students above first year up to the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned away to keep a lookout for Ron and Hermione, then did a double-take.
The coaches were no longer horseless. There were creatures standing between the carriage shafts. If he had had to give them a name, he supposed he would have called them horses, though there was something reptilian about them, too. They were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring. Wings sprouted from each wither—vast, black leathery wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the gathering gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister. Harry could not understand why the coaches were being pulled by these horrible horses when they were quite capable of moving along by themselves.
‘Where's Pig?’ said Ron's voice, right behind Harry.
‘That Luna girl was carrying him,’ said Harry, turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid. ‘Where d'you reckon—’
‘—Hagrid is? I dunno,’ said Ron, sounding worried. ‘He'd better be okay....’
A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking second-years out of the way so that he and his friends could get a coach to themselves. Seconds later, Hermione emerged panting from the crowd.
‘Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first-year back there. I swear I'm going to report him, he's only had his badge three minutes and he's using it to bully people worse than ever.... Where's Crookshanks?’
‘Ginny's got him,’ said Harry. ‘There she is....’
Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks.
‘Thanks,’ said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. ‘Come on, let's get a carriage together before they all fill up....’
‘I haven't got Pig yet!’ Ron said, but Hermione was already heading off towards the nearest unoccupied coach. Harry remained behind with Ron.
‘What are those things, d'you reckon?’ he asked Ron, nodding at the horrible horses as the other students surged past them.
‘What things?’
‘Those horse—’
Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon's cage in her arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as usual.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘He's a sweet little owl, isn't he?’
‘Er ... yeah ... he's all right,’ said Ron gruffly. ‘Well, come on then, let's get in.... What were you saying, Harry?’
‘I was saying, what are those horse things?’ Harry said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting.
‘What horse things?’
At last, the train began to slow down and they heard the usual racket up and down it as everybody scrambled to get their luggage and pets assembled, ready for departure. Ron and Hermione were supposed to supervise all this; they disappeared from the carriage again, leaving Harry and the others to look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon.
‘I'll carry that owl, if you like,’ said Luna to Harry, reaching out for Pigwidgeon as Neville stowed Trevor carefully in an inside pocket.
‘Oh—er—thanks,’ said Harry, handing her the cage and hoisting Hedwig's more securely into his arms.
They shuffled out of the compartment feeling the first sting of the night air on their faces as they joined the crowd in the corridor. Slowly, they moved towards the doors. Harry could smell the pine trees that lined the path down to the lake. He stepped down on to the platform and looked around, listening for the familiar call of ‘firs’ years over ‘ere ... firs’ years...’
But it did not come. Instead, a quite different voice, a brisk female one, was calling out, ‘First years line up over here, please! All first years to me!’
A lantern came swinging towards Harry and by its light he saw the prominent chin and severe haircut of Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken over Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a while the previous year.
‘Where's Hagrid?’ he said out loud.
‘I don't know,’ said Ginny, ‘but we'd better get out of the way, we're blocking the door.’
‘Oh, yeah...’
Harry and Ginny became separated as they moved off along the platform and out through the station. Jostled by the crowd, Harry squinted through the darkness for a glimpse of Hagrid; he had to be here, Harry had been relying on it—seeing Hagrid again was one of the things he'd been looking forward to most. But there was no sign of him.
He can't have left, Harry told himself as he shuffled slowly through a narrow doorway on to the road outside with the rest of the crowd. He's just got a cold or something....
He looked around for Ron or Hermione, wanting to know what they thought about the reappearance of Professor Grubbly-Plank, but neither of them was anywhere near him, so he allowed himself to be shunted forward onto the dark rain-washed road outside Hogsmeade Station.
Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches that always took the students above first year up to the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned away to keep a lookout for Ron and Hermione, then did a double-take.
The coaches were no longer horseless. There were creatures standing between the carriage shafts. If he had had to give them a name, he supposed he would have called them horses, though there was something reptilian about them, too. They were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring. Wings sprouted from each wither—vast, black leathery wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the gathering gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister. Harry could not understand why the coaches were being pulled by these horrible horses when they were quite capable of moving along by themselves.
‘Where's Pig?’ said Ron's voice, right behind Harry.
‘That Luna girl was carrying him,’ said Harry, turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid. ‘Where d'you reckon—’
‘—Hagrid is? I dunno,’ said Ron, sounding worried. ‘He'd better be okay....’
A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking second-years out of the way so that he and his friends could get a coach to themselves. Seconds later, Hermione emerged panting from the crowd.
‘Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first-year back there. I swear I'm going to report him, he's only had his badge three minutes and he's using it to bully people worse than ever.... Where's Crookshanks?’
‘Ginny's got him,’ said Harry. ‘There she is....’
Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks.
‘Thanks,’ said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. ‘Come on, let's get a carriage together before they all fill up....’
‘I haven't got Pig yet!’ Ron said, but Hermione was already heading off towards the nearest unoccupied coach. Harry remained behind with Ron.
‘What are those things, d'you reckon?’ he asked Ron, nodding at the horrible horses as the other students surged past them.
‘What things?’
‘Those horse—’
Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon's cage in her arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as usual.
‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘He's a sweet little owl, isn't he?’
‘Er ... yeah ... he's all right,’ said Ron gruffly. ‘Well, come on then, let's get in.... What were you saying, Harry?’
‘I was saying, what are those horse things?’ Harry said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting.
‘What horse things?’
Of course not,’ said Hermione scathingly,
Of course not,’ said Hermione scathingly, before Harry could answer. ‘The Quibbler's rubbish, everyone knows that.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Luna; her voice had suddenly lost its dreamy quality. ‘My father's the editor.’
‘I—oh,’ said Hermione, looking embarrassed. ‘Well ... it's got some interesting ... I mean, it's quite...’
‘I'll have it back, thank you,’ said Luna coldly, and leaning forwards she snatched it out of Harry's hands. Riffling through it to page fifty-seven, she turned it resolutely upside-down again and disappeared behind it, just as the compartment door opened for the third time.
Harry looked around; he had expected this, but that did not make the sight of Draco Malfoy smirking at him from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle any more enjoyable.
‘What?’ he said aggressively, before Malfoy could open his mouth.
‘Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention,’ drawled Malfoy, whose sleek blond hair and pointed chin were just like his father's. ‘You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry, ‘but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.’
Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville laughed. Malfoy's lip curled.
‘Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?’ he asked.
‘Shut up, Malfoy,’ said Hermione sharply.
‘I seem to have touched a nerve,’ said Malfoy, smirking. ‘Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.’
‘Get out!’ said Hermione, standing up.
Sniggering, Malfoy gave Harry a last malicious look and departed, with Crabbe and Goyle lumbering along in his wake. Hermione slammed the compartment door behind them and turned to look at Harry, who knew at once that she, like him, had registered what Malfoy had said and been just as unnerved by it.
‘Chuck us another Frog,’ said Ron, who had clearly noticed nothing.
Harry could not talk freely in front of Neville and Luna. He exchanged another nervous look with Hermione, then stared out of the window.
He had thought Sirius coming with him to the station was a bit of a laugh, but suddenly it seemed reckless, if not downright dangerous.... Hermione had been right.... Sirius should not have come. What if Mr. Malfoy had noticed the black dog and told Draco? What if he had deduced that the Weasleys, Lupin, Tonks and Moody knew where Sirius was hiding? Or had Malfoy's use of the word ‘dogging’ been a coincidence?
The weather remained undecided as they travelled farther and farther north. Rain spattered the windows in a half-hearted way, then the sun put in a feeble appearance before clouds drifted over it once more. When darkness fell and lamps came on inside the carriages, Luna rolled up The Quibbler, put it carefully away in her bag and took to staring at everyone in the compartment instead.
Harry was sitting with his forehead pressed against the train window, trying to get a first distant glimpse of Hogwarts, but it was a moonless night and the rain-streaked window was grimy.
‘Excuse me,’ said Luna; her voice had suddenly lost its dreamy quality. ‘My father's the editor.’
‘I—oh,’ said Hermione, looking embarrassed. ‘Well ... it's got some interesting ... I mean, it's quite...’
‘I'll have it back, thank you,’ said Luna coldly, and leaning forwards she snatched it out of Harry's hands. Riffling through it to page fifty-seven, she turned it resolutely upside-down again and disappeared behind it, just as the compartment door opened for the third time.
Harry looked around; he had expected this, but that did not make the sight of Draco Malfoy smirking at him from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle any more enjoyable.
‘What?’ he said aggressively, before Malfoy could open his mouth.
‘Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention,’ drawled Malfoy, whose sleek blond hair and pointed chin were just like his father's. ‘You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry, ‘but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone.’
Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville laughed. Malfoy's lip curled.
‘Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?’ he asked.
‘Shut up, Malfoy,’ said Hermione sharply.
‘I seem to have touched a nerve,’ said Malfoy, smirking. ‘Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line.’
‘Get out!’ said Hermione, standing up.
Sniggering, Malfoy gave Harry a last malicious look and departed, with Crabbe and Goyle lumbering along in his wake. Hermione slammed the compartment door behind them and turned to look at Harry, who knew at once that she, like him, had registered what Malfoy had said and been just as unnerved by it.
‘Chuck us another Frog,’ said Ron, who had clearly noticed nothing.
Harry could not talk freely in front of Neville and Luna. He exchanged another nervous look with Hermione, then stared out of the window.
He had thought Sirius coming with him to the station was a bit of a laugh, but suddenly it seemed reckless, if not downright dangerous.... Hermione had been right.... Sirius should not have come. What if Mr. Malfoy had noticed the black dog and told Draco? What if he had deduced that the Weasleys, Lupin, Tonks and Moody knew where Sirius was hiding? Or had Malfoy's use of the word ‘dogging’ been a coincidence?
The weather remained undecided as they travelled farther and farther north. Rain spattered the windows in a half-hearted way, then the sun put in a feeble appearance before clouds drifted over it once more. When darkness fell and lamps came on inside the carriages, Luna rolled up The Quibbler, put it carefully away in her bag and took to staring at everyone in the compartment instead.
Harry was sitting with his forehead pressed against the train window, trying to get a first distant glimpse of Hogwarts, but it was a moonless night and the rain-streaked window was grimy.
For fourteen years Sirius
For fourteen years Sirius Black has been believed guilty of the mass murder of twelve innocent Muggles and one wizard. Black's audacious escape from Azkaban two years ago has led to the widest manhunt ever conducted by the Ministry of Magic. None of us has ever questioned that he deserves to be recaptured and handed back to the dementors.
BUT DOES HE?
Startling new evidence has recently come to light that Sirius Black may not have committed the crimes for which he was sent to Azhaban. In fact, says Doris Purkiss, of 18 Acanthia Way, Little Norton, Black may not even have been present at the killings.
‘What people don't realise is that Sirius Black is a false name,’ says Mrs. Purkiss. ‘The man people believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer of popular singing group The Hobgoblins, who retired from public life after being struck on the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little Norton Church Hall nearly fifteen years ago. I recognised him the moment I saw his picture in the paper. Now, Stubby couldn't possibly have committed those crimes, because on the day in question he happened to be enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner with me. I have written to the Minister for Magic and am expecting him to give Stubby, alias Sirius, a full pardon any day now.’
Harry finished reading and stared at the page in disbelief. Perhaps it was a joke, he thought, perhaps the magazine often printed spoof items. He flicked back a few pages and found the piece on Fudge.
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, denied that he had any plans to take over the running of the Wizarding Bank, Gringotts, when he was elected Minister for Magic jive years ago. Fudge has always insisted that he wants nothing more than to ‘cooperate peacefully’ with the guardians of our gold.
BUT DOES HE?
Sources close to the Minister have recently disclosed that Fudge's dearest ambition is to seize control of the goblin gold supplies and that he will not hesitate to use force if need be.
‘It wouldn't be the first time, either,’ said a Ministry insider. ‘Cornelius “Goblin-Crusher” Fudge, that's what his friends call him. If you could hear him when he thinks no one's listening, oh, he's always talking about the goblins he's had done in; he's had them drowned, he's had them dropped off buildings, he's had them poisoned, he's had them cooked in pies....’
Harry did not read any further. Fudge might have many faults but Harry found it extremely hard to imagine him ordering goblins to be cooked in pies. He flicked through the rest of the magazine. Pausing every few pages, he read: an accusation that the Tutshill Tornados were winning the Quidditch League by a combination of blackmail, illegal broom-tampering and torture; an interview with a wizard who claimed to have flown to the moon on a Cleansweep Six and brought back a bag of moon frogs to prove it; and an article on ancient runes which at least explained why Luna had been reading The Quibbler upside-down. According to the magazine, if you turned the runes on their heads they revealed a spell to make your enemy's ears turn into kumquats. In fact, compared to the rest of the articles in The Quibbler, the suggestion that Sirius might really be the lead singer of The Hobgoblins was quite sensible.
‘Anything good in there?’ asked Ron as Harry closed the magazine.
BUT DOES HE?
Startling new evidence has recently come to light that Sirius Black may not have committed the crimes for which he was sent to Azhaban. In fact, says Doris Purkiss, of 18 Acanthia Way, Little Norton, Black may not even have been present at the killings.
‘What people don't realise is that Sirius Black is a false name,’ says Mrs. Purkiss. ‘The man people believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby Boardman, lead singer of popular singing group The Hobgoblins, who retired from public life after being struck on the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little Norton Church Hall nearly fifteen years ago. I recognised him the moment I saw his picture in the paper. Now, Stubby couldn't possibly have committed those crimes, because on the day in question he happened to be enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner with me. I have written to the Minister for Magic and am expecting him to give Stubby, alias Sirius, a full pardon any day now.’
Harry finished reading and stared at the page in disbelief. Perhaps it was a joke, he thought, perhaps the magazine often printed spoof items. He flicked back a few pages and found the piece on Fudge.
Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, denied that he had any plans to take over the running of the Wizarding Bank, Gringotts, when he was elected Minister for Magic jive years ago. Fudge has always insisted that he wants nothing more than to ‘cooperate peacefully’ with the guardians of our gold.
BUT DOES HE?
Sources close to the Minister have recently disclosed that Fudge's dearest ambition is to seize control of the goblin gold supplies and that he will not hesitate to use force if need be.
‘It wouldn't be the first time, either,’ said a Ministry insider. ‘Cornelius “Goblin-Crusher” Fudge, that's what his friends call him. If you could hear him when he thinks no one's listening, oh, he's always talking about the goblins he's had done in; he's had them drowned, he's had them dropped off buildings, he's had them poisoned, he's had them cooked in pies....’
Harry did not read any further. Fudge might have many faults but Harry found it extremely hard to imagine him ordering goblins to be cooked in pies. He flicked through the rest of the magazine. Pausing every few pages, he read: an accusation that the Tutshill Tornados were winning the Quidditch League by a combination of blackmail, illegal broom-tampering and torture; an interview with a wizard who claimed to have flown to the moon on a Cleansweep Six and brought back a bag of moon frogs to prove it; and an article on ancient runes which at least explained why Luna had been reading The Quibbler upside-down. According to the magazine, if you turned the runes on their heads they revealed a spell to make your enemy's ears turn into kumquats. In fact, compared to the rest of the articles in The Quibbler, the suggestion that Sirius might really be the lead singer of The Hobgoblins was quite sensible.
‘Anything good in there?’ asked Ron as Harry closed the magazine.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
While everyone around him filled
their flagons, Harry cleared away his things, seething. His potion had been no worse than Ron's, which was now giving off a foul odour of bad eggs; or Neville's, which had achieved the
consistency of just-mixed cement and which Neville was now having to gouge out of his cauldron; yet it was he, Harry, who would be receiving zero marks for the day's work. He stuffed his wand back into his bag and slumped
down on to his seat, watching everyone else march up to Snape's desk with filled and corked flagons. When at long last the bell rang, Harry was first out of the dungeon and had already started his lunch by the time Ron and
Hermione joined him in the Great Hall. The ceiling had turned an even murkier grey during the morning. Rain was lashing the high windows.
‘That was really unfair,’ said Hermione consolingly, sitting down next to Harry and helping herself to shepherd's pie. ‘Your potion wasn't nearly as bad as Goyle's; when he put it in his flagon the whole thing shattered and set
his robes on fire.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Harry, glowering at his plate, ‘since when has Snape ever been fair to me?’
Neither of the others answered; all three of them knew that Snape and Harry's mutual enmity had been absolute from the moment Harry had set foot in Hogwarts.
‘I did think he might be a bit better this year,’ said Hermione in a disappointed voice. ‘I mean ... you know ...’ she looked around carefully; there were half a dozen empty seats on either side of them and nobody was passing
the table ’ ... now he's in the Order and everything.’
‘Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots,’ said Ron sagely. ‘Anyway, I've always thought Dumbledore was cracked to trust Snape. Where's the evidence he ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?’
‘I think Dumbledore's probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn't share it with you, Ron,’ snapped Hermione.
‘Oh, shut up, the pair of you,’ said Harry heavily, as Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both froze, looking angry and offended. ‘Can't you give it a rest?’ said Harry. ‘You're always having a go at each
other, it's driving me mad.’ And abandoning his shepherd's pie, he swung his schoolbag back over his shoulder and left them sitting there.
He walked up the marble staircase two steps at a time, past the many students hurrying towards lunch. The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and Hermione's shocked
faces afforded him a sense of deep satisfaction. Serve them right, he thought, why can't they give it a rest ... bickering all the time ... it's enough to drive anyone up the wall ...
He passed the large picture of Sir Cadogan the knight on a landing; Sir Cadogan drew his sword and brandished it fiercely at Harry, who ignored him.
‘Come back, you scurvy dog! Stand fast and fight!’ yelled Sir Cadogan in a muffled voice from behind his visor, but Harry merely walked on and when Sir Cadogan attempted to follow him by running into a neighbouring
picture, he was rebuffed by its inhabitant, a large and angry-looking wolfhound.
Harry spent the rest of the lunch hour sitting alone underneath the trapdoor at the top of North Tower. Consequently, he was the first to ascend the silver ladder that led to Sybill Trelawney's classroom when the bell rang.
After Potions, Divination was Harry's least favourite class, which was due mainly to Professor Trelawney's habit of predicting his premature death every few lessons. A thin woman, heavily draped in shawls and glittering with
strings of beads, she always reminded Harry of some kind of insect, with her glasses hugely magnifying her eyes. She was busy putting copies of battered leather-bound books on each of the spindly little tables with which her
room was littered when Harry entered the room, but the light cast by the lamps covered by scarves and the low-burning, sickly-scented fire was so dim she appeared not to notice him as he took a seat in the shadows. The
rest of the class arrived over the next five minutes. Ron emerged from the trapdoor, looked around carefully, spotted Harry and made directly for him, or as directly as he could while having to wend his way between tables,
chairs and overstuffed pouffes.
‘Hermione and me have stopped arguing,’ he said, sitting down beside Harry.
‘Good,’ grunted Harry.
‘But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us,’ said Ron.
‘I ‘m not—’
‘I'm just passing on the message,’ said Ron, talking over him. ‘But I reckon she's right. It's not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you.’
‘I never said it —’
‘Good-day,’ said Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, again feeling both annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself. ‘And welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been following your
fortunes most carefully over the holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all returned to Hogwarts safely—as, of course, I knew you would.
‘You will find on the tables before you copies of The Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is a most important means of divining the future and one that may very probably be tested in your OWL. Not, of course,
that I believe examination passes or failures are of the remotest importance when it comes to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. However, the Headmaster likes
you to sit the examination, so ...’
Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her subject above such sordid matters as examinations.
‘Turn, please, to the introduction and read what Imago has to say on the matter of dream interpretation. Then, divide into pairs. Use The Dream Oracle to interpret each other's most recent dreams. Carry on.’
The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that it was not a double period. By the time they had all finished reading the introduction of the book, they had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. At the table next
to Harry and Ron, Dean had paired up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long-winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat; Harry and Ron merely looked
at each other glumly.
‘I never remember my dreams,’ said Ron, ‘you say one.’
‘You must remember one of them,’ said Harry impatiently.
He was not going to share his dreams with anyone. He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmare about a graveyard meant, he did not need Ron or Proiessor Trelawney or the stupid Dream Oracle to tell him.
‘Well, I dreamed I was playing Quidditch the other night,’ said Ron, screwing up his face in an effort to remember. ‘What d'you reckon that means?’
‘Probably that you're going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something,’ said Harry, turning the pages of The Dream Oracle without interest. It was very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the Oracle and Harry was not
cheered up when Professor Trelawney set them the task of keeping a dream diary for a month as homework. When the bell went, he and Ron led the way back down the ladder, Ron grumbling loudly.
‘D'you realise how much homework we've got already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of moonstones, and now we've got a month's dream diary from Trelawney! Fred
and George weren't wrong about OWL year, were they? That Umbridge woman had better not give us any ...’
When they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom they found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teachers desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her
head. Harry was again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.
The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.
‘Well, good afternoon!’ she said, when finally the whole class had sat down.
A few people mumbled ‘good afternoon’ in reply.
‘Tut, tut,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge". One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!’
‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,’ they chanted back at her.
‘There, now,’ said Professor Umbridge sweetly. That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.’
Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order ‘wands away’ had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Harry shoved his wand back inside his bag and pulled cut quill, ink and parchment.
Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:
Defence Against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles
‘Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?’ stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. The constant changing of
teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year.
‘You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following,
please.’
She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:
Course Aims:
1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.
For a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three course aims she asked, ‘Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical
Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.
‘I think we'll try that again,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, “Yes, Professor Umbridge", or “No, Professor Umbridge". So: has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory
by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
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consistency of just-mixed cement and which Neville was now having to gouge out of his cauldron; yet it was he, Harry, who would be receiving zero marks for the day's work. He stuffed his wand back into his bag and slumped
down on to his seat, watching everyone else march up to Snape's desk with filled and corked flagons. When at long last the bell rang, Harry was first out of the dungeon and had already started his lunch by the time Ron and
Hermione joined him in the Great Hall. The ceiling had turned an even murkier grey during the morning. Rain was lashing the high windows.
‘That was really unfair,’ said Hermione consolingly, sitting down next to Harry and helping herself to shepherd's pie. ‘Your potion wasn't nearly as bad as Goyle's; when he put it in his flagon the whole thing shattered and set
his robes on fire.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Harry, glowering at his plate, ‘since when has Snape ever been fair to me?’
Neither of the others answered; all three of them knew that Snape and Harry's mutual enmity had been absolute from the moment Harry had set foot in Hogwarts.
‘I did think he might be a bit better this year,’ said Hermione in a disappointed voice. ‘I mean ... you know ...’ she looked around carefully; there were half a dozen empty seats on either side of them and nobody was passing
the table ’ ... now he's in the Order and everything.’
‘Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots,’ said Ron sagely. ‘Anyway, I've always thought Dumbledore was cracked to trust Snape. Where's the evidence he ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?’
‘I think Dumbledore's probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn't share it with you, Ron,’ snapped Hermione.
‘Oh, shut up, the pair of you,’ said Harry heavily, as Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both froze, looking angry and offended. ‘Can't you give it a rest?’ said Harry. ‘You're always having a go at each
other, it's driving me mad.’ And abandoning his shepherd's pie, he swung his schoolbag back over his shoulder and left them sitting there.
He walked up the marble staircase two steps at a time, past the many students hurrying towards lunch. The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and Hermione's shocked
faces afforded him a sense of deep satisfaction. Serve them right, he thought, why can't they give it a rest ... bickering all the time ... it's enough to drive anyone up the wall ...
He passed the large picture of Sir Cadogan the knight on a landing; Sir Cadogan drew his sword and brandished it fiercely at Harry, who ignored him.
‘Come back, you scurvy dog! Stand fast and fight!’ yelled Sir Cadogan in a muffled voice from behind his visor, but Harry merely walked on and when Sir Cadogan attempted to follow him by running into a neighbouring
picture, he was rebuffed by its inhabitant, a large and angry-looking wolfhound.
Harry spent the rest of the lunch hour sitting alone underneath the trapdoor at the top of North Tower. Consequently, he was the first to ascend the silver ladder that led to Sybill Trelawney's classroom when the bell rang.
After Potions, Divination was Harry's least favourite class, which was due mainly to Professor Trelawney's habit of predicting his premature death every few lessons. A thin woman, heavily draped in shawls and glittering with
strings of beads, she always reminded Harry of some kind of insect, with her glasses hugely magnifying her eyes. She was busy putting copies of battered leather-bound books on each of the spindly little tables with which her
room was littered when Harry entered the room, but the light cast by the lamps covered by scarves and the low-burning, sickly-scented fire was so dim she appeared not to notice him as he took a seat in the shadows. The
rest of the class arrived over the next five minutes. Ron emerged from the trapdoor, looked around carefully, spotted Harry and made directly for him, or as directly as he could while having to wend his way between tables,
chairs and overstuffed pouffes.
‘Hermione and me have stopped arguing,’ he said, sitting down beside Harry.
‘Good,’ grunted Harry.
‘But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us,’ said Ron.
‘I ‘m not—’
‘I'm just passing on the message,’ said Ron, talking over him. ‘But I reckon she's right. It's not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you.’
‘I never said it —’
‘Good-day,’ said Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, again feeling both annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself. ‘And welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been following your
fortunes most carefully over the holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all returned to Hogwarts safely—as, of course, I knew you would.
‘You will find on the tables before you copies of The Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is a most important means of divining the future and one that may very probably be tested in your OWL. Not, of course,
that I believe examination passes or failures are of the remotest importance when it comes to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. However, the Headmaster likes
you to sit the examination, so ...’
Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her subject above such sordid matters as examinations.
‘Turn, please, to the introduction and read what Imago has to say on the matter of dream interpretation. Then, divide into pairs. Use The Dream Oracle to interpret each other's most recent dreams. Carry on.’
The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that it was not a double period. By the time they had all finished reading the introduction of the book, they had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. At the table next
to Harry and Ron, Dean had paired up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long-winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat; Harry and Ron merely looked
at each other glumly.
‘I never remember my dreams,’ said Ron, ‘you say one.’
‘You must remember one of them,’ said Harry impatiently.
He was not going to share his dreams with anyone. He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmare about a graveyard meant, he did not need Ron or Proiessor Trelawney or the stupid Dream Oracle to tell him.
‘Well, I dreamed I was playing Quidditch the other night,’ said Ron, screwing up his face in an effort to remember. ‘What d'you reckon that means?’
‘Probably that you're going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something,’ said Harry, turning the pages of The Dream Oracle without interest. It was very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the Oracle and Harry was not
cheered up when Professor Trelawney set them the task of keeping a dream diary for a month as homework. When the bell went, he and Ron led the way back down the ladder, Ron grumbling loudly.
‘D'you realise how much homework we've got already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of moonstones, and now we've got a month's dream diary from Trelawney! Fred
and George weren't wrong about OWL year, were they? That Umbridge woman had better not give us any ...’
When they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom they found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teachers desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her
head. Harry was again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.
The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.
‘Well, good afternoon!’ she said, when finally the whole class had sat down.
A few people mumbled ‘good afternoon’ in reply.
‘Tut, tut,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge". One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!’
‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,’ they chanted back at her.
‘There, now,’ said Professor Umbridge sweetly. That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.’
Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order ‘wands away’ had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Harry shoved his wand back inside his bag and pulled cut quill, ink and parchment.
Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:
Defence Against the Dark Arts
A Return to Basic Principles
‘Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?’ stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. The constant changing of
teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year.
‘You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following,
please.’
She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:
Course Aims:
1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.
For a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three course aims she asked, ‘Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical
Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.
‘I think we'll try that again,’ said Professor Umbridge. ‘When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, “Yes, Professor Umbridge", or “No, Professor Umbridge". So: has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory
by Wilbert Slinkhard?’
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
More Pigs Demanded From Candidate in the Upcoming Local Elections.
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：117 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:32:47
In a male dominated arena a special commendation needs to be given to any woman brave enough to enter the blood thirsty battlefield of politics. It is great to see Ms Hilary Clinton once more in the headlines, now backing Barack Obama.
A world away, on a tropical island in Vanuatu, in the South Pacific, another woman faces unbelievable odds. Mrs Jenny Ligo is under pressure from an unexpected source.
Following her famous aunt's footsteps, Jenny was granted a chiefly title earlier this year, by the head of the National Councils of Chiefs, Chief Paul Tahi.
As a symbol of good luck and 'well done', Jenny was liberally dusted with baby powder. No one knows where this custom came from, but beware if you are an honored guest in Vanuatu, you will also be smothered with baby powder.
In order for Jenny to enter the brutal field of politics, she had to ceremoniously kill eleven pigs. Late last year during her wedding to Joe Ligo, Jenny also ceremoniously killed eleven pigs.
Jenny is the niece of womens rights and political activist, Mrs Grace Molisa. Mrs Molisa became the first lady to take up the position of Private Secretary to the countrys first Prime Minister, late Father Walter Lini, 28 years after the nations independence.
It's only weeks to the general election in Vanuatu and Mrs Ligo has returned to her home island of Ambae. All should have been plain sailing for this courageous lady as she travelled to most parts of the island. Wrong!
On behalf of some of the Chiefs of Ambae, Chief Moli Tari said, according to island custom principles Jenny is not allowed to contest in her home island. How odd that this principle never came to the surface early this year, during the Pig killing ceremony. Perhaps the ancient custom principles from this island are changed daily as required?
Chief Moli has told Jenny that, because of her marriage to Joe Ligo from another island, she can only contest the Ambae constituency on one condition. She must perform a custom ceremony that will present 10 tusked pigs to the chiefs.
That doesnt sound so hard,until you look at the real value of 10 pigs with tusks. You cant just go out to a sales yard in Vanuatu and buy them. Particularly if the pigs are of any reasonable age and size.
In Vanuatu, pig tusks are real currency. They are one of the highly prized possessions and are the wealth of every village. The Tari Buri Bank, headed by Chief Viraleo is thought to have nearly $1 billion in collateral, in pig tusks in the banks fourteen branches. The bank offers mortgages, as well as easy credit and pays a handsome 15% interest. The bank has reserves, cheque books, accounts and tight security, even though most of the security is done by snakes and spirits.
In some areas it is not unusual for women to pay school fees in pig tusk currency. Sometimes the tusks are still attached to the skull of the dead pig. Many more children would never have the chance to go to school in a society where villagers live on less than $1 per day. Where the land provides much of their needs, this does not pose a great problem.
In a male dominated arena a special commendation needs to be given to any woman brave enough to enter the blood thirsty battlefield of politics. It is great to see Ms Hilary Clinton once more in the headlines, now backing Barack Obama.
A world away, on a tropical island in Vanuatu, in the South Pacific, another woman faces unbelievable odds. Mrs Jenny Ligo is under pressure from an unexpected source.
Following her famous aunt's footsteps, Jenny was granted a chiefly title earlier this year, by the head of the National Councils of Chiefs, Chief Paul Tahi.
As a symbol of good luck and 'well done', Jenny was liberally dusted with baby powder. No one knows where this custom came from, but beware if you are an honored guest in Vanuatu, you will also be smothered with baby powder.
In order for Jenny to enter the brutal field of politics, she had to ceremoniously kill eleven pigs. Late last year during her wedding to Joe Ligo, Jenny also ceremoniously killed eleven pigs.
Jenny is the niece of womens rights and political activist, Mrs Grace Molisa. Mrs Molisa became the first lady to take up the position of Private Secretary to the countrys first Prime Minister, late Father Walter Lini, 28 years after the nations independence.
It's only weeks to the general election in Vanuatu and Mrs Ligo has returned to her home island of Ambae. All should have been plain sailing for this courageous lady as she travelled to most parts of the island. Wrong!
On behalf of some of the Chiefs of Ambae, Chief Moli Tari said, according to island custom principles Jenny is not allowed to contest in her home island. How odd that this principle never came to the surface early this year, during the Pig killing ceremony. Perhaps the ancient custom principles from this island are changed daily as required?
Chief Moli has told Jenny that, because of her marriage to Joe Ligo from another island, she can only contest the Ambae constituency on one condition. She must perform a custom ceremony that will present 10 tusked pigs to the chiefs.
That doesnt sound so hard,until you look at the real value of 10 pigs with tusks. You cant just go out to a sales yard in Vanuatu and buy them. Particularly if the pigs are of any reasonable age and size.
In Vanuatu, pig tusks are real currency. They are one of the highly prized possessions and are the wealth of every village. The Tari Buri Bank, headed by Chief Viraleo is thought to have nearly $1 billion in collateral, in pig tusks in the banks fourteen branches. The bank offers mortgages, as well as easy credit and pays a handsome 15% interest. The bank has reserves, cheque books, accounts and tight security, even though most of the security is done by snakes and spirits.
In some areas it is not unusual for women to pay school fees in pig tusk currency. Sometimes the tusks are still attached to the skull of the dead pig. Many more children would never have the chance to go to school in a society where villagers live on less than $1 per day. Where the land provides much of their needs, this does not pose a great problem.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Home Design Sense - Displaying Artwork
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：118 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:15:41
Displaying artwork can pose some interesting dilemmas. How should the work be displayed and the color of the background wall?
Depending upon the amount of artwork you should consider a special wall for the display. By that I mean; the wall should be dedicated to the artwork.
Size is also important in the way the work is displayed. Large pieces may require a whole wall, while smaller ones can be grouped. So, how do you group smaller pieces?
Gather up all the pieces you wish to display. Now measure out an area on the floor the approximate size of the intended display wall. Now lay out all the pieces on the floor within that area. Once arranged; step back and look
at what you have done. If you like it you can start mounting the work on the wall using your floor display as a model. If you don't like it move the pieces around until you are happy with the arrangement.
A good rule of thumb is to keep the larger pieces in the center and surround it with the smaller ones. In the case of two (2) large ones and some smaller ones; you have the option of putting the smaller one in between the
larger ones. But lay it out on the floor before mounting on the wall.
In the case of very large collections that will take up an entire room it is best to paint the room one solid color. This means the walls and ceiling are the same color. Why? Because it creates a seamless backdrop for the
artwork.
What color paint? That depends upon the artwork. See if you can find a mutual light color amongst all the paintings. This way there will be a common thread - connecting all the art.
Keep photos straight by piercing a piece of masking tape through the sticky side with a thumbtack, then applying to bottom corner of photo. Do this to both sides. The tack will prevent the frame from slipping without piercing
the wall.
To make a picture look bigger, use a darker-colored mat. Lighter-colored mats draw attention away from the frame and allow the viewer to concentrate on the image within the frame.
Consider using wide mats (greater than two inches) for prints and photos to create an updated look. Mats wider than prints give greater importance to small images.
Layering mats can create a unique piece of custom-framed artwork. Using two or more mats is also a good way to accent colors in a room.
The best mats to use are museum-grade 100 percent cotton rag, acid free. Most mat boards are made of a buffered wood pulp with a lower pH and are not guaranteed to last forever.
Frames and mats can create a theme for your artwork, so make sure that you choose frames and mats that correspond with what you want to convey.
When choosing a frame, make sure the color of the frame doesn't overpower the colors in the art.
Put artwork in a frame large enough so that it is not lost in the decor of the room.
When trying to fill a large wall, consider using two or three theme-related prints, as opposed to one large picture. Use an odd number of pictures. It is more visually appealing to the eye.
When arranging several pictures on a wall, always hang the key focal picture first. It's best if this picture is larger than the others and has special meaning.
Always put similar pictures in the same area or room. That way they can more easily complement each other.
Never hang artwork indirect sunlight or near a heat or air-conditioning vent. High temperature and humidity levels can cause accelerated growth of mold inside the frame.
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Displaying artwork can pose some interesting dilemmas. How should the work be displayed and the color of the background wall?
Depending upon the amount of artwork you should consider a special wall for the display. By that I mean; the wall should be dedicated to the artwork.
Size is also important in the way the work is displayed. Large pieces may require a whole wall, while smaller ones can be grouped. So, how do you group smaller pieces?
Gather up all the pieces you wish to display. Now measure out an area on the floor the approximate size of the intended display wall. Now lay out all the pieces on the floor within that area. Once arranged; step back and look
at what you have done. If you like it you can start mounting the work on the wall using your floor display as a model. If you don't like it move the pieces around until you are happy with the arrangement.
A good rule of thumb is to keep the larger pieces in the center and surround it with the smaller ones. In the case of two (2) large ones and some smaller ones; you have the option of putting the smaller one in between the
larger ones. But lay it out on the floor before mounting on the wall.
In the case of very large collections that will take up an entire room it is best to paint the room one solid color. This means the walls and ceiling are the same color. Why? Because it creates a seamless backdrop for the
artwork.
What color paint? That depends upon the artwork. See if you can find a mutual light color amongst all the paintings. This way there will be a common thread - connecting all the art.
Keep photos straight by piercing a piece of masking tape through the sticky side with a thumbtack, then applying to bottom corner of photo. Do this to both sides. The tack will prevent the frame from slipping without piercing
the wall.
To make a picture look bigger, use a darker-colored mat. Lighter-colored mats draw attention away from the frame and allow the viewer to concentrate on the image within the frame.
Consider using wide mats (greater than two inches) for prints and photos to create an updated look. Mats wider than prints give greater importance to small images.
Layering mats can create a unique piece of custom-framed artwork. Using two or more mats is also a good way to accent colors in a room.
The best mats to use are museum-grade 100 percent cotton rag, acid free. Most mat boards are made of a buffered wood pulp with a lower pH and are not guaranteed to last forever.
Frames and mats can create a theme for your artwork, so make sure that you choose frames and mats that correspond with what you want to convey.
When choosing a frame, make sure the color of the frame doesn't overpower the colors in the art.
Put artwork in a frame large enough so that it is not lost in the decor of the room.
When trying to fill a large wall, consider using two or three theme-related prints, as opposed to one large picture. Use an odd number of pictures. It is more visually appealing to the eye.
When arranging several pictures on a wall, always hang the key focal picture first. It's best if this picture is larger than the others and has special meaning.
Always put similar pictures in the same area or room. That way they can more easily complement each other.
Never hang artwork indirect sunlight or near a heat or air-conditioning vent. High temperature and humidity levels can cause accelerated growth of mold inside the frame.
uggs
chanel 2.55
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coach outlet
Monday, November 8, 2010
Things You Should Known About Diet Pills
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：128 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:54:15
Growing fatness is one of the main troubles of today's age band. Not just the teenagers or adults but this trouble of growing mass is flowing between the small kids and infants also. So the finest method to oppose the growing fatness or obesity of the human body is habitual work out, balanced and proper food diet, adequate and proper amount of break. But theses methods are extremely sluggish and give the outcome awfully late.
So to organize the trouble of increasing fatness, mass lose tablets have started rising the marketplace and started building their authority.
But the chief query is whether these mass loss tablets are secure to eat or not? Some of the suggested answers to these troubles are:-
1.) These mass loss tablets must be the manufactured goods of well reputed, settled and established corporation which manufacture the mass loss tablets according to the necessary norms and guidelines.
2.) The corporation which is manufacturing and producing these finest mass loss tablets should be inspected and standardized by the testing and the pharmaceutical examination corporation.
3.) Fine superiority and reliable elements must be used in the manufacturing and production of these mass loss tablets. The main class components make the tablets of finest class like the Lida Dali mass loss tablets.
4.) Suitable responses and feedbacks should be offer and make available to the users by the producers so that there is no confusion, misunderstanding and fear in brains of the buyers. Numerous online websites like lida are giving this information to the customers.
5.) The ingredients and component must be assorted in a balanced and proper method. Amount of shrubs and herbs and extra flexible ingredients should be cautiously taken.
Chiefly the mass loss tablets are categorized into two main categories:-
1.) The counter diet tablets.
On one hand natural mass loss tablets are not believed to be secure to utilize. Ephedra is considered to be the finest mass loss among this category had caused numerous deaths because it directly affects the nervous system of the person using it. As it directly affects the nervous system it may lead to some kind of nervous break down.
2.) Prescribe diet tablets
Prescribed diet and mass loss tablets are inspected tested and clinically verified. These tablets are used when there are towering cases of fatness which has the risk of building the human body deteriorate and hence in the end causing the death of that person.
Growing fatness is one of the main troubles of today's age band. Not just the teenagers or adults but this trouble of growing mass is flowing between the small kids and infants also. So the finest method to oppose the growing fatness or obesity of the human body is habitual work out, balanced and proper food diet, adequate and proper amount of break. But theses methods are extremely sluggish and give the outcome awfully late.
So to organize the trouble of increasing fatness, mass lose tablets have started rising the marketplace and started building their authority.
But the chief query is whether these mass loss tablets are secure to eat or not? Some of the suggested answers to these troubles are:-
1.) These mass loss tablets must be the manufactured goods of well reputed, settled and established corporation which manufacture the mass loss tablets according to the necessary norms and guidelines.
2.) The corporation which is manufacturing and producing these finest mass loss tablets should be inspected and standardized by the testing and the pharmaceutical examination corporation.
3.) Fine superiority and reliable elements must be used in the manufacturing and production of these mass loss tablets. The main class components make the tablets of finest class like the Lida Dali mass loss tablets.
4.) Suitable responses and feedbacks should be offer and make available to the users by the producers so that there is no confusion, misunderstanding and fear in brains of the buyers. Numerous online websites like lida are giving this information to the customers.
5.) The ingredients and component must be assorted in a balanced and proper method. Amount of shrubs and herbs and extra flexible ingredients should be cautiously taken.
Chiefly the mass loss tablets are categorized into two main categories:-
1.) The counter diet tablets.
On one hand natural mass loss tablets are not believed to be secure to utilize. Ephedra is considered to be the finest mass loss among this category had caused numerous deaths because it directly affects the nervous system of the person using it. As it directly affects the nervous system it may lead to some kind of nervous break down.
2.) Prescribe diet tablets
Prescribed diet and mass loss tablets are inspected tested and clinically verified. These tablets are used when there are towering cases of fatness which has the risk of building the human body deteriorate and hence in the end causing the death of that person.
A Short Guide to Understanding Negative Calories
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：152 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:54:18
The concept of negative calories is a fairly new one and people have mixed feelings about whether it is possible or not. The basic theory given by people who believes it works is that negative calorie food takes more energy to digest the food than the food gives nutritionally. If you had a dessert that contained 300 calories and it took 150 calories to digest it, this would leave 150 calories that would be turned into fat on your body. For an example of the way the suggested negative calorie method works, you may have eaten a food that only contains 100 calories, and it takes 150 calories to digest this food, then you have burned an additional 50 calories. All food has some amount of calories; there are no "negative calorie" foods as such. The main theory is the way that the calorie count of the food is less than that of the energy needed to aid digestion.
The idea that negative calories exist is based on the fact that the body has to work harder to breakdown, process and digest the food. Factors such as the vitamin and enzyme content of the food has also to be taken into consideration when classing a food as having negative calories. This rules out the chance of junk food (empty calories) being counted as having negative calories as they do not contain enough vitamins and enzymes.
The amount of food that is considered to have negative calories is a small list but contains vegetables such as peppers, celery, cress, marrow and turnip. In regards to fruit the list contains plums, watermelon, damsons, peaches and strawberries as foods with attributes of the negative calorie.
There is still a lot of controversy over whether the negative calorie theory is in fact possible. Many experts feel that there are no foods that could be considered as having negative calories. They have taken into account the amount of energy needed to burn food may vary due to different combinations of food that we may consume. There has been some research involving celery which seems to suggest that there is a possibility that the negative calorie theory may have some truth to it. Celery always has a certain amount of energy that is needed for the digestion system to break it down, however it contains few calories.
All seem to agree that there needs to be more research undertaken into whether negative calories do exist. If it is ever proved to be fact, then this could pave the way for a new approach to dieting and weight loss programs. There are already some providers of negative calorie cookbooks who have them on the open market. It is worth remembering that the body still needs a set amount of calories each day and that if you are trying out the negative calorie theory your diet should still remain healthy and balanced. Please remember to also consult your medical doctor before starting any weight loss or diet related programs.
The concept of negative calories is a fairly new one and people have mixed feelings about whether it is possible or not. The basic theory given by people who believes it works is that negative calorie food takes more energy to digest the food than the food gives nutritionally. If you had a dessert that contained 300 calories and it took 150 calories to digest it, this would leave 150 calories that would be turned into fat on your body. For an example of the way the suggested negative calorie method works, you may have eaten a food that only contains 100 calories, and it takes 150 calories to digest this food, then you have burned an additional 50 calories. All food has some amount of calories; there are no "negative calorie" foods as such. The main theory is the way that the calorie count of the food is less than that of the energy needed to aid digestion.
The idea that negative calories exist is based on the fact that the body has to work harder to breakdown, process and digest the food. Factors such as the vitamin and enzyme content of the food has also to be taken into consideration when classing a food as having negative calories. This rules out the chance of junk food (empty calories) being counted as having negative calories as they do not contain enough vitamins and enzymes.
The amount of food that is considered to have negative calories is a small list but contains vegetables such as peppers, celery, cress, marrow and turnip. In regards to fruit the list contains plums, watermelon, damsons, peaches and strawberries as foods with attributes of the negative calorie.
There is still a lot of controversy over whether the negative calorie theory is in fact possible. Many experts feel that there are no foods that could be considered as having negative calories. They have taken into account the amount of energy needed to burn food may vary due to different combinations of food that we may consume. There has been some research involving celery which seems to suggest that there is a possibility that the negative calorie theory may have some truth to it. Celery always has a certain amount of energy that is needed for the digestion system to break it down, however it contains few calories.
All seem to agree that there needs to be more research undertaken into whether negative calories do exist. If it is ever proved to be fact, then this could pave the way for a new approach to dieting and weight loss programs. There are already some providers of negative calorie cookbooks who have them on the open market. It is worth remembering that the body still needs a set amount of calories each day and that if you are trying out the negative calorie theory your diet should still remain healthy and balanced. Please remember to also consult your medical doctor before starting any weight loss or diet related programs.
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