“It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it was said, “I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’!”
“Oh, all right then, ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”
“Yes, River, I can,” said Fred. “As our listeners will know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.”
“Which suits him, of course,” said Kingsley. “The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself.”
“Agreed,” said Fred. “So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit. Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill people with a single glance from his eyes. That’s a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.”
For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry was laughing: He could feel the weight of tension leaving him.
“And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” asked Lee.
“Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?” asked Fred. “Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long way away if you’re planning to take any risks. I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first!”
“Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,” said Lee. “Listeners, that brings us to the end of another Potterwatch. We don’t know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ Keep each other safe: Keep faith. Good night.”
The radio’s dial twirled and the lights behind the tuning panel went out. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still beaming. Hearing familiar, friendly voices was an extraordinary tonic; Harry had become so used to their isolation he had nearly forgotten that other people were resisting Voldemort. It was like waking from a long sleep.
“Good, eh?” said Ron happily.
“Brilliant,” said Harry.
“It’s so brave of them,” sighed Hermione admiringly. “If they were found …”
“Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” said Ron. “Like us.”
“But did you hear what Fred said?” asked Harry excitedly; now the broadcast was over, his thoughts turned around toward his all consuming obsession. “He’s abroad! He’s still looking for the Wand, I knew it!”
“Harry – ”
“Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol – ”
“HARRY, NO!”
“ – demort’s after the Elder Wand!”
“The name’s Taboo!” Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounded outside the tent. “I told you, Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore – we’ve got to put the protection back around us – quickly – it’s how they find – ”
But Ron stopped talking, and Harry knew why. The Sneakoscope on the table had lit up and begun to spin; they could hear voices coming nearer and nearer: rough, excited voices. Ron pulled the Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked it: Their lamps went out.
“Come out of there with your hands up!” came a rasping voice through the darkness. “We know you’re in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care who we curse!”
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Ron still looked pale and clammy
Ron still looked pale and clammy. He had made no attempt to sit up and it looked as though he was too weak to do so. The prospect of moving him was daunting.
“Let’s stay here for now,” Harry said.
Looking relieved, Hermione sprang to her feet.
“Where are you going?” asked Ron.
“If we’re staying, we should put some protective enchantments around the place,” she replied, and raising her wand, she began to walk in a wide circle around Harry and Ron, murmuring incantations as she went. Harry saw little disturbances in the surrounding air: It was as if Hermione had cast a heat haze upon their clearing.
“Salvio Hexia… Protego Totalum… Repello Muggletum… Muffliato… You could get out the tent, Harry….“
“Tent?”
“In the bag!”
“In the… of course,” said Harry.
He did not bother to grope inside it this time, but used another Summoning Charm. The tent emerged in a lumpy mass of canvas, ropes, and poles. Harry recognized it, partly because of the smell of cats, as the same tent in which they had slept on the night of the Quidditch World Cup.
“I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?” he asked, starting to disentangle the pent pegs.
“Apparently he didn’t want it back, his lumbago’s so bad,“ said Hermione, now performing complicated figure-of-eight movements with her wand. ”so Ron’s dad said I could borrow it. Erecto!“ she added, pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in one fluid motion rose into the air and settled, fully constructed, onto the ground before Harry, out of whose startled hands a tent peg soared, to land with a final thud at the end of a guy rope.
“Cave Inimicum,“ Hermione finished with a skyward flourish. ”That’s as much as I can do. At the very least, we should know they’re coming; I can’t guarantee it will keep out Vol – “
“Don’t say the name!” Ron cut across her, his voice harsh.
Harry and Hermione looked at each other.
“I’m sorry,” Ron said, moaning a little as he raised himself to look at them, “but it feels like a – a jinx or something. Can’t we call him You-Know-Who – please?”
“Dumbledore said fear of a name – ” began Harry.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, mate, calling You-Know-Who by his name didn’t do Dumbledore much good in the end,” Ron snapped back. “Just – just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?”
“Respect?“ Harry repeated, but Hermione shot him a warning look; apparently he was not to argue with Ron while the latter was in such a weakened condition.
Harry and Hermione half carried, half dragged Ron through the entrance of the tent. The interior was exactly as Harry remembered it; a small flat, complete with bathroom and tiny kitchen. He shoved aside an old armchair and lowered Ron carefully onto the lower berth of a bunk bed. Even this very short journey had turned Ron whiter still, and once they had settled him on the mattress he closed his eyes again and did not speak for a while.
“I’ll make some tea,” said Hermione breathlessly, pulling kettle and mugs from the depths of her bag and heading toward the kitchen.
Harry found the hot drink as welcome as the firewhisky had been on the night that Mad-Eye had died; it seemed to burn away a little of the fear fluttering in his chest.
After a minute or two, Ron broke the silence.
“What d’you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?”
“With any luck, they’ll have got away,” said Hermione, clutching her hot mug for comfort. “As long as Mr. Cattermole had his wits about him, he’ll have transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition and they’ll be fleeing the country right now with their children. That’s what Harry told her to do.”
“Blimey, I hope they escaped,“ said Ron, leaning back on his pillows. The tea seemed to be doing him good; a little of his color had returned. ”I didn’t get the feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him. God, I hope they made it…. If they both end up in Azkaban because of us…“
“Let’s stay here for now,” Harry said.
Looking relieved, Hermione sprang to her feet.
“Where are you going?” asked Ron.
“If we’re staying, we should put some protective enchantments around the place,” she replied, and raising her wand, she began to walk in a wide circle around Harry and Ron, murmuring incantations as she went. Harry saw little disturbances in the surrounding air: It was as if Hermione had cast a heat haze upon their clearing.
“Salvio Hexia… Protego Totalum… Repello Muggletum… Muffliato… You could get out the tent, Harry….“
“Tent?”
“In the bag!”
“In the… of course,” said Harry.
He did not bother to grope inside it this time, but used another Summoning Charm. The tent emerged in a lumpy mass of canvas, ropes, and poles. Harry recognized it, partly because of the smell of cats, as the same tent in which they had slept on the night of the Quidditch World Cup.
“I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?” he asked, starting to disentangle the pent pegs.
“Apparently he didn’t want it back, his lumbago’s so bad,“ said Hermione, now performing complicated figure-of-eight movements with her wand. ”so Ron’s dad said I could borrow it. Erecto!“ she added, pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in one fluid motion rose into the air and settled, fully constructed, onto the ground before Harry, out of whose startled hands a tent peg soared, to land with a final thud at the end of a guy rope.
“Cave Inimicum,“ Hermione finished with a skyward flourish. ”That’s as much as I can do. At the very least, we should know they’re coming; I can’t guarantee it will keep out Vol – “
“Don’t say the name!” Ron cut across her, his voice harsh.
Harry and Hermione looked at each other.
“I’m sorry,” Ron said, moaning a little as he raised himself to look at them, “but it feels like a – a jinx or something. Can’t we call him You-Know-Who – please?”
“Dumbledore said fear of a name – ” began Harry.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, mate, calling You-Know-Who by his name didn’t do Dumbledore much good in the end,” Ron snapped back. “Just – just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?”
“Respect?“ Harry repeated, but Hermione shot him a warning look; apparently he was not to argue with Ron while the latter was in such a weakened condition.
Harry and Hermione half carried, half dragged Ron through the entrance of the tent. The interior was exactly as Harry remembered it; a small flat, complete with bathroom and tiny kitchen. He shoved aside an old armchair and lowered Ron carefully onto the lower berth of a bunk bed. Even this very short journey had turned Ron whiter still, and once they had settled him on the mattress he closed his eyes again and did not speak for a while.
“I’ll make some tea,” said Hermione breathlessly, pulling kettle and mugs from the depths of her bag and heading toward the kitchen.
Harry found the hot drink as welcome as the firewhisky had been on the night that Mad-Eye had died; it seemed to burn away a little of the fear fluttering in his chest.
After a minute or two, Ron broke the silence.
“What d’you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?”
“With any luck, they’ll have got away,” said Hermione, clutching her hot mug for comfort. “As long as Mr. Cattermole had his wits about him, he’ll have transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition and they’ll be fleeing the country right now with their children. That’s what Harry told her to do.”
“Blimey, I hope they escaped,“ said Ron, leaning back on his pillows. The tea seemed to be doing him good; a little of his color had returned. ”I didn’t get the feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him. God, I hope they made it…. If they both end up in Azkaban because of us…“
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
“But don’t be so silly!”
“But don’t be so silly!” said Mrs. Weasley. “The whole point of tonight was to get you here safely, and thank goodness it worked. And Fleur’s agreed to get married here rather than in France, we’ve arranged everything so that we can all stay together and look after you – ”
She did not understand; she was making him feel worse, not better.
“If Voldemort finds out I’m here – ”
“But why should he?” asked Mrs. Weasley.
“There are a dozen places you might be now, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley. “He’s got no way of knowing which safe house you’re in.”
“It’s not me I’m worried for!” said Harry.
“We know that,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “but it would make our efforts tonight seem rather pointless if you left.”
“Yer not goin’ anywhere,” growled Hagrid. “Blimey, Harry, after all we wen’ through ter get you here?”
“Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?” said George, hoisting himself up on his cushions.
“I know that – ”
“Mad-Eye wouldn’t want – ”
“I KNOW!” Harry bellowed.
He felt beleaguered and blackmailed: Did they think he did not know what they had done for him, didn’t they understand that it was for precisely that reason that he wanted to go now, before they had to suffer any more on his behalf? There was a long and awkward silence in which his scar continued to prickle and throb, and which was broken at last by Mrs. Weasley.
“Where’s Hedwig, Harry?” she said coaxingly. “We can put her up with Pidwidgeon and give her something to eat.”
His insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell her the truth. He drank the last of his firewhisky to avoid answering.
“Wait till it gets out yeh did it again, Harry,” said Hagrid. “Escaped him, fought him off when he was right on top of yeh!”
“It wasn’t me,” said Harry flatly. “It was my wand. My wand acted of its own accord.”
After a few moments, Hermione said gently, “But that’s impossible, Harry. You mean that you did magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively.”
“No,” said Harry. “The bike was falling, I couldn’t have told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and it wasn’t even a spell I recognized. I’ve never made gold flames appear before.”
“Often,” said Mr. Weasley, “when you’re in a pressured situation you can produce magic you never dreamed of. Small children often find, before they’re trained – ”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Harry through gritted teeth. His scar was burning. He felt angry and frustrated; he hated the idea that they were all imagining him to have power to match Voldemort’s.
No one said anything. He knew that they did not believe him. Now that he came to think of it, he had never heard of a wand performing magic on its own before.
His scar seared with pain, it was all he could do not to moan aloud. Muttering about fresh air, he set down his glass and left the room.
As he crossed the yard, the great skeletal thestral looked up – rustled its enormous batlike wings, then resumed its grazing. Harry stopped at the gate into the garden, staring out at its overgrown plants, rubbing his pounding forehead and thinking of Dumbledore.
Dumbledore would have believed him, he knew it. Dumbledore would have known how and why Harry’s wand had acted independently, because Dumbledore always had the answers; he had known about wands, had explained to Harry the strange connection that existed between his wand and Voldemort’s…. But Dumbledore, like Mad-Eye, like Sirius, like his parents, like his poor owl, all were gone where Harry could never talk to them again. He felt a burning in his throat that had nothing to do with firewhisky….
And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar peaked. As he clutched his forehead and closed his eyes, a voice screamed inside his head.
“You told me the problem would be solved by using another’s wand!”
And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated old man lying in rags upon a stone floor, screaming, a horrible drawn-out scream, a scream of unendurable agony….
“No! No! I beg you, I beg you….”
“You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!”
“I did not…. I swear I did not….”
“You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!”
“I swear I did not…. I believed a different wand would work….”
“Explain, then, what happened. Lucius’s wand is destroyed!”
“I cannot understand…. The connection… exists only . between your two wands….”
“Lies!”
“Please… I beg you….”
And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt Voldemort’s surge of vicious anger, saw the frail old main on the floor writhe in agony –
“Harry?”
It was over as quickly as it had come: Harry stood shaking in the darkness, clutching the gate into the garden, his heart racing, his scar still tingling. It was several moments before he realized that Ron and Hermione were at his side.
“Harry, come back in the house,” Hermione whispered, “You aren’t still thinking of leaving?”
“Yeah, you’ve got to stay, mate,” said Ron, thumping Harry on the back.
“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, close enough now to look into Harry’s face. “You look awful!”
“Well,” said Harry shakily, “I probably look better than Ollivander….”
When he had finished telling them what he had seen, Ron looked appalled, but Hermione downright terrified.
“But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar – it wasn’t supposed to do this anymore! You mustn’t let that connection open up again – Dumbledore wanted you to close your mind!”
When he did not reply, she gripped his arm.
“Harry, he’s taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don’t let him inside your head too!”
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She did not understand; she was making him feel worse, not better.
“If Voldemort finds out I’m here – ”
“But why should he?” asked Mrs. Weasley.
“There are a dozen places you might be now, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley. “He’s got no way of knowing which safe house you’re in.”
“It’s not me I’m worried for!” said Harry.
“We know that,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “but it would make our efforts tonight seem rather pointless if you left.”
“Yer not goin’ anywhere,” growled Hagrid. “Blimey, Harry, after all we wen’ through ter get you here?”
“Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?” said George, hoisting himself up on his cushions.
“I know that – ”
“Mad-Eye wouldn’t want – ”
“I KNOW!” Harry bellowed.
He felt beleaguered and blackmailed: Did they think he did not know what they had done for him, didn’t they understand that it was for precisely that reason that he wanted to go now, before they had to suffer any more on his behalf? There was a long and awkward silence in which his scar continued to prickle and throb, and which was broken at last by Mrs. Weasley.
“Where’s Hedwig, Harry?” she said coaxingly. “We can put her up with Pidwidgeon and give her something to eat.”
His insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell her the truth. He drank the last of his firewhisky to avoid answering.
“Wait till it gets out yeh did it again, Harry,” said Hagrid. “Escaped him, fought him off when he was right on top of yeh!”
“It wasn’t me,” said Harry flatly. “It was my wand. My wand acted of its own accord.”
After a few moments, Hermione said gently, “But that’s impossible, Harry. You mean that you did magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively.”
“No,” said Harry. “The bike was falling, I couldn’t have told you where Voldemort was, but my wand spun in my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and it wasn’t even a spell I recognized. I’ve never made gold flames appear before.”
“Often,” said Mr. Weasley, “when you’re in a pressured situation you can produce magic you never dreamed of. Small children often find, before they’re trained – ”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Harry through gritted teeth. His scar was burning. He felt angry and frustrated; he hated the idea that they were all imagining him to have power to match Voldemort’s.
No one said anything. He knew that they did not believe him. Now that he came to think of it, he had never heard of a wand performing magic on its own before.
His scar seared with pain, it was all he could do not to moan aloud. Muttering about fresh air, he set down his glass and left the room.
As he crossed the yard, the great skeletal thestral looked up – rustled its enormous batlike wings, then resumed its grazing. Harry stopped at the gate into the garden, staring out at its overgrown plants, rubbing his pounding forehead and thinking of Dumbledore.
Dumbledore would have believed him, he knew it. Dumbledore would have known how and why Harry’s wand had acted independently, because Dumbledore always had the answers; he had known about wands, had explained to Harry the strange connection that existed between his wand and Voldemort’s…. But Dumbledore, like Mad-Eye, like Sirius, like his parents, like his poor owl, all were gone where Harry could never talk to them again. He felt a burning in his throat that had nothing to do with firewhisky….
And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar peaked. As he clutched his forehead and closed his eyes, a voice screamed inside his head.
“You told me the problem would be solved by using another’s wand!”
And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated old man lying in rags upon a stone floor, screaming, a horrible drawn-out scream, a scream of unendurable agony….
“No! No! I beg you, I beg you….”
“You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!”
“I did not…. I swear I did not….”
“You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!”
“I swear I did not…. I believed a different wand would work….”
“Explain, then, what happened. Lucius’s wand is destroyed!”
“I cannot understand…. The connection… exists only . between your two wands….”
“Lies!”
“Please… I beg you….”
And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt Voldemort’s surge of vicious anger, saw the frail old main on the floor writhe in agony –
“Harry?”
It was over as quickly as it had come: Harry stood shaking in the darkness, clutching the gate into the garden, his heart racing, his scar still tingling. It was several moments before he realized that Ron and Hermione were at his side.
“Harry, come back in the house,” Hermione whispered, “You aren’t still thinking of leaving?”
“Yeah, you’ve got to stay, mate,” said Ron, thumping Harry on the back.
“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, close enough now to look into Harry’s face. “You look awful!”
“Well,” said Harry shakily, “I probably look better than Ollivander….”
When he had finished telling them what he had seen, Ron looked appalled, but Hermione downright terrified.
“But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar – it wasn’t supposed to do this anymore! You mustn’t let that connection open up again – Dumbledore wanted you to close your mind!”
When he did not reply, she gripped his arm.
“Harry, he’s taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding world! Don’t let him inside your head too!”
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Monday, November 29, 2010
“You are very kind, Harry,”
“You are very kind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, now passing the tip of his wand over the deep cut he had made in his own arm, so that it healed instantly, just as Snape
had healed Malfoy's wound, “But your blood is worth more than mine. Ah, that seems to have done the trick, doesn't it?”
The blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in the wall once more, and this time it did not fade away: the blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished,
leaving an opening into what seemed total darkness.
“After me, I think,” said Dumbledore, and he walked through the archway with Harry on his heels, lighting his own wand hastily as he went.
An eerie sight met their eyes: they were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that
the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the completely still water
below. The greenish glow and the light from the two wands were the only things that broke the otherwise velvety blackness, though their rays did not penetrate as far as
Harry would have expected. The darkness was somehow denser than normal darkness.
“Let us walk,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Be very careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me.”
He set off around the edge of the lake, and Harry followed close behind him. Their footsteps made echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock that surrounded the
water. On and on they walked, but the view did not vary: on one side of them, the rough cavern wall, on the other, the boundless expanse of smooth, glassy blackness, in
the very middle of which was that mysterious greenish glow. Harry found the place and the silence oppressive, unnerving.
“Professor?” he said finally. “Do you think the Horcrux is here?”
“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, I'm sure it is. The question is, how do we get to it?”
“We couldn't... we couldn't just try a Summoning Charm?” Harry said, sure that it was a stupid suggestion. But he was much keener than he was prepared to admit on
getting out of this place as soon as possible.
“Certainly we could,” said Dumbledore, stopping so suddenly that Harry almost walked into him. “Why don't you do it?”
“Me? Oh... okay...” Harry had not expected this, but cleared his throat and said loudly, wand aloft, “Accio Horcrux!”
With a noise like an explosion, something very large and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty feet away; before Harry could see what it was, it had vanished
again with a crashing splash that made great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Harry leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his heart was still thundering as he
turned to Dumbledore.
“What was that?”
had healed Malfoy's wound, “But your blood is worth more than mine. Ah, that seems to have done the trick, doesn't it?”
The blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in the wall once more, and this time it did not fade away: the blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished,
leaving an opening into what seemed total darkness.
“After me, I think,” said Dumbledore, and he walked through the archway with Harry on his heels, lighting his own wand hastily as he went.
An eerie sight met their eyes: they were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that
the ceiling too was out of sight. A misty greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the completely still water
below. The greenish glow and the light from the two wands were the only things that broke the otherwise velvety blackness, though their rays did not penetrate as far as
Harry would have expected. The darkness was somehow denser than normal darkness.
“Let us walk,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Be very careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me.”
He set off around the edge of the lake, and Harry followed close behind him. Their footsteps made echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock that surrounded the
water. On and on they walked, but the view did not vary: on one side of them, the rough cavern wall, on the other, the boundless expanse of smooth, glassy blackness, in
the very middle of which was that mysterious greenish glow. Harry found the place and the silence oppressive, unnerving.
“Professor?” he said finally. “Do you think the Horcrux is here?”
“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, I'm sure it is. The question is, how do we get to it?”
“We couldn't... we couldn't just try a Summoning Charm?” Harry said, sure that it was a stupid suggestion. But he was much keener than he was prepared to admit on
getting out of this place as soon as possible.
“Certainly we could,” said Dumbledore, stopping so suddenly that Harry almost walked into him. “Why don't you do it?”
“Me? Oh... okay...” Harry had not expected this, but cleared his throat and said loudly, wand aloft, “Accio Horcrux!”
With a noise like an explosion, something very large and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty feet away; before Harry could see what it was, it had vanished
again with a crashing splash that made great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Harry leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his heart was still thundering as he
turned to Dumbledore.
“What was that?”
Harry did not ask how Dumbledore knew
Harry did not ask how Dumbledore knew. He had never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply by looking and touching; but Harry had long since learned that bangs
and smoke were more often the marks of ineptitude than expertise.
Dumbledore stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a
powerful light behind the crack.
“You've d-done it!” said Harry through chattering teeth, but before the words had left his lips the outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid as ever.
Dumbledore looked around.
“Harry, I'm so sorry, I forgot,” he said; he now pointed his wand at Harry and at once, Harry's clothes were as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front of a
blazing fire.
“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully, but Dumbledore had already turned his attention back to the solid cave wall. He did not try any more magic, but simply stood there
staring at it intently, as though something extremely interesting was written on it. Harry stayed quite still; he did not want to break Dumbledore's concentration.
Then, after two solid minutes, Dumbledore said quietly, “Oh, surely not. So crude.”
“What is it, Professor?”
“I rather think,” said Dumbledore, putting his uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a short silver knife of the kind Harry used to chop potion ingredients,
“that we are required to make payment to pass.”
“Payment?” said Harry. “You've got to give the door something?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Blood, if I am not much mistaken.”
“Blood?”
“I said it was crude,” said Dumbledore, who sounded disdainful, even disappointed, as though Voldemort had fallen short of higher standards Dumbledore expected. “The
idea, as I am sure you will have gathered, is that your enemy must weaken him- or herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort fails to grasp that there are much more
terrible things than physical injury.”
“Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it...” said Harry, who had experienced enough pain not to be keen for more.
“Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable,” said Dumbledore, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and exposing the forearm of his injured hand.
“Professor!” protested Harry, hurrying forward as Dumbledore raised his knife. “I'll do it, I'm —”
He did not know what he was going to say—younger, fitter? But Dumbledore merely smiled. There was a flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face was peppered
with dark, glistening drops.
and smoke were more often the marks of ineptitude than expertise.
Dumbledore stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a
powerful light behind the crack.
“You've d-done it!” said Harry through chattering teeth, but before the words had left his lips the outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid as ever.
Dumbledore looked around.
“Harry, I'm so sorry, I forgot,” he said; he now pointed his wand at Harry and at once, Harry's clothes were as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front of a
blazing fire.
“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully, but Dumbledore had already turned his attention back to the solid cave wall. He did not try any more magic, but simply stood there
staring at it intently, as though something extremely interesting was written on it. Harry stayed quite still; he did not want to break Dumbledore's concentration.
Then, after two solid minutes, Dumbledore said quietly, “Oh, surely not. So crude.”
“What is it, Professor?”
“I rather think,” said Dumbledore, putting his uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a short silver knife of the kind Harry used to chop potion ingredients,
“that we are required to make payment to pass.”
“Payment?” said Harry. “You've got to give the door something?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Blood, if I am not much mistaken.”
“Blood?”
“I said it was crude,” said Dumbledore, who sounded disdainful, even disappointed, as though Voldemort had fallen short of higher standards Dumbledore expected. “The
idea, as I am sure you will have gathered, is that your enemy must weaken him- or herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort fails to grasp that there are much more
terrible things than physical injury.”
“Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it...” said Harry, who had experienced enough pain not to be keen for more.
“Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable,” said Dumbledore, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and exposing the forearm of his injured hand.
“Professor!” protested Harry, hurrying forward as Dumbledore raised his knife. “I'll do it, I'm —”
He did not know what he was going to say—younger, fitter? But Dumbledore merely smiled. There was a flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face was peppered
with dark, glistening drops.
“Lumos,” said Dumbledore,
“Lumos,” said Dumbledore, as he reached the boulder closest to the cliff face. A thousand flecks of golden light sparkled upon the dark surface of the water a few
feet below where he crouched; the black wall of rock beside him was illuminated too.
“You see?” said Dumbledore quietly, holding his wand a little higher. Harry saw a fissure in the cliff into which dark water was swirling.
“You will not object to getting a little wet?”
“No,” said Harry.
“Then take off your Invisibility Cloak—there is no need for it now—and let us take the plunge.”
And with the sudden agility of a much younger man, Dumbledore slid from the boulder, landed in the sea, and began to swim, with a perfect breaststroke, toward the dark
slit in the rock face, his lit wand held in his teeth. Harry pulled off his cloak, stuffed it into his pocket, and followed.
The water was icy; Harry's waterlogged clothes billowed around him and weighed him down. Taking deep breaths that filled his nostrils with the tang of salt and seaweed,
he struck out for the shimmering, shrinking light now moving deeper into the cliff. The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry could tell would be filled
with water at high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered like wet tar in the passing light of Dumbledore's wand. A little way in, the
passageway curved to the left, and Harry saw that it extended far into the cliff. He continued to swim in Dumbledore's wake, the tips of his benumbed fingers brushing
the rough, wet rock.
Then he saw Dumbledore rising out of the water ahead, his silver hair and dark robes gleaming. When Harry reached the spot he found steps that led into a large cave. He
clambered up them, water streaming from his soaking clothes, and emerged, shivering uncontrollably, into the still and freezing air.
Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, examining the walls and ceiling.
“Yes, this is the place,” said Dumbledore.
“How can you tell?” Harry spoke in a whisper.
“It has known magic,” said Dumbledore simply. Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or to the same
awareness of enchantments. He watched as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot, evidently concentrating on things Harry could not see.
“This is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two. “We need to penetrate the inner place... now it is Lord Voldemort's
obstacles that stand in our way, rather than those nature made...”
Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring words in a strange tongue that Harry did not understand. Twice
Dumbledore walked right around the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backward and forward over a
particular spot, until finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall.
“Here,” he said. “We go on through here. The entrance is concealed.”
feet below where he crouched; the black wall of rock beside him was illuminated too.
“You see?” said Dumbledore quietly, holding his wand a little higher. Harry saw a fissure in the cliff into which dark water was swirling.
“You will not object to getting a little wet?”
“No,” said Harry.
“Then take off your Invisibility Cloak—there is no need for it now—and let us take the plunge.”
And with the sudden agility of a much younger man, Dumbledore slid from the boulder, landed in the sea, and began to swim, with a perfect breaststroke, toward the dark
slit in the rock face, his lit wand held in his teeth. Harry pulled off his cloak, stuffed it into his pocket, and followed.
The water was icy; Harry's waterlogged clothes billowed around him and weighed him down. Taking deep breaths that filled his nostrils with the tang of salt and seaweed,
he struck out for the shimmering, shrinking light now moving deeper into the cliff. The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry could tell would be filled
with water at high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered like wet tar in the passing light of Dumbledore's wand. A little way in, the
passageway curved to the left, and Harry saw that it extended far into the cliff. He continued to swim in Dumbledore's wake, the tips of his benumbed fingers brushing
the rough, wet rock.
Then he saw Dumbledore rising out of the water ahead, his silver hair and dark robes gleaming. When Harry reached the spot he found steps that led into a large cave. He
clambered up them, water streaming from his soaking clothes, and emerged, shivering uncontrollably, into the still and freezing air.
Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, examining the walls and ceiling.
“Yes, this is the place,” said Dumbledore.
“How can you tell?” Harry spoke in a whisper.
“It has known magic,” said Dumbledore simply. Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or to the same
awareness of enchantments. He watched as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot, evidently concentrating on things Harry could not see.
“This is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two. “We need to penetrate the inner place... now it is Lord Voldemort's
obstacles that stand in our way, rather than those nature made...”
Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring words in a strange tongue that Harry did not understand. Twice
Dumbledore walked right around the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backward and forward over a
particular spot, until finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall.
“Here,” he said. “We go on through here. The entrance is concealed.”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
“Are you going out with him, then?” asked Parvati, wide-eyed.
“Are you going out with him, then?” asked Parvati, wide-eyed.
“Oh—yes—didn't you know?” said Harmione, with a most un-Hermione-ish giggle.
“No!” said Parvati, looking positively agog at this piece of gossip. “Wow, you like your Quidditch players, don't you? First Krum, then McLaggen.”
“I like really good Quidditch players,” Hermione corrected her, still smiling. “Well, see you... got to go and get ready for the party...”
She left. At once Lavender and Parvati put their heads together to discuss this new development, with everything they had ever heard about McLaggen, and all they had
ever guessed about Hermione. Ron looked strangely blank and said nothing. Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.
When he arrived in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock that night, he found an unusually large number of girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring at him
resentfully as he approached Luna. She was wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were attracting a certain amount of giggles from the onlookers, but otherwise she
looked quite nice. Harry was glad, in any case, that she had left off her radish earrings, her Butterbeer-cork necklace, and her Spectrespecs.
“Hi,” he said. “Shall we get going then?”
“Oh yes,” she said happily. “Where is the party?”
“Slughorn's office,” said Harry, leading her up the marble staircase away from all the staring and muttering. “Did you hear, there's supposed to be a vampire coming?
”
“Rufus Scrimgeour?” asked Luna.
“I—what?” said Harry, disconcerted. “You mean the Minister of Magic?”
“Yes, he's a vampire,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “Father wrote a very long article about it when Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but he was forced
not to publish by somebody from the Ministry. Obviously, they didn't want the truth to get out!”
Harry, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna repeating her father's bizarre views as though they were fact, did not
reply; they were already approaching Slughorn's office and the sounds of laughter, music, and loud conversation were growing louder with every step they took.
Whether it had been built that way, or because he had used magical trickery to make it so, Slughorn's office was much larger than the usual teacher's study. The ceiling
and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson and gold hangings, so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy and
bathed in the red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the center of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light.
Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and
a number of house-elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they
looked like little roving tables.
“Harry, m'boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door. “Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!”
Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry's arm so tightly he might have been hoping to Disapparate with him, Slughorn led
him purposefully into the party; Harry seized Luna's hand and dragged her along with him.
“Harry, I'd like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine, author of Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires—and, of course, his friend Sanguini.”
Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, grabbed Harry's hand and shook it enthusiastically; the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated with dark shadows
under his eyes, merely nodded. He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and excited.
“Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!” said Worple, peering short-sightedly up into Harry's face. “I was saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, Where is
the biography of Harry Potter for which we have all been waiting?”
“Er,” said Harry, “were you?”
“Oh—yes—didn't you know?” said Harmione, with a most un-Hermione-ish giggle.
“No!” said Parvati, looking positively agog at this piece of gossip. “Wow, you like your Quidditch players, don't you? First Krum, then McLaggen.”
“I like really good Quidditch players,” Hermione corrected her, still smiling. “Well, see you... got to go and get ready for the party...”
She left. At once Lavender and Parvati put their heads together to discuss this new development, with everything they had ever heard about McLaggen, and all they had
ever guessed about Hermione. Ron looked strangely blank and said nothing. Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.
When he arrived in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock that night, he found an unusually large number of girls lurking there, all of whom seemed to be staring at him
resentfully as he approached Luna. She was wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were attracting a certain amount of giggles from the onlookers, but otherwise she
looked quite nice. Harry was glad, in any case, that she had left off her radish earrings, her Butterbeer-cork necklace, and her Spectrespecs.
“Hi,” he said. “Shall we get going then?”
“Oh yes,” she said happily. “Where is the party?”
“Slughorn's office,” said Harry, leading her up the marble staircase away from all the staring and muttering. “Did you hear, there's supposed to be a vampire coming?
”
“Rufus Scrimgeour?” asked Luna.
“I—what?” said Harry, disconcerted. “You mean the Minister of Magic?”
“Yes, he's a vampire,” said Luna matter-of-factly. “Father wrote a very long article about it when Scrimgeour first took over from Cornelius Fudge, but he was forced
not to publish by somebody from the Ministry. Obviously, they didn't want the truth to get out!”
Harry, who thought it most unlikely that Rufus Scrimgeour was a vampire, but who was used to Luna repeating her father's bizarre views as though they were fact, did not
reply; they were already approaching Slughorn's office and the sounds of laughter, music, and loud conversation were growing louder with every step they took.
Whether it had been built that way, or because he had used magical trickery to make it so, Slughorn's office was much larger than the usual teacher's study. The ceiling
and walls had been draped with emerald, crimson and gold hangings, so that it looked as though they were all inside a vast tent. The room was crowded and stuffy and
bathed in the red light cast by an ornate golden lamp dangling from the center of the ceiling in which real fairies were fluttering, each a brilliant speck of light.
Loud singing accompanied by what sounded like mandolins issued from a distant corner; a haze of pipe smoke hung over several elderly warlocks deep in conversation, and
a number of house-elves were negotiating their way squeakily through the forest of knees, obscured by the heavy silver platters of food they were bearing, so that they
looked like little roving tables.
“Harry, m'boy!” boomed Slughorn, almost as soon as Harry and Luna had squeezed in through the door. “Come in, come in, so many people I'd like you to meet!”
Slughorn was wearing a tasseled velvet hat to match his smoking jacket. Gripping Harry's arm so tightly he might have been hoping to Disapparate with him, Slughorn led
him purposefully into the party; Harry seized Luna's hand and dragged her along with him.
“Harry, I'd like you to meet Eldred Worple, an old student of mine, author of Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires—and, of course, his friend Sanguini.”
Worple, who was a small, stout, bespectacled man, grabbed Harry's hand and shook it enthusiastically; the vampire Sanguini, who was tall and emaciated with dark shadows
under his eyes, merely nodded. He looked rather bored. A gaggle of girls was standing close to him, looking curious and excited.
“Harry Potter, I am simply delighted!” said Worple, peering short-sightedly up into Harry's face. “I was saying to Professor Slughorn only the other day, Where is
the biography of Harry Potter for which we have all been waiting?”
“Er,” said Harry, “were you?”
“Oh no, I'd love to go with you as friends!
“Oh no, I'd love to go with you as friends!” said Luna, beaming as he had never seen her beam before. “Nobody's ever asked me to a party before, as a friend! Is that
why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party? Should I do mine too?”
“No,” said Harry firmly, “That was a mistake. I'll get Hermione to put it right for me. So I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock then.”
“AHA!” screamed a voice from overhead and both of them jumped; unnoticed by either of them, they had just passed underneath Peeves, who was hanging upside down from a
chandelier and grinning maliciously at them.
“Potty asked Loony to go to the party. Potty lurves Loony! Potty luuuuuurves Looooony!”
And he zoomed away cackling and shrieking, “Potty loves Loony!”
“Nice to keep these things private,” said Harry. And sure enough, in no time at all the whole school seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna Lovegood to
Slughorn's party.
“You could've taken anyone!” said Ron in disbelief over dinner. “Anyone! And you chose Loony Lovegood?”
“Don't call her that, Ron!” snapped Ginny, pausing behind Harry on her way to join friends. “I'm really glad you're taking her Harry, she's so excited.”
And she moved on down the table to sit with Dean. Harry tried to feel pleased that Ginny was glad he was taking Luna to the party but could not quite manage it. A long
way along the table Hermione was sitting alone, playing with her stew. Harry noticed Ron looking at her furtively.
“You could say sorry,” suggested Harry bluntly.
“What, and get attacked by another flock of canaries?” muttered Ron.
“What did you have to imitate her for?”
“She laughed at my mustache!”
“So did I, it was the stupidest thing I've ever seen.”
But Ron did not seem to have heard; Lavender had just arrived with Parvati. Squeezing herself in between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms around Ron's neck.
“Hi, Harry,” said Parvati who, like Harry, looked faintly embarrassed and bored by the behavior of their two friends.
“Hi,” said Harry, “How're you? You're staying at Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to leave.”
“I managed to talk them out of it for the time being,” said Parvati. “That Katie thing really freaked them out, but as there hasn't been anything since... Oh, hi,
Hermione!”
Parvati positively beamed. Harry could tell that she was feeling guilty for having laughed at Hermione in Transfiguration. He looked around and saw that Hermione was
beaming back, if possible even more brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes.
“Hi, Parvati!” said Hermione, ignoring Ron and Lavender completely. “Are you going to Slughorn's party tonight?”
“No invite,” said Parvati gloomily. “I'd love to go, though, it sounds like it's going to be really good... you're going, aren't you?”
why you dyed your eyebrow, for the party? Should I do mine too?”
“No,” said Harry firmly, “That was a mistake. I'll get Hermione to put it right for me. So I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall at eight o'clock then.”
“AHA!” screamed a voice from overhead and both of them jumped; unnoticed by either of them, they had just passed underneath Peeves, who was hanging upside down from a
chandelier and grinning maliciously at them.
“Potty asked Loony to go to the party. Potty lurves Loony! Potty luuuuuurves Looooony!”
And he zoomed away cackling and shrieking, “Potty loves Loony!”
“Nice to keep these things private,” said Harry. And sure enough, in no time at all the whole school seemed to know that Harry Potter was taking Luna Lovegood to
Slughorn's party.
“You could've taken anyone!” said Ron in disbelief over dinner. “Anyone! And you chose Loony Lovegood?”
“Don't call her that, Ron!” snapped Ginny, pausing behind Harry on her way to join friends. “I'm really glad you're taking her Harry, she's so excited.”
And she moved on down the table to sit with Dean. Harry tried to feel pleased that Ginny was glad he was taking Luna to the party but could not quite manage it. A long
way along the table Hermione was sitting alone, playing with her stew. Harry noticed Ron looking at her furtively.
“You could say sorry,” suggested Harry bluntly.
“What, and get attacked by another flock of canaries?” muttered Ron.
“What did you have to imitate her for?”
“She laughed at my mustache!”
“So did I, it was the stupidest thing I've ever seen.”
But Ron did not seem to have heard; Lavender had just arrived with Parvati. Squeezing herself in between Harry and Ron, Lavender flung her arms around Ron's neck.
“Hi, Harry,” said Parvati who, like Harry, looked faintly embarrassed and bored by the behavior of their two friends.
“Hi,” said Harry, “How're you? You're staying at Hogwarts, then? I heard your parents wanted you to leave.”
“I managed to talk them out of it for the time being,” said Parvati. “That Katie thing really freaked them out, but as there hasn't been anything since... Oh, hi,
Hermione!”
Parvati positively beamed. Harry could tell that she was feeling guilty for having laughed at Hermione in Transfiguration. He looked around and saw that Hermione was
beaming back, if possible even more brightly. Girls were very strange sometimes.
“Hi, Parvati!” said Hermione, ignoring Ron and Lavender completely. “Are you going to Slughorn's party tonight?”
“No invite,” said Parvati gloomily. “I'd love to go, though, it sounds like it's going to be really good... you're going, aren't you?”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was
Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, “Professor—I'm ready now.”
“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Just one last thing, then.” And he turned to speak to the Dursleys once more.
“As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a year's time —”
“No,” said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's arrival.
“I'm sorry?” said Dumbledore politely.
“No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next.”
“Ah,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen.”
Uncle Vernon muttered, “Preposterous,” but Dumbledore ignored him.
“Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents’ murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own.”
Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.
“You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you.”
Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinctively, as though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.
“Us—mistreat Dudders? What d'you—?” began Uncle Vernon furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.
“The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house ‘home.’ However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time.”
None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated. Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.
“Well, Harry... time for us to be off,” said Dumbledore at last, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. “Until we meet again,” he said to the Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.
“Bye,” said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who paused beside Harry's trunk, upon which Hedwig's cage was perched.
“We do not want to be encumbered by these just now,” he said, pulling out his wand again. “I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case.”
Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket, Dumbiedore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front door opened onto cool, misty darkness.
“And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”
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“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Just one last thing, then.” And he turned to speak to the Dursleys once more.
“As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a year's time —”
“No,” said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's arrival.
“I'm sorry?” said Dumbledore politely.
“No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next.”
“Ah,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen.”
Uncle Vernon muttered, “Preposterous,” but Dumbledore ignored him.
“Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents’ murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own.”
Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.
“You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you.”
Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinctively, as though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.
“Us—mistreat Dudders? What d'you—?” began Uncle Vernon furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.
“The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house ‘home.’ However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time.”
None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated. Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.
“Well, Harry... time for us to be off,” said Dumbledore at last, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. “Until we meet again,” he said to the Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.
“Bye,” said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who paused beside Harry's trunk, upon which Hedwig's cage was perched.
“We do not want to be encumbered by these just now,” he said, pulling out his wand again. “I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case.”
Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket, Dumbiedore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front door opened onto cool, misty darkness.
“And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”
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Monday, November 22, 2010
Chapter 45
"Anna! Anna!" he said with a choking voice, "Anna, for pity's sake!..."
But the louder he spoke, the lower she dropped her once proud and gay, now shame-stricken head, and she bowed down and sank from the sofa where she was sitting, down on the floor, at his feet; she would have fallen on the carpet if he had not held her.
"My God! Forgive me!" she said, sobbing, pressing his hands to her bosom.
She felt so sinful, so guilty, that nothing was left her but to humiliate herself and beg forgiveness; and as now there was no one in her life but him, to him she addressed her prayer for forgiveness. Looking at him, she had a physical sense of her humiliation, and she could say nothing more. He felt what a murderer must feel, when he sees the body he has robbed of life. That body, robbed by him of life, was their love, the first stage of their love. There was something awful and revolting in the memory of what had been bought at this fearful price of shame. Shame at their spiritual nakedness crushed her and infected him. But in spite of all the murderer's horror before the body of his victim, he must hack it to pieces, hide the body, must use what he has gained by his murder.
And with fury, as it were with passion, the murderer falls on the body, and drags it and hacks at it; so he covered her face and shoulders with kisses. She held his hand, and did not stir. "Yes, these kisses--that is what has been bought by this shame. Yes, and one hand, which will always be mine--the hand of my accomplice." She lifted up that hand and kissed it. He sank on his knees and tried to see her face; but she hid it, and said nothing. At last, as though making an effort over herself, she got up and pushed him away. Her face was still as beautiful, but it was only the more pitiful for that.
"All is over," she said; "In have nothing but you. Remember that."
"I can never forget what is my whole life. For one instant of this happiness..."
"Happiness!" she said with horror and loathing and her horror unconsciously infected him. "For pity's sake, not a word, not a word more."
She rose quickly and moved away from him.
Chapter 44
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Chapter 11
Levin emptied his glass, and they were silent for a while.
"There's one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you know Vronsky?" Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.
"No, I don't. Why do you ask?"
"Give us another bottle," Stepan Arkadyevitch directed the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting round them just when he was not wanted.
"Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he's one of your rivals."
"Who's Vronsky?" said Levin, and his face was suddenly transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and unpleasant expression.
"Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business, and he came there for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great connections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very nice, good-natured fellow. But he's more than simply a good-natured fellow, as I've found out here--he's a cultivated man, too, and very intelligent; he's a man who'll make his mark."
Levin scowled and was dumb.
"Well, he turned up here soon after you'd gone, and as I can see, he's over head and ears in love with Kitty, and you know that her mother..."
"Excuse me, but I know nothing," said Levin, frowning gloomily. And immediately he recollected his brother Nikolay and how hateful he was to have been able to forget him.
"You wait a bit, wait a bit," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling and touching his hand. "I've told you what I know, and I repeat that in this delicate and tender matter, as far as one can conjecture, I believe the chances are in your favor."
Levin dropped back in his chair; his face was pale.
"But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as may be," pursued Oblonsky, filling up his glass.
"No, thanks, I can't drink any more," said Levin, pushing away his glass. "I shall be drunk.... Come, tell me how are you getting on?" he went on, obviously anxious to change the conversation.
"One word more: in any case I advise you to settle the question soon. Tonight I don't advise you to speak," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Go round tomorrow morning, make an offer in due form, and God bless you..."
"Oh, do you still think of coming to me for some shooting? Come next spring, do," said Levin.
Now his whole soul was full of remorse that he had begun this conversation with Stepan Arkadyevitch. A feeling such as his was prefaced by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer, of the suppositions and the counsels of Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He knew what was passing in Levin's soul.
"There's one other thing I ought to tell you. Do you know Vronsky?" Stepan Arkadyevitch asked Levin.
"No, I don't. Why do you ask?"
"Give us another bottle," Stepan Arkadyevitch directed the Tatar, who was filling up their glasses and fidgeting round them just when he was not wanted.
"Why you ought to know Vronsky is that he's one of your rivals."
"Who's Vronsky?" said Levin, and his face was suddenly transformed from the look of childlike ecstasy which Oblonsky had just been admiring to an angry and unpleasant expression.
"Vronsky is one of the sons of Count Kirill Ivanovitch Vronsky, and one of the finest specimens of the gilded youth of Petersburg. I made his acquaintance in Tver when I was there on official business, and he came there for the levy of recruits. Fearfully rich, handsome, great connections, an aide-de-camp, and with all that a very nice, good-natured fellow. But he's more than simply a good-natured fellow, as I've found out here--he's a cultivated man, too, and very intelligent; he's a man who'll make his mark."
Levin scowled and was dumb.
"Well, he turned up here soon after you'd gone, and as I can see, he's over head and ears in love with Kitty, and you know that her mother..."
"Excuse me, but I know nothing," said Levin, frowning gloomily. And immediately he recollected his brother Nikolay and how hateful he was to have been able to forget him.
"You wait a bit, wait a bit," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling and touching his hand. "I've told you what I know, and I repeat that in this delicate and tender matter, as far as one can conjecture, I believe the chances are in your favor."
Levin dropped back in his chair; his face was pale.
"But I would advise you to settle the thing as soon as may be," pursued Oblonsky, filling up his glass.
"No, thanks, I can't drink any more," said Levin, pushing away his glass. "I shall be drunk.... Come, tell me how are you getting on?" he went on, obviously anxious to change the conversation.
"One word more: in any case I advise you to settle the question soon. Tonight I don't advise you to speak," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Go round tomorrow morning, make an offer in due form, and God bless you..."
"Oh, do you still think of coming to me for some shooting? Come next spring, do," said Levin.
Now his whole soul was full of remorse that he had begun this conversation with Stepan Arkadyevitch. A feeling such as his was prefaced by talk of the rivalry of some Petersburg officer, of the suppositions and the counsels of Stepan Arkadyevitch.
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He knew what was passing in Levin's soul.
"What did you go away for?"
"What did you go away for?"
"Ah, stop a minute! Ah, the thoughts that come crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself! Listen. You can't imagine what you've done for me by what you said. I'm so happy that I've become positively hateful; I've forgotten everything. I heard today that my brother Nikolay...you know, he's here...I had even forgotten him. It seems to me that he's happy too. It's a sort of madness. But one thing's awful.... Here, you've been married, you know the feeling...it's awful that we--old--with a past... not of love, but of sins...are brought all at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it's loathsome, and that's why one can't help feeling oneself unworthy."
"Oh, well, you've not many sins on your conscience."
"Alas! all the same," said Levin, "when with loathing I go over my life, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret it.... Yes."
"What would you have? The world's made so," said Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always liked: 'Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but according to Thy lovingkindness.' That's the only way she can forgive me."
"Ah, stop a minute! Ah, the thoughts that come crowding on one! The questions one must ask oneself! Listen. You can't imagine what you've done for me by what you said. I'm so happy that I've become positively hateful; I've forgotten everything. I heard today that my brother Nikolay...you know, he's here...I had even forgotten him. It seems to me that he's happy too. It's a sort of madness. But one thing's awful.... Here, you've been married, you know the feeling...it's awful that we--old--with a past... not of love, but of sins...are brought all at once so near to a creature pure and innocent; it's loathsome, and that's why one can't help feeling oneself unworthy."
"Oh, well, you've not many sins on your conscience."
"Alas! all the same," said Levin, "when with loathing I go over my life, I shudder and curse and bitterly regret it.... Yes."
"What would you have? The world's made so," said Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"The one comfort is like that prayer, which I always liked: 'Forgive me not according to my unworthiness, but according to Thy lovingkindness.' That's the only way she can forgive me."
"Yes," said Levin, slowly and with emotion,
"Yes," said Levin, slowly and with emotion, "you're right. I am a savage. Only, my savageness is not in having gone away, but in coming now. Now I have come..."
"Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!" broke in Stepan Arkadyevitch, looking into Levin's eyes.
"Why?"
"I know a gallant steed by tokens sure, And by his eyes I know a youth in love," declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Everything is before you."
"Why, is it over for you already?"
"No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the present is mine, and the present--well, it's not all that it might be."
"How so?"
"Oh, things go wrong. But I don't want to talk of myself, and besides I can't explain it all," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Well, why have you come to Moscow, then?.... Hi! take away!" he called to the Tatar.
"You guess?" responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"I guess, but I can't be the first to talk about it. You can see by that whether I guess right or wrong," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.
"Well, and what have you to say to me?" said Levin in a quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering too. "How do you look at the question?"
Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin.
"I?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, "there's nothing I desire so much as that--nothing! It would be the best thing that could be."
"But you're not making a mistake? You know what we're speaking of?" said Levin, piercing him with his eyes. "You think it's possible?"
"I think it's possible. Why not possible?"
"No! do you really think it's possible? No, tell me all you think! Oh, but if...if refusal's in store for me!... Indeed I feel sure..."
"Why should you think that?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling at his excitement.
"It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for me, and for her too."
"Oh, well, anyway there's nothing awful in it for a girl. Every girl's proud of an offer."
"Yes, every girl, but not she."
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that feeling of Levin's, that for him all the girls in the world were divided into two classes: one class--all the girls in the world except her, and those girls with all sorts of human weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other class--she alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than all humanity.
"Stay, take some sauce," he said, holding back Levin's hand as it pushed away the sauce.
Levin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would not let Stepan Arkadyevitch go on with his dinner.
"No, stop a minute, stop a minute," he said. "You must understand that it's a question of life and death for me. I have never spoken to any one of this. And there's no one I could speak of it to, except you. You know we're utterly unlike each other, different tastes and views and everything; but I know you're fond of me and understand me, and that's why I like you awfully. But for God's sake, be quite straightforward with me."
"I tell you what I think," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling. "But I'll say more: my wife is a wonderful woman..." Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, remembering his position with his wife, and, after a moment's silence, resumed--"She has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees right through people; but that's not all; she knows what will come to pass, especially in the way of marriages. She foretold, for instance, that Princess Shahovskaya would marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but it came to pass. And she's on your side."
"How do you mean?"
"It's not only that she likes you--she says that Kitty is certain to be your wife."
At these words Levin's face suddenly lighted up with a smile, a smile not far from tears of emotion.
"She says that!" cried Levin. "I always said she was exquisite, your wife. There, that's enough, enough said about it," he said, getting up from his seat.
"All right, but do sit down."
"Oh, what a lucky fellow you are!" broke in Stepan Arkadyevitch, looking into Levin's eyes.
"Why?"
"I know a gallant steed by tokens sure, And by his eyes I know a youth in love," declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Everything is before you."
"Why, is it over for you already?"
"No; not over exactly, but the future is yours, and the present is mine, and the present--well, it's not all that it might be."
"How so?"
"Oh, things go wrong. But I don't want to talk of myself, and besides I can't explain it all," said Stepan Arkadyevitch. "Well, why have you come to Moscow, then?.... Hi! take away!" he called to the Tatar.
"You guess?" responded Levin, his eyes like deep wells of light fixed on Stepan Arkadyevitch.
"I guess, but I can't be the first to talk about it. You can see by that whether I guess right or wrong," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, gazing at Levin with a subtle smile.
"Well, and what have you to say to me?" said Levin in a quivering voice, feeling that all the muscles of his face were quivering too. "How do you look at the question?"
Stepan Arkadyevitch slowly emptied his glass of Chablis, never taking his eyes off Levin.
"I?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, "there's nothing I desire so much as that--nothing! It would be the best thing that could be."
"But you're not making a mistake? You know what we're speaking of?" said Levin, piercing him with his eyes. "You think it's possible?"
"I think it's possible. Why not possible?"
"No! do you really think it's possible? No, tell me all you think! Oh, but if...if refusal's in store for me!... Indeed I feel sure..."
"Why should you think that?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling at his excitement.
"It seems so to me sometimes. That will be awful for me, and for her too."
"Oh, well, anyway there's nothing awful in it for a girl. Every girl's proud of an offer."
"Yes, every girl, but not she."
Stepan Arkadyevitch smiled. He so well knew that feeling of Levin's, that for him all the girls in the world were divided into two classes: one class--all the girls in the world except her, and those girls with all sorts of human weaknesses, and very ordinary girls: the other class--she alone, having no weaknesses of any sort and higher than all humanity.
"Stay, take some sauce," he said, holding back Levin's hand as it pushed away the sauce.
Levin obediently helped himself to sauce, but would not let Stepan Arkadyevitch go on with his dinner.
"No, stop a minute, stop a minute," he said. "You must understand that it's a question of life and death for me. I have never spoken to any one of this. And there's no one I could speak of it to, except you. You know we're utterly unlike each other, different tastes and views and everything; but I know you're fond of me and understand me, and that's why I like you awfully. But for God's sake, be quite straightforward with me."
"I tell you what I think," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, smiling. "But I'll say more: my wife is a wonderful woman..." Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed, remembering his position with his wife, and, after a moment's silence, resumed--"She has a gift of foreseeing things. She sees right through people; but that's not all; she knows what will come to pass, especially in the way of marriages. She foretold, for instance, that Princess Shahovskaya would marry Brenteln. No one would believe it, but it came to pass. And she's on your side."
"How do you mean?"
"It's not only that she likes you--she says that Kitty is certain to be your wife."
At these words Levin's face suddenly lighted up with a smile, a smile not far from tears of emotion.
"She says that!" cried Levin. "I always said she was exquisite, your wife. There, that's enough, enough said about it," he said, getting up from his seat.
"All right, but do sit down."
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Meanwhile, a flourishing
Meanwhile, a flourishing black-market trade in aids to concentration, mental agility and wakefulness had sprung up among the fifth- and seventh-years. Harry and Ron were much tempted by the bottle of Baruffio's Brain Elixir offered to them by Ravenclaw sixth-year Eddie Carmichael, who swore it was solely responsible for the nine ‘Outstanding’ OWLs he had gained the previous summer and was offering a whole pint for a mere twelve Galleons. Ron assured Harry he would reimburse him for his half the moment he left Hogwarts and got a job, but before they could close the deal, Hermione had confiscated the bottle from Carmichael and poured the contents down a toilet.
‘Hermione, we wanted to buy that!’ shouted Ron.
‘Don't be stupid,’ she snarled. ‘You might as well take Harold Dingle's powdered dragon claw and have done with it.’
‘Dingle's got powdered dragon claw?’ said Ron eagerly.
‘Not any more,’ said Hermione. ‘I confiscated that, too. None of these things actually work, you know.’
‘Dragon claw does work!’ said Ron. ‘It's supposed to be incredible, really gives your brain a boost, you come over all cunning for a few hours—Hermione, let me have a pinch, go on, it can't hurt—’
‘This stuff can,’ said Hermione grimly. ‘I've had a look at it, and it's actually dried doxy droppings.’
This information took the edge off Harry and Ron's desire for brain stimulants.
They received their examination timetables and details of the procedure for OWLs during their next Transfiguration lesson.
‘As you can see,’ Professor McGonagall told the class as they copied down the dates and times of their exams from the blackboard, ‘your OWLs are spread over two successive weeks. You will sit the theory papers in the mornings and the practice in the afternoons. Your practical Astronomy examination will, of course, take place at night.
‘Now, I must warn you that the most stringent anti-cheating charms have been applied to your examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills are banned from the examination hall, as are Remembralls, Detachable Cribbing Cuffs and Self-Correcting Ink. Every year, I am afraid to say, seems to harbour at least one student who thinks that he or she can get around the Wizarding Examinations Authority's rules. I can only hope that it is nobody in Gryffindor. Our new—Headmistress—’ Professor McGonagall pronounced the word with the same look on her face that Aunt Petunia had whenever she was contemplating a particularly stubborn bit of dirt ‘—has asked the Heads of House to tell their students that cheating will be punished most severely—because, of course, your examination results will reflect upon the Headmistress's new regime at the school—’
Professor McGonagall gave a tiny sigh; Harry saw the nostrils of her sharp nose flare.
‘—however, that is no reason not to do your very best. You have your own futures to think about.’
‘Please, Professor,’ said Hermione, her hand in the air, ‘when will we find out our results?’
‘An owl will be sent to you some time in July,’ said Professcr McGonagall.
‘Excellent,’ said Dean Thomas in an audible whisper, ‘so we don't have to worry about it till the holidays.’
Harry imagined sitting in his bedroom in Privet Drive in six weeks’ time, waiting for his OWL results. Well, he thought dully, at least he would be sure of one bit of post that summer.
Their first examination, Theory of Charms, was scheduled for Monday morning. Harry agreed to test Hermione after lunch on Sunday, but regretted it almost at once; she was very agitated and kept snatching the book back from him to check that she had got the answer completely right, finally hitting him hard on the nose with the sharp edge of Achievements in Charming.
‘Why don't you just do it yourself?’ he said firmly, handing the book back to her, his eyes watering.
‘Hermione, we wanted to buy that!’ shouted Ron.
‘Don't be stupid,’ she snarled. ‘You might as well take Harold Dingle's powdered dragon claw and have done with it.’
‘Dingle's got powdered dragon claw?’ said Ron eagerly.
‘Not any more,’ said Hermione. ‘I confiscated that, too. None of these things actually work, you know.’
‘Dragon claw does work!’ said Ron. ‘It's supposed to be incredible, really gives your brain a boost, you come over all cunning for a few hours—Hermione, let me have a pinch, go on, it can't hurt—’
‘This stuff can,’ said Hermione grimly. ‘I've had a look at it, and it's actually dried doxy droppings.’
This information took the edge off Harry and Ron's desire for brain stimulants.
They received their examination timetables and details of the procedure for OWLs during their next Transfiguration lesson.
‘As you can see,’ Professor McGonagall told the class as they copied down the dates and times of their exams from the blackboard, ‘your OWLs are spread over two successive weeks. You will sit the theory papers in the mornings and the practice in the afternoons. Your practical Astronomy examination will, of course, take place at night.
‘Now, I must warn you that the most stringent anti-cheating charms have been applied to your examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills are banned from the examination hall, as are Remembralls, Detachable Cribbing Cuffs and Self-Correcting Ink. Every year, I am afraid to say, seems to harbour at least one student who thinks that he or she can get around the Wizarding Examinations Authority's rules. I can only hope that it is nobody in Gryffindor. Our new—Headmistress—’ Professor McGonagall pronounced the word with the same look on her face that Aunt Petunia had whenever she was contemplating a particularly stubborn bit of dirt ‘—has asked the Heads of House to tell their students that cheating will be punished most severely—because, of course, your examination results will reflect upon the Headmistress's new regime at the school—’
Professor McGonagall gave a tiny sigh; Harry saw the nostrils of her sharp nose flare.
‘—however, that is no reason not to do your very best. You have your own futures to think about.’
‘Please, Professor,’ said Hermione, her hand in the air, ‘when will we find out our results?’
‘An owl will be sent to you some time in July,’ said Professcr McGonagall.
‘Excellent,’ said Dean Thomas in an audible whisper, ‘so we don't have to worry about it till the holidays.’
Harry imagined sitting in his bedroom in Privet Drive in six weeks’ time, waiting for his OWL results. Well, he thought dully, at least he would be sure of one bit of post that summer.
Their first examination, Theory of Charms, was scheduled for Monday morning. Harry agreed to test Hermione after lunch on Sunday, but regretted it almost at once; she was very agitated and kept snatching the book back from him to check that she had got the answer completely right, finally hitting him hard on the nose with the sharp edge of Achievements in Charming.
‘Why don't you just do it yourself?’ he said firmly, handing the book back to her, his eyes watering.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
‘Nothing, Arthur,’ said Sirius
‘Nothing, Arthur,’ said Sirius, who was breathing heavily as though he had just run a long distance. ‘Just a friendly little chat between two old school friends.’ With what looked like an enormous effort, he smiled. ‘So ... you're
cured? That's great news, really great.’
‘Yes, isn't it?’ said Mrs. Weasley, leading her husband forward to a chair. ‘Healer Smethwyck worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to whatever that snake's got in its fangs, and Arthur's learned his lesson about
dabbling in Muggle medicine, haven't you, dear?’ she added, rather menacingly.
‘Yes, Molly dear,’ said Mr. Weasley meekly.
‘That night's meal should have been a cheerful one, with Mr. Weasley back amongst them. Harry could tell Sirius was trying to make it so, yet when his godfather was not forcing himself to laugh loudly at Fred and George's
jokes or offering everyone more food, his face fell back into a moody, brooding expression. Harry was separated from him by Mundungus and Mad-Eye, who had dropped in to offer Mr. Weasley their congratulations. He
wanted to talk to Sirius, to tell him he shouldn't listen to a word Snape said, that Snape was goading him deliberately and that the rest of them didn't think Sirius was a coward for doing as Dumbledore told him and remaining in
Grimmauld Place. But he had no opportunity to do so, and, eyeing the ugly look on Sirius's face, Harry wondered occasionally whether he would have dared to mention it even if he had the chance. Instead, he told Ron and
Hermione under his voice about having to take Occlumency lessons with Snape.
‘Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams about Voldemort,’ said Hermione at once. ‘Well, you won't be sorry not to have them any more, will you?’
‘Extra lessons with Snape?’ said Ron, sounding aghast. ‘I'd rather have the nightmares!’
They were to return to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus the following day, escorted once again by Tonks and Lupin, both of whom were eating breakfast in the kitchen when Harry, Ron and Hermione came down next morning. The
adults seemed to have been mid-way through a whispered conversation as Harry opened the door; all of them looked round hastily and fell silent.
After a hurried breakfast, they all pulled on jackets and scarves against the chilly grey January morning. Harry had an unpleasant constricted sensation in his chest; he did not want to say goodbye to Sirius. He had a bad
feeling about this parting; he didn't know when they would next see each other and he felt it was incumbent upon him to say something to Sirius to stop him doing anything stupid—Harry was worried that Snape's accusation of
cowardice had stung Sirius so badly he might even now be planning some foolhardy trip beyond Grimmauld Place. Before he could think of what to say, however, Sirius had beckoned him to his side.
‘I want you to take this,’ he said quietly, thrusting a badly wrapped package roughly the size of a paperback book into Harry's hands.
‘What is it?’ Harry asked.
‘A way of letting me know if Snape's giving you a hard time. No, don't open it in here!’ said Sirius, with a wary look at Mrs. Weasley, who was trying to persuade the twins to wear hand-knitted mittens. ‘I doubt Molly would
approve—but I want you to use it if you need me, all right?’
‘OK,’ said Harry, stowing the package away in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he knew he would never use whatever it was. It would not be he, Harry, who lured Sirius from his place of safety, no matter how foully Snape
treated him in their forthcoming Occlumency classes.
‘Let's go, then,’ said Sirius, clapping Harry on the shoulder and smiling grimly, and before Harry could say anything else, they were heading upstairs, stopping before the heavily chained and bolted front door, surrounded by
Weasleys.
‘Goodbye, Harry, take care,’ said Mrs. Weasley, hugging him.
‘See you, Harry, and keep an eye out for snakes for me!’ said Mr. Weasley genially, shaking his hand.
‘Right—yeah,’ said Harry distractedly; it was his last chance to tell Sirius to be careful; he turned, looked into his godfather's face and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so Sirius was giving him a brief, one-
armed hug, and saying gruffly, ‘Look after yourself, Harry.’ Next moment, Harry found himself being shunted out into the icy winter air, with Tonks (today heavily disguised as a tall, tweedy woman with iron-grey hair) chivvying
him down the steps.
The door of number twelve slammed shut behind them. They followed Lupin down the front steps. As he reached the pavement, Harry looked round. Number twelve was shrinking rapidly as those on either side of it stretched
sideways, squeezing it out of sight. One blink later, it had gone.
‘Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better,’ said Tonks, and Harry thought there was nervousness in the glance she threw around the square. Lupin flung out his right arm.
BANG.
A violently purple, triple-decker bus had appeared out of thin air in front of them, narrowly avoiding the nearest lamppost, which jumped backwards out of its way.
A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform leapt down on to the pavement and said, ‘Welcome to the—’
‘Yes, yes, we know, thank you,’ said Tonks swiftly. ‘On, on, get on—’
And she shoved Harry forwards towards the steps, past the conductor, who goggled at Harry as he passed.
’ ‘Ere—it's ‘Arry—!’
‘If you shout his name I will curse you into oblivion,’ muttered Tonks menacingly, now shunting Ginny and Hermione forwards.
‘I've always wanted to go on this thing,’ said Ron happily, joining Harry on board and looking around.
It had been evening the last time Harry had travelled by Knight Bus and its three decks had been full of brass bedsteads. Now, in the early morning, it was crammed with an assortment of mismatched chairs grouped
haphazardly around windows. Some of these appeared to have fallen over when the bus stopped abruptly in Grimmauld Place; a few witches and wizards were still getting to their feet, grumbling, and somebody's shopping
bag had slid the length of the bus: an unpleasant mixture of frogspawn, cockroaches and custard creams was scattered all over the floor.
‘Looks like we'll have to split up,’ said Tonks briskly, looking a.round for empty chairs. ‘Fred, George and Ginny, if you just take those seats at the back ... Remus can stay with you.’
She, Harry, Ron and Hermione proceeded up to the very top deck, where there were two unoccupied chairs at the very front of the bus and two at the back. Stan Shunpike, the conductor, followed Harry and Ron eagerly to
the back. Heads turned as Harry passed and, when he sat down, he saw all the faces flick back to the front again.
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cured? That's great news, really great.’
‘Yes, isn't it?’ said Mrs. Weasley, leading her husband forward to a chair. ‘Healer Smethwyck worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to whatever that snake's got in its fangs, and Arthur's learned his lesson about
dabbling in Muggle medicine, haven't you, dear?’ she added, rather menacingly.
‘Yes, Molly dear,’ said Mr. Weasley meekly.
‘That night's meal should have been a cheerful one, with Mr. Weasley back amongst them. Harry could tell Sirius was trying to make it so, yet when his godfather was not forcing himself to laugh loudly at Fred and George's
jokes or offering everyone more food, his face fell back into a moody, brooding expression. Harry was separated from him by Mundungus and Mad-Eye, who had dropped in to offer Mr. Weasley their congratulations. He
wanted to talk to Sirius, to tell him he shouldn't listen to a word Snape said, that Snape was goading him deliberately and that the rest of them didn't think Sirius was a coward for doing as Dumbledore told him and remaining in
Grimmauld Place. But he had no opportunity to do so, and, eyeing the ugly look on Sirius's face, Harry wondered occasionally whether he would have dared to mention it even if he had the chance. Instead, he told Ron and
Hermione under his voice about having to take Occlumency lessons with Snape.
‘Dumbledore wants to stop you having those dreams about Voldemort,’ said Hermione at once. ‘Well, you won't be sorry not to have them any more, will you?’
‘Extra lessons with Snape?’ said Ron, sounding aghast. ‘I'd rather have the nightmares!’
They were to return to Hogwarts on the Knight Bus the following day, escorted once again by Tonks and Lupin, both of whom were eating breakfast in the kitchen when Harry, Ron and Hermione came down next morning. The
adults seemed to have been mid-way through a whispered conversation as Harry opened the door; all of them looked round hastily and fell silent.
After a hurried breakfast, they all pulled on jackets and scarves against the chilly grey January morning. Harry had an unpleasant constricted sensation in his chest; he did not want to say goodbye to Sirius. He had a bad
feeling about this parting; he didn't know when they would next see each other and he felt it was incumbent upon him to say something to Sirius to stop him doing anything stupid—Harry was worried that Snape's accusation of
cowardice had stung Sirius so badly he might even now be planning some foolhardy trip beyond Grimmauld Place. Before he could think of what to say, however, Sirius had beckoned him to his side.
‘I want you to take this,’ he said quietly, thrusting a badly wrapped package roughly the size of a paperback book into Harry's hands.
‘What is it?’ Harry asked.
‘A way of letting me know if Snape's giving you a hard time. No, don't open it in here!’ said Sirius, with a wary look at Mrs. Weasley, who was trying to persuade the twins to wear hand-knitted mittens. ‘I doubt Molly would
approve—but I want you to use it if you need me, all right?’
‘OK,’ said Harry, stowing the package away in the inside pocket of his jacket, but he knew he would never use whatever it was. It would not be he, Harry, who lured Sirius from his place of safety, no matter how foully Snape
treated him in their forthcoming Occlumency classes.
‘Let's go, then,’ said Sirius, clapping Harry on the shoulder and smiling grimly, and before Harry could say anything else, they were heading upstairs, stopping before the heavily chained and bolted front door, surrounded by
Weasleys.
‘Goodbye, Harry, take care,’ said Mrs. Weasley, hugging him.
‘See you, Harry, and keep an eye out for snakes for me!’ said Mr. Weasley genially, shaking his hand.
‘Right—yeah,’ said Harry distractedly; it was his last chance to tell Sirius to be careful; he turned, looked into his godfather's face and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so Sirius was giving him a brief, one-
armed hug, and saying gruffly, ‘Look after yourself, Harry.’ Next moment, Harry found himself being shunted out into the icy winter air, with Tonks (today heavily disguised as a tall, tweedy woman with iron-grey hair) chivvying
him down the steps.
The door of number twelve slammed shut behind them. They followed Lupin down the front steps. As he reached the pavement, Harry looked round. Number twelve was shrinking rapidly as those on either side of it stretched
sideways, squeezing it out of sight. One blink later, it had gone.
‘Come on, the quicker we get on the bus the better,’ said Tonks, and Harry thought there was nervousness in the glance she threw around the square. Lupin flung out his right arm.
BANG.
A violently purple, triple-decker bus had appeared out of thin air in front of them, narrowly avoiding the nearest lamppost, which jumped backwards out of its way.
A thin, pimply, jug-eared youth in a purple uniform leapt down on to the pavement and said, ‘Welcome to the—’
‘Yes, yes, we know, thank you,’ said Tonks swiftly. ‘On, on, get on—’
And she shoved Harry forwards towards the steps, past the conductor, who goggled at Harry as he passed.
’ ‘Ere—it's ‘Arry—!’
‘If you shout his name I will curse you into oblivion,’ muttered Tonks menacingly, now shunting Ginny and Hermione forwards.
‘I've always wanted to go on this thing,’ said Ron happily, joining Harry on board and looking around.
It had been evening the last time Harry had travelled by Knight Bus and its three decks had been full of brass bedsteads. Now, in the early morning, it was crammed with an assortment of mismatched chairs grouped
haphazardly around windows. Some of these appeared to have fallen over when the bus stopped abruptly in Grimmauld Place; a few witches and wizards were still getting to their feet, grumbling, and somebody's shopping
bag had slid the length of the bus: an unpleasant mixture of frogspawn, cockroaches and custard creams was scattered all over the floor.
‘Looks like we'll have to split up,’ said Tonks briskly, looking a.round for empty chairs. ‘Fred, George and Ginny, if you just take those seats at the back ... Remus can stay with you.’
She, Harry, Ron and Hermione proceeded up to the very top deck, where there were two unoccupied chairs at the very front of the bus and two at the back. Stan Shunpike, the conductor, followed Harry and Ron eagerly to
the back. Heads turned as Harry passed and, when he sat down, he saw all the faces flick back to the front again.
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
‘Yeah,’ said Harry slightly defensively.
‘Yeah,’ said Harry slightly defensively.
‘A corporeal Patronus?’
The phrase stirred something in Harry's memory.
‘Er—you don't know Madam Bones, do you?’ he asked.
The girl smiled.
‘She's my auntie,’ she said. ‘I'm Susan Bones. She told me about your hearing. So—is it really true? You make a stag Patronus?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry.
‘Blimey, Harry!’ said Lee, looking deeply impressed. ‘I never knew that!’
‘Mum told Ron not to spread it around,’ said Fred, grinning at Harry. ‘She said you got enough attention as it was.’
‘She's not wrong,’ mumbled Harry, and a couple of people laughed.
The veiled witch sitting alone shifted very slightly in her seat.
‘And did you kill a Basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore's office?’ demanded Terry Boot. ‘That's what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year ...’
‘Er—yeah, I did, yeah,’ said Harry.
Justin Finch-Fletchley whistled; the Creevey brothers exchanged awestruck looks and Lavender Brown said ‘Wow!’ softly. Harry was feeling slightly hot around the collar now; he was determinedly looking anywhere but at Cho.
‘And in our first year,’ said Neville to the group at large, ‘he saved that Philological Stone— ’
‘Philosopher's,’ hissed Hermione.
‘Yes, that—from You-Know-Who,’ finished Neville.
Hannah Abbotts eyes were as round as Galleons.
‘And that's not to mention,’ said Cho (Harry's eyes snapped across to her; she was looking at him, smiling; his stomach did another somersault) ‘all the tasks he had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year—getting past dragons and merpeople and Acromantula and things ...’
There was a murmur of impressed agreement around the table. Harry's insides were squirming. He was trying to arrange his face so that he did not look too pleased with himself. The fact that Cho had just praised him made it much, much harder for him to say the thing he had sworn to himself he would tell them.
‘Look,’ he said, and everyone fell silent at once, ‘I ... I don't want to sound like I'm trying to be modest or anything, but ... I had a lot of help with all that stuff ...’
‘Not with the dragon, you didn't,’ said Michael Corner at once. ‘That was a seriously cool bit of flying ...’
‘Yeah, well—’ said Harry, feeling it would be churlish to disagree.
‘And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors this summer,’ said Susan Bones.
‘No,’ said Harry, ‘no, OK, I know I did bits of it without help, but the point I'm trying to make is—’
‘Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?’ said Zacharias Smith.
‘Here's an idea,’ said Ron loudly, before Harry could speak, ‘why don't you shut your mouth?’
Perhaps the word ‘weasel’ had affected Ron particularly strongly. In any case, he was now looking at Zacharias as though he would like nothing better than to thump him. Zacharias flushed.
‘Well, we've all turned up to learn from him and now he's telling us he can't really do any of it,’ he said.
‘That's not what he said,’ snarled Fred.
‘Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?’ enquired Greorge, pulling a long and lethal-looking metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko's bags.
‘Or any part of your body, really, we're not fussy where we stick this,’ said Fred.
‘Yes, well,’ said Hermione hastily, moving on ...'the point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?’
There was a murmur of general agreement. Zacharias folded his arms and said nothing, though perhaps this was because he was too busy keeping an eye on the instrument in Fred's hand.
‘Right,’ said Hermione, looking relieved that something had at last been settled. ‘Well, then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don't think there's any point in meeting less than once a week—’
‘Hang on,’ said Angelina, ‘we need to make sure this doesn't clash with our Quidditch practice.’
‘No,’ said Cho, ‘nor with ours.’
‘Nor ours,’ added Zacharias Smith.
‘I'm sure we can find a night that suits everyone,’ said Hermione, slightly impatiently, ‘but you know, this is rather important, we're talking about learning to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort's Death Eaters—’
‘Well said!’ barked Ernie Macmillan, who Harry had been expecting to speak long before this. ‘Personally, I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we'll do this year, even with our OWLs coming up!’
He looked around impressively, as though waiting for people to cry ‘Surely not!’ When nobody spoke, he went on, ‘I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher on us at this critical period. Obviously, they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells—’
‘We think the reason Umbridge doesn't want us trained in Defence Against the Dark Arts,’ said Hermione, ‘is that she's got some ... some mad idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a kind of private army. She thinks he'd mobilise us against the Ministry.’
‘A corporeal Patronus?’
The phrase stirred something in Harry's memory.
‘Er—you don't know Madam Bones, do you?’ he asked.
The girl smiled.
‘She's my auntie,’ she said. ‘I'm Susan Bones. She told me about your hearing. So—is it really true? You make a stag Patronus?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry.
‘Blimey, Harry!’ said Lee, looking deeply impressed. ‘I never knew that!’
‘Mum told Ron not to spread it around,’ said Fred, grinning at Harry. ‘She said you got enough attention as it was.’
‘She's not wrong,’ mumbled Harry, and a couple of people laughed.
The veiled witch sitting alone shifted very slightly in her seat.
‘And did you kill a Basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore's office?’ demanded Terry Boot. ‘That's what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year ...’
‘Er—yeah, I did, yeah,’ said Harry.
Justin Finch-Fletchley whistled; the Creevey brothers exchanged awestruck looks and Lavender Brown said ‘Wow!’ softly. Harry was feeling slightly hot around the collar now; he was determinedly looking anywhere but at Cho.
‘And in our first year,’ said Neville to the group at large, ‘he saved that Philological Stone— ’
‘Philosopher's,’ hissed Hermione.
‘Yes, that—from You-Know-Who,’ finished Neville.
Hannah Abbotts eyes were as round as Galleons.
‘And that's not to mention,’ said Cho (Harry's eyes snapped across to her; she was looking at him, smiling; his stomach did another somersault) ‘all the tasks he had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year—getting past dragons and merpeople and Acromantula and things ...’
There was a murmur of impressed agreement around the table. Harry's insides were squirming. He was trying to arrange his face so that he did not look too pleased with himself. The fact that Cho had just praised him made it much, much harder for him to say the thing he had sworn to himself he would tell them.
‘Look,’ he said, and everyone fell silent at once, ‘I ... I don't want to sound like I'm trying to be modest or anything, but ... I had a lot of help with all that stuff ...’
‘Not with the dragon, you didn't,’ said Michael Corner at once. ‘That was a seriously cool bit of flying ...’
‘Yeah, well—’ said Harry, feeling it would be churlish to disagree.
‘And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors this summer,’ said Susan Bones.
‘No,’ said Harry, ‘no, OK, I know I did bits of it without help, but the point I'm trying to make is—’
‘Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?’ said Zacharias Smith.
‘Here's an idea,’ said Ron loudly, before Harry could speak, ‘why don't you shut your mouth?’
Perhaps the word ‘weasel’ had affected Ron particularly strongly. In any case, he was now looking at Zacharias as though he would like nothing better than to thump him. Zacharias flushed.
‘Well, we've all turned up to learn from him and now he's telling us he can't really do any of it,’ he said.
‘That's not what he said,’ snarled Fred.
‘Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?’ enquired Greorge, pulling a long and lethal-looking metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko's bags.
‘Or any part of your body, really, we're not fussy where we stick this,’ said Fred.
‘Yes, well,’ said Hermione hastily, moving on ...'the point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?’
There was a murmur of general agreement. Zacharias folded his arms and said nothing, though perhaps this was because he was too busy keeping an eye on the instrument in Fred's hand.
‘Right,’ said Hermione, looking relieved that something had at last been settled. ‘Well, then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don't think there's any point in meeting less than once a week—’
‘Hang on,’ said Angelina, ‘we need to make sure this doesn't clash with our Quidditch practice.’
‘No,’ said Cho, ‘nor with ours.’
‘Nor ours,’ added Zacharias Smith.
‘I'm sure we can find a night that suits everyone,’ said Hermione, slightly impatiently, ‘but you know, this is rather important, we're talking about learning to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort's Death Eaters—’
‘Well said!’ barked Ernie Macmillan, who Harry had been expecting to speak long before this. ‘Personally, I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we'll do this year, even with our OWLs coming up!’
He looked around impressively, as though waiting for people to cry ‘Surely not!’ When nobody spoke, he went on, ‘I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher on us at this critical period. Obviously, they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells—’
‘We think the reason Umbridge doesn't want us trained in Defence Against the Dark Arts,’ said Hermione, ‘is that she's got some ... some mad idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a kind of private army. She thinks he'd mobilise us against the Ministry.’
Monday, November 15, 2010
‘Oh, I don't know,’ said Madam Bones, in her booming voice.
‘Oh, I don't know,’ said Madam Bones, in her booming voice. ‘She certainly described the effects of a dementor attack very accurately. And I can't imagine why she would say they were there if they weren't.’
‘But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just happening to come across a wizard?’ snorted Fudge. The odds on that must be very, very long. Even Bagman wouldn't have bet—’
‘Oh, I don't think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence,’ said Dumbledore lightly.
The witch sitting to the right of Fudge, with her face in shadow, moved slightly but everyone else was quite still and silent.
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Fudge asked icily.
‘It means that I think they were ordered there,’ said Dumbledore.
‘I think we might have a record of it if someone had ordered a pair of dementors to go strolling through Little Whinging!’ barked Fudge.
‘Not if the dementors are taking orders from someone other than the Ministry of Magic these days,’ said Dumbledore calmly. ‘I have already given you my views on this matter, Cornelius.’
‘Yes, you have,’ said Fudge forcefully, ‘and I have no reason to believe that your views are anything other than bilge, Dumbledore. The dementors remain in place in Azkaban and are doing everything we ask them to.’
‘Then,’ said Dumbledore, quietly but clearly, ‘we must ask ourselves why somebody within the Ministry ordered a pair of dementors into that alleyway on the second of August.’
In the complete silence that greeted these words, the witch to the right of Fudge leaned forwards so that Harry saw her for the first time.
He thought she looked just like a large, pale toad. She was rather squat with a broad, flabby face, as little neck as Uncle Vernon and a very wide, slack mouth. Her eyes were large, round and slightly bulging. Even the little black velvet bow perched on top of her short curly hair put him in mind of a large fly she was about to catch on a long sticky tongue.
‘The Chair recognises Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,’ said Fudge.
The witch spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched voice that took Harry aback; he had been expecting a croak.
‘I'm sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor Dumbledore,’ she said, with a simper that left her big, round eyes as cold as ever. ‘So silly of me. But it sounded for a teensy moment as though you were suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an attack on this boy!’
She gave a silvery laugh that made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. A few other members of the Wizengamot laughed with her. It could not have been plainer that not one of them was really amused.
‘If it is true that the dementors are taking orders only from the Ministry of Magic, and it is also true that two dementors attacked Harry and his cousin a week ago, then it follows logically that somebody at the Ministry might have ordered the attacks,’ said Dumbledore politely. ‘Of course, these particular dementors may have been outside Ministry control—’
‘There are no dementors outside Ministry control!’ snapped Fudge, who had turned brick red.
Dumbledore inclined his head in a little bow.
‘Then undoubtedly the Ministry will be making a full inquiry into why two dementors were so very far from Azkaban and why they attacked without authorisation.’
‘It is not for you to decide what the Ministry of Magic does or does not do, Dumbledore!’ snapped Fudge, now a shade of magenta of which Uncle Vernon would have been proud.
‘Of course it isn't,’ said Dumbledore mildly. ‘I was merely expressing my confidence that this matter will not go uninvestigated.’
‘But dementors wandering into a Muggle suburb and just happening to come across a wizard?’ snorted Fudge. The odds on that must be very, very long. Even Bagman wouldn't have bet—’
‘Oh, I don't think any of us believe the dementors were there by coincidence,’ said Dumbledore lightly.
The witch sitting to the right of Fudge, with her face in shadow, moved slightly but everyone else was quite still and silent.
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Fudge asked icily.
‘It means that I think they were ordered there,’ said Dumbledore.
‘I think we might have a record of it if someone had ordered a pair of dementors to go strolling through Little Whinging!’ barked Fudge.
‘Not if the dementors are taking orders from someone other than the Ministry of Magic these days,’ said Dumbledore calmly. ‘I have already given you my views on this matter, Cornelius.’
‘Yes, you have,’ said Fudge forcefully, ‘and I have no reason to believe that your views are anything other than bilge, Dumbledore. The dementors remain in place in Azkaban and are doing everything we ask them to.’
‘Then,’ said Dumbledore, quietly but clearly, ‘we must ask ourselves why somebody within the Ministry ordered a pair of dementors into that alleyway on the second of August.’
In the complete silence that greeted these words, the witch to the right of Fudge leaned forwards so that Harry saw her for the first time.
He thought she looked just like a large, pale toad. She was rather squat with a broad, flabby face, as little neck as Uncle Vernon and a very wide, slack mouth. Her eyes were large, round and slightly bulging. Even the little black velvet bow perched on top of her short curly hair put him in mind of a large fly she was about to catch on a long sticky tongue.
‘The Chair recognises Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister,’ said Fudge.
The witch spoke in a fluttery, girlish, high-pitched voice that took Harry aback; he had been expecting a croak.
‘I'm sure I must have misunderstood you, Professor Dumbledore,’ she said, with a simper that left her big, round eyes as cold as ever. ‘So silly of me. But it sounded for a teensy moment as though you were suggesting that the Ministry of Magic had ordered an attack on this boy!’
She gave a silvery laugh that made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. A few other members of the Wizengamot laughed with her. It could not have been plainer that not one of them was really amused.
‘If it is true that the dementors are taking orders only from the Ministry of Magic, and it is also true that two dementors attacked Harry and his cousin a week ago, then it follows logically that somebody at the Ministry might have ordered the attacks,’ said Dumbledore politely. ‘Of course, these particular dementors may have been outside Ministry control—’
‘There are no dementors outside Ministry control!’ snapped Fudge, who had turned brick red.
Dumbledore inclined his head in a little bow.
‘Then undoubtedly the Ministry will be making a full inquiry into why two dementors were so very far from Azkaban and why they attacked without authorisation.’
‘It is not for you to decide what the Ministry of Magic does or does not do, Dumbledore!’ snapped Fudge, now a shade of magenta of which Uncle Vernon would have been proud.
‘Of course it isn't,’ said Dumbledore mildly. ‘I was merely expressing my confidence that this matter will not go uninvestigated.’
A moment later, Percy returned,
A moment later, Percy returned, followed by Mrs. Figg. She looked scared and more batty than ever. Harry wished she had thought to change out of her carpet slippers.
Dumbledore stood up and gave Mrs. Figg his chair, conjuring a second one for himself.
‘Full name?’ said Fudge loudly, when Mrs. Figg had perched herself nervously on the very edge of her seat.
‘Arabella Doreen Figg,’ said Mrs. Figg in her quavery voice.
‘And who exactly are you?’ said Fudge, in a bored and lofty voice.
‘I'm a resident of Little Whinging, close to where Harry Potter lives,’ said Mrs. Figg.
‘We have no record of any witch or wizard living in Little Whinging, other than Harry Potter,’ said Madam Bones at once. ‘That situation has always been closely monitored, given ... given past events.’
‘I'm a Squib,’ said Mrs. Figg. ‘So you wouldn't have me registered, would you?’
‘A Squib, eh?’ said Fudge, eyeing her closely. ‘We'll be checking that. You'll leave details of your parentage with my assistant, Weasley. Incidentally, can Squibs see dementors?’ he added, looking left and right along the bench.
‘Yes, we can!’ said Mrs. Figg indignantly.
Fudge looked back down at her, his eyebrows raised. ‘Very well,’ he said aloofly. ‘What is your story?’
‘I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk, around about nine o'clock, on the evening of the second of August,’ gabbled Mrs. Figg at once, as though she had learned what she was saying by heart, ‘when I heard a disturbance down the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I saw dementors running—’
‘Running?’ said Madam Bones sharply. ‘Dementors don't run, they glide.’
‘That's what I meant to say,’ said Mrs. Figg quickly, patches of pink appearing in her withered cheeks. ‘Gliding along the alley towards what looked like two boys.’
‘What did they look like?’ said Madam Bones, narrowing her eyes so that the edge of the monocle disappeared into her flesh.
‘Well, one was very large and the other one rather skinny—’
‘No, no,’ said Madam Bones impatiently. ‘The dementors ... describe them.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Figg, the pink flush creeping up her neck now. ‘They were big. Big and wearing cloaks.’
Harry felt a horrible sinking in the pit of his stomach. Whatever Mrs. Figg might say, it sounded to him as though the most she had ever seen was a picture of a dementor, and a picture could never convey the truth of what these beings were like: the eerie way they moved, hovering inches over the ground, or the rotting smell of them, or that terrible rattling noise they made as they sucked on the surrounding air....
In the second row, a dumpy wizard with a large black moustache leaned close to whisper in the ear of his neighbour, a frizzy-haired witch. She smirked and nodded.
‘Big and wearing cloaks,’ repeated Madam Bones coolly, while Fudge snorted derisively. ‘I see. Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Figg. ‘I felt them. Everything went cold, and this was a very warm summer's night, mark you. And I felt ... as though all happiness had gone from the world ... and I remembered ... dreadful things....’
Her voice shook and died.
Madam Bones's eyes widened slightly. Harry could see red marks under her eyebrow where the monocle had dug into it.
‘What did the dementors do?’ she asked, and Harry felt a rush of hope.
‘They went for the boys,’ said Mrs. Figg, her voice stronger and more confident now, the pink flush ebbing away from her face. ‘One of them had fallen. The other was backing away, trying to repel the dementor. That was Harry. He tried twice and produced only silver vapour. On the third attempt, he produced a Patronus, which charged down the first dementor and then, with his encouragement, chased the second one away from his cousin. And that ... that is what happened,’ Mrs. Figg finished, somewhat lamely.
Madam Bones looked down at Mrs. Figg in silence. Fudge was not looking at her at all, but fidgeting with his papers. Finally, he raised his eyes and said, rather aggressively, ‘That's what you saw, is it?’
‘That is what happened,’ Mrs. Figg repeated.
‘Very well,’ said Fudge. ‘You may go.’
Mrs. Figg cast a frightened look from Fudge to Dumbledore, then got up and shuffled off towards the door. Harry heard it thud shut behind her.
‘Not a very convincing witness,’ said Fudge loftily.
Dumbledore stood up and gave Mrs. Figg his chair, conjuring a second one for himself.
‘Full name?’ said Fudge loudly, when Mrs. Figg had perched herself nervously on the very edge of her seat.
‘Arabella Doreen Figg,’ said Mrs. Figg in her quavery voice.
‘And who exactly are you?’ said Fudge, in a bored and lofty voice.
‘I'm a resident of Little Whinging, close to where Harry Potter lives,’ said Mrs. Figg.
‘We have no record of any witch or wizard living in Little Whinging, other than Harry Potter,’ said Madam Bones at once. ‘That situation has always been closely monitored, given ... given past events.’
‘I'm a Squib,’ said Mrs. Figg. ‘So you wouldn't have me registered, would you?’
‘A Squib, eh?’ said Fudge, eyeing her closely. ‘We'll be checking that. You'll leave details of your parentage with my assistant, Weasley. Incidentally, can Squibs see dementors?’ he added, looking left and right along the bench.
‘Yes, we can!’ said Mrs. Figg indignantly.
Fudge looked back down at her, his eyebrows raised. ‘Very well,’ he said aloofly. ‘What is your story?’
‘I had gone out to buy cat food from the corner shop at the end of Wisteria Walk, around about nine o'clock, on the evening of the second of August,’ gabbled Mrs. Figg at once, as though she had learned what she was saying by heart, ‘when I heard a disturbance down the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. On approaching the mouth of the alleyway I saw dementors running—’
‘Running?’ said Madam Bones sharply. ‘Dementors don't run, they glide.’
‘That's what I meant to say,’ said Mrs. Figg quickly, patches of pink appearing in her withered cheeks. ‘Gliding along the alley towards what looked like two boys.’
‘What did they look like?’ said Madam Bones, narrowing her eyes so that the edge of the monocle disappeared into her flesh.
‘Well, one was very large and the other one rather skinny—’
‘No, no,’ said Madam Bones impatiently. ‘The dementors ... describe them.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Figg, the pink flush creeping up her neck now. ‘They were big. Big and wearing cloaks.’
Harry felt a horrible sinking in the pit of his stomach. Whatever Mrs. Figg might say, it sounded to him as though the most she had ever seen was a picture of a dementor, and a picture could never convey the truth of what these beings were like: the eerie way they moved, hovering inches over the ground, or the rotting smell of them, or that terrible rattling noise they made as they sucked on the surrounding air....
In the second row, a dumpy wizard with a large black moustache leaned close to whisper in the ear of his neighbour, a frizzy-haired witch. She smirked and nodded.
‘Big and wearing cloaks,’ repeated Madam Bones coolly, while Fudge snorted derisively. ‘I see. Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Figg. ‘I felt them. Everything went cold, and this was a very warm summer's night, mark you. And I felt ... as though all happiness had gone from the world ... and I remembered ... dreadful things....’
Her voice shook and died.
Madam Bones's eyes widened slightly. Harry could see red marks under her eyebrow where the monocle had dug into it.
‘What did the dementors do?’ she asked, and Harry felt a rush of hope.
‘They went for the boys,’ said Mrs. Figg, her voice stronger and more confident now, the pink flush ebbing away from her face. ‘One of them had fallen. The other was backing away, trying to repel the dementor. That was Harry. He tried twice and produced only silver vapour. On the third attempt, he produced a Patronus, which charged down the first dementor and then, with his encouragement, chased the second one away from his cousin. And that ... that is what happened,’ Mrs. Figg finished, somewhat lamely.
Madam Bones looked down at Mrs. Figg in silence. Fudge was not looking at her at all, but fidgeting with his papers. Finally, he raised his eyes and said, rather aggressively, ‘That's what you saw, is it?’
‘That is what happened,’ Mrs. Figg repeated.
‘Very well,’ said Fudge. ‘You may go.’
Mrs. Figg cast a frightened look from Fudge to Dumbledore, then got up and shuffled off towards the door. Harry heard it thud shut behind her.
‘Not a very convincing witness,’ said Fudge loftily.
‘A corporeal Patronus?’
‘A corporeal Patronus?’
‘A—what?’ said Harry.
‘Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to say, it was more than vapour or smoke?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, feeling both impatient and slightly desperate, ‘it's a stag, it's always a stag.’
‘Always?’ boomed Madam Bones. ‘You have produced a Patronus before now?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘I've been doing it for over a year.’
‘And you are fifteen years old?’
‘Yes, and—’
‘You learned this at school?’
‘Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year, because of the—’
‘Impressive,’ said Madam Bones, staring down at him, ‘a true Patronus at his age ... very impressive indeed.’
Some of the wizards and witches around her were muttering again; a few nodded, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.
‘It's not a question of how impressive the magic was,’ said Fudge in a testy voice, ‘in fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!’
Those who had been frowning now murmured in agreement, but it was the sight of Percy's sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into speech.
‘I did it because of the dementors!’ he said loudly, before anyone could interrupt him again.
He had expected more muttering, but the silence that fell seemed to be somehow denser than before.
‘Dementors?’ said Madam Bones after a moment, her thick eyebrows rising until her monocle looked in danger of falling out. ‘What do you mean, boy?’
‘I mean there were two dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin!’
‘Ah,’ said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting them to share the joke. ‘Yes. Yes, I thought we'd be hearing something like this.’
‘Dementors in Little Whinging?’ Madam Bones said, in a tone of great surprise. ‘I don't understand—’
‘Don't you, Amelia?’ said Fudge, still smirking. ‘Let me explain. He's been thinking it through and decided dementors would make a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed. Muggles can't see dementors, can they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient ... so it's just your word and no witnesses....’
‘I'm not lying!’ said Harry loudly, over another outbreak of muttering from the court. ‘There were two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt them and ran for it—’
‘Enough, enough!’ said Fudge, with a very supercilious look on his face. ‘I'm sorry to interrupt what I'm sure would have been a very well-rehearsed story—’
Dumbledore cleared his throat. The Wizengamot fell silent again.
‘We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of dementors in that alleyway,’ he said, ‘other than Dudley Dursley, I mean.’
Fudge's plump face seemed to slacken, as though somebody had let air out of it. He stared down at Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the appearance of a man pulling himself back together, said, ‘We haven't got time to listen to more tarradiddles, I'm afraid, Dumbledore. I want this dealt with quickly—’
‘I may be wrong,’ said Dumbledore pleasantly, ‘but I am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses for his or her case? Isn't that the policy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Bones?’ he continued, addressing the witch in the monocle.
‘True,’ said Madam Bones. ‘Perfectly true.’
‘Oh, very well, very well,’ snapped Fudge. ‘Where is this person?’
‘I brought her with me,’ said Dumbledore. ‘She's just outside the door. Should I—?’
‘No—Weasley, you go,’ Fudge barked at Percy, who got up at once, ran down the stone steps from the judge's balcony and hurried past Dumbledore and Harry without glancing at them.
‘A—what?’ said Harry.
‘Your Patronus had a clearly defined form? I mean to say, it was more than vapour or smoke?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, feeling both impatient and slightly desperate, ‘it's a stag, it's always a stag.’
‘Always?’ boomed Madam Bones. ‘You have produced a Patronus before now?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘I've been doing it for over a year.’
‘And you are fifteen years old?’
‘Yes, and—’
‘You learned this at school?’
‘Yes, Professor Lupin taught me in my third year, because of the—’
‘Impressive,’ said Madam Bones, staring down at him, ‘a true Patronus at his age ... very impressive indeed.’
Some of the wizards and witches around her were muttering again; a few nodded, but others were frowning and shaking their heads.
‘It's not a question of how impressive the magic was,’ said Fudge in a testy voice, ‘in fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!’
Those who had been frowning now murmured in agreement, but it was the sight of Percy's sanctimonious little nod that goaded Harry into speech.
‘I did it because of the dementors!’ he said loudly, before anyone could interrupt him again.
He had expected more muttering, but the silence that fell seemed to be somehow denser than before.
‘Dementors?’ said Madam Bones after a moment, her thick eyebrows rising until her monocle looked in danger of falling out. ‘What do you mean, boy?’
‘I mean there were two dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin!’
‘Ah,’ said Fudge again, smirking unpleasantly as he looked around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting them to share the joke. ‘Yes. Yes, I thought we'd be hearing something like this.’
‘Dementors in Little Whinging?’ Madam Bones said, in a tone of great surprise. ‘I don't understand—’
‘Don't you, Amelia?’ said Fudge, still smirking. ‘Let me explain. He's been thinking it through and decided dementors would make a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed. Muggles can't see dementors, can they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient ... so it's just your word and no witnesses....’
‘I'm not lying!’ said Harry loudly, over another outbreak of muttering from the court. ‘There were two of them, coming from opposite ends of the alley everything went dark and cold and my cousin felt them and ran for it—’
‘Enough, enough!’ said Fudge, with a very supercilious look on his face. ‘I'm sorry to interrupt what I'm sure would have been a very well-rehearsed story—’
Dumbledore cleared his throat. The Wizengamot fell silent again.
‘We do, in fact, have a witness to the presence of dementors in that alleyway,’ he said, ‘other than Dudley Dursley, I mean.’
Fudge's plump face seemed to slacken, as though somebody had let air out of it. He stared down at Dumbledore for a moment or two, then, with the appearance of a man pulling himself back together, said, ‘We haven't got time to listen to more tarradiddles, I'm afraid, Dumbledore. I want this dealt with quickly—’
‘I may be wrong,’ said Dumbledore pleasantly, ‘but I am sure that under the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, the accused has the right to present witnesses for his or her case? Isn't that the policy of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Madam Bones?’ he continued, addressing the witch in the monocle.
‘True,’ said Madam Bones. ‘Perfectly true.’
‘Oh, very well, very well,’ snapped Fudge. ‘Where is this person?’
‘I brought her with me,’ said Dumbledore. ‘She's just outside the door. Should I—?’
‘No—Weasley, you go,’ Fudge barked at Percy, who got up at once, ran down the stone steps from the judge's balcony and hurried past Dumbledore and Harry without glancing at them.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
‘Why, what happened, Seamus?
’ Neville asked as he placed his Mimbuius mimbletonia tenderly on his bedside cabinet.
Seamus did not answer immediately; he was making rather a meal of ensuring that his poster of the Kenmare Kestrels Quidditch team was quite straight. Then he said, with his back still turned to Harry, ‘Me mam didn't want
me to come back.’
‘What?’ said Harry, pausing in the act of pulling off his robes.
‘She didn't want me to come back to Hogwarts.’
Seamus turned away from his poster and pulled his own pyjamas out of his trunk, still not looking at Harry.
‘But—why?’ said Harry, astonished. He knew that Seamus's mother was a witch and could not understand, therefore, why she should have come over so Dursleyish.
Seamus did not answer until he had finished buttoning his pyjamas.
‘Well,’ he said in a measured voice, ‘I suppose ... because of you.’
‘What d'you mean?’ said Harry quickly.
His heart was beating rather fast. He felt vaguely as though something was closing in on him.
‘Well,’ said Seamus again, still avoiding Harry's eye, she ... er ... well, it's not just you, it's Dumbledore, too ...’
‘She believes the Daily Prophet?’ said Harry. ‘She thinks I'm a liar and Dumbledore's an old fool?’
Seamus looked up at him.
‘Yeah, something like that.’
Harry said nothing. He threw his wand down on to his bedside table, pulled off his robes, stuffed them angrily into his trunk and pulled on his pyjamas. He was sick of it: sick of being the person who is stared at and talked
about all the time. If any of them knew, if any of them had the faintest idea what it felt like to be the one all these things had happened to ... Mrs. Finnigan had no idea, the stupid woman, he thought savagely.
He got into bed and made to pull the hangings closed around him, but before he could do so, Seamus said, ‘Look ... what did happen that night when ... you know, when ... with Cedric Diggory and all?’
Seamus sounded nervous and eager at the same time. Dean, who had been bending over his trunk trying to retrieve a slipper, went oddly still and Harry knew he was listening hard.
‘What are you asking me for?’ Harry retorted. ‘Just read the Daily Prophet like your mother, why don't you? That'll tell you all you need to know.’
‘Don't you have a go at my mother,’ Seamus snapped.
‘I'll have a go at anyone who calls me a liar,’ said Harry.
‘Don't talk to me like that!’
‘I'll talk to you how I want,’ said Harry, his temper rising so fast he snatched his wand back from his bedside table. ‘If you've got a problem sharing a dormitory with me, go and ask McGonagall if you can be moved ... stop your
mummy worrying— ’
‘Leave my mother out of this, Potter!’
‘What's going on?’
Ron had appeared in the doorway. His wide eyes travelled from Harry, who was kneeling on his bed with his wand pointing at Seamus, to Seamus, who was standing there with his fists raised.
‘He's having a go at my mother!’ Seamus yelled.
‘What?’ said Ron. ‘Harry wouldn't do that—we met your mother, we liked her ...’
‘That's before she started believing every word the stinking Daily Prophet writes about me!’ said Harry at the top of his voice.
‘Oh,’ said Ron, comprehension dawning across his freckled face. ‘Oh ... right.’
‘You know what?’ said Seamus heatedly, casting Harry a venomous look. ‘He's right, I don't want to share a dormitory with him any more, he's mad.’
‘That's out of order, Seamus,’ said Ron, whose ears were starting to glow red—always a danger sign.
‘Out of order, am I?’ shouted Seamus, who in contrast with Ron was going pale. ‘You believe all the rubbish he's come out with about You-Know-Who, do you, you reckon he's telling the truth?’
‘Yeah, I do!’ said Ron angrily.
‘Then you're mad, too,’ said Seamus in disgust.
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Seamus did not answer immediately; he was making rather a meal of ensuring that his poster of the Kenmare Kestrels Quidditch team was quite straight. Then he said, with his back still turned to Harry, ‘Me mam didn't want
me to come back.’
‘What?’ said Harry, pausing in the act of pulling off his robes.
‘She didn't want me to come back to Hogwarts.’
Seamus turned away from his poster and pulled his own pyjamas out of his trunk, still not looking at Harry.
‘But—why?’ said Harry, astonished. He knew that Seamus's mother was a witch and could not understand, therefore, why she should have come over so Dursleyish.
Seamus did not answer until he had finished buttoning his pyjamas.
‘Well,’ he said in a measured voice, ‘I suppose ... because of you.’
‘What d'you mean?’ said Harry quickly.
His heart was beating rather fast. He felt vaguely as though something was closing in on him.
‘Well,’ said Seamus again, still avoiding Harry's eye, she ... er ... well, it's not just you, it's Dumbledore, too ...’
‘She believes the Daily Prophet?’ said Harry. ‘She thinks I'm a liar and Dumbledore's an old fool?’
Seamus looked up at him.
‘Yeah, something like that.’
Harry said nothing. He threw his wand down on to his bedside table, pulled off his robes, stuffed them angrily into his trunk and pulled on his pyjamas. He was sick of it: sick of being the person who is stared at and talked
about all the time. If any of them knew, if any of them had the faintest idea what it felt like to be the one all these things had happened to ... Mrs. Finnigan had no idea, the stupid woman, he thought savagely.
He got into bed and made to pull the hangings closed around him, but before he could do so, Seamus said, ‘Look ... what did happen that night when ... you know, when ... with Cedric Diggory and all?’
Seamus sounded nervous and eager at the same time. Dean, who had been bending over his trunk trying to retrieve a slipper, went oddly still and Harry knew he was listening hard.
‘What are you asking me for?’ Harry retorted. ‘Just read the Daily Prophet like your mother, why don't you? That'll tell you all you need to know.’
‘Don't you have a go at my mother,’ Seamus snapped.
‘I'll have a go at anyone who calls me a liar,’ said Harry.
‘Don't talk to me like that!’
‘I'll talk to you how I want,’ said Harry, his temper rising so fast he snatched his wand back from his bedside table. ‘If you've got a problem sharing a dormitory with me, go and ask McGonagall if you can be moved ... stop your
mummy worrying— ’
‘Leave my mother out of this, Potter!’
‘What's going on?’
Ron had appeared in the doorway. His wide eyes travelled from Harry, who was kneeling on his bed with his wand pointing at Seamus, to Seamus, who was standing there with his fists raised.
‘He's having a go at my mother!’ Seamus yelled.
‘What?’ said Ron. ‘Harry wouldn't do that—we met your mother, we liked her ...’
‘That's before she started believing every word the stinking Daily Prophet writes about me!’ said Harry at the top of his voice.
‘Oh,’ said Ron, comprehension dawning across his freckled face. ‘Oh ... right.’
‘You know what?’ said Seamus heatedly, casting Harry a venomous look. ‘He's right, I don't want to share a dormitory with him any more, he's mad.’
‘That's out of order, Seamus,’ said Ron, whose ears were starting to glow red—always a danger sign.
‘Out of order, am I?’ shouted Seamus, who in contrast with Ron was going pale. ‘You believe all the rubbish he's come out with about You-Know-Who, do you, you reckon he's telling the truth?’
‘Yeah, I do!’ said Ron angrily.
‘Then you're mad, too,’ said Seamus in disgust.
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Career in Politics
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：135 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:35:19
Why do candidates for Congress spend millions of dollars for an office that pays $169,200.00? Between 2004 and 2006, members of Congress' net worth increased an average of 84% - book advances, speaking engagements, stock and land deals, privileged mortgages, etc.
The United States is no longer the representative democracy our founders conceived because of a glaring flaw in our Constitution: it allows individuals to make a career of public office. This creates a critical conflict of interest for politicians between their own ambitions and their responsibility as representatives of the American people.
These "careerists" gradually lose their principles in acceding to campaign contributors, heeding opinion polls, and following their political party's line. Career Congressional members, many of whom have been in office most of their adult lives, have usurped much of the sovereignty of the electorate. This has become a government of the people, by the politicians, and for the special interests, to paraphrase Abraham Lincoln.
Self-serving, entrenched Republican and Democratic politicos create costly and harmful programs to secure votes. These programs increase Americans' reliance upon the government, while diminishing our initiative, self-sufficiency, and self-esteem. The average employed American is paying higher payroll taxes than income taxes - for programs from which he or she may never be the beneficiary. These programs, such as unemployment insurance, welfare, Social Security, and Medicare, make recipients completely dependent on the government.
Incumbents seek "earmarks" and "pork" to reinforce their constituents' loyalty at the polls. Earmarks are expenses that conference committees attach, without a vote by Congress, to approved spending bills. In 2004 and 2005, there were an astonishing 15,268 earmarks that squandered over $40 billion from the U.S. Treasury on non-essential projects, such as the infamous "Alaskan bridge to nowhere." And in 2007, despite all the political posturing about reform, there was $10 billion of wasteful pork - with the House Appropriation Committee alone writing over $4 billion in earmarks as of November 2007. These funds would be better used to significantly reduce our national debt. Instead, members of both political parties indulge in this underhanded funding; self-serving legislators use their earmarks, an unnecessary waste our tax money, to support their ambitions to remain in office.
Legislators constantly battle to reach their goal of being part of the powerful, majority political party. Fortunately, the contentious battle between the parties has prevented the United States from becoming an oligarchy. Unfortunately, the polarizing battle for dominance has increased enmity to ethnic proportions. We have a dysfunctional government because the bitter partisanship precludes the ability to compromise. The mean-spirited pettiness of either minority party discredits the administration's performance, blocks appointees, obstructs important legislation, and convenes endless committee hearings for harassing purposes. Sadly, we have no loyal opposition. The divisiveness, which conceals the theft of our sovereignty and the abuse of the legislators' power, is so extensive that it affects the entire country. Unfortunately, we are so engrossed in this vitriolic rivalry between the political parties that we are unaware that career politicians are exploiting our government. We have been mislead into thinking that members of the opposing political party are the adversaries, while it is actually the career politicians, skillfully looking out for themselves, who are the bad guys. Politicians use the opposing political party as a scapegoat to divert the attention of voters from their own failings.
The art of leadership, as displayed by really great popular leaders in all ages, consists in consolidating the attention of the people against a single adversary and taking care that nothing will split up that attention into sections. - Adolph Hitler
We can eliminate the ability of office holders to make a career out of civil service by limiting each federal elected office to a single term and guarantee the perpetuation of our representative, democratic Republic.
Why do candidates for Congress spend millions of dollars for an office that pays $169,200.00? Between 2004 and 2006, members of Congress' net worth increased an average of 84% - book advances, speaking engagements, stock and land deals, privileged mortgages, etc.
The United States is no longer the representative democracy our founders conceived because of a glaring flaw in our Constitution: it allows individuals to make a career of public office. This creates a critical conflict of interest for politicians between their own ambitions and their responsibility as representatives of the American people.
These "careerists" gradually lose their principles in acceding to campaign contributors, heeding opinion polls, and following their political party's line. Career Congressional members, many of whom have been in office most of their adult lives, have usurped much of the sovereignty of the electorate. This has become a government of the people, by the politicians, and for the special interests, to paraphrase Abraham Lincoln.
Self-serving, entrenched Republican and Democratic politicos create costly and harmful programs to secure votes. These programs increase Americans' reliance upon the government, while diminishing our initiative, self-sufficiency, and self-esteem. The average employed American is paying higher payroll taxes than income taxes - for programs from which he or she may never be the beneficiary. These programs, such as unemployment insurance, welfare, Social Security, and Medicare, make recipients completely dependent on the government.
Incumbents seek "earmarks" and "pork" to reinforce their constituents' loyalty at the polls. Earmarks are expenses that conference committees attach, without a vote by Congress, to approved spending bills. In 2004 and 2005, there were an astonishing 15,268 earmarks that squandered over $40 billion from the U.S. Treasury on non-essential projects, such as the infamous "Alaskan bridge to nowhere." And in 2007, despite all the political posturing about reform, there was $10 billion of wasteful pork - with the House Appropriation Committee alone writing over $4 billion in earmarks as of November 2007. These funds would be better used to significantly reduce our national debt. Instead, members of both political parties indulge in this underhanded funding; self-serving legislators use their earmarks, an unnecessary waste our tax money, to support their ambitions to remain in office.
Legislators constantly battle to reach their goal of being part of the powerful, majority political party. Fortunately, the contentious battle between the parties has prevented the United States from becoming an oligarchy. Unfortunately, the polarizing battle for dominance has increased enmity to ethnic proportions. We have a dysfunctional government because the bitter partisanship precludes the ability to compromise. The mean-spirited pettiness of either minority party discredits the administration's performance, blocks appointees, obstructs important legislation, and convenes endless committee hearings for harassing purposes. Sadly, we have no loyal opposition. The divisiveness, which conceals the theft of our sovereignty and the abuse of the legislators' power, is so extensive that it affects the entire country. Unfortunately, we are so engrossed in this vitriolic rivalry between the political parties that we are unaware that career politicians are exploiting our government. We have been mislead into thinking that members of the opposing political party are the adversaries, while it is actually the career politicians, skillfully looking out for themselves, who are the bad guys. Politicians use the opposing political party as a scapegoat to divert the attention of voters from their own failings.
The art of leadership, as displayed by really great popular leaders in all ages, consists in consolidating the attention of the people against a single adversary and taking care that nothing will split up that attention into sections. - Adolph Hitler
We can eliminate the ability of office holders to make a career out of civil service by limiting each federal elected office to a single term and guarantee the perpetuation of our representative, democratic Republic.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The History Of Brussels Bonsai
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：68 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:07:27
More and more people are turning to bonsai planting to cope with stress. Believe it or not, that small potted tree could be equivalent to a regular yoga class. It could soothe the mind just as much as those physically-twisting
poses that people do during yoga. If you are considering your first pot (of bonsai, that is), it's time to meet Brussel's.
Brussel's is one of the leading grower and importer of bonsais in the United States. Looking at the company's website, one is able to find all the needed tools and methods to be able to start or maintain bonsais.
The Brussel's Online Store sells bonsai trees (potted and ready to take home); bonsai pots, tools (such as soil scoops, scissors, hut stake signs, pliers or cutters); fertilizers; and accessories (like fountains, watering cans,
even books).
The company also aids bonsai beginners by educating them with the styles of bonsai and how to properly care for it. With the online education, people can learn the basics of bonsai growing and also some of the most
frequently asked questions.
This 'nursery', as they are fond of calling themselves, began in the mind of a 5 year old when his father came back home from a business trip. The father brought back several species of bonsais that captivated the young
child.
This child grew up to be a bonsai enthusiast and throughout his teenage years, he studied the art of bonsai. It soon became his business when he began trading bonsais through the mail. This kid started the first, ever bonsai
nursery in the entire country.
The founder, Brussel Martin, has his office or 'nursery' in the northern part of Mississippi. The abundant lighting in that area made it more conducive to bonsai tending. The company also boasts that the founder himself
specially selected each and every bonsai tree.
Brussel's doesn't only provide useful information but they also hold special events to market their trees and other products. With this aggressive approach to marketing, they are able to sell at discounted prices as they also
invite resource speakers to talk about bonsais in specifics. If you would want to meet the top masters of bonsai planting, you can even attend the annual convention that is held for all bonsai lovers.
Brussel Martin has definitely expanded the horizon for bonsais. With all the help that is available today, even those who haven't grown a single plant in their lives would aspire to have one.
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More and more people are turning to bonsai planting to cope with stress. Believe it or not, that small potted tree could be equivalent to a regular yoga class. It could soothe the mind just as much as those physically-twisting
poses that people do during yoga. If you are considering your first pot (of bonsai, that is), it's time to meet Brussel's.
Brussel's is one of the leading grower and importer of bonsais in the United States. Looking at the company's website, one is able to find all the needed tools and methods to be able to start or maintain bonsais.
The Brussel's Online Store sells bonsai trees (potted and ready to take home); bonsai pots, tools (such as soil scoops, scissors, hut stake signs, pliers or cutters); fertilizers; and accessories (like fountains, watering cans,
even books).
The company also aids bonsai beginners by educating them with the styles of bonsai and how to properly care for it. With the online education, people can learn the basics of bonsai growing and also some of the most
frequently asked questions.
This 'nursery', as they are fond of calling themselves, began in the mind of a 5 year old when his father came back home from a business trip. The father brought back several species of bonsais that captivated the young
child.
This child grew up to be a bonsai enthusiast and throughout his teenage years, he studied the art of bonsai. It soon became his business when he began trading bonsais through the mail. This kid started the first, ever bonsai
nursery in the entire country.
The founder, Brussel Martin, has his office or 'nursery' in the northern part of Mississippi. The abundant lighting in that area made it more conducive to bonsai tending. The company also boasts that the founder himself
specially selected each and every bonsai tree.
Brussel's doesn't only provide useful information but they also hold special events to market their trees and other products. With this aggressive approach to marketing, they are able to sell at discounted prices as they also
invite resource speakers to talk about bonsais in specifics. If you would want to meet the top masters of bonsai planting, you can even attend the annual convention that is held for all bonsai lovers.
Brussel Martin has definitely expanded the horizon for bonsais. With all the help that is available today, even those who haven't grown a single plant in their lives would aspire to have one.
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Monday, November 8, 2010
What about Aura & Migraine Pain?
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：113 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:48:18
Migraine attacks and pain generally begins between the ages of 10 and 40, and diminishes after 50. The two primary types of migraines are with aura and without aura.
Migraine without aura is a common migraine without aura but exhibits the same symptoms as a classic migraine except that it does not exhibit any aura.
People who primarily suffer from migraine with aura may also have attacks of migraine without aura. Headache with the features of "migraine without aura" usually follows the aura symptoms. Less commonly, the aura may occur without a subsequent headache or the headache may be non-migrainous in type.
Migraine with aura is a classical migraine preceded by an aura before the attack. The aura occurs for about 10-30 minutes and then is usually followed by a headache. It is quite similar to a common migraine except in the aspect of the aura.
About 15% of migraine sufferers have a early warning that the headache is coming on. This change in brain function is called an "aura". It is usually a visual symptom, such as an arc of sparkling (scintillating) zig-zag lines or a blotting out of vision or both. The aura is due to changes that take place in the cortex, the outer layer of the brain. This slowly spreading depression of nerve cell activity is believed to account for the pattern of development of the typical aura.
Auras set in about 20-30 minutes before the migraine attack. Some patients also describe the presence of a strange odor, before the onset of a migraine. They also experience a tingling sensation in an arm or leg.
In the classic migraine aura, symptoms build up gradually and move slowly from one visual region or one part of the body to another. For example, the migraine aura sufferer may first notice a black spot in the field of vision. This black spot is often surrounded by flashing lights or bright zig-zag lines as mentioned.
What starts this sequence of events that leads to the aura and migraine? The answers to this question are not fully understood. Migraine sufferers have an inborn susceptibility to factors that normally do not trigger headaches.
In people with migraines, changes in body chemistry, such as menstruation, certain foods, and dozens of environmental influences, such as a change in weather, may trigger a migraine attack. A migraine trigger is any factor that, on exposure or withdrawal, leads to the development of an acute migraine headache. Triggers may be categorized as behavioral, environmental, infectious, dietary, chemical, or hormonal. In medical literature, these factors are known as 'precipitants.'
Neither type of migraine denotes a life-threatening disorder but, they can be chronic and recurrent, thus interfering with a person's daily lifestyle.
Both migraine types have the usual pain, nausea, vomiting and intolerance to light and sound, which is worsened by any physical activity.
Treatment? The treatment for migraines begins with simple painkillers for headache and anti-emetics for nausea, and avoidance of triggers if present. Specific anti-migraine drugs can be used to treat migraine. Homeopathic Drugs and Special all natural ingredient products such as those at the Centre for Pain Relief in Burlington, New Jersey have proven effective. If the migraine condition is severe and frequent enough, preventative drugs might be considered. The most commonly used "reversal" medicines are trip-tans. Trip tans work by boosting the effects of the brain chemical serotonin, which reduces the severity and duration of an attack. Propranolol, a beta blocker, and Topiramate have proven effective for migraine sufferers as well.
When it comes to treatment however, "Migraine is the most misunderstood, misdiagnosed, and mistreated condition in medical practice," states Dr. Seymour Diamond, M.D., who is the executive chairman for the National Headache Foundation and director of the Diamond Headache Clinic in Chicago.
As always, talk to your doctor about whether or not you have with Aura or without Aura to find the medication that works best for you.
Migraine attacks and pain generally begins between the ages of 10 and 40, and diminishes after 50. The two primary types of migraines are with aura and without aura.
Migraine without aura is a common migraine without aura but exhibits the same symptoms as a classic migraine except that it does not exhibit any aura.
People who primarily suffer from migraine with aura may also have attacks of migraine without aura. Headache with the features of "migraine without aura" usually follows the aura symptoms. Less commonly, the aura may occur without a subsequent headache or the headache may be non-migrainous in type.
Migraine with aura is a classical migraine preceded by an aura before the attack. The aura occurs for about 10-30 minutes and then is usually followed by a headache. It is quite similar to a common migraine except in the aspect of the aura.
About 15% of migraine sufferers have a early warning that the headache is coming on. This change in brain function is called an "aura". It is usually a visual symptom, such as an arc of sparkling (scintillating) zig-zag lines or a blotting out of vision or both. The aura is due to changes that take place in the cortex, the outer layer of the brain. This slowly spreading depression of nerve cell activity is believed to account for the pattern of development of the typical aura.
Auras set in about 20-30 minutes before the migraine attack. Some patients also describe the presence of a strange odor, before the onset of a migraine. They also experience a tingling sensation in an arm or leg.
In the classic migraine aura, symptoms build up gradually and move slowly from one visual region or one part of the body to another. For example, the migraine aura sufferer may first notice a black spot in the field of vision. This black spot is often surrounded by flashing lights or bright zig-zag lines as mentioned.
What starts this sequence of events that leads to the aura and migraine? The answers to this question are not fully understood. Migraine sufferers have an inborn susceptibility to factors that normally do not trigger headaches.
In people with migraines, changes in body chemistry, such as menstruation, certain foods, and dozens of environmental influences, such as a change in weather, may trigger a migraine attack. A migraine trigger is any factor that, on exposure or withdrawal, leads to the development of an acute migraine headache. Triggers may be categorized as behavioral, environmental, infectious, dietary, chemical, or hormonal. In medical literature, these factors are known as 'precipitants.'
Neither type of migraine denotes a life-threatening disorder but, they can be chronic and recurrent, thus interfering with a person's daily lifestyle.
Both migraine types have the usual pain, nausea, vomiting and intolerance to light and sound, which is worsened by any physical activity.
Treatment? The treatment for migraines begins with simple painkillers for headache and anti-emetics for nausea, and avoidance of triggers if present. Specific anti-migraine drugs can be used to treat migraine. Homeopathic Drugs and Special all natural ingredient products such as those at the Centre for Pain Relief in Burlington, New Jersey have proven effective. If the migraine condition is severe and frequent enough, preventative drugs might be considered. The most commonly used "reversal" medicines are trip-tans. Trip tans work by boosting the effects of the brain chemical serotonin, which reduces the severity and duration of an attack. Propranolol, a beta blocker, and Topiramate have proven effective for migraine sufferers as well.
When it comes to treatment however, "Migraine is the most misunderstood, misdiagnosed, and mistreated condition in medical practice," states Dr. Seymour Diamond, M.D., who is the executive chairman for the National Headache Foundation and director of the Diamond Headache Clinic in Chicago.
As always, talk to your doctor about whether or not you have with Aura or without Aura to find the medication that works best for you.
Drugs To Treat Constipation
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：119 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:48:45
Saline Purgatives (Osmotic Purgatives)
Magnesium Hydroxide (Milk of magnesia 8% suspension)
This is a mild purgative which can be used even in pregnant women and children. It absorbs water from the intestines to form the bulk and make the stools soft. Besides purgative action, it counteracts acidity in the stomach.
Dosage: Its usual dose is 15 to 30 ml. Its action starts after 2 to 6 hours.
Adverse Effects: It is a mild purgative without any adverse effect, except to produce flatulence in some people.
Precautions
Take plenty of fluids along with this purgative.
Patients with chronic kidney disease who may have difficulty excreting magnesium, should be wary of Milk of magnesia.
Magnesium Sulfate (Magsulf or Epsom salt)
Magnesium Sulfate is a useful purgative for preparation of bowels before surgery, X-ray examination, colonoscopy and some times to remove dead tapeworms after drugs and poisoning: This is an osmotic purgative which causes total evacuation of the bowel in 1 to 3 hours. Therefore it is given early in the morning in a dose of 5 to 15g.
Lactulose (Duphalac, Livo-Luk)
It is undigestable sugar and retains water. It is useful in constipation and is given in doses of 4 to 109 twice a day. It is broken down in large bowel by resident bacteria into sugar which have osmotic effect. An important use of lactulose is in liver failure. Here it reduces formation and absorption of ammonia which is responsible for causing coma (20 g
twice a day).
Strong Purgatives (Stimulant Purgatives)
They stimulate the musculature of the large bowel and also increase fluid secretion in the bowel. There is passage of semi-solid/liquid stools in 6-8 hours. Often cramping abdomen pain may also occur. Irritant substances such as senna (sennosides), phenolphthalein, bisacodyl (Dulcolox tab and suppositories) and castor oil are included in this class. Because of excess of fluid and ions loss (potassium and sodium) bowel movements ultimately may be reduced (colonic atony). The uterus at full term gets stimulated and therefore they are never used in pregnancy. These are mostly used after deworming treatment, before X-ray examination bowels and before abdominal surgery.
Adverse Effects: The irritation of the intestines may cause griping or cramping pains in the abdomen. Sometimes there may be erosion of the inflamed mucosa passage of mucous in the stools and colonicy atony (inactivity of large bowel). Other adverse effects include an excessive loss of fluids and electrolytes. Phenolphthalein turns stool pink in colour (harmless but patient needs this information). Allergic skin rashes may occur with phenolphthalein, senna an bisacodyl. Colonic mucosa may develop dark pigmentation on regular use of senna.
Precautions
These agents should not be taken regularly for treatment of chronic constipation.
If there is any previous history of abdominal pain, avoid the use of these drugs.
Saline Purgatives (Osmotic Purgatives)
Magnesium Hydroxide (Milk of magnesia 8% suspension)
This is a mild purgative which can be used even in pregnant women and children. It absorbs water from the intestines to form the bulk and make the stools soft. Besides purgative action, it counteracts acidity in the stomach.
Dosage: Its usual dose is 15 to 30 ml. Its action starts after 2 to 6 hours.
Adverse Effects: It is a mild purgative without any adverse effect, except to produce flatulence in some people.
Precautions
Take plenty of fluids along with this purgative.
Patients with chronic kidney disease who may have difficulty excreting magnesium, should be wary of Milk of magnesia.
Magnesium Sulfate (Magsulf or Epsom salt)
Magnesium Sulfate is a useful purgative for preparation of bowels before surgery, X-ray examination, colonoscopy and some times to remove dead tapeworms after drugs and poisoning: This is an osmotic purgative which causes total evacuation of the bowel in 1 to 3 hours. Therefore it is given early in the morning in a dose of 5 to 15g.
Lactulose (Duphalac, Livo-Luk)
It is undigestable sugar and retains water. It is useful in constipation and is given in doses of 4 to 109 twice a day. It is broken down in large bowel by resident bacteria into sugar which have osmotic effect. An important use of lactulose is in liver failure. Here it reduces formation and absorption of ammonia which is responsible for causing coma (20 g
twice a day).
Strong Purgatives (Stimulant Purgatives)
They stimulate the musculature of the large bowel and also increase fluid secretion in the bowel. There is passage of semi-solid/liquid stools in 6-8 hours. Often cramping abdomen pain may also occur. Irritant substances such as senna (sennosides), phenolphthalein, bisacodyl (Dulcolox tab and suppositories) and castor oil are included in this class. Because of excess of fluid and ions loss (potassium and sodium) bowel movements ultimately may be reduced (colonic atony). The uterus at full term gets stimulated and therefore they are never used in pregnancy. These are mostly used after deworming treatment, before X-ray examination bowels and before abdominal surgery.
Adverse Effects: The irritation of the intestines may cause griping or cramping pains in the abdomen. Sometimes there may be erosion of the inflamed mucosa passage of mucous in the stools and colonicy atony (inactivity of large bowel). Other adverse effects include an excessive loss of fluids and electrolytes. Phenolphthalein turns stool pink in colour (harmless but patient needs this information). Allergic skin rashes may occur with phenolphthalein, senna an bisacodyl. Colonic mucosa may develop dark pigmentation on regular use of senna.
Precautions
These agents should not be taken regularly for treatment of chronic constipation.
If there is any previous history of abdominal pain, avoid the use of these drugs.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Stop Foreclosure Now Or It Could Be Tent City For You Or Your Family!
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：46 UpdateTime：2008-10-18 23:50:18
We need to stop home foreclosure! How many times per day does one hear those words? Failure to stop foreclosure is, in reality, a national disaster, not just a disaster for an unfortunate family here and there. With millions faced with the loss of their homes, we are beginning to see the effects of massive dislocation of 10 plus million men, women, and children per year.
In fact, we are beginning to look like a war torn country because people generally seem unable to stop home foreclosure. Consider these points carefully:
1.Tent cities have been springing up here and there for refugees dislocated from this crisis. I believe many are calling them 'Bushville'. Well, I guess the 'buck has to stop somewhere'!
2.Consumer confidence and thus consumer spending has plummeted is that related to the home foreclosure issue? Think about it!.....without your TV on!
3.Even the nation's economy looks like that of a war torn country .... and the almighty dollar acts like it has been nuked!
Yes, I'd say the residential foreclosure issue is a national disaster and one that is frightening a whole lot more common citizens than ever imagined.
"War for 100 years"? "Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq"? "We are not in a recession"? "The economy is fine except for a little slow down"? Stopping home foreclosure is an impossibility for many"? And, "with housing values decreasing, maybe not even worth a try? Those not affected by the foreclosure issue had better take a look at the overall picture before the foreclosure crises knocks on their door next!
And for those who are already dealing with the issues of stopping home foreclosure and wondering whether or not it is worth the effort to try and save the family home, read the following story.
We received a call in our office from a woman who seemed desperate to find information about filing bankruptcy and did not know where to turn. Seeing our stop foreclosure program she decided to call us. She was living in a KOA campground in a tent with her 3 children. Her home had been foreclosed on and she had no where to turn. She did not have a job and when she did get one her creditors garnished her wages so she had little money to live on.
She was in the Pacific Northwest and winter was approaching. She figured her only alternative was to file bankruptcy to get some relief from her creditors so she had some hope of having enough money to rent an apartment before winter really hit.
Just imagine yourself in this situation. It is not too far from reality. Ask the people living in the 'Bushville" tent cities. I'll bet they never imagined themselves there either. So, when the question is asked, "Is it worth trying to stop home foreclosure?" I think you will know the right answer.
Get started now! You CAN save your home, and the alternative is not pretty.
We need to stop home foreclosure! How many times per day does one hear those words? Failure to stop foreclosure is, in reality, a national disaster, not just a disaster for an unfortunate family here and there. With millions faced with the loss of their homes, we are beginning to see the effects of massive dislocation of 10 plus million men, women, and children per year.
In fact, we are beginning to look like a war torn country because people generally seem unable to stop home foreclosure. Consider these points carefully:
1.Tent cities have been springing up here and there for refugees dislocated from this crisis. I believe many are calling them 'Bushville'. Well, I guess the 'buck has to stop somewhere'!
2.Consumer confidence and thus consumer spending has plummeted is that related to the home foreclosure issue? Think about it!.....without your TV on!
3.Even the nation's economy looks like that of a war torn country .... and the almighty dollar acts like it has been nuked!
Yes, I'd say the residential foreclosure issue is a national disaster and one that is frightening a whole lot more common citizens than ever imagined.
"War for 100 years"? "Weapons of mass destruction in Iraq"? "We are not in a recession"? "The economy is fine except for a little slow down"? Stopping home foreclosure is an impossibility for many"? And, "with housing values decreasing, maybe not even worth a try? Those not affected by the foreclosure issue had better take a look at the overall picture before the foreclosure crises knocks on their door next!
And for those who are already dealing with the issues of stopping home foreclosure and wondering whether or not it is worth the effort to try and save the family home, read the following story.
We received a call in our office from a woman who seemed desperate to find information about filing bankruptcy and did not know where to turn. Seeing our stop foreclosure program she decided to call us. She was living in a KOA campground in a tent with her 3 children. Her home had been foreclosed on and she had no where to turn. She did not have a job and when she did get one her creditors garnished her wages so she had little money to live on.
She was in the Pacific Northwest and winter was approaching. She figured her only alternative was to file bankruptcy to get some relief from her creditors so she had some hope of having enough money to rent an apartment before winter really hit.
Just imagine yourself in this situation. It is not too far from reality. Ask the people living in the 'Bushville" tent cities. I'll bet they never imagined themselves there either. So, when the question is asked, "Is it worth trying to stop home foreclosure?" I think you will know the right answer.
Get started now! You CAN save your home, and the alternative is not pretty.
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