“Yes, my Lord,” whispered Bellatrix, and her eyes swam with tears of gratitude again. “At the first chance!”
“You shall have it,” said Voldemort. “And in your family, so in the world … we shall cut away the cancer that infects us until only those of the true blood remain ...”
Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy’s wand, pointed it directly at the slowly revolving figure suspended over the table, and gave it a tiny flick. The figure came to life with a groan and began to struggle against invisible bonds.
“Do you recognize our guest, Severus?” asked Voldemort.
Snape raised his eyes to the upside down face. All of the Death Eaters were looking up at the captive now, as though they had been given permission to show curiosity.
As she revolved to face the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, “Severus! Help me!”
“Ah, yes,” said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.
“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed unable to look at her anymore.
“But you would not have taken her classes,” said Voldemort. “For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled.
“Yes … Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles … how they are not so different from us …”
One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape again.
“Severus … please … please …”
“Silence,” said Voldemort, with another twitch of Malfoy’s wand, and Charity fell silent as if gagged. “Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds of Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance … She would have us all mate with Muggles … or, no doubt, werewolves …”
Nobody laughed this time. There was no mistaking the anger and contempt in Voldemort’s voice. For the third time, Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape. Tears were pouring from her eyes into her hair. Snape looked back at her, quite impassive, as she turned slowly away from him again.
“Avada Kedavra”
The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.
“Dinner, Nagini,” said Voldemort softly, and the great snake swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.
chanel outlet
cheap uggs on sale
burberry outlet
nike outlet store
cheap uggs for sale
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
“Yeah, I know that, thanks,”
“Yeah, I know that, thanks,” said Harry, not looking up from the book. “That's why I'm looking for something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum won't do it, but
there might be something else, a potion or a spell...”
“You're going about it the wrong way,” said Hermione. “Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where other people
can't. It's not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone could do that —”
“How do you spell ‘belligerent'?” said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. “It can't be B—U—M —”
“No, it isn't,” said Hermione, pulling Ron's essay toward her. “And ‘augury’ doesn't begin O—R—G either. What kind of quill are you using?”
“It's one of Fred and George's Spell-Checking ones, but I think the charm must be wearing off.”
“Yes, it must,” said Hermione, pointing at the title of his essay, “because we were asked how we'd deal with Dementors, not ‘Dugbogs', and I don't remember you
changing your name to ‘Roonil Wazlib’ either.”
“Ah no!” said Ron, staring horror-struck at the parchment. “Don't say I'll have to write the whole thing out again!”
“It's okay, we can fix it,” said Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand.
“I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily.
Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don't let Lavender hear you saying that.”
“I won't,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will, then she'll ditch me.”
“Why don't you ditch her if you want to finish it?” asked Harry.
“You haven't ever chucked anyone, have you?” said Ron. “You and Cho just —”
“Sort of fell apart, yeah,” said Harry.
“Wish that would happen with me and Lavender,” said Ron gloomily, watching Hermione silently tapping each of his misspelled words with the end of her wand, so that
they corrected themselves on the page. “But the more I hint I want to finish it, the tighter she holds on. It's like going out with the giant squid.”
“There,” said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, handing back Ron's essay.
there might be something else, a potion or a spell...”
“You're going about it the wrong way,” said Hermione. “Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where other people
can't. It's not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone could do that —”
“How do you spell ‘belligerent'?” said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. “It can't be B—U—M —”
“No, it isn't,” said Hermione, pulling Ron's essay toward her. “And ‘augury’ doesn't begin O—R—G either. What kind of quill are you using?”
“It's one of Fred and George's Spell-Checking ones, but I think the charm must be wearing off.”
“Yes, it must,” said Hermione, pointing at the title of his essay, “because we were asked how we'd deal with Dementors, not ‘Dugbogs', and I don't remember you
changing your name to ‘Roonil Wazlib’ either.”
“Ah no!” said Ron, staring horror-struck at the parchment. “Don't say I'll have to write the whole thing out again!”
“It's okay, we can fix it,” said Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand.
“I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily.
Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don't let Lavender hear you saying that.”
“I won't,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will, then she'll ditch me.”
“Why don't you ditch her if you want to finish it?” asked Harry.
“You haven't ever chucked anyone, have you?” said Ron. “You and Cho just —”
“Sort of fell apart, yeah,” said Harry.
“Wish that would happen with me and Lavender,” said Ron gloomily, watching Hermione silently tapping each of his misspelled words with the end of her wand, so that
they corrected themselves on the page. “But the more I hint I want to finish it, the tighter she holds on. It's like going out with the giant squid.”
“There,” said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, handing back Ron's essay.
Chapter 21 The Unknowable Room
Chapter 21 The Unknowable Room
Harry wracked his brains over the next week as to how he was to persuade Slughorn to hand over the true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain wave occurred and
he was reduced to doing what he did increasingly these days when at a loss: poring over his Potions book, hoping that the Prince would have scribbled something useful
in a margin, as he had done so many times before.
“You won't find anything in there,” said Hermione firmly, late on Sunday evening.
“Don't start, Hermione,” said Harry. “If it hadn't been for the Prince, Ron wouldn't be sitting here now.”
“He would if you'd just listened to Snape in our first year,” said Hermione dismissively.
Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation (Sectumsempra!) scrawled in a margin above the intriguing words “For enemies,” and was itching to try it out, but
thought it best not to in front of Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the corner of the page.
They were sitting beside the fire in the common room; the only other people awake were fellow sixth-years. There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier when
they had come back from dinner to find a new sign on the notice board that announced the date for their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen on or before the
first test date, the twenty-first of April, had the option of signing up for additional practice sessions, which would take place (heavily supervised) in Hogsmeade.
Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still not managed to Apparate and feared he would not be ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved Apparition
twice, was a little more confident, but Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four months, could not take the test whether ready or not.
“At least you can Apparate, though!” said Ron tensely. “You'll have no trouble come July!”
“I've only done it once,” Harry reminded him; he had finally managed to disappear and rematerialize inside his hoop during their previous lesson.
Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about Apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a viciously difficult essay for Snape that Harry and Hermione had already
completed. Harry fully expected to receive low marks on his, because he had disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle Dementors, but he did not care: Slughorn's
memory was the most important thing to him now.
“I'm telling you, the stupid Prince isn't going to be able to help you with this, Harry!” said Hermione, more loudly. “There's only one way to force someone to do
what you want, and that's the Imperius Curse, which is illegal —”
Harry wracked his brains over the next week as to how he was to persuade Slughorn to hand over the true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain wave occurred and
he was reduced to doing what he did increasingly these days when at a loss: poring over his Potions book, hoping that the Prince would have scribbled something useful
in a margin, as he had done so many times before.
“You won't find anything in there,” said Hermione firmly, late on Sunday evening.
“Don't start, Hermione,” said Harry. “If it hadn't been for the Prince, Ron wouldn't be sitting here now.”
“He would if you'd just listened to Snape in our first year,” said Hermione dismissively.
Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation (Sectumsempra!) scrawled in a margin above the intriguing words “For enemies,” and was itching to try it out, but
thought it best not to in front of Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the corner of the page.
They were sitting beside the fire in the common room; the only other people awake were fellow sixth-years. There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier when
they had come back from dinner to find a new sign on the notice board that announced the date for their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen on or before the
first test date, the twenty-first of April, had the option of signing up for additional practice sessions, which would take place (heavily supervised) in Hogsmeade.
Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still not managed to Apparate and feared he would not be ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved Apparition
twice, was a little more confident, but Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four months, could not take the test whether ready or not.
“At least you can Apparate, though!” said Ron tensely. “You'll have no trouble come July!”
“I've only done it once,” Harry reminded him; he had finally managed to disappear and rematerialize inside his hoop during their previous lesson.
Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about Apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a viciously difficult essay for Snape that Harry and Hermione had already
completed. Harry fully expected to receive low marks on his, because he had disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle Dementors, but he did not care: Slughorn's
memory was the most important thing to him now.
“I'm telling you, the stupid Prince isn't going to be able to help you with this, Harry!” said Hermione, more loudly. “There's only one way to force someone to do
what you want, and that's the Imperius Curse, which is illegal —”
“Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight
“Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group of them—Nott, Rosier, Muldber, Dolohov—awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to
travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post.”
There could be no doubt that Dumbledore's detailed knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied almost at once.
“You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore.”
“Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen,” said Dumbledore lightly. “Now, Tom...”
Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture.
“... let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?”
Voldemort looked coldly surprised. “A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much.”
“Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you're after, Tom? Why not try an
open request for once?”
Voldemort sneered.
“If you do not want to give me a job —”
“Of course I don't,” said Dumbledore. “And I don't think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose.”
Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage.
“This is your final word?”
“It is,” said Dumbledore, also standing.
“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“No, nothing,” said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. “The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make
repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom... I wish I could...”
For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort's hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment
had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone.
Harry felt Dumbledore's hand close over his arm again and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the
window ledge, and Dumbledore's hand was blackened and dead-looking once more.
“Why?” said Harry at once, looking up into Dumbledore's face. “Why did he come back? Did you ever find out?”
“I have ideas,” said Dumbledore, “but no more than that.”
“What ideas, sir?”
“I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that memory from Professor Slughorn,” said Dumbledore.
“When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear ... to both of us.”
Harry was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was holding it open for him, he did not move at once.
“Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn't say...”
“Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job,” said Dumbledore. “The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never been able
to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort.”
travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post.”
There could be no doubt that Dumbledore's detailed knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied almost at once.
“You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore.”
“Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen,” said Dumbledore lightly. “Now, Tom...”
Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture.
“... let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?”
Voldemort looked coldly surprised. “A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much.”
“Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you're after, Tom? Why not try an
open request for once?”
Voldemort sneered.
“If you do not want to give me a job —”
“Of course I don't,” said Dumbledore. “And I don't think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose.”
Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage.
“This is your final word?”
“It is,” said Dumbledore, also standing.
“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.”
“No, nothing,” said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. “The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make
repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom... I wish I could...”
For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort's hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment
had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone.
Harry felt Dumbledore's hand close over his arm again and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the
window ledge, and Dumbledore's hand was blackened and dead-looking once more.
“Why?” said Harry at once, looking up into Dumbledore's face. “Why did he come back? Did you ever find out?”
“I have ideas,” said Dumbledore, “but no more than that.”
“What ideas, sir?”
“I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that memory from Professor Slughorn,” said Dumbledore.
“When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear ... to both of us.”
Harry was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was holding it open for him, he did not move at once.
“Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn't say...”
“Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job,” said Dumbledore. “The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never been able
to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort.”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
“Yeah, mine!” said Harry.
“Yeah, mine!” said Harry. “I told him at Kings Cross about Malfoy and that thing he was trying to get Borgin to fix! Well, if it's not at their house, he must have
brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him—”
“But how can he have done, Harry?” said Hermione, putting down the newspaper with a surprised look. “We were all searched when we arrived, weren't we?”
“Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “I wasn't!”
“Oh no, of course you weren't, I forgot you were late. Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would
have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can't have brought in anything dangerous!”
Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny Weasley playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff for a while before seeing a way around this objection.
“Someone's sent it to him by owl, then,” he said. “His mother or someone.”
“All the owls are being checked too,” said Hermione. “Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach.”
Really stumped this time, Harry found nothing else to say. There did not seem to be any way Malfoy could have brought a dangerous or Dark object into the school. He
looked hopefully at Ron, who was sitting with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown.
“Can you think of any way Malfoy — ?”
“Oh, drop it, Harry,” said Ron.
“Listen, it's not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to go, you know!” said Harry, firing up.
“Well, as I'm not invited to any parties,” said Ron, getting to his feet again, “I think I'll go to bed.”
He stomped off toward the door to the boys’ dormitories, leaving Harry and Hermione staring after him.
“Harry?” said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. “I've got a message for you.”
“From Professor Slughorn?” asked Harry, sitting up hopefully.
“No ... from Professor Snape,” said Demelza. Harry's heart sank. “He says you're to come to his office at half past eight tonight to do your detention—er—no matter
how many party invitations you've received. And he wanted you to know you'll be sorting out rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions and—and he says
there's no need to bring protective gloves.”
“Right,” said Harry grimly. “Thanks a lot, Demelza.”
brought whatever it is to Hogwarts with him—”
“But how can he have done, Harry?” said Hermione, putting down the newspaper with a surprised look. “We were all searched when we arrived, weren't we?”
“Were you?” said Harry, taken aback. “I wasn't!”
“Oh no, of course you weren't, I forgot you were late. Well, Filch ran over all of us with Secrecy Sensors when we got into the entrance hall. Any Dark object would
have been found, I know for a fact Crabbe had a shrunken head confiscated. So you see, Malfoy can't have brought in anything dangerous!”
Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny Weasley playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff for a while before seeing a way around this objection.
“Someone's sent it to him by owl, then,” he said. “His mother or someone.”
“All the owls are being checked too,” said Hermione. “Filch told us so when he was jabbing those Secrecy Sensors everywhere he could reach.”
Really stumped this time, Harry found nothing else to say. There did not seem to be any way Malfoy could have brought a dangerous or Dark object into the school. He
looked hopefully at Ron, who was sitting with his arms folded, staring over at Lavender Brown.
“Can you think of any way Malfoy — ?”
“Oh, drop it, Harry,” said Ron.
“Listen, it's not my fault Slughorn invited Hermione and me to his stupid party, neither of us wanted to go, you know!” said Harry, firing up.
“Well, as I'm not invited to any parties,” said Ron, getting to his feet again, “I think I'll go to bed.”
He stomped off toward the door to the boys’ dormitories, leaving Harry and Hermione staring after him.
“Harry?” said the new Chaser, Demelza Robins, appearing suddenly at his shoulder. “I've got a message for you.”
“From Professor Slughorn?” asked Harry, sitting up hopefully.
“No ... from Professor Snape,” said Demelza. Harry's heart sank. “He says you're to come to his office at half past eight tonight to do your detention—er—no matter
how many party invitations you've received. And he wanted you to know you'll be sorting out rotten flobberworms from good ones, to use in Potions and—and he says
there's no need to bring protective gloves.”
“Right,” said Harry grimly. “Thanks a lot, Demelza.”
As they came into the castle they spotted
As they came into the castle they spotted Cormac McLaggen entering the Great Hall. It took him two attempts to get through the doors; he ricocheted off the frame on the
first attempt. Ron merely guffawed gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but Harry caught Hermione's arm and held her back.
“What?” said Hermione defensively.
“If you ask me,” said Harry quietly, “McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning. And he was standing right in front of where you were sitting.”
Hermione blushed.
“Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny! Anyway, he's got a nasty temper, you saw how he
reacted when he didn't get in—you wouldn't have wanted someone like that on the team.”
“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that's true. But wasn't that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you're a prefect, aren't you?”
“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked.
“What are you two doing?” demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious.
“Nothing,” said Harry and Hermione together, and they hurried after Ron. The smell of roast beef made Harry's stomach ache with hunger, but they had barely taken
three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path.
“Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!” he boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly, “I was hoping to
catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We're having a little party, just a few rising stars, I've got McLaggen coming
and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin—I don't know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries—and, of course, I hope very much that Miss
Granger will favor me by coming too.”
Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him.
“I can't come, Professor,” said Harry at once. “I've got a detention with Professor Snape.”
“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically. “Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I'll just have to have a word with Severus and explain
the situation. I'm sure I'll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I'll see you both later!”
He bustled away out of the Hall.
“He's got no chance of persuading Snape,” said Harry, the moment Slughorn was out of earshot. “This detention's already been postponed once; Snape did it for
Dumbledore, but he won't do it for anyone else.”
“Oh, I wish you could come, I don't want to go on my own!” said Hermione anxiously; Harry knew that she was thinking about McLaggen.
“I doubt you'll be alone, Ginny'll probably be invited,” snapped Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly to being ignored by Slughorn.
After dinner they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most people had finished dinner by now, but they managed to find a free
table and sat down; Ron, who had been in a bad mood ever since the encounter with Slughorn, folded his arms and frowned at the ceiling. Hermione reached out for a copy
of the Evening Prophet, which somebody had left abandoned on a chair.
“Anything new?” said Harry.
“Not really...” Hermione had opened the newspaper and was scanning the inside pages. “Oh, look, your dad's in here, Ron—he's all right!” she added quickly, for Ron
had looked around in alarm. “It just says he's been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘This second search of the Death Eaters residence does not seem to have yielded any
results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon
a confidential tip-off.’”
first attempt. Ron merely guffawed gloatingly and strode off into the Hall after him, but Harry caught Hermione's arm and held her back.
“What?” said Hermione defensively.
“If you ask me,” said Harry quietly, “McLaggen looks like he was Confunded this morning. And he was standing right in front of where you were sitting.”
Hermione blushed.
“Oh, all right then, I did it,” she whispered. “But you should have heard the way he was talking about Ron and Ginny! Anyway, he's got a nasty temper, you saw how he
reacted when he didn't get in—you wouldn't have wanted someone like that on the team.”
“No,” said Harry. “No, I suppose that's true. But wasn't that dishonest, Hermione? I mean, you're a prefect, aren't you?”
“Oh, be quiet,” she snapped, as he smirked.
“What are you two doing?” demanded Ron, reappearing in the doorway to the Great Hall and looking suspicious.
“Nothing,” said Harry and Hermione together, and they hurried after Ron. The smell of roast beef made Harry's stomach ache with hunger, but they had barely taken
three steps toward the Gryffindor table when Professor Slughorn appeared in front of them, blocking their path.
“Harry, Harry, just the man I was hoping to see!” he boomed genially, twiddling the ends of his walrus mustache and puffing out his enormous belly, “I was hoping to
catch you before dinner! What do you say to a spot of supper tonight in my rooms instead? We're having a little party, just a few rising stars, I've got McLaggen coming
and Zabini, the charming Melinda Bobbin—I don't know whether you know her? Her family owns a large chain of apothecaries—and, of course, I hope very much that Miss
Granger will favor me by coming too.”
Slughorn made Hermione a little bow as he finished speaking. It was as though Ron was not present; Slughorn did not so much as look at him.
“I can't come, Professor,” said Harry at once. “I've got a detention with Professor Snape.”
“Oh dear!” said Slughorn, his face falling comically. “Dear, dear, I was counting on you, Harry! Well, now, I'll just have to have a word with Severus and explain
the situation. I'm sure I'll be able to persuade him to postpone your detention. Yes, I'll see you both later!”
He bustled away out of the Hall.
“He's got no chance of persuading Snape,” said Harry, the moment Slughorn was out of earshot. “This detention's already been postponed once; Snape did it for
Dumbledore, but he won't do it for anyone else.”
“Oh, I wish you could come, I don't want to go on my own!” said Hermione anxiously; Harry knew that she was thinking about McLaggen.
“I doubt you'll be alone, Ginny'll probably be invited,” snapped Ron, who did not seem to have taken kindly to being ignored by Slughorn.
After dinner they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower. The common room was very crowded, as most people had finished dinner by now, but they managed to find a free
table and sat down; Ron, who had been in a bad mood ever since the encounter with Slughorn, folded his arms and frowned at the ceiling. Hermione reached out for a copy
of the Evening Prophet, which somebody had left abandoned on a chair.
“Anything new?” said Harry.
“Not really...” Hermione had opened the newspaper and was scanning the inside pages. “Oh, look, your dad's in here, Ron—he's all right!” she added quickly, for Ron
had looked around in alarm. “It just says he's been to visit the Malfoys’ house. ‘This second search of the Death Eaters residence does not seem to have yielded any
results. Arthur Weasley of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects said that his team had been acting upon
a confidential tip-off.’”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
"Present me to your new friends,
"Present me to your new friends," he said to his daughter, squeezing her hand with his elbow. "I like even your horrid Soden for making you so well again. Only it's melancholy, very melancholy here. Who's that?"
Kitty mentioned the names of all the people they met, with some of whom she was acquainted and some not. At the entrance of the garden they met the blind lady, Madame Berthe, with her guide, and the prince was delighted to see the old Frenchwoman's face light up when she heard Kitty's voice. She at once began talking to him with French exaggerated politeness, applauding him for having such a delightful daughter, extolling Kitty to the skies before her face, and calling her a treasure, a pearl, and a consoling angel.
"Well, she's the second angel, then," said the prince, smiling. "she calls Mademoiselle Varenka angel number one."
"Oh! Mademoiselle Varenka, she's a real angel, allez," Madame Berthe assented.
In the arcade they met Varenka herself. She was walking rapidly towards them carrying an elegant red bag.
"Here is papa come," Kitty said to her.
Varenka made--simply and naturally as she did everything--a movement between a bow and curtsey, and immediately began talking to the prince, without shyness, naturally, as she talked to everyone.
"Of course I know you; I know you very well," the prince said to her with a smile, in which Kitty detected with joy that her father liked her friend. "Where are you off to in such haste?"
"Maman's here," she said, turning to Kitty. "She has not slept all night, and the doctor advised her to go out. I'm taking her her work."
"So that's angel number one?" said the prince when Varenka had gone on.
Kitty saw that her father had meant to make fun of Varenka, but that he could not do it because he liked her.
"Come, so we shall see all your friends," he went on, "even Madame Stahl, if she deigns to recognize me."
"Why, did you know her, papa?" Kitty asked apprehensively, catching the gleam of irony that kindled in the prince's eyes at the mention of Madame Stahl.
"I used to know her husband, and her too a little, before she'd joined the Pietists."
"What is a Pietist, papa?" asked Kitty, dismayed to find that what she prized so highly in Madame Stahl had a name.
"I don't quite know myself. I only know that she thanks God for everything, for every misfortune, and thanks God too that her husband died. And that's rather droll, as they didn't get on together."
"Who's that? What a piteous face!" he asked, noticing a sick man of medium height sitting on a bench, wearing a brown overcoat and white trousers that fell in strange folds about his long, fleshless legs. This man lifted his straw hat, showed his scanty curly hair and high forehead, painfully reddened by the pressure of the hat.
"That's Petrov, an artist," answered Kitty, blushing. "And that's his wife," she added, indicating Anna Pavlovna, who, as though on purpose, at the very instant they approached walked away after a child that had run off along a path.
"Poor fellow! and what a nice face he has!" said the prince. "Why don't you go up to him? He wanted to speak to you."
"Well, let us go, then," said Kitty, turning round resolutely. "How are you feeling today?" she asked Petrov.
Petrov got up, leaning on his stick, and looked shyly at the prince.
"This is my daughter," said the prince. "Let me introduce myself."
The painter bowed and smiled, showing his strangely dazzling white teeth.
"We expected you yesterday, princess," he said to Kitty. He staggered as he said this, and then repeated the motion, trying to make it seem as if it had been intentional.
"I meant to come, but Varenka said that Anna Pavlovna sent word you were not going."
"Not going!" said Petrov, blushing, and immediately beginning to cough, and his eyes sought his wife. "Anita! Anita!" he said loudly, and the swollen veins stood out like cords on his thin white neck.
Anna Pavlovna came up.
"So you sent word to the princess that we weren't going!" he whispered to her angrily, losing his voice.
"Good morning, princess," said Anna Pavlovna, with an assumed smile utterly unlike her former manner. "Very glad to make your acquaintance," she said to the prince. "You've long been expected, prince."
"What did you send word to the princess that we weren't going for?" the artist whispered hoarsely once more, still more angrily, obviously exasperated that his voice failed him so that he could not give his words the expression he would have liked to.
gucci outlet
louis vuitton outlet
chanel outlet store
nike outlet store
uggs outlet
uggs sale
cheap uggs
Kitty mentioned the names of all the people they met, with some of whom she was acquainted and some not. At the entrance of the garden they met the blind lady, Madame Berthe, with her guide, and the prince was delighted to see the old Frenchwoman's face light up when she heard Kitty's voice. She at once began talking to him with French exaggerated politeness, applauding him for having such a delightful daughter, extolling Kitty to the skies before her face, and calling her a treasure, a pearl, and a consoling angel.
"Well, she's the second angel, then," said the prince, smiling. "she calls Mademoiselle Varenka angel number one."
"Oh! Mademoiselle Varenka, she's a real angel, allez," Madame Berthe assented.
In the arcade they met Varenka herself. She was walking rapidly towards them carrying an elegant red bag.
"Here is papa come," Kitty said to her.
Varenka made--simply and naturally as she did everything--a movement between a bow and curtsey, and immediately began talking to the prince, without shyness, naturally, as she talked to everyone.
"Of course I know you; I know you very well," the prince said to her with a smile, in which Kitty detected with joy that her father liked her friend. "Where are you off to in such haste?"
"Maman's here," she said, turning to Kitty. "She has not slept all night, and the doctor advised her to go out. I'm taking her her work."
"So that's angel number one?" said the prince when Varenka had gone on.
Kitty saw that her father had meant to make fun of Varenka, but that he could not do it because he liked her.
"Come, so we shall see all your friends," he went on, "even Madame Stahl, if she deigns to recognize me."
"Why, did you know her, papa?" Kitty asked apprehensively, catching the gleam of irony that kindled in the prince's eyes at the mention of Madame Stahl.
"I used to know her husband, and her too a little, before she'd joined the Pietists."
"What is a Pietist, papa?" asked Kitty, dismayed to find that what she prized so highly in Madame Stahl had a name.
"I don't quite know myself. I only know that she thanks God for everything, for every misfortune, and thanks God too that her husband died. And that's rather droll, as they didn't get on together."
"Who's that? What a piteous face!" he asked, noticing a sick man of medium height sitting on a bench, wearing a brown overcoat and white trousers that fell in strange folds about his long, fleshless legs. This man lifted his straw hat, showed his scanty curly hair and high forehead, painfully reddened by the pressure of the hat.
"That's Petrov, an artist," answered Kitty, blushing. "And that's his wife," she added, indicating Anna Pavlovna, who, as though on purpose, at the very instant they approached walked away after a child that had run off along a path.
"Poor fellow! and what a nice face he has!" said the prince. "Why don't you go up to him? He wanted to speak to you."
"Well, let us go, then," said Kitty, turning round resolutely. "How are you feeling today?" she asked Petrov.
Petrov got up, leaning on his stick, and looked shyly at the prince.
"This is my daughter," said the prince. "Let me introduce myself."
The painter bowed and smiled, showing his strangely dazzling white teeth.
"We expected you yesterday, princess," he said to Kitty. He staggered as he said this, and then repeated the motion, trying to make it seem as if it had been intentional.
"I meant to come, but Varenka said that Anna Pavlovna sent word you were not going."
"Not going!" said Petrov, blushing, and immediately beginning to cough, and his eyes sought his wife. "Anita! Anita!" he said loudly, and the swollen veins stood out like cords on his thin white neck.
Anna Pavlovna came up.
"So you sent word to the princess that we weren't going!" he whispered to her angrily, losing his voice.
"Good morning, princess," said Anna Pavlovna, with an assumed smile utterly unlike her former manner. "Very glad to make your acquaintance," she said to the prince. "You've long been expected, prince."
"What did you send word to the princess that we weren't going for?" the artist whispered hoarsely once more, still more angrily, obviously exasperated that his voice failed him so that he could not give his words the expression he would have liked to.
gucci outlet
louis vuitton outlet
chanel outlet store
nike outlet store
uggs outlet
uggs sale
cheap uggs
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)