Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of exasperation and amusement. Vernon Dursley had been changing his mind every twenty four hours for the past four weeks, packing and unpacking and repacking the car with every change of heart. Harry’s favorite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, unaware that Dudley had added his dumbbells to his case since the last time it been repacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the boot and collapsed with a yelp of pain and much swearing.
“According to you,” Vernon Dursley said, now resuming his pacing up and down the living room, “we – Petunia, Dudley, and I – are in danger. From – from – ”
“Some of ‘my lot’ right?” said Harry.
“Well I don’t believe it,” repeated Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt in front of Harry again. “I was awake half the night thinking it all over, and I believe it’s a plot to get the house.”
“The house?” repeated Harry. “What house?”
“This house!” shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein his forehead starting to pulse. “Our house! House prices are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the way and then you’re going to do a bit of hocus pocus and before we know it the deeds will be in your name and – ”
“Are you out of your mind?” demanded Harry. “A plot to get this house? Are you actually as stupid as you look?”
“Don’t you dare –!” squealed Aunt Petunia, but again Vernon waved her down. Slights on his personal appearance were it seemed as nothing to the danger he had spotted.
“Just in case you’ve forgotten,” said Harry, “I’ve already got a house my godfather left me one. So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?”
There was silence. Harry thought he had rather impressed his uncle with this argument.
“You claim,” said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet again, “that this Lord Thing – ”
“ – Voldemort,” said Harry impatiently, “and we’ve been through this about a hundred times already. This isn’t a claim, it’s fact. Dumbledore told you last year, and Kingsley and Mr. Weasley – ”
Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that his uncle was attempting to ward off recollections of the unannounced visit, a few days into Harry’s summer holidays, of two fully grown wizards. The arrival on the doorstep of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most unpleasant shock to the Dursleys. Harry had to admit, however that as Mr. Weasley had once demolished half of the living room, his reappearance could not have been expected to delight Uncle Vernon.
“ – Kingsley and Mr. Weasley explained it all as well,” Harry pressed on remorselessly, “Once I’m seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break, and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding you hostage I’d come and try to rescue you.”
Uncle Vernon’s and Harry’s eyes met. Harry was sure that in that instant they were both wondering the same thing. Then Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry resumed, “You’ve got to go into hiding and the Order wants to help. You’re being offered serious protection, the best there is.”
Uncle Vernon said nothing but continued to pace up and down. Outside the sun hung low over the privet hedges. The next door neighbor’s lawn mower stalled again.
“I thought there was a Ministry of Magic?” asked Vernon Dursley abruptly.
“There is,” said Harry, surprised.
“Well, then, why can’t they protect us? It seems to me that, as innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than harboring a marked man, we ought to qualify for government protection!”
Harry laughed; he could not help himself. It was so very typical of his uncle to put his hopes in the establishment, even within this world that he despised and mistrusted. “You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said,” Harry replied. “We think the Ministry has been infiltrated.”
Uncle Vernon strode back to the fireplace and back breathing so strongly that his great black mustache rippled his face still purple with concentration.
“All right,” he said. Stopping in front of Harry get again. “All right, let’s say for the sake of argument we accept this protection. I still don’t see why we can’t have that Kingsley bloke.”
Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but with difficulty. This question had also been addressed half a dozen times.
“As I’ve told you,” he said through gritted teeth, “Kingsley is protecting the Mug – I mean, your Prime Minister.”
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“But you won't help her son,” said Harry.
“But you won't help her son,” said Harry. “She gave me her life, but you won't give me a memory.”
Hagrid's rumbling snores filled the cabin. Harry looked steadily into Slughorn's tear-filled eyes. The Potions master seemed unable to look away.
“Don't say that,” he whispered. “It isn't a question... if it were to help you, of course... but no purpose can be serve...”
“It can,” said Harry clearly. “Dumbledore needs information. I need information.”
He knew he was safe: Felix was telling him that Slughorn would remember nothing of this in the morning. Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry leaned forward a
little.
“I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that memory.”
Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead gleamed with sweat.
“You are the Chosen One?”
“Of course I am,” said Harry calmly.
“But the... my dear boy... you're asking a great deal... you're asking me, in fact, to aid you in your attempt to destroy—”
“You don't want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?”
“Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —”
“You're scared he'll find out you helped me?”
Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified.
“Be brave like my mother, Professor...”
Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment like an enormously overgrown baby.
“I am not proud...” he whispered through his fingers. “I am ashamed of what—of what that memory shows... I think I may have done great damage that day...”
“You'd cancel out anything you did by giving me the memory,” said Harry. “It would be a very brave and noble thing to do.”
Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn and Harry stared at each other over the guttering candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix Felicis told
Harry not to break it, to wait.
Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty bottle. Still looking
into Harry's eyes, Slughorn touched the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory came away too, clinging to the wand tip.
Longer and longer the memory stretched until it broke and swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread,
swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a trembling hand and then passed it across the table to Harry.
“Thank you very much, Professor.”
“You're a good boy,” said Professor Slughorn, tears trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus mustache. “And you've got her eyes... just don't think too badly of
me once you've seen it...”
And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep.
Hagrid's rumbling snores filled the cabin. Harry looked steadily into Slughorn's tear-filled eyes. The Potions master seemed unable to look away.
“Don't say that,” he whispered. “It isn't a question... if it were to help you, of course... but no purpose can be serve...”
“It can,” said Harry clearly. “Dumbledore needs information. I need information.”
He knew he was safe: Felix was telling him that Slughorn would remember nothing of this in the morning. Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry leaned forward a
little.
“I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that memory.”
Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead gleamed with sweat.
“You are the Chosen One?”
“Of course I am,” said Harry calmly.
“But the... my dear boy... you're asking a great deal... you're asking me, in fact, to aid you in your attempt to destroy—”
“You don't want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?”
“Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —”
“You're scared he'll find out you helped me?”
Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified.
“Be brave like my mother, Professor...”
Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment like an enormously overgrown baby.
“I am not proud...” he whispered through his fingers. “I am ashamed of what—of what that memory shows... I think I may have done great damage that day...”
“You'd cancel out anything you did by giving me the memory,” said Harry. “It would be a very brave and noble thing to do.”
Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn and Harry stared at each other over the guttering candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix Felicis told
Harry not to break it, to wait.
Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty bottle. Still looking
into Harry's eyes, Slughorn touched the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory came away too, clinging to the wand tip.
Longer and longer the memory stretched until it broke and swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread,
swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a trembling hand and then passed it across the table to Harry.
“Thank you very much, Professor.”
“You're a good boy,” said Professor Slughorn, tears trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus mustache. “And you've got her eyes... just don't think too badly of
me once you've seen it...”
And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep.
After an hour or so, Hagrid
After an hour or so, Hagrid and Slughorn began making extravagant toasts: to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to elf-made wine, and to—
“Harry Potter!” bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he drained it.
“Yes, indeed,” cried Slughorn a little thickly, “Parry Otter, the Chosen Boy Who—well — something of that sort,” he mumbled, and drained his mug too.
Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who pocketed it with cries of, “To friendship! To generosity! To ten
Galleons a hair!”
And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo.
“Aaargh, the good die young,” muttered Hagrid, slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. “Me dad was no age
ter go ... nor were yer mum’ an’ dad, Harry...”
Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid's crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry's arm and shook it
“Bes’ wiz and witchard o’ their age I never knew... terrible thing... terrible thing...”
Slughorn sang plaintively.
“And Odo the hero, they bore him back home
To the place that he'd known as a lad,
They laid him to rest with his hat inside out.
And his wand snapped in two, which was sad.”
“... terrible,” Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep, snoring deeply.
“Sorry,” said Slughorn with a hiccup. “Can't carry a tune to save my life.”
“Hagrid wasn't talking about your singing,” said Harry quietly. “He was talking about my mum and dad dying.”
“Oh,” said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. “Oh dear. Yes, that was—was terrible indeed. Terrible... terrible...”
He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs.
“I don't—don't suppose you remember it, Harry?” he asked awkwardly.
“No—well, I was only one when they died,” said Harry, his eyes on the flame of the candle flickering in Hagrid's heavy snores. “But I've found out pretty much what
happened since. My dad died first. Did you know that?”
“I—I didn't,” said Slughorn in a hushed voice.
“Yeah... Voldemort murdered him and then stepped over his body toward my mum,” said Harry.
Slughorn gave a great shudder, but he did not seem able to tear his horrified gaze away from Harry's face.
“He told her to get out of the way,” said Harry remorselessly. “He told me she needn't have died. He only wanted me. She could have run.”
“Oh dear,” breathed Slughorn. “She could have... she needn't... that's awful...”
“It is, isn't it?” said Harry, in a voice barely more than a whisper. “But she didn't move. Dad was already dead, but she didn't want me to go too. She tried to
plead with Voldemort... but he just laughed....”
“That's enough!” said Slughorn suddenly, raising a shaking hand. “Really, my dear boy, enough... I'm an old man... I don't need to hear... I don't want to hear...”
“I forgot,” lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on. “You liked her, didn't you?”
“Liked her?” said Slughorn, his eyes brimming with tears once more. “I don't imagine anyone who met her wouldn't have liked her... very brave... very funny... it was
the most horrible thing...”
“Harry Potter!” bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he drained it.
“Yes, indeed,” cried Slughorn a little thickly, “Parry Otter, the Chosen Boy Who—well — something of that sort,” he mumbled, and drained his mug too.
Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who pocketed it with cries of, “To friendship! To generosity! To ten
Galleons a hair!”
And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo.
“Aaargh, the good die young,” muttered Hagrid, slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. “Me dad was no age
ter go ... nor were yer mum’ an’ dad, Harry...”
Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid's crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry's arm and shook it
“Bes’ wiz and witchard o’ their age I never knew... terrible thing... terrible thing...”
Slughorn sang plaintively.
“And Odo the hero, they bore him back home
To the place that he'd known as a lad,
They laid him to rest with his hat inside out.
And his wand snapped in two, which was sad.”
“... terrible,” Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep, snoring deeply.
“Sorry,” said Slughorn with a hiccup. “Can't carry a tune to save my life.”
“Hagrid wasn't talking about your singing,” said Harry quietly. “He was talking about my mum and dad dying.”
“Oh,” said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. “Oh dear. Yes, that was—was terrible indeed. Terrible... terrible...”
He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs.
“I don't—don't suppose you remember it, Harry?” he asked awkwardly.
“No—well, I was only one when they died,” said Harry, his eyes on the flame of the candle flickering in Hagrid's heavy snores. “But I've found out pretty much what
happened since. My dad died first. Did you know that?”
“I—I didn't,” said Slughorn in a hushed voice.
“Yeah... Voldemort murdered him and then stepped over his body toward my mum,” said Harry.
Slughorn gave a great shudder, but he did not seem able to tear his horrified gaze away from Harry's face.
“He told her to get out of the way,” said Harry remorselessly. “He told me she needn't have died. He only wanted me. She could have run.”
“Oh dear,” breathed Slughorn. “She could have... she needn't... that's awful...”
“It is, isn't it?” said Harry, in a voice barely more than a whisper. “But she didn't move. Dad was already dead, but she didn't want me to go too. She tried to
plead with Voldemort... but he just laughed....”
“That's enough!” said Slughorn suddenly, raising a shaking hand. “Really, my dear boy, enough... I'm an old man... I don't need to hear... I don't want to hear...”
“I forgot,” lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on. “You liked her, didn't you?”
“Liked her?” said Slughorn, his eyes brimming with tears once more. “I don't imagine anyone who met her wouldn't have liked her... very brave... very funny... it was
the most horrible thing...”
They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table
They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table. Fang, who had been skulking in his basket during the burial, now came padding softly across to them and put his heavy
head into Harry's lap as usual. Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had brought.
“I have had it all tested for poison,” he assured Harry, pouring most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid's bucket-sized mugs and handing it to Hagrid. “Had a
house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to your poor friend Rupert.”
Harry saw, in his mind's eye, the expression on Hermione's face if she ever heard about this abuse of house-elves, and decided never to mention it to her.
“One for Harry...” said Slughorn, dividing a second bottle between two mugs, “... and one for me. Well,— he raised his mug high, “to Aragog.”
“Aragog,” said Harry and Hagrid together.
Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Harry, however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he merely pretended to
take a gulp and then set the mug back on the table before him.
“I had him from an egg, yeh know,” said Hagrid morosely. “'Tiny little thing he was when he hatched. ‘Bout the size of a Pekingese”
“Sweet,” said Slughorn.
“Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school until... well...”
Hagrid's face darkened and Harry knew why: Tom Riddle had contrived to have Hagrid thrown out of school, blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn, however,
did not seem to be listening; he was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright white hair.
“That's not unicorn hair, Hagrid?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Hagrid indifferently. “Gets pulled out of their tails, they catch it on branches an’ stuff in the forest, yeh know ...”
“But my dear chap, do you know how much that's worth?”
“I use it fer bindin’ on bandages an’ stuff if a creature gets in jured,” said Hagrid, shrugging. “It's dead useful... very strong.”
Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug, his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now, looking, Harry knew, for more treasures that he might be able to
convert into a plentiful supply of oak-matured mead, crystalized pineapple, and velvet smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid's mug and his own, and questioned him about
the creatures that lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming expansive under the influence of the drink and
Slughorn's flattering interest, stopped mopping his eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of Bowtruckle husbandry.
The Felix Felicis gave Harry a little nudge at this point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Harry had not yet
managed to bring off the Refilling Charm without saying the incantation aloud, but the idea that he might not be able to do it tonight was laughable: indeed, Harry
grinned to himself as, unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn (now swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs) he pointed his wand under the table at the
emptying bottles and they immediately began to refill.
head into Harry's lap as usual. Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had brought.
“I have had it all tested for poison,” he assured Harry, pouring most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid's bucket-sized mugs and handing it to Hagrid. “Had a
house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to your poor friend Rupert.”
Harry saw, in his mind's eye, the expression on Hermione's face if she ever heard about this abuse of house-elves, and decided never to mention it to her.
“One for Harry...” said Slughorn, dividing a second bottle between two mugs, “... and one for me. Well,— he raised his mug high, “to Aragog.”
“Aragog,” said Harry and Hagrid together.
Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Harry, however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he merely pretended to
take a gulp and then set the mug back on the table before him.
“I had him from an egg, yeh know,” said Hagrid morosely. “'Tiny little thing he was when he hatched. ‘Bout the size of a Pekingese”
“Sweet,” said Slughorn.
“Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school until... well...”
Hagrid's face darkened and Harry knew why: Tom Riddle had contrived to have Hagrid thrown out of school, blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn, however,
did not seem to be listening; he was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright white hair.
“That's not unicorn hair, Hagrid?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Hagrid indifferently. “Gets pulled out of their tails, they catch it on branches an’ stuff in the forest, yeh know ...”
“But my dear chap, do you know how much that's worth?”
“I use it fer bindin’ on bandages an’ stuff if a creature gets in jured,” said Hagrid, shrugging. “It's dead useful... very strong.”
Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug, his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now, looking, Harry knew, for more treasures that he might be able to
convert into a plentiful supply of oak-matured mead, crystalized pineapple, and velvet smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid's mug and his own, and questioned him about
the creatures that lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming expansive under the influence of the drink and
Slughorn's flattering interest, stopped mopping his eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of Bowtruckle husbandry.
The Felix Felicis gave Harry a little nudge at this point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Harry had not yet
managed to bring off the Refilling Charm without saying the incantation aloud, but the idea that he might not be able to do it tonight was laughable: indeed, Harry
grinned to himself as, unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn (now swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs) he pointed his wand under the table at the
emptying bottles and they immediately began to refill.
if the beast only just died it might
if the beast only just died it might not yet have dried out... of course, I wouldn't want to do anything insensitive if Hagrid is upset... but if there was any way to
procure some ... I mean, it's almost impossible to get venom from an Acromantula while it's alive...”
Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than Harry now.
“... seems an awful waste not to collect it... might get a hundred Galleons a pint... to be frank, my salary is not large...”
And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done.
“Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, “well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would probably be really pleased... give Aragog a better send-off,
you know ...”
“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn, his eyes now gleaming with enthusiasm. “I tell you what, Harry, I'll meet you down there with a bottle or two... we'll drink the
poor beast's—well — not health—but we'll send it off in style, anyway, once it's buried. And I'll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the occasion...”
He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to Hagrid's, delighted with himself.
“Yeh came,” croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door and saw Harry emerging from the Invisibility Cloak in front of him.
“Yeah—Ron and Hermione couldn't, though,” said Harry. “They're really sorry.”
“Don'—don’ matter... He'd've bin touched yeh're here, though, Harry...”
Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen. Harry
patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach.
“Where are we burying him?” he asked. “The forest?”
“Blimey, no,” said Hagrid, wiping his streaming eyes on the bottom of his shirt. “The other spiders won’ let me anywhere near their webs now Aragog's gone. Turns
out it was only on his orders they didn’ eat me! Can yeh believe that, Harry?”
The honest answer was “yes"; Harry recalled with painful ease the scene when he and Ron had come face-to-face with the aeromantulas. They had been quite clear that
Aragog was the only thing that stopped them from eating Hagrid.
“Never bin an area o’ the forest I couldn’ go before!” said Hagrid, shaking his head. “It wasn’ easy, gettin’ Aragog's body out o’ there, I can tell yeh—they
usually eat their dead, see... but I wanted ter give ‘im a nice burial... a proper send-off...”
He broke into sobs again and Harry resumed the patting of his elbow, saying as he did so (for the potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing to do),
“Professor Slughorn met me coming down here, Hagrid.”
“Not in trouble, are yeh?” said Hagrid, looking up, alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the evenin', I know it, it's my fault —”
“No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he'd like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,” said Harry. “He's gone to change into something more
suitable, I think... and he said he'd bring some bottles so we can drink to Aragog's memory...”
“Did he?” said Hagrid, looking both astonished and touched. “Tha's—tha's righ’ nice of him, that is, an’ not turnin’ yeh in either. I've never really had a lot
ter do with Horace Slughorn before... comin’ ter see old Aragog off, though, eh? Well... he'd've liked that, Aragog would...”
Harry thought privately that what Aragog would have liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the rear window
of Hagrid's hut, where he saw the rather horrible sight of the enormous dead spider lying on its back outside, its legs curled and tangled.
“Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your garden?”
procure some ... I mean, it's almost impossible to get venom from an Acromantula while it's alive...”
Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than Harry now.
“... seems an awful waste not to collect it... might get a hundred Galleons a pint... to be frank, my salary is not large...”
And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done.
“Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, “well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would probably be really pleased... give Aragog a better send-off,
you know ...”
“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn, his eyes now gleaming with enthusiasm. “I tell you what, Harry, I'll meet you down there with a bottle or two... we'll drink the
poor beast's—well — not health—but we'll send it off in style, anyway, once it's buried. And I'll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the occasion...”
He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to Hagrid's, delighted with himself.
“Yeh came,” croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door and saw Harry emerging from the Invisibility Cloak in front of him.
“Yeah—Ron and Hermione couldn't, though,” said Harry. “They're really sorry.”
“Don'—don’ matter... He'd've bin touched yeh're here, though, Harry...”
Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen. Harry
patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach.
“Where are we burying him?” he asked. “The forest?”
“Blimey, no,” said Hagrid, wiping his streaming eyes on the bottom of his shirt. “The other spiders won’ let me anywhere near their webs now Aragog's gone. Turns
out it was only on his orders they didn’ eat me! Can yeh believe that, Harry?”
The honest answer was “yes"; Harry recalled with painful ease the scene when he and Ron had come face-to-face with the aeromantulas. They had been quite clear that
Aragog was the only thing that stopped them from eating Hagrid.
“Never bin an area o’ the forest I couldn’ go before!” said Hagrid, shaking his head. “It wasn’ easy, gettin’ Aragog's body out o’ there, I can tell yeh—they
usually eat their dead, see... but I wanted ter give ‘im a nice burial... a proper send-off...”
He broke into sobs again and Harry resumed the patting of his elbow, saying as he did so (for the potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing to do),
“Professor Slughorn met me coming down here, Hagrid.”
“Not in trouble, are yeh?” said Hagrid, looking up, alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the evenin', I know it, it's my fault —”
“No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he'd like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,” said Harry. “He's gone to change into something more
suitable, I think... and he said he'd bring some bottles so we can drink to Aragog's memory...”
“Did he?” said Hagrid, looking both astonished and touched. “Tha's—tha's righ’ nice of him, that is, an’ not turnin’ yeh in either. I've never really had a lot
ter do with Horace Slughorn before... comin’ ter see old Aragog off, though, eh? Well... he'd've liked that, Aragog would...”
Harry thought privately that what Aragog would have liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the rear window
of Hagrid's hut, where he saw the rather horrible sight of the enormous dead spider lying on its back outside, its legs curled and tangled.
“Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your garden?”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Chapter 13 The Secret Riddle
Chapter 13 The Secret Riddle
Katie was removed to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the
school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie herself had not been the intended target.
“Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course,” said Harry to Ron and Hermione, who continued their new policy of feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his Malfoy-Is-a-Death
-Eater theory.
Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night's lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, he presented
himself outside Dumbledore's office at eight o'clock, knocked, and was told to enter. There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as
ever, but he smiled when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.
“You have had a busy time while I have been away,” Dumbledore said. “I believe you witnessed Katie's accident.”
“Yes, sir. How is she?”
“Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin; there was a tiny hole in her
glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a
rapid spread of the curse —”
“Why him?” asked Harry quickly. “Why not Madam Pomfrey?”
Katie was removed to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the
school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie herself had not been the intended target.
“Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course,” said Harry to Ron and Hermione, who continued their new policy of feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his Malfoy-Is-a-Death
-Eater theory.
Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night's lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, he presented
himself outside Dumbledore's office at eight o'clock, knocked, and was told to enter. There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as
ever, but he smiled when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.
“You have had a busy time while I have been away,” Dumbledore said. “I believe you witnessed Katie's accident.”
“Yes, sir. How is she?”
“Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin; there was a tiny hole in her
glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a
rapid spread of the curse —”
“Why him?” asked Harry quickly. “Why not Madam Pomfrey?”
Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense
Broomsticks. It would have made much more sense to deliver the parcel outside Hogwarts, what with Filch searching everyone who goes in and out. I wonder why Malfoy told
her to take it into the castle?”
“Harry, Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!” said Hermione, actually stamping her foot in frustration.
“He must have used an accomplice, then,” said Harry. “Crabbe or Goyle—or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and
Goyle now he's joined up —”
Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said, “There's no point arguing with him.”
“Dilligrout,” said Hermione firmly as they reached the Fat Lady.
The portrait swung open to admit them to the common room. It was quite full and smelled of damp clothing; many people seemed to have returned from Hogsmeade early
because of the bad weather. There was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: clearly, the news of Katie's fate had not yet spread.
“It wasn't a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it,” said Ron, casually turfing a first year out of one of the good armchairs by the fire so
that he could sit down. “The curse didn't even make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof.”
“You're right,” said Hermione, prodding Ron out of the chair with her foot and offering it to the first year again. “It wasn't very well thought-out at all.”
“But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's great thinkers?” asked Harry.
Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him.
her to take it into the castle?”
“Harry, Malfoy wasn't in Hogsmeade!” said Hermione, actually stamping her foot in frustration.
“He must have used an accomplice, then,” said Harry. “Crabbe or Goyle—or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and
Goyle now he's joined up —”
Ron and Hermione exchanged looks that plainly said, “There's no point arguing with him.”
“Dilligrout,” said Hermione firmly as they reached the Fat Lady.
The portrait swung open to admit them to the common room. It was quite full and smelled of damp clothing; many people seemed to have returned from Hogsmeade early
because of the bad weather. There was no buzz of fear or speculation, however: clearly, the news of Katie's fate had not yet spread.
“It wasn't a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it,” said Ron, casually turfing a first year out of one of the good armchairs by the fire so
that he could sit down. “The curse didn't even make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof.”
“You're right,” said Hermione, prodding Ron out of the chair with her foot and offering it to the first year again. “It wasn't very well thought-out at all.”
“But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's great thinkers?” asked Harry.
Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Chapter 71
Chapter 71
On the drive home, as Darya Alexandrovna, with all her children round her, their heads still wet from their bath, and a kerchief tied over her own head, was getting near the house, the coachman said, "There's some gentleman coming: the master of Pokrovskoe, I do believe."
Darya Alexandrovna peeped out in front, and was delighted when she recognized in the gray hat and gray coat the familiar figure of Levin walking to meet them. She was glad to see him at any time, but at this moment she was specially glad he should see her in all her glory. No one was better able to appreciate her grandeur than Levin.
Seeing her, he found himself face to face with one of the pictures of his daydream of family life.
"You're like a hen with your chickens, Darya Alexandrovna."
"Ah, how glad I am to see you!" she said, holding out her hand to him.
"Glad to see me, but you didn't let me know. My brother's staying with me. I got a note from Stiva that you were here."
"From Stiva?" Darya Alexandrovna asked with surprise.
"Yes; he writes that you are here, and that he thinks you might allow me to be of use to you," said Levin, and as he said it he became suddenly embarrassed, and, stopping abruptly, he walked on in silence by the wagonette, snapping off the buds of the lime trees and nibbling them. He was embarrassed through a sense that Darya Alexandrovna would be annoyed by receiving from an outsider help that should by rights have come from her own husband. Darya Alexandrovna certainly did not like this little way of Stepan Arkadyevitch's of foisting his domestic duties on others. And she was at once aware that Levin was aware of this. It was just for this fineness of perception, for this delicacy, that Darya Alexandrovna liked Levin.
"I know, of course," said Levin, "that that simply means that you would like to see me, and I'm exceedingly glad. Though I can fancy that, used to town housekeeping as you are, you must feel in the wilds here, and if there's anything wanted, I'm altogether at your disposal."
"Oh, no!" said Dolly. "At first things were rather uncomfortable, but now we've settled everything capitally-- thanks to my old nurse," she said, indicating Marya Philimonovna, who, seeing that they were speaking of her, smiled brightly and cordially to Levin. She knew him, and knew that he would be a good match for her young lady, and was very keen to see the matter settled.
"Won't you get in, sir, we'll make room this side!" she said to him.
"No, I'll walk. Children, who'd like to race the horses with me?" The children knew Levin very little, and could not remember when they had seen him, but they experienced in regard to him none of that strange feeling of shyness and hostility which children so often experience towards hypocritical, grown-up people, and for which they are so often and miserably punished. Hypocrisy in anything whatever may deceive the cleverest and most penetrating man, but the least wide-awake of children recognizes it, and is revolted by it, however ingeniously it may be disguised. Whatever faults Levin had, there was not a trace of hypocrisy in him, and so the children showed him the same friendliness that they saw in their mother's face. On his invitation, the two elder ones at once jumped out to him and ran with him as simply as they would have done with their nurse or Miss Hoole or their mother. Lily, too, began begging to go to him, and her mother handed her to him; he sat her on his shoulder and ran along with her.
"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, Darya Alexandrovna!" he said, smiling good-humoredly to the mother; "there's no chance of my hurting or dropping her."
And, looking at his strong, agile, assiduously careful and needlessly wary movements, the mother felt her mind at rest, and smiled gaily and approvingly as she watched him.
Here, in the country, with children, and with Darya Alexandrovna, with whom he was in sympathy, Levin was in a mood not infrequent with him, of childlike light-heartedness that she particularly liked in him. As he ran with the children, he taught them gymnastic feats, set Miss Hoole laughing with his queer English accent, and talked to Darya Alexandrovna of his pursuits in the country.
After dinner, Darya Alexandrovna, sitting alone with him on the balcony, began to speak of Kitty.
"You know, Kitty's coming here, and is going to spend the summer with me."
"Really," he said, flushing, and at once, to change the conversation, he said: "Then I'll send you two cows, shall I? If you insist on a bill you shall pay me five roubles a month; but it's really too bad of you."
"No, thank you. We can manage very well now."
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On the drive home, as Darya Alexandrovna, with all her children round her, their heads still wet from their bath, and a kerchief tied over her own head, was getting near the house, the coachman said, "There's some gentleman coming: the master of Pokrovskoe, I do believe."
Darya Alexandrovna peeped out in front, and was delighted when she recognized in the gray hat and gray coat the familiar figure of Levin walking to meet them. She was glad to see him at any time, but at this moment she was specially glad he should see her in all her glory. No one was better able to appreciate her grandeur than Levin.
Seeing her, he found himself face to face with one of the pictures of his daydream of family life.
"You're like a hen with your chickens, Darya Alexandrovna."
"Ah, how glad I am to see you!" she said, holding out her hand to him.
"Glad to see me, but you didn't let me know. My brother's staying with me. I got a note from Stiva that you were here."
"From Stiva?" Darya Alexandrovna asked with surprise.
"Yes; he writes that you are here, and that he thinks you might allow me to be of use to you," said Levin, and as he said it he became suddenly embarrassed, and, stopping abruptly, he walked on in silence by the wagonette, snapping off the buds of the lime trees and nibbling them. He was embarrassed through a sense that Darya Alexandrovna would be annoyed by receiving from an outsider help that should by rights have come from her own husband. Darya Alexandrovna certainly did not like this little way of Stepan Arkadyevitch's of foisting his domestic duties on others. And she was at once aware that Levin was aware of this. It was just for this fineness of perception, for this delicacy, that Darya Alexandrovna liked Levin.
"I know, of course," said Levin, "that that simply means that you would like to see me, and I'm exceedingly glad. Though I can fancy that, used to town housekeeping as you are, you must feel in the wilds here, and if there's anything wanted, I'm altogether at your disposal."
"Oh, no!" said Dolly. "At first things were rather uncomfortable, but now we've settled everything capitally-- thanks to my old nurse," she said, indicating Marya Philimonovna, who, seeing that they were speaking of her, smiled brightly and cordially to Levin. She knew him, and knew that he would be a good match for her young lady, and was very keen to see the matter settled.
"Won't you get in, sir, we'll make room this side!" she said to him.
"No, I'll walk. Children, who'd like to race the horses with me?" The children knew Levin very little, and could not remember when they had seen him, but they experienced in regard to him none of that strange feeling of shyness and hostility which children so often experience towards hypocritical, grown-up people, and for which they are so often and miserably punished. Hypocrisy in anything whatever may deceive the cleverest and most penetrating man, but the least wide-awake of children recognizes it, and is revolted by it, however ingeniously it may be disguised. Whatever faults Levin had, there was not a trace of hypocrisy in him, and so the children showed him the same friendliness that they saw in their mother's face. On his invitation, the two elder ones at once jumped out to him and ran with him as simply as they would have done with their nurse or Miss Hoole or their mother. Lily, too, began begging to go to him, and her mother handed her to him; he sat her on his shoulder and ran along with her.
"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, Darya Alexandrovna!" he said, smiling good-humoredly to the mother; "there's no chance of my hurting or dropping her."
And, looking at his strong, agile, assiduously careful and needlessly wary movements, the mother felt her mind at rest, and smiled gaily and approvingly as she watched him.
Here, in the country, with children, and with Darya Alexandrovna, with whom he was in sympathy, Levin was in a mood not infrequent with him, of childlike light-heartedness that she particularly liked in him. As he ran with the children, he taught them gymnastic feats, set Miss Hoole laughing with his queer English accent, and talked to Darya Alexandrovna of his pursuits in the country.
After dinner, Darya Alexandrovna, sitting alone with him on the balcony, began to speak of Kitty.
"You know, Kitty's coming here, and is going to spend the summer with me."
"Really," he said, flushing, and at once, to change the conversation, he said: "Then I'll send you two cows, shall I? If you insist on a bill you shall pay me five roubles a month; but it's really too bad of you."
"No, thank you. We can manage very well now."
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Monday, November 22, 2010
"Yes, I don't say so either
"Yes, I don't say so either.... Only one thing. Tell me the truth," said Darya Alexandrovna, taking her by the hand: "tell me, did Levin speak to you?..."
The mention of Levin's name seemed to deprive Kitty of the last vestige of self-control. She leaped up from her chair, and flinging her clasp on the ground, she gesticulated rapidly with her hands and said:
"Why bring Levin in too? I can't understand what you want to torment me for. I've told you, And I say it again, that I have some pride, and never, NEVER would I do as you're doing--go back to a man who's deceived you, who has cared for another woman. I can't understand it! You may, but I can't!"
And saying these words she glanced at her sister, and seeing that Dolly sat silent, her head mournfully bowed, Kitty, instead of running out of the room as she had meant to do, sat down near the door, and hid her face in her handkerchief.
The silence lasted for two minutes: Dolly was thinking of herself. That humiliation of which she was always conscious came back to her with a peculiar bitterness when her sister reminded her of it. She had not looked for such cruelty in her sister, and she was angry with her. But suddenly she heard the rustle of a skirt, and with it the sound of heart-rending, smothered sobbing, and felt arms about her neck. Kitty was on her knees before her.
"Dolinka, I am so, so wretched!" she whispered penitently. And the sweet face covered with tears hid itself in Darya Alexandrovna's skirt.
As though tears were the indispensable oil, without which the machinery of mutual confidence could not run smoothly between the two sisters, the sisters after their tears talked, not of what was uppermost in their minds, but, though they talked of outside matters, they understood each other. Kitty knew that the words she had uttered in anger about her husband's infidelity and her humiliating position had cut her poor sister to the heart, but that she had forgiven her. Dolly for her part knew all she had wanted to find out. She felt certain that her surmises were correct; that Kitty's misery, her inconsolable misery, was due precisely to the fact that Levin had made her an offer and she had refused him, and Vronsky had deceived her, and that she was fully prepared to love Levin and to detest Vronsky. Kitty said not a word of that; she talked of nothing but her spiritual condition.
"I have nothing to make me miserable," she said, getting calmer; "but can you understand that everything has become hateful, loathsome, coarse to me, and I myself most of all? You can't imagine what loathsome thoughts I have about everything."
"Why, whatever loathsome thoughts can you have?" asked Dolly, smiling.
"The most utterly loathsome and coarse: I can't tell you. It's not unhappiness, or low spirits, but much worse. As though everything that was good in me was all hidden away, and nothing was left but the most loathsome. Come, how am I to tell you?" she went on, seeing the puzzled look in her sister's eyes. "Father began saying something to me just now.... It seems to me he thinks all I want is to be married. Mother takes me to a ball: it seems to me she only takes me to get me married off as soon as may be, and be rid of me. I know it's not the truth, but I can't drive away such thoughts. Eligible suitors, as they call them--I can't bear to see them. It seems to me they're taking stock of me and summing me up. In old days to go anywhere in a ball dress was a simple joy to me, I admired myself; now I feel ashamed and awkward. And then! The doctor.... Then..." Kitty hesitated; she wanted to say further that ever since this change had taken place in her, Stepan Arkadyevitch had become insufferably repulsive to her, and that she could not see him without the grossest and most hideous conceptions rising before her imagination.
"Oh, well, everything presents itself to me, in the coarsest, most loathsome light," she went on. "That's my illness. Perhaps it will pass off."
"But you mustn't think about it."
"I can't help it. I'm never happy except with the children at your house."
"What a pity you can't be with me!"
"Oh, yes, I'm coming. I've had scarlatina, and I'll persuade mamma to let me."
Kitty insisted on having her way, and went to stay at her sister's and nursed the children all through the scarlatina, for scarlatina it turned out to be. The two sisters brought all the six children successfully through it, but Kitty was no better in health, and in Lent the Shtcherbatskys went abroad.
The mention of Levin's name seemed to deprive Kitty of the last vestige of self-control. She leaped up from her chair, and flinging her clasp on the ground, she gesticulated rapidly with her hands and said:
"Why bring Levin in too? I can't understand what you want to torment me for. I've told you, And I say it again, that I have some pride, and never, NEVER would I do as you're doing--go back to a man who's deceived you, who has cared for another woman. I can't understand it! You may, but I can't!"
And saying these words she glanced at her sister, and seeing that Dolly sat silent, her head mournfully bowed, Kitty, instead of running out of the room as she had meant to do, sat down near the door, and hid her face in her handkerchief.
The silence lasted for two minutes: Dolly was thinking of herself. That humiliation of which she was always conscious came back to her with a peculiar bitterness when her sister reminded her of it. She had not looked for such cruelty in her sister, and she was angry with her. But suddenly she heard the rustle of a skirt, and with it the sound of heart-rending, smothered sobbing, and felt arms about her neck. Kitty was on her knees before her.
"Dolinka, I am so, so wretched!" she whispered penitently. And the sweet face covered with tears hid itself in Darya Alexandrovna's skirt.
As though tears were the indispensable oil, without which the machinery of mutual confidence could not run smoothly between the two sisters, the sisters after their tears talked, not of what was uppermost in their minds, but, though they talked of outside matters, they understood each other. Kitty knew that the words she had uttered in anger about her husband's infidelity and her humiliating position had cut her poor sister to the heart, but that she had forgiven her. Dolly for her part knew all she had wanted to find out. She felt certain that her surmises were correct; that Kitty's misery, her inconsolable misery, was due precisely to the fact that Levin had made her an offer and she had refused him, and Vronsky had deceived her, and that she was fully prepared to love Levin and to detest Vronsky. Kitty said not a word of that; she talked of nothing but her spiritual condition.
"I have nothing to make me miserable," she said, getting calmer; "but can you understand that everything has become hateful, loathsome, coarse to me, and I myself most of all? You can't imagine what loathsome thoughts I have about everything."
"Why, whatever loathsome thoughts can you have?" asked Dolly, smiling.
"The most utterly loathsome and coarse: I can't tell you. It's not unhappiness, or low spirits, but much worse. As though everything that was good in me was all hidden away, and nothing was left but the most loathsome. Come, how am I to tell you?" she went on, seeing the puzzled look in her sister's eyes. "Father began saying something to me just now.... It seems to me he thinks all I want is to be married. Mother takes me to a ball: it seems to me she only takes me to get me married off as soon as may be, and be rid of me. I know it's not the truth, but I can't drive away such thoughts. Eligible suitors, as they call them--I can't bear to see them. It seems to me they're taking stock of me and summing me up. In old days to go anywhere in a ball dress was a simple joy to me, I admired myself; now I feel ashamed and awkward. And then! The doctor.... Then..." Kitty hesitated; she wanted to say further that ever since this change had taken place in her, Stepan Arkadyevitch had become insufferably repulsive to her, and that she could not see him without the grossest and most hideous conceptions rising before her imagination.
"Oh, well, everything presents itself to me, in the coarsest, most loathsome light," she went on. "That's my illness. Perhaps it will pass off."
"But you mustn't think about it."
"I can't help it. I'm never happy except with the children at your house."
"What a pity you can't be with me!"
"Oh, yes, I'm coming. I've had scarlatina, and I'll persuade mamma to let me."
Kitty insisted on having her way, and went to stay at her sister's and nursed the children all through the scarlatina, for scarlatina it turned out to be. The two sisters brought all the six children successfully through it, but Kitty was no better in health, and in Lent the Shtcherbatskys went abroad.
Chapter 37
Chapter 37
When she went into Kitty's little room, a pretty, pink little room, full of knick-knacks in vieux saxe, as fresh, and pink, and white, and gay as Kitty herself had been two months ago, Dolly remembered how they had decorated the room the year before together, with what love and gaiety. Her heart turned cold when she saw Kitty sitting on a low chair near the door, her eyes fixed immovably on a corner of the rug. Kitty glanced at her sister, and the cold, rather ill-tempered expression of her face did not change.
"I'm just going now, and I shall have to keep in and you won't be able to come to see me," said Dolly, sitting down beside her. "I want to talk to you."
"What about?" Kitty asked swiftly, lifting her head in dismay.
"What should it be, but your trouble?"
"I have no trouble."
"Nonsense, Kitty. Do you suppose I could help knowing? I know all about it. And believe me, it's of so little consequence.... We've all been through it."
Kitty did not speak, And her face had a stern expression.
"He's not worth your grieving over him," pursued Darya Alexandrovna, coming straight to the point.
"No, because he has treated me with contempt," said Kitty, in a breaking voice. "Don't talk of it! Please, don't talk of it!"
"But who can have told you so? No one has said that. I'm certain he was in love with you, and would still be in love with you, if it hadn't...
"Oh, the most awful thing of all for me is this sympathizing!" shrieked Kitty, suddenly flying into a passion. She turned round on her chair, flushed crimson, and rapidly moving her fingers, pinched the clasp of her belt first with one hand and then with the other. Dolly knew this trick her sister had of clenching her hands when she was much excited; she knew, too, that in moments of excitement Kitty was capable of forgetting herself and saying a great deal too much, and Dolly would have soothed her, but it was too late.
"What, what is it you want to make me feel, eh?" said Kitty quickly. "That I've been in love with a man who didn't care a straw for me, And that I'm dying of love for him? And this is said to me by my own sister, who imagines that...that...that she's sympathizing with me!...I don't want these condolences And his humbug!"
"Kitty, you're unjust."
"Why are you tormenting me?"
"But I...quite the contrary...I see you're unhappy..."
But Kitty in her fury did not hear her.
"I've nothing to grieve over and be comforted about. I am too proud ever to allow myself to care for a man who does not love me."
When she went into Kitty's little room, a pretty, pink little room, full of knick-knacks in vieux saxe, as fresh, and pink, and white, and gay as Kitty herself had been two months ago, Dolly remembered how they had decorated the room the year before together, with what love and gaiety. Her heart turned cold when she saw Kitty sitting on a low chair near the door, her eyes fixed immovably on a corner of the rug. Kitty glanced at her sister, and the cold, rather ill-tempered expression of her face did not change.
"I'm just going now, and I shall have to keep in and you won't be able to come to see me," said Dolly, sitting down beside her. "I want to talk to you."
"What about?" Kitty asked swiftly, lifting her head in dismay.
"What should it be, but your trouble?"
"I have no trouble."
"Nonsense, Kitty. Do you suppose I could help knowing? I know all about it. And believe me, it's of so little consequence.... We've all been through it."
Kitty did not speak, And her face had a stern expression.
"He's not worth your grieving over him," pursued Darya Alexandrovna, coming straight to the point.
"No, because he has treated me with contempt," said Kitty, in a breaking voice. "Don't talk of it! Please, don't talk of it!"
"But who can have told you so? No one has said that. I'm certain he was in love with you, and would still be in love with you, if it hadn't...
"Oh, the most awful thing of all for me is this sympathizing!" shrieked Kitty, suddenly flying into a passion. She turned round on her chair, flushed crimson, and rapidly moving her fingers, pinched the clasp of her belt first with one hand and then with the other. Dolly knew this trick her sister had of clenching her hands when she was much excited; she knew, too, that in moments of excitement Kitty was capable of forgetting herself and saying a great deal too much, and Dolly would have soothed her, but it was too late.
"What, what is it you want to make me feel, eh?" said Kitty quickly. "That I've been in love with a man who didn't care a straw for me, And that I'm dying of love for him? And this is said to me by my own sister, who imagines that...that...that she's sympathizing with me!...I don't want these condolences And his humbug!"
"Kitty, you're unjust."
"Why are you tormenting me?"
"But I...quite the contrary...I see you're unhappy..."
But Kitty in her fury did not hear her.
"I've nothing to grieve over and be comforted about. I am too proud ever to allow myself to care for a man who does not love me."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
‘I am sorry not to have been more help,’
‘I am sorry not to have been more help,’ said Nick gently. ‘Well ... well, do excuse me ... the feast, you know ...’
And he left the room, leaving Harry there alone, gazing blankly at the wall through which Nick had disappeared.
Harry felt almost as though he had lost his godfather all over again in losing the hope that he might be able to see or speak to him once more. He walked slowly and miserably back up through the empty castle, wondering whether he would ever feel cheerful again.
He had turned the corner towards the Fat Lady's corridor when he saw somebody up ahead fastening a note to a board on the wall. A second glance showed him it was Luna. There were no good hiding places nearby, she was bound to have heard his footsteps, and in any case, Harry could hardly muster the energy to avoid anyone at the moment.
‘Hello,’ said Luna vaguely, glancing around at him as she stepped back from the notice.
‘How come you're not at the feast?’ Harry asked.
‘Well, I've lost most of my possessions,’ said Luna serenely. ‘People take them and hide them, you know. But as it's the last night, I really do need them back, so I've been putting up signs.’
She gestured towards the noticeboard, upon which, sure enough, she had pinned a list of all her missing books and clothes, with a plea for their return.
An odd feeling rose in Harry; an emotion quite different from the anger and grief that had filled him since Sirius's death. It was a few moments before he realised that he was feeling sorry for Luna.
‘How come people hide your stuff?’ he asked her, frowning.
‘Oh ... well ...’ she shrugged. ‘I think they think I'm a bit odd, you know. Some people call me “Loony” Lovegood, actually.’
Harry looked at her and the new feeling of pity intensified rather painfully.
‘That's no reason for them to take your things,’ he said flatly. ‘D'you want help finding them?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘They'll come back, they always do in the end. It was just that I wanted to pack tonight. Anyway ... why aren't you at the feast?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Just didn't feel like it.’
‘No,’ said Luna, observing him with those oddly misty, protuberant eyes. ‘I don't suppose you do. That man the Death Eaters killed was your godfather, wasn't he? Ginny told me.’
Harry nodded curtly, but found that for some reason he did not mind Luna talking about Sirius. He had just remembered that she, too, could see Thestrals.
‘Have you ...’ he began. ‘I mean, who ... has anyone you known ever died?’
‘Yes,’ said Luna simply, ‘my mother. She was a quite extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to experiment and one of her spells went rather badly wrong one day. I was nine.’
‘I'm sorry,’ Harry mumbled.
‘Yes, it was rather horrible,’ said Luna conversationally. ‘I still feel very sad about it sometimes. But I've still got Dad. And anyway, it's not as though I'll never see Mum again, is it?’
‘Er—isn't it?’ said Harry uncertainly.
She shook her head in disbelief.
‘Oh, come on. You heard them, just behind the veil, didn't you?’
‘You mean ...’
‘In that room with the archway. They were just lurking out of sight, that's all. You heard them.’
They looked at each other. Luna was smiling slightly. Harry did not know what to say, or to think; Luna believed so many extraordinary things ... yet he had been sure he had heard voices behind the veil, too.
‘Are you sure you don't want me to help you look for your stuff?’ he said.
‘Oh, no,’ said Luna. ‘No, I think I'll just go down and have some pudding and wait for it all to turn up ... it always does in the end ... well, have a nice holiday, Harry.’
‘Yeah ... yeah, you too.’
She walked away from him and, as he watched her go, he found that the terrible weight in his stomach seemed to have lessened slightly.
The journey home on the Hogwarts Express next day was eventful in several ways. Firstly, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, who had clearly been waiting all week for the opportunity to strike without teacher witnesses, attempted to ambush Harry halfway down the train as he made his way back from the toilet. The attack might have succeeded had it not been for the fact that they unwittingly chose to stage the attack right outside a compartment full of DA members, who saw what was happening through the glass and rose as one to rush to Harry's aid. By the time Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot, had finished using a wide variety of the hexes and jinxes Harry had taught them, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle resembled nothing so much as three gigantic slugs squeezed into Hogwarts uniform as Harry, Ernie and Justin hoisted them into the luggage rack and left them there to ooze.
‘I must say, I'm looking forward to seeing Malfoy's mother's face when he gets off the train,’ said Ernie, with some satisfaction, as he watched Malfoy squirm above him. Ernie had never quite got over the indignity of Malfoy docking points from Hufflepuff during his brief spell as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad.
And he left the room, leaving Harry there alone, gazing blankly at the wall through which Nick had disappeared.
Harry felt almost as though he had lost his godfather all over again in losing the hope that he might be able to see or speak to him once more. He walked slowly and miserably back up through the empty castle, wondering whether he would ever feel cheerful again.
He had turned the corner towards the Fat Lady's corridor when he saw somebody up ahead fastening a note to a board on the wall. A second glance showed him it was Luna. There were no good hiding places nearby, she was bound to have heard his footsteps, and in any case, Harry could hardly muster the energy to avoid anyone at the moment.
‘Hello,’ said Luna vaguely, glancing around at him as she stepped back from the notice.
‘How come you're not at the feast?’ Harry asked.
‘Well, I've lost most of my possessions,’ said Luna serenely. ‘People take them and hide them, you know. But as it's the last night, I really do need them back, so I've been putting up signs.’
She gestured towards the noticeboard, upon which, sure enough, she had pinned a list of all her missing books and clothes, with a plea for their return.
An odd feeling rose in Harry; an emotion quite different from the anger and grief that had filled him since Sirius's death. It was a few moments before he realised that he was feeling sorry for Luna.
‘How come people hide your stuff?’ he asked her, frowning.
‘Oh ... well ...’ she shrugged. ‘I think they think I'm a bit odd, you know. Some people call me “Loony” Lovegood, actually.’
Harry looked at her and the new feeling of pity intensified rather painfully.
‘That's no reason for them to take your things,’ he said flatly. ‘D'you want help finding them?’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘They'll come back, they always do in the end. It was just that I wanted to pack tonight. Anyway ... why aren't you at the feast?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Just didn't feel like it.’
‘No,’ said Luna, observing him with those oddly misty, protuberant eyes. ‘I don't suppose you do. That man the Death Eaters killed was your godfather, wasn't he? Ginny told me.’
Harry nodded curtly, but found that for some reason he did not mind Luna talking about Sirius. He had just remembered that she, too, could see Thestrals.
‘Have you ...’ he began. ‘I mean, who ... has anyone you known ever died?’
‘Yes,’ said Luna simply, ‘my mother. She was a quite extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to experiment and one of her spells went rather badly wrong one day. I was nine.’
‘I'm sorry,’ Harry mumbled.
‘Yes, it was rather horrible,’ said Luna conversationally. ‘I still feel very sad about it sometimes. But I've still got Dad. And anyway, it's not as though I'll never see Mum again, is it?’
‘Er—isn't it?’ said Harry uncertainly.
She shook her head in disbelief.
‘Oh, come on. You heard them, just behind the veil, didn't you?’
‘You mean ...’
‘In that room with the archway. They were just lurking out of sight, that's all. You heard them.’
They looked at each other. Luna was smiling slightly. Harry did not know what to say, or to think; Luna believed so many extraordinary things ... yet he had been sure he had heard voices behind the veil, too.
‘Are you sure you don't want me to help you look for your stuff?’ he said.
‘Oh, no,’ said Luna. ‘No, I think I'll just go down and have some pudding and wait for it all to turn up ... it always does in the end ... well, have a nice holiday, Harry.’
‘Yeah ... yeah, you too.’
She walked away from him and, as he watched her go, he found that the terrible weight in his stomach seemed to have lessened slightly.
The journey home on the Hogwarts Express next day was eventful in several ways. Firstly, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle, who had clearly been waiting all week for the opportunity to strike without teacher witnesses, attempted to ambush Harry halfway down the train as he made his way back from the toilet. The attack might have succeeded had it not been for the fact that they unwittingly chose to stage the attack right outside a compartment full of DA members, who saw what was happening through the glass and rose as one to rush to Harry's aid. By the time Ernie Macmillan, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot, had finished using a wide variety of the hexes and jinxes Harry had taught them, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle resembled nothing so much as three gigantic slugs squeezed into Hogwarts uniform as Harry, Ernie and Justin hoisted them into the luggage rack and left them there to ooze.
‘I must say, I'm looking forward to seeing Malfoy's mother's face when he gets off the train,’ said Ernie, with some satisfaction, as he watched Malfoy squirm above him. Ernie had never quite got over the indignity of Malfoy docking points from Hufflepuff during his brief spell as a member of the Inquisitorial Squad.
‘That's right, isn't it?’ Harry urged him
‘That's right, isn't it?’ Harry urged him. ‘You died, but I'm talking to you ... you can walk around Hogwarts and everything, can't you?’
‘Yes,’ said Nearly Headless Nick quietly, ‘I walk and talk, yes.’
‘So, you came back, didn't you?’ said Harry urgently. ‘People can come back, right? As ghosts. They don't have to disappear completely. Well?’ he added impatiently, when Nick continued to say nothing.
Nearly Headless Nick hesitated, then said, ‘Not everyone can come back as a ghost.’
‘What d'you mean?’ said Harry quickly.
‘Only ... only wizards.’
‘Oh,’ said Harry, and he almost laughed with relief. ‘Well, that's OK then, the person I'm asking about is a wizard. So he can come back, right?’
Nick turned away from the window and looked mournfully at Harry.
‘He won't come back.’
‘Who?’
‘Sirius Black,’ said Nick.
‘But you did!’ said Harry angrily. ‘You came back—you're dead and you didn't disappear—’
‘Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the earth, to walk palely where their living selves once trod,’ said Nick miserably. ‘But very few wizards choose that path.’
‘Why not?’ said Harry. ‘Anyway—it doesn't matter—Sirius won't care if it's unusual, he'll come back, I know he will!’
And so strong was his belief, Harry actually turned his head to check the door, sure, for a split second, that he was going to see Sirius, pearly-white and transparent but beaming, walking through it towards him.
‘He will not come back,’ repeated Nick. ‘He will have ... gone on.’
‘What d'you mean, “gone on"?’ said Harry quickly. ‘Gone on where? Listen—what happens when you die, anyway? Where do you go? Why doesn't everyone come back? Why isn't this place full of ghosts? Why—?’
‘I cannot answer,’ said Nick.
‘You're dead, aren't you?’ said Harry exasperatedly. ‘Who can answer better than you?’
‘I was afraid of death,’ said Nick softly. ‘I chose to remain behind. I sometimes wonder whether I oughtn't to have ... well, that is neither here nor there ... in fact, I am neither here nor there ...’ He gave a small sad chuckle. ‘I know nothing of the secrets of death, Harry, for I chose my feeble imitation of life instead. I believe learned wizards study the matter in the Department of Mysteries—’
‘Don't talk to me about that place!’ said Harry fiercely.
‘Yes,’ said Nearly Headless Nick quietly, ‘I walk and talk, yes.’
‘So, you came back, didn't you?’ said Harry urgently. ‘People can come back, right? As ghosts. They don't have to disappear completely. Well?’ he added impatiently, when Nick continued to say nothing.
Nearly Headless Nick hesitated, then said, ‘Not everyone can come back as a ghost.’
‘What d'you mean?’ said Harry quickly.
‘Only ... only wizards.’
‘Oh,’ said Harry, and he almost laughed with relief. ‘Well, that's OK then, the person I'm asking about is a wizard. So he can come back, right?’
Nick turned away from the window and looked mournfully at Harry.
‘He won't come back.’
‘Who?’
‘Sirius Black,’ said Nick.
‘But you did!’ said Harry angrily. ‘You came back—you're dead and you didn't disappear—’
‘Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the earth, to walk palely where their living selves once trod,’ said Nick miserably. ‘But very few wizards choose that path.’
‘Why not?’ said Harry. ‘Anyway—it doesn't matter—Sirius won't care if it's unusual, he'll come back, I know he will!’
And so strong was his belief, Harry actually turned his head to check the door, sure, for a split second, that he was going to see Sirius, pearly-white and transparent but beaming, walking through it towards him.
‘He will not come back,’ repeated Nick. ‘He will have ... gone on.’
‘What d'you mean, “gone on"?’ said Harry quickly. ‘Gone on where? Listen—what happens when you die, anyway? Where do you go? Why doesn't everyone come back? Why isn't this place full of ghosts? Why—?’
‘I cannot answer,’ said Nick.
‘You're dead, aren't you?’ said Harry exasperatedly. ‘Who can answer better than you?’
‘I was afraid of death,’ said Nick softly. ‘I chose to remain behind. I sometimes wonder whether I oughtn't to have ... well, that is neither here nor there ... in fact, I am neither here nor there ...’ He gave a small sad chuckle. ‘I know nothing of the secrets of death, Harry, for I chose my feeble imitation of life instead. I believe learned wizards study the matter in the Department of Mysteries—’
‘Don't talk to me about that place!’ said Harry fiercely.
But Harry had no intention of going to the feast ...
But Harry had no intention of going to the feast ...
How could it be that the place was full of ghosts whenever you didn't need one, yet now ...
He ran down staircases and along corridors and met nobody either alive or dead. They were all, clearly, in the Great Hall. Outside his Charms classroom he came to a halt, panting and thinking disconsolately that he would have to wait until later, until after the end of the feast ...
But just as he had given up hope, he saw it—a translucent somebody drifting across the end of the corridor.
‘Hey—hey, Nick! NICK!’
The ghost stuck its head back out of the wall, revealing the extravagantly plumed hat and dangerously wobbling head of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington.
‘Good evening,’ he said, withdrawing the rest of his body from the solid stone and smiling at Harry. ‘I am not the only one who is late, then? Though,’ he sighed, ‘in a rather different sense, of course ...’
‘Nick, can I ask you something?’
A most peculiar expression stole over Nearly Headless Nick's face as he inserted a finger in the stiff ruff at his neck and tugged it a little straighter, apparently to give himself thinking time. He desisted only when his partially severed neck seemed about to give way completely.
‘Er—now, Harry?’ said Nick, looking discomfited. ‘Can't it wait until after the feast?’
‘No—Nick— please,’ said Harry, ‘I really need to talk to you. Can we go in here?’
Harry opened the door of the nearest classroom and Nearly Headless Nick sighed.
‘Oh, very well,’ he said, looking resigned. ‘I can't pretend I haven't been expecting it.’
Harry was holding the door open for him, but he drifted through the wall instead.
‘Expecting what?’ Harry asked, as he closed the door.
‘You to come and find me,’ said Nick, now gliding over to the window and looking out at the darkening grounds. ‘It happens, sometimes ... when somebody has suffered a ... loss.’
‘Well,’ said Harry, refusing to be deflected. ‘You were right, I've—I've come to find you.’
Nick said nothing.
‘It's—’ said Harry, who was finding this more awkward than he had anticipated, ‘it's just— you're dead. But you're still here, aren't you?’
Nick sighed and continued to gaze out at the grounds.
How could it be that the place was full of ghosts whenever you didn't need one, yet now ...
He ran down staircases and along corridors and met nobody either alive or dead. They were all, clearly, in the Great Hall. Outside his Charms classroom he came to a halt, panting and thinking disconsolately that he would have to wait until later, until after the end of the feast ...
But just as he had given up hope, he saw it—a translucent somebody drifting across the end of the corridor.
‘Hey—hey, Nick! NICK!’
The ghost stuck its head back out of the wall, revealing the extravagantly plumed hat and dangerously wobbling head of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington.
‘Good evening,’ he said, withdrawing the rest of his body from the solid stone and smiling at Harry. ‘I am not the only one who is late, then? Though,’ he sighed, ‘in a rather different sense, of course ...’
‘Nick, can I ask you something?’
A most peculiar expression stole over Nearly Headless Nick's face as he inserted a finger in the stiff ruff at his neck and tugged it a little straighter, apparently to give himself thinking time. He desisted only when his partially severed neck seemed about to give way completely.
‘Er—now, Harry?’ said Nick, looking discomfited. ‘Can't it wait until after the feast?’
‘No—Nick— please,’ said Harry, ‘I really need to talk to you. Can we go in here?’
Harry opened the door of the nearest classroom and Nearly Headless Nick sighed.
‘Oh, very well,’ he said, looking resigned. ‘I can't pretend I haven't been expecting it.’
Harry was holding the door open for him, but he drifted through the wall instead.
‘Expecting what?’ Harry asked, as he closed the door.
‘You to come and find me,’ said Nick, now gliding over to the window and looking out at the darkening grounds. ‘It happens, sometimes ... when somebody has suffered a ... loss.’
‘Well,’ said Harry, refusing to be deflected. ‘You were right, I've—I've come to find you.’
Nick said nothing.
‘It's—’ said Harry, who was finding this more awkward than he had anticipated, ‘it's just— you're dead. But you're still here, aren't you?’
Nick sighed and continued to gaze out at the grounds.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
It was just like the night
It was just like the night when Trelawney had been sacked. Students were standing all around the walls in a great ring (some of them, Harry noticed, covered in a substance that looked very like Stinksap); teachers and ghosts were also in the crowd. Prominent among the onlookers were members of the Inquisitorial Squad, who were all looking exceptionally pleased with themselves, and Peeves, who was bobbing overhead, gazed down at Fred and George who stood in the middle of the floor with the unmistakeable look of two people who had just been cornered.
‘So!’ said Umbridge triumphantly. Harry realised she was standing just a few stairs in front of him, once more looking down upon her prey. ‘So—you think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?’
‘Pretty amusing, yeah,’ said Fred, looking up at her without the slightest sign of fear.
Filch elbowed his way closer to Umbridge, almost crying with happiness.
‘I've got the form, Headmistress,’ he said hoarsely, waving the piece of parchment Harry had just seen him take from her desk. ‘I've got the form and I've got the whips waiting ... oh, let me do it now ...’
‘Very good, Argus,’ she said. ‘You two,’ she went on, gazing down at Fred and George, ‘are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school.’
‘You know what?’ said Fred. ‘I don't think we are.’
He turned to his twin.
‘George,’ said Fred, ‘I think we've outgrown full-time education.’
‘Yeah, I've been feeling that way myself,’ said George lightly.
‘Time to test our talents in the real world, d'you reckon?’ asked Fred.
‘Definitely,’ said George.
And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised their wands and said together:
‘Accio brooms!’
Harry heard a loud crash somewhere in the distance. Looking to his left, he ducked just in time. Fred and George's broomsticks, one still trailing the heavy chain and iron peg with which Umbridge had fastened them to the wall, were hurtling along the corridor towards their owners; they turned left, streaked down the stairs and stopped sharply in front of the twins, the chain clattering loudly on the flagged stone floor.
‘We won't be seeing you,’ Fred told Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick.
‘Yeah, don't bother to keep in touch,’ said George, mounting his own.
Fred looked around at the assembled students, at the silent, watchful crowd.
‘It anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley—Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Our new premises!’
‘Special discounts to Hogwart's students who swear they're going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,’ added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge.
‘STOP THEM!’ shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd.
‘Give her hell from us, Peeves.’
And Peeves, who Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.
‘So!’ said Umbridge triumphantly. Harry realised she was standing just a few stairs in front of him, once more looking down upon her prey. ‘So—you think it amusing to turn a school corridor into a swamp, do you?’
‘Pretty amusing, yeah,’ said Fred, looking up at her without the slightest sign of fear.
Filch elbowed his way closer to Umbridge, almost crying with happiness.
‘I've got the form, Headmistress,’ he said hoarsely, waving the piece of parchment Harry had just seen him take from her desk. ‘I've got the form and I've got the whips waiting ... oh, let me do it now ...’
‘Very good, Argus,’ she said. ‘You two,’ she went on, gazing down at Fred and George, ‘are about to learn what happens to wrongdoers in my school.’
‘You know what?’ said Fred. ‘I don't think we are.’
He turned to his twin.
‘George,’ said Fred, ‘I think we've outgrown full-time education.’
‘Yeah, I've been feeling that way myself,’ said George lightly.
‘Time to test our talents in the real world, d'you reckon?’ asked Fred.
‘Definitely,’ said George.
And before Umbridge could say a word, they raised their wands and said together:
‘Accio brooms!’
Harry heard a loud crash somewhere in the distance. Looking to his left, he ducked just in time. Fred and George's broomsticks, one still trailing the heavy chain and iron peg with which Umbridge had fastened them to the wall, were hurtling along the corridor towards their owners; they turned left, streaked down the stairs and stopped sharply in front of the twins, the chain clattering loudly on the flagged stone floor.
‘We won't be seeing you,’ Fred told Professor Umbridge, swinging his leg over his broomstick.
‘Yeah, don't bother to keep in touch,’ said George, mounting his own.
Fred looked around at the assembled students, at the silent, watchful crowd.
‘It anyone fancies buying a Portable Swamp, as demonstrated upstairs, come to number ninety-three, Diagon Alley—Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Our new premises!’
‘Special discounts to Hogwart's students who swear they're going to use our products to get rid of this old bat,’ added George, pointing at Professor Umbridge.
‘STOP THEM!’ shrieked Umbridge, but it was too late. As the Inquisitorial Squad closed in, Fred and George kicked off from the floor, shooting fifteen feet into the air, the iron peg swinging dangerously below. Fred looked across the hall at the poltergeist bobbing on his level above the crowd.
‘Give her hell from us, Peeves.’
And Peeves, who Harry had never seen take an order from a student before, swept his belled hat from his head and sprang to a salute as Fred and George wheeled about to tumultuous applause from the students below and sped out of the open front doors into the glorious sunset.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard behind Harry and Ron
Dumbledore was now rummaging in a cupboard behind Harry and Ron. He emerged from it carrying a blackened old kettle, which he placed carefully on his desk. He raised his wand and murmured, ‘Portus!’ For a moment the
kettle trembled, glowing with an odd blue light; then it quivered to rest, as solidly black as ever.
Dumbledore marched over to another portrait, this time of a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard, who had been painted wearing the Slytherin colours of green and silver and was apparently sleeping so deeply that he
could not hear Dumbledore's voice when he attempted to rouse him.
‘Phineas. Phineas.’
The subjects of the portraits lining the room were no longer pretending to be asleep; they were shifting around in their frames, the better to watch what was happening. When the clever-looking wizard continued to feign sleep,
some of them shouted his name, too.
‘Phineas! Phineas! PHINEAS!’
He could not pretend any longer; he gave a theatrical jerk and opened his eyes wide.
‘Did someone call?’
‘I need you to visit your other portrait again, Phineas,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I've got another message.’
‘Visit my other portrait?’ said Phineas in a reedy voice, giving a long, fake yawn (his eyes travelling around the room and focusing on Harry). ‘Oh, no, Dumbledore, I am too tired tonight.’
Something about Phineas's voice was familiar to Harry, where had he heard it before? But before he could think, the portraits on the surrounding walls broke into a storm of protest.
‘Insubordination, sir!’ roared a corpulent, red-nosed wizard, brandishing his fists. ‘Dereliction of duty!’
‘We are honour-bound to give service to the present Headmaster of Hogwarts!’ cried a frail-looking old wizard whom Harry recognised as Dumbledore's predecessor, Armando Dippet. ‘Sharne on you, Phineas!’
‘Shall I persuade him, Dumbledore?’ called a gimlet-eyed witch, raising an unusually thick wand that looked not unlike a birch rod.
‘Oh, very well,’ said the wizard called Phineas, eyeing the wand with mild apprehension, ‘though he may well have destroyed my picture by now, he's done away with most of the family—’
‘Sirius knows not to destroy your portrait,’ said Dumbledore, and Harry realised immediately where he had heard Phineas's voice before: issuing from the apparently empty frame in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. ‘You are
to give him the message that Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife, children and Harry Potter will be arriving at his house shortly. Do you understand?’
‘Arthur Weasley, injured, wife and children and Harry Potter coming to stay,’ repeated Phineas in a bored voice. ‘Yes, yes ... very well ...’
He sloped away into the frame of the portrait and disappeared from view at the very moment the study door opened again. Fred, George and Ginny were ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all three of them looking
dishevelled and shocked, still in their night things.
‘Harry—what's going on?’ asked Ginny, who looked frightened. ‘Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad get hurt—’
‘Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix,’ said Dumbledore, before Harry could speak. ‘He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you
back to Sirius's house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than The Burrow. You will meet your mother there.’
‘How're we going?’ asked Fred, looking shaken. ‘Floo powder?’
‘No,’ said Dumbledore, ‘Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey.’ He indicated the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. ‘We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to
report back ... I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you—’
There was a flash of flame in the very middle of: the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floated gently to the floor.
‘It is Fawkes's warning,’ said Dumbledore, catching the feather as it fell. ‘Professor Umbridge must know you're out of your beds ... Minerva, go and head her off—tell her any story—’
Professor McGonagall was gone in a swish of tartan.
‘He says he'll be delighted,’ said a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner. ‘My great-great-grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests.’
‘Come here, then,’ Dumbledore said to Harry and the Weasleys. ‘And quickly, before anyone else joins us.’
Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore's desk.
‘You have all used a Portkey before?’ asked Dumbledore, and they nodded, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle. ‘Good. On the count of three, then ... one ... two ...’
It happened in a fraction of a second: in the infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said ‘three', Harry looked up at him—they were very close together—and Dumbledore's clear blue gaze moved from the Portkey to Harry's
face.
At once, Harry's scar burned white-hot, as though the old wound had burst open again—and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, he would like
nothing better than to strike—to bite—to sink his fangs into the man before him—
‘... three.’
Harry felt a powerful jerk behind his navel, the ground vanished from beneath his feet, his hand was glued to the kettle; he was banging into the others as they all sped forwards in a swirl of colours and a rush of wind, the
kettle pulling them onwards ... until his feet hit the ground so hard his knees buckled, the kettle clattered to the ground, and somewhere close at hand a voice said:
‘Back again, the blood-traitor brats. Is it true their father's dying?’
‘OUT!’ roared a second voice.
Harry scrambled to his feet and looked around; they had arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light were the fire and one guttering candle, which illuminated the
remains of a solitary supper. Kreacher was disappearing through the door to the hall, looking back at them malevolently as he hitched up his loincloth; Sirius was hurrying towards them all, looking anxious. He was unshaven
and still in his day clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.
‘What's going on?’ he said, stretching out a hand to help Ginny up. ‘Thineas Nigellus said Arthur's been badly injured—’
‘Ask Harry,’ said Fred.
‘Yeah, I want to hear this for myself,’ said George.
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kettle trembled, glowing with an odd blue light; then it quivered to rest, as solidly black as ever.
Dumbledore marched over to another portrait, this time of a clever-looking wizard with a pointed beard, who had been painted wearing the Slytherin colours of green and silver and was apparently sleeping so deeply that he
could not hear Dumbledore's voice when he attempted to rouse him.
‘Phineas. Phineas.’
The subjects of the portraits lining the room were no longer pretending to be asleep; they were shifting around in their frames, the better to watch what was happening. When the clever-looking wizard continued to feign sleep,
some of them shouted his name, too.
‘Phineas! Phineas! PHINEAS!’
He could not pretend any longer; he gave a theatrical jerk and opened his eyes wide.
‘Did someone call?’
‘I need you to visit your other portrait again, Phineas,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I've got another message.’
‘Visit my other portrait?’ said Phineas in a reedy voice, giving a long, fake yawn (his eyes travelling around the room and focusing on Harry). ‘Oh, no, Dumbledore, I am too tired tonight.’
Something about Phineas's voice was familiar to Harry, where had he heard it before? But before he could think, the portraits on the surrounding walls broke into a storm of protest.
‘Insubordination, sir!’ roared a corpulent, red-nosed wizard, brandishing his fists. ‘Dereliction of duty!’
‘We are honour-bound to give service to the present Headmaster of Hogwarts!’ cried a frail-looking old wizard whom Harry recognised as Dumbledore's predecessor, Armando Dippet. ‘Sharne on you, Phineas!’
‘Shall I persuade him, Dumbledore?’ called a gimlet-eyed witch, raising an unusually thick wand that looked not unlike a birch rod.
‘Oh, very well,’ said the wizard called Phineas, eyeing the wand with mild apprehension, ‘though he may well have destroyed my picture by now, he's done away with most of the family—’
‘Sirius knows not to destroy your portrait,’ said Dumbledore, and Harry realised immediately where he had heard Phineas's voice before: issuing from the apparently empty frame in his bedroom in Grimmauld Place. ‘You are
to give him the message that Arthur Weasley has been gravely injured and that his wife, children and Harry Potter will be arriving at his house shortly. Do you understand?’
‘Arthur Weasley, injured, wife and children and Harry Potter coming to stay,’ repeated Phineas in a bored voice. ‘Yes, yes ... very well ...’
He sloped away into the frame of the portrait and disappeared from view at the very moment the study door opened again. Fred, George and Ginny were ushered inside by Professor McGonagall, all three of them looking
dishevelled and shocked, still in their night things.
‘Harry—what's going on?’ asked Ginny, who looked frightened. ‘Professor McGonagall says you saw Dad get hurt—’
‘Your father has been injured in the course of his work for the Order of the Phoenix,’ said Dumbledore, before Harry could speak. ‘He has been taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I am sending you
back to Sirius's house, which is much more convenient for the hospital than The Burrow. You will meet your mother there.’
‘How're we going?’ asked Fred, looking shaken. ‘Floo powder?’
‘No,’ said Dumbledore, ‘Floo powder is not safe at the moment, the Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey.’ He indicated the old kettle lying innocently on his desk. ‘We are just waiting for Phineas Nigellus to
report back ... I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you—’
There was a flash of flame in the very middle of: the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floated gently to the floor.
‘It is Fawkes's warning,’ said Dumbledore, catching the feather as it fell. ‘Professor Umbridge must know you're out of your beds ... Minerva, go and head her off—tell her any story—’
Professor McGonagall was gone in a swish of tartan.
‘He says he'll be delighted,’ said a bored voice behind Dumbledore; the wizard called Phineas had reappeared in front of his Slytherin banner. ‘My great-great-grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests.’
‘Come here, then,’ Dumbledore said to Harry and the Weasleys. ‘And quickly, before anyone else joins us.’
Harry and the others gathered around Dumbledore's desk.
‘You have all used a Portkey before?’ asked Dumbledore, and they nodded, each reaching out to touch some part of the blackened kettle. ‘Good. On the count of three, then ... one ... two ...’
It happened in a fraction of a second: in the infinitesimal pause before Dumbledore said ‘three', Harry looked up at him—they were very close together—and Dumbledore's clear blue gaze moved from the Portkey to Harry's
face.
At once, Harry's scar burned white-hot, as though the old wound had burst open again—and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, he would like
nothing better than to strike—to bite—to sink his fangs into the man before him—
‘... three.’
Harry felt a powerful jerk behind his navel, the ground vanished from beneath his feet, his hand was glued to the kettle; he was banging into the others as they all sped forwards in a swirl of colours and a rush of wind, the
kettle pulling them onwards ... until his feet hit the ground so hard his knees buckled, the kettle clattered to the ground, and somewhere close at hand a voice said:
‘Back again, the blood-traitor brats. Is it true their father's dying?’
‘OUT!’ roared a second voice.
Harry scrambled to his feet and looked around; they had arrived in the gloomy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. The only sources of light were the fire and one guttering candle, which illuminated the
remains of a solitary supper. Kreacher was disappearing through the door to the hall, looking back at them malevolently as he hitched up his loincloth; Sirius was hurrying towards them all, looking anxious. He was unshaven
and still in his day clothes; there was also a slightly Mundungus-like whiff of stale drink about him.
‘What's going on?’ he said, stretching out a hand to help Ginny up. ‘Thineas Nigellus said Arthur's been badly injured—’
‘Ask Harry,’ said Fred.
‘Yeah, I want to hear this for myself,’ said George.
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Chapter 15 The Hogwart's High Inquisitor
They had expected to have to comb Hermione's Daily Prophet carefully next morning to find the article Percy had mentioned in his letter. However, the departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking slowly at them from beneath the headline.
MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM
DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED
FIRST EVER HIGH INQUISITOR
‘High Inquisitor?’ said Harry darkly, his half-eaten piece of toast slipping from his fingers. ‘What does that mean?’
Hermione read aloud:
‘In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
‘"The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,” said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. “He is now responding to concerns, voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve of.”
‘This is not the first time in recent weeks that the Minister, Cornelius Fudge, has used new laws to effect improvements at the wizarding school. As recently as 30th August, Educational Decree Number Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current Headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person.
‘"That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,” said Weasley last night. “Dumbledore couldn't find anyone so the Minister put in Umbridge, and of course, she's been an immediate success—” ’
‘She's been a WHAT?’ said Harry loudly.
‘Wait, there's more,’ said Hermione grimly.
‘"—an immediate success, totally revolutionising the teaching of Defence Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts.”
‘It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalised with the passing of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, which creates the new position of Hogwarts High Inquisitor.
‘"This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the falling standards at Hogwarts,” said Weasley. “The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.”
‘The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts.
‘"I feel much easier in my mind now that I know Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,” said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. “Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore's eccentric decisions in the last few years and are glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.”
‘Among those eccentric decisions are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the employment of werewolf Remus Lupin, half-giant Rubeus Hagrid and delusional ex-Auror, “Mad-Eye” Moody.
‘Rumours abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts.
‘"I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step towards ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose our confidence,” said a Ministry insider last night.
MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM
DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED
FIRST EVER HIGH INQUISITOR
‘High Inquisitor?’ said Harry darkly, his half-eaten piece of toast slipping from his fingers. ‘What does that mean?’
Hermione read aloud:
‘In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
‘"The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,” said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. “He is now responding to concerns, voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve of.”
‘This is not the first time in recent weeks that the Minister, Cornelius Fudge, has used new laws to effect improvements at the wizarding school. As recently as 30th August, Educational Decree Number Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current Headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person.
‘"That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,” said Weasley last night. “Dumbledore couldn't find anyone so the Minister put in Umbridge, and of course, she's been an immediate success—” ’
‘She's been a WHAT?’ said Harry loudly.
‘Wait, there's more,’ said Hermione grimly.
‘"—an immediate success, totally revolutionising the teaching of Defence Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts.”
‘It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalised with the passing of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, which creates the new position of Hogwarts High Inquisitor.
‘"This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the falling standards at Hogwarts,” said Weasley. “The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.”
‘The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts.
‘"I feel much easier in my mind now that I know Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,” said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. “Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of Dumbledore's eccentric decisions in the last few years and are glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.”
‘Among those eccentric decisions are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the employment of werewolf Remus Lupin, half-giant Rubeus Hagrid and delusional ex-Auror, “Mad-Eye” Moody.
‘Rumours abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts.
‘"I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step towards ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose our confidence,” said a Ministry insider last night.
Monday, November 15, 2010
‘Oh, Harry, it's lovely to see you!’
she whispered, pulling him into a rib-cracking hug before holding him at arm's length and examining him critically. ‘You're looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you'll have to wait a bit for dinner, I'm afraid....’
She turned to the gang of wizards behind him and whispered urgently, ‘He's just arrived, the meeting's started.’
The wizards behind Harry all made noises of interest and excitement and began filing past him towards the door through which Mrs. Weasley had just come. Harry made to follow Lupin, but Mrs. Weasley held him back.
‘No, Harry, the meeting's only for members of the Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs, you can wait with them until the meetings over, then we'll have dinner. And keep your voice down in the hall,’ she added in an urgent whisper.
‘Why?’
‘I don't want anything to wake up.’
‘What d'you—?’
‘I'll explain later, I've got to hurry, I'm supposed to be at the meeting— I'll just show you where you're sleeping.’
Pressing her finger to her lips, she led him on tiptoe past a pair of long, moth-eaten curtains, behind which Harry supposed there must be another door, and after skirting a large umbrella stand that looked as though it had been made from a severed troll's leg, they started up the dark staircase, passing a row of shrunken heads mounted on plaques on the wall. A closer look showed Harry that the heads belonged to house-elves. All of them had the same rather snout-like nose.
Harry's bewilderment deepened with every step he took. What on earth were they doing in a house that looked as though it belonged to the Darkest of wizards?
‘Mrs. Weasley, why—?’
‘Ron and Hermione will explain everything, dear, I've really got to dash,’ Mrs. Weasley whispered distractedly. ‘There'—they had reached the second landing—'you're the door on the right. I'll call you when it's over.’
And she hurried off downstairs again.
Harry crossed the dingy landing, turned the bedroom doorknob, which was shaped like a serpent's head, and opened the door.
He caught a brief glimpse of a gloomy high-ceilinged, twin-bedded room; then there was a loud twittering noise, followed by an even louder shriek, and his vision was completely obscured by a large quantity of very bushy hair— Hermione had thrown herself on to him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat, while Ron's tiny owl, Pigwidgeon, zoomed excitedly round and round their heads.
‘HARRY! Ron, he's here, Harry's here! We didn't hear you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless—but we couldn't tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn't, oh, we've got so much to tell you, and you've got things to tell us—the dementors! When we heard—and that Ministry hearing—it's just outrageous, I've looked it all up, they can't expel you, they just can't, there's provision in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations—’
‘Let him breathe, Hermione,’ said Ron, grinning as he closed the door behind Harry. He seemed to have grown several more inches during their month apart, making him taller and more gangly looking than ever, though the long nose, bright red hair and freckles were the same.
Still beaming, Hermione let go of Harry, but before she could say another word there was a soft whooshing sound and something white soared from the top of a dark wardrobe and landed gently on Harry's shoulder.
‘Hedwig!’
She turned to the gang of wizards behind him and whispered urgently, ‘He's just arrived, the meeting's started.’
The wizards behind Harry all made noises of interest and excitement and began filing past him towards the door through which Mrs. Weasley had just come. Harry made to follow Lupin, but Mrs. Weasley held him back.
‘No, Harry, the meeting's only for members of the Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs, you can wait with them until the meetings over, then we'll have dinner. And keep your voice down in the hall,’ she added in an urgent whisper.
‘Why?’
‘I don't want anything to wake up.’
‘What d'you—?’
‘I'll explain later, I've got to hurry, I'm supposed to be at the meeting— I'll just show you where you're sleeping.’
Pressing her finger to her lips, she led him on tiptoe past a pair of long, moth-eaten curtains, behind which Harry supposed there must be another door, and after skirting a large umbrella stand that looked as though it had been made from a severed troll's leg, they started up the dark staircase, passing a row of shrunken heads mounted on plaques on the wall. A closer look showed Harry that the heads belonged to house-elves. All of them had the same rather snout-like nose.
Harry's bewilderment deepened with every step he took. What on earth were they doing in a house that looked as though it belonged to the Darkest of wizards?
‘Mrs. Weasley, why—?’
‘Ron and Hermione will explain everything, dear, I've really got to dash,’ Mrs. Weasley whispered distractedly. ‘There'—they had reached the second landing—'you're the door on the right. I'll call you when it's over.’
And she hurried off downstairs again.
Harry crossed the dingy landing, turned the bedroom doorknob, which was shaped like a serpent's head, and opened the door.
He caught a brief glimpse of a gloomy high-ceilinged, twin-bedded room; then there was a loud twittering noise, followed by an even louder shriek, and his vision was completely obscured by a large quantity of very bushy hair— Hermione had thrown herself on to him in a hug that nearly knocked him flat, while Ron's tiny owl, Pigwidgeon, zoomed excitedly round and round their heads.
‘HARRY! Ron, he's here, Harry's here! We didn't hear you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you all right? Have you been furious with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless—but we couldn't tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn't, oh, we've got so much to tell you, and you've got things to tell us—the dementors! When we heard—and that Ministry hearing—it's just outrageous, I've looked it all up, they can't expel you, they just can't, there's provision in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations—’
‘Let him breathe, Hermione,’ said Ron, grinning as he closed the door behind Harry. He seemed to have grown several more inches during their month apart, making him taller and more gangly looking than ever, though the long nose, bright red hair and freckles were the same.
Still beaming, Hermione let go of Harry, but before she could say another word there was a soft whooshing sound and something white soared from the top of a dark wardrobe and landed gently on Harry's shoulder.
‘Hedwig!’
Chapter 4 Number Twelve,Grimmauld Place
‘What's the Order of the—?’ Harry began.
‘Not here, boy!’ snarled Moody. ‘Wait till we're inside!’
He pulled the piece of parchment out of Harry's hand and set fire to it with his wand-tip. As the message curled into flames and floated to the ground, Harry looked around at the houses again. They were standing outside number eleven; he looked to the left and saw number ten; to the right, however, was number thirteen.
‘But where's—?’
‘Think about what you've just memorised,’ said Lupin quietly.
Harry thought, and no sooner had he reached the part about number twelve, Grimmauld Place, than a battered door emerged out of nowhere between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy windows. It was as though an extra house had inflated, pushing those on either side out of its way. Harry gaped at it. The stereo in number eleven thudded on. Apparently the Muggles inside hadn't felt anything.
‘Come on, hurry,’ growled Moody, prodding Harry in the back.
Harry walked up the worn stone steps, staring at the newly materialised door. Its black paint was shabby and scratched. The silver doorknocker was in the form of a twisted serpent. There was no keyhole or letterbox.
Lupin, pulled out his wand and tapped the door once. Harry heard many loud, metallic clicks and what sounded like the clatter of a chain. The door creaked open.
‘Get in quick, Harry,’ Lupin whispered, ‘but don't go far inside and don't touch anything.’
Harry stepped over the threshold into the almost total darkness of the hall. He could smell damp, dust, and a sweetish, rotting smell; the place had the feeling of a derelict building. He looked over his shoulder and saw the others filing in behind him, Lupin and Tonks carrying his trunk and Hedwig's cage. Moody was standing on the top step releasing the balls of light the Put-Outer had stolen from the streetlamps; they flew back to their bulbs and the square glowed momentarily with orange light before Moody limped inside and closed the front door, so that the darkness in the hall became complete.
‘Here—’
He rapped Harry hard over the head with his wand; Harry felt as though something hot was trickling down his back this time and knew that the Disillusionment Charm must have lifted.
‘Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light in here,’ Moody whispered.
The others’ hushed voices were giving Harry an odd feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just entered the house of a dying person. He heard a soft hissing noise and then old-fashioned gas lamps sputtered into life all along the walls, casting a flickering insubstantial light over the peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpet of a long, gloomy hallway, where a cobwebby chandelier glimmered overhead and age-blackened portraits hung crooked on the walls. Harry heard something scuttling behind the skirting board. Both the chandelier and the candelabra on a rickety table nearby were shaped like serpents.
There were hurried footsteps and Ron's mother, Mrs. Weasley, emerged from a door at the far end of the hall. She was beaming in welcome as she hurried towards them, though Harry noticed that she was rather thinner and paler than she had been last time he had seen her.
‘Not here, boy!’ snarled Moody. ‘Wait till we're inside!’
He pulled the piece of parchment out of Harry's hand and set fire to it with his wand-tip. As the message curled into flames and floated to the ground, Harry looked around at the houses again. They were standing outside number eleven; he looked to the left and saw number ten; to the right, however, was number thirteen.
‘But where's—?’
‘Think about what you've just memorised,’ said Lupin quietly.
Harry thought, and no sooner had he reached the part about number twelve, Grimmauld Place, than a battered door emerged out of nowhere between numbers eleven and thirteen, followed swiftly by dirty walls and grimy windows. It was as though an extra house had inflated, pushing those on either side out of its way. Harry gaped at it. The stereo in number eleven thudded on. Apparently the Muggles inside hadn't felt anything.
‘Come on, hurry,’ growled Moody, prodding Harry in the back.
Harry walked up the worn stone steps, staring at the newly materialised door. Its black paint was shabby and scratched. The silver doorknocker was in the form of a twisted serpent. There was no keyhole or letterbox.
Lupin, pulled out his wand and tapped the door once. Harry heard many loud, metallic clicks and what sounded like the clatter of a chain. The door creaked open.
‘Get in quick, Harry,’ Lupin whispered, ‘but don't go far inside and don't touch anything.’
Harry stepped over the threshold into the almost total darkness of the hall. He could smell damp, dust, and a sweetish, rotting smell; the place had the feeling of a derelict building. He looked over his shoulder and saw the others filing in behind him, Lupin and Tonks carrying his trunk and Hedwig's cage. Moody was standing on the top step releasing the balls of light the Put-Outer had stolen from the streetlamps; they flew back to their bulbs and the square glowed momentarily with orange light before Moody limped inside and closed the front door, so that the darkness in the hall became complete.
‘Here—’
He rapped Harry hard over the head with his wand; Harry felt as though something hot was trickling down his back this time and knew that the Disillusionment Charm must have lifted.
‘Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light in here,’ Moody whispered.
The others’ hushed voices were giving Harry an odd feeling of foreboding; it was as though they had just entered the house of a dying person. He heard a soft hissing noise and then old-fashioned gas lamps sputtered into life all along the walls, casting a flickering insubstantial light over the peeling wallpaper and threadbare carpet of a long, gloomy hallway, where a cobwebby chandelier glimmered overhead and age-blackened portraits hung crooked on the walls. Harry heard something scuttling behind the skirting board. Both the chandelier and the candelabra on a rickety table nearby were shaped like serpents.
There were hurried footsteps and Ron's mother, Mrs. Weasley, emerged from a door at the far end of the hall. She was beaming in welcome as she hurried towards them, though Harry noticed that she was rather thinner and paler than she had been last time he had seen her.
‘We ought to double back for a bit,
just to make sure we're not being followed!’ Moody shouted.
‘ARE YOU MAD, MAD-EYE?’ Tonks screamed from the front. ‘We're all frozen to our brooms! If we keep going off-course we're not going to get there until next week! Besides, we're nearly there now!’
‘Time to start the descent!’ came Lupin's voice. ‘Follow Tonks, Harry!’
Harry followed Tonks into a dive. They were heading for the largest collection of lights he had yet seen, a huge, sprawling crisscrossing mass, glittering in lines and grids, interspersed with patches of deepest black. Lower and lower they flew, until Harry could see individual headlights and streetlamps, chimneys and television aerials. He wanted to reach the ground very much, though he felt sure someone would have to unfreeze him from his broom.
‘Here we go!’ called Tonks, and a few seconds later she had landed.
Harry touched down right behind her and dismounted on a patch of unkempt grass in the middle of a small square. Tonks was already unbuckling Harry's trunk. Shivering, Harry looked around. The grimy fronts of the surrounding houses were not welcoming; some of them had broken windows, glimmering dully in the light from the streetlamps, paint was peeling from many of the doors and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets of front steps.
‘Where are we?’ Harry asked, but Lupin said quietly, ‘In a minute.’
Moody was rummaging in his cloak, his gnarled hands clumsy with cold.
‘Got it,’ he muttered, raising what looked like a silver cigarette lighter into the air and clicking it.
The nearest streetlamp went out with a pop. He clicked the unlighter again; the next lamp went out; he kept clicking until every lamp in the square was extinguished and the only remaining light came from curtained windows and the sickle moon overhead.
‘Borrowed it from Dumbledore,’ growled Moody, pocketing the Put-Outer. ‘That'll take care of any Muggles looking out of the window, see? Now come on, quick.’
He took Harry by the arm and led him from the patch of grass, across the road and on to the pavement; Lupin and Tonks followed, carrying Harry's trunk between them, the rest of the guard, all with their wands out, flanking them.
The muffled pounding of a stereo was coming from an upper window in the nearest house. A pungent smell of rotting rubbish came from the pile of bulging bin-bags just inside the broken gate.
‘Here,’ Moody muttered, thrusting a piece of parchment towards Harry's Disillusioned hand and holding his lit wand close to it, so as to illuminate the writing. ‘Read quickly and memorise.’
Harry looked down at the piece of paper. The narrow handwriting was vaguely familiar. It said:
The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.
‘ARE YOU MAD, MAD-EYE?’ Tonks screamed from the front. ‘We're all frozen to our brooms! If we keep going off-course we're not going to get there until next week! Besides, we're nearly there now!’
‘Time to start the descent!’ came Lupin's voice. ‘Follow Tonks, Harry!’
Harry followed Tonks into a dive. They were heading for the largest collection of lights he had yet seen, a huge, sprawling crisscrossing mass, glittering in lines and grids, interspersed with patches of deepest black. Lower and lower they flew, until Harry could see individual headlights and streetlamps, chimneys and television aerials. He wanted to reach the ground very much, though he felt sure someone would have to unfreeze him from his broom.
‘Here we go!’ called Tonks, and a few seconds later she had landed.
Harry touched down right behind her and dismounted on a patch of unkempt grass in the middle of a small square. Tonks was already unbuckling Harry's trunk. Shivering, Harry looked around. The grimy fronts of the surrounding houses were not welcoming; some of them had broken windows, glimmering dully in the light from the streetlamps, paint was peeling from many of the doors and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets of front steps.
‘Where are we?’ Harry asked, but Lupin said quietly, ‘In a minute.’
Moody was rummaging in his cloak, his gnarled hands clumsy with cold.
‘Got it,’ he muttered, raising what looked like a silver cigarette lighter into the air and clicking it.
The nearest streetlamp went out with a pop. He clicked the unlighter again; the next lamp went out; he kept clicking until every lamp in the square was extinguished and the only remaining light came from curtained windows and the sickle moon overhead.
‘Borrowed it from Dumbledore,’ growled Moody, pocketing the Put-Outer. ‘That'll take care of any Muggles looking out of the window, see? Now come on, quick.’
He took Harry by the arm and led him from the patch of grass, across the road and on to the pavement; Lupin and Tonks followed, carrying Harry's trunk between them, the rest of the guard, all with their wands out, flanking them.
The muffled pounding of a stereo was coming from an upper window in the nearest house. A pungent smell of rotting rubbish came from the pile of bulging bin-bags just inside the broken gate.
‘Here,’ Moody muttered, thrusting a piece of parchment towards Harry's Disillusioned hand and holding his lit wand close to it, so as to illuminate the writing. ‘Read quickly and memorise.’
Harry looked down at the piece of paper. The narrow handwriting was vaguely familiar. It said:
The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Mr. Weasley's body replaced Bill's
, his glasses askew, a trickle of blood running down his face.
‘No!’ Mrs. Weasley moaned. ‘No ... riddikulus! Riddikulus! RIDDIKULUS!’
Crack. Dead twins. Crack. Dead Percy. Crack. Dead Harry...
‘Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!’ shouted Harry, staring down at his own dead body on the floor. ‘Let someone else—’
‘What's going on?’
Lupin had come running into the room, closely followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along behind them. Lupin looked from Mrs. Weasley to the dead Harry on the floor and seemed to understand in an instant. Pulling out
his own wand, he said, very firmly and clearly, ‘Riddikulus!’
Harry's body vanished. A silvery orb hung in the air over the spot where it had lain. Lupin waved his wand once more and the orb vanished in a puff of smoke.
‘Oh—oh—oh!’ gulped Mrs. Weasley, and she broke into a storm of crying, her face in her hands.
‘Molly,’ said Lupin bleakly, walking over to her. ‘Molly, don't...’
Next second, she was sobbing her heart out on Lupin's shoulder.
‘Molly it was just a boggart,’ he said soothingly, patting her on the head. ‘Just a stupid boggart...’
‘I see them d-d-dead all the time!’ Mrs. Weasley moaned into his shoulder. ‘All the t-t-time! I d-d-dream about it...’
Sirius was staring at the patch of carpet where the boggart, pretending to be Harry's body, had lain. Moody was looking at Harry, who avoided his gaze. He had a funny feeling Moody's magical eye had followed him all the way
out of the kitchen.
‘D-d-don't tell Arthur,’ Mrs. Weasley was gulping now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. ‘I d-d-don't want him to know.... Being silly...’
Lupin handed her a handkerchief and she blew her nose.
‘Harry, I'm so sorry. What must you think of me?’ she said shakily. ‘Not even able to get rid of a boggart...’
‘Don't be stupid,’ said Harry, trying to smile.
‘I'm just s-s-so worried,’ she said, tears spilling out of her eyes again. ‘Half the f-f-family's in the Order, it'll b-b-be a miracle if we all come through this.... and P-P-Percy's not talking to us.... What if something d-d-dreadful
happens and we've never m-m-made it up with him? And what's going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, who's g-g-going to look after Ron and Ginny?’
‘Molly, that's enough,’ said Lupin firmly. ‘This isn't like last time. The Order are better prepared, we've got a head start, we know what Voldemort's up to—’
Mrs. Weasley gave a little squeak of fright at the sound of the name.
‘Oh, Molly, come on, it's about time you got used to hearing his name—look, I can't promise no one's going to get hurt, nobody can promise that, but we're much better off than we were last time. You weren't in the Order then,
you don't understand. Last time we were outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and they were picking us off one by one....’
Harry thought of the photograph again, of his parents’ beaming faces. He knew Moody was still watching him.
‘Don't worry about Percy,’ said Sirius abruptly. ‘He'll come round. It's only a matter of time before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry's going to be begging us to forgive them. And I'm not sure I'll
be accepting their apology,’ he added bitterly.
‘And as for who's going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died,’ said Lupin, smiling slightly, ‘what do you think we'd do, let them starve?’
Mrs. Weasley smiled tremulously.
‘Being silly,’ she muttered again, mopping her eyes.
But Harry, closing his bedroom door behind him some ten minutes later, could not think Mrs. Weasley silly. He could still see his parents beaming up at him from the battered old photograph, unaware that their lives, like so
many of those around them, were drawing to a close. The image of the boggart posing as the corpse of each member of Mrs. Weasley's family in turn kept flashing before his eyes.
Without warning, the scar on his forehead seared with pain again and his stomach churned horribly.
‘Cut it out,’ he said firmly, rubbing the scar as the pain receded.
‘First sign of madness, talking to your own head,’ said a sly voice from the empty picture on the wall.
Harry ignored it. He felt older than he had ever felt in his life and it seemed extraordinary to him that barely an hour ago he had been worried about a joke shop and who had got a prefect's badge.
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‘No!’ Mrs. Weasley moaned. ‘No ... riddikulus! Riddikulus! RIDDIKULUS!’
Crack. Dead twins. Crack. Dead Percy. Crack. Dead Harry...
‘Mrs. Weasley, just get out of here!’ shouted Harry, staring down at his own dead body on the floor. ‘Let someone else—’
‘What's going on?’
Lupin had come running into the room, closely followed by Sirius, with Moody stumping along behind them. Lupin looked from Mrs. Weasley to the dead Harry on the floor and seemed to understand in an instant. Pulling out
his own wand, he said, very firmly and clearly, ‘Riddikulus!’
Harry's body vanished. A silvery orb hung in the air over the spot where it had lain. Lupin waved his wand once more and the orb vanished in a puff of smoke.
‘Oh—oh—oh!’ gulped Mrs. Weasley, and she broke into a storm of crying, her face in her hands.
‘Molly,’ said Lupin bleakly, walking over to her. ‘Molly, don't...’
Next second, she was sobbing her heart out on Lupin's shoulder.
‘Molly it was just a boggart,’ he said soothingly, patting her on the head. ‘Just a stupid boggart...’
‘I see them d-d-dead all the time!’ Mrs. Weasley moaned into his shoulder. ‘All the t-t-time! I d-d-dream about it...’
Sirius was staring at the patch of carpet where the boggart, pretending to be Harry's body, had lain. Moody was looking at Harry, who avoided his gaze. He had a funny feeling Moody's magical eye had followed him all the way
out of the kitchen.
‘D-d-don't tell Arthur,’ Mrs. Weasley was gulping now, mopping her eyes frantically with her cuffs. ‘I d-d-don't want him to know.... Being silly...’
Lupin handed her a handkerchief and she blew her nose.
‘Harry, I'm so sorry. What must you think of me?’ she said shakily. ‘Not even able to get rid of a boggart...’
‘Don't be stupid,’ said Harry, trying to smile.
‘I'm just s-s-so worried,’ she said, tears spilling out of her eyes again. ‘Half the f-f-family's in the Order, it'll b-b-be a miracle if we all come through this.... and P-P-Percy's not talking to us.... What if something d-d-dreadful
happens and we've never m-m-made it up with him? And what's going to happen if Arthur and I get killed, who's g-g-going to look after Ron and Ginny?’
‘Molly, that's enough,’ said Lupin firmly. ‘This isn't like last time. The Order are better prepared, we've got a head start, we know what Voldemort's up to—’
Mrs. Weasley gave a little squeak of fright at the sound of the name.
‘Oh, Molly, come on, it's about time you got used to hearing his name—look, I can't promise no one's going to get hurt, nobody can promise that, but we're much better off than we were last time. You weren't in the Order then,
you don't understand. Last time we were outnumbered twenty to one by the Death Eaters and they were picking us off one by one....’
Harry thought of the photograph again, of his parents’ beaming faces. He knew Moody was still watching him.
‘Don't worry about Percy,’ said Sirius abruptly. ‘He'll come round. It's only a matter of time before Voldemort moves into the open; once he does, the whole Ministry's going to be begging us to forgive them. And I'm not sure I'll
be accepting their apology,’ he added bitterly.
‘And as for who's going to look after Ron and Ginny if you and Arthur died,’ said Lupin, smiling slightly, ‘what do you think we'd do, let them starve?’
Mrs. Weasley smiled tremulously.
‘Being silly,’ she muttered again, mopping her eyes.
But Harry, closing his bedroom door behind him some ten minutes later, could not think Mrs. Weasley silly. He could still see his parents beaming up at him from the battered old photograph, unaware that their lives, like so
many of those around them, were drawing to a close. The image of the boggart posing as the corpse of each member of Mrs. Weasley's family in turn kept flashing before his eyes.
Without warning, the scar on his forehead seared with pain again and his stomach churned horribly.
‘Cut it out,’ he said firmly, rubbing the scar as the pain receded.
‘First sign of madness, talking to your own head,’ said a sly voice from the empty picture on the wall.
Harry ignored it. He felt older than he had ever felt in his life and it seemed extraordinary to him that barely an hour ago he had been worried about a joke shop and who had got a prefect's badge.
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The News Media Whispers the Truth about the Petit Family Massacre
Author：Michael Edward Loftu… Source：none Hits：95 UpdateTime：2008-6-5 14:39:32
Article Description: A Focus in the Petit Family Massacre No One is Talking About
Article Title: The News Media Whispers the Truth about the Petit Family Massacre
Keywords: Petit, unlocked door, Crime, security, Walk-Ins
Word count: 916
shhh! the Petit door was left unlocked
The News Media Whispers the Truth about Crime
On July 23 2007, two paroled burglars entered a home in upper-middle class Cheshire CT through an UNLOCKED door, beat and bound the male resident, Dr. Petit, tortured and raped his wife and two daughters for six hours, then poured gasoline on the females and set them afire. Neighbors were shocked that any crime could happen there.
Three guests on Larry Kings July 30 TV show droned on about reforming parole regulations to prevent such home invasions in the future. Fine, reform the system. But remember that not all predators are paroled felons they might well be felons already released from parole or up-and-coming young monsters with clean records. What about them?
Inexplicably, the unlocked door the killers had entered was never mentioned on Larry King (and just barely mentioned four times in hundreds of media reports). The glaring flaw in basic home security that led to the fiendish destruction of a family was glossed over as though it was a minor detail. The elephant sitting in the middle of the room was nearly invisible.
Now, had the door been locked, the invaders likely wouldve looked for other ways in, and if that failed, likely wouldve moved on to look for unlocked doors elsewhere (few doors in that nave "safe" neighborhood were locked as one report mentioned) and a different family likely wouldve been attacked instead.
The media also had their eyes wide shut during the Elizabeth Smart kidnapping in Salt Lake City in 2002. The kidnapper had entered through an open window (after quietly cutting the screen), yet the danger of leaving a window open, as usual, got scant attention in the massive media coverage. Since then, the father, the ironically named Ed Smart whod recruited the Charles Manson-like panhandler/kidnapper to shingle his roof (and also left windows wide open through the night) sometimes guests on TV panel discussions (as an expert, no less) where his spectacular security blunders go politely unmentioned. How could his opinions on crime prevention possibly matter when hes never owned up to his blunders?
Of course the media doesnt want to "blame the victims." It would almost seem cruel to add insult to injury to blame those unwitting nafs for contributory negligence. But, as a result, the one possible silver lining in the Petit tragedy explicitly warning the public of possible horror from leaving doors and windows unlocked was squandered, lost forever. Well never know how many future victims of such crimes might have been spared. But just the possibility of sparing even one innocent soul from such a hideous fate would be well worth the tiny effort.
Article Description: A Focus in the Petit Family Massacre No One is Talking About
Article Title: The News Media Whispers the Truth about the Petit Family Massacre
Keywords: Petit, unlocked door, Crime, security, Walk-Ins
Word count: 916
shhh! the Petit door was left unlocked
The News Media Whispers the Truth about Crime
On July 23 2007, two paroled burglars entered a home in upper-middle class Cheshire CT through an UNLOCKED door, beat and bound the male resident, Dr. Petit, tortured and raped his wife and two daughters for six hours, then poured gasoline on the females and set them afire. Neighbors were shocked that any crime could happen there.
Three guests on Larry Kings July 30 TV show droned on about reforming parole regulations to prevent such home invasions in the future. Fine, reform the system. But remember that not all predators are paroled felons they might well be felons already released from parole or up-and-coming young monsters with clean records. What about them?
Inexplicably, the unlocked door the killers had entered was never mentioned on Larry King (and just barely mentioned four times in hundreds of media reports). The glaring flaw in basic home security that led to the fiendish destruction of a family was glossed over as though it was a minor detail. The elephant sitting in the middle of the room was nearly invisible.
Now, had the door been locked, the invaders likely wouldve looked for other ways in, and if that failed, likely wouldve moved on to look for unlocked doors elsewhere (few doors in that nave "safe" neighborhood were locked as one report mentioned) and a different family likely wouldve been attacked instead.
The media also had their eyes wide shut during the Elizabeth Smart kidnapping in Salt Lake City in 2002. The kidnapper had entered through an open window (after quietly cutting the screen), yet the danger of leaving a window open, as usual, got scant attention in the massive media coverage. Since then, the father, the ironically named Ed Smart whod recruited the Charles Manson-like panhandler/kidnapper to shingle his roof (and also left windows wide open through the night) sometimes guests on TV panel discussions (as an expert, no less) where his spectacular security blunders go politely unmentioned. How could his opinions on crime prevention possibly matter when hes never owned up to his blunders?
Of course the media doesnt want to "blame the victims." It would almost seem cruel to add insult to injury to blame those unwitting nafs for contributory negligence. But, as a result, the one possible silver lining in the Petit tragedy explicitly warning the public of possible horror from leaving doors and windows unlocked was squandered, lost forever. Well never know how many future victims of such crimes might have been spared. But just the possibility of sparing even one innocent soul from such a hideous fate would be well worth the tiny effort.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Christmas Wreaths: History, Tradition, and Uses
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：35 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:02:29
Evergreen wreaths at Christmas time are a familiar sight on doors, above fireplaces, and on homes. Wreaths have been in use for many hundreds of years, even before the birth of Christ. Many historians believe that the first
wreaths date back to the Persian Empire, when royalty and members of the upper class wore diadems, or fabric headbands adorned with jewels. Other cultures would later become fascinated with this tradition, picking it up
and adapting it for themselves.
About 800 years before the birth of Christ, Greeks began to recognize the winners of their Olympic games by crowning them with wreaths made of laurel tree branches. Years later, when the games moved from city to city,
branches from local trees were used to make these victory wreaths for the winners. During the Roman Empire, military and political leaders wore crowns of leaves and greenery. For example, Julius Caesar was crowned with a
wreath made of fresh laurel branches and leaves. The transition of the wreath from a head adornment to a wall decoration is believed to have occurred when athletes (or perhaps victorious military leaders) returned home,
and they would hang their headbands on their walls or doors, as a trophy of their victory.
The Egyptian, Chinese, and Hebrew cultures were known to have used evergreen branches as a symbol of eternal life, because the conifer trees stayed green throughout the winter months. After the birth of Christ, the
Christmas wreath made of evergreen branches came to symbolize the triumph of life over the long winter months.
The Advent wreath also became a popular holiday tradition after the birth of Christ. This decoration was usually placed flat on a table and was used to count down the four weeks immediately preceding Christmas.
Traditionally the wreath was constructed with four candles in a circle and one candle in the middle. The four outside candles were purple or violet, and the center candle was white. Four weeks before Christmas, the first violet
candle would be lit. The following week, an additional candle would be lit, and so on, until the white center candle is lit on Christmas Eve or day, signifying the arrival of Christ. A brief prayer was said to accompany the lighting
of each candle. The reason for the final candle being located in the center is to symbolize that we should keep Christ at the center of our lives and the center of the Christmas celebration.
Based on drawings and paintings, most historians believe that the use of evergreen wreaths at Christmas time spread across Northern Europe, Spain, and Italy during the early 19th century. The greenery was used as a
symbol of life persevering through the cold winter months, and the holly berries that were often used as an adornment were a symbol of the blood of Christ.
It is also believed that Europeans also used wreaths on their doors to represent their family identity, much like a family crest. These wreaths were made from products grown in their own gardens, such as grapevines, fresh
flowers, or other produce. The crafting of these wreaths was a family ritual that followed the same general pattern year after year.
Today, wreaths are still widely used around the world. In the U.S., wreaths are a traditional decoration for Christmas, as well as many other holidays throughout the year. Wreaths now adorn doors for Halloween, Valentine's
Day, the Fourth of July, and Easter. Furthermore, wreaths are no longer limited to only evergreen branches. Many craft stores, books, and television shows feature unique wreaths made of a variety of unusual materials and
decorations for almost any occasion.
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Evergreen wreaths at Christmas time are a familiar sight on doors, above fireplaces, and on homes. Wreaths have been in use for many hundreds of years, even before the birth of Christ. Many historians believe that the first
wreaths date back to the Persian Empire, when royalty and members of the upper class wore diadems, or fabric headbands adorned with jewels. Other cultures would later become fascinated with this tradition, picking it up
and adapting it for themselves.
About 800 years before the birth of Christ, Greeks began to recognize the winners of their Olympic games by crowning them with wreaths made of laurel tree branches. Years later, when the games moved from city to city,
branches from local trees were used to make these victory wreaths for the winners. During the Roman Empire, military and political leaders wore crowns of leaves and greenery. For example, Julius Caesar was crowned with a
wreath made of fresh laurel branches and leaves. The transition of the wreath from a head adornment to a wall decoration is believed to have occurred when athletes (or perhaps victorious military leaders) returned home,
and they would hang their headbands on their walls or doors, as a trophy of their victory.
The Egyptian, Chinese, and Hebrew cultures were known to have used evergreen branches as a symbol of eternal life, because the conifer trees stayed green throughout the winter months. After the birth of Christ, the
Christmas wreath made of evergreen branches came to symbolize the triumph of life over the long winter months.
The Advent wreath also became a popular holiday tradition after the birth of Christ. This decoration was usually placed flat on a table and was used to count down the four weeks immediately preceding Christmas.
Traditionally the wreath was constructed with four candles in a circle and one candle in the middle. The four outside candles were purple or violet, and the center candle was white. Four weeks before Christmas, the first violet
candle would be lit. The following week, an additional candle would be lit, and so on, until the white center candle is lit on Christmas Eve or day, signifying the arrival of Christ. A brief prayer was said to accompany the lighting
of each candle. The reason for the final candle being located in the center is to symbolize that we should keep Christ at the center of our lives and the center of the Christmas celebration.
Based on drawings and paintings, most historians believe that the use of evergreen wreaths at Christmas time spread across Northern Europe, Spain, and Italy during the early 19th century. The greenery was used as a
symbol of life persevering through the cold winter months, and the holly berries that were often used as an adornment were a symbol of the blood of Christ.
It is also believed that Europeans also used wreaths on their doors to represent their family identity, much like a family crest. These wreaths were made from products grown in their own gardens, such as grapevines, fresh
flowers, or other produce. The crafting of these wreaths was a family ritual that followed the same general pattern year after year.
Today, wreaths are still widely used around the world. In the U.S., wreaths are a traditional decoration for Christmas, as well as many other holidays throughout the year. Wreaths now adorn doors for Halloween, Valentine's
Day, the Fourth of July, and Easter. Furthermore, wreaths are no longer limited to only evergreen branches. Many craft stores, books, and television shows feature unique wreaths made of a variety of unusual materials and
decorations for almost any occasion.
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Monday, November 8, 2010
Lung Cancer Alternative Treatments
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：114 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:38:19
Alternative Treatments For Lung Cancer
If your doctor has told you that your lung cancer can't be cured, you may be tempted to turn to complementary and alternative medicine for answers. But this doesn't mean you have to choose between conventional treatments and alternative treatments. Rather than forgoing mainstream cancer treatments, using complementary and alternative treatments along with care from your doctor may be a reasonable option.
Your doctor can help you weigh the benefits and risks of complementary and alternative treatments. The American College of Chest Physicians reviewed available complementary and alternative treatments and found some therapies may be helpful for people with lung cancer, including accupuncture, hypnosis, massage, meditation and yoga.
The alternative treatments above are basically palliative treatments aimed to lessen the side effects of chemotherapy and radiotherapy and not curing the cancer. Patients can then enjoy quality time and for longer period too.
However, some alternative treatments such as Vitamin C Intravenous Infusion and Baking Soda water have even reversed the cancer and convert cancer cells back to healthy ones. Combined with mostly vegan cancer-friendly diet, the recovery cases have doctors sctratching their heads.
Some newer alternative cancer treatments are giving lung cancer patients new hope, but there are never any guarantees treating advanced lung cancer because there are so many things that can go wrong. The Brandt Grape Cure is always recommended as a replacement for the "cancer diet" of any other alternative cancer treatment. This diet involve eating only grapes to flood the body with the goodness of antioxidant.
Though going to an alternative treatment route is perceived to be healthier, cancer experts said they tend not to recommend the procedures. This is mainly because alternative treatments are not FDA-approved and have no clear proof of success. There aren't stats on alternative treatments because there are no sponsors and there are strict guidelines that must be followed in order to publish a statistic.
Health insurance does not cover the cost of alternative treatment, but the good news is alternative treatments need not cost a lot of money. Since this is the aspect that the patient have control over in his or her cancer battle, it is worth a try.
Alternative Treatments For Lung Cancer
If your doctor has told you that your lung cancer can't be cured, you may be tempted to turn to complementary and alternative medicine for answers. But this doesn't mean you have to choose between conventional treatments and alternative treatments. Rather than forgoing mainstream cancer treatments, using complementary and alternative treatments along with care from your doctor may be a reasonable option.
Your doctor can help you weigh the benefits and risks of complementary and alternative treatments. The American College of Chest Physicians reviewed available complementary and alternative treatments and found some therapies may be helpful for people with lung cancer, including accupuncture, hypnosis, massage, meditation and yoga.
The alternative treatments above are basically palliative treatments aimed to lessen the side effects of chemotherapy and radiotherapy and not curing the cancer. Patients can then enjoy quality time and for longer period too.
However, some alternative treatments such as Vitamin C Intravenous Infusion and Baking Soda water have even reversed the cancer and convert cancer cells back to healthy ones. Combined with mostly vegan cancer-friendly diet, the recovery cases have doctors sctratching their heads.
Some newer alternative cancer treatments are giving lung cancer patients new hope, but there are never any guarantees treating advanced lung cancer because there are so many things that can go wrong. The Brandt Grape Cure is always recommended as a replacement for the "cancer diet" of any other alternative cancer treatment. This diet involve eating only grapes to flood the body with the goodness of antioxidant.
Though going to an alternative treatment route is perceived to be healthier, cancer experts said they tend not to recommend the procedures. This is mainly because alternative treatments are not FDA-approved and have no clear proof of success. There aren't stats on alternative treatments because there are no sponsors and there are strict guidelines that must be followed in order to publish a statistic.
Health insurance does not cover the cost of alternative treatment, but the good news is alternative treatments need not cost a lot of money. Since this is the aspect that the patient have control over in his or her cancer battle, it is worth a try.
Breast Cancer Can Be Cured
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：120 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:38:21
Breast sarcoma is still and forever will be a solemn state that affects 1 in 12 women at some feature in their life. Luckily, it is no longer deemed life threatening or permanently scarring for most individuals.
Breast tumor, like all cancers, were once very mysterious. While much skeleton strange and a sphere of active research, the disease itself is justly well understood. The underlying causes are still ambiguous in some gear, but the approach in which it spreads and acts is much better known nowadays.
The risks of breast evil- who gets breast disease, the negatives and positives of different treatments, the survivability tariff and more are much better quantified.
While many claims are bogus, the things of diet on an individual's breast bane are suitable clearer. Many questions are still out there, but diets and lifestyles that fabricate low estrogen levels have been deemed beneficial. Low fat diets contribute to that as does exercise on a common center.
Early detection and diagnosis have reached the step where, as few as 50 clumped melanoma cells can be identified. Chemical tests for early detection are fetching cheaper and more sophisticated. Ultrasound is becoming more customary. Treatments now span from the traditional lumpectomy or mastectomy, chemotherapy and radiation to more future hormone treatments.
Even with all the innovation, however, person-examination residue one of the best practices. It is in the individual's restraint and makes doable ferreting out anything requiring expand investigation by higher methods. Mammograms wait a low cost, low expose and low discomfort approach of detecting tumors.
Recovery is typically faster with fewer recurrences being seen credit to more fixed diagnosis and healing. Digital mammography is laptop helped and makes the study of trial outcome much more accurate than in the earlier.
Though it is tragic, if a lady or man has contracted breast canker that requires surgery, improved reconstructive techniques have made it excluding perilous. The FDA has recently full silicon implants off the forbidden catalog. Implantation and false surgery in broad are no longer as risky. Patients now can typically abscond the hospice the same day the surgery occurs.
It is normal in nowadays's world for almost 100% of the individuals who welcome early diagnosis and medicine (care during show 0 or theater I) to live longer than five years. Most of these individuals never have any recurrence at all and aren't anxious by their breast pest for the place of their life.
This once almost invariably unsmiling disease hasn't been condensed to the stage of a measly annoyance. It carcass a serious term requiring prudent consideration of all options. Nevertheless merit to recent medicine, while breast pest once killed almost all its victims, individuals now typically have an evil gratis life after treatment.
Breast sarcoma is still and forever will be a solemn state that affects 1 in 12 women at some feature in their life. Luckily, it is no longer deemed life threatening or permanently scarring for most individuals.
Breast tumor, like all cancers, were once very mysterious. While much skeleton strange and a sphere of active research, the disease itself is justly well understood. The underlying causes are still ambiguous in some gear, but the approach in which it spreads and acts is much better known nowadays.
The risks of breast evil- who gets breast disease, the negatives and positives of different treatments, the survivability tariff and more are much better quantified.
While many claims are bogus, the things of diet on an individual's breast bane are suitable clearer. Many questions are still out there, but diets and lifestyles that fabricate low estrogen levels have been deemed beneficial. Low fat diets contribute to that as does exercise on a common center.
Early detection and diagnosis have reached the step where, as few as 50 clumped melanoma cells can be identified. Chemical tests for early detection are fetching cheaper and more sophisticated. Ultrasound is becoming more customary. Treatments now span from the traditional lumpectomy or mastectomy, chemotherapy and radiation to more future hormone treatments.
Even with all the innovation, however, person-examination residue one of the best practices. It is in the individual's restraint and makes doable ferreting out anything requiring expand investigation by higher methods. Mammograms wait a low cost, low expose and low discomfort approach of detecting tumors.
Recovery is typically faster with fewer recurrences being seen credit to more fixed diagnosis and healing. Digital mammography is laptop helped and makes the study of trial outcome much more accurate than in the earlier.
Though it is tragic, if a lady or man has contracted breast canker that requires surgery, improved reconstructive techniques have made it excluding perilous. The FDA has recently full silicon implants off the forbidden catalog. Implantation and false surgery in broad are no longer as risky. Patients now can typically abscond the hospice the same day the surgery occurs.
It is normal in nowadays's world for almost 100% of the individuals who welcome early diagnosis and medicine (care during show 0 or theater I) to live longer than five years. Most of these individuals never have any recurrence at all and aren't anxious by their breast pest for the place of their life.
This once almost invariably unsmiling disease hasn't been condensed to the stage of a measly annoyance. It carcass a serious term requiring prudent consideration of all options. Nevertheless merit to recent medicine, while breast pest once killed almost all its victims, individuals now typically have an evil gratis life after treatment.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Arkansas Bad Credit Car Loans Tips on how to secure car loans with bad credit
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：53 UpdateTime：2008-10-18 23:42:28
Automobiles are said to be one of the best and the easiest methods to finance with bad credit. Actually, most of the consumers in Arkansas decide on to obtain approval for an Arkansas car loan in an effort to improve their credit score. If you are from one of the cities such as Alicia, Alexander, Bentonville, Conway, Clinton, Cave City, Diamond City, Danville, El Dorado, Hamburg, Lincoln, Newport, Perryville, Walnut Ridge etc and want to invest on a car, then you may have several options of locking your personal financing or even agreeing for a loan package that has been offered by a car dealer. Below are some of the useful tips that can help you to secure car loans with bad credit.
Understanding your credit score beforehand
It is always better not to enter into the process of car purchasing blind-folded. Before commencing your research for a reasonable car loan, you have to request for a free credit report. Doing so, you can have a perfect image of your credit score. If you have a high score then you can actually expect for a good offer from loan lenders. However, if your credit score is low then the possibilities for qualifying for a low rate car loan is less. Some of the best financial options are offered to you if your credit score is at least 720.
In order to make sure that you are having a good rate on car loans you can try to improve your credit score. The strategies for improving your credit score is quite simple, however for a considerable enhancement it will obviously take some time. To start with, you can submit all your payments to your creditor punctually then try to eliminate and decrease your debts. If your credit history contains some kind of errors then try to contact the credit bureau and get your matter resolved immediately.
Shopping for best rate car loan
People with bad credit can generally expect a normal rate of car loans to be around 8 to 9%. Alternatively, people with good credit usually avail car loans at the rate of 1.9%. So, whenever you look for a car loan take your time to explore all the options available for you to avail a low rate on
Automobiles are said to be one of the best and the easiest methods to finance with bad credit. Actually, most of the consumers in Arkansas decide on to obtain approval for an Arkansas car loan in an effort to improve their credit score. If you are from one of the cities such as Alicia, Alexander, Bentonville, Conway, Clinton, Cave City, Diamond City, Danville, El Dorado, Hamburg, Lincoln, Newport, Perryville, Walnut Ridge etc and want to invest on a car, then you may have several options of locking your personal financing or even agreeing for a loan package that has been offered by a car dealer. Below are some of the useful tips that can help you to secure car loans with bad credit.
Understanding your credit score beforehand
It is always better not to enter into the process of car purchasing blind-folded. Before commencing your research for a reasonable car loan, you have to request for a free credit report. Doing so, you can have a perfect image of your credit score. If you have a high score then you can actually expect for a good offer from loan lenders. However, if your credit score is low then the possibilities for qualifying for a low rate car loan is less. Some of the best financial options are offered to you if your credit score is at least 720.
In order to make sure that you are having a good rate on car loans you can try to improve your credit score. The strategies for improving your credit score is quite simple, however for a considerable enhancement it will obviously take some time. To start with, you can submit all your payments to your creditor punctually then try to eliminate and decrease your debts. If your credit history contains some kind of errors then try to contact the credit bureau and get your matter resolved immediately.
Shopping for best rate car loan
People with bad credit can generally expect a normal rate of car loans to be around 8 to 9%. Alternatively, people with good credit usually avail car loans at the rate of 1.9%. So, whenever you look for a car loan take your time to explore all the options available for you to avail a low rate on
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Advice from the Underbelly
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：114 UpdateTime：2008-10-18 23:37:52
When I was pregnant with my first child, I had no absolutely no idea what to expect. I went about my business as if nothing was different. At work I'd occasionally glance down at my growing belly as thoughts of chubby, quiet, smiling babies dressed in all-white filled my mind. I had convinced myself that my life wouldn't really change.
Fast forward a few months -- I was sitting in my infant daughter's room and we were both crying. She was crying because she needed a new diaper; I was crying for my old life, my lack of sleep and my resentment toward my husband whose life hadn't really changed at all. To add insult to injury, he came home that night "in the mood." Was he on drugs?
Two months later, just as my daughter turned three months, I joined a support group for new mothers. It was at that moment, I started to see the light at the end of the "new mom tunnel." There, amidst six other exhausted, overwhelmed and anxious women, I started to feel human again. The group was led by a child psychologist, but each discussion veered from the children and focused on us. Thank God for that one hour I could devote to myself each week, it truly kept me going.
We spoke about our sex lives, or lack of them; our emotional state of mind; how our bodies had changed forever; our issues about staying at home versus going back to work. Each week, there was a new topic and when the women found out that I was a doctor, the conversations shifted to our physical health. "Is it normal that my hair is falling out?" "Why can't I lose the weight?" "Why are my feet larger, will they ever shrink to their normal size?" "If my child has the croup, can I get it?" "When will it stop hurting to have sex?" "Ever since I had my son when I laugh, urine comes out, is that normal?"
It became apparent to me that a host of health issues arise in new mothers. And I became their resource. When I didn't have the answer, I'd ask my Ob/Gyn or research it in a medical textbook. There was no single, resource available to these young mothers that could credibly answer their questions. And the resources that were available provided sketchy information at best. I remember at one session, a woman had spotted a skin change under her arm and after going online, she came in hysterically crying, convinced she was dying from skin cancer. She didn't realize that certain skin changes were normal during and after pregnancy. What she had spotted turned out to be a normal skin tag.
There were definitely things I wished someone warned me about before I had my baby. From acne to enlarged feet, from resentment toward your spouse to the fear of going back or not going back to work, not to mention those other issues no-one wants to talk about like constipation, depression, hemorrhoids and vaginal pain, women need an outlet to discuss one of the largest changes they will ever experience: a new baby!
Most people think new moms don't have time for themselves or their own health, but given the proper resource, they will unquestionably make the time. Sit down with a group of women after they give birth and inevitably, the conversation will turn to health matters that relate to themselves as well as their babies and children. It is my hope that this book can provide some of the much-needed reassurance and solid, well-researched health information to new mothers during this tumultuous but miraculous time period.
2008 Jennifer Wider, MD
Author Bio Jennifer Wider, MD, is a doctor, author, and radio personality who specializes in women's health issues. She is the medical advisor to the Society for Women's Health Research in Washington, D.C. Dr. Wider is a regular contributor to Cosmopolitan magazine and hosts a weekly segment on Cosmo Radio for Sirius Satellite. She has appeared as a health expert on The Today Show, CBS News, Good Day NY, Fox News, and a variety of cable channels. She lives with her physician husband, and their daughter and son, in Fairfield County, Connecticut. Her book, The New Mom's Survival Guide, is available now from Bantam Books.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I had no absolutely no idea what to expect. I went about my business as if nothing was different. At work I'd occasionally glance down at my growing belly as thoughts of chubby, quiet, smiling babies dressed in all-white filled my mind. I had convinced myself that my life wouldn't really change.
Fast forward a few months -- I was sitting in my infant daughter's room and we were both crying. She was crying because she needed a new diaper; I was crying for my old life, my lack of sleep and my resentment toward my husband whose life hadn't really changed at all. To add insult to injury, he came home that night "in the mood." Was he on drugs?
Two months later, just as my daughter turned three months, I joined a support group for new mothers. It was at that moment, I started to see the light at the end of the "new mom tunnel." There, amidst six other exhausted, overwhelmed and anxious women, I started to feel human again. The group was led by a child psychologist, but each discussion veered from the children and focused on us. Thank God for that one hour I could devote to myself each week, it truly kept me going.
We spoke about our sex lives, or lack of them; our emotional state of mind; how our bodies had changed forever; our issues about staying at home versus going back to work. Each week, there was a new topic and when the women found out that I was a doctor, the conversations shifted to our physical health. "Is it normal that my hair is falling out?" "Why can't I lose the weight?" "Why are my feet larger, will they ever shrink to their normal size?" "If my child has the croup, can I get it?" "When will it stop hurting to have sex?" "Ever since I had my son when I laugh, urine comes out, is that normal?"
It became apparent to me that a host of health issues arise in new mothers. And I became their resource. When I didn't have the answer, I'd ask my Ob/Gyn or research it in a medical textbook. There was no single, resource available to these young mothers that could credibly answer their questions. And the resources that were available provided sketchy information at best. I remember at one session, a woman had spotted a skin change under her arm and after going online, she came in hysterically crying, convinced she was dying from skin cancer. She didn't realize that certain skin changes were normal during and after pregnancy. What she had spotted turned out to be a normal skin tag.
There were definitely things I wished someone warned me about before I had my baby. From acne to enlarged feet, from resentment toward your spouse to the fear of going back or not going back to work, not to mention those other issues no-one wants to talk about like constipation, depression, hemorrhoids and vaginal pain, women need an outlet to discuss one of the largest changes they will ever experience: a new baby!
Most people think new moms don't have time for themselves or their own health, but given the proper resource, they will unquestionably make the time. Sit down with a group of women after they give birth and inevitably, the conversation will turn to health matters that relate to themselves as well as their babies and children. It is my hope that this book can provide some of the much-needed reassurance and solid, well-researched health information to new mothers during this tumultuous but miraculous time period.
2008 Jennifer Wider, MD
Author Bio Jennifer Wider, MD, is a doctor, author, and radio personality who specializes in women's health issues. She is the medical advisor to the Society for Women's Health Research in Washington, D.C. Dr. Wider is a regular contributor to Cosmopolitan magazine and hosts a weekly segment on Cosmo Radio for Sirius Satellite. She has appeared as a health expert on The Today Show, CBS News, Good Day NY, Fox News, and a variety of cable channels. She lives with her physician husband, and their daughter and son, in Fairfield County, Connecticut. Her book, The New Mom's Survival Guide, is available now from Bantam Books.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Interview Nerves Advice On Getting Your Interview Nerves Under Control
Even the most confident job interview candidates suffer from interview nerves, however mild, even if they don't show it or admit to it.
But you can get your nerves under control and if you do, you'll have a better job interview and improve your chances of getting picked for your dream job.
Here are 7 simple tips to help you manage your job interview nerves and deliver your best interview performance.
Top Tip: 1: Prepare properly for your job interview. This includes the following:
Planning what interview clothes to wear
Planning your interview arrival(giving plenty of time)
Thinking about common interview questions and answers to give, including examples
Planning some interview questions to ask
Some candidates prefer to 'wing it' at interview, in the belief that they give better answers 'off the cuff'. But research shows that candidates who prepare well for their job interview feel that they do better than those who don't
and have a greater success rate.
burberry outlet
chanel 2.55
In addition:
2. Try to have a good night's sleep. Eat a little earlier and go to bed before your usual time. If you find it hard to nod off, listen to a relaxation CD or similar to help your relax.
3. Get up in plenty of time and have a good healthy breakfast, even if you don't usually eat breakfast.
4. If your interview is in the afternoon, eat lunch about 90 minutes before the interview. This ensures your body is nourished but gives it a chance to digest too, so your energy is diverted to your brain, not your stomach.
5. As you wait to be called to interview, take some time to think of something that makes you happy such as a family vacation, a comic moment or Christmas. Dwell on the good feelings this gives you. This will increase your
sense of well-being, reduce your interview nerves and raise your confident levels, allowing you to perform better in the job interview.
6. Do some breathing exercises too. Breathe in through your nose, hold for 2 seconds, then breathe out through your mouth. Repeat several times, with your eyes closed if possible.
7. Keep your job interview in perspective. You may feel like you life depends on getting this job but it rarely does. If you don='t get this job, there will be others and your experience in this job interview can only help you in the
next. So keep a grip on reality and don't let your thoughts turn to negative ones.
Follow these simple steps and you'll feel in control of your job interview nerves, instead of them being in control of you.
But you can get your nerves under control and if you do, you'll have a better job interview and improve your chances of getting picked for your dream job.
Here are 7 simple tips to help you manage your job interview nerves and deliver your best interview performance.
Top Tip: 1: Prepare properly for your job interview. This includes the following:
Planning what interview clothes to wear
Planning your interview arrival(giving plenty of time)
Thinking about common interview questions and answers to give, including examples
Planning some interview questions to ask
Some candidates prefer to 'wing it' at interview, in the belief that they give better answers 'off the cuff'. But research shows that candidates who prepare well for their job interview feel that they do better than those who don't
and have a greater success rate.
burberry outlet
chanel 2.55
In addition:
2. Try to have a good night's sleep. Eat a little earlier and go to bed before your usual time. If you find it hard to nod off, listen to a relaxation CD or similar to help your relax.
3. Get up in plenty of time and have a good healthy breakfast, even if you don't usually eat breakfast.
4. If your interview is in the afternoon, eat lunch about 90 minutes before the interview. This ensures your body is nourished but gives it a chance to digest too, so your energy is diverted to your brain, not your stomach.
5. As you wait to be called to interview, take some time to think of something that makes you happy such as a family vacation, a comic moment or Christmas. Dwell on the good feelings this gives you. This will increase your
sense of well-being, reduce your interview nerves and raise your confident levels, allowing you to perform better in the job interview.
6. Do some breathing exercises too. Breathe in through your nose, hold for 2 seconds, then breathe out through your mouth. Repeat several times, with your eyes closed if possible.
7. Keep your job interview in perspective. You may feel like you life depends on getting this job but it rarely does. If you don='t get this job, there will be others and your experience in this job interview can only help you in the
next. So keep a grip on reality and don't let your thoughts turn to negative ones.
Follow these simple steps and you'll feel in control of your job interview nerves, instead of them being in control of you.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Website Design: 12 Questions to Answer Before You Talk to a Website Designer
Carl owns a business software company and he knows he needs a new website. How does he know this? Hes smart enough to have noticed that his current site isnt doing a very good job of turning visitors into sales
opportunities.
Hes anxious to get started on his new site. Hes hired a website designer, shown the designer a few sites that he likes, and now hes waiting for the delivery of a fantastic new high-performing website.
Its not going to happen. Carl has made one of the most common mistakes in website development a mistake that nearly every business-to-business marketer makes at some point along the line. Hes expecting a designer to
do his marketing thinking for him.
A good website requires planning and its the marketers job to do the planning not the designers.
Here are 12 questions every business-to-business marketer should ask and answer before talking to a web designer:
1. What is the single most important purpose of the new site? By taking the time to articulate this, youll be able to focus everyones efforts on the right target.
2. What are the secondary goals? When companies invest money in creating a new website, there are almost always multiple stakeholders with different priorities. After all, websites reach investors, suppliers, employees
and future employees in addition to reaching customers and prospects. While these secondary goals should not be allowed to interfere with your primary purpose, it still helps to know what they are.
3. How will you measure the success of your new site? Be as specific as possible. Ecommerce sites will obviously measure revenue & non-ecommerce sites will measure sales-ready leads, but what else?
4. What areas of your current site are successful and why? Chances are good that your existing site is not a total failure. Take a look at what IS working. You can strive to make these areas better, but you dont have to
reinvent them.
5. What areas of your current site are not working and why? Presumably this is the reason youre redoing your website. Its a good fist step to realize your site isnt working, but that alone doesnt provide much direction. Take
the time to identify specifically what isnt working & what it will look like when it is working.
6. Who exactly is your target audience? What do they care about? Read Your Website Needs a Makeover for more information about creating detailed descriptions of your buyers.
7. What action do you want them to take? There is a macro aspect to this question: for example, "We want them to buy our product." And there is a micro aspect that addresses each of the individual conversion points your
prospects may pass through on their way to making a purchase. These could be subscribing to a newsletter, downloading a white paper, scheduling a demo, entering a trial period, and others.
8. What does the prospect need in order to feel sufficiently motivated & confident to take those actions? Map out each of your desired actions. Sometimes youll need to entice the prospect with an offer. At other times theyll
want additional information. Think in terms of both what you can provide and what obstacles you can remove.
opportunities.
Hes anxious to get started on his new site. Hes hired a website designer, shown the designer a few sites that he likes, and now hes waiting for the delivery of a fantastic new high-performing website.
Its not going to happen. Carl has made one of the most common mistakes in website development a mistake that nearly every business-to-business marketer makes at some point along the line. Hes expecting a designer to
do his marketing thinking for him.
A good website requires planning and its the marketers job to do the planning not the designers.
Here are 12 questions every business-to-business marketer should ask and answer before talking to a web designer:
1. What is the single most important purpose of the new site? By taking the time to articulate this, youll be able to focus everyones efforts on the right target.
2. What are the secondary goals? When companies invest money in creating a new website, there are almost always multiple stakeholders with different priorities. After all, websites reach investors, suppliers, employees
and future employees in addition to reaching customers and prospects. While these secondary goals should not be allowed to interfere with your primary purpose, it still helps to know what they are.
3. How will you measure the success of your new site? Be as specific as possible. Ecommerce sites will obviously measure revenue & non-ecommerce sites will measure sales-ready leads, but what else?
4. What areas of your current site are successful and why? Chances are good that your existing site is not a total failure. Take a look at what IS working. You can strive to make these areas better, but you dont have to
reinvent them.
5. What areas of your current site are not working and why? Presumably this is the reason youre redoing your website. Its a good fist step to realize your site isnt working, but that alone doesnt provide much direction. Take
the time to identify specifically what isnt working & what it will look like when it is working.
6. Who exactly is your target audience? What do they care about? Read Your Website Needs a Makeover for more information about creating detailed descriptions of your buyers.
7. What action do you want them to take? There is a macro aspect to this question: for example, "We want them to buy our product." And there is a micro aspect that addresses each of the individual conversion points your
prospects may pass through on their way to making a purchase. These could be subscribing to a newsletter, downloading a white paper, scheduling a demo, entering a trial period, and others.
8. What does the prospect need in order to feel sufficiently motivated & confident to take those actions? Map out each of your desired actions. Sometimes youll need to entice the prospect with an offer. At other times theyll
want additional information. Think in terms of both what you can provide and what obstacles you can remove.
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