【分享】【推荐】哈利波特6英文版！（1-6章，先收藏，以后我再补充） bbs.ikaka.com

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:46:00

Chapter 1: The Other Minister

It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his
office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without
leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind. He was waiting for a call from
the President of a far distant country, and between wondering when the
wretched man would telephone, and trying to suppress unpleasant memories
of what had been a very long, tiring, and difficult week, there was not much
space in his head for anything else. The more he attempted to focus on the
print on the page before him, the more clearly the Prime Minister could see
the gloating face of one of his political opponents. This particular opponent
had appeared on the news that very day, not only to enumerate all the
terrible things that had happened in the last week (as though anyone needed
reminding) but also to explain why each and every one of them was the
government's fault.

The Prime Minister's pulse quickened at the very thought of these
accusations, for they were neither fair nor true. How on earth was his
government supposed to have stopped that bridge collapsing? It was
outrageous for anybody to suggest that they were not spending enough on
bridges. The bridge was fewer than ten years old, and the best experts were
at a loss to explain why it had snapped cleanly in two, sending a dozen cars
into the watery depths of the river below. And how dare anyone suggest that
it was lack of policemen that had resulted in those two very nasty and well-
publicized murders? Or that the government should have somehow foreseen
the freak hurricane in the West Country that had caused so much damage to
both people and property? And was it his fault that one of his Junior
Ministers, Herbert Chorley, had chosen this week to act so peculiarly that he
was now going to be spending a lot more time with his family?

"A grim mood has gripped the country," the opponent had concluded,
barely concealing his own broad grin.

And unfortunately, this was perfectly true. The Prime Minister felt it
himself; people really did seem more miserable than usual. Even the weather
was dismal; all this chilly mist in the middle of July... It wasn't right, it
wasn't normal...

He turned over the second page of the memo, saw how much longer it
went on, and gave it up as a bad job. Stretching his arms above his head he
looked around his office mournfully. It was a handsome room, with a fine
marble fireplace facing the long sash windows, firmly closed against the
unseasonable chill. With a slight shiver, the Prime Minister got up and
moved over to the window, looking out at the thin mist that was pressing
itself against the glass. It was then, as he stood with his back to the room,
that he heard a soft cough behind him.

He froze, nose to nose with his own scared-looking reflection in the dark
glass. He knew that cough. He had heard it before. He turned very slowly to
face the empty room.

"Hello?" he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

For a brief moment he allowed himself the impossible hope that nobody
would answer him. However, a voice responded at once, a crisp, decisive
voice that sounded as though it were reading a prepared statement. It was
coming -- as the Prime Minister had known at the first cough -- from the
froglike little man wearing a long silver wig who was depicted in a small,
dirty oil painting in the far corner of the room.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond
immediately. Sincerely, Fudge."

The man in the painting looked inquiringly at the Prime Minister.

"Er," said the Prime Minister, "listen... It's not a very good time for me...
I'm waiting for a telephone call, you see... from the President of--"

"That can be rearranged," said the portrait at once. The Prime Minister's
heart sank. He had been afraid of that.

"But I really was rather hoping to speak--"

"We shall arrange for the President to forget to call. He will telephone
tomorrow night instead," said the little man. "Kindly respond immediately to
Mr. Fudge."

"I... oh... very well," said the Prime Minister weakly. "Yes, I'll see
Fudge."

He hurried back to his desk, straightening his tie as he went. He had
barely resumed his seat, and arranged his face into what he hoped was a
relaxed and unfazed expression, when bright green flames burst into life in
the empty grate beneath his marble mantelpiece. He watched, trying not to
betray a flicker of surprise or alarm, as a portly man appeared within the
flames, spinning as fast as a top. Seconds later, he had climbed out onto a
rather fine antique rug, brushing ash from the sleeves of his long pin-striped
cloak, a lime-green bowler hat in his hand.

"Ah... Prime Minister," said Cornelius Fudge, striding forward with his
hand outstretched. "Good to see you again."

The Prime Minister could not honestly return this compliment, so said
nothing at all. He was not remotely pleased to see Fudge, whose occasional
appearances, apart from being downright alarming in themselves, generally
meant that he was about to hear some very bad news. Furthermore, Fudge
was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder, and grayer, and his
face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in
politicians before, and it never boded well.

"How can I help you?" he said, shaking Fudge's hand very briefly and
gesturing toward the hardest of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Difficult to know where to begin," muttered Fudge, pulling up the chair,
sitting down, and placing his green bowler upon his knees. "What a week,
what a week..."

"Had a bad one too, have you?" asked the Prime Minister stiffly, hoping
to convey by this that he had quite enough on his plate already without any
extra helpings from Fudge.

"Yes, of course," said Fudge, rubbing his eyes wearily and looking
morosely at the Prime Minister. "I've been having the same week you have,
Prime Minister. The Brockdale Bridge... the Bones and Vance murders... not
to mention the ruckus in the West Country..."

"You--er--your--I mean to say, some of your people were--were involved
in those--those things, were they?"

Fudge fixed the Prime Minister with a rather stern look. "Of course they
were," he said, "Surely you've realized what's going on?"

"I..." hesitated the Prime Minister.

It was precisely this sort of behavior that made him dislike Fudge's visits
so much. He was, after all, the Prime Minister and did not appreciate being
made to feel like an ignorant schoolboy. But of course, it had been like this
from his very first meeting with Fudge on his very first evening as Prime
Minister. He remembered it as though it were yesterday and knew it would
haunt him until his dying day.

He had been standing alone in this very office, savoring the triumph that
was his after so many years of dreaming and scheming, when he had heard a
cough behind him, just like tonight, and turned to find that ugly little portrait
talking to him, announcing that the Minister of Magic was about to arrive
and introduce himself

Naturally, he had thought that the long campaign and the strain of the
election had caused him to go mad. He had been utterly terrified to find a
portrait talking to him, though this had been nothing to how he felt when a
self-proclaimed wizard had bounced out of the fireplace and shaken his hand.
He had remained speechless throughout Fudge's kindly explanation that
there were witches and wizards still living in secret all over the world and
his reassurances that he was not to bother his head about them as the
Ministry of Magic took responsibility for the whole Wizarding community
and prevented the non-magical population from getting wind of them. It was,
said Fudge, a difficult job that encompassed everything from regulations on
responsible use of broomsticks to keeping the dragon population under
control (the Prime Minister remembered clutching the desk for support at
this point). Fudge had then patted the shoulder of the still-dumbstruck Prime
Minister in a fatherly sort of way.

"Not to worry," he had said, "it's odds-on you'll never see me again. I'll
only bother you if there's something really serious going on our end,
something that's likely to affect the Muggles--the non-magical population, I
should say. Otherwise, it's live and let live. And I must say, you're taking it a
lot better than your predecessor. He tried to throw me out the window,
thought I was a hoax planned by the opposition."

At this, the Prime Minister had found his voice at last. "You're--you're not
a hoax, then?"

It had been his last, desperate hope.

"No," said Fudge gently. "No, I'm afraid I'm not. Look."

And he had turned the Prime Minister's teacup into a gerbil.

叶·幽思 - 2005-11-19 18:46:00

没兴趣！

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:47:00

"But," said the Prime Minister breathlessly, watching his teacup chewing
on the corner of his next speech, "but why--why has nobody told me--?"

"The Minister of Magic only reveals him--or herself to the Muggle Prime
Minister of the day," said Fudge, poking his wand back inside his jacket.
"We find it the best way to maintain secrecy."

"But then," bleated the Prime Minister, "why hasn't a former Prime
Minister warned me--?"

At this, Fudge had actually laughed.

"My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?"

Still chortling, Fudge had thrown some powder into the fireplace, stepped
into the emerald flames, and vanished with a whooshing sound. The Prime
Minister had stood there, quite motionless, and realized that he would never,
as long as he lived, dare mention this encounter to a living soul, for who in
the wide world would believe him?

The shock had taken a little while to wear off. For a time, he had tried to
convince himself that Fudge had indeed been a hallucination brought on by
lack of sleep during his grueling election campaign. In a vain attempt to rid
himself of all reminders of this uncomfortable encounter, he had given the
gerbil to his delighted niece and instructed his private secretary to take down
the portrait of the ugly little man who had announced Fudge's arrival. To the
Prime Minister's dismay, however, the portrait had proved impossible to
remove. When several carpenters, a builder or two, an art historian, and the
Chancellor of the Exchequer had all tried unsuccessfully to pry it from the
wall, the Prime Minister had abandoned the attempt and simply resolved to
hope that the thing remained motionless and silent for the rest of his term in
office. Occasionally he could have sworn he saw out of the corner of his eye
the occupant of the painting yawning, or else scratching his nose; even, once
or twice, simply walking out of his frame and leaving nothing but a stretch
of muddy-brown canvas behind. However, he had trained himself not to look
at the picture very much, and always to tell himself firmly that his eyes were
playing tricks on him when anything like this happened.

Then, three years ago, on a night very like tonight, the Prime Minister had
been alone in his office when the portrait had once again announced the
imminent arrival of Fudge, who had burst out of the fireplace, sopping wet
and in a state of considerable panic. Before the Prime Minister could ask
why he was dripping all over the Axminster, Fudge had started ranting about
a prison the Prime Minister had never heard of, a man named "Serious"
Black, something that sounded like "Hogwarts," and a boy called Harry
Potter, none of which made the remotest sense to the Prime Minister.

"...I've just come from Azkaban," Fudge had panted, tipping a large
amount of water out of the rim of his bowler hat into his pocket. "Middle of
the North Sea, you know, nasty flight... the Dementors are in uproar"--he
shuddered--"they've never had a breakout before. Anyway, I had to come to
you, Prime Minister. Black's a known Muggle killer and may be planning to
rejoin You-Know-Who... But of course, you don't even know who You-
Know-Who is!" He had gazed hopelessly at the Prime Minister for a
moment, then said, "Well, sit down, sit down, I'd better fill you in... Have a
whiskey..."

The Prime Minister rather resented being told to sit down in his own
office, let alone offered his own whiskey, but he sat nevertheless. Fudge
pulled out his wand, conjured two large glasses full of amber liquid out of
thin air, pushed one of them into the Prime Minister's hand, and drew up a
chair.

Fudge had talked for more than an hour. At one point, he had refused to
say a certain name aloud and wrote it instead on a piece of parchment, which
he had thrust into the Prime Minister's whiskey-free hand. When at last
Fudge had stood up to leave, the Prime Minister had stood up too.

"So you think that..." He had squinted down at the name in his left hand.
"Lord Vol--"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" snarled Fudge.

"I'm sorry... You think that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still alive,
then?"

"Well, Dumbledore says he is," said Fudge, as he had fastened his pin-
striped cloak under his chin, "but we've never found him. If you ask me, he's
not dangerous unless he's got support, so it's Black we ought to be worrying
about. You'll put out that warning, then? Excellent. Well, I hope we don't see
each other again, Prime Minister! Good night."

But they had seen each other again. Less than a year later a harassed-
looking Fudge had appeared out of thin air in the cabinet room to inform the
Prime Minister that there had been a spot of bother at the Kwidditch (or that
was what it had sounded like) World Cup and that several Muggles had been
"involved," but that the Prime Minister was not to worry, the fact that You-
Know-Who's Mark had been seen again meant nothing; Fudge was sure it
was an isolated incident, and the Muggle Liaison Office was dealing with all
memory modifications as they spoke.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," Fudge had added. "We're importing three
foreign dragons and a sphinx for the Triwizard Tournament, quite routine,
but the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures tells
me that it's down in the rule book that we have to notify you if we're
bringing highly dangerous creatures into the country."

"I--what--dragons?" spluttered the Prime Minister.

"Yes, three," said Fudge. "And a sphinx. Well, good day to you."

The Prime Minister had hoped beyond hope that dragons and sphinxes
would be the worst of it, but no. Less than two years later, Fudge had
erupted out of the fire yet again, this time with the news that there had been
a mass breakout from Azkaban.

"A mass breakout?" repeated the Prime Minister hoarsely.

"No need to worry, no need to worry!" shouted Fudge, already with one
foot in the flames. "We'll have them rounded up in no time--just thought you
ought to know!"

叶子弟弟 - 2005-11-19 18:47:00

不错。。不过看不懂。。。

叶·幽思 - 2005-11-19 18:47:00

不过还是鼓励一下。

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:49:00

And before the Prime Minister could shout, "Now, wait just one
moment!" Fudge had vanished in a shower of green sparks.

Whatever the press and the opposition might say, the Prime Minister was
not a foolish man. It had not escaped his notice that, despite Fudge's
assurances at their first meeting, they were now seeing rather a lot of each
other, nor that Fudge was becoming more flustered with each visit. Little
though he liked to think about the Minister of Magic (or, as he always called
Fudge in his head, the Other Minister), the Prime Minister could not help but
fear that the next time Fudge appeared it would be with graver news still.
The site, therefore, of Fudge stepping out of the fire once more, looking
disheveled and fretful and sternly surprised that the Prime Minister did not
know exactly why he was there, was about the worst thing that had
happened in the course of this extremely gloomy week.

"How should I know what's going on in the--er--Wizarding community?"
snapped the Prime Minister now. "I have a country to run and quite enough
concerns at the moment without--"

"We have the same concerns," Fudge interrupted. "The Brock-dale Bridge
didn't wear out. That wasn't really a hurricane. Those murders were not the
work of Muggles. And Herbert Chorley's family would be safer without him.
We are currently making arrangements to have him transferred to St.
Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The move should be
affected tonight."

"What do you... I'm afraid I... What?" blustered the Prime Minister.

Fudge took a great, deep breath and said, "Prime Minister, I am very sorry
to have to tell you that he's back. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back."

"Back? When you say 'back'... he's alive? I mean--"

The Prime Minister groped in his memory for the details of that horrible
conversation of three years previously, when Fudge had told him about the
wizard who was feared above all others, the wizard who had committed a
thousand terrible crimes before his mysterious disappearance fifteen years
earlier.

"Yes, alive," said Fudge. "That is--I don't know--is a man alive if he can't
be killed? I don't really understand it, and Dumbledore won't explain
properly--but anyway, he's certainly got a body and is walking and talking
and killing, so I suppose, for the purposes of our discussion, yes, he's alive."

The Prime Minister did not know what to say to this, but a persistent habit
of wishing to appear well-informed on any subject that came up made him
cast around for any details he could remember of their previous
conversations.

"Is Serious Black with--er--He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Black? Black?" said Fudge distractedly, turning his bowler rapidly in his
fingers. "Sirius Black, you mean? Merlin's beard, no. Black's dead. Turns
out we were--er--mistaken about Black. He was innocent after all. And he
wasn't in league with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named either. I mean," he
added defensively, spinning the bowler hat still faster, "all the evidence
pointed--we had more than fifty eyewitnesses--but anyway, as I say, he's
dead. Murdered, as a matter of fact. On Ministry of Magic premises. There's
going to be an inquiry, actually..."

To his great surprise, the Prime Minister felt a fleeting stab of pity for
Fudge at this point. It was, however, eclipsed almost immediately by a glow
of smugness at the thought that, deficient though he himself might be in the
area of materializing out of fireplaces, there had never been a murder in any
of the government departments under his charge... Not yet, anyway...

While the Prime Minister surreptitiously touched the wood of his desk,
Fudge continued, "But Blacks by-the-by now. The point is, we're at war,
Prime Minister, and steps must be taken."

"At war?" repeated the Prime Minister nervously. "Surely that's a little bit
of an overstatement?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has now been joined by those of his
followers who broke out of Azkaban in January," said Fudge, speaking more
and more rapidly and twirling his bowler so fast that it was a lime-green blur.
"Since they have moved into the open, they have been wreaking havoc. The
Brockdale Bridge--he did it, Prime Minister, he threatened a mass Muggle
killing unless I stood aside for him and--"

"Good grief, so it's your fault those people were killed and I'm having to
answer questions about rusted rigging and corroded expansion joints and I
don't know what else!" said the Prime Minister furiously.

"My fault!" said Fudge, coloring up. "Are you saying you would have
caved in to blackmail like that?"

"Maybe not," said the Prime Minister, standing up and striding about the
room, "but I would have put all my efforts into catching the blackmailer
before he committed any such atrocity!"

"Do you really think I wasn't already making every effort?" demanded
Fudge heatedly. "Every Auror in the Ministry was--and is--trying to find him
and round up his followers, but we happen to be talking about one of the
most powerful wizards of all time, a wizard who has eluded capture for
almost three decades!"

"So I suppose you're going to tell me he caused the hurricane in the West
Country too?" said the Prime Minister, his temper rising with every pace he
took. It was infuriating to discover the reason for all these terrible disasters
and not to be able to tell the public, almost worse than it being the
government's fault after all.

"That was no hurricane," said Fudge miserably.

"Excuse me!" barked the Prime Minister, now positively stamping up and
down. "Trees uprooted, roofs ripped off, lampposts bent, horrible injuries--"

"It was the Death Eaters," said Fudge. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's
followers. And... and we suspect giant involvement."

The Prime Minister stopped in his tracks as though he had hit an invisible
wall. "What involvement?"

Fudge grimaced. "He used giants last time, when he wanted to go for the
grand effect," he said. "The Office of Misinformation has been working
around the clock, we've had teams of Obliviators out trying to modify the
memories of all the Muggles who saw what really happened, we've got most
of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures
running around Somerset, but we can't find the giant--it's been a disaster."

"You don't say!" said the Prime Minister furiously.

"I won't deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry," said Fudge.
"What with all that, and then losing Amelia Bones."

"Losing who?"

"Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person,
because she was a very gifted witch and--and all the evidence was that she
put up a real fight."

Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning
his bowler hat.

"But that murder was in the newspapers," said the Prime Minister,
momentarily diverted from his anger. "Our newspapers. Amelia Bones... it
just said she was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a--a nasty
killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you
see."

Fudge sighed. "Well, of course they are," he said. "Killed in a room that
was locked from the inside, wasn't she? We, on the other hand, know exactly
who did it, not that that gets us any further toward catching him. And then
there was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn't hear about that one--"

"Oh yes I did!" said the Prime Minister. "It happened just around the
corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it,
'breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister's backyard--'"

"And as if all that wasn't enough," said Fudge, barely listening to the
Prime Minister, "we've got Dementors swarming all over the place, attacking
people left, right, and center..."

Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to
the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.

"I thought Dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban," he said cautiously.

"They did," said Fudge wearily. "But not anymore. They've deserted the
prison and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't
a blow."

"But," said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, "didn't
you tell me they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of
people?"

"That's right. And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist."

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:50:00

提醒楼上几位，没有发完，请勿打扰。

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:51:00

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of
invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading
despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.

"Now see here, Fudge--you've got to do something! It's your
responsibility as Minister of Magic!"

"My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of
Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding
community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I've never
known them so united in my whole term of office!" said Fudge, with a brave
attempt at a smile.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his
indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt
for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.

"I'm very sorry," he said finally. "If there's anything I can do?"

"It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here
tonight to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my
successor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of course, he's very busy
at the moment, with so much going on."

Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long
curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill.
Catching Fudge's eye, the portrait said, "He'll be here in a moment, he's just
finishing a letter to Dumbledore."

"I wish him luck," said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. "I've been
writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won't budge.
If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be... Well, maybe
Scrimgeour will have more success."

Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was
broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp,
official voice.

"To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly
respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic."

"Yes, yes, fine," said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely
flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again, rose up, and
revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments
later onto the antique rug.

Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment's hesitation, the Prime Minister
did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long
black robes, and look around.

The Prime Minister's first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour
looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of gray in his mane of
tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a
pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even
though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of
shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why
the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in
these dangerous times.

"How do you do?" said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then pulled out
a wand from under his robes.

"Fudge told you everything?" he asked, striding over to the door and
tapping the keyhole with his wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click.

"Er--yes," said the Prime Minister. "And if you don't mind, I'd rather that
door remained unlocked."

"I'd rather not be interrupted," said Scrimgeour shortly, "or watched," he
added, pointing his wand at the windows, so that the curtains swept across
them. "Right, well, I'm a busy man, so let's get down lo business. First of all,
we need to discuss your security."

The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest height and replied, "I
am perfectly happy with the security I've already got, thank you very--"

"Well, we're not," Scrimgeour cut in. "It'll be a poor lookout for the
Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new
secretary in your outer office--"

"I'm not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that's what you're
suggesting!" said the Prime Minister hotly. "He's highly efficient, gets
through twice the work the rest of them--"

"That's because he's a wizard," said Scrimgeour, without a flicker of a
smile. "A highly trained Auror, who has been assigned to you for your
protection."

"Now, wait a moment!" declared the Prime Minister. "You can't just put
your people into my office, I decide who works for me--"

"I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?" said Scrimgeour coldly.

"I am--that's to say, I was--"

"Then there's no problem, is there?" said Scrimgeour.

"I... well, as long as Shacklebolt's work continues to be... er... excellent,"
said the Prime Minister lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him.

"Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister," he continued. "The
one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck."

"What about him?" asked the Prime Minister.

"He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed Imperius Curse," said
Scrimgeour. "It's addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous."

"He's only quacking!" said the Prime Minister weakly. "Surely a bit of a
rest... Maybe go easy on the drink..."

"A team of Healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and
Injuries are examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle
three of them," said Scrimgeour. "I think it best that we remove him from
Muggle society for a while."

"I... well... He'll be all right, won't he?" said the Prime Minister anxiously.

Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace.

"Well, that's really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of
developments, Prime Minister--or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to
come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to
stay on in an advisory capacity."

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as
though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his
pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime
Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words
he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.

"But for heaven's sake--you're wizards! You can do magic! Surely you
can sort out--well--anything!"

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look
with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, "The
trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister."

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright
green fire and vanished.

叶·幽思 - 2005-11-19 18:52:00

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:52:00

Chapter 2: Spinner's End

Many miles away the chilly mist that had pressed against the Prime
Minister's windows drifted over a dirty river that wound between overgrown,
rubbish-strewn banks. An immense chimney, relic of a disused mill, reared
up, shadowy and ominous. There was no sound apart from the whisper of the
black water and no sign of life apart from a scrawny fox that had slunk down
the bank to nose hopefully at some old fish-and-chip wrappings in the tall
grass.

But then, with a very faint pop, a slim, hooded figure appeared out of thin
air on the edge of the river. The fox froze, wary eyes fixed upon this strange
new phenomenon. The figure seemed to take its bearings for a few moments,
then set off with light, quick strides, its long cloak rustling over the grass.

With a second and louder pop, another hooded figure materialized.

"Wait!"

The harsh cry startled the fox, now crouching almost flat in the
undergrowth. It leapt from its hiding place and up the bank. There was a
flash of green light, a yelp, and the fox fell back to the ground, dead.

The second figure turned over the animal with its toe.

"Just a fox," said a woman's voice dismissively from under the hood. "I
thought perhaps an Auror--Cissy, wait!"

But her quarry, who had paused and looked back at the flash of light, was
already scrambling up the bank the fox had just fallen down.

"Cissy--Narcissa--listen to me--"

The second woman caught the first and seized her arm, but the other
wrenched it away.

"Go back, Bella!"

"You must listen to me!"

"I've listened already. I've made my decision. Leave me alone!"

The woman named Narcissa gained the top of the bank, where a line of
old railings separated the river from a narrow, cobbled street. The other
woman, Bella, followed at once. Side by side they stood looking across the
road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull
and blind in the darkness.

"He lives here?" asked Bella in a voice of contempt. "Here? In this
Muggle dunghill? We must be the first of our kind ever to set foot--"

But Narcissa was not listening; she had slipped through a gap in the rusty
railings and was already hurrying across the road.

"Cissy, waitl"

Bella followed, her cloak streaming behind, and saw Narcissa darting
through an alley between the houses into a second, almost identical street.
Some of the streetlamps were broken; the two women were running between
patches of light and deep darkness. The pursuer caught up with her prey just
as she turned another corner, this time succeeding in catching hold of her
arm and swinging her around so that they faced each other.

"Cissy, you must not do this, you can't trust him--"

"The Dark Lord trusts him, doesn't he?"

"The Dark Lord is... I believe... mistaken," Bella panted, and her eyes
gleamed momentarily under her hood as she looked around to check that
they were indeed alone. "In any case, we were told not to speak of the plan
to anyone. This is a betrayal of the Dark Lord's--"

"Let go, Bella!" snarled Narcissa, and she drew a wand from beneath her
cloak, holding it threateningly in the other's face. Bella merely laughed.

"Cissy, your own sister? You wouldn't--"

"There is nothing I wouldn't do anymore!" Narcissa breathed, a note of
hysteria in her voice, and as she brought down the wand like a knife, there
was another flash of light. Bella let go of her sister's arm as though burned.

"Narcissa!"

But Narcissa had rushed ahead. Rubbing her hand, her pursuer followed
again, keeping her distance now, as they moved deeper into the deserted
labyrinth of brick houses. At last, Narcissa hurried up a street named
Spinner's End, over which the towering mill chimney seemed to hover like a
giant admonitory finger. Her footsteps echoed on the cobbles as she passed
boarded and broken windows, until she reached the very last house, where a
dim light glimmered through the curtains in a downstairs room.

She had knocked on the door before Bella, cursing under her breath, had
caught up. Together they stood waiting, panting slightly, breathing in the
smell of the dirty river that was carried to them on the night breeze. After a
few seconds, they heard movement behind the door and it opened a crack. A
sliver of a man could be seen looking out at them, a man with long black
hair parted in curtains around a sallow face and black eyes.

Narcissa threw back her hood. She was so pale that she seemed to shine in
the darkness; the long blonde hair streaming down her back gave her the
look of a drowned person.

"Narcissa!" said the man, opening the door a little wider, so that the light
fell upon her and her sister too. "What a pleasant surprise!

"Severus," she said in a strained whisper. "May I speak to you? It's
urgent."

"But of course."

He stood back to allow her to pass him into the house. Her still-hooded
sister followed without invitation.

"Snape," she said curtly as she passed him.

"Bellatrix," he replied, his thin mouth curling into a slightly mocking
smile as he closed the door with a snap behind them.

They had stepped directly into a tiny sitting room, which had the feeling
of a dark, padded cell. The walls were completely covered in books, most of
them bound in old black or brown leather; a threadbare sofa, an old armchair,
and a rickety table stood grouped together in a pool of dim light cast by a
candle-filled lamp hung from the ceiling. The place had an air of neglect, as
though it was not usually inhabited.

Snape gestured Narcissa to the sofa. She threw off her cloak, cast it aside,
and sat down, staring at her white and trembling hands clasped in her lap.
Bellatrix lowered her hood more slowly. Dark as her sister was fair, with
heavily lidded eyes and a strong jaw, she did not take her gaze from Snape
as she moved to stand behind Narcissa.

"So, what can I do for you?" Snape asked, settling himself in the armchair
opposite the two sisters.

"We... we are alone, aren't we?" Narcissa asked quietly.

'Yes, of course. Well, Wormtail's here, but we're not counting vermin, are
we?"

He pointed his wand at the wall of books behind him and with a bang, a
hidden door flew open, revealing a narrow staircase upon which a small man
stood frozen.

"As you have clearly realized, Wormtail, we have guests," said Snape
lazily.

The man crept, hunchbacked, down the last few steps and moved into the
room. He had small, watery eyes, a pointed nose, and wore an unpleasant
simper. His left hand was caressing his right, which looked as though it was
encased in a bright silver glove.

"Narcissa!" he said, in a squeaky voice. "And Bellatrix! How charming--"

"Wormtail will get us drinks, if you'd like them," said Snape. "And then
he will return to his bedroom."

Wormtail winced as though Snape had thrown something at him.

"I am not your servant!" he squeaked, avoiding Snape's eye.

"Really? I was under the impression that the Dark Lord placed you here to
assist me."

"To assist, yes--but not to make you drinks and--and clean your house!"

"I had no idea, Wormtail, that you were craving more dangerous
assignments," said Snape silkily. "This can be easily arranged: I shall speak
to the Dark Lord--"

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:52:00

"I can speak to him myself if I want to!"

"Of course you can," said Snape, sneering. "But in the meantime, bring us
drinks. Some of the elf-made wine will do."

Wormtail hesitated for a moment, looking as though he might argue, but
then turned and headed through a second hidden door. They heard banging
and a clinking of glasses. Within seconds he was back, bearing a dusty bottle
and three glasses upon a tray. He dropped these on the rickety table and
scurried from their presence, slamming the book-covered door behind him.

Snape poured out three glasses of bloodred wine and handed two of them
to the sisters. Narcissa murmured a word of thanks, whilst Bellatrix said
nothing, but continued to glower at Snape. This did not seem to discompose
him; on the contrary, he looked rather amused.

"The Dark Lord," he said, raising his glass and draining it.

The sisters copied him. Snape refilled their glasses. As Narcissa took her
second drink she said in a rush, "Severus, I'm sorry to come here like this,
but I had to see you. I think you are the only one who can help me--"

Snape held up a hand to stop her, then pointed his wand again at the
concealed staircase door. There was a loud bang and a squeal, followed by
the sound of Wormtail scurrying back up the stairs.

"My apologies," said Snape. "He has lately taken to listening at doors, I
don't know what he means by it... You were saying, Narcissa?"

She took a great, shuddering breath and started again.

"Severus, I know I ought not to be here, I have been told to say nothing to
anyone, but--"

"Then you ought to hold your tongue!" snarled Bellatrix. "Particularly in
present company!"

'"Present company'?" repeated Snape sardonically. "And what am I to
understand by that, Bellatrix?"

"That I don't trust you, Snape, as you very well know!"

Narcissa let out a noise that might have been a dry sob and covered her
face with her hands. Snape set his glass down upon the table and sat back
again, his hands upon the arms of his chair, smiling into Bellatrix's
glowering face.

"Narcissa, I think we ought to hear what Bellatrix is bursting to say; it will
save tedious interruptions. Well, continue, Bellatrix," said Snape. "Why is it
that you do not trust me?"

"A hundred reasons!" she said loudly, striding out from behind the sofa to
slam her glass upon the table. "Where to start! Where were you when the
Dark Lord fell? Why did you never make any attempt to find him when he
vanished? What have you been doing all these years that you've lived in
Dumbledore's pocket? Why did you stop the Dark Lord procuring the
Sorcerer's Stone? Why did you not return at once when the Dark Lord was
reborn? Where were you a few weeks ago when we battled to retrieve the
prophecy for the Dark Lord? And why, Snape, is Harry Potter still alive,
when you have had him at your mercy for five years?"

She paused, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the color high in her
cheeks. Behind her, Narcissa sat motionless, her face still hidden in her
hands.

Snape smiled.

"Before I answer you — oh yes, Bellatrix, I am going to answer! You can
carry my words back to the others who whisper behind my back, and carry
false tales of my treachery to the Dark Lord! Before I answer you, I say, let
me ask a question in turn. Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not
asked me each and every one of those questions? And do you really think
that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here
talking to you?"

She hesitated.

"I know he believes you, but..."

"You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him?
Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished
Legilimens the world has ever seen?"

Bellatrix said nothing, but looked, for the first time, a little discomfited.
Snape did not press the point. He picked up his drink again, sipped it, and
continued, "You ask where I was when the Dark Lord fell. I was where he
had ordered me to be, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
because he wished me to spy upon Albus Dumbledore. You know, I
presume, that it was on the Dark Lord's orders that I took up the post?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly and then opened her mouth, but Snape
forestalled her.

"You ask why I did not attempt to find him when he vanished. For the
same reason that Avery, Yaxley, the Carrows, Greyback, Lucius" — he
inclined his head slightly to Narcissa — "and many others did not attempt to
find him. I believed him finished. I am not proud of it, I was wrong, but
there it is... If he had not forgiven we who lost faith at that time, he would
have very few followers left."

"He'd have me!" said Bellatrix passionately. "I, who spent many years in
Azkaban for him!"

"Yes, indeed, most admirable," said Snape in a bored voice. "Of i nurse,
you weren't a lot of use to him in prison, but the gesture was undoubtedly
fine —"

"Gesture!" she shrieked; in her fury she looked slightly mad. "While I
endured the Dementors, you remained at Hogwarts, com-lortably playing
Dumbledore's pet!"

"Not quite," said Snape calmly. "He wouldn't give me the Defense
Against the Dark Arts job, you know. Seemed to think it might, ah, bring
about a relapse ,.. tempt me into my old ways."

"This was your sacrifice for the Dark Lord, not to teach your favorite
subject?" she jeered. "Why did you stay there all that time, Snape? Still
spying on Dumbledore for a master you believed dead?"

"Hardly," said Snape, "although the Dark Lord is pleased that I never
deserted my post: I had sixteen years of information on Dumbledore to give
him when he returned, a rather more useful welcome-back present than
endless reminiscences of how unpleasant Azkaban is..."

"But you stayed —"

"Yes, Bellatrix, I stayed," said Snape, betraying a hint of impatience for
the first time. "I had a comfortable job that I preferred to a stint in Azkaban.
They were rounding up the Death Eaters, you know. Dumbledore's
protection kept me out of jail; it was most convenient and I used it. I repeat:
The Dark Lord does not complain that I stayed, so I do not see why you do.

"I think you next wanted to know," he pressed on, ;i little more loudly, for
Bellatrix showed every sign of interrupting, "why I stood between the Dark
Lord and the Sorcerer's Stone. That is easily answered. He did not know
whether he could trust me. He thought, like you, that I had turned from
faithful Death Eater to Dumbledore's stooge. He was in a pitiable condition,
very weak, sharing the body of a mediocre wizard. He did not dare reveal
himself to a former ally if that ally might turn him over to Dumbledore or
the Ministry. I deeply regret that he did not trust me. He would have
returned to power three years sooner. As it was, I saw only greedy and
unworthy Quirrell attempting to steal the stone and, I admit, I did all I could
to thwart him."

Bellatrix's mouth twisted as though she had taken an unpleasant dose of
medicine.

"But you didn't return when he came back, you didn't fly back to him at
once when you felt the Dark Mark burn —"

"Correct. I returned two hours later. I returned on Dumbledore's orders."

"On Dumbledore's — ?" she began, in tones of outrage.

Susanna - 2005-11-19 18:54:00

不懂E文!

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:54:00

"Think!" said Snape, impatient again. "Think! By waiting two hours, just
two hours, I ensured that I could remain at Hogwarts as a spy! By allowing
Dumbledore to think that I was only returning to the Dark Lord's side
because I was ordered to, I have been able to pass information on
Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix ever since! Consider, Bellatrix:
The Dark Mark had been growing stronger for months. I knew he must be
about to return, all the Death Eaters knew! I had plenty of time to think
about what I wanted to do, to plan my next move, to escape like Karkaroff,
didn't I?

"The Dark Lord's initial displeasure at my lateness vanished entirely, 1
assure you, when I explained that 1 remained faithful, although Dumbledore
thought I was his man. Yes, the Dark Lord thought that I had left him
forever, but he was wrong."

"But what use have you been?" sneered Bellatrix. "What useful
information have we had from you?"

"My information has been conveyed directly to the Dark Lord," said
Snape. "If he chooses not to share it with you —"

"He shares everything with me!" said Bellatrix, firing up at once. "He
calls me his most loyal, his most faithful —"

"Does he?" said Snape, his voice delicately inflected to suggest his
disbelief. "Does he still, after the fiasco at the Ministry?"

"That was not my fault!" said Bellatrix, flushing. "The Dark Lord has, in
the past, entrusted me with his most precious — if Lucius hadn't —"

"Don't you dare — don't you dare blame my husband!" said Narcissa, in a
low and deadly voice, looking up at her sister.

"There is no point apportioning blame," said Snape smoothly. "What is
done, is done."

"But not by you!" said Bellatrix furiously. "No, you were once again
absent while the rest of us ran dangers, were you not, Snape?"

"My orders were to remain behind," said Snape. "Perhaps you disagree
with the Dark Lord, perhaps you think that Dumbledore would not have
noticed if I had joined forces with the Death Eaters to fight the Order of the
Phoenix? And — forgive me — you speak of dangers... you were facing six
teenagers, were you not?"

"They were joined, as you very well know, by half of the Order before
long!" snarled Bellatrix. "And, while we are on the subject of the Order, you
still claim you cannot reveal the whereabouts of their headquarters, don't
you?"

"I am not the Secret-Keeper; I cannot speak the name of the place. You
understand how the enchantment works, I think? The Dark Lord is satisfied
with the information I have passed him on the Order. It led, as perhaps you
have guessed, to the recent capture and murder of Emmeline Vance, and it
certainly helped dispose of Sirius Black, though I give you full credit for
finishing him off."

He inclined his head and toasted her. Her expression did nor soften.

"You are avoiding my last question, Snape. Harry Potter. You could have
killed him at any point in the past five years. You have not done it. Why?"

"Have you discussed this matter with the Dark Lord?" asked Snape.

"He... lately, we... I am asking you, Snape!"

"If I had murdered Harry Potter, the Dark Lord could not have used his
blood to regenerate, making him invincible —"

"You claim you foresaw his use of the boy!" she jeered.

"I do not claim it; I had no idea of his plans; I have already confessed that
I thought the Dark Lord dead. I am merely trying to explain why the Dark
Lord is not sorry that Potter survived, at least until a year ago..."

"But why did you keep him alive?"

"Have you not understood me? It was only Dumbledore's protection that
was keeping me out of Azkaban! Do you disagree that murdering his
favorite student might have turned him against me? But there was more to it
than that. I should remind you that when Potter first arrived at Hogwarts
there were still many stories circulating about him, rumors that he himself
was a great Dark wizard, which was how he had survived the Dark Lord's
attack. Indeed, many of the Dark Lords old followers thought Potter might
be a standard around which we could all rally once more. I was curious, 1
admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set fool in the
castle.

"Of course, it became apparent to me very quickly that he had no
extraordinary talent at all. He has fought his way out of a number of tight
corners by a simple combination of sheer luck and more talented friends. He
is mediocre to the last degree, though as obnoxious and self-satisfied as was
his father before him. I have done my utmost to have him thrown out of
Hogwarts, where I believe he scarcely belongs, but kill him, or allow him to
be killed in front of me? I would have been a fool to risk it with Dumbledore
close at hand."

"And through all this we are supposed to believe Dumbledore has never
suspected you?" asked Bellatrix. "He has no idea of your true allegiance, he
trusts you implicitly still?"

"I have played my part well," said Snape. "And you overlook
Dumbledore's greatest weakness: He has to believe the best of people. I spun
him a tale of deepest remorse when I joined his staff, fresh from my Death
Eater days, and he embraced me with open arms — though, as I say, never
allowing me nearer the Dark Arts than he could help. Dumbledore has been
a great wizard — oh yes, he has," (for Bellatrix had made a scathing noise),
"the Dark Lord acknowledges it. I am pleased to say, however, that
Dumbledore is growing old. The duel with the Dark Lord last month shook
him. He has since sustained a serious injury because his reactions are slower
than they once were. But through all these years, he has never stopped
trusting Severus Snape, and therein lies my great value to the Dark Lord."

Bellatrix still looked unhappy, though she appeared unsure how best to
attack Snape next. Taking advantage of her silence, Snape turned to her
sister.

"Now... you came to ask me for help, Narcissa?"

Narcissa looked up at him, her face eloquent with despair.

"Yes, Severus. I — I think you are the only one who can help me, I have
nowhere else to turn. Lucius is in jail and..."

She closed her eyes and two large tears seeped from beneath her eyelids.

"The Dark Lord has forbidden me to speak of it," Narcissa continued, her
eyes still closed. "He wishes none to know of the plan. It is... very secret.
But —"

"If he has forbidden it, you ought not to speak," said Snape at once. "The
Dark Lord's word is law."

Narcissa gasped as though he had doused her with cold water. Bellatrix
looked satisfied for the first time since she had entered the house.

"There!" she said triumphantly to her sister. "Even Snape says so: You
were told not to talk, so hold your silence!"

But Snape had gotten to his feet and strode to the small window, peered
through the curtains at the deserted street, then closed them again with a jerk.
He turned around to face Narcissa, frowning.

"It so happens that I know of the plan," he said in a low voice. "I am one
of the few the Dark Lord has told. Nevertheless, had I not been in on the
secret, Narcissa, you would have been guilty of great treachery to the Dark
Lord."

"I thought you must know about it!" said Narcissa, breathing more freely.
"He trusts you so, Severus..."

"You know about the plan?" said Bellatrix, her fleeting expression of
satisfaction replaced by a look of outrage. "You know?"

"Certainly," said Snape. "But what help do you require, Nar-cissa? If you
are imagining I can persuade the Dark Lord to change his mind, I am afraid
there is no hope, none at all."

"Severus," she whispered, tears sliding down her pale cheeks. "My son...
my only son..."

"Draco should be proud," said Bellatrix indifferently. "The Dark I ,ord is
granting him a great honor. And I will say this for Draco: I Ic isn't shrinking
away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at
the prospect —"

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:54:00

Narcissa began to cry in earnest, gazing beseechingly all the while at
Snape.

"That's because he is sixteen and has no idea what lies in store! Why,
Severus? Why my son? It is too dangerous! This is vengeance lor Lucius's
mistake, I know it!"

Snape said nothing. He looked away from the sight of her tears as though
they were indecent, but he could not pretend not to hear her.

"That's why he's chosen Draco, isn't it?" she persisted. "To punish
Lucius?"

"If Draco succeeds," said Snape, still looking away from her, "he will be
honored above all others."

"But he won't succeed!" sobbed Narcissa. "How can he, when the Dark
Lord himself— ?"

Bellatrix gasped; Narcissa seemed to lose her nerve.

"I only meant... that nobody has yet succeeded... Severus... please... You
are, you have always been, Draco's favorite teacher... You are Lucius's old
friend... I beg you... You are the Dark Lord's favorite, his most trusted
advisor... Will you speak to him, persuade him — ?"

"The Dark Lord will not be persuaded, and I am not stupid enough to
attempt it," said Snape flatly. "I cannot pretend that the Dark Lord is not
angry with Lucius. Lucius was supposed to be in charge. He got himself
captured, along with how many others, and failed to retrieve the prophecy
into the bargain. Yes, the Dark Lord is angry, Narcissa, very angry indeed."

"Then I am right, he has chosen Draco in revenge!" choked Narcissa. "He
does not mean him to succeed, he wants him to be killed trying!"

When Snape said nothing, Narcissa seemed to lose what little self-
restraint she still possessed. Standing up, she staggered to Snape and seized
the front of his robes. Her face close to his, her tears falling onto his chest,
she gasped, "You could do it. You could do it instead of Draco, Severus.
You would succeed, of course you would, and he would reward you beyond
all of us —"

Snape caught hold of her wrists and removed her clutching hands.
Looking down into her tearstained face, he said slowly, "He intends me to
do it in the end, I think. But he is determined that Draco should try first. You
see, in the unlikely event that Draco succeeds, I shall be able to remain at
Hogwarts a little longer, fulfilling my useful role as spy."

"In other words, it doesn't matter to him if Draco is killed!"

"The Dark Lord is very angry," repeated Snape quietly. "He failed to hear
the prophecy. You know as well as I do, Narcissa, that he does not forgive
easily."

She crumpled, falling at his feet, sobbing and moaning on the (loor.

"My only son... my only son..."

"You should be proud!" said Bellatrix ruthlessly. "If I had sons, I would
be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord!"

Narcissa gave a little scream of despair and clutched at her long blonde
hair. Snape stooped, seized her by the arms, lifted her up, iind steered her
back onto the sofa. He then poured her more wine iind forced the glass into
her hand.

"Narcissa, that's enough. Drink this. Listen to me."

She quieted a little; slopping wine down herself, she took a shaky sip.

"It might be possible... for me to help Draco."

She sat up, her face paper-white, her eyes huge.

"Severus — oh, Severus — you would help him? Would you look after
him, see he comes to no harm?"

"I can try."

She flung away her glass; it skidded across the table as she slid off the
sofa into a kneeling position at Snape's feet, seized his hand in both of hers,
and pressed her lips to it.

"If you are there to protect him... Severus, will you swear it? Will you
make the Unbreakable Vow?"

"The Unbreakable Vow?"

Snape's expression was blank, unreadable. Bellatrix, however, let out a
cackle of triumphant laughter.

"Aren't you listening, Narcissa? Oh, he'll try, I'm sure... The usual empty
words, the usual slithering out of action... oh, on the Dark Lord's orders, of
course!"

Snape did not look at Bellatrix. His black eyes were fixed upon Narcissa's
tear-filled blue ones as she continued to clutch his hand.

"Certainly, Narcissa, I shall make the Unbreakable Vow," he said quietly.
"Perhaps your sister will consent to be our Bonder."

Bellatrix's mouth fell open. Snape lowered himself so that he was
kneeling opposite Narcissa. Beneath Bellatrix's astonished gaze, they
grasped right hands.

"You will need your wand, Bellatrix," said Snape coldly.

She drew it, still looking astonished.

"And you will need to move a little closer," he said.

She stepped forward so that she stood over them, and placed the tip of her
wand on their linked hands.

Narcissa spoke.

"Will you, Severus, watch over my son, Draco, as he attempts ta fulfill the
Dark Lord's wishes?"

"I will," said Snape.

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way
around their hands like a red-hot wire.

"And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?"

"I will," said Snape.

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and interlinked with the
first, making a fine, glowing chain.

"And, should it prove necessary... if it seems Draco will fail..." whispered
Narcissa (Snape's hand twitched within hers, but he did not draw away),
"will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to
perform?"

There was a moment's silence. Bellatrix watched, her wand upon their
clasped hands, her eyes wide.

"I will," said Snape.

Bellatrix's astounded face glowed red in the blaze of a third unique flame,
which shot from the wand, twisted with the others, and bound itself thickly
around their clasped hands, like a fiery snake.

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:55:00

Chapter 3: Will And Won't

Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a chair beside his
bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening
street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against
the cold win-dowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The
misty fug his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of
the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of all color, so
that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.

The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of
rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a
number of spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled robes on his
bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The
headline of one blared:

HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?

Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the
Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted
once more.

"We're not allowed to talk about it, don't ask me anything" said one
agitated Obliviator, who refused to give his name as he left the Ministry last
night.

Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed
that the disturbance centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.

Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused even to confirm the
existence of such a place, a growing number of the Wizarding community
believe that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in Azkaban for trespass
and attempted theft were attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that
prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife that it concerns Harry
Potter, the only person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse, and
who is also known to have been at the Ministry on the night in question.
Some are going so far as to call Potter "the Chosen One," believing that the
prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-
Must-No t-Be-Named.

The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown,
although {ctd. page2, column 5)

A second newspaper lay beside die first. This one bore die headline:

SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE

Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture
of a man with a lionlike mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The
picture was moving — the man was waving at the ceiling.

Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department
of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of
Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the
Wizardmg community, though rumors of a rift between the new Minister
and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot,
surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.

Scrimgeours representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at
once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the
topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 3,
column 2)

To the left of this paper sat another, which had been folded so that a story
bearing the title ministry guarantees students' sapety was visible.

Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of
the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of
students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this
autumn.

"For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its
stringent new security plans," said the Minister, although an insider
confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex
array of countercurses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to
the protection of Hogwarts School.

Most seem reassured by the new Minister's tough stand on student safety.
Said Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, "My grandson, Neville — a good friend of
Harry Potter's, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at
the Ministry in June and —

But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage.standing on
top of it. Inside it was a magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed
the room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to gaze at her snoring
master. Once or twice she clicked her beak impatiently, but Harry was too
deeply asleep to hear her.

A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its lid was open; it
looked expectant; yet it was almost empty but for a residue of old underwear,
sweets, empty ink bottles, and broken quills that

coated the very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet
emblazoned with the words:

----ISSUED ON BEHALF OF----
The Ministry of Magic
PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK
FORCES

The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization
calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security
guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.

1. You are advised not to leave the house alone.

2. Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever
possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.

3. Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that
all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield
and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members,
Side-Along-Apparition.

4. Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to
detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion
(see page 2).

5. Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is
acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at
once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).

6. Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other
building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.

7. Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be
using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an In-ferius, or encounter with
same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.

Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or
so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm
clock, repaired by Harry several years ago, ticked loudly on the sill, showing
one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's relaxed hand, was a
piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this
letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been
delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.

Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this
coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have
been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter
to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this
more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this
Friday,

I am yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at
this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he
had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a
reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to
keep rereading Dumbledore's words; Harry had sent back his "yes" with the
delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: Either
Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.

叶·幽思 - 2005-11-19 18:56:00

怎么中文的发不过去啊？

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 18:56:00

But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was
going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their
company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go
wrong — his reply to Dumbledore's letter might have gone astray;
Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn
out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had
not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack
again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to
shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.

The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at
that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out.

Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily
straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed
his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A
tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.

Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked
over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach
from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of
robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell
rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, "Who the
blazes is calling at this lime of night?"

Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the
other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore
might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered
over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep
voice say, "Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has
told you I would be coming for him?"

Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several
steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of
arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall,
thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were
perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling
cloak and.1 pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as
bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dress-
ing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny
eyes.

"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I
was coming," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "However, let us assume that you
have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on
doorsteps in these troubled times."

He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind
him.

"It is a long time since my last visit," said Dumbledore, peering down his
crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. "I must say, your agapanthus are
flourishing."

Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would
return to him, and soon — the vein pulsing in his uncles temple was
reaching danger point — but something about Dumbledore seemed to have
robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant
wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle
Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to
bully.

"Ah, good evening Harry," said Dumbledore, looking up at him through
his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. "Excellent,
excellent."

These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he
was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say "excellent" was a
man with whom he could never see eye to eye.

"I don't mean to be rude —" he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness
in every syllable.

"--yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often," Dumbledore
finished the sentence gravely. "Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah,
and this must be Petunia."

The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing
rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through
her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather
horsey face registered nothing but shock.

"Albus Dumbledore," said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to
effect an introduction. "We have corresponded, of course." Harry thought
this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an
exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. "And this must
be your son, Dudley?"

Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large,
blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly
disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and I car. Dumbledore
waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were
going to say anything, but as the ?.ilcncc stretched on he smiled.

"Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?"

Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. I lurry, still
clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last lew stairs and followed
Dumbledore, who had settled himself in i he armchair nearest the fire and
was taking in the surroundings wilh an expression of benign interest. He
looked quite extraordinarily out of place.

"Aren't —- aren't we leaving, sir?" Harry asked anxiously.

"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to dis-i us.s
first," said Dumbledore. "And I would prefer not to do so in (he open. We
shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."

"You will, will you?"

Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, iind
Dudley skulking behind them both.

"Yes," said Dumbledore simply, "I shall."

He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick,
the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of
the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the
wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.

"We may as well be comfortable," said Dumbledore pleasantly.

As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that his hand was
blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away.
|| | ? <|'?|

"Sir — what happened to your — ?"

"Later, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Please sit down."

Harry took the remaining armchair, choosing not to look at the Dursleys,
who seemed stunned into silence.

"I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment,"
Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon, "but the evidence so far suggests that
that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."

A third twitch of the wand, and a dusty bottle and five glasses appeared in
midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honey-colored
liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the room.

"Madam Rosmertas finest oak-matured mead," said Dumbledore, raising
his glass to Harry, who caught hold of his own and sipped. He had never
tasted anything like it before, but enjoyed it immensely. The Dursleys, after
quick, scared looks at one another, tried to ignore their glasses completely, a
difficult feat, as they were nudging them gently on the sides of their heads.
Harry could not suppress a suspicion that Dumbledore was rather enjoying
himself.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, turning toward him, "a difficulty has
arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order
of the Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius's will was
discovered a week ago and that he left you every-ihing he owned."

Over on the sofa, Uncle Vernons head turned, but Harry did not look at
him, nor could he think of anything to say except, "Oh. Right."

"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward," Dumbledore went on. "You
add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at (iringotts, and you
inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of
the legacy —"

叶·幽思 - 2005-11-19 18:59:00

我到了。

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:00:00

"His godfather's dead?" said Uncle Vernon loudly from the sofa.
1 )umbledore and Harry both turned to look at him. The glass of mead was
now knocking quite insistently on the side of Vernons head; he attempted to
beat it away. "He's dead? His godfather?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. He did not ask Harry why he had not confided in
the Dursleys. "Our problem," he continued to Harry, as if there had been no
interruption, "is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

"He's been left a house?" said Uncle Vernon greedily, his small eyes
narrowing, but nobody answered him.

"You can keep using it as headquarters," said Harry. "I don't care. You
can have it, I don't really want it." Harry never wanted to set foot in number
twelve, Grimmauld Place again if he could help it. He thought he would be
haunted forever by the memory of Sirius prowling its dark musty rooms
alone, imprisoned within the place he had wanted so desperately to leave.

"That is generous," said Dumbledore. "We have, however, vacated the
building temporarily."

"Why?"

"Well," said Dumbledore, ignoring the mutterings of Uncle Vernon, who
was now being rapped smartly over the head by the persistent glass of mead,
"Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct
line, to the next male with the name of 'Black.' Sirius was the very last of the
line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were
childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have
the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has
been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other
than a pureblood."

A vivid image of the shrieking, spitting portrait of Sirius's mother that
hung in the hall of number twelve, Grimmauld Place flashed into Harry's
mind. "I bet there has," he said.

"Quite," said Dumbledore. "And if such an enchantment exists, then the
ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living
relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."

Without realizing what he was doing, Harry sprang to his feet; the
telescope and trainers in his lap rolled across the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange,
Sirius's killer, inherit his house?

"No," he said.

"Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it either," said
Dumbledore calmly. "The situation is fraught with complications. We do not
know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for
example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed
from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at
any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have
clarified the position,"

"But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?"

"Fortunately," said Dumbledore, "there is a simple test."

He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his chair, but before he
could do anything else, Uncle Vernon shouted, "Will you get these ruddy
things off us?"

Harry looked around; all three of the Dursleys were cowering with their
arms over their heads as their glasses bounced up and down on their skulls,
their contents flying everywhere.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Dumbledore politely, and he raised his wand
again. All three glasses vanished. "But it would have been better manners to
drink it, you know."

It looked as though Uncle Vernon was bursting with any number of
unpleasant retorts, but he merely shrank back into the cushions with Aunt
Petunia and Dudley and said nothing, keeping his small piggy eyes on
Dumbledore's wand.

"You see," Dumbledore said, turning back to Harry and again speaking as
though Uncle Vernon had not uttered, "if you have indeed inherited the
house, you have also inherited —"

He flicked his wand for a fifth time. There was a loud crack, and a house-
elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous
bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys' shag carpet and covered in grimy
rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising shriek; nothing this filthy had
entered her house in living memory. Dudley drew his large, bare, pink feet
off the floor and sat with them raised almost above his head, as though he
thought the creature might run up his pajama trousers, and Uncle Vernon
bellowed, "What the hell is that?"

"Kreacher," finished Dumbledore.

"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" croaked the house-elf,
quite as loudly as Uncle Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling
lii.s ears. "Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to
the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter
brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't —"

"As you can see, Harry," said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher's
continued croaks of "wont, won't, won't," "Kreacher is showing a certain
reluctance to pass into your ownership."

"I don't care," said Harry again, looking with disgust at the writhing,
stamping house-elf. "I don't want him."

"Won't, won't, won't, won't —"

"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange?
Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the
Phoenix for the past year?"

"Won't, won't, won't, won't —"

Harry stared at Dumbledore. He knew that Kreacher could not be
permitted to go and live with Bellatrix Lestrange, but the idea of owning him,
of having responsibility for the creature that had betrayed Sirius, was
repugnant.

"Give him an order," said Dumbledore. "If he has passed into your
ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some
other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."

"Won't, won't, won't, WON'T!"

Kreacher's voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to
say, except, "Kreacher, shut up!"

It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He
grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After
a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the
carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet,
giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.

"Well, that simplifies matters," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "It means
that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number
twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."

"Do I — do I have to keep him with me?" Harry asked, aghast, us
Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.

"Not if you don't want to," said Dumbledore. "If I might make ii
suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In
that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him."

"Yeah," said Harry in relief, "yeah, I'll do that. Er — Kreacher — I want
you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-
elves."

Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in
the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with
another loud crack, vanished.

"Good," said Dumbledore. "There is also the matter of the hip-pogriff,
Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but
Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different
arrangements —"

"No," said Harry at once, "he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak
would prefer that."

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:00:00

"Hagrid will be delighted," said Dumbledore, smiling. "He was thrilled to
see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of
Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him 'Witherwings' for the time being,
though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they
once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?"

Erm...

"Doubtful that I would turn up?" Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.

"I'll just go and — er — finish off," said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up
his fallen telescope and trainers.

It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed;
at last he had managed to extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed,
screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, and forced the lid of his
trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding
Hedwig's cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs,

He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was not waiting in the
hall, which meant that he had to return to the living room.

Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite
at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did
not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, "Professor — I'm ready now."

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Just one last thing, then." And he turned to
speak to the Dursleys once more.

"As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a years time —"

"No," said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's
arrival.

"I'm sorry?" said Dumbledore politely.

"No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't
turn eighteen until the year after next."

"Ah," said Dumbledore pleasantly, "but in the Wizarding world, we come
of age at seventeen."

Uncle Vernoii muttered, "Preposterous," but Dumbledore ignored him,

"Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort Was
returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of
open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on
a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I
left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about
his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him ;is
though he were your own."

Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and
he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from
him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.

"You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has
known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can
be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have
inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you."

Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinc-lively, as
though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.

"Us — mistreat Dudders? What d'you — ?" began Uncle Vernon
furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell
as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.

"The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful
protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he
has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least,
grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the
moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he
becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to
this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the
protection continues until that time."

None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as
though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated.
Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt
Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.

"Well, Harry... time for us to be off," said Dumbledore at last, standing up
and straightening his long black cloak. "Until we meet again," he said to the
Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as
they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.

"Bye," said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who
paused beside Harry's trunk, upon which Hedwig's cage was perched.

"We do not want to be encumbered by these just now," he said, pulling
out his wand again. "I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there.
However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case."

Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not
to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside
pocket of his jacket, Dumbiedore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and
Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front
door opened onto cool, misty darkness.

"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty
temptress, adventure."

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:01:00

Chapter 4: Horace Slughorn

Despite the fact that he had spent every waking moment of the past few
days hoping desperately that Dumbledore would indeed come to fetch him,
Harry felt distinctly awkward as they set off down Privet Drive together. He
had never had a proper conversation with the headmaster outside of
Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between them. The memory of
their last face-to-face encounter kept intruding too, and it rather heightened
Harry's sense of embarrassment; he had shouted a lot on that occasion, not to
mention done his best to smash several of Dumbledore's most prized
possessions.

Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed.

"Keep your wand at the ready, Harry," he said brightly.

"But I thought I'm not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?"

"If there is an attack," said Dumbledore, "I give you permission to use any
counterjinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you
need worry about being attacked tonight."

"Why not, sir?"

"You are with me," said Dumbledore simply. "This will do, Harry."

He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.

"You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test," he said.

"No," said Harry. "I thought you had to be seventeen?"

"You do," said Dumbledore. "So you will need to hold on to my arm very
tightly. My left, if you don't mind — as you have noticed, my wand arm is a
little fragile at the moment."

Harry gripped Dumbledore's proffered forearm.

"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Well, here we go."

Harry felt Dumbledore's arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip;
the next thing he knew, everything went black; he was being pressed very
hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands
tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his
head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then —-

He gulped great lungfulls of cold night air and opened his streaming eyes.
He felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It
was a few seconds before he realized that Privet Drive had vanished. He and
Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village
square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches.
His comprehension catching up with his senses, Harry realized that he had
just Apparated for the first time in his life.

"Are you all right?" asked Dumbledore, looking down at him solicitously.
"The sensation does take some getting used to."

"I'm fine," said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as though they had left
Privet Drive rather reluctantly. "But I think I might prefer brooms..."

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around
his neck, and said, "This way."

He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According
to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.

"So tell me, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Your scar... has it been hurting at
all?"

Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed i he
lightning-shaped mark.

"No," he said, "and I've been wondering about that. I thought it would be
burning all the time now Voldemort's getting so powerful again."

He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied
expression.

"I, on the other hand, thought otherwise," said Dumbledore. "Lord
Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and
feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing
Occlumency against you."

"Well, I'm not complaining," said Harry, who missed neither the
disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort's mind.

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry
looked sideways at Dumbledore again. "Professor?"

"Harry?"

"Er — where exactly are we?"

"This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton."

"And what are we doing here?"

"Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you," said Dumbledore. "Well, I have
lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are,
once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old
colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts."

"How can I help with that, sir?"

"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely. "Left
here, Harry."

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the
windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two
weeks persisted here too. Thinking of Dementors, Harry cast a look over his
shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket.

"Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old
colleague's house?"

"Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door," said
Dumbledore. "Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity
of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically
protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance —"

"— you can't Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds," said
Harry quickly. "Hermione Granger told me."

"And she is quite right. We turn left again."

The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Harry wondered why
Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but
now that conversation had been established, he had more pressing questions
to ask.

"Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked..."

"Correct," said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street. "He has
been replaced, as ] am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to
be Head of the Auror office."

"Is he... Do you think he's good?" asked Harry.

"An interesting question," said Dumbledore. "He is able, certainly. A
more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius."

"Yes, but I meant —"

"I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought
Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not under-estimate Lord
Voldemort."

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the
disagreement with Scrimgeour that the Daily Prophet had reported, and he
did not have the nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed ii. "And... sir... I
saw about Madam Bones."

"Yes," said Dumbledore quietly. "A terrible loss. She was a great witch.
Just up here, I think — ouch."

He had pointed with his injured hand.

"Professor, what happened to your … ?"

"I have no time to explain now," said Dumbledore. "It is a thrilling tale, I
wish to do it justice."

He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not being snubbed, and
that he had permission to keep asking questions.

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:02:00

Sir — I got a Ministry of Magic leaflet by owl, about security measures
we should all take against the Death Eaters..."

"Yes, I received one myself," said Dumbledore, still smiling. "Did you
find it useful?"

"Not really."

"No, I thought not. You have not asked me, for instance, what is my
favorite flavor of jam, to check that I am indeed Professor Dumbledore and
not an impostor."

"I didn't..." Harry began, not entirely sure whether he was being
reprimanded or not.

"For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry... although of course, if I were
a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences
before impersonating myself."

"Er... right," said Harry. "Well, on that leaflet, it said something about
Inferi. What exactly are they? The leaflet wasn't very clear."

"They are corpses," said Dumbledore calmly. "Dead bodies that have been
bewitched to do a Dark wizard's bidding. Inferi have not been seen for a
long time, however, not since Voldemort was last powerful... He killed
enough people to make an army of them, of course. This is the place, Harry,
just here..."

They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden. Harry
was too busy digesting the horrible idea of Inferi to have much attention left
for anything else, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped
dead and Harry walked into him.

"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear."

Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt his
heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges.

Dumbledore glanced up and down the street. It seemed quite deserted.

"Wand out and follow me, Harry," he said quietly.

He opened the gate and walked swiftly and silently up the garden path,
Harry at his heels, then pushed the front door very slowly, his wand raised
and at the ready.

"Lumos."

Dumbledore's wand tip ignited, casting its light up a narrow hallway. To
the left, another door stood open. Holding his illuminated wand aloft,
Dumbledore walked into the sitting room with Harry right behind him.

A scene of total devastation met their eyes. A grandfather clock lay
splintered at their feet, its face cracked, its pendulum lying a little farther
away like a dropped sword. A piano was on its side, its keys strewn across
the floor. The wreckage of a fallen chandelier flittered nearby. Cushions lay
deflated, feathers oozing from slashes in their sides; fragments of glass and
china lay like powder over everything. Dumbledore raised his wand even
higher, so that its light was thrown upon the walls, where something darkly
red and glutinous was spattered over the wallpaper. Harry's small intake of
breath made Dumbledore look around.

"Not pretty, is it?" he said heavily. "Yes, something horrible has happened
here."

Dumbledore moved carefully into the middle of the room, scrutinizing the
wreckage at his feet. Harry followed, gazing around, half-scared of what he
might see hidden behind the wreck of the piano or the overturned sofa, but
there was no sign of a body.

"Maybe there was a fight and — and they dragged him off, Professor?"
Harry suggested, trying not to imagine how badly wounded a man would
have to be to leave those stains spattered halfway up the walls.

"I don't think so," said Dumbledore quietly, peering behind an overstuffed
armchair lying on its side.

"You mean he's — ?"

"Still here somewhere? Yes."

And without warning, Dumbledore swooped, plunging the tip of his wand
into the seat of the overstuffed armchair, which yelled, "Ouch!"

"Good evening, Horace," said Dumbledore, straightening up again.

Harrys jaw dropped. Where a split second before there had been an
armchair, there now crouched an enormously fat, bald, old man who was
massaging his lower belly and squinting up at Dumbledore with an
aggrieved and watery eye.

"There was no need to stick the wand in that hard," he said gruffly,
clambering to his feet. "It hurt."

The wandlight sparkled on his shiny pate, his prominent eyes, his
enormous, silver, walruslike mustache, and the highly polished buttons on
the maroon velvet jacket he was wearing over a pair of lilac silk pajamas.
The top of his head barely reached Dumbledore's chin.

"What gave it away?" he grunted as he staggered to his feet, still rubbing
his lower belly. He seemed remarkably unabashed for a man who had just
been discovered pretending to be an armchair.

"My dear Horace," said Dumbledore, looking amused, "if the Death
Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the
house."

The wizard clapped a pudgy hand to his vast forehead.

"The Dark Mark," he muttered. "Knew there was something... ah well.
Wouldn't have had time anyway, I'd only just put the finishing touches to my
upholstery when you entered the room."

He heaved a great sigh that made the ends of his mustache flutter.

"Would you like my assistance clearing up?" asked Dumbledore politely.

"Please," said the other.

They stood back to back, the tall thin wizard and the short round one, and
waved their wands in one identical sweeping motion.

The furniture flew back to its original places; ornaments re-lormed in
midair, feathers zoomed into their cushions; torn books repaired themselves
as they landed upon their shelves; oil lanterns soared onto side tables and
reignited; avast collection of splintered silver picture frames flew glittering
across the room and alighted, whole and untarnished, upon a desk; rips,
cracks, and holes healed everywhere, and the walls wiped themselves clean.

"What kind of blood was that, incidentally?" asked Dumbledore loudly
over the chiming of the newly unsmashed grandfather flock.

"On the walls? Dragon," shouted the wizard called Horace, as, with a
deafening grinding and tinkling, the chandelier screwed itself back into the
ceiling.

There was a final plunk from the piano, and silence.

"Yes, dragon," repeated the wizard conversationally. "My last bottle, and
prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable."

He stumped over to a small crystal bottle standing on top of a sideboard
and held it up to the light, examining the thick liquid within.

"Hmm. Bit dusty."

He set the bottle back on the sideboard and sighed. It was then that his
gaze fell upon Harry.

"Oho," he said, his large round eyes flying to Harry's forehead and the
lightning-shaped scar it bore. "Oho!"

"This," said Dumbledore, moving forward to make the introduction, "is
Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old Friend and colleague of mine, Horace
Slughorn."

Slughorn turned on Dumbledore, his expression shrewd. "So that's how
you thought you'd persuade me, is it? Well, the answer's no, Albus."

He pushed past Harry, his face turned resolutely away with the air of a
man trying to resist temptation.

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:04:00

"I suppose we can have a drink, at least?" asked Dumbledore. "For old
time's sake?"

Slughorn hesitated.

"All right then, one drink," he said ungraciously.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry and directed him toward a chair not unlike
the one that Slughorn had so recently impersonated, which stood right beside
the newly burning fire and a brightly glowing oil lamp. Harry took the seat
with the distinct impression that Dumbledore, for some reason, wanted to
keep him as visible as possible. Certainly when Slughorn, who had been
busy with decanters and glasses, turned to face the room again, his eyes fell
immediately upon Harry.

"Hmpf," he said, looking away quickly as though frightened of hurting his
eyes. "Here —" He gave a drink to Dumbledore, who had sat down without
invitation, thrust the tray at Harry, and then sank into the cushions of the
repaired sofa and a disgruntled silence. His legs were so short they did not
touch the floor.

"Well, how have you been keeping, Horace?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not so well," said Slughorn at once. "Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism
too. Can't move like I used to. Well, that's to be expected. Old age. Fatigue."

"And yet you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome
for us at such short notice," said Dumbledore. "You can't have had more
than three minutes' warning?"

Slughorn said, half irritably, half proudly, "Two. Didn't hear my Intruder
Charm go off, I was taking a bath. Still," he added sternly, seeming to pull
himself back together again, "the fact remains that I'm an old man, Albus. A
tired old man who's earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature
comforts."

He certainly had those, thought Harry, looking around the room. It was
stuffy and cluttered, yet nobody could say it was uncomfortable; there were
soft chairs and footstools, drinks and books, boxes of chocolates and plump
cushions. If Harry had not known who lived there, he would have guessed at
a rich, fussy old lady.

"You're not yet as old as I am, Horace," said Dumbledore.

"Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself," said
Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore's injured
hand. "Reactions not what they were, I see."

"You're quite right," said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to
reveal the tips of those burned and blackened ringers; the sight of them made
the back of Harry's neck prickle unpleasantly. "1 am undoubtedly slower
than I was. But on the other hand..."

He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its
compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had
never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of
what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked
down the middle. Slughorn's eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and
Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.

"So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace... are they for the
Death Eaters' benefit, or mine?" asked Dumbledore.

"What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer
like me?" demanded Slughorn.

"I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to
coercion, torture, and murder," said Dumbledore. "Are you really telling me
that they haven't come recruiting yet?"

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, "I
haven't given them the chance. I've been on the move for a year. Never stay
in one place more than a week. Move from Mug-gle house to Muggle house
— the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — it's been
very pleasant, I'll be sorry to leave. It's quite easy once you know how, one
simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of
Sneako-scopes and make sure the neighbors don't spot you bringing in the
piano."

"Ingenious," said Dumbledore. "But it sounds a rather tiring existence for
a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return
to Hogwarts —"

"If you're going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that
pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in
hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge
left! If that's how you treat teachers these days —"

"Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd," said Dumbledore. "I
think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and
call a horde of angry centaurs 'filthy half-breeds.'"

"That's what she did, did she?" said Slughorn. "Idiotic woman. Never
liked her."

Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.

"Sorry," Harry said hastily. "It's just — I didn't like her either."

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.

"Are you leaving?" asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.

"No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom," said
Dumbledore.

"Oh," said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. "Second on the left down the
hall."

Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him,
there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed
uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, then
crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.

"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you," he said abruptly.

Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn's watery eyes slid over Harry's
scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.

"You look very like your father."

"Yeah, I've been told," said Harry.

"Except for your eyes. You've got —-"

"My mother's eyes, yeah." Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit
wearing.

"Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn't have favorites as a teacher, of course,
but she was one of mine. Your mother," Slughorn added, in answer to
Harrys questioning look. "Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught.
Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have
been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too."

"Which was your House?"

"I was Head of Slytherin," said Slughorn. "Oh, now," he went on quickly,
seeing the expression on Harry's face and wagging a stubby ringer at him,
"don't go holding that against me! You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose?
Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius
Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of
years — died a few weeks ago —"

It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry's intestines and held
them tight.

"Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father's at school. The whole
Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor!
Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came
along, but I'd have liked the set."

He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction.
Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on
the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside.

"Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn't believe it when I
found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good."

"One of my best friends is Muggle-born," said Harry, "and she's the best
in our year."

"Funny how that sometimes happens, isn't it?" said Slughorn.

"Not really," said Harry coldly.

Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. "You mustn't think I'm
prejudiced!" he said. "No, no, no! Haven't I just said your mother was one of
my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after
her too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another
Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside
information on the goings-on at Gringotts!"

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:05:00

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and
pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each
peopled with tiny moving occupants.

"All ex-students, all signed. You'll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the
Daily Prophet, he's always interested to hear my take on the day's news. And
Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all
because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkisss who gave
him his first job! And at the back — you'll see her if you just crane your
neck — that's Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies...
People are always astonished to hear I'm on first-name terms with the
Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!"

This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.

"And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?" asked
Harry, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet
tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors
craving his advice and opinions could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn's face as quickly as the blood from his walls.

"Of course not," he said, looking down at Harry. "I have been out of touch
with everybody for a year."

Harry had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he
looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"Still... the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very
well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hog-warts just now
would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the
Phoenix! And while I'm sure they're very admirable and brave and all the
rest of it, I don't personally fancy the mortality rate —"

"You don't have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts," said Harry, who
could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice: It was hard to
sympathize with Slughorn's cosseted existence when he remembered Sirius,
crouching in a cave and living on rats. "Most of the teachers aren't in it, and
none of them has ever been killed — well, unless you count Quirrell, and he
got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort."

Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could
not bear to hear Voldemort's name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed:
Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored.

"I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumble-dore's
headmaster; he's supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn't
he?" Harry went on.

Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking
over Harry's words.

"Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought
a fight with Dumbledore," he muttered grudgingly. "And I suppose one
could argue that as I have not joined the Death Kilters, He-Who-Must-Not-
Be-Named can hardly count me a friend... in which case, I might well be
safer a little closer to Albus... I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones's death did
not shake me... If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection..."

Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had
forgotten he was in the house.

"Oh, there you are, Albus," he said. "You've been a very long lime. Upset
stomach?"

"No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines," said Dumbledore. "I
do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace's
hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave."

Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn sinned
taken aback.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one."

"Lost...?"

Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he
watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket.

"Well, I'm sorry you don't want the job, Horace," said Dumbledore,
raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. "Hogwarts would have been
glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding,
you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to."

"Yes... well... very gracious... as I say..."

"Good-bye, then."

"Bye," said Harry.

They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.

"All right, all right, I'll do it!"

Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to
the sitting room.

"You will come out of retirement?"

"Yes, yes," said Slughorn impatiently. "I must be mad, but yes."

"Wonderful," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Then, Horace, we shall see
you on the first of September."

"Yes, I daresay you will," grunted Slughorn.

As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn's voice floated after them,
"I'll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they
set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.

"Well done, Harry," said Dumbledore.

"I didn't do anything," said Harry in surprise.

"Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain
by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?"

"Er..."

Harry wasn't sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had
been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said
to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good
witch.

"Horace," said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say
any of this, "likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the
successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these
people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the
backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites
at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for
their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those
who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace
formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making
introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping
some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized
pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin
liaison Office."

Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider,
spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large
and juicy flies a little closer.

"I tell you all this," Dumbledore continued, "not to turn you against
Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put
you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You
would be the jewel of his collection; 'the Boy Who Lived'... or, as they call
you these days, 'the Chosen One.'"

At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist
stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard a few weeks ago,
words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him: Neither can live
while the other survives...

Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed
earlier.

"This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm."

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:06:00

Braced this time, Harry was ready for the Apparition, but still found it
unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to
breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside Dumbledore and
looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the
world: the Burrow. In spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept
through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it. Ron was in
there... and so was Mrs. Weasley, who could cook better than anyone he
knew...

"If you don't mind, Harry," said Dumbledore, as they passed through the
gate, "I'd like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in
here?"

Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the
Weasleys kept their broomsticks. A little puzzled, Harry followed
Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the
average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it
glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry.

"I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, but I am pleased and
a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that
happened at the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius would have
been proud of you."

Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. He did not think
he could stand to discuss Sirius; it had been painful enough to hear Uncle
Vernon say "His godfather's dead?" and even worse to hear Siriuss name
thrown out casually by Slughorn.

"It was cruel," said Dumbledore softly, "that you and Sirius had such a
short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and
happy relationship."

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing
Dumbledore's hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might
even suspect that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all his time
at the Dursleys' lying on his bed, refusing meals, and staring at the misted
window, full of the chill emptiness i hat he had come to associate with
Dementors.

"It's just hard," Harry said finally, in a low voice, "to realize he won't
write to me again."

His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt stupid for admitting it,
but the fact that he had had someone outside Hogwarts who cared what
happened to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best things about
discovering his godfather... and now the post owls would never bring him
that comfort again...

"Sirius represented much to you that you had never known before," said
Dumbledore gently. "Naturally, the loss is devastat-ing...

"But while I was at the Dursleys'..." interrupted Harry, his voice growing
stronger, "I realized I cant shut myself away or — or crack up. Sirius
wouldn't have wanted that, would he? And anyway, life's too short... Look at
Madam Bones, look at Emmeline Vance... It could be me next, couldn't it?
But if it is," he said fiercely, now looking straight into Dumbledore's blue
eyes gleaming in the wandlight, "I'll make sure I take as many Death Eaters
with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it."

"Spoken both like your mother and father's son and Sirius's true godson!"
said Dumbledore, with an approving pat on Harry's back. "I take my hat off
to you — or I would, if I were not afraid of showering you in spiders.

"And now, Harry, on a closely related subject... I gather that you have
been taking the Daily Prophet over the last two weeks?"

"Yes," said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster.

"Then you will have seen that there have been not so much leaks as floods
concerning your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?"

"Yes," said Harry again. "And now everyone knows that I'm the one —

"No, they do not," interrupted Dumbledore. "There are only two people in
the whole world who know the full contents of the prophecy made about you
and Lord Voldemort, and they are both standing in this smelly, spidery
broom shed. It is true, however, that many have guessed, correctly, that
Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy
concerned you.

"Now, I think I am correct in saying that you have not told anybody that
you know what the prophecy said?"

"No," said Harry.

"A wise decision, on the whole," said Dumbledore. "Although I think you
ought to relax it in favor of your friends, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss
Hermione Granger. Yes," he continued, when Harry looked startled, "I think
they ought to know. You do them a disservice by not confiding something
this important to them."

"I didn't want —"

"— to worry or frighten them?" said Dumbledore, surveying Harry over
the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Or perhaps, to confess that you yourself
are worried and frightened? You need your friends, Harry. As you so rightly
said, Sirius would not have wanted you to shut yourself away."

Harry said nothing, but Dumbledore did not seem to require an answer.
He continued, "On a different, though related, subject, it is my wish that you
take private lessons with me this year."

"Private — with you?" said Harry, surprised out of his preoccupied
silence.

"Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education."

What will you be teaching me, sir?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," said Dumbledore airily.

Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not elaborate, so ho asked
something else that had been bothering him slightly.

"If I'm having lessons with you, I won't have to do Occlumency lessons
with Snape, will I?"

''Professor Snape, Harry — and no, you will not."

"Good," said Harry in relief, "because they were a —"

He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought.

"I think the word 'fiasco' would be a good one here," said Dumbledore,
nodding.

Harry laughed.

"Well, that means I won't see much of Professor Snape from now on," he
said, "because he won't let me carry on Potions unless I get 'Outstanding' in
my OWL., which I know I haven't."

"Don't count your owls before they are delivered," said Dumbledore
gravely. "Which, now I think of it, ought to be some time later today. Now,
two more things, Harry, before we part.

"Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all i imes
from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you
understand me?"

Harry nodded.

"And lastly, while you stay here, the Burrow has been given the highest
security the Ministry of Magic can provide. These measures have caused a
certain amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly — all their post, for
instance, is being searched at the Ministry before being sent on. They do not
mind in the slightest, for their only concern is your safety. However, it
would be poor repayment if you risked your neck while staying with them."

"I understand," said Harry quickly.

"Very well, then," said Dumbledore, pushing open the broom shed door
and stepping out into the yard. "I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not
deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are."

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:09:00

Chapter 5: An Excess Of Phlegm

Harry and Dumbledore approached the back door of the Burrow, which
was surrounded by the familiar litter of old Wellington boots and rusty
cauldrons; Harry could hear the soft clucking of sleepy chickens coming
from a distant shed. Dumbledore knocked three times and Harry saw sudden
movement behind the kitchen window.

"Who's there?" said a nervous voice he recognized as Mrs. Weasley's.
"Declare yourself!"

"It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry."

The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley, short, plump, and
wearing an old green dressing gown.

"Harry, dear! Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright, you said not to
expect you before morning!"

"We were lucky," said Dumbledore, ushering Harry over the threshold.
"Slughorn proved much more persuadable than I had expected. Harry's
doing, of course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!"

Harry looked around and saw that Mrs. Weasley was not alone, despite
the lateness of the hour. A young witch with a pale, heart-shaped face and
mousy brown hair was sitting at the table clutching a large mug between her
hands.

"Hello, Professor," she said. " Wotcher, Harry."

"Hi, Tonks."

Harry thought she looked drawn, even ill, and there was something forced
in her smile. Certainly her appearance was less colorful than usual without
her customary shade of bubble-gum-pink hair.

"I'd better be off," she said quickly, standing up and pulling her cloak
around her shoulders. "Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Molly"

"Please don't leave on my account," said Dumbledore courteously, "I
cannot stay, I have urgent matters to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour."

"No, no, I need to get going," said Tonks, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes.
"'Night..."

"Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Remus and Mad-Eye are
coming... ?"

"No, really, Molly... thanks anyway... Good night, every-one.

Tonks hurried past Dumbledore and Harry into the yard; a few paces
beyond the doorstep, she turned on the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry
noticed that Mrs. Weasley looked troubled.

"Well, I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Take care
of yourself. Molly, your servant."

He made Mrs. Weasley a bow and followed Tonks, vanishing at precisely
the same spot. Mrs. Weasley closed the door on the empty yard and then
steered Harry by the shoulders into the full glow of the lantern on the table
to examine his appearance.

"You're like Ron," she sighed, looking him up and down. "Both of you
look as though you've had Stretching jinxes put on you. I swear Ron's grown
four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are you hungry, Harry?"

"Yeah, I am," said Harry, suddenly realizing just how hungry he was,

"Sit down, dear, I'll knock something up."

As Harry sat down, a furry ginger cat with a squashed face lumped onto
his knees and settled there, purring.

"So Hermione's here?" he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind
the ears.

"Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday," said Mrs. Weasley,
rapping a large iron pot with her wand. It bounced onto the stove with a loud
clang and began to bubble at once. "Everyone's in bed, of course, we didn't
expect you for hours. Here you are..."

She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew toward Harry, and
tipped over; Mrs. Weasley slid a bowl nearly beneath it just in lime to catch
the stream of thick, steaming onion soup.

"Bread, dear?"

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley."

She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of bread and a knife soared
gracefully onto the table; as the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped
back onto the stove, Mrs. Weasley sat down opposite him.

"So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?"

Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak.

"He taught Arthur and me," said Mrs. Weasley. "He was at Hog-warts for
ages, started around the same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like
him?"

His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a noncommittal
jerk of the head.

"I know what you mean," said Mrs. Weasley, nodding wisely. "Of course
he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur's never liked him much.
The Ministry's littered with Slughorn's old favorites, he was always good at
giving leg ups, but he never had much time for Arthur... didn't seem to think
he was enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn
makes mistakes. I don't know whether Ron's told you in any of his letters...
it's only just happened... but Arthur's been promoted!"

It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say
this.

Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could
feel his throat blistering. "That's great!" he gasped.

"You are sweet," beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes
for emotion at the news. "Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new
offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur's heading the Office
for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and
Protective Objects. It's a big job, he's got ten people reporting to him now!"

"What exactly?"

"Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have
been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard
against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of
thing... so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of
bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make
your ears fall off... Well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like
Mundungus Hotelier, who've never done an honest day's work in their lives
and are taking advantage of how frightened everybody is, but every now and
then something really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur confiscated a box
of cursed Sneakoscopes that were almost certainly planted by a Death Eater.
So you see, it's a very important job, and I tell him it's just silly to miss
dealing with spark plugs and toasters and all the rest of that Muggle
rubbish." Mrs. Weasley ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been
Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark plugs.

"Is Mr. Weasley still at work?" Harry asked.

"Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he's a tiny bit late... He said he'd be back
around midnight..."

She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of
a pile of sheets in the washing basket at the end of the table. Harry
recognized it at once: It had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a
family member, and usually hung on i he Weasleys' sitting room wall,
though its current position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to
carrying it around the house with her. Every single one of its nine hands was
now pointing at "mortal peril."

"It's been like that for a while now," said Mrs. Weasley, in an un-
convincingly casual voice, "ever since You-Know-Who came back into the
open. I suppose everybody's in mortal danger now... I don't think it can be
just our family... but I don't know anyone else who's got a clock like this, so
I can't check. Oh!"

With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock's face. Mr. Weasley's
hand had switched to "traveling."

"He's coming!"

And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs.
Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her
face pressed against the wood she called softly, "Arthur, is that you?"

櫻り箜釋﹀ァ - 2005-11-19 19:10:00

GOD

哈迷俱乐部 - 2005-11-19 19:10:00

"Yes," came Mr. Weasley's weary voice. "But I would say that even if I
were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!"

"Oh, honestly..."

"Molly!"

"All right, all right... What is your dearest ambition?"

"To find out how airplanes stay up."

Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr.
Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained
firmly shut.

"Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!"

"Arthur, really, this is just silly..."

"What do you like me to call you when we're alone together?"

Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley
had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and
neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could
against the bowl.

"Mollywobbles," whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the
edge of the door.

"Correct," said Mr. Weasley. "Now you can let me in."

Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-
haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty
traveling cloak.

"I still don't see why we have to go through that every time you come
home," said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband
out of his cloak. "I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of
you before impersonating you!"

"I know, dear, but it's Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example.
Something smells good... onion soup?"

Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.

"Harry! We didn't expect you until morning!"

They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry
as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.

"Thanks, Molly. It's been a tough night. Some idiot's started selling
Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them around your neck and you'll be able to
change your appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all for ten
Galleons!"

"And what really happens when you put them on?"

"Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color, but a couple of
people have also sprouted tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St.
Mungo's didn't have enough to do already!"

"It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George would find funny," said
Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. "Are you sure... ?"

"Of course I am!" said Mr. Weasley. "The boys wouldn't do anything like
that now, not when people are desperate for protection!"

"So is that why you're late, Metamorph-Medals?"

"No, we got wind of a nasty backfiring jinx down in Elephant and Castle,
but luckily the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the
time we got there..."

Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.

"Bed," said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. "I've got Fred and
George's room all ready for you, you'll have it to yourself."

"Why, where are they?"

"Oh, they're in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop
as they're so busy," said Mrs. Weasley. "I must say, I didn't approve at first,
but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dear, your
trunks already up there."

"'Night, Mr. Weasley," said Harry, pushing back his chair. Crookshanks
leapt lightly from his lap and slunk out of the room.

"G'night, Harry," said Mr. Weasley.

Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the washing basket as they
left the kitchen. All the hands were once again at "mortal peril."

Fred and George's bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Weasley
pointed her wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once,
bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of flowers
had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could
not disguise the lingering smell of what Harry thought was gunpowder. A
considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of
unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry's school
trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary
warehouse.

Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large
wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been
waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good
night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something
hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky
purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling
to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.

Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what
sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he
heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight
seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he
groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other.

"Wuzzgoinon?"

"We didn't know you were here already!" said a loud and excited voice,
and he received a sharp blow to the top of the head.

"Ron, don't hit him!" said a girl's voice reproachfully.

Harry's hand found his glasses and he shoved them on, though I he light
was so bright he could hardly see anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered
in front of him for a moment; he blinked and Ron Weasley came into focus,
grinning down at him.

"All right?"

"Never been better," said Harry, rubbing the top of his head and slumping
back onto his pillows. "You?"

"Not bad," said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and sitting on it.
"When did you get here? Mum's only just told us!"

"About one o'clock this morning."

"Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?"

"Same as usual," said Harry, as Hermione perched herself on the edge of
his bed, "they didn't talk to me much, but I like it better that way. How're
you, Hermione?"

"Oh, I'm fine," said Hermione, who was scrutinizing Harry as though he
was sickening for something. He thought he knew what was behind this, and
as he had no wish to discuss Sirius's death or any other miserable subject at
the moment, he said, "What's the time? Have I missed breakfast?"

"Don't worry about that, Mum's bringing you up a tray; she reckons you
look underfed," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "So, what's been going on?"

"Nothing much, I've just been stuck at my aunt and uncle's, haven't I?"

"Come off it!" said Ron. "You've been off with Dumbledore!"

"It wasn't that exciting. He just wanted me to help him persuade this old
teacher to come out of retirement. His name's Horace Slughorn."

"Oh," said Ron, looking disappointed. "We thought..."

Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron changed tack at top
speed.

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