Harry led them all back into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, they settled on chairs, sat themselves upon Aunt Petunia’s gleaming work surfaces, or leaned up against her spotless appliances; Ron, long and lanky; Hermione, her bushy hair tied back in a long plait; Fred and George, grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and longhaired; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battle-worn, one-legged, his bright blue magical eye whizzing in its socket; Tonks, whose short hair was her favorite shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur, slender and beautiful, with her long silvery blonde hair; Kingsley, bald and broad-shouldered; Hagrid, with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling; and Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, and hangdog, with his droopy beady hound’s eyes and matted hair. Harry’s heart seemed to expand and glow at the sight: He felt incredibly fond of all of them, even Mundungus, whom he had tried to strangle the last time they had met.
“Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle Prime Minister?” he called across the room.
“He can get along without me for one night,” said Kingsley, “You’re more important.”
“Harry, guess what?” said Tonks from her perch on top of the washing machine, and she wiggled her left hand at him; a ring glistened there.
“You got married?” Harry yelped, looking from her to Lupin.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t be there, Harry, it was very quiet.”
“That’s brilliant, congrat – ”
“All right, all right, we’ll have time for a cozy catch-up later,” roared Moody over the hubbub, and silence fell in the kitchen. Moody dropped his sacks at his feet and turned to Harry. “As Dedalus probably told you, we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem. He’s made it an imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. All done in the name of your protection, to prevent You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely pointless, seeing as your mother’s charm does that already. What he’s really done is to stop you getting out of here safely.”
“Second problem: You’re underage, which means you’ve still got the Trace on you.”
“I don’t – ”
“The Trace, the Trace!” said Mad-Eye impatiently. “The charm that detects magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out about underage magic! If you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters.”
“We can’t wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you’ll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short, Pius Thicknesse thinks he’s got you cornered good and proper.”
Harry could not help but agree with the unknown Thicknesse.
“So what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to use the only means of transport left to us, the only ones the Trace can’t detect, because we don’t need to cast spells to use them: brooms, thestrals, and Hagrid’s motorbike.”
Harry could see flaws in this plan; however, he held his tongue to give Mad-Eye the chance to address them.
“Now, your mother’s charm will only break under two conditions: when you come of age, or” – Moody gestured around the pristine kitchen – “you no longer call this place home. You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight, in the full understanding that you’re never going to live together again, correct?”
Harry nodded.
“So this time, when you leave, there’ll be no going back, and the charm will break the moment you get outside its range. We’re choosing to break it early, because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who to come and seize you the moment you turn seventeen.”
“The one thing we’ve got on our side is that You-Know-Who doesn’t know we’re moving you tonight. We’ve leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: They think you’re not leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we’re dealing with, so we can’t rely on him getting the date wrong; he’s bound to have a couple of Death Eaters patrolling the skies in this general area, just in case. So, we’ve given a dozen different houses every protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be the place we’re going to hide you, they’ve all got some connection with the Order: my house, Kingsley’s place, Molly’s Auntie Muriel’s – you get the idea.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, not entirely truthfully, because he could still spot a gaping hole in the plan.
“You’ll be going to Tonks’s parents. Once you’re within the boundaries of the protective enchantments we’ve put on their house you’ll be able to use a Portkey to the Burrow. Any questions?”
“Er – yes,” said Harry. “Maybe they won’t know which of the twelve secure houses I’m heading for at first, but won’t it be sort of obvious once” – he performed a quick headcount – “fourteen of us fly off toward Tonks’s parents?”
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
“I'd want him finished,”
“I'd want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I'd want to do it.”
“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his
equal... In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will
continue to hunt you... which makes it certain, really, that —”
“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” said Harry.
“Yes.”
But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the
death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew—
and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents—that there was all the difference in the world.
“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his
equal... In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will
continue to hunt you... which makes it certain, really, that —”
“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” said Harry.
“Yes.”
But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the
death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew—
and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents—that there was all the difference in the world.
Harry, despite your privileged
Harry, despite your privileged insight into Voldemort's world (which, incidentally, is a gift any Death Eater would kill to have), you have never been seduced by the
Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort's followers!”
“Of course I haven't!” said Harry indignantly. “He killed my mum and dad!”
“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!” said Dumbledore loudly. “The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like
Voldemort's! In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when you
stared into a mirror that reflected your heart's desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have you any
idea how few wizards could have seen what you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have known then what he was dealing with, but he did not!
“But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord Voldemort's mind without damage to yourself, but he cannot possess you without enduring mortal agony, as he discovered
in the Ministry. I do not think he understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable
power of a soul that is untarnished and whole.”
“But, sir,” said Harry, making valiant efforts not to sound argumentative, “it all comes to the same thing, doesn't it? I've got to try and kill him, or —”
“Got to?” said Dumbledore. “Of course you've got to! But not because of the prophecy! Because you, yourself, will never rest until you've tried! We both know it!
Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think!”
Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in front ol him, and thought. He thought of his mother, his father, and Sinus. He thought of Cedric Diggory. He thought of
all the terrible deeds he knew Lord Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat.
“I'd want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I'd want to do it.”
“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his
equal... In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will
continue to hunt you... which makes it certain, really, that —”
“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” said Harry.
Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort's followers!”
“Of course I haven't!” said Harry indignantly. “He killed my mum and dad!”
“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!” said Dumbledore loudly. “The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like
Voldemort's! In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when you
stared into a mirror that reflected your heart's desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have you any
idea how few wizards could have seen what you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have known then what he was dealing with, but he did not!
“But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord Voldemort's mind without damage to yourself, but he cannot possess you without enduring mortal agony, as he discovered
in the Ministry. I do not think he understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable
power of a soul that is untarnished and whole.”
“But, sir,” said Harry, making valiant efforts not to sound argumentative, “it all comes to the same thing, doesn't it? I've got to try and kill him, or —”
“Got to?” said Dumbledore. “Of course you've got to! But not because of the prophecy! Because you, yourself, will never rest until you've tried! We both know it!
Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think!”
Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in front ol him, and thought. He thought of his mother, his father, and Sinus. He thought of Cedric Diggory. He thought of
all the terrible deeds he knew Lord Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat.
“I'd want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I'd want to do it.”
“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his
equal... In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will
continue to hunt you... which makes it certain, really, that —”
“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” said Harry.
Harry sat in thought for a moment
Harry sat in thought for a moment, then asked, “So if all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be killed?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Dumbledore. “Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his
soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without
his Horcruxes.”
“But I haven't got uncommon skill and power,” said Harry, before he could stop himself.
“Yes, you have,” said Dumbledore firmly. “You have a power that Voldemort has never had. You can —”
“I know!” said Harry impatiently. “I can love!” It was only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding, “Big deal!”
“Yes, Harry, you can love,” said Dumbledore, who looked as though he knew perfectly well what Harry had just refrained from saying. “Which, given everything that has
happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing. You are still too young to understand how unusual you are, Harry.”
“So, when the prophecy says that I'll have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not,’ it just means—love?” asked Harry, feeling a little let down.
“Yes—just love,” said Dumbledore. “But Harry, never forget that what the prophecy says is only significant because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the end
of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the person who would be most dangerous to him—and in doing so, he made you the person who would be most dangerous to him!”
“But it comes to the same —”
“No, it doesn't!” said Dumbledore, sounding impatient now. Pointing at Harry with his black, withered hand, he said, “You are setting too much store by the prophecy!
”
“But,” spluttered Harry, “but you said the prophecy means —”
“If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the Hall of
Prophecy has been fulfilled?”
“But,” said Harry, bewildered, “but last year, you said one of us would have to kill the other —”
“Harry, Harry, only because Voldemort made a grave error, and acted on Professor Trelawney's words! If Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he have imparted
in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for you, would he have given you a magical protection he could not
penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don't you see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the
people they oppress? All of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back! Voldemort is no
different! Always he was on the lookout for the one who would challenge him. He heard the prophecy and he leapt into action, with the result that he not only handpicked
the man most likely to finish him, he handed him uniquely deadly weapons!”
“But —”
“It is essential that you understand this!” said Dumbledore, standing up and striding about the room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake; Harry had never seen
him so agitated. “By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and gave him the tools for the job! It
is Voldemort's fault that you were able to see into his thoughts, his ambitions, that you even understand the snakelike language in which he gives orders, and yet,
“Yes, I think so,” said Dumbledore. “Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his
soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without
his Horcruxes.”
“But I haven't got uncommon skill and power,” said Harry, before he could stop himself.
“Yes, you have,” said Dumbledore firmly. “You have a power that Voldemort has never had. You can —”
“I know!” said Harry impatiently. “I can love!” It was only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding, “Big deal!”
“Yes, Harry, you can love,” said Dumbledore, who looked as though he knew perfectly well what Harry had just refrained from saying. “Which, given everything that has
happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing. You are still too young to understand how unusual you are, Harry.”
“So, when the prophecy says that I'll have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not,’ it just means—love?” asked Harry, feeling a little let down.
“Yes—just love,” said Dumbledore. “But Harry, never forget that what the prophecy says is only significant because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the end
of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the person who would be most dangerous to him—and in doing so, he made you the person who would be most dangerous to him!”
“But it comes to the same —”
“No, it doesn't!” said Dumbledore, sounding impatient now. Pointing at Harry with his black, withered hand, he said, “You are setting too much store by the prophecy!
”
“But,” spluttered Harry, “but you said the prophecy means —”
“If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the Hall of
Prophecy has been fulfilled?”
“But,” said Harry, bewildered, “but last year, you said one of us would have to kill the other —”
“Harry, Harry, only because Voldemort made a grave error, and acted on Professor Trelawney's words! If Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he have imparted
in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for you, would he have given you a magical protection he could not
penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don't you see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the
people they oppress? All of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back! Voldemort is no
different! Always he was on the lookout for the one who would challenge him. He heard the prophecy and he leapt into action, with the result that he not only handpicked
the man most likely to finish him, he handed him uniquely deadly weapons!”
“But —”
“It is essential that you understand this!” said Dumbledore, standing up and striding about the room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake; Harry had never seen
him so agitated. “By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and gave him the tools for the job! It
is Voldemort's fault that you were able to see into his thoughts, his ambitions, that you even understand the snakelike language in which he gives orders, and yet,
Thursday, November 25, 2010
“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.'”
“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.'”
Riddle's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you
show me—?”
Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were
currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit
jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.
The wardrobe burst into flames.
Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on
Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.
Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. “Where can I get one of them?”
“All in good time,” said Dumbledore. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.”
And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened.
“Open the door,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking
and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it.
“Take it out,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved.
“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore.
Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an expressionless voice.
“Open it,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small,
everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin
blankets.
“You will return them to their owners with your apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has been done.
And be warned: thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.”
Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, “Yes, sir.”
“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that
is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that
Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in
entering our world, they abide by our laws.”
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle again.
It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had
finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, “I haven't got any money.”
“That is easily remedied,” said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books
and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —”
“Where do you buy spellbooks?” interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.
“In Diagon Alley,” said Dumbledore. “I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything —”
“You're coming with me?” asked Riddle, looking up.
“Certainly, if you —”
“I don't need you,” said Riddle. “I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?” he
added, catching Dumbledore's eye.
Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of
equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, “You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—
non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name —”
Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.
“You dislike the name ‘Tom'?”
Riddle's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, “I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you
show me—?”
Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were
currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit
jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.
The wardrobe burst into flames.
Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on
Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.
Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. “Where can I get one of them?”
“All in good time,” said Dumbledore. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.”
And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened.
“Open the door,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking
and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it.
“Take it out,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved.
“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore.
Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an expressionless voice.
“Open it,” said Dumbledore.
Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small,
everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin
blankets.
“You will return them to their owners with your apologies,” said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. “I shall know whether it has been done.
And be warned: thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.”
Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, “Yes, sir.”
“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have — inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that
is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that
Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in
entering our world, they abide by our laws.”
“Yes, sir,” said Riddle again.
It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had
finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, “I haven't got any money.”
“That is easily remedied,” said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. “There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books
and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but —”
“Where do you buy spellbooks?” interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.
“In Diagon Alley,” said Dumbledore. “I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything —”
“You're coming with me?” asked Riddle, looking up.
“Certainly, if you —”
“I don't need you,” said Riddle. “I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?” he
added, catching Dumbledore's eye.
Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of
equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, “You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—
non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name —”
Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.
“You dislike the name ‘Tom'?”
“Who are you?”
“I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would
like to come.”
Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.
“You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course—well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the
asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!
“I am not from the asylum,” said Dumbledore patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would
rather not come to the school, nobody will force you —”
“I'd like to see them try,” sneered Riddle.
“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle's last words, “is a school for people with special abilities —”
“I'm not mad!”
“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”
There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one
of them lying.
“Magic?” he repeated in a whisper.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore.
“It's... it's magic, what I can do?”
“What is it that you can do?”
“All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “I can make things move without touching them.
I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”
His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.
“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”
“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.”
Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: there was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his
finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.
“Are you a wizard too?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Prove it,” said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, “Tell the truth.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—”
“Of course I am!”
like to come.”
Riddle's reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.
“You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course—well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the
asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!
“I am not from the asylum,” said Dumbledore patiently. “I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would
rather not come to the school, nobody will force you —”
“I'd like to see them try,” sneered Riddle.
“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle's last words, “is a school for people with special abilities —”
“I'm not mad!”
“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”
There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, as though trying to catch one
of them lying.
“Magic?” he repeated in a whisper.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore.
“It's... it's magic, what I can do?”
“What is it that you can do?”
“All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “I can make things move without touching them.
I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”
His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.
“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”
“Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.”
Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: there was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his
finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.
“Are you a wizard too?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Prove it,” said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, “Tell the truth.”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—”
“Of course I am!”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
“My dear Prime Minister, are you ever going to tell anybody?”
“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.”
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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.”
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