In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and softer than her famously ferocious quill-portraits might suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her cozy home, she leads me straight into the kitchen for a cup of tea, a slice of pound cake and, it goes without saying, a steaming vat of freshest gossip.
“Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer’s dream,” says Skeeter. “Such a long, full life. I’m sure my book will be the first of very, very many.”
Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her nine-hundred-page book was completed in a mere four weeks after Dumbledore’s mysterious death in June. I ask her how she managed this superfast feat.
“Oh, when you’ve been a journalist as long as I have, working to a deadline is second nature. I knew that the Wizarding world was clamoring for the full story and I wanted to be the first to meet that need.”
I mention the recent, widely publicized remarks of Elphias Doge, Special Advisor to the Wizengamot and longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore’s, that “Skeeter’s book contains less fact than a Chocolate Frog card.”
Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.
“Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him a few years back about merpeople rights, bless him. Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting at the bottom of Lake Windermere, kept telling me to watch out for trout.”
And yet Elphias Doge’s accusations of inaccuracy have been echoed in many places. Does Skeeter really feel that four short weeks have been enough to gain a full picture of Dumbledore’s long and extraordinary life?
“Oh, my dear,” beams Skeeter, rapping me affectionately across the knuckles, “you know as well as I do how much information can be generated by a fat bag of Galleons, a refusal to hear the word ‘no,’ and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill! People were queuing to dish the dirt on Dumbledore anyway. Not everyone thought he was so wonderful, you know – he trod on an awful lot of important toes. But old Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because I’ve had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for, one who has never spoken in public before and who was close to Dumbledore during the most turbulent and disturbing phase of his youth.”
The advance publicity for Skeeter’s biography has certainly suggested that there will be shocks in store for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a blameless life.
What were the biggest surprises she uncovered, I ask?
“Now, come off it. Betty, I’m not giving away all the highlights before anybody’s bought the book!” laughs Skeeter. “But I can promise that anybody who still thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a rude awakening! Let’s just say that nobody hearing him rage against You-Know-Who would have dreamed that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth! And for a wizard who spent his later years pleading for tolerance, he wasn’t exactly broad-minded when he was younger!
Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an extremely murky past, not to mention that very fishy family, which he worked so hard to keep hushed up.”
I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth, whose conviction by the Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor scandal fifteen years ago.
“Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap,” laughs Skeeter. “No, no, I’m talking about much worse than a brother with a fondness for fiddling about with goats, worse even than the Muggle-maiming father – Dumbledore couldn’t keep either of them quiet anyway, they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it’s the mother and the sister that intrigued me, and a little digging uncovered a positive nest of nastiness – but, as I say, you’ll have to wait for chapters nine to twelve for full details. All I can say now is, it’s no wonder Dumbledore never talked about how his nose got broken.”
Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter deny the brilliance that led to Dumbledore’s many magical discoveries?
“He had brains,” she concedes, “although many now question whether he could really take full credit for all of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in chapter sixteen, Ivor Dillonsby claims he had already discovered eight uses of dragon’s blood when Dumbledore ‘borrowed’ his papers.”
But the importance of some of Dumbledore’s achievements cannot, I venture, be denied. What of his famous defeat of Grindelwald?
“Oh, now, I’m glad you mentioned Grindelwald,” says Skeeter with such a tantalizing smile. “I’m afraid those who go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore’s spectacular victory must brace themselves for a bombshell – or perhaps a Dungbomb. Very dirty business indeed. All I’ll say is, don’t be so sure that there really was a spectacular duel of legend. After they’ve read my book, people may be forced to conclude that Grindelwald simply conjured a white handkerchief from the end of his wand and came quietly!”
Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this intriguing subject, so we turn instead to the relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her readers more than any other.
“Oh yes,” says Skeeter, nodding briskly, “I devote an entire chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister. Again, your readers will have to buy my book for the whole story, but there is no question that Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from the word go. Whether that was really in the boy’s best interests – well, we’ll see. It’s certainly an open secret that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence.”
I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry Potter, whom she so famously interviewed last year: a breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke exclusively of his conviction that You-Know-Who had returned.
“Oh, yes, we’ve developed a closer bond,” says Skeeter. “Poor Potter has few real friends, and we met at one of the most testing moments of his life – the Triwizard Tournament. I am probably one of the only people alive who can say that they know the real Harry Potter.”
Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still circulating about Dumbledore’s final hours. Does Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?
“Well, I don’t want to say too much – it’s all in the book – but eyewitnesses inside Hogwarts castle saw Potter running away from the scene moments after Dumbledore fell, jumped, or was pushed. Potter later gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man against whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it seems? That is for the Wizarding community to decide – once they’ve read my book.”
On that intriguing note, I take my leave. There can be no doubt that Skeeter has quilled an instant bestseller. Dumbledore’s legion of admirers, meanwhile, may well be trembling at what is soon to emerge about their hero.
Harry reached the bottom of the article, but continued to stare blankly at the page. Revulsion and fury rose in him like vomit; he balled up the newspaper and threw it, with all his force, at the wall, where it joined the rest of the rubbish heaped around his overflowing bin.
He began to stride blindly around the room, opening empty drawers and picking up books only to replace them on the same piles, barely conscious of what he was doing, as random phrases from Rita’s article echoed in his head: An entire chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship… It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister… He dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth… I’ve had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for…
“Lies!” Harry bellowed, and through the window he saw the next-door neighbor, who had paused to restart his lawn mower, look up nervously.
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
“Ron, that's—that's it!”
“Ron, that's—that's it!” said Hermione, sounding stunned. “Of course! Why didn't I think of it?”
Harry stared at them both. “Felix Felicis?” he said. “I dunno... I was sort of saving it...”
“What for?” demanded Ron incredulously.
“What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?” asked Hermione.
Harry did not answer. The thought of that little golden bottle had hovered on the edges of his imagination for some time; vague and unformulated plans that involved
Ginny splitting up with Dean, and Ron somehow being happy to see her with a new boyfriend, had been fermenting in the depths of his brain, unacknowledged except during
dreams or the twilight time between sleeping and waking...
“Harry? Are you still with us?” asked Hermione.
“Wha—?... Yeah, of course,” he said, pulling himself together. “Well... okay. If I can't get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I'll take some Felix and have another
go this evening.”
“That's decided, then,” said Hermione briskly, getting to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette. “Destination... determination... deliberation...” she
murmured.
“Oh, stop that,” Ron begged her, “I feel sick enough as it is—quick, hide me!”
“It isn't Lavender!” said Hermione impatiently, as another couple of girls appeared in the courtyard and Ron dived behind her.
“Cool,” said Ron, peering over Hermione's shoulder to check. “Blimey, they don't look happy, do they?”
“They're the Montgomery sisters and of course they don't look happy, didn't you hear what happened to their little brother?” said Hermione.
“I'm losing track of what's happening to everyone's relatives, to be honest,” said Ron.
“Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St.
Mungo's, they couldn't save him.”
“He died?” repeated Harry, shocked. “But surely werewolves don't kill, they just turn you into one of them?”
“They sometimes kill,” said Ron, who looked unusually grave now. “I've heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away.”
“What was the werewolf's name?” said Harry quickly.
“Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback,” said Hermione.
“I knew it—the maniac who likes attacking kids, the one Lupin told me about!” said Harry angrily.
Hermione looked at him bleakly.
“Harry, you've got to get that memory,” she said. “It's all about stopping Voldemort, isn't it? These dreadful things that are happening are all down to him...”
The bell rang overhead in the castle and both Hermione and Ron jumped to their feet, looking terrified.
“You'll do fine,” Harry told them both, as they headed toward the entrance hall to meet the rest of the people taking their Apparition Test. “Good luck.”
“And you too!” said Hermione with a significant look, as Harry headed off to the dungeons.
There were only three of them in Potions that afternoon: Harry, Ernie, and Draco Malfoy.
“All too young to Apparate just yet?” said Slughorh genially, “Not turned seventeen yet?”
Harry stared at them both. “Felix Felicis?” he said. “I dunno... I was sort of saving it...”
“What for?” demanded Ron incredulously.
“What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?” asked Hermione.
Harry did not answer. The thought of that little golden bottle had hovered on the edges of his imagination for some time; vague and unformulated plans that involved
Ginny splitting up with Dean, and Ron somehow being happy to see her with a new boyfriend, had been fermenting in the depths of his brain, unacknowledged except during
dreams or the twilight time between sleeping and waking...
“Harry? Are you still with us?” asked Hermione.
“Wha—?... Yeah, of course,” he said, pulling himself together. “Well... okay. If I can't get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I'll take some Felix and have another
go this evening.”
“That's decided, then,” said Hermione briskly, getting to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette. “Destination... determination... deliberation...” she
murmured.
“Oh, stop that,” Ron begged her, “I feel sick enough as it is—quick, hide me!”
“It isn't Lavender!” said Hermione impatiently, as another couple of girls appeared in the courtyard and Ron dived behind her.
“Cool,” said Ron, peering over Hermione's shoulder to check. “Blimey, they don't look happy, do they?”
“They're the Montgomery sisters and of course they don't look happy, didn't you hear what happened to their little brother?” said Hermione.
“I'm losing track of what's happening to everyone's relatives, to be honest,” said Ron.
“Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St.
Mungo's, they couldn't save him.”
“He died?” repeated Harry, shocked. “But surely werewolves don't kill, they just turn you into one of them?”
“They sometimes kill,” said Ron, who looked unusually grave now. “I've heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away.”
“What was the werewolf's name?” said Harry quickly.
“Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback,” said Hermione.
“I knew it—the maniac who likes attacking kids, the one Lupin told me about!” said Harry angrily.
Hermione looked at him bleakly.
“Harry, you've got to get that memory,” she said. “It's all about stopping Voldemort, isn't it? These dreadful things that are happening are all down to him...”
The bell rang overhead in the castle and both Hermione and Ron jumped to their feet, looking terrified.
“You'll do fine,” Harry told them both, as they headed toward the entrance hall to meet the rest of the people taking their Apparition Test. “Good luck.”
“And you too!” said Hermione with a significant look, as Harry headed off to the dungeons.
There were only three of them in Potions that afternoon: Harry, Ernie, and Draco Malfoy.
“All too young to Apparate just yet?” said Slughorh genially, “Not turned seventeen yet?”
Chapter 22 After the burial
Chapter 22 After the burial
Patches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching summer did not lift Harry's mood. He had been thwarted, both
in his attempts to find out what Malfoy was doing, and in his efforts to start a conversation with Slughorn that might lead, somehow, to Slughorn handing over the
memory he had apparently suppressed for decades.
“For the last time, just forget about Malfoy,” Hermione told Harry firmly.
They were sitting with Ron in a sunny corner of the courtyard after lunch. Hermione and Ron were both clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet: Common Apparition Mistakes
and How to Avoid Them, for they were taking their tests that very afternoon, but by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to the nerves. Ron gave a start and
tried to hide behind Hermione as a girl came around the corner.
“It isn't Lavender,” said Hermione wearily.
“Oh, good,” said Ron, relaxing.
“Harry Potter?” said the girl. “I was asked to give you this.”
“Thanks...”
Harry's heart sank as he took the small scroll of parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he said, “Dumbledore said we wouldn't be having any more lessons until I
got the memory!”
“Maybe he wants to check on how you're doing?” suggested Hermione, as Harry unrolled the parchment; but rather than finding Dumbledore's long, narrow, slanted writing
he saw an untidy sprawl, very difficult to read due to the presence of large blotches on the parchment where the ink had run.
Dear Harry, Ron and Hermione,
Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you'd have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down
for the burial later this evening. I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite time of day. I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can
use the cloak. Wouldn't ask, but I can't face it alone.
Hagrid
“Look at this,” said Harry, handing the note to Hermione.
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, scanning it quickly and passing it to Ron, who read it through looking increasingly incredulous.
“He's mental” he said furiously. “That thing told its mates to eat Harry and me! Told them to help themselves! And now Hagrid expects us to go down there and cry
over its horrible hairy body!”
“It's not just that,” said Hermione. “He's asking us to leave the castle at night and he knows security's a million times tighter and how much trouble we'd be in if
we were caught.”
“We've been down to see him by night before,” said Harry.
“Yes, but for something like this?” said Hermione. “We've risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all—Aragog's dead. If it were a question of saving him —”
“— I'd want to go even less,” said Ron firmly. “You didn't meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead will have improved him a lot.”
Harry took the note back and stared down at all the inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick and fast upon the parchment...
“Harry, you can't be thinking of going,” said Hermione. “It's such a pointless thing to get detention for.”
Harry sighed.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us.”
“Yes, he will,” said Hermione, looking relieved. “Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all off doing our tests... try and soften Slughorn up a
bit then!”
“Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?” said Harry bitterly.
“Lucky,” said Ron suddenly. “Harry, that's it—get lucky!”
“What d'you mean?”
“Use your lucky potion!”
Patches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching summer did not lift Harry's mood. He had been thwarted, both
in his attempts to find out what Malfoy was doing, and in his efforts to start a conversation with Slughorn that might lead, somehow, to Slughorn handing over the
memory he had apparently suppressed for decades.
“For the last time, just forget about Malfoy,” Hermione told Harry firmly.
They were sitting with Ron in a sunny corner of the courtyard after lunch. Hermione and Ron were both clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet: Common Apparition Mistakes
and How to Avoid Them, for they were taking their tests that very afternoon, but by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to the nerves. Ron gave a start and
tried to hide behind Hermione as a girl came around the corner.
“It isn't Lavender,” said Hermione wearily.
“Oh, good,” said Ron, relaxing.
“Harry Potter?” said the girl. “I was asked to give you this.”
“Thanks...”
Harry's heart sank as he took the small scroll of parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he said, “Dumbledore said we wouldn't be having any more lessons until I
got the memory!”
“Maybe he wants to check on how you're doing?” suggested Hermione, as Harry unrolled the parchment; but rather than finding Dumbledore's long, narrow, slanted writing
he saw an untidy sprawl, very difficult to read due to the presence of large blotches on the parchment where the ink had run.
Dear Harry, Ron and Hermione,
Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you'd have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down
for the burial later this evening. I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite time of day. I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can
use the cloak. Wouldn't ask, but I can't face it alone.
Hagrid
“Look at this,” said Harry, handing the note to Hermione.
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, scanning it quickly and passing it to Ron, who read it through looking increasingly incredulous.
“He's mental” he said furiously. “That thing told its mates to eat Harry and me! Told them to help themselves! And now Hagrid expects us to go down there and cry
over its horrible hairy body!”
“It's not just that,” said Hermione. “He's asking us to leave the castle at night and he knows security's a million times tighter and how much trouble we'd be in if
we were caught.”
“We've been down to see him by night before,” said Harry.
“Yes, but for something like this?” said Hermione. “We've risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all—Aragog's dead. If it were a question of saving him —”
“— I'd want to go even less,” said Ron firmly. “You didn't meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead will have improved him a lot.”
Harry took the note back and stared down at all the inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick and fast upon the parchment...
“Harry, you can't be thinking of going,” said Hermione. “It's such a pointless thing to get detention for.”
Harry sighed.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I s'pose Hagrid'll have to bury Aragog without us.”
“Yes, he will,” said Hermione, looking relieved. “Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all off doing our tests... try and soften Slughorn up a
bit then!”
“Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?” said Harry bitterly.
“Lucky,” said Ron suddenly. “Harry, that's it—get lucky!”
“What d'you mean?”
“Use your lucky potion!”
“And what about you?”
“And what about you?” asked Hermione, ignoring Ron. “Have you been up at the Room of Requirement all this time?”
“Yep,” said Harry. “And guess who I ran into up there? Tonks!”
“Tonks?” repeated Ron and Hermione together, looking surprised.
“Yeah, she said she'd come to visit Dumbledore.”
“If you ask me,” said Ron once Harry had finished describing his conversation with Tonks, “she's cracking up a bit. Losing her nerve after what happened at the
Ministry.”
“It's a bit odd,” said Hermione, who for some reason looked very concerned. “She's supposed to be guarding the school, why she suddenly abandoning her post to come
and see Dumbledore when he's not even here?”
“I had a thought,” said Harry tentatively. He felt strange about voicing it; this was much more Hermione's territory than his. “You don't think she can have been...
you know... in love with Sirius?”
Hermione stared at him.
“What on earth makes you say that?”
“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging, “but she was nearly crying when I mentioned his name ... and her Patronus is a big four-legged thing now... I wondered whether it
hadn't become... you know... him.”
“It's a thought,” said Hermione slowly. “But I still don't know why she'd be bursting into the castle to see Dumbledore, if that's really why she was here.”
“Goes back to what I said, doesn't it?” said Ron, who was now shoveling mashed potato into his mouth. “She's gone a bit funny. Lost her nerve. Women,” he said
wisely to Harry, “they're easily upset.”
“And yet,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie, “I doubt you'd find a woman who sulked for half an hour because Madam Rosmerta didn't laugh at their joke about
the hag, the Healer, and the Mimbulus mimbletonia.”
Ron scowled.
“Yep,” said Harry. “And guess who I ran into up there? Tonks!”
“Tonks?” repeated Ron and Hermione together, looking surprised.
“Yeah, she said she'd come to visit Dumbledore.”
“If you ask me,” said Ron once Harry had finished describing his conversation with Tonks, “she's cracking up a bit. Losing her nerve after what happened at the
Ministry.”
“It's a bit odd,” said Hermione, who for some reason looked very concerned. “She's supposed to be guarding the school, why she suddenly abandoning her post to come
and see Dumbledore when he's not even here?”
“I had a thought,” said Harry tentatively. He felt strange about voicing it; this was much more Hermione's territory than his. “You don't think she can have been...
you know... in love with Sirius?”
Hermione stared at him.
“What on earth makes you say that?”
“I dunno,” said Harry, shrugging, “but she was nearly crying when I mentioned his name ... and her Patronus is a big four-legged thing now... I wondered whether it
hadn't become... you know... him.”
“It's a thought,” said Hermione slowly. “But I still don't know why she'd be bursting into the castle to see Dumbledore, if that's really why she was here.”
“Goes back to what I said, doesn't it?” said Ron, who was now shoveling mashed potato into his mouth. “She's gone a bit funny. Lost her nerve. Women,” he said
wisely to Harry, “they're easily upset.”
“And yet,” said Hermione, coming out of her reverie, “I doubt you'd find a woman who sulked for half an hour because Madam Rosmerta didn't laugh at their joke about
the hag, the Healer, and the Mimbulus mimbletonia.”
Ron scowled.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
“Wha ?” said Hagrid, bending lower to hear
“Wha ?” said Hagrid, bending lower to hear what Harry was saying over the raging wind.
“Someone's been cursed!” bellowed Harry.
“Cursed? Who's bin cursed—not Ron? Hermione?”
“No, it's not them, it's Katie Bell—this way...”
Together they ran back along the lane. It took them no time to find the little group of people around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; Ron,
Hermione, and Leanne were all trying to quiet her.
“Get back!” shouted Hagrid. “Lemme see her!”
“Something's happened to her!” sobbed Leanne. “I don't know what —”
Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie's piercing
screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind.
Hermione hurried over to Katie's wailing friend and put an arm around her.
“It's Leanne, isn't it?”
The girl nodded.
“Did it just happen all of a sudden, or—?”
“It was when that package tore,” sobbed Leanne, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Ron
bent down, his hand outstretched, but Harry seized his arm and pulled him back.
“Don't touch it!”
He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper.
“I've seen that before,” said Harry, staring at the thing. “It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have touched
it.” He looked up at Leanne, who had started to shake uncontrollably. “How did Katie get hold of this?”
“Well, that's why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to
deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it... Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiused and I didn't realize!”
Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently.
“She didn't say who'd given it to her, Leanne?”
“No... she wouldn't tell me... and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn't listen and... and then I tried to grab it from
her... and — and —”
Leanne let out a wail of despair.
“We'd better get up to school,” said Hermione, her arm still around Leanne. “We'll be able to find out how she is. Come on...”
Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron's gasp, carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up.
“We'll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey,” he said.
As they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road, Harry was thinking furiously. They had just entered the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his thoughts to himself
any longer.
“Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad.
This is what he was buying that day when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!”
“I—I dunno, Harry,” said Ron hesitantly. “Loads of people go to Borgin and Burke... and didn't that girl say Katie got it in the girls’ bathroom?”
“She said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn't necessarily get it in the bathroom itself—”
“McGonagall!” said Ron warningly.
Harry looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet them.
“Someone's been cursed!” bellowed Harry.
“Cursed? Who's bin cursed—not Ron? Hermione?”
“No, it's not them, it's Katie Bell—this way...”
Together they ran back along the lane. It took them no time to find the little group of people around Katie, who was still writhing and screaming on the ground; Ron,
Hermione, and Leanne were all trying to quiet her.
“Get back!” shouted Hagrid. “Lemme see her!”
“Something's happened to her!” sobbed Leanne. “I don't know what —”
Hagrid stared at Katie for a second, then without a word, bent down, scooped her into his arms, and ran off toward the castle with her. Within seconds, Katie's piercing
screams had died away and the only sound was the roar of the wind.
Hermione hurried over to Katie's wailing friend and put an arm around her.
“It's Leanne, isn't it?”
The girl nodded.
“Did it just happen all of a sudden, or—?”
“It was when that package tore,” sobbed Leanne, pointing at the now sodden brown-paper package on the ground, which had split open to reveal a greenish glitter. Ron
bent down, his hand outstretched, but Harry seized his arm and pulled him back.
“Don't touch it!”
He crouched down. An ornate opal necklace was visible, poking out of the paper.
“I've seen that before,” said Harry, staring at the thing. “It was on display in Borgin and Burkes ages ago. The label said it was cursed. Katie must have touched
it.” He looked up at Leanne, who had started to shake uncontrollably. “How did Katie get hold of this?”
“Well, that's why we were arguing. She came back from the bathroom in the Three Broomsticks holding it, said it was a surprise for somebody at Hogwarts and she had to
deliver it. She looked all funny when she said it... Oh no, oh no, I bet she'd been Imperiused and I didn't realize!”
Leanne shook with renewed sobs. Hermione patted her shoulder gently.
“She didn't say who'd given it to her, Leanne?”
“No... she wouldn't tell me... and I said she was being stupid and not to take it up to school, but she just wouldn't listen and... and then I tried to grab it from
her... and — and —”
Leanne let out a wail of despair.
“We'd better get up to school,” said Hermione, her arm still around Leanne. “We'll be able to find out how she is. Come on...”
Harry hesitated for a moment, then pulled his scarf from around his face and, ignoring Ron's gasp, carefully covered the necklace in it and picked it up.
“We'll need to show this to Madam Pomfrey,” he said.
As they followed Hermione and Leanne up the road, Harry was thinking furiously. They had just entered the grounds when he spoke, unable to keep his thoughts to himself
any longer.
“Malfoy knows about this necklace. It was in a case at Borgin and Burkes four years ago, I saw him having a good look at it while I was hiding from him and his dad.
This is what he was buying that day when we followed him! He remembered it and he went back for it!”
“I—I dunno, Harry,” said Ron hesitantly. “Loads of people go to Borgin and Burke... and didn't that girl say Katie got it in the girls’ bathroom?”
“She said she came back from the bathroom with it, she didn't necessarily get it in the bathroom itself—”
“McGonagall!” said Ron warningly.
Harry looked up. Sure enough, Professor McGonagall was hurrying down the stone steps through swirling sleet to meet them.
Ron ignored this jibe, sipping his drink
Ron ignored this jibe, sipping his drink in what he evidently considered to be a dignified silence. Harry was thinking about Sirius, and how he had hated those silver
goblets anyway. Hermione drummed her fingers on the table, her eyes flickering between Ron and the bar. The moment Harry drained the last drops in his bottle she said,
“Shall we call it a day and go back to school, then?”
The other two nodded; it had not been a fun trip and the weather was getting worse the longer they stayed. Once again they drew their cloaks tightly around them,
rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub and back up the High Street. Harry's thoughts strayed to Ginny as
they trudged up the road to Hogwarts through the frozen slush. They had not met up with her, undoubtedly, thought Harry, because she and Dean were cozily closeted in
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, that haunt of happy couples. Scowling, he bowed his head against the swirling sleet and trudged on.
It was a little while before Harry became aware that the voices of Katie Bell and her friend, which were being carried back to him on the wind, had become shriller and
louder. Harry squinted at their indistinct figures. The two girls were having an argument about something Katie was holding in her hand.
“It's nothing to do with you, Leanne!” Harry heard Katie say.
They rounded a corner in the lane, sleet coming thick and fast, blurring Harry's glasses. Just as he raised a gloved hand to wipe them, Leanne made to grab hold of the
package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back and the package fell to the ground.
At once, Katie rose into the air, not as Ron had done, suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. Yet
there was something wrong, something eerie... Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching.
Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her
terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie's ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. Harry, Ron, and Hermione
rushed forward to help, but even as they grabbed Katie's legs, she fell on top of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could
hardly hold her. Instead they lowered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to recognize any of them.
Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted.
“Stay there!” he shouted at the others over the howling wind. “I'm going for help!”
He began to sprint toward the school; he had never seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and could not think what had caused it; he hurtled around a bend in the
lane and collided with what seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs.
“Hagrid!” he panted, disentangling himself from the hedgerow into which he had fallen.
“Harry!” said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great, shaggy beaverskin coat. “Jus’ bin visitin’ Grawp, he's comin’ on
so well yeh wouldn’ —”
“Hagrid, someone's hurt back there, or cursed, or something —”
goblets anyway. Hermione drummed her fingers on the table, her eyes flickering between Ron and the bar. The moment Harry drained the last drops in his bottle she said,
“Shall we call it a day and go back to school, then?”
The other two nodded; it had not been a fun trip and the weather was getting worse the longer they stayed. Once again they drew their cloaks tightly around them,
rearranged their scarves, pulled on their gloves, then followed Katie Bell and a friend out of the pub and back up the High Street. Harry's thoughts strayed to Ginny as
they trudged up the road to Hogwarts through the frozen slush. They had not met up with her, undoubtedly, thought Harry, because she and Dean were cozily closeted in
Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, that haunt of happy couples. Scowling, he bowed his head against the swirling sleet and trudged on.
It was a little while before Harry became aware that the voices of Katie Bell and her friend, which were being carried back to him on the wind, had become shriller and
louder. Harry squinted at their indistinct figures. The two girls were having an argument about something Katie was holding in her hand.
“It's nothing to do with you, Leanne!” Harry heard Katie say.
They rounded a corner in the lane, sleet coming thick and fast, blurring Harry's glasses. Just as he raised a gloved hand to wipe them, Leanne made to grab hold of the
package Katie was holding; Katie tugged it back and the package fell to the ground.
At once, Katie rose into the air, not as Ron had done, suspended comically by the ankle, but gracefully, her arms outstretched, as though she was about to fly. Yet
there was something wrong, something eerie... Her hair was whipped around her by the fierce wind, but her eyes were closed and her face was quite empty of expression.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Leanne had all halted in their tracks, watching.
Then, six feet above the ground, Katie let out a terrible scream. Her eyes flew open but whatever she could see, or whatever she was feeling, was clearly causing her
terrible anguish. She screamed and screamed; Leanne started to scream too and seized Katie's ankles, trying to tug her back to the ground. Harry, Ron, and Hermione
rushed forward to help, but even as they grabbed Katie's legs, she fell on top of them; Harry and Ron managed to catch her but she was writhing so much they could
hardly hold her. Instead they lowered her to the ground where she thrashed and screamed, apparently unable to recognize any of them.
Harry looked around; the landscape seemed deserted.
“Stay there!” he shouted at the others over the howling wind. “I'm going for help!”
He began to sprint toward the school; he had never seen anyone behave as Katie had just behaved and could not think what had caused it; he hurtled around a bend in the
lane and collided with what seemed to be an enormous bear on its hind legs.
“Hagrid!” he panted, disentangling himself from the hedgerow into which he had fallen.
“Harry!” said Hagrid, who had sleet trapped in his eyebrows and beard, and was wearing his great, shaggy beaverskin coat. “Jus’ bin visitin’ Grawp, he's comin’ on
so well yeh wouldn’ —”
“Hagrid, someone's hurt back there, or cursed, or something —”
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Chapter 70
Chapter 70
Sergey Ivanovitch Koznishev wanted a rest from mental work, and instead of going abroad as he usually did, he came towards the end of May to stay in the country with his brother. In his judgment the best sort of life was a country life. He had come now to enjoy such a life at his brother's. Konstantin Levin was very glad to have him, especially as he did not expect his brother Nikolay that summer. But in spite of his affection and respect for Sergey Ivanovitch, Konstantin Levin was uncomfortable with his brother in the country. It made him uncomfortable, and it positively annoyed him to see his brother's attitude to the country. To Konstantin Levin the country was the background of life, that is of pleasures, endeavors, labor. To Sergey Ivanovitch the country meant on one hand rest from work, on the other a valuable antidote to the corrupt influences of town, which he took with satisfaction and a sense of its utility. To Konstantin Levin the country was good first because it afforded a field for labor, of the usefulness of which there could be no doubt. To Sergey Ivanovitch the country was particularly good, because there it was possible and fitting to do nothing. Moreover, Sergey Ivanovitch's attitude to the peasants rather piqued Konstantin. Sergey Ivanovitch used to say that he knew and liked the peasantry, and he often talked to the peasants, which he knew how to do without affectation or condescension, and from every such conversation he would deduce general conclusions in favor of the peasantry and in confirmation of his knowing them. Konstantin Levin did not like such an attitude to the peasants. To Konstantin the peasant was simply the chief partner in their common labor, and in spite of all the respect and the love, almost like that of kinship, he had for the peasant-- sucked in probably, as he said himself, with the milk of his peasant nurse--still as a fellow-worker with him, while sometimes enthusiastic over the vigor, gentleness, and justice of these men, he was very often, when their common labors called for other qualities, exasperated with the peasant for his carelessness, lack of method, drunkenness, and lying. If he had been asked whether he liked or didn't like the peasants, Konstantin Levin would have been absolutely at a loss what to reply. He liked and did not like the peasants, just as he liked and did not like men in general. Of course, being a good-hearted man, he liked men rather than he disliked them, and so too with the peasants. But like or dislike "the people" as something apart he could not, not only because he lived with "the people," and all his interests were bound up with theirs, but also because he regarded himself as a part of "the people," did not see any special qualities or failings distinguishing himself and "the people," and could not contrast himself with them. Moreover, although he had lived so long in the closest relations with the peasants, as farmer and arbitrator, and what was more, as adviser (the peasants trusted him, and for thirty miles round they would come to ask his advice), he had no definite views of "the people," and would have been as much at a loss to answer the question whether he knew "the people" as the question whether he liked them. For him to say he knew the peasantry would have been the same as to say he knew men. He was continually watching and getting to know people of all sorts, and among them peasants, whom he regarded as good and interesting people, and he was continually observing new points in them, altering his former views of them and forming new ones. With Sergey Ivanovitch it was quite the contrary. Just as he liked and praised a country life in comparison with the life he did not like, so too he liked the peasantry in contradistinction to the class of men he did not like, and so too he knew the peasantry as something distinct from and opposed to men generally. In his methodical brain there were distinctly formulated certain aspects of peasant life, deduced partly from that life itself, but chiefly from contrast with other modes of life. He never changed his opinion of the peasantry and his sympathetic attitude towards them.
In the discussions that arose between the brothers on their views of the peasantry, Sergey Ivanovitch always got the better of his brother, precisely because Sergey Ivanovitch had definite ideas about the peasant--his character, his qualities, and his tastes. Konstantin Levin had no definite and unalterable idea on the subject, and so in their arguments Konstantin was readily convicted of contradicting himself.
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Sergey Ivanovitch Koznishev wanted a rest from mental work, and instead of going abroad as he usually did, he came towards the end of May to stay in the country with his brother. In his judgment the best sort of life was a country life. He had come now to enjoy such a life at his brother's. Konstantin Levin was very glad to have him, especially as he did not expect his brother Nikolay that summer. But in spite of his affection and respect for Sergey Ivanovitch, Konstantin Levin was uncomfortable with his brother in the country. It made him uncomfortable, and it positively annoyed him to see his brother's attitude to the country. To Konstantin Levin the country was the background of life, that is of pleasures, endeavors, labor. To Sergey Ivanovitch the country meant on one hand rest from work, on the other a valuable antidote to the corrupt influences of town, which he took with satisfaction and a sense of its utility. To Konstantin Levin the country was good first because it afforded a field for labor, of the usefulness of which there could be no doubt. To Sergey Ivanovitch the country was particularly good, because there it was possible and fitting to do nothing. Moreover, Sergey Ivanovitch's attitude to the peasants rather piqued Konstantin. Sergey Ivanovitch used to say that he knew and liked the peasantry, and he often talked to the peasants, which he knew how to do without affectation or condescension, and from every such conversation he would deduce general conclusions in favor of the peasantry and in confirmation of his knowing them. Konstantin Levin did not like such an attitude to the peasants. To Konstantin the peasant was simply the chief partner in their common labor, and in spite of all the respect and the love, almost like that of kinship, he had for the peasant-- sucked in probably, as he said himself, with the milk of his peasant nurse--still as a fellow-worker with him, while sometimes enthusiastic over the vigor, gentleness, and justice of these men, he was very often, when their common labors called for other qualities, exasperated with the peasant for his carelessness, lack of method, drunkenness, and lying. If he had been asked whether he liked or didn't like the peasants, Konstantin Levin would have been absolutely at a loss what to reply. He liked and did not like the peasants, just as he liked and did not like men in general. Of course, being a good-hearted man, he liked men rather than he disliked them, and so too with the peasants. But like or dislike "the people" as something apart he could not, not only because he lived with "the people," and all his interests were bound up with theirs, but also because he regarded himself as a part of "the people," did not see any special qualities or failings distinguishing himself and "the people," and could not contrast himself with them. Moreover, although he had lived so long in the closest relations with the peasants, as farmer and arbitrator, and what was more, as adviser (the peasants trusted him, and for thirty miles round they would come to ask his advice), he had no definite views of "the people," and would have been as much at a loss to answer the question whether he knew "the people" as the question whether he liked them. For him to say he knew the peasantry would have been the same as to say he knew men. He was continually watching and getting to know people of all sorts, and among them peasants, whom he regarded as good and interesting people, and he was continually observing new points in them, altering his former views of them and forming new ones. With Sergey Ivanovitch it was quite the contrary. Just as he liked and praised a country life in comparison with the life he did not like, so too he liked the peasantry in contradistinction to the class of men he did not like, and so too he knew the peasantry as something distinct from and opposed to men generally. In his methodical brain there were distinctly formulated certain aspects of peasant life, deduced partly from that life itself, but chiefly from contrast with other modes of life. He never changed his opinion of the peasantry and his sympathetic attitude towards them.
In the discussions that arose between the brothers on their views of the peasantry, Sergey Ivanovitch always got the better of his brother, precisely because Sergey Ivanovitch had definite ideas about the peasant--his character, his qualities, and his tastes. Konstantin Levin had no definite and unalterable idea on the subject, and so in their arguments Konstantin was readily convicted of contradicting himself.
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