Harry Potter And The Half Blood Prince 哈利波特与混血王子(2.8完结)_派派后花园

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[Novel] Harry Potter And The Half Blood Prince 哈利波特与混血王子(2.8完结)

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你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看楼主 使用道具 楼主   发表于: 2014-01-23 0
坛子里哈利波特系列发表了:魔法石/密室/囚徒/死亡圣器四本,此帖为第五本。

Harry Potter And The Half Blood Prince哈利波特与混血王子
作者: J. K. Rowling


Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, released on 16 July 2005, is the sixth of seven novels from British author J. K. Rowling's popular Harry Potter series. Set during Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts, the novel explores Lord Voldemort's past, and Harry's preparations for the final battle amidst emerging romantic relationships and the emotional confusions and conflict resolutions characteristic of mid-adolescence.

仲夏的一个夜晚,反常的浓雾笼罩在窗户玻璃上,哈利·波特在女贞路4号德思礼家自己的卧室里紧张地等待着邓布利多教授的来访。
    哈利不太确定邓布利多是否真的会来德思礼家。邓布利多为什么现在要来看他呢?几个星期之后,他就要返校,邓布利多为什么不能等一等呢?哈利六年级的学习似乎就这样出人意料地提前开始了……
    而更加出人意料的事情还在接踵而至:邓布利多终于让斯内普教授如愿以偿,任命其担任黑魔法防御术课教师……哈利从教室的储藏柜里翻到一本魔药课本,它的前任主人是“混血王子”,从此哈利在神秘“王子”的帮助下成为“魔药奇才”……邓布利多开始了给哈利的单独授课,但奇怪的是,邓布利多却经常离开学校外出……在邓布利多的课上,哈利经历了几段关于少年伏地魔的惊心动魄的记忆,揭开了伏地魔不同寻常的身世之谜……
    哈利隐隐觉得这一学期斯内普教授和马尔福的关系发生了微妙变化,其中似乎别有一番隐情,而马尔福更是行踪诡秘……哈利试图揭穿马尔福的阴谋,但始终没有成功,直到马尔福把食死徒引进学校,斯内普对邓布利多校长举起了魔杖……
    哈利·波特在魔法世界的历险高潮再次掀起……
[ 此帖被zy32593在2014-02-08 17:23重新编辑 ]
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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.
“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!”
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 Brockdale 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 Black's 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.”
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.

[ 此帖被zy32593在2014-01-23 19:11重新编辑 ]
zy32593

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 板凳   发表于: 2014-01-23 0

第1章 另一位部长

      已经快接近午夜了,首相一个人坐在他的办公室里看着一份长长的备忘录,可他一点儿也没读进去。他正在等一个遥远国家的总统给他打来电话,一面在猜测那个可怜的人什么时候才能把电话打过来,一面又努力不去回想这漫长、劳累和艰难的一周留给他的不愉快记忆,他脑子里快要容不下什么别的了。越是想要专注于面前的文件,他的政敌那心满意足的脸就越是清晰可见。就在今天这个特殊的对手还出现在新闻里,又是列举一周来发生的那些可怕的事(好像每个人都需要提醒似的),又是解释为什么那些事情统统都是政府的错。

  一想到这些谴责,首相的心跳就加快了,因为这些东西既不公平也不真实。他的政府为什么就应该能阻止大桥的断裂呢?任何对他们在修桥上花的钱不够多的指责都显得很蛮横。那座桥建了还不到10年,就连最好的专家也很困惑为什么它会干干脆脆地折成两段,让一打汽车栽进了河。而又有谁能指责是因为警力不够才导致那两起被狠狠曝光的残忍谋杀案发生的?或者他们应该指责政府没能预报西南部那场导致重大伤亡的怪诞飓风?而他的次长(副部长)之一赫尔伯特·乔利,偏偏在这一周做出那些奇特的行为而被迫回家待着,这也是他的错吗?

  “我们的国家被一种阴沉的情绪所笼罩,”他的政敌毫不掩饰露骨的嘲笑。

  不幸的是,他说的并没有错。就连首相自己都能感受到这一点;人们确实看起来比从前要痛苦得多了。甚至天气也阴沉起来;七月中旬竟起了寒冷的雾……这不对,这不正常……

  他翻过备忘录的第二页,看了看到底有多长,终于还是把它当作一件麻烦事似的放弃了。他伸了伸懒腰,又悲哀地环顾了一下办公室。这真是间华丽的办公室,用精美大理石做成的壁炉正对着推拉式的窗子,将不合时令的寒冷紧紧关在外面。首相打了个寒战,起身走向窗户,外面只有薄薄的雾向窗玻璃压过来。就在他背对房间站着时,身后突然传来了一声轻轻的咳嗽。

  他愣住了,玻璃里反射出自己恐惧的脸。那声咳嗽他是认得的。从前就听到过。他非常缓慢地转过身来,面对着这间空屋子。

  “你好?”他努力使自己的声音听起来比他本人要勇敢。

  过了一小会儿,他准备相信没人会回应他了。但一个干脆、坚决的声音突然冒出来,就像在念一份准备好的声明。那声音——正如首相在听到第一声咳嗽时就预料到的那样——是从屋子角落里一个又小又脏的油画传来的,那里面画着一个头戴银白色假发,长得像青蛙一样的矮小男人。

  “致麻瓜首相。我们需要紧急会面。速速回复。福吉诚呈。”那画像里的男人询问般地看着首相。

  “呃,”首相说,“听着……我现在没有时间……我在等电话,你知道……从总统——”

  “那个可以重新安排,”画像马上说道。首相的心一沉,他怕的就是这个。

  “但我真的更希望和——”

  “我们会安排那位总统忘掉今晚的电话约定。他会明晚再打过来,”那个矮小的男人说。“请速速回复福吉先生。”

  “我……哦……好吧,”首相虚弱地说。“好,我见福吉。”

  他快步走回他的桌子,边走边把领带弄直。他刚来得及回到座位,换上一副故作轻松的表情,他的大理石壁炉架下面就窜起了一团亮绿色的火焰。他看着那儿,努力不流露出一丝惊讶和慌张,这时一个肥胖的男人出现在壁炉的火焰里,转得像陀螺一样快。几秒钟之后,他就爬出来站到一张上好的古式垫子上,掸了掸他细条纹斗篷袖子上的灰尘,手上拿着灰绿色的圆顶礼帽。

  “啊……首相大人,”康奈利·福吉一边说,一边大步走向首相并伸出他的手。“再见到你真高兴。”

  首相没法真诚地回敬这句问候,所以什么都没说。他一点儿也不为见到福吉而高兴,福吉的偶尔造访(且不说它本身就完全是一种警报)通常意味着他将要听到一些非常坏的消息。更何况福吉看起来饱受忧虑的折磨。他变得更瘦,头发更少,脸色也更灰白,而且布满了皱纹。首相从前在政客身上见过这种模样,它从来就不是好的预兆。

  “有什么我能做的吗?”首相说,简单地握了握福吉的手,便指向了桌前一个最硬的椅子。

  “不知道从哪儿开始说,”福吉小声嘀咕着,他抽出椅子坐上去,把绿色的礼帽放在双膝上。“多糟糕的一周,多糟糕啊……”

  “你这一周也很糟糕吗?”首相僵硬地问,希望能让福吉明白,不算上福吉的事儿都已经够他受的了。

  “是的,当然,”福吉揉了揉疲倦的眼睛,郁闷地望着首相,说。“我过了和你一样糟的一周,首相大人。布罗戴尔大桥……博恩斯和万斯的谋杀案……更别提西南部地区的骚动了……”

  “你——呃——我是想说,你们中有些人也——也卷入了这些——这些事情,是吗?”

  福吉用严峻的目光瞪着首相。

  “当然是啊,”他说。“你知道发生什么了吧?”

  “我……”首相有些犹豫。

  就是这种行为,让首相对福吉的每次造访都非常厌恶。他毕竟是首相,不想被人当成无知的学生。但从他刚当上首相时和福吉的第一次见面开始,这种情况就发生了。那一幕就像在昨天一样,他还记得,并且确信会一直萦绕在他心头一直到死的那天。

  那时候他一个人站在这间办公室里,品尝着他经过这么多年的梦想和计划才赢来的胜利,这时候他听到了他身后的一声咳嗽,就像今晚一样,转身发现那个画像里的丑陋男人正在对他说话,宣布魔法部部长准备和他见面。

  自然,他以为漫长的竞选活动和紧张的选举让他的头脑有些迷糊。当他发现一个画像在和他说话时简直吓坏了,虽然这根本比不上随后一个巫师从壁炉里冒出来并和他握手来得疯狂。在福吉向他解释这个世界上到处都住着隐藏起来的巫师的过程中,他一直哑口无言,福吉宽慰他说魔法部会对整个巫师社会负责,不让非魔法人群发现他们,这些都不用他来伤脑筋。他还说,这管理起来真不是一件容易的事,从规范飞天扫帚的使用责任到保持龙的数量在可控制的范围内(首相记得他当时得抓着桌子来支撑自己),涵盖了每一件事。最后福吉在呆若木鸡的首相肩膀上慈父般地拍了拍。

  “没什么可担心的,”他说,“你可能再也不用见到我了。我只会在我们那头出了真正严重的事的时候才会来打扰你,除非那种事情足以影响到麻瓜——非魔法人群,也许应该说。否则我们就相安无事。而,我必须承认你比你的前任更能承受这些。他当时想把我扔出窗子,还以为我是对手派来愚弄他的呢。”

  这时,首相终于发现他又能说话了。

  “那么,你——你不是在愚弄我?”

  他还想做垂死挣扎。

  “不是,”福吉轻轻地说。“恐怕不是。看。”

  他把首相的茶杯变成了一只沙鼠。

  “但是,”首相有点儿喘不过气,他的茶杯正咬着他下一次的演讲稿。“但为什么——为什么没有人告诉过我——?”

  “魔法部部长仅仅对时任的首相显示身份,”福吉把魔杖插回上衣的兜里。“我们发现这是最好的保密方法。”

  “但是,”首相低声说,“为什么没有一个前任首相警告过我——?”

  这时候福吉真正笑了起来。

  “我亲爱的首相大人,你会告诉别人吗?”

  福吉往壁炉里扔了些粉末,仍旧咯咯地笑着走进了翠绿色的火焰,呼的一声消失了。首相呆立在那儿,他明白自己不会向任何一个活人提起这事儿,因为在这世上有谁会去信他?

  震惊的感觉在逐渐消散。他一度确信福吉其实压根儿只是一个幻觉,经过紧张的竞选,他太缺乏睡眠了。他徒劳地想要除去所有能提醒他回忆起那件事的东西,他把沙鼠送给了他的侄女,还让私人秘书把宣布福吉到访的那幅丑男人画像给摘下来。可令他沮丧的是,那画像根本动不了。在几个木匠、一两个建筑工、一个艺术史学家和财政大臣把它从墙上弄下来的努力都以失败告终之后,首相终于放弃了努力,只好寄希望于那幅画像在他余下的任期里再也不要动了。但有时候,他发誓从眼角瞥到了油画的主人在打呵欠,或者在挠鼻子;甚至,有那么一两次竟然走出了自己的画框,只留下一段泥巴色的画布。然而,他又训练自己不去经常注意那幅画,而每次看到这些,他总是坚定地告诉自己眼睛爱和他开小玩笑。

  三年前,在一个酷似今晚的夜里,首相一个人待在办公室,画像突然宣告福吉即将到访,然后福吉就从壁炉里闯出来,浑身湿透了,显得相当紧张。首相还没来得及开口问他干嘛要把地毯弄得都是水,福吉就开始咆哮了,他提到一个首相从来没有听说过的囚犯,叫做“小添乱星”布莱克,一个听起来像是霍格沃茨的东西,还有一个叫哈利·波特的男孩,没有一个是首相能理解的。

  “……我刚从阿兹卡班回来,”福吉喘着气,把帽沿里的水倒进口袋。“在北海的中部,你知道的,令人厌恶的旅行……摄魂怪在骚动——”他打了个寒战,“——他们从没让人逃脱过。无论如何我还是要来告诉你。布莱克是一个臭名昭著的麻瓜杀手,而且可能正计划重新投靠神秘人……不过当然了,你甚至不知道神秘人是谁!”他绝望地看了看首相,说,“好吧,坐下,坐下,我最好还是讲给你听……来杯威士忌吧……”

  首相对于在自己办公室里被人叫着坐下显得很愤怒,更别说要拿出自己的威士忌了,但他还是坐下了。福吉抽出魔杖,从空气中变出两个装满琥珀色液体的大杯子,把其中一杯塞给首相,自己抽了把椅子坐下来。

  福吉说了一个多小时。有一次福吉不愿意大声说出某个名字,就把它写在了一张羊皮纸上,塞给首相没有拿威士忌的那只手。最后福吉站起来准备走了,首相也站了起来。

  “那么你认为那个……”他瞟了一眼左手上握着的名字,“伏——”

  “他的名字不能提!”福吉低声咆哮着说。

  “对不起……那么,你认为那个连名字都不能提的魔头还活着?”

  “唔,邓布利多说他还活着,”福吉说,一边把细条纹斗篷系在下巴下面,“但我们一直没找到他。如果你问我的话,我会说他并不危险,除非有人帮他,所以我们应该担心的是布莱克。你会发布那个警告的,是吧?好极了。那么,我希望我们再也不用见面了,首相大人!晚安。”

  但他们又见面了。一年之后,一个看起来很疲倦的福吉出现在内阁房间的空气中,他来通知首相在葵地奇(至少听起来是这样)世界杯上出现了一点小麻烦,有几个麻瓜被“卷入”了,但不用担心,神秘人标记重现的事不足挂齿;福吉确信那是一个孤立事件,麻瓜联络办公室会处理修改记忆的事宜。

  “噢,我差点儿忘了,”福吉补充说。“我们为了准备三强争霸赛而进口了三只外国龙和一只斯芬克斯,非常普通,但神奇动物管理控制司告诉我,手册里写了如果我们要带非常危险的生物到这个国家,就必须通知你。”

  “我——什么——龙?”首相语无伦次地问。

  “对,三只,”福吉说。“还有一只斯芬克斯。那么,祝你过得愉快。”

  首相有点绝望地希望龙和斯芬克斯是最糟糕的,但不是。不到两年之后,福吉又从火里喷出来,这次带来了阿兹卡班发生大规模越狱的消息。

  “大规模越狱?”首相嘶哑地重复着。

  “不用担心,不用担心!”福吉吼道,一只脚已经踏进了火焰中。“我们已经立即开展围捕了——只是觉得你应该知道!”

  首相还没来得及叫,“稍等一下!”福吉已经在一阵绿色火花中消失了。

  无论新闻和反对派怎么说,首相却并不是一个愚蠢的人。尽管在第一次见面时福吉就信誓旦旦地向他保证,但现在他们互相了解得更多了,他并非没有注意到,福吉每次造访都变得更加慌乱。虽然他并不想考虑那个魔法部部长(或者像他平时在脑子里称呼他的,另一个部长)的事,但首相仍然禁不住担心福吉的下一次出现会带来更灰暗的消息。因此,看上去既蓬乱又烦躁的福吉从壁炉里走出来,苛刻地惊讶于首相竟不知道他为何造访的景象,就是这黑暗的一周里发生的最糟糕的事。

  “我怎么就该知道——呃——巫师社会里发生的事情呢?”首相呵斥般地说。“我有一个国家需要管理,而且目前有许多需要关注的事情,除了你那些——”

  “我们有着共同的关注,”福吉打断了他的话。“布罗戴尔大桥并不是垮掉了。也没有什么真正的飓风。那些谋杀也不是麻瓜的作品。而赫尔伯特·乔利如果远离他的家庭,也许他们会更安全。我们现在正安排将他转入圣芒戈魔法伤病医院。这个转移今晚就要完成。”

  “你在说——我恐怕——什么?”首相咆哮起来。

  福吉深吸了一口气,然后说,“首相大人,我非常遗憾地告诉你,他回来了。那个连名字都不能提的魔头回来了。”

  “回来?你说‘回来’……他还活着?我的意思是——”

  首相在他的记忆里摸索三年前那场可怕谈话的细节,那时候福吉说人人都惧怕这个巫师,十五年前这个巫师在犯下一千多件恐怖的罪行之后,神秘地消失了。

  “对,还活着,”福吉说。“那就是——我不知道——如果一个人不能被杀死,是不是就指他活着?我并不能真正理解这个词,邓布利多也没解释清楚——不过他有了一个身体,能走路能谈话也能杀人,所以我认为,为了我们的讨论能进行下去,对,他还活着。”

  首相不知道该说什么,但出于希望能在讨论的各个话题中都表现得见识多广的持久习惯,他开始搜寻从前谈话中他还能记起的任何细节。

  “小添乱星布莱克是不是跟着——呃——那个连名字都不能提的魔头?”

  “布莱克?布莱克?”福吉把手中的礼帽转得飞快,心烦意乱地说。“小天狼星布莱克,你是说?我的天哪,不。布莱克死了。看起来我们——呃——误会布莱克了。他毕竟是清白的。他也不是那个连名字都不能提的魔头那边的人。我是说,”他把礼帽转得更快了,解围一般地说,“所有事实都指明这一点——我们有多于五十个的目击者——但无论如何,正如我刚才说的,他死了。事实上是被杀害了。在魔法部里面被杀害。实际上还会有个调查……”

  让福吉大为惊讶的是,这时候首相脸上闪过一丝对福吉的怜悯。但首相马上就装模作样地把它掩饰起来,他想,虽然他在从壁炉里显形这方面可能比不过福吉,但他还不至于让一场谋杀发生在他管辖的政府部门里……无论如何,还没有……

  首相偷偷碰了碰他的木头桌子,这时福吉接着说了下去,“但我们只是顺便提及布莱克。关键在于,我们正处于战争之中,首相大人,我们必须采取措施。”

  “战争当中?”首相紧张地重复。“肯定有点夸大其辞了吧。”

  “那个连名字都不能提的魔头现在有了一批支持者,一月份他们从阿兹卡班逃脱,”福吉说得越来越急促,把手中的礼帽转得那么快,看起来就像个灰绿色的模糊小球。“自从获得自由之后,他们就开始制造报复性的灾难。布罗戴尔大桥——他做的,首相大人,他威胁说如果我不给他让路,就会有一大堆的麻瓜要死掉,而且……”

  “天哪,这么说是那些人的死都是你的错,而我却不得不去回答说是因为铁索生锈和伸缩接头被腐蚀了,而且我还不知道有什么别的!”首相狂怒地说。

  “我的错!”福吉涨红了脸,说。“你是说,你会屈服于像那样的勒索吗?”

  “也许不会,”首相站了起来,在房子里大步大步地踱,“但我会尽全力在这个勒索者犯下任何这样的暴行之前抓住他。”

  “你真的认为我没有做每一种努力吗?”福吉激烈地说。“每一个部里的傲罗都找过——而且也正在找他并且围捕他的追随者,但我们不巧正好谈论的是有史以来最强大的巫师,一个逃脱追捕几乎三十年的巫师。”

  “那么我想你要告诉我,也是他在西南部制造的飓风?”首相每迈出一步,脾气都变得更大。找到了所有这些可怕的灾难发生的原因,却不能将它公布给公众是令人愤怒的;几乎比都怪罪到政府头上还要糟糕。

  “那不是飓风,”福吉悲伤地说。

  “哦,对不起!”首相跺着脚大叫。“树被连根拔起,屋顶被撕开,路灯柱被折弯,可怕的伤亡——”

  “那是食死徒们干的,”福吉说。“那个连名字都不能提的魔头的追随者。而且……我们怀疑巨人也参与其中了。”

  首相停下了他的脚步,就像撞到了一面无形的墙。

  “什么参与了?”

  福吉苦笑了一下。“上一次他为了寻求盛大的效果,用过巨人。误导办公室在昼夜不停地工作,我们有一队记忆注销员来修改那些看到真实情况的麻瓜的记忆,几乎所有的神奇动物管理控制司的成员都在索默塞忙得团团转,但我们找不到巨人——这是一场灾难。”

  “这是真的吗!”首相狂怒地说。

  “我不会否认现在部里士气非常低落,”福吉说。“除了那些,我们还失去了阿米莉亚·博恩斯。”

  “失去了谁?”

  “阿米莉亚·博恩斯。法律执行司的司长。我们觉得是那个连名字都不能提的魔头亲自杀了她,因为她是个非常有天分的巫师,而——而所以迹象表明她真正搏斗过。”

  福吉清了清嗓子,似乎做了极大的努力不去转动他的帽子。

  “但那场谋杀上了报纸,”首相旋即压了压怒气。“我们的报纸。阿米莉亚·博恩斯……上面只说她是个独居的中年妇女。那是——肮脏的谋杀,不是吗?众所周知。警察们都很困惑,你知道。”

  福吉叹息道。“哦,他们当然会。在一个从里面锁着的房子里被杀害,不是吗?另一方面,我们确切地知道那是谁干的,但那并不能有助于我们抓到他。然后又是爱米琳·万斯,也许你没有听说过那个名字——”

  “哦,我听说过!”首相说。“实际上就发生在这附近。报纸对它大做文章:在首相的后院践踏法律和秩序——”

  “而好像那些都还不够一样,”福吉几乎没有听首相的话,接着说,“我们还有摄魂怪涌往各地,到处攻击人群。”

  要在以前,这句话对首相来说可能会显得莫名其妙,但他现在更加明智了。

  “我本以为摄魂怪看守阿兹卡班监狱?”他慎重地说。

  “他们曾经是,”福吉疲惫地说。“但现在不再是了。他们放弃了那所监狱并且投靠了那个连名字都不能提的魔头。我不会否认那是一个突然的打击。”

  “不过,”首相感觉到一种逐渐清晰的恐惧,他说,“你不是要告诉我它们是那些能吸干人的希望和快乐的生物吧?”

  “就是那样。他们在繁殖。那就是起雾的原因。”

  首相瘫软地陷进最近的椅子里。一想到那些看不见的动物在城镇和乡村飞来飞去,在他的选民中间散布绝望,这个想法就让他感到虚弱不堪。

  “现在,听着,福吉——你必须做些什么!这是你作为魔法部部长的责任!”

  “我亲爱的首相大人,在经过了所有这些之后,你会相信我还是魔法部部长吗?我三天前就被解雇了!整个巫师世界强烈要求我下台已经两周了。我在任期里从没有见过他们如此团结一致!”福吉鼓起勇气笑了笑。

  首相一时间说不出话来。尽管他对目前的处境非常愤怒,但他还是相当同情这个坐在他面前的干瘪的人。

  “非常抱歉,”他最终说。“我还能做些什么吗?”

  “真的非常感谢,首相大人,但没有什么可以做的了。我今晚是被派来向你提供近来这些事件的最新情况的,同时也要向你介绍我的继任者。我觉得他应该到了,但当然了,他此时应该非常忙碌,有这么多事情在进行。”

  福吉回头看了看画像里戴着银白色卷发的丑陋男人,他正在用羽毛笔挖耳朵。

  他接触到了福吉的目光,于是说“他一会儿就来,他快要把给邓布利多的信写完了。”

  “祝他好运,”福吉说,第一次听起来有些苦涩。“过去的两周我每两天就给邓布利多写一封信,但他不为所动。如果他准备好了要说服那个男孩,我还是……好了,也许斯克林杰会更成功。”

  福吉又退回到令人苦恼的沉静之中,但它马上被画像清脆、打着官腔的声音打破了。

  “致麻瓜首相。请求一个会面。紧急。速速回复。鲁弗斯·斯克林杰,魔法部部长。”

  “是,是,好,”首相心烦意乱地说,当壁炉里的火焰又一次变成翠绿色的时候,他都几乎没有畏缩,又一个巫师从里面旋转着显现出来,一转眼他又被火焰吐到那张古朴的垫子上。福吉站了起来,片刻犹豫之后首相也站了起来,他们看着新来的客人站起身,掸掉长长的黑色袍子上的灰尘,然后环顾四周。

  首相第一眼看到鲁弗斯·斯克林杰时觉得他就像是一头老狮子。茶色的长发和浓密的眉毛里夹杂着缕缕灰发;一副金属框的眼镜下有一双锐利的黄眼睛。他走起路来虽然微微跛脚,却透出一种散漫、悠闲的雅致。马上给人一种精明强干的印象;首相觉得他明白了为什么在这种危急时期巫师社会要选他来替代福吉作为领导者。

  “你好。”首相礼貌地说,伸出了他的手。

  斯克林杰简单地抓住它握了握,他的眼睛扫视着这个屋子,然后从袍子里抽出一根魔杖。

  “福吉已经告诉你所有的事了?”他问道,然后大步走向房门,用魔杖在钥匙孔上轻轻一点。首相听到锁响了一下。

  “呃——对,”首相说。“如果你不介意的话,我希望别锁那扇门。”

  “我情愿不被打断,”斯克林杰简洁地说,“或者被注视,”他又加上一句,并用魔杖把窗户上的窗帘也拉了下来。“好的,那么,我是一个大忙人,所以让我们忙活起来。首先,我们需要讨论你的安全。”

  首相猛跳起来说,“我对目前我的安全状况很满意,非常感——”

  “好了好了,并非如此,”斯克林杰打断他。“对麻瓜们来说,如果他们的首相被夺魂咒控制,他们的前景就不妙了。你外面办公室的新秘书——”

  “我不会放弃金斯莱·沙克尔,如果你说要弃用他的话!”首相激烈地说。“他非常能干,能做的事是剩下人的两倍——”

  “那是因为他是一个巫师,”斯克林杰微微一笑,说。“一个严格训练的傲罗,被指派去做你的保护工作。”

  “等一等!”首相说。“你们不能就这么把你们的人放到我的办公室里,应该由我决定谁为我工作——”

  “我以为你对沙克尔很满意?”斯克林杰冷冷地说。

  “我是——那是指,我曾经是——”

  “那么就没有问题,不是吗?”斯克林杰说。

  “我……好吧,只要沙克尔的工作仍然……呃……杰出,”首相结结巴巴地说,但斯克林杰几乎没有听他的。
  “现在,关于赫尔伯特·乔利——你的次长,”他继续说道。“那个通过模仿鸭子来愉悦大众的人。”
  “他怎么了?”首相问。
  “他很明显中了一个不太高明的夺魂咒,”斯克林杰说。“这弄坏了他的脑子,但他仍然很危险。”
  “他只不过在学鸭子叫而已!”首相虚弱地说。“当然还有些其他的毛病……也许喜欢饮酒……”
  “在我们谈话的同时,一组圣芒戈魔法伤病医院的治疗师正在给他做检查。目前为止他已经企图扼死他们中的三个了,”斯克林杰说。“我认为暂时把他同麻瓜社会隔离开比较好。”
  “我……好吧……他会好起来的,是吗?”首相焦急地问。斯克林杰只是耸了耸肩,已经起身走到了壁炉边。
  “好了,那就是我想说的。我会让你知道事情的进展,首相——或者,至少我可能会太忙而没有时间亲自来你这儿,在这种情况下我会派福吉来。他已经答应继续留任一个提供建议的职位。”
  福吉试图微笑,但并不成功;他仅仅弄得看起来像是牙痛。斯克林杰已经开始在口袋里摸索那能使火焰变绿的神秘粉末了。首相绝望地凝视了他们俩一会儿,最终忍不住说出了那句被他压抑了一整夜的话。
  “老天!——你们是巫师!你们会施魔法!你们肯定能解决——嗯——任何问题!”
  斯克林杰慢慢转过身来,和福吉交换了一个怀疑的眼神,福吉这次真的试图挤出笑容,他温和地说,“可问题在于,那一边也会施魔法,首相大人。”
  说完这些,两人一先一后地走进那明亮的绿色火焰中,消失了。

[ 此帖被zy32593在2014-01-23 19:09重新编辑 ]
zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 地板   发表于: 2014-01-23 0

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, wait!”
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—”
“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 blood-red 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 course, 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, comfortably 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, a 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.
“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, I assure you, when I explained that I 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 Lord's old followers thought Potter might be a standard around which we could all rally once more. I was curious, I admit it, and not at all inclined to murder him the moment he set foot 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... 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, Narcissa? 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 Lord is granting him a great honor. And I will say this for Draco: he isn't shrinking away from his duty, he seems glad of a chance to prove himself, excited at the prospect —”
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 floor.
“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, and 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.

[ 此帖被zy32593在2014-01-23 19:11重新编辑 ]
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等级: 内阁元老
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你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
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第2章 蜘蛛尾巷

压迫在首相窗户上的雾,一直绵延到离那里很远的一条肮脏小河上,那条河两岸杂草丛生,垃圾密布。一个巨大的烟囱突兀地立在那儿,显得阴暗而恐怖,那是一座废弃的磨粉厂的遗迹。周围一点声音都没有,只有那条黑色的小河流过时发出沙沙的声响,一条瘦骨嶙峋狐狸鬼鬼祟祟地蹿出来,在高高的杂草中满怀希望地翻寻油炸鱼和土豆片的旧包装。除此之外,没有一点儿迹象显示这里有活的生命。

  突然,河边传来一声微弱的爆鸣,一个身材苗条,戴着兜帽的人从稀薄的空气中走了出来。狐狸一下子呆住了,警觉地盯着这不寻常的一幕。那人似乎找了一会儿方向,然后便迈着轻快的步子走了过来,长长的斗篷拂过杂草,发出瑟瑟的声响。

  接着又是一声爆鸣,又一个戴着兜帽的人出现了。

  “等等我!”

  那只狐狸蜷缩在丛生的杂草里面,似乎被这一声刺耳的叫唤吓着了。它突然从隐藏的地方跳起来,向上游跑去。这时候突然闪过一道绿色的光,接着一声惨叫,狐狸倒在地上死了。

  第二个人走上去用脚尖将狐狸翻了过来。

  “只是一只狐狸,”一个轻蔑女声从兜帽下传出来。“我还以为是个傲罗——西斯,等等我!”

  她追的那个人刚才回头看了一眼那道闪光,又继续匆匆地往岸上走去。

  “西斯——纳西莎——听我说——”

  第二个女人抓住了前面那个女人的胳膊,但她又马上挣脱了。

  “你回去,贝拉!”

  “你必须听我说!”

  “我已经听过了。也做了决定,别再烦我了!”

  那个叫纳西莎的女人已经爬上了岸,岸上的旧护栏将小河与一条狭窄的鹅卵石路分隔开。另外那个叫贝拉的女人马上跟了上来。

  她们并肩站在路边,看着对面一排排破烂的砖房,它们的窗户在黑暗中显得昏沉而隐蔽。

  “他住在这儿?”贝拉特里克斯轻蔑地问。“这儿?在这个麻瓜聚集的粪堆里?我们一定是我们这类人里第一个涉足——”

  但纳西莎根本没有听她说;她已经从生锈的护栏里找了个缺口钻了过去,急匆匆地准备过马路了。

  “西斯,等等!”

  贝拉紧紧跟着,袍子在身后微微飘起,她看见纳西莎穿过了一个房子之间的小巷,拐入另一个几乎一模一样的巷子。有些街灯已经坏了;两个女人就在这斑驳的灯光和黑暗里跑着。贝拉终于在又转了一个拐角之后追上了纳西莎,这次她成功抓住了纳西莎的胳臂并把她扯了过来。

  “西斯,你不能这么做,你不能信任他——”

  “黑魔王是信任他的,不是吗?”

  “黑魔王……我相信……是犯了个错误,”贝拉喘着气,当她看到四周没有别人时,兜帽里下的眼睛闪了一下。“在任何情况下,我们都不能把这个计划告诉别人。这是对黑魔王的背叛——”

  “放开我,贝拉!”纳西莎咆哮着从斗篷下抽出一根魔杖,威胁般地指着另一个人的脸。可贝拉只是笑了笑。

  “西斯,指着你自己的姐姐?你不会——”

  “再也没有我不敢做的任何事情!”纳西莎吸了口气,声音显得有些歇斯底里,她把魔杖像刀子一样往下一挥,只见又是一道闪光,贝拉像被烫伤一样松开了她妹妹的手。

  “纳西莎!”

  但纳西莎已经往前冲了过去。贝拉摩挲着手掌跟在后面,这次保持了一点距离,她们往迷宫一样的砖房里越走越深。最后纳西莎赶到了一个叫做蛛尾巷的小道上,从这儿往上望去,磨粉厂的烟囱高耸着,就像一个巨人在晃动他警告的手指。她的脚步声在鹅卵石路上回荡,在经过了许多被木板遮起来或是干脆被打碎的窗户之后,她终于走到了最后一间屋子,一片模糊的灯光从楼下房间的窗帘里透射出来。

  她敲了敲门,这时贝拉咒骂着从后面赶了上了。他们一起站在门外,微微喘气,闻着夜风从河边送来过来的气息。几秒钟之后,她们听到门后面有了动静,只听咔的一声,门打开了。一个瘦长的男人盯着她们俩,他有一头长长的黑发,绕在一张长着黑色眼睛的蜡黄色脸上。

  纳西莎把兜帽往后一掀。她脸色看起来非常苍白,以至于在黑暗中都有些发亮;一头金发一直披到她的背上,看上去就像一个溺死的人。

  “纳西莎!”那个男人把门开得更大了些,好让光线照到了姐妹俩身上。“真是一个惊喜。”

  “西弗勒斯,”她紧张地低声说。“我能跟你谈谈吗?这很紧急。”

  “当然。”

  他闪身让她进了屋。而她仍旧戴着兜帽的姐姐也跟着进去了,尽管没有被邀请。

  “斯内普,”她简略地说。

  “贝拉特里克斯,”他回敬道,嘴角卷起一个微微的嘲笑,在她们身后关上了门。

  她们径直走进了一个矮小的起居室,感觉就像走进了一间病房。几面墙都装满了书,大多数都用黑色或者褐色的皮革装订起来;一个俗气的沙发、一把老式的扶手椅和一张摇摇晃晃的桌子放在一起,被屋顶上蜡烛吊灯投射出的昏暗光线笼罩着。这里感觉起来就像是一个被遗忘的角落,似乎通常都没有人住。

  斯内普让纳西莎坐到沙发上。她脱下斗篷扔到一边,然后坐了下来,两眼盯着搁在膝盖上的苍白而颤抖的双手。贝拉特里克斯摘下兜帽的速度就要慢得多了。虽然她妹妹长得很漂亮,可她却非常黑,耷拉着厚厚的眼睑,还长着粗壮的下巴,她站到妹妹的身后,眼睛却始终盯着斯内普。

  “那么,有什么我能做的吗?”斯内普问道,同时做到面对着两姐妹的扶手椅上。

  “没有别人了吧……,是吗?”纳西莎轻声问。

  “当然没有。哦,虫尾巴在这儿,但我们说的是人而不是虫子,对吗?”

  他把魔杖指向他身后的一面满是书的墙,砰的一声,一扇隐藏的门打开了,里面的狭窄楼梯上站着一个呆若木鸡的人。

  “正如你发现的,虫尾巴,我们有客人来了,”斯内普懒懒地说。

  那个男人躬着背蹑手蹑脚地从最后几级台阶上走下来。他长了一双水汪汪的小眼睛,一个尖头鼻子,脸上挂着令人讨厌的假笑。他的左手轻轻抚摸着右臂,那只右臂看起来像是被一只银色手套包着。

  “纳西莎!”他尖声说,“还有贝拉特里克斯!多么奇妙——”

  “如果你们想要点喝的,虫尾巴会乐意效劳的,”斯内普说。“然后他就会回卧室。”

  虫尾巴往后一退,就像斯内普朝他扔了什么东西一样。

  “我不是你的仆人!”他避开斯内普的目光,尖声叫道。

  “真的吗?我记得是黑魔王派你来协助我的。”

  “是协助,对——不是给你端茶送水,也——也不是给你打扫房间!”

  “我不知道,虫尾巴,你还会渴求更危险的任务,”斯内普温和地说道。“这很容易办到,我会对黑魔王说——”

  “我想要说的话我自己能去说!”

  “当然能,” 斯内普冷笑着说。“但现在,给我们拿点喝的来,一些小精灵酿的酒就成。”

  虫尾巴犹豫了一小会儿,看上去想要再争辩,但他还是转身走向了另一扇隐藏起来的门。他们听到一声巨响,然后是玻璃杯碰撞的声音。片刻之后他回来了,用盘子托着一个灰尘扑扑的瓶子和三个玻璃杯。

  他把这些扔在摇摇晃晃的桌子上面,就急忙走开了,在他的身后猛地关上了那扇用书盖起来的门。

  斯内普把血红色的酒倒在三个玻璃杯里,然后把其中两杯递给了两姐妹。纳西莎嘟囔了一句谢谢,可贝拉特里克斯什么都没说,仍旧对斯内普怒目而视。这看起来没有令他感到不安,相反地,他看上去相当愉快。

  “祝福黑魔王,”他说着,举起杯子一饮而尽。

  两姐妹也照他的样子做了。斯内普又给她们斟满了酒。

  纳西莎一边喝她的第二杯酒,一边急促地说,“西弗勒斯,非常抱歉我这么冒昧地来拜访你,但我必须来见你。我觉得只有你能帮我——”

  斯内普抬手制止了她继续说下去,把魔杖指向那扇通往楼梯的门。随着一声巨响和尖叫,传来虫尾巴急匆匆上楼的声音。

  “抱歉,”斯内普说道,“他最近总是爱在门后偷听,我不知道他这样做是什么意思……你说到哪儿了,纳西莎?”

  她颤抖着深吸了一口气,继续讲道。

  “西弗勒斯,我知道我不该来这儿,我不能把任何事情告诉任何人,但是——”

  “那你就应该住嘴!”贝拉特里克斯咆哮起来。“尤其是在当着这种人的面!”

  “这种人?”斯内普讽刺般地重复着。“那么我应该怎样理解,贝拉特里克斯?”

  “那就是我不信任你,斯内普,你知道得很清楚。”

  纳西莎发出一声像是干哭的声音,用手捂住了脸。斯内普把他的杯子放回桌子上,又坐了回去,他双手放在椅子扶手上,微笑地望着贝拉特里克斯愤怒的脸。

  “纳西莎,我认为我们应该听听贝拉特里克斯到底要说什么,这样她就不会老打断我们了。好吧,接着说,贝拉特里克斯,”斯内普说。“你为什么不信任我。”

  “一百个理由!”她大声说着,大步从沙发后面走过来,在桌子上砰地放下手中的杯子。“从何说起!黑魔王失败的时候你去了哪儿?他消失的那段时间你为什么不尝试去找他?这么多年你在邓布利多的庇护下都做了些什么?为什么你要阻止黑魔王拿到魔法石?为什么黑魔王重生的那天你没有马上过来?几个星期前,当我们为了找回黑魔王的预言而浴血奋战的时候,你又在哪儿?而又是为什么,斯内普,在过去的五年里要让哈利·波特在你的仁慈下一直活着?”

  她停住了,胸口剧烈起伏着,脸颊泛起红晕。在她身后纳西莎没有一点反应地坐着,她的脸仍然埋在双手之中。

  斯内普微微一笑。

  “在我回答你之前——哦,是的,贝拉特里克斯,我会回答你的!你可以把我的话转达给那些在我背后窃窃私语的人,把我背叛他的不实传闻带回去给黑魔王。在我回答你之前,我说,让我再问你一个问题。你真的认为黑魔王没有问过我所有的这些问题吗?你真的觉得,如果我没有给出令他满意的答复,他还会让我坐在这里和你说话吗?”

  她迟疑了。

  “我知道他相信你,但——”

  “你认为他错了?或者我蒙蔽了他?认为我愚弄了黑魔王,愚弄了这个最伟大的巫师,愚弄了这个世界上把摄神取念玩弄得最为娴熟的人?”

  贝拉特里克斯什么都没有说,但第一次看起来有点儿尴尬了。斯内普并没有在这一点上纠缠。他又拿起他的酒杯,啜饮了一小口,然后继续说道,“你问我黑魔王失败的时候去了哪儿,我正在他命令我待的地方,霍格沃茨魔法学校,因为他希望我能刺探阿不思·邓布利多。我以为你知道,我是奉黑魔王的命令而坚守我的岗位。”

  她几乎察觉不到地点了点头,正准备张嘴说话,斯内普又制止了她。

  “你问我他消失的那段时间为什么不尝试去找他。和埃弗里、雅克利、卡罗夫妇、格雷巴克、卢修斯的理由一样,”他把头微微倾向纳西莎,“还有许许多多的人,都没有去找他。我相信他完了。我并不感到高兴,我错了,不过……如果他不原谅我们这些一度失去信念的人,他就不会剩下几个追随者了。”

  “他还有我!”贝拉特里克斯激昂地说。“我,为了他在阿兹卡班蹲了那么多年。”

  “是的,确实,很令人钦佩,”斯内普用一种无趣的腔调说。“当然,你在监狱里对他来说毫无用处,不过这种姿态无疑很不错——”

  “姿态!”她尖叫着说;看起来快被气疯了。“我在忍受摄魂怪的折磨,你却还在霍格沃茨,舒舒服服地做邓布利多的宠物!”

  “并不完全是这样,”斯内普平静地说。“他不肯让我做黑魔法防御术课老师,你知道。他似乎相信这会令我故态复萌……引诱我走向我的老路。”

  “这就是你为黑魔王做的牺牲,教不了你最喜欢的科目?”她嘲讽道。“那你为什么还要待在那儿,去为一个你认为都死了的主人去刺探邓布利多?”

  “勉强为之,”斯内普说,“尽管黑魔王对我没有擅离岗位而感到高兴:当他回来的时候,我给他提供了关于邓布利多整整十六年的情报作为见面礼,比起那些对讨厌的阿兹卡班监狱无穷无尽的记忆要有用得多……”

  “但你留下了——”

  “是的,贝拉特里克斯,我留下了,”斯内普第一次流露出不耐烦的迹象。“我有一个比困在阿兹卡班监狱要舒服得多的活儿。你知道他们在追捕食死徒。邓布利多的保护让我逃脱了牢狱之灾,占了大便宜。我再说一遍:连黑魔王都没有抱怨我待在那儿,我不知道你有什么理由这样做。”

  “我想你下面该想要知道,”他接着说,微微提高了音量,因为贝拉特里克斯看起来又想打断他,“为什么我要挡在黑魔王和魔法石之间。这很容易回答。他不能确定是否该信任我。他和你一样,也以为我从一个忠实的食死徒转变成了邓布利多身边的小丑。他的处境很可怜,非常虚弱,和一个普通巫师共用一个身体。他不敢向任何一个昔日的战友暴露自己,害怕他们会把他出卖给邓布利多或者是魔法部。我为他不信任我而感到深深的遗憾。他本可以早回来三年。事实上,我只看到贪婪和卑劣的奇洛去试图盗取魔法石,所以,我承认我我尽我所能去阻止了他。”

  贝拉特里克斯的嘴巴像吞了什么难吃的药似的扭了扭。

  “但当他回来的时候你并没有返回到他身边,当你感到黑魔标记灼痛的时候并没有立刻飞回他的身边——”

  “不错。我两小时后才回去。我是遵照邓布利多的命令回去的。”

  “遵照邓布利多的——?”她愤怒地说。

  “想想看!”斯内普又开始不耐烦了。“只需要多等两个小时,只是两个小时,我就确保了自己还能待在霍格沃茨继续做我的间谍!让邓布利多以为我只是按照他的命令回去的,那之后我还能继续从邓布利多和凤凰社得到消息!想想看,贝拉特里克斯:黑魔标记在那几个月里力量越来越强大,我知道他一定准备卷土重来了,所有的食死徒都知道!我有足够的时间考虑我要做什么,计划我的下一步行动,去像卡卡洛夫一样溜走,不是吗?”

  “黑魔王起初对我的迟到非常不满,但我向你保证,当我解释了尽管邓布利多认为我是他那边的人,但我对黑魔王仍旧忠诚之后,是的,黑魔王一度以为我永远离开他了,然而他弄错了。”

  “但是你起到了什么作用?”贝拉特里克斯冷笑道,“你给了我们什么有用的情报?”

  “我的情报直接传达给黑魔王,”斯内普说,“也许他选择了不告诉你——”

  “他什么都让我知道!”贝拉特里克斯马上愤怒了。“他说我是他最忠诚、最可信赖的——”

  “是吗?”斯内普说,他的声音微微透着不相信。“在遭遇了魔法部里的惨败后,他仍旧还这么认为吗?”

  “那不是我的错!”贝拉特里克斯涨红了脸。“黑魔王过去一直把最珍视的东西委托给我——如果当时卢修斯没有——”

  “你怎么敢——你怎么敢指责我的丈夫!”纳西莎抬起头来看着她的姐姐,死气沉沉地低声说。

  “分摊责任已经于事无补,”斯内普平静地说。“覆水难收了。”

  “这话不该由你来说!”贝拉特里克斯狂怒地吼道。“当我们其他人在冒风险的时候,你又一次的缺席了,不是吗,斯内普?”

  “我收到的命令是留在后面,”斯内普说。“也许你不同意黑魔王的做法,也许你认为我要是加入食死徒的队伍来对抗凤凰社也不会被邓布利多察觉?而——恕我直言——你竟然还在谈论危险……你面对的不是六个十几岁的孩子吗?”

  “你知道得很清楚,他们随后便得到了半个凤凰社的增援!”贝拉特里克斯咆哮道。“而说到凤凰社,你还是在声称无法说出它的总部在哪儿,不是吗?”

  “我不是保密人,我不能说出那个地点的名字。我想你应该知道这种魔法是怎么回事。黑魔王对我传递给他的关于凤凰社的情报很满意。也许你已经猜到了,这直接帮助你们找到并且干掉了爱米琳·万斯,也帮你们除去了小天狼星布莱克,我对你结果了他打满分。”

  他把头倾向她,向她敬酒。可她的表情并没有柔和下来。

  “你在逃避我的最后一个问题,斯内普。哈利·波特。过去的五年你有无数的机会杀了他。可你没有做。为什么?”

  “就这个问题,你和黑魔王讨论过吗?”斯内普问。

  “他……最近,我们……我在问你,斯内普!”

  “如果我杀了哈利·波特,黑魔王就不能用他的血重生,变得不可战胜了。”

  “你是说你预见了他要利用那个男孩?”她嘲讽道。

  “我没那么说;我不知道他的计划;我已经承认了我曾以为他死了。我只是试图解释为什么黑魔王没有对哈利·波特的苟且活着感到不快,至少直到一年之前……”

  “但你为什么要让他活着?”

  “我没有告诉你吗?正是邓布利多的保护让我可以不用进阿兹卡班!你不会否认我如果杀了他最钟爱的学生会让他站到我的对立面吧?但还有更多原因。我应该提醒你,当波特第一次走进霍格沃茨的时候就有许多关于他的故事在流传,谣传说他本身就是一个伟大的黑巫师,不然他是怎么从黑魔王的攻击下逃生的。实际上,许多黑魔王的追随者都觉得波特有可能成为一面新的旗帜,我们就能围拢在他周围重整旗鼓了。我承认我很好奇,而且在他踏进城堡的那一刻就根本没有想过要杀掉他。

  “当然,很快我就发现他根本没有任何特殊的才能。在一些紧要关头他总是凭借着一点点运气和更有才能的伙伴才能脱离困境。他真是极度平庸,不过他和他的父亲一样令人讨厌和自鸣得意。我尽了全力想让他被霍格沃茨开除,我相信他根本不属于那儿,但是要让我杀死他,或者让他在我面前被杀?要知道邓布利多就近在眼前,傻瓜才会做这种蠢事。”

  “由此我们是不是要相信邓布利多从来没有怀疑过你?”贝拉特里克斯说。“他不知道你真正效忠的是谁?他仍旧绝对信任你?”

  “我的角色扮演得很好,”斯内普说。“而你忽视了邓布利多的最大弱点:他相信人性最好的一面。当我投靠他的时候我编了个故事说我深深后悔了,要和过去做食死徒的日子彻底决裂,他敞开怀抱欢迎我——尽管,我已经说过了,他控制着不让我接近黑魔法。邓布利多是个伟大的巫师——是的,他是”(贝拉特里克斯不屑地哼了哼)“黑魔王也承认这点。然而,我很高兴地说他已经越来越老了。上个月和黑魔王的决斗就够他一受的。从那以后他就一直被严重的伤痛困扰,因为他的反应已经大不如前了。但这些年来,他一直都信任西弗勒斯·斯内普,对黑魔王来说,这就是我最大的价值。”

  贝拉特里克斯仍旧看起来很不悦,尽管她不知道接下来该怎么攻击斯内普才好。趁着她安静下来,斯内普转向了她的妹妹。

  “那么……你来找我帮忙,纳西莎?”

  “是的,西弗勒斯。我——我想你是唯一能帮我的人,我走投无路了。卢修斯又在监狱里,而……”

  她闭上了双眼,两颗大大的泪珠从眼睑下面渗出来。

  “黑魔王禁止我谈论这个,”纳西莎接着说,他的眼睛仍然闭着。“他希望没人知道这个计划。这是……非常秘密的。但是——”

  “如果他禁止,你就不该说了,”斯内普马上说。“黑魔王的话就是法律。”

  纳西莎吸了口气,就像被浸在冷水里一样。贝拉特里克斯自从踏进这屋子之后第一次显得满意。

  “你看吧!”她得胜般地对妹妹说。“连斯内普也这么说:他不让你提,你就闭嘴。”

  但斯内普站了起来,大步走向窗子,透过窗帘朝废弃的街道上看了看,然后猛地将它们拉上。他转过身冲纳西莎皱了皱眉。

  “可碰巧我知道这个计划,”他低声说。“我是极少数几个被黑魔王告知这个计划的人之一。不过,如果不是我刚好知道这个秘密,纳西莎,你可能会犯了背叛黑魔王的大罪。”

  “我就知道你肯定知道它!”纳西莎说,呼吸顺畅了些。“他这么信任你,西弗勒斯……”

  “你知道这个计划?”贝拉特里克斯脸上的满意表情迅速变成了愤怒。“你知道?”

  “当然,”斯内普说。“你想寻求什么帮助,纳西莎?如果你妄图让我去说服黑魔王改变主意,恐怕毫无希望,一点儿也没有。”

  “西弗勒斯,”她低声说着,眼泪从苍白的脸颊滑落下来。“我的儿子……我唯一的儿子……”

  “德拉科会感到骄傲的,”贝拉特里克斯漠不关心地说。“黑魔王给了他巨大的荣耀。我要为德拉科说一句:他并没有从他的责任上退缩,他看起来非常高兴有这么个机会能证明自己,对未来感到非常兴奋——”

  纳西莎开始大哭了起来,眼睛一直恳求般地盯着斯内普。

  ”那是因为他只有十六岁,他不知道前面有什么在等待着他!为什么,西弗勒斯?为什么是我的儿子?这太危险了!这是对卢修斯犯下的错误的报复,我知道的!”

  斯内普什么都没说。他把目光从她的眼泪移开,仿佛盯着她看是一种冒犯,但他不可能假装没有听到她说的话。

  “那就是他选择德拉科的原因,不是吗?”她坚持说。“借此来惩罚卢修斯?”

  “如果德拉科成功了,”斯内普仍旧不看着她,“他会得到比别人都多的荣誉。”

  “但是他不会成功的!”纳西莎呜咽道:“他怎么可能,连黑魔头自己都……”

  贝拉特里克斯倒抽了一口气;纳西莎显得有些不知所措。

  “我只是说……还没有人成功过……西弗勒斯……求求你……你是,你一直都是德拉科最喜欢的老师……你是卢修斯的老朋友……我求求你了……你是黑魔王最喜欢、最信任的参谋……请你和他说,劝他——?”

  “黑魔王不会被说服的,我也不会蠢到去尝试说服他,”斯内普平静地说。“我不能否认黑魔王对卢修斯很生气。卢修斯应该负责。他自己被抓了,还连累了一大群人,再者,他还没能带回那个预言球。是的,黑魔王很生气,纳西莎,事实上非常生气。”

  “那么我猜对了,他选择通过德拉科来报复!”纳西莎屏住了呼吸。“他并不指望他成功,他巴不得他痛苦地死去!”

  斯内普没有说话,纳西莎似乎失掉了最后一丝自我克制。她站了起来,摇摇晃晃地走向斯内普并抓住了他袍子的衬领。她的脸靠他那么近,以致于眼泪也滴到了他的前胸上,她喘着气说,“你能做到。你能代替德拉科做到,西弗勒斯。你会成功的,毫无疑问,而且他会给你超过所有人的奖励——”

  斯内普抓住她的手腕,扳开了她的手。低头看着她沾着泪水的脸,他慢慢地说,“我想他打算让我最后来做。而决定让德拉科先试试。你知道,如果德拉科侥幸成功了,我就能在霍格沃茨待得更长一点,扮演我间谍的角色。”

  “换句话说,德拉科就算是死了对他来说不无关紧要!”

  “黑魔王非常生气,”斯内普轻轻地重复着。“他没能听到预言。你和我都清楚,纳西莎,他从不轻易饶恕。”

  她崩溃了,倒在地板哭泣。

  “我唯一的儿子……我唯一的儿子啊……”

  “你应该感到骄傲!”贝拉特里克斯残忍地说。“如果我有儿子,我会非常高兴地让他们去为黑魔王做事。”

  纳西莎绝望地尖叫了一声,用手紧紧抓住自己的一头金发。斯内普弯下腰,抓住她的胳膊把她提了起来,拖回到沙发里。然后将她的杯子倒上更多的酒,将杯子硬塞到她手里。

  “纳西莎,别闹了。喝了这个。听我说。”

  她镇静了一点;杯里的酒洒了到自己身上,于是她颤抖着啜了一小口。

  “也许我还是有机会……帮助德拉科。”

  她坐起来,苍白的脸上眼睛睁得大大的。

  “西弗勒斯——哦,西弗勒斯——你愿意帮他?你愿意照看他,确保他不受到伤害吗?”

  “我可以试一试。”

  她突然扔开玻璃杯;玻璃杯在桌子上滑过去,她一下子跪倒在斯内普面前,抓住他的手亲吻了一下。

  “如果你在那儿保护他……西弗勒斯,你敢发誓吗?你敢立下牢不可破誓约吗?”

  “牢不可破誓约?”斯内普的表情空洞而不可捉摸:然而贝拉特里克斯却又得胜般地咯咯笑起来。

  “你没听到吗,纳西莎?哦,他会试一试,我敢肯定……多常用的空洞字眼,多常见的圆滑行为……哦,当然,也是奉了黑魔王的命令吧!”

  斯内普并没有看贝拉特里克斯。而是盯着纳西莎充满泪水的蓝色眼睛,她仍旧抓着他的手。

  “当然了,纳西莎,我会立下牢不可破誓约,”他轻声说。“也许你的姐姐会答应做我们的见证人。”

  贝拉特里克斯张大了嘴巴。斯内普也面朝纳西莎跪下了。在贝拉特里克斯惊讶的注视下,他们紧紧抓住了对方的右手。

  “你需要拿起你的魔杖,贝拉特里克斯,”斯内普冷冷地说。

  她抽出了魔杖,但仍显得很惊讶。

  “你需要再靠近点儿,”他说。

  她走近了几步,将魔杖的末梢点到两人握住的手上。

  这时纳西莎说话了。

  “你愿意,西弗勒斯,在我的儿子德拉科尝试完成黑魔王的心愿时去照看他吗?”

  “我愿意,”斯内普说。

  一条闪耀的火舌从魔杖里射出,就像一跟红热的金属丝一样缠绕在他俩的手上。

  “你愿意,竭尽所能,保护他不受伤害吗?”

[ 此帖被zy32593在2014-01-23 19:23重新编辑 ]
zy32593

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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-Not-Be-Named.
The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown, although (cont. page 2, column 5)
A second newspaper lay beside the first. This one bore the 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 Wizarding 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.
Scrimgeour's 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 (cont. 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’ SAFETY safety 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 counter-curses, 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... 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 Inferius, 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.
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 pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing 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 uncle's 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 fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence 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. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the 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 discuss first,” said Dumbledore. “And I would prefer not to do so in the 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, and 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 Rosmerta's 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 everything 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 Gringotts, and you inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of the legacy—”
“His godfather's dead?” said Uncle Vernon loudly from the sofa. Dumbledore and Harry both turned to look at him. The glass of mead was now knocking quite insistently on the side of Vernon's 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 pure-blood.”
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 his 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, as Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.
“Not if you don't want to,” said Dumbledore. “If I might make a 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 hippogriff, 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.”
“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 year's 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 Vernon muttered, “Preposterous,” but Dumbledore ignored him.
“Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has 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 as 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 instinctively, 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.”

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 6楼  发表于: 2014-01-23 0

第3章 要与不要

哈利·波特响亮地打着鼾。过去的四个小时,他大部分时间都坐在靠着卧室窗户的一把椅子上,注视窗外越来越黑的街道,但终于还是忍不住一边脸靠在窗玻璃上睡着了,嘴巴豁着,眼镜也歪斜到了一边儿。他哈出的气凝在窗玻璃上,在外面桔色的灯光的照射下闪着星星点点的光,这种人为的光线把他脸上的颜色都掩盖掉了,看上去就像一个披着蓬乱黑发的鬼魂。

  房间里散乱地堆放着各种物品和垃圾。猫头鹰羽毛、苹果核儿和糖纸被乱扔在地板上,袍子胡乱地摊在床上,其中还夹杂着几本咒语书,桌子上浑浊的灯光照着几张乱放的报纸。其中的一张上用醒目的大标题写着:

  哈利·波特:真命天子?

  关于最近那起发生在魔法部的神秘动乱事件的流言仍在满天飞,在这起动乱事件中人们又见到了那个连名字都不能提的魔头。

  “我们被禁止谈论这件事,别问我任何问题,”一位激动的记忆注销员在昨晚离开魔法部时说,他拒绝透露自己的姓名。

  不过,通过部里灵通的消息人士我们可以确认,动乱就发生在传说中的预言大厅。

  虽然魔法部的发言人甚至至今仍拒绝承认有这么一个地方存在,但还是有越来越多的公众开始相信,正在阿兹卡班因非法入侵和偷盗未遂而接受审判的食死徒们就是准备去盗取预言球。虽然我们不知道那是什么样的预言,但仍普遍推测预言与哈利·波特,那个目前所知唯一逃脱了死咒的人相关,他那晚也正好出现在魔法部里。现在有些人称哈利·波特为“真命天子”,他们相信他是唯一能除掉那个连名字都不能提的魔头的人。

  不过目前那个预言球,如果它真的存在的话,尚下落不明。(详见第二版第五栏)

  它旁边摆着另一份报纸。上面用大标题写着:

  斯克林杰接替福吉

  头版的一大部分都被一张黑白照片所占据,上面是一个留着狮子般头发、脸上伤痕累累的男人。这张照片是可以动的——那男人正在朝天花板挥手。

  鲁弗斯·斯克林杰,前任法律执行司傲罗办公室的长官,已经接替康奈利·福吉出任魔法部部长。这个任命在巫师社会大受欢迎,不过在他就职还不到几个小时的时间里,刚刚重新恢复威森加摩首席魔法师席位的阿不思·邓布利多与他之间存在不和的传言就浮出了水面。

  斯克林杰的发言人承认他在上任部长后立即与邓布利多进行了会面,但拒绝评论他们讨论的话题。阿不思·邓布利多是(下转第三版,第二栏)

  这张的左边还有一张折起来的报纸,上面能看见一篇名为《魔法部保证学生安全》的报道。

  新上任的魔法部部长鲁弗斯·斯克林杰今日谈到,他们会采取强有力的措施来保证今秋霍格沃茨魔法学校的学生能安全地返校。

  “出于众所周知的原因,魔法部不会公布这项严密安全计划的细节,”部长说,不过通过知情人士我们得到确证,这些措施包括一些防御性咒语、一组复杂的破解咒和一支专门负责霍格沃茨学生安全的特遣部队,全部由傲罗组成。

  大多数人对新部长在学生安全方面的坚定立场感到安心。奥古斯塔·隆巴顿夫人说,“我的孙子纳威——他是哈利·波特的一个好朋友,顺便说一句,去年六月在魔法部他还和哈利并肩对抗食死徒——

  但剩下的内容被放在报纸上的大鸟笼给挡住了。里面是一只漂亮的雪白的猫头鹰。它琥珀色的眼睛傲慢地俯瞰着房间,头时不时转过去瞅瞅它正在酣睡的主人。有那么一两次还把嘴巴磕得咔哒咔哒地响,但哈利睡得太熟了,这根本吵不醒他。

  房子的中间搁着一只大箱子。它的盖子开着:看起来正准备打点行装;不过它看上去空空的,只留有几件旧的内衣、糖果、空的墨水瓶和末端包好的破羽毛笔。在箱子附近的地板上,放着一本装饰精美的紫色宣传手册,上面写着:

  魔法部授权出版

  保护你和你的家人远离黑暗力量

  魔法社会目前正为一个自称为食死徒的组织所威胁。遵守以下简单的安全守则会有助于保护好你自己以及你的家庭不受到攻击。

  1.不要一个人离开家。

  2.晚上特别注意。无论在哪儿,尽可能在天黑前结束外面的旅程。

  3.复查房子周围的安全设施,一定要确保每个家庭成员都知道发生紧急事件时的应对方法。比如:铁甲咒和幻身咒,在有未成年的家庭成员的情况下使用依附显形。

  4.与你的家庭成员和密友之间确定安全提问,以防止食死徒利用复方汤剂化装成其他人。(见第二页)

  5.如果你感觉到你的家庭成员、同事、朋友或者邻居有一些异常行为,马上告知魔法法律执行队,他们很有可能中了夺魂咒。(见第四页)

  6.如果有黑魔标记出现在任何地方,不要进去,马上联系傲罗办公室。

  7.未经证实的目击表明食死徒也许正使用阴飞力。任何看到阴飞力或者类似的东西的人,应该立刻向魔法部报告。

  哈利在睡梦中打着呼噜,他的脸从玻璃上往滑下了一英寸左右,这使得眼镜更加歪向一边,他仍旧没有醒来。一个被哈利在几年前修好的闹钟在窗台上滴答滴答地走着,还有一分钟就要到11点了。睡在旁边的哈利手里握着一张羊皮纸,纸上写满了纤细、微微倾斜的字。自从哈利三天前收到这封信后,他已经把它读了好多遍了。虽然送来的时候信被紧紧地系成一个圆筒,但现在那封信已经被抹得很平了,正安静地躺在那儿。

  亲爱的哈利:

  如果你方便的话,我会在这个礼拜五晚上11点拜访女贞路四号,接你去陋居,你会被邀请在那里度过剩下的假期。

  要是你觉得合适的话,能否在去陋居的路上协助我做一件事,我会感到非常高兴的。我会在见到你之后更详细地解释这件事。

  你最真诚的,

  阿不思·邓布利多

  虽然他早已经可以把那封信背下来了,但他还是从晚上七点开始,每隔几分钟就要把那封信偷瞄一遍,他靠着卧室的窗户坐着,透过那里可以同时看见女贞路的两头。他知道反复盯着邓布利多信件看是没有意义的;他早就派猫头鹰送去了他的“好的”,正如他被要求的那样,现在可以做的就是等了:不论邓布利多来还是不来。

  但是哈利还没有收拾东西。只需要和德思礼一家待两周就可以逃脱了,那似乎都美妙得不像是真的。他很难摆脱会有什么差错发生的感觉——他给邓布利多的信也许被猫头鹰弄丢了;邓布利多说不定不能来接他了;又或许那封信根本就不是邓布利多写的,那只不过是个骗局或者笑话,甚至是个圈套。哈利承受不了收拾好行装又必须再打开把它们都拿出来的失落。所以他为这次可能的旅行做的唯一准备,就是把它那只雪白的猫头鹰海德薇安全地关在笼子里面。

  就在闹钟的分针走到12的那一瞬间,窗外街道上的灯全熄灭了。

  这突如其来的黑暗像闹钟一样把哈利唤醒了,他急忙扶正眼镜,把鼻子贴到刚才还贴着脸颊的窗玻璃上,两眼斜瞄着人行道。一个修长的身影拖着翻卷着的长斗篷走向了花园中的小径。

  哈利触电似地跳了起来,撞翻了椅子,他开始把可以够得到的所有东西一件接一件地抓起来,扔进旅行箱里。正当他把长袍、两本咒语书和一包土豆片从房间的这头扔到那头的时候,门铃响了。

  “是谁啊,深更半夜的?”他的姨父弗农·德思礼大声叫着从楼上的起居室走下来。

  哈利愣住了,一手拿着黄铜望远镜,一手拎着一双运动鞋,他完全忘了告诉德思礼一家,邓布利多晚上也许会过来。感觉又惊慌又好笑,他跨过旅行箱拧开房门,刚好听到一个深沉的声音说,“晚上好,你一定是德思礼先生。我猜想哈利已经告诉了你我要过来把他接走吧?”

  哈利三步并做两步地冲下了楼,但当还剩几级台阶的时候却来了一个急刹车,长久以来的经验告诉他,无论何时都要尽可能地保持在他姨父的手能抓到的范围之外。门口站着一位又高又瘦的人,他银白色的长胡子和头发已经拖到了腰间。半月形的眼镜架在高耸的鼻梁上,他穿着一件黑色的旅行斗篷,戴着尖顶巫师帽。弗农·德思礼的胡子和邓布利多差不多浓密,只不过是黑色的,他穿着一件深褐色的睡袍,用他的小眼睛使劲盯着来访者,仿佛不敢相信。

  “从您震惊和怀疑的表情来看,哈利一定没有告诉您我的拜访,” 邓布利多愉快地说。“但是让我们假定您会热情地请我到您屋子里去。在这种动乱的局势下,在门口耽搁久了可不是明智之举。”

  邓布利多潇洒地走了进来,然后关上了门。

  “上次见面已经是很久以前的事了,” 邓布利多从他高耸的鼻子上凝视着弗农姨父。“我必须说,您的紫君子兰长得真好。”

  弗农·德思礼什么也没说,但哈利相信他就快要爆发了,果然不一会儿——他姨父太阳穴上的血管鼓到极限了——但是邓布利多似乎用了什么方式夺走了弗农的呼吸。也许是用由于他炫耀般的巫师装束。但也有可能是因为,就连弗农姨父也感觉得到邓布利多是一个很难被恐吓的人。

  “啊,晚上好,哈利,” 邓布利多透过他那半月形的眼镜看着他,带着满意的表情。“好极了,好极了。”

  这些话好像惊醒了弗农·德思礼。目前就他所知道的,任何夸奖哈利“好极了”的人,都不会和弗农是一路人。

  “我不想动粗——”他开始用一种恐吓的腔调一字一句地念道。

  “不过,可怜、偶然的粗鲁还是如此经常地发生,这的确令人担忧,” 邓布利多严肃地说完了这句话。“但最好什么话都别说,亲爱的朋友。啊,这一定是佩妮。”

  厨房的门打开了,那边站着哈利的姨妈,她戴着一副橡胶手套,一件便服套在睡衣外面。她通常会在睡觉前重新擦一遍厨房,显然她正在忙活。她长长的马脸上除了震惊以外,什么也没有。

  “阿不思·邓布利多,”在弗农介绍他之前邓布利多抢先说。“当然,我们已经通过信了。” 哈利觉得用这种方式提醒佩妮姨妈他曾经给她送过一封爆炸信真是有些古怪,但是佩妮姨妈并没有提出异议。“这一定是你的儿子达力吧?”

  达力那个时候正透过客厅的门窥视着他们,他那金黄色的大脑袋从睡衣的条纹衣领里伸出来,看上去就像已经脱离了身体一样古怪,嘴巴因为惊讶和害怕而张得大大的。邓布利多等了等,显然是想看看德思礼夫妇有没有什么话说,过了一会儿,他笑了。

  “我们可以进屋谈吗?”

  当邓布利多从达力身旁经过的时候,他几乎是夺路而逃。哈利跳下了最后的几级台阶跟在邓布利多后面,手里仍旧抓着他的望远镜和运动鞋。邓布利多找了一个靠着火炉的扶手椅坐了下来,脸上带着饶有兴致的和蔼表情环顾四周。他看上去与这里的紧张气氛格格不入。

  “我们……我们走吗?”哈利焦虑地问。

  “是的,我们的确要走。但在此之前我们还要讨论几个问题,” 邓布利多说。“而我倾向于不在外面谈论这些事儿。我们还要打搅你的姨妈和姨父一小会儿。”

  “您真的决定要这样吗?”

  弗农走进了房间,佩妮扶着他的肩膀,而达力则藏在他们俩身后。

  “是的,” 邓布利多简单地说,“就是这样。”

  他不令人察觉地抽出了魔杖;轻轻一抖,沙发飞了过来,打中了德思礼一家人的膝盖,令他们都瘫坐在沙发上。他又轻抖了一下,于是沙发又飞了回去。

  “这样大家都会舒服一些了,” 邓布利多愉快地说。

  他把魔杖放回口袋的时候,哈利瞥见他的手变得乌黑,还布满了皱纹;好像他的肉被烧掉了似的。

  “教授——你的手怎么——?”

  “以后再说,哈利,” 邓布利多说。“请坐下。”

  哈利坐到剩下的一把扶手椅上,决定不去看吓得目瞪口呆的德思礼一家。

  “我本以为你会为我准备一些点心,” 邓布利多对弗农说,“但就目前的样子看,我那乐观的想法真是愚蠢了点。”

  于是他又挥了挥魔杖,一个脏兮兮的瓶子和五个玻璃杯出现在半空中。瓶子倾斜过来,把大量的蜂蜜色液体倒进了每个玻璃杯,然后杯子飞到了屋里每一个人的手中。

  “罗斯默塔女士最上好的、在橡木桶里酿制的蜂蜜酒,”邓布利多向哈利举了举杯,他正在抿着自己那杯酒。哈利从来没有品尝过这种东西,可还是非常喜欢。德思礼一家迅速、恐慌地相互望了望,试着对面前的杯子完全视而不见,不过这很困难,因为杯子一直在他们的脑边优雅地晃着。哈利抑制不住地猜测邓布利多正在怡然自乐。

  “那么,哈利,”邓布利多转向他,“现在有个难题,希望你能帮我们解决。我们,是指凤凰社。不过首先我要告诉你,一个礼拜前我们发现了小天狼星的遗嘱,他把他拥有的一切都留给了你。”

  坐在沙发的弗农姨父转过头来,不过哈利没有看他,想不出该说些什么,于是他只好说,“哦。好吧。”

  “开门见山地说,这主要是指,”邓布利多接着说道。“一笔数量可观的金子流入了你的古灵阁帐户,你继承了小天狼星所有的个人财产。不过还有一些麻烦的遗产——”

  “他的教父死了?”弗农姨父在沙发上大声问。邓布利多和哈利都转过来看着他。盛着蜂蜜酒的杯子现在更急切地在他脑袋旁边敲打,他尝试着把它推开。“他死了?他的教父?”

  “是的,”邓布利多说。他没有问哈利为什么不告诉德思礼一家。“可我们的问题是,”他仿佛根本没有被打断一样,继续对哈利说,“小天狼星也把格里莫广场12号留给了你。”

  “他留下了一幢房子?”弗农贪婪地问,小眼睛眯了起来,不过没有人回答他。

  “你们可以继续把它当指挥部用,”哈利说。“我不在乎。你们可以拿走它,我真的不想要。”如果可以的话,哈利再也不愿意走进格里莫广场12号了。小天狼星在黑暗发霉的屋子里孤独地徘徊,被那个他拼命想离开的地方禁锢着,他觉得这些记忆会永远萦绕在他心头。

  “很慷慨,”邓布利多说。“然而,我们已经暂时搬出了那所房子。”

  “为什么?”

  “嗯,”邓布利多没有理会弗农姨父的咕哝,那只执着的酒杯正剧烈地敲击着他的脑袋,“布莱克家族的家规规定,这幢房子只嫡传给姓布莱克的男子。在他的弟弟雷古勒斯去世后,他就成了最后的继承人,而他们都没有孩子。尽管他在遗嘱中说得很清楚,想让你继承这房子。但房子很可能被施了一些咒语和魔法,来确保它不会被非纯种的巫师所占有。”

  哈利脑海里生动地浮现出格里莫广场12号墙上那幅爱尖声叫骂的小天狼星母亲的画像。“我打赌那儿肯定有,”他说。

  “非常赞同,”邓布利多说。“如果这样的魔法存在,房子的所有权很可能就会传到小天狼星最年长的亲戚那儿,就是他的堂姐,贝拉特里克斯·莱斯特兰奇。”

  哈利下意识地跳了起来,大腿上的望远镜和运动鞋滚落到了地上。贝拉特里克斯·莱斯特兰奇,这个杀害小天狼星的凶手,继承他的宅子?

  “不,”他说。

  “是啊,显然我们也不愿意她得到它,”邓布利多平静地说。“情况充满了复杂性。我们不知道我们施的咒语,比如把它变得不可标绘,在房子不再属于小天狼星之后是不是还管用。说不定贝拉特里克斯会随时出现在门前。自然我们要在弄清楚之前先搬出去。”

  “您怎么才能知道我能拥有这房子呢?”

  “幸运的是,”邓布利多回答,“可以做个简单的测试。”

  他把他的空杯子放到椅子旁边的茶几上,弗农姨父叫了起来,“你能把这些该死的东西从我们头上挪开吗?”

  哈利环顾了一下屋子,德思礼一家三口全都用手护着脑袋缩成了一团,因为那些杯子在他们脑门上撞来撞去,里面的液体溅得到处都是。

  “哦,真对不起,”邓布利多礼貌地说,又一次举起了魔杖。三个杯子都消失了。“不过如果喝掉它们会显得更礼貌些,你们知道。”

  看上去弗农姨父快被不悦的反驳涨破了,但是他什么都没说,只是和佩妮姨妈与达力一样缩到沙发垫子上,两只小小的猪眼盯着邓布利多的魔杖。

  “你瞧,”邓布利多转向哈利说,“如果你真的继承了这幢房子,你也势必要继承——”

  他第五次挥了挥魔杖。随着一声“噼啪”的巨响,一个家养小精灵出现了。他长着一只猪鼻子、蝙蝠翅膀一般的巨大耳朵和一对充血的大眼睛,穿着破破烂烂的布条蜷缩在德思礼家的毛茸地毯上。佩妮姨妈发出了一声令人毛骨悚然的尖叫:在她的记忆之中,客厅里从来没有出现过如此污秽的东西;达力坐着抬起他粉红色的光脚,差不多都快举过头顶了,似乎是怕这个东西会钻进他的裤管。弗农姨父咆哮着说,“这究竟是什么东西?”

  “克利切,”邓布利多补充完他的话。

  “克利切不要,克利切不要,克利切不要!”家养小精灵嘶哑地叫着,几乎都赶上弗农姨父的声音了,他一边跺着脚一边扯着自己的耳朵。“克利切属于贝拉特里克斯小姐,哦,是的,克利切属于布莱克家族,克利切要他的新女主人,克利切不要乳臭未干的波特小子,克利切不要,不要,不要——”

  “如你所见,哈利,”邓布利多高声盖过克利切“不要,不要,不要”的嘶叫,“克利切对你拥有他表现出了明确的反抗。”

  “我才不在乎呢,”哈利又说道,同时带着憎恶的表情看着又是扭动又是跺脚的家养小精灵。“我不想要它。”

  “不要,不要,不要,不要——”

  “你愿意把他交给贝拉特里克斯吗?记住他去年在凤凰社总部住了一年。”

  “不要,不要,不要,不要——”

  哈利盯着邓布利多。他知道不能让克利切去和贝拉特里克斯·莱斯特兰奇住,但是一想到要拥有它,还要对这个背叛小天狼星的家伙负责,他就觉得很恶心。

  “给它下达一个命令,”邓布利多说。“如果它真的为你所有,就不得不服从。如果没有,那么我们就要去找些别的办法来防止它去追随它法定的女主人。”

  “不要,不要,不要,不要!”

  克利切的声音变成了尖叫。哈利想不到别的话,只好说,“克利切,住嘴!”

  有那么一会儿,克利切看上去像是要窒息了。他握住喉咙,嘴巴仍然在狂暴地动着,眼睛都鼓了起来。然后他疯狂地猛吸了几口气,就趴在了地毯上,(佩妮姨妈呜咽起来)用手脚捶着地板,激烈却又无声地怄着气。

  “好,这样事情就好办多了,”邓布利多兴奋地说。“看来小天狼星知道他在做什么。你已经拥有了对格里莫广场12号和克利切的合法所有权。”

  “我——我必须要把他带着吗?”哈利惊骇地问,克利切正在他脚边痛打着自己。

  “如果你不想就不用,”邓布利多说。“我建议,你不妨把它送到霍格沃茨的厨房去干活。那样的话,其他家养小精灵就可以留意它了。”

  “对,”哈利松了一口气,“是,就这么做。呃——克利切——我要你去霍格沃茨的厨房和其他家养小精灵一起干活。”

  克利切正四脚朝天地躺在地上,他极度厌恶地倒看了哈利一眼,伴着另一声巨响消失了。

  “很好,”邓布利多说。“还有就是那头鹰头马身有翼兽,巴克比克。小天狼星去世后,一直是海格在照看它,不过现在巴克比克是你的了,所以如果你想要重新安排的话——”

  “不,”哈利立刻说,“它可以和海格待在一起。我想巴克比克会更喜欢这样。”

  “海格会很高兴的,”邓布利多微笑着说。“他再次看见它时激动得都发抖了。顺便提一下,考虑到巴克比克的安全,我们决定从此改口叫它韦瑟文,尽管我怀疑魔法部还是会认出它曾经被他们判过死刑。行了,哈利,你的箱子收拾好了吗?”

  “呃……”

  “你怕我会不来?”邓布利多机敏地问。

  “我这就过去——呃——收拾完,”哈利匆忙跑去把他掉在地上的望远镜和运动鞋捡起来。

  他花了十分多钟把他需要的所有东西找出来;最后他把隐形衣从床底下抽出来,把他的那瓶变色墨水拧上盖子,又使劲地把坩埚关在了箱子里。然后,一手提着箱子,一手拎着海德薇的笼子又回到了楼下。

  他有些失望地发现邓布利多并没有等在门厅里,这就意味着他不得不再回到客厅。

  大家都沉默着。邓布利多平静地哼着小调,看得出来很惬意,不过这里的气氛却比冷奶油冻还凝重。哈利说,“教授——我准备好了。”一眼都不敢看德思礼一家。

  “很好,”邓布利多说。“那么,只剩最后一件事了。”他再次转过身对德思礼一家说。

  “你们无疑清楚,再过一年哈利就要成年了——”

  “不对,” 佩妮姨妈在邓布利多到来之后第一次开口说。

  “抱歉?”邓布利多礼貌地问。

  “不对,他不是。他比达力小一个月,达力要等两年后才到十八岁。”

  “啊,”邓布利多愉快地说,“不过在魔法界,十七岁就算成年了。”

  弗农姨父嘟哝了一句“荒谬”,但邓布利多没有理会他。

  “现在,你们都知道了,那个叫做伏地魔的巫师回到了这个国家。巫师世界最近处在战争状态下。伏地魔几次三番试图杀害哈利,他的处境要比十五年前我把他放在你们家门口时危险得多,那时候我留了一封信解释了他父母的死,希望你们能像亲生儿子一样照顾他。”

  邓布利多顿了一下,虽然他的声音保持着轻松和平静,也没有愤怒的明显迹象,但哈利感觉他的身上散发出一种寒意,也注意到德思礼一家微微凑拢了一些。

  “你们没有照我说的去做。你们从来都没有把他当成儿子看待过。在你们手里,他除了忽视和摧残之外什么都得不到。可以说最幸运的是,他至少逃过了你们俩对坐在你们中间的那个倒霉男孩的那种损害。”

  佩妮姨妈和弗农姨父本能地向周围望了望,宁愿看到挤在他们中间的是别人而不是达力。

  “我们——虐待了达力吗?你是说——?”弗农姨父狂躁地说。不过邓布利多做了个安静的手势,弗农姨父仿佛被打闷了一样安静了下来。

  “我十五年前所施的魔法是,只要哈利还能管这个地方叫家,他就能得到强大的保护。无论他在这里感觉多悲惨,多不受欢迎,被多恶劣地对待,你们终于还是不情愿地给了他一间房住。哈利一满十七岁,这个魔法就会终止;换句话说,在他长大成人的时候。我只要求:在他十七岁生日之前,你们再让他在这个房子住一次,这样就能让保护持续到那时。”

  德思礼一家没有一个吭声。达力微微地皱着眉头,仿佛还在思索他什么时候受过虐待;弗农姨父看上去好像喉咙被什么东西哽住了;而佩妮姨妈则很奇怪地脸红了。

  “好了,哈利……我们该走了。”邓布利多最后说,他站了起来,拉直了他的黑色斗篷。“下次再会,”他对德思礼一家人说,他们看起来似乎巴不得那一刻永远都不要到来,他摘下帽子致了致意,然后便拂袖而去。

  “再见,”哈利匆匆向德思礼一家告别,跟上了邓布利多,他正等在哈利的旅行箱旁,箱子上搁着海德薇的笼子。

  “我们不能被这些东西拖累了,”他再次拔出他的魔杖。“我会把它们先送到陋居去。不过,我要你带着你的隐形衣……只是以防万一。”

  哈利费力地从他的箱子里抽出隐形衣,尽量不让邓布利多看到里面乱糟糟的样子。他把它塞到了夹克衫的内兜里,于是邓布利多挥了挥他的魔杖,箱子、笼子和海德薇都消失了。他又挥了挥魔杖,前门便敞开在了凉意飕飕、迷雾重重的夜幕中。

  “现在,哈利,让我们走入黑夜,继续我们奇异而诱人的冒险之旅。”

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 7楼  发表于: 2014-01-23 0

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 counter-jinx 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 the 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 I 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 underestimate 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 it.
“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.
“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.
Harry's 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-formed 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.
“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 fingers; the sight of them made the back of Harry's neck prickle unpleasantly. “I 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 Muggle 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 Sneakoscopes 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 Harry's 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!”
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 Hogwarts 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 Dumbledore'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 Eaters, 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 re-entered 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 time. 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 seemed 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...”
“Goodbye, 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.”
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 Sirius's 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 that 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 devastating...”
“But while I was at the Dursleys'...” interrupted Harry, his voice growing stronger, “I realized I can't 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 he 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 O.W.L., 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 times 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.”

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 8楼  发表于: 2014-01-23 0

第4章 霍拉斯·斯拉格霍恩

虽然说在过去的几天里,哈利只要是醒着,就会企盼邓布利多真的能来接他,但当他们真正从女贞路出发的时候,他又本能地觉得有些不自在了。在霍格沃茨外面,哈利和他的校长在严格意义上还从来没有说过什么话;他们之间总是隔着办公室的那张桌子。去年最后一次见面的情景常常闯入他的回忆之中,这也很大程度上增加了哈利的尴尬;当时他吼叫得那么厉害,更别说还肆意地摔碎了一些邓布利多最珍视的财产。

  然而,邓布利多看上去却很非常轻松。

  “拿着你的魔杖,保持警惕,哈利,”他机警地说。

  “但我想我是不允许在学校外面施魔法的,教授?”

  “如果有人攻击你,”邓布利多说,“我允许你使用任何你能想到反恶咒和破解咒。但是,我认为今晚你不必担心会受到攻击。”

  “为什么,教授?”

  “因为你和我在一起,”邓布利多简单地说。“这就够了,哈利。”

  他走到女贞路的尽头时突然停住了。

  “当然,你应该还没有通过你的幻影显形测试吧?”他说。

  “是啊,”哈利说。“我想我必须要到17岁才行吧?”

  “对,”邓布利多说。“所以,你需要紧紧抓住我的胳膊,我的左臂,如果你不介意的话——你已经注意到,我用魔杖的手现在有些脆弱。”

  哈利抓紧了邓布利多伸过来的前臂。

  “很好,”邓布利多说。“那么,我们走吧。”

  哈利感到邓布利多的手正在挣脱他,于是又用力把它握紧:紧接着一切都暗了下来;有东西从四面八方朝他猛烈地挤压过来;他感到无法呼吸,似乎正被铁做的带子束缚着他的胸口;眼球都快被挤进脑子里了;耳膜也被深深压进了头颅,然后——

  他深深地吸了一口夜晚寒冷的空气,睁开泪汪汪的双眼。他觉得自己就像刚刚穿过了一个密不透风的橡胶管。过了好几秒他才意识到女贞路已经不见了。现在他和邓布利多站在一个荒废的乡村广场上,广场的正中间立着一座陈旧的战争纪念碑,还有一些长椅子。哈利的思维跟上了感觉,他意识到刚刚做了这辈子第一次的幻影显形。

  “你还好吗?”邓布利多热切地看着他问,“这种感觉确实需要慢慢习惯。”

  “我很好,”哈利揉着那双看似极不情愿离开女贞路的耳朵。“但是我想我还是更喜欢用飞天扫帚……”

  邓布利多笑了,他把系在脖子上的旅行斗篷紧了紧,然后说,“往这边走。”

  他迈着轻快的步子经过了一家空荡荡的小酒店和几幢房子,根据附近一座教堂的钟上面的显示,现在已经是午夜了。

  “那么告诉我,哈利,”邓布利多说。“你的伤疤……有没有疼过?”

  哈利下意识地抬起手摸了摸他前额上闪电形状的标记。

  “没有疼过了,”他说,“我一直很奇怪。现在伏地魔又强大起来,我还以为我的伤疤会不断地疼呢。”

  他偷偷看了一眼邓布利多,发现他脸上带着一副满意的表情。

  “我却不这么认为,”邓布利多说。“伏地魔终于还是意识到让你尽情地侵入他的思想和感觉是多么危险的一件事。看来他正在用大脑封闭术对付你。”

  “哦,那真没什么可抱怨,”哈利说,他既不想记起那些烦扰的梦,也不会怀念进入伏地魔思想的那惊恐的一瞬。

  他们转过一个弯,路过一个电话亭和一个公共汽车站。哈利又侧过头看了看邓布利多。

  “教授?”

  “哈利?”

  “呃——我们这是要去哪儿?”

  “哈利,这里是迷人的巴德利·巴贝尔顿村。”

  “那我们到这儿来干什么?”

  “啊,是啊,当然,我还没有告诉你呢,”邓布利多说。“唉,这几年来我都已经数不清楚说了多少次,但是我们又一次面临着教员短缺。我们到这儿来是为了劝说我的一位老同事重新出山,回到霍格沃茨。”

  “我要怎么才能帮上忙呢,教授?”

  “哦,我想你会找到自己的作用的,”邓布利多含糊地说。“走吧,哈利。”

  他们走上了一个陡峭、狭窄的小道,两边都是整齐的房子。所有的窗户都黑着。盘踞在女贞路上长达两周的古怪寒意一直延续到了这里。哈利想到了摄魂怪,他回头望了望,握紧了口袋里的魔杖。

  “教授,为什么我们不直接幻影显形到你老同事的家里呢?”

  “因为这就像踢翻人家的大门一样粗鲁,”邓布利多说。“礼节要求我们为我们的巫师朋友提供一个拒绝我们进入的机会。不管怎样,大多数的巫师住宅都用了魔法保护来对付幻影显形的不速之客。比如说,霍格沃茨——”

  “——在霍格沃茨的建筑物和场地里都不能幻影显形,”哈利马上说。“赫敏·格兰杰告诉过我。”

  “她说得很对,我们再向左转。”

  他们身后的教堂响起了午夜的钟声。哈利有些疑惑,为什么邓布利多不觉得这么晚还来拜访他的老同事是一件颇无礼的事,但既然已经挑起了话头,他还有更多紧迫的问题要问。

  “教授,我看到《预言家日报》上说福吉被解职了……”

  “是啊,”邓布利多说,拐进了一条陡峭的小支巷。“他被替换了,我相信你也知道,是被鲁弗斯·斯克林杰所代替,前傲罗办公室负责人。”

  “那他…你觉得他好吗?”哈利问。

  “一个有趣的问题,”邓布利多说。“他当然很能干。他具有比康奈利更果敢和强硬的个性。”

  “是的,但是我的意思是——”

  “我知道你的意思。鲁弗斯是一个行动派,他职业生涯的大部分时间都用在了对抗黑巫师上,并且也没有低估伏地魔的实力。”

  哈利等待着,但是邓布利多却没有提及《预言家日报》报道的他和斯克林杰之间的争论,他没有勇气追问下去,只好换了个话题。

  “还有……教授……我看见了博恩斯夫人的消息。”

  “是的,”邓布利多轻声说。“一个糟糕的损失。她是一名优秀的女巫。从这儿往上走,我想——哎唷。”

  他刚才用了受伤的手指路。

  “教授,你的手怎么——?”

  “我现在没有时间解释这个,”邓布利多说。“这是一个让人毛骨悚然的故事,我真希望能自如地用我手。”

  他对着哈利笑了笑,于是哈利知道他没有责怪的意思,并且还可以继续提问。

  “教授——我收到一封猫头鹰邮递的来自魔法部的宣传手册,是有关那些我们对付食死徒时需要采取的安全措施……”

  “是的,我自己也收到一封,”邓布利多仍然微笑着,“你觉得它有用吗?”

  “其实并不觉得。”

  “不,我不认为是这样。比如说,你就没有问我最喜欢什么口味的果酱,来验证我确实是邓布利多教授而不是一个冒牌货。”

  “我没有……”哈利开始说道,他并不完全确定邓布利多是不是在责备自己。

  “也许将来用得着,哈利,我最喜欢的是覆盆子口味……不过,如果我是一个食死徒,我肯定会在扮成邓布利多之前调查他最喜欢什么口味的果酱。”

  “呃……对啊,”哈利说。“嗯,那封信上说了一些关于阴飞力的事情,它们究竟是什么呢?那份宣传手册上也没讲明白。”

  “它们是僵尸,”邓布利多平静地说。“被施了魔法的死尸,听命于黑巫师。自从伏地魔最后一次的掌权结束之后,阴飞力已经很长一段时间没有出现了……当然,那时候他杀死了足够多的人来组成一支大军。我们到了,哈利,就是这儿……”

  他们走近一所矮小、整洁的石头房子,它坐落在一片自带的园地中。哈利正忙着消化那个关于阴飞力的可怕念头,而没有多余的注意力来关注其他的东西,但是当他们走到大门口的时候,邓布利多突然停住了,于是哈利撞到了他的身上。

  “哦,天哪。哦,天哪,天哪,天哪。”

  哈利的目光顺着被精心护理过的门前小径看过去,感觉心猛地一沉。前门没有栓着。

  邓布利多来回扫视着那条小街。它看上去空无一人。

  “拿出你的魔杖跟着我,哈利,”他轻声说。

  他推开院子的门,快步走过园子里的小径,哈利紧跟在他后面,邓布利多缓缓地推了一把前门,举起了他的魔杖。

  “荧光闪烁。”

  邓布利多的魔杖尖被点亮了,照亮了一条狭窄的走廊。走廊左边是另一扇敞开的门。邓布利多高高举起他的魔杖走进了那间起居室,哈利紧紧跟在他后面。

  呈现在他们面前的是一片狼藉的景象。一只裂开的老爷钟横躺在他们脚下,钟面支离破碎的,他的钟摆躺在离他们稍远的地方,像一把落在地上的剑。它旁边摆着一架钢琴,琴键撒了一地。一个摔下来的吊灯残骸在一边发着闪闪的光。垫子都被压得扁扁的,羽毛从旁边的侧缝里漏出来;被砸得粉碎的玻璃和瓷器落得到处都是。邓布利多把他的魔杖举得更高一些,使光可以照到墙上,墙纸上溅满了一些粘糊糊的暗红色东西。哈利轻轻抽了口气,邓布利多转过来看着他。

  “不太漂亮,对不对,”他沉重地说。“是啊,这里发生了些可怕的事情。”

  邓布利多小心翼翼地走到房间的正中间,仔细察看着脚下的家具残骸。哈利跟着走过来,环顾着四周,他惊恐不定地怀疑有什么东西藏在钢琴和被打翻的沙发背后,但其实那里什么都没有。

  “说不定这里发生过搏斗——然后,他们拖走了他,教授?”哈利猜测说,努力不去想象一个人要伤得多么严重才能在墙的半中腰溅上这么多血迹。

  “我不这么认为,”邓布利多轻声说,瞥了一眼他身后一个过于臃肿的扶手椅。

  “你的意思是他——”

  “还在这里的某处?是的。”

  没有任何预先警告,邓布利多闪电般地扑过去,把魔杖的尖端戳进了那把臃肿的扶手椅的座位,只听见一声大叫,“哎唷!”

  “晚上好,贺瑞斯,”邓布利多一边说一边直起身子。

  哈利的下巴差点掉了下来。刚才还摆着一张扶手椅的地方瞬时出现了一个蜷缩着的肥胖、秃顶的老男人,他一边用手揉着肚子,一边用他水汪汪的眼睛愁闷地看着邓布利多。

  “没必要那样用力地戳我,”他粗声粗气地说,挣扎着站了起来。“会受伤的。”

  魔杖发出的光照着他闪亮的光头、突起的眼睛和一大把海象一般的银色胡须,他身上那件栗色天鹅绒夹克衫上的扣子被擦得闪闪发亮,里面穿者一件丁香色的丝绸睡衣。他站直了身子,不过却只能够到邓布利多的下巴。

  “我是怎么暴露的?”他一边摇摇晃晃地站起来,嘴里一边嘟囔着,手还在揉着肚子。他一点儿也不为被发现装成一把扶手椅而感到害羞。

  “我亲爱的贺瑞斯,”邓布利看上去很开心,“要是食死徒真的来拜访过你的话,他们会留下黑魔标记的。”

  那个巫师用他肥胖的手在宽广的前额上拍了一下。

  “黑魔标记,”他喃喃自语。“就知道有什么地方出了问题……啊对。可我也来不及变出那个了。你们进来之前我才刚做好最后一点儿伪装。”

  他重重地叹了口气,把胡子的末端吹得一动一动的。

  “你想让我帮你收拾收拾吗?”邓布利多礼貌的说。

  “请吧,”他说。

  他们背靠背站着,一个高瘦的巫师和一个矮胖的巫师,用一个同样的动作挥舞了一下他们的魔杖。

  家具都飞回了原来的地方;装饰品在半空中就复原了;羽毛急速地钻进他们的垫子;被扯烂的书回到架子上之后修复如初;油灯高高地飞到旁边的桌子重新亮了起来;一大堆银质画框的碎片闪着光飞过房间,然后完好地落到桌子上,又变成了灰扑扑的老模样;屋子里各处的裂缝和缺口都不见了;墙上的血迹也一扫而空。

  “顺便问一句,那是什么东西的血?”邓布利多响亮地说,声音盖过了那座复生的老爷钟所发出的报时声。

  “墙上的?是龙血,”那个叫贺瑞斯的巫师大声叫道,随着一声震耳欲聋的磨擦声和清脆的响声,那盏吊灯自己回到了天花板上并拧紧了螺丝。

  钢琴最后砰地响了一声,而后一切归于平静。

  “是啊,龙血,”那个巫师自言自语地重复道,“我的最后一瓶,现在的价钱都高到天上去了。不过,这个还能再用。”

  他蹒跚地走过去,取下了餐柜顶上的一个小水晶瓶,然后把它举到灯光下检查里面粘稠的液体。

  “嗯。还成。”

  他把瓶子又放回餐柜,叹了口气。然后他的目光落到了哈利身上。

  “哦,”他圆圆的大眼睛盯着哈利带着那个闪电形的伤疤的前额。“哦!”

  “这位,”邓布利多上前去介绍,“是哈利·波特。哈利,这是我的老朋友以及老同事,贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩。”

  斯拉霍恩转向邓布利多,表情显得很精明。

  “你认为这样就能说服我,是吗?那么,我的答案是不,阿不思。”

  他从哈利身边挤了过去,脸上的表情变得很坚决,似乎在抵制什么诱惑。

  “我想至少我们可以喝一杯?”邓布利多问。“看在老交情的份上。”

  斯拉霍恩迟疑着。

  “那么好吧,就喝一杯,”他粗鲁地说。

  邓布利多朝哈利笑了笑,领着他走到刚燃起来的壁炉和油灯边,坐在一把椅子上,这把椅子和斯拉霍恩刚才假扮那把的看上去没什么两样。哈利坐了下来,清楚地感觉到邓布利多出于某个原因,想要让他越显眼越好。于是当斯拉霍恩忙活完那些瓶瓶罐罐,把脸再次转向屋子的时候,他的目光立即落在了哈利身上。

  “哼,”他赶紧移开了目光,似乎是害怕会伤着眼睛。“接着——”他递了一杯给已经坐好的邓布利多,然后把盘子推给哈利,自己一屁股坐进了那个刚刚复原的沙发的坐垫上,闷闷不乐地一句话也不说。他的腿是那么短,甚至连地板也够不着。

  “那么,近来可好,贺瑞斯?”邓布利多问。

  “不怎么样,”斯拉霍恩马上回答道。“胸口痛。常常气喘。还有风湿病。不像我从前那样灵活了。唉,这也在意料之中。老啦。累啦。”

  “但从刚才你为我们准备的欢迎仪式上看,你的动作还是挺麻利的,”邓布利多说。“你只有不足三分钟时间,不是吗?”

  斯拉霍恩一半暴躁一半骄傲地说,“两分钟而已。我正在洗澡,没注意到入侵咒的警报。还有,”他坚决地补充道,看上去像是要把自己拉回来一样,“现在的情况是我已经是个老头子了,阿不思,一个疲倦的老人有权利过平静和衣食无忧的生活。”

  他确实拥有这些,哈利一边想一边环视着这间屋子。这里既乏味又混乱,但绝对称得上是舒适宜人;有柔软的椅子和脚凳,有酒和书,有大盒的巧克力和鼓鼓的坐垫。如果哈利不知道谁住在这儿,那他一定会猜测这里住着一个富有的、爱挑剔的老太太。

  “你可不如我老,贺瑞斯,”邓布利多说。

  “嗯,也许你自己该想想退休的事儿了。”斯拉霍恩生硬地说。他暗淡的栗色眼睛发现了邓布利多受伤的手。“我注意到,你的反应也大不如前了。”

  “你说得对,”邓布利多平静地说,他把袖子卷起来,露出了烧得发黑的手指尖;这种景象让哈利的后脖子感到一阵不舒服的刺痛。“我毫不否认我比从前要慢。但从另外一个角度来说……”

  他耸了耸肩,摊开了双手,好像要说岁月也能给人补偿,哈利注意到他那只没受伤的手上戴着一枚他从未见过的戒指:它看上去很大,好像是由黄金一类的东西粗陋地制成,中间还镶嵌着一颗深黑色的石头。斯拉霍恩的眼睛在戒指上游移了一会儿,哈利发现那一瞬他微微蹙了蹙眉头。

  “那么,这些抵御入侵者的防范措施,贺瑞斯……是为了对付食死徒,还是对付我啊?”邓布利多问道。

  “食死徒们要一个可怜巴巴、年老体衰的充气垫做什么用?” 斯拉霍恩问。

  “我想他们可能是要利用你不可忽视的天份去搞威逼、折磨和谋杀,”邓布利多说。“你真的要告诉我他们还没有来招募你?”

  斯拉霍恩恶狠狠地盯着邓布利多看了一会儿,然后嘀咕道,“我没有给过他们机会。我已经漂泊了一年。从来没有在同一个地方待足一个礼拜。从一个麻瓜的房子搬到另一个麻瓜的房子——这个地方的主人正在加那利群岛上度假。这里非常舒适,一想到要离开就觉得很难过。其实只要你知道该怎么做就很简单,只要你在这些他们用来防夜贼的自动警铃——他们用这种愚蠢的东西来代替窥镜——上施一个冰冻魔咒,同时确保邻居们不会发现你把钢琴带进来就成了。

  “很有独创性,”邓布利多说。“但追求安静的生活听起来还是件相当辛苦的差使,特别是对于一个可怜巴巴、年老体衰的充气垫来说。而如果你回到霍格沃茨——”

  “如果你要告诉我在那个遭瘟的破学校里,我的生活能过得更平静的话,你可以省省力气了,阿不思!我虽然一直东躲西藏的,但是自从多洛雷斯·乌姆里奇离开之后一些有趣的谣言就传到我耳朵里了!如果那就是你现在对待老师们的方式——”

  “乌姆里奇教授与我们的马人部落发生了冲突,”邓布利多说道。“我认为你,贺瑞斯,应该不会去大步走进森林,然后对着一群愤怒的马人部落大叫‘肮脏的杂种’吧。”

  “这就是她干的好事,是吗?”斯拉霍恩说。“愚蠢的女人。从来都不喜欢她。”

  哈利咯咯地笑了起来,邓布利多和斯拉霍恩都转过来看着他。

  “对不起,”哈利立刻说。“只是——我也不喜欢她。”

  邓布利多突然站了起来。

  “你要走了吗?”斯拉霍恩马上说,看上去显得很期待。

  “不,我只是在想我能不能用你的洗手间,”邓布利多说。

  “哦,”斯拉霍恩明显有些失望。“大厅往左第二个就是。”

  邓布利多走出了房间。当房门在他身后关上时,屋子里一片寂静。过了一会儿,斯拉霍恩站了起来,但看上去自己都不知道要做什么。他偷偷地瞟了哈利一眼,然后走到炉火旁边把背靠过去暖和。

  “不要以为我不知道他为什么要把你带来,”他唐突地说。

  哈利只是看着斯拉霍恩。斯拉霍恩水汪汪的眼睛扫过哈利的伤疤,这次,他看到了哈利脸上的其他部分。

  “你长得真像你父亲。”

  “是啊,有人告诉过我了,”哈利说。

  “除了你的眼睛,你有一双——”

  “我母亲的眼睛,是的。”哈利听到这句话的次数已经足够令他厌烦了。

  “哼。是啊,好。当然作为一个老师不应该有偏爱的学生,但她却还是我最喜欢的学生之一。你的母亲,”斯拉霍恩补充道,回答了哈利询问的眼神。“也就是莉莉·伊万斯。我教过的最聪明的学生之一,很活泼,你知道。一个可爱的女孩。我一直在告诉她,她应该到我的学院来。可每次都被她顶撞回来。”

  “哪个是你的学院?”

  “我那时候是斯莱特林学院的院长,”斯拉霍恩说。“哦,现在,”他飞快地说下去,看到哈利脸上的表情,于是对他晃了晃粗短的手指,“不要为了那个抵触我!我猜你应该是和她一样在格兰芬多吧。是啊,一般来说都有家族遗传。尽管也不总是这样。听说过小天狼星布莱克吗?你肯定知道——过去的两年他一直上报纸——几个星期前死了——”

  仿佛有一只无形的手紧紧地抓住了哈利的肠子。

  “嗯,不管怎样,他是你父亲在学校时的好兄弟。整个布莱克家族都来自我的学院,只有小天狼星从格兰芬多毕业了!可惜啊——他是个天资聪颖的男孩。我教过他的弟弟雷古勒斯,但是我更愿意要一套完整的。”

  他听起来就像一个正在参加拍卖的热情洋溢的收藏家。很显然正沉浸在回忆之中,他凝视着对面的墙壁,同时漫无目的地转着他的后背,好让各处都能烤得到。

  “当然你母亲是麻瓜家庭出身。当我发现这一点时简直难以置信,我以为像她这样优秀的巫师肯定是纯血统的。”

  “我有一个最好的朋友也是麻瓜家庭出身的,”哈利说,“她是我们年级最棒的一个。”

  “有趣的是,这种情况时不时就会发生,对不对?”斯拉霍恩说。

  “不这么认为。”哈利冷冷地说。

  斯拉霍恩惊讶地低头看着他。

  “你可不要认为我怀有偏见!”他说。“不,不,不!我刚才不是说了你母亲是我一生中最喜爱的学生之一吗?还有低她一个年级的德克·克雷斯韦——现在是妖精联络处的负责人,当然——他也是麻瓜家庭出身,一个非常有天赋的学生,而且现在都还在向我提供极好的内部消息,使我能洞悉古灵阁里的一举一动!”

  他略略上下调整了一下身子,心满意足地微笑着,然后他指向了碗橱上许多闪闪发亮的照片相框,每一个里面都有一个微微动着的头像。

  “所有我从前的学生,都给我签了名。你会看到巴拿巴·库菲,是《预言家日报》的编辑,他总是喜欢听取我对每天新闻的看法。还有安布罗修斯·弗卢姆,在蜂蜜公爵工作——我每次生日他都要送来一篮子糖果,就因为我给他引见了向他提供第一份工作的西塞隆·哈基斯!在他们后面——你伸伸脖子就能看到——那是格文诺·琼斯,当然是霍利黑德哈比队的队长……人们在听说我和哈比队队员关系如此熟络时总是很吃惊,而且无论何时我都能弄到免费的门票!”

  这似乎令他兴奋异常。

  “所有的这些人都知道在哪里可以找到你,给你东西?”哈利问道,既然说连装满糖果的篮子、魁地奇球赛门票和希望得到他意见的访问者都能找到他,难以置信为什么食死徒至今还没有追捕到斯拉霍恩。

  他脸上的微笑像墙上的血迹一样迅速消失了。

  “当然不是,”他低头看着哈利。“我已经有一年没有和任何人联系了。”
哈利感觉到斯拉格霍恩被自己的话吓了一跳。一时间,他显得有点儿不安,接着耸了耸肩。

  “不过……这年头,谨慎的巫师都尽量不抛头露面。邓布利多说得也有道理,但这个时候到霍格沃茨任职,就等于公开宣布我是拥护凤凰社的!尽管我相信他们勇敢无畏,令人钦佩,但我这个人不太喜欢死亡率——”

  “你到霍格沃茨来教书,不一定要加入凤凰社啊。”哈利说,口气里忍不住透着一点嘲笑。想到小天狼星躲在山洞里,靠吃老鼠活命,他很难同情斯拉格霍恩这种养尊处优的生活。“大多数教师都不是凤凰社的成员,而且没有一个人被害——当然啦,除非你把奇洛算上,但那是他活该,因为他是替伏地魔卖命的。”

  哈利知道斯拉格霍恩肯定会像其他巫师一样,听到他大声说出伏地魔的名字就吓得不行。果然不出所料,斯拉格霍恩打了个激灵,大声发出了抗议,但哈利没有理会。

  “我认为,只要邓布利多担任校长,学校的教工就会比大多数人都安全。据说,伏地魔只害怕他一个人,是不是?”哈利继续说。

  斯拉格霍恩出了一会儿神,似乎在仔细考虑哈利的话。

  “唉,是啊,那个连名字都不能提的魔头确实从来没敢跟邓布利多较量过。”他满不情愿地嘟囔道,“我想,既然我没有加入食死徒,那个连名字都不能提的魔头就不可能把我当成朋友……那样的话,我待在阿不思身边恐怕会更安全些……我不能假装阿米莉亚·博恩斯的死对我毫无触动……她在部里有那么多熟人、那么多保护,都……”

  邓布利多重新走进了屋里,斯拉格霍恩吓了一跳,他似乎忘记了邓布利多还没离开这幢 房子。

  “哦,你回来了,阿不思,”他说,“你去的时间可不短啊,闹肚子了?”

  “没有,我只是翻了翻那些麻瓜杂志。”邓布利多说,“我很喜欢毛衣编织图案。好了,哈利,我们已经叨扰了霍拉斯很长时间,我认为我们应该走了。”

  哈利欣然从命,立刻站了起来。斯拉格霍恩似乎吃了一惊。

  “你们要走了?”

  “是啊。我想,我能看得出来败局已定。”

  “败局……?”

  斯拉格霍恩显得很不安。他摆弄着两根胖胖的大拇指,焦虑地看着邓布利多裹紧了旅行斗篷,哈利拉上了他的夹克衫拉链。

  “唉,我很遗憾你不肯接受这份工作,霍拉斯,”邓布利多说着举起那只没有受伤的手,做了个告别的姿势,“如果你能回来,霍格沃茨会很高兴的。我们大大加强了安全防范措施,只要你愿意,随时欢迎你过来看看。”

  “好……唉……太客气了……我说过……”

  “那就再见了。”

  “再见。”哈利说。

  他们刚走到前门,就听见身后传来一声喊叫。

  “好吧,好吧,我干!”

  邓布利多一转身,看见斯拉格霍恩正气喘吁吁地站在客厅门口。

  “你愿意重新出来工作?”

  “是啊,是啊,”斯拉格霍恩不耐烦地说,“我肯定是疯了,但是没错,我愿意。”

  “太好了,”邓布利多顿时喜形于色,“那么,霍拉斯,我们九月一日见。”

  “好吧,没问题。”斯拉格霍恩嘟囔道。

  他们走在花园的小径上时,身后又传来了斯拉格霍恩的声音。

  “我会要求涨工资的,邓布利多!”

  邓布利多轻声笑了。花园的门在他们身后自动关上了,他们穿过黑压压的袅袅绕绕的浓雾,朝山下走去。

  “干得不错,哈利。”邓布利多说。

  “我什么也没做呀。”哈利吃惊地说。

  “噢,你做了。你让霍拉斯看到了他回到霍格沃茨能得到多少好处。你喜欢他吗?”

  “嗯……”

  哈利不能肯定自己是不是喜欢斯拉格霍恩。他觉得斯拉格霍恩在某些方面还是挺讨人喜欢的,但他似乎有些虚荣。还有,虽然他嘴上说的是另外一套,但他对于一个麻瓜出身的人竟能成为出色的女巫,表露出了太多的惊讶。

  “霍拉斯喜欢物质享受,”邓布利多接着说道,哈利就用不着把他这些心里想法说出来了,“还喜欢结交著名的、成功的、有权有势的人物。他喜欢那种听他摆布的感觉。他自己从来不想掌管大权,而更喜欢屈居次要位置——那样天地更宽,更加游刃有余。他在霍格沃茨时,总喜欢挑选自己最喜欢的学生,有时是因为他们的抱负或智慧,有时是因为他们的魅力或天赋,而且他有一种很不寻常的本领,总能挑选到那些日后会在各行各业出人头地的人。霍拉斯以自己为核心搞了一个俱乐部,由他的得意门生组成。他让他们之间互相认识,建立有用的联系,最后总能获得某种好处,或是免费得到一箱他最喜欢的菠萝蜜饯,或是有机会向妖精联络处推荐一名办事员。”

  哈利脑海里立刻出现了一只胖鼓鼓的大蜘蛛,它这里吐一根丝,那里吐一根丝,在身体周围结了一张网,把美味多汁的大苍蝇引到自己身边来。

  “我告诉你这些,”邓布利多继续说,“不是叫你对霍拉斯——我们现在必须称他为斯拉格霍恩教授了——产生反感,而是希望你保持警惕。他肯定会来拉拢你的,哈利。你会成为他收藏品中的瑰宝:大难不死的男孩……或者,用他们最近对你的称呼,‘救世之星’。”

  听了这些话,哈利身上起了一丝寒意,这寒意与周围的浓雾没有关系。他想起了几个星期前听到的那句话,那句对他有着可怕而特殊含义的话:

  两个人不能都活着……

  邓布利多已经停下脚步,站在与他们先前经过的那座教堂平行的地方。

  “行了,哈利。你只要抓紧我的胳膊。”

  这次,哈利对幻影显形有了心理准备,但仍然觉得很不舒服。当压力消失、他发现自己又能顺畅地呼吸时,他已和邓布利多并肩站在一条乡村小路上,而面前那个歪歪斜斜的剪影,正是他在这个世界上第二个最喜欢的地方:陋居。尽管刚才有一丝恐惧侵入了他的内心,但一看到陋居,他的情绪就不由得欢快起来。罗恩在这里……还有韦斯莱夫人,她做的饭菜,比他认识的任何人做的都好吃……

  “如果你不反对,哈利,”他们穿过大门时,邓布利多说,“分手前我想跟你说几句话。不想让别人听见。也许就在那里?”

  邓布利多指着房子外面一间破败的小石屋,那是韦斯莱一家放扫帚的地方。哈利有些困惑地跟着邓布利多走进了嘎吱作响的小门,来到一个比普通的碗柜大不了多少的地方。邓布利多点亮魔杖,让它像火把一样照着,然后他微笑地看着哈利。

  “哈利,希望你能原谅我提起这个话题,但是在部里发生了那些事情之后,你似乎一直对付得不错,对此我很高兴,还有点儿自豪。请允许我说一句,我认为小天狼星也会为你感到自豪的。”

  哈利咽了口唾沫,他的声音好像弃他而去了。他认为他无法忍受谈论小天狼星。那天听弗农姨父说“他的教父死了?”就已经使他很痛苦了,后来听斯拉格霍恩那么轻描淡写地吐出小天狼星的名字,更让他感到伤心。

  “这很残酷,”邓布利多温和地说,“你和小天狼星只在一起待了那么短的时间。你们本来应该在一起度过许多快乐的时光,这种结局真让人难受。”

  哈利点了点头,眼睛固执地盯着一只正往邓布利多帽子上爬的蜘蛛。

  他可以感觉到邓布利多是理解他的,邓布利多甚至可能猜到,哈利在收到那封信之前,几乎从早到晚都躺在德思礼家的床上,不吃不喝,盯着水汽模糊的窗户,内心充满了如同摄魂怪留下的那种空洞和寒意。

  “很难相信,”哈利终于低声说道,“他再也不会给我写信了。”

  他的眼睛突然火辣辣的,赶紧眨了眨眼皮。他不好意思承认,实际上,找到教父之后给他带来的最美好的一件事情,就是知道有一个人在霍格沃茨校外像父母一样时刻关心着他……如今,送信的猫头鹰再也不会带给他那种慰藉了……

  “对你来说,小天狼星代表着许多你以前从不知道的东西。”邓布利多温和地说,“失去他肯定令你感到无比痛苦……”

  “可是我在德思礼家的时候,”哈利打断了他的话,声音变得有力了,“我知道我不能把自己封闭起来,也不能——不能自暴自弃。小天狼星肯定不愿意这样,是吗?而且生命太短暂了……看看博恩斯夫人,看看爱米琳·万斯……下一个可能就是我,对吗?如果真的轮到我,”他直视着邓布利多那双在魔杖的亮光下闪烁的蓝眼睛,激动地说,“我一定要尽量多消灭几个食死徒,如果可能的话,就跟伏地魔同归于尽。”

  “说得好,不愧是你父母的儿子、小天狼星的教子!”邓布利多说着赞许地拍了拍哈利的后背,“我要脱帽向你表示敬意——我很想这么做,但我担心会弄得你满身都是蜘蛛。

  “另外,哈利,还有一个与此密切相关的话题……我想,最近两个星期你一直都在订阅《预言家日报》吧?”

  “是的。”哈利说,心脏突然跳得更快了。

  “那你就会看到,你在预言厅的那场经历像洪水一样泄露出去了,是吗?”

  “是啊,”哈利又说道,“现在大家都知道我是——”

  “不,他们不知道,”邓布利多打断了他的话,“世界上只有两个人知道那个关于你和伏地魔的预言的完整内容,而这两个人眼下都站在这间臭烘烘的、爬满蜘蛛的扫帚棚里。不错,许多人确实猜到了伏地魔曾派他的食死徒去盗取一个预言球,而那个预言跟你有关。

  “那么,我可不可以断言,你没有把预言的内容告诉任何人呢?”

  “没有。”哈利说。

  “总的来说,这么做是明智的,”邓布利多说,“不过我认为你不妨在你的朋友罗恩·韦斯莱先生和赫敏·格兰杰小姐面前松松口。是啊,”看到哈利惊愕的神色,他又说道,“我认为可以让他们知道。你把这么重要的事情瞒着他们,会伤害他们的感情的。”

  “我不想——”

  “——让他们担惊受怕?”邓布利多从他的半月形眼镜片上方打量着哈利,说道,“或者,不想坦白你自己的担心和恐惧?哈利,你需要朋友。你刚才说得对,小天狼星肯定不愿意你把自己封闭起来。”

  哈利什么也没说,但邓布利多似乎并不需要他做出回答。他接着说道:“再谈另外一个与此有关的话题,我希望这学期给你单独上课。”

  “单独上课——跟你?”哈利太惊讶了,从沉思中突然回过神来。

  “是的。我想,现在我应该更多地管管你的教育了。”

  “你会教我什么呢,先生?”

  “噢,教一点这个,教一点那个呗。”邓布利多轻描淡写地说。

  哈利还等着往下听,但邓布利多不再多说了,于是哈利就问了一件一直困扰着他的事情。

  “如果我跟你上课,就用不着跟斯内普学习大脑封闭术了,是吗?”

  “是斯内普教授,哈利——是的,用不着了。”

  “太好了,”哈利如释重负,“那些课简直就是——”

  他停住了,强忍着没把心里的想法说出来。

  “我认为‘彻底失败’这个词用在这里很合适。”邓布利多点点头说。

  哈利笑了起来。

  “啊,那就意味着我从此不大见得到斯内普教授了,”他说,“除非我O.W.Ls得了‘优秀’,不然他是不会让我选修魔药学的,而我知道我肯定得不到‘优秀’。”

  “成绩没送来之前,先别忙着想选修课。”邓布利多沉着脸说,“我想就在今天什么时候,成绩就能送到了。好了,哈利,分手之前,还有两件事。

  “第一,我希望从此以后,你把你的隐形衣时刻带在身上,即使是在霍格沃茨校内。以防万一,明白吗?”

  哈利点点头。

  “最后,你住在这里时,陋居得到了魔法部所能提供的最严密的安全保护。这些措施给亚瑟和莫丽带来了一定程度的不便——比如,他们所有的邮件都要经部里审查后才能送达。但他们丝毫不介意,一心只牵挂着你的安全。可是,如果你跟他们住在一起时冒险胡来,可就太对不起他们了。”

  “我明白。”哈利赶紧说道。

  “那就好,”邓布利多说完,推开了扫帚棚的门,走到外面的院子里,“我看见厨房里亮着灯。我们就让莫丽赶紧有机会哀叹你有多么瘦吧。”

[ 此帖被zy32593在2014-01-23 19:55重新编辑 ]
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等级: 内阁元老
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你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
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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... Goodnight, 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 time 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 Hogwarts 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 non-committal 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 the 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 unconvincingly 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?”
“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.
“— we thought it'd be something like that.”
“You did?” said Harry, amused.
“Yeah... yeah, now Umbridge has left, obviously we need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, don't we? So, er, what's he like?”
“He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head of Slytherin,” said Harry. “Something wrong, Hermione?”
She was watching him as though expecting strange symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment. She rearranged her features hastily in an unconvincing smile.
“No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like he'll be a good teacher?”
“Dunno,” said Harry. “He can't be worse than Umbridge, can he?”
“I know someone who's worse than Umbridge,” said a voice from the doorway. Ron's younger sister slouched into the room, looking irritable. “Hi, Harry.”
“What's up with you?” Ron asked.
“It's her,” said Ginny, plonking herself down on Harry's bed. “She's driving me mad.”
“What's she done now?” asked Hermione sympathetically.
“It's the way she talks to me... you'd think I was about three!”
“I know,” said Hermione, dropping her voice. “She's so full of herself.”
Harry was astonished to hear Hermione talking about Mrs. Weasley like this and could not blame Ron for saying angrily, “Can't you two lay off her for five seconds?”
“Oh, that's right, defend her,” snapped Ginny. “We all know you can't get enough of her.”
This seemed an odd comment to make about Ron's mother. Starting to feel that he was missing something, Harry said, “Who are you... ?”
But his question was answered before he could finish it. The bedroom door flew open again, and Harry instinctively yanked the bedcovers up to his chin so hard that Hermione and Ginny slid off the bed onto the floor.
A young woman was standing in the doorway, a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden breakfast tray.
“'Arry,” she said in a throaty voice. “Eet ‘as been too long!”
As she swept over the threshold toward him, Mrs. Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake, looking rather cross.
“There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just about to do it myself!”
“Eet was no trouble,” said Fleur Delacour, setting the tray across Harry's knees and then swooping to kiss him on each cheek: he felt the places where her mouth had touched him burn. “I ‘ave been longing to see ‘im. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She never stops talking about ‘Arry Potter. She will be delighted to see you again.”
“Oh... is she here too?” Harry croaked.
“No, no, silly boy,” said Fleur with a tinkling laugh, “I mean next summer, when we... but do you not know?”
Her great blue eyes widened and she looked reproachfully at Mrs. Weasley, who said, “We hadn't got around to telling him yet.”
Fleur turned back to Harry, swinging her silvery sheet of hair so that it whipped Mrs. Weasley across the face.
“Bill and I are going to be married!”
“Oh,” said Harry blankly. He could not help noticing how Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny were all determinedly avoiding one another's gaze. “Wow. Er... congratulations!”
She swooped down upon him and kissed him again.
“Bill is very busy at ze moment, working very ‘ard, and I only work part-time at Gringotts for my Eenglish, so he brought me ‘ere for a few days to get to know ‘is family properly. I was so pleased to ‘ear you would be coming... zere isn't much to do ‘ere, unless you like cooking and chickens! Well... enjoy your breakfast, ‘Arry!”
With these words she turned gracefully and seemed to float out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like, “tchah!”
“Mum hates her,” said Ginny quietly.
“I do not hate her!” said Mrs. Weasley in a cross whisper. “I just think they've hurried into this engagement, that's all!”
“They've known each other a year,” said Ron, who looked oddly groggy and was staring at the closed door.
“Well, that's not very long! I know why it's happened, of course. It's all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they're rushing all sorts of decisions they'd normally take time over. It was the same last time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and center...”
“Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly.
“Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Whereas Bill and Fleur... well... what have they really got in common? He's a hardworking, down-to-earth sort of person, whereas she's...”
“A cow,” said Ginny, nodding. “But Bill's not that down-to-earth. He's a Curse-Breaker, isn't he, he likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour... I expect that's why he's gone for Phlegm.”
“Stop calling her that, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Harry and Hermione laughed. “Well, I'd better get on... Eat your eggs while they're warm, Harry.”
Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.
“Don't you get used to her if she's staying in the same house?” Harry asked.
“Well, you do,” said Ron, “but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then...”
“It's pathetic,” said Hermione furiously, striding away from Ron as far as she could go and turning to face him with her arms folded once she had reached the wall.
“You don't really want her around forever?” Ginny asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged, she said, “Well, Mum's going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything.”
“How's she going to manage that?” asked Harry.
“She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner. I think she's hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I hope he does, I'd much rather have her in the family.”
“Yeah, that'll work,” said Ron sarcastically. “Listen, no bloke in his right mind's going to fancy Tonks when Fleur's around. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking when she isn't doing stupid things to her hair and her nose, but...”
“She's a damn sight nicer than Phlegm,” said Ginny.
“And she's more intelligent, she's an Auror!” said Hermione from the corner.
“Fleur's not stupid, she was good enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament,” said Harry.
“Not you as well!” said Hermione bitterly.
“I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ‘'Arry,’ do you?” asked Ginny scornfully.
“No,” said Harry, wishing he hadn't spoken, “I was just saying, Phlegm... I mean, Fleur...”
“I'd much rather have Tonks in the family,” said Ginny. “At least she's a laugh.”
“She hasn't been much of a laugh lately,” said Ron. “Every time I've seen her she's looked more like Moaning Myrtle.”
“That's not fair,” snapped Hermione. “She still hasn't got over what happened... you know... I mean, he was her cousin!”
Harry's heart sank. They had arrived at Sirius. He picked up a fork and began shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, hoping to deflect any invitation to join in this part of the conversation.
“Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!” said Ron. “Sirius was in Azkaban half her life and before that their families never met—”
“That's not the point,” said Hermione. “She thinks it was her limit he died!”
“How does she work that one out?” asked Harry, in spite of himself.
“Well, she was fighting Bellatrix Lestrange, wasn't she? I think she feels that if only she had finished her off, Bellatrix couldn't have killed Sirius.”
“That's stupid,” said Ron.
“It's survivor's guilt,” said Hermione. “I know Lupin's tried to talk her round, but she's still really down. She's actually having trouble with her Metamorphosing!”
“With her...?”
“She can't change her appearance like she used to,” explained Hermione. “I think her powers must have been affected by shock, or something.”
“I didn't know that could happen,” said Harry.
“Nor did I,” said Hermione, “but I suppose if you're really depressed...”
The door opened again and Mrs. Weasley popped her head in. “Ginny,” she whispered, “come downstairs and help me with the lunch.”
“I'm talking to this lot!” said Ginny, outraged.
“Now!” said Mrs. Weasley, and withdrew.
“She only wants me there so she doesn't have to be alone with Phlegm!” said Ginny crossly. She swung her long red hair around in a very good imitation of Fleur and pranced across the room with her arms held aloft like a ballerina.
“You lot had better come down quickly too,” she said as she left.
Harry took advantage of the temporary silence to eat more breakfast. Hermione was peering into Fred and George's boxes, though every now and then she cast sideways looks at Harry. Ron, who was now helping himself to Harry's toast, was still gazing dreamily at the door.
“What's this?” Hermione asked eventually, holding up what looked like a small telescope.
“Dunno,” said Ron, “but if Fred and George left it here, it's probably not ready for the joke shop yet, so be careful.”
“Your mum said the shop's going well,” said Harry. “Said Fred and George have got a real flair for business.”
“That's an understatement,” said Ron. “They're raking in the Galleons! I can't wait to see the place, we haven't been to Diagon Alley yet, because Mum says Dad's got to be there for extra security and he's been really busy at work, but it sounds excellent.”
“And what about Percy?” asked Harry; the third-eldest Weasley brother had fallen out with the rest of the family. “Is he talking to your mum and dad again?”
“Nope,” said Ron.
“But he knows your dad was right all along now about Voldemort being back...”
“Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right,” said Hermione. “I heard him telling your mum, Ron.”
“Sounds like the sort of mental thing Dumbledore would say,” said Ron.
“He's going to be giving me private lessons this year,” said Harry conversationally.
Ron choked on his bit of toast, and Hermione gasped.
“You kept that quiet!” said Ron.
“I only just remembered,” said Harry honestly. “He told me last night in your broom shed.”
“Blimey... private lessons with Dumbledore!” said Ron, looking impressed. “I wonder why he's... ?”
His voice tailed away. Harry saw him and Hermione exchange looks. Harry laid down his knife and fork, his heart beating rather fast considering that all he was doing was sitting in bed. Dumbledore had said to do it... Why not now? He fixed his eyes on his fork, which was gleaming in the sunlight streaming into his lap, and said, “I don't know exactly why he's going to be giving me lessons, but I think it must be because of the prophecy.”
Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke. Harry had the impression that both had frozen. He continued, still speaking to his fork, “You know, the one they were trying to steal at the Ministry.”
“Nobody knows what it said, though,” said Hermione quickly. “It got smashed.”
“Although the Prophet says...” began Ron, but Hermione said, “Shh!”
“The Prophet‘s got it right,” said Harry, looking up at them both with a great effort: Hermione seemed frightened and Ron amazed. “That glass ball that smashed wasn't the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore's office, he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me. From what it said,” Harry took a deep breath, “it looks like I'm the one who's got to finish off Voldemort... At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives.”
The three of them gazed at one another in silence for a moment. Then there was a loud bang and Hermione vanished behind a puff of black smoke.
“Hermione!” shouted Harry and Ron; the breakfast tray slid to the floor with a crash.
Hermione emerged, coughing, out of the smoke, clutching the telescope and sporting a brilliantly purple black eye.
“I squeezed it and it... it punched me!” she gasped.
And sure enough, they now saw a tiny fist on a long spring protruding from the end of the telescope.
“Don't worry,” said Ron, who was plainly trying not to laugh, “Mum'll fix that, she's good at healing minor injuries...”
“Oh well, never mind that now!” said Hermione hastily. “Harry, oh, Harry...”
She sat down on the edge of his bed again.
“We wondered, after we got back from the Ministry... Obviously, we didn't want to say anything to you, but from what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we thought it might be something like this... Oh, Harry...” She stared at him, then whispered, “Are you scared?”
“Not as much as I was,” said Harry. “When I first heard it, I was... but now, it seems as though I always knew I'd have to face him in the end...”
“When we heard Dumbledore was collecting you in person, we thought he might be telling you something or showing you something to do with the prophecy,” said Ron eagerly. “And we were kind of right, weren't we? He wouldn't be giving you lessons if he thought you were a goner, wouldn't waste his time... he must think you've got a chance!”
“That's true,” said Hermione. “I wonder what he'll teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, probably... powerful countercurses... anti-jinxes...”
Harry did not really listen. A warmth was spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight; a tight obstruction in his chest seemed to be dissolving. He knew that Ron and Hermione were more shocked than they were letting on, but the mere fact that they were still there on either side of him, speaking bracing words of comfort, not shrinking from him as though he were contaminated or dangerous, was worth more than he could ever tell them.
“...and evasive enchantments generally,” concluded Hermione. “Well, at least you know one lesson you'll be having this year, that's one more than Ron and me. I wonder when our O.W.L. results will come?”
“Can't be long now, it's been a month,” said Ron.
“Hang on,” said Harry, as another part of last night's conversation came back to him. “I think Dumbledore said our O.W.L. results would be arriving today!”
“Today?” shrieked Hermione. “Today? But why didn't you... oh my God... you should have said...”
She leapt to her feet.
“I'm going to see whether any owls have come...”
But when Harry arrived downstairs ten minutes later, fully dressed and carrying his empty breakfast tray, it was to find Hermione sitting at the kitchen table in great agitation, while Mrs. Weasley tried to lessen her resemblance to half a panda.
“It just won't budge,” Mrs. Weasley was saying anxiously, standing over Hermione with her wand in her hand and a copy of The Healer's Helpmate open at ‘Bruises, Cuts, and Abrasions'. “This has always worked before, I just can't understand it.”
“It'll be Fred and George's idea of a funny joke, making sure it can't come off,” said Ginny.
“But it's got to come off!” squeaked Hermione. “I can't go around looking like this forever!”
“You won't, dear, we'll find an antidote, don't worry,” said Mrs. Weasley soothingly.
“Bill told me ‘ow Fred and George are very amusing!” said Fleur, smiling serenely.
“Yes, I can hardly breathe for laughing,” snapped Hermione.
She jumped up and started walking round and round the kitchen, twisting her fingers together.
“Mrs. Weasley, you're quite, quite sure no owls have arrived this morning?”
“Yes, dear, I'd have noticed,” said Mrs. Weasley patiently. “But it's barely nine, there's still plenty of time...”
“I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” muttered Hermione feverishly, “I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back—”
“Hermione, will you shut up, you're not the only one who's nervous!” barked Ron. “And when you've got your eleven ‘Outstanding O.W.L.s...'”
“Don't, don't, don't!” said Hermione, flapping her hands hysterically. “I know I've failed everything!”
“What happens if we fail?” Harry asked the room at large, but it was again Hermione who answered.
“We discuss our options with our Head of House, I asked Professor McGonagall at the end of last term.”
Harry's stomach squirmed. He wished he had eaten less breakfast.
“At Beauxbatons,” said Fleur complacently, “we ‘ad a different way of doing things. I think eet was better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five, and then...”
Fleur's words were drowned in a scream. Hermione was pointing through the kitchen window. Three black specks were clearly visible in the sky, growing larger all the time.
“They're definitely owls,” said Ron hoarsely, jumping up to join Hermione at the window.
“And there are three of them,” said Harry, hastening to her other side.
“One for each of us,” said Hermione in a terrified whisper. “Oh no... oh no... oh no...”
She gripped both Harry and Ron tightly around the elbows.
The owls were flying directly at the Burrow, three handsome tawnies, each of which, it became clear as they flew lower over the path leading up to the house, was carrying a large square envelope.
“Oh no!” squealed Hermione.
Mrs. Weasley squeezed past them and opened the kitchen window. One, two, three, the owls soared through it and landed on the table in a neat line. All three of them lifted their right legs.
Harry moved forward. The letter addressed to him was tied to the leg of the owl in the middle. He untied it with fumbling fingers. To his left, Ron was trying to detach his own results; to his right, Hermione's hands were shaking so much she was making her whole owl tremble.
Nobody in the kitchen spoke. At last, Harry managed to detach the envelope. He slit it open quickly and unfolded the parchment inside.
Ordinary Wizarding Level Results
Pass Grades:
Outstanding (O)
Exceeds Expectations (E)
Acceptable (A)
Fail Grades:
Poor (P)
Dreadful (D)
Troll (T)
Harry James Potter has achieved:
Astronomy A
Care of Magical Creatures E
Charms E
Defense Against the Dark Arts O
Divination P
Herbology E
History of Magic D
Potions E
Transfiguration E
Harry read the parchment through several times, his breathing becoming easier with each reading. It was all right: he had always known that he would fail Divination, and he had had no chance of passing History of Magic, given that he had collapsed halfway through the examination, but he had passed everything else! He ran his finger down the grades... he had passed well in Transfiguration and Herbology, he had even exceeded expectations at Potions! And best of all, he had achieved “Outstanding” at Defense Against the Dark Arts!
He looked around. Hermione had her back to him and her head bent, but Ron was looking delighted.
“Only failed Divination and History of Magic, and who cares about them?” he said happily to Harry. “Here... swap...”
Harry glanced down Ron's grades: There were no “Outstandings” there...
“Knew you'd be top at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Ron, punching Harry on the shoulder. “We've done all right, haven't we?”
“Well done!” said Mrs. Weasley proudly, ruffling Ron's hair. “Seven O.W.L.s, that's more than Fred and George got together!”
“Hermione?” said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn't turned around. “How did you do?”
“I—not bad,” said Hermione in a small voice.
“Oh, come off it,” said Ron, striding over to her and whipping her results out of her hand. “Yep... ten ‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ at Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You're actually disappointed, aren't you?”
Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed.
“Well, we're N.E.W.T. students now!” grinned Ron. “Mum, are there any more sausages?”
Harry looked back down at his results. They were as good as he could have hoped for. He felt just one tiny twinge of regret... This was the end of his ambition to become an Auror. He had not secured the required Potions grade. He had known all along that he wouldn't, but he still felt a sinking in his stomach as he looked again at that small black E.
It was odd, really, seeing that it had been a Death Eater in disguise who had first told Harry he would make a good Auror, but somehow the idea had taken hold of him, and he couldn't really think of anything else he would like to be. Moreover, it had seemed the right destiny for him since he had heard the prophecy a few weeks ago... Neither can live while the other survives... Wouldn't he be living up to the prophecy, and giving himself the best chance of survival, if he joined those highly trained wizards whose job it was to find and kill Voldemort?

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 10楼  发表于: 2014-01-23 0

第5章 黏痰过多

哈利和邓布利多走进了陋居的后门,那里堆积着他所熟悉的老式高筒靴和生锈的旧坩埚;哈利可以听到远处的鸡舍里传来的那些困倦的小鸡叽叽喳喳的叫声。邓布利多在门上敲了三下,哈利看到厨房窗户后面突然动了动。

  “是谁啊?”一个紧张的声音问,哈利听出来是韦斯莱夫人。“报出姓名!”

  “是我,邓布利多,带着哈利。”

  门马上就打开了。矮胖的韦斯莱夫人穿着一件绿色的旧睡袍站在那儿。

  “哈利,亲爱的!天哪,阿不思,你把我吓着了,你不是说不到破晓都回不来吗?”

  “我们很幸运,”邓布利多领着哈利跨过门槛。“斯拉霍恩比我想象的更容易说服。哈利当然也帮了忙。啊,你好,尼法朵拉!”

  哈利环顾了一下屋子,才发现虽然已经很晚了,韦斯莱夫人却并非独自一人。桌子旁边还坐了一个长着心形脸蛋的年轻女巫,她脸色苍白,手里正抓着一个大杯子。

  “你好,教授,”她说。“你好,哈利。”

  “嗨,唐克斯。”

  哈利觉得她看上去有些憔悴,甚至有些病恹恹的,而且笑起来很勉强。少了她往常惯有的泡泡糖般的粉红色头发,她的样子不像以前那样光彩照人了。

  “我该走了,”她快速地说,一面站起来把斗篷披在肩膀上。“谢谢你的茶和同情,莫莉。”

  “看在我的份上请先别走,”邓布利多礼貌地说。“我待不了多久,我还有紧急的事情要去和鲁弗斯·斯克林杰商量。”

  “不,不,我真的要走了,”唐克斯避开邓布利多的眼睛。“晚安——”

  “亲爱的,周末过来吃晚餐吧,莱姆斯和疯眼汉都过来——?”

  “不,真的,莫莉……不管怎么样,谢谢了……晚安,各位。”

  唐克斯快步经过邓布利多和哈利往院子里走去;出门走了几步便消失在了稀薄的空气中。哈利注意到韦斯莱夫人看上去有些心事重重。

  “好了,我们在霍格沃茨再会,哈利,”邓布利多说。“照顾好自己。莫莉,我随时听候你的召唤。”

  他朝韦斯莱夫人鞠了一躬,然后和唐克斯一样,几乎在相同的地方消失了。韦斯莱夫人关上了门,把哈利拉到提灯的光线下,两手扶着哈利的肩膀仔细端详他的模样。

  “你和罗恩一样,”她叹息道,上上下下地打量着他。“你们都像中了伸长咒一样。我敢发誓罗恩比我上次给他买袍子时长了四英寸。你饿了吗,哈利?”

  “是的,”哈利突然发觉他有多饿。

  “坐着,亲爱的,我去弄点儿吃的来。”

  哈利正坐着,一只长着姜黄色毛发和一张扁平大脸的猫蹿上了他的膝盖,蜷在那里呼噜呼噜地叫着。

  “那么赫敏也在这儿?”他高兴地在克鲁克山的耳朵后面挠了挠。

  “是的,她前天到的,”韦斯莱夫人用魔杖敲了敲一只大铁罐:它咣当一声跳上了炉子,立刻开始冒起了泡。“当然,大家都睡了,我们没指望你几个小时就能到。拿着——”

  她又轻轻地敲了敲罐子;它升到了半空中,飞到哈利身边倾斜过来;韦斯莱夫人塞过去一只碗,正好接住了从罐子里倒出来的浓稠的洋葱汤,还热腾腾地冒着气。

  “面包要吗,亲爱的?”

  “谢谢,韦斯莱夫人。”

  她举起魔杖挥了挥;一块面包和一把小刀优雅地落到了桌子上。面包自动地切着,罐子也回到了炉子上,于是韦斯莱夫人坐到了哈利对面。

  “这么说你们说服了贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩接下这门差事?”

  哈利嘴里装满了热乎乎的汤,所以只是点了点头。

  “他教过亚瑟和我,”韦斯莱夫人说。“他过去在霍格沃茨教了很长时间,我想大概是和邓布利多一起去的霍格沃茨吧。你觉得他怎么样?”

  哈利的嘴现在又塞满了面包,于是他耸了耸肩,不确定地动了动脑袋。

  “我知道你的意思,”韦斯莱夫人精明地点点头。“当然只要他愿意,他还是可以变得很吸引人的,但是亚瑟却从来都不喜欢他。部里到处都是斯拉霍恩的得意门生,他总是善于提供帮助,但从没有时间帮帮亚瑟——他似乎不认为亚瑟是个有抱负的人。不过,那只能表明即使是斯拉霍恩也会犯错误。我不知道罗恩有没有在他的信里告诉你——刚刚才发生的——亚瑟被提升了!”

  再清楚不过了,韦斯莱夫人一直急于说出这个。哈利吞下一大口热汤,觉得自己的喉咙都要被烫起泡了。

  “那太棒了!”他喘着气说。

  “你真好,”韦斯莱夫人显得很高兴,她擦了擦湿润的眼睛。“是的,鲁弗斯·斯克林杰为了响应现在的局势又新成立了几个部门,亚瑟现在领导着假冒防御性咒语及防护性物品检测与收缴办公室。这可是个大工作,他手下现在已经有十个人了!”

  “那究竟是——?”

  “嗯,你知道,由于对神秘人的恐慌,不断有号称能防御神秘人和食死徒的奇怪物件被拿出来兜售。你可以想见是什么样的东西——所谓的防护魔药,其实就是加了巴波块茎脓汁的肉汤,还有那些防御性恶咒的教程,其实只会把你的耳朵弄掉……好了,大体上那些犯罪者都是些像蒙顿格斯·弗莱奇那样的人,他们一辈子没做过一天的正经事儿,只会利用人们的恐惧心理到处招摇撞骗。不过时不时地也有真正严重的事情发生。前几天亚瑟还收缴了一批很可能被上了咒语的窥镜,几乎可以肯定是某个食死徒安放的。可见,这是一项非常重要的工作,我还告诉他不要愚蠢地放过检查火花塞、烤面包机和所有那一类的麻瓜废品。”韦斯莱夫人表情严峻地看了一眼哈利,仿佛是哈利建议韦斯莱先生放过了火花塞。

  “韦斯莱先生还在上班吗?”

  “是啊。事实上,有点儿晚了……他说会在午夜前后回来的……”

  她转过头看了看那个大钟,它笨拙地堆在桌子尽头的一个装满了床单的洗衣篮上面。哈利马上认出了它:一共有九根指针,每一根上都刻着一个家庭成员的名字,它通常被挂在韦斯莱家客厅的墙上,而它目前的位置说明韦斯莱夫人今晚一直把它带在自己身边。每一根指针都指向了“生命危险”。

  “它像那个样子已经有一阵子,”韦斯莱夫人用一种不那么令人信服的轻松口吻说,“从神秘人回来就开始了。我想也许每个人都处在生命危险之下……我不认为只有我们家是这样……但我不知道还有谁有一个这样的钟,所以我没法核实,哦!”

  她突然一声惊呼,指向了钟面。韦斯莱先生的指针转向了“在路上”。

  “他要回来了!”

  不一会儿果然传来了敲后门的声音。韦斯莱夫人跳起来急匆匆地跑过去;她一只手放在门把手上,脸贴着木头门柔声问道,“亚瑟,是你吗?”

  “是的,”是韦斯莱先生疲惫的声音。“但我要是个食死徒也会这么回答,亲爱的。问问题吧!”

  “哦,坦白地说……”

  “莫莉!”

  “好吧,好吧……你最大的志向是什么?”

  “弄清楚飞机为什么能在天上飞。”

  韦斯莱夫人点点头,转了转门把手,可韦斯莱先生显然在门的另一侧将它紧紧握住了,因为门仍旧关得严严实实的。

  “莫莉!我必须先问你问题!”

  “亚瑟,真的,这会很傻的……”

  “我们俩独处的时候你喜欢我怎么叫你?”

  即使是在如此昏暗的灯光下,哈利还是能看见韦斯莱夫人的脸变得通红;他自己也突然感到面红耳赤,于是急匆匆地咽下一口汤,把汤匙在碗里划得尽可能的响。

  “莫莉宝贝,”韦斯莱夫人对着门缝用小得不能再小的声音说。

  “正确,”韦斯莱先生说。“现在你可以让我进来了。”

  韦斯莱夫人开了门,她的丈夫,一个瘦削的、正在谢顶的男巫正站在外面,脑袋上长着为数不多的红色头发,还戴着一副角质架眼镜,身上披了一件长长的、布满灰尘的旅行斗篷。

  “我还是不明白为什么每次你回家都得来那么一遍,”韦斯莱夫人说,她帮丈夫脱下斗篷的时候脸上还泛着红晕。“我是说,一个食死徒在假扮你之前可能已经把它严刑逼供出来了。”

  “我知道,亲爱的,但这是部里要求的程序,我必须做出表率。真香啊——是洋葱汤吗?”

  韦斯莱先生充满期待地把脸转向桌子。

  “哈利!我还以为你早上才会来呢!”

  他和哈利握了握手,抽出旁边的一把椅子坐了下来,韦斯莱夫人也给他盛了一碗洋葱汤。

  “谢谢,莫莉。今晚真是艰难。有些白痴开始销售起了什么易容徽章。只要挂在脖子上就可以随意地改变容貌。号称只要十个加隆,就能得到成千上万的伪装!”

  “那把它们挂到脖子上之后实际上会发生些什么呢?”

  “大多数人只会变成一种让人讨厌的橙色,不过有几个却全身都长出了触手一般的瘤子。好像嫌圣芒戈还忙不过来似的。”

  “听起来像是弗雷德和乔治喜欢的那种东西,”韦斯莱夫人迟疑地说。“你确定不是——”

  “我当然确定!”韦斯莱先生说。“他们俩不会在人们都忙着寻求保护的时候做这种事情!”

  “那么这就是你回来晚了的原因,易容徽章?”

  “不是,我们还得到风声有人在象堡放了个回火咒,走运的是我们到那儿时发现魔法法律执行队已经把它找出来了……”

  哈利用手挡住了正在打呵欠的嘴巴。

  “该睡觉了,”韦斯莱夫人没有被骗过,她马上说。“我已经把弗雷德和乔治的房间给你收拾好了,你自己上去睡吧。”

  “为什么,他们去哪儿了?”

  “哦,他们在对角巷,睡在他们笑话商店的地板上,因为太忙了,”韦斯莱夫人说。“我必须说,我一开始并不同意,但他们做生意确实有一套!来吧,亲爱的,你的旅行箱已经拿上去了。”

  “晚安,韦斯莱先生,”哈利把椅子向后推了推。克鲁克山轻轻地从哈利的膝盖上下来,跳出了房间。

  “晚安,哈利,”韦斯莱先生说。

  哈利看到韦斯莱夫人走出厨房时瞥了一眼洗衣篮里的大钟。所有的指针又都再一次指向了“生命危险”。

  弗雷德和乔治的卧室在三楼。韦斯莱夫人把魔杖朝床头灯一指,灯马上就亮了,令人愉悦的金黄色灯光照亮了整个房间。虽然小窗户前面的桌子上已经摆了一大瓶花,但它们的香味还是掩盖不了残留的黑火药气味。地板的相当一部分空间被用来堆放许多没有标记的密封纸盒,在它们中间放着哈利的箱子。这间房看上去就像是一个临时仓库。

  海德薇在衣柜顶上朝哈利愉快地叫了几声,然后从窗子飞了出去;哈利知道它一直在等着见他一面然后再出去觅食。哈利向韦斯莱夫人道了声晚安,换上睡衣钻进了其中的一张床。枕头套里有个什么硬东西。他摸索了一阵,掏出一只一端是紫色、一端是黄色的糖,他认出来这是吐吐糖。于是笑了笑,翻过身去,不一会儿就进入了梦乡。

  才过了几秒钟——至少哈利感觉是这样——他就被放炮一样的撞门声给吵醒了。哈利坐直起身子,听见窗帘被拉开的声音:晃眼的阳光将他的双眼刺得生疼。于是他一只手遮着双眼,一只手绝望地摸索着他的眼镜。

  “发生了什么事?”

  “我们不知道你已经到这里了!”一个响亮、兴奋的声音说,然后他的头顶突然挨了一下。

  “罗恩,别打他!”一个女孩的声音责备地说。

  哈利的手找到眼镜并戴上了它,不过明亮的光线下他什么也看不清。一个模糊的影子在眼前晃了一段时间;然后他眨了眨眼睛,罗恩·韦斯莱跃入他的视线,此刻正对他咧着嘴笑。

  “还好吗?”

  “不能再好了。”哈利揉着头顶又倒回枕头里。“你呢?”

  “还不错,”罗恩说着,拉过一个纸盒子坐了下来。“你什么时候到的?妈妈刚刚才告诉我们。”

  “大概凌晨一点钟吧。”

  “麻瓜们怎么样?对你还好吧?”

  “还不是和从前一样,”哈利说着,赫敏坐到了他的床边,“他们不怎么和我说话,不过我觉得那样更好。你怎么样,赫敏?”

  “哦,我很好,”赫敏仔细地端详着哈利,仿佛他生了什么病似的。

  他知道赫敏的意思。但是他不想在这个时候讨论小天狼星的死和任何痛苦的话题,于是他说,“现在是什么时候了?我错过早餐了吗?”

  “别担心,妈妈等会儿会给你端一盘上来;她觉得你吃得不够饱,”罗恩说,转了转眼珠,“那么,发生了些什么事情?”

  “没什么事情,我一直都待在我姨妈和姨父的家里,不是吗?”

  “少来了!”罗恩说。“你和邓布利多一起走的!”

  “没什么激动人心的事情。他只是想让我协助他说服一个老教授重新出山而已。他叫贺瑞斯·斯拉霍恩。”

  “哦,”罗恩失望地说。“我们还以为——”

  赫敏迅速向罗恩扔去了一个警告的眼神,罗恩立刻话锋一转。

  “——我们还以为就是那样的事……”

  “是吗?”哈利觉得好笑。

  “是……是的,现在乌姆里奇走了,很显然我们又需要一位新的黑魔法防御术课老师了,不是吗?那么,呃,他长什么样子?”

  “他长得有点像一只海象,他以前是斯莱特林的院长,”哈利说,“有什么不对吗,赫敏?”

  赫敏一直注视着哈利,仿佛有什么奇怪的病征会随时冒出来一样。她赶忙挤出一个不那么令人信服的微笑。

  “没有,当然没有!那么,呃……斯拉霍恩看起来像是个好老师吗?”

  “不知道,”哈利说。“反正不会比乌姆里奇更差,是不是?”

  “我知道有个人比乌姆里奇还差,”一个声音从门口传来。罗恩的妹妹无精打采地走进来,看上去有些烦躁。“你好,哈利。”

  “你怎么了?”罗恩问。

  “都是她,”金妮重重地倒在哈利的床上,“她快把我逼疯了。”

  “她这次做了什么?”赫敏同情地问。

  “是她对我说话的方式——你们简直会以为我还是个三岁小孩子!”

  “我知道了,”赫敏压低了声音说,“她心里想的都是自己。”

  哈利惊讶地听到赫敏这样谈论韦斯莱夫人,也难怪罗恩会生气地说,“你们俩就不能搁下她五秒钟吗?”

  “哦,是啊,为她辩护,”金妮厉声说,“我们都知道你是不会厌倦她的。”

  这是对罗恩妈妈的一个很奇怪的评价。哈利发觉他什么地方搞错了,于是说:“你们在谈论谁——?”

  但是他在问完这个问题之前就得到了答案了。房间的门再一次被打开了,哈利本能地把被子猛拉到下巴,以至于赫敏和金妮都从床上滑到了地板上。

  一个年轻的女子站在门口,她拥有着如此让人窒息的美貌,仿佛令房间里的空气都不够用了。她身材如柳树般纤细修长,一头长长的金发呈现出让人眩晕的银色光彩。使这个景象更趋于完美的是,她手里还端着满满的一盘早餐。

  “阿(哈)利,”她用一种喉音问候道,“好久不见!”

  她越过门槛向哈利走去,韦斯莱夫人突然在她后面出现了,看起来很生气。

  “没必要把餐盘送上来,我正准备自己来呢!”

  “没什么问题,”芙蓉·德拉库尔把餐盘放到哈利腿上,然后俯身在哈利两边的脸蛋上都亲了亲:哈利觉得她吻过的地方一阵发烫。“我一直很想再见到你。你还记得我妹妹加布丽吗?她总是不停地谈论着阿利·波特。再见到你她一定会很高兴的。”

  “哦……她也在这儿吗?”哈利嘶哑地说。

  “不,不,傻男孩,”芙蓉发出了银铃般的笑声,“我是说下个暑假,等我们——你什么都不知道吗?”

  她蓝色的大眼睛睁得更大了,责备地看着韦斯莱夫人,而韦斯莱夫人说,“我们还没有来得及告诉他。”

  芙蓉转向哈利,把她银色瀑布般的长发一甩,正好拂过韦斯莱夫人的脸。

  “比尔和我要结婚了!”

  “哦,”哈利茫然地说。他不禁注意到韦斯莱夫人、赫敏和金妮都在坚决地躲避着各自的眼神。“哇。呃——恭喜你!”

  她又俯下身吻了吻他。

  “比尔现在很忙,工作很努力,我则只是为了提高英语而在古灵阁做点兼职,所以,他把我带到这里住几天,让我可以更好地了解他的家庭。听说你要来我真是太高兴了——这里没有太多的事情可做,除非你喜欢煮饭和喂鸡!好了——好好享用你的早餐吧,阿利!”

  说完她很优雅地转过身,像是飘着一样地离开了房间,在身后轻轻地把门关上。

  韦斯莱夫人发出了一个声音,听上去似乎是“嗤!”

  “妈妈讨厌她,”金妮安静地说。

  “我不讨厌她!”韦斯莱夫人恼火地低声说道。“我只是觉得他们不该这么快就订婚,就是这样。”

  “他们都认识一年了,”罗恩盯着那扇关上的门,样子有点儿古怪,像是喝醉了酒。

  “好了,那也不是很久!我知道为什么会这样,当然。全都是因为神秘人回归带来的不确定性,人们觉得自己明天就可能会死去,所以他们急着做出各种本可以慢慢来的决定。这和上回他强大的时候一样,到处都是私奔的人——”

  “包括你和爸爸,”金妮调皮地说。

  “是的,不过,你爸爸和我是天造地设的一对,我们有什么可等的?”韦斯莱夫人说。“反观比尔和芙蓉……嗯……他们俩之间有什么共同点?他是个勤奋工作、脚踏实地的人,而她却是——”

  “一头母牛,”金妮点了点头,“但是比尔也不是那么脚踏实地。他是个解咒员,对吧,他既喜欢来点儿冒险,又喜欢一点儿魅力……我想那就是他喜欢‘浮脓’的原因。”

  “别那样叫芙蓉,金妮,”韦斯莱夫人严厉地说,哈利和赫敏却在一旁偷笑。“好了,我想最好还是去做我的事……快点儿趁热吃了鸡蛋,哈利。”

  她离开房间时看上去显得忧心忡忡。罗恩仍然像喝醉了似的;他尝试着晃了晃脑袋,就像一只狗在试图甩掉耳朵里的水。

  “她和你住在一个房子里,你还没习惯她吗?”哈利问。

  “这……你是可以,”罗恩说,“但是如果她突然冒出来,就像刚才那样……”

  “真可悲,”赫敏暴躁地说,大步地向离罗恩最远的地方走过去,在走到墙角之后她转过身来,双臂交叉放在胸前面对着罗恩。

  “你不希望她永远在你身边吗?”金妮怀疑地问道。罗恩只是耸了耸肩,她说,“嗯,如果可以的话妈妈一定会阻止这件事的,我敢用任何东西打赌。”

  “她想怎么阻止他们呢?”哈利问。

  “她一直努力劝说唐克斯留下来吃晚饭。我估计她是想让比尔爱上唐克斯吧。我也这么希望,我更情愿把她留在家里。”

  “是啊,这多管用啊,”罗恩讽刺地说。“听着,没有一个头脑正常的家伙会在芙蓉伴随身边的时候爱上唐克斯。我是说,唐克斯也不错——如果她不对自己的头发和鼻子做那些蠢事,但是——”

  “她再丑也比‘浮脓’强,”金妮说。

  “她还更聪明,她是个傲罗!”赫敏站在角落里说。

  “芙蓉并不笨。她聪明得足以角逐三强争霸赛,”哈利说。

  “你别跟他一个鼻孔出气!”赫敏讽刺地说。

  “我想你肯定很喜欢听‘浮脓’叫你‘阿利’,是不是?”金妮轻蔑地问。

  “不,”哈利希望他刚才什么也没说,“我只是说,‘浮脓’——我的意思是,芙蓉——”

  “我更情愿唐克斯在我们家,”金妮说。“至少她可以带来欢笑。”

  “她最近可没带来什么欢笑,”罗恩说。“每次我看到她都觉得她越来越像哭泣的桃金娘了。”

  “这么说可不公平,”赫敏厉声说。“她还没有从那件事情中恢复过来……你们知道……我是指,他是她的表亲!”

  哈利的心沉了下去。他们说到了小天狼星。他拿起叉子把煎蛋铲起来放进嘴里,希望这样可以避免加入他们的谈话。

  “唐克斯和小天狼星几乎都不认识对方!”罗恩说。“在唐克斯生命的一半时间里小天狼星都在阿兹卡班,而在那之前他们的家庭之间从来没有接触过——”

  “那不是重点,”赫敏说。“她觉得他的死是自己的错!”

  “她怎么会那么想呢?”哈利顾不上自己正在回避这个话题。

  “哦,她当时一直在与贝拉特里克斯搏斗,不是吗?我想她肯定觉得如果她早点解决了她,小天狼星就不会被杀了。”

  “真是傻,”罗恩说。

  “这是幸存者的内疚,”赫敏说。“我知道卢平一直在变着法子劝慰她,但是她还是真的很消沉。实际上,她在易容方面也出了问题。”

  “她什么——?”

  “她不能再像从前那样随意变换容貌了,”赫敏解释道。“我想她的能力一定是被这个打击影响了,或者是别的什么。”

  “我不知道还可以这样子,”哈利说。

  “我以前也不知道,”赫敏说,“不过我想如果你的情绪确实非常低落……”

  门又一次被打开了,韦斯莱夫人突然把头伸了进来。

  “金妮,”她悄声说,“到楼下来帮我准备午饭。”

  “但是我在和大家说话呢!”金妮似乎被冒犯了。

  “现在!”韦斯莱夫人离开了。

  “她只不过是希望我下去,这样她就不必独自面对‘浮脓’了!”金妮暴躁地说。她效仿芙蓉把红色的长发甩了甩,然后把手高高举着昂首阔步地走出了房间,像芭蕾舞演员一样。

  “你们最好也快点下来。”她走的时候说。

  哈利利用这短暂的沉默时间多吃了些早餐。赫敏眯起眼盯着乔治和弗雷德的盒子,时不时还从侧面瞟一眼哈利。罗恩则正吃着哈利的吐司面包,眼睛仍旧做梦似地盯着那扇门。

  “这是什么?”赫敏举起一个小望远镜似的东西,问道。

  “不知道,”罗恩说,“不过既然弗雷德和乔治把它留在这儿,它恐怕还不能拿到笑话商店里去卖,你可得小心点儿。”

  “你妈妈说小店生意不错,”哈利说,“还说弗雷德和乔治挺有生意头脑的。”

  “这么说太轻描淡写了。”罗恩说,“他们现在是大把地捞钱啊!我真想赶紧去看看那个地方。我们还没有去过对角巷呢,妈妈说为了安全起见,爸爸也得一起去,而现在爸爸工作忙得要命,不过这个安排听起来真棒!”

  “珀西怎么样了?”哈利问,韦斯莱家的这位三儿子曾经同家人闹翻了,“他跟你爸爸妈妈说话了吗?”

  “没有。”罗恩说。

  “可是他现在知道,你爸爸关于伏地魔会回来的说法是对的——”

  “邓布利多说,人们容易原谅别人的错误,却很难原谅别人的正确。”赫敏说,“我听见他跟你妈妈说的,罗恩。”

  “这一听就是邓布利多的至理名言。”罗恩说。

  “他今年要给我单独上课呢。”哈利引出了话题。

  罗恩被嘴里的面包噎住了,赫敏吃惊地倒抽了一口气。

  “你跟我们保密!”罗恩说。

  “我刚想起来。”哈利如实地说,“他昨晚在你们家的扫帚棚里告诉我的。”

  “天哪……邓布利多给你单独上课!”罗恩一副肃然起敬的样子,说道,“不知道他为什么……?”

  罗恩的声音低了下去。哈利看见他和赫敏交换了一下目光。哈利放下刀叉,他的心跳加快,而他现在只是坐在床上,什么也没做。邓布利多说过可以告诉他们……为什么不是现在呢?他眼睛盯着叉子,阳光洒在他的腿上,照得叉子闪闪发亮,他说:“我不知道他到底为什么要给我上课,但我想肯定是因为那个预言球。”

  罗恩和赫敏都没有说话。哈利感觉到他们俩都惊呆了。他眼睛盯着叉子继续说:“你们知道,就是他们想从魔法部偷走的那个。”

  “可是谁也不知道那上面写着什么。”赫敏立刻说道,“它被打碎了。”

  “不过《预言家日报》说——”罗恩的话没说完,赫敏就制止了他,“嘘!”

  “《预言家日报》说得没错,”哈利说着费力地抬起头望着他俩:赫敏看上去很惊慌,罗恩则是一副惊愕的样子,“那个打碎的玻璃球并不是预言的惟一记录。我在邓布利多的办公室里听说了事情的来龙去脉,那个预言就是说给他听的,所以他能够告诉我。从那个预言来看,”哈利深深地吸了一口气,“似乎我就是那个结果伏地魔的人……至少,它说我们俩不可能同时活着。”

  三个人面面相觑了一会儿。突然,砰的一声巨响,赫敏消失在一大团黑烟的后面。

  “赫敏!”哈利和罗恩同时喊起来,早餐托盘咣啷一声滑到了地板上。

  赫敏从黑烟里出现了,不停地咳嗽着,手里仍抓着那个望远镜,一只眼睛变成了乌眼青。

  “我一挤,它就——它就给了我一下!”她喘着气说。

  果然,他们这才看见望远镜的顶端伸出一根长长的弹簧,上面有一只小小的拳头。

  “别担心,”罗恩说,他显然在拼命忍住笑,“妈妈会给你治好的,她治疗小伤小痛最拿手了——”

  “噢,没关系,现在先不管它!”赫敏赶紧说道,“哈利,哦,哈利……”

  她又在哈利的床边坐了下来。

  “从魔法部回来以后,我们心里就在嘀咕……当然啦,我们什么都不想跟你说,但听了卢修斯·马尔福说的关于那个预言、关于你和伏地魔的话之后,唉,我们就已经猜到可能会是这样……哦,哈利……”她望着他,又低声问道,“你害怕吗?”

  “不像当时那么害怕了。”哈利说,“我第一次听见它时,确实……不过现在,我觉得我好像早就知道我最后要跟他面对面地较量的……”

  “当我们听说邓布利多要亲自去接你时,我们就猜想他大概会跟你说一些、或给你看一些跟预言有关的东西,”罗恩急急地说道,“我们没有猜错吧?如果他认为你注定要完蛋,他就不会给你上课,不会浪费他的时间了——他肯定认为你还是有希望取胜的!”

  “对,”赫敏说,“不知道他会教你什么,哈利?大概是绝顶先进的防御魔法……特别厉害的破解咒……反恶咒……”

  哈利并没有认真地听。他感到全身暖融融的,而且这暖意跟阳光毫无关系,堵在他胸口的那块东西似乎正在渐渐融化。他知道罗恩和赫敏并没有把内心的恐惧都显露出来,但看到他们仍然和他站在一起,说着安慰和鼓励的话,而没有把他当成异类或危险分子,远远地躲开,他觉得这价值是他无法用语言向他们表达的。

  “……还有其他高深莫测的魔法。”赫敏终于说完了,“好了,你至少知道你今年要上的一门课了,比罗恩和我都多一门。不知道我们的O.W.Ls成绩什么时候寄来?”

  “不会太久的,已经有一个月了。”罗恩说。

  “等一等,”哈利突然想起昨晚的另一段对话,说道,“邓布利多好像说我们的O.W.Ls成绩今天就能寄到!”

  “今天?”赫敏惊叫起来。“今天?那你为什么不早——哦,天哪——你应该早点告诉——”

  她腾地跳了起来。

  “我去看看有没有猫头鹰飞来……”

  可是,十分钟后,当哈利穿戴整齐、端着空托盘下楼时,却发现赫敏焦虑不安地坐在厨房的桌子旁,韦斯莱夫人正在试着给她治疗,想使她的那只眼睛看上去不再那么像熊猫眼。

  “它就是不肯让步,”韦斯莱夫人发愁地说,她站在赫敏面前,一手拿着魔杖,一手拿着一本《疗伤手册》,翻到“碰伤、割伤和擦伤”那一部分,“以前总是挺管用的,我真闹不明白。”

  “这就是弗雷德和乔治想出来的恶作剧点子,确保它不会褪色。”金妮说。

  “它怎么能不褪色呢!”赫敏尖叫起来,“我这副样子永远没法见人了!”

  “不会的,亲爱的,我们会找到解药的,别担心。”韦斯莱夫人安慰她道。

  “比尔告诉过我,弗雷德和乔治非常风趣!”芙蓉优雅地微笑着说。

  “是啊,我笑得都喘不过气来了。”赫敏没好气地说。

  她一跃而起,在厨房里一圈一圈地踱着步,手指互相绞在一起。

  “韦斯莱夫人,你绝对能够肯定,今天早晨没有猫头鹰飞来吗?”

  “是的,亲爱的,如果有我会注意到的。”韦斯莱夫人耐心地说,“现在还不到九点呢,仍然有许多时间……”

  “我知道我的古代魔文考砸了,”赫敏心烦意乱地嘟囔道,“肯定至少有一处完全译错了。还有黑魔法防御术的实践课,我也考得一塌糊涂。我当时觉得变形术考得还可以,但现在回想一下——”

  “赫敏,你能不能闭嘴,又不是只有你一个人感到紧张!”罗恩吼道,“等你拿到十一个O.W.Ls‘优秀’……”

  “不,不,不要说了!”赫敏歇斯底里地拍打着双手说,“我知道我每门都不及格!”

  “如果不及格怎么办呢?”哈利问大家,但又是赫敏抢着回答了。

  “跟院长商量我们选修哪些课,我上学期结束时问过麦格教授。”

  哈利的胃里开始翻腾,他后悔不该吃那么多早饭。

  “在我们布斯巴顿,”芙蓉只顾得意地说,“情况完全不一样,我认为那样更好。我们不是五年级就考试,而是学满六年再考,然后——”

  芙蓉的话被一声尖叫吞没了。赫敏指着厨房的窗户外。天空上出现了三个清清楚楚的小黑点,而且越来越大了。

  “肯定是猫头鹰。”罗恩哑着嗓子说,跳过去和赫敏一起站在窗口。

  “一共有三只。”哈利说着也奔过去站在赫敏的另一边。

  “我们每人一只,”赫敏惊慌地小声说,“哦,不……哦,不……哦,不……”

  她紧紧地抓住哈利和罗恩的胳膊肘。

  猫头鹰径直朝陋居飞来,是三只漂亮的黄褐色猫头鹰,当它们降低高度、在通向房子的那条小路上空飞过时,他们看清了每只猫头鹰都抓着一个方方的大信封。

  “哦,不!”赫敏尖叫道。

  韦斯莱夫人挤过他们身边,打开了厨房的窗户。一只、两只、三只猫头鹰从窗口飞了进来,落在桌子上,整整齐齐地站成一排,步调一致地抬起了右腿。

  哈利凑上前去。中间的那只猫头鹰腿上绑的信封上写着他的名字。他用不听使唤的手指把信封取了下来。在他左边,罗恩也在手忙脚乱地解下他的考试成绩;在他右边,赫敏的手抖得太厉害了,连带得她那只猫头鹰也全身发抖了。

  厨房里谁也没有说话。最后,哈利终于把信封解了下来。他赶紧撕开信封,展开里面的羊皮纸。

  普通巫师等级考试成绩

  合格成绩:优秀(O)不合格成绩:差(P)
  良好(E)很差(D)
  及格(A)极差(T)

  哈利·詹姆·波特成绩如下:
  天文学:A
  保护神奇生物:E
  魔咒学:E
  黑魔法防御术:O
  占卜学:P
  草药学:E
  魔法史:D
  魔药学:E
  变形术:E

  哈利拿着羊皮纸反复看了几遍,他的呼吸越来越自如了。还好,他早就知道他的占卜课不会及格,而魔法史考试进行到一半时他病倒了,肯定没有希望通过,其他几门功课居然都过关了!他的手指在成绩单上滑过……变形术和草药学成绩不错,就连魔药学也得了个“良”!最棒的是,他的黑魔法防御术竟然得了“优秀”!

  他扭头看去,赫敏背对着他,低着脑袋,罗恩倒是满脸喜色。

  “只有占卜课和魔法史没及格,谁在乎那些玩意儿?”他高兴地对哈利说,“给——交换——”

  哈利低头看了一眼罗恩的成绩单:没有一个“优秀”……

  “我就知道你会在黑魔法防御术上拔尖,”罗恩捶了一下哈利的肩膀,说道,“我们都干得不错,是不是?”

  “不错!”韦斯莱夫人骄傲地说,揉了揉罗恩的头发,“O.W.Ls过了七门,比弗雷德和乔治加在一起还多!”

  “赫敏?”金妮试探地叫道,因为赫敏仍然没有转过身来,“你成绩怎么样?”

  “我——还好。”赫敏小声说。

  “哦,得了吧,”罗恩三步并作两步走到她跟前,一把从她手里抢过成绩单,“嘿——十个‘优秀’,一个‘良好’——是黑魔法防御术。”他半是好笑、半是恼火地低头看着她。“你竟然还觉得失望,是吗?”

  赫敏摇了摇头,哈利笑了起来。

  “太好了,我们现在是N.E.W.Ts的学生了!”罗恩笑着说,“妈妈,还有香肠吗?”

  哈利又低头看着他的成绩单。他考得不错,跟他所预想的差不多。他只是感到有一点小小的遗憾……他想要成为一名傲罗的理想破灭了。他的魔药学成绩没有达到要求。他早就知道会是这样,但此刻再一次看着那个黑色的小字母“E”,他仍然感到心里沉甸甸的。

  说来奇怪,最初告诉哈利他会成为一名出色的傲罗的,是一个伪装的食死徒,但不知怎的,这个想法在哈利心里生了根,他想象不出除此之外他还愿意做什么。而且,自从一个月前听了那个预言之后,这似乎已是他注定的命运……两个人不能都活着……如果他加入那支足智多谋、以追捕和消灭伏地魔为己任的巫师队伍,他岂不是就能实施那个预言,给自己一个最大的生存机会吗?
[ 此帖被zy32593在2014-01-23 19:57重新编辑 ]
zy32593

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等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 11楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

Chapter 6 Draco's Detour

Harry remained within the confines of the Burrow's garden over the next few weeks. He spent most of his days playing two-a-side Quidditch in the Weasleys’ orchard (he and Hermione against Ron and Ginny; Hermione was dreadful and Ginny good, so they were reasonably well matched) and his evenings eating triple helpings of everything Mrs. Weasley put in front of him.
It would have been a happy, peaceful holiday had it not been for the stories of disappearances, odd accidents, even of deaths now appearing almost daily in the Prophet. Sometimes Bill and Mr. Weasley brought home news before it even reached the paper. To Mrs. Weasley's displeasure, Harry's sixteenth birthday celebrations were marred by grisly tidings brought to the party by Remus Lupin, who was looking gaunt and grim, his brown hair streaked liberally with gray, his clothes more ragged and patched than ever.
“There have been another couple of dementor attacks,” he announced, as Mrs. Weasley passed him a large slice of birthday cake. “And they've found Igor Karkaroff's body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it... well, frankly, I'm surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius's brother, Regulus, only managed a few days as far as I can remember.”
“Yes, well,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning, “perhaps we should talk about something diff...”
“Did you hear about Florean Fortescue, Remus?” asked Bill, who was being plied with wine by Fleur. “The man who ran—”
“— the ice-cream place in Diagon Alley?” Harry interrupted, with an unpleasant, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. “He used to give me free ice creams. What's happened to him?”
“Dragged off, by the look of his place.”
“Why?” asked Ron, while Mrs. Weasley pointedly glared at Bill.
“Who knows? He must've upset them somehow. He was a good man, Florean.”
“Talking of Diagon Alley,” said Mr. Weasley, “looks like Ollivander's gone too.”
“The wand-maker?” said Ginny, looking startled.
“That's the one. Shop's empty. No sign of a struggle. No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was kidnapped.”
“But wands—what'll people do for wands?”
“They'll make do with other makers,” said Lupin. “But Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have got him it's not so good for us.”
The day after this rather gloomy birthday tea, their letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry's included a surprise: he had been made Quidditch Captain.
“That gives you equal status with prefects!” cried Hermione happily. “You can use our special bathroom now and everything!”
“Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these,” said Ron, examining the badge with glee. “Harry, this is so cool, you're my Captain... if you let me back on the team, I suppose, ha ha...”
“Well, I don't suppose we can put off a trip to Diagon Alley much longer now you've got these,” sighed Mrs. Weasley, looking down Ron's booklist. “We'll go on Saturday as long as your father doesn't have to go into work again. I'm not going there without him.”
“Mum, d'you honestly think You-Know-Who's going to be hiding behind a bookshelf in Flourish and Blotts?” sniggered Ron.
“Fortescue and Ollivander went on holiday, did they?” said Mrs. Weasley, firing up at once. “If you think security's a laughing matter you can stay behind and I'll get your things myself...”
“No, I wanna come, I want to see Fred and George's shop!” said Ron hastily.
“Then you just buck up your ideas, young man, before I decide you're too immature to come with us!” said Mrs. Weasley angrily, snatching up her clock, all nine hands of which were still pointing at mortal peril, and balancing it on top of a pile of just-laundered towels. “And that goes for returning to Hogwarts as well!”
Ron turned to stare incredulously at Harry as his mother hoisted the laundry basket and the teetering clock into her arms and stormed out of the room.
“Blimey... you can't even make a joke round here anymore...”
But Ron was careful not to be flippant about Voldemort over the next few days. Saturday dawned without any more outbursts from Mrs. Weasley, though she seemed very tense at breakfast. Bill, who would be staying at home with Fleur (much to Hermione and Ginny's pleasure), passed a full money bag across the table to Harry.
“Where's mine?” demanded Ron at once, his eyes wide.
“That's already Harry's, idiot,” said Bill. “I got it out of your vault for you, Harry, because it's taking about five hours for the public to get to their gold at the moment, the goblins have tightened security so much. Two days ago Arkie Philpott had a Probity Probe stuck up his... Well, trust me, this way's easier.”
“Thanks, Bill,” said Harry, pocketing his gold.
“'E is always so thoughtful,” purred Fleur adoringly, stroking Bill's nose. Ginny mimed vomiting into her cereal behind Fleur. Harry choked over his cornflakes, and Ron thumped him on the back.
It was an overcast, murky day. One of the special Ministry of Magic cars, in which Harry had ridden once before, was awaiting them in the front yard when they emerged from the house, pulling on their cloaks.
“It's good Dad can get us these again,” said Ron appreciatively, stretching luxuriously as the car moved smoothly away from the Burrow, Bill and Fleur waving from the kitchen window. He, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting in roomy comfort in the wide backseat.
“Don't get used to it, it's only because of Harry,” said Mr. Weasley over his shoulder. He and Mrs. Weasley were in front with the Ministry driver; the front passenger seat had obligingly stretched into what resembled a two-seater sofa. “He's been given top-grade security status. And we'll be joining up with additional security at the Leaky Cauldron too.”
Harry said nothing; he did not much fancy doing his shopping while surrounded by a battalion of Aurors. He had stowed his Invisibility Cloak in his backpack and felt that, if that was good enough for Dumbledore, it ought to be good enough for the Ministry, though now he came to think of it, he was not sure the Ministry knew about his cloak.
“Here you are, then,” said the driver, a surprisingly short while later, speaking for the first time as he slowed in Charing Cross Road and stopped outside the Leaky Cauldron. “I'm to wait for you, any idea how long you'll be?”
“A couple of hours, I expect,” said Mr. Weasley. “Ah, good, he's here!”
Harry imitated Mr. Weasley and peered through the window; his heart leapt. There were no Aurors waiting outside the inn, but instead the gigantic, black-bearded form of Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, wearing a long beaverskin coat, beaming at the sight of Harry's face and oblivious to the startled stares of passing Muggles.
“Harry!” he boomed, sweeping Harry into a bone-crushing hug the moment Harry had stepped out of the car. “Buckbeak—Witherwings, I mean—yeh should see him, Harry, he's so happy ter be back in the open air—”
“Glad he's pleased,” said Harry, grinning as he massaged his ribs. “We didn't know ‘security’ meant you!”
“I know, jus’ like old times, innit? See, the Ministry wanted ter send a bunch o’ Aurors, but Dumbledore said I'd do,” said Hagrid proudly, throwing out his chest and tucking his thumbs into his pockets. “Lets get goin’ then—after yeh, Molly, Arthur—”
The Leaky Cauldron was, for the first time in Harry's memory, completely empty. Only Tom the landlord, wizened and toothless, remained of the old crowd. He looked up hopefully as they entered, but before he could speak, Hagrid said importantly, “Jus’ passin’ through today, Tom, sure yeh understand, Hogwarts business, yeh know.”
Tom nodded gloomily and returned to wiping glasses; Harry, Hermione, Hagrid, and the Weasleys walked through the bar and out into the chilly little courtyard at the back where the dustbins stood. Hagrid raised his pink umbrella and rapped a certain brick in the wall, which opened at once to form an archway onto a winding cobbled street. They stepped through the entrance and paused, looking around.
Diagon Alley had changed. The colorful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and cauldrons were lost to view, hidden behind the large Ministry of Magic posters that had been pasted over them. Most of these somber purple posters carried blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over the summer, but others bore moving black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange was sneering from the front of the nearest apothecary. A few windows were boarded up, including those of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street. The nearest one, which had been erected outside Flourish and Blotts, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:
AMULETS: Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi
A seedy-looking little wizard was rattling armfuls of silver symbols on chains at passersby.
“One for your little girl, madam?” he called at Mrs. Weasley as they passed, leering at Ginny. “Protect her pretty neck?”
“If I were on duty...” said Mr. Weasley, glaring angrily at the amulet seller.
“Yes, but don't go arresting anyone now, dear, we're in a hurry,” said Mrs. Weasley, nervously consulting a list. “I think we'd better do Madam Malkin's first, Hermione wants new dress robes, and Ron's showing much too much ankle in his school robes, and you must need new ones too, Harry, you've grown so much... come on, everyone...”
“Molly, it doesn't make sense for all of us to go to Madam Malkin's,” said Mr. Weasley. “Why don't those three go with Hagrid, and we can go to Flourish and Blotts and get everyone's school books?”
“I don't know,” said Mrs. Weasley anxiously, clearly torn between a desire to finish the shopping quickly and the wish to stick together in a pack. “Hagrid, do you think...—?”
“Don’ fret, they'll be fine with me, Molly,” said Hagrid soothingly, waving an airy hand the size of a dustbin lid. Mrs. Weasley did not look entirely convinced, but allowed the separation, scurrying off toward Flourish and Blotts with her husband and Ginny while Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid set off for Madam Malkin's.
Harry noticed that many of the people who passed them had the same harried, anxious look as Mrs. Weasley, and that nobody was stopping to talk anymore; the shoppers stayed together in their own tightly knit groups, moving intently about their business. Nobody seemed to be shopping alone.
“Migh’ be a bit of a squeeze in there with all o’ us,” said Hagrid, stopping outside Madam Malkin's and bending down to peer through the window. “I'll stand guard outside, all righ'?”
So Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the little shop together. It appeared, at first glance, to be empty, but no sooner had the door swung shut behind them than they heard a familiar voice issuing from behind a rack of dress robes in spangled green and blue.
“... not a child, in case you haven't noticed, Mother. I am perfectly capable of doing my shopping alone.”
There was a clucking noise and a voice Harry recognized as that of Madam Malkin, the owner, said, “Now, dear, your mother's quite right, none of us is supposed to go wandering around on our own anymore, it's nothing to do with being a child—”
“Watch where you're sticking that pin, will you!”
A teenage boy with a pale, pointed face and white-blond hair appeared from behind the rack, wearing a handsome set of dark green robes that glittered with pins around the hem and the edges of the sleeves. He strode to the mirror and examined himself; it was a few moments before he noticed Harry, Ron, and Hermione reflected over his shoulder. His light gray eyes narrowed.
“If you're wondering what the smell is, Mother, a Mudblood just walked in,” said Draco Malfoy.
“I don't think there's any need for language like that!” said Madam Malkin, scurrying out from behind the clothes rack holding a tape measure and a wand. “And I don't want wands drawn in my shop either!” she added hastily, for a glance toward the door had shown her Harry and Ron both standing there with their wands out and pointing at Malfoy.
Hermione, who was standing slightly behind them, whispered, “No, don't, honestly, it's not worth it. ”
“Yeah, like you'd dare do magic out of school,” sneered Malfoy. “Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers.”
“That's quite enough!” said Madam Malkin sharply, looking over her shoulder for support. “Madam—please—”
Narcissa Malfoy strolled out from behind the clothes rack.
“Put those away,” she said coldly to Harry and Ron. “If you attack my son again, I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do.”
“Really?” said Harry, taking a step forward and gazing into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor, still resembled her sister's. He was as tall as she was now. “Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do us in, are you?”
Madam Malkin squealed and clutched at her heart.
“Really, you shouldn't accuse... dangerous thing to say... wands away, please!”
But Harry did not lower his wand. Narcissa Malfoy smiled unpleasantly.
“I see that being Dumbledore's favorite has given you a false sense of security, Harry Potter. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you.”
Harry looked mockingly all around the shop. “Wow... look at that... he's not here now! So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your loser of a husband!”
Malfoy made an angry movement toward Harry, but stumbled over his overlong robe. Ron laughed loudly.
“Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!” Malfoy snarled.
“It's all right, Draco,” said Narcissa, restraining him with her thin white fingers upon his shoulder. “I expect Potter will be reunited with dear Sirius before I am reunited with Lucius.”
Harry raised his wand higher.
“Harry, no!” moaned Hermione, grabbing his arm and attempting to push it down by his side. “Think... You mustn't... You'll be in such trouble...”
Madam Malkin dithered for a moment on the spot, then seemed to decide to act as though nothing was happening in the hope that it wouldn't. She bent toward Malfoy, who was still glaring at Harry.
“I think this left sleeve could come up a little bit more, dear, let me just...”
“Ouch!” bellowed Malfoy, slapping her hand away. “Watch where you're putting your pins, woman! Mother, I don't think I want these anymore.”
He pulled the robes over his head and threw them onto the floor at Madam Malkin's feet.
“You're right, Draco,” said Narcissa, with a contemptuous glance at Hermione, “now I know the kind of scum that shops here... We'll do better at Twilfitt and Tatting's.”
And with that, the pair of them strode out of the shop, Malfoy taking care to bang as hard as he could into Ron on the way out.
“Well, really!” said Madam Malkin, snatching up the fallen robes and moving the tip of her wand over them like a vacuum cleaner, so that it removed all the dust.
She was distracted all through the fitting of Ron's and Harry's new robes, tried to sell Hermione wizard's dress robes instead of witch's, and when she finally bowed them out of the shop it was with an air of being glad to see the back of them.
“Got ev'rything?” asked Hagrid brightly when they reappeared at his side.
“Just about,” said Harry. “Did you see the Malfoys?”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, unconcerned. “But they wouldn’ dare make trouble in the middle o’ Diagon Alley, Harry. Don’ worry about them.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged looks, but before they could disabuse Hagrid of this comfortable notion, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny appeared, all clutching heavy packages of books.
“Everyone all right?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Got your robes? Right then, we can pop in at the Apothecary and Eeylops on the way to Fred and George's... stick close, now...”
Neither Harry nor Ron bought any ingredients at the Apothecary, seeing that they were no longer studying Potions, but both bought large boxes of owl nuts for Hedwig and Pigwidgeon at Eeylops Owl Emporium. Then, with Mrs. Weasley checking her watch every minute or so, they headed farther along the street in search of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop run by Fred and George.
“We really haven't got too long,” Mrs. Weasley said. “So we'll just have a quick look around and then back to the car. We must be close, that's number ninety-two... ninety-four...”
“Whoa,"said Ron, stopping in his tracks.
Set against the dull, poster-muffled shop Fronts around them, Fred and Georges windows hit the eye like a firework display. Casual passersby were looking back over their shoulders at the windows, and a few rather stunned-looking people had actually come to a halt, transfixed. The left-hand window was dazzlingly full of an assortment of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced, and shrieked; Harry's eyes began to water just looking at it. The right-hand window was covered with a gigantic poster, purple like those of the Ministry, but emblazoned with flashing yellow letters:
Why Are You Worrying About You-Know-Who?
You SHOULD Be Worrying About
U-NO-POO—
the Constipation Sensation That's Gripping the Nation!
Harry started to laugh. He heard a weak sort of moan beside him and looked around to see Mrs. Weasley gazing, dumbfounded, at the poster. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the name “U-No-Poo.”
“They'll be murdered in their beds!” she whispered.
“No they won't!” said Ron, who, like Harry, was laughing. “This is brilliant!”
And he and Harry led the way into the shop. It was packed with customers; Harry could not get near the shelves. He stared around, looking up at the boxes piled to the ceiling: here were the Skiving Snackboxes that the twins had perfected during their last, unfinished year at Hogwarts; Harry noticed that the Nosebleed Nougat was most popular, with only one battered box left on the shelf. There were bins full of trick wands, the cheapest merely turning into rubber chickens or pairs of briefs when waved, the most expensive beating the unwary user around the head and neck, and boxes of quills, which came in Self-Inking, Spell-Checking, and Smart-Answer varieties. A space cleared in the crowd, and Harry pushed his way toward the counter, where a gaggle of delighted ten-year-olds was watching a tiny little wooden man slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, both perched on a box that read: Reusable hangman—spell it or he'll swing!
“‘Patented Daydream Charms’ ”
Hermione had managed to squeeze through to a large display near the counter and was reading the information on the back of a box bearing a highly colored picture of a handsome youth and a swooning girl who were standing on the deck of a pirate ship.
“‘One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable (side effects include vacant expression and minor drooling). Not for sale to under-sixteens’. You know,” said Hermione, looking up at Harry, “that really is extraordinary magic!”
“For that, Hermione,” said a voice behind them, “you can have one for free.”
A beaming Fred stood before them, wearing a set of magenta robes that clashed magnificently with his flaming hair.
“How are you, Harry?” They shook hands. “And what's happened to your eye, Hermione?”
“Your punching telescope,” she said ruefully.
“Oh blimey, I forgot about those,” said Fred. “Here...”
He pulled a tub out of his pocket and handed it to her; she unscrewed it gingerly to reveal a thick yellow paste.
“Just dab it on, that bruise'll be gone within the hour,” said Fred. “We had to find a decent bruise-remover. We're testing most of our products on ourselves.”
Hermione looked nervous. “It is safe, isn't it?” she asked.
“Course it is,” said Fred bracingly. “Come on, Harry, I'll give you a tour.”
Harry left Hermione dabbing her black eye with paste and followed Fred toward the back of the shop, where he saw a stand of card and rope tricks.
“Muggle magic tricks!” said Fred happily, pointing them out. “For freaks like Dad, you know, who love Muggle stuff. It's not a big earner, but we do fairly steady business, they're great novelties... Oh, here's George...”
Fred's twin shook Harry's hand energetically.
“Giving him the tour? Come through the back, Harry, that's where we're making the real money... pocket anything, you, and you'll pay in more than Galleons!” he added warningly to a small boy who hastily whipped his hand out of the tub labeled: Edible Dark Marks—They'll Make Anyone Sick!
George pushed back a curtain beside the Muggle tricks and Harry saw a darker, less crowded room. The packaging on the products lining these shelves was more subdued.
“We've just developed this more serious line,” said Fred. “Funny how it happened...”
“You wouldn't believe how many people, even people who work at the Ministry, can't do a decent Shield Charm,” said George. “'Course, they didn't have you teaching them, Harry.”
“That's right... Well, we thought Shield Hats were a bit of a laugh, you know, challenge your mate to jinx you while wearing it and watch his face when the jinx just bounces off. But the Ministry bought five hundred for all its support staff! And we're still getting massive orders!”
“So we've expanded into a range of Shield Cloaks, Shield Gloves...”
“... I mean, they wouldn't help much against the Unforgivable Curses, but for minor to moderate hexes or jinxes...”
“And then we thought we'd get into the whole area of Defense Against the Dark Arts, because it's such a money spinner,” continued George enthusiastically. “This is cool. Look, Instant Darkness Powder, we're importing it from Peru. Handy if you want to make a quick escape.”
“And our Decoy Detonators are just walking off the shelves, look,” said Fred, pointing at a number of weird-looking black horn-type objects that were indeed attempting to scurry out of sight. “You just drop one surreptitiously and it'll run off and make a nice loud noise out of sight, giving you a diversion if you need one.”
“Handy,” said Harry, impressed.
“Here,” said George, catching a couple and throwing them to Harry.
A young witch with short blonde hair poked her head around the curtain; Harry saw that she too was wearing magenta staff robes.
“There's a customer out here looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley,” she said.
Harry found it very odd to hear Fred and George called “Mr. Weasley,” but they took it in their stride.
“Right you are, Verity, I'm coming,” said George promptly. “Harry, you help yourself to anything you want, all right? No charge.”
“I can't do that!” said Harry, who had already pulled out his money bag to pay for the Decoy Detonators.
“You don't pay here,” said Fred firmly, waving away Harry's gold.
“But...”
“You gave us our start-up loan, we haven't forgotten,” said George sternly. “Take whatever you like, and just remember to tell people where you got it, if they ask.”
George swept off through the curtain to help with the customers, and Fred led Harry back into the main part of the shop to find Hermione and Ginny still poring over the Patented Daydream Charms.
“Haven't you girls found our special WonderWitch products yet?” asked Fred. “Follow me, ladies...”
Near the window was an array of violently pink products around which a cluster of excited girls was giggling enthusiastically. Hermione and Ginny both hung back, looking wary.
“There you go,” said Fred proudly. “Best range of love potions you'll find anywhere.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Do they work?” she asked.
“Certainly they work, for up to twenty-four hours at a time depending on the weight of the boy in question—”
“— and the attractiveness of the girl,” said George, reappearing suddenly at their side. “But we're not selling them to our sister,” he added, becoming suddenly stern, “not when she's already got about five boys on the go from what we've—”
“Whatever you've heard from Ron is a big fat lie,” said Ginny calmly, leaning forward to take a small pink pot off the shelf. “What's this?”
“Guaranteed Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher,” said Fred. “Excellent on everything from boils to blackheads, but don't change the subject. Are you or are you not currently going out with a boy called Dean Thomas?”
“Yes, I am,” said Ginny. “And last time I looked, he was definitely one boy, not five. What are those?”
She was pointing at a number of round balls of fluff in shades of pink and purple, all rolling around the bottom of a cage and emitting high-pitched squeaks.
“Pygmy Puffs,” said George. “Miniature puffskeins, we can't breed them fast enough. So what about Michael Corner?”
“I dumped him, he was a bad loser,” said Ginny, putting a finger through the bars of the cage and watching the Pygmy Puffs crowd around it. “They're really cute!”
“They're fairly cuddly, yes,” conceded Fred. “But you're moving through boyfriends a bit fast, aren't you?”
Ginny turned to look at him, her hands on her hips. There was such a Mrs. Weasley-ish glare on her face that Harry was surprised Fred didn't recoil.
“It's none of your business. And I'll thank you,” she added angrily to Ron, who had just appeared at George's elbow, laden with merchandise, “not to tell tales about me to these two!”
“That's three Galleons, nine Sickles, and a Knut,” said Fred, examining the many boxes in Ron's arms. “Cough up.”
“I'm your brother!”
“And that's our stuff you're nicking. Three Galleons, nine Sickles. I'll knock off the Knut.”
“But I haven't got three Galleons, nine Sickles!”
“You'd better put it back then, and mind you put it on the right shelves.”
Ron dropped several boxes, swore, and made a rude hand gesture at Fred that was unfortunately spotted by Mrs. Weasley, who had chosen that moment to appear.
“If I see you do that again I'll jinx your fingers together,” she said sharply.
“Mum, can I have a Pygmy Puff?” said Ginny at once.
“A what?” said Mrs. Weasley warily.
“Look, they're so sweet...”
Mrs. Weasley moved aside to look at the Pygmy Puffs, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione momentarily had an unimpeded view out of the window. Draco Malfoy was hurrying up the street alone. As he passed Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, he glanced over his shoulder. Seconds later, he moved beyond the scope of the window and they lost sight of him.
“Wonder where his mummy is?” said Harry, frowning.
“Given her the slip by the looks of it,” said Ron.
“Why, though?” said Hermione.
Harry said nothing; he was thinking too hard. Narcissa Malfoy would not have let her precious son out of her sight willingly; Malfoy must have made a real effort to free himself from her clutches.
Harry, knowing and loathing Malfoy, was sure the reason could not be innocent.
He glanced around. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were bending over the Pygmy Puffs. Mr. Weasley was delightedly examining a pack of Muggle marked playing cards. Fred and George were both helping customers. On the other side of the glass, Hagrid was standing with his back to them, looking up and down the street.
“Get under here, quick,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag.
“Oh—I don't know, Harry,” said Hermione, looking uncertainly toward Mrs. Weasley.
“Come on,” said Ron.
She hesitated for a second longer, then ducked under the cloak with Harry and Ron. Nobody noticed them vanish; they were all too interested in Fred and George's products. Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed their way out of the door as quickly as they could, but by the time they gained the street, Malfoy had disappeared just as successfully as they had.
“He was going in that direction,” murmured Harry as quietly as possible, so that the humming Hagrid would not hear them. “C'mon...”
They scurried along, peering left and right, through shop windows and doors, until Hermione pointed ahead.
“That's him, isn't it?” she whispered. “Turning left?”
“Big surprise,” whispered Ron.
For Malfoy had glanced around, then slid into Knockturn Alley and out of sight.
“Quick, or we'll lose him,” said Harry, speeding up.
“Our feet'll be seen!” said Hermione anxiously, as the cloak flapped a little around their ankles; it was much more difficult hiding all three of them under the cloak nowadays.
“It doesn't matter,” said Harry impatiently. “Just hurry!”
But Knockturn Alley, the side street devoted to the Dark Arts, looked completely deserted. They peered into windows as they passed, but none of the shops seemed to have any customers at all. Harry supposed it was a bit of a giveaway in these dangerous and suspicious times to buy Dark artifacts... or at least, to be seen buying them.
Hermione gave his arm a hard pinch.
“Ouch!”
“Shh! Look! He's in there!” she breathed in Harry's ear.
They had drawn level with the only shop in Knockturn Alley that Harry had ever visited, Borgin and Burkes, which sold a wide variety of sinister objects. There in the midst of the cases full of skulls and old bottles stood Draco Malfoy with his back to them, just visible beyond the very same large black cabinet in which Harry had once hidden to avoid Malfoy and his father. Judging by the movements of Malfoy's hands, he was talking animatedly. The proprietor of the shop, Mr. Borgin, an oily-haired, stooping man, stood facing Malfoy. He was wearing a curious expression of mingled resentment and fear.
“If only we could hear what they're saying!” said Hermione.
“We can!” said Ron excitedly. “Hang on—damn.”
He dropped a couple more of the boxes he was still clutching as he fumbled with the largest.
“Extendable Ears, look!”
“Fantastic!” said Hermione, as Ron unraveled the long, flesh-colored strings and began to feed them toward the bottom of the door. “Oh, I hope the door isn't Imperturbable—”
“No!” said Ron gleefully. “Listen!”
They put their heads together and listened intently to the ends of the strings, through which Malfoy's voice could be heard loud and clear, as though a radio had been turned on.
“... you know how to fix it?”
“Possibly,” said Borgin, in a tone that suggested he was unwilling to commit himself. “I'll need to see it, though. Why don't you bring it into the shop?”
“I can't,” said Malfoy. “It's got to stay put. I just need you to tell me how to do it.”
Harry saw Borgin lick his lips nervously.
“Well, without seeing it, I must say it will be a very difficult job, perhaps impossible. I couldn't guarantee anything.”
“No?” said Malfoy, and Harry knew, just by his tone, that Malfoy was sneering. “Perhaps this will make you more confident.”
He moved toward Borgin and was blocked from view by the cabinet. Harry, Ron, and Hermione shuffled sideways to try and keep him in sight, but all they could see was Borgin, looking very frightened.
“Tell anyone,” said Maifoy, “and there will be retribution. You know Fenrir Greyback? He's a family friend. He'll be dropping in from time to time to make sure you're giving the problem your full attention.”
“There will be no need for—”
“I'll decide that,” said Malfoy. “Well, I'd better be off. And don't forget to keep that one safe, I'll need it.”
“Perhaps you'd like to take it now?”
“No, of course I wouldn't, you stupid, little man, how would I look carrying that down the street? Just don't sell it.”
“Of course not... sir.”
Borgin made a bow as deep as the one Harry had once seen him give Lucius Malfoy.
“Not a word to anyone, Borgin, and that includes my mother, understand?”
“Naturally, naturally,” murmured Borgin, bowing again.
Next moment, the bell over the door tinkled loudly as Malfoy stalked out of the shop looking very pleased with himself. He passed so close to Harry, Ron, and Hermione that they felt the cloak flutter around their knees again. Inside the shop, Borgin remained frozen; his unctuous smile had vanished; he looked worried.
“What was that about?” whispered Ron, reeling in the Extendable Ears.
“Dunno,” said Harry, thinking hard. “He wants something mended... and he wants to reserve something in there... Could you see what he pointed at when he said ‘that one'?”
“No, he was behind that cabinet—”
“You two stay here,” whispered Hermione.
“What are you—?”
But Hermione had already ducked out from under the cloak. She checked her hair in the reflection in the glass, then marched into the shop, setting the bell tinkling again. Ron hastily fed the Extendable Ears back under the door and passed one of the strings to Harry.
“Hello, horrible morning, isn't it?” Hermione said brightly to Borgin, who did not answer, but cast her a suspicious look. Humming cheerily, Hermione strolled through the jumble of objects on display.
“Is this necklace for sale?” she asked, pausing beside a glass-fronted case.
“If you've got one and a half thousand Galleons,” said Mr. Borgin coldly.
“Oh—er—no, I haven't got quite that much,” said Hermione, walking on. “And... what about this lovely—um—skull?”
“Sixteen Galleons.”
“So it's for sale, then? It isn't being... kept for anyone?”
Mr. Borgin squinted at her. Harry had the nasty feeling he knew exactly what Hermione was up to. Apparently Hermione felt she had been rumbled too because she suddenly threw caution to the winds.
“The thing is, that—er—boy who was in here just now, Draco Malfoy, well, he's a friend of mine, and I want to get him a birthday present, but if he's already reserved anything, I obviously don't want to get him the same thing, so... um...”
It was a pretty lame story in Harry's opinion, and apparently Borgin thought so too.
“Out,” he said sharply. “Get out!”
Hermione did not wait to be asked twice, but hurried to the door with Borgin at her heels. As the bell tinkled again, Borgin slammed the door behind her and put up the closed sign.
“Ah well,” said Ron, throwing the cloak back over Hermione. “Worth a try, but you were a bit obvious—”
“Well, next time you can show me how it's done, Master of Mystery!” she snapped.
Ron and Hermione bickered all the way back to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where they were forced to stop so that they could dodge undetected around a very anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid, who had clearly noticed their absence. Once in the shop, Harry whipped off the Invisibility Cloak, hid it in his bag, and joined in with the other two when they insisted, in answer to Mrs. Weasleys accusations, that they had been in the back room all along, and that she could not have looked properly.

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 12楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

第6章 德拉科兜圈子

  接下来的几个星期,哈利一直没有离开过陋居花园的范围。他大部分时间都在韦斯莱家的果园里玩两人对两人的魁地奇(他和赫敏对罗恩和金妮。赫敏打得很糟糕,金妮倒是球技不凡,所以这样搭配正合适)。到了晚上,韦斯莱夫人端到他面前的每样东西,他都要吃三份。

  如果不是《预言家日报》几乎每天都要报道有人失踪甚至死亡,以及其他一些稀奇古怪的事件,这个暑假本来可以过得很开心、很平静。有时候,比尔和韦斯莱先生会带回来一些还没来得及登报的消息。哈利十六岁生日的庆祝会,就因为莱姆斯·卢平带来的一些恐怖消息而黯然失色,韦斯莱夫人大感不快。卢平看上去消瘦、憔悴,表情严峻,棕褐色的头发里夹杂着大量白发,衣服比以前还要破烂,补丁更多。

  “又发生了两起摄魂怪袭击事件,”他宣布道,韦斯莱夫人递给他一大块生日蛋糕,“他们在北方的一个小木屋里发现了伊戈尔·卡卡洛夫的尸体。黑魔标记悬在上空——唉,坦白地说,他离开食死徒后居然还能够活一年,倒真让我吃惊。我记得,小天狼星的哥哥雷古勒斯不出几天就完了。”

  “是啊,”韦斯莱夫人皱着眉头说,“好了,也许我们应该谈点儿别的——”

  “福洛林·福斯科的事你听说了吗,莱姆斯?”问话的是比尔,芙蓉正给他一杯接一杯地斟酒,“就是那个——”

  “——在对角巷开冰淇淋店的?”哈利插嘴道,心里有一种很不舒服的空落落的感觉,“以前他常给我吃免费的冰淇淋。他怎么啦?”

  “从小店里的情况看,他被劫走了。”

  “为什么?”罗恩问,韦斯莱夫人则严厉地瞪着比尔。

  “谁知道呢?他准是不知怎么得罪了他们。这个福洛林,他可是个好人啊。”

  “说到对角巷,”韦斯莱先生说,“好像奥利凡德也不见了。”

  “就是那个做魔杖的?”金妮显得很吃惊。

  “就是他。店里空无一人。没有搏斗的痕迹。谁也不知道他是自己离开了,还是被绑架了。”

  “可是魔杖呢——人们要买魔杖怎么办呢?”

  “只好去找别的魔杖制造商了。”卢平说,“可是奥利凡德是最优秀的,如果另一派把他弄去,对我们可就非常不利了。”

  在这相当沉闷的生日茶会的第二天,霍格沃茨给他们寄来了信和书单。哈利的信封里还装着一个喜讯:他被选为魁地奇球队的队长了。

  “这样你的地位就跟级长一样了!”赫敏高兴地大声说,“现在你也可以用我们的专用盥洗室了,还有其他所有的东西!”

  “哇,我记得查理戴过这玩意儿。”罗恩喜滋滋地端详着那枚徽章,说道,“哈利,真是太酷了,你是我的队长了——如果你能让我归队,那可就,哈哈……”

  “我说,现在你们收到了这些,”韦斯莱夫人低头看着罗恩的书单,叹着气说,“我们不能再拖延了,必须抓紧时间去对角巷。只要你们的父亲不加班,我们就星期六去。没有他陪着,我可不去那儿。”

  “妈妈,你真的以为神秘人会藏在丽痕书店的一排书架后面吗?”罗恩坏笑着说。

  “福斯科和奥利凡德是去度假了,是吗?”韦斯莱夫人立刻就火了,抢白道,“如果你认为安全问题是一场儿戏,你可以留在家里,我去替你们买东西——”

  “不行,我要去,我还想看看弗雷德和乔治的小店呢!”罗恩赶紧说道。

  “那你就赶紧提高认识,年轻人,免得我觉得你太不成熟,不能跟我们一起去!”韦斯莱夫人生气地说着一把抓起她的大钟,放在刚刚洗干净的一堆毛巾上,钟上的九根针仍然都指着致命危险。“回霍格沃茨上学的事也是这样!”

  罗恩转身不敢相信地瞪着哈利,他妈妈拎起洗衣篮,气冲冲地走出了房间,大钟在篮子上面摇晃着。

  “天哪……在这个家里连玩笑也不能开了……”

  不过,在后来的几天里,罗恩变得很小心,再也不敢随便乱说伏地魔的事了。一直到星期六早晨,韦斯莱夫人没有再发火,但吃早饭时她显得非常紧张。比尔留在家里陪芙蓉(这使赫敏和金妮大感庆幸),他隔着桌子递给哈利一只满满的钱袋。

  “我的呢?”罗恩立刻问道,眼睛睁得大大的。

  “这都是哈利的,你这傻瓜。”比尔说,“哈利,我替你从保险库里取出来的,目前小妖精们加强了保安,戒备森严,普通人取钱要花大约五个小时。两天前,阿基·菲尔坡特把一根诚实探测器插在他的……唉,信不信由你,那样子更方便些。”

  “谢谢你,比尔。”哈利说着把钱装进了口袋。

  “他总是这么体贴周到。”芙蓉含情脉脉地低语道,一边抚摸着比尔的鼻子。她身后的金妮对着碗里的麦片做呕吐状。哈利被玉米片呛住了,罗恩使劲拍着他的后背。

  这是一个昏暗的、阴云密布的日子。当他们裹着斗篷从房子里出来时,魔法部的一辆专用汽车已经在前院里等着了,这辆汽车哈利曾经坐过一次。

  “幸好爸爸又能给我们派车。”罗恩美滋滋地说着,舒舒服服地伸展了一下四肢。这时汽车轻快地驶离了陋居,比尔和芙蓉在厨房窗口朝他们挥着手。罗恩、哈利、赫敏和金妮都坐在宽敞、舒适的后座上。

  “你可别坐惯了,这只是为了哈利。”韦斯莱先生扭头说。他和韦斯莱夫人以及魔法部的司机坐在前面。司机旁边的乘客座位很体贴地变宽了,像一张双人沙发。“他现在享受一级安全保卫。到了破釜酒吧,还要给我们加强保安呢。”

  哈利什么也没说。他可不愿意买东西时周围有一大批傲罗跟着。他已经把隐形衣塞在了背包里。他曾想,既然邓布利多不反对,魔法部也不会反对,不过现在仔细想来,他不能肯定魔法部是不是知道他有一件隐形衣。

  “你们到了。”没过一会儿司机就说,这是他说的第一句话。他放慢速度驶进了查林十字路,在破釜酒吧外面停了下来。“我等你们回来,知道需要多长时间吗?”

  “大概两个小时吧。”韦斯莱先生说,“啊,太好了,他已经来了!”

  哈利也像韦斯莱先生那样透过车窗朝外望去。他的心顿时欢跳起来。酒吧外面并没有什么傲罗在等着,而是站着大块头、黑胡子的鲁伯·海格,霍格沃茨的狩猎场看守,他穿着一件长长的海狸皮大衣,一看见哈利的面孔就露出了喜悦的笑容,毫不理会过路的麻瓜们惊异的目光。

  “哈利!”他粗声大气地说,哈利刚一下车,海格就使劲把他搂进怀里,把他的骨头都要挤碎了,“巴克比克——我是说蔫翼——你真应该看看它,哈利,它回到露天可高兴了——”

  “它高兴就好,”哈利一边揉着肋骨,一边笑着说,“没想到‘保安’指的就是你呀!”

  “我知道,就像过去一样,是不?你看,魔法部本来想派一批傲罗来的,但邓布利多说我来就行了。”海格得意地说,他挺起胸膛,把两个大拇指插进了口袋里,“好了,我们进去吧——你们先请,莫丽,亚瑟——”

  在哈利的记忆里,破釜酒吧第一次显得这么冷清,空无一人。过去那些热闹的人群不见了,只剩下满脸皱纹、牙齿掉光了的店主汤姆。他们一进去,汤姆满怀希望地抬起头,可是没等他开口,海格就郑重其事地说:“今天只是路过,汤姆,你肯定明白。是霍格沃茨的公事,你知道的。”

  汤姆闷闷不乐地点点头,继续擦他的玻璃杯。哈利、赫敏、海格和韦斯莱家的人穿过酒吧,来到后面放垃圾箱的阴冷的小院子里。海格举起手里的粉红色雨伞,敲了敲墙上的一块砖,那里立刻出现了一个门洞,通向一条蜿蜒曲折的卵石小路。他们跨过门洞,停下来四下张望着。

  对角巷完全变了样儿。橱窗里原先陈列着咒语书、魔药原料和坩埚,五光十色的,如今都看不见了,而是被魔法部张贴的大幅通告遮得严严实实的。这些令人生畏的紫色通告,大部分都是魔法部暑期散发的那些小册子上的安全忠告的放大版,还有一些通告上印着被通缉的食死徒的黑白活动照片。贝拉特里克斯·莱斯特兰奇在近旁那家药店门口狰狞地冷笑着。有几扇窗户被木板钉死了,包括福洛林·福斯科的冰淇淋小店。而另一方面,街道两边突然冒出了许多破破烂烂的小摊子。离他们最近的一个摊子就搭在丽痕书店外一个污迹斑斑的条纹雨棚下面,摊前钉着一块硬纸板招牌:

  护身符:有效抵御狼人、摄魂怪和阴尸

  一个邋里邋遢的小个子巫师向路人兜售着一大串拴着链子的银质吉祥物,把它们抖得哗哗直响。

  “夫人,买一个给你的小姑娘吧?”他们经过时,他朝韦斯莱夫人喊道,同时色迷迷地看了一眼金妮,“保护她那漂亮的脖子?”

  “如果我在值勤……”韦斯莱先生说,怒气冲冲地瞪着那个卖护身符的人。

  “是啊,但你现在可别到处去抓人啦,亲爱的,我们时间很紧。”韦斯莱夫人说着焦急地看了看一份清单,“我想我们最好先去摩金夫人长袍专卖店,赫敏需要一件新袍子,罗恩的校服短了,手腕子露出一大截,还有,哈利,你肯定也需要买新衣服了,你长得太快了——好,大家快走吧——”

  “莫丽,我们大家都去摩金夫人长袍专卖店不太合适。”韦斯莱先生说,“不如让他们三个跟着海格去,我们可以到丽痕书店去把大家的课本都买齐,好吗?”

  “我不知道怎么办才好,”韦斯莱夫人烦恼地说,显然,她既希望赶紧买完东西,又希望大家不要分开,真是左右为难,“海格,你觉得——?”

  “别担心,他们跟着我不会有问题的,莫丽。”海格安慰道,一边潇洒地挥了挥他那垃圾桶盖般大的手掌。韦斯莱夫人似乎并不完全放心,但还是让大家分开了,她跟着丈夫和金妮一起匆匆奔向丽痕书店,而哈利、罗恩、赫敏和海格则去了摩金夫人长袍专卖店。

  哈利注意到,许多路人的脸上都带着和韦斯莱夫人一样的烦恼焦虑的神情,不再有人停下来说话。买东西的人都三五成群地贴在一起,直奔他们要买的东西,似乎没有一个人单独购物。

  “如果我们都进去,可能会有点儿挤。”海格说,他在摩金夫人长袍专卖店外面停下脚步,俯身朝窗户里看了看,“我在外面站岗,好吗?”

  于是,哈利、罗恩和赫敏一起走进小店。第一眼看去,店里好像空无一人,可是门刚在他们身后关上,他们就听见一排绿色和蓝色的礼袍后面传来一个熟悉的声音。

  “……不是个小孩子了,你也许没有注意到,妈妈。我完全有能力独自出来买东西。”

  接着是一阵类似母鸡孵蛋的咕咕声,然后一个人说话了,哈利听出是摩金夫人的声音:“是啊,亲爱的,你妈妈说得对,现在我们谁也不应该单独出来闲逛,这跟小孩子不小孩子的没有关系——”

  “你那根针往哪儿戳?留点儿神!”

  一个脸色苍白、头发淡黄的尖脸少年从挂衣架后面出现了,他穿着一套漂亮的墨绿色长袍,贴边和袖口都别着闪闪发亮的别针。他大步走到镜子前,仔细端详着自己。片刻之后,他才从镜子里注意到哈利、罗恩和赫敏就站在他身后。他眯起了淡灰色的眼睛。

  “妈妈,如果你不明白这是一股什么怪味儿,我可以告诉你,这里刚进来了一个泥巴种。”德拉科·马尔福说。

  “我认为没有必要这样说话!”摩金夫人说着从挂衣架后面匆匆走了出来,手里拿着皮尺和一根魔杖,“而且,我也不希望在我的店里把魔杖抽出来!”她朝门口扫了一眼,看见哈利和罗恩都拔出魔杖指着马尔福,便赶紧加了一句。

  赫敏站在他们后面一点的地方,低声说:“别,别这么做,说实在的,不值得……”

  “是啊,就好像你们敢在校外施魔法似的。”马尔福讥笑道,“是谁把你的眼睛打青了,格兰杰?我要给那些人献花。”

  “够了!”摩金夫人厉声说,扭头寻求支持,“夫人——请你——”

  纳西莎·马尔福慢慢地从挂衣架后面走了出来。

  “把它们收起来,”她冷冷地对哈利和罗恩说,“如果再敢对我的儿子动手,我就让你们再也动弹不得。”

  “是吗?”哈利说着跨前一步,盯着那张光滑、傲慢的脸,那张脸尽管皮肤白皙,却跟她姐姐的脸仍有相似之处。现在哈利个头已和她一样高了。“想找几个食死徒哥们儿把我们干掉,是吗?”

  摩金夫人尖叫一声,一把揪住了胸口。

  “说真的,你不应该指责——说这种话很危险——请你快把魔杖收起来!”

  但哈利没有放下魔杖。纳西莎·马尔福脸上露出难看的笑容。

  “看得出来,你做了邓布利多的得意门生,就误以为自己安全了,哈利·波特。可是邓布利多不会总在你身边保护你的。”

  哈利假装打量了一下小店。

  “哇……你瞧……他眼下不在这里!那你为什么不试一试呢?说不定他们会给你在阿兹卡班找一个双人牢房,跟你那失败的丈夫关在一起呢!”

  马尔福气愤地朝哈利逼了过来,却被他那过长的袍子绊了一下。罗恩大声笑了起来。

  “你竟敢对我妈妈这么说话,波特!”马尔福恶狠狠地吼道。

  “没关系,德拉科,”纳西莎用苍白纤细的手指按住他的肩膀,阻止了他,“我想,不等我去跟卢修斯团聚,波特就去跟亲爱的小天狼星团聚了。”

  哈利把魔杖举得更高了。

  “哈利,别!”赫敏低声说,一把抓住他的胳膊,使劲往下压,“考虑一下……千万不能……你会闯大祸的……”

  摩金夫人在原地颤抖了一会儿,然后似乎打算假装什么事也没发生,并希望什么事也别发生。她朝仍然瞪着哈利的马尔福弯下腰去。

  “我觉得左边这只袖子可以再往上收一点儿,亲爱的,让我——”

  “哎哟!”马尔福大叫一声,啪地把她的手打开了,“仔细点儿,看你的针往哪儿扎,蠢婆子!妈妈——这件衣服我不要了——”

  他从头上把长袍扯下来,扔在摩金夫人脚下。

  “你说得对,德拉科,”纳西莎说,轻蔑地扫了一眼赫敏,“现在我知道是哪些社会渣滓在这里买衣服了……我们到脱凡成衣店能买到更好的。”

  说完,他们俩就大步走出了小店,马尔福出门前故意狠狠地撞了一下罗恩。

  “唉,真够呛!”摩金夫人说着抓起扔在地上的长袍,用魔杖尖在上面一扫,灰尘就像被吸尘器吸走一样没有了。

  她给罗恩和哈利裁剪新袍子时一直心不在焉,而且还要把男巫的袍子卖给赫敏。最后,当她鞠躬把他们送出小店时,她似乎满心庆幸他们终于离开了。

  “东西都买齐了?”海格看到他们出来,高兴地问。

  “差不多吧。”哈利说,“你看见马尔福和他妈妈了吗?”

  “看见了。”海格不太介意地说,“不过在对角巷中,他们是不敢轻举妄动的,哈利,不用担心他们。”

  哈利、罗恩和赫敏交换了一下目光,他们还没来得及消除海格的错误想法,韦斯莱夫妇和金妮就出现了,每个人怀里都抱着一大包书。

  “大伙儿都没事吧?”韦斯莱夫人说,“袍子买到了?好吧,我们在去弗雷德和乔治的小店的路上,顺便去一趟药店和咿啦猫头鹰商店——走吧,跟紧一点儿……”

  哈利和罗恩知道他们不再上魔药课了,便没有在药店里买任何原料,但两人都在咿啦猫头鹰商店里给海德薇和小猪买了两大盒猫头鹰坚果。然后,他们在街上继续往前走,寻找弗雷德和乔治开的笑话商店——韦斯莱魔法把戏坊,韦斯莱夫人每隔一分钟就要看一次表。

  “我们真的不能待很长时间,”韦斯莱夫人说,“只是抓紧时间在店里看看,然后就回到车上。大家必须跟紧一点儿,这是九十二号……九十四号……”

  “哇!”罗恩猛地停住脚步,惊呼道。

  周围店铺的门脸都暗淡无光,被通告埋没了,而弗雷德和乔治的橱窗像烟火展览一样吸引着人们的眼球。普通的行人都忍不住扭过头看着那橱窗,还有几个人显得特别震惊,竟然停下脚步,一副痴迷的样子。左边的橱窗里五光十色,摆着各种各样旋转、抽动、闪烁、跳跃和尖叫的商品,哈利看着看着,眼泪就涌了出来。右边的橱窗上蒙着一张巨幅海报,和魔法部的那些通告一样也是紫色的,但上面印着耀眼的黄色大字:

  你为什么担心神秘人?

  你应该关心

  便秘仁——

  便秘的感觉折磨着国人!

  哈利笑了起来。他听见身边传来一声无力的呻吟,转脸一看,韦斯莱夫人正目瞪口呆地看着那张海报。她的嘴唇无声地蠕动着,默念着那几个字:便秘仁。

  “他们会在床上被人谋杀的!”她小声说。

  “不会的!”罗恩说,他和哈利一样笑出了声,“这简直太精彩了!”

  他和哈利领头走进了小店。里面全是顾客,哈利简直挤不到货架前面。他左右看看,只见纸箱子一直堆到了天花板上:这是双胞胎在霍格沃茨肄业前的最后一年研制出来的速效逃课糖。哈利注意到最受欢迎的是鼻血牛扎糖,货架上只剩下最后被压扁了的一盒。另外还有好几箱戏法魔杖,其中最便宜的一挥就能变成橡皮鸡或裤子,而最贵的那种,如果使用者没有防备,脖子和脑袋就会挨上一顿打。还有一盒盒的羽毛笔,包括自动喷墨、拼写检查、机智抢答等品种。这时,人群稍微松动了点儿,哈利朝柜台挤去,一群十来岁的孩子兴奋地注视着一个木头小人慢慢地登上台阶,爬向一套逼真的绞索架,这两样东西都在一个箱子顶上,箱子上写着:可反复使用的刽子手——拼不出就吊死他刽子手是一种拼字游戏玩具,一般由一个绞架和小人组成,如果参加游戏的人拼写发生一定的错误,小人就会被放到绞架上被处死。!

  “‘专利产品:白日梦咒……’”

  赫敏好不容易挤到柜台旁边一个大的陈列柜前,正在阅读一只箱子背面的说明文字。那箱子上印着一幅色彩鲜艳的图画:一位英俊青年和一个如痴如醉的姑娘一起站在海盗船的甲板上。

  “‘只要念一个咒语,你就能进入一场高质量的、绝顶逼真的三十分钟的白日梦,适用于普通学校上课,操作简单,绝对令人难以察觉(副作用包括表情呆滞和轻微流口水)。不向十六岁以下少年出售。’嘿,你看,”赫敏抬头看着哈利说,“这种魔法可真奇特!”

  “这玩意儿,赫敏,”一个声音在他们后面说,“你可以免费拿走一个。”

  笑容满面的弗雷德站在他们面前,他身上穿着一套品红色的长袍,跟他火红色的头发配在一起很不协调,十分耀眼。

  “你好吗,哈利?”他们握了握手,“赫敏,你的眼睛怎么啦?”

  “都怪你的打拳望远镜。”赫敏懊恼地说。

  “哦,天哪,我都把它们给忘了。”弗雷德说,“给——”

  他从口袋里掏出一个小塑料瓶递给赫敏,赫敏小心地拧开盖子,里面是一种黏稠的黄色膏体。

  “把它涂上,一小时之内青肿就消了。”弗雷德说,“我们必须找到一种有效的青肿消除剂,大多数产品我们都在自己身上试验的。”

  赫敏显得有点儿顾虑。“它安全吗?”

  “那还用说。”弗雷德宽慰她道,“哈利,走吧,我带你到处转转。”

  赫敏在那儿往黑眼圈上抹药膏,哈利跟着弗雷德朝小店后面走去,他看见那里有一个摊子上摆着纸牌和绳索戏法。

  “麻瓜的魔术!”弗雷德高兴地把它们一一指给他看,“专门卖给我爸爸那种喜欢麻瓜东西的怪人,你知道的。赚得不多,但细水长流,都是非常新奇的玩意儿……哦,乔治来了……”

  弗雷德的孪生兄弟热情地跟哈利握手。

  “带他转转?到后面来吧,哈利,那才是我们真正赚大钱的地方——如果谁敢偷东西,到时候要付出的就不止是加隆了!”他突然对一个小男孩发出警告,那男孩赶紧把手从标着“可食用黑魔标记——谁吃谁恶心!”的塑料瓶上缩了回去。

  乔治掀开麻瓜魔术用品旁边的一个帘子,哈利看见了一个更加黑暗、但不太拥挤的房间,排在架子上的产品包装都显得比较低调。

  “我们刚研制出这些更加严肃的产品。”弗雷德说,“说起来真有趣……”

  “你简直不能相信有那么多人,甚至在魔法部工作的人,都念不出一个像样的铁甲咒。”乔治说,“当然啦,他们没有碰到你这么好的老师,哈利。”

  “没错……嘿,我们本来以为防咒帽只是一种搞笑的玩意儿。你知道的,就是你戴着这种帽子叫你的同伴给你施恶咒,然后你盯着他的脸,恶咒就会反弹出去。没想到魔法部给他们所有的工作人员买了五百顶!现在我们还不断接到大额订单呢!”

  “所以我们又接着开发了防咒斗篷、防咒手套……”

  “……我的意思是,它们对不可饶恕咒没有多大作用,但对付一些小魔法、小恶咒什么的……”

  “我们打算全面进入黑魔法防御术的领域,因为那简直就是摇钱树啊。”乔治兴奋地往下说,“太酷了。你看,隐身烟雾弹,秘鲁进口的。如果你想快速脱身,用起来是很方便的。”

  “还有我们的诱饵炸弹,刚刚下架,看,”弗雷德指着一大堆怪模怪样、黑色猫头鹰似的玩意儿,它们看起来就像是随时准备逃之夭夭,“你只要偷偷地扔一个出去,它就会快速逃窜,闹出很响的动静,在你需要的时候转移别人的注意力。”

  “真方便。”哈利赞叹道。

  “给。”乔治说着抓起两个扔给了哈利。

  一个金色短发的年轻女巫从帘子后面探进头来,哈利看见她也穿着品红色的店袍。

  “外面有一位顾客想要笑话坩埚,韦斯莱先生和韦斯莱先生。”她说。

  哈利听见弗雷德和乔治被称为“韦斯莱先生”,觉得非常滑稽,但他们倒是从容地接受了这个称呼。

  “好吧,维丽蒂,我这就来。”乔治立刻说道,“哈利,你想要什么就随便拿,好吗?不用付钱。”

  “那怎么行!”哈利说,他已经掏出钱袋,准确为诱饵炸弹付款了。

  “这里不用你花钱。”弗雷德坚决地说,挥手挡开了哈利的金币。

  “可是——”

  “我们的启动资金就是你借给我们的,这我们可没有忘记。”乔治严肃地说,“你喜欢什么就拿去,如果别人问起来,别忘了告诉他们是从这儿弄到的。”

  乔治穿过帘子,帮顾客挑选商品去了,弗雷德领着哈利回到前面的店里,发现赫敏和金妮仍然若有所思地盯着那白日梦咒的专利产品。

  “你们这两个小丫头还没有找到我们特制的‘神奇女巫’产品吗?”弗雷德问,“跟我来吧,姑娘们……”

  在靠近窗口的地方放着一排耀眼的粉红色产品,旁边围了一群兴奋的女孩子,叽叽喳喳地笑个不停。赫敏和金妮都迟疑着不肯上前,显得很警觉。

  “去看看吧,”弗雷德得意地说道,“最高级的迷情剂,别处是找不到的。”

  金妮怀疑地扬起一道眉毛。“管用吗?”

  “那还用说,每次效果可以长达二十四个小时,这取决于那个男孩的体重——”

  “——和那个女孩的迷人程度。”乔治突然又出现在他们身边,说道。“但我们可不能把它卖给我们的亲妹妹,”他补充道,表情突然变得严肃了,“尤其是她现在已经走马灯似的跟五个男孩搞得挺热乎,这是我们从——”

  “这是你们从罗恩那儿听来的胡编乱造的鬼话。”金妮平静地说,探身从架子上拿了一个粉红色的小罐子,“这是什么?”

  “十秒消除脓疱特效灵,”弗雷德说,“对疖子和黑头粉刺什么的都有奇效,但是你别改换话题呀。你目前是不是正跟一个名叫迪安·托马斯的男孩谈恋爱?”

  “对,没错,”金妮说,“但我上次找他时,毫无疑问他只是一个男孩,而不是五个。那些是什么?”

  她指着一大堆深深浅浅的粉红色和紫色的绒毛小球,小球在一只笼子的底部滚来滚去,发出刺耳的尖叫。

  “侏儒蒲,”乔治说,“微型蒲绒绒,我们没法让它们很快地繁殖。那么,迈克尔·科纳又是怎么回事呢?”

  “我把他甩了,他是个可耻的失败者。”金妮说着把一只手指伸进了笼子,看着那些侏儒蒲全都围拢过来,“它们好可爱啊!”

  “是啊,确实怪招人喜爱的。”弗雷德勉强承认道,“可是你的男朋友换得有点儿太勤了吧?”

  金妮转身盯着他,两只手叉在后腰上。她脸上怒气冲冲的表情极像韦斯莱夫人,哈利很吃惊弗雷德竟然没有退缩。

  “我的事用不着你管。还有,”这时候,罗恩怀里抱着一堆商品突然出现在乔治的身旁,她恼火地冲着罗恩喊,“劳驾你别在他们两个面前造我的谣!”

  “一共三个加隆、九个西可、一个纳特,”弗雷德仔细看了看罗恩怀里大大小小的盒子,说道,“付钱吧。”

  “我是你弟弟!”

  “你拿的是我们的东西。三个加隆、九个西可。那个纳特给你免了。”

  “可是我没有三个加隆、九个西可!”

  “那你最好把东西放回去,记住别放错了架子。”

  罗恩扔掉几个盒子,嘴里骂骂咧咧的,朝弗雷德做了一个粗鲁的手势,不巧的是,却被偏偏在这个时候出现的韦斯莱夫人看见了。

  “如果我再看见你这么做,我就念个恶咒把你的手指都粘在一起。”她严厉地说。

  “妈妈,我可以买一只侏儒蒲吗?”金妮立即抢着问。

  “一只什么?”韦斯莱夫人警惕地说。

  “看,它们多可爱啊……”

  韦斯莱夫人走过去看侏儒蒲了,哈利、罗恩和赫敏正好可以清清楚楚地看到窗户外面的情况。只见德拉科·马尔福一个人匆匆地走在街上。他走过韦斯莱魔法把戏坊时,还扭头看了一眼。几秒钟后,他就走过窗户。他们看不见他了。

  “不知道他妈妈上哪儿去了。”哈利皱着眉头说。

  “看样子他把他妈妈给甩掉了。”罗恩说。

  “可是为什么呢?”赫敏问。

  哈利什么也没说。他正在紧张地思考。纳西莎·马尔福自己肯定不愿意让她的宝贝儿子离开她的视线。马尔福准是下了一番功夫才摆脱了她的控制。哈利非常了解和讨厌马尔福,他知道这里头肯定不会有什么好事。

  他扭头看了看,韦斯莱夫人和金妮正俯身看着那些侏儒蒲。韦斯莱先生欣喜地琢磨着一副麻瓜扑克牌。弗雷德和乔治都忙着接待顾客。在玻璃窗外,海格背对他们站着,监视着街上的情况。

  “快,快钻进来。”哈利从包里掏出他的隐形衣,说道。

  “哦——这好吗,哈利?”赫敏迟疑地朝韦斯莱夫人那边望了望,问道。

  “快点儿!”罗恩说。

  她又犹豫了一秒钟,然后和哈利、罗恩一起钻到了隐形衣下面。谁也没有注意到他们的消失,大家都被弗雷德和乔治的商品吸引住了。哈利、罗恩和赫敏尽快挤出小店,可是等他们来到街上,马尔福早已像他们一样成功地消失了。

  “他是朝那个方向去了。”哈利尽量压低声音说话,以免让哼着小曲儿的海格听见,“快走。”

  他们加快脚步往前赶去,一边留意着街道两旁的橱窗和店门,最后赫敏突然用手指着前面。

  “他在那儿,是不是?”她低声说,“往左拐了?”

  “真让人吃惊。”罗恩轻声道。

  只见马尔福左右张望了一下,便闪身钻进翻倒巷不见了。

  “快,别把目标给丢了。”哈利说着,加快了脚步。

  “我们的脚会被人看见的!”赫敏担心地说,因为隐形衣的下摆在他们脚脖子周围掀动着。如今,他们三个人藏在它下面比以前困难多了。

  “没关系,”哈利不耐烦地说,“快走!”

  可是,翻倒巷——这条与黑魔法密切相关的小街上空无一人。他们一边走一边朝窗户里张望,似乎每家店铺里都没有顾客。哈利猜想,在这段危险而多疑的时期购买——或被人看见购买黑魔法制品,是会暴露身份的。

  赫敏使劲拧了一下他的胳膊。

  “哎哟!”

  “嘘!快看!他在那里面!”她贴着哈利的耳朵低声道。

  现在他们身边的这家商店,是哈利在翻倒巷曾经光顾过的惟一一家店铺:博金-博克黑魔法商店,专门出售各种各样凶险不祥的东西。果然,在那些装满骷髅和旧瓶子的箱子中间,马尔福背对他们站着,就在那个黑色大柜子的后面。当年哈利为了回避马尔福和他的父亲,曾经在那个大柜子里躲过。从马尔福的手势看,他正在兴致勃勃地说话。店主博金先生是一个头发油亮、身材佝偻的人,此刻就站在马尔福面前。他脸上的表情很古怪,夹杂着怨恨和恐惧。

  “要是我们能听见他们在说什么就好了!”赫敏说。

  “可以呀!”罗恩兴奋地说,“等等——该死——”

  他摸索着那只最大的盒子,结果把手里仍然拿着的两只盒子弄掉在地上。

  “伸缩耳,看!”

  “太棒了!”赫敏说,罗恩解开长长的、肉色的细绳,开始把它们伸到门缝下面,“哦,希望这扇门没有被施扰——”

  “没有!”罗恩欢喜地说,“听!”

  他们把脑袋凑在一起,专心地贴在细绳的绳头上听着,马尔福的声音响亮、清楚地传了出来,就好像打开了一台收音机。

  “……你知道怎么把它修好吗?”

  “可能吧,”博金说,从他的口气上看,他似乎不愿意明确表态,“不过我需要先看一看。你为什么不把它拿到店里来呢?”

  “我不能,”马尔福说,“它必须留在原处。你只需要告诉我怎么修就行了。”

  哈利看见博金紧张地舔了舔嘴唇。

  “唉,我没有亲眼看见它,恐怕很难说得清,可能根本就没办法。我什么也不能保证。”

  “不能?”马尔福说,哈利听他的口气就知道他在讥笑,“也许这会让你更有信心。”

  他逼近了博金,大柜子挡住了他的身体。哈利、罗恩和赫敏赶紧挪到旁边,不让他从视线中消失,可是他们只能够看见博金,他神色非常惊恐。

  “要敢告诉别人,”马尔福说,“叫你吃不了兜着走。你知道芬里尔·格雷伯克吧?他是我们家的朋友,他会时常过来看看你是不是在专心解决这个问题。”

  “没有必要——”

  “这由我来决定。”马尔福说,“好了,我得走了。别忘了替我好好保管那东西,我会用得着的。”

  “你不想现在就拿走吗?”

  “不,当然不想,你这个愚蠢的矮子,我拿着它走在街上像什么话?你别把它卖掉就是了。”

  “当然不会……先生。”

  博金深深地鞠了一躬,哈利曾经看见他对卢修斯·马尔福也是这样鞠躬的。

  “不许对任何人说,博金,包括我妈妈,明白吗?”

  “当然,当然。”博金喃喃地说,又鞠了一躬。

  接着,店门上的铃铛响了起来,马尔福大步走出小店,一副志得意满的样子。他贴着哈利、罗恩和赫敏走了过去,他们感觉到隐形衣又在扑打着他们的膝盖。店里,博金仍然僵在那里,脸上虚假的笑容消失了,神情显得很忧虑。

  “这到底是怎么回事?”罗恩小声问,一边把伸缩耳的细绳收了回来。

  “不知道。”哈利努力思索着说,“他有个东西要修理……还有个东西希望店里替他留着……他说‘那东西’时,你们看见他指的是什么了吗?”

  “没有,他被那个柜子挡住了——”

  “你们俩待着别动。”赫敏小声说。

  “你想干什么——”

  可是赫敏已经从隐形衣下面钻了出去。她对着玻璃照了照她的头发,然后迈着大步走进店里,铃铛又一次丁丁当当地响了起来。罗恩赶紧把伸缩耳又塞到门缝下面,把一根细绳递给了哈利。

  “你好,天气真糟糕,是不是?”赫敏愉快地对博金说,博金怀疑地瞥了她一眼,没有回答。赫敏欢快地哼着歌儿,在店里陈列的乱七八糟的商品间溜达着。

  “这条项链卖吗?”她在一个玻璃柜前停下脚步,问道。

  “如果你掏一千五百个加隆,就卖。”博金冷冷地说。

  “噢——嗯——不,我可没有那么多钱。”赫敏说着,继续往前走去,“那么……这只可爱的——嗯——骷髅呢?”

  “十六个加隆。”

  “那么它是可以卖的?不是……不是给什么人留着的?”

  博金眯起眼睛看着她。哈利有一种不妙的感觉,博金很清楚赫敏想干什么。看来赫敏也发觉自己被识破了,她突然豁了出去。

  “事情是这样的——嗯——刚才进来的那个男孩,德拉科·马尔福,他是我的一个朋友,我想送给他一件生日礼物,但如果他已经预定了什么东西,我当然不想再给他买一件同样的,所以……嗯……”

  在哈利看来,这个故事编得太蹩脚了,博金显然也是这么认为的。

  “出去。”他厉声吼道,“滚出去!”

  赫敏没等他说第二遍,就匆匆逃了出来,博金一直追到了门口。铃铛又是一阵乱响,博金在她身后砰的一声关上门,挂出了“停业”的牌子。

  “不错,”罗恩说着把隐形衣重新罩在赫敏身上,“值得一试,不过你做得也太明显了——”

  “好,下次你来做给我看看,神秘大师!”她回敬道。

  在返回的路上,罗恩和赫敏一直在打嘴仗,不过到了韦斯莱魔法把戏坊,他们就不得不住嘴了,这样才能神不知鬼不觉地躲过惊慌失措的韦斯莱夫人,躲过显然已经发现他们失踪的海格。一到店里,哈利就脱下隐形衣,把它藏进包里,然后,面对韦斯莱夫人的责问,他和两个伙伴一口咬定他们一直待在后面的小屋里,她只是没有认真去找。

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ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
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Chapter 7 The Slug Club

Malfoy's activities as he was; or at least, they seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days.
“Yes, I've already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the windowsill in Fred and George's room with her feet up on
one of the cardboard boxes and had only grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced Rune Translation. “But haven't we agreed there could be a lot of
explanations?”
“Maybe he's broken his Hand of Glory,” said Ron vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his broomstick's bent tail twigs. “Remember that shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?

“But what about when he said, ‘Don't forget to keep that one safe'?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. “That sounded to me like Borgin's got another one of the
broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.”
“You reckon?” said Ron, now trying to scrape some dirt off his broom handle.
“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, he said, “Malfoy's father's in Azkaban. Don't you think Malfoy'd like revenge?”
Ron looked up, blinking.
“Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?”
“That's my point, I don't know!” said Harry, frustrated. “But he's up to something and I think we should take it seriously. His father's a Death Eater and—”
Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had just occurred to him.
“Harry?” said Hermione in an anxious voice. “What's wrong?”
“Your scar's not hurting again, is it?” asked Ron nervously.
“He's a Death Eater,” said Harry slowly. “He's replaced his father as a Death Eater!”
There was a silence; then Ron erupted in laughter. “Malfoy? He's sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join?”
“It seems very unlikely, Harry,” said Hermione in a repressive sort of voice. “What makes you think—?”
“In Madam Malkin's. She didn't touch him, but he yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He's been branded
with the Dark Mark.”
Ron and Hermione looked at each other.
“Well...” said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.
“I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry,” said Hermione.
“He showed Borgin something we couldn't see,” Harry pressed on stubbornly. “Something that seriously scared Borgin. It was the Mark, I know it—he was showing Borgin
who he was dealing with, you saw how seriously Borgin took him!”
Ron and Hermione exchanged another look.
“I'm not sure, Harry...”
“Yeah, I still don't reckon You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join...”
Annoyed, but absolutely convinced he was right, Harry snatched up a pile of filthy Quidditch robes and left the room; Mrs. Weasley had been urging them for days not to
leave their washing and packing until the last moment. On the landing he bumped into Ginny, who was returning to her room carrying a pile of freshly laundered clothes.
“I wouldn't go in the kitchen just now,” she warned him. “There's a lot of Phlegm around.”
“I'll be careful not to slip in it.” Harry smiled.
Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen it was to find Fleur sitting at the kitchen table, in full flow about plans for her wedding to Bill, while Mrs. Weasley kept
watch over a pile of self-peeling sprouts, looking bad-tempered.
“... Bill and I ‘ave almost decided on only two bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabrielle will look very sweet togezzer. I am theenking of dressing zem in pale gold—pink
would of course be ‘orrible with Ginny's ‘air—”
“Ah, Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley loudly, cutting across Fleur's monologue. “Good, I wanted to explain about the security arrangements for the journey to Hogwarts
tomorrow. We've got Ministry cars again, and there will be Aurors waiting at the station—”
“Is Tonks going to be there?” asked Harry, handing over his Quidditch things.
“No, I don't think so, she's been stationed somewhere else from what Arthur said.”
“She has let ‘erself go, zat Tonks,” Fleur mused, examining her own stunning reflection in the back of a teaspoon. “A big mistake if you ask—”
“Yes, thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley tartly, cutting across Fleur again. “You'd better get on, Harry, I want the trunks ready tonight, if possible, so we don't have
the usual last-minute scramble.”
And in fact, their departure the following morning was smoother than usual. The Ministry cars glided up to the front of the Burrow to find them waiting, trunks packed;
Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, safely enclosed in his traveling basket; and Hedwig; Ron's owl, Pigwidgeon; and Ginny's new purple Pygmy Puff, Arnold, in cages.
“Au revoir, ‘Arry,” said Fleur throatily, kissing him goodbye. Ron hurried forward, looking hopeful, but Ginny stuck out her foot and Ron fell, sprawling in the dust
at Fleur's feet. Furious, red-faced, and dirt-spattered, he hurried into the car without saying goodbye.
There was no cheerful Hagrid waiting for them at King's Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced, bearded Aurors in dark Muggle suits moved forward the moment the cars
stopped and, flanking the party, marched them into the station without speaking.
“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said Mrs. Weasley, who seemed a little flustered by this austere efficiency. “Harry had better go first, with—”
She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who nodded briefly, seized Harry's upper arm, and attempted to steer him toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.
“I can walk, thanks,” said Harry irritably, jerking his arm out of the Auror's grip. He pushed his trolley directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent
companion, and found himself, a second later, standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over the crowd.
Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within seconds. Without waiting to consult his grim-faced Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow him up the platform,
looking for an empty compartment.
“We can't, Harry,” said Hermione, looking apologetic. “Ron and I've got to go to the prefects’ carriage first and then patrol the corridors for a bit.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Harry.
“You'd better get straight on the train, all of you, you've only got a few minutes to go,” said Mrs. Weasley, consulting her watch. “Well, have a lovely term, Ron...

“Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?” said Harry, making up his mind on the spur of the moment.
“Of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked slightly surprised, but followed Harry out of earshot of the others nevertheless.
Harry had thought it through carefully and come to the conclusion that, if he was to tell anyone, Mr. Weasley was the right person; firstly, because he worked at the
Ministry and was therefore in the best position to make further investigations, and secondly, because he thought that there was not too much risk of Mr. Weasley
exploding with anger.
He could see Mrs. Weasley and the grim-faced Auror casting the pair of them suspicious looks as they moved away.
“When we were in Diagon Alley,” Harry began, but Mr. Weasley forestalled him with a grimace.
“Am I about to discover where you, Ron, and Hermione disappeared to while you were supposed to be in the back room of Fred and George's shop?”
“How did you—?”
“Harry, please. You're talking to the man who raised Fred and George.”
“Er... yeah, all right, we weren't in the back room.”
“Very well, then, let's hear the worst.”
“Well, we followed Draco Malfoy. We used my Invisibility Cloak.”
“Did you have any particular reason for doing so, or was it a mere whim?”
“Because I thought Malfoy was up to something,” said Harry, disregarding Mr. Weasley's look of mingled exasperation and amusement. “He'd given his mother the slip
and I wanted to know why.”
“Of course you did,” said Mr. Weasley, sounding resigned. “Well? Did you find out why?”
“He went into Borgin and Burkes,” said Harry, “and started bullying the bloke in there, Borgin, to help him fix something. And he said he wanted Borgin to keep
something else for him. He made it sound like it was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like they were a pair. And...”
Harry took a deep breath.
“There's something else. We saw Malfoy jump about a mile when Madam Malkin tried to touch his left arm. I think he's been branded with the Dark Mark. I think he's
replaced his father as a Death Eater.”
Mr. Weasley looked taken aback. After a moment he said, “Harry, I doubt whether You-Know-Who would allow a sixteen-year-old—”
“Does anyone really know what You-Know-Who would or wouldn't do?” asked Harry angrily. “Mr. Weasley, I'm sorry, but isn't it worth investigating? If Malfoy wants
something fixing, and he needs to threaten Borgin to get it done, it's probably something Dark or dangerous, isn't it?”
“I doubt it, to be honest, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley slowly. “You see, when Lucius Malfoy was arrested, we raided his house. We took away everything that might have
been dangerous.”
“I think you missed something,” said Harry stubbornly.
“Well, maybe,” said Mr. Weasley, but Harry could tell that Mr. Weasley was humoring him.
There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone had boarded the train and the doors were closing.
“You'd better hurry!” said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. Weasley cried, “Harry, quickly!”
He hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped him load his trunk onto the train.
“Now, dear, you're coming to us for Christmas, it's all fixed with Dumbledore, so we'll see you quite soon,” said Mrs. Weasley through the window, as Harry slammed
the door shut behind him and the train began to move. “You make sure you look after yourself and—”
The train was gathering speed.
“—be good and—” She was jogging to keep up now.
“—stay safe!”
Harry waved until the train had turned a corner and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were lost to view, then turned to see where the others had got to. He supposed Ron and Hermione
were cloistered in the prefects’ carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the corridor, chatting to some friends. He made his way toward her, dragging his trunk.
People stared shamelessly as he approached. They even pressed their faces against the windows of their compartments to get a look at him. He had expected an upswing in
the amount of gaping and gawping he would have to endure this term after all the “Chosen One” rumors in the Daily Prophet, but he did not enjoy the sensation of
standing in a very bright spotlight. He tapped Ginny on the shoulder.
“Fancy trying to find a compartment?”
“I can't, Harry, I said I'd meet Dean,” said Ginny brightly. “See you later.”
“Right,” said Harry. He felt a strange twinge of annoyance as she walked away, her long red hair dancing behind her; he had become so used to her presence over the
summer that he had almost forgotten that Ginny did not hang around with him, Ron, and Hermione while at school. Then he blinked and looked around: he was surrounded by
mesmerized girls.
“Hi, Harry!” said a familiar voice from behind him.
“Neville!” said Harry in relief, turning to see a round-faced boy struggling toward him.
“Hello, Harry,” said a girl with long hair and large misty eyes, who was just behind Neville.
“Luna, hi, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Luna. She was clutching a magazine to her chest; large letters on the front announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs inside.
“The Quibbler still going strong, then?” asked Harry, who felt a certain fondness for the magazine, having given it an exclusive interview the previous year.
“Oh yes, circulation's well up,” said Luna happily.
“Let's find seats,” said Harry, and the three of them set off along the train through hordes of silently staring students. At last they found an empty compartment,
and Harry hurried inside gratefully.
“They're even staring at us,” said Neville, indicating himself and Luna. “Because we're with you!”
“They're staring at you because you were at the Ministry too,” said Harry, as he hoisted his trunk into the luggage rack. “Our little adventure there was all over
the Daily Prophet, you must've seen it.”
“Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the publicity,” said Neville, “but she was really pleased. Says I'm starting to live up to my dad at long last. She
bought me a new wand, look!”
He pulled it out and showed it to Harry.
“Cherry and unicorn hair,” he said proudly. “We think it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he vanished next day—oi, come back here, Trevor!”
And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it made one of its frequent bids for freedom.
“Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?” asked Luna, who was detaching a pair of psychedelic spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler.
“No point now we've got rid of Umbridge, is there?” said Harry, sitting down. Neville bumped his head against the seat as he emerged from under it. He looked most
disappointed.
“I liked the D.A.! I learned loads with you!”
“I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It was like having friends.”
This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna often said and which made Harry feel a squirming mixture of pity and embarrassment. Before he could respond, however,
there was a disturbance outside their compartment door; a group of fourth-year girls was whispering and giggling together on the other side of the glass.
“You ask him!”
No, you!
“I'll do it!”
And one of them, a bold-looking girl with large dark eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair pushed her way through the door.
“Hi, Harry, I'm Romilda, Romilda Vane,” she said loudly and confidently. “Why don't you join us in our compartment? You don't have to sit with them,” she added in a
stage whisper, indicating Neville's bottom, which was sticking out from under the seat again as he groped around for Trevor, and Luna, who was now wearing her free
Spectrespecs, which gave her the look of a demented, multicolored owl.
“They're friends of mine,” said Harry coldly.
“Oh,” said the girl, looking very surprised. “Oh. Okay.”
And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her.
“People expect you to have cooler friends than us,” said Luna, once again displaying her knack for embarrassing honesty.
“You are cool,” said Harry shortly. “None of them was at the Ministry. They didn't fight with me.”
“That's a very nice thing to say,” beamed Luna. Then she pushed her Spectrespecs farther up her nose and settled down to read The Quibbler.
“We didn't face him, though,” said Neville, emerging from under the seat with fluff and dust in his hair and a resigned-looking Trevor in his hand. “You did. You
should hear my gran talk about you. ‘That Harry Potter's got more backbone than the whole Ministry of Magic put together!’ She'd give anything to have you as a
grandson...”
Harry laughed uncomfortably and changed the subject to O.W.L. results as soon as he could. While Neville recited his grades and wondered aloud whether he would be
allowed to take a Transfiguration N.E.W.T., with only an “Acceptable,” Harry watched him without really listening.
Neville's childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry's had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry's destiny. The prophecy
could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant.
Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the weight of the prophecy... or would it? Would
Neville's mother have died to save him, as Lily had died for Harry? Surely she would... but what if she had been unable to stand between her son and Voldemort? Would
there then have been no ‘Chosen One’ at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and a scarless Harry who would have been kissed goodbye by his own mother, not Ron's?
“You all right, Harry? You look funny,” said Neville.
Harry started.
“Sorry—I—”
“Wrackspurt got you?” asked Luna sympathetically, peering at Harry through her enormous colored spectacles.
“I—what?”
“A Wrackspurt... They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” she said. “I thought I felt one zooming around in here.”
She flapped her hands at thin air, as though beating off large invisible moths. Harry and Neville caught each other's eyes and hastily began to talk of Quidditch.
The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy as it had been all summer; they passed through stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak, clear sunlight. It
was during one of the clear spells, when the sun was visible almost directly overhead, that Ron and Hermione entered the compartment at last.
“Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I'm starving,” said Ron longingly, slumping into the seat beside Harry and rubbing his stomach. “Hi, Neville. Hi, Luna. Guess
what?” he added, turning to Harry. “Malfoy's not doing prefect duty. He's just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed.”
Harry sat up straight, interested. It was not like Malfoy to pass up the chance to demonstrate his power as prefect, which he had happily abused all the previous year.
“What did he do when he saw you?”
“The usual,” said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a rude hand gesture. “Not like him, though, is it? Well... that is"—he did the hand gesture again—"but why isn't
he out there bullying first years?”
“Dunno,” said Harry, but his mind was racing. Didn't this look as though Malfoy had more important things on his mind than bullying younger students?
“Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad,” said Hermione. “Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame after that.”
“I don't think so,” said Harry. “I think he's—”
But before he could expound on his theory, the compartment door slid open again and a breathless third-year girl stepped inside.
“I'm supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter,” she faltered, as her eyes met Harry's and she turned scarlet. She was holding out two
scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon. Perplexed, Harry and Neville took the scroll addressed to each of them and the girl stumbled back out of the compartment.
“What is it?” Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his.
“An invitation,” said Harry.
Harry,
I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.
Sincerely, Professor H.E.F. Slughorn
“Who's Professor Slughorn?” asked Neville, looked perplexedly at his own invitation.
“New teacher,” said Harry. “Well, I suppose we'll have to go, won't we?”
“But what does he want me for?” asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention.
“No idea,” said Harry, which was not entirely true, though he had no proof yet that his hunch was correct. “Listen,” he added, seized by a sudden brain wave,
“let's go under the Invisibility Cloak, then we might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what he's up to.”
This idea, however, came to nothing: the corridors, which were packed with people on the lookout for the lunch trolley, were impossible to negotiate while wearing the
cloak. Harry stowed it regretfully back in his bag, reflecting that it would have been nice to wear it just to avoid all the staring, which seemed to have increased in
intensity even since he had last walked down the train. Every now and then, students would hurtle out of their compartments to get a better look at him. The exception
was Cho Chang, who darted into her compartment when she saw Harry coming. As Harry passed the window, he saw her deep in determined conversation with her friend
Marietta, who was wearing a very thick layer of makeup that did not entirely obscure the odd formation of pimples still etched across her face. Smirking slightly, Harry
pushed on.
When they reached compartment C, they saw at once that they were not Slughorn's only invitees, although judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn's welcome, Harry was the
most warmly anticipated.
“Harry, m'boy!” said Slughorn, jumping up at the sight of him so that his great velvet-covered belly seemed to fill all the remaining space in the compartment. His
shiny bald head and great silvery mustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the golden buttons on his waistcoat. “Good to see you, good to see you! And you must
be Mr. Longbottom!”
Neville nodded, looking scared. At a gesture from Slughorn, they sat down opposite each other in the only two empty seats, which were nearest the door. Harry glanced
around at their fellow guests. He recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes; there were also two seventh-
year boys Harry did not know and, squashed in the corner beside Slughorn and looking as though she was not entirely sure how she had got there, Ginny.
“Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn asked Harry and Neville. “Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course—”
Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.
“This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you've come across each other—? No?”
McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him.
“—and this is Marcus Belby, I don't know whether—?”
Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a strained smile.
“—and this charming young lady tells me she knows you!” Slughorn finished.
Ginny grimaced at Harry and Neville from behind Slughorn's back.
“Well now, this is most pleasant,” said Slughorn cozily. “A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I've packed my own lunch; the
trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on Licorice Wands, and a poor old man's digestive system isn't quite up to such things... Pheasant, Belby?”
Belby started, and accepted what looked like half a cold pheasant.
“I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles,” Slughorn told Harry and Neville, now passing around a basket of rolls.
“Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?”
Unfortunately, Beiby had just taken a large mouthful of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to choke.
“Anapneo,” said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once.
“Not... not much of him, no,” gasped Belby, his eyes streaming.
“Well, of course, I daresay he's busy,” said Slughorn, looking questioningly at Belby. “I doubt he invented the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard work!”
“I suppose...” said Belby, who seemed afraid to take another bite of pheasant until he was sure that Slughorn had finished with him. “Er... he and my dad don't get
on very well, you see, so I don't really know much about...”
His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold smile and turned to McLaggen instead.
“Now, you, Cormac,” said Slughorn, “I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting
Nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?”
“Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was,” said McLaggen. “We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour—this was before he became Minister, obviously—”
“Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies; somehow, Belby was missed out. “Now tell me...”
It was as Harry had suspected. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential... everyone except Ginny.
Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven
times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold). It was Neville's turn next: this was a very uncomfortable ten minutes, for Neville's
parents, well-known Aurors, had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater cronies. At the end of Neville's interview, Harry had the
impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents’ flair.
“And now,” said Slughorn, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act. “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched
the surface when we met over the summer!”
He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, “'The Chosen One,’ they're calling you now!”
Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him.
“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, “there have been rumors for years... I remember when—well—after that terrible night—Lily—James—and you
survived—and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary—”
Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism. An angry voice burst out from behind Slughorn.
“Yeah, Zabini, because you're so talented... at posing...”
“Oh dear!” chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around Slughorn's great belly. “You want to be careful, Blaise! I saw
this young lady perform the most marvelous Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn't cross her!”
Zabini merely looked contemptuous.
“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn't know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print
inaccuracies, make mistakes... but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there
in the thick of it all!”
Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him.
“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond—you were there, then? But the rest of the stories—so sensational, of course, one doesn't know quite what to
believe—this fabled prophecy, for instance—”
“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it.
“That's right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.”
“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but both of them sat clam-like before his encouraging smile. “
Yes... well... it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course...” Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog
Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies)—”
He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by
Neville and Ginny.
The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at
Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but couldn't see how to do so politely. Finally the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and
Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight.
“Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop
by and borrow that book on Nogtails. Harry, Blaise... any time you're passing. Same goes for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny. “Well, off you go, off you go!”
As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along
the train.
“I'm glad that's over,” muttered Neville. “Strange man, isn't he?”
“Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry, his eyes on Zabini. “How come you ended up in there, Ginny?”
“He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” said Ginny. “You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the
Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him—when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to got detention, but he just thought it was a really good hex
and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?”
“Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother's famous,” said Harry, scowling at the back of Zabini's head, “or because their uncle... ”
But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a reckless but potentially wonderful idea... In a minute's time, Zabini was going to re-enter the Slytherin sixth-
year compartment and Malfoy would be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody except fellow Slytherins... If Harry could only enter, unseen, behind him, what
might he not see or hear? True, there was little of the journey left—Hogsmeade Station had to be less than half an hour away, judging by the wildness of the scenery
flashing by the windows—but nobody else seemed prepared to take Harry's suspicions seriously, so it was down to him to prove them.
“I'll see you two later,” said Harry under his breath, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and flinging it over himself.
“But what're you—?” asked Neville.
“Later!” whispered Harry, darting after Zabini as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless.
The corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions. Though
he was as close as he could get to Zabini without touching him, Harry was not quick enough to slip into the compartment when Zabini opened the door. Zabini was already
sliding it shut when Harry hastily stuck out his foot to prevent it closing.
“What's wrong with this thing?” said Zabini angrily as he smashed the sliding door repeatedly into Harry's foot.
Harry seized the door and pushed it open, hard; Zabini, still clinging on to the handle, toppled over sideways into Gregory Goyle's lap, and in the ensuing ruckus,
Harry darted into the compartment, leapt onto Zabini's temporarily empty seat, and hoisted himself up into the luggage rack. It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were
snarling at each other, drawing all eyes onto them, for Harry was quite sure his feet and ankles had been revealed as the cloak had flapped around them; indeed, for one
horrible moment he thought he saw Malfoy's eyes follow his trainer as it whipped upward out of sight. But then Goyle slammed the door shut and flung Zabini off him;
Zabini collapsed into his own seat looking ruffled, Vincent Crabbe returned to his comic, and Malfoy, sniggering, lay back down across two seats with his head in Pansy
Parkinson's lap. Harry lay curled uncomfortably under the cloak to ensure that every inch of him remained hidden, and watched Pansy stroke the sleek blond hair off
Malfoy's forehead, smirking as she did so, as though anyone would have loved to have been in her place. The lanterns swinging from the carriage ceiling cast a bright
light over the scene: Harry could read every word of Crabbe's comic directly below him.
“So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?”
“Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not that he managed to find many.”
This information did not seem to please Malfoy.
“Who else had he invited?” he demanded.
“McLaggen from Gryffindor,” said Zabini.
“Oh yeah, his uncle's big in the Ministry,” said Malfoy.
“—someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw—”
“Not him, he's a prat!” said Pansy.
“—and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl,” finished Zabini.
Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy's hand aside.
“He invited Longbottom?”
“Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said Zabini indifferently.
“What's Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?”
Zabini shrugged.
“Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted a look at the Chosen One,” sneered Malfoy, “but that Weasley girl! What's so special about her?”
“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even you think she's good-looking, don't you, Blaise, and we
all know how hard you are to please!”
“I wouldn't touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and Pansy looked pleased. Malfoy sank back across her lap and
allowed her to resume the stroking of his hair.
“Well, I pity Slughorn's taste. Maybe he's going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favorite
of his. Slughorn probably hasn't heard I'm on the train, or—”
“I wouldn't bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He asked me about Nott's father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard
he'd been caught at the Ministry he didn't look happy, and Nott didn't get an invitation, did he? I don't think Slughorn's interested in Death Eaters.”
Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humorless laugh.
“Well, who cares what he's interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher.” Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. “I mean, I might not even be
at Hogwarts next year, what's it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?”
“What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?” said Pansy indignantly, ceasing grooming Malfoy at once.
“Well, you never know,” said Malfoy with the ghost of a smirk. “I might have—er—moved on to bigger and better things.”
Crouched in the luggage rack under his cloak, Harry's heart began to race. What would Ron and Hermione say about this? Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy;
apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features. Pansy
resumed the slow stroking of Malfoy s hair, looking dumbfounded.
“Do you mean—Him”
Malfoy shrugged.
“Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don't see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it... When the Dark Lord takes over, is he
going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone's got? Of course he isn't... it'll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown.

“And you think you'll be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?”
“I've just said, haven't I? Maybe he doesn't care if I'm qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn't something that you need to be qualified for,” said Malfoy
quietly.
Crabbe and Goyle were both sitting with their mouths open like gargoyles. Pansy was gazing down at Malfoy as though she had never seen anything so awe-inspiring.
“I can see Hogwarts,” said Malfoy, clearly relishing the effect he had created as he pointed out of the blackened window. “We'd better get our robes on.”
Harry was so busy staring at Malfoy, he did not notice Goyle reaching up for his trunk; as he swung it down, it hit Harry hard on the side of the head. He let out an
involuntary gasp of pain, and Malfoy looked up at the luggage rack, frowning.
Harry was not afraid of Malfoy, but he still did not much like the idea of being discovered hiding under his Invisibility Cloak by a group of unfriendly Slytherins.
Eyes still watering and head still throbbing, he drew his wand, careful not to disarrange the cloak, and waited, breath held. To his relief, Malfoy seemed to decide
that he had imagined the noise; he pulled on his robes like the others, locked his trunk, and as the train slowed to a jerky crawl, fastened a thick new traveling cloak
round his neck.
Harry could see the corridors filling up again and hoped that Hermione and Ron would take his things out onto the platform for him; he was stuck where he was until the
compartment had quite emptied. At last, with a final lurch, the train came to a complete halt. Goyle threw the door open and muscled his way out into a crowd of second
years, punching them aside; Crabbe and Zabini followed.
“You go on,” Malfoy told Pansy, who was waiting for him with her hand held out as though hoping he would hold it. “I just want to check something.”
Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the compartment. People were filing past, descending onto the dark platform. Malfoy moved over to the compartment door
and let down the blinds, so that people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. He then bent down over his trunk and opened it again.
Harry peered down over the edge of the luggage rack, his heart pumping a little faster. What had Malfoy wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the mysterious
broken object it was so important to mend?
“Petrificus Totalus!”
Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry, who was instantly paralyzed. As though in slow motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, with an
agonizing, floor-shaking crash, at Malfoy's feet, the Invisibility Cloak trapped beneath him, his whole body revealed with his legs still curled absurdly into the
cramped kneeling position. He couldn't move a muscle; he could only gaze up at Malfoy, who smiled broadly.
“I thought so,” he said jubilantly. “I heard Goyle's trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back...” His eyes
lingered for a moment upon Harry's trainers. “That was you blocking the door when Zabini came back in, I suppose?”
He considered Harry a moment.
“You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here...”
And he stamped, hard, on Harry's face. Harry felt his nose break; blood spurted everywhere.
“That's from my father. Now, let's see...”
Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry's immobilized body and threw it over him.
“I don't reckon they'll find you till the train's back in London,” he said quietly. “See you around, Potter... or not.”
And taking care to tread on Harry's fingers, Malfoy left the compartment.

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 14楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

第7章 鼻涕虫俱乐部

  暑假的最后几个星期里,哈利许多时候都在思考马尔福在翻倒巷的所作所为。最让他感到不安的是马尔福离开商店时脸上那副得意的表情。能让马尔福显得那么高兴的准不是什么好事。然而,令他感到有些恼怒的是,罗恩和赫敏对于马尔福的行为似乎都不像他那么好奇。至少,他们几天后就厌倦了,不愿意再谈这件事。

  “是啊,哈利,我已经承认这有点可疑。”赫敏有点不耐烦地说。她坐在弗雷德和乔治房间的窗台上,两只脚踏着一只硬纸箱,满不情愿地从她那本新书《高级魔文翻译》上抬起目光。“但我们不是一致认为这件事可以有许多种解释吗?”

  “也许他打坏了他的光荣之手西方巫术中的一种护身符,一般取被处以绞刑的人的手用曼德拉草或其他药草缠裹并浸泡而制成。持有该手的人可用它在黑暗中照明,但其他人却看不见。。”罗恩一边用力把他扫帚上的弯树枝扳直,一边含糊地嘟囔说,“还记得马尔福的那只干枯的手吗?”

  “可是他说‘别忘了把那东西替我保管好’,这又是什么意思呢?”这个问题哈利已经问了无数遍。“在我看来,好像那个打坏的东西博金还有一件,马尔福两件都想要。”

  “你是这么想的?”罗恩说着擦去扫帚柄上的灰尘。

  “是啊。”哈利说。看到罗恩和赫敏都没有回答,他又说:“马尔福的父亲在阿兹卡班。你们说,马尔福会不会想要报仇?”

  罗恩抬起头,眨巴眨巴眼睛。

  “马尔福,报仇?他能做什么呢?”

  “我只是这么想,我也不知道!”哈利泄气地说,“可是他肯定有什么打算,我认为我们应该认真对待。他父亲是个食死徒,而且——”

  哈利顿住话头,眼睛盯着赫敏身后的窗户,嘴巴张得大大的。他脑子里灵光一闪,冒出一个念头。

  “哈利?”赫敏用担心的口气说,“你怎么啦?”

  “不是你的伤疤又疼了吧?”罗恩也紧张地问。

  “他是个食死徒。”哈利慢慢地说,“他顶替他父亲,也做了食死徒!”

  一阵沉默之后,罗恩哈哈大笑起来。

  “马尔福?他才十六岁啊,哈利!你认为神秘人会让马尔福加入?”

  “确实不太可能,哈利,”赫敏用耐着性子的口吻说,“你怎么会认为——?”

  “在摩金夫人长袍专卖店里。摩金夫人去给他卷袖子时,根本就没有碰到他,他就尖叫了起来,猛地把胳膊抽了回去。那是他的左胳膊。他被烙上了黑魔标记。”

  罗恩和赫敏互相看了看。

  “这个吗……”罗恩的口气是完全不相信。

  “我认为他当时只是想离开那儿,哈利。”赫敏说。

  “他给博金看了什么东西,我们没有看见,”哈利固执地往下说道,“那东西把博金吓得够呛。我知道那准是黑魔标记——他让博金看清楚是在跟谁打交道,你们看见博金拿他多当回事啊!”

  罗恩和赫敏又交换了一下目光。

  “我说不准,哈利……”

  “是啊,我仍然认为神秘人不会让马尔福加入……”

  哈利很懊恼,但坚信自己是对的。他抓起一堆脏乎乎的魁地奇球袍,离开了房间。这些天,韦斯莱夫人一直在催他们抓紧时间洗衣服和收拾行李,免得临时抱佛脚。在楼梯平台上,他跟金妮撞了个满怀,金妮正要返回她自己的房间,怀里抱着一堆刚洗干净的衣服。

  “换了我,现在可不去厨房,”她提醒他,“那里有一大堆黏痰。”

  “我会小心别踩着它滑倒的。”哈利微笑着说。

  果然,他一走进厨房,就看见芙蓉坐在桌子旁,滔滔不绝地筹划着她跟比尔的婚礼。韦斯莱夫人守着一堆正在自动削皮的甘蓝,脸上是一副没好气的样子。

  “……比尔和我差不多已经决定只请两个伴娘,金妮和加布丽站在一起会显得非常可爱。我打算让她们穿淡金色的衣服——粉红色配着金妮的头发肯定很难看——”

  “啊,哈利!”韦斯莱夫人大声说,打断了芙蓉的长篇独白,“太好了,我正要跟你说说明天去霍格沃茨一路上的安全措施呢。我们又借到了魔法部的汽车,到时候将有傲罗在车站等着——”

  “唐克斯也在那儿吗?”哈利把魁地奇球袍递了过去,问道。

  “不,大概不会,听亚瑟说,她被安排在别的地方了。”

  “那个唐克斯,她现在变得不修边幅了。”芙蓉若有所思地说,一边对着一把茶匙的背面照了照她美丽的脸蛋,“要我说,这可是个很大的错误——”

  “是啊,多谢你啦。”韦斯莱夫人尖刻地说,又一次打断了芙蓉的话,“你最好抓紧时间继续收拾吧,哈利。如果可能的话,我希望你今晚就把箱子收拾好,省得像往常那样临走时乱成一团。”

  确实,第二天早晨他们出发时比往常顺利多了。魔法部的汽车开到陋居门前时,他们都已经等在那里了:箱子收拾好了,赫敏的猫克鲁克山安安稳稳地待在它的旅行篮里,海德薇、罗恩的猫头鹰小猪,以及金妮新买的紫色侏儒蒲阿囡,都好好儿地在笼子里关着呢。

  “再见,阿利。”芙蓉用沙哑的喉音说,并亲了一下哈利。罗恩赶紧上前,一脸期待的神情,可是金妮伸出一只脚,把罗恩绊了一跤,使他摔在芙蓉脚边的泥土上。他气得满脸通红,身上沾满了灰尘,连声“再见”也没说,就匆匆钻进了车里。

  在国王十字车站等待他们的,不是满脸喜色的海格。汽车刚一停下,就有两个身穿黑色麻瓜西装、神色严峻的大胡子傲罗走上前来,一言不发,左右掩护着他们走进了车站。

  “快,快,快穿过挡墙,”韦斯莱夫人说,这戒备森严的架势似乎使她也有点紧张慌乱,“最好让哈利先走,和——”

  她征询地看着一位傲罗,那人微微点了点头,一把抓住哈利的胳膊,领着他朝第9和第10站台之间的挡墙走去。

  “我自己能走,谢谢。”哈利恼火地说,将胳膊从傲罗手里挣脱出来。他推着手推车朝坚固的挡墙直冲过去,毫不理会那位沉默的陪同。一秒钟后,他就发现自己站在了934站台上,在拥挤的人群那边,鲜红色的霍格沃茨特快列车正在喷着蒸气。

  几秒钟后,赫敏和韦斯莱一家也过来了。哈利没有征求那位脸色阴沉的傲罗的意见,就示意罗恩和赫敏跟他一起顺着站台往前走,寻找没有人的空车厢。

  “我们不能一起走,哈利,”赫敏满脸歉意地说,“我和罗恩先要去级长车厢,然后还要在走廊里巡视一下。”

  “噢,对了,我忘记了。”哈利说。

  “你们最好都赶紧上车,只剩下几分钟时间了。”韦斯莱夫人看了看表,说道,“好了,祝你这学期过得愉快,罗恩……”

  “韦斯莱先生,我可以和你说两句话吗?”哈利一时冲动,做了一个决定。

  “没问题。”韦斯莱先生说,他显得有点儿意外,但还是跟着哈利走到了别人听不见他们说话的地方。

  哈利反复考虑之后,得出了这样的结论:如果他想告诉某个人,韦斯莱先生是最合适的人选。首先,他在魔法部工作,这个位置最有利于展开调查;第二,哈利认为韦斯莱先生不太可能一下子火冒三丈。

  他们俩走向一边时,他看见韦斯莱夫人和那个脸色阴沉的傲罗朝他们投来怀疑的目光。

  “我们在对角巷的时候——”哈利开始说道,但韦斯莱先生换了脸色,阻止了他。

  “我正想弄清你和罗恩、赫敏跑到哪儿去了呢!你们还假装说是在弗雷德和乔治商店后面的小屋里。”

  “你怎么——”

  “哈利,别跟我兜圈子了。你知道你在跟谁说话吗,是我把弗雷德和乔治带大的。”

  “嗯……是啊,没错,我们确实没在后面的小屋里。”

  “很好,那么,让我们听听最糟糕的吧。”

  “是这样,我们跟踪了德拉科·马尔福。我们披了我的隐形衣。”

  “你们这么做,有什么特别的理由吗?还是一时心血来潮?”

  “因为我认为马尔福在搞什么阴谋。”哈利没有理会韦斯莱先生脸上流露出的恼火的、觉得他可笑的神情,接着说道,“他把他妈妈甩掉了,我想弄清是为什么。”

  “你想得没错。”韦斯莱先生用迁就的口吻说,“后来呢?你弄清原因了吗?”

  “他进了博金-博克商店,”哈利说,“开始恶狠狠地命令店里的那个家伙——博金帮他修理什么东西。然后,他还说希望博金替他留着另外一件东西。听他的意思,这跟那件需要修理的是同样的东西。好像是一对。后来……”

  哈利深深吸了口气。

  “还有别的呢。当摩金夫人想去碰马尔福的左胳膊时,他一下子跳出了八丈远。我认为他被烙上了黑魔标记。我认为他顶替他父亲当了食死徒。”

  韦斯莱先生似乎吃了一惊。他顿了顿,说道:“哈利,我不相信神秘人会让一个十六岁的——”

  “有谁真的知道神秘人会做什么、不会做什么呢?”哈利生气地问,“韦斯莱先生,原谅我的冒昧,但这件事不值得调查吗?如果马尔福有一件东西要修理,而且需要威胁博金替他修理,那东西很可能是与黑魔法有关的,是危险的,对不对?”

  “说实在的,我不能肯定,哈利,”韦斯莱先生慢慢地说,“你知道,卢修斯·马尔福被捕后,我们搜查了他的家,把可能有危险的东西都抄走了。”

  “我想你们大概漏掉了什么。”哈利固执地说。

  “是啊,也说不定。”韦斯莱先生说,但哈利可以感觉到韦斯莱先生是在敷衍他。

  身后传来了口哨声。差不多每个人都上了火车,车门正在关上。

  “你得赶紧了。”韦斯莱先生说,这时韦斯莱夫人喊道:“哈利,快点儿!”

  哈利飞快地冲过去,韦斯莱夫人帮他把箱子搬上了火车。

  “好了,亲爱的,你来跟我们一起过圣诞节,这已经跟邓布利多谈好了,所以我们很快就会再见面的。”韦斯莱夫人隔着车窗说,这时哈利重重地关上车门,火车开动了,“一定要好好照顾自己——”

  火车在加速。

  “——要乖乖的——”

  她跟着火车小跑。

  “——别出危险!”

  哈利不停地挥手,直到火车拐了个弯,再也看不见韦斯莱夫人了,然后他转过身,想看看别人都去了哪里。他猜想罗恩和赫敏肯定都被关在级长车厢里,幸好金妮就在那边的走廊上,正在跟几个朋友说话。他便拖着箱子朝她走去。

  在他走近时,人们毫不掩饰地盯着他看。有人为了看他一眼,甚至把脸贴在了车厢的玻璃窗上。他早就知道,在《预言家日报》登了那些关于“救世之星”的谣言之后,这学期他肯定要忍受人们对他变本加厉的瞪视和围观,但他实在不喜欢这种站在耀眼的聚光灯下的感觉。他拍了拍金妮的肩膀。

  “想去找一节车厢吗?”

  “我不能,哈利,我说好了要等迪安的。”金妮欢快地说,“待会儿见。”

  “好吧。”哈利说。他看着她转身离去,长长的红发在她身后飘动,哈利的心里产生了一种异样的惆怅。暑假里他已经习惯了跟金妮朝夕相处,几乎忘记了她在学校里是不跟他和罗恩、赫敏为伍的。然后,他眨眨眼睛,看了看四周:围在他身边的都是一些为他痴迷的女孩子。

  “嘿,哈利!”身后传来一个熟悉的声音。

  “纳威!”哈利松了口气,转身看见一个圆圆脸的男孩费力地朝这边挤来。

  “你好,哈利。”纳威身后一个长发姑娘说,她的一双大眼睛看上去雾蒙蒙的。

  “卢娜,你好,怎么样?”

  “挺好的,谢谢。”卢娜说。她把一本杂志按在胸口上,封面上醒目的大字宣布里面有一副免费赠送的防妖眼镜。

  “《唱唱反调》仍然办得很红火吧?”哈利问,他对这份杂志抱有一定的好感,因为前一年接受了它的独家采访。

  “是啊,发行量稳步上升。”卢娜高兴地说。

  “我们去找座位吧。”哈利说,于是三个人一起挤过那些目瞪口呆的学生,顺着过道往前走。最后,他们终于找到了一节空车厢,哈利如释重负,赶紧钻了进去。

  “她们甚至还盯着我们看呢,”纳威说,指的是卢娜和他自己,“就因为我们和你在一起!”

  “他们盯着你们看,是因为你们当时也在魔法部。”哈利说着把箱子举起来塞进了行李架,“我们那场小小的奇遇都在《预言家日报》上登着呢,你们肯定看见了。”

  “是啊,我本来以为这样张扬出去,奶奶肯定会生气的,”纳威说,“没想到她很高兴,说我终于不愧是我父亲的儿子了。她还给我买了一根新魔杖呢,看!”

  他抽出魔杖,递给了哈利。

  “樱桃木,独角兽的毛,”他得意地说,“我们认为这是奥利凡德卖出的最后一根魔杖,他第二天就失踪了——喂,快回来,莱福!”

  他钻到座位底下去抓他的蟾蜍,这东西经常逃出去寻求自由。

  “我们今年还搞D.A.集会吗,哈利?”卢娜问,她正在把一副色彩艳丽的眼镜从《唱唱反调》中间拆下来。

  “现在已经摆脱了乌姆里奇,就没必要再搞了,是不是?”哈利说着坐了下来。纳威从座位底下钻出来时,脑袋被重重地撞了一下。他显得失望极了。

  “我喜欢D.A.集会!我跟你在一起学到了许多东西!”

  “我也很喜欢那些聚会,”卢娜平静地说,“就像跟朋友们在一起一样。”

  卢娜经常说一些这种令人不舒服的话,使哈利不由得产生一种既同情、又尴尬的复杂感情。然而,他还没来得及回答,车厢外面就起了一阵骚动。一群四年级女生正在玻璃窗外窃窃私语,叽叽嘎嘎地傻笑。

  “你去问他!”

  “不,你去!”

  “还是我去吧!”

  其中一个看着很大胆的姑娘推门走了进来,她长着一双黑黑的大眼睛、突出的下巴和一头乌黑的长发。

  “你好,哈利,我是罗米达,罗米达·万尼。”她自信地大声说,“你为什么不坐到我们车厢里去呢?你犯不着跟他们坐在一起。”她压低声音说,却又故意让别人听见,并指了指纳威再次钻到座位底下去抓莱福时露在外面的屁股,还有卢娜,她现在已经戴上了那副免费赠送的眼镜,看上去就像一只五颜六色、情绪错乱的猫头鹰。

  “他们是我的朋友。”哈利冷冷地说。

  “噢,”那姑娘显得非常吃惊,说道,“噢,好吧。”

  然后她退了出去,关上了身后的滑门。

  “人们认为你应该有比我们更带劲的朋友。”卢娜说,又一次显示了她哪壶不开提哪壶的本领。

  “你们就很带劲啊,”哈利简短地说,“当时她们谁也没在部里。她们没有跟我一起战斗。”

  “这话说得真中听。”卢娜顿时眉开眼笑,把防妖眼镜往鼻梁上推了推,埋头读起了《唱唱反调》。

  “不过我们并没有面对他,”纳威说着从座位底下钻了出来,他头发上粘着绒毛和灰尘,手里捧着那只显得老实多了的莱福,“面对他的是你。你真该听听我奶奶是怎么说你的。‘那个哈利·波特比整个魔法部的人加在一起还有骨气!’要是你能当她的孙子,她拿什么去换都愿意……”

  哈利尴尬地笑了笑,赶紧把话题引到了O.W.Ls考试成绩上。纳威把他的成绩报了一遍,然后说出了内心的忧虑:他的变形术只得了“及格”,不知道能不能选修N.E.W.Ts课程。哈利似听非听地看着他。

  和哈利一样,纳威的童年也被伏地魔摧残了,但是纳威不知道他差一点儿就遭到了哈利的命运。预言中原来指的是他们两个人中间的任何一个,然而,出于一些不可理解的原因,伏地魔愿意相信它指的是哈利。

  如果伏地魔选择了纳威,那么,头上带着闪电形伤疤、承受着那个预言的重负的,就会是坐在哈利对面的纳威……是不是?纳威的母亲会不会为了救他而死,就像莉莉为了救哈利而死一样?肯定会的……可是,如果她不能阻挡伏地魔毒害她的儿子呢?那么,是不是就根本没有“救世之星”了呢?那样的话,纳威现在坐的位子上就会空无一人,而刚才吻别哈利的就会是哈利自己的母亲,而不是罗恩的母亲了。是不是?

  “你没事吧,哈利?你看上去怪怪的。”纳威说。

  哈利突然惊醒了。

  “对不起——我——”

  “被骚扰虻缠住了?”卢娜同情地问,一边从那副彩色的大眼镜后面看着哈利。

  “我——你说什么?”

  “骚扰虻……它们是隐形的,会飘到你耳朵里,把你的脑子搞乱。”她说,“我刚才好像觉得有一只在这里嗡嗡地飞。”

  她两只手拍打着空气,好像在赶走看不见的大飞蛾。哈利和纳威对视了一下,赶紧聊起了魁地奇。

  车窗外的天气忽晴忽阴,整个夏天都是这样。刚驶过寒冷的迷雾,就见到了晴朗而微弱的阳光,等到窗外的阳光几乎当空高照时,罗恩和赫敏总算走进了车厢。

  “真希望送餐的车子赶紧过来,我饿坏了。”罗恩眼巴巴地说,一屁股坐在哈利旁边,揉着他的肚子,“你好,纳威,你好,卢娜。你们猜怎么着?”他接着转向哈利说,“马尔福作为级长竟然没去值勤。他只是跟斯莱特林的其他几个同学一起坐在车厢里,我们经过时看见的。”

  哈利腾地坐直了身子,一下子就来了兴致。错过炫耀级长权威的好机会,这可不像是马尔福的做派,他上学期可是一直耀武扬威的。

  “他看见你们时在做什么?”

  “跟平常一样。”罗恩漫不经心地说,做了一个粗鲁的手势,“这可不像他,是不是?嗯——这点倒像他——”他又做了一遍那个手势,“他为什么不出来欺负一年级学生了呢?”

  “不知道。”哈利嘴上虽然这么说着,但脑子里却在飞快地转动。这是不是意味着马尔福心里装着比欺负小同学更重要的事情呢?

  “也许他更喜欢加入调查行动组,”赫敏说,“也许当了级长似乎就得听话一些。”

  “我认为不是这样,”哈利说,“我认为——”

  没等他说明他的观点,车厢的门又被拉开了,一个气喘吁吁的三年级女生走了进来。

  “我来把这些送给纳威·隆巴顿和哈利·波——波特。”她结结巴巴地说,目光刚与哈利的对上,立刻羞得满脸通红。她递过来两卷扎着紫色绸带的羊皮纸。哈利和纳威疑惑地接过写着他们各自姓名的纸卷,那女生就跌跌撞撞地跑出了车厢。

  “什么东西?”罗恩看着哈利打开纸卷,问道。

  “一封请柬。”哈利说。

  哈利:

  如果你能在C号车厢与我共进午餐,我将非常高兴。

  你忠实的

  H.E.F.斯拉格霍恩教授

  “斯拉格霍恩教授是谁?”纳威一头雾水地看着他那份请柬,问道。

  “新老师。”哈利说,“看来我们肯定得去了,是不是?”

  “可是他为什么叫我去呢?”纳威不安地问,好像他会被弄去关禁闭似的。

  “不清楚。”哈利说,这并不完全属实,但他还不能证明他的预感是对的。“听我说,”他脑子里突然想到一个好办法,说道,“我们穿着隐形衣去,路上能够仔细观察一下马尔福,看他想做什么。”

  然而,这个办法没有成功。走廊上挤满了等待送餐的人,穿着隐形衣根本没法通过。哈利遗憾地把隐形衣塞进了包里,心想:穿着它躲避人们瞪视的目光倒是个好办法,自从上学期下了火车之后,这种瞪视变得更让他难以招架了。有时同学们还从车厢里匆匆跑出来,就为了好好看他一眼。只有秋·张例外,她一看见哈利过来,就一头扎进了自己的车厢。哈利经过她的窗口时,看见她正煞有介事地跟她的朋友玛丽埃塔聊得起劲。玛丽埃塔化了很浓的妆,但并没有完全遮住那些深深刻在她脸上的奇怪的疹子。哈利暗暗笑了笑,继续往前走。

  当他们赶到C号车厢时,才发现斯拉格霍恩邀请的不止他们两个,不过从斯拉格霍恩热烈欢迎的程度看,哈利是他最盼望见到的。

  “哈利,我的孩子!”斯拉格霍恩一看见哈利就跳了起来,他那穿着天鹅绒衣服的大肚子几乎把车厢里剩余的空间都填满了。他那明晃晃的光头、那一大把银白色的胡子,都和他马甲上的金纽扣一样,在阳光下闪着耀眼的光芒。“见到你太好了,见到你太好了!那么,你一定是隆巴顿先生吧!”

  纳威点点头,似乎被吓坏了。斯拉格霍恩做了个手势,他们俩就在最靠近门口的仅有的两个空座位上面对面地坐了下来。哈利扫了一圈其他被邀请的人。他认出了与他同一年级的一位斯莱特林学生,那是一个高个子的黑人男孩,高高的颧骨,长长的眼睛,眼角有些上挑。还有两个哈利不认识的七年级男生,而那个被挤在斯拉格霍恩身边的角落里、一脸茫然、不知道自己为何会在这里的,竟然是金妮!

  “好了,这些人你们都认识吧?”斯拉格霍恩问哈利和纳威,“布雷司·沙比尼跟你们同一个年级,你们肯定认识——”

  沙比尼既没有表示出认识,也没有打招呼,哈利和纳威这边也毫无反应:一般来说,格兰芬多和斯莱特林的同学都是互相仇视的。

  “这位是考迈克·麦克拉根,也许你们以前见过——?没有?”

  麦克拉根是一位头发粗硬的大块头小伙子,他举起一只手,哈利和纳威也朝他点了点头。

  “——这位是马科斯·贝尔比,不知道你们是不是——”

  贝尔比身材消瘦,神色紧张,他不自然地微笑了一下。

  “——这位迷人的年轻女士告诉我,她认识你!”斯拉格霍恩终于说完了。

  金妮在斯拉格霍恩身后朝哈利和纳威做了个鬼脸。

  “好了,真令人愉快,”斯拉格霍恩满意地说,“一个更多地了解你们大家的机会。给,拿一张餐巾。我的午饭是自己带的,我记得送餐车上的饭菜甘草魔杖的味儿总是太重,一个可怜的上了年纪的人,他的消化系统受不了这些东西……来点儿鹌鹑,贝尔比?”

  贝尔比吃了一惊,随即接受了像是半只冷鹌鹑似的东西。

  “我刚才正在对这位年轻的马科斯说,我当年有幸教过他的叔叔达摩克利斯,”斯拉格霍恩对正在传递一篮面包卷的哈利和纳威说,“很出色的巫师,非常出色,他的梅林勋章绝对受之无愧。你经常看见你叔叔吗,马科斯?”

  不幸的是,马科斯刚吃了一大口鹌鹑,他急于回答斯拉格霍恩的问题,咽得太快,脸一下子转成了猪肝色,呛得说不出话来。

  “安咳消。”斯拉格霍恩用魔杖指着贝尔比,平静地说,贝尔比的气管似乎一下子就通畅了。

  “不……不怎么见到他。”贝尔比喘着气说,他的眼泪都呛出来了。

  “是啊,当然,我敢说他一定很忙。”斯拉格霍恩询问地看着贝尔比说道,“我想他准是下了不少功夫才发明了狼毒药剂吧?”

  “我想是吧……”贝尔比说,在他确信斯拉格霍恩结束对他的审问之前,他似乎不敢再吃鹌鹑了,“嗯……是这样,他和我爸爸关系不太好,所以我实际上不太清楚……”

  他的声音低了下去,因为斯拉格霍恩朝他冷笑了一声,转向了麦克拉根。

  “你呢,考迈克,”斯拉格霍恩说,“我碰巧知道,你是经常见到你的叔叔提贝卢斯的,因为他那儿有一张你们俩在……让我想想,在诺福克捕猎巨尾兽的精彩照片,是不是?”

  “噢,是啊,那可好玩了,”麦克拉根说,“跟我们一起去的还有贝蒂·希金斯和鲁弗斯·斯克林杰——当然啦,那是在他当部长之前——”

  “啊,你还认识贝蒂和鲁弗斯?”斯拉格霍恩顿时笑逐颜开,端起一小盘馅饼分给大家,不知怎的偏偏漏掉了贝尔比,“那你跟我说说……”

  正如哈利早就怀疑到的,这儿的每个人似乎都是因为跟某个有影响的大人物沾亲带故才受到邀请的——只有金妮除外。在麦克拉根之后接受审问的是沙比尼,没想到他母亲竟是一位大名鼎鼎的漂亮女巫(从哈利得出的结论看,她曾经结过七次婚,每一位丈夫都死得很蹊跷,并给她留下了一大笔遗产)。接着轮到纳威:这真是非常令人不快的十分钟,因为纳威的父母都是著名的傲罗,被贝拉特里克斯·莱斯特兰奇和两个食死徒同党折磨致疯。对纳威的访谈结束时,哈利得到这么一个印象,似乎斯拉格霍恩对于纳威是否继承了他父母的禀赋还存有疑虑。

  “现在,”斯拉格霍恩说,他气派地在座位上挪动了一下,像一个主持人隆重推出一位大明星一样,“哈利·波特!从哪儿说起呢?我觉得,我们暑假的那次见面,我只是触及了一点皮毛!”

  他沉思地端详着哈利,似乎哈利是一只肥墩墩的、美味多汁的鹌鹑,然后他说:“‘救世之星’,他们现在这么称呼你了!”

  哈利一声不吭。贝尔比、麦克拉根和沙比尼都盯着他。

  “当然,”斯拉格霍恩仔细看着哈利说,“多少年来一直谣言不断……我记得当年——是啊……在那个可怕的夜晚之后——莉莉——詹姆——你死里逃生——有人说你肯定拥有超常的力量——”

  沙比尼轻轻地咳嗽一声,显然为了表示他对此感到怀疑和可笑。斯拉格霍恩身后突然传出一个怒气冲冲的声音。

  “是啊,沙比尼,因为你太有天赋了……在装腔作势方面……”

  “哦,天哪!”斯拉格霍恩快慰地轻轻笑了笑,扭头看着金妮——金妮正隔着斯拉格霍恩的大肚皮朝沙比尼怒目而视,“你可得小心点儿哟,布雷司!我经过这位年轻女士的车厢时,看见她施了一个绝顶精彩的蝙蝠精魔咒!我可不敢惹她!”

  沙比尼只是一副轻蔑的神情。

  “总之,”斯拉格霍恩重新转向哈利,说道,“今年夏天真是谣言四起。当然啦,谁也不知道应该相信什么,大家都清楚《预言家日报》经常登一些错误消息,以讹传讹——不过既然有这么多证人,似乎不应该再有什么怀疑,魔法部确实发生了一场骚乱,而你就在战斗最激烈的地方!”

  除了撒谎,哈利看不出还有什么办法可以脱身,于是便点点头,但还是什么也没说。斯拉格霍恩笑眯眯地看着他。

  “多么谦虚,多么谦虚啊,怪不得邓布利多这么喜欢——这么说,你当时在场?可是其他那些报道——哎呀,太精彩,太刺激了,弄得人简直不知道该相信什么——比如,那个传说中的预言球——”

  “我们从来没听说过什么预言球。”纳威说,脸涨得通红。

  “对,”金妮毫不含糊地说,“当时我和纳威也在场,所有那些‘救世之星’的鬼话,像往常一样都是《预言家日报》胡编乱造出来的。”

  “你们俩也在场,是吗?”斯拉格霍恩饶有兴趣地问,看看金妮,又看看纳威,但他们俩面对他鼓励的微笑都守口如瓶。“是啊……是啊……不错,《预言家日报》确实经常夸大其词……”斯拉格霍恩继续说道,口气显得有点儿失望,“我记得亲爱的格韦诺格告诉过我——当然啦,我指的是格韦诺格·琼斯,霍利黑德哈比队的队长——”

  他漫无边际地岔开话题,里唆地回忆起了往事,但是哈利有一种直觉,斯拉格霍恩不会就此放过他的,而且他也并没有相信纳威和金妮的话。

  整个下午,斯拉格霍恩又讲了许多他当年教过的杰出巫师的趣闻轶事,他们在霍格沃茨时都欣然加入了一个他称为鼻涕虫俱乐部斯拉格霍恩(Slughorn)这一姓氏的前半部分(Slug)的意思是鼻涕虫。的组织。哈利巴不得赶紧离开,却又不知道怎样脱身才不失礼。最后,火车驶过

  一段长长的浓雾地区,进入了红彤彤的晚霞里,斯拉格霍恩环顾一下四周,在暮色中眨了眨眼睛。

  “哎哟,天都快黑了!我没注意他们把灯都点上了!你们最好赶紧回去换上校袍吧。麦克拉根,你有空一定要过来借那本关于巨尾兽的书。哈利,布雷司——欢迎你们随时过来。你也一样,小姐。”他朝金妮眨眨眼睛,“好了,你们走吧,快走吧!”

  沙比尼从哈利身边挤到昏暗的过道上时,恶狠狠地瞪了哈利一眼,而哈利则饶有兴味地望着他。哈利、金妮和纳威都跟着沙比尼顺着过道往回走去。

  “谢天谢地,总算结束了。”纳威轻声说,“真是个怪人,是吧?”

  “是啊,有点儿,”哈利说,眼睛仍然盯着沙比尼,“你怎么也跑到那儿去了,金妮?”

  “他看见我给扎卡赖斯·史密斯施恶咒来着。”金妮说,“你还记得那个参加D.A.集会的赫奇帕奇的傻瓜吗?他不停地缠着我问部里发生的事情,弄得我不胜其烦,我就给他施了个恶咒——斯拉格霍恩进来时,我还以为他要关我的禁闭呢,没想到他倒觉得那个恶咒施得非常漂亮,并邀请我去吃午饭!真怪,是吧?”

  “因为这个而受到邀请,总比因为他们的母亲有名,”哈利瞪着沙比尼的后脑勺说,“或因为他们的叔叔——”

  他突然顿住了。一个主意在他脑海里闪现,一个不顾后果、但说不定很绝妙的主意……再过一分钟,沙比尼就要回到斯莱特林六年级学生的车厢了,马尔福肯定会坐在那里,他以为只有他的斯莱特林同学才能听见他的话……如果哈利跟在沙比尼后面,神不知鬼不觉地混进去,他会看到什么、听到什么呢?不错,火车很快就要到站了——从窗外闪过的荒凉景色来看,距霍格莫德车站还有不到半小时——可是,既然谁也不把哈利的怀疑当真,他就只好自己去取证了。

  “我待会儿再来找你们俩。”哈利压低声音说了一句,便抽出他的隐形衣,披在身上。

  “可是你想干什么——”纳威问。

  “待会儿见!”哈利低声说完,便快步朝沙比尼追去,尽量不发出一点儿声响,其实火车正在哐啷哐啷地行驶,他没有必要这么谨慎。

  现在过道里几乎空无一人。差不多每个人都回到车厢里去换校袍、收拾行李了。哈利在碰不着沙比尼的前提下,尽量与他贴得很近,但是沙比尼把车厢的门拉开后,哈利溜进去的速度还是不够快。沙比尼眼看就要把门关上了,哈利赶紧伸出一只脚挡住。

  “这玩意儿出什么毛病了?”沙比尼恼火地说,把滑门一次次地撞在哈利脚上。

  哈利抓住门,使劲把它推开,仍然攥着门把手的沙比尼被甩到一边,摔在格雷戈里·高尔的大腿上。趁着混乱,哈利冲进车厢,纵身跳上沙比尼暂时空着的座位,一个引体向上,爬上了行李架。幸亏高尔和沙比尼两个人正互相咆哮,把大家的目光都吸引了过去。哈利知道刚才隐形衣掀了起来,他的脚和脚脖子肯定都露在外面了。确实,在那可怕的一瞬间,他似乎看见马尔福的目光追着他的运动鞋,看着它往上一提然后消失了。就在这时,高尔重重地关上门,把沙比尼从他身上甩了下去。沙比尼跌坐在自己的座位上,一副气急败坏的样子。文森特·克拉布继续看他的漫画书,马尔福轻笑了几声,重新横躺在两个座位上,脑袋枕着潘西·帕金森的大腿。哈利很不舒服地蜷缩在隐形衣里,以确保浑身上下都被藏得严严实实的。他注视着潘西一边把马尔福脑门上柔顺的金发轻轻撩开,一边得意地傻笑着,就好像谁都眼巴巴地想得到她这个位置似的。天花板上的灯笼左右摇晃着,照亮了车厢里的一切。哈利可以清清楚楚地看见下面克拉布那本漫画书上的每一个字。

  “怎么样,沙比尼,”马尔福说,“斯拉格霍恩想干什么?”

  “只是想巴结巴结跟显贵人物沾亲带故的人,”沙比尼仍然怒气冲冲地瞪着高尔,“不过他没能找到多少。”

  这个情报似乎使马尔福不太高兴。

  “他还邀请了谁?”他问。

  “格兰芬多的麦克拉根。”沙比尼说。

  “噢,对了,他叔叔是部里的大官。”马尔福说。

  “——还有一个叫贝尔比的,是拉文克劳的——”

  “别提他了,他是个草包!”潘西说。

  “——还有隆巴顿、波特和韦斯莱家的那个姑娘。”沙比尼汇报完毕。

  马尔福腾地坐了起来,把潘西的手打到一边。

  “他还邀请了隆巴顿?”

  “对,我想是吧,因为隆巴顿也去了。”沙比尼不太介意地说。

  “隆巴顿有什么地方让斯拉格霍恩感兴趣呢?”

  沙比尼耸了耸肩。

  “波特,稀罕的波特,他显然是想亲眼看看‘救世之星’,”马尔福讥笑道,“可是韦斯莱家的那个姑娘!她有什么不寻常的?”

  “许多男孩喜欢她,”潘西一边说一边用眼角注视着马尔福的反应,“就连你也觉得她挺漂亮,是不是,布雷司,而我们都知道你的眼光有多挑剔!”

  “我才不会去碰她那样一个肮脏的小败类呢,不管她长得什么样儿。”沙比尼冷冷地说,潘西顿时喜形于色。马尔福重新倒在她的大腿上,让她继续给他梳理头发。

  “唉,我真为斯拉格霍恩的品味感到遗憾。大概他有点儿老糊涂了。可惜啊,我父亲一向说他是当时一位很出色的巫师。我父亲曾经在他面前挺得宠的。斯拉格霍恩大概没听说我在车上,不然——”

  “我认为你不太可能受到邀请。”沙比尼说,“我刚来时,他向我打听诺特的父亲,看来他们曾经是老朋友。他听说诺特的父亲被部里逮捕了,他的脸色就沉了下去,结果诺特就没被邀请,不是吗?我认为斯拉格霍恩对食死徒不感兴趣。”

  马尔福显得很生气,但勉强挤出一声干巴巴的怪笑。

  “哼,谁在乎他对什么感兴趣?再说了,他又算个什么东西?不过是个愚蠢的教书匠。”马尔福夸张地打了个哈欠,“我的意思是,没准我明年就不在霍格沃茨了,某个过了气的老胖子喜欢不喜欢我,对我又有什么关系?”

  “你说什么,没准你明年就不在霍格沃茨了?”潘西气哼哼地问,立刻停止了给马尔福梳理头发。

  “是啊,你们永远也不会知道,”马尔福带着一丝得意的笑容说道,“也许我高升了,要去做——嗯——更重要、更精彩的事情。”

  哈利裹着隐形衣蜷缩在行李架上,心突然跳得飞快。罗恩和赫敏听了这话会怎么说呢?克拉布和高尔傻乎乎地瞪着马尔福,显然,他们对于他要去做更重要、更精彩的事情的计划一无所知。就连沙比尼高傲的脸上也露出了一点儿好奇。潘西带着一副目瞪口呆的神情,又开始慢慢地梳理马尔福的头发。

  “你指的是——他?”

  马尔福耸了耸肩。

  “妈妈希望我完成学业,但我个人认为,如今这已经没有那么重要了。想想吧……黑魔王得势之后,他还会在乎谁通过了几门O.W.Ls或N.E.W.Ts吗?当然不会……他只关心别人怎么为他效劳,怎么向他表示赤胆忠心。”

  “你认为你能为他做事?”沙比尼尖刻地问,“你才十六岁,还没有取得正式的资格呢。”

  “我刚才不是说了吗?也许他不在乎我是不是有资格。也许他想让我做的那份工作,是不需要多少资格的。”马尔福轻声说。

  克拉布和高尔呆呆地坐在那里,嘴巴张得老大,活像两尊怪兽状的滴水嘴。潘西低头凝视着马尔福,似乎从没见过这么令人敬畏的东西。

  “我看见霍格沃茨了。”马尔福显然很满意他制造的这种效果,他指着漆黑的窗外说道,“我们最好赶紧换上校袍吧。”

  哈利只顾盯着马尔福,没有注意到高尔站起来取他的箱子。高尔把箱子抽下去时,箱子重重地撞在哈利的脑袋上,痛得他忍不住吸了一口凉气。马尔福抬头看看行李架,皱起了眉头。

  哈利倒不害怕马尔福,但觉得让一群不友好的斯莱特林发现他藏在隐形衣里,总归不是一件什么好事。眼睛仍然在流泪,脑袋仍然一跳一跳地疼,但他抽出魔杖,同时小心不把隐形衣弄乱,然后屏住呼吸,等待着。令他感到宽慰的是,马尔福似乎认定刚才听到的那个声音只是他的幻觉,他像别人一样套上校袍,锁好箱子。当火车减慢速度、缓缓向前滑动时,他将一件崭新的厚旅行斗篷裹在了脖子上。

  哈利可以看见过道里又挤满了人,他希望赫敏和罗恩能替他把行李搬到站台上。他被困在这里,要等车厢空了以后才能出去。终于,随着最后的哐当一声响,火车完全停住了。高尔忽地把门拉开,使劲挤到一群二年级学生中间,拳打脚踢地把他们推到一边。克拉布和沙比尼也跟了过去。

  “你先走,”马尔福对潘西说,潘西伸着手等他,似乎希望他能牵住她的手,“我还要查看一件东西。”

  潘西走了。现在车厢里只剩下哈利和马尔福两个人。人们鱼贯而过,下车来到漆黑的站台上。马尔福走到车厢门口,放下帘子,这样外面过道里的人就不能朝里面窥视了。然后他弯下腰,把箱子又打开了。

  哈利从行李架的边缘探头往下看着,心跳得更快了。马尔福有什么东西瞒着潘西呢?他是不是就要看见那件破碎的、需要修理的神秘东西了?

  “统统石化!”

  说时迟那时快,马尔福用魔杖一指哈利,哈利立刻就僵住了。就像慢镜头一样,他从行李架上往下一歪,重重地、无比痛苦地倒在马尔福的脚边,隐形衣被压在身下,他的身体暴露无遗,两条腿仍然可笑地蜷缩着,是一种僵硬的跪着的姿势。他完全动弹不得,只能抬眼望着马尔福,马尔福得意地笑了。

  “我就猜到是这样。”他开心地说,“我听见高尔的箱子砸到了你。而且,沙比尼回来后,我好像看见有个白色的东西一闪而过……”他的目光在哈利的运动鞋上停留了一下。“我猜,沙比尼进来时,就是你把门挡住了吧?”

  他仔细端详了哈利片刻。

  “你听到了什么我不在乎,波特。不过既然我抓住了你……”

  他照着哈利的脸狠狠跺了一脚。哈利觉得鼻子破了,鲜血溅得到处都是。

  “这一脚是为了我父亲。现在,让我瞧瞧……”

  马尔福把隐形衣从哈利一动不动的身体底下抽了出来,罩在哈利身上。

  “我想,他们要等火车返回伦敦时才会发现你,”他轻声说。“再见,波特……也许再也见不到了。”

  马尔福故意踩着哈利的手离开了车厢。

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 15楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

Chapter 8 Snape Victorious

Harry could not move a muscle. He lay there beneath the Invisibility Cloak feeling the blood from his nose flow, hot and wet, over his face, listening to the voices and
footsteps in the corridor beyond. His immediate thought was that someone would, surely check the compartments before the train departed again. But at once came the
dispiriting realization that even if somebody looked into the compartment, he would be neither seen nor heard. His best hope was that somebody else would walk in and
step on him.
Harry had never hated Malfoy more than as he lay there, like an absurd turtle on its back, blood dripping sickeningly into his open mouth. What a stupid situation to
have landed himself in... and now the last few footsteps were dying away; everyone was shuffling along the dark platform outside; he could hear the scraping of trunks
and loud babble of talk.
Ron and Hermione would think that he had left the train without them. Once they arrived at Hogwarts and took their places in the Great Hall, looked up and down the
Gryffindor table a few times, and finally realized that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be halfway back to London.
He tried to make a sound, even a grunt, but it was impossible. Then he remembered that some wizards, like Dumbledore, could perform spells without speaking, so he tried
to summon his wand, which had fallen out of his hand, by saying the words Accio Wand! over and over again in his head, but nothing happened.
He thought he could hear the rustling of the trees that surrounded the lake, and the far-off hoot of an owl, but no hint of a search being made or even (he despised
himself slightly for hoping it) panicked voices wondering where Harry Potter had gone. A feeling of hopelessness spread through him as he imagined the convoy of
thestral-drawn carriages trundling up to the school and the muffled yells of laughter issuing from whichever carriage Malfoy was riding in, where he could be recounting
his attack on Harry to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson.
The train lurched, causing Harry to roll over onto his side. Now he was staring at the dusty underside of the seats instead of the ceiling. The floor began to vibrate
as the engine roared into life. The Express was leaving and nobody knew he was still on it...
Then he felt his Invisibility Cloak fly off him and a voice overhead said, “Wotcher, Harry.”
There was a flash of red light and Harry's body unfroze; he was able to push himself into a more dignified sitting position, hastily wipe the blood off his bruised race
with the back of his hand, and raise his head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the Invisibility Cloak she had just pulled away.
“We'd better get out of here, quickly,” she said, as the train windows became obscured with steam and they began to move out of the station. “Come on, we'll jump.”
Harry hurried after her into the corridor. She pulled open the train door and leapt onto the platform, which seemed to be sliding underneath them as the train gathered
momentum. He followed her, staggered a little on landing, then straightened up in time to see the gleaming scarlet steam engine pick up speed, round the corner, and
disappear from view.
The cold night air was soothing on his throbbing nose. Tonks was looking at him; he felt angry and embarrassed that he had been discovered in such a ridiculous
position. Silently she handed him back the Invisibility Cloak.
“Who did it?”
“Draco Malfoy,” said Harry bitterly. “Thanks for... well...”
“No problem,” said Tonks, without smiling. From what Harry could see in the darkness, she was as mousy-haired and miserable-lookinng as she had been when he had met
her at the Burrow. “I can fix your nose if you stand still.”
Harry did not think much of this idea; he had been intending to visit Madam Pomfrey, the matron, in whom he had a little more confidence when it came to Healing Spells,
but it seemed rude to say this, so he stayed stock-still and closed his eyes.
“Episkey,” said Tonks.
Harry's nose felt very hot, and then very cold. He raised a hand and felt gingerly. It seemed to be mended.
“Thanks a lot!”
“You'd better put that cloak back on, and we can walk up to the school,” said Tonks, still unsmiling. As Harry swung the cloak back over himself, she waved her wand;
an immense silvery four-legged creature erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness.
“Was that a Patronus?” asked Harry, who had seen Dumbledore send messages like this.
“Yes, I'm sending word to the castle that I've got you or they'll worry. Come on, we'd better not dawdle.”
They set off toward the lane that led to the school.
“How did you find me?”
“I noticed you hadn't left the train and I knew you had that cloak. I thought you might be hiding for some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn down on that
compartment I thought I'd check.”
“But what are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked.
“I'm stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection,” said Tonks.
“Is it just you who's stationed up here, or—?”
“No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too.”
“Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?”
“That's right.”
They trudged up the dark, deserted lane, following the freshly made carriage tracks. Harry looked sideways at Tonks under his cloak. Last year she had been inquisitive
(to the point of being a little annoying at times), she had laughed easily, she had made jokes. Now she seemed older and much more serious and purposeful. Was this all
the effect of what had happened at the Ministry? He reflected uncomfortably that Hermione would have suggested he say something consoling about Sirius to her, that it
hadn't been her fault at all, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was far from blaming her for Sirius's death; it was no more her fault than anyone else's (and
much less than his), but he did not like talking about Sirius if he could avoid it. And so they tramped on through the cold night in silence, Tonks's long cloak
whispering on the ground behind them.
Having always traveled there by carriage, Harry had never before appreciated just how far Hogwarts was from Hogsmeade Station. With great relief he finally saw the tall
pillars on either side of the gates, each topped with a winged boar. He was cold, he was hungry and he was quite keen to leave this new, gloomy Tonks behind. But when
he put out a hand to push open the gates, he found them chained shut.
“Alohomora!” he said confidently, pointing his wand at the padlock, but nothing happened.
“That won't work on these,” said Tonks. “Dumbledore bewitched them himself.”
Harry looked around.
“I could climb a wall,” he suggested.
“No, you couldn't,” said Tonks flatly. “Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security's been tightened a hundredfold this summer.”
“Well then,” said Harry, starting to feel annoyed at her lack of helpfulness, “I suppose I'll just have to sleep out here and wait for morning.”
“Someone's coming down for you,” said Tonks, “Look.”
A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the castle. Harry was so pleased to see it he felt he could even endure Filch's wheezy criticisms of his tardiness and
rants about how his timekeeping would improve with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away from them, and
had pulled off his Invisibility Cloak so that he could be seen, that he recognized, with a rush of pure loathing, the uplit hooked nose and long, black, greasy hair of
Severus Snape.
“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice of you to
turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance.”
“I couldn't change, I didn't have my —” Harry began, but Snape cut across him.
“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite—ah—safe in my hands.”
“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks, frowning.
“Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, so I took it instead. And incidentally,” said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him, “
I was interested to see your new Patronus.”
He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place.
“I think you were better off with the old one,” said Snape, the malice in his voice unmistakable. “The new one looks weak.”
As Snape swung the lantern about, Harry saw, fleetingly, a look of shock and anger on Tonks's face. Then she was covered in darkness once more.
“Goodnight,” Harry called to her over his shoulder, as he began the walk up to the school with Snape. “Thanks for ... everything,”
“See you, Harry.”
Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Harry felt as though his body was generating waves of hatred so powerful that it seemed incredible that Snape could not feel
them burning him. He had loathed Snape from their first encounter, but Snape had placed himself forever and irrevocably beyond the possibility of Harry's forgiveness by
his attitude toward Sirius. Whatever Dumbledore said, Harry had had time to think over the summer, and had concluded that Snape's snide remarks to Sirius about
remaining safely hidden while the rest of the Order of the Phoenix were off fighting Voldemort had probably been a powerful factor in Sirius rushing off to the Ministry
the night that he had died. Harry clung to this notion, because it enabled him to blame Snape, which felt satisfying, and also because he knew that if anyone was not
sorry that Sirius was dead, it was the man now striding next to him in the darkness.
“Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think,” said Snape. “And, let me see, another twenty for your Muggle attire. You know, I don't believe any House has
ever been in negative figures this early in the term—we haven't even started pudding. You might have set a record, Potter.”
The fury and hatred bubbling inside Harry seemed to blaze white-hot, but he would rather have been immobilized all the way back to London than tell Snape why he was
late.
“I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did you?” Snape continued. “And with no flying car available you decided that bursting into the Great Hall halfway through
the feast ought to create a dramatic effect.”
Still Harry remained silent, though he thought his chest might explode. He knew that Snape had come to fetch him for this, for the few minutes when he could needle and
torment Harry without anyone else listening.
They reached the castle steps at last and as the great oaken front doors swung open into the vast flagged entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of tinkling
plates and glasses greeted them through the doors standing open into the Great Hall. Harry wondered whether he could slip his Invisibility Cloak back on, thereby
gaining his seat at the long Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, was the farthest from the entrance hall) without being noticed.
As though he had read Harry's mind, however, Snape said, “No cloak. You can walk in so that everyone sees you, which is what you wanted, I'm sure.”
Harry turned on the spot and marched straight through the open doors: anything to get away from Snape. The Great Hall with its four long House tables and its staff
table set at the top of the room was decorated as usual with floating candles that made the plates below glitter and glow. It was all a shimmering blur to Harry,
however, who walked so fast that he was passing the Hufflepuff table before people really started to stare, and by the time they were standing up to get a good look at
him, he had spotted Ron and Hermione, sped along the benches toward them, and forced his way in between them.
“Where've you—blimey, what've you done to your face?” said Ron, goggling at him along with everyone else in the vicinity.
“Why, what's wrong with it?” said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.
“You're covered in blood!” said Hermione. “Come here —”
She raised her wand, said “Tergeo!” and siphoned off the dried blood.
“Thanks,” said Harry, feeling his now clean face. “How's my nose looking?”
“Normal,” said Hermoine anxiously. “Why shouldn't it? Harry, what happened? We've been terrified!”
“I'll tell you later,” said Harry curtly. He was very conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were listening in; even Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor
ghost, had come floating along the bench to eavesdrop.
“But —” said Hermione.
“Not now, Hermione,” said Harry, in a darkly significant voice. He hoped very much that they would all assume he had been involved in something heroic, preferably
involving a couple of Death Eaters and a dementor. Of course, Malfoy would spread the story as wide as he could, but there was always a chance it wouldn't reach too
many Gryffindor ears.
He reached across Ron for a couple of chicken legs and a handful of chips, but before he could take them they vanished, to be replaced with puddings.
“You missed the Sorting, anyway,” said Hermione, as Ron dived for a large chocolate gateau.
“Hat say anything interesting?” asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart.
“More of the same, really... advising us all to unite in the face enemies, you know.”
“Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort at all?”
“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the the feast doesn't he? It can't be long now.”
“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —”
“You've seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau.
“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively.
“Hagrid was only a few minutes late,” said Hermione. “Look, he's waving at you, Harry.”
Harry looked up at the staff table and grinned at Hagrid, who was indeed waving at him. Hagrid had never quite managed to comport himself with the dignity of Professor
McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere between Hagrid's elbow and shoulder as they were sitting side by side, and who was
looking disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting. Harry was surprised to see the Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney, sitting on Hagrid's other side; she rarely
left her tower room, and he had never seen her at the start-of-term feast before. She looked as odd as ever, glittering with beads and trailing shawls, her eyes
magnified to enormous size by her spectacles. Having always considered her a bit of a fraud, Harry had been shocked to discover at the end of the previous term that it
had been she who had made the prediction that caused Lord Voldemort to kill Harry's parents and attack Harry himself. The knowledge made him even less eager to find
himself in her company, thankfully, this year he would be dropping Divination. Her great beaconlike eyes swiveled in his direction; he hastily looked away toward the
Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was miming the shatterering of a nose to raucous laughter and applause. Harry dropped his gaze to his treacle tart, his insides burning
again. What he would give to fight Malfoy one-on-one...
“So what did Professor Slughorn want?” Hermione asked.
“To know what really happened at the Ministry.” said Harry.
“Him and everyone else here,” sniffed Hermione. “People were interrogating us about it on the train, weren't they, Ron?”
“Yeah,” said Ron. “All wanting to know if you really are ‘the Chosen One’ —”
“There has been much talk on that very subject even amongst the ghosts,” interrupted Nearly Headless Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward Harry so that it
wobbled dangerously on its ruff. “I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I
will not pester you for information, however. ‘Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,’ I told them. ‘I would rather die than betray
his trust.'”
“That's not saying much, seeing as you're already dead,” Ron observed.
“Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe,” said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end
of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly.
“The very best of evenings to you!” he said, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room.
“What happened to his hand?” gasped Hermione.
She was not the only one who had noticed. Dumbledore's right hand was as blackened and dead-looking as it had been on the night he had come to fetch Harry from the
Dursleys. Whispers swept the room; Dumbledore, interpreting them correctly, merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now ... to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits
you... ”
“His hand was like that when I saw him over the summer,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I thought he'd have cured it by now, though ... or Madam Pomfrey would've
done.”
“It looks as if it's died,” said Hermione, with a nauseated expression. “But there are some injuries you can't cure... old curses... and there are poisons without
antidotes...”
“... and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.
“Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators,
who should do likewise.
“We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn.” Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoated
belly casting the table into shadow, “is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.”
“Potions?”
“Potions?”
The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered whether they had heard right.
“Potions?” said Ron and Hermione together, turning to stare Harry. “But you said —”
“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore, raising voice so that it carried over all the muttering, “will be taking the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts
teacher.”
“No!” said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given the
Defense Against the Dark Arts job after all this time? Hadn't it been widely known for years that Dumbledore did not trust him to do it?
“But Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!” said Hermione.
“I thought he was!” said Harry, racking his brains to remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but now that he came to think of it, he was unable to recall
Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn would be teaching.
Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore's right, did not stand up his mention of his name; he merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause from the
Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so much.
“Well, there's one good thing,” he said savagely. “Snape'll be gone by the end of the year.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ron.
“That job's jinxed. No ones lasted more than a year... Quirrell actually died doing it... Personally, I'm going to keep my fingers crossed for another death... ”
“Harry!” said Hermione, shocked and reproachful.
“He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” said Ron reasonably. “That Slughorn bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody didn't.”
Dumbledore cleared his throat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were not the only ones who had been talking; the whole Hall had erupted in a buzz of conversation at the news
that Snape had finally achieved his heart's desire. Seemingly oblivious to the sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, Dumbledore said nothing more about
staff appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure that the silence was absolute before continuing.
“Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength.”
The silence seemed to tauten and strain as Dumbledore spoke. Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy was not looking at Dumbledore, but making his fork hover in midair with his
wand, as though he found the Headmaster's words unworthy of his attention.
“I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The
castle's magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against
carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that you teachers might impose upon you,
however irksome you might find them—in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or
suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own
and others’ safety.”
Dumbledore's blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more.
“But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us
therefore say good night. Pip pip!”
With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches moved back and the hundreds of students began to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories. Harry, who
was in no hurry at all to leave with the gawping crowd, nor to get near enough to Malfoy to allow him to retell the story of the nose-stamping, lagged behind,
pretending to retie the lace on his trainer, allowing most of Gryffindors to draw ahead of him. Hermione had darted ahead to fulfill her prefect's duty of shepherding
the first years, but Ron remained with Harry.
“What really happened to your nose?” he asked, once they were at the very back of the throng pressing out of the Hall, and out of earshot of anyone else.
Harry told him. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Ron did not laugh.
“I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose,” he said darkly.
“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry bitterly. “Listen to what he was saying before he found out I was there... ”
Harry had expected Ron to be stunned by Malfoy's boasts. With what Harry considered pure pigheadedness, however, Ron was unimpressed.
“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson... What kind of mission would You-Know-Who have given him?”
“How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts? It wouldn't be the first —”
“I wish yeh'd stop sayin’ tha name, Harry,” said a reproachful voice behind them. Harry looked over his shoulder to see Hagtid shaking his head.
“Dumbledore uses that name,” said Harry stubbornly.
“Yeah, well, tha's Dumbledore, innit?” said Hagrid mysteriously. “So how come yeh were late, Harry? I was worried.”
“Got held up on the train,” said Harry. “Why were you late?”
“I was with Grawp,” said Hagrid happily. “Los’ track o’ the time. He's got a new home up in the mountains now, Dumbledore fixed it—nice big cave. He's much
happier than he was in the forest. We were havin’ a good chat.”
“Really?” said Harry, taking care not to catch Ron's eye; the last time he had met Hagrid's half-brother, a vicious giant with a talent for ripping up trees by the
roots, his vocabulary had comprised five words, two of which he was unable to pronounce properly.
“Oh yeah, he's really come on,” said Hagrid proudly. “Yeh'll be amazed. I'm thinkin’ o’ trainin’ him up as me assistant.”
Ron snorted loudly, but managed to pass it off as a violent sneeze. They were now standing beside the oak front doors.
“Anyway, I'll see yeh tomorrow, firs’ lesson's straight after lunch. Come early an’ yeh can say hello ter Buck — I mean, Witherwings!”
Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of the doors into the darkness.
Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry could tell that Ron was experiencing the same sinking feeling as himself.
“You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are you?”
Ron shook his head. “And you're not either, are you?”
Harry shook his head too.
“And Hermione,” said Ron, “she's not, is she?”
Harry shook his head again. Exactly what Hagrid would say when he realized his three favorite students had given up his subject, he did not like to think.

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 16楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

第8章 斯内普如愿以偿

哈利全身一点儿也动弹不得。他躺在隐形衣下面,感觉到热乎乎的鲜血从鼻子里流出来,糊在他的脸上。他听着外面过道里的脚步声和说话声,先是想道:在火车再次出发之前,肯定会有人来检查每一个车厢吧?可是,紧接着他又万分沮丧地意识到,即使有人往车厢里看一眼,也不会看见他或听见他的声音。他只能希望有人会走进来,踩在他身上。

  哈利躺在那里,像一只可笑的、四脚朝天的乌龟,鼻血直接淌进了他张开的嘴巴里,令他感到恶心,他从来没有像此刻这样恨透了马尔福。他现在的处境多么狼狈啊……这时,最后一阵脚步声也消失了,大家拖着疲倦的脚步走在外面漆黑的站台上,他可以听见箱子拖在地上的声音和同学们大声的说话声。

  罗恩和赫敏肯定以为他撇下他们自己下车了。等他们到了霍格沃茨,在大礼堂里坐下来,朝格兰芬多的桌子扫视了几遍之后,才会发现他不在那儿,而那个时候,他已经在返回伦敦的半路上了。

  他拼命想发出点儿声音,哪怕是一声嘟囔,可是怎么也发不出来。接着他想起有些巫师,比如邓布利多,可以不出声地念咒语,他便试着在心里一遍遍地默念“魔杖飞来!魔杖飞来!”想把从他手里掉落的魔杖召唤回来。然而,什么反应也没有。

  他仿佛听见了湖边树叶的沙沙声和远处一只猫头鹰的叫声,但是并没有人来检查车厢,甚至(他有点看不起自己居然存有这种希望)没有人惊慌地询问哈利·波特怎么不见了。他想象着夜骐拉的车队慢慢朝学校移动,马尔福坐在马车里发出一阵阵刺耳的大笑,他肯定在跟他那些斯莱特林的同学们讲述他是怎么教训哈利·波特的……想到这儿,一种绝望的情绪在他心头蔓延开来。

  火车猛地动了一下,震得哈利翻滚过去,侧身躺着。现在他不再瞪着天花板,而是面对着黑黢黢的座位下面。发动机启动了,地板微微震颤着。特快列车正在驶离站台,而没有一个人知道哈利还在……

  突然,他感觉到隐形衣被掀开了,头顶上一个声音说道:“你好,哈利。”

  一道红光闪过,哈利的身体解咒了。他坐了起来,尽量使自己显得体面一些,并赶紧用手背把鲜血从受伤的脸上擦去,抬头看着唐克斯。唐克斯手里拿着她刚才揭开的隐形衣。

  “我们最好赶紧离开这儿。”她说,这时车窗已被蒸气罩住,变得模模糊糊,火车开始驶离站台,“快,我们跳车。”

  哈利匆匆跟着她来到过道里。唐克斯拉开车门,纵身跳到了站台上。随着火车加速,下面的站台似乎在向后滑动。哈利跟着她跳了下去,落地时差点儿摔倒。他直起身子,正好看见鲜红耀眼的蒸汽机车加快了速度,拐过一个弯道,消失了。

  夜晚凉飕飕的空气扑面而来,使哈利突突跳痛的鼻子感到很舒服。唐克斯正看着他。他觉得又恼火又尴尬,居然在这种狼狈的状况下被人发现。唐克斯默默地把隐形衣递给了他。

  “谁干的?”

  “德拉科·马尔福,”哈利恨恨地说,“谢谢你……嗯……”

  “没什么。”唐克斯面无笑容地说。哈利就着夜色看去,发现她和上次他在陋居看见她时一样,灰褐色的头发,面容憔悴。“你站着别动,我把你的鼻子治好。”

  哈利不太赞成这个主意。他本来打算去找校医庞弗雷夫人的,在用咒语疗伤方面,他对她更有信心一些。但是这么说似乎不太礼貌,所以他一动不动地站住了,闭上了眼睛。

  “愈合如初!”唐克斯说。

  哈利感到鼻子一下子变得火辣辣的,接着又变得冰凉凉的。他抬起手小心地摸了摸。鼻子似乎已经愈合了。

  “太感谢了!”

  “你最好把隐形衣披上,我们可以步行去学校。”唐克斯说,脸上还是毫无笑容。

  哈利把隐形衣重新披在身上时,唐克斯挥了一下魔杖。一头巨大的银白色四脚动物从魔杖里冒了出来,飞快地跑进了夜色中。

  “那是守护神吗?”哈利问,他曾经看见邓布利多用这种方式传递消息。

  “对,我通知学校我已经找到你了,免得他们着急。走吧,最好别再耽搁了。”

  他们朝那条通向学校的小路走去。

  “你是怎么找到我的?”

  “我注意到你没有下车,而且知道你有隐形衣。我就猜到你不知为什么藏了起来。后来我见那个车厢拉着帘子,我就觉得应该进去检查一下。”

  “可是,你在这里做什么呢?”哈利问。

  “我目前守在霍格莫德,给学校增加一些保护。”唐克斯说。

  “守在这里的只有你一个人,还是——?”

  “不,普劳特、塞维奇和德力士也都在这里。”

  “德力士,就是邓布利多上次打击的那个傲罗吗?”

  “是的。”

  他们顺着马车刚压出的车辙,艰难地走在漆黑荒凉的小路上。哈利从隐形衣下侧脸看着唐克斯。去年,她是那么爱打听别人的事情(有时甚至有点惹人讨厌),那么爱笑,那么爱讲笑话。现在她好像一下子老了好几岁,显得严肃和刚毅多了。这难道都是部里发生的那件事带来的后果吗?他不安地想到,赫敏肯定会建议他对唐克斯说一些安慰的话,说小天狼星的死根本不能怪她,但是,他没有勇气这么说。他丝毫不认为小天狼星的死是唐克斯的过错,她的责任不比任何人大(更不比他的大),但是他实在不愿意谈到小天狼星,能回避就尽量回避。于是,他们默默地走在寒冷的夜色中,唐克斯的斗篷拖在身后的地上,发出沙沙的响声。

  哈利以前都是坐的马车,从不知道霍格沃茨离霍格莫德车站有多远。当他终于看见学校大门两边高高的、顶上装饰着带翼的野猪石柱时,总算松了口气。

  他又冷又饿,而且巴不得赶紧离开这位陌生的、脸色阴沉的唐克斯。可是当他伸手推大门时,发现大门用链条锁住了。

  “阿拉霍洞开!”他用魔杖指着门锁,很有把握地喊道,可是大门毫无反应。

  “这个对它不会管用的。”唐克斯说,“邓布利多亲自给它施了魔法。”

  哈利转过脸来。

  “我可以翻墙进去。”他提议道。

  “不行,绝对不行,”唐克斯面无表情地说,“墙上都施了反侵入咒。今年夏天,安全措施加强了一百倍。”

  “那好,”哈利对她这样袖手旁观感到有点生气,说道,“我想我只能睡在外面,等明天早上再说了。”

  “有人来接你了。”唐克斯说,“看。”

  远处城堡脚下出现了一盏摇摇晃晃的提灯。哈利高兴极了,他觉得他甚至能够忍受费尔奇呼哧带喘地批评他迟到,并叫嚷着说如果定期给他动点儿酷刑,他的时间观念就会增强了。闪亮的橙黄色灯光离他只有十来步远了,哈利脱掉隐形衣好让来人看见他,这时他才认出了斯内普那个被灯光从下面照亮的鹰钩鼻和那一头乌黑油腻的长发,他顿时产生了一种强烈的厌恶感。

  “很好,很好,很好,”斯内普讥笑道,一边抽出魔杖,在锁上敲了一下,链条便像蛇一样缩了回去,大门吱吱嘎嘎地开了。“你总算露面了,波特,不过你显然认为穿上校袍会有损你的容颜。”

  “我没法换衣服,我的箱子——”哈利的话没说完,就被斯内普打断了。

  “没必要再等了,尼法朵拉。波特在我手里非常——嗯——安全。”

  “我本来是把消息告诉海格的。”唐克斯皱着眉头说。

  “海格像波特一样,没能准时参加开学宴会,所以我就代收了。顺便说一句,”斯内普退后一步,把哈利让了过去,“我对你的新守护神很感兴趣。”

  他当着唐克斯的面哐当一声关上了大门,又用魔杖敲了敲链条,随着一阵金属的碰撞声,链条又像蛇一样蹿回了原处。

  “我认为还是原来的那个更好,”斯内普说,声音里毫无疑问透着恶意,“新的这个看上去没什么力气。”

  斯内普把提灯一晃,哈利看见唐克斯脸上闪过一丝愤怒,但紧接着她就又被黑暗笼罩了。

  “晚安,”哈利跟斯内普一起朝学校走去时,扭头对唐克斯喊道,“谢谢……谢谢你做的一切。”

  “再见,哈利。”

  斯内普一时间没有说话。

  哈利觉得自己身体里释放出非常强烈的仇恨,他简直不敢相信斯内普竟然感觉不到这些仇恨在烧灼着他。他们从第一次见面起,他就讨厌斯内普,而斯内普对待小天狼星的态度,又使哈利永远也不可能原谅他。不管邓布利多怎么说,哈利在暑假里反复思忖之后得出了这样的结论:斯内普不怀好意地讥讽小天狼星,说凤凰社的其他成员都在跟伏地魔战斗,而他却躲在安全的地方,后来正是斯内普的这番话促使小天狼星在那天夜里冲进魔法部,丢掉了性命。哈利抱着这种想法不放,他这样就可以把责任怪罪到斯内普身上,这使他感到解恨,而且他知道,如果有谁对小天狼星的死无动于衷,那就是此刻在黑暗中走在他身边的这个男人。

  “因为迟到,格兰芬多扣掉五十分。”斯内普说,“还有,让我想想,因为你穿着麻瓜衣服,再扣掉二十分。我想,还没有哪个学院在学期刚刚开始——甜点还没有端上来——就被扣了分数呢。你大概是创纪录了,波特。”

  哈利内心的愤怒和仇恨简直白热化了,他宁愿全身僵硬地返回伦敦,也不愿告诉斯内普他迟到的原因。

  “我猜你是想来一个登场亮相吧?”斯内普继续说道,“你弄不到会飞的汽车,就以为在宴会进行到一半时冲进大礼堂也会产生戏剧性的效果。”

  哈利仍然保持着沉默,尽管他觉得肺都要气炸了。他知道斯内普来接他就是为了这个,他可以有几分钟时间激怒和折磨哈利,而不会被任何人听见。

  他们终于来到了城堡的台阶上,当那两扇橡木大门打开、露出里面铺着石板的宽大门厅时,一阵阵欢声笑语和杯盘碰撞的声音通过大礼堂敞开的门,传到了他们的耳朵里。哈利心想,不知道他能不能偷偷披上隐形衣,神不知鬼不觉地溜到格兰芬多的长桌旁坐下。很不方便的是,格兰芬多的桌子在大礼堂的最里头。

  然而,斯内普似乎猜到了哈利的心思,他说:“不许穿隐形衣。你就这样走进去,让大家都看看你,我相信这正是你想要的效果。”

  哈利原地转了个身,大步穿过敞开的大门:只要能离开斯内普就行。大礼堂里有四张学院餐桌,顶头还有一张教工餐桌,空中像往常一样装饰着许多飘浮的蜡烛,照得下面的盘子闪闪发亮。然而,所有这些在哈利眼里只是亮晃晃的模糊一片。他走得飞快,当人们开始盯着他看时,他正在穿过赫奇帕奇餐桌,而当人们站起来打量他时,他已经看见了罗恩和赫敏。他快步从一条条长凳旁奔过,挤到他们俩中间坐了下来。

  “你去哪儿了——天哪,你的脸怎么了?”罗恩说,他和近旁的每个人都睁大了眼睛瞪着哈利。

  “怎么啦,有什么不对吗?”哈利说着抓起一把汤勺,眯起眼睛打量映在上面的那张变形的脸。

  “你满脸都是血!”赫敏说,“来——”

  她举起魔杖,念道:“旋风扫净!”那些干硬的血痂就被吸走了。

  “谢谢。”哈利摸着干干净净的脸说,“我的鼻子看上去怎么样?”

  “很正常,”赫敏担忧地说,“你的鼻子怎么了?哈利,出什么事了,真把我们吓坏了!”

  “待会儿再告诉你们。”哈利简短地说了一句。他警觉地发现金妮、纳威、迪安和西莫都在听着,就连格兰芬多的鬼魂——差点没头的尼克也顺着长凳飘过来想偷听。

  “可是——”赫敏说。

  “先不说了吧,赫敏。”哈利用一种神秘的、意味深长的口吻说。他真希望他们都以为他去做了一件很勇敢的事,最好是面对两个食死徒和一个摄魂怪。当然啦,马尔福肯定会逢人便讲这个故事,但说不定不会传到太多的格兰芬多同学的耳朵里。

  他隔着罗恩去拿两根鸡腿和一把炸薯条,可是没等拿到手,它们就没了,取而代之的是甜点心。

  “你错过了分院仪式。”赫敏说,罗恩伸手去够一大块巧克力蛋糕。

  “帽子说了什么有趣的话没有?”哈利一边问一边拿过一块蜂蜜馅饼。

  “跟以前大同小异……建议我们团结起来,共同面对我们的敌人,你知道的。”

  “邓布利多提到伏地魔了吗?”

  “还没有,不过他总是在宴会结束后才正式讲话的,对吧?快了。”

  “斯内普说海格也没准时参加宴会——”

  “你看见斯内普了?怎么会呢?”罗恩狼吞虎咽地吃着蛋糕,问道。

  “正好碰到他了。”哈利含糊其词地说。

  “海格只迟到了几分钟。”赫敏说,“看,哈利,他正冲你招手呢。”

  哈利朝教工餐桌望去,海格果然在冲他招手,他便也朝海格笑了笑。海格和威严的麦格教授总是显得很不协调,麦格教授是格兰芬多的院长,他们坐在一起时她的头顶只齐到海格的臂肘和肩膀之间。此刻,她看见海格这样热情洋溢地打招呼,露出了不满的神情。

  哈利惊讶地看到,坐在海格另一边的竟然是占卜课老师特里劳妮教授。她平常很少离开她塔楼上的房间,哈利以前从没在开学宴会上看见过她。

  她的模样还像以前一样古怪,身上戴着闪闪发亮的珠子,裹着长长的披肩,一双眼睛被眼镜放大了许多倍。哈利以前一直把她看成一个骗子,没想到在上学期快要结束时,他得知竟是她说出了那个预言,导致伏地魔杀死了哈利的父母,并对哈利本人下了毒手。知道这件事后,哈利更不愿意跟她待在一起了,幸好,他这学期不再选修占卜课了。她那双大得吓人的、灯泡般的眼睛朝他这边望了过来,哈利赶紧把目光转向斯莱特林的桌子。

  德拉科·马尔福正在描述他怎么砸烂了一只鼻子,博得了一阵刺耳的笑声和掌声。哈利垂下眼睛望着那块蜂蜜蛋糕,心里又是怒火燃烧。他真恨不得跟马尔福面对面地干上一仗……

  “那么斯拉格霍恩教授想要什么?”赫敏问。

  “想要知道部里到底发生了什么事。”哈利说。

  “不光他,这里的每个人都想知道,”赫敏轻蔑地说,“火车上总有人审问我们,是吧,罗恩?”

  “没错,”罗恩说,“大家都想知道你是不是真的就是‘救世之星’——”

  “就连鬼魂们对这个话题也有很多议论。”差点没头的尼克插进来说道,他那颗仅连着一点皮的脑袋朝哈利偏了过来,在轮状皱领上危险地摇晃着,“我差不多被看成是波特权威,大家都知道我们的关系很好。不过,我向鬼魂们保证,我不会缠着他打听情况的。‘哈利·波特知道他可以绝对信任我,对我推心置腹。’我告诉他们说,‘我宁死也不会背叛他的信任。’”

  “那不能说明什么问题,因为你已经死了。”罗恩尖锐地指出。

  “又来了,你总是像钝斧头一样伤人。”差点没头的尼克委屈地说完,便升到空中,朝格兰芬多餐桌的那头飘去。就在这时,邓布利多在教工餐桌后面站了起来,回荡在大礼堂里的说笑声几乎立刻就平息下来。

  “祝大家晚上好!”他慈祥地微笑着说,一边张开双臂,似乎要拥抱整个礼堂。

  “他的手怎么啦?”赫敏惊愕地问。

  注意到这点的不只是她一个人。邓布利多的右手仍然像那晚他到德思礼家接走哈利时的一样,焦黑干枯,毫无生机。礼堂里一片窃窃私语。邓布利多知道大家在议论什么,他只是笑了笑,抖抖紫色和金色相间的衣袖,遮住了那只受伤的手。

  “不用担心。”他轻描淡写地说,“好了……新同学们,欢迎入学;老同学们,欢迎回校!等待你们的是新一学年的魔法教育……”

  “我暑假里看见他时,他的手就是这样。”哈利小声对赫敏说,“我本来以为他早就治好了……或者庞弗雷夫人给他治好了。”

  “那只手看上去像是死了。”赫敏脸上带着难受的表情说,“有些伤永远治不好……古老的咒语……还有一些魔药是没有解药的……”

  “……管理员费尔奇让我告诉大家,今年绝对禁止学生携带从韦斯莱魔法把戏坊购买的任何笑话商品。

  “想要参加学院魁地奇球队的同学,像往常一样把名字报给院长。我们还在物色新的魁地奇比赛解说员,有意者也到院长那儿报名。

  “今年,我们很高兴地迎来了一位新的教师。斯拉格霍恩教授,”斯拉格霍恩站了起来,他那光秃秃的脑袋在烛光下闪闪发亮,穿着马甲的大肚子在桌上投下一大片阴影,“是我以前的一位同事,他同意重操旧职,担任魔药课教师。”

  “魔药课?”

  “魔药课?”

  这个词在整个礼堂里回荡,大家都怀疑自己是不是听错了。

  “魔药课?”罗恩和赫敏异口同声地说,同时都偏过脑袋来瞪着哈利,“可是你原来说——”

  “与此同时,斯内普教授,”邓布利多提高声音盖过了人们的议论,“将担任黑魔法防御术课的教师。”

  “不!”哈利的声音太响了,许多脑袋都朝他这边转了过来。但他不管,他只是愤怒地瞪着教工餐桌。怎么到头来还是把黑魔法防御术的教职给了斯内普呢?这么多年来大家不是都知道,邓布利多不相信他能胜任这份工作吗?

  “可是,哈利,你说过斯拉格霍恩要教黑魔法防御术的!”赫敏说。

  “我以为是他!”哈利说。他拼命回忆邓布利多什么时候告诉过他,然而,现在仔细想来,他根本记不起邓布利多跟他说过斯拉格霍恩要教哪门课。

  斯内普坐在邓布利多的右侧,他听见邓布利多提到自己的名字时并没有站起来,只是懒洋洋地抬了抬一只手,表示听见了斯莱特林餐桌上的喝彩声,可是哈利清清楚楚地看见,他恨之入骨的那张脸上透着一丝得意洋洋的喜色。

  “也好,这件事有一点好处,”哈利咬牙切齿地说,“斯内普不到一年就会滚蛋。”

  “你这是什么意思?”罗恩问。

  “那份工作是被施了恶咒的。没有一个人能超过一年……奇洛连命都搭进去了。我个人衷心希望再发生一桩命案……”

  “哈利!”赫敏惊恐地责备道。

  “到了期末,他大概又回去教他的魔药课了。”罗恩理智地说,“那个叫斯拉格霍恩的家伙大概不愿意长期待在这儿,穆迪就是这样。”

  邓布利多清了清嗓子。

  在下面说话的不止哈利、罗恩和赫敏,整个礼堂里的人听到斯内普终于如愿以偿的消息,都在议论纷纷。邓布利多似乎没有意识到他刚才公布的消息有多么轰动,他没有再说教师职务的事,而是等了几秒钟,确保大家完全安静下来后才继续说话。

  “这座礼堂里的每个人都知道,伏地魔和他的随从再次兴风作浪,并且势力在不断壮大。”

  邓布利多说话时,礼堂里一片紧张的、揪心的沉默。哈利扫了一眼马尔福。马尔福没有看着邓布利多,而是用魔杖把他的叉子悬在半空中,仿佛他觉得校长的话根本不值得一听。

  “我需要格外强调的是,目前局势非常危险,我们霍格沃茨的每一个人都需要万分谨慎才能保证自身的安全。城堡的魔法防御工事在暑假期间被加强了,我们得到了新的、更有效的保护,但是我们每一位师生仍然必须时刻提高警惕,丝毫不能掉以轻心。因此,我要求你们必须严格遵守老师制定的每一条安全规定,不管那些条条框框可能有多么烦人——特别要遵守熄灯后不得起床外出的规定。我恳请你们,不管在校内还是校外,只要发现任何异常或可疑的情况,都要立刻向教工汇报。我相信你们,为了自己和他人的安全,一定会约束自己的行为的。”

  邓布利多的蓝眼睛扫过所有的学生,然后脸上又露出了微笑。

  “好了,你们的床铺在等待你们,像你们期望的那样温暖和舒适,我知道你们现在的当务之急是好好休息,准备明天上课。所以,让我们道一声‘晚安’吧。嘟嘟!”

  像往常一样,一张张板凳被推到了身后,发出刺耳的摩擦声,几百名学生开始鱼贯离开大礼堂,朝宿舍走去。

  哈利并不急着离开,他不愿意跟那些瞪大眼睛盯着他看的同学挤在一起,也不愿意挨近马尔福,让他有机会把踩鼻子的故事再讲一遍,所以他就假装系鞋带,故意落在后面,让大多数格兰芬多同学都走到他前面去了。赫敏早已跑去履行她级长的职责,去照顾那些一年级新生了,只有罗恩留下来陪着哈利。

  “你的鼻子到底是怎么了?”等那些挤出礼堂的人群已经远远离开,不再会有人听见他们说话时,罗恩问道。

  哈利把事情告诉了他。罗恩没有笑,这显示了他们的友谊是多么牢固。

  “我看见马尔福在那里假装对付一只鼻子。”他愤愤不平地说。

  “是啊,好了,不去管它了。”哈利气恼地说,“你听听他在发现我之前说的那些话吧……”

  哈利本来以为罗恩听了马尔福那些吹牛的话会感到很震惊。可是罗恩竟然觉得无动于衷,哈利觉得他简直是变成榆木脑袋了。

  “得了,哈利,他只是在帕金森面前炫耀自己……神秘人会派给他什么任务呢?”

  “你怎么知道伏地魔不需要在霍格沃茨安插一个什么人呢?这可不是第一次——”

  “我希望你别再说那个名字了,哈利。”他们身后响起了一个责备的声音。哈利扭头一看,海格正在那里摇着头。

  “邓布利多就直呼其名。”哈利固执地说。

  “是啊,但那是邓布利多呀,对不?”海格神秘兮兮地说,“你怎么会迟到的,哈利?我真担心哪。”

  “在车上耽搁了。”哈利说,“你为什么迟到?”

  “我跟格洛普在一起,”海格高兴地说,“忘记了时间。现在,他在山里有了一个新家,邓布利多安排的——是一个漂亮的大山洞。他比待在禁林里的时候开心多了。我们好好地聊了一会儿。”

  “真的?”哈利说,他尽量不去看罗恩的眼睛。罗恩上次看见海格同母异父的弟弟——那个专会把大树连根拔起的凶狠的巨人时,他的词汇量只有五个单词,而且其中两个的发音还不准。

  “是啊,他进步可大了。”海格骄傲地说,“你会感到吃惊的。我在考虑把他培养成我的助手。”

  罗恩很响地哼了一声,不过总算及时地把它变成了一个响亮的喷嚏。这时他们已经站在橡木大门旁了。

  “好了,我们明天见,午饭后的第一节课,早点过来,可以跟巴克——我是说蔫翼打个招呼!”

  他喜滋滋地举起一只胳膊和他们告别,然后便出了大门,融进了夜色中。

  哈利和罗恩面面相觑。哈利看得出来,罗恩的心情跟他一样沮丧。

  “你不准备选保护神奇生物课了,是吗?”

  罗恩摇了摇头。

  “你也不选了,是吗?”

  哈利也摇了摇头。

  “赫敏呢?”罗恩说,“她也不选了?”

  哈利又摇了摇头。当海格发现他最喜欢的三个学生都不再上他的课时,他会说什么呢?对此哈利不愿意去想。

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 17楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

Chapter 9 The Half-blood Prince

Harry and Ron met Hermione in the common room before breakfast next morning. Hoping for some support in his theory, Harry lost no time in telling Hermione what he had
overheard Malfoy saying on the Hogwarts Express.
“But he was obviously showing off for Parkinson, wasn't he?” interjected Ron quickly, before Hermione could say anything.
“Well,” she said uncertainly, “I don't know. It would be like Malfoy to make himself seem more important than he is ... but that's a big lie to tell... ”
“Exactly,” said Harry, but he could nor press the point, because so many people were trying to listen in to his conversation, not to mention staring at him and
whispering behind their hands.
“It's rude to point,” Ron snapped at a particularly minuscule first-year boy as they joined the queue to climb out of the portrait hole. The boy, who had been
muttering something about Harry behind his hand to his friend, promptly turned scarlet and toppled out of the hole in alarm. Ron sniggered. “I love being a sixth year.
And we're going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when we can just sit up here and relax.”
“We're going to need that time for studying, Ron!” said Hermione, as they set off down the corridor.
“Yeah, but not today,” said Ron. “Today's going to be a real loss, I reckon.”
“Hold it!” said Hermione, throwing out an arm and halting a passing fourth year, who was attempting to push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly in his
hand. “Fanged Frisbees banned, hand it over,” she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and took off after his
friends. Ron waited for him to vanish, then tugged the Frisbee from Hermione's grip.
“Excellent, I've always wanted one of these.”
Hermione's remonstration was drowned by a loud giggle; Lavender Brown had apparently found Ron's remark highly amusing. She continued to laugh as she passed them,
glancing back at Ron over her shoulder. Ron looked rather pleased with himself.
The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of sky visible through the high mullioned windows. While
they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon, Harry and Ron told Hermione about their embarassing conversation with Hagrid the previous evening.
“But he can't really think we'd continue Care of Magical Creatures!” she said, looking distressed. “I mean, when has any of us expressed... you know... any
enthusiasm?”
“That's it, though, innit?” said Ron, swallowing an entire fried egg whole. “We were the ones who made the most effort in classes because we like Hagrid. But he
thinks we liked the stupid subject. D'ya reckon anyone's going to go on to N.E.W.T.?”
Neither Harry nor Hermione answered; there was no need. They knew perfectly well that nobody in their year would want to continue Care of Magical Creatures. They
avoided Hagrid's eye and returned his cheery wave only half-heartedly when he left the staff table ten minutes later.
After they had eaten, they remained in their places, awaiting Professor McGonagall's descent from the staff table. The distribution of class schedules was more
complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen
N.E.W.T.s.
Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and shot
off to a first period Ancient Runes class without further ado. Neville took a little longer to sort out; his round face was anxious as Professor McGonagall looked down
his application and then consulted his O.W.L. results.
“Herbology, fine,” she said. “Professor Sprout will be delighted to see you back with an ‘Outstanding’ O.W.L. And you qualify for Defense Against the Dark Arts
with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’ But the problem is Transfiguration. I'm sorry, Longbottom, but an ‘Acceptable’ really isn't good enough to continue to N.E.W.T. level.
Just don't think you'd be able to cope with the coursework.”
Neville hung his head. Professor McGonagall peered at him through her square spectacles.
“Why do you want to continue with Transfiguration, anyway? I've never had the impression that you particularly enjoyed it.”
Neville looked miserable and muttered something about “my grandmother wants.”
“Hmph,” snorted Professot McGonagall. “It's high time your grandmother learned to be proud of the grandson she's got, rather than the one she thinks she ought to
have—particularly after what happened at the Ministry.”
Neville turned very pink and blinked confusedly; Professor McGonagall had never paid him a compliment before.
“I'm sorry, Longbottom, but I cannot let you into my N.E.W.T. class. I see that you have an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in Charm however—why not try for a N.E.W.T. in
Charms?”
“My grandmother thinks Charms is a soft option,” mumbled Neville.
“Take Charms,” said Professor McGonagall, “and I shall drop Augusta a line reminding her that just because she failed her Charms O.W.L., the subject is not
necessarily worthless.” Smiling slightly at the look of delighted incredulity on Neville's face, Professor McGonagall tapped a blank schedule with the tip of her wand
and handed it, now carrying details of his new classes, to Neville.
Professor McGonagall turned next to Parvati Patil, whose first question was whether Firenze, the handsome centaur, was still teaching Divination.
“He and Professor Trelawney are dividing classes between them this year,” said Professor McGonagall, a hint of disapproval in her voice; it was common knowledge that
she despised the subject of Divination. “The sixth year is being taken by Professor Trelawney.”
Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later looking slightly crestfallen.
“So, Potter, Potter...” said Professor McGonagall, consulting her notes as she turned to Harry. “Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration
... all fine. I must say, I was pleased with your Transfiguration mark, Potter, very pleased. Now, why haven't you applied to continue with Potions? I thought it was
your ambition to become an Auror?”
“It was, but you told me I had to get an ‘Outstanding’ in my O.W.L., Professor.”
“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching the subject. Professor Slughorn, however, is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with ‘Exceeds Expectations
’ at O.W.L. Do you wish to proceed with Potions?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “but I didn't buy the books or any ingredients or anything—”
“I'm sure Professor Slughorn will be able to lend you some,” said Professor McGonagall. “Very well, Potter, here is your schedule. Oh, by the way—twenty hopefuls
have already put down their names for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I shall pass the list to you in due course and you can fix up trials at your leisure.”
A few minutes later, Ron was cleared to do the same subjects as Harry, and the two of them left the table together.
“Look,” said Ron delightedly, gazing ar his schedule, “we've got a free period now and a free period after break... and after lunch... excellent.”
They returned to the common room, which was empty apart from a half dozen seventh years, including Katie Bell, the only remaining member of the original Gryffindor
Quidditch team that Harry had joined in his first year.
“I thought you'd get that, well done,” she called over, pointing at the Captains badge on Harry's chest. “Tell me when you call trials!”
“Don't be stupid,” said Harry, “you don't need to try out, I watched you play for five years...”
“You mustn't start off like that,” she said warningly. “For all you know, there's someone much better than me out there. Good teams have been ruined before now
because Captains just kept playing the old faces, or letting in their friends....”
Ron looked a little uncomfortable and began playing with the Fanged Frisbee Hermione had taken from the fourth-year student. It zoomed around the common room, snarling
and attempting to take bites of the tapestry. Crookshanks's yellow eyes followed it and he hissed when it came too close.
An hour later they reluctantly left the sunlit common room for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom four floors below. Hermione was already queuing outside,
carrying an armful of heavy books and looking put-upon.
“We got so much homework for Runes,” she said anxiously when Harry and Ron joined her. “A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by
Wednesday!”
“Shame,” yawned Ron.
“You wait,” she said resentfully. “I bet Snape gives us loads.”
The classroom door opened as she spoke, and Snape stepped into the corridor, his sallow face framed as ever by two curtains of greasy black hair. Silence fell over the
queue immediately.
“Inside,” he said.
Harry looked around as they entered. Snape had imposed his personality upon the room already; it was gloomier than usual, as curtains had been drawn over the windows,
and was lit by candlelight. New pictures adorned the walls, many of them showing people who appeared to be in pain, sporting grisly injuries or strangely contorted body
parts. Nobody spoke as they settled down, looking around at the shadowy, gruesome pictures.
“I have not asked you to take out your books,” said Snape, closing the door and moving to face the class from behind his desk; Hermione hastily dropped her copy of
Confronting the Faceless back into her bag and stowed it under her chair. “I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention.”
His black eyes roved over their upturned faces, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Harry's than anyone else's.
“You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe.”
You believe... like you haven't watched them all come and go, hoping you'd be next, thought Harry scathingly.
“Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I
shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be more advanced.”
Snape set off around the edge of the room, speaking now in a lower voice; the class craned their necks to keep him in view.
“The Dark Arts,” said Snape, “are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed,
sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.”
Harry stared at Snape. It was surely one thing to respect the Dark Arts as a dangerous enemy, another to speak of them, as Snape was doing, with a loving caress in his
voice?
“Your defenses,” said Snape, a little louder, “must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures,” he indicated a few of them
as he swept past, “give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse” (he waved a hand toward a witch who was clearly
shrieking in agony) “feel the Dementor's Kiss” (a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall) “or provoke the aggression of the Inferius” (a bloody
mass upon ground).
“Has an Inferius been seen, then?” said Parvati Patil in a high pitched voice. “Is it definite, is he using them?”
“The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past,” said Snape, “which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again. Now...”
He set off again around the other side of the classroom toward his desk, and again, they watched him as he walked, his dark robes billowing behind him.
“... you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of a non-verbal spell?”
Hermione's hand shot into the air. Snape took his time looking around at everybody else, making sure he had no choice, before saying curtly, “Very well—Miss Granger?

“Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform,” said Hermione, “which gives you a split-second advantage.”
“An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six,” said Snape dismissively (over in the corner, Malfoy sniggered), “but correct in
essentials. Yes, those who progress in using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of
course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some, “his gaze lingered maliciously upon Harry once more, “lack.”
Harry knew Snape was thinking of their disastrous Occlumency lessons of the previous year. He refused to drop his gaze, but glowered at Snape until Snape looked away.
“You will now divide,” Snape went on, “into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal
silence. Carry on.”
Although Snape did not know it, Harry had taught at least half the class (everyone who had been a member of the D.A.) how to perform a Shield Charm the previous year.
None of them had ever cast the charm without speaking, however. A reasonable amount of cheating ensued; many people were merely whispering the incantation instead of
saying it aloud. Typically, ten minutes into the lesson Hermione managed to repel Neville's muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that would
surely have earned her twenty points for Gryffindor from any reasonable teacher, thought Harry bitterly, but which Snape ignored. He swept between them as they
practiced, looking just as much like an overgrown bat as ever, lingering to watch Harry and Ron struggling with the task.
Ron, who was supposed to be jinxing Harry, was purple in the face, his lips tightly compressed to save himself from the temptation of muttering the incantation. Harry
had his wand raised, waiting on tenterhooks to repel a jinx that seemed unlikely ever to come.
“Pathetic, Weasley,” said Snape, after a while. “Here—let me show you—”
He turned his wand on Harry so fast that Harry reacted instinctively; all thought of non-verbal spells forgotten, he yelled, “Protego!”
His Shield Charm was so strong Snape was knocked off-balance and hit a desk. The whole class had looked around and now watched as Snape righted himself, scowling.
“Do you remember me telling you we are practicing non-verbal spells, Potter?”
“Yes,” said Harry stiffly.
“Yes, sir.”
“There's no need to call me ‘sir,’ Professor.” The words had escaped him before he knew what he was saying. Several people gasped, including Hermione. Behind Snape,
however, Ron, Dean, and Seamus grinned appreciatively.
“Detention, Saturday night, my office,” said Snape. “I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter... not even the Chosen One.”
“That was brilliant, Harry!” chortled Ron, once they were safely on their way to break a short while later.
“You really shouldn't have said it,” said Hermione, frowning at Ron. “What made you?”
“He tried to jinx me, in case you didn't notice!” fumed Harry. “I had enough of that during those Occlumency lessons! Why doesn't he use another guinea pig for a
change? What's Dumbledore playing at, anyway, letting him teach Defense? Did you hear him talking about the Dark Arts? He loves them! All that unfixed, indestructible
stuff—”
“Well,” said Hermione, “I thought he sounded a bit like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, when you were telling us what it's like to face Voldemort. You said it wasn't just memorizing a bunch of spells, you said it was just you and your brains and
your guts—well, wasn't that what Snape was saying? That it really comes down to being brave and quick-thinking?”
Harry was so disarmed that she had thought his words as well worth memorizing as The Standard Book of Spells that he did not argue.
“Harry! Hey, Harry!”
Harry looked around; Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, was hurrying toward him holding a roll of parchment.
“For you,” panted Sloper. “Listen, I heard you're the new Captain. When're you holding trials?”
“I'm not sure yet,” said Harry, thinking privately that Sloper would be very lucky to get back on the team. “I'll let you know.”
“Oh, right. I was hoping it'd be this weekend—”
But Harry was not listening; he had just recognized the thin, slanting writing on the parchment. Leaving Sloper in mid-sentence, he hurried away with Ron and Hermione,
unrolling the parchment as he went.
Dear Harry,
I would like to start our private lessons this Saturday. Kindly come along to my office at eight p.m. I hope you are enjoying your first day back at school.
>Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.
“He enjoys Acid Pops?” said Ron, who had read the message over Harry's shoulder and was looking perplexed.
“It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study,” said Harry in a low voice. “Ha! Snape's not going to be pleased... I won't be able to do his
detention!”
He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the
type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive
magic. After break, she went off to Arithmancy while Harry and Ron returned to the common room where they grudgingly started Snape's homework. This turned out to be so
complex that they still had not finished when Hermione joined them for their after-lunch free period (though she considerably speeded up the process). They had only
just finished when the bell rang for the afternoon's double Potions and they beat the familiar path down to the dungeon classroom that had, for so long, been Snape's.
When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the
required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked
despite his rather pompous manner.
“Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, “didn't get a chance to speak in Defense Against The Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson,
I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags... And how are you, Ron—Hermione?”
Before they could say more than “fine,” the dungeon door opened and Slughorn's belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus
mustache curved above his beaming mouth, and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm.
The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapors and odd smells. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four
Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron, and Hermione to share a table with Ernie. They chose the one nearest a gold-colored
cauldron that was emitting one of the most seductive scents Harry had ever inhaled: somehow it reminded him simultaneously of treacle tart, the woody smell of a
broomstick handle, and something flowery he thought he might have smelled at the Burrow. He found that he was breathing very slowly and deeply and that the potion's
fumes seemed to be filling him up like drink. A great contentment stole over him; he grinned across at Ron, who grinned back lazily.
“Now then, now then, now then,” said Slughorn, whose massive outline was quivering through the many shimmering vapors. “Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and
don't forget your copies of Advanced Potion-Making...”
“Sir?” said Harry, raising his hand.
“Harry, m'boy?”
“I haven't got a book or scales or anything—nor's Ron—we didn't realize we'd be able to do the N.E.W.T., you see—”
“Ah, yes, Professor McGonagall did mention... not to worry, my dear boy, not to worry at all. You can use ingredients from the store cupboard today, and I'm sure we
can lend you some scales, and we've got a small stock of old books here, they'll do until you can write to Flourish and Blotts...”
Slughorn strode over to a corner cupboard and, after a moment's foraging, emerged with two very battered-looking copies of Advanced Potion-Making by Libatius Borage,
which he gave to Harry and Ron along with two sets of tarnished scales.
“Now then,” said Slughorn, returning to the front of the class and inflating his already bulging chest so that the buttons on his waistcoat threatened to burst off,
“I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. These are the kind of thing you ought to be able to make after completing your
N.E.W.T.s. You ought to have heard of ‘em, even if you haven't made ‘em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?”
He indicated the cauldron nearest the Slytherin table. Harry raised himself slighty in his seat and saw what looked like plain water boiling away inside it.
Hermione's well-practiced hand hit the air before anybody else's; Slughorn pointed at her.
“It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion thar forces the drinker to tell the truth,” said Hermione.
“Very good, very good!” said Slughorn happily. “Now,” he continued, pointing at the cauldron nearest the Ravenclaw table, “this one here is pretty well known...
Featured in a few Ministry leaflets lately too... Who can—?”
Hermione's hand was fastest once more.
“lt's Polyjuice Potion, sir,” she said.
Harry too had recognized the slow-bubbling, mudlike substance the second cauldron, but did not resent Hermione getting the credit for answering the question; she, after
all, was the one who had succeeded in making it, back in their second year.
“Excellent, excellent! Now, this one her... yes, my dear?” said Slughorn, now looking slightly bemused, as Hermione's hand punched the air again.
“It's Amortentia!”
“It is indeed. Ir seems almost foolish to ask,” said Slughorn, who was looking mightily impressed, “but I assume you know what it does?”
“It's the most powerful love porion in the world!” said Hermione.
“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”
“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said Hermione enthusiastically, “and it's supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us,
and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—”
But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence.
“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione's embarrassment.
“Hermione Granger, sir.”
“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”
“No. I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see.”
Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to
Harry, who was sitting next to her.
“Oho! ’One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!’ I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially.
Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, “Did you really
tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!”
“Well, what's so impressive about that?” whispered Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. “You are the best in the year—I'd've told him so if he'd asked me!”
Hermione smiled but made a “shushing” gesture, so that they could hear what Slughorn was saying. Ron looked slightly disgruntled.
“Amortentia doesn't really create love, of course. It is impossible to manufacture or imitate love. No, this will simply cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. It
is probably the most dangerous and powerful potion in this room—oh yes,” he said, nodding gravely at Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When
you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love...
“And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start work.”
“Sir, you haven't told us what's in this one,” said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn's desk. The potion within was splashing
about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.
“Oho,” said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well, that
one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he turned, smiling, to look at Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp,
“that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”
“It's liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes you lucky!”
The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his
full and undivided attention.
“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it's a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to
get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed ... at least until the effects wear off.”
“Why don't people drink it all the time, sir?” said Terry Boot eagerly.
“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know... highly toxic in
large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally...”
“Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner with great interest.
“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.”
He gazed dreamily into the distance. Whether he was playacting or not, thought Harry, the effect was good.
“And that,” said Slughorn, apparently coming back to earth, “is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson.”
There was silence in which every bubble and gurgle of the surrounding potions seemed magnified tenfold.
“One tiny bottle of Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn, taking a minuscule glass bottle with a cork in it out of his pocket and showing it to them all. “Enough for twelve
hours’ luck. From dawn till dusk, you will be lucky in everything you attempt.”
“Now, I must give you warning that Felix Felicis is a banned substance in organized competition... sporting events, for instance, examinations, or elections. So the
winner is to use it on an ordinary day only... and watch how that ordinary day becomes extraordinary!”
“So,” said Slughorn, suddenly brisk, “how are you to win this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour
left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and
I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!”
There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The
concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. It could not have been clearer that
Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him.
To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the
ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed
back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could.
Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work
private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the
“smooth, black currant-colored liquid” mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.
Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid
scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction:
Crush with flat side of silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.
“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.
“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age... ”
And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some
preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix
Felicis.
The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.
“Can I borrow your silver knife?”
She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now.
Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it
all.
Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook.
His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise
until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh
counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice?
Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink.
“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was redfaced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still
resolutely purple.
“Add a clockwise stir—”
“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she snapped.
Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs counterclockwise, one clockwise, pause... seven stirs counterclockwise, one stir clockwise...
Across the table, Ron was cursing fluently under his breath; his potion looked like liquid licorice. Harry glanced around. As far as he could see, no one else's potion
had turned as pale as his. He felt elated, something that had certainly never happened before in this dungeon.
“And time's... up!” called Slughorn. “Stop stirring, please!”
Slughorn moved slowly among the tables, peering into cauldrons. He made no comment, but occasionally gave the potions a stir or a sniff. At last he reached the table
where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ernie were sitting. He smiled ruefully at the tarlike substance in Ron's cauldron. He passed over Ernie's navy concoction. Hermione's
potion he gave an approving nod. Then he saw Harry's, and a look of incredulous delight spread over his face.
“The clear winner!” he cried to the dungeon. “Excellent, excellent, Harry! Good lord, it's clear you've inherited your mother's talent. She was a dab hand at
Potions, Lily was! Here you are, then, here you are—one bottle of Felix Felicis, as promised, and use it well!”
Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins’ faces and guilt at
the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.
“How did you do that?” he whispered to Harry as they left the dungeon.
“Got lucky, I suppose,” said Harry, because Malfoy was within earshot.
Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them. Hermione's face became stonier with every word he
uttered.
“I s'pose you think I cheated?” he finished, aggravated by her expression.
“Well, it wasn't exactly your own work, was it?” she said stiffly.
“He only followed different instructions to ours,” said Ron, “Could've been a catastrophe, couldn't it? But he took a risk and it paid off.” He heaved a sigh.
“Slughorn could've handed me that book, but no, I get the one no one's ever written on. Puked on, by the look of page fifty-two, but—”
“Hang on,” said a voice close by Harry's left ear and he caught a sudden waft of that flowery smell he had picked up in Slughorn's dungeon. He looked around and saw
that Ginny had joined them. “Did I hear right? You've been taking orders from something someone wrote in a book, Harry?”
She looked alarmed and angry. Harry knew what was on her mind at once.
“It's nothing,” he said reassuringly, lowering his voice. “It's not like, you know, Riddle's diary. It's just an old textbook someone's scribbled on.”
“But you're doing what it says?”
“I just tried a few of the tips written in the margins, honestly, Ginny, there's nothing funny—”
“Ginny's got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at once. “We ought to check that there's nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?”
“Hey!” said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised her wand.
“Specialis Revelio!” she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover. Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.
“Finished?” said Harry irritably. “Or d'you want to wait and see if it does a few backflips?”
“It seems all right,” said Hermione, still staring at the book suspiciously. “I mean, it really does seem to be ... just a textbook.”
“Good. Then I'll have it back,” said Harry, snatching it off the table, but it slipped from his hand and landed open on the floor. Nobody else was looking. Harry bent
low to retrieve the book, and as he did so, he saw something scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in the same small, cramped handwriting as the instructions
that had won him his bottle of Felix Felicis, now safely hidden inside a pair of socks in his trunk upstairs.
This book is the property of the Half Blood Prince.

zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 18楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

第9章 混血王子

第二天早上吃早饭前,哈利、罗恩和赫敏在公共休息室里碰面了。哈利希望有人支持他的想法,便立刻把他在霍格沃茨特快列车上偷听到的马尔福的话告诉了赫敏。

  “他显然是在帕金森面前吹牛,是不是?”没等赫敏说话,罗恩就抢着说道。

  “嗯,”赫敏迟疑地说,“我也说不清……也许马尔福是故意虚张声势,想显示自己很了不起……不过编出这样的谎话也太……”

  “是啊。”哈利说,可是他没法进一步说明他的观点,因为许多同学不仅好奇地盯着他看,用手捂着嘴窃窃私语,而且还侧着耳朵听他说话。

  “指指点点不礼貌!”他们排队通过肖像洞口时,罗恩冲一个特别矮小的一年级男生厉声喝道。那男生正在用手挡着嘴巴跟朋友嘀咕关于哈利的什么话,被罗恩这么一喝,顿时脸涨得通红,惊慌失措地从洞口跌了出去。罗恩得意地笑出了声。

  “我真喜欢上六年级。而且今年我们会有许多自由时间,可以整节课整节课地坐在这里,什么也不干。”

  “我们需要用那些时间来学习,罗恩!”赫敏说,这时他们正顺着走廊往前走。

  “知道啦,但不是今天,”罗恩说,“今天要痛痛快快地睡一觉。”

  “站住!”赫敏说着一把拦住一个四年级学生,那学生手里紧紧抓着一个深绿色的圆盘,正想从她身边挤过去。“狼牙飞碟是违禁物,快交出来。”赫敏严厉地对他说。那个愁眉苦脸的男生交出了那个咆哮的飞碟,一猫腰从赫敏胳膊底下钻过,追他的朋友们去了。罗恩等他走远了,便把飞碟从赫敏手里夺了过来。

  “太棒了,我早就想要一个这样的东西。”

  赫敏的抗议被一阵响亮的咯咯笑声淹没了。拉文德·布朗似乎觉得罗恩的话特别好玩,她从他们身边经过时,还扭头朝罗恩看了几眼。罗恩显得非常得意。

  大礼堂的天花板瓦蓝瓦蓝的,飘着几缕淡淡的浮云,就像高高的、装着竖框的窗户外面的天空一样。哈利和罗恩一边大口喝粥,吃着鸡蛋和火腿,一边把前一天晚上跟海格的那段尴尬的对话告诉了赫敏。

  “他不可能真的以为我们还会去上保护神奇生物课吧!”赫敏显得很苦恼,说道,“我是说,其实我们谁也没有表示出……你们知道的……表示出任何热情呀。”

  “是这么回事。对吧?”罗恩说着把一个炸鸡蛋囫囵吞了下去,“因为我们喜欢海格,所以在他的课上是最用功的。可他还以为我们喜欢那门愚蠢的功课呢。你们说有谁会去上他的提高班呢?”

  哈利和赫敏都没有回答。这个问题无需回答。他们知道得很清楚,在他们年级中,没有一个人想上保护神奇生物课的。十分钟后,当海格离开教工餐桌,兴高采烈地跟他们挥手打招呼时,他们躲避着他的目光,浮皮潦草地朝他挥了挥手。

  吃过早饭,他们仍然坐在座位上,等麦格教授从教工餐桌上下来。这学期发放课程表的工作比往常复杂,麦格教授先要确保每一个学生的O.W.Ls成绩达到要求,才能让他继续学习他所选择的N.E.W.Ts提高班课程。

  赫敏的课程立刻就确定下来了,她要继续学习魔咒、黑魔法防御术、变形术、草药学、

  算术占卜、古代魔文和魔药学。她没再耽搁,立刻赶去上第一节古代魔文课了。纳威的情况多费了一些周折。麦格教授低头看着他的申请,一边核对他的O.W.Ls成绩,纳威圆圆的脸上满是焦虑。

  “草药学,很好,”她说,“O.W.Ls成绩是‘优秀’,斯普劳特夫人肯定很高兴看到你回去。黑魔法防御术的成绩是‘良好’,也有资格继续选修。问题是变形课。对不起,隆巴顿,‘及格’的成绩不够好,不能进修变形课的N.E.W.Ts课程,我担心你可能会跟不上的。”

  纳威垂下了脑袋。麦格教授透过方形眼镜片望着他。

  “你为什么要继续学习变形课呢?我觉得你好像不是特别喜欢它。”

  纳威显得很难过,嘴里嘟囔了一句什么,像是“我奶奶要我学的”。

  “噢,”麦格教授哼着鼻子说,“你奶奶终于知道该为她的孙子感到骄傲,而不是总认为她的孙子应该更优秀了——特别是在发生了魔法部的那件事之后。”

  纳威的脸变得绯红,眼睛困惑地眨巴着。麦格教授以前从来没有表扬过他。

  “对不起,隆巴顿,我不能让你进入我的提高班。不过,我看到你的魔咒课成绩是‘良好’——你为什么不申请魔咒课的提高班呢?”

  “我奶奶认为选魔咒课是图省事。”纳威嘟囔道。

  “选魔咒课吧,”麦格教授说,“我要给奥古斯塔写封信提醒她,不能因为她的魔咒课O.W.Ls考试不及格,就认为这门功课不值得一学。”看到纳威脸上不敢相信的欣喜表情,麦格教授用魔杖尖敲了敲一张空白课程表,然后递给了纳威,那上面已经详细填好了他这学期要上的课。

  接着,麦格教授转向了帕瓦蒂·佩蒂尔。佩蒂尔的第一个问题是,那个漂亮的马人费伦泽今年还教不教占卜课。

  “他和特里劳妮教授今年共同承担占卜课。”麦格教授的语气里透着一丝不快,大家都知道她一向看不起占卜课。“给六年级上占卜课的是特里劳妮教授。”

  五分钟后,帕瓦蒂垂头丧气地去上占卜课了。

  “下面,波特。波特……”麦格教授一边查看她的笔记,一边转向哈利,“魔咒,黑魔法防御术,草药学,变形术……都可以。我得说一句,我对你变形术的成绩很满意,波特,非常满意。可是,你为什么不申请继续学习魔药课呢?我记得你的理想是将来当一名傲罗!”

  “是的,可是你曾告诉我,我的魔药课O.W.Ls成绩必须达到‘优秀’才行,教授。”

  “斯内普教授教这门课的时候是这样。斯拉格霍恩教授很愿意接受O.W.Ls成绩‘良好’的学生进入提高班。你愿意继续学习魔药课吗?”

  “愿意,”哈利说,“但是我没买课本和原料什么的——”

  “我相信斯拉格霍恩教授可以借给你一些。”麦格教授说,“很好,波特,这是你的课程表。对了,顺便说一句——已经有二十位同学报名参加魁地奇球队了。到时候我把名单给你,你抽空安排一下选拔赛。”

  几分钟后,罗恩的课程表也排好了,他要上的课跟哈利一样,他们俩一起离开了餐桌。

  “看,”罗恩看着他的课程表高兴地说,“我们现在没有课……课间休息以后又没有课……吃过午饭还是没有课……太棒了!”

  他们回到了公共休息室,里面只有六七个七年级的学生,凯蒂·贝尔也在,她是哈利一年级时加入的那支格兰芬多魁地奇球队里仅剩的一名队员。

  “我就猜到你会得到它的,真不错。”她指着哈利胸前的队长徽章大声对他说道,“进行选拔赛时告诉我一声!”

  “别说傻话了,”哈利说,“你用不着参加选拔,我看着你打球已经有五年了……”

  “你可别一开始就这么做。”她警告说,“你们都知道有些人的球技比我好得多。以前有一些很不错的球队,就因为队长总让熟面孔打球,让自己的朋友入队,结果把好好儿的球队给毁了……”

  罗恩有点儿不自在了,低头玩起了赫敏从四年级学生那里没收来的狼牙飞碟。飞碟在公共休息室里飞来飞去,咆哮着去咬墙上的挂毯。克鲁克山的黄眼睛紧盯着它,每次看到它飞过来,便发出嘶嘶的叫声。

  一个小时后,他们满不情愿地离开了洒满阳光的公共休息室,到楼下去上黑魔法防御术课。赫敏已经排在教室外面了,她怀里抱着一大堆沉甸甸的书,一副受了虐待的样子。

  “魔文课的作业一大堆,”她焦虑地说,这时哈利和罗恩跟她一起排进了队伍里,“一篇十五英寸长的文章,两篇翻译,还要在星期三之前读完这么多书!”

  “真倒霉。”罗恩打了个哈欠说。

  “你等着吧,”赫敏愤愤地说,“我敢说斯内普也会给我们布置一大堆作业。”

  就在她说话的当儿,教室的门开了,斯内普走到了走廊里。他和以前一样,油腻腻的黑发从两边分下来,框住了那张蜡黄色的脸。队伍里立刻沉默下来。

  “进来。”他说。

  走进教室时,哈利四下里看了看。斯内普已经在这间教室里烙上了他自己的性格特征。窗帘拉得紧紧的,只有蜡烛发出的微光,光线比平常更加昏暗。墙上贴了一些以前没有的图画,许多画面上都是遭受痛苦的人、狰狞的伤口和离奇扭曲的身体局部。同学们坐下后,谁也没有说话,都扭头望着墙上这些阴森恐怖的图画。

  “我还没有叫你们把书拿出来。”斯内普说着关上教室的门,走到讲台后面面对着全班同学。赫敏赶紧把她那本《遭遇无脸妖怪》扔回书包,塞进了椅子下面。“我有话要对你们说,希望你们的注意力高度集中。”

  他那双黑眼睛扫过一张张仰起的面孔,在哈利脸上停留的时间比别人略微长一些。

  “迄今为止,这门课程想必你们已经换过五位老师了。”

  想必……就好像你没有看见他们一个个来了又走了似的,斯内普,希望下一个就是你。哈利尖刻地想。

  “不用说,这些老师都有他们自己的教学方式和教学重点。在这种混乱的状况下,我很吃惊你们竟然有这么多人还勉强通过了这门课的O.W.Ls考试。如果你们都能跟上提高班的课程,我将会更加吃惊,因为它的内容要高深得多。”

  斯内普走下讲台,绕着教室走来走去,说话的声音放低了。为了能看见他,同学们一个个伸长了脖子。

  “黑魔法,”斯内普说,“五花八门,种类繁多,变化多端,永无止境。与它们搏斗,就像与一只多头怪物搏斗,刚砍掉一个脑袋,立刻又冒出一个新的脑袋,比原先那个更凶狠、更狡猾。你们所面对的是一种变幻莫测、不可毁灭的东西。”

  哈利盯着斯内普。把黑魔法当成危险的敌人来重视是一码事,而像斯内普这样,用喜爱和景仰的口吻谈论它们,就显然是另一码事了。

  “因此,你们的防御,”斯内普稍稍提高了音量说,“也必须像你们需要对付的黑魔法一样灵活多变,富有创新。这些图画,”他一边走一边顺手指指其中几幅,“生动表现了那些受害者的情形,比如说,中了钻心咒,”(他挥手一指一个显然在痛苦惨叫的女巫)“感受到摄魂怪的亲吻,”(一个男巫蜷缩在墙角,两眼失神)“或遭到阴尸的侵害,”(地上一摊血迹)。

  “那么,人们真的看见过阴尸吗?”帕瓦蒂·佩蒂尔用尖细的声音问,“他是不是真的在利用阴尸?”

  “黑魔王过去使用过阴尸,”斯内普说,“这意味着我们应当假设他还会再次使用它们。好了……”

  他又绕到教室的另一边朝讲台走去,黑色的长袍在身后摆动着,全班同学的目光又一次追随着他。

  “……我想,你们对于无声咒的使用还很陌生。无声咒有什么好处?”

  赫敏立刻举起了手。斯内普不慌不忙地扫视了一下全班同学,看到没有别的选择,才生硬地说:“很好——格兰杰小姐?”

  “对手不知道你打算施什么魔法,”赫敏说,“这就使你占有一刹那间的优势。”

  “这个回答是原封不动地从《标准咒语,六级》上抄来的,”斯内普轻蔑地说(马尔福在墙角发出了讥笑),“不过基本正确。是的,施魔法时不把咒语大声念出来,可以达到一种出其不意的效果。当然啦,不是所有的巫师都能做到这点的。这需要很强的注意力和意志力,而有些人,”他的目光又一次停留在哈利脸上,“是没有的。”

  哈利知道,斯内普想起了上学期那几节糟糕透顶的大脑封闭术课。哈利不肯垂下眼睛,怒视着斯内普,最后是斯内普移开了目光。

  “现在你们分成两个人一组,”斯内普继续说道,“一个试着给另一个施恶咒,但不许念出声来。另一个试着击退那个恶咒,同样也不许出声。开始吧。”

  斯内普不知道,上学期哈利教过班上半数同学(那些曾是D.A.成员的同学)怎样施铁甲咒。不过,他们谁也没有不出声地念过这个咒语。可想而知,接下来便是大量的作弊。许多同学在小声地念咒语,只是不把声音放大而已。不出所料,课上到十分钟的时候,赫敏一个字也没说就成功击退了纳威小声念出的软腿咒。哈利怨恨地想,这么了不起的成绩,换了任何一位通情达理的老师,都会给格兰芬多加二十分的,可是斯内普只当没看见。同学们练习时,他拖着长袍在他们中间巡视,和以前一样,如同一只巨大的蝙蝠,并故意停下来注视哈利和罗恩艰难地练习着。

  罗恩要给哈利施恶咒,脸憋得红红的,嘴巴闭得紧紧的,生怕自己挡不住诱惑轻声念出咒语。哈利举着魔杖,提心吊胆地等着击退一个看来永远不会发过来的咒语。

  “真差劲,韦斯莱。”斯内普看了一会儿,说道,“来——让我做给你看——”

  说时迟那时快,他突然把魔杖转向了哈利,哈利本能地做出反应,把无声咒的事忘得一干二净,大喊一声:“盔甲护身!”

  他的铁甲咒力量太大了,斯内普被击得失去了平衡,撞在一张桌子上。全班同学都转过头来,看着斯内普挣扎着站稳脚跟,满脸怒容。

  “你还记得我告诉过你,我们在练习无声咒吗,波特?”

  “记得。”哈利生硬地说。

  “记得,先生。”

  “用不着叫我‘先生’,教授。”

  没等他反应过来,这句话已脱口而出。几个同学吃惊得抽了一口冷气,包括赫敏。然而在斯内普身后,罗恩、迪安和西莫的脸上露出了赞赏的笑容。

  “关禁闭,星期六晚上,在我的办公室。”斯内普说,“我不允许任何人对我无礼,波特……即便是救世之星。”

  “太漂亮了,波特!”片刻之后,他们出来课间休息时,罗恩开心地咯咯笑着说。

  “你真不应该那么说的。”赫敏朝罗恩皱着眉头说,“你当时是怎么了?”

  “他想给我施恶咒,你大概没有注意到!”哈利气冲冲地说,“我在那些大脑封闭术课上已经受够了这一套!他为什么不另外找个人给他当试验品?邓布利多葫芦里卖的什么药,竟然让他来教防御术?你有没有听见他谈黑魔法时的那种口气?他喜欢它们!所有那些变幻莫测、不可毁灭的东西——”

  “是啊,”赫敏说,“我觉得他的口气有点儿像你。”

  “像我?”

  “是啊,你告诉我们面对伏地魔的感觉时就是这么说的。你说,光靠背熟一大堆咒语是不行的,还需要你整个人、你的头脑和你的勇气——嘿,这不就是斯内普说的吗?他不是说这涉及到勇敢和思维敏捷吗?”

  哈利没料到赫敏居然认为他的话像《标准咒语》一样值得牢记在心,他顿时消了怒气,没有再说什么。

  “哈利!嘿,哈利!”

  哈利扭头一看,杰克·斯劳珀——上学期格兰芬多魁地奇球队的一名击球手——匆匆朝他奔来,手里拿着一卷羊皮纸。

  “给你的。”斯劳珀气喘吁吁地说,“听着,我听说你当上了队长。什么时候搞选拔赛?”

  “还没定下来呢,”哈利说,他私下里认为斯劳珀重回球队,除非吉星高照,“到时候我会通知你的。”

  “噢,好吧。我本来希望会在这个周末——”

  可是哈利已经不再听他说了,他认出了羊皮纸上细长、歪斜的字体。没等斯劳珀把话说完,他就和罗恩、赫敏匆匆走开了,他边走边展开了羊皮纸。

  亲爱的哈利:

  我打算本周六就开始给你单独上课。请在晚上八点到我的办公室来。希望你开学第一天过得很愉快。

  你忠实的

  阿不思·邓布利多

  又及:我喜欢酸味汽水。

  “他喜欢酸味汽水?”罗恩说,他隔着哈利的肩头把短信看了一遍,一脸的迷惑不解。

  “这是通过他办公室外面那只石头怪兽的口令。”哈利压低声音说,“哈!斯内普肯定会不高兴……我不能去他那儿关禁闭了!”

  整个课间休息时,哈利、罗恩和赫敏都在猜测邓布利多会教哈利什么。罗恩认为很可能是食死徒不知道的一些特殊的咒语和魔法。赫敏说这些东西是不合法的,她认为邓布利多更有可能教哈利一些高深的魔法防御术。课间休息结束后,她去上算术占卜课了,哈利和罗恩回到公共休息室,满不情愿地开始做斯内普布置的家庭作业。作业太难了,吃完午饭后的休息时间里,赫敏也来做作业时,他们的作业还没有做完(不过赫敏一来,速度就快得多了)。刚刚做完,下午两节魔药课的铃声就响了。他们顺着熟悉的路赶往地下教室,那里很长时间以来一直是斯内普专用的。

  他们来到教室外面的走廊里,看见只有十二三个同学来上提高班。显然,克拉布和高尔的O.W.Ls成绩没有达到要求,但是有四个斯莱特林学生考试通过了,其中就有马尔福。另外还有四个拉文克劳学生和一个赫奇帕奇学生——厄尼·麦克米兰,他尽管为人有些自负傲慢,但是哈利很喜欢他。

  “哈利,”厄尼看见哈利走近,便伸出一只手,端着架子说,“上午的黑魔法防御术课上没有机会跟你说话。课上得不错,不过对于我们这些D.A.老成员来说,铁甲咒已经是老掉牙了……你们怎么样,罗恩——赫敏?”

  他们只来得及说了一句“还好”,地下教室的门就打开了,斯拉格霍恩人还没露面,那个大肚子就已经先挺了出来。同学们鱼贯走进教室,他的海象胡子在笑眯眯的嘴巴上抖动着,他招呼哈利和沙比尼时显得格外热情。

  与往常不同的是,地下教室里已经弥漫着蒸气,充满了各种古怪的气味。哈利、罗恩和赫敏走过一只只冒泡的大坩埚,饶有兴趣地闻着。四个斯莱特林学生坐一张桌子,四个拉文克劳学生也是一样。这么一来,哈利、罗恩和赫敏就只好跟厄尼坐在一起了。他们挑了一张离一只金色坩埚最近的桌子,坩埚里散发出阵阵香气。

  哈利从没有闻过这么诱人的气味:它使他同时想到了蜂蜜馅饼,想到了飞天扫帚的木头味儿,还想到了一股准是在陋居闻到过的花香味儿。他发现自己正缓缓地、深深地往里吸气,药剂的气味像酒精一样充盈在他体内,一种巨大的满足感慢慢向他袭来。他咧嘴朝罗恩笑着,罗恩也在懒洋洋地望着他笑。

  “好了,好了,好了,”斯拉格霍恩说。隔着许多热腾腾的蒸气望去,他那大块头的身形显得飘飘忽忽的。“各位同学,请拿出天平、药包,还有,别忘了拿出你们的《高级魔药制作》课本……”

  “先生?”哈利举起手说。

  “怎么啦,哈利?”

  “我没有书,没有天平,什么也没有——罗恩也是——因为,我们没想到还能上提高班——”

  “啊,对了,麦格教授提到过这事……别担心,孩子,一点儿也不用担心。你们今天可以先用储藏柜里的原料,天平也可以借给你们,这里还有一些旧课本,你们先用着,然后你们可以写信给丽痕书店……”

  斯拉格霍恩大步走到墙角的一个储藏柜前,在里面摸索了一会儿,拿出两本破破烂烂的、

  利巴修·波拉奇所著的《高级魔药制作》,和两套暗淡退色的天平一起递给了哈利和罗恩。

  “好了,”斯拉格霍恩说着回到教室前面,他把已经很鼓的胸膛又往前挺了挺,马甲上的纽扣眼看就要迸掉了,“我准备了几种药剂让你们开开眼界,当然啦,只是出于兴趣。等你们完成了提高班的课程,就应该能做出这样的东西了。虽然你们没有亲手做过,但肯定听说过。谁能告诉我这一种是什么?”

  他指着最靠近斯莱特林桌子的那只坩埚。哈利微微从座位上欠起身,看见那里面像是一锅清水在翻滚。

  赫敏那只久经锻炼的手抢先举了起来。斯拉格霍恩指了指她。

  “是吐真剂,一种无色、无味的药剂,强迫喝它的人说出实话。”赫敏说。

  “很好,很好!”斯拉格霍恩高兴地说。“现在,”他指着最靠近拉文克劳桌子的那只坩埚,继续说道,“这种比较出名……最近部里发的几本小册子上也重点介绍过……谁能——?”

  赫敏的手又一次抢先举了起来。

  “是复方汤剂,先生。”她说。

  哈利也认出了第二只坩埚里那慢慢泛着气泡的泥浆一般的东西,但他并不嫉妒赫敏回答这个问题。毕竟,在他们二年级时,是她成功地熬制出了这种药剂。

  “太好了,太好了!还有这里的这种……你说,亲爱的?”斯拉格霍恩说,他看见赫敏的手又一次举起,显得有点儿惊异。

  “是迷情剂!”

  “一点儿不错。似乎根本用不着问,”斯拉格霍恩这时显出了由衷的佩服,说道,“我想你肯定知道它是做什么用的?”

  “它是世界上最有效的爱情魔药!”赫敏说。

  “非常正确!我想,你是通过它特有的珍珠母的光泽认出来的吧?”

  “还有它特有的呈螺旋形上升的蒸气,”赫敏兴趣盎然地说,“而且,它的气味因人而异,根据各人最喜欢什么。我可以闻到刚修剪过的草地,崭新的羊皮纸,还有——”

  她突然绯红了脸,不再往下说了。

  “亲爱的,可以把你的名字告诉我吗?”斯拉格霍恩问道,似乎没注意到赫敏的不好意思。

  “赫敏·格兰杰,先生。”

  “格兰杰?格兰杰?你是不是跟非凡药剂师协会的创办人赫托克·达格沃斯-格兰杰有亲戚关系?”

  “不,应该不是,先生。我是麻瓜出身。”

  哈利看见马尔福凑近诺特低声嘀咕了几句什么,两人偷偷地笑了起来。可是斯拉格霍恩倒没有表示出失望的样子。相反,他满脸笑容,看看赫敏,又看看坐在她身边的哈利。

  “嗬,对了!‘我有一个最好的朋友也是麻瓜出身,她是全年级最优秀的!’我敢断定,这就是你说的那位朋友吧,哈利?”

  “是的,先生。”哈利说。

  “很好,很好,给格兰芬多的格兰杰小姐加上当之无愧的二十分。”斯拉格霍恩亲切地说。

  马尔福脸上的表情就跟上次赫敏迎面给他一拳时差不多。赫敏喜滋滋地转向哈利,小声说:“你真的对他说过我是全年级最优秀的?哦,哈利!”

  “得了,这有什么了不起的?”罗恩小声说,他不知为什么显得有些恼怒,“你本来就是全年级最优秀的嘛——如果他问我,我也会这么说的!”

  赫敏笑了,但又做了个“嘘”的手势,以便他们能听见斯拉格霍恩说话。罗恩看上去有点不高兴。

  “当然啦,迷情剂并不能真的创造爱情。爱情是不可能制造或仿造的。不,这种药剂只会导致强烈的痴迷或迷恋。这大概是这间教室里最危险、最厉害的一种药剂了——对,没错,”他朝马尔福和诺特严肃地点了点头,他们俩正在那里怀疑地讥笑,“等你们的人生阅历像我这么丰富之后,就不会低估中了魔的痴情有多么大的威力了……

  “现在,”斯拉格霍恩接着说,“我们应该开始上课了。”

  “先生,你还没有告诉我们这里面是什么呢。”厄尼·麦克米兰指着斯拉格霍恩讲台上的一只黑色的小坩埚说。那只小坩埚里面的药剂欢快地飞溅着,它的颜色如同熔化了的金子,在表面跳跃着的大滴大滴液体,像一条条金鱼,但没有一滴洒到外面。

  “嗬!”斯拉格霍恩又来了这么一声。哈利相信斯拉格霍恩根本没有忘记那种药剂,他只是等着别人来问,以制造一种戏剧性的效果。“对了,那种还没说呢。女士们先生们,那玩意儿是一种最为奇特的小魔药,叫福灵剂。我想,”他笑眯眯地转过身来看着发出一声惊叫的赫敏,“你肯定知道福灵剂有什么作用吧,格兰杰小姐?”

  “它是幸运药水,”赫敏兴奋地说,“会给你带来好运!”

  全班同学似乎顿时挺直了腰板。哈利只能看见马尔福那油光水滑的黄头发后脑勺,因为马尔福终于全神贯注地听斯拉格霍恩讲课了。

  “非常正确,给格兰芬多再加十分。是的,这是一种奇特的小魔药——福灵剂,”斯拉格霍恩说,“熬制起来非常复杂,一旦弄错,后果不堪设想。不过,如果熬制得法,就像这坩埚里的一样,你会发现你不管做什么都会成功……至少在药效消失之前。”

  “那为什么人们不整天喝它呢,先生?”泰瑞·布特急切地问。

  “因为,如果过量服用,就会导致眩晕、鲁莽和危险的狂妄自大。”斯拉格霍恩说,“你们知道,好东西多了也有害……剂量太大,便有很强的毒性。不过如果偶尔谨慎地、有节制地服用一点儿……”

  “你服用过吗,先生?”迈克尔·科纳兴趣很浓地问。

  “我这辈子服用过两次,”斯拉格霍恩说,“一次是二十四岁,一次是五十七岁。早饭时服用了两勺。那两天过得真是完美啊。”

  他神情恍惚地凝望着远处。哈利觉得,不管他是不是在演戏,那效果是很诱人的。

  “这个嘛,”斯拉格霍恩似乎回到了现实中,说道,“我将作为这节课的奖品。”

  教室里一片寂静,周围那些药剂的每一个冒泡声、沸腾声似乎都放大了十倍。

  “小小一瓶福灵剂,”斯拉格霍恩从口袋里掏出一个塞着木塞的小玻璃瓶,举给全班同学看,“可以带来十二个小时的好运。从天亮到天黑,你不管做什么都会吉星高照。

  “不过,我必须提醒你们,福灵剂在有组织的比赛中是禁止使用的……比如体育竞赛、考试或竞选。因此,拿到奖品的人,只能在平常日子里使用……然后等着看那个平常日子会变得怎么不同寻常!

  “那么,”斯拉格霍恩说,突然变得精神振奋起来,“怎么才能赢得我这份奇妙的奖品呢?好,请把《高级魔药制作》翻到第十页。我们还有一个多小时,你们就用这段时间好好地熬制一份活地狱汤剂。我知道,这比你们以前做过的任何东西都要复杂,我也不指望有人熬出十全十美的汤剂。不过,做得最好的那个人将会赢得这小瓶福灵剂。好了,开始吧!”

  只听得一片刺耳的擦刮声,大家都把坩埚拉到了自己面前,然后是咣当咣当把砝码放在天平上的声音,但是没有一个人说话,同学们高度集中的注意力简直触手可及。

  哈利看见马尔福在疯狂地翻他那本《高级魔药制作》。马尔福显然很想得到那幸运的一天,这是再清楚不过的了。哈利赶紧低头看斯拉格霍恩借给他的那本破破烂烂的课本。

  令他恼火的是,他发现课本以前的主人在书上到处乱写,弄得每一页的空白处也跟印着药剂的地方一样黑糊糊的。哈利一边低头辨认药剂成份(以前那位主人在这部分内容上也做了许多注解,还划掉了几种成份),一边匆匆奔向储藏柜,寻找他需要的东西。当他冲回自己的坩埚时,看见马尔福正在飞快地切着缬草根。

  每个人都不停地张望其他同学在做什么,这既是魔药课上的一个优点,也是一个缺点,你很难不让别人看见你做的事情。十分钟后,整个教室里已弥漫着淡蓝色的蒸气。不用说,进展最快的似乎还是赫敏。她的药剂已经很接近那种“调匀的、茶褐色的液体”,书上说这正是药剂熬到一半时的理想状态。

  哈利切完了草根,又低头去看课本。真是太让人气恼了,他必须费力地从课本原来的那位主人胡乱涂写的文字中辨认出操作指南。那位老兄不知为什么,不同意书上说的要把瞌睡豆切成片,而是另外写了一条说明:

  用银短刀的侧面挤压,比切片更容易出汁。

  “先生,我想你一定认识我爷爷阿布拉克萨斯·马尔福吧?”

  哈利抬头一看,斯拉格霍恩正走过斯莱特林的桌子。

  “认识,”斯拉格霍恩看也没看马尔福,说道,“听说他死了,我很难过,不过这也是意料当中的事,那么大岁数还患了龙疫梅毒……”

  说着他就走开了。哈利幸灾乐祸地暗笑着,又埋头对付他的坩埚。他看得出来,马尔福希望像哈利或沙比尼那样得到斯拉格霍恩的另眼相看,甚至还希望得到当年斯内普对他的那种优待。不过眼下看来,马尔福要想赢得那瓶福灵剂只能靠自己的聪明才智了。

  哈利发现瞌睡豆很难切。他转向了赫敏。

  “我能借你的银刀子用用吗?”

  赫敏不耐烦地点了点头,眼睛一刻也没有离开她的药剂。书上说,药剂现在应该变成一种淡雪青色了,可她的埚里还是深紫色的。

  哈利用短刀的侧面挤压着瞌睡豆。真没想到,豆子立刻渗出了大量的汁液,哈利简直不敢相信那颗干瘪瘪的豆子里竟有那么多水分。他赶紧把汁液放进他的坩埚,药剂立刻变成了书上所说的那种淡雪青色,他真是惊讶极了。

  哈利对先前那位主人的恼怒立刻烟消云散,他眯起眼睛读着下一条说明。课本上说,他必须逆时针搅拌,直到药剂变得像水一样清。可根据先前那位主人所加的笔记,他应该逆时针搅拌七下之后再顺时针搅拌一下。那位老兄会两次都说对吗?

  哈利屏住呼吸,逆时针搅拌了七下,又顺时针搅拌了一下。效果立竿见影,药剂立刻变成了淡淡的粉红色。

  “你是怎么做到的?”赫敏问,她的坩埚里冒出的热气熏得她满脸通红,头发也越来越乱了。她的药剂还是紫色的,丝毫不肯改变。

  “再顺时针搅拌一下——”

  “不行,不行,书上说的是逆时针!”她武断地说。

  哈利耸了耸肩,继续忙他自己的药剂。逆时针搅拌七下,顺时针搅拌一下,停一停,再逆时针搅拌七下,顺时针搅拌一下……

  桌子那边的罗恩一直在低声地骂个不停,他的药剂看上去就像是稀薄的甘草糖。哈利的目光在教室里扫了一圈,没有看见哪个同学的药剂像他的一样变成了浅色。他觉得精神大振,这可是这间地下教室里以前从没有过的事情。

  “好,时间……到!”斯拉格霍恩大声说道,“请停止搅拌!”

  斯拉格霍恩在桌子之间慢慢走动着,轮流检查每一只坩埚。他没作任何评论,只是偶尔搅拌一下,或凑上去闻一闻。最后,他走到了哈利、罗恩、赫敏和厄尼的桌子旁。他朝罗恩埚里那堆柏油似的东西苦笑了一下,又从厄尼熬出的那埚蓝色混合物旁走了过去。看到赫敏的药剂,他赞许地点了点头。可当他看见哈利坩埚里的东西时,脸上露出了难以置信的喜悦神色。

  “无可争议的优胜者!”他对地下教室的全班同学大声说,“出色,太出色了,哈利!天哪,你显然继承了你母亲的天赋,莉莉当年在魔药课上就是如此心灵手巧!给,拿去吧——我说话算数,给你一瓶福灵剂,好好利用!”

  哈利把那一小瓶金色液体塞进了袍子里面的口袋,心情十分复杂,几个斯莱特林学生的脸上气恼的表情让他看了心花怒放,而赫敏失望的神情又让他感到内疚。罗恩则完全是一副目瞪口呆的样子。

  “你是怎么做到的?”他们离开地下教室时,他问哈利。

  “大概是运气好吧。”哈利说,因为马尔福就在旁边听着呢。

  等到他们在格兰芬多餐桌旁坐定、准备吃午饭时,他觉得比较安全了,才把实话告诉了他们。赫敏听着他的叙述,脸色越来越阴沉。

  “你大概以为我是作弊了吧?”哈利被她脸上的表情弄得很恼火,讲完后便问了她一句。

  “是啊,你并不是自己独立完成的,是不是?”她生硬地说。

  “他只是按照和我们不同的方法操作的,”罗恩说,“也可能会闯大祸的,是不是?他冒险了,所以得到了补偿。”他叹了口气。“斯拉格霍恩本来可能把那本书递给我的,可是,唉,没有谁在我那课本上写过字。从五十二页的情形来看,好像有人在上面吐过,但是——”

  “等等。”哈利左耳边上一个声音说道,他又闻到了他在斯拉格霍恩课堂里闻到的那种花香味儿。他扭头看见金妮也加入了他们的谈话。“我没有听错吧,哈利?你一直在按照别人写在一本书上的指令做事?”

  她显得惊慌而气愤。哈利立刻猜到她脑子里在想什么了。

  “这没什么,”他压低声音宽慰她道,“你知道,这不像里德尔的日记。那只是一本被人涂写过的旧课本。”

  “可是你照那上面写的做了?”

  “我只是试了试书上空白处写的几点小窍门,说实在的,金妮,没有什么蹊跷的——”

  “金妮说得有道理,”赫敏一下子来了精神,说道,“我们应该检查一下它有没有什么不对劲儿。我是说,所有那些古怪的说明,谁知道是怎么回事?”

  “喂!”哈利气愤地抗议道,赫敏一把抽出哈利书包里的那本《高级魔药制作》,举起了魔杖。

  “原形立现!”她干脆利落地敲了敲封面,念道。

  什么动静也没有。课本还是课本,破旧,肮脏,书角都卷起来了。

  “完了吗?”哈利恼火地问,“你还想等着看它会不会来几个后滚翻?”

  “看来没问题,”赫敏仍然怀疑地盯着课本,说道,“我是说,它看上去确实……只是一本课本。”

  “很好,那我就把它拿回来了。”哈利说着就把课本从桌上夺了过去,可是课本从他手里滑落下来,掉在地上摊开了。

  谁也没有注意。哈利弯下腰正要把书捡起来,就在这时,他看见封底的下端写着什么东西,还是那种小小的、密密麻麻的笔迹,跟那些帮他赢得福灵剂的说明的笔迹一样,而那瓶福灵剂,现在已经安安稳稳地藏在楼上他箱子里的一双袜子里了。


zy32593

ZxID:12679754


等级: 内阁元老
配偶: 十夜凉
你笑起来真好看  像夏天的阳光
举报 只看该作者 19楼  发表于: 2014-01-24 0

Chapter 10 The House of Gaunt

For or the rest of the week's Potions lessons Harry continued to follow the Half-Blood Prince's instructions wherever they deviated from Libatius Borage's, with the
result that by their fourth lesson Slughorn was raving about Harry's abilities, saying that he had rarely taught anyone so talented. Neither Ron nor Hermione was
delighted by this. Although Harry had offered to share his book with both of them, Ron had more difficulty deciphering the handwriting than Harry did, and could not
keep asking Harry to read aloud or it might look suspicious. Hermione, meanwhile, was resolutely plowing on with what she called the “official” instructions, but
becoming increasingly bad-tempered as they yielded poorer results than the Prince's.
Harry wondered vaguely who the Half-Blood Prince had been. Although the amount of homework they had been given prevented him from reading the whole of his copy of
Advanced Potion-Making, he had skimmed through it sufficiently to see that there was barely a page on which the Prince had not made additional notes, not all of them
concerned with potion-making. Here and there were directions for what looked like spells that the Prince had made up himself.
“Or herself,” said Hermione irritably, overhearing Harry pointing some of these out to Ron in the common room on Saturday evening. “It might have been a girl. I
think the handwriting looks more like a girl's than a boy's.”
“The Half-Blood Prince, he was called,” Harry said. “How many girls have been princes?”
Hermione seemed to have no answer to this. She merely scowled and twitched her essay on “The Principles of Rematerialization” away from Ron, who was trying to read it
upside down.
Harry looked at his watch and hurriedly put the old copy of Advanced Potion-Making back into his bag.
“It's five to eight, I'd better go, I'll be late for Dumbledore.”
“Ooooh!” gasped Hermione, looking up at once. “Good luck! We'll wait up, we want to hear what he teaches you!”
“Hope it goes okay,” said Ron, and the pair of them watched Harry leave through the portrait hole.
Harry proceeded through deserted corridors, though he had to step hastily behind a statue when Professor Trelawney appeared around a corner, muttering to herself as she
shuffled a pack of dirty-looking playing cards, reading them as she walked.
“Two of spades: conflict,” she murmured, as she passed the place where Harry crouched, hidden. “Seven of spades: an ill omen. Ten of spades: violence. Knave of
spades: a dark young man, possibly troubled, one who dislikes the questioner —”
She stopped dead, right on the other side of Harry's statue.
“Well, that can't be right,” she said, annoyed, and Harry heard her reshuffling vigorously as she set off again, leaving nothing but a whiff of cooking sherry behind
her. Harry waited until he was quite sure she had gone, then hurried off again until he reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood
against the wall.
“Acid Pops,” said Harry, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry stepped, so
that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's Office.
Harry knocked.
“Come in,” said Dumbledore s voice.
“Good evening, sir,” said Harry, walking into the Headmaster's office.
“Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “I hope you've had an enjoyable first week back at school?”
“Yes, thanks, sir,” said Harry.
“You must have been busy, a detention under your belt already!”
“Er,” began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did not look too stern.
“I have arranged with Professor Snape that you will do your detention next Saturday instead.”
“Right,” said Harry, who had more pressing matters on his mind than Snape's detention, and now looked around surreptitiously for some indication of what Dumbledore
was planning to do with him this evening. The circular office looked just as it always did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puffing
smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Dumbledore's magnificent phoenix, Fawkes, stood on his perch behind
the door, watching Harry with bright interest. It did not even look as though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling practice.
“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore, in a businesslike voice. “You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you during these—for want of a better word —
lessons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information.”
There was a pause.
“You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything,” said Harry. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. “Sir,” he added.
“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying
together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed
the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron.”
“But you think you're right?” said Harry.
“Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being — forgive me—rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend
to be correspondingly huger.”
“Sir,” said Harry tentatively, “does what you're going to tell me have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help me... survive?”
“It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy,” said Dumbledore, as casually as if Harry had asked him about the next day's weather, “and I certainly hope that
it will help you to survive.”
Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk, past Harry, who turned eagerly in his seat to watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside the door. When
Dumbledore straightened up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry.
“You look worried.”
Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts and memories, though
highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished. But Dumbledore was
smiling.
“This time, you enter the Pensieve with me... and, even more unusually, with permission.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
“For a trip down Bob Ogden's memory lane,” said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance.
“Who was Bob Ogden?”
“He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” said Dumbledore. “He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to
confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you will stand, Harry ...”
But Dumbledore was having difficulty pulling out the stopper of the crystal bottle: his injured hand seemed stiff and painful.
“Shall —shall I, sir?”
“No matter, Harry —”
Dumbledore pointed his wand at the bottle and the cork flew out.
“Sir—how did you injure your hand?” Harry asked again, looking at the blackened fingers with a mixture of revulsion and pity.
“Now is not the moment for that story, Harry. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden.”
Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas. “After you,” said Dumbledore,
gesturing toward the bowl.
Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance. He felt his feet leave the office floor; he was falling, falling through
whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was blinking in dazzling sunlight. Before his eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him.
They were standing in a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of them
stood a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to molelike specks. He was reading a wooden signpost that was sticking out of the
brambles on the left-hand side of the road. Harry knew this must be Ogden; he was the only person in sight, and he was also wearing the strange assortment of clothes so
often chosen by inexperienced wizards trying to look like Muggles: in this case, a frock coat and spats over a striped one-piece bathing costume. Before Harry had time
to do more than register his bizarre appearance, however, Ogden had set off at a brisk walk down the lane.
Dumbledore and Harry followed. As they passed the wooden sign, Harry looked up at its two arms. The one pointing back the way they had come read: “Great Hangleton, 5
miles". The arm pointing after Ogden said “Little Hangleton, 1 mile".
They walked a short way with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane curved to the left
and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Harry could see a village,
undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome
manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn.
Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the steep downward slope. Dumbledore lengthened his stride, and Harry hurried to keep up. He thought Little Hangleton must
be their final destination and wondered, as he had done on the night they had found Slughorn, why they had to approach it from such a distance. He soon discovered that
he was mistaken in thinking that they were going to the village, however. The lane curved to the right and when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very edge of
Ogden's frock coat vanishing through a gap in the hedge.
Dumbledore and Harry followed him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and
potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the track soon opened up at the
copse, and Dumbledore and Harry came to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand.
Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds before Harry's eyes discerned the building half-hidden amongst
the tangle of trunks. It seemed to him a very strange location to choose for a house, or else an odd decision to leave the trees growing nearby, blocking all light and
the view of the valley below. He wondered whether it was inhabited; its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in
places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Just as he had concluded that nobody could possibly live
there, however, one of the windows was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking.
Ogden moved forward quietly and, it seemed to Harry, rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to
which somebody had nailed a dead snake.
Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so fast he stood
on the tails of his frock coat and stumbled.
“You're not welcome.”
The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared
in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Harry could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces
before he spoke.
“Er—good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —”
“You're not welcome.”
“Er—I'm sorry... I don't understand you,” said Ogden nervously.
Harry thought Ogden was being extremely dim; the stranger was making himself very clear in Harry's opinion, particularly as he was brandishing a wand in one hand and a
short and rather bloody knife in the other.
“You understand him, I'm sure, Harry?” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Yes, of course,” said Harry, slightly nonplussed. “Why can't Ogden—?”
But as his eyes found the dead snake on the door again, he suddenly understood.
“He's speaking Parseltongue?”
“Very good,” said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling.
The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other.
“Now, look —” Ogden began, but too late: there was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his
fingers.
“Morfin!” said a loud voice.
An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and
oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of
a powerful, aged monkey. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.
“Ministry, is it?” said the older man, looking down at Ogden.
“Correct!” said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. “And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?”
“'S right,” said Gaunt. “Got you in the face, did he?”
“Yes, he did!” snapped Ogden.
“Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?” said Gaunt aggressively. “This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend
himself.”
“Defend himself against what, man?” said Ogden, clambering back to his feet.
“Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.”
Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke out of the
corner of his mouth to Morfin.
”Get in the house. Don't argue.”
This time, ready for it, Harry recognized Parseltongue; even while he could understand what was being said, he distinguished the weird hissing noise that was all Ogden
could hear. Morfin seemed to be on the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an
odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again.
“It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his coat. “That was Morfin, wasn't it?”
“Ar, that was Morfin,” said the old man indifferently. “Are you pure-blood?” he asked, suddenly aggressive.
“That's neither here nor there,” said Ogden coldly, and Harry felt his respect for Ogden rise.
Apparently Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogden's face and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to be an offensive tone, “Now I come to think about
it, I've seen noses like yours down in the village.”
“I don't doubt it, if your son's been let loose on them,” said Ogden. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?”
“Inside?”
“Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl —”
“I've no use for owls,” said Gaunt. “I don't open letters.”
“Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors,” said Ogden tartly. “I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in
the early hours of this morning —”
“All right, all right, all right!” bellowed Gaunt. “Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it'll do you!”
The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair
beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue:
Hissy, hissy, little snakey,
Slither on the floor
You be good to Morfin
Or he'll nail you to the door.
There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window, and Harry realized that there was somebody else in the room, a girl whose ragged gray dress was the
exact color of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalid-looking
pots and pans above it. Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother's, stared in opposite directions. She looked
a little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeated-looking person.
“M'daughter, Merope,” said Gaunt grudgingly, as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.
“Good morning,” said Ogden.
She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her.
“Well, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, “to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.

There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.
“Pick it up!” Gaunt bellowed at her. “That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what's your wand for, you useless sack of muck?”
“Mr. Gaunt, please!” said Ogden in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again, drew her
wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the opposite
wall, and crack in two.
Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!”
Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and said firmly, “Reparo.” The pot mended itself instantly.
Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it: instead, he jeered at his daughter, “Lucky the nice man from the
Ministry's here, isn't it? Perhaps he'll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn't mind dirty Squibs...”
Without looking at anybody or thanking Ogden, Merope picked up the pot and returned it, hands trembling, to its shelf. She then stood quite still, her back against the
wall between the filthy window and the stove, as though she wished for nothing more than to sink into the stone and vanish.
“Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden began again, “as I've said: the reason for my visit —”
“I heard you the first time!” snapped Gaunt. “And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him—what about it, then?”
“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden sternly.
“'Morfin has broken Wizarding law.‘” Gaunt imitated Ogden's voice, making it pompous and singsong. Morfin cackled again. “He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's
illegal now, is it?”
“Yes,” said Ogden. “I'm afraid it is.”
He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it.
“What's that, then, his sentence?” said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily.
“It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —”
“Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?”
“I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,” said Ogden.
“And you think we're scum, do you?” screamed Gaunt, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. “Scum who'll come running when
the Ministry tells ‘em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?”
“I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, looking wary, but standing his ground.
“That's right!” roared Gaunt. For a moment, Harry thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned
ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden's eyes. “See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our
family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?”
“I've really no idea,” said Ogden, blinking as the ring sailed within an inch of his nose, “and it's quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed —”
With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. For a split second, Harry thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next moment, he was
dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.
“See this?” he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath.
“I see it, I see it!” said Ogden hastily.
“Slytherins!” yelled Gaunt. “Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?”
“Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!” said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and
gulping for air.
“So!” said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. “Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your
shoes! Generations of pure-bloods, wizards all—more than you can say, I don't doubt!”
And he spat on the floor at Ogden's feet. Morfin cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window, her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, said nothing.
“Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden doggedly, “I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin
and the Muggle he accosted late last night. Our information"—he glanced down at his scroll of parchment—"is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle,
causing him to erupt in highly painful hives.”
Morfin giggled.
”Be quiet, boy,” snarled Gaunt in Parseltongue, and Morfin fell silent again.
“And so what if he did, then?” Gaunt said defiantly to Ogden, “I expect you've wiped the Muggle's filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot—”
“That's hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?” said Ogden. “This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless —”
“Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you,” sneered Gaunt, and he spat on the floor again.
“This discussion is getting us nowhere,” said Ogden firmly. “It is clear from your son's attitude that he feels no remorse for his actions.” He glanced down at his
scroll of parchment again. “Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and
distress to that same Mugg —”
Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in through the open window. Apparently the winding lane to the village
passed very close to the copse where the house stood. Gaunt froze, listening, his eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward the sounds, his expression hungry.
Merope raised her head. Her face, Harry saw, was starkly white.
“My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl's voice, as clearly audible through the open window as if she had stood in the room beside them. “Couldn't your father
have that hovel cleared away, Tom?”
“It's not ours,” said a young man's voice. “Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his
children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —”
The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of his armchair.
”Keep your seat,” said his father warningly, in Parseltongue.
“Tom,” said the girl's voice again, now so close they were clearly right beside the house, “I might be wrong—but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?”
“Good lord, you're right!” said the man's voice. “That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling.”
The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing fainter again.
“’Darling,'” whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, looking at his sister. “’Darling, he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway.”
Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint.
”What's that?” said Gaunt sharply, also in Parseltongue, looking from his son to his daughter. ”What did you say, Morfin?”
”She likes looking at that Muggle,” said Morfin, a vicious expression on his face as he stared at his sister, who now looked terrified. ”Always in the garden when he
passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night—”
Merope shook her head jerkily, imploringly, but Morfin went on ruthlessly, ”Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn't she?”
”Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?” said Gaunt quietly.
All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing and rasping.
”Is it true?” said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. ”My daughter—pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin—hankering
after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?”
Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak.
”But I got him, Father!” cackled Morfin. ”I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?”
”You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!” roared Gaunt, losing control, and his hands closed around his daughter's throat.
Both Harry and Ogden yelled “No!” at the same time; Ogden raised his wand and cried, “Relaskio!”
Gaunt was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at
Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand.
Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they ought to follow and Harry obeyed, Merope's screams echoing in his ears.
Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark-
haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the horse's flank and set
off again, his frock coat flying, covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell up the lane.
“I think that will do, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He took Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they
landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore's now twilit office.
“What happened to the girl in the cottage?” said Harry at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. “Merope, or whatever her name was?”
“Oh, she survived,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry should sit down too. “Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and
returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently
convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry
employees in addition to Ogden, received six months.”
“Marvolo?” Harry repeated wonderingly.
“That's right,” said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. “I am glad to see you're keeping up.”
“That old man was—?”
“Voldemort's grandfather, yes,” said Dumbledore. “Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family
noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a
great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a
very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his
daughter.”
“So Merope,” said Harry, leaning forward in his chair and staring at Dumbledore, “so Merope was ... Sir, does that mean she was... Voldemort's mother?”
“It does,” said Dumbledore. “And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?”
“The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?”
“Very good indeed,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope
Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion.”
“And they ended up married?” Harry said in disbelief, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love.
“I think you are forgetting,” said Dumbledore, “that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being
terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to
give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years.”
“Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?”
“The Imperius Curse?” Harry suggested. “Or a love potion?”
“Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been
very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of water. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just
witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter,
Merope.
“But the villagers’ shock was nothing to Marvolo's. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on
his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done.
“From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his
early death—or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage.”
“And Merope? She ... she died, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Dumbledore. “We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few
months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighborhood that he was
talking of being ‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’ What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not
dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle,
pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason.”
“But she did have his baby.”
“But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant.”
“What went wrong?” asked Harry. “Why did the love potion stop working?”
“Again, this is guesswork,” said Dumbledore, “but I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical
means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in
love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never
troubled to discover what became of his son.”
The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before.
“I think that will do for tonight, Harry,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two.
“Yes, sir,” said Harry.
He got to his feet, but did not leave.
“Sir ... is it important to know all this about Voldemort's past?”
“Very important, I think,” said Dumbledore.
“And it... it's got something to do with the prophecy?”
“It has everything to do with the prophecy.”
“Right,” said Harry, a little confused, but reassured all the same.
He turned to go, then another question occurred to him, and he turned back again. “Sir, am I allowed to tell Ron and Hermione everything you've told me?”
Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, “Yes, I think Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have proved themselves trustworthy. But Harry, I am going to ask you to
ask them not to repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord Voldemort's secrets.”
“No, sir, I'll make sure it's just Ron and Hermione. Good night.”
He turned away again, and was almost at the door when he saw it. Sitting on one of the little spindle-legged tables that supported so many frail-looking silver
instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a large, cracked, black stone.
“Sir,” said Harry, staring at it. “That ring—”
“Yes?” said Dumbledore.
“You were wearing it when we visited Professor Slughorn that night.”
“So I was,” Dumbledore agreed.
“But isn't it... sir, isn't it the same ring Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?”
Dumbledore bowed his head. “The very same.”
“But how come... have you always had it?”
“No, I acquired it very recently,” said Dumbledore. “A few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt and uncle's, in fact.”
“That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?”
“Around that time, yes, Harry.”
Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling.
“Sir, how exactly—?”
“Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another time. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sir.”

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