Dudley gently released himself from his mother’s clutches and walked toward Harry who had to repress an urge to threaten him with magic. Then Dudley held out his large, pink hand.
“Blimey, Dudley,” said Harry over Aunt Petunia’s renewed sobs, “did the dementors blow a different personality into you?”
“Dunno,” muttered Dudley, “See you, Harry.”
“Yea …” said Harry, raking Dudley’s hand and shaking it. “Maybe. Take care, Big D.”
Dudley nearly smiled. They lumbered from the room. Harry heard his heavy footfalls on the graveled drive, and then a car door slammed.
Aunt Petunia whose face had been buried in her handkerchief looked around at the sound. She did not seem to have expected to find herself alone with Harry. Hastily stowing her wet handkerchief into her pocket, she said, “Well – good-bye” and marched towards the door without looking at him.
“Good-bye” said Harry.
She stopped and looked back. For a moment Harry had the strangest feeling that she wanted to say something to him; She gave him an odd, tremulous look and seemed to
teeter on the edge of speech, but then, with a little of her head, she hustled out of the room after he husband and son.
Chapter 4 The Seven Potters
Harry ran back upstairs to his bedroom, arriving at the window just in time to see the Dursleys’ car swinging out of the drive and off up the road. Dedalus’s top hat was visible between Aunt Petunia and Dudley in the backseat. The car turned right at the end of Privet Drive, its windows burned scarlet for a moment in the now setting sun, and then it was gone.
Harry picked up Hedwig’s cage, his Firebolt, and his rucksack, gave his unnaturally tidy bedroom one last sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way back downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage, broomstick, and bag near the foot of the stairs. The light was fading rapidly, the hall full of shadows in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and know that he was about to leave the house for the last time. Long ago, when he had been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy themselves, the hours of solitude had been a rare treat. Pausing only to sneak something tasty from the fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley’s computer, or put on the television and flicked through the channels to his heart’s content. It gave him an odd, empty feeling remembering those times; it was like remembering a younger brother whom he had lost.
“Don’t you want to take a last look at the place?” he asked Hedwig, who was still sulking with her head under her wing. “We’ll never be here again. Don’t you want to remember all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories … Dudley sobbed on it after I saved him from the dementors … Turns out he was grateful after all, can you believe it? … And last summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door …”
Harry lost the thread of his thoughts for a moment and Hedwig did nothing to help him retrieve it, but continued to sit with her head under her wing. Harry turned his back on the front door.
“And under here, Hedwig” – Harry pulled open a door under the stairs – “is where I used to sleep! You never knew me then – Blimey, it’s small, I’d forgotten …”
Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and umbrellas remembering how he used to wake every morning looking up at the underside of the staircase, which was more often than not adorned with a spider or two. Those had been the days before he had known anything about his true identity; before he had found out how his parents had died or why such strange things often happened around him. But Harry could still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even in those days: confused dreams involving flashes of green light and once – Uncle Vernon had nearly crashed the car when Harry had recounted it – a flying motorbike …
There was a sudden, deafening roar from somewhere nearby. Harry straightened up with a jerk and smacked the top of his head on the low door frame. Pausing only to employ a few of Uncle Vernon’s choicest swear words, he staggered back into the kitchen, clutching his head and staring out of the window into the back garden.
The darkness seemed to be rippling, the air itself quivering. Then, one by one, figures began to pop into sight as their Disillusionment Charms lifted. Dominating the scene was Hagrid, wearing a helmet and goggles and sitting astride an enormous motorbike with a black sidecar attached. All around him other people were dismounting from brooms and, in two cases, skeletal, black winged horses.
Wrenching open the back door, Harry hurtled into their midst. There was a general cry of greeting as Hermione flung her arms around him, Ron clapped him on the back, and Hagrid said, “All righ’, Harry? Ready fer the off?”
“Definitely,” said Harry, beaming around at them all. “But I wasn’t expecting this many of you!”
“Change of plan,” growled Mad-Eye, who was holding two enormous bulging sacks, and whose magical eye was spinning from darkening sky to house to garden with dizzying rapidity. “Let’s get undercover before we talk you through it.”
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
he certainly likes to keep her close,
he certainly likes to keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth.”
“So,” said Harry, “the diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once
Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's?”
“An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes,” said Dumbledore, bowing his head.
“So... are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where you've been going when you've been leaving the school?”
“Correct,” said Dumbledore. “I have been looking for a very long time. I think... perhaps ... I may be close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs.”
“And if you do,” said Harry quickly, “can I come with you and help get rid of it?”
Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a moment before saying, “Yes, I think so.”
“I can?” said Harry, thoroughly taken aback.
“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. “I think you have earned that right.”
Harry felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear words of caution and protection for once. The headmasters and headmistresses around the walls seemed less
impressed by Dumbledore's decision; Harry saw a few of them shaking their heads and Phineas Nigellus actually snorted.
“Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?” Harry asked, ignoring the portraits.
“A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself have been detached for so
long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the point of death, he might be aware of his loss... but he was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been destroyed
until he forced the truth out of Lucius Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was
terrible to behold.”
“But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?”
“Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemorts say-so, and he never received
it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving him the diary. No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything with the Horcrux other than guard it
carefully, but he was counting too much upon Lucius's fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius did not know what
the diary really was. I understand that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius
known he held a portion of his master's soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence—but instead he went ahead and carried out the old
plan for his own ends. By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasley's daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one
stroke. Ah, poor Lucius... what with Voldemort's fury about the fact that he threw away the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would
not be surprised if he is not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment.”
“So,” said Harry, “the diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once
Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's?”
“An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes,” said Dumbledore, bowing his head.
“So... are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where you've been going when you've been leaving the school?”
“Correct,” said Dumbledore. “I have been looking for a very long time. I think... perhaps ... I may be close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs.”
“And if you do,” said Harry quickly, “can I come with you and help get rid of it?”
Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a moment before saying, “Yes, I think so.”
“I can?” said Harry, thoroughly taken aback.
“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. “I think you have earned that right.”
Harry felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear words of caution and protection for once. The headmasters and headmistresses around the walls seemed less
impressed by Dumbledore's decision; Harry saw a few of them shaking their heads and Phineas Nigellus actually snorted.
“Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?” Harry asked, ignoring the portraits.
“A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself have been detached for so
long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the point of death, he might be aware of his loss... but he was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been destroyed
until he forced the truth out of Lucius Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was
terrible to behold.”
“But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?”
“Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemorts say-so, and he never received
it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving him the diary. No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything with the Horcrux other than guard it
carefully, but he was counting too much upon Lucius's fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius did not know what
the diary really was. I understand that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius
known he held a portion of his master's soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence—but instead he went ahead and carried out the old
plan for his own ends. By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasley's daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one
stroke. Ah, poor Lucius... what with Voldemort's fury about the fact that he threw away the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would
not be surprised if he is not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment.”
“The diary, as you have said yourself,
“The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that he was the heir of Slytherin. I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance.”
“So, the other Horcruxes?” said Harry. “Do you think you know what they are, sir?”
“I can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “For the reasons I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain
grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort's past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have disappeared around him.”
“The locket!” said Harry loudly, “Hufflepuff's cup!”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling, “I would be prepared to bet—perhaps not my other hand—but a couple of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and four. The
remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and
Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over
Voldemort's imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw's. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor
remains safe.”
Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed within a glass case.
“Do you think that's why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts, sir?” said Harry. “To try and find something from one of the other founders?”
“My thoughts precisely,” said Dumbledore. “But unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, without the chance to
search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two—he may have found three—
that is the best we can do for now.”
“Even if he got something of Ravenclaw's or of Gryffindor's, that leaves a sixth Horcrux,” said Harry, counting on his fingers. “Unless he's got both?”
“I don't think so,” said Dumbledore. “I think I know what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about
the behavior of the snake, Nagini?”
“The snake?” said Harry, startled. “You can use animals as Horcruxes?”
“Well, it is inadvisable to do so,” said Dumbledore, “because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very
risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your parents’ house with the
intention of killing you.
“He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he
was destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with your
death. As we know, he failed. After an interval of some years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her
into his last Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort's mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything;
“So, the other Horcruxes?” said Harry. “Do you think you know what they are, sir?”
“I can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “For the reasons I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain
grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort's past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have disappeared around him.”
“The locket!” said Harry loudly, “Hufflepuff's cup!”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling, “I would be prepared to bet—perhaps not my other hand—but a couple of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and four. The
remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and
Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over
Voldemort's imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw's. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor
remains safe.”
Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall behind him, where a ruby-encrusted sword reposed within a glass case.
“Do you think that's why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts, sir?” said Harry. “To try and find something from one of the other founders?”
“My thoughts precisely,” said Dumbledore. “But unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, without the chance to
search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two—he may have found three—
that is the best we can do for now.”
“Even if he got something of Ravenclaw's or of Gryffindor's, that leaves a sixth Horcrux,” said Harry, counting on his fingers. “Unless he's got both?”
“I don't think so,” said Dumbledore. “I think I know what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about
the behavior of the snake, Nagini?”
“The snake?” said Harry, startled. “You can use animals as Horcruxes?”
“Well, it is inadvisable to do so,” said Dumbledore, “because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very
risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your parents’ house with the
intention of killing you.
“He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he
was destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with your
death. As we know, he failed. After an interval of some years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her
into his last Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort's mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything;
“I am glad to see you appreciate
“I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the problem,” said Dumbledore calmly. “But firstly, no, Harry, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of his
soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he
has no self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack—the piece that lives in his body.”
“But the six Horcruxes, then,” said Harry, a little desperately, “how are we supposed to find them?”
“You are forgetting... you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another.”
“You have?” said Harry eagerly.
“Yes indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he raised his blackened, burned-looking hand. “The ring, Harry. Marvolo's ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it too. Had it
not been—forgive me the lack of seemly modesty—for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape's timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured,
I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort's soul. The ring is no longer a
Horcrux.”
“But how did you find it?”
“Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to discover as much as I can about Voldemort's past life. I have traveled widely, visiting those
places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunt's house. It seem that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul in
side it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been
carted off to Azkaban, of course), never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical
concealment.
“However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. You destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, four
Horcruxes remain.”
“And they could be anything?” said Harry. “They could be oh, in tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion bottles...”
“You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard his own
precious soul? You are forgetting what I have showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history His pride,
his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history; these things, suggest to me that Voldemort would have
chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor.”
“The diary wasn't that special.”
soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he
has no self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack—the piece that lives in his body.”
“But the six Horcruxes, then,” said Harry, a little desperately, “how are we supposed to find them?”
“You are forgetting... you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another.”
“You have?” said Harry eagerly.
“Yes indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he raised his blackened, burned-looking hand. “The ring, Harry. Marvolo's ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it too. Had it
not been—forgive me the lack of seemly modesty—for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape's timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured,
I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort's soul. The ring is no longer a
Horcrux.”
“But how did you find it?”
“Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to discover as much as I can about Voldemort's past life. I have traveled widely, visiting those
places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunt's house. It seem that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul in
side it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been
carted off to Azkaban, of course), never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical
concealment.
“However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. You destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, four
Horcruxes remain.”
“And they could be anything?” said Harry. “They could be oh, in tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion bottles...”
“You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard his own
precious soul? You are forgetting what I have showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history His pride,
his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history; these things, suggest to me that Voldemort would have
chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor.”
“The diary wasn't that special.”
Thursday, November 25, 2010
“But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it.
“But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then—"Mrs. Cole took another swig of gin, slopping
a little over her chin this time, “on the summer outing—we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside—well, Amy Benson and Dennis
Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but
something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things...”
She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady.
“I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him.”
“You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?” said Dumbledore. “He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer.”
“Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker,” said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that
she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. “I suppose you'd like to see him?”
“Very much,” said Dumbledore, rising too.
She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all
wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.
“Here we are,” said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.
“Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you—well, I'll let him do it.”
Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron
bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.
There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish: he was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired,
and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.
“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.
The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital
patient and visitor.
“I am Professor Dumbledore.”
“'Professor'?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”
He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.
“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.
“I don't believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!”
He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had
widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if
anything, warier still.
a little over her chin this time, “on the summer outing—we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside—well, Amy Benson and Dennis
Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they'd just gone exploring, but
something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things...”
She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady.
“I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him.”
“You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?” said Dumbledore. “He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer.”
“Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker,” said Mrs. Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that
she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. “I suppose you'd like to see him?”
“Very much,” said Dumbledore, rising too.
She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all
wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.
“Here we are,” said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.
“Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you—well, I'll let him do it.”
Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron
bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.
There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle's face. Merope had got her dying wish: he was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired,
and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.
“How do you do, Tom?” said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.
The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital
patient and visitor.
“I am Professor Dumbledore.”
“'Professor'?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like ‘doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”
He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.
“No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.
“I don't believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!”
He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had
widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if
anything, warier still.
Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.
Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.
“Did she say anything before she died?” asked Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy's father, for instance?”
“Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs. Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I
remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be
named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy's surname
was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.
“Well, we named him just as she'd said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any
family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since.”
Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absent-mindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, “He's a funny
boy.”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.”
“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was... odd.”
“Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently.
“Well, he —”
But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass.
“He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?”
“Definitely,” said Dumbledore.
“And nothing I say can change that?”
“Nothing,” said Dumbledore.
“You'll be taking him away, whatever?”
“Whatever,” repeated Dumbledore gravely.
She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the other children.
”
“You mean he is a bully?” asked Dumbledore.
“I think he must be,” said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, “but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents... nasty things ...”
Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.
“Billy Stubbs's rabbit... well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?”
“I shouldn't think so, no,” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Did she say anything before she died?” asked Dumbledore. “Anything about the boy's father, for instance?”
“Now, as it happens, she did,” said Mrs. Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. “I
remember she said to me, ‘I hope he looks like his papa,’ and I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be
named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy's surname
was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word.
“Well, we named him just as she'd said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any
family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he's been here ever since.”
Mrs. Cole helped herself, almost absent-mindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, “He's a funny
boy.”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I thought he might be.”
“He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was... odd.”
“Odd in what way?” asked Dumbledore gently.
“Well, he —”
But Mrs. Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass.
“He's definitely got a place at your school, you say?”
“Definitely,” said Dumbledore.
“And nothing I say can change that?”
“Nothing,” said Dumbledore.
“You'll be taking him away, whatever?”
“Whatever,” repeated Dumbledore gravely.
She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, “He scares the other children.
”
“You mean he is a bully?” asked Dumbledore.
“I think he must be,” said Mrs. Cole, frowning slightly, “but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents... nasty things ...”
Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.
“Billy Stubbs's rabbit... well, Tom said he didn't do it and I don't see how he could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?”
“I shouldn't think so, no,” said Dumbledore quietly.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
“That can be rearranged
“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.
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“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.
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Monday, November 22, 2010
"Do tell me something amusing but not spitefu
"Do tell me something amusing but not spiteful," said the ambassador's wife, a great proficient in the art of that elegant conversation called by the English, small talk. She addressed the attache, who was at a loss now what to begin upon.
"They say that that's a difficult task, that nothing's amusing that isn't spiteful," he began with a smile. "But I'll try. Get me a subject. It all lies in the subject. If a subject's given me, it's easy to spin something round it. I often think that the celebrated talkers of the last century would have found it difficult to talk cleverly now. Everything clever is so stale..."
"That has been said long ago," the ambassador's wife interrupted him, laughing.
The conversation began amiably, but just because it was too amiable, it came to a stop again. They had to have recourse to the sure, never-failing topic--gossip.
"Don't you think there's something Louis Quinze about Tushkevitch?" he said, glancing towards a handsome, fair-haired young man, standing at the table.
"Oh, yes! He's in the same style as the drawing room and that's why it is he's so often here."
This conversation was maintained, since it rested on allusions to what could not be talked on in that room--that is to say, of the relations of Tushkevitch with their hostess.
Round the samovar and the hostess the conversation had been meanwhile vacillating in just the same way between three inevitable topics: the latest piece of public news, the theater, and scandal. It, too, came finally to rest on the last topic, that is, ill-natured gossip.
"Have you heard the Maltishtcheva woman--the mother, not the daughter--has ordered a costume in diable rose color?"
"Nonsense! No, that's too lovely!"
"I wonder that with her sense--for she's not a fool, you know-- that she doesn't see how funny she is."
Everyone had something to say in censure or ridicule of the luckless Madame Maltishtcheva, and the conversation crackled merrily, like a burning faggot-stack.
The husband of Princess Betsy, a good-natured fat man, an ardent collector of engravings, hearing that his wife had visitors, came into the drawing room before going to his club. Stepping noiselessly over the thick rugs, he went up to Princess Myakaya.
"How did you like Nilsson?" he asked.
"Oh, how can you steal upon anyone like that! How you startled me!" she responded. "Please don't talk to me about the opera; you know nothing about music. I'd better meet you on your own ground, and talk about your majolica and engravings. Come now, what treasure have yo been buying lately at the old curiosity shops?"
"Would you like me to show you? But you don't understand such things."
"Oh, do show me! I've been learning about them at those--what's their names?...the bankers...they've some splendid engravings. They showed them to us."
"Why, have you been at the Schuetzburgs?" asked the hostess from the samovar.
"Yes, ma chere. They asked my husband and me to dinner, and told us the sauce at that dinner cost a hundred pounds," Princess Myakaya said, speaking loudly, and conscious everyone was listening; "and very nasty sauce it was, some green mess. We had to ask them, and I made them sauce for eighteen pence, and everybody was very much pleased with it. I can't run to hundred-pound sauces."
"She's unique!" said the lady of the house.
"Marvelous!" said someone.
The sensation produced by Princess Myakaya's speeches was always unique, and the secret of the sensation she produced lay in the fact that though she spoke not always appropriately, as now, she said simple things with some sense in them. In the society in which she lived such plain statements produced the effect of the wittiest epigram. Princess Myakaya could never see why it had that effect, but she knew it had, and took advantage of it.
As everyone had been listening while Princess Myakaya spoke, and so the conversation around the ambassador's wife had dropped, Princess Betsy tried to bring the whole party together, and turned to the ambassador's wife.
"Will you really not have tea? You should come over here by us."
"No, we're very happy here," the ambassador's wife responded with a smile, and she went on with the conversation that had been begun.
"It was a very agreeable conversation. They were criticizing the Karenins, husband and wife.
"Anna is quite changed since her stay in Moscow. There's something strange about her," said her friend.
"The great change is that she brought back with her the shadow of Alexey Vronsky," said the ambassador's wife.
"Well, what of it? There's a fable of Grimm's about a man without a shadow, a man who's lost his shadow. And that's his punishment for something. I never could understand how it was a punishment. But a woman must dislike being without a shadow."
"Yes, but women with a shadow usually come to a bad end," said Anna's friend.
"Bad luck to your tongue!" said Princess Myakaya suddenly. "Madame Karenina's a splendid woman. I don't like her husband, but I like her very much."
"Why don't you like her husband? He's such a remarkable man," said the ambassador's wife. "My husband says there are few statesmen like him in Europe."
"And my husband tells me just the same, but I don't believe it," said Princess Myakaya. "If our husbands didn't talk to us, we should see the facts as they are. Alexey Alexandrovitch, to my thinking, is simply a fool. I say it in a whisper...but doesn't it really make everything clear? Before, when I was told to consider him clever, I kept looking for his ability, and thought myself a fool for not seeing it; but directly I said, he a fool, though only in a whisper, everything's explained, isn't it?"
"How spiteful you are today!"
"Not a bit. I'd no other way out of it. One of the two had to be a fool. And, well, you know one can't say that of oneself."
"'No one is satisfied with his fortune, and everyone is satisfied with his wit.'" The attache repeated the French saying.
"That's just it, just it," Princess Myakaya turned to him. "But the point is that I won't abandon Anna to your mercies. She's so nice, so charming. How can she help it if they're all in love with her, and follow her about like shadows?"
"Oh, I had no idea of blaming her for it," Anna's friend said in self-defense.
"If no one follows us about like a shadow, that's no proof that we've any right to blame her."
And having duly disposed of Anna's friend, the Princess Myakaya got up, and together with the ambassador's wife, joined the group at the table, where the conversation was dealing with the king of Prussia.
"What wicked gossip were you talking over there?" asked Betsy.
"About the Karenins. The princess gave us a sketch of Alexey Alexandrovitch," said the ambassador's wife with a smile, as she sat down at the table.
"Pity we didn't hear it!" said Princess Betsy, glancing towards the door. "Ah, here you are at last!" she said, turning with a smile to Vronsky, as he came in.
Vronsky was not merely acquainted with all the persons whom he was meeting here; he saw them all every day; and so he came in with the quiet manner with which one enters a room full of people from whom one has only just parted.
"Where do I come from?" he said, in answer to a question from the ambassador's wife. "Well, there's no help for it, I must confess. From the opera bouffe. I do believe I've seen it a hundred times, and always with fresh enjoyment. It's exquisite! I know it's disgraceful, but I go to sleep at the opera, and I sit out the opera bouffe to the last minute, and enjoy it. This evening..."
He mentioned a French actress, and was going to tell something about her; but the ambassador's wife, with playful horror, cut him short.
"Please don't tell us about that horror."
"All right, I won't especially as everyone knows those horrors."
"And we should all go to see them if it were accepted as the correct thing, like the opera," chimed in Princess Myakaya.
"They say that that's a difficult task, that nothing's amusing that isn't spiteful," he began with a smile. "But I'll try. Get me a subject. It all lies in the subject. If a subject's given me, it's easy to spin something round it. I often think that the celebrated talkers of the last century would have found it difficult to talk cleverly now. Everything clever is so stale..."
"That has been said long ago," the ambassador's wife interrupted him, laughing.
The conversation began amiably, but just because it was too amiable, it came to a stop again. They had to have recourse to the sure, never-failing topic--gossip.
"Don't you think there's something Louis Quinze about Tushkevitch?" he said, glancing towards a handsome, fair-haired young man, standing at the table.
"Oh, yes! He's in the same style as the drawing room and that's why it is he's so often here."
This conversation was maintained, since it rested on allusions to what could not be talked on in that room--that is to say, of the relations of Tushkevitch with their hostess.
Round the samovar and the hostess the conversation had been meanwhile vacillating in just the same way between three inevitable topics: the latest piece of public news, the theater, and scandal. It, too, came finally to rest on the last topic, that is, ill-natured gossip.
"Have you heard the Maltishtcheva woman--the mother, not the daughter--has ordered a costume in diable rose color?"
"Nonsense! No, that's too lovely!"
"I wonder that with her sense--for she's not a fool, you know-- that she doesn't see how funny she is."
Everyone had something to say in censure or ridicule of the luckless Madame Maltishtcheva, and the conversation crackled merrily, like a burning faggot-stack.
The husband of Princess Betsy, a good-natured fat man, an ardent collector of engravings, hearing that his wife had visitors, came into the drawing room before going to his club. Stepping noiselessly over the thick rugs, he went up to Princess Myakaya.
"How did you like Nilsson?" he asked.
"Oh, how can you steal upon anyone like that! How you startled me!" she responded. "Please don't talk to me about the opera; you know nothing about music. I'd better meet you on your own ground, and talk about your majolica and engravings. Come now, what treasure have yo been buying lately at the old curiosity shops?"
"Would you like me to show you? But you don't understand such things."
"Oh, do show me! I've been learning about them at those--what's their names?...the bankers...they've some splendid engravings. They showed them to us."
"Why, have you been at the Schuetzburgs?" asked the hostess from the samovar.
"Yes, ma chere. They asked my husband and me to dinner, and told us the sauce at that dinner cost a hundred pounds," Princess Myakaya said, speaking loudly, and conscious everyone was listening; "and very nasty sauce it was, some green mess. We had to ask them, and I made them sauce for eighteen pence, and everybody was very much pleased with it. I can't run to hundred-pound sauces."
"She's unique!" said the lady of the house.
"Marvelous!" said someone.
The sensation produced by Princess Myakaya's speeches was always unique, and the secret of the sensation she produced lay in the fact that though she spoke not always appropriately, as now, she said simple things with some sense in them. In the society in which she lived such plain statements produced the effect of the wittiest epigram. Princess Myakaya could never see why it had that effect, but she knew it had, and took advantage of it.
As everyone had been listening while Princess Myakaya spoke, and so the conversation around the ambassador's wife had dropped, Princess Betsy tried to bring the whole party together, and turned to the ambassador's wife.
"Will you really not have tea? You should come over here by us."
"No, we're very happy here," the ambassador's wife responded with a smile, and she went on with the conversation that had been begun.
"It was a very agreeable conversation. They were criticizing the Karenins, husband and wife.
"Anna is quite changed since her stay in Moscow. There's something strange about her," said her friend.
"The great change is that she brought back with her the shadow of Alexey Vronsky," said the ambassador's wife.
"Well, what of it? There's a fable of Grimm's about a man without a shadow, a man who's lost his shadow. And that's his punishment for something. I never could understand how it was a punishment. But a woman must dislike being without a shadow."
"Yes, but women with a shadow usually come to a bad end," said Anna's friend.
"Bad luck to your tongue!" said Princess Myakaya suddenly. "Madame Karenina's a splendid woman. I don't like her husband, but I like her very much."
"Why don't you like her husband? He's such a remarkable man," said the ambassador's wife. "My husband says there are few statesmen like him in Europe."
"And my husband tells me just the same, but I don't believe it," said Princess Myakaya. "If our husbands didn't talk to us, we should see the facts as they are. Alexey Alexandrovitch, to my thinking, is simply a fool. I say it in a whisper...but doesn't it really make everything clear? Before, when I was told to consider him clever, I kept looking for his ability, and thought myself a fool for not seeing it; but directly I said, he a fool, though only in a whisper, everything's explained, isn't it?"
"How spiteful you are today!"
"Not a bit. I'd no other way out of it. One of the two had to be a fool. And, well, you know one can't say that of oneself."
"'No one is satisfied with his fortune, and everyone is satisfied with his wit.'" The attache repeated the French saying.
"That's just it, just it," Princess Myakaya turned to him. "But the point is that I won't abandon Anna to your mercies. She's so nice, so charming. How can she help it if they're all in love with her, and follow her about like shadows?"
"Oh, I had no idea of blaming her for it," Anna's friend said in self-defense.
"If no one follows us about like a shadow, that's no proof that we've any right to blame her."
And having duly disposed of Anna's friend, the Princess Myakaya got up, and together with the ambassador's wife, joined the group at the table, where the conversation was dealing with the king of Prussia.
"What wicked gossip were you talking over there?" asked Betsy.
"About the Karenins. The princess gave us a sketch of Alexey Alexandrovitch," said the ambassador's wife with a smile, as she sat down at the table.
"Pity we didn't hear it!" said Princess Betsy, glancing towards the door. "Ah, here you are at last!" she said, turning with a smile to Vronsky, as he came in.
Vronsky was not merely acquainted with all the persons whom he was meeting here; he saw them all every day; and so he came in with the quiet manner with which one enters a room full of people from whom one has only just parted.
"Where do I come from?" he said, in answer to a question from the ambassador's wife. "Well, there's no help for it, I must confess. From the opera bouffe. I do believe I've seen it a hundred times, and always with fresh enjoyment. It's exquisite! I know it's disgraceful, but I go to sleep at the opera, and I sit out the opera bouffe to the last minute, and enjoy it. This evening..."
He mentioned a French actress, and was going to tell something about her; but the ambassador's wife, with playful horror, cut him short.
"Please don't tell us about that horror."
"All right, I won't especially as everyone knows those horrors."
"And we should all go to see them if it were accepted as the correct thing, like the opera," chimed in Princess Myakaya.
Chapter 40
Chapter 40
Princess Betsy drove home from the theater, without waiting for the end of the last act. She had only just time to go into her dressing room, sprinkle her long, pale face with powder, rub it, set her dress to rights, and order tea in the big drawing room, when one after another carriages drove up to her huge house in Bolshaia Morskaia. Her guests stepped out at the wide entrance, and the stout porter, who used to read the newspapers in the mornings behind the glass door, to the edification of the passers-by, noiselessly opened the immense door, letting the visitors pass by him into the house. Almost at the same instant the hostess, with freshly arranged coiffure and freshened face, walked in at one door and her guests at the other door of the drawing room, a large room with dark walls, downy rugs, and a brightly lighted table, gleaming with the light of candles, white cloth, silver samovar, and transparent china tea things.
The hostess sat down at the table and took off her gloves. Chairs were set with the aid of footmen, moving almost imperceptibly about the room; the party settled itself, divided into two groups: one round the samovar near the hostess, the other at the opposite end of the drawing room, round the handsome wife of an ambassador, in black velvet, with sharply defined black eyebrows. In both groups conversation wavered, as it always does, for the first few minutes, broken up by meetings, greetings, offers of tea, and as it were, feeling about for something to rest upon.
"She's exceptionally good as an actress; one can see she's studied Kaulbach," said a diplomatic attache in the group round the ambassador's wife. "Did you notice how she fell down?..."
"Oh, please ,don't let us talk about Nilsson! No one can possibly say anything new about her," said a fat, red-faced, flaxen-headed lady, without eyebrows and chignon, wearing an old silk dress. This was Princess Myakaya, noted for her simplicity and the roughness of her manners, and nicknamed enfant terrible. Princess Myakaya, sitting in the middle between the two groups, and listening to both, took part in the conversation first of one and then of the other. "Three people have used that very phrase about Kaulbach to me today already, just as though they had made a compact about it. And I can't see why they liked that remark so."
The conversation was cut short by this observation, and a new subject had to be thought of again.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Chapter 3
When he was dressed, Stepan Arkadyevitch sprinkled some scent on himself, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, distributed into his pockets his cigarettes, pocketbook, matches, and watch with its double chain and seals, and shaking out his handkerchief, feeling himself clean, fragrant, healthy, and physically at ease, in spite of his unhappiness, he walked with a slight swing on each leg into the dining-room, where coffee was already waiting for him, and beside the coffee, letters and papers from the office.
He read the letters. One was very unpleasant, from a merchant who was buying a forest on his wife's property. To sell this forest was absolutely essential; but at present, until he was reconciled with his wife, the subject could not be discussed. The most unpleasant thing of all was that his pecuniary interests should in this way enter into the question of his reconciliation with his wife. And the idea that he might be let on by his interests, that he might seek a reconciliation with his wife on account of the sale of the forest--that idea hurt him.
When he had finished his letters, Stepan Arkadyevitch moved the office-papers close to him, rapidly looked through two pieces of business, made a few notes with a big pencil, and pushing away the papers, turned to his coffee. As he sipped his coffee, he opened a still damp morning paper, and began reading it.
He read the letters. One was very unpleasant, from a merchant who was buying a forest on his wife's property. To sell this forest was absolutely essential; but at present, until he was reconciled with his wife, the subject could not be discussed. The most unpleasant thing of all was that his pecuniary interests should in this way enter into the question of his reconciliation with his wife. And the idea that he might be let on by his interests, that he might seek a reconciliation with his wife on account of the sale of the forest--that idea hurt him.
When he had finished his letters, Stepan Arkadyevitch moved the office-papers close to him, rapidly looked through two pieces of business, made a few notes with a big pencil, and pushing away the papers, turned to his coffee. As he sipped his coffee, he opened a still damp morning paper, and began reading it.
"Matvey, my sister Anna Arkadyevna
"Matvey, my sister Anna Arkadyevna will be here tomorrow," he said, checking for a minute the sleek, plump hand of the barber, cutting a pink path through his long, curly whiskers.
"Thank God!" said Matvey, showing by this response that he, like his master, realized the significance of this arrival--that is, that Anna Arkadyevna, the sister he was so fond of, might bring about a reconciliation between husband and wife.
"Alone, or with her husband?" inquired Matvey.
Stepan Arkadyevitch could not answer, as the barber was at work on his upper lip, and he raised one finger. Matvey nodded at the looking-glass.
"Alone. Is the room to be got ready upstairs?"
"Inform Darya Alexandrovna: where she orders."
"Darya Alexandrovna?" Matvey repeated, as though in doubt.
"Yes, inform her. Here, take the telegram; give it to her, and then do what she tells you."
"You want to try it on," Matvey understood, but he only said, "Yes sir."
Stepan Arkadyevitch was already washed and combed and ready to be dressed, when Matvey, stepping deliberately in his creaky boots, came back into the room with the telegram in his hand. The barber had gone.
"Darya Alexandrovna told me to inform you that she is going away. Let him do--that is you--as he likes," he said, laughing only with his eyes, and putting his hands in his pockets, he watched his master with his head on one side. Stepan Arkadyevitch was silent a minute. Then a good-humored and rather pitiful smile showed itself on his handsome face.
"Eh, Matvey?" he said, shaking his head.
"It's all right, sir; she will come round," said Matvey.
"Come round?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think so? Who's there?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, hearing the rustle of a woman's dress at the door.
"It's I," said a firm, pleasant, woman's voice, and the stern, pockmarked face of Matrona Philimonovna, the nurse, was thrust in at the doorway.
"Well, what is it, Matrona?" queried Stepan Arkadyevitch, going up to her at the door.
Although Stepan Arkadyevitch was completely in the wrong as regards his wife, and was conscious of this himself, almost every one in the house (even the nurse, Darya Alexandrovna's chief ally) was on his side.
"Well, what now?" he asked disconsolately.
"Go to her, sir; own your fault again. Maybe God will aid you. She is suffering so, it's sad to hee her; and besides, everything in the house is topsy-turvy. You must have pity, sir, on the children. Beg her forgiveness, sir. There's no help for it! One must take the consequences..."
"But she won't see me."
"You do your part. God is merciful; pray to God, sir, pray to God."
"Come, that'll do, you can go," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, blushing suddenly. "Well now, do dress me." He turned to Matvey and threw off his dressing-gown decisively.
Matvey was already holding up the shirt like a horse's collar, and, blowing off some invisible speck, he slipped it with obvious pleasure over the well-groomed body of his master.
"Thank God!" said Matvey, showing by this response that he, like his master, realized the significance of this arrival--that is, that Anna Arkadyevna, the sister he was so fond of, might bring about a reconciliation between husband and wife.
"Alone, or with her husband?" inquired Matvey.
Stepan Arkadyevitch could not answer, as the barber was at work on his upper lip, and he raised one finger. Matvey nodded at the looking-glass.
"Alone. Is the room to be got ready upstairs?"
"Inform Darya Alexandrovna: where she orders."
"Darya Alexandrovna?" Matvey repeated, as though in doubt.
"Yes, inform her. Here, take the telegram; give it to her, and then do what she tells you."
"You want to try it on," Matvey understood, but he only said, "Yes sir."
Stepan Arkadyevitch was already washed and combed and ready to be dressed, when Matvey, stepping deliberately in his creaky boots, came back into the room with the telegram in his hand. The barber had gone.
"Darya Alexandrovna told me to inform you that she is going away. Let him do--that is you--as he likes," he said, laughing only with his eyes, and putting his hands in his pockets, he watched his master with his head on one side. Stepan Arkadyevitch was silent a minute. Then a good-humored and rather pitiful smile showed itself on his handsome face.
"Eh, Matvey?" he said, shaking his head.
"It's all right, sir; she will come round," said Matvey.
"Come round?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think so? Who's there?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, hearing the rustle of a woman's dress at the door.
"It's I," said a firm, pleasant, woman's voice, and the stern, pockmarked face of Matrona Philimonovna, the nurse, was thrust in at the doorway.
"Well, what is it, Matrona?" queried Stepan Arkadyevitch, going up to her at the door.
Although Stepan Arkadyevitch was completely in the wrong as regards his wife, and was conscious of this himself, almost every one in the house (even the nurse, Darya Alexandrovna's chief ally) was on his side.
"Well, what now?" he asked disconsolately.
"Go to her, sir; own your fault again. Maybe God will aid you. She is suffering so, it's sad to hee her; and besides, everything in the house is topsy-turvy. You must have pity, sir, on the children. Beg her forgiveness, sir. There's no help for it! One must take the consequences..."
"But she won't see me."
"You do your part. God is merciful; pray to God, sir, pray to God."
"Come, that'll do, you can go," said Stepan Arkadyevitch, blushing suddenly. "Well now, do dress me." He turned to Matvey and threw off his dressing-gown decisively.
Matvey was already holding up the shirt like a horse's collar, and, blowing off some invisible speck, he slipped it with obvious pleasure over the well-groomed body of his master.
There was no solution, but that universal
There was no solution, but that universal solution which life gives to all questions, even the most complex and insoluble. That answer is: one must live in the needs of the day--that is, forget oneself. To forget himself in sleep was impossible now, at least till nighttime; he could not go back now to the music sung by the decanter-women; so he must forget himself in the dream of daily life.
"Then we shall see," Stepan Arkadyevitch said to himself, and getting up he put on a gray dressing-gown lined with blue silk, tied the tassels in a knot, and, drawing a deep breath of air into his broad, bare chest, he walked to the window with his usual confident step, turning out his feet that carried his full frame so easily. He pulled up the blind and rang the bell loudly. It was at once answered by the appearance of an old friend, his valet, Matvey, carrying his clothes, his boots, and a telegram. Matvey was followed by the barber with all the necessaries for shaving.
"Are there any papers form the office?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, taking the telegram and seating himself at the looking-glass.
"On the table," replied Matvey, glancing with inquiring sympathy at his master; and, after a short pause, he added with a sly smile, "They've sent from the carriage-jobbers."
Stepan Arkadyevitch made no reply, he merely glanced at Matvey in the looking-glass. In the glance, in which their eyes met in the looking-glass, it was clear that they understood one another. Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes asked: "Why do you tell me that? don't you know?"
Matvey put his hands in his jacket pockets, thrust out one leg, and gazed silently, good-humoredly, with a faint smile, at his master.
"I told them to come on Sunday, and till then not to trouble you or themselves for nothing," he said. He had obviously prepared the sentence beforehand.
Stepan Arkadyevitch saw Matvey wanted to make a joke and attract attention to himself. Tearing open the telegram, he read it through, guessing at the words, misspelt as they always are in telegrams, and his face brightened.
"Then we shall see," Stepan Arkadyevitch said to himself, and getting up he put on a gray dressing-gown lined with blue silk, tied the tassels in a knot, and, drawing a deep breath of air into his broad, bare chest, he walked to the window with his usual confident step, turning out his feet that carried his full frame so easily. He pulled up the blind and rang the bell loudly. It was at once answered by the appearance of an old friend, his valet, Matvey, carrying his clothes, his boots, and a telegram. Matvey was followed by the barber with all the necessaries for shaving.
"Are there any papers form the office?" asked Stepan Arkadyevitch, taking the telegram and seating himself at the looking-glass.
"On the table," replied Matvey, glancing with inquiring sympathy at his master; and, after a short pause, he added with a sly smile, "They've sent from the carriage-jobbers."
Stepan Arkadyevitch made no reply, he merely glanced at Matvey in the looking-glass. In the glance, in which their eyes met in the looking-glass, it was clear that they understood one another. Stepan Arkadyevitch's eyes asked: "Why do you tell me that? don't you know?"
Matvey put his hands in his jacket pockets, thrust out one leg, and gazed silently, good-humoredly, with a faint smile, at his master.
"I told them to come on Sunday, and till then not to trouble you or themselves for nothing," he said. He had obviously prepared the sentence beforehand.
Stepan Arkadyevitch saw Matvey wanted to make a joke and attract attention to himself. Tearing open the telegram, he read it through, guessing at the words, misspelt as they always are in telegrams, and his face brightened.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
‘Well, if she doe's say that it'll be
‘Well, if she doe's say that it'll be very unfair, you couldn't have done anything! But I'm sure she won't, I mean, if it's really true they've got premises in Diagon Alley, they must have been planning this for ages.’
‘Yeah, but that's another thing, how did they get premises?’ said Ron, hitting his teacup so hard with his wand that its legs collapsed again and it lay twitching before him. ‘It's a bit dodgy, isn't it? They'll need loads of Galleons to afford the rent on a place in Diagon Alley. She'll want to know what they've been up to, to get their hands on that sort of gold.’
‘Well, yes, that occurred to me, too,’ said Hermione, allowing her teacup to jog in neat little circles around Harry's, whose stubby little legs were still unable to touch the desktop, ‘I've been wondering whether Mundungus has persuaded them to sell stolen goods or something awful.’
‘He hasn't,’ said Harry curtly.
‘How do you know?’ said Ron and Hermione together.
‘Because—’ Harry hesitated, but the moment to confess finally seemed to have come. There was no good to be gained in keeping silent if it meant anyone suspected that Fred and George were criminals. ‘Because they got the gold from me. I gave them my Triwizard winnings last June.’
There was a shocked silence, then Hermione's teacup jogged right over the edge of the desk and smashed on the floor.
‘Oh, Harry, you didn't!’ she said.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Harry mutinously. ‘And I don't regret it, either. I didn't need the gold and they'll be great at running a joke shop.’
‘But this is excellent!’ said Ron, looking thrilled. ‘It's all your fault, Harry—Mum can't blame me at all! Can I tell her?’
‘Yeah, I suppose you'd better,’ said Harry dully, ’ ‘specially if she thinks they're receiving stolen cauldrons or something.’
Hermione said nothing at all for the rest of the lesson, but Harry had a shrewd suspicion that her self-restraint was bound to crack before long. Sure enough, once they had left the castle for break and were standing around in the weak May sunshine, she fixed Harry with a beady eye and opened her mouth with a determined air.
Harry interrupted her before she had even started.
‘It's no good nagging me, it's done,’ he said firmly. ‘Fred and George have got the gold— spent a good bit of it, too, by the sounds of it—and I can't get it back from them and I don't want to. So save your breath, Hermione.’
‘I wasn't going to say anything about Fred and George!’ she said in an injured voice.
Ron snorted disbelievingly and Hermione threw him a very dirty look.
‘No, I wasn't!’ she said angrily. ‘As a matter of fact, I was going to ask Harry when he's going to go back to Snape and ask for more Occlumency lessons!’
Harry's heart sank. Once they had exhausted the subject of Fred and George's dramatic departure, which admittedly had taken many hours, Ron and Hermione had wanted to hear news of Sirius. As Harry had not confided in them the reason he had wanted to talk to Sirius in the first place, it had been hard to think of what to tell them; he had ended up saying, truthfully, that Sirius wanted Harry to resume Occlumency lessons. He had been regretting this ever since; Hermione would not let the subject drop and kept reverting to it when Harry least expected it.
‘You can't tell me you've stopped having funny dreams,’ Hermione said now, ‘because Ron told me you were muttering in your sleep again last night.’
Harry threw Ron a furious look. Ron had the grace to look ashamed of himself.
‘You were only muttering a bit,’ he mumbled apologetically. ‘Something about “just a bit further".’
‘I dreamed I was watching you lot play Quidditch,’ Harry lied brutally. ‘I was trying to get you to stretch out a bit further to grab the Quaffle.’
Ron's ears went red. Harry felt a kind of vindictive pleasure; he had not, of course, dreamed anything of the sort.
Last night, he had once again made the journey along the Department of Mysteries corridor. He had passed through the circular room, then the room full of clicking and dancing light, until he found himself again inside that cavernous room full of shelves on which were ranged dusty glass spheres.
He had hurried straight towards row number ninety-seven, turned left and run along it ... it had probably been then that he had spoken aloud ... just a bit further ... for he felt his conscious self struggling to wake ... and before he had reached the end of the row, he had found himself lying in bed again, gazing up at the canopy of his four-poster.
‘You are trying to block your mind, aren't you?’ said. Hermione, looking beadily at Harry. ‘You are keeping going with your Occlumency?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Harry, trying to sound as though this question was insulting, but not quite meeting her eye. The truth was he was so intensely curious about what was hidden in that room full of dusty orbs, that he was quite keen for the dreams to continue.
The problem was that with just under a month to go until the exams and every free moment devoted to revision, his mind seemed so saturated with information when he went to bed he found it very difficult to get to sleep at all; and when he did, his overwrought brain presented him most nights with stupid dreams about the exams. He also suspected that part of his mind—the part that often spoke in Hermione's voice—now felt guilty on the occasions it strayed down that corridor ending in the black door, and sought to wake him before he could reach the journey's end.
‘You know,’ said Ron, whose ears were still flaming red, ‘if Montague doesn't recover before Slytherin play Hufflepuff, we might be in with a chance of winning the Cup.’
‘Yeah, I s'pose so,’ said Harry, glad of a change of subject.
‘I mean, we've won one, lost one—if Slytherin lose to Hufflepuff next Saturday—’
‘Yeah, but that's another thing, how did they get premises?’ said Ron, hitting his teacup so hard with his wand that its legs collapsed again and it lay twitching before him. ‘It's a bit dodgy, isn't it? They'll need loads of Galleons to afford the rent on a place in Diagon Alley. She'll want to know what they've been up to, to get their hands on that sort of gold.’
‘Well, yes, that occurred to me, too,’ said Hermione, allowing her teacup to jog in neat little circles around Harry's, whose stubby little legs were still unable to touch the desktop, ‘I've been wondering whether Mundungus has persuaded them to sell stolen goods or something awful.’
‘He hasn't,’ said Harry curtly.
‘How do you know?’ said Ron and Hermione together.
‘Because—’ Harry hesitated, but the moment to confess finally seemed to have come. There was no good to be gained in keeping silent if it meant anyone suspected that Fred and George were criminals. ‘Because they got the gold from me. I gave them my Triwizard winnings last June.’
There was a shocked silence, then Hermione's teacup jogged right over the edge of the desk and smashed on the floor.
‘Oh, Harry, you didn't!’ she said.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Harry mutinously. ‘And I don't regret it, either. I didn't need the gold and they'll be great at running a joke shop.’
‘But this is excellent!’ said Ron, looking thrilled. ‘It's all your fault, Harry—Mum can't blame me at all! Can I tell her?’
‘Yeah, I suppose you'd better,’ said Harry dully, ’ ‘specially if she thinks they're receiving stolen cauldrons or something.’
Hermione said nothing at all for the rest of the lesson, but Harry had a shrewd suspicion that her self-restraint was bound to crack before long. Sure enough, once they had left the castle for break and were standing around in the weak May sunshine, she fixed Harry with a beady eye and opened her mouth with a determined air.
Harry interrupted her before she had even started.
‘It's no good nagging me, it's done,’ he said firmly. ‘Fred and George have got the gold— spent a good bit of it, too, by the sounds of it—and I can't get it back from them and I don't want to. So save your breath, Hermione.’
‘I wasn't going to say anything about Fred and George!’ she said in an injured voice.
Ron snorted disbelievingly and Hermione threw him a very dirty look.
‘No, I wasn't!’ she said angrily. ‘As a matter of fact, I was going to ask Harry when he's going to go back to Snape and ask for more Occlumency lessons!’
Harry's heart sank. Once they had exhausted the subject of Fred and George's dramatic departure, which admittedly had taken many hours, Ron and Hermione had wanted to hear news of Sirius. As Harry had not confided in them the reason he had wanted to talk to Sirius in the first place, it had been hard to think of what to tell them; he had ended up saying, truthfully, that Sirius wanted Harry to resume Occlumency lessons. He had been regretting this ever since; Hermione would not let the subject drop and kept reverting to it when Harry least expected it.
‘You can't tell me you've stopped having funny dreams,’ Hermione said now, ‘because Ron told me you were muttering in your sleep again last night.’
Harry threw Ron a furious look. Ron had the grace to look ashamed of himself.
‘You were only muttering a bit,’ he mumbled apologetically. ‘Something about “just a bit further".’
‘I dreamed I was watching you lot play Quidditch,’ Harry lied brutally. ‘I was trying to get you to stretch out a bit further to grab the Quaffle.’
Ron's ears went red. Harry felt a kind of vindictive pleasure; he had not, of course, dreamed anything of the sort.
Last night, he had once again made the journey along the Department of Mysteries corridor. He had passed through the circular room, then the room full of clicking and dancing light, until he found himself again inside that cavernous room full of shelves on which were ranged dusty glass spheres.
He had hurried straight towards row number ninety-seven, turned left and run along it ... it had probably been then that he had spoken aloud ... just a bit further ... for he felt his conscious self struggling to wake ... and before he had reached the end of the row, he had found himself lying in bed again, gazing up at the canopy of his four-poster.
‘You are trying to block your mind, aren't you?’ said. Hermione, looking beadily at Harry. ‘You are keeping going with your Occlumency?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Harry, trying to sound as though this question was insulting, but not quite meeting her eye. The truth was he was so intensely curious about what was hidden in that room full of dusty orbs, that he was quite keen for the dreams to continue.
The problem was that with just under a month to go until the exams and every free moment devoted to revision, his mind seemed so saturated with information when he went to bed he found it very difficult to get to sleep at all; and when he did, his overwrought brain presented him most nights with stupid dreams about the exams. He also suspected that part of his mind—the part that often spoke in Hermione's voice—now felt guilty on the occasions it strayed down that corridor ending in the black door, and sought to wake him before he could reach the journey's end.
‘You know,’ said Ron, whose ears were still flaming red, ‘if Montague doesn't recover before Slytherin play Hufflepuff, we might be in with a chance of winning the Cup.’
‘Yeah, I s'pose so,’ said Harry, glad of a change of subject.
‘I mean, we've won one, lost one—if Slytherin lose to Hufflepuff next Saturday—’
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
‘The shoes don't prevent you reading, do they?’
‘The shoes don't prevent you reading, do they?’ said the blonde witch, irritably pointing at a large sign to the left of her desk. ‘You want Spell Damage, fourth floor. Just like it says on the floor guide. Next!’
As the wizard hobbled and pranced sideways out of the way, the Weasley party moved forward a few steps and Harry read the floor guide:
ARTEFACT ACCIDENTS...................................... Ground floor
Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom
crashes, etc.
CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES........................ First floor
Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.
MAGICAL BUGS.................................................... Second floor
Contagious maladies, e.g. dragon pox,
vanishing sickness, scrofungulus, etc.
POTION AND PLANT POISONING...................... Third floor
Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable
giggling, etc.
SPELL DAMAGE..................................................... Fourth floor
Unliftable jinxes, hexes, incorrectly
applied charms, etc.
VISITORS’ TEAROOM / HOSPITAL SHOP.......... Fifth floor
IF YOU ARE UNSURE WHERE TO GO, INCAPABLE OF NORMAL SPEECH OR UNABLE TO REMEMBER WHY YOU ARE HERE, OUR WELCOMEWITCH WILL BE PLEASED TO HELP.
A very old, stooped wizard with a hearing trumpet had shuffled to the front of the queue now. ‘I'm here to see Broderick Bode!’ he wheezed.
‘Ward forty-nine, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time,’ said the witch dismissively. ‘He's completely addled, you know—still thinks he's a teapot. Next!’
A harassed-looking wizard was holding his small daughter tightly by the ankle while she flapped around his head using the immensely large, feathery wings that had sprouted right out through the back of her romper suit.
‘Fourth floor,’ said the witch, in a bored voice, without asking, and the man disappeared through the double doors beside the desk, holding his daughter like an oddly shaped balloon. ‘Next!’
Mrs. Weasley moved forward to the desk.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘my husband, Arthur Weasley, was supposed to be moved to a different ward this morning, could you tell us—?’
‘Arthur Weasley?’ said the witch, running her finger down a long list in front of her. ‘Yes, first floor, second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn Ward.’
Thank you,’ said Mrs. Weasley. ‘Come on, you lot.’
They followed her through the double doors and along the narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with more portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles full of candles that floated up on the ceiling, looking like giant
soapsuds. More witches and wizards in lime-green robes walked in and out of the doors they passed; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafted into the passageway as they passed one door, and every now and then they heard
distant wailing. They climbed a flight of stairs and entered the Creature-Induced Injuries corridor, where the second door on the right bore the words: ‘Dangerous’ Dai Llewellyn Ward: Serious Bites.Underneath this was a card
in a brass holder on which had been handwritten: Healer-in-Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck. Trainee Healer: Augustus Pye.
‘We'll wait outside, Molly,’ Tonks said. ‘Arthur won't want too many visitors at once ... it ought to be just the family first.’
Mad-Eye growled his approval of this idea and set himself with his back against the corridor wall, his magical eye spinning in all directions. Harry drew back, too, but Mrs Weasley reached out a hand and pushed him through
the door, saying, ‘Don't be silly, Harry, Arthur wants to thank you.’
The ward was small and rather dingy, as the only window was narrow and set high in the wall facing the door. Most of the light came from more shining crystal bubbles clustered in the middle of the ceiling. The walls were of
panelled oak and there was a portrait of a rather vicious-looking wizard on the wall, captioned: Urquhart Rackharrow, 1612-1697, Inventor of the Entrail-expelling Curse.
There were only three patients. Mr. Weasley was occupying the bed at the far end oi the ward beside the tiny window. Harry was pleased and relieved to see that he was propped up on several pillows and reading the Daily
Prophet by the solitary ray of sunlight falling on to his bed. He looked up as they walked towards him and, seeing who it was, beamed.
‘Hello!’ he called, throwing the Prophet aside. ‘Bill just left, Molly, had to get back to work, but he says he'll drop in on you later.’
‘How are you, Arthur?’ asked Mrs. Weasley, bending down to kiss his cheek and looking anxiously into his face. ‘You're still looking a bit peaky.’
‘I feel absolutely fine,’ said Mr. Weasley brightly, holding out his good arm to give Ginny a hug. ‘If they could only take the bandages off, I'd be fit to go home.’
‘Why can't they take them off, Dad?’ asked Fred.
‘Well, I start bleeding like mad every time they try,’ said Mr. Weasley cheerfully, reaching across for his wand, which lay on his bedside cabinet, and waving it so that six extra chairs appeared at his bedside to seat them all. ‘It
seems there was some rather unusual kind of poison in that snake's fangs that keeps wounds open. They're sure they'll find an antidote, though; they say they've had much worse cases than mine, and in the meantime I just
have to keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour. But that fellow over there,’ he said, dropping his voice and nodding towards the bed opposite in which a man lay looking green and sickly and staring at the ceiling.
‘Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No cure at all.’
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As the wizard hobbled and pranced sideways out of the way, the Weasley party moved forward a few steps and Harry read the floor guide:
ARTEFACT ACCIDENTS...................................... Ground floor
Cauldron explosion, wand backfiring, broom
crashes, etc.
CREATURE-INDUCED INJURIES........................ First floor
Bites, stings, burns, embedded spines, etc.
MAGICAL BUGS.................................................... Second floor
Contagious maladies, e.g. dragon pox,
vanishing sickness, scrofungulus, etc.
POTION AND PLANT POISONING...................... Third floor
Rashes, regurgitation, uncontrollable
giggling, etc.
SPELL DAMAGE..................................................... Fourth floor
Unliftable jinxes, hexes, incorrectly
applied charms, etc.
VISITORS’ TEAROOM / HOSPITAL SHOP.......... Fifth floor
IF YOU ARE UNSURE WHERE TO GO, INCAPABLE OF NORMAL SPEECH OR UNABLE TO REMEMBER WHY YOU ARE HERE, OUR WELCOMEWITCH WILL BE PLEASED TO HELP.
A very old, stooped wizard with a hearing trumpet had shuffled to the front of the queue now. ‘I'm here to see Broderick Bode!’ he wheezed.
‘Ward forty-nine, but I'm afraid you're wasting your time,’ said the witch dismissively. ‘He's completely addled, you know—still thinks he's a teapot. Next!’
A harassed-looking wizard was holding his small daughter tightly by the ankle while she flapped around his head using the immensely large, feathery wings that had sprouted right out through the back of her romper suit.
‘Fourth floor,’ said the witch, in a bored voice, without asking, and the man disappeared through the double doors beside the desk, holding his daughter like an oddly shaped balloon. ‘Next!’
Mrs. Weasley moved forward to the desk.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘my husband, Arthur Weasley, was supposed to be moved to a different ward this morning, could you tell us—?’
‘Arthur Weasley?’ said the witch, running her finger down a long list in front of her. ‘Yes, first floor, second door on the right, Dai Llewellyn Ward.’
Thank you,’ said Mrs. Weasley. ‘Come on, you lot.’
They followed her through the double doors and along the narrow corridor beyond, which was lined with more portraits of famous Healers and lit by crystal bubbles full of candles that floated up on the ceiling, looking like giant
soapsuds. More witches and wizards in lime-green robes walked in and out of the doors they passed; a foul-smelling yellow gas wafted into the passageway as they passed one door, and every now and then they heard
distant wailing. They climbed a flight of stairs and entered the Creature-Induced Injuries corridor, where the second door on the right bore the words: ‘Dangerous’ Dai Llewellyn Ward: Serious Bites.Underneath this was a card
in a brass holder on which had been handwritten: Healer-in-Charge: Hippocrates Smethwyck. Trainee Healer: Augustus Pye.
‘We'll wait outside, Molly,’ Tonks said. ‘Arthur won't want too many visitors at once ... it ought to be just the family first.’
Mad-Eye growled his approval of this idea and set himself with his back against the corridor wall, his magical eye spinning in all directions. Harry drew back, too, but Mrs Weasley reached out a hand and pushed him through
the door, saying, ‘Don't be silly, Harry, Arthur wants to thank you.’
The ward was small and rather dingy, as the only window was narrow and set high in the wall facing the door. Most of the light came from more shining crystal bubbles clustered in the middle of the ceiling. The walls were of
panelled oak and there was a portrait of a rather vicious-looking wizard on the wall, captioned: Urquhart Rackharrow, 1612-1697, Inventor of the Entrail-expelling Curse.
There were only three patients. Mr. Weasley was occupying the bed at the far end oi the ward beside the tiny window. Harry was pleased and relieved to see that he was propped up on several pillows and reading the Daily
Prophet by the solitary ray of sunlight falling on to his bed. He looked up as they walked towards him and, seeing who it was, beamed.
‘Hello!’ he called, throwing the Prophet aside. ‘Bill just left, Molly, had to get back to work, but he says he'll drop in on you later.’
‘How are you, Arthur?’ asked Mrs. Weasley, bending down to kiss his cheek and looking anxiously into his face. ‘You're still looking a bit peaky.’
‘I feel absolutely fine,’ said Mr. Weasley brightly, holding out his good arm to give Ginny a hug. ‘If they could only take the bandages off, I'd be fit to go home.’
‘Why can't they take them off, Dad?’ asked Fred.
‘Well, I start bleeding like mad every time they try,’ said Mr. Weasley cheerfully, reaching across for his wand, which lay on his bedside cabinet, and waving it so that six extra chairs appeared at his bedside to seat them all. ‘It
seems there was some rather unusual kind of poison in that snake's fangs that keeps wounds open. They're sure they'll find an antidote, though; they say they've had much worse cases than mine, and in the meantime I just
have to keep taking a Blood-Replenishing Potion every hour. But that fellow over there,’ he said, dropping his voice and nodding towards the bed opposite in which a man lay looking green and sickly and staring at the ceiling.
‘Bitten by a werewolf, poor chap. No cure at all.’
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
‘These things often skip—er—three generations,’
‘These things often skip—er—three generations,’ said Professor Trelawney.
Professor Umbridge's toadlike smile widened.
‘Of course,’ she said sweetly, making yet another note. ‘Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?’ And she looked up enquiringly, still smiling.
Professor Trelawney stiffened as though unable to believe her ears. ‘I don't understand you,’ she said, clutching convulsively at the shawl around her scrawny neck.
‘I'd like you to make a prediction for me,’ said Professor Umbridge very clearly.
Harry and Ron were not the only people now watching and listening sneakily from behind their books. Most of the class were staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she drew herself up to her lull height, her beads and bangles clinking.
‘The Inner Eye does not See upon command!’ she said in scandalised tones.
‘I see,’ said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet another note on her clipboard.
‘I—but—but ... wait!’ said Professor Trelawney suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice, though the mystical effect was ruined somewhat by the way it was shaking with anger. ‘I ... I think I do see something ... something that concerns you ... why, I sense something ... something dark ... some grave peril ...’
Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised.
‘I am afraid ... I am afraid that you are in grave danger!’ Professor Trelawney finished dramatically.
There was a pause. Professor Umbridge surveyed Professor Trelawney.
‘Right,’ she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. ‘Well, if that's really the best you can do ...’
She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry caught Ron's eye and knew that Ron was thinking exactly the same as he was: they both knew that Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they felt very much on Trelawney's side—until she swooped down on them a few seconds later, that is.
‘Well?’ she said, snapping her long fingers under Harry's nose, uncharacteristically brisk. ‘Let me see the start you've made on your dream diary, please.’
And by the time she had interpreted Harry's dreams at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that involved eating porridge, apparently foretold a gruesome and early death), he was feeling much less sympathetic towards her. All the while, Professor Umbridge stood a few feet away, making notes on that clipboard, and when the bell rang she descended the silver ladder first and was waiting for them all when they reached their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson ten minutes later.
She was humming and smiling to herself when they entered the room. Harry and Ron told Hermione, who had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened in Divination while they all took out their copies of Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione could ask any questions Professor Umbridge had called them all to order and silence fell.
‘Wands away,’ she instructed them all with a smile, and those people who had been hopeful enough to take them out, sadly returned them to their bags. ‘As we finished Chapter One last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence “Chapter Two, Common Defensive Theories and their Derivation". There will be no need to talk.’
Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat down at her desk. The class gave an audible sigh as it turned, as one, to page nineteen. Harry wondered dully whether there were enough chapters in the book to keep them reading through all this years lessons and was on the point of checking the contents page when he noticed that Hermione had her hand in the air again.
Professor Umbridge had noticed, too, and what was more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend she had not noticed Hermione she got to her feet and walked around the front row of desks until they were face to face, then she bent down and whispered, so that the rest of the class could not hear, ‘What is it this time, Miss Granger?’
‘I've already read Chapter Two,’ said Hermione.
‘Well then, proceed to Chapter Three.’
‘I've read that too. I've read the whole book.’
Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise almost instantly.
‘Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counter-jinxes in Chapter Fifteen.’
‘He says that counter-jinxes are improperly named,’ said Hermione promptly. ‘He says “counter-jinx” is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.’
Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows and Harry knew she was impressed, against her will.
‘But I disagree,’ Hermione continued.
Professor Umbridge's eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder.
‘You disagree?’ she repeated.
Professor Umbridge's toadlike smile widened.
‘Of course,’ she said sweetly, making yet another note. ‘Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?’ And she looked up enquiringly, still smiling.
Professor Trelawney stiffened as though unable to believe her ears. ‘I don't understand you,’ she said, clutching convulsively at the shawl around her scrawny neck.
‘I'd like you to make a prediction for me,’ said Professor Umbridge very clearly.
Harry and Ron were not the only people now watching and listening sneakily from behind their books. Most of the class were staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she drew herself up to her lull height, her beads and bangles clinking.
‘The Inner Eye does not See upon command!’ she said in scandalised tones.
‘I see,’ said Professor Umbridge softly, making yet another note on her clipboard.
‘I—but—but ... wait!’ said Professor Trelawney suddenly, in an attempt at her usual ethereal voice, though the mystical effect was ruined somewhat by the way it was shaking with anger. ‘I ... I think I do see something ... something that concerns you ... why, I sense something ... something dark ... some grave peril ...’
Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised.
‘I am afraid ... I am afraid that you are in grave danger!’ Professor Trelawney finished dramatically.
There was a pause. Professor Umbridge surveyed Professor Trelawney.
‘Right,’ she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. ‘Well, if that's really the best you can do ...’
She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney standing rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry caught Ron's eye and knew that Ron was thinking exactly the same as he was: they both knew that Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they felt very much on Trelawney's side—until she swooped down on them a few seconds later, that is.
‘Well?’ she said, snapping her long fingers under Harry's nose, uncharacteristically brisk. ‘Let me see the start you've made on your dream diary, please.’
And by the time she had interpreted Harry's dreams at the top of her voice (all of which, even the ones that involved eating porridge, apparently foretold a gruesome and early death), he was feeling much less sympathetic towards her. All the while, Professor Umbridge stood a few feet away, making notes on that clipboard, and when the bell rang she descended the silver ladder first and was waiting for them all when they reached their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson ten minutes later.
She was humming and smiling to herself when they entered the room. Harry and Ron told Hermione, who had been in Arithmancy, exactly what had happened in Divination while they all took out their copies of Defensive Magical Theory, but before Hermione could ask any questions Professor Umbridge had called them all to order and silence fell.
‘Wands away,’ she instructed them all with a smile, and those people who had been hopeful enough to take them out, sadly returned them to their bags. ‘As we finished Chapter One last lesson, I would like you all to turn to page nineteen today and commence “Chapter Two, Common Defensive Theories and their Derivation". There will be no need to talk.’
Still smiling her wide, self-satisfied smile, she sat down at her desk. The class gave an audible sigh as it turned, as one, to page nineteen. Harry wondered dully whether there were enough chapters in the book to keep them reading through all this years lessons and was on the point of checking the contents page when he noticed that Hermione had her hand in the air again.
Professor Umbridge had noticed, too, and what was more, she seemed to have worked out a strategy for just such an eventuality. Instead of trying to pretend she had not noticed Hermione she got to her feet and walked around the front row of desks until they were face to face, then she bent down and whispered, so that the rest of the class could not hear, ‘What is it this time, Miss Granger?’
‘I've already read Chapter Two,’ said Hermione.
‘Well then, proceed to Chapter Three.’
‘I've read that too. I've read the whole book.’
Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise almost instantly.
‘Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counter-jinxes in Chapter Fifteen.’
‘He says that counter-jinxes are improperly named,’ said Hermione promptly. ‘He says “counter-jinx” is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable.’
Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows and Harry knew she was impressed, against her will.
‘But I disagree,’ Hermione continued.
Professor Umbridge's eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder.
‘You disagree?’ she repeated.
Monday, November 15, 2010
CRASH.
‘Tonks!’ cried Mrs. Weasley in exasperation, turning to look behind her.
‘I'm sorry!’ wailed Tonks, who was lying flat on the floor. ‘It's that stupid umbrella stand, that's the second time I've tripped over—’
But the rest of her words were drowned by a horrible, ear-splitting, blood-curdling screech.
The moth-eaten velvet curtains Harry had passed earlier had flown apart, but there was no door behind them. For a split second, Harry thought he was looking through a window, a window behind which an old woman in a black cap was screaming and screaming as though she were being tortured—then he realised it was simply a life-size portrait, but the most realistic, and the most unpleasant, he had ever seen in his life.
The old woman was drooling, her eyes were rolling, the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut as she screamed, and all along the hall behind them, the other portraits awoke and began to yell, too, so that Harry actually screwed up his eyes at the noise and clapped his hands over his ears.
Lupin and Mrs Weasley darted forward and tried to tug the curtains shut over the old woman, but they would not close and she screeched louder than ever, brandishing clawed hands as though trying to tear at their faces.
‘Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers—’
Tonks apologised over and over again, dragging the huge, heavy troll's leg back off the floor; Mrs. Weasley abandoned the attempt to close the curtains and hurried up and down the hall, Stunning all the other portraits with her wand; and a man with long black hair came charging out of a door facing Harry.
‘Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut UP!’ he roared, seizing the curtain Mrs. Weasley had abandoned.
The old woman's face blanched.
‘Yoooou!’ she howled, her eyes popping at the sight of the man. ‘Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!’
‘I said—shut—UP!’ roared the man, and with a stupendous effort he and Lupin managed to force the curtains closed again.
The old woman's screeches died and an echoing silence tell. Panting slightly and sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes, Harry's godfather Sirius turned to face him.
‘Hello, Harry,’ he said grimly, ‘I see you've met my mother.’
‘I'm sorry!’ wailed Tonks, who was lying flat on the floor. ‘It's that stupid umbrella stand, that's the second time I've tripped over—’
But the rest of her words were drowned by a horrible, ear-splitting, blood-curdling screech.
The moth-eaten velvet curtains Harry had passed earlier had flown apart, but there was no door behind them. For a split second, Harry thought he was looking through a window, a window behind which an old woman in a black cap was screaming and screaming as though she were being tortured—then he realised it was simply a life-size portrait, but the most realistic, and the most unpleasant, he had ever seen in his life.
The old woman was drooling, her eyes were rolling, the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut as she screamed, and all along the hall behind them, the other portraits awoke and began to yell, too, so that Harry actually screwed up his eyes at the noise and clapped his hands over his ears.
Lupin and Mrs Weasley darted forward and tried to tug the curtains shut over the old woman, but they would not close and she screeched louder than ever, brandishing clawed hands as though trying to tear at their faces.
‘Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers—’
Tonks apologised over and over again, dragging the huge, heavy troll's leg back off the floor; Mrs. Weasley abandoned the attempt to close the curtains and hurried up and down the hall, Stunning all the other portraits with her wand; and a man with long black hair came charging out of a door facing Harry.
‘Shut up, you horrible old hag, shut UP!’ he roared, seizing the curtain Mrs. Weasley had abandoned.
The old woman's face blanched.
‘Yoooou!’ she howled, her eyes popping at the sight of the man. ‘Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh!’
‘I said—shut—UP!’ roared the man, and with a stupendous effort he and Lupin managed to force the curtains closed again.
The old woman's screeches died and an echoing silence tell. Panting slightly and sweeping his long dark hair out of his eyes, Harry's godfather Sirius turned to face him.
‘Hello, Harry,’ he said grimly, ‘I see you've met my mother.’
They were back on the hearing and Harry did
not want to think about that. He cast around for another change of subject, but was saved the necessity of finding one by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
‘Uh oh.’
Fred gave the Extendable Ear a hearty tug; there was another loud crack and he and George vanished. Seconds later, Mrs. Weasley appeared in the bedroom doorway.
‘The meeting's over, you can come down and have dinner now. Everyone's dying to see you, Harry. And who's left all those Dungbombs outside the kitchen door?’
‘Crookshanks,’ said Ginny unblushingly. ‘He loves playing with them.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Weasley, ‘I thought it might have been Kreacher, he keeps doing odd things like that. Now don't forget to keep your voices down in the hall. Ginny, your hands are filthy, what have you been doing? Go and wash them before dinner, please....’
Ginny grimaced at the others and followed her mother out of the room, leaving Harry alone with Ron and Hermione. Both of them were watching him apprehensively, as though they feared he would start shouting again now that everyone else had gone. The sight of them looking so nervous made him feel slightly ashamed.
‘Look...’ he muttered, but Ron shook his head, and Hermione said quietly, ‘We knew you'd be angry, Harry, we really don't blame you, but you've got to understand, we did try to persuade Dumbledore—’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Harry grudgingly.
He cast around for a topic that didn't involve his headmaster, because the very thought of Dumbledore made Harry's insides burn with anger again.
‘Who's Kreacher?’ he asked.
‘The house-elf who lives here,’ said Ron. ‘Nutter. Never met one like him.’
Hermione frowned at Ron.
‘He's not a nutter, Ron—’
‘His life's ambition is to have his head cut off and stuck up on plaque just like his mother,’ said Ron irritably. ‘Is that normal, Hermione?’
‘Well—well, if he is a bit strange, it's not his fault—’
Ron rolled his eyes at Harry.
‘Hermione still hasn't given up on spew.’
‘It's not “spew"!’ said Hermione heatedly. ‘It's the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. And it's not just me, Dumbledore says we should be kind to Kreacher too—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Ron. ‘C'mon, I'm starving.’
He led the way out of the door and on to the landing, but before they could descend the stairs— ‘Hold it!’ Ron breathed, flinging out an arm to stop Harry and Hermione walking any further. ‘They're still in the hall, we might be able to hear something—’
The three of them looked cautiously over the banisters. The gloomy hallway below was packed with witches and wizards, including all of Harry's guard. They were whispering excitedly together. In the very centre of the group Harry saw the dark, greasy-haired head and prominent nose of his least favourite teacher at Hogwarts, Professor Snape. Harry leant further over the banisters. He was very interested in what Snape was doing for the Order of the Phoenix....
A thin piece of flesh-coloured string descended in front of Harry's eyes. Looking up, he saw Fred and George on the landing above, cautiously lowering the Extendable Ear towards the dark knot of people below. A moment later, however, they all began to move towards the front door and out of sight.
‘Dammit,’ Harry heard Fred whisper, as he hoisted the Extendable Ear back up again.
They heard the front door open, then close.
‘Snape never eats here,’ Ron told Harry quietly. ‘Thank God. C'mon.’
‘And don't forget to keep your voice down in the hall, Harry,’ Hermione whispered.
As they passed the row of house-elf heads on the wall, they saw Lupin, Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks at the front door, magically sealing its many locks and bolts behind those who had just left.
‘We're eating down in the kitchen,’ Mrs. Weasley whispered, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Harry, dear, if you'll just tiptoe across the hall it's through this door here—’
‘Uh oh.’
Fred gave the Extendable Ear a hearty tug; there was another loud crack and he and George vanished. Seconds later, Mrs. Weasley appeared in the bedroom doorway.
‘The meeting's over, you can come down and have dinner now. Everyone's dying to see you, Harry. And who's left all those Dungbombs outside the kitchen door?’
‘Crookshanks,’ said Ginny unblushingly. ‘He loves playing with them.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Weasley, ‘I thought it might have been Kreacher, he keeps doing odd things like that. Now don't forget to keep your voices down in the hall. Ginny, your hands are filthy, what have you been doing? Go and wash them before dinner, please....’
Ginny grimaced at the others and followed her mother out of the room, leaving Harry alone with Ron and Hermione. Both of them were watching him apprehensively, as though they feared he would start shouting again now that everyone else had gone. The sight of them looking so nervous made him feel slightly ashamed.
‘Look...’ he muttered, but Ron shook his head, and Hermione said quietly, ‘We knew you'd be angry, Harry, we really don't blame you, but you've got to understand, we did try to persuade Dumbledore—’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Harry grudgingly.
He cast around for a topic that didn't involve his headmaster, because the very thought of Dumbledore made Harry's insides burn with anger again.
‘Who's Kreacher?’ he asked.
‘The house-elf who lives here,’ said Ron. ‘Nutter. Never met one like him.’
Hermione frowned at Ron.
‘He's not a nutter, Ron—’
‘His life's ambition is to have his head cut off and stuck up on plaque just like his mother,’ said Ron irritably. ‘Is that normal, Hermione?’
‘Well—well, if he is a bit strange, it's not his fault—’
Ron rolled his eyes at Harry.
‘Hermione still hasn't given up on spew.’
‘It's not “spew"!’ said Hermione heatedly. ‘It's the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. And it's not just me, Dumbledore says we should be kind to Kreacher too—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Ron. ‘C'mon, I'm starving.’
He led the way out of the door and on to the landing, but before they could descend the stairs— ‘Hold it!’ Ron breathed, flinging out an arm to stop Harry and Hermione walking any further. ‘They're still in the hall, we might be able to hear something—’
The three of them looked cautiously over the banisters. The gloomy hallway below was packed with witches and wizards, including all of Harry's guard. They were whispering excitedly together. In the very centre of the group Harry saw the dark, greasy-haired head and prominent nose of his least favourite teacher at Hogwarts, Professor Snape. Harry leant further over the banisters. He was very interested in what Snape was doing for the Order of the Phoenix....
A thin piece of flesh-coloured string descended in front of Harry's eyes. Looking up, he saw Fred and George on the landing above, cautiously lowering the Extendable Ear towards the dark knot of people below. A moment later, however, they all began to move towards the front door and out of sight.
‘Dammit,’ Harry heard Fred whisper, as he hoisted the Extendable Ear back up again.
They heard the front door open, then close.
‘Snape never eats here,’ Ron told Harry quietly. ‘Thank God. C'mon.’
‘And don't forget to keep your voice down in the hall, Harry,’ Hermione whispered.
As they passed the row of house-elf heads on the wall, they saw Lupin, Mrs. Weasley, and Tonks at the front door, magically sealing its many locks and bolts behind those who had just left.
‘We're eating down in the kitchen,’ Mrs. Weasley whispered, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Harry, dear, if you'll just tiptoe across the hall it's through this door here—’
‘It's quite nasty, actually,’
said Hermione in a voice of forced calm. ‘They're just building on Rita's stuff.’
‘But she's not writing for them any more, is she?’
‘Oh, no, she's kept her promise—not that she's got any choice,’ Hermione added with satisfaction. ‘But she laid the foundation for what they're trying to do now.’
‘Which is what?’ said Harry impatiently.
‘OK, you know she wrote that you were collapsing all over the place and saying your scar was hurting and all that?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry, who was not likely to forget Rita Skeeter's stories about him in a hurry.
‘Well, they're writing about you as though you're this deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he's a great tragic hero or something,’ said Hermione, very fast, as though it would be less unpleasant for Harry to hear these facts quickly. ‘They keep slipping in snide comments about you. If some far-fetched story appears, they say something like, “A tale worthy of Harry Potter", and if anyone has a funny accident or anything it's, “Let's hope he hasn't got a scar on his forehead or we'll be asked to worship him next"—’
‘I don't want anyone to worship—’ Harry began hotly.
‘I know you don't,’ said Hermione quickly, looking frightened. ‘I know, Harry. But you see what they're doing? They want to turn you into someone nobody will believe. Fudge is behind it, I'll bet anything. They want wizards on the street to think you're just some stupid boy who's a bit of a joke, who tells ridiculous tall stories because he loves being famous and wants to keep it going.’
‘I didn't ask— I didn't want— Voldemort killed my parents!’ Harry spluttered. ‘I got famous because he murdered my family but couldn't kill me! Who wants to be famous for that? Don't they think I'd rather it'd never—’
‘We know, Harry,’ said Ginny earnestly.
‘And of course, they didn't report a word about the dementors attacking you,’ said Hermione. ‘Someone's told them to keep that quiet. That should've been a really big story, out-of-control dementors. They haven't even reported that you broke the International Statute of Secrecy. We thought they would, it would be in so well with this image of you as some stupid show-off. We think they're biding their time until you're expelled, then they're really going to go to town— I mean, if you're expelled, obviously,’ she went on hastily. ‘You really shouldn't be, not if they abide by their own laws, there's no case against you.’
‘But she's not writing for them any more, is she?’
‘Oh, no, she's kept her promise—not that she's got any choice,’ Hermione added with satisfaction. ‘But she laid the foundation for what they're trying to do now.’
‘Which is what?’ said Harry impatiently.
‘OK, you know she wrote that you were collapsing all over the place and saying your scar was hurting and all that?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry, who was not likely to forget Rita Skeeter's stories about him in a hurry.
‘Well, they're writing about you as though you're this deluded, attention-seeking person who thinks he's a great tragic hero or something,’ said Hermione, very fast, as though it would be less unpleasant for Harry to hear these facts quickly. ‘They keep slipping in snide comments about you. If some far-fetched story appears, they say something like, “A tale worthy of Harry Potter", and if anyone has a funny accident or anything it's, “Let's hope he hasn't got a scar on his forehead or we'll be asked to worship him next"—’
‘I don't want anyone to worship—’ Harry began hotly.
‘I know you don't,’ said Hermione quickly, looking frightened. ‘I know, Harry. But you see what they're doing? They want to turn you into someone nobody will believe. Fudge is behind it, I'll bet anything. They want wizards on the street to think you're just some stupid boy who's a bit of a joke, who tells ridiculous tall stories because he loves being famous and wants to keep it going.’
‘I didn't ask— I didn't want— Voldemort killed my parents!’ Harry spluttered. ‘I got famous because he murdered my family but couldn't kill me! Who wants to be famous for that? Don't they think I'd rather it'd never—’
‘We know, Harry,’ said Ginny earnestly.
‘And of course, they didn't report a word about the dementors attacking you,’ said Hermione. ‘Someone's told them to keep that quiet. That should've been a really big story, out-of-control dementors. They haven't even reported that you broke the International Statute of Secrecy. We thought they would, it would be in so well with this image of you as some stupid show-off. We think they're biding their time until you're expelled, then they're really going to go to town— I mean, if you're expelled, obviously,’ she went on hastily. ‘You really shouldn't be, not if they abide by their own laws, there's no case against you.’
Sunday, November 14, 2010
‘Don't be silly,’ said Ginny, laughing, ‘she's all right.’
She slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside. Harry and Neville followed.
‘Hi, Luna,’ said Ginny, ‘is it okay if we take these seats?’
The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty-blonde hair, very pale eyebrows and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to
pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer corks,
or that she was reading a magazine upside-down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded.
‘Thanks,’ said Ginny, smiling at her.
Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and Hedwig's cage in the luggage rack and sat down. Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much
as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn't.
‘Had a good summer, Luna?’ Ginny asked.
‘Yes,’ said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. ‘Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You're Harry Potter,’ she added.
‘I know I am,’ said Harry.
Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes on him instead.
‘And I don't know who you are.’
‘I'm nobody,’ said Neville hurriedly.
‘No you're not,’ said Ginny sharply. ‘Neville Longbottom—Luna Lovegood. Luna's in my year, but in Ravenclaw.’
‘Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,’ said Luna in a singsong voice.
She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny suppressed a giggle.
The train rattled onwards, speeding them out into open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of day; one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the next they were passing beneath ominously grey clouds.
‘Guess what I got for my birthday?’ said Neville.
‘Another Remembrall?’ said Harry, remembering the marble-like device Neville's grandmother had sent him in an effort to improve his abysmal memory.
‘No,’ said Neville. ‘I could do with one, though, I lost the old one ages ago.... No, look at this....’
He dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little bit of rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small grey cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with what looked like
boils rather than spines.
‘Mimbulus mimbletonia,’ he said proudly.
Harry stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased internal organ.
‘It's really, really rare,’ said Neville, beaming. ‘I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My Great Uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can
breed from it.’
Harry knew that Neville's favourite subject was Herbology, but for the life of him he could not see what he would want with this stunted little plant.
‘Does it—er—do anything?’ he asked.
‘Loads of stuff!’ said Neville proudly. ‘It's got an amazing defensive mechanism. Here, hold Trevor for me....’
He dumped the toad into Harry's lap and took a quill from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood's popping eyes appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine again, watching what Neville was doing. Neville held the Mimbulus
mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.
Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant; thick, stinking, dark green jets of it. They hit the ceiling, the windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood's magazine; Ginny, who had flung her arms up in front of her face just in time,
merely looked as though she was wearing a slimy green hat, but Harry, whose hands had been busy preventing Trevor's escape, received a faceful. It smelled like rancid manure.
Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched, shook his head to get the worst out of his eyes.
‘Sosorry,’ he gasped. ‘I haven't tried that before.... Didn't realise it would be quite so... Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous,’ he added nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful on to the floor.
At that precise moment the door of their compartment slid open.
‘Oh ... hello, Harry,’ said a nervous voice. ‘Um ... bad time?’
Harry wiped the lenses of his glasses with his Trevor-free hand. A very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair was standing in the doorway smiling at him: Cho Chang, the Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.
‘Oh ... hi,’ said Harry blankly.
‘Um...’ said Cho. ‘Well ... just thought I'd say hello ... ‘bye then.’
Rather pink in the face, she closed the door and departed. Harry slumped back in his seat and groaned. He would have liked Cho to discover him sitting with a group of very cool people laughing their heads off at a joke he
had just told; he would not have chosen to be sitting with Neville and Loony Lovegood, clutching a toad and dripping in Stinksap.
‘Never mind,’ said Ginny bracingly. ‘Look, we can easily get rid of all this.’ She pulled out her wand. ‘Scourgify!’
The Stinksap vanished.
‘Sorry.’ said Neville again, in a small voice.
Ron and Hermione did not turn up for nearly an hour, by which time the food trolley had already gone by. Harry, Ginny, and Neville had finished their pumpkin pasties and were busy swapping Chocolate Frog Cards when the
compartment door slid open and they walked in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.
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‘Hi, Luna,’ said Ginny, ‘is it okay if we take these seats?’
The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty-blonde hair, very pale eyebrows and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to
pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of Butterbeer corks,
or that she was reading a magazine upside-down. Her eyes ranged over Neville and came to rest on Harry. She nodded.
‘Thanks,’ said Ginny, smiling at her.
Harry and Neville stowed the three trunks and Hedwig's cage in the luggage rack and sat down. Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much
as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he hadn't.
‘Had a good summer, Luna?’ Ginny asked.
‘Yes,’ said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. ‘Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You're Harry Potter,’ she added.
‘I know I am,’ said Harry.
Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes on him instead.
‘And I don't know who you are.’
‘I'm nobody,’ said Neville hurriedly.
‘No you're not,’ said Ginny sharply. ‘Neville Longbottom—Luna Lovegood. Luna's in my year, but in Ravenclaw.’
‘Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure,’ said Luna in a singsong voice.
She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked at each other with their eyebrows raised. Ginny suppressed a giggle.
The train rattled onwards, speeding them out into open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of day; one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the next they were passing beneath ominously grey clouds.
‘Guess what I got for my birthday?’ said Neville.
‘Another Remembrall?’ said Harry, remembering the marble-like device Neville's grandmother had sent him in an effort to improve his abysmal memory.
‘No,’ said Neville. ‘I could do with one, though, I lost the old one ages ago.... No, look at this....’
He dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little bit of rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small grey cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with what looked like
boils rather than spines.
‘Mimbulus mimbletonia,’ he said proudly.
Harry stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased internal organ.
‘It's really, really rare,’ said Neville, beaming. ‘I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My Great Uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can
breed from it.’
Harry knew that Neville's favourite subject was Herbology, but for the life of him he could not see what he would want with this stunted little plant.
‘Does it—er—do anything?’ he asked.
‘Loads of stuff!’ said Neville proudly. ‘It's got an amazing defensive mechanism. Here, hold Trevor for me....’
He dumped the toad into Harry's lap and took a quill from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood's popping eyes appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine again, watching what Neville was doing. Neville held the Mimbulus
mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill.
Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant; thick, stinking, dark green jets of it. They hit the ceiling, the windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood's magazine; Ginny, who had flung her arms up in front of her face just in time,
merely looked as though she was wearing a slimy green hat, but Harry, whose hands had been busy preventing Trevor's escape, received a faceful. It smelled like rancid manure.
Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched, shook his head to get the worst out of his eyes.
‘Sosorry,’ he gasped. ‘I haven't tried that before.... Didn't realise it would be quite so... Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous,’ he added nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful on to the floor.
At that precise moment the door of their compartment slid open.
‘Oh ... hello, Harry,’ said a nervous voice. ‘Um ... bad time?’
Harry wiped the lenses of his glasses with his Trevor-free hand. A very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair was standing in the doorway smiling at him: Cho Chang, the Seeker on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.
‘Oh ... hi,’ said Harry blankly.
‘Um...’ said Cho. ‘Well ... just thought I'd say hello ... ‘bye then.’
Rather pink in the face, she closed the door and departed. Harry slumped back in his seat and groaned. He would have liked Cho to discover him sitting with a group of very cool people laughing their heads off at a joke he
had just told; he would not have chosen to be sitting with Neville and Loony Lovegood, clutching a toad and dripping in Stinksap.
‘Never mind,’ said Ginny bracingly. ‘Look, we can easily get rid of all this.’ She pulled out her wand. ‘Scourgify!’
The Stinksap vanished.
‘Sorry.’ said Neville again, in a small voice.
Ron and Hermione did not turn up for nearly an hour, by which time the food trolley had already gone by. Harry, Ginny, and Neville had finished their pumpkin pasties and were busy swapping Chocolate Frog Cards when the
compartment door slid open and they walked in, accompanied by Crookshanks and a shrilly hooting Pigwidgeon in his cage.
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Enhancing Your Business with a Live Video Broadcast
Author：Lance Mohr Source：none Hits：136 UpdateTime：2008-7-10 22:43:02
In the 21st century the technologies that are available to you in the operation of your business continue to expand and grown on a seemingly daily basis. One of the more innovative technological advances that has been made in more recent times in the growing availability of live video broadcasts on the Internet and World Wide Web. With this in mind, you will want to consider whether or not live video broadcasts can play a role in the overall operation and promotion of your own business.
Of course, if you have done a little research into live video broadcasts, you may have been left with the feeling that this type of technology is out of your price range. Indeed, historically the companies that did provide live video broadcast technology to professionals like you were found to be charged $1,500 - $20,000 per broadcast (a significant amount of money for this service).
However, all of this changed. Professionals and business owners can now access live video broadcast services for a fraction of the cost literally pennies on the dollar. Indeed, from anywhere between $10 and $40 (per month not per broadcast) you can begin to access basic video broadcasting services for your business.
Odds are that you also have come to conclude that producing a live video broadcast is a very complicated, difficult task. Once again, thanks to the innovations you actually can be up and running with a live video broadcast with the ease and simplicity of sending an email.
The live video broadcast technology offers to you the ability to thoroughly customize your presentation. Moreover, you can make use of a variety of companion tools and accouterments including a chat box through which a viewer can send you questions in real time, a polling box through which viewers can register their opinions and customized banners.
The live video broadcast technology allows you to make professional Powerpoint presentations without even accessing or using a Powerpoint application. Therefore, whether or not you or your viewer has Powerpoint, you can make a commanding presentation. You can also customize banners around your live video broadcast to further inform or to further promote as desired.
This live video broadcast technology also allows you the ability to save and store the presentation for future use. Indeed, should you be so inclined, you can even set up a Pay Per View alternative. Unlike many other systems, with ours you retain every cent paid for a pay per view presentation. Nothing is taken off the top.
In business, a live video broadcast is a perfect vehicle through which you can communicate with associates, other professionals and customers located in different locations. Moreover, you can provide useful services to your clients through a live video broadcast.
In the 21st century the technologies that are available to you in the operation of your business continue to expand and grown on a seemingly daily basis. One of the more innovative technological advances that has been made in more recent times in the growing availability of live video broadcasts on the Internet and World Wide Web. With this in mind, you will want to consider whether or not live video broadcasts can play a role in the overall operation and promotion of your own business.
Of course, if you have done a little research into live video broadcasts, you may have been left with the feeling that this type of technology is out of your price range. Indeed, historically the companies that did provide live video broadcast technology to professionals like you were found to be charged $1,500 - $20,000 per broadcast (a significant amount of money for this service).
However, all of this changed. Professionals and business owners can now access live video broadcast services for a fraction of the cost literally pennies on the dollar. Indeed, from anywhere between $10 and $40 (per month not per broadcast) you can begin to access basic video broadcasting services for your business.
Odds are that you also have come to conclude that producing a live video broadcast is a very complicated, difficult task. Once again, thanks to the innovations you actually can be up and running with a live video broadcast with the ease and simplicity of sending an email.
The live video broadcast technology offers to you the ability to thoroughly customize your presentation. Moreover, you can make use of a variety of companion tools and accouterments including a chat box through which a viewer can send you questions in real time, a polling box through which viewers can register their opinions and customized banners.
The live video broadcast technology allows you to make professional Powerpoint presentations without even accessing or using a Powerpoint application. Therefore, whether or not you or your viewer has Powerpoint, you can make a commanding presentation. You can also customize banners around your live video broadcast to further inform or to further promote as desired.
This live video broadcast technology also allows you the ability to save and store the presentation for future use. Indeed, should you be so inclined, you can even set up a Pay Per View alternative. Unlike many other systems, with ours you retain every cent paid for a pay per view presentation. Nothing is taken off the top.
In business, a live video broadcast is a perfect vehicle through which you can communicate with associates, other professionals and customers located in different locations. Moreover, you can provide useful services to your clients through a live video broadcast.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Wreaths Galore - Not Just For Christmas Anymore
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：30 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:01:01
Wreaths are most often thought to be a Christmastime decoration. Around the holidays, many of us decorate our homes with evergreen wreaths with lights and red bows. Christmas wreaths are a traditional decoration that
we're all accustomed to. However, more and more designers are using wreaths as a constantly rotating seasonal decoration. Why limit yourself to only displaying wreaths during the month of December? Wreaths can be a
unique and versatile decoration for any season or holiday. Here are some fresh ideas on using wreaths as year-round decorations.
New Year's:
You can easily take your Christmas wreath into New Year's Day by removing the red bows and adding gold or silver ones with some streamers. Other possible decorations include a Happy New Years banner or hat and some
small party horns or plastic champagne glasses.
Valentine's Day:
Nothing says love like a pink or red heart shaped wreath. Consider using silk roses, fabric hearts or even wrapped candies. A stuffed animal like a pink or red teddy bear, or small cupid also adds character. Top it off with a
beautiful bow and you have a bright decoration for those cold winter days!
St. Patrick's Day:
Everyone can pretend to be Irish on St. Patty's Day! Of course, when designing a St. Patrick's Day wreath, green is certainly a requirement. A mass of green shamrocks wrapping your wreath would look very festive (garlands
of plastic or fabric shamrocks can usually be purchased at decorating stores). Additional decorations might include small gold coins or leprechaun figurines.
Easter:
An Easter wreath can be decorated in many ways. Some choose to focus on the Christian celebration of Christ's resurrection, and others choose a lighthearted Easter Bunny theme. Whatever your choice may be, beautiful
spring flowers are a good base for an Easter wreath. Other choices might include Easter eggs, chocolate candies or bunnies, and Easter ribbons.
Fourth of July:
In the United States, July 4 is an important holiday when we all like to show our patriotic spirit. Try a straw or grapevine wreath spray painted with red, white, or blue gloss paint as your base, and then have fun from there! You
can use firecrackers, streamers, and ribbons for decorations. And don't forget to include some small flags to celebrate our independence.
Halloween:
After Christmas, Halloween is the most "decorated" holiday we celebrate in the United States. Welcome your trick-or-treaters with a festive Halloween wreath. Orange and black are traditional colors, and there are many
materials and items you can use to create your wreath. Decorations might include pumpkins, ghosts, black cats, witches, spiders and wrapped candies.
Thanksgiving:
A wreath is a wonderful way to welcome guests to your home for a Thanksgiving dinner. Consider using natural materials this time of year, as they are so abundant. You may have to plan ahead and pick up beautiful leaves
as they fall from the trees to create your own special design. A large fall bow with some colorful corn will complete your Thanksgiving wreath.
As you can see, wreaths aren't just for Christmas anymore! Seasonal wreaths are a great way to decorate for each holiday. If you have a nice base wreath, it would even be possible to just change out the decorations to
accommodate each holiday or season. And because most wreaths aren't very large, they are an easy way to add a special touch to your home's decor without busting the budget. Be sure to protect your seasonal wreaths by
storing them in a secure and efficient manner so that you can enjoy them for years to come.
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Wreaths are most often thought to be a Christmastime decoration. Around the holidays, many of us decorate our homes with evergreen wreaths with lights and red bows. Christmas wreaths are a traditional decoration that
we're all accustomed to. However, more and more designers are using wreaths as a constantly rotating seasonal decoration. Why limit yourself to only displaying wreaths during the month of December? Wreaths can be a
unique and versatile decoration for any season or holiday. Here are some fresh ideas on using wreaths as year-round decorations.
New Year's:
You can easily take your Christmas wreath into New Year's Day by removing the red bows and adding gold or silver ones with some streamers. Other possible decorations include a Happy New Years banner or hat and some
small party horns or plastic champagne glasses.
Valentine's Day:
Nothing says love like a pink or red heart shaped wreath. Consider using silk roses, fabric hearts or even wrapped candies. A stuffed animal like a pink or red teddy bear, or small cupid also adds character. Top it off with a
beautiful bow and you have a bright decoration for those cold winter days!
St. Patrick's Day:
Everyone can pretend to be Irish on St. Patty's Day! Of course, when designing a St. Patrick's Day wreath, green is certainly a requirement. A mass of green shamrocks wrapping your wreath would look very festive (garlands
of plastic or fabric shamrocks can usually be purchased at decorating stores). Additional decorations might include small gold coins or leprechaun figurines.
Easter:
An Easter wreath can be decorated in many ways. Some choose to focus on the Christian celebration of Christ's resurrection, and others choose a lighthearted Easter Bunny theme. Whatever your choice may be, beautiful
spring flowers are a good base for an Easter wreath. Other choices might include Easter eggs, chocolate candies or bunnies, and Easter ribbons.
Fourth of July:
In the United States, July 4 is an important holiday when we all like to show our patriotic spirit. Try a straw or grapevine wreath spray painted with red, white, or blue gloss paint as your base, and then have fun from there! You
can use firecrackers, streamers, and ribbons for decorations. And don't forget to include some small flags to celebrate our independence.
Halloween:
After Christmas, Halloween is the most "decorated" holiday we celebrate in the United States. Welcome your trick-or-treaters with a festive Halloween wreath. Orange and black are traditional colors, and there are many
materials and items you can use to create your wreath. Decorations might include pumpkins, ghosts, black cats, witches, spiders and wrapped candies.
Thanksgiving:
A wreath is a wonderful way to welcome guests to your home for a Thanksgiving dinner. Consider using natural materials this time of year, as they are so abundant. You may have to plan ahead and pick up beautiful leaves
as they fall from the trees to create your own special design. A large fall bow with some colorful corn will complete your Thanksgiving wreath.
As you can see, wreaths aren't just for Christmas anymore! Seasonal wreaths are a great way to decorate for each holiday. If you have a nice base wreath, it would even be possible to just change out the decorations to
accommodate each holiday or season. And because most wreaths aren't very large, they are an easy way to add a special touch to your home's decor without busting the budget. Be sure to protect your seasonal wreaths by
storing them in a secure and efficient manner so that you can enjoy them for years to come.
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Monday, November 8, 2010
A Look At The Risk And How To Prevent Lung Cancer
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：60 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:36:28
Lung caner is a scourge that forms in the tissues of the lung cavity. The cancerous cells generally will form in the lining air passages. Health professionals are not forever able to decide the "why" or causes that a being developed cancers and others do not. Nevertheless, researchers can supply insight that can main to a very close explanation from studies performed and a general design of menace in the population.
Many of the routines and lifestyles the people prime daily contribute to the development of many diseases counting lung plague, virus swelling, and other illnesses in a role's body. For this intention we can say that just about something that an anyone does that increases the odds of contracting, developing, or diffusion a disease or illness is called an imperil analyze. Lung bane prevention depends on the elimination of many, if not all the threat factors associated with the disease.
Therefore, so if you can eliminate the expose factors that contribute to the development of a particular illness or disease, you can terribly diminish the likelihood that the illness will use. Outside genes that may have been inherited from family organ which may make it inevitable that a self will advance a certain disease or illness, risks dynamic elimination is prevention. With this said, you should be informed that just because a person avoids the venture factors associated with a particular illness or disease, that is not a promise that a person will not result the illness. Avoidance of expose factors only decreases the chances and increases the chances of lung growth prevention.
Methods of lung evil prevention enter the evading or elimination of smoking or phone with next hand smoke. Choosing not to smoke is the number one menace thing that should be eliminated. If you are predisposed to or have genes that may escalate your likelihood of getting lung scourge, live informed of, and keep in dealings with your doctor to help with early detection for timely treatment if the necessity arises. Proper diet including fruits and vegetables splendid in antioxidants and flavonoids help to shield DNA and repair dented cells. Enlarged wisdom of the chemicals and agents that you are exposed to at work will help with lung plague prevention. Possible carcinogens contribute to the development of numerous types of cancers. Cancer cubicle development begins with the cacinogens that interrupt habitual section development and they can be found in seats where certain chemicals are contained. So, know the risks factors, prevent them if likely, and pay attention to your eating habits. All will minor your risks for developing lung cancer and other deadly diseases.
Lung caner is a scourge that forms in the tissues of the lung cavity. The cancerous cells generally will form in the lining air passages. Health professionals are not forever able to decide the "why" or causes that a being developed cancers and others do not. Nevertheless, researchers can supply insight that can main to a very close explanation from studies performed and a general design of menace in the population.
Many of the routines and lifestyles the people prime daily contribute to the development of many diseases counting lung plague, virus swelling, and other illnesses in a role's body. For this intention we can say that just about something that an anyone does that increases the odds of contracting, developing, or diffusion a disease or illness is called an imperil analyze. Lung bane prevention depends on the elimination of many, if not all the threat factors associated with the disease.
Therefore, so if you can eliminate the expose factors that contribute to the development of a particular illness or disease, you can terribly diminish the likelihood that the illness will use. Outside genes that may have been inherited from family organ which may make it inevitable that a self will advance a certain disease or illness, risks dynamic elimination is prevention. With this said, you should be informed that just because a person avoids the venture factors associated with a particular illness or disease, that is not a promise that a person will not result the illness. Avoidance of expose factors only decreases the chances and increases the chances of lung growth prevention.
Methods of lung evil prevention enter the evading or elimination of smoking or phone with next hand smoke. Choosing not to smoke is the number one menace thing that should be eliminated. If you are predisposed to or have genes that may escalate your likelihood of getting lung scourge, live informed of, and keep in dealings with your doctor to help with early detection for timely treatment if the necessity arises. Proper diet including fruits and vegetables splendid in antioxidants and flavonoids help to shield DNA and repair dented cells. Enlarged wisdom of the chemicals and agents that you are exposed to at work will help with lung plague prevention. Possible carcinogens contribute to the development of numerous types of cancers. Cancer cubicle development begins with the cacinogens that interrupt habitual section development and they can be found in seats where certain chemicals are contained. So, know the risks factors, prevent them if likely, and pay attention to your eating habits. All will minor your risks for developing lung cancer and other deadly diseases.
Bloomex Patners With the Canadian Cancer Society
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：94 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:36:57
Bloomex Inc, Canadas fastest growing online florist is pleased to announce a new relationship with the Canadian Cancer Society in support of the fight against cancer.
"All of us have been touched by cancer in some way or another. The Bloomex management team felt the need to support cancer research by contributing proceeds from the sales of our flower arrangements. This way our customers can feel good knowing that with the purchase of certain arrangements, 10 percent of the proceeds will be donated to the Canadian Cancer Society to help make cancer history," says Dimitri Lokhonia, President of Bloomex Inc.
According to the Canadian Cancer Society, cancer is the number one health concern of Canadians and two in five Canadians will develop some form of cancer in their lifetime. Through research, advocacy and information and support programs, the Canadian Cancer Society works towards achieving its mission of eradicating cancer and enhancing the quality of life for people living with the disease.
"We are excited to be part of this initiative, and look forward to an exciting relationship, which will ultimately help save lives," says Michelle Robitaille, Public Relations Manager for Bloomex Inc. "Since the gift of flowers has special meaning to those sending and receiving them, we wanted our best selling arrangements to be even more meaningful, knowing that together we are battling a disease that affects so many."
"Give Hope Collection" on Bloomexs website will feature 12 of its best selling arrangements. For each of these arrangements sold, 10 percent of the proceeds will be donated to the Society in support of cancer research. Graphics of participating products will indicate that a portion of the proceeds will be contributed to fund cancer research. Every month, Bloomex will feature one of these arrangements and 15 percent of the proceeds of this product will be donated to the Canadian Cancer Society. This months featured arrangement is Morning Glory.
Each featured arrangement will include a special tag informing the recipient that the sender is a proud supporter of the Canadian Cancer Society. The cost of cancer is immeasurable both in terms of the lives that are affected by the disease and the economic cost of cancer and we are proud that every dollar donated to the Canadian Cancer Society through this campaign will help to make a difference in the fight against cancer.
For more information about the Canadian Cancer Society please visit www.cancer.ca. For more information about the relationship between Bloomex and the Canadian Cancer Society, please go to http://bloomex.ca
Bloomex Inc, Canadas fastest growing online florist is pleased to announce a new relationship with the Canadian Cancer Society in support of the fight against cancer.
"All of us have been touched by cancer in some way or another. The Bloomex management team felt the need to support cancer research by contributing proceeds from the sales of our flower arrangements. This way our customers can feel good knowing that with the purchase of certain arrangements, 10 percent of the proceeds will be donated to the Canadian Cancer Society to help make cancer history," says Dimitri Lokhonia, President of Bloomex Inc.
According to the Canadian Cancer Society, cancer is the number one health concern of Canadians and two in five Canadians will develop some form of cancer in their lifetime. Through research, advocacy and information and support programs, the Canadian Cancer Society works towards achieving its mission of eradicating cancer and enhancing the quality of life for people living with the disease.
"We are excited to be part of this initiative, and look forward to an exciting relationship, which will ultimately help save lives," says Michelle Robitaille, Public Relations Manager for Bloomex Inc. "Since the gift of flowers has special meaning to those sending and receiving them, we wanted our best selling arrangements to be even more meaningful, knowing that together we are battling a disease that affects so many."
"Give Hope Collection" on Bloomexs website will feature 12 of its best selling arrangements. For each of these arrangements sold, 10 percent of the proceeds will be donated to the Society in support of cancer research. Graphics of participating products will indicate that a portion of the proceeds will be contributed to fund cancer research. Every month, Bloomex will feature one of these arrangements and 15 percent of the proceeds of this product will be donated to the Canadian Cancer Society. This months featured arrangement is Morning Glory.
Each featured arrangement will include a special tag informing the recipient that the sender is a proud supporter of the Canadian Cancer Society. The cost of cancer is immeasurable both in terms of the lives that are affected by the disease and the economic cost of cancer and we are proud that every dollar donated to the Canadian Cancer Society through this campaign will help to make a difference in the fight against cancer.
For more information about the Canadian Cancer Society please visit www.cancer.ca. For more information about the relationship between Bloomex and the Canadian Cancer Society, please go to http://bloomex.ca
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Payday Loan Online - Insurance For Your Wallet
Author：Jennifer Meinert Source：none Hits：35 UpdateTime：2008-7-15 22:30:19
We've all been there. You need cash and you need it in a hurry. You've run out of options and don't know what to do. That's what a Payday Loan Online is for. It's there for you when nothing else is. Situations arise from nowhere. Imagine being on vacation, and your wallet is lost or stolen. You find yourself without any cash, credit cards, or gas for the long drive home. All you need is internet access to get you back on the road again.
Or maybe you go on vacation, have a great time, and spend all your readily available cash. Unfortunately, when you get home, you find that your bills are still on their regular schedule. They're due now, but your wallet is empty. A Payday Loan Online will have you up to date in no time.
Do you have a special occasion like a holiday or a wedding? There's no changing the dates for these events! You have to be ready when the time comes. If you want to make a good impression, it's hard to do it when you're broke. Do you have a special date? No problem. You can have the cash in your bank account within one hour or, if you apply on the weekend, by the next business day.
Who can apply for a Payday Loan Online? Anyone of legal age, with a regular, verifiable income can qualify. You need to have an active checking or savings account. There's no credit check, so your credit history doesn't matter. A Payday Loan Online is a short term loan that can be used for whatever you need it for, whenever you need it. You pay a fee according to the amount you borrow, which is deducted from your checking account when the loan is repaid. You don't need to get approval on what the money is for, so it's up to you whether you spend the money on bills, a shopping spree, whatever! You don't even have to leave home to apply or to pay back the loan. When your regular payday comes, the amount of the loan, plus the fee, is electronically withdrawn from your account.
Think of a Payday Loan Online as insurance for your wallet. You don't always need it, but when you do, it's available to you. You can apply any time from any place that you have internet access. Since there's no paperwork involved, you don't have to worry about having your records with you to get fast cash.
The application is simple. Just click on the link and you're ready to apply. It's easy. In fact, it takes no more than two minutes to fill out. Once it's completed, approval is fast. Loans are available from $500 to $1500, depending on the amount of your regular paycheck. Once you're approved, the money can be deposited into your bank account in as little as one hour.
Not a lot of things are guaranteed in life, especially not those that involve money. Things may not be the same in a day or even in an hour. It's good to have a backup plan for those little emergencies that life throws at you. Check out Payday Loan Online and see if it's the insurance you need.
We've all been there. You need cash and you need it in a hurry. You've run out of options and don't know what to do. That's what a Payday Loan Online is for. It's there for you when nothing else is. Situations arise from nowhere. Imagine being on vacation, and your wallet is lost or stolen. You find yourself without any cash, credit cards, or gas for the long drive home. All you need is internet access to get you back on the road again.
Or maybe you go on vacation, have a great time, and spend all your readily available cash. Unfortunately, when you get home, you find that your bills are still on their regular schedule. They're due now, but your wallet is empty. A Payday Loan Online will have you up to date in no time.
Do you have a special occasion like a holiday or a wedding? There's no changing the dates for these events! You have to be ready when the time comes. If you want to make a good impression, it's hard to do it when you're broke. Do you have a special date? No problem. You can have the cash in your bank account within one hour or, if you apply on the weekend, by the next business day.
Who can apply for a Payday Loan Online? Anyone of legal age, with a regular, verifiable income can qualify. You need to have an active checking or savings account. There's no credit check, so your credit history doesn't matter. A Payday Loan Online is a short term loan that can be used for whatever you need it for, whenever you need it. You pay a fee according to the amount you borrow, which is deducted from your checking account when the loan is repaid. You don't need to get approval on what the money is for, so it's up to you whether you spend the money on bills, a shopping spree, whatever! You don't even have to leave home to apply or to pay back the loan. When your regular payday comes, the amount of the loan, plus the fee, is electronically withdrawn from your account.
Think of a Payday Loan Online as insurance for your wallet. You don't always need it, but when you do, it's available to you. You can apply any time from any place that you have internet access. Since there's no paperwork involved, you don't have to worry about having your records with you to get fast cash.
The application is simple. Just click on the link and you're ready to apply. It's easy. In fact, it takes no more than two minutes to fill out. Once it's completed, approval is fast. Loans are available from $500 to $1500, depending on the amount of your regular paycheck. Once you're approved, the money can be deposited into your bank account in as little as one hour.
Not a lot of things are guaranteed in life, especially not those that involve money. Things may not be the same in a day or even in an hour. It's good to have a backup plan for those little emergencies that life throws at you. Check out Payday Loan Online and see if it's the insurance you need.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
How Mothers Can Fight Against Diseases In Babies
Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：120 UpdateTime：2008-10-18 23:37:01
The especial province of the mother is the prevention of disease, not its cure. When disease attacks the child, the mother has then a part to perform, which it is especially important during the epochs of infancy and childhood should be done well. I refer to those duties which constitute the maternal part of the management of disease.
Medical treatment, for its successful issue, is greatly dependent upon a careful, pains-taking, and judicious maternal superintendence. No medical treatment can avail at any time, if directions be only partially carried out, or be negligently attended to; and will most assuredly fail altogether, if counteracted by the erroneous prejudices of ignorant attendants. But to the affections of infancy and childhood, this remark applies with great force; since, at this period, disease is generally so sudden in its assaults, and rapid in its progress, that unless the measures prescribed are rigidly and promptly administered, their exhibition is soon rendered altogether fruitless.
The amount of suffering, too, may be greatly lessened by the thoughtful and discerning attentions of the mother. The wants and necessities of the young child must be anticipated; the fretfulness produced by disease, soothed by kind and affectionate persuasion; and the possibility of the sick and sensitive child being exposed to harsh and ungentle conduct, carefully provided against.
Again, not only is a firm and strict compliance with medical directions in the administration of remedies, of regimen, and general measures, necessary, but an unbiased, faithful, and full report of symptoms to the physician, when he visits his little patient, is of the first importance. An ignorant servant or nurse, unless great caution be exercised by the medical attendant, may, by an unintentional but erroneous report of symptoms, produce a very wrong impression upon his mind, as to the actual state of the disease. His judgment may, as a consequence, be biased in a wrong direction, and the result prove seriously injurious to the welldoing of the patient. The medical man cannot sit hour after hour watching symptoms; hence the great importance of their being faithfully reported. This can alone be done by the mother, or some person equally competent.
There are other weighty considerations which might be adduced here, proving how much depends upon efficient maternal management in the time of sickness; but they will be severally dwelt upon, when the diseases with which they are more particularly connected are spoken of.
The especial province of the mother is the prevention of disease, not its cure. When disease attacks the child, the mother has then a part to perform, which it is especially important during the epochs of infancy and childhood should be done well. I refer to those duties which constitute the maternal part of the management of disease.
Medical treatment, for its successful issue, is greatly dependent upon a careful, pains-taking, and judicious maternal superintendence. No medical treatment can avail at any time, if directions be only partially carried out, or be negligently attended to; and will most assuredly fail altogether, if counteracted by the erroneous prejudices of ignorant attendants. But to the affections of infancy and childhood, this remark applies with great force; since, at this period, disease is generally so sudden in its assaults, and rapid in its progress, that unless the measures prescribed are rigidly and promptly administered, their exhibition is soon rendered altogether fruitless.
The amount of suffering, too, may be greatly lessened by the thoughtful and discerning attentions of the mother. The wants and necessities of the young child must be anticipated; the fretfulness produced by disease, soothed by kind and affectionate persuasion; and the possibility of the sick and sensitive child being exposed to harsh and ungentle conduct, carefully provided against.
Again, not only is a firm and strict compliance with medical directions in the administration of remedies, of regimen, and general measures, necessary, but an unbiased, faithful, and full report of symptoms to the physician, when he visits his little patient, is of the first importance. An ignorant servant or nurse, unless great caution be exercised by the medical attendant, may, by an unintentional but erroneous report of symptoms, produce a very wrong impression upon his mind, as to the actual state of the disease. His judgment may, as a consequence, be biased in a wrong direction, and the result prove seriously injurious to the welldoing of the patient. The medical man cannot sit hour after hour watching symptoms; hence the great importance of their being faithfully reported. This can alone be done by the mother, or some person equally competent.
There are other weighty considerations which might be adduced here, proving how much depends upon efficient maternal management in the time of sickness; but they will be severally dwelt upon, when the diseases with which they are more particularly connected are spoken of.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Are You Interested in a Career as a Nursing Assistant?
Do you love the medical industry, helping others and working with people in need? Are you patient, outgoing, warm and friendly? Do you love meeting new people and facing everyday challenges? If so, you may want to
pursue a career as a nursing assistant. Once you obtain the correct professional experience and training, you will immediately be able to begin working with doctors, nurses and other medical practitioners.
Nursing assistants are trained for the medical profession in trade, vocational or technical schools. Following a students graduation, a nursing assistant may choose to become a certified nursing assistant, which will increase
the likelihood of a higher-paying position. This involves more schooling and a professional certification.
Various regions of the United States give different titles to nursing assistants. An assistant can also be known as a nurses aid, an orderly, a home health aide, a personal care assistant and a patient care technician. Basically,
they all perform the same regular duties of dressing, meals, exercising, toiletry, administering medications, bathing, recording vital signs and other general care to provide each patient with quality attention. Patient care
technicians also provide personal care and attention to elderly or handicapped people who may not be able to independently take care of themselves.
Working in the medical field can be demanding and stressful. It is not for everyone. Being a nursing assistant requires a great deal of compassion, patience and tolerance. Nursing assistants should enjoy working with a
variety of people who may be injured, disabled or mentally unstable. They should enjoy providing safety and comfort, have a good sense of humor and love talking to people who may possess different ethnic or financial
backgrounds. If you possess most of these characteristics, you would be an ideal nursing assistant. It can be an extremely rewarding career.
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Once you obtain a nursing assistant certification, you will be able to pursue a position in hospitals, adult day health centers, nursing homes, personal homes or assisted living apartments. Nursing assistants typically work
under the supervision of a knowledgeable medical staff.
Nursing assistant classes are usually led by a professionally-registered nurse. The length of training can vary. Many times, schools will offer night or weekend classes for people who already possess a full-time job or have
children. These classes teach the fundamentals of providing care. Nursing assistant courses include medical and surgical nursing, pharmacology, physiology, anatomy, newborn care, infection control, personal care,
phlebotomy, emergency care, patient safety, First Aid and CPR. Students are also given hands-on experience that properly prepares them for a nursing career.
pursue a career as a nursing assistant. Once you obtain the correct professional experience and training, you will immediately be able to begin working with doctors, nurses and other medical practitioners.
Nursing assistants are trained for the medical profession in trade, vocational or technical schools. Following a students graduation, a nursing assistant may choose to become a certified nursing assistant, which will increase
the likelihood of a higher-paying position. This involves more schooling and a professional certification.
Various regions of the United States give different titles to nursing assistants. An assistant can also be known as a nurses aid, an orderly, a home health aide, a personal care assistant and a patient care technician. Basically,
they all perform the same regular duties of dressing, meals, exercising, toiletry, administering medications, bathing, recording vital signs and other general care to provide each patient with quality attention. Patient care
technicians also provide personal care and attention to elderly or handicapped people who may not be able to independently take care of themselves.
Working in the medical field can be demanding and stressful. It is not for everyone. Being a nursing assistant requires a great deal of compassion, patience and tolerance. Nursing assistants should enjoy working with a
variety of people who may be injured, disabled or mentally unstable. They should enjoy providing safety and comfort, have a good sense of humor and love talking to people who may possess different ethnic or financial
backgrounds. If you possess most of these characteristics, you would be an ideal nursing assistant. It can be an extremely rewarding career.
burberry outlet
chanel 2.55
Once you obtain a nursing assistant certification, you will be able to pursue a position in hospitals, adult day health centers, nursing homes, personal homes or assisted living apartments. Nursing assistants typically work
under the supervision of a knowledgeable medical staff.
Nursing assistant classes are usually led by a professionally-registered nurse. The length of training can vary. Many times, schools will offer night or weekend classes for people who already possess a full-time job or have
children. These classes teach the fundamentals of providing care. Nursing assistant courses include medical and surgical nursing, pharmacology, physiology, anatomy, newborn care, infection control, personal care,
phlebotomy, emergency care, patient safety, First Aid and CPR. Students are also given hands-on experience that properly prepares them for a nursing career.
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