Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix - Rowling Joanne Kathleen - Страница 49

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'Well, they were right, weren't they?' said Hermione impatiently. There weren 't any such things as the Blibbering Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.'

Luna gave her a withering look and flounced away, radishes swinging madly. Parvati and Lavender were not the only ones hooting with laughter now.

'D'you mind not offending the only people who believe me?' Harry asked Hermione as they made their way into class.

'Oh, for heaven's sake, Harry, you can do better than her, ' said Hermione. 'Ginny's told me all about her; apparently, she'll only believe in things as long as there's no proof at all. Well, I wouldn't expect anything else from someone whose father runs The Quibbler .'

Harry thought of the sinister winged horses he had seen on the night he had arrived and how Luna had said she could see them too. His spirits sank slightly. Had she been lying? But before he could devote much more thought to the matter, Ernie Macmillan had stepped up to him.

'I want you to know, Potter,' he said in a loud, carrying voice, 'that it's not only weirdos who support you. I personally believe you one hundred per cent. My family have always stood firm behind Dumbledore, and so do I.'

'Er — thanks very much, Ernie,' said Harry, taken aback but pleased. Ernie might be pompous on occasions like this, but Harry was in a mood to deeply appreciate a vote of confidence from somebody who did not have radishes dangling from their ears. Ernie's words had certainly wiped the smile from Lavender Browns face and as he turned to talk to Ron and Hermione, Harry caught Seamus's expression, which looked both confused and defiant.

To nobody's surprise, Professor Sprout started their lesson by lecturing them about the importance of OWLs. Harry wished all the teachers would stop doing this; he was starting to get an anxious, twisted feeling in his stomach every time he remembered how much homework he had to do, a feeling that worsened dramatically when Professor Sprout gave them yet another essay at the end of class. Tired and smelling strongly of dragon dung, Professor Sprouts preferred type of fertiliser, the Gryffindors trooped back up to the castle an hour and a half later, none of them talking very much; it had been another long day.

As Harry was starving, and he had his first detention with Umbridge at five o'clock, he headed straight for dinner without dropping off his bag in Gryffindor Tower so that he could bolt something down before facing whatever she had in store for him. He had barely reached the entrance of the Great Hall, however, when a loud and angry voice yelled, 'Oi, Potter!'

'What now?' he muttered wearily, turning to face Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a towering temper.

'I'll tell you what now ,' she said, marching straight up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her finger. 'How come you've landed yourself in detention for five o'clock on Friday?'

'What?' said Harry. 'Why . . . oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!'

'Now he remembers!' snarled Angelina. 'Didn't I tell you I wanted to do a tryout with the whole team, and find someone who fitted in with everyone? Didn't I tell you I'd booked the Quidditch pitch specially? And now you've decided you're not going to be there!'

'I didn't decide not to be there!' said Harry, stung by the injustice of these words. 'I got detention from that Umbridge woman, just because I told her the truth about You-Know-Who.'

'Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to let you off en Friday,' said Angelina fiercely, 'and I don't care how you do it. Tell her You-Know-Who's a figment of your imagination if you like, just make sure you 're there! '

She turned on her heel and stormed away.

'You know what.?' Harry said to Ron and Hermione as they entered the Great Hall. 'I think we'd better check with Puddlemere United whether Oliver Wood's been killed during a training session, because Angelina seems to be channelling his spirit.'

'What d'you reckon are the odds of Umbridge letting you off on Friday?' said Ron sceptically, as they sat down at the Gryffindor table.

'Less than zero,' said Harry glumly, tipping lamb chops on to his plate and starting to eat. 'Better try, though, hadn't I? I'll offer to do two more detentions or something, I dunno . . .' He swallowed a mouthful of potato and added, 'I hope she doesn't keep me too long this evening. You realise we've got to write three essays, practise Vanishing Spells for McGonagall, work out a counter-charm for Flitwick, finish the Bowtruckle drawing and start that stupid dream diary for Trelawney?'

Ron moaned and for some reason glanced up at the ceiling.

'And it looks like it's going to rain.'

'What's that got to do with our homework?' said Hermione, her eyebrows raised.

'Nothing,' said Ron at once, his ears reddening.

At five to five Harry bade the other two goodbye and set off for Umbridge's office on the third floor. When he knocked on the door she called, 'Come in,' in a sugary voice. He entered cautiously, looking around.

He had known this office under three of its previous occupants.

In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart had lived here it had been plastered in beaming portraits of himself. When Lupin had occupied it, it was likely you would meet some fascinating Dark creature in a cage or tank if you came to call. In the impostor Moody's days it had been packed with various instruments and artefacts for the detection of wrongdoing and concealment.

Now, however, it looked totally unrecognisable. The surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There were several vases full of dried flowers, each one residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large technicolour kitten wearing a different bow around its neck. These were so foul that Harry stared at them, transfixed, until Professor Umbridge spoke again.

'Good evening, Mr Potter.'

Harry started and looked around. He had not noticed her at first because she was wearing a luridly flowered set of robes that blended only too well with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

'Evening, Professor Umbridge,' Harry said stiffly.

'Well, sit down,' she said, pointing towards a small table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay on the table, apparently waiting for him.

'Er,' said Harry, without moving. 'Professor Umbridge. Er — before we start, I — I wanted to ask you a . . . a favour.'

Her bulging eyes narrowed.

'Oh, yes?'

'Well, I'm . . . I'm in the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five o'clock on Friday and I was — was wondering whether I could skip detention that night and do it — do it another night . . . instead . . .'

He knew long before he reached the end of his sentence that it was no good.

'Oh, no,' said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. 'Oh, no, no, no. This is your punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr Potter, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one's convenience. No, you will come here at five o'clock tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and you will do your detentions as planned. I think it rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I am trying to teach you.'

Harry felt the blood surge to his head and heard a thumping noise in his ears. So he told 'evil, nasty, attention-seeking stones', did he?

She was watching him with her head slightly to one side, still smiling widely, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and was waiting to see whether he would start shouting again. With a massive effort, Harry looked away from her, dropped his schoolbag beside the straight-backed chair and sat down.

'There,' said Umbridge sweetly, 'we're getting better at controlling our temper already, aren't we? Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Mr Potter. No, not with your quill,' she added, as Harry bent down to open his bag. 'You're going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are.'

She handed him a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point.

'I want you to write, I must not tell lies ,' she told him softly.

'How many times?' Harry asked, with a creditable imitation of politeness.

'Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in ,' said Umbridge sweetly. 'Off you go.'

She moved over to her desk, sat down and bent over a stack of parchment that looked like essays for marking. Harry raised the sharp black quill, then realised what was missing.

'You haven't given me any ink,' he said.

'Oh, you won't need ink,' said Professor Umbridge, with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.

Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and wrote: I must not tell lies .

He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on the parchment in what appeared to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the back of Harry's right hand, cut into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel — yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth.

Harry looked round at Umbridge. She was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile.

'Yes?'

'Nothing,' said Harry quietly.

He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill on it once more, wrote I must not tell lies , and felt the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second time; once again, the words had been cut into his skin; once again, they healed over seconds later.

And on it went. Again and again Harry wrote the words on the parchment in what he soon came to realise was not ink, but his own blood. And, again and again, the words were cut into the back of his hand, healed, and reappeared the next time he set quill to parchment.

Darkness fell outside Umbridge's window. Harry did not ask when he would be allowed to stop. He did not even check his watch. He knew she was watching him for signs of weakness and he was not going to show any, not even if he had to sit there all night, cutting open his own hand with this quill . . .

'Come here,' she said, after what seemed hours.

He stood up. His hand was stinging painfully. When he looked down at it he saw that the cut had healed, but that the skin there was red raw.

'Hand,' she said.

He extended it. She took it in her own. Harry repressed a shudder as she touched him with her thick, stubby fingers on which she wore a number of ugly old rings.

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