Kreacher’s Tale
Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing room
floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the cool, clear blue
of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and everything was quiet except for
Ron and Hermione’s slow, deep breathing. Harry glanced over at the dark shapes they
made on the floor beside him. Ron had had a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermione
sleep on the cushions from the sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm
curved to the floor, her fingers inches from Ron’s. Harry wondered whether they had
fallen asleep holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.
He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than
twenty-four house ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to the
marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What was going
to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, of the daunting
complex mission Dumbledore had left him… Dumbledore…
The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore’s death felt different now.
The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have nested in his
brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard he had idolized. Could
Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like Dudley, content to watch
neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? Could he have turned his back on a
sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?
Harry thought of Godric’s Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned
there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in Dumbledore’s will,
and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn’t Dumbledore told him? Why hadn’t
he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared about Harry at all? Or had Harry been
nothing more than a tool to be polished and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?
Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company.
Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bad, picked
up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, “Lumos,” and
started to climb the stairs by wandlight.
On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last time
they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and the bedclothes
had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg downstairs. Somebody
had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or perhaps Mundungus, who had
pilfered plenty from this house both before and after Sirius died? Harry’s gaze wandered
to the portrait that sometimes contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s great-great
grandfather, but it was empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas
Nigellus was evidently spending the night in the headmaster’s study at Hogwarts.
Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing where there
were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading Sirius. Harry had
never entered his godfather’s bedroom before. He pushed open the door, holding his
wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was spacious and must once have
been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved wooden headboard, a tall window
obscured by long velvet curtains and a chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle
scrubs still resting in its sockets, solid wax banging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust
covered the pictures on the walls and the bed’s headboard; a spiders web stretched
between the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved
deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.
The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and pictures that
little of the wall’s silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could only assume that Sirius’s
parents had been unable to remove the Permanent Sticking Charm that kept them on the
wall because he was sure they would not have appreciated their eldest son’s taste in
decoration. Sirius seemed to have long gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There
were several large Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold just to underline his
difference from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle
motorcycles, and also (Harry had to admire Sirius’s nerve) several posters of bikini-clad
Muggle girls. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they remained quite
stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes frozen on the paper. This
was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the walls which was a picture of four
Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, laughing at the camera.
With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father, his untidy black hair stuck
up at the back like Harry’s, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was Sirius, carelessly
handsome, Читать далее...

A Place to Hide
Everything seemed fuzzy, slow. Harry and Hermione jumped to their feet and
drew their wands. Many people were only just realizing that something strange had
happened; heads were still turning toward the silver cat as it vanished. Silence spread
outward in cold ripples from the place where the Patronus had landed. Then somebody
screamed.
Harry and Hermione threw themselves into the panicking crowd. Guests were
sprinting in all directions; many were Disapparating; the protective enchantments around
the Burrow had broken.
“Ron!” Hermione cried. “Ron, where are you?”
As they pushed their way across the dance floor, Harry saw cloaked and masked
figures appearing in the crowd; then he saw Lupin and Tonks, their wands raised, and
heard both of them shout, “Protego!”, a cry that was echoed on all sides –
“Ron! Ron!” Hermione called, half sobbing as she and Harry were buffered by
terrified guests: Harry seized her hand to make sure they weren’t separated as a streak of
light whizzed over their heads, whether a protective charm or something more sinister he
did not know –
And then Ron was there. He caught hold of Hermione’s free arm, and Harry felt
her turn on the spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon him;
all he could feel was Hermione’s hand as he was squeezed through space and time, away
from the Burrow, away from the descending Death Eaters, away, perhaps, from
Voldemort himself. . . .
“Where are we?” said Ron’s voice.
Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they had not left the wedding
after all; They still seemed to be surrounded by people.
“Tottenham Court Road,” panted Hermione. “Walk, just walk, we need to find
somewhere for you to change.”
Harry did as she asked. They half walked, half ran up the wide dark street
thronged with late-night revelers and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling above them.
A double-decker bus rumbled by and a group of merry pub-goers ogled them as they
passed; Harry and Ron were still wearing dress robes.
“Hermione, we haven’t got anything to change into,” Ron told her, as a young
woman burst into raucous giggles at the sight of him.
“Why didn’t I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?” said Harry,
inwardly cursing his own stupidity. “All last year I kept it on me and –“
“It’s okay, I’ve got the Cloak, I’ve got clothes for both of you,” said Hermione,
“Just try and act naturally until – this will do.”
She led them down a side street, then into the shelter of a shadowy alleyway.
“When you say you’ve got the Cloak, and clothes . . .” said Harry, frowning at
Hermione, who was carrying nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which she was
now rummaging.
“Yes, they’re here,” said Hermione, and to Harry and Ron’s utter astonishment,
she pulled out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally the silvery
Invisibility Cloak.
“How the ruddy hell – ?”
“Undetectable Extension Charm,” said Hermione. “Tricky, but I think I’ve done it
okay; anyway, I managed to fit everything we need in here.” She gave the fragile-looking
bag a little shake and it echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled
around inside it. “Oh, damn, that’ll be the books,” she said, peering into it, “and I had
them all stacked by subject. . . . Oh well. . . . Harry, you’d better take the Invisibility
Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change. . . .”
“When did you do all this?” Harry asked as Ron stripped off his robes.
“I told you at the Burrow, I’ve had the essentials packed for days, you know, in
case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry,
after you changed, and put it in here. . . . I just had a feeling. . . .”
“You’re amazing, you are,” said Ron, handing her his bundled-up robes.
“Thank you,” said Hermione, managing a small smile as she pushed the robes into
the bag. “Please, Harry, get that Cloak on!”
Harry threw his Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders and pulled it up over his
head, vanishing from sight. He was only just beginning to appreciate what had happened.
“The others – everybody at the wedding –“
“We can’t worry about that now,” whispered Hermione. “It’s you they’re after,
Harry, and we’ll just put everyone in even more danger by going back.”
“She’s right,” said Ron, who seemed to know that Harry was about to argue, even
if he could not see his face. “Most of the Order was there, they’ll look after everyone.”
Harry nodded, then remembered that they could not see him, and said, “Yeah.”
But he thought of Ginny, and fear bubbled like acid in his stomach.
“Come on, I think we ought to keep moving,” said Hermione.
They moved back up the side street and onto the main road again, where a group
of men on the opposite side was singing and weaving across the pavement.
“Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court Road?” Ron asked Hermione.
“I’ve no idea, it just popped into my head, but I’m sure we’re safer out Читать далее...

The Wedding
Three o’clock on the following afternoon found Harry, Ron, Fred and George
standing outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the
wedding guests. Harry had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and was now the
double of a redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, from
whom Fred had stolen hairs using a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce
Harry as “Cousin Barny” and trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to
camouflage him.
All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help show people
to the right seats. A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier, along with a
golden jacketed band, and all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance
away under a tree. Harry could see a blue haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot.
Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed rows and rows of fragile golden
chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles were entwined with
white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden
balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and
wife. Outside, butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow.
Harry was rather uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting
was slightly fatter than him and his dress robes felt hot and tight in the full glare of a
summer’s day.
“When I get married,” said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, “I won’t
be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I’ll put a full
Body Bird Curse on Mum until it’s all over.”
“She wasn’t too bad this morning, considering,” said George. “Cried a bit about
Percy not being here, but who wants him. Oh blimey, brace yourselves, here they come,
look.”
Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one out of nowhere at the distant
boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession had formed, which began to snake its
way up through the garden toward the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds
fluttered on the witches’ hats, while precious gems glittered from many of the wizards’
cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees
as the crowd approached the tent.
“Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins,” said George, craning his neck for a
better look. “They’ll need help understanding our English customs, I’ll look after
them….”
“Not so fast, Your Holeyness,” said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middleaged
witches heading for the procession, he said, “Here – permetiez moi to assister
vous,” to a pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside.
George was left to deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took charge of Mr.
Weasley’s old Ministry-colleague Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry’s
lot.
“Wotcher,” said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again and found
Tonks and Lupin at the front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the occasion.
“Arthur told us you were the one with the curly hair. Sorry about last night,” she added
in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. “The Ministry’s being very anti-werewolf at
the museum and we thought our presence might not do you any favors.”
“It’s fine, I understand,” said Harry, speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. Lupin
gave him a swift smile, but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin’s face fall again into
lines of misery. He did not understand it, but there was no time to dwell on the matter.
Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred’s
directions as he had sat himself, not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat set
aside for him in the back row, but on five sets that now resembled a large pile of golden
matchsticks.
While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid shouted apologies to
anybody who would listen, Harry hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face
with a most eccentric-looking wizard. Slightly cross-eyed, with shoulder-length white
hair the texture of candyfloss, he wore a cap whose tassel dangled in front of his nose and
robes of an eye-watering shade of egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a
triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.
“Xenophilius Lovegood,” he said, extending a hand to Harry, “my daughter and I
live just over the hill, so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know
my Luna?” he added to Ron.
“Yes,” said Ron. “Isn’t she with you?”
“She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a
glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise
little gnomes – or, to give them their correct name, the Gernumbli gardensi.”
“Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words,” said Ron, “but I think Fred and
George taught them those.”
He led a Читать далее...

The Will of Albus Dumbledore
He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far below,
swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought down there, the
man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man who held the answer, the
answer to his problem...?
"Oi, wake up."
Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron's dingy attic
room. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. Pigwidgeon was asleep
with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry's forehead was prickling.
"You were muttering in your sleep."
"Was I?"
"Yeah. 'Gregorovitch.' You kept saying 'Gregorovitch.'"
Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron's face appeared slightly blurred.
"Who's Gregorovitch?"
"I dunno, do I?" You were the one saying it."
Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the name
before, but he could not think where.
"I think Voldemort's looking for him."
"Poor bloke," said Ron fervently.
Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. He tried to remember
exactly what he had seen in the dream, but all that came back was a mountainous horizon
and the outline of the little village cradled in a deep valley.
"I think he's abroad."
"Who, Gregorovitch?"
"Voldemort. I think he's somewhere abroad, looking for Gregorovitch. It didn't
look like anywhere in Britain."
"You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?"
Ron sounded worried.
"Do me a favor and don't tell Hermione," said Harry. "Although how she expects
me to stop seeing stuff in my sleep..."
He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon's cage, thinking...Why was the name
"Gregorovitch" familiar?
"I think," he said slowly, "he's got something to do with Quidditch. There's some
connection, but I can't--I can't think what it is."
"Quidditch?" said Ron. "Sure you're not thinking of Gorgovitch?"
"Who?"
"Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record
fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season."
"No," said Harry. "I'm definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch."
"I try not to either," said Ron. "Well, happy birthday anyway."
"Wow -- that's right, I forgot! I'm seventeen!"
Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk
where he had left his glasses, and said, "Accio Glasses!" Although they were only around
a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom toward
him, at least until they poked him in the eye.
"Slick," snorted Ron.
Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron's possessions flying around
the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his cage. Harry
also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant knot took several minutes
to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, turned the orange robes on Ron's
Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.
"I'd do your fly by hand, though," Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry
immediately checked it. "Here's your present. Unwrap it up here, it's not for my mother's
eyes."
"A book?" said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. "Bit of a departure from
tradition, isn't it?"
"This isn't your average book," said Ron. "It'd pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe Ways
to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I'd had this
last year I'd have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would've known how to
get going with... Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I've learned a lot. You'd be
surprised, it's not all about wandwork, either."
When they arrived in the kitchen they found a pile of presents waiting on the table.
Bill and Monsieur Delacour were finishing their breakfasts, while Mrs. Weasley stood
chatting to them over the frying pan.
"Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley,
beaming at him. "He had to leave early for work, but he'll be back for dinner. That's our
present on top."
Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had indicated, and unwrapped it.
Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for his
seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling around the race instead of hands.
"It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age," said Mrs.
Weasley, watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. "I'm afraid that one isn't new
like Ron's, it was actually my brother Fabian's and he wasn't terribly careful with his
possessions, it's a bit dented on the back, but--"
The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up and hugged her. He tried to put
a lot of unsaid things into the hug and perhaps she understood them, because she patted
his cheek clumsily when he released her, then waved her wand in a slightly random way,
causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the frying pan onto the floor.
"Happy birthday, Harry!" said Hermione, hurrying into the kitchen and adding her
own Читать далее...

The Ghoul in Pajamas
The shock of losing Mad-Eye hung over the house in the days that followed;
Harry kept expecting to see him stumping in through the back door like the other Order
members, who passed in and out to relay news. Harry felt that nothing but action would
assuage his feelings of guilt and grief and that he ought to set out on his mission to find
and destroy Horcruxes as soon as possible.
“Well, you can’t do anything about the” – Ron mouthed the word Horcruxes –
“till you’re seventeen. You’ve still got the Trace on you. And we can plan here as well as
anywhere, can’t we? Or,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “d’you reckon you already
know where the You-Know-Whats are?”
“No,” Harry admitted.
“I think Hermione’s been doing a bit of research,” said Ron. “She said she was
saving it for when you got here.”
They were sitting at the breakfast table; Mr. Weasley and Bill had just left for
work. Mrs. Weasley had gone upstairs to wake Hermione and Ginny, while Fleur had
drifted off to take a bath.
“The Trace’ll break on the thirty-first,” said Harry. “That means I only need to
stay here four days. Then I can –“
“Five days,” Ron corrected him firmly. “We’ve got to stay for the wedding.
They’ll kill us if we miss it.”
Harry understood “they” to mean Fleur and Mrs. Weasley.
“It’s one extra day,” said Ron, when Harry looked mutinous.
“Don’t they realize how important –?”
“’Course they don’t,” said Ron. “They haven’t got a clue. And now you mention
it, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Ron glanced toward the door into the hall to check that Mrs. Weasley was not
returning yet, then leaned in closer to Harry.
“Mum’s been trying to get it out of Hermione and me. What we’re off to do.
She’ll try you next, so brace yourself. Dad and Lupin’ve both asked as well, but when we
said Dumbledore told you not to tell anyone except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, though.
She’s determined.”
Ron’s prediction came true within hours. Shortly before lunch, Mrs. Weasley
detached Harry from the others by asking him to help identify a lone man’s sock that she
thought might have come out of his rucksack. Once she had him cornered in the tiny
scullery off the kitchen, she started.
“Ron and Hermione seem to think that the three of you are dropping out of
Hogwarts,” she began in a light, casual tone.
“Oh,” said Harry. “Well, yeah. We are.”
The mangle turned of its own accord in a corner, wringing out what looked like
one of Mr. Weasley’s vests.
“May I ask why you are abandoning your education?” said Mrs. Weasley.
“Well, Dumbledore left me . . . stuff to do,” mumbled Harry. “Ron and Hermione
know about it, and they want to come too.”
“What sort of ‘stuff’?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t –“
“Well, frankly, I think Arthur and I have a right to know, and I’m sure Mr. And
Mrs. Granger would agree!” said Mrs. Weasley. Harry had been afraid of the “concerned
parent” attack. He forced himself to look directly into her eyes, noticing as he did so that
they were precisely the same shade of brown as Ginny’s. This did not help.
“Dumbledore didn’t want anyone else to know, Mrs. Weasley. I’m sorry. Ron and
Hermione don’t have to come, it’s their choice –“
“I don’t see that you have to go either!” she snapped, dropping all pretense now.
“You’re barely of age, any of you! It’s utter nonsense, if Dumbledore needed work doing,
he had the whole Order at his command! Harry, you must have misunderstood him.
Probably he was telling you something he wanted done, and you took it to mean that he
wanted you–“
“I didn’t misunderstand,” said Harry flatly. “It’s got to be me.”
He handed her back the single sock he was supposed to be identifying, which was
patterned with golden bulrushes.
“And that’s not mine. I don’t support Puddlemere United.”
“Oh, of course not,” said Mrs. Weasley with a sudden and rather unnerving return
to her casual tone. “I should have realized. Well, Harry, while we’ve still got you here,
you won’t mind helping with the preparations for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, will you?
There’s still so much to do.”
“No – I – of course not,” said Harry, disconcerted by this sudden change of
subject.
“Sweet of you,” she replied, and she smiled as she left the scullery.
From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept Harry, Ron and Hermione so busy with
preparations for the wedding that they hardly had any time to think. The kindest
explanation of this behavior would have been that Mrs. Weasley wanted to distract them
all from thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of their recent journey. After two days of
nonstop cutlery cleaning, of color-matching favors, ribbons, and flowers, of de-gnoming
the garden and helping Mrs. Weasley cook vast batches of canapés, however, Harry
started to suspect her of a different motive. All the jobs she handed out seemed to keep
him, Ron, and Hermione away from one another; he had not had a chance to speak to the
two of them alone since the first night, when he Читать далее...

Fallen Warrior
"Hagrid?"
Harry struggled to raise himself out of the debris of metal and leather that
surrounded him; his hands sank into inches of muddy water as he tried to stand. He could
not understand where Voldemort had gone and expected him to swoop out of the
darkness at any moment. Something hot and wet was trickling down his chin and from
his forehead. He crawled out of the pond and stumbled toward the great dark mass on the
ground that was Hagrid.
"Hagrid? Hagrid, talk to me –"
But the dark mass did not stir.
"Who's there? Is it Potter? Are you Harry Potter?"
Harry did not recognize the man's voice. Then a woman shouted. "They've
crashed. Ted! Crashed in the garden!"
Harry's head was swimming.
"Hagrid," he repeated stupidly, and his knees buckled.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back on what felt like cushions, with
a burning sensation in his ribs and right arm. His missing tooth had been regrown. The
scar on his forehead was still throbbing.
"Hagrid?"
He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on a sofa in an unfamiliar, lamplit
sitting room. His rucksack lay on the floor a short distance away, wet and muddy. A fairhaired,
big-bellied man was watching Harry anxiously.
"Hagrid's fine, son," said the man, "the wife's seeing to him now. How are you
feeling? Anything else broken? I've fixed your ribs, your tooth, and your arm. I'm Ted, by
the way, Ted Tonks – Dora's father."
Harry sat up too quickly. Lights popped in front of his eyes and he felt sick and
giddy.
"Voldemort –"
"Easy, now," said Ted Tonks, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder and pushing him
back against the cushions. "That was a nasty crash you just had. What happened,
anyway? Something go wrong with the bike? Arthur Weasley overstretch himself again,
him and his Muggle contraptions?"
"No," said Harry, as his scar pulsed like an open wound. "Death Eaters, loads of
them – we were chased –"
"Death Eaters?" said Ted sharply. "What d'you mean, Death Eaters? I thought
they didn't know you were being moved tonight, I thought –"
"They knew," said Harry.
Ted Tonks looked up at the ceiling as though he could see through it to the sky
above.
"Well, we know our protective charms hold, then, don't we? They shouldn't be
able to get within a hundred yards of the place in any direction."
Now Harry understood why Voldemort had vanished; it had been at the point
when the motorbike crossed the barrier of the Order's charms. He only hoped they would
continue to work: He imagined Voldemort, a hundred yards above them as they spoke,
looking for a way to penetrate what Harry visualized as a great transparent bubble.
He swung his legs off the sofa; he needed to see Hagrid with his own eyes before
he would believe that he was alive. He had barely stood up, however, when a door
opened and Hagrid squeezed through it, his face covered in mud and blood, limping a
little but miraculously alive.
"Harry!"
Knocking over two delicate tables and an aspidistra, he covered the floor between
them in two strides and pulled Harry into a hug that nearly cracked his newly repaired
ribs. "Blimey, Harry, how did yeh get out o' that? I thought we were both goners."
"Yeah, me too. I can't believe –"
Harry broke off. He had just noticed the woman who had entered the room behind
Hagrid.
"You!" he shouted, and he thrust his hand into his pocket, but it was empty.
"Your wand's here, son," said Ted, tapping it on Harry's arm. "It fell right beside
you, I picked it up…And that's my wife you're shouting at."
"Oh, I'm – I'm sorry."
As she moved forward into the room, Mrs. Tonks's resemblance to her sister
Bellatrix became much less pronounced: Her hair was a light’s oft brown and her eyes
were wider and kinder. Nevertheless, she looked a little haughty after Harry's
exclamation.
"What happened to our daughter?" she asked. "Hagrid said you were ambushed;
where is Nymphadora?"
"I don't know," said Harry. "We don't know what happened to anyone else."
She and Ted exchanged looks. A mixture of fear and guilt gripped Harry at the
sight of their expressions, if any of the others had died, it was his fault, all his fault. He
had consented to the plan, given them his hair . . .
"The Portkey," he said, remembering all of a sudden. "We've got to get back to
the Burrow and find out – then we'll be able to send you word, or – or Tonks will, once
she's –"
"Dora'll be ok, 'Dromeda," said Ted. "She knows her stuff, she's been in plenty of
tight spots with the Aurors. The Portkey's through here," he added to Harry. "It's
supposed to leave in three minutes, if you want to take it."
"Yeah, we do," said Harry. He seized his rucksack, swung it onto his shoulders. "I
–"
He looked at Mrs. Tonks, wanting to apologize for the state of fear in which he
left her and for which he felt so terribly responsible, but no words occurred to him that he
did not seem hollow and insincere.
"I'll tell Tonks – Dora – to send word, Читать далее...

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.”
Harry led them all back into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, they
settled on chairs, sat themselves upon Aunt Petunia’s gleaming work surfaces, or leaned
up against her spotless appliances; Ron, long and lanky; Hermione, her bushy hair tied
back in a long plait; Fred and George, grinning identically; Bill, badly scarred and longhaired;
Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, balding, his spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battleworn,
one-legged, his bright blue magical eye whizzing in its socket; Tonks, whose short
hair was her favorite shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur, slender and
beautiful, with her long silvery blonde hair; Kingsley, bald and broad-shouldered; Hagrid,
with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked to avoid hitting his head on the
ceiling; and Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, and hangdog, with his droopy beady
hound’s eyes and matted hair. Harry’s heart seemed to expand and glow at the sight: He
felt incredibly fond of all of them, even Mundungus, Читать далее...

The Dursleys Departing
The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs and a voice roared,
“Oh! You!”
Sixteen years of being addressed thus left Harry in no doubt when his uncle was
calling, nevertheless, he did not immediately respond. He was still at the narrow fragment
in which, for a split second, he had thought he saw Dumbledore’s eye. It was not until his
uncle bellowed, “BOY!” that Harry got slowly out of bed and headed for the bedroom
door, pausing to add the piece of broken mirror to the rucksack filled with things he
would be taking with him.
“You took you time!” roared Vernon Dursley when Harry appeared at the top of
the stairs, “Get down here. I want a word!”
Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his pants pockets. When he searched
the living room he found all three Dursleys. They were dressed for packing; Uncle
Vernon in an old ripped-up jacket and Dudley, Harry’s, large, blond, muscular cousin, in
his leather jacket.
“Yes?” asked Harry.
“Sit down!” said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his eyebrows. “Please!” added
Uncle Vernon, wincing slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat.
Harry sat. He though he knew what was coming. His uncle began to pace up and down,
Aunt Petunia and Dudley, following his movement with anxious expressions. Finally, his
large purple face crumpled with concentration. Uncle Vernon stopped in front of Harry
and spoke.
"I've changed my mind,” he said.
"What a surprise," said Harry.
"Don't you take that tone—" began Aunt Petunia in a shrill voice, but Vernon
Dursley waved her down
"It's all a lot of claptrap,” said Uncle Vernon, glaring at Harry with piggy little
eyes. "I've decided I don't believe a word of it. We’re staying put, we’re not going
anywhere.”
Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of exasperation and amusement.
Vernon Dursley had been changing his mind every twenty four hours for the past four
weeks, packing and unpacking and repacking the car with every change of heart. Harry’s
favorite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, unaware the Dudley had added
his dumbbells to his case since the last time it been repacked, had attempted to hoist it
back into the boot and collapsed with a yelp of pain and much swearing.
“According to you,” Vernon Dursley said, now resuming his pacing up and down
the living room, “we – Petunia, Dudley, and I – are in danger. From – from –“
“Some of ‘my lot’ right?” said Harry
“Well I don’t believe it,” repeated Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt in front of
Harry again. "I was awake half the night thinking it all over, and I believe it's a plot to get
the house."
"The house?" repeated Harry. "What house?"
"This house!" shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein his forehead starting to pulse.
"Our house! House prices are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the way and
then you're going to do a bit of hocus pocus and before we know it the deeds will be in
your name and –"
“Are you out of your mind?" demanded Harry. "A plot to get this house? Are you
actually as stupid as you look?"
"Don't you dare --!" squealed Aunt Petunia, but again Vernon waved her
down. Slights on his personal appearance were it seemed as nothing to the danger he had
spotted.
"Just in case you've forgotten," said Harry, "I've already got a house my godfather
left me one. So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?"
There was silence. Harry thought he had rather impressed his uncle with this
argument.
"You claim," said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet again, "that this Lord Thing
–"
"—Voldemort," said Harry impatiently, "and we've been through this about a
hundred times already. This isn't a claim, it's fact. Dumbledore told you last year, and
Kingsley and Mr. Weasley –"
Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that his uncle
was attempting to ward off recollections of the unannounced visit, a few days into Harry's
summer holidays, of two fully grown wizards. The arrival on the doorstep of Kingsley
Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most unpleasant shock to the Dursleys.
Harry had to admit, however that as Mr. Weasley had once demolished half of the living
room, his reappearance could not have been expected to delight Uncle Vernon.
"—Kingsley and Mr. Weasley explained it all as well," Harry pressed on
remorselessly, "Once I'm seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break,
and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you,
whether to torture you to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding
you hostage I'd come and try to rescue you."
Uncle Vernon's and Harry's eyes met. Harry was sure that in that instant they were
both wondering the same thing. Then Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry resumed,
"You've got to go into hiding and the Order wants to help. You're being offered serious
protection, the best there is."
Uncle Vernon said nothing but continued to Читать далее...

In Memorandum
Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left and swearing under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of breaking china. He
had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on the floor outside his bedroom
door.
"What the --?"
He looked around, the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted.
Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley's idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his bleeding
hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under the tap.
It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four days left of
being unable to perform magic…but he had to admit to himself that this jagged cut in his
finger would have defeated him. He had never learned how to repair wounds, and now he
came to think of it – particularly in light of his immediate plans – this seemed a serious
flaw in his magical education. Making a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done,
he used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could before
returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.
Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the first
time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the intervening school years, he
had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or
updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom – old quills, desiccated
beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his
hand into this mulch, experienced a stabbing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand,
and withdrawn it to see a lot of blood.
He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk again,
he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that flickered feebly
between SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY and POTTER STINKS, a cracked and worn-out
Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. had been hidden, he
finally discovered the sharp edge that had done the damage. He recognized it at once. It
was a two-inch-long fragment of the enchanted mirror that his dead godfather, Sirius, had
given him. Harry laid it aside and felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing
more remained of his godfather's last gift except powdered glass, which clung to the
deepest layer of debris like glittering grit.
Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which he had cut himself, seeing
nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. Then he placed the fragment
on top of that morning's Daily prophet, which lay unread on the bed, and attempted to
stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs of regret and of longing the
discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by attacking the rest of the rubbish in the
trunk.
It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, and
sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them from now on.
His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, and most of his textbooks
were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He wondered what his aunt and uncle would do
with them; burn them in the dead of night, probably, as if they were evidence of some
dreadful crime. His Muggle clothing, Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books,
the photograph album Hagrid had once given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had
been repacked into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder's Map and the
locket with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place of honor
not because it was valuable – in all usual senses it was worthless – but because of what it
had cost to attain it.
This left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his desk beside his snowy owl,
Hedwig: one for each of the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive this summer.
He got up off the floor, stretched, and moved across to his desk. Hedwig made no
movement as he began to flick through newspapers, throwing them into the rubbish pile
one by one. The owl was asleep or else faking; she was angry with Harry about the
limited amount of time she was allowed out of her cage at the moment.
As he neared the bottom of the pile of newspapers, Harry slowed down, searching
for one particular issue that he knew had arrived shortly after he had returned to Privet
Drive for the summer; he remembered that there had been a small mention on the front
about the resignation of Charity Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts. At
last he found it. Turning to page ten, he sank into his desk chair and reread the article he
had been looking for.
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE REMEMBERED
By Elphias Doge
I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our first day at Hogwarts. Читать далее...

The Dark Lord Ascending
The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit
lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each other's chests; then,
recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath their cloaks and started walking
briskly in the same direction.
"News?" asked the taller of the two.
"The best," replied Severus Snape.
The lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles, on the right by a high,
neatly manicured hedge. The men's long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they
marched.
"Thought I might be late," said Yaxley, his blunt features sliding in and out of sight as
the branches of overhanging trees broke the moonlight. "It was a little trickier than I
expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be
good?"
Snape nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned right, into a wide driveway that led
off the lane. The high hedge curved into them, running off into the distance beyond the
pair of imposing wrought-iron gates barring the men’s way. Neither of them broke step:
In silence both raised their left arms in a kind of salute and passed straight through, as
though the dark metal was smoke.
The yew hedges muffled the sound of the men’s footsteps. There was a rustle
somewhere to their right: Yaxley drew his wand again pointing it over his companion’s
head, but the source of the noise proved to be nothing more than a pure-white peacock,
strutting majestically along the top of the hedge.
“He always did himself well, Lucius. Peacocks …” Yaxley thrust his wand back
under his cloak with a snort.
A handsome manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive,
lights glinting in the diamond paned downstairs windows. Somewhere in the dark garden
beyond the hedge a fountain was playing. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as Snape and
Yaxley sped toward the front door, which swung inward at their approach, though
nobody had visibly opened it.
The hallway was large, dimly lit, and sumptuously decorated, with a magnificent
carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced portraits on the wall
followed Snape and Yaxley as they strode past. The two men halted at a heavy wooden
door leading into the next room, hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, then Snape turned
the bronze handle.
The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a long and ornate table. The
room’s usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the walls. Illumination
came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded
mirror. Snape and Yaxley lingered for a moment on the threshold. As their eyes grew
accustomed to the lack of light, they were drawn upward to the strangest feature of the
scene: an apparently unconscious human figure hanging upside down over the table,
revolving slowly as if suspended by an invisible rope, and reflected in the mirror and in
the bare, polished surface of the table below. None of the people seated underneath this
singular sight were looking at it except for a pale young man sitting almost directly below
it. He seemed unable to prevent himself from glancing upward every minute or so.
“Yaxley. Snape,” said a high, clear voice from the head of the table. “You are
very nearly late.”
The speaker was seated directly in front of the fireplace, so that it was difficult, at
first, for the new arrivals to make out more than his silhouette. As they drew nearer,
however, his face shone through the gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and
gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a
pearly glow.
“Severus, here,” said Voldemort, indicating the seat on his immediate right.
“Yaxley – beside Dolohov.”
The two men took their allotted places. Most of the eyes around the table
followed Snape, and it was to him that Voldemort spoke first.
“So?”
“My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current
place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall.”
The interest around the table sharpened palpably: Some stiffened, others fidgeted,
all gazing at Snape and Voldemort.
“Saturday … at nightfall,” repeated Voldemort. His red eyes fastened upon
Snape’s black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently
fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape,
however, looked calmly back into Voldemort’s face and, after a moment or two,
Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into something like a smile.
“Good. Very good. And this information comes –“
“ – from the source we discussed,” said Snape.
“My Lord.”
Yaxley had leaned forward to look down the long table at Voldemort and Snape.
All faces turned to him.
“My Lord, I have heard differently.”
Yaxley waited, but Voldemort did not speak, so he went on, “Dawlish, the Auror,
let slip that Potter will not be Читать далее...

Последнее время я превратилась в анатку сериала Побег.Знаете,это реально стоящая вещь.Все,то там происходит меня трогает и впеатляет.Вроде б и собтия все надуманне,настолько все закруено,но тем не менее моему сопереживанию нет предела))а главн геро...ради него тоно можно посмотреть)Никогда в жизни не видела такого взгляда....он заворраживает, успокаивает, пленит...нет таких слов чтобы это описать!!!!Вот оно как))
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В некрологе напишут: свернул шею...

[показать] Live Fast Die Young! По крайней мере за 25 лет вы испытаете гораздо больше, чем другие за 90.

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НЕ дождетесь))

Оставляете комментарий, а я:


1. Скажу, почему Вас зафрендила/читаю.





2. Скажу, какая песня/фильм напоминают мне о Вас.





3. Расскажу свое первое воспоминание о Вас.





4. Скажу, какое животное Вы мне напоминаете.





5. Спрошу Вас что-то, что всегда хотела знать о Вас.





6. Если я это сделаю - вы должны запостить этот опрос в своем дневнике.

Да уж. К седьмому фильму Редклифф так выдохнется, что фанаты, оскорбленные его игрой, будут жаждать смерти его героя. Никогда (в предыдущих фильмах ) не замечала, то актер был плох, но в Ордене феникса он меня просто разочаровал (((…Здесь Редклифф напоминал мне моего одноклассника – неэмоционального качка, хотя мо однокашник сыграл бы лучше, чес-с слово)) Редклиффу пора на пенсию))
Если говорить о фильме, то ощущение двойственное. Понравился, но не очень. Скорее нет, чем да. Да и не впечатлил. Понравился по тому, то были удачные сцены. Та же Амбридж великолепно гадкая и мерзко розовая))НО…Нам подсунули ни рыбу ни мясо. Он оказался не настолько мрачным, на мой взгляд, как, скажем, 3 часть. Но не чувствовался дух ни коллективизма, ни какой-либо поддержки в стане тех, кто выступает против Темного Лорда. Вот почему в конце фильма Потник вообще не имеет право говорить о том, что, мол , наша дружба – это то, чего нет у Волан-де-морта. В фильме нет даже намека на эту самую дружбу. Хочется найти в нем любовь, ан нет ее, и я ее, увы, не нахожу((…А ведь книжка об этом. Ведь все началось с любви: я имею в виду спасение Гарри его матерью. Да, есть жалкое подобие любви: чанг и Поттер, но почему-то киношники выбирают его пассию на роль предательницы и таким образом разрушают стан потника. По-моему, киношники решили, то главная для них задача- это урезать экранное время. ЗАчЕМ? Лучше бы фильм шел 3 часа, но зато Гарри бы побольше поубивался из-за Сириуса или были бы хорошо прорисованы его отношения с друзьями. А этого нет. Значит, я делаю вывод, что Гарри вообще не имел права вспоминать Рона и Гермиону тогда, когда в него вселялся Волан-де-морт. Да и вообще сложилось впечатление, что лучшая его подруга-это Полумна Лавгуд, ведь именно по фильму только она пыталась его утешить и понять. И вообще почему это в начале учебы Гарри почувствовал себя одиноким? Ответа на этот вопрос в фильме нет…У редклиффа была прекрасная возможность выплеснуть внутренний мир Гарри Поттера на занятиях ОД. Но если он пытался, то у него ничего не получилось. Короче, фильм получился скомканным и мутным, так как важные сены попросту задавили. К ним относятся все разговоры трех друзей, убийство Сириуса, объяснение Гарри с Дамблодором в финале. Их немного, но они жизненно важные, поскольку знаменуют собой примечательны акт: имя спасительно силы - любовь (цитата из само книги).
Короче. Мораль такая: Редклиффа пора списывать. По-моему хорошо выбрать ему замену в качестве актера, сыгравшего отца Гарри в возрасте пятнадцати лет. И вообще киношникам стоит обратить внимание на другого героя из мира кино - Майкла Скофилда из сериала Побег. Потому что ему да и другим героем сочувствуешь, а орден феникса почти не вызвал никаких чувств. Майкл не Поттер, но, спасая своих сокамерников, уподобляется ему. Так что Редклиффу придется поучиться у него.
Как бы мне хотелось, чтоб последним трем предложениям вняли…

Я тут задумалась,что когда собираюсь написать пост.умные мысли куда-то деваются, и я не могу почему-то даже описать своего состояние,могу подобрать токо одно слово:гиперактивное.Ну вот.поэтому я буду здесь публиковать некоторые мои типа произведения-уродства,может,кому-то хоть будет что почитать.
Вот это я писала для конкурса Сочи-МОСТ.На финал его в апреле яне поехала вследствие загруженности,и мне должны прислать диплом,но его так и не прислали и я,думаю.даже не чешутся по этом поводу.
Кроче,
Всё, что я думаю об ушу
/несколько слов по поводу и без повода/
Сейчас, наверное, сложно найти синтез и культуры, и спорта – почему-то никто не поэтизирует ни Олипийские игры, ни другие чемпионаты. Но вариант всё же есть: восточные боевые искусства. Ушу, кунг-фу, карате, айкидо, тхэквондо, кикбоксинг…Они такие разные, но всё-таки так похожи друг на друга, ведя свою родословную от неких прапраединоборств.
Восточные боевые искусства – это коктейль, ингредиентами которого служат и спорт (элементы акробатики и гимнастики), и культура (как вам поэтичные названия некоторых упражнений – «Порыв ветра», «Монах спускается с горы»), и сама жизнь (выход из возможных жизненных ситуаций – по себе знаю!). И пришла я в секцию ушу ради познания интересующей (даже интригующей) меня восточной философии. Прозанимавшись там полгода, я всё же долгое время не могла её постигнуть: тренера объясняли только технику боя – видимо, каждый ученик должен сам прийти к этой философии. Но истина была найдена. Эту восточную мудрость я называю «Теорией ликвидации входа в проблему». Вся её соль заключена в том, чтобы постараться избежать боя, то есть грамотно и тонко обойти навязчивую проблему. В любом случае ушу оказывается полезным для человека. Прежде всего, как и любой вид спорта, ушу оздоравливает (несмотря на переломы и синяки) организм, просто-напросто вырабатывает в человеке волю, самодисциплинированность (минута опоздания = 50 отжиманий – помогает!). Кроме того, для меня очевидно то, что тренировки способствуют снятию спазма мозгов (какого-то затмения, находящего на меня во время решения некоторых задач). Не зря в словаре дано: ушу – « традиционная китайская система усовершенствования личности…». Могу поклясться на «Мастере и Маргарите», что это действительно так.
Вероятно, сторонником этой «теорийки» был бы мастер Брюс Ли. Он для молодежи кумир на все времена, о нем даже после смерти снимали фильмы. Да, это высший пилотаж: учить и после смерти! Ну, чем не герой нашего времени? Обладатель интересной биографии, Брюс Ли в комплекте с ней оставил афоризмы, отражающие суть его самого, суть его жизни и его любимого дела. Они рисуют мир ушу, подчеркивая его многогранность. И в доказательство этого утверждения я приведу жалкое подобие литературно-лингвистического микса. Здесь есть несколько перлов в оригинале и их такие же «оригинальные» и вольные переводы, которые вы могли бы услышать из уст представителей любых профессий, классов и т. д.
1) «Simplicity is the last step of art.” / «Простота – конечная стадия искусства. Уже клиника, тпр-ру!...»-шуточка в стиле Дмитрия Емца.
2)” A teacher is never a giver of truth - he is a guide, a pointer to the truth that each student must find for himself. A good teacher is merely a catalyst. “ / «Учитель, вступая в реакцию с учеником, не отдает электроны знаний, то есть ни о каком ионном обмене говорить не приходится. Итак, учитель – это просто-напросто сильный катализатор», - открытие увлеченного химика.
3) "Don't think, feel! It is like a finger pointing away to the moon. Don't concentrate on the finger or you will miss all that heavenly glory. “ / «Чувак, забей! Не заморачивайся на мелкие проблемы, когда за тобой гонятся большие!» – подходит для любой голливудской истории об американских полицейских-неудачниках.
4)”When an opportunity in a fight presents itself, “I” don’t hit, “it” hits all by itself.” / “У тебя есть шанс, вот он я! А ты отдай свое «я», оно не нужно тебе, я разорву всех! Р-р!!»- на приеме у психоаналитика проблемы с внутренним голосом (пропал?).
5)” Martial art is ultimately an athletic expression of the dynamic human body. More important yet, is the person who is expressing his own soul.” / «По сути боевые искусства являются выражением мощи человеческого тела, его стати. Ах, какая экспрессия! Но нельзя не отметить глубинные душевные порывы бойца», – из лекции теоретика (притом фанатика) одного из направлений в изобразительном искусстве.
6)” A quick temper make a fool of you soon enough.” / «Притормози! Спокойно, ты уже трещишь по швам, спокойно», - отрывок из возможной рекламы АНТИ-Сникерса.
7) "Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.” / «Легко сломать ветку очень плотного дерева, но не гибкие стволы бамбука или ивняка», - достаточно туманный призыв к предпринимателям, желающим скрыться от налоговой полиции. Ребята, полагайтесь на Читать далее...

Вам подходит Светлая магия Огня

Если бы вы родились в эпоху средневековья, то вы стали вы ярым борцом за веру. Вы рыцарь, вы всегда стоите за Правду, даже если она не подходит к вашей собственной правде. Но не стоит вас злить или обижать ваших близких! Когда вы в ярости, вы можете совершать необдуманные поступки, о которых можете пожалеть, но, слава Небу, вы очень отходчивы. Вы несовместимы с Водой, хотя из вас получился бы неплохой дуэт - Рыцарь и Целитель. Но все же размеренная жизнь Воды не для вас, вам нужны подвиги и приключения! Подхватите Темный Воздух и мчитесь навстречу своей Судьбе! Стоит только всегда помнить, что Свет и Тьма - условны.

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"Стоит только всегда помнить, что Свет и Тьма - условны"-так,может и все ти тесты,и магия тоже условны.И,вообще мне не раз в тестах подобных идоставалась магия огня))

Я думаю такя:если у человека в жизни немного друзей,это ни о чем не говорит,а если и на ЛиРу мало,то это уже финиш,тпру((...
Последнее время опять ощущаю себя никем, единственный повод для разговоров:"помоги,да помоги написать рецензию"
Боюсь выпускного.Но,мне кажется его боятся многие.Видимо.есть за что.Так как,я по-моему так и не стала своей.Стоп!!!Да.я не стала своей не для всех, но ведь дружить совсеми радя себялюбия(,ради того,чтобы не страдать отсутсвием внимания-это неправильно.Так что все пучком!!!!
Тем более за те самые аргументы для рецензий ,например.Юра предоставляет диски с прикольной музыкой.Дап.Юра плохого не даст))

Седня что-то по дороге из школы на меня накатили мечты.Когда не о чем подумать, интересно представить будущее и детально в голове обрисовать его.Вот что я нарисовала себе.
Вот когда стану состоявшейся леди, обязательно надо будет съездить в Шаолинь:понабраться уму-разуму в определенных делах.По приезде основать школу боевых искусств.В Москве.Почему-то я думаю,что буду жить в Москве))Есть 2 варианта названия этой школы:детский клуб ушу Шаоленок(в честь меня))-ну такое у меня прозвище)или просто-напросто Константинополь(В ЧЕСТЬ МОЕГО ИНСТРУКТОРА,Т. Е. ПЕРВОГО УЧИТЕЛЯ В ЭТОЙ БОЕВОЙ ОБЛАСТИ-кОСТИ{а как мне это имя нравится}).Но еще мне выме6чталось некое мое собственное частное детективное агентство.Названия пока не придумала(может вы подскажите?))вот щас к лору пойду-по дороге придумаю.
На этом пока бред обрывается.Мне пора...

Условия флешмоба:



Если вы найдете свой ник в списке,

то вывесите у себя такой же пост,

дайте понять окружающим,

насколько они важны для вас.
_Mai_
Totalotaku
Регин_Хмурый
МИТО
RasmuSoManija.
Н-да негусто.

Сейчас мама пришла с родсобрания и дурным голосом возопила с порога: Ты прошла на мехмат!!!ну и подробности...Мехмат СПбГУ-это,конечно,хорошо.Есть резерв.Но мне еще надо дождаться результатов другого олимпа.А ведь жизнь налаживается!Налаживается!Понимаете?!!!!