今天周六，同学给我的作文稍微少点，我就继续翻译我的哈利波特第七部第二章。JK.Rowling 依旧写的很好。你开始对比了么？看起来枯燥，翻译的过程就是你研究句法，英汉两种语法语序，用词的差异。下面开始：
第二章 纪念
哈利流着血，用左手紧紧地攥住右手。他一边喘息一边小声地咒骂着，用肩膀撞开了他卧室的门。这时传来了打碎瓷器的声音——他踢倒了一杯放在卧室门口的凉茶。
“怎么——？”
哈利看了看四周，女贞路4号外的平台早已荒废了。这个陷阱可能算得上是达力的一个不算成功的恶作剧。哈利举起还在流血的手，把茶杯的碎片刮到一起，扔进了卧室门里那个已经填满的垃圾桶。
哈利还有四天才能够不受限制地使用魔法，这简直令人无比地烦闷与气愤——但是他不得不承认这个手指上的伤口会使他产生动摇。他从不知道该怎么处理伤口，但是现在他必须好好地考虑一下——特别是对于他马上要实施的那些计划——这似乎是他所学魔法中一个很大的漏洞，哈利提醒自己以后一定要问问赫敏该怎么做。他一边想着，一边用一卷纸巾擦去了地上的茶水，然后砰地关上了身后的门，回到了卧室。
哈利花了整整一个早晨把在学校用的箱子第一次完全倒空——和他六年前把它装满一样费事。在之前的几个学期里，他仅仅需要拿出里面最重要的部分，然后整理或者是更新它们，而箱子的底部则留下了一些零碎物件——旧的羽毛笔、风干的甲虫眼睛、单只的早已穿不下了的袜子。几分钟前，哈利刚把手伸进这些东西里时，便感到右手的无名指一阵刺痛，拿出来一看，他的指尖上流出了大量的血。
他现在进行地更小心了些。当哈利再次跪在箱子边，摸索着箱子的底部时，他找到了一个两面闪烁着“支持塞德里克?迪戈里”和“波特臭大粪”的发光的徽章、一个裂开的窥镜，还有一个金色小盒子，里面藏着那张署名为R?A?B的纸条。最后他发现了那个刚才刺伤他的东西，他立刻认出来了，那是一块两英寸长的魔法镜子的碎片——是他已死的教父，小天狼星送给他的。哈利把它放在一边，又仔细地摸了一遍箱子里剩下的东西，然而除了像发光的沙砾这样的粘在箱子最底层的粉状玻璃外，再也没有他教父的遗物了。
哈利坐起来检查了一下把他弄伤的那个不规则的镜子碎片，但是只看到自己那明亮的绿眼睛在望着他。他把这个碎片放在床上那份还没读过的预言家日报上，同时尝试着抑制心中由于那镜子碎片而回忆起的痛苦和后悔。
哈利又花了一个小时把箱子完全清空，丢掉了没用的东西，并把留下来的物品分门别类地安放好——今后的什么时候或许还需要它们。他的校服和魁地奇的制服、坩锅、羊皮纸、羽毛笔还有大部分的课本最后都堆到了一个角落里，他不知道姨夫和姨妈会如何处置它们。也许把它们当成是某些可怕罪行的证物一般，在某个深夜烧掉吧。他的麻瓜衣服、隐形衣、药剂箱、一些必要的书、海格送给他的相册、还有他的魔杖都被重新打包进一个旧帆布包里。最前面的一个口袋里是活点地图和那只装着R?A?B写的纸条的小盒子。这个盒子是值得放在里面的，或许它的确一文不值——即使是在平常人看来，它也毫无价值——但想起为了得到它所付出的代价，它确实是值得放在里面的。
在他的书桌上还留着相当大的一堆报纸，旁边是他的猫头鹰，海德薇，唯一一个天天陪伴着哈利在女贞路度过这个夏季的生物。
他从地上站起来，舒展了一下身子，然后来到书桌前。海德薇没有动，他开始草草地浏览着报纸，随后一张张地扔进垃圾箱里。海德薇睡得很熟——或者说是装作睡得很熟，她还在生气哈利限制她飞出笼子的时间。
当哈利翻到这堆报纸的底层时，速度渐渐慢下来，他开始寻找着他刚回到女贞路时送来的一期特刊，他记得那期的头版有一小条关于霍格沃茨的麻瓜研究课教授，查瑞丽?伯比奇的新闻。最后他总算找到了。在打开第十版后，他坐在椅子上，再次读起那篇早已就看过的文章。
纪念阿不思?邓布利多
埃非亚?多戈
我第一眼见到邓布利多是在十一岁，那天，我们第一次来到霍格沃茨。我俩的共同点无须置疑，就是我们都觉得自己是局外人。我在来学校前感染了龙疹，尽管不会再传染了，但我脸上标志似的的麻点和绿色的皮肤都使得许多人不愿接近我。而阿不思，则是顶着被众人讨厌的臭名声来到霍格沃茨的，将近一年前，他的父亲，珀西瓦尔，因为公然使用暴力攻击三个年轻麻瓜而被定罪。
阿不思从不否认他的父亲（已经死在了阿兹卡班）所犯下的罪行，相反，当我鼓起勇气去问他时，他断然告诉我他明白他的父亲是有罪的。在那之后，邓布利多一直拒绝谈论起这件伤心事，尽管许多人尝试着迫使他开口。甚至有一些人是在赞扬他父亲的行为的，并猜想阿不思也是一个讨厌麻瓜的人，他们实在是大错特错了——了解阿不思的任何一个人都可以证明，他从来都没有表现过反对麻瓜的倾向。实际上，他对麻瓜的坚决支持使他在后来的几年中给自己树了许多敌人。
这件延续了好几个月的事，使阿不思的名声被他父亲所败坏。但第一学年结束时，他就再也不是作为一个痛恨麻瓜者的儿子而出名，而是作为学校有史以来最聪明的一个学生。我们这些有幸成为他朋友的人也受益颇多，不只是他的帮助和鼓励，还有他一贯的慷慨与大方。后来他对我承认，那个时候，他就知道自己一生中最大的志向就是教学。
他不仅赢得了学校里的每一个奖项，还很快就和那时许多最著名的魔法界人士开始了信件往来，包括有名的炼金术士尼可?勒梅、著名的历史学家巴希达?巴沙特，以及魔法理论家阿德贝?沃夫林。从他的好几封信里都可以找到后来他所出版著作的痕迹，像是《今日变形》、《有趣的挑战》和《实践魔药学》。邓布利多的未来似乎在那时就已经注定辉煌，但是长久以来一直有一个疑问，那就是他为什么不去当魔法部部长。虽然在后来的几年里一直有着这方面的传言，可是，他从来就没有进部里工作的野心。
在我们到霍格沃茨的第四年，阿不思的弟弟，阿不福思，也进入了学校。这两人没有一处相同的地方，阿不福思一点都不喜欢读书，喜欢用决斗来解决争端而不是像阿不思那样通过理智的辩论。然而，并不像某些人所设想的那样，兄弟两人会反目成仇。这样两个完全不同的男孩，却相处的相当友好。公平的说，对于阿不福思，生活在阿不思的光芒下绝不是一段很舒服的经历。作为阿不思的朋友，他身上所不断闪现的光辉都不是一件很舒服的事；那么作为他的兄弟，这就更加令人不快了。当阿不思和我离开霍格沃茨，打算开启不同的人生之前，我们想一起来一次那时所流行的世界旅行——拜访并且观察外国巫师。但在我们旅途开始前的那个黄昏，阿不思的母亲凯德拉过世了，作为一家之长，阿不思得养家糊口。我将启程的日子推迟了很长一段时间，去参加凯德拉的葬礼以表尊敬。然后独自一人进行这孤独的旅程，毫无疑问阿不思肯定不会和我一起去旅行——他有一个弟弟和一个妹妹需要照料，而且他们几乎没有什么钱。
在那段日子里我们很少联系，我写信给阿不思，可能是无意识地，描绘起了我在旅行中看到的奇景和故事，从在希腊勉强逃离吐火兽的事，到埃及那些炼金术士们的实验。他给我的信则几乎不提他那日复一日的生活，我想这种生活这对一个那么有才气的巫师来说一定是十分地挫败和无趣。当我还沉浸在我的旅行中时，我很悲痛地听说另一桩惨剧降临到邓布利多的头上：他的妹妹阿瑞娜去世了。
虽然阿瑞娜的身体虚弱已经有很长一段时间了，但这在失去母亲不久后的又一个打击，对他们兄弟俩影响仍然非常大。所有这些阿不思的不幸的私事——再加上我自己所碰上的幸运事——使得邓布利多觉得他对阿瑞娜的死负有责任（其实当然完全和他没有关系），它们给邓布利多刻下了不可磨灭的痕迹。
我回去后才发现这样一个年轻人已经历了一个年长者所能遭遇的苦痛。阿不思比从前多了一分保守，少了些无忧无虑。像是老天为了增加他的痛苦，失去阿瑞娜没有使阿不思和阿不福思更加亲密，反而更加疏远了（当然这被及时挽救了——在后来的几年中他们恢复了友谊，不是更亲密，而是变得更加的坦承以待）不管怎样，从那时起，他就不再谈起他的双亲和阿瑞娜，他的朋友们也不会再提及。
仿佛从前的这些痛苦只是为了反衬他在接下来几年里取得的成功。邓布利多在魔法学术方面的无数贡献，包括发现龙血的十二种用途，将使好几代人受益。同样，成为威森加摩首席巫师的他在许多审判中表现出非凡的智慧。许多人说，现在仍然没有哪次巫师决斗能够与1945年邓布利多与格林沃德之间的这一场相媲美，所有目击者都写下了他们在观看这两位杰出的巫师的搏斗时所感到的恐惧与敬畏。邓布利多的成功，以及这些成功在巫师界的重要地位都被记录在了魔法史上，被认为是与《国际保密条令》的传入和那个连名字都不能提的魔头的垮台并列的转折点。
阿不思?邓布利多从不骄傲自负，他可以从任何一个人那里获益，但是那都是卑劣和毫无意义的，我相信早年的那些挫折赋予了他高尚的人格和同情心。我不敢相信我会失去这样一个朋友，但是我的损失肯定无法与整个巫师界相比。他被称作是霍格沃茨有史以来最鼓舞人心和受人爱戴的校长，他在人们心中虽死犹生。长久以来他都为了一切能变得更好而工作，直到他生命的最后时刻，一定还很乐意向一个得了龙疹的小男孩伸出援手，就像我遇到他的那天一样。
哈利读完了，但是他依然盯着讣告旁的那张照片：邓布利多带着他熟悉的，慈祥的微笑，但是他那炯炯有神的目光，透过他那双半月型的眼镜，就算是在报纸上也能给波特以强烈的印象，就仿佛是X光一般，哈利的悲伤中混合着一种羞耻感。
他以为他很了解邓布利多，然而在他读了这篇讣告后，他才不得不意识到，他从来都没有了解过他，他每次一想到邓布利多，就跳出自己所认识的那个庄严、年老的，有着银色头发的人。他对年轻时的邓布利多完全没有概念，就好像试着去想象一个愚蠢的赫敏或者一条友好的炸尾螺一般。
他从没想过要去询问邓布利多的过去，毫无疑问那会很奇怪，甚至很鲁莽。而且毕竟邓布利多与格林沃迪的那场传奇性的决斗已经变成了普及的知识，哈利也没有想过去问问邓布利多那是一场怎样的决斗，更不用说他的那些其它成就了。没有，他们只是一直在谈论哈利，哈利的过去，哈利的未来，哈利的计划……似乎对于现在的哈利来说，尽管他的未来充满着危险和变化，他都已经错过了那些无可代替的机会，去问问那些有关邓不利多自己的事。甚至，他曾经问过校长的唯一一个私人问题，邓布利多也没有诚实地回答他：
“你照魔镜的时候，看见了什么？”
“我？我看见自己拿着一双厚厚的羊毛袜。”
哈利想了很久，他把这张讣告从《预言家日报》上撕了下来，摺好放在《实用防御魔法及其对黑魔法的克制》的第一册中。然后把剩余的报纸都丢到垃圾桶里，转身面对房间：它已经变得整齐多了。唯一留在外面的东西是今天的《预言家日报》，仍然放在他的床上，在它的上面，是那块损坏了的镜子的碎片。
哈利穿过房间，移开今天的《预言家日报》上的镜子碎片，打开报纸。当他一大早拿起猫头鹰邮递送来的卷好的报纸时，只匆匆瞥了一眼头条，发现没什么关于伏地魔的消息后，就把它扔到了一边。哈利确定部里一定会禁止《预言家日报》刊登有关伏地魔的新闻。但是现在，他突然看到了他因此而错过的东西。
在第一版的底部中间有一条小消息，配有邓布利多照片，好像是匆忙间被发布出来的：
邓布利多——最后的真相？
上个星期以来，作为他这一代中最伟大的巫师，有关这个有缺陷的天才人物的令人震惊的故事被许多人所看重。揭开受人欢迎的表象，这个长着银胡子的贤者，丽塔?斯基特为展示他混乱不堪的童年时代、目无法纪的青年时代、一生中长期的家族斗争，还有邓布利多那带进了坟墓的秘密：为什么这个男人轻易放弃成为魔法部长的机会，而仅仅满足于做一个校长呢？什么是那个被称为凤凰社的神秘组织的真正目的呢？邓布利多是怎么面对他的死亡的呢？
还有许许多多诸如此类的其他问题已经在丽塔?斯基特最新的爆炸性的人物传记——《阿不思?邓布利多的生活与谎言》中得到探究，详见第十三版，贝瑞?布理斯怀特的专访。
哈利撕开报纸找到第十三版。在这篇文章的顶部，是另一张哈利熟悉的脸：一个带着镶宝石眼镜的女人，卷曲的金色头发经过精心打理，露出牙齿无疑是展示一个胜利的微笑，照片中的她正在对他摆动着手指。哈利尽可能地不去看这幅恶心的照片，继续读了下去。
在我个人看来，丽塔?斯基特比她那些犀利著称所表现出来的要温柔热情的多。当在她那舒适的走廊里招呼过我后，她把我径直引入厨房喝茶，吃了片重油蛋糕，接着，不用说，这是一次热情高涨的谈话。
“当然，邓布利多是每一个传记作者的梦想，”斯基特说，“这样一段漫长而又充实的人生。我保证我的书将会是以后许许多多传记中的第一部。”
斯基特确实说到了要点。她那九百多页的著作仅仅在邓布利多六月的神秘死亡后四周内就完成了。我问她是怎样设法达成这超高速的壮举的。
“哦，当你像我一样当了那么长时间的记者后，你会知道极限工作只是一个本能而已。我知道巫师界都在吵嚷着要求知道整个故事，我想成为满足他们需求的第一人。”
我提到了那篇最近普遍流传的，由威森加摩的特邀顾问、邓布利多长久以来的好友埃非亚?多戈所作出的评论：“斯基特的书所包含的内容还没一张巧克力蛙的画片上多呢。”
斯基特大笑起来。
“亲爱的多戈！我还记得几年前采访他关于人鱼权利的事，上帝啊！他太愚蠢了，就好象我们坐在温德美尔湖底，他却总是不停地和我说要小心鲑鱼。”
可是友埃非亚?多戈的那些谴责影在许多地方都产生了影响，斯基特真的认为短短的四个星期就足够获得邓布利多那漫长而非凡的一生的信息吗？
“哦，亲爱的，”斯基特微笑着，亲切地用指关节敲打着我，“你当然知道一大袋加隆、从不让人拒绝的作风、还有一支美妙的速记笔可以换来多少消息吗！人们排着队都要来揭露邓布利多的污点呢！你知道，不是每个人都认为他是那么优秀的——他惹恼了很多重要人士。老骗子多戈马上就会被脱下他那崇高的外衣了，因为我获得了一个许多记者会用他们的魔杖去交换的消息来源——一个从不公开演说，却是邓布利多那目无法纪的青年时代中一位很亲近的人物。
前面提到的那本斯基特的公开传记的确建议那些坚信邓布利多的人生完美无暇的人们必须对即将到来的那些打击做好准备。我想问，那么她所揭开的最大的惊人之事是什么呢？
“现在别问，贝瑞。在你没有买我的书前我不会泄露任何亮点！”斯基特笑道，“但是我可以保证那些仍然相信邓布利多是像他的胡子一样清白的人会遭到当头一棒！让我们想想，人们都听说他强烈地反对着神秘人，但是做梦也不会想到他自己在青年时代曾经涉足黑魔法！作为一个在晚年时代提倡宽容的巫师，年轻时候却绝不是一个气量大的人！是的，阿不思?邓布利多有一段极度黑暗的过去，更不用说他的那个靠着努力学习来掩饰的，所避免提及的肮脏的家庭。”
我问斯基特她所指的是不是邓布利多的弟弟阿不福思，十五年前因为一桩对未成年人滥用魔法的恶行而被威森加摩定罪的事。
“哦，阿不福思那事只是那一大堆丑闻中的末梢而已，”斯基特笑着说，“不，不，我说的是关于比一个虚度光阴的弟弟，甚至比他那个残害麻瓜的爸爸要严重的多的事——尽管邓布利多无论如何都不能使他俩中的任何一个冷静下来，他们两个都被威森加摩控诉过。不！引起我兴趣的是他的母亲和妹妹，挖掘出来一点儿被掩盖得很好的丑事——不过，正如我所说的，你们将不得不等到第九到第十二章时才能知道所有细节。我现在只能告诉你们，毫无疑问邓不利多从来不向别人谈起他那断了的鼻子的故事。”
虽然被揭露了家庭丑闻，但是，斯基特总不能否认邓布利多在许多魔法发明上的光辉吧？
“他是有头脑，”她承认，“尽管对于那些现在假定属于他的成就是否真的完全是他该得的荣耀还有许多疑问。正如我在第十六章中所揭示的，艾弗?狄龙斯贝宣称他在邓布利多‘借用’他的论文前早已经发现了龙血的八种功用。”
但是，恕我冒昧地说，邓布利多的一些成就的重要性是无法否认的。他击败格林沃迪的那次著名事件呢？
“哦，我很高兴你现在谈到了格林沃迪，”斯基特带着一种浅浅的微笑说，“恐怕那些天真地相信邓布利多的那次重大胜利的人们肯定会像是中了一颗炸弹——也许不如说是中了一个粪弹。确实是非常下流的手段。我想说的是，不要对传说中那场壮观的决斗那么确信。当读过我的书后，人们也许会被迫承认格林沃迪只是从魔杖末端变出了一块白手帕，然后一切都结束了！”
斯基特拒绝透露更多有关这个阴谋事件的内幕，我们只好转向了那些最让她的读者着迷的人际关系方面的内容。
“哦，是的，”斯基特说道，兴致勃勃地点着头，“我用了整整一章来讲述邓布利多和波特间的关系。那种被称为是不健康，甚至是有点邪恶的关系。再说一句，你的读者们想要了解整个故事就得买我的书了。不过我刚刚那句话毫无疑问是指邓布利多对波特产生了一种不正常的兴趣。那是否是他对那男孩最大的兴趣——没错，你们将会在我的书中了解到。毫无疑问哈利拥有一个麻烦不断的青春期。”
我问她是不是还在和哈利?波特联系，去年她对他的采访使自己名声大噪：一篇突破性的关于波特确信那个神秘人回来的专访。
“哦，不错。我们的联系更紧密了，”斯基特说，“可怜的波特几乎没什么真正的朋友，我们在他面临一生中最关键挑战的日子里碰头了——那就是三强争霸赛。我大概是现有的，可以说唯一真正了解哈利?波特的人了。”
我把谈话巧妙地引到了那些围绕着邓布利多最后时刻的许多传闻上。斯基特相信在邓布利多死的时候波特就在那儿吗？
“哦，我不想说太多，这都在我的书里。不过许多在霍格沃茨城堡里的目击者都看见了波特在邓布利多掉下来——或是跳下、被推下来之后从现场跑了出来。波特后来也指证了西弗勒斯?斯内普，一个声名狼藉的，对他心怀嫉妒的男人。这一切都真的像它们所表现出来的那样吗？这需要大家来决定——一旦等他们看过我的书之后。”
完成所有具有诱惑力的记录后，我离开了。没有人会怀疑斯基特是一个极好的推销者。到时候，邓布利多的众多崇拜者们会为他们的英雄身上所暴露出来的事迹而发抖不止。
哈利看完了全篇文章，却仍然无神地盯着报纸。像是要呕吐似的，强烈的厌恶与愤怒从他体内燃起，他把报纸揉成一团丢了出去，用力砸在了墙角，和那些已经满出垃圾桶的垃圾作伴去了。
他开始盲目地在房里大步地来回走，拉开空荡荡的抽屉，捡起书本又把它们放回书堆中……几乎不知道自己在做什么，丽塔的文章里那些胡编乱造的语句在他的脑海中回荡：用了整整一章来讲述邓布利多和波特间的关系……不健康，甚至是有点邪恶的关系……他年轻时曾涉足黑魔法……我得到了一个大多数记者会用魔杖来交换的消息来源……
“撒谎！”哈利吼道，透过窗户，他看到邻居稍稍停了一下，然后重新发动割草机，紧张地抬头看着。
哈利重重地坐在了床上。那面破碎的镜子在离他不远处晃动，他把它捡起来，翻来覆去地在手里玩弄，思念着邓布利多，还有丽塔诽谤他的那些谎言……
有道明亮的蓝光一闪而过，哈利惊呆了，手指再次从那些锯齿状的边缘上滑过。他看到了……他必须做点什么。他看了看身后，墙壁是佩妮姨妈挑选的那种病恹恹的桃红色：这里没有任何蓝色的东西能从镜子里反射过来。他又一次凝视着镜子碎片，然而这次他没有看到任何东西，除了他自己那发亮的绿眼睛在看着他。
那只是幻境，没有别的解释；看到它，是因为他一直在想着自己已故的校长。如果有什么可以确定的，那就是阿不思?邓布利多那双充满智慧的蓝眼睛再也不会深深看着他了。
墨尔本文波雅思原创收集
Chapter Two
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. Our
mutual attraction was undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves to be
outsiders. I had contracted dragon pox shortly before arriving at school, and while
I was no longer contagious, my pock-marked visage and greenish hue did not
encourage many to approach me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts
under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a year previously, his father,
Percival, had been convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon three
young Muggles.
Albus never attempted to deny that his father (who was to die in Azkaban) had
committed this crime; on the contrary, when I plucked up courage to ask him, he
assured me that he knew his father to be guilty. Beyond that, Dumbledore refused
to speak of the sad business, though many attempted to make him do so. Some,
indeed, were disposed to praise his father’s action and assumed that Albus too was
a Muggle-hater. They could not have been more mistaken: As anybody who knew
Albus would attest, he never revealed the remotest anti-Muggle tendency. Indeed,
his determined support for Muggle rights gained him many enemies in subsequent
years.
In a matter of months, however, Albus’s own fame had begun to eclipse that
of his father. By the end of his first year he would never again be known as the
son of a Muggle-hater, but as nothing more or less than the most brilliant student
ever seen at the school. Those of us who were privileged to be his friends
benefited from his example, not to mention his help and encouragement, with
which he was always generous. He confessed to me later in life that he knew even
then that his greatest pleasure lay in teaching.
He not only won every prize of note that the school offered, he was soon in
regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day, including
Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist; Bathilda Bagshot, the noted historian;
and Adalbert Waffling, the magical theoretician. Several of his papers found their
way into learned publications such as Transfiguration Today, Challenges in
Charming, and The Practical Potioneer. Dumbledore’s future career seemed
likely to be meteoric, and the only question that remained was when he would
become Minister of Magic. Though it was often predicted in later years that he
was on the point of taking the job, however, he never had Ministerial ambitions.
Three years after we had started at Hogwarts, Albus’s brother, Aberforth,
arrived at school. They were not alike: Aberforth was never bookish and, unlike
Albus, preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than through reasoned
discussion. However, it is quite wrong to suggest, as some have, that the brothers
were not friends. They rubbed along as comfortably as two such different boys
could do. In fairness to Aberforth, it must be admitted that living in Albus’s
shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable experience. Being continually
outshone was an occupational hazard of being his friend and cannot have been
any more pleasurable as a brother. When Albus and I left Hogwarts we intended
to take the then-traditional tour of the world together, visiting and observing
foreign wizards, before pursuing our separate careers. However, tragedy
intervened. On the very eve of our trip, Albus’s mother, Kendra, died, leaving
Albus the head, and sole breadwinner, of the family. I postponed my departure
long enough to pay my respects at Kendra’s funeral, then left for what was now to
be a solitary journey. With a younger brother and sister to care for, and little gold
left to them, there could no longer be any question of Albus accompanying me.
That was the period of our lives when we had least contact. I wrote to Albus,
describing, perhaps insensitively, the wonders of my journey, from narrow
escapes from chimaeras in Greece to the experiments of the Egyptian alchemists.
His letters told me little of his day-to-day life, which I guessed to be frustratingly
dull for such a brilliant wizard. Immersed in my own experiences, it was with
horror that I heard, toward the end of my year’s travels, that another tragedy had
struck the Dumbledores: the death of his sister, Ariana.
Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long time, the blow, coming so
soon after the loss of their mother, had a profound effect on both of her brothers.
All those closest to Albus – and I count myself one of that lucky number – agree
that Ariana’s death, and Albus’s feeling of personal responsibility for it (though, of
course, he was guiltless), left their mark upon him forevermore.
I returned home to find a young man who had experienced a much older
person’s suffering. Albus was more reserved than before, and much less light-
hearted. To add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had led, not to a renewed
closeness between Albus and Aberforth, but to an estrangement. (In time this
would lift – in later years they reestablished, if not a close relationship, then
certainly a cordial one.) However, he rarely spoke of his parents or of Ariana from
then on, and his friends learned not to mention them.
Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following years. Dumbledore’s
innumerable contributions to the store of Wizarding knowledge, including his
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, will benefit generations to come,
as will the wisdom he displayed in the many judgments while Chief Warlock of
the Wizengamot. They say, still, that no Wizarding duel ever matched that
between Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945. Those who witnessed it have
written of the terror and the awe they felt as they watched these two extraordinary
wizards to battle. Dumbledore’s triumph, and its consequences for the Wizarding
world, are considered a turning point in magical history to match the introduction
of the International Statute of Secrecy or the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named.
Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could find something to value
in anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe that his
early losses endowed him with great humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his
friendship more than I can say, but my loss is nothing compared to the Wizarding
world’s. That he was the most inspiring and best loved of all Hogwarts
headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he lived: working always for the
greater good and, to his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small boy
with dragon pox as he was on the day I met him.
Harry finished reading, but continued to gaze at the picture accompanying the
obituary. Dumbledore was wearing his familiar, kindly smile, but as he peered over the
top of his half-moon spectacles, he gave the impression, even in newsprint, of X-raying
Harry, whose sadness mingled with a sense of humiliation.
He had thought he knew Dumbledore quite well, but ever since reading this
obituary he had been forced to recognize that he had barely known him at all. Never once
had he imagined Dumbledore’s childhood or youth; it was as though he had sprung into
being as Harry had known him, venerable and silver-haired and old. The idea of a
teenage Dumbledore was simply odd, like trying to imagine a stupid Hermione or a
friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.
He had never thought to ask Dumbledore about his past. No doubt it would have
felt strange, impertinent even, but after all it had been common knowledge that
Dumbledore had taken part in that legendary duel with Grindelwald, and Harry had not
thought to ask Dumbledore what that had been like, nor about any of his other famous
achievements. No, they had always discussed Harry, Harry’s past, Harry’s future, Harry’s
plans… and it seemed to Harry now, despite the fact that his future was so dangerous and
so uncertain, that he had missed irreplaceable opportunities when he had failed to ask
Dumbledore more about himself, even though the only personal question he had ever
asked his headmaster was also the only one he suspected that Dumbledore had not
answered honestly:
“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”
“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”
After several minutes’ thought, Harry tore the obituary out of the Prophet, folded
it carefully, and tucked it inside the first volume of Practical Defensive Magic and its
Use against the Dark Arts. Then he threw the rest of the newspaper onto the rubbish pile
and turned to face the room. It was much tidier. The only things left out of place were
today’s Daily Prophet, still lying on the bed, and on top of it, the piece of broken mirror.
Harry moved across the room, slid the mirror fragment off today’s Prophet, and
unfolded the newspaper. He had merely glanced at the headline when he had taken the
rolled-up paper from the delivery owl early that morning and thrown it aside, after noting
that it said nothing about Voldemort. Harry was sure that the Ministry was leaning on the
Prophet to suppress news about Voldemort. It was only now, therefore, that he saw what
he had missed.
Across the bottom half of the front page a smaller headline was set over a picture
of Dumbledore striding along, looking harried:
DUMBLEDORE – THE TRUTH AT LAST?
Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed genius considered by many
to be the greatest wizard of his generation. Striping away the popular image of
serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Rita Skeeter reveals the disturbed childhood, the
lawless youth, the life-long feuds, and the guilty secrets that Dumbledore carried
to his grave, WHY was the man tipped to be the Minister of Magic content to
remain a mere headmaster? WHAT was the real purpose of the secret
organization known as the Order of the Phoenix? HOW did Dumbledore really
meet his end?
The answers to these and many more questions are explored in the
explosive new biography, The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter,
exclusively interviewed by Berry Braithwaite, page 13, inside.
Harry ripped open the paper and found page thirteen. The article was topped with
a picture showing another familiar face: a woman wearing jeweled glasses with
elaborately curled blonde hair, her teeth bared in what was clearly supposed to be a
winning smile, wiggling her fingers up at him. Doing his best to ignore this nauseating
image, Harry read on.
In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and softer than her famously
ferocious quill-portraits might suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her cozy
home, she leads me straight into the kitchen for a cup of tea, a slice of pound cake
and, it goes without saying, a steaming vat of freshest gossip.
“Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer’s dream,” says Skeeter. “Such a
long, full life. I’m sure my book will be the first of very, very many.”
Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her nine-hundred-page book was
completed in a mere four weeks after Dumbledore’s mysterious death in June. I
ask her how she managed this superfast feat.
“Oh, when you’ve been a journalist as long as I have, working to a deadline is
second nature. I knew that the Wizarding world was clamoring for the full story
and I wanted to be the first to meet that need.”
I mention the recent, widely publicized remarks of Elphias Doge, Special
Advisor to the Wizengamot and longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore’s, that
“Skeeter’s book contains less fact than a Chocolate Frog card.”
Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.
“Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him a few years back about
merpeople rights, bless him. Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting at
the bottom of Lake Windermere, kept telling me to watch out for trout.”
And yet Elphias Doge’s accusations of inaccuracy have been echoed in many
places. Does Skeeter really feel that four short weeks have been enough to gain a
full picture of Dumbledore’s long and extraordinary life?
“Oh, my dear,” beams Skeeter, rapping me affectionately across the knuckles,
“you know as well as I do how much information can be generated by a fat bag of
Galleons, a refusal to hear the word ‘no,’ and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill!
People were queuing to dish the dirt on Dumbledore anyway. Not everyone
thought he was so wonderful, you know – he trod on an awful lot of important
toes. But old Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because I’ve had access
to a source most journalists would swap their wands for, one who has never
spoken in public before and who was close to Dumbledore during the most
turbulent and disturbing phase of his youth.”
The advance publicity for Skeeter’s biography has certainly suggested that
there will be shocks in store for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a
blameless life. What were the biggest surprises she uncovered, I ask?
“Now, come off it. Betty, I’m not giving away all the highlights before
anybody’s bought the book!” laughs Skeeter. “But I can promise that anybody
who still thinks Dumbledore was white as his beard is in for a rude awakening!
Let’s just say that nobody hearing him rage against You-Know-Who would have
dreamed that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth! And for a wizard
who spent his later years pleading for tolerance, he wasn’t exactly broad-minded
when he was younger! Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an extremely murky past, not
to mention that very fishy family, which he worked so hard to keep hushed up.”
I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth, whose
conviction by the Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor scandal fifteen
years ago.
“Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap,” laughs Skeeter. “No, no, I’m
talking about much worse than a brother with a fondness for fiddling about with
goats, worse even than the Muggle-maiming father – Dumbledore couldn’t keep
either of them quiet anyway, they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it’s
the mother and the sister that intrigued me, and a little digging uncovered a
positive nest of nastiness – but, as I say, you’ll have to wait for chapters nine to
twelve for full details. All I can say now is, it’s no wonder Dumbledore never
talked about how his nose got broken.”
Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter deny the brilliance that led to
Dumbledore’s many magical discoveries?
“He had brains,” she concedes, “although many now question whether he
could really take full credit for all of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in
chapter sixteen, Ivor Dillonsby claims he had already discovered eight uses of
dragon’s blood when Dumbledore ‘borrowed’ his papers.”
But the importance of some of Dumbledore’s achievements cannot, I venture,
be denied. What of his famous defeat of Grindelwald?
“Oh, now, I’m glad you mentioned Grindelwald,” says Skeeter with such a
tantalizing smile. “I’m afraid those who go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore’s
spectacular victory must brace themselves for a bombshell – or perhaps a
Dungbomb. Very dirty business indeed. All I’ll say is, don’t be so sure that there
really was a spectacular duel of legend. After they’ve read my book, people may
be forced to conclude that Grindelwald simply conjured a white handkerchief
from the end of his wand and came quietly!”
Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this intriguing subject, so we turn
instead to the relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her readers more than
any other.
“Oh yes,” says Skeeter, nodding briskly, “I devote an entire chapter to the
whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship. It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister.
Again, your readers will have to buy my book for the whole story, but there is no
question that Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from the word go.
Whether that was really in the boy’s best interests – well, we’ll see. It’s certainly
an open secret that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence.”
I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry Potter, whom she so
famously interviewed last year: a breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke
exclusively of his conviction that You-Know-Who had returned.
“Oh, yes, we’ve developed a closer bond,” says Skeeter. “Poor Potter has few
real friends, and we met at one of the most testing moments of his life – the
Triwizard Tournament. I am probably one of the only people alive who can say
that they know the real Harry Potter.”
Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still circulating about Dumbledore’s
final hours. Does Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?
“Well, I don’t want to say too much – it’s all in the book – but eyewitnesses
inside Hogwarts castle saw Potter running away from the scene moments after
Dumbledore fell, jumped, or was pushed. Potter later gave evidence against
Severus Snape, a man against whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it
seems? That is for the Wizarding community to decide – once they’ve read my
book.”
On that intriguing note, I take my leave. There can be no doubt that Skeeter
has quilled an instant bestseller. Dumbledore’s legion of admirers, meanwhile,
may well be trembling at what is soon to emerge about their hero.
Harry reached the bottom of the article, but continued to stare blankly at the page.
Revulsion and fury rose in him like vomit; he balled up the newspaper and threw it, with
all his force, at the wall, where it joined the rest of the rubbish heaped around his
overflowing bin.
He began to stride blindly around the room, opening empty drawers and picking
up books only to replace them on the same piles, barely conscious of what he was doing,
as random phrases from Rita’s article echoed in his head: An entire chapter to the whole
Potter-Dumbledore relationship … It’s been called unhealthy, even sinister … He dabbled
in the Dark Arts himself in his youth … I’ve had access to a source most journalists would
swap their wands for…
“Lies!” Harry bellowed, and through the window he saw the next-door neighbor,
who had paused to restart his lawn mower, look up nervously.
Harry sat down hard on the bed. The broken bit of mirror danced away from him;
he picked it up and turned it over in his fingers, thinking, thinking of Dumbledore and the
lies with which Rita Skeeter was defaming him …
A flash of brightest blue. Harry froze, his cut finger slipping on the jagged edge of
the mirror again. He had imagined it, he must have done. He glanced over his shoulder,
but the wall was a sickly peach color of Aunt Petunia’s choosing: There was nothing blue
there for the mirror to reflect. He peered into the mirror fragment again, and saw nothing
but his own bright green eye looking back at him.
He had imagined it, there was no other explanation; imagined it, because he had
been thinking of his dead headmaster. If anything was certain, it was that the bright blue
eyes of Albus Dumbledore would never pierce him again.
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