“I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo,”

“I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo,” said Ron, looking down at his bare chest.

“Harry, your eyesight really is awful,” said Hermione, as she put on glasses.

Once dressed, the fake Harrys took rucksacks and owl cages, each containing a stuffed snowy owl, from the second sack.

“Good,” said Moody, as at last seven dressed, bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harrys faced him. “The pairs will be as follows: Mundungus will be traveling with me, by broom – ”

“Why’m I with you?” grunted the Harry nearest the back door.

“Because you’re the one that needs watching,” growled Moody, and sure enough, his magical eye did not waver from Mundungus as he continued, “Arthur and Fred – ”

“I’m George,” said the twin at whom Moody was pointing. “Can’t you even tell us apart when we’re Harry?”

“Sorry, George – ”

“I’m only yanking your wand, I’m Fred really – ”

“Enough messing around!” snarled Moody. “The other one – George or Fred or whoever you are – you’re with Remus. Miss Delacour – ”

“I’m taking Fleur on a thestral,” said Bill. “She’s not that fond of brooms.”

Fleur walked over to stand beside him, giving him a soppy, slavish look that Harry hoped with all his heart would never appear on his face again.

“Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by thestral – ”

Hermione looked reassured as she answered Kingsley’s smile; Harry knew that Hermione too lacked confidence on a broomstick.

“Which leaves you and me, Ron!” said Tonks brightly, knocking over a mug tree as she waved at him.

Ron did not look quite as pleased as Hermione.

“An’ you’re with me, Harry. That all righ’?” said Hagrid, looking a little anxious. “We’ll be on the bike, brooms an’ thestrals can’t take me weight, see. Not a lot o’ room on the seat with me on it, though, so you’ll be in the sidecar.”

“That’s great,” said Harry, not altogether truthfully.

“We think the Death Eaters will expect you to be on a broom,” said Moody, who seemed to guess how Harry was feeling. “Snape’s had plenty of time to tell them everything about you he’s never mentioned before, so if we do run into any Death Eaters, we’re betting they’ll choose one of the Potters who looks at home on a broomstick. All right then,” he went on, tying up the sack with the fake Potters’ clothes in it and leading the way back to the door, “I make it three minutes until we’re supposed to leave. No point locking the back door, it won’t keep the Death Eaters out when they come looking. Come on …”

Harry hurried to gather his rucksack, Firebolt, and Hedwig’s cage and followed the group to the dark back garden.

On every side broomsticks were leaping into hands; Hermione had already been helped up onto a great black thestral by Kingsley, Fleur onto the other by Bill. Hagrid was standing ready beside the motorbike, goggles on.

“Is this it? Is this Sirius’s bike?”

“The very same,” said Hagrid, beaming down at Harry. “An’ the last time yeh was on it, Harry, I could fit yeh in one hand!”

Harry could not help but feel a little humiliated as he got into the sidecar. It placed him several feet below everybody else: Ron smirked at the sight of him sitting there like a child in a bumper car. Harry stuffed his rucksack and broomstick down by his feet and rammed Hedwig’s cage between his knees. He was extremely uncomfortable.

“Arthur’s done a bit o’ tinkerin’,” said Hagrid, quite oblivious to Harry’s discomfort. He settled himself astride the motorcycle, which creaked slightly and sank inches into the ground. “It’s got a few tricks up its sleeves now. Tha’ one was my idea.” He pointed a thick finger at a purple button near the speedometer.

“Please be careful, Hagrid.” said Mr. Weasley, who was standing beside them, holding his broomstick. “I’m still not sure that was advisable and it’s certainly only to be used in emergencies.”

“All right, then.” said Moody. “Everyone ready, please. I want us all to leave at exactly the same time or the whole point of the diversion’s lost.”

Everybody motioned their heads. “Hold tight now, Ron,” said Tonks, and Harry saw Ron throw a forcing, guilty look at Lupin before placing his hands on each side of her waist. Hagrid kicked the motorbike into life: It roared like a dragon, and the sidecar began to vibrate.

“Good luck, everyone,” shouted Moody. “See you all in about an hour at the Burrow. On the count of three. One … two . THREE.”

There was a great roar from the motorbike, and Harry felt the sidecar give a nasty lurch. He was rising through the air fast, his eyes watering slightly, hair whipped back off his face. Around him brooms were soaring upward too; the long black tail of a thestral flicked past. His legs, jammed into the sidecar by Hedwig’s cage and his rucksack, were already sore and starting to go numb. So great was his discomfort that he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of number four Privet Drive. By the time he looked over the edge of the sidecar he could no longer tell which one it was.

And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, they were surrounded. At least thirty hooded figures, suspended in midair, formed a vast circle in the middle of which the Order members had risen, oblivious – Screams, a blaze of green light on every side: Hagrid gave a yell and the motorbike rolled over. Harry lost any sense of where they were. Streetlights above him, yells around him, he was clinging to the sidecar for dear life. Hedwig’s cage, the Firebolt, and his rucksack slipped from beneath his knees –

“No – HELP!”

The broomstick spun too, but he just managed to seize the strap of his rucksack and the top of the cage as the motorbike swung the right way up again. A second’s relief, and then another burst of green light. The owl screeched and fell to the floor of the cage.

“No – NO!”
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lest Filch turn up, he dashed down

lest Filch turn up, he dashed down the marble staircase and along the passageway below. Outside the bathroom, he pressed his ear against the door. He could not hear

anything. He very quietly pushed the door open.

Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed.

“Don't,” crooned Moaning Myrtle's voice from one of the cubicles. “Don't... tell me what's wrong ... I can help you...”

“No one can help me,” said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. “I can't do it... I can't... It won't work... and unless I do it soon ... he says he'll kill me...”

And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to root him to the spot, that Malfoy was crying—actually crying—tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy

basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into flu-cracked mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his shoulder.

Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Harry pulled out his own. Malfoy's hex missed Harry by inches, shattering the lamp on the wall beside him; Harry

threw himself sideways, thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another —

“No! No! Stop it!” squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! STOP!”

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded; Harry attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy's ear and smashed the cistern

beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, “Cruci —”

“SECTUMSEMPRA!” bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his wand wildly.

Blood spurted from Malfoy's face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a

great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand.

“No —” gasped Harry.

Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest.

“No—I didn't —”

Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening

scream:

“MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!”

The door banged open behind Harry and he looked up, terrified: Snape had burst into the room, his face livid. Pushing Harry roughly aside, he knelt over Malfoy, drew

his wand, and traced it over the deep wounds Harry's curse had made, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like song. The flow of blood seemed to ease; Snape

wiped the residue from Malfoy's face and repeated his spell. Now the wounds seemed to be knitting.

Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had done, barely aware that he too was soaked in blood and water. Moaning Myrtle was still sobbing and wailing overhead.

of luck that would somehow cause

of luck that would somehow cause Ron to realize that nothing would make him happier than his best friend and his sister falling for each other and to leave them alone

together for longer than a few seconds. There seemed no chance of either while the final Quidditch game of the season was looming; Ron wanted to talk tactics with Harry

all the time and had little thought for anything else.

Ron was not unique in this respect; interest in the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game was running extremely high throughout the school, for the match would decide the

Championship, which was still wide open. If Gryffindor beat Ravenclaw by a margin of three hundred points (a tall order, and yet Harry had never known his team to fly

better) then they would win the Championship. If they won by less than three hundred points, they would come second to Ravenclaw; if they lost by a hundred points they

would be third behind Hufflepuff and if they lost by more than a hundred, they would be in fourth place and nobody, Harry thought, would ever, ever let him forget that

it had been he who had captained Gryffindor to their first bottom-of-the-table defeat in two centuries.

The run-up to this crucial match had all the usual features: members of rival Houses attempting to intimidate opposing teams in the corridors; unpleasant chants about

individual players being rehearsed loudly as they passed; the team members themselves either swaggering around enjoying all the attention or else dashing into bathrooms

between classes to throw up. Somehow, the game had become inextricably linked in Harry's mind with success or failure in his plans for Ginny. He could not help feeling

that if they won by more than three hundred points, the scenes of euphoria and a nice loud after-match party might be just as good as a hearty swig of Felix Felicis.

In the midst of all his preoccupations, Harry had not forgotten his other ambition: finding out what Malfoy was up to in the Room of Requirement. He was still checking

the Marauder's Map, and as he was unable to locate Malfoy on it, deduced that Malfoy was still spending plenty of time within the room. Although Harry was losing hope

that he would ever succeed in getting inside the Room of Requirement, he attempted it whenever he was in the vicinity, but no matter how he reworded his request, the

wall remained firmly doorless.

A few days before the match against Ravenclaw, Harry found himself walking down to dinner alone from the common room, Ron having rushed off into a nearby bathroom to

throw up yet again, and Hermione having dashed off to see Professor Vector about a mistake she thought she might have made in her last Arithmancy essay. More out of

habit than anything, Harry made his usual detour along the seventh-floor corridor, checking the Marauder's Map as he went. For a moment he could not find Malfoy

anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the Room of Requirement again, but then he saw Malfoy's tiny, labeled dot standing in a boys’ bathroom on the floor

below, accompanied, not by Crabbe or Goyle, but by Moaning Myrtle.

Harry only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling when he walked right into a suit of armor. The loud crash brought him out of his reverie; hurrying from the scene

Harry was about to put his book

Harry was about to put his book away again when he noticed the corner of a page folded down; turning to it, he saw the Sectumsempra spell, captioned “For Enemies,”

that he had marked a few weeks previously. He had still not found out what it did, mainly because he did not want to test it around Hermione, but he was considering

trying it out on McLaggen next time he came up behind him unawares.

The only person who was not particularly pleased to see Katie Bell back at school was Dean Thomas, because he would no longer be required to fill her place as Chaser.

He took the blow stoically enough when Harry told him, merely grunting and shrugging, but Harry had the distinct feeling as he walked away that Dean and Seamus were

muttering mutinously behind his back.

The following fortnight saw the best Quidditch practices Harry had known as Captain. His team was so pleased to be rid of McLaggen, so glad to have Katie back at last,

that they were flying extremely well.

Ginny did not seem at all upset about the breakup with Dean; on the contrary, she was the life and soul of the team. Her imitations of Ron anxiously bobbing up and down

in front of the goal posts as the Quaffle sped toward him, or of Harry bellowing orders at McLaggen before being knocked out cold, kept them all highly amused. Harry,

laughing with the others, was glad to have an innocent reason to look at Ginny; he had received several more Bludger injuries during practice because he had not been

keeping his eyes on the Snitch.

The battle still raged inside his head: Ginny or Ron? Sometimes he thought that the post-Lavender Ron might not mind too much if he asked Ginny out, but then he

remembered Ron's expression when he had seen her kissing Dean, and was sure that Ron would consider it base treachery if Harry so much as held her hand...

Yet Harry could not help himself talking to Ginny, laughing with her, walking back from practice with her; however much his conscience ached, he found himself wondering

how best to get her on her own. It would have been ideal if Slughorn had given another of his little parties, for Ron would not be around—but unfortunately, Slughorn

seemed to have given them up. Once or twice Harry considered asking for Hermione's help, but he did not think he could stand seeing the smug look on her face; he

thought he caught it sometimes when Hermione spotted him staring at Ginny or laughing at her jokes. And to complicate matters, he had the nagging worry that if he

didn't do it, somebody else was sure to ask Ginny out soon: he and Ron were at least agreed on the fact that she was too popular for her own good.

All in all, the temptation to take another gulp of Felix Felicis was becoming stronger by the day, for surely this was a case for, as Hermione put it, “tweaking the

circumstances"? The balmy days slid gently through May, and Ron seemed to be there at Harry's shoulder every time he saw Ginny. Harry found himself longing for a stroke

Harry went to retrieve the pod; when he got back

Harry went to retrieve the pod; when he got back, Hermione was saying, “Look, I didn't make up the name ‘Slug Club’ —”

“'Slug Club,'” repeated Ron with a sneer worthy of Malfoy. “It's pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don't you try hooking up with McLaggen, then

Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug —”

“We're allowed to bring guests,” said Hermione, who for some reason had turned a bright, boiling scarlet, “and I was going to ask you to come, but if you think it's

that stupid then I won't bother!”

Harry suddenly wished the pod had flown a little farther, so that he need not have been sitting here with the pair of them. Unnoticed by either, he seized the bowl that

contained the pod and began to try and open it by the noisiest and most energetic means he could think of; unfortunately, he could still hear every word of their

conversation.

“You were going to ask me?” asked Ron, in a completely different voice.

“Yes,” said Hermione angrily. “But obviously if you'd rather I hooked up with McLaggen...”

There was a pause while Harry continued to pound the resilient pod with a trowel.

“No, I wouldn't,” said Ron, in a very quiet voice.

Harry missed the pod, hit the bowl, and shattered it.

“Reparo,” he said hastily, poking the pieces with his wand, and the bowl sprang back together again. The crash, however, appeared to have awoken Ron and Hermione to

Harry's presence. Hermione looked flustered and immediately started fussing about for her copy of Flesh-Eating Trees of the World to find out the correct way to juice

Snargaluff pods; Ron, on the other hand, looked sheepish but also rather pleased with himself.

“Hand that over, Harry,” said Hermione hurriedly. “It says we're supposed to puncture them with something sharp...”

Harry passed her the pod in the bowl; he and Ron both snapped their goggles back over their eyes and dived, once more, for the stump.

It was not as though he was really surprised, thought Harry, as he wrestled with a thorny vine intent upon throttling him; he had had an inkling that this might happen

sooner or later. But he was not sure how he felt about it... He and Cho were now too embarrassed to look at each other, let alone talk to each other; what if Ron and

Hermione started going out together, then split up? Could their friendship survive it? Harry remembered the few weeks when they had not been talking to each other in

the third year; he had not enjoyed trying to bridge the distance between them. And then, what if they didn't split up? What if they became like Bill and Fleur, and it

became excruciatingly embarrassing to be in their presence, so that he was shut out for good?

“Gotcha!” yelled Ron, pulling a second pod from the stump just as Hermione managed to burst the first one open, so that the bowl was full of tubers wriggling like

pale green worms.

The rest of the lesson passed without further mention of Slughorn's party. Although Harry watched his two friends more closely over the next few days, Ron and Hermione

did not seem any different except that they were a little politer to each other than usual. Harry supposed he would just have to wait to see what happened under the

influence of Butterbeer in Slughorn's dimly lit room on the night of the party. In the meantime, however, he had more pressing worries.

They looked around; sure enough,

They looked around; sure enough, there sat Neville with a bloody lip and several nasty scratches along the side of his face, but clutching an unpleasantly pulsating

green object about the size of a grapefruit.

“Okay, Professor, we're starting now!” said Ron, adding quietly, when she had turned away again, “Should've used Muffliato, Harry.”

“No, we shouldn't!” said Hermione at once, looking, as she always did, intensely cross at the thought of the Half-Blood Prince and his spells. “Well, come on ...

we'd better get going...”

She gave the other two an apprehensive look; they all took deep breaths and then dived at the gnarled stump between them.

It sprang to life at once; long, prickly, bramble-like vines flew out of the top and whipped through the air. One tangled itself in Hermione's hair, and Ron beat it

back with a pair of secateurs; Harry succeeded in trapping a couple of vines and knotting them together; a hole opened in the middle of all the tentacle-like branches;

Hermione plunged her arm bravely into this hole, which closed like a trap around her elbow; Harry and Ron tugged and wrenched at the vines, forcing the hole to open

again, and Hermione snatched her arm free, clutching in her fingers a pod just like Neville's. At once, the prickly vines shot back inside, and the gnarled stump sat

there looking like an innocently dead lump of wood.

“You know, I don't think I'll be having any of these in my garden when I've got my own place,” said Ron, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead and wiping sweat

from his face.

“Pass me a bowl,” said Hermione, holding the pulsating pod at arm's length; Harry handed one over and she dropped the pod into it with a look of disgust on her face.

“Don't be squeamish, squeeze it out, they're best when they're fresh!” called Professor Sprout.

“Anyway,” said Hermione, continuing their interrupted conversation as though a lump of wood had not just attacked them, “Slughorn's going to have a Christmas party,

Harry, and there's no way you'll be able to wriggle out of this one because he actually asked me to check your free evenings, so he could be sure to have it on a night

you can come.”

Harry groaned. Meanwhile, Ron, who was attempting to burst the pod in the bowl by putting both hands on it, standing up, and squashing it as hard as he could, said

angrily, “And this is another party just for Slughorn's favorites, is it?”

“Just for the Slug Club, yes,” said Hermione.

The pod flew out from under Ron's fingers and hit the green house glass, rebounding onto the back of Professor Sprout's head and knocking off her old, patched hat.

“I won't deny that morale is pretty

“I won't deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry,” said Fudge. “What with all that, and then losing Amelia Bones.”

“Losing who?”

“Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person, because she was a very gifted witch and—and all the evidence was that she put up a real fight.”

Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat.

“But that murder was in the newspapers,” said the Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger. “Our newspapers. Amelia Bones... it just said she was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a—a nasty killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you see.”

Fudge sighed. “Well, of course they are,” he said. “Killed in a room that was locked from the inside, wasn't she? We, on the other hand, know exactly who did it, not that that gets us any further toward catching him. And then there was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn't hear about that one—”

“Oh yes I did!” said the Prime Minister. “It happened just around the corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it, Breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister's backyard—”

“And as if all that wasn't enough,” said Fudge, barely listening to the Prime Minister, “we've got dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left, right, and center...”

Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.

“I thought dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban,” he said cautiously.

“They did,” said Fudge wearily. “But not anymore. They've deserted the prison and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't a blow.”

“But,” said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, “didn't you tell me they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people?”

“That's right. And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist.”

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.

“Now see here, Fudge—you've got to do something! It's your responsibility as Minister of Magic!”

“My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I've never known them so united in my whole term of office!” said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.

“I'm very sorry,” he said finally. “If there's anything I can do?”

“It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here tonight to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my successor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of course, he's very busy at the moment, with so much going on.”

Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill. Catching Fudge's eye, the portrait said, “He'll be here in a moment, he's just finishing a letter to Dumbledore.”

“I wish him luck,” said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. “I've been writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won't budge. If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be... well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success.”

Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official voice.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again, rose up, and revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments later onto the antique rug.

Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment's hesitation, the Prime Minister did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes, and look around.

The Prime Minister's first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these dangerous times.

“How do you do?” said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then pulled out a wand from under his robes.

“Fudge told you everything?” he asked, striding over to the door and tapping the keyhole with his wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click.

“Er—yes,” said the Prime Minister. “And if you don't mind, I'd rather that door remained unlocked.”

“I'd rather not be interrupted,” said Scrimgeour shortly, “or watched,” he added, pointing his wand at the windows, so that the curtains swept across them. “Right, well, I'm a busy man, so let's get down lo business. First of all, we need to discuss your security.”

The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest height and replied, “I am perfectly happy with the security I've already got, thank you very—”

“Well, we're not,” Scrimgeour cut in. “It'll be a poor lookout for the Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in your outer office—”

“I'm not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that's what you're suggesting!” said the Prime Minister hotly. “He's highly efficient, gets through twice the work the rest of them—”

“That's because he's a wizard,” said Scrimgeour, without a flicker of a smile. “A highly trained Auror, who has been assigned to you for your protection.”

“Now, wait a moment!” declared the Prime Minister. “You can't just put your people into my office, I decide who works for me—”

“I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?” said Scrimgeour coldly.

“I am—that's to say, I was—”

“Then there's no problem, is there?” said Scrimgeour.

“I... well, as long as Shacklebolt's work continues to be... er... excellent,” said the Prime Minister lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him.

“Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister,” he continued. “The one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck.”

“What about him?” asked the Prime Minister.

“He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed Imperius Curse,” said Scrimgeour. “It's addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous.”

“He's only quacking!” said the Prime Minister weakly. “Surely a bit of a rest... maybe go easy on the drink...”

“A team of Healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of them,” said Scrimgeour. “I think it best that we remove him from Muggle society for a while.”

“I... well... he'll be all right, won't he?” said the Prime Minister anxiously. Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace.

“Well, that's really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister—or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to stay on in an advisory capacity.”

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.

“But for heaven's sake—you're wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort out—well—anything!”

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, “The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister.”

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished.
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“I won't deny that morale is pretty

“I won't deny that morale is pretty low at the Ministry,” said Fudge. “What with all that, and then losing Amelia Bones.”

“Losing who?”

“Amelia Bones. Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have murdered her in person, because she was a very gifted witch and—and all the evidence was that she put up a real fight.”

Fudge cleared his throat and, with an effort, it seemed, stopped spinning his bowler hat.

“But that murder was in the newspapers,” said the Prime Minister, momentarily diverted from his anger. “Our newspapers. Amelia Bones... it just said she was a middle-aged woman who lived alone. It was a—a nasty killing, wasn't it? It's had rather a lot of publicity. The police are baffled, you see.”

Fudge sighed. “Well, of course they are,” he said. “Killed in a room that was locked from the inside, wasn't she? We, on the other hand, know exactly who did it, not that that gets us any further toward catching him. And then there was Emmeline Vance, maybe you didn't hear about that one—”

“Oh yes I did!” said the Prime Minister. “It happened just around the corner from here, as a matter of fact. The papers had a field day with it, Breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister's backyard—”

“And as if all that wasn't enough,” said Fudge, barely listening to the Prime Minister, “we've got dementors swarming all over the place, attacking people left, right, and center...”

Once upon a happier time this sentence would have been unintelligible to the Prime Minister, but he was wiser now.

“I thought dementors guard the prisoners in Azkaban,” he said cautiously.

“They did,” said Fudge wearily. “But not anymore. They've deserted the prison and joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I won't pretend that wasn't a blow.”

“But,” said the Prime Minister, with a sense of dawning horror, “didn't you tell me they're the creatures that drain hope and happiness out of people?”

“That's right. And they're breeding. That's what's causing all this mist.”

The Prime Minister sank, weak-kneed, into the nearest chair. The idea of invisible creatures swooping through the towns and countryside, spreading despair and hopelessness in his voters, made him feel quite faint.

“Now see here, Fudge—you've got to do something! It's your responsibility as Minister of Magic!”

“My dear Prime Minister, you can't honestly think I'm still Minister of Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole Wizarding community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I've never known them so united in my whole term of office!” said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.

“I'm very sorry,” he said finally. “If there's anything I can do?”

“It's very kind of you, Prime Minister, but there is nothing. I was sent here tonight to bring you up to date on recent events and to introduce you to my successor. I rather thought he'd be here by now, but of course, he's very busy at the moment, with so much going on.”

Fudge looked around at the portrait of the ugly little man wearing the long curly silver wig, who was digging in his ear with the point of a quill. Catching Fudge's eye, the portrait said, “He'll be here in a moment, he's just finishing a letter to Dumbledore.”

“I wish him luck,” said Fudge, sounding bitter for the first time. “I've been writing to Dumbledore twice a day for the past fortnight, but he won't budge. If he'd just been prepared to persuade the boy, I might still be... well, maybe Scrimgeour will have more success.”

Fudge subsided into what was clearly an aggrieved silence, but it was broken almost immediately by the portrait, which suddenly spoke in its crisp, official voice.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Requesting a meeting. Urgent. Kindly respond immediately. Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” said the Prime Minister distractedly, and he barely flinched as the flames in the grate turned emerald green again, rose up, and revealed a second spinning wizard in their heart, disgorging him moments later onto the antique rug.

Fudge got to his feet and, after a moment's hesitation, the Prime Minister did the same, watching the new arrival straighten up, dust down his long black robes, and look around.

The Prime Minister's first, foolish thought was that Rufus Scrimgeour looked rather like an old lion. There were streaks of gray in his mane of tawny hair and his bushy eyebrows; he had keen yellowish eyes behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and a certain rangy, loping grace even though he walked with a slight limp. There was an immediate impression of shrewdness and toughness; the Prime Minister thought he understood why the Wizarding community preferred Scrimgeour to Fudge as a leader in these dangerous times.

“How do you do?” said the Prime Minister politely, holding out his hand.

Scrimgeour grasped it briefly, his eyes scanning the room, then pulled out a wand from under his robes.

“Fudge told you everything?” he asked, striding over to the door and tapping the keyhole with his wand. The Prime Minister heard the lock click.

“Er—yes,” said the Prime Minister. “And if you don't mind, I'd rather that door remained unlocked.”

“I'd rather not be interrupted,” said Scrimgeour shortly, “or watched,” he added, pointing his wand at the windows, so that the curtains swept across them. “Right, well, I'm a busy man, so let's get down lo business. First of all, we need to discuss your security.”

The Prime Minister drew himself up to his fullest height and replied, “I am perfectly happy with the security I've already got, thank you very—”

“Well, we're not,” Scrimgeour cut in. “It'll be a poor lookout for the Muggles if their Prime Minister gets put under the Imperius Curse. The new secretary in your outer office—”

“I'm not getting rid of Kingsley Shacklebolt, if that's what you're suggesting!” said the Prime Minister hotly. “He's highly efficient, gets through twice the work the rest of them—”

“That's because he's a wizard,” said Scrimgeour, without a flicker of a smile. “A highly trained Auror, who has been assigned to you for your protection.”

“Now, wait a moment!” declared the Prime Minister. “You can't just put your people into my office, I decide who works for me—”

“I thought you were happy with Shacklebolt?” said Scrimgeour coldly.

“I am—that's to say, I was—”

“Then there's no problem, is there?” said Scrimgeour.

“I... well, as long as Shacklebolt's work continues to be... er... excellent,” said the Prime Minister lamely, but Scrimgeour barely seemed to hear him.

“Now, about Herbert Chorley, your Junior Minister,” he continued. “The one who has been entertaining the public by impersonating a duck.”

“What about him?” asked the Prime Minister.

“He has clearly reacted to a poorly performed Imperius Curse,” said Scrimgeour. “It's addled his brains, but he could still be dangerous.”

“He's only quacking!” said the Prime Minister weakly. “Surely a bit of a rest... maybe go easy on the drink...”

“A team of Healers from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are examining him as we speak. So far he has attempted to strangle three of them,” said Scrimgeour. “I think it best that we remove him from Muggle society for a while.”

“I... well... he'll be all right, won't he?” said the Prime Minister anxiously. Scrimgeour merely shrugged, already moving back toward the fireplace.

“Well, that's really all I had to say. I will keep you posted of developments, Prime Minister—or, at least, I shall probably be too busy to come personally, in which case I shall send Fudge here. He has consented to stay on in an advisory capacity.”

Fudge attempted to smile, but was unsuccessful; he merely looked as though he had a toothache. Scrimgeour was already rummaging in his pocket for the mysterious powder that turned the fire green. The Prime Minister gazed hopelessly at the pair of them for a moment, then the words he had fought to suppress all evening burst from him at last.

“But for heaven's sake—you're wizards! You can do magic! Surely you can sort out—well—anything!”

Scrimgeour turned slowly on the spot and exchanged an incredulous look with Fudge, who really did manage a smile this time as he said kindly, “The trouble is, the other side can do magic too, Prime Minister.”

And with that, the two wizards stepped one after the other into the bright green fire and vanished.
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"It's all right, sir, it'll spring up again," responded Vassily.

"It's all right, sir, it'll spring up again," responded Vassily.
"Please don't argue," said Levin, "but do as you're told."
"Yes, sir," answered Vassily, and he took the horse's head. "What a sowing, Konstantin Dmitrievitch," he said, hesitating; "first rate. Only it's a work to get about! You drag a ton of earth on your shoes."
"Why is it you have earth that's not sifted?" said Levin.
"Well, we crumble it up," answered Vassily, taking up some seed and rolling the earth in his palms.
Vassily was not to blame for their having filled up his cart with unsifted earth, but still it was annoying.
Levin had more than once already tried a way he knew for stifling his anger, and turning all that seemed dark right again, and he tried that way now. He watched how Mishka strode along, swinging the huge clods of earth that clung to each foot; and getting off his horse, he took the sieve from Vassily and started sowing himself.
"Where did you stop?"
Vassily pointed to the mark with his foot, and Levin went forward as best he could, scattering the seed on the land. Walking was a difficult as on a bog, and by the time Levin had ended the row he was in a great heat, and he stopped and gave up the sieve to Vassily.
"Well, master, when summer's here, mind you don't scold me for these rows," said Vassily.
"Eh?" said Levin cheerily, already feeling the effect of his method.
"Why, you'll see in the summer time. It'll look different. Look you where I sowed last spring. How I did work at it! I do my best, Konstantin Dmitrievitch, d'ye see, as I would for my own father. I don't like bad work myself, nor would I let another man do it. What's good for the master's good for us too. To look out yonder now," said Vassily, pointing, "it does one's heart good."
"It's a lovely spring, Vassily."
"Why, it's a spring such as the old men don't remember the like of. I was up home; an old man up there has sown wheat too, about an acre of it. He was saying you wouldn't know it from rye."
"Have yo been sowing wheat long?"
"Why, sir, it was you taught us the year before last. You gave me two measures. We sold about eight bushels and sowed a rood."
"Well, mind you crumble up the clods," said Levin, going towards his horse, "and keep an eye on Mishka. And if there's a good crop you shall have half a rouble for every acre."
"Humbly thankful. We are very well content, sir, as it is."
Levin got on his horse and rode towards the field where was last year's clover, and the one which was ploughed ready for the spring corn.
The crop of clover coming up in the stubble was magnificent. It had survived everything, and stood up vividly green through the broken stalks of last year's wheat. The horse sank in up to the pasterns, and he drew each hoof with a sucking sound out of the half-thawed ground. Over the ploughland riding was utterly impossible; the horse could only keep a foothold where there was ice, and in the thawing furrows he sank deep in at each step. The ploughland was in splendid condition; in a couple of days it would be fit for harrowing and sowing. Everything was capital, everything was cheering. Levin rode back across the streams, hoping the water would have gone down. And he did in fact get across, and startled two ducks. "There must be snipe too," he thought, and just as he reached the turning homewards he met the forest keeper, who confirmed his theory about the snipe.
Levin went home at a trot, so as to have time to eat his dinner and get his gun ready for the evening.

And Levin rode through the slush of

And Levin rode through the slush of the farmyard to the gate and out into the open country, his good little horse, after his long inactivity, stepping out gallantly, snorting over the pools, and asking, as it were, for guidance. If Levin had felt happy before in the cattle pens and farmyard, he felt happier yet in the open country. Swaying rhythmically with the ambling paces of his good little cob, drinking in the warm yet fresh scent of the snow and the air, as he rode through his forest over the crumbling, wasted snow, still left in parts, and covered with dissolving tracks, he rejoiced over every tree, with the moss reviving on its bark and the buds swelling on its shoots. When he came out of the forest, in the immense plain before him, his grass fields stretched in an unbroken carpet of green, without one bare place or swamp, only spotted here and there in the hollows with patches of melting snow. He was not put out of temper even by the sight of the peasants' horses and colts trampling down his young grass (he told a peasant he met to drive them out), nor by the sarcastic and stupid reply of the peasant Ipat, whom he met on the way, and asked, "Well, Ipat, shall we soon be sowing?" "We must get the ploughing done first, Konstantin Dmitrievitch," answered Ipat. The further he rode, the happier he became, and plans for the land rose to his mind each better than the last; to plant all his fields with hedges along the southern borders, so that the snow should not lie under them; to divide them up into six fields of arable and three of pasture and hay; to build a cattle yard at the further end of the estate, and to dig a pond and to construct movable pens for the cattle as a means of manuring the land. And then eight hundred acres of wheat, three hundred of potatoes, and four hundred of clover, and not one acre exhausted.
Absorbed in such dreams, carefully keeping his horse by the hedges, so as not to trample his young crops, he rode up to the laborers who had been sent to sow clover. A cart with the seed in it was standing, not at the edge, but in the middle of the crop, and the winter corn had been torn up by the wheels and trampled by the horse. Both the laborers were sitting in the hedge, probably smoking a pipe together. The earth in the cart, with which the seed was mixed, was not crushed to powder, but crusted together or adhering in clods. Seeing the master, the laborer, Vassily, went towards the cart, while Mishka set to work sowing. This was not as it should be, but with the laborers Levin seldom lost his temper. When Vassily came up, Levin told him to lead the horse to the hedge.

Stepan Arkadyevitch was not merel

Stepan Arkadyevitch was not merely liked by all who knew him for his good humor, but for his bright disposition, and his unquestionable honesty. In him, in his handsome, radiant figure, his sparkling eyes, black hair and eyebrows, and the white and red of his face, there was something which produced a physical effect of kindliness and good humor on the people who met him. "Aha! Stiva! Oblonsky! Here he is!" was almost always said with a smile of delight on meeting him. Even though it happened at times that after a conversation with him it seemed that nothing particularly delightful had happened, the next day, and the next, every one was just as delighted at meeting him again.

After filling for three years the post of president of one of the government boards at Moscow, Stepan Arkadyevitch had won the respect, as well as the liking, of his fellow officials, subordinates, and superiors, and all who had had business with him. The principal qualities in Stepan Arkadyevitch which had gained him this universal respect in the service consisted, in the first place, of his extreme indulgence for others, founded on a consciousness of his own shortcomings; secondly, of his perfect liberalism--not the liberalism he read of in the papers, but the liberalism that was in his blood, in virtue of which he treated all men perfectly equally and exactly the same, whatever their fortune or calling might be; and thirdly--the most important point--his complete indifference to the business in which he was engaged, in consequence of which he was never carried away, and never made mistakes.

On reaching the offices of the board, Stepan Arkadyevitch, escorted by a deferential porter with a portfolio, went into his little private room, put on his uniform, and went into the boardroom. The clerks and copyists all rose, greeting him with good-humored deference. Stepan Arkadyevitch moved quickly, as ever, to his place, shook hands with his colleagues, and sat down. He made a joke or two, and talked just as much as was consistent with due decorum, and began work. No one knew better than Stepan Arkadyevitch how to hit on the exact line between freedom, simplicity, and official stiffness necessary for the agreeable conduct of business. A secretary, with the good-humored deference common to every one in Stepan Arkadyevitch's office, came up with papers, and began to speak in the familiar and easy tone which had been introduced by Stepan Arkadyevitch.

"We have succeeded in getting the information from the government department of Penza. Here, would you care?...."

"You've got them at last?" said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laying his finger on the paper. "Now, gentlemen...."

And the sitting of the board began.

Chapter 5

Stepan Arkadyevitch had learned easily at school, thanks to his excellent abilities, but he had been idle and mischievous, and therefore was one of the lowest in his class. But in spite of his habitually dissipated mode of life, his inferior grade in the service, and his comparative youth, he occupied the honorable and lucrative position of president of one of the government boards at Moscow. This post he had received through his sister Anna's husband, Alexey Alexandrovitch Karenin, who held one of the most important positions in the ministry to whose department the Moscow office belonged. But if Karenin had not got his brother- in-law this berth, then through a hundred other personages-- brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, and aunts--Stiva Oblonsky would have received this post, or some other similar one, together with the salary of six thousand absolutely needful for them, as his affairs, in spite of his wife's considerable property, were in an embarrassed condition.

Half Moscow and Petersburg were friends and relations of Stepan Arkadyevitch. He was born in the midst of those who had been and are the powerful ones of this world. One-third of the men in the government, the older men, had been friends of his father's, and had known him in petticoats; another third were his intimate chums, and the remainder were friendly acquaintances. Consequently the distributors of earthly blessings in the shape of places, rents, shares, and such, were all his friends, and could not overlook one of their own set; and Oblonsky had no need to make any special exertion to get a lucrative post. He had only not to refuse things, not to show jealousy, not to be quarrelsome or take offense, all of which from his characteristic good nature he never did. It would have struck him as absurd if he had been told that he would not get a position with the salary he required, especially as he expected nothing out of the way; he only wanted what the men of his own age and standing did get, and he was no worse qualified for performing duties of the kind than any other man.

"That's as it happens. But here's for the housekeeping

," he said, taking ten roubles from his pocketbook. "That'll be enough."

"Enough or not enough, we must make it do," said Matvey, slamming the carriage door and stepping back onto the steps.

Darya Alexandrovna meanwhile having pacified the child, and knowing from the sound of the carriage that he had gone off, went back again to her bedroom. It was her solitary refuge from the household cares which crowded upon her directly she went out from it. Even now, in the short time she had been in the nursery, the English governess and Matrona Philimonovna had succeeded in putting several questions to her, which did not admit of delay, and which only she could answer: "What were the children to put on for their walk? Should they have any milk? Should not a new cook be sent for?"

"Ah, let me alone, let me alone!" she said, and going back to her bedroom she sat down in the same place as she had sat when talking to her husband, clasping tightly her thin hands with the rings that slipped down on her bony fingers, and fell to going over in her memory all the conversation. "He has gone! But has he broken it off with her?" she thought. "Can it be he sees her? Why didn't I ask him! No, no, reconciliation is impossible. Even if we remain in the same house, we are strangers--strangers forever! She repeated again with special significance the word so dreadful to her. "And how I loved him! my God, how I loved him!.... How I loved him! And now don't I love him? Don't I love him more than before? The most horrible thing is," she began, but did not finish her thought, because Matrona Philimonovna put her head in at the door.

"Let us send for my brother," she said; "he can get a dinner anyway, or we shall have the children getting nothing to eat till six again, like yesterday."

"Very well, I will come directly and see about it. But did you send for some new milk?"

And Darya Alexandrovna plunged into the duties of the day, and drowned her grief in them for a time.

‘But you've lasted this long—’

‘But you've lasted this long—’ Hermione said tentatively. ‘What makes you think—’

‘Umbridge reckons it was me that put tha’ Niffler in her office.’

‘And was it?’ said Harry, before he could stop himself.

‘No, it ruddy well wasn'!’ said Hagrid indignantly. ‘On'y any-thin’ ter do with magical creatures an’ she thinks it's got somethin’ ter do with me. Yeh know she's bin lookin’ fer a chance ter get rid of me ever since I got back. I don’ wan’ ter go, o’ course, but if it wasn’ fer ... well ... the special circumstances I'm abou’ ter explain to yeh, I'd leave righ’ now, before she's go’ the chance ter do it in front o’ the whole school, like she did with Trelawney.’

Harry and Hermione both made noises of protest, but Hagrid overrode them with a wave of one of his enormous hands.

‘It's not the end o’ the world, I'll be able ter help Dumbledore once I'm outta here, I can be useful ter the Order. An you lot'll have Grubbly-Plank, yeh'll—yeh'll get through yer exams fine ...’

His voice trembled and broke.

‘Don’ worry abou’ me,’ he said hastily, as Hermione made to pat his arm. He pulled his enormous spotted handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and mopped his eyes with it. ‘Look, I wouldn’ be tellin’ yer this at all if I didn’ have ter. See, if I go ... well, I can’ leave withou’ ... withou’ tellin’ someone ... because I'll—I'll need yeh two ter help me. An’ Ron, if he's willin'.’

‘Of course we'll help you,’ said Harry at once. ‘What do you want us to do?’

Hagrid gave a great sniff and patted Harry wordlessly on the shoulder with such force Harry was knocked sideways into a tree.

‘I knew yeh'd say yes,’ said Hagrid into his handkerchief, ‘but I won’ ... never ... forget ... well ... c'mon ... jus’ a little bit further through here ... watch yerselves, now, there's nettles ...’

They walked on in silence for another fifteen minutes; Harry had opened his mouth to ask how much further they had to go when Hagrid threw out his right arm to signal that they should stop.

‘Really easy,’ he said softly. ‘Very quiet, now ...’

They crept forwards and Harry saw that they were facing a large, smooth mound of earth nearly as tall as Hagrid that he thought, with a jolt of dread, was sure to be the lair of some enormous animal. Trees had been ripped up at the roots all around the mound, so that it stood on a bare patch of ground surrounded by heaps of trunks and boughs that formed a kind of fence or barricade, behind which Harry, Hermione and Hagrid now stood.

‘Sleepin',’ breathed Hagrid.

Sure enough, Harry could hear a distant, rhythmic rumbling that sounded like a pair of enormous lungs at work. He glanced sideways at Hermione, who was gazing at the mound with her mouth slightly open. She looked utterly terrified.

‘Hagrid,’ she said in a whisper barely audible over the sound of the sleeping creature, ‘who is he?’

Harry found this an odd question ... ‘What is it?’ was the one he; had been planning on asking.

‘Hagrid, you told us—’ said Hermione, her wand now shaking in her hand, ‘you told us none of them wanted to come!’

Harry looked from her to Hagrid and then, as realisation hit him, he looked back at the mound with a small gasp of horror.

The great mound of earth, on which he, Hermione and Hagrid could easily have stood, was moving slowly up and down in time with the deep, grunting breathing. It was not a mound at all. ‘It was the curved back of what was clearly—’

‘Well—no—he didn’ want ter come,’ said Hagrid, sounding desperate. ‘But I had ter bring him, Hermione, I had ter!’

‘But why?’ asked Hermione, who sounded as though she wanted to cry. ‘Why—what—oh, Hagrid!’

He looked around. Phineas Nigellus had appeared

He looked around. Phineas Nigellus had appeared on the canvas of his portrait and was leaning against the frame, watching Harry with an amused expression on his face.

‘Not running away, no,’ said Harry shortly, dragging his trunk a few more feet across the room.

‘I thought,’ said Phineas Nigellus, stroking his pointed beard, ‘that to belong in Gryffindor house you were supposed to be brave? It looks to me as though you would have been better off in my own house. We Slytherins are

brave, yes, but not stupid. For instance, given the choice, we will always choose to save our own necks.’

‘It's not my own neck I'm saving,’ said Harry tersely, tugging the trunk over a patch of particularly uneven, moth-eaten carpet right in front of the door.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Phineas Nigellus, still stroking his beard, ‘this is no cowardly flight—you are being noble.’

Harry ignored him. His hand was on the doorknob when Phineas Nigellus said lazily, ‘I have a message for you from Albus Dumbledore.’

Harry span round.

‘What is it?’

‘"Stay where you are.” ’

‘I haven't moved!’ said Harry, his hand still upon the doorknob. ‘So what's the message?’

‘I have just given it to you, dolt,’ said Phineas Nigellus smoothly. ‘Dumbledore says, “Stay where you are.”’

‘Why?’ said Harry eagerly, dropping the end of his trunk. ‘Why does he want me to stay? What else did he say?’

‘Nothing whatsoever,’ said Phineas Nigellus, raising a thin black eyebrow as though he found Harry impertinent.

Harry's temper rose to the surface like a snake rearing from long grass. He was exhausted, he was confused beyond measure, he had experienced terror, relief, then terror again in the last twelve hours, and still Dumbledore

did not want to talk to him!

‘So that's it, is it?’ he said loudly. ‘"Stay where you are”? That's all anyone could tell me after I got attacked by those dementors, too! Just stay put while the grown-ups sort it out, Harry! We won't bother telling you anything,

though, because your tiny little brain might not be able to cope with it!’

‘You know,’ said Phineas Nigellus, even more loudly than Harry, ‘this is precisely why I loathed being a teacher! Young people are so infernally convinced that they are absolutely right about everything. Has it not occurred to

you, my poor puffed-up popinjay, that there might be an excellent reason why the Headmaster of Hogwarts is not confiding every tiny detail of his plans to you? Have you never paused, while feeling hard-done-by, to note that

following Dumbledore's orders has never yet led you into harm? No.No, like all young people, you are quite sure that you alone feel and think, you alone recognise danger, you alone are the only one clever enough to realise

what the Dark Lord may be planning—’

‘He is planning something to do with me, then?’ said Harry swiftly.

‘Did I say that?’ said Phineas Nigellus, idly examining his silk gloves. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have better things to do than listen to adolescent agonising ... good-day to you.’

And he strolled to the edge of his frame and out of sight.

‘Fine, go then!’ Harry bellowed at the empty frame. ‘And tell Dumbledore thanks for nothing!’

The empty canvas remained silent. Fuming, Harry dragged his trunk back to the foot of his bed, then threw himself face down on the moth-eaten covers, his eyes shut, his body heavy and aching.

He felt as though he had journeyed for miles and miles ... it seemed impossible that less than twenty-four hours ago Cho Chang had been approaching him under the mistletoe ... he was so tired ... he was scared to sleep ...

yet he did not know how long he could fight it ... Dumbledore had told him to stay ... that must mean he was allowed to sleep ... but he was scared ... what if it happened again?

He was sinking into shadows ...

It was as though a film in his head had been waiting to start. He was walking down a deserted corridor towards a plain black door, past rough stone walls, torches, and an open doorway on to a flight of stone steps leading

downstairs on the left ...

He reached the black door but could not open it... he stood gazing at it, desperate for entry ... something he wanted with all his heart lay beyond ... a prize beyond his dreams ... if only his scar would stop prickling ... then he

would be able to think more clearly ...

‘Harry,’ said Ron's voice, from far, far away, ‘Mum says dinners ready, but she'll save you something if you want to stay in bed.’

Harry opened his eyes, but Ron had already left the room.

He doesn't want to be on his own with me, Harry thought. Not after what he heard Moody say.

He supposed none of them would want him there any more, now that they knew what was inside him.

He would not go down to dinner; he would not inflict his company on them. He turned over on to his other side and, after a while, dropped back off to sleep. He woke much later, in the early hours of the morning, his insides

aching with hunger and Ron snoring in the next bed. Squinting around the room, he saw the dark outline of Phineas Nigellus standing again in his portrait and it occurred to Harry that Dumbledore had probably sent Phineas

Nigellus to watch over him, in case he attacked somebody else.

The feeling of being unclean intensified. He half-wished he had not obeyed Dumbledore ... if this was how life was going to be for him in Grimmauld Place from now on, maybe he would be better off in Privet Drive after all.

Everybody else spent the following morning putting up Christmas decorations. Harry could not remember Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was actually singing carols, apparently delighted that he was to have

company over Christmas. Harry could hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold drawing room where he was sitting alone, watching the sky growing whiter outside the windows, threatening snow, all the time

feeling a savage pleasure that he was giving the others the opportunity to keep talking about him, as they were bound to be doing. When he heard Mrs. Weasley calling his name softly up the stairs around lunchtime, he

retreated further upstairs and ignored her.

Around six o'clock in the evening the doorbell rang and Mrs. Black started screaming again. Assuming that Mundungus or some other Order member had come to call, Harry merely settled himself more comfortably against the

wall of Buckbeak's room where he was hiding, trying to ignore how hungry he felt as he fed dead rats to the hippogriff. It came as a slight shock when somebody hammered hard on the door a few minutes later.

‘I know you're in there,’ said Hermione's voice. ‘Will you please come out? I want to talk to you.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Harry asked her, pulling open the door as Buckbeak resumed his scratching at the straw-strewn floor for any fragments of rat he may have dropped. ‘I thought you were skiing with your mum and

dad?’

‘Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing,’ said Hermione. ‘So, I've come here for Christmas.’ There was snow in her hair and her face was pink with cold. ‘But don't tell Ron. I told him skiing's really good because he

kept laughing so much. Mum and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I've told them that everyone who is serious about the exams is staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do well, they'll understand. Anyway,’ she said

briskly, ‘let's go to your bedroom, Ron's mum has lit a fire in there and she's sent up sandwiches.’

Harry followed her back to the second floor. When he entered the bedroom, he was rather surprised to see both Ron and Ginny waiting for them, sitting on Ron's bed.

‘I came on the Knight Bus,’ said Hermione airily, pulling off her jacket before Harry had time to speak. ‘Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing this morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting

off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. Mungo's and he'd given you all permission to visit. So ...’
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‘Very well,’ she said,

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘you will receive the results of your inspection in ten days’ time.’

‘I can hardly wait,’ said Professor McGonagall, in a coldly indifferent voice, and she strode off towards the door. ‘Hurry up, you three,’ she added, sweeping Harry, Ron and Hermione before her.

Harry could not help giving her a faint smile and could have sworn he received one in return.

He had thought that the next time he would see Umbridge would be in his detention that evening, but he was wrong. When they walked down the lawns towards the Forest for Care of Magical Creatures, they found her and her clipboard waiting for them beside Professor Grubbly-Plank.

‘You do not usually take this class, is that correct?’ Harry heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle table where the group of captive Bowtruckles were scrabbling around for woodlice like so many living twigs.

‘Quite correct,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet. ‘I am a substitute teacher standing in for Professor Hagrid.’

Harry exchanged uneasy looks with Ron and Hermione. Malfoy was whispering with Crabbe and Goyle; he would surely love this opportunity to tell tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry.

‘Hmm,’ said Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice, though Harry could still hear her quite clearly. ‘I wonder—the Headmaster seems strangely reluctant to give me any information on the matter—can you tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid's very extended leave of absence?’

Harry saw Malfoy look up eagerly and watch Umbridge and Grubbly-Plank closely.

’ ‘Fraid I can't,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank breezily. ‘Don't know anything more about it than you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore, would I like a couple of weeks’ teaching work. I accepted. That's as much as I know. Well ... shall I get started then?’

‘Yes, please do,’ said Professor Umbridge, scribbling on her clipboard.

Umbridge took a different tack in this class and wandered amongst the students, questioning them on magical creatures. Most people were able to answer well and Harry's spirits lifted somewhat; at least the class was not letting Hagrid down.

‘Overall,’ said Professor Umbridge, returning to Professor Grubbly-Plank's side after a lengthy interrogation of Dean Thomas, ‘how do you, as a temporary member of staff—an objective outsider, I suppose you might say—how do you find Hogwarts? Do you feel you receive enough support from the school management?’

‘Oh, yes, Dumbledore's excellent,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank heartily. ‘Yes, I'm very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed.’

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny note on her clipboard and went on, ‘And what are you planning to cover with this class this year—assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?’

‘Oh, I'll take them through the creatures that most often come up in OWL,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank. ‘Not much left to do—they've studied unicorns and Nifflers, I thought we'd cover Porlocks and Kneazles, make sure they can recognise Crups and Knarls, you know ...’

‘Well, you seem to know what you're doing, at any rate,’ said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard. Harry did not like the emphasis she put on ‘you’ and liked it even less when she put her next question to Goyle. ‘Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?’

Goyle gave a stupid grin. Malfoy hastened to answer the question.

‘That was me,’ he said. ‘I was slashed by a hippogriff.’

‘A hippogriff?’ said Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically.

‘Only because he was too stupid to listen to what Hagrid told him to do,’ said Harry angrily.

Both Ron and Hermione groaned. Professor Umbridge turned her head slowly in Harry's direction.

‘Another night's detention, I think,’ she said softly. ‘Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that's all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to the castle.

It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge's office that night, his hand now bleeding so severely that it was staining the scarf he had wrapped around it. He expected the common room to be empty when he returned, but Ron and Hermione had sat up waiting for him. He was pleased to see them, especially as Hermione was disposed to be sympathetic rather than critical.

‘Here,’ she said anxiously, pushing a small bowl of yellow liquid towards him, ‘soak your hand in that, it's a solution of strained and pickled Murtlap tentacles, it should help.’

Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl and experienced a wonderful feeling of relief. Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, then leapt into his lap and settled down.

‘Thanks,’ he said gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks's ears with his left hand.

‘I still reckon you should complain about this,’ said Ron in a low voice.

‘No,’ said Harry flatly.

‘McGonagall would go nuts if she knew—’

Are you kidding?’ said Bill incredulously.

Are you kidding?’ said Bill incredulously. ‘Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was ever scared of!’

‘Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the Order of the Phoenix about an hour after Voldemort returned,’ said Sirius.

‘So, what's the Order been doing?’ said Harry, looking around at them all.

‘Working as hard as we can to make sure Voldemort can't carry out his plans,’ said Sirius.

‘How d'you know what his plans are?’ Harry asked quickly.

‘Dumbledore's got a shrewd idea,’ said Lupin, ‘and Dumbledore's shrewd ideas normally turn out to be accurate.’

‘So what does Dumbledore reckon he's planning?’

‘Well, firstly, he wants to build up his army again,’ said Sirius. ‘In the old days he had huge numbers at his command: witches and wizards he'd bullied or bewitched into following him, his faithful Death Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures. You heard him planning to recruit the giants; well, they'll be just one of the groups he's after. He's certainly not going to try and take on the Ministry of Magic with only a dozen Death Eaters.’

‘So you're trying to stop him getting more followers?’

‘We're doing our best,’ said Lupin.

‘How?’

‘Well, the main thing is to try and convince as many people as possible that You-Know-Who really has returned, to put them on their guard,’ said Bill. ‘It's proving tricky, though.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the Ministry's attitude,’ said Tonks. ‘You saw Cornelius Fudge after You-Know-Who came back, Harry. Well, he hasn't shifted his position at all. He's absolutely refusing to believe it's happened.’

‘But why?’ said Harry desperately. ‘Why's he being so stupid? If Dumbledore—’

‘Ah, well, you've put your finger on the problem,’ said Mr. Weasley with a wry smile. ‘Dumbledore.’

‘Fudge is frightened of him, you see,’ said Tonks sadly.

‘Frightened of Dumbledore?’ said Harry incredulously.

‘Frightened of what he's up to,’ said Mr. Weasley. ‘Fudge thinks Dumbledore's plotting to overthrow him. He thinks Dumbledore wants to be Minister for Magic.’

‘But Dumbledore doesn't want—’

‘Of course he doesn't,’ said Mr. Weasley. ‘He's never wanted the Minister's job, even though a lot of people wanted him to take it when Millicent Bagnold retired. Fudge came to power instead, but he's never quite forgotten how much popular support Dumbledore had, even though Dumbledore never applied for the job.’

‘We're of age!’ Fred and George bellowed together.

‘We're of age!’ Fred and George bellowed together.

‘If Harry's allowed, why can't I?’ shouted Ron.

‘Mum, I want to hear!’ wailed Ginny.

‘NO!’ shouted Mrs. Weasley, standing up, her eyes overbright. ‘I absolutely forbid—’

‘Molly you can't stop Fred and George,’ said Mr. Weasley wearily. ‘They are of age—’

‘They're still at school—’

‘But they're legally adults now,’ said Mr. Weasley, in the same tired voice.

Mrs. Weasley was now scarlet in the face.

‘I—oh, all right then, Fred and George can stay, but Ron—’

‘Harry'll tell me and Hermione everything you say anyway!’ said Ron hotly. ‘Won't—won't you?’ he added uncertainly, meeting Harry's eyes.

For a split second, Harry considered telling Ron that he wouldn't tell him a single word, that he could try a taste of being kept in the dark and see how he liked it. But the nasty impulse vanished as they looked at each other.

‘Course I will,’ Harry said.

Ron and Hermione beamed.

‘Fine!’ shouted Mrs. Weasley. ‘Fine! Ginny—BED!’

Ginny did not go quietly. They could hear her raging and storming at her mother all the way up the stairs, and when she reached the hall Mrs. Blacks ear-splitting shrieks were added to the din. Lupin hurried off to the portrait to restore calm. It was only after he had returned, closing the kitchen door behind him and taking his seat at the table again, that Sirius spoke.

‘OK, Harry ... what do you want to know?’

Harry took a deep breath and asked the question that had obsessed him for the last month.

‘Where's Voldemort?’ he said, ignoring the renewed shudders and winces at the name. ‘What's he doing? I've been trying to watch the Muggle news, and there hasn't been anything that looks like him yet, no funny deaths or anything—’

‘That's because there haven't been any funny deaths yet,’ said Sirius, ‘not as far as we know, anyway.... And we know quite a lot.’

‘More than he thinks we do, anyway,’ said Lupin.

‘How come he's stopped killing people?’ Harry asked. He knew Voldemort had murdered more than once in the last year alone.

‘Because he doesn't want to draw attention to himself,’ said Sirius. ‘It would be dangerous for him. His comeback didn't come off quite the way he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up.’

‘Or rather, you messed it up for him,’ said Lupin, with a satisfied smile.

‘How?’ Harry asked, perplexed.

‘You weren't supposed to survive!’ said Sirius. ‘Nobody apart from his Death Eaters was supposed to know he'd come back. But you survived to bear witness.’

‘And the very last person he wanted alerted to his return the moment he got back was Dumbledore,’ said Lupin. ‘And you made sure Dumbledore knew at once.’

‘How has that helped?’ Harry asked.

‘Yes, but there's a difference between that and inviting him to ask whatever he likes!’

‘Yes, but there's a difference between that and inviting him to ask whatever he likes!’

‘Personally,’ said Lupin quietly, looking away from Sirius at last, as Mrs. Weasley turned quickly to him, hopeful that finally she was about to get an ally, ‘I think it better that Harry gets the facts—not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture—from us, rather than a garbled version from ... others.’

His expression was mild, but Harry felt sure Lupin, at least, knew that some Extendable Ears had survived Mrs. Weasley's purge.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Weasley, breathing deeply and looking around the table for support that did not come, ‘well ... I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has Harry's best interests at heart—’

‘He's not your son,’ said Sirius quietly.

‘He's as good as,’ said Mrs. Weasley fiercely. ‘Who else has he got?’

‘He's got me!’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Weasley, her lip curling, ‘the thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?’

Sirius started to rise from his chair.

‘Molly, you're not the only person at this table who cares about Harry,’ said Lupin sharply. ‘Sirius, sit down.’

Mrs. Weasleys lower lip was trembling. Sirius sank slowly back into his chair, his face white.

‘I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this,’ Lupin continued, ‘he's old enough to decide for himself.’

‘I want to know what's been going on,’ Harry said at once.

He did not look at Mrs. Weasley. He had been touched by what she had said about his being as good as a son, but he was also impatient with her mollycoddling. Sirius was right, he was not a child.

‘Very well,’ said Mrs. Weasley, her voice cracking. ‘Ginny—Ron—Hermione—Fred—George—I want, you out of this kitchen, now.’

There was instant uproar.

‘We'd better change,’ said Hermione at last, and all of them opened their trunks with

difficulty and pulled on their school robes. She and Ron pinned their prefect badges carefully to their chests. Harry saw Ron checking his

reflection in the black window.

At last, the train began to slow down and they heard the usual racket up and down it as everybody scrambled to get their luggage and pets assembled, ready for departure. Ron and Hermione were supposed to supervise all

this; they disappeared from the carriage again, leaving Harry and the others to look after Crookshanks and Pigwidgeon.

‘I'll carry that owl, if you like,’ said Luna to Harry, reaching out for Pigwidgeon as Neville stowed Trevor carefully in an inside pocket.

‘Oh—er—thanks,’ said Harry, handing her the cage and hoisting Hedwig's more securely into his arms.

They shuffled out of the compartment feeling the first sting of the night air on their faces as they joined the crowd in the corridor. Slowly, they moved towards the doors. Harry could smell the pine trees that lined the path down

to the lake. He stepped down on to the platform and looked around, listening for the familiar call of ‘firs’ years over ‘ere ... firs’ years...’

But it did not come. Instead, a quite different voice, a brisk female one, was calling out, ‘First years line up over here, please! All first years to me!’

A lantern came swinging towards Harry and by its light he saw the prominent chin and severe haircut of Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken over Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a while the

previous year.

‘Where's Hagrid?’ he said out loud.

‘I don't know,’ said Ginny, ‘but we'd better get out of the way, we're blocking the door.’

‘Oh, yeah...’

Harry and Ginny became separated as they moved off along the platform and out through the station. Jostled by the crowd, Harry squinted through the darkness for a glimpse of Hagrid; he had to be here, Harry had been

relying on it—seeing Hagrid again was one of the things he'd been looking forward to most. But there was no sign of him.

He can't have left, Harry told himself as he shuffled slowly through a narrow doorway on to the road outside with the rest of the crowd. He's just got a cold or something....

He looked around for Ron or Hermione, wanting to know what they thought about the reappearance of Professor Grubbly-Plank, but neither of them was anywhere near him, so he allowed himself to be shunted forward onto

the dark rain-washed road outside Hogsmeade Station.

Here stood the hundred or so horseless stagecoaches that always took the students above first year up to the castle. Harry glanced quickly at them, turned away to keep a lookout for Ron and Hermione, then did a double-

take.

The coaches were no longer horseless. There were creatures standing between the carriage shafts. If he had had to give them a name, he supposed he would have called them horses, though there was something reptilian

about them, too. They were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring. Wings sprouted from

each wither—vast, black leathery wings that looked as though they ought to belong to giant bats. Standing still and quiet in the gathering gloom, the creatures looked eerie and sinister. Harry could not understand why the

coaches were being pulled by these horrible horses when they were quite capable of moving along by themselves.

‘Where's Pig?’ said Ron's voice, right behind Harry.

‘That Luna girl was carrying him,’ said Harry, turning quickly, eager to consult Ron about Hagrid. ‘Where d'you reckon—’

‘—Hagrid is? I dunno,’ said Ron, sounding worried. ‘He'd better be okay....’

A short distance away, Draco Malfoy, followed by a small gang of cronies including Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson, was pushing some timid-looking second-years out of the way so that he and his friends could get a

coach to themselves. Seconds later, Hermione emerged panting from the crowd.

‘Malfoy was being absolutely foul to a first-year back there. I swear I'm going to report him, he's only had his badge three minutes and he's using it to bully people worse than ever.... Where's Crookshanks?’

‘Ginny's got him,’ said Harry. ‘There she is....’

Ginny had just emerged from the crowd, clutching a squirming Crookshanks.

‘Thanks,’ said Hermione, relieving Ginny of the cat. ‘Come on, let's get a carriage together before they all fill up....’

‘I haven't got Pig yet!’ Ron said, but Hermione was already heading off towards the nearest unoccupied coach. Harry remained behind with Ron.

‘What are those things, d'you reckon?’ he asked Ron, nodding at the horrible horses as the other students surged past them.

‘What things?’

‘Those horse—’

Luna appeared holding Pigwidgeon's cage in her arms; the tiny owl was twittering excitedly as usual.

‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘He's a sweet little owl, isn't he?’

‘Er ... yeah ... he's all right,’ said Ron gruffly. ‘Well, come on then, let's get in.... What were you saying, Harry?’

‘I was saying, what are those horse things?’ Harry said, as he, Ron, and Luna made for the carriage in which Hermione and Ginny were already sitting.

‘What horse things?’

‘The horse things pulling the carriages!’ said Harry impatiently. They were, after all, about three feet from the nearest one; it was watching them with empty white eyes. Ron, however, gave Harry a perplexed look.

‘What are you talking about?’
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World news: BBC or CNN?

Author：Dale Styne Source：none Hits：126 UpdateTime：2008-7-10 22:42:57


What choice should you make while watching world news? CNN or BCC: which news channel is the best one? What are the things that you need while watching some good world news channel? In whatever business you are or what kind of industry you are operating in, you must have knowledge of the latest world news.

Even some new stories and latest events also count for importance. For example, the latest fashion designer exhibition was a big flop, but you still buy the products and shirts from that designer. Whats the benefit of world news?

Remember 9/11. Many people didnt even know of the incident and were living as usual. Different world news channels explored the story and showed the video. (Cant forget the scene even today). Remember the assassination of Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir. People living near the place didnt even know of the event, since there was no electricity in the vicinity areas.

The awareness arose after 1 hour, when different websites and world news channels started showing the death news. (The whole nation was shocked and there was rage of anger for about a week). The roads were blocked and public educational institutes announced holidays for 4 days. Some even announced for a week too. Both CNN and BBC gave a wide coverage to the news. The local news channels were showing more details and much awareness among public.

Whatever the case or event may be, one needs to get a complete world knowledge and awareness of events happening in different parts of the world. For a business person, watching world news is vital. The business could be affected by some flour or oil prices in the country. One needs to know well to expand his investments. The economic inflationary pressures often are un-felt by general public. They must know where they are lying. For example, if income of a person in $10,000. The inflation increases by 3 %, and his income becomes $12,000. Hes is still poor in real terms. (Think of the same scenario, with the size of a pie increasing, but number of people eating the pie increasing too, where do you lie?)Theres is no difference in real terms.

For bakeries watching world news is important. The demand in increase in baked products is a reason for increased flour prices. The increased oil and petrol prices are important for transport businesses, since the price of oil has increased in the world market. People and traders dealing in Soya and food commodities must also know about the overall price increase in the world market. Why gold smiths should be out of the market analysis? The daily watch of gold prices (both international and local) is of vital importance to them. Whatever the business may be, one needs to have a complete knowledge of world news.

There is more to Wooden Garden Sheds than Meets the Eye

Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：115 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 1:10:31


Garden sheds are a characteristic feature of many a modern day home with a garden, because they are so versatile. There is the traditional use of the garden shed: a place where everything, including the kitchen sink, can

be stored. But these day people are using their imagination when it comes to garden sheds; some see their garden shed as an extension to the home and are converting them into:

A reading shed, with recliners, rugs, soft lighting, where tranquillity can be enjoyed, and of course a resident coffee pot and a permanently filled biscuit tin

A play shed, which is in competition with the local toy store for the amount of toys the shed holds

A music shed, either located at the bottom of the garden or fitted with soundproofing so little Johnny can bash, sorry play, his drums to his hearts content

A craft shed where artistic moments can be nurtured

A rubbish/garbage/recycling shed used to store and hide the numerous refuse and recycling bins given to householders by the council.

Several reasons why garden sheds are no longer being seen as just a shed, is because sheds now come in an array of shapes, sizes, colour, and materials. For example, even a simple garden shed design will have side and

rear windows that allow natural light to stream in. The shed will have full-height walls and doors that give it a house-like appearance, and many sheds come with add-on options such as: window shutters; flower boxes; decking;

veranda, to enhance the visual appeal. These days garden sheds are seen as an attractive feature for the garden and not something that needs to be tucked away behind a hedge.

Then there are the garden sheds that are multi-functioning and combine the expediency of a garden shed and something else, such a marquee and a potting shed all in one. These sheds are ideal for gardeners who only

have a small garden but need a place for storing things in while having a place to tend to seeds and plants. A firewood shed combines a garden shed with an attachment for storing firewood.

Now, there are some people who just see a shed as a place to store things in or as an extension of the home. Then there are people who actually love their sheds and called themselves sheddies (a term used amongst fans

of sheds but I dont think is in the Oxford English Dictionary just yet). There is an annual Shed of the Year competition organised by the Readers Shed that was held during National Shed Week, which commenced on July 7th

2008. The celebrity judges for the competition included the shed enthusiast and real estate expert, Sarah Beeny, Trevor Baylis who is the founder of the Windup Radio, Alex, of shedworking.co.uk, and Dr. Kathryn Ferry,

professor of beach huts. Together, they decided which shed was the most unique and different after a public voting system that started in June 2008 produced a shortlist of winners. There was huge public response to the

competition with more than 3,000 votes for over 900 entries in 12 categories. And the winner for 2008 was "The rugby pub" a pub shed owned by Tim from Sudbury in Suffolk and is said to be the perfect man shed. The shed

was designed and built by the owner. It has eight roof lights in an octagonal roof, a pair of double doors, a 15′ fully fitted bar, a ceiling fan, sink with cold running water, comfortably furnished with sea grass matting floor, a

hammock basically everything a shed should be fitted with.

So, if your converted garden sheds are something you think the world should see, dont forget to enter next years Shed of the Year competition.
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Exercise Induced Asthma

Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：120 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:43:41


Exercise Induced Asthma (EIA) or Exercise Induced Bronchospasm (EIB) refers to asthma that occurs only with exercise. The reported incidence of EIA varies between 5 of the general population.

During start of exercise pulmonary functions tends to be normal, but within 5 to 10 minutes symptoms of asthma such as wheezing, breathlessness, tightness of chest appear. Patient may also feel extreme fatigue. After a rest period, the symptoms subside. But sometimes symptoms may become worse for a longer time.

Hyperventilation and airway cooling are the two most important triggers of EIA. People with exercise induced asthma have airways that are sensitive towards changes of temperature and humidity.

Hyperventilation during exercise is the primary event which causes cascade of events leading to EIA. Hyperventilation causes drying of the airway surface epithelium where by causing dehydration of the airway cells and increased intracellular osmolarity. The increased osmolarity results in the release of mediators from mast cells and damage airway epithelial. The mediators released during EIA include histamine, leukotrienes, cytokines, etc. All these events are called inflammatory reaction which is the root cause of asthma.

Other but less important cause of EIA is the airway cooling that is found with hyperventilation during exercise. During rest we breath through nose. Nose has a temperature and humidity control mechanism that makes air humid and at body temperature. When we exercise we breath through mouth, our respiration becomes rapid (hyperventilation). This forces cold and dry air into the airways. After the exercise is over, the small bronchiolar vessels around the tracheobronchial tree warm up, and this reactive hyperemia leads to exudation of serum into the interstitial fluid and release of mediators that subsequently causes airway muscles to contract and also walls of airways become inflamed resulting in narrowing of airways.

Following are the common questions often asked by people suffering from EIA:

How is EIA diagnosed?

Diagnosis of EIA can easily be made symptomatic. Person is usually normal before exercise. During exercise he experiences shortness of breath and/or chest tightness, wheezing, and cough.

After a period of rest , the symptoms subside. Some times symptoms such as prolonged cough after exercise, chest pain and fatigue may last longer.

The diagnosis of EIB can also be confirmed by a variety of tests, such as exercise challenge, methacholine challenge, or eucapnic voluntary hyperpnea. The International Olympic Medical Commission recommends any or all of these tests, but in most cases the eucapnic voluntary hyperventilation (EVH) test is the easiest to perform. If exercise challenge is to be performed, then this should be done in the athlete's sport.

"Pure" EIA and persistent asthma with an exercise exacerbation can be differentiated by spirometry. During rest if the forced expiratory volume in 1 second (FEV1) is not normal, patient is administerd an inhaled beta-agonist and test is repeated after 15 minutes. If the FEV1 improves 12 to 85% of maximum, four or five times a week.

What are the exercises that are more suitable for me?

Aerobic exercises like swimming, running or biking or which exposes the exerciser to warm, moist air that tempers the effect on the airways are more suitable for asthmatic patients.

Yoga may help manage asthma. Sahaja yoga is a type of meditation based on yoga principals that was found to be somewhat effective in managing moderate-to-severe asthma.

Get the Nordic Track Treadmill For Healthy Living

Author：佚名 Source：none Hits：119 UpdateTime：2008-10-19 0:44:08


Treadmills are priceless pieces of equipment for exercising in your home. Walk, jog or run without being on hard pavement or in inclement weather, and choose from the convenience of various inclines and programmable workouts for further benefits. A Nordic Track treadmill is one of the best I've used and their various styles and price points allow you to find the right treadmill for your workout and budget.

Treadmills are great cardiovascular exercise, whether it's walking a half mile or running several miles per week, depending on your routine or training schedule. As mentioned earlier, you can also use a treadmill year-round if you live in areas with harsh winters or frequent rain.

Maybe their only downside is if you happen to enjoy outside weather, including cold temperatures and wet conditions. If so, getting a treadmill for backup when you just can't get outside is still a great idea. No matter your reasons for purchasing one, consider the great models by Nordic Track; one of their best includes the following features:

The Nordictrack C2255 model is a motorized, programmable, folding treadmill with inclines and speeds of 0-10 mph, both with one-step controls. Just a touch of a button changes speeds or incline control without your having to scroll through a lot of other options.

This model also has six workout programs to keep you informed of your speed, time, distance and even carbohydrates burned (who else shows carbs!). There's also a workout intensity meter that changes from blue light to red depending on the intensity of your workout. It tells you when you need to push a little more or back off to stay in line with your goals. The odometer tells you what your current workout's distance is and the MyMiles feature shows total miles accumulated over time.

The C2255 model also provides for incline levels of 0 to 12% and if you've ever done inclines on a treadmill or on the street, you know how much this adds to the intensity of the workout. You'll really feel it in your thighs, calves and posterior as well as in an increased heart rate. They also offer a great warranty if problems would arise.

This treadmill also has the SpaceSaver design, a fold-away feature that let you store your treadmill by simply raising the spring-loaded deck and locking it into place. It saves room space when you're not using it and the small wheels are built-in to the base so you can easily wheel it into a closet or other storage area.

If you don't need all the extras, there are other treadmills they manufacture that will also meet your needs. So, whatever options you're seeking, research which Nordic Track Treadmill will be the best for your needs. Given their excellent history and price levels, you're likely to find the style you'll love to workout on.