Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Chapters 7–12

“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said Mrs. Weasley, who seemed a little flustered by this austere efficiency.

He supposed Ron and Hermione were cloistered in the prefects’ carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the corridor, chatting to some friends.

Then he blinked and looked around: He was surrounded by mesmerized girls.

Neville’s childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry’s had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry’s destiny.

The prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant.

“I think he’s —”
But before he could expound on his theory, the compartment door slid open again and a breathless third-year girl stepped inside.

He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, ‘“The Chosen One,’ they’re calling you now!”

“Well, who cares what he’s interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher.” Malfoy yawned ostentatiously.

Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things.

Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features.

Malfoy dragged the Cloak out from under Harry’s immobilized body and threw it over him.

He had loathed Snape from their first encounter, but Snape had placed himself forever and irrevocably beyond the possibility of Harry’s forgiveness by his attitude toward Sirius.

“You’ve seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau.
“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively.

Hagrid had never quite managed to comport himself with the dignity of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere between Hagrid’s elbow and shoulder as they were sitting side by side, and who was looking disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting.

“Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe,” said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table.

“No!” said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at the staff table, incensed.

Seemingly oblivious to the sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, Dumbledore said nothing more about staff appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure the silence was absolute before continuing.

The castle’s magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff.

We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody.

“The sixth year is being taken by Professor Trelawney.”
Parvati set off for Divination five minutes later looking slightly crestfallen.

“...you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?”

He, Ron, and Hermione spent the whole of break speculating on what Dumbledore would teach Harry. Ron thought it most likely to be spectacular jinxes and hexes of the type the Death Eaters would not know. Hermione said such things were illegal, and thought it much more likely that Dumbledore wanted to teach Harry advanced Defensive magic.

“Harry,” Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, “didn’t get a chance to speak in Defense Against the Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old D.A. lags..."

“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially.

The concentration within the room was almost tangible.

Once they were securely ensconced at the Gryffindor table for dinner, however, he felt safe enough to tell them.

“And so I did,” said Dumbledore placidly. “I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork..."

The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the track soon opened up at the copse, and Dumbledore and Harry came to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand.

“You understand him, I’m sure, Harry?” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Yes, of course,” said Harry, slightly nonplussed. “Why can’t Ogden—?”

She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalid-looking pots and pans above it.

For a split second, Harry thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.

“Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden doggedly, “I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand..."

I am here because of Morfin, Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night.

“This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless—”

“My God, what an eyesore!” rang out a girl’s voice, as clearly audible through the open window as if she had stood in the room beside them. “Couldn’t your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?”

“My daughter—pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin—hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?”

Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the horse’s flank and set off again, his frock coat flying, covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell up the lane.

Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born.

He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter.

Half of Gryffindor House seemed to have turned up, from first years who were nervously clutching a selection of the dreadful old school brooms, to seventh years who towered over the rest, looking coolly intimidating.

“See, the rest o’ the tribe...Aragog’s family...they’re gettin’ a bit funny now he’s ill...bit restive..."

At which all three of them stated categorically and untruthfully that Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid a few times, was a dreadful teacher, with the result that by the time Hagrid waved them off the premises at dusk, he looked quite cheerful.

Momentarily stymied, Harry watched Ginny Weasley playing with Arnold the Pygmy Puff for a while before seeing a way around this objection.

“That was different,” he said robustly. “They were abusing it. Harry and his dad were just having a laugh. You don’t like the Prince, Hermione,” he added, pointing a sausage at her sternly, “because he’s better than you at Potions—”

Ron ignored this jibe, sipping his drink in what he evidently considered to be a dignified silence.