Harry Potter 05 - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

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 dinner’s 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