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

his back, but it remained immovable.
    ‘Oh good,’ said the wizard. ‘It has been very dull without him, very dull indeed.’
    He settled himself on the throne-like chair on which he had been painted and smiled benignly upon Harry.
    ‘Dumbledore thinks very highly of you, as I am sure you know,’ he said comfortably. ‘Oh yes. Holds you in great esteem.’
    The guilt filling the whole of Harry’s chest like some monstrous, weighty parasite, now writhed and squirmed. Harry could not stand this, he could not stand being himself any more … he had never felt more trapped inside his own head and body, never wished so intensely that he could be somebody, anybody, else …
    The empty fireplace burst into emerald green flame, making Harry leap away from the door, staring at the man spinning inside the grate. As Dumbledore’s tall form unfolded itself from the fire, the wizards and witches on the surrounding walls jerked awake, many of them giving cries of welcome.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Dumbledore softly.
    He did not look at Harry at first, but walked over to the perch beside the door and withdrew, from an inside pocket of his robes, the tiny, ugly, featherless Fawkes, whom he placed gently on the tray of soft ashes beneath the golden post where the full-grown Fawkes usually stood.
    ‘Well, Harry,’ said Dumbledore, finally turning away from the baby bird, ‘you will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students are going to suffer lasting damage from the night’s events.’
    Harry tried to say, ‘Good,’ but no sound came out. It seemed to him that Dumbledore was reminding him of the amount of damage he had caused, and although Dumbledore was for once looking at him directly, and although his expression was kindly rather than accusatory, Harry could not bear to meet his eyes.
    ‘Madam Pomfrey is patching everybody up,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Nymphadora Tonks may need to spend a little time in St Mungo’s, but it seems she will make a full recovery.’
    Harry contented himself with nodding at the carpet, which was growing lighter as the sky outside grew paler. He was sure all the portraits around the room were listening eagerly to every word Dumbledore spoke, wondering where Dumbledore and Harry had been, and why there had been injuries.
    ‘I know how you’re feeling, Harry,’ said Dumbledore very quietly.
    ‘No, you don’t,’ said Harry, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong; white-hot anger leapt inside him; Dumbledore knew nothing about his feelings.
    ‘You see, Dumbledore?’ said Phineas Nigellus slyly. ‘Never try to understand the students. They hate it. They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, wallow in self-pity, stew in their own –’
    ‘That’s enough, Phineas,’ said Dumbledore.
    Harry turned his back on Dumbledore and stared determinedly out of the window. He could see the Quidditch stadium in the distance. Sirius had appeared there once, disguised as the shaggy black dog, so he could watch Harry play … he had probably come to see whether Harry was as good as James had been … Harry had never asked him …
    ‘There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,’ said Dumbledore’s voice. ‘On the contrary … the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.’
    Harry felt the white-hot anger lick his insides, blazing in the terrible emptiness, filling him with the desire to hurt Dumbledore for his calmness and his empty words.
    ‘My greatest strength, is it?’ said Harry, his voice shaking as he stared out at the Quidditch stadium, no longer seeing it. ‘You haven’t got a clue … you don’t know …’
    ‘What don’t I know?’ asked Dumbledore calmly.
    It was too much. Harry turned around, shaking with rage.
    ‘I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?’
    ‘Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being human –’
    ‘THEN – I – DON’T – WANT – TO – BE – HUMAN!’ Harry roared, and he seized the delicate silver instrument from the spindle-legged table beside him and flung it across the room; it shattered into a hundred tiny pieces against the wall. Several of the pictures let out yells of anger and fright, and the portrait of Armando Dippet said, ‘Really!’
    ‘I DON’T CARE!’ Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. ‘I’VE HAD ENOUGH, I’VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON’T CARE ANY MORE