Oh, you're sorry!

"I will not calm down!" she screamed. Never before had he seen her lose control like this;
she looked quite demented. "Give me back my wand! Give it back to me!"

"Hermione, will you please --"

"Don't you tell me what do, Harry Potter!" she screeched. "Don't you dare! Give it back
now! And YOU!"

She was pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It was like a malediction, and Harry could not
blame Ron for retreating several steps.

"I cam running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back"

"I know," Ron said, "Hermione, I'm sorry, I'm really --"

"Oh, you're sorry!"

She laughed a high-pitched, out-of-control sound; Ron looked at Harry for help, but
Harry merely grimaced his helplessness.

"You came back after weeks -- weeks -- and you think it's all going to be all right if you
just say sorry?"

"Well, what else can I say?" Ron shouted, and Harry was glad that Ron was fighting back.

"Oh, I don't know!" yelled Hermione with awful sarcasm. "Rack your brains, Ron, that
should only take a couple of seconds --"

"Hermione," interjected Harry, who considered this a low blow, "he just saved my --"

"I don't care!" she screamed. "I don't care what he's done! Weeks and weeks, we could
have been dead for all he knew --"

"I knew you weren't dead!" bellowed Ron, drowning her voice for the first time, and
approaching as close as he could with the Shield Charm between them. "Harry's all over
the Prophet, all over the radio, they're looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and
mental stories, I knew I'd hear straight off if you were dead, you don't know what it's
been like --"

She saw Ron

"Hermione!"

She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face.

"What's wrong? Harry? Are you all right?"

"It's okay, everything's fine. More than fine, I'm great. There's someone here."

"What do you mean? Who --?"

She saw Ron, who stood there holding the sword and dripping onto the threadbare carpet.
Harry backed into a shadowy corner, slipped off Ron's rucksack, and attempted to blend
in with the canvas.

Hermione slid out of her bunk and moved like a sleepwalker toward Ron, her eyes upon
his pale face. She stopped right in front of him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide.
Ron gave a weak hopeful smile and half raised his arms.

Hermione launched herself forward and started punching every inch of him that she could
reach.

"Ouch -- ow -- gerroff! What the --? Hermione -- OW!"

"You -- complete -- arse -- Ronald -- Weasley!"

She punctuated every word with a blow: Ron backed away, shielding his head as
Hermione advanced.

"You -- crawl -- back -- here -- after -- weeks -- and -- weeks -- oh, where's my wand?"

She looked as though ready to wrestle it out of Harry's hands and he reacted instinctively.

"Protego!"

The invisible shield erupted between Ron and Hermione. The force of it knocked her
backward onto the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth, she lept up again.

"Hermione!" said Harry. "Calm --"

I'm sorry,

Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from Harry and wiped his nose noisily on
his sleeve. Harry got to his feet again and walked to where Ron's enormous rucksack lay
yards away, discarded as Ron had run toward the pool to save Harry from drowning. He
hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry
approached, eyes bloodshot but otherwise composed.

"I'm sorry," he said in a thick voice. "I'm sorry I left. I know I was a -- a --"

He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop down
upon him and claim him.

"You've sort of made up for it tonight," said Harry. "Getting the sword. Finishing off the
Horcrux. Saving my life."

"That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was," Ron mumbled.

"Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was" said Harry. "I've been trying to
tell you that for years."

Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, Harry gripping the still-sopping back
of Ron's jacket.

"And now," said Harry as they broke apart, "all we've got to do is find that tent again."

But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the dark forest with the doe had seemed
lengthy, with Ron by his side, the journey back seemed to take a surprisingly short time.
Harry could not wait to wake Hermione, and it was with quickening excitement that he
entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him.

It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest, the only illumination the bluebell
flames still shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast asleep, curled up under
her blankets, and did not move until Harry had said her name several times.

Slowly,

Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes.

"Ron --?"

The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way, there as a clang of metal
and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in the snow, wand held
ready to defend himself, but there was nothing to fight.

The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone: There was only Ron,
standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the shattered
remains of the locket on the flat rock.

Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was breathing
heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue: they were also wet.

Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. Ron had
pierced the glass in both windows: Riddle's eyes were gone, and the stained silk lining of
the locket was smoking slightly. The thing that had lived in the Horcrux had vanished;
torturing Ron had been its final act. The sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to
his knees, his head in his arms. He was shaking, but not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry
crammed the broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron, and placed a hand
cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it off.

"After you left," he said in a low voice, grateful for the fact that Ron's face was hidden,
"she cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn't want me to see. There were loads
of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone..."

He could not finish; it was now that Ron was here again that Harry fully realized how
much his absence had cost them.

"She's like my sister," he went on. "I love her like a sister and I reckon that she feels the
same way about me. It's always been like that. I thought you knew."

Why return?

Out of the locket's two windows, out of the eyes, there bloomed like two grotesque
bubbles, the heads of Harry and Hermione, weirdly distorted.

Ron yelled in shock and backed away as the figures blossomed out of the locket, first
chests, then waists, then legs, until they stood in the locket, side by side like trees with a
common root, swaying over Ron and the real Harry, who had snatched his fingers away
from the locket as it burned, suddenly, white-hot.

"Ron!" he shouted, but the Riddle-Harry was now speaking with Voldemort's voice and
Ron was gazing, mesmerized, into its face.

"Why return? We were better without you, happier without you, glad of your absence....
We laughed at your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption--"

"Presumption!" echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was more beautiful and yet more
terrible than the real Hermione: She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who looked horrified,
yet transfixed, the sword hanging pointlessly at his side. "Who could look at you, who
would ever look at you, beside Harry Potter? What have you ever done, compared with
the Chosen One? What are you, compared with the Boy Who Lived?"

"Ron, stab it, STAB IT!" Harry yelled, but Ron did not move. His eyes were wide, and
the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair swirling like
flames, their eyes shining red, their voices lifted in an evil duet.

"Your mother confessed," sneered Riddle-Harry, while Riddle-Hermione jeered, "that she
would have preferred me as a son, would be glad to exchange..."

"Who wouldn't prefer him, what woman would take you, you are nothing, nothing,
nothing to him," crooned Riddle-Hermione, and she stretched like a snake and entwined
herself around Riddle-Harry, wrapping him in a close embrace: Their lips met.

On the ground in front of them, Ron's face filled with anguish. he raised the sword high,
his arms shaking.

"Do it, Ron!" Harry yelled.

Professor Binns paused again,

"For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking
out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the
castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between
them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin
wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He
believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families.
He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be
untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the
subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the
school."

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled
old tortoise.

"Reliable historical sources tell us this much," he said. "But these
honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the
Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a
hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew
nothing.

"Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets
so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at
the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of
Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of
all who were unworthy to study magic."

There was silence as he finished telling the story, but it wasn't the
usual, sleepy silence that filled Professor Binns's classes. There was
unease in the air as everyone continued to watch him, hoping for
more. Professor Binns looked faintly annoyed.

"The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course," he said. "Naturally,
the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many
times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A
tale told to frighten the gullible."

Hermione's hand was back in the air.

He stuttered to a halt.

"My subject is History of Magic," he said in his dry, wheezy voice. "I
deal with facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends." He cleared his
throat with a small noise like chalk s!-ping and continued, "In
September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers -"

He stuttered to a halt. Hermione's hand was waving in the air again.

"Miss Grant?"

"Please, sir, don't legends always have a basis in fact?"

Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Harry was
sure no student had ever interrupted him before, alive or dead.

"Well," said Professor Binns slowly, "yes, one could argue that, I
suppose." He peered at Hermione as though he had never seen a
student properly before. "However, the legend of which you speak is
such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale -"

But the whole class was now hanging on Professor Binns's every
word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Harry
could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of
interest.

"Oh, very well," he said slowly. "Let me see ... the Chamber of
Secrets ...

"You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand
years ago - the precise date is uncertain - by the four greatest witches
and wizards of the age. The four school Houses are named after
them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and
Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying
Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common
people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution."

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued.

The bell rang.

"No, I won't," said Hermione, suddenly severe. "You've had ten
days to finish it -"

"I only need another two inches, come on -"

The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic,
bickering.

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor
Binns, who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most
exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his entering the
room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people
said he hadn't noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach
one day and left his body behind him in an armchair in front of the
staff room fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since.

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and
began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly
everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to
long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again.
He had been speaking for half an hour when something happened
that had never happened before. Hermione put up her hand.

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull
lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed.

"Miss - er -?"

"Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything
about the Chamber of Secrets," said Hermione in a clear voice.

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open,
gazing out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown's
head came up off her arms and Neville Longbottom's elbow slipped
off his desk.

Professor Binns blinked.

Where is she?

Harry found Ron at the back of the library, measuring his History of
Magic homework. Professor Binns had asked for a three-foot long
composition on "The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards."
"I don't believe it, I'm still eight inches short ..." said Ron
furiously, letting go of his parchment, which sprang back into a roll.
"And Hermione's done four feet seven inches and her writing's
tiny. "

"Where is she?" asked Harry, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling
his own homework.

"Somewhere over there," said Ron, pointing along the shelves. "Looking
for another book. I think she's trying to read the whole library before
Christmas."

Harry told Ron about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away from him.

"Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an idiot," said Ron,
scribbling away, making his writing as large as possible. "All that junk
about Lockhart being so great -"

Hermione emerged from between the bookshelves. She looked irritable
and at last seemed ready to talk to them.

"All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out," she said,
sitting down next to Harry and Ron. "And there's a two-week waiting
list. I wish I hadn't left my copy at home, but I couldn't fit it in my trunk
with all the Lockhart books."

"Why do you want it?" said Harry.

"The same reason everyone else wants it," said Hermione, "to read
up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets."

"What's that?" said Harry quickly.

"That's just it. I can't remember," said Hermione, biting her lip. "And
I can't find the story anywhere else -"

"Hermione, let me read your composition," said Ron desperately,
checking his watch.

The attack had also had an effect on Hermione.

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on
Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone's minds by pacing the spot
where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might
come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall
with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no
effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When
Filch wasn't guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-
eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and
trying to put them in detention for things like "breathing loudly' and
"looking happy."

Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris's fate.
According to Ron, she was a great cat lover.

"But you haven't really got to know Mrs. Norris," Ron told her
bracingly. "Honestly, we're much better off without her." Ginny's lip
trembled. "Stuff like this doesn't often happen at Hogwarts," Ron
assured her. "They'll catch the maniac who did it and have him out of
here in no time. I just hope he's got time to Petrify Filch before he's
expelled. I'm only joking -" Ron added hastily as Ginny blanched.

The attack had also had an effect on Hermione. It was quite usual for
Hermione to spend a lot of time reading, but she was now doing
almost nothing else. Nor could Harry and Ron get much response
from her when they asked what she was up to, and not until the
following Wednesday did they find out.

Harry had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made him stay
behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a hurried lunch, he
went upstairs to meet Ron in the library, and saw Justin Finch-
Fletchley, the Hufflepuff boy from Herbology, coming
toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say hello when Justin
caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite
direction.

Many would be rejoicing who are sad

The insolent race, that like a dragon follows
  Whoever flees, and unto him that shows
  His teeth or purse is gentle as a lamb,

Already rising was, but from low people;
  So that it pleased not Ubertin Donato
  That his wife's father should make him their kin.

Already had Caponsacco to the Market
  From Fesole descended, and already
  Giuda and Infangato were good burghers.

I'll tell a thing incredible, but true;
  One entered the small circuit by a gate
  Which from the Della Pera took its name!

Each one that bears the beautiful escutcheon
  Of the great baron whose renown and name
  The festival of Thomas keepeth fresh,

Knighthood and privilege from him received;
  Though with the populace unites himself
  To-day the man who binds it with a border.

Already were Gualterotti and Importuni;
  And still more quiet would the Borgo be
  If with new neighbours it remained unfed.

The house from which is born your lamentation,
  Through just disdain that death among you brought
  And put an end unto your joyous life,

Was honoured in itself and its companions.
  O Buondelmonte, how in evil hour
  Thou fled'st the bridal at another's promptings!



Many would be rejoicing who are sad,
  If God had thee surrendered to the Ema
  The first time that thou camest to the city.

But it behoved the mutilated stone
  Which guards the bridge, that Florence should provide
  A victim in her latest hour of peace.

With all these families, and others with them,
  Florence beheld I in so great repose,
  That no occasion had she whence to weep;

With all these families beheld so just
  And glorious her people, that the lily
  Never upon the spear was placed reversed,

Nor by division was vermilion made."

I saw the Ughi

I saw the Ughi, saw the Catellini,
  Filippi, Greci, Ormanni, and Alberichi,
  Even in their fall illustrious citizens;

And saw, as mighty as they ancient were,
  With him of La Sannella him of Arca,
  And Soldanier, Ardinghi, and Bostichi.

Near to the gate that is at present laden
  With a new felony of so much weight
  That soon it shall be jetsam from the bark,

The Ravignani were, from whom descended
  The County Guido, and whoe'er the name
  Of the great Bellincione since hath taken.

He of La Pressa knew the art of ruling
  Already, and already Galigajo
  Had hilt and pommel gilded in his house.

Mighty already was the Column Vair,
  Sacchetti, Giuochi, Fifant, and Barucci,
  And Galli, and they who for the bushel blush.

The stock from which were the Calfucci born
  Was great already, and already chosen
  To curule chairs the Sizii and Arrigucci.

O how beheld I those who are undone
  By their own pride! and how the Balls of Gold
  Florence enflowered in all their mighty deeds!

So likewise did the ancestors of those
  Who evermore, when vacant is your church,
  Fatten by staying in consistory.

If Luni thou regard

Some who turn Florentines, and trade and discount,
  Would have gone back again to Simifonte
  There where their grandsires went about as beggars.

At Montemurlo still would be the Counts,
  The Cerchi in the parish of Acone,
  Perhaps in Valdigrieve the Buondelmonti.

Ever the intermingling of the people
  Has been the source of malady in cities,
  As in the body food it surfeits on;

And a blind bull more headlong plunges down
  Than a blind lamb; and very often cuts
  Better and more a single sword than five.

If Luni thou regard, and Urbisaglia,
  How they have passed away, and how are passing
  Chiusi and Sinigaglia after them,

To hear how races waste themselves away,
  Will seem to thee no novel thing nor hard,
  Seeing that even cities have an end.

All things of yours have their mortality,
  Even as yourselves; but it is hidden in some
  That a long while endure, and lives are short;

And as the turning of the lunar heaven
  Covers and bares the shores without a pause,
  In the like manner fortune does with Florence.

Therefore should not appear a marvellous thing
  What I shall say of the great Florentines
  Of whom the fame is hidden in the Past.

Had not the folk

And as unto mine eyes it grew more fair,
  With voice more sweet and tender, but not in
  This modern dialect, it said to me:

"From uttering of the 'Ave,' till the birth
  In which my mother, who is now a saint,
  Of me was lightened who had been her burden,

Unto its Lion had this fire returned
  Five hundred fifty times and thirty more,
  To reinflame itself beneath his paw.

My ancestors and I our birthplace had
  Where first is found the last ward of the city
  By him who runneth in your annual game.

Suffice it of my elders to hear this;
  But who they were, and whence they thither came,
  Silence is more considerate than speech.

All those who at that time were there between
  Mars and the Baptist, fit for bearing arms,
  Were a fifth part of those who now are living;

But the community, that now is mixed
  With Campi and Certaldo and Figghine,
  Pure in the lowest artisan was seen.

O how much better 'twere to have as neighbours
  The folk of whom I speak, and at Galluzzo
  And at Trespiano have your boundary,

Than have them in the town, and bear the stench
  Of Aguglione's churl, and him of Signa
  Who has sharp eyes for trickery already.

Had not the folk, which most of all the world
  Degenerates, been a step-dame unto Caesar,
  But as a mother to her son benignant,

Then tell me

Paradiso: Canto XVI


O thou our poor nobility of blood,
  If thou dost make the people glory in thee
  Down here where our affection languishes,

A marvellous thing it ne'er will be to me;
  For there where appetite is not perverted,
  I say in Heaven, of thee I made a boast!

Truly thou art a cloak that quickly shortens,
  So that unless we piece thee day by day
  Time goeth round about thee with his shears!

With 'You,' which Rome was first to tolerate,
  (Wherein her family less perseveres,)
  Yet once again my words beginning made;

Whence Beatrice, who stood somewhat apart,
  Smiling, appeared like unto her who coughed
  At the first failing writ of Guenever.

And I began: "You are my ancestor,
  You give to me all hardihood to speak,
  You lift me so that I am more than I.

So many rivulets with gladness fill
  My mind, that of itself it makes a joy
  Because it can endure this and not burst.

Then tell me, my beloved root ancestral,
  Who were your ancestors, and what the years
  That in your boyhood chronicled themselves?

Tell me about the sheepfold of Saint John,
  How large it was, and who the people were
  Within it worthy of the highest seats."

As at the blowing of the winds a coal
  Quickens to flame, so I beheld that light
  Become resplendent at my blandishments.