Happiness seemed to radiate from Dumbledore like light like fire: Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content. "And that," said Dumbledore, "will, I think, have made all the difference. "But I should have died ¨C I didn't defend myself! I meant to let him kill me!" "But." Harry raised his hand instinctively toward the lightning scar. They looked at each other, the old man still beaming. "That is the question, isn't it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not." "Ah," said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. "Oh yes," said Dumbledore matter-of-factly. Dumbledore's long silver hair and beard, the piercingly blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, the crooked nose: Everything was as he had remembered it. Dumbledore sat down in one of them, and Harry fell into the other, staring at his old headmaster's face. Stunned, Harry followed as Dumbledore strode away from where the flayed child lay whimpering, leading him to two seats that Harry had not previously noticed, set some distance away under that high, sparkling ceiling. "Harry." He spread his arms wide, and his hands were both whole and white and undamaged. Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping robes of midnight blue. He ought to comfort it, but it repulsed him. Soon he stood near enough to touch it, yet he could not bring himself to do it. Nevertheless he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump back at any moment. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, he did not want to approach it.
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#Harry potter and the deathly hallows: part i skin
It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed -looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath. He had spotted the thing that was making the noises. He was the only person there, except for- He recoiled. A wide-open space, bright and clean, a hall larger by far than the Great Hall, with that clear domed glass ceiling. Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his eyes.
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All was hushed and still, except for those odd thumping and whimpering noises coming from somewhere close by in the mist. A great domed glass roof glittered high above him in sunlight. Was he in some great Room of Requirement? The longer he looked, the more there was to see. It was extraordinary how they had appeared just like that, the moment he had wanted them.
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He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.įor the first time, he wished he were clothed.īarely had the wish formed in his head than robes appeared a short distance away.
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It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and struggled. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there, a flat, blank something on which to be. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before. In opening them, he discovered that he had eyes. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able to see. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. Therefore he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.Īlmost as soon as he had reached this conclusion, Harry became conscious that he was naked. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.Ī long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. He lay facedown, listening to the silence.