A SUMMER PLACE
by monkeymouse
a/k/a Patrick Drazen
2.12--The Great Mystery
[If you found your way this far, you don't need me to tell you that JK Rowling created the Potterverse, and is still creating it…]
from the London Register:
BOMBING AT YOUTH CLUB
by Rupert Nesta, exclusive to the Register
A bomb was set off Thursday night in front of MoshiMoshi, a youth club in Brixton. The glass front window was blown into the building by the blast.
Police have detained and are questioning Arthur Vincie, 57, of Horsham, a retired construction worker, who witnesses say placed the bomb and stepped across the road to watch it explode. He then waited for police to take him into custody. Vincie had been seen in front of the club for several days, trying to rally passers-by to attack the club as a "lair of witches" and a "Satanic den".
"I don't like to speculate on what the courts will do," one officer told this reporter, "but the man was clearly a mental case. He spent all week going on about how the place was evil. To tell the truth, apart from the odd complaint about loud music, this address has been very well behaved. We looked around and didn't find so much as a can of beer or a cigarette end."
Repeated calls to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where the victims were taken, have not been returned.
from the Daily Prophet:
MUGGLE TERROR ATTACK
by T.S. Rumpleteaser
In a shocking display of Muggle persecution not seen since the days of Oliver Cromwell, a bomb was set off in front of a Brixton club that caters to student wizards and witches. A score of patrons were injured, one severely.
"We painted over the window from the inside, so nobody could see in," said Zafar Ajneeri, manager of MoshiMoshi. "We were as discreet as we could be. I still don't understand why we should be targeted so deliberately."
Muggle authorities had no trouble locating the bomber. Arthur Vincie, a Muggle construction worker, retired due to injuries, waited across the road for the bomb to explode, then took the credit when police arrived. Vincie had been seen in front of the club for the past few days, telling passers- by that the club was full of witches.
"For now, we will treat this as an isolated incident by a deranged Muggle," a spokesman for the Ministry of Magic stated after the blast. "It's true that we cannot rule out that he was acting under the Imperius Curse, but personally I've never known such a curse to continue for almost a week, then change in intensity. Despite rumours to the contrary, we simply don't see the hand of the Death Eaters in this one."
Most of the patrons of the club escaped serious injury, and were treated and released at the Special Wing of St. Bartholomew's. Among the guests was the famous Harry Potter, no doubt celebrating the final hours of the summer holiday before resuming classes at Hogwarts Academy. Ministry sources would not comment on whether Potter was the intended target of the attack.
His companion, Cho Chang, a recent transferee from Hogwarts to Japan's Kesshin Maho Gakuin academy, bore the brunt of the blast. "She had broken glass all up her back," Ajneeri said. "She actually stopped others from being hurt. She deserves a medal."
The Special Wing lists Miss Chang's condition as "guarded".
* *
Like a certain platform at King's Cross, there was a wall in St. Bartholomew's hospital that wizarding folk can pass through. On the other side was the Special Wing, where only the most extreme cases were treated—those that had to mix magic and medical science.
Harry wanted to ride to St. Bartholomew's in the same ambulance as Cho, but they were separated in the confusion. He was brought in with other "walking wounded" whose injuries were superficial.
In the emergency room, they told him that he only had a few cuts from flying glass, and bruises from being thrown against the back wall by the blast. "I could have told you all that," Harry muttered.
No sooner did the nurse/witch finish saying "I'd say you're fit to be discharged…" when he ran out of the cubicle, looking for Cho.
He went to the nurses' station, but there were already ten other people there: shouting, crying, asking questions. Harry took a quick look around. He saw a wizard in white robes and mask—with blood spattered on the front of his gown. "Doctor, where can I find Cho Chang?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell you." He started to walk away.
"You've got to tell me!" Harry pulled the mediwizard back to face him. "We were there together!"
Now, the mediwizard looked more closely at Harry's face. Finally, he spoke: "You're Mister Potter, aren't you? Yes, of course you are. Would you come with me, please?"
Harry thought that he was being taken to a recovery room; instead the mediwizard led him to a small examination room with two chairs. "Please wait here," the wizard told Harry; "the doctor will be here shortly." Before Harry could reply, he closed the door.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened and another mediwizard walked in. Like the first one, he wore bloodstained white robes. This doctor, however, had ginger colored hair down to his shoulders, a bushy ginger- colored mustache, and sad grey eyes. When he spoke, it was with a slight accent similar to McGonagall's.
"Mister Potter, you have to understand that we've worked harder on Miss Chang than on anyone else in here tonight. She caught the full force of the blast. There were glass slivers and debris all up and down her back."
"But—but what are her chances? You can heal her, can't you?"
"I'm sorry, but there are no chances. The damage was just too extensive. Either surgery or magic would just be too great a shock to her system. We'd end up killing her. We've made her comfortable, blocked the pain, and we've sent for her family. They're on their way. But she wants to see you."
Harry was in a daze, letting himself be led by the mediwizard to another room. Was this really happening? Maybe he had wandered into a Muggle movie, and this was all special effects, and a director would yell "Cut!" and everything would stop and all the blood would be fake…
Then he was in the room. There was a figure on the bed, with its back to him. Tubes and wires ran everywhere. He came around to the other side of the bed—and he couldn't deny the truth any longer. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands.
"Harry, look at me. Look at me, please."
He didn't want to see her as she was, with bloody bandages all over her head and face, an oxygen tube puffing into her nose, and bruises that made her look like the victim of a mugging. Still, he looked at her, and she smiled. "Thank you Harry."
"For what?"
"For knowing me, for loving me, for sharing things I've never shared with anyone else. I'm afraid I'm going into the Great Mystery, my love. I'll wait for you, and I'll be happy remembering your courage, and your heart, and those beautiful green eyes."
Harry heard the ginger-haired doctor behind him: "I'm sorry, Mister Potter, but her family is here. You'll have to leave now."
One small part of Harry's brain, not shocked into numb silence, wanted to scream: "You're sorry?! The love of my life is dying, I see her for just thirty seconds, and all you can say is you're sorry??!!" But all that came out of Harry's mouth was, "Oh. Right." as he allowed himself to be led out into the hall.
"We're in the Muggle part of the hospital now, so mind your behaviour," the doctor told him. "I suggest you wait in the chapel; last door on the left at the end of the hall."
Harry didn't seem to want to go anywhere. When the doctor touched his shoulder, he walked, almost machine-like, down the hall and into the chapel.
It was a small non-denominational chapel, a room that seated fewer than fifty people. There was a makeshift altar at the end of the room, with rows of chairs pointing toward it. On the altar were three tall vases of flowers; both the flowers and the vases were plastic. Beside the door, just as Harry came in, was a small stack of missals. He picked one up, more out of reflex, the need for something to do, than out of a conscious decision. They were all covered in identical black leather, and embossed in gold with the identical words: GOD IS LOVE.
Something shattered inside of Harry Potter. He had held in his feelings since the bombing, afraid of what might come out. What came now was the howl of a wounded animal, as he picked up the missals one by one and flung them with all his strength in all directions. The first three hit the flower pots, sending them spinning. He didn't even look at where the others landed: chairs, tapestries, doors. After a minute he sank to his knees, then fell prostrate on the floor, his howls of pain turned to sobs of anguish, his chest heaving as if he wanted to turn himself inside out.
"I told you to let her go," came a voice from a shadowy corner. "Sometimes I hate being right."
The speaker, Sirius Black, stepped out of the shadows. His gaunt face was a little fuller; his long once-matted hair was now shoulder-length and gathered into a ponytail; and he wore a doctor's white lab coat. "I came as soon as I heard. I'm sorry, Harry."
"But–aren't you worried? Somebody may see you."
"It's been several years, hasn't it? I don't think anyone's still looking for me in the Muggle part of town. Anyway, this is what they call 'hiding in plain sight'. Everyone expects to see a man in a white coat in a hospital."
Harry looked at him as if at a stranger.
"Cedric Diggory," he said at last. "Bertha Jorkins. Some old Muggle whose name I forget. My parents. And now Cho. Sirius, I don't want to be The Boy Who Lived anymore--not with all this blood on my hands."
"What do you mean, your hands? You didn't kill any of them."
"They're all dead because of me. They got between me and Voldemort."
"You're certain that Voldemort bombed the club, then?" Harry realized that he wasn't sure. Sirius went on: "Harry, do you know how they make a sword?" Harry didn't answer. "They stick iron in a fire until it glows white hot, so it can be molded; then they hammer it into shape. They do this to the iron again and again and again. I'm sorry it's your turn to be tried in the fire, but..."
"Shut up, Sirius!" Harry cut him off angrily. "I'm not iron! I'm a person! Stick me in a fire, I feel pain. Hit me with a hammer, I feel pain!"
"We've both felt it, Harry. You told me Voldemort used the Cruciatus on you. Now tell me which hurts worse: that or this?"
Harry, who was still kneeling on the floor, looked up at Sirius. His face was a mix of sorrow and hatred that Sirius knew all too well. He'd spent much of his time in Azkaban with that same expression.
After a minute, Harry looked back down at the carpet. "Do you have something to write with?" Sirius checked the pockets of the white coat, and found a pencil and a prescription pad. "Take this down."
"What's this all about…"
"I said, TAKE THIS DOWN!" Sirius had never seen Harry like this before–he was wild-eyed as a werewolf. Sirius decided to do what he said for the moment.
"I don't know if this is right; I'm just going by what I heard on television. You can clean it up later." Harry took a deep breath. "I, Harry James Potter, declare this to be my Last Wizarding Will and Testament…"
"Harry, stop this…"
"JUST WRITE IT!" Sirius did so. "If I survive to the end of this year, then, on the stroke of midnight of January 1, I will leave the wizarding world, return to the Dursleys of Privet Drive, Little Whinging…"
"You're not going back to those Muggles…"
"ON MY KNEES! If I have to. I'll tell them I've seen the error of my ways. I'll tell them I'm through with magic. I'll get a Muggle job–I don't know what; bus driver, accountant, anything. I just want to disappear into that world and never deal with wizards or spells or anything to do with magic ever again."
"And how is this supposed to stop Voldemort from coming for you?"
"Let me worry about that. Now, then. I name Sirius Black to be executor of the terms of this will, and to carry out those terms he may use whatever money is necessary out of my account at Gringotts Bank. He can do this because, before this year is out, I swear that I will clear the name and reputation of Sirius Black.
"To my best wizarding friend, Ron Weasley, I leave my Firebolt racing broom and the remaining contents of my account at Gringotts Bank. I'm sure he can find good uses for both.
"To my other best wizarding friend, Hermione Granger, I leave the Cloak of Invisibility formerly owned by James Potter, and I hope that she'll use it to have some fun in her life. And, Hermione: thanks for proving you were right in the Leaky Cauldron.
"To the Owlery of Hogwarts Academy, I leave my dear Hedwig, and I am confident that she'll find a good home.
"To Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts Academy, I leave my wand, if it survives me, so that Fawkes can be close to his feather.
"And to Professor Rubeus Hagrid, Gamekeeper of Hogwarts Academy, I ... Oh God..." Harry was overcome again and couldn't continue for a minute. Then he gathered himself together: "To Professor Rubeus Hagrid, Gamekeeper of Hogwarts Academy, I leave the Christmas present I received from Cho Chang, because he always wanted a dragon around the place, and at least these won't burn his house down."
Quick steps echoed down the corridor; Sirius ducked back into the shadows as Harry stood up. In came Granny Li, rushing to keep up with two other people Harry assumed were Cho's parents. Harry had only seen them at a distance a few months ago at Hogsmeade, but recognized Cho's father, who reminded him of a Chinese version of Uncle Vernon. Before he could say a word, though, Cho's mother walked up to Harry and slapped him hard across the face.
Harry fell back, more surprised than in pain, but he was even more surprised when Granny Li, who was a good two feet shorter than her daughter, spun her around and slapped her just as fiercely.
"You listen!" she barked at her daughter. Then she turned to Harry; "You listen too." She motioned Harry toward a chair; he sat down in it. Granny Li pulled up a chair opposite his, so close that their knees were almost touching.
"Spider spins web; that's all he knows how to do. Fly gets caught in web; that's all he knows how to do. Fly can't see whole web, just part where he's caught. Fly thinks spider spun web just to catch him; fly is stupid. Web could have caught any fly, any time. Shouldn't take personally." She touched Harry's knee, and the sternness melted out of her face. "Ha Li Po Te made Cho very happy. You good boy. What happened, not your fault."
Harry thought that, after all that had happened, he simply had no more tears left to shed. He was wrong. He slipped off of the chair onto the floor, put his head in Granny Li's lap and started crying yet again. The old lady stroked his wild hair with her withered hand, comforting him in a language he didn't understand.
"HARRY!" A young woman's voice called in the corridor. "I just saw the Weasleys and..."
Hermione Granger and most of the Weasley family stood in the doorway of the chapel. One look at Harry, and they knew all that they needed to know.
* *
The end of "Wizards Duel: A Summer Place"
…to be concluded in "Wizards Duel: Sixth Year"…
by monkeymouse
a/k/a Patrick Drazen
2.12--The Great Mystery
[If you found your way this far, you don't need me to tell you that JK Rowling created the Potterverse, and is still creating it…]
from the London Register:
BOMBING AT YOUTH CLUB
by Rupert Nesta, exclusive to the Register
A bomb was set off Thursday night in front of MoshiMoshi, a youth club in Brixton. The glass front window was blown into the building by the blast.
Police have detained and are questioning Arthur Vincie, 57, of Horsham, a retired construction worker, who witnesses say placed the bomb and stepped across the road to watch it explode. He then waited for police to take him into custody. Vincie had been seen in front of the club for several days, trying to rally passers-by to attack the club as a "lair of witches" and a "Satanic den".
"I don't like to speculate on what the courts will do," one officer told this reporter, "but the man was clearly a mental case. He spent all week going on about how the place was evil. To tell the truth, apart from the odd complaint about loud music, this address has been very well behaved. We looked around and didn't find so much as a can of beer or a cigarette end."
Repeated calls to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where the victims were taken, have not been returned.
from the Daily Prophet:
MUGGLE TERROR ATTACK
by T.S. Rumpleteaser
In a shocking display of Muggle persecution not seen since the days of Oliver Cromwell, a bomb was set off in front of a Brixton club that caters to student wizards and witches. A score of patrons were injured, one severely.
"We painted over the window from the inside, so nobody could see in," said Zafar Ajneeri, manager of MoshiMoshi. "We were as discreet as we could be. I still don't understand why we should be targeted so deliberately."
Muggle authorities had no trouble locating the bomber. Arthur Vincie, a Muggle construction worker, retired due to injuries, waited across the road for the bomb to explode, then took the credit when police arrived. Vincie had been seen in front of the club for the past few days, telling passers- by that the club was full of witches.
"For now, we will treat this as an isolated incident by a deranged Muggle," a spokesman for the Ministry of Magic stated after the blast. "It's true that we cannot rule out that he was acting under the Imperius Curse, but personally I've never known such a curse to continue for almost a week, then change in intensity. Despite rumours to the contrary, we simply don't see the hand of the Death Eaters in this one."
Most of the patrons of the club escaped serious injury, and were treated and released at the Special Wing of St. Bartholomew's. Among the guests was the famous Harry Potter, no doubt celebrating the final hours of the summer holiday before resuming classes at Hogwarts Academy. Ministry sources would not comment on whether Potter was the intended target of the attack.
His companion, Cho Chang, a recent transferee from Hogwarts to Japan's Kesshin Maho Gakuin academy, bore the brunt of the blast. "She had broken glass all up her back," Ajneeri said. "She actually stopped others from being hurt. She deserves a medal."
The Special Wing lists Miss Chang's condition as "guarded".
* *
Like a certain platform at King's Cross, there was a wall in St. Bartholomew's hospital that wizarding folk can pass through. On the other side was the Special Wing, where only the most extreme cases were treated—those that had to mix magic and medical science.
Harry wanted to ride to St. Bartholomew's in the same ambulance as Cho, but they were separated in the confusion. He was brought in with other "walking wounded" whose injuries were superficial.
In the emergency room, they told him that he only had a few cuts from flying glass, and bruises from being thrown against the back wall by the blast. "I could have told you all that," Harry muttered.
No sooner did the nurse/witch finish saying "I'd say you're fit to be discharged…" when he ran out of the cubicle, looking for Cho.
He went to the nurses' station, but there were already ten other people there: shouting, crying, asking questions. Harry took a quick look around. He saw a wizard in white robes and mask—with blood spattered on the front of his gown. "Doctor, where can I find Cho Chang?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell you." He started to walk away.
"You've got to tell me!" Harry pulled the mediwizard back to face him. "We were there together!"
Now, the mediwizard looked more closely at Harry's face. Finally, he spoke: "You're Mister Potter, aren't you? Yes, of course you are. Would you come with me, please?"
Harry thought that he was being taken to a recovery room; instead the mediwizard led him to a small examination room with two chairs. "Please wait here," the wizard told Harry; "the doctor will be here shortly." Before Harry could reply, he closed the door.
Twenty minutes later, the door opened and another mediwizard walked in. Like the first one, he wore bloodstained white robes. This doctor, however, had ginger colored hair down to his shoulders, a bushy ginger- colored mustache, and sad grey eyes. When he spoke, it was with a slight accent similar to McGonagall's.
"Mister Potter, you have to understand that we've worked harder on Miss Chang than on anyone else in here tonight. She caught the full force of the blast. There were glass slivers and debris all up and down her back."
"But—but what are her chances? You can heal her, can't you?"
"I'm sorry, but there are no chances. The damage was just too extensive. Either surgery or magic would just be too great a shock to her system. We'd end up killing her. We've made her comfortable, blocked the pain, and we've sent for her family. They're on their way. But she wants to see you."
Harry was in a daze, letting himself be led by the mediwizard to another room. Was this really happening? Maybe he had wandered into a Muggle movie, and this was all special effects, and a director would yell "Cut!" and everything would stop and all the blood would be fake…
Then he was in the room. There was a figure on the bed, with its back to him. Tubes and wires ran everywhere. He came around to the other side of the bed—and he couldn't deny the truth any longer. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands.
"Harry, look at me. Look at me, please."
He didn't want to see her as she was, with bloody bandages all over her head and face, an oxygen tube puffing into her nose, and bruises that made her look like the victim of a mugging. Still, he looked at her, and she smiled. "Thank you Harry."
"For what?"
"For knowing me, for loving me, for sharing things I've never shared with anyone else. I'm afraid I'm going into the Great Mystery, my love. I'll wait for you, and I'll be happy remembering your courage, and your heart, and those beautiful green eyes."
Harry heard the ginger-haired doctor behind him: "I'm sorry, Mister Potter, but her family is here. You'll have to leave now."
One small part of Harry's brain, not shocked into numb silence, wanted to scream: "You're sorry?! The love of my life is dying, I see her for just thirty seconds, and all you can say is you're sorry??!!" But all that came out of Harry's mouth was, "Oh. Right." as he allowed himself to be led out into the hall.
"We're in the Muggle part of the hospital now, so mind your behaviour," the doctor told him. "I suggest you wait in the chapel; last door on the left at the end of the hall."
Harry didn't seem to want to go anywhere. When the doctor touched his shoulder, he walked, almost machine-like, down the hall and into the chapel.
It was a small non-denominational chapel, a room that seated fewer than fifty people. There was a makeshift altar at the end of the room, with rows of chairs pointing toward it. On the altar were three tall vases of flowers; both the flowers and the vases were plastic. Beside the door, just as Harry came in, was a small stack of missals. He picked one up, more out of reflex, the need for something to do, than out of a conscious decision. They were all covered in identical black leather, and embossed in gold with the identical words: GOD IS LOVE.
Something shattered inside of Harry Potter. He had held in his feelings since the bombing, afraid of what might come out. What came now was the howl of a wounded animal, as he picked up the missals one by one and flung them with all his strength in all directions. The first three hit the flower pots, sending them spinning. He didn't even look at where the others landed: chairs, tapestries, doors. After a minute he sank to his knees, then fell prostrate on the floor, his howls of pain turned to sobs of anguish, his chest heaving as if he wanted to turn himself inside out.
"I told you to let her go," came a voice from a shadowy corner. "Sometimes I hate being right."
The speaker, Sirius Black, stepped out of the shadows. His gaunt face was a little fuller; his long once-matted hair was now shoulder-length and gathered into a ponytail; and he wore a doctor's white lab coat. "I came as soon as I heard. I'm sorry, Harry."
"But–aren't you worried? Somebody may see you."
"It's been several years, hasn't it? I don't think anyone's still looking for me in the Muggle part of town. Anyway, this is what they call 'hiding in plain sight'. Everyone expects to see a man in a white coat in a hospital."
Harry looked at him as if at a stranger.
"Cedric Diggory," he said at last. "Bertha Jorkins. Some old Muggle whose name I forget. My parents. And now Cho. Sirius, I don't want to be The Boy Who Lived anymore--not with all this blood on my hands."
"What do you mean, your hands? You didn't kill any of them."
"They're all dead because of me. They got between me and Voldemort."
"You're certain that Voldemort bombed the club, then?" Harry realized that he wasn't sure. Sirius went on: "Harry, do you know how they make a sword?" Harry didn't answer. "They stick iron in a fire until it glows white hot, so it can be molded; then they hammer it into shape. They do this to the iron again and again and again. I'm sorry it's your turn to be tried in the fire, but..."
"Shut up, Sirius!" Harry cut him off angrily. "I'm not iron! I'm a person! Stick me in a fire, I feel pain. Hit me with a hammer, I feel pain!"
"We've both felt it, Harry. You told me Voldemort used the Cruciatus on you. Now tell me which hurts worse: that or this?"
Harry, who was still kneeling on the floor, looked up at Sirius. His face was a mix of sorrow and hatred that Sirius knew all too well. He'd spent much of his time in Azkaban with that same expression.
After a minute, Harry looked back down at the carpet. "Do you have something to write with?" Sirius checked the pockets of the white coat, and found a pencil and a prescription pad. "Take this down."
"What's this all about…"
"I said, TAKE THIS DOWN!" Sirius had never seen Harry like this before–he was wild-eyed as a werewolf. Sirius decided to do what he said for the moment.
"I don't know if this is right; I'm just going by what I heard on television. You can clean it up later." Harry took a deep breath. "I, Harry James Potter, declare this to be my Last Wizarding Will and Testament…"
"Harry, stop this…"
"JUST WRITE IT!" Sirius did so. "If I survive to the end of this year, then, on the stroke of midnight of January 1, I will leave the wizarding world, return to the Dursleys of Privet Drive, Little Whinging…"
"You're not going back to those Muggles…"
"ON MY KNEES! If I have to. I'll tell them I've seen the error of my ways. I'll tell them I'm through with magic. I'll get a Muggle job–I don't know what; bus driver, accountant, anything. I just want to disappear into that world and never deal with wizards or spells or anything to do with magic ever again."
"And how is this supposed to stop Voldemort from coming for you?"
"Let me worry about that. Now, then. I name Sirius Black to be executor of the terms of this will, and to carry out those terms he may use whatever money is necessary out of my account at Gringotts Bank. He can do this because, before this year is out, I swear that I will clear the name and reputation of Sirius Black.
"To my best wizarding friend, Ron Weasley, I leave my Firebolt racing broom and the remaining contents of my account at Gringotts Bank. I'm sure he can find good uses for both.
"To my other best wizarding friend, Hermione Granger, I leave the Cloak of Invisibility formerly owned by James Potter, and I hope that she'll use it to have some fun in her life. And, Hermione: thanks for proving you were right in the Leaky Cauldron.
"To the Owlery of Hogwarts Academy, I leave my dear Hedwig, and I am confident that she'll find a good home.
"To Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts Academy, I leave my wand, if it survives me, so that Fawkes can be close to his feather.
"And to Professor Rubeus Hagrid, Gamekeeper of Hogwarts Academy, I ... Oh God..." Harry was overcome again and couldn't continue for a minute. Then he gathered himself together: "To Professor Rubeus Hagrid, Gamekeeper of Hogwarts Academy, I leave the Christmas present I received from Cho Chang, because he always wanted a dragon around the place, and at least these won't burn his house down."
Quick steps echoed down the corridor; Sirius ducked back into the shadows as Harry stood up. In came Granny Li, rushing to keep up with two other people Harry assumed were Cho's parents. Harry had only seen them at a distance a few months ago at Hogsmeade, but recognized Cho's father, who reminded him of a Chinese version of Uncle Vernon. Before he could say a word, though, Cho's mother walked up to Harry and slapped him hard across the face.
Harry fell back, more surprised than in pain, but he was even more surprised when Granny Li, who was a good two feet shorter than her daughter, spun her around and slapped her just as fiercely.
"You listen!" she barked at her daughter. Then she turned to Harry; "You listen too." She motioned Harry toward a chair; he sat down in it. Granny Li pulled up a chair opposite his, so close that their knees were almost touching.
"Spider spins web; that's all he knows how to do. Fly gets caught in web; that's all he knows how to do. Fly can't see whole web, just part where he's caught. Fly thinks spider spun web just to catch him; fly is stupid. Web could have caught any fly, any time. Shouldn't take personally." She touched Harry's knee, and the sternness melted out of her face. "Ha Li Po Te made Cho very happy. You good boy. What happened, not your fault."
Harry thought that, after all that had happened, he simply had no more tears left to shed. He was wrong. He slipped off of the chair onto the floor, put his head in Granny Li's lap and started crying yet again. The old lady stroked his wild hair with her withered hand, comforting him in a language he didn't understand.
"HARRY!" A young woman's voice called in the corridor. "I just saw the Weasleys and..."
Hermione Granger and most of the Weasley family stood in the doorway of the chapel. One look at Harry, and they knew all that they needed to know.
* *
The end of "Wizards Duel: A Summer Place"
…to be concluded in "Wizards Duel: Sixth Year"…