Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were pulling his leg.

“But I’m not a teacher, I can’t—”

“Harry, you’re the best in the year at Defence Against the Dark Arts,” said Hermione.

“Me?” said Harry, now grinning more broadly than ever. “No I’m not, you’ve beaten me in every test—”

“Actually, I haven’t,” said Hermione coolly. “You beat me in our third year—the only year we both sat the test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject. But I’m not talking about test results, Harry. Think what you’ve done!”

“How d’you mean?”

“You know what, I’m not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me,” Ron said to Hermione, smirking slightly. He turned to Harry.

“Let’s think,” he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. “Uh… first year—you saved the Philosopher’s Stone from You-Know-Who.”

“But that was luck,” said Harry, “it wasn’t skill—”

“Second year,” Ron interrupted, “you killed the Basilisk and destroyed Riddle.”

“Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn’t turned up, I—”

“Third year,” said Ron, louder still, “you fought off about a hundred Dementors at once—”

“You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn’t—”

“Last year,” Ron said, almost shouting now, “you fought off You-Know-Who again—”

“Listen to me!” said Harry, almost angrily, because Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. “Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all that stuff was luck—I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, I didn’t plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help—”

Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt his temper rise; he wasn’t even sure why he was feeling so angry.

“Don’t sit there grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn’t I?” he said heatedly. “I know what went on, all right? And I didn’t get through any of that because I was brilliant at Defence Against the Dark Arts, I got through it all because—because help came at the right time, or because I guessed right—but I just blundered through it all, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing—STOP LAUGHING!”

The bowl of Murtlap essence fell to the floor and smashed. He became aware that he was on his feet, though he couldn’t remember standing up. Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa. Ron and Hermione’s smiles had vanished.

“You don’t know what it’s like! You—neither of you—you’ve never had to face him, have you? You think it’s just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you’re in class or something? The whole time you’re sure you know there’s nothing between you and dying except your own—your own brain or guts or whatever—like you can think straight when you know you’re about a nanosecond from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die—they’ve never taught us that in their classes, what it’s like to deal with things like that—and you two sit there acting like I’m a clever little boy to be standing here, alive, like Diggory was stupid, like he messed up—you just don’t get it, that could just as easily have been me, it would have been if Voldemort hadn’t needed me—”

“We weren’t saying anything like that, mate,” said Ron, looking aghast. “We weren’t having a go at Diggory, we didn’t—you’ve got the wrong end of the—”

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<== попередня сторінка	\|	наступна сторінка ==>
Ron opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out and, after a moment, he closed it again, defeated.	\|	He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken.

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