Гарри Поттер и Орден Феникса

The Department of Mysteries

           Thiswaswherehe,Harry,hadseenhim...

           Heranupthespaceattheendoftherows,staringdownthem.Emptyaisleafteremptyaisleflickeredpast.Herantheotherway,backpasthisstaringcompanions.TherewasnosignofSiriusanywhere,noranyhintofastruggle.

           ’Harry?’Roncalled.

           ’What?’

           HedidnotwanttohearwhatRonhadtosay;didnotwanttohearRontellhimhehadbeenstupidorsuggestthattheyoughttogobacktoHogwarts,buttheheatwasrisinginhisfaceandhefeltasthoughhewouldliketoskulkdownhereinthedarknessforalongwhilebeforefacingthebrightnessoftheAtriumaboveandtheothers’accusingstares...

           ’Haveyouseenthis?’saidRon.

           ’What?’saidHarry,buteagerlythistimeithadtobeasignthatSiriushadbeenthere,aclue.Hestrodebacktowheretheywereallstanding,alittlewaydownrowninety-seven,butfoundnothingexceptRonstaringatoneofthedustyglassspheresontheshelf.

           ’What?’Harryrepeatedglumly.

           ’It’sit’sgotyournameon,’saidRon.

           Harrymovedalittlecloser.Ronwaspointingatoneofthesmallglassspheresthatglowedwithadullinnerlight,thoughitwasverydustyandappearednottohavebeentouchedformanyyears.

           ’Myname?’saidHarryblankly.

           Hesteppedforwards.NotastallasRon,hehadtocranehisnecktoreadtheyellowishlabelaffixedtotheshelfrightbeneaththedustyglassball.Inspiderywritingwaswrittenadateofsomesixteenyearspreviously,andbelowthat:

           S.P.T.toA.P.W.B.D

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