"J. K. Rowling - Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rowling J. K)

murdered, and been tied to that tombstone and nearly killed?

Don't think about that, Harry told himself sternly for the hundredth lime that summer. It
was bad enough that he kept revisiting the graveyard in his nightmares, without dwelling
on it in his waking moments too.

He turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway along he passed the narrow alleyway
down the side of a garage where he had first clapped eyes on his godfather. Sirius, at
least, seemed to understand how Harry was feeling. Admittedly, his letters were just as
empty of proper news as Ron and Hermione's, but at least they contained words of
caution and consolation instead of tantalising hints:

I know this must be frustrating for you… Keep your nose clean and everything will be
OK… Be careful and don't do anything rash…

Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road and
headed towards the darkening play park, he had (by and .large) done as Sirius advised.
He had at least resisted the temptation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set off for
The Burrow by himself. In fact, Harry thought his behaviour had been very good
considering how frustrated and angry he felt at being stuck in Privet Drive so long,
reduced to hiding in flowerbeds in the hope of hearing something that might point to
what Lord Voldemort was doing. Nevertheless, it was quite galling to be told not to be
rash by a man who had served twelve years in the wizard prison, Azkaban, escaped,
attempted to commit the murder he had been convicted for in the first place, then gone on
the run with a stolen Hippogriff.
Harry vaulted over the locked park gate and set off across the parched grass. The park
was as empty as the surrounding streets. When he reached the swings he sank on to the
only one that Dudley and his friends had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm
around the chain and stared moodily at the ground. He would not be able to hide in the
Dursleys' flowerbed again. Tomorrow, he would have to think of some fresh way of
listening to the news. In the meantime, he had nothing to look forward to but another
restless, disturbed night, because even when he escaped the nightmares about Cedric he
had unsettling dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in dead ends and locked
doors, which he supposed had something to do with the trapped feeling he had when he
was awake. Often the old scar on his forehead prickled uncomfortably, but he did not fool
himself that Ron or Hermione or Sirius would find that very interesting any more. In the
past, his scar hurting had warned that Voldemort was getting stronger again, but now that
Voldemort was back they would probably remind him that its regular irritation was only
to be expected… nothing to worry about… old news…

The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn't
been for him, nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! And his reward was
to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical
world, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so that he could hear about water-
skiing budgerigars! How could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily? Why had Ron
and Hermione got together without inviting him along, too? How much longer was he
supposed to endure Sirius telling him to sit tight and be a good boy; or resist the
temptation to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort had
returned? These furious thoughts whirled around in Harry's head, and his insides writhed
with anger as a sultry, velvety night fell around him, the air full of the smell of warm, dry