"J. K. Rowling - The Goblet of Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rowling J. K)

of the flames. "I am much, much more than a man. However...why not? I will face you...Wormtail,
come turn my chair around."
The servant gave a whimper.
"You heard me, Wormtail."
Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything than
approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forward and began
to turn the chair. The snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of
the chair snagged on its rug.
And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick
fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so
loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was
a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the
floor.
Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.

CHAPTER TWO - THE SCAR


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Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken
from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was
shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just
pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.
He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other hand reaching out in the darkness for his
glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on and his bedroom came into clearer focus,
lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp
outside the window.
Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp
beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the
mirror on the inside of the door. A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green
eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair. He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection
more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.
harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed
so real...There had been two people he knew and one he didn't ...He concentrated hard, frowning,
trying to remember...
The dim picture of a darkened room came to him...There had been a snake on a hearth
rug...a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail...and a cold, high voice...the voice of Lord
Voldemort. Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very
thought...
He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but it
was impossible...All Harry knew was that at the moment when Voldemort's chair had swung around,
and he, Harry, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken
him...or had that been the pain in his scar?
And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Harry had watched
him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused. Harry put his face into his hands,
blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like
trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried