O fearful meditation! where, alack,

O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

(From Shakespeare's Sonnet 65)

...

The diary the kind Mr. Malfoy had given him turned out to be even more wonderful than Harry had first realized. Not only did the book have lovely thick cream-colored pages you could write on, but - as Harry discovered to his infinite delight - it even wrote back!

Harry was ever so excited the first time this happened. Harry, Ron, and Draco spent the last chilly days of their Christmas break curled up in front of a cozy fire in one of the Malfoys' many vast sitting rooms. This particular afternoon, Ron and Draco were having a lengthy and oddly stiff conversation about prominent wizarding families in Britain, and Harry was bored out of his wits. Draco was rattling off long lists of names as reverently as if they were ancient spells, and he was inquiring about the Weasley family's connections to each one of these families. Harry could tell that Draco was making an effort to get to know Ron, but it wasn't going terribly well. Ron's contributions to the conversation consisted mostly of pregnant pauses, indifferent shrugs, and occasional "dunnos", so Harry excused himself politely after a while and went to his room to find his new diary instead.

Harry had decided to use the beautiful volume Mr. Malfoy had given him to record his adventures at Hogwarts, so that Leaf and Twig and the other fairies could read about them afterwards. But the diary appeared to have other ideas!

My name is Harry, wrote Harry in his best handwriting. As he sat for a moment, wondering how best to proceed from there - should he begin the story with the wondrous letter he had received from Hogwarts, or with his journey on the magnificent scarlet Hogwarts Express? - dark ink began to appear on the page before him.

Hello, Harry, said the diary. My name is Tom Riddle.

Harry stared at the page in wonder. Tom Riddle? He felt a slight shiver at his spine. But that was... That was Voldemort! The sad wizard whose soul had taken refuge in poor Professor Quirrell's body! Was he still alive, then, after all? Harry reached out and traced the curly black letters on the page with a trembling finger, and to his delight, he felt something deep within the pages respond to his touch. A shard! There was a piece of broken soul hidden inside this book! And not only that - it could talk to him!

Harry dipped his quill in ink and wrote rapidly, his heart pounding in his chest: Tom! I'm so happy you are in there! I was so afraid I would never see you again! I'm so terribly sorry about poor Quirrell - I really truly did not mean to kill him. Please forgive me! Your devoted friend Harry.

The page was blank for a moment, and Harry could sense some slight confusion emanating from the creamy paper. Then the black letters appeared again, in the same elegant hand as before: Who is this Quirrell? Why did you kill him? And who are you, Harry? Are you a wizard?

It took Harry a long time to explain the story about his friend Quirrell and his shard to the diary, and his hand hurt quite a bit by the time he was done. The shard in the diary had a great many questions, especially about the lovely red stone, and Harry answered them all to the best of his ability.

And that's the whole story, Tom, he wrote finally. As far as I understand it, at least. I was trying to give Professor Quirrell the stone his shard wanted, but I accidentally killed my friend instead. You don't mind me calling you Tom, do you? Or do you want me to call you Voldemort or You-Know-Who instead? I suppose it would be a little silly to call you You-Know-Who when I'm writing to you, wouldn't it? I mean, of course you know who, right?

The diary appeared to think about this for a moment. Then it replied in elegant cursive: You can call me Tom. I have sometimes thought of calling myself Voldemort, but I've never told anyone about that. It's my secret name for myself. How do you know that name?

Harry blinked down at the curly black letters, puzzled. How could Tom not know about becoming Voldemort? Dumbledore had told Harry that Tom Riddle had changed his name to Voldemort - although why someone would change a lovely name like "Tom" into something so long and cumbersome was still a mystery to Harry. But how could Tom himself forget about his own name? Harry ran his finger over the thick paper again, sensing the soul-shard stirring in there.

And suddenly, Harry understood: Tom, the shard in the diary, felt a lot younger than Professor Quirrell's shard. There was something about the shard hidden in the pages of the book that felt almost like a boy still, perhaps no more than a few years older than Harry himself. Perhaps this shard had become separated from the splintered soul of the Dark Lord while he was still quite young? Yes, that would explain why Tom did not know that he had become Voldemort later.

Harry picked up his quill again. I am so happy to have found you again, Tom, he wrote. I thought you were completely gone when Quirrell died. The soul shard inside him that I told you about was yours - did I forget to mention that? It was a piece of you! That's why I feel that I know you already even if we have just met.

A shard of soul? wrote Tom. My soul? Listen, Harry, I want to...

There was a faint knock on the door, and Harry closed the diary quickly. He wasn't ready to share the wonderful secret of the diary with anyone else. He wanted Tom to be just his friend for a little while. Perhaps he might introduce him to Ron later, but not quite yet. "Come in," Harry called out, hiding the diary inside his robes.

A strange and amiable little being appeared in the doorway, holding a steaming mug. He looked like a very old fairy who had merged with a long-eared bat through some sort of magical accident. "Would Master care for some hot chocolate?" he asked shyly.

"I don't know," said Harry, smiling at the friendly creature. "He's in his study, I think, with Mrs. Malfoy. I can go and ask him if you want."

His visitor giggled a little. "Oh, no, Harry Potter, sir. I was speaking of you, Master Harry, sir."

"Oh." Harry blushed. "I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood you. What's your name?"

"Dobby, sir," whispered the creature.

Harry nodded solemnly at him. "A pleasure to meet you, Dobby. I didn't know that the Malfoys had any other guests. But I suppose it makes sense that they would, in a house this large. They must get quite lonely in this vast house sometimes. Yes, I would love some hot chocolate, Mr. Dobby. How very thoughtful of you to ask! How long have you been a guest here? Did you just arrive?"

"Guest, sir?" Dobby stared wide-eyed at Harry for a moment, and then he hurried toward Harry, the mug shaking in his trembling hands. "Oh, no, Master Harry. Dobby is no guest, sir. Dobby is a house elf, Master Harry sir. Bringing you chocolate."

In his eagerness, the elf spilled a few drops of chocolate on the marble floor, and Harry reached for a handkerchief to help him clean it up. But the little elf just stood there frozen, staring at the little puddle of foam on the floor. The next moment, some sort of strange madness seemed to come over him, and he dashed over to the fireplace and started smacking himself over the head with a piece of firewood.

"What are you doing?" cried Harry in alarm. But Dobby kept hitting himself in the head with the firewood with all his might. He was going to start bleeding soon, or knock himself out cold.

Harry stared at him in horror. He realized that the little elf must be suffering from some horrible delusion. Perhaps he thought there was a spider on his head? Had poor Dobby picked the wrong mushrooms out in the forest and started seeing things? Or had some strange illness come over him?

Harry rushed over to the little elf and touched him with a spark of the strongest, most soothing magic he could muster. "There, there, Dobby," said Harry gently and reached for the piece of firewood. Dobby let go of the wood and stood completely still for a moment, regarding Harry with a puzzled expression.

"What were you doing, Dobby?" asked Harry in his softest voice.

"Punishing myself, sir," said Dobby weakly. "For spilling chocolate, sir."

Harry shook his head slowly. He flung the piece of wood aside and put his hands on Dobby's tiny shoulders. "You were taken ill, weren't you, Dobby?" he said in his most calming voice. "Your illness is making you say some very strange things right now. Why would anyone want to punish themselves?"

"Ill?" Dobby looked up at him, dazed, with huge gooseberry eyes. "No, Harry Potter, sir... Dobby is not ill, just careless, sir. House elves are meant to serve their masters, and they must punish themselves if they make any mistakes."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this absurd statement. "No, no, Dobby! That's just silly. It must be your illness making you think odd thoughts like that. Here!" He gave Dobby another little spark of his magic. "Do you feel better now? Are you able to think straight?"

Dobby stood silently for a moment, a baffled expression on his small wrinkled face. Then he lit up in a smile. "Yes, Dobby is feeling a lot better now, Harry Potter sir."

"You don't want to punish yourself any more, do you?" Harry watched the elf anxiously.

Dobby shook his head. "No, Mr. Potter." He sounded slightly surprised at his own words. "Dobby doesn't want to punish himself any more because... because..." He appeared to be searching for the right words. Then he nodded: "Because it hurts! And Dobby doesn't actually like getting hurt."

"Of course you don't," said Harry and patted Dobby on the arm. "I mean, who would? And to punish yourself for spilling a little chocolate is just..."

"Silly!" The elf's eyes were shining now. "Tha

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

O thiền sợ hãi! ở đâu, alack, Jewel của thời gian tốt nhất từ thời gian của ngực sẽ nói dối trốn?Hoặc những gì tay mạnh mẽ có thể giữ chân của mình nhanh chóng trở lại? Hoặc những người của ông spoil làm đẹp có thể Cấm? O, không có, trừ khi kỳ diệu này đã có thể, Màu đen mực tình yêu của tôi vẫn còn có bóng tươi sáng.(Từ Sonnet của Shakespeare 65)...Nhật ký loại ông Malfoy đã cho ông bật ra nhiều hơn tuyệt vời hơn Harry đã lần đầu tiên nhận ra. Không chỉ đã cuốn sách có đáng yêu trang dày cream-colored bạn có thể viết trên, nhưng - như Harry phát hiện ra để thỏa thích của mình vô hạn - nó thậm chí viết lại!Harry đã bao giờ nên vui mừng lần đầu tiên điều này xảy ra. Harry, Ron và Draco dành cuối lạnh ngày kể từ ngày của Giáng sinh break cong lên ở phía trước của một đám cháy ấm cúng trong một trong Malfoys' nhiều phòng khách rộng lớn. Này đặc biệt buổi chiều, Ron và Draco đã có một dài và kỳ quặc cứng cuộc trò chuyện về gia đình nổi tiếng tồn tại Anh, và Harry đã chán ra khỏi trí thông minh của mình. Draco rattling ra các danh sách dài của tên như reverently, như thể họ đã là phép thuật cổ đại, và ông hỏi về gia đình Weasley kết nối cho mỗi một trong số các gia đình. Harry có thể cho biết rằng Draco đã làm cho một nỗ lực để tìm hiểu Ron, nhưng nó đã không tiến triển terribly tốt. Ron của những đóng góp vào cuộc đàm thoại bao gồm chủ yếu của tạm dừng mang thai, vô tư shrugs, và thỉnh thoảng "dunnos", vì vậy Harry mieãn mình một cách lịch sự sau một thời gian và đã đi đến phòng của mình để tìm thấy Nhật ký của ông mới để thay thế.Harry had decided to use the beautiful volume Mr. Malfoy had given him to record his adventures at Hogwarts, so that Leaf and Twig and the other fairies could read about them afterwards. But the diary appeared to have other ideas!My name is Harry, wrote Harry in his best handwriting. As he sat for a moment, wondering how best to proceed from there - should he begin the story with the wondrous letter he had received from Hogwarts, or with his journey on the magnificent scarlet Hogwarts Express? - dark ink began to appear on the page before him.Hello, Harry, said the diary. My name is Tom Riddle. Harry stared at the page in wonder. Tom Riddle? He felt a slight shiver at his spine. But that was... That was Voldemort! The sad wizard whose soul had taken refuge in poor Professor Quirrell's body! Was he still alive, then, after all? Harry reached out and traced the curly black letters on the page with a trembling finger, and to his delight, he felt something deep within the pages respond to his touch. A shard! There was a piece of broken soul hidden inside this book! And not only that - it could talk to him!Harry dipped his quill in ink and wrote rapidly, his heart pounding in his chest: Tom! I'm so happy you are in there! I was so afraid I would never see you again! I'm so terribly sorry about poor Quirrell - I really truly did not mean to kill him. Please forgive me! Your devoted friend Harry. The page was blank for a moment, and Harry could sense some slight confusion emanating from the creamy paper. Then the black letters appeared again, in the same elegant hand as before: Who is this Quirrell? Why did you kill him? And who are you, Harry? Are you a wizard?It took Harry a long time to explain the story about his friend Quirrell and his shard to the diary, and his hand hurt quite a bit by the time he was done. The shard in the diary had a great many questions, especially about the lovely red stone, and Harry answered them all to the best of his ability.And that's the whole story, Tom, he wrote finally. As far as I understand it, at least. I was trying to give Professor Quirrell the stone his shard wanted, but I accidentally killed my friend instead. You don't mind me calling you Tom, do you? Or do you want me to call you Voldemort or You-Know-Who instead? I suppose it would be a little silly to call you You-Know-Who when I'm writing to you, wouldn't it? I mean, of course you know who, right? The diary appeared to think about this for a moment. Then it replied in elegant cursive: You can call me Tom. I have sometimes thought of calling myself Voldemort, but I've never told anyone about that. It's my secret name for myself. How do you know that name? Harry blinked down at the curly black letters, puzzled. How could Tom not know about becoming Voldemort? Dumbledore had told Harry that Tom Riddle had changed his name to Voldemort - although why someone would change a lovely name like "Tom" into something so long and cumbersome was still a mystery to Harry. But how could Tom himself forget about his own name? Harry ran his finger over the thick paper again, sensing the soul-shard stirring in there.And suddenly, Harry understood: Tom, the shard in the diary, felt a lot younger than Professor Quirrell's shard. There was something about the shard hidden in the pages of the book that felt almost like a boy still, perhaps no more than a few years older than Harry himself. Perhaps this shard had become separated from the splintered soul of the Dark Lord while he was still quite young? Yes, that would explain why Tom did not know that he had become Voldemort later.Harry picked up his quill again. I am so happy to have found you again, Tom, he wrote. I thought you were completely gone when Quirrell died. The soul shard inside him that I told you about was yours - did I forget to mention that? It was a piece of you! That's why I feel that I know you already even if we have just met.A shard of soul? wrote Tom. My soul? Listen, Harry, I want to...There was a faint knock on the door, and Harry closed the diary quickly. He wasn't ready to share the wonderful secret of the diary with anyone else. He wanted Tom to be just his friend for a little while. Perhaps he might introduce him to Ron later, but not quite yet. "Come in," Harry called out, hiding the diary inside his robes.
A strange and amiable little being appeared in the doorway, holding a steaming mug. He looked like a very old fairy who had merged with a long-eared bat through some sort of magical accident. "Would Master care for some hot chocolate?" he asked shyly.

"I don't know," said Harry, smiling at the friendly creature. "He's in his study, I think, with Mrs. Malfoy. I can go and ask him if you want."

His visitor giggled a little. "Oh, no, Harry Potter, sir. I was speaking of you, Master Harry, sir."

"Oh." Harry blushed. "I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood you. What's your name?"

"Dobby, sir," whispered the creature.

Harry nodded solemnly at him. "A pleasure to meet you, Dobby. I didn't know that the Malfoys had any other guests. But I suppose it makes sense that they would, in a house this large. They must get quite lonely in this vast house sometimes. Yes, I would love some hot chocolate, Mr. Dobby. How very thoughtful of you to ask! How long have you been a guest here? Did you just arrive?"

"Guest, sir?" Dobby stared wide-eyed at Harry for a moment, and then he hurried toward Harry, the mug shaking in his trembling hands. "Oh, no, Master Harry. Dobby is no guest, sir. Dobby is a house elf, Master Harry sir. Bringing you chocolate."

In his eagerness, the elf spilled a few drops of chocolate on the marble floor, and Harry reached for a handkerchief to help him clean it up. But the little elf just stood there frozen, staring at the little puddle of foam on the floor. The next moment, some sort of strange madness seemed to come over him, and he dashed over to the fireplace and started smacking himself over the head with a piece of firewood.

"What are you doing?" cried Harry in alarm. But Dobby kept hitting himself in the head with the firewood with all his might. He was going to start bleeding soon, or knock himself out cold.

Harry stared at him in horror. He realized that the little elf must be suffering from some horrible delusion. Perhaps he thought there was a spider on his head? Had poor Dobby picked the wrong mushrooms out in the forest and started seeing things? Or had some strange illness come over him?

Harry rushed over to the little elf and touched him with a spark of the strongest, most soothing magic he could muster. "There, there, Dobby," said Harry gently and reached for the piece of firewood. Dobby let go of the wood and stood completely still for a moment, regarding Harry with a puzzled expression.

"What were you doing, Dobby?" asked Harry in his softest voice.

"Punishing myself, sir," said Dobby weakly. "For spilling chocolate, sir."

Harry shook his head slowly. He flung the piece of wood aside and put his hands on Dobby's tiny shoulders. "You were taken ill, weren't you, Dobby?" he said in his most calming voice. "Your illness is making you say some very strange things right now. Why would anyone want to punish themselves?"

"Ill?" Dobby looked up at him, dazed, with huge gooseberry eyes. "No, Harry Potter, sir... Dobby is not ill, just careless, sir. House elves are meant to serve their masters, and they must punish themselves if they make any mistakes."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry at this absurd statement. "No, no, Dobby! That's just silly. It must be your illness making you think odd thoughts like that. Here!" He gave Dobby another little spark of his magic. "Do you feel better now? Are you able to think straight?"

Dobby stood silently for a moment, a baffled expression on his small wrinkled face. Then he lit up in a smile. "Yes, Dobby is feeling a lot better now, Harry Potter sir."

"You don't want to punish yourself any more, do you?" Harry watched the elf anxiously.

Dobby shook his head. "No, Mr. Potter." He sounded slightly surprised at his own words. "Dobby doesn't want to punish himself any more because... because..." He appeared to be searching for the right words. Then he nodded: "Because it hurts! And Dobby doesn't actually like getting hurt."

"Of course you don't," said Harry and patted Dobby on the arm. "I mean, who would? And to punish yourself for spilling a little chocolate is just..."

"Silly!" The elf's eyes were shining now. "Tha