Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix - J. K. Rowling [272]
“It’s Easter eggs from Mum,” said Ginny. “There’s one for you. … There you go. …”
She handed him a handsome chocolate egg decorated with small, iced Snitches and, according to the packaging, containing a bag of Fizzing Whizbees. Harry looked at it for a moment, then, to his horror, felt a hard lump rise in his throat.
“Are you okay, Harry?” asked Ginny quietly.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Harry gruffly. The lump in his throat was painful. He did not understand why an Easter egg should have made him feel like this.
“You seem really down lately,” Ginny persisted. “You know, I’m sure if you just talked to Cho …”
“It’s not Cho I want to talk to,” said Harry brusquely.
“Who is it, then?” asked Ginny.
“I …”
He glanced around to make quite sure that nobody was listening; Madam Pince was several shelves away, stamping out a pile of books for a frantic-looking Hannah Abbott.
“I wish I could talk to Sirius,” he muttered. “But I know I can’t.”
More to give himself something to do than because he really wanted any, Harry unwrapped his Easter egg, broke off a large bit, and put it into his mouth.
“Well,” said Ginny slowly, helping herself to a bit of egg too, “if you really want to talk to Sirius, I expect we could think of a way to do it. …”
“Come on,” said Harry hopelessly. “With Umbridge policing the fires and reading all our mail?”
“The thing about growing up with Fred and George,” said Ginny thoughtfully, “is that you sort of start thinking anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve.”
Harry looked at her. Perhaps it was the effect of the chocolate — Lupin had always advised eating some after encounters with dementors — or simply because he had finally spoken aloud the wish that had been burning inside him for a week, but he felt a bit more hopeful. …
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?”
“Oh damn,” whispered Ginny, jumping to her feet. “I forgot —”
Madam Pince was swooping down upon them, her shriveled face contorted with rage.
“Chocolate in the library!” she screamed. “Out — out — OUT!”
And whipping out her wand, she caused Harry’s books, bag, and ink bottle to chase him and Ginny from the library, whacking them repeatedly over the head as they ran.
As though to underline the importance of their upcoming examinations, a batch of pamphlets, leaflets, and notices concerning various Wizarding careers appeared on the tables in Gryffindor Tower shortly before the end of the holidays, along with yet another notice on the board, which read:
Harry looked down the list and found that he was expected in Professor McGonagall’s office at half-past two on Monday, which would mean missing most of Divination. He and the other fifth years spent a considerable part of the final weekend of the Easter break reading all the career information that had been left there for their perusal.
“Well, I don’t fancy Healing,” said Ron on the last evening of the holidays. He was immersed in a leaflet that carried the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungo’s on its front. “It says here you need at least an E at N.E.W.T. level in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. I mean … blimey. … Don’t want much, do they?”
“Well, it’s a very responsible job, isn’t it?” said Hermione absently. She was poring over a bright pink-and-orange leaflet that was headed SO YOU THINK YOU’D LIKE TO WORK IN MUGGLE RELATIONS? “You don’t seem to need many qualifications to liaise with Muggles. … All they want is an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies. … ‘Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience, and a good sense of fun!’ ”
“You’d need more than a good sense of fun to liaise with my uncle,” said Harry darkly. “Good sense of when to duck, more like …” He was halfway through a pamphlet on Wizard banking. “Listen to this:
“ ‘Are you seeking a challenging career involving travel, adventure, and substantial, danger-related treasure bonuses? Then consider a position with Gringotts Wizarding Bank, who are currently recruiting Curse-Breakers for thrilling opportunities abroad. …’ They want Arithmancy, though. … You