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Harry Potter

‘Harry, for this we need to combine our powers, forge them into one.’
‘Not again, professor.’
‘I’m afraid it is of the utmost importance, Harry. Now bend over, please.’
‘And what about Malfoy? Who knows what he is–’
‘That, I’m afraid, is no longer of any importance,’ said Dumbledore tentatively, as he waved his withered and dead-looking hand. ‘Yes, Harry, I fear that this memory of me sitting on a toilet seat reading Roald Dahl is all that counts now.’
Harry felt like knocking the Pensieve over. Once again came this urge to destroy all of Dumbledore’s possessions. It was as if Dumbledore knew this as he whispered softly:
‘Ah, Harry. It is all my rickety little fault.’ A teardrop glistened in the corner of his eye, that might have remained invisible to Harry, hadn’t the half-moon spectacles on the old man’s crooked nose magnified it so mercilessly.
‘Then I won’t let you get away with it!’ yelled Harry and he threw the Pensieve across the room. It collided with an ancient-looking globe in the corner and both objects shattered to pieces with great racket. Dumbledore, however, didn’t seem at all upset about this.
‘I understand you’re angry,’ he said, scratching his crooked nose with his left hand, which, Harry noticed, was pretty withered and dead-looking.
Then Harry threw the Sorting Hat, Fawkes’ cage and finally Godric Gryffindor’s sword at Dumbledore. The latter missed him just by an inch, but Dumbledore didn’t appear to be at all worried.
‘And now for the portraits!’ screamed Harry furiously. The witches and wizards on the wall immediately began calling for help and hurrying into each other’s frames as Harry closed in on them, his wand at the ready.
‘Enough,’ said Dumbledore calmly, but with extraordinary determination.
‘Just shut up!’ yelled Harry. ‘Shut the fuck up!’

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