“Going to try and lead the house-elves out on strike now, are you?” said George. “Going to give up all the leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?”
Several people chortled. Hermione didn’t answer.
“Don’t you go upsetting them and telling them they’ve got to take clothes and salaries!” said Fred warningly. “You’ll put them off their cooking!”
Just then, Neville caused a slight diversion by turning into a large canary.
“Oh - sorry, Neville!” Fred shouted over all the laughter. “I forgot - it was the custard creams we hexed -”
Within a minute, however, Neville had molted, and once his feathers had fallen off, he reappeared looking entirely normal. He even joined in laughing. “Canary Creams!” Fred shouted to the excitable crowd. “George and I invented them - seven Sickles each, a bargain!”
It was nearly one in the morning when Harry finally went up to the dormitory with Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. Before he pulled the curtains of his four-poster shut. Harry set his tiny model of the Hungarian Horntail on the table next to his bed, where it yawned, curled up, and closed its eyes. Really, Harry thought, as he pulled the hangings on his four-poster closed, Hagrid had a point… they were all right, really, dragons…
The start of December brought wind and sleet to Hogwarts. Drafty though the castle always was in winter. Harry was glad of its fires and thick walls every time he passed the Durmstrang ship on the lake, which was pitching in the high winds, its black sails billowing against the dark skies. He thought the Beauxbatons caravan was likely to be pretty chilly too. Hagrid, he noticed, was keeping Madame Maxime’s horses well provided with their preferred drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from the trough in the comer of their paddock was enough to make
the entire Careof Magical Creatures class light-headed. This was unhelpful, as they were still tending the horrible skrewts and needed their wits about them.
“I’m not sure whether they hibernate or not,” Hagrid told the shivering class in the windy pumpkin patch next lesson. “Thought we’d jus’ try an see if they fancied a kip… we’ll jus’ settle ‘em down in these boxes…”
There were now only ten skrewts left; apparently their desire to kill one another had not been exercised out of them. Each of them was now approaching six feet in length. Their thick gray armor; their powerful, scuttling legs; their fire-blasting ends; their stings and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the most repulsive things Harry had ever seen. The class looked dispiritedly at the enormous boxes Hagrid had brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy blankets.
“We’ll jus’ lead ‘em in here,” Hagrid said, “an’ put the lids on, and we’ll see what happens.”
But the skrewts, it transpired, did not hibernate, and did not appreciate being forced into pillow-lined boxes and nailed in. Hagrid was soon yelling, “Don panic, now, don’ panic!” while the skrewts rampaged around the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class - Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in the lead - had fled into Hagrid’s cabin through the back door and barricaded themselves in; Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were among those who remained outside trying to help Hagrid. Together they managed to restrain and tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of numerous burns and cuts; finally, only one skrewt was left.
“Don’ frighten him, now!” Hagrid shouted as Ron and Harry used their wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at the skrewt, which was advancing menacingly on them, its sting arched, quivering, over its back. “Jus’ try an slip the rope ‘round his sting, so he won hurt any o’ the others!”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want that!” Ron shouted angrily as he and Harry backed into the wall of Hagrid’s cabin, still holding the skrewt off with their sparks.
“Well, well, well… this does look like fun.”
Rita Skeeter was leaning on Hagrid’s garden fence, looking in at the mayhem. She was wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag was over her arm.
Hagrid launched himself forward on top of the skrewt that was cornering Harry and Ron and flattened it; a blast of fire shot out of its end, withering the pumpkin plants nearby.
“Who’re you?” Hagrid asked Rita Skeeter as he slipped a loop of rope around the skrewt’s sting and tightened it.
“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter,” Rita replied, beaming at him. Her gold teeth glinted.
“Thought Dumbledore said you weren’ allowed inside the school anymore,” said Hagrid, frowning slightly as he got off the slightly squashed skrewt and started tugging it over to its fellows.
Rita acted as though she hadn’t heard what Hagrid had said.
“What are these fascinating creatures called?” she asked, beaming still more widely.
“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” grunted Hagrid.
“Really?” said Rita, apparently full of lively interest. “I’ve never heard of them before… where do they come from?”
Harry noticed a dull red flush rising up out of Hagrid’s wild black beard, and his heart sank. Where had Hagrid got the skrewts from? Hermione, who seemed to be thinking along these lines, said quickly, “They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Aren’t they. Harry?”
“What? Oh yeah… ouch… interesting,” said Harry as she stepped on his foot.
“Ah, you’re here. Harry!” said Rita Skeeter as she looked around. “So you like Care of Magical Creatures, do you? One of your favorite lessons?”
“Yes,” said Harry stoutly. Hagrid beamed at him.
“Lovely,” said Rita. “Really lovely. Been teaching long?” she added to Hagrid. Harry noticed her eyes travel over Dean (who had a nasty cut across one cheek). Lavender (whose robes were badly singed), Seamus (who was nursing several burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where most of the class stood, their noses pressed against the glass waiting to see if the coast was clear.
“This is o’ny me second year,” said Hagrid.
“Lovely… I don’t suppose you’d like to give an interview, would you? Share some of your experience of magical creatures? The Prophet does a zoological column every Wednesday, as I’m sure you know. We could feature these - er - Bang- Ended Scoots.”
“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” Hagrid said eagerly. “Er - yeah, why not?”
Harry had a very bad feeling about this, but there was no way of communicating it to Hagrid without Rita Skeeter seeing, so he had to stand and watch in silence as Hagrid and Rita Skeeter made arrangements to meet in the Three Broomsticks for a good long interview later that week. Then the bell rang up at the castle, signaling the end of the lesson.
“Well, good-bye, Harry!” Rita Skeeter called merrily to him as he set off with Ron and Hermione. “Until Friday night, then, Hagrid!”
“She’ll twist everything he says,” Harry said under his breath.
“Just as long as he didn’t import those skrewts illegally or anything,” said Hermione desperately. They looked at one another - it was exactly the sort of thing Hagrid might do.
“Hagrids been in loads of trouble before, and Dumbledores never sacked him,” said Ron consolingly. “Worst that can happen is Hagrid’ll have to get rid of the skrewts. Sorry… did I say worst? I meant best.”
Harry and Hermione laughed, and, feeling slightly more cheerful, went off to lunch.
Harry thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that afternoon; they were still doing star charts and predictions, but now that he and Ron were friends once more, the whole thing seemed very funny again. Professor Trelawney, who had been so pleased with the pair of them when they had been predicting their own horrific deaths, quickly became irritated as they sniggered through her explanation of the various ways in which Pluto could disrupt everyday life.
“I would think,” she said, in a mystical whisper that did not conceal her obvious annoyance, “that some of us” - she stared very meaningfully at Harry- “might be a little less frivolous had they seen what I have seen during my crystal gazing last night. As I sat here, absorbed in my needlework, the urge to consult the orb overpowered me. I arose, I settled myself before it, and I gazed into its crystalline depths… and what do you think I saw gazing back at me?”
“An ugly old bat in outsize specs?” Ron muttered under his breath.
Harry fought hard to keep his face straight.
“Death, my dears.”
Parvati and Lavender both put their hands over their mouths, looking horrified.
“Yes,” said Professor Trelawney, nodding impressively, “it comes, ever closer, it circles overhead like a vulture, ever lower… ever lower over the castle…” She stared pointedly at Harry, who yawned very widely and obviously.
“It’d be a bit more impressive if she hadn’t done it about eighty times before,” Harry said as they finally regained the fresh air of the staircase beneath Professor Trelawney’s room. “But if I’d dropped dead every time she’s told me I’m going to, I’d be a medical miracle.”
“You’d be a sort of extra-concentrated ghost,” said Ron, chortling, as they passed the Bloody Baron going in the opposite direction, his wide eyes staring sinisterly.
“At least we didn’t get homework. I hope Hermione got loads off Professor Vector, I love not working when she is…”
But Hermione wasn’t at dinner, nor was she in the library when they went to look for her afterward. The only person in there was Viktor Krum. Ron hovered behind the bookshelves for a while, watching Krum, debating in whispers with Harry whether he should ask for an autograph - but then Ron realized that six or seven girls were lurking in the next row of books, debating exactly the same thing, and he lost his enthusiasm for the idea.
“Wonder where she’s got to?” Ron said as he and Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower.
“Dunno… balderdash.”
But the Fat Lady had barely begun to swing forward when the sound of racing feet behind them announced Hermione’s arrival.
“Harry!” she panted, skidding to a halt beside him (the Fat Lady stared down at her, eyebrows raised. “Harry, you’ve got to come - you’ve got to come, the most amazing thing’s happened- please -”
She seized Harry’s arm and started to try to drag him back along the corridor. “What’s the matter?” Harry said.
“I’ll show you when we get there - oh come on, quick -”
Harry looked around at Ron; he looked back at Harry, intrigued.
“Okay,” Harry said, starting off back down the corridor with Hermione, Ron hurrying to keep up.
“Oh don’t mind me!” the Fat Lady called irritably after them. “Don’t apologize for bothering me! I’ll just hang here, wide open, until you get back, shall I?”
“Yeah, thanks!” Ron shouted over his shoulder.
“Hermione, where are we going?” Harry asked, after she had led them down through six floors, and started down the marble staircase into the entrance hall.
“You’ll see, you’ll see in a minute!” said Hermione excitedly.
She turned left at the bottom of the staircase and hurried toward the door through which Cedric Diggory had gone the night after the Goblet of Fire had regurgitated his and Harry’s names. Harry had never been through here before. He and Ron followed Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the one that led to Snape’s dungeon, they found themselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that were mainly of food.
“Oh hang on…” said Harry slowly, halfway down the corridor. “Wait a minute, Hermione…”
“What?” She turned around to look at him, anticipation all over her face.
“I know what this is about,” said Harry.
He nudged Ron and pointed to the painting just behind Hermione. It showed a gigantic silver fruit bowl.
“Hermione!” said Ron, cottoning on. “You’re trying to rope us into that spew stuff again!”
“No, no, I’m not!” she said hastily. “And it’s not spew, Ron -”
“Changed the name, have you?” said Ron, frowning at her. “What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I’m not barging into that kitchen and trying to make them stop work, I’m not doing it -”
“I’m not asking you to!” Hermione said impatiently. “I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found - oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!”
She seized his arm again, pulled him in front of the picture of the giant fruit bowl, stretched out her forefinger, and tickled the huge green pear. It began to squirm, chuckling, and suddenly turned into a large green door handle. Hermione seized it, pulled the door open, and pushed Harry hard in the back, forcing him inside.
He had one brief glimpse of an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end, when something small hurtled toward him from the middle of the room, squealing, “Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!”
Next second all the wind had been knocked out of him as the squealing elf hit him hard in the midriff, hugging him so tightly he thought his ribs would break.
“D-Dobby?” Harry gasped.
“It is Dobby, sir, it is!” squealed the voice from somewhere around his navel. “Dobby has been hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry Potter has come to see him, sir!”
Dobby let go and stepped back a few paces, beaming up at Harry, his enormous, green, tennis-ball-shaped eyes brimming with tears of happiness. He looked almost exactly as Harry remembered him; the pencil-shaped nose, the batlike ears, the long fingers and feet - all except the clothes, which were very different. When Dobby had worked for the Malfoys, he had always worn the same filthy old pillowcase. Now, however, he was wearing the strangest assortment of garments Harry had ever seen; he had done an even worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the World Cup. He was wearing a tea cozy for a hat, on which he had pinned a number of bright badges; a tie patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of what looked like children’s soccer shorts, and odd socks. One of these, Harry saw, was the black one Harry
had removed from his own foot and tricked Mr. Malfoy into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free. The other was covered in pink and orange stripes.
“Dobby, what’re you doing here?” Harry said in amazement.
“Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!” Dobby squealed excitedly. “Professor Dumbledore gave Dobby and Winky jobs, sir!
“Winky?” said Harry. “She’s here too?”
“Yes, sir, yes!” said Dobby, and he seized Harry’s hand and pulled him off into the kitchen between the four long wooden tables that stood there. Each of these tables, Harry noticed as he passed them, was positioned exactly beneath the four House tables above, in the Great Hall. At the moment, they were clear of food, dinner having finished, but he supposed that an hour ago they had been laden with dishes that were then sent up through the ceiling to their counterparts above.
At least a hundred little elves were standing around the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as Dobby led Harry past them. They were all wearing the same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts crest, and tied, as Winky’s had been, like a toga.
Dobby stopped in front of the brick fireplace and pointed.
“Winky, sir!” he said.
Winky was sitting on a stool by the fire. Unlike Dobby, she had obviously not foraged for clothes. She was wearing a neat little skirt and blouse with a matching blue hat, which had holes in it for her large ears. However, while every one of Dobby’s strange collection of garments was so clean and well cared for that it looked brand-new, Winky was plainly not taking care other clothes at all. There were soup stains all down her blouse and a burn in her skirt.
“Hello, Winky,” said Harry.
Winky’s lip quivered. Then she burst into tears, which spilled out of her great brown eyes and splashed down her front, just as they had done at the Quidditch World Cup.
“Oh dear,” said Hermione. She and Ron had followed Harry and Dobby to the end of the kitchen. “Winky, don’t cry, please don’t…”
But Winky cried harder than ever. Dobby, on the other hand, beamed up at Harry.
“Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?” he squeaked loudly, over Winky’s sobs.
“Er - yeah, okay,” said Harry.
Instantly, about six house-elves came trotting up behind him, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits.
“Good service!” Ron said, in an impressed voice. Hermione frowned at him, but the elves all looked delighted; they bowed very low and retreated.
“How long have you been here, Dobby?” Harry asked as Dobby handed around the tea.
“Only a week. Harry Potter, sir!” said Dobby happily. “Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult indeed -”
At this, Winky howled even harder, her squashed-tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though she made no effort to stem the flow.
“Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!” Dobby squeaked. “But Dobby hasn’t found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!”
The house-elves all around the kitchen, who had been listening and watching with interest, all looked away at these words, as though Dobby had said something rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, said, “Good for you, Dobby!”
“Thank you, miss!” said Dobby, grinning toothily at her. “But most wizards doesn’t want a house-elf who wants paying, miss. ‘That’s not the point of a house-elf,’ they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby’s face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid. Harry Potter… Dobby likes being free!”
The Hogwarts house-elves had now started edging away from Dobby, as though he were carrying something contagious. Winky, however, remained where she was, though there was a definite increase in the volume other crying.
“And then, Harry Potter, Dobby goes to visit Winky, and finds out Winky has been freed too, sir!” said Dobby delightedly.
At this, Winky flung herself forward off her stool and lay face-down on the flagged stone floor, beating her tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with misery. Hermione hastily dropped down to her knees beside her and tried to comfort her, but nothing she said made the slightest difference. Dobby continued with his story, shouting shrilly over Winky’s screeches.
“And then Dobby had the idea. Harry Potter, sir! ‘Why doesn’t Dobby and Winky find work together?’ Dobby says. ‘Where is there enough work for two house elves?’ says Winky. And Dobby thinks, and it comes to him, sir! Hogwarts! So Dobby and Winky came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir, and Professor Dumbledore took us on!”
Dobby beamed very brightly, and happy tears welled in his eyes again.
“And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!”
“That’s not very much!” Hermione shouted indignantly from the floor, over Winky’s continued screaming and fist-beating.
“Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off,” said Dobby, suddenly giving a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much leisure and riches were frightening, “but Dobby beat him down, miss… Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn’t wanting too much, miss, he likes work better.”
“And how much is Professor Dumbledore paying you, Winky?” Hermione asked kindly.
If she had thought this would cheer up Winky, she was wildly mistaken. Winky did stop crying, but when she sat up she was glaring at Hermione through her massive brown eyes, her whole face sopping wet and suddenly furious.
“Winky is a disgraced elf, but Winky is not yet getting paid!” she squeaked. “Winky is not sunk so low as that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!”
“Ashamed?” said Hermione blankly. “But - Winky, come on! It’s Mr. Crouch who should be ashamed, not you! You didn’t do anything wrong, he was really horrible to you -”
But at these words, Winky clapped her hands over the holes in her hat, flattening her ears so that she couldn’t hear a word, and screeched, “You is not insulting my master, miss! You is not insulting Mr. Crouch! Mr. Crouch is a good wizard, miss! Mr. Crouch is right to sack bad Winky!”
“Winky is having trouble adjusting, Harry Potter,” squeaked Dobby confidentially. “Winky forgets she is not bound to Mr. Crouch anymore; she is allowed to speak her mind now, but she won’t do it.”
“Can’t house-elves speak their minds about their masters, then?” Harry asked.
“Oh no, sir, no,” said Dobby, looking suddenly serious. “‘Tis part of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We upholds the family’s honor, and we never speaks ill of them - though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said we is free to - to-”
Dobby looked suddenly nervous and beckoned Harry closer. Harry bent forward.
Dobby whispered, “He said we is free to call him a - a barmy old codger if we likes, sir!”
Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle.
“But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter,” he said, talking normally again, and shaking his head so that his ears flapped. “Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and our silence for him.”
“But you can say what you like about the Malfoys now?” Harry asked him, grinning.
A slightly fearful look came into Dobby’s immense eyes.
“Dobby - Dobby could,” he said doubtfully. He squared his small shoulders. “Dobby could tell Harry Potter that his old masters were - were - bad Dark wizards’.”
Dobby stood for a moment, quivering all over, horror-struck by his own daring - then he rushed over to the nearest table and began banging his head on it very hard, squealing, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”
Harry seized Dobby by the back of his tie and pulled him away from the table.
“Thank you. Harry Potter, thank you,” said Dobby breathlessly, rubbing his head.
“You just need a bit of practice,” Harry said.
“Practice!” squealed Winky furiously. “You is ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dobby, talking that way about your masters!”
“They isn’t my masters anymore, Winky!” said Dobby defiantly. “Dobby doesn’t care what they think anymore!”
“Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!” moaned Winky, tears leaking down her face once more. “My poor Mr. Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after the Crouches all my life, and my mother is doing it before me, and my grandmother is doing it before her… oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was freed? Oh the shame, the shame!” She buried her face in her skirt again and bawled.
“Winky,” said Hermione firmly, “I’m quite sure Mr. Crouch is getting along perfectly well without you. We’ve seen him, you know -”
“You is seeing my master?” said Winky breathlessly, raising her tearstained face out of her skirt once more and goggling at Hermione. “You is seeing him here at Hogwarts?”
“Yes,” said Hermione, “he and Mr. Bagman are judges in the Triwizard Tournament.”
“Mr. Bagman comes too?” squeaked Winky, and to Harry’s great surprise (and Ron’s and Hermione’s too, by the looks on their faces), she looked angry again. “Mr. Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn’t liking him, oh no, not at all!”
“Bagman - bad?” said Harry.
“Oh yes,” Winky said, nodding her head furiously, “My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky is not saying… Winky - Winky keeps her master’s secrets…”
She dissolved yet again in tears; they could hear her sobbing into her skirt, “Poor master, poor master, no Winky to help him no more!”
They couldn’t get another sensible word out of Winky. They left her to her crying and finished their tea, while Dobby chatted happily about his life as a free elf and his plans for his wages.
“Dobby is going to buy a sweater next, Harry Potter!” he said happily, pointing at his bare chest,
“Tell you what, Dobby,” said Ron, who seemed to have taken a great liking to the elf, “I’ll give you the one my mum knits me this Christmas, I always get one from her. You don’t mind maroon, do you?”
Dobby was delighted.
“We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you,” Ron told him, “but it’ll go well with your tea cozy.”
As they prepared to take their leave, many of the surrounding elves pressed in upon them, offering snacks to take back upstairs. Hermione refused, with a pained look at the way the elves kept bowing and curtsying, but Harry and Ron loaded their pockets with cream cakes and pies.
“Thanks a lot!” Harry said to the elves, who had all clustered around the door to say good night. “See you, Dobby!”
“Harry Potter… can Dobby come and see you sometimes, sir?” Dobby asked tentatively.
“‘Course you can,” said Harry, and Dobby beamed.
“You know what?” said Ron, once he, Hermione, and Harry had left the kitchens behind and were climbing the steps into the entrance hall again. “All these years I’ve been really impressed with Fred and George, nicking food from the kitchens - well, it’s not exactly difficult, is it? They can’t wait to give it away!”
“I think this is the best thing that could have happened to those elves, you know,” said Hermione, leading the way back up the marble staircase. “Dobby coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see how happy he is, being free, and slowly it’ll dawn on them that they want that too!”
“Let’s hope they don’t look too closely at Winky,” said Harry.
“Oh she’ll cheer up,” said Hermione, though she sounded a bit doubtful. “Once the shock’s worn off, and she’s got used to Hogwarts, she’ll see how much better off she is without that Crouch man.”
“She seems to love him,” said Ron thickly (he had just started on a cream cake).
“Doesn’t think much of Bagman, though, does she?” said Harry. “Wonder what Crouch says at home about him?”
“Probably says he’s not a very good Head of Department,” said Hermione, “and let’s face it… he’s got a point, hasn’t he?”
“I’d still rather work for him than old Crouch,” said Ron. “At least Bagman’s got a sense of humor.”
“Don’t let Percy hear you saying that,” Hermione said, smiling slightly.
“Yeah, well, Percy wouldn’t want to work for anyone with a sense of humor, would he?” said Ron, now starting on a chocolate eclair. “Percy wouldn’t recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby’s tea cozy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Unexpected Task
“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?”
Professor McGonagall’s irritated voice cracked like a whip through the Transfiguration class on Thursday, and Harry and Ron both jumped and looked up.
It was the end of the lesson; they had finished their work; the guinea fowl they had been changing into guinea pigs had been shut away in a large cage on Professor McGonagall’s desk (Neville’s still had feathers); they had copied down their homework from the blackboard (“Describe, with examples, the ways in which Transforming Spells must be adapted when performing Cross-Species Switches”}.
The bell was due to ring at any moment, and Harry and Ron, who had been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George’s fake wands at the back of the class, looked up, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry, a rubber haddock.
“Now that Potter and Weasley have been kind enough to act their age,” said Professor McGonagall, with an angry look at the pair of them as the head of Harry’s haddock drooped and fell silently to the floor - Ron’s parrot’s beak had severed it moments before - “I have something to say to you all.
“The Yule Ball is approaching - a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above - although you may invite a younger student if you wish -”
Lavender Brown let out a shrill giggle. Parvati Patil nudged her hard in the ribs, her face working furiously as she too fought not to giggle. They both looked around at Harry, Professor McGonagall ignored them, which Harry thought was distinctly unfair, as she had just told off him and Ron.
“Dress robes will be worn,” Professor McGonagall continued, “and the ball will start at eight o’clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then -”
Professor McGonagall stared deliberately around the class.
“The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to - er - let our hair down,” she said, in a disapproving voice.
Lavender giggled harder than ever, with her hand pressed hard against her mouth to stifle the sound. Harry could see what was funny this time: Professor McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, looked as though she had never let her hair down in any sense.
“But that does NOT mean,” Professor McGonagall went on, “that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way.”
The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders.
Professor McGonagall called above the noise, “Potter - a word, if you please.”
Assuming this had something to do with his headless rubber haddock, Harry proceeded gloomily to the teacher’s desk. Professor McGonagall waited until the rest of the class had gone, and then said, “Potter, the champions and their partners -”
“What partners?” said Harry.
Profesor McGonagall looked suspiciously at him, as though she thought he was trying to be funny.
“Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter,” she said coldly. “Your dance partners.”
Harry’s insides seemed to curl up and shrivel.
“Dance partners?” He felt himself going red. “I don’t dance,” he said quickly.
“Oh yes, you do,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “That’s what I’m telling you. Traditionally, the champions and their partners open the ball.”
Harry had a sudden mental image of himself in a top hat and tails, accompanied by a girl in the sort of frilly dress Aunt Petunia always wore to Uncle Vernon’s work parties.
“I’m not dancing,” he said.
“It is traditional,” said Professor McGonagall firmly. “You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school. So make sure you get yourself a partner, Potter.”
“But-I don’t-”
“You heard me, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall in a very final sort of way.
A week ago Harry would have said finding a partner for a dance would be a cinch compared to taking on a Hungarian Horntail. But now that he had done the latter, and was facing the prospect of asking a girl to the ball, he thought he’d rather have another round with the dragon.
Harry had never known so many people to put their names down to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; he always did, of course, because the alternative was usually going back to Privet
Drive, but he had always been very much in the minority before now. This year, however, everyone in the fourth year and above seemed to be staying, and they all seemed to Harry to be obsessed with the coming ball - or at least all the girls were, and it was amazing how many girls Hogwarts suddenly seemed to hold; he had never quite noticed that before. Girls giggling and whispering in the corridors, girls shrieking with laughter as boys passed them, girls excitedly comparing notes on what they were going to wear on Christmas night…
“Why do they have to move in packs?” Harry asked Ron as a dozen or so girls walked past them, sniggering and staring at Harry. “How’re you supposed to get one on their own to ask them?”
“Lasso one?” Ron suggested. “Got any idea who you’re going to try?”
Harry didn’t answer. He knew perfectly well whom he’d like to ask, but working up the nerve was something else… Cho was a year older than he was; she was very pretty; she was a very good Quidditch player, and she was also very popular. Ron seemed to know what was going on inside Harry’s head.
“Listen, you’re not going to have any trouble. You’re a champion. You’ve just beaten a Hungarian Horntail. I bet they’ll be queuing up to go with you.”
In tribute to their recently repaired friendship, Ron had kept the bitterness in his voice to a bare minimum. Moreover, to Harry’s amazement, he turned out to be quite right.
A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom Harry had never spoken in his life asked him to go to the ball with her the very next day. Harry was so taken aback he said no before he’d even stopped to consider the matter. The girl walked off looking rather hurt, and Harry had to endure Dean’s, Seamus’s, and Ron’s taunts about her all through History of Magic. The following day, two more girls asked him, a second year and (to his horror) a fifth year who looked as though she might knock him out if he refused.
“She was quite good-looking,” said Ron fairly, after he’d stopped laughing.
“She was a foot taller than me,” said Harry, still unnerved. “Imagine what I’d look like trying to dance with her.”
Hermione’s words about Krum kept coming back to him. “They only like him because he’s famous!” Harry doubted very much if any of the girls who had asked to be his partner so far would have wanted to go to the ball with him if he hadn’t been a school champion. Then he wondered if this would bother him if Cho asked him.
On the whole, Harry had to admit that even with the embarrassing prospect of opening the ball before him, life had definitely improved since he had got through the first task. He wasn’t attracting nearly as much unpleasantness in the corridors anymore, which he suspected had a lot to do with Cedric - he had an idea Cedric might have told the Hufflepuffs to leave Harry alone, in gratitude for Harry’s tipoff about the dragons. There seemed to be fewer Support Cedric Diggory! badges around too. Draco Malfoy, of course, was still quoting Rita Skeeter’s article to
him at every possible opportunity, but he was getting fewer and fewer laughs out of it - and just to heighten Harry’s feeling of well-being, no story about Hagrid had appeared in the Daily Prophet.
“She didn’ seem very int’rested in magical creatures, ter tell yeh the truth,” Hagrid said, when Harry, Ron, and Hermione asked him how his interview with Rita Skeeter had gone during the last Care of Magical Creatures lesson of the term. To their very great relief, Hagrid had given up on direct contact with the skrewts now, and they were merely sheltering behind his cabin today, sitting at a trestle table and preparing a fresh selection of food with which to tempt the skrewts.
“She jus’ wanted me ter talk about you, Harry,” Hagrid continued in a low voice. “Well, I told her we’d been friends since I went ter fetch yeh from the Dursleys. ‘Never had to tell him off in four years?’ she said. ‘Never played you up in lessons, has he?’ I told her no, an she didn’ seem happy at all. Yeh’d think she wanted me to say yeh were horrible, Harry.”
“‘Course she did,” said Harry, throwing lumps of dragon liver into a large metal bowl and picking up his knife to cut some more. “She can’t keep writing about what a tragic little hero I am, it’ll get boring.”
“She wants a new angle, Hagrid,” said Ron wisely as he shelled salamander eggs. “You were supposed to say Harry’s a mad delinquent!”
“But he’s not!” said Hagrid, looking genuinely shocked.
“She should’ve interviewed Snape,” said Harry grimly. “He’d give her the goods on me any day. ‘Potter has been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this school… ’”
“Said that, did he?” said Hagrid, while Ron and Hermione laughed. “Well, yeh might’ve bent a few rules. Harry, bu’ yeh’re all righ’ really, aren’ you?”
“Cheers, Hagrid,” said Harry, grinning.
“You coming to this ball thing on Christmas Day, Hagrid?” said Ron.
“Though’ I might look in on it, yeah,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Should be a good do, I reckon. You’ll be openin the dancin’, won yeh, Harry? Who’re you takin’?”
“No one, yet,” said Harry, feeling himself going red again. Hagrid didn’t pursue the subject.
The last week of term became increasingly boisterous as it progressed. Rumors about the Yule Ball were flying everywhere, though Harry didn’t believe half of them - for instance, that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had booked the Weird Sisters. Exactly who or what the Weird Sisters were Harry didn’t know, never having had access to a wizard’s wireless, but he deduced from the wild excitement of those who had grown up listening to the WWN (Wizarding Wireless
Network) that they were a very famous musical group.
Some of the teachers, like little Professor Flitwick, gave up trying to teach them much when their minds were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play games in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of it talking to Harry about the perfect Summoning Charm Harry had used during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. Other teachers were not so generous. Nothing would ever deflect Professor Binns, for example, from plowing on through his notes on goblin rebellions - as Binns hadn’t let his own death stand in the way of continuing to teach, they supposed a small thing like Christmas wasn’t going to put him off. It was amazing how he could make even bloody and vicious goblin riots sound as boring as Percy’s cauldron-bottom report. Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes too, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term.
“Evil, he is,” Ron said bitterly that night in the Gryffindor common room. “Springing a test on us on the last day. Ruining the last bit of term with a whole load of studying.”
“Mmm… you’re not exactly straining yourself, though, are you?” said Hermione, looking at him over the top of her Potions notes. Ron was busy building a card castle out of his Exploding Snap pack - a much more interesting pastime than with Muggle cards, because of the chance that the whole thing would blow up at any second.
“It’s Christmas, Hermione,” said Harry lazily; he was rereading Flying with the Cannons for the tenth time in an armchair near the fire. Hermione looked severely over at him too.
“I’d have thought you’d be doing something constructive, Harry, even if you don’t want to learn your antidotes!”
“Like what?” Harry said as he watched Joey Jenkins of the Cannons belt a Bludger toward a Ballycastle Bats Chaser.
“That egg!” Hermione hissed.
“Come on, Hermione, I’ve got till February the twenty-fourth,” Harry said.
He had put the golden egg upstairs in his trunk and hadn’t opened it since the celebration party after the first task. There were still two and a half months to go until he needed to know what all the screechy wailing meant, after all.
“But it might take weeks to work it out!” said Hermione. “You’re going to look a real idiot if everyone else knows what the next task is and you don’t!”
“Leave him alone, Hermione, he’s earned a bit of a break,” said Ron, and he placed the last two cards on top of the castle and the whole lot blew up, singeing his eyebrows.
“Nice look Ron… go well with your dress robes, that will.”
It was Fred and George. They sat down at the table with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Ron felt how much damage had been done.
“Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?” George asked.
“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” said Ron. “Why?”
“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” said Fred sarcastically.
“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great prat,” said George.
“Who d’you two keep writing to, eh?” said Ron.
“Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you too,” said Fred, waving his wand threateningly. “So… you lot got dates for the ball yet?”
“Nope,” said Ron.
“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone,” said Fred.
“Who’re you going with, then?” said Ron.
“Angelina,” said Fred promptly, without a trace of embarrassment.
“What?” said Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked her?”
“Good point,” said Fred. He turned his head and called across the common room, “Oy! Angelina!”
Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near the fire, looked over at him.
“What?” she called back.
“Want to come to the ball with me?”
Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look.
“All right, then,” she said, and she turned back to Alicia and carried on chatting with a bit of a grin on her face.
“There you go,” said Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of cake.”
He got to his feet, yawning, and said, “We’d better use a school owl then, George, come on…”
They left. Ron stopped feeling his eyebrows and looked across the smoldering wreck of his card castle at Harry.
“We should get a move on, you know… ask someone. He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of trolls.”
Hermione let out a sputter of indignation.
“A pair of… what, excuse me?”
“Well - you know,” said Ron, shrugging. “I’d rather go alone than with – with Eloise Midgen, say.”
“Her acne’s loads better lately - and she’s really nice!”
“Her nose is off-center,” said Ron.
“Oh I see,” Hermione said, bristling. “So basically, you’re going to take the best looking girl who’ll have you, even if she’s completely horrible?”
“Er - yeah, that sounds about right,” said Ron.
“I’m going to bed,” Hermione snapped, and she swept off toward the girls’ staircase without another word.
The Hogwarts staff, demonstrating a continued desire to impress the visitors from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, seemed determined to show the castle at its best this Christmas. When the decorations went up. Harry noticed that they were the most stunning he had yet seen inside the school. Everlasting icicles had been attached to the banisters of the marble staircase; the usual twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall were bedecked with everything from luminous holly berries to real, hooting, golden owls, and the suits of armor had all been bewitched to sing carols whenever anyone passed them. It was quite something to hear “O Come, All Ye Faithful” sung by an empty helmet that only knew half the words. Several times, Filch the caretaker had to extract Peeves from inside the armor, where he had taken to hiding, filling in the gaps in the songs with lyrics of his own invention, all of which were very rude.
And still Harry hadn’t asked Cho to the ball. He and Ron were getting very nervous now, though as Harry pointed out, Ron would look much less stupid than he would without a partner; Harry was supposed to be starting the dancing with the other champions.
“I suppose there’s always Moaning Myrtle,” he said gloomily, referring to the ghost who haunted the girls’ toilets on the second floor.
“Harry - we’ve just got to grit our teeth and do it,” said Ron on Friday morning, in a tone that suggested they were planning the storming of an impregnable fortress.
“When we get back to the common room tonight, we’ll both have partners - agreed?”
“Er… okay,” said Harry.
But every time he glimpsed Cho that day - during break, and then lunchtime, and once on the way to History of Magic - she was surrounded by friends. Didn’t she ever go anywhere alone? Could he perhaps ambush her as she was going into a bathroom? But no - she even seemed to go there with an escort of four or five girls. Yet if he didn’t do it soon, she was bound to have been asked by somebody else.
He found it hard to concentrate on Snape’s Potions test, and consequently forgot to add the key ingredient - a bezoar - meaning that he received bottom marks. He didn’t care, though; he was too busy screwing up his courage for what he was about to do. When the bell rang, he grabbed his bag, and hurried to the dungeon door.
“I’ll meet you at dinner,” he said to Ron and Hermione, and he dashed off upstairs.
He’d just have to ask Cho for a private word, that was all… He hurried off through the packed corridors looking for her, and (rather sooner than he had expected) he found her, emerging from a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson.
“Er - Cho? Could I have a word with you?”
Giggling should be made illegal Harry thought furiously, as all the girls around Cho started doing it. She didn’t, though. She said, “Okay,” and followed him out of earshot other classmates.
Harry turned to look at her and his stomach gave a weird lurch as though he had missed a step going downstairs.
“Er,” he said.
He couldn’t ask her. He couldn’t. But he had to. Cho stood there looking puzzled, watching him. The words came out before Harry had quite got his tongue around them.
“Wangoballwime?”
“Sorry?” said Cho.
“D’you - d’you want to go to the ball with me?” said Harry. Why did he have to go red now? Why?
“Oh!” said Cho, and she went red too. “Oh Harry, I’m really sorry,” and she truly looked it. “I’ve already said I’ll go with someone else.”
“Oh,” said Harry.
It was odd; a moment before his insides had been writhing like snakes, but suddenly he didn’t seem to have any insides at all.
“Oh okay,” he said, “no problem.”
“I’m really sorry,” she said again.
“That’s okay,” said Harry.
They stood there looking at each other, and then Cho said, “Well-”
“Yeah,” said Harry.
“Well, ‘bye,” said Cho, still very red. She walked away.
Harry called after her, before he could stop himself.
“Who’re you going with?”
“Oh - Cedric,” she said. “Cedric Diggory.”
“Oh right,” said Harry.
His insides had come back again. It felt as though they had been filled with lead in their absence.
Completely forgetting about dinner, he walked slowly back up to Gryffindor Tower, Cho’s voice echoing in his ears with every step he took. “Cedric – Cedric Diggory.” He had been starting to quite like Cedric - prepared to overlook the fact that he had once beaten him at Quidditch, and was handsome, and popular, and nearly everyone’s favorite champion. Now he suddenly realized that Cedric was in fact a useless pretty boy who didn’t have enough brains to fill an eggcup.
“Fairy lights,” he said dully to the Fat Lady - the password had been changed the previous day.
“Yes, indeed, dear!” she trilled, straightening her new tinsel hair band as she swung forward to admit him.
Entering the common room, Harry looked around, and to his surprise he saw Ron sitting ashen-faced in a distant corner. Ginny was sitting with him, talking to him in what seemed to be a low, soothing voice.
“What’s up, Ron?” said Harry, joining them.
Ron looked up at Harry, a sort of blind horror in his face.
“Why did I do it?” he said wildly. “I don’t know what made me do it!
“What?” said Harry.
“He - er - just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball with him,” said Ginny. She looked as though she was fighting back a smile, but she kept patting Ron’s arm sympathetically.
“You what?’ said Harry.
“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped again. “What was I playing at? There were people - all around - I’ve gone mad - everyone watching! I was just walking past her in the entrance hall - she was standing there talking to Diggory - and it sort of came over me - and I asked her!”
Ron moaned and put his face in his hands. He kept talking, though the words were barely distinguishable.
“She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn’t even answer. And then - I dunno - I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it.”
“She’s part veela,” said Harry. “You were right - her grandmother was one. It wasn’t your fault, I bet you just walked past when she was turning on the old charm for Diggory and got a blast of it - but she was wasting her time. He’s going with Cho Chang.”
Ron looked up.
“I asked her to go with me just now,” Harry said dully, “and she told me.”
Ginny had suddenly stopped smiling.
“This is mad,” said Ron. “We’re the only ones left who haven’t got anyone - well, except Neville. Hey - guess who he asked? Hermione!”
“What?” said Harry, completely distracted by this startling news.
“Yeah, I know!” said Ron, some of the color coming back into his face as he started to laugh. “He told me after Potions! Said she’s always been really nice, helping him out with work and stuff - but she told him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if! She just didn’t want to go with Neville… I mean, who would?”
“Don’t!” said Ginny, annoyed. “Don’t laugh -”
Just then Hermione climbed in through the portrait hole.
“Why weren’t you two at dinner?” she said, coming over to join them.
“Because - oh shut up laughing, you two - because they’ve both just been turned down by girls they asked to the ball!” said Ginny.
That shut Harry and Ron up.
“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” said Ron sourly.
“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” said Hermione loftily. “Eloise Midgen starting to look quite pretty now, is she? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone somewhere who’ll have you.”
But Ron was staring at Hermione as though suddenly seeing her in a whole new light.
“Hermione, Neville’s right - you are a girl…”
“Oh well spotted,” she said acidly.
“Well - you can come with one of us!”
“No, I can’t,” snapped Hermione.
“Oh come on,” he said impatiently, “we need partners, we’re going to look really stupid if we haven’t got any, everyone else has…”
“I can’t come with you,” said Hermione, now blushing, “because I’m already going with someone.”
“No, you’re not!” said Ron. “You just said that to get rid of Neville!”
“Oh did I?” said Hermione, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!”
Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again.
“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” he said. “That do? Will you come now?”
“I’ve already told you!” Hermione said very angrily. “I’m going with someone else!”
And she stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories again.
“She’s lying,” said Ron flatly, watching her go.
“She’s not,” said Ginny quietly.
“Who is it then?” said Ron sharply.
“I’m not telling you, it’s her business,” said Ginny.
“Right,” said Ron, who looked extremely put out, “this is getting stupid. Ginny, you can go with Harry, and I’ll just -”
“I can’t,” said Ginny, and she went scarlet too. “I’m going with - with Neville. He asked me when Hermione said no, and I thought… well… I’m not going to be able to go otherwise, I’m not in fourth year.” She looked extremely miserable. “I think I’ll go and have dinner,” she said, and she got up and walked off to the portrait hole, her head bowed.
Ron goggled at Harry.
“What’s got into them?” he demanded.
But Harry had just seen Parvati and Lavender come in through the portrait hole. The time had come for drastic action.
“Wait here,” he said to Ron, and he stood up, walked straight up to Parvati, and said, “Parvati? Will you go to the ball with me?”
Parvati went into a fit of giggles. Harry waited for them to subside, his fingers crossed in the pocket of his robes.
“Yes, all right then,” she said finally, blushing furiously.
“Thanks,” said Harry, in relief. “Lavender - will you go with Ron?”
“She’s going with Seamus,” said Parvati, and the pair of them giggled harder than ever.
Harry sighed.
“Can’t you think of anyone who’d go with Ron?” he said, lowering his voice so that Ron wouldn’t hear.
“What about Hermione Granger?” said Parvati.
“She’s going with someone else.”
Parvati looked astonished.
“Ooooh - who?” she said keenly.
Harry shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “So what about Ron?”
“Well…” said Parvati slowly, “I suppose my sister might… Padma, you know… in Ravenclaw. I’ll ask her if you like.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” said Harry. “Let me know, will you?”
And he went back over to Ron, feeling that this ball was a lot more trouble than it was worth, and hoping very much that Padma Patil’s nose was dead center.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Yule Ball
Despite the very heavy load of homework that the fourth years had been given for the holidays Harry was in no mood to work when term ended, and spent the week leading up to Christmas enjoying himself as fully as possible along with everyone else. Gryffindor Tower was hardly less crowded now than during term-time; it seemed to have shrunk slightly too, as its inhabitants were being so much rowdier than usual. Fred and George had had a great success with their Canary Creams, and for the first couple of days of the holidays, people kept bursting into feather all over the place. Before long, however, all the Gryffindors had learned to treat food anybody else offered them with extreme caution, in case it had a Canary Cream concealed in the center, and George confided to Harry that he and Fred were now working on developing something else. Harry made a mental note never to accept so much as a crisp from Fred and George in future. He still hadn’t forgotten Dudley and the Ton-Tongue Toffee.
Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds now. The pale blue Beauxbatons carriage looked like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the iced gingerbread house that was Hagrid’s cabin, while the Durmstrang ship’s portholes were glazed with ice, the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in the kitchen were outdoing themselves with a series of rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only Fleur Delacour seemed to be able to find anything to complain about.
“It is too ‘eavy, all zis ‘Ogwarts food,” they heard her saying grumpily as they left the Great Hall behind her one evening (Ron skulking behind Harry, keen not to be spotted by Fleur). “I will not fit into my dress robes!”
“Oooh there’s a tragedy,” Hermione snapped as Fleur went out into the entrance hall. “She really thinks a lot of herself, that one, doesn’t she?”
“Hermione - who are you going to the ball with?” said Ron.
He kept springing this question on her, hoping to startle her into a response by asking it when she least expected it. However, Hermione merely frowned and said, “I’m not telling you, you’ll just make fun of me.”
“You’re joking, Weasley!” said Malfoy, behind them. “You’re not telling me someone’s asked that to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?”
Harry and Ron both whipped around, but Hermione said loudly, waving to somebody over Malfoys shoulder, “Hello, Professor Moody!”
Malfoy went pale and jumped backward, looking wildly around for Moody, but he was still up at the staff table, finishing his stew.
“Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?” said Hermione scathingly, and she, Harry, and Ron went up the marble staircase laughing heartily.
“Hermione,” said Ron, looking sideways at her, suddenly frowning, “your teeth…”
“What about them?” she said.
“Well, they’re different… I’ve just noticed…”
“Of course they are - did you expect me to keep those fangs Malfoy gave me?”
“No, I mean, they’re different to how they were before he put that hex on you… They’re all… straight and - and normal-sized.”
Hermione suddenly smiled very mischievously, and Harry noticed it too: It was a very different smile from the one he remembered.
“Well… when I went up to Madam Pomfrey to get them shrunk, she held up a mirror and told me to stop her when they were back to how they normally were,” she said. “And I just… let her carry on a bit.” She smiled even more widely.
“Mum and Dad won’t be too pleased. I’ve been trying to persuade them to let me shrink them for ages, but they wanted me to carry on with my braces. You know, they’re dentists, they just don’t think teeth and magic should - look! Pigwidgeons back!”
Ron’s tiny owl was twittering madly on the top of the icicle-laden banisters, a scroll of parchment tied to his leg. People passing him were pointing and laughing, and a group of third-year girls paused and said, “Oh look at the weeny owl! Isn’t he cute?”
“Stupid little feathery git!” Ron hissed, hurrying up the stairs and snatching up Pigwidgeon. “You bring letters to the addressee! You don’t hang around showing off!”
Pigwidgeon hooted happily, his head protruding over Ron’s fist. The third-year girls all looked very shocked.
“Clear off!” Ron snapped at them, waving the fist holding Pigwidgeon, who hooted more happily than ever as he soared through the air. “Here - take it, Harry,” Ron added in an undertone as the third-year girls scuttled away looking scandalized. He pulled Sirius’s reply off Pigwidgeons leg. Harry pocketed it, and they hurried back to Gryffindor Tower to read it.
Everyone in the common room was much too busy in letting off more holiday steam to observe what anyone else was up to. Ron, Harry, and Hermione sat apart from everyone else by a dark window that was gradually filling up with snow, and Harry read out:
Dear Harry,
Congratulations on getting past the Horntail. Whoever put your name in that goblet shouldn’t be feeling too happy right now! I was going to suggest a Conjunctivitus Curse, as a dragon’s eyes are its weakest point –
“That’s what Krum did!” Hermione whispered –
But your way was better, I’m impressed.
Don’t get complacent, though, Harry. You’ve only done one task; whoever put you in for the tournament’s got plenty more opportunity if they’re trying to hurt you. Keep your eyes open -particularly when the person we discussed is around and concentrate on keeping yourself out of trouble. Keep in touch, I still want to hear about anything unusual.
Sirius
“He sounds exactly like Moody,” said Harry quietly, tucking the letter away again inside his robes. “‘Constant vigilance!’ You’d think I walk around with my eyes shut, banging off the walls…”
“But he’s right, Harry,” said Hermione, “you have still got two tasks to do. You really ought to have a look at that egg, you know, and start working out what it means…”
“Hermione, he’s got ages!” snapped Ron. “Want a game of chess, Harry?”
“Yeah, okay,” said Harry. Then, spotting the look on Hermione’s face, he said, “Come on, how’m I supposed to concentrate with all this noise going on? I won’t even be able to hear the egg over this lot.”
“Oh I suppose not,” she sighed, and she sat down to watch their chess match, which culminated in an exciting checkmate of Ron’s, involving a couple of recklessly brave pawns and a very violent bishop.
Harry awoke very suddenly on Christmas Day. Wondering what had caused his abrupt return to consciousness, he opened his eyes, and saw something with very large, round, green eyes staring back at him in the darkness, so close they were almost nose to nose.
“Dobby!” Harry yelled, scrambling away from the elf so fast he almost fell out of bed. “Don’t do that!”
“Dobby is sorry, sir!” squeaked Dobby anxiously, jumping backward with his long fingers over his mouth. “Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter ‘Merry Christmas’ and bring him a present, Sir! Harry Potter did say Dobby could come and see him sometimes, sir!”
“It’s okay,” said Harry, still breathing rather faster than usual, while his heart rate returned to normal. “Just - just prod me or something in future, all right, don’t bend over me like that…”
Harry pulled back the curtains around his four-poster, took his glasses from his bedside table, and put them on. His yell had awoken Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville. All of them were peering through the gaps in their own hangings, heavyeyed and tousle-haired.
“Someone attacking you, Harry?” Seamus asked sleepily.
“No, it’s just Dobby,” Harry muttered. “Go back to sleep.”
“Nah… presents!” said Seamus, spotting the large pile at the foot of his bed. Ron, Dean, and Neville decided that now they were awake they might as well get down to some present-opening too. Harry turned back to Dobby, who was now standing nervously next to Harrys bed, still looking worried that he had upset Harry. There was a Christmas bauble tied to the loop on top of his tea cozy.
“Can Dobby give Harry Potter his present?” he squeaked tentatively.
“‘Course you can,” said Harry. “Er… I’ve got something for you too.”
It was a lie; he hadn’t bought anything for Dobby at all, but he quickly opened his trunk and pulled out a particularly knobbly rolled-up pair of socks. They were his oldest and foulest, mustard yellow, and had once belonged to Uncle Vernon. The reason they were extra-knobbly was that Harry had been using them to cushion his Sneakoscope for over a year now. He pulled out the Sneako-scope and handed the socks to Dobby, saying, “Sorry, I forgot to wrap them…”
But Dobby was utterly delighted.
“Socks are Dobby’s favorite, favorite clothes, sir!” he said, ripping off his odd ones and pulling on Uncle Vernon’s. “I has seven now, sir… But sir…” he said, his eyes widening, having pulled both socks up to their highest extent, so that they reached to the bottom of his shorts, “they has made a mistake in the shop, Harry Potter, they is giving you two the same!”
“Ah, no, Harry, how come you didn’t spot that?” said Ron, grinning over from his own bed, which was now strewn with wrapping paper. “Tell you what, Dobby - here you go - take these two, and you can mix them up properly. And here’s your sweater.”
He threw Dobby a pair of violet socks he had just unwrapped, and the handknitted sweater Mrs. Weasley had sent, Dobby looked quite overwhelmed.
“Sir is very kind!” he squeaked, his eyes brimming with tears again, bowing deeply to Ron. “Dobby knew sir must be a great wizard, for he is Harry Potter’s greatest friend, but Dobby did not know that he was also as generous of spirit, as noble, as selfless -”
“They’re only socks,” said Ron, who had gone slightly pink around the ears, though he looked rather pleased all the same. “Wow, Harry -” He had just opened Harry’s present, a Chudley Cannon hat. “Cool!” He jammed it onto his head, where it clashed horribly with his hair.
Dobby now handed Harry a small package, which turned out to be - socks.
“Dobby is making them himself, sir!” the elf said happily. “He is buying the wool out of his wages, sir!”
The left sock was bright red and had a pattern of broomsticks upon it; the right sock was green with a pattern of Snitches.
“They’re… they’re really… well, thanks, Dobby,” said Harry, and he pulled them on, causing Dobby’s eyes to leak with happiness again.
“Dobby must go now, sir, we is already making Christmas dinner in the kitchens!” said Dobby, and he hurried out of the dormitory, waving good-bye to Ron and the others as he passed.
Harry’s other presents were much more satisfactory than Dobby’s odd socks – with the obvious exception of the Dursleys’, which consisted of a single tissue, an all time low - Harry supposed they too were remembering the Ton-Tongue Toffee.
Hermione had given Harry a book called Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland; Ron, a bulging bag of Dungbombs; Sirius, a handy penknife with attachments to unlock any lock and undo any knot; and Hagrid, a vast box of sweets including all Harrys favorites: Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Chocolate Frogs, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, and Fizzing Whizbees. There was also, of course, Mrs. Weasley’s usual package, including a new sweater (green, with a picture of a dragon on it - Harry supposed Charlie had told her all about the Horntail), and a large quantity of homemade mince pies.
Harry and Ron met up with Hermione in the common room, and they went down to breakfast together. They spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where everyone was enjoying their presents, then returned to the Great Hall for a magnificent lunch, which included at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas puddings, and large piles of Cribbage’s Wizarding Crackers.
They went out onto the grounds in the afternoon; the snow was untouched except for the deep channels made by the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students on their way up to the castle. Hermione chose to watch Harry and the Weasleys’ snowball fight rather than join in, and at five o’clock said she was going back upstairs to get ready for the ball.
“What, you need three hours?” said Ron, looking at her incredulously and paying for his lapse in concentration when a large snowball, thrown by George, hit him hard on the side of the head. “Who’re you going with?” he yelled after Hermione, but she just waved and disappeared up the stone steps into the castle.
There was no Christmas tea today, as the ball included a feast, so at seven o’clock, when it had become hard to aim properly, the others abandoned their snowball fight and trooped back to the common room. The Fat Lady was sitting in her frame with her friend Violet from downstairs, both of them extremely tipsy, empty boxes of chocolate liqueurs littering the bottom other picture.
“Lairy fights, that’s the one!” she giggled when they gave the password, and she swung forward to let them inside.
Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville changed into their dress robes up in their dormitory, all of them looking very self-conscious, but none as much as Ron, who surveyed himself in the long mirror in the corner with an appalled look on his face. There was just no getting around the fact that his robes looked more like a dress than anything else. In a desperate attempt to make them look more manly, he used a Severing Charm on the ruff and cuffs. It worked fairly well; at least he was now lace-free, although he hadn’t done a very neat job, and the edges still looked
depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.
“I still can’t work out how you two got the best-looking girls in the year,” muttered Dean.
“Animal magnetism,” said Ron gloomily, pulling stray threads out of his cuffs.
The common room looked strange, full of people wearing different colors instead of the usual mass of black. Parvati was waiting for Harry at the foot of the stairs. She looked very pretty indeed, in robes of shocking pink, with her long dark plait braided with gold, and gold bracelets glimmering at her wrists. Harry was relieved to see that she wasn’t giggling.
“You - er - look nice,” he said awkwardly.
“Thanks,” she said. “Padma’s going to meet you in the entrance hall,” she added to Ron.
“Right,” said Ron, looking around. “Where’s Hermione?”
Parvati shrugged. “Shall we go down then, Harry?”
“Okay,” said Harry, wishing he could just stay in the common room. Fred winked at Harry as he passed him on the way out of the portrait hole.
The entrance hall was packed with students too, all milling around waiting for eight o’clock, when the doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those people who were meeting partners from different Houses were edging through the crowd trying to find one another. Parvati found her sister, Padma, and led her over to Harry and Ron.
“Hi,” said Padma, who was looking just as pretty as Parvati in robes of bright turquoise. She didn’t look too enthusiastic about having Ron as a partner, though; her dark eyes lingered on the frayed neck and sleeves of his dress robes as she looked him up and down.
“Hi,” said Ron, not looking at her, but staring around at the crowd. “Oh no…”
He bent his knees slightly to hide behind Harry, because Fleur Delacour was passing, looking stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and accompanied by the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, Roger Davies. When they had disappeared, Ron stood straight again and stared over the heads of the crowd.
“Where is Hermione?” he said again.
A group of Slytherins came up the steps from their dungeon common room. Malfoy was in front; he was wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high collar, which in Harry’s opinion made him look like a vicar. Pansy Parkinson in very frilly robes of pale pink was clutching Malfoy’s arm. Crabbe and Goyle were both wearing green; they resembled moss-colored boulders, and neither of them, Harry was pleased to see, had managed to find a partner.
The oak front doors opened, and everyone turned to look as the Durmstrang students entered with Professor Karkaroff. Krum was at the front of the party, accompanied by a pretty girl in blue robes Harry didn’t know. Over their heads he saw that an area of lawn right in front of the castle had been transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights - meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were sitting in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and fluttering over the
statues of what seemed to be Father Christmas and his reindeer.
Then Professor McGonagall’s voice called, “Champions over here, please!”
Parvati readjusted her bangles, beaming; she and Harry said, “See you in a minute” to Ron and Padma and walked forward, the chattering crowd parting to let them through. Professor McGonagall, who was wearing dress robes of red tartan and had arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim other hat, told them to wait on one side of the doors while everyone else went inside; they were to enter the Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students had sat down.
Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies stationed themselves nearest the doors; Davies looked so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her. Cedric and Cho were close to Harry too; he looked away from them so he wouldn’t have to talk to them. His eyes fell instead on the girl next to Krum. His jaw dropped.
It was Hermione.
But she didn’t look like Hermione at all. She had done something with her hair; it was no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was holding herself differently, somehow - or maybe it was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she usually had slung over her back.
She was also smiling - rather nervously, it was true - but the reduction in the size of her front teeth was more noticeable than ever; Harry couldn’t understand how he hadn’t spotted it before.
“Hi, Harry!” she said. “Hi, Parvati!”
Parvati was gazing at Hermione in unflattering disbelief. She wasn’t the only one either; when the doors to the Great Hall opened, Krum’s fan club from the library stalked past, throwing Hermione looks of deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gaped at her as she walked by with
Malfoy, and even he didn’t seem to be able to find an insult to throw at her. Ron, however, walked right past Hermione without looking at her.
Once everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor McGonagall told the champions and their partners to get in line in pairs and to follow her. They did so, and everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered and started walking up toward a large round table at the top of the Hall, where the judges were sitting. The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each
seating about a dozen people.
Harry concentrated on not tripping over his feet. Parvati seemed to be enjoying herself; she was beaming around at everybody, steering Harry so forcefully that he felt as though he were a show dog she was putting through its paces. He caught sight of Ron and Padma as he neared the top table. Ron was watching Hermione pass with narrowed eyes. Padma was looking sulky.
Dumbledore smiled happily as the champions approached the top table, but Karkaroff wore an expression remarkably like Ron’s as he watched Krum and Hermione draw nearer. Ludo Bagman, tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow stars, was clapping as enthusiastically as any of the students; and Madame Maxime, who had changed her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of lavender silk, was applauding them politely. But Mr. Crouch, Harry suddenly realized, was not there. The fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy Weasley.
When the champions and their partners reached the table, Percy drew out the empty chair beside him, staring pointedly at Harry. Harry took the hint and sat down next to Percy, who was wearing brand-new, navy-blue dress robes and an expression of such smugness that Harry thought it ought to be fined.
“I’ve been promoted,” Percy said before Harry could even ask, and from his tone, he might have been announcing his election as supreme ruler of the universe. “I’m now Mr. Crouch’s personal assistant, and I’m here representing him.”
“Why didn’t he come?” Harry asked. He wasn’t looking forward to being lectured on cauldron bottoms all through dinner.
“I’m afraid to say Mr. Crouch isn’t well, not well at all. Hasn’t been right since the World Cup. Hardly surprising - overwork. He’s not as young as he was – though still quite brilliant, of course, the mind remains as great as it ever was. But the World Cup was a fiasco for the whole Ministry, and then, Mr. Crouch suffered a huge personal shock with the misbehavior of that house-elf of his, Blinky, or whatever she was called. Naturally, he dismissed her immediately afterward, but - well, as I say, he’s getting on, he needs looking after, and I think he’s found a
definite drop in his home comforts since she left. And then we had the tournament to arrange, and the aftermath of the Cup to deal with - that revolting Skeeter woman buzzing around - no, poor man, he’s having a well earned, quiet Christmas. I’m just glad he knew he had someone he could rely upon to take his place.”
Harry wanted very much to ask whether Mr. Crouch had stopped calling Percy “Weatherby” yet, but resisted the temptation.
There was no food as yet on the glittering golden plates, but small menus were lying in front of each of them. Harry picked his up uncertainly and looked around - there were no waiters. Dumbledore, however, looked carefully down at his own menu, then said very clearly to his plate, “Pork chops!”
And pork chops appeared. Getting the idea, the rest of the table placed their orders with their plates too. Harry glanced up at Hermione to see how she felt about this new and more complicated method of dining - surely it meant plenty of extra work for the house-elves? - but for once, Hermione didn’t seem to be thinking about S.P.E.W. She was deep in talk with Viktor Krum and hardly seemed to notice what she was eating.
It now occurred to Harry that he had never actually heard Krum speak before, but he was certainly talking now, and very enthusiastically at that.
“Veil, ve have a castle also, not as big as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking,” he was telling Hermione. “Ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. But ve have grounds larger even than these - though in vinter, ve have very little daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer ve are flying every day, over the lakes and the mountains -”
“Now, now, Viktor!” said Karkaroff with a laugh that didn’t reach his cold eyes, “don’t go giving away anything else, now, or your charming friend will know exactly where to find us!”
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Igor, all this secrecy… one would almost think you didn’t want visitors.”
“Well, Dumbledore,” said Karkaroff, displaying his yellowing teeth to their fullest extent, “we are all protective of our private domains, are we not? Do we not jealously guard the halls of learning that have been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud that we alone know our school’s secrets, and right to protect them?”
“Oh I would never dream of assuming I know all Hogwarts’ secrets, Igor,” said Dumbledore amicably. “Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong turning on the way to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I have never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of chamber pots. When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that the room had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it. Possibly it is only accessible at five-thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon - or when
the seeker has an exceptionally full bladder.”
Harry snorted into his plate of goulash. Percy frowned, but Harry could have sworn Dumbledore had given him a very small wink.
Meanwhile Fleur Delacour was criticizing the Hogwarts decorations to Roger Davies.
“Zis is nothing,” she said dismissively, looking around at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall. “At ze Palace of Beauxbatons, we ‘ave ice sculptures all around ze dining chamber at Chreestmas. Zey do not melt, of course… zey are like ‘uge statues of diamond, glittering around ze place. And ze food is seemply superb. And we ‘ave choirs of wood nymphs, ‘oo serenade us as we eat. We ‘ave none of zis ugly armor in ze ‘alls, and eef a poltergeist ever entaired into Beauxbatons, ‘e would be expelled like zat.” She slapped her hand onto the table impatiently.
Roger Davies was watching her talk with a very dazed look on his face, and he kept missing his mouth with his fork. Harry had the impression that Davies was too busy staring at Fleur to take in a word she was saying.
“Absolutely right,” he said quickly, slapping his own hand down on the table in imitation of Fleur. “Like that. Yeah.”
Harry looked around the Hall. Hagrid was sitting at one of the other staff tables; he was back in his horrible hairy brown suit and gazing up at the top table. Harry saw him give a small wave, and looking around, saw Madame Maxime return it, her opals glittering in the candlelight.
Hermione was now teaching Krum to say her name properly; he kept calling her “Hermy-own.”
“Her-my-oh-nee,” she said slowly and clearly.
“Herm-own-ninny.”
“Close enough,” she said, catching Harry’s eye and grinning.
When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore stood up and asked the students to do the same. Then, with a wave of his wand, all the tables zoomed back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and then he conjured a raised platform into existence along the right wall. A set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes were set upon it.
The Weird Sisters now trooped up onto the stage to wildly enthusiastic applause; they were all extremely hairy and dressed in black robes that had been artfully ripped and torn. They picked up their instruments, and Harry, who had been so interested in watching them that he had almost forgotten what was coming, suddenly realized that the lanterns on all the other tables had gone out, and that the other champions and their partners were standing up.
“Come on!” Parvati hissed. “We’re supposed to dance!”
Harry tripped over his dress robes as he stood up. The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune; Harry walked onto the brightly lit dance floor, carefully avoiding catching anyone’s eye (he could see Seamus and Dean waving at him and sniggering), and next moment, Parvati had seized his hands, placed one around her waist, and was holding the other tightly in hers.
It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Harry thought, revolving slowly on the spot (Parvati was steering). He kept his eyes fixed over the heads of the watching people, and very soon many of
them too had come onto the dance floor, so that the champions were no longer the center of attention. Neville and Ginny were dancing nearby - he could see Ginny wincing frequently as Neville trod on her feet – and Dumbledore was waltzing with Madame Maxime. He was so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very
gracefully for a woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody was doing an extremely ungainly two-step with Professor Sinistra, who was nervously avoiding his wooden leg.
“Nice socks Potter,” Moody growled as he passed, his magical eye staring through Harry’s robes.
“Oh - yeah, Dobby the house-elf knitted them for me,” said Harry, grinning.
“He is so creepy!” Parvati whispered as Moody clunked away. “I don’t think that eye should be allowed.”
Harry heard the final, quavering note from the bagpipe with relief. The Weird Sisters stopped playing, applause filled the hall once more, and Harry let go of Parvati at once.
“Let’s sit down, shall we?”
“Oh - but - this is a really good one!” Parvati said as the Weird Sisters struck up a new song, which was much faster.
“No, I don’t like it,” Harry lied, and he led her away from the dance floor, past Fred and Angelina, who were dancing so exhuberantly that people around them were backing away in fear of injury, and over to the table where Ron and Padma were sitting.
“How’s it going?” Harry asked Ron, sitting down and opening a bottle of butterbeer.
Ron didn’t answer. He was glaring at Hermione and Krum, who were dancing nearby. Padma was sitting with her arms and legs crossed, one foot jiggling in time to the music. Every now and then she threw a disgruntled look at Ron, who was completely ignoring her. Parvati sat down on Harry’s other side, crossed her arms and legs too, and within minutes was asked to dance by a boy from Beauxbatons.
“You don’t mind, do you, Harry?” Parvati said.
“What?” said Harry, who was now watching Cho and Cedric.
“Oh never mind,” snapped Parvati, and she went off with the boy from Beauxbatons. When the song ended, she did not return.
Hermione came over and sat down in Parvati’s empty chair. She was a bit pink in the face from dancing.
“Hi,” said Harry. Ron didn’t say anything.
“It’s hot, isn’t it?” said Hermione, fanning herself with her hand. “Viktors just gone to get some drinks.”
Ron gave her a withering look. “Viktor?” he said. “Hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet?”
Hermione looked at him in surprise. “What’s up with you?” she said.
“If you don’t know,” said Ron scathingly, “I’m not going to tell you.”
Hermione stared at him, then at Harry, who shrugged.
“Ron, what -?”
“He’s from Durmstrang!” spat Ron. “He’s competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You - you’re -” Ron was obviously casting around for words strong enough to describe Hermione’s crime, “fraternizing with the enemy, that’s what you’re doing!”
Hermione’s mouth fell open.
“Don’t be so stupid!” she said after a moment. “The enemy! Honestly - who was the one who was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him up in their dormitory?”
Ron chose to ignore this. “I s’pose he asked you to come with him while you were both in the library?”
“Yes, he did,” said Hermione, the pink patches on her cheeks glowing more brightly. “So what?”
“What happened - trying to get him to join spew, were you?”
“No, I wasn’t! If you really want to know, he - he said he’d been coming up to the library every day to try and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage!”
Hermione said this very quickly, and blushed so deeply that she was the same color as Parvati’s robes.
“Yeah, well - that’s his story,” said Ron nastily.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Obvious, isn’t it? He’s Karkaroff’s student, isn’t he? He knows who you hang around with… He’s just trying to get closer to Harry - get inside information on him - or get near enough to jinx him -”
Hermione looked as though Ron had slapped her. When she spoke, her voice quivered.
“For your information, he hasn’t asked me one single thing about Harry, not one -”
Ron changed tack at the speed of light.
“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads together during those cozy little library sessions -”
“I’d never help him work out that egg!” said Hermione, looking outraged. “Never. How could you say something like that - I want Harry to win the tournament. Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” sneered Ron.
“This whole tournament’s supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with them!” said Hermione hotly.
“No it isn’t!” shouted Ron. “It’s about winning!”
People were starting to stare at them.
“Ron,” said Harry quietly, “I haven’t got a problem with Hermione coming with Krum -”
But Ron ignored Harry too.
“Why don’t you go and find Vicky, he’ll be wondering where you are,” said Ron.
“Don’t call him Vicky!”
Hermione jumped to her feet and stormed off across the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd. Ron watched her go with a mixture of anger and satisfaction on his face.
“Are you going to ask me to dance at all?” Padma asked him.
“No,” said Ron, still glaring after Hermione.
“Fine,” snapped Padma, and she got up and went to join Parvati and the Beauxbatons boy, who conjured up one of his friends to join them so fast that Harry could have sworn he had zoomed him there by a Summoning Charm.
“Vare is Herm-own-ninny?” said a voice.
Krum had just arrived at their table clutching two butterbeers.
“No idea,” said Ron mulishly, looking up at him. “Lost her, have you?”
Krum was looking surly again.
“Veil, if you see her, tell her I haff drinks,” he said, and he slouched off.
“Made friends with Viktor Krum, have you, Ron?”
Percy had bustled over, rubbing his hands together and looking extremely pompous. “Excellent! That’s the whole point, you know - international magical cooperation!”
To Harry’s displeasure, Percy now took Padma’s vacated seat. The top table was now empty; Professor Dumbledore was dancing with Professor Sprout, Ludo Bagman with Professor McGonagall; Madame Maxime and Hagrid were cutting a wide path around the dance floor as they waltzed through the students, and Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. When the next song ended, everybody applauded once more, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman kiss Professor McGonagall’s hand and make his way back through the crowds, at which point Fred and George
accosted him.
“What do they think they’re doing, annoying senior Ministry members?” Percy hissed, watching Fred and George suspiciously. “No respect…”
Ludo Bagman shook off Fred and George fairly quickly, however, and, spotting Harry, waved and came over to their table.
“I hope my brothers weren’t bothering you, Mr. Bagman?” said Percy at once.
“What? Oh not at all, not at all!” said Bagman. “No, they were just telling me a bit more about those fake wands of theirs. Wondering if I could advise them on the marketing. I’ve promised to put them in touch with a couple of contacts of mine at Zonko’s Joke Shop…”
Percy didn’t look happy about this at all, and Harry was prepared to bet he would be rushing to tell Mrs. Weasley about this the moment he got home. Apparently Fred and George’s plans had grown even more ambitious lately, if they were hoping to sell to the public. Bagman opened his mouth to ask Harry something, but Percy diverted him.
“How do you feel the tournament’s going, Mr. Bagman? Our department’s quite satisfied - the hitch with the Goblet of Fire” - he glanced at Harry - “was a little unfortunate, of course, but it seems to have gone very smoothly since, don’t you think?”
“Oh yes,” Bagman said cheerfully, “it’s all been enormous fun. How’s old Barty doing? Shame he couldn’t come.”
“Oh I’m sure Mr. Crouch will be up and about in no time,” said Percy importantly, “but in the meantime, I’m more than willing to take up the slack. Of course, it’s not all attending balls” - he laughed airily - “oh no, I’ve had to deal with all sorts of things that have cropped up in his absence - you heard Ali Bashir was caught smuggling a consignment of flying carpets into the country? And then we’ve been trying to persuade the Transylvanians to sign the International Ban on Dueling. I’ve got a meeting with their Head of Magical Cooperation in the new year -”
“Let’s go for a walk,” Ron muttered to Harry, “get away from Percy…”
Pretending they wanted more drinks Harry and Ron left the table, edged around the dance floor, and slipped out into the entrance hall. The front doors stood open, and the fluttering fairy lights in the rose garden winked and twinkled as they went down the front steps, where they found themselves surrounded by bushes; winding, ornamental paths; and large stone statues. Harry could hear splashing water, which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, people were sitting on
carved benches. He and Ron set off along one of the winding paths through the rosebushes, but they had gone only a short way when they heard an unpleasantly familiar voice.
“… don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.”
“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroffs voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it _”
“Then flee,” said Snapes voice curtly. “Flee - I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”
Snape and Karkaroff came around the corner. Snape had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart, his expression most ill-natured. Squeals issued from many of the bushes, and dark shapes emerged from them.
“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!” Snape snarled as a girl ran past him. “And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!” as a boy went rushing after her. “And what are you two doing?” he added, catching sight of Harry and Ron on the path ahead. Karkaroff, Harry saw, looked slightly discomposed to see them standing there. His hand went nervously to his goatee, and he began winding it around his finger.
“We’re walking,” Ron told Snape shortly. “Not against the law, is it?”
“Keep walking, then!” Snape snarled, and he brushed past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind him. Karkaroff hurried away after Snape. Harry and Ron continued down the path.
“What’s got Karkaroff all worried?” Ron muttered.
“And since when have he and Snape been on first-name terms?”said Harry slowly.
They had reached a large stone reindeer now, over which they could see the sparkling jets of a tall fountain. The shadowy outlines of two enormous people were visible on a stone bench, watching the water in the moonlight. And then Harry heard Hagrid speak.
“Momen’ I saw yeh, I knew,” he was saying, in an oddly husky voice.
Harry and Ron froze. This didn’t sound like the sort of scene they ought to walk in on, somehow… Harry looked around, back up the path, and saw Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies
standing half-concealed in a rosebush nearby. He tapped Ron on the shoulder and jerked his head toward them, meaning that they could easily sneak off that way without being noticed (Fleur and Davies looked very busy to Harry), but Ron, eyes widening in horror at the sight of Fleur, shook his head vigorously, and pulled Harry deeper into the shadows behind the reindeer.
“What did you know, ‘Agrid?” said Madame Maxime, a purr in her low voice.
Harry definitely didn’t want to listen to this; he knew Hagrid would hate to be overheard in a situation like this (he certainly would have) - if it had been possible he would have put his fingers in his ears and hummed loudly, but that wasn’t really an option. Instead he tried to interest himself in a beetle crawling along the stone reindeer’s back, but the beetle just wasn’t interesting enough to block out Hagrid’s next words.
“I jus’ knew… knew you were like me… Was it yer mother or yer father?”
“I - I don’t know what you mean, ‘Agrid…”
“It was my mother,” said Hagrid quietly. “She was one o’ the las’ ones in Britain. ‘Course, I can’ remember her too well… she left, see. When I was abou’ three. She wasn’ really the maternal sort. Well… it’s not in their natures, is it? Dunno what happened to her… might be dead fer all I know…”
Madame Maxime didn’t say anything. And Harry, in spite of himself, took his eyes off the beetle and looked over the top of the reindeer’s antlers, listening… He had never heard Hagrid talk about his childhood before.
“Me dad was broken-hearted when she wen’. Tiny little bloke, my dad was. By the time I was six I could lift him up an’ put him on top o’ the dresser if he annoyed me. Used ter make him laugh…” Hagrid’s deep voice broke. Madame Maxime was listening, motionless, apparently staring at the silvery fountain. “Dad raised me… but he died, o’ course, jus’ after I started school. Sorta had ter make me own way after that. Dumbledore was a real help, mind. Very kind ter me, he was…”
Hagrid pulled out a large spotted silk handkerchief and blew his nose heavily.
“So… anyway… enough abou’ me. What about you? Which side you got it on?”
But Madame Maxime had suddenly got to her feet.
“It is chilly,” she said - but whatever the weather was doing, it was nowhere near as cold as her voice. “I think I will go in now.”
“Eh?” said Hagrid blankly. “No, don go! I’ve - I’ve never met another one before!”
“Anuzzer what, precisely?” said Madame Maxime, her tone icy.
Harry could have told Hagrid it was best not to answer; he stood there in the shadows gritting his teeth, hoping against hope he wouldn’t - but it was no good.
“Another half-giant, o’ course!” said Hagrid.
“‘Ow dare you!” shrieked Madame Maxime. Her voice exploded through the peaceful night air like a foghorn; behind him. Harry heard Fleur and Roger fall out of their rosebush. “I ‘ave nevair been more insulted in my life! ‘Alf-giant? Moi? I ‘ave - I ‘ave big bones!”
She stormed away; great multicolored swarms of fairies rose into the air as she passed, angrily pushing aside bushes. Hagrid was still sitting on the bench, staring after her. It was much too dark to make out his expression. Then, after about a minute, he stood up and strode away, not back to the castle, but off out into the dark grounds in the direction of his cabin.
“C’mon,” Harry said, very quietly to Ron. “Let’s go…”
But Ron didn’t move.
“What’s up?” said Harry, looking at him.
Ron looked around at Harry, his expression very serious indeed.
“Did you know?” he whispered. “About Hagrid being half-giant?”
“No,” Harry said, shrugging. “So what?”
He knew immediately, from the look Ron was giving him, that he was once again revealing his ignorance of the wizarding world. Brought up by the Dursleys, there were many things that wizards took for granted that were revelations to Harry, but these surprises had become fewer with each successive year. Now, however, he could tell that most wizards would not have said
“So what?” upon finding out that one of their friends had a giantess for a mother.
“I’ll explain inside,” said Ron quietly, “c’mon…”
Fleur and Roger Davies had disappeared, probably into a more private clump of bushes. Harry and Ron returned to the Great Hall. Parvati and Padma were now sitting at a distant table with a whole crowd of Beauxbatons boys, and Hermione was once more dancing with Krum. Harry and Ron sat down at a table far removed from the dance floor.
“So?” Harry prompted Ron. “What’s the problem with giants?”
“Well, they’re… they’re…” Ron struggled for words. “… not very nice,” he finished lamely.
“Who cares?” Harry said. “There’s nothing wrong with Hagrid!”
“I know there isn’t, but… blimey, no wonder he keeps it quiet,” Ron said, shaking his head. “I always thought he’d got in the way of a bad Engorgement Charm when he was a kid or something. Didn’t like to mention it…”
“But what’s it matter if his mother was a giantess?” said Harry.
“Well… no one who knows him will care, ‘cos they’ll know he’s not dangerous,” said Ron slowly. “But… Harry, they’re just vicious, giants. It’s like Hagrid said, it’s in their natures, they’re like trolls… they just like killing, everyone knows that. There aren’t any left in Britain now, though.”
“What happened to them?”
“Well, they were dying out anyway, and then loads got themselves killed by Aurors. There’re supposed to be giants abroad, though… They hide out in mountains mostly…”
“I don’t know who Maxime thinks she’s kidding,” Harry said, watching Madame Maxime sitting alone at the judges’ table, looking very somber. “If Hagrid’s half giant, she definitely is. Big bones… the only thing that’s got bigger bones than her is a dinosaur.”
Harry and Ron spent the rest of the ball discussing giants in their corner, neither of them having any inclination to dance. Harry tried not to watch Cho and Cedric too much; it gave him a strong desire to kick something.
When the Weird Sisters finished playing at midnight, everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause and started to wend their way into the entrance hall. Many people were expressing the wish that the ball could have gone on longer, but Harry was perfectly happy to be going to bed; as far as he was concerned, the evening hadn’t been much fun.
Out in the entrance hall, Harry and Ron saw Hermione saying good night to Krum before he went back to the Durmstrang ship. She gave Ron a very cold look and swept past him up the marble staircase without speaking. Harry and Ron followed her, but halfway up the staircase Harry heard someone calling him.
“Hey-Harry!”
It was Cedric Diggory. Harry could see Cho waiting for him in the entrance hall below.
“Yeah?” said Harry coldly as Cedric ran up the stairs toward him.
Cedric looked as though he didn’t want to say whatever it was in front of Ron, who shrugged, looking bad-tempered, and continued to climb the stairs.
“Listen…” Cedric lowered his voice as Ron disappeared. “I owe you one for telling me about the dragons. You know that golden egg? Does yours wail when you open it?”
“Yeah,” said Harry.
“Well… take a bath, okay?”
“What?”
“Take a bath, and - er - take the egg with you, and - er - just mull things over in the hot water. It’ll help you think… Trust me.”
Harry stared at him.
“Tell you what,” Cedric said, “use the prefects’ bathroom. Fourth door to the left of that statue of Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor. Password’s ‘pine fresh.’ Gotta go… want to say good night -”
He grinned at Harry again and hurried back down the stairs to Cho.
Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower alone. That had been extremely strange advice. Why would a bath help him to work out what the wailing egg meant? Was Cedric pulling his leg? Was he trying to make Harry look like a fool, so Cho would like him even more by comparison?
The Fat Lady and her friend Vi were snoozing in the picture over the portrait hole. Harry had to yell “Fairy lights!” before he woke them up, and when he did, they were extremely irritated. He climbed into the common room and found Ron and Hermione having a blazing row. Standing ten feet apart, they were bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face.
“Well, if you don’t like it, you know what the solution is, don’t you?” yelled Hermione; her hair was coming down out of its elegant bun now, and her face was screwed up in anger.
“Oh yeah?” Ron yelled back. “What’s that?”
“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!”
Ron mouthed soundlessly like a goldfish out of water as Hermione turned on her heel and stormed up the girls’ staircase to bed. Ron turned to look at Harry.
“Well,” he sputtered, looking thunderstruck, “well - that just proves – completely missed the point -”
Harry didn’t say anything. He liked being back on speaking terms with Ron too much to speak his mind right now - but he somehow thought that Hermione had gotten the point much better than Ron had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rita Skeeter’s Scoop
Everybody got up late on Boxing Day. The Gryffindor common room was much quieter than it had been lately, many yawns punctuating the lazy conversations. Hermione’s hair was bushy again; she confessed to Harry that she had used liberal amounts of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion on it for the ball, “but it’s way too much bother to do every day,” she said matter-of-factly, scratching a purring Crookshanks behind the ears.
Ron and Hermione seemed to have reached an unspoken agreement not to discuss their argument. They were being quite friendly to each other, though oddly formal. Ron and Harry wasted no time in telling Hermione about the conversation they had overheard between Madame Maxime and Hagrid, but Hermione didn’t seem to find the news that Hagrid was a half-giant nearly as shocking as Ron did.
“Well, I thought he must be,” she said, shrugging. “I knew he couldn’t be pure giant because they’re about twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about giants. They can’t all be horrible… It’s the same sort of prejudice that people have toward werewolves… It’s just bigotry, isn’t it?”
Ron looked as though he would have liked to reply scathingly, but perhaps he didn’t want another row, because he contented himself with shaking his head disbelievingly while Hermione wasn’t looking.
It was time now to think of the homework they had neglected during the first week of the holidays. Everybody seemed to be feeling rather flat now that Christmas was over - everybody except Harry, that is, who was starting (once again) to feel slightly nervous.
The trouble was that February the twenty-fourth looked a lot closer from this side of Christmas, and he still hadn’t done anything about working out the clue inside the golden egg. He therefore started taking the egg out of his trunk every time he went up to the dormitory, opening it, and listening intently, hoping that this time it would make some sense. He strained to think what the sound reminded him of, apart from thirty musical saws, but he had never heard anything else like it. He closed the egg, shook it vigorously, and opened it again to see if the sound had changed, but it hadn’t. He tried asking the egg questions, shouting over all the wailing, but nothing happened. He even threw the egg across the room - though he hadn’t really expected that to help.
Harry had not forgotten the hint that Cedric had given him, but his less-than friendly feelings toward Cedric just now meant that he was keen not to take his help if he could avoid it. In any case, it seemed to him that if Cedric had really wanted to give Harry a hand, he would have been a lot more explicit. He, Harry, had told Cedric exactly what was coming in the first task - and Cedric’s idea of a fair exchange had been to tell Harry to take a bath. Well, he didn’t need that sort of rubbishy help - not from someone who kept walking down corridors hand in hand with Cho, anyway. And so the first day of the new term arrived, and Harry set off to lessons, weighed
down with books, parchment, and quills as usual, but also with the lurking worry of the egg heavy in his stomach, as though he were carrying that around with him too.
Snow was still thick upon the grounds, and the greenhouse windows were covered in condensation so thick that they couldn’t see out of them in Herbology. Nobody was looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures much in this weather, though as Ron said, the skrewts would probably warm them up nicely, either by chasing them, or blasting off so forcefully that Hagrid’s cabin would catch fire.
When they arrived at Hagrid ‘s cabin, however, they found an elderly witch with closely cropped gray hair and a very prominent chin standing before his front door.
“Hurry up, now, the bell rang five minutes ago,” she barked at them as they struggled toward her through the snow.
“Who’re you?” said Ron, staring at her. “Wheres Hagrid?”
“My name is Professor Grubbly-Plank,” she said briskly. “I am your temporary Care of Magical Creatures teacher.”
“Where’s Hagrid?” Harry repeated loudly.
“He is indisposed,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank shortly.
Soft and unpleasant laughter reached Harrys ears. He turned; Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins were joining the class. All of them looked gleeful, and none of them looked surprised to see Professor Grubbly-Plank.
“This way, please,” said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and she strode off around the paddock where the Beauxbatons horses were shivering. Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed her, looking back over their shoulders at Hagrid’s cabin. All the curtains were closed. Was Hagrid in there, alone and ill?
“What’s wrong with Hagrid?” Harry said, hurrying to catch up with Professor Grubbly-Plank.
“Never you mind,” she said as though she thought he was being nosy.
“I do mind, though,” said Harry hotly. “What’s up with him?”
Professor Grubbly-Plank acted as though she couldn’t hear him. She led them past the paddock where the huge Beauxbatons horses were standing, huddled against the cold, and toward a tree on the edge of the forest, where a large and beautiful unicorn was tethered.
Many of the girls “ooooohed!” at the sight of the unicorn. “Oh it’s so beautiful!” whispered Lavender Brown. “How did she get it? They’re supposed to be really hard to catch!”
The unicorn was so brightly white it made the snow all around look gray. It was pawing the ground nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back its horned head.
“Boys keep back!” barked Professor Grubbly-Plank, throwing out an arm and catching Harry hard in the chest. “They prefer the woman’s touch, unicorns. Girls to the front, and approach with care, come on, easy does it…”
She and the girls walked slowly forward toward the unicorn, leaving the boys standing near the paddock fence, watching. The moment Professor Grubbly-Plank was out of earshot. Harry turned to Ron.
“What d’you reckons wrong with him? You don’t think a skrewt -?”
“Oh he hasn’t been attacked, Potter, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Malfoy softly. “No, he’s just too ashamed to show his big, ugly face.”
“What d’you mean?” said Harry sharply.
Malfoy put his hand inside the pocket of his robes and pulled out a folded page of newsprint.
“There you go,” he said. “Hate to break it to you. Potter…”
He smirked as Harry snatched the page, unfolded it, and read it, with Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville looking over his shoulder. It was an article topped with a picture of Hagrid looking extremely shifty.
DUMBLEDORE’S GIANT MISTAKE
Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. In September of this year, he hired Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, the notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given Moody’s well-known habit of attacking anybody who makes a sudden movement in his presence. Mad-Eye Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly when set beside the part-human Dumbledore employs to teach Care of Magical Creatures.
Rubeus Hagrid, who admits to being expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, has enjoyed the position of gamekeeper at the school ever since a job secured for him by Dumbledore. Last year, however, Hagrid used his mysterious influence over the headmaster to secure the additional post of Care of Magical Creatures teacher, over the heads of many better-qualified candidates.
An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, Hagrid has been using his newfound authority to terrify the students in his care with a succession of horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind eye, Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series of lessons that many admit to being “very frightening.” ‘I was attacked by a hippogriff, and my friend Vincent Crabbe got a
bad bite off a flobberworm,” says Draco Malfoy, a fourth-year student. “We all hate Hagrid, but we’re just too scared to say anything.”
Hagrid has no intention of ceasing his campaign of intimidation, however. In conversation with a Daily Prophet reporter last month, he admitted breeding creatures he has dubbed “Blast-Ended Skrewts,” highly dangerous crosses between manti-cores and fire-crabs. The creation of new breeds of magical creature is, of course, an activity usually closely observed by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Hagrid, however, considers himself to be above such petty restrictions.
“I was just having some fun,” he says, before hastily changing the subject. As if this were not enough, the Daily Prophet has now unearthed evidence that Hagrid is not - as he has always pretended - a pure-blood wizard. He is not, in fact, even pure human. His mother, we can exclusively reveal, is none other than the giantess Fridwulfa, whose whereabouts are currently unknown. Bloodthirsty and brutal, the giants brought themselves to the point of extinction by
warring amongst themselves during the last century. The handful that remained joined the ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and were responsible for some of the worst mass Muggle killings of his reign of terror.
While many of the giants who served He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were killed by Aurors working against the Dark Side, Fridwulfa was not among them. It is possible she escaped to one of the giant communities still existing in foreign mountain ranges. If his antics during Care of Magical Creatures lessons are any guide, however, Fridwulfa’s son appears to have inherited her brutal nature.
In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is reputed to have developed a close friendship with the boy who brought around You-Know-Who’s fall from power - thereby driving Hagrid’s own mother, like the rest of You-Know-Who’s supporters, into hiding. Perhaps Harry Potter is unaware of the unpleasant truth about his large friend – but Albus Dumbledore surely has a duty to ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow students, is warned about the dangers of associating with part-giants.
Harry finished reading and looked up at Ron, whose mouth was hanging open.
“How did she find out?” he whispered.
But that wasn’t what was bothering Harry.
“What d’you mean, ‘we all hate Hagrid’?” Harry spat at Malfoy. “What’s this rubbish about him” - he pointed at Crabbe - “getting a bad bite off a flobberworm? They haven’t even got teeth!”
Crabbe was sniggering, apparently very pleased with himself.
“Well, I think this should put an end to the oaf’s teaching career,” said Malfoy, his eyes glinting. “Half-giant… and there was me thinking he’d just swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro when he was
young… None of the mummies and daddies are going to like this at all… They’ll be worried he’ll eat their kids, ha, ha…”
“You-”
“Are you paying attention over there?”
Professor Grubbly-Planks voice carried over to the boys; the girls were all clustered around the unicorn now, stroking it. Harry was so angry that the Daily Prophet article shook in his hands as he turned to stare unseeingly at the unicorn, whose many magical properties Professor Grubbly-Plank was now enumerating in a loud voice, so that the boys could hear too.
“I hope she stays, that woman!” said Parvati Patil when the lesson had ended and they were all heading back to the castle for lunch. “That’s more what I thought Care of Magical Creatures would be like… proper creatures like unicorns, not monsters…”
“What about Hagrid?” Harry said angrily as they went up the steps.
“What about him?” said Parvati in a hard voice. “He can still be gamekeeper, can’t he?”
Parvati had been very cool toward Harry since the ball. He supposed that he ought to have paid her a bit more attention, but she seemed to have had a good time all the same. She was certainly telling anybody who would listen that she had made arrangements to meet the boy from Beauxbatons in Hogsmeade on the next weekend trip.
“That was a really good lesson,” said Hermione as they entered the Great Hall. “I didn’t know half the things Professor Grubbly-Plank told us about uni -”
“Look at this!” Harry snarled, and he shoved the Daily Prophet article under Hermione’s nose.
Hermione’s mouth fell open as she read. Her reaction was exactly the same as Ron’s.
“How did that horrible Skeeter woman find out? You don’t think Hagrid told her?”
“No,” said Harry, leading the way over to the Gryffindor table and throwing himself into a chair, furious. “He never even told us, did he? I reckon she was so mad he wouldn’t give her loads of horrible stuff about me, she went ferreting around to get him back.”
“Maybe she heard him telling Madame Maxime at the ball,” said Hermione quietly.
“We’d have seen her in the garden!” said Ron. “Anyway, she’s not supposed to come into school anymore, Hagrid said Dumbledore banned her…”
“Maybe she’s got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry, ladling chicken casserole onto his plate and splashing it everywhere in his anger. “Sort of thing she’d do, isn’t it, hide in bushes listening to people.”
“Like you and Ron did, you mean,” said Hermione.
“We weren’t trying to hear him!” said Ron indignantly. “We didn’t have any choice! The stupid prat, talking about his giantess mother where anyone could have heard him!”
“We’ve got to go and see him,” said Harry. “This evening, after Divination. Tell him we want him back… you do want him back?” he shot at Hermione.
“I - well, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t make a nice change, having a proper Care of Magical Creatures lesson for once - but I do want Hagrid back, of course I do!” Hermione added hastily, quailing under Harry’s furious stare.
So that evening after dinner, the three of them left the castle once more and went down through the frozen grounds to Hagrid’s cabin. They knocked, and Fang’s booming barks answered.
“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry shouted, pounding on the door. “Open up!”
Hagrid didn’t answer. They could hear Fang scratching at the door, whining, but it didn’t open. They hammered on it for ten more minutes; Ron even went and banged on one of the windows, but there was no response.
“What’s he avoiding us for?” Hermione said when they had finally given up and were walking back to the school. “He surely doesn’t think we’d care about him being half-giant?”
But it seemed that Hagrid did care. They didn’t see a sign of him all week. He didn’t appear at the staff table at mealtimes, they didn’t see him going about his gamekeeper duties on the grounds, and Professor Grubbly-Plank continued to take the Care of Magical Creatures classes. Malfoy was gloating at every possible opportunity.
“Missing your half-breed pal?” he kept whispering to Harry whenever there was a teacher around, so that he was safe from Harry’s retaliation. “Missing the elephantman?”
There was a Hogsmeade visit halfway through January. Hermione was very surprised that Harry was going to go.
“I just thought you’d want to take advantage of the common room being quiet,” she said. “Really get to work on that egg.”
“Oh I - I reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea what it’s about now,” Harry lied.
“Have you really?” said Hermione, looking impressed. “Well done!”
Harrys insides gave a guilty squirm, but he ignored them. He still had five weeks to work out that egg clue, after all, and that was ages… whereas if he went into Hogsmeade, he might run into Hagrid, and get a chance to persuade him to come back.
He, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together on Saturday and set off through the cold, wet grounds toward the gates. As they passed the Durmstrang ship moored in the lake, they saw Viktor Krum emerge onto the deck, dressed in nothing but swimming trunks. He was very skinny indeed, but apparently a lot tougher than he looked, because he climbed up onto the side of the ship, stretched out his arms, and dived, right into the lake.
“He’s mad!” said Harry, staring at Krums dark head as it bobbed out into the middle of the lake. “It must be freezing, it’s January!”
“It’s a lot colder where he comes from,” said Hermione. “I suppose it feels quite warm to him.”
“Yeah, but there’s still the giant squid,” said Ron. He didn’t sound anxious – if anything, he sounded hopeful. Hermione noticed his tone of voice and frowned.
“He’s really nice, you know,” she said. “He’s not at all like you’d think, coming from Durmstrang. He likes it much better here, he told me.”
Ron said nothing. He hadn’t mentioned Viktor Krum since the ball, but Harry had found a miniature arm under his bed on Boxing Day, which had looked very much as though it had been snapped off a small model figure wearing Bulgarian Quidditch robes.
Harry kept his eyes skinned for a sign of Hagrid all the way down the slushy High Street, and suggested a visit to the Three Broomsticks once he had ascertained that Hagrid was not in any of the shops.
The pub was as crowded as ever, but one quick look around at all the tables told Harry that Hagrid wasn’t there. Heart sinking, he went up to the bar with Ron and Hermione, ordered three butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta, and thought gloomily that he might just as well have stayed behind and listened to the egg wailing after all.
“Doesn’t he ever go into the office?” Hermione whispered suddenly. “Look!”
She pointed into the mirror behind the bar, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman reflected there, sitting in a shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman was talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of whom had their arms crossed and were looking rather menacing.
It was indeed odd. Harry thought, that Bagman was here at the Three Broomsticks on a weekend when there was no Triwizard event, and therefore no judging to be done. He watched Bagman in the mirror. He was looking strained again, quite as strained as he had that night in the forest before the Dark Mark had appeared. But just then Bagman glanced over at the bar, saw Harry, and stood up.
“In a moment, in a moment!” Harry heard him say brusquely to the goblins, and Bagman hurried through the pub toward Harry, his boyish grin back in place.
“Harry!” he said. “How are you? Been hoping to run into you! Everything going all right?”
“Fine, thanks,” said Harry.
“Wonder if I could have a quick, private word, Harry?” said Bagman eagerly.
“You couldn’t give us a moment, you two, could you?”
“Er - okay,” said Ron, and he and Hermione went off to find a table.
Bagman led Harry along the bar to the end furthest from Madam Rosmerta.
“Well, I just thought I’d congratulate you again on your splendid performance against that Horntail, Harry,” said Bagman. “Really superb.”
“Thanks,” said Harry, but he knew this couldn’t be all that Bagman wanted to say, because he could have congratulated Harry in front of Ron and Hermione.
Bagman didn’t seem in any particular rush to spill the beans, though. Harry saw him glance into the mirror over the bar at the goblins, who were all watching him and Harry in silence through their dark, slanting eyes.
“Absolute nightmare,” said Bagman to Harry in an undertone, noticing Harry watching the goblins too. “Their English isn’t too good… it’s like being back with all the Bulgarians at the Quidditch World Cup… but at least they used sign language another human could recognize. This lot keep gabbling in Gobbledegook… and I only know one word of Gobbledegook. Bladvak. It means ‘pickax.’ I don’t like to use it in case they think I’m threatening them.”
He gave a short, booming laugh.
“What do they want?” Harry said, noticing how the goblins were still watching Bagman very closely.
“Er - well…” said Bagman, looking suddenly nervous. “They… er… they’re looking for Barty Crouch.”
“Why are they looking for him here?” said Harry. “He’s at the Ministry in London, isn’t he?”
“Er… as a matter of fact, I’ve no idea where he is,” said Bagman. “He’s sort of… stopped coming to work. Been absent for a couple of weeks now. Young Percy, his assistant, says he’s ill. Apparently he’s just been sending instructions in by owl. But would you mind not mentioning that to anyone Harry? Because Rita Skeeter’s still poking around everywhere she can, and I’m willing to bet she’d work up Bartys illness into something sinister. Probably say he’s gone missing like Bertha Jorkins.”
“Have you heard anything about Bertha Jorkins?” Harry asked.
“No,” said Bagman, looking strained again. “I’ve got people looking, of course…” (About time, thought Harry) “and it’s all very strange. She definitely arrived in Albania, because she met her second cousin there. And then she left the cousin’s house to go south and see an aunt… and she seems to have vanished without trace en route. Blowed if I can see where she’s got to… she doesn’t seem the type to elope, for instance… but still… What are we doing, talking about goblins and Bertha Jorkins? I really wanted to ask you” - he lowered his voice - “how are you getting on with your golden egg?”
“Er… not bad,” Harry said untruthfully.
Bagman seemed to know he wasn’t being honest.
“Listen, Harry,” he said (still in a very low voice), “I feel very bad about all this… you were thrown into this tournament, you didn’t volunteer for it… and if…” (his voice was so quiet now, Harry had to lean closer to listen) “if I can help at all… a prod in the right direction… I’ve taken a liking to you… the way you got past that dragon… well, just say the word.”
Harry stared up into Bagman’s round, rosy face and his wide, baby-blue eyes.
“We’re supposed to work out the clues alone, aren’t we?” he said, careful to keep his voice casual and not sound as though he was accusing the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports of breaking the rules.
“Well… well, yes,” said Bagman impatiently, “but - come on. Harry - we all want a Hogwarts victory, don’t we?”
“Have you offered Cedric help?” Harry said.
The smallest of frowns creased Bagman’s smooth face. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I - well, like I say, I’ve taken a liking to you. Just thought I’d offer…”
“Well, thanks,” said Harry, “but I think I’m nearly there with the egg… couple more days should crack it.”
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was refusing Bagman’s help, except that Bagman was almost a stranger to him, and accepting his assistance would feel somehow much more like cheating than asking advice from Ron, Hermione, or Sirius.
Bagman looked almost affronted, but couldn’t say much more as Fred and George turned up at that point.
“Hello, Mr. Bagman,” said Fred brightly. “Can we buy you a drink?”
“Er… no,” said Bagman, with a last disappointed glance at Harry, “no, thank you, boys…”
Fred and George looked quite as disappointed as Bagman, who was surveying Harry as though he had let him down badly.
“Well, I must dash,” he said. “Nice seeing you all. Good luck, Harry.”
He hurried out of the pub. The goblins all slid off their chairs and exited after him. Harry went to rejoin Ron and Hermione.
“What did he want?” Ron said, the moment Harry had sat down.
“He offered to help me with the golden egg,” said Harry.
“He shouldn’t be doing that!” said Hermione, looking very shocked. “He’s one of the judges! And anyway, you’ve already worked it out - haven’t you?”
“Er… nearly,” said Harry.
“Well, I don’t think Dumbledore would like it if he knew Bagman was trying to persuade you to cheat!” said Hermione, still looking deeply disapproving. “I hope he’s trying to help Cedric as much!”
“He’s not, I asked,” said Harry.
“Who cares if Diggorys getting help?” said Ron. Harry privately agreed.
“Those goblins didn’t look very friendly,” said Hermione, sipping her butterbeer. “What were they doing here?”
“Looking for Crouch, according to Bagman,” said Harry. “He’s still ill. Hasn’t been into work.”
“Maybe Percys poisoning him,” said Ron. “Probably thinks if Crouch snuffs it he’ll be made head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”
Hermione gave Ron a don’t-joke-about-things-like-that look, and said, “Funny, goblins looking for Mr. Crouch… They’d normally deal with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”
“Crouch can speak loads of different languages, though,” said Harry. “Maybe they need an interpreter.”
“Worrying about poor ‘ickle goblins, now, are you?” Ron asked Hermione. “Thinking of starting up S.P.U.G. or something? Society for the Protection of Ugly Goblins?”
“Ha, ha, ha,” said Hermione sarcastically. “Goblins don’t need protection. Haven’t you been listening to what Professor Binns has been telling us about goblin rebellions?”
“No,” said Harry and Ron together.
“Well, they’re quite capable of dealing with wizards,” said Hermione, taking another sip of butterbeer. “They’re very clever. They’re not like house-elves, who never stick up for themselves.”
“Uh-oh,” said Ron, staring at the door.
Rita Skeeter had just entered. She was wearing banana-yellow robes today; her long nails were painted shocking pink, and she was accompanied by her paunchy photographer. She bought drinks, and she and the photographer made their way through the crowds to a table nearby. Harry, Ron, and Hermione glaring at her as she approached. She was talking fast and looking very satisfied about something.
“… didn’t seem very keen to talk to us, did he, Bozo? Now, why would that be, do you think?
And what’s he doing with a pack of goblins in town anyway? Showing them the sights… what nonsense… he was always a bad liar. Reckon something’s up? Think we should do a bit of digging? ‘Disgraced Ex-Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman… ’ Snappy start to a sentence, Bozo - we just need to find a story to fit it -”
“Trying to ruin someone else’s life?” said Harry loudly.
A few people looked around. Rita Skeeter’s eyes widened behind her jeweled spectacles as she saw who had spoken.
“Harry!” she said, beaming. “How lovely! Why don’t you come and join-?”
“I wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot broomstick,” said Harry furiously. “What did you do that to Hagrid for, eh?”
Rita Skeeter raised her heavily penciled eyebrows.
“Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am merely doing my-”
“Who cares if he’s half-giant?” Harry shouted. “There’s nothing wrong with him!”
The whole pub had gone very quiet. Madam Rosmerta was staring over from behind the bar, apparently oblivious to the fact that the flagon she was filling with mead was overflowing.
Rita Skeeters smile flickered very slightly, but she hitched it back almost at once; she snapped open her crocodile-skin handbag, pulled out her Quick-Quotes Quill, and said, “How about giving me an interview about the Hagrid you know. Harry? The man behind the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the reasons behind it. Would you call him a father substitute?”
Hermione stood up very abruptly, her butterbeer clutched in her hand as though it were a grenade.
“You horrible woman,” she said, through gritted teeth, “you don’t care, do you, anything for a story, and anyone will do, wont they? Even Ludo Bagman -”
“Sit down, you silly little girl, and don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” said Rita Skeeter coldly, her eyes hardening as they fell on Hermione. “I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl… not that it needs it -” she added, eyeing Hermione’s bushy hair.
“Let’s go,” said Hermione, “c’mon. Harry - Ron…”
They left; many people were staring at them as they went. Harry glanced back as they reached the door. Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill was out; it was zooming backward and forward over a piece of parchment on the table.
“She’ll be after you next, Hermione,” said Ron in a low and worried voice as they walked quickly back up the street.
“Let her try!” said Hermione defiantly; she was shaking with rage. “I’ll show her! Silly little girl, am I? Oh, I’ll get her back for this. First Harry, then Hagrid…”
“You don’t want to go upsetting Rita Skeeter,” said Ron nervously. “I’m serious, Hermione, she’ll dig up something on you -”
“My parents don’t read the Daily Prophet. She can’t scare me into hiding!” said Hermione, now striding along so fast that it was all Harry and Ron could do to keep up with her. The last time Harry had seen Hermione in a rage like this, she had hit Draco Malfoy around the face. “And Hagrid isn’t hiding anymore! He should never have let that excuse for a human being upset him! Come on!”
Breaking into a run, she led them all the way back up the road, through the gates flanked by winged boars, and up through the grounds to Hagrid’s cabin. The curtains were still drawn, and they could hear Fang barking as they approached.
“Hagrid!” Hermione shouted, pounding on his front door. “Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there! Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid, get out here, you’re just being -”
The door opened. Hermione said, “About t-!” and then stopped, very suddenly, because she had found herself face-to-face, not with Hagrid, but with Albus Dumbledore.
“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, smiling down at them.
“We-er-we wanted to see Hagrid,” said Hermione in a rather small voice.
“Yes, I surmised as much,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “Why don’t you come in?”
“Oh… um… okay,” said Hermione.
She, Ron, and Harry went into the cabin; Fang launched himself upon Harry the moment he entered, barking madly and trying to lick his ears. Harry fended off Fang and looked around.
Hagrid was sitting at his table, where there were two large mugs of tea. He looked a real mess. His face was blotchy, his eyes swollen, and he had gone to the other extreme where his hair was concerned; far from trying to make it behave, it now looked like a wig of tangled wire.
“Hi, Hagrid,” said Harry.
Hagrid looked up.
“‘Lo,” he said in a very hoarse voice.
“More tea, I think,” said Dumbledore, closing the door behind Harry, Ron, and Hermione, drawing out his wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appeared in midair along with a plate of cakes. Dumbledore magicked the tray onto the table, and everybody sat down. There was a slight pause, and then Dumbledore said, “Did you by any chance hear what Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid?”
Hermione went slightly pink, but Dumbledore smiled at her and continued, “Hermione, Harry, and Ron still seem to want to know you, judging by the way they were attempting to break down the door.”
“Of course we still want to know you!” Harry said, staring at Hagrid. “You don’t think anything that Skeeter cow - sorry, Professor,” he added quickly, looking at Dumbledore.
“I have gone temporarily deaf and haven’t any idea what you said. Harry,” said Dumbledore, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the ceiling.
“Er-right,” said Harry sheepishly. “I just meant-Hagrid, how could you think we’d care what that-woman-wrote about you?”
Two fat tears leaked out of Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes and fell slowly into his tangled beard.
“Living proof of what I’ve been telling you, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the ceiling. “I have shown you the letters from the countless parents who remember you from their own days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I sacked you, they would have something to say about it -”
“Not all of ‘em,” said Hagrid hoarsely. “Not all of ‘em wan me ter stay.”
“Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal popularity, I’m afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time,” said Dumbledore, now peering sternly over his half-moon spectacles. “Not a week has passed since I became headmaster of this school when I haven’t had at least one owl complaining about the way I run it. But what should I do? Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to anybody?”
“Yeh - yeh’re not half-giant!” said Hagrid croakily.
“Hagrid, look what I’ve got for relatives!” Harry said furiously. “Look at the Dursleys!”
“An excellent point,” said Professor Dumbledore. “My own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for practicing inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the papers, but did Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He held his head high and went about his business as usual! Of course, I’m not entirely sure he can read, so that may not have been bravery…”
“Come back and teach, Hagrid,” said Hermione quietly, “please come back, we really miss you.”
Hagrid gulped. More tears leaked out down his cheeks and into his tangled beard. Dumbledore stood up. “I refuse to accept your resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on Monday,” he said. “You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Good afternoon to you all.”
Dumbledore left the cabin, pausing only to scratch Fangs ears. When the door had shut behind him, Hagrid began to sob into his dustbin-lid-sized hands. Hermione kept patting his arm, and at last, Hagrid looked up, his eyes very red indeed, and said, “Great man, Dumbledore… great man…”
“Yeah, he is,” said Ron. “Can I have one of these cakes, Hagrid?”
“Help yerself,” said Hagrid, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. “Ar, he’s righ’, o’ course - yeh’re all righ’… I bin stupid… my ol’ dad woulda bin ashamed o’ the way I’ve bin behavin’…”
More tears leaked out, but he wiped them away more forcefully, and said, “Never shown you a picture of my old dad, have I? Here…”
Hagrid got up, went over to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a picture of a short wizard with Hagrid’s crinkled black eyes, beaming as he sat on top of Hagrid’s shoulder. Hagrid was a good seven or eight feet tall, judging by the apple tree beside him, but his face was beardless, young, round, and smooth - he looked hardly older than eleven.
“Tha was taken jus’ after I got inter Hogwarts,” Hagrid croaked. “Dad was dead chuffed… thought I migh’ not be a wizard, see, ‘cos me mum… well, anyway. ‘Course, I never was great shakes at magic, really… but at least he never saw me expelled. Died, see, in me second year…”
Dumbledore was the one who stuck up for me after Dad went. Got me the gamekeeper job… trusts people, he does. Gives ‘em second chances… tha’s what sets him apar’ from other heads, see. He’ll accept anyone at Hogwarts, s’long as they’ve got the talent. Knows people can turn out okay even if their families weren’… well… all tha’ respectable. But some don understand that. There’s some who’d always hold it against yeh… there’s some who’d even pretend they just had big bones rather than stand up an’ say - I am what I am, an’ I’m not ashamed. ‘Never be ashamed,’ my ol’ dad used ter say, ‘there’s some who’ll hold it against you, but they’re not worth botherin’ with.’ An’ he was right. I’ve bin an idiot. I’m not botherin’ with her no more, I promise yeh that. Big bones… I’ll give her big bones.”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another nervously; Harry would rather have taken fifty Blast-Ended Skrewts for a walk than admit to Hagrid that he had overheard him talking to Madame Maxime, but Hagrid was still talking, apparently unaware that he had said anything odd.
“Yeh know wha, Harry?” he said, looking up from the photograph of his father, his eyes very bright, “when I firs’ met you, you reminded me o’ me a bit. Mum an’ Dad gone, an’ you was feelin’ like yeh wouldn’ fit in at Hogwarts, remember? Not sure yeh were really up to it… an’ now look at yeh, Harry! School champion!”
He looked at Harry for a moment and then said, very seriously, “Yeh know what I’d love Harry? I’d love yeh ter win, I really would. It’d show ‘em all… yeh don’ have ter be pure-blood ter do it. Yeh don have ter be ashamed of what yeh are. It’d show ‘em Dumbledore’s the one who’s got it righ’, lettin’ anyone in as long as they can do magic. How you doin’ with that egg, Harry?”
“Great,” said Harry. “Really great.”
Hagrid’s miserable face broke into a wide, watery smile.
“Tha’s my boy… you show ‘em, Harry, you show ‘em. Beat ‘em all.”
Lying to Hagrid wasn’t quite like lying to anyone else. Harry went back to the castle later that afternoon with Ron and Hermione, unable to banish the image of the happy expression on Hagrid’s whiskery face as he had imagined Harry winning the tournament. The incomprehensible egg weighed more heavily than ever on Harrys conscience that evening, and by the time he had got into bed, he had made up his mind - it was time to shelve his pride and see if Cedric’s hint was worth anything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Egg and the Eye
Harry had no idea how long a bath he would need to work out the secret of the golden egg, he decided to do it at night, when he would be able to take as much time as he wanted. Reluctant though he was to accept more favors from Cedric, he also decided to use the prefects’ bathroom; far fewer people were allowed in there, so it was much less likely that he would be disturbed.
Harry planned his excursion carefully, because he had been caught out of bed and out-of-bounds by Filch the caretaker in the middle of the night once before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. The Invisibility Cloak would, of course, be essential, and as an added precaution, Harry thought he would take the Marauders Map, which, next to the cloak, was the most useful aid to rule-breaking Harry owned. The map showed the whole of Hogwarts, including its many shortcuts and secret passageways and, most important of all, it revealed the people inside the castle as minuscule, labeled dots, moving around the corridors, so that Harry would be forewarned if somebody was approaching the bathroom.
On Thursday night, Harry sneaked up to bed, put on the cloak, crept back downstairs, and, just as he had done on the night when Hagrid had shown him the dragons, waited for the portrait hole to open. This time it was Ron who waited outside to give the Fat Lady the password (“banana fritters”), “Good luck,” Ron muttered, climbing into the room as Harry crept out past him.
It was awkward moving under the cloak tonight, because Harry had the heavy egg under one arm and the map held in front of his nose with the other. However, the moonlit corridors were empty and silent, and by checking the map at strategic intervals, Harry was able to ensure that he wouldn’t run into anyone he wanted to avoid. When he reached the statue of Boris the Bewildered, a lost-looking wizard with his gloves on the wrong hands, he located the right door, leaned close to it, and muttered the password, “Pine fresh,” just as Cedric had told him.
The door creaked open. Harry slipped inside, bolted the door behind him, and pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, looking around.
His immediate reaction was that it would be worth becoming a prefect just to be able to use this bathroom. It was softly lit by a splendid candle-filled chandelier, and everything was made of white marble, including what looked like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor. About a hundred golden taps stood all around the pools edges, each with a differently colored Jewel set into its handle. There was also a diving board. Long white linen curtains hung at the windows; a large pile of fluffy white towels sat in a corner, and there was a
single golden-framed painting on the wall. It featured a blonde mermaid who was fast asleep on a rock, her long hair over her face. It fluttered every time she snored.
Harry moved forward, looking around, his footsteps echoing off the walls. Magnificent though the bathroom was - and quite keen though he was to try out a few of those taps - now he was here he couldn’t quite suppress the feeling that Cedric might have been having him on. How on earth
was this supposed to help solve the mystery of the egg? Nevertheless, he put one of the Huffy towels, the cloak, the map, and the egg at the side of the swimming-pool-sized bath, then knelt down and turned on a few of the taps.
He could tell at once that they carried different sorts of bubble bath mixed with the water, though it wasn’t bubble bath as Harry had ever experienced it. One tap gushed pink and blue bubbles the size of footballs; another poured ice-white foam so thick that Harry thought it would have supported his weight if he’d cared to test it; a third sent heavily perfumed purple clouds hovering over the surface of the water. Harry amused himself for awhile turning the taps on and off, particularly enjoying the effect of one whose jet bounced off the surface of the water in large arcs. Then, when the deep pool was full of hot water, foam, and bubbles, which took a very short time considering its size, Harry turned off all the taps, pulled off his pajamas, slippers, and dressing gown, and slid into the water.
It was so deep that his feet barely touched the bottom, and he actually did a couple of lengths before swimming back to the side and treading water, staring at the egg. Highly enjoyable though it was to swim in hot and foamy water with clouds of different-colored steam wafting all around him, no stroke of brilliance came to him, no sudden burst of understanding. Harry stretched out his arms, lifted the egg in his wet hands, and opened it. The wailing, screeching sound filled the bathroom, echoing and reverberating off the marble walls, but it sounded just as incomprehensible as ever, if not more so with all the echoes. He snapped it shut again, worried that the sound would attract Filch, wondering whether that hadn’t been Cedric’s plan - and then, making him jump so badly that he dropped the egg, which clattered away across the bathroom
floor, someone spoke.
“I’d try putting it in the water, if I were you.”
Harry had swallowed a considerable amount of bubbles in shock. He stood up, sputtering, and saw the ghost of a very glum-looking girl sitting cross-legged on top of one of the taps. It was Moaning Myrtle, who was usually to be heard sobbing in the S-bend of a toilet three floors below.
“Myrtle!” Harry said in outrage, “I’m - I’m not wearing anything!”
The foam was so dense that this hardly mattered, but he had a nasty feeling that Myrtle had been spying on him from out of one of the taps ever since he had arrived.
“I closed my eyes when you got in,” she said, blinking at him through her thick spectacles. “You haven’t been to see me for ages.”
“Yeah… well…” said Harry, bending his knees slightly, just to make absolutely sure Myrtle couldn’t see anything but his head, “I’m not supposed to come into your bathroom, am I? It’s a girls’ one.”
“You didn’t used to care,” said Myrtle miserably. “You used to be in there all the time.”
This was true, though only because Harry, Ron, and Hermione had found Myrtle’s out-of-order toilets a convenient place to brew Polyjuice Potion in secret – a forbidden potion that had turned him and Ron into living replicas of Crabbe and Goyle for an hour, so that they could sneak into the Slytherin common room.
“I got told off for going in there.” said Harry, which was half-true; Percy had once caught him coming out of Myrtles bathroom. “I thought I’d better not come back after that.”
“Oh… I see…” said Myrtle, picking at a spot on her chin in a morose sort of way. “Well… anyway… I’d try the egg in the water. That’s what Cedric Diggory did.”
“Have you been spying on him too?” said Harry indignantly. “What d’you do, sneak up here in the evenings to watch the prefects take baths?”
“Sometimes,” said Myrtle, rather slyly, “but I’ve never come out to speak to anyone before.”
“I’m honored,” said Harry darkly. “You keep your eyes shut!”
He made sure Myrtle had her glasses well covered before hoisting himself out of the bath, wrapping the towel firmly around his waist, and going to retrieve the egg.
Once he was back in the water, Myrtle peered through her fingers and said, “Go on, then… open it under the water!”
Harry lowered the egg beneath the foamy surface and opened it… and this time, it did not wail. A gurgling song was coming out of it, a song whose words he couldnt distinguish through the water.
“You need to put your head under too,” said Myrtle, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying bossing him around. “Go on!”
Harry took a great breath and slid under the surface - and now, sitting on the marble bottom of the bubble-filled bath, he heard a chorus of eerie voices singing to him from the open egg in his hands:
“Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground,
And while you re searching, ponder this:
We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss,
An hour long you’ll have to look,
And to recover what we took,
But past an hour- the prospect’s black,
Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back”
Harry let himself float back upward and broke the bubbly surface, shaking his hair out of his eyes.
“Hear it?” said Myrtle.
“Yeah… ‘Come seek us where our voices sound… ’ and if I need persuading… hang on, I need to listen again…” He sank back beneath the water. It took three more underwater renditions of the egg’s song before Harry had it memorized; then he trod water for a while, thinking hard, while Myrtle sat and watched him.
“I’ve got to go and look for people who can’t use their voices above the ground…” he said slowly. “Er… who could that be?”
“Slow, aren’t you?”
He had never seen Moaning Myrtle so cheerful, apart from the day when a dose of PolyJuice Potion had given Hermione the hairy face and tail of a cat. Harry stared around the bathroom, thinking… if the voices could only be heard underwater, then it made sense for them to belong to underwater creatures. He ran this theory past Myrtle, who smirked at him.
“Well, thats what Diggory thought,” she said. “He lay there talking to himself for ages about it. Ages and ages… nearly all the bubbles had gone…”
“Underwater…” Harry said slowly. “Myrtle… what lives in the lake, apart from the giant squid?”
“Oh all sorts,” she said. “I sometimes go down there… sometimes don’t have any choice, if someone flushes my toilet when I’m not expecting it…”
Trying not to think about Moaning Myrtle zooming down a pipe to the lake with the contents of a toilet. Harry said, “Well, does anything in there have a human voice? Hang on -”
Harry’s eyes had fallen on the picture of the snoozing mermaid on the wall.
“Myrtle, there aren’t merpeople in there, are there?”
“Oooh, very good,” she said, her thick glasses twinkling, “it took Diggory much longer than that! And that was with her awake too” - Myrtle jerked her head toward the mermaid with an expression of great dislike on her glum face - “giggling and showing off and flashing her fins…”
“Thats it, isn’t it?” said Harry excitedly. “The second tasks to go and find the merpeople in the lake and… and…”
But he suddenly realized what he was saying, and he felt the excitement drain out of him as though someone had just pulled a plug in his stomach. He wasn’t a very good swimmer; he’d never had much practice. Dudley had had lessons in his youth, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, no doubt hoping that Harry would drown one day, hadn’t bothered to give him any. A couple of lengths of this bath were all very well, but that lake was very large, and very deep… and merpeople would surely live right at the bottom…
“Myrtle,” Harry said slowly, “how am I supposed to breathe?”
At this, Myrtle’s eyes filled with sudden tears again.
“Tactless!” she muttered, groping in her robes for a handkerchief.
“What’s tactless?” said Harry, bewildered.
“Talking about breathing in front of me!” she said shrilly, and her voice echoed loudly around the bathroom. “When I can’t… when I haven’t… not for ages…”
She buried her face in her handkerchief and sniffed loudly. Harry remembered how touchy Myrtle had always been about being dead, but none of the other ghosts he knew made such a fuss about it.
“Sorry,” he said impatiently. “I didn’t mean - I just forgot…”
“Oh yes, very easy to forget Myrtle’s dead,” said Myrtle, gulping, looking at him out of swollen eyes. “Nobody missed me even when I was alive. Took them hours and hours to find my body - I know, I was sitting there waiting for them. Olive Hornby came into the bathroom – ‘Are you in here again, sulking, Myrtle?’ she said, ‘because Professor Dippet asked me to look for you -’ And then she saw my body… ooooh, she didn’t forget it until her dying day, I made sure of that… followed her around and reminded her, I did. I remember at her brother’s wedding -”
But Harry wasn’t listening; he was thinking about the merpeople’s song again.
“We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss.” That sounded as though they were going to steal something of his, something he had to get back. What were they going to take?
“—and then, of course, she went to the Ministry of Magic to stop me stalking her, so I had to come back here and live in my toilet.”
“Good,” said Harry vaguely. “Well, I’m a lot further on than I was… Shut your eyes again, will you? I’m getting out.”
He retrieved the egg from the bottom of the bath, climbed out, dried himself, and pulled on his pajamas and dressing gown again.
“Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again sometime?” Moaning Myrtle asked mournfully as Harry picked up the Invisibility Cloak.
“Er… I’ll try,” Harry said, though privately thinking the only way he’d be visiting Myrtle’s bathroom again was if every other toilet in the castle got blocked. “See you. Myrtle… thanks for your help.”
“Bye, ‘bye,” she said gloomily, and as Harry put on the Invisibllity Cloak he saw her zoom back up the tap.
Out in the dark corridor, Harry examined the Marauders Map to check that the coast was still clear. Yes, the dots belonging to Filch and his cat, Mrs. Norris, were safely in their office… nothing else seemed to be moving apart from Peeves, though he was bouncing around the trophy room on the floor above… Harry had taken his first step back toward Gryffindor Tower when something else on the map caught his eye… something distinctly odd.
Peeves was not the only thing that was moving. A single dot was flitting around a room in the bottom left-hand corner - Snapes office. But the dot wasn’t labeled “Severus Snape”… it was Bartemius Crouch. Harry stared at the dot. Mr. Crouch was supposed to be too ill to go to work or to come to the Yule Ball - so what was he doing, sneaking into Hogwarts at one o’clock in the morning? Harry watched closely as the dot moved around and around the room, pausing here and there…
Harry hesitated, thinking… and then his curiosity got the better of him. He turned and set off in the opposite direction toward the nearest staircase. He was going to see what Crouch was up to.
Harry walked down the stairs as quietly as possible, though the faces in some of the portraits still turned curiously at the squeak of a floorboard, the rustle of his pajamas. He crept along the corridor below, pushed aside a tapestry about halfway along, and proceeded down a narrower staircase, a shortcut that would take him down two floors. He kept glancing down at the map, wondering… It just didn’t seem in character, somehow, for correct, law-abiding Mr. Crouch to be sneaking around somebody else’s office this late at night…
And then, halfway down the staircase, not thinking about what he was doing, not concentrating on anything but the peculiar behavior of Mr. Crouch, Harrys leg suddenly sank right through the trick step Neville always forgot to jump. He gave an ungainly wobble, and the golden egg, still damp from the bath, slipped from under his arm. He lurched forward to try and catch it, but too late; the egg fell down the long staircase with a bang as loud as a bass drum on every step - the
Invisibility Cloak slipped - Harry snatched at it, and the Marauder s Map fluttered out of his hand and slid down six stairs, where, sunk in the step to above his knee, he couldn’t reach it.
The golden egg fell through the tapestry at the bottom of the staircase, burst open, and began wailing loudly in the corridor below. Harry pulled out his wand and struggled to touch the Marauder s Map, to wipe it blank, but it was too far away to reach –
Pulling the cloak back over himself Harry straightened up, listening hard with his eyes screwed up with fear… and, almost immediately –
“PEEVES!”
It was the unmistakable hunting cry of Filch the caretaker. Harry could hear his rapid, shuffling footsteps coming nearer and nearer, his wheezy voice raised in fury.
“What’s this racket? Wake up the whole castle, will you? I’ll have you, Peeves, I’ll have you, you’ll… and what is this?”
Filch’s footsteps halted; there was a clink of metal on metal and the wailing stopped - Filch had picked up the egg and closed it. Harry stood very still, one leg still Jammed tightly in the magical step, listening. Any moment now, Filch was going to pull aside the tapestry, expecting to see Peeves… and there would be no Peeves… but if he came up the stairs, he would spot the Marauder’s Map… and Invisibility Cloak or not, the map would show “Harry Potter” standing exactly where he was.
“Egg?” Filch said quietly at the foot of the stairs. “My sweet!” - Mrs. Norris was obviously with him - “This is a Triwizard clue! This belongs to a school champion!”
Harry felt sick; his heart was hammering very fast -
“PEEVES!” Filch roared gleefully. “You’ve been stealing!”
He ripped back the tapestry below, and Harry saw his horrible, pouchy face and bulging, pale eyes staring up the dark and (to Filch) deserted staircase.
“Hiding, are you?” he said softly. “I’m coming to get you, Peeves… You’ve gone and stolen a Triwizard clue, Peeves… Dumbledore’ll have you out of here for this, you filthy, pilfering poltergeist…”
Filch started to climb the stairs, his scrawny, dust-colored cat at his heels. Mrs. Morris’s lamp-like eyes, so very like her masters, were fixed directly upon Harry. He had had occasion before now to wonder whether the Invisibility Cloak worked on cats… Sick with apprehension, he watched Filch drawing nearer and nearer in his old flannel dressing gown - he tried desperately to pull his trapped leg free, but it merely sank a few more inches - any second now, Filch was going to spot the map or walk right into him -
“Filch? Whats going on?”
Filch stopped a few steps below Harry and turned. At the foot of the stairs stood the only person who could make Harry’s situation worse: Snape. He was wearing a long gray nightshirt and he looked livid.
“It’s Peeves, Professor,” Filch whispered malevolently. “He threw this egg down the stairs.”
Snape climbed up the stairs quickly and stopped beside Filch. Harry gritted his teeth, convinced his loudly thumping heart would give him away at any second…
“Peeves?” said Snape softly, staring at the egg in Filch’s hands. “But Peeves couldn’t get into my office…”
“This egg was in your office. Professor?”
“Of course not,” Snape snapped. “I heard banging and wailing -”
“Yes, Professor, that was the egg -”
“- I was coming to investigate -”
“- Peeves threw it. Professor -”
“- and when I passed my office, I saw that the torches were lit and a cupboard door was ajar! Somebody has been searching it!”
“But Peeves couldn’t -”
“I know he couldn’t, Filch!” Snape snapped again. “I seal my office with a spell none but a wizard could break!” Snape looked up the stairs, straight through Harry, and then down into the corridor below. “I want you to come and help me search for the intruder, Filch.”
“I - yes, Professor - but -”
Filch looked yearningly up the stairs, right through Harry, who could see that he was very reluctant to forgo the chance of cornering Peeves. Go, Harry pleaded with him silently, go with Snape… go… Mrs. Norris was peering around Filch’s legs… Harry had the distinct impression that she could smell him… Why had he filled that bath with so much perfumed foam?
“The thing is, Professor,” said Filch plaintively, “the headmaster will have to listen to me this time. Peeves has been stealing from a student, it might be my chance to get him thrown out of the castle once and for all -”
“Filch, I don’t give a damn about that wretched poltergeist; it’s my office that’s -” Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Snape stopped talking very abruptly. He and Filch both looked down at the foot of the stairs. Harry saw Mad-Eye Moody limp into sight through the narrow gap between their heads. Moody was wearing his old traveling cloak over his nightshirt and leaning on his staff as usual.
“Pajama party, is it?” he growled up the stairs.
“Professor Snape and I heard noises, Professor,” said Filch at once. “Peeves the Poltergeist, throwing things around as usual - and then Professor Snape discovered that someone had broken into his off -”
“Shut up!” Snape hissed to Filch.
Moody took a step closer to the foot of the stairs. Harry saw Moodys magical eye travel over Snape, and then, unmistakably, onto himself.
Harrys heart gave a horrible jolt. Moody could see through Invisibility Cloaks… he alone could see the full strangeness of the scene: Snape in his nightshirt, Filch clutching the egg, and he, Harry, trapped in the stairs behind them. Moody’s lopsided gash of a mouth opened in surprise. For a few seconds, he and Harry stared straight into each other’s eyes. Then Moody closed his mouth and turned his blue eye upon Snape again.
“Did I hear that correctly, Snape?” he asked slowly. “Someone broke into your office?”
“It is unimportant,” said Snape coldly.
“On the contrary,” growled Moody, “it is very important. Who’d want to break into your office?”
“A student, I daresay,” said Snape. Harry could see a vein flickering horribly on Snape’s greasy temple. “It has happened before. Potion ingredients have gone missing from my private store cupboard… students attempting illicit mixtures, no doubt…”
“Reckon they were after potion ingredients, eh?” said Moody. “Not hiding anything else in your office, are you?”
Harry saw the edge of Snapes sallow face turn a nasty brick color, the vein in his temple pulsing more rapidly.
“You know I’m hiding nothing, Moody,” he said in a soft and dangerous voice, “as you’ve searched my office pretty thoroughly yourself.”
Moodys face twisted into a smile. “Auror’s privilege, Snape. Dumbledore told me to keep an eye -”
“Dumbledore happens to trust me,” said Snape through clenched teeth. “I refuse to believe that he gave you orders to search my office!”
“Course Dumbledore trusts you,” growled Moody. “He’s a trusting man, isn’t he? Believes in second chances. But me - I say there are spots that don’t come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d’you know what I mean?”
Snape suddenly did something very strange. He seized his left forearm convulsively with his right hand, as though something on it had hurt him.
Moody laughed. “Get back to bed, Snape.”
“You don’t have the authority to send me anywhere!” Snape hissed, letting go of his arm as though angry with himself. “I have as much right to prowl this school after dark as you do!”
“Prowl away,” said Moody, but his voice was full of menace. “I look forward to meeting you in a dark corridor some time… You’ve dropped something, by the way…”
With a stab of horror Harry saw Moody point at the Marauders Map, still lying on the staircase six steps below him. As Snape and Filch both turned to look at it, Harry threw caution to the winds; he raised his arms under the cloak and waved furiously at Moody to attract his attention, mouthing “It’s mine! Mine!”
Snape had reached out for it, a horrible expression of dawning comprehension on his face -
“Accio Parchment!”
The map flew up into the air, slipped through Snapes outstretched fingers, and soared down the stairs into Moodys hand.
“My mistake,” Moody said calmly. “It’s mine - must’ve dropped it earlier -”
But Snape’s black eyes were darting from the egg in Filch’s arms to the map in Moodys hand, and Harry could tell he was putting two and two together, as only Snape could…
“Potter,” he said quietly.
“What’s that?” said Moody calmly, folding up the map and pocketing it.
“Potter!” Snape snarled, and he actually turned his head and stared right at the place where Harry was, as though he could suddenly see him. “That egg is Potters egg. That piece of parchment belongs to Potter. I have seen it before, I recognize it! Potter is here! Potter, in his Invisibility Cloak!”
Snape stretched out his hands like a blind man and began to move up the stairs; Harry could have sworn his over-large nostrils were dilating, trying to sniff Harry out - trapped. Harry leaned backward, trying to avoid Snapes fingertips, but any moment now-
“There’s nothing there, Snape!” barked Moody, “but I’ll be happy to tell the headmaster how quickly your mind jumped to Harry Potter!”
“Meaning what?” Snape turned again to look at Moody, his hands still outstretched, inches from Harry’s chest.
“Meaning that Dumbledore’s very interested to know who’s got it in for that boy!” said Moody, limping nearer still to the foot of the stairs. “And so am I, Snape… very interested…” The
torchlight flickered across his mangled face, so that the scars, and the chunk missing from his nose, looked deeper and darker than ever.
Snape was looking down at Moody, and Harry couldn’t see the expression on his face. For a moment, nobody moved or said anything. Then Snape slowly lowered his hands.
“I merely thought,” said Snape, in a voice of forced calm, “that if Potter was wandering around after hours again… it’s an unfortunate habit of his… he should be stopped. For - for his own safety.”
“Ah, I see,” said Moody softly. “Got Potter’s best interests at heart, have you?”
There was a pause. Snape and Moody were still staring at each other, Mrs. Norris gave a loud meow, still peering around Filch’s legs, looking for the source of Harry’s bubble-bath smell.
“I think I will go back to bed,” Snape said curtly.
“Best idea you’ve had all night,” said Moody. “Now, Filch, if you’ll just give me that egg-”
“No!” said Filch, clutching the egg as though it were his firstborn son. “Professor Moody, this is evidence of Peeves’ treachery!”
“It’s the property of the champion he stole it from,” said Moody. “Hand it over, now.”
Snape swept downstairs and passed Moody without another word. Filch made a chirruping noise to Mrs. Norris, who stared blankly at Harry for a few more seconds before turning and following her master. Still breathing very fast. Harry heard Snape walking away down the corridor; Filch handed Moody the egg and disappeared from view too, muttering to Mrs. Norris. “Never mind my sweet… we’ll see Dumbledore in the morning… tell him what Peeves was up to…”
A door slammed. Harry was left staring down at Moody, who placed his staff on the bottommost stair and started to climb laboriously toward him, a dull clunk on every other step.
“Close shave Potter,” he muttered.
“Yeah… I - er… thanks,” said Harry weakly.
“What is this thing?” said Moody, drawing the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket and unfolding it.
“Map of Hogwarts,” said Harry, hoping Moody was going to pull him out of the staircase soon; his leg was really hurting him.
“Merlins beard,” Moody whispered, staring at the map, his magical eye going haywire. “This… this is some map. Potter!”
“Yeah, it’s… quite useful,” Harry said. His eyes were starting to water from the pain. “Er - Professor Moody, d’you think you could help me -?”
“What? Oh! Yes… yes, of course…”
Moody took hold of Harrys arms and pulled; Harrys leg came free of the trick step, and he climbed onto the one above it. Moody was still gazing at the map. “Potter…” he said slowly, “you didn’t happen, by any chance, to see who broke into Snapes office, did you? On this map, I mean?”
“Er… yeah, I did…” Harry admitted. “It was Mr. Crouch.”
Moodys magical eye whizzed over the entire surface of the map. He looked suddenly alarmed.
“Crouch?” he said. “You’re - you’re sure Potter?”
“Positive,” said Harry.
“Well, he’s not here anymore,” said Moody, his eye still whizzing over the map. “Crouch… that’s very - very interesting…”
He said nothing for almost a minute, still staring at the map. Harry could tell that this news meant something to Moody and very much wanted to know what it was. He wondered whether he dared ask. Moody scared him slightly… yet Moody had just helped him avoid an awful lot of trouble…
“Er… Professor Moody… why d’you reckon Mr. Crouch wanted to look around Snapes office?”
Moodys magical eye left the map and fixed, quivering, upon Harry. It was a penetrating glare, and Harry had the impression that Moody was sizing him up, wondering whether to answer or not, or how much to tell him.
“Put it this way Potter,” Moody muttered finally, “they say old Mad-Eye’s obsessed with catching Dark wizards… but I’m nothing - nothing - compared to Barty Crouch.”
He continued to stare at the map. Harry was burning to know more.
“Professor Moody?” he said again. “D’you think… could this have anything to do with… maybe Mr. Crouch thinks there’s something going on…”
“Like what?” said Moody sharply.
Harry wondered how much he dare say. He didn’t want Moody to guess that he had a source of information outside Hogwarts; that might lead to tricky questions about Sirius.
“I don’t know,” Harry muttered, “odd stuffs been happening lately, hasn’t it? It’s been in the Daily Prophet… the Dark Mark at the World Cup, and the Death Eaters and everything…”
Both of Moody’s mismatched eyes widened.
“You’re a sharp boy. Potter,” he said. His magical eye roved back to the Marauder’s Map. “Crouch could be thinking along those lines,” he said slowly. “Very possible… there have been some funny rumors flying around lately - helped along by Rita Skeeter, of course. It’s making a lot of people nervous, I reckon.” A grim smile twisted his lopsided mouth. “Oh if there’s one thing I hate,” he muttered, more to himself than to Harry, and his magical eye was fixed on the
left-hand corner of the map, “its a Death Eater who walked free…”
Harry stared at him. Could Moody possibly mean what Harry thought he meant?
“And now I want to ask you a question Potter,” said Moody in a more businesslike tone.
Harrys heart sank; he had thought this was coming. Moody was going to ask where he had got this map, which was a very dubious magical object - and the story of how it had fallen into his hands incriminated not only him, but his own father, Fred and George Weasley, and Professor Lupin, their last Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Moody waved the map in front of Harry, who braced himself-
“Can I borrow this?”
“Oh!” said Harry.
He was very fond of his map, but on the other hand, he was extremely relieved that Moody wasn’t asking where he’d got it, and there was no doubt that he owed Moody a favor.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Good boy,” growled Moody. “I can make good use of this… this might be exactly what I’ve been looking for… Right, bed, Potter, come on, now…”
They climbed to the top of the stairs together, Moody still examining the map as though it was a treasure the like of which he had never seen before. They walked in silence to the door of Moody’s office, where he stopped and looked up at Harry.
“You ever thought of a career as an Auror, Potter?”
“No,” said Harry, taken aback.
“You want to consider it,” said Moody, nodding and looking at Harry thoughtfully. “Yes, indeed… and incidentally… I’m guessing you werent just taking that egg for a walk tonight?”
“Er - no,” said Harry, grinning. “I’ve been working out the clue.”
Moody winked at him, his magical eye going haywire again. “Nothing like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas, Potter… See you in the morning…”
He went back into his office, staring down at the Marauders Map again, and closed the door behind him.
Harry walked slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, lost in thought about Snape, and Crouch, and what it all meant… Why was Crouch pretending to be ill, if he could manage to get to Hogwarts when he wanted to? What did he think Snape was concealing in his office? And Moody thought he. Harry, ought to be an Auror! Interesting idea… but somehow. Harry thought, as he got quietly into his four-poster ten minutes later, the egg and the cloak now safely back in his trunk, he thought he’d like to check how scarred the rest of them were before he chose it as a career.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Second Task
“You said you’d already worked out that egg clue!” said Hermione indignantly.
“Keep your voice down!” said Harry crossly. “I just need to - sort of fine-tune it, all right?”
He, Ron, and Hermione were sitting at the very back of the Charms class with a table to themselves. They were supposed to be practicing the opposite of the Summoning Charm today - the Banishing Charm. Owing to the potential for nasty accidents when objects kept flying across the room. Professor Flitwick had given each student a stack of cushions on which to practice, the theory being that these wouldn’t hurt anyone if they went off target. It was a good theory, but it wasn’t working very well. Neville’s aim was so poor that he kept accidentally sending much heavier things flying across the room - Professor Flitwick, for instance.
“Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?” Harry hissed as Professor Flitwick went whizzing resignedly past them, landing on top of a large cabinet. “I’m trying to tell you about Snape and Moody…”
This class was an ideal cover for a private conversation, as everyone was having far too much fun to pay them any attention. Harry had been recounting his adventures of the previous night in whispered installments for the last half hour.
“Snape said Moodys searched his office as well?” Ron whispered, his eyes alight with interest as he Banished a cushion with a sweep of his wand (it soared into the air and knocked Parvati’s hat off). “What… d’you reckon Moody’s here to keep an eye on Snape as well as Karkaroff?”
“Well, I dunno if that’s what Dumbledore asked him to do, but he’s definitely doing it,” said Harry, waving his wand without paying much attention, so that his cushion did an odd sort of belly flop off the desk. “Moody said Dumbledore only lets Snape stay here because he’s giving him a second chance or something…”
“What?” said Ron, his eyes widening, his next cushion spinning high into the air, ricocheting off the chandelier, and dropping heavily onto Flitwick’s desk. “Harry… maybe Moody thinks Snape put your name in the Goblet of Fire!”
“Oh Ron,” said Hermione, shaking her head sceptically, “we thought Snape was trying to kill Harry before, and it turned out he was saving Harry’s life, remember?”
She Banished a cushion and it flew across the room and landed in the box they were all supposed to be aiming at. Harry looked at Hermione, thinking… it was true that Snape had saved his life once, but the odd thing was, Snape definitely loathed him, just as he’d loathed Harry’s father when they had been at school together. Snape loved taking points from Harry, and had certainly
never missed an opportunity to give him punishments, or even to suggest that he should be suspended from the school.
“I don’t care what Moody says,” Hermione went on. “Dumbledore’s not stupid. He was right to trust Hagrid and Professor Lupin, even though loads of people wouldn’t have given them jobs, so why shouldn’t he be right about Snape, even if Snape is a bit -”
“- evil,” said Ron promptly. “Come on, Hermione, why are all these Dark wizard catchers searching his office, then?”
“Why has Mr. Crouch been pretending to be ill?” said Hermione, ignoring Ron. “Its a bit funny, isn’t it, that he can’t manage to come to the Yule Ball, but he can get up here in the middle of the night when he wants to?”
“You just don’t like Crouch because of that elf, Winky,” said Ron, sending a cushion soaring into the window.
“You just want to think Snapes up to something,” said Hermione, sending her cushion zooming neatly into the box.
“I just want to know what Snape did with his first chance, if he’s on his second one,” said Harry grimly, and his cushion, to his very great surprise, flew straight across the room and landed neatly on top of Hermione’s.
Obedient to Sirius’s wish of hearing about anything odd at Hogwarts, Harry sent him a letter by brown owl that night, explaining all about Mr. Crouch breaking into Snape s office, and Moody and Snape’s conversation. Then Harry turned his attention in earnest to the most urgent problem facing him: how to survive underwater for an hour on the twenty-fourth of February.
Ron quite liked the idea of using the Summoning Charm again - Harry had explained about Aqua-Lungs, and Ron couldn’t see why Harry shouldn’t Summon one from the nearest Muggle town. Hermione squashed this plan by pointing out that, in the unlikely event that Harry managed to learn how to operate an Aqua- Lung within the set limit of an hour, he was sure to be disqualified for breaking the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy - it was too much to hope that no Muggles would spot an Aqua-Lung zooming across the countryside to Hogwarts.
“Of course, the ideal solution would be for you to Transfigure yourself into a submarine or something,” Hermione said. “If only we’d done human Transfiguration already! But I don’t think we start that until sixth year, and it can go badly wrong if you don’t know what you’re doing…”
“Yeah, I don’t fancy walking around with a periscope sticking out of my head,” said Harry. “I s’pose I could always attack someone in front of Moody; he might do it for me…”
“I don’t think he’d let you choose what you wanted to be turned into, though,” said Hermione seriously. “No, I think your best chance is some sort of charm.”
So Harry, thinking that he would soon have had enough of the library to last him a lifetime, buried himself once more among the dusty volumes, looking for any spell that might enable a human to survive without oxygen. However, though he, Ron, and Hermione searched through their lunchtimes, evenings, and whole weekends - though Harry asked Professor McGonagall for a note of permission to use the Restricted Section, and even asked the irritable, vulture-like librarian Madam Pince, for help - they found nothing whatsoever that would enable Harry to spend an hour underwater and live to tell the tale.
Familiar flutterings of panic were starting to disturb Harry now, and he was finding it difficult to concentrate in class again. The lake, which Harry had always taken for granted as just another feature of the grounds, drew his eyes whenever he was near a classroom window, a great, iron-gray mass of chilly water, whose dark and icy depths were starting to seem as distant as the moon.
Just as it had before he faced the Horntail, time was slipping away as though somebody had bewitched the clocks to go extra-fast. There was a week to go before February the twenty-fourth (there was still time)… there were five days to go (he was bound to find something soon)… three days to go (please let me find something… please)… With two days left. Harry started to go off food again. The only good thing about breakfast on Monday was the return of the brown owl he had sent to Sirius. He pulled off the parchment, unrolled it, and saw the shortest letter Sirius had ever written to him.
Send date of next Hogsmeade weekend by return owl.
Harry turned the parchment over and looked at the back, hoping to see something else, but it was blank.
“Weekend after next,” whispered Hermione, who had read the note over Harrys shoulder. “Here - take my quill and send this owl back straight away.”
Harry scribbled the dates down on the back of Sirius’s letter, tied it onto the brown owl’s leg, and watched it take flight again. What had he expected? Advice on how to survive underwater? He had been so intent on telling Sirius all about Snape and Moody he had completely forgotten to mention the eggs clue.
“What’s he want to know about the next Hogsmeade weekend for?” said Ron.
“Dunno,” said Harry dully. The momentary happiness that had flared inside him at the sight of the owl had died. “Come on… Care of Magical Creatures.”
Whether Hagrid was trying to make up for the Blast-Ended Skrewts, or because there were now only two skrewts left, or because he was trying to prove he could do anything that Professor Grubbly-Plank could. Harry didnt know, but Hagrid had been continuing her lessons on unicorns ever since he’d returned to work. It turned out that Hagrid knew quite as much about unicorns as he did about monsters, though it was clear that he found their lack of poisonous fangs disappointing.
Today he had managed to capture two unicorn foals. Unlike full-grown unicorns, they were pure gold. Parvati and Lavender went into transports of delight at the sight of them, and even Pansy Parkinson had to work hard to conceal how much she liked them.
“Easier ter spot than the adults,” Hagrid told the class. “They turn silver when they’re abou’ two years old, an’ they grow horns at aroun four. Don’ go pure white till they’re full grown, ‘round about seven. They’re a bit more trustin when they’re babies… don mind boys so much… C’mon, move in a bit, yeh can pat ‘em if yeh want… give ‘em a few o’ these sugar lumps…
“You okay Harry?” Hagrid muttered, moving aside slightly, while most of the others swarmed around the baby unicorns.
“Yeah,” said Harry.
“Jus’ nervous, eh?” said Hagrid.
“Bit,” said Harry.
“Harry,” said Hagrid, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder, so that Harry’s knees buckled under its weight, “I’d’ve bin worried before I saw yeh take on tha Horntail, but I know now yeh can do anythin’ yeh set yer mind ter. I’m not worried at all. Yeh’re goin ter be fine. Got yer clue worked out, haven’ yeh?”
Harry nodded, but even as he did so, an insane urge to confess that he didn’t have any idea how to survive at the bottom of the lake for an hour came over him. He looked up at Hagrid - perhaps he had to go into the lake sometimes, to deal with the creatures in it? He looked after everything else on the grounds, after all-
“Yeh’re goin’ ter win,” Hagrid growled, patting Harrys shoulder again, so that Harry actually felt himself sink a couple of inches into the soft ground. “I know it. I can feel it. Yeh’re goin’ ter win, Harry”
Harry just couldn’t bring himself to wipe the happy, confident smile off Hagrid’s face. Pretending he was interested in the young unicorns, he forced a smile in return, and moved forward to pat them with the others.
By the evening before the second task Harry felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare. He was fully aware that even if, by some miracle, he managed to find a suitable spell, he’d have a real job mastering it overnight. How could he have let this happen? Why hadn’t he got to work on the egg’s clue sooner? Why had he ever let his mind wander in class - what if a teacher had once mentioned how to breathe underwater?
He sat with Hermione and Ron in the library as the sun set outside, tearing feverishly through page after page of spells, hidden from one another by the massive piles of books on the desk in front of each of them. Harry s heart gave a huge leap every time he saw the word “water” on a
page, but more often than not it was merely “Take two pints of water, half a pound of shredded mandrake leaves, and a newt…”
“I don’t reckon it can be done,” said Rons voice flatly from the other side of the table. “There’s nothing. Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up puddles and ponds, that Drought Charm, but that was nowhere near powerful enough to drain the lake.”
“There must be something,” Hermione muttered, moving a candle closer to her. Her eyes were so tired she was poring over the tiny print of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes with her nose about an inch from the page. “They’d never have set a task that was undoable.”
“They have,” said Ron. “Harry, just go down to the lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the merpeople to give back whatever they’ve nicked, and see if they chuck it out. Best you can do, mate.”
“There’s a way of doing it!” Hermione said crossly. “There just has to be!”
She seemed to be taking the library’s lack of useful information on the subject as a personal insult; it had never failed her before.
“I know what I should have done,” said Harry, resting, face-down, on Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts. “I should’ve learned to be an Animagus like Sirius.”
An Animagus was a wizard who could transform into an animal.
“Yeah, you could’ve turned into a goldfish any time you wanted!” said Ron.
“Or a frog,” yawned Harry. He was exhausted.
“It takes years to become an Animagus, and then you have to register yourself and everything,” said Hermione vaguely, now squinting down the index of Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their
Solutions. “Professor McGonagall told us, remember… you’ve got to register yourself with the Improper Use of Magic Office… what animal you become, and your markings, so you can’t abuse it…”
“Hermione, I was joking,” said Harry wearily. “I know I haven’t got a chance of turning into a frog by tomorrow morning…”
“Oh this is no use,” Hermione said, snapping shut Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. “Who on earth wants to make their nose hair grow into ringlets?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Fred Weasleys voice. “Be a talking point, wouldn’t it?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up. Fred and George had just emerged from behind some bookshelves.
“What’re you two doing here?” Ron asked.
“Looking for you,” said George. “McGonagall wants you, Ron. And you, Hermione.”
“Why?” said Hermione, looking surprised.
“Dunno… she was looking a bit grim, though,” said Fred.
“We’re supposed to take you down to her office,” said George.
Ron and Hermione stared at Harry, who felt his stomach drop. Was Professor McGonagall about to tell Ron and Hermione off? Perhaps she’d noticed how much they were helping him, when he ought to be working out how to do the task alone?
“We’ll meet you back in the common room,” Hermione told Harry as she got up to go with Ron - both of them looked very anxious. “Bring as many of these books as you can, okay?”
“Right,” said Harry uneasily.
By eight o’clock Madam Pince had extinguished all the lamps and came to chivvy Harry out of the library. Staggering under the weight of as many books as he could carry, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room, pulled a table into a corner, and continued to search. There was nothing in Madcap Magic for Wacky Warlocks… nothing in A Guide to Medieval Sorcery… not one mention of underwater exploits in An Anthology of Eighteenth-Century Charms, or in
Dreadful Denizens of the Deep, or Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now Youve Wised Up.
Crookshanks crawled into Harrys lap and curled up, purring deeply. The common room emptied slowly around Harry. People kept wishing him luck for the next morning in cheery, confident voices like Hagrid s, all of them apparently convinced that he was about to pull off another stunning performance like the one he had managed in the first task. Harry couldn’t answer them, he just nodded, feeling as though there were a golfball stuck in his throat. By ten to midnight, he
was alone in the room with Crookshanks. He had searched all the remaining books, and Ron and Hermione had not come back.
It’s over, he told himself. You can’t do it. You’ll just have to go down to the lake in the morning and tell the judges…
He imagined himself explaining that he couldn’t do the task. He pictured Bagman’s look of round-eyed surprise, Karkaroffs satisfied, yellow-toothed smile. He could almost hear Fleur Delacour saying “I knew it… ‘e is too young, ‘e is only a little boy.” He saw Malfoy flashing his POTTER STINKS badge at the front of the crowd, saw Hagrid s crestfallen, disbelieving face…
Forgetting that Crookshanks was on his lap. Harry stood up very suddenly; Crookshanks hissed angrily as he landed on the floor, gave Harry a disgusted look, and stalked away with his bottlebrush tail in the air, but Harry was already hurrying up the spiral staircase to his
dormitory… He would grab the Invisibility Cloak and go back to the library, he’d stay there all night if he had to…
“Lumos,” Harry whispered fifteen minutes later as he opened the library door.
Wand tip alight, he crept along the bookshelves, pulling down more books – books of hexes and charms, books on merpeople and water monsters, books on famous witches and wizards, on magical inventions, on anything at all that might include one passing reference to underwater survival. He carried them over to a table, then set to work, searching them by the narrow beam of his wand, occasionally checking his watch…
One in the morning… two in the morning… the only way he could keep going was to tell himself, over and over again, next book… in the next one… the next one…
The mermaid in the painting in the prefects’ bathroom was laughing. Harry was bobbing like a cork in bubbly water next to her rock, while she held his Firebolt over his head.
“Come and get it!” she giggled maliciously. “Come on, jump!”
“I can’t,” Harry panted, snatching at the Firebolt, and struggling not to sink. “Give it to me!”
But she just poked him painfully in the side with the end of the broomstick, laughing at him.
“That hurts - get off- ouch -”
“Harry Potter must wake up, sir!”
“Stop poking me -”
“Dobby must poke Harry Potter, sir, he must wake up!”
Harry opened his eyes. He was still in the library; the Invisibility Cloak had slipped off his head as he’d slept, and the side of his face was stuck to the pages of Where There’s a Wand, There’s a Way. He sat up, straightening his glasses, blinking in the bright daylight.
“Harry Potter needs to hurry!” squeaked Dobby. “The second task starts in ten minutes, and Harry Potter -”
“Ten minutes?” Harry croaked. “Ten - ten minutes?”
He looked down at his watch. Dobby was right. It was twenty past nine. A large, dead weight seemed to fall through Harry’s chest into his stomach.
“Hurry, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, plucking at Harry’s sleeve. “You is supposed to be down by the lake with the other champions, sir!”
“It’s too late, Dobby,” Harry said hopelessly. “I’m not doing the task, I don’t know how-”
“Harry Potter will do the task!” squeaked the elf. “Dobby knew Harry had not found the right book, so Dobby did it for him!”
“What?” said Harry. “But you don’t know what the second task is -”
“Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Wheezy -”
“Find my what?”
“- and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!”
“What’s a Wheezy?”
“Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy-Wheezy who is giving Dobby his sweater!” Dobby plucked at the shrunken maroon sweater he was now wearing over his shorts.
“What?” Harry gasped. “They’ve got… they’ve got Ron?”
“The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!” squeaked Dobby. “‘But past an hour- ‘“
“- ‘the prospect’s black,’” Harry recited, staring, horror-struck, at the elf. “‘Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.’ Dobby - what’ve I got to do?”
“You has to eat this, sir!” squeaked the elf, and he put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and drew out a ball of what looked like slimy, grayish-green rat tails. “Right before you go into the lake, sir - gillyweed!”
“What’s it do?” said Harry, staring at the gillyweed.
“It will make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!”
“Dobby,” said Harry frantically, “listen - are you sure about this?”
He couldn’t quite forget that the last time Dobby had tried to “help” him, he had ended up with no bones in his right arm.
“Dobby is quite sure, sir!” said the elf earnestly. “Dobby hears things, sir, he is a house-elf, he goes all over the castle as he lights the fires and mops the floors. Dobby heard Professor McGonagall and Professor Moody in the staffroom, talking about the next task… Dobby cannot let Harry Potter lose his Wheezy!”
Harrys doubts vanished. Jumping to his feet he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, stuffed it into his bag, grabbed the gillyweed, and put it into his pocket, then tore out of the library with Dobby at his heels.
“Dobby is supposed to be in the kitchens, sir!” Dobby squealed as they burst into the corridor. “Dobby will be missed - good luck, Harry Potter, sir, good luck!”
“See you later, Dobby!” Harry shouted, and he sprinted along the corridor and down the stairs, three at a time.
The entrance hall contained a few last-minute stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast and heading through the double oak doors to watch the second task.
They stared as Harry flashed past, sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as he leapt down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly grounds.
As he pounded down the lawn he saw that the seats that had encircled the dragons’ enclosure in November were now ranged along the opposite bank, rising in stands that were packed to the bursting point and reflected in the lake below. The excited babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water as Harry ran flat-out around the other side of the lake toward the judges, who were sitting at another golddraped table at the water’s edge. Cedric, Fleur, and Krum were beside the judges’ table, watching Harry sprint toward them.
“I’m… here…” Harry panted, skidding to a halt in the mud and accidentally splattering Fleurs robes.
“Where have you been?” said a bossy, disapproving voice. “The task’s about to start!”
Harry looked around. Percy Weasley was sitting at the judges’ table - Mr. Crouch had failed to turn up again.
“Now, now, Percy!” said Ludo Bagman, who was looking intensely relieved to see Harry. “Let him catch his breath!”
Dumbledore smiled at Harry, but Karkaroff and Madame Maxime didn’t look at all pleased to see him… It was obvious from the looks on their faces that they had thought he wasn’t going to turn up.
Harry bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath; he had a stitch in his side that felt as though he had a knife between his ribs, but there was no time to get rid of it; Ludo Bagman was now moving among the champions, spacing them along the bank at intervals of ten feet. Harry was on the very end of the line, next to Krum, who was wearing swimming trunks and was holding his wand ready.
“All right. Harry?” Bagman whispered as he moved Harry a few feet farther away from Krum. “Know what you’re going to do?”
“Yeah,” Harry panted, massaging his ribs.
Bagman gave Harry’s shoulder a quick squeeze and returned to the judges’ table; he pointed his wand at his throat as he had done at the World Cup, said, “Sonorus!” and his voice boomed out across the dark water toward the stands.
“Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One… two… three!”
The whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air; the stands erupted with cheers and applause; without looking to see what the other champions were doing, Harry pulled off his shoes and socks, pulled the handful of gillyweed out of his pocket, stuffed it into his mouth, and waded out into the lake.
It was so cold he felt the skin on his legs searing as though this were fire, not icy water. His sodden robes weighed him down as he walked in deeper; now the water was over his knees, and his rapidly numbing feet were slipping over silt and flat, slimy stones. He was chewing the gillyweed as hard and fast as he could; it felt unpleasantly slimy and rubbery, like octopus tentacles. Waist-deep in the freezing water he stopped, swallowed, and waited for something to happen.
He could hear laughter in the crowd and knew he must look stupid, walking into the lake without showing any sign of magical power. The part of him that was still dry was covered in goose pimples; half immersed in the icy water, a cruel breeze lifting his hair, Harry started to shiver violently. He avoided looking at the stands; the laughter was becoming louder, and there were catcalls and jeering from the Slytherins…
Then, quite suddenly, Harry felt as though an invisible pillow had been pressed over his mouth and nose. He tried to draw breath, but it made his head spin; his lungs were empty, and he suddenly felt a piercing pain on either side of his neck - Harry clapped his hands around his throat and felt two large slits just below his ears, flapping in the cold air… He had gills. Without pausing to think, he did the only thing that made sense - he flung himself forward into the water.
The first gulp of icy lake water felt like the breath of life. His head had stopped spinning; he took another great gulp of water and felt it pass smoothly through his gills, sending oxygen back to his brain. He stretched out his hands in front of him and stared at them. They looked green and ghostly under the water, and they had become webbed. He twisted around and looked at his bare feet - they had become elongated and the toes were webbed too:
It looked as though he had sprouted flippers.
The water didn’t feel icy anymore either… on the contrary, he felt pleasantly cool and very light… Harry struck out once more, marveling at how far and fast his flipper-like feet propelled him through the vater, and noticing how clearly he could see, and how he no longer seemed to need to blink. He had soon swum so far into the lake that he could no longer see the bottom. He flipped over and dived into its depths.
Silence pressed upon his ears as he soared over a strange, dark, foggy landscape. He could only see ten feet around him, so that as he sped throuugh the water new scenes seemed to loom suddenly out of the incoming darkness: forests of rippling, tangled black weed, wide plains of mud littered with dull, glimmering stones. He swam deeper and deeper, out toward the middle of the lake, his eyes wide, staring through the eerily gray-lit water around him to the shadow beyond, where the water became opaque.
Small fish flickered past him like silver darts. Once or twice he thought he saw something larger moving ahead of him, but when he got nearer, he discovered it to be nothing but a large, blackened log, or a dense clump of weed. There was no sign of any of the other champions, merpeople, Ron - nor, thankfully, the giant squid.
Light green weed stretched ahead of him as far as he could see, two feet deep, like a meadow of very overgrown grass. Harry was staring unblinkingly ahead of him, trying to discern shapes through the gloom… and then, without warning, something grabbed hold of his ankle.
Harry twisted his body around and saw a grindylow, a small, horned water demon, poking out of the weed, its long fingers clutched tightly around Harry’s leg, its pointed fangs bared - Harry stuck his webbed hand quickly inside his robes and fumbled for his wand. By the time he had grasped it, two more grindylows had risen out of the weed, had seized handfuls of Harry’s robes, and were attempting to drag him down.
“Relashio!” Harry shouted, except that no sound came out… A large bubble issued from his mouth, and his wand, instead of sending sparks at the grindylows, pelted them with what seemed to be a jet of boiling water, for where it struck them, angry red patches appeared on their green skin. Harry pulled his ankle out of the grindylows grip and swam, as fast as he could, occasionally sending more jets of hot water over his shoulder at random; every now and then he felt one of the grindylows snatch at his foot again, and he kicked out, hard; finally, he felt his
foot connect with a horned skull, and looking back, saw the dazed grindylow floating away, cross-eyed, while its fellows shook their fists at Harry and sank back into the weed.
Harry slowed down a little, slipped his wand back inside his robes, and looked around, listening again. He turned full circle in the water, the silence pressing harder than ever against his eardrums. He knew he must be even deeper in the lake now, but nothing was moving but the rippling weed.
“How are you getting on?”
Harry thought he was having a heart attack. He whipped around and saw Moaning Myrtle floating hazily in front of him, gazing at him through her thick, pearly glasses.
“Myrtle!” Harry tried to shout - but once again, nothing came out of his mouth but a very large bubble. Moaning Myrtle actually giggled.
“You want to try over there!” she said, pointing. “I won’t come with you… I don’t like them much, they always chase me when I get too close…”
Harry gave her the thumbs-up to show his thanks and set off once more, careful to swim a bit higher over the weed to avoid any more grindylows that might be lurking there.
He swam on for what felt like at least twenty minutes. He was passing over vast expanses of black mud now, which swirled murkily as he disturbed the water. Then, at long last, he heard a snatch of haunting mersong.
“An hour long you’ll have to look,
And to recover what we took…”
Harry swam faster and soon saw a large rock emerge out of the muddy water ahead. It had paintings of merpeople on it; they were carrying spears and chasing what looked like the giant squid. Harry swam on past the rock, following the mersong.
“… your time’s half gone, so tarry not
Lest what you seek stays here to rot…”
A cluster of crude stone dwellings stained with algae loomed suddenly out of the gloom on all sides. Here and there at the dark windows, Harry saw faces… faces that bore no resemblance at all to the painting of the mermaid in the prefects’ bathroom…
The merpeople had grayish skin and long, wild, dark green hair. Their eyes were yellow, as were their broken teeth, and they wore thick ropes of pebbles around their necks. They leered at Harry as he swam past; one or two of them emerged from their caves to watch him better, their powerful, silver fish tails beating the water, spears clutched in their hands.
Harry sped on, staring around, and soon the dwellings became more numerous; there were gardens of weed around some of them, and he even saw a pet grindylow tied to a stake outside one door. Merpeople were emerging on all sides now, watching him eagerly, pointing at his webbed hands and gills, talking behind their hands to one another. Harry sped around a corner and a very strange sight met his eyes.
A whole crowd of merpeople was floating in front of the houses that lined what looked like a mer-version of a village square. A choir of merpeople was singing in the middle, calling the champions toward them, and behind them rose a crude sort of statue; a gigantic merperson hewn from a boulder. Four people were bound tightly to the tail of the stone merperson.
Ron was tied between Hermione and Cho Chang. There was also a girl who looked no older than eight, whose clouds of silvery hair made Harry feel sure that she was Fleur Delacour’s sister. All four of them appeared to be in a very deep sleep. Their heads were lolling onto their shoulders, and fine streams of bubbles kept issuing from their mouths.
Harry sped toward the hostages, half expecting the merpeople to lower their spears and charge at him, but they did nothing. The ropes of weed tying the hostages to the statue were thick, slimy,
and very strong. For a fleeting second he thought of the knife Sirius had bought him for Christmas - locked in his trunk in the castle a quarter of a mile away, no use to him whatsoever.
He looked around. Many of the merpeople surrounding them were carrying spears. He swam swiftly toward a seven-foot-tall merman with a long green beard and a choker of shark fangs and tried to mime a request to borrow the spear. The merman laughed and shook his head.
“We do not help,” he said in a harsh, croaky voice.
“Come ON!” Harry said fiercely (but only bubbles issued from his mouth), and he tried to pull the spear away from the merman, but the merman yanked it back, still shaking his head and laughing.
Harry swirled around, staring about. Something sharp… anything…
There were rocks littering the lake bottom. He dived and snatched up a particularly jagged one and returned to the statue. He began to hack at the ropes binding Ron, and after several minutes’ hard work, they broke apart. Ron floated, unconscious, a few inches above the lake bottom, drifting a little in the ebb of the water.
Harry looked around. There was no sign of any of the other champions. What were they playing at? Why didn’t they hurry up? He turned back to Hermione, raised the jagged rock, and began to hack at her bindings too –
At once, several pairs of strong gray hands seized him. Half a dozen mermen were pulling him away from Hermione, shaking their green-haired heads, and laughing.
“You take your own hostage,” one of them said to him. “Leave the others…”
“No way!” said Harry furiously - but only two large bubbles came out.
“Your task is to retrieve your own friend… leave the others…”
“She’s my friend too!” Harry yelled, gesturing toward Hermione, an enormous silver bubble
emerging soundlessly from his lips. “And I don’t want them to die either!”
Cho’s head was on Hermiones shoulder; the small silver-haired girl was ghostly green and pale. Harry struggled to fight off the mermen, but they laughed harder than ever, holding him back. Harry looked wildly around. Where were the other champions? Would he have time to take Ron to the surface and come back down for Hermione and the others? Would he be able to find them again? He looked down at his watch to see how much time was left - it had stopped working.
But then the merpeople around him pointed excitedly over his head. Harry looked up and saw Cedric swimming toward them. There was an enormous bubble around his head, which made his features look oddly wide and stretched.
“Got lost!” he mouthed, looking panic-stricken. “Fleur and Krum’re coming now!”
Feeling enormously relieved, Harry watched Cedric pull a knife out of his pocket and cut Cho free. He pulled her upward and out of sight.
Harry looked around, waiting. Where were Fleur and Krum? Time was getting short, and according to the song, the hostages would be lost after an hour…
The merpeople started screeching animatedly. Those holding Harry loosened their grip, staring behind them. Harry turned and saw something monstrous cutting through the water toward them: a human body in swimming trunks with the head of a shark… It was Krum. He appeared to have transfigured himself- but badly.
The shark-man swam straight to Hermione and began snapping and biting at her ropes; the trouble was that Krum’s new teeth were positioned very awkwardly for biting anything smaller than a dolphin, and Harry was quite sure that if Krum wasn’t careful, he was going to rip Hermione in half. Darting forward Harry hit Krum hard on the shoulder and held up the jagged stone. Krum seized it and began to cut Hermione free. Within seconds, he had done it; he grabbed Hermione around the waist, and without a backward glance, began to rise rapidly with her toward the surface.
Now what? Harry thought desperately. If he could be sure that Fleur was coming… But still no sign. There was nothing to be done except…
He snatched up the stone, which Krum had dropped, but the mermen now closed in around Ron and the little girl, shaking their heads at him. Harry pulled out his wand.
“Get out of the way!”
Only bubbles flew out of his mouth, but he had the distinct impression that the mermen had understood him, because they suddenly stopped laughing. Their yellowish eyes were fixed upon Harry’s wand, and they looked scared. There might be a lot more of them than there were of him, but Harry could tell, by the looks on their faces, that they knew no more magic than the giant squid did.
“You’ve got until three!” Harry shouted; a great stream of bubbles burst from him, but he held up three fingers to make sure they got the message. “One…” (he put down a finger) “two…” (he put down a second one) - They scattered. Harry darted forward and began to hack at the ropes binding the small girl to the statue, and at last she was free. He seized the little girl around the waist, grabbed the neck of Rons robes, and kicked off from the bottom.
It was very slow work. He could no longer use his webbed hands to propel himself forward; he worked his flippers furiously, but Ron and Fleur’s sister were like potato-filled sacks dragging him back down… He fixed his eyes skyward, though he knew he must still be very deep, the water above him was so dark…
Merpeople were rising with him. He could see them swirling around him with ease, watching him struggle through the water… Would they pull him back down to the depths when the time
was up? Did they perhaps eat humans? Harry’s legs were seizing up with the effort to keep swimming; his shoulders were aching horribly with the effort of dragging Ron and the girl…
He was drawing breath with extreme difficulty. He could feel pain on the sides of his neck again… he was becoming very aware of how wet the water was in his mouth… yet the darkness was definitely thinning now… he could see daylight above him…
He kicked hard with his flippers and discovered that they were nothing more than feet… water was flooding through his mouth into his lungs… he was starting to feel dizzy, but he knew light and air were only ten feet above him… he had to get there… he had to…
Harry kicked his legs so hard and fast it felt as though his muscles were screaming in protest; his very brain felt waterlogged, he couldn’t breathe, he needed oxygen, he had to keep going, he could not stop –
And then he felt his head break the surface of the lake; wonderful, cold, clear air was making his wet face sting; he gulped it down, feeling as though he had never breathed properly before, and, panting, pulled Ron and the little girl up with him. All around him, wild, green-haired heads were emerging out of the water with him, but they were smiling at him.
The crowd in the stands was making a great deal of noise; shouting and screaming, they all seemed to be on their feet; Harry had the impression they thought that Ron and the little girl might be dead, but they were wrong… both of them had opened their eyes; the girl looked scared and confused, but Ron merely expelled a great spout of water, blinked in the bright light, turned to Harry, and said, “Wet, this, isn’t it?” Then he spotted Fleur’s sister. “What did you bring her for?”
“Fleur didn’t turn up, I couldn’t leave her,” Harry panted.
“Harry, you prat,” said Ron, “you didn’t take that song thing seriously, did you? Dumbledore wouldn’t have let any of us drown!”
“The song said -”
“It was only to make sure you got back inside the time limit!” said Ron. “I hope you didn’t waste time down there acting the hero!”
Harry felt both stupid and annoyed. It was all very well for Ron; he’d been asleep, he hadn’t felt how eerie it was down in the lake, surrounded by spear-carrying merpeople who’d looked more than capable of murder.
“C’mon,” Harry said shortly, “help me with her, I don’t think she can swim very well.”
They pulled Fleur’s sister through the water, back toward the bank where the judges stood watching, twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of honor, singing their horrible screechy songs.
Harry could see Madam Pomfrey fussing over Hermione, Krum, Cedric, and Cho, all of whom were wrapped in thick blankets.
Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman stood beaming at Harry and Ron from the bank as they swam nearer, but Percy, who looked very white and somehow much younger than usual, came splashing out to meet them. Meanwhile Madame Maxime was trying to restrain Fleur Delacour, who was quite hysterical, fighting tooth and nail to return to the water.
“Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she ‘urt?”
“She’s fine!” Harry tried to tell her, but he was so exhausted he could hardly talk, let alone shout.
Percy seized Ron and was dragging him back to the bank (“Gerroff, Percy, I’m all right!”); Dumbledore and Bagman were pulling Harry upright; Fleur had broken free of Madame Maxime and was hugging her sister.
“It was ze grindylows… zey attacked me… oh Gabrielle, I thought… I thought…”
“Come here, you,” said Madam Pomfrey. She seized Harry and pulled him over to Hermione and the others, wrapped him so tightly in a blanket that he felt as though he were in a straitjacket, and forced a measure of very hot potion down his throat.
Steam gushed out of his ears.
“Harry, well done!” Hermione cried. “You did it, you found out how all by yourself!”
“Well -” said Harry. He would have told her about Dobby, but he had just noticed Karkaroff watching him. He was the only judge who had not left the table; the only judge not showing signs of pleasure and relief that Harry, Ron, and Fleur’s sister had got back safely. “Yeah, that’s right,” said Harry, raising his voice slightly so that Karkaroff could hear him.
“You haff a water beetle in your hair, Herm-own-ninny,” said Krum. Harry had the impression that Krum was drawing her attention back onto himself; perhaps to remind her that he had just rescued her from the lake, but Hermione brushed away the beetle impatiently and said, “You’re well outside the time limit, though, Harry… Did it take you ages to find us?”
“No… I found you okay…”
Harry’s feeling of stupidity was growing. Now he was out of the water, it seemed perfectly clear that Dumbledores safety precautions wouldn’t have permitted the death of a hostage just because their champion hadn’t turned up. Why hadn’t he just grabbed Ron and gone? He would have been first back… Cedric and Krum hadn’t wasted time worrying about anyone else; they hadn’t taken the mersong seriously…
Dumbledore was crouching at the water’s edge, deep in conversation with what seemed to be the chief merperson, a particularly wild and ferocious-looking female. He was making the same sort
of screechy noises that the merpeople made when they were above water; clearly, Dumbledore could speak Mermish. Finally he straightened up, turned to his fellow judges, and said, “A conference before we give the marks, I think.”
The judges went into a huddle. Madam Pomfrey had gone to rescue Ron from Percy’s clutches; she led him over to Harry and the others, gave him a blanket and some Pepperup Potion, then went to fetch Fleur and her sister. Fleur had many cuts on her face and arms and her robes were torn, but she didn’t seem to care, nor would she allow Madam Pomfrey to clean them.
“Look after Gabrielle,” she told her, and then she turned to Harry. “You saved ‘er,” she said breathlessly. “Even though she was not your ‘ostage.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, who was now heartily wishing he’d left all three girls tied to the statue.
Fleur bent down, kissed Harry twice on each cheek (he felt his face burn and wouldn’t have been surprised if steam was coming out of his ears again), then said to Ron, “And you too-you ‘elped”
“Yeah,” said Ron, looking extremely hopeful, “yeah, a bit -”
Fleur swooped down on him too and kissed him. Hermione looked simply furious, but just then, Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice boomed out beside them, making them all jump, and causing the crowd in the stands to go very quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows…
“Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points.”
Applause from the stands.
“I deserved zero,” said Fleur throatily, shaking her magnificent head.
“Cedric Diggory, who also used the Bubble-Head Charm, was first to return with his hostage, though he returned one minute outside the time limit of an hour.”
Enormous cheers from the Hufflepuffs in the crowd; Harry saw Cho give Cedric a glowing look.
“We therefore award him forty-seven points.”
Harrys heart sank. If Cedric had been outside the time limit, he most certainly had been.
“Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and was second to return with his hostage. We award him forty points.”
Karkaroff clapped particularly hard, looking very superior.
“Harry Potter used gillyweed to great effect,” Bagman continued. “He returned last, and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety, not merely his own.”
Ron and Hermione both gave Harry half-exasperated, half-commiserating looks.
“Most of the judges,” and here, Bagman gave Karkaroff a very nasty look, “feel that this shows moral fiber and merits full marks. However… Mr. Potter’s score is forty-five points.”
Harry’s stomach leapt - he was now tied for first place with Cedric. Ron and Hermione, caught by surprise, stared at Harry, then laughed and started applauding hard with the rest of the crowd.
“There you go. Harry!” Ron shouted over the noise. “You weren’t being thick after all - you were showing moral fiber!”
Fleur was clapping very hard too, but Krum didn’t look happy at all. He attempted to engage Hermione in conversation again, but she was too busy cheering Harry to listen.
“The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June,” continued Bagman. “The champions will be notified of what is coming precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions.”
It was over. Harry thought dazedly, as Madam Pomfrey began herding the champions and hostages back to the castle to get into dry clothes… it was over, he had got through… he didn’t have to worry about anything now until June the twenty-fourth…
Next time he was in Hogsmeade, Harry decided as he walked back up the stone steps into the castle, he was going to buy Dobby a pair of socks for every day of the year.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Padfoot Returns
One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task was that everybody was very keen to hear details of what had happened down in the lake, which meant that Ron was getting to share Harry’s limelight for once. Harry noticed that Ron’s version of events changed subtly with every retelling. At first, he gave what seemed to be the truth; it tallied with Hermione’s story, anyway - Dumbledore had put all the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor McGonagall’s office, first assuring them that they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water. One week later, however, Ron was telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to beat him into submission before tying him up.
“But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve,” he assured Padma Patil, who seemed to be a lot keener on Ron now that he was getting so much attention and was making a point of talking to him every time they passed in the corridors. “I could’ve taken those mer-idiots any time I wanted.”
“What were you going to do, snore at them?” said Hermione waspishly. People had been teasing her so much about being the thing that Viktor Krum would most miss that she was in a rather tetchy mood.
Ron’s ears went red, and thereafter, he reverted to the bewitched sleep version of events.
As they entered March the weather became drier, but cruel winds skinned their hands and faces every time they went out onto the grounds. There were delays in the post because the owls kept being blown off course. The brown owl that Harry had sent to Sirius with the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend turned up at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers sticking up the wrong way; Harry had no sooner torn off Sirius’s reply than it took flight, clearly afraid it was going to be sent outside again.
Sirius’s letter was almost as short as the previous one.
Be at stile at end of road out of Hogsmeade (past Dervish and Banges) at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. Bring as much food as you can.
“He hasn’t come back to Hogsmeade?” said Ron incredulously.
“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” said Hermione.
“I can’t believe him,” said Harry tensely, “if he’s caught…”
“Made it so far, though, hasn’t he?” said Ron. “And it’s not like the place is swarming with dementors anymore.”
Harry folded up the letter, thinking. If he was honest with himself, he really wanted to see Sirius again. He therefore approached the final lesson of the afternoon - double Potions - feeling considerably more cheerful than he usually did when descending the steps to the dungeons.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in a huddle outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson’s gang of Slytherin girls. All of them were looking at something Harry couldn’t see and sniggering heartily. Pansys pug-like face peered excitedly around Goyle’s broad back as Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached.
“There they are, there they are!” she giggled, and the knot of Slytherins broke apart. Harry saw that Pansy had a magazine in her hands - Witch Weekly. The moving picture on the front showed a curly-haired witch who was smiling toothily and pointing at a large sponge cake with her wand.
“You might find something to interest you in there, Granger!” Pansy said loudly, and she threw the magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opened, and Snape beckoned them all inside.
Hermione, Harry, and Ron headed for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape had turned his back on them to write up the ingredients of todays potion on the blackboard, Hermione hastily rifled through the magazine under the desk. At last, in the center pages, Hermione found what they were looking for.
Harry and Ron leaned in closer. A color photograph of Harry headed a short piece entitled:
Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache
A boy like no other, perhaps - yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss.
Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys’ affections. Krum, who is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays, and insists that he has “never felt this way about any other girl.”
However, it might not be Miss Granger’s doubtful natural charms that have captured these unfortunate boys’ interest.
“She’s really ugly,” says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, “but she’d be well up to making a Love Potion, she’s quite brainy. I think that’s how she’s doing it.”
Love Potions are, of course, banned at Hogwarts, and no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart on a worthier candidate.
“I told you!” Ron hissed at Hermione as she stared down at the article. “I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of- of scarlet woman!”
Hermione stopped looking astonished and snorted with laughter. “Scarlet woman?” she repeated, shaking with suppressed giggles as she looked around at Ron.
“It’s what my mum calls them,” Ron muttered, his ears going red.
“If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,” said Hermione, still giggling, as she threw Witch Weekly onto the empty chair beside her. “What a pile of old rubbish.”
She looked over at the Slytherins, who were all watching her and Harry closely across the room to see if they had been upset by the article. Hermione gave them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry, and Ron started unpacking the ingredients they would need for their Wit-Sharpening Potion.
“There’s something funny, though,” said Hermione ten minutes later, holding her pestle suspended over a bowl of scarab beetles. “How could Rita Skeeter have known…?”
“Known what?” said Ron quickly. “You haven’t been mixing up Love Potions, have you?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Hermione snapped, starting to pound up her beetles again. “No, it’s just… how did she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?”
Hermione blushed scarlet as she said this and determinedly avoided Ron’s eyes.
“What?” said Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud clunk.
“He asked me right after he’d pulled me out of the lake,” Hermione muttered. “After he’d got rid of his shark’s head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges so they wouldn’t hear, and he said, if I wasn’t doing anything over the summer, would I like to -”
“And what did you say?” said Ron, who had picked up his pestle and was grinding it on the desk, a good six inches from his bowl, because he was looking at Hermione.
“And he did say he’d never felt the same way about anyone else,” Hermione went on, going so red now that Harry could almost feel the heat coming from her, “but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him? She wasn’t there… or was she? Maybe she has got an Invisibility Cloak; maybe she sneaked onto the grounds to watch the second task…”
“And what did you say?” Ron repeated, pounding his pestle down so hard that it dented the desk.
“Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry were okay to-”
“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is Miss Granger,” said an icy voice right behind them, and all three of them jumped, “I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.”
Snape had glided over to their desk while they were talking. The whole class was now looking around at them; Malfoy took the opportunity to flash POTTER STINKS across the dungeon at Harry.
“Ah… reading magazines under the table as well?” Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. “A further ten points from Gryffindor… oh but of course…” Snapes black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita Skeeter’s article. “Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings…”
The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and an unpleasant smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To Harry’s fury, he began to read the article aloud.
“‘Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache… dear, dear. Potter, what’s ailing you now? ‘A boy like no other, perhaps…’”
Harry could feel his face burning. Snape was pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a hearty laugh. The article sounded ten times worse when read by Snape. Even Hermione was blushing scarlet now.
“‘… Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate.’ How very touching,” sneered Snape, rolling up the magazine to continued gales of laughter from the Slytherins. “Well, I think I had better separate the three of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than on your tangled love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, beside Miss Parkinson. Potter - that table in front of my desk. Move. Now.”
Furious, Harry threw his ingredients and his bag into his cauldron and dragged it up to the front of the dungeon to the empty table. Snape followed, sat down at his desk and watched Harry unload his cauldron. Determined not to look at Snape, Harry resumed the mashing of his scarab beetles, imagining each one to have Snape’s face.
“All this press attention seems to have inflated your already over-large head Potter,” said Snape quietly, once the rest of the class had settled down again. Harry didn’t answer. He knew Snape was trying to provoke him; he had done this before. No doubt he was hoping for an excuse to take a round fifty points from Gryffindor before the end of the class.
“You might be laboring under the delusion that the entire wizarding world is impressed with you,” Snape went on, so quietly that no one else could hear him (Harry continued to pound his scarab beetles, even though he had already reduced them to a very fine powder), “but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers rules to be beneath him.”
Harry tipped the powdered beetles into his cauldron and started cutting up his ginger roots. His hands were shaking slightly out of anger, but he kept his eyes down, as though he couldn’t hear what Snape was saying to him.
“So I give you fair warning, Potter,” Snape continued in a sorter and more dangerous voice, “pint-sized celebrity or not - if I catch you breaking into my office one more time -”
“I haven’t been anywhere near your office!” said Harry angrily, forgetting his feigned deafness.
“Don’t lie to me,” Snape hissed, his fathomless black eyes boring into Harrys. “Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. Both come from my private stores, and I know who stole them.”
Harry stared back at Snape, determined not to blink or to look guilty. In truth, he hadn’t stolen either of these things from Snape. Hermione had taken the boomslang skin back in their second year - they had needed it for the Polyjuice Potion - and while Snape had suspected Harry at the time, he had never been able to prove it. Dobby, of course, had stolen the gillyweed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry lied coldly.
“You were out of bed on the night my office was broken into!” Snape hissed. “I know it Potter! Now, Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but I will not tolerate your behavior! One more nighttime stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!”
“Right,” said Harry coolly, turning back to his ginger roots. “I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go in there.”
Snape’s eyes flashed. He plunged a hand into the inside of his black robes. For one wild moment. Harry thought Snape was about to pull out his wand and curse him - then he saw that Snape had drawn out a small crystal bottle of a completely clear potion. Harry stared at it.
“Do you know what this is Potter?” Snape said, his eyes glittering dangerously again.
“No,” said Harry, with complete honesty this time.
“It is Veritaserum - a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear,” said Snape viciously. “Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand slips” - he shook the crystal bottle slightly - “right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then Potter… then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.”
Harry said nothing. He turned back to his ginger roots once more, picked up his knife, and started slicing them again. He didn’t like the sound of that Truth Potion at all, nor would he put it past Snape to slip him some. He repressed a shudder at the thought of what might come spilling out of his mouth if Snape did it… quite apart from landing a whole lot of people in trouble - Hermione and Dobby for a start - there were all the other things he was concealing… like the fact that he was in contact with Sirius… and - his insides squirmed at the thought - how he felt
about Cho… He tipped his ginger roots into the cauldron too, and wondered whether he ought to take a leaf out of Moody s book and start drinking only from a private hip flask.
There was a knock on the dungeon door.
“Enter,” said Snape in his usual voice.
The class looked around as the door opened. Professor Karkaroff came in. Everyone watched him as he walked up toward Snape’s desk. He was twisting his finger around his goatee and looking agitated.
“We need to talk,” said Karkaroff abruptly when he had reached Snape. He seemed so determined that nobody should hear what he was saying that he was barely opening his lips; it was as though he were a rather poor ventriloquist. Harry kept his eyes on his ginger roots, listening hard.
“I’ll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff,” Snape muttered, but Karkaroff interrupted him.
“I want to talk now, while you can’t slip off, Severus. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“After the lesson,” Snape snapped.
Under the pretext of holding up a measuring cup to see if he’d poured out enough armadillo bile, Harry sneaked a sidelong glance at the pair of them. Karkaroff looked extremely worried, and Snape looked angry.
Karkaroff hovered behind Snape’s desk for the rest of the double period. He seemed intent on preventing Snape from slipping away at the end of class. Keen to hear what Karkaroff wanted to say, Harry deliberately knocked over his bottle of armadillo bile with two minutes to go to the bell, which gave him an excuse to duck down behind his cauldron and mop up while the rest of the class moved noisily toward the door.
“What’s so urgent?” he heard Snape hiss at Karkaroff.
“This,” said Karkaroff, and Harry, peering around the edge of his cauldron, saw Karkaroff pull up the left-hand sleeve of his robe and show Snape something on his inner forearm.
“Well?” said Karkaroff, still making every effort not to move his lips. “Do you see? It’s never been this clear, never since -”
“Put it away!” snarled Snape, his black eyes sweeping the classroom.
“But you must have noticed -” Karkaroff began in an agitated voice.
“We can talk later, Karkaroff!” spat Snape. “Potter! What are you doing?”
“Clearing up my armadillo bile, Professor,” said Harry innocently, straightening up and showing Snape the sodden rag he was holding.
Karkaroff turned on his heel and strode out of the dungeon. He looked both worried and angry. Not wanting to remain alone with an exceptionally angry Snape, Harry threw his books and ingredients back into his bag and left at top speed to tell Ron and Hermione what he had just witnessed.
They left the castle at noon the next day to find a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather was milder than it had been all year, and by the time they arrived in Hogsmeade, all three of them had taken off their cloaks and thrown them over their shoulders. The food Sirius had told them to bring was in Harry’s bag; they had sneaked a dozen chicken legs, a loaf of bread, and a flask of pumpkin juice from the lunch table.
They went into Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present for Dobby, where they had fun selecting the most lurid socks they could find, including a pair patterned with flashing gold and silver stars, and another that screamed loudly when they became too smelly. Then, at half past one, they made their way up the High Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out toward the edge of the village.
Harry had never been in this direction before. The winding lane was leading them out into the wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages were fewer here, and their gardens larger; they were walking toward the foot of the mountain in whose shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then they turned a corner and saw a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for them, its front paws on the topmost bar, was a very large, shaggy black dog, which was carrying some newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar…
“Hello, Sirius,” said Harry when they had reached him.
The black dog sniffed Harry’s bag eagerly, wagged its tail once, then turned and began to trot away from them across the scrubby patch of ground that rose to meet the rocky foot of the mountain. Harry, Ron, and Hermione climbed over the stile and followed.
Sirius led them to the very foot of the mountain, where the ground was covered with boulders and rocks. It was easy for him, with his four paws, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione were soon out of breath. They followed Sirius higher, up onto the mountain itself. For nearly half an hour they climbed a steep, winding, and stony path, following Sirius’s wagging tail, sweating in the sun, the shoulder straps of Harry’s bag cutting into his shoulders.
Then, at last, Sirius slipped out of sight, and when they reached the place where he had vanished, they saw a narrow fissure in the rock. They squeezed into it and found themselves in a cool, dimly lit cave. Tethered at the end of it, one end of his rope around a large rock, was Buckbeak the hippogriff. Half gray horse, half giant eagle, Buckbeak’s fierce orange eye flashed at the sight of them. All three of them bowed low to him, and after regarding them imperiously for a moment, Buckbeak bent his scaly front knees and allowed Hermione to rush forward and stroke
his feathery neck. Harry, however, was looking at the black dog, which had just turned into his godfather.
Sirius was wearing ragged gray robes; the same ones he had been wearing when he had left Azkaban. His black hair was longer than it had been when he had appeared in the fire, and it was untidy and matted once more. He looked very thin.
“Chicken!” he said hoarsely after removing the old Daily Prophets from his mouth and throwing them down onto the cave floor.
Harry pulled open his bag and handed over the bundle of chicken legs and bread.
“Thanks,” said Sirius, opening it, grabbing a drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing off a large chunk with his teeth. “I’ve been living off rats mostly. Can’t steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I’d draw attention to myself.” He grinned up at Harry, but Harry returned the grin only reluctantly.
“What’re you doing here, Sirius?” he said.
“Fulfilling my duty as godfather,” said Sirius, gnawing on the chicken bone in a very doglike way. “Don’t worry about it, I’m pretending to be a lovable stray.” He was still grinning, but seeing the anxiety in Harrys face, said more seriously, “I want to be on the spot. Your last letter… well, let’s just say things are getting fishier. I’ve been stealing the paper every time someone throws one out, and by the looks of things, I’m not the only one who’s getting worried.”
He nodded at the yellowing Daily Prophets on the cave floor, and Ron picked them up and unfolded them. Harry, however, continued to stare at Sirius.
“What if they catch you? What if you’re seen?”
“You three and Dumbledore are the only ones around here who know I’m an Animagus,” said Sirius, shrugging, and continuing to devour the chicken leg.
Ron nudged Harry and passed him the Daily Prophets. There were two: The first bore the headline Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch, the second, Ministry Witch Still Missing-Minister of Magic Now Personally Involved.
Harry scanned the story about Crouch. Phrases jumped out at him: hasn’t been seen in public since November… house appears deserted… St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline comment… Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of critical illness…
“They’re making it sound like he’s dying,” said Harry slowly. “But he can’t be that ill if he managed to get up here…”
“My brothers Crouch’s personal assistant,” Ron informed Sirius. “He says Crouch is suffering from overwork.”
“Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up close,” said Harry slowly, still reading the story. “The night my name came out of the goblet…”
“Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn’t he?” said Hermione, an edge to her voice. She was stroking Buckbeak, who was crunching up Sirius’s chicken bones. “I bet he wishes he hadn’t done it now - bet he feels the difference now she’s not there to look after him.”
“Hermione’s obsessed with house-elfs,” Ron muttered to Sirius, casting Hermione a dark look. Sirius, however, looked interested.
“Crouch sacked his house-elf?”
“Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup,” said Harry, and he launched into the story of the Dark Mark’s appearance, and Winky being found with Harrys wand clutched in her hand, and Mr. Crouch’s fury. When Harry had finished, Sirius was on his feet again and had started pacing up and down the cave.
“Let me get this straight,” he said after a while, brandishing a fresh chicken leg. “You first saw the elf in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?”
“Right,” said Harry, Ron, and Hermione together.
“But Crouch didn’t turn up for the match?”
“No,” said Harry. “I think he said he’d been too busy.”
Sirius paced all around the cave in silence. Then he said, “Harry, did you check your pockets for your wand after you’d left the Top Box?”
“Erm…” Harry thought hard. “No,” he said finally. “I didn’t need to use it before we got in the forest. And then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was in there were my Omnioculars.”
He stared at Sirius. “Are you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand in the Top Box?”
“It’s possible,” said Sirius.
“Winky didn’t steal that wand!” Hermione insisted.
“The elf wasn’t the only one in that box,” said Sirius, his brow furrowed as he continued to pace.
“Who else was sitting behind you?”
“Loads of people,” said Harry. “Some Bulgarian ministers… Cornelius Fudge… the Malfoys…”
“The Malfoys!” said Ron suddenly, so loudly that his voice echoed all around the cave, and Buckbeak tossed his head nervously. “I bet it was Lucius Malfoy!”
“Anyone else?” said Sirius.
“No one,” said Harry.
“Yes, there was, there was Ludo Bagman,” Hermione reminded him.
“Oh yeah…”
“I don’t know anything about Bagman except that he used to be Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps,” said Sirius, still pacing. “What’s he like?”
“He’s okay,” said Harry. “He keeps offering to help me with the Triwizard Tournament.”
“Does he, now?” said Sirius, frowning more deeply. “I wonder why he’d do that?”
“Says he’s taken a liking to me,” said Harry.
“Hmm,” said Sirius, looking thoughtful.
“We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark appeared,” Hermione told Sirius.
“Remember?” she said to Harry and Ron.
“Yeah, but he didn’t stay in the forest, did he?” said Ron. “The moment we told him about the riot, he went off to the campsite.”
“How d’you know?” Hermione shot back. “How d’you know where he Disapparated to?”
“Come off it,” said Ron incredulously. “Are you saying you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?”
“It’s more likely he did it than Winky,” said Hermione stubbornly.
“Told you,” said Ron, looking meaningfully at Sirius, “told you she’s obsessed with house -”
But Sirius held up a hand to silence Ron.
“When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf had been discovered holding Harry’s wand, what did Crouch do?”
“Went to look in the bushes,” said Harry, “but there wasn’t anyone else there.”
“Of course,” Sirius muttered, pacing up and down, “of course, he’d want to pin it on anyone but his own elf… and then he sacked her?”
“Yes,” said Hermione in a heated voice, “he sacked her, just because she hadn’t stayed in her tent and let herself get trampled -”
“Hermione, will you give it a rest with the elf!” said Ron.
Sirius shook his head and said, “She’s got the measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you want to know what a mans like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.”
He ran a hand over his unshaven face, evidently thinking hard.
“All these absences of Barty Crouch’s… he goes to the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn’t bother to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to that too… It’s not like Crouch. If he’s ever taken a day off work because of illness before this, I’ll eat Buckbeak.”
“D’you know Crouch, then?” said Harry.
Sirius’s face darkened. He suddenly looked as menacing as he had the night when Harry first met him, the night when Harry still believed Sirius to be a murderer.
“Oh I know Crouch all right,” he said quietly. “He was the one who gave the order for me to be sent to Azkaban - without a trial.”
“What?” said Ron and Hermione together.
“You’re kidding!” said Harry.
“No, I’m not,” said Sirius, taking another great bite of chicken. “Crouch used to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, didn’t you know?”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione shook their heads.
“He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic,” said Sirius. “He’s a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully magical - and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort supporter,” he said, reading the look on Harrys face. “No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against the Dark Side. But then a lot of people who were against the Dark Side… well, you wouldn’t understand… you’re too young…”
“That’s what my dad said at the World Cup,” said Ron, with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Try us, why don’t you?”
A grin flashed across Sirius’s thin face.
“All right, I’ll try you…” He walked once up the cave, back again, and then said, “Imagine that Voldemort’s powerful now. You don’t know who his supporters are, you don’t know who’s working for him and who isn’t; you know he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You’re scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing… the Ministry of Magic’s in disarray, they don’t know what to do, they’re trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere… panic… confusion… that’s how it used to be.
“Well, times like that bring out the best in some people and the worst in others. Crouch’s principles might’ve been good in the beginning - I wouldn’t know. He rose quickly through the Ministry, and he started ordering very harsh measures against Voldemorts supporters. The Aurors were given new powers - powers to kill rather than capture, for instance. And I wasn’t the only one who was handed straight to the dementors without trial. Crouch fought violence with violence, and authorized the use of the Unforgivable Curses against suspects. I would say he became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark Side. He had his supporters, mind you - plenty of people thought he was going about things the right way, and there were a lot of witches and wizards clamoring for him to take over as Minister of Magic. When Voldemort disappeared, it looked like only a matter of time until Crouch got the top job. But then something rather unfortunate happened…” Sirius smiled grimly. “Crouch’s own son was caught with a group of Death Eaters who’d managed to talk their way out of Azkaban. Apparently they were trying to find Voldemort and return him to power.”
“Crouch’s son was caught?” gasped Hermione.
“Yep,” said Sirius, throwing his chicken bone to Buckbeak, flinging himself back down on the ground beside the loaf of bread, and tearing it in half. “Nasty little shock for old Barty, I’d imagine. Should have spent a bit more time at home with his family, shouldn’t he? Ought to have left the office early once in a while… gotten to know his own son.”
He began to wolf down large pieces of bread.
“Was his son a Death Eater?” said Harry.
“No idea,” said Sirius, still stuffing down bread. “I was in Azkaban myself when he was brought in. This is mostly stuff I’ve found out since I got out. The boy was definitely caught in the company of people I’d bet my life were Death Eaters – but he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like the house-elf.”
“Did Crouch try and get his son off?” Hermione whispered.
Sirius let out a laugh that was much more like a bark.
“Crouch let his son off? I thought you had the measure of him, Hermione! Anything that threatened to tarnish his reputation had to go; he had dedicated his whole life to becoming Minister of Magic. You saw him dismiss a devoted house-elf because she associated him with
the Dark Mark again - doesn’t that tell you what he’s like? Crouch’s fatherly affection stretched just far enough to give his son a trial, and by all accounts, it wasn’t much more than an excuse for Crouch to show how much he hated the boy… then he sent him straight to Azkaban.”
“He gave his own son to the dementors?” asked Harry quietly.
“That’s right,” said Sirius, and he didn’t look remotely amused now. “I saw the dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars in my cell door. He can’t have been more than nineteen. They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though… they all went quiet in the end… except when they shrieked in their sleep…”
For a moment, the deadened look in Sirius’s eyes became more pronounced than ever, as though shutters had closed behind them.
“So he’s still in Azkaban?” Harry said.
“No,” said Sirius dully. “No, he’s not in there anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in.”
“He died?”
“He wasn’t the only one,” said Sirius bitterly. “Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died herself,
apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his sons body. The dementors buried him outside the fortress; I watched them do it.”
Sirius threw aside the bread he had just lifted to his mouth and instead picked up the flask of pumpkin juice and drained it.
“So old Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he had it made,” he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “One moment, a hero, poised to become Minister of Magic… next, his son dead, his wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I’ve heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity. Once the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly astray.
The conclusion was that his father never cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top job, and Crouch was shunted sideways into the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”
There was a long silence. Harry was thinking of the way Crouch’s eyes had bulged as he’d looked down at his disobedient house-elf back in the wood at the Quidditch World Cup. This, then, must have been why Crouch had overreacted to Winky being found beneath the Dark
Mark. It had brought back memories of his son, and the old scandal, and his fall from grace at the Ministry.
“Moody says Crouch is obsessed with catching Dark wizards,” Harry told Sirius.
“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s become a bit of a mania with him,” said Sirius, nodding. “If you ask me, he still thinks he can bring back the old popularity by catching one more Death Eater.”
“And he sneaked up here to search Snape’s office!” said Ron triumphantly, looking at Hermione.
“Yes, and that doesn’t make sense at all,” said Sirius.
“Yeah, it does!” said Ron excitedly, but Sirius shook his head.
“Listen, if Crouch wants to investigate Snape, why hasn’t he been coming to judge the tournament? It would be an ideal excuse to make regular visits to Hogwarts and keep an eye on him.”
“So you think Snape could be up to something, then?” asked Harry, but Hermione broke in.
“Look, I don’t care what you say, Dumbledore trusts Snape -”
“Oh give it a rest, Hermione,” said Ron impatiently. “I know Dumbledores brilliant and everything, but that doesn’t mean a really clever Dark wizard couldn’t fool him -”
“Why did Snape save Harry’s life in the first year, then? Why didn’t he just let him die?”
“I dunno - maybe he thought Dumbledore would kick him out-”
“What d’you think, Sirius?” Harry said loudly, and Ron and Hermione stopped bickering to listen.
“I think they’ve both got a point,” said Sirius, looking thoughtfully at Ron and Hermione. “Ever since I found out Snape was teaching here, I’ve wondered why Dumbledore hired him. Snape’s always been fascinated by the Dark Arts, he was famous for it at school. Slimy, oily, greasy-haired kid, he was,” Sirius added, and Harry and Ron grinned at each other. “Snape knew more curses when he arrived at school than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of a gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be Death Eaters.”
Sirius held up his fingers and began ticking off names.
“Rosier and Wilkes - they were both killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort fell. The Lestranges - they’re a married couple - they’re in Azkaban. Avery – from what I’ve heard he wormed his way out of trouble by saying he’d been acting under the Imperius Curse - he’s still at large. But as far as I know, Snape was never even accused of being a Death Eater - not that that
means much. Plenty of them were never caught. And Snape s certainly clever and cunning enough to keep himself out of trouble.”
“Snape knows Karkaroff pretty well, but he wants to keep that quiet,” said Ron.
“Yeah, you should’ve seen Snape’s face when Karkaroff turned up in Potions yesterday!” said Harry quickly. “Karkaroff wanted to talk to Snape, he says Snape’s been avoiding him. Karkaroff looked really worried. He showed Snape something on his arm, but I couldn’t see what it was.”
“He showed Snape something on his arm?” said Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He ran his fingers distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugged again. “Well, I’ve no idea what that’s about… but if Karkaroff s genuinely worried, and he’s going to Snape for answers…”
Sirius stared at the cave wall, then made a grimace of frustration.
“There’s still the fact that Dumbledore trusts Snape, and I know Dumbledore trusts where a lot of other people wouldn’t, but I just can’t see him letting Snape teach at Hogwarts if he’d ever worked for Voldemort.”
“Why are Moody and Crouch so keen to get into Snapes office then?” said Ron stubbornly.
“Well,” said Sirius slowly, “I wouldn’t put it past Mad-Eye to have searched every single teacher’s office when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I’m not sure he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he’s seen, it’s not surprising. I’ll say this for Moody, though, he never killed if he could help it. Always brought people in alive where possible. He was tough, but he never descended to the level of the Death Eaters. Crouch, though… he’s a different matter… is he really ill? If he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to Snape’s office? And if he’s not… what’s he up to? What was he doing at the World Cup that was so important he didn’t turn up in the Top Box? What’s he been doing while he should have been judging the tournament?”
Sirius lapsed into silence, still staring at the cave wall. Buckbeak was ferreting around on the rocky floor, looking for bones he might have overlooked. Finally, Sirius looked up at Ron.
“You say your brother s Crouch’s personal assistant? Any chance you could ask him if he’s seen Crouch lately?”
“I can try,” said Ron doubtfully. “Better not make it sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything dodgy, though. Percy loves Crouch.”
“And you might try and find out whether they’ve got any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you’re at it,” said Sirius, gesturing to the second copy of the Daily Prophet.
“Bagman told me they hadn’t,” said Harry.
“Yes, he’s quoted in the article in there,” said Sirius, nodding at the paper. “Blustering on about how bad Bertha’s memory is. Well, maybe she’s changed since I knew her, but the Bertha I knew wasn’t forgetful at all - quite the reverse. She was a bit dim, but she had an excellent memory for gossip. It used to get her into a lot of trouble; she never knew when to keep her mouth shut. I can see her being a bit of a liability at the Ministry of Magic… maybe that’s why Bagman didn’t bother to look for her for so long…”
Sirius heaved an enormous sigh and rubbed his shadowed eyes.
“What’s the time?”
Harry checked his watch, then remembered it hadn’t been working since it had spent over an hour in the lake.
“It’s half past three,” said Hermione.
“You’d better get back to school,” Sirius said, getting to his feet. “Now listen…” He looked particularly hard at Harry. “I don’t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you’re not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you.”
“No one’s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of grindylows,” Harry said, but Sirius scowled at him.
“I don’t care… I’ll breathe freely again when this tournament’s over, and that’s not until June. And don’t forget, if you’re talking about me among yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?”
He handed Harry the empty napkin and flask and went to pat Buckbeak good-bye.
“I’ll walk to the edge of the village with you,” said Sirius, “see if I can scrounge another paper.”
He transformed into the great black dog before they left the cave, and they walked back down the mountainside with him, across the boulder-strewn ground, and back to the stile. Here he allowed each of them to pat him on the head, before turning and setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village. Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way back into Hogsmeade and up toward Hogwarts.
“Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?” Ron said as they walked up the drive to the castle. “But maybe he doesn’t care… It’d probably just make him admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves rules. He’d just say Crouch was refusing to break them for his own son.”
“Percy would never throw any of his family to the dementors,” said Hermione severely.
“I don’t know,” said Ron. “If he thought we were standing in the way of his career… Percy’s really ambitious, you know…”
They walked up the stone steps into the entrance hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafted toward them from the Great Hall.
“Poor old Snuffles,” said Ron, breathing deeply. “He must really like you. Harry… Imagine having to live off rats.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Madness of Mr. Crouch
Harry, Ron, and Hermione went up to the Owlery after breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy, asking, as Sirius had suggested, whether he had seen Mr. Crouch lately. They used Hedwig, because it had been so long since she’d had a job. When they had watched her fly out of sight through the Owlery window, they proceeded down to the kitchen to give Dobby his new socks.
The house-elves gave them a very cheery welcome, bowing and curtsying and bustling around making tea again. Dobby was ecstatic about his present.
“Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!” he squeaked, wiping large tears out of his enormous eyes.
“You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby, you really did,” said Harry.
“No chance of more of those eclairs, is there?” said Ron, who was looking around at the beaming and bowing house-elves.
“You’ve just had breakfast!” said Hermione irritably, but a great silver platter of eclairs was already zooming toward them, supported by four elves.
“We should get some stuff to send up to Snuffles,” Harry muttered.
“Good idea,” said Ron. “Give Pig something to do. You couldn’t give us a bit of extra food, could you?” he said to the surrounding elves, and they bowed delightedly and hurried off to get some more.
“Dobby, where’s Winky?” said Hermione, who was looking around.
“Winky is over there by the fire, miss,” said Dobby quietly, his ears drooping slightly.
“Oh dear,” said Hermione as she spotted Winky.
Harry looked over at the fireplace too. Winky was sitting on the same stool as last time, but she had allowed herself to become so filthy that she was not immediately distinguishable from the smoke-blackened brick behind her. Her clothes were ragged and unwashed. She was clutching a bottle of butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring into the fire. As they watched her, she gave an enormous hiccup.
“Winky is getting through six bottles a day now,” Dobby whispered to Harry.
“Well, it’s not strong, that stuff,” Harry said.
But Dobby shook his head. “‘Tis strong for a house-elf, sir,” he said.
Winky hiccuped again. The elves who had brought the eclairs gave her disapproving looks as they returned to work.
“Winky is pining, Harry Potter,” Dobby whispered sadly. “Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks Mr. Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is her master now.”
“Hey, Winky,” said Harry, struck by a sudden inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down, “you don’t know what Mr. Crouch might be up to, do you? Because he’s stopped turning up to judge the Triwizard Tournament.”
Winky’s eyes flickered. Her enormous pupils focused on Harry. She swayed slightly again and then said, “M - Master is stopped - hic - coming?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “we haven’t seen him since the first task. The Daily Prophet’s saying he’s ill.”
Winky swayed some more, staring blurrily at Harry.
“Master- hic- ill?”
Her bottom lip began to tremble.
“But we’re not sure if that’s true,” said Hermione quickly.
“Master is needing his - his - Winky!” whimpered the elf. “Master cannot - hic - manage - hic - all by himself…”
“Other people manage to do their own housework, you know, Winky,” Hermione said severely.
“Winky - hic - is not only - hic - doing housework for Mr. Crouch!” Winky squeaked indignantly, swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer down her already heavily stained blouse. “Master is - hic - trusting Winky with - hic – the most important - hic - the most secret…”
“What?” said Harry.
But Winky shook her head very hard, spilling more butterbeer down herself.
“Winky keeps - hic - her master’s secrets,” she said mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning up at Harry with her eyes crossed. “You is - hic - nosing, you is.”
“Winky must not talk like that to Harry Potter!” said Dobby angrily. “Harry Potter is brave and noble and Harry Potter is not nosy!”
“He is nosing - hic - into my master’s - hic - private and secret - hic - Winky is a good house-elf- hic - Winky keeps her silence - hic - people trying to - hic – pry and poke - hic -”
Winky’s eyelids drooped and suddenly, without warning, she slid off her stool into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolled away across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves came hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One of them picked up the bottle; the others covered Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tucked the ends in neatly, hiding her from view.
“We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!” squeaked a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. “We is hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and miss!”
“She’s unhappy!” said Hermione, exasperated. “Why don’t you try and cheer her up instead of covering her up?”
“Begging your pardon, miss,” said the house-elf, bowing deeply again, “but house-elves has no right to be unhappy when there is work to be done and masters to be served.”
“Oh for heavens sake!” Hermione cried. “Listen to me, all of you! You’ve got just as much right as wizards to be unhappy! You’ve got the right to wages and holidays and proper clothes, you don’t have to do everything you’re told - look at Dobby!”
“Miss will please keep Dobby out of this,” Dobby mumbled, looking scared. The cheery smiles had vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the kitchen. They were suddenly looking at Hermione as though she were mad and dangerous.
“We has your extra food!” squeaked an elf at Harry’s elbow, and he shoved a large ham, a dozen cakes, and some fruit into Harry’s arms. “Good-bye!”
The house-elves crowded around Harry, Ron, and Hermione and began shunting them out of the kitchen, many little hands pushing in the smalls of their backs.
“Thank you for the socks, Harry Potter!” Dobby called miserably from the hearth, where he was standing next to the lumpy tablecloth that was Winky.
“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you, Hermione?” said Ron angrily as the kitchen door slammed shut behind them. “They won’t want us visiting them now! We could’ve tried to get more stuff out of Winky about Crouch!”
“Oh as if you care about that!” scoffed Hermione. “You only like coming down here for the food!”
It was an irritable sort of day after that. Harry got so tired of Ron and Hermione sniping at each other over their homework in the common room that he took Sirius’s food up to the Owlery that evening on his own.
Pigwidgeon was much too small to carry an entire ham up to the mountain by himself, so Harry enlisted the help of two school screech owls as well. When they had set off into the dusk, looking extremely odd carrying the large package between them Harry leaned on the windowsill, looking out at the grounds, at the dark, rustling treetops of the Forbidden Forest, and the rippling sails of the Durmstrang ship. An eagle owl flew through the coil of smoke rising from Hagrids
chimney; it soared toward the castle, around the Owlery, and out of sight. Looking down, Harry saw Hagrid digging energetically in front of his cabin. Harry wondered what he was doing; it looked as though he were making a new vegetable patch. As he watched, Madame Maxime emerged from the Beauxbatons carriage and walked over to Hagrid. She appeared to be trying to engage him in conversation. Hagrid leaned upon his spade, but did not seem keen to prolong their talk, because Madame Maxime returned to the carriage shortly afterward.
Unwilling to go back to Gryffindor Tower and listen to Ron and Hermione snarling at each other, Harry watched Hagrid digging until the darkness swallowed him and the owls around Harry began to awake, swooshing past him into the night. By breakfast the next day Ron’s and Hermione’s bad moods had burnt out, and to Harrys relief, Ron’s dark predictions that the house-elves would send substandard food up to the Gryffindor table because Hermione had insulted them proved false; the bacon, eggs, and kippers were quite as good as usual.
When the post owls arrived, Hermione looked up eagerly; she seemed to be expecting something.
“Percy won’t’ve had time to answer yet,” said Ron. “We only sent Hedwig yesterday.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Hermione. “I’ve taken out a subscription to the Daily Prophet. I’m getting sick of finding everything out from the Slytherins.”
“Good thinking!” said Harry, also looking up at the owls. “Hey, Hermione, I think you’re in luck -”
A gray owl was soaring down toward Hermione.
“It hasn’t got a newspaper, though,” she said, looking disappointed. “It’s -”
But to her bewilderment, the gray owl landed in front of her plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a brown owl, and a tawny.
“How many subscriptions did you take out?” said Harry, seizing Hermione’s goblet before it was knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of whom were jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter first.
“What on earth -?” Hermione said, taking the letter from the gray owl, opening it, and starting to read. “Oh really!” she sputtered, going rather red.
“What’s up?” said Ron.
“It,’s - oh how ridiculous -”
She thrust the letter at Harry, who saw that it was not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters that seemed to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet.
YOU ARE A WICKED GIRL. HARRY POTTER DESERVES BETTER. GO BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM MUGGLE.
“They’re all like it!” said Hermione desperately, opening one letter after another. “‘Harry Potter can do much better than the likes of you… ’ ‘You deserve to be boiled in frog spawn… ’ Ouch!”
She had opened the last envelope, and yellowish-green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushed over her hands, which began to erupt in large yellow boils.
“Undiluted bubotuber pus!” said Ron, picking up the envelope gingerly and sniffing it.
“Ow!” said Hermione, tears starting in her eyes as she tried to rub the pus off her hands with a napkin, but her fingers were now so thickly covered in painful sores that it looked as though she were wearing a pair of thick, knobbly gloves.
“You’d better get up to the hospital wing,” said Harry as the owls around Hermione took flight. “We’ll tell Professor Sprout where you’ve gone…”
“I warned her!” said Ron as Hermione hurried out of the Great Hall, cradling her hands. “I warned her not to annoy Rita Skeeter! Look at this one…” He read out one of the letters Hermione had left behind: “‘I read In Witch Weekly about how you are playing Harry Potter false and that boy has had enough hardship and I will be sending you a curse by next post as soon as I can find a big enough envelope.’ Blimey, she’d better watch out for herself.”
Hermione didn’t turn up for Herbology. As Harry and Ron left the greenhouse for their Care of Magical Creatures class, they saw Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle descending the stone steps of the castle. Pansy Parkinson was whispering and giggling behind them with her gang of Slytherin girls. Catching sight of Harry, Pansy called, “Potter, have you split up with your girlfriend? Why was she so upset at breakfast?”
Harry ignored her; he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much trouble the Witch Weekly article had caused.
Hagrid, who had told them last lesson that they had finished with unicorns, was waiting for them outside his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his feet. Harry’s heart sank at the sight of the crates - surely not another skrewt hatching? - but when he got near enough to see inside, he found himself looking at a number of flurry black creatures with long snouts. Their front paws were curiously flat, like spades, and they were blinking up at the class, looking politely puzzled at all the attention.
“These’re nifflers,” said Hagrid, when the class had gathered around. “Yeh find ‘em down mines mostly. They like sparkly stuff… There yeh go, look.”
One of the nifflers had suddenly leapt up and attempted to bite Pansy Parkinson’s watch off her wrist. She shrieked and jumped backward.
“Useful little treasure detectors,” said Hagrid happily. “Thought we’d have some fun with ‘em today. See over there?” He pointed at the large patch of freshly turned earth Harry had watched him digging from the Owlery window. “I’ve buried some gold coins. I’ve got a prize fer whoever picks the niffler that digs up most. Jus’ take off all yer valuables, an’ choose a niffler, an get ready ter set ‘em loose.”
Harry took off his watch, which he was only wearing out of habit, as it didn’t work anymore, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he picked up a niffler. It put its long snout in Harry’s ear and sniffed enthusiastically. It was really quite cuddly.
“Hang on,” said Hagrid, looking down into the crate, “there’s a spare niffler here… who’s missin? Where’s Hermione?”
“She had to go to the hospital wing,” said Ron.
“We’ll explain later,” Harry muttered; Pansy Parkinson was listening.
It was easily the most fun they had ever had in Care of Magical Creatures. The nifflers dived in and out of the patch of earth as though it were water, each scurrying back to the student who had released it and spitting gold into their hands. Ron’s was particularly efficient; it had soon filled his lap with coins.
“Can you buy these as pets, Hagrid?” he asked excitedly as his niffler dived back into the soil, splattering his robes.
“Yer mum wouldn’ be happy, Ron,” said Hagrid, grinning. “They wreck houses, nifflers. I reckon they’ve nearly got the lot, now,” he added, pacing around the patch of earth while the nifflers continued to dive. “I on’y buried a hundred coins. Oh there y’are, Hermione!”
Hermione was walking toward them across the lawn. Her hands were very heavily bandaged and she looked miserable. Pansy Parkinson was watching her beadily.
“Well, let’s check how yeh’ve done!” said Hagrid. “Count yer coins! An’ there’s no point tryin’ ter steal any, Goyle,” he added, his beetle-black eyes narrowed. “It’s leprechaun gold. Vanishes after a few hours.”
Goyle emptied his pockets, looking extremely sulky. It turned out that Ron’s niffler had been most successful, so Hagrid gave him an enormous slab of Honeydukes chocolate for a prize. The bell rang across the grounds for lunch; the rest of the class set off back to the castle, but Harry,
Ron, and Hermione stayed behind to help Hagrid put the nifflers back in their boxes. Harry noticed Madame Maxime watching them out other carriage window.
“What yeh done ter your hands, Hermione?” said Hagrid, looking concerned.
Hermione told him about the hate mail she had received that morning, and the envelope full of bubotuber pus.
“Aaah, don worry,” said Hagrid gendy, looking down at her. “I got some o’ those letters an all, after Rita Skeeter wrote abou me mum. ‘Yeh’re a monster an yeh should be put down.’ ‘Yer mother killed innocent people an if you had any decency you d jump in a lake.’”
“No!” said Hermione, looking shocked.
“Yeah,” said Hagrid, heaving the niffler crates over by his cabin wall. “They’re jus’ nutters, Hermione. Don’ open ‘em if yeh get any more. Chuck ‘em straigh’ in the fire.”
“You missed a really good lesson,” Harry told Hermione as they headed back toward the castle. “They’re good, nifflers, aren’t they, Ron?”
Ron, however, was frowning at the chocolate Hagrid had given him. He looked thoroughly put out about something.
“What’s the matter?” said Harry. “Wrong flavor?”
“No,” said Ron shortly. “Why didn’t you tell me about the gold?”
“What gold?” said Harry.
“The gold I gave you at the Quidditch World Cup,” said Ron. “The leprechaun gold I gave you for my Omnioculars. In the Top Box. Why didn’t you tell me it disappeared?”
Harry had to think for a moment before he realized what Ron was talking about.
“Oh…” he said, the memory coming back to him at last. “I dunno… I never noticed it had gone. I was more worried about my wand, wasn’t I?”
They climbed the steps into the entrance hall and went into the Great Hall for lunch.
“Must be nice,” Ron said abruptly, when they had sat down and started serving themselves roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. “To have so much money you don’t notice if a pocketful of Galleons goes missing.”
“Listen, I had other stuff on my mind that night!” said Harry impatiently. “We all did, remember?”
“I didn’t know leprechaun gold vanishes,” Ron muttered. “I thought I was paying you back. You shouldn’t’ve given me that Chudley Cannon hat for Christmas.”
“Forget it, all right?” said Harry.
Ron speared a roast potato on the end of his fork, glaring at it. Then he said, “I hate being poor.”
Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Neither of them really knew what to say.
“It’s rubbish,” said Ron, still glaring down at his potato. “I don’t blame Fred and George for trying to make some extra money. Wish I could. Wish I had a niffler.”
“Well, we know what to get you next Christmas,” said Hermione brightly. Then, when Ron continued to look gloomy, she said, “Come on, Ron, it could be worse. At least your fingers aren’t full of pus.” Hermione was having a lot of difficulty managing her knife and fork, her fingers were so stiff and swollen. “I hate that Skeeter woman!” she burst out savagely. “I’ll get her back for this if it’s the last thing I do!”
Hate mail continued to arrive for Hermione over the following week, and although she followed Hagrid’s advice and stopped opening it, several of her ill-wishers sent Howlers, which exploded at the Gryffindor table and shrieked insults at her for the whole Hall to hear. Even those people who didn’t read Witch Weekly knew all about the supposed Harry-Krum-Hermione triangle now. Harry was getting sick of telling people that Hermione wasn’t his girlfriend.
“It’ll die down, though,” he told Hermione, “if we just ignore it… People got bored with that stuff she wrote about me last time.
“I want to know how she’s listening into private conversations when she’s supposed to be banned from the grounds!” said Hermione angrily.
Hermione hung back in their next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody something. The rest of the class was very eager to leave; Moody had given them such a rigorous test of hex-deflection that many of them were nursing small injuries. Harry had such a bad case of Twitchy Ears, he had to hold his hands clamped over them as he walked away from the class.
“Well, Rita’s definitely not using an Invisibility Cloak!” Hermione panted five minutes later, catching up with Harry and Ron in the entrance hall and pulling Harrys hand away from one of his wiggling ears so that he could hear her. “Moody says he didn’t see her anywhere near the judges’ table at the second task, or anywhere near the lake!”
“Hermione, is there any point in telling you to drop this?” said Ron.
“No!” said Hermione stubbornly. “I want to know how she heard me talking to Viktor! And how she found out about Hagrids mum!”
“Maybe she had you bugged,” said Harry.
“Bugged?” said Ron blankly. “What… put fleas on her or something?”
Harry started explaining about hidden microphones and recording equipment. Ron was fascinated, but Hermione interrupted them.
“Aren’t you two ever going to read Hogwarts, A History?”
“What’s the point?” said Ron. “You know it by heart, we can just ask you.”
“All those substitutes for magic Muggles use - electricity, computers, and radar, and all those things - they all go haywire around Hogwarts, there’s too much magic in the air. No, Rita’s using magic to eavesdrop, she must be… If I could just find out what it is… ooh, if it’s illegal, I’ll have her…”
“Haven’t we got enough to worry about?” Ron asked her. “Do we have to start a vendetta against Rita Skeeter as well?”
“I’m not asking you to help!” Hermione snapped. “I’ll do it on my own!”
She marched back up the marble staircase without a backward glance. Harry was quite sure she was going to the library.
“What’s the betting she comes back with a box of I Hate Rita Skeeter badges?” said Ron.
Hermione, however, did not ask Harry and Ron to help her pursue vengeance against Rita Skeeter, for which they were both grateful, because their workload was mounting ever higher in the days before the Easter holidays. Harry frankly marveled at the fact that Hermione could research magical methods of eavesdropping as well as everything else they had to do. He was working flat-out just to get through all their homework, though he made a point of sending regular food packages up to the cave in the mountain for Sirius; after last summer, Harry had not forgotten what it felt like to be continually hungry. He enclosed notes to Sirius, telling him that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and that they were still waiting for an answer from Percy.
Hedwig didn’t return until the end of the Easter holidays. Percy’s letter was enclosed in a package of Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley had sent. Both Harrys and Ron’s were the size of dragon eggs and full of homemade toffee. Hermiones, however, was smaller than a chicken egg. Her face fell when she saw it.
“Your mum doesn’t read Witch Weekly, by any chance, does she, Ron?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah,” said Ron, whose mouth was full of toffee. “Gets it for the recipes.”
Hermione looked sadly at her tiny egg.
“Don’t you want to see what Percy’s written?” Harry asked her hastily.
Percys letter was short and irritated.
As I am constantly telling the Daily Prophet, Mr. Crouch is taking a well-deserved break. He is sending in regular owls with instructions. No, I haven’t actually seen him, but I think I can be trusted to know my own superior’s handwriting. I have quite enough to do at the moment without trying to quash these ridiculous rumors.
Please don’t bother me again unless it’s something important. Happy Easter.
The start of the summer term would normally have meant that Harry was training hard for the last Quidditch match of the season. This year, however, it was the third and final task in the Triwizard Tournament for which he needed to prepare, but he still didn’t know what he would have to do. Finally, in the last week of May, Professor McGonagall held him back in Transfiguration.
“You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at nine o’clock. Potter,” she told him. “Mr. Bagman will be there to tell the champions about the third task.”
So at half past eight that night. Harry left Ron and Hermione in Gryffindor Tower and went downstairs. As he crossed the entrance hall, Cedric came up from the Hufflepuff common room.
“What d’you reckon it’s going to be?” he asked Harry as they went together down the stone steps, out into the cloudy night. “Fleur keeps going on about underground tunnels; she reckons we’ve got to find treasure.”
“That wouldn’t be too bad,” said Harry, thinking that he would simply ask Hagrid for a niffler to do the job for him.
They walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch stadium, turned through a gap in the stands, and walked out onto the field.
“What’ve they done to it?” Cedric said indignantly, stopping dead.
The Quidditch field was no longer smooth and flat. It looked as though somebody had been building long, low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in every direction.
“They’re hedges!” said Harry, bending to examine the nearest one.
“Hello there!” called a cheery voice.
Ludo Bagman was standing in the middle of the field with Krum and Fleur. Harry and Cedric made their way toward them, climbing over the hedges. Fleur beamed at Harry as he came nearer. Her attitude toward him had changed completely since he had saved her sister from the lake.
“Well, what d’you think?” said Bagman happily as Harry and Cedric climbed over the last hedge. “Growing nicely, aren’t they? Give them a month and Hagrid’ll have them twenty feet high. Don’t worry,” he added, grinning, spotting the less than- happy expressions on Harrys and Cedric’s faces, “you’ll have your Quidditch field back to normal once the task is over! Now, I imagine you can guess what we’re making here?”
No one spoke for a moment. Then -
“Maze,” grunted Krum.
“That’s right!” said Bagman. “A maze. The third task’s really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks.”
“We semply ‘ave to get through the maze?” said Fleur.
“There will be obstacles,” said Bagman happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hagrid is providing a number of creatures… then there will be spells that must be broken… all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champions who are leading on points will get a head start into the maze.” Bagman grinned at Harry and Cedric. “Then Mr. Krum will enter… then Miss Delacour. But you’ll all be in with a fighting chance, depending how well you get past the obstacles. Should be fun, eh?”
Harry, who knew only too well the kind of creatures that Hagrid was likely to provide for an event like this, thought it was unlikely to be any fun at all. However, he nodded politely like the other champions.
“Very well… if you haven’t got any questions, we’ll go back up to the castle, shall we, it’s a bit chilly…”
Bagman hurried alongside Harry as they began to wend their way out of the growing maze. Harry had the feeling that Bagman was going to start offering to help him again, but just then, Krum tapped Harry on the shoulder.
“Could I haff a vord?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, slightly surprised.
“Vill you valk vith me?”
“Okay,” said Harry curiously.
Bagman looked slightly perturbed.
“I’ll wait for you. Harry, shall I?”
“No, it’s okay, Mr. Bagman,” said Harry, suppressing a smile, “I think I can find the castle on my own, thanks.”
Harry and Krum left the stadium together, but Krum did not set a course for the Durmstrang ship. Instead, he walked toward the forest.
“What’re we going this way for?” said Harry as they passed Hagrid s cabin and the illuminated Beauxbatons carriage.
“Don’t vont to be overheard,” said Krum shortly.
When at last they had reached a quiet stretch of ground a short way from the Beauxbatons horses’ paddock, Krum stopped in the shade of the trees and turned to face Harry.
“I vant to know,” he said, glowering, “vot there is between you and Hermy-ownninny.”
Harry, who from Krum’s secretive manner had expected something much more serious than this, stared up at Krum in amazement.
“Nothing,” he said. But Krum glowered at him, and Harry, somehow struck anew by how tall Krum was, elaborated. “We’re friends. She’s not my girlfriend and she never has been. It’s just that Skeeter woman making things up.”
“Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often,” said Krum, looking suspiciously at Harry.
“Yeah,” said Harry, “because were friends.”
He couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation with Viktor Krum, the famous International Quidditch player. It was as though the eighteen-year-old Krum thought he Harry, was an equal - a real rival –
“You haff never… you haff not…”
“No,” said Harry very firmly.
Krum looked slightly happier. He stared at Harry for a few seconds, then said, “You fly very veil. I vos votching at the first task.”
“Thanks,” said Harry, grinning broadly and suddenly feeling much taller himself. “I saw you at the Quidditch World Cup. The Wronski Feint, you really -”
But something moved behind Krum in the trees, and Harry, who had some experience of the sort of thing that lurked in the forest, instinctively grabbed Krum’s arm and pulled him around.
“Vot is it?”
Harry shook his head, staring at the place where he’d seen movement. He slipped his hand inside his robes, reaching for his wand.
Suddenly a man staggered out from behind a tall oak. For a moment, Harry didn’t recognize him… then he realized it was Mr. Crouch.
He looked as though he had been traveling for days. The knees of his robes were ripped and bloody, his face scratched; he was unshaven and gray with exhaustion. His neat hair and mustache were both in need of a wash and a trim. His strange appearance, however, was nothing to the way he was behaving. Muttering and gesticulating, Mr. Crouch appeared to be talking to someone that he alone could see. He reminded Harry vividly of an old tramp he had seen once when out shopping with the Dursleys. That man too had been conversing wildly with thin air; Aunt Petunia had seized Dudley’s hand and pulled him across the road to avoid him; Uncle Vernon had then treated the family to a long rant about what he would like to do with beggars and vagrants.
“Vosn’t he a judge?” said Krum, staring at Mr. Crouch. “Isn’t he vith your Ministry?”
Harry nodded, hesitated for a moment, then walked slowly toward Mr. Crouch, who did not look at him, but continued to talk to a nearby tree.
“… and when you’ve done that, Weatherby, send an owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of Durmstrang students who will be attending the tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will be twelve…”
“Mr. Crouch?” said Harry cautiously.
“… and then send another owl to Madame Maxime, because she might want to up the number of students she’s bringing, now Karkaroff’s made it a round dozen… do that, Weatherby, will you? Will you? Will…”
Mr. Crouch’s eyes were bulging. He stood staring at the tree, muttering soundlessly at it. Then he staggered sideways and fell to his knees.
“Mr. Crouch?” Harry said loudly. “Are you all right?”
Crouch’s eyes were rolling in his head. Harry looked around at Krum, who had followed him into the trees, and was looking down at Crouch in alarm.
“Vot is wrong with him?”
“No idea,” Harry muttered. “Listen, you’d better go and get someone -”
“Dumbledore!” gasped Mr. Crouch. He reached out and seized a handful of Harrys robes, dragging him closer, though his eyes were staring over Harry’s head. “I need… see… Dumbledore…”
“Okay,” said Harry, “if you get up, Mr. Crouch, we can go up to the-”
“I’ve done… stupid… thing…” Mr. Crouch breathed. He looked utterly mad. His eyes were rolling and bulging, and a trickle of spittle was sliding down his chin. Every word he spoke seemed to cost him a terrible effort. “Must… tell… Dumbledore…”
“Get up, Mr. Crouch,” said Harry loudly and clearly. “Get up, I’ll take you to Dumbledore!”
Mr. Crouch’s eyes rolled forward onto Harry.
“Who… you?” he whispered.
“I’m a student at the school,” said Harry, looking around at Krum for some help, but Krum was hanging back, looking extremely nervous.
“You’re not… his?” whispered Crouch, his mouth sagging.
“No,” said Harry, without the faintest idea what Crouch was talking about.
“Dumbledore’s?”
“That’s right,” said Harry.
Crouch was pulling him closer; Harry tried to loosen Crouch’s grip on his robes, but it was too powerful.
“Warn… Dumbledore…”
“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let go of me,” said Harry. “Just let go, Mr. Crouch, and I’ll get him…”
“Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be arriving shortly, we are attending a concert tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Fudge.”
Crouch was now talking fluently to a tree again, and seemed completely unaware that Harry was there, which surprised Harry so much he didn’t notice that Crouch had released him.
“Yes, my son has recently gained twelve O.W.L.S, most satisfactory, yes, thank you, yes, very proud indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have time to draft a response…”
“You stay here with him!” Harry said to Krum. “I’ll get Dumbledore, I’ll be quicker, I know where his office is -”
“He is mad,” said Krum doubtfully, staring down at Crouch, who was still gabbling to the tree, apparently convinced it was Percy.
“Just stay with him,” said Harry, starting to get up, but his movement seemed to trigger another abrupt change in Mr. Crouch, who seized him hard around the knees and pulled Harry back to the ground.
“Don’t… leave… me!” he whispered, his eyes bulging again. “I… escaped… must warn… must tell… see Dumbledore… my fault… all my fault… Bertha… dead… all my fault… my son… my fault… tell Dumbledore… Harry Potter… the Dark Lord… stronger… Harry Potter…”
“I’ll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr. Crouch!” said Harry. He looked furiously around at Krum. “Help me, will you?”
Looking extremely apprehensive, Krum moved forward and squatted down next to Mr. Crouch.
“Just keep him here,” said Harry, pulling himself free of Mr. Crouch. “I’ll be back with Dumbledore.”
“Hurry, von’t you?” Krum called after him as Harry sprinted away from the forest and up through the dark grounds. They were deserted; Bagman, Cedric, and Fleur had disappeared. Harry tore up the stone steps, through the oak front doors, and off up the marble staircase, toward the second floor.
Five minutes later he was hurtling toward a stone gargoyle standing halfway along an empty corridor.
“Sher - sherbet lemon!” he panted at it.
This was the password to the hidden staircase to Dumbledore’s office - or at least, it had been two years ago. The password had evidently changed, however, for the stone gargoyle did not spring to life and jump aside, but stood frozen, glaring at Harry malevolently.
“Move!” Harry shouted at it. “C’mon!”
But nothing at Hogwarts had ever moved just because he shouted at it; he knew it was no good. He looked up and down the dark corridor. Perhaps Dumbledore was in the staffroom? He started running as fast as he could toward the staircase –
“POTTER!”
Harry skidded to a halt and looked around. Snape had just emerged from the hidden staircase behind the stone gargoyle. The wall was sliding shut behind him even as he beckoned Harry back toward him.
“What are you doing here, Potter?”
“I need to see Professor Dumbledore!” said Harry, running back up the corridor and skidding to a standstill in front of Snape instead. “It’s Mr. Crouch… he’s just turned up… he’s in the forest… he’s asking -”
“What is this rubbish?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering. “What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Crouch!” Harry shouted. “From the Ministry! He’s ill or something - he’s in the forest, he wants to see Dumbledore! Just give me the password up to -”
“The headmaster is busy. Potter,” said Snape, his thin mouth curling into an unpleasant smile.
“I’ve got to tell Dumbledore!” Harry yelled.
“Didn’t you hear me. Potter?”
Harry could tell Snape was thoroughly enjoying himself, denying Harry the thing he wanted when he was so panicky.
“Look,” said Harry angrily, “Crouch isn’t right - he’s - he’s out of his mind – he says he wants to warn -”
The stone wall behind Snape slid open. Dumbledore was standing there, wearing long green robes and a mildly curious expression. “Is there a problem?” he said, looking between Harry and Snape.
“Professor!” Harry said, sidestepping Snape before Snape could speak, “Mr. Crouch is here - he’s down in the forest, he wants to speak to you!”
Harry expected Dumbledore to ask questions, but to his relief, Dumbledore did nothing of the sort.
“Lead the way,” he said promptly, and he swept off along the corridor behind Harry, leaving Snape standing next to the gargoyle and looking twice as ugly
“What did Mr. Crouch say. Harry?” said Dumbledore as they walked swiftly down the marble staircase.
“Said he wants to warn you… said he’s done something terrible… he mentioned his son… and Bertha Jorkins… and - and Voldemort… something about Voldemort getting stronger…”
“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he quickened his pace as they hurried out into the pitch-darkness.
“He’s not acting normally,” Harry said, hurrying along beside Dumbledore. “He doesn’t seem to know where he is. He keeps talking like he thinks Percy Weasley’s there, and then he changes, and says he needs to see you… I left him with Viktor Krum.”
“You did?” said Dumbledore sharply, and he began to take longer strides still, so that Harry was running to keep up. “Do you know if anybody else saw Mr. Crouch?”
“No,” said Harry. “Krum and I were talking, Mr. Bagman had just finished telling us about the third task, we stayed behind, and then we saw Mr. Crouch coming out of the forest -”
“Where are they?” said Dumbledore as the Beauxbatons carriage emerged from the darkness.
“Over here,” said Harry, moving in front of Dumbledore, leading the way through the trees. He couldn’t hear Crouch’s voice anymore, but he knew where he was going; it hadn’t been much past the Beauxbatons carriage… somewhere around here…
“Viktor?” Harry shouted.
No one answered.
“They were here,” Harry said to Dumbledore. “They were definitely somewhere around here…”
“Lumos,” Dumbledore said, lighting his wand and holding it up.
Its narrow beam traveled from black trunk to black trunk, illuminating the ground. And then it fell upon a pair of feet.
Harry and Dumbledore hurried forward. Krum was sprawled on the forest floor. He seemed to be unconscious. There was no sign at all of Mr. Crouch. Dumbledore bent over Krum and gently lifted one of his eyelids.
“Stunned,” he said softly. His half-moon glasses glittered in the wandlight as he peered around at the surrounding trees.
“Should I go and get someone?” said Harry. “Madam Pomfrey?”
“No,” said Dumbledore swiftly. “Stay here.”
He raised his wand into the air and pointed it in the direction of Hagrid’s cabin. Harry saw something silvery dart out of it and streak away through the trees like a ghostly bird. Then Dumbledore bent over Krum again, pointed his wand at him, and muttered, “Ennervate.”
Krum opened his eyes. He looked dazed. When he saw Dumbledore, he tried to sit up, but Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder and made him lie still.
“He attacked me!” Krum muttered, putting a hand up to his head. “The old madman attacked me! I vos looking around to see vare Potter had gone and he attacked from behind!”
“Lie still for a moment,” Dumbledore said.
The sound of thunderous footfalls reached them, and Hagrid came panting into sight with Fang at his heels. He was carrying his crossbow.
“Professor Dumbledore!” he said, his eyes widening. “Harry - what the -?”
“Hagrid, I need you to fetch Professor Karkaroff,” said Dumbledore. “His student has been attacked. When you’ve done that, kindly alert Professor Moody -”
“No need, Dumbledore,” said a wheezy growl. “I’m here.”
Moody was limping toward them, leaning on his staff, his wand lit.
“Damn leg,” he said furiously. “Would’ve been here quicker… what’s happened? Snape said something about Crouch -”
“Crouch?” said Hagrid blankly.
“Karkaroff, please, Hagrid!” said Dumbledore sharply.
“Oh yeah… right y’are, Professor…” said Hagrid, and he turned and disappeared into the dark trees, Fang trotting after him.
“I don’t know where Barty Crouch is,” Dumbledore told Moody, “but it is essential that we find him.”
“I’m onto it,” growled Moody, and he pulled out his wand and limped off into the forest.
Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke again until they heard the unmistakable sounds of Hagrid and Fang returning. Karkaroff was hurrying along behind them. He was wearing his sleek silver furs, and he looked pale and agitated.
“What is this?” he cried when he saw Krum on the ground and Dumbledore and Harry beside him. “What’s going on?”
“I vos attacked!” said Krum, sitting up now and rubbing his head. “Mr. Crouch or votever his name -”
“Crouch attacked you? Crouch attacked you? The Triwizard judge?”
“Igor,” Dumbledore began, but Karkaroff had drawn himself up, clutching his furs around him, looking livid.
“Treachery!” he bellowed, pointing at Dumbledore. “It is a plot! You and your Ministry of Magic have lured me here under false pretenses, Dumbledore! This is not an equal competition! First you sneak Potter into the tournament, though he is underage! Now one of your Ministry friends attempts to put my champion out of action! I smell double-dealing and corruption in this
whole affair, and you, Dumbledore, you, with your talk of closer international wizarding links, of rebuilding old ties, of forgetting old differences - here’s what I think of you!”
Karkaroff spat onto the ground at Dumbledore’s feet. In one swift movement, Hagrid seized the front of Karkaroff’s furs, lifted him into the air, and slammed him against a nearby tree.
“Apologize!” Hagrid snarled as Karkaroff gasped for breath, Hagrid’s massive fist at his throat, his feet dangling in midair.
“Hagrid, no!” Dumbledore shouted, his eyes flashing.
Hagrid removed the hand pinning Karkaroff to the tree, and Karkaroff slid all the way down the trunk and slumped in a huddle at its roots; a few twigs and leaves showered down upon his head.
“Kindly escort Harry back up to the castle, Hagrid,” said Dumbledore sharply.
Breathing heavily, Hagrid gave Karkaroff a glowering look.
“Maybe I’d better stay here. Headmaster…”
“You will take Harry back to school, Hagrid,” Dumbledore repeated firmly. “Take him right up to Gryffindor Tower. And Harry - I want you to stay there. Anything you might want to do - any owls you might want to send - they can wait until morning, do you understand me?”
“Er - yes,” said Harry, staring at him. How had Dumbledore known that, at that very moment, he had been thinking about sending Pigwidgeon straight to Sirius, to tell him what had happened?
“I’ll leave Fang with yeh Headmaster,” Hagrid said, staring menacingly at Karkaroff, who was still sprawled at the foot of the tree, tangled in furs and tree roots. “Stay, Fang. C’mon, Harry.”
They marched in silence past the Beauxbatons carriage and up toward the castle.
“How dare he,” Hagrid growled as they strode past the lake. “How dare he accus Dumbledore. Like Dumbledore’d do anythin’ like that. Like Dumbledore wanted you in the tournament in the firs’ place. Worried! I dunno when I seen Dumbledore more worried than he’s bin lately. An’ you!” Hagrid suddenly said angrily to Harry, who looked up at him, taken aback. “What were yeh doin’, wanderin’ off with ruddy Krum? He’s from Durmstrang, Harry! Coulda jinxed yeh right there, couldn he? Hasn’ Moody taught yeh nothin’? ‘Magine lettin him lure yeh off on yer
own -”
“Krum’s all right!” said Harry as they climbed the steps into the entrance hall. “He wasn’t trying to jinx me, he just wanted to talk about Hermione -”
“I’ll be havin’ a few words with her, an’ all,” said Hagrid grimly, stomping up the stairs. “The less you lot ‘ave ter do with these foreigners, the happier yeh’ll be. Yeh can trust any of ‘em.”
“You were getting on all right with Madame Maxime,” Harry said, annoyed.
“Don’ you talk ter me abou’ her!” said Hagrid, and he looked quite frightening for a moment. “I’ve got her number now! Tryin’ ter get back in me good books, tryin’ ter get me ter tell her what’s comin in the third task. Ha! You can’ trust any of’em!”
Hagrid was in such a bad mood, Harry was quite glad to say good-bye to him in front of the Fat Lady. He clambered through the portrait hole into the common room and hurried straight for the corner where Ron and Hermione were sitting, to tell them what had happened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Dream
“It comes down to this,” said Hermione, rubbing her forehead. “Either Mr. Crouch attacked Viktor, or somebody else attacked both of them when Viktor wasn’t looking.”
“It must’ve been Crouch,” said Ron at once. “That’s why he was gone when Harry and Dumbledore got there. He’d done a runner.”
“I don’t think so,” said Harry, shaking his head. “He seemed really weak - I don’t reckon he was up to Disapparating or anything.”
“You can’t Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds, haven’t I told you enough times?” said Hermione.
“Okay… hows this for a theory,” said Ron excitedly. “Krum attacked Crouch - no, wait for it - and then Stunned himself!”
“And Mr. Crouch evaporated, did he?” said Hermione coldly.
“Oh yeah…”
It was daybreak. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had crept out of their dormitories very early and hurried up to the Owlery together to send a note to Sirius. Now they were standing looking out at the misty grounds. All three of them were puffy-eyed and pale because they had been talking late into the night about Mr. Crouch.
“Just go through it again, Harry,” said Hermione. “What did Mr. Crouch actually say?”
“I’ve told you, he wasn’t making much sense,” said Harry. “He said he wanted to warn Dumbledore about something. He definitely mentioned Bertha Jorkins, and he seemed to think she was dead. He kept saying stuff was his fault… He mentioned his son.”
“Well, that was his fault,” said Hermione testily.
“He was out of his mind,” said Harry. “Half the time he seemed to think his wife and son were still alive, and he kept talking to Percy about work and giving him instructions.”
“And… remind me what he said about You-Know-Who?” said Ron tentatively.
“I’ve told you,” Harry repeated dully. “He said he’s getting stronger.”
There was a pause. Then Ron said in a falsely confident voice, “But he was out of his mind, like you said, so half of it was probably just raving…”
“He was sanest when he was trying to talk about Voldemort,” said Harry, and Ron winced at the sound of the name. “He was having real trouble stringing two words together, but that was when he seemed to know where he was, and know what he wanted to do. He just kept saying he had to see Dumbledore.”
Harry turned away from the window and stared up into the rafters. The many perches were half-empty; every now and then, another owl would swoop in through one of the windows, returning from its night’s hunting with a mouse in its beak.
“If Snape hadn’t held me up,” Harry said bitterly, “we might’ve got there in time. ‘The headmaster is busy. Potter… what’s this rubbish, Potter?’ Why couldn’t he have just got out of the way?”
“Maybe he didn’t want you to get there!” said Ron quickly. “Maybe - hang on - how fast d’you reckon he could’ve gotten down to the forest? D’you reckon he could’ve beaten you and Dumbledore there?”
“Not unless he can turn himself into a bat or something,” said Harry.
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Ron muttered.
“We need to see Professor Moody,” said Hermione. “We need to find out whether he found Mr. Crouch.”
“If he had the Marauder’s Map on him, it would’ve been easy,” said Harry.
“Unless Crouch was already outside the grounds,” said Ron, “because it only shows up to the boundaries, doesn’t -”
“Shh!” said Hermione suddenly.
Somebody was climbing the steps up to the Owlery. Harry could hear two voices arguing, coming closer and closer.
“- that’s blackmail, that is, we could get into a lot of trouble for that-”
“- we’ve tried being polite; it’s time to play dirty, like him. He wouldn’t like the Ministry of Magic knowing what he did -”
“I’m telling you, if you put that in writing, it’s blackmail!”
“Yeah, and you won’t be complaining if we get a nice fat payoff, will you?”
The Owlery door banged open. Fred and George came over the threshold, then froze at the sight of Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
“What’re you doing here?” Ron and Fred said at the same time.
“Sending a letter,” said Harry and George in unison.
“What, at this time?” said Hermione and Fred.
Fred grinned.
“Fine - we won’t ask you what you’re doing, if you don’t ask us,” he said. He was holding a sealed envelope in his hands. Harry glanced at it, but Fred, whether accidentally or on purpose, shifted his hand so that the name on it was covered.
“Well, don’t let us hold you up,” Fred said, making a mock bow and pointing at the door.
Ron didn’t move. “Who’re you blackmailing?” he said.
The grin vanished from Fred’s face. Harry saw George half glance at Fred, before smiling at Ron.
“Don’t be stupid, I was only joking,” he said easily.
“Didn’t sound like that,” said Ron.
Fred and George looked at each other. Then Fred said abruptly, “I’ve told you before, Ron, keep your nose out if you like it the shape it is. Can’t see why you would, but -”
“It’s my business if you’re blackmailing someone,” said Ron. “George’s right, you could end up in serious trouble for that.”
“Told you, I was joking,” said George. He walked over to Fred, pulled the letter out of his hands, and began attaching it to the leg of the nearest barn owl. “You’re starting to sound a bit like our dear older brother, you are, Ron. Carry on like this and you’ll be made a prefect.”
“No, I won’t!” said Ron hotly.
George carried the barn owl over to the window and it took off. George turned around and grinned at Ron.
“Well, stop telling people what to do then. See you later.”
He and Fred left the Owlery. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at one another.
“You don’t think they know something about all this, do you?” Hermione whispered. “About Crouch and everything?”
“No,” said Harry. “If it was something that serious, they’d tell someone. They’d tell Dumbledore.”
Ron, however, was looking uncomfortable.
“What’s the matter?” Hermione asked him.
“Well…” said Ron slowly, “I dunno if they would. They’re… they’re obsessed with making money lately, I noticed it when I was hanging around with them - when - you know -”
“We weren’t talking.” Harry finished the sentence for him. “Yeah, but blackmail…”
“It’s this joke shop idea they’ve got,” said Ron. “I thought they were only saying it to annoy Mum, but they really mean it, they want to start one. They’ve only got a year left at Hogwarts, they keep going on about how it’s time to think about their future, and Dad can’t help them, and they need gold to get started.”
Hermione was looking uncomfortable now.
“Yes, but… they wouldn’t do anything against the law to get gold.”
“Wouldn’t they?” said Ron, looking skeptical. “I dunno… they don’t exactly mind breaking rules, do they?”
“Yes, but this is the law” said Hermione, looking scared. “This isn’t some silly school rule… They’ll get a lot more than detention for blackmail! Ron… maybe you’d better tell Percy…”
“Are you mad?” said Ron. “Tell Percy? He’d probably do a Crouch and turn them in.”
He stared at the window through which Fred and George’s owl had departed, then said, “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”
“D’you think it’s too early to go and see Professor Moody?” Hermione said as they went down the spiral staircase.
“Yes,” said Harry. “He’d probably blast us through the door if we wake him at the crack of dawn; he’ll think we’re trying to attack him while he’s asleep. Let’s give it till break.”
History of Magic had rarely gone so slowly. Harry kept checking Ron’s watch, having finally discarded his own, but Ron’s was moving so slowly he could have sworn it had stopped working too. All three of them were so tired they could happily have put their heads down on the desks and slept; even Hermione wasn’t taking her usual notes, but was sitting with her head on her hand, gazing at Professor Binns with her eyes out of focus.
When the bell finally rang, they hurried out into the corridors toward the Dark Arts classroom and found Professor Moody leaving it. He looked as tired as they felt. The eyelid of his normal eye was drooping, giving his face an even more lopsided appearance than usual.
“Professor Moody?” Harry called as they made their way toward him through the crowd.
“Hello, Potter,” growled Moody. His magical eye followed a couple of passing first years, who sped up, looking nervous; it rolled into the back of Moody’s head and watched them around the corner before he spoke again.
“Come in here.”
He stood back to let them into his empty classroom, limped in after them, and closed the door.
“Did you find him?” Harry asked without preamble. “Mr. Crouch?”
“No,” said Moody. He moved over to his desk, sat down, stretched out his wooden leg with a slight groan, and pulled out his hip flask.
“Did you use the map?” Harry said.
“Of course,” said Moody, taking a swig from his flask. “Took a leaf out of your book, Potter. Summoned it from my office into the forest. He wasn’t anywhere on there.”
“So he did Disapparate?” said Ron.
“You can’t Disapparate on the grounds, Ron!” said Hermione. “There are other ways he could have disappeared, aren’t there, Professor?”
Moody’s magical eye quivered as it rested on Hermione. “You’re another one who might think about a career as an Auror,” he told her. “Mind works the right way Granger.”
Hermione flushed pink with pleasure.
“Well, he wasn’t invisible,” said Harry. “The map shows invisible people. He must’ve left the grounds, then.”
“But under his own steam?” said Hermione eagerly, “or because someone made him?”
“Yeah, someone could’ve - could’ve pulled him onto a broom and flown off with him, couldn’t they?” said Ron quickly, looking hopefully at Moody as if he too wanted to be told he had the makings of an Auror.
“We can’t rule out kidnap,” growled Moody.
“So,” said Ron, “d’you reckon he’s somewhere in Hogsmeade?”
“Could be anywhere,” said Moody, shaking his head. “Only thing we know for sure is that he’s not here.”
He yawned widely, so that his scars stretched, and his lopsided mouth revealed a number of missing teeth. Then he said, “Now, Dumbledore’s told me you three fancy yourselves as investigators, but there’s nothing you can do for Crouch. The Ministry’ll be looking for him now, Dumbledore’s notified them. Potter, you just keep your mind on the third task.”
“What?” said Harry. “Oh yeah…”
He hadn’t given the maze a single thought since he’d left it with Krum the previous night.
“Should be right up your street, this one,” said Moody, looking up at Harry and scratching his scarred and stubbly chin. “From what Dumbledore’s said, you’ve managed to get through stuff like this plenty of times. Broke your way through a series of obstacles guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone in your first year, didn’t you?”
“We helped,” Ron said quickly. “Me and Hermione helped.”
Moody grinned.
“Well, help him practice for this one, and I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t win,” said Moody. “In the meantime… constant vigilance, Potter. Constant vigilance.”
He took another long draw from his hip flask, and his magical eye swiveled onto the window. The topmost sail of the Durmstrang ship was visible through it.
“You two,” counseled Moody, his normal eye on Ron and Hermione, “you stick close to Potter, all right? I’m keeping an eye on things, but all the same… you can never have too many eyes out.”
Sirius sent their owl back the very next morning. It fluttered down beside Harry at the same moment that a tawny owl landed in front of Hermione, clutching a copy of the Daily Prophet in its beak. She took the newspaper, scanned the first few pages, said, “Ha! She hasn’t got wind of Crouch!” then joined Ron and Harry in reading what Sirius had to say on the mysterious events of the night before last.
Harry - what do you think you are playing at, walking off into the forest with Viktor Krum? I want you to swear, by return owl, that you are not going to go walking with anyone else at night. There is somebody highly dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to me that they wanted to stop Crouch from seeing Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from them in the dark. You could have been killed.
Your name didn’t get into the Goblet of Fire by accident. If someone’s trying to attack you, they’re on their last chance. Stay close to Ron and Hermione, do not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and arm yourself for the third task. Practice Stunning and Disarming. A few hexes
wouldn’t go amiss either. There’s nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your head down and look after yourself. I’m waiting for your letter giving me your word you won’t stray out-of-bounds again.
Sirius
“Who’s he, to lecture me about being out-of-bounds?” said Harry in mild indignation as he folded up Sirius’s letter and put it inside his robes. “After all the stuff he did at school!”
“He’s worried about you!” said Hermione sharply. “Just like Moody and Hagrid! So listen to them!”
“No one’s tried to attack me all year,” said Harry. “No one’s done anything to me at
all-”
“Except put your name in the Goblet of Fire,” said Hermione. “And they must’ve done that for a reason Harry. Snuffles is right. Maybe they’ve been biding their time. Maybe this is the task they’re going to get you.”
“Look,” said Harry impatiently, “let’s say Sirius is right, and someone Stunned Krum to kidnap Crouch. Well, they would’ve been in the trees near us, wouldn’t they? But they waited till I was out of the way until they acted, didn’t they? So it doesn’t look like I’m their target, does it?”
“They couldn’t have made it look like an accident if they’d murdered you in the forest!” said Hermione. “But if you die during a task-”
“They didn’t care about attacking Krum, did they?” said Harry. “Why didn’t they just polish me off at the same time? They could’ve made it look like Krum and I had a duel or something.”
“Harry, I don’t understand it either,” said Hermione desperately. “I just know there are a lot of odd things going on, and I don’t like it… Moody’s right - Sirius is right - you’ve got to get in training for the third task, straight away. And you make sure you write back to Sirius and promise him you’re not going to go sneaking off alone again.”
The Hogwarts grounds never looked more inviting than when Harry had to stay indoors. For the next few days he spent all of his free time either in the library with Hermione and Ron, looking up hexes, or else in empty classrooms, which they sneaked into to practice. Harry was concentrating on the Stunning Spell, which he had never used before. The trouble was that practicing it involved certain sacrifices on Ron’s and Hermione’s part.
“Can’t we kidnap Mrs. Norris?” Ron suggested on Monday lunchtime as he lay flat on his back in the middle of their Charms classroom, having just been Stunned and reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a row. “Let’s Stun her for a bit. Or you could use Dobby, Harry, I bet he’d do anything to help you. I’m not complaining or anything” - he got gingerly to his feet, rubbing his backside - “but I’m aching all over…”
“Well, you keep missing the cushions, don’t you!” said Hermione impatiently, rearranging the pile of cushions they had used for the Banishing Spell, which Flitwick had left in a cabinet. “Just try and fall backward!”
“Once you’re Stunned, you can’t aim too well, Hermione!” said Ron angrily. “Why don’t you take a turn?”
“Well, I think Harry’s got it now, anyway,” said Hermione hastily. “And we don’t have to worry about Disarming, because he’s been able to do that for ages… I think we ought to start on some of these hexes this evening.”
She looked down the list they had made in the library.
“I like the look of this one,” she said, “this Impediment Curse. Should slow down anything that’s trying to attack you Harry. We’ll start with that one.”
The bell rang. They hastily shoved the cushions back into Flitwicks cupboard and slipped out of the classroom.
“See you at dinner!” said Hermione, and she set off for Arithmancy, while Harry and Ron headed toward North Tower, and Divination. Broad strips of dazzling gold sunlight tell across the corridor from the high windows. The sky outside was so brightly blue it looked as though it had been enameled.
“It’s going to be boiling in Trelawney’s room, she never puts out that fire,” said Ron as they started up the staircase toward the silver ladder and the trapdoor.
He was quite right. The dimly lit room was swelteringly hot. The fumes from the perfumed fire were heavier than ever. Harrys head swam as he made his way over to one of the curtained windows. While Professor Trelawney was looking the other way, disentangling her shawl from a lamp, he opened it an inch or so and settled back in his chintz armchair, so that a soft breeze played across his face. It was extremely comfortable.
“My dears,” said Professor Trelawney, sitting down in her winged armchair in front of the class and peering around at them all with her strangely enlarged eyes, “we have almost finished our work on planetary divination. Today, however, will be an excellent opportunity to examine the effects of Mars, for he is placed most interestingly at the present time. If you will all look this way, I will dim the lights…”
She waved her wand and the lamps went out. The fire was the only source of light now. Professor Trelawney bent down and lifted, from under her chair, a miniature model of the solar system, contained within a glass dome. It was a beautiful thing; each of the moons glimmered in place around the nine planets and the fiery sun, all of them hanging in thin air beneath the glass. Harry watched lazily as Professor Trelawney began to point out the fascinating angle Mars was making to Neptune.
The heavily perfumed fumes washed over him, and the breeze from the window played across his face. He could hear an insect humming gently somewhere behind the curtain. His eyelids began to droop…
He was riding on the back of an eagle owl, soaring through the clear blue sky toward an old, ivy-covered house set high on a hillside. Lower and lower they flew, the wind blowing pleasantly in Harry’s face, until they reached a dark and broken window in the upper story of the house and entered. Now they were flying along a gloomy passageway, to a room at the very end… through the door they went, into a dark room whose windows were boarded up…
Harry had left the owl’s back… he was watching, now, as it fluttered across the room, into a chair with its back to him… There were two dark shapes on the floor beside the chair… both of them were stirring…
One was a huge snake… the other was a man… a short, balding man, a man with watery eyes and a pointed nose… he was wheezing and sobbing on the hearth rug…
“You are in luck, Wormtail,” said a cold, high-pitched voice from the depths of the chair in which the owl had landed. “You are very fortunate indeed. Your blunder has not ruined everything. He is dead.”
“My Lord!” gasped the man on the floor. “My Lord, I am… I am so pleased… and so sorry…”
“Nagini,” said the cold voice, “you are out of luck. I will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all… but never mind, never mind… there is still Harry Potter…”
The snake hissed. Harry could see its tongue fluttering.
“Now, Wormtail,” said the cold voice, “perhaps one more little reminder why I will not tolerate another blunder from you…”
“My Lord… no… I beg you…”
The tip of a wand emerged from around the back of the chair. It was pointing at Wormtail.
“Crucio!” said the cold voice.
Wormtail screamed, screamed as though every nerve in his body were on fire, the screaming filled Harry’s ears as the scar on his forehead seared with pain; he was yelling too… Voldemort would hear him, would know he was there…
“Harry! Harry!”
Harry opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of Professor Trelawney’s room with his hands over his face. His scar was still burning so badly that his eyes were watering. The pain had been
real. The whole class was standing around him, and Ron was kneeling next to him, looking terrified.
“You all right?” he said.
“Of course he isn’t!” said Professor Trelawney, looking thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loomed over Harry, gazing at him. “What was it Potter? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?”
“Nothing,” Harry lied. He sat up. He could feel himself shaking. He couldn’t stop himself from looking around, into the shadows behind him; Voldemorts voice had sounded so close…
“You were clutching your scar!” said Professor Trelawney. “You were rolling on the floor, clutching your scar! Come now Potter, I have experience in these matters!”
Harry looked up at her.
“I need to go to the hospital wing, I think,” he said. “Bad headache.”
“My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room!” said Professor Trelawney. “If you leave now, you may lose the opportunity to see further than you have ever -”
“I don’t want to see anything except a headache cure,” said Harry.
He stood up. The class backed away. They all looked unnerved.
“See you later,” Harry muttered to Ron, and he picked up his bag and headed for the trapdoor, ignoring Professor Trelawney, who was wearing an expression of great frustration, as though she had just been denied a real treat.
When Harry reached the bottom of her stepladder, however, he did not set off for the hospital wing. He had no intention whatsoever of going there. Sirius had told him what to do if his scar hurt him again, and Harry was going to follow his advice: He was going straight to Dumbledore’s office. He marched down the corridors, thinking about what he had seen in the dream… it had been as vivid as the one that had awoken him on Privet Drive… He ran over the details in his mind, trying to make sure he could remember them… He had heard Voldemort accusing Wormtail of making a blunder… but the owl had brought good news, the blunder had been repaired, somebody was dead… so Wormtail was not going to be fed to the snake… he, Harry, was going to be fed to it instead…
Harry had walked right past the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledores office without noticing. He blinked, looked around, realized what he had done, and retraced his steps, stopping in front of it. Then he remembered that he didn’t know the password.
“Sherbet lemon?” he tried tentatively.
The gargoyle did not move.
“Okay,” said Harry, staring at it, “Pear Drop. Er - Licorice Wand. Fizzing Whizbee. Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum. Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans… oh no, he doesn’t like them, does he?… oh just open, can’t you?” he said angrily. “I really need to see him, its urgent!”
The gargoyle remained immovable.
Harry kicked it, achieving nothing but an excruciating pain in his big toe.
“Chocolate Frog!” he yelled angrily, standing on one leg. “Sugar Quill! Cockroach Cluster!”
The gargoyle sprang to life and jumped aside. Harry blinked.
“Cockroach Cluster?” he said, amazed. “I was only joking…”
He hurried through the gap in the walls and stepped onto the foot of a spiral stone staircase, which moved slowly upward as the doors closed behind him, taking him up to a polished oak door with a brass door knocker.
He could hear voices from inside the office. He stepped off the moving staircase and hesitated, listening.
“Dumbledore, I’m afraid I don’t see the connection, don’t see it at all!” It was the voice of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. “Ludo says Berthas perfectly capable of getting herself lost. I agree we would have expected to have found her by now, but all the same, we’ve no evidence of foul play, Dumbledore, none at all. As for her disappearance being linked with Barty Crouch’s!”
“And what do you thinks happened to Barty Crouch, Minister?” said Moody’s growling voice.
“I see two possibilities, Alastor,” said Fudge. “Either Crouch has finally cracked - more than likely, I’m sure you’ll agree, given his personal history - lost his mind, and gone wandering off somewhere -”
“He wandered extremely quickly, if that is the case, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore calmly.
“Or else - well…” Fudge sounded embarrassed. “Well, I’ll reserve judgment until after I’ve seen the place where he was found, but you say it was just past the Beauxbatons carriage? Dumbledore, you know what that woman is?”
“I consider her to be a very able headmistress - and an excellent dancer,” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Dumbledore, come!” said Fudge angrily. “Don’t you think you might be prejudiced in her favor because of Hagrid? They don’t all turn out harmless - if, indeed, you can call Hagrid harmless, with that monster fixation he’s got -”
“I no more suspect Madame Maxime than Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, just as calmly. “I think it possible that it is you who are prejudiced, Cornelius.”
“Can we wrap up this discussion?” growled Moody.
“Yes, yes, let’s go down to the grounds, then,” said Fudge impatiently.
“No, it’s not that,” said Moody, “it’s just that Potter wants a word with you, Dumbledore. He’s just outside the door.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Pensieve
The door of the office opened.
“Hello, Potter,” said Moody. “Come in, then.”
Harry walked inside. He had been inside Dumbledore’s office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently.
Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore’s desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat.
“Harry!” said Fudge jovially, moving forward. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Harry lied.
“We were just talking about the night when Mr. Crouch turned up on the grounds,” said Fudge. “It was you who found him, was it not?”
“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to pretend that he hadn’t overheard what they had been saying, he added, “I didn’t see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she’d have a job hiding, wouldn’t she?”
Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge’s back, his eyes twinkling.
“Yes, well,” said Fudge, looking embarrassed, “we’re about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you’ll excuse us… perhaps if you just go back to your class -”
“I wanted to talk to you. Professor,” Harry said quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift, searching look.
“Wait here for me, Harry,” he said. “Our examination of the grounds will not take long.”
They trooped out in silence past him and closed the door. After a minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of Moody’s wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor below. He looked around.
“Hello, Fawkes,” he said.
Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore’s phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Harry.
Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, thinking about what he had just heard, and running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped hurting now.
He felt much calmer, somehow, now that he was in Dumbledore’s office, knowing he would shortly be telling him about the dream. Harry looked up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one he himself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in his second year. The sword had once belonged to Godric Gryffindor, founder of Harry’s House. He was gazing at it, remembering how it had come to his aid when he had thought all hope was lost, when he noticed a patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the glass case. He looked around for the source of the light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly from within a black cabinet behind him, whose door had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated, glanced at Fawkes, then got up, walked across the office, and pulled open the cabinet door.
A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around the edge: runes and symbols that Harry did not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the basin’s contents, which were like nothing Harry had ever seen before. He could not tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked like light made liquid - or like wind made solid - Harry couldn’t make up his mind.
He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four years’ experience of the magical world told him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them.
The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast. Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. The silvery substance had become transparent; it looked like glass. He looked down into it expecting to see the stone bottom of the basin - and saw instead an enormous room below the surface of the mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling.
The room was dimly lit; he thought it might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his nose was a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair stood in the very center of the room. There was something about the chair that gave Harry an ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were usually tied to it.
Where was this place? It surely wasn’t Hogwarts; he had never seen a room like that here in the castle. Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers at Hogwarts. They seemed, he
thought, to be waiting for something; even though he could only see the tops of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one another.
The basin being circular, and the room he was observing square, Harry could not make out what was going on in the corners of it. He leaned even closer, tilting his head, trying to see…
The tip of his nose touched the strange substance into which he was staring. Dumbledore’s office gave an almighty lurch - Harry was thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance inside the basin –
But his head did not hit the stone bottom. He was falling through something icycold and black; it was like being sucked into a dark whirlpool –
And suddenly, Harry found himself sitting on a bench at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. He looked up at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which he had just been staring, but there was nothing there but dark, solid stone.
Breathing hard and fast Harry looked around him. Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and there were at least two hundred of them) was looking at him. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that a fourteen-year-old boy had just dropped from the ceiling into their midst. Harry turned to the wizard next to him on the bench and uttered a loud cry of surprise that reverberated around the silent room.
He was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore.
“Professor!” Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to - I was just looking at that basin in your cabinet - I - where are we?”
But Dumbledore didn’t move or speak. He ignored Harry completely. Like every other wizard on the benches, he was staring into the far corner of the room, where there was a door.
Harry gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then around at the silently watchful crowd, then back at Dumbledore. And then it dawned on him…
Once before Harry had found himself somewhere that nobody could see or hear him. That time, he had fallen through a page in an enchanted diary, right into somebody else’s memory… and unless he was very much mistaken, something of the sort had happened again…
Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in from of Dumbledore’s face. Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or indeed move at all. And that, in Harry’s opinion, settled the matter. Dumbledore wouldn’t ignore him like that. He was inside a memory, and this was not the present-day Dumbledore. Yet it couldn’t be that long ago… the Dumbledore sitting next to him now was silver-haired, just like the present-day Dumbledore. But what was
this place? What were all these wizards waiting for? Harry looked around more carefully. The room, as he had suspected when observing it from above, was almost certainly underground -
more of a dungeon than a room, he thought. There was a bleak and forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so that they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms.
Before Harry could reach any conclusions about the place in which they were, he heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three people entered - or at least one man, flanked by two dementors.
Harry’s insides went cold. The dementors - tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed - were gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the room, each grasping one of the man’s arms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between them looked as though he was about to faint, and Harry couldn’t blame him… he knew the dementors could not touch him inside a memory, but he remembered their power only too well. The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the man in the chained chair and glided back out of the room. The door swung shut behind them.
Harry looked down at the man now sitting in the chair and saw that it was Karkaroff.
Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as Harry watched, the chains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked their way up Karkaroff’s arms, binding him there.
“Igor Karkaroff,” said a curt voice to Harry’s left. Harry looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing up in the middle of the bench beside him. Crouch’s hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he looked fit and alert. “You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us.”
Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair.
“I have, sir,” he said, and although his voice was very scared, Harry could still hear the familiar unctuous note in it. “I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I - I know that the Ministry is trying to - to round up the last of the Dark Lords supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can…”
There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Harry heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledores other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, “Filth.”
Harry leaned forward so that he could see past Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there - except that there was a very noticeable difference in his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike.
“Crouch is going to let him out,” Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. “He’s done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he’s got enough new names. Let’s hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors.”
Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose. “Ah, I was forgetting… you don’t like the dementors, do you, Albus?” said Moody with a sardonic smile.
“No,” said Dumbledore calmly, “I’m afraid I don’t. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures.”
“But for filth like this…” Moody said softly.
“You say you have names for us, Karkaroff,” said Mr. Crouch. “Let us hear them, please.”
“You must understand,” said Karkaroff hurriedly, “that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy… He preferred that we - I mean to say, his supporters - and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them -”
“Get on with it,” sneered Moody.
“- we never knew the names of every one of our fellows - He alone knew exactly who we all were -”
“Which was a wise move, wasn’t it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in,” muttered Moody.
“Yet you say you have some names for us?” said Mr. Crouch.
“I - I do,” said Karkaroff breathlessly. “And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely -”
“These names are?” said Mr. Crouch sharply.
Karkaroff drew a deep breath.
“There was Antonin Dolohov,” he said. “I - I saw him torture countless Muggles and - and non-supporters of the Dark Lord.”
“And helped him do it,” murmured Moody.
“We have already apprehended Dolohov,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after yourself.”
“Indeed?” said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. “I - I am delighted to hear it!”
But he didn’t look it. Harry could tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless.
“Any others?” said Crouch coldly.
“Why, yes… there was Rosier,” said Karkaroff hurriedly. “Evan Rosier.”
“Rosier is dead,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle.”
“Took a bit of me with him, though,” whispered Moody to Harry’s right. Harry looked around at him once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore.
“No - no more than Rosier deserved!” said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now.
Harry could see that he was starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff’s eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting.
“Any more?” said Crouch.
“Yes!” said Karkaroff. “There was Travers - he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber - he specialized in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!”
Harry could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together.
“Rookwood?” said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. “Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?”
“The very same,” said Karkaroff eagerly. “I believe he used a network of wellplaced wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information -”
“But Travers and Mulciber we have,” said Mr. Crouch. “Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide -”
“Not yet!” cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. “Wait, I have more!”
Harry could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard.
“Snape!” he shouted. “Severus Snape!”
“Snape has been cleared by this council,” said Crouch disdainfully. “He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore.”
“No!” shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. “I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!”
Dumbledore had gotten to his feet.
“I have given evidence already on this matter,” he said calmly. “Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort’s downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.”
Harry turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep skepticism behind Dumbledore’s back.
“Very well, Karkaroff,” Crouch said coldly, “you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime…”
Mr. Crouch’s voice faded. Harry looked around; the dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything was fading; he could see only his own body - all else was swirling darkness…
And then, the dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in a different seat, still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr. Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talking to one another, almost as though they were at some sort of sporting event. Harry noticed a witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite.
She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a younger Rita Skeeter. Harry looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing different robes. Mr. Crouch looked more tired and somehow fiercer, gaunter… Harry understood. It was a different memory, a different day… a different trial.
The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked into the room.
This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at the height of his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn’t broken now; he was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair, but it did not bind him there as it had bound Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at a couple of them, and managed a small smile.
“Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges relating to the activities of the Death Eaters,” said Mr. Crouch. “We have heard the evidence against you, and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have anything to add to your testimony before we pronounce judgment?”
Harry couldn’t believe his ears. Ludo Bagman, a Death Eater?
“Only,” said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, “well - I know I’ve been a bit of an idiot -”
One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding seats smiled indulgently. Mr. Crouch did not appear to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity and dislike.
“You never spoke a truer word, boy,” someone muttered dryly to Dumbledore behind Harry. He looked around and saw Moody sitting there again. “If I didn’t know he’d always been dim, I’d have said some of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain…”
“Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing information to Lord Voldemort’s supporters,” said Mr. Crouch. “For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment in Azkaban lasting no less than -”
But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding benches. Several of the witches and wizards around the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even their fists, at Mr. Crouch.
“But I’ve told you, I had no idea!” Bagman called earnestly over the crowd’s babble, his round blue eyes widening. “None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of my dad’s… never crossed my mind he was in with You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting me a job in the Ministry later on… once my Quidditch days are over, you know… I mean, I can’t keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life, can I?”
There were titters from the crowd.
“It will be put to the vote,” said Mr. Crouch coldly. He turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. “The jury will please raise their hands… those in favor of imprisonment…”
Harry looked toward the right-hand side of the dungeon. Not one person raised their hand. Many of the witches and wizards around the walls began to clap. One of the witches on the jury stood up.
“Yes?” barked Crouch.
“We’d just like to congratulate Mr. Bagman on his splendid performance for England in the Quidditch match against Turkey last Saturday,” the witch said breathlessly.
Mr. Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and bowed, beaming.
“Despicable,” Mr. Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon. “Rookwood get him a job indeed… The day Ludo Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeed for the Ministry…”
And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had returned, Harry looked around. He and Dumbledore were still sitting beside Mr. Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr. Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands.
Harry looked up at Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter and grayer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple.
“Bring them in,” he said, and his voice echoed through the silent dungeon.
The door in the corner opened yet again. Six dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whispered to one another.
The dementors placed each of the four people in the four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and more nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around the crowd; a woman with thick, shining dark hair and heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained chair as though it were a throne; and a boy in his late teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was shivering, his strawcolored hair all over his face, his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her seat whimpering into her handkerchief.
Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face.
“You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law,” he said clearly, “so that we may pass judgment on you, for a crime so heinous -”
“Father,” said the boy with the straw-colored hair. “Father… please…”
“- that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,” said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son’s voice.
“We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror - Frank Longbottom - and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -”
“Father, I didn’t!” shrieked the boy in chains below. “I didn’t, I swear it. Father, don’t send me back to the dementors -”
“You are further accused,” bellowed Mr. Crouch, “of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom’s wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury -”
“Mother!” screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward and forward. “Mother, stop him. Mother, I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me!”
“I now ask the jury,” shouted Mr. Crouch, “to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!”
In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls began to clap as it had for Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy began to scream. “No! Mother, no! I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t know! Don’t send me there, don’t let him!”
The dementors were gliding back into the room. The boys’ three companions rose quietly from their seats; the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, “The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!”
But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Harry could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle.
“I’m your son!” he screamed up at Crouch. “I’m your son!”
“You are no son of mine!” bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. “I have no son!”
The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed.
“Take them away!” Crouch roared at the dementors, spit flying from his mouth. “Take them away, and may they rot there!”
“Father! Father, I wasn’t involved! No! No! Father, please!”
“I think Harry, it is time to return to my office,” said a quiet voice in Harrys ear.
Harry started. He looked around. Then he looked on his other side.
There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on his right, watching Crouch’s son being dragged away by the dementors - and there was an Albus Dumbledore on his left, looking right at him.
“Come,” said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put his hand under Harrys elbow. Harry felt himself rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around him; for a moment, all was blackness, and then he felt as though he had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on his feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore’s sunlit office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of him, and Albus Dumbledore was standing beside him.
“Professor,” Harry gasped, “I know I shouldn’t’ve - I didn’t mean - the cabinet door was sort of open and -”
“I quite understand,” said Dumbledore. He lifted the basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the polished top, and sat down in the chair behind it. He motioned for Harry to sit down opposite him.
Harry did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents had returned to their original, silvery-white state, swirling and rippling beneath his gaze.
“What is it?” Harry asked shakily.
“This? It is called a Pensieve,” said Dumbledore. “I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind.”
“Er,” said Harry, who couldn’t truthfully say that he had ever felt anything of the sort.
“At these times,” said Dumbledore, indicating the stone basin, “I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one’s mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one’s leisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form.”
“You mean… that stuff’s your thoughts?” Harry said, staring at the swirling white substance in the basin.
“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Let me show you.”
Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his robes and placed the tip into his own silvery hair, near his temple. When he took the wand away, hair seemed to be clinging to it - but then Harry saw that it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange silvery-white substance that filled the Pensieve. Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the basin, and Harry, astonished, saw his own face swimming around the surface of the bowl. Dumbledore placed his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would pan for fragments of gold… and Harry saw his own face change smoothly into Snape’s, who opened his mouth and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly.
“It’s coming back… Karkaroff’s too… stronger and clearer than ever…”
“A connection I could have made without assistance,” Dumbledore sighed, “but never mind.” He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, who was gaping at Snape’s face, which was continuing to swirl around the bowl. “I was using the Pensieve when Mr. Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away rather hastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door properly. Naturally, it would have attracted your attention.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled.
Dumbledore shook his head. “Curiosity is not a sin,” he said. “But we should exercise caution with our curiosity… yes, indeed…”
Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose out of it, a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen, who began to revolve slowly, with her feet still in the basin. She took no notice whatsoever of Harry or Professor Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as Snape’s had done, as though it were coming from the depths of the stone basin.
“He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I’d seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday…”
“But why Bertha,” said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, “why did you have to follow him in the first place?”
“Bertha?” Harry whispered, looking up at her. “Is that - was that Bertha Jorkins?”
“Yes,” said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the basin again; Bertha sank back into them, and they became silvery and opaque once more. “That was Bertha as I remember her at school.”
The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated Dumbledore’s face, and it struck Harry suddenly how very old he was looking. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man.
“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me something.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “Professor - I was in Divination just now, and - er - I fell asleep.”
He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was coming, but Dumbledore merely said, “Quite understandable. Continue.”
“Well, I had a dream,” said Harry. “A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail… you know who Wormtail-”
“I do know,” said Dumbledore promptly. “Please continue.”
“Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like, Wormtail’s blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, Wormtail wouldn’t be fed to the snake - there was a snake beside his chair. He said - he said he’d be feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail - and my scar hurt,” Harry said. “It woke me up, it hurt so badly.”
Dumbledore merely looked at him.
“Er - that’s all,” said Harry.
“I see,” said Dumbledore quietly. “I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?”
“No, I - how did you know it woke me up over the summer?” said Harry, astonished.
“You are not Sirius’s only correspondent,” said Dumbledore. “I have also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place for him to stay.”
Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed his wand tip to his temple, removed another shining silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that Harry couldn’t make out anything clearly: It was merely a blur of color.
“Professor?” he said quietly, after a couple of minutes.
Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Harry.
“My apologies,” he said quietly. He sat back down at his desk.
“D’you - d’you know why my scar’s hurting me?”
Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a moment, and then said, “I have a theory, no more than that… It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.”
“But… why?”
“Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed,” said Dumbledore. “That is no ordinary scar.”
“So you think… that dream… did it really happen?”
“It is possible,” said Dumbledore. “I would say - probable. Harry - did you see Voldemort?”
“No,” said Harry. “Just the back of his chair. But - there wouldn’t have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he hasn’t got a body, has he? But… but then how could he have held the wand?” Harry said slowly.
“How indeed?” muttered Dumbledore. “How indeed…”
Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledore was gazing across the room, and, every now and then, placing his wand tip to his temple and adding another shining silver thought to the seething mass within the Pensieve.
“Professor,” Harry said at last, “do you think he’s getting stronger?”
“Voldemort?” said Dumbledore, looking at Harry over the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look Dumbledore had given him on other occasions, and always made Harry feel as though Dumbledore were seeing right through him in a way that even Moody’s magical eye could not. “Once again Harry, I can only give you my suspicions.”
Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and wearier, than ever. “The years of Voldemort’s ascent to power,” he said, “were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished without a trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr. Crouch too has disappeared… within these very grounds. And there was a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort’s father grew up, and he has not been seen since last August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, unlike most of my Ministry friends.”
Dumbledore looked very seriously at Harry.
“These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The Ministry disagrees - as you may have heard, while waiting outside my office.”
Harry nodded. Silence fell between them again, Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then. Harry felt as though he ought to go, but his curiosity held him in his chair.
“Professor?” he said again.
“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore.
“Er… could I ask you about… that court thing I was in… in the Pensieve?”
“You could,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I attended it many times, but some trials come back to me more clearly than others… particularly now…”
“You know - you know the trial you found me in? The one with Crouch’s son? Well… were they talking about Neville’s parents?”
Dumbledore gave Harry a very sharp look. “Has Neville never told you why he has been brought up by his grandmother?” he said.
Harry shook his head, wondering, as he did so, how he could have failed to ask Neville this, in almost four years of knowing him.
“Yes, they were talking about Nevilles parents,” said Dumbledore. “His father, Frank, was an Auror just like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured for information about Voldemort’s whereabouts after he lost his powers, as you heard.”
“So they’re dead?” said Harry quietly.
“No,” said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness Harry had never heard there before. “They are insane. They are both in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I believe Neville visits them, with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do not recognize him.”
Harry sat there, horror-struck. He had never known… never, in four years, bothered to find out…
“The Longbottoms were very popular,” said Dumbledore. “The attacks on them came after Voldemort’s fall from power, just when everyone thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was under great pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, the Longbottoms’ evidence was - given their condition - none too reliable.”
“Then Mr. Crouch’s son might not have been involved?” said Harry slowly. Dumbledore shook his head.
“As to that, I have no idea.”
Harry sat in silence once more, watching the contents of the Pensieve swirl. There were two more questions he was burning to ask… but they concerned the guilt of living people…
“Er,” he said, “Mr. Bagman…”
“… has never been accused of any Dark activity since,” said Dumbledore calmly.
“Right,” said Harry hastily, staring at the contents of the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly now that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts.
“And… er…”
But the Pensieve seemed to be asking his question for him.
Snape’s face was swimming on the surface again. Dumbledore glanced down into it, and then up at Harry.
“No more has Professor Snape,” he said.
Harry looked into Dumbledore’s light blue eyes, and the thing he really wanted to know spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“What made you think he’d really stopped supporting Voldemort, Professor?”
Dumbledore held Harrys gaze for a few seconds, and then said, “That, Harry, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself.”
Harry knew that the interview was over; Dumbledore did not look angry, yet there was a finality in his tone that told Harry it was time to go. He stood up, and so did Dumbledore.
“Harry,” he said as Harry reached the door. “Please do not speak about Neville’s parents to anybody else. He has the right to let people know, when he is ready.”
“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, turning to go.
“And-”
Harry looked back. Dumbledore was standing over the Pensieve, his face lit from beneath by its silvery spots of light, looking older than ever. He stared at Harry for a moment, and then said, “Good luck with the third task.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Third Task
“Dumbledore reckons You-Know-Who’s getting stronger again as well?” Ron whispered.
Everything Harry had seen in the Pensieve, nearly everything Dumbledore had told and shown him afterward, he had now shared with Ron and Hermione - and, of course, with Sirius, to whom Harry had sent an owl the moment he had left Dumbledore’s office. Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat up late in the common room once again that night, talking it all over until Harry’s mind was reeling, until he understood what Dumbledore had meant about a head becoming so full of thoughts that it would have been a relief to siphon them off.
Ron stared into the common room fire. Harry thought he saw Ron shiver slightly, even though the evening was warm.
“And he trusts Snape?” Ron said. “He really trusts Snape, even though he knows he was a Death Eater?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
Hermione had not spoken for ten minutes. She was sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her knees. Harry thought she too looked as though she could have done with a Pensieve.
“Rita Skeeter,” she muttered finally.
“How can you be worrying about her now?” said Ron, in utter disbelief.
“I’m not worrying about her,” Hermione said to her knees. “I’m just thinking… remember what she said to me in the Three Broomsticks? ‘I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl.’ This is what she meant, isn’t it? She reported his trial, she knew he’d passed information to the Death Eaters. And Winky too, remember… ‘Ludo Bagman’s a bad wizard.’ Mr. Crouch would have been furious he got off, he would have talked about it at home.”
“Yeah, but Bagman didn’t pass information on purpose, did he?” Hermione shrugged.
“And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked Crouch?” Ron said, turning back to Harry.
“Yeah,” said Harry, “but he’s only saying that because Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage.”
“We never thought of her, did we?” said Ron slowly. “Mind you, she’s definitely got giant blood, and she doesn’t want to admit it-”
“Of course she doesn’t,” said Hermione sharply, looking up. “Look what happened to Hagrid when Rita found out about his mother. Look at Fudge, jumping to conclusions about her, just because she’s part giant. Who needs that sort of prejudice? I’d probably say I had big bones if I knew that’s what I’d get for telling the truth.”
Hermione looked at her watch. “We haven’t done any practicing!” she said, looking shocked. “We were going to do the Impediment Curse! We’ll have to really get down to it tomorrow! Come on. Harry, you need to get some sleep.”
Harry and Ron went slowly upstairs to their dormitory. As Harry pulled on his pajamas, he looked over at Nevilles bed. True to his word to Dumbledore, he had not told Ron and Hermione about Neville s parents. As Harry took off his glasses and climbed into his four-poster, he imagined how it must feel to have parents still living but unable to recognize you. He often got sympathy from strangers for being an orphan, but as he listened to Nevilles snores, he thought that Neville deserved it more than he did. Lying in the darkness, Harry felt a rush of anger and
hate toward the people who had tortured Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom… He remembered the jeers of the crowd as Crouch’s son and his companions had been dragged from the court by the dementors… He understood how they had felt… Then he remembered the milk-white face of the screaming boy and realized with a jolt that he had died a year later…
It was Voldemort, Harry thought, staring up at the canopy of his bed in thedarkness, it all came back to Voldemort… He was the one who had torn these families apart, who had ruined all these lives…
Ron and Hermione were supposed to be studying for their exams, which would finish on the day of the third task, but they were putting most of their efforts into helping Harry prepare.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione said shortly when Harry pointed this out to them and said he didn’t mind practicing on his own for a while, “at least we’ll get top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. We’d never have found out about all these hexes in class.”
“Good training for when we’re all Aurors,” said Ron excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a wasp that had buzzed into the room and making it stop dead in midair.
The mood in the castle as they entered June became excited and tense again. Everyone was looking forward to the third task, which would take place a week before the end of term. Harry was practicing hexes at every available moment. He felt more confident about this task than either of the others. Difficult and dangerous though it would undoubtedly be, Moody was right: Harry had managed to find his way past monstrous creatures and enchanted barriers before now, and this time he had some notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay ahead.
Tired of walking in on Harry, Hermione, and Ron all over the school, Professor McGonagall had given them permission to use the empty Transfiguration classroom at lunchtimes. Harry had soon mastered the Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and obstruct attackers; the Reductor Curse, which would enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermiones that would make his wand point due north, therefore enabling him to
check whether he was going in the right direction within the maze. He was still having trouble with the Shield Charm, though. This was supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around himself that deflected minor curses; Hermione managed to shatter it with a well-placed Jelly-Legs Jinx, and Harry wobbled around the room for ten minutes afterward before she had looked up the counterjinx.
“You’re still doing really well, though,” Hermione said encouragingly, looking down her list and crossing off those spells they had already learned. “Some of these are bound to come in handy.”
“Come and look at this,” said Ron, who was standing by the window. He was staring down onto the grounds. “What’s Malfoy doing?”
Harry and Hermione went to see. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in the shadow of a tree below. Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be keeping a lookout; both were smirking. Malfoy was holding his hand up to his mouth and speaking into it.
“He looks like he’s using a walkie-talkie,” said Harry curiously.
“He can’t be,” said Hermione, “I’ve told you, those sorts of things don’t work around Hogwarts. Come on, Harry,” she added briskly, turning away from the window and moving back into the middle of the room, “let’s try that Shield Charm again.”
Sirius was sending daily owls now. Like Hermione, he seemed to want to concentrate on getting Harry through the last task before they concerned themselves with anything else. He reminded Harry in every letter that whatever might be going on outside the walls of Hogwarts was not Harry’s responsibility, nor was it within his power to influence it.
If Voldemort is really getting stronger again, he wrote, my priority is to ensure your safety. He cannot hope to lay hands on you while you are under Dumbledore’s protection, but all the same, take no risks: Concentrate on getting through that maze safely, and then we can turn our attention to other matters.
Harry’s nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth drew closer, but they were not as bad as those he had felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing, he was confident that, this time, he had done everything in his power to prepare for the task. For another, this was the final hurdle, and however well or badly he did, the tournament would at last be over, which would be an enormous relief.
Breakfast was a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor table on the morning of the third task. The post owls appeared, bringing Harry a good-luck card from Sirius. It was only a piece of parchment, folded over and bearing a muddy paw print on its front, but Harry appreciated it all the same. A screech owl arrived for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of the Daily Prophet as usual. She unfolded the paper, glanced at the front page, and spat out a mouthful of pumpkin juice all over it.
“What?” said Harry and Ron together, staring at her. “Nothing,” said Hermione quickly, trying to shove the paper out of sight, but Ron grabbed it. He stared at the headline and said, “No way. Not today. That old cow.”
“What?” said Harry. “Rita Skeeter again?”
“No,” said Ron, and just like Hermione, he attempted to push the paper out of sight.
“It’s about me, isn’t it?” said Harry.
“No,” said Ron, in an entirely unconvincing tone. But before Harry could demand to see the paper Draco Malfoy shouted across the Great Hall from the Slytherin table.
“Hey, Potter! Potter! How’s your head? You feeling all right? Sure you’re not going to go berserk on us?”
Malfoy was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet too. Slytherins up and down the table were sniggering, twisting in their seats to see Harry’s reaction.
“Let me see it,” Harry said to Ron. “Give it here.”
Very reluctantly, Ron handed over the newspaper. Harry turned it over and found himself staring at his own picture, beneath the banner headline:
‘HARRY POTTER DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS’
The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has recently come to light about Harry Potter’s strange behavior, which casts doubts upon his suitability to compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School.
Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson, your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying.
It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potters brain was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You- Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is still hurting is an expression of his deep-seated confusion.
“He might even be pretending,” said one specialist. “This could be a plea for attention.”
The Daily Prophet, however, has unearthed worrying facts about Harry Potter that Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from the wizarding public.
“Potter can speak Parseltongue,” reveals Draco Malfoy, a Hogwarts fourth year. “There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago, and most people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his temper at a dueling club and set a snake on another boy. It was all hushed up, though. But he’s made friends with werewolves and giants too. We think he’d do anything for a bit of power.”
Parseltongue, the ability to converse with snakes, has long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most famous Parselmouth of our times is none other than You-Know-Who himself. A member of the Dark Force Defense League, who wished to remain unnamed, stated that he would regard any wizard who could speak Parseltongue “as worthy of investigation. Personally, I would be highly suspicious of anybody who could converse with snakes, as serpents are often used in the worst kinds of Dark Magic, and are historically associated with evildoers.” Similarly, “anyone who seeks out the company of such vicious creatures as werewolves and giants would appear to have a fondness for violence.”
Albus Dumbledore should surely consider whether a boy such as this should be allowed to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Some fear that Potter might resort to the Dark Arts in his desperation to win the tournament, the third task of which takes place this evening.
“Gone off me a bit, hasn’t she?” said Harry lightly, folding up the paper.
Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were laughing at him, tapping their heads with their fingers, pulling grotesquely mad faces, and waggling their tongues like snakes.
“How did she know your scar hurt in Divination?” Ron said. “There’s no way she was there, there’s no way she could’ve heard -”
“The window was open,” said Harry. “I opened it to breathe.”
“You were at the top of North Tower!” Hermione said. “Your voice couldn’t have carried all the way down to the grounds!”
“Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be researching magical methods of bugging!” said Harry. “You tell me how she did it!”
“I’ve been trying!” said Hermione. “But I… but…”
An odd, dreamy expression suddenly came over Hermione’s face. She slowly raised a hand and ran her fingers through her hair.
“Are you all right?” said Ron, frowning at her.
“Yes,” said Hermione breathlessly. She ran her fingers through her hair again, and then held her hand up to her mouth, as though speaking into an invisible walkietalkie. Harry and Ron stared at each other.
“I’ve had an idea,” Hermione said, gazing into space. “I think I know… because then no one would be able to see… even Moody… and she’d have been able to get onto the window ledge… but she’s not allowed… she’s definitely not allowed… I think we’ve got her! Just give me two seconds in the library - just to make sure!”
With that, Hermione seized her school bag and dashed out of the Great Hall.
“Oy!” Ron called after her. “We’ve got our History of Magic exam in ten minutes! Blimey,” he said, turning back to Harry, “she must really hate that Skeeter woman to risk missing the start of an exam. What’re you going to do in Binns’s class – read again?”
Exempt from the end-of-term tests as a Triwizard champion, Harry had been sitting in the back of every exam class so far, looking up fresh hexes for the third task.
“S’pose so,” Harry said to Ron; but just then. Professor McGonagall came walking alongside the Gryffindor table toward him.
“Potter, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast,” she said.
“But the task’s not till tonight!” said Harry, accidentally spilling scrambled eggs down his front, afraid he had mistaken the time.
“I’m aware of that, Potter,” she said. “The champions’ families are invited to watch the final task, you know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them.” She moved away. Harry gaped after her.
“She doesn’t expect the Dursleys to turn up, does she?” he asked Ron blankly.
“Dunno,” said Ron. “Harry, I’d better hurry, I’m going to be late for Binns. See you later.”
Harry finished his breakfast in the emptying Great Hall. He saw Fleur Delacour get up from the Ravenclaw table and join Cedric as he crossed to the side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off to join them shortly afterward. Harry stayed where he was. He really didn’t want to go into the chamber. He had no family - no family who would turn up to see him risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up, thinking that he might as well go up to the library and do a spot more hex research, the door of the side chamber opened, and Cedric stuck his head out.
“Harry, come on, they’re waiting for you!”
Utterly perplexed Harry got up. The Dursleys couldn’t possibly be here, could they? He walked across the Hall and opened the door into the chamber. Cedric and his parents were just inside the door. Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. He had inherited his fathers hooked nose. On the other side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her mother. Fleur’s little sister, Gabrielle, was holding her mother’s hand. She waved at Harry, who waved back, grinning. Then he saw Mrs. Weasley and Bill standing in front of the fireplace, beaming at him.
“Surprise!” Mrs. Weasley said excitedly as he smiled broadly and walked over to them. “Thought we’d come and watch you. Harry!” She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
“You all right?” said Bill, grinning at Harry and shaking his hand. “Charlie wanted to come, but he couldn’t get time off. He said you were incredible against the Horntail.”
Fleur Delacour, Harry noticed, was eyeing Bill with great interest over her mother’s shoulder. Harry could tell she had no objection whatsoever to long hair or earrings with fangs on them.
“This is really nice of you,” Harry muttered to Mrs. Weasley. “I thought for a moment - the Dursleys -”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Weasley, pursing her lips. She had always refrained from criticizing the Dursleys in front of Harry, but her eyes flashed every time they were mentioned.
“It’s great being back here,” said Bill, looking around the chamber (Violet, the Fat Lady’s friend, winked at him from her frame). “Haven’t seen this place for five years. Is that picture of the mad knight still around? Sir Cadogan?”
“Oh yeah,” said Harry, who had met Sir Cadogan the previous year.
“And the Fat Lady?” said Bill.
“She was here in my time,” said Mrs. Weasley. “She gave me such a telling off one night when I got back to the dormitory at four in the morning -”
“What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in the morning?” said Bill, surveying his mother with amazement.
Mrs. Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling.
“Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll,” she said. “He got caught by Apollyon Pringle - he was the caretaker in those days - your father’s still got the marks.”
“Fancy giving us a tour, Harry?” said Bill.
“Yeah, okay,” said Harry, and they made their way back toward the door into the Great Hall. As they passed Amos Diggory, he looked around.
“There you are, are you?” he said, looking Harry up and down.
“Bet you’re not feeling quite as full of yourself now Cedrics caught you up on points, are you?”
“What?” said Harry.
“Ignore him,” said Cedric in a low voice to Harry, frowning after his father. “He’s been angry ever since Rita Skeeters article about the Triwizard Tournament – you know, when she made out you were the only Hogwarts champion.”
“Didn’t bother to correct her, though, did he?” said Amos Diggory, loudly enough for Harry to hear as he started to walk out of the door with Mrs. Weasley and Bill. “Still… you’ll show him, Ced. Beaten him once before, haven’t you?”
“Rita Skeeter goes out of her way to cause trouble, Amos!” Mrs. Weasley said angrily. “I would have thought you’d know that, working at the Ministry!”
Mr. Diggory looked as though he was going to say something angry, but his wife laid a hand on his arm, and he merely shrugged and turned away.
Harry had a very enjoyable morning walking over the sunny grounds with Bill and Mrs. Weasley, showing them the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang ship. Mrs. Weasley was intrigued by the Whomping Willow, which had been planted after she had left school, and reminisced at length about the gamekeeper before Hagrid, a man called Ogg.
“How’s Percy?” Harry asked as they walked around the greenhouses.
“Not good,” said Bill.
“He’s very upset,” said Mrs. Weasley, lowering her voice and glancing around. “The Ministry wants to keep Mr. Crouch’s disappearance quiet, but Percy’s been hauled in for questioning about the instructions Mr. Crouch has been sending in. They seem to think there’s a chance they weren’t genuinely written by him. Percy’s been under a lot of strain. They’re not letting him fill in for Mr. Crouch as the fifth judge tonight. Cornelius Fudge is going to be doing it.”
They returned to the castle for lunch.
“Mum - Bill!” said Ron, looking stunned, as he joined the Gryffindor table. “What’re you doing here?”
“Come to watch Harry in the last task!” said Mrs. Weasley brightly. “I must say, it makes a lovely change, not having to cook. How was your exam?”
“Oh… okay,” said Ron. “Couldn’t remember all the goblin rebels’ names, so I invented a few. It’s all right,” he said, helping himself to a Cornish pasty, while Mrs. Weasley looked stern, “they’re all called stuff like Bodrod the Bearded and Urg the Unclean; it wasn’t hard.”
Fred, George, and Ginny came to sit next to them too, and Harry was having such a good time he felt almost as though he were back at the Burrow; he had forgotten to worry about that evening’s task, and not until Hermione turned up, halfway through lunch, did he remember that she had had a brainwave about Rita Skeeter.
“Are you going to tell us -?”
Hermione shook her head warningly and glanced at Mrs. Weasley.
“Hello, Hermione,” said Mrs. Weasley, much more stiffly than usual.
“Hello,” said Hermione, her smile faltering at the cold expression on Mrs. Weasley’s face.
Harry looked between them, then said, “Mrs. Weasley, you didn’t believe that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote in Witch Weekly, did you? Because Hermione’s not my girlfriend.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Weasley “No - of course I didn’t!”
But she became considerably warmer toward Hermione after that.
Harry, Bill, and Mrs. Weasley whiled away the afternoon with a long walk around the castle, and then returned to the Great Hall for the evening feast. Ludo Bagman and Cornelius Fudge had joined the staff table now. Bagman looked quite cheerful, but Cornelius Fudge, who was sitting next to Madame Maxime, looked stern and was not talking. Madame Maxime was concentrating on her plate, and Harry thought her eyes looked red. Hagrid kept glancing along the table at her.
There were more courses than usual, but Harry, who was starting to feel really nervous now, didn’t eat much. As the enchanted ceiling overhead began to fade from blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rose to his feet at the staff table, and silence fell.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes’ time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now.”
Harry got up. The Gryffindors all along the table were applauding him; the Weasleys and Hermione all wished him good luck, and he headed off out of the Great Hall with Cedric, Fleur, and Viktor.
“Feeling all right. Harry?” Bagman asked as they went down the stone steps onto the grounds. “Confident?”
“I’m okay,” said Harry. It was sort of true; he was nervous, but he kept running over all the hexes and spells he had been practicing in his mind as they walked, and the knowledge that he could remember them all made him feel better.
They walked onto the Quidditch field, which was now completely unrecognizable. A twenty-foot-high hedge ran all the way around the edge of it. There was a gap right in front of them: the entrance to the vast maze. The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy.
Five minutes later, the stands had begun to fill; the air was full of excited voices and the rumbling of feet as the hundreds of students filed into their seats. The sky was a deep, clear blue
now, and the first stars were starting to appear. Hagrid, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick came walking into the stadium and approached Bagman and the champions. They were wearing large, red, luminous stars on their hats, all except Hagrid, who had his on the back of his moleskin vest.
“We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze,” said Professor McGonagall to the champions. “If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?”
The champions nodded.
“Off you go, then!” said Bagman brightly to the four patrollers.
“Good luck. Harry,” Hagrid whispered, and the four of them walked away in different directions, to station themselves around the maze. Bagman now pointed his wand at his throat, muttered, “Sonorus,” and his magically magnified voice echoed into the stands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eighty-five points each - Mr. Cedric Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!” The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. “In second place, with eighty points - Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!” More applause. “And in third place – Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!”
Harry could just make out Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione applauding Fleur politely, halfway up the stands. He waved up at them, and they waved back, beaming at him.
“So… on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” said Bagman. “Three - two - one -”
He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Harry and Cedric hurried forward into the maze.
The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment they entered the maze. Harry felt almost as though he were underwater again. He pulled out his wand, muttered, “Lumos,” and heard Cedric do the same just behind him.
After about fifty yards, they reached a fork. They looked at each other.
“See you,” Harry said, and he took the left one, while Cedric took the right.
Harry heard Bagman’s whistle for the second time. Krum had entered the maze. Harry sped up. His chosen path seemed completely deserted. He turned right, and hurried on, holding his wand high over his head, trying to see as far ahead as possible. Still, there was nothing in sight.
Bagman’s whistle blew in the distance for the third time. All of the champions were now inside.
Harry kept looking behind him. The old feeling that he was being watched was upon him. The maze was growing darker with every passing minute as the sky overhead deepened to navy. He reached a second fork.
“Point Me,” he whispered to his wand, holding it flat in his palm.
The wand spun around once and pointed toward his right, into solid hedge. That way was north, and he knew that he needed to go northwest for the center of the maze. The best he could do was to take the left fork and go right again as soon as possible.
The path ahead was empty too, and when Harry reached a right turn and took it, he again found his way unblocked. Harry didn’t know why, but the lack of obstacles was unnerving him. Surely he should have met something by now? It felt as though the maze were luring him into a false sense of security. Then he heard movement right behind him. He held out his wand, ready to attack, but its beam fell only upon Cedric, who had just hurried out of a path on the right-hand side.
Cedric looked severely shaken. The sleeve of his robe was smoking.
“Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts!” he hissed. “They’re enormous - I only just got away!”
He shook his head and dived out of sight, along another path. Keen to put plenty of distance between himself and the skrewts, Harry hurried off again. Then, as he turned a corner, he saw… a dementor gliding toward him. Twelve feet tall, its face hidden by its hood, its rotting, scabbed hands outstretched, it advanced, sensing its way blindly toward him. Harry could hear its rattling breath; he felt clammy coldness stealing over him, but knew what he had to do…
He summoned the happiest thought he could, concentrated with all his might on the thought of getting out of the maze and celebrating with Ron and Hermione, raised his wand, and cried, “Expecto Patronum!”
A silver stag erupted from the end of Harry’s wand and galloped toward the dementor, which fell back and tripped over the hem of its robes… Harry had never seen a dementor stumble.
“Hang on!” he shouted, advancing in the wake of his silver Patronus, “You’re a boggart! Riddikulus!”
There was a loud crack, and the shape-shifter exploded in a wisp of smoke. The silver stag faded from sight. Harry wished it could have stayed, he could have used some company… but he moved on, quickly and quietly as possible, listening hard, his wand held high once more.
Left… right… left again… Twice he found himself facing dead ends. He did the Four-Point Spell again and found that he was going too far east. He turned back, took a right turn, and saw an odd golden mist floating ahead of him.
Harry approached it cautiously, pointing the wand’s beam at it. This looked like some kind of enchantment. He wondered whether he might be able to blast it out of the way.
“Reducio!” he said.
The spell shot straight through the mist, leaving it intact. He supposed he should have known better; the Reductor Curse was for solid objects. What would happen if he walked through the mist? Was it worth chancing it, or should he double back?
He was still hesitating when a scream shattered the silence.
“Fleur?” Harry yelled.
There was silence. He stared all around him. What had happened to her? Her scream seemed to have come from somewhere ahead. He took a deep breath and ran through the enchanted mist.
The world turned upside down. Harry was hanging from the ground, with his hair on end, his glasses dangling off his nose, threatening to fall into the bottomless sky. He clutched them to the end of his nose and hung there, terrified. It felt as though his feet were glued to the grass, which had now become the ceiling. Below him the dark, star-spangled heavens stretched endlessly. He felt as though if he tried to move one of his feet, he would fall away from the earth completely.
Think, he told himself, as all the blood rushed to his head, think…
But not one of the spells he had practiced had been designed to combat a sudden reversal of ground and sky. Did he dare move his foot? He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He had two choices - try and move, or send up red sparks, and get rescued and disqualified from the task.
He shut his eyes, so he wouldn’t be able to see the view of endless space below him, and pulled his right foot as hard as he could away from the grassy ceiling.
Immediately, the world righted itself. Harry fell forward onto his knees onto the wonderfully solid ground. He felt temporarily limp with shock. He took a deep, steadying breath, then got up again and hurried forward, looking back over his shoulder as he ran away from the golden mist, which twinkled innocently at him in the moonlight.
He paused at a junction of two paths and looked around for some sign of Fleur. He was sure it had been she who had screamed. What had she met? Was she all right? There was no sign of red sparks - did that mean she had got herself out of trouble, or was she in such trouble that she couldn’t reach her wand? Harry took the right fork with a feeling of increasing unease… but at the same time, he couldn’t help thinking. One champion down…
The cup was somewhere close by, and it sounded as though Fleur was no longer in the running. He’d got this far, hadn’t he? What if he actually managed to win? Fleetingly, and for the first
time since he’d found himself champion, he saw again that image of himself, raising the Triwizard Cup in front of the rest of the school…
He met nothing for ten minutes, but kept running into dead ends. Twice he took the same wrong turning. Finally, he found a new route and started to jog along it, his wandlight waving, making his shadow flicker and distort on the hedge walls.
Then he rounded another corner and found himself facing a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Cedric was right - it was enormous. Ten feet long, it looked more like a giant scorpion than anything. Its long sting was curled over its back. Its thick armor glinted in the light from Harry’s wand, which he pointed at it.
“Stupefy!”
The spell hit the skrewt’s armor and rebounded; Harry ducked just in time, but could smell burning hair; it had singed the top of his head. The skrewt issued a blast of fire from its end and flew forward toward him.
“Impedimenta!” Harry yelled. The spell hit the skrewt’s armor again and ricocheted off; Harry staggered back a few paces and fell over.
“IMPEDIMENTA!”
The skrewt was inches from him when it froze - he had managed to hit it on its fleshy, shell-less underside. Panting, Harry pushed himself away from it and ran, hard, in the opposite direction - the Impediment Curse was not permanent; the skrewt would be regaining the use of its legs at any moment.
He took a left path and hit a dead end, a right, and hit another; forcing himself to stop, heart hammering, he performed the Four-Point Spell again, backtracked, and chose a path that would take him northwest.
He had been hurrying along the new path for a few minutes, when he heard something in the path running parallel to his own that made him stop dead.
“What are you doing?” yelled Cedric’s voice. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
And then Harry heard Krum’s voice.
“Crucio!”
The air was suddenly full of Cedric’s yells. Horrified, Harry began sprinting up his path, trying to find a way into Cedric’s. When none appeared, he tried the Reductor Curse again. It wasn’t very effective, but it burned a small hole in the hedge through which Harry forced his leg, kicking at the thick brambles and branches until they broke and made an opening; he struggled
through it, tearing his robes, and looking to his right, saw Cedric jerking and twitching on the ground, Krum standing over him.
Harry pulled himself up and pointed his wand at Krum just as Krum looked up. Krum turned and began to run.
“Stupefy!” Harry yelled.
The spell hit Krum in the back; he stopped dead in his tracks, fell forward, and lay motionless, facedown in the grass. Harry-dashed over to Cedric, who had stopped twitching and was lying there panting, his hands over his face.
“Are you all right?” Harry said roughly, grabbing Cedric’s arm.
“Yeah,” panted Cedric. “Yeah… I don’t believe it… he crept up behind me… I heard him, I turned around, and he had his wand on me…”
Cedric got up. He was still shaking. He and Harry looked down at Krum.
“I can’t believe this… I thought he was all right,” Harry said, staring at Krum.
“So did I,” said Cedric.
“Did you hear Fleur scream earlier?” said Harry.
“Yeah,” said Cedric. “You don’t think Krum got her too?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly.
“Should we leave him here?” Cedric muttered.
“No,” said Harry. “I reckon we should send up red sparks. Someone’ll come and collect him… otherwise he’ll probably be eaten by a skrewt.”
“He’d deserve it,” Cedric muttered, but all the same, he raised his wand and shot a shower of red sparks into the air, which hovered high above Krum, marking the spot where he lay.
Harry and Cedric stood there in the darkness for a moment, looking around them.
Then Cedric said, “Well… I s’pose we’d better go on…”
“What?” said Harry. “Oh… yeah… right…”
It was an odd moment. He and Cedric had been briefly united against Krum – now the fact that they were opponents came back to Harry. The two of them proceeded up the dark path without speaking, then Harry turned left, and Cedric right.
Cedric’s footsteps soon died away.
Harry moved on, continuing to use the Four-Point Spell, making sure he was moving in the right direction. It was between him and Cedric now. His desire to reach the cup first was now burning stronger than ever, but he could hardly believe what he’d just seen Krum do. The use of an Unforgivable Curse on a fellow human being meant a life term in Azkaban, that was what Moody had told them. Krum surely couldn’t have wanted the Triwizard Cup that badly… Harry sped up.
Every so often he hit more dead ends, but the increasing darkness made him feel sure he was getting near the heart of the maze. Then, as he strode down a long, straight path, he saw movement once again, and his beam of wandlight hit an extraordinary creature, one which he had only seen in picture form, in his Monster Book of Monsters.
It was a sphinx. It had the body of an over-large lion: great clawed paws and a long yellowish tail ending in a brown tuft. Its head, however, was that of a woman. She turned her long, almond-shaped eyes upon Harry as he approached. He raised his wand, hesitating. She was not crouching as if to spring, but pacing from side to side of the path, blocking his progress. Then she spoke, in a deep, hoarse voice.
“You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past me.”
“So… so will you move, please?” said Harry, knowing what the answer was going to be.
“No,” she said, continuing to pace. “Not unless you can answer my riddle. Answer on your first guess - I let you pass. Answer wrongly - I attack. Remain silent – I will let you walk away from me unscathed.”
Harry’s stomach slipped several notches. It was Hermione who was good at this sort of thing, not him. He weighed his chances. If the riddle was too hard, he could keep silent, get away from the sphinx unharmed, and try and find an alternative route to the center.
“Okay,” he said. “Can I hear the riddle?”
The sphinx sat down upon her hind legs, in the very middle of the path, and recited:
“First think of the person who lives in disguise,
Who deals in secrets and tells naught but lies.
Next, tell me what’s always the last thing to mend,
The middle of middle and end of the end?
And finally give me the sound often heard
During the search for a hard-to-find word.
Now string them together, and answer me this,
Which creature would you be unwilling to kiss?”
Harry gaped at her.
“Could I have it again… more slowly?” he asked tentatively. She blinked at him, smiled, and repeated the poem. “All the clues add up to a creature I wouldn’t want to kiss?” Harry asked.
She merely smiled her mysterious smile. Harry took that for a “yes.” Harry cast his mind around. There were plenty of animals he wouldn’t want to kiss; his immediate thought was a Blast-Ended Skrewt, but something told him that wasn’t the answer. He’d have to try and work out the clues…
“A person in disguise,” Harry muttered, staring at her, “who lies… er… that’d be a - an impostor. No, that’s not my guess! A - a spy? I’ll come back to that… could you give me the next clue again, please?”
She repeated the next lines of the poem.
“‘The last thing to mend,’” Harry repeated. “Er… no idea… ‘middle of middle’… could I have the last bit again?”
She gave him the last four lines.
“‘The sound often heard during the search for a hard-to-find word,’” said Harry. “Er… that’d be… er… hang on - ‘er’! Er’s a sound!”
The sphinx smiled at him.
“Spy… er… spy… er…” said Harry, pacing up and down. “A creature I wouldn’t want to kiss… a spider!”
The sphinx smiled more broadly. She got up, stretched her front legs, and then moved aside for him to pass.
“Thanks!” said Harry, and, amazed at his own brilliance, he dashed forward.
He had to be close now, he had to be… His wand was telling him he was bang on course; as long as he didn’t meet anything too horrible, he might have a chance…
Harry broke into a run. He had a choice of paths up ahead. “Point Me!” he whispered again to his wand, and it spun around and pointed him to the right-hand one. He dashed up this one and saw light ahead.
The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a hundred yards away. Suddenly a dark figure hurtled out onto the path in front of him.
Cedric was going to get there first. Cedric was sprinting as fast as he could toward the cup, and Harry knew he would never catch up, Cedric was much taller, had much longer legs -
Then Harry saw something immense over a hedge to his left, moving quickly along a path that intersected with his own; it was moving so fast Cedric was about to run into it, and Cedric, his eyes on the cup, had not seen it –
“Cedric!” Harry bellowed. “On your left!”
Cedric looked around just in time to hurl himself past the thing and avoid colliding with it, but in his haste, he tripped. Harry saw Cedric’s wand fly out of his hand as a gigantic spider stepped into the path and began to bear down upon Cedric.
“Stupefy!” Harry yelled; the spell hit the spider’s gigantic, hairy black body, but for all the good it did, he might as well have thrown a stone at it; the spider jerked, scuttled around, and ran at Harry instead.
“Stupefy! Impedimenta! Stupefy!”
But it was no use - the spider was either so large, or so magical, that the spells were doing no more than aggravating it. Harry had one horrifying glimpse of eight shining black eyes and razor-sharp pincers before it was upon him.
He was lifted into the air in its front legs; struggling madly, he tried to kick it; his leg connected with the pincers and next moment he was in excruciating pain. He could hear Cedric yelling “Stupefy!” too, but his spell had no more effect than Harry’s - Harry raised his wand as the spider opened its pincers once more and shouted “Expelliarmus!”
It worked - the Disarming Spell made the spider drop him, but that meant that Harry fell twelve feet onto his already injured leg, which crumpled beneath him. Without pausing to think, he aimed high at the spider’s underbelly, as he had done with the skrewt, and shouted “Stupefy!’’ just as Cedric yelled the same thing.
The two spells combined did what one alone had not: The spider keeled over sideways, flattening a nearby hedge, and strewing the path with a tangle of hairy legs.
“Harry!” he heard Cedric shouting. “You all right? Did it fall on you?”
“No,” Harry called back, panting. He looked down at his leg. It was bleeding freely. He could see some sort of thick, gluey secretion from the spider’s pincers on his torn robes. He tried to get up, but his leg was shaking badly and did not want to support his weight. He leaned against the hedge, gasping for breath, and looked around.
Cedric was standing feet from the Triwizard Cup, which was gleaming behind him.
“Take it, then,” Harry panted to Cedric. “Go on, take it. You’re there.”
But Cedric didn’t move. He merely stood there, looking at Harry. Then he turned to stare at the cup. Harry saw the longing expression on his face in its golden light. Cedric looked around at Harry again, who was now holding onto the hedge to support himself. Cedric took a deep breath.
“You take it. You should win. That’s twice you’ve saved my neck in here.”
“That’s not how it’s supposed to work,” Harry said. He felt angry; his leg was very painful, he was aching all over from trying to throw off the spider, and after all his efforts, Cedric had beaten him to it, just as he’d beaten Harry to ask Cho to the ball. “The one who reaches the cup first gets the points. That’s you. I’m telling you, I’m not going to win any races on this leg.”
Cedric took a few paces nearer to the Stunned spider, away from the cup, shaking his head.
“No,” he said.
“Stop being noble,” said Harry irritably. “Just take it, then we can get out of here.”
Cedric watched Harry steadying himself, holding tight to the hedge.
“You told me about the dragons,” Cedric said. “I would’ve gone down in the first task if you hadn’t told me what was coming.”
“I had help on that too,” Harry snapped, trying to mop up his bloody leg with his robes. “You helped me with the egg - we’re square.”
“I had help on the egg in the first place,” said Cedric.
“We’re still square,” said Harry, testing his leg gingerly; it shook violently as he put weight on it; he had sprained his ankle when the spider had dropped him.
“You should’ve got more points on the second task,” said Cedric mulishly. “You stayed behind to get all the hostages. I should’ve done that.”
“I was the only one who was thick enough to take that song seriously!” said Harry bitterly. “Just take the cup!”
“No,” said Cedric.
He stepped over the spider’s tangled legs to join Harry, who stared at him. Cedric was serious. He was walking away from the sort of glory Hufflepuff House hadn’t had in centuries.
“Go on,” Cedric said. He looked as though this was costing him every ounce of resolution he had, but his face was set, his arms were folded, he seemed decided.
Harry looked from Cedric to the cup. For one shining moment, he saw himself emerging from the maze, holding it. He saw himself holding the Triwizard Cup aloft, heard the roar of the crowd, saw Cho’s face shining with admiration, more clearly than he had ever seen it before… and then the picture faded, and he found himself staring at Cedric’s shadowy, stubborn face.
“Both of us,” Harry said.
“What?”
“We’ll take it at the same time. It’s still a Hogwarts victory. We’ll tie for it.”
Cedric stared at Harry. He unfolded his arms.
“You - you sure?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah… we’ve helped each other out, haven’t we? We both got here. Let’s just take it together.”
For a moment, Cedric looked as though he couldn’t believe his ears; then his face split in a grin.
“You’re on,” he said. “Come here.”
He grabbed Harrys arm below the shoulder and helped Harry limp toward the plinth where the cup stood. When they had reached it, they both held a hand out over one of the cup’s gleaming handles.
“On three, right?” said Harry. “One - two - three -”
He and Cedric both grasped a handle.
Instantly, Harry felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel. His feet had left the ground. He could not unclench the hand holding the Triwizard Cup; it was pulling him onward in a howl of wind and swirling color, Cedric at his side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Flesh, Blood, and Bone
Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured leg gave way, and he fell forward; his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head.
“Where are we?” he said.
Cedric shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around. They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously traveled miles - perhaps hundreds of miles - for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.
Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry.
“Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?” he asked.
“Nope,” said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. “Is this supposed to be part of the task?”
“I dunno,” said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous. “Wands out, d’you reckon?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the suggestion rather than him.
They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched.
“Someone’s coming,” he said suddenly.
Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watched the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily toward them between the graves. Harry couldn’t make out a face, but from the way it was walking and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. Whoever it was, he was short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. And - several paces nearer, the gap between them closing all the time - Harry saw that the thing in the persons arms looked like a baby… or was it merely a bundle of robes?
Harry lowered his wand slightly and glanced sideways at Cedric. Cedric shot him a quizzical look. They both turned back to watch the approaching figure. It stopped beside a towering marble headstone, only six feet from them. For a second Harry and Cedric and the short figure simply looked at one another.
And then, without warning, Harry’s scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; his wand slipped from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all; his head was about to split open.
From far away, above his head, he heard a high, cold voice say, “Kill the spare.”
A swishing noise and a second voice, which screeched the words to the night:
“Avada Kedavra!”
A blast of green light blazed through Harry’s eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes.
Cedric was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. He was dead.
For a second that contained an eternity, Harry stared into Cedric’s face, at his open gray eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at his half-open mouth, which looked slightly surprised. And then, before Harry’s mind had accepted what he was seeing, before he could feel anything but numb disbelief, he felt himself being pulled to his feet.
The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, lit his wand, and was dragging Harry toward the marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon it flickering in the wandlight before he was forced around and slammed against it.
TOM RIDDLE
The cloaked man was now conjuring tight cords around Harry, tying him from neck to ankles to the headstone. Harry could hear shallow, fast breathing from the depths of the hood; he struggled, and the man hit him - hit him with a hand that had a finger missing. And Harry realized who was under the hood. It was Wormtail.
“You!” he gasped.
But Wormtail, who had finished conjuring the ropes, did not reply; he was busy checking the tightness of the cords, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, rumbling over the knots. Once sure that Harry was bound so tightly to the headstone that he couldn’t move an inch, Wormtail drew a length of some black material from the inside of his cloak and stuffed it roughly into Harry’s mouth; then, without a word, he turned from Harry and hurried away. Harry couldn’t make a sound, nor could he see where Wormtail had gone; he couldn’t turn his head to see beyond the
headstone; he could see only what was right in front of him.
Cedric’s body was lying some twenty feet away. Some way beyond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the Triwizard Cup. Harry’s wand was on the ground at Cedric’s feet. The bundle of robes that Harry had thought was a baby was close by, at the foot of the grave. It seemed to be stirring
fretfully. Harry watched it, and his scar seared with pain again… and he suddenly knew that he didn’t want to see what was in those robes… he didn’t want that bundle opened…
He could hear noises at his feet. He looked down and saw a gigantic snake slithering through the grass, circling the headstone where he was tied. Wormtail’s fast, wheezy breathing was growing louder again. It sounded as though he was forcing something heavy across the ground. Then he came back within Harry’s range of vision, and Harry saw him pushing a stone cauldron to the foot of the grave. It was full of what seemed to be water - Harry could hear it slopping around
- and it was larger than any cauldron Harry had ever used; a great stone belly large enough for a full-grown man to sit in.
The thing inside the bundle of robes on the ground was stirring more persistently, as though it was trying to free itself. Now Wormtail was busying himself at the bottom of the cauldron with a wand. Suddenly there were crackling names beneath it. The large snake slithered away into the darkness. The liquid in the cauldron seemed to heat very fast. The surface began not only to bubble, but to send out fiery sparks, as though it were on fire. Steam was thickening, blurring the outline of Wormtail tending the fire. The movements beneath the robes became more agitated. And Harry heard the high, cold voice again.
“Hurry!”
The whole surface of the water was alight with sparks now. It might have been encrusted with diamonds.
“It is ready Master.”
“Now…” said the cold voice.
Wormtail pulled open the robes on the ground, revealing what was inside them, and Harry let out a yell that was strangled in the wad of material blocking his mouth.
It was as though Wormtail had flipped over a stone and revealed something ugly, slimy, and blind - but worse, a hundred times worse. The thing Wormtail had been carrying had the shape of a crouched human child, except that Harry had never seen anything less like a child. It was hairless and scaly-looking, a dark, raw, reddish black. Its arms and legs were thin and feeble, and its face - no child alive ever had a face like that - flat and snakelike, with gleaming red eyes.
The thing seemed almost helpless; it raised its thin arms, put them around Wormtail’s neck, and Wormtail lifted it. As he did so, his hood fell back, and Harry saw the look of revulsion on Wormtail’s weak, pale face in the firelight as he carried the creature to the rim of the cauldron. For one moment, Harry saw the evil, flat face illuminated in the sparks dancing on the surface of the potion. And then Wormtail lowered the creature into the cauldron; there was a hiss, and it
vanished below the surface; Harry heard its frail body hit the bottom with a soft thud.
Let it drown, Harry thought, his scar burning almost past endurance, please… let it drown…
Wormtail was speaking. His voice shook; he seemed frightened beyond his wits. He raised his wand, closed his eyes, and spoke to the night.
“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”
The surface of the grave at Harry’s feet cracked. Horrified, Harry watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Wormtail’s command and fell softly into the cauldron. The diamond surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.
And now Wormtail was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his cloak. His voice broke into petrified sobs.
“Flesh - of the servant - w-willingly given - you will - revive - your master.”
He stretched his right hand out in front of him - the hand with the missing finger. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his left hand and swung it upward.
Harry realized what Wormtail was about to do a second before it happened – he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Wormtail’s anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron.
Harry couldn’t stand to look… but the potion had turned a burning red; the light of it shone through Harry’s closed eyelids…
Wormtail was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Wormtail’s anguished breath on his face did he realize that Wormtail was right in front of him.
“B-blood of the enemy… forcibly taken… you will… resurrect your foe.”
Harry could do nothing to prevent it, he was tied too tightly… Squinting down, struggling hopelessly at the ropes binding him, he saw the shining silver dagger shaking in Wormtails remaining hand. He felt its point penetrate the crook of his right arm and blood seeping down the sleeve of his torn robes. Wormtail, still panting with pain, rumbled in his pocket for a glass vial and held it to Harry’s cut, so that a dribble of blood fell into it.
He staggered back to the cauldron with Harrys blood. He poured it inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Wormtail, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.
The cauldron was simmering, sending its diamond sparks in all directions, so blindingly bright that it turned all else to velvety blackness. Nothing happened…
Let it have drowned. Harry thought, let it have gone wrong…
And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn’t see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor hanging in the air… It’s gone wrong, he thought… it’s drowned… please… please let it be dead…
But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.
“Robe me,” said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them onehanded over his master’s head.
The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry… and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snakes with slits for nostrils…
Lord Voldemort had risen again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Death Eaters
Voldemort looked away from Harry and began examining his own body. His hands were like large, pale spiders; his long white fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his face; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cats, gleamed still more brightly through the darkness. He held up his hands and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant. He took not the slightest notice of Wormtail, who lay twitching and bleeding on the ground, nor of the great snake, which had
slithered back into sight and was circling Harry again, hissing. Voldemort slipped one of those unnaturally long-fingered hands into a deep pocket and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Wormtail, who was lifted off the ground and thrown against the headstone where Harry was tied; he fell to the foot of it and lay there, crumpled up and crying. Voldemort turned his scarlet eyes upon Harry, laughing a high, cold, mirthless laugh.
Wormtail’s robes were shining with blood now; he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them.
“My Lord…” he choked, “my Lord… you promised… you did promise…”
“Hold out your arm,” said Voldemort lazily.
“Oh Master… thank you, Master…”
He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again.
“The other arm, Wormtail.”
“Master, please… please…”
Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tattoo - a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth - the image that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping.
“It is back,” he said softly, “they will all have noticed it… and now, we shall see… now we shall know…”
He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm.
The scar on Harry s forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black.
A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard.
“How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?”
He began to pace up and down before Harry and Wormtail, eyes sweeping the graveyard all the while. After a minute or so, he looked down at Harry again, a cruel smile twisting his snakelike face.
“You stand, Harry Potter, upon the remains of my late father,” he hissed softly. “A Muggle and a fool… very like your dear mother. But they both had their uses, did they not? Your mother died to defend you as a child… and I killed my father, and see how useful he has proved himself, in death…”
Voldemort laughed again. Up and down he paced, looking all around him as he walked, and the snake continued to circle in the grass.
“You see that house upon the hillside, Potter? My father lived there. My mother, a witch who lived here in this village, fell in love with him. But he abandoned her when she told him what she was… He didn’t like magic, my father…
“He left her and returned to his Muggle parents before I was even born Potter, and she died giving birth to me, leaving me to be raised in a Muggle orphanage… but I vowed to find him… I revenged myself upon him, that fool who gave me his name… Tom Riddle…”
Still he paced, his red eyes darting from grave to grave.
“Listen to me, reliving family history…” he said quietly, “why, I am growing quite sentimental… But look, Harry! My true family returns…”
The air was suddenly full of the swishing of cloaks. Between graves, behind the yew tree, in every shadowy space, wizards were Apparating. All of them were hooded and masked. And one by one they moved forward… slowly, cautiously, as though they could hardly believe their eyes Voldemort stood in silence, waiting for them. Then one of the Death Eaters fell to his knees, crawled toward Voldemort and kissed the hem of his black robes.
“Master… Master” he murmured.
The Death Eaters behind him did the same; each of them approaching Voldemort on his knees and kissing his robes, before backing away and standing up, forming a silent circle, which enclosed Tom Riddle s grave, Harry, Voldemort, and the sobbing and twitching heap that was Wormtail. Yet they left gaps in the circle, as though waiting for more people. Voldemort, however, did not seem to expect more. He looked around at the hooded faces, and though there was no wind rustling seemed to run around the circle, as though it had shivered.
“Welcome, Death Eaters,” said Voldemort quietly. “Thirteen years… thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday, we are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?”
He put back his terrible face and sniffed, his slit-like nostrils widening.
“I smell guilt,” he said. “There is a stench or guilt upon the air.”
A second shiver ran around the circle, as though each member of it longed, but did not dare to step back from him.
“I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! And I ask myself… why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?”
No one spoke. No one moved except Wormtail, who was upon the ground, still sobbing over his bleeding arm.
“And I answer myself,” whispered Voldemort, “they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment…
“And then I ask myself, but how could they have believed I would not rise again? They, who knew the steps I took, long ago, to guard myself against mortal death? They, who had seen proofs of the immensity of my power in the times when I was mightier than any wizard living?
“And I answer myself, perhaps they believed a still greater power could exist, one that could vanquish even Lord Voldemort… perhaps they now pay allegiance to another… perhaps that champion of commoners, of Mudbloods and Muggles, Albus Dumbledore?”
At the mention of Dumbledore’s name, the members of the circle stirred, and some muttered and shook their heads. Voldemort ignored them.
“It is a disappointment to me… I confess myself disappointed…”
One of the men suddenly flung himself forward, breaking the circle. Trembling from head to foot, he collapsed at Voldemort’s feet.
“Master!” he shrieked, “Master, forgive me! Forgive us all!”
Voldemort began to laugh. He raised his wand.
“Crucio!”
The Death Eater on the ground writhed and shrieked; Harry was sure the sound must carry to the houses around… Let the police come, he thought desperately… anyone… anything…
Voldemort raised his wand. The tortured Death Eater lay flat upon the ground, gasping.
“Get up, Avery,” said Voldemort softly. “Stand up. You ask for forgiveness? I do not forgive. I do not forget. Thirteen long years… I want thirteen years’ repayment before I forgive you. Wormtail here has paid some of his debt already, have you not, Wormtail?”
He looked down at Wormtail, who continued to sob.
“You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, Master,” moaned Wormtail, “please. Master… please…”
“Yet you helped return me to my body,” said Voldemort coolly, watching Wormtail sob on the ground. “Worthless and traitorous as you are, you helped me… and Lord Voldemort rewards his helpers…”
Voldemort raised his wand again and whirled it through the air. A streak of what looked like molten silver hung shining in the wand’s wake. Momentarily shapeless, it writhed and then formed itself into a gleaming replica of a human hand, bright as moonlight, which soared downward and fixed itself upon Wormtails bleeding wrist.
Wormtail’s sobbing stopped abruptly. His breathing harsh and ragged, he raised his head and stared in disbelief at the silver hand, now attached seamlessly to his arm, as though he were wearing a dazzling glove. He flexed the shining fingers, then, trembling, picked up a small twig on the ground and crushed it into powder.
“My Lord,” he whispered. “Master… it is beautiful… thank you… thank you…”
He scrambled forward on his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort’s robes.
“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail,” said Voldemort.
“No, my Lord… never, my Lord…”
Wormtail stood up and took his place in the circle, staring at his powerful new hand, his face still shining with tears. Voldemort now approached the man on Wormtail’s right.
“Lucius, my slippery friend,” he whispered, halting before him. “I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius… Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay… but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?”
“My Lord, I was constantly on the alert,” came Lucius Malfoy’s voice swiftly from beneath the hood. “Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -”
“And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?” said Voldemort lazily, and Mr. Malfoy stopped talking abruptly. “Yes, I know all about that, Lucius… You have disappointed me… I expect more faithful service in the future.”
“Of course, my Lord, of course… You are merciful, thank you…”
Voldemort moved on, and stopped, staring at the space - large enough for two people - that separated Malfoy and the next man.
“The Lestranges should stand here,” said Voldemort quietly. “But they are entombed in Azkaban. They were faithful. They went to Azkaban rather than renounce me… When Azkaban is broken open, the Lestranges will be honored beyond their dreams. The dementors will join us… they are our natural allies… we will recall the banished giants… I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creatures whom all fear…”
He walked on. Some of the Death Eaters he passed in silence, but he paused before others and spoke to them.
“Macnair… destroying dangerous beasts for the Ministry of Magic now, Wormtail tells me? You shall have better victims than that soon, Macnair. Lord Voldemort will provide…”
“Thank you, Master… thank you,” murmured Macnair.
“And here” - Voldemort moved on to the two largest hooded figures - “we have Crabbe… you will do better this time, will you not, Crabbe? And you, Goyle?”
They bowed clumsily, muttering dully.
“Yes, Master…”
“We will, Master…”
“The same goes for you, Nott,” said Voldemort quietly as he walked past a stooped figure in Mr. Goyles shadow.
“My Lord, I prostrate myself before you, I am your most faithful -”
“That will do,” said Voldemort.
He had reached the largest gap of all, and he stood surveying it with his blank, red eyes, as though he could see people standing there.
“And here we have six missing Death Eaters… three dead in my service. One, too cowardly to return… he will pay. One, who I believe has left me forever… he will be killed, of course… and one, who remains my most faithful servant, and who has already reentered my service.”
The Death Eaters stirred, and Harry saw their eyes dart sideways at one another through their masks.
“He is at Hogwarts, that faithful servant, and it was through his efforts that our young friend arrived here tonight…
“Yes,” said Voldemort, a grin curling his lipless mouth as the eyes of the circle flashed in Harry’s direction. “Harry Potter has kindly joined us for my rebirthing party. One might go so far as to call him my guest of honor.”
There was a silence. Then the Death Eater to the right of Wormtail stepped forward, and Lucius Malfoy’s voice spoke from under the mask.
“Master, we crave to know… we beg you to tell us… how you have achieved this… this miracle… how you managed to return to us…”
“Ah, what a story it is, Lucius,” said Voldemort. “And it begins - and ends – with my young friend here.”
He walked lazily over to stand next to Harry, so that the eyes of the whole circle were upon the two of them. The snake continued to circle.
“You know, of course, that they have called this boy my downfall?” Voldemort said softly, his red eyes upon Harry, whose scar began to burn so fiercely that he almost screamed in agony. “You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him. His mother died in the attempt to save him – and unwittingly provided him with a protection I admit I had not foreseen… I could not touch the boy.”
Voldemort raised one of his long white fingers and put it very close to Harry’s cheek.
“His mother left upon him the traces other sacrifice… This is old magic, I should have remembered it, I was foolish to overlook it… but no matter. I can touch him now.”
Harry felt the cold tip of the long white finger touch him, and thought his head would burst with the pain. Voldemort laughed softly in his ear, then took the finger away and continued addressing the Death Eaters.
“I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman’s foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah… pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost… but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know… I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal - to conquer death. And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or more of my experiments had worked… for I had not been killed, though the curse should have done it. Nevertheless, I was as powerless as the weakest creature alive, and without the means to help myself… for I had no body, and every spell that might have helped me required the use of a wand…
“I remember only forcing myself, sleeplessly, endlessly, second by second, to exist… I settled in a faraway place, in a forest, and I waited… Surely, one of my faithful Death Eaters would try and find me… one of them would come and perform the magic I could not, to restore me to a body… but I waited in vain…”
The shiver ran once more around the circle of listening Death Eaters. Voldemort let the silence spiral horribly before continuing.
“Only one power remained to me. I could possess the bodies of others. But I dared not go where other humans were plentiful, for I knew that the Aurors were still abroad and searching for me. I sometimes inhabited animals - snakes, of course, being my preference - but I was little better off inside them than as pure spirit, for their bodies were ill adapted to perform magic… and my possession of them shortened their lives; none of them lasted long…
“Then… four years ago… the means for my return seemed assured. A wizard - young, foolish, and gullible - wandered across my path in the forest I had made my home. Oh, he seemed the very chance I had been dreaming of… for he was a teacher at Dumbledore’s school… he was easy to bend to my will… he brought me back to this country, and after a while, I took possession of his body, to supervise him closely as he carried out my orders. But my plan failed. I did not manage to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone. I was not to be assured immortal life. I was thwarted… thwarted, once again, by Harry Potter…”
Silence once more; nothing was stirring, not even the leaves on the yew tree. The Death Eaters were quite motionless, the glittering eyes in their masks fixed upon Voldemort, and upon Harry.
“The servant died when I left his body, and I was left as weak as ever I had been,” Voldemort continued. “I returned to my hiding place far away, and I will not pretend to you that I didn’t then fear that I might never regain my powers… Yes, that was perhaps my darkest hour… I could not hope that I would be sent another wizard to possess… and I had given up hope, now, that any of my Death Eaters cared what had become of me…”
One or two of the masked wizards in the circle moved uncomfortably, but Voldemort took no notice.
“And then, not even a year ago, when I had almost abandoned hope, it happened at last… a servant returned to me. Wormtail here, who had faked his own death to escape justice, was driven out of hiding by those he had once counted friends, and decided to return to his master. He sought me in the country where it had long been rumored I was hiding… helped, of course, by the rats he met along the way. Wormtail has a curious affinity with rats, do you not, Wormtail? His filthy little friends told him there was a place, deep in an Albanian forest, that they avoided, where small animals like themselves had met their deaths by a dark shadow that
possessed them…
“But his journey back to me was not smooth, was it, Wormtail? For, hungry one night, on the edge of the very forest where he had hoped to find me, he foolishly stopped at an inn for some
food… and who should he meet there, but one Bertha Jorkins, a witch from the Ministry of Magic.
“Now see the way that fate favors Lord Voldemort. This might have been the end of Wormtail, and of my last hope for regeneration. But Wormtail - displaying a presence of mind I would never have expected from him - convinced Bertha Jorkins to accompany him on a nighttime stroll. He overpowered her… he brought her to me. And Bertha Jorkins, who might have ruined all, proved instead to be a gift beyond my wildest dreams… for - with a little persuasion - she became a veritable mine of information.
“She told me that the Triwizard Tournament would be played at Hogwarts this year. She told me that she knew of a faithful Death Eater who would be only too willing to help me, if I could only contact him. She told me many things… but the means I used to break the Memory Charm upon her were powerful, and when I had extracted all useful information from her, her mind and body were both damaged beyond repair. She had now served her purpose. I could not possess her. I disposed of her.”
Voldemort smiled his terrible smile, his red eyes blank and pitiless.
“Wormtail’s body, of course, was ill adapted for possession, as all assumed him dead, and would attract far too much attention if noticed. However, he was the able-bodied servant I needed, and, poor wizard though he is, Wormtail was able to follow the instructions I gave him, which would return me to a rudimentary, weak body of my own, a body I would be able to inhabit while awaiting the essential ingredients for true rebirth… a spell or two of my own invention… a little help from my dear Nagini,” Voldemorts red eyes fell upon the continually circling snake, “a potion concocted from unicorn blood, and the snake venom Nagini provided… I was soon returned to an almost human form, and strong enough to travel.
“There was no hope of stealing the Sorcerer’s Stone anymore, for I knew that Dumbledore would have seen to it that it was destroyed. But I was willing to embrace mortal life again, before chasing immortality. I set my sights lower… I would settle for my old body back again, and my old strength.
“I knew that to achieve this - it is an old piece of Dark Magic, the potion that revived me tonight - I would need three powerful ingredients. Well, one of them was already at hand, was it not, Wormtail? Flesh given by a servant…
“My father’s bone, naturally, meant that we would have to come here, where he was buried. But the blood of a foe… Wormtail would have had me use any wizard, would you not, Wormtail? Any wizard who had hated me… as so many of them still do. But I knew the one I must use, if I was to rise again, more powerful than I had been when I had fallen. I wanted Harry Potters blood. I wanted the blood of the one who had stripped me of power thirteen years ago… for the
lingering protection his mother once gave him would then reside in my veins too…
“But how to get at Harry Potter? For he has been better protected than I think even he knows, protected in ways devised by Dumbledore long ago, when it fell to him to arrange the boy’s
future. Dumbledore invoked an ancient magic, to ensure the boy’s protection as long as he is in his relations’ care. Not even I can touch him there… Then, of course, there was the Quidditch World Cup… I thought his protection might be weaker there, away from his relations and Dumbledore, but I was not yet strong enough to attempt kidnap in the midst of a horde of Ministry wizards. And then, the boy would return to Hogwarts, where he is under the crooked nose of that Muggle-loving fool from morning until night. So how could I take him?
“Why… by using Bertha Jorkins’s information, of course. Use my one faithful Death Eater, stationed at Hogwarts, to ensure that the boy’s name was entered into the Goblet of Fire. Use my Death Eater to ensure that the boy won the tournament - that he touched the Triwizard Cup first - the cup which my Death Eater had turned into a Portkey, which would bring him here, beyond the reach of Dumbledore’s help and protection, and into my waiting arms. And here he is… the boy you all believed had been my downfall…”
Voldemort moved slowly forward and turned to face Harry. He raised his wand.
“Crucio!”
It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced; his very bones were on fire; his head was surely splitting along his scar; his eyes were rolling madly in his head; he wanted it to end… to black out… to die…
And then it was gone. He was hanging limply in the ropes binding him to the headstone of Voldemort’s father, looking up into those bright red eyes through a kind of mist. The night was ringing with the sound of the Death Eaters’ laughter.
“You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me,” said Voldemort. “But I want there to be no mistake in anybody’s mind. Harry Potter escaped me by a lucky chance. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all, when there is no Dumbledore to help him, and no mother to die for him. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger. Just a little longer, Nagini,” he whispered, and the snake glided away through the grass to where the Death Eaters stood watching.
“Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Prior Incantatem
Wormtail approached Harry, who scrambled to find his feet, to support his own weight before the ropes were untied. Wormtail raised his new silver hand, pulled out the wad of material gagging Harry, and then, with one swipe, cut through the bonds tying Harry to the gravestone.
There was a split second, perhaps, when Harry might have considered running for it, but his injured leg shook under him as he stood on the overgrown grave, as the Death Eaters closed ranks, forming a tighter circle around him and Voldemort, so that the gaps where the missing Death Eaters should have stood were filled.
Wormtail walked out of the circle to the place where Cedric’s body lay and returned with Harry’s wand, which he thrust roughly into Harry’s hand without looking at him. Then Wormtail resumed his place in the circle of watching Death Eaters.
“You have been taught how to duel Harry Potter?” said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness.
At these words Harry remembered, as though from a former life, the dueling club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago… All he had learned there was the Disarming Spell, “Expelliarmus”… and what use would it be to deprive Voldemort of his wand, even if he could, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He had never learned anything that could possibly fit him for this. He knew he was facing the thing against which Moody had always warned… the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse – and Voldemort was right - his mother was not here to die for him this time… He was quite unprotected…
“We bow to each other. Harry,” said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. “Come, the niceties must be observed… Dumbledore would like you to show manners… Bow to death, Harry…”
The Death Eaters were laughing again. Voldemorts lipless mouth was smiling. Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him… he was not going to give him that satisfaction…
“I said, bow,” Voldemort said, raising his wand - and Harry felt his spine curve as though a huge, invisible hand were bending him ruthlessly forward, and the Death Eaters laughed harder than ever.
“Very good,” said Voldemort softly, and as he raised his wand the pressure bearing down upon Harry lifted too. “And now you face me, like a man… straight-backed and proud, the way your father died…
“And now - we duel.”
Voldemort raised his wand, and before Harry could do anything to defend himself, before he could even move, he had been hit again by the Cruciatus Curse. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he no longer knew where he was… White-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin, his head was surely going to burst with pain, he was screaming more loudly than he’d ever screamed in his life -
And then it stopped. Harry rolled over and scrambled to his feet; he was shaking as uncontrollably as Wormtail had done when his hand had been cut off; he staggered sideways into the wall of watching Death Eaters, and they pushed him away, back toward Voldemort.
“A little break,” said Voldemort, the slit-like nostrils dilating with excitement, “a little pause… That hurt, didn’t it Harry? You don’t want me to do that again, do you?”
Harry didn’t answer. He was going to die like Cedric, those pitiless red eyes were telling him so… he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it… but he wasn’t going to play along. He wasn’t going to obey Voldemort… he wasn’t going to beg…
“I asked you whether you want me to do that again,” said Voldemort softly.
“Answer me! Imperio”
And Harry felt, for the third time in his life, the sensation that his mind had been wiped of all thought… Ah, it was bliss, not to think, it was as though he were floating, dreaming… just answer no… say no… just answer no…
I will not, said a stronger voice, in the back of his head, I won’t answer… Just answer no…
I won’t do it, I won’t say it…
Just answer no…
“I WON’T!”
And these words burst from Harry’s mouth; they echoed through the graveyard, and the dream state was lifted as suddenly as though cold water had been thrown over him - back rushed the aches that the Cruciatus Curse had left all over his body - back rushed the realization of where he was, and what he was facing…
“You won’t?” said Voldemort quietly, and the Death Eaters were not laughing now. “You won’t say no? Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die… Perhaps another little dose of pain?”
Voldemort raised his wand, but this time Harry was ready; with the reflexes born of his Quidditch training, he flung himself sideways onto the ground; he rolled behind the marble headstone of Voldemort s father, and he heard it crack as the curse missed him.
“We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry,” said Voldemort’s soft, cold voice, drawing nearer, as the Death Eaters laughed. “You cannot hide from me. Does this mean you are tired of our duel? Does this mean that you would prefer me to finish it now, Harry? Come out, Harry… come out and play, then… it will be quick… it might even be painless… I would not know… I have never died…”
Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the end had come. There was no hope… no help to be had. And as he heard Voldemort draw nearer still, he knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort s feet… he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defense was possible…
Before Voldemort could stick his snakelike face around the headstone. Harry stood up… he gripped his wand tightly in his hand, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself around the headstone, facing Voldemort.
Voldemort was ready. As Harry shouted, “Expelliarmus!” Voldemort cried, “Avada Kedavra!”
A jet of green light issued from Voldemorts wand just as a jet of red light blasted from Harry’s - they met in midair - and suddenly Harry’s wand was vibrating as though an electric charge were surging through it; his hand seized up around it; he couldn’t have released it if he’d wanted to - and a narrow beam of light connected the two wands, neither red nor green, but bright, deep gold. Harry, following the beam with his astonished gaze, saw that Voldemort’s long white fingers too were gripping a wand that was shaking and vibrating.
And then - nothing could have prepared Harry for this - he felt his feet lift from the ground. He and Voldemort were both being raised into the air, their wands still connected by that thread of shimmering golden light. They glided away from the tombstone of Voldemort’s father and then came to rest on a patch of ground that was clear and free of graves… The Death Eaters were shouting; they were asking Voldemort for instructions; they were closing in, reforming the circle
around Harry and Voldemort, the snake slithering at their heels, some of them drawing their wands –
The golden thread connecting Harry and Voldemort splintered; though the wands remained connected, a thousand more beams arced high over Harry and Voldemort, crisscrossing all around them, until they were enclosed in a golden, dome-shaped web, a cage of light, beyond which the Death Eaters circled like jackals, their cries strangely muffled now…
“Do nothing!” Voldemort shrieked to the Death Eaters, and Harry saw his red eyes wide with astonishment at what was happening, saw him fighting to break the thread of light still connecting his wand with Harry’s; Harry held onto his wand more tightly, with both hands, and the golden thread remained unbroken. “Do nothing unless I command you!” Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters.
And then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air… It was coming from every thread of the light-spun web vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. It was a sound Harry recognized, though he had heard it only once before in his life: phoenix song.
It was the sound of hope to Harry… the most beautiful and welcome thing he had ever heard in his life… He felt as though the song were inside him instead of just around him… It was the sound he connected with Dumbledore, and it was almost as though a friend were speaking in his ear…
Don’t break the connection.
I know. Harry told the music, I know I mustn’t… but no sooner had he thought it, than the thing became much harder to do. His wand began to vibrate more powerfully than ever… and now the beam between him and Voldemort changed too… it was as though large beads of light were sliding up and down the thread connecting the wands - Harry felt his wand give a shudder under his hand as the light beads began to slide slowly and steadily his way… The direction of the beams movement was now toward him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder angrily…
As the closest bead of light moved nearer to Harrys wand tip, the wood beneath his fingers grew so hot he feared it would burst into flame. The closer that bead moved, the harder Harry’s wand vibrated; he was sure his wand would not survive contact with it; it felt as though it was about to shatter under his fingers –
He concentrated every last particle of his mind upon forcing the bead back toward Voldemort, his ears full of phoenix song, his eyes furious, fixed… and slowly, very slowly, the beads quivered to a halt, and then, just as slowly, they began to move the other way… and it was Voldemort’s wand that was vibrating extra-hard now… Voldemort who looked astonished, and almost fearful…
One of the beads of light was quivering, inches from the tip of Voldemorts wand. Harry didn’t understand why he was doing it, didn’t know what it might achieve… but he now concentrated as he had never done in his life on forcing that bead of light right back into Voldemort s wand… and slowly… very slowly… it moved along the golden thread… it trembled for a moment… and then it connected…
At once, Voldemorts wand began to emit echoing screams of pain… then - Voldemort’s red eyes widened with shock - a dense, smoky hand flew out of the tip of it and vanished… the ghost of the hand he had made Wormtail… more shouts of pain… and then something much larger began to blossom from Voldemorts wand tip, a great, grayish something, that looked as though it were
made of the solidest, densest smoke… It was a head… now a chest and arms… the torso of Cedric Diggory.
If ever Harry might have released his wand from shock, it would have been then, but instinct kept him clutching his wand tightly, so that the thread of golden light remained unbroken, even though the thick gray ghost of Cedric Diggory (was it a ghost? it looked so solid) emerged in its entirety from the end of Voldemort s wand, as though it were squeezing itself out of a very
narrow tunnel… and this shade of Cedric stood up, and looked up and down the golden thread of light, and spoke.
“Hold on. Harry,” it said.
Its voice was distant and echoing. Harry looked at Voldemort… his wide red eyes were still shocked… he had no more expected this than Harry had… and, very dimly Harry heard the frightened yells of the Death Eaters, prowling around the edges of the golden dome… More screams of pain from the wand… and then something else emerged from its tip… the dense shadow of a second head, quickly followed by arms and torso… an old man Harry had seen only in a dream was now pushing himself out of the end of the wand just as Cedric had done… and his ghost, or his shadow, or whatever it was, fell next to Cedric’s, and surveyed Harry and Voldemort, and the golden web, and the connected wands, with mild surprise, leaning on his walking stick…
“He was a real wizard, then?” the old man said, his eyes on Voldemort. “Killed me, that one did… You fight him, boy…”
But already, yet another head was emerging… and this head, gray as a smoky statue, was a woman’s… Harry, both arms shaking now as he fought to keep his wand still, saw her drop to the ground and straighten up like the others, staring…
The shadow of Bertha Jorkins surveyed the battle before her with wide eyes.
“Don’t let go, now!” she cried, and her voice echoed like Cedrics as though from very far away. “Don’t let him get you, Harry - don’t let go!”
She and the other two shadowy figures began to pace around the inner walls of the golden web, while the Death Eaters flitted around the outside of it… and Voldemort’s dead victims whispered as they circled the duelers, whispered words of encouragement to Harry, and hissed words Harry couldn’t hear to Voldemort. And now another head was emerging from the tip of Voldemorts wand… and Harry knew when he saw it who it would be… he knew, as though he had expected it from the moment when Cedric had appeared from the wand… knew, because the man appearing was the one he’d thought of more than any other tonight…
The smoky shadow of a tall man with untidy hair fell to the ground as Bertha had done, straightened up, and looked at him… and Harry, his arms shaking madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his father.
“Your mother’s coming…” he said quietly. “She wants to see you… it will be all right… hold on…”
And she came… first her head, then her body… a young woman with long hair, the smoky, shadowy form of Lily Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort’s wand, fell to the ground, and straightened like her husband. She walked close to Harry, looking down at him, and she
spoke in the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his victims prowled around him, could not hear…
“When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments… but we will give you time… you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts… do you understand, Harry?”
“Yes,” Harry gasped, fighting now to keep a hold on his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his fingers.
“Harry…” whispered the figure of Cedric, “take my body back, will you? Take my body back to my parents…”
“I will,” said Harry, his face screwed up with the effort of holding the wand.
“Do it now,” whispered his father’s voice, “be ready to run… do it now…”
“NOW!” Harry yelled; he didn’t think he could have held on for another moment anyway - he pulled his wand upward with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke; the cage of light vanished, the phoenix song died - but the shadowy figures of Voldemort’s victims did not disappear - they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his gaze -
And Harry ran as he had never run in his life, knocking two stunned Death Eaters aside as he passed; he zigzagged behind headstones, feeling their curses following him, hearing them hit the headstones - he was dodging curses and graves, pelting toward Cedric’s body, no longer aware of the pain in his leg, his whole being concentrated on what he had to do -
“Stun him!” he heard Voldemort scream.
Ten feet from Cedric, Harry dived behind a marble angel to avoid the jets of red light and saw the tip of its wing shatter as the spells hit it. Gripping his wand more tightly, he dashed out from behind the angel –
“Impedimenta!” he bellowed, pointing his wand wildly over his shoulder at the Death Eaters running at him.
From a muffled yell, he thought he had stopped at least one of them, but there was no time to stop and look; he jumped over the cup and dived as he heard more wand blasts behind him; more jets of light flew over his head as he fell, stretching out his hand to grab Cedric’s arm…
“Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” shrieked Voldemort. Harry’s hand had closed on Cedric’s wrist; one tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of reach –
Voldemort’s red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his wand.
“Accio!” Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup. It flew into the air and soared toward him. Harry caught it by the handle –
He heard Voldemort s scream of fury at the same moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that meant the Portkey had worked - it was speeding him away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along with him… They were going back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Veritaserum
Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face was pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him were swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold handle of the Triwizard Cup and Cedric’s body. He felt as though he would slide away into the blackness gathering at the edges of his brain if he let go of either of them. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass, waiting… waiting for someone to do something… something to happen… and all the while, his scar burned dully on his forehead…
A torrent of sound deafened and confused him; there were voices everywhere, footsteps, screams… He remained where he was, his face screwed up against the noise, as though it were a nightmare that would pass…
Then a pair of hands seized him roughly and turned him over.
“Harry! Harry!”
He opened his eyes.
He was looking up at the starry sky, and Albus Dumbledore was crouched over him. The dark shadows of a crowd of people pressed in around them, pushing nearer; Harry felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps.
He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people moving in them, the stars above.
Harry let go of the cup, but he clutched Cedric to him even more tightly. He raised his free hand and seized Dumbledore’s wrist, while Dumbledore’s face swam in and out of focus.
“He’s back,” Harry whispered. “He’s back. Voldemort.”
“What’s going on? What’s happened?”
The face of Cornelius Fudge appeared upside down over Harry; it looked white, appalled.
“My God - Diggory!” it whispered. “Dumbledore - he’s dead!”
The words were repeated, the shadowy figures pressing in on them gasped it to those around them… and then others shouted it - screeched it - into the night –
“He’s dead!” “He’s dead!” “Cedric Diggory! Dead!”
“Harry, let go of him,” he heard Fudge’s voice say, and he felt fingers trying to pry him from Cedric’s limp body, but Harry wouldn’t let him go. Then Dumbledore’s face, which was still blurred and misted, came closer.
“Harry, you can’t help him now. It’s over. Let go.”
“He wanted me to bring him back,” Harry muttered - it seemed important to explain this. “He wanted me to bring him back to his parents…”
“That’s right. Harry… just let go now…”
Dumbledore bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Harry from the ground and set him on his feet. Harry swayed. His head was pounding. His injured leg would no longer support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him - “What’s happened?” “What’s wrong with him?” “Diggorys dead!”
“He’ll need to go to the hospital wing!” Fudge was saying loudly. “He’s ill, he’s injured –
Dumbledore, Diggory’s parents, they’re here, they’re in the stands…”
“I’ll take Harry, Dumbledore, I’ll take him -”
“No, I would prefer-”
“Dumbledore, Amos Diggorys running… he’s coming over… Don’t you think you should tell him - before he sees -?”
“Harry, stay here -”
Girls were screaming, sobbing hysterically… The scene flickered oddly before Harry’s eyes…
“It’s all right, son, I’ve got you… come on… hospital wing…”
“Dumbledore said stay,” said Harry thickly, the pounding in his scar making him feel as though he was about to throw up; his vision was blurring worse than ever.
“You need to lie down… Come on now…”
Someone larger and stronger than he was was half pulling, half carrying him through the frightened crowd. Harry heard people gasping, screaming, and shouting as the man supporting him pushed a path through them, taking him back to the castle. Across the lawn, past the lake and the Durmstrang ship, Harry heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the man helping him walk.
“What happened Harry?” the man asked at last as he lifted Harry up the stone steps. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. It was Mad-Eye Moody.
“Cup was a Portkey,” said Harry as they crossed the entrance hall. “Took me and Cedric to a graveyard… and Voldemort was there… Lord Voldemort…”
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Up the marble stairs…
“The Dark Lord was there? What happened then?”
“Killed Cedric… they killed Cedric…”
“And then?”
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Along the corridor…
“Made a potion… got his body back…”
“The Dark Lord got his body back? He’s returned?”
“And the Death Eaters came… and then we dueled…”
“You dueled with the Dark Lord?”
“Got away… my wand… did something funny… I saw my mum and dad… they came out of his wand…”
“In here Harry… in here, and sit down… You’ll be all right now… drink this…”
Harry heard a key scrape in a lock and felt a cup being pushed into his hands.
“Drink it… you’ll feel better… come on, now. Harry, I need to know exactly what happened…”
Moody helped tip the stuff down Harrys throat; he coughed, a peppery taste burning his throat. Moody’s office came into sharper focus, and so did Moody himself… He looked as white as Fudge had looked, and both eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon Harry’s face.
“Voldemort’s back, Harry? You’re sure he’s back? How did he do it?”
“He took stuff from his father’s grave, and from Wormtail, and me,” said Harry.
His head felt clearer; his scar wasn’t hurting so badly; he could now see Moodys face distinctly, even though the office was dark. He could still hear screaming and shouting from the distant Quidditch field.
“What did the Dark Lord take from you?” said Moody.
“Blood,” said Harry, raising his arm. His sleeve was ripped where Wormtail’s dagger had torn it.
Moody let out his breath in a long, low hiss.
“And the Death Eaters? They returned?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “Loads of them…”
“How did he treat them?” Moody asked quietly. “Did he forgive them?”
But Harry had suddenly remembered. He should have told Dumbledore, he should have said it straightaway –
“There’s a Death Eater at Hogwarts! There’s a Death Eater here - they put my name in the Goblet of Fire, they made sure I got through to the end -”
Harry tried to get up, but Moody pushed him back down.
“I know who the Death Eater is,” he said quietly.
“Karkaroff?” said Harry wildly. “Where is he? Have you got him? Is he locked up?”
“Karkaroff?” said Moody with an odd laugh. “Karkaroff fled tonight, when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them… but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has ways of tracking his enemies.”
“Karkaroff’s gone? He ran away? But then - he didn’t put my name in the goblet?”
“No,” said Moody slowly. “No, he didn’t. It was I who did that.”
Harry heard, but didn’t believe.
“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t do that… you can’t have done…”
“I assure you I did,” said Moody, and his magical eye swung around and fixed upon the door, and Harry knew he was making sure that there was no one outside it. At the same time, Moody drew out his wand and pointed it at Harry.
“He forgave them, then?” he said. “The Death Eaters who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?”
“What?” said Harry.
He was looking at the wand Moody was pointing at him. This was a bad joke, it had to be.
“I asked you,” said Moody quietly, “whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn’t even brave Azkaban for him. The faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky.”
“You fired… What are you talking about…?”
“I told you Harry… I told you. If there’s one thing I hate more than any other, it’s a Death Eater who walked free. They turned their backs on my master when he needed them most. I expected him to punish them. I expected him to torture them. Tell me he hurt them, Harry…” Moody’s face was suddenly lit with an insane smile. “Tell me he told them that I, I alone remained faithful… prepared to risk everything to deliver to him the one thing he wanted above all… you”
“You didn’t… it - it can’t be you…”
“Who put your name in the Goblet of Fire, under the name of a different school? I did. Who frightened off every person I thought might try to hurt you or prevent you from winning the tournament? I did. Who nudged Hagrid into showing you the dragons? I did. Who helped you see the only way you could beat the dragon? I did”
Moody’s magical eye had now left the door. It was fixed upon Harry. His lopsided mouth leered more widely than ever.
“It hasn’t been easy, Harry, guiding you through these tasks without arousing suspicion. I have had to use every ounce of cunning I possess, so that my hand would not be detectable in your success. Dumbledore would have been very suspicious if you had managed everything too easily. As long as you got into that maze, preferably with a decent head start - then, I knew, I would have a chance of getting rid of the other champions and leaving your way clear. But I also had to contend with your stupidity. The second task… that was when I was most afraid we would fail. I was keeping watch on you, Potter. I knew you hadn’t worked out the egg’s clue, so I had to give you another hint -”
“You didn’t,” Harry said hoarsely. “Cedric gave me the clue -”
“Who told Cedric to open it underwater? I did. I trusted that he would pass the information on to you. Decent people are so easy to manipulate, Potter. I was sure Cedric would want to repay you for telling him about the dragons, and so he did. But even then, Potter, even then you seemed likely to fail. I was watching all the time… all those hours in the library. Didn’t you realize that the book you needed was in your dormitory all along? I planted it there early on, I gave it to the Longbottom boy, don’t you remember? Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean. It would have told you all you needed to know about gillyweed. I expected you to ask everyone and anyone you could for help. Longbottom would have told you in an instant. But you did not… you did not… You have a streak of pride and independence that might have ruined all.
“So what could I do? Feed you information from another innocent source. You told me at the Yule Ball a house-elf called Dobby had given you a Christmas present. I called the elf to the
staffroom to collect some robes for cleaning. I staged a loud conversation with Professor McGonagall about the hostages who had been taken, and whether Potter would think to use gillyweed. And your little elf friend ran straight to Snape’s office and then hurried to find you…”
Moodys wand was still pointing directly at Harry’s heart. Over his shoulder, foggy shapes were moving in the Foe-Glass on the wall.
“You were so long in that lake, Potter, I thought you had drowned. But luckily, Dumbledore took your idiocy for nobility, and marked you high for it. I breathed again.
“You had an easier time of it than you should have in that maze tonight, of course,” said Moody. “I was patrolling around it, able to see through the outer hedges, able to curse many obstacles out of your way. I Stunned Fleur Delacour as she passed. I put the Imperius Curse on Krum, so that he would finish Diggory and leave your path to the cup clear.”
Harry stared at Moody. He just didn’t see how this could be… Dumbledore’s friend, the famous Auror… the one who had caught so many Death Eaters… It made no sense… no sense at all…
The foggy shapes in the Foe-Glass were sharpening, had become more distinct. Harry could see the outlines of three people over Moody’s shoulder, moving closer and closer. But Moody wasn’t watching them. His magical eye was upon Harry.
“The Dark Lord didn’t manage to kill you Potter, and he so wanted to,” whispered Moody. “Imagine how he will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I gave you to him - the thing he needed above all to regenerate - and then I killed you for him. I will be honored beyond all other Death Eaters. I will be his dearest, his closest supporter… closer than a son…”
Moody’s normal eye was bulging, the magical eye fixed upon Harry. The door was barred, and Harry knew he would never reach his own wand in time…
“The Dark Lord and I,” said Moody, and he looked completely insane now, towering over Harry, leering down at him, “have much in common. Both of us, for instance, had very disappointing fathers… very disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And both of us had the pleasure… the very great pleasure… of killing our fathers to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!”
“You’re mad,” Harry said - he couldn’t stop himself- “you’re mad!”
“Mad, am I?” said Moody, his voice rising uncontrollably. “We’ll see! We’ll see who’s mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him - and now - I conquer you!”
Moody raised his wand, he opened his mouth; Harry plunged his own hand into his robes -
“Stupefy!” There was a blinding flash of red light, and with a great splintering and crashing, the door of Moody’s office was blasted apart –
Moody was thrown backward onto the office floor. Harry, still staring at the place where Moody’s face had been, saw Albus Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and Professor McGonagall looking back at him out of the Foe-Glass. He looked around and saw the three of them standing in the doorway, Dumbledore in front, his wand outstretched.
At that moment, Harry fully understood for the first time why people said Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared. The look upon Dumbledore’s face as he stared down at the unconscious form of Mad-Eye Moody was more terrible than Harry could have ever imagined. There was no benign smile upon Dumbledore’s face, no twinkle in the eyes behind the spectacles. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from
Dumbledore as though he were giving off burning heat.
He stepped into the office, placed a foot underneath Moodys unconscious body, and kicked him over onto his back, so that his face was visible. Snape followed him, looking into the Foe-Glass, where his own face was still visible, glaring into the room. Professor McGonagall went straight to Harry.
“Come along, Potter,” she whispered. The thin line of her mouth was twitching as though she was about to cry. “Come along… hospital wing…”
“No,” said Dumbledore sharply.
“Dumbledore, he ought to - look at him - he’s been through enough tonight -”
“He will stay, Minerva, because he needs to understand,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered tonight, and why,”
“Moody,” Harry said. He was still in a state of complete disbelief. “How can it have been Moody?”
“This is not Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore quietly. “You have never known Alastor Moody. The real Moody would not have removed you from my sight after what happened tonight. The moment he took you, I knew - and I followed.”
Dumbledore bent down over Moody’s limp form and put a hand inside his robes. He pulled out Moody’s hip flask and a set of keys on a ring. Then he turned to Professors McGonagall and Snape.
“Severus, please fetch me the strongest Truth Potion you possess, and then go down to the kitchens and bring up the house-elf called Winky. Minerva, kindly go down to Hagrid’s house, where you will find a large black dog sitting in the pumpkin patch. Take the dog up to my office, tell him I will be with him shortly, then come back here.”
If either Snape or McGonagall found these instructions peculiar, they hid their confusion. Both turned at once and left the office. Dumbledore walked over to the trunk with seven locks, fitted
the first key in the lock, and opened it. It contained a mass of spell-books. Dumbledore closed the trunk, placed a second key in the second lock, and opened the trunk again. The spellbooks had vanished; this time it contained an assortment of broken Sneako-scopes, some parchment and quills, and what looked like a silvery Invisibility Cloak. Harry watched, astounded, as
Dumbledore placed the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth keys in their respective locks, reopening the trunk each time, and revealing different contents each time. Then he placed the seventh key in the lock, threw open the lid, and Harry let out a cry of amazement.
He was looking down into a kind of pit, an underground room, and lying on the floor some ten feet below, apparently fast asleep, thin and starved in appearance, was the real Mad-Eye Moody. His wooden leg was gone, the socket that should have held the magical eye looked empty beneath its lid, and chunks of his grizzled hair were missing. Harry stared, thunderstruck, between the sleeping Moody in the trunk and the unconscious Moody lying on the floor of the office.
Dumbledore climbed into the trunk, lowered himself, and fell lightly onto the floor beside the sleeping Moody. He bent over him.
“Stunned - controlled by the Imperius Curse - very weak,” he said. “Of course, they would have needed to keep him alive. Harry, throw down the imposter’s cloak - he’s freezing. Madam Pomfrey will need to see him, but he seems in no immediate danger.”
Harry did as he was told; Dumbledore covered Moody in the cloak, tucked it around him, and clambered out of the trunk again. Then he picked up the hip flask that stood upon the desk, unscrewed it, and turned it over. A thick glutinous liquid splattered onto the office floor.
“Polyjuice Potion, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “You see the simplicity of it, and the brilliance. For Moody never does drink except from his hip flask, he’s well known for it. The imposter needed, of course, to keep the real Moody close by, so that he could continue making the potion. You see his hair…” Dumbledore looked down on the Moody in the trunk. “The imposter has been cutting it off all year, see where it is uneven? But I think, in the excitement of tonight, our fake Moody
might have forgotten to take it as frequendy as he should have done… on the hour… every hour… We shall see.”
Dumbledore pulled out the chair at the desk and sat down upon it, his eyes fixed upon the unconscious Moody on the floor. Harry stared at him too. Minutes passed in silence…
Then, before Harry’s very eyes, the face of the man on the floor began to change. The scars were disappearing, the skin was becoming smooth; the mangled nose became whole and started to shrink. The long mane of grizzled gray hair was withdrawing into the scalp and turning the color of straw. Suddenly, with a loud clunk, the wooden leg fell away as a normal leg regrew in its place; next moment, the magical eyeball had popped out of the man’s face as a real eye replaced it; it rolled away across the floor and continued to swivel in every direction.
Harry saw a man lying before him, pale-skinned, slightly freckled, with a mop of fair hair. He knew who he was. He had seen him in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, had watched him being led away
from court by the dementors, trying to convince Mr. Crouch that he was innocent… but he was lined around the eyes now and looked much older…
There were hurried footsteps outside in the corridor. Snape had returned with Winky at his heels. Professor McGonagall was right behind them.
“Crouch!” Snape said, stopping dead in the doorway. “Barty Crouch!”
“Good heavens,” said Professor McGonagall, stopping dead and staring down at the man on the floor.
Filthy, disheveled, Winky peered around Snape’s legs. Her mouth opened wide and she let out a piercing shriek.
“Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you doing here?”
She flung herself forward onto the young man’s chest.
“You is killed him! You is killed him! You is killed Master’s son!”
“He is simply Stunned, Winky,” said Dumbledore. “Step aside, please. Severus, you have the potion?”
Snape handed Dumbledore a small glass bottle of completely clear liquid: the Veritaserum with which he had threatened Harry in class. Dumbledore got up, bent over the man on the floor, and pulled him into a sitting position against the wall beneath the Foe-Glass, in which the reflections of Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall were still glaring down upon them all. Winky remained on her knees, trembling, her hands over her face. Dumbledore forced the mans mouth open and
poured three drops inside it. Then he pointed his wand at the mans chest and said, “Ennervate.”
Crouch’s son opened his eyes. His face was slack, his gaze unfocused.
Dumbledore knelt before him, so that their faces were level.
“Can you hear me?” Dumbledore asked quietly.
The man’s eyelids flickered.
“Yes,” he muttered.
“I would like you to tell us,” said Dumbledore softly, “how you came to be here. How did you escape from Azkaban?”
Crouch took a deep, shuddering breath, then began to speak in a flat, expressionless voice.
“My mother saved me. She knew she was dying. She persuaded my father to rescue me as a last favor to her. He loved her as he had never loved me. He agreed. They came to visit me. They gave me a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of my mother’s hairs. She took a draft of Polyjuice Potion containing one of my hairs. We took on each other’s appearance.”
Winky was shaking her head, trembling.
“Say no more. Master Barty, say no more, you is getting your father into trouble!”
But Crouch took another deep breath and continued in the same flat voice.
“The dementors are blind. They sensed one healthy, one dying person entering Azkaban. They sensed one healthy, one dying person leaving it. My father smuggled me out, disguised as my mother, in case any prisoners were watching through their doors.
“My mother died a short while afterward in Azkaban. She was careful to drink Polyjuice Potion until the end. She was buried under my name and bearing my appearance. Everyone believed her to be me.”
The man’s eyelids flickered.
“And what did your father do with you, when he had got you home?” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Staged my mother’s death. A quiet, private funeral. That grave is empty. The house-elf nursed me back to health. Then I had to be concealed. I had to be controlled. My father had to use a number of spells to subdue me. When I had recovered my strength, I thought only of finding my master… of returning to his service.”
“How did your father subdue you?” said Dumbledore.
“The Imperius Curse,” Moody said. “I was under my fathers control. I was forced to wear an Invisibility Cloak day and night. I was always with the house-elf. She was my keeper and caretaker. She pitied me. She persuaded my father to give me occasional treats. Rewards for my good behavior.”
“Master Barty, Master Barty,” sobbed Winky through her hands. “You isn’t ought to tell them, we is getting in trouble…”
“Did anybody ever discover that you were still alive?” said Dumbledore softly. “Did anyone know except your father and the house-elf?”
“Yes,” said Crouch, his eyelids flickering again. “A witch in my father’s office. Bertha Jorkins. She came to the house with papers for my father s signature. He was not at home. Winky showed her inside and returned to the kitchen, to me. But Bertha Jorkins heard Winky talking to me. She came to investigate. She heard enough to guess who was hiding under the Invisibility Cloak. My
father arrived home. She confronted him. He put a very powerful Memory Charm on her to make her forget what she’d found out. Too powerful. He said it damaged her memory permanently.”
“Why is she coming to nose into my masters private business?” sobbed Winky. “Why isn’t she leaving us be?”
“Tell me about the Quidditch World Cup,” said Dumbledore.
“Winky talked my father into it,” said Crouch, still in the same monotonous voice. “She spent months persuading him. I had not left the house for years. I had loved Quidditch. Let him go, she said. He will be in his Invisibility Cloak. He can watch. Let him smell fresh air for once. She said my mother would have wanted it. She told my father that my mother had died to give me freedom. She had not saved me for a life of imprisonment. He agreed in the end.
“It was carefully planned. My father led me and Winky up to the Top Box early in the day. Winky was to say that she was saving a seat for my father. I was to sit there, invisible. When everyone had left the box, we would emerge. Winky would appear to be alone. Nobody would ever know.
“But Winky didn’t know that I was growing stronger. I was starting to fight my father’s Imperius Curse. There were times when I was almost myself again. There were brief periods when I seemed outside his control. It happened, there, in the Top Box. It was like waking from a deep sleep. I found myself out in public, in the middle of the match, and I saw, in front of me, a wand sticking out of a boys pocket. I had not been allowed a wand since before Azkaban. I stole it. Winky didn’t know. Winky is frightened of heights. She had her face hidden.”
“Master Barty, you bad boy!” whispered Winky, tears trickling between her fingers.
“So you took the wand,” said Dumbledore, “and what did you do with it?”
“We went back to the tent,” said Crouch. “Then we heard them. We heard the Death Eaters. The ones who had never been to Azkaban. The ones who had never suffered for my master. They had turned their backs on him. They were not enslaved, as I was. They were free to seek him, but they did not. They were merely making sport of Muggles. The sound of their voices awoke me. My mind was clearer than it had been in years. I was angry. I had the wand. I wanted to attack them for their disloyalty to my master. My father had left the tent; he had gone to free the Muggles. Winky was afraid to see me so angry. She used her own brand of magic to bind me to her. She pulled me from the tent, pulled me into the forest, away from the Death Eaters. I tried to hold her back. I wanted to return to the campsite. I wanted to show those Death Eaters what loyalty to the Dark Lord meant, and to punish them for their lack of it. I used the stolen wand to cast the Dark Mark into the sky.
“Ministry wizards arrived. They shot Stunning Spells everywhere. One of the spells came through the trees where Winky and I stood. The bond connecting us was broken. We were both Stunned.
“When Winky was discovered, my father knew I must be nearby. He searched the bushes where she had been found and felt me lying there. He waited until the other Ministry members had left the forest. He put me back under the Imperius Curse and took me home. He dismissed Winky. She had failed him. She had let me acquire a wand. She had almost let me escape.”
Winky let out a wail of despair.
“Now it was just Father and I, alone in the house. And then… and then…”
Crouch’s head rolled on his neck, and an insane grin spread across his face. “My master came for me.
“He arrived at our house late one night in the arms of his servant Wormtail. My master had found out that I was still alive. He had captured Bertha Jorkins in Albania. He had tortured her. She told him a great deal. She told him about the Triwizard Tournament. She told him the old Auror, Moody, was going to teach at Hogwarts. He tortured her until he broke through the Memory Charm my father had placed upon her. She told him I had escaped from Azkaban. She told him my father kept me imprisoned to prevent me from seeking my master. And so my master knew that I was still his faithful servant - perhaps the most faithful of all. My master conceived a plan, based upon the information Bertha had given him. He needed me. He arrived at our house near midnight. My father answered the door.”
The smile spread wider over Crouch’s face, as though recalling the sweetest memory of his life. Winky’s petrified brown eyes were visible through her fingers. She seemed too appalled to speak.
“It was very quick. My father was placed under the Imperius Curse by my master. Now my father was the one imprisoned, controlled. My master forced him to go about his business as usual, to act as though nothing was wrong. And I was released. I awoke. I was myself again, alive as I hadn’t been in years.
“And what did Lord Voldemort ask you to do?” said Dumbledore.
“He asked me whether I was ready to risk everything for him. I was ready. It was my dream, my greatest ambition, to serve him, to prove myself to him. He told me he needed to place a faithful servant at Hogwarts. A servant who would guide Harry Potter through the Triwizard Tournament without appearing to do so. A servant who would watch over Harry Potter. Ensure he reached the Triwizard Cup. Turn the cup into a Portkey, which would take the first person to touch it to my
master. But first -”
“You needed Alastor Moody,” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were blazing, though his voice remained calm.
“Wormtail and I did it. We had prepared the Polyjuice Potion beforehand. We journeyed to his house. Moody put up a struggle. There was a commotion. We managed to subdue him just in time. Forced him into a compartment of his own magical trunk. Took some of his hair and added
it to the potion. I drank it; I became Moody’s double. I took his leg and his eye. I was ready to face Arthur Weasley when he arrived to sort out the Muggles who had heard a disturbance. I
made the dustbins move around the yard. I told Arthur Weasley I had heard intruders in my yard, who had set off the dustbins. Then I packed up Moody’s clothes and Dark detectors, put them in the trunk with Moody, and set off for Hogwarts. I kept him alive, under the Imperius Curse. I wanted to be able to question him. To find out about his past, learn his habits, so that I could fool even Dumbledore. I also needed his hair to make the Polyjuice Potion. The other ingredients were easy. I stole boom-slang skin from the dungeons. When the Potions master found me in his office, I said I was under orders to search it.”
“And what became of Wormtail after you attacked Moody?” said Dumbledore.
“Wormtail returned to care for my master, in my father’s house, and to keep watch over my father.”
“But your father escaped,” said Dumbledore.
“Yes. After a while he began to fight the Imperius Curse just as I had done. There were periods when he knew what was happening. My master decided it was no longer safe for my father to leave the house. He forced him to send letters to the Ministry instead. He made him write and say he was ill. But Wormtail neglected his duty. He was not watchful enough. My father escaped. My master guessed that he was heading for Hogwarts. My father was going to tell Dumbledore everything, to confess. He was going to admit that he had smuggled me from Azkaban.
“My master sent me word of my father’s escape. He told me to stop him at all costs. So I waited and watched. I used the map I had taken from Harry Potter. The map that had almost ruined everything.”
“Map?” said Dumbledore quickly. “What map is this?”
“Potter’s map of Hogwarts. Potter saw me on it. Potter saw me stealing more ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion from Snape’s office one night. He thought I was my father. We have the same first name. I took the map from Potter that night. I told him my father hated Dark wizards. Potter believed my father was after Snape.
“For a week I waited for my father to arrive at Hogwarts. At last, one evening, the map showed my father entering the grounds. I pulled on my Invisibility Cloak and went down to meet him. He was walking around the edge of the forest. Then Potter came, and Krum. I waited. I could not hurt Potter; my master needed him. Potter ran to get Dumbledore. I Stunned Krum. I killed my father.”
“Noooo!” wailed Winky. “Master Barty, Master Barty, what is you saying?”
“You killed your father,” Dumbledore said, in the same soft voice. “What did you do with the body?”
“Carried it into the forest. Covered it with the Invisibility Cloak. I had the map with me. I watched Potter run into the castle. He met Snape. Dumbledore joined them. I watched Potter bringing Dumbledore out of the castle. I walked back out of the forest, doubled around behind them, went to meet them. I told Dumbledore Snape had told me where to come.
“Dumbledore told me to go and look for my father. I went back to my father’s body. Watched the map. When everyone was gone, I Transfigured my father’s body. He became a bone… I buried it, while wearing the Invisibility Cloak, in the freshly dug earth in front of Hagrid’s cabin.”
There was complete silence now, except for Winky’s continued sobs. Then Dumbledore said, “And tonight…”
“I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup into the maze before dinner,” whispered Barty Crouch.
“Turned it into a Portkey. My master’s plan worked. He is returned to power and I will be honored by him beyond the dreams of wizards.”
The insane smile lit his features once more, and his head drooped onto his shoulder as Winky wailed and sobbed at his side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Parting of the Ways
Dumbledore stood up. He stared down at Barty Crouch for a moment with disgust on his face. Then he raised his wand once more and ropes flew out of it, ropes that twisted themselves around Barty Crouch, binding him tightly. He turned toProfessor McGonagall.
“Minerva, could I ask you to stand guard here while I take Harry upstairs?”
“Of course,” said Professor McGonagall. She looked slightly nauseous, as though she had just watched someone being sick. However, when she drew out her wand and pointed it at Barty Crouch, her hand was quite steady.
“Severus” - Dumbledore turned to Snape - “please tell Madam Pomfrey to come down here; we need to get Alastor Moody into the hospital wing. Then go down into the grounds, find Cornelius Fudge, and bring him up to this office. He will undoubtedly want to question Crouch himself. Tell him I will be in the hospital wing in half an hour’s time if he needs me.”
Snape nodded silently and swept out of the room.
“Harry?” Dumbledore said gently.
Harry got up and swayed again; the pain in his leg, which he had not noticed all the time he had been listening to Crouch, now returned in full measure. He also realized that he was shaking. Dumbledore gripped his arm and helped him out into the dark corridor.
“I want you to come up to my office first. Harry,” he said quiedy as they headed up the passageway. “Sirius is waiting for us there.”
Harry nodded. A kind of numbness and a sense of complete unreality were upon him, but he did not care; he was even glad of it. He didn’t want to have to think about anything that had happened since he had first touched the Triwizard Cup. He didn’t want to have to examine the memories, fresh and sharp as photographs, which kept flashing across his mind. Mad-Eye Moody, inside the trunk. Wormtail, slumped on the ground, cradling his stump of an arm. Voldemort, rising from the steaming cauldron. Cedric… dead… Cedric, asking to be returned to his parents…
“Professor,” Harry mumbled, “where are Mr. and Mrs. Diggory?”
“They are with Professor Sprout,” said Dumbledore. His voice, which had been so calm throughout the interrogation of Barty Crouch, shook very slightly for the first time. “She was Head of Cedric’s house, and knew him best.”
They had reached the stone gargoyle. Dumbledore gave the password, it sprang aside, and he and Harry went up the moving spiral staircase to the oak door.
Dumbledore pushed it open. Sirius was standing there. His face was white and gaunt as it had been when he had escaped Azkaban. In one swift moment, he had crossed the room.
“Harry, are you all right? I knew it - I knew something like this - what happened?”
His hands shook as he helped Harry into a chair in front of the desk.
“What happened?” he asked more urgently.
Dumbledore began to tell Sirius everything Barty Crouch had said. Harry was only half listening. So tired every bone in his body was aching, he wanted nothing more than to sit here, undisturbed, for hours and hours, until he fell asleep and didn’t have to think or feel anymore.
There was a soft rush of wings. Fawkes the phoenix had left his perch, flown across the office, and landed on Harry’s knee.
“‘Lo, Fawkes,” said Harry quietly. He stroked the phoenix’s beautiful scarlet-and gold plumage. Fawkes blinked peacefully up at him. There was something comforting about his warm weight.
Dumbledore stopped talking. He sat down opposite Harry, behind his desk. He was looking at Harry, who avoided his eyes. Dumbledore was going to question him. He was going to make Harry relive everything.
“I need to know what happened after you touched the Portkey in the maze Harry,” said Dumbledore.
“We can leave that till morning, can’t we, Dumbledore?” said Sirius harshly. He had put a hand on Harrys shoulder. “Let him have a sleep. Let him rest.”
Harry felt a rush of gratitude toward Sirius, but Dumbledore took no notice of Sirius’s words. He leaned forward toward Harry.
Very unwillingly, Harry raised his head and looked into those blue eyes.
“If I thought I could help you,” Dumbledore said gently, “by putting you into an enchanted sleep and allowing you to postpone the moment when you would have to think about what has happened tonight, I would do it. But I know better. Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it. You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you. I ask you to demonstrate your courage one more time. I ask you to tell us what happened.”
The phoenix let out one soft, quavering note. It shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his stomach, warming him, and strengthening him.
He took a deep breath and began to tell them. As he spoke, visions of everything that had passed that night seemed to rise before his eyes; he saw the sparkling surface of the potion that had revived Voldemort; he saw the Death Eaters Apparating between the graves around them; he saw Cedric’s body, lying on the ground beside the cup.
Once or twice, Sirius made a noise as though about to say something, his hand still tight on Harry’s shoulder, but Dumbledore raised his hand to stop him, and Harry was glad of this, because it was easier to keep going now he had started. It was even a relief; he felt almost as though something poisonous were being extracted from him. It was costing him every bit of determination he had to keep talking, yet he sensed that once he had finished, he would feel better.
When Harry told of Wormtail piercing his arm with the dagger, however, Sirius let out a vehement exclamation and Dumbledore stood up so quickly that Harry started. Dumbledore walked around the desk and told Harry to stretch out his arm.
Harry showed them both the place where his robes were torn and the cut beneath them.
“He said my blood would make him stronger than if he’d used someone else’s,” Harry told Dumbledore. “He said the protection my - my mother left in me - he’d have it too. And he was right - he could touch me without hurting himself, he touched my face.”
For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he saw a gleam of something like triumph in Dumbledore’s eyes. But next second Harry was sure he had imagined it, for when Dumbledore had returned to his seat behind the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had ever seen him.
“Very well,” he said, sitting down again. “Voldemort has overcome that particular barrier. Harry, continue, please.”
Harry went on; he explained how Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron, and told them all he could remember of Voldemort’s speech to the Death Eaters. Then he told how Voldemort had untied him, returned his wand to him, and prepared to duel.
But when he reached the part where the golden beam of light had connected his and Voldemort’s wands, he found his throat obstructed. He tried to keep talking, but the memories of what had come out of Voldemort’s wand were flooding into his mind. He could see Cedric emerging, see the old man, Bertha Jorkins… his father… his mother…
He was glad when Sirius broke the silence.
“The wands connected?” he said, looking from Harry to Dumbledore. “Why?”
Harry looked up at Dumbledore again, on whose face there was an arrested look. “Priori Incantatem,” he muttered.
His eyes gazed into Harry’s and it was almost as though an invisible beam of understanding shot between them.
“The Reverse Spell effect?” said Sirius sharply.
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore. “Harry’s wand and Voldemorts wand share cores. Each of them contains a feather from the tail of the same phoenix. This phoenix, in fact,” he added, and he pointed at the scarlet-and-gold bird, perching peacefully on Harry’s knee.
“My wand’s feather came from Fawkes?” Harry said, amazed.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Mr. Ollivander wrote to tell me you had bought the second wand, the moment you left his shop four years ago.”
“So what happens when a wand meets its brother?” said Sirius.
“They will not work properly against each other,” said Dumbledore. “If, however, the owners of the wands force the wands to do battle… a very rare effect will take place. One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate spells it has performed - in reverse. The most recent first… and then those which preceded it…”
He looked interrogatively at Harry, and Harry nodded.
“Which means,” said Dumbledore slowly, his eyes upon Harry’s face, “that some form of Cedric must have reappeared.”
Harry nodded again.
“Diggory came back to life?” said Sirius sharply.
“No spell can reawaken the dead,” said Dumbledore heavily. “All that would have happened is a kind of reverse echo. A shadow of the living Cedric would have emerged from the wand… am I correct, Harry?”
“He spoke to me,” Harry said. He was suddenly shaking again. “Th… the ghost Cedric, or whatever he was, spoke.”
“An echo,” said Dumbledore, “which retained Cedric’s appearance and character. I am guessing other such forms appeared… less recent victims of Voldemort’s wand…”
“An old man,” Harry said, his throat still constricted. “Bertha Jorkins. And…”
“Your parents?” said Dumbledore quietly.
“Yes,” said Harry.
Sirius’s grip on Harry’s shoulder was now so tight it was painful.
“The last murders the wand performed,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “In reverse order. More would have appeared, of course, had you maintained the connection. Very well, Harry, these echoes, these shadows… what did they do?”
Harry described how the figures that had emerged from the wand had prowled the edges of the golden web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how the shadow of Harry’s mother had told him what to do, how Cedric’s had made its final request.
At this point Harry found he could not continue. He looked around at Sirius and saw that he had his face in his hands.
Harry suddenly became aware that Fawkes had left his knee. The phoenix had fluttered to the floor. It was resting its beautiful head against Harry’s injured leg, and thick, pearly tears were falling from its eyes onto the wound left by the spider. The pain vanished. The skin mended. His leg was repaired.
“I will say it again,” said Dumbledore as the phoenix rose into the air and resettled itself upon the perch beside the door. “You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you tonight Harry. You have shown bravery equal to those who died fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers. You have shouldered a grown wizard’s burden and found yourself equal to it - and you have now given us all we have a right to expect. You will come with me to the hospital wing. I do not want you returning to the dormitory tonight. A Sleeping Potion, and some peace… Sirius, would you like to stay with him?”
Sirius nodded and stood up. He transformed back into the great black dog and walked with Harry and Dumbledore out of the office, accompanying them down a flight of stairs to the hospital wing.
When Dumbledore pushed open the door Harry saw Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione grouped around a harassed-looking Madam Pomfrey. They appeared to be demanding to know where Harry was and what had happened to him. All of them whipped around as Harry, Dumbledore, and the black dog entered, and Mrs. Weasley let out a kind of muffled scream.
“Harry! Oh Harry!”
She started to hurry toward him, but Dumbledore moved between them.
“Molly,” he said, holding up a hand, “please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay with him,” he added, looking around at Ron, Hermione, and Bill too, “you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening.”
Mrs. Weasley nodded. She was very white. She rounded on Ron, Hermione, and Bill as though they were being noisy, and hissed, “Did you hear? He needs quiet!”
“Headmaster,” said Madam Pomfrey, staring at the great black dog that was Sirius, “may I ask what -?”
“This dog will be remaining with Harry for a while,” said Dumbledore simply. “I assure you, he is extremely well trained. Harry - I will wait while you get into bed.”
Harry felt an inexpressible sense of gratitude to Dumbledore for asking the others not to question him. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want them there; but the thought of explaining it all over again, the idea of reliving it one more time, was more than he could stand.
“I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with Fudge, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I would like you to remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the school.” He left.
As Madam Pomfrey led Harry to a nearby bed, he caught sight of the real Moody lying motionless in a bed at the far end of the room. His wooden leg and magical eye were lying on the bedside table.
“Is he okay?” Harry asked.
“He’ll be fine,” said Madam Pomfrey, giving Harry some pajamas and pulling screens around him. He took off his robes, pulled on the pajamas, and got into bed. Ron, Hermione, Bill, Mrs. Weasley, and the black dog came around the screen and settled themselves in chairs on either side of him. Ron and Hermione were looking at him almost cautiously, as though scared of him.
“I’m all right,” he told them. “Just tired.”
Mrs. Weasleys eyes filled with tears as she smoothed his bed-covers unnecessarily.
Madam Pomfrey, who had bustled off to her office, returned holding a small bottle of some purple potion and a goblet.
“You’ll need to drink all of this. Harry,” she said. “It’s a potion for dreamless sleep.”
Harry took the goblet and drank a few mouthfuls. He felt himself becoming drowsy at once. Everything around him became hazy; the lamps around the hospital wing seemed to be winking at him in a friendly way through the screen around his bed; his body felt as though it was sinking deeper into the warmth of the feather matress. Before he could finish the potion, before he could say another word, his exhaustion had carried him off to sleep.
Harry woke up, so warm, so very sleepy, that he didn’t open his eyes, wanting to drop off again. The room was still dimly lit; he was sure it was still nighttime and had a feeling that he couldn’t have been asleep very long.
Then he heard whispering around him.
“They’ll wake him if they don’t shut up!”
“What are they shouting about? Nothing else can have happened, can it?”
Harry opened his eyes blearily. Someone had removed his glasses. He could see the fuzzy outlines of Mrs. Weasley and Bill close by. Mrs. Weasley was on her feet.
“That’s Fudge’s voice,” she whispered. “And that’s Minerva McGonagall’s, isn’t it? But what are they arguing about?”
Now Harry could hear them too: people shouting and running toward the hospital wing.
“Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva -” Cornelius Fudge was saying loudly.
“You should never have brought it inside the castle!” yelled Professor McGonagall. “When Dumbledore finds out -”
Harry heard the hospital doors burst open. Unnoticed by any of the people around his bed, all of whom were staring at the door as Bill pulled back the screens, Harry sat up and put his glasses back on.
Fudge came striding up the ward. Professors McGonagall and Snape were at his heels.
“Where’s Dumbledore?” Fudge demanded of Mrs. Weasley.
“He’s not here,” said Mrs. Weasley angrily. “This is a hospital wing. Minister, don’t you think you’d do better to -”
But the door opened, and Dumbledore came sweeping up the ward.
“What has happened?” said Dumbledore sharply, looking from Fudge to Professor McGonagall. “Why are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I’m surprised at you - I asked you to stand guard over Barty Crouch -”
“There is no need to stand guard over him anymore, Dumbledore!” she shrieked. “The Minister has seen to that!”
Harry had never seen Professor McGonagall lose control like this. There were angry blotches of color in her cheeks, and a hands were balled into fists; she was trembling with fury.-
“When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater responsible for tonight’s events,” said Snape, in a low voice; he seemed to feel his personal safety was in question. “He insisted on summoning a dementor to accompany him into the castle. He brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch -”
“I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!” McGonagall fumed. “I told him you would never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, but -”
“My dear woman!” roared Fudge, who likewise looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him, “as Minister of Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring protection with me when interviewing a possibly dangerous -”
But Professor McGonagall’s voice drowned Fudge’s.
“The moment that - that thing entered the room,” she screamed, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over, “it swooped down on Crouch and - and -”
Harry felt a chill in his stomach as Professor McGonagall struggled to find words to describe what had happened. He did not need her to finish her sentence. He knew what the dementor must have done. It had administered its fatal kiss to Barty Crouch. It had sucked his soul out through his mouth. He was worse than dead.
“By all accounts, he is no loss!” blustered Fudge. “It seems he has been responsible for several deaths’.”
“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. “He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people.”
“Why he killed them? Well, that’s no mystery, is it?” blustered Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who’s instructions!”
“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said. “Those peoples deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body.”
Fudge looked as though someone had just swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stared back at Dumbledore as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore.
“You-Know-Who… returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore…”
“As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you,” said Dumbledore, “we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort - learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins - went to free him from his father and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.”
“See here, Dumbledore,” said Fudge, and Harry was astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face, “you - you can’t seriously believe that You-Know-Who - back? Come now, come
now… certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who’s orders - but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore…”
“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort’s rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office.”
Dumbledore glanced around at Harry and saw that he was awake, but shook his head and said, “I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.”
Fudge’s curious smile lingered. He too glanced at Harry, then looked back at Dumbledore, and said, “You are - er - prepared to take Harry’s word on this, are you, Dumbledore?”
There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by Sirius growling. His hackles were raised, and he was baring his teeth at Fudge.
“Certainly, I believe Harry,” said Dumbledore. His eyes were blazing now. “I heard Crouch’s confession, and I heard Harry’s account of what happened after he touched the Triwizard Cup; the two stories make sense, they explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer.”
Fudge still had that strange smile on his face. Once again, he glanced at Harry before answering.
“You are prepared to believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a boy who… well…”
Fudge shot Harry another look, and Harry suddenly understood.
“You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge,” he said quietly.
Ron, Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, and Bill all jumped. None of them had realized that Harry was awake.
Fudge reddened slightly, but a defiant and obstinate look came over his face.
“And if I have?” he said, looking at Dumbledore. “If I have discovered that you’ve been keeping certain facts about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh? And having funny turns all over the place -”
“I assume that you are referring to the pains Harry has been experiencing in his scar?” said Dumbledore coolly.
“You admit that he has been having these pains, then?” said Fudge quickly. “Headaches? Nightmares? Possibly - hallucinations?”
“Listen to me, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, taking a step toward Fudge, and once again, he seemed to radiate that indefinable sense of power that Harry had felt after Dumbledore had Stunned young Crouch. “Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling particularly murderous.”
Fudge had taken half a step back from Dumbledore, but he looked no less stubborn.
“You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I’ve never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before…”
“Look, I saw Voldemort come back!” Harry shouted. He tried to get out of bed again, but Mrs. Weasley forced him back. “I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy -”
Snape made a sudden movement, but as Harry looked at him, Snape’s eyes flew back to Fudge.
“Malfoy was cleared!” said Fudge, visibly affronted. “A very old family - donations to excellent causes -”
“Macnair!” Harry continued.
“Also cleared! Now working for the Ministry!”
“Avery - Nott - Crabbe - Goyle -”
“You are merely repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!” said Fudge angrily. “You could have found those names in old reports of the trials! For heavens sake, Dumbledore - the boy was full of some crackpot story at the end of last year too - his tales are getting taller, and you’re still swallowing them - the boy can talk to snakes. Dumbledore, and you still think he’s trustworthy?”
“You fool!” Professor McGonagall cried. “Cedric Diggory! Mr. Crouch! These deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!”
“I see no evidence to the contrary!” shouted Fudge, now matching her anger, his face purpling. “It seems to me that you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilize everything we have worked for these last thirteen years!”
Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had always thought of Fudge as a kindly figure, a little blustering, a little pompous, but essentially good-natured. But now a short, angry wizard stood before him, refusing, point-blank, to accept the prospect of disruption in his comfortable and ordered world - to believe that Voldemort could have risen.
“Voldemort has returned,” Dumbledore repeated. “If you accept that fact straightaway Fudge, and take the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors -”
“Preposterous!” shouted Fudge again. “Remove the dementors? I’d be kicked out of office for suggesting it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!”
“The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord Voldemort’s most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!” said Dumbledore. “They will not remain loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed to stop him regaining the sort of power he had thirteen years ago!”
Fudge was opening and closing his mouth as though no words could express his outrage.
“The second step you must take - and at once,” Dumbledore pressed on, “is to send envoys to the giants.”
“Envoys to the giants?” Fudge shrieked, finding his tongue again. “What madness is this?”
“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too late,” said Dumbledore, “or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!”
“You - you cannot be serious!” Fudge gasped, shaking his head and retreating further from Dumbledore. “If the magical community got wind that I had approached the giants - people hate them, Dumbledore - end of my career -”
“You are blinded,” said Dumbledore, his voice rising now, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes blazing once more, “by the love of the office you hold, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has just destroyed the last remaining member of a pure-blood family as old as any - and see what that
man chose to make of his life! I tell you now- take the steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered, in office or out, as one of the bravest and greatest Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act - and history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!”
“Insane,” whispered Fudge, still backing away. “Mad…”
And then there was silence. Madam Pomfrey was standing frozen at the foot of Harry’s bed, her hands over her mouth. Mrs.Weasley was still standing over Harry, her hand on his shoulder to prevent him from rising. Bill, Ron, and Hermione were staring at Fudge.
“If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, “we have reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I - I shall act as I see fit.”
Dumbledore’s voice carried no hint of a threat; it sounded like a mere statement, but Fudge bristled as though Dumbledore were advancing upon him with a wand.
“Now, see here, Dumbledore,” he said, waving a threatening finger. “I’ve given you free rein, always. I’ve had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions, but I’ve kept quiet. There aren’t many who’d have let you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students without reference to the Ministry. But if you’re going to work against me -”
“The only one against whom I intend to work,” said Dumbledore, “is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side.”
It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He rocked backward and forward on his small feet for a moment and spun his bowler hat in his hands. Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, “He can’t be back, Dumbledore, he just can’t be…”
Snape strode forward, past Dumbledore, pulling up the left sleeve of his robes as he went. He stuck out his forearm and showed it to Fudge, who recoiled.
“There,” said Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff s too. Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had
returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord’s vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the fold.”
Fudge stepped back from Snape too. He was shaking his head. He did not seem to have taken in a word Snape had said. He stared, apparently repelled by the ugly mark on Snape’s arm, then looked up at Dumbledore and whispered, “I don’t know what you and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I have no more to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the running of this school. I must return to the Ministry.”
He had almost reached the door when he paused. He turned around, strode back down the dormitory, and stopped at Harry’s bed.
“Your winnings,” he said shortly, taking a large bag of gold out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harrys bedside table. “One thousand Galleons. There should have been a presentation ceremony, but under the circumstances…”
He crammed his bowler hat onto his head and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The moment he had disappeared, Dumbledore turned to look at the group around Harry’s bed.
“There is work to be done,” he said. “Molly… am I right in thinking that I can count on you and Arthur?”
“Of course you can,” said Mrs. Weasley. She was white to the lips, but she looked resolute. “We know what Fudge is. It’s Arthur’s fondness for Muggles that has held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper wizarding pride.”
“Then I need to send a message to Arthur,” said Dumbledore. “All those that we can persuade of the truth must be notified immediately, and he is well placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as shortsighted as Cornelius.”
“I’ll go to Dad,” said Bill, standing up. “I’ll go now.”
“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “Tell him what has happened. Tell him I will be in direct contact with him shortly. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry -”
“Leave it to me,” said Bill.
He clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, kissed his mother on the cheek, pulled on his cloak, and strode quickly from the room.
“Minerva,” said Dumbledore, turning to Professor McGonagall, “I want to see Hagrid in my office as soon as possible. Also - if she will consent to come – Madame Maxime.”
Professor McGonagall nodded and left without a word.
“Poppy,” Dumbledore said to Madam Pomfrey, “would you be very kind and go down to Professor Moodys office, where I think you will find a house-elf called Winky in considerable distress? Do what you can for her, and take her back to the kitchens. I think Dobby will look after her for us.”
“Very - very well,” said Madam Pomfrey, looking startled, and she too left.
Dumbledore made sure that the door was closed, and that Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps had died away, before he spoke again.
“And now,” he said, “it is time for two of our number to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius… if you could resume your usual form.”
The great black dog looked up at Dumbledore, then, in an instant, turned back into a man.
Mrs. Weasley screamed and leapt back from the bed.
“Sirius Black!” she shrieked, pointing at him.
“Mum, shut up!” Ron yelled. “It’s okay!”
Snape had not yelled or jumped backward, but the look on his face was one of mingled fury and horror.
“Him!” he snarled, staring at Sirius, whose face showed equal dislike. “What is he doing here?”
“He is here at my invitation,” said Dumbledore, looking between them, “as are you, Severus. I trust you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old differences and trust each other.”
Harry thought Dumbledore was asking for a near miracle. Sirius and Snape were eyeing each other with the utmost loathing.
“I will settle, in the short term,” said Dumbledore, with a bite of impatience in his voice, “for a lack of open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the same side now. Time is short, and unless the few of us who know the truth do not stand united, there is no hope for any us.
Very slowly - but still glaring at each other as though each wished the othernothing but ill - Sirius and Snape moved toward each other and shook hands. They let go extremely quickly.
“That will do to be going on with,” said Dumbledore, stepping between them once more. “Now I have work for each of you. Fudge’s attitude, though not unexpected, changes everything. Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher - the old crowd. Lie low at Lupin’s for a while; I will contact you there.”
“But -” said Harry.
He wanted Sirius to stay. He did not want to have to say goodbye again so quickly.
“You’ll see me very soon. Harry,” said Sirius, turning to him. “I promise you. But I must do what I can, you understand, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah… of course I do.”
Sirius grasped his hand briefly, nodded to Dumbledore, transformed again into the black dog, and ran the length of the room to the door, whose handle he turned with a paw. Then he was gone.
“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready… if you are prepared…”
“I am,” said Snape.
He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.
“Then good luck,” said Dumbledore, and he watched, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape swept wordlessly after Sirius.
It was several minutes before Dumbledore spoke again.
“I must go downstairs,” he said finally. “I must see the Diggorys. Harry - take the rest of your potion. I will see all of you later.”
Harry slumped back against his pillows as Dumbledore disappeared. Hermione, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley were all looking at him. None of them spoke for a very long time.
“You’ve got to take the rest of your potion Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said at last. Her hand nudged the sack of gold on his bedside cabinet as she reached for the bottle and the goblet. “You have a good long sleep. Try and think about something else for a while… think about what you’re going to buy with your winnings!”
“I don’t want that gold,” said Harry in an expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have it. I shouldn’t have won it. It should’ve been Cedric’s.”
The thing against which he had been fighting on and off ever since he had come out of the maze was threatening to overpower him. He could feel a burning, prickling feeling in the inner corners of his eyes. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling.
“It wasn’t your fault. Harry,” Mrs. Weasley whispered.
“I told him to take the cup with me,” said Harry.
Now the burning feeling was in his throat too. He wished Ron would look away. Mrs. Weasley set the potion down on the bedside cabinet, bent down, and put her arms around Harry. He had no memory of ever being hugged like this, as though by a mother. The full weight of everything he had seen that night seemed to fall in upon him as Mrs. Weasley held him to her. His mother s face, his father’s voice, the sight of Cedric, dead on the ground all started spinning in his head until he could hardly bear it, until he was screwing up his face against the howl of misery fighting to get out of him.
There was a loud slamming noise, and Mrs. Weasley and Harry broke apart. Hermione was standing by the window. She was holding something tight in her hand.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Your potion, Harry,” said Mrs. Weasley quickly, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.
Harry drank it in one gulp. The effect was instantaneous. Heavy, irresistible waves of dreamless sleep broke over him; he fell back onto his pillows and thought no more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Beginning
When he looked back, even a month later, Harry found he had only scattered memories of the next few days. It was as though he had been through too much to take in any more. The recollections he did have were very painful. The worst, perhaps, was the meeting with the Diggorys that took place the following morning.
They did not blame him for what had happened; on the contrary, both thanked him for returning Cedric’s body to them. Mr. Diggory sobbed through most of the interview. Mrs. Diggory’s grief seemed to be beyond tears.
“He suffered very little then,” she said, when Harry had told her how Cedric had died. “And after all, Amos… he died just when he’d won the tournament. He must have been happy.”
When they got to their feet, she looked down at Harry and said, “You look after yourself, now.”
Harry seized the sack of gold on the bedside table.
“You take this,” he muttered to her. “It should’ve been Cedric’s, he got there first, you take it -”
But she backed away from him.
“Oh no, it’s yours, dear, I couldn’t… you keep it.”
Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower the following evening. From what Hermione and Ron told him, Dumbledore had spoken to the school that morning at breakfast. He had merely requested that they leave Harry alone, that nobody ask him questions or badger him to tell the story of what had happened in the maze. Most people, he noticed, were skirting him in the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whispered behind their hands as he passed. He guessed that many of them had believed Rita Skeeter’s article about how disturbed and possibly dangerous he was. Perhaps they were formulating their own theories about how Cedric had died. He found he didn’t care very much. He liked it best when he was with Ron and Hermione and they were talking about other things, or else letting him sit in silence while they played chess. He felt as though all three of them had reached an understanding they didn’t need to put into words; that each was waiting for some sign, some word, of what was going on outside Hogwarts - and that it was useless to speculate about what might be coming until they knew anything for certain. The only time they touched upon the subject was when Ron told Harry about a meeting Mrs. Weasley had had with Dumbledore before going home.
“She went to ask him if you could come straight to us this summer,” he said. “But he wants you to go back to the Dursleys, at least at first.”
“Why?” said Harry.
“She said Dumbledore’s got his reasons,” said Ron, shaking his head darkly. “I suppose we’ve got to trust him, haven’t we?”
The only person apart from Ron and Hermione that Harry felt able to talk to was Hagrid. As there was no longer a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, they had those lessons free. They used the one on Thursday afternoon to go down and visit Hagrid in his cabin. It was a bright and sunny day; Fang bounded out of the open door as they approached, barking and wagging his tail madly.
“Who’s that?” called Hagrid, coming to the door. “Harry!”
He strode out to meet them, pulled Harry into a one-armed hug, ruffled his hair, and said, “Good ter see yeh, mate. Good ter see yeh.”
They saw two bucket-size cups and saucers on the wooden table in front of the fireplace when they entered Hagrid’s cabin.
“Bin havin’ a cuppa with Olympe,” Hagrid said. “She’s jus’ left.”
“Who?” said Ron curiously.
“Madame Maxime, o’ course!” said Hagrid.
“You two made up, have you?” said Ron.
“Dunno what yeh’re talkin’ about,” said Hagrid airily, fetching more cups from the dresser. When he had made tea and offered around a plate of doughy cookies, he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Harry closely through his beetle-black eyes.
“You all righ’?” he said gruffly
“Yeah,” said Harry.
“No, yeh’re not,” said Hagrid. “Course yeh’re not. But yeh will be.”
Harry said nothing.
“Knew he was goin’ ter come back,” said Hagrid, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked up at him, shocked. “Known it fer years Harry. Knew he was out there, bidin’ his time. It had ter happen. Well, now it has, an’ we’ll jus’ have ter get on with it. We’ll fight. Migh’ be able ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That’s Dumbledores plan, anyway. Great man, Dumbledore. ‘S long as we’ve got him, I’m not too worried.”
Hagrid raised his bushy eyebrows at the disbelieving expressions on their faces.
“No good sittin’ worryin’ abou’ it,” he said. “What’s comin’ will come, an we’ll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha’ you did. Harry.”
Hagrid’s chest swelled as he looked at Harry.
“Yeh did as much as yer father would’ve done, an’ I can’ give yeh no higher praise than that.”
Harry smiled back at him. It was the first time he’d smiled in days. “What’s Dumbledore asked you to do, Hagrid?” he asked. “He sent Professor McGonagall to ask you and Madame Maxime to meet him - that night.”
“Got a little job fer me over the summer,” said Hagrid. “Secret, though. I’m not s’pposed ter talk abou’ it, no, not even ter you lot. Olympe - Madame Maxime ter you - might be comin’ with me. I think she will. Think I got her persuaded.”
“Is it to do with Voldemort?”
Hagrid flinched at the sound of the name.
“Migh’ be,” he said evasively. “Now… who’d like ter come an’ visit the las’ skrewt with me? I was jokin’ - jokin’!” he added hastily, seeing the looks on their faces.
It was with a heavy heart that Harry packed his trunk up in the dormitory on the night before his return to Privet Drive. He was dreading the Leaving Feast, which was usually a cause for celebration, when the winner of the Inter-House Championship would be announced. He had avoided being in the Great Hall when it was full ever since he had left the hospital wing, preferring to eat when it was nearly empty to avoid the stares of his fellow students.
When he, Ron, and Hermione entered the Hall, they saw at once that the usual decorations were missing. The Great Hall was normally decorated with the winning House’s colors for the Leaving Feast. Tonight, however, there were black drapes on the wall behind the teachers’ table. Harry knew instantly that they were there as a mark of respect to Cedric.
The real Mad-Eye Moody was at the staff table now, his wooden leg and his magical eye back in place. He was extremely twitchy, jumping every time someone spoke to him. Harry couldn’t blame him; Moodys fear of attack was bound to have been increased by his ten-month imprisonment in his own trunk. Professor Karkaroff s chair was empty. Harry wondered, as he sat down with the other Gryffindors, where Karkaroff was now, and whether Voldemort had caught up with him.
Madame Maxime was still there. She was sitting next to Hagrid. They were talking quietly together. Further along the table, sitting next to Professor McGonagall, was Snape. His eyes lingered on Harry for a moment as Harry looked at him. His expression was difficult to read. He looked as sour and unpleasant as ever. Harry continued to watch him, long after Snape had looked away.
What was it that Snape had done on Dumbledores orders, the night that Voldemort had returned? And why… why… was Dumbledore so convinced that Snape was truly on their side? He had been their spy, Dumbledore had said so in the Pensieve. Snape had turned spy against Voldemort, “at great personal risk.” Was that the job he had taken up again? Had he made contact with the Death Eaters, perhaps? Pretended that he had never really gone over to Dumbledore, that he had been, like Voldemort himself, biding his time?
Harry’s musings were ended by Professor Dumbledore, who stood up at the staff table. The Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy than it usually was at the Leaving Feast, became very quiet.
“The end,” said Dumbledore, looking around at them all, “of another year.”
He paused, and his eyes fell upon the Hufflepuff table. Theirs had been the most subdued table before he had gotten to his feet, and theirs were still the saddest and palest faces in the Hall.
“There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight,” said Dumbledore, “but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here,” he gestured toward the Hufflepuffs, “enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory.”
They did it, all of them; the benches scraped as everyone in the Hall stood, and raised their goblets, and echoed, in one loud, low, rumbling voice, “Cedric Diggory.”
Harry caught a glimpse of Cho through the crowd. There were tears pouring silently down her face. He looked down at the table as they all sat down again.
“Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff house,” Dumbledore continued. “He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about.”
Harry raised his head and stared at Dumbledore.
“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”
A panicked whisper swept the Great Hall. People were staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He looked perfectly calm as he watched them mutter themselves into silence.
“The Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore continued, “does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so - either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”
Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall was turned toward Dumbledore now… or almost every face. Over at the Slytherin table Harry saw Draco Malfoy muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle. Harry felt a hot, sick swoop of anger in his stomach. He forced himself to look back at Dumbledore.
“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedrics death,” Dumbledore went on. “I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.”
A kind of ripple crossed the Great Hall as a few heads turned in Harry’s direction before flicking back to face Dumbledore.
“Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort,” said Dumbledore. “He risked his own life to return Cedric’s body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor him.”
Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed suit. They murmured his name, as they had murmured Cedric’s, and drank to him. But through a gap in the standing figures.
Harry saw that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and many of the other Slytherins had remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets untouched. Dumbledore, who after all possessed no magical eye, did not see them.
When everyone had once again resumed their seats, Dumbledore continued, “The Triwizard Tournament’s aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened - of Lord Voldemorts return - such ties are more important than ever before.”
Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the Slytherin table. Krum, Harry saw, looked wary, almost frightened, as though he expected Dumbledore to say something harsh.
“Every guest in this Hall,” said Dumbledore, and his eyes lingered upon the Durmstrang students, “will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again - in the light of Lord Voldemort’s return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemorts gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.
“It is my belief - and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken - that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst.
“Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and
kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.”
Harry’s trunk was packed; Hedwig was back in her cage on top of it. He, Ron, and Hermione were waiting in the crowded entrance hall with the rest of the fourth years for the carriages that would take them back to Hogsmeade station. It was another beautiful summer’s day. He supposed that Privet Drive would be hot and leafy, its flower beds a riot of color, when he arrived there that evening. The thought gave him no pleasure at all.
“‘Arry!”
He looked around. Fleur Delacour was hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Beyond her, far across the grounds Harry could see Hagrid helping Madame Maxime to back two of the giant horses into their harness. The Beauxbatons carriage was about to take off.
“We will see each uzzer again, I ‘ope,” said Fleur as she reached him, holding out her hand. “I am ‘oping to get a job ‘ere, to improve my Eenglish.”
“It’s very good already,” said Ron in a strangled sort of voice. Fleur smiled at him; Hermione scowled.
“Good-bye, ‘Arry,” said Fleur, turning to go. “It ‘az been a pleasure meeting you!”
Harrys spirits couldn’t help but lift slightly as he watched Fleur hurry back across the lawns to Madame Maxime, her silvery hair rippling in the sunlight.
“Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting back,” said Ron. “D’ you reckon they can steer that ship without Karkaroff?”
“Karkaroff did not steer,” said a gruff voice. “He stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork.”
Krum had come to say good-bye to Hermione. “Could I have a vord?” he asked her.
“Oh… yes… all right,” said Hermione, looking slightly flustered, and following Krum through the crowd and out of sight.
“You’d better hurry up!” Ron called loudly after her. “The carriages’ll be here in a minute!”
He let Harry keep a watch for the carriages, however, and spent the next few minutes craning his neck over the crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione might be up to. They returned quite soon. Ron stared at Hermione, but her face was quite impassive.
“I liked Diggory,” said Krum abruptly to Harry. “He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang - with Karkaroff,” he added, scowling.
“Have you got a new headmaster yet?” said Harry
Krum shrugged. He held out his hand as Fleur had done, shook Harry’s hand, and then Ron’s. Ron looked as though he was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started walking away when Ron burst out, “Can I have your autograph?”
Hermione turned away, smiling at the horseless carriages that were now trundling toward them up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signed a fragment of parchment for Ron.
The weather could not have been more different on the journey back to King’s Cross than it had been on their way to Hogwarts the previous September. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had managed to get a compartment to themselves. Pigwidgeon was once again hidden under Rons dress robes to stop him from hooting continually; Hedwig was dozing, her head under her wing, and Crookshanks was curled up in a spare seat like a large, furry ginger cushion. Harry, Ron, and Hermione talked more fully and freely than they had all week as the train sped them southward. Harry felt as though Dumbledore’s speech at the Leaving Feast had unblocked him, somehow. It was less painful to discuss what had happened now. They broke off their conversation about what action Dumbledore might be taking, even now, to stop Voldemort only when the lunch trolley arrived.
When Hermione returned from the trolley and put her money back into her schoolbag, she dislodged a copy of the Daily Prophet that she had been carrying in there. Harry looked at it, unsure whether he really wanted to know what it might say, but Hermione, seeing him looking at it, said calmly, “There’s nothing in there. You can look for yourself, but there’s nothing at all. I’ve been checking every day. Just a small piece the day after the third task saying you won the tournament. They didn’t even mention Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me Fudge is
forcing them to keep quiet.”
“He’ll never keep Rita quiet,” said Harry. “Not on a story like this.”
“Oh, Rita hasn’t written anything at all since the third task,” said Hermione in an oddly constrained voice. “As a matter of fact,” she added, her voice now trembling slightly, “Rita Skeeter isn’t going to be writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she wants me to spill the beans on her.”
“What are you talking about?” said Ron.
“I found out how she was listening in on private conversations when she wasn’t supposed to be coming onto the grounds,” said Hermione in a rush.
Harry had the impression that Hermione had been dying to tell them this for days, but that she had restrained herself in light of everything else that had happened.
“How was she doing it?” said Harry at once.
“How did you find out?” said Ron, staring at her.
“Well, it was you, really, who gave me the idea Harry,” she said.
“Did I?” said Harry, perplexed. “How?”
“Bugging,” said Hermione happily.
“But you said they didn’t work -”
“Oh not electronic bugs,” said Hermione. “No, you see… Rita Skeeter” -
Hermiones voice trembled with quiet triumph - “is an unregistered Animagus. She can turn -”
Hermione pulled a small sealed glass jar out other bag. “- into a beetle.”
“You’re kidding,” said Ron. “You haven’t… she’s not…”
“Oh yes she is,” said Hermione happily, brandishing the jar at them.
Inside were a few twigs and leaves and one large, fat beetle.
“That’s never - you’re kidding -” Ron whispered, lifting the jar to his eyes.
“No, I’m not,” said Hermione, beaming. “I caught her on the windowsill in the hospital wing. Look very closely, and you’ll notice the markings around her antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she wears.”
Harry looked and saw that she was quite right. He also remembered something.
“There was a beetle on the statue the night we heard Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!”
“Exactly,” said Hermione. “And Viktor pulled a beetle out of my hair after we’d had our conversation by the lake. And unless I’m very much mistaken, Rita was perched on the windowsill of the Divination class the day your scar hurt. She’s been buzzing around for stories all year.”
“When we saw Malfoy under that tree…” said Ron slowly.
“He was talking to her, in his hand,” said Hermione. “He knew, of course. That’s how she’s been getting all those nice little interviews with the Slytherins. They wouldn’t care that she was doing something illegal, as long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us and Hagrid.”
Hermione took the glass jar back from Ron and smiled at the beetle, which buzzed angrily against the glass.
“I’ve told her I’ll let her out when we get back to London,” said Hermione. “I’ve put an Unbreakable Charm on the jar, you see, so she can’t transform. And I’ve told her she’s to keep her quill to herself for a whole year. See if she can’t break the habit of writing horrible lies about people.”
Smiling serenely, Hermione placed the beetle back inside her schoolbag.
The door of the compartment slid open.
“Very clever Granger,” said Draco Malfoy.
Crabbe and Goyle were standing behind him. All three of them looked more pleased with themselves, more arrogant and more menacing, than Harry had ever seen them.
“So,” said Malfoy slowly, advancing slightly into the compartment and looking slowly around at them, a smirk quivering on his lips. “You caught some pathetic reporter, and Potter’s Dumbledore’s favorite boy again. Big deal.”
His smirk widened. Crabbe and Goyle leered.
“Trying not to think about it, are we?” said Malfoy softly, looking around at all three of them. “Trying to pretend it hasn’t happened?”
“Get out,” said Harry.
He had not been this close to Malfoy since he had watched him muttering to Crabbe and Goyle during Dumbledores speech about Cedric. He could feel a kind of ringing in his ears. His hand gripped his wand under his robes.
“You’ve picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!” He jerked his head at Ron and Hermione. “Too late now Potter! They’ll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord’s back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first! Well - second - Diggory was the f-”
It was as though someone had exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the blaze of the spells that had blasted from every direction, deafened by a series of bangs, Harry blinked and looked down at the floor.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were all lying unconscious in the doorway. He, Ron, and Hermione were on their feet, all three of them having used a different hex. Nor were they the only ones to have done so.
“Thought we’d see what those three were up to,” said Fred matter-of-factly, stepping onto Goyle and into the compartment. He had his wand out, and so did George, who was careful to tread on Malfoy as he followed Fred inside.
“Interesting effect,” said George, looking down at Crabbe. “Who used the Furnunculus Curse?”
“Me,” said Harry.
“Odd,” said George lightly. “I used Jelly-Legs. Looks as though those two shouldn’t be mixed. He seems to have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, let’s not leave them here, they don’t add much to the decor.”
Ron, Harry, and George kicked, rolled, and pushed the unconscious Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle - each of whom looked distinctly the worse for the jumble of jinxes with which they had been hit - out into the corridor, then came back into the compartment and rolled the door shut.
“Exploding Snap, anyone?” said Fred, pulling out a pack of cards.
They were halfway through their fifth game when Harry decided to ask them.
“You going to tell us, then?” he said to George. “Who you were blackmailing?”
“Oh,” said George darkly. “That.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Fred, shaking his head impatiently. “It wasn’t anything important. Not now, anyway.”
“We’ve given up,” said George, shrugging.
But Harry, Ron, and Hermione kept on asking, and finally, Fred said, “All right, all right, if you really want to know… it was Ludo Bagman.”
“Bagman?” said Harry sharply. “Are you saying he was involved in -”
“Nah,” said George gloomily. “Nothing like that. Stupid git. He wouldn’t have the brains.”
“Well, what, then?” said Ron.
Fred hesitated, then said, “You remember that bet we had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?”
“Yeah,” said Harry and Ron slowly.
“Well, the git paid us in leprechaun gold he’d caught from the Irish mascots.”
“So?”
“So,” said Fred impatiently, “it vanished, didn’t it? By next morning, it had gone!”
“But - it must’ve been an accident, mustn’t it?” said Hermione.
George laughed very bitterly.
“Yeah, that’s what we thought, at first. We thought if we just wrote to him, and told him he’d made a mistake, he’d cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at Hogwarts, but he was always making some excuse to get away from us.”
“In the end, he turned pretty nasty,” said Fred. “Told us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn’t giving us anything.”
“So we asked for our money back,” said George glowering.
“He didn’t refuse!” gasped Hermione.
“Right in one,” said Fred.
“But that was all your savings!” said Ron.
“Tell me about it,” said George. “‘Course, we found out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan’s dad had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as well. Turns out he’s in big trouble with the goblins. Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and took all the gold he had, and it still wasn’t enough to cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He’s lost everything gambling. Hasn’t got two Galleons to rub together. And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins back?”
“How?” said Harry.
“He put a bet on you, mate,” said Fred. “Put a big bet on you to win the tournament. Bet against the goblins.”
“So that’s why he kept trying to help me win!” said Harry. “Well - I did win, didn’t I? So he can pay you your gold!”
“Nope,” said George, shaking his head. “The goblins play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory, and Bagman was betting you’d win outright. So Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after the third task.”
George sighed deeply and started dealing out the cards again.
The rest of the journey passed pleasantly enough; Harry wished it could have gone on all summer, in fact, and that he would never arrive at King’s Cross… but as he had learned the hard way that year, time will not slow down when something unpleasant lies ahead, and all too soon, the Hogwarts Express was pulling in at platform nine and three-quarters. The usual confusion and noise filled the corridors as the students began to disembark. Ron and Hermione struggled out past Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, carrying their trunks. Harry, however, stayed put.
“Fred - George - wait a moment.”
The twins turned. Harry pulled open his trunk and drew out his Triwizard winnings.
“Take it,” he said, and he thrust the sack into George’s hands.
“What?” said Fred, looking flabbergasted.
“Take it,” Harry repeated firmly. “I don’t want it.”
“You’re mental,” said George, trying to push it back at Harry.
“No, I’m not,” said Harry. “You take it, and get inventing. It’s for the joke shop.”
“He is mental,” Fred said in an almost awed voice.
“Listen,” said Harry firmly. “If you don’t take it, I’m throwing it down the drain. I don’t want it and I don’t need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need them more than usual before long.”
“Harry,” said George weakly, weighing the money bag in his hands, “there’s got to be a thousand Galleons in here.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “Think how many Canary Creams that is.”
The twins stared at him.
“Just don’t tell your mum where you got it… although she might not be so keen for you to join the Ministry anymore, come to think of it…”
“Harry,” Fred began, but Harry pulled out his wand.
“Look,” he said flatly, “take it, or I’ll hex you. I know some good ones now. Just do me one favor, okay? Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they’re from you.”
He left the compartment before they could say another word, stepping over Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were still lying on the floor, covered in hex marks.
Uncle Vernon was waiting beyond the barrier. Mrs. Weasley was close by him. She hugged Harry very tightly when she saw him and whispered in his ear, “I think Dumbledore will let you come to us later in the summer. Keep in touch, Harry.”
“See you. Harry,” said Ron, clapping him on the back.
“‘Bye, Harry!” said Hermione, and she did something she had never done before, and kissed him on the cheek.
“Harry - thanks,” George muttered, while Fred nodded fervently at his side.
Harry winked at them, turned to Uncle Vernon, and followed him silently from the station. There was no point worrying yet, he told himself, as he got into the back of the Dursleys’ car.
As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come… and he would have to meet it when it did.
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