XXV. The Empty Crown
January 25, 2026 at 5:00 PM
‘Her skeleton shall remain in the Chamber of Secrets for ever,’ Hermione read out, frowning, unable to hide her astonishment. She, now privy to the Secret of that very Chamber, could say with certainty that there was no skeleton there. Outside—by all means, as many as you like; but inside—not so much as a bone. ‘Who’s “her” meant to be?’
‘“Her” means you,’ Ron said mockingly, coming up behind her and giving a tug at a lock of hair at the back of her head. For some reason almost all their year-mates took that gesture as a sign of friendliness, whereas in fact it simply hurt. And was stupid.
‘But they cheered too soon, didn’t they? You’re not that easy to get rid of.’ The joke was feeble too, and double-edged. Hermione gave the freckled boy a very stern look.
She was quite sure it was his older brothers, the resident jokers, who had charmed the inscription. The style was unmistakable. The graffiti—which sprang into view the moment you stepped through the door, masked from outside by the portrait of the Fat Lady—shimmered in a rainbow of colours, and crackled with sparks of miniature fireworks.
No points were taken. In fact, Professor McGonagall never even found out Hermione had been missing for half the night. The only person to react to her disappearance was Percy, and he confined himself to a long, crushing ticking-off, because Hermione had the sense to mention straight away the detention that had already been set. Evidently, detention with Professor Snape looked to more people than just her like the ultimate disciplinary measure. Hermione firmly locked the thought of it in a little box inside her mind. She couldn’t change the fait accompli, so there was no sense in mulling it over endlessly.
So Percy didn’t tell. Hermione was beginning to understand why everyone around her regarded her sensible habit of involving adults in problem situations with such distaste. It took just one trip to the wrong side of the rules, and everything appeared in a new light. But that, too, was better thought through later. What she could not push from her mind was how soon they would have started to look for her body.
Myrtle loved to weep bitterly over that phrasing. ‘They didn’t even look for my body…’ she would say, consumed with self-pity, and then would invariably burst into floods of tears. It had irritated Hermione before, but now she felt for her.
When she tiptoed into the dormitory, lighting her way with the faintest Lumos she could manage without snuffing it out, Lavender, Fay, Parvati, and Kella were sleeping peacefully. ‘All right,’ Hermione decided, ‘that’s normal.’ But in the morning no one pounced on her with questions. They ought to have. If only to catch her out for being absent after lights-out. ‘No one noticed,’ Hermione concluded, unpleasantly. ‘They ignore me to the point they don’t even register whether I’m there or not.’
But that, too, turned out to be the product of wishful thinking. The inscription made it plain: at least the younger Weasleys had noticed. And they—and, more likely, Ronald in particular—did care enough. They took it as an opportunity for a joke.
And it was precisely as she looked at the cheery, mismatched letters—Ron shoved her impatiently with his shoulder, and Hermione stepped aside to let him through, but remained standing by the door to the common room as it swung shut—that with suffocating clarity she realised Harry had been right. He had quite unceremoniously jabbed a finger at what she had previously refused to see and admit (a primitive psychological defence mechanism; she had some notion of it from the articles in Mum’s favourite magazines), and now, dragged into the light, it was glaringly obvious. She really had no friends.
Though no, not quite.
Correction: she had no friends in Gryffindor.
And they couldn’t care less about the points she earned for the house. Hermione decided that henceforth she would earn points for herself. At least she, Hermione Granger, was interested in, and needed, her academic success. The House Cup could go to Mordred—for all she cared—she suddenly remembered the local curse.
A house wasn’t a family. People in a family didn’t behave like that. The professors weren’t true Adults—yesterday they had proved that amply. In places run by adults, Class XXXX dangerous magical creatures did not roam school corridors unchecked—yes, she had studied the bestiary, she knew what a troll was, and she was perfectly aware of the kind of death she had only just avoided. Professor McGonagall… wasn’t an Adult either. Hermione unreservedly, though with due solemn sorrow, stripped her of that title. Adults catch dragons—where had a dragon come from, anyway, and no one properly explained anything!—and they do it themselves, without help from students. In fact, they call in specialists. Such people existed; Hermione had read about them. The Ministry of Magic had teams for dealing with dangerous magical creatures, and even dragon-slayers for precisely such cases.
A ghastly, chaotic, irresponsible world now surrounded Hermione—and she was part of it—and this was the very world she would have to adapt to inhabit. Adaptation is key to survival. ‘Beads and a spear,’ she remembered, and sighed.
She could count on herself alone. And a little—on the dark wizard with the appalling temper, her new friend. From this day she needed to study much harder, and faster—who knew what else might happen, if no one was in control. Anything at all—and worse than this.
She had expected to see Harry at breakfast, and perhaps to speak with him, since conversation was an essential part of friendly dealings; but he didn’t appear, and alongside a slight disappointment Hermione felt a twinge of worry. Yesterday Professor Snape hadn’t looked particularly angry—for him, he had been almost gracious—but a great deal could happen overnight. Apart from the dragon. If someone had been hurt by that, they would announce it, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they?
How she wished she could answer, confidently, ‘Yes’!
The only place that always brought her peace and quiet was the library, so that’s where Hermione went, mindful of her newly made decision. To begin with, she intended to read everything she could find on dragons, basilisks, and trolls. Who knew what she had missed before. She ought to be prepared.
Also, to do him justice, the dark wizard was a fairly diligent student—not as much as she was, of course, but still—so it was perfectly logical to expect him to appear within the library at some point. And so he did, though much later than Hermione had hoped, right before lunch. She had only just finished stacking the books into a neat pile and was about to ask the librarian not to reshelve them for the time being, when Harry walked in—at a pace far too brisk for the library. He looked a bit dishevelled, but at least there were no scorch-marks from dragon-fire, and no other visible damage. Casting a furtive glance around, he grabbed her by the sleeve, hauled her behind the nearest row of shelves, and hissed in her ear: ‘Right. Completely forgot to warn you—my fault. Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say. First: you don’t come near me. In the Great Hall, in lessons—nowhere. If your lot see you’ve fallen in with me, they’ll eat you alive. Mine will have a go at me for now as well, but I’ll sort them, just give me time. Clear?’
Hermione nodded in silence. Tears rose to her throat, but Harry was ruthlessly right. Friendship with the ‘Snakes’ wasn’t something Gryffindors forgave one another. And she was an outcast in her own house as it was, as she had been forced to admit in the light of her morning self-revelations.
‘Second,’ Harry hissed even more softly, and she couldn’t help thinking of Parseltongue—an extraordinarily curious phenomenon just begging to be studied—‘for the time being, we only see each other in detention, or here. Here, we don’t sit at the same table either. Stick close—back to back, so it’s easier to chuck notes over. I’ve already thought of something so we can talk in secret, but that’ll take time as well. By the end of the holidays at the latest. Got that?’
‘Yes,’ she mouthed.
‘Good. And third, most important. I’ve got a task for you.’
‘A task?!’ Hermione couldn’t help feeling both indignant and impressed. The cheek of him! ‘What are you, a professor?’
‘Shh!’ Harry pinched her in the side, and Hermione very nearly squeaked aloud. Horrible boy. ‘Don’t shout, for Merlin’s sake, or I’ll hex you. A task as a friend. I can’t manage without you, and it really matters. I’ll tell you everything properly, but let’s go and get some food first. Otherwise I’m going to keel over—I haven’t even had breakfast.’
With that he let go of her elbow—which he had managed to seize along the way—his eyes flashed behind his glasses, he pressed his forefinger to his lips for a second—either another ‘quiet!’, or ‘don’t blab!’, or both—turned on his heel, and darted off, his robes billowing. Hermione snorted after him. Some friend—who needs enemies with friends like that, as they say.
On the other hand, it was this appalling type who had burst into Myrtle’s bathroom—like something out of a film, at the very last second—summoned the basilisk, saved her life, and shown her the most secret secret of Hogwarts. And a truly beastly temper, alas, judging by the books she had read, was an inevitable trait of a dark wizard. Perhaps, to some extent, she ought to turn a blind eye.
But she would certainly teach him not to pinch!
Hermione straightened her robes, lifted her chin, and set off for the Great Hall.
* * *
Tom, with his utterly incorrigible bent for drama, would have felt positively unwell if he’d broken the news any more gently. Harry knew that well enough, but his heart almost stopped all the same. Of course his brother followed the commandment ‘don’t get caught’ with religious fervour, and would hardly have left incriminating traces. Even so, Harry had to ask: ‘They won’t find it, will they? Oh, tell me they won’t. Merlin, you do realise that half the school is currently scouring the Forbidden Forest on their brooms?’ ‘They won’t,’ Tom smiled condescendingly, without altering his lofty, languid sprawl in the armchair. ‘Not unless they start digging up the beds—I mean that quite literally.’ As it turned out, Vanishing a living object as complex as a dragon wasn’t all that easy—though Tom laid far more stress on the value of the ingredients one could harvest from its carcass. He explained the vegetable patch thus: it was the only place in the vicinity where freshly turned earth wouldn’t draw attention. There was logic to his reasoning, although Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that Tom had simply lacked the time or the strength; otherwise the little dragon’s body would have gone where everything else he had subjected to the Vanishing Spell ended up. The real mystery was where the half-giant had managed to procure so dangerous a pet. Or rather, the egg. He must have bought it on the black market—there were no wild dragon populations anywhere near, and over the summer Hagrid hadn’t left Hogwarts grounds. By the time Tom found it, the baby dragon was still small—hatched only recently. It must have cost Hagrid no end of effort to hatch and rear it; under normal conditions, scaly mothers warmed their clutches with their own flame. It was the constant smoke from the chimney stack that drew Tom’s attention at the outset, but he put off calling on the old acquaintance—there were plenty of other matters on hand. A few weeks later Hagrid began haunting the henhouse, which might have interfered with the basilisk plan, so the gamekeeper was placed under serious surveillance—the ghosts inside the school building, and Tom himself outside it, as far as his ‘radius of action’ reached. When it emerged that the giant was lugging chicken blood from the poultry shed to his hut, it became only a matter of time before they learnt whom he was feeding it to, even though Hagrid kept all the windows nailed shut, and opened the door just enough to squeeze through, as if he sensed someone meant to unmask him. Tom’s first impulse, as he admitted, was to destroy the dangerous beast on the spot, but on sober reflection he chose to wait a couple of days. That, Harry belatedly realised, explained all the ‘busy, later’ on Hallowe’en, and the day before. Tom was personally overseeing the dragon problem, whilst at the same time coordinating ghost-led surveillance of the professors. And Harry had thought he was the one who’d had the nerve-racking sprint the previous night. When the main plan veered off course, and it became clear that the basilisk had returned early to the Chamber of Secrets—taking Harry with it, and two outsiders as well, which hadn’t been envisaged at all—Tom made the dragon set the hut alight, felled it with a Killing Curse, and buried it. The thick half-giant was, at that moment, dead drunk. Tom didn’t even need to top him up with potions; he had knocked himself out with the staggering quantities of brandy he’d been downing that evening—half and half with tea for himself, and half and half with chicken blood for his fire-breathing toy. Harry swallowed the urge to ask whether Tom had meant to roast Hagrid along with the hut. He knew what the answer would be: culpa lata. Indifference, in other words. Besides, was the gamekeeper truly unaware how keeping a dragon in a wooden house was going to end? The flying lizard could just as easily have torched him without Tom’s involvement—on some other day. Such an outcome was perfectly predictable, if you thought about it properly, and there was nothing whatsoever to pity the fool for. He ought to say ‘thank you’ for being left alive; let the dragon have grown a little more, and the feckless idiot would have ended up dead as surely as night follows day. Yes, Hagrid definitely wasn’t the full Galleon—he was more dangerous than any dragon; Harry was now inclined to agree with Tom. When the most knotted questions had sorted themselves out, Harry remembered what had caught his eye first. He nodded towards the dull, dented circlet. ‘Found something interesting?’ Tom gave a non-committal grunt. ‘Hold it,’ he ordered. ‘And tell me what you feel.’ Somewhat puzzled, Harry obeyed. Up close the thing struck him as older than he had first thought. No, it wasn’t a ball tiara or a wedding tiara, more a piece from an archaeological museum. In the microscopic nicks on the surface of the tarnished metal—silver, presumably, as that was often used for magical objects—dried soil had been ground in. Along the inner side of the band ran an inscription: ‘INGENII ACVMEN THESAVRVS EST.’ Oval gemstones—opals or moonstones, or something akin to them, Harry couldn’t have said which—pale, clouded, and crazed, yet set in filigree—sat all along the circlet, the largest in the centre. Above it, two stylised, but perfectly recognisable, ravens bent their beaked heads towards one another, crowning the ornament. ‘Well?’ Tom prompted. Harry thoughtfully rubbed his scar. ‘An antique, isn’t it? Medieval, even.’ He weighed the artefact in his hand. ‘Heavier than it looks.’ ‘I didn’t ask what you think—I asked what you feel.’ Tom leant forward in his chair, fingertips pressed together. A strange, taut attention was written on his face. Harry shrugged. ‘Nothing?’ ‘Put it on,’ Tom commanded. Harry smirked. ‘Using me as your guinea pig?’ he couldn’t resist. The remark came out tart. Tom twitched an eyebrow. ‘If I could try it on myself, I would,’ he said, and Harry instantly sobered. Any reminder of Tom’s disembodied state was entirely unnecessary. He set the weighty circlet on his head. Now he found himself wanting to call it a ‘crown’, and the recent associations with underage monarchs surfaced again—the crown was distinctly too large. ‘Still nothing,’ he reported. Tom narrowed his eyes, scrutinising him. ‘As I suspected,’ he concluded. ‘By the by, you currently have on your head a relic thought lost for nine centuries. Savour the moment.’ Harry snatched the circlet off at once, far more respectfully than he had put it on. ‘Blimey!’ he blurted, turning it over in his hands with renewed curiosity. ‘What is it?’ ‘No guesses at all?’ Tom teased, in his habitual manner of displaying intellectual superiority. Harry scowled. ‘A hint?’ he begged. Tom tilted his head, then took pity. ‘Look at the inscription.’ Harry racked his brains for all they were worth. ‘Ingenii’… The archaic letterforms didn’t help. That looked like ‘genius’, or something of the sort. The last word—‘est’—as in ‘to be’. Genius ought to be something. What was that in the middle? ‘Thesaurus’ was a sort of dictionary, wasn’t it? No, that was nonsense—clearly the word had shifted meaning. And then he remembered—he’d read this in the Encyclopaedia Britannica! Of course it had shifted, obviously, because a dictionary is a ‘treasury of words’, and the old meaning… ‘Acuteness of mind is a treasure,’ he said, scarcely believing himself. ‘No way. You’re serious?’ Tom smirked—and Harry understood he’d got it right. In his hands was the Lost Diadem, also known as the Diadem of Ravenclaw. One of the four legendary relics of Hogwarts, no less. ‘It doesn’t work,’ was the first thing he said once he had recovered enough from the shock and admiration. ‘I’m definitely not any cleverer. A real pity.’ And Latin hadn’t taught itself to him either, he added to himself, with deep regret. Not aloud—Tom would have called that ‘a lamentable sloth of mind’, or something even sharper. ‘I suspect,’ Tom said darkly, ‘that the relic’s magic was broken by external interference. Other charms were laid upon the diadem, over the weave Rowena had wrought. Whether their power still obtained at the time, we shall never know. It might have done, considering the Hat of Godric is still functioning to this day.’ His quick, disdainful grimace spoke of outrage at such barbarity. Harry shared the feeling entirely—taking a Hogwarts relic, and breaking it, what a vile deed. Who could have done such a thing, and to what end? ‘What sort of charms,’ he voiced his thoughts, ‘would be worth destroying Rowena’s magic for?’ ‘Ah.’ Tom’s expression grew even darker. ‘That is the truly interesting part. I won’t say for certain yet—but rest assured, I shall find out.’ And if the little monster was still alive, he wouldn’t like what followed, Harry decided, watching the shadow pass over Tom’s face. He didn’t feel the least sympathy for the vandal wizard—he wanted a seat in the front row. ‘We… we’ll return it to the school, won’t we? Once you’ve finished studying—whatever it is you’re studying,’ he said, half an assertion, laying the diadem carefully back on its previous perch atop the heap of books. Tom arched a brow. ‘Return it?’ he repeated, incredulous. ‘You must be joking.’ Harry threw up his hands in exasperation. Sometimes his orphanage upbringing showed. No, Harry was no saint in that regard himself, but one had to look beyond the end of one’s own nose. ‘No, you must be joking! It’s broken anyway—what use is it? And the political dividends? Picture it: cameras, reporters, everyone queueing up to kiss your arse…’ ‘Language,’ Tom winced, and Harry, without missing a beat, corrected himself at once: ‘…everyone over the moon, thanking you on bended knee.’ ‘Cheap laurels,’ Tom sneered, but he hesitated; Harry saw it. ‘Free laurels,’ Harry pressed. ‘We could really do with a way to build your public reputation quickly and easily, couldn’t we?’ Tom shot him a look of utter distaste, and Harry exulted. Victory! It wasn’t about the diadem—this was, apparently, the very first time he had talked Tom round on anything. ‘Suppose so,’ Tom ground it out. ‘All right. When the moment is right, we shall return it.’ ‘Very sensible,’ Harry agreed briskly, striving not to grin. His gaze happened to fall on the clock standing on the bamboo whatnot stand. The hands on the face, clasped in the tight embrace of bronze cupids, were close to twelve. ‘Mordred and Morgana!’ he breathed. He’d almost forgotten. ‘Tom, Tom, listen—Snape is bringing the previous keeper of your diary today! You are coming with me, aren’t you? And let’s agree in advance what I’m to say.’ ‘Of course.’ Tom put on a cold, severe expression. ‘You cannot possibly be allowed out on your own.’ And just try disobeying this time, his eyes added. Harry shivered, and nodded dutifully.* * *
Harry James Potter, in the flesh, made a double-edged impression. A very short boy—much shorter than Draco—narrow-shouldered, and so slight as to be almost translucent. Large, intelligent eyes of an extraordinary green, round, comical spectacles—very like the sort James had once worn. Black hair sticking out every which way, each strand seeming to grow in its own direction—a family affliction of the Potters; it was no accident the potion for taming unruly hair had been invented by the lad’s grandfather. An impeccably pressed uniform, black school shoes polished to a mirror shine. A model student, straight off a poster. But the look—sullen, heavy, evasive. And the face itself altogether too serious for a first-year. On entering the Head of Slytherin’s study, he gave a neat, measured nod. ‘Lord Malfoy. Delighted to make the acquaintance of my dear friend’s father. Professor.’ Another restrained half-bow. ‘Mr Potter,’ Snape greeted him drily. Lucius rose from his chair and extended his hand. ‘Mr Potter. A pleasure, at last, to set eyes on you. Draco has told me a great deal.’ The rules of small talk suggested a light reply—‘I hope only good things’, or turning it back—‘I’ve heard a lot about you from him as well’. Either the boy had never been schooled in such fripperies, or, like Lucius himself, thought them rot. After the handshake he produced the following: ‘So you are the former keeper? I should have guessed.’ They sat by the fire. Snape had conjured a third armchair in advance, and had even ordered tea from the house-elves, though Lucius suspected their guest would hardly risk a sip of anything in the Potions master’s rooms. The hearth crackled warmly, yet there was still the chill—the eternal, ineradicable dankness of the dungeons, unchanged in summer or winter. Beyond the window, a blackish-green murk was eddying. Malfoy realised, to his surprise, that he had, in a way, missed the atmosphere here. ‘Mr Potter,’ Lucius began, studying his long-awaited interlocutor, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. Do you have the item?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you show it to us?’ Potter shook his head. ‘I can describe it. A diary for nineteen forty-three. Plain, lined. Black oilcloth cover. On the back flyleaf, a Winstanley’s bookshop stamp. On the front, the initials and surname “Riddle.” If you try writing in it…’ Here, evidently, Lucius failed to keep his face, because the boy twitched an eyebrow and gave a small, sideways smile. ‘Oh. You didn’t know. If you write in it, the ink vanishes. And he answers you.’ The floor dropped away—how fortunate Lucius heard this sitting down. His pulse hammered in his temples—pounding out the word ‘answers’. Good God! ‘So you know the purpose of the artefact?’ he asked with a composure he did not feel in the slightest. Potter nodded solemnly. ‘Of course. And the artefact carried it off successfully, didn’t it? Which brings me to a question in return. Lord Malfoy, why it happened only now? You had ages, from where I’m standing.’ ‘Happened what? What cursed purpose? You know, if you’re not bluffing; I do not,’ Lucius thought, stung. That one could somehow correspond with the Dark Lord through the diary was surprise enough, and not a pleasant one. What, then, did that mean—his master had never died at all? And the Dark Marks? Why had they dulled and deactivated? Why did they only come to life now? Back then, ten years ago, the state of the Dark Marks served as the key, decisive proof—for those who fervently wished to believe in the Dark Lord’s death, and for those who, just as desperately, refused to. Snape crossed one leg over the other, and laced his fingers over his knee. Potter’s revelations had clearly struck him as well—his face, habitually pale, was bloodless, and he suddenly looked far older than his thirty years. ‘What are you on about, Potter?’ he inquired, and Lucius could not but be grateful for the timely intervention; from Lucius such a question would have been out of place—asking it would at once have betrayed that he hadn’t the faintest. ‘The Dark Lord has returned, Professor.’ Lucius noted automatically the form of address—neither ‘You-Know-Who’, nor any such craven euphemism, not even ‘Lord Voldemort’. The Dark Lord, exactly as a Death Eater would say it. Part of him took offence—Potter had no right. Another part countered, still revolving that inconceivable answers: perhaps Potter had every right, and Lucius himself, possibly, no longer had. ‘We have all long been aware of that,’ Lucius said—and not a word of it was a lie, though in that phrase Potter could, and ought to, hear something rather different from the truth; the truth being that, beyond the bare fact, they knew nothing at all. Potter flicked a dismissive hand, and spread into a new smirk. ‘You don’t seem to have quite understood me,’ he said, and Lucius, with irritation, recognised familiar intonations—the boy was plainly aping his beloved Head of House, exactly as Draco had absorbed his godfather’s acid when he first learned to speak. ‘Allow me to rephrase. The diary was needed so the Dark Lord could overcome death. Which, in the end, he did.’ If, up to that instant, Lucius had thought matters were taking a bad turn, now the true scale dawned. ‘Bad’ was as far from this as the earth from the stars. ‘What a splendid lad my Draco is,’ flashed through Malfoy’s mind—not altogether apt, or perhaps very much so. With Potter behind him, the boy would live. And Narcissa would likely be brought out too. How delightful. ‘That you did not know, Professor, I might believe,’ Potter went on, unchecked. ‘But that the keeper did not—either the Dark Lord did not trust you at all, Lord Malfoy, or you neglected your duties, and the latter is far more likely.’ This accusation Lucius could not bear in silence. He rapped the floor with his cane, and snorted in outrage. ‘Nonsense!’ ‘Far from it.’ Potter was not visibly impressed by his flare-up. ‘You tended the diary so tenderly that you mislaid it altogether.’ In part, the reproach was fair—but only in part. Malfoy felt anger, and with it, hurt. Ten years, countless searches—he had rehidden the artefact over and over with no small ingenuity, and only once committed a tiny, trifling mistake. From haste, from a momentary fog—and now this little upstart presumed to taunt him with carelessness. Lucius flared his nostrils. He had never before wished to fling a Cruciatus at a child—one must have some principles, even he, though among the Dark Marked there had been standing jokes about the ‘slippery friend’s’ morality. Well, there is a first time for everything. ‘You have no idea what I had to do to preserve it! No idea what you’re talking about!’ He could not help raising his voice. The atmosphere was heating fast. This was not the conversation Lucius had planned; least of all had he expected accusations, least of all of this stripe. ‘It is you who do not know what you’re talking about!’ By contrast, Potter all but hissed, eyes narrowed, leaning forward; his fingers, white-knuckled with tension, bit into the chair’s arms. ‘Had the Dark Lord entrusted such a thing to me, I would not have lost it. I would have kept it next to my heart, never parted with it, and made every effort to ensure he could use his artefact as was meet. And you know what? That is exactly what I did! Which is why the diary is with me, and will remain with me,’ he finished fervently, throwing back his head in triumph. ‘You are claiming it was you who performed the ritual?’ asked Snape, whom their brief sparring had left on the verge of the exchange. ‘I am claiming that, right now, the Dark Lord has no one closer than me,’ the boy said, nose in the air. Lucius almost admired the sheer conceit. ‘Rubbish!’ he barked a laugh. ‘I can prove it,’ Potter smiled sweetly. ‘Go on, then—what spell can only a Death Eater cast? Do you still remember?’ With that, he drew his wand from his sleeve. ‘Watch closely. Morsmordre!’ Silence fell on the room like a headsman’s axe on a condemned neck. Only the crackle of coals could be heard. Even breathing seemed to melt away and stop forever—Lucius’s own, at least. A smoky phantom hovered near the ceiling. The serpent twined about the skull gave a playful writhe of its coils. Grotesque in a room too small for it, the spectre hung low over their heads, and the empty sockets seemed to stare into one’s very soul. So he had guessed wrong, after all. What a pity. ‘He has granted you the Dark Mark?’ Snape asked quietly, his voice sounding hollow, as though it cost him to master the surge of feeling. ‘Not yet, but I have earned it. He said so himself,’ Potter was plainly enjoying himself—himself, their reaction, and the situation as a whole. Lucius could so easily understand it—he had stood in his place more than once. In other, better times. How strange to think so now—like life had already ended. In a sense, it had. ‘Am I right in thinking that, while you are here, you nonetheless maintain regular contact with him?’ he asked, feeling a curious, perverse interest. The boy nodded, and adjusted his glasses. ‘Yes. To avoid misunderstanding, I should mention that I am under his protection. Kindly inform… the others. Do not imagine that killing me, or doing me any harm at all, would please him. Quite the reverse.’ It was Lucius’s turn to nod. He inclined his head stiffly. ‘I see. I am obliged to admit I misjudged you, Mr Potter. Or should I address you as “Heir of Slytherin”?’ Malfoy managed a smile. Potter suddenly grinned quite differently—almost like a normal child his age, cheeky and open. ‘I prefer just “Harry”, if you don’t mind. Oh, and while I’ve the chance—do give my regards to Lady Malfoy. Tell her a big thank you from me—I absolutely adore the chocolate!’ Lucius blinked—the contrast with the preceding, taut confrontation was brutally sharp. And the most incredible thing—Narcissa, systematically bribing the hero, had been right. It looked as though a new chapter ought to be entered in the annals of an ancient and illustrious house. The Malfoys had greased many palms, in many ways, to get what they wanted, but it seemed that even they had never yet bought their lives with chocolate.* * *
In person, Draco’s father was a touch frightening. All right—downright frightening; no ‘touch’ about it. His portrait ought to illustrate the dictionary definition of ‘aristocrat’. Tall, long-haired, a well-kept blond man, with eyes the colour of polished steel. And a cane—Harry would not have been surprised to learn there was a blade hidden inside. Two rings, each set with what were plainly gemstones, glittered on his left hand, and a pear-shaped pearl tugged at his earlobe. ‘I am very, very rich,’ seemed written across every square inch of the elder Malfoy’s person. ‘And very, very wicked,’ stood in large letters on his face. Fear lent Harry backbone—if, at first, he had no idea how he would find the nerve to start snapping from the threshold, a couple of lines later it all came out almost of its own accord. And watching the Death Eaters gaping, their jaws slack, at the Dark Mark Tom had conjured was, in truth, rather fun. ‘Good lad,’ Tom said, sparingly, and Harry blossomed. This time he had followed instructions to the letter, though he had seriously doubted their sense—and, and lo and behold, the result was excellent. Tom, Harry realised, really did know best. No sooner had they left the Head of Slytherin’s office than he said as much. Tom smiled in a patronising way. ‘I am glad you have grasped that.’ There they had to part ways—Harry, whose nerves had finally unclenched for the first time since the previous evening, was ravenous; besides, he remembered that he hadn’t warned Hermione—it was not, for the present, wise to parade their friendship before all and sundry. As straight as an arrow, to the point of idiocy, she might very well have plonked herself down beside him in lessons, or struck up a cosy chat in the middle of a corridor. As it turned out, he’d been spot on. Hermione listened to the rules without enthusiasm, but, it seemed, saw their sense; she waited, patiently, for the promised explanations until evening, and made no attempt to approach or speak, though after lunch they both returned to the library—Harry had nearly forgotten, with all the adventures, about his History of Magic essay. He watched the swot out of the corner of his eye, but she had barricaded herself behind a heap of books, and was dutifully burying herself in yet another bestiary. Clearly she had resolved to read up on dragons in the light of recent events. That suited Harry just fine. The explanations he had prepared were not to be rushed, and he gave them only when, at last, they were alone—or rather, in the company of young Malfoy alone. ‘Polyjuice Potion?!’ Hermione squeaked, rather than cried out. From an excess of feeling she rose on tiptoe, her curls bouncing. ‘Are you out of your mind? What are you plotting? Harry, for your own sake I do hope this isn’t anything illegal!’ ‘Rein it in, Granger,’ Malfoy advised, lazily. Detention with Snape wasn’t hard labour, not by a long chalk. Compared with the Dursleys, where Harry had grafted like a house-elf, they were practically a holiday camp. To begin with, the Head of House never hovered. He would let them into the potions classroom, point out the task in hand—a pile of filthy cauldrons—and leave, and lock the door. He returned two hours later, on the dot, and let them out. That was all. He didn’t even confiscate their wands, though, strictly speaking, they were supposed to scour the cauldrons by hand. And they would have, had Harry not managed, under Tom’s guidance, to get to grips with the simplest domestic charms. Scourgify did not come to him particularly well at first, but by the end of the previous detention—over the MacLean mishap—he had it down to Outstanding. Now he and Granger were swishing their wands in tandem—clots of froth flying everywhere. The proud heir to an ancient line—namely Malfoy—flushed, puffed, and panted, hastily learning charms that were new to him. To scour the cauldrons by hand—really? What were they, Muggles? Snape, Harry felt, understood: reform through work was one thing, humiliation quite another. Truth be told, given the number of cauldrons needing a scrub, charming them clean single-handedly meant working oneself to death. After his first detention, Harry could barely drag his feet. With two, it was manageable. With three, perfectly comfortable—there would even be time to spare. Only it was nothing like spare. Quite the opposite. Harry had a plan. He meant to employ Hermione for her primary function. ‘It’s all absolutely above board, I assure you,’ he snorted. ‘Hear me out first. I am conducting an independent investigation. Have you never wondered that about my parents’ deaths we know both a great deal, and next to nothing? We “know”, supposedly, who died first. We even “know” my mother’s last words. And how, if there was no one there but the two of them, the Dark Lord, and me? Was there a wizarding camera set up in the corner? Someone under an Invisibility Cloak listening and watching, but not intervening to the end? Odd, isn’t it?’ Hermione pressed her lips together. Draco watched with interest—Harry was sharing these conclusions with him for the first time as well; until now he had discussed the matter only with Tom. ‘It smacked of storybook embroidery. That’s what I thought at first. And yet it was printed as documentary fact, as though no doubt existed. So there must be a reliable source. And the more interesting part is this…’ Harry inspected the newly cleaned cauldron with a critical eye, and ran a finger along the inside. It squeaked—splendid. He dragged another one towards himself, one that was particularly vile with filth—one of Longbottom’s kindred spirits had been at work, or the maestro himself. Harry whisked up a thicker lather, and continued the thread paused for the sake of the charm: ‘…in all that, not a word about why it happened. Imagine it—suppose you are the Dark Lord… all right, all right, only joking, don’t take it to heart. I am the Dark Lord. I come to yours, say. Avada once, twice, thrice—everyone dead. And the question is—why? What have you done to warrant a personal visit? I’ve legions of underlings, werewolves, nasty wizards, you name it. Why not tell them to do it for you?’ ‘Personal motives?’ Granger frowned. Malfoy held his tongue—but listened with ferret-like curiosity, all ears. Harry nodded. ‘Exactly. I can’t see any other explanation. And what motives? Where, how, and when had they crossed swords? The Order of the Phoenix had loads of witches and wizards in it, not only my parents. Plenty of people died, I won’t deny it. But this case—only once. Something was different this time, and it’s unclear what. And I think…’ He tapped the rim of a cauldron, cleaned to a shine. Draco was finally managing something respectable—the foam, however, had turned out pink for some reason. It smelt peculiar too. He must have been trying to scent it, the poseur. ‘…I think it would be no bad thing to get to the bottom of this. And another thing. I don’t believe in a rebounding Avada Kedavra. Utter rot. There is no defence against it, there never has been, and there never will be. If a mother’s love could save one from death—would I really be the only one in all the centuries? Were all the other mothers unloving, then?’ They fell silent. Granger sighed. ‘You’re right,’ she said, firmly. ‘If one fact doesn’t fit a general rule, it doesn’t necessarily mean the rule is wrong. It may be misdescribed. Or the fact distorted. The experiment was conducted improperly, and…’ She then realised she had chosen the word ‘experiment,’ and blushed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t…’ Harry waved it off. ‘I get it, I get it. Don’t fret. So you see for yourself how many doubts there are. And I want—I need—to understand how it really was.’ ‘And him?’ Malfoy put in. ‘Does he object to… the investigation?’ Harry smirked, and shook his head. ‘He is entirely for it. The subject interests him as well. The thing is…’ Harry weighed the bounds of permissible candour. No harm in it, probably—Draco was under oath, and Hermione was too. ‘…that he doesn’t remember those events. At all. He’s lost several years of memory. Many years. There you are.’ Draco’s eyes went wide. Small wonder—unexpected news. ‘Oh, Merlin!’ he breathed. ‘My father…’ ‘Knows,’ Harry cut in, with a flicker of déjà vu; they had had a similar talk on the train. ‘Knows everything he needs to know. Calm down, Draco. Need-to-know basis—you’ve heard of that, haven’t you?’ Granger snorted under her breath—she plainly had heard of it, or, rather, read about it. But for her the knowledge remained print on a page—Hermione would not have been herself had she not immediately stuck her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. ‘And whom are we talking about now?’ ‘None of your business,’ Malfoy snapped. ‘Draco,’ Harry said, warningly, then answered Hermione, ‘This secret isn’t for you yet. Later… we’ll see. Brew the potion, and I’ll consider introducing you.’ Malfoy all but choked with indignation. Naturally—no such introduction had been dangled before him. Hermione, obediently, took the bait. ‘I still don’t see why Polyjuice is needed,’ she said, but without her former outrage at the idea itself. ‘I want to pay a visit to the Daily Prophet offices,’ Harry explained. ‘A first-year has no business there, even one as wildly overpublicised as me. They certainly won’t let me into the archive. And that’s where the interesting part is. If the Prophet doesn’t oblige, I’ll go through other papers’ archives. And I shan’t come up for air until I’ve dug out the truth.’ Hermione blew a curl off her eyes. The curl would not obey—promptly flopping back—so she pushed it away with her wrist. The pile of clean cauldrons grew steadily. Malfoy was flourishing his wand quite confidently now, and his foam, in the end, smelt not of burnt sludge, but of something sugary, to match its pink hue. ‘So… help me, Hermione, you’re my only hope,’ Harry added, with a wink. The girl flushed, and looked down. ‘Out of the three of us, you’re the best at Potions,’—Draco visibly twisted at that—‘and if anyone can brew Polyjuice, it’s you. There’s barely any time left before the holidays—enough, if nothing goes awry. But you won’t make a mess of it, I know.’ ‘But, Harry…’—yes, she hadn’t realised she had already agreed—‘…we don’t even have the recipe! The book on powerful potions is in the Restricted Section of the library!’ Harry gave a patronising smirk. ‘We do have the recipe. And detailed instructions to go with it.’ He pulled from his robe pocket a sheet covered in Tom’s calligraphic hand. Hermione seized the parchment, and moved her lips silently in reading. ‘Oh. It seems… I think I really can manage it,’ she said, with a kind of incredulous delight. ‘It’s actually a very interesting potion, who would have thought! Hmm.’ She scratched her nose, not noticing the smear of suds she left there. ‘Harry, there’s a snag. We need bicorn horn and boomslang skin, and neither is among the first-year supplies, nor in the open-access cupboards. They’re very expensive; Professor Snape keeps them separately.’ Here she cast a thoughtful glance at the locked door of the staff storeroom. ‘Do you think we could break in?’ Harry burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped his glasses into the cauldron. ‘Merlin’s underpants,’ he got out between chuckles, ‘I knew it was all an act! You preach morals to others, but the moment a juicy problem turns up, you’re ready to gut the teachers’ stocks?’ Hermione bit her lip, and blushed to the tips of her ears. ‘And what do you propose?’ she challenged. ‘Rein in your criminal tendencies, Granger,’ Draco sang, waggling his eyebrows. ‘We’ll buy the ingredients.’ The girl blinked. ‘But how?’ ‘Owl post, how else?’ Malfoy was thoroughly amused now. ‘What back end of nowhere did you grow up in that—ah, yes, sorry,’ he added, with a vile smile. No one with half a brain would have believed his apology was sincere. Granger narrowed her eyes. ‘Why don’t you buy a finished potion, then?’ ‘They won’t sell it,’ Harry spread his hands. ‘Not by post, certainly. Nor at all, not to first-years. And buying in Knockturn… you’ve no idea what quality you’ll end up with.’ Hermione lifted her chin. ‘Let his father buy it! Malfoy himself—surely no one says no to him.’ Harry sighed. Draco, the little pest, managed to get in the way at just the wrong moment. ‘No, Hermione. We’re not involving adults. This is my investigation. No outsiders need know about it. Not even—no offence, Draco—not even your father. No one at all. So, we’ll buy bicorn horn, boomslang skin, and the rest that’s required—and, to be safe, split that list three ways, Hermione, and we’ll each place a separate order. Money isn’t a problem; I’ll provide it. You’ll set the base to brew somewhere secure—I happen to know just the place. Agreed?’ Granger tossed her head, and slammed the last clean cauldron down at the foot of the pyramid of its brethren. ‘And if I refuse?’ she jibed—pure stubbornness, to Harry’s ear. He felt annoyance rising. What was this, a mutiny? ‘Then we’ll find out how well I’ve learnt the Cruciatus Curse,’ he said, coldly. ‘But you won’t refuse—you’re interested, and you love Potions. And I’m your friend; can you really let me down like that?’ ‘Some friend,’ she flared; the curls around her head seemed to stir of their own accord—no, that was her magic, beyond doubt. ‘One minute you pinch, the next you sting, then you threaten to torture me! You don’t make those threats to Malfoy!’ ‘Quite right,’ Harry agreed, gravely. ‘Malfoy, if you’re rude to Granger, I’ll put you under the Cruciatus Curse along with her, mind. You’re both my friends now, so I advise you to love one another more dearly than brother and sister. Understood?’ Malfoy’s teeth grated audibly. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he drawled, gloomily. ‘Miss Granger, accept my sincere apologies. I was intemperate. I promise to get used to it, and improve. Truce?’ He pulled such a cherubic face that Harry nearly believed him. It worked on Hermione too—she grew flustered, and looked away. ‘Well?’ Harry prompted her. ‘And you? Nothing to say?’ ‘I have to as well?’ she said, astonished. ‘What for?… Ah, I see. All right then—truce. I promise… to grow accustomed to your peculiarities, Mr Malfoy.’ In a venom-spitting match between lions and snakes, the lioness clearly had no intention of losing. Harry adjusted his glasses. ‘It seems you’ve forgotten something,’ he said softly. It didn’t dawn on her at once, but it did eventually. ‘You… are you serious?’ she asked, just as softly, as though there were only the two of them in the room, or in the whole world. Harry smiled—not the Good Boy smile, but the real one, merry, and hungry. ‘You insisted on equality. Draco does it, so you must too. Go on, Hermione, it doesn’t hurt. A simple formality.’ Her lips moved silently a few times before she managed, in an almost inaudible whisper, ‘Yes, my lord.’ And immediately, without transition—she was, after all, the exasperating Granger—she added, tartly, ‘Darth Potter.’ ‘Herr Tioptar,’ Harry muttered under his breath. Well, it was a start. It would be easier for her from here—repeating is always simpler than saying it the first time. Catching his mumble, Hermione giggled. ‘What? What did you say?’ ‘Never mind,’ Harry said, embarrassed, adjusting his glasses again. ‘But do yourself a favour, and remember the moment. The day will come when the hacks will shower you with Galleons for an interview about how you heard it the very first time.’
