The next two days passed like molasses. Every time Beth found herself sinking into despair, she thought, "Hogsmeade's coming up -- just hang on." Unfortunately that mostly just made her more depressed, so she took to holing up in the library with Alchemy and a pillow.
Finally, finally, the day came. The whole school from the third year on up bolted down breakfast, put on their favorite outfits, and scrambled outside to where a long row of horseless carriages waited to take them to Hogsmeade Village. Beth, Melissa, Bruce, Aaron, and Mervin all crammed into a carriage and spent the trip hanging out of the window making faces at the other carriages.
They pulled into Hogsmeade and piled out, swarming into the village. "Where to first?" said Melissa, flushed with excitement.
"Christmas shopping," said Beth staunchly.
They spent the whole morning looking for Christmas gifts. The boys got bored and wandered away, promising to meet them at the Three Broomsticks for lunch. They got back together again a little after noon, laden with packages. Beth and Melissa were particularly giddy. They had spent a long time debating whether or not to get Bruce a pair of boxer shorts with broomsticks on them; and after much deliberation, they were now tucked in the bottom of Melissa's shopping bag.
The Three Broomsticks was warm and full of people they knew -- apparently everyone had decided to eat there at about the same time. Some of the Quidditch boys sat in one corner, giving dirty looks to the players from other houses. A whole group of people from Alchemy were sitting together, so Beth stopped to chat with them for a few minutes. There was a minor scuffle with the Weasley twins. Riggs was found in the very back of the pub, engaging in a debate about stocks and bonds with Ebeneezer Nott. Uther stopped by briefly; he had flattered Madame Rosmerta into giving him a plate of cookies for free, and he shared them around.
The whole place was so bustling and so crowded that they ate and left quickly.
The rest of the day was spent with no particular goal in mind. They checked out all of the usual places -- Zonko's, Honeydukes, the Shrieking Shack -- and found a few new places. There was a tiny pet store, with all kinds of magical pets; they had to practically drag Melissa away from the friendly, spaniel-like crups. Aaron had heard rumors about a sort of broomstick museum; it turned out to be little more than a secondhand store with good descriptions of its wares, but they killed a few hours reading about the old makes of broomsticks.
Beth found an old Silver Arrow, the kind that her brother used to ride. Shaking off the sudden melancholy that dropped over her, she left without reading its description.
Bruce and Melissa were staring up at a long line of portraits. Over them, a line of printing read Generous Contributors to the Museum and to the Sport of Quidditch in General.
"That's my great-grandfather," said Melissa, pointing up at an intense-looking man with black hair. "He's been dead for years. And that's Kennilworthy Whisp -- I've met him -- he's a writer."
"This one looks like you, Beth," cracked Bruce, pointing to a picture of a blonde man with a very pronounced chin.
Beth swung a fist at him. "Har-dee-har har."
"Beobub 'Bob' Parsimmer," Melissa read. "Of course, the Parsimmers -- very rich, they are. Very old wizarding family. They invested in Ollivanders, in fact, when it first started." Her face suddenly closed off, and Beth was startled to see a hint of real animosity in her gaze. "Come on, let's go do something else."
Too soon it was time to head back to the coaches. They strolled down the road with their packages. Beth was preoccupied with thoughts of her father receiving his gift by mail instead of in person. The thought made her feel lonely, although she would be around more people than he would be on Christmas day.
Melissa nudged Beth out of her reverie.
"Look, there's Kettleburn!"
Professor Kettleburn strode down the street in the opposite direction, clutching a burlap bag in one hand. The bag bumped out here and there, as if something inside was throwing itself against the sides. Melissa waved and ran up to him.
"Hi, Professor!"
Kettleburn didn't slow down. "Having a good time, Ollivander?" he barked.
"Yes sir," Melissa affirmed, half panting to keep up.
"What's in the bag? Is that for class?" Bruce interjected.
An expression of distaste flitted across Kettleburn's craggy features. "Never too early to start Christmas shopping," he boomed, but his joviality sounded misplaced. "Sorry to disappoint, Bletchley, but it's not for you."
"Really? What'd you get?" Bruce persisted. Beth thought to herself that this was a lot of words for Bruce to say to a professor at any given time, let alone in a social context.
"Snitch. Golden Snitch for my nephew," said Kettleburn loudly. "He's going to be a Seeker. Only six years old though. Hadn't you better get back to the coaches, Bletchley?"
Bruce almost fell behind the man's stride checking his pocket fob. "Guess so. Have a good day, Professor." The three stopped walking and let Kettleburn continue in his hurried path down the sidewalk.
Melissa started to laugh. "Hadn't you better shut your fat gob, Bletchley?" she barked, in excellent mimicry. Beth joined in her laughter.
Bruce, though, stayed silent until they turned to go back to where the horseless coaches sat in wait. "Something funny about that," he murmured. "Who'd sell a Snitch in a bag? They come boxed or caged."
"Maybe it's secondhand," Beth offered lightly.
"Might be," Bruce agreed, his head still bent in concentration. "But do you remember last year, when we heard him and Quirrell talking in the Shrieking Shack? And then Quirrell turned out to be, well you know -- isn't that suspicious?"
Melissa waved her hand in good-natured impatience. "You're starting to sound like Richard."
"That's good to hear," someone remarked from behind. It was Richard, beaming like he'd won a carnival prize. "What's the suspicion, Bruce?"
Bruce briefly enumerated the previous scene.
Richard looked thoughtful. "Worth knowing. Keep an eye out for anything else he does, will you?" He caught a glance of some of his classmates and hurried on past.
"Bruce is getting in with the top dog," Melissa teased. "He's going to be president of the S.S.A. some day. Right, Brucey?"
"No," said Bruce. "I'm going to be the Minister of Magic."
"When he says it like that, I almost believe him," said Beth.
The trip back to Hogwarts was long and cold; the thin walls of the horseless carriages did little to block out the December chill. When they finally arrived back at the school, the students broke off into their four houses and shuffled down the hallways in groups, huddled together for warmth against the chilly corridors. Beth was walking back with Bruce and Melissa when something caught her eye. She turned around.
Cedric Diggory, instead of joining his friends, was heading down another corridor, all by himself.
Beth nudged Melissa. "I'll see you in a few minutes. I'm going to follow Diggory." With no further warning, she took off in the same direction as Cedric Diggory had taken.
He wound through the hallways casually, and Beth followed behind at a safe distance, ducking behind suits of armor and statues at every chance. He came to a doorway and knocked; it was opened and he went in. Beth slid up to the door and stood pressed to the wall outside of it, listening closely.
"Professor Sprout, I have a question."
"Yes, Cedric?"
"I need to work on a potion for my Alchemy class. I was wondering if there was a classroom with a fireplace that I could use for the evening."
That's it, Beth thought excitedly. He's going to do it.
"Of course, Cedric." Professor Sprout's voice was warm. "Room three seventeen has a fireplace. If anyone bothers you, just let them know that you have my permission. Here, I'd better sign you a pass."
Beth didn't stay to hear Cedric's thanks, or his receipt of the permission slip. She was bolting down the hall to room three seventeen.
It was up two flights of stairs, but in her excitement she hardly noticed the climb. She was actually going to catch him in the act. If she could prove that he was the Heir, or that he was attacking students -- and surely her testimony was enough -- there would be accolades, special awards. She thought about how much praise the Potter kid had received after defeating -- well, withstanding at least, the Dark Lord the year before. Gryffindor had won the house cup thanks to him and his friends. This would win it back for Slytherin.
She found room three seventeen and bolted inside. The dark classroom looked more like an old lounge; there were chairs and long tables, but a fireplace stood along the back and a broad window stretched across the far wall. Beth ducked behind a thick curtain, hoping fervently that he wouldn't want to open the curtains this late at night.
Not a minute later, the sounds of a latch came to Beth's ears. Someone walked in ... lit the chandelier with low, blue flame ... set out glasses and containers ... started a fire ... and started shuffling ingredients. Beth's heartbeat slowed in relief. He was not going to worry about the curtains.
A sizzling sound proved that Diggory's potion was warming over the fire. Beth ventured a look. Diggory had laid out his things on a table by the fire and stood bent over a large book now, intently reading. It was Recipe for Success.
Diggory looked up and Beth drew back behind the curtain. He wouldn't notice such small movement in the dim lighting. She heard some clinking as, she presumed, ingredients were added and stirred. And something else. Diggory was talking to himself.
Beth held her breath. Staying as still as she could, she could barely make out the disjointed muttering.
"Just a Hufflepuff ... never any better than a Hufflepuff ... hah! Let them see this ... I'll have it all. Looks ... brains ... talent ... they'll see what a Hufflepuff can be! By the time I graduate, no one will dare look down on us -- look down on me! No one!"
The muttering trailed off, and the clink of glasses joined into the faint bubbling of the brew. Beth ventured a glance from behind the curtain. Diggory had dipped a beaker full of the sticky potion. It frothed in the glass; green pustules ran down the sides and onto his slim hands. The look in Diggory's eyes was fierce. He looked violent, ambitious -- he looked like a Slytherin.
Diggory set the beaker down on the table. He tugged a dark hair from his head and dropped it into the glass, where it set up a fizzle and a fine mist. Then he reached into a back pocket and pulled out a long object. Beth thought at first that it was his wand -- but no, it glinted in the firelight, and tapered to a sharp point. A dagger, she thought in horror, just as Diggory sliced a deep gash in his thumb.
There was a muffled cry of pain and Diggory bent over for a moment, gripping his hand tightly and breathing hard. He struggled to straighten. Standing over the table, he stretched out his hand and squeezed a stream of blood into the beaker. His thumb bled, unbound, as he grabbed up his wand and frantically stirred the whole concoction. He tossed the wand to one side, red slime clinging to one end. The potion bubbled ferociously for a minute. Then the beaker shook with the force of an explosion, and stood still.
Diggory snatched up the beaker. "Glory," he panted, his wounded thumb streaking the glass with crimson. "Honor." He raised it to his parted lips. "Power." The shadows of the fire flickered around his fevered eyes. "Vivo transcongus vicci." He tilted back his head and drank down the potion diluted with his own blood.
Beth jerked behind the curtain, her heart pounding in her throat. She heard a glass shatter, and the sick sound of gagging. But the retching changed -- morphed to coughing -- then laughter, full and eerie in the empty room --
It must have worked, Beth thought to herself, feeling faint. The laughing swelled around her, and abruptly shifted back to coughs, racking coughs. She peeked around the curtain. Diggory was doubled over as if he was retching up a lung, eyes screwed shut, sweat pouring down his face. He opened his mouth to cough again.
A misty red skull billowed from his lips and hung in the air for a very few seconds before dissolving away.
Whatever evil Diggory had been dislodging had finally gone. He sank to the floor, breathing raggedly, clutching his stomach. There he curled for many tense minutes, while Beth held her breath behind the curtain and prayed for him to leave. Finally, he slowly picked himself up and began to clean up. The potion went into the fire; it threw up a cloying stench that made Beth gag. There was the sound of clanging and clinking as all of the implements went into the now-empty cauldron. A few moments of rustling -- Beth assumed that a few simple Scouring charms were rendering the equipment as good as new.
Several agonizing minutes later, the fire was quenched, there were footsteps, a door opening and closing, and Beth was left in silent blackness.
She remained still, barely daring to breathe, for almost fifteen minutes. When she had gathered her nerve, she crept from behind the curtain, slipped silently out of the room, and sprinted back to the Slytherin common room.
To her shock, quite a few students were still awake. The large clock over the mantlepiece showed that it was still only nine o'clock.
Melissa, who had been reading by the fire, dropped her book and came up to Beth excitedly. "Did you see anything?"
Beth motioned for her to come upstairs. In the quiet of the dormitory, she breathlessly described what she had seen and heard. Melissa was thunderstruck.
"Diggory's never done anything like this! Come to think of it, he's never done anything special at all except look good. Are you sure it was him?"
"Positive," said Beth vehemently. "I saw him."
Melissa shook her head in wonder. "So do you think -- that the Heir of Slytherin could be -- a Hufflepuff?"
They stared at each other.