Chapter 12
They stepped off the staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Hermione and Ron to wait and left them there, alone.
Hermione looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices she had visited so far this year, Dumbledore's was by far most interesting. If she hadn't been scared out of her wits that she would be thrown out of school, she would have been very pleased to look around it.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard's hat-- the Sorting Hat.
Suddenly a strange, gagging noise behind her made her wheel around.
They weren't alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Hermione stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Hermione thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as she watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.
Hermione was just thinking that all they needed was for Dumbledore's bird to die while they were alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.
Ron yelled in shock behind her. Hermione backed slowly away from the burning bird, a look of blank shock on her face.
The bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball-it gave one loud shriek and the next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.
"Professor," Ron gasped, "Your bird-we couldn't-,"
"It just caught fire, Professor," Hermione broke in faintly. To their astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.
"It's about time, too," he said. "He's been looking dreadful for days; I've been telling him to get a move on."
He chuckled at the stunned look on their faces. "Fawkes is a phoenix," he explained. "Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him now."
Hermione and Ron looked in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.
"It's a shame you two had to see him on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. "He's really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."
In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Hermione had forgotten what they were there for, but it all came back to her as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Ron and Hermione with his penetrating, light-blue stare.
Before Dumbledroe could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand.
"It wasn' them, Professor Dumbledore!" said Hagrid urgently. "I was talkin' ter them seconds before that kid was found, they never had time, sir-,"
Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went rating on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.
"It cant't've bin them, I'll swear in front o' the Ministry o' Magic if I have to-,"
"Hagrid, I-,"
"-Yeh've got the wrong people, sir, I know Hermione and Ron never-,"
"HAGRID!" said Dumbledore loudly. "I do not think that Ron and Hermione attacked those people."
"Oh," said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. "Right. I'll wait outside, then, Headmaster, sir."
And he stomped out looking embarrassed.
"You don't think it was us, Professor?" Ron asked hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.
"No, I don't," said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again. "But I still want to talk to you."
Hermione waited nervously while Dumbledore considered them, the tips of his long fingers together. "I must ask you two," he said slowly, "Whether there is anything you'd like to tell me," he said gently. "Anything at all."
Hermione's thoughts strayed to the theft that morning, and the cauldronful of lacewing flies simmering slowly in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom (for this, they had decided, was by far the safest place to hide the potion). "No," she said softly.
Ron thought of the leather-bound photo album hidden under his bed, and felt the sharp pain that came with thoughts of Harry. He thought, too, of the dismal day in Diagon Alley-the trip back to Hogwarts, so grim and silent- and then he remembered Caroline and Nick and the strange boy, and the horror roaming the schools, and anger bubbled up inside him. "No," he said.
Dumbledore gave them both a searching look, but did not press them further. He stood abruptly. "You may return to your classes," he said brusquely. "Thank you."
* * *
The light flickered madly, revealing several more jars of the orange fire- starter mixture.
That's odd, he thought. I don't think that was there before.
With the thought came a fleeting uneasiness, but he ignored it and set the candle down. Carefully he scooped all four jars of orange fire-cream into his arms and carried them to the table, which he had scooted towards the cot. There were already several groups of jars on it-a few more of the purple salve that had healed his spider-bite, something pearly-white and very nearly solid that had relieved him of a headache when rubbed on his middle finger, and several more unidentified jars that he would test later.
Suddenly the candle sputtered and went out. Harry stood stock-still in the middle of the dungeon, his arms full of fire-starter cream. Carefully he inched forward until he bumped up against the table, and he set the jars down slowly. Then he reached into the only open jar, one half-full of fire- starter cream, and scooped out some of the thick cream-he had learned that while it would ignite the candle wick, it only felt comfortingly warm on his fingers-and smeared it over the candle.
Nothing happened.
Panic edged into his thoughts. The candle had become his life over the past two days-without it he would surely go crazy, for the cold, harsh dark was frightening nearly to the point of insanity. He had never been afraid of the dark before-eleven years sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs had accustomed him to it-but this dark was different; hostile, somehow, and listening. He felt much safer in the candlelight, and had even left it burning several times while he slept, like a small child.
He wiped the cream off his hands, using the corner of his robes as a towel. The topmost corner of the robe burst into flame, which he quickly stifled. Obviously, while flesh was not affected by the fire-cream, cloth was.
Using his hands to feel around the stone floor in the dark, he found the candle in its holder and picked it up. Even though he held it at eye-level nothing could be seen-the dark was too intense to show even a darker shadow. He felt around the holder until his hand came in contact with a very small puddle of warm wax-the candle, he thought in dismay. It had been short to begin with, and the past two days' nearly constant use had burned it down to this-a small puddle of wax, too small to keep even a flicker alive for long.
Panic fought into his thoughts again. The candle was permanently gone; he would live in darkness now until Lucius Malfoy decided to relieve him.
* * *
The double attack on Nearly Headless Nick and the mystery boy turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick's fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? People asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats aboard the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas.
"At this rate, we'll be the only ones left," Ron told Hermione. "Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. What a jolly holiday it's going to be."
Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy did, had signed up to stay over the holidays too. But both Hermione and Ron were glad that most people were leaving; they were tired of people skirting around them in the corridors, as though one or both would sprout fangs or spit poison.
Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Ron and Hermione down the corridors, shouting, "Make way for the Heirs of Slytherin, seriously evil wizards coming through."
Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior. "It is not a laughing matter," he said coldly.
"Oh, get out of the way, Perce," said Fred. "Ron's in a hurry."
"Yeah, they're both off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with their fanged servant," said George, chortling.
Ginny didn't find it amusing either. "Oh, don't," she wailed every time Fred asked Hermione loudly who she was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Ron off with a large clove of garlic.
Their antics seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, two; he looked increasingly sour each time he saw them at it.
"It's because he's bursting to say it's him," said Ron knowingly. "You know how he hates anyone beating him at anything, and you're getting all the credit for his dirty work."
"Not for long," replied Hermione in a satisfied tone. "The Polyjuice Potion'll be ready in a week. We'll be getting the truth out of him any day now."
They were on the way to the Common Room, well after the last class of the day. They had worked on the potion for several minutes in Myrtle's bathroom, and Hermione was quite satisfied. "Now all we need is a bit of the people we'll be changing in to," she mused as they walked along. "You'd better get Crabbe or Goyle," she said to Ron. "I'll try to corner Pansy Parkinson, she's staying home."
"Right," Ron said gloomily. "Y'know, Hermione, do we really have to have a bit of them?" he shuddered. "I'm not drinking anything with Crabbe's toenails in it."
"You won't have to," Hermione said briskly. "Just get a bit of hair, you won't even know it's in the cup."
"I wouldn't bet on that," Ron muttered. Hermione gave him a scathing glance, but before she could say anything the sound of voices drifted out of an empty classroom just a little way down the hall.
"Minerva," said a voice-Hermione was pretty sure it was Dumbledore's-"Do you realize who he is?"
Ron came up to stand next to her, not noticing the voices. "Really, Hermione," he said, "Do I have to drink the ha-,"
"Sssh!" Hermione cut him off, and pointed up the hall.
"No, Albus, I can't say I do," came McGonagall's voice, sounding faintly annoyed. "What does it matter? Each student means as much as another. The part I can't figure out is how this child was attacked, when he is from Slytherin and clearly pure-blood."
"Minerva," said Dumbledore sharply, "That boy is Christof Malfoy."
"Surely you don't mean Isabel Garcia's son?" McGonagall asked faintly.
"I do," Dumbledore replied grimly.
"But Albus-how can it be-the only logical explanation would be-oh, surely they were not.?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Dumbledore said with an effort, "Yes, Minerva. Christof's attack can mean but one thing-Arrlimon and Isabel have been discovered and are now, at this moment, undergoing horrific torture-or they are dead. Either way, Harry is no longer safe."
"Harry? You don't mean Harry Potter?" McGonagall asked sharply.
"I do," said Dumbledore. Ron's jaw dropped and he looked at Hermione questioningly. "Did you-," he asked faintly. Hermione shook her head and put a finger to her lips.
"Yes, Minerva, I do mean Harry Potter," said Dumbledore heavily.
"But-the Floo accident-what-please explain yourself, Albus!"
"I cannot explain all that I will later here. But let me tell you this: Harry is being held captive by Lord Voldemort, in a place so protected and so well guarded that his only hope of rescue was Arrlimon Malfoy. I trust that you know about the Malfoy's mission?"
"Of course. Go on, Albus," said McGonagall softly.
"Well, earlier this year Arrlimon came to me in secret and told me about Harry's imprisonment in this well-guarded sanctuary. He offered to rescue him, and I gave him the means to do so-but apparently this plan has backfired. Harry is no longer safe with two trustworthy guardians; he may even be dead for all I know."
"Oh," said McGonagall faintly. "And Christof Malfoy would have been attacked because of his parent's disgrace?"
"I suppose so," said Dumbledore musingly. "Although I do not know so. It could be that the Dark Lord wanted Christof for an entirely different reason-we may never know, if these horrific deeds continue."
Hermione turned to Ron, her face ashen. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. "Harry could be dead, and this Christof Malfoy-whoever he is-is someone important. Oh, dear," she said, louder. "Let's go back to Gryffindor Common Room. We can talk this over privately."
They stepped off the staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Hermione and Ron to wait and left them there, alone.
Hermione looked around. One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices she had visited so far this year, Dumbledore's was by far most interesting. If she hadn't been scared out of her wits that she would be thrown out of school, she would have been very pleased to look around it.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard's hat-- the Sorting Hat.
Suddenly a strange, gagging noise behind her made her wheel around.
They weren't alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Hermione stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Hermione thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as she watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.
Hermione was just thinking that all they needed was for Dumbledore's bird to die while they were alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.
Ron yelled in shock behind her. Hermione backed slowly away from the burning bird, a look of blank shock on her face.
The bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball-it gave one loud shriek and the next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.
"Professor," Ron gasped, "Your bird-we couldn't-,"
"It just caught fire, Professor," Hermione broke in faintly. To their astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.
"It's about time, too," he said. "He's been looking dreadful for days; I've been telling him to get a move on."
He chuckled at the stunned look on their faces. "Fawkes is a phoenix," he explained. "Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him now."
Hermione and Ron looked in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.
"It's a shame you two had to see him on a Burning Day," said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. "He's really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets."
In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Hermione had forgotten what they were there for, but it all came back to her as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Ron and Hermione with his penetrating, light-blue stare.
Before Dumbledroe could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand.
"It wasn' them, Professor Dumbledore!" said Hagrid urgently. "I was talkin' ter them seconds before that kid was found, they never had time, sir-,"
Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went rating on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.
"It cant't've bin them, I'll swear in front o' the Ministry o' Magic if I have to-,"
"Hagrid, I-,"
"-Yeh've got the wrong people, sir, I know Hermione and Ron never-,"
"HAGRID!" said Dumbledore loudly. "I do not think that Ron and Hermione attacked those people."
"Oh," said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. "Right. I'll wait outside, then, Headmaster, sir."
And he stomped out looking embarrassed.
"You don't think it was us, Professor?" Ron asked hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.
"No, I don't," said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again. "But I still want to talk to you."
Hermione waited nervously while Dumbledore considered them, the tips of his long fingers together. "I must ask you two," he said slowly, "Whether there is anything you'd like to tell me," he said gently. "Anything at all."
Hermione's thoughts strayed to the theft that morning, and the cauldronful of lacewing flies simmering slowly in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom (for this, they had decided, was by far the safest place to hide the potion). "No," she said softly.
Ron thought of the leather-bound photo album hidden under his bed, and felt the sharp pain that came with thoughts of Harry. He thought, too, of the dismal day in Diagon Alley-the trip back to Hogwarts, so grim and silent- and then he remembered Caroline and Nick and the strange boy, and the horror roaming the schools, and anger bubbled up inside him. "No," he said.
Dumbledore gave them both a searching look, but did not press them further. He stood abruptly. "You may return to your classes," he said brusquely. "Thank you."
* * *
The light flickered madly, revealing several more jars of the orange fire- starter mixture.
That's odd, he thought. I don't think that was there before.
With the thought came a fleeting uneasiness, but he ignored it and set the candle down. Carefully he scooped all four jars of orange fire-cream into his arms and carried them to the table, which he had scooted towards the cot. There were already several groups of jars on it-a few more of the purple salve that had healed his spider-bite, something pearly-white and very nearly solid that had relieved him of a headache when rubbed on his middle finger, and several more unidentified jars that he would test later.
Suddenly the candle sputtered and went out. Harry stood stock-still in the middle of the dungeon, his arms full of fire-starter cream. Carefully he inched forward until he bumped up against the table, and he set the jars down slowly. Then he reached into the only open jar, one half-full of fire- starter cream, and scooped out some of the thick cream-he had learned that while it would ignite the candle wick, it only felt comfortingly warm on his fingers-and smeared it over the candle.
Nothing happened.
Panic edged into his thoughts. The candle had become his life over the past two days-without it he would surely go crazy, for the cold, harsh dark was frightening nearly to the point of insanity. He had never been afraid of the dark before-eleven years sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs had accustomed him to it-but this dark was different; hostile, somehow, and listening. He felt much safer in the candlelight, and had even left it burning several times while he slept, like a small child.
He wiped the cream off his hands, using the corner of his robes as a towel. The topmost corner of the robe burst into flame, which he quickly stifled. Obviously, while flesh was not affected by the fire-cream, cloth was.
Using his hands to feel around the stone floor in the dark, he found the candle in its holder and picked it up. Even though he held it at eye-level nothing could be seen-the dark was too intense to show even a darker shadow. He felt around the holder until his hand came in contact with a very small puddle of warm wax-the candle, he thought in dismay. It had been short to begin with, and the past two days' nearly constant use had burned it down to this-a small puddle of wax, too small to keep even a flicker alive for long.
Panic fought into his thoughts again. The candle was permanently gone; he would live in darkness now until Lucius Malfoy decided to relieve him.
* * *
The double attack on Nearly Headless Nick and the mystery boy turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick's fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? People asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats aboard the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas.
"At this rate, we'll be the only ones left," Ron told Hermione. "Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. What a jolly holiday it's going to be."
Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy did, had signed up to stay over the holidays too. But both Hermione and Ron were glad that most people were leaving; they were tired of people skirting around them in the corridors, as though one or both would sprout fangs or spit poison.
Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Ron and Hermione down the corridors, shouting, "Make way for the Heirs of Slytherin, seriously evil wizards coming through."
Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior. "It is not a laughing matter," he said coldly.
"Oh, get out of the way, Perce," said Fred. "Ron's in a hurry."
"Yeah, they're both off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with their fanged servant," said George, chortling.
Ginny didn't find it amusing either. "Oh, don't," she wailed every time Fred asked Hermione loudly who she was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Ron off with a large clove of garlic.
Their antics seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, two; he looked increasingly sour each time he saw them at it.
"It's because he's bursting to say it's him," said Ron knowingly. "You know how he hates anyone beating him at anything, and you're getting all the credit for his dirty work."
"Not for long," replied Hermione in a satisfied tone. "The Polyjuice Potion'll be ready in a week. We'll be getting the truth out of him any day now."
They were on the way to the Common Room, well after the last class of the day. They had worked on the potion for several minutes in Myrtle's bathroom, and Hermione was quite satisfied. "Now all we need is a bit of the people we'll be changing in to," she mused as they walked along. "You'd better get Crabbe or Goyle," she said to Ron. "I'll try to corner Pansy Parkinson, she's staying home."
"Right," Ron said gloomily. "Y'know, Hermione, do we really have to have a bit of them?" he shuddered. "I'm not drinking anything with Crabbe's toenails in it."
"You won't have to," Hermione said briskly. "Just get a bit of hair, you won't even know it's in the cup."
"I wouldn't bet on that," Ron muttered. Hermione gave him a scathing glance, but before she could say anything the sound of voices drifted out of an empty classroom just a little way down the hall.
"Minerva," said a voice-Hermione was pretty sure it was Dumbledore's-"Do you realize who he is?"
Ron came up to stand next to her, not noticing the voices. "Really, Hermione," he said, "Do I have to drink the ha-,"
"Sssh!" Hermione cut him off, and pointed up the hall.
"No, Albus, I can't say I do," came McGonagall's voice, sounding faintly annoyed. "What does it matter? Each student means as much as another. The part I can't figure out is how this child was attacked, when he is from Slytherin and clearly pure-blood."
"Minerva," said Dumbledore sharply, "That boy is Christof Malfoy."
"Surely you don't mean Isabel Garcia's son?" McGonagall asked faintly.
"I do," Dumbledore replied grimly.
"But Albus-how can it be-the only logical explanation would be-oh, surely they were not.?"
There was a moment of silence, and then Dumbledore said with an effort, "Yes, Minerva. Christof's attack can mean but one thing-Arrlimon and Isabel have been discovered and are now, at this moment, undergoing horrific torture-or they are dead. Either way, Harry is no longer safe."
"Harry? You don't mean Harry Potter?" McGonagall asked sharply.
"I do," said Dumbledore. Ron's jaw dropped and he looked at Hermione questioningly. "Did you-," he asked faintly. Hermione shook her head and put a finger to her lips.
"Yes, Minerva, I do mean Harry Potter," said Dumbledore heavily.
"But-the Floo accident-what-please explain yourself, Albus!"
"I cannot explain all that I will later here. But let me tell you this: Harry is being held captive by Lord Voldemort, in a place so protected and so well guarded that his only hope of rescue was Arrlimon Malfoy. I trust that you know about the Malfoy's mission?"
"Of course. Go on, Albus," said McGonagall softly.
"Well, earlier this year Arrlimon came to me in secret and told me about Harry's imprisonment in this well-guarded sanctuary. He offered to rescue him, and I gave him the means to do so-but apparently this plan has backfired. Harry is no longer safe with two trustworthy guardians; he may even be dead for all I know."
"Oh," said McGonagall faintly. "And Christof Malfoy would have been attacked because of his parent's disgrace?"
"I suppose so," said Dumbledore musingly. "Although I do not know so. It could be that the Dark Lord wanted Christof for an entirely different reason-we may never know, if these horrific deeds continue."
Hermione turned to Ron, her face ashen. "Did you hear that?" she whispered. "Harry could be dead, and this Christof Malfoy-whoever he is-is someone important. Oh, dear," she said, louder. "Let's go back to Gryffindor Common Room. We can talk this over privately."