Rubeus Hagrid waved his hand at the woodpile next to the hearth, and a split log heaved itself up and settled on top of the coals.
"I shouldn't have called Professor Snape a miserable git, even if he wasn't there to hear it," he told Fang. "He's always looked after me, you know, we go back to our boyhood, and even if he has taken some odd turns, I've looked after him all these years."
Fang whined and turned over in his sleep, lying on his back with all four paws in the air. Hagrid scratched his stomach with the toe of his boot.
"I know he means well," ruminated Hagrid, "but I don't think he understands that I've always hoped to find a lady to love. He likes being alone; I tolerate it because I have to, but given the choice…" He puffed on his pipe, and the fragrant smoke drifted into the air and shaped itself into a fair face. He sighed. Then, he frowned.
"Overflowing bodice? How does he know whether or not her bodice is overflowing? She has a lovely shape (here, he blushed) but she was wearing a thick knitted tunic, and –" He paused, confused. "Maybe he can see through clothing…Death Eaters do have some strange talents. Now, I don't think I like the thought of him seeing through the lady's' clothing…"
Mrs Susan Dowd, the manager of the kitchen elves, made her rounds through the dining-hall as usual. She was about to exit through the kitchen, seeing everything in perfect order, when she noticed a small phial on the Masters' table. Hum, she thought to herself, what's this, then? Mayhap it's someone's medicine. I'd better give it to Poppy Pomfrey. She bespoke a House Elf, and little Olaf presented himself.
"Olaf, ye've been sitting by the fire bragging about serving Miss Helgarda, have ye not?" she frowned. The little fellow twisted his pillowslip in his gnarled hands. "Ja," he whispered. "She is most fine princess, Tanesdottir."
"Well," said Susan, "If ye behave, ye can serve her tomorrow. Now, take this up to Madam Pomfrey and tell her someone left it on the Masters' table." Olaf took the phial and toddled off in the direction of the moving staircases.
He hastened through the darkened corridors, trembling, because he was terrified of the roving ghosts that floated through walls and along hallways, singing, reciting, and sometimes moaning to themselves. He was almost at the hospital door when he bumped directly into Bjarnadr, a fellow elf who was usually found in the dungeons.
"What hast thou there, Olaf?" Bjarnadr demanded. "It looks like Master Snape's potion, I know his phials, I've cleaned them until my hands are wrinkled like prunes."
"Bjarnadr, no, go away," whimpered Olaf. "This is for Madam Pomfrey. My boss will beat me if I don't give it to her." He held the phial behind his back, backing away from Bjarnadr.
"Thou hast become stupid in thy old age, Olaf," stated Bjarnadr. "MY boss will string me up by my toenails in the dungeon if I don't return his property; dost thou want to be strung up along with me?"
"No, no," pleaded Olaf, shivering. He held out the phial, which Bjarnadr seized, tucking it into a pocket in his pillowslip. Bjarnadr then made for the downward staircases, hoping that his master would be pleased. Olaf made his way back to the kitchens, relieved to see that Mrs Dowd had already left for the evening.
On the way to the dungeons, Bjarnadr stopped to play a game of dice with some of his fellows who worked in the laundries. They passed around a stolen bottle of wine, pilfered from Master Dumbledore's private wine cellar. It was not long before Bjarnadr was tipsy, and he barely made back to the dungeons, where he collapsed on top of his mattress, snoring, the phial forgotten. Indeed, it was no longer his; it had rolled out of his pocket while he was playing dice, and into the middle of the chamber floor, where it was discovered the next morning by a slatternly she-elf who uncorked it, sniffed it, hurriedly recorked it and tossed it into a wastebasket. The wastebasket was dumped into the general trash, and the phial made its way to the garbage-midden in back of Professor Sprout's greenhouse.
Ron Weasley, making compost for Professor Sprout, sifted through the garbage-midden, looking for odds and ends that might be suitable for composting. He found the long-suffering phial, wondering why it was there and noting that it was still full of – whatever it was. It didn't make sense; when one was given a phial of medicine by Madam Pomfrey, one uncorked it, tossed it down quickly (hopefully, ahead of its awful taste) and the phial then disappeared, to appear back where it had come from – Professor Snape's laboratory. One didn't find phials, full or empty, lying about. He pocketed it and finished his work.
At luncheon time, Harry came by to collect Ron, and together they went into the dining hall. "Look at this," Ron said, holding the top of his pocket open so Harry could peer in at the phial. "It's still full. What do you think of that?"
"I can't imagine it. D'you think someone was given a dose of medicine and didn't want to take it? We'd better give it back to Madam Pomfrey and let her figure it out."
"I've got a better idea. Let's try to find who it was meant for, and then we can give it to them, so Madam Pomfrey won't fuss at them."***
Ron looked at the phial. It was hard to tell whether the glass of the phial or the liquid within was blue; he tilted it slightly. The glass was blue. He racked his brain to try to remember one of his Potions classes in which Professor Snape discussed phials, containers and tablets. Unfortunately, he had no better luck than ever he did when trying to remember Potions. He loathed the subject terribly, and try as he might, he could not keep any of it in his head. He turned to Harry: "Do you remember why a potion would be put into a coloured phial?"
Harry considered. "Well—oh, that's beer; you put beer in brown bottles so it won't go flat."
"Well," Ron said, "this stuff doesn't have any bubbles in it. Maybe it's gone flat already."
They moved over to make room for Hermione, who was carrying a larger than usual stack of books. "Hi, Harry, Ron. I'm exhausted and I'm starving. Pass me the sandwiches, will you, Ron?" She helped herself to a large cheese and cucumber sandwich on brown bread and a roll stuffed with chicken salad.
Ron sidled closer to her, and she looked at him curiously. "What is it? You're crowding me, and I'm trying to eat," she said around a mouthful of sandwich.
"I don't want anyone to hear me, " he said, and surreptitiously showed her the phial. Hermione's eyes widened. "Put it away," she said. "We'll go up to Gryffindor Tower during the afternoon break.
***
Hermione and the two boys walked round the tower's balcony until they came to a pair of stone benches in a shady spot, away from the door and from any prying eyes. For a while, Hermione studied the mysterious flask. "Is it bubbling?" Ron asked.
"No, it's still. It's a little thick, like syrup, but it seems to flow like any normal liquid." Hermione carefully eased the cork upwards in the phial's neck.
"Maybe we should cast a protective spell around it," said Harry. "It might evaporate quickly, and then we'd never figure it out." He took out his wand and circled the phial, held firmly in Hermione's fingertips, around its upper end, muttering what he hoped was a protection. Then, Hermione gingerly removed the cork.
The three watched to see if there were any fumes arising from the liquid, or any spurts, or if the level of it sank. Nothing happened. Ron's nose quivered; he was the most sensitive to smell of any of them.
"What d'you think, Ron?" He tentatively moved closer to the phial and took a cautious sniff.
"Phew! It smells like vomit-flavoured jelly babies! Ugh!" He backed away, wrinkling his nose.
"Well, I might have known if I could tell what colour it really is." Harry took the phial in his hand. "Now, what kind of potion would be best if it was vomit-flavoured?"
Ron blew his nose heartily into his pocket-handkerchief. "I didn't say it was vomit-flavoured, I said it smelled like it."
"True, there are many potions that smell one way and taste another. Like cough medicine," said Hermione. "The last one I had smelled nice, like cinnamon, and tasted like fish. Disgusting."
"Well, this isn't telling us who's supposed to take it," stated Ron. "How can we figure it out?" Ron often said that he had forgotten more about Potions than he had ever learned.
Hermione took the phial back from Harry. "We might as well try to find out," she said. "Revelatio," and she pointed her wand at the phial. "Look!" she breathed. Mist was beginning to gather around the phial; it was grey, like fog. It grew, expanded, and floated like a cloud above the phial. Gradually it took the shape of a face.
Three jaws dropped. "Hagrid?"
"Think he's sick?" asked Ron. "He was fine this morning when he stopped by the greenhouse to get some vegetables for the magical animals."
"Hagrid's never sick," agreed Harry. "You know how he is; he doesn't eat red meat or fowl because it makes him cry when he thinks of "his animal brothers an' sisters," he takes lots of exercise running around after the magical creatures. Well, he does like to go into Hogsmeade and get flown on butterbeer…"
Hermione sniffed. "I told him that getting drunk is unhealthy," the virtuous Gryffindor stated, "but he says he only does it until he gets silly. Maybe the potion's a hangover remedy."
"Hagrid with a hangover? Never!" scoffed Ron. "Still, that's what it might be. If he's forgotten it, he'll be in for a terrible headache after his next bender. We'd better get it to him." And the three set off in search of Hagrid.
