Chapter 5
Malfoy and Hermione spent the next twenty minutes hurling insults at one another as if there were no tomorrows. The effect of the potion grew stronger as they verbally fenced with one another through their private thoughts and feelings of hate and revulsion, magnified by their mutuality, seared through them. Eventually, Professer Prospero, having enthused with the rest of the class to his hearts content, turned his attention back to the Head Boy and Girl where they stood, glaring at each other, eyes locked.
"Er, yes," the professor said, hurriedly turning Hermione around and steering her back to her table, "Well, one can have too much of a good thing, it's said. Just concentrate on your friends for now. It'll wear off soon. You too, Mr Malfoy."
Hermione ignored Ron and Harry as she sat down at the desk and began picturing Malfoy's face in the grain. He was still arguing and throwing insults like stones, most of which were so worn out after the six previous years that they missed entirely and did nothing but fuel Hermione's own dislike of the boy.
Across the table, Harry and Ron were leaning back in their chairs, examining the vaulted ceiling and exchanging ideas on the many and varied uses empathebrius potion may prove to have in their endeavours around the school.
Of course we'd probably never get away with using it in exams, Ron thought.
Not much point unless we can persuade Hermione to take it too.
Maybe she doesn't have to take it. If we just need to hear her thoughts, then she need never know! I can get a few strands of her hair easily enough.
The mental imagery of running their hand through Hermione's hair simultaneously ran through both boys heads.
Woahhh! Falling!
Harry stuck out a hand and grabbed Ron's chair before it toppled over completely. He leaned forward and brought both their chairs back down onto four legs.
Maybe you should try not thinking about dating one of my best friends while we're sharing the same minds?
She's one of my best friends too!
You know what I mean.
It does kind of make me glad Neville's not in this class!
Exactly!
But it's going to be be pretty difficult, mate.
Ron, just try. Please!
Look on the bright side: it's only for another half hour or so!
After a half hour that resulted in Ron being unable to look at Harry and Harry unable to look at Hermione without blushing, the three left the potions classroom. Hermione still kept her gaze downward, concentrating on something neither of her companions understood and having not said a word to either of them since drinking the potion.
"Are you okay?" Ron asked his girlfriend as they neared the common room for one of their many study hours.
"Fine," Hermione replied, her tones clipped, "I'll see you later. I've just got to..."
Without finishing her sentence, Hermione turned round abruptly and headed off in the other direction.
"What the... Where's she going?" Ron asked, turning to find that Harry had gone on ahead, through the portrait hole.
"I really couldn't say, dear," the fat lady replied, "It was as if her mind was somewhere else entirely!"
"Cobblers."
"No, really, she... Oh, I see, of course!"
Hermione hurried back down the corridor and up a flight of stairs that pretended to be a solid wall then turned into another corridor and came face to face with a painting of three young women in Grecian dress, dancing gaily round a tree. They stopped dancing as Hermione approached.
"Soap bubbles," Hermione said without looking up.
"He's in there already," whispered one of the dancers.
"I know. He said he would be," Hermione replied, "So open up and let me in!"
Dancers muttering indignantly, the painting swung aside and Hermione stepped through into the private bathroom of the Head Boy and Head Girl. She turned to place her bag and books on a table by the door as the picture swung back into place.
Lock the door.
Why? We're the only ones that know the password.
Normally I wouldn't believe you, but I can tell when you're not lying with this stuff on the go.
What happened? Why is it still working?
How should I know, Granger. You're supposed to be the genius here.
As far as I can tell, the potion should work normally. I followed the instructions exactly. Did you?
Yes. Malfoy turned towards her from the window he had been staring out of. Of course I did. Do you really think I want you in my head any longer than necessary?
Likewise, Malfoy.
Then what caused it?
There was a flicker in their rejoined gaze and Malfoy suddenly crossed the gap between them.
What are you hiding? You know something: I can tell!
It's nothing. Just an idea.
Then tell me. You can't hide it forever. Not with this stuff letting me into your mind. I could use occlumency if I wanted to: father taught me some before he was taken.
What makes you think I couldn't block you? Harry could easily have taught us at the DA.
You're bluffing: I can tell. What's the point? We both want to know what's going on here and how to stop it.
I suppose it could be a number of things. Our potions could have simply been stronger than the rest of the class: we are the best potion makers in that class after all. Or it could have something to do with something else. Some spell that's interacting with it.
Like what?
I don't know. The only spell I can think of is the one that stops us fighting, but wouldn't that have the opposite effect?
Malfoy pulled away from Hermione and leaned against the wall beside her.
Not necessarily. I don't know what spell they use but it doesn't stop us from thinking the insults, just saying them. Believe me I've tried everything I can to break it!
Great! So it could be one of your haphazard experiments that's caused this!
This is NOT my fault!
Malfoy turned to lean side on against the wall and glare at Hermione angrily.
Whatever, Malfoy. I have work to do. I'm going.
Hermione leant over and reached out a hand to pick up her bag. Instantly, Malfoy's hand flashed out and grabbed her wrist before she could grasp the bag's handle. As soon as he did so, there was a bright flash and a buzzing ran through Hermione's head.
A boy of about five years stood in a hallway, looking up at an unmoving picture on a wall. The colours were faded, as if in an old film, making the boy seem unnaturally, even deathly, pale. His white, flaxen hair was tied back into a short ponytail and his black, velvet suit cut a sharp contrast with his ivory skin.
"Why doesn't it move, mother?" the boy asked a tall, slim, blonde woman standing nearby.
"Hush, Draco," the woman said hurriedly, turning away from the painting she had been admiring and leaning down to admonish her son, "Father told you not to say a word while he was gone. He will be angry if he finds out that you did not do as he asked. You do not want your father to be angry with us, do you?"
The young Draco shook his head mutely, watching his mother with pale, grey eyes. Seemingly satisfied, his mother stood up again and, taking her son's small, almost translucent hand, she led him away to another part of the gallery. The paintings here were of unmoving objects: bowls of fruit; tins of soup; flowers; desolate landscapes.
The next few minutes were spent in silence until heavy, hurried footsteps disturbed the peace and made their way towards the two. Narcissa turned her head as her husband strode towards them, smiling nervously.
"Is everything well, my love?" Narcissa asked as Lucius Malfoy came to a halt beside his wife and young son.
"As well as can be expected with such imbeciles in charge of the ministry!" Malfoy barked, heedless of the disdainful stares of the surrounding, art-loving, publicm "Let's get out fo this place. It's not good for the boy."
"As you wish."
Leading her still silent son by the hand, Narcissa followed her husband out of the National Gallery into the busy London street outside. They turned left, into an alley, then left again, then right and disappeared from view with two loud cracks.
Hermione's vision cleared gradually. She shook her head and raised her hands to her head, rubbing her eyes. Then she realised that the hold Malfoy had had on her wrist had gone. She looked up and glanced round. Malfoy was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, his back against the wall and arms around his knees, staring straight ahead as if in shock.
"There is no way that was down to one of MY experiments," he muttered.