Chapter 13

The Secret Mystery

KIARA

Dear Daddy and Mum,

I am well. I've just come back from Dragsmeade which was not a fun trip. Honestly, you should have seen the shops closed there. It would have been better if you two had come up, I'd have been made up to see you.

Anyway, I ran into Mona Fetch there, and get this, she was trying to sell Pumbaa's old stuff - that's right, the stuff that we now own - that she had nicked from Warts House. I'm afraid to say I lost my temper with her and kind of accosted her outside The Flying Owls, but she Disapparated before I could do any damage.

But that's not the most interesting thing that happened today. On the way back from Dragsmeade, Chris, Sian, Chrissie and I saw Keith Ball cursed by touching a cursed necklace. He rose up into the air screaming. It was an awful sight to see. I found Mina who took him up to the castle, and when we got there, Professor Darbus met us and we followed her to her office where she asked us to tell her what had happened, which we did. I then told her that I suspected that Dani Malty had something to do with it, which Professor Darbus brushed aside at once, saying that she was doing detention with her that day; but I know that Malty just had to be involved with this somehow. I don't know how, but my feelings are strong with this suspicion.

I've got to go now. I'll be in touch with you soon.

Lots of love,

Kiara

I sent this letter to my parents Saturday night, hoping that I'd get a reply from them soon. And now on with this chapter.

Keith was removed to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that he had been cursed had spread all over the school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Chris, Sian, Chrissie, Leon and I seemed to know that Keith had not been the intended target.

"Oh, and Malty knows, of course," I said to Chris, Sian and Chrissie, who continued their new policy of feigning deafness whenever I mentioned my Malty-is-a-Love-Destroyer theory.

I had wondered whether Crighton would return from wherever she had been in time for Monday night's lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, Sian and I presented ourselves outside Crighton's office at eight o'clock, I knocked, and we were both told to enter. There sat Crighton, looking unusually tired; her hand was as black and burned as ever, but she smiled when Sian ran to her mother to embrace her, before we both sat down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.

"You girls have had a busy time while I have been away," Crighton said. "I believe you witnessed Keith's accident."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, as Sian nodded her head solemnly. !How is he?"

"Still very unwell, although he is relatively lucky. He appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin: there was a tiny hole in his glove. Had he put it on, had he even held it in his ungloved hand, he would have died, perhaps instantly. Lucky Professor Triphorm was able to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse - "

"Why here?" I asked quickly. "Why not Matron?"

"Impertinent," said a soft voice from one of the portraits on the wall, and Philomena Naenia Warts, Pumbaa's great-great-grandmother, raised her head from her arms where she had appeared to be sleeping. "I would not have permitted a student to question the way Dragon Mort was operated in my day."

"Yes, thank you, Philomena," said Crighton quellingly. "Professor Triphorm knows much more about the Dark Arts than Matron, Kiara. Anyway, the St Mungo's staff are sending me hourly reports and I am hopeful that Keith will make a full recovery in time."

"Where were you this weekend, ma'am?" I asked, disregarding a strong feeling that I might be pushing my luck, a feeling apparently shared by Philomena Naenia, who hissed softly.

"I would rather not say just now," said Crighton. "However, I shall tell you both in due course."

"You will?" said Sian, sounding as startled as I looked.

"Yes, I expect so," said Crighton, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside her robes and uncorking it with a prod of her wand.

"Ma'am," I said tentatively, "I met Mona in Dragsmeade."

"Ah, yes, I am aware that Mona has been treating your inheritance with light-fingered contempt," said Crighton, frowning a little. "She has gone to ground since you accosted her outside the Flying Owls; I rather think she dreads facing me - as well as your parents, who contacted me earlier today to tell me that they confronted Mona themselves. However, rest assured that she will not be making away with any more of Pumbaa's old possessions."

"That mangy old half-breed had been stealing Warts heirlooms?" said Philomena Naenia, incensed; and she stalked out of her frame, undoubtedly to visit her portrait in Warts House.

"Professor," I said, after a short pause, "did Professor Darbus tell you what I told her after Keith got hurt? About Dani Malty?"

"She told me of your suspicions, yes," said Crighton.

"And do you - ?"

"I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Keith's accident," said Crighton. "But what concerns me now, Kiara, is our lesson."

I remember feeling slightly resentful at this: if our lessons were so very important, why had there been such a long gap between the first and second? However, I said no more about Dani Malty, but watched as Crighton poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve, and began swirling the stone basin once more between her long-fingered hands.

"You girls will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lady Zira's beginnings at the point where the beautiful Muggle, Dizra Maliay, had abandoned Malvolio Mackay with her baby, and returned to her family home in Port Harcourt. Malvolio was left alone with the baby, and they were stelloways in many carts and a ship, until they arrived in London, and Malvolio never knew that he was carrying the baby who would one day become Lady Zira."

"How do you know he was in London, Ma?" said Sian.

"Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke," said Crighton, "who helped found the very shop not quite like the one where the necklace we have just been discussing came from."

She swilled the contents of the Pensieve as I had seen her swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man, revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of long hair, the fringe of which completely covered his eyes.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young wizard just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. He said he needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and very thin. He said the locket had once belonged to a very famous witch by the name of Snake-Eyes. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, "Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favourite teapot," but when I looked at it, it looked something like hers, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. He didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. One of the best deals we ever made!"

Crighton gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory whence he had come.

"He only gave him ten Galleons?" I said indignantly.

"Charactacus Burke was not famed for his generosity," said Crighton. "So we know that, near then end of his life, Malvolio was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell his one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marmarin's treasured family heirlooms."

"But he could do magic!" I said impatiently. "He could have got food and everything for himself by magic, couldn't he?"

"Ah," said Crighton, "perhaps he could. But it is my belief - I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right - that when his love abandoned him, Malvolio stopped using magic. I do not think he wanted to be a wizard any longer. Of course, it is also possible that his unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped him of his powers, that can happen. In any case, as you are both about to see, Malvolio refused to raised his wand even to save his own life."

"He wouldn't even stay alive for his own daughter?"

Crighton raised her eyebrows, as Sian looked at me strangely.

"Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lady Zira?"

"No," I said quickly, "but he had a choice, didn't he, not like my father - "

"Your father had a choice, too," said Crighton gently. "Yes, Malvolio Mackay chose death in spite of a daughter who needed him, but do not udge him too harshly, Kiara. He was greatly weakened by long suffering and he never had your father's courage. And now, if you and Sian will stand ..."

"Where are we going?" Sian asked, as Crighton joined she and I at the front of the desk.

"This time," said Crighton, "we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, girls ..."

Sian and I bent over the Pensieve together; our faces broke the cold surfaces of the memory and then we were falling through darkness again ... seconds later our feet hit firm ground, we opened our eyes and found that we and Crighton were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.

"There I am," said Crighton briskly, pointing ahead of us to a tall figure crossing the road in front a horse-drawn milk cart.

This young Susan Crighton's long hair was all caramel. Having reached our side of the street, she strode off across the pavement drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that she was wearing.

"Nice suit, Ma," Sian blurted out. She blushed and looked at her mother, who merely chuckled as we followed her younger self at a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. She mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.

"Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs Doyle, who, I believe, is the matron here?"

"Oh," said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Crighton's eccentric appearance. "Um ... just a mo' ... MRS DOYLE!" she bellowed over her shoulder.

I heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Crighton.

"Come in, she's on 'er way."

Crighton stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Sian, the older Crighton and I followed. Before the front door had closed behind us, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying towards us. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked towards Crighton.

" ... and take the iodine upstairs to Martin, Bella Stubbins has been picking her scabs and Erica Walsh's oozing all over her sheets - chicken pox on top of everything else," she said to nobody in particular and then her eyes fell upon Crighton and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold.

"Good afternoon," said Crighton, holding out her hand.

Mrs Doyle simply gaped.

"My name is Susan Crighton. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today."

Mrs Doyle blinked. Apparently deciding that Crighton was not a hallucination, she said feebly, "Oh, yes. Well - well, then, you'd better come into my room. Yes."

She led Crighton into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Crighton to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing her nervously.

"I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Dizra Maliay and arrange for her future," said Crighton.

"Are you family?" asked Mrs Doyle.

"No, I am a teacher," said Crighton. "I have come to offer Dizra a place at my school."

"What school's this, then?"

"It is called Dragon Mort," said Crighton.

"And how come you're interested in Dizra?"

"We believe she has qualities we are looking for."

"You mean she's won a scholarship? How can she have done? She's never been entered for one."

"Well, her name has been down for our school since birth - "

"Who registered her? Her parents?"

There was no doubt that Mrs Doyle was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Crighton thought so too, for I saw her slip her wand our of the pocket of her velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs Doyle's desktop.

"Here," said Crighton, waving her wand once as she passed her the piece of paper, "I think this will make everything clear."

Mrs Doyle's eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.

"That seems perfectly in order," she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before.

"Er - may I offer you a glass of gin?" she said in an extra-refined voice.

"Thank you very much," said Crighton, beaming.

It soon became clear that Mrs Doyle was no novice when it came to gin-drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Crighton for the first time, and she didn't hesitate to press her advantage.

"I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Dizra Maliay's history? I think she was brought here to the orphanage?"

"That's right," said Mrs Doyle, helping herself to more gin. "I remember it clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. It was some time in February and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this boy, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps, carrying a bundle in his arms. Well, he was the first father we had bringing a baby to us, I'll tell you that. We took him in and laid him down. And he died an hour after that."

Mrs Doyle nodded passively and took another gulp of gin.

"Did he say anything before he died?" asked Crighton. "Anything about the girl's mother, for instance?"

"Now, as it happens, he did," said Mrs Doyle, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story.

"I remember he said to me, "I hope she looks like her mama," and I won't lie, he was right to hope it, because he was no handsome lad - and then he told me she was to be named Dizra, for her mother, and to have her mother's surname, Maliay - yes, I know, funny names, aren't they? We wondered whether he came from a circus - and no middle names. None at all. He also told me that she was born on New Year's Day. And he kept the baby in his arms all the time, and wouldn't let anyone else hold her, until he died.

"Well, we named her just as he'd said, it seemed so important to the poor boy, but no Dizra nor any kind of Maliay ever came looking for her, nor any family at all, so she stayed in the orphanage and she's been here ever since."

Mrs Doyle helped herself, almost absent-mindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheek-bones. Then she said, "She's a funny girl."

"Yes," said Crighton. "I thought she might be."

"She was a funny baby, too. She hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when she got a little older, she was ... odd."

"Odd, in what way?" asked Crighton gently.

"Well, she - "

But Mrs Doyle pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Crighton over her gin glass.

"She's definitely got a place at your school, you say?"

"Definitely," said Crighton.

"And nothing I say can change that?"

"Nothing," said Crighton.

"You'll be taking her away, whatever?"

"Whatever," repeated Crighton gravely.

She squinted at her as though deciding whether or not to trust her. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, "She scares the other children."

"You mean she is a bully?" asked Crighton.

"I think she must be," said Mrs Doyle, frowning slightly, "but it's very hard to catch her at it. There have been incidents ... nasty things ..."

Crighton did not press her, though I could tell that she was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.

"Bella Stubbins' rabbit ... well, Dizra said she didn't do it and I don't see how she could have done, but even so, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

"I shouldn't think so, no," said Crighton quietly.

"But I'm jiggered if I know how she got up there to do it. All I know is that she and Bella had argued the day before. And then - " Mrs Doyle took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time, "on the summer outing - we taken them out, you know, once a year to the countryside or to the seaside - well, Archie Barnes and Amy Bradley were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Dizra Maliay. She swore they'd just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I'm sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things ..."

She looked at Crighton again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady.

"I don't think people will be sorry to see the back of her."

"You understand, I'm sure, that we will not be keeping her permanently?" said Crighton. "She will have to return here, at the very least, every summer."

"Oh, well, that's better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker," said Mrs Doyle with a slight hiccough. She got to her feet and I was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. "I suppose you'd like to see her?"

"Very much," said Crighton, rising too.

She led her out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, I saw, were all wearing the same kind of greyish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.

"Here we are," said Mrs Doyle, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. she knocked twice and entered.

"Dizra? You've got a visitor. This is Miss Crighton. She's here to tell you - well, I'll let her do it."

Myself, Sian and the two Crightons entered the room and Mrs Doyle closed the door on us. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and an iron bedstead. A girl was sitting on top of the grey blankets, her legs stretched out in front of her, holding a book.

There was no trace of the Mackays in Dizra Maliay's face. Malvolio had got his dying wish: she was her beautiful mother in miniature, tall for eleven-years-old, light-haired and pale. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in Crighton's eccentric appearance. There was a moment's silence.

"How do you do, Dizra?" said Crighton, walking forwards and holding out her hand.

The girl hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Crighton drew up the hard wooden chair beside Maliay, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor.

"I am Professor Crighton."

" "Professor"?" repeated Maliay She looked wary. "Is that like "doctor"? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?"

She was pointing at the door through which Mrs Doyle had just left.

"No, no," said Crighton, smiling.

"I don't believe you," said Maliay. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!"

She spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though she had given it many times before. Her eyes had widened and she was glaring at Crighton, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Maliay stopped glaring, though she looked, if anything, warier still.

"Who are you?"

"I have told you. My name is Professor Crighton and I work at a school called Dragon Mort. I have come to offer you a place at my school - your new school, if you would like to come."

Maliay's reaction to this was most surprising. She leapt from the bed and backed away, looking furious.

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? "Professor", yes, of course - well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Archie Barnes and Amy Bradley, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

"I am not from the asylum," said Crighton patiently. "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Dragon Mort. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you - "

"I'd like to see them try," sneered Maliay.

"Dragon Mort," Crighton went on, as though she had not heard Maliay's last words, "is a school for people with special abilities - "

"I'm not mad!"

"I know that you are not mad. Dragon Mort is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

There was silence. Maliay had frozen, her face expressionless, but her eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Crighton's, as though trying to catch one of them lying.

"Magic?" she repeated in a whisper.

"That's right," said Crighton.

"It's ... it's magic, what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"

"All sorts," breathed Maliay. A flush of excitement was rising up her neck into her hollow cheeks; she looked fevered. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

Her legs were trembling. She stumbled forwards and sat down on the bed again, staring at her hands, her head bowed as though in prayer, as next to me I heard Sian gasp when Maliay said the word "hurt".

"I knew I was different," she whispered to her own quivering fingers. "I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right," said Crighton, who was no longer smiling, but watching Maliay intently. "You are a witch."

Maliay lifted her head. Her face was transfigured: there was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make her better-looking; on the contrary, her finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, her expression almost bestial.

"Are you a witch too?"

"Yes, I am."

"Prove it," said Maliay at once, in the same commanding tone she had used when she had said "tell the truth".

Crighton raised her eyebrows.

"If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Dragon Mort - "

"Of course I am!"

"Then you will address me as "Professor" or "ma'am"."

Maliay's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before she said, in an unrecognisably polite voice, "I'm sorry, ma'am. I meant - please, Professor, could you show me - ?"

I was sure that Crighton was going to refuse, that she would tell Maliay there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Dragon Mort, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles, and must therefore be cautious. To my great surprise, however, Crighton drew her wand from an inside pocket of her suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner and gave the wand a casual flick.

The wardrobe burst into flames.

Maliay jumped to her feet. I could hardly blame her for howling in shock and rage; all her worldly possessions must have been in there; but even as Maliay rounded on Crighton the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.

Maliay stared from the wardrobe to Crighton, then, her expression greedy, she pointed at the wand.

"Where can I get one of them?"

"All in good time," said Crighton. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."

And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Maliay looked frightened.

"Open the door," said Crighton.

Maliay hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it.

"Take it out," said Crighton.

Maliay took down the quaking box. She looked unnerved.

"Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" asked Crighton.

Maliay threw Crighton a long, clear, calculating look.

"Yes, I suppose so, ma'am," she said finally, in an expressionless voice.

"Open it," said Crighton.

Maliay took off the lid and tipped the contents on to her bed without looking at them. I had expected something exciting to be in that box, but instead I saw a mess of small, everyday objects; a yo-yo, a silver thimble and a tarnished mouth-organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets.

"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," said Crighton coldly, putting her wand back into her jacket. "I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: thievery is not tolerated at Dragon Mort."

Maliay did not look remotely abashed; she was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Crighton. At last she said in a colourless voice, "Yes, ma'am."

"At Dragon Mort," Crighton went on, "we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have - inadvertently, I am sure - been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You will not be the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Dragon Mort can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic - yes, there is a Ministry - will punish law-breakers still more severely. All wizards must accept that, in our world, they abide by our laws."

"Yes, ma'am," said Maliay again.

It was impossible to tell what she was thinking; her face remained quite blank as she put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When she had finished she turned to Crighton and said boldly, "I haven't got any money."

"That is easily remedied," said Crighton, drawing a leather money-pouch from her pocket. "There is a fund at Dragon Mort for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You may have to buy some of your school books and so on second-hand, but - "

"Where do you buy spellbooks?" interrupted Maliay, who had taken the heavy money-bag without thanking Crighton, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.

"In Diagon Alley," said Crighton. "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything - "

"You're coming with me?" asked Maliay, looking up.

"Certainly, if you - "

"I don't need you," said Maliay. "I'm used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley - ma'am?" she added, catching Crighton's eye.

I thought that Crighton would insist upon accompanying Maliay, but once again I was surprised. Crighton handed Maliay the envelope containing her list of equipment, and, after telling Maliay exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, she said, "You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you - non-magic people, that is - will not. Ask for Tom the barman, and if he's not around, you can always ask for Dizra the barmaid - "

Maliay's eyes widened at this.

"There's someone else out there with the same name as me - ma'am?" Maliay demanded.

Crighton raised her eyebrows again.

"It is not uncommon for people to share the same name, Dizra. Do you not like your name?"

"No, of course not," Maliay muttered. "It's just that people don't have the name Dizra. I jus thought ..."

Maliay trailed off, clearly unimpressed by this information. Then, as though she could not suppress the question, as though it burst from her in spite of herself, she asked, "Was my mother a witch? She was called Dizra Maliay too, they've told me."

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Crighton, her voice gentle.

"My father can't have been magic, or he wouldn't have died," said Maliay, more to herself than Crighton. "It must've been her. So - when I've got all my stuff - when do I come to this Dragon Mort?"

"All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," said Crighton. "You will leave from one of the submarines in the Sub House at the Dover docks on the first of September. There is a ticket in there, too."

Maliay nodded. Crighton got to her feet and held out her hand again. Taking it, Maliay said, "I can speak to reptiles too, but snakes in particular. I found out when we've been to the countryside on trips - they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a witch?"

I could tell that she had withheld mention of the strangest power until that moment, determined to impress.

"Talking to snakes is unusual, but not unheard of," said Crighton, after a moment's hesitation. "Talking to reptiles, on the other hand ... that's a very rare and peculiar gift to have indeed."

Her tone was casual but her eyes moved curiously over Maliay's face. They stood for a moment, woman and girl, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Crighton was at the door.

"Goodbye, Dizra. I shall see you at Dragon Mort."

"I think that will do, girls," said the slightly silver-haired Crighton at my side, and seconds later she, Sian and I were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before we landed squarely in the present-day office.

"Sit down, girls," said Crighton, landing between Sian and I.

Sian and I obeyed, and I could tell that her mind, just like mine, was still full of what we had just seen.

"Did you know, Ma - then?" asked Sian.

"Did I know that I had just met the most Dark witch of all time?" said Crighton. "No, I had no idea that she was going to grow up to be what she is. However, I was certainly intrigued by her. I returned to Dragon Mort intending to keep an eye upon her, something I should have done in any case, given that she was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others' sake as much as hers.

"Her powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young witch and - most interestingly and ominously of all - she had already discovered that she had some measure of control over them, and began to use them consciously. And as you both saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: she was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl she lured into a cave were most suggestive ... I can make them hurt if I want to ..."

"And she was a Parshydamouth," I interjected.

"Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although, as we know, there are Parshydamouths among the great and good too. In fact, her ability to speak to reptiles did not make me nearly as uneasy as her obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy and determination.

"Time is making fools of us again," said Crighton, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. "But before you and I part, Kiara, I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings.

"Firstly, I hope you girls noticed Maliay's reaction when I mentioned that another shared her first name, "Dizra"?"

Sian and I nodded.

"There she showed her contempt for anything that tied her to other people, anything that made her ordinary. Even then she wished to be different, separate, notorious. She shed her name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of "Lady Zira" behind which she has hidden for so long.

"I trust that you both also noticed that Dizra Maliay was already highly-sufficient, secretive and, apparently, friendless? She did nor want help or companionship on her trip to Diagon Alley. She preferred to operate alone. The adult Zira is the same. You will hear many of her Love Destroyers claiming that they are in her confidence, that they alone are close to her, even understand her. They are deluded. Lady Zira has never had a friend, nor do I believe that she has ever wanted one.

"And lastly - I hope you girls are not too sleepy to pay attention to this - the young Dizra Maliay liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles she had hidden in her room. These were taken from victims of her bullying behaviour, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later.

"And now, it really is time for you to go to bed, Kiara. Sian, would you mind staying behind, please?"

Sian nodded and remained seated as I got to my feet. As I walked across the room, my eyes fell upon the little table on which Marmarin Mackay's ring had rested last time, but the ring was no longer there.

"Yes, Kiara?" said Crighton, for I had come to a halt.

"The ring's gone," I said, looking around. "But I thought you might have the mouth-organ or something."

Crighton merely beamed at me.

"Very astute, Kiara, but the mouth-organ was only ever a mouth-organ."

And on that enigmatic note she waved to me, and I understood myself to be dismissed.