Chapter 26

LAURELS

But ignoring Draco was easier said than done. "Ooo," he cooed. "And the itty-bitty ones are all decked out in Weasley's castoffs."

Harry pivoted on the flagstones of the courtyard. Glancing down, he saw Dobby bowing his head. A sick feeling swept over him. The arrogant sleaze was Dobby's former master's son.

"What dustbin did you rummage for those rags?" Malfoy drawled.

Winky wrung her hands, her saucer eyes swimming. Dobby maintained his humble stance.

Oh, no, Harry groaned. Any minute now, he's going to start banging his head on the flagstones.

Instead, the elf answered calmly, "These clothes cost three galleons in Hogsmeade. Dobby is earning money now—"

"—thanks to your father's generosity," Harry finished, stepping up beside his little friend. When Ron flanked Winky, Crabbe and Goyle took up positions on either side of Malfoy.

Harry gritted his teeth. He knew Malfoy wouldn't do more than toss insults at the Yule Ball. What his muscle-bound friends might risk wasn't so certain.

Then a fourth Slytherin sauntered up behind Malfoy—their aristocratic supper companion, Kier. "Harry is so right. What your father did was truly inspiring. My own father quite admired it—offered socks to all the elves in our house, too."

Reluctantly, Malfoy turned. Harry saw Kier favor his fellow Slytherin with a bland smile that dared him to challenge the unwelcome compliment he'd just received.

At last, Malfoy muttered, "Thank you."

Throwing an arm around Malfoy's shoulders, Kier nodded pleasantly at Harry and his friends. "It was marvelous making everyone's acquaintance." He made a point of bending low to acknowledge Dobby and Winky. Then he turned, shepherding Malfoy into the throng. Confused, Crabbe and Goyle trailed after them.

Harry shot Ron a dazed smile. "Slytherin cunning in action.

"So something good can come out of that house," Angelina said.

"Not just good," Winky trilled as tears streamed down her cheeks, "but wise and diplomatic and gracious and noble."

Ron rolled his eyes.

At Harry's side, so softly that only he could hear it, Dobby murmured, "Too bad Professor Severus wasn't his father. When he was a boy, Master Draco tried to give Dobby a sock."

Before Harry could register this surprise, Nick coughed for their attention. Looking up, he saw the ghost's head flop forward in a nod. "Yes, indeed. Very courtly." Then he sniffed. "If Snape had witnessed it, he might have learned something."

Just then the first of the fireworks shot into the sky, erupting in a fountain of stars. And in that instance of daytime brilliance, Harry saw why Snape had not witnessed the confrontation between Gryffindor and Slytherin. He was too absorbed in Ariel Daine.

Public display of affection was inadequate to describe them. On the far side of the patio, the two embraced beneath a birch tree, so entwined, they looked like one figure. When the next rocket lit the night, the couple had vanished, but their image stayed burned in Harry's mind. Nothing from the parade of fiery spectacles—sparkling sprites, shimmering angels, exploding snowmen—could dim the memory. Had his mother ever hugged Snape that way? No, never.

When the last flickering reindeer leapt over the audience, then evaporated with a pop, Madame Pomfrey's voice rang out, inviting everyone's indulgence.

"They're proclaiming Dumbledore Father Christmas," Hermione whispered, reducing Pomfrey's flowery speech to its basics. "It's a surprise. Professor Daine told me."

Snatching Harry's hand, Hermione dragged him forward. He dispensed excuse me's right and left until they reached the foot of the stage. Nervously gripping Ginny's hand, Neville twisted to smile at them. Above them, the staff, radiant in their multicolored dress robes, ranged around the headmaster. Harry could have sworn Dumbledore's wrinkled cheeks glowed pink above his snowy beard. Ariel Daine looked bubbly, like she'd had too much to drink. Snape's eyes appeared heavy-lidded, as if he were drugged. Between them, Filch glanced suspiciously from one to the other. Then he crammed his fingers down the neck of his antiquated tailcoat and scratched.

When her well of adulation finally ran dry, Madame Pomfrey turned and scanned the row of professors. "Professor Sprout—where is she?"

"Called away," Snape said, breaking ranks to stride to a pedestal at the side. Picking up a red cap festooned with laurel leaves, silver bells and golden stars, he added, "She asked me to do the honors." Stiffly, he carried the jingling crown to the Headmaster.

"Because you give so much to us every day of your life, on this special occasion we crown you Father Christmas." Snape sounded stilted. Evidently, praise was a foreign language to him. He hesitated, apparently at a loss for what more to say. Then, lifting the Santa cap high above the headmaster's head, he murmured, "You're a father to us all."

When Snape placed the laurel-trimmed band over the snowy, white hair, everyone raised a resounding cheer. But on the second hip, hip, hooray, Dumbledore's smile contorted. He choked out a tortured moan. The students' voices faltered, then cut short.

Ginny shattered the stunned silence with a shriek: "It's the hat!"

Dumbledore fell to his knees, his chest wracked by spasms, his hands clenching the sides of the cap. He seemed helpless to let go. Harry heaved himself onto the stage and jumped up to yank it off.

"No!" Neville cried. "That's shock laurel! Don't touch it!"

Harry paused. Dumbledore gasped. Without further thought, Harry seized the leaf-studded brim.

A jolt like lightning swept through him, forcing out a scream. His muscles contracted unbearably tight. As he shuddered in agony, the world spun around him.

"Neville, do something!" Ginny screeched.

While his consciousness wavered in and out, Harry had a nebulous impression of Neville Longbottom clambering up and scrambling forward to croon gibberish at the red cap. Harry felt his taut muscles liquefy. As his eyeballs rolled upward under fluttering lids, he saw Dumbledore's death mask rictus relax as well.

Reaching out, Neville removed the cap.

Harry collapsed on the stage. Squares of black appeared at the edges of his vision, slowly filling in toward the center. Faintly, he heard someone say, "Well-done, Longbottom. You've done your parents proud."

Then Harry's darkness became complete.

Later—Harry couldn't tell how much later—he awoke to pinches, jabs and slaps. As he forced his eyes open and waited to regain his sight, he heard his friends murmuring: "He's coming around." "But he's weak." "Let's take him to the hospital."

When he finally focused, it was on a dispassionate, narrow face hanging upside down above him. "Potter, are you ill?"

Snape's offhand tone brought back everything—his headstrong foolishness in grabbing the cap, his relief that Neville had known how to save the day, and his embarrassment that he hadn't. Quickly, Harry sat up, muttering, "I'm fine, I'm fine."

Hermione tried to push him back down. "Take it easy. Neville told us those leaves pack quite a voltage."

Neville. "I'm fine. Really."

"He's fine, Miss Granger," Snape repeated sardonically. "Really."

Harry struggled to his feet, Ron and Angelina helping him. He could feel Winky and Dobby steadying his knees.

Behind him, Snape snorted. "So, you're well—well enough to keep your appointment with Mr. Filch after breakfast. You may return to the party."

Instead, Harry excused himself from his friends' ministrations—and Professor Daine's licorice wands—to stumble off to bed. An hour later, he remained sleepless, staring into the darkness, wondering how he'd ever live down this fiasco of a night.

Dumbledore saving him from the fire-breathing statue—that he could accept. After all, he was possibly the greatest wizard of modern times. And giving Cho the credit for protecting him from the griffin had made him feel magnanimous. But being rescued by I-can't-even-find-my-wand-without-my-toad-helping-me Neville Longbottom? That was mortifying.

Yet worse was the realization of what a conceited fool he'd been, assuming all these weeks that the mysterious attacks had been directed against him. The belligerent statue, the enraged griffin, the electrocuting laurel—their target had been someone much more important than little Harry Potter. The only way he could redeem his self-respect now was to uncover their source. Who's trying to kill Headmaster Dumbledore?

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