Chapter 27

TALKING

Scrubbing grime, moss and bird droppings from the head of the non-transfigured dragon Saturday morning, Harry wondered whether Snape had specifically requested this particular detention. What else could have made his shame more public and more complete? A survey of the porch, walkways, and patios below revealed more families than he'd ever seen personally picking up their children for winter break. And all of them seemed to be having a high time reminiscing about their school days, pointing out the landmarks they remembered, and asking if it was really the famous Harry Potter slogging away atop the ancient statue.

His mouth twisted wryly. This last observation was not just chagrined imagination. Ron's Fourier Analytical Earhorn—jammed in his right ear—left him no doubts about what everyone was saying. His only consolation for being placed by Snape on such degrading display was the unique opportunity it gave him to spy.

Hundreds of yards away, beside some rose bushes cut back to gnarled stumps for the winter, Lucius Malfoy held court before three elegantly robed men—one of them, Willimar Avery. Despite his distance, Harry could hear the old Death Eater as clearly as if he faced him. "Potter has had his day. He no longer figures into our equations."

Harry assumed Malfoy, Jr. was hanging on his father's words until he turned the earhorn and caught Draco whispering to his mother, "I don't want to stay here over Christmas. I want to spend the holidays with you. You look fine. Really you do."

Narcissa Malfoy's beautiful face seemed slightly off-center. She wrinkled her nose, as if blocking an unpleasant odor. "It's necessary. I'll try to explain."

Twisting, Harry passed over this mother-son exchange, then Katie with her parents, Seamus with his aunts, and Barden with his horde of siblings until the earhorn picked up Colin Creavy on the opposite side of the gardens.

Eagerly, his former admirer posed his kid brother next to Neville. "Just one more photo! In front of the laurel bush. It looks rather like shock laurel, doesn't it? Terrifying! Spine tingling!" He pointed his wizard camera. "Smile!"

Last night's hero looked abashed at the attention. After he recovered from the blinding flash, he murmured. "Could you take one for me to keep? I'd like to bring it with me when I visit my father and mother."

Harry blew out his breath. He'd be a louse to begrudge his fellow Gryffindor that.

On the far side of the laurel, Professor Sprout held forth to Neville's grandmother. "I was away tending the Confessing Conifer. The old tree was in a crisis—besieged by weevils and termites. If my best pupil hadn't been at the ball, that hazardous hat might have killed both the headmaster and Harry Potter. The professors realized it was shock laurel. Only Neville knew the precise chant to disarm it."

Neville's wizened grandmother smiled proudly from the depths of her bulky cape. "He's quiet and unassuming, but he has the knack."

Unlike me. Harry plunged his brush back into the cleaning potion, then shuddered. The chill morning had lowered the liquid's temperature to near freezing. At least it has some effect on dirt, he thought.

Speaking of dirt, Harry spied Wilhelm swaggering out of the woods. The earhorn picked up his formal salutations to his father and the other men. Evidently, he'd also be spending Christmas at Hogwarts. Then Avery, Jr. sauntered over to Malfoy, Jr. "Check out Weasley. He used to be the hero's sidekick. Now he's the janitor's sidekick."

Malfoy was too preoccupied with scrutinizing his mother to do more than nod.

Rankled, Harry aimed the earhorn to the other side of the dragon and the most humiliating conversation of all. As a surprise, the Weasleys had shown up with the Grangers—answering the question of who had taken Hermione's Muggle mum to Diagon Alley to buy a Little Nemo Hammock. During the last few months, the four parents had grown chummy. Today they were commiserating over poor Harry Potter.

"Surely, Harry can take a little break," Mr. Weasley said, repeatedly clicking something in his left hand. "At least long enough to see this amazing gizmo your dad gave me."

Hermione's thick brown hair, released from its fancy combs, billowed as she shook her head. "If he stops without permission, his detention will be doubled."

Mrs. Weasley tsked, clasping her knitted maroon cloak against the nippy air. "I don't see why he should be punished—just because he bungled his attempt to disable the shock laurel. They expect too much of the poor child."

Ron made a face "That's not why he got detention. He got it for—"

Ginny poked him.

"—something else altogether."

"Too bad," Mrs. Granger said, looking stylish but out-of-place in a topaz ski jacket. "I'd been looking forward to getting to know both of my daughter's best friends."

A cold voice from beneath Harry made him jump.

"Potter. No slacking."

Hastily, Harry resumed scouring grit off the dragon's marble scales. Out the corner of his eye, he watched Snape stalk around the statue. No surprise, he headed toward the Malfoys—until Mr. Weasley sang out his name.

Snape halted, then jerked his head toward the summons. After a pause, he started toward it.

"That's the Potions master," Hermione offered in an aside to her parents. "I've told you about him. He's one of my best professors."

Unlike Harry, Snape didn't appear equipped to hear whispers at a dozen yards. He approached the party with a guarded expression, as if certain the Gryffindors and their Muggle friends intended him no respect.

Mr. Weasley beamed at him, still clicking the Grangers' mysterious present. "The boys apologize they couldn't come—spending the weekend at Mr. Zonko's, of all places. But they insisted I tell you how grateful they are. They owe it all to you."

"They?" Snape's black eyes narrowed. "Who?"

Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Fred and George. If you hadn't been such a taskmaster, they never would have had the know-how to invent Ten Ton Toffee, Zapping Gumballs, Chortling Chocolate or any of it. They say they'll never forget you."

"The twins." Snape exhaled slowly. "They were . . . unforgettable, too."

Hermione's mother nodded warmly. "Our daughter also speaks highly of you."

Snape gazed at her along the side of his very long nose. "Does she."

Each time Snape opened his mouth, Harry had the distinct impression the Grangers were sneaking peeks at his crooked, off-white teeth. He recalled they were dentists.

"Yes," Hermione's father put in, averting his eyes. "She talks about you a lot."

Harry noticed Ron furtively drawing Hermione away—no doubt to avoid having to compliment Snape as well. Out of the adults' earshot but not Harry's, Ron took Hermione to task. "One of your best professors? Trying to kiss up?"

Harry saw Hermione compress her lips before launching into a soft retort. "I didn't say friendliest, pleasantest, funniest, or cutest, did I? But he is one of our best. Do you think your brothers could have invented anything Mr. Zonko would be eager to market if they hadn't been schooled by Professor Snape? And if we hadn't been sitting through his classes for five years, would we have had the discipline to pull off Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder? Whom should I admire? Gilderoy Lockhart?"

At mention of the most incompetent teacher they'd ever had, Ron sniggered. "My Temporal Transfiguration essay—you've just given me an inspiration."

Sudden movement grabbed Harry's attention. He cut back to the grownups. Mr. Weasley was heartily shaking his head, his eyes dancing with the thrill of controversy. "Potions can't do everything. Far from it. Oh, they can uncover secrets a person would rather keep hidden."

Hermione's mother cocked her head. "Even us non-magicians can do that. When I put people under for dental work, you'd be amazed at what they babble out. I have to stick my hand in the patient's mouth just to keep from being embarrassed."

"Score!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed, spreading his gangling arms. "Potions can be more precise—make people say quite specific things. But they can't fundamentally change what a person thinks, believes, or feels. None of them can."

Harry saw one side of Snape's mouth curl in a superior smile. "I disagree."

Mr. Weasley grinned—as if pleased at drawing the professor out.

"Potions can make the timid brave or the brave cower," Snape continued in his silky, soft voice. "They can wipe the memory clean or—" he glanced at Hermione "—enhance it to forget nothing. Potions can produce eloquence or reticence. They can bring people to hatred . . . or even love."

Still clicking, Mr. Weasley waved a hand in the air. "Yes, yes—but not real love. Everyone knows that. Take the Maia Draft. Can it create maternal love? Oh, it can make a woman spout loving platitudes, but children know the difference. Real maternal love is the same whether you're magical or not."

Mrs. Weasley fondly ruffled Ginny's hair. Harry saw Snape look aside.

"And romantic love, well . . . ." Mr. Weasley just lifted his shoulders.

"Of course," Snape agreed quietly. "Real love can't be won by a potion." With that comment, he nodded his farewells, folded his arms inside his robes and walked off.

When Snape was distant, Hermione's dad leaned toward her mum and whispered, "Wouldn't our dental hygienist love to get him into the chair for a cleaning. Do you suppose Hogwarts uses the National Health Service?"

"Probably not," her mum answered, "but I think we could do a freebie."

Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione hook her foot playfully around Ron's ankle. His friend's cheeks reddened, and he bumped her with his hip. Harry didn't need to aim the earhorn at them to know their teasing was leading them dangerously close to committing PDA. At breakfast Angelina had congratulated him on his brilliant idea—leaving the Yule Ball early. I nearly had to kick Ron, but I finally got him to ask Hermione to dance. When I left the party, they didn't even notice.

Allowing his friends privacy, Harry again trained the earhorn on Snape as he stalked across the grounds. Centering his suspicions on the Potions master was counterproductive, he told himself. Hadn't Snape's Somnoleveritaphantasmagoria Powder confession shown he was unlikely to do anything that supported Voldemort? But Harry couldn't forget Snape's look of unease as he placed the treacherous crown on the headmaster's head. Had it been awkwardness—or guilt? Could he have his own reasons for getting rid of Dumbledore? As the professor approached the Malfoys, Harry felt certain that the most revealing chat of the morning was about to take place.

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