Chapter 39

BROOM

Several hours later, Harry trekked back up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, laden with goodies from Professor Dumbledore's Christmas crackers—five new wizard chess pieces, three kazoos, a dozen bonbons, a gyro, and a mechanical chirping bird that required several spells to shut up. He wanted to include Sirius in his celebrations, but when he found his godfather, the weary fugitive was fast asleep on the floor—despite the guitars and drums blaring into his ears from the headphones.

Quietly, Harry turned off the music, settled his Sweet Dreams pillow under Sirius's head, and tucked Hagrid's afghan around him. He gazed down at his snoring godfather a moment, then looked around for his new Hermes broom. Catching sight of it leaning against the window casement, he crossed the rug to retrieve it. As he passed Dean's bed, he glanced at the six piles of class notes he hadn't touched since Wednesday.

It's Christmas, he told himself. I'll take care of them tomorrow.

With that assurance, he strode on and picked up his broom. The Hermes had a wonderful heft—light but solid. He couldn't wait to try it out. Since snow was still flurrying outside, the Headmaster had granted him permission to fly through Hogwarts's winding corridors. Giving him a penetrating look, Dumbledore had added, "So you'd like another chat. This time I fancy a visit to Gryffindor. Expect me at ten."

Half an hour later, as Harry practiced weaving through the entryway pillars, he was still pondering the old man's intuition. What an insightful wizard he was. No wonder Voldemort was trying to kill him—for Harry was once again certain that it was the Dark Lord who was behind the three attempts on Dumbledore's life. If only he could unmask his henchman! When he'd learned it wasn't Snape, he should have redoubled his efforts. Instead, he'd been so obsessed with personal questions this last week that the more pressing mystery hadn't even crossed his mind.

Immersed in thought, he did a loop-de-loop. As he spiraled down, he gasped. Professor Flitwick was racing below him toward the front door. Hastily, Harry banked right, barely avoiding a collision.

The little Charms master squeaked. "Harry Potter! Just like your father! A regular imp on a broom!"

Harry slowed to a hover. "Sorry, Sir."

"Your father was full of fun, all right," Flitwick added, then waggled his wand at the massive front doors. "Alohomora!" The blast of frigid air when they swung wide nearly knocked the little man off his feet.

Buffeted by the wind, Harry's broom swung from side to side. He gripped the handle to steady it. "You're not going out into that, are you?"

"I'll be fine," Flitwick shouted, clamping his purple pointed hat to his head. "A Mini-Primavera Spell should do me nicely—surround me with a pocket of sunshine."

"But the snow will be piled high. And the paths will be slippery."

"Can't be helped," Flitwick answered, twirling his wand to create his sphere of springtime. "Rosmerta insisted I come now. Every flea in Hogsmeade seems to have descended on the Three Broomsticks to escape this blizzard. Everyday magic is useless. She requires a Charms master." Looking very important inside his yellow bubble, he bobbled into the storm.

"Well, good luck and good—" Harry called after him. The doors crashed shut before he could finish.

Insects, again.

Just as Harry's eyebrows were drawing together in a frown, he heard a ghostly, girlish giggle echo across the room.

Not by two and not by four—
There they go, across the floor.
Not by eight. They do not wait.
Massed in hordes, they march to war.

With a jerk, Harry swung his broom around. "Myrtle. I know the answer to your riddles. Insects. They don't go on two legs or four legs. They go on—wait!" He shot down the hall after Myrtle's fluttering gray shape. "Hey, please! Stop! I need to talk to you! Wait!"

She smirked over her misty shoulder, then wiggled her incorporeal self up through the ceiling.

Staring at the spot where Myrtle no longer was, Harry groaned. Where did she go? Not to her regular haunt. To the prefects' bathroom? Zipping forward, he tilted up the staircase. Reaching the second floor, he swung left, then felt his muscles seize up—as frozen as if he'd plunged into ice. The tail of his broom skidded on the rough flagstones, then spun him in a circle. When he'd turned around backwards, he saw Nearly Headless Nick floating off down the corridor. He'd just flown straight through him.

"N-N-Nick!" Harry called out, trying to control his shivering. "C-c-can you help me f-f-find M-m-myrtle?"

"Later, my good man. The Almost Axed Acrobats must rehearse! We're performing our Christmas show after all!"

"P-p-please! It's a m-m-matter of life and d-d-death."

"Death?" Nick shrugged, not bothering to look back. "Whose?"

"Prof-f-fessor Dumbled-d-dore's."

Nick turned with a broad smile. "Marvelous! It's about time Albus joined us."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You c-c-can't mean that. Dumbledore can't d-d-die!"

Nick lifted his chin. "And why not? Most of my best friends are dead."

"Well, yes, b-b-but—" Harry paused, trying to steady his chattering. "You need living friends, t-t-too. If Dumbledore is k-k-killed, the next headmaster might not be so appreciat-t-tive of spirits, might not underst-t-tand your acrob-b-batics, grasp the b-b-beauty of a giant g-g-ghost Christmas tree—"

Nick pursed his gray lips.

Harry pushed his advantage "—in f-f-fact, it might even be S-s-snape."

Nick's pale eyebrows shot high. "Myrtle, you say? She can help prevent Dumbledore's death?"

"Well, not exactly—but the inform-m-mation she h-h-has might—"

"Stop stuttering, man. This is urgent."

Harry clamped his teeth together and took several deep breaths through his nose. "Myrtle. I think she might help me find out who's trying to kill him."

Nick closed his eyes, intent on something Harry couldn't see. Then he sighed. "Not at the moment, I fear. Presently, she's touring the lake." He opened his eyes. "But maybe I can help—by helping you figure it out for yourself."

Harry grimaced. "It's hopeless. I've been trying since October. Just now I finally realized the business has something to do with insects—but what, I have no idea."

Nick nodded. "Then follow the insects."

Three years earlier, when a mysterious force had petrified several residents of Hogwarts—including Nick—Hagrid had admonished him to Follow the spiders. Doing so had nearly got Ron and him eaten by a pack of monstrously overgrown arachnids. If there was a colony of giant ants waiting to enlighten him in the Forbidden Forest, he wasn't too keen on rushing out and meeting them. "We don't have time."

"Aha!" Nick exclaimed. "And why do you feel we don't have time?"

Harry groaned. "Because Professor Flitwick has been called away, and the reason was an attack of fleas, and—" He stopped mid-sentence as his thoughts raced ahead of his words. So far, each attempt on Dumbledore's life had involved a different branch of magic. After Hagrid had helped stop Rex, the mysterious conspirator had used insects to make certain the relevant master would be elsewhere before he carried out his next scheme.

"Because Professor Sprout was lured off to fight termites and weevils just before the shock laurel almost killed Professor Dumbledore. And now the fleas . . . Nick! Forget Myrtle! Help me find the headmaster! He's about to be attacked by a spell!"

Nick drew himself to attention and barked out a command. "Acrobats! To me! We must find Albus!"

All around Harry, almost-axed spooks pushed their way through the walls. The three hacked up Scots flew past him while the Napoleonic beauty in her bloody gown sailed over his head. Four wizards with hideously bobbing heads crowded behind Nick, who rapped out orders to search the far reaches of the castle.

As he watched, Harry could feel his new broom jittering under him, revved up by his need to get flying. Just as he was making up his mind to charge off, Nick shot up beside him. "I'll accompany you. I have a sense where Albus is. Let's see if I'm right. As we go, keep talking about our six-legged friends. I perceive you know more than you think you do."

Harry let Nick lead, though he felt he was already way ahead of him on the topic of insects. Of course. There'd been an unusually large number of ants around the marble statue the day it had transformed into a dragon. And there'd been flies buzzing around the griffin's flanks. "Someone is using them as familiars. But what—"

Before Harry could finish that sentence, his notes from Magical Companions leapt to his mind. He'd seen them less than an hour ago, lying atop Dean's bed. Mouth open, he sallied ahead, then had to double back when Nick swooped right. Catching up, he panted, "Someone is using insects to cast magic at a distance, to amplify the power of that magic, and to impel others to carry it out."

"And?" Nick glanced sidelong, prompting Harry with a vaporous raised eyebrow. For the first time Harry wondered whether Gryffindor's guardian spirit had once been the headmaster.

"And to keep others under control," Harry added. But who's doing it? And can the Hogwarts's ghosts and I foil the next attempt?

Around another corner they zipped, then spiraled down a flight of steps. Harry tucked in his elbows to keep from bumping them on the stony walls. He mentally thanked Sirius for the broom saddle. At the bottom, he saw Malfoy plodding along, concentrating on his sneakoscope medallion. Harry swerved to miss him. Nick didn't.

"Out of our way, Slytherin!" the Gryffindor ghost proclaimed, then darted straight through him. Harry didn't have time to enjoy Malfoy's gasp and indignant scowl before Nick steered him up another hall, then dove down a narrow staircase. Harry willed every iota of magic he had into keeping up.

"Just ahead!" the ghost whispered. "I sense him. Just one more bend and—"

Harry leaned way over so he could make the right turn without slowing. He whizzed with Nick into a long, narrow, high-ceilinged gallery lit by sparkling candelabra. A multitude of prisms spilled rainbows over towering statues of malachite and onyx that flanked marble stands displaying bejeweled cauldrons, carved staffs, embroidered robes, and all manner of costly wizarding gear.

When he spied Dumbledore, strolling at the far end with Professors Daine and Snape, Harry sighed in relief. They weren't too late. The headmaster was safe with his colleagues. Filch appeared to be giving them a tour.

Slowing, not wanting to knock over any of the precious artifacts, Harry observed Filch cringe up to a tall pedestal. The caretaker rubbed his hands, then jerked his head toward the shimmering, multifaceted crystal that lay atop it. Smiling, Dumbledore stepped forward to pick it up. Filch slipped back into the shadows.

Suddenly, another image popped into Harry's head—cockroaches gorging on pastry on Filch's floor.

Insects.

"No!" he shouted. "Don't touch that! It's hexed!"

Startled, Dumbledore turned—his fingertips just inches from the mysterious orb.

Letting out an inhuman screech, the caretaker charged, ramming his shoulder against the pedestal. The gleaming ball shot into the air, spinning a ribbon of eerie blue light behind it. Snape grabbed Ariel Daine and yanked her behind a pillar. When Harry saw Dumbledore shield his eyes, he hastily shielded his own. A second later, an explosion rocked the hall. His broom shook. Despite his closed lids and sheltering palm, he could see a glow of lavender. Around him, marble stands thudded on the floor, porcelain shattered, and metal objects clattered across the flagstones. When the chandeliers began hailing prisms, he threw an arm over his head.

When the cacophony of destruction was finished, Harry opened his eyes, steadied his broom with one hand, and frantically patted down his jeans with the other. As he wriggled his wand loose from a deep pocket on his left shin, he ransacked his brain for an appropriate spell. Before he could find one, something happened he never would have expected: Filch brandished a wand of his own.

In an unnaturally high voice, the caretaker screeched, "Expelliarme Nemo Non!"

Until tomorrow...