Chapter 40

SPELLS

At the words that came out of Filch's mouth, three wands—including Harry's—arced through the air into the caretaker's outstretched hand. A second later, wands all over the gallery shot out of their display cases, then spun end over end to join their fellows. The old man thrust the lot into the front of his ratty jacket. Harry saw his own shock mirrored on the faces of the headmaster and the Potions master. The Defense Against the Dark Arts master lay prostrate on the floor, evidently knocked out by the explosion.

Beside him, Nick mumbled, "He didn't learn that in a Kwikspell course."

Filch struck a supercilious, prissy pose quite unlike his usual skulking self. With uncharacteristic haughtiness, he flicked his wand at Dumbledore. "Imperio."

Immediately, Dumbledore jitterbugged to the tune of Filch's shrill laughter.

"No!" Harry shouted. In the next moment, he felt a yank on his broom handle. Snape had sprinted up beneath him.

Angrily, his uncle gestured toward an alabaster statue of a giant. "Take cover, you little idiot."

Harry shot a glance down the length of the gallery, gauging how many seconds it would take him to fly the dozen or so yards needed to put a halt to the indignities being inflicted on Professor Dumbledore.

"He's not after me. If I just sneak around—"

His face taut and white, Snape gripped the end of the Hermes. "Get. Behind. The. Statue," he gritted between set teeth.

Harry did.

Nick followed. "Officious chap. But in this instance, quite wise."

Harry peeked between the stone ogre's knees. Snape was slinking along the wall toward Filch and Dumbledore, who was now shimmying like a hula girl. "I can't just hide. I've got to help. If I just had some sort of distraction—"

"Capital idea!" Nick cleared his not-quite-there throat. "Fire!"

"I didn't mean—" Harry began.

Filch turned toward them, his face twisted with disdain. "I'm in control here. Do you think I can be cowed with such an absurd ruse as that?"

Again, Nick shouted "Fire!"—this time even louder.

Harry grimaced. The only fire in the gallery came from the few candles in the chandeliers that hadn't guttered out during the explosion—not quite the distraction he needed. He felt a twinge of embarrassment for the centuries old spirit. Once upon a time, he might have been headmaster—perhaps even a renowned, imposing wizard—but he was obviously out of touch with tackling life-and-death situations now.

With a dismissive toss of his head, Filch returned to the helpless Dumbledore.

"FIRE!" Nick screamed.

Snickering, Filch raised his wand. "Cruci—"

Before he could utter the torturing curse, Nick's friend Fire shot up through the floor in all her gory glory. The caretaker shrieked. Fire contorted her Cromagnon face into a mask of gibbering, ghoulish menace. Eyes wide, Filch backed away. The ghost dropped her head to give him a good look at the gaping hole in her skull and the ghastly ax that hung from it. Filch's facade of arrogance vanished. For a moment, he looked like his usual non-magical self—frozen in stark, staring horror.

Without pausing to reconsider, Harry aimed his broom between the alabaster giant's knees. He shot like an arrow straight for the caretaker, hoping to knock the wand out of his hand before whatever power had been possessing him regained control.

Before Harry could reach him, Snape lunged at Filch from behind. With a blink of his eyes, Dumbledore regained charge of himself, stuck his hand through Fire's incorporeal body, and reached for the caretaker's wand.

Too late, Harry realized that when Sirius had said the Hermes Elite was twenty percent faster than the Firebolt, he hadn't been joking—but that twice as maneuverable didn't mean that even a superior flyer such as himself could necessarily avoid a collision when barreling at top speed.

A yard away, Harry tried to pull up. He nearly succeeded. Then, his brand new leather boots caught Dumbledore under the armpits. Off-balance, the headmaster went down sprawling. As he tumbled, his leg hooked Snape's ankle, toppling him against a marble pillar. Fire, as startled as the caretaker had been a minute before, dissipated with a howl. Harry's broom twisted, and he slid off. The Hermes continued spinning until it slammed into the far wall.

When Harry's forehead struck the debris-covered flagstones, a zigzag of light flashed across his vision. He fought to stay conscious despite the blast of pain. Barely one ragged breath later, he strained to prop himself on one hand, only to see that Filch's puppet master had reclaimed him. The last live wizard standing, Filch licked his thin lips and flourished his wand.

Valiantly, Nick dashed forward. "Once more, dear friends—"

"Petrificus!" Filch commanded.

The Gryffindor ghost—everybody's last hope—stiffened as if struck by a basilisk. Filch stepped back to let Nick sail past until he lodged halfway through a granite spire.

Groaning, Harry rolled over. He didn't want to meet Dumbledore's eyes and even less Snape's—not in these last minutes they shared before Filch became the instrument of their destruction.

Not when it's my own stupid, conceited, cheeky overconfidence that's to blame.

As he trailed his eyes miserably across the high, vaulted ceiling, Harry caught sight of a balcony on the far side, a story above the entry through which he and Nick had flown only moments before. And standing at the rail was Malfoy.

Harry's muscles tensed with a hatred he'd never known before. Malfoy. He should have known. Who else could have been behind all these attempts to destroy the only chance Hogwarts—and, indeed, the entire wizarding world—had against Voldemort? Malfoy, the son of Voldemort's Death Eater right-hand man. Malfoy who, more than likely, was vying for one of the vacancies in the Dark Lord's malevolent circle. Malfoy who was surveying the fallen wizards with a somber look Harry could read only too well.

His jaw trembling, Harry willed mastery to his tongue for one final curse before Malfoy, through Filch, put an end to their rivalry forever.

Behind him, the possessed caretaker crowed with maniacal glee. "Petrificus Nemo Non," he intoned, and Harry's body went as taut and useless as Nick's.

"Cruciatus Nemo Non!'

Agonizing pain flashed along Harry's nerves, setting his entire body on fire. His frozen vocal cords denied him the comfort of a moan.

Still, Malfoy stared down at them, his expression growing more and more set. Then, slowly, he stretched out his wand.

Harry was still able to control his eyes. Resolutely, he returned his gaze to Filch, determined to stare death in the face as his mother had done so many years before.

"Avada—" Filch began the last deadly curse on an artificially high note.

Before he could utter another syllable, Malfoy's voice rang out, "Expelliarme Antigerio!"

As Harry stared, Filch's wand appeared to take on a life of its own. The old man held on as it whipped right and left. Darting a glance at the balcony, Harry saw Malfoy jerking his wand back and forth—his jaw tensed, his teeth clenched. He was pouring every bit of magic he had into wresting away the caretaker's wand.

Harry blinked, not daring to believe his own eyes. Malfoy isn't trying to kill us. He's trying to save us.

"Avada—" Filch began again.

"Voce Silencio!" Malfoy cried.

Filch's curse became a gurgle. Harry felt strength seeping back into his muscles. He gritted his teeth, focusing his will on extending his left leg. Flicking his glance to the balcony, he saw Malfoy clamp his wand to his chest. As he did, Filch lurched forward.

Close enough. Straining until sweat ran down his forehead, Harry managed to kick the caretaker's foot. The old man's hands flew out as he tried to keep his balance. His wand, free at last, sailed up into Malfoy's hand. Then the buttons on the front of Filch's shirt popped open, and the whole brace of wands soared after the first. Malfoy caught them all. The caretaker crumpled to the floor.

The Petrificus Spell drained out of Harry's body, leaving him woozy.

"Draco, you saved the day!" the headmaster called out as Snape helped him to his feet. "Twenty-five, no, fifty points to Slytherin!"

The Head of Slytherin beamed.

Beyond them, Ariel Daine sat up slowly. Snape rushed to her, wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her to him.

"I'm all right—"

His harsh face softened with concern. "Hush, now. You were knocked out—"

"I'm fine. Let me help Mr. Filch, see if I can draw him out before it's too late."

Harry watched Ariel Daine open an inner pocket on her cloak, then pull out her wand. Evidently, the Expelliarme Nemo Non spell wasn't powerful enough to make a wand work its way past a zipper.

Professor Daine approached the whimpering caretaker gently, her head cocked to one side. Then she reached out her wand and tapped him on the shoulder. Harry saw her lips moving but couldn't hear what she was saying. Some liberating spell, he thought.

Then Harry heard a sound that made him wish someone would work a liberating spell on him—one that would free him from what was fast becoming the most embarrassing incident of his life. Malfoy was sauntering across the gallery floor.

And he was going to have to thank him.

Touching his forehead, Harry felt a crisscross of cuts. No wonder it was throbbing. Quickly, he struggled to his feet, then busily brushed marble dust and prism shards off his jeans. Sidelong, he watched Malfoy walk up to his godfather.

His eternal rival selected a long, black wand from the bunch in his hand. "I believe this is yours, sir."

Snape gazed at him a moment, his solemn face fairly quivering with his effort not to break down and hug his godson. Instead, he nodded curtly and accepted his wand. "Well-done, Malfoy. You've done your mother proud."

Harry caught a flash of pleasure in the pale blue eyes. He recalled the conversation he'd witnessed from atop the stone dragon—Mrs. Malfoy's premonition about the coming turning point in her son's life. Then Draco looked down at his feet, frowning. Harry suspected he was wondering what his father would say.

"Hey, now. What's going on? What's all this mess?"

At Filch's words, Harry whirled. He still didn't have his wand back, but he could use his fists if the old man tried anything. But the caretaker looked like himself again—aggrieved, distrusting, spiteful, and utterly devoid of magic. Professor Daine patted his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

Filch brushed her off. "Now, see here. I know the day: August 31st. Tomorrow that mob of wretches is going to descend on Hogwarts, and—what's this? That Slytherin snot is already here—and that Gryffindor goon, too? The Express isn't due until tomorrow night!" The suspicious brown eyes wavered between Harry and Malfoy.

"Argus," Dumbledore soothed. "Come and rest on the foot of this statue. We have a lot to explain—"

"Sit? With all this work to do?" Filch glared at the busted artifacts littering the gallery floor. "They did this, didn't they? Broom flying! Detention until Christmas!"

"Christmas?" Malfoy strutted up to the caretaker. "Today's Christmas, you gormless old fool. And if you want to know who smashed up this room, it was you."

"You can't talk to me that way, you little—"

"I can talk to you any way I want. When my father—" Malfoy stopped short, his eyes once more uncertain.

Ariel Daine gave Filch's shoulder a squeeze.

The caretaker's jaw started trembling. "Ridiculous." He looked from Dumbledore to Snape to Daine. Not finding any Hogwarts master ready to support him, he repeated his rebuttal even louder.

"It may sound ridiculous—" Professor Daine began soothingly.

Nick, unfrozen, floated up beside Filch. "Sit down, my good man. We insist."

The wary eyes went wide. "Stop coddling me, everyone! Tell me!"

"Today is Christmas," Snape explained brusquely. "You've been under an Imperius Curse—apparently since the day before the term started."

The old man wobbled. "But it's August. I just cleaned out a nest of—"

"Insects?" Harry asked.

Professor Daine shot him a measuring glance.

"Ticks," Filch corrected, starting to sway. "Then I was here. How I got here, I don't recall, but I expect I was preoccupied—"

"You were spellbound," the headmaster said, wrapping a comforting arm around the caretaker. "It's time we took you to Madame Pomfrey for a head-to-toe examination and all-over tick removal."

Filch blinked, then once again surveyed the mayhem in the gallery. "I did this?"

Dumbledore chuckled, stroking his white beard. "Yes, Argus. You did this."

"But—but I'm a squib."

"It would seem, not entirely. Someone took control of you and made you do things outside your will, but even a powerful wizard couldn't have pulled magic out of someone who hadn't any. You possess a spark, after all."

Harry caught a flicker of pride in the watery brown eyes before Filch muttered, "It's going to take me a week to clear this out."

Grinning, the headmaster began ushering the caretaker from the gallery. Snape and Daine followed. When Malfoy started to trail them, Harry called out, "My wand?"

Malfoy turned, smirking. "Your wand?" He raised his handful. "Surely, old Filch didn't manage to take your wand."

He even managed to take Dumbledore's, you little snoot, Harry wanted to retort. Instead, he forced himself to stroll toward his rival with a friendly smile. "It's the holly."

"This little swishy one?" Unerringly, the Slytherin pulled out the correct wand.

Harry grabbed it before Malfoy could try some keep-it-out-of-reach taunt.

The insufferable grin only grew wider. "Next time you need someone to save you from a sticky situation, Potter, just call." Snickering, the hero of the day turned on his heel.

Harry's hands became fists. He ground his teeth, flailing for a retort. Then he swallowed hard. "Uh, Malfoy."

"Yes, Potter?"

"Thanks."

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