Chapter 49

CHANNELING

Ignoring the paper's irritable Hold on, there, Harry locked his Djinn ball on the Grangers' fireplace looking out—the only view he'd had of Hermione's home. Piece of cake. Finding Crookshanks was another matter. After a few seconds of waiting for the cat to stroll by, he begged the instruction sheet to show him whichever lesson covered exploration of unfamiliar places.

Not until you've mastered Lesson Six, his teacher snapped.

I'll master it as I go!

You've too much to learn. This postponement will provide a precious period to preview proficiencies politic to possess prior to your parley with your pal.

Harry groaned. The paper's alliterations were as bad as Dobby's.

Precisely. Your reaction brings me to skill one. You have communicated to me that you are exasperated. Had you wanted to hide the fact, would you have known how?

Well—

As any child being cross-examined by an adult is aware, in face-to-face communications you keep your feelings out of your voice and out of your facial expression. But could you disguise your true sentiments from someone privy to your thoughts?

I don't think—

My point exactly, the paper replied. And what about this: If you wanted to disguise the truth in conversation, you would relate a plausible alternative. But how would you hide the truth from someone who has entered your mind?

Enough, already. I don't know. The paper had made Harry so unsure of himself, that he'd lost his connection to Hermione's house. All right, then. Please. Teach me.

An hour later, after the instruction sheet had effusively complimented itself on imparting mind control skills the Bureau of Auror Investigations Academy took a whole year to teach, Harry felt confident he could communicate telepathically with Hermione without breaking his word to his uncle. When he linked up to her fireplace again, he was relieved to find Crookshanks on the rug, lazily tugging burrs out of his shaggy, ginger coat. The Tom cocked an eye at Harry, then blithely returned to his grooming.

Find your mistress! Harry shouted mentally. I don't have all day!

Crookshanks growled, stretched, then languidly fixed his inscrutable green eyes on the presence that had disturbed it. In the next instant, the Djinn ball showed the smoldering fire as seen by those same eyes. Slowly, the cat rose and padded out of the Grangers' living room, taking Harry's point-of-view with him.

Harry saw a plush, Persian runner leading down an oak-floored hallway edged with scalloped wainscoting that suggested a luxurious, restored Victorian mansion. The cat paused to grr softly at a gnawed mouse hole behind an antique Chinese cabinet. When Harry gave Crookshanks a mental nudge, the cat ambled on past towering bookcases and palms in brass pots to peek into the kitchen where Hermione's mother was basting six capons roasting on a spit. Crookshanks hunkered down to dreamily sniff the air.

Harry examined the room, hoping to find Hermione. Although the house was old, the kitchen had been updated into a gourmet cook's paradise. From his cat's-eye view, Harry could see three pots as big as cauldrons sending steam up from the modern stove, a rack of pies bubbling in one spacious oven, and a fat goose sizzling in another. His stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before.

Consciously clamping down on his hunger, Harry prodded the cat to scan the rest of the kitchen. No Hermione. He groaned. Crookshanks was dawdling again. He was grateful when Hermione's mum caught sight of her daughter's pet and yelled, "Darling! Get this animal out of here!"

As an oven mitt came flying toward him, Crookshanks turned tail and ran, loping back into the hall, around a corner, and up a grand staircase to the second floor. When Hermione peeked out the third door on the left, the cat raced to meet her. Harry saw a blur of doorpost, red blouse, and Hermione's chin as she swept the feline into her arms.

"There you are, my iddy-biddy Muggum-wuggums. Is my widdle Sweedy-kins getting his naughty widdle self into big fat twubble again?"

Cut the mush, Hermione. I need your help.

From the dumbfounded, slack-jawed shock on his friend's face, Harry knew he'd made contact. He paused to catch his breath. The physical effort of mentally transmitting an audible message through a sensitive was taxing.

I thought, he managed in an aside to the know-it-all instruction sheet, you said cats can't talk.

The paper sniffed. Technically, the cat is not talking. It is channeling. And if you don't want to expend your remaining energy on idle nattering, ask your friend to place her right hand on her familiar's head. For this exercise to do you any good, you'll need a cognitive link.

After an hour, Harry and Hermione had harmonized their mental communication to the point that he could send her thoughts and images while the Djinn ball hung at his side in his Lockit Pocket, and she could respond while tickling Crookshank's head.

Thanks for asking McGonagall's permission to team up with me long distance. I'm always glad to try out a new magical skill.

No problem. Competing without my wand is going to be new for me, too. But with you as my partner, we'll kick the stuffing out of the Slytherins.

Harry just hoped that what he projected during the heat of the actual contest would continue to match the picture he'd painted of a sociable, inter-house match.

A minute later, his handy-dandy reference dashed downstairs to help her mum set the two tables required to serve all the Muggle grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins showing up to the post-Christmas Granger reunion. Harry curled up on the hard floor for a fitful rest.

An untold while later, a loud clank woke Harry with a start. He looked up to see that the door to his cell was already closed again. Approaching the crack of light under it, he discovered he'd been given a hunk of dry bread, a bowl of watery soup, and a cold chicken leg with meat as tough and rubbery as the fake one he'd found before. When he'd finished—all too quickly—his stomach still growled.

Where is Hermione? By now, the succulent fowl her mother had been roasting would be as bare as the drumstick he was passing impatiently from hand to hand.

Don't worry, the Djinn ball replied telepathically from his Lockit Pocket. Use this waiting period to prepare.

Prepare?

Certainly. This pouch I'm in can hold more than you think. And you never know what you might need.

Surely, you don't mean—

Surely, I do. The Djinn ball sent Harry a picture of his pile of Muggle pranks.

Even the—

Rubber chicken? Definitely.

Rolling his eyes, Harry began doing as he'd been advised. When the Djinn ball told him the correct time, he set the trick watch's cheap digital display and strapped it to his wrist. He was just shoving the chicken bone into Sirius's Christmas gift when the door to Storage Locker Number Nine whipped open. For a moment, he gaped. Freedom! Then an Imperius Curse took hold of him and trotted him out of his cell.

Hermione, where are you! Harry cried out mentally, as he marched like an automaton past a row of rusting vats, down a corridor of unhinged doors, and back to the vast, idle machine room where he'd previously confronted the Dark Lord. What he saw there would have made him burst into hysterics if not for the hex controlling his muscles.

Apparently, he'd been summoned to a tea party.

At the center of the dirty concrete floor, the black-robed villains perched on red velvet sofas with dainty lace antimacassars behind their heads. A beatific smile adorning Voldemort's rosy lips, he poured tea into fragile, rose-patterned cups and passed around platters of meringue cookies, madeleines, and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts fussily trimmed off. His henchmen looked distinctly awkward as they made the earth-shattering decision of whether to accept one lump of sugar or two. Harry recognized the fathers of his classmates—Crabbe, Goyle, Avery and Malfoy—as well as Pettigrew. The other half dozen that he didn't know, one witch and five wizards, completed the gang of twelve.

If the sight of the villains sipping tea wasn't funny enough, the rusting metal sign hanging above them, identifying the abandoned factory that had become the Death Eaters' new hideout filled him with silent laughter: Bogschwarz Joke Factory: Rubber Chickens and Other Tomfoolery.

Ariel Daine and the nameless Muggle held out porcelain cups, which Voldemort politely filled. Since they sat as stiff as mannequins, they could enjoy little more than the steam. As Harry came to a halt at the edge of the group, the professor darted her hazel eyes at him and blinked. A moment later, the Imperius Curse plunked him down beside her, compelled him to pick up the last china cup, and made him extend it to his tormentor for refreshment he wondered if he'd ever taste.

His hosting duties done, Voldemort stirred three lumps of sugar into his own tea. "Now that we're all here, let us discuss the terms of tonight's entertainment."

As the Dark Lord took a sip, his sycophants murmured their agreement.

"First, I think we must let our competitors equip themselves. Too bad Mr. Potter dropped his wand. Ah, well. His clumsiness, his loss. That's fair, isn't it?"

More murmurs. Harry gritted his teeth, wondering how plastic vomit and the rest of his scavenged oddities would stand up to Avery's magical gear.

"I will be devising a little obstacle course—a series of puzzles and problems to try the skills and knowledge of these fine young wizards. Normally, allowing tips would lessen the excitement of such a spectacle, but considering the tender age of the players, well, I think we may permit the occasional hint."

Voldemort's glance sidled over to Harry. "Naturally, when you're stumped, you may ask our advice, too. After all, that's only fair."

Harry ignored the Death Eaters' appreciative sniggers. Little did they know he would have a coach he could trust—assuming Hermione returned in time.

"And boys, I'm afraid we must prohibit killing or otherwise incapacitating your opponent—during the contest, at least. That rule may remove some of the potential thrills but, in all fairness, it will ensure the game is played to its end."

Voldemort smiled. His followers bobbed their heads.

"And lastly, we come to . . . me. I will be the judge of whether the contest is being carried out according to good form. After all, I am the creator of it. What could be fairer?"

A moment later, the Imperius Curse forced Harry's hands and those of his fellow prisoners to stuff themselves messily with Voldemort's teatime treats. As he crammed a powdery cookie into his mouth, chewing rapidly to avoid choking, Harry ignored his captors' smirks. The match he was facing would be challenging. A glance at the terrified Muggle girl reminded him that the stakes would be high. He needed to fortify himself.

At eleven p.m., according to his gag watch, Harry found himself teetering on the edge of a rusty vat. The Death Eaters leaned over the railing of the catwalk above him, awaiting their master's introduction to the little obstacle course he'd just spent seven hours preparing. Willimar was whispering last minute pointers into his son's ear. Ariel Daine stood frozen beside them, only her soft hazel eyes conveying her encouragement.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord materialized above the vast cauldron's murky depths. "Welcome to Lord Voldemort's Merry Maze. Once our two contestants are stationed inside, I will clear the mists, and you will be able to follow each exciting twist and turn. Both of our fine young wizards will tackle five tests. For most of our game, they will be facing separate trials—until the ultimate showdown and the final prize."

The Muggle girl. Where was Hermione?

Voldemort swished his wand, and Wilhelm floated down from his father's side to the opposite edge of the vat. When his rival stared into it, his fear boosted Harry's hopes.

"Let's count down, shall we?" Voldemort said, still hanging in mid-air between them. "Ten, nine, eight, six—just joking. Five, four, three, two—whoever touches the Muggle first wins—go!"

Harry felt the Imperius Curse fade. Jump! he told himself. Avery Senior wouldn't be egging his son on if it wasn't safe.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped off the edge.

Ten hours to write, ten seconds to comment.