Chapter 50
TESTS
Once Harry leapt into the vat, the fog made him blind. Time slowed down. His heart thumped in his ears. He had just enough time to wonder whether this whole contest thing was a ruse to get him to leap to his death, when his feet struck flagstone. The impact sent a jolt through his bones, but he didn't stumble. And suddenly, he could see.
He was standing in an octagonal room with a hallway leading from either side. A monster guarded each path. And one of them was a sphinx.
Eureka! All he had to do was answer its riddle, and Wilhelm would be left with the hulking, hairy, salivating beast blocking the other entrance.
Striding forward, Harry heard the familiar "What walks on two legs in the morning . . . ." When he opened his mouth to answer, "Man," a shriek inside his head jerked him to a halt.
Harry! I'm here! Sorry! Couldn't get away sooner. Aunt Edith wanted to sing, and Mummy made me accompany her on the piano. Everyone kept asking for encores of "Mad Dogs and Englishmen." And we played canasta. Cousin Ian cheats and—
Hush! Tell me later. I'm just about to answer a sphinx's riddle—
Don't say "man"! Hermione interrupted. That was last year's answer. McGonagall would never use that same chestnut twice.
Well, it's not exactly McGonagall—
Ten feet away, Wilhelm touched lightly down. Having a wand certainly helped, Harry groused at a level blocked from Hermione. His rival took one look at the sphinx and shouted, "Man!"
Harry groaned as the sphinx stepped aside to let Wilhelm into the corridor beyond. Immediately, the creature pulled a chain that crashed down a spiked gate.
Nice going, Hermione. I don't suppose I can ask for a second riddle.
When he sent his friend an image of the knuckle-dragger in the opposite hallway, she groaned, too. That's an ogre. You could try to slay it, of course, like Beowulf slew Grendel—
Not likely. I have no weapons. There's got to be another way. I see a medallion on its chest. Maybe it's a clue? I see letters. B M X. Harry frowned, remembering the stunt bikes in the handheld game Sirius had given him. Didn't BMX stand for bicycle motocross extreme? Surely, the way to get past this monster was not to pull a one-handed X-up seat grab.
That's not the Roman alphabet, Hermione said. Those are old English runes. Roughly, they translate to the sounds B E G.
Beg?
The answer can't be that simple . . . .
The ogre bared his teeth and lurched forward.
"Beg!" Harry shouted. "I beg you to let me pass. Please! Please! Please!"
The ogre grunted and kept coming.
Falling to his knees, Harry clasped his hands toward the beast. "PUH-LEEZE!"
It nodded and stepped back.
Harry scrambled to his feet and raced into the hall before old Grendel could change his mind. Fleetingly, he wondered whether the Death Eaters had had a big laugh watching him grovel. Then a thundering clang made him spin around—just in time to see, in the burnished surface of the closed steel door, a hazy reflection of yet another monster strutting up behind him.
When Hermione caught the image of the serpentine dragon with rooster's head and rooster's feet, she squealed in delight. Oooh! The teachers have really pulled out all the stops, haven't they? That's a cockatrice.
Harry swallowed hard. To me it looks like a basilisk.
Well, it's related to the basilisk, so you'd better not catch its eye.
He recalled the slam, bang, frenzied battle he'd had with Tom Riddle's pet in the Chamber of Secrets a few years before. He saw the reflected beast scratch the floor menacingly. I don't have a sword. Quick, Hermione. What can I do?
Hmm. A cockatrice can be killed by a weasel. And it's vulnerable to the crowing of a cock.
Harry fumbled inside his Lockit Pocket. I have a rubber chicken—don't ask me to explain. Do you know a spell to transform it into a live rooster?
I recall one for transforming a clay model. It might work on rubber. But without your wand, you'd have to concentrate your energy into your index finger. It'll hurt.
A lot less than losing will. Harry held the floppy toy at arm's length and pointed at it stiffly. With all the majesty he could muster, he repeated after Hermione, "When a cocke groweth old, he layeth an egg verrai colde, he hatcheth by a toad. For a cocke verrai young . . . ."
As he chanted, his finger grew bright red. Just when he thought he couldn't stand another second of the searing heat, a spark leapt out, wrapping crackling lines of white hot energy around the toy chicken. It wriggled. The pale, pink rubber took on the look of bare, pimpled flesh. The beady eyes came to life. Harry let go. The rooster landed, flapped its featherless wings, snapped back its head and crowed.
It worked! Hermione sounded pretty pleased with herself.
Sucking on his finger to cool it, Harry watched the cockatrice in the reflection wobble on its spindly bird legs, then collapse in a heap. Hermione, you're my savior. Then he glanced at his watch: eighteen minutes already gone. If he wanted to be the Muggle girl's savior, he had to move. He turned, assured himself that the monster was really unconscious, then raced around it.
Girl? Hermione asked.
Uh, girl cockatrice, Harry said quickly. I see a nest.
Are there eggs? They're very rare. Could you get me one?
I don't have time— Then he remembered the instruction sheet's advice: You never know what you might need. Barely breaking stride, he reached down to scoop up the three tiny eggs and stowed them in his Lockit Pocket.
Dashing under an arch and around a corner, Harry nearly slammed into what looked like a metal pillar. As he stepped back to see what it was, the strange cylinder rose from the ground. His gaze traveled upward until he realized what the object was: an enormous pewter stein being drained by a Cyclops.
Hastily, he pulled back around the corner to where the naked rooster was still crowing lustily. What's Avery facing? I have all the monsters.
And that one's a doozie, Hermione mused inside his head. The best way to incapacitate a cyclops is to bury it under an avalanche, but—
I'm a little short of boulders right now. What's the best way to sneak around one?
Oh, that's easy: blind its eye. You could climb up and—but you don't have a sword. Maybe, a magical arrow could—
Hermione!
Distract it . . . blind it . . . .
"I know!" Harry said aloud. I don't have to actually poke out its eye—just close it long enough so I can edge past.
Not waiting for any more consultation, Harry pulled the tin of itching powder from his Lockit Pocket and sneaked back into the cyclops's chamber. As he rubbed his thumb in a slow circle on the lid, he dredged up one of the countless runes Moaning Myrtle had crooned to him as he'd stood watch over the Phantasmagoria serum:
I, Harry, command you to form
I, Harry, command you to storm.
He shook the tin three times.
Come out of your dorm-
ant state
I command you to aggravate!
Exasperate!
Infuriate!
Swarm!
With a flourish, he twisted off the lid.
A black cloud—a gnat for every speck of itching powder in the little tin—exploded into the air. In tune with his wishes, they whined en masse up to the cyclops's startled eye. A moment later, the monster was batting them with one hand and furiously rubbing his closed eyelid with the other.
Brilliant, Hermione observed. Where did you learn that one?
Without wasting the time it would have taken to answer his friend, Harry zigzagged between the cyclops's ankles. He grinned at the thought of Voldemort's displeasure at seeing his own spell used against him. Reaching a rough wooden door, he yanked it open and slipped through.
The room on the other side made Harry's mouth drop open in wonder. From a dank dungeon, he'd emerged into paradise.
In a few steps, he was surrounded by flowers: blue crocuses crowding pink tulips, orange lilies with crimson centers, tangled vines hung with purple sprays, yellow daffodils nodding at fuzzy white eidelweiss. In the center of the haven, an underground spring burbled up sparkling water into a brook that meandered playfully among violets and daisies.
It was magnificent. Yet somehow, the abundance of natural splendor made him feel . . . sad.
He took a step, then stopped. He clasped his arms against his stomach, trying to hug away the ache growing inside him. How can there be so much beauty here, when the rest of the world is in so much pain?
Huh?Hermione asked inside his head.
The air was so heavy with scent, it brought tears to his eyes. He removed his glasses. What's the use? No matter how many times he'd been applauded for beating Voldemort, here he was again, plodding through yet another of the Dark Lord's traps. Who was he fooling? The times he'd bested the villain in the past had been nothing but dumb luck. Hadn't this year demonstrated just how worthless his efforts really were? The ferocious dragon statue, the enraged griffin, the electric laurel, the possessed caretaker—even the baggy sweater—each challenge had proven him to be . . . ineffectual.
What's the sense in trying? The world never stays saved. Even if, by some fantastic, phenomenal luck, some real hero (not him) some day defeated Voldemort once and for all—the next day some other power-hungry brat would just start up the same old rigmarole all over again.
Dejected, Harry let his watery-eyed gaze wander over the profusion of blossoms. What was life anyway? Even now, all of this vibrant glory was decaying. Soon it would be dead, rotten, and then gone—as if it had never existed.
Even if the poor Muggle girl could be saved today, she could be killed tomorrow by a slip in the bath. Everybody died sometime.
"I might as well be dead myself."
Harry! Hermione's voice drifted up from the gloomy depths of his consciousness. Get hold of yourself.
Why? What difference would it make?
I know what's wrong with you. And I know what to do about it. Brew up a batch of Weltschmerz Tonic.
He shook his head. Why bother? What would be the point?
Humor me. Find a cauldron.
Harry sniffled and wiped his eyes. If it'll make you happy. Letting his gaze drift around the garden again, he saw—behind a (rotting, decaying, pointless) rose bush—a rusty iron pot sitting on a pile of straw and twigs.
Good. Now start a fire. Use your finger again. Sorry about the pain.
Pain. What do I care about pain? How can my pain compare to—
Get moving!
Harry stumbled forward, then fell to his knees beside the cauldron. Sticking out his finger, he mumbled, "Lacamum Inflamaray." A flicker appeared on the tip of his fingernail, then petered out.
Again!
"Lacamum Inflamaray." This time three sparks sputtered into the air. One of them dropped onto a stray piece of straw. Harry stared at it. The spark's vain persistence in glowing nearly broke his heart.
Blow on it!
He hung his head and exhaled on the straw in a long, gloomy sigh. The glow became a small (weak, pathetic) flame. In a moment, the surrounding straw caught fire, and then the twigs. But so what? Before it could matter, the fuel would be spent.
Spit into the pot. Come on, Harry.
He spat. The spot of moisture sputtered.
Now scoop about two cups of water into the cauldron from that stream. And gather a handful of eidelweiss blossoms—at least a dozen—crush them and throw them in as well. Count to fifty and add . . . .
As Harry carried out Hermione's instructions, tears began dribbling from the corners of his eyes. With each new ingredient he added to the pot, he released a sob. His friend would be so disappointed when she saw how meaningless this potion would be in the grand scheme of things.
Now take the three cockatrice eggs and throw them into the cauldron whole. The shells will melt in the water.
Harry retrieved them from his pocket and cradled them in one hand. His tears splashed onto their speckled sides. Poor little cockatrices. They'll never hatch, never live. I wish I had never—
Harry!
He dropped the eggs into the potion. The brew foamed, bubbling up until the froth reached the rim.
Breathe the steam, Harry. Quick! Scoop up the foam and bury your face in it.
That sounded like something he wanted to do—bury his face so he could have a nice, long cry.
Harry leaned over the cauldron. The fragrant steam tickled his nose. He dipped his hands into the foam and lifted a double handful to his face. As the hot bubbles warmed his skin, he could feel his body growing lighter—as if the weight of the world were being lifted from his shoulders.
He was just a little fellow in the big mass of humanity after all—and that was a good thing. He didn't have to go it alone. Millicent with her present of the Djinn ball, Moaning Myrtle with her incessant reciting of Tom Riddle's runes, Hermione with her amazing store of abstruse knowledge—they'd all helped him muddle through Voldemort's maze thus far. As Millicent had told him, Don't belittle the small victories! If he kept slogging along, he might beat Avery yet.
Congratulations, Harry! You're back!
He rolled his eyes sheepishly as he settled his glasses back firmly on his nose. Yes, Hermione. I'm back. And thank you, thank you for memorizing Bavarian Desideratum. Four trials down. One more to go. He glanced at his plastic watch, then jumped to his feet. Only eight minutes left until midnight!
Remember the call back to the "Memory" chapter?