A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forward and backward to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. The story was planned and written before season 2 (but incorporating elements of thereof as much as possible). Readers beware!
Chapter Twenty Five: Unliving Memory
Since Sherlock and John's Howler, many students started to examine Lockhart's books more closely. Terry confided to Harry after Sunday Chapel that several Ravenclaw upperclassmen started demanding Lockhart to provide further evidence of his travels. Harry himself noted many of his fellow Gryffindors started skipping Defence Against the Dark Arts as they started to see the inconsistencies Sherlock had pointed out. Lockhart took this as well as expected; the ashen face from the fateful Monday morning hardly left him, and he was rarely seen out and about.
"I supposed he had it coming, considering," said Terry uneasily. "But the way it happened was very bad."
Harry, whose first instinct to Sherlock's non-crime related deductions was to cringe, didn't feel sorry at all. "Is there a nice way it could've happened?" he argued.
Terry sighed. "…No."
They didn't discuss the matter after that. Harry had more pressing things to worry about. Many of the first years, and not just the Gryffindor ones, started following him around in the hallways between classes, as though they were convinced staying close to Harry would protect them from an attack. Hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before Harry could tell him those items would not deter Slytherin's Monster and the other Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger either way; he was a pure-blood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.
"They went for Filch first," said Neville, his round face fearful. "And everyone knows I'm almost a Squib."
Julia was still waiting on her Uncle Jason to respond to her request for a snake ("I told him it's for an experiment," she said). Unfortunately, Mr. Jason was doing a lot of transcontinental travelling this year, Apparating to and from a dozen different countries across the globe, which meant they couldn't test their Malfoy the Parselmouth theory until he stayed in one place long enough for an owl to find him. They also didn't know how to find more information on the last time the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. Both seemed to hinge on questioning Malfoy, but Malfoy was far more interested in strutting around enjoying the atmosphere of fear than visiting the library to have a word with Julia (she point-blank refused to talk to him first, an attitude Ron approved of). So they tried to think of alternatives.
No one thought of a way until three weeks before the Christmas holidays. Ron and Harry were working on their History of Magic homework in the library on the Wednesday of that week. Professor Binns had asked for another three-foot long composition, this time on the formation of the International Confederation of Wizards.
"I don't believe it, I'm still eight inches short…" said Ron furiously, letting go of his parchment, which sprang back into a roll. "And Hermione's done four feet and two inches and her writing's tiny."
"Where is she?" asked Harry, taking the tape-measure and unrolling his own homework.
"Over there somewhere," said Ron, waving at the row of bookshelves, "Probably looking for another book. I reckon she'll end up reading the whole library before Christmas."
Harry sighed in relief when he confirmed his own essay was exactly three feet. Then a thought occurred to him.
"How does Binns read these essays? He can't actually pick them up since he's a ghost."
"Who knows?" said Ron, scribbling away, making his writing as large as possible. "Maybe he doesn't—it's not like he notices when we're asleep in class."
"That means it doesn't matter if we actually turn in a written essay," said Harry, taking the thought to its logical conclusion. "Just submit a three feet long blank roll of parchment with your name on it, and you're set."
Ron paused to look up and stare incredulously at Harry, like the thought hadn't occurred to him either. That moment Hermione emerged from the bookshelves, looking irritable.
"Nothing," she said, sitting down next to Ron and Harry. "There's nothing in the old editions of the Daily Prophet that mention the Chamber of Secrets or mysterious attacks happening in Hogwarts. You'd think it would've made it to the news, and I reviewed every edition from twenty to thirty years prior."
"That's the time period Lucius Malfoy was in school?" asked Harry quickly.
"Probably; he has to be around his forties," said Hermione, biting her lip. "But I couldn't find anything…"
Ron threw his quill down. "That's it, I'm done."
"No, you're not," said Hermione as she measured Ron's homework. "You still have about two inches to go."
"Who cares? Binns is a ghost, it's not like he can unroll the parchment even if he wanted to…"
Hermione opened her mouth to tell him off, but a sudden transformation took over her. Ron and Harry stared at her, mystified, as she clapped a hand to her forehead.
"That's it! I can't believe it didn't occur to me earlier!"
"What are you on about?" asked Ron.
"The ghosts!" said Hermione excitedly. "A lot of them have been around here for hundreds of years—maybe even to the time Hogwarts was founded! We could ask them about the Chamber of Secrets and the last time it was open!"
Harry and Ron were ready to burst into excitement, too, when the bell rang. The three of them reluctantly rose and headed to the History of Magic.
It was as boring as ever that day. Professor Binns opened his ghostly notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again. Ron and Harry focused on writing down all of the ghosts they knew of. Even Hermione didn't take her usual notes and joined their silent discussion. They all agreed Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was the first one to go to.
Harry, Ron and Hermione fought their way against the tide of students to find Nearly Headless Nick. They found him in a deserted corridor staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, "…still don't fulfil their requirements … half an inch, if that…"
"Hello, Nick," said Harry.
"Hello, hello," said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Harry could see right through him to gray-cast sky that promised snow.
"You all look troubled, young Gryffindors," said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.
"So do you," said Harry.
"Ah," Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, "a matter of no importance… It's not as though I really wanted to join … Thought I'd apply again, after the change in leadership since my five hundredth Deathday, but apparently I still 'don't fulfil requirements'-"
In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.
"But you would think, wouldn't you," he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"
"Oh – yes," said Hermione, quickly.
"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However—" Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:
"We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfil our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore."
Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.
"Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh, no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore."
Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone, "So—what's bothering you? Anything I can do?"
"We were wondering if you remember the last time Hogwarts was being attacked by some unknown monster," said Harry. "You know, like the way Mrs. Norris and Colin were attacked."
"Ah," said Nick, looking alert. "Of course you three would have the sense to ask a ghost. Not many do, you know."
"So you do know?" asked Ron eagerly.
"As matter of fact, yes," said Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified. "I experienced much of Hogwarts' history since my death five hundred and twenty years ago. The last time the Chamber of Secrets was reputedly open and the Heir of Slytherin unleashed the monster within was seventy years ago. Like now, students were being attacked—and sadly, one student actually died."
Hermione gasped, stricken. Ron, however, looked very disappointed and Harry knew why: if the previous attacks happened seventy years ago, it was long before Lucius Malfoy's time.
"Do you know if the person who opened the Chamber was caught?" asked Harry.
"The accused person was expelled, I know that much," said Nick.
"Who was it?" asked Hermione.
"I can't say," said Nick delicately. "But the attacks ended immediately afterwards. Now if that is all—"
Nearly Headless Nick shooed them off to dinner and glided into a wall. Harry, Ron and Hermione trudged down to the Great Hall, talking in hushed whispers.
"It doesn't have to be Lucius Malfoy," Ron said stubbornly. "It could've been Draco's grandfather!"
"Maybe," said Harry. "I wish we asked Nick how the Basilisk was caught the first time, might've given us a clue."
"Or who caught it," said Hermione. "Well, we'll ask that to the next ghost we can get hold of."
They were almost halfway there when an angry outburst from the floor below reached their ears.
"That's Filch," Harry muttered as they hurried down the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.
"You don't think someone else's been attacked?" said Ron tensely.
They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch's voice, which sounded quite hysterical.
"…even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore—"
His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the bathroom walls.
"Now what's up with her?" said Ron.
"Let's go and see," said Harry, and holding their robes over their ankles they stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing it's OUT OF ORDER sign, ignored it as usual, and entered.
Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet.
"What's up, Myrtle?" said Harry.
"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably. "Come to throw something else at me?"
Harry waded across to her stall and said, "Why would I throw something at you?"
"Don't ask me!" Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me…"
"But it can't hurt you if someone throws something at you," said Harry, reasonably. "I mean, it'd just go right through you, wouldn't it?"
He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked, "Let's all throw books at Myrtle, because she can't feel it! Ten points if you can get it through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through her head! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don't think!"
"Who threw it at you, anyway?" asked Hermione.
"I don't know… I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head," said Myrtle, glaring at them. "It got washed out… the person who cries with me sometimes took it."
"Who?"
"Why do you care!" howled Myrtle, rounding on them. "Some people just want to cry in private! Just leave us alone, you're just gonna talk about it behind our backs, anyway! D'you think I don't know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!"
There was no point trying to get more information out of her in this state. The three of them shrugged their shoulders and left Myrtle to cry in peace.
-oo00oo-
A week passed, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione made very little progress in interviewing the ghosts of Hogwarts. Ghosts, they quickly discovered, weren't very communicative, especially to students who didn't belong to their old house. There were a lot of them too, ranging from the silent and morose Bloody Baron and the cheerful Fat Friar (Peeves didn't count). Those who were willing to talk didn't give more information than Nearly Headless Nick. Those who weren't sometimes rather intentionally glided through them, which was unfortunate because it was like stepping through an icy shower. Harry asked Terry if he could pry some information out of the Grey Lady, the Ravenclaw ghost, and Julia volunteered to ask the Fat Friar, the Hufflepuff ghost.
They eventually discovered the name of the person who banished the Monster of Slytherin the last time.
"Tom Riddle?" said Harry, when Julia met them in the Music Room, which they'd designated as their point of contact. "Wait, I know that name. T.M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school seventy years ago."
"How on earth do you know that?" said Hermione in amazement.
"Because Filch made me polish his shield about ten times in detention back in October," said Harry wearily. "If you'd buff up a name for half an hour, you'd remember it, too. Well, you can see it for yourself in the trophy room."
They made a short trip to trophy room to examine Riddle's special award. Riddle's burnished gold shield was tucked away in a corner cabinet. It didn't carry details of why it had been given to him ("Good thing, too, or it'd be even bigger and you'd still be polishing it, Harry," said Ron), but the dates made the reason clear. They also found Riddle's name on an old Medal for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head Boys.
"He sounds like Percy," said Ron, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Prefect, Head Boy, probably top of every class—"
"You say that like it's a bad thing," said Hermione in a slightly hurt voice.
"But speaking of Prefects," said Julia. "I think I found Malfoy's grandfather's name."
They stared. Sure enough, there was an Abraxas Malfoy listed as the Slytherin Prefect around the time the Chamber of Secrets was open the previous time, about two years after Tom Riddle became one.
"Abraxas Malfoy, the name rings a bell," said Hermione.
"I heard about him," said Ron darkly. "He was part of a plot that forced the first Muggle-born Minister of Magic to leave his post early. Nothing was proved against him, though. Slipperiness definitely runs in the family, eh?"
"I don't think he was expelled," said Julia, frowning. "Riddle caught the culprit when he was in sixth year, since he became Head Boy the year after he received the special services award. If Abraxas Malfoy was named Prefect two years after Riddle was appointed Slytherin Prefect, then," she bit her lip, "Abraxas Malfoy can't be the one accused. He was still in school to be Prefect after the incident."
"Maybe Riddle caught the wrong person?" said Ron. "Both of them were Slytherin, they might've plotted together and framed someone else."
"You're very set about the idea that it's Malfoy," said Julia mildly.
"Well, who else could it be?" said Ron.
Julia shrugged. Harry had a thought perhaps Ron wanted it be Malfoy more than he actually thought it was Malfoy, and he understood that. He was going to feel disappointed, too, when/if the Heir of Slytherin proved not to be Malfoy. The way evidence was stacking up against their theory on each turn, Harry had a feeling that it might.
The four of them headed to the library afterwards, to find anything on Malfoy and his family as they had for the past week. As Harry gloomily riffled through the indexes, he once again longed for a magical Google. Surely one of the smarter Muggle-borns would've figured out how to do it? How did Google work, anyway? Whoever came up with it, and it was probably a group of them, they were bloody geniuses.
Harry joined Ron, Hermione and Julia at their table.
"This one is about the origins of all the prominent pure-blood Wizarding families in Britain," said Hermione, pouring over a tattered, old book. "Not sure how the authors are determining which families as 'prominent'— oh, I see, families dating back to the Middle-ages, making contributions to the Wizarding world since then. But it's more about how long they've been around. Humph. Let's see if the Malfoy family is listed…"
It was. According to the book, Armand Malfoy was a French wizard and the first Malfoy to settle in Britain. He came to Britain along with the Norman invasion, and presumably gained the friendship of William the Conqueror around this time. After William was made King around 1066, Armand provided various services to the King (mostly shady in nature) as the court wizard. In exchange for these services, King William granted Armand a prime price of land in Wiltshire, seizing the property from the former landholders. The Malfoys had been residing there ever since.
"Most of the prominent pure-blood wizarding families in this book have similar histories," Hermione remarked. "It's the eleventh century, so Wizards and Muggles were still living together. I guess that means the Malfoys were around long enough to have married Slytherin's female descendants before they died out."
"Doesn't say so in the book, but Armand Malfoy was probably one of the foot soldiers," said Harry.
"Of course he was," snorted Julia. "Go back far enough, and everyone is just another bloody peasant."
Ron laughed. "Now that's a thought; Malfoy, the bloody stupid peasant…"
"And let's not forget he was dependent on a Muggle King," said Hermione with relish.
They skimmed through the whole book. They didn't find anything on Slytherin's descendants and their relations to the Malfoy family. But Ron said most old wizarding families were related to each other in one way or another, so perhaps it was something that went without saying. Ron ran commentary on the names he recognised, most of which weren't very nice: Blacks, Avarys, Notts, Lestranges…
"Lestrange?" Julia repeated. "The Lestranges are a pure-blood family?"
"One of the oldest families out there. Why?"
Julia scratched her temple. "It's probably nothing. Just had a thought …"
"Spit it out," said Ron.
"Well…" said Julia. "Daddy told me he changed his name from Lestrange to Lestrade when he married my Mum."
Harry, Ron and Hermione gaped at her. Julia shrugged.
"Doesn't have to mean anything," she said dismissively. "There are Lestranges in the Muggle World, too, and lots and lots of Blacks. It's one of the most common last names in Great Britain."
"Are you the only one who has magic in your immediate family?" asked Hermione.
"I think so," said Julia. "Though, now that I think about it, Martin might've caused it to snow on Daddy when he had a fever, but that could've been me."
"Maybe your Dad's a squib," Ron suggested. "Most Squibs live in the Muggle world since they don't have magic."
Julia's expression turned pensive, but she didn't say anything.
They returned to the Music Room and drew a noise-cancelling screen around themselves to update Sherlock.
"Questioning the ghosts was a good idea," said Sherlock in approval, which made them feel very pleased. "Identifying Draco Malfoy's grandfather and the year he was at school, also good. You only failed to ask the ghosts who the victims of the previous attacks were."
"Is that important?" asked Ron.
"Well, yeah," said John. "We could contact them and ask what they remember about their attacks."
The four of them took time to smack themselves for not thinking that. There was always something.
"What else do we need to find out?" asked Harry. "And what should we be doing?"
"First, review the events so far," said Sherlock. "Harry, you received a warning from Dobby, a house-elf. He had access to information that an attack was to occur in Hogwarts. He is under enchantment that disallows him from telling you exactly who and what, but it doesn't stop him visiting and giving you a warning. And he has done so, twice, at his own risk. Conclusion: Dobby, however misguided, is on your side, unlike the plotters, who in the balance of probably are Dobby's masters."
They nodded.
"House-elves reside in large residences such as manors and castles," Sherlock continued. "Dobby said that he belongs to a wizard family—a rich one, since they own a manor house, at the very least. The attacks themselves are rooted in the pure-blood superiority agenda of Slytherin. What then can you expect from the plotter of the attacks?"
"To be from an old, wealthy wizard family that adheres to the pure-blood agenda," said Hermione promptly.
"Someone like Malfoy," Ron added.
"Yes, someone like Malfoy. You're making the correct distinction," said Sherlock ironically. "The plotter also has access to Hogwarts. But how much access to Hogwarts does the plotter need to orchestrate the attacks? This leads to the question of how the attacks are being orchestrated: is it directed by the plotter, or is there an agent working for the plotter, who only planted the agent? There are too many variables on this. But the fact a Basilisk is being used, narrows down the scope considerably: the one leading the attacks must have the ability to talk to snakes."
"But we know that already," said Ron. "That's why we've been waiting for Julia's uncle to send us a snake so we can check if any of the students here can speak Parseltongue."
"Oh, for God's sake!" growled Sherlock. "Are you a magical or not? Can't you just conjure a snake with magic?!"
They gaped at each other before ducking their heads in shame. How did they not realize this?
"Now do you know what do?" asked Sherlock, sounding deeply aggravated.
"Find the victims of the last Basilisk attack, look up a spell that will let us conjure a snake, and check if anyone who fits the description of the attacker can speak to snakes," Hermione answered.
"And find the right opportunity to do it," said John. "Randomly flinging snakes at people is just not on."
"Why not?" Sherlock asked, as if there was nothing wrong with flinging snakes at people for the sake of a case.
John sighed. "We want to find out who did this, not make people suspect Harry and his friends are responsible."
"Why would anyone think that?"
"Because most of the students are teenagers who haven't learned how to think," explained John patiently. "Now go on. Look it up. Harry, I'll text you later."
John texted later that night as promised, after all of the boys in Harry's dormitory fell asleep.
I know you're still worried about the London Zoo incident. DTL
Harry worried his lower lip as he replied back: Do you think I'm…?
No. We know it's not you. DTL; DPR
But someone can be making me :( Can't tell if I have a gap in my memory, Harry paused, and added, I'm not Sherlock.
No. You're a wizard, and a very good one at that. You can find a way to stop people from erasing our memories.
Harry's eyes went wide. Like a protective shield?
Yes. Look it up while you're searching for the snake spell. btw, make sure you don't speak to any. DTL
Harry went under the covers after deleting all of John's texts marked DTL (delete this later) and all of his replies John marked as DPR (delete previous reply), and reading the final notes:
You're in the wellspring of magical knowledge. Use your opportunities well. SH
You can do it. I know you can. Just be careful.
-oo00oo-
It took them less than two days to find a spell that would conjure a snake. Julia found a jinx called Serpensortia in Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian that fit the bill perfectly. The next step was learning the curse.
"I don't think I should risk it," said Ron. "Not with my wand like this."
That moment, his cracked and spellotaped wand started whistling loudly. Julia just whipped around her wand, which stayed stubbornly silent and unresponsive no matter what she did. Thus Hermione and Harry worked on learning the jinx. Hermione took the precaution of learning the counter-jinx first, and Harry was careful not to look at the resulting snake. Within a day, Hermione and Harry mastered both the jinx and the counter-jinx. So they directed their attention to plotting ways to use the jinx on Malfoy. The trick was to surprise him into speaking Parseltongue without any of them getting caught. This was a lot more difficult than they initially imagined—Malfoy was always flanked by his two baits-for-brains friends, Crabbe and Goyle, and often in the company of other Slytherin students.
Harry found an opportunity the week before Christmas Holidays from an unexpected venue. Harry, Ron and Hermione had just returned to the Gryffindor Common Room after another long afternoon of plotting and practicing in the Music Room, when Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them over, looking excited.
"They're starting a Duelling Club!" said Seamus, "First meeting tonight at eight o clock! I wouldn't mind duelling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days…"
"Like how?" said Ron, but he still looked interested.
"Could be useful," he said to Harry and Hermione as they settled at an empty table. "Shall we go?"
Harry and Hermione were all for it, so at eight o'clock that evening they hurried to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.
"I wonder who'll be teaching us?" said Hermione as they edged into the chattering crowd. "Someone told me Flitwick was a duelling champion when he was young— maybe it'll be him."
"As long as it's not—" Harry began, but he ended on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, looking a bit paler than usual, but resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.
Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called "Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!
"Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little duelling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works."
"Someone looks like he regained his ego," Harry muttered as he watched Lockhart flash a wide smile.
"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape," said Lockhart. "He tells me he knows a little bit about duelling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry — you'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"
"Wouldn't it be good if they finished each other off?" Ron muttered in Harry's ear.
Snape's upper lip was curling. Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at him like that he'd have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them.
"As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart told the silent crowd. "On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."
"I wouldn't bet on that," Harry murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth.
"One—two—three—"
Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: "Expelliarmus!" There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.
Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Hermione was dancing on tiptoes. "Do you think he's all right?" she squealed through her fingers.
"Who cares?" said Harry and Ron together.
Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.
"Well, there you have it!" he said, tottering back onto the platform. "That was a Disarming Charm — as you see, I've lost my wand — ah, thank you, Miss Brown—yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy—however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…"
Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because he said, "Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me—"
They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry and Ron first.
"Time to split up the dream team and its cohorts, I think," he sneered. "Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter-"
Harry moved automatically toward Hermione.
"I don't think so," said Snape, smiling coldly. "Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter. Miss Lestrade, you can partner Miss Parkinson. And you, Miss Granger—you can partner Miss Bulstrode."
Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked Pansy Parkinson and a Slytherin girl who reminded Harry of a picture he'd seen in Holidays with Hags. She was large and square and her heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermione gave her a weak smile that she did not return. Pansy flashed a vicious smile on her pug-like face, and Julia kept her expression resolutely blank.
"Face your partners!" called Lockhart, back on the platform. "And bow!"
Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.
"Wands at the ready!" shouted Lockhart. "When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents – only to disarm them – we don't want any accidents – one … two … three—"
Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already started on "two": His spell hit Harry so hard he felt as though he'd been hit over the head with a saucepan. He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, so wasting no more time, Harry pointed his wand straight at Malfoy and shouted: "Expelliarmus, Rictusempra!"
A jet of scarlet light quickly followed by silver one hit Malfoy in the stomach. Malfoy's wand flew out of his hand and Malfoy doubled up, wheezing.
"I said disarm only!" Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his knees and Harry caught his wand; Harry had hit him with the Disarming Spell and the Tickling Charm, so Malfoy was wandless and could barely move for laughing. Harry hung back, feeling grimly satisfied; John had taught him he should always have two successive attacks in mind when engaged in a fight, and the advice hadn't failed him once.
"Stop! Stop!" screamed Lockhart, but Snape took charge. "Finite Incantatem!" he shouted.
A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done; Julia appeared not to have bothered using her wand, but she still managed to leave Pansy sprawled on the floor on her back with all the wind knocked out of her; Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still moving— Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and Hermione was whimpering in pain, and both their wands lay forgotten on the floor. Harry leapt forward and pulled Millicent off. It was difficult: She was a lot bigger than he was.
"Dear, dear," said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. "Up you go, Macmillan… Careful there, Miss Fawcett… Pinch it hard, it'll stop bleeding in a second.
"I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells," said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. "Let's have a volunteer pair— Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you—"
"A bad idea, Professor Lockhart," said Snape, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. "Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We'll be sending what's left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a box." Neville's round, pink face went pinker. "How about Malfoy and Potter?" Snape said with a twisted smile.
"Excellent idea!" said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.
"Now, Harry," said Lockhart. "When Draco points his wand at you, you do this."
He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, "Whoops—my wand is a little overexcited—"
Harry wasn't sure what else he was expecting, so he sighed. Meanwhile, Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear that made Malfoy smirk.
"Scared?" muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn't hear him.
"You wish," said Harry out of the corner of his mouth.
Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. "Just do what I did, Harry!"
Harry stared at him. "What, drop my wand?"
But Lockhart wasn't listening.
"Three - two - one - go!" he shouted.
Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, "Serpensortia!"
The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.
"Don't move, Potter," said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye to eye with an angry snake. "I'll get rid of it…"
"Allow me!" shouted Lockhart, but Harry was ahead of both of them. Partially looking at the snake but pointing his wand straight at it, Harry whispered: "Wingardium Leviosa."
The snake shot up five feet in the air. Harry directed the writhing and floating snake to Malfoy, who immediately turned fearful.
"What are you playing at?" he shouted in English, staring directly at a hissing, confused snake.
Harry tried not to let his resounding disappointment show as he muttered the counter-jinx and a Petrificus Totalus to follow. The snake vanished in a puff of smoke and Malfoy's arms snapped to his sides, his legs sprang together, and his whole body went rigid as he fell to the ground heavily. Harry was dimly aware of the silence that spread through the crowd as the students stared at him. Lockhart was staring at him too, and it was same, fearful look he cast when Harry used the stasis charm for the first time.
Snape ordered the students to practice disarming each other by magic in pairs again, and Lockhart meekly assisted him. Snape kept pairing up Harry against the older students, so he had to be good at it very quickly least he gave Snape the satisfaction of seeing him fail. Harry thought he did a decent job, all things considered. The only person Harry failed to disarm was a handsome Hufflepuff fourth year, and it was mostly because Neville rammed into Harry after Hermione's disarming charm blasted him off his feet. Harry dropped his wand, and the Hufflepuff fourth year disarmed him before he could recover. Snape was looking right at Harry when the students were finally dismissed. It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn't like it.
He felt someone tugged at the back of his robes as the students milled out.
"C'mon," Ron said into his ear. "Let's move on…"
Ron and Hermione herded Harry straight to the empty Music Room without saying a thing. Ron pushed Harry into a noise-cancelling screen and Hermione drew the curtains around them.
"I thought we were going to do this secretly, not in front of the whole school!" hissed Ron.
"Sorry," said Harry. "But I thought the chance was too good to miss."
"You can't just go ahead without warning us like that!" said Ron angrily. "And it was creepy, you know, the way you levitated the snake towards Malfoy…"
"But it was the only way to get Malfoy to speak Parseltongue!" said Harry, starting to feel quite angry. "It worked, didn't it? Now we know Malfoy isn't a Parselmouth!"
"Yeah, all that effort for nothing and I was so sure it was Malfoy," grumbled Ron, before saying: "Listen, I know you don't think so, but most people have a hard time doing the stuff you do."
Harry frowned at him. "But Hermione's better than—"
"You didn't hear what everyone else was saying," said Hermione, speaking in a hushed voice. "They were saying you're too good—maybe good enough to control Slytherin's monster."
Harry's mouth fell open.
"Exactly," said Ron. "And now the whole school is going to think you're heir of Slytherin."
"But I'm not," said Harry, with a panic he couldn't quite explain.
"We know you're not," said Hermione quickly. "But everyone else doesn't know what we know."
Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the curtains around his four-poster he watched snow starting to drift past the tower window and wondered…
Should he ever tell Ron and Hermione he could speak Parseltongue? He had enough suspicion going on without throwing Parseltongue in the mix. Ron and Hermione might start thinking he was Slytherin's great-great-great-great-grandson or something … could he entrust them with this knowledge?
Of course I can, Harry thought. They're my best friends.
Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but they never had to deal with something this big, have they?
Harry turned over. He wasn't anything special. His survival after an encounter with Voldemort as a baby was a huge fluke for which he did nothing to contribute, and anyone who had Sherlock Holmes to coach them in logic and reasoning would have an easier time learning magic. Tomorrow he would go about his way as always, and he would perform nothing really spectacular, which (he thought angrily, pummelling his pillow) any fool should know by now.
By next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was cancelled: Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust to no one else, now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey.
Harry fretted and brooded while Ron and Hermione used their time off to play a game of wizard chess.
"For heaven's sake, Harry," said Hermione, exasperated, as one of Ron's bishops wrestled her knight off his horse and dragged him off the board. "Go take a walk if you're going to brood."
So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering if he should call John.
The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the thick, swirling grey snow at every window. Shivering, Harry walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to take a look, Harry walked on by, thinking he might as well go to Music Room and use the noise-cancelling screens.
Only Miss Jackie was present in the Music Room, playing something solemn and relaxing on one of the concert pianos. She looked a bit absurd wearing a gigantic white puffa jacket that made her look like marshmallow monster had partially digested her, and the black micro-fleece trousers and grey Ugg boots that did little to hide her bony legs and tiny feet. The notes rose sonorously up the ceiling as the melody became more grandiose. Then Miss Jackie looked up when Harry got closer and squawked, mashing keys in the process.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, abashed. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Oh, no, do forgive me," breathed Miss Jackie. "I was a bit preoccupied."
Miss Jackie patted the spot next to her on the long piano chair. Harry sat there, and listened to Miss Jackie resume playing the piece from earlier an octave lower. The knot in his chest seemed to loosen as the piece progressed, and settled more easily in his stomach when the piece ended on a long, lingering note.
"Bee in your bonnet, Harry?" asked Miss Jackie as she quietly shut the keyboard cover.
"Er," said Harry, wondering if he could confide to Miss Jackie. "I was just thinking—about the Chamber of Secrets …"
"Ah," said Miss Jackie, "The Chamber of Secrets. It's on the mind of a lot of people these days. What is about it that's bothering you?"
"The way people are reacting to it," said Harry. "My friend Neville—I told him his amulets aren't going to help him ward off the monster, but he still keeps them around. And when you listen to the rumours, it's like…" he made a frustrated gesture. How could he explain the way people believed in the most outrageous things?
"Everyone is ready to jump at any suspicious-looking sign, not pausing to think if it's actually suspicious or not?" asked Miss Jackie.
Harry lit up. "Yes! Yes, that exactly! Why can't people think?"
Miss Jackie just smiled at his explosive reaction.
"It's not easy, this situation," she said. "People are afraid and understandably so. Anyone who stands out can fall under suspicion— a bad time for people who are rubbish at picking up cues." She smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid I've made myself look suspicious, using my duplication spell freely as I have. I've been told there is some rumour going on that I may be using my duplicate to attack people and stay above suspicion."
"But you only use your clones for work and your clones can't even use magic!" said Harry indignantly.
"Am I?" asked Miss Jackie mildly. "Can you prove it? What is your evidence?"
Harry frowned. "Why are you…?"
"You have to see this from the outsider's perspective," Miss Jackie explained. "These are the sort of questions I would raise if I found someone suspicious, so I should be prepared to answer them myself. If I can't give an answer, I shouldn't expect an outsider to just take me at my word. They don't know me after all, and I'm just another human being, as capable of lying and hiding as they themselves are. At the very least, I need to give people no excuse to hold on to their opinions."
Harry looked down at the keyboard cover. Miss Jackie had a knack of raising uncomfortable questions that made you question your shallow thinking.
"So what are you going to do?" he asked.
"The only thing I can do," said Miss Jackie. "Invite people to examine me."
Harry stared at her. "You're not afraid of people drawing the wrong conclusion?"
"No," said Miss Jackie. "I have nothing to hide. I have no reason to fear scrutiny. If my questioners reach the wrong conclusion, then I will question my questioners—they are just as obligated as I am to provide answers."
"But if everyone gangs up against you—"
"So be it," said Miss Jackie, sounding unconcerned. "I have friends and family whom I can trust and confide in. Thank you for the reminder, Harry. I almost forgot that I should share this at Small Group next Tuesday …"
"You tell them about Hogwarts?" asked Harry, slightly surprised.
"As much as I am able; it's a funny thing, sharing my life here to them," Miss Jackie smiled, "Not because I have to hide the magic bits, but because sharing my heart isn't something I do naturally. My first instinct is keep the ugly stuff to myself and spare others my troubles. But those girls— especially Ellen," she chuckled, "they get upset when I hide things, which, I'm sorry to say, happens often: in my effort to hide the things they can't know, I end up hiding everything, which is really not on." She grinned self-deprecatingly. "I keep making the foolish mistake of not even trying to help them understand. It takes a lot of effort, reminding myself to not to be stupid out of habit: Of course I can tell my friends Hogwarts is facing a threat; London goes through several each day, and Ellen is a Detective Inspector's wife— if anyone knows how to weather bad times and bad news, it's her. And of course I can tell my friends I feel sad that, despite my efforts, students still hold me in suspicion. Don't we all go through that kind of misunderstanding? Shouldn't I go to the people who won't misunderstand me?"
Harry nodded. When it was put this way, it made sense.
"Some people think I'm the Heir of Slytherin," said Harry, feeling as though he should—and indeed could— share this. "I don't get it. How can I be the Heir of Slytherin when I'm Gryffindor? I—" he remembered the Sorting Hat's words again. "I'm—" he stopped.
"Did the Sorting Hat consider putting you elsewhere?" asked Miss Jackie gently.
Harry nodded glumly.
"It happens," said Miss Jackie. "Jason and Jeremy got sorted into Slytherin after the Hat offered Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw as alternatives. Oh yes," she said at Harry's shocked face, "my sister Cecilia was sorted into Slytherin, too. No one else attended Hogwarts in my family, so I can't say if Julia is an anomaly or not."
Harry kept shaking his head in shock. He didn't know Mr. Jason and Mr. Jeremy that well, but they had a completely different vibe from the Slytherins he knew, so he assumed they'd been sorted into Hufflepuff, just like Julia.
"My brothers are very goal-oriented," said Miss Jackie. "Jason wanted to be a celebrity chef and own a chain of restaurants and hotels since he was five. Jeremy is determined to start his own fashion brand, and he's aiming for both the Muggle and Wizarding world markets. Their goal is their main thing; hard work, courage and intelligence are just means to achieve it. So, Slytherin it is."
"And your sister?"
"She wanted to be influential," said Miss Jackie. "She didn't care in what way or in what area."
"I don't understand."
"It's hard to explain without making it sound bad," said Miss Jackie, rubbing her neck apologetically. "She was exceptionally powerful and she knew it. Her goal was to make sure everyone else acknowledged it too. She couldn't settled down. She had so much pent up energy and talent just waiting to be spent, but she couldn't stay in one field long enough to properly spend them. She moved to the next thing before the dust settled on the last move. The world couldn't move fast enough for her and that made her frustrated and angry."
This sounded a lot like Sherlock, except Mrs. Cecilia didn't have the Work.
"I thought she'd never find rest," said Miss Jackie sadly. "I still wonder if she ever did. I'll never know, not on this side of glory. At least she didn't leave behind a ghost."
Harry did a double-take. "What do you mean?"
"It is acknowledged only wizards and witches who fear death, who have strong attachments to this world become ghosts," said Miss Jackie quietly. "Cecilia didn't leave behind a ghost. She moved on."
Harry swallowed. He'd wondered about it, ever since first year, why some people became ghosts and others didn't. None of the ghosts in Hogwarts were forthcoming on this question, and he'd pretty much given up on getting a straight answer. He never expected to get one now, from his music teacher no less.
"You talk as if ghosts aren't the actual person," Harry murmured.
"I'm convinced we are souls who have bodies, and our souls departs after death, regardless of how much we want to stay," said Miss Jackie, looking at Harry through her fathomless eyes. "Witches and wizards have magic, so they have more things to leave behind, unlike our Muggle brethren, who can only leave behind bodies. I think magic people can't become ghosts, but a person's magic can linger on after they die as ghosts … but I'm just confusing you, aren't I?"
"No, um," said Harry, feeling his way through his tangled thoughts, "So you think ghosts are just a person's magic, walking and, er, moving and talking like they used to—"
"—like a memory," said Miss Jackie, nodding, "an unliving, interactive memory, neither here nor there…"
Harry stayed a little longer after this conversation. Miss Jackie gave him a mug of hot chocolate with plenty of fresh whipped cream on top, and talked a bit more about ghosts. Then she played a couple of songs on the violin for Harry to consider practicing after the holidays. The first one was so heart-rending Harry felt a tear slide down his cheek, and the other was the sort of music you'd want to hear before embarking on a long, arduous journey. Harry picked the latter piece and said good-bye to Miss Jackie so he could go to Transfigurations.
He met Ron and Hermione outside the Portrait Hole a few minutes later, after taking a detour to avoid Lockhart as usual.
"There you are!" said Ron, "finally! We were worried you got attacked or something…"
"Never mind that," said Harry. "Listen, I have a bunch of stuff to tell you…"
Harry rapidly told Ron and Hermione the little factoids about ghosts he'd learned from Miss Jackie as they headed to Transfigurations. Most ghosts, even the friendly ones, rarely opened up to the living, but even the most uncommunicative ghosts were happy to talk about how they died and became more amenable to speak after you carefully listened to the manner in which they met their deaths. Miss Jackie had learned this as she was trying to find out if her sister Cecilia left a ghost.
Hermione was fascinated.
"So we should've asked how they died first, before we asked our questions," she said.
"Why would anyone want to talk about how they died?" said Ron. "Sounds dead depressing to me…"
"Well, that's what they want, isn't it?" said Hermione. "I'm sure we'll learn a lot of personal history if nothing else, and it's definitely something to start a conversation with."
They reached the Transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall's previous class were milling out, one of whom still had black-and-white-striped hair. Harry, Ron and Hermione had just settled into desks when they heard a loud bang down the corridor, followed by a scream:
"ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!"
Crash – crash – crash—door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. Harry, Ron and Hermione swiftly joined the panicking throng, and Professor McGonagall ran after them. For several long minutes, there was a scene of much confusion, where no one was sure what was going on or where they should be heading. Professor McGonagall used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into their classes. No sooner had the scene cleared, Harry felt as though his stomach had dissolved.
All the rooster cages in the vicinity had been broken into and smashed against the floor, with no trace of their former occupants except for a few lonely feathers. Miss Jackie was laying on the middle of the floor, rigid and cold, her eyes wide and staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn't all. Next to her was another figure, and it was the strangest sight Harry had ever seen.
It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock.
Peeves was bobbing overhead, grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; Peeves always loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Miss Jackie and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:
"Oh, monster, oh, monster, what have you done,
You're killing off Squibs, and you think it's great fun…"
"That's enough Peeves!" barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, blowing a raspberry.
Miss Jackie was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie Macmillan with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This left Harry, Ron and Hermione and Professor McGonagall alone together.
"I will escort you back to the classroom," said Professor McGonagall heavily.
Harry didn't move. He was still staring at the spot where Miss Jackie had lay petrified, unable to digest what he'd seen earlier. Ron and Hermione had to pull him away to get him moving, and even then, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the spot.
Harry went through Transfiguration in a daze. It wasn't until he found himself back in the Gryffindor Common Room did he speak.
"I only talked to her an hour ago," he said.
Hermione shot a glance at Harry. Both she and Ron were looking as though Harry had confirmed a horrible theory they'd had.
"What's wrong?"
Hermione looked stricken and reluctant to speak. Ron shook his head and ploughed ahead:
"We went looking for you when you didn't return after we finished our game. We thought you might've gone to the library to meet up Ernie and Justin so we went there. All the Hufflepuffs who take Herbology with us were in the back except Justin. Then out of the blue Ernie says he told Justin to hide up in their dormitory because if the Heir of Slytherin is targeting all of Harry Potter's friends it is best for him to keep a low profile for a while."
Harry's jaw dropped. Justin hadn't shown up for the last two weeks of meet ups, and Ernie had told him it was because he had a lot of catching up to do before Christmas Holidays. Harry had taken him at his word, and hadn't suspected a thing.
"Why would they think—"
"Think about all the victims," whispered Hermione. "You've been working with Filch all October because of the electric generator. Next thing we know, Filch's cat is attacked. Colin has been following you around since the start of term, taking pictures and asking questions. Next thing we know, Colin's been attacked."
Harry couldn't shut his mouth, he was so aghast.
"And now Nick and Miss Jackie," said Hermione miserably. "We've been asking all those questions to Nick — and we've been spending almost every other evening in the Music Room this past month. Even before that, you were there every day to recharge your phone or have violin lessons. It's not hard to notice every single person who's been attacked so far spent a lot of time with you."
Harry felt sick. This—this was worse than wondering if he was the Heir of Slytherin. Moreover…
"Ernie's been thinking about this for weeks and he didn't tell me."
"That's what I said," snarled Ron. "Do you know what Ernie said to me? He said at least he wasn't like Zacharias Smith, who actually thinks you're the Heir of Slytherin! Seriously, what's wrong with these people?"
Harry buried his face in his hands. He couldn't take it anymore.
"But here is some good news!" said Hermione in a rush. "Susan disagrees with Ernie and Smith. She said it's cowardly and stupid to alienate you when you're clearly working hard to solve the mystery. The fourth year you duelled yesterday, Cedric Diggory, said Susan is right. Oh, and Julia said she, uh, kicked Zacharias Smith between the legs when he went on about his theory that you're the Heir of Slytherin in the Hufflepuff common room."
The last one bit of information made Harry let out an involuntary snort of laughter. Then, after taking several deep breaths, Harry looked up.
"Do you want to take a break, too?"
"Don't be stupid," said Ron.
"We're going to finish this together," said Hermione firmly.
Harry smiled weakly, warmed a little bit at his friends' solidarity. But that didn't make him more optimistic. They've spent an entire month blundering around trying to find clues, and had barely made any progress on their own. In fact, Harry thought miserably, they were right where Sherlock had left them a week ago. The problem was that they couldn't see the sort of things Sherlock could see and make the connections he could make.
"I wish…" said Harry. "…I wish Sherlock could take a look in person. For just ten minutes. No, five minutes."
"He'd figure it out in a minute," Ron agreed.
"But he's a Muggle," said Hermione. "There's all sort of spells and enchantments in and around Hogwarts to keep Muggles from figuring out it exists. Even if we bring him here, the Muggle-repelling charms in the castle will scramble up his senses and make him think he has some urgent appointment elsewhere."
"He never has appointments like that," Harry muttered.
"The point is," said Hermione, pressing on, "there's too many things that'll work against him. Besides, Dumbledore will get in trouble—huge trouble. Bringing a Muggle into Hogwarts is going to be a huge violation against International Statute of Secrecy, no matter what the cause."
"But if the Heir of Slytherin isn't caught soon, there won't be a Hogwarts to go to!" Harry shouted. "Don't you see? They'll close it down! We'll all be sent home and there won't be anyone left to figure out who did it! Maybe the Ministry of Magic will open a new school, but to make sure something like this doesn't happen again, they might stop taking in Muggle-borns! Do you want Slytherin to have his way?"
He glared at them.
"You're right Harry," said Hermione in a small voice. "We don't."
"It's Christmas Holidays in a few days, so there's going to be less people about in the castle soon," said Ron, "perfect timing."
"We have to figure out how to bring him here in secret, and stop the Muggle-repelling charms from messing up his head," said Harry. "There has to be away."
"There is a way!" said Hermione suddenly, her face shining. "Miss Jackie's anti-magic barrier: if we wrap him up in a cloak soaked in the anti-magic solution, we might be able to bring him here through the floo network! Miss Jackie probably improved the solution since the last time—we just need her notes!"
There was no time to waste. The three of them stood up and raced to the Music Room.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: The plot thickens… ;)