The Polyjuice Potion
They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently, and when they entered, Professor McGonagall told Harry to wait here, bidding the Hamatos to follow after her. Mikey glanced at Harry and smiled slightly, but then he and his brothers were gone, trailing after Professor McGonagall.
Harry looked around, his nerves on-edge. One thing was certain, though: of all the teachers’ offices Harry had visited so far this year, Dumbledore’s was by far the most interesting. If he hadn’t been scared out of his wits that he or his friends were about to be thrown out of school, he would have been very pleased to have a chance to look around.
It was a large and beautiful circular room, full of funny little noises. A number of curious silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. There was also an enormous, claw-footed desk, and, sitting on a shelf behind it, a shabby, tattered wizard’s hat—the Sorting Hat.
Harry hesitated. He cast a wary eye around the sleeping witches and wizards on the walls. Surely it couldn't hurt if he took the hat down and tried it on again? Just to see… just to make sure it had put him in the right House.
He walked quietly around the desk, lifted the hat from its shelf, and lowered it slowly onto his head. It was much too large and slipped down over his eyes, just as it had done the last time he’d put it on. Harry stared at the black inside of the hat, waiting. Then a small voice said in his ear, “Bee in your bonnet, Harry Potter?”
“Er, yes,” Harry muttered. “Er—sorry to bother you—I wanted to ask—”
“You’ve been wondering whether I put you in the right House,” the hat said matter-of-factly. “Yes… you were particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I said before—” Harry’s heart leapt— “you would have done well in Slytherin—”
Harry’s stomach plummeted. Logically, he knew, Slytherins weren’t all that bad—Leo and his roommates were proof enough of that. But if he was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, if there was a chance that he was evil…
He grabbed the point of the hat and pulled it off. It hung limply in his hand, grubby and faded. Harry pushed it back onto its shelf, feeling sick.
“You’re wrong,” he said aloud to the still and silent hat. It didn’t move. Harry backed away, watching it. Then a strange, gagging noise behind him made him wheel around.
He wasn’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit-looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Harry stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. Harry thought it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Harry watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.
Harry was just thinking that all he needed was for Dumbledore’s pet bird to die while he was alone in the office with it when the bird burst into flames.
Harry yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. He looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere, but he couldn’t see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball. It gave one loud shriek, and the next second, there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.
The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber, and the Hamatos trailed after him. The brothers stopped dead at the remains of the bird.
“Professor,” Harry gasped. “Your bird—I couldn’t do anything—he just caught fire—”
To Harry’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.
“About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on.”
He chuckled at the stunned look on Harry’s face; the Hamatos, meanwhile, had taken to standing there awkwardly, and Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be found.
“Fawkes is a phoenix, Harry,” Dumbledore explained. “Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die, and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him…”
Harry looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as ugly as the old one.
“It’s a shame you had to see him on Burning Day,” said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. “He’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets.” He turned to the four brothers, watching Dumbledore tensely. “That will do,” he said, and the four of them filtered out of the office, not a hint of emotion on any one of their faces.
In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Harry had forgotten what he was there for, but it all came back to him as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed Harry with his penetrating, light-blue stare.
Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang, and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes and his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black head. The dead rooster was still swinging from his hand.
“It wasn’ Harry, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid urgently. “I was talkin’ ter him seconds before that kid was found, he never had time, sir—”
Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere.
“An’ Raph was with him, too, Professor—You know he’d never do anythin’ like that—It can’t’ve been him, I’ll swear it in front o’ the Ministry o’ Magic if I have to.”
“Hagrid, I—”
“Yeh’ve got the wrong boy, sir, I know Harry never—”
“Hagrid!” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do not think that Harry attacked those people.”
“Oh,” Hagrid said, the roster falling limply at his side. “Right. I’ll wait outside then, Headmaster.”
As he left, his face was a bright shade of pink.
“You don’t think it was me, Professor?” Harry repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.
“No, Harry, I don’t,” said Dumbledore.
“But what about Raph, and the others—”
“I don’t think they did this, either,” the headmaster said, his face somber. “But I still want to talk to you.”
Harry waited nervously while Dumbledore considered him, the tips of his long fingers together.
“I must ask you, Harry, whether there is anything you’d like to tell me,” he said gently. “Anything at all.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He thought of Malfoy shouting, “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” and of the Polyjuice Potion simmering away in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Then he thought of the disembodied voice he had heard twice and remembered what Ron had said: “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the wizarding world.” He thought, too, about what everyone was saying about him, and his growing dread that he was somehow connected to Salazar Slytherin…
“No,” said Harry. “There isn’t anything, Professor.”
Raph groaned, annoyed as he and his brothers walked away from Dumbledore’s office. “Great. Now the whole school not only thinks that Harry’s behind the attacks, but that we are, too.”
“Just you, Raph,” Mikey said. He seemed to be the least bothered out of all of them.
Raph glanced at him sidelong. “Thanks.”
Donnie frowned. “To paralyze a person is one thing,” he said, almost to himself. “But to paralyze a ghost, something that’s connected to this world very limitedly… I can’t think of anything that has the power to do such a thing.”
“So what’s our plan?” Raph asked.
Leo sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. “Just… We need to be more on-guard now,” he said finally. “No letting the others out of our sight, not even for a second. We’ve been lucky so far—but there’s something in this school that can almost kill someone who’s already dead. I don’t think paralyzing people is the extent of this thing’s powers, whatever it is.”
It would seem that the school shared Leo’s concerns, as well. The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. There was a stampede to book seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas.
“At this rate, we’ll be the only ones left,” Ron said as they all sat around a table in the library. “Us, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. What a jolly holiday it’s going to be.”
Crabbe and Goyle, who always did whatever Malfoy said, had signed up to stay over the holidays, too. But Harry was glad that most people were leaving. He—and the others—were all tired of people skirting around him in the corridors, as though he was about to sprout fangs or spit poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and hissing as he passed. Even Mikey had stopped trying to get back at people; he had admitted, to his brothers’ eternal shock, that it would be impossible for him to prank the whole school at once (though the look on his face told his brothers that he wouldn’t go down without a fight).
Fred and George, however, found this all very funny. When they weren’t conspiring with Mikey, they went out of their way to march ahead of Harry down the corridors, shouting, “Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through!”
Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior.
“It is not a laughing matter,” he said coldly.
“Oh, get out of the way, Percy,” said Fred. “Harry’s in a hurry.”
“Yeah, he’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with his fanged servant,” said George, chortling.
Ginny didn’t find it amusing either.
“Oh, don’t,” she wailed every time Fred asked Harry loudly who he was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Harry off with a large clove of garlic when they met.
Harry didn’t mind; it made him feel better that Fred and George, at least, thought the idea of his being Slytherin’s heir was quite ludicrous. The Hamatos clearly didn’t believe it either: Leo would immediately shut down anyone who was trying to talk about Harry; Raph’s fists would clench, and though he wasn’t tall by any means, people always felt like they were being looked down on when faced with him; Donnie would be quiet, at first, but after a moment he would start mumbling insults loudly enough for people to hear—and one way or another, those insults would take the conversation off of Harry (though, Harry had to admit, Donnie went straight for the jugular most times—a bit extreme, but it got the job done); Mikey, surprisingly, was the one that people had to look out for. He wouldn’t say anything, but the crazed gleam in his eye as he slowly turned his head to look at whoever was talking was usually enough to get them to go quiet in a moment.
But their reactions, along with Fred and George’s antics, seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, who looked increasingly sour every time he saw them at it.
“It’s because he’s bursting to say it’s really him,” said Ron knowingly. “You know how he hates anyone beating him at anything, and you’re getting all the credit for his dirty work.”
“Not for long,” Hermione said in a satisfied tone. “The Polyjuice Potion’s nearly ready. We’ll be getting the truth out of him any day now.”
“And that day can’t come quick enough,” Raph muttered bitterly. He and his brothers had been tense the past few days—tenser, perhaps, than anyone in the school, and it was taking a toll on them, if the bags under their eyes were any indication.
At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Harry found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and enjoyed the fact that he, Hermione, Raph, and the Weasleys had the run of the Gryffindor Tower, which meant they could play Exploding Snap loudly without bothering anyone, and practice dueling in private. It also meant that Raph’s brothers could visit whenever they wanted, so long as they were quiet (the Fat Lady seemed rather sour about letting non-Gryffindors into the common room, but after some pleading from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, as well as a promise that the brothers would be good and behave, she let them in without much fuss). Fred, George, and Ginny had chosen to stay at school rather than visit Bill in Egypt with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Percy, who disapproved of what he termed their childish behavior, didn’t spend much time in the Gryffindor common room (which meant that he missed Raph’s brothers filtering in and out of the Gryffindor tower on a daily basis). He had already told them pompously that he was only staying over Christmas because it was his duty as a Prefect to support the teachers during this troubled time.
Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harry, Ron, and Raph, who usually had the dormitory to themself, despite an empty four-poster bed, were woken very early by Hermione, who burst in, fully dressed and carrying presents for them all.
“Wake up,” she said loudly, pulling back the curtains at the window.
“Hermione—you’re not supposed to be in here—” said Ron, shielding his eyes against the light.
“Happy Christmas to you, too,” said Hermione, throwing him his present. “Donnie and I have been up for nearly an hour, adding more lacewings to the potion. It’s ready.”
Harry sat up, suddenly wide awake. Raph, who had already gotten dressed before Hermione had barged in, fixed his gaze on her.
“Are you sure?” he and Harry said at the same time.
“Positive,” said Hermione, settling herself down on the empty four-poster bed in their dormitory. “If we’re going to do it, I say it should be tonight.”
At that moment, Hedwig swooped into the room, carrying a very small package in her beak.
“Hello,” said Harry happily as she landed on his bed. “Are you speaking to me again?”
She nibbled his ear in an affectionate sort of way, which was a far better present than the one she had brought him, which turned out to be from the Dursleys. They had sent Harry a toothpick and a note telling him to find out whether he’d be able to stay at Hogwarts for the summer vacation, too.
The rest of Harry’s Christmas presents were far more satisfactory. Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle fudge, which Harry decided to soften by the fire before eating; Ron had given him a book called Flying with the Cannons, a book of interesting facts about his favorite Quidditch team, and Hermione had bought him a luxurious eagle-feather quill. Leo had got Harry a fiery-red scarf, not unlike the one Harry had seen Leo wear often in the past few weeks; Raph and Donnie had both given Harry books, but while Donnie got him a book on defensive charms, Raph had got him a book of the strongest attacking spells there were (most, Hermione pointed out, were far too complex for a second-year, but there were a few that Harry was tempted to try); Mikey gave him a small kit called Tricky Talents. A small glance in it told Harry that it was full of charmed items to prank people with, and he had seen Fred and George carrying around a kit like it many times before. Harry opened the last present to find a new, hand-knitted sweater from Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake. He read her card with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr. Weasley’s car (which hadn’t been seen since its crash with the Whomping Willow), and the bout of rule-breaking he, Ron, and the others were planning next.
No one, not even someone dreading taking Polyjuice Potion later, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at Hogwarts.
The Great Hall looked magnificent. A dozen frost-covered Christmas trees decorated the floor of the Great Hall, and from the ceiling, which had thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing it, was spouting enchanted snow, warm and dry, onto the tables down below. Dumbledore led them in a few of his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed. Percy, who hadn't noticed that Fred had bewitched his Prefect badge so that it now read “Pinhead,” kept asking them all what they were snickering at. Harry didn’t even care that Draco Malfoy was making loud, snide remarks about his new sweater from the Slytherin table (though Harry did realize that he kept glaring sidelong at Leo, who was talking to his roommates). With a bit of luck, however, Malfoy would be getting his comeuppance in a few hours’ time.
It was just when Harry and Ron had finished their third helpings of Christmas pudding when Hermione ushered them all out of the hall, Raph trailing behind them, to finalize their plans for the evening.
“Why can’t you guys help, again?” Ron asked as the brothers all surveyed the potion, a strange glint in their eyes.
“Because we’re not the best… interrogators,” Donnie said, shrugging. “And Raph is just as likely to start punching as he is to actually ask questions.”
Raph shrugged, his arms crossed. “He’s not wrong.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, turning to Harry and Ron. “We still need a bit of the people you’re changing into,” she said matter-of-factly, as though she were sending them to the supermarket for laundry detergent. “And obviously, it’ll be best if you can get something of Crabbe’s and Goyle’s; they’re Malfoy’s best friends, he’ll tell them anything. And we also need to make sure the real Crabbe and Goyle can’t burst in on us while we’re interrogating him.”
“Leave that part to us,” Mikey said. He and Raph exchanged a grin, and Harry suddenly almost felt bad for Crabbe and Goyle—almost.
“How are you planning to do it?” Ron said.
Donnie held up two plump, chocolate cakes. “These are filled with a Sleeping Draught,” he explained. “All Raph and Mikey have to do is make sure Crabbe and Goyle find them.”
Raph and Mikey nodded, taking one of each.
“What about you?” Harry asked Hermione, ignoring the dozens of things that could go wrong with that plan. “Whose hair are you ripping out?”
“I’ve already got mine!” said Hermione brightly, pulling a tiny bottle out of her pocket and showing them the single hair inside it. “Remember Millicent Bulstrode wrestling with me at the Dueling Club? She left this on my robes when she was trying to strangle me! And she’s gone home for Christmas—so I’ll just have to tell the Slytherins I’ve decided to come back.”
And Hermione bustled off to check the Polyjuice Potion, Donnie and Leo trailing after her.
Ron turned to Raph and Mikey with a doom-laden expression.
“Have you ever heard of a plan where so many things could go wrong?”
“Yes,” Mikey said without hesitation, he and Raph already leaving for the Great Hall.
To Harry and Ron’s utter amazement, they returned not ten minutes later with hair from both Crabbe and Goyle, as well as their shoes, because Harry and Ron’s shoes were far too small for Crabbe- and Goyle-size feet. By the time they returned, however, thick black smoke was issuing from the stall in which Hermione was stirring the cauldron. Three glass tumblers stood ready on the toilet seat.
“Did you get them?” Hermione asked breathlessly.
Raph and Mikey held up a piece of hair, and they handed them to Harry and Ron.
“I snuck into the laundry and got some spare robes for you guys, as well,” Donnie said, holding up a small sack. “You’ll need bigger sizes once you’re Crabbe and Goyle.”
They all stared into the cauldron. Close up, the potion looked like thick, dark mud, bubbling sluggish.
“I’m sure we’ve done everything right,” said Hermione, nervously rereading the splotched page of Moste Potente Potions. “It looks like the book says it should… once we’ve drunk it, we’ll have exactly an hour before we change back into ourselves.”
“Now what?” Ron whispered.
“We separate it into three glasses and add the hairs.”
“Good luck,” Raph said, patting Harry on the back as he and his brothers stepped back from the stall. Mikey seemed to be the only one who wasn’t disgusted by the bubbling brown liquid.
Hermione ladled large dollops of the potion into each of the glasses. Then, her hand trembling, she shook Millicent Bulstrode’s hair out of its bottle and into the first glass.
The potion hissed loudly like a boiling kettle and frothed madly. A second later, it turned a sick sort of yellow.
“Urgh—essence of Millicent Bulstrode,” said Ron, eyeing it with loathing. “Bet it tastes disgusting.”
“Add yours, then,” said Hermione.
Harry dropped Goyle’s hair into the middle glass and Ron put Crabbe’s into the last one. Both glasses hissed and frothed: Goyle’s turned the khaki color of a bugger, Crabbe’s a dark, murky brown.
“Hang on,” said Harry as Ron and Hermione reached for their glasses. “We’d better not all drink them in here… Once we turn into Crabbe and Goyle we won’t fit. And Millicent Bulstrode’s no pixie.”
“Good thinking,” said Ron. “We’ll take separate stalls.”
The Hamatos all grimaced at the bottles in Harry and Ron’s hands as they made their ways to different stalls, careful not to spill a drop of the potion.
“Ready?” Harry called.
“Ready,” came Ron’s and Hermione’s voices.
“One—two—three—”
Pinching his nose, Harry drank the potion down in two large gulps. It tasted like overcooked cabbage.
Immediately, his insides started writhing as though he’d just swallowed live snakes—doubled up, he wondered whether he was going to be sick—then a burning sensation spread rapidly from his stomach to the very ends of his fingers and toes—next, bringing him gasping to all fours, came a horrible melting feeling, as the skin all over his body bubbled like hot wax—and before his eyes, his hands began to grow, the fingers thickened, the nails broadened, the knuckles were bulging like bolts—his shoulders stretched painfully and a prickling on his forehead told him that hair was creeping down toward his eyebrows—his robes ripped as his chest expanded like a barrel bursting its hoops—his feet were agony in shoes four sizes too small.
As suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. Harry lay face down on the stone-cold floor, listening to Myrtle gurgling morosely in the end toilet. With difficulty, he kicked off his shoes and stood up. So this was what it felt like, being Goyle. His large hand trembling, he pulled off his old robes, which were hanging a foot above his ankles, pulled on the spare ones, and laced up Goyle’s boat-like shoes. He reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes and met only the short growth of wiry bristles, low on his forehead. Then he realized his glasses were clouding his eyes because Goyle obviously didn’t need them.
As he took them off, Leo’s voice echoed throughout the bathroom. “Are you guys okay?”
“Yeah,” came the deep grunt of Crabbe from Harry’s right.
“I’m fine,” he said. Goyle’s low rasp of a voice issued from his mouth.
Harry unlocked his door and stepped in front of a cracked mirror. Goyle stared back at him out of dull, deep-set eyes. Harry scratched his ear. So did Goyle.
Ron’s door opened. They stared at each other. Except that he looked pale and shocked, Ron was indistinguishable from Crabbe, from the pudding-bowl haircut to the long, gorilla arms.
“That’s Crabbe, all right,” Raph said. He looked Ron up and down with narrowed eyes, and Harry was suddenly reminded of how Raph had gotten detention last year for threatening to beat Crabbe’s teeth in.
“This is unbelievable,” said Ron, approaching the mirror and prodding Crabbe’s flat nose. “Unbelievable.”
“We need to get going,” Leo said, crossing his arms. They didn’t seem all that shocked about the effects of the potion, though their eyes had widened a fraction when Harry and Ron had stepped out of their respective stalls. “You only have an hour before you turn back, and we need to know everything we can.”
Ron nodded, banging on Hermione’s door. “C’mon, we need to go—”
A high-pitched voice answered him.
“I—I don’t think I’m going to come after all. You go on without me.”
“Hermione, we know Millicent Bulstrode’s ugly, no one’s going to know it’s you—”
“No—really—I don’t think I’ll come. You two hurry up, you’re wasting time—”
Harry and Ron looked at each other, bewildered. Donnie and Leo exchanged a concerned glance.
“Hermione, are you okay?” said Donnie through the door.
“Fine—I’m fine—go on—”
“I’ll stay here with her,” Donnie said, his brows furrowed. “You three have to go—it's already been five minutes.”
Harry nodded. “We’ll meet you back here, all right?” he said.
He, Ron, and Leo all made their way out of the bathroom, checking that the coast was clear before setting off.
“Stay behind me,” Leo murmured. “And don’t make it seem like you’re following me.”
He set off briskly down the corridor, and Harry and Ron had no choice but to follow after him, albeit at a slower pace.
“Don’t swing your arms like that,” Harry muttered to Ron as they trailed after Leo.
“Eh?”
“Crabbe holds them sort of stiff…”
“How’s this?”
“Yeah, that’s better…”
They went down the marble staircase. Leo headed toward the entrance to the dungeons, not slowing for Harry and Ron. They stayed a good ways behind him, hoping it didn’t seem obvious that they were following him.
Luckily for them, the labyrinthine passages in the dungeons were deserted. They walked deeper and deeper under the school, constantly checking their watches to see how much time they had left. After ten minutes, they heard a sudden movement, and Leo stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide as Percy stepped toward him.
“What’re you doing down here?” Ron said in surprise. Percy turned to him, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Crabbe and Goyle standing a few feet behind Leo.
“That,” he said stiffly, “is none of your business. It’s Crabbe, isn’t it?”
“Wh—oh, yeah,” said Ron.
“Well, get off to your dormitories,” said Percy sternly, to all of them. “Leo, you should know it isn’t safe to go wandering around dark corridors these days.”
“You are,” Ron pointed out.
“I,” Percy said, drawing himself up, “am a Prefect. Nothing’s about to attack me.”
A voice suddenly echoed behind Harry and Ron. Draco Malfoy was strolling toward them, and for the first time in his life, Harry was pleased to see it.
“There you are,” he said, looking at them. “Have you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this time? I’ve been looking for you; I want to show you something really funny.”
Malfoy glanced witheringly at Percy.
“And what’re you doing down here, Weasley?” he spat.
Percy looked outraged.
“You want to show a bit more respect to a school Prefect!” he said. “I don’t like your attitude!”
Malfoy scoffed and motioned for Harry and Ron to follow him. Harry almost said something apologetic to Percy but caught himself just in time. As Percy walked away, muttering, Malfoy stopped.
“Oh, goodie,” he drawled. “If it isn’t Mr. Hero.”
Leo stepped out of the shadows lining the walls and rolled his eyes, his arms crossed. “Malfoy,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Still wearing those ridiculous sweaters, I see,” Malfoy sneered. “What, father couldn’t afford to buy you one?”
Ron’s hands clenched into fists at Malfoy’s insult—for it was Mrs. Weasley’s sweater that Leo was wearing—but Leo only rolled his eyes.
“Whatever, Malfoy,” he said.
“Er—what were you going to show us?” Ron said quickly, before Malfoy could hurl another insult at Leo.
Malfoy glanced at him, then shook his head. “You were lucky this time,” he said to Leo, setting off down the corridor again. “Next time, you won’t be.”
Harry and Ron glanced at Leo as they passed, their eyes wide in surprise. But Leo only scoffed, looking exasperated.
Good luck, he mouthed.
Malfoy huffed, walking toward the common room. He paused by a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.
“What’s the new password again?” he asked Harry.
“Er—”
“Oh, yeah—pure-blood!” said Malfoy, not listening, and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open. Malfoy marched through it, and Harry and Ron followed him.
The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and a ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in high-backed chairs.
“Wait here,” said Malfoy to Harry and Ron, motioning them to a pair of empty chairs set back from the fire. “I’ll go and get it—my father’s just sent it to me—”
Wondering what Malfoy was going to show them, Harry and Ron sat down, doing their best to look at home. While he was gone, the entrance to the common room opened again, and Leo slipped in. He nodded to Harry and Ron before retreating to what Harry assumed must be the dorm rooms.
Just as Leo left, Malfoy reappeared, holding what looked like a newspaper clipping. He thrust it under Ron’s nose.
“That’ll give you a laugh,” he said.
Harry saw Ron’s eyes widen in shock. He read the clipping quickly, gave a very forced laugh, and handed it to Harry.
It had been clipped out of the Daily Prophet, and it said:
INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC
Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car.
Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr. Weasley’s resignation. “Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,” Mr. Malfoy told our reporter. “He is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.”
Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although his wife told reports to clear off or she’d set the family ghoul on them.
“Well?” said Malfoy impatiently as Harry handed the clipping back to him. “Do you think it’s funny?”
“Ha, ha,” said Harry bleakly.
“Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should snap his wand in half and go join them,” said Malfoy scornfully. “You’d never know the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave.”
Ron’s—or rather, Crabbe’s—face was contorted with fury.
“What’s up with you, Crabbe?” snapped Malfoy.
“Stomachache,” Ron grunted.
“Well, go up to the hospital wing and give all those Mudbloods a kick from me,” said Malfoy, snickering. “You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet hasn’t reported all these attacks yet. I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon. Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing that ever happened to this place. He loves Muggle-borns. A decent headmaster would never’ve let slime like that Creevey in.”
Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of Colin: “‘Potter, can I have your picture, Potter? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Potter?’”
He dropped his hands and looked at Harry and Ron.
“What’s the matter with you two?”
Far too late, Harry and Ron forced themselves to laugh, but Malfoy seemed satisfied; perhaps Crabbe and Goyle were always slow on the uptake.
“Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,” said Malfoy slowly. “He’s another one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn’t go around with that jumped Granger Mudblood. You know, if Leonardo—” He spat the name as though it left a vile taste on his tongue— “wasn’t in Slytherin, I would think they were Mudbloods, too. That Hufflepuff one certainly acts enough like a Muggle.” He shook his head. “And people think Potter’s Slytherin’s heir!”
Harry and Ron waited with bated breath: Malfoy was surely seconds away from telling them it was him.
But then Malfoy said, “I wish I knew who it is. I could help them.”
Ron’s jaw dropped so that Crabbe looked even more clueless than usual. Fortunately, Malfoy didn’t notice, and Harry, thinking fast, said, “You must have some idea who’s behind it all…”
“You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?” snapped Malfoy. “And Father won’t tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened, either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing—the last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before one of them’s killed this time… I hope it’s Granger,” he said with relish.
Ron was clenching Crabbe’s gigantic fists. Feeling that it would be a bit of a giveaway if Ron punched Malfoy, Harry shot him a warning look and said, “D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?”
“Oh, yeah… whoever it was was expelled,” said Malfoy. “They’re probably still in Azkaban.”
“Azkaban?” said Harry, puzzled.
“Azkaban—the wizard prison, Goyle,” said Malfoy, looking at him in disbelief. “Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward.”
He shifted restlessly in his chair and said, “Father says to keep my head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it. Of course, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment. You know the Ministry of Magic raided our manor last week?”
Harry tried to force Goyle’s dull face into a look of concern.
“Yeah…” said Malfoy. “Luckily, they didn’t find much. Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the drawing-room floor—and he even thinks that it’s going to be important in the future, getting rid of Mudbloods everywhere, not just in Hogwarts.” He paused, a grin creeping along his face. “Can you imagine that? A world without Mudbloods?”
“How would that work?” Harry asked, hoping Malfoy thought it was just another one of Goyle’s absent-minded questions.
Thankfully, Malfoy did, because he said, “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I? Father says there’s a wizard across the seas—someone who knows how to get rid of Mudbloods, or at least can try to. Of course, Father’s a little hesitant to trust an American, but—”
“Ho!” said Ron.
Malfoy looked at him. So did Harry. Ron blushed. Even his hair was turning red. His nose was also slowly lengthening—their hour was up, Ron was turning back into himself, and from the look of horror he was suddenly giving Harry, he must be, too.
They both jumped to their feet.
“Medicine for my stomach,” Ron grunted, and without further ado they sprinted the length of the Slytherin common room, hurled themselves at the stone wall, and dashed up the passage, hoping against hope Malfoy hadn’t noticed anything. Harry could feel his feet slipping around in Goyle’s huge shoes and had to house up his robes as he shrank; they crashed up the steps into the dark entrance hall, which was full of a muffled pounding coming from the closet where they’d locked Crabbe and Goyle. Leaving their shoes outside the closet door, they sprinted in their socks up the marble staircase toward Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.
“Well, it wasn’t a complete waste of time,” Ron panted, closing the bathroom door behind him. “I know we still haven’t found out who’s doing the attacks, but we know that the Malfoys are working with a Dark Wizard, and I’m going to write to Dad tomorrow and tell him to check under their drawing room.”
Harry checked his face in the cracked mirror. He was back to normal. He put his glasses on as Ron hammered on the door of Hermione’s stall.
“Hermione, come out, we’ve got loads to tell you—”
“Go away!” Hermione squeaked.
“She’s been like that the whole time,” Mikey said somberly, shaking his head. Harry jumped; he hadn’t seen the Hamatos, but there they were, their faces grim.
“What’s the matter?” Ron said to Hermione through the door. “You must be back to normal by now, we are.”
But Moaning Myrtle glided suddenly through the stall door. Harry had never seen her looking so happy.
“Ooooooh, wait till you see,” she said. “It’s awful—”
They heard the lock slide back and Hermione emerged, sobbing, her robes pulled up over her head.
“What’s up?” said Ron uncertainly. “Have you still got Millicent’s nose or something?”
Hermione let her robes fall, and Ron backed into the sink.
Her face was covered in black fur. Her eyes had turned yellow, and there were long, pointed ears poking through her hair.
“It was cat hair!” she howled. “M-Millicent Bulstrode m-must have a cat! And the p-potion isn’t supposed to be used for animal transformations!”
“At least it was a cat,” Donnie said, trying to cheer her up.
“Yeah, that’s not the worst animal you could turn into! Better than a turkey, for sure,” Mikey added, ducking to avoid Raph’s fist as he said it.
“We’ll take you up to the hospital wing,” Harry said quickly. “Madam Pomfrey never asks too many questions…”
It took a long time to persuade Hermione to leave the bathroom. Moaning Myrtle sped them on their way with a hearty guffaw. “Wait till everyone finds out you’ve got a tail!”
Raph shot her a deadly glare as the bathroom door slammed shut.