Harry Potter: Master of Talismans

Ron emerged from the cubicle holding his sleeves away from his wrists. Crabbe’s voice complained that the clothes no longer fitted, making Harry and me turn towards him together. I pointed to the folded robes and suggested he change before anything tore. We dressed separately, then examined one another with an attention none of us usually gave school uniform.

Harry still wore his glasses. I held out my hand, and he removed them with an expression which looked particularly strange on Goyle’s face. He could see the far wall clearly without them, he confirmed. I put them safely with his belongings and reminded him to stop inspecting his hands when we went downstairs. The face was convincing; fascination with owning it was less so.

Hermione’s door remained shut. I knocked and asked whether she was ready. She told us to go ahead, and her own voice made me pause. When I asked whether the potion had worked, she said she needed longer because she still felt sick. I kept my hand against the wood, unwilling to leave without hearing more.

‘I’m not hurt,’ she said. ‘I’m breathing perfectly well. I don’t want an audience while I feel like this.’ We had agreed the three of us could manage without her, she reminded me. Ron had run for a cubicle too and now stood beside the basins in Crabbe’s body. I looked at him, accepting a comparison which did not actually explain why Hermione still sounded like herself.

Myrtle appeared by the window and said Hermione could talk to her. I told Hermione to ask her to fetch Pomfrey if anything worsened; we could abandon the plan. She said she knew and urged us to leave before wasting the hour. I let her persuade me, taking my hand from the door while the detail about her voice remained something I had noticed without dealing with it.

Percy stopped us near the stairs. Ron began answering him by name, and I stepped on his shoe before he could add anything more familiar. Percy looked sharply at Crabbe. I explained that we were going back downstairs together, trying to sound more annoyed by the interruption than concerned about where it might lead.

He inspected our robes and the clock beyond us. We were well before curfew, but groups moving through the castle still gave prefects a reason to ask questions. He identified Harper, and I confirmed the name. He told me to remain with the others; there had been enough trouble with people deciding that the rules applied elsewhere.

Malfoy appeared before Percy finished. He wanted to know where we had been. I turned towards him with the agreeable expression I had rehearsed, telling him we had been looking for him. He informed Percy that we were going back, and the prefect allowed us to continue after making clear that he expected us to do exactly that.

I waited until he was out of earshot before reminding Ron not to greet every Weasley by his first name. Crabbe’s small eyes gave me an irritated look, but he kept walking. Malfoy led us to an ordinary-looking stretch of stone and spoke the password. An opening appeared, and we followed him through before I could find another part of the disguise to worry about.

The common room was long and low, with dark furniture, silver details and greenish light. Water beyond the windows seemed close enough to press against the glass. I had heard the view described attractively. Sitting beneath the weight of the lake, I discovered that I preferred imagining it from somewhere with Gryffindor’s fire and a great deal of air above the ceiling.

Malfoy dropped into a chair and returned to Percy. A Weasley giving orders was apparently an offence to the whole magical world, and his father found the family increasingly embarrassing. Ron shifted beside me. Harry moved a foot against his, stopping the response before it became something we would need to explain.

I said Percy had been stopping people since the attacks. Malfoy replied that he enjoyed it. I allowed that subject to lead me towards the newspaper, asking why the Prophet had carried more about Potter’s car than about what was happening now. Malfoy leant back and blamed Dumbledore, repeating his father’s opinion of the headmaster with obvious satisfaction.

Harry called it rubbish before either of us could stop him. Malfoy stared at Goyle, and I turned towards Harry with an impatient movement. I asked whether he thought Potter had failed to cause enough trouble to compete. Draco laughed and began complaining about Saint Potter instead, letting me breathe without making the effort visible.

Harry lowered his eyes, his jaw tight beneath the borrowed face. We were discovering how little a changed voice helped when its owner forgot why he was using it. I checked my watch with a small movement of the wrist, then mentioned the talk about Potter being the heir. Malfoy dismissed the idea with a contemptuous sound.

He had already told Goyle he did not believe it. Harry kept quiet this time, while I let the answer settle before asking who it was, then. If Malfoy knew, he said, he would have told us. I could not know whether he would admit dangerous knowledge even to his friends. I could know that this was the answer he wanted them to hear.

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I suggested that his father might have heard something. Malfoy looked towards the fire and said he knew about the last time. I asked him to continue without leaning forward as sharply as I wanted to. The chamber had been opened about fifty years earlier, he said, and somebody had died.

McGonagall’s date came back at once, followed by Hagrid stopping in the entrance hall. We were hearing another account of a period we already knew to examine. I asked who had opened the chamber. His father would not tell him, Malfoy replied, but the person had been caught and expelled. He stretched his legs towards the fire as though supplying information should not interrupt being comfortable.

‘A Mudblood died,’ he said. ‘It’ll happen again sooner or later. I hope it’s Granger.’ Ron started forward. Harry caught his wrist below the chair arm, and I had to stop myself moving too. For a moment, Harper’s face and the questions seemed much less important than making Malfoy understand what he had just wished on my friend.

I kept my hands on the chair and asked what his father had said was inside. Malfoy looked at me, apparently more interested in the reaction than the question. He had been told to stay out of the way, he said; that was what he knew. I tried once more about the creature, and he complained about having to explain everything twice.

Further questions would make the interest itself suspicious. I checked the time. There was still some left, but we needed to return and check the people whose faces we were wearing. I told Crabbe he looked unwell, and Ron stared blankly before understanding. He supplied a complaint about his stomach while Malfoy asked what he had eaten this time.

I got Ron to his feet and called Goyle to help. Draco complained as we moved towards the door, then returned his attention to the fire. We left without the name we had wanted, carrying several statements I meant to record before anger made me improve them. Outside, Harper came towards us along the passage, and I stopped behind Harry.

For a fraction of a second I saw the face I was wearing approaching on another body. Harper rubbed his shoulder as he asked whether we had seen somebody who hexed him. The Body-Bind had ended sooner than I expected. He was walking stiffly but showed no sign of falling from where I had left him, which was the full extent of the relief I could reasonably take from seeing him upright.

Harry shook his head. Ron bent farther over his supposed stomach, and I kept behind them with my face turned away. Harper looked after us as we passed, then continued towards the common room. We reached the next turning before I breathed properly. Harry whispered that it had been me, and I assured him I had noticed.

We checked the storage room on the return route. Crabbe and Goyle were stirring, clear of the door, and we made sure they were waking before leaving them room to get up. I collected the blanket and the dropped book from the side passage. There was no longer anyone for me to unbind there, but the task I had planned for our return had become a useful reminder that the spell had not kept the time for me.

My fingers began changing as we reached the bathroom. We shut ourselves into separate cubicles and returned to our own clothes. Harry recovered his glasses from beside his robes. I waited until my sleeves fitted again, then went directly to Hermione’s door. I told her we were back and asked her to open it, with the conversation at Malfoy’s fire suddenly less urgent than the voice we had left behind.

After several seconds, she said very quietly that it had not worn off. I asked what she meant. The hair had not been Bulstrode’s, she replied. I remembered the warning in the book and asked her to let me see, unable to make her earlier assurance about not being hurt answer the question now.

The bolt moved. Her eyes were different, and fur covered much of her face. Pointed ears stood where they should not have been, and something shifted behind her robes when she turned away. I stayed still, absorbing the fact that she had been dealing with this while we sat questioning Malfoy.

‘I thought it might go away after the hour,’ she said. I told her we were going to Pomfrey. She covered part of her face and objected that everybody would see. I took my cloak from the hook and held it out, saying we would cover what we could. Being able to hide it was less important than getting it treated.

Ron moved aside without making a joke. Harry gathered her things while I helped her arrange the cloak. When Myrtle appeared, I asked her to go ahead and tell the matron we were coming. She had wanted somebody to remain with her, but this was not a reason to let Hermione stay in the bathroom another minute.

At the hospital wing, Hermione named the potion as soon as Pomfrey asked. I explained that all four of us had taken part in the plan and obtaining the materials. We had concealed enough already. Keeping its name from the person treating her would add danger without protecting anybody from responsibility.

Pomfrey listened, examined Hermione and fetched what she needed. The first treatment began restoring her appearance without solving everything. She coughed and put a hand over her mouth, looking miserable enough that I wished I had asked her to open the cubicle before leaving. I had noticed the unchanged voice. I had let the time on my watch make another explanation seem sufficient.

She would remain while the effects were treated, Pomfrey told us. We were to bring the remaining potion and the preparation record, and nobody was to take another dose. I agreed, looking at Hermione in the bed. She said she had been sure it was Bulstrode’s hair, and I admitted that I had been sure too.

I could not leave that mistake entirely with her. I had asked a question, accepted the colour and the label as an answer, and confused agreement with a proper check. We had brought back information from Malfoy. Looking at Hermione, I found little satisfaction in how much the attempt had cost before we knew whether any of it would help.