The Arithmancer's Apprentice

Chapter Two

Tom did not know which way to take. His first instinct had been to run quietly to the end of the library to see if the others might still be in earshot; but the house was silent, except for the clocks. There was no indication which way the Hogwarts crowd had gone. Even the ghost in ruffs had vanished, the only person (if you could call him that) who might have seen which way they’d passed. Yet perhaps it was for the best, after all. He was burdened now with this ring of Gryme’s, and it seemed unwise to draw attention to himself and court discovery by the household, as he would have done by asking the way. He took a chair and sat down to think.

Tom knew very well he had taken a risk in staying so long in the study upstairs, but he did not think Gryme was likely to panic. No doubt he expected Tom to catch up with him. Certainly he did not seem to have left any message that Tom could see. Yet Tom now had to choose what to do. He could always claim to have stayed to look at the books – which he might (in truth) have been tempted to do anyway – and ask to be shown the way to the stables. He could even go back and ask Cleopatra. She was supposed to remain with her books for the rest of day, but she might be persuaded to show him those winged horses that she was so proud of…

No, he decided. He couldn’t risk it: not, at least, while he had the ring.

To his untrained eye, the ring did not appear to be magical at all, although by itself that was far from conclusive. It made no sense that Gryme should have taken so much trouble to hide a plain unenchanted ring in such a strange and original manner. It could not be a simple test of Tom’s obedience. Professor Gryme must really want this ring. And yet if the ring were really his, then why had he left it unclaimed for years?

It might be, of course, that the Professor had stolen it – but that did not seem at all likely to Tom, quite apart from the fact that he was sure that Dr. Gryme would not tell an outright lie to him. He suspected it wasn’t easy to steal anything from a house like this: there was so much magic around to protect it. If the ring was valuable enough to be worth the risk of stealing it, how could Gryme’s hiding it have remained undetected? And even were its theft merely suspected, then how had the ring stayed unnoticed there in the painting for over a decade? And Gryme came back with a school group each year. Had they left the house open as a bait to draw him? Had Abbacus Gryme, suspecting a trap, distanced himself, by working through Tom?

Tom’s blood ran cold at the very thought.

Unless….

There was a way that everything Gryme had said might fit: a way in which the ring might indeed be Gryme’s own, and yet the professor could not ask for it (or be caught with it); it would explain too why he had left Mountwarlock House so abruptly. Tom’s mind went back to the secret arts that Gryme had begun to open to him, and suddenly, everything fell into place.

Had Gryme been asked to leave Mountwarlock House, on suspicion of involvement in the same Forbidden Arts that he’d lately begun to reveal to Tom? If the ring were itself a very powerful Dark object, he could not simply ask for it back, not without confirming all the rumours as true. Gryme, Tom guessed, had not even dared to take the ring away when he left, in case it was found in his possession, and he had waited years for whatever had happened then to be forgotten – and possibly to find an apprentice who could take it, unmarked. Evidently, the ring must also have a powerful Concealing Charm on it. How much magic had it needed to be hidden so well, unused as it was for so many years?

Just how deep is Dr. Gryme into the Dark Arts? Tom wondered to himself. So far there had been a limit as to how deep the professor had been prepared to take his apprentice into such practices...

He shook himself back to the present; he would find out the truth from Professor Gryme later, once he had succeeded in re-joining his fellow Slytherins. Now his first thought must be to escape. The question was which way should he go.

On the face of it, Cleopatra had been right. In a house of maybe thousands of rooms, it might be hard to find the party from school. But the grander rooms, the ones worth seeing, were all in the southern half of the house, and Tom had hopes of narrowing down the paths he could choose.

It so happened that Hilarius Jennings, an aptly named expansive fourth year, had described his own tour of the house one night, when he’d spoken with Tom in the Slytherin common room. Jennings had been the worse for butterbeer, but what he said had been perfectly rational, and now it would prove very useful indeed. The group never went upstairs, for one thing. The State Apartments were somewhere to the south, and that was where Knowles would take the others. These chambers, Jennings had reported, were on the same floor, and above the gardens, and surely not hard for Tom to find. From there they would go to the Great Conservatory, and so through the gardens round to the stables.

Tom considered his plan for the moment. It might be hard to join the others while still in the house without being noticed, but easy enough to go to the hothouse and simply wait for them under the trees.

So, the conservatory it is.

Judging by the pale sunlight streaming in through the eastern windows, the gilded doors at the far end of the library would take him south, undoubtedly where the others had gone. If could make his way south, and onto the terrace, then were he to miss them in the conservatory he could simply go on round to the stables, as Cleopatra had pointed out. The stables would be easy to find – with the neighing of more than a hundred horses.

But were those windows facing east? What exactly was the time? Just one small spell, Professor, he thought, remembering with a twinge of guilt Gryme’s caution against using magic. All the same, it was best to be certain – the last thing he wanted was to head off in a wrong direction. Carefully, he balanced his wand in the palm of his hand, and whispered, “Point me.” It twisted round to the door that led to the chapel. His calculation had been correct. He waited for a moment, still half-afraid that someone had noticed, and let out his breath with a sigh of relief.

And then Tom froze.

A door had opened among the books, about halfway down the chamber, cutting him off from the way he planned to take, and heavy footsteps began to approach him. Nervously, Tom edged his chair further back into the alcove where he sat, until he was hidden by a globe – a large one, several feet across, and concealed Tom almost perfectly. It was even suspended in the air just a few inches above the ground.

The intruder stopped by a bookcase some ten feet away, a section that seemed to deal with herbology. Craning his neck around the globe, Tom saw a large gentleman with a thick moustache, the whiskers curled at either end. He was humming a popular tune as he scanned the shelves, and tapping his wand against the books.

It was soon painfully clear to Tom that his unwelcome companion was not going to leave, and so he turned round to look at the books that were piled on the desk in front of him. If he were challenged it might do well to appear to be reading. He hoped fervently that the gentleman was the guest that he seemed, and would not expect to recognise him.

So Tom began to look through the heap of books, in front of him on the roll-topped desk. All of them were about magizoology. One was a hand-written manuscript, from the look of it still unfinished, but the books were mostly titles he’d seen before, among them an early edition of Newt Scamander’s obligatory classic, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, which Tom had been required to purchase as one of this year’s compulsory textbooks. Just below it a more detailed work by a different author caught his eye: Fantastic Beasts and How to Hunt Them, apparently by a Sir Maximus Drake. Wondering if this could be Cleopatra’s uncle, he lifted the book and began to read.

“Fantastic Beasts and How to Hunt Them is the fruit of a lifetime’s dedication to the chase of all kinds of magical creatures. (Visitors to Scelpings, my estate in Hertfordshire, may recall the dragon heads in my hall.) Yet I now begin to look back wistfully at the callow boy who borrowed a wand to try to pot Hippogriffs on his uncle’s estate – with a consequent hair-raising escape through the trees – and I envy him his adventures to come: the griffin hunt in Anatolia where he all but lost his eye, the Nundu expedition to Burkina Faso where he was trapped without his wand in a gully – with only a native askari to help him – and last but not least that fateful encounter with the Basilisk of Shrinam Devi, (a kind of creature which I flatter myself to be the only man alive to have killed)…”

Tom turned the page, repressing his frustration. How long before he was free to go? The stranger was still humming to himself, however, and Tom, wanting to appear as though he did belong in the library, turned his attention back to the book.

“It is with this daring boy in mind that I now set in writing the skills I have gained. In these pages the eager young wizard, bringing down his first Jobberknoll with a stolen catapult, will be warned in advance of its deathly scream; while the experienced hunter, moving on to the Occamy, will learn to avoid the lash of its tail…”

Tom smiled as he put it down, thinking how horrified this book would make Hagrid, were he to see it, and took another look at the manuscript in front of him. It seemed to contain some reminiscences.

“I haven’t got far with that one yet.”

Tom jumped, and turned his head. The gentleman was still hidden behind the curve of the globe, but the fruity voice – there was no other word for it – was undoubtedly his. There seemed to be no way the man could have seen him, and yet he appeared to know Tom had just picked up the manuscript. His hearing must be exceedingly good.

“Autobiographical work, really. Seems to be the fashion these days – though of course there weren’t just Hippogriffs – dragons and griffins are better, you know. Don’t know why I chose that title. Possibly because it would annoy Scamander.” He chuckled as he went under the arched vault. In a few steps he rounded the globe and came into the alcove, leaning his arm on upper Siberia. The sphere, Tom noticed, showed in surprising detail where many magical beasts could be found.

“Do you mean Mr. Newt Scamander?” asked Tom. And what on earth did he mean about Hippogriffs?

“You know him?” said the gentleman, frowning a little. “Oh, of course, you’ll be readin’ him at school, won’t you? Didn’t have that sort of nonsense when I was at Hogwarts. He’s a Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures hotshot, these days. Not that dull, for a Ministry chappie, though of course, that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

Tom thought for a moment. “I gather the Ministry can be… interfering.”

“It’s not so much what it is as what it wants to be, and Newt Scamander’s one of the worst. Wants the desk-wizards down in London to tie up everythin’ we do in ribbons. What we can hunt and what we can breed – fillin’ in forms for half our pets.” He snorted. “Mind you, the Muggles are doing the same thing now, from what I hear – ration books and what-have-you. I wonder which of us got it from which.”

“Do you know Mr. Scamander well?” asked Tom, trying to keep the conversation away from his presence there in the library. The big man fumbled in his pocket, and lit a pipe with a flick of his hand.

“Oh, he’s actually stayin’ in this house at the moment – came to see Phantomsby about that Werewolf Registry project of his – though I shouldn’t think that’s his only reason. He can’t do anythin’ with this place, of course – about the one place you can do what you like – if old Gerontius will let you – but there’s plenty at the Ministry want to end all that. Don’t know what the deuce they thought they were doin’ invitin’ him here.” There was a pause. “He’s not a bad feller in other ways – though he didn’t seem to like my huntin’ trophies. Almost as squeamish about that as my niece, and certainly a good deal worse at hidin’ it. I have to see him though, now and again, since I’ve got my own interest in ‘fantastic beasts’.”

“Do you?” Tom wondered where this was leading.

“Of course. I hunt them. If you didn’t even know that, young feller, then why the divil are you readin’ my book?”

Tom took another involuntary glance at the manuscript that he had been reading. As with the book he had started to read, the name on the cover was “Sir Maximus Drake.” The title was Hippogriffs I Have Shot.

Tom thought fast, and lifted the large printed book he’d been reading. “I’m sorry about that. I was looking at this book of yours you left here when you came into the room, and when you spoke I’d only just turned to the manuscript. I didn’t realise it was by the same author – or that you were Sir Maximus Drake.”

Drake nodded, apparently satisfied with Tom’s answer. “Anyway, what’s your name, young feller? I don’t remember seein’ you at breakfast.”

Tom was saved from having to answer by a noise from the other end of the chamber. The gilded doors by the chapel had opened, and Tom could hear light footsteps coming towards them on the carpet. Drake turned away to face the approaching person. “Speak of the divil,” he muttered to himself.

In about half a minute the light-footed figure had reached their own part of the library, slowing when he reached the magizoology shelves, when Maximus Drake stepped out and challenged him. From his desk in the alcove Tom had a fine view of the newcomer, a slender man of middle height with small black eyes. Beady eyes, Tom thought.

“Ah, Scamander. There you are, my dear feller.”

Scamander too? Gryme should have asked Hagrid to take the ring! Tom smiled at his own joke, but his heart sank when the wizard stopped at Drake’s invitation. How many more people would notice him before he escaped? But the newcomer appeared not to see Tom, hidden as he was behind the globe.

“Good morning, Drake,” Scamander answered curtly, clearly unhappy to see the older wizard. He was dressed in a waistcoat that wouldn’t have been out of place in a respectable Muggle gathering, although he had hastily flung on dark green robes, still unfastened at the front.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me I was on my way to converse with Phantomsby. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him anywhere, now that the Hogwarts party’s with Knowles?”

 “Not sure where you’ll find him now. I was just about to sit down to write some more of my book, now that those wizard whelps have passed.” Drake examined him thoughtfully. “But I see you’ve been down to the Black Unicorn. Bit early in the day, I’d have thought – or don’t you like Monsieur Anatole’s cuisine?”

Scamander looked uncomfortable, but chose not to reply at once. Tom wondered what clue had given him away to Drake. The younger wizard certainly hadn’t been drinking – what kind of business had taken him to the pub?

“It may have escaped you, Maximus, but I am in this house as a guest. If I choose to take a walk in the village, it need not be a slur on the table of my host.” He paused, as if to call a truce, then continued with what seemed to be a forced attempt at casual conversation. “It still hasn’t changed at all, Steeple Warlock – not since the first time I saw it.”

“I dare say you’re right.” Drake’s posture relaxed slightly and they began to make their way down the room. Gradually their voices became fainter. “That would have been in… what, fifteen?”

“When I was with House-Elf Relocation… Tedious in the extreme – except for the travel, of course. But there are more of those house-elves here than anywhere else apart from Hogwarts, so I came up here quite a lot in those days. Stayed at the Unicorn a fair bit too. I always liked Mundungus’ beer.”

It suddenly occurred to Tom that back in 1915 Dr. Gryme would have only just taken up the position of librarian. It was not unlikely that he knew Scamander. He wondered idly if the magizoologist could shed any light on his tutor’s mysterious years at Mountwarlock Park. Unfortunately, he was not in a position to ask the wizard anything – and the last thing he wanted was to draw Scamander’s attention. Tom lifted the book again, and bent his head to the pages, as if absorbed in Drake’s appraisal of hunting gear:

“…nor would I disdain the shotgun at a pinch (a Muggle weapon of surprising efficacy) when faced with thick-skinned magical predators such as the Graphorn and the great Erumpent, whose horny hide is a proven barrier to the spells of even the most powerful wizards...”

No wonder Scamander didn’t care for his companion – and Tom did not need to guess the impression that Maximus Drake would make on Hagrid.

The two wizards had wandered off, and appeared to be going out of the room together – or so Tom fervently hoped. Certainly their voices were fainter by now. Drake, fortunately, appeared to have forgotten him. As they opened the door, Scamander’s voice rose, as if in a parting shot.

“And next time you write a book, perhaps you’ll have the wit to invent your own title, instead of adapting one of mine.”

“Ah, then I think you’ll like my latest. I’m calling it Hippogriffs I Have Shot. Catchy sort of phrase, don’t you think?”

Scamander froze, half in the door. “Really, Drake, I would have thought that someone in your position would be aware that there is more to life than potting Hippogriffs.”

The older wizard regarded him thoughtfully. “You mean there are dragons and griffins as well. You’re right, of course, but a chap gets sentimental at my age – brings me back to my youth, you know – when old Mountwarlock chased me round the chimney for makin’ off with his second-best wand.”

“And, just possibly, for attempting to slaughter his pets.” Scamander remarked, his voice laden with sarcasm.

“Possibly, Scamander, quite possibly. The old man was confoundedly sentimental about them.”

“I wonder why,” Scamander observed dryly, as the ring of a bell chimed through the house. “That is the luncheon bell, I think. There’s sherry at twelve in the Golden Drawing Room.”

Drake’s voice boomed in reply, as one of them shut the doors behind them, and Tom let out his breath in relief. He waited a moment to be sure they were gone, and then he tiptoed quietly after them.

Gingerly, he opened the great doors at the far end of the Vaulted Library. They didn’t lead, as he’d hoped, to a hall or a corridor. He found himself in yet another chamber, with sofas and tables just like in the library, and a series of portraits on the walls hung on a background of golden silk. The faces hardly moved, except for the eyes, which stared at him curiously. Tom felt watched, and far from comfortable. A window seat looked out upon a cloister. He went through the door at the southern end.

It was all Tom could do to make himself hurry. And he did not feel completely alone… More than once he caught himself looking over his shoulder, in case there was someone creeping behind him…

One of the peculiar quirks of Mountwarlock House, he now began to see, was an almost complete absence of corridors. Doorways could lead to carved oak stairs, and sitting rooms and dining parlours, and even a long string of tapestried chambers, but never once into a hall or corridor. It made the house feel very different from Hogwarts. One room led out of another, and by no means could all be opened by hand. Many of them were undoubtedly secret. The very next door took him into a music room, with a piano and harps strung with dragon heart-strings, and viols and flutes that played by themselves as he drew near them. Everywhere was a clutter of precious and magical objects: there were jewelled snuff boxes and fans of phoenix feathers, lying just anywhere on tables, as if they were trifles that wouldn’t be missed.

At length he came to another library, not as wide or even as long as the vaulted chamber he had left behind, but certainly no less interesting. The gilded patterns across the ceiling were mirrored in the rich French carpet that covered the whole of the floor. Gilded too were the bookcases, and the wooden railings of a narrow gallery that ran all the way around three sides of the room. On the fourth side a line of windows looked out upon the gardens – at last.

There were not nearly as many astrolabes and chronoscopes here. Instead it was a more intimate place, filled with painted books and manuscripts, and rolls of faded parchment on the tables and shelves. Through the windows, he could see the whole terrace laid out in the noonday sun, canals and fountains and statues and sundials. Most glorious of all were the flower beds, blazing with bloom in the heart of winter. Hedges of old yews were clipped and carved into fantastic shapes. On the far side the terrace, a broad flight of marble steps led down to the lake.

He knew that now he’d reached the gardens, he ought to find a stair to take him down to the terrace below, and approach the conservatory from the outside, but somehow, against his better judgement, Tom lingered, gazing at the shelves. It was restful to be in a room without paintings, and to feel, at least for a minute, unwatched. He felt strangely at ease, and his anxiety started to fade. They surely won’t have reached the conservatories yet, he thought, and drifted towards the books.

To his surprise, the shelves were full of Muggle titles. He wondered idly if the earl might ever entertain non-magical dignitaries, perhaps from the Muggle House of Lords – there were objects here that Muggle collectors would die for. Apart from printed copies of adventurous-sounding novels such as The Prisoner of Zenda and children’s books that Tom had seen in the orphanage library, like The Jungle Book and Wind in the Willows, the lower shelves were filled with rare editions and manuscripts. He paused for a minute before a painted copy of The Ring of the Neibelungs in Old High German and, increasingly curious, began to take out from the shelves first one volume, and then another.

He was almost half way down the room when he noticed, quite suddenly, an old book bound in red leather on the bottom shelf; curious, he drew it out, noticing, to his surprise, the faded decoration of a golden ring drawn upon the front. Tom inspected the book closely; it was strange. Though undoubtedly ancient, it was in surprisingly good condition, and as Tom held it, his hands travelling over the red leather, he could sense an odd sort of power inside it – a Preservation Charm, perhaps, but one more powerful than any Tom had ever come across, even in the library at Hogwarts. He wondered what such a tome was doing among the Muggle titles.

He opened the book carefully, only to find that the discoloured pages were written in an unfamiliar script, and in astonishingly small and clear handwriting, although the first part was slightly larger more untidy, as though it were copied by a different scribe. It hadn’t been penned in symbols or hieroglyphs. The writer had used an alphabet, but one that Tom had never seen.

He wondered briefly if it might be Etruscan; but the script was simply too unfamiliar for anything that might once have been used in Europe. It struck him that it could be what Knowles had hinted at – a genuine survival of lost Atlantis. But surely such a thing wouldn’t be here, among a collection of Muggle writings?

Regretfully, he resolved to put it down – it was something he’d have loved to ask Dr. Gryme about, but he simply had to make his escape.

“I’ve never seen you here before. What is your name, boy?”

The voice was soft but somehow compelling, and with just a trace of a foreign accent. Tom turned with a start to see an elderly lady sitting quietly by the fire, on a low cushioned seat behind a screen. She was dressed entirely in black, her sombre attire contrasting vividly with the brilliant plumage of the scarlet phoenix perched on her shoulder. She wore no ornaments, except a single golden ring on her finger, set with what Tom guessed was a genuine dragonstone. The woman regarded him with a curious smile, awaiting his response.

“Tom Riddle,” he said, trying to sound as confident as he could, all too conscious of the book in his hand. “This is the first time I’ve been here.”

“So I see,” she said thoughtfully. “But don’t mind me in any case. I was about to go myself before the rest of them come: I don’t much like to face a crowd.” She stared at him curiously. “You reminded me of my son just now, just as he was when he was at your age. I remember him in that very spot, kneeling just there by the shelves. He had that way of being absorbed. You look a little like him too – though he never was one tenth as badly dressed…” she trailed off, her gaze going out of focus as she reminisced. “He died some years ago.” Tears for a moment came to her eyes, before she wiped them away with a false smile. “I don’t come downstairs very much now, so I’m not surprised that you don’t recognise me.”

Tom wondered how he should address her. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, I do believe I ought to go.”

“Oh, I shan’t bother you, if that’s what troubles you.” She rose quickly, and with a formal nod at Tom began to make her way to the door. “I think I shall take a stroll in the garden.” She paused briefly to look out of the window. “Now, that is strange… The snow is falling quite close to the house. I ought to speak to Gerontius about it.” Without any further attempt at conversation, she opened the door and stepped from the room.

Tom took a deep breath and gazed after her. She was headed to the terrace, so he could simply follow her out. How long should he wait, though, before he went after her? Another minute or two, perhaps, to be sure she wouldn’t see him as he followed next door. But might she notice him out on the terrace? Or was there a way to the Great Conservatory without going outside the house at all?

As he pondered which way to go, he heard the noise he’d dreaded most. Behind him, the murmur of voices as the door opened gave him just enough time to duck behind a sofa whose high back almost shielded him from his new companions. He still clutched the book nervously. A mellow voice spoke to an unseen companion.

“I did tell you we’d be the first. It’s about ten minutes walk from the Golden Drawing Room, and they’d brought an amphora up from the cellars, instead of just the usual sherry. Olympian Nectar, seven-fifteen! 715 BC, of course.”

“Do you mean there’s still some of that around? I wasn’t even sure it ever existed. And if it does, I can’t imagine anyone actually wanting to leave the drawing room! Are you sure we won’t have lunch alone?”

Tom crouched behind the sofa, edging his way towards the bookcase, looking for a volume he could pretend to be absorbed in – one in a language he could claim to read. To his annoyance, none of the books on the shelf appeared to be real. In growing bemusement, he began to read through the titles: Swimming the English Channel, by Francis Kneer, Arctic Holiday by N. Pole… It dawned on him that this was probably another secret door, and he wondered whether he could find the right book to open it in time to slip through unnoticed, away from his new and unwanted companions.

“Well, not alone. With the Dowager Countess, perhaps. She never quite approved even of wine, let alone of something like Nectar.”

“The Dowager, eh? Not Melanthia?”

The first speaker clarified. “No, it’s Aspasia I mean. Melanthia’s quiet, but she’s always been friendly – the Nectar was probably her idea – but Aspasia’s a Spanish Grandee in her bones, and she’s holed herself up in her tower with that phoenix of hers ever since old Anaxagoras died. But even before then, she just wasn’t herself… I don’t think she ever really got over the death of her eldest son – he was only thirty at the time, you know…” The voice trailed off, thoughtfully. “I think it was Aspasia we saw just now: let’s hope she’s coming through it at last. She doesn’t often come down here, you know.”

“As bad as that, eh, Nicholas?” replied the other voice, “Her eldest… Now, that was Zeuxes, wasn’t it? Died on a quest, didn’t he, or something?”

“Yes, a quest… unless it was ‘something.’ Back in 1915, that was.” Nicholas paused. “They never did say much about it. But poor Aspasia never recovered: I think he was her favourite, too. She’s been wearing black ever since he died.”

In 1915? Tom recalled the conversation between Drake and Scamander, taking his mind for a moment from the urgency of his own situation. It could be simply chance, perhaps, but a lot of things seemed to have happened in 1915. Grindelwald had only just begun to rebuild the Dark Order, and Gryme had recently come to the house. Scamander had been around a lot too, and now he learned this was also the year that the late earl’s son Zeuxes had died so mysteriously, and the present earl had become the heir.

“Gerontius never likes to talk about it, either,” said the other wizard quietly.

Nicholas sighed. “No, he doesn’t – not that I blame him. Zeuxes was always the brilliant one, you know. Gerontius stayed here and did all the work, while his brother went round looking for Atlantis and what have you, but poor Gerontius was always thought of as second best. Then suddenly he was the heir after all.”

There was a long pause, before the second wizard cleared his throat loudly.

“Hmm. You know, Nicholas, it probably is Nectar. I’ve never known the library as empty as this!”

“Didn’t I tell you? Even so, I think the rest of our luncheon companions ought arrive quite shortly,” replied Nicholas. “Monsieur Anatole’s miracles are sometimes quite as tempting as Nectar, and I can’t imagine any guest skipping a meal.”

Luncheon companions? With a start, Tom realised that in a few moments, all the guests in Mountwarlock House would be congregating in this very library, no doubt to be led to the dining room – including Maximus Drake and Scamander, and possibly even Cleopatra, who knew he was not an invited guest. More urgently, he tugged at the ridiculous titles, hoping that one of them would yield. A Life of Sir Lancelot by B.C. Spier he tried, but it refused to give.

Shifting his gaze further down the shelf, he pulled at its companion title, A Moorish Playwright by Sheik Spier and, at last, the door swung inward. With a sigh of relief he began to rise…

…and a corner of his robe caught the nearby lamp. It crashed to the ground, overturning a table with a thumping of books and a loud tinkling of broken china.

Tom forced himself to look up. The two men were watching him with some amusement. They did not appear to regard the open bookshelf-door with any curiosity at all.

“Ah, so they’ve begun to arrive after all. Here’s one young fellow who could get away from the Nectar.”

Tom was embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to do that at all – some of these things are in such an awkward place.”

One of the two wizards healed the broken porcelain vase with a touch of his wand. “No, I don’t suppose you did. Jasper now – he’d have done it intentionally, wouldn’t he Lucius?”

“He’d have done it a good deal more tidily though, I think,” Lucius replied. He briefly scrutinized Tom through his eyeglass.  “Did you forget to dress for the luncheon? Or do you plan to turn up like that deliberately?”

Tom thought fast. “I thought there was time to get a book first. I just had a little bit of trouble finding it.” Tom lifted up the red volume as evidence.

“Ah, I see,” said the man whom Tom now identified as Nicholas. “Yes, spells to summon books don’t always turn out well. Sometimes it’s best to try the slow way. I remember being buried in a landslide once – of books, that is. Most uncomfortable.” he paused for a moment.

“But, I don’t believe you have time to chat. You’re obviously desperate to change and get back in time – oh, don’t forget your book.”

Tom lifted the tome and hovered for a moment by the secret door, but the two gentlemen, who were absorbed again in their own discussion, seemed to pay him no heed at all, and so Tom shut the door behind him. Before him was a narrow stair. He edged his way up in the candlelight, and round the very next bend he came to landing with a door that led to the library’s upstairs gallery. Perfect. He could leave the door only just ajar, and listen discreetly in the shadows until all the guests had come and gone. Then he could safely go back and return the book, certain that all the guests were at lunch.

He looked at the book thoughtfully in the dim light. Should he leave it on the floor, just inside the gallery, and be done with it? No, it was probably priceless, and suppose someone trod on it? Besides, he could take it downstairs in a moment. Reaching within the folds of his robes, he quietly slipped the book in his pocket.

Now that he was on the darkened landing, peering through the partly opened door instead of perusing the many bookshelves, and with nothing at all to do or read, his mind drifted to more pressing matters. He was only too aware of how long he had been away from the Hogwarts party, and he mentally chastised himself for letting curiosity distract him. He could feel the weight of the book in his pocket. I should have left the room at once, he thought wistfully.

Soon enough, other voices drifted up from the library, and Tom, with nothing else to do, listened to snatches of conversation. Some of it was even interesting, especially the sporadic talk he heard about the latest brainwaves of a wizard called Spender, in the American Department of Misinformation, whose radical idea of using the new Muggle superstitions about spaceships and Martians as a sort of cover for magical happenings was already being debated by the International Confederation of Wizards. There was a neatness and artistry about this way of using the Muggles’ own credulity against them that was actually amusing to Tom, but for the most part, he was anxious for the crowd to move on. Nor was he alone in this: a dark-haired figure whose clerical robe and dog-collar marked him out as the family chaplain was tapping his wand against the books with growing impatience. Drake and Scamander were already there too, chatting quite jovially under the influence of the Nectar – at least in the presence of their grim-faced host, whose more-than-seven-foot figure stood out in that company of normal height rather like Hagrid would at a Hogwarts ball. Tom had a brief glimpse of Cleopatra talking by the fire to a startling vision of beauty that might have been Melanthia her mother, and a crowd of boys in expensive-looking robes lounged about by the dining room door. One of them must be Jasper, he thought.

After what seemed to Tom an eternity (although it was probably just a few minutes) he heard a general shuffling of feet as the crowd stepped in pairs toward the doors. Another minute and there was silence. Tom breathed a sigh of relief, and quickly turned to go back downstairs to the library. He was nearly halfway down the steps when suddenly he stopped in horror. His breath caught in his chest.

A few steps below him, lying across the stair like an enormous house-dog on its favourite patch, were the golden hide and wings of a griffin – but unlike the fleece in Cleopatra’s study, this creature was very much alive.

The giant eagle’s eyes stared up at him, unblinking, with a menacing gaze. Its feathers began to ruffle in anger, as it stretched its claws, ready to pounce.

Cleopatra said they locked them up! What is this one doing here?

He had hardly time to think of that question, before the griffin uncurled and leapt towards him, its talons outstretched, and Tom fell backwards on the steps. He scrambled back to his feet in a trice, brushing against an outstretched wing, while the griffin’s claws tore a hole in his robe. He didn’t even think to draw his wand as the rush of adrenaline sent him tearing up the stairs, past the gallery landing, and up to another floor entirely.

He fled into the first door he could see, right at the very top of the stair, and slammed it to behind him, breathing heavily. The last thing he had expected was to have to deal with a wild animal before he came to the conservatories, especially not an angry griffin. He wondered what had set the creature off like that. Cleopatra had seemed to imply that the griffins they kept were fairly docile – well, by griffin standards at least.

He was in an attic, larger even than the ones at Hogwarts, and completely crammed with odds and ends, but before he had time to take it in the door swung open abruptly as its hinges gave way. There was a screeching of talons almost at his feet as he threaded a desperate path through boxes and rafters, but the pursuing creature's larger size hampered it as lumbered through the heaps of jumble and crates. He was beginning to hope he could leave it behind, trapped among the boxes and broken furniture, when suddenly he was in a wide open space as long as a deeply ribbed cathedral. Tom did not dare to look back. He ducked under the beams that upheld the roof, bringing up clouds of dust from the heaps of books and papers. Glimpsing a door to his right behind a great heap of chairs, he doubled back as the huge animal spread its wings for the first time. It lunged at him, ripping his robes yet again as it crashed into the pile of chairs behind him. In another moment he was through the door and slammed it shut. The lock clicked.

His heart still racing, he gazed about him, completely horrified at where he found himself. He was outside the house at last, but out on the roof instead of the terrace.

A whole panorama of garden and lake was laid out before him, beneath the stone balustrade of the south wing. Around him rows of statues and steep roofs stretched to either side and at the very end of the house the glass domes of the Great Conservatory shimmered enticingly through the trees. Tom shivered in the cold. Yes. That was where he must go – and quickly, too, before he froze.

A screech from the griffin behind the door made him shiver once again, and this time it wasn’t just from the cold. He looked back down at the way he had come. The furious animal was still tearing at the attic door, and with a sinking heart Tom knew it would give. Would that beast never stop? And out here, the creature could easily fly, making Tom even more vulnerable… He had to get away, and fast!

He had no more time to think, and he scrambled as quickly as he could across the icy tiles. Behind him, the incessant scratching became the sound of splintering wood and piercing shrieks.

What would I give to have a broomstick!

It was a race. For the next few minutes he climbed desperately across sloping roofs, the ear-splitting noise of cracking wood and enraged griffin echoing behind him as he searched for a door, or some other way inside the house, before the monster behind caught up with him. Amazingly, there were none at all. It was all clusters of chimneys and battlements, a landscape of minarets and gargoyles carved in outrageous shapes. Nearer and nearer came the huge glass domes of the Great Conservatory, and still he could see no way inside. Each moment he dreaded to hear a beating of wings and a cruel scream, a flash of gold on the edge of his vision. He dared not look back.

It was the high-pitched screech that warned him. Turning his head he felt the brush of its outstretched wings as the griffin swooped above the tiles, scattering snow onto the flags below. For a dreadful moment Tom quailed before its menacing form. However, this time he was prepared for it.

Raising his wand in a practiced sweep he screamed out a curse, blasting its wing…

The griffin crashed into the tiles. Its wing was unbroken but seemingly numb, so it could not fly, but even so it was far from spent. With a cry of rage and scraping claws it tore into the roof, scattering tiles in mad profusion as Tom attempted to blast it again.

“Stupefy!”

But the hide of a griffin was tougher than Tom had been led to expect. The creature barely felt the power of his curse as it shook its wings once and leaped across the stone ridge. Tom jumped through the gap between two chimneys and slithered down to a narrow ledge, shaking off the snow that covered him, and ran along the edge, ice or no ice. His respect for Sir Maximus Drake had risen dramatically in the last few minutes, and he already wished with all his heart that he’d read more of the man’s book while he’d waited in the library – especially the chapter on how to hunt griffins. It was far more detailed, and practical, than Scamander’s. In fact, if he ever got back to Hogwarts, the first thing he’d buy would be that book of Drake’s…

The scraping sound of talons behind him told that the beast had almost caught up. With a last desperate surge of strength Tom bounded up the final ridge…

…only to find that he was stuck. There was no door, there were no further roofs, and the nearest trees were too far off. Just below him the huge glass panes of the Great Conservatory climbed in a series of leaps and sails to a whole string of staggering domes. Covered with snow, they glittered in the winter sun.

With a last look of terror at the monster behind him, Tom launched himself across the first of the panes. It cracked. With a scream – whether his own or the beast’s he couldn’t say – he fell through the splintered glass, clutching his wand frantically as he tore through the branches of fragrant trees. Leaves whipped his face as he fell; he glimpsed the brilliant plumage of African birds crying from their nests as he hurtled past them, until with a sudden shock of ice he plunged into deep water, dazed.

He gasped for air as he broke the surface. He felt a splash, but his vision was black. Why on earth couldn't he see? Vaguely he heard someone talking to him, but the voice seemed to come from far away.

"Tom, Tom, are yeh all right?"

Surely that’s Hagrid's voice, his mind was telling him. Then everything faded, and he knew no more.

To be continued...

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Authors’ Note: Please feel free to send any questions, thoughts, or comments to [email protected] and [email protected]. Feedback is very much appreciated.

ETA on Chapter Three is Thursday, June 6.