The Arithmancer's Apprentice

Chapter Seven

Everything was light. There was no sensation of falling this time, no blackness of vision. The rays of the early afternoon sun came through the windows once again, bursting through the tinted glass, pouring a fountain of colour onto the panelled walls of the chamber. To Tom’s relief the almost tangible heaviness of strange magic that had weighed him down in Lord Mountwarlock’s study had all but vanished. Turning around, he saw that there was no sign of the painting, or the room he had left seven hours away.

His eyes became used to the greater light, and as he listened he found he could hear the shuffling of feet ahead and muffled voices, instead of the howls of the gale he had left behind. He could see he was in an older and more northerly part of the house, whose wooden walls of oak and beech were painted still in their original bright colours. Through the leaded panes of the window he could see more timbered buildings across the courtyard, which was empty except for a grove of trees covered in a thin blanket of snow.

Walking quickly to catch up with the Hogwarts party who (by the sound) were in the next room, he felt awkward in Hagrid’s body. He tried to recall the gait with which the younger boy actually moved but it was not something he had ever thought worth observing. He managed a rather clumsy, lumbering walk, and hoped more than ever that he would not seem to be ill, and draw too much attention when he reached the others. His imposture felt painfully obvious to him.

He wondered how anyone could actually win at the game of Polyjuice Poker, if it was as tricky as this to even walk convincingly; now, perversely, he began to wish that he had some experience in the game, and he thought back to Jasper’s offer that afternoon. The Durmstrang crowd had learned something at their school after all, he mused. In fact, they must be remarkably skilled in the art of disguise and impersonation, and attendance at Durmstrang was probably a very good training for a spy. The Durmstrang Institute of Spycraft and Sorcery…

He opened a carved wooden door and stepped through. He was in a gallery lit by windows on both sides, and at the far end he could see the last of the Hogwarts party disappearing down an old and rickety stair – not unlike the one at the Black Unicorn. He ran up to join them, his heavy feet thudding against the steps, as they clambered down into a large wooden hall with high arched beams and golden tapestry.

There were a few Slytherins at the back of the company. Potter was staring through his glasses at the gold leaf on the timbers above (probably working out its current market value) but Tom reminded himself that as long as he looked and sounded like Rubeus Hagrid, it wouldn’t be in character for him to go near the Slytherins – and it might even cause them to notice Tom’s own disappearance. He edged his way to a group of Gryffindors.

“Oh, there you are, Rubeus,” a tall Gryffindor girl, one of the prefects that had come with the party to keep an eye on all the third years, hailed him softly. Amelia Green, Tom remembered.

“Amelia?” Tom answered, thankful that Hagrid’s accent came naturally.

“Why were you so slow coming through? I was about to go and say you were lost.”

For a panicked moment, Tom’s mind went blank, but he quickly recovered his wits. “Jus’ lookin’ out through one of the windows,” he said. “I wanted ter see if we’d got near the stables yet.” He tried to gauge her expression. “Yeh know,” he lowered his voice confidentially, “they say they’ve got five hundred winged horses – not ter mention the griffins,” he added.

There was a burst of laughter from some of the Gryffindors, hushed by a frown from Amelia, and a blonde girl called Maria Jones interrupted, “Oh, of course, you just want to see the monsters. Wasn’t that snake-thing enough for you?”

Well, yes, it was, now that you mention it! So was even a single griffin. It’s a good thing we’re not going to reach the stables.

“Persephone,” replied Tom, in as injured a voice as he could manage. “Her name’s Persephone.”

There was more laughter, and Tom, feigning indignation, seized his chance to slip away from them.

Not that he needed to fake much annoyance: inwardly he seethed – chiefly at having to pretend he was Hagrid. Of all the five hundred boys in Hogwarts he had to play the part of Hagrid? Rubeus Hagrid was often amusing to talk to, but being the Gryffindor was something else!

Towards the front of the hall he could see Dr. Gryme looking this way and that among the black-robed students, as he watched the last of them come through the door. The professor’s expression was not as cool and composed as usual, but creased with obvious lines of worry, and Tom knew he must be very distressed. Tom looked away, disturbed himself, but not sympathetic. You should have told me more, Professor.

The hall was lit by two great windows that went down almost to the floor, one on each side, and warmed by three great braziers in the very middle: great wrought-iron jars filled with burning coals that hung suspended in the air. Through the window to the south Tom looked out across the great courtyard where they’d first come in. The snow was already falling thickly – surely it was already time for Phantomsby to interrupt.

The voice of Knowles, Mountwarlock’s librarian, came floating over the heads of the crowd, and Tom’s attention began to drift.

“You are now in the oldest part of the house. It was built some hundreds of years before Hogwarts, and was as you see it was constructed almost entirely from wood. The grander buildings you saw this morning were not originally part of the house at all, but for hundreds of years were one of England’s oldest abbeys. The Mountwarlock family acquired it only four hundred years ago when the Muggles dissolved their monastic foundations. In the next few decades the original house was greatly enlarged to include the old cloister, and the stream that had once divided them now forms a small lake in the great courtyard. The old monastic buildings, of course, were altered much in the next hundred years, and a new façade in the classical style was added over southern terrace. This part of the house, on the other hand, has hardly been changed at all, and now forms the earliest lived-in example of magical domestic architecture to be found in the British Isles... Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Phantomsby…”

There was a brief murmur among the students as the librarian’s voice died down. Phantomsby had appeared – apparently from nowhere – and was speaking softly with the spectacled librarian. Then he exchanged a few whispered words with Gryme. The edges of the professor’s mouth turned down in agitation, and he glanced over the group of students yet again. Phantomsby cleared his throat and addressed the crowd.

“Due to the unexpected change in the weather, I regret to inform you that your tour of the house must be curtailed at once – at least for the present. You will be led back to the village and remain within the Dancing Warlock for the duration of the afternoon.”

There was a murmur of mingled disappointment and curiosity, quickly hushed by the professors and prefects, and Phantomsby’s voice as he continued. “Despite this unfortunate occurrence, you will all be granted the opportunity to experience one of our rarest possessions, that none of your predecessors have been allowed even to see. You will make your way to the Dancing Warlock through one of our enchanted paintings.”

Nearby, Professor Tempera brightened visibly, and whispered excitedly to one of her students, “We’re very lucky to have such a chance; they’re very rare, you know. I’ve asked to be shown one of those paintings before, and until now I’ve always been refused. How strange that Lord Mountwarlock should change his mind.”

Tom, however, was watching Gryme. The Arithmancy professor appeared especially unhappy, and his frown deepened. For a moment he looked about to protest, but then he seemed to think the better of it.

“If you would all follow me please,” he said quietly, and turning around he followed Phantomsby through a wide carved door.

They passed almost at once from a broad corridor with glassy windows (almost like a conservatory) to a dimly lit staircase down to the cellars. Oil lamps sconced in the masonry spluttered into flame as they passed, illuminating the swirling clouds of dust with their rays. They followed in silence down a dark stone passage lined with bottles of wine on each side, till they reached a large cross-vaulted chamber, divided in half by a great stone arch. At the far end was another stair, which led back up towards the light.

For a moment even Tom was puzzled: their half of the chamber was empty and spare, the other half lined with casks and barrels. Their side too was filled with light, from candles that floated beneath the vault; beyond the arch the room was darker, without a single lamp. Only where the stair led back up did a patch of daylight brighten the stone.

It was Professor Tempera’s gasp that enlightened him, followed by the cry of a hasty Hufflepuff who had just walked into an invisible wall. There were two chambers here, it seemed, and not one: two distinct chambers. What had looked to Tom like the back of the room was actually the enchanted painting that would take them all to the Dancing Warlock: a fresco that covered the whole of the wall behind the arch, from the keystone down to the grey flagged floor.

“I don’t believe it,” Tempera murmured to one of her students. “Such perfection.” She traced her hands across the surface. “I wonder how they prepared the stone for painting on it…”

When the whole party was in the room, Professor Gryme produced a scroll of parchment with a glance at Professor Tempera. “I shall check the names, Olga, if you could send the children through. You are the expert, after all.”

Olga Tempera smiled in answer. “It should be very simple,” she said, raising her voice so they all could hear. “You simply place your hands on the fresco, and then you wish to go through the painting. You’ll find yourself at the Dancing Warlock.”

Phantomsby nodded in agreement and stepped back to oversee the procession. “The landlord should be waiting for you upstairs when you arrive at the inn,” he explained.

“I think we should be able to send them through in several lines,” Professor Tempera said thoughtfully, as she gazed admiringly at the fresco. “It should work as well as a Portkey – there won’t be any risk of splinching.”

Professor Gryme began calling the students one by one, ticking off the names as he went along. The students approached the painting with fascination and some unease; a few looked questioningly to Tempera and she spoke to them encouragingly, but when Tom’s Slytherin friends went through, Dominic Garrick spoke up suddenly.

“Professor Gryme, where’s Tom Riddle?

Gryme did not hesitate for an instant. “He was one of the first to go through,” he answered tersely, and his tone did not invite argument. “As you will now – with Mr. Potter and Miss Finch, I believe.”

Garrick stepped up to the painting. “Went with the Ravenclaws, I’ll bet,” he said scornfully. “Sometimes I wonder why he’s in Slytherin.” He pressed his hands against the fresco. In the next moment he was gone.

Tom, standing with a group of Gryffindors, was one of the very last to go through. He pressed his hands against the fresco without hesitation. Once more he felt as if he were falling, pulled through the painting into the dark.

He tried to keep his eyes open this time, but everything was completely black. Then suddenly he was standing with the Gryffindors in the vaulted cellar of the Dancing Warlock. The smell of butterbeer was sharp and sudden, and he all but choked on the dust that had been disturbed by the hundred children who had already passed that way. As he looked round the room he saw an old warlock in the corner muttering spells to lift up a cask. On the far side under a low arch a line of students snaked up the stair, and the Gryffindors followed them, one by one. Tom was unused to Hagrid's height and nearly cried out as he bumped his head on the stone arch above the stair. Dizzy with pain and Gryffindor sympathy, he forced his way up the last steps to the top, and blinked as he came out into the light.

The common room of the Dancing Warlock was a great deal larger than the smoke-filled chamber in the Black Unicorn. In fact it resembled a banqueting hall, two floors high, with dragon heads hanging down from the rafters, and liberally sprinkled with armchairs and tables. This hall had been built, Tom remembered from his reading, in the days before the Hogwarts Express, when the whole of the school would have stopped at the inn as they made their way up to Scotland from London. In fact, if he recalled correctly, each year of students had come on a different day, so Hogwarts had taken a week to fill up. The Dancing Warlock still had beds in its attic enough to house a whole Hogwarts year, and every winter when the third years came the inn resumed its former purpose, as crowded once more as it used to be.

There was an enormous fire, half the length of the hall itself, right in the middle of the huge chamber, with a whole tree burning merrily there. Charms funnelled the smoke – or most of it – up to narrow slits in the roof. The better tables near the fire had almost all been occupied – not by the Gryffindors, for once, but by the rest of the Warlock's guests, who it seemed had already taken possession before the Hogwarts party arrived. Further away the Hogwarts students were lounging about in sofas and armchairs, or ordering their favourite drinks.

Unthinking, Tom drifted to the Slytherin tables, only to be met with puzzled hostility.

“I didn’t know Hagrid had been transferred to Slytherin,” Emily Finch said with a frown. “Do you think that means we’ll have to join Gryffindor?” A burst of laughter crossed the table. Inwardly Tom squirmed with embarrassment.

“Maybe he thinks that we’re Gryffindors, too. His head is as thick as a manticore’s hide.”

“Must be the troll blood coming out.”

“Didn’t see well. I bumped me head, yeh know.” With a muttered apology, he lumbered away from his fellow Slytherins, ducking his head to avoid the tankards of butterbeer that floated away from the bar to the tables.

“You weren’t just talking to Emily Finch?” said Maria Jones at the Gryffindor table; aiming her wand like the Muggle pistol she claimed to have sported in her pre-magic days.

“Rubeus and Emily?” A boy in glasses furrowed his brow. “Well, he does like monsters, you know.”

The Gryffindors all began to laugh, and Tom felt more than a little angry. He didn’t feel the need to speak up for Emily – the Slytherins themselves didn’t much care for her wit – but the temptation to defend himself was strong. You’re Rubeus Hagrid, he told himself yet again. He shook his head in feigned embarrassment, clutching the Polyjuice flask in his pocket, and began to look about the room.

Tom knew it was more than a hundred years since the Muggles had travelled by coach and four, and in the days of its prosperity, Steeple Warlock had been a coaching town on the great trunk road from London to Scotland. In those days the Muggles had broken their journey at the Black Unicorn inn on the far side of town, while the wizards, flying to Hogsmeade and the North by broomstick, had stopped for the night at the Dancing Warlock. The Muggles since then had invented trains and the wizards in turn had made faster broomsticks (not to mention Cushioning Charms), so the town had gradually lost its importance and slowly had gone back to its old sleepy ways. Still, wizards flying north on their Comets and Cleansweeps frequently stopped at the Warlock for lunch, just as Muggles still came at times to the Unicorn, driving up to the inn with their cars.

There were more than two hundred people in the hall by now, and nearly three quarters of them were from Hogwarts. A few were local wizards and witches, but some were very different indeed. A group of warlocks with bushy beards were pointing excitedly at the snow: already it was attracting attention. Not far from the table where Tom was sitting a party of dwarves pored over a map, looking up now and then with marked suspicion at the goblins quaffing their fire-juice nearby.

Tom had taken the flask of Polyjuice Potion out of his pocket, and was absently tapping it against the table, wondering exactly how much time he possessed before he’d have to take his next draught. His thoughts were broken by a shout from across the room. He turned to see that Professor Tempera and a very irritable Abbacus Gryme had emerged from the staircase down to the cellars. Pointing his wand at his throat to magnify the sound of his voice, Dr. Gryme addressed the room.

“Prefects, please take everyone from your House in an orderly fashion up to their chambers in the attic to check that their possessions are in order. And third year students: all of your bags should have been laid out by your beds in the appropriate rooms. The girls’ attics are all overhead, above the main part of the building; the boys’ attics are over the stables, and can be reached from the second landing of the kitchen stair. It is strictly forbidden to leave this building – at least until the weather improves.” Professor Tempera whispered something, and then Professor Gryme continued.

“I suggest that in order to prevent a general stampede to the stairs each House should go up in turn – perhaps in alphabetical order: Gryffindor first, followed by Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw next and Slytherin last. Miss Green and Mr. Tarquin: if you would kindly conduct your fellow Gryffindors to their respective chambers upstairs.”

The two prefects clapped their hands and called the Gryffindors over from their tables. Amelia led the girls up the carved stairs that could just be seen beneath an arch at the far end of the hall, while Tarquin led the boys to the kitchen staircase, and then up a pair of flights to a low-beamed passage with a sloping roof. The sound of neighing could be heard as they passed from the horses across the yard in the stables. The last of four openings to the left of the passage took them up a few more steps and into a narrow attic space.

There were two doors on this landing (one on each side) to rooms for the eighteen Gryffindor boys, and the nine high mattresses Tom saw when he entered the attic room Hagrid shared were a far cry from the four-poster beds of Hogwarts and the canopied couches of Mountwarlock Park. One of the beds was a good deal larger, though, and it was evidently Hagrid’s. His overnight suitcase lay at its foot, but Tom felt no need to retrieve anything from inside it. Instead he waited for another few minutes, and followed his new companions downstairs.

As he had hoped, the third year Slytherins were being led up the passage by their own prefects, and he was able to note where they went. The other Gryffindors were already back at their tables when Tom came down to the hall again, sitting now with drinks in their hands and several packs of playing cards. Tom headed over to join them, searching his pockets for the Polyjuice Potion. Glancing at the clock he saw that his hour was nearly up. It was then that he realised with a start that the flask of potion was not in his pocket.

Instead, it was on the table, unprotected, and already eyed with some curiosity by a Gryffindor Tom could not put a name to.

“Rubeus, is this yours?” the Gryffindor boy asked, opening the cap and peering inside. “This is a little bit strange for you, isn’t it?” he said, and lifted the flask as if to taste it. Tom reacted instantly.

“No! Don’t drink that!” he yelled, and made a sudden move to snatch the potion away. But he was moving as Hagrid, not as Tom Riddle, and as he hurtled to the table with his unaccustomed weight, he knocked the flagon from the Gryffindor’s hands and spilled nearly all the potion.

He grabbed the flask and peered inside, noting with horror that it was nearly empty now, and contained maybe one gulp of potion – enough perhaps to get him through one more hour. The Gryffindors stared with disgust at the dark green stain that spread on the floor. “I don’t even want to know what that is,” one of them remarked.

No, you probably don’t, Tom agreed silently. For a moment he simply stood there, aghast. His distress must have been obvious to all, because Amelia Green noticed, and said, “Oh, don’t worry about that; someone will clean it up.” She waved to a witch from behind the bar, who nodded, and flicked a self-wiping rag over to the table. “Why don’t you play Exploding Snap with us?”

He merely nodded, drained the last of the Polyjuice Potion quickly, and took a place around the table with about half a dozen Gryffindors – not that he could concentrate on the game. In fact, he lost repeatedly, though this did not seem to surprise the other players much.

Tom had far too much on his mind. In a little less than an hour, he would return to his normal appearance, a prospect that normally would have appealed to him, but under the circumstances filled him with horror. He simply could not be seen as Tom – especially not by Gryme or Tempera, or even by his fellow Slytherins, who would no doubt insist upon knowing where he had been the whole of that day, and why he wished to avoid them now.

Still worse was the problem that if he changed back, he would still be wearing Hagrid’s clothes. They were much too large for him. He remembered how ridiculous he had felt when he had first put on those garments just before his transformation. There was no way they would pass unnoticed. Since he could now no longer hope to avoid turning back in the very near future, he would have to recover his own clothes soon. He had some spare garments upstairs, he knew. He wondered whether or not any of the Slytherins were still up in their attic chambers, and how he could sneak away from the game for long enough to pinch a change of clothes from his bag.

“Rubeus?”

“Huh?” He looked up suddenly at the circle of faces all trained on him. “It’s your turn,” Maria Jones said, sounding a bit impatient.

“Oh, right. Thanks, Jones,” he said unthinkingly.

All of them stared at him, perplexed expressions on their faces. He flushed, realising his mistake immediately. “I mean, Maria,” he continued hurriedly, in a lame attempt to cover his error.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” Amelia asked, a concerned look on her face. “Perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down or something.”

Tom seized the chance. “Maybe yeh’re right,” he conceded, and shoved himself away from the table. They watched him curiously for a few seconds before returning to finish their game, some of them shaking their heads and adding a few whispered comments he couldn’t make out.

He climbed the kitchen stairs slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, which was quite a task in Hagrid’s body, and then made his way to the Slytherin stair. It was almost directly above the kitchens, and the smell of roasted meats and soups wafted up to the shuttered window. He listened at the door to the room on his left for a moment before entering cautiously, holding his breath and hoping that no one was there.

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the room was indeed empty. Furthermore, he could see his own bag at the foot of one of the beds; he’d chosen the right room on his first try.

Maybe my luck’s starting to turn after all.

He regretted that thought just a moment later; as soon as he’d grabbed his bag and began rummage through it for a change of clothes, he heard footsteps creaking up the stair and familiar voices in the passage outside, then the squeaking of the door on its hinges. There was not a moment to lose. He flung himself down behind the bed with a painful thud and stretched himself out along the floor.

“—course I didn’t finish my Potions essay. It’s not due for a whole week! Like I want to ruin a perfectly good outing by talking about homework. Just my idea of a nice day out, that is!” Garrick said, laying on sarcasm thickly.

“Just asking,” Potter answered sulkily. “I wish our visit hadn’t been cut short. All those rooms… all that treasure. D’you have any idea what that place is worth?”

“More Galleons than we’ll ever see in our lives. I know that much.”

A low cough from the landing silenced both boys at once. “Mr. Garrick, Mr. Potter. I presume you have everything in order?” Gryme asked, a touch of impatience in his tone. Behind the bed, Tom tried to press himself even closer to the floor.

“Yes, Professor,” they answered at once.

“I was just making sure that Mr. Riddle’s possessions were all sent up here. I gave him an errand as soon as he came – a private errand of my own, so you needn’t mention it,” he added.

Tom could practically hear the questions forming in Garrick’s head. “Of course, Professor,” the boy said obediently, as Dr. Gryme came into the room.

“Good. Then I—” Gryme voiced stopped abruptly. Tom sucked in his breath sharply.

“Just what, exactly, are you doing here, Mr. Hagrid?” Professor Gryme demanded.

Tom knew at once that he was caught. He stood up, slowly, for once not feigning the sheepish expression on his face. He did not look his professor in the eye. Garrick and Potter opened their mouths in surprise.

“Crumbs! It’s you again!”

“You weren’t looking for Tom, were you? Beats me why he bothers to talk to you…” Garrick trailed off at a sharp look from Gryme, who then turned back to glare at Tom.

“I was lookin’ for somethin’ of Tom’s that he said I could borrow,” Tom said quietly, but fairly truthfully. “Then I heard the others come in. Didn’t want ter explain it all.”

“You have neither the right nor the permission to do so. I suggest you return downstairs at once and there remain with the rest of your House,” Gryme replied with an annoyed gesture at the doorway. “I do NOT want to catch you here again.”

“No, sir,” Tom answered, as disappointed as he looked. The minutes were ticking by even faster, and the potion would not last for long. Potter and Garrick exchanged brief grins at Rubeus Hagrid’s perceived misfortune.

“Out. Now,” Gryme prompted, observing Tom’s hesitation. The Arithmancy professor followed him carefully downstairs, and Tom could feel Gryme’s stern gaze at his back until he reached the common room again. He was, if possible, more nervous than before, though the Gryffindors were still engrossed in their card games, and paid no heed to his return. Tom sought out a chair on its own near the door, and sat down to think.

Outside, the snow was piling high in drifts; Tom guessed that his real self had probably arrived at the Black Unicorn by now, and he was reminded, once again, of the possible repercussions he’d face if he now returned to his original state. And he still had to phone the Ministry too, he thought. It would have to be soon, but he could hardly walk out of the door unobserved, and didn’t want to attract more attention than he had. Otherwise he would have made sure his huge and very memorable presence was noted by as wide a variety of people as possible – starting with the goblins and the dwarfs by the fire, and going on to the landlord, Harry Oldcastle.

He had sat for nearly half an hour – ready to spring upstairs should he feel himself changing – when, with a gust of wind and cold air, a wizard in dark robes burst through the door, shivering from the freezing weather outside. His appearance nearly screamed “Ministry official”, and Tom wondered why any of them would have come here. Had there been some other repercussion from his actions he had not anticipated?

The man stared round the room, taken aback at the number of children, and shook his head as if he didn’t understand. He headed at once towards the bar, and called the attention of the owner.

“Excuse me – Harry Oldcastle, isn’t it? Where in this place can I find Newt Scamander? He called me here to Steeple Warlock for a most urgent matter we had to discuss.”

The landlord shook his head, frowning. “No – we haven’t had Scamander in here for days. He’s staying up at the house, you see. I don’t know who could have told you that. He always drinks at the Unicorn, anyway. Says he likes the Muggle beer!” Oldcastle shook his head at such folly.

The Ministry wizard pondered this for a moment; then he nodded in sudden comprehension, as he worked out what Tom already knew. “Oh, he meant me to come to the Unicorn! My deepest apologies. My own mistake.”

The landlord nodded and turned back to his customers, while the stranger looked again at the children. Tom fervently hoped that it would dawn on the wizard, though he seemed to have the wits of a troll, that these children had to be those from Hogwarts, safe and sound at the Dancing Warlock. After a minute he turned to go, and Tom decided to lend a hand.

“Sorry – I overheard yeh talkin’, but is Mr. Scamander’s s’posed ter be at the Unicorn?” he asked the Ministry wizard.

The wizard blinked and looked up at him.

“He certainly is; I’m off there right away.”

“Yeh don’t think he’d know anythin’ about why our Hogwarts tour was cut short, do yeh?” Tom pressed on. “We didn’t get ter see many creatures, before they took us all here.”

The wizard gave him a brief look of annoyance, but then Tom’s words sunk in fully, and his mouth dropped visibly. “Oh, so all of you are from Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. I’m Rubeus Hagrid,” he said; he supposed it was probably a wise idea to have at least one of the Ministry wizards, although surely by no means the brightest, to bear witness that Hagrid had been at the inn. “I’m only a first year m’self. All the others are third years though.”

“Really? Are all of you here?”

“Yeah. They took down our names as we came through. That was nearly an hour ago.”

“That’s interesting,” the wizard mused. “Can I speak to one of your professors?”

“Of course.” Tom indicated Tempera. “That’s Professor Tempera, sir – she can talk ter yeh, if yeh like.” He paused. Then, deciding he had nothing to lose, he asked his next question. “What’s the Ministry doin’ here, anyway?”

“We were called to investigate the safety of the children here,” he explained with a touch of irritation, “which is precisely why I’d like to speak with your professor – since you tell me that you’re all safe after all. Will you excuse me?” The wizard walked off in Tempera’s direction.

Tom smiled at his success, pleased that he’d been able to do something at last to head off Scamander’s plan of attack. He hoped it might even be enough, though he feared that this wizard was not thought reliable. And could he get to Scamander in time? With the weather outside getting worse every minute, it might take him some time to reach the Unicorn, and Scamander could well be gone by then. However, with that distraction behind, he was aware once more of the time ticking by. It was not long before he would need his own clothes. Seeing Gryme going back down the stairs to the cellar, he resolved it was time to make one more attempt. He crept upstairs to the Slytherin rooms.

The chamber was silent again, and dark, and so he crept in as softly as possible, and made his way once again to his bed. Quickly, he grabbed his change of clothes, before anyone had another chance to come in. Then he turned around to go…

“Not you again!” said Garrick’s scornful voice from the corner bed. “Get OUT, you blithering idiot! Snoop around your own room for a change!”

He dropped the clothes on the bed in surprise. Two other Slytherins from the other room across the landing came in when they heard Garrick’s shout, and they confronted Tom as well.

“I’m sorry,” he explained quickly, “I went into the wrong room by mistake, yeh see—”

“Liar,” Garrick spat back. “You were here before. Why don’t you tell us what a Gryffindor like you is doing here in a Slytherin room? Especially you—”

“That is quite enough. Mr. Hagrid,” said a sharp voice from the top of the steps. Professor Gryme had appeared again, and he looked even angrier than before. “I believe I told you once already to stay downstairs,” he said to Tom, frowning severely. “That is ten points from Gryffindor House. It seems I shall have to confine you to the Gryffindor quarters, if you insist upon disobeying me.”

Tom nodded, and followed Gryme out of the room. He was too worried by his failure to even take pleasure in the fact that he had lost Gryffindor points, and Garrick’s smirk did not help his mood. He would have to come back again – and soon!

Gryme followed him down the passage, pausing to make sure Tom went on to the Gryffindor stair, and then continuing on to his own room at the end of the corridor. Tom, feeling defeated, flopped down on the large bed, knowing his time would run out soon enough. It was not at all a comforting thought.

“Are you all right, Rubeus?”

It was… de Courteney, he thought – though he could only remember the Gryffindor’s surname.

“Yeah, I’m all right. Jus’ tired, I think.”

“Well, don’t strain yourself. I’ll be back in a bit.” With a doubtful glance at Tom the Gryffindor slipped on new robes over his clothes and left the room.

If only I had my wand, Tom thought wistfully, and I could at least try to Summon my clothes…

There were no wands he could see lying about, and if he tried to search the bags – de Courteney would be back any minute. Just then he had a sudden idea.

He sat up, thinking it through. Tom had worked with Gryme long enough to know that the Arithmancer always carried an extra wand, as a precaution of a sort. If that wand was in Gryme’s own room… There was only one further door in the passage below – and that must have been where Gryme had been going. If he could wait till the coast was clear, and he was sure that Gryme was downstairs…

Certainly there was a good deal of risk – but going back to that Slytherin bedroom as Rubeus Hagrid was even riskier, he thought, and nine times as likely to be occupied. He simply had to take the chance; he did not have the time to wait.

With a deep breath, he opened his door and peered out into the corridor. It was empty, to his relief. He crept further down the passage, his ears listening for the sound of footsteps, until he came to the door at the very end, that he deduced must be Abbacus Gryme’s. He pressed his ear against the keyhole; it seemed that no one was inside. Dr. Gryme’s probably trying to get through to the house right now, he reminded himself. It was almost certainly safe.

He went into the room, and found Professor Gryme’s suitcase at once. Mercifully it was unlocked and uncharmed. He tried to do away with the discomfort he felt at rummaging through his teacher’s things, telling himself that it was necessary if he wanted to get his clothes. Unfortunately, there was no wand to be seen. Desperate now, he began to search for hidden pockets and secret compartments. He was starting to look round the rest of the room, when he heard the door open behind him. He whirled in horror. Professor Gryme was there in the doorway.

“WHAT are you doing here?” Gryme demanded in a furious voice. Tom could not remember ever seeing the seemingly mild professor so livid with rage. “Explain to me this instant, boy! What is the meaning of this?”

“I thought there might be a way down to the stables, sir,” Tom said on the spur of the moment. “I wanted ter see the beasts at the house…”

“I see,” Gryme interrupted furiously. “Fifty points from Gryffindor, then, and a detention, Mr. Hagrid, for such blatant disregard of my instructions. I ordered you to remain in your room. I shall have no qualms about sealing your door and letting you go without supper as well – and if that doesn’t work, an enchanted sleep might do the trick!”

Tom apologized at once, alarmed by the reference to sleeping draughts, but it did nothing to soften Gryme’s manner towards him. Not that he had expected it to. Three times discovered, and I still have nothing! Tom was furious with himself.

“Back to your room RIGHT NOW,” Gryme said angrily, and Tom had no choice but to obey. His attempt had been foiled three times in a row, and he was feeling more and more hopeless. To make matters worse, he opened the door to the Gryffindor attic to find two other Gryffindor boys there, talking to one another softly. They looked up curiously at Hagrid as he came in followed by an angry Gryme.

“Be sure that your disruptive fellow Gryffindor remains in this chamber,” he said harshly, and the two boys exchanged puzzled glances. The professor turned on his heel and left.

“What did you do?” de Courteney asked, frowning.

“I went into his room by mistake,” he said, as vaguely as possible.

Both of the Gryffindors stared at him. “You have been acting really weird,” one of them stated bluntly. “I mean much, much more than is usual with you.”

Not as weird as you’re going to think when you see me turn back into a Slytherin, he thought desperately. Then, as if he’d known the exact moment, the clock struck the hour, and within seconds he began to feel the effects of the Polyjuice Potion wearing off.

“Are you worried about your father or something?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped back at once. Without another word, he ran from the room, down the steps and along the low passage, leaving the puzzled Gryffindors behind. For the third time, he came to the Slytherin stair, and darted up to the attic again. If he transformed in the Gryffindor room, there was no hope of explaining anything, but here, an impromptu excuse might work. Tom had acquired a sort of ascendancy over some of his fellow Slytherins, and he might be able to contrive their silence. He could tell he was shrinking back to his normal height. Not caring any longer who was inside, he slipped into the room and found that this time it was empty at last. He turned and bolted the door.

Within a minute, he was no longer disguised as Hagrid, and he couldn’t help but feel a moment of considerable relief to be within his own body – and, soon enough, his clothes. He changed quickly, packing Hagrid’s garments away deep within his bag, and noting with some annoyance that Hagrid’s boots were far too large for him. His own shoes were back in Lord Mountwarlock’s study.

There was a jiggling of the handle and a knock on the door. For a moment, Tom was worried about being caught yet again, but this time, he looked like himself, so he had a right to be in this room. He unbolted the door and Potter came in. He looked surprised to see Tom at last.

“There you are. No one’s seen you all afternoon – except those Ravenclaws perhaps.”

“I was busy,” he said, unwilling to explain more just yet.

Potter pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “You probably ought to know this, Tom: That hulking Gryffindor Rubeus Hagrid came in here while you were gone. He was digging through your bag for something – no one knows what, exactly.”

“Oh, really?” Tom said, attempting to sound surprised. Potter nodded, and then went on to what he really wanted to know.

“So, what errand did Dr. Gryme send you out for?”

Tom’s first thought was to evade the question, and claim that it was something personal for Gryme, and therefore none of Potter’s business. Gryme had said so himself, Tom knew. But then, thinking back upon on what Lord Mountwarlock had sent him here to do, another idea occurred to him.

“I was supposed to send a message to the Ministry of Magic,” he said, “but I had to come back, because of the cold. I needed a warmer coat, you see. It’s a regular blizzard out there now, and from what I heard Professor Gryme say, we could be snowed in here for days.”

“I thought the local enchantments are supposed to hold off weather like this?”

“They’ve been disrupted – so I’m told. It isn’t just the weather that’s wrong: what’s worse is that all the regular channels of wizarding communication have broken down in the last few hours. No one’s been able to Disapparate for over an hour – probably more – and now the Floo network’s gone down as well.”

He paused while the implications of what he’d just said began to register with Potter, and then he continued. “The only thing that might just work is the telephone call box down in the village. Professor Gryme asked me to make a telephone call on his behalf.”

“A telephone? That’s what Muggles use. Why on earth should he talk to Muggles? And what’s this got to do with you?”

“No,” Tom said. “Not to Muggles at all. They put in a telephone last year, in the Ministry of Magic. Dr. Gryme wants me to give them a message. He asked me to make the call myself since…” He hesitated for a moment. “Since I’m one the only one he trusts who actually knows how to use the thing.” Tom held his face impassive as he made the admission, but he seethed within as he always did when forced to confront the fact that he’d always be half an outsider in the wizarding world – the only world that mattered, to his way of thinking. But although Potter looked a little smug, he didn’t quite dare to say what he thought.

“That’s only if anyone answers, of course. But if they’re as troubled as I think they are, I might even be asked to speak to the Minister of Magic himself.” He said this with the certainty of one who knew the future – which, of course, he actually did.

His fellow Slytherin was startled. “Heriot Morton? Just what do they think is happening here?”

“People in London are frantic with worry, and someone has to explain that we’re safe – before they do something stupid. They might even think the magic’s unravelling – with us lot caught in the very middle – and then, what do you think they’ll do?”

Potter was silent and apparently thoughtful as Tom explained his reasoning.

“So you see I’ve got to go now,” he finished. “But don’t tell Dr. Gryme I’m back. I’ve still not rung the Ministry yet, and I don’t want him to make me give up, now that the weather’s got so much worse. He may think it’s not safe to go out at all now, and this call could be important, you see. It will certainly bring me to Morton’s notice: ‘the brave Tom Riddle uses his intelligence to open contact with the Ministry, and reassure the worried parents.’ It might even get me in the Daily Prophet!”

Potter appeared impressed by the logic. “Not just the Daily Prophet. If they’d any sense they’d give you a reward – well, no, I suppose Morton wouldn’t: he’s the stingiest Minister ever. He’s more than doubled our taxes, you know, to pay for his war on Grindelwald.”

Tom said nothing in reply. There were strong views on Morton in Slytherin house. Some Slytherin prefects, like Crouch, admired him. Much of the rest of the House did not, which in itself was quite an irony – for Morton, thirty years before, had been a Slytherin Head Boy himself.

Surreptitiously, he grabbed Garrick’s boots as well as his coat (they were a close enough fit for him) hoping Potter wouldn’t observe it. Then he prepared to go outside.

“Charles, can you just make sure Professor Gryme isn’t downstairs?” he asked on a sudden impulse. It wouldn’t do to be caught again.

Potter obliged, and checked the passage and stair below. In a moment he beckoned for Tom to follow.

“Professor Gryme’s not here,” he said, “but you know, you don’t need to go through the big room down by the gate. There’s a back door just by the kitchens, you see. I’ll show you the way there, if you like.” Tom murmured his thanks, and followed his fellow Slytherin down.

He opened the door. “Thanks, Charles,” he said to Potter, and fastening his coat as tight as he could, he opened the door and stepped outside.

He was in a snow-covered cobbled yard surrounded on three sides by the inn, a tall building of dressed limestone, with the stables on the fourth, opposite the arch that led to the road. It was sheltered from the worst of the wind, and Tom breathed in, adjusting himself to the cold, before he made his way to the arch.

Out in the street the wind hit him like a blow, a wind so fierce it would have swept the ground of snow if it had not been falling so thick. Through the white wall of snowflakes Tom could just make out a small Gringotts branch across the street, and a magical shop to either side. This corner of Steeple Warlock was much like Diagon Alley, it seemed. Creeping past the small leaded windows of a bookshop, and hugging the wall to avoid being swept away by the blast, he turned the corner into the high street of the small town.

The snow was piled up here in drifts, but at least he was out of the murderous wind. Even so, it took him some minutes to walk a hundred feet to the phone box, the bright red of its paint a beacon of colour when glimpsed through the snow. He fumbled with the door for a long half-minute, and then he pulled it to behind him. He was out of the biting blizzard at last. Through the glass panes he thought he could see for a moment several black shapes struggling through the drifts, but Tom was far too preoccupied to look more closely. He was not going to open the door in a hurry, now that he had reached shelter at last.

Turning his attention to the phone, he tried to remember if he’d ever heard the Ministry of Magic’s telephone number. Doubtfully, he opened a Muggle telephone directory – the only book on the shelf by the phone – and there, on the very first page he looked at, was a whole string of magical numbers. He sighed audibly in relief.

Then he remembered that he had no money; he certainly had no Muggle money – which was what he needed to use the phone, and anything that Lord Mountwarlock had left in the pockets of the clothes he’d given him was now in Tom's bag at the Dancing Warlock. He tried to imagine himself ringing the local Muggle operator and asking her to reverse the charge on a telephone call to the Ministry of Magic.

After a moment’s thought, he did just that. “Could you please give me a reversed charge call to the following number…?”

To his amazement it actually worked. “You have a call from the Steeple Warlock call box. Do you accept the charge?”

“Steeple Warlock?” came a puzzled voice. “Certainly. Of course we accept. Whom do I speak to?”

Tom was shocked that the person on the other end of the line actually seemed to be familiar with telephones. Tom answered, “I’m ringing from Steeple Warlock. I need to give a message to the Ministry of Magic.”

There was a sound of disbelief on the other end. “I’m Tom Riddle, a Hogwarts student,” he explained further. “Our own communications all seem to have failed, so I thought I’d use the Muggle phone to send a message through to you. We’re in the village now. We’re all safe at the Dancing Warlock.”

“You’re one of the Hogwarts third year party? And actually speaking from Steeple Warlock? I’ll put you through to the Minister then. He’ll certainly want to hear this himself.”

There was a pause, and then a different person spoke, a sharper voice, and more decisive, although even so there was genuine puzzlement in his voice. “This is Heriot Morton speaking, the Minister of Magic. How can I help you? I’ve been told that you’re ringing from Steeple Warlock.”

“Yes, I am, sir,” Tom answered at once. “I’m a Hogwarts student from the third year party that came to visit Mountwarlock Park. We are all at the inn now, the Dancing Warlock. The tour was cut short two hours ago. Just before I left the inn, a Ministry official came in, saying there were rumours that we were all in danger. Since no one could get through to the Ministry with the Floo network or any other way, I thought I should try to ring you instead.”

“I see,” the Minister said in reply; he sounded as though he were still not entirely certain of what was going on. “Precisely what is the situation?”

“Wizarding communications have broken down, and the weather, the snow, is very bad. Otherwise we are all right. We’re perfectly comfortable at the inn, most of us playing Exploding Snap and things like that. We’re basically in no trouble at all.”

“But the rumours we’ve had have somehow reached you. Could you give me your name?”

“I’m Tom Riddle, a third year Slytherin. I thought, since none of our professors had ever used a telephone, I ought to make the call myself. I’m… I was raised by Muggles, you see.” Tom cringed as he made the admission. “But I can tell you that all of us are accounted for, and we’re waiting at the Dancing Warlock for the weather to improve.”

“That was very smart of you, young man – Riddle, did you say your name was? Thank you very much indeed. This is most useful information. I am very relieved to hear it.”

But Tom did not reply at once; in front of him, the snow seemed to be parting as though it were a curtain drawn to the side, and through the faint cloud between he began to make out Lord Mountwarlock’s study.

They’re bringing me back. At last!

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his eyes still on the rapidly focusing image of the study. “I must get back to the inn before they come and look for me. I’m pleased to have been able to help. Good-bye.” He replaced the handset quickly.

With a rush of relief, he opened the door into the snow – but for once it held no terror for him. He all but ran forward, in spite of the gale that tore down a side street, thrusting him back, and prepared to fling himself through the widening doorway; but then, just before he reached it, he stopped short in amazement, as a figure stepped through into the snow. The magical gateway vanished at once. Tom blinked in surprise.

It was Cleopatra.

He gazed past her at the swirling white space that seconds before had been his way out – out of the snow, and out of the past, as his face fell as the truth dawned on him. She isn’t bringing me back after all.

“Cleopatra!” he almost shouted. “What on earth are you doing here?”

The snow was falling less thickly than it had, and the wind that swirled about barely touched them. Cleopatra, he suddenly noticed, must have cast some form of Umbrella Charm, which kept the bulk of the wind and snow at bay and now enveloped him too in an oasis of relative warmth and peace. She greeted him with a cheerful grin, but it did not completely disguise the look of worry in her eyes.

“Cleopatra,” Tom began again, more softly as he no longer needed to yell to be heard against the wind. “How do we get back? The gateway’s closed!”

“We’re not going back that way,” she answered. “We have to go the slow way this time.”

“What?” he asked, baffled. Why should they waste an hour in the snow, if Mountwarlock could whisk them forward now? “I don’t understand – why did your father send you?”

“He didn’t,” she replied without hesitation. “Papa’s at the Dancing Warlock now – or what I called ‘now’ a few minutes ago – waiting for the Minister of Magic to come. I opened the painting to come through myself.”

He stared. “Does that mean we can’t get back?”

“Not through the painting: the slow way should take us about an hour. I came to fill you in myself on everything that’s going on.”

“I thought I already knew—”

“No, I mean, what’s going on ‘now’ with Mr. Scamander, and the Minister. A lot’s happened since you left, and I thought I’d save time if I came to the past. We’ve got an extra hour, this way. Did you see anyone else go by while you’ve been out here in the snow?”

“In this weather?” He paused. “Oh … well … yes, I think I might have. I think they went that way, back where I’d come.”

She nodded, taking out a small glass that seemed to be just like her father’s monocle, and glanced behind her up the street; he realised that it probably allowed her to see through the snow. Almost at once she put it away, satisfaction in her voice. “Scamander and the rest of his Ministry wizards. Good, they’ve already passed. It wouldn’t have done to run into them. The one that you spoke to when you were Hagrid, he managed to go back and tell the others that the children were all in the Dancing Warlock.”

“I hoped it would work – although that wizard… Well, I’ve seen brighter Hufflepuffs. He couldn’t even go to the right public house!”

“What was his name? Crabbe, or something. No, he wasn’t all that clever. But he made his way to the Black Unicorn as fast as his legs could carry him, and he met them before they’d gone fifty yards. He must have been quite brave, you know, to go out alone in the storm like that. I don’t know what shelter they found to talk in, but he did persuade them, and that’s what matters. Scamander, it seemed, didn’t want to listen, he wanted to press on to the conservatories. He didn’t like to rely on Crabbe, and while everyone in the Warlock was safe, whoever might be in the hothouses wasn’t – but the others decided to go to the Warlock at once and see for themselves that their children were safe – and they sent just one wizard to warn Papa to search the conservatories himself. So they’re not going to raid our house after all!

“Although,” she paused, “I can say it now.” For a moment she smiled again. “It must have taken some courage for them to be willing to fight their way through our enchantments.”

She began to walk back to the house, and Tom followed closely behind to remain in the shield of the Umbrella Charm. Not that she seemed to be leading him across the bridge and through the gatehouse; when they reached the river she bore to the right. He wondered how she knew where she was going – it was all but impossible to see through the snow – but Cleopatra was a Mountwarlock, and she had lived in this place all her life. He doubted that she could lose her way, even in weather as bad as this.

“When they get to the Warlock,” she went on, “they’re going to hear all about your friend Hagrid – well, about you as Rubeus Hagrid.” She smiled briefly, and Tom remembered that she might well have watched some of his antics through the painting, which made him uncomfortable, and annoyed. “But,” she added as they trudged through a drift, “they won’t find you, or your friend, or Dr. Gryme when they arrive. When Papa got through to the Warlock they told him at once who they’d found missing and insisted that he come to the inn and speak with them. He couldn’t very well refuse.”

“Of course not.” Tom agreed completely. A refusal from the earl would have maddened them all, especially if he had tried to assure them the weather was about to go back to normal.

“The Minister called us right after that. I think he’d heard all sorts of rumours himself, and wasn’t sure any more whom to trust. So he asked to come and see for himself, to find out what was really going on. So Papa said that Newt Scamander had reached the children at the Dancing Warlock, and that he was about to go and join them. Since the weather was about to go back to normal he said he could meet the Minister there, and they could both see it all for themselves. He could then kill two birds with a single hex, as Uncle Maximus might say.”

“So he left you behind to watch the painting?”

“Yes, and to keep an eye on you – which I am still doing, of course, although not quite in the way he intended. Papa took Dr. Gryme back with him. He’ll explain the professor had gone to consult him.”

“But why did you decide to come through?” Tom asked in exasperation. “If you were there, and could open the painting – you could have simply brought me back, and we wouldn’t have to wade through this storm!” There was something important she hadn’t told him, and Tom hated to be kept in the dark.

He gestured at the blizzard around them, although now that he came to think of it, the snowflakes were not falling so thickly. Cleopatra bit her lip in thought, and didn’t answer for a moment.

“Well… not all’s going well at the Ministry,” she said at last, carefully choosing her words. “They’re evasive about what they plan to do, and we’re not sure what rumours are spreading in London. My father and Professor Gryme have gone to meet Mr. Morton, but they don’t even know themselves about Hagrid – whether they’ll get him back or not.”

“I know,” said Tom, his frustration becoming more obvious. “But I still don’t know how your father wants to save him, or even if he can.”

Cleopatra gave Tom a measured glance. “Oh, he can be saved. But it’s more a question of when there’s time. My father said, before he left, that he and Dr. Gryme would excuse your friend’s absence, by saying he’d gone off to the Black Unicorn to tell Scamander you all were safe.”

Tom considered this for a moment. “That makes sense. It’s actually believable – because it’s the typically stupid, brave thing a Gryffindor would do – and he’s the most Gryffindor of the lot!”

Cleopatra’s face lit up with a flicker of a smile, then returned to its serious expression. “I’m not sure what the excuse for your absence will be. But your friend’s excuse should work for a while.

Tom agreed, and then suddenly gasped at the beauty of this deception. Because if the attempt to revive Hagrid fails, and he’s dead when they bring his flesh back from the stone – then it’s such a convenient explanation… Lost in the snow on an errand of bravery – a posthumous Order of Merlin, Third Class… Could Lord Mountwarlock really have planned this? He was chilled by the thought, though he did not speak it.

Or does he just hope to play for time, until there’s a chance to get Hagrid back? “But he must be recovered soon or at once,” he said, determined to let no uneasiness show. “They can’t keep up the deception for long.”

Cleopatra took a deep breath, and turned as they reached a bridge on the left. Beyond was a narrow, snow-covered field, and not far behind it, wreathed in white, he could see a high stone wall. She turned to face him. “I thought so too. That’s why we are here,” she added.

Tom stared at her, wide-eyed, as he digested her words. She can’t mean it, can she? He looked around wildly, and his heart sank as he guessed where they were – the storm had subsided enough for him to see the stable buildings away to their left, the uppermost dome of the great conservatory, and all the northern part of the house…

And right in front was the gorgon’s garden. Tom could not see it without the ring, but he did not need to be told it was there.

“You can’t propose that we go in there?” He was aghast. Vividly, memories of that terrible face, those nightmare voices, the manic flight to the wall through the trees, returned to the front of his mind.

“Well, we have to, to rescue your friend,” she said logically, although Tom thought he saw just a little of his own doubt mirrored in her face. “We simply don’t have time to wait.”

“Would your father let you if he knew?”

Cleopatra frowned in reply. “It isn’t just that we don’t have time, Tom,” she answered, stopping as she reached the wall. “Or even that Papa is too busy. There is a reason it has got to be me. It’s not as if you haven’t been there already… and I’m much more likely to succeed than anyone.”

“But do you even know how—”

Cleopatra made a silencing motion. “Papa explained it to me, before he left, and I’ve heard it from Erikleia herself. Only gorgon’s blood will heal a gorgon’s statue – but it’s much more difficult for Papa, because he thinks he will have to use a vial of blood she gave to our ancestor years ago. It’s still there in my father’s study.”

“Why can’t he use that? What’s the difference?”

“Because your friend might be dead when we undo the spell. He’s not been there long, so he might be all right, and the blood is magically preserved – but it wasn’t shed for Rubeus Hagrid.”

“Oh, no. You can’t be thinking of that!” Tom almost drew back in horror. To fight a gorgon in her own secret haunts…

“It’s much more potent if the gorgon gives her blood for the victim herself. A willing sacrifice, you see. That’s the really important thing. And she’s got to know whom she’s doing it for. And I’m the only one who can talk to her – though you’re right, I never told Papa. If he’d known I’m sure he’d have stopped me.”

“You’ve been in that garden? To talk to her?” Tom asked, completely astonished.

“She’s always more peaceful in the evenings. In fact she normally sleeps about now – she sometimes covers her face with a veil – and it’s not hard to keep one’s eyes on the ground.”

“But she’s a monster! What can you talk about?”

Cleopatra looked slightly pained. “Family history, and… well, and things. She knows an awful lot, you see. But who else can speak to her, except old Bartholomew? She can’t be allowed in the outside world. If she were discovered... It’s a very lonely existence, you know.”

Tom was silent. How to tell Cleopatra the true reason for his reluctance? She couldn’t understand (she was not a Parselmouth), but the nightmarish voices still haunted his memory…

Though perhaps he had to face them. How could he truly be Slytherin’s heir, unless he could somehow learn to endure such maddening counterpoint – and not just endure but learn to delight in it – that interplay of terrible voices that spoke to the heart, not just to the mind? He listened, as Cleopatra continued.

“She’s not a monster like Persephone. She wasn’t always like this at all – she was as human as I am once, before she was cursed, aeons ago – a long-forgotten spell, I think –and she’s been nearly immortal since, which a good many people would love – except that it made her a gorgon as well.” Cleopatra paused. “There’s always a price for becoming immortal.”

Briefly, Tom recalled the look of terrible suffering he had glimpsed on the gorgon’s reflected face. Firmly he pushed that thought away.

“Well, if she was human then – in ancient Greece or wherever that was – she certainly isn’t human now,” Tom said bluntly. “She wanted to kill us all, turn us to stone! And she was only a hair’s breadth from attacking me as well as my friend – she took Rubeus by surprise near the pool, and chased me to the wall as fast as lightning. I could hear—” He stopped himself, aghast, before he said: “voices in my head.” He couldn’t reveal that he was a Parselmouth. “Why did she do that, if she’s really not a monster?” he asked simply.

“Because you were both intruders,” Cleopatra replied smoothly. “And the only intruders she’s seen until now have all been Dark Wizards. No one else goes into these gardens except for my father and blind Bartholomew, and myself, of course, as I told you just now. That was Great-grandpapa’s fault, in a way – he could be very ruthless, you know. He was the judge in this immunity, and sometimes he sent his Dark Wizards here.”

Tom looked up and around him suddenly. “The snow has almost stopped,” he said.

Huge flakes were still coming down, but slowly now, and fewer of them. The wind had dropped to all but nothing. Only a few paces before them loomed the grey stone walls of the gorgon’s garden, heaped with drifts of shining snow. To his amazement he found he could see it again. Fruit trees leaned over the edge of the wall, their blossom untroubled by the weather. From behind the wall, a few paces away, there drifted the scent of fruit and blossom.

“That’s why we don’t have very much time. You have to show me where the statue is. Besides, he is your friend, isn’t he? Don’t you even want to save him?”

Tom felt trapped. Quite apart from needing Hagrid for any cover-up to work, Cleopatra’s good opinion was crucial for him to escape his predicament. Decided to trust her once more, he nodded. “All right, then,” he agreed at last.

Cleopatra headed at once for the door, which Tom now noticed for the first time. For a moment he hesitated, remembering the terrible voices, but it wasn’t as if he had much choice. Brushing aside his doubts and fears, he followed her with a determined step.

The change was sudden from winter to summer, even though the wind outside had already died to almost nothing. The deep silence made Tom almost afraid to breathe – but now there was no faint whisper of voices, no disquieting presence that he’d felt before. He trusted the creature wouldn’t attack, as long as one of the family was there.

“This is where our magic is strongest, you know. In this place,” Cleopatra whispered. “It’s difficult for any other spell to work here.” This was hardly a comforting thought to Tom, who recalled the struggle he’d had to make the Drying Charm work. She must have read the worry in his expression, because she reassured him at once. “She’s probably asleep now anyway. But please do show me which is your friend.”

Tom led her through the funereal silence of the garden, to the colonnade and the stone-rimmed basin covered with lilies. As he went, he found himself watching carefully for any signs of movement, and kept his eyes to the ground as much as he could. Hagrid was still there among the scented shrubs, that well-known face locked in contortions of shock and terror. Tom pointed him out to Cleopatra, who nodded placidly as she stared at the statue.

What is she waiting for? Tom thought. The memory of that afternoon returned to Tom vividly, as he stood transfixed in that peaceful but oddly disquieting garden: the terror that had crept on him as he tried in vain to warn Hagrid. He felt once more that sense of foreboding, and could almost hear the faint voices again…

A cold feeling spread like melting ice in the pit of his stomach as he realised that the noise he heard was not merely imagination and memory, and the fear doubled as he realised that Cleopatra was no longer just behind him. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and resisted the urge to flee…

“Cleopatra—”

“Don’t look up, Tom,” she said softly, but her answer was cut off by another, different voice from behind him.

“Why did you disturb me?” It was a low, almost melodious voice – though to Tom’s ears with a faintest touch of a hiss. Tom was not sure if he should be astounded, or simply afraid.

“I am sorry, Erikleia,” Cleopatra voice came from behind. “But I needed to speak with you. It is very important.” There was an urgency in her voice, but when she stopped there was silence – utter silence. The gorgon seemed to be pondering.

“Then tell me,” the creature said at last, and then there was another pause before the strange voice continued gently. “What is it that you want from me?”

Tom still did not look up, until he felt a touch at his elbow and heard Cleopatra tell him, “You can look now, Tom. It’s safe.” Cautiously, he turned around and lifted his head, nervous of what sight would greet him.

What he saw was Cleopatra, standing near the still figure of a woman, apparently young, and clad in loose white robes. A white headdress covered her hair, and draped over her face was a veil, entirely concealing her eyes from view. But Tom could see a faint writhing beneath the cloth, and it made him uneasy.

Even more surprising to him was what the gorgon was holding gently in her hands, which she held out slowly towards him. Tom’s eyes widened as Cleopatra stepped forward and plucked his wand from Erikleia’s hands.

“I believe this is yours,” the gorgon said, addressing Tom for the first time. “I have no use for it now, alas. It may as well be returned to you.”

Tom wasn’t sure what to say as Cleopatra passed his wand to him. “Thank you,” he murmured. The creature he was speaking to now was altogether different, and certainly far gentler, than the horrible monster he had imagined that chased him only that afternoon. He was surprised Erikleia spoke English, and wondered just how long she’d lived at the house. He thought he understood a bit better, now, how Cleopatra could actually converse with her.

Though, of course, he reflected once more, she isn’t a Parselmouth. He could still hear the many soft, hissing voices, muffled further by the cloth, and the sound still sent a small shudder through him.

“I asked a question, though, and I want an answer,” the gorgon said. “Why did you disturb me?”

It dawned on Tom that the creature was referring to his intrusion that afternoon. “We didn’t mean to disturb anyone, Rubeus and I – or anything here,” he explained quickly. “We were merely escaping from the weather – the magic was all reacting against me, though I didn’t know it yet – and my friend came in only because of me.” He paused. “We didn’t know anyone was here.”

The gorgon said nothing. After a brief pause, Cleopatra spoke up meekly, “Erikleia, we need your help – we have to release the boy that you … transformed into stone this afternoon. And only your blood can help. Our whole house depends upon it, the house that has kept you safe all these years. You know what they might do to you if we fail. It’s far more important than you can imagine.”

“Important for you, Cleo, not so for me,” Erikleia replied bitterly. “I gave a store of blood to your ancestor a long time ago, in the days when we made this garden together – I’m sure there is plenty of it left.”

“But how do you know that will bring him to life?” Cleopatra cried out desperately. “It’s the sacrifice that counts – you know it. It is far more sure to heal him if you give it freely now.”

“Should I care? I gave from the blood of my heart and you have it. Yet you still come back for more?”

“But Erikleia, please! I beg you! We don’t have time to go back and get the vial – and if it fails and he dies, we all will suffer. Please, please do this. I beg, I implore you. We have to save him now, not later!”

Tom watched their conversation, transfixed and silent. He fully expected the gorgon to refuse yet again – and render their coming to the garden pointless, except that he now at least had his wand – but he was surprised when Erikleia, after a moment’s deliberation, jerked her head, as if in agreement. Cleopatra let out her breath in relief, and gave the creature profuse thanks.

“Quiet,” Erikleia commanded, and Cleopatra drew back at once, as the gorgon lifted a hem of her garment, and slowly drew out a long, grey knife.

It was made of stone, Tom realised: a knife not of iron or steel but of stone, and without a moment’s hesitation the gorgon lifted her hand above the stone figure and drove the hilt into her arm. Blood poured out, in drops, in a stream, so brilliantly red that all the colours of the garden around them at once seemed dull. Once more, Tom could hear faint voices, all in a kind of harmony. It was almost like singing; a sound enchanting yet twisted and queer, blending with the gorgon’s melodious voice. Then it stopped, as Erikleia twisted a cloth round the gash in her arm and Tom, forgetting her, watched entranced as where the blood bathed Hagrid’s form, the grey of the stone was replaced with the colour of flesh. The living hues poured down in a hundred ripples as Hagrid, no longer trapped as a statue, fell to his knees amongst the shrubs, with a cry of pain – or a gasp of relief. Cleopatra and Tom rushed forward at once, and Erikleia fell back unnoticed into the green light of the shrubs and the trees.

“Rubeus, are you all right?” Tom asked quickly. Cleopatra turned for a moment to look for the gorgon, and then back to the figure of Hagrid, as he turned right and left by the edge of the pool.

“Are you all right?” Tom repeated.

At first, Hagrid didn’t reply, but just looked wildly from side to side. “Tom? Tom? I can’t see yeh! Where am I?”

Cleopatra looked relieved. “We’ve got to take him back to the house – Dr. Metheglin will take care of him there.”

“Dr. Metheglin?”

“Our physician. Take my hand, can you stand up, Rubeus?” They helped the huge Gryffindor to his feet.

“Where am I? I can’t see.”

Tom hesitated. All around them was the endless summer of a garden of the Hesperides, but what should he say? “Mountwarlock Park, in one of the gardens. Rubeus, how much can you remember?”

“I don’t remember…” Hagrid said quietly, as they led him from the garden and through the melting snow to the house. Uncovered, many flowers appeared to be dead now, but just a few had come back to life. Above the hills and across the park, the blanket of snow lay thick as ever. “All I can remember is wantin’ ter see Persephone again, and ...all kinds of horrible things. I can see things – I don’ know what happened...”

“You don’t remember anything?” asked Cleopatra. “Oh, no. There’s quite a lot to explain.”

Tom privately thought it might well be best that the younger boy didn’t recall what had happened – not just yet, at any rate. There would indeed be a lot to explain: and a great deal to conceal as well. But of course, he was not free to say that.

“Blimey, Tom, it’s cold out here now. Were we in a conservatory?”

Tom wondered what to answer. Cleopatra offered Hagrid a fruit she had plucked from the trees in the garden, and while Hagrid ate, Tom had time to think. Would he be expected to tell Hagrid everything? Cleopatra reassured Hagrid that the physician would take care of him, and when the boy’s vision began to return as well, his fears were somewhat calmed.

They descended a few well-worn steps to a small side door below the western side of the house: a small basement chamber with a damp stone floor and some rugs on a sofa, and here they asked Hagrid to sit down. A heap of logs in a small fireplace burst into flame as they came in, while Cleopatra Summoned a bell, and almost immediately rang for a house-elf. “Milly,” she said breathlessly, “can you arrange for Dr. Metheglin to come to me here at once? Tell him we’re in the west wing’s under parlour – the one with the steps going up to the park.”

The house-elf bowed and disappeared, and almost at once they heard footsteps on the boards of a stair, and the creaking of the door as it opened.

It was Jasper. Tom observed the surprise on his face as he recognised Tom from that afternoon, and then Cleopatra standing by the huge prone form of the Gryffindor.

“I don’t believe it! Cleo, what on earth are you doing?” 

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 Eight is Saturday, June 29.