Congenital Magnetism

The Hogwarts Express, having just pulled into Hogsmeade Station, presented the observer with a new and unexpected feature: four enormous metal frames bearing a mass of floral arrangements, the metal frames being precariously attached to the train engine. The two stunned observers, Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout, took note of a few of the more memorable messages contained within the floral displays.

 

Harry’s as hot as a firecracker

 

You’ll have the best time in the sack with your best mate, Harry

 

Blaise is Harry’s Latin lover

Harry, there’s a divinity that shapes your ends

 

Even this inappropriate state of affairs was short-lived. The metal frames proved too heavy for the engine sides they were attached to, but instead of falling off of the engine, they were held so firmly by attaching charms that the metal frames tore off large sections of the engine as they crashed onto the platform of Hogsmeade Station. Professors McGonagall and Sprout saw no alternative but to board the train in order to ascertain the source of the train’s irregular manner of arrival this year. Entering the frontmost train carriage, the two Hogwarts faculty members were met by Hermione, Harry, Draco and Greg.

Hermione’s belief in her ability to resolve social conflict was irrepressible. “Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout… we can explain everything.”

Professor Sprout’s reply was not heartening.

“Somehow, I doubt that, Miss Granger.”

Professor McGonagall cast Hermione a stern look.

“As far as the floral displays that were attached to the engine”—McGonagall’s lips, which were thin under normal circumstances, were now pressed together to form a single straight line—“or shall I say, the scattered flowers and passionate messages addressed to Harry that now cover the entire platform…” She scowled at Harry, who cringed under her glare. “We’ll reserve that matter for later. For now, will someone kindly tell me”—Professor McGonagall gazed up at the ceiling—“why there is a large circular hole in the ceiling of this compartment”—McGonagall now stared straight at Greg Goyle—“and why you, Mr. Goyle, are standing on a circular piece of plaster that seems to match the size of the hole in the ceiling?”

Greg coughed and fidgeted, but he finally found his nerve.

“Harry’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and I had to let him know how I felt.”

McGonagall listened in shock, then spoke, her voice a small whisper.

“Merlin help us.”

“I’d been reading a poem to Harry,” Greg continued, more confident now. “I knew he wanted to hear the rest of it.”

“It was a nice selection,” Harry ventured, trying to make the situation appear more reasonable. “It was a Shakespeare sonnet. Something about—”

“Thank you, Harry! That will do,” Professor McGonagall snapped.

Greg went on with his story. “I escaped, but I couldn’t get into Harry’s compartment because the door was magically locked, so I had to get in through the ceiling.”

Professor Sprout now joined the interrogation. “Escaped? Escaped from what?”

Greg looked down at his ankles, which still had strands of caramel candy wrapped around them, although his ankles were no longer bound together. He went on to explain.

“After Draco’s Immobulus spell wore off, I had to get one of the first year students to melt the hard caramel around my ankles with one of those little warming candles that the trolley witch uses.”

Professor Sprout made an exasperated noise. “Hard caramel? As in hard caramel candy?”

Greg nodded.

“And how did you manage to get your ankles bound together with hard caramel candy?”

“I had to do it, Professor Sprout,” Hermione explained. “Goyle scooped Harry up in his arms and was carrying him all over the train. I had to do something, so I cast a spell that bound him using hard caramel candy.”

Draco’s smooth, unruffled tone of voice drew everyone’s attention at once. “Granger’s getting rather expert with these culinary spells. She had her Weasley boyfriend wrapped up in spaghetti, although he chewed his way out.”

Ron’s temporary confinement by means of spaghetti was new information to almost everyone present, and everyone within earshot waited in anticipation for Draco to explain further.

“I don’t blame Granger, of course,” Draco continued. “Weasley was ready to shag Harry on the spot. You know, I really did think Weasley was straight until now. I suppose he’s still drawn more to the ladies, what with the various girls he’s pursued up until now. Let’s see, there’s Padma Patil, Granger—oh yes, and that lovely part-Veela girl from France. But still, it doesn’t preclude Weasley broadening his horizons, and how better to accomplish that than with Potter. You know, I’m convinced that Potter has that rare physical allure that crosses all boundaries. Greg Goyle was the last bloke I would have expected to see trying to undress Potter, but there he was, reaching his hand around in back of Potter and—”

“—Mr. Malfoy, will you hold your tongue?!” Professor McGonagall could bear no more, and her decorum failed her, something that happened only when she had to deal with Draco Malfoy. She looked at Hermione, straightening herself.

“And how many other boys are behaving toward Harry in this manner?”

“It does sound strange, but… all of them… at least the sixth and seventh years. Pansy Parkinson was able to keep the younger students in the back carriages of the train for most of the trip. Oh”—she stopped short, glancing at Draco—“all the older boys are acting like this around Harry, that is, with the exception of Malfoy.”

The two professors exchanged deeply worried looks, and then McGonagall continued questioning Hermione. “And can you also explain the unusual light show that surrounds Harry? He seems to have his very own Aurora Borealis that travels about with him. Why is Harry surrounded by large flying colonies of…” McGonagall made a motion with her hand as though to swat away a flying insect, “… brightly-lit pieces of multi-colored confetti?”

Draco piped up with yet another disconcerting contribution. “You see them too, Professor! And we thought the girls were hallucinating—you know, like those unfortunate people in the Middle Ages, the ones who ate bread with ergot fungus and then indulged in all manner of dodgy behavior.”

Hermione intervened. “I think what Malfoy is trying to say is that none of the boys see the clouds of sparkly glitter that we do.”

Professor Sprout just shook her head while Professor McGonagall took a deep breath, and the two decided to forge ahead.

“Let’s see what shape the rest of the train is in. Hermione, Harry, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Goyle… will you please accompany us? And Harry”—McGonagall looked over at Harry as though regarding a dangerous animal—“I want you to remain between Professor Sprout and me at all times. Please do not approach the other students.”

Walking through the train corridor proved to be a daunting task at this point, as there were bouquets of flowers—every one of them addressed to Harry—arranged in every available location. McGonagall and Sprout maintained dour expressions as they read some of the more risqué messages from sixth- and seventh-year boys of all four houses. Having waded through the first few little hillocks of flower bouquets, the small group led by McGonagall and Sprout encountered many of the older students, who were now coming out of their compartments, bags in hand, expecting to get off the train. The moment they saw Harry, a few of the boys—all smiles and lust-filled looks—moved closer to Harry and started a bit of chit-chat.

“You know, Harry, when we get to the castle—”

McGonagall and Sprout both had their wands out. “Gentlemen,” Professor McGonagall ordered, “don’t even dream about it.”

The boys backed away, leaving McGonagall and Sprout with a better view of the area further down the corridor. This was when the two professors first noticed a clear glass container big enough for a person to fit inside, which was filled with a pasty yellowish-white substance. Approaching the huge glass container to examine the bizarre object, Professor McGonagall closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead.

“What. Is. This?”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” Pansy said, emerging from the gaggle of students. “One of these idiot boys”—she jerked her thumb at a group of male students behind her—“nicked Granger’s notebook of spells… cookbook spells or kitchen spells or whatever.” Pansy was still fuming. “Professor, I was trying get these maniacs to stop chasing after Potter and go back into their compartments, and the boy who had Granger’s notebook cast a spell which trapped me inside that container over there, which is filled with”—Pansy shuddered—“filled with tapioca pudding.”

There were still large amounts of goopy pudding coming over the top of the container and rolling onto the floor, apparently the side of the container where Pansy managed to climb out. Terry Boot grabbed a spoon and sampled some of the pudding.

“Not bad. My compliments to the chef.”

Terry walked up to Hermione, bringing him within touching distance of Harry.

“So this is your recipe, Granger?”

“Mr. Boot,” McGonagall interrupted, “please keep your distance from Mr. Potter.”

“What’s the big deal?” Terry asked.

“The big deal?” Hermione was incredulous. “Boot, you’ve spent this entire trip making the most outrageous sexual advances on Harry.”

Terry glanced over at Harry. “Now why would I do that?”

“Are you blind?” Seamus piped up. “Because Harry’s the hottest little item on the planet, that’s why!”

Terry smiled, and then shrugged. “I guess everyone’s entitled to an opinion.”

He looked back at Harry, stifling a laugh. “I don’t see the allure though.”

Hermione grabbed a small bowl and spoon, looking like someone who had stumbled across a scientific breakthrough, and scooped some of the tapioca pudding into the bowl. She dashed over to Seamus and shoved the bowl and spoon into his hands.

“Try some of the pudding.”

“I’m not that hungry right now—”

“Just shut up and try some of the damn tapioca pudding!”

Hermione’s unusual outburst now had everyone’s eyes riveted on her and Seamus, who just shrugged and ate the small bowl of pudding. Hermione grabbed Seamus’s arm and brought him over in front of Harry. She kept a close eye on Seamus as she spoke.

“I believe you were saying just now that Harry was—oh, how did you phrase it?—the hottest little item on the planet.”

“Come on, Hermione,” Seamus protested, “I was just trying to be funny. You don’t really think I’m trying to get into Harry’s pants, do you?”

Hermione turned to Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout with a look of triumph on her face. “You see? Harry has to be under a spell of some kind. Or maybe someone maliciously put a potion into something he ate or drank. But whatever the spell or potion is, there’s something in tapioca pudding that counteracts it, although I don’t know if the effect is permanent or temporary.”

“Since Professor McGonagall is head of Gryffindor house,” Professor Sprout said, “I’ll do this myself. Ten points to Gryffindor for Hermione Granger’s most welcome discovery.”

“Yes, thank you, Hermione,” McGonagall agreed. “There must be some ingredient in tapioca pudding which offsets the effects of the spell or potion which is afflicting Harry.”

“Thank Merlin for small favors,” Pansy muttered.

McGonagall sighed with great relief. “Can we now proceed to clean up this train? Hermione, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson, you three are prefects and I trust that you can supervise the efforts. Professor Sprout will be responsible for welcoming new students and guiding them to the castle.”

McGonagall cast a wary look at the group of sixth and seventh year boys. “Hermione, will you see to it that all of the male students eat some tapioca pudding before leaving the train? After that please remove that container of pudding.”

Professor McGonagall regarded Harry with an expression that was both sympathetic and appalled. “Harry, you will accompany me to the Headmaster’s office.” She paused, her brow furrowed with worry. “Why do you have such a talent for landing yourself in these… these… situations?”

“My theory,” Draco said with a bright smile, “is that no one is quite as entertaining as Potter when he’s slipping on banana peels.”

“Mr. Malfoy”—Professor Sprout was not the least bit amused—“I’m sure we can do without your observations.”

 

* * *

 

Minerva McGonagall, with Harry following behind, paused in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s Tower, and she repeated the password:

“Béchamel sauce.”

McGonagall and Harry watched as the gargoyle jumped aside and the wall split in two, revealing the spiral staircase leading up to Dumbledore’s office. The two of them approached the staircase, and Harry heard the sound of the wall behind them closing back up, but then McGonagall stopped Harry at the bottom of the staircase.

“You will wait here, Harry, while I confer with the Headmaster. I will come back for you when Professor Dumbledore is ready to speak with you.”

Professor McGonagall ascended the spiral staircase, lifted the door’s brass knocker and let it fall. Harry watched as the office door opened and McGonagall entered, closing the door behind her. In less than five minutes, Professor McGonagall opened the office door and motioned for Harry to ascend the staircase and enter.

Harry reached the door of Dumbledore’s office and McGonagall said, “The Headmaster found it necessary to attend a faculty meeting before speaking to you. He just left via Portkey. I must attend the same meeting myself, so if you please, Harry, would you wait here in the Headmaster’s office until he returns?”

“But what am I supposed to—?”

“Please, Harry. Professor Dumbledore’s instructions for you were to wait for him here in his office.” She opened the polished oak door for Harry to enter. “Make yourself at home,” she said closing the door from the outside and leaving Harry alone in the Headmaster’s office.

Harry had no choice but to entertain himself, so he took the opportunity to examine some of the items in Dumbledore’s office. Some of the mechanisms seated on small tables had moving parts he hadn’t remembered before. He gazed at one fascinating instrument as its internal metal parts cycled through a series of operations. Harry glanced at the Sorting Hat behind the Headmaster’s desk. No, he didn’t want to start another discussion like the one he’d had in second year and listen to the Sorting Hat tell him how he was so well suited for Slytherin house.

Harry strolled over to the other side of the office, noticing that Fawkes’s red and gold plumage looked especially beautiful today, and then he spied some crystal phials arranged on a shelf. A small sign at the top of the shelf read: Stored Memories for Current Research. Looking around, Harry spotted a Pensieve on a nearby table.

I’ll just take a quick look, he thought. It couldn’t hurt to take a little peek at the labels on the phials, could it?

There were only a few phials, and by the looks of the labels, the contents promised to be terribly uninteresting.

 

House-Elves’ Inspection of Kitchen Inventory: April, 1996

 

Groundskeeper’s Dietary Observations for Blast-Ended Skrewts

 

Harry froze when he read the label on the last crystal phial.

 

Narcissa Malfoy: June 22, 1996

 

The sheer force of raw, unholy curiosity descended from the heavens and took Harry captive. What could Narcissa Malfoy’s stored memory possibly be doing in Professor Dumbledore’s office? Harry looked at the date again. These were recent memories at that, just after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. Overwhelmed by curiosity, Harry was in front of the Pensieve, pouring out the contents of the phial. He leaned over, and as his face broke the silver surface, he felt his feet leave the floor of Dumbledore’s office…

Narcissa Malfoy stood waiting in a stark foyer. She smoothed her hair down, but her hand was trembling as she did so. Nothing other than a single rough-hewn table relieved the grim appearance of the little waiting area. A narrow window graced the wall of the foyer, revealing the night sky and a few stars. Narcissa’s sister, Bellatrix, entered and offered her sister a frosty greeting.

“Don’t expect favors from the Dark Lord. Your husband’s recent efforts on our behalf were a pathetic failure. The Dark Lord is livid.”

“But loyal service,” Narcissa offered. “Surely loyalty and faithful service count for something.”

Bellatrix’s high-pitched laugh grated on Narcissa. “You fool! Incompetence counts for nothing. The Dark Lord has only contempt for Lucius. He told me himself that if Lucius received the Dementor’s Kiss, it would be no great loss for our side.” Bellatrix sneered in triumph as she said, “I think the Dark Lord’s exact words were, ‘Just another disposable moron, indistinguishable from so many that I’ve had to deal with. Let the Dementor’s have at him.’”

Bellatrix straightened herself. Her eyes bored into Naricssa.

“How fortunate for you that the Dark Lord is willing to offer you a chance to redeem yourself. Come with me, Narcissa.”

Bellatrix led a shaken Narcissa Malfoy to the basement level of the building, where Voldemort was waiting in a cavernous room. The place was lit by torches, and arranged in the center were a table and a high-backed chair where Voldemort sat, with an empty chair on the other side of the table.

Narcissa had never seen such a perfect portrait of madness as the vision that met her eyes in this bare room with its uninviting stone walls. Voldemort stared at Narcissa with a look of profound insanity. The madness seemed to roll off of him in waves, like heat. Voldemort’s red eyes fairly vibrated in their sockets as he spoke.

“Your loser husband has failed once too many times, it would seem. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if your equally worthless son does the same and proves to be the same waste of space as Lucius, deserving of the same ignominious end, rotting in Azkaban.”

Narcissa was performing mental calculations, trying to determine how to mollify this monster.

“I will offer you an extraordinary kindness, that is, a way in which you may once again enter into my favor. However, you must be willing to forsake your idiot husband. He has crossed me once too many times. You see, his recent mission at the Department of Mysteries was to be restitution for an outrageous breach of faith which he committed four years ago.”

As Voldemort remembered what he considered to be Lucius’s traitorous act, his face first twitched and then contorted into hideous grimaces as he was overcome with quiet fury.

“Sixteen years ago,” Voldemort continued, “not long before Harry Potter robbed me of my corporeal form, I entrusted my diary to Lucius, believing that he would do everything in his power to keep it safe. However, fours years ago, the slippery wretch betrayed my trust so completely that I would have been justified in killing him.”

An involuntary shudder coursed through Narcissa, but she made a supreme effort to control her countenance as Voldemort went on.

“That diary was valuable beyond your imagining. It brought me a step closer to immortality. Yet Lucius treated it as though it were an expendable prop to be used as a practical joke. He slipped it into one of the Weasley girl’s textbooks to cause her mischief. I think Lucius did it because he maintains a ridiculous petty rivalry with the girl’s father at the Ministry of Magic. To think! My magical diary wound up in the girl’s backpack—in her stupid backpack—and Lucius’s traitorous actions gave Harry Potter the opportunity to destroy the diary, which Potter did.”

Voldemort’s clenched his hands, and it seemed as though his red eyes were spinning in circles. Narcissa was becoming alarmed, although her face betrayed nothing.

“To think that a piece of my immortal destiny”—Voldemort had risen from his chair and was shaking his fist—“was used for a prank—like a goddamn whoopee cushion!”

Narcissa, who was from pureblood wizarding stock, had no idea what Voldemort was referring to.

“What kind of cushion?”

“Never mind”—Voldemort sat back down and waved his hand idly—“you’d have to grow up around Muggles to know about whoopee cushions.”

Voldemort began to seethe again. “Lucius obviously thought I was dead, and wanted to dispose of an item that was associated with me. I’m sure he thought of it as incriminating evidence, since he was so eager to ingratiate himself with my enemies at the Ministry of Magic and cultivate an air of respectability. And in spite of all this, I showed him the undeserved kindness of allowing him one more chance to prove his usefulness.” The snakelike slits that served as nostrils flared as best they could. “The disaster at the Department of Mysteries proved him useless and worthless.”

Voldemort glared at Narcissa. “The slippery jackal has been living on borrowed time for the last four years as it is… and now his borrowed time has run out. I can replace the power of the diary, but his murder is a necessary step in that process.” Voldemort held Narcissa’s gaze. “I will kill Lucius while he is incarcerated in Azkaban, but I can only do it if you facilitate matters for me.”

Narcissa moved not a hair, forced herself to maintain a hooded expression and betrayed not a single thought.

Voldemort rose and moved off to the side of the room where a large wooden room divider stood. He emerged from behind the divider pushing a large, elegant tea cart toward the table at which they were sitting. Narcissa was aware of little, high-pitched animal squeals. She saw a ceramic teapot and a tray with some type of dessert on the top shelf of the tea cart… and on the bottom shelf… not crediting her senses, Narcissa saw a large cage with a number of rats inside. Observing more closely, she saw that the inside of the cage was furnished with pillowed areas for resting, an area for play and recreation equipped with colorful treadmills and small toys, and last, a feeding area, although the food bowls were empty. As the situation became increasingly surreal, Narcissa watched in bewilderment as Voldemort served tea.

“One lump or two?”

“No sugar, thank you,” Narcissa managed.

“And now”—Voldemort’s red eyes gleamed—“the pièce de résistance. Treacle fudge!”

He paused, seeing the apprehensive look on Narcissa’s face.

“Come now, Narcissa, you surely don’t think I would poison you, do you? Your assistance will forever win you my esteem. Go ahead, choose one piece of treacle fudge and put it on my plate, and choose another one for yourself.”

Narcissa did as she was told, and Voldemort wolfed down the small square of treacle fudge.

“Delicious! Now try yours.”

Narcissa ate her square of treacle fudge and replied, “Yes, excellent, My Lord.”

“As you might know,” Voldemort began, rising from his chair, “one of the ingredients used in making treacle fudge is valerian. Normally, valerian has a calming effect and might even encourage sleep, like a cup of warm milk before bedtime. If means could be found to magnify its effects, valerian would act like the drug that Muggles call sleeping pills.”

Voldemort now pulled out a small phial of liquid.

“This potion contains an activator that will magnify the effects of valerian thousands of times, but the activator will only function when it is triggered by a spell which I have devised. When this happens, the valerian will cause the same result as a massive overdose of what Muggles call barbiturates, a drug that slows down all bodily functions, and in the case of a massive overdose, causes the heart and other bodily functions to stop, ensuring sudden death.”

He sprinkled the contents of the phial over all of the squares of treacle fudge remaining on the dessert tray, and then took a few of the squares and crumbled them over the food dishes in the rats’ cage. The rats, eagerly awaiting their meal, consumed all of the treacle fudge, and then resumed their previous activities, playing contentedly in the recreation area of their cage.

“And now, the activation spell…”

Voldemort pointed his wand in the direction of the tea cart and muttered several words in Latin. All of the rats ceased moving.

“And you’re certain,” Narcissa ventured, “that the rats are not merely asleep?”

“Very admirable of you to be skeptical at first. Let’s investigate more closely.”

Voldemort set the teapot and dessert tray on the floor and moved the large rat cage onto the upper shelf of the tea cart. He removed the top of the cage, reached inside and grabbed one of the rats and held the motionless creature in the palm of his hand.

Not wishing to admit that Voldemort’s devious scheme was successful, Narcissa said, “Perhaps it’s only resting, My Lord.”

“Then let me see if I can rouse it to activity.”

He took the treadmill out of the cage, and then battered the obviously dead rat against the treadmill over and over again.

“Wake up, little rat! It’s time for your nightly exercise!”

The rat exhibited not a single sign of life, so Voldemort continued with all the other ones in the cage, flinging the dead rats against the walls and floor, one after the other. He was down on his knees, gathering up a few rats and dangling them by the tails in front of Narcissa.

“Success! These rats are dead! THEY HAVE GONE BEYOND THE VEIL!”

Narcissa, wide-eyed, nodded her head in agreement.

“And you, Narcissa, will find means to visit Lucius in prison and deliver my treacle fudge to him. Tell him that it contains an ingredient that will enable Legilimency between the two of you so that you can give each other instructions. Tell him anything you like, just get him to eat the bloody treacle fudge!”

Voldemort’s eyes started pulsing, alternately protruding from their sockets and then shrinking back. He emitted a low, crazed laugh. His behavior was veering toward outright insanity.

“Yes, Narcissa, you have contacts in the Ministry of Magic who can help you to arrange a visit with Lucius. You must begin trying to influence them in this matter. Lucius must pay with his life in order to recreate something with the same power as my diary, which he so treacherously threw into harms way. This will be poetic justice!”

Voldmemort was becoming more agitated and violent by the second. He picked up the rat cage and sent it crashing against the wall, his rage building. He lunged at the rat cage and pounded some more dents into it with his foot. He lifted the rat cage high above his head, glaring at Narcissa.

“NO MORE BACKPACKS!” He shouted this at the top of his lungs.

Voldemort marched up to the helpless Narcissa, nose-to-nose with her, dragging the rat cage with him.

“What was my precious diary doing in some idiot’s backpack when I told Lucius to keep it safe?! I created an object”—Voldemort grabbed the fragile ceramic teapot now—“infinitely more valuable than this teapot and he used it for a joke…” He was screaming now, clearly having taken leave of his senses. “My diary was no better than a doorstop to Lucius!” Voldemort threw the ceramic teapot against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces, and after that, he seized the dessert tray. “One of the most powerful artifacts in the history of wizardry and he treats it like a dishrag!”

Voldemort repeatedly slammed the dessert tray against the tea cart in hysterical fury, destroying both the dessert tray and the tea cart. When Voldemort grabbed a rat from the floor and shoved it in front of Narcissa’s face, she dared not move out of her seat.

“Do you think this rat is dead? Do you?!”

“Yes, My Lord, it is most certainly dead.”

Voldemort dropped onto his knees with the rat in his hands, howling in anguish. An agonized declaration tore from his throat: “This rat is not dead.” He threw the rat on the floor, and then, using the mangled dessert tray, he battered the already dead rat with a dozen wild blows. “NOW IT’S DEAD!”

Voldemort looked up at Narcissa from where he was kneeling on the floor. His expression was sweet and wistful, his voice soft and dreamlike. “No one understands what hard work it is to make sure that something is dead.”

Voldemort rose and stopped in front of Narcissa.

“Make preparations to set my plan into action. Go… now!”

Narcissa needed no further encouragement and exited. She paused, once outside, leaning against the stone wall, trembling. She spoke softly but clearly.

“This is not a well man.”

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, saw the face of Albus Dumbledore, felt himself being lifted up out of his surroundings and felt his feet landing back in Dumbledore’s office.

“Sir, I hadn’t meant to pry,” Harry began, “really I hadn’t. It’s just that while I was waiting for you, I saw the crystal phial with Narcissa Malfoy’s name on it. I was so surprised that you had a stored memory from a Death Eater that I—”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling, “I was hoping that your curiosity would get the better of you. Never underestimate the value of curiosity. So much of what we call civilization would never have come about without it. The reason that I was hoping you would choose to view Narcissa’s stored memory… Harry, you have so many good qualities, not the least of which is your generosity toward those you care for. I thought that by viewing Narcissa’s memory of recent events, you might learn to extend that generosity in new directions.”

Dumbledore’s smile was gentle. “You know, you can be quite stubborn concerning preconceived notions you sometimes have about people. For example, it’s inaccurate for you to refer to Narcissa as a Death Eater. She has never taken the Dark Mark, and neither has Draco, for that matter. As to why her stored memory is here in my office… she has been communicating with me over the course of the summer. After viewing the memory in this phial, I think you may be able to understand why.”

“Voldemort wants to kill her husband, Lucius. But Narcissa might be motivated by fear,” Harry suggested. “She might go along with Voldemort just to protect herself.”

“Fear, yes.” Dumbledore settled into the chair behind his desk, motioning for Harry to take a seat himself. “Fear is a potent force, is it not? And yet I can tell you that Narcissa has made an irrevocable decision to stand against Lord Voldemort. The fact that she has sought me out and established a dialogue with me might suggest that she is sincere, although one could raise the objection that she could be feigning sincerity in order to spy on me and on those in the Ministry of Magic. However, giving me access to her stored memory—especially, in view of what this memory reveals about Voldemort’s plans—that is something no spy would ever do. She has even offered to allow me to question her under Veritaserum.”

Harry’s head shot up at this last piece of information.

“Then she’s really turned against Voldemort,” Harry said, as though not quite able to believe it.

“Which leads us, Harry, to the question of what force could provide stronger motivation than the fear of Voldemort’s power. But you’re living proof that there is such a force. If your mother had stepped aside in fear when Voldemort wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be here. Why did she do it?”

“She loved me too much to watch me die,” Harry said. His eyes grew wider, and he understood how all of this might also apply to other people.

“I suppose it may sound strange,” Dumbledore said, “when you hear the truth about Narcissa. It’s something you don’t often hear in this modern age of ours, but the truth is what it is.” Dumbledore fixed his stare on Harry. “Narcissa fell in love with Lucius all those years ago—loved him more than anything in this world—and she never stopped loving him. To put it simply, Lucius is the only man she ever loved.”

Dumbledore sat in amused silence, watching the wheels turning in Harry’s head as he processed all of this novel information.

“Do you see, Harry, why it can be beneficial to set aside preconceived notions? I mean, on general principle.”

“Yes, I think I understand.” But Harry had another question. “Who else has seen this memory, sir—other than you and I?”

“Only Draco.” The Headmaster laid his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Narcissa Malfoy is in a unique position to provide us with information and assistance in our struggle against Lord Voldemort, who is not aware of her communications with me. Only you, Draco and I have knowledge of the events you witnessed in the Pensieve, or of Narcissa’s collaboration with me; it is of vital importance to all of us that you reveal none of this information to anyone else in order to safeguard Narcissa’s position. The success of our efforts may depend on it. I know I can trust you, Harry.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Lord Voldemort has made his betrayal of Lucius public, however. You may, at some point, wish to talk about this with Draco, although I’m not certain how much he’ll be comfortable telling you. And since we’re speaking of circumstances that concern you and Draco… that brings me to the reason for our meeting today. Your trip on the Hogwarts Express was more complicated this year, as I understand.”

Harry felt himself blushing and felt the blush turn deeper and deeper.

“Er, yeah. Hermione thinks it might be a spell, or even a potion. You know, someone who’s trying to make my life more difficult. I guess that wouldn’t be a novelty, would it?”

“Professor McGonagall spoke at greater length with Hermione before she met me at the faculty meeting… about some of the information you gave her that might shed light on your sudden…” Dumbledore smiled. “How should I put it? Your sudden popularity. I hope you don’t mind us having asked Hermione.”

“No, of course not,” Harry said. “I want to find out what’s going on as much as anyone. More than anyone.”

“The clues are puzzling,” Dumbledore said, his fingertips touching to form the apex of a triangle. “Around the time of your sixteenth birthday, your Aunt Petunia began to see the same phenomenon that the female students here do, as well as Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout. They all see a strange glow coming from your skin and colorful sparks or tiny bits of glitter flying off your body.

“In fact, Hermione, Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout reported something else that the other female students didn’t, probably because they were with you for a greater length of time. They said that after about ten minutes of being with you, it became difficult for them to concentrate… on anything. That is, they had difficulty remembering what they had just been thinking or even what they were going to say next. They told me it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling… but not conducive to problem solving. I shouldn’t be surprised if all the female students experience the same effect around you. And as far as the effects on the male students… that seems even less conducive to problem solving.”

The Headmaster gave Harry a probing look.

“That leaves us with Draco Malfoy, who is the only student who is unaffected. Hermione told Professor McGonagall about some unusual events you experienced when you first saw Draco on the train today, but I’m not sure I understood everything. I’d like you to tell me about that in your own words.”

“All right. When I saw Malfoy at the beginning of the trip, my heart started beating faster and faster, until it was pounding. Then I felt fine threads touching my skin, all over my body. When I moved my arm or my leg—just to see what happened—I felt the threads pulling in the direction of where Malfoy was standing. I’m sure he felt something similar because he had an odd look on his face while it was happening.”

Harry didn’t bother telling the Headmaster the part about the entire world and everyone in it coming to a complete standstill while all of this was happening. That was too weird to share with anyone else.

“So do you think Hermione’s right, sir? Is it a spell of some kind?”

“I’m not sure, Harry. I think I will have to confer with some of my colleagues in France who may have more expertise in these matters than I do. In any case, we will have to begin working on some temporary solutions. You may be wondering about the faculty meeting I just attended. It was a potion-making session headed by Professor Snape for the purpose of developing individual potions for all of the male members of the faculty to counteract any magical force that affects romantic attraction. The potions are effective only because Professor Snape created unique potions for each individual based on their history, an analysis of their blood, and so forth. Obviously, this wouldn’t be feasible for the entire student population.

“And that is why, Harry, I would like you to collaborate with someone who has some expertise with potions, and create a potion that would at least serve as a temporary counteragent. If this is successful, you could attend class with other students as you always have. Unfortunately, Professor Snape’s teaching schedule will not allow him to collaborate with you himself. Of course, there are a number of students—your friend, Hermione, and Terry Boot, for example—who have some talent for potion making. However, I’m afraid it would be impossible for them to collaborate with you and maintain any degree of concentration… for all the reasons we have been discussing. That leaves Draco Malfoy.”

Harry’s face fell. “Malfoy?”

“His background in Potions is excellent, but more to the point, he’s the only student who is not experiencing the disconcerting effects your presence seems to trigger. Not only that…” Dumbledore gave Harry a piercing look, “… the unique events which you described concerning when you first saw Draco on the train this morning… they might offer a clue as to a possible solution.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Try to cooperate with Draco, Harry. You’ve partnered with him in Potions class before. Beyond that, Narcissa’s stored memory gives you some insight into her change of loyalty—and Draco’s change of loyalty. He has turned against Lord Voldemort as surely as his mother has. Please, Harry, it would be more diplomatic for you not to discuss the events in Narcissa’s stored memory with Draco until he mentions them himself.” The Headmaster searched Harry’s eyes. “Promise me that you won’t use the information you have learned in order to humiliate Draco—that you won’t use the knowledge to behave in a mean-spirited way toward him.”

Harry had a resigned look on his face and slumped in his seat.

“Of course, sir. I mean, I guess it’s not a bad thing that Malfoy’s not on Voldemort’s side any more.”

The sound of the brass knocker falling against the office door made Harry jump.

“I think that would be Professor Snape.” Dumbledore rose from his chair. “I asked him to join us.”

Dumbledore opened the door and Severus Snape swept in, his robes billowing around him. Snape stopped and turned to confront Harry. He looked at Harry as though he were viewing the proven cause of every calamity and affliction that befalls the world.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape intoned in the same manner as one would say, “There’s been a major earthquake.”

“You will kindly meet with Mr. Malfoy and me in my office tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I will arrange facilities and supplies whereby the two of you may work on potions independently from the other students. I will offer advice and correction as needed.”

“For the time being,” Dumbledore added, “I don’t think it will be necessary for you to attend other classes.” He picked up some papers and leafed through them. “Your marks in your other classes have been quite satisfactory, Harry.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dumbledore looked further down on the page as he said, “And your marks in Potions—”

“—have been abysmal,” Snape finished. “I was prepared to suggest Remedial Potions this year. However, the present”—Snape closed his eyes in pain—“situation will offer Mr. Potter an opportunity for desperately needed improvement in Potions.”

Snape’s eyes widened as he examined Harry.

“How do you manage it, Mr. Potter? Every time I think that you couldn’t possibly attain greater heights in disrupting the operations of this school, you prove me wrong.”

Snape lifted his head upwards, eyes closed.

“You are a walking catastrophe.”