The Potions Master

Chapter 1: MONKEY AND DRAGON

Harry watched Hermione shift from foot to foot at the front of the class. Abashed, she glanced at the teacher. "What was the question again?"

Professor Ariel Dane cast a warning look across the room. Not for the first time, Harry thought how little she looked like an expert in Defense Against the Dark Arts. She couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. Freckles dusted her cheeks. Her hair--short, blonde and fluffy--reminded him of the down on a newborn chick.

"The question? What animal did I ask you to remember?" American, Professor Dane spoke with a lilting accent she identified as Alabaman. Rumor had it that back at her alma mater, Lost Bayou Institute for the Magical Arts and Sciences, she'd once used that playful drawl to talk seven zombies into returning to their graves.

"Uh," Hermione stammered, darting helpless glances at Ron and Harry. Suddenly, she brightened. "But I do remember we're having sushi and bagels for lunch."

Shrieks of laughter broke out around the room at Professor Dane's demonstration of the art of memory rearrangement. Out of loyalty, Harry bit his lip. Seeing the cleverest pupil at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry forget something she'd sworn she wouldn't just minutes before--then parroting back what she'd been told to say--was rather funny.

"The animal was a blue monkey," the professor said. "And I'm afraid lunch will be beef pie, spinach, and mashed potatoes."

Hanging her head so low that her unruly brown hair obscured her eyes, Hermione slouched back to her seat.

"Don't take it so. Not many can sidestep a memory spell." Professor Dane surveyed the class with her wide, hazel eyes. "Is there another volunteer so Hermione won't feel singled out?"

Harry slid low in his seat. Next to him, Ron began pointing at him enthusiastically.

Professor Dane smiled. "Harry?"

"Nice one," he muttered to Ron as he rose to his feet.

When Harry reached the professor, she raised her wand. She'd once told the class she'd made it herself from peach wood and a hair from the head of a Jersey devil. Smiling, she said, "Let's try a different animal--a pink elephant. Take a moment to picture it."

Harry closed his eyes. Soon a pink cartoon elephant materialized in his mind, coyly swinging a long, pink trunk. Picturing things in his head was a familiar pastime--perfected during long hours banned to his closet under the stairs at his aunt and uncle's, the Dursleys. Outside the closet, he'd even used the technique to blank out particularly infuriating diatribes from Uncle Vernon. In this subject, his rotten home life gave him an advantage over Hermione. Slowly, he nodded.

Professor Dane began with words. "The pink elephant turns its back. No trunk or tusks. All you see is a large pink disk--a pink disk that spreads and spreads . . . ."

After awhile, Harry found himself unaware of her words--only of a feeling of peace, security and happiness. He found himself mentally turning toward the source of the warmth and away from . . . Pink Elephant! He shouted to himself. Don't lose your pink elephant. Resolutely, he willed it back into focus. When it turned, its tusks looked sharp and its eyes fierce. He forced himself to see the roughness of its hide, the saliva dripping from its mouth.

Faraway, he heard Professor Dane's soothing voice asking him to tell everyone about his animal. As he opened his eyes, he repeated to himself, Pink elephant. But before he said it aloud, he glanced at Hermione. Her stricken look made him say, "A blue monkey."

The professor narrowed her eyes skeptically at him, but the relief on Hermione's face made his lie worthwhile.

Then, beneath the friendly laughter that had exploded at his answer, he heard a different kind of chuckle--low, breathy, and supremely self-satisfied. Turning toward the door, Harry saw his nemesis, Professor Snape, slowly applauding. The crinkles around the dark eyes made him look mildly amused, but Harry knew his hidden malice. Why hadn't he just said pink elephant?

Beside him, Harry sensed Professor Dane stand straighter and smooth a hand down her long, black robe. "We have a visitor. Severus--Professor Snape--has kindly agreed to expand on our topic by telling us about memory potions."

At the name Snape, the roomful of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs went silent. As the Potions master swept between desks to the front, Harry saw several classmates draw in their arms and legs as if to make themselves less noticeable. Per usual, Snape's black robes were of a higher quality than the average professor's, but they were stained by some potion gone wrong. Hurriedly, Harry skirted the approaching threat and resumed his desk between Ron and Hermione.

If he could block out pleasant Professor Dane, he could surely block out Snape, Harry told himself. But as the wizard's softly menacing voice reached his ears, Harry found himself looking up. Countless tortured hours in Potions had trained him to fear that missing a syllable risked expulsion from Hogwarts.

"I have other tasks I should be doing--would prefer to be doing--right now. But the Headmaster, in his infallible wisdom, has declared that year five students must gain experience at integrating the different branches of learning into that one, all-encompassing marvel that is the art of magic. When he speaks, we can do naught but obey."

Standing a few feet away, Professor Dane grinned. Evidently, she hadn't spent enough time with Snape to realize his snide tone was completely sincere.

"In the real world a magician with dark purposes will not be gentle. The memories he will want to wrench from you will be more significant than blue monkeys and pink elephants. He will use potions that break your will and lay bare your most crucial secrets. Those that don't serve his purpose, he'll replace. And the only evidence he'll leave of his theft is a mild confusion, an impairment in your ability to govern your own mind."

In the front row, Barden Grandstaff raised his hand. From Hufflepuff, the stocky blond combined unfailing politeness with an easy-going humor that let him shed Snape's sarcasm like water off a walrus. Harry wished he could do the same.

Professor Snape ignored Barden, but Professor Dane nodded at him.

"Doesn't the Ministry of Magic use memory rearrangement for good--"

The Potions master snorted, stopping Barden mid-sentence. "To protect us from the unpleasantness that results when some fool allows Muggles to see what doesn't concern them?"

Barden raised his eyebrows. "Well, yes."

"And what makes you think the effects on the mind are any different when memory rearrangement is used for good purposes?" Snape shrugged. "The deleterious effects of Ministry practices on Muggles are irrelevant to our purpose here."

To his left, Harry caught Hermione glaring so hard he thought her eyes would cross. After all, the rest of her family were Muggles.

"Few of you will ever be called upon to shield your thoughts from an evil wizard--a fact for which we can all be grateful. It takes a certain amount of cunning. Mere bravery won't cut it."

Harry ignored the taunt from cunning Slytherin at brave Gryffindor. He was one of the few students that knew Professor Snape had once faced the challenge he described.

"There are potions that will enhance your memory to the level of inability to forget any detail that passes through your consciousness."

Harry saw Hermione's glare fade into a distant stare. She began scribbling furiously on her parchment.

"I do not recommend them," Snape added darkly. "An overly acute memory can be an unexpected burden." His lips moved slightly as if he were considering saying more.

Professor Dane smiled. "Researchers at Lost Bayou Institute are studying mind techniques that--"

"Lost Bayou. In the States." Snape flicked his hand. "I don't have time today to discuss speculative mentalist theories. Suffice it to say, the potion of choice is particularly complex. Anyone but a Grand Master would be a fool to attempt it. It creates a duplicate of one's memories. The invading wizard will erase one, unaware that an indelible copy is buried underneath."

Without a break, Snape launched into a catalog of various memory-altering potions, listing the composition and attributes of each. Only Hermione took notes. He finished with, "Expect a test tomorrow in Advanced Potions." At the collective groans that greeted this announcement, he smiled, nodded at Professor Dane, then began striding back between desks. All the students swiveled in their chairs to watch him, as if counting the seconds until he was gone.

When he reached the door, Professor Dane called out, "Thank you, Severus. I look forward to returning the favor."

Professor Snape paused, then turned. He held her gaze a moment with an expression Harry couldn't read. Then he murmured, "We'll discuss it."

As soon as Snape had left, grumbles filled the room. Apparently, Harry wasn't the only one who hadn't imagined a brief guest lecture would result in a test.

Professor Dane waved a hand for silence, then pointed at her office door, which stood slightly ajar. "I knew Professor Snape would be full of valuable information, so I took the liberty of placing a Quick-Notes Quill on my desk. It's set to make enough copies for all of you by the end of this session."

On one side, Harry heard Ron sigh in relief. On his other, he heard Hermione mutter, "But I already made notes."

***

Five minutes after Defense Against the Dark Arts had ended, Harry was still in the classroom, now standing and clutching his copy of Quick-Notes.

"Don't fret," Professor Dane assured Hermione for the sixth time. "When it comes to memory rearrangement, you'll be tested on concepts. Possessing Auror level resistance skills isn't part of my grading scale. Although," she added with a glance at Harry, "I may consider it for extra credit."

Ron raised his copy of the notes. "Can we get extra credit for learning this?"

"You'll already be credited in Advanced Potions."

Ron cleared his throat, and Harry wondered what was coming.

"Professor Snape certainly took over your lesson, didn't he? You know, he's always wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts himself. It's common knowledge."

Harry grimaced at the collegial tone in his friend's voice. He knew where it came from. When Ron's brother Percy had seen them off to school at train platform nine and three-quarters, he'd advised Ron that to be considered for prefect one should act like one is on par with the administration.

"Common knowledge?" Professor Dane returned her usual friendly smile. For a moment, Harry wondered what a smile so habitual really meant. Then she cocked her head. "He could teach it if he wanted. From what I've seen, Professor Snape can handle all the arts. But nobody matches his skill at potions."

When Ron nodded knowingly, Harry rolled his eyes.

"Hurry along now, or you'll miss your lunch," she added.

As Harry trooped out of the classroom with his friends, he heard Hermione mumble, "Sushi and bagels. What was I thinking?"

***

At ten o'clock that night, Harry left the library with Hermione and Ron feeling wrung out. Torches in wall sconces lit their way down the long corridor. As they trudged along, he counted the pools of flickering light they cast on the flagstone floor.

"Doesn't it seem like all we do these days is study?" Ron grumbled. "I haven't played a game of Exploding Snap since we climbed off the train."

"We're not little children anymore." Hermione sniffed, then twisted to keep a book from toppling off her stack.

Harry shifted the five he was balancing and used his shoulder to straighten Hermione's eight. The cauldrons, ingredients, and potion-making paraphernalia they'd been practicing with in the student laboratory filled their backpacks, so all the research they'd checked out for their other subjects had to be hand carried. "Too bad we can't use magic in the halls. A shrinking spell would do wonders in lightening these loads of ours."

"I wish I had a lighter load altogether," Ron growled. "I already know I'm going to fail Temporal Transfiguration. Too bad we let Hermione bully us out of signing up for Advanced Divination. I'd like at least one professor that's a soft touch."

Hermione humphed as they rounded a crook in the hallway.

Harry grinned. Then he stopped dead, staring at that softest of all touches, Professor Trelawney. She was fingering her way along the rough, granite walls toward them. Without her oversized, highly-magnifying glasses, she appeared almost blind. The way she tiptoed through the shadows, then tottered quickly past the light reminded him of a furtive daddy longlegs.

"What's she doing here?" he breathed. Nothing but a special occasion or an omen of calamity could have enticed the Divination master from her high tower chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Trelawney gave a start. "James? James Potter? Is that you?"

Harry grimaced. He hadn't thought the ethereal professor aware enough of her surroundings to catch his mumbled words. The fact that she'd mistaken him for his father showed she believed those surroundings of another time and place. "No, ma'am. Harry Potter," he called back.

She puckered her forehead as if wracking her memory.

"Beginning and Intermediate Divination? The last two years?" Harry said helpfully. "Visions of a grim? The first to leave the Christmas table out of thirteen? Fell into a trance during a lesson?"

Trelawney's pale eyes shot wide. Then she scuttled toward them.

On one side of him, Hermione groaned. On his other, Ron took a step backward. Harry stayed where he was, hoping to get through this encounter without too many predictions of catastrophe.

Trelawney didn't stop until she'd stuck her pointed nose within an inch of Harry's. Abruptly, she clutched his hands--using more strength than he'd have thought the frail woman could muster. "I must see Albus. Immediately. Tonight the crystal was hideously clear. Doom! Heartbreak! A sight no mortal woman should have to bear!"

As if we'd expected you to say anything else. Harry cleared his throat. "Er, the headmaster. His office is off a passage on the other side of the Great Hall. You must have been there before, but if you'd like, we could--"

Her grip tightened. In a strangely guttural voice, she intoned, "Red and black--they shared a room but not a house."

While Harry was still trying to figure that out, another voice pierced the darkness.

"Sybil. Let the students be."

Harry had never imagined he'd feel relieved to hear Snape's imposing whisper.

Trelawney dropped his hands as if she'd been caught stealing them. "Must. Must see Albus," she muttered.

Without warning, Snape swept out of the shadows, cutting the Divination master off from Harry. "Enough, Sybil. Whatever you've seen cannot concern these children." He turned his unfathomable black eyes on the three Gryffindors. "You have just enough time to return to your dormitories before you break curfew."

"Yes, sir." Hugging his books, Harry sidled around Professor Trelawney. She closed her eyes, one claw-like hand touching her throat.

Beside him, Hermione blew out her breath. Ron was already scooting up the corridor. As Harry quickened his pace to catch up, he heard Trelawney's portentous murmur: "Red and black. My vision was true, was it not? Tonight ghastly fate has unveiled itself to me once more!" Then Snape's forceful reply: "Albus is sleeping. He cannot be disturbed. I suggest you talk to him tomorrow. For now, I will escort you back to your rooms."

Tomorrow. Harry snorted softly. By morning, the Divination master's attention would have drifted on to another devastating prophecy, this one all but forgotten. With that conclusion, he hurried with his friends through the maze of passages that led to Gryffindor Tower.

Not until they were halfway up the stairs did Ron break their silence. "I take it back, Hermione. I'm glad you talked me out of Divination. Not having a new excruciating death foretold every week is certainly helping me sleep better."

***

Saturday morning, Friday's test on memory potions now behind them, Harry dawdled with Hermione and Ron over brunch in the Great Hall. The enchanted ceiling showed that the October sky outside was clear, blue, and cloudless.

When Harry at last pushed away his plate, leaving one last morsel of French toast in a puddle of maple syrup, he grunted in satisfaction. "The start of a great day."

Daintily, Hermione sipped her orange juice. "The least we could do is thank them."

"Thank whom?" Ron mumbled around a bite of sausage.

"The house elves who prepared this wonderful meal. The least we could do is thank them." Hermione slanted a glance at Ron, then looked away. "After all, they're not getting paid."

Ron slammed down his knife and fork. "Not that again. The house elves don't want to get paid."

"And you think they don't even want to be thanked?"

Ron shot Hermione a superior look. "No. I don't think so. It would only make them ill-at-ease."

"As if you'd know," Hermione taunted. "As if you're the expert."

"Good grief, you two," Harry muttered. The electricity that sparked each time his friends stole a peek at each other was so powerful, it was embarrassing. He wished they'd kiss and be done with it--preferably in some secret corner of Hogwarts where he couldn't stumble across them accidentally.

His roving eyes fell on a Chinese teenager sitting a table over with a crowd of Ravenclaws. Surrounded by laughter, Cho looked melancholy. Her sadness only made her large, dark eyes more beautiful. When he saw her gaze drift across the Great Hall, Harry's stomach clenched. Quickly, he stared down at his plate.

There had been moments, scattered over the last two years, when he'd sensed electricity between him and Cho. Before he could summon the courage to act on it, Cedric Diggory had stepped in. Alive, Cedric had been a rival he could have faced. With Cedric dead--martyred, in fact--Harry didn't stand a chance. This year he'd subjected himself to an elective with Professor Binns, Oriental Magic I, just because he'd overheard she'd be taking it. Even so, he hadn't had the courage to strike up a conversation even once.

"There's the expert," Ron said suddenly. "Ask him."

Startled, Harry looked up. Across the hall, Dobby was walking slowly toward them, but he didn't look like himself. His newly acquired stocking cap looked bedraggled, and his polka-dotted tie hung askew over the maroon cardigan Ron had given him the Christmas before. Harry frowned. What kind of a day was it when even a house elf looked pensive?

Ron seemed oblivious to their little friend's mood--oblivious to everything, in fact, except the chance to prove Hermione wrong. "Hey, Dobby. Settle an argument for us--"

Hermione shushed him. When the house elf drew near she asked gently, "What's wrong?"

"Winky. Winky is what's wrong." Dobby sighed. Then he flopped to the floor. "Wrong is what Winky is. All wrong."

"Maybe if she took a holiday--" Hermione ventured.

"From work?" Dobby shook his head furiously. "Work is what Winky needs. All she does is drink butterbeer and moan about the Crouches. Working for the Crouches was all Winky knew."

"See?" Ron murmured under his breath.

"What about you?" Hermione asked. "You like having a day off, don't you?"

"Indeed Dobby does." A large tear glistened at the corner of one saucer-sized eye. "Dobby would like it a lot more better with Winky."

"See?" Hermione whispered to Ron.

Harry surveyed his friends. Hermione and Ron were gearing up to renew their argument. Dobby was lost in his own misery. Across the room, Cho rose from her table.

Harry screwed his eyes shut, making a deal with himself. If Cho left with a group, he'd go visit Hagrid. If she left by herself--

Harry opened his eyes. Cho was passing through the far door alone. Hastily, he pushed back from the table. With an abrupt good-bye--unnoticed by his friends--he took off after her.

I saw your Quidditch match against Slytherin last week. Great flying. But at the end, Wilhelm Avery, the new Slytherin Seeker, had knocked the Golden Snitch from Cho's hand to win the game--mostly because both beaters on his team had just hit her in the head with Bludgers.

Harry hurried as the door closed behind her. I saw your last Quidditch match. Madame Hooch must have been blind not to call foul against Slytherin.

Harry opened the door only to see the one across the foyer swing shut. What he really wanted to say was, I feel awful about Cedric. I feel it was my fault. He was really a fine fellow.

But when Harry exited Hogwarts and scanned the quilt of flower and herb beds that spread to the edge of the cliff, he couldn't see Cho anywhere. On either side of the huge oak doors, massive stone statues of dragons crouched as if eager to ambush unwelcome visitors. If he could just climb one, he might catch sight of Cho.

Picking a dragon, Harry began to scramble upward. Finding a foothold on a scale, lifting a hand to the curve of a folded wing, up he went. As he grabbed the gritty rock collar encircling the neck, he heard a noise above him like a sharp release of breath. His surprise almost made him lose his grip. He peered up at the narrow balcony that arched the front door. There, elbows on the stone railing, pointed chin cupped in his hands, eyes staring into the distance--for all the world as still as one of the gargoyles on the battlements--stood Snape.

The muscles in Harry's legs went weak. His toe slipped off the dragon scale, and his whole body swung away from the folded wing to hang down the sheer drop of the dragon's breast. Nervously, he cast his eyes to the porch a sickening few yards below his dangling feet. Again he glanced up--this time straight into Snape's cold black eyes.

"Potter," the thin lips mouthed without sound.

Harry's arms lost their power, and he began to fall. But as the stone porch rushed toward him, he felt himself slowing. Still, he suffered a good jolt when his feet hit ground.

Above him, Snape was leaning over the railing, stiffly pointing his black wand. Harry realized that the wizard had just saved him from once again breaking several bones in his body, an experience he was grateful not to repeat. But from the nasty glimmer in the dark eyes, he was afraid Snape had saved him for a punishment even worse.

Snape disappeared from the balcony. Harry didn't need to be told to stay put. After an agonizing wait, the front door opened and the professor stalked toward him.

For a moment, Snape looked him up and down, as if prolonging his own pleasure. Then he said the one thing Harry dreaded most: "Explain yourself."

"Uh, I--"

"Yes?"

"I--"

Miserably, Harry slid his gaze away from Snape, across the porch. There, unbelievably, was Cho--strolling up the front steps with Professor Dane. The two were so close in height, so lively in their conversation, that they looked more like girlfriends than teacher and student.

When she saw him, Cho's animation drained away. She nodded vaguely. Her reaction brought a sicker feeling to Harry's stomach than the threat of Snape had done.

Beside Cho, Professor Dane brightened. "Hi, Severus. Hi, Harry."

"Good morning . . . Ariel."

Snape's hesitancy made Harry dart him a glance. The Potions master's face had gone expressionless, and his eyes had lost their evil glint.

Cho murmured, "Excuse me," then hurried into the castle. Professor Snape and Professor Dane remained.

Snape wasn't finished with him, yet Harry had the distinct impression the older wizard wished he'd go away. When neither professor broke the silence, he looked sidelong at Dane. Her shoulders had drooped.

"Well, bye, now. See you at lunch."

Snape's gaze followed her until she passed through the door. Abruptly, his eyes snapped back to Harry. "Tomorrow at sunrise, detention with Mr. Filch." With that, Snape pivoted on his heel, strode across the porch, and descended the steps.

For a moment, Harry stared. Then relief flooded him. He'd done detention with Filch before, and it wasn't so bad. Better than having points docked from Gryffindor. For once the opportunity to advance Slytherin seemed to have slipped Snape's mind.

All in all, Harry felt lucky.

***

Harry hadn't been in Filch's office since his second year at Hogwarts. The glow from the single hanging lamp was just as dim. The low-ceilinged, windowless room still smelled of fried fish. A medieval assortment of chains and manacles still criss-crossed the back wall, but he knew the jowly caretaker wouldn't threaten him with them. During his previous visit he'd discovered the man was a squib--a child of magical parents who lacked the gift himself. After he'd learned what embarrassment that fact caused the old man, Harry hadn't had the heart to bandy it about--but Filch's fear he might gave Harry a leverage he didn't mind having.

Dipping his ratty quill into a bottle of ink, Filch murmured, "Potter, Harry. Vandalism."

As the caretaker breathlessly recorded the details of yet another schoolboy crime, Harry wondered if the man ever slept. At this hour, his own eyes were barely open. Convincing his owl Hedwig to wake him before retiring to the owlery for her daytime sleep had been hard. Convincing himself to get up, even after she'd pecked him repeatedly on the nose, had been harder. Yet Filch was full of the same quivering energy he showed on his nightly haunt for out-of-bed students.

Harry let his gaze wander around the drab room, looking for some detail to keep him awake. He noticed that before Ron's twin brothers Fred and George had graduated, they'd managed to carry out enough pranks to fill two file drawers. He was pleased to see an M drawer labeled Malfoy-Mattison. He hoped both senior and junior Malfoys had fat folders. Then unexpected movement across the floor drew his eye. With growing disgust, Harry realized he was looking at a pack of cockroaches--a dozen at least. Yuck. And they were feeding on something--a chunk of pastry Filch had carelessly dropped.

Harry shivered as a creepy-crawly feeling spread along his back. Just like Filch to be self-righteously shocked by each smidgen of dirt that fell from a student's shoe yet allow that on his office floor. He was surprised Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved gray cat, wasn't playing with them. But the horrible bag of bones was evidently out prowling.

"Defacing the dragons. A prime offense," Filch muttered as he wrote. "Scrubbing the dragons. A just penance."

***

By the time the sun rose over the beech trees, Harry had barely finished scraping the rain stains and bird droppings of who knew how many years from the fringe of spikes framing one dragon's face. He'd never have guessed the marble beneath would be white. Only ten more hours or so to go, he told himself. What reasonable person would consider that fair punishment for a couple of scuff marks? But whoever said Snape and Filch were reasonable?

At first, Harry had given the caretaker credit for working along with him, scrubbing the filth that coated the dragon's tail. Then Filch had mumbled to himself, "Dumbledore will be along--any moment now. Dumbledore will be along for his morning stroll. Won't he be surprised?" Harry had realized the old man was just trying to impress his boss.

As Harry rubbed an especially stubborn spot on the dragon's collar, he wondered about this cleaning potion Snape had provided. When Professor Dane had passed earlier, she'd actually poked her wand in it and given it a sniff. She'd pronounced the solution unusual but had said nothing more.

Glowering at the stain, Harry decided unusual was an understatement. Knowing Snape's vindictiveness, he was sure he'd made it weak on purpose. Muggles made better cleaning products.

Maybe when Dumbledore walks by, he'll take mercy and let me go.

As that thought crossed his mind, Harry noticed far below him the silver-haired wizard himself. Sunshine glinted off his half-moon glasses as he tipped his long, white beard upward.

"Great job, men! The old girl is starting to shine."

Glancing at Filch, Harry saw pleasure relax his pinched features.

"Yes, sir. Any minute, I'll see my reflection."

Dumbledore chuckled and ambled closer. "Mind if I try?"

Harry sighed and massaged an ache in his neck. Dumbledore was acting as if scrubbing statues were fun. The headmaster of Hogwarts--the wizard identified on his Chocolate Frogs trading card as possibly the greatest of modern times--was lifting a dripping scouring pad from Filch's bucket and reaching toward the dragon's grimy foot.

When the pad touched the statue, a loud snap made Harry flinch. With growing alarm, he saw color spread from the point Dumbledore had touched up the dragon's leg. No longer white marble, the body was becoming red, scaly, and very much alive.

Filch shrieked, scrambled off the tail, and scurried to the castle door. The headmaster sprang back and slapped his robes all over, obviously searching for his wand. Before Harry could think to grab his own, he felt life rippling in the dragon's neck. The stone collar transformed into a thick leather band studded with iron spikes. As if awakening from sleep, the dragon sinuously twisted its head. Harry's bucket of cleaning solution cascaded to the porch. He grabbed the collar with both hands and clung to it.

Twice in the past Harry had had experience with dragons. Dealing with Hagrid's baby Norwegian Ridgeback had been tricky. Handling the yellow-eyed Hungarian Horntail in the Triwizard Tournament had been challenging. But both of those times he'd been prepared. Now, as the Chinese Fireball thrashed beneath him, all he could do was hang on.

"Petrify!" Dumbledore's command rang out above the snorts of the dragon. "Fossilize!"

Neither spell worked. As the dragon whipped its head, Harry's legs swung out in an arc. Far below, he sighted Dumbledore--solitary, composed, armed only with his wand. The day Harry had watched wizard wranglers control four dragons, the word they'd used had been stupefy! But it had taken at least seven in unison to manage each beast. What could Dumbledore do alone?

Tightening one hand around the collar, Harry tried to jab his other into his robes for his own wand. If he could catch the headmaster's eye, a spell from two might work better than from one.

No such luck. Dumbledore was rushing toward the dragon. No, he was rushing toward Filch's dirty pail. Pointing his wand at the murky liquid, the wizard shouted, "Detransmogrify!" Then he tossed aside his wand, seized the bucket, and splashed the contents on the dragon.

Enraged, the Chinese Fireball bellowed, then spat out a crackling flame. She swooped her head down, mouth gaping, going for Dumbledore. For an instant, Harry thought the greatest wizard of modern times had made a horrible mistake.

Then he heard a crack, the same as he'd heard before. Veins of white snaked up the shimmering hide. The dragon roared, then stiffened. Just in time, Harry unhooked his fingers from the collar as once again it turned to stone. Without a grip, he found himself sliding down the bumpy marble back.

Hitting the patio inelegantly on his rear end, Harry felt the air whoosh out of him. With his next gasp, he started laughing. The fire-breathing monster that could have killed both Dumbledore and him was again safely made of stone. And every square inch of it was sparkling clean.

***

An hour later, Harry was perched on the dirty foot of the other dragon, sucking a licorice wand. When Professor Dane had recommended it, Madame Pomfrey had pursed her lips. Licorice wands were not a recognized restorative after endangerment by a dragon--unlike chocolate after contact with a dementor. Smiling, Dane had replied, Couldn't hurt.

Taking a bite, Harry wondered if the professor had put a spell on the licorice. It made him feel cozy, like a wee boy listening to a fairy tale--not a gawky teen that had just survived one. Being sent to the corner with a piece of candy also made him sheepishly aware of how little he could offer to the debate going on among the four Hogwarts masters examining the amazing transforming statue. It was over before I even took out my wand.

Across the porch, Professor Flitwick, the Charms master, patted the marble toes. "Could be an enchanted dragon. Could be Albus's flattery broke some ancient spell."

"Nonsense." Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration master, glanced down at her tiny colleague, then up at the towering statue. "If this were a real dragon, wouldn't the rock have silently faded as it emerged from enchantment? Albus and Potter both heard a snap. Definitely stone transfigured into a dragon."

When McGonagall shot him a sidelong look, Harry nodded. "Snap."

Dane smiled. "Wouldn't Hogwarts's history tell you whether enchanted dragons had ever been placed here? We could go ask Professor Binns."

Both McGonagall and Flitwick grimaced. Neither, Harry thought, wanted to get the deadly dull Professor Binns started on the topic of Hogwarts's history.

Dumbledore gestured toward the statue. "I rather like it this way."

Harry had to agree it showed a certain flair. Instead of mere vigilance, the dragon projected menace--neck arched, wings unfurled, fangs bared.

Dumbledore stroked his silver beard. "Enchantment or transfiguration, our main concern is to make certain it stays this way. We can't have unsuspecting passers-by confronted by dragon fire, now can we? If we each cast a spell to keep it in place, that should do the trick."

The other three professors nodded.

Harry frowned. Shouldn't their main concern be what made the statue change? But Snape, the master of magic most pertinent to that point, wasn't part of the discussion. He was away for the day. On business.

Harry tossed the end of his licorice wand into a ranunculus bed. Let the ants finish it. He stared at the two empty pails lying beside the marble dragon. Whatever potion had been in them, it certainly had not been meant for cleaning.