Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, but Hermione shrugged wearily and
said, “Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle... . Come on, let's go.”
Harry had barely closed the door on Myrtle's gurgling sobs when a loud voice
made all three of them jump.
Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, prefect badge agleam,
an expression of complete shock on his face.
“That's a girls' bathroom!” he gasped. “What were you -?”
“Just having a look around,” Ron shrugged. “Clues, you know—”
Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Harry forcefully of Mrs. Weasley.
“Get—away—from—there—” Perry said, striding toward them and starting to bustle
them along, flapping his arms. “Don't you care what this looks like? Coming back
here while everyone's at dinner—”
“Why shouldn't we be here?” said Ron hotly, stopping short and glaring at Percy.
“Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!”
“That's what I told Ginny,” said Percy fiercely, “but she still seems to think
you're going to be expelled, I've never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out,
you might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this business—”
“You don't care about Ginny,” said Ron, whose ears were now reddening. “You're
just worried I'm going to mess up your chances of being Head Boy—”
“Five points from Gryffindor!” Percy said tersely, fingering his prefect badge.
“And I hope it teaches you a lesson! No more detective work, or I'll write to Mum!”
And he strode off, the back of his neck as red as Ron's ears.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as possible from Percy in the common
room that night. Ron was still in a very bad temper and kept blotting his Charms
homework. When he reached absently for his wand to remove the smudges, it ignited
the parchment. Fuming almost as much as his homework, Ron slammed The Standard Book
of Spells, Grade 2 shut. To Harry's surprise, Hermione followed suit.
“Who can it be, though?” she said in a quiet voice, as though continuing a conversation
they had just been having. “Who'd want to frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns
out of Hogwarts?”
“Let's think,” said Ron in mock puzzlement. “Who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns
He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back, unconvinced.
“If you're talking about Malfoy—”
“Of course I am!” said Ron. “You heard him—`You'll be next, Mudbloods!'come on,
you've only got to look at his foul rat face to know it's him—”
“Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?” said Hermione skeptically.
“Look at his family,” said Harry, closing his books, too. “The whole lot of them
have been in Slytherin; he's always boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin's
descendants. His father's definitely evil enough.”
“They could've had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!” said Ron.
“Handing it down, father to son...”
“Well,” said Hermione cautiously, “I suppose it's possible...”
“But how do we prove it?” said Harry darkly.
“There might be a way,” said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice still further
with a quick glance across the room at Percy. “Of course, it would be difficult.
And dangerous, very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect—”
“If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won't
you?” said Ron irritably.
“All right,” said Hermione coldly. “What we'd need to do is to get inside the
Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it's
“But that's impossible,” Harry said as Ron laughed.
“No, it's not,” said Hermione. “All we'd need would be some Polyjuice Potion.”
“What's that?” said Ron and Harry together.
“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago—”
“D'you think we've got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to Snape?”
“It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change into three
of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us anything.
He's probably boasting about it in the Slytherin common room right now, if only
we could hear him.”
“This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me,” said Ron, frowning. “What if
we were stuck looking like three of the Slytherins forever?”
“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her hand impatiently. “But
getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called
Moste Potente Potions and it's bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library.”
There was only one way to get out a book from the Restricted Section: You needed
a signed note of permission from a teacher. “Hard to see why we'd want the book,
really,” said Ron, “if we weren't going to try and make one of the potions.”
“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as though we were just interested
in the theory, we might stand a chance...”
“Oh, come on, no teacher's going to fall for that,” said Ron. “They'd have to
be really thick...”
THE ROGUE BLUDGER
Since the disastrous episode of the pixies, Professor Lockhart had not brought
live creatures to class. Instead, he read passages from his books to them, and sometimes
reenacted some of the more dramatic bits. He usually picked Harry to help him with
these reconstructions; so far, Harry had been forced to play a simple Transylvanian
villager whom Lockhart had cured of a Babbling Curse, a yeti with a head cold, and
a vampire who had been unable to eat anything except lettuce since Lockhart had
dealt with him.
Harry was hauled to the front of the class during their very next Defense Against
the Dark Arts lesson, this time acting a werewolf If he hadn't had a very good reason
for keeping Lockhart in a good mood, he would have refused to do it.
“Nice loud howl, Harry—exactly—and then, if you'll believe it, I pounced—like
this—slammed him to the floor—thus with one hand, I managed to hold him down—with
my other, I put my wand to his throat -I then screwed up my remaining strength and
performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm—he let out a piteous moan—go on,
Harry—higher than that—good—the fur vanished—the fangs shrank—and he turned back
into a man. Simple, yet effective—and another village will remember me forever as
the hero who delivered them from the monthly terror of werewolf attacks.”
The bell rang and Lockhart got to his feet.
“Homework—compose a poem about my defeat of the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Signed
copies of Magical Me to the author of the best one!”
The class began to leave. Harry returned to the back of the room, where Ron and
Hermione were waiting.
“Ready?” Harry muttered.
“Wait till everyone's gone,” said Hermione nervously. “All right .. . “
She approached Lockhart's desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand,
Harry and Ron right behind her.
“Er—Professor Lockhart?” Hermione stammered. “I wanted to—to get this book out
of the library. Just for background reading.” She held out the piece of paper, her
hand shaking slightly. “But the thing is, it's in the Restricted Section of the
library, so I need a teacher to sign for it—I'm sure it would help me understand
what you say in Gadding with Ghouls about slow-acting venoms...”
“Ah, Gadding with Ghouls!” said Lockhart, taking the note from Hermione and smiling
widely at her. “Possibly my very favorite book. You enjoyed it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hermione eagerly. “So clever, the way you trapped that last one
with the tea-strainer—”
“Well, I'm sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year a little
extra help,” said Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock quill.
“Yes, nice, isn't it?” he said, misreading the revolted look on Ron's face. “I usually
save it for book-signings.”
He scrawled an enormous loopy signature on the note and handed it back to Hermione.
“So, Harry,” said Lockhart, while Hermione folded the note with fumbling fingers
and slipped it into her bag. “Tomorrow's the first Quidditch match of the season,
I believe? Gryffindor against Slytherin, is it not? I hear you're a useful player.
I was a Seeker, too. I was asked to try for the National Squad, but preferred to
dedicate my life to the eradication of the Dark Forces. Still, if ever you feel
the need for a little private training, don't hesitate to ask. Always happy to pass
on my expertise to less able players...”
Harry made an indistinct noise in his throat and then hurried off after Ron and
“I don't believe it,” he said as the three of them examined the signature on
the note. “He didn't even look at the book we wanted.”
“That's because he's a brainless git,” said Ron. “But who cares, we've got what
“He is not a brainless git,” said Hermione shrilly as they half ran toward the
“Just because he said you were the best student of the year—”
They dropped their voices as they entered the muffled stillness of the library.
Madam Pince, the librarian, was a thin, irritable woman who looked like an underfed
“Moste Potente Potions?” she repeated suspiciously, trying to take the note from
Hermione; but Hermione wouldn't let go.
“I was wondering if I could keep it,” she said breathlessly.
“Oh, come on,” said Ron, wrenching it from her grasp and thrusting it at Madam
Pince. “We'll get you another autograph. Lockhart'll sign anything if it stands
still long enough.”
Madam Pince held the note up to the light, as though determined to detect a forgery,
but it passed the test. She stalked away between the lofty shelves and returned
several minutes later carrying a large and moldy-looking book. Hermione put it carefully
into her bag and they left, trying not to walk too quickly or look too guilty.
Five minutes later, they were barricaded in Moaning Myrtle's out-oforder bathroom
once again. Hermione had overridden Ron's objections by pointing out that it was
the last place anyone in their right minds would go, so they were guaranteed some
privacy. Moaning Myrtle was crying noisily in her stall, but they were ignoring
her, and she them.
Hermione opened Moste Potente Potions carefully, and the three of them bent over
the damp-spotted pages. It was clear from a glance why it belonged in the Restricted
Section. Some of the potions had effects almost too gruesome to think about, and
there were some very unpleasant illustrations, which included a man who seemed to
have been turned inside out and a witch sprouting several extra pairs of arms out
of her head.
“Here it is,” said Hermione excitedly as she found the page headed The Polyjuice
Potion. It was decorated with drawings of people halfway through transforming into
other people. Harry sincerely hoped the artist had imagined the looks of intense
pain on their faces.
“This is the most complicated potion I've ever seen,” said Hermione as they scanned
the recipe. “Lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and knotgrass,” she murmured, running
her finger down the list of ingredients. “Well, they're easy enough, they're in
the student storecupboard, we can help ourselves... Oooh, look, powdered horn of
a Bicorn—don't know where we're going to get that—shredded skin of a Boomslang -.
that'll be tricky, too and of course a bit of whoever we want to change into.”
“Excuse me?” said Ron sharply. “What d'you mean, a bit of whoever we're changing
into? I'm drinking nothing with Crabbe's toenails in it—”
Hermione continued as though she hadn't heard him.
“We don't have to worry about that yet, though, because we add those bits last...
Ron turned, speechless, to Harry, who had another worry.
“D'you realize how much we're going to have to steal, Hermione? Shredded skin
of a boomslang, that's definitely not in the students' cupboard. What're we going
to do, break into Snape's private stores? I don't know if this is a good idea...”
Hermione shut the book with a snap.
“Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine,” she said. There were bright
pink patches on her cheeks and her eyes were brighter than usual. “I don't want
to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing
up a difficult potion. But if you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll go
straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in -'
“I never thought Id see the day when you'd be persuading us to break rules,”
said Ron. “All right, we'll do it. But not toenails, okay?”
“How long will it take to make, anyway?” said Harry as Hermione, looking happier,
opened the book again.
“Well, since the fluxweed has got to be picked at the full moon and the lacewings
have got to be stewed for twenty-one days... I'd say it'd be ready in about a month,
if we can get all the ingredients.”
“A month?” said Ron. “Malfoy could have attacked half the Muggleborns in the
school by then!” But Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously again, and he added swiftly,
“But it's the best plan we've got, so full steam ahead, I say.”
However, while Hermione was checking that the coast was clear for them to leave
the bathroom, Ron muttered to Harry, “It'll be a lot less hassle if you can just
knock Malfoy off his broom tomorrow.
Harry woke early on Saturday morning and lay for a while thinking about the coming
Quidditch match. He was nervous, mainly at the thought of what Wood would say if
Gryffindor lost, but also at the idea of facing a team mounted on the fastest racing
brooms gold could buy. He had never wanted to beat Slytherin so badly. After half
an hour of lying there with his insides churning, he got up, dressed, and went down
to breakfast early, where he found the rest of the Gryffindor team huddled at the
long, empty table, all looking uptight and not speaking much.
As eleven o'clock approached, the whole school started to make its way down to
the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the
air. Ron and Hermione came hurrying over to wish Harry good luck as he entered the
locker rooms. The team pulled on their scarlet Gryffindor robes, then sat down to
listen to Wood's usual pre-match pep talk.