There are not many of us left now who remember Tom Riddle as a schoolboy.

Plenty of people knew, or claim that they knew, the Boy Who Lived in the year when he opened the Chamber of Secrets (although most of their accounts are curiously vague as to what, exactly, he did in there, and one infers that they were not present themselves). Harry Potter's biography, when some enterprising witch or wizard gets around to writing it, seems certain to be a best-seller; it might even be truthful enough to deserve that status. But as to the only other time in living memory when Slytherin's monster had the run of Hogwarts, it isn't widely known, even now, that Riddle was the one responsible. I know it, and much else besides, only because I was there.

It seems incongruous, now: I've spent a lifetime chasing stories, but never published the one that might have been the scoop of my career. It wasn't even a matter of protecting a source; rather, of the journalist protecting herself from her source. I was quite terrified enough that the Dark Lord would catch up with me one day, without attracting his attention by tattling on his youthful indiscretions. Even after his self-extinguishment in pursuit of the infant Potter, that still left young Rubeus Hagrid, who need never have been expelled from Hogwarts, if only I had breathed what I knew into the right pair of ears. Sixty years ago, that was, and I still have nightmares in which I have to explain myself to him. At the time, of course, I was only glad to have escaped any suspicion myself. One has to be out of one's teens to truly feel shame.

That year was my fifth at Hogwarts, but the first in which I had to pay attention to much besides enjoying myself. Then as now, fifth year was O.W.L. year, and all of us felt terribly oppressed by the volume of school work, and the looming challenge -- palpable as early as the previous October -- of the final examinations. (Little did we know, in those innocent days, what a real high-pressure job was like. Some of us, at least, would discover that soon enough.) There was homework given in every class, and it was never the kind that could be dashed off in five minutes whilst waiting for a Quidditch match to start. Sooner or later, all of us learned that we had to schedule regular desk time for ourselves to get through it all. I wasn't (and never have been) very good at that, but I think I handled the stress better than most, albeit mostly by assiduous procrastination.

The attacks were another matter. They started about a week into the spring term, when a first-year Gryffindor boy named Michael O'Leary was found unconscious in a second-floor corridor with two black eyes and blood all over his face. He wasn't able to describe clearly what had happened to him, but he was adamant that no other students had been involved; he'd been alone as far as he knew.

Then came Susan Trent, a few days later, who never returned to her dormitory in Ravenclaw Tower one Saturday night. O'Leary was nobody, but Susan was a popular sixth-year, widely regarded as the front-runner to be the next Head Girl, and her friends roused the staff and insisted on a search of the Hogwarts grounds in the small hours of Sunday morning. She was eventually found by Professor Dumbledore, half-in and half-out of the icy lake, soaked to the skin, and almost passed out from the cold. None of the teachers would venture an opinion on what might have befallen her; Dumbledore only remarked, in his usual imperturbable way, that perhaps Susan had felt like a walk in the moonlight, and did the school have any Mandrake roots on hand? (I'm sure he was a lot more worried than he was letting on, but he was very good at not showing it.) Poor Susan, she never quite recovered her self-confidence, and at her own request she was not made a prefect the following year.

After a few more such incidents, someone noticed that all the unfortunates involved were Muggle-born. A wild rumour swept through the school, to the effect that a “monster� had been released from the dramatic-sounding “Chamber of Secrets� (wherever that was) by someone styling themselves the “Heir of Slytherin�. The victims were presumably all students that it disapproved of. Or, possibly, that the Heir disapproved of. No-one seemed to know what sort of creature the monster was, or who Slytherin's Heir might be, but the story -- such as it was -- spread regardless. I suppose it made a kind of sense: who in wizarding Britain was more concerned with blood purity than Salazar Slytherin himself? Too bad the man was a thousand years dead. As you can probably imagine, this didn't make life any happier for us in Slytherin House: none of the victims were ours, and we were generally assumed to be sheltering the invisible perpetrator.

My friend Lavinia Bell had a theory that the Heir of Slytherin was actually the Head of Slytherin, Professor Horace Slughorn. She explained it all to me one day as we sat in the back row of double Transfiguration with the Gryffindors. It wasn't quite the most implausible load of tripe I'd ever heard -- though it came close -- but it was at least easier to follow than most of the material Professor Dumbledore was droning on about.

“Today we will be transforming pincushions into geraniums,� he'd begun. “But this is not the kind of straightforward Transfiguration spell you all mastered in first year -- quite the contrary, indeed.� He smiled at us over his half-moon spectacles; Dumbledore never looked happier than when he was explaining some complicated piece of magic. “You will need to pay close attention to several of the multifarious possible effects,� he went on. “Those of you who have studied Arithmancy� -- which ruled out both Lavinia and me -- “may perceive at once that both the number and the arrangement of the pins in the pincushion will have a bearing on the technique required. Now, who can tell me why this is so?�

I couldn't have told him, not to save my life, but it turned out that someone could. The same someone -- her name escapes me, after all these years -- knew that there were 481 species of geranium, including 69 varieties with magical properties; just as well Dumbledore didn't ask her to name them all. Instead, he lectured us on the theory for another twenty minutes or so, then divided the class into pairs to try the spell out. We were supposed to keep notes on how variations in wand movement, incantation, and the intended colour of the flower petals affected the outcome, but I soon discovered that Lavinia couldn't get the same result twice running even if she tried to, which was rather discouraging. Professor Dumbledore, meanwhile, was busy inviting some of the more capable students in the class to turn their geraniums back into pincushions, and to ponder why they always ended up with more pins than they'd had to start with. (“This is really a N.E.W.T. level question, but it won't hurt to stretch you a little.�) Needless to say, neither of us were in that league, and we soon reverted to discussing Lavinia's theory about the Heir of Slytherin.

“But Susan was one of Slughorn's favourites!� I told her exasperatedly. “She went to the Slug Club Christmas party with Cyril Hughes, remember?�

“Exactly!� Lavinia replied. “With Hughes -- another Muggle-born! Slughorn could overlook her blood status, but the two of them getting together was too much for him! He probably imagined them married and having double-Muggle-born children, and decided to sic his monster on her in a fit of rage. If I were Cyril, I'd be dead scared now...�

There was more in this vein, but it was cut short by Professor Dumbledore announcing that we should spend the last ten minutes of the period preparing a written summary of our notes, which he would be collecting at the end of the class. This occasioned a minor panic among those of us who had yet to make any notes worth summarizing. I was left with no choice but to shoulder-tap my cousin Bernard, who was sitting in the row in front of me; fortunately, Bernard was in a generous mood and willing to share. He turned sideways, allowing both Lavinia and I to see what he had written, and I carefully paraphrased his words so that it would not be obvious that his work and mine had the same primary source. I would usually have done the same for Lavinia -- she wasn't as good at that sort of thing -- but there was no time; I had to just hope she'd get away with it.

“Avery!� Dumbledore warned from the front of the room. Bernard and I both looked up guiltily, to see him striding forcefully down the aisle towards us, arms swinging. The classroom turned the rest of its heads in our direction. Dumbledore had a curious way of signalling trouble without actually raising his voice; if he sounded mildly disappointed, you knew you were in the soup. “Yes, you too, Beatrice. And Miss Bell, as well. Did you really think I wouldn't notice you copying another student's work?�

There was no answer to that. It did seem, on reflection, to have been a remarkably foolish and desperate thing to have tried, because very few things evaded Dumbledore's notice.

He shook his head sadly, making his splendid auburn beard swing back and forth like a pendulum. “Ten points from Gryffindor for you, Miss Bell, and twenty from Slytherin for you, Avery and Avery. And three detentions. I suggest you use the remaining time to formulate some brief notes of your own on today's work. It needn't be an epistle; something short and lucid will do me nicely.�

Dumbledore held us back after class, to tell us that our detentions would be on the following Saturday. “Mr. Ogg has been looking for someone to harvest his Chinese nettle patch for him,� he explained, “he'd much rather not have to do it himself. He'll be delighted that you three have volunteered. Don't forget your dragon-hide gloves.� Bernard was a real brick about it; didn't blame us at all, which cheered us up a little. After all, we assured each other as we left the classroom, it was the sort of thing that could happen four or five times to anybody.

Albus Dumbledore, of course, had quite a lot on his plate just then. The rest of the Hogwarts staff would almost certainly have been looking to him -- brilliant and fearless wizard, twelve uses of dragon's blood, etc, etc -- to do something about the mysterious attacks on Muggle-borns. One can only imagine the sense of frustration engendered by his complete inability to do so. As if that were not enough, there was also ever-increasing pressure on him to confront the monstrous Gellert Grindelwald, then at the very height of his appalling powers in Europe. In hindsight, I'm not surprised that the first streaks of silver began to appear in Dumbledore's beard around that time. The real wonder, perhaps, is where he found the energy to teach us anything at all.

However, the only thing getting through to me, self-centred child that I was, was that the great man had dealt rather harshly with a minor classroom infraction. A whole morning's detention, for accepting a little bit of non-magical help from another student? Unprecedented, and unnecessarily severe, I thought as I dressed for the ordeal.

Heavy canvas overalls: two pair, inner and outer. Thick walking boots. (If ever you need a thankless “no comment� from the sort of misanthropic witch or wizard that puts an Anti-Apparition Jinx on their back-of-beyond mountaintop abode, I have an old pair going cheap.) Dragon-hide gloves. I practiced the Bubble-Head Charm in front of the bathroom mirror, and a plain sort of face stared blurrily back at me. Brown eyes and hair (the latter threatening to escape from beneath a tight-fitting leather cap); tolerable skin; nose too long. A practical witch in a practical outfit with a job to do.

The worst of it wasn't having to pick Chinese nettles, which to be honest I didn't mind all that much, but losing half a day's study time. I was badly behind on homework and O.W.L. preparation, and had been relying on that weekend for a chance to make some headway. I supposed I would just have to make it up later on.

“Is this all of you?�, Mr. Ogg asked gruffly, when he opened the door of his hut in response to Lavinia's tentative knock. He was a squat, middle-aged wizard who wore hobnailed boots (even indoors) and a cloth cap over his coarse grey hair. “Right then, the nettles are round the back. Do I have to give you the safety talk, or have you done all this before?�

We assured him that we'd done Chinese nettles in Herbology.

“Good,� he said shortly. “Cut 'em with these copper sickles� -- he produced them -- “and put the leaves in the basket I've left for you. Don't try to rush the job, or you'll spoil 'em and put yourselves in the hospital wing besides. Take reg'lar breaks, and don't forget to renew your Bubble-Head Charms.�

It was slow, fiddly work; the nettles grew in a great mass of thin stems which had to be individually severed. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, we began to get rather hot in our layers of protective clothing; Ogg had, naturally enough, planted his herb garden on the sunny side of his hut. I wished I'd brought a mug, or could remember how to transfigure a mushroom or something into one. Given a vessel, I could have managed a charm to fill it with potable water -- but that got me halfway to nowhere, as my mother would have said.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knocking noise from the far side of the hut, shortly followed by the sound of Ogg opening his front door and admitting visitors. The three of us looked at each other and, by tacit agreement, stopped work to listen.

“Good of you to host us here, Mr. Ogg,� came the thin, reedy voice of the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, faintly through an open window. “We'd have met in my office, but...� He trailed off.

“But we cannot be completely sure what may be hiding in our walls, at present,� Professor Dumbledore finished for him firmly.

“Quite,� Dippet continued. “Besides, it seems only appropriate that we should come to you, as it is your idea we intend to discuss.�

“No trouble, Professor,� Ogg assured him. “Make yourselves at home. Can I offer you a cup o'tea?�

There followed the gurgle of hot water being poured, and the clinking of spoons in cups. Outside, we put down our sickles and tried to find positions from which we could hear clearly without being seen. Well, it wasn't every day we got to eavesdrop on the Hogwarts staff.

“Now then,� Dippet continued eventually, “we have a problem, and we all know what it is. What are we going to do about it?�

“You know what I think, Armando.� Did Dumbledore sound the tiniest bit regretful? “The only responsible course is to close the school. We do not know what we are facing, although I have one or two shrewd guesses, and every day we delay risks some dreadful tragedy. We must swallow our pride, and send the students home as soon as possible.�

“Yes, Albus, I know, but the school's governors are of the view -- and I must say I concur -- that the most elegant solution would be to identify and neutralise the threat without disruption to teaching or the upcoming examinations.�

“Muggins' chance o' that,� put in Ogg. “Even the house-elves have given up searching -- and if they're stumped, so am I.�

“Is the whereabouts of this Chamber of Secrets truly quite unknown?� asked Dippet plaintively. “Surely there must be some record of what the school used it for, or of its original construction?�

“Records get lost,� replied Dumbledore, “over the centuries. Some of Hogwarts' secrets, admittedly, are so well-known as to be scarcely secret at all. But many others are in the possession of just a few, or perhaps one person alone. Others still must be secrets indeed, not being known to anyone.�

“Someone knows,� growled Ogg darkly. “Monsters don't let 'emselves out.�

“But has no-one ever looked?� Dippet pleaded. “I know, students go exploring all the time -- we did it in my day, too -- but surely some competent adult wizard, at some time, has made a systematic search for the Chamber?�

“To the best of my knowledge,� Dumbledore began at once, “the last was Jeremiah Hipkins, who was sent up by the Ministry of Magic for just that purpose in 1807. Apparently the Muggle authorities believed him to be a French spy, and the Ministry didn't want him wandering around London causing trouble. Alas, he died of dragon pox before discovering anything.�

“Well, that doesn't help us,� sighed Dippet. “Let us turn to Mr. Ogg's proposal.�

There was a meaningful silence, followed by the sound of Ogg clearing his throat.

“My brother-in-law,� he began hesitantly, “once knew a foreign bloke who specialised in this type o'thing. Getting rid of magical beasts that weren't wanted. There's a whole order of 'em, a kind of guild, if you know what I mean.�

“I do know,� Dumbledore reassured him thoughtfully. “Yes, that might be worth a try... it would rankle to admit defeat, of course... but there is no shame in allowing others to apply skills we lack... �

“But, Mr. Ogg,� Dippet responded, sounding uneasy, “if you mean what I think you do, might there not be considerable danger in allowing such a person into Hogwarts? There are well-known cases where the application of these arts has led to most unfortunate outcomes. In a school, of all places; is this wise?�

“Folk tales,� replied Dumbledore decisively, and I could tell that he, at least, had made up his mind on the spot. “We are not the foolish and venal types one finds caricatured in Beedle; we are capable wizards, all of us. There is no magic we cannot cope with, if only it will show itself.�

Speak for yourself, I thought glumly, and by the sound of it Dippet and Ogg were trying tactfully to express similar sentiments. But Dumbledore knew his ground: he first reassured Ogg that his idea was a sound one, and then the two of them united to win over the Headmaster.

After the two visitors left, we hastily went back to cutting nettles in case Ogg should decide to check on us.

“What was all that about?� Lavinia asked in a low voice. “Getting someone in to find Slytherin's monster? Who could they possibly get that would be better than Dumbledore?�

“I don't know,� Bernard replied slowly. “But I do know someone I'll have to tell about this.�

“Who?� I challenged him at once.

“Tom Riddle.�

The following weekend would have brought the last Hogsmeade Saturday of the term -- but it was cancelled, of course. A fortnight previously, Headmaster Dippet had announced, to groans of disappointment, that any and all permissions to leave the school grounds were suspended until further notice. “For the sake of student safety� was the phrase he'd used, but we all knew what he meant: no Hogsmeade until a stop was put to the unfortunate accidents befalling anyone with too much Muggle blood in them.

Lavinia, I believe, spent that afternoon with a pack of other Gryffindors, searching the sixth floor for the Chamber of Secrets. Goodness only knows what they intended to do if they found it; draw the monster's putative fangs with a mass Disarming spell, perhaps. I wasn't tempted to join them. Not that I'd have minded the acclaim of a grateful school for my single-handed discovery and vanquishing of the beast -- that was the stuff of daydreams -- but I really hadn't the defective sense of self-preservation that seemed to be required. (I didn't have the brains for Ravenclaw or the honest-toiling empathy for Hufflepuff, either. Some days, I used to wonder whether the Sorting Hat had only known what not to do with me.)

One thing I had noticed was that several of the purported attacks had occurred along the shoreline of the lake. Perhaps the culprit was hiding somewhere in its depths? I'd even briefly suspected the giant squid, though it was hard to believe that such a sweet-natured creature would want to harm anyone. The last time my fat old raven, Tuck, had been in a receptive mood, I'd gently suggested to him that he might occasionally check the shore for anything untoward. Just in case.

There were more than a few ravens at Hogwarts in those days, although they were never as popular as owls. They could be a bit sniffy about carrying the post, for one thing: Tuck would often simply decide that being a wizards' go-between was rather beneath him, and that he had better things to do. I should explain that Tuck, unlike some of the ravens one encounters in myths and stories (and some real ones, too), didn't talk much. But he was no less intelligent than the rest of his kind, and he could certainly be talked to. He had a way of cocking his head, first on one side and then on the other, as if to say “Is that so? But, on the other hand, have you considered...� and then I would have to work out what logical point he was making. He was a good, sobering influence on me, most of the time, although he did love to terrorise the other students' toads, if he caught any of them out of doors.

I found Tuck behind Greenhouse One, digging up the remains of a sausage he had buried there a week or two before, by the look of it. We had a nice long chat while he disposed of the meat, the substance of which was that the lake was wet and boring, and nothing of any interest had happened beside it since Victoria Davies and Adam Weasley had found the shore to be a rather less private place than they'd imagined. He (Tuck, that is) gave me some pretty sharp looks when I mentioned that, and once even broke into a sort of croaking laugh he had -- which assured me that, whatever he might pretend, he was still keeping an eye on the place.

“Well, where is this monster, then?� I said to him frustratedly. “How many hiding-places are there that would let it pop up here, there, and everywhere to attack people? And why would it scurry straight back to this Chamber of Secrets afterwards, instead of hanging around where we can see it?�

“No-one sees it!� cawed Tuck. “It isn't there! It isn't there!�

That was one of his few vocal contributions of the afternoon, and I unwisely ignored it. I was trying to remember whether any of the creatures in either Burkhalter's Bestiary or Scamander's book were naturally invisible, and the only ones I could think of were the herbivorous Demiguise and the Thestral, neither of which seemed to fit the bill. (Surely some of the teachers would have been able to see Thestrals?) Eventually, I gave up on the mystery for the time being, said goodbye to Tuck, and drifted back to the common room, where I found a couple of excited third-years who'd just discovered how to get into the kitchens and butter up the house-elves. They were distributing unseasonal mince pies to all comers, and my appetite for dinner was quite spoiled -- but that, as it turned out, was just as well.

I was half-hoping Professor Dippet would make some announcement before the food appeared; something touching on the conversation he'd had the week before, perhaps. But he only sat there at the staff table, staring distantly at the far end of the Great Hall and looking, if possible, more tired than he usually did. The chatter of hundreds of students washed around him, the noise blowing his few remaining wisps of white hair to and fro, but he hardly seemed to notice it. Poor man, I remember thinking, he'll be glad when this term is over. When the time came, he raised his wand and gave it a half-hearted swish, causing the laden dishes to appear on the tables, without uttering a word. (He was tougher than he looked, though. Years later, he kept me waiting for a week outside St. Mungo's, wishing he would hurry up and die so I could file the story and go home.)

Everyone began to fill their plates as usual. The variety of fare was rather limited in those days: there was plenty of cabbage, rhubarb, and fish cakes, but things like oranges or rice hardly ever appeared, and we wouldn't have known what a pineapple was if we'd tripped over it. Still, even in Slytherin most of us didn't complain aloud. That would only get us told to be thankful we weren't Muggles, who had their provender rationed for years because of their war. Magic can increase the quantity of food if you already have some, but even a house-elf can't conjure up a banana out of nothing.

I was just reaching for a Toby-jug filled with ginger beer (a rare delicacy) when there was a terrific BANG that silenced the Hall. Everyone stopped talking, or drinking, or whatever they were doing, and looked around to see what had exploded so noisily. Some of us were quick enough to see the carved wooden doors to the Entrance Hall swinging back, recoiling from some tremendous force that had blasted them open. The doors thudded simultaneously into the stone walls on each side of the entrance, and as they did so, the figure of a man strode confidently into the Hall.

We got a good look at him, as he strutted down the centre aisle towards the staff table at the far end. He was a tall, thin bloke in a sort of long, strangely cut coat in motley colours: the left half yellow and the right half red. His face was dark, deeply tanned like that of a wizard from Baghdad who visited my father once, but the most extraordinary deep-blue eyes were set in it, glittering like sapphires. He looked young, but his slow, self-assured gait suggested an older man, one who knew his business thoroughly -- and yet to us he didn't seem entirely serious, either. A very old-fashioned style of jet-black moustache, one of those that points upwards at the ends, twitched whenever he smiled, as though it had just then heard an amusing joke from the mouth beneath it. He wore a wide silk scarf, striped red and yellow to match his coat, around his neck, and hanging off that was what appeared to be a sort of brass musical instrument, like a flute.

The whole school was silent -- without a teacher having demanded it, a rare occurrence indeed -- as it stared at the new arrival. He seemed to enjoy the attention, smiling even more broadly as he stopped in front of Professor Dippet, dropped to one knee, and bowed floridly.

“Good evening, Signor Dippet. Bahman Zinn, at your service. I have come in answer to your advertisement�-- he pronounced the word oddly, as if he were saying “had-her-PIES-sent� --“in the Zauberische Zeitung.�

Dippet looked taken aback. “Last Tuesday's advertisement? Goodness me. Well, that was very prompt of you. Er -- have you visited Hogwarts before?�

Zinn waved his left hand dissmissively. “No, never. But mine is a competitive profession, and for some of us� -- he winked knowingly -- “Apparition is not the only means of rapid travel.�

“Quite. Well, er, are you clear as to the nature of the engagement the school is offering?�

“As finest crystal. Your establishment is plagued by a creature or creatures of unknown size and species, but of unquestionable ferocity.� Zinn turned to address his audience of attentive students, and inhaled deeply, puffing out his chest. “There has been blood shed, and it seems little short of miraculous that no-one has been killed. The finest minds at Hogwarts� -- he inclined his head just a tiny fraction towards Professor Dumbledore, who was seated next to Dippet -- “are confounded by the mystery. A hundred house-elves, who frequent every corner of this magnificent castle, have yet to catch a single glimpse of the brute that torments you. You stand on the brink of a grievous loss of the confidence of parents and supporters of the school. Where else should you turn, at such a time as this, but to the oldest and most respected name in wizarding pest control?�

“Yes, yes,� put in Professor Dumbledore firmly, speaking up before anyone else could, “but before we consent to engage you, we will want to hear your intended plan of campaign. How do you propose to locate this monster of ours? Are you thoroughly familiar with the traditional methods?�

“The traditional methods,� declared Zinn, “are the only ones I practice�. He caught up his golden flute from where it hung by his side, and held it up two-handed at eye level, where all of us could see it. “This pipe,� he went on, is the same one used by my great-grandfather to charm a whole colony of troublesome giants out of the mountains of Bohemia. I believe he led them all the way to the shores of the Adriatic, holding them enthralled with nothing but his music. Two years ago, I myself displaced a highly dangerous vampire from a vault in St. Petersburg; the tune I played was as traditional as any you could wish for, but it was a new one to him.“ Zinn's thick foreign accent was melting like April snow; he sounded more like a distinguished English wizard with every word he spoke, and I wondered where he was really from. �Or -- but this was some time ago now -- there was a certain nest of Occamies in Jharkhand; with this same pipe I lured the lot of them to their doom in the waters of the Ganges. A most effective disposal technique, and one I always recommend.“

�Your credentials,“ wheezed Professor Dippet as Zinn paused for breath, �are most impressive, to be sure. We must discuss the precise terms of your employment later, in a less public atmosphere.“ Zinn's face seemed to fall a little at that, though he hid it well. �In the meantime, please avail yourself of our hospitality. I'm sure that any of our four ancient houses would be honoured to adopt you for the evening, though you may find our British school dinners to be but humble fare.“

�Thank-you, Professor.“ Zinn turned once more to face the Hall -- and suddenly, there at his side was one of our own prefects, Tom Riddle. How Tom got there so fast, I don't know; it was almost as if he'd Apparated. I couldn't quite hear what passed between them, but the meaning was clear enough, even from afar: come and dine with us, Slytherin would be only too glad to be your hosts.

Zinn acquiesced with another bow, and Tom led him to a spot directly opposite me at the Slytherin table, where there were a few empty places. He seated himself at the foreign wizard's left elbow, and began to pour him a glass of water.

�Welcome to Hogwarts,“ smiled Athena Malfoy, abandoning her own plate to take the place on Zinn's other side. �Have some fish pie, it seems to be the best thing going tonight. Sorry about the bland rations; the Muggles are making a right old mess of things, aren't they?“

�Ah, it is the same all over Europe,“ said Zinn dismissively, as he cut a thick slice of pie for himself, �and worse in some places. But“ -- he smiled genially at Tom -- �you must be accustomed to such provisions by now, I suppose?“

�I -- ate worse when I was younger,“ Tom muttered, flushing. �So, this is your first time in Britain, is it?“

�The second,“ Zinn beamed. �The first was when I was called to Liverpool in nineteen-twenty-one. A very unusual case, of a magical sailing ship -- one of the old ships, you know, with a Permanent Aeolus Charm to keep the wind always blowing from astern -- was beset by demented seabirds whenever it tried to leave port. No-one could give me any good description of the beasts, but to a Piper as adroit as I that is no impediment; I summoned them just the same. Imagine my surprise to discover that they were only common gannets! I had to interrogate them quite thoroughly to determine why they harassed the sailors so. It seemed that another sea-captain had used strong magic -- the strongest, indeed -- to compel the birds to frustrate his rival, and so to gain commercial advantage for himself.“ Zinn had the knack of talking and eating at the same time, devouring half his pie slice as he told the story in what was left of his odd, lilting accent.

�How dreadful!“ Athena simpered, as if she didn't tell stories of misused Dark magic every chance she got. �What happened to the other captain?“

�He was imprisoned, I believe,“ replied Zinn with a dismissive wave of his hand. �But I do not know the length of his sentence. My art is principally to find causes, and to identify unwanted magical creatures wherever they manifest themselves. Where necessary, I can relocate them to a new home with which they will be happier. That is to say“ -- he paused to correct himself -- �my clients will be happier to have them there.“

�Is it possible to talk to birds, then?“ asked Tom, who had been listening intently to Zinn's story. �In the same way that some wizards can speak with snakes?“ It was a question I had an interest in, too, and not because I had any inkling -- no-one did, back then -- that Tom was a Parselmouth himself.

Zinn shrugged expressively. �There are some who apprehend the speech of birds, although it is a very rare talent. Extremely rare. But Piping is not quite like speaking or listening. Through my music, I can follow the thoughts and desires of the creatures I have enspelled, but the effect is more like Legilimency than conversation.“ He took a gulp of water, somehow managing to make it look elegant.

�What a marvellous skill!“ enthused Athena. �Is it difficult to learn?“

�Very difficult. It takes years of practice, even for those like myself who evince some considerable aptitude for it early in life. But, once mastered, it is an art like no other.“

�I can see why your talents are in such demand,“ Tom said, sounding impressed. �Is there any creature that isn't susceptible to your magic?“

�No, none whatever. Even human beings will answer the call of the Pipes, as you will know if you have read your Beedle.“

Tom looked confused. I would have enlightened him, but Athena was already doing it for me. �Oh,“ she exclaimed, �is the folk-tale true, then? The one with the rats, and the town council that wouldn't pay?“

�Oh, yes,“ Zinn assured her. �Indeed, one of my own ancestors was the principal in that affair. In those days it wasn't so unusual to do business with Muggles, although such undertakings often ended badly. Firmly written contracts were essential to avoid misunderstandings.“

�The Pied Piper of Hamelin!“ Tom burst out, catching up at last.

Zinn looked at him oddly. �The Foolish Muggles of Hamelin, was Beedle's title, I believe.

Several other Slytherins at the table glanced sideways at Tom, who looked flustered; he usually avoided drawing attention to his Muggle upbringing. To cover his discomfiture, he moved a butter-dish within Zinn's easy reach.

“Would you like some butter for your bread?� he asked. “It's not very soft, I'm afraid -- it might take you longer to spread it than it will to find the Chamber of Secrets.� He smiled ingratiatingly.

“Perhaps so,� muttered Zinn a few moments later, as he struggled to spread a hard knob of cold butter inside a bread roll. Just as I thought the hovering Tom was going to offer to do it for him, Zinn deftly exchanged the knife for his wand. “Lentesco! Ah, now it goes smoothly. Just as any matter will, if approached correctly. Good technique is all. Your monster likewise; I expect that within a day or two I will have it tracked down.�

“So quickly?� said Athena doubtfully. “That's very confident of you. People have been looking for the Chamber of Secrets for centuries.�

“Ah, but have they really looked?� Zinn tapped the side of his nose with a finger.

“Well,� Tom ventured, “Jeremiah Hipkins had a good try in 1807. But he never found it, because he died of dragon pox halfway through.� Everyone except Bernard looked quite impressed at Tom's knowledge of this obscure fact, which I don't think Professor Binns had ever mentioned in History Of Magic.

“You are very well informed, young man,� Zinn acknowledged. “Though the same cannot be said for Mr. Hipkins, it seems. No matter; what was hidden to him, I shall soon reveal.�

I would have quite liked to ask him how, exactly, he meant to do the revealing. But at that age I hadn't yet developed the knack of firing fast questions into conversational gaps ahead of half a dozen other people trying to do the same thing, so I never got the chance. Then, just as it seemed he might start explaining on his own, Bernard asked him about the Russian vampire, and he spent half an hour or so re-telling that story in great detail. After that there was no more time; Zinn and Dippet went off together, to talk business I suppose, and the rest of us had to resign ourselves to waiting until tomorrow to hear the Piper play.

Seldom had I seen so many at breakfast so early on a Sunday morning; seldom, indeed, was I there myself at that hour. But if Slytherin's terrible monster was going to be summoned, charmed, and summarily dispatched before lunchtime, it would a shame to miss it. Everybody was casting frequent glances at the dais end of the Slytherin table, where a dapper Bahman Zinn was deep in conversation with Tom Riddle, pausing only to wipe egg-yolk from his splendid moustache. At the staff table, Slughorn and Dumbledore were having their usual breakfast discussion; the absence of both Transfiguration Today and The Practical Potioneer from their immediate vicinity suggested that their topic this morning was much the same as everyone else's.

As soon as Zinn rose, the background of dull chatter in the Hall faded to a murmur. Most of the eyes present followed him as he strolled up to Professor Dippet.

“Well, Headmaster,� he proclaimed in a carrying voice, “the time has come to put a stop to your Muggle muggings. Is there anywhere in particular you would like me to start?�

“Oh, anywhere,� replied Dippet deferentially. “Hogwarts is yours, from top to bottom. We don't have any firm idea where the, er, beast, might be found, so your guess is as good as ours.�

“Very well,� Zinn announced, clearly pleased to be given a free hand. “I shall begin with the grounds, as your infestation appears to extend well beyond the castle.� He turned on his heel and strode the length of the Hall, past tables full of students hastily gulping their pumpkin juice and scoffing toast and bacon to avoid being left behind. He certainly looked the part, at that moment, with his jaunty dress and swarthy face set with those brilliant blue eyes, and the golden flute swinging promisingly at his side. Who was he really, this striking chap who looked as though he might hail from somewhere exotic and Eastern, but read European newspapers, called people “Signor�, and spoke excellent English when it suited him to? Today, perhaps, we would find out.

Outside, it was a cloudy, cool day with a gusty wind blowing; there had been rain during the night and the ground was still damp. Had it been an ordinary Sunday, everyone bar the Quidditch players would probably have stayed indoors. But today, no-one hesitated in following Zinn right down to the edge of the lake, where he spent some time squatting down with an intent expression and his ear close to the water. I don't know what he was expecting to hear, but his listening gave the laggards a chance to catch up, so that by the time he took up his flute there was quite a little crowd in a semi-circle around him. Most of the people I knew were there, although -- surprisingly -- not Bernard or any of the boys he usually associated with.

“Ah,� Zinn said, affecting to notice us once everyone had arrived. “Yes, by all means observe; you may learn something. But please, to be quiet: my music must have silence, to give it space in which to work its enticements.�

We responded with obedient hush. He should try teaching Potions,, I thought, Slughorn doesn't control a class that well. Even the two fourth-year boys behind me, briskly taking bets on what sort of fantastic beast the monster would turn out to be, were doing business in whispers. I shuffled a little to the side so that my view wouldn't be blocked by the bulk of Rubeus Hagrid, a vast third-year boy hogging a front-row position.

The first notes were quick and high: they matched the expression on the Piper's face, smiling to itself, delighted to be off and running at last, wrinkled lips propelling fast arpeggios into the crisp morning air. For the first minute or so everyone was content just to listen; he really was a good player, no idle boasting there. Then people started to remember what they were there for, and began casting surreptitious glances in likely-seeming directions. The Forbidden Forest: was there anything hairy and dangerous lumbering out of the trees? The surface of the lake: did any bubbles betray some rising behemoth? Hagrid was looking nervously back towards the castle, as if he expected the monster to use the main Entrance Hall doors like anybody else. Perhaps, I thought, it would.

Zinn had got through several pieces -- some dashing and urgent, some slow and portentous -- before anything happened. A stir rippled through the crowd; it looked around, and somehow communicated to itself that its upward-gazing eyes had seen something. Above the castle rooftops, circling the spire of Ravenclaw Tower, a black winged beast prowled. Once Zinn saw it too, he turned, lifted his pipe, and seemed to throw the music at it; the creature responded by diving towards us, growing rapidly larger as it approached.

It was Tuck. He landed on the grassy shore beside the Piper and looked up at him, warbling in a formless sort of way. There were a few quiet sniggers; summoning a friendly pet bird wasn't quite the impressive feat of magic we'd all been anticipating.

“Good morning, Signor Raven,� Zinn greeted him politely. “Have you any news for me?�

We all held our breaths while Tuck cocked his head, first on one side, then on the other.

“Beware!� he croaked out at last. “Beware malice, venom, death! Death!�

Zinn laughed quietly to himself. “You ravens are all the same!� he said lightly. “But what you speak of is what I am engaged to prevent.� He put his pipe to his lips again, and launched quickly into a different tune, all loud fanfares. Tuck looked away; I tried to attract his attention, but now that the Piper had released him from the spell he seemed to have lost interest, and soon flew off.

A little later there was a pause, as Zinn stopped playing for a long while and scanned the hills that crowded closely about Hogwarts. Sheets of soft mist -- rain, really -- drifted about their green slopes, and it looked as though some of the drizzle might be headed our way. Some of the watching students began to stray back towards the castle, where it would be warmer. I tried to guess what the Piper was looking for; not, I hoped, the mountain trolls that were rumoured to live in those hills.

Eventually he turned his back to us, looked out over the lake, and began to play again, a heavy, menacing dirge. Almost immediately I thought It'll be the giant squid this time, but he won't get much out of her, because it was that sort of tune. Nearby, an excited first-year with the same idea put down a late wager on “octopus�. We were both to be proved wrong.

We heard them long before there was anything to see. A sort of dull booming gurgle filled the air; it was coming from the water. Zinn kept playing, and it soon became apparent that something was trying to keep time with him, following his slow, drawn-out notes with gravelly, turbulent ones of its own, and resting for a beat whenever he did. After a minute or so of this, the singing began; we could tell it was supposed to be a song, though the effect was more suggestive of a gargling hippopotamus, and the rumbling, screeching, moaning words were quite indecipherable.

The Piper ceased his piping; his unseen accompanist did likewise. “Rise,� called Zinn, “rise and taste our air!� Almost at once, the trough between two waves about to break on the shore was occupied by a grey-skinned, yellow-eyed face, and then another.

“Merpeople!� breathed Hagrid excitedly. “Mer-musicians, come to play with the Piper!� Some people, I thought, have a talent for stating the obvious.

There were three of them altogether. One was tall and powerfully built, with a grey stone on his chest, like a pendant. Another carried a huge spiral seashell: the source, apparently, of the rough melody we'd heard. I imagine it sounded better under the water. The third was female: the singer. All had thick, straggly greenish hair that looked like it never saw a comb, and long fishy tails on which they balanced in the shallows.

The big bloke opened his mouth and emitted a sound like a mountain waterfall with old tin cans in it. Zinn chuckled, and replied in kind, though he sounded as if he was strangling himself to do so. It was my first experience of Mermish; though I later learned enough to get by in it, at that time I didn't know any of the words, and had only the general tone to go on.

“He's asking the merpeople about the attacks!� Lavinia whispered to me. “Oh -- do you think the Chamber of Secrets might be under the lake?�

“It's as likely a place as any,� I whispered back. “We know the monster has a way of getting into the lake, at least, because some of the Muggle-borns were on the shore when they were attacked.�

But if that was the Piper's theory, too, then the merpeople weren't making it easy for him. Their screeching and growling went on for a good ten minutes, after which time they were showing obvious signs of discomfort, and using their webbed hands to splash water on their faces. Zinn seemed to be ignoring their plight for as long as he could, but eventually there came a curt and rather irritated-sounding statement from the mermaid, and all three abruptly re-submerged, using their powerful tails to propel themselves back towards deep water.

There ensued a long silence from the Piper; he looked about with furrowed brow, as if seeking inspiration. More of his audience drifted off in the direction of the castle; an imminent rain-shower threatened. I took a quick inventory of who was left: it was mostly younger students now. My own year had exams to think of, and Merlin knew I needed to do some O.W.L. revision myself. There were a few teachers still with us, and (looking disappointed) Ogg.

When Zinn began to play again, it was a lively, gambolling piece, like a double-quick sailor's hornpipe, and it hastened quickly from there to a breakneck gallop. He kept it up for so long that I wondered where he was getting the breath from. People started looking up again -- if the tempo suggested the kind of beast it was going to attract, this one would surely shoot across the sky like a Stunning spell from a wand. I knew it wouldn't be Tuck again (he didn't approve of anything that flew faster than he could), but I only knew where to look because I was watching Dumbledore: his gaze was fixed on the Forest.

My first thought was that a pair of playful young children approached, running in circles and chasing each other in a game of tag. But that couldn't be right -- these children ran on four feet, like partially transformed Animagi. As they came closer, drawn by the irresistible magic of Zinn's piping, I saw that they looked like centaurs, though that didn't quite fit either: the noble, dignified philosophers I'd read about in Fantastic Beasts surely never behaved like this. It was only when they were almost upon us, and I could appreciate their size, that I realised they were foals.

One was soot-black all over, from his dirty hooves to the unkempt mop of hair on his head. The other had a golden-brown palomino body, with tail and curls of pale straw, and carried a tiny bow that might have sufficed -- with luck -- to bring down a sparrow. Both had the demeanour of children seven or eight years old (though I suspect they were younger) and were in a state of high excitement as they trotted up to Zinn.

“What's that instrument?� the blond one asked him. “Can I have a go?�

The Piper laughed gently. “My pipe is for your sort to be beguiled by, not for you to play. But why do you come by yourselves? Have you wandered from your herd?�

“The rest are behind us somewhere,� replied the dark foal, tossing back his head impatiently. “When we first heard the music, it was like hoofbeats, someone running and running--�

“No, like thunder,� interrupted his friend, “and the whole herd galloping as the rain washed down on us, and if we didn't gallop too we'd be left behind--�

“--I heard them calling, run, feel the aliveness of running, out of the Forest and around the whole world--�

“--on a wide plain with a huge sky above, and the ground like a drum with thousands of hooves; wherever that was, it was where we were going to--�

“--and we had to come, it was an adventure!�

Their entranced fervour put paid to any lingering doubts about whether the Piper was all he claimed to be. His magic worked, no question about that. He looked as though he might have responded to the two young centaurs' delight at finding him, but at the last moment his eye was caught by another figure approaching.

“Firenze! Bane!� It was a full-grown female centaur. “Haven't I told you not to go charging off by yourselves?�

“Typical,� Lavinia murmured into my ear. “Can't even run wild in the Forbidden Forest without having their mum chasing after them. Don't they all look gorgeous, though?� I had to agree; the blond one -- he was Firenze, apparently -- looked especially angelic with his little-boy curls and glossy coat.

“Do not be concerned,� Zinn called out to the new arrival as she skidded to a halt. “Your charges have caught a little more magic than they realise, but it will do them no harm.�

Firenze's mum was not mollified. “I shall be the arbiter of that, human,� she snapped back at him. “We teach our young not to associate with wizards, and if they are wise they heed us.� She glared briefly down at the foals, to make sure they were getting the lesson, then turned her scowl back on Zinn. “Your arts are more treacherous than ours, their tendency to darkness all too predictable. I know something of the instrument you play; in ancient times we centaurs possessed its like, but we have learned wisdom since. Be wary of it, lest you find its music foretelling your own doom!�

Zinn laughed politely. “Your advice is noted,� he said. “While you're here, though, I wonder if I could ask--�

But she was already turning away from us, nudging Firenze with her body so that he was obliged to withdraw as well. (She couldn't stop him looking over his shoulder, though.) “You too, Bane,� she growled at the black foal, “it is past time you returned to your own parents.� A moment later, all three were heading back to the Forest at a canter.

“Not having much luck, is he?� I whispered to Lavinia.

“Give him time,� she whispered back. “Sooner or later he'll get something spectacular, I bet.�

I had to wonder about that. There were any number of unusual creatures in and around Hogwarts, some of which would definitely count as “spectacular�, but Zinn didn't seem to be interested in most of them. He was playing for the Heir of Slytherin's pet, the one that was attacking people -- and so far it was refusing to be tempted. Zinn had convinced me that there was real magic in that pipe -- I'd already been letting myself daydream a little about the power to control any magical creature I chose -- but all he had to show for it was a few susceptible beasts, drawn as much by their own curiosity as by the music. Where was our monster? Was it possible that it didn't exist after all?

I looked around; more people were leaving. Ogg was among them, muttering and shaking his head. I was tempted to follow, but then I noticed that Dumbledore was rooted to the spot, feet apart, placidly contemplating the Piper as if he had yet to play a note. Perhaps, I thought, everything so far had just been a sort of tuning-up exercise, and the real business of the day was yet to come.

Or perhaps not. Those of us who stuck it out to the end went unrewarded (except for the two enterprising bookmakers, who could hardly believe their luck). Although Bahman Zinn became quite inventive in the range of tunes he played, not a single additional creature, magical or otherwise, turned up to listen to him. A brief spell of cold rain dissolved most of the remaining audience; I stayed only because Lavinia did, and I think she endured it only because Dumbledore -- whom she greatly admired -- showed no sign of leaving, although he did look increasingly thoughtful.

“Complete waste of time, then,� commented Bernard, after I told him at lunch what had happened. He was stuffing his face with Swiss roll at the time, and didn't seem all that concerned.

“Why weren't you there?� I demanded of him, slightly annoyed that he had stayed warm and dry while I got cold and wet. (I'm a dab hand at the Impervius Charm now, after years on assignment in all weathers; I was rather less good at it then.) “You said last night you wouldn't miss this for a month of Hogsmeade days.�

“No time,� he grunted. “We need to get going on some O.W.L. swot. The exams are starting--�

“Yes, I know.� (And I didn't want to be reminded.) “Who's this 'we'?�

“Me. Lestrange. Riddle. Rosier. We were in the common room all morning, hard at it. Started your revision yet?�

“No.� I'd never thought of Bernard as especially studious; only that year had it begun to dawn on me that I had even less to be proud of, in that regard. “I'll have to get to it soon,� I promised myself out loud.

There was an amused snort somewhere behind me -- Barabbas Lestrange, probably -- which I treated with the disregard it merited. All the Slytherin boys in my year, and one or two of the girls, too, seemed to be running as a pack lately; it made me feel quite left out at times. As I pondered whether I should be making more of an effort to join in, I noticed Riddle, another of the same lot, appearing at the bottom of the marble staircase leading up to the first floor. He wore a slightly harassed, I-don't-have-time-for-this kind of expression, and was holding a little black Muggle diary he used to carry around everywhere. I diverted myself for a moment imagining its thrilling contents: Dear Diary, Revised Antidotes this morning; Slughorn says they often come up at O.W.L. level. Organising my Herbology notes this afternoon. (How little I knew.)

We saw nothing of the Piper all afternoon, but were forcibly reminded of him at dinner. I'd been trying unsuccessfully to catch up on homework, so I'd missed all the excitement, and was genuinely shocked when the Headmaster, visibly discomposed, delivered the news. Myrtle Robinson, a second-year Ravenclaw -- and yet another Muggle-born -- had been found dead in a toilet. Even as we'd been listening to the Piper, it seemed, the creature he was playing for had been otherwise engaged. A “freak accident�, Dippet said, but that story didn't bite: as far as the rest of the school was concerned, Myrtle was our monster's first fatal victim.

Everyone, students and teachers alike, had been muttering darkly for weeks and weeks that someone would be killed sooner or later, but I still hadn't expected it, not really. Not the actual death of someone who had come to classes and struggled to please Dumbledore and been bored to tears by Binns like everybody else, and wouldn't be doing those things from now on. It was a subdued Great Hall that discussed the day's developments in whispers: would the school be closed before exams could be held? If not, who would be the next victim? Not anyone in our House, surely, but -- Lavinia? Her blood was as pure as anyone's, so she ought to have been safe, but suddenly I wasn't as confident of anything any more.

(How did we know for sure it was the monster that killed Myrtle, anyway? I kept the question to myself; it would have seemed indecent to ask it out loud.)

The next evening, I reached a crisis of sorts. I'd been harbouring a vague belief that if all the Muggle-born attacks resulted in a premature end to the term (as rumour now suggested was entirely likely), and students going home early, then this would constitute some sort of academic general amnesty. Consequently, my accumulated undone homework now included no fewer than six essays: three for Potions (Professor Slughorn had been easily cajoled into extending the due dates for the first two) and one each for Transfiguration, Charms, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. Moreover, I still hadn't even started O.W.L. revision, and by now that made me unusual. Most of the other fifth-year Slytherins were spending at least some of their free periods in the common room, sitting amid disorderly piles of parchment, staring glumly at their own handwritten notes or making more of them.

It was the first time I'd been so far behind with work, and the only solution that suggested itself was the same one I've been using, more or less, ever since. I would just have to settle in after dinner at the largest common-room table, make a start on Slughorn's first essay, and keep writing until it and all the rest of the backlog had been satisfactorily dealt with. I could stay up all night if necessary (and it probably would be). Mr. Danforth Diggle, proprietor and editor of the Magical Monthly (now defunct, alas), was wont in later years to accuse me of being his most slothful employee, and I daresay he had a point. But even he never questioned my capacity for sustained, unremitting effort, provided I was given no real choice in the matter.

My progress was slow at first. A small knot of second-year boys had somehow obtained a box of fake Instant Darkness Powder, and were amusing themselves by throwing pinches of it into the fireplace. Actinic flashes alternated with brief total blackouts; it was difficult to see the words in front of me, and the high-pitched merriment made it impossible to concentrate on them. The vigorous objections of a grey-haired old wizard whose portrait hung over the mantelpiece didn't help, either -- he was succeeding only in teaching the boys some new swear words. But, just as the nearest prefect was starting to look annoyed enough to tell them to leave off, the little miscreants ran out of powder and disappeared down the stairs to their dormitory. After that, things quietened down considerably. It was mostly the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students who were still up and we didn't disturb each other much, beyond the odd whispered enquiry after the allotropes of adamant, or what one should do with armadillo bile.

At around ten o'clock I finished the first essay (“Controlling Concentration in Swelling Solutions�), sat up, and looked around. There were a few of us left: Edwin Rosier and Tom Riddle at my table, a couple of seventh-years sharing a couch by the door, and Athena working with Walburga Black on something behind me. The grey-haired wizard, having recovered his dignity by now, appeared to be falling asleep, although I suspected that his doze was mostly pretence. I caught the eye of Barabbas Lestrange, at a table by himself in a corner of the room; his quill was not in his hand, and he didn't seem to be working on anything. He was simply sitting as one sits on a train, waiting. Occasionally he glanced at Tom, but Tom never looked in his direction.

I really needed to write something on “Cross-Species Transfiguration and the Lunar Phase� to hand in to Dumbledore, but I couldn't face that just yet. Instead I threw myself into another Potions assignment, and found the words starting to come easily at last. This was what I needed: I could write handily enough about anything under the sun (if I do say so myself), provided I didn't have to do it under the sun, with all the distractions of Hogwarts in the daytime. Slughorn would be pleased: he had asked only for two rolls of parchment, but I would be giving him nearly three. I wrote on, until the greenish illumination of the common-room lights faded to an even feebler glimmer than usual, as if to match the darkness of the lake above. They did that every night, but I was seldom awake to see it. The wizard in the portrait had begun to snore softly, and I was dimly aware of others packing up their things and leaving; I didn't stop to watch them go. The next time I looked up, it was well after eleven, and the room was empty except for Tom and me.

He had turned his wand into an improvised desk-lamp, propping it up on a stack of textbooks; I don't remember hearing him say Lumos, but perhaps he was already doing that one non-verbally. He was reading a thick old tome with crinkled pages, staring intently at a long list of what appeared to be surnames. I don't know where that book came from, but the people in it weren't British.

Tom sensed me watching him, and looked up with an annoyed expression. He glanced around the room, confirming that we were alone, before turning his attention to me.

“You'll strain your eyes, doing homework this late. Nearly finished, I hope?�

“Nowhere near,� I replied with a sigh. “I'll be hours yet: essays to do for Slughorn, and Merrythought, and Dumbledore.�

For a moment I thought he was going to order me down to the girls' dormitory, but he could hardly do that, prefect though he was, while he sat up in the common room himself.

“Are you turning in soon?� I ventured.

“No point. Rosier is still awake in there, or else snoring like a steam engine.�

I shrugged, lit my own wand, and turned back to my essay. I never enjoyed idle conversation with Tom Riddle; I suppose I could claim, now, that I sensed his wickedness, but it wasn't really anything so definite. He just seemed cold and brusque, unless you were giving him information he wanted, or he was asking you to do something for him; then he was all attention, and made you feel important just for listening to him.

A few minutes later Tom pushed his chair back; in the silence, its legs seemed to screech on the flagstone floor. Without saying a word, he got up, moved to another table, and sat down there. Not wanting to show that I was watching him, I let my hair fall in front of my face -- I wore it long in those days -- as I bent over my parchment. What was he up to? The book he'd been reading was still open at my table; now he was writing something, in that Muggle diary of his. He was intensely focused on whatever it was, scribbling furiously, his hand twitching back and forth across one line after another. In the green gloom, and at this distance, I couldn't hope to read what he was committing to the diary's pages, but it mattered to him deeply, that much was evident. His face was screwed up in a way that suggested pain, desperation even, as though he needed to get the words out before they poisoned him. I half-expected to hear him groan, but the only sound in the dungeon was the harsh scratching of his quill, and my own shallow breathing.

Progress on my essay slowed to a crawl; whatever Tom was doing was far more interesting. In the time it took me to get down three more sentences, he must have written enough to fill a dozen pages -- although oddly enough, I'm sure I never saw him turn a page the whole time. What on earth had he been up to? I never would have guessed, before that night, that a model student like Riddle might be involved in anything that he had to write about like a boy possessed. Which just shows how wrong you can be about people -- if I learned anything from knowing Tom, it was not to trust a pleasant face.

I don't know how long we sat like that, in near-darkness, Tom writing and I pretending to write. He never paused to think or compose; he took his quill off the page only to dip it in fresh ink, and even that was the briefest possible interruption: a quick, occasional spasm that was over in an eyeblink. I watched him through my fringe in fascination, intensely curious, wishing I could think of some way to get a look at that diary without Tom knowing I'd looked. I wondered whether some close friend of his might be persuaded into reading it, and then divulging the contents. But -- it occurred to me for the first time that night -- popular as Tom was, there was no-one he'd be likely to share his personal diary with. No-one was that close to him, even then.

I was just starting to give myself a good talking-to (never mind Riddle, my girl, you've still got masses of homework to get through, and Dumbledore for one doesn't take weak excuses) when I was distracted again by a snatch of faint, sharp music from the direction of the corridor outside, which I recognised at once as Zinn's flute. The sound seemed to be coming from some distance away, and it came and went, as though the Piper were sometimes there and sometimes not.

It was a new sound to Tom. He abruptly stopped writing, resting his quill-hand on the table, his head held up and his mouth slightly open as he listened. After a few bars he saw that I was listening, too.

“Avery, what's that?� he snapped.

“Zinn,� I told him. “He played the same tune yesterday by the lake, or one very similar. Well,� -- the music almost seemed to have heard me, and at once darted aside onto a completely different melodic path as if to confound me -- “somewhat similar.�

The effect on Tom was remarkable. In an instant his concentration was gone, his focus elsewhere. Whatever had been so important to him a moment ago was less urgent than listening to Zinn's piping. He began to shift agitatedly in his chair. Presently the music grew louder, then faded, as if Zinn had passed our common-room door and wandered away again down the passage; Tom waited with obvious anxiety for its return. He had dropped his quill and now held his wand, gripping it tightly. As he fidgeted, the light from its tip made grotesque, deformed shadows that stalked around the walls, ambushing the Slytherin banners that hung there.

I forced a nervous laugh. “He must be patrolling the dungeons. Well, Dippet did say 'Hogwarts from top to bottom'. Although, if we had any monsters down here, I think we'd already know about them. Wouldn't we, Tom?� That last addition, I have to admit, was more for my benefit than his.

Abruptly, Tom was on his feet. “Stay here,� he commanded, before dashing out of the room, leaving the door swinging open in his haste.

“Tom, it's after hours!� I called after him. “You're a prefect, you can't gad about the castle at this hour of the morning!�

But he was gone. Idiot, was my first thought. Watching the Piper at work, trying to whistle up monsters, wasn't all that fascinating, certainly not worth getting into trouble for. Tom would have been in trouble, too, if he'd run into any of the ghosts. (Except the Bloody Baron, of course; he looked after his own.)

My second thought was, He's left the diary behind. There it lay, open at the page Tom had been writing on a few minutes before. The room's glaucous light was feebler than ever now, but my own wand would be ample illumination to read by, if I dared.

Well, what would you have done? Left it there, probably, and minded your own business. But you must remember that as I sat there that night, fifteen years old with my school books piled in front of me, I had heard the name “Lord Voldemort� only once or twice, and then only as a kind of joke, a nickname that some of Tom's friends used. I didn't see a reason to leave any of Riddle's secrets uninvestigated if I could help it; I was over at his table inside a minute. I picked up the chair he'd knocked over as he'd hurried off, and sat myself in front of that slim pocket-sized volume. It was open at the second week of June; I flicked quickly through some of the pages, but there didn't seem to be anything written on them. That didn't put me off in the slightest. If Tom was using invisible writing, he clearly didn't want anyone to read what he recorded in his diary, and that made me all the keener to see whatever it was.

“Aparecium!� I tried.

“Effundo!�

“Revelio!�

I've always had a knack for Revealing Charms. For a few moments I had that sensation in the pit of my stomach that meant the charm had worked, that something was going to show itself, and then:

Who the devil are you?

The words appeared, blood-red ink scrawled across the ruled pages, but more than that: they were in my head, too, as if the diary were annoyed that I had poked at it.

Dippet, you meddling fool! Four years to get in, and now it might as well be enchanted shut again, for all the good it's doing me. I can't hang around in there all the time... That blithering Gyppo needs to be dealt with!

Ah, I know you now. Avery, isn't it? From the weakling side of the family, alas. Cousin Bernard's far more useful than you'll ever be, even though he couldn't Charm his way out of an overcoat. At least he makes the effort -- I wouldn't trust you to give me the correct time of day, you'd get bored halfway through and give up, wouldn't you?

Pain, all over my body, and yet it was a strangely dull agony, as if I were only dreaming of being tortured, and could, if I chose, go on reading despite it. Does that hurt?, enquired the diary mildly, stabbing the words into my brain. Good. Only the living feel pain. I'll teach Mrs. Cole that, if she crosses me one more time, the stupid old frump...

Think no-one missed that copy of Unfogging The Future, do you, Avery? Well, you're wrong. Don't try to deceive Lord Voldemort: he knows, he always knows!

Slytherin's own servant, now mine! Yes, you'd better keep an eye on me, Dumbledore; do you know that I'm watching you, too?

I felt Tom's thoughts battering at me, the intensity of the emotions he'd put into this Dark artefact I was holding. But I couldn't stop reading it. Or wouldn't stop, I don't know which.

Your mother was a Mudblood, wasn't she? And you call yourself a Slytherin, and pretend you're as worthy as the rest of us!

No, I'm not Olive Hornby, whoever she is. Get out of the way, you witless girl!

Half the time the words were illegible, and I seemed to hear only an eldritch hissing, as if Tom had chosen to whisper his words in some sibilant foreign tongue. But it was the references to myself that were most unnerving: a book shouldn't know when it's being read, but there was something in this one that knew, and knew more about me than Tom ought to have known. For my mother really was Muggle-born, though I was careful never to mention that at school if I didn't have to, especially not to anyone in Slytherin. And I really did once walk out of Flourish and Blotts with a Divination book I'd forgotten to pay for, and never went back to make restitution.

A shadow moved on the far wall. The diary had me so enthralled that I didn't react for a second, and then it was too late.

“Expelliarmus!� My wand flew across the room, into Tom's waiting left hand. He stood in the doorway for a moment, a wand in each hand, the expression on his face a startling mixture of anger, dawning realisation, and a savage excitement.

“You shouldn't be reading that,� he snapped.

“Tom, I'm really, really sorry.� I did my best to look distressed and remorseful. “You're right, I shouldn't have --�

“Lumos!� The light from my wand, which had failed when it was taken from me, returned. Tom smiled with delight. “Ah, this one obeys me.� He held his prize between two fingers, admiring it. “Ash and -- what is it?�

“Unicorn hair. Tom, I do apologize for looking at your book, that was very wrong of me, but -- could I have my wand back, please?�

“No,� he stated flatly. “As it happens, I have a use for it.� He paused expectantly, watching me.

There was a long silence. I didn't know what to say, and began to feel rather wretched and confused about it all. As the moments dragged on, Tom's features relaxed by degrees, as if he were gradually regaining control. “Good,� he said eventually. “You didn't pry too far into my little book, then. It's not polite to spy on other people's thoughts, you know. No, don't apologize, I've already heard it. You're going to make it up to me instead. I was just looking for a wand to borrow, and now here's this one, ready and apt to my hand. You won't miss it; I'll return it in the morning.�

“But -- what do you want it for?�

“Never you mind. Isn't it about time you went to bed?�

I could have saved myself an awful lot of trouble by meekly saying “yes� and escaping downstairs. Instead, nosiness (what was that diary?) and a strong sense of pique pushed me to utter the impetuous words: “I want to come.�

“What?�

“Whatever you're going to do with my wand, I want to see you do it.�

His mouth quirked upwards at the corners; he considered for a long moment. He was going to refuse me, I knew, and perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing...

“All right,� he replied at last, carelessly. “I expect we'll both learn something useful from the experience. Useful to me, that is.� He gestured with my wand towards the door. “You go first.�

I had no shoes on, and I briefly considered asking Tom to wait while I ran down to the girls' dormitory to get some. But what if he grew impatient, I worried, and left without me? What would happen to my wand? I scurried out into the corridor, quickly, before either of us could change our minds.

As his steps echoed behind me down the pitch-dark dungeon passage -- unlit at this time of night, except by the two wands Tom was holding -- I was soon regretting the rash decisions that had brought me to this point. Why couldn't I have left that slim Muggle volume well alone? What had I expected to find in it, anyway? Too late, it was done; curiosity had landed the cat in the soup (again), and now I would have to lie in it. I tried to think of something else I could do for Tom to make it up to him, but nothing -- nothing decent, anyway -- came to mind. Besides, Tom wasn't the sort of person who took suggestions. He had the ideas, and his friends, if they wanted to remain his friends, went along with them.

Of course, even in the dark, I knew exactly where we were. All of us in Slytherin had long since thoroughly explored the dungeons of Hogwarts, which we regarded as the private fiefdom of our House. One never knew when it might be useful to absent oneself down there for a while, and if nothing else, there was innocent fun to be had by misdirecting the odd disoriented Hufflepuff. So I was surprised when Tom stopped at a small door, which I'd always taken to be a storage cupboard of some kind. It was a door that was always locked, and no-one I knew had ever managed to open it, even by magic.

“That one's hopeless,� I began to tell Tom. “It's--�

But he just laid a finger across his smiling lips, softly bidding me hush, as he fished an ancient-looking iron key out of an inside pocket in his school robes. I had to suppress a strong desire to ask him how and where he got that key (and could I have one?), recalling that he didn't exactly owe me any favours just then.

A breath of cold, dank air flowed past us when the door was opened. The space behind was indeed no larger than a cupboard, but it contained a tiny staircase, designed perhaps for the feet of goblins or house-elves. Tom gestured to indicate that I should descend first, and I went ahead of him, my stockings padding on the hard stone. I couldn't quite see where I was putting my feet, but at least the steps were all worn clean and smooth. How they got that way, I've no idea; we were well below the level of any classrooms I was ever in.

When we emerged, we must have been in a long straight passage, because there was utter blackness ahead, with nothing to reflect our meagre light back to us. Tom strode confidently into the dark, and I did my best to keep up with him. To either side I could see that the stone walls were covered with something like moss, glistening in the dim illumination, and occasionally there would be a ghostly pillar shaped into a silently screaming gargoyle. I don't mind admitting that by now I was starting to feel a little bit apprehensive, and had to comfort myself with the thought that Tom was a responsible prefect. Whatever he was planning wouldn't be too awful, surely? Just as well that I had no true understanding then of what Tom was, or I should have been terrified out of my wits.

We stopped at a hefty-looking door, with a tiny barred window in it at eye level. Only then did I realise that we had come to the real dungeons of Hogwarts Castle. Not the classroom-dungeons, that you've all studied and learned and misbehaved in, but the cells for holding prisoners. I'd never really believed Mr. Pringle -- he was the caretaker in those days -- on the occasions when he cornered us where we shouldn't have been, and began to mutter nastily about thumbscrews, and losing students for a few months “down below�. He never did any such thing, I'm sure. But he might have picked up that evil little performance from his predecessor in the job, who in turn probably got it from his -- and, well, I'm inclined now to think it had some basis in fact, if you go back far enough. One thing's for certain, anyway: if you and I had gone to school in an age when delinquent students did their detentions in those cells, we should all have been a lot politer and better behaved. The very sight of that door, shut solid with rust and filthy fist-sized bolts, had me vowing never to talk in class again.

“Alohomora!� Hinges screeching, the door swung open at Tom's command, and he ducked beneath the low lintel to enter. I didn't really want to follow him in there, but there was no way I was going to stand in the inky blackness on my own.

In the cell, it was soft underfoot: the floor was earth. Bahman Zinn sat waiting on a half-rotten wooden bench, gazing at the wall; I was strangely unsurprised to see him there. In the wandlight, the red and yellow of his costume looked different: pale and dull, as though it had been washed too many times. Only when he realised that a second person had shuffled in behind Tom did he look interested.

“Come to try your skill again, have you?� He sounded defiant, and not nearly as tired as he looked. “As well for you that you brought along a comrade. You took me by surprise the first time, but I would likely be a match for both of you together in a real duel. I'd enjoy putting that to the test; would you?�

“Of course not,� replied Tom briskly. “A competent wizard is never surprised. But I'll consider returning your wand, shortly. It doesn't seem to work for me, but not to worry: I've found another. Now, I need your help with some questions I'm pursuing.�

“You have no manners, boy. Do I look like a library, to which the door must be bludgeoned open? If you wanted civilised conversation with me, you had only to ask for it. I am always happy to talk about my art, which you are not the first to find intriguing. There are some fascinating stories I can tell--�

“I did ask,� Tom interrupted. “I sent Rosier to sound you out last night, and he repeated your every word to me. But I didn't send him to be impressed by your accounts of your own wonderful achievements -- most of which are quite boring, to be perfectly honest with you.�

“What, then?�

Tom licked his lips. “What do you know about Slytherin's monster?�

“My present assignment?� The annoyance left Zinn's voice; even in a dungeon, it seemed, he loved to talk about his work. “I believe I know what kind of beast it is, within a few guesses. I have not yet discovered its lair, or why it will not come to me when I play. Possibly something prevents it from doing so. But that is only a matter of time; it cannot resist me forever. Your Headmaster has asked me for a report at the end of the week; I fully expect to have dealt with the creature by then, and to be claiming my reward, and your gratitude. All this� -- his tone became contemptuous again -- “I would gladly have told you at any time, without the need for amateur kidnappings.�

“You know nothing, then,� Tom concluded, satisfied. “You haven't found even a hint of a monster, have you?�

“You might be surprised, young man. The east cellars hide a most unusual arachnid. What it is doing so far from home, I have no idea; nor am I being paid to find out.�

“Thanks for letting me know.� Tom dissembled well, but I thought he might be making a mental note of that little snippet. “So,� he went on, “how do you propose to find the Chamber of Secrets so quickly, in the light of your failure so far? Other wizards have searched for it for centuries without success. Or at least, if any discovered it, they kept the news to themselves.�

“I am no ordinary wizard,� Zinn replied easily. “The creature itself will lead me to its home, once I have mastered it. Is that all?�

“No.� Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hesitating. Then, without apparent volition, he abruptly pointed a wand -- my wand -- at Zinn, throwing a spot of light onto the Piper's face. “I want the essentials. Where can I get a pipe like yours? Who will teach me to play it? Which animals can it control, and within what limits? Can I make a dragon dance to the tune I play?�

Zinn shrugged disdainfully. “You waste your time, my simple friend. There are only a few pipes whose music compels fantastic beasts as well as mundane ones, and the technique of making them is long lost, even to the goblins. Mine is one such, but it has been in my family for centuries, passed from father to son along with the secrets of playing it. Unless you are similarly fortunate in your own ancestry, you would do well to cast your ambition elsewhere.�

Tom grinned; he seemed exhilarated rather than discouraged. “Not at all. You have your pipe, and here you are to show me how it is played. Take it out, sir, and let us begin.� His face was full of nervous energy, and his green and silver prefect's badge glinted in the unsteady light. As I looked at him facing down the older man, I was slightly shocked by his rudeness, but couldn't help admiring his self-assurance. I wondered whether I should intervene, but I didn't know what to say.

After a pause, Zinn stood. He was not as tall as Tom, but he made up for it with the ferocity of his glare. “This has gone far enough, pup. We Pipers are a patient order, but we do not tolerate incivility.� He drew his golden flute from some hidden pocket, and was raising it to his lips even as he finished speaking. “You wish to see how the pipe is played? Very well; attend closely to your lesson.�

Two notes -- one high, one low -- filled the cell, conjured by the Piper's smiling lips. That was all it took; the rest of the melody was accompanied by a rustling, and then a wet sound as of earth being pushed aside. Tom stabbed the beam of wandlight around the tiny room, at the walls, the floor, the ceiling; nothing there but dim shadows, and a strange damp smell in my nostrils. I glanced at Tom's face and saw no fear on it, only eagerness for whatever was coming.

Then the tune reached a fanfare, and without warning the ground erupted. From cracks and holes a thousand dark and fluttering specks emerged to fill the air: cockroaches and beetles and flies. They were so thick that I instinctively held my breath, for fear of inhaling one and choking on it. Something moist brushed my toes and I glanced down: my stockinged feet were buried in worms, horrible fat things the size of my fingers.

But the insects did not seek us: it was the Piper they swarmed to, clustering thickly around him, landing several deep on his head and shoulders like some barbaric living cloak. Still the music played, the Piper's hands gloved with tiny bodies until it seemed that they, and not his fingers, were picking out the notes.

“That's enough!� Tom shouted. A large moth landed on his cheek as he spoke, and he swatted ineffectually at it. Through the dark clouds of insects I saw Zinn, still smiling as an earwig explored his moustache, shaking his head “no� as he continued to play. “Stop!� Tom cried, “stop now, or I'll -- Silencio!�

The frantic susurration of tiny wings ceased at once, though they continued to whirl noiselessly around us. But the magic pipe was not to be silenced so easily: it sounded out as clear as ever, a brisk, jolly tune completely at odds with the turbulence roiling the air. By now Tom was standing on tiptoes, and looking in horror at the floor: the writhing worms completely covered it, and mounded themselves shin-deep about the Piper as they struggled to reach him.

“Stupefy!� yelled Tom desperately, and for a fraction of a second the small cell was filled with red light. A cloud of little creatures was blasted away from Zinn's body, most falling insensible to the ground, but at once others settled where they had been, ready to block the next spell. The Piper laughed -- I could tell he was laughing, though he made no sound -- and walked over to the door, Tom recoiling from his path as he went. Halfway out, he turned to Tom, held out his hand, and mouthed the words, My wand.

“Not a chance!� Tom screamed at him, stretching out his wand hand. “Stupefy!� The spell had no more effect than before. “Avada Kedavra!�

A short ray of green light sprang from the tip of my wand, and struck Zinn in the chest; it was visible only for a second, but it was enough. Zinn had been leaning forward when he was hit. He fell heavily onto his knees and balanced there for a few terrible seconds, his face frozen in a ghastly blank stare, his mouth wide open with the suddenly quiet pipe still stuck to his bottom lip. Then he toppled forward, and Tom was dancing nimbly aside so that his shoes would not be touched by the dead Piper's face.

I've had what you might call an eventful life, and I've seen Unforgiveables used on other occasions since that one. But let me tell you: though magic that summons a swarm of creepy-crawlies might be unsettling, it's nothing, absolutely nothing, to a cold-blooded Killing Curse. I felt dizzy, as though the blood were not circulating to my head properly; there was a rushing sound in my ears. I was beginning to think Oh, Merlin, I am not going to faint before my vision cleared and I saw Tom's expression. He was flushed and seemed out of breath, but a slow grin was spreading over his face at what he'd done. He held up my wand vertically in front of him, squeezing it tightly in a clenched fist, as if he had to keep it in sight for its curse to remain real.

“Why, Tom? What did you have to kill him for? You could've just given him his wand back and let him go!� My voice sounded whiny and childish, but I didn't much care, not when I was stuck in a lightless prison cell with a murderer.

“Why?� Tom repeated, turning to look at me. “Because he's a foreigner, that's why. No-one will miss him. He hasn't got much in the way of family -- Rosier checked -- and he didn't tell anyone he was coming to Britain. As soon as I heard that, I knew: he was the ideal victim.� Tom seemed to be feeling almost as light-headed as I was, though for him it was the giddiness of triumph.

“But what for? We don't have to kill people for Defence Against the Dark Arts homework!� The words sounded ridiculous even as I bleated them out; I had to stop myself saying You'll get in trouble for this!

“Oh, I do need to kill -- for magical reasons that I doubt you're capable of understanding.� He smiled beatifically, flushed with his victory. “But have you never considered how difficult it must be, to get away with killing? I have. Most people are known to any number of others, who might wonder what happened to their friend, or want him back, or start remembering who he last talked to when he was alive. There aren't many good opportunities -- but this was one. Also, I rather fancy that pipe. I've always had a knack for making animals do what I want them to, and once I get the hang of playing the thing I'll be better than ever. What do you think I could do to Hogwarts if I commanded an army of rats? Or snakes, they'd be ideal. Or why not trolls, even? Speaking of which, pick it up for me.�

“Pick -- what?� I was still struggling to digest Tom's words. Why was he telling me these things, as if I were some kind of casual accomplice? I wanted to protest, but no words seemed adequate for what had just happened, and he wasn't giving me time to think.

“Pick up the the pipe.� He gestured impatiently towards the floor. I looked down, but couldn't see the shiny flute anywhere; after a moment, I realised it was trapped beneath Zinn's body.

“Just push him off it,� Tom urged. “Come on, once you've done this for me, you can have your wand back.�

If I'd been in my right mind I'd have refused; it was on the tip of my tongue to tell Tom to go to hell, and to pick up his own stolen property on the way there. But my brain was starting to work again, and part of it was reminding me that to get out of this nightmare I'd have to traverse that dark, dark passage outside, and for that I needed light, and probably some guidance from Tom as well. It must have been obvious what I was thinking; my eyes flicked to the half-open door, and then to my own unicorn-hair wand, which Tom was holding out enticingly.

I swallowed hard, knelt down, and grasped the red right shoulder of Zinn's outlandish garment. At least the worms and insects were all gone, bar a straggler or two caught in the folds of the Piper's costume: at the moment of his death they'd abandoned him, and scurried back to the nooks and crevices from which they'd come. One heave was enough to turn the body over, and then his sightless blue eyes were staring up at mine. He looked terrified, as though he'd died of pure fright; even that ridiculous moustache of his seemed to be fraying at the ends, and his mouth was still screaming wide open.

“The pipe,� Tom prompted. I looked about and spotted it, pressed into the damp earth by Zinn's weight. Retrieving it, I wiped it on my school robes and offered it to Tom, in a rather dirtier state than its last owner had left it.

Tom didn't take his trophy. “No, you hang onto it. I've a suspicion it's got a flesh memory, and it wouldn't do to leave evidence. I need to be careful, you know, consider all contingencies. With a bit of luck, no-one will ever ask where the poor hapless Piper went off to, but if anyone does, well, it was your wand that killed him, and your light fingers that robbed his corpse. You'll be expelled for certain; probably get life in Azkaban too, unless they go easy on you because you aren't of age.� He gave a self-satisfied smirk. “Seems like a fair swop, for a peek at my private diary. Thanks, by the way.�

I caught my wand reflexively as he tossed it back to me. I was ready to hex him on the spot, and it wouldn't have been some limp-wristed Crawling Acne or Bat-Bogey effort either. Not that it would have done any good: if there was a spell Tom couldn't block, I sincerely doubt I was capable of casting it. But that could wait: his mentioning his diary again had reminded me of some of the things I'd seen in it.

“You-� I was myself again now. “You didn't murder the Piper just to steal his pipe! You wanted to stop him finding the monster! You're the Heir of Slytherin!�

“Certainly won't hurt, if a few more Mudbloods get their comeuppance,� he conceded. “I wouldn't want to see Salazar's pet drowned by the likes of him� -- he kicked at Zinn's body, but was careful to not quite touch it -- “and neither would you, if you're a real Slytherin.�

“That's horrible, Tom.� If he'd shared his views with me as we both sat in comfy armchairs in the common room, I'd still have disagreed, and these were rather less favourable circumstances. “Muggle-borns are ignorant and don't know how to behave properly, but they don't deserve to die!�

“Who cares what they deserve?� he shrugged. “They get what's coming to them. Come on.� He pushed past me and left the cell.

As I faced him through the narrow doorway, another thought struck me. “What about Myrtle, Tom? Did you murder her, too?�

“No, of course not. She was in the way, that's all. Leave the door open.�

“Tom--� I took half a step, but then looked back at Zinn, still staring lifelessly upwards. “Are we going to just leave him there?�

“I can get it disposed of. A shame to waste good food, as the Muggles are so fond of saying.�

I tried hard not to imagine what Tom was hinting at, but wasn't quite successful. “You won't get away with this,� I complained as I followed him back down the gargoyle-haunted corridor, hurrying to stay within the pool of wandlight around him. For some reason, it didn't occur to me just then that I could cast my own light spell.

“Oh, I almost certainly will,� he assured me. “At this very moment, in fact, I'm sitting up in the fifth-year boys' dormitory, playing four-handed whist with Rosier, Lestrange, and your dim cousin. He and Rosier are winning, or they were until the queen of spades whispered to Lestrange about Avery's poor hand, and some adroit play by me put us four tricks up. They'll all swear I was there.�

“I don't believe you. They might be playing all night, but how can you know who's winning?�

Tom stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder, and laughed softly. A high, cold laugh he had; it never did sound right on such a good-looking boy. “Who do you think gave them the cards to play with?�

I didn't have an answer to that.

“Meanwhile� -- Tom chuckled again -- “you're down here with an incriminating wand, and the Piper's most treasured possession on you as well. I'd like you to take that home, by the way. Bernard'll get it off you when his parents visit yours over the summer, and he can pass it on to me in September. Don't worry, I'll be careful with it; I won't be playing it in the Great Hall or anything. I have something rather more special in mind for it.�

We reached the narrow staircase, and began to ascend; Tom made me go first again. “I might keep the pipe for longer than that,� I told him, somewhere in the darkness beneath my feet. “I don't think you deserve to have it.�

“Don't go on about people deserving things,� he reproached me, in a softer voice. “People get what they get, and that's all there is to it. You haven't done so badly out of this yourself: you'll always find a valuable friend in me, as long as you deserve it, of course.� I couldn't see his smirk, but I could hear it. “All I ask in return is a little discretion, and I know I can rely on you for that, as I've arranged for you to have no other choice.�

The next day, Professor Dippet announced at breakfast that the term would have to end a week early, the risk to “student safety� having apparently become intolerable at last. The O.W.L. exams, he said, would be postponed to some unspecified time during the summer. There was general rejoicing from the fifth-years, or so I'm told -- I wasn't there myself, having had great difficulty getting up that morning. Tiredness wasn't the half of it: the sleepless hours since I'd finally climbed into bed had been spent staring wide-eyed at the rough stone ceiling, furious and afraid at what Tom Riddle had done to me. He'd casually killed someone -- Avada Kedavra, just like that -- and I was a disposable shield whose only purpose, it seemed, was to protect him from any retribution.

The worst of it was not knowing what to do. Lying alone in the darkness, I didn't doubt that if I dared to betray his secret -- our secret -- I'd be spending what remained of my life in an Azkaban cell. Nor could I retaliate on my own: Tom (I imagined) knew a lot more curses than I did, he certainly had more friends, and what could I do, anyway? About the most vicious thing I ever did to anyone at school was to send them a Howler. I was good at those, and wrote some spectacular ones as a teenager. But never to Tom; having read his diary put paid to that idea. What might he write back?

Everybody else, of course, was having marvellous fun. For one glorious day, the whole of the fifth and seventh years believed that exams were off, at least for the time being, and went outside to enjoy the spring weather. Most of the year's House Quidditch matches were unofficially re-played that day -- no umpires, no colours, no offside rule (mostly). Slytherin, apparently, did quite well. I must have been the only one in my year to get any revision done that day: I spent most of it hiding in the library, hoping not to encounter anyone I knew.

Then, the following morning, everything changed again. Just as I was coming in to the Hall, a chuffed-looking Dippet got up and told us, with a delighted smile on his face, that Hogwarts would now remain open until the scheduled end of term, and it would be possible after all to hold exams as usual. The reason for this marvellous news, he beamed at us, was that the person responsible for releasing a dangerous creature to wander the school premises had been found at last. It was none other than Rubeus Hagrid, the huge Gryffindor boy, who would be dealt with accordingly. As soon as the Headmaster uttered the name, a Hall-full of eyes raked the Gryffindor benches -- but Hagrid was not there. Nor did we ever see him in the Hall again: his punishment, we found out later, had been immediate expulsion from Hogwarts. Better him than me, I thought.

Not that we had much of a chance to dwell on Hagrid's fate. Restoring O.W.L.s to their originally planned schedule meant -- as Dippet hastened to confirm on the spot -- that the exams would begin the very next day, with Potions at nine o'clock in the morning. That this information was able to slide cleanly into my brain, without whipping up any more turmoil than was heaving there already, may tell you something about the state of my thoughts at the time. Two days earlier, and I'd have been visibly panicking, just like Athena Malfoy next to me, and Bernard sitting opposite. As it was, a little thing like a Potions exam hardly seemed to matter, not when I had a head full of murder and the prospect of Azkaban.

Clearly, the library was not the place to avoid conversation that day -- it was packed full of frantic students. Instead, I found myself hanging around in the trophy room, which was deserted and demanded nothing of me. Hogwarts Wizard Chess Grand Champion, read the inscription on a silver cup, Janice Nutcombe, 1897. I'd have liked to be remembered for something worthy and unthreatening like that. Albus Dumbledore, 1898, it went on; Arcturus Black, 1899. Probably the best I could hope for now, I reflected despondently, was not to be remembered at all.

Voices echoed from the corridor outside: a man and a woman, talking in subdued tones. A moment later they walked through the stone archway into my refuge. I couldn't help staring, because they didn't look like they belonged at Hogwarts at all. The woman was wearing a short grey dress that looked home-made, and a black headscarf; her companion was in naval uniform.

“Oh, we're sorry,� said the man. “I hope we're not disturbing you?�

“Not at all,� I replied quickly. “I'm just at a loose end here. Um -- can I help you two?�

“No, not really,� he sighed. “We don't have much to do, either; we're just here for today.� I was still staring, so he went on: “Brian and Jane Robinson; we're Myrtle's mum and dad. We came up by train yesterday, as soon as I could get leave.�

“How do you do?� I asked automatically, a second before realising that the answer was hardly going to be Very well, thank-you. “I mean, I was sorry to hear of your loss. I'm afraid I didn't know Myrtle well. I-- er, think I spoke to her once on the Hogwarts Express.� I was remembering as I spoke: it had been at the end of the year before, I'd aspired to a prefect's badge at the time, and I'd gone out of my way to prevent Myrtle from thumping another girl who'd been teasing her about her glasses. Probably not the best incident to recall for her grieving parents. “We don't get many Muggle visitors at Hogwarts,� I tried instead, “what do you think of it?�

They did their best to be complimentary, but I suspect they were rather awed and daunted by the castle. To them, I suppose, it was the cold and fantastic place that had taken their child away; it could hardly have seemed welcoming under the circumstances. I listened to them, all the time thinking, I know who murdered your daughter. I could say his name, right now. But I didn't.

“She were that excited, when she got the letter,� Mr. Robinson reminisced. “Couldn't wait to get here and see it all. The two of us took some convincing, mind you--�

“You did, mostly,� his wife put in.

“Aye, but then we went out the back of that pub and found ourselves in Diagon Alley, that was an eye-opener and a half!�

“The same thing happened to my mum,� I told them. “My granddad didn't believe it even then; he went up to one of the Gringotts' goblins and tried to get him to take his mask off.�

They laughed quietly. “Still,� sniffed Mrs. Robinson, “the culprit has been caught, we hear, so at least no other families will have to go through all this. That's something to be thankful for.�

I agreed that it was, wishing I wasn't one of the only three people in the world who knew otherwise. Wishing, too, that I could tell them the truth -- but what good would that have done? Letting them blame it all on me wouldn't bring Myrtle back.

I had a long and complicated nightmare that night. Bahman Zinn was chasing after me, crying “Stop, thief! Give me back my pipe!� I had his flute (twice life-size, for some reason) in my clutches; I turned to throw it back to him, but then I remembered I'd cast a Permanent Sticking Charm on my hands, and couldn't let it go. “I'm so sorry,� I started to say, but then he turned into Professor Slughorn demanding that I prepare a Draught of Living Death. “Does that mean she won't really die?� I asked, and from somewhere behind me Tom replied, “Of course she will. That's what happens, when I kill people. But they're only Mudbloods, so it's nothing to worry about, really.� He laughed his high, cold laugh, and I woke up, sweating like a pig and wondering how a dungeon beneath a frigid Scottish lake could get so hot.

Once I had my breath back, I decided that I wouldn't be falling asleep again before dawn, and so I might as well use the time for a bit of extra exam revision. (This sort of thing can be made to resemble a good idea, at that hour of the morning.) I couldn't face Potions, not after the dream, so I pulled out A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration and tried again to understand the pins-in-the-pincushion thing. My class notes -- Bernard's class notes -- were fairly useless, so I threw them into the wastebasket for the house-elves to get rid of, and wrapped my muddled brains as best I could around the textbook. Do you know, after an hour or so of sitting up in bed, pulling faces at Professor Switch's diagrams, I think I was actually starting to get it? Maybe I should have opened the book before.

Athena shook me awake at half past eight, thereby showing that she wasn't all bad. There was just enough time to wash, revive myself with toast and tea, and totter into the Potions dungeon looking like a complete mess. This was the practical exam, and to this day I have no memory of what potion it was we were required to make; I only remember checking, on the way out, that my cauldron was still in one piece, with no ominous-looking holes burned in the bottom. So that was something. I returned to the dormitory with a cheese sandwich, crawled into bed, and was oblivious for the rest of the day.

The following morning, as Lavinia and I queued up in the Entrance Hall awaiting our next exam, I was sufficiently recovered to catch up on gossip. “Have you heard about Tom Riddle?� she asked me.

I felt my stomach turning over. This was it, the disaster I'd been helplessly trying to avoid. The dread must have showed on my face, because Lavinia looked at me oddly before continuing, “He's getting an award for Special Services to Hogwarts!�

“Special Serv-- Whatever for?� While I supposed killing people could, just barely, be described as a “Special Service�, I'd never imagined one could get awards for it.

“For finding the monster, of course!� How odd, I thought, that no actual monster had ever been brought to light; Tom seemed to be persuasive enough that he didn't need one. Even without producing a monster, he had got himself an award, got Hagrid thrown out of school -- and he could easily do much worse to me if he felt like it. It wasn't at all the kind of positive thought I needed before going into an exam.

“You've got to admit, it was quite impressive,� Lavinia was going on. “That Piper chap was a complete bust, failed to find anything at all, and then Tom just strolls into the dungeons and works out on his own where Rubeus' hideout is! Apparently Dippet summoned the Piper to his office, told him his assistance was no longer required, and sent him packing without so much as a Knut for his trouble.�

“Who told you that?� I genuinely wondered.

“Roberta Longbottom. She's the best in Gryffindor for rumours; hears everything that's going around.�

I suspected I knew the ultimate origin of that particular bit of hearsay, but didn't have time to share it with Lavinia even if I'd been inclined to. The huge doors were slowly opening, and the whole of the fifth year surged into the Great Hall. Inside we found desks arranged in neat rows, one desk per student, each with a small roll of parchment positioned in its exact centre.

MINISTRY OF MAGIC ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL EXAMINATION
1943
THEORY OF TRANSFIGURATION
Answer ALL of the following questions. You have THREE hours. Please write legibly.

QUESTION 1. Write about six inches outlining Gamp's Principles.

QUESTION 2. You want to transform a bean sprout into a mature oak tree in three steps. What intermediates would you choose, and why?

QUESTION 3. Why is it so hard to transmute base substances into gold? Why didn't this stop King Midas? For bonus marks: discuss the Philosopher's Stone in relation to your answer.

QUESTION 4. Consider the following: Transfigurable minerals are those with a tractable essence,
unless they are both tractable and intractable. Is this statement true, false, both, or neither? Justify your answer.

QUESTION 5. Before Transfiguring a live hummingbird into a musical instrument of your choice, you have the opportunity to consult a skilled musician. What would you ask, and why?

QUESTION 6. Consider a pincushion, without any pins in it...

What, no pins? Oh, unfair, after all the time I'd put in! Still, I was glad for any question I could actually answer. Gamp's Principles were easy enough, but the fourth question looked like a good one to avoid, and I hadn't the foggiest notion what the Philosopher's Stone might be. As for things turning into oak trees -- wait, hadn't Professor Rhizome mentioned something like that in Herbology? I grabbed my quill and began to write.

Three hours later, I left the Hall feeling that it hadn't gone too badly, all things considered. I'd left the question about musical instruments until last, then gritted my teeth and chosen to write about the flute. At least I had no trouble visualising one of those, though I didn't care for some of the images that came with it. I could think of some questions I'd have liked to ask, too, although possibly they weren't the ones the O.W.L. examiners had in mind.

I was happier than poor Lavinia, at any rate: she was close to tears after spending half the time tying herself in mental knots over statements that were both false and true. (I bet Tom Riddle did all right on that question.) As we wandered down towards the lake, I tried my hardest to cheer her up, but it was no use; eventually she apologised for the state she was in and withdrew to Gryffindor Tower. Watching her go, I felt a bit wretched, like I'd failed as a friend. Lavinia, I should have told her firmly, don't worry so much. It's only an exam. In a couple of years you'll leave Hogwarts and become an assistant toad-handler at Thornsiple's Breeding Ponds, where you'll love the work and meet a charming Swedish bloke called Gustave, whom you'll marry and have two energetic children with, and they and their children will bring you joy for the rest of your days -- when they're not over at my house listening to me rabbiting on, that is. I don't know why I didn't tell her all that. Not knowing the details in advance seems a rather inadequate excuse, somehow.

Beneath a majestic oak tree (grown without any magical help, as far as I knew) Bernard, Tom, Edwin Rosier, and the rest of the gang were bragging about their performance. Bernard had chosen the triangle for his musical instrument, which seemed appropriate, because I knew he had the tinniest of tin ears. The others were contemptuous: “The triangle! You'll never get full marks for that!�

“What did you choose, then?� he demanded of them.

“The mouth-organ,� Tom told him casually. “I had a mouth-organ once. The kid I took it off wasn't a wizard, though, so asking him anything would've been useless.�

I wondered whether Tom had actually played his mouth-organ, or just kept it as a sort of trophy -- and that gave me an idea. Unlike most of that lot, before Hogwarts I'd attended a Muggle primary school in London; my mum had insisted on it, just in case I turned out to be a Squib or something. There I'd learned, along with spelling and the times-table and the life cycle of the frog, to play the descant recorder. That's a tube with holes in, that you blow into at one end. I don't know why it's so important for Muggle children to learn an instrument that sounds like the Cruciatus Curse being administered to a sow in labour, but there you are. It's not so different, in general terms, from the instrument that was at that moment hidden under my bed. I could probably play that, too; or at least, Tom couldn't stop me trying.

Five minutes later, I was back in the dormitory, taking a good look at Zinn's pipe for the first time. It was made of brass or some similar yellowish metal, with a mouthpiece at one end, and open at the other. A dozen oddly-shaped finger holes ran down the side; the last two could be covered by pressing keys, so that the player's fingers wouldn't have to stretch too far. It didn't look at all magical, but then, a lot of things don't.

Where to try it out? Not indoors: if it was going to sound anything like my efforts on the recorder, anywhere in the castle risked bringing Apollyon Pringle to investigate within minutes. I would have to be outside, well out of earshot of any passing students or teachers. Only one place would do for that: I hid the pipe in a satchel, and headed for the Forbidden Forest.

I know, I know, the Forest wasn't the ideal place to experiment with a magic flute supposed to have monster-attracting powers. But rough treatment at the hands of others is like that: doubly harsh, because it makes you less careful of yourself, too. I didn't want to stay safe; I wanted the tiny measure of revenge I'd get by playing Tom's pipe, and nothing could have made me think better of it.

That said, I didn't go very far in. There was a small, sunny glade just off the main path, verdant with long grass, late bluebells, and a foxglove or two. A bumblebee noisily checked the flowers, making sure they'd all been properly attended to. There I sat on the ground for half a minute or so, holding the flute in both hands, trying the fingering and waiting until I was sure I was quite alone. Then I lifted it to my lips and -- gently, you have to blow gently, or it sounds shrill -- began to play “Good King Wenceslas�. It took a few false starts, and some of the notes came out wrong, but I soon began to get the hang of it again, and the melody was at least recognisable. The lines about cruel frost and deep snow seemed quite out of place on a warm day, and I did briefly wonder if any Yetis would turn up to investigate, but I can't say I was surprised when they didn't. After I'd got through that I tried the “Ode to Joy�, which I'd half forgotten, and then a traditional French folk-tune that I'd never really mastered in the first place.

My slim repertoire exhausted, I stopped to look around. I could play the Piper's pipe, it seemed, but there was no sign of hordes of rats eager to drown themselves, or vampires ready to do my bidding. Zinn had claimed that Piping took years to learn; I'd disregarded that, of course, the way any healthy teenager would, but now I began to wonder if it might have been more than vain bombast. (Sometimes it is, you know.)

I waited a few minutes -- even the bee was indifferent to my playing, I noticed -- and then ran through “Good King Wenceslas� again. Still nothing. I was just starting to think that I really should be using this time to prepare for tomorrow's Charms exam, when there was a rustling sound at the far end of the clearing. The dense foliage parted, and a centaur foal ventured out: Firenze.

“Are you a Piper, too, then?� he asked, the sunlight catching his blond hair as he approached me at a four-footed walk.

“Not a very good one,� I admitted. “My playing hasn't charmed anything yet.�

“I'm here,� he pointed out. “I was on a forest path when I heard your piping, just faintly in the distance, and I thought, I'd like to see that Piper man again, so I came looking.�

I was dubious. “Do you think that was magic, or just coincidence?�

“Perhaps we were destined to meet today,� he said seriously. “But why is it you that I am meeting, and not him?�

“The Piper's dead; a student at the school killed him,� I told him quickly, before I could think too much about it. A wild centaur was perhaps the least appropriate person to share such a secret with, but I was tired of keeping it to myself, and I just couldn't confide in anyone at Hogwarts; I was too afraid.

Firenze nodded his little head solemnly. “And his pipe is fated to be yours, now.� He was remarkably incurious as to the details, for which I was grateful. Among centaurs, I realised much later, the dead have so few possessions that there is rarely much fuss over their disposition. “Can you play it again for me, please?�

I had another go at each of the pieces I'd tried before. They all came out better this time; perhaps that was just practice, or perhaps it made a difference to have this earnest child in the audience, his eyes closed, motionless but for the occasional lifting of a forefoot.

When I ran out of material, Firenze sighed. “That was lovely. Do you think -- that is, I hope you don't mind -- could I try playing it too?�

“Do you know how?�

“Not really,� he conceded shyly. “Some centaurs do play pipes, but ours are different.� I remembered a picture of a centaur playing pan-pipes, although on later reflection I realised that was probably a satyr. (Goat, not horse.)

I offered him Zinn's legacy; he took it and threw back his head, clearing the hair from his face. At first he experimented, working out the notes and trying a scale or two. Then he began to play, a strange lilting tune quite unlike anything I'd ever heard before, full of high notes and quick, unexpected crescendos. I realised he'd been modest; he was much better at this than I was. “This is a rare instrument,� he declared reverentially at one point, “like something out of an old tale.� Then he started another piece, a slow, reflective one.

Listening to Firenze, enjoying his music and the warm sunshine, is the only good memory I have from the end of fifth year, and all the better for being so. For a precious hour or two I was able to forget all about Tom Riddle, and O.W.L.s, and even Slytherin's monster. It was a rest I badly needed, and it did me a lot more good than another afternoon's studying would've. I would happily have stayed in the Forest until dusk (which is very late indeed, in the north at that time of year), but even a talented young centaur can only make music for so long. All too soon, I had to put the flute back into my satchel, shoulder my burden, and return alone to the castle for dinner.

I spent the last few days of term avoiding Tom Riddle. It wasn't difficult to do, as he seemed to be avoiding me as well. Tom nearly always took his meals near the front of the Great Hall, next to the teachers' table; I began to haunt the far ends of the Slytherin benches, back amongst the shy first-years, so as to be out of his sight. Only once did Tom come down to my end of the Hall, to break up an incipient fight between a couple of third-year boys. I watched him giving them a good telling-off (“Jinx each other silly all summer long for all I care, but don't do it at Hogwarts where I can see you, or I'll have to take points from our own House for it�) and felt trapped by the fresh memory of the haughty young man who'd threatened Bahman Zinn with a borrowed wand, and tried to forcibly extract his secrets. After peace had been restored, Tom's eyes met mine briefly, and then we both looked away.

It was a relief to board the Hogwarts Express at last, at the opposite end of the train from Tom's gang. Lavinia and I had a compartment to ourselves, and she chattered all the way to London about the relations in America she'd be spending the summer with, and Quidditch, and even that Transfiguration exam she'd been so upset about at the time. (“If, by some miracle, Professor Dumbledore lets me carry on to N.E.W.T. level Transfiguration,� she declared firmly, “I'm going to.�) Plus, of course, the keenest topic of the moment: what it could possibly have been that Rubeus Hagrid had been secretly keeping in the dungeons, and how a mere third-year had ever managed to subdue it. She seemed genuinely torn over whether keeping a high-X monster as a pet should really be grounds for expulsion, and I was glad she didn't press me for an opinion. Tuck, the only one in whom I'd confided my recent experiences, perched quietly in his cage for the whole journey. I'd sworn him to secrecy, on pain of never being let out again, and he was suitably circumspect: not a word of what I'd vouchsafed to him passed his beak, then or ever. Tom wasn't the only one who could ensure another's silence.

“Had a good term?� my mother asked brightly, when I found her on the platform at King's Cross. I wanted to say that it had been good -- better than good, even -- until a fortnight or so ago. But that would have required more explanation than I could permit myself, and in any case would have taken too long, so I just said “Yes, fine�, and we left.

The evening was warm, but with dirty low cloud, and a soft drizzle. As my father hailed a taxi, I caught a glimpse of Tom slouching away down the street by himself, his hands in the pockets of his shabby Muggle trousers and his head down, looking only at his own shoes. There was no sign of his school trunk; I'm not sure whether he even had one, or whether he just kept his Muggle things at that orphanage where he spent his holidays.

It was a grim old place, London, in that wartime summer. Everywhere there were bombed-out buildings, big office blocks and houses lying in chunky ruins, bomb craters full of dirty water, and everything rank with tall weeds. There were plenty of people about, but few smiling faces. Nearly everyone was on foot; the cab driver grumbled all the way that petrol rationing was killing his business. A tired-looking horse pulled a rag-and-bone-man's cart down Charing Cross Road, looking like he belonged on the cart himself. In the rubble of one shop, a woman was scrabbling in the mud, looking for something she'd lost: a treasured heirloom perhaps, or money, or a child. Whatever it was, it looked like it had been lost for quite a while. Our world could be so much kinder and brighter than this, I remember thinking, and not for the last time. Magic makes us richer and stronger than the Muggles -- but it also makes people like Tom Riddle.

We ate an unsatisfying dinner in the Leaky Cauldron, while we waited for it to get dark outside. The room was crowded with other Hogwarts families doing the same thing, but thankfully I didn't see anyone I knew well. My parents kept trying to talk to me, asking what I'd been up to at school, and whether Hagrid's monster had really disrupted the exams all that much, but I was able to avoid answering by pretending I was too tired to converse in the noisy atmosphere, and kept to my own thoughts instead. At last the twilight was deemed to have faded enough for us to go out into the back courtyard, mount our brooms, and take off for the journey home. That was one good effect of the war, at least: Muggles didn't inquire too closely after half-glimpsed aerial shapes. The occasional lunatic would try to shoot you down, but the rest tended to presume that if you weren't raining death upon them, you were on their side.

I remember finally being alone in my own bedroom, making a half-hearted late-night attempt at unpacking my trunk. Inevitably, one of the first possessions to come out was the golden flute. I held it in my hands and looked at it, and tried to make my fatigued brain decide what to do with it. Take some opportunity -- there would be plenty of them during the summer -- to pass it on to Bernard as Tom had ordered? Or defy Tom, and keep it? Either way, I was petrified with fear of what Tom might do, once he returned to Hogwarts where he was powerful.

All summer long, that flute stayed hidden in my trunk. It was as though the blasted thing was cursed: there was no-one I could show it to, not without starting a conversation leading to advice that -- whichever way it leaned -- I didn't want to hear. Especially not from my mother, or my father, or anyone else whose suggestions I might feel obliged to follow.

I'd never felt so alone; did I have no friends? Well, of course I did, just none that I could share this with. I found myself wishing the Bells hadn't gone abroad; then I'd have been able to visit Lavinia and pour out my dilemma to her. (The Knight Bus is a wonderful invention; you young people don't know how lucky you are to have it.) But that was a useless thing to want: I already knew Lavinia well enough to guess what she would have done, if it had been her Tom was threatening. She'd have gone straight to Dumbledore, and together they'd have denounced Tom and dared him to do his worst. The problem was, I just couldn't envision my own Head of House in quite the same role. Tom was already one of Professor Slughorn's favourites; what if Slughorn chose to believe his story instead of mine? Besides, daring someone to do their worst isn't half so easy once you have a vivid notion of just what their worst might be.

I tried Tuck again, once. Early one morning when no-one else was about, I found him at the bottom of the garden, dancing in circles with a dead frog in his beak, as if to admire his breakfast before he consumed it. I seized the opportunity.

“Look here, Tuck. It's about time I decided what to do with this flute thing. Bernard and his parents'll be here on Saturday for dinner; that'll be the time to give it to him, if I'm ever going to. He'll pass it on to Riddle -- I know I can rely on Bernard for that part, he'd do anything Tom told him to -- and with any luck that'll be the end of it.�

Tuck put his head on one side, waiting.

“But Tuck, what am I letting Tom get away with? He knows that pipe can be used to control all kinds of dangerous beasts. Tom's clever, and he reads a lot. He'll work out how to play the thing -- it can't be that hard, I almost did it myself -- and what will he do with it then?�

Tuck pecked out a choice portion of the frog's anatomy, and swallowed it visibly.

“Exactly! I wouldn't mind if Tom just wanted it to play some prank on the Gryffindors or something -- but it's more than that he's after, it's murder! Remember how he talked after he -- after Zinn died?� Tuck didn't remember, of course, he hadn't been there, but I certainly did. “And whose death would serve him best of all just now?� Mine, I was going to add, but the word stuck in my throat.

“Death!� croaked Tuck solemnly. “He's coming, coming!� He picked up the remains of the frog in his beak, and took refuge on a high branch of an overhanging elm tree.

The meaning of Tuck's warning became clear a moment later. “Whose death is that, then?� murmured a cold sensation as it passed through me. “Not that it matters. We are all going to die, except for those of us who have died already, of course.� I recognised the melancholy voice of Claude Avery, an ancestor of mine who successfully placed himself on the winning side of the English Civil War, only to be eviscerated on a battlefield for his pains. The pale outline of his ghost rippled the cool morning air in front of me, as he gloomily continued: “Are we deciding who is to die now? I could help. I do have two hundred and ninety-nine years of experience in that line, after all.�

“Happy deathday, Claude,� I said mechanically, taking the hint. “It's not a matter of who, so much as... Oh, I suppose it can't hurt to tell you.� Before I knew it, I was spilling the whole story to him. It wasn't a wholly bad move: if one must seek counsel from ghosts (which I don't advise, in general) Claude is about as suitable as any, considering the number of murderous villains he's dealt with in (and after) his time.

“Well,� he mused when he'd heard it all, “I see. It seems, young Beatrice, that your position is both perilous and propitious.� He hugged himself, holding his ectoplasmic form together as a gust of wind blew through it. “Your life is in jeopardy, no doubt, and that is no small thing.� He sighed abstractedly. “Howsoever, had the point been mooted around the Slytherin common room in my day, every young blade there would have concurred on the answer. This Mr. Riddle is the brightest wizard of his generation, and destined for great things, that is clear enough. You have his secrets -- some of them, at least, I don't doubt there are more -- and with them, a chance at gaining his trust. Here is your opportunity to get close to him, to become his friend and confidante, to share in his rise to power. In time, perhaps even -- how fortunate you are to be young and female -- to become his wife! Had you considered that?�

I hadn't, but the considering didn't take long. “I despise Tom. I didn't like him much before; now that I've seen how horrible he really is, I wouldn't want to be his friend, let alone -- anything more. I'd rather be his mortal enemy.�

“So you have your answer.� The breath that had once animated Claude seemed to come sighing out of him. “Alas, the living do not value their lives enough, on the whole. Whatever would your father say, if he heard you spurning such a chance?�

“Probably that I'm not much of a witch, and that I listen too much to Winston Churchill.�

“Who?�

“The Muggle Prime Minister. Father detests him, but Mother thinks he's rather inspiring.�

“Hmph. So was Oliver Cromwell, and look where backing him got me.� Claude relaxed his self-embrace, allowing some of his innards to leak out beneath the great-coat in which he'd been slain. “Keep your distance from bold and charismatic leaders, that's my advice. Nine times out of ten, the only ends they serve are their own.�

“Even Tom Riddle?� I smiled at him, something he didn't like very much.

“Suit yourself. If you feel so strongly about your young rising star, what do you need me for?� He huffed off through the back fence, leaving me no wiser than before. Tuck decided to chase him, and launched himself into the air, croaking harshly. In the silence they left behind, I sat back and stared at the puffy white clouds decorating the blue sky, wondering what Tom Riddle was doing at that moment. It was quite hard to imagine him mooching about London, pretending to be a fatherless Muggle boy.

So I vacillated the summer away. Some mornings, I woke and swore to myself I'd stand up to Tom; others, I quietly accepted that he would just have to be given what he wanted. But mostly, I didn't know what to do. My aunt and uncle Avery, and Bernard, came to visit several times, and Bernard gave me quizzical looks across the dinner table. But I pretended not to notice them, and made good and sure that he and I were never alone together.

One cloudy morning, an owl dropped in with my exam results. That was something to be pleased about, at least: I'd done as well as expected in every subject, and better in some. My parents congratulated me on Excellents in Charms and History of Magic, but it was the passing grade in Professor Dumbledore's subject that most delighted (and astonished) me. An Average, or whatever it's called nowadays, might not seem remarkable to you, but Transfiguration was difficult in my day. I resolved on the spot that I would try harder at it.

Then, suddenly, it was the last afternoon of the holidays, and I was back in my bedroom clearing the rubbish out of my school trunk to make space for new books. For at least half an hour I sat on my bed, holding the golden flute in both hands, pondering. It occurred to me for the first time then that I could just not pack it. Leave it behind. Tom couldn't take it off me if I hadn't got it, and whatever evil he was planning would be thwarted without my actively having to do anything. But in the end, it went back in the trunk, hidden at the bottom. I told myself that if I left the flute at home, my parents would probably discover it, and it was easier to be afraid of that than of Tom Riddle.

It seems odd now, after so many years of trying not to be noticed by Lord Voldemort, but I was never more frightened of him than during the first few days of my sixth year at Hogwarts. He brushed past me on Platform Nine and three-quarters. His eyes glanced at me over the heads of the newly Sorted Slytherins, whose hands he was earnestly shaking. He sat right behind me -- on purpose, I'm sure -- in Professor Dumbledore's class. When I walked across the common room, he was there with Barabbas and Bernard and the rest, and they broke off whatever they were discussing to watch me go through the door leading down to the girls' dormitories. I knew it was only a matter of time before he came after me, and still I had no idea what to say to him.

At least school work started well that year. I'd convinced Lavinia that we should sit in the front row in Transfiguration instead of the back, just in case there was anything to be gained by hearing Professor Dumbledore more clearly. Perhaps there was: he did seem more intelligible than he'd been the year before, and I even managed to raise my hand in response to one or two of his simpler questions without making a complete fool of myself. One day, I was astounded to find Slytherin House five points to the good because of an especially perspicacious question I'd plucked up the courage to ask. I've no recollection now of what the question was or why it was such a good one, let alone what the answer turned out to be. But the twinkling of Dumbledore's delighted eyes over those half-moon spectacles he wore: that's one of the best memories I have from all my school days.

Then, in the second week of term, one of the tiny local-delivery Scops owls brought me a note at breakfast. Even before reading it, I recognised the thin, slanting handwriting, and the vermillion ink Dumbledore used for marking homework.

Dear Beatrice,

Please see me at a quarter past ten this morning. I will be in the old Magical Art classroom on the fifth floor.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore.

It was another bolster to my confidence: against all expectations, I was beginning to think I had a real chance at a Transfiguration N.E.W.T., perhaps even with something more than a minimum passing grade.

“What do you think he wants me for?� I asked Tuck, who had picked up the note in his beak and looked like he might make off with it. He didn't reply, but regarded me dubiously out of one bright eye. Dismissing his lack of enthusiasm, I retrieved the little square of parchment and put it in my pocket. I would find out soon enough. I could even be early, as I had a free period starting at ten.

I'd never been in the Magical Art room, and from the look of it, neither had anyone else for the last decade or two. It was huge, and empty. A thick layer of dust covered the floor, and cobwebs were strung across the aisles between desks. At the front of the room were several bare easels lying on their sides among the dead flies, as if they'd been upset long ago and never righted. There was a large magical painting on the wall: it showed what appeared to be the bar of the Three Broomsticks, but deserted, as if the regulars had all found more interesting pictures to inhabit.

“Professor Dumbledore?� I called. The response was silence, broken only by the scrabbling of Tuck landing on a mantelpiece, and a jarring crash as he knocked a heavy candlestick to the floor with his wing.

“He won't be coming,� remarked Tom Riddle pleasantly, stepping out of a store cupboard. “But I'm so glad that you're here.� Behind me, the classroom door slammed shut in response to a twitch of Tom's wand. “You have something of mine, and I want it back.�

He seemed taller and more handsome than ever. It looked like he'd come into some money over the summer, too: his school robes were new, and a large gold ring adorned one of his fingers. It was an ugly thing, set with a square black stone that reminded me of nothing so much as a lump of gravel, but it still looked good on him.

“Oh. You mean the� -- I looked around nervously, but the room was still empty except for us two -- “magic flute, I suppose.�

“Yes, my pipe. I needed it over the holidays, but Bernard says you never gave it to him. What on earth were you playing at?�

“I -- I'm sorry, Tom--�

“You should be. But as it happens, I came across something better to use instead.�

“Really? What did you find?� Cowed to curious in an eyeblink: that was me, in those days.

He regarded me with a half-amused, yet calculating sort of look.

“Wouldn't you like to know? Knowledge like that isn't for casual sharing, Beatrice. It's for holding close, very close indeed. The circle of people who will ever hear what I discovered last summer is quite small; if you want to be among them, then you've made a rather poor start.� Tom was so good at this that for a moment I found myself wishing I'd behaved better towards him, thinking -- almost aloud -- that I'd dearly love to be one of his favoured few, enjoying confidences never to be divulged to others. It was only a second thought that reminded me that Bernard didn't appear to be in on Tom's deepest, darkest secrets, and I'd bet none of his other cronies were either. As far as I could ever tell, the privileged circle Tom referred to had a membership of one: Tom Riddle. Besides which, I'd glimpsed enough in that diary to guess that I might sleep better at night if I didn't know exactly what Tom got up to in his spare time.

As I hesitated, there came a flapping sound behind Tom, and he turned to see Tuck come in for a noisy one-footed landing behind him. They matched gazes for a couple of seconds, Tom's dark brown eyes against the bird's beady black ones.

“Whose raven is this?� Tom demanded to know.

“Mine. Come on, Tuck, I need to get to Charms.� I let him perch on my forearm, and turned to go, hoping against hope that I had sufficient skill to get the door open and escape before Tom could grill me any further.

“Before you go.� Tom put his hand on my shoulder; he made it look casual, but I could feel the band of his ring digging into the flesh beneath my collarbone. “I want my pipe back.�

Decision time. “I -- I haven't got it any more,� I improvised.

“Where is it, then?� His tone was still calm and patient, but full of controlled menace.

“I gave it away.�

“To whom?�

“To a centaur,� I invented, remembering Firenze. “He said it was centaurs' magic, really, well, almost like it anyway...�

“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort.� He paused, then snapped, “Legilimens!�

I wasn't caught completely by surprise. I knew what Legilimency was, though this was the first time I'd had it used on me. Still, I doubt I'd have stood a chance if I hadn't already had Firenze's bright remembered image in the front of my head, blowing that golden pipe in the sunshine for all he was worth. I held tight to that memory, even as I felt Tom interrogate it, probing for any cracks in its surface, buffeting it to tell whether it rang hollow. “This is like one of my mother's old tales come true,� Firenze had said, holding up the pipe in delight, and I'd replied “Keep it, then. You play it better than I do, so it might as well be yours.� Or at least, those words had been in my mind at the time, and I'd reflected often enough afterwards that they were what I should have said, so there they were. A more accomplished Legilimens might have been able to distinguish between idle regret and faithful memory, but Tom didn't dwell on the thought long enough to try. He was already forcing my attention to a brutal, blunt focus on the centaur (“Who is this? Who?�), and Firenze's name stumbled over my tongue, frantic to babble itself out.

“How disappointing.� I was on my hands and knees on the cold and dusty floor, my face was wet with tears I couldn't recall shedding, and I was gasping for air, as though I'd been holding my breath for the last minute or so. Tom was still behind me; I couldn't see him, or anything much besides a blurry crack in a flagstone. But I could hear his sneering voice: “You chose the gratitude of a miserable juvenile half-breed, when you could have had mine? I could have done a lot for you, Beatrice. Your future career might have been advanced immeasurably through a connection with me; I can't imagine what you threw it all away for. Your deformed little horse certainly won't profit you anything after I catch up with him -- he'll be lucky if he can still feed himself.�

“Feed himself! Feed himself!� Tuck was flapping his wings somewhere, and I wished acutely that he hadn't chosen that particular phrase to repeat. He got through it four or five times before being silenced by a dull thud, as though Tom had taken a swipe at him with his fist.

“Don't hurt Firenze, Tom!� I managed to wheeze out. “It's not his fault!� He doesn't really have the flute, I nearly said -- but I didn't. When Lord Voldemort's wrath turned away to another, only a stronger person than I was would want to draw it back.

“It's not his fault!� mimicked Tom, in a high, singsong voice. “No, it isn't, it's yours, but I shall hurt him anyway, and that'll be your fault too. I don't tolerate disloyalty, or weakness, or stupidity� -- with every word he advanced closer, until he was leaning over me -- “or failure. Crucio!�

Resisting the Cruciatus Curse was a N.E.W.T. level topic then, covered in seventh year. That lesson, at least, was one where Professor Merrythought had my full and undivided attention. But there on the floor of the Magical Art room, when I heard Tom snap out that incantation -- crisply, as though he practiced it every day -- the best I could do was to screw my eyes shut and panic. It took me a long, long moment, full of sheer terror, to realise that my eyes were not on fire, my lungs were not full of steel knives -- I was, in fact, not in any pain at all. I risked a peek to find out why.

Tuck was writhing in agony on the floor of the classroom, his wings flopping about awkwardly as if they were broken. His beak was opening and closing, but it emitted no cries; he seemed barely able to breathe. Tom stood over him with a delighted smile on his face, holding his wand delicately between two fingers, relishing his painstaking execution of each sharp little flourish.

“Tom!� I screamed. “Stop it, stop it, oh -- that's Unforgiveable!�

The spell continued for a few more moments, long enough to make clear that its ending was Tom's will, not mine. He turned to me.

“Only if used on another wizard,� he remarked coldly. “Beasts don't count.� He was still watching Tuck's motionless body out of the corner of one eye. Probably making a mental note of the time it took the victim to recover, for future reference.

“That was awful, Tom.� The word didn't do justice to the experience, but I was in no state to choose a better one. “How can you do that to anyone? Have you no soul?�

“No soul, Tom?� Tuck cawed, lifting his head feebly; my heart leapt to see him conscious. “Three of 'em! Three of 'em!�

I had no idea what Tuck was on about at the time, although I have a shrewd guess now. If I'm right, he was a more perceptive old bird than I ever knew; ravens have a strange insight sometimes, on certain subjects. At any rate, it struck something in Tom: his head snapped around fiercely to confront his accuser. The wand in his hand shook visibly; for the first time, his self-confidence seemed to waver. Then he turned white with anger.

“I should wring that bird's neck,� he snarled. “Teaching your pets to talk...�

“I didn't teach him to say that,� I protested. “I don't know what he means, he just talks nonsense sometimes, please don't hurt him!� Tom ignored me, slowly raising his wand and taking aim at Tuck, who was struggling back to his feet, oblivious to the danger he was in. “Tom, you can't kill him, that's vile, you'll never be Head Boy if you murder another student's pet!�

That stopped him for a moment. I'm sure Tom cared less than nothing for any other witch or wizard at Hogwarts, but he did want to be Head Boy. Power over others still meant something to him, and he wouldn't jeopardise it lightly. Then he shrugged.

“I doubt that,� he said simply. “It was self-defence.� He raised his forearms to show me the bleeding scratches on them: Tuck had marked him in more than one way. Then he walked deliberately around the raven's limp body, being careful never to turn his back on me, and raised his right foot. There was a crunch of breaking bones. Once, twice, three times he stomped on my poor bird, breathing heavily each time. Expelliarmus! I thought feebly; he wasn't using his wand, though. Petrificus Totalus! I actually did throw that one at him; he dodged it one-footed, hardly appearing to notice I'd done it.

When it was over, he stared at me for a few seconds, clenching and unclenching his fists, controlling his anger. “That shuts the bird's mouth; you do the same for your own. Remember I can have you kicked out of this place any time I want to -- and the groundskeeper doesn't need any more assistants. Once you're out of school, no-one's going to shed any tears over the mysterious disappearance of a disgraced witch who had no prospects anyway. Or her precious pets.� He turned on the ball of his foot and marched out of the room, the door blasting itself open before his muttered “Alohomora!�

After a few minutes, I managed to crawl over to where Tuck was. He seemed smaller than he had in life; several of his long feathers had come out, and I had the oddest urge to try to put them back on him. Instead, I picked him up and sat there on the filthy classroom floor, holding him, for most of the rest of that day, missing two classes without a good excuse. I wondered, in a befuddled sort of way, whether I owed my life to Tuck and whatever it was that he'd seen in Tom. Or, more likely, to Firenze: it dawned on me eventually that my lie to Tom might have bought a temporary escape for myself, but at a terrible cost to an innocent foal. Beasts don't count, Tom had said; I closed my eyes and broke out in a sweat as I imagined him hunting down Firenze -- who would not realise, at first, that he was taking the blame for me. It was just as Tom had said: everything was my fault. But the worst of it, the most abhorrent thing of all, was a terrible self-knowledge: if leaving Tom Riddle to pursue another victim would keep him away from me for even half a day, I would do it. I was that afraid of him.

In the days that followed, I resolved to hand over the thrice-damned flute to Tom as soon as he came back asking for it, and to hell with whatever he meant to use it for. I took to carrying the thing around all day in my school bag, so that if he cornered me again, I'd be able to give it to him promptly, without giving him another opportunity to test his cruelty. I even slept with it under my pillow, just in case he had some way of invading my dormitory.

Tuck's grave was unmarked, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. I buried him at dusk, arranged some brambles to conceal the fresh earth, then turned to go and return the Herbology trowel I'd borrowed, half-expecting Tom to accost me on the way. But it didn't happen, then or ever: the encounter I was dreading never came. Instead, and inexplicably, Riddle began to act as if I didn't exist. He didn't sit near me in classes; he didn't look at me when we passed each other in corridors; he never even seemed to reprimand first-years when I was around.

For a few weeks, this made me more anxious than ever. First he abused me, then he ignored me: what was he up to now? Surely he hadn't lost all interest in the magical artefact he'd once coveted so furiously? But I must say, the new, distant Riddle suited me far better than the old one. As the year went on and my fear grew stale, I gradually got used to the idea that I wouldn't have to deal with him in the immediate future. I was able to concentrate again on school work, and my friends, and the other mundanities of a young witch's existence. Life returned almost to the way it had been before -- although all my homework that year was handed in on time, and none of it was done late at night in the common room, you may be quite sure of that.

It was twenty years before I encountered Firenze again. I was working on a feature story for the Monthly about the latest attempt to fine-tune the definition of a “Being� (it was the usual thing, some toe-rag wanting to exclude Muggles), and Mr. Diggle agreed to let me do an interview with a reasonable centaur, “if you can find one�. For reasons of my own, I lost no time in taking advantage of his good nature.

I'd never found out whether Riddle had hunted Firenze down as he'd threatened to; not knowing had kept me awake sometimes, in the small hours when everything seems dark. For that matter, I had no idea what had become of Tom after he left school. There were a few rumours: he'd gone abroad, or (implausibly) taken a menial job in a shop somewhere, or been sent to Azkaban for practicing Dark magic. But not even Bernard had seen him lately -- or if he had, he wasn't admitting it -- and “Lord Voldemort� was still a name known to only a few.

Diggle's only stipulation was that I had to nursemaid an annoying little vixen by the name of Rita Skeeter. Rita became quite well-known later on, but when I first knew her she was a callow novice reporter only just out of Hogwarts. She spent most of the trip pestering me about Transfiguration; I suppose she'd somehow found out that my N.E.W.T. in that subject was an achievement of which I was still rather proud, and was trying to butter me up.

We began with a quick stop at the Hog's Head, where Aberforth Dumbledore confirmed for us that there was still a centaur herd in the Forbidden Forest. He'd had a few run-ins with them over the years, owing to their penchant for shooting the wild goats there. “But your best guide,� he told us, “would be the new Hogwarts gamekeeper, Mr. Hagrid. He can fill you in on everything about the centaurs: where to find them, what to say to them, how to avoid rubbing them up the wrong way. He's been hob-nobbing with them for years.�

I thanked Aberforth and we left. Out in the Hogsmeade main street, as we prepared to mount our brooms, Rita glanced at me. “Hagrid's hut next?�

“No,� I told her shortly. “I don't think that'll be necessary. It's not a good idea to rely too much on secondary sources, Rita; we'll get better material from the centaurs themselves.�

“Straight from the horse's mouth?� she suggested.

I didn't care much for that expression, and said so.

“Why not?� she asked. “We could use it for a sub-title.� She looked into the sky, as though inspecting the architecture of the clouds. “Conversation with a centaur: from the horse's mouth. By Beatrice Avery, with additional reporting by Rita Skeeter.�

“You'd never get it past Mr. Diggle,� I advised her. I refrained from mentioning that she wouldn't be getting a by-line, either: she would put more effort in if she discovered that detail after the piece was written, rather than before.

From the air, the Forest looked much as it had in my school days, dense and forbidding. It was a splendid midsummer's day, a blue dome of sky above us decorated with only the gauziest wisps of high cloud. Even a short flight in the Highlands on a day like this has its own kind of magic; you feel you could soar between the rugged green hills forever, bound for nowhere in particular. Hogwarts and its Quidditch pitch were deserted, and I wondered briefly whether Headmaster Dumbledore was still there, working through the holidays in his lonely office. If so, I wasn't inclined to drop in for a visit.

I was more concerned about where to land: it's a rather large Forest, and, having avoided Hagrid and his advice, I didn't have the foggiest notion where Firenze might be in it. (Guilt can be awfully inconvenient sometimes: if I'd known it would last so long, I might've done things differently at school.) Still, I couldn't stop to think: Rita might not have known the first thing about journalism, but she was a sharp enough observer to pick up hesitation if she saw it. I spotted a gap in the verdant canopy that might have been a clearing, and steered towards it.

On the ground, it was darker. Only the odd shaft of sunlight penetrated this far down, and there was still dew on the rough oak-trunks. The air was full of damp, earthy silence; I doubted there was anything larger than a beetle within earshot of me. Drat.

“Is it safe for us to wander around in here?� Rita whispered to me nervously. “Professor Dumbledore doesn't allow the school students to go into the Forest, you know.�

It took an effort not to whisper back. “Dippet never used to, either,� I replied quietly. “But there's no great danger, for someone who knows what they're doing.� I hoped she would draw the inference that I was such a person.

Meanwhile, I was trying to guess how to find the centaurs, or (at a pinch) something that might give us directions to them. I could have used a Piper's pipe just then, but that was an unwelcome thought; I flicked it away. The best lead I could actually use was a patch of bare ground nearby that might have been the beginning of a path. I gestured confidently at it and told Rita “This way.�

I was in luck. The exposed earth showed the clear imprint of hooves, and even an ignorant Londoner like me could easily see which way the creature that made them had gone. For all I knew, they might have been weeks old, or belonged to some other equine beast (weren't there also unicorns in this Forest?), but they were better than anything else I had to go on. I pointed wordlessly, and set off with Rita following behind.

It wasn't much of a path: most of the ground was covered with moss, or rocky, and we were constantly stepping over tree roots or brushing aside fern fronds. Still, every so often a hoofprint or two would turn up to reassure me that we were on the trail of something or other.

“Any idea how much further we have to go?� complained Rita from somewhere behind me. “I'm really not dressed for this.�

“No substitute for hard foot-work,� I admonished her mildly. The good mood I'd acquired aloft had persisted, and I was feeling quite cheerful at the prospect of seeing Firenze again. “Sometimes, in this business, you just have to slog on until you get the big break.� Which was true enough.

Up ahead, there was a snuffling. Then a wet, tearing sound; then a dull thump, as of a burden being dropped, or (I couldn't help thinking) a body falling heavily to the ground.

“What was that?� hissed Rita. Turning, I saw her wide-eyed, clutching her broom, ready to flee into the air at a moment's notice.

I swallowed. “I'll just go and see,� I told her as calmly as I could, and advanced with an attempt at stealth, listening intently. Idiot, a voice jeered in the back of my head, you're supposed to be demonstrating competence, not utter fearlessness. But I wanted that interview, and we wouldn't find any centaurs among the treetops.

When I saw what it was, I relaxed a bit. Nothing like knowing what you're up against to calm you down, and this was something I had at least seen pictures of. On the far side of a clearing in the forest crouched a black, skeletal body; a fanged, reptilian mouth; leathery wings; and a long, swishing tail. It was tucking into the bloody carcass of a goat, holding it down with a fore-hoof and tearing off the flesh with wickedly long teeth. I made a mental note not to mention this encounter to Aberforth.

“Come and have a look,� I called to Rita. “This,� I announced when she appeared, “is a Thestral.�

She regarded me dubiously. “It's a dead goat, Beatrice.�

“No -- Oh, you can't see it, of course. The dead goat is just its dinner. Thestrals are invisible, except to those who have seen death.�

I was secretly hoping she'd say something like “My, you really have reported from the front line, haven't you?� Instead she asked, “Can it talk?�

“Not as far as I know.�

“What use is it, then?�

But I'd already worked that out. “Thestrals have an amazing sense of direction; they can find anything their riders are looking for. A certain interview subject, for example.�

Rita looked more disbelieving than ever. “Go on, then. You persuade it that it would rather carry you about than finish its lunch, and I'll just wait here quietly until you're ready.�

Hmm. There was, admittedly, a little bit of a problem there. I'd never in my life ridden even an ordinary horse, let alone a carnivorous flying one. I quickly pondered whether I dared to approach the Thestral -- which was huge, now that I came to take a good look at it, and looked as though it could move very quickly -- and gently suggest that perhaps, at some convenient time in the reasonably near future, it might consider contributing to a full-length feature in the Magical Monthly by allowing the principal author to ride it. No, was the answer, I could not possibly do that. It's a fundamental rule of field journalism: don't get too close to any subject with a horrible mixture of blood and saliva draining out from between its teeth. It'll just kill the story.

I was about to concede this point, when a sudden, insistent thudding reached our ears. It was far-off to begin with, but rapidly grew louder; something was running towards us. The Thestral pricked up its bony ears, listened for a moment, then bolted into the undergrowth, never to be seen again. Rita would probably have done the same, but no amount of blind panic was going to give her the ability to run in those shoes. (High heels? Where did she think centaurs lived, Piccadilly?)

Then it was too late to flee. A pair of centaurs brandishing bows skidded into the clearing: one coal-black, one palomino. At once they spotted the goat carcass and groaned in frustration.

“Beaten to the kill again!� exclaimed the fair one. “Yet another of Hagrid's Thestrals, too; how many of them has he brought into the Forest without our permission?�

“Don't be too hard on Hagrid, Firenze,� I called out softly. “He was cast out of his herd unjustly; he deserves better.�

Both of the centaurs turned. I don't think they'd failed to notice us before; they'd just found the goat more interesting than a couple of stray reporters.

“Beatrice?� Firenze asked wonderingly. “Are you here already?�

“Yes, it's me.� I was impressed that he'd remembered my name, let alone recognised me; I didn't look much like my fifteen-year-old self any more. “What do you mean, `already'?�

“It was foretold that you would return. Although--�

“The auguries gave no sign concerning another human,� growled the black centaur. “Who is this?�

“Rita Skeeter,� Rita introduced herself, stepping forward. “Tell me, Mr.--�

“Bane,� I supplied. “Wait a bit, Rita, we'll see in a minute if he's willing to be interviewed. Firenze, would you mind awfully giving us a little of your time for a brief chat? Rita and I are writing a story for a wizard magazine, and we could make it so much better if we included a centaur's honest perspective. Perhaps this could even be the reason you and I were destined to meet again, to bring your point of view to the wizarding world?� I tried to smile winningly, thinking that this was the moment of truth: if Firenze bore me any kind of grudge, he would now send me away with a flea in my ear.

But Firenze not only acquiesced, he even persuaded his friend to take part, too. I immediately assigned Rita to handle the surly Bane -- it would be good practice for her -- while keeping Firenze for myself. We moved a few paces away from them: far enough not to be disturbed, close enough that I'd probably still hear if Rita made a complete hash of things.

“Why are you here?� asked Firenze at once.

“Well, I, er, wanted to take the opportunity to catch up with you, see how you've been getting on since we last met--�

“Find out whether I survived my encounter with the Dark Lord, perhaps?�

“With Tom Riddle, you mean? He's dark all right, although I sincerely hope he'll never be lord of anything. He's a nasty enough piece of work as it is. Look, Firenze, I'm really sorry I got you involved, I know Tom only came after you because of me. I'd do anything to make it up to you--�

“It was not your agency that brought me to him,� Firenze interrupted gravely. “He and I are fated to be enemies: this has been written in the stars since long before your birth, or mine. It is needless to apologize for what the heavens have foretold.�

I couldn't quite see it that way, myself, but if it meant exoneration of a sort for me I wasn't going to argue with it. “Thank-you, Firenze. Or thank the heavens, if you prefer. Would you, er, mind telling me what happened, exactly?� The answer to that question wouldn't be going into the magazine article, but I couldn't help leading with it: I'd been desperately curious to know for so long.

“My herd protected me at first,� he said mildly. “On the day I played the pipe with you, I was scolded for returning late; I was not permitted to wander by myself for a full lunar cycle afterwards. It was during this time that the boy Riddle first tried to find me; instead he found himself surrounded by my angry relatives. He cursed a few, but they were too many for him, and he was forced to flee for his life. He filled the air with a great darkness, I was told, and escaped beneath the cover of it.�

“Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder,� I guessed in a murmur. Across the clearing, I could hear Rita giving Bane the full treatment: they'd already covered “Do the Hippogriffs resent sharing their Forest with you?� and were starting on “You share Beast status with the Acromantulas; is that an uneasy relationship?� We would certainly have plenty of material for the article, provided Rita survived to bring it back to the office. (I'm pretty sure the Acromantulas were just something she made up, by the way; I don't think there were any in the Forest in my day. Rita did that sort of thing a lot.)

I turned my attention back to Firenze. “You said 'first tried to find me'. Did he try again later?�

“Much later,� he confirmed. “It was only the winter before last, one cold night at the dark of the moon, with the Forest floor deep in snow. This time, I faced him alone. He looks very different now: his face has steeped for years in cruelty, as no foal's ever has. Whatever your acquaintance when you were both young, I advise you not to seek him out again; he is perilous.�

I assured him with feeling that I would take that advice to heart.

“He told me he had circled the world,� Firenze continued, “and achieved mastery of Dark magic of every kind. He showed me a stone that he said could control Dementors, and a delicate, exotic paper lantern that he claimed would blaze up in Fiendfyre upon a word of command. But there was one artifact he had yet to acquire: a magic pipe with the power to attract any beast, fantastic or mundane. He demanded that I give it to him instantly.�

Oh, dear, I thought. That would be my fault. I'd dreaded hearing something like this from Firenze for half my life -- and yet, here he stood before me, hale and grown. The worst did not appear to have happened.

“What did you tell him?� I asked, doing my best to remain professional.

“That he was expected. That our meeting had been long foretold, although until his apparition I had not known what it was he would crave.� Firenze's tone was remarkably dispassionate; if he'd been this calm when he faced Tom down, he'd done much better than I had. “He did not like that; he disbelieved it at first, until I showed him better.�

“What did he do to you?�

“He used Dark magic to inflict great pain.� I couldn't repress a shudder; some memories remain vivid for far too long. “He searched my mind. Almost at once, he found what he desired; I could not resist showing it to him.�

I nearly panicked on the spot. Tom had interrogated Firenze only a year and a half ago; by now he would know that I'd never given the flute away. How long did I have before he found me again? He must know where I worked: my name was printed in every recent issue of the Monthly, among other places. Should I flee the country today, without even returning to London? I'd been to France a few times, but I'd have to go much further than that, to places I didn't know -- and Tom probably did. No, wait, that would be senseless, if I was going into hiding I'd be better off somewhere near home...

“There are fearful times coming,� Firenze was saying, in his even, measured way, although he didn't sound afraid in the least. “What Riddle saw was the most significant night of my life, a night when a bright and terrible comet crossed the path of Mars. Bane and I watched together as a bitter storm-cloud engulfed Saturn; we debated its portent until dawn. A great and dreadful Dark Lord rises, that much is clear; I believe his fate touches mine in some small but crucial respect, though I know not whether I am to be the key to his victory, or the instrument of his downfall.�

“And you think Tom Riddle is the Dark Lord?�

“I am sure of it. The planets remain equivocal on the role I am to play, but I am ready. What must be, must be.�

I was fascinated despite myself; I'd forgotten that a moment earlier I'd been in mortal fear. Somewhere in the background, Bane was raising his voice angrily at Rita (“How often are you ridden?�), but he hadn't quite got around to physically attacking her yet, so I ignored them and asked Firenze: “What did Tom make of all this?�

“He laughed; a high, cold laugh he has, with only malice in it. 'Very well,' he told me, 'I cannot deny that you have seen truly, seen the power that will be mine. I will leave you be. If you are destined to bestow the Piper's flute on me at the moment I shall use it, so be it. And if not -- you are harmless to me, for I cannot die.' And then he turned on the spot, and was gone.�

I began to calm down. “So Tom still thinks... All right Firenze, that's wonderful. Can I just�-- I glanced uneasily in Rita's direction --“ask a few more questions, for the article?� We did still have a job to do, after all, and from the way Rita was getting on, it was looking like we didn't have much time left in which to do it.

“Of course,� he replied. “But answer me this, first: Are you going to tell your readers the Dark Lord is coming? Is that why you were so determined to seek me out?�

“No, and no. The Monthly is a serious magazine; it won't print a story like that. I really did want to see you again, Firenze, and besides,�-- time now to repay his candour with some of my own --“I wrote a very well-received piece about merpeople rights a few months ago. If I can follow that up with a good job on this Beast/Being feature, I'll have a real shot at this year's Numinous Notebook Award for high-quality journalism... and I've never won it before.�

“Very well,� he said agreeably. “I don't mind helping the occasional human from time to time.�

So that was how I tangled with Tom Riddle, and lived to tell the tale. Now, I suppose what you'll all want to know is: what happened to the Piper's pipe? Have I still got it, and if so, can you borrow it for a bit?

Well, no. Once I had got through thinking Tom might ask me for the pipe at any moment -- which was most of my sixth year at school -- what I mostly wanted was never to see or hear it again. There's a special room at Hogwarts for things like that: if you want to hide something badly enough, sooner or later you'll find yourself in there. It's so large, and so full of centuries of contraband, that nothing you leave there is likely to be found again, except by someone who knows where to look. Even so, I was afraid Tom might know about that room, so I waited until the very end of seventh year, the day before the end of term feast.

That's where I put Bahman Zinn's flute, in the bottom left-hand drawer of an eighteenth-century escritoire, half-buried under an enormous pile of other junk. It won't do you a bit of good to know that, now. The whole room was gutted by a magical fire a few years ago, and I expect the magic flute was destroyed along with everything else.

Oh, I suppose someone might have discovered it, in the half-century it was there. Some young witches and wizards almost seem to have a talent for that sort of thing. But -- it doesn't seem likely. Not to me, anyway.