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?â€
–No-one sees it!†cawed Tuck. –It isn't there! It isn't there!â€
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 advertisementâ€-- he pronounced the word oddly, as if he were saying –had-her-PIES-sent†--–in the Zauberische Zeitung.â€
Dippet looked taken aback. –Last Tuesday's advertisement? Goodness me. Well, that was very prompt of you. Er -- have you visited Hogwarts before?â€
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.â€
–Quite. Well, er, are you clear as to the nature of the engagement the school is offering?â€
–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?â€
–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?â€
–The traditional methods,†declared Zinn, –are the only ones I practiceâ€. 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. â€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.–
â€Your credentials,– wheezed Professor Dippet as Zinn paused for breath, â€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. â€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.–
â€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.
â€Welcome to Hogwarts,– smiled Athena Malfoy, abandoning her own plate to take the place on Zinn's other side. â€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?–
â€Ah, it is the same all over Europe,– said Zinn dismissively, as he cut a thick slice of pie for himself, â€and worse in some places. But– -- he smiled genially at Tom -- â€you must be accustomed to such provisions by now, I suppose?–
â€I -- ate worse when I was younger,– Tom muttered, flushing. â€So, this is your first time in Britain, is it?–
â€The second,– Zinn beamed. â€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.
â€How dreadful!– Athena simpered, as if she didn't tell stories of misused Dark magic every chance she got. â€What happened to the other captain?–
â€He was imprisoned, I believe,– replied Zinn with a dismissive wave of his hand. â€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 -- â€my clients will be happier to have them there.–
â€Is it possible to talk to birds, then?– asked Tom, who had been listening intently to Zinn's story. â€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. â€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.
â€What a marvellous skill!– enthused Athena. â€Is it difficult to learn?–
â€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.–
â€I can see why your talents are in such demand,– Tom said, sounding impressed. â€Is there any creature that isn't susceptible to your magic?–
â€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. â€Oh,– she exclaimed, â€is the folk-tale true, then? The one with the rats, and the town council that wouldn't pay?–
â€Oh, yes,– Zinn assured her. â€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.–
â€The Pied Piper of Hamelin!– Tom burst out, catching up at last.
Zinn looked at him oddly. â€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.â€
–So quickly?†said Athena doubtfully. –That's very confident of you. People have been looking for the Chamber of Secrets for centuries.â€
–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.â€
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.