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?â€
–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.â€
–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 –Signorâ€, 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.â€
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?â€
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!â€
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 –octopusâ€. 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?â€
–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.â€
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?â€
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?â€
–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--â€
–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--â€
–--I heard them calling, run, feel the aliveness of running, out of the Forest and around the whole world--â€
–--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--â€
–--and we had to come, it was an adventure!â€
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?â€
–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.â€
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!â€
Zinn laughed politely. –Your advice is noted,†he said. –While you're here, though, I wonder if I could ask--â€
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.â€
I had to wonder about that. There were any number of unusual creatures in and around Hogwarts, some of which would definitely count as –spectacularâ€, 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.â€
–No time,†he grunted. –We need to get going on some O.W.L. swot. The exams are starting--â€
–Yes, I know.†(And I didn't want to be reminded.) –Who's this 'we'?â€
–Me. Lestrange. Riddle. Rosier. We were in the common room all morning, hard at it. Started your revision yet?â€
–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 accidentâ€, 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.)