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?â€
–Not at all,†I replied quickly. –I'm just at a loose end here. Um -- can I help you two?â€
–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.â€
–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?â€
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--â€
–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!â€
–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.â€
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.â€
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!â€
–Special Serv-- Whatever for?†While I supposed killing people could, just barely, be described as a –Special Serviceâ€, 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.â€
–Who told you that?†I genuinely wondered.
–Roberta Longbottom. She's the best in Gryffindor for rumours; hears everything that's going around.â€
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, Is this statement true, false, both, or neither? Justify your answer.
unless they are both tractable and intractable.
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!â€
–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.â€
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 Wenceslasâ€. 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 Joyâ€, 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.â€
–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.â€
I was dubious. –Do you think that was magic, or just coincidence?â€
–Perhaps we were destined to meet today,†he said seriously. –But why is it you that I am meeting, and not him?â€
–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?â€
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?â€
–Do you know how?â€
–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.