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 oneâ€. 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.â€
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?â€
–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.â€
–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.â€
–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.â€
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.â€
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.â€
–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.â€
She regarded me dubiously. –It's a dead goat, Beatrice.â€
–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.â€
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?â€
–Not as far as I know.â€
–What use is it, then?â€
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.â€
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.â€
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?â€
–Don't be too hard on Hagrid, Firenze,†I called out softly. –He was cast out of his herd unjustly; he deserves better.â€
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?â€
–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'?â€
–It was foretold that you would return. Although--â€
–The auguries gave no sign concerning another human,†growled the black centaur. –Who is this?â€
–Rita Skeeter,†Rita introduced herself, stepping forward. –Tell me, Mr.--â€
–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--â€
–Find out whether I survived my encounter with the Dark Lord, perhaps?â€
–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--â€
–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.â€
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.â€
–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?â€
–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.â€
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.â€
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.â€
–What did he do to you?â€
–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.â€
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.â€
–And you think Tom Riddle is the Dark Lord?â€
–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.â€
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?â€), 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?â€
–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.â€
I began to calm down. –So Tom still thinks... All right Firenze, that's wonderful. Can I justâ€-- 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?â€
–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,â€-- 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.â€
–Very well,†he said agreeably. –I don't mind helping the occasional human from time to time.â€
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.