Congenital Magnetism

At six o’clock that evening, as Dumbledore had requested, Harry and Draco arrived in front of the gargoyle that stood guard in the Headmaster’s Tower. Draco noticed a disturbing consequence of his collaborative Potions work with Harry: the urge to be agreeable with Harry had infiltrated his mind.

“You do the honors, Potter.”

Harry repeated the new password Dumbledore had given to Draco and him before leaving their Potions classroom that afternoon:

“Lasagne al forno.”

The gargoyle made way for the two of them, and the moving spiral staircase spirited them up to the Headmaster’s office. Draco let the brass knocker fall, and Dumbledore appeared at the door and ushered them inside the office with a genial expression.

“Gentlemen, please.”

Dumbledore motioned for Harry and Draco to take seats in front of his desk. The previous Headmasters and Headmistresses were snoozing in their respective portraits as Dumbledore reached for a long rolled-up parchment scroll that rested against the wall behind him. The Headmaster fixed one end of the parchment scroll to the top of a frame behind his desk, unrolled the parchment, then secured the bottom ends. The unveiled parchment now covered most of the wall and displayed what appeared to be an enormous family tree, spanning many generations, but the writing was too small for Harry and Draco to read from their seats.

“Let me tell you both how pleased I am that your Potions project is progressing so well,” Dumbledore began. “You told me this afternoon that you have discovered something that will act as a temporary counteragent for Harry’s effect on the male students at Hogwarts. I’m eager to see how this works on a larger scale, but this evening, I would like to discuss a factor that I think has a bearing on any long-range solution. Harry, I asked if you could bring the page of research that Sirius had written, the text in which you say Sirius mentions your maternal grandmother.”

Harry shifted in his chair, stalling, but he realized he had no choice. He pulled the torn piece of parchment from his back pocket and handed it to Dumbledore. The Headmaster read the entire page, then gave it back.

“Harry, I will tell you that your godfather’s research confirms the information that my colleagues at Beauxbatons Academy in France have uncovered—concerning your family history—although you are certainly within your rights to keep the contents of Sirius’s remarks private.”

Aware of Draco’s presence, Harry didn’t want to give the impression he had something to hide. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“It’s all right, sir,” Harry said. “Malfoy can have a look if he likes.”

“Perhaps the two of you will want to incorporate Sirius’s insights into your work later. However, as for our discussion tonight… did you realize, Harry, that your grandmother, Lily’s mother, first came to this country at the age of eighteen, that is, when she married Lily’s father? She was French by birth.”

This was not a topic of conversation Harry was keen on pursuing, and every second that passed found him shifting and squirming more.

“Yes, sir, I do remember my Aunt Petunia saying that my grandmother was French, but Petunia said she spoke with hardly any French accent.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Yes, I’m sure she adapted well to her new country.” He swiveled in his chair and studied the genealogical chart behind him, then regarded Harry again. “You’re already acquainted with Fleur Delacour—from the Triwizard Tournament.”

A sense of impending doom descended on Harry. He nodded.

“Harry, there is no roundabout way of saying this.” Dumbledore fixed Harry with a steady gaze. “Your grandmother, Capucine Lefevre Evans, and the grandmother of Fleur Delacour, Coco Lefevre Mercier—both of them deceased—were sisters… and they were also full-blooded Veela… which means that you, Harry, are one-quarter Veela. You and Fleur are second cousins.”

The Headmasters and Headmistresses who resided in the portraits in Dumbledore’s office were known to be light sleepers, but they awoke from their naps in record time.

“Full-blooded Veela?” Phineas Black shouted from his portrait. “I should think their husbands died before them, of sheer exhaustion, if nothing else. I’m sure many of you are aware of the Veela reputation for riotous, gymnastic goings-on in the bedroom. I knew a wizard who was married to a Veela. Wouldn’t give her up for the world, but he had a devil of a time keeping up with her in bed.”

Dexter Fortescue interrupted Phineas Black’s outburst from his own portrait. “Phineas, will you hold your tongue? You’re embarrassing the poor boy. That’s his grandmother’s people you’re blathering about. He may well have inherited all of his grandmother’s alarming talents.”

“I think I know magical creatures as well as anyone,” said Newton Scamander, the last former Headmaster to offer an opinion. “If the boy is part-Veela, the Headmaster needs to know in which direction the boy’s interests run. If his powers affect females, perhaps the situation is manageable, although barely. But if the boy’s powers are directed toward males… Good God in heaven. In a case such as that, let the current Headmaster know that his school is in for a bumpy ride. If the boy were drawn toward males to any degree, and he exhibits the lecherous artistry that most female Veela do, one shudders to think of the sexual mayhem that would ensue.”

Dumbledore held his hand up and addressed the occupants of the various portraits. “Silence, please.” The former Headmasters grumbled, but discontinued their commentary.

Only now did Dumbledore notice that Draco was slipping off his chair. Although Draco tried to remain in his seat, it was a losing battle. He wore a huge smile on his face, and he was squeezing his lips together in a supreme effort, as though he were preventing laughter through the application of pressure. Draco’s attempts to compose himself failed miserably, and he dissolved into laughter as he slid out of his chair and melted onto the floor with his face buried in his hands, laughing like a maniac.

Harry sat in his chair, rigid as a board. He addressed Dumbledore with a helpless look on his face.

“Are you quite sure the genealogical information is correct? I mean, could the people at Beauxbatons have made a mistake of some kind?”

Draco was presently prostrate on the floor, laughing and giggling to the point of being incapacitated.

Dumbledore smiled at Harry’s attempts to avoid the evidence that confronted him. “There is no doubt as to the accuracy of our information. I understand your shock at discovering this part of your family heritage for the first time.”

Draco was making gleeful little noises as he crawled back toward his chair.

“Draco, please,” Dumbledore said, his tone gentle. “This is not the time to make light of Harry’s… special inheritance.”

Dumbledore saw the stricken look on Harry’s face and regarded him with a measure of sympathy. “I am convinced that the best course to follow is for the two of you to continue your efforts. I say this because, as you have told me yourselves, your collaboration has already resulted in some measure of success with your Potions project.”

This was met with another outburst of giggles from Draco. Harry looked over at Draco in agony.

“Malfoy, will you please shut up? For the sake of common decency, will you please, please shut up?”

Draco dragged himself into his chair and made a visible effort to control himself. With difficulty, he adopted an earnest and thoughtful tone of voice.

“You know, Potter, Potions has always been the one academic discipline where you could use some tutoring, and that’s where I come in. I want you to think of our research as advancing the frontiers of science. Think of all the dark, hidden corners of Veela sexuality on which science has yet to shine a light.”

“Is there nothing I can possibly do to make you shut up?” Harry asked in a weary voice.

“Harry.” Dumbledore broke in for the sake of diplomacy. “Is it possible that you’ve noticed Veela characteristics in the people on your mother’s side of the family, that is, your aunt and cousin? They do share the same Veela bloodline with you.”

Harry hated to admit it, but the facts spoke for themselves. “Yeah, Aunt Petunia went through some sort of revelation during the past year, and she’s begun to look all posh and stylish. And Dudley, er, lost a lot of his excess weight this past summer. I guess he looks a lot better recently than he ever did before.”

Dumbledore drove his uncomfortable point home. “So your cousin’s change occurred around the time of his sixteenth birthday, which would be consistent with the timing of Veela inheritance.”

The irrefutable evidence was crashing down on Harry, and there was no escape. He looked up at Dumbledore and offered his feeble reply. “I suppose.”

Draco continued undeterred. “Potter, we need to get out into the forests and swamps and explore the natural habitat of Veela. You think I’m ignorant of Muggle culture, but that’s not true. When I was a child, my mother took me to see a Muggle ballet called Giselle, and it’s all about Veela. During the performance, the Veela wear lacy chiffon dresses, and they flit about in woodland clearings behaving in a thoroughly saucy manner. Now aren’t you impressed with my familiarity with the Muggle arts?”

Harry closed his eyes in misery. “I’m proud of you, Malfoy.”

“My father even had some volumes about Veela in his library that I read as a child,” Draco added. “They provided me with wonderful insights about Veela. I remember one book in particular. It explained the habits of the Veela that live in the swamps near the Danube River in northeastern Bulgaria. As I recall, Veela like swamps because they’ve got these handy fairy wings that let them fly over the swamp for a while so that they can dry off every now and then.”

“Stop, please. I don’t need you to paint a picture for me.”

“Keep in mind,” Dumbledore said, “that Veela wings are controlled by a recessive gene, and part-Veela, such as Harry, virtually never exhibit this trait.”

One of Draco’s eyebrows arched up as he continued. “Now that I think about it…” Draco’s left eyebrow shifting upwards was a simple facial gesture, but its effect on Harry was to scatter any coherent thoughts.

Dear God, Harry thought, please make him stop doing that sexy thing with his eyebrow before I jump in his lap.

“… I seem to remember, Potter, that you were able to stay underwater at the bottom of Hogwarts Lake for an unusual length of time during the Triwizard Tournament.”

“That was because I ate Gillyweed before the second task.”

Dumbledore nodded. “The Gillyweed may have helped, but Draco does raise a valid point, Harry. Veela have a well-known affinity for lakes, rivers and especially wetlands.”

It was clear how much Draco appreciated the beauty of the natural surroundings that Veela were accustomed to.

“Oh, come on, Potter, all that gurgling mud and algae and moss in the swamps bring out the color of your eyes.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “You have the heart of a poet.”

Draco beamed. “I like to think so.”

“Well, gentlemen,” Dumbledore broke in, “I’m sure the two of you have a lot of planning to do. As before, you can continue to rely on Professor Snape for assistance and counsel during the course of your Potions project. Professor Snape is now aware of your Veela family history, Harry.”

Dumbledore noticed the look of apprehension that spread across Harry’s face.

“Not to worry, Harry. I haven’t revealed the news of your Veela inheritance to any of the students here at Hogwarts. I’ve only informed the members of the faculty, and I insisted they remain discreet.”

Harry let loose a sigh of relief.

“However, gentlemen, before we finish our discussion this evening, I’d like you to know about some interesting insights that Fleur Delacour herself has provided me with. When I contacted my colleagues at Beauxbatons, I made a point of writing to Fleur. I provided her with all of the information I have collected from everyone who has had contact with Harry since he boarded the Hogwarts Express yesterday morning.

“She replied and Fleur sends her warmest regards to you, Harry. She was delighted when she learned that the two of you are second cousins, and I’m sure she intends to write to you herself. The most interesting parts of her letter concern what Fleur described as the long-term strategy for managing the sexual magnetism that Veela project.” The Headmaster considered Harry for a moment, his eyes twinkling. “Harry, it’s as simple as letting your instincts guide you to find a mate and being accepted by that mate. Veela instincts begin to manifest after the age of sixteen, and this is also the case for part-Veela like you. Once a Veela or part-Veela has found and been accepted by a mate, the Veela’s effects on other people will begin to subside.”

Harry tried to control the parade of panicky notions that raced through his brain. No, please, no, he thought. Draco flipping Malfoy is supposed to be my mate? I’ve been lusting after Draco non-stop for the past two days. My stupid instincts are doing this? Why would I have self-destructive instincts?

True to form, Draco asked the most embarrassing question possible. “And why do Veela instincts lead an individual to a particular mate? Is it a random process of picking the first attractive potential mate who happens along, or is there an underlying logic to it all?”

“As I have recently learned,” Dumbledore said, “Veela instincts are not random in the least, and this is where Fleur’s knowledge has proven invaluable. I first related to her the series of events that transpired when Harry first saw you on the Hogwarts Express, Draco. Harry felt fine threads, similar to the silk that spiders use to make webs, attaching themselves to his skin, and he felt the threads pulling from your direction. He also felt his heart rate increase. Harry told me that, judging from the expression on your face, he thought you experienced the same phenomena. Is that true, Draco?”

Even though it might have been an attractive option, it was impossible for Draco to lie about this. When the two of them had first seen each other on the train, Harry had watched Draco’s every move and noted every perplexed expression on his face. Draco had felt the same threads pulling him, the same rapid heartbeat. Harry knew.

Draco maintained an even tone of voice. “Yes, that’s what I experienced as well, but I don’t think it necessarily has anything to do with Potter choosing a mate. The sensation of fine threads materializing might be nothing more than another product of Potter’s Veela powers occurring in random situations.”

Dumbledore’s answer supported Draco’s suggestion, much to the relief of both Draco and Harry. “And that was exactly Fleur’s reply, Draco, when I suggested the possibility of Harry’s Veela instincts guiding him in your direction. She said it was equally likely that the symptoms both of you describe are random and irrelevant. The only reliable indication of a Veela having found a mate is if someone to whom the Veela is romantically drawn makes it clear that they accept the Veela.”

Dumbledore directed his attention at Harry. “Are you aware of such a sentiment from anyone, Harry?”

“No, sir,” Harry replied in perfect honesty.

Draco understood Harry well enough to know he was guileless, not bothering to hide anything. Draco stared into those green eyes—he often spotted that same color in the woods, pasture and bogland that surrounded Hogwarts—and listened to Harry state the plain truth: no one had ever made Harry aware of a yearning so strong and constant that it crossed the bounds of family and society. From what Draco could see, Harry never had any need to hide anything. Always the Golden Boy, the savior of the wizarding world, beloved by everyone. Draco had always had to cope with family alliances and his father’s expectations; he never had the luxury of satisfying his own whims and fancies the way Harry could, and he envied Harry for having that kind of freedom.

“… I said, Draco”—The Headmaster’s voice forced Draco out of his thoughts, and he was aware he’d been daydreaming—“have you ever heard any report of someone who had such a passionate attachment to Harry?”

Now it was Harry’s turn to observe. The shuttered look Harry knew so well came down over Draco’s face. Whenever Draco adopted that camouflage, Harry could never glimpse the hidden thoughts that lay beyond.

Draco looked at Dumbledore, but didn’t quite look him straight in the eye. “No one has ever told me any such thing about Potter.”

A short time later, Harry and Draco left the Headmaster’s Tower and headed down the corridors of the sixth floor toward Harry’s temporary sleeping quarters, neither of them wanting to be the first to break the silence. Draco had insisted on seeing Harry to his room before heading back to his common room in Slytherin Dungeon, and Harry wondered at that because Draco’s gesture was so unnecessary. They took the last turn and Draco reached out, grabbing a handful of Harry’s robes, and he pushed Harry into a corner.

“You remember what you told me this afternoon in the Potions classroom, Potter? Not a word to Dumbledore about the crazy spirit association that’s been giving us information. I didn’t tell him a thing about them, did I?”

“OK, you kept your word about that,” Harry admitted.

Draco kept Harry trapped in the corner but took care that his hold on Harry’s robes was gentle. Harry squirmed but didn’t find it unpleasant to have the taller boy pin him against the wall.

“You were worried about Dumbledore finding out what the Eastern Shore Network said about you, that you’re a magical creature. But you see, it didn’t matter because they were right.” Draco smiled with satisfaction. “So far, they’ve been right about everything they’ve told us. So I was thinking… let’s not tell Dumbledore about the Eastern Shore Network just yet. Or Professor Snape. Or any of the teachers. They might think it’s too irregular to be using information from disembodied spirits.”

Harry nodded in agreement. “Do you still have the wooden board we were using to communicate with?”

Draco reached inside his backpack and pulled out the wooden board that Professor Trelawney had asked all her Divination students to create. Draco’s stone sculpture of an ancient temple, attached to the top of the board, caught the golden light of the torches that lit the corridor.

“You’re right,” Harry said, “we shouldn’t tell the Headmaster or any of the teachers… but let me borrow the board for tonight. I want to show it to Ron, and afterwards, he can tell Hermione.” Harry saw the testy look on Draco’s face. “But no one else will know. I promise. Just Ron and Hermione.”

“Do you always have to include them?” Draco’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t thrilled about Harry’s request, but Harry, stubborn as always, refused to back down.

“They’ve always given me good advice, and I need to know what they think.”

“How do you know they won’t tell every last soul in Gryffindor?”

“I’ll make them promise. I know I can trust them. They’ve never betrayed a confidence. Never.”

Letting Ron and Hermione know about the communication device was important to Harry. How else to explain why Harry used strategies with Draco that he wouldn’t have dreamt of using before now? Harry squirmed closer to Draco.

“Malfoy? Pleeeease?”

Draco was determined to pursue this project with Harry, if only because he was fascinated by the potential store of information that the Eastern Shore Network could produce. How else to explain why his body so often disengaged from his brain when Harry was about? Draco snorted with some indignation, but he clamped his hand on Harry’s shoulder, pushed Harry against the wall, then delivered the wooden board into Harry’s waiting hands.

Draco backed away from Harry and started down the corridor. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Meet me in the library early tomorrow, before breakfast—the tables in the northwest corner.”

Harry opened his mouth and smiled. “Thanks, Malfoy,” he said, holding up the communication board. Draco couldn’t think of anyone he had ever met who had the same open-mouthed smile as Harry—it was all his own. And it occurred to Draco that he was becoming far too accustomed to Harry’s captivating smile. Draco shook his head in disbelief and withdrew down the torch-lit corridor.

Harry wasted no time in making his way toward the Gryffindor common room. He didn’t even know the password, and he was hoping someone might be entering or leaving… A figure with long, flowing blond hair drifted by Harry, saw him, then stopped in her tracks. By some happy coincidence, Lavender Brown was returning from an evening stroll.

“Harry! Everyone in Gryffindor has been wondering about you all day. Dumbledore put you in some sleeping quarters downstairs on the sixth floor, didn’t he?”

“Until Malfoy and I can put together a potion that works as well as the tapioca pudding from Hermione’s notebook of culinary spells… you know…” a pink tinge settled on Harry’s cheeks, “… like yesterday on the Hogwarts Express.”

“Oh, that’s right. Harry, you poor dear. Those boys were acting like beasts yesterday, all of them wanting to haul you off and do heaven knows what with you. But you say you have to work on the potion with Malfoy? Why him of all people?”

“He’s the only boy who’s not affected by the, er…” Harry had no desire to give Lavender Brown a lengthy explanation of Veela inheritance, “… by whatever spell I’m under. But listen, can you find Hermione and ask her to meet me here in the hallway? I need her advice about… lots of things, I think.”

“I’ll get her right now. And Harry”—Lavender’s eyes flashed with a crazed glint now—“in case your potion doesn’t work like the tapioca pudding did, Professor Trelawney is working on a counterspell for you.”

Lavender’s cryptic smile was unnerving, and Harry didn’t want to speculate about whatever screwball idea Trelawney might be working on. No. He didn’t want to go there.

“Professor Trelawney is brilliant, you know,” Lavender said as her smile turned unholy. “I’ll get Hermione.”

Soon after Lavender disappeared into the common room, the Fat Lady’s portrait swung forward again, and Hermione rushed toward Harry, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him for everything she was worth.

“Ron and I have been frantic, Harry. You vanished after you left the Hogwarts Express with Professor McGonagall yesterday, and we’ve had no idea what you’ve been up to. Dumbledore has you cooped up in some little room down on the sixth floor, hasn’t he?”

“Only until Malfoy and I can come up with some potion that counteracts the effect I have on the male students. You saw on the train yesterday how Malfoy was the only one who wasn’t affected. That’s why I have to work on the project with him. The project hasn’t gone that badly so far. We’ve narrowed the counteragent down to cinnamon. We think that had to have been the active ingredient in your recipe for tapioca pudding.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, my recipe does call for some cinnamon.” Hermione shook her head and gave Harry a look of utmost compassion. “A Potions project with Malfoy. How horrid.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile, but he kept his eyes on the floor. “Malfoy’s not that bad to work with, at least when his nasty Slytherin pals aren’t around to egg him on. In Potions class, we were always trying to one-up each other. He had to show off to his friends, and I guess I did the same thing.” Harry lifted his head and looked straight at Hermione. “It’s strange now that it’s just the two of us working alone, but little by little he’s transforming into someone who’s almost… tolerable. He hasn’t called you ‘Mudblood’ once yet.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Lovely. I’m delighted to hear his manners have improved, but we’ve got more important things to think about, namely, finding out what spell it is that someone cast on you. I spent some time at the library today doing research. I came across a few spells that cause the victim to radiate sexual attraction, but the requirements didn’t match your case. I think, though, there might be other leads that I can follow up on—”

“You don’t have to follow up on anything.” No better time than now to spill the truth. “Dumbledore asked Malfoy and me to see him this evening.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Hermione, I’m not under a spell. Dumbledore showed me family records for my maternal grandmother. I knew she was from France, but my Aunt Petunia never told me much more than that. Dumbledore got the information about my grandmother from people he knows at Beauxbatons. Just before Malfoy and I left his office, Dumbledore showed me pictures, genealogical charts, birth certificates, everything. Fleur Delacour and I are second cousins; my grandmother and her grandmother were sisters.”

“That’s nice, Harry. You and Fleur got on well enough during the Triwizard Tournament. But I don’t see what that has to do with…” Hermione’s face went pale as the truth struck her full force. “Oh, dear God.” Her voice had become a whisper. “Are you telling me that—”

“Yeah. That was the Veela side of her family. Our grandmothers were full-blooded Veela.”

Hermione studied Harry as though she were seeing him for the first time. “You’re one-quarter Veela.” Hermione’s expression turned thoughtful. “That would explain a lot.”

“Hey, ’Mione? I’d rather that the only people who knew about the Veela thing were you, Ron and Malfoy, at least for now. I don’t think it would do any good for the whole school to know.”

“Harry”—Hermione’s eyes went wide—“you know you can trust us.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, “I know.” Harry rummaged through his backpack. “Could you ask Ron to meet me in ten minutes. How about outside the Room of Requirement? I don’t want anyone eavesdropping. We’ve still got plenty of time before curfew. Here—” Having found what he was looking for in his backpack, Harry produced a pumpkin pasty. “A snack for Ron”—Harry smiled—“with a sprinkling of cinnamon on top… just in case.”

Hermione giggled, but then stifled her giggling out of propriety. “Ron is embarrassed beyond belief about how he behaved with you yesterday on the Hogwarts Express.” Hermione smothered another series of giggles. “You know, the way he was kissing you and groping you and whatnot. I’m sure a bit of cinnamon is a good idea.” She took the pumpkin pasty from Harry. “All right, I’ll tell Ron to meet you outside the Room of Requirement in ten minutes.”

Hermione looked back at Harry before disappearing into the Gryffindor common room. “Make sure you keep us up with everything that’s happening, Harry. After all, you’re confined to a Potions classroom for most of the day with no one but Malfoy. It just seems so… unhealthy.”

Harry made his way to the Room of Requirement, and in less than five minutes he caught sight of a headful of red hair coming toward him, brightening the gloom of the corridor. Hair that color could only belong to one individual.

“Harry, mate.” Ron rushed up to Harry. “Hermione told me about the whole Veela thing and how cinnamon is supposed to stop the effects.”

“You ate the pumpkin pasty, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” A smile crept over Ron’s face, and his cheeks went pinker than usual. “Sorry about how I acted on the train yesterday.”

“I guess you didn’t do anything that Seamus, Boot, Zabini and Goyle didn’t do,” Harry said. Somehow, that information didn’t ease Ron’s embarrassment.

“At least it’s not a spell,” Ron said, determined to look on the bright side. “It’s just your nature. What I mean is… er… I guess you were born that way.”

“You don’t think the Veela thing is weird?”

“No, Harry. I’d never think of you as anything but my best mate.” Ron rested his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’ve been worried about you. You’re all by yourself down on the sixth floor, and Hermione told me you’re stuck with Malfoy all day. That bloody evil ferret?”

“Ron, he’s not that bad. Everyone’s always trying to impress each other with this house rivalry routine, but when it’s just Malfoy and me, he’s not a bad sort. You’d be shocked.”

Ron’s eyebrows scrunched together into a single line, and he lifted his chin in a show of defiance.

“I wouldn’t shake that git’s hand if he were the last person on the face of the earth.”

Harry recognized that look of pride on Ron’s face and the macho bravura. It reminded him of someone else, and Harry was seized by the urge to laugh.

“Sometimes”—there was that shining, open-mouth smile of Harry’s again—“you and Malfoy are so much alike.”

“Harry, that’s not even funny. Come on, let’s go into the Room of Requirement. Never know who’s lurking around in the corridors.”

Ron opened the door to the Room of Requirement to reveal a very small vestibule with a second inner door a few feet beyond the outer door. In the center of the tiny space stood a wooden lectern. On the lectern lay a parchment with a title in ornate script:

 

Sign-In Sheet

Entrance Is Magically Locked—No Entry Without Reading Terms and Conditions and Signing Below

 

Ron tried the inner door, but found it impossible to open.

“Ridiculous,” Ron said. “This is the first time the Room of Requirement has ever given anyone a hard time. I mean, what the hell? The Room of Requirement has requirements now?”

Harry and Ron read the text underneath the title:

 

All visitors must write down the amount of time they plan to spend inside. Choose the amount of time carefully. You will not be allowed to exit before the stated period of time is over. Sign at the bottom.

 

Harry looked at Ron and shrugged. “I guess the Room of Requirement is in a fussy mood today. Curfew’s not until nine o’clock. How about half an hour?”

“Sounds good,” Ron said. They signed and Ron wrote down “30 minutes” above their signatures.

The first thing Harry and Ron noticed as soon as they stepped inside the Room of Requirement was the music. An oboe and piano were playing a melody that Ron decided was much more sentimental than necessary. Harry and Ron then noticed that the floor underneath them became softer, first resembling the surface of a mattress, and then transforming again into something more like a down-filled comforter.

Ron scowled. “What in blazes is going on with the Room of Requirement?”

The music became even more objectionable as the soppy oboe and piano duet was now joined by tubular bells and wind chimes.

“Listen, Ron. Let’s just ignore the stupid music. I’ve got something important to show you.” Harry reached into his backpack and pulled out the wooden board he and Draco had been using to communicate with the Eastern Shore Network. “Trelawney made all the students in Divination class, including Malfoy, create one of these. She said it was supposed to provide everyone with help from the spirit world while they took notes.”

Ron laughed. “Sounds like one of Trelawney’s idiotic ideas.”

“Yeah, but I think it depends on what you attach to the top of the board. Trelawney told everyone to get a small object that has some significance for them and use an attaching charm to secure the object to the board. Malfoy had a small stone sculpture of an ancient temple. Someone in his family got it in Lebanon back in the 18th century. By accident, we used the board to write down some notes we were taking while we were working on a potion. And someone answered us.”

“Answered you? How?”

Harry took a blank piece of parchment out of his backpack. “All right, I’ll show you.” He started writing on the parchment:

 

This is Harry. Can I communicate with the Eastern Shore Network?”

 

In front of Ron’s astonished eyes, the words Harry had written vanished and were replaced by a reply.

 

ESN Reply>> Why Harry, we’re always delighted to here from you. We notice that your present transmission is coming from a magically activated space. Since you’re a magical creature, at least partially, and you’ve passed your sixteenth birthday, we need to warn you that magical spaces, such as the one you’re in at the moment, can react to a magical creature like you in unpredictable ways, so please exercise extreme caution. ★

 

“Ron,” Harry said, “that must be why the Room of Requirement made us sign our names on that parchment. And maybe it has something to do with this god-awful music.” The music was becoming more excessive: a precious flute solo pushed its way into the mix.

Harry wrote a final note on the parchment:

 

Thanks for talking with me tonight. Malfoy and I will be working on our Potions project tomorrow. Is it all right if we contact you for help?

 

ESN Reply>> We’re happy to help in any way we can. Good night and pleasant dreams. ★

 

Ron watched the last message disappear into the parchment, then managed to get out a few words. “Who are these people?”

“They’re not people. They’re spirits—an association of spirits. They told Malfoy and I that they were wizards when they were alive, but that was thousands of years ago. They call themselves the Eastern Shore Network,” Harry said as he put the wooden board in his backpack. “The information they were supplying yesterday was amazing. They were the ones who told Malfoy and I about cinnamon being the counteragent when people are around Veela. Tomorrow, when we put the final potion together—”

Harry never got to finish his sentence. The entire floor, with the exception of a small area in the center of the vast room that Harry and Ron were in, shifted upwards until it was diagonal rather than horizontal. The upheaval sent Harry and Ron tumbling into the small area in the center of the room, which was transforming into a red heart-shaped bed. Ron scrambled up the soft down-filled surface that was the diagonal floor, attempting to reach the door.

“Maybe the door will open,” Ron shouted to Harry, who was still lying on the heart-shaped bed. “You try to contact the Eastern Shore people and ask if they can think of anything to get us out of here.”

Ron tried the doorknob without success, then threw his weight against the door with as much force as he could. Small lights in the middle of the door snapped on, illuminating a sign:

 

Exit not permitted. Your allotted time has not yet expired.

 

While Ron’s efforts were failing, Harry used the wooden board to scribble down a few hasty words on a piece of parchment.

 

Hi, Eastern Shore Network. This is Harry. I need assistance because I’m here with my friend, Ron, in the Room of Requirement, and the room is acting psychotic. What do we do?”

 

Harry received a most unfortunate reply.

 

ESN Reply>> Eastern Shore Network will be unavailable during the next one-hour period due to routine network maintenance. Please contact us later. We apologize for any inconvenience. ★

 

“Ron,” Harry shouted, “I can’t get though to the Eastern Shore Network. I got a message that said the network is unavailable for the next hour. I don’t even know what they mean by network maintenance.”

Ron didn’t have a chance to reply since the door he tried to force open took exception to Ron’s actions and shoved him backwards, which sent him rolling down the slope of the now diagonal floor. He landed directly on top of Harry. After fumbling and maneuvering over each other, Harry and Ron arranged themselves on the red heart-shaped bed. A great arch with a shining multi-colored surface emerged from somewhere beyond the edge of the room and rose far above Harry and Ron, who now observed that the ceiling of the room had been replaced by the night sky, complete with a legion of stars and a full moon. The multi-colored arch bore a message in enormous neon letters:

 

Welcome to the Room of Requirement “Lovers’ Hideaway Resort”

The music selection this evening is “Cheesy Romantic Music for Making Out—The Ultimate Collection”

 

Ron looked around frantically. “This is fucking horrible.”

Although the music was already driving Harry to distraction, it deteriorated further. A full orchestral arrangement, dominated by violins, had taken over. But the worst was yet to come. A choir of backup singers added the finishing touch—no lyrics, just a melodic series of tasteless oohs and aahs. The music, however, proved to be the least of Harry and Ron’s problems. The bed itself was creating further indignities. The surface of the bed no longer felt like a mattress.

“What’s wrong with this bed?” Ron asked in complete innocence. “It feels like it’s filled with water.” Since he was raised in a pureblood wizarding family, Ron was unfamiliar with Muggle customs.

“I think Muggles put these kinds of beds in resorts and motels where couples go to… er…” Harry blushed without finishing.

Before Ron could even react, the bed began to vibrate. Each time Harry and Ron moved away from each other toward the outer edge of the bed, the sides of the bed snapped up, flinging Harry and Ron back on top of each other in the center of the bed. After a seeming eternity, the bed, walls, floor, night sky—everything—disappeared, and Harry and Ron found themselves back in front of the inner door from which they had entered the Room of Requirement. A sign on the door was flashing a message in colored lights:

 

Your 30 minute time period has expired.

Thank you for staying at the Room of Requirement “Lovers’ Hideaway Resort.”

Please visit us again sometime soon.

 

Harry grabbed his backpack and opened the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

Safely back in the seventh-floor corridor, Harry and Ron noticed that the front pockets of their pants were full. They reached into their pockets, and each of them pulled out two plastic squeeze tubes that were bright purple in color. The labels on the tubes read:

 

Lovers’ Hideaway Resort—Personal Lubricant

 

“Hey, Harry,” Ron said, stuffing his complimentary lubricant samples back in his pockets, “didn’t the Eastern Shore spirits warn us that magical spaces like the Room of Requirement could react to Veela in crazy ways?” Ron gave Harry a sidelong glance. “This Veela thing can get dangerous.”

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Harry woke up determined to figure out why his Veela instincts kept pushing him in Draco’s direction. Hadn’t Fleur told Dumbledore that what happened between Harry and Draco on the Hogwarts Express could be random and irrelevant? That should be the end of it, but it wasn’t. When Draco walked him back to his room on the sixth floor, cornered him and took a fistful of Harry’s robes in his grip—and edged in so close to Harry that he could feel Draco’s breath caress his face—Harry was in heaven. He had wished Draco would just keep him pinned in the corner of that torch-lit corridor all night. As much as it alarmed him, Harry’s obsession with Draco showed no signs of diminishing.

After a solitary breakfast in his room, Harry headed toward the library even more rattled than he had been the day before. The library was still deserted when Harry arrived, since it was well before Hogwarts students ate their communal breakfast in the Great Hall. Draco had installed himself at a table in the northwest corner and was engrossed in a volume titled The Veela Mystique: Why Veela Are So Hot in the Sack. When he saw Harry approach, he snapped the book shut and threw a few other books on top of it.

“Morning, Potter. I’ve gathered a few volumes together, just some general resources about Veela. I’ve been looking for any mention of spices as a counteragent for Veela attraction, but the only information I found was about some unsuccessful attempts to use herbs to create a long-lasting potion.” Draco slid a few books along the table toward Harry. “Here are a few books for you to take a look at. We can read them today while we’re waiting for the potions to finish brewing.”

Harry took the books, and then he opened his backpack and returned Draco’s wooden communication board. “Thanks for trusting me with this,” Harry said with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Later that morning, Harry and Draco were finishing a potion using cinnamon that they hoped would have long-lasting effects, and Harry had a chance to flip through the volumes Draco had gotten in the library while the potion was in the final stages of brewing.

“I’ve been reading this article you mentioned in the library,” Harry said, “the one about the failed herbal potions, but the author cites the results of work by other wizards, and I’m having trouble finding any mention of the earlier experiments.” Several open books lay jumbled in front of Harry.

“Keep reading. Professor Snape’s Potions class is letting out. I think we’re ready to test the final results using our guinea pig from yesterday.” Draco poured a small portion of the finished potion from the cauldron into a cheerful-looking mug. “You hide behind the cabinet,” Draco said, pointing to the tall storage cabinet in the back of the classroom, “and I’ll be right back with Blaise.”

When Draco entered the classroom again with Blaise in tow, he brought Blaise directly over to the table with the potion ingredient.

“Remember the dessert recipes Potter and I were testing out yesterday for the house-elves?” Draco handed Blaise the mug. “Test this out. This is the new dessert selection Potter and I created. It’s like hot cocoa, except with cinnamon.”

Blaise took a big gulp and grimaced. “It’s awful. You should have stuck with the pumpkin pasty recipe from yesterday.”

“Hey, Harry.” Draco was wearing a cheerful expression as he walked toward the storage cabinet Harry was hiding behind, but as soon as Draco came into his line of vision, Harry frantically waved his hand back and forth and shook his head. Draco couldn’t fathom what Harry was fussing about. Now Harry was holding up an open book, one of the volumes Draco had gotten in the library. Harry had a desperate look on his face as he pointed to the page that the book was open to, but Draco ignored him.

“Come on, Harry, Blaise just tried out our dessert recipe.” Draco smiled, took Harry by the arm and hauled him out from behind the cabinet. “I think we might have to add more sugar, though.”

Blaise took one look at Harry and said, “Hey, beautiful, where’ve you been hiding?” He was across the room with his arms around Harry in seconds, causing Harry to drop the book on the floor.

“Read the paragraphs I circled,” Harry managed to get out before Blaise attempted to explore Harry’s mouth with his tongue.

Draco took Harry’s instructions seriously now and retrieved the book to see what Harry was talking about. The sentences Harry had circled jumped out at him:

 

Some experimental potions have been recently developed using various cooking spices as a possible counteragent to control the sexual magnetism that Veela discharge. After a number of unsuccessful attempts, cinnamon was found to be effective for a period of up to 12 hours.

However, the success of these attempts was short-lived. All subjects who consumed cinnamon and then came into contact with Veela developed a tolerance to cinnamon by the third such dose. Cinnamon shielded the subjects from Veela sexual magnetism for a 12-hour period only after the first two doses. After the third dose, and all subsequent doses, no effect at all was recorded. This was observed for all participants, across the board.

 

“Everyone develops a tolerance to cinnamon”—Draco was coming to grips with the extent of the failure—“and it happens after only using it twice? On the third try, cinnamon is useless. Oh, shit.”

By the time Draco had finished reading, Harry was using a chair to try to climb onto the storage cabinet in his efforts to evade Blaise’s attentions, but Blaise had much the same idea and was now positioning the chair next to the cabinet.

Draco raced out into the corridor and was overcome with relief to see Snape just outside his Potions classroom, speaking to a student.

“Professor Snape,” Draco shouted from the doorway, “we need your immediate assistance.”

Snape made his way down the corridor at a brisk pace, and as he entered Harry and Draco’s classroom, he was treated to the sight of Blaise Zabini standing on a chair and fondling Harry’s crotch and bum, Harry being unable to escape since he was sitting on top of the storage cabinet.

Snape had his wand out at once. “Mr. Zabini, kindly leave. This classroom is off limits to you.”

Blaise recognized the no-nonsense look on Snape’s face and took the hint. Once Blaise was booted out, Snape rounded on Harry and Draco.

“Seeing as Mr. Zabini was in the process of molesting Mr. Potter high atop a storage cabinet, I suppose it’s safe to assume that the two of you have been less than successful in your efforts. Under the circumstances, that doesn’t surprise me. Mr. Potter, the Headmaster has informed me of your Veela family history, which complicates matters considerably. Professor Dumbledore has asked the faculty members to keep this information private for the time being… and God knows, I don’t blame him.” Snape now noticed the bottle of cinnamon on the worktable next to the potion beakers. His eyes glazed over, and he pressed his fingers to his temples in a seeming effort to dispel a headache. “Can someone please tell me what a bottle of cinnamon from the Hogwarts kitchen is doing here?”

“We were using cinnamon,” Draco said, “as a counteragent for the sexual attraction that Veela generate. It was my idea. We eliminated the usual ingredients for tapioca pudding, and I suggested that there might have been a spice Granger used in her recipe.”

“A spice used in cooking?” Snape was incredulous. “In what absurd technique would any rational wizard use a cooking spice as a potion ingredient? Do you imagine that this is a culinary institute? But please, do continue, Mr. Malfoy.”

“We achieved some success on the first try—”

Draco handed Snape the book Harry had been reading, opened to the article that described how useless cinnamon was after the second dose.

Snape skimmed the article, then offered his scathing summary: “And the third attempt results in dismal failure, as I would well expect.”

“But Professor Snape”—Harry had the brightest smile on his face—“you have to admit that Malfoy’s logic was brilliant.” Harry moved next to Draco, continuing to defend him. “Malfoy helped me yesterday with my idea from the experiment for reducing the calories in dessert recipes. And his idea today about cinnamon sounded even better, I mean, more scientific.”

Harry and Draco stood shoulder-to-shoulder defending their project, an unshakable alliance. Snape couldn’t decide which was more disquieting, their unorthodox methods or their growing camaraderie.

“Are the two of you engaged in a contest to see which of you can devise the most outlandish Potions experiment?”

“I did have another idea,” Draco offered, “something that doesn’t involve Potions, but we would only use it as a last resort.”

Draco opened his backpack and pulled out a purple jumpsuit made of polyester double-knit fabric. The jumpsuit was embellished with a pattern of green shamrocks, and the outfit appeared to be about Harry’s size. The sleeves were long and had absurdly wide flares at the wrist. The pants, however, were neither full-length nor knee-length, but rather an odd in-between length, as though someone were meant to wear this jumpsuit while walking barefoot through ankle-high water without getting the pants wet. The legs of the pants were bell-shaped at the bottom, with fluted hems.

“I got the most revolting piece of clothing I could find for Potter to wear.” Draco held the jumpsuit up next to Harry. “I’m convinced that this would be an effective deterrent against unwanted romantic attention. If Potter put this on, only a madman would find him attractive.”

Harry glared hard at Draco. “I am not wearing that.”

Draco draped his arm around Harry’s shoulder, smiling gently. “Not even to make our project a success?”

Harry held his ground. “Not even for a Medal of Honor from the Ministry of Magic.”

“Why have I been saddled with mentoring this project?” Snape asked, more to himself than to Harry and Draco. “Perhaps I committed some vile crime and the authorities Obliviated me. I don’t remember what my crime was, but I’m being punished for it anyway.”

“We’ll keep working at it,” Draco said. “I know we’ll come up with something.”

“It is my fervent wish,” Snape replied, “that we won’t have to depend on the two of you to offer up another one of your… ideas. That is why I have taken matters into my own hands. As you both may know, I supervised a potion-making session on Sunday evening, after Mr. Potter’s unconventional arrival on the Hogwarts Express.”

Harry blushed, remembering the grand entrance that the Hogwarts Express made, courtesy of his many male admirers.

“The purpose of that meeting,” Snape continued, “was to develop individual potions for the male faculty members, potions which would counteract any romantic attraction Mr. Potter might unwittingly send their way. What the two of you may not be aware of is that I used a single drop of blood from each faculty member in preparing the various potions. The blood carries unique information, which is why each potion protects only one specific individual against Veela attraction. Clearly, it would be impossible to create individual potions such as this for every male student at Hogwarts.”

Snape paused, and his eyes narrowed as he looked over at Harry.

“I have been conducting research over the past two days to develop a more versatile potion, but one which is specifically designed for you, Mr. Potter. By this, I mean that anyone could consume the potion, and it would guard against the unique powers of attraction you generate. I will require two things from you, Mr. Potter, in order to complete the potion. The first is a drop of your blood, which I can collect from you now.” Snape reached into the pocket of his robe and retrieved a tiny glass phial, which he placed on the worktable. “The second item I need is an object, a personal belonging, which you have had for many years, preferably since early childhood. Can you think of any such object you could provide?”

Harry thought for a moment, then said, “There’s a toy I’ve had since I was four years old, but it’s at my uncle’s house.”

“That will do nicely. Professor Dumbledore and I will make arrangements for you to travel to your uncle’s house over the weekend. The potion I am creating relies on the lunar cycle, so it’s vital that I finish the potion and activate it on the evening of the new moon; that would be the twelfth of the month, nine days from now. If you visit your uncle and aunt this weekend, I will have plenty of time to use the object you provide me with and complete the potion. And now, Mr. Potter, if you will use a clean knife from the drawer and place a drop of your blood in the glass phial.”

After Snape had left with the blood sample, Harry and Draco decided to start over with a very basic love potion, then add some reversing agents they hadn’t thought of before. They were letting ingredients brew and leafing through the books Draco had brought from the library when they heard a knock at the door.

“Mr. Potter? Mr. Malfoy?” The door was still ajar, and the soft voice drifted into the classroom—a curious, other-worldly voice.

The clinking sound of dozens of metal bangles filled the room as Sybill Trelawney glided through the doorway. Several shawls made of silk and cotton gauze draped her frame, although in some places it was difficult to see the gauze material because so many sequins were attached.

“Just a minute,” she said in a hushed whisper. “I’ll bring in my equipment.”

Professor Trelawney raised her wand, pointed it toward the door, and her equipment came through the doorway, floating in the air: an antique wooden chair with a folded-up down comforter on the seat. Harry and Draco exchanged uncomprehending looks. The strange chair landed on the ground in the center of the classroom.

“Mr. Potter”—Trelawney’s eyes were bright with excitement—“Lavender spoke with you yesterday evening, so you already know I’ve been carrying out my own research concerning your…” She giggled for a moment, finding it awkward to discuss sexual matters. “Yes, your Veela-related difficulties.”

Harry remembered being in the corridor outside the Gryffindor common room, not knowing the current password and trying to think of a way to get a message to Hermione. By a stroke of luck, Lavender had happened by, and before she went inside with Harry’s message, she had told him Trelawney was cooking up some sort of counterspell for Harry’s Veela magnetism. Harry had put it out of his mind, preferring not to take suggestions from the teacher who was forever predicting that catastrophe, or perhaps untimely death, would befall him.

“Yeah”—Harry gave Trelawney a suspicious look—“Lavender mentioned something about that.”

Trelawney waved her hand at the wooden chair in a grand gesture. “This is a genuine seidr chair from medieval Sweden.”

“A what-kind-of chair?” Draco asked.

“Seidr is the form of wizardry that was practiced in ancient Scandinavia,” she explained. “This chair is an artifact from the Middle Ages. Just look at the runic carvings that cover the back of the chair. I was fortunate to have obtained this chair from colleagues in Sweden.” With a flick of her wand, Trelawney caused the down comforter to fly up into the air, unfold itself and settle down over the back and seat.

Settling herself into the seat of the chair, Trelawney said, “The witch sits in the chair”—she raised her wand, and the seidr chair levitated two feet off the ground and hovered in mid-air—“and uses her wand as a steering mechanism.”

She turned the floating chair to the right, then to the left, with movements of her wand.

“Once the chair is positioned in the air to her liking, the witch goes into a trance, during which the magical purpose of her spell is accomplished. In the case of my counterspell, Mr. Potter, the purpose is to call forth the spirits of the swamp. I will do this since the legends of many countries have all given evidence that swampland is sacred to Veela.”

Harry listened unwillingly, first to Trelawney and next to Draco.

“Come to think of it,” Draco said, “swamps and marshes and such are the native habitat for Veela. I remember reading that pureblood Veela have handy little fairy wings, so they can flit around over the swamp without getting too wet—”

“OK, thanks, Malfoy.” The muscles in Harry’s jaw were quite visible. “You know a lot about magical creatures. We’ll take your word for it.” Harry was reminded that Draco simply had to put in his two pence worth. Sometimes Draco’s wit was charming, other times not.

Trelawney was eager to continue. “Gentlemen, I’m convinced that my invocation of the swamp spirits will bring Mr. Potters’s Veela powers of romantic attraction under control.”

“Let her give it a try, Potter. What have we to lose?”

Seated in the seidr chair, Trelawney stretched her arms out wide and let loose with an ungodly cry.

“O spirits of the swamp!” Trelawney’s metal bangles clanked furiously. “I hear the gurgling of the sacred primeval mud!” Harry could hear Draco cackling in the background.

She now modulated her voice, attaining a low, sultry tone.

“I call upon you to restore calm and peace to the male population, which has been so sorely afflicted by the Veela charms of our beloved Harry Potter.”

Trelawney’s cries were working their way up to a new crescendo.

“O swamp spirits, you have imbued Harry Potter with far too much romantic magnetism.”

Trelawney uttered one more shriek, summarizing her intent.

“Spirits of the swamp, we beseech you! For the love of Merlin, give it a rest!” This last was followed by incantations Trelawney shouted in a jumbled mix of Latin and Swedish.

The door to the classroom opened further, pushed by the soft mass of a mushy, bright green substance that Harry and Draco recognized as the algae that covered much of the bogland near Hogwarts Lake. No one even had time to be alarmed about the algae spreading across the floor; the door was knocked down, clean off its hinges, by tall, vertical plants. Harry, Draco and Sybill Trelawney snapped their heads around in unison to regard these intimidating members of the plant kingdom as they shattered the door into splinters. After they forced their way through the door by destroying it, it was clear what type of plants they were: wild bulrushes that had tall, erect, pointed stems that reached a height of eight feet. Tufts of small white and brown flowers were held on the ends of the stems. The bulrushes encircled the seidr chair Trelawney was sitting in and lifted the chair and Trelawney up closer toward the ceiling.

“The steering mechanism doesn’t work!” Trelawney screamed, frantically waving her wand in an effort to control the position of the chair.

Harry and Draco were about to come to Trelawney’s aid when their attention was captured by the entrance into the classroom of dozens of giant water lily pads attached to long stems. The lily pads displayed a bright green color, and the circular shape of each was interrupted by a narrow cut-out section. The missing circle sector—the shape of a pie slice—allowed the huge green pads to flex and contort with the dexterity of a human hand, and their first targets were Harry’s arms and legs. Harry was freeing his arm from one giant water lily pad when another was wrapping itself around his leg. Draco dashed in and, in a single concentrated effort, tore the enormous circular leaf from Harry’s leg. The two boys grabbed their backpacks and rushed out the door, pursued by the giant water lilies, which were trailing their massive stems along with them. They heard Trelawney’s wild screams behind them, and they stumbled on the stairs leading out of the dungeons long enough to see Trelawney unwillingly enthroned on her airborne seidr chair and surrounded by aggressive-looking bulrushes. Trelawney, the seidr chair and an escort of massive bulrushes were flying after Harry and Draco just as fast as the giant water lilies.

Harry and Draco raced up staircase after staircase, sprinted though corridor after corridor. They were met by the occasional gaggle of students and teachers who were drawn into the corridors by the commotion, although the bystanders fled back into the classrooms at the sight of monstrous water lilies hurtling through the air not far behind Harry and Draco. The boys were outpacing the water lilies, but Trelawney’s chair, guarded by the territorial bulrushes, picked up speed and flew past Harry and Draco.

In a desperate move, Trelawney reached out her arms as her chair flew near a medieval suit of armor holding a spear. She grabbed the spear, and the suit of armor dragged along for a while, knocking about along the stone floor of the castle and falling apart piece by piece. But Trelawney had the spear, by God, and her speedy seidr chair was now leading the flying parade. She made a futile attempt to fight the bulrushes with the spear before she gave up and began yelling some of her previous incantations. In her distraught frame of mind, Trelawney had forgotten most of the Latin, and she lifted her spear high in the air and screamed—or perhaps sang—those verses of the incantation she remembered, mostly in Swedish. Even in the midst of running, and helping Harry fight off the attacking water lilies, Draco couldn’t help thinking that Trelawney was only lacking a Viking helmet with horns.

Screaming students and faculty members escaping the mayhem were now a common sight. Harry seemed to be choosing the direction now, and Draco felt Harry take hold of his wrist and yank him around a corner. Draco realized they had arrived at Harry’s small room, the temporary living quarters on the sixth floor that Dumbledore had set aside for Harry. The two of them bolted through the door, giving Harry just enough time to get his wand out of a drawer, magically lock the door and set up every kind of ward he could think of, although he could still hear the monster water lilies banging against the door.

Draco reached inside his backpack and pulled out the wooden board he had created for Trelawney’s Divination class, the one he and Harry had been using to communicate with the Eastern Shore Network. Draco snatched a blank piece of parchment from Harry’s desk and began writing:

 

This is Draco Malfoy, and I’m trying to contact the Eastern Shore Network. I’m here with Harry Potter and we’re inside his room. Our deranged Divination professor was trying to lessen Potter’s powers of romantic attraction, but she invoked gigantic swamp vegetation instead, and the plant life is just outside Potter’s room trying to break down the door at the moment. The situation is urgent. Please help.