Chapter 33

"Malfoy's back!"

The cry was taken up by others as the news quickly spread through the Great Hall. Ron stopped chewing, his open mouth gaping in astonishment as he saw Draco's tall, thin form make its way towards the Slytherin table.

"Oh Ron, do close your mouth, please," said Hermione absently, watching as Malfoy headed towards his accustomed seat, greeting his friends noisily as he did so. A throng formed around him, through which Pansy struggled until she finally succeeding in getting a hug, their contact abbreviated by the press of people around them. Relinquishing hold of Pansy, Malfoy took his seat, not sure which way to turn in answer to the questions flying all around the Slytherin table.

"Well," said Harry, "I suppose it was too much to ask, a Dueling Club with no Malfoy. At the next meeting we'll have to put up with him." Harry stared at Malfoy with the same glare that Hedwig reserved for her prey. Malfoy was the dueling club champion, and Harry could not wait to relieve the Slytherin of his title.

"Don't know how much dueling he'll be doing," observed Ron. "After all, he's missed more than two solid weeks of class. He'll have a lot of catching up to do."

"I managed a lot more catching up than he'll need to do," said Imogen, watching as Pansy evicted Montague from his place and sat next to Draco.

"Yes," said Hermione. "But you're not a lazy sod. Malfoy's never been known for his hard work. Why should he exert himself? He's got a huge inheritance coming to him one day."

"Not any more, he doesn't!" exclaimed Ginny excitedly, laying on the table the morning's Daily Prophet. The arrival of Malfoy was of little interest to her, and so she'd been reading the news during the tumult of Malfoy's return and the discussion at the table. Seeing the headline, Hermione seized the paper and began to read aloud for the benefit of everyone, her excitement mounting as the narrative continued.

"Missing Hogwarts Student Found

The search for Draco Malfoy, 16, ended on a happy note, with the unexpected news that he was safe and on his way back to Hogwarts, weeks after the Ministry had given up the search, presuming him dead through an unknown misadventure. Draco refused to be interviewed by this writer."

Ron by this point had resumed eating, and between bites of food expressed his boredom.

"Hermione, we already know he's back. We just saw him, remember? So why are you reading that to us?"

"Yes, yes," said Hermione testily. "Now listen to the article directly under it," said Hermione, reading from the article:

"Lucius Malfoy Disowns his Son

Yesterday Lucius Malfoy and his wife officially disowned their only son, the missing but recently found Draco Malfoy. After filing the papers at the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy gave a brief statement to the Daily Prophet.

'The person I formerly recognized as my son is forbidden ever to use the name of Malfoy. He is now stricken from all family records, his name deleted from the Malfoy genealogy, one of the most ancient in the wizarding world. Should I chance to meet him, he shall ever be a stranger to me. He is barred from the family estate, and notice to that effect has been served on him. I would be grateful if everyone would refrain from mentioning him in my presence, for he is dead to me.'

Having given his statement, Mr. Malfoy refused all questions."

Hermione, having finished, fell silent, and she and the other Gryffindors exchanged astonished looks, none having any idea what to make of this news. Except Ron.

"Obviously congratulations are in order!", said Ron. "I must tell him how lucky he is not to be a Malfoy any more - next thing you know, he'll join the human race!" Ron started to get up, but Hermione seized his arm, not sure if Ron was joking or in earnest.

"You'll do no such thing, Ronald Weasley," she said in stern tones. She didn't like speaking in the same fashion as Ron's mother, but she'd discovered that this resulted in instant compliance to her commands, and so resorted to this method when she deemed it necessary (which was becoming less frequent, Ron having become rather compliant to Hermione's wishes over the holiday). She noted with satisfaction that Ron obeyed her order with cheerful alacrity.

"So a Malfoy will not be rejoining the Dueling Club after all," said Harry. "I wonder what name he'll use now? And what will he do for money? How will he keep his place on the Quidditch team, without daddy to buy new brooms?"

Imogen looked thoughtful. "I thought 'disownment' was just an expression: 'my dad's so mad he disowned me' - you know, just a way of saying you're in big trouble. Ron, is this one of those things like dueling, that you have to be from a wizarding family to understand?"

"Never heard of formal disownment," said Ron. "I didn't know you could file papers for it and make it all official. Maybe I'll forge a set so that the Ministry thinks my parents have disowned Fred and George."

George was the closer of the twins to Ron at the table, and so had the honour of striking him none too gently on the back of his head.

"Oy, mind your manners. Practical jokes are for Fred and me - not you."

Ron laughed at this, glad that with Hermione's help he'd gotten the better of the twins a few months earlier, their signed confession of their role in his drinking bout securely in his trunk in the dormitory. He doubted he would ever use it for blackmail purposes, but once his brothers left school, he'd have it framed.

Imogen's owl, Olwyna, had dropped off a letter for her at the start of breakfast, and once everyone settled down after seeing Draco, she broke the seal and settled down to read it. It was of course the latest missive from Rita Skeeter. Imogen read the letter with increasing excitement, but said nothing. She would have to wait until later in the day before telling Harry, Ron and Hermione, when there was no one around to overhear.

Neville wished he could have used the Room of Requirement. Had he done so, it would have supplied everything he needed: glass beakers, tubing, potion-making supplies in all their many varieties, and that most precious of commodities, privacy. But the potion he was making was very tricky, by far the most difficult he had ever attempted. He was unsure that he would be able to make felix felicis. The potion called for constant supervision, and it was for that reason that the Room of Requirement was most unsuitable for his purpose. He could not get up several times a night and make his way through the dark corridors, not for almost six months, not without being interrupted or delayed at least once. And the slightest interruption in the process, the tiniest misstep, would destroy all his efforts. He therefore had to work in the one place to which he had easy and constant access: the dormitory he shared with four other Gryffindor boys.

The table next to his bed served as his worktable, on which sat a small collection of potion-making essentials. A perpetual flame burned low under a miniature cauldron, the vapour from which rose and was collected, and condensing flowed through a tube into a basin. The basin had to be stirred just so, at irregular intervals. Then, once the batch was complete, the process had to be repeated, over and over again, the purity of the potion increasing with each distillation. If Neville did everything right, if there were no mistakes or slips of any kind, then, at the end, he would have his reward: enough felix felicis to give a person perhaps an hour's luck, that and no more. But taken at the right time, under the right circumstances, by the right person, it could mean the difference between success or failure, and so Neville was doing his utmost. Looking over his work with satisfaction, he sat on his bed after setting his alarm hourglass to wake him up at 2:30 a.m., the next occasion on which he would have to stir the mixture. He was tired, but he could not go to sleep yet. Harry had called a meeting, one which unfortunately could not be held in the dormitory, or even in the common room downstairs.

Neville started when he realized he'd almost fallen asleep. He got up, and before heading downstairs, took precautions against his potion being interfered with. Taking Harry's invisibility cloak, he hung it on hooks he'd fixed to the wall for the purpose, causing the cloak to dangle over his worktable. This alone would have been insufficient, as the cloak was very visible and obviously concealing something, for the cloak only worked when something living was inside its folds. But there was an obvious answer to this. Neville took out from under his bed a small jar filled with various insects, and placed it behind the cloak. Only then did the cloak's magic work, concealing all that was underneath. Now anyone looking next to Neville's bed would see the bare floor and wall. An observer might wonder why Neville, unlike the other students, had no table next to his bed, but nothing incriminating would be visible. The only danger was that someone could stumble into the cloak and what it hid, but Neville judged this to be unlikely. Everyone in the dormitory knew to stay away from the area. Although Sean and Dean were not party to the secrets that Harry, Neville and Ron shared, neither were they snitches, and there was no chance they would betray Neville's secret. The only way the illicit potion-making might be discovered would be through bad luck: a surprise visit to the common room by a professor (very rare) followed by a trip up the stairs to the dormitory (almost unheard of). House elves too were a source of danger, but Dobby had assured Neville that he and his elf co-workers would stay clear of the area in question. Satisfied his work was as safe as he could make it, Neville headed down the staircase. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he quickly scanned the room, his eyes immediately fastening on Imogen. Her voice animated, she was reaching the end of an anecdote, and she threw her head back and laughed, Hermione and Ginny joining in.

A small group of first years occupied their table in the corner, puzzling over what to write for their history essay - twelve inches of parchment on the Great Congress of 1627 - wondering if Professor Binns would notice if they copied out of an old textbook. Nearby, Crookshanks was playing with a mouse she'd caught, letting the poor creature almost escape over and over again, only to reel in the suffering rodent at the last possible instant. Harry and Ron watched with some interest.

"It's a bit like you playing with the golden snitch," said Ron. "Except I never feel sorry for the snitch."

"Should we stop it?" asked Harry. It did seem rather cruel, after all.

"I'm not sure we should," replied Ron. "I think Crookshanks relies on what she can catch for food, because she doesn't seem to care for the table scraps Hermione gives her. It's not very nice for the mouse, but I'd hate to see the cat go hungry."

"That's true enough," said Harry. "But there's another way to end this." He pointed his wand at the cat's prey.

"Avada Kadavra!" A jet of green light shot out, striking the mouse dead in an instant. Crookshanks looked up at Harry accusingly, annoyed that the feeding game had come to a premature end. But that was no reason to waste a good meal, and in a trice the mouse disappeared down the cat's throat.

Harry had spoken the curse quietly, and Ron was the only witness, aside from the nearby first years who looked up at Harry in awe and fear. They quickly resumed their work when Harry returned their stares with his wand raised.

"Not bad," observed Ron. "Is that the first time you've tried the killing curse?"

"First time on a mammal, yeah," replied Harry. "I've been practicing on insects so far, and I just thought I'd try it, given that the mouse was a goner in any event."

"Is that why you called a meeting?" continued his friend. "To teach us the killing curse?"

"No. I'm heading out - would you tell the others to come join me in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom? They're to come in two and threes, of course." With this, Harry was off. Ron passed on the message to Imogen and Ginny, and taking Hermione's hand, headed out the door after a minute's pause.

"You really did rather well on that History quiz," observed Hermione as they walked down a dark corridor. Ron towered over her, his hair looking not red but very dark in the weak torchlight that guided their way. "You've always just scraped by before."

"I took a page out of Imogen's book," said Ron. "Those essays of Skeeter's are loads better than the boring junk Binns assigns. If I'd had her stuff to read in the beginning, I might have actually enjoyed history right from the start. I still hate his lectures, of course, so I read Skeeter while he's babbling on - that way my time's not wasted too much."

Hermione had reached the stage where she no longer felt threatened by hearing Ron speak Imogen's name, and responded by expressing her pleasure that Ron had found a way to enjoy the subject.

As they climbed a staircase, Ron told Hermione in low tones that Harry had taught himself the killing curse, and had used it only moments before in the common room, uncaring that some first years had witnessed the use of an unforgivable curse.