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Clearly, aside from Lockhart, there was no better candidate. So, after Hermione said a few kind words about the man's brilliance, Lockhart, glowing with self-satisfaction, happily signed the note without even glancing at what book they wanted to borrow. His signature flourished across the parchment like he was autographing one of his own photos.
With that, they easily obtained the recipe they needed. But as soon as they stepped out of the library, reality hit: two major problems still stood before them. They had neither a suitable place to brew the potion nor all the required ingredients.
Hermione, after much thought, chose the disused girls' bathroom haunted by Moaning Myrtle. It was an unpleasant, damp, echoing place that no one in their right mind would voluntarily visit—perfect for secrecy. The air reeked faintly of mildew and something metallic, but at least they would be alone. Myrtle sobbed and wailed in her usual cubicle, occasionally peeking out to hurl a watery insult, but the trio ignored her, and she, after realizing she wouldn't be the center of attention, soon retreated to sulk in her toilet bowl.
The next problem was far more difficult: ingredients.
Common items they could gather from the school stores or other students' supplies. But several ingredients listed on the recipe were rare, almost impossible to find. Powdered bicorn horn—where would they ever get that? Shavings of Boomslang skin? That was even worse. Hermione bit her lip, running her finger down the list again. "Some of these," she said grimly, "are only kept in professors' private stores."
They all exchanged glances.
"Snape's got them," Ron said finally, his tone somewhere between dread and resignation.
Harry grimaced. "Figures. Of course it has to be Snape."
The third ingredient they needed—a piece of the person they wanted to transform into—was a smaller but no less delicate matter.
"We can hardly find a chance to get close to her," Ron said helplessly, scratching his head.
"Opportunities can always be created," Harry said with forced optimism.
Hermione only sighed, clutching the parchment tightly. "Let's hope you're right."
Malfoy's Dilemma
That same Saturday afternoon, Draco Malfoy was having a rather different sort of crisis. He had the nagging feeling that he'd done something wrong—and was now regretting it.
Before the Quidditch match, he had warned Dobby not to meddle with the game. He didn't want the elf to sabotage anything—especially not with Bludgers flying around. Dobby's loyalty, while well-meaning, had an unfortunate tendency to spiral into disaster.
But as it turned out, Malfoy had underestimated the power of someone's protagonist halo.
Without the Bludger interference, Harry Potter had ended the game faster than anyone had imagined. One clean catch, and it was over.
Now Pansy Parkinson was in tears in the Slytherin common room, blaming herself for the defeat. Their elaborate tactic had barely gotten off the ground before Potter's luck struck again.
In all fairness, Malfoy thought their training had gone well. Their coordination was solid, and their strategies clever. But none of that mattered when your opponent seemed blessed by fate itself.
So he spent nearly the entire afternoon trying to comfort Pansy—an exhausting task. She sniffled and fretted, clutching her green scarf like a lifeline. Malfoy assured her again and again that it wasn't her fault. Still, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration.
That evening, darker news swept through the castle: another student had been attacked.
Colin Creevey—Harry's overeager admirer—had been found petrified in the hallway after attempting to visit Harry in the hospital wing.
Malfoy froze when he heard it. The thought crossed his mind immediately: Dobby. The elf had sworn obedience to his master's family, but Dobby's attempts to "help" were unpredictable and often catastrophic.
Apparently, while everyone was cheering and lifting Harry after the match, Dobby had cast some kind of spell on the crowd. The Gryffindor players had suddenly dropped their beloved hero—straight onto the ground.
And then, in an almost comedic twist of fate, Professor Lockhart had performed his "perfect" bone-regrowing charm. The result, of course, was the exact opposite. Harry's arm was a jelly-filled disaster. He would be staying in the hospital wing for days.
History, Malfoy thought grimly, had a peculiar way of repeating itself—though never in quite the same way.
Rising Fear
By Monday morning, the news of Colin's petrification was all over Hogwarts. Panic spread like fire. Students whispered in corners, eyes darting to every shadow. First-years never walked alone anymore; they huddled together in nervous clusters, as if mere numbers could protect them.
In this climate of fear, the Weasley twins' Canary Creams became the hottest item in the castle. Students craved laughter to ward off the tension, and the twins made another small fortune.
Two weeks later, December rolled in, bringing the chill of early snow. Professor McGonagall began collecting the list of students staying at Hogwarts over Christmas. Harry, Ron, and Hermione signed up immediately—each pretending it was simply for convenience.
They'd heard Malfoy was staying too. That sealed it.
"He's definitely hiding something," Ron muttered as they signed the parchment. "Why else would he stay?"
Hermione nodded gravely. The Christmas holidays would be the perfect time to test the Polyjuice Potion and finally get the truth out of Malfoy.
What they didn't know was that Malfoy had his own motives. He, too, intended to uncover the truth behind the mysterious attacks.
The Classroom Chaos
By mid-December, the trio had nearly everything ready—except for two crucial ingredients: powdered bicorn horn and Boomslang skin.
There was only one place those could be found—Snape's private stores.
So, during Thursday's Potions class, Harry and Ron hatched a plan. They would create a distraction, giving Hermione the chance to sneak into Snape's office and take what they needed.
The dungeon classroom was large, cold, and perpetually filled with the scent of burnt herbs. Twenty cauldrons simmered between the long wooden tables, and faint plumes of steam curled toward the ceiling. Copper scales gleamed dully beside jars of pickled ingredients—some still moving faintly.
Snape drifted among the rows like a dark specter, his eyes glinting coldly as he watched the Gryffindors fumble with their potions. Each mistake earned a cutting remark that made the Slytherins snicker with delight.
Harry and Ron waited for their moment. Fred had slipped them a few Filibuster Firecrackers, and Ron's hand was already twitching toward his pocket when—
A strange sound echoed across the room.
Cluck. Cluck. Cluck.
The noise was so sudden and out of place that nearly everyone froze. Then chaos erupted.
Several students shrieked. A cauldron tipped over, sending a spray of green potion sizzling across the floor. Someone's mixture exploded into purple smoke. Within seconds, the classroom was a disaster zone.
"Neville Longbottom!" Snape's voice cut through the chaos like a whip. His face twisted into fury. "What—by all the shades of Merlin—was that thing you brought to my class?"
Neville stammered, holding up a tiny creature that looked suspiciously like a half-transfigured toad. "I—I didn't mean—"
"Enough!" Snape snapped. "If you ever bring another one of your experiments into my classroom again, I will personally see to your expulsion! Twenty points from Gryffindor!"
The laughter from the Slytherin side was merciless. Snape turned back to the chaos, his expression dark as thunder. "Those splashed by the potion, come forward and take swelling solution. Now!"
As the noise subsided, Harry leaned toward Ron, his lips twitching.
"I think we owe Neville a meal," Ron whispered.
"Yeah," Harry said, grinning. "That's the happiest I've ever been to lose points."
And indeed, while Snape glowered over the wreckage, Hermione slipped away unnoticed.
The Stolen Ingredients
By the time class ended, Hermione reappeared, slightly flushed but triumphant. From her robes, she produced two small jars wrapped in cloth.
"Got them," she whispered breathlessly.
The three of them hurried to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. The air was damp and echoing, the flickering candles casting ghostly shadows on the cracked tiles. Hermione carefully added the new ingredients to the bubbling cauldron, her hands steady despite the tension.
"He knows it was me," she said after a long pause, her voice tight. "Snape. He must know."
Harry frowned. "But he doesn't have proof, does he?"
Hermione stirred the potion, her brow furrowed. "He doesn't care about proof, Harry."
Ron, ever the pessimist, muttered, "He'll make our lives miserable anyway. He doesn't need a reason."
Hermione looked up sharply. "Then we'll just have to make sure we finish before he can do anything."
Harry forced a grin. "Worst-case scenario, we admit our mistake together."
Hermione stared at him as if he'd grown an extra head. "Are you kidding? I was the one who went into his office. I'll take responsibility."
"Hermione—"
"No," she said firmly, her eyes blazing with that familiar, stubborn determination. "You two already take enough blame for everything. Besides, it's not as if we're strangers to Snape's unfair treatment. We're used to it, aren't we?"
Harry couldn't help but chuckle, despite the anxiety curling in his stomach. "That's true," he said softly, rubbing his nose.
They stood together in the dim bathroom, watching the potion swirl and steam, a strange green glow rippling across its surface. For the first time, Harry realized just how much they had risked.
The sound of Myrtle's distant sobs echoed around them, and Harry thought, not for the first time, that perhaps courage wasn't always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it was as quiet as a stolen jar in a friend's hands—or the small, ridiculous noise of a clucking toad saving the day.
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