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Chapter 47
Christmas dawned cold and pale, the grounds outside buried beneath untouched sheets of snow. Hogwarts lay as silent as the frost-coated world beyond its walls. A heavy, uneasy atmosphere clung to the castle; the holiday that students had been eagerly anticipating now felt muted, overshadowed by the string of petrification attacks. Everyone walked around like frost-bitten eggplants—wilted, drooping, joyless.
Early that morning, Harry was shaken awake by Hermione. His first instinct was to glance at Ron's bed. It was still empty. The familiar ache twisted in his chest.
Today, Harry thought, we might finally learn who did this.
"Merry Christmas," Hermione said softly, tossing a wrapped parcel into his hands. Her expression told him what the present didn't: the Polyjuice Potion was ready.
Harry sat straight up, wide awake.
"Malfoy had better hope he hasn't done anything," Harry muttered, fists clenching. Spotting Scabbers—listless and drooping ever since Ron had been petrified—Harry reached out and stroked him absently.
"Yes," Hermione murmured. But she sounded distracted, almost grim.
Just then Hedwig swooped through the window, a small package dangling from her beak. She nudged Harry's cheek affectionately before dropping it on his pillow. The gesture—warm and soft—felt like a real Christmas gift. The present inside, a toothpick with a curt note from the Dursleys, decidedly did not.
Fortunately, the rest of his gifts lifted his spirits. Hagrid sent a huge bag of homemade fudge, which Harry planned to soften over the fire. Hermione had bought him a beautiful, high-quality quill. The last parcel held a hand-knitted jumper from Mrs. Weasley and an enormous raisin cake.
A pang of guilt stabbed at him. He thought of Mr. Weasley's flying car—missing ever since it smashed into the Whomping Willow—and of Ron lying rigid and silent in the hospital wing. Mrs. Weasley's kindness made the weight in his chest tighten.
On Ron's desk sat an unopened copy of Flying with the Cannons. Harry knew Ron had bought it for him. Harry swallowed hard.
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The Christmas feast did a remarkable job of distracting the school—at least for a while. The warmth of good food softened the bleak mood, and the Great Hall glittered under its holiday finery. Towering Christmas trees sparkled with silver frost; thick swags of holly and mistletoe crisscrossed the enchanted ceiling. Snow drifted down from above, warm and dry as confetti.
Dumbledore cheerfully led the school in carols, and with every mug of custard he emptied, Hagrid's booming voice grew louder and more spectacularly off-key.
"Hermione," Harry whispered, checking the time. "It's nearly time."
She nodded once.
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At the Slytherin table, Malfoy and Pansy were in the middle of their holiday feast when a sudden shriek ripped through the hall. A quill had gone berserk—darting through the air, spraying arcs of black ink onto everything in its path. Students scrambled, shouting, ducking. For the first time all day, the Great Hall buzzed with something like real energy.
The quill zig-zagged toward the Slytherins and came to a halt directly over Pansy.
"Oh my god!" she squealed, stumbling backward. But she reacted too late—inky droplets splattered across her robes. Malfoy, absorbed in his own brooding thoughts, barely reacted except to flick a casual spell to shield himself. Pansy, apparently, did not make his priority list.
"Who did this!?" Pansy shrieked, eyes flashing. Her voice trembled with the indignation of someone whose festive dinner had been ruined.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, stepping forward from the crowd with a convincingly mortified look. "Fred and George were showing me how to use that quill. Something went wrong."
Malfoy glanced up, mildly annoyed that he was being interrupted. "Clean it up," he told Pansy's robes—a half-hearted attempt to gloss over the whole scene. It seemed he wanted her to drop it and move on.
But the charm didn't work.
"I'm really sorry," Harry repeated, bowing his head. "The ink is… um… specially made. It can only be removed with a particular potion."
"Oh. Well, that's unfortunate," Malfoy said dryly. "We'd better go find Professor Snape. He'll know what to do."
"What an absolute disaster," Pansy muttered darkly as she stalked toward the doors.
Malfoy followed without suspicion. He was too wrapped up in bigger problems—the diary, the basilisk, the plan swirling in his mind. A prank quill from the Weasley twins was nothing unusual; he'd seen it dozens of times this year. And Crabbe and Goyle's absence didn't strike him as meaningful.
History, as always, was about to repeat itself.
Harry watched them leave, then caught Hermione's eye. He gave a tiny signal.
Hermione bolted.
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In the girls' bathroom, steam curled above the cauldron of thick, bubbling Polyjuice Potion. Hermione's hands trembled as she gripped the ladle. If Harry or Ron were here, maybe she wouldn't feel quite so frightened—but Ron lay motionless in the hospital wing, and Harry was busy buying time.
She scooped a ladleful of potion and tipped it into the waiting glass. The mixture hissed violently, churning like boiling water. A moment later it deepened into a murky lavender.
Hermione's transformation wasn't painful—she and Pansy had roughly similar builds—but her skin prickled and her face tingled as it shifted. When she finally lifted her eyes to the mirror…
Pansy Parkinson stared back.
Perfect.
She couldn't leave immediately—walking out too soon would look suspicious. Forcing herself to stay put, Hermione paced the tiled floor, anxiety coiled tight in her chest. She had no choice now but to trust Harry completely.
Twenty agonizing minutes later, she slipped out of the bathroom and moved toward the Great Hall entrance, keeping close to the walls, glancing constantly over her shoulder. She had to calm her breathing—her heart was thundering.
It wasn't just the fear of getting caught.
She was close—terrifyingly close—to the truth.
For one wild moment Hermione wanted to turn and run, to forget all of it. But then she pictured her petrified classmates… and Ron, rigid and pale in the hospital wing.
Her resolve hardened.
She stepped forward.
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