Chapter 113 — Under Another Face

Ron pulled his scarf higher as we left the hut, naming Lucius Malfoy as though that settled the reason for the notice. Hermione agreed it might be him. I looked back at Hagrid beside Buckbeak, one hand against the creature’s neck, and said an argument about whom we hated would not by itself change the decision.

Harry still wanted to visit the village, though the prospect occupied less of his attention than at breakfast. We separated as arranged, leaving the borrowed map with him and the cloak in his bag. Our journey took place in a sleigh instead of a carriage, its runners hissing over snow while cold found every gap in my scarf.

We got out near the road below the Shrieking Shack. Hermione checked the time and confirmed we could reach the meeting place without hurrying. Then Malfoy called my name from a short distance away, standing alone without Crabbe or Goyle. Ron turned towards him before I could answer.

He asked whether Malfoy came to admire his father’s work. Malfoy said he had not come to talk to Ron, then looked at me and requested a minute. Enough of his usual expression remained to explain Ron’s reaction, but he lacked the audience he generally preferred when starting something. I told the others to go ahead and promised to catch up.

Hermione touched Ron’s sleeve as he prepared an objection. He closed his mouth with visible effort while I went with Malfoy towards a quieter stretch of fence, remaining in sight of the road. When I asked what he wanted, he said Buckbeak and paused as though choosing how much more to admit.

‘I told my father what happened. I told him you pulled me clear,’ Malfoy said. ‘I asked him to leave it.’ For a few seconds he watched the snow-covered track before looking back. ‘I still don’t like you, Mercer. That hasn’t changed.’

‘I hadn’t taken this as an invitation to spend Christmas together,’ I said. An unwilling smile appeared briefly, then disappeared while he returned to the matter which brought him over. I let him do it without another joke.

‘This wasn’t my idea,’ he insisted. ‘He wouldn’t listen. I don’t want you thinking I asked him for this.’ I remembered Dumbledore’s description of his account, which agreed on the important facts when a different version could have helped him.

‘I believe you told him.’ Malfoy looked at me sharply, apparently prepared for an argument which this answer failed to provide. I waited while he examined my expression, resisting the urge to make the wait more entertaining.

I knew little about conversations in his house. His account at school and decision to find me gave reason to listen without treating his father’s words as his own. ‘I intend to beat you properly,’ he finally said. The emphasis made it clear he preferred that declaration to anything resembling gratitude.

‘Improve the opening of your conversations first,’ I suggested. He called me unbearable and began turning away, which seemed a sufficiently familiar ending for both of us. I used his first name before he had gone far enough to ignore it easily.

‘If you think he’s wrong, keep thinking it,’ I said when he stopped. ‘You don’t have to make the decision yours because he’s made it loudly.’ His shoulders stiffened before he told me he needed no advice from me. He left before I could offer anything more useful to his temper.

I watched him reach the road. I still disliked him and still remembered pulling him away from the claws; neither fact made me want a school rivalry to become a reason to let him die. If Voldemort returned with followers, Draco might face decisions more important than beating me in class. I hoped he would recognise them as choices while he could still make them.

Ron and Hermione waited near the Hog’s Head. I repeated Malfoy’s account, prompting Ron to ask whether I believed it. I thought he might have asked his father to leave Buckbeak alone, I said, without that settling anything about the appeal or making him pleasant. He had taken care to confirm the latter himself. Hermione suggested we stop arguing with him in his absence and looked towards the door.

Inside smelled of old smoke, sour drink and goats. I kept my scarf higher than the temperature required as we passed tables which had seen better years. A thin, grey-bearded landlord watched from behind the counter without offering a welcome, though a portrait within his view had been cleaned much more carefully than the rest of the room.

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A girl in a blue dress remained still in the picture while I looked. We chose a table away from the entrance and ordered drinks, giving the landlord reason to wipe glasses with a cloth that made Ron and me exchange a glance. Hermione produced a cup from her bag, to Ron’s considerable interest.

She had asked Flitwick about the pub, she explained, and he recommended bringing one. Ron thought that advice might have been shared before his drink arrived, but accepted the spare she offered with improved manners. I left my glass alone while we waited, listening to the quieter conversations beyond us without catching anything worth attention.

A stranger set a bag beside Ron and pulled out a chair. His scarred face looked older than his height and clothes suggested, and he inspected us with an interest I disliked before offering an oddly strained greeting. Ron shifted away while Hermione explained we were waiting for someone. The stranger assured us there was plenty of room.

I studied the scarf round his neck. ‘That’s an excellent scarf, Harry,’ I said, leaning back. The stranger blinked as Ron turned sharply towards him. Harry’s own voice emerged to tell us to keep quiet, doing more damage to the disguise than my observation had managed.

He checked the room and lifted an edge of the face beneath his hood. Hermione caught his wrist before he removed it completely, saying we had seen enough. He put it back and asked how I knew. Emma’s scarf and his apparent struggle not to laugh supplied the answer, though he seemed to have expected something more difficult.

‘I thought some stranger was making trouble,’ Ron said, folding his arms. Harry’s grin faded at the absence of amusement in his voice. Ron let him apologise before leaning closer again. ‘What is it, though?’

‘The Fierce Face. New at Zonko’s,’ Harry explained. The twins found him after he emerged from the passage and offered it to him, with offered involving payment. He ran a finger carefully along the edge beneath his hood. ‘I couldn’t exactly go and compare the price.’

He suspected they made a comfortable profit. The mask changed his features convincingly at close range without altering height, clothing or voice, which explained his strained effort at the greeting. Ron wanted to try it later somewhere less public, and Harry agreed. Neither proposed treating it as an explanation for being in Hogsmeade if someone recognised him anyway.

We checked that he retained the borrowed map, paid and left. As I turned from the counter, the landlord glanced towards the girl’s portrait, and I left him to it. Outside, Harry invented a distant Weasley cousin to explain joining us, answering the first curious Gryffindor before Ron had time to prepare.

Ron confirmed the story with a look promising discussion later. Once we moved on, he reminded Harry that only one of them was acquiring unexpected relatives and deserved warning. I suggested agreeing on the family account before adding more to it. Harry accepted the point and stopped making Ron improvise details.

For a while he simply enjoyed being there. He examined shop windows, asked what we bought before and stopped to watch a demonstration, his enthusiasm recognisable beneath the unfamiliar face. Near the Three Broomsticks, I noticed McGonagall approaching with Cornelius Fudge and stopped before the others reached the entrance.

Hermione asked what I saw. I indicated them as Fudge said something too quietly for me to hear to Rosmerta, who stood outside. Her startled repetition of Harry Potter reached us clearly enough. McGonagall glanced along the street, lowered her voice and went inside with them after Rosmerta opened the door.

‘What are they saying about me?’ Harry asked. He had become very still beside me, and my admission that I could not hear sent him towards a quieter space beside the building. He reached into his bag while Hermione caught his sleeve. ‘They’re talking about me. I’m going to hear it.’

He drew the cloak round himself. Footprints led to a door opening just far enough for someone we could not see, leaving us across the street beneath an overhang. Snow gathered while I took a flask of hot tea from the replacement pouch and shared it. Ron held his cup with both hands, hoping Harry would remember we were there.

I watched the pub door. After several minutes it opened abruptly and a passer-by stepped aside with an irritated exclamation. New footprints moved away from us, continuing after I called softly. I packed the flask and led the others after them before they disappeared among the street’s traffic.

Harry was moving too quickly. Somebody stumbled when an invisible shoulder brushed past, and I called again without making him stop. We followed beyond the busiest part of the village until the prints reached a low wall by a line of trees. I approached slowly and told him we were there.

The cloak moved after a pause. He removed it himself, followed by the false face, which remained crushed between his fingers. Tears wet his real face as I crouched nearby and asked what happened. ‘Black,’ he managed. ‘I’m going to kill him.’

Ron stopped beside the wall. Hermione came closer but waited when Harry pressed both hands over his face. I asked what he heard, giving him time to begin instead of trying to fill the silence. The account arrived in pieces: Sirius Black had been James and Lily’s close friend, trusted enough to stand beside them. He was Harry’s godfather.