More out of habit than anything, Harry made his
usual detour along the seventh-floor corridor, checking the Marauder’s
Map as he went. For a moment he could not find Malfoy
anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the Room of
Requirement again, but then he saw Malfoy’s tiny, labeled dot
standing in a boys’ bathroom on the floor below, accompanied, not
by Crabbe or Goyle, but by Moaning Myrtle.
Harry only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling when he
walked right into a suit of armor. The loud crash brought him out
of his reverie; hurrying from the scene lest Filch turn up, he dashed
down the marble staircase and along the passageway below. Outside
the bathroom, he pressed his ear against the door. He could
not hear anything. He very quietly pushed the door open.
Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands
clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed.
“Don’t,” crooned Moaning Myrtle’s voice from one of the cubicles.
“Don’t . . . tell me what’s wrong . . . I can help you. . . .”
“No one can help me,” said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking.
“I can’t do it. . . . I can’t. . . . It won’t work . . . and unless I do
it soon . . . he says he’ll kill me. . . .”
And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to root him
to the spot, that Malfoy was crying — actually crying — tears
streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. Malfoy gasped
and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into the
cracked mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his shoulder.
Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Harry
pulled out his own. Malfoy’s hex missed Harry by inches, shattering
the lamp on the wall beside him; Harry threw himself sideways,
thought Levicorpus! and flicked his wand, but Malfoy blocked the
jinx and raised his wand for another —
“No! No! Stop it!” squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing
loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! STOP!”
There was a loud bang and the bin behind Harry exploded;
Harry attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind
Malfoy’s ear and smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle,
who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere and Harry
slipped as Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, “Cruci —”
“SECTUMSEMPRA!” bellowed Harry from the floor, waving his
wand wildly.
Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though he had
been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and
collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand
falling from his limp right hand.
“No —” gasped Harry.
Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged
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toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining scarlet, his white hands
scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest.
“No — I didn’t —”
Harry did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside
Malfoy, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of his own
blood. Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening scream: “MURDER!
MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!”
The door banged open behind Harry and he looked up, terrified:
Snape had burst into the room, his face livid. Pushing Harry
roughly aside, he knelt over Malfoy, drew his wand, and traced it
over the deep wounds Harry’s curse had made, muttering an incantation
that sounded almost like song. The flow of blood seemed
to ease; Snape wiped the residue from Malfoy’s face and repeated
his spell. Now the wounds seemed to be knitting.
Harry was still watching, horrified by what he had done, barely
aware that he too was soaked in blood and water. Moaning Myrtle
was still sobbing and wailing overhead. When Snape had performed
his countercurse for the third time, he half-lifted Malfoy
into a standing position.
“You need the hospital wing. There may be a certain amount of
scarring, but if you take dittany immediately we might avoid even
that. . . . Come. . . .”
He supported Malfoy across the bathroom, turning at the door
to say in a voice of cold fury, “And you, Potter . . . You wait here for
me.”
It did not occur to Harry for a second to disobey. He stood up
slowly, shaking, and looked down at the wet floor. There were
bloodstains floating like crimson flowers across its surface. He could not even find it in himself to tell Moaning Myrtle to be
quiet, as she continued to wail and sob with increasingly evident
enjoyment.
Snape returned ten minutes later. He stepped into the bathroom
and closed the door behind him.
“Go,” he said to Myrtle, and she swooped back into her toilet at
once, leaving a ringing silence behind her.
“I didn’t mean it to happen,” said Harry at once. His voice
echoed in the cold, watery space. “I didn’t know what that spell
did.”
But Snape ignored this. “Apparently I underestimated you, Potter,”
he said quietly. “Who would have thought you knew such
Dark Magic? Who taught you that spell?”
“I — read about it somewhere.”
“Where?”
“It was — a library book,” Harry invented wildly. “I can’t remember
what it was call —”
“Liar,” said Snape. Harry’s throat went dry. He knew what Snape
was going to do and he had never been able to prevent it. . . .
The bathroom seemed to shimmer before his eyes; he struggled
to block out all thought, but try as he might, the Half-Blood
Prince’s copy of Advanced Potion-Making swam hazily to the forefront
of his mind.
And then he was staring at Snape again, in the midst of this
wrecked, soaked bathroom. He stared into Snape’s black eyes, hoping
against hope that Snape had not seen what he feared, but —
“Bring me your schoolbag,” said Snape softly, “and all of your
schoolbooks. All of them. Bring them to me here. Now!”
There was no point arguing. Harry turned at once and splashed
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out of the bathroom. Once in the corridor, he broke into a run toward
Gryffindor Tower. Most people were walking the other way;
they gaped at him, drenched in water and blood, but he answered
none of the questions fired at him as he ran past.
He felt stunned; it was as though a beloved pet had turned suddenly
savage; what had the Prince been thinking to copy such a
spell into his book? And what would happen when Snape saw it?
Would he tell Slughorn — Harry’s stomach churned — how
Harry had been achieving such good results in Potions all year?
Would he confiscate or destroy the book that had taught Harry so
much . . . the book that had become a kind of guide and friend?
Harry could not let it happen. . . . He could not . . .
“Where’ve you — ? Why are you soaking — ? Is that blood?”
Ron was standing at the top of the stairs, looking bewildered at
the sight of Harry.
“I need your book,” Harry panted. “Your Potions book. Quick
. . . give it to me . . .”
“But what about the Half-Blood —”
“I’ll explain later!”