Christmas morning dawned cold and white. Snow blanketed every inch of the Hogwarts grounds, softening every sound until the castle felt wrapped in silence. The air inside was heavy too, as if the gloom of the season had settled in with the frost. The string of petrification incidents had left everyone uneasy; even the most excitable students seemed wilted—like frostbitten eggplants. The joy that usually came with Christmas had faded into wary quiet.
Harry was awakened early by Hermione. Groggy, he rubbed his eyes and instinctively looked toward Ron's bed. It was still empty. He sighed, a weight pressing down on his chest.
Maybe today, he thought, we'll finally find the culprit.
"Merry Christmas," Hermione said softly, tossing a small wrapped package onto his bed. Her eyes, however, were alight with something more than holiday cheer. "The potion's ready," she added in a whisper.
Harry sat up at once, sleep gone in an instant.
"Malfoy better hope he hasn't done anything wrong," he muttered, clenching his fist. "If he has, I won't let him off easily."
His gaze fell on Scabbers, Ron's pet rat, lying listlessly on the windowsill. The sight of the unmoving little creature deepened the ache in Harry's chest. "Even you miss him, huh?" he murmured.
Hermione only gave a quiet, distracted "Mm." Her mind was clearly elsewhere.
Just then, the sound of fluttering wings filled the dormitory. Hedwig swooped in through the open window, a small parcel clutched neatly in her beak. She landed gracefully beside Harry and affectionately nipped his ear—a gesture warmer and more welcome than any present.
"Hey, girl," Harry said fondly, scratching her feathers. The parcel, when opened, turned out to contain a letter from his dreadful relatives and a wooden toothpick—clearly their version of a "gift." He didn't even bother reading it.
Fortunately, his other presents more than made up for it. Hagrid had sent a huge box of fudge that looked dangerously solid, the kind that needed warming by the fire before anyone could bite into it. Hermione had chosen him a magnificent eagle-feather quill, elegant and perfectly balanced in his hand. And from Mrs. Weasley came a warm, hand-knitted sweater with a big golden "H" on the front, along with a raisin cake wrapped neatly in brown paper.
Harry propped up her cheerful card on his nightstand. A pang of guilt hit him. He thought of the Weasleys' flying car—still missing after its disastrous collision with the Whomping Willow—and of Ron, lying stiff and pale in the hospital wing. The guilt only grew heavier when his eyes landed on Ron's desk. There, still unopened, lay a copy of Flying with the Cannons, wrapped in simple red paper. It was clearly meant for Harry.
"Thanks, mate," he whispered, brushing the corner of the gift. "You didn't forget."
The Great Hall sparkled with Christmas splendor by the time everyone gathered for the holiday feast. Despite the dreary weeks behind them, the sight of roasted turkeys, glistening puddings, and enchanted snow falling in warm, dry flakes from the ceiling lifted everyone's spirits. Twelve towering Christmas trees glimmered with silver frost, and thick garlands of holly and mistletoe wound around the pillars.
For the first time in weeks, the air was filled with laughter and song. Dumbledore, wearing a hat shaped like a stuffed turkey, led the students in several of his favorite carols. Hagrid's booming voice could be heard above all others, growing merrier and louder with each mug of eggnog. Even Filch, standing off to the side, seemed less sour than usual.
"Now," Harry murmured to Hermione after glancing at the enchanted clock above the staff table, "it's time."
Hermione gave a small, steady nod. "Right."
At the Slytherin table, Malfoy and Pansy were deep in conversation, oblivious to the plan quietly unfolding around them. The air was filled with the clatter of cutlery and bursts of laughter—until a sudden shriek cut through the noise.
A quill—an ordinary-looking writing quill—had gone completely berserk. It shot into the air, spinning and darting wildly, splattering black ink everywhere. Screams erupted as students ducked under the table, shielding their food and faces. The quill looped madly over the Gryffindor table, then zigzagged toward the Slytherins like a possessed bat.
Before anyone could react, it hovered directly in front of Pansy Parkinson.
"Oh my god!" Pansy shrieked, scrambling back, but too late—the ink splattered all over her robes, dripping down in messy black streaks. The hall erupted in laughter and gasps.
Malfoy, however, merely frowned, brushing a few flecks of ink off his sleeve. He looked more irritated than surprised. With a lazy flick of his wand, he muttered, "Scourgify," but the spell did nothing.
"Who did this?" Pansy screeched, voice sharp as glass. "Who ruined my robes?" She turned in a circle, her eyes scanning the crowd like a furious cat searching for a target.
Harry stepped forward from the crowd, face full of guilt. "Sorry! That was my fault. Fred and George were showing me how to use one of their trick quills, and, uh… something went wrong."
Malfoy barely glanced at him. "You and your ridiculous toys," he muttered under his breath. His mind was elsewhere—on the diary, the Chamber, the monster. The distraction barely registered.
Harry kept his head bowed, putting on his most sincere expression. "The ink's a special kind," he added quickly. "Can't be cleaned off with regular spells—only with a potion. I can help get it off."
"Oh, brilliant," Pansy groaned, glaring down at the ruined fabric. "This is just wonderful."
Malfoy sighed and waved dismissively. "Go see Professor Snape. He'll know what to do. It's not worth making a scene over."
Harry nodded, pretending to be contrite. "I'll come too, just to make sure it gets sorted," he said politely, giving Hermione a brief, hidden signal—a thumbs-up.
Hermione caught it immediately. Her cue.
As Harry escorted the indignant Pansy out of the Great Hall, Hermione quietly slipped away in the opposite direction. Her heart pounded as she hurried through the corridors toward the girls' bathroom. The sound of distant laughter faded behind her until only the echo of her footsteps remained.
Inside, the cauldron still simmered. The potion bubbled thickly, releasing puffs of violet steam. Hermione felt a twinge of fear. She had brewed many potions before—but this one was different. Dangerous, even. Still, there was no time for hesitation.
She glanced at the spare Slytherin robe she'd stolen earlier—it would help her blend in, since her figure wasn't far off from Pansy's.
Her hands trembled slightly as she scooped a ladleful of the Polyjuice Potion into a glass. It gurgled and hissed, thick as molten tar. When she raised it to her lips, it turned a faint purple, bubbling furiously. She closed her eyes and drank.
Instantly, the potion roared to life inside her like boiling oil. The sound of bubbling filled her ears, and the taste—bitter, metallic—burned her throat. She winced, gripping the sink as the transformation rippled through her body.
For a few terrifying seconds, she felt her face shift, her limbs tingle, her skin itch as though covered in crawling ants. Then, as quickly as it came, the pain ebbed away.
Hermione opened her eyes.
The girl in the mirror was not Hermione Granger.
Pansy Parkinson's sharp features stared back—sleek black hair, pale skin, and that familiar smirk frozen in confusion. Hermione touched her cheek in disbelief. The texture of her skin, even the slight tilt of her chin—it was perfect. Flawless.
She allowed herself one long, steadying breath. "It worked," she whispered. But she couldn't leave immediately. Pansy strolling out of a girls' bathroom right after the chaos in the Hall would raise suspicion. She had to wait—long enough for Harry to keep up the distraction.
Minutes dragged by like hours. Hermione paced, glancing at her reflection again and again, checking for any flaw, any change. Her heart thudded in her chest.
Outside, the castle was quiet.
Finally, after what felt like twenty minutes, Hermione gathered her courage and stepped out. The corridor was empty. She moved quickly, her footsteps echoing off the stone floor, her eyes darting to every shadow.
At the entrance to the Great Hall, she stopped. Her heart pounded so hard she pressed a hand to her chest to steady it.
This is it, she told herself. No turning back now.
She thought of Ron, still lying petrified and motionless in the hospital wing. She thought of Colin Creevey, of the fear in every student's eyes. And she thought of Harry, risking detention—or worse—to buy her this chance.
The fear in her heart hardened into resolve.
She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped forward into the unknown.
The Great Hall, once filled with laughter, was now a hum of uneasy whispers. Pansy's outburst had ended the meal prematurely, and most students had returned to their common rooms to gossip about the incident. At the staff table, Snape watched the scene unfold with cold amusement, though his sharp eyes flickered briefly toward the door where Harry had exited moments before.
Harry, meanwhile, was guiding the furious Pansy down the corridor, pretending to stammer out apologies. "I really didn't mean it—it just flew out of control—honestly, Fred said it was safe—"
Pansy huffed loudly. "Do you think a simple 'sorry' fixes this? These robes are ruined!"
Harry nodded dutifully, trying not to grin. "Right, right. Let's find Snape."
He led her toward a side passage—one that conveniently took them nowhere near the Potions classroom. By the time Pansy realized they'd been walking in circles, Hermione would be well into her mission.
"Honestly," Pansy muttered, "I don't even know why Malfoy didn't hex you on the spot."
Harry shrugged. "Maybe because he's got other things to worry about."
Pansy frowned at that, but Harry didn't elaborate. He was too busy counting the seconds in his head, praying that Hermione was safe.
Somewhere above them, the castle clock began to chime. The sound echoed through the empty corridors—deep, resonant, and solemn.
Christmas Day at Hogwarts continued, glittering and magical as ever. But beneath the laughter, beneath the decorations, danger still lurked unseen. And for Harry, Hermione, and the unconscious Ron, the real fight was only just beginning.
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