For the remainder of the break, with no further covert operations planned, Harry tried to enjoy the casual atmosphere of the Gryffindor common room. It was not easy. Weighing heavily on his mind was the now thrice-mentioned notion that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened before. Granted, two of them were essentially from the same source — the Malfoys, as Dobby almost certainly belonged to them, and it was Draco who said his father had told him about it, but Dumbledore himself had said it in passing to McGonagall when he was unaware that Harry was listening.
Harry tried to push aside his hurt feelings that Dumbledore never bothered to mention as much directly to Harry during any of their conversations about the Chamber of Secrets. Draco had said that a student had been killed the last time it had been opened, fifty years ago, and that the culprit had been expelled. If that was true, then the details of that incident ought to be a focus of investigation, and yet they had never discussed it. Eventually, Harry reasoned that Dumbledore might be exploring that avenue of inquiry discretely in order to maintain the privacy of those involved. It likely was not within ethical boundaries of the headmaster to share with a twelve-year-old student the finer elements of the death and expulsion of former Hogwarts students.
This rationalization did not stop him from doing all he could to find out more on his own, however. It was fortunate that he required little sleep, so that he could spend the nights in the library under his Invisibility Cloak, searching through historical records from both Hogwarts happenings and the wizarding world in general from events 40-60 years ago in order to try and find anything that might hint at the events of the Chamber of Secrets being opened. So far, nothing in the books or documents available gave him any clues, but if the matter had been swept under the rug, as Mr. Malfoy had told his son, then it was no surprise.
Thankfully, the days treated Harry better. As he, Hermione, and the Weasleys were still the only Gryffindors in the castle, their time spent together was a lot like being at the Burrow, except there was no parental supervision to curb their rambunctious behaviour.
The Sunday before the Hogwarts express was to bring the rest of the students back for the next term, they made the most of this freedom. After breakfast one morning, he, Ron, Fred, and George had gone outside to see how big a snow fort they could build without using magic. After about five minutes, this endeavour lost its appeal, and through some rapidly escalated brainstorming, they decided on a new plan. Soon, they were back in the Gryffindor common room, having covertly dragged a self-chilling tarp holding about two hundred pounds of snow through the castle, nearly getting caught twice along the way, which in and of itself was hilariously enjoyable.
Their main goal, however, was to use the snow as ammunition for an indoor no-magic-allowed snowball fight in the common room, where the furniture had been piled together into barricades on two opposite ends of the room, the snow divided into two even piles in the opposite corners.
"Oh — ow!"
Hermione had been braiding Ginny's hair into pigtails when the boys had dragged the snow in through the portrait hole (which was no easy feat), and had clearly pulled Ginny's hair as the sight distracted her. The boys explained their plan, which an at-first reluctant Hermione eventually agreed to.
"All right, all right, except…" She looked at Ginny's head in front of her, which was only halfway done, and would likely take several precious minutes away from barricade-building to finish, one side of Ginny's long hair cascading down her back while the other stuck out from the side of her head.
"I think it looks good like that," Fred attempted, but Ginny wasn't having it.
"I'll just take it out," she said quietly, reaching to undo the pigtail, but Harry stopped her.
"Wait," he said, stepping towards her, something of an embarrassed smile escaping from him. "I actually know a pigtail spell, if you can believe it."
He knew they might think he was joking, which was fine. He held up his hands and shrugged his shoulders in a self-deprecating way.
"I've never actually tried it, but I know how it's… supposed to be done." It was more of a question than a statement, so he let the offer hang there.
Everyone in the room looked blatantly sceptical save for Fred, who was nodding appreciatively.
"I think we all agree that this is a fantastic idea," he said with mock sincerity.
Harry raised his shoulders further up, tilting his head at Ginny in continued proposition. Looking embarrassed at first, she eventually gave a smiling little sigh of resignation, shaking her head.
"Yeah… all right, I guess," she said, not making any attempt to hide her misgivings as she looked at Harry a little sideways.
Harry smiled sincerely now, feeling as if this moment was perhaps the very first time Ginny had acted like herself in front of him.
"All right. Excellent!" Harry said, drawing his wand and clearing his throat. When he spoke next, in was in his best Lockhart impersonation. "This particular spell, while relatively simple for someone such as myself, so impressed the villagers on Piki Piki Peak that they erected a one trillion foot statue in my memory, adorned with two flowing braids of solid gold, which I of course helped them cultivate utilizing my renowned alchemic talents — for full details, see Pigtails with Pikis, now available anywhere historical fiction is sold."
This earned the predictable laughter of the others, and Harry did not kill the moment by pointing out that he had indeed initiated a review of categorization for all books currently in the non-fiction section at Flourish and Blotts, and that Lockhart's books had already been re-categorized as autobiographical novels. He knew it was only a matter of time before smaller stores followed their lead.
Now dropping the act, Harry took Hermione's place behind Ginny, who was sitting on the floor against a window seat. He sat cross-legged, trying to maintain some personal space for her. Now that he was actually here, he was uncharacteristically nervous, and pretended to examine her hair for a few moments to try to get himself settled down. When he took some of Ginny's hair in his hands, he inadvertently stroked her neck with his finger.
The brief nature of the vision that suddenly filled his mind was probably the only thing that kept the others from noticing. He blinked furiously and continued on with Ginny's hair, no longer feeling apprehensive and going about the process somewhat mechanically, quickly using the spell to fashion a perfect pigtail, and also to revise the existing braid on the other side to match.
Both Hermione's and Ginny's responses after evaluating Harry's work affirmed his success, and all worked to prepare the common room for the snowball fight. Harry partook in the preparations, and responded appropriately when anyone spoke to him, but it took all he had to not appear as distracted as he was.
The majority of his mind was focused on evaluating everything about this vision, from what it showed him to why it had appeared at this particular moment. Reviewing it over and over again as everyone in the common room tried to split up into even sides for the battle, Harry found no hidden clues in any aspect of the multi-sensory vision. It was nearly identical to the one he had experienced in Dumbledore's office, with him holding the Sorting Hat, but this time there was also an impression that he had been wearing the hat at some point. There was not as much visual sensation with this vision as the one before, but other senses were stronger, with Harry feeling the weight in his hand of what he was now certain had been a sword, and an array of emotions — including feeling desperate and terrified… but also invigorated and hopeful.
He had a chance to comb through the memory of the vision eight times before Hermione noticed his being distracted and asking if he was okay. Not wanting her to think he was hearing voices, he responded, glad he could be honest with her.
"Yeah, I just got super lost in thought. Don't worry — it won't affect my aim."
Hermione took a moment but eventually glared playfully at him. She and Harry were on opposite teams for the snowball fight, her alongside Fred and Ron, and Harry with George and Ginny. Both Harry and Hermione had tried to get the others to ask Percy if he wanted to join, but the Weasleys were adamant (and Harry thought likely correct) that Percy would either put an end to their plans, or burst a blood vessel when he saw what they had done to the common room.
By the time they decided to call a truce, at which point everyone but Harry was exhausted from running, diving, and leaping around the common room chucking snowballs at one other, Harry and Hermione could not help but agree that it was for the best that there had been no stickling prefects in the room. The final score was up for debate, as there had been several disputes amongst the siblings as to whether or not one of them had hit the other, but the ending result of a good time was not in question. It had been perhaps the most relaxing day of the year so far for all of them, and as they worked to return the common room to working order, even Ginny seemed at ease, chatting animatedly with Hermione about the time Ron had peed his pants while the two of them were riding in a sled together.
"I was four years old!" Ron yelled from across the room, chucking a melting snowball at Ginny, which hit Hermione right in the face.
"Thanks, Ron," Ginny told him later. "The peeing story was already great, and now I get to add that part to the end of it next time I tell it!"
Things at Hogwarts stayed quiet for several weeks following the rest of the school arriving back from their Christmas holidays. The time away from school and the lack of any apparent lingering danger slowly released the tension in the atmosphere of the castle so that Harry felt it was pretty much back to normal. He would shake his head at himself later for daring to think such a thing.
He and Ron were heading back to Gryffindor Tower one evening after Ron had begged Harry to help him look for his missing Ptolemy Chocolate Frog card (which Harry found lodged in the thinnest of cracks in the wooden bench they favourited in History of Magic), when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their ears.
"That's Filch," Harry muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.
"You don't think someone else's been attacked?" said Ron tensely.
They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch's voice, which sounded quite hysterical.
"— even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore —"
His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor, and they heard a distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the bathroom walls.
Ron turned to Harry. "What's her problem now?"
"Dunno," said Harry. "You think someone might have been in there, snooping around?" said Harry.
"You mean besides us?" Ron said.
"Yeah, like what if someone had seen us using it and wanted to see what we were up to," Harry explained.
"Oh, I don't like that," Ron said.
Hoping he was mistaken and that there would not be another thing to have to worry about this year, Harry gestured to Ron to follow him. Together, they held their robes up above their ankles and splashed through the water back into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.
She was crying louder and harder than ever before, hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both the walls and floor soaking wet.
"Myrtle… is everything all right?" said Harry as they approached.
"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle's voice miserably. "Come to throw something else at me?"
Harry waded across to her stall and said, "Why would I throw something at you?"
"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already flooded floor, Harry and Ro jumping back. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me…"
"Okay," said Harry, reasonably. "But it'd just go right through you, wouldn't it?"
He had said the wrong thing. Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked, "Let's all throw books at Myrtle, because she can't feel it! Ten points if you can get it through her stomach! Fifty points if it goes through her head!" She rose up until her face was an inch from Ron's, who had already backed into the wall behind him. "What a lovely game, I don't think!"
"I didn't do it!" Ron protested.
"Who did do it?" asked Harry as Myrtle floated back down to the toilet.
"I don't know… I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head," said Myrtle, glaring at them. "It's over there, it got regurgitated out…"
Harry and Ron looked under the sink where Myrtle was pointing.
A small, thin book lay in the shadows. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward to pick it up, but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.
"What?" said Harry.
"Are you crazy?" said Ron. "It could be dangerous."
Harry paused, looking at the book. Ron might have been on to something, he realized. Something about the book felt familiar, and that was not normal.
"Some of the books the Ministry's confiscated — Dad's told me —" Ron went on, looking apprehensively at the book. "There was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one-handed. And —"
"All right, I've got the point," said Harry.
The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy. Harry took a deep breath and reached out with his magic, casting a few wandless spells he had looked up and mastered after being nearly cursed by the innocuous-looking Lord Ring all those years ago, before Hedwig had stopped him from putting it on. He supposed Ron was his Hedwig in this circumstance, but Harry could find nothing from the book that even hinted at any danger from picking it up.
"I don't think there's anything we have to worry about, so… I'm just going to try," he said, and he quickly ducked around Ron and picked the book up off the floor.
Ron winced, sucking in and holding a harrowing breath, but nothing happened. Harry saw at once that the book was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. He opened it eagerly, despite his misgivings. On the first page he could just make out the name "T. M. Riddle" in smudged ink.
"Who's that?" said Ron, who had approached cautiously and was looking over Harry's shoulder.
Harry stood still, feeling like he had run face-first into a brick wall. Was this to be his life? he wondered. Was this connection, for whatever reason it was there, never going to sever? The questions did not trigger any kind of emotional response; his heart was not racing, he did not feel afraid, and he did not take any deep breaths before answering Ron quietly, disappointed that he was going to lie to him, but determined not to drag him any further into this than he already was, if T. M. Riddle was a part of what was happening at Hogwarts.
"I dunno," Harry lied. "But he was a student here fifty years ago." He pointed at the date.
"Fifty?" Ron exclaimed, clearly making the same connection Harry had — that Draco had said that was when the Chamber had been opened last.
Harry peeled the wet pages apart. Each one was completely blank. There wasn't the faintest trace of writing on any of them, not even a scribble.
"He never wrote in it," said Harry, disappointed.
"Why would someone, fifty years later, come into this bathroom of all bathrooms to try and flush it away?" said Ron curiously.
"That's a really good question," Harry said.
He was still thumbing through the pages when his scar gave the slightest of tingles. He paused on a random page, long enough for Ron to gaze closer at it.
"Did you find something?" he asked over Harry's shoulder.
Harry took a moment to respond, staring at the page. The longer he looked at it, the narrower his field of vision became, darkness squeezing in from all sides, ever-so-slowly. He might not even have noticed it if not for the odd buzzing in his scar clueing him in to something being off.
"…No…" he finally told Ron, closing the diary with some effort. The longer he held onto it, the more pronounced was the feeling of familiarity, but also… he could not pinpoint the other sensation he was getting from the diary — he just knew it was there.
Harry turned the book over and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London.
"A Muggle store?" Ron questioned aloud. "Hard to imagine Slytherin's heir doing their shopping around there, isn't it?"
Harry thought for a moment, "I guess so," he conceded, then pocketed the diary.
From the moment Harry had first learned the name of the man who had targeted his family and killed his parents, he had tried to learn more about him. It was no easy task, as the fear of even mentioning Lord Voldemort's name seemed to have trickled into the historical record, which Harry found to be concerning. Society was sticking their heads in the sand regarding the rise of the most dangerous wizard of modern times rather than educating the population as to exactly how it had happened, which Harry felt would have been a much smarter strategy for avoiding letting it ever happen again.
Because of this, he had been able to learn very little about Voldemort, most of what he had been able to uncover found in a single issue of The Quibbler, which Harry enjoyed for its unique perspective, but knew to not necessarily be the most reliable source of factual information.
When he had come to Hogwarts, however, he had been able to cross-check and confirm the Quibbler's claim that Voldemort had originally gone by the name Tom Riddle, finding ample references in the school archives to Riddle's impressive accomplishments during his time at Hogwarts, including an award for special services to the school, which was no small feat.
Now, Harry had found a diary that had belonged to Riddle mere feet away from the sight of the first Basilisk attack. That in itself could be chalked-up to coincidence, but coupled with the timeline of Riddle having attended Hogwarts fifty years ago made it a certainty in Harry's mind that Voldemort was somehow involved with the Chamber of Secrets. How he could possibly be involved was still a mystery, and since there had been no attacks or even hints of the snake in the castle for weeks, Harry felt he did not yet have enough information to warrant going to Dumbledore about it.
Despite not knowing anything about Riddle, Hermione had been very enthusiastic about the diary, agreeing with Ron and Harry that it was likely to be connected to the Chamber of Secrets, and attempting several different ways to uncover and hidden information amongst all of the blank pages, none of which provided any clues.
With still no attacks having occurred by the time they moved into February, the mood in the castle had grown more hopeful. On top of that good news, Madam Pomfrey was also reporting that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood.
"The moment their acne clears up, they'll be ready for repotting again," Harry heard her telling Filch kindly one afternoon. "And after that, it won't be long until we're cutting them up and stewing them. You'll have Mrs. Norris back in no time."
Harry returned from a long weekend with Puddlemere Uni just in time to catch breakfast on the morning of the fourteenth of February. Professor Lockhart, claiming that the culprit behind the attacks had given up knowing that Lockhart was bound to catch them, had planned a morale-booster which hit Harry squarely in the face the moment he walked in for breakfast in the Great Hall.
The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling.
Harry went over to the Gryffindor table, where Ron was sitting looking sickened, and Hermione seemed to have been overcome with giggles.
"What's going on?" Harry asked them, sitting down and wiping confetti off his bacon.
Ron pointed to the teachers' table, apparently too disgusted to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking stony-faced. From where he sat, Harry could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall's cheek, and Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a large beaker of Skele-Gro.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" Lockhart shouted. "And may I thank the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all — and it doesn't end here!"
Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.
"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" beamed Lockhart. "They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines!
"Please, Hermione, tell me you weren't one of the forty-six," said Ron later as they left the Great Hall for their first lesson. Hermione suddenly became very interested in searching her bag for her schedule and didn't answer.
All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of the teachers. Harry had received five so far, and late that afternoon as the Gryffindors were walking upstairs for Charms, another of the dwarfs caught up with him.
"Oy, you! 'Arry Potter!" shouted the particularly grim-looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to Harry.
Harry moved to the side of the hallway to try and make room for people to get around him, and watched the dwarf make his way towards him, wondering if the little man enjoyed his job.
"I've got a musical message to deliver to 'Arry Potter in person," he said, twanging his harp in a threatening sort of way.
"Oh wow," Harry said in surprise, having not known that this was even an option.
"Yeah, wait 'till you hear it," the dwarf said under his breath, not knowing Harry would be able to hear him. He cleared his throat, and announced, "Here is your singing valentine:
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord."
Harry threw his head back and laughed appreciatively.
"Is there — wait," he said, holding up his hands while passers-by who had heard the song watched with wide eyes.
"Don't say out loud who sent it, but did it come with a note or anything?" he asked the would-be Cupid, still smiling at the song, which he thought was brilliant.
The dwarf considered Harry's question before answering, "No note… but with the proper gratuity, I might be so inclined to provide the information…"
The dwarf was suddenly shoved hard from behind, flying forwards and grabbing at Harry's bag as he flew across the hallway.
With a loud ripping noise, Harry's bag split in two. His books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the floor and his ink bottle smashed over everything.
Harry picked up his things while the dwarf clambered to his feet, his nose bloody.
"Forget it!" he said nasally before charging down the hallway, one of his wings cracked in half.
"What's going on here?" came the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy. Harry finished collecting his things and stood up.
"What's all this commotion?" said another familiar voice as Percy Weasley arrived.
"Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now," Percy said, shooing some of the younger students away.
"And you, Malfoy —"
Harry, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up something. Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and Goyle, and Harry realized that he'd got Riddle's diary. Harry pulled out his wand, not keen to perform wandless magic in front of so many people
"Expelliarmus!"
The diary flew away from Malfoy's hand and into a relieved Harry's.
"Harry!" said Percy loudly. "No magic in the corridors. I'll have to report this, you know!"
But Harry didn't care. He had told Malfoy about Voldemort's real name the day he had met him in Madam Malkin's over a year ago. If Malfoy had seen the name on the diary, he would have known exactly who it had belonged to and would likely send it home to his father as soon as possible.
Malfoy was looking furious now, and as Ginny passed him to enter her classroom, he yelled spitefully after her, "I don't think Potter liked your valentine much!"
Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran into class. Harry had a feeling he now knew who had shoved the dwarf. Ron drew his wand, glaring at Malfoy, but Harry pulled him away.
It wasn't until they had reached Professor Flitwick's class that Harry noticed something rather odd about Riddle's diary. All his other books were drenched in scarlet ink. The diary, however, was as clean as it had been before the ink bottle had smashed all over it.
Later that evening, when all of the other Gryffindors were asleep in bed, Harry unlocked his trunk and set the dial to the second marker before taking the diary into what he considered his portable library. Once there, he sat at his study table and flicked through the blank pages, not one of which had a trace of scarlet ink on it. Then he pulled a new bottle out of the little drawer in the table, dipped his quill into it, and dropped a blot onto the first page of the diary.
The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, vanished. Harry stared at the once again empty page. This changed everything. The diary accepted writing, it just did not maintain it. That meant that Riddle could have written volumes upon the pages — information that could potentially be uncovered…
Harry thought for a moment, then once again put his quill to the page and wrote, "Day One: I found a diary that absorbs ink. Not sure what it means."
The words shone momentarily on the page and then they too sank without trace. But then, something happened. Oozing back out of the page, in Harry's very own ink, came words Harry had never written.
"Hello. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?"
Harry felt the adrenaline rush at seeing these words, which faded away just as Harry's writing had. So Riddle had somehow enchanted the diary to respond in his voice, even all these years later, which meant that Harry was starting a conversation with the boy who would grow up to murder his parents. It was a bit much to take in, but Harry knew he needed to keep Riddle interested. Recalling Riddle's question, Harry began scribbling back a reply, unable to hide a smirk.
"Someone tried to flush it down a toilet."
He waited for Riddle's reply, picturing the would-be Voldemort's reaction to such information.
"Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read."
Harry made a face of disgust and disappointment. Voldemort was known for his prowess with being convincing and manipulative, but Harry found the young Riddle to be rather heavy-handed, obviously trying to drum up Harry's interest. Hating himself for writing it, Harry played along. "What do you mean?" he wrote back.
"I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"That's where I am now," Harry wrote quickly, trying to emulate responses that he would have written if he was ignorant of who Riddle really was. "I'm at Hogwarts, and horrible stuff 's been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"
Riddle's reply came quickly.
"Before I answer, may I inquire as to with whom I am speaking?"
Harry considered his options. He could certainly lie, but what if the diary had some way of knowing whether or not he was being truthful? The threat of having this conversation potentially cut off was enough to convince Harry to answer truthfully.
"My name is Harry Potter," he wrote, and watched the words disappear.
"It is nice to meet you, Harry," Riddle wrote back. If the memory of Tom Riddle somehow had any idea of who Harry was in relation to his future self, he did not show it. "I do indeed know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who'd opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned."
Fascinated by where Riddle was going with this, Harry hurried to write back.
"It's happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one seems to know who's behind them. Who was it last time?"
"I can show you, if you like," came Riddle's reply. "You don't have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him."
Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle mean? Could the diary somehow work like Dumbledore's Pensieve?
He looked around at the shelves, shadows flickering in the candlelight. When he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words forming.
"Let me show you."
Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters.
"OK."
The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. Harry saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a minuscule Wireless Wall. His hands trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye against the little window, and before he knew what was happening, he was tilting forward; the window was widening, he felt his body leave his chair, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of colour and shadow.
He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly into focus. He knew immediately where he was. This circular room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore's office — but it wasn't Dumbledore who was sitting behind the desk. A wizened, frail looking wizard, bald except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by candlelight. Harry knew at once who he was, recognizing him from one of the portraits in Dumbledore's office. His name was Armando Dippet, and he would have been the Headmaster at Hogwarts fifty years ago.
Dippet folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up, walked past Harry without glancing at him, and went to draw the curtains at his window.
The sky outside the window was ruby-red; it seemed to be sunset. The wizard went back to the desk, sat down, and twiddled his thumbs, watching the door.
Harry looked around the office. No Fawkes the phoenix — no whirring silver contraptions. This was Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, and he, Harry, was little more than a phantom, completely invisible to the people of fifty years ago.
There was a knock on the office door.
"Enter," said the old wizard in a feeble voice.
A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver prefect's badge was glinting on his chest. He was much taller than Harry, but he, too, had jet-black hair.
"Ah, Riddle," said the headmaster.
"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" said Riddle. He looked nervous. Harry watched him carefully, wanting to absorb everything he could about a young Voldemort.
"Sit down," said Dippet. "I've just been reading the letter you sent me."
"Oh," said Riddle. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly.
"My dear boy," said Dippet kindly, "I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"
"No," said Riddle at once. "I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that — to that —"
"You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?" said Dippet curiously.
"Yes, sir," said Riddle, reddening slightly.
"You are Muggle-born?"
"Half-blood, sir," said Riddle. "Muggle father, witch mother."
"And are both your parents — ?"
"My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me — Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather."
Dippet clucked his tongue sympathetically.
"The thing is, Tom," he sighed, "special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances…"
"You mean all these attacks, sir?" said Riddle, and Harry moved closer, not wanting to miss anything.
"Precisely," said the headmaster. "My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy… the death of that poor little girl… You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the — er — source of all this unpleasantness…"
Riddle's eyes had widened.
"Sir — if the person was caught — if it all stopped —"
"What do you mean?" said Dippet with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in his chair. "Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?"
"No, sir," said Riddle quickly.
But Harry was sure it was the same sort of "no" that countless students gave their teachers when unwilling to share what they knew.
Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.
"You may go, Tom…"
Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harry followed him. Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. Harry could tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed.
Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, he hurried off, Harry gliding noiselessly behind him. They didn't see another person until they reached the entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the marble staircase.
"What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?"
Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a fifty-year younger Dumbledore.
"I had to see the headmaster, sir," said Riddle.
"Well, hurry off to bed," said Dumbledore, giving Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harry knew so well. "Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since…"
He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit.
But to Harry's disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with Snape. The torches hadn't been lit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Harry could only just see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching the passage outside.
It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an hour. All he could see was the figure of Riddle at the door, staring through the crack, waiting like a statue. And just when Harry had stopped feeling expectant and tense and started becoming annoyed, he heard something move beyond the door.
Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard whoever it was pass the dungeon where he and Riddle were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged through the door and followed, Harry close behind him.
For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in the direction of new noises. Harry heard a door creak open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse whisper.
"C'mon… gotta get yeh outta here… C'mon now… in the box…"
Harry knew at once to whom the voice belonged.
Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner, and Harry stepped out behind him. He could see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of an open door, a very large box next to it.
" 'Evening, Rubeus," said Riddle sharply.
The boy slammed the door shut and stood up. "What yer doin' down here, Tom?"
Riddle stepped closer.
"It's all over," he said. "I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."
"What d'yeh —"
"I don't think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and —"
"It never killed no one!" said the large boy, backing against the closed door. From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and clicking.
"Come on, Rubeus," said Riddle, moving yet closer. "The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered…"
"It wasn't him!" roared the boy, his voice echoing in the dark passage. "He wouldn'! He never!"
"Stand aside," said Riddle, drawing out his wand.
His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the large boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of it came a vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs; a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp pincers — Riddle raised his wand again, but he was too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it; he raised his wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, "NOOOOOOO!"
The scene whirled, the darkness became complete; Harry felt himself falling and then landing hard on his chair, the diary once again blank in front of him. He did not try to engage with it again, closing it slowly and sitting back in his chair.
The large boy in the memory — it was Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid, whom Harry knew had in fact been expelled from Hogwarts fifty years ago. A sixteen-year-old Riddle had "caught" Hagrid harbouring what was clearly a dangerous creature, but Harry saw through the ruse. What had escaped the castle that night was clearly not a Basilisk, which Harry knew for certain Slytherin's monster was. Besides that, the notion that Hagrid would have anything to do with pureblood superiority was preposterous. No, Riddle had framed Hagrid, getting him expelled, making Harry hate Voldemort even more than he already did.
But that was in the past. Why was the memory of Riddle now trying to also convince Harry of this lie? The strongest possibility Harry could think of was that Riddle was setting the foundation with which to gain Harry's trust; to what purpose, he did not know.
Over the next few weeks, Harry would write in the diary from time-to-time, telling Riddle that the threat at Hogwarts seemed to have subsided, and trying to get him to talk about anything else in the hopes that he would let a clue slip. Riddle was apparently too smart for that, offering no hints to his ulterior motives in the mundane correspondence. Every now and then, Harry got a sense that Riddle was continuing to build up to something, but it never reached its pinnacle, leaving Harry to continue wondering what the endgame was.
Harry did learn something, however — that he did not like the diary. It was not what Riddle wrote, or that he could garner no further useful information out of him, but it was the diary itself. He had not noticed it until one day in Charms class, when Susan had asked him if everything was all right. Confused as to what had prompted her to ask him that, Harry thought back to their time in class so far, only to find that he had downright snapped at Susan twice already during their work, something he had neither intended to do nor realized in the moment that he was doing. Since then, he had not again opened the diary, and no longer carried it around with him in his bag.
Gryffindor Quidditch practice took up much of Harry's free time leading into their next game against Hufflepuff. Harry did not mind the rigor with which Oliver Wood was planning and executing practices considering he had most of the nights to spend however he pleased, but the rest of the team was clearly not of the same opinion. Alicia Spinnet, usually quite easy-going, simply walked off the pitch and back to the castle when Wood insisted the Chasers run for the seventh time the new play he had designed, which they had already shown him clearly was never going to work.
"See! This is exactly what I'm talking about!" Wood complained as they all watched Alicia disappear into the distance. "I bet right now, Hufflepuff is working as a team to perfect their own plays against us!"
"Right now, the Hufflepuff team is enjoying their dinner, which by the way started an hour ago," Angelina pointed out.
Wood scoffed at that observation, shaking his head incredulously. "Well if the rest of you think that we're actually ready, then by all means follow Alicia back to —"
Whatever dramatic statement he had planned to make was lost as every other member of the team immediately flew to the ground to follow Alicia.
They managed to get to dinner with enough time to actually eat, and Harry was pleased to see that most of the second years were still at the Gryffindor table. When he sat down, he learned why, as Professor McGonagall had handed out the forms for choosing their subjects for third year, which offered wider options than their first two years at Hogwarts.
Older students offered their advice, and many second years planned to write their families to hear their perspectives, or referenced guidance they had already received from family members, including poor Neville who had received conflicting but equally confident suggestions as to what the best options were. Many students stowed the forms and decided to put their selections off for the last minute, but Harry was pretty sure he already knew what he wanted to take: Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and Study of Ancient Runes, all of which he hoped he would be able to delve deeper into than what the basic third year benchmarks called for.
He was half-listening to Percy's advice about classes when his pocket watch vibrated against his leg. Pulling it out, he saw the etching on the front cover glowing crimson, and shot to his feet.
"What's the matter?" Ron asked as Harry extricated himself from the bench.
"Someone's tried to get into my trunk," Harry told him, and darted out of the Great Hall.
The other second year boys must have heard him, as they followed Ron in getting up to join Harry. Soon, they were all walking into their dorm room, where the contents of Harry's bedside table had been strewn all over the mattress. The bedclothes had been pulled off his four-poster, and his trunk had been pushed over. Pulling it back up, Harry was relieved to see that it had not been opened, which should have been impossible anyway, but he had still been concerned about.
Then Harry remembered something. He dashed to look more closely at the bedside table as the other boys checked their own trunks and beds for anything amiss.
"What happened, Harry?" Dean asked.
"No idea," said Harry.
Ron was examining Harry's robes. All the pockets were hanging out. "Someone's been looking for something," he said. "Is there anything missing?"
Harry did not want to accept it, searching under everything before finally giving in to the harsh reality of the situation.
"Riddle's diary," he said in an undertone to Ron.
"What?"
Harry jerked his head toward the dormitory door and Ron followed him out. They hurried down to the Gryffindor common room, which was half-empty, and joined Hermione, who was sitting alone, reading a book called Ancient Runes Made Easy.
Hermione looked aghast at the news.
"But — only a Gryffindor could have stolen — nobody else knows our password —"
"Yeah, because no one has ever snuck into a different common room before," Harry said meaningfully, and both Hermione and Ron looked rather defeated, realizing the point he was making.
They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a light, refreshing breeze.
"Perfect Quidditch conditions!" said Wood enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, loading the team's plates with scrambled eggs.
"Harry, buck up there, you need a decent breakfast."
Harry had been staring down the packed Gryffindor table, wondering if the new owner of Riddle's diary was right in front of his eyes, or if it was someone from another House. Hermione had been urging him to report the robbery, but Harry was not yet keen on the idea. He had spent the whole night sneaking around the castle uselessly, wanting to try and find the culprit but not really having any idea how he could do such a thing. He eventually decided he would have to go to Dumbledore to tell him about the diary, now that someone had purposefully stolen it from him, which seemed to imply that it was more important than just having some memories stored in it. He planned to do so right after today's Quidditch match, unwilling to face Oliver's wrath if Harry got caught up talking to Dumbledore and ended up missing the game.
As he left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to go and collect his Quidditch things, another very serious worry was added to Harry's growing list. They were halfway up the staircase when he heard it yet again —
"Kill this time… let me rip… tear…"
He gasped aloud, making Ron and Hermione both jump.
"The voice!" said Harry, looking over his shoulder. "I just heard it again."
Ron just looked at him, wide-eyed. Hermione, equally scared-looking as Ron, stated the obvious at once.
"Harry — you have to go to Dumbledore!"
"I know," Harry relented. He looked at his pocket watch. "He'll probably be down at the stadium already by now."
"You two go there, and I'll go check his office, then we'll meet halfway with whoever finds him," Hermione said, already darting away.
Harry stood for a moment trying to catch the voice again, but people were now emerging from the Great Hall below them, talking loudly, exiting through the front doors on their way to the Quidditch pitch.
Abandoning any pretence that he would be able to play Quidditch now, Harry forgot about his gear and he and Ron joined the large crowd swarming across the grounds, his only goal being to find Dumbledore.
Frustrated by the slow pace of those in front of them, Harry bypassed the locker room and ran into the stadium, searching for the headmaster. Oliver Wood was already taking a warm-up flight around the goal posts; Madam Hooch was releasing the balls. The Hufflepuffs, who played in canary yellow, were standing in a huddle, having a last-minute discussion of tactics.
Harry had just spotted Dumbledore in the stands, and had started to make his way towards him when he saw a flash of silver arc its way over the stadium walls and land directly in front of Dumbledore. Tapping his glasses, Harry's view tightened to show the form of a cat appear on Dumbledore's shoulder, which seemed to whisper something in his ear. Even with his enhanced hearing, Harry could not hear what was being said over the noise of the crowd, but whatever it was prompted Dumbledore to Disapparate at once, startling those around him.
Moments later, Professor McGonagall came half-marching, half-running across the pitch, carrying an enormous purple megaphone.
Harry's heart dropped like a stone.
"This match has been cancelled," Professor McGonagall called through the megaphone, addressing the packed stadium. There were boos and shouts. Oliver Wood, looking devastated, landed and ran toward Professor McGonagall without getting off his broomstick.
"But, Professor!" he shouted. "We've got to play — the Cup — Gryffindor —"
Professor McGonagall ignored him and continued to shout through her megaphone:
"All students are to make their way back to the House common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can, please!"
Then she lowered the megaphone and beckoned Harry over to her.
"Potter, I think you'd better come with me…"
Harry saw Ron detach himself from the complaining crowd; he came running up to them as they set off toward the castle. To Harry's surprise, Professor McGonagall didn't object.
"Yes, perhaps you'd better come, too, Weasley…"
Some of the students swarming around them were grumbling about the match being cancelled; others looked worried. Harry and Ron followed Professor McGonagall back into the school and up the marble staircase.
"This will be a bit of a shock," said Professor McGonagall in a surprisingly gentle voice as they approached the infirmary. "There has been another attack… another double attack."
Harry's insides did a horrible somersault. Professor McGonagall pushed the door open and he and Ron entered.
Madam Pomfrey was bending over a sixth-year girl with long, curly hair. Harry recognized her as the Ravenclaw he had seen in the library the morning he had been released from the hospital wing for his arm, Penelope Clearwater. And on the bed next to her was —
"Hermione!" Ron groaned.
Hermione lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy, her arms and legs frozen at odd angles. The sight made Harry both terrified and furious.
"They were found near the library," said Professor McGonagall. "I don't suppose either of you can explain this? It was on the floor next to them…"
She was holding up a small, circular mirror.
Ron shook his head, but Harry could not bring himself to respond at all, the both of them still staring at Hermione.
"I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower," said Professor McGonagall heavily. "I need to address the students in any case."
"I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore," Harry said in a shaking voice, forcing himself to look away from Hermione, his knuckles turning white under his clenched fist. "It's about this." He gestured to the two beds and gave McGonagall a meaningful look.
She returned his gaze for a few seconds, then sighed. "The headmaster is contacting the Ministry of Magic. When his responsibilities with that are complete, I will make certain that he is made aware of your request."
"All students will return to their House common rooms by six o'clock in the evening. No student is to leave the dormitories after that time. You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All further Quidditch training and matches are to be postponed. There will be no more evening activities."
The Gryffindors packed inside the common room listened to Professor McGonagall in silence. She rolled up the parchment from which she had been reading and said in a somewhat choked voice, "I need hardly add that I have rarely been so distressed. It is likely that the school will be closed unless the culprit behind these attacks is caught. I would urge anyone who thinks they might know anything about them to come forward."
She walked to where Harry and Ron were standing and added in an undertone, "Professor Dumbledore is still unavailable. I will come collect you as soon as he is."
Ignoring Harry's look of extreme incredulity, she then climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait hole, and the Gryffindors began talking immediately about this latest development, with both mild and wild theories being bandied about.
Percy Weasley was sitting in a chair behind Lee, but for once he didn't seem keen to make his views heard. He was looking pale and stunned.
"Percy's in shock," George told Harry quietly. "That Ravenclaw girl — Penelope Clearwater — she's a prefect. I don't think he thought the monster would dare attack a prefect."
But Harry was only half-listening. He didn't seem to be able to get rid of the image of Hermione, lying on the hospital bed, rigid and still as if made of stone.
"What're we going to do?" said Ron quietly in Harry's ear. "D'you think they suspect Hagrid?"
Harry thought about it. "We should go and talk to him," said Harry, making up his mind. "If Dumbledore won't see me, Hagrid is our next best option. He was involved somehow the last time the Chamber was opened, so maybe he can tell us something — anything."
"You reckon we can slip away undetected under the you-know-what?" Ron asked, and Harry knew exactly what he meant.
They went to bed at the usual time, waited until Neville, Dean, and Seamus had stopped discussing the Chamber of Secrets and finally fallen asleep, then got up, dressed again, and threw Harry's Invisibility Cloak over themselves.
The journey through the dark and deserted castle corridors wasn't enjoyable. Harry had never seen it so crowded after sunset. Teachers, prefects, and ghosts were marching the corridors in pairs, staring around for any unusual activity. The Invisibility Cloak didn't stop them making any noise, and there was a particularly tense moment when Ron stubbed his toe only yards from the spot where Snape stood standing guard. Thankfully, Snape sneezed at almost exactly the moment Ron swore, negating Harry's plan to stun the man if it came to it. It was with relief that they reached the oak front doors and eased them open.
It was a clear, starry night. They hurried toward the lit windows of Hagrid's house and pulled off the cloak only when they were right outside his front door.
As soon as they had knocked, Fang the boarhound had begun barking loudly and, seconds later, Hagrid flung the door open, pointing a crossbow directly into Ron's face. Harry grabbed the arrow tip and wrenched the crossbow up and away from them, even as Hagrid realized who they were and had begun pulling it away.
"Oh. What're you two doin' here?"
"What's that for?" said Harry, pointing at the crossbow as they stepped inside.
"Nothin' — nothin' —" Hagrid muttered. "I've bin expectin' — doesn' matter — Sit down — I'll make tea —"
He hardly seemed to know what he was doing. He nearly extinguished the fire, spilling water from the kettle on it, and then smashed the teapot with a nervous jerk of his massive hand.
"Are you okay, Hagrid?" said Harry. "Did you hear about Hermione?"
"Oh, I heard, all righ'," said Hagrid, a slight break in his voice.
He kept glancing nervously at the windows. He poured them both large mugs of boiling water (he had forgotten to add tea bags) and was just putting a slab of fruitcake on a plate when there was a loud knock on the door.
Hagrid dropped the fruitcake. Ron gave him a panic-stricken look, and Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak back over them both and pulled Ron into a corner, Harry nudging Ron to draw his wand, as he had. Hagrid checked that they were hidden, seized his crossbow, and flung open his door once more.
"Good evening, Hagrid."
It was Dumbledore. He entered, looking deadly serious, and was followed by a second, very odd-looking man, who had rumpled gray hair and an anxious expression, and was wearing a strange mixture of clothes: a pinstriped suit, a scarlet tie, a long black cloak, and pointed purple boots. Under his arm he carried a lime-green bowler.
Ron looked at Harry under the cloak and Harry nodded his understanding at the realization that this was Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.
Hagrid had gone pale and sweaty. He dropped into one of his chairs and looked from Dumbledore to Cornelius Fudge.
"Bad business, Hagrid," said Fudge in rather clipped tones. "Very bad business. Had to come. Four attacks on Muggle-borns. Things have gone far enough. Ministry's got to act."
"I never," said Hagrid, looking imploringly at Dumbledore. "You know I never, Professor Dumbledore, sir —"
"I want it understood, Cornelius, that Hagrid has my full confidence," said Dumbledore, frowning at Fudge.
"Look, Albus," said Fudge, uncomfortably. "Hagrid's record's against him. Ministry's got to do something — the school governors have been in touch —"
"Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid away will not help in the slightest," said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were full of a fire Harry had never seen before.
"Look at it from my point of view," said Fudge, fidgeting with his bowler. "I'm under a lot of pressure. Got to be seen to be doing something. If it turns out it wasn't Hagrid, he'll be back and no more said. But I've got to take him. Got to. Wouldn't be doing my duty —"
"Take me?" said Hagrid, who was trembling. "Take me where?"
"For a short stretch only," said Fudge, not meeting Hagrid's eyes. "Not a punishment, Hagrid, more a precaution. If someone else is caught, you'll be let out with a full apology —"
"Not Azkaban?" croaked Hagrid.
Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud rap on the door.
Dumbledore answered it, and Harry had to work to stifle a gasp.
Mr. Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid's hut, swathed in a long black traveling cloak, smiling a cold and satisfied smile. Fang started to growl.
"Already here, Fudge," he said approvingly. "Good, good…"
"What're you doin' here?" said Hagrid furiously. "Get outta my house!"
"My dear man, please believe me, I have no pleasure at all in being inside your — er — d'you call this a house?" said Lucius Malfoy, sneering as he looked around the small cabin. "I simply called at the school and was told that the headmaster was here."
"And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?" said Dumbledore. He spoke politely, but the fire was still blazing in his blue eyes.
"Dreadful thing, Dumbledore," said Malfoy lazily, taking out a long roll of parchment, "but the governors feel it's time for you to step aside. This is an Order of Suspension — you'll find all twelve signatures on it. I'm afraid we feel you're losing your touch. How many attacks have there been now? Two more this afternoon, wasn't it? At this rate, there'll be no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school."
"Oh, now, see here, Lucius," said Fudge, looking alarmed, "Dumbledore suspended — no, no — last thing we want just now —"
"The appointment — or suspension — of the headmaster is a matter for the governors, Fudge," said Mr. Malfoy smoothly. "And as Dumbledore has failed to stop these attacks —"
"See here, Malfoy, if Dumbledore can't stop them," said Fudge, whose upper lip was sweating now, "I mean to say, who can?"
"That remains to be seen," said Mr. Malfoy with a nasty smile. "But as all twelve of us have voted —"
Hagrid leapt to his feet, his shaggy black head grazing the ceiling. "An' how many did yeh have ter threaten an' blackmail before they agreed, Malfoy, eh?" he roared.
"Dear, dear, you know, that temper of yours will lead you into trouble one of these days, Hagrid," said Mr. Malfoy. "I would advise you not to shout at the Azkaban guards like that. They won't like it at all."
"Yeh can' take Dumbledore!" yelled Hagrid, making Fang the boarhound cower and whimper in his basket. "Take him away, an' the Muggle-borns won' stand a chance! There'll be killin' next!"
"Calm yourself, Hagrid," said Dumbledore sharply. He looked at Lucius Malfoy.
"If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall of course step aside —"
"But —" stuttered Fudge.
"No!" growled Hagrid.
Dumbledore had not taken his bright blue eyes off Lucius Malfoy's cold grey ones.
"However," said Dumbledore, speaking very slowly and clearly so that none of them could miss a word, "you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me. You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."
For a second, Harry was almost sure Dumbledore's eyes flickered toward the corner where he and Ron stood hidden.
"Admirable sentiments," said Malfoy, bowing. "We shall all miss your — er — highly individual way of running things, Albus, and only hope that your successor will manage to prevent any — ah — killins."
He strode to the cabin door, opened it, and bowed Dumbledore out. Harry flicked his hand under the cloak, infuriated by Malfoy's snide expression. As Mr. Malfoy bowed, a trumpet of flatulence emitted from his backside and resounded throughout the cabin. Fudge looked at Malfoy, mortified, fiddling with his bowler. Mr. Malfoy opened and closed his mouth several times in attempts to say something, but nothing apparently came to mind as the seconds ticked by.
Dumbledore smiled pleasantly, taking the unexpected incident in stride and waiting for Hagrid to go ahead of him, but Hagrid stood his ground, took a deep breath, and said carefully, "If anyone wanted ter find out some stuff, all they'd have ter do would be ter follow the spiders. That'd lead 'em right! That's all I'm sayin'."
Fudge stared at him in bewildered amazement.
"All right, I'm comin'," said Hagrid, pulling on his moleskin overcoat. But as he was about to follow Fudge through the door, he stopped again and said loudly, "An' someone'll need ter feed Fang while I'm away."
The door banged shut and Ron pulled off the Invisibility Cloak.
"We're in trouble now," he said hoarsely. "No Dumbledore. They might as well close the school tonight. There'll be an attack a day with him gone."
Fang started howling, scratching at the closed door, and as Harry moved to soothe him, he thought hard about what either Dumbledore's or Hagrid's cryptic messages could have possibly meant.