As October drew to a close, an icy chill enveloped Hogwarts, with relentless rain hammering against the castle's windows for days. The Black Lake began to swell, threatening to flood the nearby grounds. The students weren't spared from the effects of the dreary weather, as Madam Pomfrey found herself busy with a surge of colds and a general sense of gloom among the populace.
A week before Halloween, Hagrid invited the "Golden Trio" to see the massive pumpkins he had grown in preparation for the holiday. Taking advantage of a brief pause in the rain, Harry, Neville, and Hermione made their way to Hagrid's hut on the Hogwarts grounds. The pumpkins were indeed impressive—each one was the size of a garden shed—but the trio couldn't shake the feeling that some enlargement charms had been employed.
As the rain began pouring once more, the trio, having forgotten their umbrella, sought refuge in Hagrid's hut. Sitting around a warm kettle of tea, they passed the time discussing the various dishes they had encountered at Hogwarts.
"Has anyone else noticed we've been having chicken served a lot more often lately?" Neville inquired. After a moment's reflection, his friends nodded in agreement. Hagrid, looking momentarily uneasy, responded, "Someone's been killing the roosters at Hogwarts. I'd wager it's either foxes or a blood-sucking bugbear. The Headmaster said he'd have Professor Flitwick put some charms in place to protect the rest…" The trio exchanged worried glances; the thought of a threat lurking on the grounds was unsettling. "But enough about that! Are you three excited for pumpkin pies this Halloween?" Hagrid asked, attempting to steer the conversation away from the ominous subject.
"They're always the best!" Neville piped up, deciding it best not to pry further into Hagrid's troubling news.
"Yeah, but honestly, I'm not sure I feel up to the feast this year…" Harry admitted. Hagrid raised an eyebrow in question.
"Why's that, Harry?" he asked, piecing together Harry's earlier troubles. "Oh, sorry, I nearly forgot…" As he glanced at the clock on the wall, Hagrid saw it was nearly four in the afternoon. "Best be heading back to the castle," he said, fetching a large, dark-gray umbrella for their return. "I'll walk you to the front door."
As they made their way back, Harry couldn't shake the unsettling notion that something sinister was taking place at Hogwarts. He hoped that whatever was brewing this year would spare him; having already faced too many dangers, he was not keen on facing more.
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On Sunday, despite the dismal rain and biting cold, the Gryffindor Quidditch team gathered for practice. Oliver Wood, ever the enthusiast, insisted that poor weather wasn't a reason to cancel. The session wrapped up earlier than usual, and while the team did their best to show their spirits by flying through the storm, Harry decided to retreat back to the castle—he wanted no part in any murder investigation.
As he made his way to the Gryffindor tower, he encountered Nearly Headless Nick gazing despondently out a window, muttering under his breath.
"…Don't fulfill their requirements… half an inch, if that…" Harry overheard as he approached the ghost. Sensing Harry's presence, Nick turned around, folding a transparent letter. "You don't look too cheerful, young Potter," the ghost observed, noting Harry's wet clothes and broomstick.
"Hi, Nick. You don't seem too happy yourself," Harry replied.
"Ah," Nick waved his hand dismissively, "just a trivial matter. I wanted to join, but it seems I don't… fulfill their requirements." Despite his dismissive tone, a deep bitterness flashed across his face. He then recounted a truncated version of his beheading, with Harry nodding at appropriate moments, before reading aloud the rejection letter's content regarding his ineligibility.
"Well, there's something they don't have that makes you special, Sir Nicholas," Harry remarked, eager to uplift the ghost's spirits.
"Half an inch of skin and sinew to hold my neck? " Nick quipped. Harry shook his head, eliciting the ghost's curiosity.
"No. They might not want you at their hunts, but how many of them can claim to symbolize a thousand-year-old school?" Harry replied. Sir Nick pondered this for a moment before allowing a small smile to creep onto his face.
"You're right, young Potter, thank you." Oblivious to his ethereal existence, Nick tried to shake Harry's hand but instead sent a chill running through him as he passed right through. After an apology for the mishap, the ghost added, "This Halloween marks my five-hundredth deathday, and I'll be hosting a party in one of the dungeons. You and your friends are welcome to join…"
"I'd love to attend," Harry said, trying to sound polite. "But will it be okay for living humans to be around your other guests?" Nick appeared thoughtful for a moment.
"Good point. If Sir Patrick and his headless hunt show up, there could be some discomfort… But you're, of course, still welcome." Harry nodded appreciatively.
"Thank you, Sir Nicholas." Glancing down at his still-damp clothes, he added, "If you'd excuse me, I should return to my tower and change into something dry before I catch cold." Nick nodded understandingly.
"Of course, young Potter. I shan't detain you any longer." After offering his gratitude, Harry continued on his way to the Gryffindor dormitories...
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As Halloween approached, an uneasy feeling settled in Harry's chest—one that suggested a misfortune awaited him on that day. Despite Hermione and Neville's insistence that this was an unfounded fear, Harry couldn't shake it off. All the same, both friends agreed that Nearly Headless Nick's deathday party held little appeal for a living human, although Hermione's curiosity about the event was palpable.
Finally, October 31st arrived, and anticipation filled the air for the evening's grand Halloween feast. The Great Hall and other public spaces, except for the library, were adorned with live bats; Hagrid's colossal pumpkins had been fashioned into lanterns large enough to seat several people, and rumors circulated that Dumbledore had arranged for a troupe of dancing skeletons to entertain the guests.
Sooner than Harry hoped, seated at the Gryffindor table amidst his housemates, he endured Dumbledore's traditional pre-feast address. Just a few minutes later, the feast officially commenced.
The truth of the dancing skeletons was confirmed as three wizards in black cloaks manipulated a troupe of 'skeletons' to play lively tunes. Thankfully, their musical choices avoided any nails-on-the-chalkboard vibes.
The feast itself was extraordinary—arguably superior to the welcome banquet at the start of the school year—with piles of food, mostly pumpkin-themed, covering the tables. As Harry savored the delightful dishes, his lingering sense of foreboding began to dull, though it did not vanish entirely.
After the feast concluded, the students began to leave the Great Hall for their dormitories. The Golden Trio found themselves among the early crowd of Gryffindors but remained just behind the majority of the student body. They had a difficult time discerning the cause of the sudden halt of those ahead of them. Nevertheless, Harry, Neville, and Hermione managed to work their way closer to the scene, revealing a most alarming sight: the floor was flooded, and next to the rarely-used girls' restroom, glowing words written in what appeared to be blood read, "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware."
"Is this Chamber of Secrets even real? 'Hogwarts: A History' only has legends about it," Hermione murmured, squinting at the words. Her friends could only shrug in response, as they lacked answers to her question.
Before they could consider the implications further, Basilisk Malfoy pushed through the crowd, reading the ominous message aloud in a voice that commanded attention. "Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, mudbloods! Hogwarts will finally be cleansed of your filth!" His normally pale face flushed with fervor, the youngest Malfoy then noticed something and grinned mischievously.
Following his gaze, everyone spotted a cat, motionless and hanging by its tail from one of the torches. With a flick of his wand, Malfoy levitated the unfortunate creature down, regarding it with disdain. "Dead. Killed by the Heir," he pronounced with a twisted satisfaction. "Everyone, witness: this is what will become of those deemed unworthy!" Several dim-witted pureblood supporters muttered in agreement.
Suddenly, Filch's heavy footsteps echoed toward the scene, forcing Malfoy to relinquish his prize quickly. Spotting Harry in the crowd, he sneered, "This filth should complement your own dirtied blood, Potter. Catch!" With that, Malfoy sent the cat flying in Harry's direction. Thanks to his Seeker reflexes, Harry instinctively caught the cat, but was then seized by an agonizing grip around his neck.
"You killed my cat! You've murdered her!" Filch screeched, hoisting Harry off the ground. "I'll kill you! I'll—" Hermione, horrified by the threat against her friend, sprang forward.
"But he didn't… He didn't do anything to your cat…" she stammered, desperately trying to reason with the enraged caretaker.
"Trying to shield your accomplice, are you? I'll kill you too! I'll have your head for what you did to my Mrs. Norris!" Filch shrieked as he tightened his grip, his red-rimmed eyes glinting with fury.
"But they really didn't do anything, Mr. Filch!" Neville stepped in, standing defensively in front of his friends. Filch slowly turned his attention to Neville, eyes blazing.
"And you too? You helped murder my cat? I'll have you hanged in the Great Hall! You'll be an example of what happens to those who break the school's laws!" Filch howled. At that moment, the professors, led by Dumbledore, burst onto the scene.
"Argus!" Dumbledore intoned, his voice firm and commanding. Filch's expression faltered, releasing Harry, who fell to the floor, gasping. Dumbledore approached Harry, lifting Mrs. Norris carefully and casting a charm to ease the young wizard's strained neck.
"Come with me, Argus. Mr. Potter, you as well." Harry wanted to question why he needed to follow, but he was still catching his breath. Lockhart, brimming with enthusiasm, stepped forward.
"My office is the closest—just upstairs. Feel free to use it," he offered, and Dumbledore nodded, leading the way, followed closely by Lockhart, and then Professors McGonagall and Snape, plus Filch. Harry picked himself up to follow, while Hermione and Neville tried to tag along, only to be halted by Percy, the prefect. The crowd slowly dissipated, their interest waning.
In Lockhart's office, once the candles were lit, Dumbledore placed Mrs. Norris down on his polished desk, examining her more closely. He leaned in, while McGonagall similarly scrutinized the cat. Snape loomed in the background, an odd expression on his face, as if he were suppressing a grin. Meanwhile, Lockhart fluttered about, offering unsolicited advice.
"It was definitely a curse that did this—probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I've seen it used many times. Too bad I wasn't there, but I know exactly the counter-curse that would have saved her…" Lockhart rambled, interrupting Filch, who was sobbing quietly, his face buried in his hands. Despite his resentment towards Filch, Harry felt a pang of sympathy for the man.
Dumbledore finally straightened, addressing Filch. "She's not dead, Argus," he said gently. Lockhart halted mid-sentence, incredulous. "Not dead?" Filch gasped, lifting his tear-streaked face toward Mrs. Norris.
"Petrified. But how, I cannot say…" Dumbledore continued, his tone thoughtful. Lockhart, however, jumped to conclusions.
"Ask him!" Filch hissed, his eyes narrowing on Harry.
"No second-year could have accomplished this," Dumbledore insisted, his voice emanating authority. "It would require Dark Magic of the highest order…" Filch, however, remained unconvinced.
"He did it! You saw what he wrote on the wall!" Filch accused, his face flushed—a testament to his anger and distress. McGonagall seemed ready to intervene, her stern gaze signaling for him to hold his tongue.
"I'm willing to swear an oath that neither I nor Hermione or Neville did anything to your cat or wrote anything on that wall," Harry declared firmly, trying to maintain composure in the face of mounting tension. Dumbledore nodded.
"There's no need for that, Harry. As I mentioned, no second-year, regardless of Ms. Granger's knowledge, could have executed this." Harry let out a quiet sigh of relief.
"But my cat has been petrified!" Filch screeched, anxiety evident in his voice. "I want punishment!" He paused briefly to draw breath. "And this brat was the one who had my Mrs. Norris!" Dumbledore shook his head with purpose.
"Mr. Potter did not commit this act; he is a victim of circumstance." Filch huffed angrily, clearly wanting to place blame on someone—anyone—for his beloved cat's fate.
"I assure you that we will find a way to cure her, Argus," Dumbledore said calmly. "Professor Sprout recently acquired some Mandrakes. Once they reach maturity, I will have a potion prepared to revive Mrs. Norris." Filch nodded, though the frustration on his face was palpable.
"I'll brew it!" Lockhart interjected. "I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep, after doing it countless times..."
"Excuse me…" Snape interjected icily, "but I am the Potions Master here." An uncomfortable silence gripped the room. Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"Harry, you may go," he instructed. Nodding to express his gratitude, Harry quickly left Lockhart's office, mindful that they had spent several hours on the matter of Mrs. Norris, and it was already past curfew. The last thing he needed was another detention for being out of bounds...
~/ *** \~
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Theodore Nott paced his room frustratedly. He had concocted a seemingly foolproof scheme to dethrone the Malfoy heir, but the emergence of this enigmatic Heir of Slytherin had completely overturned his plans. Basilius had garnered considerable support with his extremist views on purging Hogwarts of anyone deemed "unworthy"—a perspective only a few were willing to challenge.
Late into the night, Theodore devised a new strategy, carefully considering how to account for the new Slytherin heir's presence. It would take time and effort to dismantle the influence Malfoy held, but Theodore was confident he would find a way...
~/ *** \~
In the days that followed, the school buzzed with chatter about the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept the incident alive by hovering at the scene of the crime, as if expecting the assailant to return. Many students, including Harry, saw the caretaker attempting to scrub away the Slytherin heir's blood-red message on the wall, but no spell could erase it; the words remained vivid and ominous.
When not guarding the site, Filch roamed the corridors, his red-rimmed eyes darting, ready to pounce on unsuspecting students over the most trivial offenses—such as "breathing too loudly" or "looking cheerful."
The revelation of a dark presence capable of casting such petrification curses unsettled the student body, particularly among the younger pupils. Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister and a devoted cat lover, was particularly distressed by Mrs. Norris's fate; her classmates attempted to soothe her with varying degrees of success, though Ron's tactless humor did little to help.
Meanwhile, Hermione felt the weight of the chamber's ominous message gravely and devoted herself to uncovering any information on Hogwarts' history. She diligently combed through the library, seeking anything related to the legendary Chamber of Secrets. Unfortunately, her search yielded little beyond the same tales recounted in various texts; the elusive Chamber remained just that—a secret.