22. The Writing on the Wall
"What's going on here? What's going on?"
Attracted, no doubt, by Malfoy's shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.
"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked. His popping eyes fell on Harry and Hope. "You! You two! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll—"
"Argus!"
Dumbledore had arrived, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he swept past Hope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.
"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch. "You too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Lupin, Miss Granger."
Lockhart stepped forward eagerly. "My office is nearest, Headmaster—just upstairs—please, feel free—"
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said with a nod.
The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore. Professors McGonagall and Snape followed closely behind.
As they entered Lockhart's darkened office, a flurry of movement rippled across the walls; Lockhart had several pictures of himself, and the Lockharts in the frames dodged out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry, Hope, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching.
Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris's fur. He studied her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a peculiar expression—it was as though he was trying hard not to smile. Lockhart hovered around them, making suggestions.
"It was definitely a curse that killed her—probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I've seen it used many times! So unlucky I wasn't there—I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her..."
Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face buried in his hands. Hope gulped. She had never liked Filch or his cat, but she didn't want Mrs. Norris to die. And even more, she didn't want Dumbledore to think she or Harry had done it.
Dumbledore muttered strange words under his breath and tapped Mrs. Norris with his wand, but nothing happened—she remained stiff and unmoving, as though she had been recently stuffed.
"...I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou," Lockhart added. "A series of attacks—the full story's in my autobiography. I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets that cleared the matter up at once..."
The photographs of Lockhart on the walls all nodded in agreement. One of them had forgotten to remove his hairnet.
At last, Dumbledore straightened up. "She's not dead, Argus," he said softly.
Lockhart stopped abruptly, right in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.
"Not dead?" Filch choked, peering at Mrs. Norris through his fingers. "But why's she all—stiff and frozen?"
"She has been Petrified," Dumbledore said.
"Ah! I thought so!" Lockhart declared. "But how, I cannot say..."
"Ask them!" Filch shrieked, his blotchy, tear-stained face turning to Harry and Hope.
"No second-year could have done this," Dumbledore said firmly. "It would take Dark magic of the most advanced—"
"They did it! They did it!" Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. "You saw what they wrote on the wall! Those two—they found them in my office—they know I'm a—I'm a—" Filch's face twisted horribly. "They know I'm a Squib!"
Ah, a Squib, Hope thought. No wonder he was so unpleasant to be around.
"I never touched Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of all the Lockharts staring at him from the walls. "And I don't even know what a Squib is."
"Rubbish!" Filch snarled. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"
Hope crossed her arms, glaring. "No one cares that you're a Squib."
Hermione nudged her slightly. "Not helping," she muttered, glancing at Filch's face, which had turned an even deeper shade of red.
"If I might speak, Headmaster," Snape said from the shadows. Harry's sense of foreboding increased; nothing Snape had to say was going to do him any good.
"Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," Snape said, a slight sneer curling his lips, "but we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren't they at the Hallowe'en feast?"
Hope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione all launched into an explanation about the Deathday Party. "...There were hundreds of ghosts—they'll tell you we were there—"
"But why not join the feast afterward?" Snape pressed, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. "Why go up to that corridor?"
Ron, Hermione, and Hope looked at Harry.
"Because—because—" Harry stammered, his heart thumping. It would sound ridiculous to admit he had been led there by a bodiless voice only he could hear. "Because we were tired and wanted to go to bed."
"Without any supper?" Snape said, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for the living."
"We weren't hungry," Ron said loudly—right as his stomach gave a huge rumble.
Snape's nasty smile widened. "I suggest, Headmaster, that these four are not being entirely truthful. Perhaps certain privileges should be revoked until they're ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel Potter and Lupin should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until they are honest."
"Really, Severus," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "I see no reason to stop the boy from playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong."
Dumbledore gave Harry a searching look before turning his gaze to Hope, who shrank slightly under his twinkling, light-blue eyes.
"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," he said firmly.
Snape looked furious. So did Filch. "My cat has been Petrified!" he shrieked. "I want to see some punishment!"
"We will be able to cure her, Argus," Dumbledore said patiently. "Professor Sprout recently procured some Mandrakes. Once they reach maturity, we can brew a potion to revive Mrs. Norris."
"I'll make it!" Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times—I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep—"
"Excuse me," Snape said icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."
A very awkward pause followed.
"You may go," Dumbledore said to the four second-years.
They gladly left—moving as quickly as they could without actually running.
When they were a floor up from Lockhart's office, they slipped into an empty classroom, closing the door quietly behind them. Harry squinted at his friends' darkened faces.
"D'you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?"
"No," Ron answered without hesitation. "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."
Something in Ron's tone made Harry pause.
"You do believe me, don't you?"
"'Course I do," Ron said quickly. "But—you have to admit, it's weird..."
"I know it's weird," Harry muttered. "The whole thing's weird. What was that writing on the wall about? 'The Chamber has been opened'... what's that supposed to mean?"
Ron's brows knitted together as he thought.
"You know, it rings a sort of bell," he said slowly. "I think someone told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once... might've been Bill..."
"And what on earth's a Squib?" Harry asked.
To his surprise, Ron and Hope shared a stifled snigger, making Harry furrow his brows even more.
"Well—it's not funny really—but as it's Filch..." Ron said, shaking his head. "A Squib is someone who was born into a wizarding family but hasn't got any magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards, but Squibs are pretty rare. If Filch is trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be one. It would explain a lot—like why he hates students so much."
Hope gave a satisfied smile. "He's bitter."
A clock chimed somewhere in the castle.
"Midnight," Harry murmured. "We'd better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us for something else."
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For days, the school buzzed about nothing but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone's minds, pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as if expecting the culprit to return. Hope had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with "Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover," but to no avail—the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When he wasn't guarding the crime scene, he skulked through the corridors, red-eyed, lunging at unsuspecting students and handing out detentions for offenses like "breathing too loudly" and "looking happy."
Ginny Weasley seemed particularly shaken by what had happened. According to Ron, she was a great cat lover.
"But you didn't really know Mrs. Norris," Ron told her bracingly. "Honestly, we're much better off without her."
Ginny's lip trembled.
"Stuff like this doesn't happen at Hogwarts often," Ron assured her. "They'll catch the nutter who did it in no time. I just hope he Petrifies Filch before he's expelled—kidding!" he added hastily as Ginny paled.
The attack had affected Hermione, too. She always spent a lot of time reading, but now, it seemed like that was all she did. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—her nose was buried in a book. Hope had even woken up in the middle of the night to find her still reading instead of sleeping. She barely responded when they asked what she was up to. It wasn't until the following Wednesday that they finally found out.
Harry had been held back in Potions, forced by Snape to stay behind and scrape tubeworms off the desks. After a rushed lunch, he hurried upstairs to meet Ron and Hope in the library. On the way, he spotted Justin Finch-Fletchley coming toward him. Harry opened his mouth to say hello, but Justin caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction.
At the back of the library, Ron and Hope were measuring their History of Magic essays. Professor Binns had assigned a three-foot composition on "The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards."
"I don't believe it—I'm still eight inches short!" Ron groaned, letting go of his parchment, which sprang back into a roll. "And Hermione's done four feet seven inches, and her writing's tiny."
Hope peeked at Ron's essay, still three inches short of the required length. "Use bigger words," she suggested. "Takes up more space."
"Where is she?" Harry asked, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling his own parchment.
"Somewhere over there," Ron said, waving vaguely toward the bookshelves. "Probably trying to read the whole library before Christmas."
Harry told them about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away.
"Dunno why you care," Ron muttered, making his writing as large as possible. "Thought he was an idiot. All that rubbish about Lockhart being so great—"
Hermione appeared from between the bookshelves, looking irritable. Finally, she seemed ready to talk.
"All the copies of Hogwarts: A History are gone," she huffed, dropping into the seat next to Hope. "And there's a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn't left my copy at home, but I couldn't fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books."
"Why do you need it?" Harry asked.
"Same reason everyone else does," Hermione said. "To read about the legend of the Chamber of Secrets."
"What's that?" Harry asked quickly.
"That's just it—I can't remember," Hermione admitted, biting her lip. "And I can't find the story anywhere else."
"Are you sure it's even in Hogwarts: A History?" Hope questioned, scribbling the last of her essay. "If it was, someone would've spread the information by now."
"Hermione, let me see your essay," Ron begged, checking his watch.
"No," she said firmly. "You've had ten days to finish it."
"I only need two more inches, come on—"
"Ha!" Hope exclaimed. "Finished!"
Ron turned to her quickly. "Hope, let me see yours."
She handed it over, only to receive a sharp smack from Hermione, who also swatted Ron.
"Don't help him!" Hermione scolded. "He needs to do it himself."
The bell rang. Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic, bickering.
History of Magic was the dullest class on the timetable. Professor Binns, their only ghost teacher, was so ancient and shriveled that many believed he hadn't even noticed he was dead. He had simply gotten up one morning to teach, leaving his body behind in a staff-room armchair, and had been lecturing ever since.
Today was no different. Professor Binns opened his notes and began droning about the International Warlock Convention of 1289. Within minutes, nearly everyone was in a deep stupor, occasionally stirring long enough to jot down a name or date before dozing off again.
Half an hour passed before something happened that had never happened before: Hermione raised her hand.
Professor Binns glanced up, looking mildly shocked.
"Miss—er—?"
"Granger, Professor," Hermione said clearly. "Could you tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"
Dean Thomas, who had been staring blankly out the window, snapped to attention. Lavender Brown lifted her head off her arms, and Neville nearly fell out of his chair.
Professor Binns blinked. "My subject is History of Magic," he said in his dry, wheezy voice. "I deal in facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends." He cleared his throat, making a sound like snapping chalk. "In September of that year, a sub-committee of Sardinian sorcerers—"
He faltered. Hermione's hand was waving in the air again.
"Miss Grant?"
"Please, sir, don't legends always have some basis in fact?"
Professor Binns looked so bewildered that Hope doubted any student had ever interrupted him before—alive or dead.
"Well," he said slowly, "yes, one could argue that, I suppose."
He peered at Hermione as though truly seeing a student for the first time. "However, the legend in question is a very sensational, even ludicrous tale—"
But the whole class was now hanging onto his every word. He looked around, every face turned toward him, completely thrown by such an unusual display of interest.
"Oh, very well," he said slowly. "Let me see... the Chamber of Secrets...
You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago—the precise date is uncertain—by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school houses bear their names: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. Together, they built this castle, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was a time when magic was feared, and witches and wizards faced much persecution."
He paused, blinking blearily around the room before continuing.
"For a while, the founders worked in harmony, seeking out young witches and wizards and bringing them here to be educated. But disagreements arose. A rift formed between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wanted to be more selective in choosing students. He believed magical learning should remain within all-magical families. He distrusted Muggle-born students, thinking them unworthy."
His voice grew even drier.
"Eventually, he and Gryffindor had a serious falling out. Slytherin left the school."
Professor Binns pursed his lips, looking like a wrinkled old tortoise.
"Reliable historical sources tell us this much," he continued. "But these facts have been clouded by the legend of the Chamber of Secrets.
The story goes that Slytherin built a hidden chamber within the castle, unknown to the other founders. According to legend, he sealed it, ensuring that only his true heir could one day open it. That heir would unleash the horror within and use it to purge the school of all unworthy to study magic."
Silence followed. But unlike the usual sleepy stillness of Professor Binns's lectures, this time, the air was thick with unease. The students watched him intently, waiting for more. He looked faintly irritated.
"The whole thing is utter nonsense, of course," he scoffed. "Naturally, the school has been searched for such a chamber many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. It is merely a tale meant to frighten the gullible."
Hermione's hand shot into the air.
"Sir—what exactly is the 'horror within' the Chamber?" she asked.
"It is said to be some kind of monster, which only Slytherin's heir can control," he replied in his usual reedy tone.
The class exchanged uneasy glances.
"I'm telling you, it does not exist," he insisted, shuffling his notes. "There is no Chamber, and no monster."
"But, sir," Seamus Finnigan spoke up, "if only Slytherin's heir can open the Chamber, wouldn't that mean no one else could find it?"
"Nonsense, O'Flaherty," Professor Binns huffed. "If a long line of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven't found it—"
"But, Professor," Parvati Patil chimed in, "wouldn't you need Dark Magic to open it?"
"Just because a wizard doesn't use Dark Magic doesn't mean he can't, Miss Pennyfeather," Binns snapped.
"Yes, but professor," Hope mused, "the founders were all brilliant. Wouldn't Slytherin have made sure only his heir could access it?"
"Miss Loopy, I repeat—if the likes of Dumbledore—"
"But maybe you have to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn't—" Dean Thomas began, but Professor Binns had had enough.
"That will do," he said sharply. "It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret indulging you in such foolishness! Now, let us return to history—to solid, verifiable fact."
Within five minutes, the class had slumped back into its usual torpor.
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"I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony," Ron told the three as they fought their way through the teeming corridors at the end of the lesson, heading to drop off their bags before dinner. "But I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I wouldn't be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I'd've got the train straight back home..."
Hermione nodded fervently, but Harry didn't say anything. His stomach had just dropped unpleasantly.
"Slytherin's not all bad," Hope reasoned.
Ron shot her a raised brow. "Hope, you hate the Slytherins."
"Well, yes, but I imagine over the years a few good eggs have been unlucky enough to be placed there. My mum was a Slytherin, after all," she said thoughtfully.
As they were shunted along in the throng, Colin Creevey went past.
"Hiya, Harry!" Colin greeted happily.
"Hullo, Colin," Harry said automatically.
"Harry—Harry—a boy in my class has been saying you're—" But Colin was so small he couldn't fight against the tide of people bearing him toward the Great Hall. They heard him squeak, "See you, Harry!" before he was gone.
"What's a boy in his class saying about you?" Hermione wondered.
"That I'm Slytherin's heir, I expect," Harry muttered, his stomach dropping another inch as he suddenly remembered the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run away from him at lunchtime.
"People here'll believe anything," Ron said in disgust.
The crowd thinned, and they were able to climb the next staircase without difficulty.
"D'you really think there's a Chamber of Secrets?" Ron asked Hermione.
"I don't know," she said, frowning. "Dumbledore couldn't cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be—well—human."
As she spoke, they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They stopped and looked. The scene was just as it had been that night, except there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall beneath the ominous message: The Chamber has been opened.
"That's where Filch has been keeping guard," Ron muttered.
They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted.
"Can't hurt to have a poke around," Harry said, dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees to crawl along, searching for clues.
"Scorch marks!" he said. "Here—and here—"
"Come and look at this!" Hermione called. "This is funny..."
Harry got up and crossed to the window next to the message on the wall. Hermione was pointing at the topmost pane, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack in the glass. A long, silvery thread dangled like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.
Hope bent closer, furrowing her brows. "How odd."
"Have you ever seen spiders act like that?" Hermione asked wonderingly.
"No," Harry said. "Have you, Ron? Ron?"
He looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing well back, looking like he was fighting the impulse to run.
"What's up?" Harry asked.
"I—don't—like—spiders," Ron said tensely.
"I never knew that," Hermione said, looking at Ron in surprise. "You've used spiders in Potions loads of times..."
"I don't mind them dead," Ron muttered, carefully looking anywhere but the window. "I just don't like the way they move..."
Hermione giggled at Ron's slightly terrified frown.
"It's not funny," Ron said fiercely. "If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my—my teddy bear into a dirty great spider because I broke his toy broomstick. You wouldn't like them either if you'd been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs and..."
He broke off, shuddering. Hermione was obviously still trying not to laugh, but Hope had no problem letting her laugh free.
"That's actually—" she chuckled, pausing at Ron's glare. "Horribly unfunny," she finished, coughing back a laugh.
Feeling they had better get off the subject, Harry chimed in, "Remember all that water on the floor? Where did that come from? Someone's mopped it up."
"It was about here." Ron walked a few paces past Filch's chair and pointed. "Level with this door."
He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly pulled his hand back like he'd been burned.
"What's the matter?" Harry asked.
Ron grunted. "Can't go in there. That's a girls' toilet."
"Oh, Ron, there won't be anyone in there," Hermione said, standing up and moving toward the door. "That's Moaning Myrtle's place. Come on, let's have a look."
Ignoring the large "Out of Order" sign, she pushed the door open.
The bathroom was dim and miserable-looking. A large, cracked mirror hung above a row of chipped stone sinks. The floor was damp, reflecting the flickering light from a few candle stubs burning low in their holders. The wooden stall doors were scratched and flaking—one barely clung to its hinges.
Hermione pressed a finger to her lips and stepped toward the last cubicle.
"Hello, Myrtle. How are you?" she asked gently.
Hope peeked from behind Hermione's bushy hair, keeping quiet. She usually only managed to upset the whiny ghost.
Harry and Ron joined them, peering inside. Moaning Myrtle floated above the toilet cistern, picking at a spot on her chin.
"This is a girls' bathroom," she said, eyeing Harry and Ron suspiciously. "They're not girls."
"No," Hermione admitted. "I just wanted to show them how—er—nice it is in here."
She gestured vaguely at the grimy mirror and damp floor.
Harry caught her eye and mouthed, "Ask her if she saw anything."
Myrtle's gaze snapped to him. "What are you whispering about?"
"Nothing," Harry said quickly. "We just wanted to ask—"
"I wish people would stop talking behind my back!" Myrtle wailed, her voice thick with tears. "I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead!"
"Myrtle, no one wants to upset you," Hermione tried to soothe her. "Harry only—"
"No one wants to upset me! That's a good one!" Myrtle howled. "My life was nothing but misery in this place, and now people come along ruining my death!"
Hermione rushed in before she could spiral further. "We just wanted to ask if you'd seen anything funny lately. A cat was attacked right outside your door on Hallowe'en."
"Did you see anyone near here that night?" Harry added.
Myrtle lifted her chin dramatically. "I wasn't paying attention. Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I'm—that I'm—"
"Already dead," Ron finished.
Myrtle let out a tragic sob, rose into the air, flipped over, and dived straight into the toilet, sending water splashing everywhere. From the muffled sound of her cries, she'd settled somewhere in the U-bend.
Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open. Hermione and Hope, however, just shrugged.
"Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle," Hermione said. "Come on, let's go."
"She's never been that pleasant with me before," Hope muttered as they left the bathroom.
Harry had barely pulled the door shut on Myrtle's gurgling sobs when a loud voice made them all jump.
"RON!"
Percy Weasley had frozen at the top of the stairs, his prefect badge gleaming and his face a picture of shock.
"That's a girls' bathroom!" he gasped. "What were you—?"
"Just having a look around," Ron shrugged. "Clues, you know..."
Percy puffed up in a way that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Mrs. Weasley.
"Get—away—from—there," he snapped, striding toward them and waving his arms as if herding sheep. "Don't you care what this looks like? Sneaking back here while everyone's at dinner—"
"Why shouldn't we be here?" Ron challenged, stopping short to glare at him. "Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!"
"That's what I told Ginny," Percy said fiercely, "but she still thinks you're going to be expelled! She's crying her eyes out. You might think about her—first-years are all in a panic over this!"
"You don't care about Ginny," Ron shot back, his ears going red. "You're just worried I'll mess up your chances of being Head Boy."
"Five points from Gryffindor!" Percy snapped, fingering his prefect badge.
"Aw, Percy!" Hope whined, stomping her foot.
It did no good. Percy simply waved her off.
"And I hope it teaches you a lesson!" he added. "No more detective work, or I'll write to Mum!"
With that, he spun on his heel and stormed off, the back of his neck nearly as red as Ron's ears.
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Hope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as possible from Percy in the common room that night. Ron was still in a foul mood and kept blotting his Charms homework. When he absently reached for his wand to remove the smudges, the parchment ignited.
Fuming almost as much as his work, Ron slammed The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 shut. Surprisingly, Hermione followed suit.
"Who could it be, though?" she asked in a quiet voice, as if continuing a conversation they'd already been having. "Who'd want all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?"
"Let's think," Ron said with mock puzzlement. "Who do we know that thinks Muggle-borns are scum?"
He looked at Hermione. She looked back, unconvinced.
"If you're talking about Malfoy—"
"Of course I am!" Ron huffed. "You heard him: 'You'll be next, Mudbloods!' Come on, you've only got to look at his foul rat face to know it's him—"
"Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?" Hermione asked skeptically.
"Look at his family," Harry said, closing his books. "The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin. He's always boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin's descendants. His father's definitely evil enough."
"They could've had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries," Ron added. "Handing it down, father to son..."
Hope shook her head. "There's one small problem with that—Malfoy and the rest of his family are a bunch of pompous idiots. Salazar Slytherin himself could hand him the key to the Chamber, and Malfoy would still be too thick to know how to use it."
Ron let out a small chuckle, talking badly about Malfoy brightening his mood slightly. "That's true."
"Well," Hermione said cautiously, "I suppose we'll have to look into it... just to be sure."
"But how do we prove it?" Harry asked darkly.
"There might be a way," Hermione said slowly, lowering her voice further as she glanced across the room at Percy. "Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous. Very dangerous. We'd be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect."
"If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won't you?" Ron said irritably.
"All right," Hermione said coldly. "What we'd need to do is get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions... without him realizing it's us."
"But that's impossible," Harry said, as Ron laughed.
"It's a school of witchcraft and wizardry. Surely there's some way," Hope pointed out.
"There is," Hermione said. "All we'd need is some Polyjuice Potion."
"What's that?" Harry and Ron asked together.
"Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago—" Hermione said, looking between them incredulously.
"D'you think we've got nothing better to do in Potions than listen to Snape?" Ron muttered.
"It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change into three of the Slytherins. No one would know it was us. Malfoy would probably tell us everything. He's probably boasting about it in the Slytherin common room right now, if only we could hear him," Hermione explained.
"This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me," Ron said, frowning. "What if we get stuck looking like the Slytherins forever?"
"It wears off after a while," Hermione waved her hand impatiently, "but getting the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called Moste Potente Potions, and it's bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library."
There was only one way to get a book from the Restricted Section—you needed a signed note of permission from a teacher.
"Hard to see why we'd want that book, really," Ron said. "If we weren't going to try making one of the potions..."
"I think," Hermione said, "that if we made it sound like we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance."
"Oh, come on, no teacher's going to fall for that," Ron scoffed. "They'd have to be really thick..."