26. Singing Valentines
Hermione remained in the hospital wing for several weeks. When the rest of the school returned from their Christmas holidays, rumors flew about her disappearance. Naturally, everyone assumed she had been attacked. So many students tried to sneak a look at her that Madam Pomfrey had to draw the curtains around her bed again, sparing Hermione the humiliation of being seen with a furry face.
Hope, Harry, and Ron visited her every evening. When the new term started, they brought her homework each day.
"If I'd sprouted whiskers, I'd take a break from work," Ron said, dumping a stack of books onto Hermione's bedside table one evening.
"Don't be silly, Ron, I've got to keep up," Hermione said briskly. Her spirits had lifted now that the hair was finally gone from her face and her eyes were slowly turning back to brown. Lowering her voice, she added, "I don't suppose you've got any new leads?"
"Nothing," Harry admitted gloomily.
"I was so sure it was Malfoy," Ron muttered for what felt like the hundredth time.
Harry's gaze drifted to something gold sticking out from under Hermione's pillow. "What's that?" he asked.
"Just a Get Well card," Hermione said hastily, trying to shove it out of sight. But Ron was quicker. He snatched it up, flicked it open, and read aloud:
"To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award."
Hope grabbed the card from Ron, barely suppressing her laughter.
Ron wrinkled his nose at Hermione. "You sleep with this under your pillow?"
Before she could answer, Madam Pomfrey bustled over with her evening dose of medicine.
As they left the hospital wing and headed up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Ron groaned, "Snape's given us so much homework, we're going to be in our sixth year by the time we finish it."
"Honestly," Hope complained, "does he think we don't have lives?"
Ron was just about to ask Hermione how many rat tails were needed for a Hair-Raising Potion when an angry outburst from the floor above stopped them in their tracks.
"That's Filch," Harry muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, listening.
"You don't think someone else has been attacked?" Ron asked tensely.
Filch's voice was almost hysterical. "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 faded, and a door slammed in the distance. The three of them peeked around the corner. Filch had been standing in his usual lookout spot—right where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. Now, a great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. With Filch gone, Myrtle's wails echoed off the bathroom walls.
"What's up with her now?" Ron asked, exasperated.
"Let's go see," Harry suggested.
Holding their robes above their ankles, they waded through the water and ignored the "Out of Order" sign as they entered the bathroom. Myrtle was crying even louder than usual, her ghostly form barely visible inside one of the cubicles. The candles had been extinguished, leaving the room dark and dripping.
"Myrtle? Are you alright?" Hope called out.
"Who's there?" Myrtle moaned. "Come to throw something else at me?"
Harry stepped forward. "Why would we throw something at you?"
"Don't ask me!" she shrieked, emerging from her stall with a splash. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me!"
"But... it can't hurt you," Harry said reasonably. "Wouldn't it just go right through?"
Wrong thing to say. Myrtle puffed up, wailing, "Let's all throw books at Myrtle because she can't feel it! Ten points if you get it through her stomach! Fifty if it goes through her head! What a lovely game!"
"Who threw it?" Hope asked.
"I don't know!" Myrtle huffed. "I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through my head. It's over there. It got washed out."
They followed her pointing finger to a small, thin book under the sink. Its shabby black cover was soaked. Harry stepped forward, but Ron threw out an arm.
"What?" Harry asked.
"Are you mad?" Ron hissed. "It could be dangerous."
Harry laughed. "Come off it, how could a book be dangerous?"
"You'd be surprised," Ron said darkly. "Dad's told me about books the Ministry confiscated—one burned your eyes out! Another made people talk in limericks forever! Some old witch in Bath had a book you couldn't stop reading—you had to do everything one-handed!"
"Alright, I get the point," Harry interrupted.
The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and waterlogged.
"We won't know unless we look," he said, ducking around Ron and picking it up.
It was a diary, the faded year on the cover marking it as fifty years old. Harry opened it eagerly. On the first page, in smudged ink, was a name:
T. M. Riddle.
"Hang on," Ron said, peering over Harry's shoulder. "I know that name... T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago."
Hope frowned. "How do you know that?"
"Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention," Ron grumbled. "That was the one I burped slugs all over. If you'd spent an hour wiping slime off a name, you'd remember it too."
Harry peeled apart the wet pages. They were blank. Not even a scribbled note.
"He never wrote in it?" Harry said, disappointed.
"Maybe it's concealed," Hope murmured, pulling out her wand. "Aparecium." She tapped the diary. Nothing happened. "Huh..."
"I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?" Ron mused.
Harry flipped to the back cover, where the printed name of a newsagent's in Vauxhall Road, London, was faintly visible.
"He must've been Muggle-born," Harry said thoughtfully. "To have bought a diary from Vauxhall Road..."
"Well, it's not much use to you," Ron muttered. Lowering his voice, he added, "Fifty points if you get it through Myrtle's nose."
Harry, however, pocketed it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Hermione left the hospital wing—de-whiskered, tail-less, and fur-free—at the beginning of February. On her first evening back in Gryffindor Tower, Harry showed her T. M. Riddle's diary and explained how they had found it.
"Oooh, it might have hidden powers," Hermione said eagerly, taking the diary and inspecting it closely.
"If it does, it's hiding them really well," Hope muttered. "The revealing charm didn't work on it."
"I don't know why you don't just chuck it, Harry," Ron added.
"I wish I knew why someone tried to chuck it," Harry said, turning the diary over in his hands. "And I wouldn't mind knowing how Riddle got an award for special services to Hogwarts, either."
"Could've been anything," Ron mused. "Maybe he got thirty O.W.Ls or saved a teacher from the giant squid. Maybe he murdered Myrtle—that would've done everyone a favor..."
Hope smacked him across the head. "Ron, that's horrible!"
"Ow!" Ron grumbled, rubbing the spot. He turned to Harry, who was sharing a knowing look with Hermione. "What?" He glanced between them.
"The Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago, wasn't it?" Harry reminded him. "That's what Malfoy said."
"Yeah..." Ron said slowly.
"And this diary is fifty years old," Hermione added, tapping it excitedly.
"So?" Ron frowned.
Hope's eyes widened. "Oh."
"Oh, Ron, wake up," Hermione snapped. "We know the person who opened the Chamber last time was expelled fifty years ago. We know T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago. What if Riddle got his award for catching the heir of Slytherin? His diary would probably tell us everything—where the Chamber is, how to open it, and what kind of creature lives in it. The person behind the attacks wouldn't want that lying around, would they?"
"That's a brilliant theory, Hermione," Ron said, "with just one tiny little flaw. There's nothing written in his diary."
But Hermione was already digging through her bag. "It might be invisible ink!" she whispered.
Hope furrowed her brows. "But the revealing charm doesn't work."
Undeterred, Hermione pulled out what looked like a bright red eraser. "It's a Revealer! I got it in Diagon Alley."
She rubbed hard on "January the first."
Nothing happened.
"I'm telling you, there's nothing to find in there," Ron said. "Riddle probably just got a diary for Christmas and couldn't be bothered to fill it in."
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
The next day during break, the quartet made their way to the old trophy room. Harry couldn't get his mind off Riddle's diary, much to Ron's annoyance, and wanted to find out as much as he could about its mysterious owner.
Riddle's burnished gold shield was tucked away in a corner cabinet, but unfortunately, it didn't include any details about why it had been awarded to him.
"Good thing, too, or it'd be even bigger, and I'd still be polishing it," Ron muttered.
They did, however, find Riddle's name on an old Medal for Magical Merit and a list of former Head Boys.
"He sounds like Percy," Ron said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Prefect, Head Boy—probably top of every class."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Hermione huffed, clearly offended.
While Hope was interested in learning more about Riddle, something else caught her attention—a silver plaque on a high shelf in the cabinet. It read:
Head Girl Recognition Award, 1978
Arabella Sallow
"What are you looking at?" Hermione asked, noticing her distraction.
The other three turned their attention to the plaque just as Hope murmured, "That's my mum."
"Your mum was Head Girl?" Ron asked, eyebrows shooting up.
"Apparently." Hope's gaze lingered on the award, a strange, longing expression crossing her face.
It felt odd, staring at the plaque. A tangible reminder of her mother's presence—her memory. Of course, she knew her mother had attended Hogwarts; both her parents had. It was something she'd thought about often. But seeing her name here, solidified in history, made it feel so much more real.
And yet, it also reminded her of how little she actually knew. She hadn't even known her mother had been a prefect, let alone Head Girl. Her father never spoke much about his Hogwarts years—including her mother. There was a whole life, a whole experience, a whole person Hope had never gotten the chance to know.
And maybe... she never would.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
The sun had begun to shine weakly over Hogwarts once more. Inside the castle, the mood had grown lighter. There had been no more attacks since those on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, a sure sign they were leaving childhood.
"The moment their acne clears up, they'll be ready for re-potting," she told 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."
Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost their nerve. With the school so alert and suspicious, it had to be getting riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets. Maybe the monster, whatever it was, had decided to hibernate for another fifty years.
Not everyone shared this optimism. Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff remained convinced that Harry was guilty, insisting he had "given himself away" at the Duelling Club. Peeves wasn't helping, frequently popping up in the corridors, singing, "Oh Potter, you rotter..."—now complete with a dance routine.
Gilderoy Lockhart, on the other hand, seemed to believe he had personally put a stop to the attacks. As the Gryffindors lined up for Transfiguration, he was overheard boasting to Professor McGonagall.
"I don't think there'll be any more trouble, Minerva," he said, tapping his nose knowingly. "The Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught them. Quite sensible of them to stop before I came down hard on them."
He beamed. "You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won't say any more just yet, but I have just the thing..."
He tapped his nose again and strode off.
Lockhart's idea became clear at breakfast on February fourteenth. Hope, groggy from a late Quidditch practice, hurried down to the Great Hall with Harry, both arriving slightly late. She blinked, momentarily wondering if she had walked into the wrong room.
The walls were covered in large, lurid pink flowers, and heart-shaped confetti rained from the pale blue ceiling. Hope had to admit, she liked the decorations—she'd always had a fondness for the holiday. She and Harry made their way to the Gryffindor table, where Ron sat looking sickened, and Hermione appeared uncharacteristically giggly.
"What's going on?" Harry asked, brushing confetti off his bacon.
Ron merely pointed at the teachers' table, too disgusted to speak. Lockhart, dressed in flamboyant pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The professors beside him looked grim. Even from across the hall, Hope could see a muscle twitching in Professor McGonagall's cheek. Snape, meanwhile, looked as though someone had forced a beaker of Skele-Gro down his throat.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" Lockhart declared. "And may I thank the forty-six people who have sent me cards so far! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all—and it doesn't end here!"
With a clap of his hands, the doors burst open, revealing a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Each one wore golden wings and carried a harp.
"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" Lockhart beamed. "They'll be roaming the school today, delivering your Valentines! And the fun doesn't stop there! Why not ask Professor Snape to demonstrate how to whip up a Love Potion? And while you're at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I've met—the sly old dog!"
Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape's expression suggested that anyone who dared ask him for a Love Potion would be drinking poison instead.
Hope glanced around, taking in the heart-filled decor. "Huh, I guess Lockhart isn't as useless as he seems," she mused.
Harry shot her a look, while Ron gawked in horror. "Don't tell me you've gone all loopy for Lockhart."
Hope rolled her eyes. "Of course not, but you have to admit, the decorations are nice... very romantic."
Ron made a face as they left the Great Hall. He turned to Hermione. "Please tell me you weren't one of the forty-six."
Hermione suddenly became deeply invested in searching her bag for her timetable.
Throughout the day, Lockhart's dwarfs kept interrupting classes to deliver Valentines, much to the teachers' annoyance. Late that afternoon, as the Gryffindors headed upstairs for Charms, one of them caught up with Harry.
"Oy, you! 'Arry Potter!" shouted a particularly grim-looking dwarf, elbowing people aside to get to him.
Harry, horrified at the idea of receiving a Valentine in front of a crowd—including Ginny Weasley—tried to escape. Hope, however, grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Oh, come on, Harry. It's sweet."
The dwarf had no patience for hesitation. He plowed through the crowd, kicking shins as he went, until he reached Harry.
"I've got a musical message to deliver to 'Arry Potter in person," he said, plucking his harp threateningly.
"Not here," Harry hissed, struggling to break free.
"Stay still!" the dwarf grunted, grabbing Harry's bag and yanking him back.
"Let me go!" Harry snapped, tugging.
With a loud rip, his bag split in two. Books, parchment, his wand, and quills tumbled onto the floor. His ink bottle shattered, splattering everything in black.
Scrambling to gather his belongings before the dwarf could start singing, Harry caused a corridor-wide holdup.
"What's going on here?" came Draco Malfoy's cold, drawling voice.
Harry desperately shoved his things into his ruined bag, hoping to flee before Malfoy could hear the Valentine.
"What's all this commotion?" Percy Weasley arrived, looking stern.
Panicked, Harry attempted to make a run for it, but the dwarf tackled him around the knees, sending him crashing to the floor.
"Right," the dwarf said, sitting triumphantly on Harry's ankles. "Here's 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 would have given every Galleon in Gringotts to disappear. Struggling to maintain composure, he climbed to his feet, his legs numb from the dwarf's weight. Percy worked to disperse the crowd, some of whom were in tears from laughter.
Hope knelt to help Harry gather his things. "I think it was sweet," she said, handing him his bag.
"I could have escaped, if you hadn't stopped me," Harry grumbled.
"Oh, don't you think it's nice that someone likes you enough to send a Valentine? I wish someone would send me one," Hope smiled.
Harry looked at her incredulously. "Of everything I've heard in the last two years, that might be the most insane."
The moment was broken by Malfoy, who had stooped to pick up something. He smirked and held it up to Crabbe and Goyle.
Harry's stomach dropped—Malfoy had Riddle's diary.
"Give that back," Harry said quietly.
Malfoy sneered. "Wonder what Potter's written in this?"
Ginny Weasley paled, staring at the diary in horror.
"Hand it over, Malfoy," Percy ordered.
"Not until I've had a look," Malfoy taunted, waving the diary mockingly.
Harry's patience snapped. He pulled out his wand. "Expelliarmus!"
The diary shot from Malfoy's grasp. Ron, grinning, caught it.
"Harry!" Percy scolded. "No magic in the corridors—I'll have to report this, you know!"
But Harry barely heard him. He'd won. Malfoy was fuming, and that, for now, was enough.
But Harry clearly didn't care. He'd got one over on Malfoy, and that was worth five points from Gryffindor any day.
Malfoy looked furious. As Ginny passed him on her way into class, he called after her, his voice dripping with spite.
"I don't think Potter liked your Valentine much!"
Ginny let out a strangled noise, covered her face with her hands, and darted into the classroom.
Ron's expression darkened. He yanked out his wand, but Harry grabbed his arm before he could do anything reckless. Ron didn't need to spend another class belching slugs.
"What a git," Hope muttered, glaring at Draco's retreating figure.