27. Cornelius Fudge
Hope, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had always known that Hagrid had an unfortunate liking for large and monstrous creatures. During their first year at Hogwarts, he had tried to raise a dragon in his little wooden house, and it would be a long time before they forgot the giant, three-headed dog he'd christened "Fluffy."
And if, as a boy, Hagrid had heard that a monster was hidden somewhere in the castle, it only made sense he'd have gone to any lengths for a glimpse of it. He'd probably thought it was a shame that the monster had been cooped up so long and deserved the chance to stretch its many legs. Hope could just imagine a thirteen-year-old Hagrid trying to fit a lead and collar on it.
But as sure as they were that Hagrid loved monstrous pets, they were just as sure that he would never have meant to hurt anyone.
Harry had recounted what he had seen in the diary over and over again to the other three, half-wishing he had never figured out how to work Riddle's diary in the first place.
"Riddle might have got the wrong person," Hermione said. "Maybe it was some other monster that was attacking people..."
"How many monsters d'you think this place can hold?" Ron asked dully.
"We always knew Hagrid had been expelled," Harry muttered. "And the attacks must've stopped after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle wouldn't have got his award."
Ron tried a different tack. "Riddle does sound like Percy. Who asked him to grass on Hagrid, anyway?"
"But the monster had killed someone, Ron," Hermione reminded him.
"And Riddle was going to go back to some Muggle orphanage if they closed Hogwarts," Harry added. "I don't blame him for wanting to stay here..."
"But if Hagrid had set the creature loose, there's no way Professor Dumbledore would've let him stay on as gamekeeper, right?" Hope chimed in.
Ron bit his lip, then said tentatively, "You met Hagrid down Knockturn Alley, didn't you, Harry?"
"He was buying Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent," Harry said quickly.
The four of them fell silent. After a long pause, Hermione hesitated before voicing the knottiest question of all.
"Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it?"
"That'd be a cheerful visit," Ron muttered. "Hello, Hagrid, tell us, have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately?"
In the end, they decided not to say anything to Hagrid unless there was another attack. As more and more days passed with no whisper from the disembodied voice, they became hopeful they wouldn't need to.
It had been nearly four months since Justin and Nearly Headless Nick had been Petrified, and almost everyone seemed to think the attacker—whoever it was—had retired for good. Peeves had finally grown bored of his "Oh Potter, you rotter" song, Ernie Macmillan had even asked Harry quite politely to pass a bucket of leaping toadstools in Herbology, and in March, several of the Mandrakes threw a loud and raucous party in Greenhouse Three.
This made Professor Sprout very happy.
"The moment they start trying to move into each other's pots, we'll know they're fully mature," she said. "Then we'll be able to revive those poor people in the hospital wing."
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The second-years were given something new to think about during their Easter holidays. The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year—a matter that Hermione, at least, took very seriously.
"It could affect our whole future," she told the three as they pored over lists of new subjects, marking them with ticks.
"But I don't know what I wanna do in the future," Hope said, frowning at the list.
"I just want to give up Potions," Harry muttered.
"We can't," Ron said gloomily. "We keep all our old subjects, or I'd've ditched Defence Against the Dark Arts."
"But that's very important!" Hermione looked scandalized.
"Not the way Lockhart teaches it," Ron pointed out. "I haven't learned anything from him except not to set pixies loose."
Neville Longbottom had been sent letters from nearly every witch and wizard in his family, each giving different advice on what to choose. Confused and worried, he sat hunched over the subject lists, his tongue poking out as he tried to decide. Every few minutes, he would ask someone whether Arithmancy sounded harder than Study of Ancient Runes.
Dean Thomas, who, like Harry, had grown up with Muggles, took a different approach—he closed his eyes, jabbed his wand at the list, and chose whatever subjects it landed on.
Hermione took nobody's advice and signed up for everything.
Still unsure of what to pick, Hope turned to Cedric for advice.
"Well, I don't recommend Ancient Runes," he said. "Not unless you want to spend all your free time in the library. Arithmancy's no joke either. Uh, honestly, Divination's pretty useless—there's no way Trelawney's a real Seer—but it is easy." He paused, thinking. "I've heard Care of Magical Creatures is nice, and Kettleburn's pretty pleasant."
In the end, Hope chose Care of Magical Creatures and Divination—the same new subjects as Harry and Ron.
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Gryffindor's next Quidditch match was against Hufflepuff, and Wood was insisting on team practices every night after dinner. Hope barely had time for anything but Quidditch and homework. On the bright side, practices were going smoothly—she had improved loads, and it seemed like they were well on their way to winning the Quidditch Cup. Even better, it hadn't poured down on them in weeks, which had to be a good sign.
When she walked into the common room after practice, it was relatively quiet. A few students were scattered around—Lee Jordan sat in the corner, scribbling on what Hope assumed was homework, while Lavender Brown gazed out the window, peacefully writing a letter home.
Hermione sat alone on the sofa, a copy of Ancient Runes Made Easy open in her lap. Hope dropped onto the seat beside her.
"Cedric says Ancient Runes is wicked hard," she remarked.
"I really think you should have signed up for it too, Hope," Hermione replied. "I think it'll be very useful."
"When am I ever gonna need it?"
"You never know."
Before Hope could argue further, Ron and Harry burst out of the boys' dormitory, looking frantic.
"Someone's been through all of Harry's things!" Ron blurted.
"And worse—they stole Tom Riddle's diary," Harry added, his face pale.
Hope's jaw dropped. Hermione looked aghast.
"But—only a Gryffindor could have stolen it," Hermione said worriedly. "Nobody else knows our password..."
"Exactly," Harry muttered.
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They woke the next day to brilliant sunshine and a light, refreshing breeze.
"Perfect Quidditch conditions!" Wood said enthusiastically at the Gryffindor table, piling scrambled eggs onto the team's plates. "Harry, buck up there, you need a decent breakfast."
Hope knew why Harry wasn't eating. He kept glancing down the packed Gryffindor table, wondering if the new owner of Riddle's diary was right in front of his eyes. Hermione had been urging him to report the robbery, but Harry didn't like the idea. He'd have to explain the diary to a teacher—and how many people even knew why Hagrid had been expelled fifty years ago? He didn't want to be the one to bring it all up again.
As Hope and Harry left the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione to grab their Quidditch gear, Harry suddenly froze as he stepped onto the marble staircase.
"The voice!" He whipped around, eyes scanning the corridor. "I just heard it again—didn't you?" he shouted, making the others jump.
Hope looked around, focusing on her surroundings as if that would somehow help her hear what he was hearing. But the corridor was silent. Ron shook his head, wide-eyed. Hermione, however, clapped a hand to her forehead.
"Harry—I think I've just understood something! I've got to go to the library!" She sprinted up the stairs without another word.
"What does she understand?" Harry asked, still distracted, still looking around.
"Loads more than I do," Ron muttered.
"But why's she got to go to the library?" Harry pressed.
Hope shrugged. "Because that's what Hermione does. When in doubt, go to the library."
Harry stood there, irresolute, as students streamed out of the Great Hall, chatting loudly as they headed for the Quidditch pitch.
"I can't hear it anymore," he muttered, just loud enough for Hope and Ron to catch.
"You two better get moving," Ron said. "It's nearly eleven—the match."
Hope and Harry raced up to Gryffindor Tower, grabbing their brooms—her Swiftstick and his Nimbus Two Thousand—before joining the swarm of students crossing the grounds. But Harry kept glancing back at the castle, his mind clearly still on the voice.
"As soon as the match is over, we'll take a look around," Hope said. "Maybe whatever Hermione went to the library for will help you figure it out."
Harry nodded as they entered the changing rooms, shifting their focus to the game.
The teams walked onto the pitch to thunderous applause. Oliver Wood took off for a warm-up flight around the goalposts while Madam Hooch released the balls. The Hufflepuff team, dressed in canary yellow, huddled together for a last-minute strategy discussion.
Hope was just mounting her broom when she spotted Professor McGonagall striding across the pitch, half-marching, half-running, an enormous purple megaphone in her hands.
Oh no. Her stomach twisted. Another attack.
"This match has been cancelled!" Professor McGonagall's voice rang out over the stadium, instantly drawing boos and frustrated shouts.
Wood, looking devastated, landed and hurried toward her, still clutching his broom.
"But Professor!" he cried. "We've got to play—the Cup—Gryffindor—"
Professor McGonagall ignored him. "All students are to return to their house common rooms immediately," she continued. "Your Heads of House will give you further information. As quickly as you can, please!"
Then she lowered the megaphone and turned to Harry and Hope.
"Potter, Lupin—I think you'd better come with me."
Hope gulped, worriedly. Not sure what she could have done this time to incriminate herself. And Harry had been in everyone's sight all morning—they knew he couldn't have done it.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Ron detaching himself from the grumbling crowd. He came running up to them as they set off toward the castle. To Hope's surprise, Professor McGonagall didn't object.
"Yes, perhaps you'd better come too, Weasley."
Some students were still complaining about the match being canceled, while others looked worried. Hope, Harry, and Ron followed Professor McGonagall back into the school and up the marble staircase. But this time, they weren't taken to anyone's office.
"This will be a bit of a shock," Professor McGonagall said gently as they neared the hospital wing. "There has been another attack... another double attack."
Hope's insides twisted. Why does she need us?
Professor McGonagall pushed open the door, and Hope and Ron stepped inside.
Madam Pomfrey was bent over a sixth-year girl with long, curly hair. Hope recognized her immediately—the Ravenclaw they'd accidentally asked for directions to the Slytherin common room. But it was the other bed that made her stop breathing.
Hope stilled, her stomach plummeting.
Ron let out a strangled groan. "Hermione!"
She lay utterly still, her eyes open and glassy.
"They were found near the library," Professor McGonagall said gravely. "I don't suppose any of you can explain this? This was on the floor next to them..."
She held up a small, circular mirror.
Harry and Ron shook their heads, both staring at Hermione. Hope's lip trembled, her eyes glossing over as she struggled to look away from her friend's frozen state.
"I will escort you back to Gryffindor Tower," Professor McGonagall said heavily, giving Hope a small, comforting pat as she began to cry. "I need to address the students in any case."
"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, in a somewhat choked voice, added, "I need hardly say that I have rarely been so distressed. It is likely the school will be closed unless the culprit behind these attacks is caught. I urge anyone who thinks they might know anything to come forward."
She climbed somewhat awkwardly out of the portrait hole, and the moment she was gone, the room erupted into frantic whispers.
"That's two Gryffindors down—not counting a Gryffindor ghost—one Ravenclaw and one Hufflepuff," Lee Jordan said, counting on his fingers. "Haven't any of the teachers noticed that the Slytherins are all safe? Isn't it obvious all this is coming from Slytherin? The Heir of Slytherin, the monster of Slytherin—why don't they just chuck all the Slytherins out?" he roared, earning nods and scattered applause.
Percy Weasley sat in a chair behind Lee, but for once, he didn't seem keen to voice his opinion. He looked pale and stunned.
"Percy's in shock," George murmured to Harry. "That Ravenclaw girl—Penelope Clearwater—she's a Prefect. I don't think he thought the monster would dare attack a Prefect."
Hope sat on one of the couches, distraught, with Lavender and Parvati on either side of her as she cried. She wasn't even sure why she was so shocked. They'd known from the moment the Chamber was opened that all Muggle-borns were in danger—Hermione was Muggle-born. But somehow, she had never believed anything would actually happen to her bushy-haired friend. Maybe it was because there had only been a few attacks here and there before. Maybe it was because Hermione was the most brilliant witch in the whole school. Or maybe it was because she simply couldn't fathom something like this happening to her friend.
But now, she couldn't get the image out of her head—Hermione lying on the hospital bed, still and pale, as though she had been carved out of stone.
"It'll be alright," Parvati said gently, patting Hope's back.
"Yeah, the Mandrakes are almost ready. Professor Sprout said they should be trying to move into each other's pots in no time," Lavender added.
Hope nodded through her sniffles.
Meanwhile, Ron and Harry had moved off to the side, whispering urgently.
"What're we going to do?" Ron muttered in Harry's ear. "D'you think they suspect Hagrid?"
"We've got to go and talk to him," Harry said, his mind made up. "I can't believe it's him this time, but if he set the monster loose last time, he'll know how to get inside the Chamber of Secrets. And that's a start."
"But McGonagall said we've got to stay in our tower unless we're in class—" Ron began.
"I think," Harry whispered, lowering his voice even more, "it's time to get my dad's old Cloak out again."
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Hope sat curled up in an armchair in the Gryffindor common room, fully dressed, knees pulled to her chest. The fire had died down to glowing embers, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Around her, the rest of her dorm mates lay fast asleep, the steady rhythm of their breathing a stark contrast to the unease curling in her stomach. It felt wrong to be here, in this room, in this castle, knowing Hermione wasn't.
The plan to visit Hagrid was a welcome distraction.
At last, the dormitory door creaked open, and Ron and Harry slipped out, moving cautiously in the dim light. Without a word, they hurried over and threw the Invisibility Cloak over themselves, Hope squeezing between them as they disappeared from sight.
Navigating the dark and deserted castle was anything but enjoyable. Hope had snuck out plenty of times before, but never had the corridors felt so crowded after hours. Teachers, Prefects, and ghosts moved in pairs, their voices hushed but urgent as they swept their wands around for any signs of movement.
The Invisibility Cloak was a blessing, but it didn't silence their footsteps.
Hope's breath caught as Ron stubbed his toe against a suit of armor, a muffled curse slipping from his lips. A mere yard away, Snape stood like a dark shadow, his piercing gaze scanning the hall. Just as Hope braced herself for the worst, Snape sneezed. The sound echoed through the corridor, masking Ron's muttered swear.
They didn't dare breathe until they were safely past the oak front doors, slipping outside into the cool night air.
The sky stretched vast and endless above them, deep and starry. They hurried toward the warm glow of Hagrid's cabin, only pulling off the Cloak once they reached his doorstep.
Hope barely had time to knock before the door swung open with alarming speed.
A crossbow was aimed directly at them.
"Oh," Hagrid said, lowering the weapon with a sigh of relief. Behind him, Fang barked wildly, his massive frame wriggling with excitement. "What're you three doin' here?"
"What's with the crossbow?" Harry asked as they stepped inside, glancing warily at the weapon.
"Nothin'... nothin'," Hagrid muttered, fumbling to set it aside. "Jus'—never mind—sit down. I'll make tea."
His movements were clumsy, distracted. He nearly doused the fire as he overfilled the kettle, then fumbled the teapot so hard it shattered against the counter.
"Hagrid?" Harry asked carefully. "Did you hear about Hermione?"
"Oh, I heard, all righ'." Hagrid's voice cracked.
Hope watched as he poured boiling water into their mugs—no tea bags. His hands were shaking as he set a heavy slab of fruitcake onto a plate, his eyes darting toward the window.
"Hagrid," she said softly, "are you sure you're alright?"
Before he could answer, a loud knock rattled the door.
Hagrid dropped the fruitcake.
A bolt of fear shot through Hope as she exchanged panicked looks with Ron and Harry. Without hesitation, they yanked the Cloak back over themselves and huddled in the farthest corner of the room. Hagrid cast a quick glance to ensure they were hidden before grabbing his crossbow once more and opening the door.
"Good evening, Hagrid."
Dumbledore.
He stepped inside, his face unreadable, but there was a weight to his presence that made the room feel even smaller. Behind him, a second man entered—a short, portly wizard with graying hair, dressed in an odd mix of Muggle and wizarding attire. The lime-green bowler under his arm was unmistakable.
"That's Dad's boss," Ron breathed. "Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic."
Harry elbowed him sharply.
Hagrid had gone pale. His massive frame sank into a chair, his eyes darting between Dumbledore and Fudge.
"Bad business, Hagrid," Fudge said, his tone clipped. "Very bad business. Had to come. Four attacks on Muggle-borns. The Ministry has to act."
"I never—" Hagrid began desperately, turning to Dumbledore. "You know I never, Professor Dumbledore, sir—"
"I want it understood, Cornelius," Dumbledore interrupted, his gaze steady, "that Hagrid has my full confidence."
"Look, Albus," Fudge fidgeted with his hat, looking uncomfortable. "Hagrid's record—it's against him. Ministry's got to do something. School governors have been in touch."
"Yet again, Cornelius, I tell you that taking Hagrid away will not help in the slightest." Dumbledore's usually calm blue eyes burned with quiet fire.
"Look at it from my point of view," Fudge protested. "I have to be seen doing something. If it turns out he's innocent, he'll be released, full apology."
"Take me?" Hagrid's voice trembled. "Take me where?"
"For a short stretch only," Fudge assured him, though he avoided Hagrid's eyes. "Not a punishment. More of a precaution. If someone else is caught, you'll be let out—"
"Not Azkaban?" Hagrid's voice cracked.
Before Fudge could answer, there was another loud rap on the door.
Dumbledore opened it. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from Ron.
Lucius Malfoy strode into Hagrid's hut, draped in a long black traveling cloak, his cold, satisfied smile never wavering. Fang growled low in his throat.
"Already here, Fudge," Malfoy said approvingly. "Good, good..."
"What're you doin' here?" Hagrid demanded, his voice furious. "Get outta my house!"
"My dear man, please," Malfoy drawled, surveying the small cabin with a sneer. "Believe me, I take no pleasure in being inside your—er—d'you call this a house? I simply called at the school and was informed the Headmaster was here."
Dumbledore regarded him calmly. "And what exactly did you want with me, Lucius?" His voice remained polite, but his blue eyes blazed with fire.
"Dreadful business, Dumbledore," Malfoy said lazily, withdrawing a long roll of parchment. "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."
Ron and Harry clamped their hands over Hope's mouth just as she let out an indignant, "What?!"
"Oh, now, see here, Lucius," Fudge stammered, 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," Malfoy said smoothly. "And as Dumbledore has failed to stop these attacks..."
"Now look, Lucius, if Dumbledore can't stop them—" Fudge's upper lip was beaded with sweat. "I mean to say, who can?"
"That remains to be seen," Malfoy replied with a nasty smile. "But as all twelve of us have voted..."
Hagrid shot 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.
Malfoy tutted. "Dear, dear. That temper of yours will get you into trouble one of these days, Hagrid. I'd advise you not to raise your voice at the Azkaban guards like that. They won't take kindly to it."
"Yeh can't take Dumbledore!" Hagrid bellowed, making Fang cower and whimper in his basket. "Take him away, an' the Muggle-borns won' stand a chance! There'll be killin's next!"
"Calm yourself, Hagrid," Dumbledore said sharply. Then, turning back to Malfoy, he continued, "If the governors want my removal, Lucius, I shall, of course, step aside."
"But—" Fudge sputtered.
"No!" Hagrid growled.
Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes never left Malfoy's cold gray ones.
"However," he said, speaking slowly and clearly so none of them could miss a word, "you will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here remain loyal to me. You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."
For a second, his eyes flickered towards the corner where the three stood hidden.
"Admirable sentiments," Malfoy said, bowing slightly. "We shall all miss your—er—highly individual way of running things, Albus, and only hope your successor will manage to prevent any—ah—'killin's.'"
He strode to the cabin door, pulled it open, and gestured for Dumbledore to leave. Fudge, fiddling nervously with his bowler hat, hesitated before stepping aside for Hagrid, but the gamekeeper stood his ground. Taking a deep breath, he 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 gawked at him.
"All right, I'm comin'," Hagrid muttered, tugging on his moleskin overcoat. But just as he reached the doorway, he paused again. "An' someone'll need ter feed Fang while I'm away."
The door banged shut behind them.
Ron yanked the Invisibility Cloak off. "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 desperately at the closed door.