HP & The Chamber of Secrets

Ron

Charles brooded the whole of next week. The loss of Lyra's friendship obviously affected him very much.

No matter how much Ron disliked her, he knew she was/had been his best friend before even Ron. And even Hermione was upset, seeing that Lyra had been her first-ever friend at Hogwarts.

Ron felt bad for his friends, though he was also sort of relieved. He didn't have any qualms with Lyra, Zabini, and Greengrass not coming to study with them on occasion. Life was a lot better off without their interference for Ron. 

He, Charles, and Hermione were starting up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower one evening when an angry outburst from the floor above reached their ears.

"That's Filch," Ron muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

"You don't think someone else's been attacked?" Hermione asked tensely.

They stood still, their heads inclined toward Flich'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 grimaced, "Now what's up with her?"

"Let's go and see," Charles said, and holding their robes over their ankles, they stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing its OUT OF ORDER sign, ignored it as always, and entered.

Moaning Myrtle was crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before. She seemed to be 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 walls and floor soaking wet.

"What's up, Myrtle?" Hermione asked. 

"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably. "Come to throw something else at me?"

Charles waded across to her stall and said, "Why would we throw something at you?"

"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. "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 if someone throws something at you," Ron said, reasonably. "I mean, 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! Well, ha, ha, ha! What a lovely game, I don't think!"

"Who threw it at you, anyway?" Hermione asked.

"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 washed out..."

They looked under the sink where Myrtle was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Hermione stepped forward to pick it up, but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.

"What?" Hermione frowned.

"Are you crazy?" said Ron. "It could be dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Hermione laughed. "Come off it, how could it be dangerous?"

"You'd be surprised," Charles looked apprehensively at the book, and Ron nodded in agreement. "Some of the books the Ministry's confiscated - 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," Hermione said.

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.

"Well, we won't find out unless we look at it," Hermione said, ducking around Ron and Charles, and picking it up off the floor with her robes.

It was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told Ron that it was at least fifty years old. Hermione opened it and the others looked at it eagerly. On the first page, Ron could just make out the name "T M. Riddle" in smudged ink.

"Hang on," Ron frowned. "I know that name... T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago."

"How on earth d'you know that?" Hermione asked in amazement.

"Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention," Ron scowled resentfully. "If you'd wiped slime off a name for an hour, you'd remember it, too."

Hermione cautiously peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank. There wasn't the faintest trace of writing on any of them.

"He never wrote in it," Charles sighed in disappointment.

"I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?" Ron wondered curiously.

Hermione turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London. "He must've been Muggle-born," she mused thoughtfully. "To have bought a diary from Vauxhall Road..."

"Well, it's not much use to you," said Ron. He dropped his voice. "Fifty points if you can get it through Myrtle's nose."

Hermione, however, pocketed it.

When they reached the common room, the three of them sat on a couch and examined the diary more closely.

"I wish I knew why someone tried to chuck it," Charles said. "I wouldn't mind knowing how Riddle got an award for special services to Hogwarts."

"Could've been anything," Ron shrugged. He didn't see why Charles and Hermione didn't chuck it. It gave him a strange tingling feeling that he didn't like. "Maybe he got thirty O.WL.s or saved a teacher from the giant squid. Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that would've done everyone a favor..."

But Charles and Hermione were sharing an arrested look.

"What?" said Ron, looking from one to the other.

"Well, the Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago, wasn't it?" Charles said. "That's what Malfoy said."

"Yeah. . ." said Ron slowly.

"And this diary is fifty years old," said Hermione, tapping it excitedly.

Ron frowned, not knowing where the conversation was going.

"So?

"Oh, Ron, wake up," Hermione snapped at him. "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. Well, what if Riddle got his special award for catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would probably tell us everything - where the Chamber is, how to open it, and what sort of creature lives in it - the person who's behind the attacks this time wouldn't want that lying around, would they?"

"That's a brilliant theory, Hermione," Ron rolled his eyes, "with just one tiny little flaw. There's nothing written in his diary."

But Hermione was pulling her wand out of her bag. "It might be invisible ink!" she whispered.

She tapped the diary three times and said, "Aparecium!"

Nothing happened. Undaunted, Hermione shoved her hand back into her bag and pulled out what appeared to be a bright red eraser.

"It's a Revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley," she said. She rubbed hard on January first. Nothing happened.

"I'm telling you, there's nothing to find in there," Ron insisted, his unease growing. "Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and couldn't be bothered filling it in."

Charles

Charles couldn't explain, even to himself, why didn't throw Riddle's diary away. The fact was that even though he knew the diary was blank, he kept absentmindedly picking it up and turning the pages, as though it were a story he wanted to finish. And while he was sure he had never heard the name T. M. Riddle before, it still seemed to mean something to him, almost as though Riddle was a friend he'd had when he was very small and had half-forgotten. But this was absurd. 

Nevertheless, Charles was determined to find out more about Riddle, so the next day at break, he headed for the trophy room to examine Riddle's special award, accompanied by an interested Hermione and a thoroughly unconvinced and uncomfortable Ron, who told them he'd seen enough of the trophy room to last him a lifetime.

Riddle's burnished gold shield was tucked away in a corner cabinet. It didn't carry details of why it had been given to him ("Good thing, too, or it'd be even bigger and I'd still be polishing it," said Ron). However, they did find Riddle's name on an old Medal for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head Boys.

"He sounds like Percy," Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Prefect, Head Boy... probably top of every class -"

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Hermione said in a slightly hurt voice.

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more hopeful. 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, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood.

"The moment their acne clears up, they'll be ready for repotting again," Charles 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."

Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost his or her nerve. It must be getting riskier and riskier to open the Chamber of Secrets, with the school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster, whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to hibernate for another fifty years...

Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn't take this cheerful view. He was still convinced that Harry was the guilty one, that he had "given himself away" at the Dueling Club. Peeves wasn't helping matters; he kept popping up in the crowded corridors singing "Oh, Potter, you rotter . . ." now with a dance routine to match.

Charles was quite angry at this, but there was nothing he could do about it. It wasn't like he could get into brawls. And if Harry wasn't doing anything himself...

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had made the attacks stop. Charles had overheard him telling Professor McGonagall so while the Gryffindors were lining up for Transfiguration.

"I don't think there'll be any more trouble, Minerva," he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. "I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him. 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 now, but I think I know just the thing..."

He tapped his nose again and strode off.

Lockhart's idea of a morale booster became clear at breakfast time on February fourteenth. Charles hadn't had much sleep because of a late-running Quidditch practice the night before, and he hurried down to the Great Hall, slightly late. He thought, for a moment, that he'd walked through the wrong doors.

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. Charles 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?" Charles 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, Charles could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall's cheek. 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! And the fun doesn't stop here! I'm sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you 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 ever met, the sly old dog!"

Professor Flitwick buried his face in his hands. Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

"Please, Hermione, tell me you weren't one of the forty-six," Ron moaned 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. Charles saw some catching Harry and giving him his Valentines, and when they burst into the hall, everyone burst into laughter. Charles was having fun watching the others, but it vanished later that afternoon as the Gryffindors were walking upstairs for Charms, and one of the dwarfs caught up with Charles.

"Oy, you! Cha'les Potter!" shouted a particularly grim-looking dwarf, elbowing people out of the way to get to Charles.

Hot all over at the thought of being given a valentine in front of a line of first years, Charles tried to escape. The dwarf, however, cut his way through the crowd by kicking people's shins and reached him before he'd gone two paces.

"I've got a musical message to deliver to Cha'les Potter in person," he said, twanging his harp in a threatening sort of way.

"Not here," Charles hissed, trying to escape.

"Stay still!" grunted the dwarf, grabbing hold of Charles' bag and pulling him back.

"Let me go!" Charles snarled, tugging.

With a loud ripping noise, his bag split in two. His books, wand, parchment, and quill spilled onto the floor and his ink bottle smashed over everything. Charles scrambled around, trying to pick it all up before the dwarf started singing, causing something of a holdup in the corridor.

"What's going on here?" came the cold, drawling voice of Draco Malfoy. Charles started stuffing everything feverishly into his ripped bag, desperate to get away before Malfoy could hear his musical valentine.

"What's all this commotion?" said another familiar voice as Percy Weasley arrived.

Losing his head, Charles tried to make a run for it, but the dwarf seized him around the knees and brought him crashing to the floor.

"Right," he said, sitting on Charles' ankles. "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

Charles would have given all the gold in Gringotts to evaporate on the spot. Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, he got up, his feet numb from the weight of the dwarf, as Percy Weasley did his best to disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth.

"Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now," he 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 Charles realized that he'd got Riddle's diary.

"Give that back," Charles said quietly.

"Wonder what Potter's written in this?" said Malfoy, who obviously hadn't noticed the year on the cover and thought he had Charles' own diary. A hush fell over the onlookers. Theodore Nott, who had been passing by, was staring from the diary to Charles, looking terrified.

"Hand it over, Malfoy," said Percy sternly.

"When I've had a look," said Malfoy, waving the diary tauntingly at Charles.

Percy said, "As a school prefect -" but Charles had lost his temper. He pulled out his wand and shouted, "Expelliarmus!" and just as Snape had disarmed Lockhart, so Malfoy found the diary shooting out of his hand into the air. Ron, grinning broadly, caught it.

"Charles!" said Percy loudly. "No magic in the corridors. I'll have to report this, you know!"

But Charles didn't care, he was one-up on Malfoy, and that was worth five points from Gryffindor any day. Malfoy was looking furious as he marched away.

It wasn't until they had reached Professor Flitwick's class that Charles 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. He tried to point this out to Ron, but Ron was having trouble with his wand again; large purple bubbles were blossoming out of the end, and he wasn't very interested in anything else.

At dinner, Harry approached him.

"I so wish I could've seen that!" he dramatically groaned. "My baby brother's all growing up; getting his own Valentines, now!"

Charles just rolled his eyes at his brother's dramatics. But he had to admit that he was glad that Harry was looking so much better now. Harry continued, "Did you really one-up Malfoy?"

"Oh, yes," Ron grinned. "He disarmed him."

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "I heard he took your diary. I didn't know you owned one. Unless you've suddenly started writing in the one mum got you?"

Charles quickly shook his head. "No, no. It belongs to someone named 'TM Riddle', actually. Just found it on the ground once."

Harry's eyes narrowed to slits suddenly. "Oh. I think I've heard the name..."

Hermione nodded. "He got an award for Special Services, and he was Head Boy and Prefect."

There was something in Harry's gaze that Charles didn't like. "Yeah..." Harry hummed as he quickly left the hall.

Charles went to bed before anyone else in his dormitory that night. This was partly because he didn't think he could stand Fred and George singing, "His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad" one more time, and partly because he wanted to examine Riddle's diary again, and knew that Ron thought he was wasting his time.

Charles sat on his four-poster 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 his bedside cabinet, 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. Excited, Charles loaded up his quill a second time and wrote, "My name is Charles Potter."

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without a trace. Then, at last, something happened.

Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, came words Charles had never written.

"Hello, Charles Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?"

These words, too, faded away, but not before Charles had started to scribble back.

"Someone tried to flush it down a toilet."

He waited eagerly for Riddle's reply.

"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. "

"What do you mean?" Charles scrawled, blotting the page in his excitement.

"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," Charles wrote quickly. "I'm at Hogwarts, and horrible stuff's been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

His heart was hammering. Riddle's reply came quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he was hurrying to tell all he knew.

"Of course, I 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, was ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts and 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."

Charles nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry 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. "

Charles hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle mean? How could he be taken inside somebody else's memory? He glanced nervously at the door to the dormitory, which was growing dark. When he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words forming.

"Let me show you."

Charles 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. Mouth hanging open, Charles saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a minuscule television screen. 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 bed, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color 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. Charles had never seen this man before.  

"I'm sorry," he said shakily. "I didn't mean to butt in -"

But the wizard didn't look up. He continued to read, frowning slightly. Charles drew nearer to his desk and stammered, "Er - I'll just go, shall I?"

Still, the wizard ignored him. He didn't seem even to have heard him. Thinking that the wizard might be deaf, Charles raised his voice. "Sorry I disturbed you. I'll go now!" 

The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up, walked past Charles 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.

Charles looked around the office. No Fawkes the phoenix - no whirring silver contraptions. This was Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, meaning that this unknown wizard was Headmaster, not Dumbledore, and he, Charles, 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 Charles, but he, too, had jet-black hair.

"Ah, Riddle," said the Headmaster.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" said Riddle. He looked nervous.

"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 Dipper 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."

Dipper 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 Charles' heart leaped, and he moved closer, scared of missing 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 - the 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 Charles was sure it wasn't true.

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed. "You may go, Tom..."

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Charles followed him.

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Charles, watching him. Charles 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, Charles 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?"

Charles 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 Charles 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 Charles in hot pursuit.

But to Charles' disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which Charles had Potions with Snape. The torches hadn't been lit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Charles could only just see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching the passage outside.

It felt to Charles 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 Charles had stopped feeling expectant and tense and started wishing he could return to the present, 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, Charles, tiptoeing behind him, forgetting that he couldn't be heard.

For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in the direction of new noises. Charles 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. . ."

There was something familiar about that voice...

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Charles 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."

"N' at 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 anyone!" said the large boy, backing against the closed door. From behind him, Charles 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 something that made Charles let out a long, piercing scream unheard by anyone

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 leaped on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, "NOOOOOO!"

The scene whirled, and the darkness became complete; Charles felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed spread-eagled on his four-poster in the Gryffindor dormitory, Riddle's diary lying open on his stomach.

Before he had had time to regain his breath, the dormitory door opened and Ron came in.

"There you are," he said.

Charles sat up. He was sweating and shaking.

"What's up?" Ron frowned, looking at him with concern.

"It was Hagrid, Ron. Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago."

Harry

Harry was absorbed in thought at what Charles had said as exited the Great Hall after dinner. 'TM Riddle'... he knew the name for what it was. He knew because he had overheard a grave conversation between his parents and Sirius a few years ago. And he knew that he had to get that diary away from Charles.

Deep in thought, he didn't notice someone coming creeping up behind him.

"Potter."

Harry whirled around, wand in his hand in a flash. He'd been on edge these days, as he had been attacked with hexes and jinxes sometimes in the past days for being suspected as the Heir and for being a Parselmouth.

It was just Josephine Yarrow, however, standing behind him. She let out a small snicker. "Paranoid much?"

Harry just shook his head, pocketing the wand. "Got that info?"

Yarrow nodded. "Dobby's the Malfoy House-Elf. He's been serving them for more than a decade and has always been treated poorly, and has been abused by his masters. He's a queer one, though. While most house-elves pride themselves in serving wizards or witches, Dobby hates it. He, uh, wants to be free."

Harry was intrigued by this. While he always treated house elves nicely, even he knew that they liked serving and freeing them was the worst punishment. "Is that so?"

Yarrow nodded. "Guess there are weirdos in every race. Anyway, from what I could gather, he has a tendency to go against Mr. Malfoy's orders and later punish himself. Also... I think that Dobby might be the one to, uh, enchant the Bludgers. I mean, I may be wrong, but..."

Harry narrowed his eyes at her. "You're right, I know he was the one to do that. How do you know, though?"

Yarrow shrugged. "That's for me to know and you to find out. I have my ways of finding things out."

Harry pursed his lips but didn't push. "Whatever. Is that all?"

"Yeah."

Harry handed her the money and took a deep breath. "I have another favor to ask. Can you detect dark magic? Or maybe tell if an object is cursed?"

Yarrow eyed him shrewdly. "Yes, I suppose."

"I'll be bringing it to you, then. But this must remain a secret between the two of us. Meeting destination?"

"The Quidditch Pitch." Yarrow instantly answered. "When?"

"I'll give you a sign."