Secrets Like Lies

“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.

And then his popping eyes fell on Harry.

“You!” he screeched. In front of Harry, Leo and Raph shifted, ever so slightly, so that they were more centered between Harry and the enraged caretaker. “You! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

“Argus!”

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Ron, Hermione, and the brothers and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket. 

“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, Misters Hamatos.”

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly, and if it weren’t for the severity of the situation, Harry would have chuckled at Donnie’s eyeroll.

“My office is nearest, Headmaster—just upstairs—please feel free—”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore lay Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching. The Hamatos stood at attention, watching Dumbledore wearily and grimacing.

The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris’s fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression: It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering around all of 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 countercurse 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 in his hands. As much as he detested Filch, Harry couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. Mikey seemed to share the sentiment—he was frowning at the cat on the desk, his eyes shining with unshed tears. 

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand, but nothing happened. She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed. 

“I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou,” Lockhart said, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once…”

Harry saw Leo shoot Donnie a glare (probably before the genius made a smart comment that got them more deeply in trouble), but the photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. 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 in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented. 

Donnie smirked. 

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. “But why’s she all—all stiff and frozen?”

“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart, earning another discreet eye roll from Donnie). “But how, I cannot say…”

“Ask him!” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry. 

“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced—”

“He did it, he did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found—in my office—he knows I’m a—I’m a—” Filch’s face worked horribly. “He knows I’m a Squib!” he finished.

“I never touched Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at him, including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t even know what a Squib is.”

“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “He saw my Kwikspell letter!”

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the shadows, and Harry’s sense of foreboding increased; he was sure 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,” he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. “But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn’t he at the Halloween feast?”

The Hamatos remained oddly quiet, avoiding Dumbeldore’s gaze, but 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?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go up to that corridor?”

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry. The Hamatos remained silent. 

“Because—because—” Harry said, his heart thumping very fast; something told him it would sound very far-fetched if he told them he had been led there by a bodiless voice no one but he could here, “because we were tired and wanted to go to bed,” he said.

“Without any supper?” said Snape, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. “I didn’t think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties.”

“Oh, no!” Mikey said, speaking up for the first time. “Their food was amazing.” He patted his stomach and burped. Raph, Leo, and Donnie all sighed; Leo held his temple in his hand. 

“Even if Mr. Hamato here had food—which I highly doubt,” Professor McGonagall said, though the expression on her face made it clear that she wasn’t totally unconvinced, either, “then why didn’t the rest of you go to the feast?”

“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble.

Snape’s nasty smile widened. 

“I suggest, Headmaster, that Potter and his friends are not being entirely truthful,” he said. “It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest.”

“Really, Severus,” Professor McGonagall said sharply, “I see no reason to stop the boy 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 was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though he were being X-rayed, but then the headmaster shifted his gaze over to Leo and his brothers; Harry was surprised to see that they all seemed to shrink under his gaze. From what he knew, the brothers were fearless. They’d taken down the Grimando—Turducken, as Mikey had called it—without any hesitation last year, and had even faced off against Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. And yet here the four of them were, uncomfortable at having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

But then Dumbledore’s gaze returned to Harry, and he found that he couldn’t quite blame them. 

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” said Dumbledore firmly after a moment. 

Snape looked furious. 

So did Filch.

“My cat has been Petrified!” he cried, his eyes popping open. “I want to see some punishment!”

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will 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,” said Snape icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at this school.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. He turned to the Hamato brothers. “A word, you four, if you please? Gilderoy, please make sure the three of them make it to the Gryffindor common room without any problems.”

Lockhart looked like he wanted to object to being kicked out of his own office, but eventually he nodded. “Of course.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shot Raph and his brothers a curious glance before they left the office, but the Hamatos wouldn’t look at them. 

“You know, you three were quite lucky I appeared when I did,” Lockhart said. “If I hadn’t been there, you three would be in a load of trouble. But there’s no need to thank me—in fact, I’m quite good at presenting and delivering justice. Why, just last summer…”

Lockhart started rambling, and Harry did his best to tune him out as they made their walk back to the Gryffindor common room. When they finally reached the portrait, Hermione mumbled the password, and the three of them crawled through without another word. 

“D’you think I should have told them about that voice I heard?” Harry asked as the three of them sat in the chairs around the fire, waiting for Raph to get back to the dormitory. They were nearly alone—most of the students had gone to bed, stuffed and full from the feast. 

“No,” said Ron without hesitation. “Hearing voices no one else can hear isn’t a good sign, even in the wizarding world.”

Something in Ron’s voice made Harry ask, “You do believe me, don’t you?”

“‘Course I do,” said Ron quickly. “But—you must admit, it’s weird…”

“I know it’s weird,” said Harry. “The whole thing’s weird. What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened… What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, it rings a sort of bell,” said Ron 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?” said Harry.

To his surprise, Ron stifled a snicker, grinning. 

“Well—it’s not really funny—but as it’s Filch,” he said, shrugging. “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 quite unusual. If Filch’s trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a Squib. It would explain a lot. Like why he hates students so much.” Ron gave a satisfied smile. “He’s bitter.”

The door shut behind Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Professor Lockhart with a click, sealing the brothers in the office with Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape. 

“Is there anything you four would like to tell us?” Dumbledore said calmly after a tense moment. 

Raph, Donnie, and Mikey all glanced at Leo, who gulped. “Uh… nope! Everything Harry said was totally, one-hundred percent true!”

“Hmm,” Dumbledore said. He almost seemed disappointed.

“If they truly were going back to the dormitories, as Mr. Potter claimed, why were you three with them?” Professor McGonagall asked, gesturing to Leo, Donnie, and Mikey. “I don’t believe your common rooms are anywhere near Gryffindor Tower.”

“We were just walking our friends to their common room,” Donnie said. “Is that not allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed,” Snape said. His cold gaze raked over the four of them. “But what’s not allowed is lying to a teacher, and I have a sneaking suspicion that’s exactly what you all were doing.”

Mikey laughed. “Nope! I actually did eat the food at the deathday party.”

“Not about that,” Leo hissed, turning quickly back to the teachers. “Professors, I give you my word that everything Harry said was true. We were just walking the others to the Gryffindor Tower before going back to our own dormitories.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Alright, Mr. Hamato,” he said, and Snape shot him an incredulous look. “You four may go, after this one last thing.” He leveled each of them with a stare. “Your primary goal is to make sure Mr. Potter is safe. Can you promise me that, regardless of what you seven were doing in that corridor, that Mr. Potter will remain safe?”

“Yes, Professor,” Raph said, before any of his brothers could answer. “I promise that as long as we’re around, Harry, Ron, and Hermione will all be safe. Trust us.”

A small smile pulled at the edges of Dumbledore’s lips. “Very well then. You four may go.”

“Happy Halloween, Professors!” Mikey said as they left the office, bouncing with each step. 

Halfway down the corridor, they saw Lockhart returning, frowning. But as soon as he saw them he brightened, and his contemplative walk turned to a saunter as he made his way toward them.

“Hello,” he said as he passed. Leo, Raph, and Mikey all acknowledged him in some way, but Donnie stared directly ahead. 

“I hate him,” he murmured, once Lockhart had entered his office and shut the door behind him. 

“We couldn’t tell,” Raph said dryly. 

Suddenly, Leo veered into an empty classroom. His brothers had no choice but to follow, and they all stuck to the shadows on the edges of the room; they didn’t want a passerby to spot them. 

“So we’re not telling the teachers about Harry’s voices?” Mikey said.

“That’s right,” Leo said.

“Great. Just checking.”

“There’s a lot we’re not telling the teachers,” Donnie said. 

Leo looked up at him. “Would you have rathered we tell them? Tell Dumbledore that the real reason we were on that corridor was because Harry heard a disembodied voice—that none of us could hear, mind you—and that voice was saying it was going to kill something?”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have,” Donnie said. 

Leo scoffed. 

“I’m with Leo, Donnie,” Raph said. “If we had said that, they would have interrogated Harry about the voices, and that would be pointless.”

“So you’re saying that you don’t believe Harry?” Mikey said, frowning. 

“I believe him,” Raph said. “But I don’t think the teachers would.”

“I agree. And I think that—whatever this is—we have to figure it out. Ourselves,” Leo said. “Getting the others involved is a last resort, and getting the teachers involved is last-resort-Plan-B.”

Donnie sighed. “Alright,” he said. “That… actually makes sense. But,” he said, straightening, “if I see any evidence whatsoever that this is tied to anything from New York, I’m telling Dumbledore.”

“I’ll go with you,” Leo promised, and Donnie was taken aback. 

Somewhere in the castle, a clock chimed.

“Midnight,” Raph said. “I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to give Snape any more reasons to give me detention. Let’s call it a day—we can go over this in the morning.”

The four of them nodded, then dispersed into the shadows and made their ways back to their common rooms. 

For a few days, the school could talk about little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone’s minds by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Slower’s All Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like “breathing loudly” and “looking happy.”

Ginny, however, seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris’s fate. According to Ron, she was a great cat lover.

“But you haven’t really got to 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 often at Hogwarts,” Ron assured her. “They’ll catch the maniac who did it and have him out of here in no time. I just hope he’s got time to Petrify Filch before he’s expelled. I’m only joking—” Ron added hastily as Ginny blanched. 

The attack also had an effect on Hermione. It was quite usual for Hermione to spend a lot of time reading, but she was now doing almost nothing else. Donnie could also be seen helping her, nearly as obsessive as she was in reading. Nobody—not Harry, nor Ron, nor any of Donnie’s brothers—could get much of a response from them when they asked what they were up to. It wasn’t until the following Wednesday that they found out. 

Harry and Raph had been held back in Potions, where Snape had made them stay behind to scrape tubeworms off the desks. Harry would have found it irritating had Raph not been grumbling the whole time, muttering about Snape. He also cursed a few times, which Harry found somewhat amusing. 

After a hurried lunch, they went upstairs to meet Ron, Leo, and Mikey in the library. Harry glanced up to see Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Hufflepuff boy who had worked with him, Ron, and Hermione in Herbology, coming toward him. Harry had just opened his mouth to say hello when Justin caught sight of him, turned abruptly, and sped off in the opposite direction. 

He and Raph exchanged a glance and frowned, but Harry only shook his head. They found Ron and the others at the back of the library. Ron was measuring his History of Magic homework; Professor Binns had asked for a three-foot-long composition on “The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards.”

“I don’t believe it,” Ron said furiously, letting go of his parchment, which sprang back into a roll. “I’m still eight inches short. Donnie’s already done four and a half feet, and Hermione’s done four feet seven inches—and her writing’s tiny.”

“Where are they?” asked Harry, grabbing the tape measure and unrolling his own homework. 

“Somewhere over there,” said Ron, pointing along the shelves. “Hermione’s looking for another book. I think she’s trying to read the whole library before Christmas.”

“We still haven’t found out what Donnie’s up to, have we?” Raph muttered, crossing his arms. 

Leo sighed. “No.”

“Should we be worried?” Mikey said. 

“Probably,” Leo answered. 

All was quiet for a moment before Harry told them about Justin Finch-Fletchley running away from him. 

“Dunno why you care. I thought he was a bit of an idiot,” said Ron, scribbling away, making his writing as large as possible. “All that junk about Lockhart being so great—”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Mikey said, cutting Ron off. “Justin’s cool, but he’s weird sometimes.”

“That’s something coming from you,” Raph said, snorting. 

Hermione and Donnie emerged from between the bookshelves. They looked irritable, but at least Hermione seemed ready to talk to them. 

“All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out,” she said, sitting down between Harry and Ron. “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.”

“And somebody made us so late that I didn’t have time to grab it,” Donnie said, glaring at Mikey, who only stuck out his tongue. 

“Why do you want it?” said Harry. 

“The same reason everyone else wants it,” said Hermione, shrugging.

When she didn’t elaborate, Leo asked, “Well?”

“To read up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets,” Donnie said. 

“What’s that?” said Harry quickly.

Hermione and Donnie exchanged a glance. “That’s just it,” Hermione said after a moment, biting her lip. “I can’t remember. And I can’t find the story anywhere else—”

“Hermione, let me read your composition,” said Ron desperately, checking his watch—

“All I remember about it is that it’s super dangerous,” Donnie said, looking meaningfully at his brothers—

“No, I won’t,” Hermione said to Ron, suddenly severe. “You’ve had ten days to finish it—”

“I only need another two inches, come on—”

The bell rang. 

Ron and Hermione led the way to History of Magic, bickering; Donnie and his brothers hung back, talking quietly, before Leo, Donnie, and Mikey all split apart and went to their own classes; and Harry was left somewhere in the middle, irritated and a little more than confused. 

History of Magic was the dullest subject on their schedule. Professor Binns, who taught it, was their only ghost teacher, and the most exciting thing that ever happened in his classes was his entering the room through the blackboard. Ancient and shriveled, many people said he hadn’t noticed he was dead. He had simply got up to teach one day and left his body behind him in an armchair in front of the staff room fire; his routine had not varied in the slightest since.

Today was as boring as ever. Professor Binns opened his notes and began to read in a flat drone like an old vacuum cleaner until nearly everyone in the class was in a deep stupor, occasionally coming to long enough to copy down a name or date, then falling asleep again. He had been speaking for half an hour when something happened that had never happened before. Hermione put up her hand. 

Professor Binns, glancing up in the middle of a deadly dull lecture on the International Warlock Convention of 1289, looked amazed. 

“Miss—er—?”

“Granger, Professor. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets,” said Hermione in a clear voice. 

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth hanging open, gazing out of the window, jerked out of his trance; Lavender Brown’s head came up off her arms, and Neville Longbottom’s elbow slipped off his desk.

Professor Binns blinked. 

“My subject is History of Magic,” he said in his dry, wheezy voice. “I deal with facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends.” He cleared his throat with a small noise like chalk slipping and continued, “In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers—”

He stuttered to a halt. Hermione’s hand was waving in the air again. 

“Miss Grant?”

“Please, sir, don’t legends always have a basis in fact?”

Professor Binns was looking at her in such amazement, Harry was sure no 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 he had never seen a student properly before. “However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale—”

But the whole class was now hanging onto Professor Binns’ every word. He looked dimly at them all, every face turned to his. Harry could tell he was completely thrown by such an unusual show of interest; even Raph, who was normally all but dozing off by now, was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed as he studied the professor intently. 

“Oh, very well,” Professor Binns 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 are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.”

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued.

“For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school.”

Professor Binns paused again, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old tortoise. 

“Reliable historical sources tell us this much,” he said. “But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing.

“Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic.”

Most of the class was silent as he finished telling the story, a kind of uneasy silence that meant that most people—Harry included—were hesitant (but eager) to hear more. But Raph sighed, shaking his head as he murmured, “Great.”

Professor Binns, meanwhile, looked faintly annoyed.

“The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course,” he said. “Naturally, the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber, many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible.”

Raph only sighed again as Hermione stuck her hand back in the air.

“Sir—what exactly do you mean by the ‘horror within’ the Chamber?”

“That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control,” said Professor Binns in his dry, reedy voice. 

The class exchanged nervous looks.

“I tell you, the thing does not exist,” said Professor Binns, shuffling his notes. “There is no Chamber and no monster.”

Harry could just barely hear Raph’s third sigh as Seamus Finnigan said, “But, sir, if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin’s true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?”

“Nonsense, O’Flaherty,” said Professor Binns in an aggravated tone. “If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven’t found the thing—”

“But, Professor,” piped up Parvati Patil, “you’d probably have to use Dark Magic to open it—”

“Just because a wizard doesn’t use Dark Magic doesn’t mean he can’t, Miss Pennyfeather,” snapped Professor Binns. “I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore—”

“But maybe you’ve got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn’t—” began Dean Thomas, 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 telling you such a foolish story! We will return, if you please, to—”

“This is stupid,” Raph said, loudly enough for the professor to hear.

The class fell silent.

“What was that, Mr. Hopper?” Professor Binns asked slowly, facing Raph. Harry glanced at his friend, surprised to find him sitting upright in his chair, his eyes brimming with barely-restrained anger.

“I said, this is stupid,” Raph repeated. “Sure, the message on the wall could have been some idiot pulling a prank on the entire school—but Mrs. Norris is still Petrified. And if the heir of Slytherin really is back, doesn’t that give some students the right to be worried? You said that the heir would use the monster to ‘purge the school of all who were unworthy.’” Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged a glance. They had seen Raph get angry before—in fact, it seemed to happen regularly, but he’d only ever gotten angry once at a teacher, and he hadn’t been nearly as angry then as he was now. 

Where is Leo when you need him? Harry thought. 

But Raph was still going. “I don’t really give a crap what that means, but I do know that purge means kill. Are all Muggle-borns going to have to live out the rest of the school year in fear? Who cares if this is one big prank? The implications of someone running around, targeting a specific group of students simply because of their parents—nobody should have to go through that, should they?”

The class was silent for a long moment before Professor Binns awkwardly cleared his throat. 

“You’re not wrong, Mr. Howard,” he said, glancing anxiously around the room. Students were staring at Raph with a variety of expressions—weariness, confusion, steely determination—and Harry knew that there was truth in what Raph had just said. “But I can assure you, the Chamber of Secrets is nothing more than a fairy tale—something to make these old halls a bit more interesting. And I will say that Professor Dumbledore is doing all he can to find out who wrote the message. He will have the student expelled in no time.” Though that didn’t seem to quell Raph’s anger—for there was no fear written on his expression, just pure, unbridled fury—Professor Binns continued, “But for now, we will return to history, to solid, believable, verifiable fact.”

And within five minutes, despite the excitement that had occurred, all in the class had sunk back into their usual stupor—all but Raph, who continued to glare at his desk, seething.

“I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony,” Ron told them all as they fought their way through the teeming corridors at the end of the lesson to drop off their bags before dinner. “But I never knew he started all this pure-blooded stuff. I wouldn’t be in his house if you paid me. Er, no offense to Leo, Raph,” Ron added quickly.

But Raph was hardly listening. Everything Professor Binns had said about Slytherin… it reminded him all too well of the persecution he and his family faced in New York. How humans had taken one look at their faces and ran away screaming. How Donnie and Mondo Gecko were captured and almost dissected, all so Vizioso could try to eliminate the “mutant problem” in New York.

He shook his head, disgusted.

Harry didn’t look any better off, though. He remained quiet, looking at the ground, his mouth pressed into a tight line. 

“Hiya, Harry!” a voice said suddenly, and the four of them glanced up as Colin Creevy passed them.

“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!” and he was gone. 

“What’s a boy in his class saying about you?” Hermione wondered.

“That I’m Slytherin’s heir, I expect,” said Harry, and Raph was suddenly reminded of the way Justin Finch-Fletchley had run away from him at lunchtime.

“People here’ll believe anything,” said Ron 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. 

But it was Raph who answered.

“Yes,” he said immediately.

Ron turned to him, but Hermione only frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “Dumbledore couldn’t cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be—well—human.”

The three of them immediately looked at Raph. 

“It wasn’t the Turducken,” he said. “That’s dead.”

“We know, but you’re sure… Well, are you sure that it was the only one?” Hermione asked.

Raph sighed. “That was the only one,” he said, even as a voice in his head reminded him of the theory Donnie had suggested—that the thing they had fought last year wasn’t actually the original Turducken, but rather one of the Turducken’s eggs that had somehow managed to make its way to this world. 

But Raph shoved the thought aside as they rounded the corner and found themselves at the end of the very corridor where the attack had happened. They all stopped dead in their tracks, staring ahead. The scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket. That, and an empty chair stood against the wall, one that hadn’t been there before; it bore the message, “The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened.”

“That’s where Filch has been keeping guard,” Ron murmured. 

They looked at each other. The corridor was deserted. 

“Can’t hurt to have a poke around, can it?” said Harry, dropping his bag and getting to his hands and knees so that he could crawl along, searching for clues. 

Raph grabbed his robe and pulled him back up, eyes narrowed. “It can,” he said. He shook his head. “If we’re caught here, we’ll be in even more trouble.” Not to mention it was getting harder and harder to keep Dumbledore from getting suspicious. Raph and his brothers didn’t entirely trust the headmaster, but if push came to shove, Raph supposed that they would have no choice but to tell him. 

Still, Raph glanced around the corridor. 

“Scorch marks,” he said suddenly. He pointed to two different spots. “There—and there.”

Hermione wandered over to the window next to the message on the wall, and even though Raph was tense, he and the others followed after her as she said, “Come and look at this! This is funny…”

She was pointing at the topmost pane of the window, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. 

Raph’s eyes widened, and he quickly stepped back until he was level with Ron, who seemed to be fighting the urge to turn around and sprint. 

“Have you seen spiders act like that?” Hermione said wonderingly. “And look! There’s a little rope they’ve made for themselves…”

“I’ve never seen spiders like this,” said Harry, shaking his head. “Have you guys?”

Raph only shook his head, his eyes glued to the spiders still fighting to get outside. 

“What’s up?” said Harry, at the sight of the two. 

Raph didn’t respond, but Ron said tensely, “I—don’t—like—spiders.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “I do remember you saying something like that.” She frowned. “But—but you two have used spiders in Potions loads of times…”

“They’re not a problem when they’re dead,” Raph said bluntly, still not taking his eyes off of the spiders. 

“I just don’t like the way they move…” Ron added. 

Hermione giggled. 

“It’s not funny,” Ron said fiercely. “If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my—my teddy bear into a great big filthy 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…”

He broke off, shuddering. Hermione, obviously still trying not to laugh, turned to Raph. “Well?” she asked, a small smile on her lips. 

Raph crossed his arms, finally tearing his eyes away from the spiders. “I—a few years ago, I had this… recurring nightmare about a gigantic bug lord from a different planet,” he said carefully. “He had an army of bugs, and at one point, he kidnapped me and my brothers.” It was Raph’s turn to shudder as he remembered Lord Dregg and everything that had resulted from the bug lord. 

There was a silence in which Hermione tried not to laugh. 

“Well, what about that water that was on the floor?” Harry asked after a moment, and Raph was relieved by the change of subject. “Where did that come from?”

“Someone mopped it up,” Raph said, surveying the dry corridor. 

“It was about here,” said Ron, walking a few paces past Filch’s chair and pointing. “Level with this door.”

He reached for the brass doorknob but suddenly withdrew his hand as though he’d been burned. 

“What’s the matter?” said Harry.

“Can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly. “That’s the girls’ toilet.”

“Oh, Ron, there won’t be anyone in there,” Hermione said, standing up and coming over. “That’s Moaning Myrtle’s place. Come on, let’s have a look.”

Raph, who shared Ron’s reluctance, hesitantly followed in after them as Hermione ignored the large OUT OF ORDER sign and opened the door.

It was most certainly the gloomiest bathroom in all of Hogwarts, Raph thought as he glanced around. It reminded him of the sewers, in some ways; dark and depressing, there was a row of chipped sinks under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched, and one of them was dangling off its hinges. 

Hermione put her finger to her lips and set off toward the end stall. When she reached it she said, “Hello, Myrtle, how are you?”

Harry and Ron went to look. Moaning Myrtle was floating above the tank of the toilet, picking a spot on her chin. 

“This is a girls’ bathroom,” she said, eyeing Harry, Ron, and Raph suspiciously. “They’re not girls.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “I just wanted to show them how—er—nice it is in here.”

She waved vaguely at the dirty old mirror and the damp floor, and Raph had to suppress a snort. She’s a worse liar than Donnie, he thought.

“Ask her if she saw anything,” Harry mouthed at Hermione. 

“What are you whispering?” Myrtle asked suddenly, glaring at Harry. 

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly. “We wanted to ask—”

“I wish people would stop talking behind my back!” said Myrtle, her voice choked with tears. “I do have feelings, you know, even if I am dead—”

“Myrtle, no one wants to upset you,” said Hermione. “Harry only—”

“No one wants to upset me! That’s a good one!” howled Myrtle. “My life was nothing but misery at this place and now people come along ruining my death!” 

“We wanted to ask you if you’ve seen anything funny lately,” said Hermione, and Raph could feel his patience wearing thin, his anger rising. He clenched his jaw; he would not yell at the ghost of a dead girl, he decided. Hermione continued, “You see, a cat was attacked right outside your front door on Halloween.”

“Did you see anyone near here that night?” asked Harry. 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Myrtle said dramatically. “Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself.” Raph’s brows rose—yeah, he definitely wasn’t yelling at this poor girl. “Then, of course, I remembered that I’m—that I’m—”

“Already dead,” said Ron helpfully. 

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, and Raph fought back a flinch as she rose up in the air, turned over, and dove headfirst into the toilet, splashing water all over them and vanishing from sight (although from the direction of her muffled sobs, she had come to rest somewhere in the U-bend). 

Harry and Ron stood with their mouths open, and Raph’s eyes were wide in concern, but Hermione shrugged wearily and said, “Honestly, that was almost cheerful for Myrtle… Come on, let’s go.”

The door had just barely clicked shut behind Raph when a loud voice made all of them—even Raph, though he would never admit it—jump.

“RON!” 

Percy Weasley had stopped dead at the head of the stairs, Prefect badge agleam, an expression of complete shock on his face.

“That’s a girls’ bathroom!” he gasped. “What were you—?”

“Just having a look around,” Ron said, shrugging. “Clues, you now—”

Percy swelled in a manner that reminded Raph painfully of when Leo would get mad at the rest of them and make them do an extra hour or so of training. 

“Get—away—from—there—” Percy said, striding toward them and starting to bustle them along, flapping his arms. Honestly, the scene was so comical Raph would have laughed if he weren’t so focused on not getting hit by one of Percy’s flailing arms. “Don’t you care what this looks like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner—”

“Why shouldn’t we be here?” Ron said hotly, stopping short and glaring at Percy. “Listen, we never laid a finger on that cat!”

“That’s what I told Ginny,” Percy said, “but she still seems to think you’re going to be expelled. I’ve never seen her so upset, crying her eyes out, you might think of her, all the first years are thoroughly overexcited by this business—”

“You don’t care about Ginny,” said Ron, whose ears were now reddening. “You’re just worried I’m going to mess up your chances of being Head Boy—”

“Five points from Gryffindor!” snapped Percy, fingering his Prefect badge. Raph, who knew better than to butt in during a fight between brothers, straightened in surprise. Things were getting heated in the Weasley family, apparently. “And I hope it teaches you a lesson! No more detective work, or I’ll write to Mum!” 

And Percy strode off, the back of his neck as red as Ron’s ears. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione chose seats as far as possible from Percy in the common room that night. After the fight, Raph had promised to meet them in the common room and strode off toward the Great Hall without another word. By the time he got back, Ron was still in a bad temper and kept blotting his Charms homework. When he reached absently for his wand to remove the smudges, it ignited the parchment. Fuming almost as much as his homework, Ron slammed The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 shut. Hermione followed suit just as Raph took a seat next to Harry. 

“Who can it be, though?” Hermione said in a quiet voice, as though continuing a conversation they had just been having. “Who’d want to frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts?”

“Let’s think,” Ron said in mock puzzlement. “Who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?”

He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back, unconvinced. 

“If you’re talking about Malfoy—”

“Of course I am!” said Ron. “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 said skeptically. 

“Look at his family,” said Harry, closing his books, too. “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!” said Ron. “Handing it down, father to son…”

“Well,” said Hermione cautiously, “I suppose it’s possible…”

“But how do we prove it?” said Harry darkly. 

Ron turned to Raph. “Has Leo said anything about Malfoy since this whole thing started?” he asked. 

Raph frowned, shaking his head. “Leo doesn’t hang around Malfoy much,” he said. “The only Slytherins he hangs out with are his roommates, and they hate Malfoy almost as much as we do. So if he’s heard anything, he hasn’t mentioned it.”

“There might be another way,” said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice further still with a quick glance 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, because I doubt he’d talk to any of us or Raph’s brothers.”

“But that’s impossible,” Harry said as Ron laughed. Raph only frowned, his brows furrowed. 

“No, it’s not,” Hermione said. “All we’d need would be some Polyjuice Potion.”

“What’s that?” Harry and Ron said at the same time, even as Raph thought that it sounded familiar.

“Snape mentioned it in class a few weeks ago—”

“Do you think we’ve nothing better to do in Potions than listen to Snape?” Ron snorted. 

“It transforms you into somebody else. Think about it! We could change into four of the Slytherins. Or just make one for Leo, for him to take—”

Raph shook his head. “No,” he said, a little stronger than he meant to. “Leo won’t be doing that. We don’t want Malfoy to be suspicious, and he might recognize Leo’s mannerism or gait or way of speech or something like that.”

Hermione frowned, but Ron added, “This Polyjuice stuff sounds a bit dodgy to me. What if we get stuck looking like Slytherins forever?”

“It wears off after a while,” said Hermione, waving her hand impatiently. “But getting hold of the recipe will be very difficult. Snape said it was in a book called Most Potente Potions, and it’s bound to be in the Restricted Section of the library.”

Raph paused. There was only one way to get a book out from the Restricted Section: You needed a signed note of permission from a teacher. The startings of a plan were already forming at the edge of his brain, and he knew that if Leo or even Donnie were here, they’d have a much better plan in mind. But since they weren’t…

“Hard to see why we’d want the book, really,” Ron was saying, “if we weren’t going to try and make one of the potions.”

“I think,” said Hermione, “that if we made it sound as though we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance…”

“Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,” said Ron. “They’d have to be really thick…”

The final piece of the plan fell into place, and Raph snorted loudly.