The Dueling Club
The brothers all sighed tiredly, making their way out of Dumbledore’s office. They hadn’t been in any trouble, but being questioned by the headmaster while two of their friends had, in fact, been breaking the rules wasn’t exactly a relaxing experience.
The four of them split apart, and to anyone looking (or watching), it seemed like they were just going to their separate dormitories. But no one noticed when, ten minutes later, the four of them reconvened outside a haunted girls’ bathroom.
“You’re up!” Mikey said happily when he saw that Harry was standing over the cauldron perched on a toilet.
Harry nodded gravely. “Did you hear about Colin?” he asked.
Leo shook his head. “We were busy this morning,” he said. “What happened?”
“Colin’s been Petrified,” Harry said. “In the same way Mrs. Norris was.”
“That’s why we decided to work on the Polyjuice Potion today,” Ron explained.
The four brothers exchanged a glance. Another attack—this time on a student.
“There’s something else,” Harry said to all of them. Hermione, who had been tearing bundles of knotgrass and throwing them into the potion, paused. “Dobby came to visit me in the middle of the night.”
Harry told them everything Donnie had told him—or hadn’t told him. Hermione, Ron, and Mikey all listened with their mouths open, but Leo, Donnie, and Raph all looked grave.
“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened before?” Hermione said.
“This settles it,” Ron said, shuddering. “Lucius Malfoy must’ve opened the Chamber when he was at school here, and now he’s told dear old Draco how to do it. Wish Dobby’d told you what kind of monster’s in there, though. I want to know how come nobody’s noticed it sneaking around the school.”
“Maybe it can make itself invisible,” Hermione said, helping Donnie prod leeches to the bottom of the cauldron. “Or maybe it can disguise itself—pretend to be a suit of armor or something—I’ve read about Chameleon Ghouls—”
“You read too much, Hermione,” said Ron, pouring dead lacewings on top of the leeches. He crumpled up the empty lacewing bag and threw it to Raph, who caught it and threw it away.
“She’s got a point,” Donnie said. “A monster capable of not only Petrifying a student, but also frying his camera…”
Leo shook his head. “I don’t like this,” he said.
“Nobody does,” Raph said, grimacing.
“With everybody on such high alert, you’d reckon that at least somebody would see something,” Harry muttered. “I mean, I’ve only heard it, but—”
“Well, obviously somebody’s seen it,” Hermione said. “Somebody had to open the Chamber of Secrets, didn’t they?”
“I’d bet you it was Malfoy,” Ron said.
The room was silent save for the crackling of the cauldron.
“It makes sense,” Donnie said at last. “Especially if the Malfoys are somehow connected to New York. They could be using this as a distraction, trying to keep the Ministry focusing on Hogwarts and not Ilvermorny.”
“That’s an awfully big distraction,” Hermione said, frowning. “Leo, you haven’t noticed Malfoy—?”
“No,” Leo said, shaking his head with a thoughtful expression. “As far as I know, Malfoy’s been his normal, bratty self. I haven’t seen anything strange.” He sighed. “But we’ll know more when we finish this potion.”
Ron chuckled softly, and they all turned to him incredulously. But Ron only said, “So Dobby stopped us from getting on the train and broke Harry’s arm.” He shook his head. “You know what, Harry? If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life, he’s going to kill you.”
Later that same day, the four brothers sat quietly in the Room of Requirement, thinking.
“Will it be another Turduken situation, you think?” Leo asked finally, breaking the silence. “Is the monster in the Chamber of Secrets another mutant from our world?”
“It’s certainly possible,” Donnie said. “I hate to say it, but we might have to go to Dumbledore—”
“No,” Leo said harshly, cutting a glare at Donnie. “Until we have proof, we keep our guard up and stay vigilant—and don’t say anything to any of the teachers, are we clear?”
Donnie nodded curtly.
Raph sighed. “What about Harry and the others?”
“Yeah, we can’t let them walk around with a monster on the loose!” Mikey said.
“We won’t,” Leo said firmly. “From now on, we’ll keep an eye on them all. They don’t go anywhere without at least one of us nearby. Hopefully, this all blows over soon.”
“With our luck,” Donnie murmured with a frown, “that’ll be by the end of this year—if at all.”
The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by Monday morning. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone.
Ginny Weasley, who sat next to Colin in Charms, was distraught, but Harry felt that Fred and George were going the wrong way about cheering her up. They were taking turns covering themselves with fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind statues. They only stopped when Percy, apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write to Mrs. Weasley and tell her Ginner was having nightmares.
Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. Neville Longbottom bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger; he was pure-blooded, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.
“They went for Filch first,” Neville said, fraught with fear. “And everyone knows I’m almost a Squib.”
Though they didn’t show any interest in the charms going around school, the Hamatos always seemed to be close by. Outside of classes, Harry could always count at least two of them close by, and even Hermione and Ron mentioned that they were sticking close to them, as well. Harry would have thought it strange, but there was always some reason—Raph walking with them to Gryffindor Tower, Mikey accompanying them to the Great Hall, Donnie meeting them at the library, Leo striding over to them across the grounds.
In the second week of December, Professor McGonagall came around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for Christmas. There was no doubt that the Hamatos would be staying, but Harry, Ron, and Hermione also signed her list; they had heard that Malfoy was staying, which struck them as very suspicious. The holidays would be the perfect time to use the Polyjuice Potion and try to worm a confession out of him.
Unfortunately, the potion was only half finished. They still needed the bicorn horn and the boomslang skin, and the only place they were going to get them was from Snape’s private stores. Harry privately felt he’d rather face Slytherin’s legendary monster than let Snape catch him robbing his office.
“What we need,” said Hermione briskly as Thursday afternoon’s double Potions lesson loomed nearer, “is a diversion. Then one of us can sneak into Snape’s office and take what we need.”
“I’ll do it,” Leo said, as Harry and Ron looked at her nervously.
Hermione nodded matter-of-factly, even as Raph sent Leo a glare. “All we need to do is cause enough mayhem to keep Snape busy for… five minutes?”
Leo shrugged. “Thirty seconds.”
It wasn’t a joke, but Ron laughed as though it was. Harry smiled feebly. Deliberately causing mayhem in Snape’s Potions class was about as safe as poking a sleeping dragon in the eye.
As they walked, they planned their diversion. Potions lessons took place in one of the large dungeons. Thursday afternoon’s lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty-two cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins snickered appreciatively. Draco Malfoy, who was Snape’s favorite student, kept flicking puffer-fish eyes at Ron and Hermione, who knew that if they retaliated they would get detention faster than you could say “Unfair.” Luckily for them, Leo and Raph, who were working next to them, seemed to be doing a very good job of snatching the eyes out of the air before they landed in Harry or Ron’s cauldron, much to Malfoy’s irritation.
Harry’s Swelling Solution was far too runny, but he had his mind on more important things. He was waiting for Hermione’s signal, and he hardly listened as Snape paused to sneer at his watery potion. Leo had asked to go to the bathroom just two minutes before. How he would manage to sneak back into the classroom, grab the ingredients, and then return after the diversion was over was something Harry’ couldn’t quite wrap his head around, but Leo and Raph both told him not to worry about it.
As Snape walked off to bully Neville, Hermione trailed after him.
“Excuse me, Professor,” she said. “But I’m just a bit confused if I’m supposed to add the snake scales and then stir counter-clockwise, or…” As Snape walked reluctantly back to her cauldron, Raph caught Harry’s eye and nodded.
Harry ducked swiftly down behind his cauldron, pulled one of Fred’s Filibuster fireworks out of his pocket, and gave it a quick prod with his wand. The firework began to fizz and sputter. Knowing he had only seconds, Harry straightened up, took aim, and lobbed it into the air; it landed right on target in Goyle’s cauldron.
Goyle’s potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Malfoy got a faceful and his nose began to swell like a balloon; Goyle blundered around, his hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinner place—Snape was trying to restore calm and find out what had happened. Through the confusion, Harry watched the door to Snape’s office, trying to spot when Leo would slip in and grab what they needed.
“Silence! SILENCE!” Snape roared. “Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draft—when I find out who did this—”
Harry tried not to laugh as he watched Malfoy hurry forward, his head drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon. As half the class lumbered up to Snape’s desk, some weighted down with arms like clubs, others unable to talk through gigantic puffed-up lips, Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged an anxious glance. Raph, however, looked almost bored (though there was a spark of amusement in his eyes as he watched the class down the Deflating Draft).
When everyone had taken a swig of the antidote and the various swellings had subsided, Snape swept over to Goyle’s cauldron and scooped out the twisted black remains of the firework. There was a sudden hush.
“If I ever find out who threw this,” Snape breathed, looking at each and every one of them, “I shall make sure that person is expelled.”
Harry arranged his face into what he hoped was a puzzled expression. Snape was looking right at him, and the door that creaked open a minute later could not have been more welcome.
Every head turned to Leo, who froze at the door of the classroom, his brows furrowed and confusion written clearly across his face. He took in the wide eyes, the charred firework remains in Snape’s hands, the professor’s glare—and frowned.
“What did I miss?”
Ten minutes later, when the bell finally rang, the six of them hurried back to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.
“Did you get them?” Ron asked Leo incredulously. He nodded, holding up the new ingredients and passing them over to Hermione. “How?”
But before Leo could respond, Harry said miserably, “He knew it was me. I could tell.”
When they finally arrived, Hermione threw the new ingredients into the cauldron and began to stir feverishly.
“It’ll be ready in two weeks,” she said happily.
“Snape can’t prove it was you,” Raph said to Harry, his arms crossed.
“What could he do?” Ron added.
“Knowing Snape, something foul,” Harry said as the potion frothed and bubbled.
A week later, the seven of them were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas beckoned them over, looking excited.
“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said Seamus. “First meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days…”
“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” said Ron, but he, too, read the sign with interest.
“It could be useful,” Donnie mused as they all went into dinner. “Slytherin’s monster aside, it’s always good to know how to fight.”
“Dudes, we should totally go,” Mikey said. “It’ll be awesome.”
Nobody seemed to object—in fact, all of them were, for once, in complete agreement about something—so at eight o’clock that evening, they hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished, and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more, and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.
“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione as they edged into the chattering crowd.
Donnie shrugged. “Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was younger—maybe it’ll be him.”
“As long as it’s not—” Harry began, but he ended on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep [lum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.
“What, did they choose the two worst teachers for this job?” Raph mumbled, looking up at the stage incredulously. Mikey snorted, but Leo elbowed him, hissing for him to be quiet.
Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!
“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works.
“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny little bit of dueling himself, and he has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry—you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”
“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off?” Ron muttered.
“Nah,” Mikey said, his eyes glinting in excitement. “Snape’s gonna destroy Lockhart before he even has a chance, just watch.”
Indeed, Snape’s upper lip was curling, and Harry wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at him like that, he’d have been running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them.
“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Harry murmured, watching Snape bare his teeth.
“One—two—three—”
Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: “Expelliarmus!” There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light, and Lockhart was blasted off his feet. He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.
Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins cheered. Hermione was dancing on tiptoes. “Do you think he’s all right?” she squealed through her fingers.
“Who cares?” said Harry, Ron, Donnie, and Raph together.
Hermione glared at them all and opened her mouth to retort, but Lockhart was already getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.
“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back onto the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm—as you see, I’ve lost my wand—ah, thank you, Miss Brown—yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy—however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…”
Donnie and Raph rolled their eyes, a scowl on the former’s face. But Harry was focused on Snape, who was looking murderous. Lockhart had probably noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me—”
They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed Neville up with Justin Finch-Fletchley, but Snape reached Harry and Ron first.
“Time to split up the dream team, I think,” he sneered. “Weasley, you can partner with Finnigan. Potter—”
Harry moved automatically toward Hermione.
“I don’t think so,” said Snape, smiling coldly. “Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger—you can partner with Miss Bulstrode.” He turned to the four brothers, his eyes narrowed. “Raphael—split up with Zabini.” Raph stared down a Slytherin behind Snape, and Harry and Ron caught each other’s gaze—Harry wouldn’t want to be caught on the receiving side of that stare, either. “Leonardo, you can partner with Mr. Haze.” Albert, Leo’s roommate, nodded, a slight smile on his face as Snape turned to Donnie and Mikey. “And you two—just partner with each other.”
“Aw, yeah, baby!” Mikey said as Snape turned and walked away. “The B-Team is back together!”
Donnie face-palmed. “I told you, Mikey, don’t call us that—”
Harry turned just as Malfoy strutted over to him, smirking. Behind him walked a Slytherin girl who reminded Harry of a picture he’d seen in Holidays with Hags. She was large and square and her heavy jaw jutted aggressively. Hermione gave her a weak smile that she did not return.
“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform. “And bow!”
Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.
“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents—only to disarm them—we don’t want any accidents—one… two… three—”
Harry swung his wand high, but Malfoy had already started on “two”: His spell hit Harry so hard that he felt as though he’d been hit over the head with a saucepan. He stumbled, but everything still seemed to be working, and wasting no more time, Harry pointed his wand straight at Malfoy and shouted, “Rictusempra!”
A jet of silver light hit Malfoy in the stomach, and he doubled up, wheezing.
“I said disarm only!” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Malfoy sank to his knees; Harry had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and he could barely move for laughing. Harry hung back, with a vague feeling it would be unsporting to bewitch Malfoy while he was on the floor, but it was a mistake; gasping for breath, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry’s knees, choked, “Tarantallegra!” and the next second Harry’s legs began to jerk around out of his control in a kind of quickstep.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Lockhart, but Snape took charge.
“Finite Incantatem!” he shouted. Harry’s feet stopped dancing, Malfoy stopped laughing, and they were able to look up.
A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville and Justin were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up an ashen-faced Seamus, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done. Donnie and Mikey were both panting, and those around them were staring, slack-jawed, at whatever the two of them had done; indeed, there was a large scorch mark on the floor beneath Mikey, and Donnie’s hair stood atop his head as though he’d been electrified. Leo and Albert were standing next to each other, Leo murmuring quietly to Albert. Raph and Zabini were both glaring daggers at each other; Raph was gripping his wand so hard his knuckles were white, and Zabini’s jaw was clenched tightly. But Hermione and Millicent Bulstrode were still moving; Millicent had Hermione in a headlock and Hermione was whimpering in pain; both their wands lay forgotten on the floor a few feet from them. Harry leapt forward and pulled Millicent off, and a moment later, Leo joined him. Even with their combined strength, it was a bit difficult; she was a lot bigger than Harry was.
“Dear, dear,” Lockhart tutted, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan… Careful there, Miss Fawcett… Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second…”
“I think I’d better teach you how to block unfriendly spells,” he said, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair—Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you—”
“A bad idea, Professor Lockhart,” said Snape, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. “Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest spells. We’ll be sending what’s left of Finch-Fletchley up to the hospital wing in a matchbox.” Neville’s round, pink face went pinker. “How about Malfoy and Potter?” said Snape with a twisted smile.
“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.
“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his wand at you, you do this.”
He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops—my wand is a little overexcited—”
Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too. Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said, “Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?”
“Scared?” muttered Malfoy, so that Lockhart couldn’t hear him.
“You wish,” Harry said out of the corner of his mouth.
Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!”
“What, drop my wand?”
But Lockhart wasn’t listening.
“Three—two—one—go!” he shouted.
Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, “Serpensortia!”
The end of his wand exploded. Harry watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor. A glance to his side told Harry that Leo, Raph, Donnie, and Mikey had pushed Ron and Hermione behind them, standing tensely, not taking their eyes off of the snake.
“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the sight of Harry standing motionless, eye-to-eye with the angry snake. “I’ll get rid of it…”
“Allow me!” shouted Lockhart. He brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.
Harry wasn’t sure what made him do it. He wasn’t even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him forward as though he was on casters and that he had shouted stupidly at the snake, “Leave him alone!” And miraculously—inexplicably—the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry. Harry felt the fear drain out of him. He knew the snake wouldn’t attack anyone now, though how he knew it, he couldn’t have explained.
He looked up at Justin, grinning, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, or puzzled, or even grateful—but certainly not angry and scared.
“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted, and before Harry could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall.
Snape stepped forward and waved his hand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and it was one that Harry didn’t like. He was also dimly aware of an ominous muttering all around the walls. Then he felt a tugging on the back of his robes.
“Come on,” said Ron’s voice in his ear. “Move—come on—”
Ron steered him out of the hall, Hermione hurrying alongside them. The Hamatos created something like a circle around the three of them, but as they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though they were frightened of catching something. Harry didn’t have a clue what was going on—one look at the Hamatos faces told him they were just as clueless, though they were trying to hide it—and neither Ron nor Hermione explained anything until they had dragged him all the way up to the empty Gryffindor common room, Raph at their heels, his brothers having peeled off to go to their own.
Then Ron pushed Harry into an armchair and said, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I’m a what?” Harry said.
“A Parselmouth!” said Ron. “You can talk to snakes!”
“I know,” said Harry. “I mean, that’s only the second time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley once at the zoo—long story—but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and I sort of set it free without meaning to. That was before I knew I was a wizard—”
“A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?” Ron repeated faintly.
Raph was grinning. “That, I would pay to see.”
“So?” said Harry. “I bet loads of people here can speak to snakes.”
“Oh, no they can’t,” said Ron. “It’s not a very common gift. Harry, this is bad.”
“What’s bad?” said Harry, starting to feel quite angry. “What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told that snake not to attack Justin—”
“Oh, that’s what you said to it?”
“What d’you mean? You were there—you heard me—”
“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ron. “Snake language. You could have been saying anything—no wonder Justin panicked, you sounded like you were egging the snake on or something—it was creepy, you know—”
Harry gaped at him.
“I spoke a different language? But—I didn’t realize—how can I speak a language without knowing I can speak it?”
“Maybe you’re like Mikey,” Raph said. “He can speak crazy—told us what this old homeless guy was saying when a squirrel crawled into his stomach—long story—and I know it’s not exactly the same, but it can’t be that bad, right?”
Harry might have felt inclined to ask Raph for more details, but Ron and Hermione were both looking as though someone had died, even when he couldn’t see what was so terrible.
“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a massive snake biting off Justin’s head?” he snapped. “What does it matter how I did it as long as Justin doesn’t have to join the Headless Hunt?”
“It matters,” said Hermione, speaking at last in a hushed voice, “because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.”
Harry’s mouth fell open.
“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s going to think you’re his great-great-great-great-grandson or something—”
“But I’m not,” said Harry, with a panic that he couldn’t quite explain.
“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.”
“Not that it matters,” Raph said with a shrug. “So what if that guy’s your ancient ancestor? That doesn’t make you evil.”
But despite his friend’s reassurance, Harry lay awake for hours that night. Through a gap in the curtains around his four-poster, he watched snow starting to drift past the tower. His mind raced.
Could he be a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? He didn’t know anything about his father’s family, after all. The Dursleys had always forbidden questions about his wizarding relatives.
Quietly, Harry tried to say something in Parseltongue. The words wouldn’t come. It seemed he had to be face-to-face with a snake to do it.
But I’m in Gryffindor, Harry thought. The Sorting Hat wouldn’t have put me in here if I had Slytherin blood…
Ah, said a nasty little voice in his brain, but the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin, don’t you remember?
Harry turned over. He’d see Justin the next day in Herbology and explain that he’d been calling the snake off, not egging it on, which (he thought angrily, pummeling his pillow) any fool should have realized.
By the next morning, however, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled; Professor Sprout wanted to fit socks and scarves on the Mandrakes, a tricky operation she would entrust to no one else, now that it was so important for the Mandrakes to grow quickly and revive Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey.
Harry fretted about this next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, while Ron and Hermione used their time off to play a game of wizard chess. Raph watched on, though his eyes were dazed, as though he were lost in his thoughts.
“For heaven’s sake, Harry,” said Hermione, exasperated, as one of Ron’s bishops wrestled her knight off his horse and dragged him off the board. “Go and find Justin if it’s so important to you.”
So Harry got up and left through the portrait hole, wondering where Justin might be. Raph trailed after him, saying he was bored anyway and had nothing better to do.
The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of the thick, swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, Harry walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to take a look (though Raph had no such reservations, and he poked his head in, snickering), Harry walked on by, thinking that Justin might be using his free time to catch up on some work, and deciding to check the library first.
Raph peeled off, muttering about how Donnie needed him to grab a book anyway, and told Harry he’d be right back. So Harry wandered between the shelves, and between the long lines of high bookshelves, Harry could see a group of Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were sitting at the back of the library. They didn’t seem to be working, and instead it appeared as though they were having an absorbing conversation. He couldn’t see whether Justin was among them. Harry was walking toward them when something of what they were saying met his ears, and he paused to listen, hidden in the Invisibility section.
“So anyway,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter’s marked him down as his next victim, it’s best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin actually told him he’d been down for Eton. That’s not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s heir on the loose, is it?”
“You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?” said a girl with blonde pigtails anxiously.
“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “he’s a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-Tongue.”
There was a murmuring at this, and Ernie went on, “Remember what was written on the wall? Enemies of the Heir, Beware. Potter had some sort of run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch’s cat’s attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him while he was lying in the mud. Next thing we know—Creevey’s been attacked.”
“He always seemed so nice, though,” said Hannah uncertainly, “and, well, he’s the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can’t be all bad, can he?”
Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and Harry edged nearer so that he could catch Ernie’s words.
“No one knows how he survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse like that.” He dropped his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and said, “That’s probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn’t want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter’s been hiding?”
Harry was nearing the end of his limit, but just as he was about to clear his throat, someone else walked up to the table of Hufflepuffs.
Mikey was seething. “You really think Harry’s responsible for Mrs. Norris and Colin?” he said. “He’s the nicest person there is—he wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
Ernie shook his head. “You’re only saying that because he’s your friend. You have to admit, it all adds up.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Mikey said fiercely, and Harry blinked—he’d only ever heard that sort of anger from Raph. “You’re just scared. And I get it, we all are, but throwing around wild accusations at Harry won’t solve anything. You need to—”
“And how do you know?” Ernie said suddenly, cutting Mikey off. “Maybe you’re right—maybe Potter isn’t behind this. But how do we know that he isn’t connected to it? What about your brother—the one in Slytherin? How do we know that he isn’t behind the attacks?”
Mikey stiffened, and Harry could have sworn his eyes flashed white as he seethed, “My brother is just as likely to be Slytherin’s Heir as you are.” His hands were clenched tightly into fists. “His House does not determine who he is—and you have no idea who my brother is. You have no idea what he has been through and what he has fought for, and if you had, then you would never be accusing him. The same goes for Harry. And,” Mikey added, his jaw clenched, “if you ever try to accuse any of my brothers or friends again, I promise you that I will make you wish you hadn’t.”
There was enough malice in Mikey’s eyes that Ernie and some of the other Hufflepuffs paled, but before they could say anything, Mikey turned on his heel and stormed off.
Taking advantage of the silence at the Hufflepuff table, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves and cleared his throat. If he hadn’t been so angry—and a little shocked at Mikey’s outburst—he would have found the sight that greeted him funny: Every one of the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been Petrified by the sight of him, and Ernie’s already pale face was quickly growing paler.
“Hello,” said Harry. “I’m looking for Justin Finch-Fletchley.”
All of the Hufflepuffs looked quickly at Ernie, who said, in a quavering voice, “What do you want with him?”
“I wanted to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Dueling Club,” said Harry.
Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what happened.”
“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” Harry said.
“All I saw,” Ernie said stubbornly, though he was trembling as he spoke, “was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin.”
“I didn’t chase it at him!” Harry snapped. “It didn’t even touch him!”
“It was a very near miss,” said Ernie. “And in case you’re getting ideas,” he added hastily, “I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks, and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s, so—”
“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” Harry said, his voice rising in anger. “Why would I want to attack Muggle-borns?”
“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said Ernie swiftly.
“It’s not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them,” said Harry. “I’d like to see you try it.”
And, just as Mikey had done, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the library, earning himself a reproving glare from Madam Pince, who was polishing the gilded cover of a large spellbook. Raph, who didn’t seem to have seen Mikey, saw Harry leaving the library and followed after him, a book tucked under his arm.
In his fury, Harry didn’t say anything to him, blundering up the corridor and hardly noticing where he was going. The result was that he walked into something very large and solid, which would have knocked him backward onto the floor if Raph hadn’t grabbed his arm at the last second and held him up.
“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” Harry said, thanking Raph and looking up at his friend.
Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a wooly, snow-covered balaclava, but it couldn't possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive, gloved hands.
“All righ’, Harry, Raph?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so he could speak. “Why aren’t yeh in class?”
“Canceled,” said Raph.
“What’re you doing in here?” Harry asked.
Hagrid held up the limp rooster.
“Second one killed this term,” he explained. “It’s either foxes or a Blood-Suckin’ Bugbear, an’ I need the Headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around the hen coop.”
As Raph studied the rooster more, Hagrid peered more closely at Harry from under his thick, snow-flecked eyebrows.
“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look all—”
But Harry couldn’t bring himself to repeat what Ernie and the rest of the Hufflepuffs had been saying about him, so he said, “It’s nothing. We’d better get going, Hagrid, it’s Transfiguration next and our books are in the common room.”
He and Raph walked off, neither one of them all too chatty. Harry’s mind was still full of what Ernie had said about him.
“Justin’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born…”
Harry stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. They were almost halfway down the passage when Raph swore and gripped Harry’s arm, holding him back.
Harry made to ask Raph what was going on, but Raph wasn’t looking at him. Harry followed his gaze and felt as though his stomach had dissolved when he caught sight of what it was.
Justin Finch-Fletchley was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face as his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Harry had ever seen.
It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to Justin’s.
Raph was inspecting the two, his face grave, but Harry stumbled backward, his breathing fast and shallow, his heart doing a kind of drumroll against his ribs. He looked wildly up and down the corridor—deserted save for him and Raph—and saw a line of spiders scuttling as fast as they could away from the bodies. The only sounds were the muffled voice of teachers from the classes on either side and Raph’s quiet curses as he looked up and saw the spiders.
They could run, and no one would ever know they had been there. But Harry couldn’t just leave them lying there—he had to get help.
Would anyone even believe he hadn’t had anything to do with this?
“We have to get a teacher,” Raph said, his voice cutting through the silence.
Harry nodded, still panicking, but before either of them could move a door next to him opened with a bang, and Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.
“Why, it’s potty wee Potter and the horrible Hamato!” cackled Peeves, knocking Harry’s glasses askew as he bounced past him, and Raph had to duck out of the way as the poltergeist came shooting for his face. “What’re they up to? Why are they lurking—”
Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he spotted Justin and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs, and before, Harry or Raph could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAAAACK!”
Crash—crash—crash—door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion that Justin was in danger of being squashed and people kept standing in Nearly Headless Nick. Harry and Raph found themselves pinned against the wall as the teachers shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came running, followed by her own class of students, one of whom still had black-and-white-striped hair. Another teacher was quickly followed by Leo and Donnie, and their eyes widened at the sight before Professor McGonagall used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back into their classes save for Leo and Donnie, which Harry thought was strange. No sooner had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene as Mikey followed after him.
“Caught in the act!” Ernie yelled, his face stark white, pointing his finger dramatically at Harry.
“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall sharply, and it might have saved him. Mikey was looking murderous next to Ernie, enough so that Raph moved slightly, putting himself between his brother and the Hufflepuff.
Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; he always had loved chaos. As the teachers bent over Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:
“Oh Potter, you rotter, oh what have you done,
“You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun—”
“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harry.
Justin was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie with instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft and leaving Harry, the Hamatos, and Professor McGonagall alone together.
“This way,” she said.
“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear I didn’t—”
“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall curtly.
“He was with me,” Raph said. “We were just walking—”
Professor McGonagall silenced him with a look.
They all marched in silence around a corner, and she stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle.
“Lemon drop!” she said. This was evidently a password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as the wall behind him split in two. Even full of dread for what was coming, Harry couldn’t help but be amazed. Though, he noticed, the Hamatos didn’t seem surprised, as though they had seen this hundreds of times.
Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. As they all stepped onto it, Harry heard the wall thud closed behind them. They rose upward in circles, higher and higher, until at last, slightly dizzy, Harry saw a gleaming oak door ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.
He knew now where they were being taken. This must be where Dumbledore lived.