Diospyros

The dungeon used for the anniversary of Sir Nicholas's death contained hundreds of white and translucent people, most gliding across a dance floor, waltzing to the ghastly sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra assembled on a platform draped in black. A chandelier overhead cast a midnight blue light with another thousand black candles.

Harry watched, intrigued, as a group of somber nuns cowered as if in penance, next to a man dressed in rags wearing chains and Friar Hugo, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a gentleman with an arrow sticking out on the forehead. Harry was not surprised to see that the other ghosts were giving distance to Baron Mors, a Slytherin ghost, very thin, wide-eyed and covered in stains of silver blood.

He didn't know exactly how to behave among the dead. When Sir Nicholas came to invite him to his birthday, Harry forgot to ask what the order of the party would be. It was really embarrassing not knowing whether to have a respectful silence or a mournful conversation or a polite condolence.

Taking observation as his center of reasoning, Harry turned to observe the dungeon, then came across a tattered dining table disgustingly filled: large rotten fish were arranged on beautiful silver platters; charred cakes were arranged in bunches; There was a large tureen of minced lamb giblets full of worms, a piece of cheese covered in a layer of greenish mold and, the pride of the buffet, a huge gray cake in the shape of a tomb, with the words in asphalt icing:

SIR NICHOLAS DE MIMSY-PORPINGTON

DIED ON OCTOBER 31, 1492.

Harry watched in amazement as a towering ghost approached the table, crouched down and walked across it, its mouth open to swallow a foul-smelling salmon.

— Can you taste the food as you walk through it? – Harry asked him.

— Almost – replied the ghost sadly and walked away.

Harry supposed pleasure was one of the few things ghosts missed when they were alive.

He was turning around so he could walk around the party a little more when he came across a little man who suddenly flew out from under the table and stopped in the air in front of him.

— Hello, Peeves — he greeted cautiously.

Unlike the ghosts around him, Peeves the poltergeist was the opposite of pale and transparent. He wore a bright orange party hat, a twirling bow tie, and a wide smile on his wide, mischievous face.

— Appetizers – he said pleasantly, offering the boy a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

— No, thank you — Harry denied. – Enjoying the party?

— Perfectly – Poltergeist replied, smiling. – It’s rare that we all get together like this. I can see all kinds of people. See Myrtle there. HEY! MYRTLE!

The stocky ghost of a girl glided toward them. She had the saddest face Harry had ever seen, half hidden by thick, lank hair and pearly glasses.

— What? – She asked, annoyed.

— How are you, Myrtle? – Peeves greeted her pleasantly. – Good to see you out of the bathroom.

Myrtle sniffed.

— We were really talking about you... – said Peeves quietly in Myrtle's ear.

Myrtle looked at Peeves suspiciously.

— You're making fun of me – she said, silver tears quickly filling her piercing eyes.

— No, seriously, didn't I just talk about how beautiful Myrtle looks? – Peeves asked sweetly, addressing Harry. The boy didn't answer anything.

— Don't lie to me! – Myrtle exclaimed, tears now flowing freely down her face, while Peeves, happily, giggled over her shoulder. – Do you think I don’t know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Unhappy, whiny, apathetic Myrtle!

— You forgot about the pimple — Peeves hissed in her ear.

Moaning Myrtle burst into pained sobs and fled the dungeon. Peeves ran after her, throwing moldy peanuts and shouting:

— Pimple! Pimple!

— Oh, my God! – lamented one of the nuns, apparently for no reason.

Nearly Headless Nick was now gliding through the guests towards Harry.

— Are you having fun?

— I find it interesting – Harry corrected, although Sir Nicholas seemed to understand differently.

— A very large number of guests – Sir Nicholas said proudly. – The dowager queen came from Kent... It's almost time for my speech, I'd better go and tell the orchestra...

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that exact moment. And all the people in the dungeon fell silent, looking around excitedly when they heard a hunting horn.

— Ah, here we go — said Sir Nicholas bitterly.

Twelve phantom horses burst through the dungeon walls, each ridden by a headless horseman. The guests applauded warmly; Harry started to applaud, too, but quickly stopped when he saw Sir Nicholas's face.

The horses galloped to the middle of the dance floor and stopped, raising and lowering their front legs. At the head of the cavalcade was a burly ghost who held his head under his arm, from which position he played the horn. The ghost dismounted, raised his head in the air so that he could see the people (everyone laughed) and walked towards Sir Nicholas, replacing his head on his neck.

— Nick! – he roared. - How are you? Head still hanging?

He laughed heartily and patted the Gryffindor ghost on the shoulder.

— Welcome, Patrick – was the dry reply.

— Live people! – exclaimed Sir Patrick, seeing Harry, and giving a great jump, pretending to be astonished, so that his head fell again (the guests laughed).

— Very funny, said Sir Nicholas fiercely.

— Don't pay attention to Nick! – Sir Patrick's head shouted from the ground. – He's still upset because we didn't let him join the Hunt! But I mean... look at him...

— I think – said Harry quickly, at a meaningful glance from the half-decapitated ghost. – Sir Nicholas is very... scary and...

—Ha! – Sir Patrick's head shouted. – I bet he asked you to say that!

— If everyone could pay attention to me, it's time for my speech! – Sir Nicholas warned loudly, walking firmly to the podium and taking a position under the light of an ice-blue spotlight.

“My late sirs, ladies and gentlemen, I have great regret...”

But no one heard much more than that. Sir Patrick and the Headless Hunters started a game of head hockey and people were turning to watch. Sir Nicholas tried in vain to win back his audience, but gave up when Sir Patrick's head sailed past him amid shouts of cheers.

Harry, by this time, was already feeling hungry, so he just waited until the orchestra started playing again and the ghosts glided onto the dance floor again.

— The time is almost over — Harry said, addressing the birthday boy. – It was a good party, Sir Nicholas.

— Ah, thank you, Harry — There was still a bit of bitterness in the ghost's voice, and his smile was pale, even if grateful. – Thank you very much for coming. Goodnight.

— Good evening, Sir Nicholas.

Smiling at those who looked his way, Harry left the dungeon and quickly walked up the candle-filled corridor, wanting to quickly reach the Great Hall. With luck, there would still be some pudding.

He was walking up the stairs when he suddenly felt his feet vibrate against something. There was water spread all over the floor, running down the steps of the upper stairs. Intrigued, he slowly climbed the upper stairs, watching the water flow like a river through small waterfalls.

The main hallway on the second floor was soaked with water, forming a small lake in the middle of the floor, and it was only growing, even with the water running down the stairs. Harry continued walking, thankful that the uniform's shoes were closed, needing just one charm to be waterproof (and Harry knew the right charm for that).

The first thing Harry saw as he turned left down the corridor was Mrs. Norris, stiff as a stick and wide-eyed, hanging upside down from a torch stand. He immediately ran towards the cat, splashing water with his hurried steps.

She was cold, entirely rigid, without any kind of suppleness in any corner of her fur, just like a statue. He couldn't feel breathing or pulse, but Harry could see that there was still a little magic inside the cat, making him relax a little. Then, irritated to no end, he carefully pulled her by the neck out of the holder and thrust a counter-curse at Mrs. Norris, making her alive again.

The kitten meowed fearfully, scared, and curled up against Harry's lap as soon as he placed her in his arms, her ears flat. Harry smiled gently, carefully stroking behind one of her ears.

He was turning so he could leave (and probably warn Filch about the “joke” with Mrs. Norris) when he finally noticed a reddish glow being reflected in the water on the floor, coming from one of the walls.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS IS OPEN.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BE CAREFUL.

Harry contemplated the meaning of words written in blood for a very long time, frozen in front of the wall and hiding Mrs. Norris's face in his chest. The next thing he noticed was someone shouting:

— Enemies of the heir, be careful! You'll be next, mudbloods!

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed his way to the front of the students exiting the Great Hall, his cold eyes very intense, his usually pale face flushed.

***

For a few days, the school was practically unable to talk about anything other than the graffiti on the wall on the second floor. Filch kept it alive in everyone's memory, wandering around the place where the bloody letters were painted, as if he thought the criminal might return. Harry had seen him scrubbing the message with Skower Magic Multipurpose Remover, but to no avail; the words continued to shine on the stone, stronger than ever. When Filch wasn't guarding the crime scene, he skulked through the halls, eyes red, lunging at distracted students and trying to get them detention for things like "breathing loudly" and "looking happy." Mrs. Norris was practically not seen for the entire following week, staying almost always in Filch's room or, as Harry observed one day, with Crookshanks in the vegetation surrounding the castle.

There was also a certain stupidity from the other students, more than they normally were. Harry could feel a lot of looks being sent his way, some discreet, others open. The escape of Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Hufflepuff in his year, was certainly the most open reaction.

Slytherin was also weird. It seemed that the children from Year 3 and below found it very interesting gossip to whisper when his back was turned, but whenever he was facing them, there was an almost sumptuous silence. The fourth years looked at him with stupid faces trying to calculate, but they were the only ones who did so, since all the older students didn't even look at him – which, admittedly, they didn't do to anyone. Draco Malfoy was, however, the weirdo among weirdos. He didn't treat it like a hot piece of gossip. He didn't treat it with calculation. He did the opposite, perhaps: he threatened him.

— Be careful, Potter – the blonde had cornered him one day at the door of the Great Hall, with a semi-serious tone. – The Heir has returned, and he already warned what would happen. Become a Slytherin from now on.

Naturally, Harry turned a deaf ear to the other boy.

Days and days later, Filch had almost managed to erase the reddish letters, which led him to shout at anyone who walked around with a pencil in their hand, paranoid about a reprint. His collapse only seemed less imminent than Hermione's, who seemed to have doubled her hunger for books that week, as he had seen when Ronald was struggling to finish an essay and the girl doggedly walked past him carrying half a dozen books to the table shared in the library.

— What’s all this for? – the redhead once grumbled, although it wasn't necessary to verbalize the answer. It was obvious what Hermione was looking for, especially with titles like Secrets of British Castles and Wizarding Personalities in History.

It wasn't even surprising when the white elephant was finally taken out of the room, with a slight hint of amusement that a ghost had done it.

— Professor?

Prof. Binns looked up in the middle of a deadly dull speech about the International Wizarding Convention of 1289 and made a surprised face.

— Miss... ah...?

— Granger, professor. I would like to know if you could tell us something about the Chamber of Secrets – asked Hermione in a clear voice.

Dean Thomas, who had been sitting with his mouth open, peering out of the window, suddenly woke up from his trance; Mila Bulstrode's head, lying on her arms, rose and Neville Longbottom's elbow slipped off the desk.

Prof. Binns blinked.

— My subject is History of Magic — he said in that dry, asthmatic voice. – I deal with facts, Miss. Granger, not with myths or legends. – He cleared his throat, making a noise like breaking chalk and continued. – In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian wizards...

The professor stammered before stopping. Hermione's hand was in the air again.

— Ms. Grant?

— Please, professor, aren’t legends always based on facts?

Prof. Binns looked at her with such astonishment that Harry was sure no student, living or dead, had ever interrupted him before.

— Well – said the Prof. Binns slowly. – it's a valid point, I suppose. – He studied the girl as if he had never looked at a student properly before. – However, the legend you speak of is so sensationalist and even so absurd that...

The entire class hung on every word the professor said. He ran a myopic glance over everyone, face by face turned in his direction. Harry realized that he was completely put off by this unusual display of interest.

— Ah, very well – he said slowly. – Let's see... the Chamber of Secrets...

“You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago... the exact date is uncertain... by the four greatest wizards and witches of the time. The school's four houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, away from the prying eyes of Muggles, because it was a time when magic was feared by common people, and wizards and witches suffered a lot of persecution.”

He paused, looked around the room with watery eyes and continued:

— For a few years, the founders worked together, in harmony, looking for young people who showed signs of talent in magic and bringing them to be educated at the castle. But then disagreements arose. A rift occurred between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wanted to be more selective about the students admitted. He believed that magical learning should be kept within entirely magical families. He disliked admitting students with Muggle parents, as he found them untrustworthy. After some time there was a serious argument about the matter between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left school.

Harry could not have judged Slytherin at the time.

— That's what reliable historical sources tell us. – Prof. Binns continued after a brief pause, pursing his lips, looking like a wrinkled old turtle. – But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. According to this, Slytherin built a secret chamber in the castle, which the others knew nothing about.

“Slytherin would have sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that no one could open it until his rightful heir arrived at the school. Only the heir would be able to open the Chamber of Secrets, release the horror it contained, and use it to purge the school of all who were not worthy of studying magic.”

There was silence when he finished telling the story, but it wasn't the usual, drowsy silence that dominated Prof. Binns's classes. There was a certain awkwardness in the air as everyone continued to stare at him, waiting for more. Prof. Binns looked slightly annoyed.

— The whole story is complete nonsense, of course. Naturally, the school was searched for evidence of the existence of this chamber, often by the most educated wizards and witches. She does not exist. A story told to scare the credulous.

Hermione's hand went up again.

— Professor... what exactly did you mean by “the horror it contained”?

— It is believed that there is some kind of monster, which only the heir of Slytherin can control – replied the Professor. Binns with his dry, squeaky voice.

The students exchanged nervous glances.

— I say that the thing doesn't exist — he said, leafing through his notes. – There is no Chamber and no monster.

— But, Professor – asked Seamus Finnigan – if the Chamber can only be opened by the true heir of Slytherin, no one else would be able to find it, right?

— Nonsense, O’Flaherty — said Prof. Binns, in an irritated tone. – If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven't found the thing...

—But, professor – Parvati Patil's thin voice was heard –, the person will probably have to use Dark Magic to open it...

— Just because a wizard doesn't use Dark Magic doesn't mean he can't, Ms. Pennyfeather – replied Prof. Binns. – I repeat, if a person like Dumbledore...

— But perhaps the person would have to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn't... – began Dean Thomas, but for the professor that was already too much.

— Enough – he said harshly. – It's a myth! Doesn't exist! There is not the slightest proof that Slytherin ever built even a secret broom cupboard! I regret having told you such a foolish story. Let's go back, please, to history, to solid, credible and verifiable facts!

The Slytherins left quieter than when they entered, and Harry didn't know if he liked that or not.