Destined By Blood

by Jhtolsen

Chapter 24: The Plan That Could Break 50 Rules

 

---

 

Since Mrs Norris had been found Petrified, Argus Filch had turned into an even more sinister and cantankerous figure than usual.

Now, the caretaker prowled ceaselessly up and down the corridor where his beloved cat had been attacked, as though waiting for the culprit to be foolish enough to return to the scene of the crime.

His gnarled fingers gripped the handle of an old mop tightly, which swayed menacingly in his hands, while iron chains clinked at his belt, ready to bind any wrongdoer.

He had even gone so far as to set up a rickety chair in the middle of the corridor, where he would sit for hours on end, muttering broken, hate-filled phrases to himself.

“When I catch the scoundrel,” he would growl, bloodshot eyes scanning the students passing by, “I’ll hang ’im from the ceiling by his ankles and scrub the floor with his face until it bleeds!”

Needless to say, upon hearing such things, students kept their heads down and walked faster to get out of his sight, terrified he might start suspecting their innocence.

Filch had always been, by nature, a man who relished punishing others, handing out detentions for the most trivial of offences and pursuing students with the fervour of a ravenous hawk. But now, with his cat lying motionless in the hospital wing, his fury had reached alarming heights.

He reprimanded students for “breathing with too much enthusiasm” or “smiling too cheerfully”, as though happiness itself were a personal insult.

Not even the mysterious message on the wall escaped his wrath.

Armed with a bucket soaked in Mrs Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, he scrubbed frantically at the red lettering, sweating and swearing as the mop squeaked across the stone. But no matter how hard he tried, the words remained stubbornly in place, gleaming under the torchlight like a sinister warning:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE!

While pondering these bizarre events, Harry found himself in yet another Potions lesson, as uncomfortable as ever, as though Snape’s mere silent presence—watching them with that expressionless stare—made the atmosphere all the more unbearable.

The sound of knives striking chopping boards echoed around the dungeon, breaking the oppressive silence as the students sliced bat spleens.

Yet Harry’s mind was far away.

He barely noticed the automatic movements of his hands; his thoughts were trapped in the macabre voice he’d heard the night before.

The Chamber of Secrets had been opened.

Who was the Heir of Slytherin? And who were their enemies?

The whole school seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the next attack. Harry had his suspicions, but no certainties—only a gnawing knot of unease in his stomach.

He hoped with all his might that he, Ron, Neville, and Hermione weren’t in the Heir’s sights... but a grim sense of foreboding whispered otherwise.

His eyes landed on Malfoy in the corner of the classroom, who had spoken of Mudbloods with that arrogant smirk, as though they were nothing more than rubbish to be swept from the castle.

Muggle-borns.

The target of the danger.

Hermione.

Harry swallowed hard, watching her from a distance, at another table.

She was working efficiently, dividing the bat spleens into even portions before slicing them neatly into tiny pieces, stacking them precisely at the edge of the board. If she was worried, she wasn’t showing it—her expression was one of focus, not fear.

She’s good at hiding what she feels, Harry thought, turning back to his own work with the knife, careful not to slice his finger.

But that voice wouldn’t leave his head. It still echoed in his ears, hoarse and laced with malice, like a promise of violence.

Was that voice the Heir himself? And if so… who was behind it?

It was hard to know what any of it meant.

The story of the Chamber felt more like a half-told legend, with scraps of information scattered among the students.

In the common room the day before that Potions class, it had been clear that everyone was just as alert as he was.

While Harry tried—and failed—to finish his History of Magic homework, Hermione sat with a thick book in her lap, but hadn’t turned a single page in half an hour. Ron and Neville, playing chess, were taking forever to make their moves, clearly listening in on the conversations around them.

“I heard that the Chamber is full of hidden treasure,” Katie Bell had said. “And maybe the Heir’s trying to protect something that was stolen.”

“What if it’s a torture chamber?!” Dean Thomas exclaimed from another table, eyes wide. “And the Heir’s just a code name for a murderer who goes after anyone who stands in their way?”

“If it were a murderer, he wouldn’t’ve just Petrified Mrs Norris,” argued Seamus Finnigan. “Maybe he just doesn’t like cats… like my neighbour who poisoned ours back home, the nasty old bat.”

The theories were as vague as they were absurd, but the professors, on the other hand, seemed to know more than they were letting on. Their worried glances and hushed conversations didn’t go unnoticed by the students’ watchful eyes.

But if Harry had hoped to pick up any clues during that lesson with Snape, he was sorely mistaken.

“How many rat tails are required for the Hair-Raising Potion, Longbottom?” Snape asked suddenly, his voice slicing through the dungeon’s silence like a blade.

Neville gave a start, knocking the knife from his hand onto the floor, backing away from it as though it had come alive.

“I… I think it’s three, sir,” he said, picking the knife back up.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek for Neville’s sake.

He knew the answer was wrong; it was six. Even so, he could do nothing but watch as Snape leaned forward, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

He was a sadist and took real delight in mocking and humiliating Neville—sometimes even more than Harry.

“You think?” Snape repeated, savouring each word. “Much as I think your end-of-term results will be just as dreadful as this potion.”

Neville swallowed hard.

“Yes, sir...” he murmured weakly.

Hermione, who had been fidgeting, finally raised her hand.

“Yes, Granger?” said Snape, bored.

“Six rat tails, Professor,” she replied promptly, her voice clear. “Seven, if you’re using only one chopped bat spleen instead of two. However, that reduces the potion’s effects by half, even though it prolongs its duration by a quarter, due to the combined properties of the rat tails and half a puffer-fish eye. You also need to stir the cauldron five extra times clockwise before bottling it.”

Snape narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling into a cold smile.

“Impressive. It’s remarkable how insufferable you manage to be even when you’re correct.”

He turned, staring at Neville, who shrank back instinctively.

“See, Longbottom? Your classmate won’t always be there to save you in lessons. Do make a note of that, for when you can no longer lean on your crutches.”

“Y-yes, sir,” he repeated quietly, pulling out a scrap of parchment and scribbling the information down with trembling fingers.

The sneering smiles of the Slytherins spread across the room as they muttered to one another, laughing under their breath, and Harry felt his blood boil.

He gripped the knife in his hand far too tightly, slicing the limp, gelatinous bat spleen with a sudden, loud chop that drew the professor’s attention.

“Having trouble cutting spleens, Mr Potter?” said Snape.

“No, sir,” Harry replied, eyes fixed on the workbench.

“Then do the task properly,” Snape snapped. “Horizontal cuts, not vertical. We are slicing bat spleens, Potter, not butchering rabbits with a cleaver. One more stroke like that and you’ll be wasting the school’s ingredients. If you’re incapable of valuing the delicate materials we use, perhaps you’d rather help Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail again.”

The muffled laughter of the Slytherins rippled through the dungeon once more, and Harry had to muster every bit of self-control not to fling the bat spleens at someone’s backside or roll his eyes.

He went back to work, promising himself he’d cut the spleens so perfectly Snape wouldn’t have anything left to criticise—but of course, he still found fault with a few apparently uneven slices once the lesson was over.

Shortly afterwards came History of Magic.

By halfway through, Harry was already bored beyond endurance.

The monotonous drone of Professor Binns was like a soundtrack for exhaustion, and he found himself checking the clock on the wall every two minutes, in the vain hope that time might move faster. Eventually, he rested his head on his book, eyelids growing heavy once again.

Across the room, Binns was drifting back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.

“So, now that we’ve concluded the details of the Medieval Assembly of European Wizards,” the professor was saying in his slow, monotonous voice, “we shall proceed to the reign of Arthur Pendragon. He was the son of Uther Pendragon and became world-famous under his title: King Arthur. He is equally well known in the Muggle world through various fanciful tales, and in the wizarding world, though we possess far more information than Muggles do and can be certain that he did indeed exist.”

That caught Harry’s attention.

He’d heard of King Arthur in Muggle stories.

There was even a Disney cartoon he remembered watching on television when he’d found a VHS tape his aunt and uncle had rented—one Vernon had hated and would’ve binned, had he not needed to return it—when they’d left him home alone. He thought, perhaps, this might be the first time something interesting came out of that ghostly professor’s mouth.

Maybe time will pass more quickly now, he thought, a little more cheerful at the prospect.

“Well, starting at the beginning,” Binns went on, not even glancing at the students, “very little is known about King Arthur’s reign, as most records from the time have mysteriously vanished.”

His glazed eyes seemed to fix on a distant point, as though gazing back across the centuries.

“There are theories, of course—some suggest sabotage, others mere accidents of time—but no definitive conclusion has been reached. What we know, with absolute certainty, is that Arthur was indeed a wizard, and the founder of the legendary Order of the Knights of the Round Table.”

Some students were yawning openly, their heads drooping dangerously close to their desks, until—

“He did not attend Hogwarts, of course,” Binns continued, “as, being a monarch, he could not leave his realm for an entire year, especially under the constant threat of rival kingdoms. However,” and here his voice gained the faintest trace of importance, “he was personally tutored by Merlin in his youth, shortly after proving himself worthy of the Muggle throne at the age of thirteen.”

The effect was immediate.

Several heads that had been nodding with sleep jerked upright, and even Harry—who usually found History of Magic an open invitation to unconsciousness—felt a tremor of interest.

Merlin.

That was a name even the most inattentive wizard would recognise.

“Arthur ruled the only mixed monarchy in British history,” Binns went on, “reigning over Muggles and wizards simultaneously—though for a regrettably short time with both thrones united. Naturally, this led to considerable conflict, particularly with the Catholic Church, which already held sway over the island at the time. They considered all magic an abominable heresy, which, as you can imagine, did not ease matters.”

Binns adjusted his pockmarked spectacles, which kept sliding down his ghostly nose.

“The true motives that led Arthur to rule over wizards, or even to attempt such a venture, are the subject of countless theories,” the professor continued, his voice echoing like a whisper of wind through old parchment.

“However, all of them agree on one crucial point: Arthur was said to be chosen or worthy to wield the legendary sword Excalibur, and it was this blade that legitimised his monarchical rule in the wizarding world.”

Harry was now fully alert, his eyes fixed on the professor as though afraid to miss a single word.

“They say,” Binns went on, floating slightly above his desk, “that anyone who was not the true chosen one would be unable to lift the sword. To the unworthy, it would weigh as though the entire world pressed down upon its blade, making it utterly impossible to raise. No Strengthening Solution, spell, or any other creative method would work—it simply wouldn’t budge a single millimetre.”

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Ron and Neville, who looked just as surprised that Binns was, at long last, saying something worth listening to.

Hermione raised her hand with purpose, her clear voice cutting through the dusty silence of the classroom.

“Professor, may I ask a question?”

Binns paused mid-float. He looked genuinely taken aback—after all, interruptions in his lessons were as rare as a tame dragon.

“P–proceed Miss Granger,” he replied, his voice as slow as an old scroll unravelling.

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with that insatiable thirst for knowledge.

“Is it true that the Ministry of Magic’s legal codes still include an article stating that whoever wields Excalibur shall be recognised as the rightful king or queen of magical Britain?”

Binns blinked slowly, as though he needed a moment to process that someone had actually been paying attention to his words.

“Precisely,” he confirmed. “Although the Ministry of Magic was founded in 1707—more than six centuries after the end of Arthur’s reign—many of the old consensus laws from the scattered wizarding communities across Britain were preserved, particularly those that were broadly accepted, like the one concerning the sword.” His voice took on a more solemn tone.

“The original parchment of that law remains archived at the Ministry as a historical record. So, to answer your implied question: yes, technically, anyone who were to find Excalibur and prove themselves worthy to wield it could, in fact, claim the abandoned throne of the wizarding world in Britain.”

Hermione could barely contain her excitement.

“And is there any clue as to where the sword might be today?” she asked, her fingers tightening slightly around her quill, as if already poised to jot down every detail.

Before Binns could reply, a slow, drawling voice sliced through the air.

“Planning to be queen now, Granger?” Draco Malfoy wore a razor-sharp smirk, his pale eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. “They don’t let your kind near the throne. You wouldn’t come close to being worthy.”

The Slytherins laughed, the harsh sound echoing through the room like the clink of chains.

Hermione frowned furiously, but her wounded eyes betrayed her—not from embarrassment, but from the sting of meaning behind the words, like a quick, clean blow.

Harry, watching her expression, felt a familiar rage ignite in his chest. He could almost sense his aura wanting to punch Draco into the floor for spouting such rubbish again.

“And why would your kind be any more worthy, Malfoy?” Harry hurled the words like a spell, his voice loaded with a challenge that made the air in the room grow suddenly heavier.

The laughter died instantly.

All the students turned, eyes flicking between Harry and Draco as though witnessing a duel before wands had even been drawn.

Malfoy lifted his chin, his pale face blotched with a flush of anger.

“I’m a pure-blood, Potter!” he spat, the words as sharp as venom. “Of course I’d be worthy.”

“Merlin help us,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes in a tone that left no doubt how ridiculous he found the whole thing. “Daddy’s little princess on the royal throne. Honestly, the wizarding world wouldn’t survive your noble leadership.”

This time, it was the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables that burst out laughing.

Malfoy wrinkled his nose as though he’d just swallowed a spoonful of Bubotuber pus, his face twisting into a sour grimace that even Peeves would envy.

“Shut it, Weasley,” he snapped—but the effect was ruined by the fact that his voice cracked into a high-pitched squeak.

“Come shut me up then, squeaky!” Ron shot back from his desk, making an exaggerated open-armed gesture.

“Silence, all of you!” Binns interjected, his voice echoing through the room.

The laughter faded gradually until it stopped entirely, though the students still exchanged grins and whispered remarks with their neighbours.

“This is a classroom, not a circus, and certainly not a duelling arena!” Binns continued. “Miss Granger’s question is valid, and there’s nothing wrong with asking it. Now pay attention. As for Excalibur—it has vanished completely from history. There are no reliable records of where it might be, only that it did exist and was used to legitimise the wizarding throne. So, don’t worry yourself, Miss Granger. The chances of it being found are about as likely as a wizard striking up a conversation with a dragon.” He chuckled to himself.

As soon as Binns mentioned dragons, Harry, Neville, Hermione and Ron exchanged curious looks.

Harry raised his hand before the ghostly professor could carry on.

Binns stopped laughing at once. He scratched his forehead, still unaccustomed to so much interaction in a single lesson.

“Yes, Potter?”

“Professor, has any wizard ever spoken to dragons before?” Harry asked.

“Well... er... yes, well...” Binns began, clearly puzzled that this had become the subject of the question. “What I said was merely an expression, nothing serious, but some say that Merlin had that ability. He was known to speak over thirty languages—ten of them being ancient goblin dialects, which in themselves took years of study just to grasp the basics. These days—fortunately—goblin languages have been standardised. However, I believe that tale to be an exaggeration, just another popular myth. No wizard has ever been truly documented speaking with dragons; it’s more likely that the idea arose from Merlin’s reputation as a great polyglot.”

Harry was thoughtful for a moment.

He knew he’d spoken to a dragon.

He’d understood Norbert the year before.

Looking at his friends, he saw their expressions were just as thoughtful.

Hermione was chewing her lower lip, absently flicking her quill from side to side, while Ron scratched his head in confusion and Neville frowned in concentration.

“But as I was saying,” Binns continued, “this period of British wizarding history is marked by profound mysteries—including the inexplicable disappearance of Excalibur, as we’ve already discussed.”

He was noting the information on the board with painstaking slowness. The chalk—also translucent—gripped in his hand.

“Ten whole years were completely… erased, so to speak, from collective memory,” Binns explained, his tone suggesting he might just as well have been talking about the autumn weather. “An event known as ‘The Veil of Memory’.”

Harry jotted down another name and date on his parchment mechanically, already sure he’d forget it all the moment the class ended.

The chalk continued its journey across the board as Binns carried on explaining.

“Before this event, we have fragmented reports indicating that two significant occurrences took place: first, the expulsion of Salazar Slytherin from Hogwarts by Godric Gryffindor; second, the birth of a child between King Arthur and his half-sister, Morgana Le Fay—described as the rightful heir to the throne.”

Everyone also knew that Morgana was as much of a character as Merlin. She was an expert in many dark arts, even if she wasn't considered a dark witch.

Harry wrinkled his nose at the mention of Arthur and Morgana.

Half-siblings having a child together? That was disturbing, to say the least.

His discomfort deepened as Binns wrote on the board, in his perfect handwriting, that this heir never ascended the throne and that his true name remained unknown—though historians suspected it was Mordred, based on scattered accounts.

“As for the expulsion of Salazar Slytherin...” Binns continued, “some sources claim that Godric Gryffindor carried out the act while wielding his legendary silver sword, following a heated debate about the future of Muggle-borns at Hogwarts.”

The professor paused for dramatic effect.

“After these events, over a decade passed without any historical records, making up the ‘Veil of Memory’ I mentioned.”

Binns looked out over the class with an unusually solemn air.

“Pay close attention for the exam before the Christmas holidays,” he warned. “During this period, all records—written or oral, books, scrolls, maps—any form of historical preservation was completely obliterated in a way that historians still do not fully understand.”

Ron, sitting beside Harry, leaned in with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Would be brilliant to take a dump on Snape’s desk and he wouldn’t remember a thing,” he muttered, making Harry stifle a laugh.

“Some testimonies describe the sensation as if they went to sleep one night and woke up the next day with no memory of prior historical events,” Binns went on. “What’s interesting, however, is that memories of day-to-day problems and personally significant events—like work, weddings, birthdays, and parties—remained completely intact, as though nothing had changed. But any attempt to recall historical events, such as wars, epidemics, laws, or the like resulted in… nothing. There were even a few cases of people who had died, where everyone remembered they had died, but no one could say what they died of exactly.”

The students exchanged perplexed glances. What kind of power could do something so extraordinary?

“And when historical records finally resumed,” Binns concluded with a ghostly sigh, “figures like Merlin, Salazar Slytherin, Morgana Le Fay, and King Arthur himself had simply… vanished, never mentioned again in the historical annals, as the legends now tell us.”

Daphne Greengrass raised her hand timidly and hesitantly.

“Yes, Miss Greengrass?”

“This disagreement between Godric and Salazar—does it have anything to do with the Chamber of Secrets?”

“There is such a theory, but I reject it completely,” admitted Binns, with a dismissive gesture. “The Chamber of Secrets is nothing more than a legend. I have no interest in legends of this sort.”

“But how can it not exist, professor?” asked Terry Boot. “Just yesterday, Mrs Norris was petrified, and there was a message on the wall saying the Chamber had been opened!”

“That’s nothing but a tasteless prank, pulled by some ill-intentioned student,” Binns replied firmly. “Someone wanted to frighten you with an old and outdated tale. The Chamber doesn’t exist.”

“But can you tell the legend, then?” Susan Bones ventured. “After all, it’s part of this historical period, isn’t it?”

Binns sighed, casting a weary glance across the room, but noted that everyone was paying attention with an unusually intense interest.

“Very well,” he relented. “I’ll tell the story once, and then we will return to the lesson.”

He paused dramatically before continuing. No one dared interrupt with side conversations.

“To understand the legend of the Chamber of Secrets,” he began, his voice taking on a graver tone, “we must go back to the very founding of Hogwarts. When the four founders united to create our school, they agreed to admit students from all backgrounds.” His translucent finger rose in a professorial gesture. “However, over time, Muggle persecution intensified. Witches and wizards were hunted, tortured, burned alive in public squares…”

A collective shiver passed through the room.

“Salazar Slytherin travelled the world in search of ways to protect our kind,” Binns continued, unfazed. “The fires consumed mostly women—deemed weaker in spirit at the time—but men and children also perished. Entire families of wizards were wiped out.” His tone grew even darker. “The Muggles turned these executions into public spectacles. There were food and drink sellers, musicians and preachers, as though it were… a festive day. Divine justice and cleansing, they claimed.”

“Barbarians…” murmured Mandy Brocklehurst, her face pale with horror.

“Scumbags,” growled the Hufflepuff Roger Malone, clenching his fists.

“Despicable,” spat Goyle, though Harry noticed Draco Malfoy seemed more intrigued than appalled.

Harry felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to see his own family dragged to the stake, and a wave of heat washed through him as though the imagined flames were already licking at his skin.

Binns, sensing the general discomfort, hastened to add:

“But those dark times are long gone. Muggles today are civilised—nothing like their cruel ancestors. I’m merely providing context for what likely led Salazar to… wish to take extreme measures.”

The mood in the room remained heavy, but the ghostly professor went on, floating slightly as he spoke:

“When Salazar returned to Hogwarts after his travels, he brought with him radical ideas. He began claiming that Muggle-borns were the real threat—that they posed danger to our world. This stance placed him in direct conflict with Godric.”

Most of the Slytherins wore smug expressions, as if in agreement with their founder’s extremist views; the rest of the class was split between remaining silent and puffing out their chests in pride at Godric’s stance.

Binns cleared his throat.

“The arguments grew increasingly heated, particularly between the two,” the professor went on, “until, during a feast in the Great Hall, the rupture became inevitable. Salazar was expelled.” His tone dropped dramatically. “But before he left, he made a sinister revelation: he claimed to have built a hidden Chamber deep within the castle, and left there a creature destined to ‘purify’ Hogwarts of Muggle-borns when his true heir returned.”

The students glanced at one another, as if wondering whether someone among them might be the heir.

Binns, however, waved his hand as though swatting away an invisible fly.

“Pure fantasy, of course,” he declared wearily. “No entrance has ever been found, and even if it did exist, any creature locked inside would have perished centuries ago. Nothing survives a thousand years hidden in a bustling castle.” His eyes swept the room with disdain. “As for those who claim to be heirs of Slytherin... well, they’re either mad or attention-seekers.”

“But Professor,” Ernie Macmillan called out, “my grandfather once said they reckoned the Chamber was opened—more than fifty years ago—it was!”

Binns frowned impatiently.

“That’s to do with a murder that occurred at the school more than fifty years ago,” he said knowledgeably. “Everyone believed the Chamber had been opened at the time and that the creature from it did the killing, but I’ve said already—those are mere fables! And it wouldn’t be remotely possible. The matter was resolved at the time, and no evidence of any Chamber was found. Therefore, I shall not speak on it any further.”

Having said that, Binns resumed his rigid posture, eyes on his book, and began reading once again in his monotone voice.

“Now, back to the lesson. Page two hundred and twenty-two, chapter twenty-two, The Middle Ages and the Seventh Goblin Rebellion led by Tekirak the Third…” he cleared his throat before beginning to read.

As Binns resumed his monologue, the whole class let out a collective sigh.

Harry glanced at the clock once again, wishing time would move faster.

Some time later, Harry ended up dozing off, and Neville nudged his shoulder, signalling that the lesson was over.

They gathered their things and began to make their way through the crowded corridors.

They passed Madam Pomfrey, muttering about low stocks of pain-relief potions from all the students falling off brooms and breaking bones. Harry noticed that Hermione, oddly, wasn’t leading the way as she usually did, nor was she in the midst of one of her usual monologues about something she’d read and found fascinating.

She was normally the most eager of the lot to get to the next class, unlike the rest of them, who would have delayed it forever if they could.

“What are you thinking about, Hermione?” Neville asked, casting her a curious glance.

He’d noticed the distant and focused look on her face, as though she were solving a particularly difficult equation in her head.

Hermione hesitated. Her eyes swept their surroundings quickly to make sure no one was listening, and then she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Harry…” she began, clearly reluctant.

“Yes?” he replied, frowning.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that… what if you’re the heir of Merlin? Or something like that?”

Harry stumbled over his own feet, the suggestion so absurd it took him off guard.

Of all the extraordinary things Hermione had ever said to him, this one stood out by a mile.

“What? Of course not! That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. “How would I be?”

“This I’ve got to hear,” said Ron, a mocking grin spreading across his face.

Hermione wet her lips, appearing to weigh each word as though they were ingredients in a complicated potion.

“Look… the writings say that Merlin had a wild aura, and now we know he could speak to dragons.”

“People say a lot of things, Hermione. Talking’s easy. Proving it—less so,” Harry retorted, more impatiently than he meant. “And even then, it’s all speculation. We don’t even know if he really spoke to dragons.”

“But you do!” she insisted, her eyes blazing with enthusiasm. “And we’re talking about Merlin! He spoke thirty languages, remember? Professor Binns is only sceptical because no one else has been documented with that ability—but you have it!”

“I only spoke to Norbert… one dragon. That’s it.”

“And Merlin didn’t even have kids,” Ron interrupted, rolling his eyes. “These things are hereditary, aren’t they?”

“Who said he didn’t have children?” Hermione shot back, folding her arms firmly. “He vanished! No one knows what happened to him after the Veil of Memory. It’s perfectly possible he left descendants behind.”

Neville watched her with that hesitant look of someone who wanted to believe but was on the verge of saying, “this is barmy.”

However, it was Ron who pressed on.

“So you’re saying that Merlin, who must’ve been, I dunno, a hundred years old or more, had kids, and now, centuries later, Harry’s his heir?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Why not? He might’ve had children when he was twenty and no one knows!” said Hermione, with a defiant note in her voice. “The wizarding world is small. What are the chances he wouldn’t have descendants floating around?”

“Higher than the chances he would!” Ron replied, shooting her a sceptical look. “You’re off on one with this theory.”

“Why would that be a problem, anyway?” she asked, now standing up straighter, chin lifted and eyes narrowed.

Ron scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and shrugged. His ears were already beginning to turn pink.

“I dunno… just think Harry didn’t really like the idea,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulders, walking a bit clumsily as usual.

“Oh no, of course I loved it,” Harry shot back sarcastically, arms folded. “As if it’s not enough that the whole world already looks at me sideways, now you want me to be descended from the most famous wizard who ever lived—the same one people use instead of God or Jesus Christ? Amazing. Maybe I’ll start walking on water and turning it into wine too.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“For your information,” she said, in that condescending voice she reserved for tolerating other people’s ignorance, “it’s perfectly possible to walk on water with the right spell. And I know you read in that Transfiguration book you lent me that turning water into wine is viable too. Jesus was probably a wizard, you know.”

Harry let out a sigh and ran a hand over his face.

“I was being rhetorical,” he muttered, wearily.

Hermione blinked.

“Oh... well, in that case, maybe it’s not so interesting for you. But it’s still fascinating.”

“When did I go from ‘Harry’ to ‘case study’ without realising?” he asked sarcastically.

“I didn’t say you’re a case study!” Hermione retorted, shaking her head in exasperation, her curls bouncing. “I’m just saying what could be possible, even if the odds are minimal.”

"About that whole case study thing," Ron added with a cheeky grin, "that was, oh, about three minutes ago."

Harry let out a tired sigh.

They fell silent as a group of Hufflepuff classmates—Ernie Macmillan, Roger Malone, Wayne Hopkins and Justin Finch-Fletchley—walked past, their yellow-and-black ties swaying with their quick steps. They moved faster, laughing and nudging one another, clearly sharing some private joke.

Once they’d turned the corner, Neville cleared his throat.

“Look...” he began, hesitating as he fidgeted with the sleeve of his uniform, “Harry’s got an aura... different—but not in a bad way!” he added quickly, raising his hands as if to fend off protests. “But you can feel it in Magical Sensitivity lessons. I used to feel it more, I mean stronger... even when I meditate in bed, I can sense it.”

Harry sighed and folded his arms.

 “And here I thought I was getting better at hiding it.” he said, resigned.

In truth, he knew he’d learned to focus enough to contain part of his aura. If he kept his emotions calm, he could go almost unnoticed now. But controlling it was trickier than it seemed, and the idea of being observed—especially by something he barely understood himself—made him uneasy.

Learning to partially hide his aura—after a great deal of effort and persistence on his part, spending more than an hour or two meditating before bed—had already been hard. Hiding it completely felt nearly impossible.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Neville added quickly, concern etched on his face. “It’s just that... maybe there’s something in it, you know? I dunno...” He shrugged, clearly worried he’d offended Harry.

Harry studied Neville’s face for a moment, then relaxed. He offered his friend a reassuring smile.

“I know, Nev,” he said, his voice lower than he’d intended. “I’m not upset, I just think it’s all still speculation. We’ve got no way to prove any of it.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, but Hermione looked like her head was brimming with thoughts. She suddenly stopped in the middle of the corridor, checking again to make sure no one was nearby.

“What now?” Ron asked, sounding a bit stressed.

“What if Malfoy’s the Heir of Slytherin?” she whispered.

“Heir of Slytherin?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “That’s what they’re calling it now?”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Well, when I went to the loo before Binns’s class, I heard two Slytherin girls talking about it,” she said, leaning in to check the corridors again. “Apparently it’s a famous legend in their house, because of Salazar.”

They waited for a pair of older Ravenclaws to pass before continuing.

“So you think that prat’s the Heir?” Ron asked sceptically. “Not to knock your theory, Hermione, but he’s nowhere near qualified for that—and I mean, you just have to look at him to see he’s useless. Doesn’t even need to open his mouth.”

“He doesn’t need to be qualified,” Hermione replied. “He just needs to be Salazar’s heir to open the Chamber and unleash whatever caused what happened yesterday—you heard the legend the professor told.”

“Yeah, I doubt he’d be able to paint the wall in blood and petrify Mrs Norris,” Harry said, sceptical.

“That was a kind of advanced petrification,” Hermione explained. “An antidote like that must cost a fortune per dose, and it clearly takes someone very experienced to brew it... unless the petrification was the fourth-level filinissimus type, but then I’d be getting into technical terms and—”

“You’ll start speaking in Goblin again,” Ron cut in, finishing her sentence mockingly. “Stick to English, please—I want to know what you’re on about.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Making that potion isn’t the problem,” Harry said. “If Snape stops being a git and doesn’t turn up his nose at it, he’d brew the antidote.”

“Whether he wants to or not, he’ll have to,” Hermione said firmly. “He’s Hogwarts’ Potions Master for a reason, after all. But about this petrification—just so you understand—even known spells can’t do that directly, not for long anyway, not unless it’s an enchantment, and those are much more complex to cast. It would take a lot of time and preparation. So clearly it was some kind of creature.”

“Okay, but... uh... let’s say this,” Neville began hesitantly, thinking aloud, “why do you reckon Malfoy’s the Heir and not... I dunno, Michael Corner, for example?”

“Corner’s got a brain,” Harry quipped, making Ron snort with laughter.

“I’m serious!” Hermione insisted. “He’s a Malfoy, for starters, and that’s already a strong clue.”

“Unless his mum’s best friends with their gardener, then yeah,” Harry added, provoking more laughter.

“Stop joking around, Harry! Pay attention!” Hermione snapped, impatient. “I looked into the oldest wizarding families. The Malfoys came from France and helped William the Conqueror when he invaded Britain with the Normans—using questionable magical methods in the Muggle world.”

“‘Questionable methods’ and ‘Malfoy’ in the same sentence? Shocking,” Ron mocked.

“Since then, they’ve amassed wealth and power without lifting a finger, simply by influencing politicians and key figures to do what they want. On top of that, it’s tradition for members of the family to be Slytherins, and they’re obsessed with blood purity.”

“Yeah, we’ve noticed,” Ron muttered, curling his lip in disgust.

“Not to mention the cases of siblings and close relatives marrying to ‘keep the bloodline pure,’” Hermione added, pulling a face.

“Now that…that’s really disgusting,” Neville murmured.

“Add to that the fact they’re rich and influential, and you’ve got all the ingredients for him to be Salazar’s heir,” Hermione concluded.

“And they’re in the Sacred Twenty-Eight as well,” Neville said, breaking the silence that followed.

“Sacred Twenty-Eight?” Harry and Hermione said at once, perplexed.

Ron murmured in agreement.

“It’s a list of pure-blood families who think they’re special just because they’re... well, pure-bloods,” he explained, gesturing broadly.

“And to make matters worse, we’re on that list,” Neville said quietly, staring down at his shoes, clearly embarrassed. “It’s not like we asked to be there, but we are, because of our ancestry.”

Ron nodded.

“Us, the Weasleys, Longbottoms, Malfoys, Goyles, Crabbes, and loads more. Dad once listed them all—I couldn’t remember them if I tried. That’s asking a bit much from me.” He smothered a laugh. “But it’s a stupid thing anyway, and thank Merlin we’ve distanced ourselves from it ages ago.”

“So in that case,” Hermione said, her expression more serious now, “add that list to the theory about the Malfoys.”

“If he is the Heir…” Harry hesitated, the weight of it dawning on him. “Malfoy said yesterday that Muggle-borns would be next. They’re the enemies of the Heir!”

He shuddered as he said it, glancing worriedly at Hermione.

The four of them fell silent for a moment, until Hermione finally gave a small nod.

“I suspected that might be the case,” she said, her expression troubled, though clearly trying to keep it from showing as she clutched the book to her chest.

“We’ve got to do something!” Ron exclaimed, his blue eyes blazing with determination. “We can’t just let some nutter do whatever he wants!”

“But what can we do?” Harry asked. “We’ve got no proof he’s the Heir. Remember when we told McGonagall last year that Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone? What happened then?”

“Well... a door in the face,” Ron answered, “but still!”

“I think if we were going to do something...” Neville said thoughtfully, “we just need to find a way to... prove it—that’s basically it—if we prove it, someone else can take over after that.”

Hermione stopped walking, letting out a sudden sigh that made the boys jump, until they realised it was just another one of her sudden flashes of brilliance.

“I know what we can do!” she said suddenly, her brown eyes alight as the plan began forming in her head.

“Enlighten us,” Harry said.

“Polyjuice Potion, of course!” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, obviously it would be extremely dangerous, and break about fifty rules. But we could sneak into the Slytherin common room disguised as Malfoy’s friends, and trick him into telling us everything—without him realising it’s us.”

She gave a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with her logic, though the boys exchanged looks of total confusion.

“Hermione, I think you’ve been reading too many wizard spy comics,” Ron joked.

“I’m serious!” she protested. “It could work perfectly!”

“But... Polyjuice Potion?” Neville asked, puzzled.

“Polyjuice Potion—if brewed correctly—lets you turn into someone else, as long as you’ve got a hair from them,” Hermione explained.

Harry had a vague memory of the potion Hermione was talking about.

He’d stumbled across something about it in a book once, purely out of curiosity. He remembered wondering if his mum had read the same books, and what she might have thought about it all.

“Polyjuice Potion?” Harry repeated, frowning. “Seriously? We only learn about that in sixth year! And it’s a really advanced potion!”

Hermione rolled her eyes, impatient.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she replied quickly. “But it’s our best option. It’s not that difficult, just... complicated. There are some hard-to-find ingredients, so we’ll have to work around that. And the book we need—Moste Potente Potions—is in the Restricted Section. Not to mention the potion takes a month to brew, and if we mess up even one step, we’ll have to start all over again.”

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed. “Want Circe and Morgana to come brew it for you as well? I’ll start digging up their graves!”

“Language!” Hermione snapped, chin raised in confidence. “And I am perfectly capable of brewing it myself, I’ll have you know!”

Ron shrugged, and Harry just watched her with that look she always had when she set her mind on something. If he had to guess, Hermione in her second year was already more brilliant and competent than most sixth or seventh-years at Hogwarts.

“Yeah... sounds pretty… complicated,” Neville said, looking a bit thrown. “But assuming we do go through with it... how are we going to get the ingredients and the book?”

“You really want to do this?” Harry asked, surprised.

He hadn’t expected Neville to sign up for a mad plan or wild adventure so quickly—he usually hesitated before getting involved. With the Philosopher’s Stone, Neville hadn’t agreed with what they were doing—he’d only stood in their way because he thought letting them go alone would make him a terrible friend.

“It’s about keeping people safe,” Neville answered, with an unexpected firmness. “And... I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Like I said, if we can get some information and hand it over for someone else to deal with, that’s the best thing we can do.”

“I’m with Nev on this,” Ron said, giving his shoulder a friendly pat.

“Any ideas, Hermione?” Harry asked, looking at her expectantly.

“About the library book, we could ask a professor for a signed request to borrow it,” she replied, adjusting the hefty tome in her arms. “We could get a professor to sign for us—there are hundreds of potions in there we could use as an excuse without saying exactly what we’re planning.”

Harry let out a low chuckle.

“Or we could just go with the old midnight tactic and the Invisibility Cloak.”

“We are not stealing!” Hermione said loudly, her voice sharp with a mix of exasperation and resolve.

“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” Ron warned, spotting a few fifth-year girls giving them odd looks.

But they passed by, continuing to gossip about the latest romantic pairings to crop up that week.

“We are not stealing! And that’s final!” she repeated in a fierce whisper. “Want more trouble? We don’t need another late-night escapade where we risk being caught! We’re going through the front door with a signed professor’s note like civilised, ordinary witches and wizards, simple as that. I’m not stealing from the library, and neither are you!” She gave her friends a firm look.

When it came to books and the library, Hermione defended them with tooth and nail in a way that left no room for debate.

Harry was tempted to argue, just for a second—they were already breaking dozens of rules just by wanting to brew that potion, so why would making it a bit easier be considered heresy?

“Is there a problem, Miss Granger?”

Snape’s cold, penetrating voice sliced through the air, freezing all four of them on the spot.

They turned at once, trying to appear casual, silently praying the professor hadn’t heard too much of their conversation.

Hermione opened her mouth, but the words refused to come. Her mind stalled in silent panic.

“Erm... n-no, professor, we were just... talking...” She began gesturing, desperately trying to find a plausible explanation. “About... about—”

“Transfiguring rats into goblets with Vera Verto,” Harry cut in, his voice slightly louder than necessary.

Snape raised an eyebrow with intense scepticism.

“Really? How fascinating...” He fixed each of them with a long, piercing stare. “It’s wise to be careful what one says,” Snape drawled, voice low and threatening. “People might start to think you’re…”

As the professor narrowed his eyes and locked gazes with him, Harry felt his throat tighten, swallowing hard. It felt as though Snape could read straight through to his soul.

Snape furrowed his brow, still watching him closely.

“...plotting something,” he finished.

With one final sharp look, he turned and swept away, his black robes billowing as he disappeared down the corridor.

The moment his footsteps faded, Neville let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The others relaxed, shoulders easing at last.

“How does he manage to be so... so... like that?” Neville murmured, gesturing vaguely towards where Snape had vanished.

“No idea,” Hermione replied, shaking her head in distaste. “But we are not stealing anything from the library!”

“All right, all right, no nicking from the library, we get it,” Ron said flatly.

“That leaves us with one more problem,” Hermione continued. “The ingredients... well, Snape has exactly what we need for the Polyjuice Potion. Being Hogwarts’ Potions Master, it’s all in his office.”

“Absolutely brilliant,” Harry muttered, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“So that we can steal?!” Ron asked incredulously.

“Want to ask him if he’ll lend us some?” Hermione retorted with a firm look. “Maybe Neville could ask—what do you think?”

“I-I-I’m not doing it!” Neville’s eyes widened.

“Okay, message received.” Harry sighed, turning to Hermione. “We’ll get the book by the rules. The ingredients we can’t. If we’re going to do this, let’s take the easy wins and avoid getting caught over things we can solve ‘ethically’,” he added, making air quotes.

Hermione sighed, nodding in relief that they finally understood.

“Exactly,” she said at last, before stepping into the Charms classroom for their next lesson.

 

---

 

“And what exactly do you want with Moste Potente Potions?” Professor McGonagall asked, her perceptive gaze landing squarely on each of them.

The four exchanged quick glances, as if searching for a last-minute backup plan. Hermione, always prepared, stepped forward.

“We’d like to study the effects of Felix Felicis, Professor,” she replied, with a calm that had clearly been rehearsed.

Harry held his breath, remembering the excuse they’d practised.

Liquid Luck seemed a plausible reason to request the book, and Hermione had even prepared a detailed explanation.

They’d waited until the end of Transfiguration, after all the other students had filed out, to ask the professor about the book from the Restricted Section.

Luckily for them, McGonagall appeared to be in good spirits—thanks to Harry’s impressive practical performance and Hermione’s excellence both in theory and practice, as always.

Even so, the professor’s stern demeanour left no room for missteps.

“Study the effects of Felix Felicis?” McGonagall repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Interesting. And how exactly do you intend to go about that?”

“Well,” Hermione began, trying to sound confident, “we read in another book that there’s a link between rue powder—which is used in household remedies like the French Method for the Bite of a Mad Dog—and we wanted to understand the connection with Felix Felicis, since it’s not a healing potion, exactly…”

McGonagall continued to stare at her, unconvinced, then turned her attention to the other three.

“And I presume you’re all involved in this… study?”

“Yeah, Professor. Always good to learn something new,” said Ron, giving a nervous smile.

Hermione resisted the urge to stamp on his foot.

Ron’s thoroughly unfortunate track record in Potions wasn’t helping their credibility at the moment.

“Is that so, Mr Weasley?” asked McGonagall, arching an eyebrow. “How curious. Might I ask where this sudden passion for Potions has come from?”

Ron swallowed hard, his ears turning scarlet.

“Ah… well… you know, don’t you?” he said, in a tone that clearly told her she didn’t. “It’s always good to be prepared for… erm… the years ahead, right?”

“Indeed,” the professor replied, pursing her lips. She then turned to Neville and Harry. “And you two? Why do you want the book?”

Neville was quick to volunteer.

“I’m not doing the studying, Professor.” He looked a little pale, but his response was convincing, given his history with Potions.

“I see. And you, Mr Potter?”

Harry had a prepared excuse, but something inside made him hesitate. He swallowed, looking away. On second thought, there was a real good reason he wanted the book. He… might learn something from—

“Mr Potter?”

“I want to study it because… because of my mum,” Harry said, his voice quiet and hesitant. “I found out she was good at Potions, and… I wanted to learn more about it. Understand why she liked it.”

The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to fill the entire room.

Ron raised his eyebrows in surprise, Hermione’s mouth opened but no words came, and even McGonagall seemed thrown for a moment. Her eyes drifted to some distant spot, as though old memories were flashing before them.

Neville was the only one not surprised by the confession—on the contrary, he gave Harry a small, knowing smile.

At last, the professor sighed, reached for a quill and dipped it in the inkwell. She scribbled something quickly on a piece of parchment and handed it to Hermione.

“Very well,” said McGonagall, her voice laced with seriousness. “Make good use of the book—but let me be absolutely clear: it is extremely dangerous. None of the potions in it are to be attempted without supervision or prior approval. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione replied at once, accepting the parchment as if it were something precious.

They thanked her and left the room, their footsteps echoing along the stone corridor. The group stayed silent until Ron cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.

“So… I had no idea you were actually into Potions, mate,” Ron said, casting a curious glance at Harry. “I mean, I noticed you’ve been studying more, but I didn’t think that was why, you know.”

Harry shrugged, falling quiet for a moment.

“I’ve started to like the subject,” he admitted with a half-smile. “I reckon there’ll be something useful in that book besides the Polyjuice Potion—I just wanted to have a look.”

Hermione, who’d been watching Harry closely, felt a slight tightness in her chest.

She’d noticed Harry had taken more interest in Potions that year, but assumed it was just maturity or wanting to improve his grades.

“You two already knew about this?” she asked, frowning at Neville and Ron.

“It was during a chat at the Burrow, over the holidays,” Harry answered quickly, before either of them could say a word. “I asked Dumbledore about my mum last year, and he told me she liked Potions and I… I wanted to understand why.” He shrugged, as though it weren’t a big deal, but the spark in his eyes told a different story.

Hermione tried to ignore the sting of jealousy that pierced her chest.

She knew the boys had conversations without her sometimes, but this felt like something Harry could have shared with her. Still, Hermione understood that Harry was incredibly private when it came to the more personal parts of his life—especially those involving the years he spent with his relatives.

He avoided talking about that time whenever possible, and on the rare occasions she’d tried to ask, he’d changed the subject swiftly, as though the words were locked away somewhere he refused to reach.

Harry had always been peculiar with physical contact, something Hermione couldn’t help but notice.

Every time she hugged him, he reacted with surprise or even a slight flinch, as if the gesture were something completely foreign. He never hugged back properly either—not in a usual way—as if he were always hesitant to touch whoever was embracing him, and whenever someone did touch him, his immediate reaction was almost always to recoil, as though bracing for an attack.

Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with living with the Dursleys. If he could hardly stand being around them, it wouldn’t be surprising if he’d never had anyone to talk to about the thoughts that haunted him.

And your parents... Well, Hermione was almost certain that was one of those things Harry kept to himself, and perhaps speaking to the boys about it had been a rare occurrence.

She sighed, clutching the book she carried tighter against her chest.

It was frustrating, but not surprising.

Harry had his barriers, and Hermione knew pushing him would only drive him further away. So, for now, she decided to let the matter drop, even though she desperately wanted to be more involved in his life, to know him better.

She was his friend and... she wished she could know more, could help him when he needed it.

"All right," Hermione said finally, softening her expression. "At least now you'll be able to read the book. Who knows what else we might discover in there?"

Harry gave a small smile but said nothing.

The group continued walking through the corridors, each lost in their own thoughts.

 

---

 

The rest of the day was rather hectic at Hogwarts. The professors seemed determined to overwhelm the students with more assignments and homework than usual.

Even so, Hermione managed to collect the book from the Restricted Section under the strict supervision of Madam Pince. The boys had decided not to accompany her, so as not to arouse suspicion—after all, the librarian was known for deeply mistrusting anyone who dared touch her precious books, except perhaps Hermione, who had earned her approval through a near-religious reverence for the library's volumes.

While Hermione read the forbidden book intently, Harry, Ron, and Neville were struggling to finish a Charms essay due the next morning.

From the far side of the common room, Hermione kept casting them looks that clearly said “I told you so”, referring to her earlier insistence that they not leave the assignment until the last minute.

And to their misfortune, later that night, Hermione closed her book, bid them goodnight, and went up to the girls’ dormitory to sleep early—without correcting or offering any guidance on how to finish the mess of technical terms spread across their bits of parchment, likely as a way to teach them a lesson about deadlines and responsibility.

“We're paying the price for laziness, that’s what,” Neville murmured with a resigned sigh.

“Always the way,” agreed Harry, shrugging. “Still don't regret it. It was a great day for flying.”

“And a good night for sleeping,” Ron grumbled, sniffling. “Honestly, why didn’t she leave her essay down here?”

“Ask her,” Harry suggested, not looking up from his parchment.

“Be brave enough to ask her, more like,” added Neville with a small grin.

Ron huffed, growing nervous at how little he’d written.

“Well, if I could climb those bloody stairs to the girls’ dormitories, I would!” he said, louder than he meant to.

The awkward silence that followed was broken only by several accusatory glances from girls around the common room, none of whom looked particularly amused.

Ron’s ears went scarlet as he tried to shrink into his chair.

“Bad idea, Ronnikins! Those girls’d hex your ears off!” George called out, seated at the table fiddling with a curious object that resembled a horn.

“The fourth-years are the worst,” added Fred. “Mental and hot-headed!”

He received a punch in the shoulder from Angelina, who was sitting next to him.

“I’ll show you mental!” she muttered.

“See? Told you,” Fred said, grinning.

The tension broke, and laughter rippled through the common room.

Harry and Neville couldn’t help but burst into giggles, laughing until tears formed in their eyes, while Ron muttered something unintelligible.

Deep down, all he really wanted was to ask Hermione what the difference was between Finite and Finite Incantatem, anyway.

The next morning, having handed in their essay just in time, they returned to working with Hermione’s book.

Neither Ron nor Neville showed much interest in the contents, preferring Exploding Snap and wizard chess, while Harry and Hermione worked together at a table.

When Hermione finally finished writing out the long list of ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion, she began sorting them into categories—those they could obtain easily, and those that would need to be “borrowed” from Snape’s stores.

That gave Harry the chance to flip through the book and explore the pages packed with recipes for advanced potions.

Among them, besides Liquid Luck and Polyjuice, were formulas for laxatives, corrosives, explosives, toxins, and even slow-acting deadly poisons. But what truly caught his eye were the grotesque illustrations depicting the effects of the potions.

In Harry’s opinion, the illustrator had an unusually dark sense of humour and a rather disturbing imagination.

And he wondered if he’d ever be able to brew anything so advanced. He knew the current project was the Polyjuice Potion, but doubted Hermione would let him get near the cauldron. Still, the idea of trying was quietly exciting.

Trying a potion without Snape with that hooked nose, sucking all the oxygen out of the room while criticizing him with every glance? It seemed like a dream.

The book was one of a kind, which meant that Harry and Hermione had to sit side by side—so close that her brown curls nearly covered half the pages—if they wanted to use the book at the same time. Whenever that happened, Hermione would brush the strands back with a swift motion, hooking them behind her ear so they wouldn’t get in the way.

Leaning over the volume, so close they could hear each other breathing, neither of them seemed bothered by the proximity. On the contrary—there was something comforting in the shared silence, broken only by the gentle turning of pages.

Harry couldn’t explain why he found the soft sound of her breathing so… sweet. Especially when she was focused, her eyes avidly scanning every line.

Every so often, Hermione would murmur passages under her breath, a habit Harry had come to recognise by now, after spending so much time studying with her.

And Harry was starting to suspect he was finding far too many things about Hermione cute—but didn’t quite understand what on earth was happening to him.

“I’ve been listening to Angelina, Alicia, and Katie chatting in the changing room too much...” he thought, recalling their overly sweet conversations, analysing things only girls seemed to analyse about one another.

Even though Quidditch matches had been cancelled, he still practised now and again with the team to keep from getting too rusty before next year’s season.

“It’ll take time,” Hermione sighed.

“Uh?” Harry murmured, dragged from his thoughts.

“I said I’m going to have to study this potion more than I thought,” Hermione whispered, her fingers tracing the meticulous notes and intricate diagrams filling the book’s margins.

Harry adjusted his glasses, turning to her with a half-smile.

“I thought you already knew everything about Polyjuice,” he said lightly.

“Not quite,” Hermione replied, shaking her head slowly.

When she looked up from the pages, however, she seemed surprised by how close their faces were. Harry’s bright green eyes met the warm brown of hers, and for a moment that seemed to stretch in time, neither of them moved.

Hermione blinked rapidly, as if she’d lost her train of thought, before glancing back down at the book, her cheeks slightly more flushed than before, trying to understand why her aura had felt momentarily entranced.

“I’d only read a reference in another book,” she explained. “It recommended this volume for anyone wanting the details. But it didn’t mention the ingredients or the method. It only spoke about the difficulty and the effects. All I knew was that if we get anything wrong, we’ll have to start over, and I really don’t want to waste ingredients or time.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, beginning to wonder whether the plan wasn’t a bit too ambitious. But he kept pushing the concern to the back of his mind.

“Right, but what’s the tricky part? Apart from what you already knew?”

“There are loads of variables that could affect the outcome—see here? For example, if we pick fluxweed that wasn’t harvested during a full moon, we’ll have problems,” Hermione continued, pointing to the instructions. “The good thing is most of the ingredients for the initial stages are easy to find. We can leave the rarer ones for later.”

“If you need help, you know you can count on me,” said Harry.

Hermione smiled, her eyes shining with gratitude.

“I know,” she replied softly. “But don’t worry. Leave it to me, all right?”

“All right, but don’t take it all on your shoulders, yeah? I might not be a Potions master, but at least I know which end of the knife to use for chopping... I think,” Harry joked, making her laugh.

“All right then, Mr Assistant,” Hermione said, giggling. “If I need your services, I’ll be sure to call you.”

Harry smiled again and returned to his reading, while Hermione watched him for a moment longer, then dove back into the details of the potion.

In silence, he also began planning how they might get hold of the ingredients locked away in Snape’s stores.

The idea that had come to him after reading a book on spells for altering the visibility of physical matter—Hermione’s recommendation—was bold, possibly even reckless, but with any luck, it might just work.

 

---

 

That same week, already edging towards mid-November, Harry, Ron and Neville came tearing down the stairs from the boys’ dormitory, completely unprepared for the day.

They were late for breakfast and, after a long and exhausting Hero Path session run by Neville the night before, hadn’t had the time—or energy—to get ready properly.

Hermione had retreated to the girls’ dormitory hours earlier, but the boys had kept the adventure going well past midnight, and now they were paying the price.

“We’ve only got ten minutes to get to the Great Hall and grab something to eat!” Neville warned, panting, as the three of them dashed through the stone corridors, their footsteps echoing off the walls.

“Why did you have to throw in a bloody dragon?” Ron grumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Took us thirty rounds just to knacker it! Why not a Dragon Shark?!”

Neville stared at him, incredulous.

“How was I supposed to put a Dragon Shark in the middle of a desert tomb? That wouldn’t even make sense!”

“Then you should’ve gone with a mummy! Or a cursed pharaoh!” Ron insisted, breathless.

“Those monsters aren’t even in the rulebook!” Neville huffed, trying to pick up speed. “And you lot were the ones who asked for more dragons!”

Harry, distracted by the argument, walked straight through Nearly Headless Nick, the sensation like passing through a curtain of icy air. A sudden chill surged through his body—as if he’d been ripped from a blazing summer and hurled into a Siberian wind in less than a second.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going, boys!” Sir Nicholas barked, spinning in the air to glare at them, his head wobbling dangerously on his ruffled collar.

“Sorry, Sir Nicholas!” Harry shouted over his shoulder, not slowing down.

Turning the corner, the trio nearly collided with a statue of a fat, bearded wizard that creaked back against the wall, sucking in its stone belly to avoid the impact, looking as startled as they were.

“The problem wasn’t the dragon,” Harry went on, panting. “If your barbarian wasn’t such a thickhead, I could’ve kept my attacks going!”

Ron let out a noise halfway between a grunt and a disbelieving laugh.

“You’ve got to pray just to swing your sword and my barbarian’s the thick one?!” he retorted.

“That’s what my class does!” Harry protested.

“And that’s my fault?” Ron shot back. “Pray faster! I wasn’t about to sit around while that great lizard torched us! At least you’ve got armour—my class makes me fight nearly starkers!”

“Steel! Steel armour, Ron—melts in fire!” Harry shouted.

“And your shield—where do you stick that, then uh? Up your arse?!”

“Should’ve stuck it up yours!”

Neville sighed, running a weary hand over his face.

Later, when updating his Game Master notes, he’d write in massive capital letters, underlined and with at least three exclamation marks:

NEVER PUT RON AND HARRY AGAINST A DRAGON AGAIN.

At least not without Hermione as the elven priestess and party support. Those two were unbearable without her—she was the only one who could actually lead them in the group. Once she went to bed, Harry and Ron were like two cockroaches banging their heads against the walls with no clue what to do.

Still arguing heatedly over the dragon battle, they thundered down the final flights of stairs and burst into the Great Hall.

Breathless, flushed, and with their hair sticking up wildly from the run, they threw themselves onto the Gryffindor bench like shipwreck survivors facing a banquet.

Hermione had been there for ages already, seated with Moste Potente Potions open in front of her and the dregs of tea in her cup. She finished the last sip calmly, looked up, and fixed them with a stare that could have melted ice.

“How late were you up?” she asked, frowning. “You’re completely behind schedule! Lesson starts in seven minutes!”

“Very observant. Good morning to you too,” Ron muttered, already piling sausages, eggs, and toast onto his plate like he was building a fortress out of food.

“We had a minor setback, that’s all,” Harry replied through hurried bites, nearly choking on a piece of bacon he barely chewed.

Hermione sighed and pointed at Neville with her spoon.

“Neville, your collar’s crooked. And Harry, you’ve buttoned your shirt wrong.”

“Eating takes priority. I’ll fix it later,” Harry said, as Neville tried to sort his collar with one hand without spilling his juice with the other.

Hermione rolled her eyes in clear disapproval and, with a precise movement, pulled a crumpled letter from the inner pocket of her cloak.

“For you,” she said, handing it to Harry.

“For me?” He took the envelope but, instead of opening it, set it aside while he wolfed down a slice of toast with honey.

“It’s from Hagrid,” Hermione explained tersely. “He’s invited us for tea this afternoon after class.”

Ron, his mouth stuffed with food, raised his eyebrows.

“You read his letter?” he teased, spraying crumbs. “You’re not supposed to do that, you know.”

Hermione looked at him as though he were something particularly repulsive.

“Swallow before you speak to me,” she said, rising with dignity. “I’m off to class. I’ve no intention of arriving sweating like a runaway troll. See you later.”

The boys grumbled in reply, chewing furiously as most of the students were already leaving the Hall.

As Hermione marched off, dragging her satchel with determination, they didn’t even bother talking—just shoved down what they could before charging off towards Transfiguration, toast still between their teeth and books barely wedged into their bags.

Between lessons, they discussed Hagrid’s invitation.

Remembering what Professor Binns had said about the murder connected to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, they figured that Hagrid, who had been at school back then, might know something useful for their investigation into the identity of the Heir, If there could be other suspects besides Malfoy—and planned to ask him as soon as they had the chance.

But in the meantime, the school day unfolded as usual, with its customary fluctuations between discomfort and curiosity.

Potions was bitter and tense, as always when Snape was involved.

Astronomy—thankfully scheduled at a normal time that day—focused on constellations and the importance of being able to navigate by them.

Professor Flitwick had them learning the Engorgement Charm, a spell that made objects grow.

Neville, after several failed attempts, finally managed to cast the spell, but—as expected—something went wrong. He aimed his patched-up wand downward, but the spell ricocheted and struck the chandelier on the ceiling, which expanded uncontrollably and became so heavy it nearly crashed down on a group of Ravenclaws.

Luckily, Professor Flitwick was able to cast a Levitation Charm just in time, preventing disaster. Even so, Neville became the target of furious glares and irritated mutterings from the Ravenclaw students.

The last class of the day—and, astonishingly, the most interesting—was Defence Against the Dark Arts.

To everyone’s surprise, Professor Lockhart appeared to have had a rare moment of inspiration—or perhaps a lapse into good sense—and decided to teach something actually useful, instead of wasting the lesson boasting about his exploits, which some had begun to doubt entirely due to his increasingly undeniable lack of aptitude.

Only Hermione and a few other witches still seemed completely enchanted by that dazzling white smile, that heartthrob face which radiated a charm bordering on hypnotic. It was as if Lockhart had cast a temporary blindness charm over them—a spell that, apparently, only affected certain female minds.

He had used his wand to push all the desks to the edges of the classroom, clearing a wide corridor down the middle for a practical lesson, the students lined up and watching curiously.

“Today, dear students, we shall learn an essential spell for any competent witch or wizard,” he announced, adjusting his sleeves with an unnecessary flourish. “Petrificus Totalus! A spell that has saved me countless times, as you may recall from my chapter ‘How I Faced the Vampires of Vazlavia’.”

Harry noticed Ron rolling his eyes while Neville struggled not to laugh at the redhead’s expression of disdain. Hermione, however, looked genuinely thrilled.

“Fortunately, Professor Flitwick taught Finite last week,” Lockhart continued, with a theatrical grin. “You’ll be able to reverse the spell should you wish to release your target from its effects—or in case you accidentally strike a friend. Though of course, I myself have never made such a mistake!”

He raised his wand as though expecting applause and demonstrated the wand movement, a subtle horizontal hook.

Hermione was the first to cast the spell correctly, her technique practised and precise, as she pointed at a dummy conjured by Lockhart.

The rigid mannequin toppled to the floor with a dull thud.

“Excellent, Granger! Brilliant, truly brilliant!” exclaimed Lockhart, with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Ten points to Gryffindor!”

Hermione flushed with pride but tried to hide her smile as she returned to her place.

“Of course,” Lockhart went on, casting a meaningful look at the class, “I’m not surprised. Miss Granger displays extraordinary intellect. It’s almost like looking in a mirror, you know? I too was top of my class in my day...”

As he rambled on, Hermione—to the dismay of Harry, Ron and Neville—made the mistake of mentioning that she remembered at least three occasions where Lockhart had referred to Petrificus Totalus in his books, even citing the titles.

“Ah, yes! Pranks in Peking, where I paralysed that infestation of naughty pixies, and of course Escaping the Sphinxes! What a sharp memory! Another ten points to Gryffindor for your perceptiveness!”

Harry, Ron and Neville exchanged weary looks as Lockhart went on praising Hermione as a model student for the entire class.

“Brightest student...” Ron muttered under his breath to Harry. “If he keeps this up, she’ll be carried out of here on a stretcher.”

Harry stifled a laugh—just in time to be called up for his go at Lockhart’s dummy.

With lessons finally done for the day, Harry, Ron, Neville and Hermione headed out of the castle towards Hagrid’s hut.

The conversation turned to Quidditch, and this time Ron was utterly scandalised to discover that Neville had secretly been a Montrose Magpies supporter for months—the mortal rivals of the Chudley Cannons.

“And I encouraged you to start playing! Traitor...” Ron grumbled when he found out.

“Sorry, the Cannons’ orange jersey didn’t suit me,” Neville offered with a sheepish grin.

The boys bickered in good humour as they walked, while Hermione remained completely uninterested—Quidditch had never captured her attention.

The wind outside was more cutting than brisk, sharp enough to make the four of them huddle deeper into their coats. Harry adjusted the long scarf he always wore, the fabric flapping in rhythm with the wind as they walked.

Hermione, beside him, glanced at the scarf and couldn’t help a smile, which she quickly masked by ducking her head.

She still remembered the moment she had idly scribbled in her diary that Harry looked adorable in that scarf—a thought she had then hurriedly scratched out, as if someone might see it.

When they arrived, they were welcomed in typical fashion: enthusiastic slobbering from Fang, rock-hard scones fresh from the oven, and steaming tea served in chipped saucers. They gathered round the table and began to chat.

They told Hagrid what they’d been learning in lessons, and it didn’t take long before the complaints began—especially about Snape’s sour attitude, which somehow seemed to worsen each week.

Hermione proudly mentioned that Lockhart had finally taught something useful, while Ron scoffed.

“About time he did something useful,” Ron said.

“You can’t say he doesn’t teach anything now!” Hermione nearly sang, triumphant. “Petrificus Totalus is more useful than any duelling spell we’ve learned so far!”

“Rare occurrence, really—if you can even call it that,” Ron scoffed. “He didn’t teach us how to use it, just strutted about like a painted pigeon, left you to demonstrate it properly and Harry to actually learn something. So, in short, he’s still utterly useless ninety-nine percent of the time.”

Hermione shot him a look that could have set the room ablaze and began preparing a counter-argument, shifting more energetically in her seat.

Harry and Neville both sighed, shaking their heads as they took a sip of hot tea.

Before the two could launch into yet another row, Hagrid began telling a story about the time he found an injured baby Augurey in the forest.

He’d had to carry it all the way back to his hut, while the poor thing let out shrill cries that made his ears ring for days.

“It was on account o’ the rain what was comin’,” he explained, eyes gleaming. “Augureys can sense when it’s about ter pour, tha’s why they shriek like that. Took good care o’ him, course I did, but my ears didn’t stop ringin’ for a week! Still, he got better. Fascinatin’ creatures, Augureys—even with all that racket.”

Harry, Hermione, Neville and Ron chuckled at Hagrid’s stories, but it was clear that something heavier lingered in their minds.

As expected, the conversation soon drifted to the topic that had been haunting the castle corridors.

“Hagrid, can I ask you something?” Harry began, a little hesitant.

The giant let out a warm laugh.

“Course yeh can, Harry! Yeh don’ need ter ask, jus’ say it!”

“You went to Hogwarts, didn’t you?”

“Aye, o’ course I did!” Hagrid replied with a nostalgic smile. “But tha’ was a long time ago. Why’re yeh askin’?”

Harry paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

“Well... you must’ve heard what happened a few days ago. The writing on the wall, saying the Chamber of Secrets had been opened... Mrs Norris being petrified...”

He stopped, watching Hagrid.

The giant’s smile was already beginning to falter, but Harry pressed on.

“Professor Binns told us there was a murder more than fifty years ago, and that it was linked to the Chamber and the monster inside it. He says it’s all legend, but we know he’s just too sceptical. Do you remember anything about it?”

Hagrid’s smile vanished completely, replaced by a shadowed expression.

He looked away from the four young faces seated in front of him, his gaze suddenly burdened by a weight that seemed to span decades.

“Ah, Harry... remember it? I remember it all right.” Hagrid’s voice had dropped, rough and laced with deep sadness. “More than I’d like to.”

The four exchanged glances, feeling the heavy discomfort settle in the cabin.

Hagrid’s visible pain was almost tangible, and each of them silently wondered if they’d made a mistake in bringing the subject up.

“If yeh don’ mind...” Hagrid went on, now staring into the fire crackling in the hearth. “I’d rather not talk about tha’ Chamber. Nor what’s said ter be inside it.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, the fire’s crackle the only sound in the room.

Hermione was the first to try and lighten the mood.

“I’m sorry, Hagrid. We didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said, a note of regret in her voice.

Hagrid shook his head, still gazing into the flames.

“I know, Hermione. Yeh’re just tryin’ ter make sense o’ it all. But there’re some things best left alone... things from the past that ought ter stay there. Leave it ter Dumbledore—he knows what he’s doin’.”

Harry leaned forward, choosing his words carefully.

“We just want to help, Hagrid,” he said gently. “It’s not fair that people are scared and don’t know what’s behind it all.”

Hagrid sighed, finally lifting his gaze to meet theirs.

“Yeh’re good lads—and lass—Harry. Brave, all of yeh. But there’re things that’re too dangerous, even fer you lot... and I remember last year, mind, not goin’ over that again, when I told yeh ter stay safe and yeh didn’t listen.”

Neville, who had been quiet until then, let out an audible sigh.

“But the Stone was in danger and no one believed us,” he muttered. “And what if someone gets hurt again? Or worse? What if no one does anything again?”

Hagrid’s expression tightened, and he ran a large, calloused hand down his face. For a moment, it looked like he was wrestling with something deep within.

“Look, I’m not talkin’ about it. No... I can’t.” He looked directly at Harry, his dark eyes solemn. “But, Harry, yeh’ve got ter promise me—don’t go pokin’ about in trouble. What happened back then... it was awful. And I don’t want anything bad happenin’ ter yeh. Always listen ter Professor Dumbledore—he knows what he’s doin’ and he’s more than capable o’ protectin’ yeh from anythin’ dark. Got it?”

Harry hesitated, but eventually nodded.

“All right. Got it.”

Hagrid let out a breath of relief and, as if to draw a line under the topic, stood up abruptly.

“Well, tha’s enough o’ that!” he said with a grin. “How about more tea? I baked some biscuits earlier—fancy a try? Fresh out o’ the oven!”

The four of them exchanged looks, clearly wary of the quality of Hagrid’s baking.

“These ones are softer than the rock cakes,” Hagrid added, noticing their doubtful expressions. “I still prefer ‘em, but tea an’ biscuits’s a hard combo ter beat.”

“I’ll have a biscuit,” Neville said, not sounding entirely sure, and Harry joined him—if only so Neville wouldn’t suffer alone if they were dreadful.

Hermione politely declined and asked for more tea.

Ron perked up the moment he heard the word biscuits—he was a fan of them, especially with a proper tea.

“Pass me about five, I’m starvin’!” he said, eyes gleaming.

“You’re always starving,” Hermione remarked, rolling her eyes but smiling playfully.

As Hagrid began pouring more tea and prising open a nearly impossible biscuit tin, Harry caught the eyes of his friends.

He knew Hagrid was hiding something.

And even though he’d promised not to go looking for trouble... he knew that promise would be nearly impossible to keep.

After all, they had a stockroom to... borrow things from.

And the owner of that stockroom was far from friendly.