Harry brushed the thought out of his mind, just as he brushed the hair from his moist forehead. Lacking the energy to care, he decided that he didn't have the time to dissect his nightmares for meaning. Instead, he strangely decided that the best use of his time before breakfast would be to study for his Potions class.
Reaching underneath his bed, Harry felt around for an old, timeworn book. He picked up his copy of Advanced Potion Making and nestled it on top of his legs as he leaned against his headboard. He had a date with the Half-Blood Prince.
Harry felt a fondness for this book that he'd never felt for any other learning aid in his time at Hogwarts, simply because the Half-Blood Prince gave him shortcuts and creative answers to all the problems and challenges he didn't want to be bothered with. The nearly illegible notes scribbled in the margins of the text helped Harry become Horace Slughorn's star student in Potions. But it wasn't just because the Half-Blood Prince's ingenuity complemented Harry's laziness perfectly.
The Half-Blood Prince had a surprising effect on Harry. He used to loathe Potions—partly due to the fact that Snape taught it and always had it out for Harry—but also because it seemed so dry. You follow a set of instructions as best you can, and still manage to screw up royally somehow. But the Half-Blood Prince opened Harry's eyes to how nuanced the art of Potions could truly be. There were so many ways to arrive at a solution, so many better, faster ways than they were taught.
As Harry contemplated the complex nature of potion brewing methods, he also thought about how powerful certain potions could be. How many times in the past had someone brewed him a potion that helped him achieve something he previously thought was impossible? Harry could hardly count. But it was always someone smarter than him, someone who possessed more potions knowledge than him, who enabled him to achieve his ends. If he gained enough knowledge about potions from the Half-Blood Prince, Harry thought, then he could skip the middleman. Leaning back on his cushy pillow, Harry thought of the possibilities.
He could sneak some Amortentia into Malfoy's butterbeer and make the blonde nightmare fall madly in love with him. Oh yes, Harry liked this one. Malfoy would follow him around, desperately flirting with him, while Harry would use every opportunity he could to humiliate the Slytherin. What would he do? Hmm, let's see. Malfoy would beg, "Harry! My wand is at the ready for you." Harry laughed aloud as he pictured Malfoy trying to seduce him. Malfoy would plead, "The Boy Who Lived should be The Boy Who Loved." It would be pure gold. He would make sure everybody saw how Malfoy melted at his feet, as he strung Malfoy along like the lovesick goon he would be.
Harry then thought about brewing a Developing Solution to make his own magical photographs. Yes, he would take a picture of his bottom passing a large amount of gas and hang it in Malfoy's bedroom for him to admire every evening before he fell asleep. His mind jumped from possibility to possibility.
Harry could brew his own Memory Potion and finally get Outstanding marks on his O.W.L.s.
He could brew Vitamix Potions, sell it to muggles as energy drinks, and make a ridiculous fortune.
He could make his own Regeneration Potion in case he decided to make a horcrux.
Harry shook his head. What was a horcrux, anyway? Confused at his own thought, Harry rubbed his scar unintentionally. Before he could even grapple with this question, the door burst open and a tall freckled redhead erupted from the entryway.
"Harry!" Ron cried, "Did you hear about what happened to Moaning Myrtle?"
Harry replied with a grin, "She was just Myrtle before I came along."
Ron's eyes widened in surprise as he snickered, "Good one, Harry."
But he quickly suppressed his laughter with a grim expression. He explained, "I don't know what happened but everybody's gone mad about it! Hermione says she was in the first-floor girl's bathroom and she noticed it was awfully quiet, and that's when she went to look for Moaning Myrtle, but she wasn't hanging around like she usually does. Nobody knows where she went! The whole school's gone mad."
Harry wrinkled his forehead. "That's strange," he began.
Ron continued, "I mean, I personally don't mind her not being around. She's never been pleasant to me. In fact, she's always been a real nightmare. Every time we see her, she completely ignores me and tries to cozy up to you. It's not fair. She stares daggers into my face, but undresses you with her eyes. I honestly don't know who she thinks she—"
"Ron," Harry interrupted, "I get it. Myrtle's not our best friend. But if she's missing, that's not a good sign. Strange, scary things have never been a good sign at Hogwarts. Especially now, when everything is more dangerous than ever. We both know Voldemort's gaining power, and ever since Sirius died…" For a moment, Harry's voice wavered, and then he grew silent.
Sensing his friend slipping away into despondent thoughts, Ron gently reminded Harry, "Your point is that we've got to do something to help, right?"
Remembering himself, Harry nodded.
Ron continued, "I don't exactly know how, but whenever there's a big problem, somehow we are the answer to it." He smiled, "Okay fine, you are the answer to it. I'm just here for moral support."
A worried expression slowly spread across Harry's face as a thought formed in his mind. He suddenly whispered, "I think I know where to start looking, but I sure as hell hope that I'm wrong."
Snape looked fitting in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. The room wore the same gloomy expression as the former Potions master. His sallow face matched the washed-out look of the walls. The dusty old curtains parted over the stained windows just as the curtains of greasy black hair parted over Snape's forehead.
The students filed in, not speaking a word. This was partially because they were scared of Snape, but also because they were bemused at the classroom's appearance. Most of them were looking around with curious eyes at the strangely decorated room. It reeked of darkness, from the gruesome paintings to the heavy air to the poor lighting. At the front of the room hung paintings of witches and wizards who had obviously been on the receiving end of Dark Arts magic. Some had mangled bodies. Some had grotesquely disfigured faces. But the strangest painting hung on the left wall, away from the windows, so high that it was almost bordering the ceiling. It depicted a man who appeared, at first glance, to have no eyes. But if you were to look closer, you could see that his eyes were so empty, so soulless, and so devoid of life that they may as well have not been there at all. Every muscle in his face was either completely relaxed or simply missing. It was impossible to tell. Hermione shuddered, as she looked away from this particularly unsettling painting.
She took a seat near the front of the class, so as not to miss a single detail during the lecture. As Snape made his way around the room, he looked at her face for half a second longer than anyone else's. Hermione smiled, as Snape every so slightly recoiled and narrowed his eyes. He kept walking and finally parked himself at the front of the room, with every student's eyes locked upon his face.
He waited until the dust that was disturbed by the students entering the room had finally settled. "The Dark Arts," Snape began, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them—"
Hermione's hand sliced through the air.
"What a surprise," Snape mused in response, "Yes? What is it Ms. Granger? Has my lecture already confounded you?"
Clearing her throat, Hermione straightened her posture and explained, "No, Professor."
"Well then, it can wait until—" Snape clenched his jaw in annoyance as he was interrupted yet again.
"Well, I'm not sure if you've heard, Professor," interjected Hermione, "but Moaning Myrtle is missing from her usual post in the first-floor girl's bathroom. No one knows where she is, but everybody's certain it's got something to do with the Dark Arts."
Snape of course was already aware of the situation developing, but did not want to delve into it with his students. He himself did not know where the ghost had ended up, and tried his best to appear unafraid and blasé. He raised an eyebrow and asked, "Did you have a question in there?"
"Oh yes, of course," Hermione replied, "I was just hoping you could offer an explanation, or at least give us your best guess as to what could have transpired."
"Well, first," Snape began, "A ghost missing from its usual location is not necessarily a cause for alarm. Second, I would need to know more in order to—"
Sensing the absence of a familiar and annoying presence, Snape paused. His eyes scoured the room for two empty seats. Of course, they were at the back of the room.
"Second," he repeated, "Who can tell me which of their classmates decided today that their time was too valuable to waste on learning about the Dark Arts?"
Draco Malfoy eagerly volunteered, "Potter and Weasley."
Honing in on Hermione's face, Snape asked, "And who can tell me exactly where those missing classmates are?"
Again, Malfoy eagerly responded, "Probably snogging in the girls bathroom where they belong." A couple of Slytherins snickered, but Snape was not amused. He ignored that comment and continued to stare daggers into Hermione's tousled hair. Lately, he felt something had changed about Harry, and he couldn't really understand it. Anything out of place was reason for alarm in his mind, but he kept his cool in front of his class.
The students grew silent.
"Where's Potter?" Snape demanded.
But no one knew.
"You're sure about this, Harry?" Ron asked hesitantly.
Harry responded with a sigh, "Unfortunately, yes."
The pair made their way to the only sink tap with a snake engraving. Harry traced his thumb along the carved snake's body in a rather fond manner. A sudden electric sensation made his body shudder. He turned quickly and straightened his back, hoping Ron hadn't noticed anything. Lucky for him, Ron was busy studying his feet and seemed to be trying to make fire by vigorously rubbing his palms.
"Are you ready?" Harry asked.
Ron stopped what he was doing. He simply shrugged. "We'll see."
Harry returned his attention to the snake-engraved sink. Turning his hips to stand squarely in front of it, he whispered loudly and deliberately, "Saiyah hesha hassah."
The entire bathroom trembled as the stone material of the sink taps started to shift. A gaping hole emerged and the room turned three shades darker. Instead of sunlight illuminating the passage, it appeared to be sucking the light out of the room. Finally, all movement ceased. The Chamber of Secrets had been reopened.
Ron's feet were glued to the floor. His face looked even paler than usual in contrast with his fiery red hair. His freckles were pronounced stain upon the snowy white hue of his skin. "After you," He motioned to Harry to lead the way.
Harry crept into the corridor. It was dusty with disuse. He heard echoes of each step he and Ron took. They kept walking until the strangely familiar sight of a dimly lit chamber materialized in front of their eyes. Framing the chamber from the sides, towering stone pillars of serpents rose up to an unending darkness. There was something—so many things—unnerving about this place. Even their own skin looked green in the eerie gloom of the chamber.
A wave of nostalgia hit Harry as he relived the last time he stood in this very same place. It evoked his memories of stabbing Tom Riddle's diary with a basilisk fang. He remembered killing the basilisk with the sword of Godric Gryffindor. He remembered being saved by phoenix tears. But most of all, he remembered Ginny Weasley's pale, limp, and lifeless body. This memory felt so real to Harry, that he almost thought he still saw the outline of a girl at the far end of the chamber, right below the statue of Salazar Slytherin.
He strained his eyes as he felt his feet carry him swiftly forward. He still saw the silhouette of someone lying on the floor.
"Ron!" He shouted with increasing urgency, "Ron!"
It was a girl, but it wasn't Ginny.
Harry hurried to the figure he saw. From up close, his eyes could finally make out he outline of a ghost. The pale blue ethereal form was unmistakably inhuman. Finally Ron caught up to Harry. He gasped at the sight and shook his head, "You were right, Harry."
The pair kneeled next to Myrtle's already lifeless body. Harry tried to reach out and touch Myrtle, but his hand fell right through her body. The icy wind he usually felt when ghosts passed through him was drowned out by the numbness of his mind. He stammered, "I don't understand…she's…she's a ghost. How can she die again?"
Ron thought for a moment, and then he suddenly stood up. Looking down at Harry with a curious expression, he demanded to know, "What made you think she would be here…in the Chamber of Secrets? This place hasn't been opened since…well, Ginny."
Harry searched his mind for a clue, any explanation that he could cling to. But there was none. He sensed that Ron was growing strangely fearful of him, and Harry began to fear himself as well. Looking up at Ron's face, Harry wore a rather blank expression. He confided, "I honestly don't know. The thought just came to me when you first told me about what happened to Myrtle."
Ron looked away in disbelief. Harry pleaded to his friend, "Look, Ron, I'm really not trying to freak you out. I don't know why I knew Myrtle was here, but that isn't what's important right now, is it? We've got to tell the professors that we found her here, and then maybe, just maybe, we can figure out what happened to her."
Ron continued to stare ahead, as though Harry's words had no meaning. Frustrated, Harry stood up and shook Ron by the shoulders. He lined his eyes up with Ron's eyes, trying to make them meet, but Ron seemed to stare right through him.
"What is it, Ron?" Harry demanded.
Ron slowly lifted his right arm and pointed a trembling finger ahead. Harry held his breath. He turned his body to face the same way as Ron.
At the end of the chamber, on the wall next to the statue, he spotted what had captivated Ron's attention.
Someone had written in a dark purplish liquid: "In her dreams, she moves beyond the veil. In his mission, he shall not fail."
