Chapter 15
"Hermione, how many rat tails do you add to a Hair-raising potion?" Ron asked despairingly. They were walking down a corridor on their way to Gryffindor Tower. Ron was staring at a large Potions textbook with a dazed look, clearly not seeing anything written on the page. Snape had given them so much homework that they were likely to be in the sixth year before they finished it all.
"Seven and three quarters," Hermione said briskly. "Really, Ron, you need to read the book, not just stare at it," said Hermione brusquely.
"Hermione, I'm try-," Ron began, but an angry outburst from the floor above cut him off.
"That's Filch," said Hermione as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.
"Do you think someone else has been-you know-,"
"Ssh!" Hermione held a finger to her lips.
Filch sounded slightly hysterical, yelling at no one in particular. "-even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do already! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore-,"
His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked.
"C'mon, Hermione," said Ron pleadingly. "Let's get out of here before someone comes along!"
Hermione wordlessly pointed at a great flood of water, stretching over half the corridor. More water still was seeping from under the door to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails from inside the bathroom.
"Now what's up with her?" said Ron.
"Let's go see," said Hermione. "And then we've got to get back to Gryffindor Tower, or you'll never get your homework done, you know."
Ron threw her an irritated glance but followed as she picked her way carefully around and through the puddle of water and into the bathroom.
Moaning Myrtle seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet, crying-if possible-louder and harder than ever before.
"Who's that?" asked Myrtle miserably as the door closed behind them. "Someone else come to throw something at me? I mind my own business, and what can I do if someone thinks it would be funny to throw a book at me? Ten points if you can get it through Myrtle's nose! Twenty if it flies through her forehead!" she sobbed harder and rose slowly out of the toilet.
"Why would I throw a book at you?" Hermione asked reasonably, wading across to Myrtle's stall.
"Anyway," Ron broke it, "It can't hurt that much, can it? I mean, you're dead.."
"Of course," said Myrtle, sniffing. "It doesn't matter if you throw things at Myrtle, she's dead so she can't feel it.."
With a loud, gurgling sob, she dived back into the toilet.
"Who threw it in, anyway?" asked Hermione.
"I don't know," Myrtle glugged from inside the U-bend of the toilet. "But you can look at it if you want.it got washed out and landed under that sink."
Ron looked at the row of sinks againts the wall. Lying under one of them- the oldest, most broken down of them all-was a small black book that was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Ron stepped forward and picked it up.
"It's a diary," he said, no longer interested. "Doesn't have anything written in it, though.."
"Here, let me see," said Hermione. Ron handed it to her.
"Wow, it's fifty years old," she said. "You're right, though, nothing written in it.."
She turned it over and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London.
"Whoever owned it must've been a Muggle then," she said, and opened it once more. "Wait-there is something written here-,"
T.M. Riddle was written on the first page in smudged ink.
"T.M. Riddle?" Ron asked. "Wonder who that could be?"
Hermione didn't answer; she was deep in thought. "T.M. Riddle," she said suddenly. "I've heard that name before! I think he got an award for special services to the school. I was looking at the trophy case yesterday."
"Wonder what for," Ron said in a slightly bored tone. "Oh well, it doesn't matter. Chuck it back in the toilet."
"No, not yet," said Hermione, scanning the book further. Suddenly she took out her want and prodded the cover, muttering a few words that Ron didn't catch. Hopefully, she opened it again, but it remained blank.
"Invisible ink?" she asked musingly. Pocketing her wand, she took out a small pink eraser and began rubbing furiously at the wet pages. Nothing happened.
"Nothing's written at all," she said finally, sounding disappointed.
"I could've told you that," said Ron grumpily. "Wish I knew who chucked it, though. Oh well-fifty points if you can get it through Myrtle's head!"
"No," Hermione repeated stolidly. She slid the little book and the eraser- like object back into her robe pockets. "I'm going to keep it."
* * *
"I wish I knew why someone tried to chuck it," said Hermione. She and Ron were seated in the corner of the Common Room, with the diary on a table between them, beside Ron's unfinished Potions homework. Both were staring at it with equally bemused expressions; both had come up with various explanations for that very question-each wilder than the last.
"Who knows, maybe somebody thought flushing it would make writing appear," said Ron disinterestedly. "C'mon, Hermione, leave it be. I've got to start on that Potions homework-you too, you know."
Hermione didn't asnwer. She had an arrested look on her face and was staring, wide-eyed, at the book.
"Ron," she said suddenly, "I think I know why Riddle got the award for special services," she said excitedly. "He was at Hogwarts fifty years ago, right?"
Ron nodded, not knowing where she was going with this.
Now Hermione could hardly contain her excitement. "And what did Malfoy tell us?" she asked, her voice breaking with uncontained anticipation. Without waiting for Ron to reply, she cried "The Changer of Secrets was opened fifty years ago!"
Several people looked over at them, and Hermione blushed.
"So what're you saying?" Ron asked quietly, when everyone had gone back to what they were doing.
"Oh, Ron, wake up," Hermione snapped. "We know the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught and expelled fifty years ago, right?"
Ron nodded, understanding dawning in his face.
"We know T.M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago. What if Riddle got his award for catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would probably tell us everything-where the Chamber is-what's hiding in there-the person who's behind the attacks-well, the Heir of Slytherin wouldn't want that lying around, would he?"
"That's brilliant, Hermione," said Ron sarcastically. "With just one little flaw. There's nothing written in the diary. I'm telling you, Hermione, Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and couldn't be bothered writing in it." Without another word, he pulled his parchment towards him to begin on his Potions work.
Suddenly the parchment caught on the corner of the bottle of ink; a second later the open bottle tipped, spilling ink all over Ron, Hermione, all of Ron's books, and T.M. Riddle's diary.
Ron jumped up, overturning the small table and spilling ink all over the Common Room carpet.
"What's the problem?" asked Percy officiously, hurrying over with his chest thrust out so that the Prefect badge was clearly visible. "What happened back here? Ron, tell me what happened! Someone go get Professor McGonagall, this mess needs to be cleaned up. Hermione, Ron, go change your robes and wash up, you've got ink all over you." He paused for breath. "But first tell me what happened, I'm a Prefect, I'll need to tell Professor McGonagall."
"I was pulling my parchment toward me and it spilled the ink," Ron snapped, shaking his hands. Ink flew everywhere; Percy's forehead became bespeckled with black.
"Stop it, Ron!" he said. "Ah, Professor McGonagall, you're here. Sorry to bother you, but my little brother spilled his ink-,"
"I did not spill it!" Ron roared. "Professor, it tipped as I was pulling my parchment toward me-got all over my books and my homework and me, too-,"
"I told them to go change, I just thought you'd want to clean up the carpet- ," Percy broke in.
"Professor, what about my books?" Ron shouted.
"QUIET!" McGonagall bellowed. "Everyone, please. This is easily fixed. Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, please go change into clean robes. Take this soap with you and clean the ink off yourself-yes, Miss Weasley, it is magic soap. Percy, you could use some too. Now go!"
Ron and Hermione fled, each clutching a bar of violently green soap in one hand. Percy chased after Ron, shouting "Wait! Come back, Ron, I need to use that soap!"
Professor McGonagall drew her wand from her cloak and quickly lifted the ink from the carpet and poured it back into the bottle. By the time Ron, Hermione, and Percy had returned (which time was surprisingly short, considering Ron and Hermione's extremely inky skin) there was no sign of where the ink had stained the carpet. Professor McGonagall was conversing with a seventh-year girl who had an open Transfiguration textbook in her lap; the girl looked extremely pleased to have the help of the Transfiguration teacher herself in completing her homework.
"Ah! Weasley, Granger, Percy," she said when they reentered the Common Room. "I've fixed the carpet, but your books, Weasley, are still in a sad state. I'm afraid you'll have to take them to Professor Flitwick, he's exceptionally good at cleaning charms. Next time be more careful with your supplies, please. Good-bye."
Without another word, she exited through the portrait hole, leaving the seventh-year looking extremely miffed.
"Hermione, how many rat tails do you add to a Hair-raising potion?" Ron asked despairingly. They were walking down a corridor on their way to Gryffindor Tower. Ron was staring at a large Potions textbook with a dazed look, clearly not seeing anything written on the page. Snape had given them so much homework that they were likely to be in the sixth year before they finished it all.
"Seven and three quarters," Hermione said briskly. "Really, Ron, you need to read the book, not just stare at it," said Hermione brusquely.
"Hermione, I'm try-," Ron began, but an angry outburst from the floor above cut him off.
"That's Filch," said Hermione as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.
"Do you think someone else has been-you know-,"
"Ssh!" Hermione held a finger to her lips.
Filch sounded slightly hysterical, yelling at no one in particular. "-even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do already! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore-,"
His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked.
"C'mon, Hermione," said Ron pleadingly. "Let's get out of here before someone comes along!"
Hermione wordlessly pointed at a great flood of water, stretching over half the corridor. More water still was seeping from under the door to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails from inside the bathroom.
"Now what's up with her?" said Ron.
"Let's go see," said Hermione. "And then we've got to get back to Gryffindor Tower, or you'll never get your homework done, you know."
Ron threw her an irritated glance but followed as she picked her way carefully around and through the puddle of water and into the bathroom.
Moaning Myrtle seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet, crying-if possible-louder and harder than ever before.
"Who's that?" asked Myrtle miserably as the door closed behind them. "Someone else come to throw something at me? I mind my own business, and what can I do if someone thinks it would be funny to throw a book at me? Ten points if you can get it through Myrtle's nose! Twenty if it flies through her forehead!" she sobbed harder and rose slowly out of the toilet.
"Why would I throw a book at you?" Hermione asked reasonably, wading across to Myrtle's stall.
"Anyway," Ron broke it, "It can't hurt that much, can it? I mean, you're dead.."
"Of course," said Myrtle, sniffing. "It doesn't matter if you throw things at Myrtle, she's dead so she can't feel it.."
With a loud, gurgling sob, she dived back into the toilet.
"Who threw it in, anyway?" asked Hermione.
"I don't know," Myrtle glugged from inside the U-bend of the toilet. "But you can look at it if you want.it got washed out and landed under that sink."
Ron looked at the row of sinks againts the wall. Lying under one of them- the oldest, most broken down of them all-was a small black book that was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Ron stepped forward and picked it up.
"It's a diary," he said, no longer interested. "Doesn't have anything written in it, though.."
"Here, let me see," said Hermione. Ron handed it to her.
"Wow, it's fifty years old," she said. "You're right, though, nothing written in it.."
She turned it over and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London.
"Whoever owned it must've been a Muggle then," she said, and opened it once more. "Wait-there is something written here-,"
T.M. Riddle was written on the first page in smudged ink.
"T.M. Riddle?" Ron asked. "Wonder who that could be?"
Hermione didn't answer; she was deep in thought. "T.M. Riddle," she said suddenly. "I've heard that name before! I think he got an award for special services to the school. I was looking at the trophy case yesterday."
"Wonder what for," Ron said in a slightly bored tone. "Oh well, it doesn't matter. Chuck it back in the toilet."
"No, not yet," said Hermione, scanning the book further. Suddenly she took out her want and prodded the cover, muttering a few words that Ron didn't catch. Hopefully, she opened it again, but it remained blank.
"Invisible ink?" she asked musingly. Pocketing her wand, she took out a small pink eraser and began rubbing furiously at the wet pages. Nothing happened.
"Nothing's written at all," she said finally, sounding disappointed.
"I could've told you that," said Ron grumpily. "Wish I knew who chucked it, though. Oh well-fifty points if you can get it through Myrtle's head!"
"No," Hermione repeated stolidly. She slid the little book and the eraser- like object back into her robe pockets. "I'm going to keep it."
* * *
"I wish I knew why someone tried to chuck it," said Hermione. She and Ron were seated in the corner of the Common Room, with the diary on a table between them, beside Ron's unfinished Potions homework. Both were staring at it with equally bemused expressions; both had come up with various explanations for that very question-each wilder than the last.
"Who knows, maybe somebody thought flushing it would make writing appear," said Ron disinterestedly. "C'mon, Hermione, leave it be. I've got to start on that Potions homework-you too, you know."
Hermione didn't asnwer. She had an arrested look on her face and was staring, wide-eyed, at the book.
"Ron," she said suddenly, "I think I know why Riddle got the award for special services," she said excitedly. "He was at Hogwarts fifty years ago, right?"
Ron nodded, not knowing where she was going with this.
Now Hermione could hardly contain her excitement. "And what did Malfoy tell us?" she asked, her voice breaking with uncontained anticipation. Without waiting for Ron to reply, she cried "The Changer of Secrets was opened fifty years ago!"
Several people looked over at them, and Hermione blushed.
"So what're you saying?" Ron asked quietly, when everyone had gone back to what they were doing.
"Oh, Ron, wake up," Hermione snapped. "We know the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught and expelled fifty years ago, right?"
Ron nodded, understanding dawning in his face.
"We know T.M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago. What if Riddle got his award for catching the Heir of Slytherin? His diary would probably tell us everything-where the Chamber is-what's hiding in there-the person who's behind the attacks-well, the Heir of Slytherin wouldn't want that lying around, would he?"
"That's brilliant, Hermione," said Ron sarcastically. "With just one little flaw. There's nothing written in the diary. I'm telling you, Hermione, Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and couldn't be bothered writing in it." Without another word, he pulled his parchment towards him to begin on his Potions work.
Suddenly the parchment caught on the corner of the bottle of ink; a second later the open bottle tipped, spilling ink all over Ron, Hermione, all of Ron's books, and T.M. Riddle's diary.
Ron jumped up, overturning the small table and spilling ink all over the Common Room carpet.
"What's the problem?" asked Percy officiously, hurrying over with his chest thrust out so that the Prefect badge was clearly visible. "What happened back here? Ron, tell me what happened! Someone go get Professor McGonagall, this mess needs to be cleaned up. Hermione, Ron, go change your robes and wash up, you've got ink all over you." He paused for breath. "But first tell me what happened, I'm a Prefect, I'll need to tell Professor McGonagall."
"I was pulling my parchment toward me and it spilled the ink," Ron snapped, shaking his hands. Ink flew everywhere; Percy's forehead became bespeckled with black.
"Stop it, Ron!" he said. "Ah, Professor McGonagall, you're here. Sorry to bother you, but my little brother spilled his ink-,"
"I did not spill it!" Ron roared. "Professor, it tipped as I was pulling my parchment toward me-got all over my books and my homework and me, too-,"
"I told them to go change, I just thought you'd want to clean up the carpet- ," Percy broke in.
"Professor, what about my books?" Ron shouted.
"QUIET!" McGonagall bellowed. "Everyone, please. This is easily fixed. Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, please go change into clean robes. Take this soap with you and clean the ink off yourself-yes, Miss Weasley, it is magic soap. Percy, you could use some too. Now go!"
Ron and Hermione fled, each clutching a bar of violently green soap in one hand. Percy chased after Ron, shouting "Wait! Come back, Ron, I need to use that soap!"
Professor McGonagall drew her wand from her cloak and quickly lifted the ink from the carpet and poured it back into the bottle. By the time Ron, Hermione, and Percy had returned (which time was surprisingly short, considering Ron and Hermione's extremely inky skin) there was no sign of where the ink had stained the carpet. Professor McGonagall was conversing with a seventh-year girl who had an open Transfiguration textbook in her lap; the girl looked extremely pleased to have the help of the Transfiguration teacher herself in completing her homework.
"Ah! Weasley, Granger, Percy," she said when they reentered the Common Room. "I've fixed the carpet, but your books, Weasley, are still in a sad state. I'm afraid you'll have to take them to Professor Flitwick, he's exceptionally good at cleaning charms. Next time be more careful with your supplies, please. Good-bye."
Without another word, she exited through the portrait hole, leaving the seventh-year looking extremely miffed.