The Writing on the Wall
Merlin felt jittery.
He leaned against one of the black couches before the fire in the Slytherin common room, an odd tingle dancing across the nape of his neck, along the hairs on his arms. The rest of Slytherin House was slowly filing out through the stone passageway, and on to the much-anticipated Halloween feast. Merlin could see Theodore rocking on the balls of his feet, Pansy and Daphne giggling amongst themselves, and even Blaise had an odd spring in his step as they filtered towards the promise of delicious food.
He waved when Blaise looked back at him, and pointed towards the stairs to the boy's dormitory. "Waiting for Draco," he said, by way of explanation and Blaise laughed.
"Still doing his hair, huh?"
Merlin shrugged, and Blaise too disappeared through the stone doorway. He sighed, and dropped his head, tightly shutting his eyes for a moment as a wave of sickening pain broke behind his lids.
The two doses of Pepper-Up Potion had only partially cleared his mind. It felt as though his magic were chasing the pain in circles around in his head, darting from behind his eyes to the back of his skull, and back again. Though Samhain had made it more bearable. All week he had been siphoning some of the raw magic and directing it towards his throbbing brain. Okay, it had left him light-headed and dizzy up until the headache reasserted itself but it was better than wincing at everything.
And he'd miss it when Samhain ended.
He heard steps on the stairwell and looked up to see Draco coming down at last, his sleek blond hair carefully brushed back.
"It's not like we're going to a dinner party," Merlin said, raising his eyebrow.
"Don't I know it," Draco sneered in reply. "Did you know I saw some Gryffindor first-year try to slide down the bannister yesterday? Crashed into a whole group of Ravenclaw girls."
Merlin chuckled at the thought. "Bet they were thrilled."
Draco glowered. "They blocked up the corridor for fifteen minutes, shouting at him. But regardless," and he shook his head, "I will give this day the respect it deserves."
Merlin paused, his eyes widening. "That's a new one."
"It's not, actually, but come on. We're falling behind," Draco said, gesturing toward the still open stone passageway.
"And whose fault is that?"
Draco didn't reply, and instead led the way out into the chilled corridor.
This time, Merlin had remembered to bring his cloak. He shivered, the eerie light of hundreds of black candles making it seem colder than it really was. He wondered who had thought the dungeons needed more mood lighting. They turned the corner, and at first Merlin thought someone had erected a silver fire in the middle of the corridor to go with the candles, before it moved and he realized it was the bloody Baron. He was pacing back and forth, his brow furrowed.
As they neared, Merlin heard him grumble, "Every year it's the same. Don't see why he needs to—"
He stopped short when he saw them approaching. "Ah, on your way to the feast?"
"Yes, sir," Draco answered at once.
"Then you best hurry. It's starting soon."
Draco nodded and made to continue up the corridor, but Merlin didn't move. He felt Draco shoot him a peculiar look, pausing too. The Bloody Baron raised his eyebrow at Merlin, his dark eyes flashing toward Draco.
"Is something the matter, young snake?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Merlin replied. The Baron glanced at Draco again before replying, his voice sharp and rough, like shaking a bucket of rusted nails.
"Oh, I've been invited to Nearly Headless Nick's Death Day party."
"The Gryffindor Ghost?" Draco said, coming back to stand next to Merlin.
"Why yes," said The Bloody Baron, nodding. "He and I have become somewhat friends these past few decades, and tonight is his 500th Death Day."
Merlin took longer to process this than normal. "Wait," he said, holding up his hand, "he celebrates the day he died?"
"We all do, in some form or other," The Baron said, shrugging. "I've attended his party every year, and it's always the same. Complains constantly about being unable to join the Headless Hunt." He shook his head. "Don't worry yourself, Merlin. Go on and enjoy the feast, it's sure to be a delight," and the ghost turned, vanishing through solid stone.
Merlin turned to see Draco surveying him with that peculiar expression again. "What?" he asked as they started down the corridor again.
"You're friends with him."
It wasn't a question.
"I suppose," Merlin said, slowly. "He is our House Ghost."
"No—oh, never mind," and Draco shook his head.
Merlin didn't speak for a long moment, staring at his feet as they headed out of the dungeons. "We talk every now and then," Merlin admitted at last as they reached the Entry Hall. "I've got him to help keep an eye out for anything weird."
Draco stared at him. "I didn't know ghosts did anything other than wander through walls."
Merlin hesitated. He could feel his gut clenching. "It's not exactly usual, is it?"
"No." Draco heaved a sigh. "You're just one mystery after another, aren't you?"
Merlin opted to smile, and they pushed through the doors into the Great Hall.
It was breathtaking. A hundred live bats swooped overhead, darting between thousands of black candles, causing their dim ghostly light to dance across the walls. Pumpkins the size of carriages floated high above the tables, their large triangle eyes and wide toothy grins seeming to bend and creak with silent laughter in the candlelight. Merlin tripped over his feet as he followed Draco to the Slytherin table, his eyes trained on the ceiling. Tonight it depicted a mass of black clouds that churned and spun among scattered stars.
"Oh, that's right," Draco, said, glancing at him as they took their seats. "You didn't come to the feast last year."
Last year, Merlin never made it to the feast. He had been running late and sensing animal magic, had instead headed up stairs where he'd encountered and killed a mountain troll.
"I wish I had," Merlin replied, still looking around at the decorations. The weight of the magic in the room was incredible. He could feel it vibrating as a living, breathing thing.
"Do you want some of this?"
"Huh?" Merlin turned to see Draco holding a bowl of mashed potatoes toward him. Nodding, Merlin took it and scooped a few spoons onto his plate before passing it down the table. He grabbed whatever else was in reach: roast beef, roast chicken, heaps of lettuce. And, true to his style, he doused his plate in dressing and started to eat.
It tasted absolutely delicious, as it usually did. But after his fourth bite, Merlin lowered his fork.
He wasn't hungry. Whether it was because of the magic or the flu he clearly hadn't been able to shake, he didn't know. The pain wasn't the same—it had changed into a strange combination of pressure and mist, leaving him light-headed and nauseous. He rested his head in his hands.
He felt like he was spinning.
"Are you all right?" Draco asked, and Merlin felt his hand on his shoulder.
Merlin gave a non-committal hum. "I think—I think I might turn in early."
"Now?" Draco asked, clearly confused.
"Yeah. I'm not feeling well."
Draco paused. "The Pepper-Up Potion didn't help at all, did it?"
Merlin shook his head. He stopped abruptly when another wave of dizziness hit him, and pressed his palms against his eyes until he could see kaleidoscopes of black static.
"I'll walk you back."
Merlin lifted his head, blinking as light re-entered his vision. "No—I can make it back," he said. "I don't want you to miss the feast on my account."
"It's fine," Draco insisted. "You look like you might fall over, anyway."
Merlin hesitated, and his eyes shifted towards Draco's plate. "Just—finish eating at least. I can wait that long."
"You sure?"
Merlin nodded, and after a final look, Draco began to eat again—though much faster than before. Merlin massaged his temples, eyes closed. What was going on? He tried to draw in some of the magic around him, and he only felt worse. It was bouncing off his pain, engulfing it, swirling around until he felt suspended within it. Not uncomfortable or pleasurable.
Draco downed the rest of his pumpkin juice and got to his feet. "Okay, let's go. With any luck I'll make it back before desert finishes," he said, though he sounded doubtful.
"I could still go alone," Merlin started suggest but he stopped at the look on Draco's face. He scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, thanks," he said, standing up.
"Yeah, well, anyway," Draco said as they headed out of the Great Hall. "What if you ran into another troll?"
Merlin chuckled quietly. The moment the doors closed behind them, Merlin felt better. He took a deep steadying breath.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Merlin said as they neared the entrance to the dungeons. "I don't know—"
The words died in his throat. From somewhere above him came the voice, the same terrible chilling whisper he had heard that night as they'd left the library. It hit just as it had before, the malicious intent, the biting venom dripping from each hushed word.
"Rip…tear…kill…"
Merlin stopped dead. He could barely hear it over the conversation drifting towards them from the Great Hall but there was no mistaking it. And this time he was positive—this was no escaped Boomslang. This was something much larger, much older. But where was it? He strained his ears, trying to block out everything around him.
"Kill…time to kill…"
"Merlin? What's going on?"
Merlin ignored Draco. He rested his hand on the wall, trying to catch the voice again.
"Merlin!"
"Be quite—it's that voice again," Merlin hissed, praying he hadn't lost it. Draco fell silent at once, the color draining from his face. Merlin closed his eyes, listening with all his might.
"So hungry, for so long…"
The voice was moving. Moving upward. Merlin turned on his heel, and without a second's pause he ran for the marble staircase. He took two at a time, Draco's clattering steps right behind him. It came again, loud even over the sound of their pounding footsteps.
"Not him… No…" The voice gave way to a spitting hiss and for a moment Merlin panicked—had his Parseltongue failed him? Then he realized the snake hadn't said anything. It'd been a scream of frustration.
Merlin came careening onto the second floor corridor and slipped, landing flat on his back. Coughing, blinking stars out of his eyes, Merlin sat up and looked around. He was sitting in a puddle of water, stretching all the way down to the end of the corridor where—where—
"Merlin we need to get out of here."
Merlin didn't respond to Draco's words. He hardly heard them. All his attention was focused on the wall opposite them, where words had been painted in glistening red:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED
ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE
His stomach turned to lead. Merlin didn't know what that was. He had never heard those words before and yet—and yet he had the gnawing sensation of familiarity. He got to his feet, the entire back of his robes sopping wet. In the distance he heard it again, growing fainter and fainter.
"I smell blood… I smell…blood…"
Merlin ran forward, skidding and sliding on the wet stone. As he neared the message on the wall, he caught sight of something small and fluffy hanging from the torch bracket, just above the smeared message on the wall. Merlin narrowed his eyes, then took a fast step back. The thing was Filtch's cat, Mrs. Norris. At the sight of the animal, suspended and immobile, Merlin threw caution out the window.
"Where are you?" he shouted, desperate to catch the voice again. What if it ran into a person next?
"Merlin!" Draco hissed, urgently.
"I command you to leave this castle!"
"Merlin, shut up!"
"If I find you I'll—" Draco seized his arm, cutting Merlin off. Merlin spun around wrench himself free, but what he saw made the blood freeze in his veins.
The feast had ended.
Standing before him was a crowd of students. They had halted some ten feet away from him, a sea of wide terrified eyes shifting first to him, then to the suspended cat, and back to him with increasingly hostile expressions. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then—
"The Chamber of Secrets had been opened?" someone from the back read aloud, and the silence ended in a tumult of furious conversation.
"Did you hear him?"
"Was that what I think it was?"
"I knew you couldn't trust a Slytherin!"
"Is that Mrs. Norris?"
"It's him! He's the one who did it!"
Merlin couldn't have moved even if he'd wanted to. His legs felt like someone had glued them to the floor, his fingers numb. He wanted to say, it wasn't me, but the words wouldn't make it up his throat. It stayed trapped in his mind, mutating until it was screaming in his ears—What have I done?
He caught a glimpse of bushy brown hair, and a moment later Hermione stumbled towards them. Ron Weasley hissed her name from behind, and Merlin saw him try to grab the back of her cloak. She ignored him, wrenching herself free and rushing towards Draco and Merlin, her brown eyes wide and worried. At the sight of her however, Draco's face drained of all colour.
"You need to leave," he whispered, his voice barely heard over the crowd.
Hermione blinked, coming to an abrupt halt in front of them. "Why?" she replied, and her eyes darted to the writing on the wall.
"Hermione," Draco said, his urgent undertone unlike anything Merlin had ever heard before, "go back to your dormitory and stay there."
"What's going on here?" and Filtch the Caretaker parted the crowd. His beady bloodshot eyes fell on Merlin, narrowed in obvious dislike before looking past him—to where his cat hung suspended on the torch bracket. He came to a dead stop, and gave a terrible croaking gasp.
"My cat—my cat—what's happened to Mrs. Norris?"
"I swear I don't know," Merlin breathed, but at his words there was an uproar from the onlookers.
"We saw you!"
"He's a Parselmouth."
Merlin took an unsteady step backwards, swallowing as Filtch's eyes snapped to him. "YOU!" he howled, pointing a shaking finger at Merlin. "You've murdered my cat! I'll kill you—I'll—"
"Argus." Dumbledore had arrived, flanked by Professors McGonagall and Snape. And behind them came Lockhart, his unaffected smile out of place among the expressions of furious alarm and silent panic.
Merlin watched as Dumbledore's light blue gaze darted across the message on the wall, survey the suspended cat, and finally, settle on him. Merlin held his breath but Dumbledore didn't say anything. Instead, he swept past and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Everyone, return to your dormitories immediately. Mr. Evans, Mr. Malfoy, please follow me."
Lockhart bounced forward. "My office is nearest, Headmaster," he said and he gestured down the corridor.
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said with a nod, and he followed after the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. With a glance at Snape, Merlin and Draco followed.
Hermione shot Merlin a terrified look, and he did his best to give her a reassuring smile. He didn't succeed. The crowd had withdrawn as he neared, giving him and the professors a wide birth as they passed by. He thought he saw Fred and George in the crowd—one of the few faces sharing Hermione's worry. But the mass of panic and anger felt seared into his brain.
They walked in silence to Lockhart's office. Merlin thought he could hear the man in question clear his throat every minute, as though dying to say something. Merlin almost wanted him too, at least then he wouldn't have to listen to the pounding of his heart.
The office was dark. McGonagall waved her wand and the candles re-lighted on the chandelier, bathing them all in yellow light. All around the walls, Lockhart's portraits were ducking out of frame— their hair in rollers. Dumbledore strode over to the desk and laid Mrs. Norris on it. He began poking and prodding her, his nose bent so close over the animal his breath ruffled her fur.
"It wasn't us," Draco said the minute the door closed behind them. "Merlin was feeling ill and wanted to head back to the common room early. We found Mrs. Norris like that, Headmaster."
"It's true," came Snape's voice from behind Merlin, and he felt the Potions Master place his hand protectively on his shoulder. "Merlin came to my office for a Pepper-Up Potion a few days ago."
"Rubbish," snarled Filtch. He had collapsed into a chair in front of the desk, and though his words were taunt with anguished fury, his eyes never left his familiar lying immobile before him. "Even if that's true, the Slytherin common room is in the dungeons. What was he doing up here? And the students claimed they saw him speaking Parseltongue—Parseltongue Headmaster!"
Merlin narrowed his eyes. "What?" he said gesturing to the cat, and he felt Snape's grip tighten on his shoulder. "You think that I shouted her to death or something?"
There was a very pregnant pause as all eyes swiveled towards him.
"You don't deny it, then?" Professor McGonagall asked, her lips so thin that each word came out as a whisper.
"I didn't kill the cat."
Merlin paused. He could see Lockhart fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, as though he longed to draw everyone's attention back to himself but couldn't fight his own curiosity. Merlin took a deep breath, and met Dumbledore's light blue gaze.
"But I am a Parselmouth."
Filtch gave a triumphal cry, gesturing towards him as though he had just admitted his guilt. Professor McGonagall took a step back, her lips thinner than ever and a pallid sheen taking hold of her complexion. Snape was now gripping his shoulder so tightly that it hurt. And, after a tense silence, Lockhart gave a funny little giggle.
"Now, now," he said sweeping over to stand next to Merlin—though he seemed to think better of it when he saw Snape and instead settled in between Merlin and Dumbledore. The unaffected smile was back. "I've run into several Parseltongue users in my travels, and although they are rather slippery," he laughed knowingly, and then shook his head. "Not all of them are evil."
"He killed my cat!" Filtch roared, jumping to his feet. "You saw what he wrote on the wall!"
"She's not dead, Argus," came Dumbledore's voice, gently. He had been tapping the cat with his wand for the past minute, to no effect.
"Not dead?" spluttered Filtch, turning back to Mrs. Norris and frowning.
"She has been petrified," Dumbledore continued, and Lockhart hummed in agreement.
"Ah! Thought so," he said lifting his head. "What a pity I wasn't there—I know the exact counter-curse that could have spared her."
Merlin wanted to throw up. His head had started pounding so hard he was grateful he had Snape's grip to keep him upright. Why did they all have to speak so loudly?
"Can Parseltongue do something like this?" asked Professor McGonagall and Merlin glared at her. It was a language, not a curse.
Dumbledore shook his head. "No. I doubt any second year could have done this."
"We thought a first year couldn't duel a professor either," Filtch spat, his eyes popping. "Who knows what else he's capable of!?"
Merlin winced at his shrill words. "Headmaster," he said, avoiding the eyes of everyone else in the room. "Could I have a private word?"
"Do you know something?" Professor McGonagall asked at once.
Merlin met Dumbledore's gaze, and he got the strange impression that Dumbledore was looking right through him, right into his soul. After a moment, Dumbledore nodded. "Everyone, please leave us."
Merlin felt Snape's hand leave his shoulder and quickly added, "Snape can stay." He would have gone to tell him later, anyway.
"As it's my office—" Lockhart began, puffing himself up importantly but with another stab of pain, Merlin's patience ended.
"I'm not saying anything with you here!" he snapped, turning sharply toward Lockhart. The man took a fast step back, his smile fading. For a moment, Merlin stared at him before realizing that he hadn't spoken in English. He looked around and saw everyone regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and surprise. He brought a hand up to massage his temple.
Do you want to make this worse?
"Why don't we head down to my office?" Snape suggested lightly, and Dumbledore nodded.
"An excellent idea. Minerva, could you take Mrs. Norris and Argus up to the hospital wing? Inform Poppy what has happened."
"The hospital wing?" Filtch repeated and for the first time he looked hopeful. "You mean—you mean we can—"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Yes. Professor Sprout has a crop of mandrakes this year, and when they've matured a potion will be brewed that can restore her."
He turned back to Snape and nodded. Without a word, Snape turned on his heel and led the way out of the room. And with a final glance back at Draco and Dumbledore, Merlin followed.
"Are you all right?" Draco whispered as they followed Snape down a flight of stairs.
Merlin didn't know how to reply. "I'll be fine," he said after a moment, massaging his temple again.
It was silent for another moment as they reached the entry hall and started the decent into the dungeons. Then, Draco asked, "What did you say to Lockhart?"
"I'd rather like to know that myself," came Dumbledore's voice behind him and Merlin started, jerking back to look at him. But, Dumbledore didn't look angry or upset; in fact he looked mildly amused.
Merlin gave a weak smile. "I said, I'm not saying anything with you here."
"Ah, yes, and not all together unwarranted I must say."
Merlin felt his shoulders relax. Sometimes Dumbledore reminded him of Gaius. The small things—his calm demeanor, his soft-spoken nature, his ability to make him feel like everything would turn out okay.
Snape waved his hand as they neared his office door and it swung open to welcome them. He shut it right after them, pulling out his wand and casting a spell that Merlin didn't hear. When he caught Merlin's eye, he said, "To stop eavesdroppers," by way of explanation and nodded toward the chair in front of his desk.
Merlin took a seat, grateful for the support.
"Now," Dumbledore said walking around to stand behind Snape's desk. "What is it you wanted to tell us?"
Merlin glanced at Draco, who offered a shrug, before returning his gaze to Dumbledore. Snape had come to stand next to him, leaning against his desk and wearing an unfathomable expression. He took a deep breath.
"I didn't attack Mrs. Norris," he began, "but—" he faltered a moment.
"But?"
Merlin lifted his head. "I heard what did. That's why I was shouting in the corridor—It's a snake, Headmaster. I heard it speak when I left the Great Hall, which is why we went to that corridor in the first place. I followed it there."
"Are you certain?" and Merlin was taken aback by the Headmaster's sharp tone. It didn't sound like Dumbledore doubted him—more like he believed him. Unquestionably.
Merlin nodded and watched as Dumbledore and Snape traded significant looks. What was going on?
"What did the voice—the snake—say, Merlin?" Dumbledore asked, his voice still serious. It unsettled Merlin, but not as much as what the snake had whispered in the dark.
"That it was time to kill and how hungry it was." He shook his head, "What's going on?"
But Dumbledore didn't answer him. He had turned to Snape. "Organize a staff meeting in my office, immediately. We will need to search the school tonight—thoroughly."
Snape's eyes flickered to Merlin, and he saw something he'd never seen on the Potion Master's face before—something that looked suspiciously like fear. Then it gave way to expressionless stone, and he whipped out of the office in silence.
"Sir?" Draco prompted. He gripped the back of Merlin's chair with white knuckles. "It's happened, hasn't it? The Chamber of Secrets has been opened again."
"Again?" Merlin repeated, his eyes widening.
"It seems an explanation is unavoidable," Dumbledore said shaking his head, "Though I apologize, for it will have to wait until tomorrow." He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. "That being said, it does seem that may be the case, Mr. Malfoy. I trust you will explain to Merlin all that implies."
Draco had gone uncharacteristically pale, but he nodded all the same. "Yes, sir."
Dumbledore gave him a searching look, and some of the twinkle returned to his eyes. "Now, both of you hurry to your common room. Professor Snape will be along shortly."
Merlin didn't want to leave. He wanted to help them find the snake. How were they going to find it without him, anyway? But the look on Dumbledore's face had a finality that kept him from speaking. Instead, he got to his feet and quickly followed Draco out of the office.
"What's going on?" he whispered as they sped-walked back towards the common room. "What is the Chamber of Secrets?"
"It's an old Slytherin legend," Draco said. "You know how Salazar Slytherin eventually left the school over conflicts of blood purity?"
"Yeah…"
"Well, before he left he built a secret chamber so that one day, his heir could return to the school and open that chamber, releasing the monster within. He would then use it to purge the school of all the—the muggleborns." He swallowed and shook his head.
"What did you mean when you said the chamber had been opened again?" Merlin asked slowly.
"The Chamber was opened once before, fifty years ago. My father didn't tell me who did it, only that they were expelled. But last time, a girl died. My father used to tell me stories about it when—" he stopped talking abruptly.
They had reached the secret stone passageway into the Slytherin common room, but neither of them spoke the password. Instead, Draco turned to face him and though Merlin could just barely make out his features in the dim glow of the black candles burning low, he could see the dawning comprehension mingled with panic.
"Draco—?"
"He knew this was going to happen." He was speaking so quietly that Merlin had to lean forward to hear him. "That's why he asked me to stay away from you this year."
Merlin felt a chill go up his spine. "How could he know?"
Draco didn't reply. Instead he glanced up the corridor, and suddenly shivered. When he looked back at Merlin, his grey eyes had hardened with resolve. "I don't know. But I'm going to find out."
Only A Boy
Ginny Weasley returned to her senses with a sickening lurch, stumbling back on trembling legs.
She stood alone in the dormitory washroom, staring at her pale reflection. It'd happened again. It'd happened again. It'd happened again. Her heart fluttered in her chest, sharp spines stabbing against her ribs. Her eyes took in the red—the vibrant, terrible hue staining her fingers and glistening down the front of her robes.
She couldn't breathe.
Her hands sought the sink for support, her stomach heaving with food she didn't remember eating. Paint splattered against porcelain, and she shut her eyes so she didn't have to watch it trace crimson spider-webs down the drain.
It wasn't blood. It wasn't blood. It wasn't blood.
She repeated the words until she could open her eyes again. It wasn't blood. It didn't have the iron smell. It was just paint. Just paint. But how had it ended up on her robes? Why was it all over her hands?
She forced herself to take slow breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth. She could hear the air quiver on its way out. She could feel every part of her shaking; feel the chilling sweat on her forehead.
What happened?
She feverishly washed her hands—twice—three times before peaking out of the lavatory. Her dorm was empty. In a blur of red, she raced to her trunk and grabbed a fresh change of clothes, dressing at break-neck speed. She then took the stained robes back to the bathroom, throwing them into the sink and dousing them in cold water.
She washed the robes as long as she dared, then squeezed the water out and threw them onto the pile to be laundered, hoping she'd managed remove all the paint.
What had she done?
She could hear commotion down in the common room now, and after a final glance at her hands to make sure they were clean, she headed down the stairs.
The force of raised conversation nearly blew her back. Everyone was in an uproar. She could see Ron arguing passionately with Hermione Granger—no big surprise there—but Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan were with him, and Fred and George with Hermione. And the entire Gryffindor house surrounded them, voices elevated in fury and anxiety.
Colin Creevey spotted her and pushed his way through the crowd, his eyes wider than she'd ever seen.
"Did you hear?" he had to shout in order to be heard. "Merlin Evans opened the Chamber of Secrets and attacked Mrs. Norris!"
"What?"
"Yeah! He wrote a message on the wall! We saw him!"
Ginny stared at him, and then stared at the commotion before her. She could just hear Ron's furious yell amid the cacophony of sound.
"YOU KNEW HE WAS A PARSELMOUTH?"
Ginny felt unsteady on her legs again. Merlin? But that didn't make sense. None of it made sense. She turned on her heel and raced back up the stairwell, taking two at a time.
The bloody hell was going on?
She found her bag at the foot of her four-poster and practically wrenched open the diary, her fingers stiff with panic and confusion. She sprayed blotches of ink across the blankets in her haste, and dripped excess onto the pages as she scribbled in a uncharacteristically untidy scrawl:
Dear Tom, I don't know what I did during Halloween but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front.
She took a shaky breath, and continued:
They're saying the Chamber of Secrets has been opened, and Merlin is to blame!
Ginny, calm down. Why would they say that?
He was seen in the corridor! He's a PARSELMOUTH, Tom!
Ginny watched as her words faded into the parchment, and for a long moment nothing happened. She ran her fingers over the parchment, each second a reply didn't appear another she didn't breathe. What was taking him so long? And then, finally, he answered.
Ginny, tell me everything you know about Merlin Evans.