1944
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If there was any benefit to the Chamber of Secrets, it was in making the prospect of being this year's Head Girl much less terrifying.
Arriving at King's Cross Station five hours before departure, Hermione had plenty of time to rehearse her introductory speech, a tradition of the Heads to help usher the Fifth Year Prefects into new and unfamiliar duties, while also acting as a reminder of what the Sixth Year Prefects had forgotten over the summer. The task was made easier by virtue of Tom sitting by her side, chin propped on her shoulder as he read her speech cards, brows lifting up whenever he parsed out a particularly complicated sentence.
"You're much too authoritative, here," said Tom, pointing out a line on the slip of paper. "And here. Here, too. You say 'You must do this', or 'Students shall do that', when people would be more disposed to co-operating if you made them feel part of a collective. 'We should' works better in this instance, or 'We want'. Yes, you're the one assigning the work to them, and they've no option to refuse it, but for this kind of speech, the intent is to maintain an illusion of solidarity. You want to motivate them, present them with the idea of being a member of an élite group—not frighten them with a year-long to-do list of drudgework."
"How will the new Prefects know what to do, if we don't tell them?" asked Hermione, jotting notes on the back of the paper.
In most circumstances, Hermione would hesitate to take Tom's advice. However, on the subject of rhetoric, it would be negligent of her to forget that Tom, by trade, was a journalist. What had once been a summer job for him was now an official vocation, acknowledged not just by the publishers who bought his articles by the page, but by the dozens of devoted readers who thought him a curator of a sophisticated wizarding lifestyle. During the holidays, Hermione had seen first-hand the amount of mail Tom was forwarded from his post box in London, including a letter or two from Madam Leonora Gardiner, the receptionist from the Ministry atrium. In that correspondence, Hermione was astounded to see that there existed people who couldn't form their own opinions without the approval and guidance of another. And Tom, as wise as he was benevolent, had happily volunteered his own services in dictating their life decisions.
Hermione wouldn't let Tom dictate her life, but in this arena, his expertise should deserve her attention.
"The Seventh Year Prefects will show them," Tom assured her. "They'll be put out that they were passed up for the Heads' badges, but it'll heal the wound if we offer them some other form of authority."
"May I see your speech, then?" said Hermione, crossing out a line that Tom had pointed out as extraneous.
"I didn't write it down," said Tom. "I don't need prompt cards."
"How are you going to speak, then?"
"Oh, I'll be alright." Tom tapped his temple. "My speech is in here."
And indeed, after the Hogwarts Express' journey to Scotland had gotten underway, his lack of notes didn't present any sort of handicap to Tom's Head Boy speech. Tom waited until Hermione had finished her revised speech before he'd gotten up from his seat and began his own, taking an approach different to hers. He dispensed with formality and addressed the Prefects as individuals; he threw scraps of praise left and right, congratulating the new Sixth Years on their O.W.L.s, the Slytherins for the previous year's House Cup win, and the Gryffindors for their excellent—if futile—efforts on the Quidditch pitch.
Nothing he said was untrue ("doing well" on an exam could have any number of meanings), but the way he looked people intently in the eye, giving them a brief nod of the head or a light clap on the shoulder, depending on who they were and what achievements they'd earned over the past year, to Hermione seemed somewhat calculated, if not entirely insincere. She didn't think Tom cared about people whose names and accomplishments never passed his lips when he was no longer in their presence. But she did think that Tom cared about cultivating relationships that might benefit him one day; even if he saw value in Hermione beyond her usefulness or utility, their classmates hadn't earned enough of his regard to recommend them to anything but mercenary interest.
Over the next few hours, every time Tom left the compartment, he was stopped by people congratulating him on his badge. It made a gauntlet of venturing out to the bathrooms, the snack trolley, or the compartment commandeered by the Slytherin Seventh Year boys, but Tom didn't seem to mind the inconvenience. In fact, he preened over other people's admiration, was exultant over their envy, and revelled in their bitterness. That last one was the rarest of reactions that Hermione saw in their classmates, but was evident in the more ambitious of the Seventh Year Prefects who'd thought themselves better suited for Headship over Tom Riddle and Hermione Granger.
But Tom's solution worked to soothe their pride, despite Hermione's reservations about the matter. Wasn't it cheapening their office to hand away their responsibilities to others?
"Nonsense," spoke Tom, addressing her doubts. "It's called 'delegating', and all great leaders do it if they don't want to waste every hour of every day accounting for the ha'pence and farthings. We leaders have more important things to do with our time."
"'Our' time," said Hermione, her voice rising in disbelief. "You're using oratory technique on me?"
Tom gave her a fond smile. "It's what leaders do. And it's what elevates you, Hermione, to leadership. You recognise when it's being used; ordinary people don't. In fact, they're rather obtuse, but that only makes them easier to steer." He laughed and added, "In fact, they think they're being honoured by the privilege of doing my work for me."
"But it is an honour," Hermione retorted. She pointed to the badge pinned to her robes. "And a Hogwarts tradition!"
"I suppose I spoke too soon," said Tom, shaking his head. "But not to worry—we'll have to work on that, you and I."
When the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, she and Tom were tasked with gathering the students and escorting them to the carriages. Then, once they'd arrived at Hogwarts, there came the Sorting, the feast, and Headmaster Dippet's after-dinner announcements. This included an updated list of banned joke items and cheating-related paraphernalia to be confiscated on sight, tryout dates for Quidditch, and changes to the staff roster. And, to Hermione's surprise, the introduction of new safety regulations: Aurors would be present during weekend Hogsmeade outings, and students were expected to follow any directions, the same as from any professor or Prefect.
At the Slytherin House table, on the far end of the Great Hall, she saw Tom and Travers conduct a low and heated conversation. Travers leaned in to whisper in Tom's ear, then Tom glanced up at the High Table, before he waved Orion Black over from where the other boy sat with the Sixth Years. At the Ravenclaw Table, no one seemed to care about anything but the specifics of acceptable quills; Dictation and Self-Inking Quills were apparently still allowed, but Repeating Quills were banned, and any quill or ink with magical properties was not permitted during formal exams. (Someone had tried writing on their arms with invisible ink in last year's O.W.L.s, and the proctors of the Wizarding Examinations Authority would be inspecting everyone's arms for that this year.)
The rest of the evening was routine. Hermione organised the Ravenclaws by year group, sending the Fifth Year Prefects to take the First Years up, because the whole House going up to their Common Room at once would inevitably lead to a long queue of people, all of them waiting at the entrance to take their turn with the word puzzle. At the other House tables, the Prefects of Gryffindor and Slytherin passed along the week's passwords, while the Hufflepuffs organised themselves into mentor groups, one older student to three Firsties. Tom, sitting at the head of his table with the other Slytherin Seventh Years, looked as if he was already tired of his responsibilities; he listlessly picked at a plate of quince cheese on water crackers. On either side of him, Hermione noticed two of his dorm mates topping up their pumpkin juice goblets from a silver flask they were keeping out of view of the teachers.
When their eyes met, Tom lifted an eyebrow and jerked his head at the doors.
Hermione shook her head, sliding back the sleeve of her robe to tap her wrist. She didn't think wizards would recognise what it meant, as most—those past their seventeenth birthdays—carried pocket watches instead of wearing timepieces on their wrists. During the holidays, Tom had worn the wristwatch given him by Mrs. Riddle, for convenience, and to ensure that Nott was ejected from the premises on the dot of seven o'clock. Any longer, and Nott would have garnered an invitation to dinner at half-past seven, which Tom took pains to avoid. Tom didn't wear his watch at Hogwarts, but he understood her meaning, for he inclined his head and tapped his fingers on the table.
One, two, three, four, Hermione counted. Twelve taps in total.
Nott, who was sitting opposite Tom, twisted his head around to observe Hermione's reaction. Tom must have scolded him for it, because he quickly turned back around, shoulders hunched.
The evening passed thus, in secret messages sent across crowded rooms, in guarded looks alternating between the door and the High Table, until it was time for all the Houses of Hogwarts to part ways. When Hermione finally reached her dormitory, it was near ten, and she was grateful to see that her trunk had been brought on from the train and laid at the foot of her bed. With shaking hands, she dug through its contents to find the collection of potions she'd prepared for the expedition. The glass bottles were intact, cushioned in several paper-wrapped bundles of clean bandage.
At a quarter to midnight, Hermione cast a Disillusionment Charm over herself, then slipped out of her bed, fully dressed in the Muggle coat she'd worn that morning, and a pair of winter boots. Nott had theorised that the Chamber went under the Lake, so it was bound to be cold at the bottom. A much more sensible choice than her soft-soled uniform shoes, of patent leather with an open top and a strap over the instep.
Her dorm mates had their bed canopies closed, and after waiting at the door for a good twenty seconds, she saw no ripples in the curtains and heard no creaks of the mattress springs. The Ravenclaw Common Room was just as silent. There was a cat curled on the armchair nearest the fireplace, a few empty bottles of butterbeer on a reading table, and a handful of wrinkled sheets of newspaper scrawled over with games of noughts-and-crosses, but all the students had gone up to their rooms. (This was somewhat unusual for Ravenclaw; Hermione recalled that in May and June of last year, students had used the Common Room to study at all hours of the evening and early morning. However, tonight's triple combination of a late meal, heavy food, and being too early in the year for exam panic, must have presented an unassailable argument on the importance of proper rest.)
Without groups of students, robes and neckties flying all over the place, rushing to get to class without lost points or detention, the corridors were eerily quiet. The torches in their sconces were dimmed of their usual cheery yellow flames, the portraits dozing within their frames, mumbling an occasional word or two in their sleep. Hermione held her breath in passing several suits of armour, drifting from shadow to shadow in between the guttering circles of torchlight. Down one set of stairs, a pause on a landing to wait for two staircases to connect, carrying her from Ravenclaw Tower Entrance down several floors to the Library wing.
When she opened the door to the girls' bathroom, she saw that the room was dark, a shaft of silver moonlight falling onto the tiles, broken into a pattern of diamonds by a leaded window frame. Silhouetted in front of the window were Tom and Nott, who must have arrived before her; they were standing in front of the sinks, whispering furiously to one another.
"I'm steering, so I should be in charge of the carpet," Tom said, reaching for something held in Nott's arms. "And you have your hands full already."
Nott jerked back, hissing, "This belongs to my family. There's no chance I'm giving it away!"
"I'll give it back, trust me," said Tom.
"That's the thing, isn't it?" Nott said, sniffing. "I don't."
"Wouldn't you trust me to take care of it?" Tom asked. "It's a valuable magical artefact; of course I'd keep it in good condition. You've seen my enchanted lunchbox—I've had it from Second Year, and it still works as good as new."
"You'd only take care of things if they belonged to you," said Nott. "I can't imagine that you'd give a single bronze knut about Lestrange's new Cleansweep, top of the line or not."
"That's an unfair ju—" Tom stopped, then glanced up at the door. "Hermione? Is that you?"
The Disillusionment Charm fell away from Hermione's body with a swish of her wand. She made her way across the bathroom, cautiously finding her path in the dark, not daring to light her wand in case it could be seen from the corridor outside. From years of living at Hogwarts, she was aware that the public areas of the castle, lacking the carpets and fireplaces of the living quarters, were always draughty. The doors to each classroom were great weathered things bound with heavy iron bars, the ancient wood shrunken in their frames over the years, instead of sitting flush to the wall.
(In Potions, she and Tom had learned to avoid the work station closest to the door. The constant breezes from the hallway outside kept their cauldron from heating evenly, which meant having to deviate from the textbook instructions to compensate, adding more stirs or simmering for an extra minute. She hated that, as much as it amused Tom, who considered the textbook instructions 'optional'.)
"You're here early," Hermione remarked. "Did you have any trouble with your dorm mates?"
"I told them I was going out. They didn't ask why," said Tom. He glanced over at the sinks. "Are you ready?"
"No," said Hermione. "But today is a Friday, and we won't have classes until Monday, so there's no better opportunity than now to see what's down there." There was a moment of hesitation before she added, "And it's about time you nullified that oath. This is a collaborative effort, and I don't like the idea of anyone being here under duress, not when we might be risking our lives."
"If all goes well, then I'll forgo the oath," said Tom reluctantly. "I suppose you're right, Hermione. If you're on my side, then you've chosen to be. And if you aren't—" he locked eyes with Nott, "—then so be it. But I won't tolerate cowardice. And I certainly won't reward it."
"As if a real coward would have the gall to admit it," Nott muttered. "Well, go on then, Riddle. We're all dying of anticipation."
When the bells in the clocktower began to ring for midnight, Tom leaned over the broken tap and spoke the password. The low grind of stone moving against stone faded away with the final peal, and then, just like that morning in late June, the hole in the middle of the drainage grates was revealed to them. In the dark, it was an empty black void in the middle of the floor, a bottomless well in which one could fall and keep falling forever. Hermione swallowed, fingers tightening over her wand. She hadn't thought it could look worse than how it did in the daylight, slimed down the sides with thick green strings of algae.
They got the carpet aloft, making last minute adjustments to their belongings—Hermione ensured her potions hadn't shifted in her bag, while Nott cast a Cushioning Charm to the jar containing his Hand of Glory. Squeezed as close as they could together, it was still a tight fit down the vertical tunnel. Hermione, lighting up her wand and holding it up, saw that its diameter was scarcely wider than the outer edge of the carpet, and Tom had to take pains with steering to keep the tassels from scraping along the damp green walls.
No more than four-and-a-half feet across, she estimated. If the monster was a dragon or a Cerberus, and if Salazar Slytherin meant for it to be able to come and go from the Chamber, then it had to be a very small one.
The carpet drifted down, down, down into the gloom.
The further their descent, the lower the temperature fell, until they could see little wisps of breath around their mouths and noses. The air grew damp, taking on a strange loamy smell, the smell of something organic and decayed, and beneath that was a whiff of something else, sour and pungent, reminding Hermione of a jar of eel eyes that had gone off when some careless student had used it and put it back in the ingredients cupboard without properly securing the lid. Rotten fish disintegrating in a foul brine, that was the smell, and Hermione contemplated casting a Bubble-Head Charm. But she still needed her wand for light, or for self-defence...
Without warning, the bottom of the carpet smacked against a hard surface, and Hermione felt, rather than heard, a crunch from beneath her folded legs. With only one hand holding onto the carpet—the other one held aloft her wand—she lost her balance, toppling forward.
A pair of arms tightened around her from behind, and the solid warmth of Tom's chest pressed against her back.
"It looks like we've reached the bottom," breathed Tom, drawing his wand and pushing himself upright. With a murmured Lumos, the tip of the wand flared a brilliant white, blinding them at first, then giving Hermione a brief glimpse of the black shaft rising up, up, up above their heads, and another black tunnel before them, with no end in sight. Tom dimmed his wand from white to a ghoulish red, before settling on a colour somewhere in between, a dull pink that shed illumination, but would still allow them vision in the gloom.
Nott scrambled to his feet, shooing Hermione off the carpet, before dusting it off, rolling it up, and shoving it into his satchel. "There's something on the floor..."
He leaned over, adjusting the angle of his Hand of Glory.
"What is it?" asked Hermione, who couldn't see anything—the Hand only gave light to its owner, making it a useful tool for criminals, but inconvenient for everyone else.
"Bones," Nott proclaimed, kicking at them with the toe of one shoe. Something clattered in the darkness. "Rodent. A rat or a vole." There was a moment of silence, some more kicking, a dry rattle of objects sliding over each other on the grimy floor, then Nott said, "Otter, by the looks of the teeth. And... hah, interesting. Veeery interesting."
"We're not here to play games," Tom snapped, lowering his wand to cast light on the floor. Nott was correct: it was littered with bones, along with other bits of unrecognisable detritus, but to Hermione's eyes, they looked like shards of broken china dishware, and there was nothing she could label as the parts of a human skeleton. "What is it?"
"I thought it was a fish at first. The shape of the spinal column and flattened rib extensions is unmistakeable. But there's no fish that has this sort of pelvic structure," Nott trailed off, leaving them in suspense.
"Well?" prompted Hermione.
"Whatever it is that's down here," said Nott, "killed a mermaid."
The silence was punctuated by a slow and measured drip, drip, drip of water falling in the far distance.
Tom cleared his throat and said, "A Grindylow could kill a mermaid."
"By a stroke of fortune, not by intent," said Nott. "And any Grindylow that managed it would be hunted down immediately by the rest of the merfolk village, as any village of wizards would put down a wolf who bit a child."
"If we can infer anything from this," said Hermione, "then it's your assumption that the Chamber goes under the Lake. We found a mermaid here, so perhaps there's a secondary entrance that connects to the Lake. It must be very cleverly built, since we're about half a mile underground, and there's not a sign of leaking or flooding." She pointed at one wall, which curved over her head in a high arc, forming a tunnel of perfect cylindrical proportions. "If water passed through here on a regular basis, there would be tide marks on the walls. Lines of sediment or caked mud, because it's obvious that this place has never been cleaned. But there aren't any."
"That's good news," Nott remarked. "Of all the ways we could die down here, drowning isn't one of them."
"Only an incompetent wizard would allow himself to drown," said Tom scornfully.
"And an overconfident wizard only exposes himself to disappointment," Nott retorted. "If a flood suddenly comes rushing through here and you drop your wand, you'd stand as much of a chance of surviving as a Muggle."
"Even if you kept hold of your wand, you'd still need to be able to cast spells non-verbally, you know," added Hermione. "It's not that easy to visualise a destination when you've water past your head. That's if the Hogwarts anti-Apparition enchantments don't extend this far down."
"Level of difficulty has never stopped me before," said Tom stubbornly.
"And neither has common sense, I see," Nott snorted. "Let's keep going—this tunnel has to lead somewhere."
"I'll have you know that I'm very sensible, Nott," said Tom. "In fact, you'll be walking in the front."
With a few prods of Tom's wand, Nott was persuaded into leading the way down the echoing tunnel, swearing and muttering to himself every time he tripped over an unstable mound of bones or a slick patch of algae. It wasn't a charitable act on Tom's part, choosing the leader in lieu of letting someone volunteer for the job, but Hermione had to admit, very reluctantly, that she enjoyed walking in the back. Instead of being propelled forward and rushed along by a clearly impatient Tom Riddle, she could take her time inspecting the architecture of the tunnel. Built of a smooth and seamless carved stone, it was different, but just as effective, as the standard galvanised pipe, brickwork, and interlocking cement of modern Muggle sewerage channels. And all this had been built centuries ago!
Nott stumbled along the downward sloping tunnel, the path twisting and bending. At several intervals, they had to cross a dip in the floor in which had collected a silted puddle. Tom had cast Incendio at it, but it filled the tunnel with a stinking mist that obscured vision and hearing, so from there on, Hermione cast Glacius. It didn't much improve the footing, but at least they could skate over the top of the frozen mud, rather than sinking in ankle-deep.
After a few more minutes of walking, the tunnel began to level out, and the floor became drier and more crowded. Where they'd had layers of sticky mud and calcified silt beneath their feet, there were chunks of bone, gravel in several different grades, and pale flakes of what looked like crumbled asbestos. Nott, hefting his Hand of Glory into the crook of one arm, bent down to inspect the flakes. He picked one up and ran his thumb over it, turning it over and over in his fingers. Then he shoved it into his trouser pocket and straightened up.
"We're almost there," said Nott. "I can feel it."
And around the next corner was the big prize: a greenish pile of something resembling an unrolled bolt of cloth or a runner carpet, shapeless and crinkled like the magical tent in her parents' cellar before Mr. Pacek had helped them set it up. Its surface was broken into a regular pattern of layered ovals, smoother and flatter than the angular diamond-patterned ridges of dragonscale.
Nott scrambled over to it, sweeping up a great swathe into his arms and crowing, "I told you it was a snake! Look at it! It's got to be at least twenty—no, over thirty feet long! A beast this size—do you know how rare that is?"
Tom was less enthusiastic; he took up a handful of the shed snakeskin and peered at it, hefting its weight. "I expect someone would want to buy this..."
"I would," said Nott. He coughed and went on with, "Ah, for a fair price, of course. Just as a curiosity, as it were. There aren't any inherent qualities to this skin that couldn't be replicated with dragonhide."
"Hmm," Tom replied, setting down the section of skin. He tapped his wand against his thigh. "If the skin is here, then where's the beast? We should keep going; the tunnel extends further down."
"B-but," Nott sputtered, "what about the skin? We can't just leave it here!"
"It won't go anywhere."
"Yes, but can't I take some with me?"
"We'll come back this way."
"A tiny piece—just so we don't go back empty-handed!"
"Not now," snapped Tom. He turned to Hermione. "Let's go. Nott can stay here if he likes, but we're going to see what else is down there."
He marched forward, wandtip glowing, and Hermione scurried after him, with a glance over her shoulder at Nott.
"If it's a creature of a magical nature, like a dragon, then a Diffindo won't do it," she said. "Spell-resistance. You'll need a proper knife, or goblin silver, if you want to take a clean sample without damaging the rest."
"Yes, thank you, Professor Granger," Nott grumbled, putting down the skin after one last forlorn look at it.
Tom was already a fair distance away, his light bobbing metres ahead. When they caught up with him, he was standing before a wall—no, a door—with carved snakes knotted around each other. A twin-leaved sliding door, the two sections drawing apart as they watched. The gap in the middle grew wider and wider, until there was neither wall nor door, only an entrance to a long chamber of grey stone thickly coated with lichen. Two long channels framed the chamber on either side—Hermione saw that they were ponds of still water, black and murky and tinged with the nose-wrinkling fragrance of rotting kelp. Out of the water rose a line of stone columns, wrapped around with snakes whose emerald eyes and polished fangs glinted in the light of their wands.
But it was the centrepiece of the chamber that drew their attention. A man at the far end, an imposing forty feet high, pose and bearing like that of a patron god in his temple of worship.
Salazar Slytherin.
Or an image of him, at least.
The statue looked like the picture Nott had showed them that summer: a stern, bearded wizard with a forbidding expression and elaborate robes, but even without the animation charms of the picture, the moss-darkened stone face was still incredibly unnerving.
Although anything that size would be, she thought.
"It's empty," said Tom, staring open-mouthed, his voice rising in mounting incredulity. "There's nothing here!"
"There's Salazar Slytherin, right there," said Nott. "So, about that oath..."
"No!" Tom shouted, and his voice boomed hollowly along the length of the empty chamber. "We can't have come all this way for nothing!"
"The skin," said Hermione, stepping forward and laying a gentle hand on Tom's shoulder. "We still have that—"
"Beast of Slytherin," Tom yelled, ignoring her, "present yourself!"
Nothing happened.
Nott scratched his nose, shifting awkwardly. He inspected his cuffs and flicked off a few crumbs of dried mud. "Riddle, if you don't mind—"
"Play some music," demanded Tom. "We haven't tried everything. You brought your harp; I saw you put it in your bag before we left the dormitory."
Nott scowled. "What good will that do?"
"If there's a beast," said Tom, "then there must be a means of waking it up."
"Yes, but why do we want to wake it up?" Hermione put in tentatively.
"It serves no benefit to us like this," said Tom. "And we can't just leave it to hibernate forever."
"Can't we?" asked Nott. "I'm sure it wouldn't mind; it's been there for a thousand years already."
"We can't," said Tom firmly. "You'll do what I say, Nott, or the oath will stay as it is. We came here for the Chamber of Secrets. The Chamber of Secrets contains a beast of legend. I won't confirm that it's real unless I see a sign of the beast's existence."
"The skin—"
"Mere coincidence," said Tom. "Anything could have crawled its way out of the Lake in the last millennium. I want irrefutable evidence."
And at Tom's insistence, another entry was added to Nott's growing list of indignities.
Nott, grumbling in a low voice and shooting meaningful looks at Hermione every time Tom turned his back, set his Hand of Glory on the floor of the chamber and rummaged in his satchel for his harp, buckled inside a polished leather case with embossed Celtic knotwork. It wasn't a tall concert-sized harp that Hermione had seen in the orchestra pits of the London theatres, but of a size to be held in one's arms, and if the player was so inclined, played and carried at the same time—though it would be very awkward unless one had a good sense of balance.
Hermione had only heard from Tom that Nott could play a musical instrument, and had never heard Nott admit to it himself, as she and Nott had always maintained a practical relationship, with neither of them discussing subjects unrelated to the pursuance of their goals. It was strange and rather unexpected to witness it confirmed now, in the Chamber of Secrets—deny it fervently as Tom had, Hermione believed it to be the real thing—and even more unexpected to see that Nott was good at it.
She was no expert in the arts (primary school music class was still a sore memory to her standards of perfectionism), but Hermione was an expert in studying and training, and she could tell that Nott's skill was the result of time and effort. Still muttering about Tom, Nott plucked at the strings, listening to one note ring out, then another, tightening a lever, cocking his head and closing his eyes every now and again. Tom waited, impatiently tapping his feet or pacing around in circles, as Nott drew a small whistle out of his harp case to test the pitch.
"How long is that going to take?" asked Tom.
"You can't rush art," Nott replied. "And the acoustics of this place are terrible. The ceiling's too open and the water will cause reflections..."
When he finally began to play, Tom stopped his pacing and looked to the statue of Slytherin, eyes narrowed.
"Sonorus," he incanted, and the music began to double, then triple in volume. Hermione, standing in front of Nott, could feel the tangible ripple made by the sound as it passed through her body.
Listening to him play, and play very well, Hermione found herself wondering why Nott had never shown interest in joining Hogwarts' music club. Hogwarts didn't have many extracurricular activities for students, and of those, Gobstones, Quidditch, Wizards' Chess, Music, and Duelling had presented no personal appeal, but Hermione did agree that they were a way to form friendships for those who wanted them, or a way to learn something not taught in class lessons. Nott might not desire friendship with "riffraff", but at the very least he would have a venue in which to flaunt his ability. (Hermione disapproved, naturally, in the name of good taste, but there was less shame in showing off an earned skill versus showing off an inherited attribute.)
When Nott finished playing, Tom turned to the statue of Slytherin, his eyes dark with expectance.
"Did it work?" Nott asked.
"Shhh!"
For a minute or two, Tom stood listening intently, his eyes half-lidded. For what exactly, Hermione didn't know: she heard only the steady plink of water falling on stone, Nott shuffling his feet on the grimy floor, the rustle of robes, and the sigh of her own breathing.
"Did you hear that?" said Tom suddenly, staring at the statue's face.
"What is it?" Hermione asked.
"I thought I heard something moving..."
"Are you going to stand there and keep listening, then? Or can we start turning back?" Nott suggested, slipping his hand into his satchel and pulling out a pocket watch. He pressed a catch on the side and the lid flipped open. "It's just past four in the morning."
Hermione ignored him. "What do you mean, 'something moving'? Did the statue move?"
"Are you going to tell me that statues can't move?" said Tom. "I know what I heard!"
"I wasn't going to say that it was impossible," said Hermione. "I know that magic can animate statues, and there are animation enchantments set by the founders that have lasted until today—the winged boars on the front gates are an example. But that statue didn't move—we'd have noticed if it had!"
"But I heard something," said Tom stubbornly.
For the next twenty minutes, Hermione and Nott watched Tom approach the statue, pace several times in front of it, and begin working his way through his mental catalogue of revealing charms. They ranged from the simplest ones in the Prefects' Handbook, spells to reveal the writing on notes passed from hand to hand beneath classroom desks, to spells that negated the properties of pre-mixed invisible inks, to more complex spells that Hermione had only read about in books, used by wizarding enchanters to apply maker's marks to their merchandise, without marring the finish of fine jewellery pieces or the inlay of delicate cabinets and caskets. These marks were hidden during daily use, but were able to be inspected for purposes of authentication and accreditation.
After some time, Nott reached into his bag and drew out a tin cup and a small pouch. From the pouch, he pinched out some brown powder, dropping it into the cup. He then raised his wand and pointed it to the rim.
"Aguamenti," said Nott, yawning. "How long do you think he'll take, Granger?"
"What on Earth are you—are you making tea?"
"I knew there was a slight possibility that I'd end up trapped underground with Riddle, and I wasn't going to risk it on an empty stomach," Nott answered, twirling his wand above his cup and casting a spell to heat the water. "Did you not bring any food with you? I'd expected that you'd be more prepared than that."
"I did!" said Hermione. She fumbled a parcel of waxed paper out of the pocket of her Muggle coat. Mrs. Willrow's ginger biscuits, from the packed picnic lunch Mrs. Riddle had made them take with them on the train that morning. Or rather, last morning.
"Oh good," said Nott, plucking the parcel out of her hands and unwrapping it. "Are these the ones with the molasses sugar? I like those the best—it gives them a good texture. Firm, but not too crumbly."
Tom had done all he could during the summer to guarantee Nott's ejection from the house before dinner, but Mrs. Riddle had a few times successfully rounded them up for a spot of afternoon tea. For some bizarre reason, Nott had relished accepting Mrs. Riddle's invitations, even though he displayed more fondness and warmth toward the food than to the people joining him at the table. Then again, it wasn't as if he'd ever extended fondness or warmth to anyone. In the end, Hermione wasn't sure what to make of it. She knew that people like Nott thought Muggles, even the well-spoken and civilised ones, were natural curiosities, in the same fashion of British explorers who'd met pygmy tribesmen in the wilds of Guinea or Malaya. So she'd kept an eye on him, with the intent to correct Nott on his manners if they slipped in front of the Riddles, but to her surprise, he hadn't.
Hermione had caught him asking Mrs. Riddle leading questions about her family, the circumstances of Tom's relocation (was he mis-remembering, or was Tom from London, and not Yorkshire?), and the mystery that was Tom's parentage. Neither she, Tom, nor Mrs. Riddle were willing to indulge that subject of conversation, much to Nott's disappointment.
And as disappointing as afternoon tea with Mrs. Riddle had been during the summer, this very early morning tea had to be just as anticlimactic. Nott had anticipated uncovering magical artefacts in the Chamber of Secrets, and all they'd found so far was a long roll of dirty snakeskin. Valuable to the right buyer, but what was more money to someone who already had plenty of it? It was a far cry to what he must have been hoping to find: long-forgotten knowledge from the days of the founders, powerful spells lost for generations, or ancient secrets about the workings of the castle.
Crunch.
Nott had broken a biscuit in half. Now, his hand outstretched, he offered her a piece. "You're thinking about something, Granger. What is it?"
Hermione took the biscuit. "The audacity of offering me a biscuit that was mine in the first place! Why did you even take them, then?"
"Because sugar isn't good for you," said Nott in between bites of his half of the biscuit. "Father says that sugar is only for children and invalids, and if Riddle gets what he wants..." He nodded in the direction of the Slytherin statue, which Tom was attempting to climb, his wand held between his teeth. "Well, I think we should appreciate the time we have as people who can eat and enjoy solid food instead of subsisting on potions."
Hermione's brows knitted together, and she spoke in a hushed voice, "Tom can speak to snakes. If the Chamber opened for him, doesn't that make him the master of Slytherin's monster?"
"Who knows what kind of controlling enchantments Slytherin left on it," Nott said, shrugging. "Or even if they've lasted until now. If Riddle, for all his troubles, finds the monster, we can't discount the chance that it'll listen to him instead of eating him outright. But neither of us are Parselmouths, and the only thing keeping us from being eaten alive... is him."
"I'm sure he wouldn't let it eat us..." said Hermione.
"If he had to choose between himself and us, who do you think he'd pick?" asked Nott.
"He won't have to pick anyone. We'll make certain that he's never put in a position where a decision like that is necessary," she decided.
"Is Riddle aware of how much you interfere in his life?"
"I don't see how that's relevant!"
"Because he seems just as determined to interfere in yours," Nott remarked. "I can't help but predict a lifetime of mutual insufferability for the two of you, based on his, shall we say, 'excessive familiarity'. Have you not realised what Riddle wants of you?"
"I am well aware of what he wants, thank you," said Hermione briskly. "Or, what he says he wants. Let me assure you that there's nothing to speculate about. Yes, it's true that we've made a private arrangement of sorts, but it's not nearly as exciting—or as dire—as you think it is."
"You're not going to take him up on his offer, then?" said Nott, giving a close inspection of the tea leaves floating in his cup, and definitely not trying to sound too interested in her answer.
"Is there any reason why I should?"
"You could hardly do better, if you ask me," said Nott.
"Good, because no one asked you!" said Hermione, quite affronted.
"It's true, isn't it?" continued Nott in a casual voice. "He's willing, eager even, to take you on despite your lack of name or property. And if it's a future as a respectable working witch that you desire, then there's nothing that squeaks of respectability like having a respectable husband." He darted a glance over to where Tom was scaling Salazar Slytherin's stony beard. "Even if he doesn't find anything of value, this Chamber still makes him the Heir of Slytherin."
Hermione scoffed in indignation. "I fail to see why a husband makes a witch more or less qualified for a position in the workplace. It seems so unfair—does anyone ask wizards if they're married when they apply for employment?"
"For any position where steadiness and reliability are essential, yes, of course. A legal executor of wizarding wills and testaments. Or a Healer that dispenses advice on, ah, starting families. Depending on what they're applying for, whom they're married to is just as important as if they're married at all," said Nott. "A proper understanding of responsibility is the sign of a proper wizard, Granger. It encompasses a man's integrity and honour, and also includes his duty to perpetuate his legacy. If you can't judge a man's integrity by what he writes and submits on a form, then you can judge it by the state of his house and how well he keeps his family."
Listening to Nott talk, Hermione couldn't stop herself from wrinkling her nose, or wondering how much of it Nott actually believed. He had admitted that he didn't care much for the prospect of having a wife and future children, and what he'd just spouted off sounded like a plain contradiction.
But, she thought, how well a man keeps his family is not the same thing as how much cares for them.
"I'm afraid to ask," she said, "whether or not you consider Tom a proper wizard."
"Oh, I could fault Riddle for one thing or another for the next thousand years," said Nott carelessly. "But upon evaluating his character, one can't deny that he values what's really important. You see, Granger, we're all wizards here—yes, yes, you're a witch, no need to remind me—but what we have in common is magic. Most wizards will hold up their magic as proof that it elevates them above the intelligent beasts: Muggles and goblins and centaurs and so on. And there's nothing wrong with that, except when it's all that they do with their magic.
"Riddle, on the other hand," Nott continued, his words rushing out faster and faster, "knows that there's more to being a wizard than squandering his talents on talk and bluster. The others will content themselves to sitting in their dormitory and arguing about who's got the faster broomstick or the longer wand, but Riddle believes himself to be capable of more than that." He nodded over his shoulder to Tom, clinging to Slytherin's nose and peering into the statue's blank and stony eyes. "Not that all his endeavours will turn out successful, but he's got ambition, and that's not insignificant when the rest have got none at all."
"What about your ambition?" Hermione pointed out. "You mightn't have the title of 'Heir' that Tom has, but the Hat sorted you into the Slytherin, when I'm sure it knew that you could've done just as well in Ravenclaw."
Nott's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that—you must have—no, " he muttered to himself. "So, the Hat offered you a choice, too?"
"Yes, it did, actually," said Hermione proudly. "It said my sense of justice was worthy of Gryffindor."
"No doubt you took it as high praise," snickered Nott, to Hermione's affront. "I'm in Slytherin because I accept that knowledge in itself has no purpose beyond personal satisfaction. Applying knowledge requires action and leadership. And the nature of leadership means that not everyone can be the leader—but neither should one allow himself to be relegated to a mere factotum when he's capable of more than that." He gave her a measured look. "I suppose you know that already, since you've attached yourself to him closer than everyone else."
Hermione returned his look with disapproving glare. "Are you implying that my interest in Tom is based on his utility?"
"I'm not implying it—I'm saying it," said Nott. "You're doing yourself a disservice by ignoring it, Granger. And before you try to moralise on me, I don't see any difference between marriage and a mutual exchange of utility. A thing given, a thing taken; a co-operative effort to usher in the future; all parties satisfied. I'll admit to lacking Riddle's, hah, special touch, but you can't tell me that he makes it any more flattering."
Observing the shift in her expression, he added, "You can hold firm to your ethics for now, but when you leave this castle at the end of next year, you'll find that it's only scholars and academics who care how many books you've read or how many theoretical principles you can quote. The real world, the offices that determine what potion ingredients you can buy in the apothecary, the department that sets the questions you're asked in the final exams—that world is run on patronage and connection. Out there, righteousness and ideals make for a meagre form of currency."
"What grounds have you to tell me this?" said Hermione in a sharp tone. "Your father's an academic."
"He maintains friendships with the right people," said Nott. "And because of that, no Ministry inspector has ever—or will ever—come knocking on our door."
"T-then," Hermione stammered, "how do you benefit from this? The whole time we've been acquainted, you've never given me any information without expecting that it'll turn to your advantage at some point."
"I'm not blind, even if you so obviously are," said Nott. "For some reason, it pleases Riddle to indulge your fancies, no matter how fanciful they happen to be." With his wand, he Vanished the contents of his tea cup and shoved it back in his bag. "You know, I heard Orion Black mention that you weren't as dismal at the Prefects' meeting like everyone had been expecting you'd be—I even heard that Hipworth had prepared a Dictation Quill in the event you'd bungle your speech."
"They thought I'd bungle it?" said Hermione, aghast. Tom had never mentioned that. "No one said anything..."
"It's all in good humour," said Nott, ignoring her audible concern. "But if you're to learn anything from it, it's that politics is no natural talent of yours—but with the right guidance, you're not completely hopeless. With the right counsel, you'd be capable of making great improvements."
In that instant, Hermione saw where Nott was angling. He'd couched his advice in terms of her own interest, but in doing so, he'd presented himself as the expert, and Hermione as the novice. Which wasn't strictly incorrect, but it was galling to acknowledge her own lack of experience with Magical Britain. Throughout the entirety of their conversation, she'd perceived no trace of dishonesty in Nott, and even now, she couldn't see any reason why he would lie to her, not on this subject. While Nott had delivered his argument in a tone of sage condescension, the most troubling acknowledgement was that his points were not wholly groundless.
In her career advisory sessions with Professor Beery back in Fifth Year, she'd been told that perseverance and pluck were requirements of a successful professional career, but thinking about what Beery had actually said, she couldn't recall him giving any solid advice on Ministry careers. He had been very considerate, assuring her that she didn't have to limit herself to conventional careers. Plenty of wizards chose to dedicate themselves to crafts or scholarship, and there was no shame or disrepute in that compared to the more traditional paths of working under a formal employer.
"In fact," Professor Beery had told her when she'd come to his office during her appointed time slot, "I myself have thought about leaving Hogwarts to pursue my own interests. I enjoy teaching—even thought it was my calling when I was younger. But Herbology, forever? Oh, I think my spirit yearns for more than that, noble profession that it is. And you, Miss Granger, so fresh and full of potential—you'd do yourself no favours to waste that youthful spirit on something that brings it no joy."
It had been wonderfully inspiring in the moment, but Professor Beery hadn't given her any advice on which departments to address her letters of introduction, her references of character. Now she began to wonder that if she sent those letters as she was planning to do next year, would they end up lost in the mail sorting office, and only discovered years later, crumpled and covered in dried owl droppings? Nott had warned her, the year previous, of the standards she could expect from wizarding bureaucracy, and that meeting with Miss Leonora Gardiner at the Ministry had been a disturbing confirmation of Nott's veracity.
And there was the rub: Nott's truthfulness was one thing—and his knowing of Tom's special ability to discern lies must have given no choice in the matter—but his trustworthiness was another. She couldn't trust that anything he said was solely in her best interests; at best, whatever advice he offered her served his own in some fashion.
He'd go against her interests, if it served him better.
But, thought Hermione, would he go against Tom's?
It was half-past five o'clock when Tom gave up trying to extract Slytherin's thousand-year-old secrets from his statue. At some point, Nott had cast a Cushioning Charm on the floor and rolled up in his cloak to nap, so only Hermione was awake when Tom climbed down from the statue, grey powder in his hair, his trousers stained green from the knees down.
"Did you find anything?" asked Hermione politely.
Tom, a deep scowl on his face, shook his head. "There was what looked like a seam carved under Slytherin's beard, but I couldn't find a way to open it."
"It could just be a seam, you know."
"I won't give up," said Tom. "Not until I know for certain. I'll have to chart the progress of Hydra, or match it to the tidal cycles; maybe the ponds drain away during certain times of the month..."
"The library will help you there," suggested Hermione. "Are we leaving now? It's not a good showing for the Head Girl to be caught sneaking into her dormitory at dawn. On the first day of school, no less!"
"If you're seen by your dorm mates, just tell them you were with me all night," said Tom. "That'll answer all their questions."
"And bring up plenty of new ones!"
"Oh?" said Tom. "I was under the impression that, as explanations went, saying you were out with a young man was rather self-explanatory."
"Not for my dorm mates," Hermione said. "They'll pester me for days, asking me silly questions. For instance, if I got to stick my hand up your jumper."
Tom looked blank. "Is that a euphemism for something?"
"No, I'm afraid not," sighed Hermione. "Some girls are really just curious about what the boys in our year look like with their robes off. It's the Quidditch players most of the time, if that makes you feel any better."
"How disturbing," Tom remarked. "Well, do you...?"
"Do I—what?"
"Want to stick your hand up my jumper?"
"N-no!" spluttered Hermione.
"Is there something wrong with my jumper, then?" said Tom, sounding quite distressed. "Or something wrong with... me?"
"No! Of course not—I mean, I didn't meant to—"
Tom patted her on the shoulder. "You know, I've said before that 'gullible' was the deplorable natural state of the proleteriat. But on you, Hermione, it somehow becomes amusingly pleasant."
"I don't find it very amusing," said Hermione, sniffing.
"Then you're welcome to take me at my word," replied Tom, plucking at the hem of his woollen uniform jumper and lifting it up to reveal an inch of the shirt he wore beneath, along with a brief silver flash of his belt buckle. "You should trust that I wouldn't make you an offer that I don't mean to honour."
At that point, Nott woke up and his nasally, sleep-hoarse voice broke into their conversation. "If you two are going to be engaging in that sort of thing now, must it be in here?"
In the ante-chamber, the stretch of tunnel that opened into the Chamber of Secrets, they collected samples of snake skin. They limited themselves to picking up pieces of torn skin, rather than trying to cut sections from the main pile, several dozen feet long: none of them had brought a suitable knife, and they weren't going to risk tossing Cutting Charms about, not when they all knew dragonhide was famous for its ability to deflect spells.
"I can't see people using this for shoes," said Nott, holding a metre-long strip of skin up to the light. "A beast this size has such a broad scale pattern that anyone wearing boots made of it would look like their feet had caught Spattergroit. But luggage or saddlery, definitely. And I couldn't refuse a custom snakehide book binding with a coat of Peckling's high-sheen."
That seemed to raise Tom's spirits; he'd been restless about having to leave the Chamber of Secrets and its secrets for another day. Already, he was planning another trip back, not even caring that she and Nott were exhausted from the last six hours of underground exploration.
"I haven't slept for over a day," said Hermione, as they stumbled through the dark tunnels, back to the vertical shaft that led to the Second Floor girls' bathroom. "How can you have the energy to want to keep exploring?"
"Because I know there's something down here," said Tom. "It can't be empty; Slytherin wouldn't have built a secret chamber and filled it with... nothing!"
"He left a bloody great statue of himself, Riddle," said Nott, unrolling his carpet and ushering them onto it. "I'm quite certain that he wouldn't like you calling it 'nothing'."
The sun was peeking through the dormitory curtains by the time Hermione fell into bed, extremely grimy from head to toe, her socks soaked through and smelling of mildew. But she was too fatigued to care about that, or even her recent journey to the Chamber of Secrets, and what it meant that Hogwarts had a creature living under one of its bathrooms, a snake over thirty feet long, or even longer than that—didn't snakes shed their skins when they'd outgrown them?
When classes resumed on Monday, Hermione was better rested, but no more curious about the Chamber than she was the day they'd left it. She could appreciate the workmanship that had gone into building the tunnels, hiding the entrance, and the Chamber itself, but she couldn't understand Tom's obsession with unravelling its "mystery". It was a historical site, and after seeing it, she'd got no indication from what the Divination textbooks called her "Third Eye" that there was a mystery. No one visited the ruins of a Roman frontier fort or a Celtic chieftain's burial mound and expected that the long-dead inhabitants had hidden a cache of gems for the benefit of some lucky future explorer.
Tom was convinced otherwise. If the legendary Chamber was real, why wouldn't the legendary monster be, too? If the legend had survived for all these years, then surely it had to be true.
Hermione's response was blunt: "The legend says that Slytherin meant for the monster to kill people! People at Hogwarts! Students!"
"Slytherin's dead, so what he meant doesn't matter anymore," said Tom. "But you don't have to sound so worried, Hermione. When I find the monster, I won't let it hurt you."
"How are you going to do that?" asked Hermione. "It's not a monster, it's an animal. It can't listen to reason. If it'll listen at all—if the legends are true, then it hasn't been near a human in the last thousand years."
"I'll make it listen," said Tom, and refused to explain how he'd manage that.
Over the next month, Hermione delved into her studies, because the N.E.W.T.s were just around the corner; the Chamber was interesting, but there was nothing it could offer her in terms of exam marks or career prospects. It bothered her that Tom barely paid attention in class, scribbling down notes on his parchment that she saw had nothing to do with the lesson of the day. He was the Head Boy—he ought to set a good example for the other students! But the teachers never appeared to catch on that there was something different about Tom's recent shift in attitude toward classroom participation. Whenever they called upon him, he answered their questions without hesitation, and so his reputation as an excellent student remained untarnished, as pristine as it had been for the past six years.
His obsession with discovering the mystery had not only led to Tom delegating most of his Head Boy duties to the Prefects, but hosting official meetings of his homework club less often. It had gotten to the point where the members approached Hermione at breakfast or in the corridor to ask when they were going to revise N.E.W.T.-level Defence theory, or if she could proofread their Charms essays—they'd have asked Tom, but they scarcely saw him in their shared dormitory these days, outside of sleeping, bathing, and changing his clothes.
They weren't the only ones to have seen less and less of Tom in the passing weeks. Tom always disappeared after the end of class, taking a looping, circuitous route to the next class, or to mealtimes in the Great Hall. She'd followed him once, at the risk of being late, and had seen him wandering the halls, fingers brushing against the stone, stopping every so often to inspect a suit of armour or poke his wand at a flue set into the wall, built to ventilate the lower sections of the castle.
He'd looked distracted, and Hermione had been tempted to call his name and ask him what he was doing, if she hadn't thought it would be too... too interfering.
When she thought about it, it was obvious what he was doing: exploring the castle, as they'd done back in First Year, and Tom had had that trained rat of his, the one he'd taught to collect coins and sit on his shoulder. Peanut had died a few years ago, and Hermione still felt bad about it. Her parents had bought her an owl when she'd asked for one, and having Gilles had made the Grangers' home feel that much more wizardly. Tom, who was just as talented and magical, could only afford a rat. Even now, he hadn't replaced Peanut, and perhaps—Hermione hesitated to assume too much—he wanted a replacement that he believed to be as special as he was.
The Heir of Slytherin is only a courtesy title, she reminded herself. There's no possibility of that. Tom is greedy, but he's learned to be careful, and he's not stupid. The last time he was careless, we had to take him to St. Mungo's.
The mystery of the Chamber aside, one minor detail of their underground adventure had become lodged within her thoughts over the following weeks: that conversation with Nott, and the importance of the right connections in securing a successful career, or in merely getting one's foot through the door. She'd attended Professor Slughorn's dinners for the last two years, though not as religiously as some of the other Slytherins; nevertheless, she was counting on Slughorn to put in a good word for her, whatever she chose to do. But was he the only one who would, other than Professor Beery, her Head of House?
As the last warm days of summer slipped away, leaving behind a chilly Scottish autumn, the question continued to linger, and the more she tried to think up reasonable justifications for why Nott was an unreliable source—if not wrong—the more it festered. What did he know? His commentary on the state of wizarding politics was always heavily biased and never anything but disparaging, too cynical and narrow-minded to be taken at face value. What reason had he to present such a cynical view? He was only a boy, younger than her, at that! (They were all adults, but Hermione's September birthday made her older than everyone in their year, so she thought that counted for something. Tom would disagree; of the three of them, he was the youngest.)
Hermione, deciding to settle things, put aside her stack of practice exam questions and drew out a clean sheet of parchment, weighting down the curling ends with an inkwell.
.
.
Dear Madam Gardiner,
You may remember that we met in April of last year, when Thomas Bertram introduced me as his editorial assistant, Hermione Riddle. As a dedicated reader of Mr. Bertram's articles, you'll know that his articles are directed toward improving the efficiency of household management, and conveniencing the lives of housewitches across Britain. But as a witch, I have long thought Witch Weekly should cater to all witches, and not just those witches who dedicate their toil to the family hearth.
As a working witch, I'd like to ask you about employment conditions in the Ministry of Magic...
.
.
Solidarity, thought Hermione. She wrote the letter with Tom's explanation of convincing rhetoric lurking in one corner of her mind. It felt inauthentic to do this—not quite deceitful, since her arrangement of words was made to be ambiguous, but not false—but some part of her struggled with the guilty weight of this deliberate misrepresentation. Her logical side won out: it had been Tom who had spoken for her, Tom who had called himself 'Thomas Bertram' in the Ministry atrium, and he who had called her 'Hermione Riddle'.
And she signed 'Hermione' at the bottom of the page, her own name, so that wasn't a lie either.
When she tucked the folded letter into her planner to send off with her next batch of letters to Mum and Dad in London, she found a new message written in Nott's handwriting at the back of the book.
.
Riddle's left the dorm again. 11.52
.
She wrote back, Do you think he's gone to the C?
Hermione underlined the letter, just in case Nott couldn't guess what she meant.
.
He hasn't asked for the carpet, Nott wrote a quarter-hour later. Hasn't come back smelling like a toilet, either.
.
That's not a sign that he's given up on it...
.
Have you ever known him to give up on anything?