Chapter 33: The Chamber of Secrets
"What's going on here? What's going on?" grumbled Filch as he made his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror. His anguished cries echoed down the corridor.
"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked, clutching at his face.
Then his wild, tear-filled eyes landed on Harry. "You!" he screeched, pointing a shaking finger. "You! You've murdered my cat! You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll–"
"Argus," came Dumbledore's calm and steady voice. He strode through the gathered students, McGonagall, Snape, and Lockhart close behind.
Dumbledore's presence had a commanding effect. In just a few moments, he was at Filch's side, gently lifting Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket. His tone was even and measured. "Come with me, Argus," he said softly. Then, turning to us, "You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger."
Lockhart practically leaped forward, his face lit up with enthusiasm. "My office is nearest, Headmaster—just upstairs. Please, feel free!"
"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore.
The crowd parted silently as we followed them up the staircase. My heart was pounding in my chest as I clutched the edges of my robes. Lockhart led us into his garish office, which felt more like a shrine to himself than a workspace. The walls were covered with portraits of Lockhart in various poses, some hurriedly darting out of sight, hair curlers still in.
Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris gently on the polished desk and began to examine her. McGonagall leaned in close, her lips pressed into a thin line, while Snape stood a few steps back, his expression cold and unreadable. Lockhart flitted about like an overexcited butterfly.
"It was definitely a curse that killed her," Lockhart said with unnecessary vigor. "Probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I've seen it used many times. So unlucky I wasn't there—I know the very counter-curse that would have saved her..."
McGonagall gave him a sharp, unimpressed glance. I couldn't blame her.
Dumbledore was murmuring strange incantations under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris lightly with his wand, but she remained stiff and unmoving.
"I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou," Lockhart continued, puffing out his chest. "A series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography. I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once."
Even the portraits on the wall looked unimpressed. One of them hadn't even managed to remove its hair net.
Finally, Dumbledore straightened up. "She's not dead, Argus," he said gently.
Filch gasped, clutching his chest. "Not dead? But why's she all stiff and frozen?"
"She has been Petrified," Dumbledore explained, his tone calm and serious.
"Ah! I thought so!" Lockhart chimed in, clearly pleased with himself.
"But how, I cannot say," Dumbledore continued, ignoring Lockhart entirely.
Filch turned his tear-streaked face toward Harry, trembling with rage. "Ask him!" he spat. "He did it! He did it! You saw what he wrote on the wall! He found—in my office—he knows I'm a—I'm a—" Filch's face twisted horribly. "He knows I'm a Squib!" he finally burst out.
I was taken aback. I had read about Squibs before, but I had never thought Filch might be one. It made so many things about him suddenly make sense—his bitterness, his disdain for students who could do what he could not.
"I never touched Mrs. Norris!" Harry said firmly. "And I don't even know what a Squib is."
"Rubbish!" Filch snarled. "He saw my Kwikspell letter!"
"If I might speak, Headmaster," Snape said smoothly, stepping forward from the shadows. His black eyes glinted in the candlelight. The three of us froze, exchanging nervous glances.
"Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," Snape continued, his voice cool and deliberate. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? Why wasn't he at the Halloween feast?"
Harry quickly explained about the Deathday Party, how we had gone to see Nearly Headless Nick.
"There were hundreds of ghosts; they'll tell you we were there!" Harry said.
"But why not join the feast afterward?" Snape pressed. "Why go up to that corridor?"
Harry hesitated, glancing at Ron and me for help. "Because... because we were tired and wanted to go to bed," he said finally.
"Without any supper?" Snape drawled, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties."
"We weren't hungry," Ron said loudly, just as his stomach let out a loud rumble.
"I suggest, Headmaster," Snape said, his voice sharpening, "that Potter is not being entirely truthful. It might be a good idea if he were deprived of certain privileges until he is ready to tell us the whole story. I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest."
"Really, Severus," McGonagall interjected sharply, "I see no reason to stop the boy playing Quidditch. This cat wasn't hit over the head with a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that Potter has done anything wrong."
"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," Dumbledore said firmly.
Snape's face twisted in frustration. Filch looked just as angry, glaring at us all.
"My cat has been Petrified!" Filch shouted. "I want to see some punishment!"
"We will be able to cure her, Argus," Dumbledore said patiently. "Professor Sprout recently procured some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made to revive Mrs. Norris."
"I'll make it!" Lockhart interjected eagerly. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep—"
"Excuse me," Snape interrupted, his voice like ice. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."
An awkward silence followed.
"You may go," Dumbledore said finally, his voice gentle but firm. We didn't hesitate, scrambling out of the office and into the corridor. Once we were a floor up, we ducked into an empty classroom.
"Do you think I should've told them about the voice I heard?" Harry asked quietly.
"No," Ron said quickly. "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world."
"You do believe me, don't you?" Harry asked, looking between us.
"Course I do!" Ron said quickly. "But you've got to admit it's weird."
"I know it's weird," Harry said, frustrated. "The whole thing's weird. What was that writing on the wall about? The Chamber Has Been Opened... What's that supposed to mean?"
"It rings a sort of bell," Ron said slowly. "I think someone told me a story about a secret chamber at Hogwarts once… might've been Bill."
"And what on earth's a Squib?" Harry asked.
Ron snickered, but I gave him a disapproving glare.
"Well, it's not funny really, but as it's Filch…" Ron began. "A Squib's someone born into a wizarding family but hasn't got any magic powers. Kind of the opposite of Muggle-born wizards. Squibs are unusual. If Filch is trying to learn magic from a Kwikspell course, I reckon he must be a Squib. It'd explain a lot… like why he hates students so much. He's bitter."
Somewhere in the castle, a clock chimed.
"Midnight," Harry said. "We'd better get to bed before Snape comes along and tries to frame us for something else."
We nodded in agreement, slipping quietly back to the Gryffindor Tower.
For days after the attack on Mrs. Norris, it was all anyone could talk about. The whispers followed us through the corridors, buzzing like persistent little insects in my ears. I couldn't help but notice Mr. Filch scrubbing at the wall every chance he got, but the crimson letters refused to budge. The sight of him hunched over, his shoulders shaking with frustration, tugged at something in me. As much as I disliked his treatment of students, I knew Mrs. Norris was everything to him. It was heartbreaking to see him so lost.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking about the words written on the wall: The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. I was determined to find out more. I practically lived in the library, combing through shelves, flipping through pages, searching for anything that might give me answers. Between that and my essay on The Medieval Assembly of European Wizards—which Professor Binns insisted had to be three feet long—it felt like I hadn't had a moment to breathe. But somehow, I managed.
Ron, of course, wasn't as fortunate. I could hear his exasperated groans from across the library as I scanned through a particularly dusty section of books.
"I don't believe it," I heard him mutter. "I'm still eight inches short, and Hermione's done four feet seven inches, and her writing's tiny."
"Where is she?" Harry asked, his voice equally tired.
"Somewhere over there, looking for another book," Ron replied. "I think she's trying to read the whole library before Christmas."
I rolled my eyes at his dramatics but didn't bother responding. He wasn't entirely wrong—I was determined to find something, anything, about the Chamber of Secrets. But each book I checked left me more frustrated. Nothing. Not a single mention.
From behind the shelves, I overheard Harry speak. "Wanna hear something weird? That Hufflepuff Justin ran away from me today."
"Ran away?" Ron sounded confused.
"Yeah, like he was bloody scared of me," Harry said, his voice tinged with irritation.
"Dunno why you care," Ron replied, dismissively. "I thought he was a bit of an idiot. All that junk about Lockhart being so great—"
I finally emerged from the bookshelves, feeling defeated. My frustration must have been written all over my face as I dropped my bag on the table and sat next to Harry.
"All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out," I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. "And there's a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn't left my copy at home, but I couldn't fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books."
"Why do you want it?" Harry asked, curiously.
"The same reason everyone else wants it," I replied, as though it were obvious. "To read up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets."
"What's that?" Harry asked quickly, leaning in.
"That's just it," I admitted, biting my lip. "I can't remember, and I can't find the story anywhere else."
Ron, however, was far more focused on his essay. "Hermione, let me read your composition," he asked desperately, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"No, I won't!" I snapped, glaring at him. "You've had ten days to finish it!"
"I only need another two inches, come on!" Ron begged, looking genuinely pitiful.
Before I could respond, the bell rang. Gathering my things, I stood up and gave him a pointed look. "No, Ron. You should've done your work ages ago, instead of loafing around."
Ron groaned dramatically as we walked toward class, shoving his essay into his bag. "You'd really leave me hanging like this? I would help you if the tables were turned!"
"That's absurd," I said, affronted. "I would never leave my work unfinished. I wouldn't be in a pinch in the first place."
"PLEASE LET ME HAVE TWO INCHES!" Ron pleaded again, throwing his hands up like he was at the end of his rope.
"NO!" I shouted back, rolling my eyes.
Before our argument could escalate further, Harry groaned loudly from ahead of us. "Will you two please shut the hell up? We're here!" he said, clearly at his wit's end.
Ron and I exchanged sheepish looks as we followed him into the classroom.
History of Magic was a class I normally enjoyed. The subject itself was endlessly fascinating—the stories of how the wizarding world came to be, the great witches and wizards of the past, the lessons learned from their triumphs and mistakes. But Professor Binns, the ghost who taught the subject, had a way of making even the most riveting topics feel lifeless. His voice was dry and droning, and most of the class treated it as an opportunity for a mid-morning nap. Today, he had been droning on about the International Warlock Convention of 1289 for nearly half an hour. Even I was struggling to stay focused.
But my mind was elsewhere anyway. The writing on the wall. The Chamber of Secrets. What did it all mean? I'd scoured the library, searching for answers, but I couldn't find anything definitive. It struck me that perhaps Professor Binns—who had existed for far longer than any of us—might know something. After all, even myths and legends often had their roots in truth.
I raised my hand.
Professor Binns paused mid-sentence, glancing up from the notes he was reading. He blinked at me, his face etched with what could only be described as mild surprise. "Miss—er—?"
"Granger, Professor," I said. "I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"
A ripple of interest went through the room. Dean Thomas, who had been slumped in his chair, gazing out of the window, suddenly sat up. Lavender Brown raised her head off her arms, and Neville Longbottom knocked over his ink bottle. It was rare for anyone to interrupt Professor Binns, let alone to ask a question. I could feel every eye on me.
Professor Binns blinked slowly, his ghostly form flickering slightly. "My subject is History of Magic," he said in his usual dry, wheezy voice. "I deal with facts, Miss Granger, not myths and legends."
I frowned, feeling a flicker of frustration. How could he dismiss something so significant? The writing on the wall was hardly a myth—it was real, and it was here, in our school.
He cleared his throat, a sound like dry parchment crinkling. "In September of that year, a subcommittee of Sardinian sorcerers—"
I raised my hand again.
"Miss Grant?"
He never did get names right.
"Please, sir, don't legends always have a basis in fact?" I pressed.
Professor Binns seemed genuinely taken aback. His nearly transparent brows furrowed as though he couldn't believe a student was questioning him—much less for the second time. "Well," he said slowly, as if weighing his words, "yes, one could argue that, I suppose."
He peered at me, his pale eyes narrowing in thought. "However, the legend of which you speak is such a very sensational, even ludicrous tale—"
But he had our full attention now. Even the usual dozers, like Seamus and Ron, were sitting upright, their eyes wide with curiosity. Professor Binns seemed to realize this and gave a small sigh, as though resigning himself to indulging our interest.
"Oh, very well," he said reluctantly. "Let me see... The Chamber of Secrets... You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago—the precise date is uncertain—by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school Houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution."
The room was deathly silent. Even Ron, who rarely paid attention in this class, was leaning forward, his elbows on the desk. I could feel the tension in the air as Professor Binns continued.
"For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school."
I exchanged a wide-eyed look with Harry and Ron. This was more information than I'd found in all my hours of library research.
"Reliable historical sources tell us this much," Professor Binns went on. "But these honest facts have been obscured by the fanciful legend of the Chamber of Secrets. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing. Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that none would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic."
The silence was deafening. I felt a chill creep over me at the phrase "unleash the horror within." What could it mean? What kind of horror was lurking within the castle walls?
"The whole thing is arrant nonsense, of course," Professor Binns added dismissively. "Naturally, the school has been searched for evidence of such a chamber many times by the most learned witches and wizards. It does not exist. A tale told to frighten the gullible."
"Sir, what exactly do you mean by the horror within the Chamber?" I asked, my hand shooting up again. My curiosity was stronger than my nerves.
"That is believed to be some sort of monster, which the Heir of Slytherin alone can control," said Professor Binns, his tone suggesting he found the idea utterly preposterous.
The class exchanged uneasy glances. I saw Lavender whisper something to Parvati, who looked equally unsettled.
"I tell you, the thing does not exist," Professor Binns said firmly. "There is no Chamber and no monster."
"But, sir," said Seamus, "if the Chamber can only be opened by Slytherin's true heir, no one else would be able to find it, would they?"
"Nonsense, O'Flaherty," snapped Professor Binns, sounding irritated. "If a long succession of Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses haven't found the thing—"
"But, Professor," said Parvati, "you'd probably have to use Dark Magic to open it—"
"Just because a wizard doesn't use Dark Magic doesn't mean he can't, Miss Pennyfeather," Professor Binns interrupted sharply. "I repeat, if the likes of Dumbledore—"
Dean raised his hand. "But maybe you've got to be related to Slytherin, so Dumbledore couldn't—"
"That will do!" Professor Binns barked. "It is a myth! It does not exist! There is not a shred of evidence that Slytherin ever built so much as a secret broom cupboard! I regret telling you such a foolish story. We will return, if you please, to history—to solid, believable, verifiable fact!"
Just like that, the spell was broken. Professor Binns shuffled his notes and resumed his monotonous lecture. But the atmosphere in the room had shifted. My classmates might have gone back to their usual apathy, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the legend of the Chamber of Secrets was more than just a myth. The writing on the wall was proof of that.
"I always knew Salazar Slytherin was a twisted old loony," Ron said as we fought our way through the crowded corridors to drop off our bags before dinner. His tone was full of the usual indignation he reserved for anything remotely connected to Slytherin. "But I never knew he started all this pure-blood stuff. I wouldn't be in his house if you paid me. Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I'd've got the train straight back home."
I nodded in agreement. Everything we'd learned about Salazar Slytherin so far painted him as exactly the kind of person I couldn't stand—arrogant, prejudiced, and utterly dismissive of anyone he considered beneath him. It was hard to imagine anyone but pure-bloods even being allowed into Slytherin, based on his views. But Harry stayed silent, looking distracted. He almost walked straight into a couple of fifth-year Ravenclaws, earning himself a glare as they swerved around him.
As we turned a corner, we spotted Colin Creevey hurrying past us, his camera slung over his shoulder as always.
"Hiya, Harry!" Colin called, his voice cheerful despite the crowded hallway.
"Hullo, Colin," Harry replied automatically, though his tone sounded tired.
"Harry—Harry—a boy in my class has been saying you're—"
Colin's voice was quickly drowned out by the hubbub of the students pressing toward the Great Hall. He was so small that he vanished into the throng, unable to push his way closer.
"See you, Harry!" he called, his voice growing fainter as he disappeared.
I turned to Harry, curious. "What's a boy in his class saying about you?"
Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "That I'm Slytherin's heir, I expect," he said, his voice full of discouragement.
I felt a spark of indignation on his behalf. "People here'll believe anything," Ron muttered, his tone dripping with disgust. He sounded as fed up as I felt. Harry, the Heir of Slytherin? The idea was absurd.
"D'you really think there's a Chamber of Secrets?" Ron asked, glancing at me.
"I don't know," I admitted, frowning as I considered the possibilities. "Dumbledore couldn't cure Mrs. Norris, and that makes me think that whatever attacked her might not be... well, human."
"You think some creature might have done this?" Ron asked, his tone a mix of intrigue and unease.
"It's a possibility, isn't it?" I said, glancing at him before looking ahead. By this point, we had reached the very corridor where the attack had taken place. I slowed my steps, my eyes drawn to the chair Filch had been keeping vigil in. It stood empty now, but the words scrawled on the wall above it still sent a shiver down my spine:
The Chamber of Secrets has been Opened. Enemies of the Heir, Beware.
"That's where Filch has been keeping guard," Ron whispered, his voice low.
We exchanged a glance, the weight of unspoken curiosity passing between us. I felt my heart quicken. The urge to investigate tugged at me, even as my nerves prickled with unease.
"Can't hurt to have a poke around," Harry said suddenly. He dropped his bag and got down on his hands and knees, crawling along the floor as he searched for clues. Ron reached out and touched one of the scorched letters on the wall, only to jerk his hand back as though it had burned him.
"Scorch marks!" Ron exclaimed. "Here—and here—"
I stepped closer, letting my eyes sweep over the floor and walls. Something caught my attention near the base of the wall—a trail of small spiders scuttling toward a crack, their tiny legs moving frantically. It was almost as if they were trying to flee.
"Come and look at this!" I called, pointing at the spiders. My voice trembled slightly, though I tried to keep it steady. "This is funny..."
Harry and Ron joined me, but Ron froze as soon as he saw the spiders. His face went pale, and his eyes widened in what looked like fear.
"Have you ever seen spiders act like that?" I asked, glancing at Ron for an answer. But he didn't say anything. I frowned and looked more closely at him. "Ron? What's up?"
"I... I don't like spiders," he admitted, his voice tight and anxious.
I blinked in surprise. "I never knew that," I said. "You've used spiders in Potions loads of times."
"I don't mind them dead," Ron said, shuddering as he turned his gaze away from the spiders. "I just don't like the way they move."
I couldn't help myself—I giggled. It seemed so absurd for Ron to be afraid of something as harmless as spiders. But my laughter must have struck a nerve because Ron snapped, "It's not funny!"
He glared at me, clearly annoyed. "If you must know, when I was three, Fred turned my... my teddy bear into a great big filthy spider because I broke his toy broomstick. You wouldn't like them either if you'd been holding your bear and suddenly it had too many legs, and—"
His voice trailed off, and despite his irritation, I found myself laughing again. The image of a three-year-old Ron clutching a spider-teddy was both amusing and endearing. But I quickly bit my lip, trying to stifle my giggles as Harry changed the subject.
"Remember all that water on the floor?" Harry asked, his tone thoughtful. "Where did that come from? Someone's mopped it up."
"It was about here," Ron said, recovering as he stepped away from the spiders. He pointed to a spot on the floor near a door. "Level with this door."
He reached for the doorknob but stopped abruptly, recoiling as if he'd just remembered something.
"What's the matter?" Harry asked.
"Can't go in there," Ron said, wrinkling his nose. "That's a girls' toilet."
"Oh, Ron, there won't be anyone in there," I said, rolling my eyes as I stepped past him. "That's Moaning Myrtle's place. Come on, let's have a look."
Ignoring the large OUT OF ORDER sign hanging on the door, I pushed it open and stepped inside.