When class ended, Hermione moved to the table where Harry and Draco were sitting. Harry averted his eyes, but Draco leaned back in his chair to observe, like a man watching a vaguely interesting show.“Harry,” Hermione said softly.

Harry didn’t look up. He flushed dully, not wanting to look her in the eye without being able to so much as answer his name with hers.

“Harry, please,” she said.

Harry had never heard Hermione use that tone of voice before: a low, husky tone full of the effort not to sob, tremoring at the end. He gripped the edges of the desk and stared at the bits of Potion stain and a scrawling that said I hate that great greasy git in Ron’s handwriting. He knew if he looked up he’d start to cry, himself – in front of Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape. His mind was scrambling for Obscura, he could feel it. He closed his eyes and recalled the flying feeling again, soaring high, away from Hermione and Draco and the whole world.

“Draco Malfoy,” Hermione said, turning to address the blond Slytherin, who was eyeing her with that same, vague interest. “I’ll never, ever forgive you for this.”

It was, perhaps, the matter-of-fact way she said it that made Harry take especial notice. It did not seem a threat, more like a promise – Harry’s eyes finally climbed up to hers, and he saw that her expression was full of a coldness he’d never seen in her before. She spun on her heel and moved to stalk out, but was halted by Professor Snape, who began berating her in cold, low tones of his own. Hermione said something obviously very tart in return and flounced out of the room, but Harry could see her shoulders slump once she believed herself out of view. Yolande wrapped an arm around her and the two moved out of sight.

Harry’s shoulders began to shake, but he stood, stuffing his books in his bag; his hands were trembling so badly that his Potions text slipped from his grasp.

Draco Malfoy picked it up, dusted it off absently, and finished packing up both of their things.

Going to Charms was out of the question, Harry realized. He could partner with Ron as soon as turn himself inside out. Besides, any use of his wand might very well result in some sort of explosion. Malfoy walked him halfway to class; then, they went their separate ways, Draco shooting him an odd parting glance that Harry knew was meant to be full of meaning.

Once again, he didn’t really care what that meaning happened to be. He headed off in a completely new direction, not really caring where his steps took him; then, he realized what it was he would do. He slipped back to the Gryffindor dorms, and withdrew the Marauder’s Map, examining the small figures that strode from one end of the halls to the other; the classrooms, filled with little names, none moving; scanning, he found Filch and Mrs. Norris – far from his current location. Feeling slightly better already, Harry pocketed the map and his wand and began climbing the stairs to the second floor ladies’ bathroom.

Moaning Myrtle, Harry noted, was here, today.

“Harry!” she exclaimed gleefully, sounding, for just a moment, as though she were pleased. “Goodness, I get so few visitors – but why should anyone want to visit me, I wonder, I’m just Moaning Myrtle, the ghost of the loo!” She gazed at him again, brows raising. “How long has it been, Harry? You’ve grown!”

Harry found himself smiling at her, realizing she sounded like some kind of maiden aunt at a reunion. “Dunno, Myrtle, awhile. How’re you?”

Myrtle sighed. “Terrible,” she said, “just terrible. Awful. Miserable, really. Honestly, I get so bored, but none of the other ghosts ever want a chat. I mean, I’ve only been a ghost for about fifty years or so – and most of them from the Middle Ages, or something, I suppose it’s true we have very little to talk about... no, they’re too clever to bother with the likes of me, too ancient, too proud.”

Harry thought Myrtle sounded genuinely depressed rather than just complaining for the sake of hearing her own voice. “Well, depending on how things go today, we may be seeing a lot of one another,” he said, hoping this would cheer her.

It did seem to. The ghost looked startled, then grinned. “Really?! Do tell!”

“Do you recall the passageway in–?”

“How could I forget?” Myrtle demanded. “It opens up and you and your friend and the sweet little blonde man go down there; and then I hear all sorts of things about snakes and demons later on. But is Myrtle asked to go on the adventure? Noooo... despite the fact that she’d be dead useful, especially since nasty little snakes can’t hurt her – but you didn’t even think of me once, did you?”

Harry had to admit that he hadn’t, and this brought on another fit of whinging, which did not abate until Harry told Myrtle that she could come along with him on the condition that she keep very, very quiet.

Harry moved towards the water spout. Frowning, he wondered if something other than the command to open would open the passageway, so long as it was in Parseltongue, or if he’d just guessed it right on the first try. Staring at the snake and pretending for all he was worth that it was real, Harry murmured, Ghost.

He frowned when nothing happened. Open, he said this time.

Nothing again.

Harry slumped, realizing that it would be very unlikely that the staff wouldn’t re-seal the Chamber of Secrets...

Myrtle watched him anxiously before lowering to hover at Harry’s left. “I suppose we can’t go down after all,” she moaned sadly."The Headmaster came in here once and poked at it for a bit; he must’ve fixed it for good.”

“Dumbledore did?” Harry inquired, a sudden suspicion taking hold of him. He stared at the snake. Confection, he said, which was apparently the snake-translation for anything sweet.

To his consternation, the passageway opened.

For a moment, Harry seriously considered letting Dumbledore know that it wasn’t wise to use the same sort of password over and over. Then again, perhaps that was just what the Headmaster intended – for anyone who truly needed to reach him to have the ability to do so. And perhaps, Harry further reasoned, Dumbledore knew he would come to explore these caverns later on, or guessed.

“Ooooh, clever boy!” Myrtle exclaimed, zooming down the passageway and gazing about.

Harry followed her down, not even needing to produce a Lumos because of the gentle light Myrtle emitted as she examined every crevice. Once his feet were on solid ground, Harry took out the Marauder’s Map and examined it.

“What is that?” Myrtle demanded, hovering just above and behind Harry.

“It shows where people are; it’s a map,” Harry explained.

“The passageway isn’t on it,” Myrtle said petulantly, then gasped. Slowly, lines were being inked that indicated a myriad of passageways. The rest of Hogwarts disappeared, and writing began taking its place.

Mr. Moony congratulates Mister Potter on finding a new area of Hogwarts Castle and grounds.

“What’s it doing, what’s it doing?!” Myrtle squeaked.

Mr. Prongs would like to add his congratulations as well, except for the fact that he is too shocked by the sight of the unhinged Myrtle Thompson, and may need several weeks at St. Mungo’s to recover his sanity.

Mr. Padfoot wonders how Mr. Potter ever became involved with such a deranged whinger.

Myrtle wailed and hid her face in her hands.

“Hey,” Harry said to the map. “That’s enough!”

Mr. Wormtail adds his own congratulations to the redoubtable Mister Potter the Second.

And Mister Mooney apologizes to Miss Thompson for the stupidity of his friends.

At that, the map was finally and thankfully silent.

“Who made this thing?” Myrtle demanded, too shocked to be properly mortified.

“My father and his friends, back when they were at school,” Harry said, looking as apologetic as he could. “I’m afraid they could be right prats when they wanted to be,” he added, thinking of Snape.

“Well, I didn’t come here to be insulted,” Myrtle replied snottily, floating up through the ceiling. “See if I help you now!”

“Myrtle!” Harry waited a moment, then shrugged, deciding that the ghost’s feelings were good and hurt. He smoothed the map. “Thanks a bunch,” he told it flatly.

As always, Mssrs. Mooney, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are at Mister Potter’s service.

“Like fun you are,” Harry said, then examined the map of the Chamber of Secrets more carefully.

The Chamber, he decided immediately, had been poorly named. It was more like a small but complex-looking series of catacombs that resembled a Nautilus shell – or perhaps, a coiled snake – from above. It wasn’t hard to figure out where in the shell he’d landed, because there was a small, unmoving dot labeled Harry Potter written in elegant but compressed script on the outermost coil. It didn’t take long for Harry to deduce that the part of the Chamber that had been caved in was somewhere off to the east; he was facing north, and he distinctly recalled moving off to his right with Ron and Professor Lockhart in second-year.

There was really only one other way to go, so Harry headed west, watching as his small dot moved along the outermost edges of the parchment. After a moment, he trusted that the path would not divide or meander, so he pocketed the map and used his wand to illuminate the way.

The stones were old and crumbling, Harry noted, and everything was blanketed in a thick layer of dust; despite its muffling, he should have heard noises from the castle above, or from rats or owls or the other animals that nest down in the dark. There was nothing – not one small noise, save his footfalls. He abruptly regretted not folding up the map the moment it began to insult Myrtle...

The entire business reminded Harry inescapably of a mine shaft, with its cramped walls, wooden support-beams and feeling of muffled isolation. He began to hum as he moved, desperate to hear something more cheerful than one set of footsteps, echoing enough so that they sounded like two sets, if Harry listened hard enough.

It took a surprisingly long time to reach the end of the coil, nearly a half an hour by Harry’s reckoning. The path ended very abruptly, blocked by a stout, oaken door bound with strips of iron.

Harry glared at the door warily, then pointed his wand at it. “Alohamora,” he said.

Nothing so much as clicked or stirred; either the charm had not worked – or the door was actually open. Harry paused, considering it. He supposed there was no point in locking a door that sat beneath the ladies’ room at the end of an already-secret passage guarded by a tongue only two could speak. He heard the shuttle click as he put his hand to the knob, and the door swung readily open; Harry stepped inside and shut it behind him.

“Lumos,” he said, and the light at his wand grew bright enough to fully illuminate the area.

Harry was within a circular room of generous dimensions, cold with disuse but obviously the beneficiary of a massive preservation spell. There was no dust, as there had been outside the door; the stones were far from crumbling. In fact, they fairly gleamed.

Harry had thought that Professor Snape’s personal library was extensive, but the sheer number volumes within this room dwarfed those within his; four shelves ran around the entire circular room, and were completely packed with large tomes, small treatises, and piles of scrolls. A futon of some sort rested back against the wall just behind a rather large armchair, a pair of glasses perched on the left arm, an open book overturned to keep its page on the right. A circular hearth sat, oddly, in the centre of the room; as Harry watched, the fireplace burst into spontaneous flame, obviously merely awaiting the return of some secret master – for as Harry stood there, he realized that someone must be looking after these rooms, must belong here. The open book and glasses, more than anything else, told him that he was an intruder on someone’s secret space – perhaps, he thought, examining the glasses, Dumbledore.

Even as Harry thought this, he decided it was wrong. Dumbledore, always so relaxed and comfortable with himself and others – he would not need a secret room like this. He would not need to be alone, as Harry did so often of late. Professor Snape might, though, Harry realized, gazing about. But then he thought of the Professor’s private rooms – already so deep in the bowels of the castle – and decided that Snape already had a room like this. Why another? And the glasses...

“Nox.” Harry pocketed his wand, then picked them up, turning them over in his hands. They were vaguely oval-shaped bifocals. He replaced them, carefully lifting the book, which proved to be a slender collection of poetry. Frowning, he placed it back down. No real hints, there – no one he knew liked poetry, with the exception, perhaps, of Ginny Weasley, whose grasp of rhythm and rhyme had been demonstrated very publicly to him at one point.

Harry examined some of the other books, but they were of little use – they were far too varied to be of any help in indicating their owner. Many of them he recognized as copies of volumes he had seen before: he spotted Hogwarts: A History, simply by shape, colour and size, from how often he’d seen Hermione carting it around. Harry felt a pang, which he summarily ignored. Advanced Potion-Making was on the shelf, too, although the cover looked slightly different than that of the one he owned.

Maybe I can convince Ron and Hermione to come over here after the whole business with Draco is fixed up, he decided. Hermione’ll know what to do with all these books, for one thing. Harry grinned, picturing the bushy-haired girl’s face when she caught sight of the secret room...

...secret room... Harry frowned at the stuffed armchair with something like suspicion. The caverns certainly hadn’t seemed worthy of the word ‘Chamber’... was this, in fact, the Chamber of Secrets? Harry gazed about with new eyes, stalking the area. There was not enough time to explore, now; if he wanted to get back to Defense Against the Dark Arts in time, he was going to have to turn about immediately. Harry opened the door, poised to take his first step out into the winding hall, and froze.

There was nothing there to place his questing foot on – no walkway, no hallway – no nothing, except a vague swath of grey in the near-distance. Gazing downward revealed an inky blackness and an unguessable depth. Wildly, Harry withdrew the map, gazing on it, silently imploring it to tell him a different story – that the drop was an illusion, or even hysteria – the first signs of going mad due to his continued use of Obscura.

As Harry watched with disbelieving eyes, the ink on the map shifted and writhed like a live thing, corridors changing and melding, disappearing and reforming, and the bleeding ink was coupled with the sound of stone sliding fitfully against stone, audible through the now-open doorway. The patterns settled, suddenly – only to reveal a maze, one which still did not connect to the Chamber...

Harry had wondered, at one point, if the halls and Chamber were part of some sort of escape route. They were not.

They were a trap.