After Harry’s detention with Snape, the weeks went by very quickly. Harry, Hermione, and Neville got fullly into the swing of classes, and their nights were consumed either by fooling around, or big group study sessions with Hermione. Harry was perfectly content, though a little disappointed he couldn’t fly in the Quidditch tryouts.

“I think I’d be pretty good,” he said to Neville as he watched Seamus, Ron, and Dean make their way to the pitch to try out for Seeker. “If I only didn’t—“ he waved his broken arm in the air and sighed.

“Aw, cheer up, Harry. You can go next year. Dean and Ron and Seamus won’t make the team either, you’ll see,” Neville said consolingly. He was right. A fourth year named Teddy Quincey made it.

Hermione had been watching Harry very closely, and whenever Harry caught her doing it she would open her mouth and then close it quickly. Harry thought it was weird, but he figured it must have something to do with Lockhart.

Harry had more immediate problems. Last year, he had been largely goggled over for the first few weeks, but after that people had started to accept that, even though he was Harry Potter, he was very shy and quiet and not very interesting to bother. However, the new first years seemed unable to grasp that idea, and the most persistant was one named Colin Creevy. He followed Harry and his friends constantly, day and night, until they took to studying in back corners of the library where Hermione cast little shields so they could do their work without any hassle.

After a few weeks of that, though, it was surprisingly Neville who snapped at the boy.

He had been following them, like always, snapping pictures of Harry every five seconds when Neville grabbed the camera and took six quick pictures all in a row, the flash going off in Colin’s eyes.

“What was that for?” the boy cried out as he snatched his camera back.

“Didn’t like that much, did you?” Neville replied. “Leave Harry alone. He doesn’t like it either.”

After that, Harry only had the boy following him whenever Neville wasn’t there, which wasn’t very often. Harry was impressed with this show of courage from Neville, but when he complimented him on it, Neville just shrugged and stuttered.

Classes with Lockhart followed in the same sort of vein as the firsst one. Lockhart seemed to decide that he couldn’t risk Neville landing on his freshly pressed robes again, so the classes were merely readings from his various books—often with Harry or Ron acting out the parts of werewolf, hag, or zombie. Lockhart always called roll, and at the end of the Gryffindor’s he always called ‘Seymour Butts’, which amused Seamus to no end. Ron, Dean, and Seamus had each pitched in a Galleon, and once or twice a week a Hufflepuff first year with a free period would come, say present, then leave again, leaving Lockhart to believe that there were six Gryffindor boys. Seamus thought this was the funniest thing he had ever done, and every class period you could hear him break into spontaneous fits of coughing, which was really Seamus cackling over his good plan.

The girls had latched on to Lockhart and his lessons fiercely. One day, as the boys escaped from the room, Harry muttered “Bet he bored that stupid hag to death.” Harry had played the part of the hag that day, and he had to fall down, paralysed, six or seven times. The last time he had hit his head on a desk, and he was not feeling very charitable about Lockhart at the moment.

Hermione simply tutted at him, but Lavender Brown spun around and said “Just because he’s more famous and better looking than you doesn’t mean you can make fun of him!” before stomping away. Harry looked bewildered at Hermione.

“But—I don’t want to be famous. I just want to stop being the stupid hag.”

Hermione had agreed that Lavender had gone a little bit over the line. “But Harry, he really is a very accomplished wizard. He’s only acting out his adventures because he thinks we can learn from them.”

“Yeah, learn to be big fat enormous prats,” Ron muttered.

Neville cleared his throat. “He is a bit, well, dodgy, Hermione.”

Hermione refused to talk to both of them until the end of the day, when they presented her with chocolate frogs and apologies.

The trio had gone for a walk on the last nice Saturday in October, four days before Halloween. They had been accosted by Malfoy, who had been in a pompous arse all month since he made the Quidditch team. When Hermione tactfully suggested that Malfoy had bought his way onto the team, he had turned an ugly red and spat “As if you’d know anything about it, you filthy little Mudblood.”

Hermione had responded not with magic, but a swift kick to the groin. Harry and Neville, though delighted, had pulled her back to the castle hastily.

“You know he’ll get you back for that,” Neville said.

“I don’t care. That’s a foul name for someone and if he calls me it again I shall go straight to Professor McGonagall.”

Harry and Neville were on their guards for a long period of time afterwards, especially after what happened on Halloween.

Harry kept his ears open for more of the voice he had heard, but he heard nothing. Relieved, he let that worry go and devoted his time to school, his friends, and the occasional detention with Professor Snape.

On Halloween, Harry, Hermione, and Neville made their way to their usual spots at the Gryffindor table—Harry sitting across from Neville and Hermione. Dean was chatting with Seamus as he was stuffing his face with steak and kidney pie. Ron, who had been under the weather all day, was asleep in the dormitory. Hermione was in the middle of a ghost story (an actual one, not a frightening one) when something happened.

“—and then Dame Hilda cast a curse on Frederick the Four Bellied—“

‘rip…tear…kill…blood…’

Harry had nearly fallen off his chair.

“Did you—Nev, did you hear—“

“Yeah, Hermione’s ghost stories are boring.”

“They are not, Neville Longbottom, they’re interesting and factually based!”

“No—I heard something, it said it wanted to kill something.”

“What?” Hermione looked worried, as did Neville.

“Maybe it was a, a Halloween prank. Like, like a joke.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve heard it once before—that night we all had detention, I heard it in the dungeons—“

Hermione bit her lip. “We have to tell Dumbledore.”

Neville shook his head frantically. “No, we can’t! They’ll, people don’t hear voices, Hermione, they take them away—“ on this, he promptly shut his mouth and looked at Hermione with pleading eyes. “They’ll think he’s c-crazy. Harry’s not c-c-crazy.”

Hermione sighed, then nodded. “Fine. But we’ll tell Snape.” She turned to Harry, who this time was shaking his head.

“I don’t want anyone to think I’m crazy—“ Harry said. They would kick him out, he knew, and Snape wouldn’t like him if he was crazy. “Please, Hermione. I think it was a joke, I had one of the twin’s crisps earlier today—“

Hermione pursed her lips, then nodded.

‘Massssster…let me eat her…’

Harry resolutely finished his dinner. He wouldn’t let them send him back to the Dursleys. He wouldn’t.

But, on their way back to the dorm, they came upon a horrible sight.

They had been walking with Percy and Hermione was telling him her ghost story about Frederick the Four Bellied and Dame Hilda the Hunchback when Percy had stopped and paled.

“Hermione—you three, get behind me, right now—Prefects!” He looked down at the three children, who were now staring in horror at the sight before them.

The third floor bathroom had flooded, as it had done numerous times before (Harry remembered walking through puddles all of last year) but daubed on the wall in white paint was a message that made Hermione gasp.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Dangling sickeningly from a torch bracket next to the message by her tail was Mrs. Norris.

Hermione was gripping Harry’s hand tightly. “Is she—“ she started to ask, but Percy shook his head.

“I don’t think so—you three, go get the headmaster. Hurry!”

Harry was the first one to unfreeze, and he took off at a run for Dumbledore’s office before Hermione grabbed his sleeve.

“No, he’ll be heading back from the feast like everyone else—“

The three charged down the corridor, not heeding the portraits who were yelling at them to slow down.

Finally, they found Professor Dumbledore. He was involved in a serious discussion with Professor Snape.

“Professors, come quickly, please. There’s—something’s wrong with Mrs. Norris—“

“The floor’s all flooded and she’s just hanging there—“

“—Chamber of Secrets—“

Dumbledore, on that, had looked each of them very seriously in the face. “Are you sure?”

“It’s painted on the wall, sir, please—“

“Percy told us to get you immediately—“

“Please hurry!”

On that, Snape took action by striding forward, barking at students to get out of the way. Harry ran after him, then Dumbledore and the other two followed.

They arrived to see Percy, the bottom of his robes wet, pulling Mrs. Norris down while his younger sister wailed in the background.

“Percy, don’t move her, it’s evidence!” the Ravenclaw prefect said.

“We have to see if she’s alive,” Percy said firmly. “It’s frightening the children.”

He pulled her down carefully and felt for a pulse, frowning.

“Gin, Ginny, it’s all right. She’s alive, Ginny, stop crying, you’re putting all the others in a fright—“

And that was true, for the other first years were crying now, even some of the boys.

“Mr. Weasley,” the Headmaster said, and Percy turned, cat in hand.

“Headmaster, we just—I just came upon it, sir, and I thought—“

“It’s all right, Mr. Weasley.”

“She—I got a pulse, sir, but it’s awfully slow—what’s wrong with her?”

Dumbledore sighed and looked saddened. “She had been Petrified.”

At that point, Filch had come upon the scene, screaming at Percy, and Percy had decided it was a good time to usher the children back to the dorm.

“Mr. Weasley, please come back when you have settled the others,” Dumbledore said, and Percy nodded. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom, Miss Granger, please come to my office.”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville had to undergo a long interview by Professor Dumbledore while Snape scowled at them all in the background. After about an hour, Percy returned without his robes, his shirtsleeves pushed up and little damp spots dotting his vest from where small children had been crying. He smiled wearily.

“The first years are all in bed, sir. If you need to talk with me?”

The headmaster nodded and quickly went over the three’s testimony with him. Percy nodded in all the right places, then explained what he’d done once the second years had gone to fetch the Headmaster. The Headmaster looked over all of them with his half-moon glasses, then dismissed them all.

Except Harry.

“A moment, Mr. Potter.”

Harry stood silently behind his chair.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me?” Dumbledore’s glittering eyes seemed a bit dull, and Harry swallowed and shook his head. He didn’t want Dumbledore to know about the Dursleys or the voice he had heard, and he especially didn’t want Snape to know if he was crazy. He didn’t think Snape liked crazy people.

“All right, my boy. Off you go.”

When he returned to the dormitory, he found everyone asleep except for Ron Weasley, even though Neville seemed to have propped himself up in his bed waiting for Harry and fallen asleep before Harry arrived. Ron was sitting in his bed, staring at a book with a queer sort of look on his face.

“Are you feeling better, Ron?” he asked as he pulled his pajama top on.

“Fine,” Ron grunted, and when Harry re-adjusted his glasses, the book was gone. His face changed to a surly, jealous look. “So, what, are you and my brother best friends?”

“Who, Percy?”

“No, Bill.” Harry cocked his head. “Of course Percy!”

“Well, he’s very nice—“ Harry started, and Ron snorted, pulling his blankets on.

“Only to you. He hates me.” And with that, Ron pulled the curtains around himself and Harry found himself staring at the red and gold coverings, wondering what to say.

Finally, he decided to say nothing. He just went to bed, falling asleep to sound of a mysterious voice flying around his head.