Just like the cops in those old American movies who always show up five minutes too late, Dumbledore and the professors at Hogwarts had the same habit—like last year with the troll.
"No, it wasn't me," Harry said the second he saw Dumbledore, like the Headmaster was his lifeline. "We only just got here."
Hermione and Ron backed him up in unison.
"Rubbish!" Filch snarled.
"Argus," Dumbledore cut in calmly, "your cat isn't dead. She's been petrified."
"Doesn't matter—she's like this now! I want someone punished!" Filch wasn't letting it go.
"Argus, don't worry. Professor Sprout planted a fresh batch of Mandrakes this year," Dumbledore soothed. "Once they're mature—"
"I can brew the restorative draught myself," Lockhart jumped in. "I've got plenty of experience with this sort of thing."
"I believe I'm the Potions Master, Lockhart," Snape said coldly from the side.
---
In Charms class, Terry Boot finally couldn't hold it in anymore. His hand shot up.
"Professor," his voice rang out in the dead-silent room, "could you tell us about the Chamber of Secrets? What's the real story behind the legend?"
Mrs. Norris being petrified, plus that bloody message on the wall, had the whole school in a panic. Wild rumors about the Chamber were spreading like wildfire. Nobody could focus on lessons.
"They're saying Slytherin left a secret room—is that true?" Even Edgar Finch, the most serious kid in class, spoke up.
Professor Flitwick stood on his stack of books, his usual cheerful face freezing solid. He stayed quiet so long that Terry and Edgar started regretting they'd asked.
"Hogwarts does have… many old legends," Flitwick finally said, voice lower and heavier than usual.
"The story of the Slytherin Chamber has been around since I was a student. They say Salazar Slytherin built a hidden chamber before he left the school. Inside it he kept his most prized creature—a monster meant to purge every student he thought 'unworthy' of magic."
The classroom went graveyard quiet. Julien noticed Liriya in the front row gripping her wand so tight her knuckles were white.
"Fifty years ago," Flitwick went on, eyes distant and sad, "the Chamber really was opened once. It was a dark time… a Muggle-born student died."
Every kid sucked in a sharp breath.
"The school nearly closed. And the person who opened the Chamber was never… confirmed."
The bell rang. Students packed up in silence. Julien was almost out the door when Flitwick called him back.
"Mr. Black." The tiny professor looked up at him, eyes complicated. "I've noticed you've been studying some rather old maps lately?"
Julien's stomach tightened, but his face stayed blank. "Just interested in magical geography, Professor."
Flitwick stared at him for a long beat, then sighed. "Be careful… You know, even goblins have their legends. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again."
The same scene played out in Gryffindor Tower.
Hermione Granger—usually the perfect student—interrupted McGonagall's Transfiguration lesson with a rapid-fire barrage of questions about the Chamber. The strict professor actually looked tired.
The very next night, after all the professors had sworn the castle was safe, another blow landed: Colin Creevey was petrified.
During that day's Quidditch match, Harry Potter got his right arm shattered by a rogue Bludger that clearly wasn't under control.
Helpful Professor Lockhart rushed in to "heal" him on the spot. The pain vanished instantly… along with every bone in Harry's arm. Potter ended up in the hospital wing.
Colin had probably been heading there to check on his hero when he was attacked. They found him lying in the corridor to the hospital wing, camera still clutched in his hand. The film inside was burned to ash.
Colin's eyes—those same eyes that always sparkled with hero-worship—were wide open, frozen in pure terror.
Later, Harry (who was already in the hospital wing) confirmed he'd heard Dumbledore say quietly, "Hogwarts is no longer safe."
Panic level: maximum. Students now traveled in packs. Everyone started wearing so-called protective charms. Even pure-blood Neville got one—he figured he was basically a Squib anyway.
That morning Julien hit the pitch early. Mist still clung to the grass, dew sparkling in the weak sunlight.
He needed to think. Needed to sort every clue. He already knew exactly what monster was sleeping under the castle.
He'd planned to sit this one out—nobody actually died in the original story. But after seeing Colin petrified with his own eyes, his resolve was cracking.
The petrifications in the books had felt too convenient. What if someone really looked the Basilisk dead in the eyes this time?
He couldn't stomach the thought of any of his classmates—especially Hermione—ending up like that.
Then he saw her.
Ginny Weasley stood alone at the edge of the pitch. Her usual flame-red hair looked dull and faded in the gray morning light.
She kept her head down, both hands clutching that plain black notebook—the same one Julien had noticed the day she arrived at school.
She was pacing, steps unsteady. Sometimes she stopped like she was listening to something only she could hear. Other times she walked faster, like she wanted to throw the notebook away, only to hesitate at the last second and turn back.
"Why do you keep staring at Ginny?"
A cool voice came from behind him, carrying a faint edge of warning.
Julien turned. Elizabeth Rosier stood in the mist, deep-green cloak stirring in the breeze.
The starburst brooch he'd given her gleamed at her collar, bright against the gloomy surroundings.
Her gaze slid from his face to Ginny in the distance. Ice-gray eyes narrowed.
"It's the notebook," Julien said quietly. "I'm watching the notebook."
"A notebook? What's so special about—" Rosier stopped mid-sentence, expression changing.
"You see something?" Julien asked. Rosier had always been freakishly sensitive to magic—borderline gifted.
"The girl's magical signature is… weak," she said slowly. "And that notebook isn't ordinary Dark magic. There's something inside it… breathing."
Out on the pitch, Ginny suddenly stopped pacing. She turned slowly. Her eyes cut straight across the grass and locked onto Julien and Rosier.
In that instant her gaze turned ice-cold—non-human, like something ancient was looking out through her face.
Then she smiled.
A slow, twisted smile that definitely did not belong to Ginny Weasley.