By the time Julien and his friends reached the scene, the corridor was already packed.
Professor McGonagall had thrown on her dressing gown over her nightdress, wand tip blazing with harsh white light.
Snape knelt beside Penelope's rigid body, face like thunder.
Filch stood in the corner making that awful half-sob, half-curse noise.
"Another one," Filch pointed a shaking finger at the floor. "Caught red-handed—it's him, Potter!"
Julien glanced at the bewildered Harry trio and thought, These poor kids keep showing up first every single time.
Then he spotted Ginny Weasley at the edge of the crowd.
The little redhead stood in the shadows, clutching that same small handbag.
This time there was no shy crush in her eyes when she looked at Harry—just a weird, focused stare.
Her lips moved silently. Her gaze flicked down to her pocket. Following it, Julien caught a glimpse of black cover peeking out.
His stomach dropped. No way. The notebook was supposed to be on his desk.
He spun around, ready to sprint back to the dorm and check.
"Mr. Black." Snape's voice slithered down his spine. "Your face is even paler than Miss Clearwater's. Care to explain?"
"I'm just a coward, Professor," Julien lied smoothly, swallowing his panic.
No one laughed. Most students looked just as sick—especially the Muggle-borns like Justin.
"Professor! Why don't you question Potter and his friends? They're always around when it happens," Justin blurted, and half the crowd muttered agreement.
"Yeah, exactly. One time could be coincidence, but every single attack?" Mike Turner from Ravenclaw added. "Potter, don't look at me like that—I'm half-blood."
Lisa Turpin tugged Mike's sleeve and whispered, "Idiot, why mention half-blood? The Slytherin heir might go after those too."
Mike went even paler and took a step back.
McGonagall sighed. "The staff will handle the investigation. Everyone back to your common rooms. No one walks alone. Miss Clearwater will be taken to the hospital wing. Once the Mandrakes are ready…"
"Mr. Potter, you three stay behind."
When Julien finally burst back into the dorm, the notebook was gone.
Voldemort had looped all the way around and returned to his real host. A first-year like Ginny was easier to control.
Penelope Clearwater had just been a disposable tool.
---
December at Hogwarts wrapped the castle in a thin blanket of frost. The Forbidden Forest outside glittered like a frozen watercolor.
Inside, though, the mood was anything but peaceful. The shadow of the open Chamber pressed down on every student like a stone slab.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione huddled in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, firelight stretching their shadows long and short across the walls.
Two weeks had passed since their Polyjuice adventure. Hermione had successfully brewed it, and they'd ruled out Malfoy. The platinum-haired git was nasty, but he had nothing to do with the Chamber.
"If it's not Malfoy," Ron growled, raking a hand through his red hair, "then who?"
Harry stared into the flames, green eyes reflecting the dancing light.
He remembered the Duelling Club, the Parseltongue slipping from his own mouth, Justin's terrified face.
He remembered the Sorting Hat trying to put him in Slytherin—a secret he still hadn't told anyone, not even Ron or Hermione.
"We need a new angle," Hermione said, frowning over the thick Hogwarts: A History. "Who opened the Chamber fifty years ago? The girl who died was Myrtle—I already asked her. She doesn't remember much, just two yellow lanterns."
"Wasn't it the monster in the Chamber?" Harry asked quietly. "McGonagall and Flitwick both said so."
"Yes, but what monster?" Hermione tapped the book. "The professors don't know. The books are vague. There has to be a clue we're missing…"
---
Three evenings later, Hagrid's hut smelled of rock cakes and something stronger—his special "Fang's Comfort" tea.
The trio sat at the massive wooden table while the gamekeeper sadly poked at an empty chicken coop.
"All dead," Hagrid's voice cracked with disbelief. "Twelve chickens in one night, necks wrung clean. Not a fox, not a weasel…"
His huge fingers trembled as he pointed outside. "Forest creatures don't come into my yard. They know the rules."
Hermione's ears perked up. "Neck wrung, Hagrid?"
"Yeah," he sighed. "Like… like some nasty little wizard did it. But who? Too many footprints, no animal fur."
Hermione and Harry exchanged a look. Ron was already on his third rock cake and missed the shift in the air.
When they left the hut, Hermione walked faster. Harry had to jog to keep up.
"Hermione, what's going on?"
"Not sure yet," she said, voice excited and a little shaky. "I feel like I've grabbed the right thread but can't see the whole picture. I need the library."
"You two come back and press Hagrid for anything else he remembers. I calculated—he was here fifty years ago. He was definitely holding something back."
"You're not suspecting Hagrid?" Harry's face went white.
"Of course not. I just think he knows more than he's saying."
---
The Hogwarts library rose around Hermione like an ancient forest, shelves tall enough to block out the rest of the world.
She wove between them, arms full of books from the edges of the Restricted Section—magical creature feeding habits, ancient curses, every legend about Salazar Slytherin himself.
She stopped at a row labeled "Dangerous Magical Beasts," fingers trailing over thick spines: The Hound of the Baskervilles and Magical Variants, When Pets Become Killers, Creatures You Never Want to See—The Basilisk…
"Spiders," she muttered. "What are spiders afraid of…"
"Looking for a spider's weakness?" a voice suddenly spoke right beside her ear.