"Who threw sothing at you?"
Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her tone urgent. "Did you see who it was?"
"I didn't see them," Moaning Myrtle sobbed. "That awful Peeves was chasing again, and I was so upset I just wanted to hide in the toilet… but as soon as I ca back to my bathroom, soone threw a book at my head and chased out!"
Snape's mouth twitched. He couldn't help but ask, "You're a ghost. Why would you be afraid of soone throwing a book at you?"
A second later, he realized he'd said the wrong thing.
Myrtle's ghostly form visibly swelled. She shrieked, "That's right! Myrtle isn't afraid of getting things thrown at her! Co on, everyone, start throwing!"
"Muffliato."
Snape flicked his wand, and Myrtle's piercing shrieks instantly fell silent. Her mouth kept moving, seemingly unaware anything had changed, but to everyone else, it was reduced to a faint buzzing hum.
Harold only glanced up briefly before turning his attention back to the floor. He was looking for the book Myrtle had ntioned.
"Ah, here it is."
Finally, following Myrtle's vague directions, Harold spotted a black-covered book beneath the sink, near the corner of the wall.
But the next mont, he froze.
This wasn't what he'd been expecting—it was large, thick, and looked like a brick lying on the ground.
He stepped forward and picked it up. It was heavy in his hands. Then he flipped it over.
On the cover, a blond wizard was beaming at him with a perfect smile, eight gleaming teeth sparkling.
Above that, embossed in gold cursive letters, was the title: Magical
...
Why was Lockhart's book here?
Harold flipped through a few pages, just to be sure.
"Give that to ."
Without waiting for an answer, Snape snatched the book from him. "Just stay quiet and stop ddling."
Harold didn't argue. He'd already confird it—there was nothing hidden inside. Just another of Lockhart's pompous autobiographies.
With that, it beca clear that they weren't going to get anything useful from Myrtle after all. Everyone's attention shifted back to the bathroom itself.
But the place was small, almost completely visible at a glance. Even a fifty-inch snake would have trouble hiding here, let alone a fifty-foot basilisk.
"Could we be mistaken?" McGonagall frowned.
She had already tried every searching charm she knew: detection spells, revealing charms, even spells to expose hidden doors. Nothing had turned up.
Dumbledore had just finished examining a pipe in the corner when Harold's voice rang out in puzzlent.
"Headmaster, was this bathroom ever reserved for Slytherins?"
He was standing at one of the sinks, his back to the others.
"Not to my knowledge," said Dumbledore. "The Slytherin common room is in the dungeons. This is a public restroom on the second floor."
"Then the Slytherins sure didn't have much respect for school property. Soone scratched a snake into the tap."
Harold pointed at a brass faucet. "But it's a pretty good drawing, I'll give them that."
Everyone turned to look. Sure enough, on the side of the tap, a small snake had been etched into the tal.
"That tap never worked. Even when I was alive, it was broken," Myrtle sniffled.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. He stepped over and began examining the sink—top, bottom, sides. He tapped it repeatedly with his wand, even inspecting the pipes beneath it.
anwhile, Snape's eyes were still on Harold, who was now being shielded by Professor McGonagall.
"What's that in your hand?" he suddenly asked.
"Just so parchnt, Professor," Harold replied, holding out a crumpled ball of it. "I dropped it while looking for the book. Probably a piece of howork I ssed up earlier. Want to see it?"
Snape took a glance. It was filthy, stained with water or ink—maybe both.
"Be careful," he said, staring into Harold's eyes. "If there really is a basilisk, your curiosity might get you killed."
"Thanks for the warning, Professor," Harold replied, slipping the parchnt back into his pocket.
At that mont, Dumbledore spoke.
"Stand back."
McGonagall imdiately guided Harold toward the doorway.
Then Harold witnessed sothing that left him completely stunned.
Half the bathroom suddenly split open, as if an invisible blade had sliced it down the middle. The cut aligned perfectly with the snake-marked tap.
Then a second slice. A third…
The sink shattered, and the brass pipes were torn out from behind the wall. Water gushed forth—but instead of flooding the floor, it gathered in front of Dumbledore in a hovering sphere, suspended mid-air.
Maybe a minute passed, maybe just a second—Harold couldn't tell. But the next ti he blinked, everything had returned to normal. The sink, the tap, the wall—all restored.
"Dumbledore…"
"Gryffindor, one hundred points," Dumbledore said, cutting her off. "For Mr. Ollivander's sharp insight."
He nodded slightly. "There's no doubt now, Minerva. A hidden passage lies here—exceptionally well concealed. Without Mr. Ollivander's observation, we might have taken much longer to find this marker."
"Then let's get inside." McGonagall raised her wand.
"I can't open the entrance," Dumbledore said.
"What?" she gasped.
"This passage is sealed by extrely advanced enchantnts," Dumbledore explained. "And the magic is woven into the very foundation of the castle itself. Unless one knows the exact way to open it, the only thod would be to destroy the entire structure."
No one spoke.
Destroying Hogwarts… it wasn't even a remote possibility.
But after getting this far, were they just supposed to give up?
"Perhaps we should ask clever Mr. Ollivander," Snape said smoothly, a curious smile tugging at his lips.
"He ran from the basilisk all the way from the second floor to the eighth. He knew exactly where this bathroom was. And just now, he uncovered a hidden entrance none of us could find.
"Maybe he has one more surprise for us—perhaps he knows how to open it."
All eyes turned to Harold, even Myrtle's.
Harold took his hand out of his pocket. "I have a theory."
Snape's smile grew colder.
"Why would the marker be a snake?" Harold asked, turning toward him. "Could it be connected to Slytherin—or maybe soone from Slytherin wants to kill ?"
"Absurd!" Snape snapped. "Unfounded slander. A hundred points from Gryffindor and detention!"
"Then, Professor, could you explain why it's a snake?" Harold took a step to the left, placing himself behind McGonagall. "And as the Head of Slytherin, shouldn't you be able to open a Slytherin passage?"
Snape was about to explode.
And Harold kept pushing.
"Unless… it wasn't a student who tried to kill …"
"Enough!" Snape roared, lunging forward to grab him.
He'd had it. Harold was practically accusing him outright—the Slytherin-aligned professor—of unleashing the basilisk.
But before he could reach him, McGonagall stepped in between.
"Severus, do you know what you're doing?"
Of course she didn't believe Snape would send a basilisk after a student—that was outrageous. But she also had to admit that Harold's argunt made an uncomfortable amount of sense.
At Hogwarts, snakes were practically synonymous with Slytherin.
And to see one carved into the entry to a secret chamber…
Dumbledore quickly stepped in. "Minerva—and Harold—I believe Severus has nothing to do with this, just as I trust both of you."
"Oh, sorry, Professor Snape. My mistake," Harold said at once.
To everyone's surprise, he backed off instantly, then stepped to the side and tried to make himself invisible.
Of course he didn't really suspect Snape.
He just wanted to say certain things in front of the others—and arguing with Snape gave him the perfect excuse.
Because what was he supposed to do? Walk up to Dumbledore and say:
"Hey, this is Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets. Just grab Harry Potter from Gryffindor Tower and have him speak Parseltongue into the tap."
He had thought about it. He didn't want the basilisk coming after him again. The best solution was to get Dumbledore to kill it. He'd even prepared an excuse—sothing about the ancient Ollivander bloodline having a few unusual secrets. Totally believable.
But then he'd found that piece of parchnt hidden behind the tap.
And that changed everything.
Still, this was enough.
Dumbledore and the professors now knew about the basilisk, the chamber's entrance, and Harold had subtly hinted that its activation was linked to Slytherin.
That was as close as handing them the answer as he could get.
Well, maybe not quite handing—it was more like putting the answer in a book and waiting for soone to open it.
Surely they weren't so hopeless they couldn't figure it out from here.
Honestly, if the basilisk still managed to slither around Hogwarts under Dumbledore's nose after tonight, Harold figured the man might as well retire and go backpacking with his phoenix.
Then again… couldn't Dumbledore just open it with Fawkes?
Harold looked up.
Dumbledore was talking quietly with Professor Flitwick. Snape stood nearby, glaring at Harold with a look of cold fury.
What a sore loser. The man was still mad? After Harold had nearly been killed by a basilisk and accused of lying?
McGonagall stepped between them and suggested Harold be sent to the infirmary.
This ti, Harold didn't object. His arm was still broken. Though it had been quickly wrapped, the pain remained.
She escorted him to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey reset the bone in one second flat and re-wrapped the bandage.
It wasn't serious enough to keep him overnight—but McGonagall insisted. The way Harold had recovered from the petrification had been too strange. She wasn't ready to let him go.
So Harold resigned himself to sleeping there for the night.
Later, with the room quiet and dark, he lay in bed and pulled out the soggy, stained scrap of parchnt from his pocket.
It was blank now—nothing but a piece of torn notebook paper.
But Harold could still picture what it had looked like half an hour ago.
Still see the blood-red handwriting that had only just begun to fade.
You really do know your way around.
Will you tell Dumbledore? Will you confess that you're a seer—soone who glimpses the future?
I nearly forgot: Dumbledore's greatest enemy was also a seer. Do you think he'll take your gift lightly?
Looking forward to our eting.
—T.M. Riddle
How did Tom Riddle know him?
And why call him a "seer"?
Harold didn't understand… but he had noticed Dumbledore giving him so strange looks lately. Especially after he found the entrance.
Still, that wasn't proof of prophecy. Was it?
Riddle had seed so confident.
And how did he even know about Harold?
The questions kept piling up.
Harold borrowed ink and a quill from Madam Pomfrey and tried scribbling on the page.
The ink soaked into it, saring with the water stains. Nothing else appeared.
Figures. He should've guessed the paper was single-use the mont he saw it was wet.
It wasn't a real magical diary. It couldn't talk back.
But it had confird one thing.
Looking forward to our eting.
It wasn't just a ssage—it was a challenge.
Clearly, the basilisk had been sent after him.
And clearly, Riddle wasn't done yet.
"But what else can you do?" Harold whispered to the yellowed scrap. "Dumbledore knows about the basilisk. He knows about the Chamber. He knows soone is controlling the creature from inside the school.
"What cards do you have left?"
He didn't know why Riddle was so confident.
Or why he'd hidden a disposable note inside a broken tap.
But if this was a provocation…
Harold accepted.
After all, he owed the basilisk one. Until Dumbledore opened the Chamber and killed it, that debt could sit with Riddle.
But first...
"Headmaster! Professor!"
The next morning, during breakfast, Harold ran up to the staff table and slapped the filthy scrap onto the table.
"This was stuck to the bottom of my shoe! I didn't notice until last night. I didn't catch what it said—just rember it was signed 'T.M.' I think that's Tom. Like my cat."
...
(End of Chapter)
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