At dawn, just as the first rays of sunlight lit up the castle walls, Harold sat up in bed right on ti.
Facing the morning sun through the window, he pulled out the wand with Professor McGonagall's hair as its core and pointed it at his heart.
"Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus."
His heartbeat seed to amplify, pounding in his ears. But as soon as he lowered the wand, everything returned to normal.
After a quick wash, Harold made his way to the common room—only to stop short in surprise when he saw Harry and Ron sitting there chatting.
Wait, who was that?
Harold glanced at the clock.
Six o'clock. And not in the evening—six in the morning. What on earth were Harry and Ron doing in the common room at this hour?
"You two didn't sleep at all?" he asked as he approached.
"Didn't sleep a wink," Ron groaned, rubbing his arms and slumping weakly in his chair. "I spent the whole night scrubbing floors. From the first floor to the eighth. No magic allowed… I think my arms and back are about to snap."
"Why on earth were you scrubbing floors?" Harold asked, bewildered. "Even if you were trying to steal Filch's job, did you forget about the house-elves? They'd clean the whole castle in half an hour, and way more efficiently than you."
"I wasn't trying to take Filch's job," Ron moaned, slumping against the arm of the chair. "Snape gave us detention. He made Filch supervise cleaning every hallway in the castle. I was at it all night!"
"Detention?" Harold raised a brow. "Did you guys break school rules or sothing?"
"Last Quidditch match," Harry explained, face long. "Ron started a fight with the Slytherins."
"But didn't that all blow over?" Harold frowned. "Hermione said he took twenty points off Gryffindor—she never ntioned detention. Or did I get that wrong?"
"There wasn't any at first," Harry admitted. "But then we were walking to class and made a few… unflattering comnts. About Snape. And, well, he overheard."
Oh…
Harold didn't even know what to say.
Badmouthing a professor in the castle corridors and getting caught red-handed—they couldn't bla anyone but themselves. That detention was well deserved.
"So what about you two? Did you both clean the castle?" Harold glanced at Harry.
"No, I had to help Lockhart write fan mail," Harry said, eyes hollow.
Whatever he'd been through, it must have been traumatic—he even looked enviously at Ron. And Ron, at that sa mont, was looking back at Harry with the exact sa expression.
It was like each thought the other had drawn the worse punishnt.
"You didn't spend the whole night writing letters, did you?" Harold asked. "Even if detention started at ten, that's still eight hours. There can't be that many people who like Lockhart."
"Actually it was seven hours—it started at eleven," Harry corrected him. "And it wasn't both of us. I was the one doing most of the writing."
"What about Lockhart?"
"He was in the next room. He only took one letter."
"Just one?" Harold sat up straighter.
Sothing was off. Writing back to his fans was usually the highlight of Lockhart's day. He called it the most relaxing, joyful part of his schedule. Even if there were too many letters for him to handle alone, there was no way he'd hand the entire task off to Harry.
"Do you know who the letter was from?" Harold asked.
"No idea," Harry said. "But Lockhart seed really pleased with it. He kept muttering to himself in the other room—stuff like, 'Brilliant idea… why didn't I think of that… sheer genius… we'll make the front page for sure.'"
Sounded innocent enough. Probably just soone feeding Lockhart another sche to grab attention.
Then Harry suddenly asked, "Hey Harold, do you think the Chamber of Secrets is real?"
"What brings that up?"
"I just have a feeling Lockhart might be looking into it," Harry said. "When I walked in, he was reading Hogwarts: A History, but he slamd it shut the second he saw .
"And when I was about to leave, he asked a lot of questions."
"Oh, and he ntioned you," Harry added. "He asked whether it was true you destroyed the Chamber. I told him I didn't know."
"That's normal," Harold replied before he could help himself—but Ron beat him to it, yawning loudly.
"Well, Lockhart was attacked, and those words got written on him," Ron said. "If it were , I'd want to know what the Chamber was too."
Harry nodded uncertainly. Sothing still felt off—but he couldn't put his finger on what.
He wanted to say more, but Ron had slumped onto the chair arm, muttering incoherently. He might've already drifted off into a dream.
Harry looked at Harold.
"No, of course not," Harold finally answered. "The Chamber's still intact."
"But the papers—"
"That was Fred and George's prank," Harold said quickly, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
What had made Harry ask about the Chamber?
He hadn't known anything before, yet one night of detention and suddenly he was curious?
And of all people, Snape had been the one to assign that detention. Why hadn't he sent Harry to deal with Flobberworm guts in the dungeons?
Publicly insulting a professor—even if it's just grumbling—would've easily justified so of the filthiest chores. And McGonagall wouldn't have said a word. She might've even transfigured gloves for Harry.
But Snape didn't do that. Instead, he gave Harry a soft punishnt: helping Lockhart with letters.
Compared to Ron's ordeal, that was practically rcy. Was Snape really that kind?
A flurry of thoughts passed rapidly through Harold's mind. For a split second, he imagined Fluffy and the trapdoor again.
Harold snapped out of it and continued, "Actually, we found the entrance to the Chamber a while ago—but we couldn't open it. We just waited outside."
Harry stared, stunned. "Not even Dumbledore? He's the Headmaster!"
"That's right. Even Dumbledore couldn't get in." Harold glanced at the half-asleep Ron.
"Dumbledore may be Headmaster, but Salazar Slytherin was too—and the first one at that. A chamber he built isn't sothing just anyone can enter. There's only one way to open the entrance."
"What way?" Harry asked instinctively.
"That's sothing only the true Heir of Slytherin would know," Harold said softly. "The professors think it has sothing to do with Salazar's unique talents—maybe his alchemy, or more likely, his ability to speak Parseltongue."
"Ugh… why are you two still talking?" Ron muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Go get so sleep. I'm dead tired."
He got to his feet and staggered toward the stairs.
Harry hadn't quite decided whether to go too, but after hearing Ron, his eyelids suddenly felt very heavy, and he followed him up to the dormitory.
"I'm sleeping all day," Ron's voice drifted faintly from the staircase.
…
(End of Chapter)
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