November 12th, 1992, Hogwarts Castle, Various Locations, 9:47 PM
The abandoned classroom was cold and dark, dust motes drifting through the faint moonlight that filtered through grimy windows. Harry sat huddled against the wall, the Invisibility Cloak wrapped tightly around him, his knees drawn to his chest. His breathing had finally slowed from panicked gasps to something approaching normal, but his hands still trembled where they gripped the silvery fabric.
'Everyone thinks I did it,' Harry thought miserably. 'They all saw me standing there, Mrs Norris petrified, that horrible message on the wall. They think I'm the Heir of Slytherin.'
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made him freeze, pressing himself harder against the wall. But the footsteps didn't pass—they stopped directly outside the classroom door.
"Harry?" Luna's voice was soft, dreamy, utterly certain. "I know you're in there. The Wrackspurts are congregating around the doorframe. They always gather near people who are feeling particularly distressed."
Harry remained silent, though his heart hammered. How could she possibly know? 'Oh, right, this is Luna' A small grin manage to crawl up his face.
The door opened with a soft creak, and Luna stepped inside, her wand lit with a gentle Lumos that cast warm light across the dusty space. Her protuberant grey eyes swept the apparently empty room with calm focus.
"You're near the back wall," Luna observed, walking forward without hesitation. "I can see the way the dust patterns have been disturbed. And there's a sort of shimmer in the air—your cloak is very good, but it's not perfect. Not to someone who knows how to look."
She stopped directly in front of where Harry sat, then gracefully lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the floor, her Ravenclaw robes pooling around her.
"You don't have to take off the cloak if you don't want to," Luna said gently. "But I'm going to sit here with you until you feel better... That's what friends do."
For a long moment, Harry didn't move. Then, slowly, he pulled the cloak back, revealing his tear-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes.
"They think I did it," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse. "They all think I'm the Heir of Slytherin. That I petrified Mrs Norris."
"Some people will always jump to the easiest conclusion," Luna replied, her tone matter-of-fact. "It requires less thinking that way. But the people who matter—your real friends—know better. We know you'd never hurt anyone innocent."
"Harry." Luna reached out, taking his hand in both of hers. Her grip was firm despite her delicate appearance, grounding. "Listen to me. You being at the scene doesn't make you guilty. It makes you the person who found Mrs Norris. There's a crucial difference."
Harry stared at their joined hands, feeling some of the panic begin to recede. Luna's presence had always been calming—her absolute certainty that things would work out, her unshakeable belief in her friends, her way of seeing the world from angles others missed.
"What if they don't believe me?" Harry asked quietly.
"Then we'll prove them wrong," Luna said simply. "Together. You, me, Ron, Hermione, Draco. We'll find out what really opened the Chamber, and we'll stop it."
They sat together in the dusty classroom for perhaps twenty minutes, Luna humming softly whilst Harry's breathing steadied and the trembling in his hands gradually ceased. She didn't push him to talk, didn't demand explanations. She simply there, beside him, solid, real and utterly unwavering.
Eventually, Harry felt strong enough to stand. Luna helped him up, brushing dust from his robes with practical efficiency.
"You should speak with Professor McGonagall," Luna said. "She'll want to hear your account of what happened. And Harry—she's your Head of House. She'll be fair."
"Will you come with me?" Harry asked, hating how small his voice sounded.
"Of course," Luna replied, as if there had never been any question.
Professor McGonagall's office was warm despite the late hour, a fire crackling in the grate and her tartan-patterned tea set arranged on a side table. The Deputy Headmistress sat behind her desk, her expression stern but not unkind as Harry and Luna were ushered inside by a nervous first-year Gryffindor who'd been sent to find them.
"Mr Potter," McGonagall said, gesturing to the chairs before her desk. "Miss Lovegood, you may stay if Mr Potter wishes it."
"Please," Harry said quickly, and Luna settled into the chair beside him with her usual serene composure.
McGonagall's sharp eyes studied Harry for a long moment. "I understand this evening has been distressing for you. Running from the scene was perhaps not the wisest choice, but given the circumstances, I can understand the impulse."
Harry's shoulders relaxed fractionally. She wasn't angry. She wasn't accusing him.
"I didn't hurt Mrs Norris, Professor," Harry said, meeting her gaze directly. With McGonagall, who'd always been fair, who'd shown him kindness even when he struggled thus the stammer didn't emerge. "I was just walking back from... from studying in the library. I heard something, followed the sound, and found her already petrified. The writing was already on the wall. I didn't do any of it."
"I believe you," McGonagall said simply, and the relief that flooded through Harry was almost overwhelming. "Tell me exactly what you heard and saw."
Harry recounted the events carefully, describing the empty corridor, the water spreading from beneath the bathroom door, Mrs Norris hanging rigid from the torch bracket. He omitted the voice—the hunting, hissing Parseltongue that had led him there. Some truths were too dangerous to share, even with someone as fair as McGonagall.
'If they know I heard Parseltongue, that no doubt seal the ordeal,' Harry thought.
McGonagall listened with focused attention, occasionally jotting notes on a piece of parchment. When Harry finished, she nodded slowly.
"Thank you for your honesty, Mr Potter. I will need you to provide this same account to Headmaster Dumbledore and the other professors investigating this incident, but you are not in trouble. You are not suspected of wrong-doing—merely a witness who happened upon a crime scene."
"What about the other students?" Harry asked quietly. "They all think I did it. I heard them whispering."
"Students will gossip," McGonagall said, her tone going slightly harder. "It's an unfortunate reality of school life. However, I will make it clear during breakfast tomorrow that you are not under suspicion, and that baseless accusations will not be tolerated. The staff is united in this, Mr Potter. We do not believe you are responsible."
The weight that had been pressing on Harry's chest since Filch's accusations began to lift. He wasn't in trouble. The professors believed him. It would be all right.
"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, his voice thick with relief.
"Off to bed with you both," McGonagall said, though her expression had softened considerably. "It's well past curfew, and you've had an ordeal. Ten points to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw for remaining calm under difficult circumstances."
As they left the office, Luna took Harry's hand again, squeezing gently.
"See?" she said. "I told you she'd be fair."
November 13th, 1992, Gryffindor Common Room, 8:23 AM
Harry had barely stepped through the portrait hole after his secret Parseltongue learning session when Hermione launched herself at him, wrapping him in a hug so tight it knocked the air from his lungs. Her bushy hair tickled his nose, and her grip suggested she'd been genuinely terrified by his disappearance.
"You absolute idiot," Hermione hissed, pulling back just enough to grab his shoulders and shake him. Hard. "Running off like that! Do you have any idea how worried we were? What if something had happened to you? What if the real Heir had found you alone?"
"Ow...Hermione...stop shaking..." Harry protested, though he couldn't help but smile slightly at her fierce concern.
"We thought you'd been petrified!" Hermione continued, her brown eyes bright with unshed tears. "Or worse! Ron wanted to search the entire castle, but Luna said you'd be fine, that you just needed space, but we didn't know that for certain—"
"I'm fine," Harry assured her, gently extracting himself from her grip. "Luna found me. I talked to Professor McGonagall. Everything's sorted."
Ron appeared from the boys' dormitory, looking rumpled and exhausted. "Mate. Thank Merlin. Hermione's been pacing for three hours straight, in the morning! I think she wore a groove in the floor."
The three eventually went the usual meeting place by the greatlake, away from the curious glances of other students.
There, Draco finally emerged behind Ron, his platinum hair slightly dishevelled. "Potter. Good to see you haven't been eaten by whatever's lurking in the pipes."
Luna arrived shortly after, having made her way from Ravenclaw Tower, and settled beside Harry with her characteristic dreaminess.
At Luna's encouraging nod, Harry took a deep breath.
"I need to tell you something," he said quietly. "About how I found Mrs Norris."
He recounted the full story—the voice in the walls, the hunting Parseltongue that only he could hear, following it to the crime scene. His friends listened with varying expressions of shock, concern, and fascination.
"You can hear Parseltongue," Hermione breathed when he finished. "Harry, that's... that's extraordinary. But also potentially damning if anyone else finds out. Parseltongue is associated with Dark wizards, with Salazar Slytherin himself—"
"Which is exactly why I didn't tell McGonagall," Harry confirmed. "But you lot needed to know. Because if I can hear this voice, if I can understand Parseltongue, maybe I can use it to track whatever's doing this."
"It's definitely a creature," Luna observed. "Something that responds to Parseltongue commands. The Basilisk is the most likely candidate, given the Chamber of Secrets connection."
"A Basilisk," Ron said slowly. "Giant serpent, kills with its gaze, lives for hundreds of years. Bloody hell."
"But no one's died," Hermione pointed out. "Mrs Norris was petrified, not killed. How does a Basilisk petrify instead of kill?"
"Indirect sight?" Draco questioned, his grey eyes thoughtful.
"So we're looking for a massive snake that's been living in the castle for centuries," Ron summarised. "And only Harry can hear it. This is mental."
"But at least we have a direction," Hermione said, her academic mind already racing through possibilities. "We need to research Basilisks, figure out how to protect against them, find out where it might be hiding—"
"And identify who's controlling it," Harry added. "Because it's not acting on its own. Someone opened the Chamber. Someone's giving it orders."
They sat together beneath the morning light streaming through the common room windows, united in purpose despite the danger. The hunt had begun.
November 21st, 1992, Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch, 2:47 PM
The weather had turned properly miserable—rain lashed down in sheets, turning the Quidditch pitch into a muddy quagmire and reducing visibility to perhaps twenty feet. The crowd huddled under umbrellas and warming charms, their cheers muted by the howling wind.
Harry watched from the stands beside Luna, Hermione, and Draco, his heart in his throat as Ron circled high above on his broom, searching for the Snitch. Theodore Nott flew opposite him, his Nimbus 2001 sleek and deadly in the rain.
"This is madness," Hermione muttered, gripping her wand tightly. "They should have cancelled the match in this weather."
"Oliver would never allow it," Draco replied. "The man's obsessed. I'm fairly certain he'd play through a hurricane if permitted."
A Bludger rocketed past Ron's head, missing by inches. But something was wrong—the iron ball turned sharply, impossibly, and came back for another pass. Ron dodged, but the Bludger followed with unnatural precision.
"That's not right," Luna said, her voice going sharp. "Bludgers don't track like that."
Another pass. Ron twisted desperately, but the rogue Bludger clipped his arm with a sickening crack that was audible even over the storm. Ron's scream was lost in the wind, but the way his left arm dangled uselessly was visible even through the rain.
"Foul!" someone bellowed from the Gryffindor section.
But the game continued—Oliver was screaming for his team to push forward, and Ron, despite his clearly broken arm, remained airborne. His face was pale with pain, his jaw set with stubborn determination.
"He's going to kill himself," Hermione gasped.
Theodore dove, clearly having spotted the Snitch. Ron followed, one-armed, steering with his knees and his good hand. The two Seekers plummeted through the rain in a vertical race, both reaching forward—
Ron's teeth closed around the Snitch.
He pulled up sharply, spitting the tiny golden ball into his good hand with a triumphant if slightly manic grin. Blood from where the Snitch's wings had cut his mouth mixed with rainwater on his face.
"GRYFFINDOR WINS!" Lee Jordan's commentary barely carried over the crowd's roar.
Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked, and the teams landed in the muddy pitch. Ron dismounted with visible difficulty, cradling his broken arm, but his grin was undiminished.
"Got it," he said to Harry, who'd rushed down from the stands along with the others. "Got it with my bloody mouth. How's that for seeker skills?"
"That was disgusting," Hermione said, though her tone held reluctant admiration. "Brilliant, but disgusting."
"Let me see that arm... and this is for your mouth" Draco moved forward with his medical kit already in hand while tossing a vile of wiggenweld potion to which Ron caught with his remaining good arm downed the potion with satisfaction.
However, before anyone could stop him, Professor Lockhart had swept onto the scene, his turquoise robes somehow remaining pristine despite the mud and rain.
"Not to worry!" Lockhart announced grandly. "I've mended countless broken bones in my time. Why, when I was dealing with the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, I had three broken ribs and still managed to—"
"Professor, perhaps Madam Pomfrey should—" Hermione tried.
"Nonsense! This is a simple Brackium Emendo. Watch and learn!"
Lockhart pointed his wand at Ron's arm with theatrical flourish. There was a bright flash of light, a sound like something deflating, and Ron's scream of agony.
When the light faded, Ron's arm was... wrong. It moved in ways arms shouldn't move, the bones completely absent, the limb flopping like rubber.
"Ah," Lockhart said, his smile faltering. "Well. That's... you see, sometimes the bones need a moment to resettle..."
"You removed them!" Draco snarled, his grey eyes blazing with fury. "You didn't mend the break, you vanished the bones entirely! That's first-year mistake territory!"
Ron's arm swung bonelessly, and he made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "It doesn't hurt anymore. Can't hurt if there's nothing to break."
Colin Creevey, who'd been documenting the match, had captured the entire disaster on his Atid Stella camera. The resulting photographs—Ron's arm flopping about, Lockhart's frozen smile, Draco's expression of absolute contempt—would become legendary.
"I'll buy copies," Draco said flatly. "All of them. These are going in the 'Lockhart's Incompetence' archive Uncle Sam is building."
November 21st, 1992, Hospital Wing, 4:15 PM
Ron lay in a hospital bed, his boneless arm resting on a pillow, looking remarkably cheerful considering the circumstances. Madam Pomfrey had been furious when they'd brought him in, her rant about "incompetent glory-seekers" and "why do they let that man near injured students" echoing through the wing for a solid ten minutes.
"Skele-Gro," she said grimly, producing a bottle of smoking potion. "It will regrow the bones, but I won't lie to you, Mr Weasley...this will be extraordinarily painful. The process takes all night, and you'll feel every moment of it."
Ron's cheerful expression wavered. "How painful are we talking?"
"Imagine someone driving red-hot needles through your arm repeatedly whilst your bones slowly reform from nothing," Pomfrey said bluntly. "That level of painful."
"Brilliant," Ron muttered.
Just then, a red envelope shot through the open window like a guided missile, landing on Ron's lap with an ominous howling sound. Everyone in the vicinity took an instinctive step back.
"Oh no," Ron whispered.
The Howler exploded open, and Molly Weasley's voice filled the Hospital Wing at approximately three times normal volume:
"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY! YOU CAUGHT THE SNITCH WITH YOUR TEETH? WITH YOUR TEETH, RON? WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING? YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! YOU COULD HAVE FALLEN! YOU COULD HAVE—"
There was a brief pause, and when Molly's voice returned, it was slightly softer, tinged with pride:
"—been absolutely magnificent. Oh, Ron. My brave, ridiculous boy. I heard all about it from the Wireless commentary. You won the match! With a broken arm! I'm so proud of you I could burst!"
Another shift, back to fury:
"BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE COME DOWN THE MOMENT YOU WERE INJURED! HONESTLY, RON! AND THAT LOCKHART FOOL REMOVING YOUR BONES? IF I COULD GET MY HANDS ON HIM—"
A final softening:
"I trust Madam Pomfrey completely. She'll have you right as rain by morning. Get well soon, sweetheart. We love you. But DON'T YOU EVER SCARE ME LIKE THAT AGAIN!"
The Howler disintegrated into ash, leaving stunned silence in its wake.
"Your mum's terrifying," Harry said with genuine admiration.
"And somehow lovely at the same time," Luna added.
Draco had been examining the Skele-Gro bottle with clinical interest. "Madam Pomfrey, if I may—there are additives that can make this potion more palatable without reducing efficacy. Honey essence, vanilla extract, a touch of peppermint. The pain won't decrease, but at least it won't taste like fermented troll bile whilst you're suffering."
Pomfrey's stern expression softened fractionally. "You've studied potion modification, Mr Malfoy?"
"Uncle Sam insisted," Draco replied. "If I'm going to understand healing, I should understand every aspect of it."
"Add your modifications," Pomfrey said, surprising everyone. "But I'll be checking your work."
Draco worked with careful precision, measuring and mixing under Pomfrey's watchful eye. When he finished, he handed the modified potion to Ron with a slight smile.
"Still going to hurt like hell," Draco said. "But at least it'll taste like peppermint hell instead of troll bile hell."
Ron drank it down, grimacing but not gagging. "Thanks, Malfoy. That's... actually decent of you."
"Don't get used to it," Draco replied, though his eyes held warmth.
Madam Pomfrey studied Draco with new interest. "Mr Malfoy, if you're genuinely interested in Healing Magic, I could use an assistant. Perhaps some practical lessons?"
Draco's face lit up with something approaching joy. "I would be honoured, Madam Pomfrey."
As they left Ron to his painful night of bone regrowth, Harry glanced back at his friend. Despite everything—the broken arm, the missing bones, the night of agony ahead—Ron still wore that triumphant grin.
They'd won the match. And somehow, that made it all worth it.
November 21st, 1992, Gryffindor Boys' Dormitory, 11:34 PM
Harry woke to an odd sensation—a prickling awareness that something was wrong in the dormitory. Around him, Neville, Dean, and Seamus slept with unnatural stillness, their breathing too deep, too regular.
A small figure stood at the foot of Harry's bed, enormous eyes gleaming in the darkness.
"Dobby," Harry whispered, sitting up slowly. "What are you doing here?"
"Harry Potter must listen," Dobby squeaked, his bat ears quivering. "Dobby has come to warn Harry Potter again. The Chamber of Secrets remains open. More attacks will come. Harry Potter must leave Hogwarts!"
"I can't leave," Harry said quietly. "My friends are here. And if I run away, I'll be admitting guilt. Everyone already suspects me."
"Harry Potter is in terrible danger!" Dobby wailed softly. "The Heir of Slytherin has opened the Chamber! Soon, someone will die! Dobby cannot say more—his masters forbid it—but Harry Potter must go!"
"Who opened it, Dobby?" Harry pressed. "If you can't tell me directly, can you give me a hint?"
Dobby's eyes went wide with panic. He grabbed Harry's desk lamp and began beating himself over the head with it. "Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Cannot tell! Cannot betray masters!"
"Stop! Stop hitting yourself!" Harry grabbed the lamp, pulling it away. "It's all right. You don't have to tell me."
"Why do you wear that thing, Dobby?" Harry curiosity piqued, after all, this is the second time he had seen a house-elf this close.
"This, sir? lt is a mark of the house-elf's enslavement. Dobby can only be freed if his master presents him with clothes." The pitiful house-elf said.
Then Dobby collapsed onto the bed, trembling. "Dobby wishes he could help Harry Potter more. But Dobby is bound. Can only warn. Can only try to keep Harry Potter safe."
"You've done what you could," Harry said gently. "Thank you for trying, Dobby."
The house-elf looked up with tearful gratitude, then with a soft crack, he was gone.
Harry lay back down, staring at the ceiling. Another warning. Another confirmation that danger was coming.
'Someone will die,' Dobby had said.
Harry's hand moved instinctively to the pocket watch Ethan had given him—the emergency Portkey home. But he couldn't leave. Not whilst his friends were in danger. Not whilst something was hunting through the castle.
He'd face it. Whatever came. Together with Luna, Ron, Hermione, and Draco.
They'd solve this.
November 24th, 1992, Hogwarts Grounds, Great Lake, 3:47 PM
Ron had been discharged from the Hospital Wing that morning, his arm fully healed but with strict instructions to avoid further bone-removal incidents. The group had convened at their usual spot beneath the wide-canopied tree, the November chill kept at bay by warming charms.
"I need to tell you something," Ron said quietly, his usual cheerfulness subdued. "Something I heard whilst I was in the Hospital Wing."
They all leaned forward, the autumn leaves rustling above them.
"There was another attack," Ron continued, his voice hollow. "Colin Creevey. He was found petrified near the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower. Still clutching his camera. He'd been trying to photograph something..."
Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh no. Poor Colin."
Harry felt ice spread through his chest. Colin—annoying, enthusiastic, innocent Colin—petrified like Mrs Norris. The attacks were escalating.
"His camera was melted," Ron added. "Whatever he saw, whatever he tried to photograph, it destroyed the camera completely."
They sat in heavy silence, the weight of Colin's fate pressing down on them.
"We need to act," Hermione said finally, her voice sharp with determination. "We've been researching, but research isn't enough. We need to find out who's behind this."
"Theodore Nott," Draco said immediately. "He's the obvious suspect. He replaced me on the Quidditch team through his machinations, he's always been a pure-blood supremacist, and he had a motive to hurt Ron during the match."
"But is he the Heir of Slytherin?" Luna asked thoughtfully.
"We need to find out," Hermione replied. "And I know how. Polyjuice Potion."
"That's N.E.W.T.-level brewing," Ron protested. "We're twelve!"
"I can do it," Hermione said firmly. "It'll take a month to brew, but I can manage it. The question is where to brew it. Somewhere private, where we won't be discovered..."
"Moaning Myrtle's bathroom," Hermione continued. "It's abandoned. No one goes there. We could set up a cauldron, keep the potion simmering—"
"Or," Luna interrupted gently, "we could brew it here. At the lake. I know several concealment charms that would hide our work perfectly. And it's outside, so there's less risk of anyone stumbling upon us accidentally."
"That's brilliant," Harry said. "And we can take shifts watching it. Make sure nothing goes wrong."
"Right," Hermione said, already pulling out parchment to make notes. "I'll need to acquire ingredients from the Potions stores, carefully, so Snape doesn't notice. The potion takes exactly one month to brew, so if we start now, it'll be ready by Christmas holidays."
"Who's going to transform?" Ron asked.
"You and Draco," Hermione decided. "You'll become Crabbe and Goyle, Theodore's usual companions. You can question him directly about the Chamber."
Draco's expression suggested this was perhaps the most distasteful thing he'd ever been asked to do, but he nodded. "For the greater good, I suppose. Though if either of you ever tells Uncle Sam I willingly transformed into Goyle, I'll hex you into next week."
Over the following month, they worked with careful coordination. Hermione brewed the Polyjuice with meticulous precision, following the complex instructions with the focused intensity she brought to all academic challenges. Harry and Luna stood watch, taking shifts to ensure no one discovered their operation. Draco acquired hair samples from Crabbe and Goyle through methods he refused to elaborate on.
On the chosen day—a cold December afternoon with snow beginning to fall—Ron and Draco drank the Polyjuice and transformed with visible disgust into their respective targets.
"This is horrible," Draco-as-Goyle moaned, his voice now thick and stupid-sounding. "Everything feels wrong. I'm taller but stupider somehow."
"At least you don't have Crabbe's body odour," Ron-as-Crabbe muttered. "I think he hasn't bathed in a week."
They found Theodore in the Slytherin common room, holding court with his usual cronies. Ron and Draco settled nearby, and with carefully casual questions, began to probe.
"Heard about the attacks," Draco-as-Goyle said slowly, maintaining Goyle's usual dim-witted speech pattern. "Reckon it's pretty exciting, yeah? Muggle-borns getting what's coming to them."
Theodore's expression was smug. "It's about time someone reminded this school of proper magical hierarchy. Though I wish I knew who the Heir was. I'd congratulate them personally."
"You don't know?" Ron-as-Crabbe pressed.
"Of course I don't know!" Theodore snapped. "Do you think the Heir of Slytherin would confide in me? I'm as much in the dark as everyone else. Though I support the principle, obviously. Hogwarts has been polluted by Mudbloods for too long."
They questioned him for another ten minutes, probing from different angles, but the conclusion was unavoidable: Theodore Nott had nothing to do with the Chamber of Secrets. He was a bigot and a bully, but he wasn't the Heir.
When the Polyjuice wore off and they'd returned to their friends by the lake, the disappointment was palpable.
"We're back to square one," Hermione said, frustration clear in her voice. "If it's not Theodore, then who?"
"Someone with access to the Chamber," Luna said thoughtfully. "Someone who knows Parseltongue, or has access to something that does. Someone who's been at Hogwarts long enough to know the castle's secrets..."
But the answer remained elusive, and as snow began to fall more heavily, they packed up their things and headed back to the castle, no closer to solving the mystery than before.
December 15th, 1992, Hogwarts Corridor, 6:23 PM
They were walking back from dinner, discussing their lack of progress on the Chamber mystery, when they spotted a notice board that hadn't been there that morning. Students clustered around it, reading with varying degrees of excitement.
"What's this?" Ron asked, pushing forward.
The poster was elaborate, featuring moving illustrations of wizards duelling with spectacular spell-work:
DUELLING CLUBINAUGURAL MEETINGLearn to defend yourself the way the pros do!First session: December 17th, 8:00 PM, Great HallInitiated by Professor Gilderoy Lockhart
The excitement that had begun building in Harry's chest immediately evaporated. "Lockhart. Of course it's Lockhart."
"I was actually interested for a moment there," Draco said with disgust. "Learning proper duelling could be useful, but not from that fraud."
"Same," Hermione agreed, her enthusiasm dying. "After the bone-removal incident, I wouldn't trust him to teach us how to hold a wand, let alone duel."
Luna tilted her head, studying the poster with her characteristic unfocused gaze. "The Wrackspurts don't think much of this initiative. They're swarming around Lockhart's name."
They were turning away, prepared to skip the whole affair, when Professor Flitwick came bustling down the corridor. The tiny Charms professor spotted them and hurried over, his expression mischievous.
"Ah, wonderful!" Flitwick squeaked. "Just the students I wanted to see. I trust you've read about the Duelling Club?"
"We were just deciding to skip it, Professor," Harry admitted. "Given who's running it..."
"Ah, yes, Professor Lockhart." Flitwick's expression suggested he shared their assessment. "However, I wanted to let you know...in strictest confidence, mind you...that several other professors will be participating. Myself, Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape, and Professor Sprout have all agreed to... assist."
His tone made it clear that "assist" meant "prevent Lockhart from causing a disaster."
"We didn't want Lockhart to waste this opportunity," Flitwick continued quietly. "A Duelling Club could be genuinely educational if run properly. So we're taking steps to ensure students actually learn proper technique rather than theatrical nonsense."
The group exchanged glances, excitement rekindling.
"In that case," Hermione said, her eyes brightening, "we'll definitely attend."
"Excellent!" Flitwick beamed. "Prepare to be surprised. And remember—this is meant to be a surprise for the students. We don't want word getting out before the first session."
As Flitwick bustled away, Ron grinned widely. "Duelling lessons from McGonagall and Flitwick? Now that's worth showing up for."
"Even having to tolerate Lockhart," Draco agreed.
Luna smiled her dreamy smile. "This should be interesting. Very interesting indeed."
They continued down the corridor, the mystery of the Chamber temporarily set aside in favour of anticipation. Proper duelling instruction, supervised by competent professors, with the added entertainment of watching Lockhart inevitably make a fool of himself.
The darkness hunting through Hogwarts' walls could wait two more days.
For now, they had something to look forward to.